Soccer Supremo - A Sports Progression Fantasy

17.

Monday, May 8

Emma, Briggy, and the hotel let me stay in bed as long as I needed, so I woke up far past the normal checkout time. Feeling much improved, though. Feeling much readier for the big week ahead.

Also feeling curious. As a normo, the hotel would charge me a fee to check out late. Would they charge Chester FC extra, or would they let it go seeing as we had already given them thousands and thousands of pounds and might want to come here again? I was curious, but not enough to investigate.

Chester were an elite club now, so if businesses decided we were a cash cow that needed to be milked, I couldn’t really blame them.

Elite!

My Death Star was nearing completion, and in a few months the WSL would come into range. Chelsea, Man City, Arsenal. Witness the awesome firepower of this roaming battle station! Favourites for relegation? How about favourites for the title?

I took a long shower, during which I thought about tonight’s FA Youth Cup final. I was nervous about it. If I’m being honest, I was afraid. Man City would come with weapons, boys who could hurt us. They would be a cocky bunch of bastards, too. Arrogant, noisy, with the unshakeable self-belief of young men who would finish their careers drenched in cash and glory.

Fuckers.

Our boys might need some help, so I bought the last tactics perk, Complete Tactical Annihilation, for 5,000 XP. (Actually it was called Complete Tactical Flexibility, but whatevs.) I was now Tommy Tactics Level Ten Thousand. I was a Quantum Megabrain and in tonight’s Youth Cup final I would be able to move every icon anywhere, with no restrictions.

I thought about cackling maniacally, but didn’t. After all, I would probably keep the lads in the 3-5-1-1 shape that had worked so well this season, while Man City were bound to deploy the 4-3-3 system that all their age groups used, so there wouldn’t be much in the way of surprise.

Shame, really.

I had spent the season grinding to unlock all the Attributes and then grinding to complete the tactics tree. Mission accomplished, and I would no doubt look back fondly on all the hard work I had done, but the perk shop was looking barren, all of a sudden. It was somewhat grey, uninspiring. If it was a city, it would be Bristol.

Playdar 3 would give me another token slot, but I was actually happy with the current Playdar setup.

Bibliotekkers 1 and Match Archive would add match reports, which would allow me to do deep dives into upcoming opponents and could potentially help with scouting.

xG would add Expected Goals to the match stats, while The Stattoo Parlour would show me a variety of data like which club had won the most home matches in a row. Cool, but not something I needed and if I wanted stuff like that I only needed to tell Spectrum and Pradeep and they would bombard me with numbers.

Forex for Dummies would allow me to quickly switch currencies, which would be handy when talking to clubs abroad. Again, cool, but I had survived this long without it.

Wet Wet Wet 2 would extend the weather forecasts from 5 to 10 days.

And that was it in terms of new powers. Nothing spectacular, so I would probably slightly increase my spending on Secret Sandra while adding more age groups to the curse via the Panopticon. Before the start of next season I would want to add West Didsbury, the Gibraltar Lions, and Tempsford.

”Babes?” called Emma, as she knocked on the bathroom door. She pushed it open a crack. ”You alive in there?”

”I’m ascending,” I said.

”Oh, are you? I’ll leave you alone then.” I laughed, but there was the very slightest pang of headache as I did so. She pushed the door more open and all the steamy warmth flew right out. Heroically, I didn’t complain. She eyed me. ”How are you feeling?”

”Much better. You? You got hammered.”

”Not that much. I over-ate. God, what a party, though! You haven’t had anything, have you? Do you want to eat something at the hotel or go home?”

”Home,” I said, turning the water off. ”Just in case there’s traffic or anything. I’ll enjoy it more when I’m near the stadium. I can’t let the lads down. I had a tantrum but they responded well and they’ve been working towards tonight for the best part of a year.”

”Do you want to take something before we go?” She handed me a huge, fluffy towel, but she was talking about medicine.

”I had loads yesterday; shouldn’t overdo it. I think I’ll be all right. Just...”

”What?”

”Maybe we can have chill music for the drive?”

Emma smiled. ”Mezzanine.”

”Bless you.”

***

Angel

We went the slightly more scenic route, taking the A41, and I let Massive Attack’s creepy, menacing soundscapes wash over me. ”This is top,” I said, bravely declaring that I was enjoying one of the best British albums ever. ”I could imagine the first song being walk-out music, maybe. It’s got that build.”

”It’s called Angel. Ironic that you’re discovering it just as you’re kicking the real-life Angel out of the club. Have you seen the music video?”

”I don’t think so.”

Emma paused the car stereo. ”Check it out.” I went to put in my earphones but she said, ”No, I’ll listen.”

”Again?” We had only just heard the song.

”Of course.”

I watched the music video to a song called Angel and my brain went haywire. I texted Sandra.

I’ll do the final pre-match team talk.

Emma glanced at me. ”What are you thinking?”

”I’m thinking Man City are gonna fucking get it.”

***

At ten to seven, ten minutes before kick off, I strode into the home dressing room at the Deva Stadium. On Saturday, the Deva would host the playoff semi-final second leg against Luton, and then the West stand would be demolished. The rebuilt PetPride Stand would gleam, would house tons of VIP and hospitality boxes, but would also include two new changing rooms, upgraded referee rooms, bigger medical spaces, showers, ice baths. If the Deva hosted the Youth Cup final again next season, we would all be on the other side of the stadium, probably set lower into the earth, but well and truly ascended.

I wouldn’t be the manager next season. When it came to the youth team, on a personal level I had achieved what I wanted. Whatever happened tonight, the kids were elite, just as the women were elite. The men were exactly as elite as I wanted them to be.

I glanced around the dressing room, taking it all in. The seriousness on the young men’s faces. The professionalism of the operation. The amusing message that had appeared on half a dozen player profiles at around 5 p.m., the time that Sandra had told the boys she would be leading the line tonight: ’Wants to impress his new manager’. Those statements sat neatly alongside ’Proud to be playing for Max Best’. Two managers, two sources of motivation. The co-manager hack was amazing!

”Shut the fuck up,” I said, in the dead silence. Pradeep moved a huge TV screen into place next to the tactics board. The magnets were set up in the usual 3-5-1-1 shape, and the usual team had been named.

Aston Davidson in goal. He was CA 52.

The back three were the captain, Archer Phillips (52), Future (49), and Lennox Francis (51).

The left and right mids were the star boys, Wallace Wells (80) and Roddy Jones (100).

The three central midfielders were Dominic Duckham (60), Hamish Andrews (70), and Tommy Thompson (53).

The CAM was Adam B. Roberts, CA 57, playing behind Chas Fungrieve, CA 83.

I adjusted the magnets, pushing Adam slightly to the right and Chas slightly to the left. I could micro-manage a player’s position now; I could override the curse defaults.

”I’ve been afraid,” I said.

The silence spread.

”I don’t want to lose finals. I don’t want to work so hard and fall at the last hurdle.” I felt Sandra giving me a significant look, but I pressed on. ”I’ve been worrying for months about what City could do to us. How they could fuck us up. These academy teams always have a few future superstars, and this City team are different from the others because they’ve got a couple of lads who have played first-team minutes. Imagine what they could do to us. I want you to imagine me cowering, my arms wrapped around my knees, as I gently rock back and forth, wondering what might befall me and my grand plans. Fear is the mind-killer, and I am six feet under.”

The silence deepened.

Until Roddy Jones said, ”Bullshit.” That popped the bubble, and a shower of laughter fell on us all. ”You’re not afraid of Man City. No way.” He closed one eye and tilted his head to the side. ”Am I allowed to be cocky?”

”Now’s a good time, yeah.”

”You’re not afraid of Man City,” he repeated. ”You’ve got me.”

