Soccer Supremo - A Sports Progression Fantasy

14.

Saturday, April 10

I woke up at seven, which was pretty much my usual time. I brought up the squad, checking for new injuries, new worries. There were none, although everyone’s Morale was up and down, yet again. My intervention the night before had stabilised their mood, perhaps enough to help them sleep - yay for me - but as soon as they woke up, the lads had hopped right back onto the emotions see-saw.

The day was young. What did I want to do?

Kick-off was not at the traditional cup final slot of 3 pm, but at 2:30. A moronic time chosen by half-wits, but one that would work in our favour to correct a minor mistake. I had heard on the football manager grapevine that the best hotel to stay at before a Wembley match was the London Hilton, and right after our semi-final, Secretary Joe had booked it for us, excitedly reporting that he had bagged it ahead of Portsmouth!

He had, indeed, done it. He had booked us the London Hilton at Park Lane, not the one at Wembley.

Well, how was he supposed to know? None of us knew. It didn’t bother me in the slightest because it would actually give our morning a little more structure. Get the lads onto Sealbiscuit, drive 40 minutes up to Wembley. Maybe we’d see some sights and that would distract us from thinking about the match. Portsmouth were in the Wembley hotel. What would they be doing? Looking out of their windows at the famous Wembley arch, getting themselves more and more nervous. Maybe our way would prove to be better. Maybe we would set a new trend.

In a while, the lads would gather for breakfast. I had to be there - set an example and all that - but I didn’t feel like being cooped up in this hotel, nice as it was, until then.

Park Lane was one of the fancy places in Monopoly, the game that provided 90% of my information about London. When Henri told me that buying Park Lane and Mayfair was one of the dumbest strategies in Monopoly, I had stopped playing. What was the point of being a tycoon if you couldn’t put hotels on Mayfair? Jesus.

I got my phone out and checked the map, and holy shit there was loads of stuff in London. Even in the tight area around the hotel there was The Dorchester hotel (how many Agatha Christie murders had happened there?), Piccadilly, Mayfair, Buckingham Palace, a Bomber Command memorial, Harvey Nicks, Chester Street (not famous but yay), and the one that called out to me - Hyde Park.

The park was just across the road and even in the corner near the hotel were two spots of interest. The Little Nell Ornamental Fountain was obviously in honour of Charles Dickens. Of his works, I had only read A Christmas Carol, but Henri had told me that Dicky Boy wrote in serial format, so you had to stump up cash month after month to follow the story. Dickers ended every chapter on a cliffhanger so he could rinse his fans more fully. Sick, right? One of the cliffhangers involved an orphan called Little Nell, and in Boston, as the ship carrying the latest edition of the story was arriving, dock workers yelled, ’what happens to Little Nell?’

I had always suspected that Henri had been exaggerating the popularity of that story but I had never bothered to check. It seemed that he had been telling the truth, because there was the Little Nell Fountain right there on the map. Must have been a great cliffhanger!

But even better, and even closer, was a statue of Achilles, a chap who was renowned for winning his duels. Ah, but could he do it on a cold and wet Tuesday night in Stoke? The statue wasn’t far - an arrow shot away - so I decided I would pop over and see if he had better abs than me.

Down in reception, Youngster was pottering around. ”Mr. Best,” he said, seemingly relieved to get a break from his thoughts.

”James Yalley,” I said, using his full name because I was feeling both loquacious and garrulous. ”How the very devil are you doing?”

”Well - ”

”That’s great. Listen up. Did you know that Monopoly was intended to display the wickedness of capitalism?”

”Oh? No. No, I did not know that.”

”Yeah. You’re supposed to play it as a group of four or whatever and realise that after a while, three are broke and one’s got all the money. You’re supposed to go, hey, wait a minute, I could be one of those three!”

”Instead, everyone thinks they will be the one.”

”Exactly. People are thick as pigshit.” I looked around. Even this early, the hotel was lively. ”I’m going to look at a statue of a naked man. Are Christians allowed to do that?”

He looked worried, but defaulted to the thing he always said when I asked him hard questions. ”When in Rome, do as the Romans do.”

I pursed my lips. ”Don’t go to Berlin, then.”

He blinked, then he did a huge Eddie Murphy-style laugh I had never heard come out of him before. ”If you are inviting me to join you, I will follow.”

We crossed a couple of roads and when we saw grass, turned left. ”London’s annoying, innit?”

”I do not know, Mr. Best. I have only spent a few hours here. I know Munich better.” Twenty seconds of companionable silence later, he said, ”How...? Are you...? So, the cup final.” He said the last part far too breezily.

”Yep.”

Fifteen seconds later: ”Are you nervous?”

”Nope,” I said, and regretted it. For the best part of a week I had been telling people what they wanted to hear. No-one wanted the truth.

”I am rather nervous.”

”Yeah, that’s good.” I stopped walking because apparently I still hadn’t mastered talking while trying to understand the world I lived in. ”Um... I’ve been thinking about nerves this week. Like, there must be some sort of spectrum.”

”Yes,” he said. ”Meghan says you’re on it.”

I glared at him. ”What?”

He seemed confused. ”What?”

I let it go. ”There’s a spectrum of, like, complete relaxation to complete tension and where you sit on it on a particular day impacts your potential level of sporting achievement. At the relaxed end, which in my head is the left side of the axis, you don’t run hard and you don’t find, I don’t know what to call it, reserves of will and determination. At the other end, you’re so tense you can’t function. Everyone has a sweet spot for maximum performance. Sandra thinks mine is to the left, so I play well when I’m all loosey goosey. When I frolic like a child in a field of daisies.”

”Yes.”

”But as a manager, maybe I’m better when I’m tense and, yeah, slightly angry. I get really focused on winning and push myself to find ways to get over the line.” I held my finger up, then dropped it because I wasn’t sure of what I was saying. ”But that push is often a push to calm myself down so I can think rationally. So I’m pushing myself left to get to that sweet spot. Maybe it is the same whether I’m player or manager. No, that doesn’t sound right. Or does it?”

”Haha,” said James, as though I was doing stand-up comedy.

I realised I was confusing him and started walking again. ”I don’t really know what I’m talking about. It might be something that I study when I have time. It’s just strange that you guys are stressed off your tits while I’ve gone the other way. I’ve been trying to work it out, but no dice. Ah, here we go. The main man!”

The Achilles statue was in view. Youngster eyed it. ”It is darker than I expected.”

”Sort of looks like Batman with the head of Michelangelo’s David,” I said.

”With a sword and shield instead of a batarang. They both have capes, though.”

”Ah,” I said, knowledgeably. ”I read about that. This statue is a copy of a stone one from somewhere in Italy. This is bronze, right, but if you’re using stone and you’re making a human-shaped dude who’s holding up a shield, you need more than just legs to stabilise it.”

”I do not follow.”

I got frustrated for a second, but decided I wasn’t explaining myself well. ”Imagine you’re making a statue of a human from stone. You carve the outline for a few days, spend about six years on the abs, job done, easy peasy. For your second commission, you decide to add the sword and shield. Now it’s not balanced. The guy topples and smashes and you don’t get paid. So what you do is you stick on a cape that goes all the way to the ground, right, and that’s like your tripod leg. Stable. Bosh. You can pose the guy however you want, now.”

”But you said this one is bronze.”

”I know, I’m getting to that. In 1822, some English dude says, gosh, the women of London have given me a lot of shillings to erect a big sexy warrior for them to perv at as they perambulate the capital.”

”What?”

”These details are broadly true, bro, but don’t get lost in the weeds. This is a big picture conversation. So the sculptor goes, you know who’s good at this statue shit? Italian geniuses. So he copies one of their designs - ” I gestured towards the statue - ”Voilà! But our bro even copies the cape. And that’s why we’re going to be fine in the Championship.”

Youngster’s mouth fell open and hung there, but then he tried to laugh. ”Haha.”

”I’m serious, James.” I fell into silent reflection, before once again pointing at Achilles. ”This is the 4-2-3-1 of London statues. The fucking cape doesn’t need to be there. It doesn’t look good, does it? It detracts from the overall piece, in fact. The Italian masters working in stone would have loved to leave out the cape. They used such design tricks because they had to. So if you just copy what you see better artists doing, you’re copying their mistakes. Not mistakes. You’re copying their... limitations. The guy who did this statue is a football manager who uses 4-2-3-1 without really understanding it. Why do they have two defensive midfielders? Because the formation has two defensive midfielders. Do they need two DMs against Swansea this weekend? Most managers wouldn’t even understand the question. They just copy what they see better managers doing.” I rubbed my chin. ”It’s easy to coach something that’s common. If you’re a manager like me who isn’t good at coaching - ”

”Er...” said James, which was rude because I was talking.

”You can go and get a guy who has been coaching 4-2-3-1 for a decade and you can get your squad really good at playing it. And no-one will ask why you’re doing it against 4-4-2 and against 4-3-3 and against every other formation.”

James scratched his head. ”So... the Championship will be easy?”

”God no. It’ll be awful!” I laughed, then nodded at Achilles. ”I’m not slagging this sculptor guy off. He did a great job on this, as far as I can tell. What do I know? I skimmed an article just before I came downstairs and that detail stood out to me. Maybe the guy had a valid reason to include the cape. Like, the King told him to do it. Pretty good reason, right? I don’t know. But I know that it’s mad to play 4-2-3-1 the exact same way every week, like Portsmouth do. The Championship doesn’t have stupid managers. Half are good, half are very good. A couple are either insane or on the way to megabraindom. I was disappointed with League One, to be honest. I’ve been professional because that’s my job but there will be some matches next year that we will 100% lose unless we try mad things, so I have permission to try mad things. Do you know what I mean? It’s gonna be top.”

I walked around the statue for a minute. It was very slightly freaking me out because from the right, the shield blocked Achilles’ face, and if you went too far to the left you could only see the back of his head. If you couldn’t see his face, you kinda didn’t feel that you were looking at the statue. Had the sculptor done this deliberately? Made it so that you had to stand in a certain spot to enjoy his work? That idea didn’t make a ton of sense, but what other explanation could there be? I looked around. London had changed a lot since 1822. Maybe in those days, there was something in the environment that explained the design.

”Oh!” I said, excited, turning around, hunting on the ground for clues of some long-lost structure.

”What?” said James, with some apprehension.

”I’m thinking that in 1822, there was an ice cream stall right here! Did they have ice cream in those days? Jellied eels, maybe. Figgy syrups.”

”Mr. Best, what are you talking about?”

”Here,” I said, describing the approximate shape of an olde-tyme kiosk. ”You sell your cockney whelks here. You slip the sculptor a few bob to put his statue there, angled just so. Horny women amble around the park and linger here at your shop, but really they’re getting an eyeful of a nudey man. They didn’t have soccerotica in those days, remember. If you’re the whelk stand owner, step three is: profit.”

