Soccer Supremo - A Sports Progression Fantasy

4.

Saturday, October 30

”All right,” I said, striding into the Sin Bin like a boss. Rows and rows of cinema-style seats were full of players, coaches and our medical team. Some of the younger ones were leaning against the walls or squashed up in the aisles. ”Everyone here?”

”Everyone’s here,” said Peter Bauer, our elegant centre half. Peter had played for Bayern Munich until retiring due to a mysterious medical complaint, an ailment I had diagnosed as ’living-in-my-grandfather’s-shadow-itis’. I had promised him an easy life far away from the German media, a promise I hadn’t exactly lived up to, what with all my antics. My profile in Germany meant that most outlets were more interested in me than in Peter, and he was absolutely fine with that. Meanwhile, he had been quietly recovering the CA he had lost in his retirement and was up to 113 (out of 166).

I clapped him on the arm and pretended to be surprised by what I felt. ”Someone’s been henching up! Bigg Dogg, come feel this.”

”Max,” complained Peter, glancing around the room. For as much as he had alpha male DNA, he got shy easily.

Bigg Dogg trundled over - a real test of the Sin Bin’s build quality - and had a go on Peter’s biceps. ”Mm-mmm!” he said, appreciatively. ”Yes, sir.”

Vikki, our set pieces coach, said, ”Can I have a go?”

I got exasperated. ”Don’t make it weird, Vikki.” Peter shook his head at me, but he was smiling. ”Okay,” I said, clapping my hands once. ”Let’s try to blast through this. Everyone, this is Bigg Dogg. He’s with me today on loan from Diggy Doggy. Bigg Dogg, are you entourage or a hanger-on?”

”I’m entourage, Max.”

”I feel like I’m famous enough to have an entourage. I’d ask Henri to be in it but he would insist on being called a GO. Gangster originelle.” Everyone who spoke French raised a hand. ”No pedantry today, thanks. Okay, so you might have heard the rumours that Diggy wanted to come to watch our match today, but last night we went out for dinner and I announced my intention to write a number one hit rap song. For everyone who doesn’t know what rap is, it’s where Americans talk over a computer-generated drumbeat and a melody stolen from an actual musician. Last night I wrote a killer hook and Diggy wanted to rush straight to a studio to get it all finished. Here,” I said, reaching into my pocket. ”I got the chorus right here.”

Bigg Dogg’s normally placid face turned into a frown and he leaned against the wall. The structure didn’t collapse, meaning that all the times I had made suggestions to the builders on how to do their jobs better had been worth it.

”Okay so I noticed that these rappers are always going on about the coasts. Absolutely obsessed with them. Always east and west, never the north. I told Diggy he should represent the North Coast more in his output and he got confused. Anyway, I did what I assume Diggy always does, which is to start my song by imagining what the music video will look like and work backwards from that. It’s me, Diggy, and Bigg Dogg driving around in a low-low, which is a kind of car big enough for up to four gangsters. The story of the song is that Diggy has realised what’s truly important in life - having famous friends.”

”Jesus,” said Sandra Lane, drawing laughs from most in the room.

”Track goes like this.” I held the paper up and spat out the wicked rhymes I had penned. ”Homie cease your East Coast/Homie crest your West Coast/I’m rolling with the Best GOAT.” I looked up from my paper, impressed with myself. ”Then because some people don’t know what the words mean, we’ll get Lionel Richie to drop in an explainer rap. So it goes, I’m rolling with the Best GOAT, whisper, Greatest of All Time.”

I paused for applause, which I’m sure would have come after the ones with no musical education stopped sniggering, but a frustrated Dan Badford called out, ”Where’s the rest?”

”What?”

”I wanna hear the rest.”

I shrugged. ”I don’t write the verses, mate. I’m a big picture guy. I do the chorus, that’s where the big money is. Diggy can fill the rest with his beeves with rival gangsters and his brags about how his private jet has more mini-fridges than, er... Bigg Dogg, help me out.”

Everyone looked at him, wondering which rapper he would name. ”Diggy’s Gulfstream has more mini-fridges than a Swedish prison.”

”Wow,” I said. ”Someone needs to cleanse his algorithms, I reckon. Um... let’s skip over all that. Ahem. Bigg Dogg, one thing I used to do before the start of a season was to get the lads together and predict how it would go. Having a target obviously helps keep them on track but is also handy when you know you’re gonna lose a few games at the start of a season. It’s like, yeah, losing’s shit but keep the faith, this is gonna turn out wicked. Last year, I did this speech - known affectionately by everyone involved as the Maxterplan - once the season had already started because I was off hoovering up UEFA coefficients. Ah, not gonna bother explaining that one.”

”Thank God,” said Colin Beckton. Cue laughter.

I smiled and addressed the main group. ”I always planned to have this chat after the Champions League qualifiers but obviously it got even further delayed. I’m gonna tell you what my predictions were before the season and how things are tracking. Obviously I could just make it all up, but the guys who have been here for a while know I pretty much say the same things every season and there’s no reason to sugarcoat anything. It’s not totally the same this time, as you’ll see. Maxterplan presentation starts in three, two, one... Huh.”

”What?” said Bigg Dogg.

”I expected thunderous applause from my players. Odd.” I started to amble around the front of the room. I actually liked the fact that we were squashed in; it made it cosy. ”Okay, let’s address the elephant in the room.” I sighed, looked down, and then turned my head. ”Well? How do we address you?”

Bigg Dogg said, ”Oh, call me - ” He stopped as comprehension dawned. His grin moved from side to side as he admonished me. ”Bro,” he said.

”Bro,” I said, offering him a fist bump. ”I’m so sorry. I couldn’t resist.”

”I’m a big guy, I know. It’s all good.”

”Do you want me to write an apology rap?”

”No need, cuz, we cool.”

”Okay, the real elephant in the room. Me!” I walked around again, made eye contact with a few guys. ”I know you all want to check in but if you could just not for a while, I’d prefer that. I’m fine. I’m not great, not terrible, just fine. After today we’ve got a two-week break. I need to catch up on some UEFA Pro stuff, on Monday I’m gonna go and fix Tranmere, and I want to check in on our youth teams and the Welsh lads and so on. I don’t want to be too busy because obviously I need some time to process what’s just happened. I’m gonna spend some time in my garden, potter around, leave my phone inside.

”I’m a great football manager but I don’t know that I’m a good manager. If you’re dealing with people and they’re telling you their problems, it does help if you know what the fuck they’re talking about. That’s why I like to surround myself with experts who have high empathy and loads of experience. I guess I’m getting some of that experience, too. Pain makes you grow and whatever.” I stopped moving. ”I think I’d prefer to stay as a shit manager, tbh.”

I went walking again, checking that everyone was listening; they were.

”If I had to describe my personal state of mind, I’d use the word confused. It’s great to be back, it’s great to be home, I want to finish what I started. But. Life right now isn’t very clean. It’s a bit messy. Please don’t expect high levels of structure in the following speech. I’m just, yeah, feeling messy and confused.

”But I’m not confused about the state of the squad or this team. That remains crystal clear to me.

”What goes into results? Three main things. One, the quality of the squad. Two, the quality of the coaching staff. Three, the quality of the facilities. So how are we doing?