I scoffed. ”Yeah? I’ve got a new tactic, too. City play 4-3-3. There’s one thing I’ve always wanted to do to a 4-3-3 team but I’ve always been too chicken to try it in a real match. Today we’re gonna do it. I’m gonna announce the new formation using imagery and trip-hop.”

I connected my phone to the big screen and played the music video for Angel by Massive Attack.

The lads heard a throbbing bass line, as a tall man called Daddy G - one of the band - got out of his ride in a car park. Mysterious percussive beats, elemental noises, and strange synth lines filled the dressing room while Daddy G walked away from his car. Other men, similarly dressed, also got out of their vehicles.

Daddy G continued to walk, turning left and right, but there was something upsetting about the way it was shot. Was he being followed? Sometimes yes, sometimes no.

More instruments, more layers of sound, adding to the sense of progression, building the feel of danger, made eerie by the singer’s choice of lyrics. Bring me love?

Then it was clear that yes, we were being followed, and that made us afraid.

”This is us,” I said, startling some in the room as I pointed to the main character. ”This is me. This is you. This is Chester.”

A guy strode into view, looking very much like the liquid metal assassin from Terminator 2. A thrilling but ominous note played, and repeated. Guitars added to the tension. We were being followed by four men now. Wait, five.

More would-be attackers were sprinting into place, lining up behind us, walking in our footsteps, crowding our six. Why were there so many? Why did we have so many enemies?

Halfway through the song, we decided to leg it. We were immediately chased, but one of our foes took time out to sing ’youuuu... are my angel’. It was all kinds of disturbing, but there was no time to think. The arrival of more guitars meant it was time to run faster, harder.

We were out of the car park and the chase was getting desperate, but then there was nowhere left to go.

”Up!” I commanded, and twenty young men stood.

We turned and faced our attackers. Things got weird. We tilted our head, so did they. We half-smiled, they half-smiled in return.

We took a step forward.

The entire mob of enemies took a step back.

”Yeah!” I shouted, bouncing on my toes, wishing I was in the video. We took another step forward; they cowered. ”Fucking get ’em!”

We ran at them; they pissed themselves and fled. The camera cut to show there were fucking thousands of the bastards, but it didn’t matter. I punched my palm. ”We have the power. We are the ones to be feared!”

Eyes glowing, I pushed the Adam B. Roberts magnet to the top of the board, then did the same with Wallace Wells and Roddy Jones.

”Three. Three. Four!”

Balls out. Man to man. Fearless football. Massive attack.

Archer Phillips stepped forward and yelled, ”Fucking get ’em!”

As one, the rest of the team screamed, ”COME ON!” and rushed out into the corridor.

Pradeep ran out after them, yelping and hopping excitedly. The medical team followed, in slightly more professional style.

I was left in a deserted room with Sandra Lane. She rubbed her eyebrows. ”Remind me why you need me?”

***

The Deva was a sell-out, and the empty seats would fill through the first half as people finished work and rushed to the stadium. There were well over a hundred scouts in the main stand, ones who had officially asked for a ticket, and what looked like at least 50 spread out in the other stands. They wanted to come incognito, to hide their intentions. Sneak attack.

Man City were no surprise. Average CA 49, which was very high. Not high enough, though. Our average was 64.3 and my lads had spent the past week being squashed by hardened professionals. Playing against grown men would have felt like running with a heavy backpack, but now they were up against kids. Talented kids, sure, but kids all the same. It would feel easy, like running downhill.

And on the touchline, Sandra Lane, one of the best in the business, was pitting her wits against a talented but inexperienced former player. Another mismatch. As I had explained to Sandra, I didn’t want to stay in all-out attack mode. ”I haven’t completely lost my mind,” I said. ”I need you to nudge Adam, Wallace, and Roddy back into more sensible spots when that’s needed.”

I took my seat a few rows behind Sandra and settled in.

5’

Davidson takes the goal kick short to Future.

He plays it left to Phillips.

The captain goes further left to Wells, who has come back to midfield for the build-up phase.

Wells plays a one-two with Duckham.

Wells strides forward and hits an early cross.

It is defended well, but the clearance only goes as far as Jones.

Jones with a dramatic burst into the penalty area!

Jones can shoot...

But he squares the ball to Fungrieve.

The striker clips it low...

GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

Chester take the lead! So early in the game!

The lads went bonkers, celebrating wildly. What a moment!

Sandra got their attention as they returned to our half, and told them to revert to 3-5-1-1 for a few minutes.

7’

It looks like Chester are adopting a more defensive approach.

Manchester City restart play.

The ball is worked around the midfield. There is pressure from Chester.

City are forced back. They are keeping the ball quite nicely.

City will be hoping to take some of the sting out of the game after Chester’s fast start.

Sandra Lane is shouting instructions.

It looks like Chester are adopting a more attacking approach.

Sandra smelled blood, it seemed, and wanted the lads to go for the throat. Or maybe it was just that City were looking nervous. We were back in 3-3-4, doing man-to-man marking everywhere all over the pitch.

The ball is played back to the goalkeeper.

He plays it to the left, but it’s behind the intended recipient.

The left back is forced to retreat, and Roddy Jones keeps him on his weaker foot.

The ball goes back to the keeper. Adam Roberts makes a move in his direction.

The keeper chips it to the right of midfield, where Wallace Wells wins the header.

Duckham takes over. He drives forward.

Duckham to Andrews.

The Scottish midfielder slows things down, checks the rest defence is in place, then feeds Thompson.

Thompson striding ahead. He has options left and right.

Thompson decides to have a crack.

He shoots...

It’s saved!

But where will the rebound go?

Fungrieve sticks out a leg and hooks it inside. Roberts with the chance to shoot...

He leans back and rolls a pass in front of Jones.

Jones thrashes the ball into the net!

What a strike!

What a move!

That was sensational football from Chester. They are two goals ahead!

Sandra waved me over. I took the three strides and leaned forward as she covered her mouth and said, ”This is fun!”

***

City fell back and we strung together long sequences of passes. I really liked this 3-3-4 against 4-3-3 thing. It was our physicality and Technique against theirs, our decision-making and team work against theirs. It was high-risk, high-reward football and when it worked, it suffocated the opponent. City found it hard to pass the ball, and when we lost it, we could swarm and get it back quickly. If City kept hold of it for more than 5 seconds, Sandra told the lads to drop back into 3-5-1-1 and she wasn’t ashamed of going all the way to 5-3-2.

Mostly, we attacked. We attacked and had shots.

Then City scored.

It was a loose pass from Lennox Francis, intercepted by a City winger who had played in the AOK Cup. He stormed at goal, cut inside on his stronger foot, but spotted a teammate was in a better position and slipped a neat pass to him. This other kid had played in the Vans Trophy earlier in the season, which had given him the sort of CA boost most of my lads had got. He rolled the ball into the near post without much fuss.

Game on!

Actually, nah.

22’

Francis fizzes the ball to Andrews.

Andrews plays it round the corner to Roberts.

Roberts gives it to Thompson.

The ball goes wide right to Jones.

Searing pace from the Welsh international!

He crosses...

Fungrieve is on the end of it.

Can he keep his header down?

He can!

He thumps the ball into the bottom-right.

Chester’s two-goal lead is restored!

***

Teardrop

The scoreline went 4-1, 4-2, 5-2, 5-3, and finished on 6-3. Our second Youth Cup victory. Not as dramatic or emotional as the first, but the curse still called it ’a remarkable achievement’.

A few of the City players were in tears at the end, but so were some of our lads. Wallace Wells and Chas Fungrieve were definitely leaving the club, and I had told the other 18-year-olds that they would probably be best served with a move away, too. Nine, the CA/PA 29 striker who had been with us since the days of Das Tournament and The Wizard of Us, was ageing out of football altogether. He would probably never play a serious match again.