I had cracked the case. I paced around, very pleased with myself.

James was rubbing his arm, staring into the distance. ”My mum and dad are coming today. And Pastor Yaw and half the church.”

”Nice.”

”Yes. Nice. Of course. And many others will watch on television. In Manchester and in Ghana.”

”Don’t forget your legions of fans in Munich,” I said, which was very possibly not what he needed to hear at that moment.

”Oh,” he said.

I grabbed him and gave him a little shake. ”You’re gonna be fine! Don’t worry about it. Everyone’s proud of you, right? Aren’t they? Use your words.”

”Yes.”

”What? They’re gonna be mad that you lost a cup final? That’s absurd! They’re gonna be mad they went down to London to support you? No, they’re gonna be proud of themselves and weirdly proud of you because it shows that everything else you did wasn’t as easy as you made it look. So what the fuck are you worried about?”

”I do not know. I do not know why I am feeling so queasy.”

”It’s normal, innit? Don’t worry. I can tell you with scientific accuracy that every other player is feeling exactly the same as you.”

”Not you, though.”

”No, but I’m built wrong, aren’t I? Got a mashed up brain. There’s all sorts wrong with me, like, medically and psychologically and spiritually. Do you remember when I nearly died?”

”I do,” he said, softly.

”Your dad saved my life, James. I don’t know, maybe this week is me just having some perspective. He’s coming, is he? That’s good. I’m gonna put on a show for him. What does he like? Rabonas? Scoring from corners? That thing I do where I shuffle the ball from foot to foot quickly? Nutmegs. He’s a megs guy, right? Oh, what about a rainbow flick?”

”What is that?”

”Um... You sort of squeeze the ball between your feet and flick it straight up but then as you’re moving forward you end up flicking the ball again with your heel and if you do it right the ball arcs over your head like a rainbow. Ah, no, I’ve got it!”

”You do?”

”He’s into backheels. Okay, you’ve convinced me. I’ll do backheel passes, backheel nutmegs... Gasp! I’ll take a backheel penalty!”

James was grinning. ”He would like to meet the trophy when we win it. He’s coming in the nice suit you bought him.”

I spoke quietly. ”To take photos with you and him and the cup?”

”Yes.”

”It’s just some metal. Who cares?”

”Meghan showed him some of her career photos. Dad really liked the ones where the whole family was together with the cup Meghan had just won.”

”Photos like that are objectively great,” I said. ”Everyone’s happy and smiling and it’s a document of an achievement. It’s not just a line on a Wikipedia page. And,” I said, talking more quietly, ”it shows that everyone was there, that day.” I stepped on and off a patch of grass, idly wondering how many gravities it had. ”It would be a great photo, wouldn’t it? You and your dad on the left, the trophy in the middle, your mum and Kisi on the right. Or would it be Meghan? Sure that’s great now but what about when you break up?”

”We are not going to break up.”

I shook my head. ”You young people, always trying to spoil romance by making it last forever.”

”What about you and Emma?”

”That’s forever.”

He smiled and rubbed his head. ”I will do one photo with Meghan and one with Kisi. Just in case Meghan leaves me for Dazza!” He did his goofiest grin.

I looked up at Achilles. I didn’t really know much of his story, but from what I could remember he mostly played away from home. Won battles with no fans watching. Didn’t fret about photos and trinkets. ”What shape is this cup anyway? Is it one of those round ones? Big handles?”

James didn’t respond to my question. He dipped his head and shuffled his feet. ”What is my Achilles’ heel, do you think?”

I smiled wider than a Hyde Park-based whelk slash ice cream salesman in 1822. ”Your weakness? Easy. Long shots and dancing.”

He grinned while shaking his head. ”Do you want to ask what yours is?”

”I know what my fatal flaw is.”

”What is it?”

”I have boundless affection for goofy weirdos.”

James ’Youngster’ Yalley’s Morale smashed to maximum.

***

The squad had breakfast together. Our nutritionist consultant was on hand to encourage us to eat porridge, chicken, and blueberries, then we went into another room and I outlined the final selection and my tactical plan.

”All right,” I said. ”You all know what’s coming. Pompey do a straight 4-2-3-1 with no major tweaks. It’s conservative but effective. It wasn’t quite clicking in the first half of the season but when they got Rushy in at right back, everything worked much better. I mean, you add pace and quality to your team, the team gets better, it’s not rocket science, but Rushy’s specific attacking threat changed how teams defend against them. It’s much more back foot, men behind ball, all that stuff. With teams playing more cautiously against them, Pompey have been able to push forward, get more goals, get more wins.

”I’ve said this before. Every team’s biggest strength is also their Achilles’ heel. Rushy has helped the rest of the team click. What happens when you take him out of the team? Does the house of cards topple? When we take him out, the reaction won’t be that extreme but it will destabilise them. All these moves and patterns they have built up since January will stop working.”

Christian Fierce, wearing his suit, said, ”Yo, boss, you gonna smash into Rushy early doors?” That earned some laughter. Christian Fierce being the best non-playing captain he could be.

”Worse than that, from his point of view.”

I had blue magnets on the tactics board representing Portsmouth. They were in a 4-2-3-1 shape. I moved them to the side, all except for the one representing Matt Rush. I slid yellow magnets into a 4-4-2 shape.

”Simple stuff,” I said. ”Just one slight tweak. I’m going to play left midfield.” I touched the relevant magnet and slid it forward. ”But mostly I’ll be right up here. I don’t think Rushy will be allowed to go forward, and if he does, we will destroy Pompey on counters. You get the ball to me in this space here and it’s game over. No, I think he’ll stay with me, but I know his game inside out and I plan to destroy him. This centre back will have to move across to cover, this DM, too, and probably even this CAM will be drawn towards me.”

Christian said, ”That’s not the tactics drawing them to you, it’s your magnetic personality.”

”Maxnetic,” said Bark, to much derision.

I waited, smiling, then continued. ”That’s basically it. I fuck them up, they tilt across to try to deal with me, there’s time and space for the rest of you.

”Okay, the line-up. Swanny takes the sticks.” Ian Swan, CA 111. ”The pitch is gonna be perfect, Ian. You can trust your technique. Play short passes, keep the ball moving. If you get in trouble, smash it high to me.”

”Cole, Fitzroy, Zach, Magnus.” CA 108, 108, 111, 104. ”Zach’s the boss, lads. Follow his lead.”

”Max Best.”

Livia called out, ”You shove four defenders into one sentence but you get your own?”

”Yep. Remember, that guy on that podcast who diagnosed me with narcissism doesn’t actually hold any medical qualifications. Midfield section two is Joel, Youngster, Wibbers.” 120, 116, 109.

”I should get my own sentence,” said Wibbers.

”Prove it,” I said. ”Up top, Colin and Gabby.” 113, 110. Colin’s fitness had risen to 97%. Absolutely nothing to worry about. Except... everyone was extremely worried. Meanwhile, the choice between Gabby and Dazza had been made on the morning that Dazza had heard that his brother was sick. I had given him the rest of the season off, and had told Gabby he would play in the final.

Excluding me, we had a season-high, all-time high of CA 111. The last time we had encountered Portsmouth, they had been CA 112. ”Portsmouth are really good, guys. We won’t get anything for free, and if we fuck up we’ll get punished. Make sure your final preparations are on point.”

”Hurr,” said Youngster.

”What are you doing?” I asked.

”Final preparations. Hurr.”

”Wow.”

I turned my attention back to the tactics board. With the margins so thin, the outcome could be determined by who used their bench more effectively. I didn’t have Bench Boost, but I had some decent options.

”Subs are Sticky, Adam, Nasa, Peter, Andrew, Bark, Dazza.”

A goalie, three defenders, two midfielders, and a striker. I could use five of those seven, and very much hoped I wouldn’t be forced to use the first three. In an ideal world, we would be five-nil up after an hour and I would be able to bring Adam onto the pitch to get a standing ovation from our fans. It would be a huge ’fuck you’ to the EFL idiots who had fined us for using him.

”That’s it. You’ve all been studying your opponents and there won’t be any surprises. Get to your rooms, pack, meet back in reception and then... Then we ride to Wembley.”

***

When Sealbiscuit hurled itself through the heart of London, I played ’Ride of The Valkyries’ over the sound system. It was the stirring music from the helicopter attack at the start of Apocalpyse Now but the effect was somewhat ruined as we hit a red light almost immediately.

We crawled across the city. I leaned over to Sandra and said, ”Next time we’ll rent 20 Hueys and airdrop right onto the pitch. Heh.”

She nodded, smiling thinly. I didn’t have a Morale check for my staff, but I didn’t need it. Everyone was riding the Morale rollercoaster. She tried to say something but it didn’t come out right. She tried again. ”There’s the arch.”

I scampered to her side of the coach and peered out. Through a gap between some buildings I could see the edge of the stadium, with a massive arch poking out like a rainbow. ”Oof,” I said. ”That’s a beefy boy.”

”Yeah,” she said.

I gave her a little slap on the arm. ”Finally a space big enough to contain my ego!”

”Or swallow it whole,” she mumbled.

”Aiden’s coming, right?”

”Yes. And Jamie. And everyone we know.” She looked at the arch. ”Everyone we know,” she repeated.

***

Sealbiscuit went through, left, round, and under. We thanked our driver, who was one of our regulars, and emerged from the bus in a vast underground space that had the size and feel of a car park at a major international airport, not a football stadium.

We got our gear and went through a set of double doors marked ’Players Entrance’. As ever with such signs I drove myself briefly crazy wondering if there should have been an apostrophe in there, and if so, where. There was another sign that got my mind churning. The door on the left had a sign saying, ’Open Me First’. Why had they chosen that language? I would have written: open this door first. Or how about not having a sign and trusting people to work it out?

”What are you thinking?” said Peter Bauer, vaguely worried that I was staring so hard at a door. ”Afraid to cross the threshold? Need to be invited inside?”

I pointed. ”If you didn’t have this sign, people would pull the right-sided handle, the door wouldn’t open, and instead of trying the left one they would get on their phone and disturb your staff. Or they would get on social media and complain about being locked out. It’s cheaper to have a sign.” I tilted my head. ”Or you could design doors that aren’t hard for idiots to open. That’s an option.”

Peter got a diplomatic smile, patted me on the back, and rolled his little case along the corridor.

I followed, noting that the walls were plastered with sponsor branding. A couple of photographers and a few optimistic journos were there, getting snaps of the arrival of the favourites for the cup.

”Max, can we have a word?”

”Egregious.”