”As you know, the main thing I expect from you is to train hard. You’ve done that. Everyone’s improving at a good clip, which I know using my mad skills and which is proven by the underlying data and even just the eye test. You went to Bristol City and matched them. It was a dog of a game but you looked just as good as them, didn’t you? You can go toe-to-toe with a Championship-level team because you’ve been training hard. You’re on course and I know there’s more to come.

”The backroom staff is mint. I’m happy with the coaches and the medical team. I’m happy with how Bumpers is doing - no bottlenecks this season, I reckon. If you put more into training, you get more out. Top.

”The squad’s actually a little bit better than I expected. A bit bigger, sure, but better. Owen, Lewis, Cheb, Helge. Looking back, that was incredible work by the director of football. I must remember to buy him a hamper.” I turned to Wallace Wells, a young left-winger who had also joined the first-team recently. I had spent £800,000 on him, which was crazy for a CA 50 player, but he was two-footed and I wanted him to win the Youth Cup for me this season. Not to mention that he had PA 145, so when he was trained up he would be a top-level Championship star or a decent squad player for a bottom-half Prem side. I would 10x the club’s investment for sure. ”Wallace, I haven’t forgotten you. You’re gonna tear up this division in a couple of years and I love how fast you’re improving.” Thanks to him training with the first team and getting some minutes here and there, his CA 50 had increased to CA 62. ”Last player I saw improving at those rates was Wibbers.”

Wallace’s Morale jumped two levels. Wibbers glared at him. ”You coming for me, bro?”

”Got you in my sights,” retorted Wallace, even though we could see he was bricking it. Bigg Dogg was nodding away at Wallace’s bravado.

I pointed from one young man to the other. ”This beef deserves a rap. I’ll get started on it right away.”

Wibbers got up and clambered over to Wallace, giving him a hug. ”No beef, boss. We’re besties. No need to write anything.”

I scoffed. As Wibbers returned to his seat, Dazza clapped Wallace on the back. Good vibes. ”Dazza,” I said, tilting my head. ”Has there ever been an Australian rap?”

”Yes, plenty. Saturated. No need for you - ”

I held up a hand and used the other to pinch my nose. With my eyes closed, I worked on a rhyme. ”I was born on a beach, sand and jellyfish/Wanna meet the GOAT, girl I got my wish.”

Laughter exploded out of almost everyone. Dan Badford was the exception. ”I wanna hear the rest!” he said, practically stamping his feet.

Zach yelled something at Dazza that I didn’t quite catch, but might have been, ”Were you really born on a beach?”

Dazza didn’t reply, but simply eyed me, shaking his head. ”Thanks, boss.” The phrase ’born on a beach’ was going to follow him around; he let out a single laugh.

When the guys had settled, I went back to the Maxterplan.

”Just to cap the squad chat, I’m unbelievably happy with how we’re looking. Magnus will come back in January so we might look to loan someone out, but basically I don’t want much change. I’m not planning any sales, and I don’t want to sign anyone.” I remembered that wasn’t quite true. ”Ah, actually, we’re going to take a look at one Italian lad. He’s a superbrat. On talent alone, there should be a nationwide campaign to get him into the Italian national team but everyone agrees he’s bad news. I’ve told him to go and work on his attitude so we’ll see if he has done that, but we’ll probably sign him on loan for the rest of the season with an option to buy. If we can get him to pass the ball or even just to fucking acknowledge the existence of other human beings, he could be a top fucking player. Top, top player. So that’s worth some hassle, especially since I plan to delegate that work to, ah, all of you.”

”Great,” said Colin.

”Another lost lamb to save,” said Peter, theatrically.

I pointed at him. ”Stop shaving lost lambs.”

”Save!” he said, loud, which caused me to cackle.

Wibbers called out, ”What position does he play?”

”Central attacking midfielder. The guy is a tool but he has all the tools. He can do things with a football that only, uh...” I scanned the rows of seats in front of me. ”He can do things that only four players in this room can do.” I turned to Bigg Dogg with an apologetic shrug. ”That sounds less epic than it should; we’re really fucking good.” I slipped back into manager voice. ”In the summer, when I looked ahead, I expected us to be a few spots above the relegation zone by now, and that’s where we are. Results are tracking my expectations. We’re on course. On course for what? A top-half finish. This is where I’ve struggled to come up with a rallying cry or a motivational slogan. Top-half finish! Yay!

”Bigg Dogg, in the Premier League, you get about 3 million quid for every place you finish higher in the league. Finishing 10th instead of 15th is money in the bank for the club and the players. But in the Championship, you don’t get anything. Now, I’m not saying I want to finish 15th just because I’m not being paid. Everyone in this room has personal pride, has personal goals. If we all give our best every week I reckon we’ll hit 10th. That’s actually unbelievable given where this club has come from. And it’s a platform for a very serious attack on the division the following season, right?

”But I can’t stand here and whip you all up going come on, lads, work extra hard to prepare for next season! I don’t feel it so I can’t make you feel it. Now, depending on who we get in the FA Cup Third Round, that could be something that’s proper fun, but it’s a random draw so anything could happen. BD, every season since I started this job, we’ve been going for the title. League winners three times out of four. Those were easy Maxterplans, right? It’s just, I want to win, here’s how we win. Great. Complete buy-in from the off, except from one grumpy Welshman.

”This season is tough to put into words but I’ve decided I’m gonna tell everyone what I’m thinking and what I’m thinking is that it’s stupid to ask for 110% year after year. We put a lot of emotional energy into those league wins so if we get a break, if we get time to recharge, okay, let’s lean into that. Maybe we can even use it. Example. Helge played a whole season in Norway, came straight here, and when we get time off, he’s flying home to play for Norway’s under 20s. He’s gonna be knackered by May and if I try to hype every game like it’s a cup final, he’s obviously gonna get injured. So we take a two-year view on that, yeah? We plan a break somewhere, we adjust his workload. Great.”

I took a swig of water.

”I do have one concept for how we should think about this season. I have mentioned it a few times but not to the whole group, I don’t think. Bigg Dogg, maybe you have this in America. Imagine you’re playing soccer and at half-time you’re losing 5-0. Or you’re watching your NFL team and they’re down three hundred and six points to, uh, two hundred.”

”How did you know I’m a New York Jets fan?” he said, which made half a dozen people laugh hard.

”In the break, someone says, right, today was a bad day at the office but let’s get something out of this. Let’s win the second half.”

Bigg Dogg’s face lit up. ”Yeah! We have that one. Coach used to say it all the time in pee-wee football. We stank.”

”Did it motivate you to try harder in the second half?”

”Hell, no.”

”Would you be surprised to hear the GOAT football manager use that as a motivational tool?”

”Even though I know that’s what’s coming... yeah, I would.”

”Yeah, I’m unconventional. I do things I know won’t work.” I faced the front again. ”But like I said, I’m not really trying to motivate you. This is, ah, a framework for how we should think about the season.” To our guest, I said, ”Today we’re playing Plymouth, nicknamed The Pilgrims, in our 16th match of the league season. 16 out of 46. Just before Christmas we’ll play Preston and that will mean we’ve played every team in the division once. Actually, we’ll have played Portsmouth twice, which is a bit mad but whatever. That Preston match is kind of the halfway point in our season.”

”Ohhh,” he said. ”Win the second half. I get it. Wait... I don’t get it.”