But when he hit his dotage, he would reflect that he had done something none of those Man City pampered princes had, or ever would. He had earned a Youth Cup winner’s medal.

***

100th Window

Sandra picked up the medal she got for managing the team in the final, bit it for some photos, then tried to give it to me. I told her to cut it out or I would fire her. She wore it around her neck and admired it. ”This is mad, innit? Youth Cup winners again?”

”What’s mad about it?” I wondered, as I gave Future a hug before letting him run off with his mates. ”We spent good money on talented players, mixed in the best local lads, and gave them the best coaching plus real-life opportunities. They trained against the Welsh under 18s every week! We paid big money to get Newport County up here just for a few extra training sessions. We put a lot into this. It would be easy for City to do it, or Chelsea, but they don’t want to. We literally want it more. It’s Proper Football Man talk but wanting it more gets you a long way.”

”We’re done now though, right? We won’t be putting kids in the first-team next season. We can’t. Not if we want to win the Championship.”

”Hmm,” I said.

”Max!” she complained, laughing.

”I’m just thinking that every transfer window, there are hundreds of talented players available. Hundreds. They’re basically lost sheep, aren’t they? They’re cute little rescue puppies who need a good home.”

”Cute little rescue puppies who cost up to 800 grand each.”

”Plus we’ve got lads like Future and Adam Roberts. They’re only 16 but they’ve played in a final. It would be wrong not to surround them with good players for the next two years to give them the chance to win more medals. Wouldn’t it?” She was distracted. ”What? What are you looking at?”

”I just feel really sorry for those City lads. You know I’m a Blue, Max. Don’t you feel sorry for them?”

”My sympathy for those kids,” I said, magnificently, ”is finished.”

Sandra eyed me. ”Is that a Massive Attack pun? Are we gonna get those all week?”

”Probably. Can you take the lads to Nando’s? I really need to go home and get some rest. All this glory is fucking draining.”

***

Thursday, May 11

Butterfly Caught

The dust had settled on the weekend. The men’s narrow loss to Luton, the women’s ascension, the boys’ triumph. There was no time to dwell on any of it, because the next hill was always just around the corner. When the final whistle hit, my attention jumped to the next game, the next game, always the next game.

The games were running out.

One more. Maximum two.

I felt one hundred percent well and had eagerly joined training, scampering around chasing the ball like a little kid, like a little puppy. In a break, I took Zach Green (who I called Daddy Zee for the duration of the conversation) and Andrew ”Mushroom” Harrison aside and peppered them with questions about dogs. We knew what Solly the fake-psychic dog was like as a senior citizen, so could we tell what he had been like as a puppy? Zach said no, because sometimes a dog could change a lot and the young tearaways settled down into leadership roles. ”Are you talking about Brooke?” I said, which made him laugh.

”Max,” he said, pulling me away from Andrew. He fell into something close to a whisper. ”I’ve got something to tell you about your wedding.”

”Start by telling me everything you know about the stag party,” I said.

He laughed, but that was the end of the conversation. Bumpers Bank exploded. The arrival of one of the world’s most premium strikers and his gorgeous girlfriend will do that to a place. ”Foquita!” I cried, and we ran over to say hi.

He didn’t want to say hi. He wanted to train.

Levels rose. Intensity, concentration, competitiveness. We had more pops in the next half hour than in the entire rest of the week.

With Camila pitch-side, I couldn’t help but show off. When I wasn’t doing mystery winger madnesses, I was man-marking Foquita, swatting him aside, hitting 40-yard passes, saying slappably cocky things like ”huh, I was aiming for his middle toe”.

Magnus Evergreen sidled up to me. ”The secret to getting you to play to your true potential is inviting a supermodel to watch. Who could have guessed it?”

”I didn’t invite her to watch,” I said, forcefully.

”So you’re going to tell her to leave?”

”Yeah,” I said. ”Eventually.”

***

Be Thankful for What You’ve Got

Foquita’s arrival provided the Morale boost I had been hoping for. The Brazilian lads were especially keen to meet him, since they followed Portuguese football much more than the Anglo-Saxon contingent did. A lot of South American stars had passed through Lisbon on their way to bigger (i.e. richer) clubs, and the fact that Foquita had spent some time in Chester was mind-blowing to them.

Of course, the Peruvian striker was in town to discuss his next steps. Could he remain at Benfica for another year so that Camila could stay on her Sports Management course? Or was this summer the right time for him to move on, as his agent had always planned?

As soon as Foquita joined training, I had seen his profile. He had surged ahead to CA 159, which was near the top end of my expectations, and I was astonished to see that he was carrying a serious ankle injury. How the shit had he improved so much with an injury hovering over his profile?

Brooke happened to pass by, and I asked her if she wouldn’t mind taking Camila to the canteen to get started on lunch while Foquita and I did secret boy things. ”Sure,” said Brooke, brightly. ”I was hoping to join you anyway.”

That was unexpected, but I grabbed Fockers and brought him up to Nicole, our magic physio. She did a rapid-fire assessment on him, and it was a good excuse to practise her Spanish. As soon as she got started, I wrote ’ankle injury’ on a piece of paper and slipped it into Fockers’ right trainer (sneaker).

It didn’t take long at all until Nicole started frowning, and then the frown got deeper. ”Did he train with you just before?”

”Yep,” I said.

”But how? His ankle is fucked.”

I smiled, even though it was bad news. Nicole knew things. In my case, the curse literally wrote everything down and gave it to me in black and white. How did she do it? By looking at his balance. Looking at his muscles. Poking him. She was amazing. And spending so much time around footballers had done wonders for her vocabulary. I said, ”Is fucked the scientific terminology?”

”No. If I worked for a more serious organisation, like the Wacky Racers, I would declare this ankle medically fucked.”

”Fockers,” I said. ”Fess up.”

He denied that there was anything wrong with him, so I told him to look in his shoe. He took out the piece of paper and saw what I had written. He swore in Spanish, which as you know takes a long time. ”How?” he said, finally. ”You know. Miss Gimenez knows. I hid this from the medical team at Benfica.”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author’s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

I shrugged. ”They probably know but they don’t much care. It isn’t stopping you, is it?” I hopped onto the treatment table and kicked my legs. ”Nicole, are you going for lunch?”

”Yes. Do you want the room?”

”Yeah,” I said. She gathered her stuff quickly, shook hands with Fockers, and left. I thought about what I wanted to say and why I wanted to say it. ”Mate, Camila is so beautiful. She’s so nice. I really like her.”

”Me too,” said Fockers.

”If I were you,” I started, then wondered if that sentence construction was going to be too complicated. Nah. The foreign lads understood way more than they were able to say. ”If I were you, I would want to do something nice for my girlfriend.”

He rolled his eyes. ”Marry her? I want to! She say to wait!”

I laughed. ”Then wait. Do as you’re told!” I laughed some more, then closed my eyes and focused on his player profile. The improvement, the high PA, the injury. 22 years old, CA 159, PA 190, 30,000 Euros a week. ”I think you can stay in Lisbon. A normal player should go, but you’re not normal. First, you’re injured. You need an operation. Get the operation very soon. Next week, even. Recover, build fitness, start the season a little late. That’s fine. Oh, but don’t lie to the medical team next time. That’s no bueno. Also, when you were here you trained better than everyone else. We have big talents here. Many big talents, but they have limits. You? No limits. You improved when we trained on mud baths, before we even had a roof terrace and a counter-current pool. Remember you scored twice against Man United? Holy shit, mate. Yeah, you can keep improving at an elite club like Benfica, playing in the Champions League, abso-fucking-lutely. Do it for Camila. Yes. But then next summer, that’s a big one. Big move to a big, big team. Big money. No more delays. Yes?”