”What? No, can we talk? Max! What’s the plan today? Are we going to see Bestball? Are you going to wear something funny? Max!”

Round the corner was a sort of rotunda staging area thing that led to the two dressing rooms. Portsmouth were the ’home’ team, so they got the one used by the England national team, and they got to wear their usual blue kit.

There was a tiny glimpse of the pitch from the middle of the rotunda, but I forced myself not to look. Soon! I turned right past a giant Chester badge. The route to the ’away’ room had been decorated with scenes from Chester’s recent past. Goals, team huddles, goal celebrations, players applauding. Nice touch.

A couple more corridors and we were into the dressing room. It was about the same size as the ones at Bayern Munich, long with a curved wall, with recessed player booths - the overall design reminded me of a first-class cabin. Superyacht chic. Behind some of the seats were the letters needed to spell ’Chester FC’, and above each one was the name and squad number of a player. It had been done alphabetically, so I was close to the front, on the left as the manager would stand.

I put my kit bag down, tested my new space, and then went exploring. Next to the showers was a room with half a dozen ice baths.

Thomazella, who had traveled for the experience, dipped his hand into the water, gasped, and flicked some at Nasa, who complained loudly in Portuguese. Tomz laughed and spoke to me in his hesitant but improving English. ”Gaffer, we get this at Deva?”

”Yes,” I said. ”Not soon. Three years, is possible. Más o menos. This summer, away end. Next summer, West Stand. Finally, Main Stand. Main stand will be very big, very expensive. Everything inside. Have to sell Nasa to pay for it.”

”Eh?” said Nasa. Tomz explained it to him. Nasa nodded. ”If that is God’s plan.”

That was the end of that particular banter, so I said, ”Your family is here?”

Big smiles all round. ”Yes, yes!” said Tomz. ”Chelli help us a lot. Passes and taxis and bookings. He is kind.” Chelli was their agent. He ran the South American branch of Ruth’s agency and while we were supporting him financially, it wouldn’t be long until he was completely self-sufficient. ”We want Chelli in the photo with our family and the cup. Is okay?”

”Is okay, but we have to win, yeah? Let’s try to remember that part, maybe. And you’re all going out tonight, yes? Big Brazilian party in London.”

”Small party,” said Nasa.

Tomz gave him a whack. ”Big party.” He turned to me. ”Can we go with the cup?”

”The cup? Why do you get the cup? You’re not playing.”

Tomz shrugged and smiled - he was turning into a real ladykiller. ”I try.”

Livia had appeared in the room along with half our fleet of physios. ”I want the trophy.”

”You?” I said.

”I told Jackie I’m going to sleep with it tonight so he should make up the sofa.”

I laughed, but Livia didn’t. She was fascinating. When she was at Tranmere, she was the biggest Tranmere fan. When she was at Chester, she was Queen of the Seals. How could she switch so easily and so completely? ”I know you don’t want to spend money on the main stand just before we demolish it,” she said, tapping an ice bath. ”But it could take more than three years to get the funds together for that redevelopment, right?”

”Yeah. It’s gonna go something like 5 million for the away end, 10 million for the West Stand, and 20 for the main. We have to fill it with all sorts of stuff for Premier League and European matches, plus redo our offices, have space for the museum, all that. Could end up being much more than 20 mill.”

”Right. So we should look into getting a couple of ice baths in the meantime. I’m sure we could find space, and the actual units can be kept and reused.”

”Hmm,” I said. ”Not every expert is convinced that ice baths actually help long-term. It would be a simple way of improving our Facilities Score, though, wouldn’t it? How much is one of these?”

”About thirty grand.”

”Ouch. Okay, I’ll think about it. Time to get out onto the pitch, I reckon. Let’s roll, amigos!”

***

I gathered the lads and had them follow me back down the corridor and right, through the short tunnel and onto the Wembley Stadium pitch.

Emerging into the massive venue was a stunning moment. There was about fifteen metres of astroturf, then the dotted lines demarcating the technical areas, then the pitch, and then the most enormous stand, that swept along the entire length of the pitch, round the corners, and back again.

The bottom tier looked to be as big as the new Harry McNally terrace, and it was topped by another one, and then a much larger one had been stacked onto that.

90,000 capacity, 15,000 bigger than the Allianz Arena in Munich. Colossal video screens, a retractable roof, the word Wembley written across the seats at one end in a charmingly old-fashioned font. Were they seats that had been taken out of the old stadium and put into the new one? Keeping as much of the old tradition alive as possible?

Behind me was a vast media centre, and all around, skyboxes. Executive suites, hospitality packages, prawn sandwiches. This place was a giant cash machine.

And the pitch, my God, the pitch. How beautiful it was! A bunch of people tried to talk to me, but I walked straight ahead, unblinking, taking it all in, and then I was on it. I was on the turf at Wembley stadium!

I bent and touched the grass and pressed into the surface. My groundsman, Jonny Planter, was nearby with the guy from Wembley. ”Max,” said Jonny. ”This is Carl.”

”An absolute pleasure,” I said, shaking the guy’s hand. He was a normal-looking guy, tall and thin, who was dressed rather like he was about to shoot a round of golf. He had some stubble, as though he was trying to look like Ben Affleck, but I knew that these pitch guys were complete nutjobs and he wouldn’t have slept well in the days leading up to this final. ”I hear you’re the Max Best of football pitches.”

”Oh,” he said, taken aback. ”Is that a compliment, or...?”

”We’re gonna find out, aren’t we?” I said, bending again to feel the grass. ”How’s the gravity?”

”Optimal,” said Carl, instantly. ”She’s turned out well, fingers crossed. She’s thirsty right now but we’ll give her a drink later. Don’t worry about making sharp turns, she can handle it.”

I stood and did a 360. It was hard to process how vast this place was. I’d heard that the Vatican was like this. The ceilings were about 30% higher than the human brain could quite process, resulting in a feeling of awe. ”This is my kinda town, lads.”

Jonny smiled. ”I’ve been worried about this match for a long time but seeing you come out of the tunnel just now, the way your face lit up, it’s so reassuring. It’s like you were born to play here.”

”Pretty sure I was born to work and toil in obscurity, like an ant. No, a worm.”

Jonny didn’t know how to respond, so he said, ”There’s something interesting I learned. Portsmouth came here last night.”

That got my attention away from the stands and onto the humans. ”They what?”

”They came to the stadium, to the side of the pitch there. Had a little walk around. To let their players get used to the size and everything. Reduce the shock of coming here for the first time, for the ones where it is their first time. Half have been before. I thought you might like to know.”

We’d booked the wrong hotel, we didn’t know you could come early. We were such noobs. ”And we can just rock up, can we?”

Carl shook his head. ”You might want to call ahead.”

I might have guessed that part. ”How do you feel about players celebrating goals with a knee slide? Leaving huge skid marks all across your pitch?”

”They make me want to cry.”

”If I promise not to do a knee slide when I score - which I will - can Jonny come and spend a day with you or something like that? He wants to learn from the master.”

”Course he can,” said Carl, nodding at Jonny, who had frozen. ”He’s a rising star, isn’t he?”

”He’s outstanding in his field,” I said, causing them both to laugh. ”One day, someone needs to tell me why that’s funny.”

***

We went inside, changed, and went back out to do some warm ups. The stadium was filling up. We were expecting just under 80,000 fans, which was extraordinary, really, and millions more would be watching on DigiWorld’s TV broadcast. The women’s team were in a section somewhere, but Dani had decided to go into the media area to do her ’reporting’, since that was probably a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for her.

Sandra was doing all the interviews and media, leaving me free to concentrate on my role as a player.

Portsmouth had improved a little and were now CA 113. Interesting.

I felt amazing. With my boots and training kit on, the Wembley stage was even more amazing. The pitch at the Deva was top but there was something about this one that took things up another notch. There was just the right amount of stability when planting your feet, so that you didn’t feel like your heel was going to get stuck in a clump of mud; you could really put some extra spin on the ball, and you could make sharp turns.

I got a little tingle of excitement - finally! - as I did some tekkers before rolling the ball to the side and kicking it hard - but not too hard - at goal. It flew into the top-right corner.

It was so easy that I actually laughed. Everything was working perfectly. I was going to thrill and amaze these fans, no doubt about it.

Would they call this ’The Best Final’?

The way I was feeling, yeah, they probably would. How would Old Nick feel about me showing off so hard in such a big stadium on such a stage? He didn’t want me to star on the pitch, claiming that I had somehow ’cheated’ to get these powers, when in fact it was his own laziness that had turned me into an elite player.

This was a competition that was mainly contested by the third and fourth tiers of English football. A few Premier League academy sides entered it, too, but they tended to get knocked out early. As talented as those young prospects were, they couldn’t win a string of games against hardened professionals.

Chester had just confirmed their ascension to the second tier of English football. It would be easy to convince a human judge that we were effectively a level higher than the Vans Trophy, so if I played sensationally well, that was only because I was playing against a team of a lower standard. That argument was foolproof. A flawless argument... unless the cosmic referee I knew as ’The Sentinel’ looked into the curse and saw that I was a tier 3 player demolishing the second-best team in tier 3.

Meh. I was probably safe. I could go hard at the first half and reevaluate.

The penultimate time we went out, the EFL Trophy had appeared on a plinth and my players were gawping at it like it was a sexy mermaid.

I walked right past.

The atmosphere was crackling. Both sets of fans were chanting, though their siren songs were being drowned by the incredibly loud music being cranked out.

I checked my guys’ Morale. Crashed. Nerves got them. I would have one last chance to intervene, and then I would spend 45 minutes thinking only about me and the ball.

”Boss,” said Zach. ”You need to do the coin toss.”

”Nah, you do it.”

”I’m not the captain,” he said, tapping my rainbow armband.

”Urgh. Fine.” I wandered over to the referee. He was with his assistants and the captain of Portsmouth, Paul Pointer. Pointer was 34 and would play as one of the two defensive midfielders. He had good Positioning, terrible Pace, and a plain armband.

”Ah, Best,” said the ref. ”Nice of you to join us.”

I didn’t reply. Don’t feed the troll.

”We’re doing the toss to see who kicks off in the first half.”

I gestured at Pointer. ”Don’t bother. He can choose.”

”We have to toss a coin, it’s tradition.”

”Fine.”

He was ready to chuck it. ”Call.”

”Heads never fails,” I said.

”It’s heads.”

”Loser’s choice,” I said to Pointer, which seemed to get under his skin. People are so sensitive!

”We’ll kick off,” he grunted.

”Oooh,” I said, laughing. ”Advantage Portsmouth!” In my mind, a caption appeared under Pointer’s head: seething intensifies. The image didn’t help me to get more serious about this time-honoured process.

”Now to decide which end you shoot towards in the first half,” said the ref.