”Dead easy,” I said, moving around a little faster. ”First half, we drew against Wrexham. Second half, we’re gonna beat them. First half, we lose five-one to Wolves. Second half, we lose two-one. First half, we lost to Coventry. Second half, we get a point. We improve on every result. That’s the goal. If we do that, we’ll finish this season knowing we’re ready for a promotion campaign.” I got dreamy. ”That means going up to the Premier League, Bigg Dogg. Fame, glory, and a properly structured pre-season Maxterplan with slides and a satisfying theme. If we win the second half, if we improve our results, we’ll all know we can get there. Belief and togetherness will see us through all the challenges that come our way.” I switched to a flat, clinical tone. ”And if we don’t win the second half, I’ll know I need to bin off a few players.”

”Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said Dogg, hands up. ”I think you mighta accidentally motivated a few homies.”

”Oh?” I said, innocently. ”Who, me?”

Dogg sucked air through his teeth. ”You cold, Max. Cold.”

I met his eye contact, then turned to the wider group. ”This second stretch of the season, I accept that we don’t have a proper sporting goal and to achieve amazing things you really need a clear, specific, achievable goal, so I’m not gonna go in two-footed on anyone. But the second half will be a test of everyone’s mettle. I expect us to be able to defend against everyone in the league and to create chances against everyone in the league.”

”Hol’ up. Before the turn, you’ve got the game today.”

”Yes.”

”And six more?”

”Seven more.”

”So if your players dog those games in the first half, in the second they gonna get better results. It’s a bad incentive, dog!”

”It’s a good point but we’re 17th now. If we bin off eight matches we’ll be right in the relegation zone. If we can’t turn it around, these guys are staring at a huge pay cut and the mood in the city will be grim. If we play our best in those eight games, come Christmas Day we’ll be well up the table and it’ll be a happy Christmas all round. Anyway, Dogg, it’s not in the character of these players to think about the benefits of losing. Christian Fierce there. Zach Green. Wibbers. They want to win every match. Dan Badford there. He’ll stroll onto a pitch going, yeah, nothing’s riding on this game, let’s just have some fun. But the first time someone kicks him on the ankle, which will be about ten seconds into the game, he’ll turn feral. Youngster there, he goes to the food bank, gives out meals. When we lose, he can’t look people in the eyes. He hands over the plates going, sorry, sorry.” I laughed. ”I made that up, by the way. Pretty sure he’s always cheerful when he’s doing God’s work. I’m not worried about their motivation on a game to game basis. If we finish eleventh because I stick a few kids in the team and we lose some points, that’s fine, as long as I know we’re ready for next season. In March and April, I want the kind of points-per-game that would put us in the top four, and I want to have one signature performance where we fucking prove we can go for the title next time around. I’m thinking Wrexham. Saturday, March 18th, though I wouldn’t be surprised if they moved the game to Sunday. We put maximum effort in, the coaches spend more time on the tactical plan, we go for it like it’s a cup final. If we win, holy shit, this is happening. If we don’t win, I sharpen my axe.

”Now, that’s a clumsy transition into my last point, but it sort of works. Right now everyone wants to stay here, wants to be part of the club’s rise, wants to be part of the fun. And I love that. It’s good character. It’s brilliant.

”But I just took three weeks off work to deal with a personal situation. I paid for two rooms in the nicest hotels in every city in Europe, it feels like, and dinner and fucking bagfuls of scones and cakes and fucking... pastries. If MD - that’s my boss, Dogg - said, uh, of course you can’t leave, we’ve got Luton next Saturday, I would have very politely and firmly told him to go fuck himself. Okay? I can do all that because I have the money to not worry about what happens next. I have the money to take care of my people when they need taken care of. Do you get me?”

I let my gaze flutter around the room like an autumnal bee.

”I think the last few weeks have made me so sentimental about all of you that I have become less sentimental. I want you to have the financial muscle to deal with whatever crap life throws at you so that you can take care of your kids, your parents, your grandparents. For most of you, that means you’re in the right place. While you’re still learning the game, this is the right place. When you’ve peaked, though, you need to get paid. I don’t want to sell anyone in January but if a good offer comes in and if they’re gonna double your wages, you’ve got to go.”

I let that hang in the air while very decisively not looking at Christian Fierce.

”Dogg,” I said, turning to my new friend. ”Was that cold?”

”Nah, dog. You looking after your peeps. If you love someone, let them go. That’s what it means.”

”Yeah, but it’s hard.”

”Peeps be needing that fuck-you money, Max. That long money. That new-money money. Boss says you gotta work another weekend? Hell no, dog, I ain’t feeling that. What I like is you wanting your employees to be stacked enough to tell you to fuck off. That’s some noble shit right there.”

I smiled on one half of my mouth and pointed towards the squad. ”If one of these guys tells me he doesn’t want to work weekends, we’re gonna have a very big problem and he’s gonna realise what he thought was fuck-you money... isn’t.”

”Heeee,” laughed Bigg Dogg, so high-pitched and unexpected that everyone else had to laugh, too.

I glanced up at the time. The lads had been sitting for long enough. ”Okay, last last thing about this. This ’win the second half’ concept, I want to think about it on a bigger scale, too. You’re gonna play professional football until you’re 30, 35, 40. That’s the first half of your life. Then what? Everyone knows what happens the day after a footballer retires. You wake up and think, what the hell am I supposed to do today? It can be super depressing and, obviously, you’re not earning mega money any more.

”I want you to start thinking about winning the second half of your lives. If there’s any way for this football club to support you, I want to support you. We’re all gonna do MD and Brooke’s investment lesson again. I want you all to sit down with MD about tax planning and retirement funds and all that shit. Is it boring? A bit. Are you going to be picked on Saturday if you don’t get your finances sorted? No, and fuck you. These are things you need to do so that when it’s time to step up and drive a Polish woman a thousand miles across Europe, you can do it. Do you get me?” I calmed down a bit. ”Anyway, it’s not that hard. All I want is to make sure you’ve got a handle on that stuff. Most of it, you set it up once and don’t have to think about it for years.

”At the same time, do you have any idea of what you might do when you retire from playing? You know I’ve given jobs to Sam Topps, Ryan Jack, Joe Anka. Kian from the youth team is Brooke’s assistant. Can you imagine being a coach? Can you imagine being a referee? I know that’s so the opposite of cool right now but the sport needs more referees and anyone in this room would instantly be the best ref in the country. Wouldn’t be all that hard, would it? It wouldn’t hurt you to take the course, by the way, just for your playing career. I always see players appealing for dumb shit that shows they don’t know the laws of the sport they’re playing. That’s actually dumb. If I was a company I wouldn’t sponsor those players. Read the fucking manual, you know?

”We’ve got someone coming in to do media training with you. You need that for your post-match interviews and sponsor events, but can you imagine being an analyst on TV? Wibbers, you’ve got a face for radio.” He tutted and shook his head while his mates pushed him and gave him digs on the arm. ”Seriously, though, you’d be a great analyst. Zach Green running the biggest dog hotel in the UK. Owen Elmham doing workshops on how to talk to models. Roddy Jones... Prime Minister of Wales. Is that a thing? I’d vote for you, mate.

”Okay, win the second half. I want you to think about it and I want you to give me the chance to set something up that might help you out twenty years from now. You might do a course you’re interested in and realise you hate it. That’s not a waste, is it? That’s good to know. Or you might sit with the marketing team for a couple of days and get an idea of what that’s like.

”And remember,” I said, in a tone of voice that meant I was coming to a close, ”if all else fails, if you don’t find your passion, if you don’t find anything you’re good at, just become a songwriter. It’s actually a piece of piss. Check it.”