Ever since I had said he could stay in Lisbon, he had been grinning from ear to ear. ”Yes, boss. Yes. I tell my agent right now.”

”Fucking hell, you savage! Tell him after lunch. Don’t keep the ladies waiting. What the fuuuu.”

***

Daydreaming

We took quick showers and went to the canteen, only to find that Brooke and Camila were knee-deep in conversation.

Camila looked at me, amazed, as I sat beside her. ”But Max! You didn’t tell me!”

”Tell you what?”

”About the plans! For when you are in the Premier Liga!”

”I do have big plans for that,” I admitted. ”Starting with the world’s largest statue. It’s gonna be so big we’ll have to move the stadium.”

She laughed delightfully and leaned into me delightfully. ”Guapo loco!”

Brooke was watching me react to this exotic beauty with rather a lot of amusement, I thought. She said, ”I’ve been telling Camila about your ideas. Licence to Skill.” She turned to Foquita. ”That’s where Max, in collaboration with his sponsors, has invited thousands of amateur footballers to Chester to train and play and he will offer one of them a pro contract. We’ve got over two thousand sign-ups for that already! Then there’s the Summer Supremos, which is a youth tournament. Our first attempt at hosting a serious summer competition, with a documentary attached, plus a coaching angle. If teams and coaches come here, Max can scout them all at once and save himself some travel time. And Max, I’ve told Camila about your grand plan.”

”My grand plan?” I said. ”I have so many of those. Remind me which...”

Brooke’s lips went on a journey, then settled into neutral. She turned to Foquita, who was next to her. ”When we go to the Prem, we need to have an academy. Max doesn’t want a normal academy. You know, because he ain’t normal.” Fockers laughed, and I got the wildest sense he was as chastely smitten by Brooke as I was by Camila. Brooke continued. ”Max’s idea is to make a real academy. It’s not about playing football, it’s about education. He wants to train the next generation of Soccer Supremos.”

”Soccer Supremos!” said Fockers, enchanted, while I wondered when I’d had this particular idea or if it was actually one of Brooke’s.

She nodded, earnestly. ”Directors of football. Scouts. Administrators. Marketing experts, hospitality managers, nutritionists, cooks, sports scientists. If a football club needs a position, that position should be taught here. Max wants Chester to be best-in-class, so he’s brokered a deal with Loughborough University. They offer the world’s best Sports Management courses.”

”Luffbruh?” said Fockers. ”The best?”

”Yes,” said Brooke. ”It’s not so far from here. Near Nottingham and Leicester and Derby. Look, I’ll show you.”

While Brooke got a map on her phone, I exchanged a glance with Camila. What was going on? Camila gave me nothing, but turned her attention to Foquita. I sat up straighter. Scam detected! Brooke was angling to get Foquita to Chester! Using Camila as bait! Incredible. Genius.

And using the academy to create admins and marketers who would learn about the football industry was next-level smart. We wouldn’t only teach young people, but would offer courses to our players and former players. Zach Green the groundsman! Wallace Wells the physio! Monty Holmes the property manager! What would Foquita himself want to study when he signed for Chester FC?

My pulse was racing, suddenly. Foquita to Chester, here we go! 50 mill would do it. Double his wages to 40 grand a week. That’s 2 million a year. Peanuts. We could go to the Prem already! Could we? With Foquita in the team, we might have a chance. We might have a fucking chance!

Foquita’s confused face made me realise that I had stood and my nostrils were flaring, so I slowly eased back into my chair and tried to think straight for once.

Foquita to Chester from Benfica. How would that work? Benfica would want 50 million quid this summer, but it would be 100 million next. Clearly it was now or never, but I had just told him to stay in Lisbon for love. The idea of him coming back to Chester on a permanent transfer was absurd and it wasn’t going to happen. Even with Prem money, any deal would be unaffordable, plain and simple, before we even got into the topic of agent fees and spectacular yearly pay rises. But what if? What if? Foquita, Wibbers, Roddy Jones. There’s a massive attack! And the deal would come with a free angel!

I knew it was impossible, that Brooke was thinking ahead to a time when Foquita would play for another club in England, but I allowed myself to daydream. A PA 190 striker. Goals for days. If we paid 50 mill this summer we could actually make a profit the following year, with us safely established as a Premier League club. Wait. So... how exactly was this unaffordable?

And maybe Camila would wear her silver dress to a party again...

When I tuned back into the conversation, Brooke was indeed talking about the season after this one. ”Post-graduate courses at Loughborough backed by real-world experience at Chester FC, Saltney Town, heck, I’m sure Max would have opportunities at one of his other clubs. Or the Welsh Football Association! The sky is the limit. Every one of his clubs is a start-up, every one has different challenges, every one is a marketer’s dream.”

Fockers, smiling, reached over the table to grab his girlfriend’s hand, and spoke rapidly to her in Spanish. I heard myself from a distance. ”Can you transfer to another university halfway through your course?”

Brooke said, ”You mean like moving from Lisbon to Loughborough? Yes, it’s easy.”

I frowned and squinted. So why couldn’t I sign Foquita for a year? Apart from the fact that our transfer record was currently 4 million quid and would rise to a whopping 7 million this summer. There were many steps between 7 mill and 50. But the club had never had one hundred million quid drop into its bank account before. MD’s low Ambition score would kick in for this one, since buying a premium striker was a deal that could bankrupt the entire club, but the main obstacle was simple: we were on track to lose the playoff final. We wouldn’t get a hundred million pounds in broadcast revenue.

Scratch that. The main obstacle was that we were 2-1 down in the playoff semi-final. If we wanted to have any chance of signing Foquita and staying in the Prem at the first attempt, we needed to get past Luton Town.

The second leg was rapidly approaching. Jonno Wilkes would do his 4-2-3-1. I had complete freedom to set up a team to combat that, and was half-tempted to match it man-for-man, deploying a 1-3-2-4 formation. Me as a kind of sweeper, three centre backs man-marking Luton’s CAMs, two CAMs of my own, and four forwards. It would be insane, but it would be insanely entertaining. If I had Foquita in the squad, I might even have done it.

”What are you thinking?” said Camila. Everyone was looking at me, which was a sign that I had made some sort of unconscious noise. I had certainly been clenching my fist - my knuckles were white and bulging.

I tried to play it cool, but I think I failed. ”The second leg. You’re great company but it’s all I can really think about.” I tried to visualise Luton’s players running around at the end of the game, celebrating their victory. That thought was intended to be a cold shower, but it was impossible to even imagine it. Not being able to even conceive of defeat got me hyped. I twisted my neck and said, ”I’m glad you’re gonna be here to see what happens.”

”What will happen?” Camila said, her eyes watery, a most faithful mirror.

”Three-three-four,” I growled, eyes shining, jaw clenched. I stood and circled the little table. ”One hundred and forty point three. Attack till we drop against a tired team that only got rotated because of injuries. A team we only just played! You know I’ve worked out how to play against every single one of their players. That Selvik guy? He’s great one way, but I’m gonna make him go the other way. How’s this for a back three? Zach Green next to Peter Bauer... and Max Best.”

Brooke’s eyes widened. ”You’re gonna play CB?”

”Is that the most forward-looking defence in history? Most line-breaking passes per 90? We’re gonna fuck Luton all the way up. Then it’s Joel, Magnus, Youngster. Have some of that!” I picked up the pace, dizzying myself. It’s possible I had been reading too many interviews given by frazzled members of Massive Attack while they were on tour and feeling fractious. ”There has never been a team like it. Three creative defenders, three defensive midfielders, four forwards with licence to do whatever the fuck they want!