”Yeah, about that,” I said. ”If I win, I’m gonna let PP decide, and we both want to shoot towards our fans in the second half, so why don’t we skip to that part?”

The ref looked anguished. ”We have to do a coin toss!”

”Amazing. All right, I call heads.”

”It’s not your turn,” hissed Pointer, which sent me into a fit of giggles. ”I call heads.” Him choosing heads was the most hilarious moment yet.

”It’s tails,” said the ref.

”Oooh,” I cried. ”So close. Loser’s choice. What do you want to do, PP?” I was being provocative, of course I was, because I fully expected him not to reply.

”We’ll shoot this way first,” he said, instantly. Going against tradition and common sense, he was pointing towards the half of the stadium that had the darker blue.

Even the ref couldn’t believe it. ”You don’t want to do that in the second half?”

”No,” growled Pointer.

The author’s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

In an attempt to spite me, he had upended the normal order of things. What every footballer wanted was to score a last-minute winner right in front of thousands of their delirious supporters. The prospect of that made matches more exciting, more emotional, and when those moments came about, having happy fans made for better photographs. PP’s attempt to wind me up partially succeeded, because displays of pure spite can’t be ignored. ”I’ve never seen a guy lose a football match in the coin toss,” I said. ”This is one for the history books.” I looked PP in the eye. ”You’re history.”

***

”All right, lads,” I said, back in the dressing room, having already forgotten about the coin toss but retaining a slight aftertaste of PP’s negativity. Sandra had gone over the plan again, reminding some players of specific tasks they had. Kick off was minutes away. ”Last word from me. We’re shooting towards our own fans in the first half, so if we get the chance to run up the score, let’s do it. It’s a week till the next game and we’ve got a healthy squad so let’s put everything into this one today. No need to hold back.”

I pottered around the space, looking up at the modern ceiling with its futuristic lighting.

”Good this, innit? It’s an incredible place to play, but we’ve earned this. We’re the best team in this competition. We didn’t win a fucking raffle to get here, did we? We beat Barnsley and Plymouth to get here. Some of you are nervous. That’s natural. But we’re a team, aren’t we? You might not know this, but I’m actually descended from a chap called Achilles. Yeah, true story. In those days, you wedged all your shields together, didn’t you, and nobody could smash through your lines. If you’ve got butterflies in your stomach, enjoy that feeling because we don’t get it against fucking Stevenage at home, do we?”

”I do,” said Youngster, which got a laugh.

”What I’m saying is, lock your shields together and we can’t be beat. Play as a team and we can’t be beat. Enjoy your nerves - that’s your reward for a long, hard season - but trust in the man standing next to you.”

Not my most bombastic speech, but it was effective enough. As my players eyed each other and drew strength from what they saw, our Morale stabilised once more. Stabilised and climbed as Christian and Zach led a chorus of yells and whoops.

The bell in the dressing room rang.

Time to play.

Finally, I got nervous in a big way. Huge, flappy butterflies all inside of me.

We went into the tunnel and I saw Portsmouth. I nodded at Matt Rush and winked at Paul Pointer.

Some short-lived butterflies, those.

***

Descriptions of the action and commentary taken from DigiWorld Sports Max 4K.

Matt: And here come the players! League One leaders Chester against second-placed Portsmouth! A mouth-watering clash! There’s Max Best, grinning broadly. He looked in fine form in the warm ups.

Ally: He was smashing shots into the top corner - he does it time and time again. If Portsmouth give away silly free kicks, they’ll get punished.

Matt: Portsmouth captain Paul Pointer looking rather less relaxed. We understand it was his choice to play the wrong way round, so to speak. What do you make of that, Ally?

Ally: It’s crazy! You might do that at Anfield because Liverpool want to shoot to The Kop in the second half, but not at Wembley! What’s the advantage? He might have just made himself very unpopular with his own fans. But then again, if they win, he’ll say it was his mind games that did it.

Matt: A big turnout today, much bigger than expected. Portsmouth were expected to outsell Chester at least two to one but if anything, I see more Chester fans!

Ally: Aye, I’m with you there. The Chester fans have come out in force but there are little pockets of other groups, too. I saw rows and rows of soldiers.

Matt: That would be the third Welsh regiment, who were coached by Max Best for a year. Not true Chester fans, but they’re backing him today.

Ally: And they get to sit next to Chester’s women’s team, too, which is a good enough reason to come. I saw young Roddy Jones in that section, with his dad. He must be some player, you know.

Matt: I fear his best days might be behind him at his age.

Ally: Ahahaha! You got me there!

Matt: As we prepare for the national anthem, the camera operators continue to pick out notable faces. Who’s that?

Ally: Lots of gay pride flags in that section.

Matt: Max Best is wearing a rainbow armband today. Oh! Dieter Bauer and Paul Braun are here. That’s a surprise.

Ally: Peter Bauer is on the bench.

Matt: Of course! But surely Bayern Munich have a match today? I suppose they have the league sewn up. If my grandson had a chance to play at Wembley for the first time, I would want to be here. A few Australian flags flying.

Ally: That’s Darren Smith’s brother and parents. The brother was taken ill on holiday and it looked really bad for him. Great to see him here today.

Matt: Indeed. And now a reminder of the line-ups, followed by the national anthem.

***

Excerpts from Dani Smith-Smithe’s minute-by-minute commentary.

2:26

There’s still stuff all over the pitch! How are they going to clear that in time? Hello? This isn’t the Club World Cup. This is real football. Get your adverts off the grass!

The Portsmouth fans are waving flags. They’ve all got flags! It looks amazing.

Everyone’s standing up. What’s that about?

Right, it’s the national anthem. I have to stop typing for -

Okay I’m back! Was she a good singer? Let me know in the comments! I liked her dress!

Tbh I was mostly watching our players while all that was going on. I’ve got a good view and there are some screens here so I can see things that are happening.

OMG our boys are so nervous! The Pompey ones were staring straight ahead like they were marrying a girl they didn’t like any more, but ours were looking all over the place. THAT DIDN’T FILL ME WITH CONFIDENCE lol.

Maybe they were looking for Max because he wasn’t in the line up. He was doing his thing where he pretends to be doing important manager things but actually he just doesn’t want to stand where he was told because he doesn’t like being told what to do. And he’s cross with the EFL so he’s being all Max with them.

Strange thing, though. I had a good view of him and I swear that when the anthem started and he saw the camera feed was on the singer and the players, he was staring at the trophy. It’s just there to his right. Get yourself a guy who looks at you the way Max Best looks at a football trophy!

That was strange because I thought the girls had been saying in the group chats that Max wasn’t bothered about this one and he only went Full Max in the semi because he promised a sick fan we would get to Wembley this season. So maybe I imagined all that about him mooning at the trophy.

It’s a nice trophy. It looks like a shiny drill with a special attachment.

2:29

Oh! All the stuff’s gone! That was fast. I take back what I said. Put more adverts on if you want.

Wait, they’re getting ready to start. Just like that! I thought there would be more pageantry.

I’m stressed! I can’t feel my fingers. I’m just mashing the keys, lol.

Quick shot of all the players. So nervous, oh my God, it’s freaking me out!

Not Max, though. He looks like a naughty little boy who has done a prank. What has he got up his sleeve?

***

Matt: The Vans Trophy final is underway! Portsmouth moving the ball back to their keeper to give him an early touch. He boots it long, though. Zach Green jumps for the header, but Blake gets the faintest of flicks. The ball zips ahead, but Ian Swan read it well. No danger here. Oh!

Crowd: Huge gasp.

Matt: Swan went to punt the ball but missed it completely! It rolled under his foot and he was fortunate that it went out for a goal kick. If that had been on target, that would have been a goal!

Ally: That would have been a bizarre goal.

Matt: We’re seeing the replay now.

Crowd: Disbelief.

Matt: A wild start here at Wembley! Ian Swan air kicked an attempted clearance and Chester were mere feet from going behind in the first ten seconds! The pitch is impeccable, so he can’t say it bobbled.

Ally: Maybe he knew it was going wide and he wanted the goal kick...

***

1’

No! Swanny no! What are you doing?

***

Matt: Ian Swan must be the most relieved man in the stadium.

Ally: In the country.

Matt: He’s going to take this goal kick so let’s hope he makes better contact this time. Or any contact. Chester are lined up in a 4-4-2 formation. Swan launches the ball long, to the left, towards his captain. And that’s brilliant from Best!

Ally: My word, son, that is ridiculous.

Matt: Max Best takes the ball on his chest while his former player Matt Rush grapples with him. Best laughing off the youngster’s attentions. He’s doing kick-ups while Rush tries to push him away. Rush gets some support now from Munks. Best flicks the ball over the defensive midfielder’s head, and he’s away!

Crowd: Excitement.

Matt: Best cuts away from the middle, aiming towards the left corner flag. Rush is tracking back. Munks too. Best is gliding forward, balanced, full of threat. The right centre back, Owusu, moves closer. Best spins towards the touchline, moves the ball from foot to foot. Was that a nutmeg on Munks? That won’t look good on the replays but he did his job and bought his team a few seconds to reset. Best again goes left, and now takes on Matt Rush.

Crowd: Rising excitement.

Ally: Go on, lad!

Matt: Best is past Rush! In comes Owusu, but Best skips past him! Owusu tried to grab his shirt but... Best surges into the penalty area. He shapes to shoot, checks back, rolls the ball towards Gabriel... But he blazes the shot miles over the bar!

Crowd: Groans/jeers.

Ally: What a chance that was.

Matt: Gabriel has his head in his hands. Best is blowing kisses to the Chester fans in front of him. They love it, and they love him!

Ally: He’s up for this one, Matt, let me tell ya. This could be a long old 90 minutes for Matt Rush.

***

3’

Maaaaaaaxxxxxxxx!!!!!!

Deep breath.

Beeeeeeeeeeeessssssssst.

****

Portsmouth’s goalie, a dude called Tetek, took the goal kick short and the defenders went through their playing-out-from-the-back routine. The idea was to play the ball around the opposition’s press, moving the ball slowly but surely to a free man in the midfield.

The joke was that I had all my outfield players in one half of our half. There was no press. One of the oppos could simply have walked to the halfway line with the ball at his feet. Instead, they went through their patterns anyway.

I was in my slot, laughing. What are you doing? Why are you doing it?

Teach a man to play out from the back and he’ll eat for a day.

Teach a man how to play football, and he’ll eat your lunch.

My methods were light years ahead of my opponent’s.

***

Owusu passes to Rush.

Rush to Owusu. He plays it to his centre back partner, Laidlaw.

There is no pressure from Chester.

Laidlaw passes to Pointer, who has space to turn.