”Oh, no,” groaned someone.

I moved my head from side to side as I took the art form known as rap to levels it had never been before. ”Max the GOAT takes ya girl to heaven/see Sandra for the starting eleven/gonna have three points by seven...” I pulled at my bottom lip.

”Seven?” said Dogg.

”Seven p.m.,” I explained. ”In the video I’ll point to a wristwatch to make that clear. What else rhymes with heaven? I’ve freestyled myself into a corner. Shit.”

Sandra Lane sighed and came to stand with her back to me. She folded her arms and faced the front. ”Seals slap Pilgrims back home to Devon.”

”Oh my God,” said Dan, rising to his feet, holding his face like in Edvard Munch’s The Scream. ”Has AI ruined me or is this amazing?”

A not-so-secretly delighted Sandra took up a more normal pose. ”Max, are we done?”

”Yeah.”

My co-manager resumed her position. Arms folded, sideways look. ”That’s a wrap!” She grinned as goofily as Youngster. ”Get it? Because we rapped. So it’s a wrap. Rap.”

Bigg Dogg pushed himself off the wall. ”Soccer be trippin’.”

***

EFL Championship Match 16 of 46: Chester versus Plymouth Argyle

Saturday, 3 p.m., English football’s traditional kick-off time. Clear skies, cool air, perfectly manicured grass. The serenity before the storm.

I sauntered around, soaking up the atmosphere, enjoying the buzz of anticipation. Confident smiles from him, nervous tapping from her. That guy reading the match programme, that kid calling out encouragement to all his idols. Same as before every home match.

Today there was something different, though. Today, the South Stand was fully open for the first time. 4,000 capacity, no restrictions. We had sold just over 3,000 tickets to Plymouth fans, which was good going considering the distances involved.

I was enjoying the fresh air and the atmosphere so much that I decided to stay out there a little longer. I was in a suit with nice shoes, so I didn’t venture onto the pitch.

I went back inside, into our dressing room. Stephen Watson was there. The youth system’s top talent getting a taste of the pre-match vibe. He couldn’t stop grinning.

Owen Elmham was kitted up and ready to play, though he was on the bench today. I sat next to him. ”Owen, mate. You okay?”

This story has been stolen from NovelFire. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

”Yes, boss,” he said, in his Norfolk accent. He had a reputation for being crazy, but I hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary, and when I had explained to him why I wanted Swanny to start the match, he had taken it well. I had explained about goalie rotation when we were discussing his contract, so it wasn’t like I had done a rug-pull on him. Did his performances merit a long run in the team? Of course they did. ”You’ve been mint. It really helped me when I was on my trip knowing we had a top goalie we could rely on.”

”That’s kind of you to say, boss. I’m enjoying it. It’s a really interesting experience. Sticky’s a top coach, too. You did well to bag him. Hidden gems for days around here.” He fiddled with his socks. ”Do you really think we can finish top half?”

”Oh, easy. I was thinking tenth, but if we go on a run, why not ninth?” I screwed up my face.

”Everything okay?”

”I don’t know why I do that. I’m so guarded all the time. I wasn’t thinking ninth, I was thinking eighth. If you write it down: In their first season in the Championship, Chester finished 10th. Versus: In their first season, dot dot dot, Chester finished 8th. It just looks way better as a single digit. I know it’s not super motivational for the group as a whole but...”

”But it is for you.”

”A little bit, yeah. If it’s the last game of the season and a win takes us higher than 10th and I’ve got a little injury, I’m gonna play. I know it’s stupid.”

”No, I’m the same. I’ve got to say, that was the first team meeting of my career where the gaffer tried to keep a lid on our motivation.”

”Maybe I explained myself badly. I just don’t want to ask for extra for no reason. You know in some video games you can bank skills and use the same skill twice in a row? I wish I could do that. Take this season’s surplus enthusiasm and use it next year.”

”That’s what you did, in a way.”

I tapped my lips. It was unlikely Owen would be at Chester next season. We were a trampoline, a club where he could bounce back to a Premier League club or an ambitious, wealthy Championship side. A marriage of convenience. Practical and loveless. ”I’m gonna check the tactics.”

I went to the front of the room, where the team sheet that got distributed to the media was lying around. On the right, Plymouth. They were set up in a 3-4-2-1 system with an average CA of 111.

On the left, Chester. We were doing 3-4-3.

Ian Swan in goal. CA 122, PA 127. He would hit his ceiling by the end of the calendar year, probably, and would be a solid, reliable Championship goalie who was good with his feet. He was only 26 so it was perfectly possible he would spend the next ten years between the sticks at this level. What would his next contract be? Between ten and twenty grand a week. He could earn 10 million quid in a decade. You’re welcome, Swanny.

Managing the goalies was actually going to be a challenge this season. Owen was 139/164 and had an aura. He intimidated oppo strikers and nullified them from set pieces. When teams surrounded him at corners, he simply swatted them aside, plucked the cross from the air, and sprinted ahead looking to release one of our guys for a quick counter. Often, he sprinted directly into an opponent, wiping them out, then complained to the ref that he had been impeded.

Heh.

Meanwhile, Swanny was still the best choice for when we wanted to go possession-crazy, and he needed first-team minutes so that he would appear on other clubs’ data models as the solid option he was. I expected to get a good few million when I sold him, but when was that going to be? Surely I would want to keep Swanny next season? Does a CA 127 goalie win you the Championship, though? If he was only going to be a backup, why not sell him in the summer? Ah, but could Chester even attract a better option with our current wage structure?

Livia Stranton, our second most senior physio, said, ”Y’all right, Max?”

”Yeah.”

”Kay.”

The defence, then. We had picked Zach (CA 122), Christian (119), and Peter (113). We had Fitzroy Hall (118) as an option with higher CA than Peter, but the German gave us outstanding ball progression; Fitz was a pure defender.

The midfield was my current favourite combo. Lewis Lamarre (124/156) on the left, Cheb Alloula (145/168) on the right. Cheb had played in the Champions League qualifiers with me, which might have increased his personal CA cap, but regardless, he was improving with Chester. The combination of Bumpers Bank and Saltney Town’s training centre - ’The Legends’ - seemed to be working great. At some point I would want to keep adding to our facilities score to make sure we didn’t run into another training cap. I had an idea or two about our next steps, but there didn’t seem to be any particular rush.

In the centre, we were deploying the reliable combo of Youngster (127/181) and Joel Reid (131/138). Joel was an interesting model when it came to squad building. I had picked him up for half a million quid nine months ago and by the end of the season he would be worth up to five million quid if there was a club desperate for a player with his exact profile. 2.5 million was more realistic, but even that would be a great profit, and unlike most of my buys, he had improved the starting eleven from the minute he arrived. There were plenty of similar players in my database. Guys who weren’t getting loads of minutes, who were out of favour, who I could buy for cheap to fill holes in the squad. They would raise the team’s floor but not lift the ceiling. Youngster would lift the ceiling... given enough time.

Up front I had the big target man Dazza (123/138), the top all-rounder Gabriel (124/161), and Wibbers (126/185). The latter could drop to CAM if our midfield was getting overrun, and if our guys were being too vertical I could set him as our playmaker so that our passing moves would go through him. If he got man-marked, I could move him left or right. For a time I could even swap him with Cheb. Wibbers wasn’t the best defensively but as a shock tactic, it would work wonders.

