Soccer Supremo - A Sports Progression Fantasy

5.

Tuesday, July 11

Champions League First Qualifying Round, Second Leg: Saltney Town versus Pestis

The European Championships were over, but a surprising number of the participants had stuck around to sample the manifold delights of the British Isles. Owl sanctuaries in Norwich, a Beatles bus ride in Liverpool (two hours), a tour based around the great bands to come out of Manchester (a sixteen-day commitment), the Bude supermarket tunnel. And, to cap it off, a match at Saltney Town.

The match was a sequel, in a way, to my Mission Impossible heist in Budapest, so while this one would be a low-budget affair with a far less polished script, it hadn’t been hard to persuade people to come to watch. Curiosity abounded.

As I emerged from the tunnel for the last time, the stadium looked two-thirds full. That made me blink - last I had checked, we had only sold about fourteen hundred tickets. What had Bonnie done to get another 6 or 700 in? Some of the spectators were wearing football tops, but many were in vivid outfits and luminous face paint, many were waving pride flags, giving the stadium a flamboyant, fabulous vibe. There were about 20 dudes sitting together in one block who were dressed as rainbows. Who would do such a thing?

There was so much colour, so much to look at that it was hard to pick out individuals, but I spotted Jost Benn and Zoran Bratko sitting side by side. Jost had scored the most important goal during my time in Germany, and he had played well in Euro 28, dragging Austria into the quarter finals. Zoran’s Slovenia also reached the quarters, and the man himself nearly won the golden boot, the award for the top scorer, which was impressive seeing as he played two fewer matches than the eventual winner.

In the Mission Impossible match, I had changed my clothes at half time and during the second half, I had slowly revealed my new outfit. That explained why, on a balmy evening in Wales, a camera dude ignored the dozens of celebrities and superstar players and planted himself in front of me, waiting to see what I had up my sleeve this time...

Joe Anka was in charge of the playlist and I had given him a very simple, two-word instruction: gay bangers. Mika’s super-fun Grace Kelly came to an end, replaced by the Champions League anthem. We had to play it - competition rules - but I had given thought to turning the volume down to the absolute minimum. I decided against such pettiness; this would be the high point in some of my players’ careers. Sure, I wanted to punish UEFA for their cowardice and complicity in welcoming Pestis back into the football family, but I could do that in other ways.

I scanned the pitch and reviewed the sitch. A couple of seasons ago, Pestis had been CA 125 and on the rise as a club. Backed by serious ’investment’ from ’sources close to the government’, they had been improving year-on-year and had attracted a big-name head coach. (The abysmal Lee Kennedy, who was the front-runner for the vacant Spurs job.) Being unable to host UEFA matches for a season and suffering an early exit from last season’s Champions League qualifiers had left a serious dent in the finances of Pestis, and Hungary’s football-mad dictator was less keen to be so connected to the sport. With less money to throw around, Pestis had lost some talent, and that was reflected in their average CA for this match: 119.

My actions in Budapest had not been completely in vain. I had made a small difference.

I clicked my neck left and right. Knocking them out of the CL in the first qualifier would be another blow.

Saltney’s average, excluding me, was 129.2. We were ten points higher, had home advantage, and my strategic plan for the match was mint.

For the final time, I stared at the Bench Boost option. We needed to win by three goals just to take this match to penalties, but while it was important that we beat Pestis as a fuck-you to their Great Leader and to UEFA, the real aim was to get through four rounds of qualifiers. Last season, we had tripped at the final hurdle. The toughest tests were yet to come.

And let’s be completely honest, I was feeling fit, flexible, and frisky. Bouncy. I had been thinking a lot about that phrase, ’he has a spring in his step’ because that’s exactly how I felt. In the warm up, the ball had been completely obedient, sticking to my boots like I was covered in jam when I was dribbling, guiding itself top bins when I struck free kicks. Even my turning circle felt smaller. I dribbled the ball through a zigzag of cones like one of those little dogs doing an agility test at Crufts. My favourite movie is Best in Show, starring me.

Pestis? Gonna stop me? Purlease. The fucks broke my arm, made me flee their country in the boot of a car. They were going to get it. I had been watching tape of the Hungarians and they didn’t have the tools to stop me. As a manager making quick in-game switches and whatnot I was somewhat rusty but their 4-2-3-1 system was one that held no surprises.

I swiped the Bench Boost and Triple Captain options away, then looked down the camera lens, slowly peeled my coat off...

And revealed that I was wearing a red-and-black Saltney Town kit.

Football.

Stick to football.

I strode onto the grass with a look of grim determination on my face. These fuckers were gonna so fucking get it. I was gonna play it smart, let them think they had shut us down, and then I was going to turn up the heat.

The noise in the stadium wormed its way into my head.