Portsmouth’s captain looks for options and finds none. He passes to Munks.

Munks to Rush.

Rush ventures forwards. He crosses halfway and is tackled by Best.

The ball is loose.

Can Best get there first?

Owusu does brilliantly to slide in, gather, and return it to Tetek.

***

Pompey came again, this time trying their left.

The Laidlaw guy played it to Pointer, who chipped an extremely shit pass to the left wing. Their left-sided central attacking midfielder, a guy called Blake, chased it. Magnus had positioned himself well and intercepted. He tried to clip the ball along the line to Wibbers, but Blake threw himself in the way and blocked it. The rebound fell to Pointer, the prick, and he hit another dogshit pass in the general direction of the striker.

The ball was going between our centre backs. They both went for it but stopped, leaving it for the other. That allowed the striker, Holmes, to get the ball. He looked up and saw that Blake was running hard from the left. Holmes tried to hit that pass.

Zach Green was positioned well and jumped with the intention of heading the ball back to Swanny. Zach got his angles wrong, and only succeeded in giving Blake a golden opportunity.

Blake scampered onto the ball and for a heart-stopping second I was sure that Swanny would clatter into the back of him, giving away either a penalty or a red card.

Swanny stopped himself just in time. Blake sorted his feet out, turned inside, and chipped the ball over our goalie. The ball sailed towards our goal line...

But Cole Adams was there.

He cleared the ball.

But wait!

He got his kick all wrong, and the ball went up, up, and spun backwards... over the crossbar.

Corner kick, but it could have been a lot worse.

I checked everyone’s Morale, and surprise, surprise, they had all tanked.

What was it? The anthems? Seeing themselves on giant screens? Thinking about the fucking trophy photos?

I thought about retreating to the penalty area to help out with the corner, seeing as my entire team was playing dogshit.

I started to walk that way, but decided to do the opposite. I went up to the halfway line. Matt Rush came back with me. Pompey only had three guys back. If Swanny got the ball and pinged it to me, I would totes score. I had these guys on toast.

***

8’

Corner to Portsmouth from our right.

Blake fires it in.

Swanny goes to punch and doesn’t get there.

Mad scramble.

Header?

Hall stabs it away! Nice job Fitz.

Joel Reid gets it and sort of nudges it ahead to Wibbers.

He’s got to smash it left to Max!

Kick it that way Wibbers!

Arhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

What.

What is happening.

Wibbers sliced it and it went to the RIGHT for a throw-in!

Max was open!

Kick it anywhere to the left. Like ANYwhere.

I can’t believe this.

9’

Okay Youngster did good and forced them back.

They’ve gone to our right and Wibbers is working hard.

He kicked it out for a throw. That’s better.

Oh but the ref gave the throw to us. That’s dumb, lol.

Wibbers chucks it towards Gabby.

But it’s a foul throw!!!!!

He didn’t have both feet on the ground and he threw it straight down. You can’t do that! That’s a drop, not a throw. Even I know that and I don’t take throw-ins!

So now Ports get the ball instead.

Wibbers what are you doing?

***

Matt: Very nervous start from Chester. Lots of unforced errors. Portsmouth looking the more assured team by far. They come again. Owusu. Rush. Owusu. Laidlaw. He goes left to Wittingham, who has been in sparkling form in recent weeks. He checks back and gives it to Pointer. No pressure from Chester. What do you make of that, Ally?

Ally: It’s a strange one but I think I see the basic sense of it. Pompey get to halfway easily but if they try to go further, Chester swarm all over them and can look to counter.

Matt: It looks wrong to me. Munks is on the ball now. He tries to advance but is closed down by Reid. Munks passes to Blake. He touches it to Quinn, hoping for the one-two. Nice play by Green to stop that move. Hall passes towards Reid, but Munks challenges. The ball squirms to the left. Best will get there first. He looks at where the goalie is. Surely he’s not thinking...

Crowd: Huh? Oh! Waaaah!

Matt: Max Best shoots from the half way line! He strikes it too far to the left, but it’s curling back! It’s curling back! It’s got the distance... Tetek is scrambling backwards. He stumbles, leaps, misses the ball... But it hits the roof of the net! It lands on the roof of the net!

Crowd: Ooooooooh!

Ally: This young man, oh my word. I can’t wait to see the replay of this because I thought he had made a complete hash of that.

Matt: Here it comes now. He pounces on the loose ball, hits it like he’s on the driving range. Easy, lazy, powerful swing, snap of the wrist at the end. Ankles, in this case.

Ally: Boof! That’s a beautiful action.

Matt: The ball starts out miles to the left, but Tetek knows right away he’s in trouble. The Chester fans behind the goal are up on their feet. They think it’s got a chance! Now it starts to fade in, dips, Tetek nowhere near it. Then poof! Lands on top of the net. Absolutely stunning from Max Best.

***

I was having a great time. The ball was obeying me to an extent I couldn’t even remember being true even back in my old mystery winger days. Back then I barely knew where I was even supposed to stand on a pitch. Now I knew how best to use my skills to disrupt the oppo, how to generate threat, how to mix up my moves to keep them guessing, keep them stressing.

The ball came to me again and I went right at Rushy, teasing him that I would go inside, meaning I would move towards the centre of the pitch.

All his life at Man United he had been coached to defend against wingers who cut inside, because that’s how the modern game was played. Right-footed left-wingers would run along the touchline, cut inside, and shoot. Rushy thought I was right-footed. So when I made that motion, his weight shifted to block me, except I was already bursting past him on the outside.

I did it once. Twice. Three times. When he finally realised he was going to have to do something contrary to his programming, I actually did cut inside, and I hit a long-range thunderbastard that Tetek threw himself at, got the faintest of fingertips to, and deflected onto the post and wide.

The referee gave a goal kick.

The ref was having an absolute nightmare, but the same could be said for my players.

I had hoped that the shambolic first ten minutes was their nerves coming to the fore and that they would start to grow into the game. But to my astonishment, they kept playing shit.

Just look at the match ratings after twenty minutes:

Max Best: 9.

Youngster 7, Fitzroy Hall: 7.

Reid, Evergreen: 6.

Wibbers, Green, Adams: 5.

Swan, Beckton, Gabby: 4.

The good news was, it couldn’t get any worse.

***

22’

Whuuuuh why am I here? This is the worst thing I’ve ever done. What’s fun about this? I should be over on the left with my friends.

The Chester guys can’t kick a ball. They can’t pass, can’t even control it.

We’re lucky we’re not two or three goals down already.

Now finally we string a few passes together.

That’s better, lads. Breathe!

And just as I write that, Youngster passes behind Joel. Urgh.

Reid is bullied off the ball by Quinn.

Youngster runs back to help but fouls Quinn and that’s a yellow card.

Yellow card for Youngster because of his shit pass!

Sorry for saying shit but that was SO SHIT.

Max is looking around to see who’s pranking him. Where are the hidden cameras? They’re not hidden, Max, this is really happening!

Or is it?

Maybe I’m the one being pranked?

HA HA Brooke you got me. You can stop now.

No?

Okay we’re still doing this.

Ricardo is Portsmouth’s right-sided CAM. He’s got a good left foot but so far he has been quiet because he has been helping Matt Rush deal with Max. He’s gonna take this and whip it in. Probably aim it around the penalty spot to cause some nuisance. That’s what I’d do.

Okay, he jiggles his feet. Love it when players do that. It’s silly but serious.

He goes -

No!

No!

NononononoNO!

Ricardo curled it, not even that hard, towards the penalty spot like I said - DON’T BLAME ME FOR THIS I’M NOT ON THE PITCH - and about a thousand tall men jumped for the ball and not one of them even touched it HOW IS THAT POSS and the ball just kept going and bounced into the net.

That. Is. Dire.

***

Matt: That has been coming! Portsmouth have been knocking on the door, and hearing no reply, they’ve smashed the door down. For Chester, nobody was home. A simple ball clipped over the top and it sails in. Chester have not turned up to this final and unless something drastically changes, the name going on the trophy will be that of Portsmouth.

Ally: That was such a soft goal, and if you’re one of those Chester fans on your big day out you’ll be thinking - if only Christian Fierce was there. If only your captain was there. You’re looking at Fitzroy Hall thinking, could you be stronger? You’re looking at Joel Reid and Youngster, one of the best combos in League One and thinking, are you up for this? Have you got somewhere else you’d rather be? This - I’m gonna say it - there are ten players out there giving their worst performance of the season. What is it? Stage fright? I can’t remember seeing anything like this. Because their manager is right there putting on a show of pure class, quality, and flair. I can’t understand what I’m seeing, Matt!

***

Getting onto half an hour gone and my match rating of 9 was looking extremely stingy. In thirty minutes I had dribbled past Matt Rush more times than the rest of League One had done in the entire season.

I had created chances, summoned threat out of nothing, and got 80,000 hearts beating faster every time I threatened to pick up speed.

Joel Reid gathered the ball in midfield, saw me sprint down the line and chipped it in my general direction. Matt Rush tried to get into position to stop me. As the ball came closer, I did a 180 to look at Rushy, let the ball hit my back, and did another 180 to bring it under my spell. When Matt realised what I’d done, he stepped forward, thinking he had to be seen to respond otherwise he would get memed to death.

That’s the problem with these young players, I thought to myself as I ambled along the line, doing knee-high kick-ups while Rushy tried to recover. They’re only interested in what they look like on TikTok.

As Rushy got his legs pumping fast enough to catch me up, I put on a burst of acceleration and left him for dead. It must have been a strange feeling, because I had never shown my full power in the few times we had been on opposing sides in training matches.

Owusu was a good defender, and he sensed the danger, but he had almost no experience of playing against me. I made to cut to the right but immediately pushed the ball straight. The shift in intention bamboozled Owusu, who attacked a spot between the two planes, achieving nothing.

I flew past him and was once more menacing the penalty area. The panicked defence came at me; I chipped the ball left-footed towards the far post, to where Wibbers was making a run. It would reach him on the half-volley. All he had to do was get his head over the ball, keep his shot down, and we would equalise.

He hit the ball out of the stadium, all the way to Hyde Park, where it was popped by the mighty sword of Achilles.

That was when I knew.

We weren’t going to win this.

I walked back to my slot, wondering if it was me or the tactics or what.

The curse finally acknowledged that my performance was worthy of 10 out of 10.

The tactics screen showed what I knew - that three Portsmouth players were being drawn away from their zones to try to contain me, and that the rest of the team was shuffling across to compensate. I was, believe it or not, winning the tactical battle.

But ten of my players were crapping the bed. Ten!

I’d never seen anything like it.