I eyed our tactics board. If we switched to 3-5-2 I could put Wibbers in midfield and drop Youngster into DM, the position where he really shone. With a 3-1-4-2 we would get less from Wibbers but more from Youngster. Probably not something I needed to countenance against Plymouth, but it could be interesting against tougher opponents. Play defensively in general but have explosive attacking talent on the pitch for counter-attacks and transitions. Ideally, I would be able to play both players in their preferred positions in a formation that made sense based on whoever we were playing.

Once I had added a few clubs to my squad list (starting with Tranmere, urgently) and once I had completed the Attributes on a player’s profile, I would turn my attention to rounding off the tactics tree. Complete tactical flexibility by the end of the season? Not a goal worth breaking my back over, but it could be a stretch goal.

I examined the tactics screen in my head. 3-4-3 with no real weak spots. Our average CA was 125.1 and our bench options included Cole Adams, Fitz Hall, Helge Hagen, Dan Badford, and Colin Beckton. Guys who would keep our level the same. Guys who would give us different tactical options.

”I fucking love this squad,” I said. I looked up and realised that Livia had been hovering nearby, checking on me.

She smiled and went back to her pre-match routine.

Sandra came inside. ”Max. They want you for the thing.”

”Right,” I said. ”The thing.”

***

I went down the tunnel and at the end, Joe Anka, sharply-dressed as always, gave me a microphone. ”Max, boss, the album. Signed by Diggy Doggy! I can’t believe it. It’s... argh!”

I smiled. ”I heard a lot of Sade during the warmups, Joe. Some might say too much Sade.”

”There’s no such thing.”

I pulled a face. ”Emma doesn’t agree.” Joe’s look of sadness was shared by all music lovers everywhere. I put my hand on his shoulder. ”I know. Turns out she’s not perfect after all. Took me four years to realise. Um, remind me what I’m doing?”

”Talking to the away fans.”

”Right right right.”

I walked to the left, with Briggy and Dylan following a few steps behind, trying to make it seem like that’s where they were going anyway. Sophie was lurking with a camera.

I was struck by the strangeness of me giving yet another speech before a match. Last time I had been here, I had told the Chester fans that I was going on tour and would be considering other job offers. Now I was back in town and the first thing I was doing was making myself the centre of attention once more. This speech had been planned long, long ago, however; the timing was a mad coincidence.

The Plymouth fans had been traveling since 5 a.m. but they were in good spirits and they had been singing and chanting from the minute they got into Chester. I swept my gaze across them. Proper football fans. I knew as soon as I started talking they would give me shit and I would have to establish dominance.

When Sophie put me on the big screen, I adjusted my tie and flicked back a stray hair. Looking good! I lifted the mic and got stuck in. ”Plymouth fans,” I said, which was met by a predictable wall of jeering and booing that morphed into a chant of ’Who are ya? Who are ya?’ I pulled a face. ”I’m Max Best. Don’t you follow football?”

The Chester fans were listening and they took their turn to jeer.

The away guys were mostly smiling and upbeat, but they were clearly plotting to bellow over me every time I opened my mouth. ”Guys, let me speak or I’m gonna blast Exeter City songs over the PA.” Threatening to play the music of their arch-rivals got good laughs and if you can make English guys laugh, they’ll hear you out. ”Don’t worry, you’re gonna like this. This is the grand opening of our new away end. I’m really proud of it, as you can imagine. A lot of work went into building this stand and I couldn’t be happier that the first away fans to experience it fully are the Argyle.” They cheered and applauded themselves. ”You might be thinking that I would say that regardless of which club we were drawn against today and let me tell you that’s incredibly cynical and one hundred percent accurate.” Laughs from the fans who were able to follow long sentences. ”Seriously, though, Plymouth fans put in a shift. Hundreds of miles, early starts, and you do it every week. Now, when I talk to people in football and I ask what they think of Plymouth fans, they say two things: they’re noisy and they like beer.” Cheers and applause. ”So I thought, huh, let’s just see about that, shall we?” I took a step back and turned to the side slightly. I pointed to the big screen. ”Unveil the beer-o-meter!”

On the electronic pitchside advertising boards, the low ones that stretched out behind the goals, the words ’BEER-O-METER’ scrolled from right to left. The big screens that were attached to the roofs of the new stands cut from my face to something very simple. On the left, the blue of Chester. On the right, the green of Plymouth. On top of those solid blocks of colour appeared a price: £3.20.

”Some of you have already had a pre-match drink,” I said. ”And you’ve noted that we’ve got the cheapest beers in the Championship. Cheapest tickets, cheapest pints. And it’s not your usual swill, either. It’s good stuff. But today’s a special day so let’s sweeten the deal. Plymouth, make some noise!”

Some of them half-heartedly cheered. On the right of the big screens, white volume bars rose, filling about ten percent of the height. As the noise died, so did the volume gauge. Something had changed, though. The number had dropped to £3.18.

”As you can see, the louder you get, the cheaper the beer gets.” I left a pause for that to sink in. ”Heh. You’re listening now, ain’t ya? This isn’t a joke or a prank. If you go inside right now you’ll see the price of beer has been updated. It’s all electronic. Welcome to the future!” There was a buzz of noise. ”Nah, nah, wait a minute. I control the beer-o-meter. You know the phrase, he who pays the piper calls the tune? I have a song request. No, I’m not gonna ask you to sing Max Best’s blue-and-white army. When we played Plymouth last season, there was one chant that I really liked. I’m gonna put the words down on the pitchside boards and if you’re loud, your beer will get cheaper. Easy.” I took a couple of steps away. ”Oh! Just one more thing. When I was designing this, I was high on cheese and I thought it would be funny to make it competitive. Can we launch beer-o-meter version 2, please?”

The price of beer reset to £3.20. The text got bigger and popped into two. The one on the right, the Plymouth side, dropped to £3.18, but the Chester price rose to £3.22.

There were boos from the Chester stands, which made me laugh. ”If you don’t like it, make some noise!”

They did just that. As the left of the screen filled with volume bars, the prices changed. Chester’s beer price dropped five pence, which got added to the away team’s price.

The Plymouth fans reacted in a kind of frenzy, which filled their volume bars, which lowered the price of their beer.

It kicked off big time, way more intensely than I could ever have imagined. I went over to Dylan and leaned into him, laughing my head off. He was laughing, too.

I brought the mic to my mouth. ”Pause the beer-o-meter!”

The screens turned black; the crowd settled a little.

”That was amazing, but listen. I want my favourite song. Sing my favourites or you lose by default. Okay, I’m gonna put my requests up and let the clock count down for 30 seconds.” The graphics returned, this time with a big countdown clock in the middle of everything. ”Okay, Joe, hit it.”

On the electronic boards in front of the away end, visible only to the Chester fans, came the words: Woo-oh, woo-oh, Chester ARE back!

On the far side, on the boards in front of the Harry McNally terrace, were the words for Plymouth to sing: If you don’t fucking bounce, you’re a red!

(We had hidden one of the words under some asterisks, but the Plymouth fans were able to crack the code.)

As you can perhaps guess, being asked to launch into their favourite chants to get cheaper beer while punishing the oppo’s fans sent both sets of supporters into noisy ecstasy. Being as close as I was to the away guys was like being a few inches from a firehose.

I ran behind Dylan for protection from the sound waves. ”Fuck,” I said, laughing.