”Music’s all about experimentation. Progression. Push yourself, try new things. Comfort zone? What’s that? If you’re in your comfort zone you’re not a musician. Do you want to be a spectator at your own gig? Repeating yourself, repeating formulas, it eats you up, dwindles your resources. I want pain! I want arguments! I don’t want to be embarrassed that I didn’t commit to a concept because I wasn’t being honest with myself. I wanna get out of my comfort zone and feel exposed, like an artist, like a true artist. I don’t want to live wondering, I don’t want to repress my instincts.

”I want to die trying and Luton are gonna fucking get full blast. It’s time to get massive. It’s time to attack. Hold nothing back for the final game of the season. Once more unto the breach, dear friends! Once more!”

”Could be two more, Max!” said Brooke. ”We could make the final.” But I had already stormed off towards my office. I had some magnets I needed to shove into position.

***

Saturday May 13

EFL Championship Play-Off Semi-Final Second Leg: Chester versus Luton Town

First leg: 2-1 to Luton.

Five Man Army

”Quiet,” I said, as I strode towards the tactics board. The Deva was packed, the atmosphere was building, there were side stories everywhere, but I was almost completely focused on the match itself. ”We’re in here. Luton are the man next door. One of us is going home today.” I slapped the board, which was laid out in a 3-3-4 formation. ”This looks mental, but it isn’t. We’ll pin their full backs into place and that will deny them width. We’re going to attack with five, defend with five, just like real boys.”

I took the central of the CB magnets and pushed it into a CAM slot.

”If I’m going forward to join an attack, we’ve got a 2-3 setup behind me. If it’s Peter who goes forward, same thing. If Joel joins the attack, I stay behind him and we can do 2-3 or 3-2 depending on the sitch. Magnus helps with that flexibility. Five in the rest defence, lads. That’s actually conservative. The media’s gonna be saying, Max, you needed a win, why didn’t you really attack?”

Owen Elmham slapped his hands together. ”This place is crazy. Absolutely crazy. I love it.”

Blue Lines

I paced out of the tunnel and felt that I was burning too much energy. I wanted to save it for the match. I slowed my pace, took a microphone from Joe Anka, and continued towards the Harry McNally terrace, where our noisiest, most passionate fans lived.

The skyboxes were packed, of course, with our sponsors but also with special guests. Dieter Bauer had come to watch his grandson play; the women’s team were looking after him, and Aiden was there with little baby Jamie.

Jackie Reaper was up in the Glendale box, as was the former Crawley manager, my mate TJ.

In the Jejune suite was its owner, Aurélie Fragonard, her son, Henri Lyons, the Weavers, Emma, Gemma, plus Mateo and Rachel. Henri would head south immediately after the match to rejoin his teammates from Newport County. Their FA Trophy final was taking place tomorrow at lunchtime and quite a few people in this stadium would pile down to watch Henri and a few other former Chester players take to the pitch at Wembley, then we would hang around to watch Crystal Palace beat Wrexham.

BoshCard had graciously allowed me to squeeze Gwen and a few other members of the Welsh FA into their box.

But it wasn’t the bigwigs and the VIPs I wanted to talk to.

”All right?” I said, into the microphone, when I was up on the big screen.

There was a huge cheer from the home fans. They had seen the team sheets and knew I would be playing. The four thousand Luton fans booed and hissed in pantomime fashion.

When the noise had abated somewhat, I pressed on, facing the young men who made up half of the McNally. ”I’ve got one important thing to say, lads.” I pointed, vaguely. ”They don’t want us. They have made it very clear that they don’t want us. Any excuse to ban me, they take. Any excuse to squash us, they take. So at the end of the match today, if you run onto the pitch, that will be their excuse. Chester fans are out of control, put the whole club in the bin. No playoff final for them. Do you get me? They will take that outpouring of joy and they will spin it to keep us from what we’ve earned. So stay off the pitch.” I looked around, checking the response, and didn’t feel like I was really being heard. ”Anyone who runs on the pitch at the end is a Wrexham. Plain and simple. If you see someone who looks like they want to invade, stand up for your club. Is that clear?”

WAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

The ferocity of the reply took me aback. So they had been listening.

I pointed to one lad who looked like a real troublemaker. ”Are you a Wrexham?”

He replied by thumping his chest and screaming, ”Chester! Chester!”

”Stay off the pitch.”

Joe Anka had a mic, too. He said, ”Boss, what if Luton do a pitch invasion?”

I pulled a face. ”They’ll be long gone.”

WAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

I turned towards the away fans. ”Luton, I like you, but you had your fun last week. This is our turn.”

WAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

I flicked the mic off and chucked it to Joe. He caught it and fell into stride next to me. ”Fuck me, Max. You know how to wind people up.”

”Siege mentality,” I said, covering my mouth. ”A bit of paranoia is good for togetherness. Plus big clubs don’t do pitch invasions. We’re massive and we should act like it.”

Protection

Luton lined up in their usual 4-2-3-1, with Mendy, Greaves, and Selvik as the CAMs behind the strong but increasingly immobile Pollock. Their average CA was 136.

Ours was 140.3, and since we were copying the tactics I had used with the under 18s, I made us line up in a 3-5-1-1 formation and created hotkeys that would switch us to 3-3-4 and 5-3-2. Three tactics using the same personnel.

Owen in goal. Me, Zach, and Peter as the CBs. Joel, Youngster, and Magnus as CMs. Lewis on the left, Cheb on the right. Wibbers just behind Gabby.

No spot in the starting lineup for Christian Fierce, Cole Adams, or Pascal. Nor for Helge. I had belatedly come to the realisation that Helge had faked a head injury in order to get me onto the pitch in the first leg, but I hadn’t investigated it. What was I going to do, shout at him for being a team player? In missing the second leg, he had basically put himself out of contention to be called up to Norway’s Euro 28 squad.

The ref blew his whistle.

WAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

Luton kicked off, moving the ball back to their goalie, who thumped it to the left, where Luton had crowded all their players. There was a scrappy phase, then I sensed the ball was going to break to me. I hotkeyed us into 3-3-4, dropped a few yards, and when Peter stabbed the ball in my direction I crashed it straight down the middle of the pitch.

The side-spin made it break to the left, into the path of Lewis Lamarre. The ball bounced higher than he would have liked, so he had to jump to head it. The delay let defenders get goal-side, so Lewis passed to Gabby, who teed up Wibbers for a shot just outside the box. He lined it up, drew a block, then nudged the ball further to the right, into the path of Cheb. Was Wibbers copying his younger brother?

Cheb crashed his shot against the near post.

The crack was ear-splitting. After the briefest silence came the latest roar.

WAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

I reset us into 3-5-1-1, our disguise. Luton’s goalie made his intentions clear - he was going to try to take a minute off the clock every time he had a goal kick or an offside. He was hoping to wind us up, to turn the crowd’s positive energy into negative, and to get us focused on complaining to the ref instead of playing.

Fat chance. I had told our lads to think of these go-slows as time-outs. Run hard, get a break, run hard. Just like training.

Eventually, the prick took the kick, and went long again. Maybe Jonno Wilkes had identified our new-look defence as being weak in the air?

2’

The ball goes high into Chester’s half. So high it almost comes down with snow on it.

Bauer and Pollock will compete for it. Pollock glances at Bauer and steps into his path.

From behind, Max Best sprints, leaps, and thumps the ball away!

A colossal header!

Pollock is left in a heap.

The home fans roar their approval.