Oh, I had seen teams where every player was on 4 or 5 out of 10, but that was when National League North teams played Championship teams in the FA Cup or something like that. I couldn’t remember seeing two sides of roughly equal quality where one had imploded before the match even started. And a team with super low ratings that also had a guy on a straight 10?

No, I had never seen that before.

The only explanation that satisfied me was nerves. Nerves were just an expression of progression, weren’t they? You can take a rubbish team and make them better, but you can’t shake history. If you’ve never been to a final, if you haven’t won anything for many, many decades, you can’t just shrug it off. Even blood money clubs like the Manchester Oilers, Human Rights Aren’t Germane, or Newcastle Death to Dissidents needed a few tries at title chases and cup finals before they finally won one.

So Chester had to lose the first major final for narrative reasons. I mean, I couldn’t get mad at that, could I? You live by the narrative, you die by the narrative.

I shrugged and decided to keep doing what I was doing. So many people were in the Chester half of the stadium. I saw loads of Chester swag, of course, including some replicas of the new away kit the team were wearing. Those must have been knock-offs because the shirt wasn’t yet for sale. How do you pirate something that isn’t even out?

There was tons of random colour. Was that a Slovakian flag? A sign hinted that some guys had come from Gibraltar. Where were my Maltesers at? Every so often, the big screen zoomed in on someone in the crowd. Sometimes the producers picked out someone dressed funny, or a cute little kid, but as often as possible they went for celebrities and attractive women. This time, it showed Angel from our women’s team. She saw that she was on the screen and looked down the lens, pointed to her eyes and then to the pitch. Get your arse back over there!

I laughed. For the first time ever, Angel didn’t want to be on camera. Character growth!

My legs felt bouncy again. Sprightly. Springy.

We were gonna lose, but that didn’t mean we couldn’t go down in style.

***

32’

Holy smokes this is incredible, yo. Max is lit. He’s lit and he’s bringing the heat and letting off fireworks.

Don’t try this at home, kids!

Actually, I will say one thing at this point. He’s doing all kinds of crazy tricks and skills and it’s all amazing and it’s next-level but I distinctly remember him politely and sometimes not-so-politely suggesting that I don’t do these things that he’s doing. Are you a clown? he would say. Are you a performing seal?

So it’s a tiny bit unfair that he’s allowed to do what I call ’The Dani Dance’, which is where you shuffle the ball from foot to foot and glide past your oppo. And he’s doing what I call ’The Dani Dribble’, which is where you run while doing tekkers and you swerve left and right while the defender keeps turning to see which way you’re going. Lol. And he’s done a world-famous ’Dani Dink’, where you chip a pass between two defenders to a teammate who’s rushing forward.

Never heard those names? No. That’s right. Because Max won’t let me do them except when we do Bestball. He says they’re low percentage and it’s annoying to be the teammate of someone who keeps giving the ball away while showing off.

I suppose the difference is that Max isn’t giving the ball away.

***

Matt: Cole Adams wins that header. He’s having a quietly effective game for Chester. He gets to the second ball and plays it to Reid. Reid, on his less favoured right foot, plays it forward to Beckton. Beckton was an injury doubt before the match and he doesn’t seem to be running freely. He does well here, though. Turns. Best is away! How’s the pass from Beckton?

Ally: Aye aye aye.

Matt: The pass is miles wide. Best scampers after it anyway. Big smile on his face as he finds himself surrounded. Players coming at him from three angles. What’s he going to do? He’s right up against the left touchline in front of the Chester fans. Best moving slowly... Now he drops his shoulder, retreats - ooh, big collision with Munks. Best still has the ball. He shapes to cross, but pulls it back to the touchline. Can Matt Rush stop him this time?

Ally: Ha ha ha!

Matt: Best beats him again! Rush dived in. Now Best is one-on-one against Owusu... Best twists, turns, shapes to cross, no, shapes to shoot, no, and he’s into the penalty area. Best looks up and sees Beckton. Pointer is sliding to make a block. Best with the pass. It hits Pointer!

Ally: Handball!

Matt: Pointer slid to block Best’s pass, but it hit him on the arm and took the ball with him across the line. Surely a penalty! Beckton would have had a shot at goal.

Ally: Corner.

Matt: The referee has given a corner! My word, that’s... That’s an interesting decision. The Chester fans behind the goal are apoplectic. Max Best is looking to the heavens. He must be wondering what he needs to do to get a goal. He has been outstanding today.

Ally: He has been better than that, Matt.

Matt: We’re waiting for the Video Assistant Referee to adjudicate the incident. Message going up on the big screens now...

Ally: It’s a clear penalty. The clearest penalty you’ll ever see. The question is not will it be given or who will take it, but in what fashion will Max Best score? Another rabona? Eyes closed?

Matt: He missed one recently.

Ally: He won’t miss today, I’ll tell ya.

Matt: Just listening to the VAR... his recommendation is... no penalty!

Ally: Astonishing. That’s not right. If you’re a Chester fan you have to feel aggrieved.

Matt: Max Best is laughing. Well, with luck like that you have to laugh or you’ll cry. He’s wandering towards the corner flag now, asking a question of the Chester supporters.

Ally: He’s saying ’what are the rules?’

Matt: Could be that. He’ll take the corner. Danger here for Portsmouth. They might feel they have got away with one, but they must keep their concentration. Best places the ball on the corner arc. The box is loaded. Green, Hall, Adams, have come from the back. Best... plays it short to Joel Reid. Short corner? That’s unusual for Chester.

Ally: Get it in the box, lad!

Crowd: Laughter.

Matt: Best has the ball back and he’s clowning around! Bringing his hands close to the ball.

Ally: If there’s no handball rule, he can just pick it up. But come on, Best, it’s a cup final!

Matt: Ricardo is the closest to Best. He’s got a hold of his shirt. Best points to where he wants Reid to go. Reid moves, draws Quinn with him. Ricardo still grabbing onto Best. Best to pick a pass to Reid? No, he turns smoothly, shrugs Ricardo off, gets clear. Left-footed cross and it’s a good one! Tetek comes, doesn’t get there. It falls to Evergreen. He clips it back into the danger zone. Header from Adams! But it’s well over. Oh, and what’s this?

Ally: Yellow card.

Matt: Yellow card for... Ricardo. He pulled Best’s shirt almost clean off his body a moment ago. Referee played the advantage.

Ally: Ricardo was checking to see if Best was wearing lederhosen.

Matt: Heh. Well, that was much better from Chester. Are they finally starting to wake up?

***

35’

This is looking better. Pomps are bricking it whenever Max gets the ball so they’re all trying to mark him and that little shit Ricardo is on a yellow so he won’t be able to foul his way out of trouble. Wow, I don’t like him AT ALL. What is even the point of a player like that? Just runs around being snide and fouling everyone and getting away with it.

I like the left back, Wittingham. He’s doing a lot of Pomp’s progressions because Matt Rush can’t dribble out of defence because he’s in Max’s pocket. I really like Rushy and Max told us to be nice to him because he wants to sign him to Chester one day, but this is quite funny. Sorry, Rushy.

Wittingham’s moving the ball along the left. One-two with Pointer, one-two with Blake, and hey, that was far too easy. Loads of bodies in our penalty area. Witt gives it to Blake and goes down the line. I know what’s supposed to happen next. Blake cuts inside for the shot, but really it’s a disguised pass through our players aimed at Witt. How do I know? Because I watched the men training and Max was doing a Blake impression.

Turns out Max is better at being Blake than Blake. Yep, we cut that one out no problem. Magnus went with Witt and covered the return pass while Youngster made Blake hurry up the pass. Easy.

Magnus hacks the ball clear, but it’s straight back to Pointer.

Oh what the hell?

Portsmouth have scored!

I looked away for one second to see how the Chester fans were reacting to that awful hoik from Magnus.

Replay coming...

So Magnus kicks the ball but straight to Pointer. He one-touch controls it to Blake, who pops it round the corner to Quinn, who tries to send it to the striker. Zach Green saw the danger and slid in, but he only deflected the ball to Ricardo, who cracked it left-footed around Swanny, who had no chance.

I mean, decent strike from Ricardo.

Still don’t rate him.

Looking again. Did Zach need to slide in? Fitz probably would have got it. Was Cole out of position? Was Swanny jumping from the wrong foot?

The Pomp fans are jumping around and waving their flags. Chester fans are still. Looks like a funeral over there. The ref killed the game when he didn’t give us a penno. That would have been 1-1. Instead, it’s 2-0.

I feel a bit sick, actually, but mostly I’m just so sorry for Max. He must be heartbroken.

***

We were into the final ten minutes of a disastrous first half. Disastrous for the players, that is. The club would be just fine. There wasn’t much prize money for winning this - it wouldn’t cover the fines the EFL had imposed on us - and it didn’t lead to anything. If you won the FA Cup, you got a place in Europe. This tournament was not at that level.

You could say that we had won just by getting here. The players would be disappointed, but so what? They would do better next time.

It looks like Portsmouth are switching to a more defensive approach.

With a healthy lead established, Pompey stopped pressing us so hard. That was probably a mistake, because in theory giving my players time and space to pass the ball around would only make them feel more at home in the massive arena. Why not keep pressing us and forcing us into mistakes? It was a minor quibble, though, because it was obvious to me that my guys weren’t going to improve.

What about making some substitutions? Yeah, and what happens when those guys are crap, too?

I thought about the way the team was imploding all around me, but it had the strange effect of making me happy. Better to do it today, when I didn’t really give much of a shit, than in a game that was really important. One that had real stakes. Imagine if they did this in a playoff final and we had to spend an extra year in the Championship?

The farcical nature of it all was making me reconsider which players I would pick to play for Saltney and College, though. If they couldn’t handle this, they couldn’t handle a do-or-die winner-takes-all knockout match. Maybe Wibbers needed another year at UEFA Conference level before moving up to the Champions League. Ditto Magnus. Youngster was one of the more surprising bombs.

I cleared my head of such thoughts. The inquest could start tomorrow. For now I wanted to get back into the groove of playing. Get the ball, drive forward, thrill the crowd, create danger and menace. Enjoy being in my body. Enjoy the moment. Live in the now.

A couple of minutes of solid passing went by, and every thirty seconds or so I nudged our defensive line a fraction higher. We would put the squeeze on, but without asking too much of my mentally fragile defenders.

I moved more central, thinking I would combine with Joel and Youngster to get more of a grip on the game, but that didn’t feel like much fun, so I returned to my wide left slot. From there, I waited. And waited.

Then the patterns of play revealed themselves to me and I sprinted forward, catching Matt Rush out. The ball was ten yards inside Portsmouth’s half, and Joel Reid had it on his left foot. The ball had been over on the right with Wibbers moments before and there was a bit of a gap between Rushy and Owusu. Joel fired the ball into that gap, and for once the pass was well-weighted.