”Amazing!” he said, flushed with pleasure.

Even Briggy was impressed. She took her eyes off the away end, where she was scanning for threats, to check the progress of the competition. With five seconds to go, the away fans were winning, and had pushed the price of their beer down to £2.85. A late surge from the McNally pushed it up by five pee.

When the screens turned black to show the contest was over, there was a lot of merriment, and a buzz of conversation. Was this my most triumphant pre-match stunt yet? ”All right,” I said, when it was quiet enough to be heard. The graphics went back on screen. ”Final prices. Plymouth two pounds ninety, Chester three fiddy.” Cheers, boos. ”Hey, but Argyle, I’m sure you understand I can’t charge the home fans more than you. Let’s score an equaliser.” Chester’s beer price fell to match Plymouth’s. The home fans cheered, while the away end accepted this compromise with good grace. ”You know what, though? I’m bad at maths. What’s eighteen times two ninety? There’s no way to know! Let’s just call it two quid a beer, yeah?”

On screen, the two prices fell to £2.00, then merged into one giant number. I’m not sure if it was the animation that was getting the ovation, but it certainly deserved it. Brooke’s team had smashed the whole thing.

When the cheers came down a little, I brought the mic close to my mouth and mumbled, ”Maximum six hundred pints per customer, terms and conditions apply.” Louder, I said, ”That’s it! Enjoy the match!”

Dylan went to the away end, where he joined his mates from 3 R Welsh. Briggy fell into step beside me as I walked the long way around the pitch. She gave me a little smile. ”Everyone’s second-favourite team.”

***

We kicked off, facing the new away end, and some of our early moves were phenomenal. Most went through Peter Bauer, to the point that I had to double-check if he was set as our playmaker. No, he was just at the heart of everything. A lot of high-level teams experimented with having a midfielder drop into the space between the two centre backs in order to progress the ball. In Peter, we had a player who could do that without us needing to coach a positional change.

He got stuck a couple of times, so passed back to Ian Swan. In recent months, Swanny had popped a few times in Decisions and Passing, making him even more perfect for this style of football. He could ping the ball back to Peter, roll it to Zach, or go long to Dazza.

Dazza was holding the ball up far more consistently than at the start of the season. Once he’d won the physical duel he would touch the ball back to midfield, go wide, or try to link up with one of his fellow strikers. Often that was Wibbers, who zoomed towards Dazza to give the big Aussie a simple, short pass.

On the wings, Cheb continued to thrill, while Lewis Lamarre was all-action. Lewis was only 27 and his PA was 156. If he wanted to stay at Chester for a while, I wouldn’t mind. If he wanted to move on, a few more performances like this would overcome any doubts other managers had about him.

As for me, I was sitting back, fiddling with my tie, mostly letting Sandra take care of business. My main involvement was to trigger our once-a-match perks at the right time. I knew that Shocktober was in effect because the curse had asked me if I wanted to make the referee fussy and pedantic. No thanks! Shocktober gave us a few slight boosts, which I supplemented by using Seal It Up to give us a fifteen-minute plus-one to our defence’s Positioning score. I used Cupid’s Arrow to connect Dazza and Wibbers, so that passes between them would be more likely to succeed. Although we got a fair few corners, I saved the Free Hit option.

The corners were interesting because while I was away I had only watched our main training and not the set piece sessions. When we got a free kick in a dangerous position, or a corner, Vikki would step forward and shout out a code. The players would then go through one of their rehearsed moves. Mostly they got close to the goalie and fired crosses hard towards that area. It was so ugly but it was effective and I couldn’t afford to be such a puritan. I had banned long throws, though. I had some self-respect left.

The Match Ratings told me what I knew from the eye test - we were much the better team. We had a clutch of players on 7 or 8 out of 10. Plymouth were mostly 6s and 7s.

Then the away team put together a good string of passes, worked an opening, and a midfielder took a shot from distance. It was pretty tame, tbh, but somehow Swanny didn’t get his hands in the right place and the ball squirmed under his gloves and went over the line.

The away fans went mental. Like, 50p off the price of beer kinda mental.

Christian Fierce was the first to pick Swanny up. I glanced at Zach. He was pissed, but shook it off in record time. He, too, gave the keeper a little gee-up. Youngster, Joel Reid, and Wibbers got together to discuss something tactical. Wibbers went to explain the group’s findings to Gabriel.

Play resumed and we looked even better. The passing was crisper, faster. Peter evaded challenges, brought the ball forward, sent the ball at unexpected angles. Lewis was up and down the left like a jack-in-the-box. Cheb dipped into his bag of tricks as if to say, who needs Max Best? You’ve got yourself a mystery winger right here. The Chester fans were enraptured.

We got closer and closer to scoring. Wibbers long shots. Gabriel headers. Joel Reid through balls that defenders deflected towards their own goal.

Under our pressure and with the goal in the bag, Plymouth dropped a little deeper, compressed the space. Not a low block, but a mid-block. We had to play through them while being mindful of their threat on counters.

We got stuck, they countered, and it was looking serious until Youngster went through that little time-space portal he carried around with him. He got goal-side (between the ball and the goal) and forced Plymouth’s ball carrier to slow down and look for a pass. The midfielder who had scored from a tepid long shot tried his luck again, but this time he hit a stupendous thunderbastard that flew towards the far post.

Swanny launched himself, spread his arms, flicked the ball with his fingertips, touched it onto the post. Sensational, but the best was yet to come. The ball rebounded onto Swanny’s own back and bounced towards the net. The keeper used his agility to get to his feet, took a couple of steps, and launched himself towards his own goal line, where he threw out an arm and flicked the ball away.

Our defenders hadn’t been standing around, ball-watching. Christian had raced back to help out, but all he did was help the ball into the net. Swanny’s flick hit Christian’s shins. Our captain had no chance.

Two-nil, and another 50p taken off the price of beer.

I wanted a noisy stadium. Be careful what you wish for.

***

Half Time

When the whistle went, Sandra and I nipped in to the Manager’s Room. ”What do you think?” she said.

”It’s so unlucky,” I said. ”Tactics are good. We’re the better team. What can you do?”

”We could make subs.”

I thought about it. ”I’d like to let this group have a go.”

She nodded. ”Agreed. One of us should talk to Swanny.”

”I can do that.”

”Okay. Team talk?”

”Let me handle that.”

She smiled. ”This is gonna be epic.”

”No,” I said, sitting down and picking up a pen. ”It’s gonna be pure poetry.”

Sandra’s face fell. ”Max, no. Not more raps. Come on! I know you’ve got an entourage now, but...”

In a posh accent, I said, ”If you would please excuse me for a moment. I must summon my muse. I do like to do so in private.”

She inhaled, left the room, closed the door, and I thought I heard a tiny, annoyed laugh-grunt.

***

”Hey, Swanny,” I said, thirty seconds later.

”Gaffer,” he said, looking up. ”Sorry. Fucked up.”

”Yeah, you did. What I like is that you didn’t try to overcompensate. Your passing was mint. Decisive. Kept the ball moving, punched holes in Plymouth’s press. That was a good reaction, and the save was world-class. Please keep doing what you’re doing. Okay?”

”Yes, gaffer.”

His Morale stayed the same. Maybe I was losing my touch.

I looked around and didn’t see any major problems, so I grabbed Stephen Watson, the cream of our youth system’s crop, and took him to the front. I called out, ”May I have your attention please?”