Luton spent five minutes trying high balls to their big striker, but either I bullied Pollock directly or if I dropped into a covering position, Zach and Peter were free to team up. Pollock got a few glances that deflected behind for a goal kick or were collected by Owen, but this was a failed strategy, except for the fact that Luton were leading in the tie and they didn’t actually need a goal. A nil-nil draw tonight would see them through to Wembley, so the onus was on us to score.

”Peter,” I said, as Cheb and Magnus combined on the right. ”That’s why it’s called an onus.”

”What?”

”The onus is on us. It’s called an onus because it’s on us, see? Put that on LinkedIn, mate. That’s gold. You’ll get the Chelsea job if you talk like that.”

”Thank you for the career advice. I’m still worried about what happens when Luton attack the full back slots.”

I scoffed. ”Why?”

As if they heard, Luton turned the ball over and their CAMs combined neatly, moving the ball into the left-wing slot, where our right back would have been patrolling.

I had a very elegant solution to this problem: me. I was gambling that I would be able to anticipate the danger and get out there.

In my daydreams, I had imagined crashing into anyone who got into a wide forward slot; it would send a message to them and to the crowd. But as Selvik hared after the ball and as I shot over to intercept, I noted that Youngster and Magnus had both tracked their runners, meaning we had plenty of bodies back and had created a kind of Relationist blob on that side of the pitch. No need to amputate Selvik; let’s try a little keyhole surgery.

10’

Greaves clips the ball into space for Selvik to gather.

Best has read the danger. He holds Selvik up.

The Norwegian midfielder tries to dribble past Best.

Best nudges the ball to Evergreen.

He hits it first time to Youngster...

Who hits it first time to Bauer...

Who delays his pass because Best is steaming into the middle of the pitch.

Bauer fizzes the ball into Best’s path.

One of Luton’s DMs goes to challenge. Best drops his shoulder...

And leaves the ball!

That bamboozled everyone, except William Roberts.

He takes the ball and plays it square, into Best’s path.

Best with a sumptuous left-footed pass behind the defence...

It’s in Alloula’s stride!

He strikes the ball...

Across the six-yard box!

Lamarre can’t miss...

GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

A beautiful goal! Chester are ahead on the day, and level on aggregate.

The lads ran off to celebrate at the end of the main stand, in front of Slovakians, agents, scouts, and half the players from Saltney Town. I walked back to my position, staring at the tactics screen. This wasn’t a match for pure Relationism, and it wasn’t a match for crazy experimentation. (I didn’t count 3-3-4 as an experiment, not really. It was obviously a valid tactic.) But I could pop players anywhere and it didn’t have to be symmetrical.

I thought about having Lewis as a left wing back while Cheb stayed all the way forward. That way, I wouldn’t have to cover as much ground while I was acting as a protective shield. I felt fit, though. Felt like I had a lot in the tank. I was playing like two players in defence, Youngster was playing like two midfielders, and Cheb and Lewis were playing like three men each.

Owen Elmham clapped me on the back. ”Next goal wins.”

”What?” I said, confused.

”Whoever gets the next goal, that’s it.”

”Yeah,” I said, automatically, but then realised I didn’t agree. ”Nah, that’s just your superstitions talking. What is it with you goalies and your dark superstititions? If Luton score, we’ll get another, guaranteed. We are crushing.”

”How is this working?”

”How is what working?”

”We’ve done 3-4-3 all season, then you switch it up to something mad but it works. I can’t believe how smooth it is.”

I shrugged. ”Be where the ball is. Sun Tzu.”

”He said that, did he?” Owen laughed, clapped me on the back again, and showed a clenched fist to the McNally terrace behind us.

Next goal wins, I thought. Not necessarily, but if we score it, Luton will be reeling. Is it worth taking some risks before half time?

I shook my head.

No. As the match stood, we would go to penalties, and I would fancy our chances. Me, Wibbers, Cheb, Peter, Lewis. If Pascal was on by then, he would take a nerveless pen. Meanwhile, Owen would save one, maybe two.

I signalled for the lads to restart in a 5-3-2 shape. We would spend a few minutes being solid, work our way into 3-5-2, then put our foot on the gas.

Smooth as butter.

I looked up. Music was blaring out of the speakers and the end of a music video filled the big screens.

Angel.

”5-3-2,” I said, as my pulse quickened. ”5-3-2, 5-3-2, keep it tight next twenty.”

It wasn’t quite the Angel video I had seen. Someone had taken Massive Attack’s original and pasted the Chester badge over the hero’s face, while all the would-be attackers were labeled things like ’The FA’, ’The EFL’, ’The Premier League’, and ’Luton Town’.

When the hero started to chase the baddies, our fans went feral.

WAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!

”Fucking get ’em!” I yelled, and fell into a sprint as Luton kicked off.

***

Eurochild

From The First Footballer in Space: The Pascal Bochum Story.

The video caught Max by surprise, I’m sure of that, because when he went over to the flank to steal the ball, he made as though he wanted to fire one of his gleaming arrows to Lewis or Cheb, but they were in the full back slots. Max had forgotten to switch from 5-3-2!

He was annoyed with himself, and took it out on Luton, and Pollock in particular. With Luton players all around, because they had stuck to their ’tactic’ of kicking long from kick-off to a congested area, Max turned the match into a giant rondo with Pollock as the ’pillock-in-the-middle’.

Max exchanged passes with Peter, then Zach, then Peter again, then Zach again. Completely taking the piss. Luton were the 5th best team in the Championship!

When the oppo finally got too close, Max clipped the ball a little higher. Joel Reid controlled it, and left it for Max to run onto.

By then, Lewis and Cheb were on the same plane as Gabby and Wibbers, and as Max weaved towards a DM, I felt completely sure he would get past and then we would have a 5-on-4 break!

Max got the angle he wanted and fired the ball towards Gabby, fast enough that Gabby understood the pass was not intended for him. He let it go through his legs, turned, and grappled with a defender. In his haste and desperation to join the attack, Gabby pulled the defender down. One less body in the mixer. Gabby was getting really good at that kind of play, and while the fans and analysts rarely picked up on it, his teammates did. (Military salute; thank you for your service.)

The pass from Max was too hard for the Brazilian, but perfectly weighted for Lewis. He decided to clip the ball first-time, and Wibbers didn’t have to break stride to head the ball into the net.

Luton surrounded the referee, complaining about the alleged foul by Gabby. Foul? What foul?

One of them ended up getting a yellow card. Name taken. (See, Max? I can drop song titles into text, too.)

Our dugout cleared. Hugs for days. Christian Fierce had tears in his eyes - he was going to play at Wembley. I was weepy, too. My parents were with Tiggy and Clive O’Keefe, excited to see me play, even more excited to meet Dieter Bauer.

Max, for all that he was hyped-up and bombastic, was in complete control of himself. The calmest man in the stadium, as the commentators liked to say, though never about Max because they never understood him. He signalled that he wanted to switch to five-at-the-back. He gestured towards us on the bench to calm down.

Then Joe Anka played the Angel song again.

***

Max

Weather Storm

When Angel came back on the big screen, I laughed, but didn’t get riled up. We had the advantage in the tie, and it was time to play smart. Luton would have to come at us, would have to throw bodies at us. We would weather the storm and choose our moment to pick them off.

It took until the 43rd minute for the Hatters to launch a full-scale attack. They got a free kick in a good spot, a wicked angle to fire in a cross. The nervousness that spread around the stands was comical.

Greaves and Mendy are standing over this free kick.

Who will take it?

A line of Luton players are loitering in an offside position.

Greaves signals. The players twirl around like waltzers. So pretty!

Mendy sends in the cross. It’s a good one!

Pollock rises...

But Green gets there first!

The ball’s going to go out for a corner.

Youngster chases after it... and keeps it in.

Best is there to help. He nutmegs Selvik.