At Chester matches, Joe Anka wasn’t allowed to play music in the ten minutes before kick-off, because I wanted the fans to sing and the anticipation to grow, but Saltney Town barely had any fans, and in the lull after the Champions League anthem, all that could be heard were the hundred or so Pestis ultras that were shoved into one section. (Again, we had to let a certain number in, which was moronic even by UEFA’s standards.) Just as my thoughts were turning dark, really dark, the stadium’s public address system burst into life with the upbeat Elton John track I’m Still Standing. The ’home’ spectators went bananas, drowning out the Pesters.

I moved towards the Hungarian captain, an odious human being, and showed him my dance moves. ”I’m still standing! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!” He clapped back, so I jabbed my finger at him and yelled, ”Speak Welsh, you knob!” Someone pulled me away from the guy.

A group of hard-core Chester fans had announced their intention to come and support us; they were behind the goal. I had given them a massive flare budget. Seconds before the match kicked off, the lads let loose. Red flames, black smoke, an air of menace. A confusing juxtaposition to the toe-tapping tunes. Was this a hate-filled cauldron or a party in Mallorca?

It was all of that plus a football match. The ball got moving. The season starts now!

We let Pestis knock the ball around; that was the plan.

The plan didn’t involve me scoring after three minutes.

In the celebrations, Peter Bauer laughed and said, ”What was that?”

I shook my head. ”Fucking Joe Anka getting me hyped up! He got me dancing!”

”Right,” he said. ”Let’s blame Joe Anka for you going off-script.” He looked up into the main stand, where his grandfather Dieter was on his feet, still applauding. Peter smiled but then got his game face back on. ”Same formation?”

Our tactical setup was quite strange, mostly because six of our key players could play as a centre back. To get as much CA onto the pitch as poss, I had devised a kind of 4-1-4-1 formation.

In goal was Snakey, our new Australian keeper. CA 119, very competent. He was a new breed of Aussie. A kinder, gentler, more enlightened soul; he would steal your girlfriend but not your wife.

Our formation didn’t have a left back, but we did have three centre backs. Henry ’Dunners’ Dunston was a solid all-rounder, CA 126, and had the advantage of being Welsh. This was a Welsh club, after all. Tony Herbert was from Panama via Tranmere, CA 117. He was extremely physical, aggressive, and loved to smash into opponents. The focus of our coaching was to teach him how to position himself so that he wouldn’t have to hurl himself into dangerous tackles. The third CB was Peter Bauer, CA 132, who in the current setup could let the others get up close and personal with the oppo while he glided around sweeping up behind them and playing sumptuous passes into midfield.

Playing right back was the Romanian stalwart, Dumitru Demetrescu. He was 36 but had worked hard to keep his standards high. He was CA 148, up one point since the start of pre-season. I was hoping that trend would continue because in a few weeks he would join Chester and would compete in the Premier League.

It was a solid defence, and as exciting as our start had been and as tempting as it was to go crazy, the key to success today was not conceding a goal. We were 3-1 down on aggregate.

”Let’s stick to what we’re doing,” I said, carefully avoiding the word ’plan’.

***

Pestis were a bunch of twats - that surely goes without saying - but they were a competent team. My goal led to a Morale wobble, but they kept their heads and tried to settle into the game. They spent a few minutes passing the ball around their defence, giving everyone a touch, getting used to the surface, which was smooth and true, but artificial.

They launched an attack. Tony Herbert bumped into a striker, who went flying. The ref didn’t give a free kick. What for? It’s not against the laws of the game to have your own gravity.

Pestis tried again, working an overload on their left, targeting the ancient, decrepit, out-of-position Romanian. But Dumi had spent the best part of ten years training daily against the best collection of wingers in the world. He stayed patient, stayed on his feet, waited for his opponent to overextend, and dispossessed him. No fuss, no bother. He played the ball to Snakey, who rolled it to Dunners, who moved it on to Peter Bauer, who didn’t have an opponent anywhere near him. He glanced towards my side of the pitch, then pointed to Dan Badford. That was the pass that had opened Pestis like a tin of beans, so one of their DMs sprinted forward, ready to smash into Dan to stop him turning so easily this time.

”Shit,” I said, because Peter clearly had other plans. I got my head down, ran, checked the match commentary:

Bauer hits a long pass out to the left for Best to chase.

Yeah, I’m doing it! Jesus!

I ran harder. The Pestis right back was in two minds about what to do. Try to get his head on the ball and nod it out for a throw-in? Try to keep up with me? Maybe foul me before the ball arrived and hope the ref wouldn’t give him a yellow card?

There’s a saying in the world of football managers: he who chases three left-backs catches none. The right back, too late, decided to jump for the header but it was futile; Peter’s pass was too accurate. All the defender did was take himself out of the move. One less piece on the chess board.