There was a slightly weird reaction to that, which I later realised was because I hadn’t started in my customary way. Footballers do like their routines.

”You know Stephen Watson, I think. You’ve, er, seen his name written down here and there.” I chuckled to myself. ”I’ve written what I consider to be a rousing half-time speech and I’m going to ask Stephen to deliver it. You ready, dog?”

He turned red. ”What?”

”Don’t worry, you’ll be great. Just, er... You’re great at rapping, right?”

There was laughter. There was mild teasing. There was a Scouser who tried to escape.

”Come on, bro. Deliver the half-time speech that this football club needs.”

He reluctantly took the paper from me, read it, looked confused, and turned it over. He made a question mark with his face. Is this it? I made an exclamation mark with my face. Hurry up! Still nervous, he faced the first team squad, took a breath, and said, ”Win the second half.”

I stepped back and applauded. Everyone else did the same. Stephen soaked up the adulation, and like a true gangster rapper didn’t credit me.

Christian Fierce came over, shook Stephen by the shoulder, and yelled, ”Win the second half, lads! Come on!”

As the lads clomped out of the dressing room, yelling incoherently, Sandra appeared next to me. ”It’s good to have you back, boss. I couldn’t have done anything so inspirational. Ten out of ten, no notes.”

”Good, wasn’t it?”

”Hmm,” she said, and went out into the tunnel. I stayed behind to do something about the shirt and tie I was wearing. Proper clothes were so itchy!

***

I was late for the second half, which cost me a few XP, but I had found one of those floor-to-ceiling manager’s coats and it was really nice and warm in there. I could imagine it replacing my hoodie as the default option in winter.

It was clear from the crowd noise that we had started well.

The challenge for Plymouth was to defend stoutly without getting too deep. As soon as they fell into a low block, we would really turn up the heat. I would probably swap Lewis - well as he was playing - with Helge. Wibbers would go left wing, while the giant Norwegian would become one of our three strikers. We would fire crosses into the area, and with Helge, Dazza, and Gabby to aim for, there would be absolute mayhem. When we got corners and free kicks, Zach and Christian would lurch forward, adding even more height.

”I love how we can mix it up,” I said.

Sandra gave me a funny look, which at the time I thought was because she hadn’t been privy to my train of thought, but later I realised was because I had been standing next to her in the technical area since the resumption of play. What happened to me sitting back and letting her run the show? Not that she would have complained. ”If you had Emiliano today, would that make a difference to how we approached the game?”

”It’d make a difference to how many stomach ulcers I had.”

”You should probably ease off on telling everyone how awful he is.”

”Yeah, you’re right.” The ball moved around in pre-determined ways followed by moments of pure chaos. ”He is awful, though.”

Sandra grimaced. ”I knew you were gonna say that.”

***

In the 55th minute, we hit a purple patch and some of our football turned sublime. It was led by Peter, who was stepping out of defence more often, connecting different triangles. Cheb did fewer tricks and got more efficient. Gabriel won all his duels.

But five minutes later, we still hadn’t scored and I sensed the mood begin to shift. This was going to be one of those days where things didn’t quite click, where all the luck was with the other side. The Chester fans could feel it. The shared sense of narrative inevitability sapped their belief. The away mob found another decibel or two.

And just to prove that football doesn’t make sense and that the stories we tell ourselves are mostly bullshit, Wibbers took a pass on the edge of the penalty area, moved the ball lazily into the D, and swiped a left-footed shot into the bottom-right corner. The goalie got a touch but not enough to push it wide.

2-1. Back in the game!

The swing in volume would have crashed the beer-o-meter. Away fans temporarily silenced. Home fans exultant.

Thanks to some stubborn and commited defending, it took another ten minutes to get the next big, big chance. A free kick on the right for a foul on Cheb. Vikki signalled what she wanted, and I saw in the tactics screen that Lewis had been set as the free kick taker. That was fascinating in itself. What would happen if I mentally overrode that instruction? A lot of bickering and unhappiness, I reckoned, possibly even leading to Vikki quitting. She was a great coach and I didn’t want that, so I turned my attention to the Free Hit button that had popped up. Lewis on the right of the pitch would curl the ball inwards, aiming for the far post. If we got a head on the ball, that would be a big problem for the goalie. If no-one touched it, the goalie would have to dance across his line and make a save.

Plymouth knew what was coming, and set up accordingly. I swiped away the Free Hit option.

Lewis ran at the ball, his face a picture of concentration. At the last second, he changed his balance and instead of a deep cross he played a simple ball more or less straight down the pitch. But because Plymouth had shuffled so far across, there was no-one there to defend it. Wibbers ran after the ball and clipped it up into the middle of the penalty box. A defender did well to get his head on it, but under pressure from Christian, he could only make it loop away from the goal, still very much in the danger area.

Zach Green saw the ball coming slowly towards him and his eyes lit up.

”Nooo!” I called out.

A few times per season, like all defenders, Zach had a meltdown and believed himself to be the reincarnation of Pelé himself. Zach, a big, tall, strong man whose asymmetrical abs made him uniquely unsuited to feats of agility, jumped, angled his body sideways, and scissor-kicked the ball. It was already amazing that he even made contact with the thing, but when the ball didn’t fly straight out of the stadium I was doubly impressed.

When it smashed into the back of the fucking net I lost my mind.

No-one noticed; seven thousand four hundred Chester fans were jumping, screaming, throwing themselves into the arms of strangers. I lifted Vikki up. Owen Elmham bearhugged me. I remembered Stephen Watson was in the area and wanted to see how much he was enjoying this.

Sandra was on the ball. ”Max, quick. Any changes?”

”No. It’s mint. Ride it out.”

”Five more minutes, maximum, then we have to freshen things up.”

I checked everyone’s Condition scores. Plymouth had started the match with slightly reduced fitness - that was one of the more unethical bonuses conferred by the Shocktober perk - and we had been making them run much harder and faster than ourselves. ”We can sub off Lewis, Joel, and Dazza. Bring on Cole, Dan Badford, and Colin.”

”Dan for Joel?”

”Yeah, we’re bossing this now. Cole gives us height, Dan for midfield ball progression, Colin to sniff out chances as we pile into the penalty box.”

She peering over my shoulder, as though seeking out Stephen Watson. ”Anyone else?”

”Hmm, that’s good for the time being, I reckon.”

She nodded and told the guys to get warmed up. I paced up and down the technical area, watching in a state of almost pure glee as we pushed to get the winning goal we so clearly deserved.

The clock started to work against us. 70 minutes became 73, which became, maddeningly, 74.

A ripple of disquiet pulsed through the home fans again. The away end had recovered from the shock of conceding twice and were urging their lads to hold out for the draw, or even push forward again and claim a snatch-and-grab win.

In the 75th minute, with our subs lined up and ready to take to the pitch, Joel and Youngster passed to each other and the latter skipped past a tackle, heading towards the penalty area.

Inwardly, I groaned. I knew what he was thinking: if Zach Green can score a bicycle kick, I can score a thunderbastard.

A midfielder fouled Youngster.

”Thank fuck for that,” I mumbled, noting that the ref was approaching the miscreant with a yellow card.

”Max,” said Sandra. ”Sub, now!”

I stared at the three guys who were waiting to go on. ”Yeah,” I said.

”Wake the fuck up!” she yelled, pulling at my big coat.