Best has given Selvik a torrid time today!

Best rolls the ball to his right, for Youngster to bring out.

Youngster to Alloula.

Roberts. Gabriel. Youngster is joining this attack!

Luton players are desperately trying to get back but there are Chester players everywhere!

Lamarre has it on the left. He’s driving towards the byline. He cuts the ball back towards the penalty spot…

Gabriel runs over the ball.

Roberts runs over the ball.

A beautiful double-dummy.

It’s Youngster...

He can’t miss! Surely he can’t miss!

He doesn’t miss!

The ball nestles into the back of the net.

That’s Chester’s third goal. They are rampant!

Max Best can contain his glee no longer. He sprints to join the celebrations.

It’s Youngster’s first goal of the season! What a time to get it!

Smiles all round in the home ends.

In the away end, fans are streaming out. They might find better things in the concourse.

***

Pascal, until the end of the chapter, with subheadings added by Max

Three-nil up at half-time, and as my colleagues left the pitch I was struck by the lack of smiles. In the words of our leader, so far we had done nothing, achieved nothing. Peter and Zach were deep in conversation. Wibbers and Cheb were arguing about some move that had failed. Max didn’t follow the others, but took a detour to the McNally. He pointed at a fan and said something. ’Are you coming on this pitch?’ The fan swore he wouldn’t.

I caught a snatch of conversation in the seats behind me.

”Good that, wunnit?”

”Yeah, but we’ll stuff it up second half, just you watch.”

Max gave a half-time speech for the ages. After letting us ’decompress’, as he put it, he went to the tactics board and moved Lewis and Cheb up and down, before moving as many blue magnets as we owned onto the board, so that we were playing something like a 5-5-5-5 formation. ”That’s how it feels,” he said. ”We’re fucking amazing.”

He stood there for a moment, getting emotional. First, the rawness. Then, the tenderness. Finally, the jaw-clenched determination. It was written on his face, and as he felt it, I felt it. We all did. Then, the killer line.

”My favourite band is Massive Attack and if Joe Anka plays them again, he’s fired. Let’s finish this.”

***

During the break, the Chester fans had worked themselves into a lather. Doom was coming! This was too good to be true, and now it would all collapse. Luton would come out all guns blazing, that was for sure.

On the bench near me, Ian Swan grimly shook his head. ”Next goal wins.” Sandra Lane heard this and bit her nails. Superstitions triggered. Clouds hanging low. Somehow, despite us being 4-2 ahead in the tie, we felt the walls were closing in. So near, but so far.

We kicked off, and instead of hoisting the ball high into a crowd of bodies as seemed to be the fashion in Luton, and as their players propelled themselves towards the ball, towards our goal, we struck a series of low, slow passes towards Max, who had taken up a sweeper position. Pollock ran to his right, cutting off one passing lane. Greaves ran to his left, cutting off that option.

Max strolled between the pair like he was squeezing past a couple of elderly people chatting at the supermarket.

Laughter erupted around me. Dan Badford flicked Swanny around the head. ”You fucking clown!”

Swanny recoiled. ”Whaaaat?”

”Cut out that superstitious garbage! You even had me going for a second!”

I got to my feet. ”In Max we trust.” I went jogging, keeping warm. For me, the result was all but decided. As I stretched and did the swinging exercises that away fans found so comical, I developed the strangest conviction that Max’s skills had improved in the last week. Not just through the season, but specifically in the last week.

That’s what people like him do when they get a fever.

They have fever dreams.

I glanced at the part of the stand where my parents were, then at Max. Put me in, coach. Put me in. They have come all the way from Heligoland.

***

[Having indulged in a rare moment of poetry (Heligoland is the name of a Massive Attack album), as a German it behooves me to be accurate. My family is not from Heligoland.]

***

What Your Soul Sings

One by one, the home fans settled into the new reality, the strange and unexpected realisation that their team was this good. Holding a very good opposition at arm’s length, making complicated passing moves look childishly simple, dominating three thirds of the pitch.

They sang: What’s this coming over the hill? Is it promotion?

They sang: Best... Best will tear you apart again.

They sang: We shall not, we shall not be moved!

They sang: Que Será, Será, whatever will be, will be, we’re going to Wembley.

Max made the subs wait. 60 minutes. 65. 70.

Then Sandra summoned Cole, Christian, and Colin. They replaced Lewis, Zach, and Wibbers.

A pang of fear coursed through me.

Wibbers?

What if it went to penalties?

I watched, borderline paralysed, as Luton took advantage of our momentary confusion. Their three superb CAMs combined, Greaves to Mendy to Selvik, a piece of creativity and imagination equal in quality to anything we had done.

Until they got too close to Max, who took the ball from Selvik as easily as clicking his fingers, then, to add insult to injury, did a rabona pass through Selvik’s legs, to Magnus.

Jonno Wilkes, the former England player, a sensationally good midfield craftsman Max had likened to ’a gobby Dan Badford’ - as though Dan was not gobby - took off Selvik and Mendy and replaced them with big tall lads. Luton went long.

Max went short.

Sandra summoned me. My heart was pounding. I would get to be part of it! In front of my parents, Dieter Bauer, and the watching world.

Sandra covered her mouth and I leaned towards her, waiting to hear the tactical instructions.

To my everlasting amazement, she sang.

”When I was just a little girl!”

”Pardon me?” I said, confused.

”I asked my mother, what will I be?”

”Umm...”

”Will I be pretty? Will I be rich? You’ll have to wait and see.” She uncovered her mouth and stretched her arms high and wide, like one of the lads in the McNally. ”Que Será, Será!” she bellowed. ”Whatever will be, will be! We’re going to Wembley! Que Será, Será!”

”Where do you want me to play?” I said.

”No fucking clue. Max is absolutely on one. He’s so completely in the zone I lost track of what he was changing about 20 minutes ago.”

”I thought we were moving from 3-5-2 to 3-3-4?”

”Oh, you sweet summer child. Then why is Cole Adams playing left back?”

”What? But who am I replacing?”

”Youngster.”

”What!”

That was all kinds of mind-blowing. I couldn’t concoct a coherent formation from the remaining players, but as I took to the pitch, Max pointed to the CAM slot behind Gabby and Colin, and I sensed that he wanted me to move from there to the right. Why not start on the right? Because Cheb was positioned as a right forward, but had instructions to retreat to right mid. That would leave space...

For a space invader!

Suddenly, the plan made utter sense, as it so often did when I finally took to the pitch.

We passed left, central, right, back to the left, to the right. Luton were being pulled around, pulled like pork, then came the moment Max had conceptualised in his fever dream. A certain shift, a certain gap, a pass hit from deep with certainty. I raced ahead, took the ball, and zoomed towards the penalty area.

Colin and Gabby were making good runs, but a Luton defender was well-positioned. I had no choice but to cut back onto my left, and I was chopped down!

Felled like a tree.

I pounded the grass, frustrated that I hadn’t been able to contribute to the team’s goal tally.

Cheb hugged me. Joel Reid joined in. I had earned us a penalty.

For a beautiful moment, I was the centre of attention. Then the focus shifted, because Max was pushing Christian Fierce towards the penalty spot. Christian to take the penalty in his final ever home match!

Christian was resisting, and when the Chester faithful realised what was happening, there was pandemonium. All the doubts and fears returned. Life couldn’t be this good. Chester FC didn’t get to the Championship playoff final, the richest single match in world sport. It just didn’t happen. Any second now, all this was going to turn to dust, and this was the moment. Christian Fierce taking an important penalty for sentimental reasons? This is how bad things happened to football clubs.

Max was insistent, though. He placed the ball in Christian Fierce’s hands and pointed to the spot.