I touched the ball, diverting it very slightly to the left, which took Owusu out of the move but left me with a huge technical challenge. The goalie was coming out to block any kind of shot and the ball was too far to my left to bring it onto my right foot. I could slide and hook the ball into the middle... As I thundered like a Grand National winner across the turf, I glanced to my right. Colin and Gabby were making runs. Colin seemed to be putting the afterburners on for a fucking change.

In front of me, the Chester fans were rising to their feet, bodies tensed, fists clenched, ready to celebrate.

When I got close to the ball, I realised I had a second option instead of a shitty, slow, ugly hook.

I wrapped my right leg around my left and did a ’rabona’ kick, aiming to move the ball at a right angle, at pace, and hope one of my strikers got there first.

For the first time in the match, I mis-kicked it. Instead of stabbing the ball in the middle and sending it square, I hit the bottom-right and since it was already moving left, the action added a lot of side spin.

I wasn’t amazingly good at pool, but I had played that kind of trick shot from time to time.

The ball spat off my toe, squirted, spun, and flew diagonally past the goalie, curving, arcing, magically, unbelievably, closer to the goal.

Arcing like the Wembley arch. Like a rainbow.

Not the rainbow flick I had described to Youngster, but if it went in I would claim that the goal had been intentional.

One yard away from the goal, the ball caught the pitch for the final time, worked out some of its spin... and gently nudged the post.

Laidlaw had followed it and now he took an almighty swipe at the ball and did his best to kick it out of the stadium.

I watched until the ball went out of play, then turned my attention to my half of the stadium. All around me, people had their heads in their hands, were slumped forward, were holding their neighbours, were filming themselves laughing in disbelief. Forty thousand people, some from Chester, some from around the world, bound by the loosest of ties, were in that moment united as one, united by the same life-affirming emotions. They were discovering what long-term fans already knew. Football was expertise, athleticism, and moments of surprise governed by a capricious and unjust system. It lifted you up and wrung you out and the best thing was you got to do it together, again and again.

No, those supporters weren’t getting what they wanted but they were getting what they needed. If this was their first time at a Chester match, it surely wouldn’t be their last. How many kids were out there, turning into lifelong Chester fans? How many watching on TV would soon be rushing into their back garden to try to do the skills I had displayed?

New fans. New memories. New magic.

Everyone’s second club.

Magnus was ready to take the throw-in. I let my eyes linger on the rows and rows of supporters and the rainbow of emotions on display.

I did that, I thought to myself.

I did that.

***

Matt: It’s half time at Wembley Stadium! Two goals from the man on your screens now - Ricardo - have put Portsmouth very much in control. But the first half was very much the story of that man, Max Best. He has been nothing short of sensational. He has hit the post twice, created gilt-edge opportunities that his teammates have fluffed, and he may feel he should have had a penalty. He leaves the pitch... smiling from ear to ear.

***

As I turned left at the end of the tunnel, I felt pure elation. Was that my favourite half of football so far in my career? It had to be right up there.

I smiled all the way to my seat, where the physios had laid out some of the energy gel packs I called ’marathon paste’. I put a towel on my head and sucked on the gel, mentally replaying some of my skills and flicks. Even the ones I had messed up had turned out well!

Physio Dean came over and handed me a water bottle. ”God mode,” he said.

”Mmm,” I said, not really listening. I didn’t want to talk or to listen or to do anything except live in the moment.

I dart at Rushy’s right foot before pushing the ball left. He clips me as I thunder past but I stay on my feet.

I’m being manhandled by Ricardo but I use his proximity to my advantage. The way I sideways-scoop the ball plays out just as I imagined it. So satisfying!

”What the heck, fellas!”

The sound of Zach throwing a bottle of water.

My best moment’s the rabona, which was a total fluke. Could I have stabbed the ball under the goalie? I’d need to look at the footage but it seemed like he had the near post well and truly covered.

”Bollocks!” Joel Reid.

”That was crap!” Wibbers.

The little megs on Munks. He thinks he has held me up but I’ve actually used him as a blocker. He’s between me and Rushy, so there’s no-one who can stop me from accelerating with the ball and once I’m going, I’m really going. Rushy does his best but as soon as I’m ahead of him it’s game over because if he even touches me I’m going down and I’m going to slide about fifteen feet - sorry Carl the groundsman - and it’s a yellow card.

”Quiet.” Sandra.

My very first involvement was one of the best, now that I think about it. Swanny hoiked the ball vaguely towards me and I had to run into position and use my strength to hold Rushy off, while catching the ball on my chest. I did it so well I held the ball literally inches from my heart for what seemed like two seconds. 4 heartbeats, then I let gravity in on the action and the ball dropped to rest on my thigh. Some kickups, half a second of balancing the ball on the top of my boot, and all the time Rushy is trying to pull me off balance, trying to shove me forward.

”It’s no good, guys. It’s bullshit!” Zach again.

I opened my eyes, irritated. ”Shut it.”

”Max,” he complained. ”What are we gonna do?”

”We’re gonna do what we always do, which is spend a few minutes being quiet.”

Zach, frustrated almost beyond what he could handle, made a gesture like he wanted to pick something else up to throw it. He took a fractional step away from the brink. ”We don’t need that. We need passion.”

Uh-oh.

That was the wrong word to use. He pressed a button I didn’t realise I had.

I stood up and there must have been a hell of a look on my face because the entire dressing room fell silent and nobody moved a muscle. ”Passion?” I said, quietly. ”Passion.”

I had a lot of thoughts about that. Ten guys had crapped their pants today and as something of an amateur nutritionist my diagnosis was that their diet was too rich in passion. What good’s passion if you lose your technique? What good is fighting spirit if you can’t kick a ball straight?

Many conversation trees presented themselves to me. Ones where I pointed out that players on 5 out of 10 don’t get to give advice to guys on 10. Ones where I said that if I could I would sub all ten of my players off. Ones where I pointed out their individual mistakes. These seemed likely to end with a shouting match followed by the players in question leaving the club. Annoyed as I was, I didn’t want that.

”Somewhere in India,” I said, ”there’s a guy looking at his computer going what the fuck is happening out there? I doubt he’s ever seen a drop-off from one match to another like this.”

What happened next was almost beyond belief. Adam Summerhays said, ”Is his name Pradeep?”

My jaw dropped. I mean, all the way down, through the floor, into the massive underground car park, and all the way to Australia, where it was instantly stung by a scorpion. ”What the ffffff.” I blinked and took a step back. ”I can’t deal with that right now.”

The intervention had thrown me all the way off balance and I couldn’t find my way back.

I decided to start on a new path. ”I need everybody to calm the fuck down. We don’t return to the dressing room and throw water bottles around and yell shit. We don’t do that because that’s destructive. We don’t do that because whatever’s wrong, it makes it worse. So we don’t DO that.”

I yelled a bit on the word ’do’ but otherwise I was calm.

”What do you want, Zach?”

”I want to win.”

I very nearly said, ’Oh, yeah? Why don’t you play like that?’ I found a spare Diplomacy 20 token and spent it. ”We all want to win, mate. That’s why we’re here. Are you yelling and throwing shit so that at full-time, when you’re watching Portsmouth get the trophy you can say well, hell, I’m not to blame because I really, really showed that I wanted it?”

He gritted his teeth. He looked around and found he had no support. ”No, sir.”

”Joel and Wibbers, you were doing the same shit. Don’t hang Zach out to dry like that. Explain yourselves.”

Joel opened his mouth but Wibbers got there first. ”We’re playing shit! It’s so shit!”

”You’re as shit as everyone else so why don’t you deal with that instead of throwing your toys out of the pram?”

His face contorted, but he channeled his frustration in quite a mature way given how he must have been feeling. ”It’s not working. I kept waiting for you to change the plan.”

”The plan is mint.” I went to the tactics board, cleared all but one of the yellow ones and put the blues in place. I moved the yellow magnet up and down. ”This is me. I’m doing bits, yeah? Maybe you noticed?” I nudged the nearest blues towards me, and shuffled the rest an inch in my direction. ”They’re all coming to me. There’s fucking space everywhere else on the pitch. The plan is working. It involves you being able to control the ball, pass it, and yeah, maybe we take professional throw-ins.”

William’s head dropped, but it popped right back up. ”You’re doing all that over there but we need your help.”

I couldn’t quite believe what I was hearing. ”What?”

Wibbers clenched his jaw but powered through. ”Normally when we’re struggling you come over and help out, like.”

I frowned, trying to work out what his point was. ”Yeah, but that’s extra.”

”What do you mean?”

”That’s... when we need to win to get energy into the fans so they buy mini-bonds so we can build the stadium. That’s when someone hurts Pascal and we need to get biblical on them. That’s when we’re fighting for the league because when we get promoted there’s more money and we can keep growing. That’s when we win I get loads of cash and I can marry my dream woman. Do you get me? That’s extra motivation. What’s my extra motivation today?

”You’re all talking about what you’re gonna do with the trophy. I’m gonna do this, gonna do that. And look at you. You forgot there’s a fucking hard football match to play. And you want extra from me? So you can get that perfect selfie you’ve been dreaming about? Fuck that.”

I took a few steps in a small circle, pointing at different parts of the dressing room.

”I’ve assembled the best squad in League One with no budget. No budget. I’ve got an elite backroom staff. I’ve sold a mate to pay for one of two amazing training grounds you’ll be using next season.” I wanted to add that Pascal wouldn’t have crapped the bed today, but it seemed over the top. ”I’ve cut Henri, my best friend, from the squad to have budget for you lot. I’ve yelled and screamed and given extra, given extra, all year long. And that’s not enough? You want more?” I shook my head. ”I don’t like playing in defence. I don’t like being in midfield. DM’s not bad, but what I like is being a winger and dicking around. It just so happens that today, that’s what the strategy needs. I’m on the left doing my job. Playing my part. And for the first time this season there are no real stakes so I can just fucking enjoy it. Do you enjoy playing football? Because most of the time, I don’t. I play worried and stressed because if we don’t win I can’t get you to the next level like I promised and can’t get you a pay rise like I promised and can’t get you to Wembley like I promised. I’ve done everything I promised and now I want to enjoy one fucking football match. Just one!”

I left a silence that echoed around the space, pressing harshly against my eardrums.

Before I could take my rant to the next level, I felt a hand on my arm. Livia Stranton said, softly, ”Come on.”

”What?” I said, but she was already pulling me away.

She pointed at Briggy, who strode over and replaced Livia’s pressure on my arm. She led me outside and when I turned back to see what was going on, the last thing I saw was Livia pushing her sleeves up, apparently ready to unleash hell.

***

There was nowhere to go, really, so I went back out in the arena and sat in the dugout. Of course, that caused something of a sensation and I had cameramen rushing towards me.