The ball dropped into my zone of control. I cushioned it with the inside of my foot, which slowed me just enough for the deepest defender to get between me and the goal.

I had seen recent footage of this guy, though, and before that, I had witnessed up close how Bayern’s wingers turned him inside out. If I dropped my shoulder like this...

Bauer hits a long pass out to the left for Best to chase.

Best controls brilliantly! He surges towards goal.

A defender takes up a good position. If he can keep Best at bay, help is coming.

Beckton makes a darting run across the penalty spot.

Best shapes to dribble left, cuts inside on his right, shoots...

GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

He used Beckton to shield the ball from the goalkeeper’s view!

The keeper had no chance!

It’s Saltney Town’s second goal, and it has only taken seven minutes!

***

In the celebrations, our defensive midfielder laughed and said, ”Remind me why you need me?”

This was Edgar Wilde, 34, a man who had played both DM and centre back for England. He was one of those guys who came off as a bit dim, always seemed to be a couple of beats behind the rest of the conversation, but sometimes surprised with an obscure fact or a blinding flash of insight.

As a player, he was vastly experienced, had played in cup finals galore, and won medals by the truckload in Munich while somehow never getting the respect his career deserved. I was delighted to be getting a CA 149 player who had a couple more years in his legs. I checked his stats and found he had only played two passes in the match so far. ”Guys!” I called out. ”Can someone pass to Edgar, for fuck’s sake! How can we be champions for inclusion if we don’t include our own DM?”

Dan chirped up. ”How many passes have you made? To anyone?”

”I passed the ball into the net!” That earned me some jeers. ”Right, get back to work. Paul Braun is here tonight, you know? You’re making me look bad in front of the guy who runs Bayern Munich.”

”Same shape?” said Peter.

”Same shape.”

***

I was playing on the left of midfield, and as the only Saltney player on that side, I had to be defensively disciplined. Pestis thought they saw an opportunity to attack on that flank and fired a long ball towards our left back slot - the space behind me. I had to sprint to get into position, but then simply nudged my oppo as he tried to jump. The contact was minimal, a long way short of what was needed to give away a free kick, but it was enough to put him off.

It was our throw-in, which I chucked quickly to Snakey. He shifted the ball onto his right foot and played it to Dumi, who found Peter, who played two quick wall passes to Edgar. Stat padding!

Peter then rolled it into Dan Badford’s path. Dan was CA 122 and there had been some discussion about why I hadn’t kept him at Chester for the season. If I trusted Helge to play in the Prem, why not Dan? The difference was their size. Helge was tall and strong and would be able to look after himself in the Prem, where the pace was relentless and the physical requirements were sky high. Dan would never be huge but with our looming relegation, he would be two years older when he finally hit the Premier League. At that point, he would have the core strength to withstand challenges, the nous to keep the ball under pressure, and he would have enough experience to make snap decisions in fractions of a second.

Dan nearly gave the ball away - was lucky he didn’t, in fact - so he played it to his left, short, to Davey Barnes. I had made Davey captain for the day, mostly because I wanted a Welsh guy to wear the armband and to appear in as many photos as poss. Davey was CA 108, which made him our weakest player in terms of CA, but he was left-footed, solid defensively, and decent going forward.

He nudged the ball to me and there was a ripple of excitement from the spectators. That was pleasing, I had to admit, so as a little treat I flicked the ball ankle-high, did a couple of kick-ups, then as Pesters converged on me, I swept my right foot through the ball, hitting it clean to the other side of the pitch, where Magnus Evergreen was in space. He controlled the ball on his chest, let it drop, then passed it back to Dumi.

Magnus was still improving, reaching CA 135 in the week before the match. He had minus 2 PA, which meant I had no clue how good he would become, but I really hoped he would at least pass CA 150. With his ability to play anywhere in defence or midfield, he was a wonderful option. A real Swiss Army Knife of a player.

I looked away from the action and into the stands. I had seen people wearing football kits and carrying scarves from all sorts of countries. Mostly from European nations, of course, but the Yalleys were representing Ghana, Bark and his family were in Jamaica tops, Foquita and Caramel carried Peru scarves. Had I seen any Swiss flags? I couldn’t remember any. In the battle of good versus evil, they were staying neutral.

”Max!”

I had lost concentration and left a huge gap for Pestis to play their way into. I jogged backwards, watching in a detached way as Dunners moved left, Peter moved into Dunners’ slot, Tony Herbert took up Peter’s position, and Dumi slipped into Tony’s space. Fluid, wordless, beautiful. Was that me doing that with the curse? Or was that our coaching? My guess was the latter. That’s why you hire good people.

This was the away team’s best move of the match. They were sending bodies forward, working through their set patterns of play, looking to score a goal that would be a hammer blow to our chances.