It is above my skill level to describe the reaction in the stands as the tall, powerful defender walked forward, clearly a bag of nerves, but grown men were hugging each other, watching through their fingers, crouching, hands on their heads.

At the last second, Max tugged Christian’s shirt and pulled him away from the ball. Colin Beckton re-spotted it, and slammed it into the net.

The relief was incredible, the elation had us laughing like we were high on helium. Christian chased Max until the halfway line, while our player-manager dodged and cackled. Then the offer of a hug, ruefully accepted.

The last change was Joel for Dan Badford.

Max, Dan, and Peter played pinball while Luton players gamely tried to intercept. They were exhausted, having put so much into the final match at Kenilworth Road, having put so much into a long, arduous season. The away end was already three-quarters empty, and by the time Dan got the twentieth pass of his cameo, almost all of them had gone.

During a break in play, I noted that a line of Chester’s beefiest fans had formed at the front of the McNally. They were watching the match, sure, but were also watching the rows and columns behind them. No-one was getting onto the pitch. No-one.

***

Paradise Circus

The ref blew his whistle, ending a chastening experience for Luton’s players and their under-qualified manager. Max made a special point of shaking the referee’s hand, for he had been largely invisible, as referees should be.

After more handshakes, we prepared for the laps of honour. The men were going to Wembley for the playoff final. The women had won promotion. The boys were carrying the Youth Cup; the Chester Knights carried themselves with pride. Cheshire Cups gleamed in the sunlight, and there were medals and individual trophies galore.

Max had a few final words. Words to end a long, hard, tough, amazing season. Words to sum up the blood, sweat, and tears of a great many people.

”All right?” he said, which nearly brought the house down. Oh, to be so adored.

The squad came together in a long line, arms around each other. At first I was between Owen Elmham and Helge Hagen, which made me look like a mascot, so I moved along the line and budged in between Charlotte and Angel. It was only in retrospect that I marvelled at how easily they accepted me, but then again, I had been their manager for a time.

Max was on the big screens, and as ever he couldn’t quite decide if he should look at the fans directly or into the lens. He did both, which only added to the sense that he was living in two worlds.

”Everyone you see in front of you, the men, the women, the young ’uns, the medical team, the coaches. Everyone you don’t see: the admins, the volunteers, the engineers, the groundsmen, the bus drivers. Everyone contributed to this wonderful season, to these incredible achievements. I want to thank absolutely everyone.” Huge applause. Max waited patiently. ”It feels wrong to single people out and I know you want to rush off and book your tickets for the final, but I’d like to say a few names you would expect and maybe one or two that you wouldn’t.

”Let’s talk about the players who are leaving. One round of applause at the end, I reckon. The penalty king, Christian Fierce; Fitzroy Hall; Ian Swan; Andrew ‘Mushroom’ Harrison; Wallace Wells; Zach ’Daddy Zee’ Green; Joel Reid; Cheb Alloula. From the women’s team, Angel, who’s going to Italy, and who seems to have inspired a Massive Attack song that was written about 20 years before she was born. That’s what I call a muse! There are others who have played here for the last time whose futures haven’t yet been settled, but please, a big round of applause for all the departing players, known and unknown.”

Sustained applause.

”Okay, another obvious one, but we can’t take extraordinary people for granted. As well as doing a bajillion other things, Brooke Star has led the line when it comes to the new PetPride stand. Work on which starts tomorrow!” Cheers, applause. ”Well, Monday. It’s going to be a huge leap forward in this club’s history and Brooke is the Max Best of that project. Not sure she’ll be too happy with that label, but I’ve got the microphone and no-one can stop me.” Laughs. ”Tiny shout-out to Henri Lyons, Wilfred Banks, and Lee Hudson. They’ve got their big cup final tomorrow, so if you’re at home with nothing to do, put it on the telly and shout nice and loud. Chester boys for life.

”Okay but listen, I’ve got an unusual one.” I tensed. Who else was going to be singled out for special praise? Me? Dear God, let it be me! Max held out an arm, stretched it in my direction. I was sure the women either side of me would hear the desperate pitter-patter of my heartbeat. ”Emiliano, get over here.”

It’s fair to say there was widespread astonishment. Emiliano Ferrari had played eight minutes on January 8th. Eight minutes in which he scored two goals but pissed Max Best off to the point that he was never picked for another squad. The Italian jogged forward, propelled by a meaty shove from someone or other. Max put his arm around him, then pointed to the fans. In a hushed tone, Max spoke.

”These guys fell for your charms, mate. They fell hard. Me and the Chester fans don’t fall out about much. They were happy for me to take a little holiday in Tranmere.” Laughter; not true. ”They were enthusiastic about my little Grimsby adventure.” More laughs. They tolerated it, since they had no choice in the matter. ”I’m not sure I asked their opinion about me going to Munich, but I assume they were on board.” Wolf-whistles and random shouts. Surprisingly, that was a side quest the Chester fans did get behind. ”But me binning you off? They didn’t like that one little bit. But in the last couple of weeks, you’ve grown. You’ve shown a different side. You’ve trained great, you’ve shown that potential that made me want to bring you here, you’ve shown that you can be one of the best players in Europe. I have no clue where you’ll play next season, but you know what you need to do, mate. I think I speak for eight thousand people when I say, I want you to do it. I hope you do it.”

Max offered a handshake that a smiling, handsome, gracious Emiliano accepted.

Max finished with, ”We’ll always have Forest Green Rovers.” Max sent Emi back to the pack, then shook his head. ”Creative differences. It’s not often I want a former player to come back and show me what I could have won.” Max rubbed his mouth, lost in his thoughts, apparently unconcerned that an entire stadium was hanging on his every word.

Then there was a commotion, and the blue line of beefy Chester fans congealed... and parted. I let go of the ladies next to me, ready to spring into action. Max had been attacked once before, and for something to break through that particular line, it had to be a massive attack.

It was Emma, holding a large, mostly empty, glass of beer.

”Hey,” said Max. ”I said no pitch invasions!”

Emma took the mic from him, and said, ”Shut up and kiss me.”

Applause, laughter, wolf whistles.

They kissed.

Another surge of bodies presaged another pitch invader.

Jamie Lane-Beeks, cute as a bug in a rug, wearing a Best 77 Chester kit, pottered onto the pitch, fell, scampered, fell, ran to the nearest football, kicked it, fell. Sandra moved towards him, arms out, but Jamie veered away and made a beeline towards Max. Colin Beckton laughed as he consoled Sandra; as a father he knew the feeling all too well.

Max had the microphone back in his hand. He peered into the camera. ”It’s the last game of the season. All the food and drink we’ve got will go off if we don’t use it. We’re gonna give away the burgers, give away the beer. All you have to do is stick around for the lap of honour, then eat, drink, and be merry.” He picked Jamie up and raised him to his shoulders. ”Next stop, Wembley. And now, for the last word of the season, I give you my godson, Jamie!”

Max held the microphone near the boy’s mouth and waited. We all did. Jamie frowned, looked confused, and idly pawed at Max’s hair. Finally, he spoke words that marked him out as a true apostle of the church of Max. Words that said I’ve got the swagger and the talent to back it up. Words that brought the biggest smile of the season to his godfather’s face. ”Jamie one-nil!”

Emma got the mic and asked the most pertinent question of all. ”Who do you want in the final, Jamie? Palace or Wrexham?”

Jamie scrunched up his face before showing his wonky teeth in a hundred-million pound grin. He reached out towards Emma’s pint glass. ”I wanna big cup!”

Max laughed hard, then he visibly blissed out. I can’t be one hundred percent sure, but I think he meant to switch the microphone off a second earlier than he actually did, because we all heard his reply. ”Soon, Jamie. Soon.”