”Pretend to be doing manager things,” said Briggy.

”Good call,” I said. I got an iPad and tapped on it. After a few aimless swipes, I used it to cover my mouth. ”Was I a dick?”

”No.”

”I didn’t want to do that.”

”I know.”

”What do you think Livia’s up to?”

”Giving them more passion than they can handle.” That brought a smile back to my face, but Briggy leaned closer and covered her mouth. ”Do you seriously not know?”

”I have no clue. This deep into a match I can’t think about anything except passing lanes and offside traps.”

”There’s only one reason you can’t be in there. She’s giving the ’we need to do it for Max’ speech.”

”But I don’t want it. What’s it? Some stupid family photos? People standing around a cup we get from some pricks who don’t respect Adam Summerhays?”

”If you don’t want it, why are you playing so good?”

”It’s a match, isn’t it? It’s always better to win. I don’t need a special reason to win, I need a special reason to give a hundred and ten percent.” Briggy fell quiet and dropped her hand. I reckoned she was right about Livia. She would put the men on blast and then someone else would chime in. Almost certainly Sandra, but maybe Christian. I covered my mouth again. ”I did do extra for this game. When I was out with Dylan I wanted a beer at the match and then we went to the pub and I drank coke. That was so I could be one hundred and one percent ready for today. For them - the ungrateful bastards.”

”They’re grateful. They’re just a lot shitter at football than you ever knew.” That made me scoff-laugh. Briggy was pleased with herself. She slapped me on the arm. ”When we win that trophy, I want a photo of me sitting on top, riding it like a rocket ship.”

”Done.”

I messed about with the iPad for a while, and then there was a smattering of applause. Our players were coming out of the tunnel. Sandra came to sit next to me. ”Hi, boss.”

”Hi.” I glanced at her. ”This is awkward.”

”It’s not. We’re going to play 4-4-2 asterisk Mystery Winger, same as the first half, but this time, not everyone else will be crap.”

”Only some of them.”

”All of them, I think, otherwise Livia won’t give them their balls back.”

That made me laugh pretty hard. ”Did you do good cop bad cop?”

”Something like that. We’ll tell you later, all right? Don’t worry about it. You do what you did in the first half, okay? Enjoy it.” She shook her head, sighing sadly. ”It’s just a shame you used your entire repertoire of tricks.”

I stared at her for about four seconds until I realised that she was using psychology on me. ”Oh, you want to see something new?”

”Do you have anything new?”

”How about a backheeled penalty?”

She shrugged. ”As long as it goes in.” She looked to her right, where the ref was emerging from the tunnel. ”All right, Best. Impress me.”

***

Matt: No changes for either team at half time. The referee checks his watch, and we’re off! Gabriel to Reid. Reid to Swan. Early touch for the goalkeeper... and it’s much more assured than his first one of the match!

Ally: Chester look a little sharper already. There’s more energy.

Matt: Max Best was out very early for the second half.

Ally: He gave them a blast, didn’t he? Bit of the old hairdryer. Right in their face, then he left them to stew in their own juice.

Matt: Okay this is much better from Chester already! Portsmouth still yet to touch the ball in this half. Youngster’s in trouble, is he? No, he pokes the ball away just in time. Green will clear? No, he turns and gives the ball to Swan, who clips it to the left to Adams. He looks for Best, who is closely marked, so the pass goes to Reid. Reid, the January signing, rides a challenge and finds Beckton. He gives it to Gabriel. Return pass to Beckton. It’s a foot race! Beckton against Owusu... but the defender just about gets there first.

Ally: Much better.

Matt: That’s much better from Chester! They have woken up at last. A ripple of applause from their fans. Of course, they’re shooting the wrong way, so those fans are at the far end.

***

48’

Youngster, yes!

Wibbers, yes!

Magnus, yes!

Three quick passes and Youngster’s motoring away. We’re really cooking. Pottymouth must be worried. They’re being pushed back, but they do have goal threat. They can score on the counter, can’t they? Has Max touched the ball this half? I don’t think he has.

Ooh, that was good from Joel! He’s looking more like his normal self. That was a good one-two with Max and Joel’s in a half-space and he gives it to Gabby.

Gabby, good turn! Yes, mate!

He tries to pass to Colin but there’s a defender there. Where’s the ball going next?

Watch out for the counter-attack!

Wake up!!!

Ah, there’s Zach directing. Magnus and Fitz are dropping deeper. There we go!

And... where’s the ball gone? Cole. He passes to Joel. Now it’s Max.

He drops a shoulder and runs and OMG it’s like a dream. And he leans back and fires a pass through the defenders. The goalie started to come out for it but it was fading away from him. It curled and slowed up just as Wibbers was getting there!

What a pass.

Wibbers touches it ahead. Too far?

No, he gets a cross in and GABBY MUST SCORE.

Holy cow it went wide!

I cannot belieeeeeve it!

It was a gorge cross from Wibbers. I thought his first touch took it too far but he caught up with it and stood the ball up and Gabby jumped and headed it down and away from the goalie and it was PERFECT so how did it not GO IN?

Wow.

Gabby’s really upset.

Max is walking over that way.

I hope he doesn’t scream at him. Surely he did enough of that at half time?

***

Gabby looked so wretched I felt I had to go over to him.

He saw me coming and his Morale dropped even further. ”Boss, I’m sorry. I fucked it.”

I sighed and put my arm around him, or tried to. ”Mate,” I said. ”Can you stand up?” He did. ”Do you want to know the secret to being a world-class striker?”

”Yes.”

I extended a finger and slowly brought it to a spot on his forehead where Magnus would say the third eye lived. Gabby went slightly cross-eyed as he tried to follow, and perhaps got a little wary of what was coming next. Instead of getting woo-woo and mystical, I said just one word. ”Delete.”

”Pardon?”

I pressed his forehead again. ”Delete. Zap. Gone. Next.”

”Gone. Next.” He smiled. ”Delete! Yes! I understand.”

I pointed. ”Go back to your spot. Applaud Wibbers.”

”Applaw?”

”Clap.”

”Ah, sim sim sim.”

”And do what you did again.”

I gave him a friendly little shove and walked back to the left wing.

When I got there, I fell on my haunches. The guys were playing better, but the aggro at half time had taken more out of me than I had realised. Whatever was normally inside me that made me desperate to win just wasn’t in me today. I thought about subbing myself off, getting changed, leaving the stadium. Where would I go? Back to Park Lane? The Dorchester? Maybe there would be a murder and I could try to solve it.

I pottered around, playing one-touch passes, dutifully jogging alongside Matt Rush on the rare occasions he dared to venture forward.

My legs felt heavy. It had been a long, draining season and I was done with it. There was no passion, no joy to carry me through.

Sub off? Call it a day?

Wibbers was over on the right, competing for a loose ball. He fouled his opponent and screamed in frustration. Magnus yelled at him to get into position; Portsmouth had a free kick in a decent area. They sent their big men forward, loading the box, leaving Rushy, Pointer, and Blake as their defenders. They had plenty of height in the box, though. Ricardo was going to whip this one in, left-footed. At three-nil, this game would be over.

I wandered to a spot about halfway in our half.

Ricardo took a breath, stepped up, and fired the ball straight at Wibbers’ face. It came towards me - the ball, not the face. I had to drop five yards to gather it, and then it was absolute madness as all the Portsmouth players who had been in the box chased me while I dribbled the ball away from them.

I picked up speed, noting that the first guy ahead of me was Pointer. He was too slow to get into a foot race with me; he would go for a foul, bring me down, take a yellow card. I didn’t give him the option, passing the ball into space and chasing it, avoiding him completely. That took me into the oppo half and bearing down on goal at light speed. Any fouls now would risk drawing a red, not yellow.

Blake wasn’t much of a defender, so I aimed my run at him and with a little shuffle of my feet, breezed past. But Matt Rush saw the chance to get payback for all the crap I’d been giving him today. He kept a position five yards in front of me, tracking my twists and turns, keeping pace with me. If he could slow me down, one of his mates would catch up.

I rolled the ball diagonally wide, to where Wibbers was steaming forward. Rushy had a dilemma. Stay with me and give Wibbers a free run on goal, or go to the ball and hope that Wibbers couldn’t make the return pass.

Rushy chose correctly - he went to Wibbers - and I felt strangely proud. We taught him that!

Two of the best young players in England raced towards the ball. Wibbers PA 185, Rushy PA 180.

It was going to be far too close, so Wibbers hurled himself at the ball and tackled it sideways, as close to me as he could get it.

It wasn’t the perfect pass, but it was close enough. I had to slow a fraction and use my first touch to speed the ball up, but then I was in front of the goal, just to the right of centre, with Tetek rushing at me, ready to throw himself at my feet, and four players a couple of yards behind. I couldn’t stop and chip the ball over the goalie - I didn’t have time. I had two options - I could push the ball to the left of Tetek and then roll the ball into the empty net... or do it to the right.

Either way was a piece of piss.

Too easy.

I chose option three.

I shaped to shoot - Tetek’s surprise was evident because I wasn’t normally so stupid - but put my left foot in front of the ball and used my right to squeeze it, lifting it off the ground. As my body continued moving forward it left the ball slightly behind, but when the ball rose to about calf-height, I used the natural motion of my heel to give it a deft flick, which propelled it high over my head. Over Tetek’s head. A looping, rainbow arc. The Wembley arc. The arc de triomphe.

I kept running and as the ball descended, I stabbed it through the heart. It bounced on the goal line, then nestled into the back of the net. Two-one.

I had just scored with a rainbow flick in a cup final.

Hang on. Rainbow flick. In a cup final. Had I scored the best goal in the history of Wembley?

I picked up speed as I ran towards the corner flag. Sorry Carl, but this called for a knee slide.

As I was winding up for an epic slide to go with an epic goal, I looked at the stands and saw 40,000 unfriendly faces. 40,000 strangers who hated me, many making rude gestures, shouting abuse. Wait, what?

The big screen was showing me as I slowed down, my smile fading. A big, shiny trophy crossed the screen as it changed to a different camera angle.

Big, shiny trophy.

The greatest goal in the greatest stadium, watched by millions, would be shared and reshared, would be admired by kids all over the world, but there were some screens that would never show it. It would never be seen in one particular bungalow in Manchester.

My mum hadn’t seen it.

She hadn’t seen any of it.

I had longed to bring the trophy home and put it on her coffee table and drink a cup of tea while we watched Cash in the Attic - imagine that as a photo! - but I couldn’t because it would confuse and distress her.

There would be no photos of me with the cup, no knee slides, not today, not ever.

I slowed and turned away from the Portsmouth fans.

Then I burst into tears.