”Oh,” I said. I looked at the match situation. ”OH!”

I slipped the big coat off, revealing that I was in full Chester kit. Joe Anka’s voice boomed out around the stadium. ”Replacing number 14, Youngster...”

The referee turned to the technical area and spotted the linesman had his electronic board raised.

Joe enjoyed the second half of his sentence. ”...is number 77, Max Best.”

The roar was spine-tingling. I was locked into Chester for the rest of the season. The fans could relax. At last, they could enjoy this ride.

Youngster hobbled off the pitch. I gave him a high ten, then slowly walked towards the spot the free kick would be taken from.

Max. Best. Territory.

The Free Hit button appeared.

Smash that.

I placed the ball, examined the wall, looked over to the touchline to see if Vikki was telling me what to do. She wasn’t. I held my arms out. ”Where’s my set piece coach?”

Sandra, laughing, pushed Vikki to the front of the technical area. She pointed towards the goal. Peter Bauer translated. ”That’s the signal for you to score a goal, boss.”

I smiled and stuck my tongue out. ”Let’s see about this.”

Peter eyed me. ”Have you been practicing, boss?”

The ref blew his whistle.

I took a step back, clipped the ball over the wall, watched it curl, curl, curl into the top-left corner. The goalie got close, but not close enough.

It was at that point that the pain and confusion of recent events really hit me. I fell into a state of pure introspection, and as I slowly walked to the Harry McNally stand, I contemplated all aspects of my life from all angles.

Um...

Actually, hold on, let me check the video of that moment. Ah yes, what actually happened was this:

I scored, sprinted all the way to the terrace in about three seconds, and launched myself six feet into the crowd. They pulled me up another four feet, delirious, loud enough to knock a pound off the price of beer. There was a moment where I was completely swallowed by the sea of humanity and actually had a kind of religious experience in there. It was like being baptised.

Born again.

When they finally started to push me back upright and towards the pitch, I felt cleansed. Whole. New. Sin and suffering were behind me. The future looked a lot like heaven.

I clambered over the digital advertising boards, dizzy, still in a state of ecstasy... and the referee showed me a yellow card.

***

We made the next three subs and took our performance to ludicrous new heights. Cole was not a natural fit in left midfield, but the trio of Peter, Dan, and myself in the centre of the pitch was far, far too good for Plymouth. They couldn’t get the ball.

I ran non-stop, enjoying the work, enjoying the feeling of movement, enjoying the feeling of purpose.

Who needs an overarching goal for the season? Do your best. Win the moments.

Plymouth’s manager saw that I was taking the piss by moving from DM to CAM and decided that the best way to stop me was to attack hard down our right. It was a good move - it made me drop Cole to left-wing back, and I stopped dicking around in the centre as much to make sure I was on hand to support him if needed.

I felt like we were completely solid, but the crowd couldn’t quite get themselves to believe. Tension crept into the air. They were biting their nails and every time I raced forward they got excited but were filled with an equal amount of dread. I decided not to increase their suffering, and stuck to my position.

With the clock ticking down, Plymouth decided to throw a few bodies forward. Zach capped an impressive display by winning the ball cleanly and passing it back to Swanny. The goalie surprised me by hitting a long pass to the right, but Gabriel had moved over to that side. The Brazilian controlled the ball, rushed forward and passed it to Wibbers. Wibbers shaped to help the ball further left, where Colin Beckton was storming towards the oppo’s goal, but the ball went right, into the path of Gabby, who smashed it low, hard, and to the left of the goalie.

4-2. Bosh. Have some of that.

The away fans started to stream out of the new stand. Drown your sorrows in cheap beer!

A massive chant filled the Deva.

Chester are back!

Chester are back!

***

The mood in the dressing room was understandably jubilant, especially because we had the international break coming up. Two weeks was a lot of time to dwell on a defeat, but just enough time to savour a great win.

Stephen Watson got to give the victory speech: ”Well done, lads.” Cue huge applause. I put a little trophy in his hand and asked him to name the man of the match. ”Oh,” he said, turning red again. ”Wibbers.”

”NO!” I yelled. ”It was me. Give me that.” I snatched the trophy back. Sandra took it from me and handed it to Wibbers.

Briggy came in. ”Max, there’s someone to see you.”

I gave Stephen a tiny shake and went into the corridor. There was a complete rando there. Above his head was the profile of a scout for Watford. Why had Briggy let him get this far? ”Hi, Max, great win. Amazing.”

”Thanks, dude,” I said, wondering what was going on.

”I’ll be quick. Can I have your permission to please talk to Lewis Lamarre?”

”Watford want Lewis?” I said, surprised by how unhappy that made me.

Of course, the guy hadn’t said who he worked for and was completely freaked out that I knew who he was. ”Oh, er... Huh. I didn’t realise I was... I suppose I’m flattered.” He tried to laugh. ”No, Max, I’m here in my capacity as a scout for Northern Ireland. We’ve had an injury and Lewis is eligible to play for us. From what I’ve heard, he’s not getting in the England setup any time soon. I’d like to pitch him the idea of playing for us. I mean, if that’s all right with you.”

I put my hand on the guy’s shoulder. ”That sounds absolutely mint. Let me go get him.”

I went inside and dragged a topless Lewis out. When the scout explained what he wanted, Lewis was surprised, to say the least. ”Mate,” I said. ”This is incredible. Just say yes. Looks like Brooke wants me. Talk to you later.” I walked down the corridor towards our Chief Operating Officer.

”Chester are back,” she sang. ”Woo-oh! Love that. Guess what next week’s billboard slogan is going to be?”

“Oh, let me guess! Something about how routine wins can be fun, too.”

“I liked the thing with you being named on the subs bench but you were in a suit and tie. Very confusing. Lot of chat online about that.”

“Yeah. Sending mixed messages is pretty fun.” A couple of lads went past the end of the tunnel chanting, ‘Chester are back!’ I smiled. ”The new stand’s amazing. It sounds fucking quality out on the pitch. If I scored, I was planning to go to a corner and make the sign of the cross, point to the sky, one of those. Peaceful, respectful.”

”Instead, you went berserk.”

”Yep,” I said, happily. ”10,865. That’s a healthy attendance. When we play teams who are a bit closer, we’ll cross eleven thousand.” She didn’t reply, so I said, ”I know that still leaves us waaaay out on our own at the foot of the Championship, but we’ll get there.” I nodded a few times, still high on victory. ”Lewis got a national team call up. On the pitch we can do silk or steel, sometimes both. Your boyfriend scored a scissors kick! What the fuck mad yoga have you been doing with him? Actually, don’t answer that.”

”MD called it a bicycle kick.”

”Same thing. God, what a feeling when that went in. The whole match was great. I’ve been thinking about finishing eighth but now I’m looking at seventh. Is that crazy? There’s just nothing that can stop us. There isn’t a single cloud in the sky!” Brooke’s lips twisted. I said, ”Oh, no. What? Whaaat?”

”Small issue in my opinion, but MD said you would want to know straight away.”

”Oh, Christ. I feel sick.”

”Owen Elmham’s mother is blasting you on social media.”

”Blasting me? Sorry, did you say his mother?”

She showed me a post.

That Max Best is clueless. My son Owen’s the best goalie in the Championship, let alone Chester. First thing he does after his holiday is drop a top-level keeper and the replacement drops a clanger. What a shambles! Won’t a REAL club with a REAL manager rescue my poor son?