Edgar Wilde appeared out of thin air, thundering into a challenge, deflecting the ball, getting to his feet and charging at it. He kept it in play on the touchline - just - then turned with all the Agility and Balance he could muster - not much, TBF - and seeing the Pestis player was the same distance away from the ball, Edgar did a sort of slide-tackle scissors kick, trying to smash it against the player’s legs to get a throw in.

The Pestis guy was smart; he jumped so that the ball wouldn’t go out of play. The Pestis guy was a moron, because in jumping, he allowed Edgar to record another successful pass. The ball fired towards me at a million miles an hour, waist-high. I twisted, stuck my leg out, let the ball hit my toe. In the time it took to fall, I scanned the pitch and came up with two action plans. One involved a series of slick passes to get the ball out to Magnus just as Dumi was overlapping him and Davey was entering the penalty area. Colin, CA 136, would attack the near post, while Davey snuck in and looked for the best position to take. It would have been gorgeous.

The other idea was crude by comparison. A total uggo.

Wilde with a wild pass down the line.

Best controls the ball. He checks his options and elects to dribble.

He storms down the left wing. The right back tries to foul him, but Best rides the challenge.

Three Pestis defenders are guarding the edge of the box.

Colin Beckton makes a diagonal run.

Best throws a shoulder and cuts inside, just as he did for his second goal.

Best lines up a shot...

But nudges the ball straight ahead, through a defender’s legs, towards Beckton.

Beckton is off-balance. He tumbles as he passes blind with his weaker left foot...

But it’s a brilliant pass! Into the path of Best.

Best for the hat trick...

He’s fouled!

He is tripped from behind just as he is about to shoot.

All eyes on the referee...

Penalty kick!

And a red card! Denial of a goal-scoring opportunity!

That was the easiest decision the referee will ever have to make.

Best will take the penalty, hoping to make the score 3-0 on the night, 3-3 on aggregate!

***

As the defender strode off the pitch, yelling obscenities at the referee, Joe Anka played a snippet from Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive. He must have been cackling to himself as he prepared his playlist! ’Go on now, go, walk out the door. Just turn around now, ’cause you’re not welcome anymore.’

It made me laugh pretty hard, and the rest of the Pesters took that as an opportunity to get in my face. Their best chance of staying in the competition was for me to get angry, throw a punch, and get sent off.

I walked away from the penalty spot, which was being ’scuffed up’ by a Pester so that it would be harder for me to score. The problem? It was an artificial surface. Come back with a bulldozer, mate.

In the stands, the Chester fans were mingling with some Saltney guys, some general football fans, and a whole bunch of randos wearing colourful clobber. Two saw me looking and held up a big Pride flag. I gave them a little wave, but my mind drifted away from the match, back to the days when I was a proper Man United fan. One of the most popular chants came to mind and I started to hum it. Like all the best football chants it was self-aggrandising, confrontational, distasteful, and fun to sing.

The ref had finally got confirmation from the video assistant that the red card was the right decision, and he was now clearing Pesters from the penalty area. I walked towards the spot. The goalie walked all the way to me in a tedious and predictable attempt to wind me up. I spread my arms wide and let myself go full Manc. ”We are just one of those teams that you see now and then!”

The keeper snarled but under instruction from the ref, started to move backwards.

I kept singing. ”We often score six but we seldom score ten!”

As soon as the ref looked away, the goalie came back towards me. Yawn.

”We beat ’em at home and we beat ’em away!”

How to approach this pen? I was on a hat trick and I was playing like a dream. The goalie would have a strong suspicion that I would try a Panenka - a slow, cocky chip straight down the middle. The guy would just stand there, expecting to catch the ball, right? I could probably just roll a shot either side of him, but there were tougher games to come against better goalies. Those goalies would watch this match to learn how I liked to take pens.

”We kill any bastards that get in our way!”

I smiled to myself. Was I really using this pen to make it easier to score the next one?

You bet I was.

The ref blew his whistle. I re-spotted the ball, took some steps back, then a couple of quick ones forward. Then, and this was the clever part, then I slowed again as though gathering my centre of gravity. That was common when taking a Panenka, and it confirmed what the goalie suspected. A slow chip down the middle. He knew it!

I sped up again just as I struck the ball, a right-foot side-foot push with a decent amount of energy and just a hint of side spin, crossing the goal line about a yard off the ground, about a foot inside the post.

Far more accurate than it needed to be in this situation but I wasn’t thinking about this goalie, was I? I was thinking about the next one.

This one stood still, like a fucking melon, before sagging with disappointment as he realised he had been out-thought. Surely that was an everyday occurrence in his life?

As I wheeled away towards the celebrating fans, I locked eyes onto the spot where the ball had crossed the line. Any goalies watching the footage would think, if I dive the right way, I could get my hands to that! Those poor, sweet, summer children! Next time, the ball would go down the middle, or high into the top bins. Heh. Satisfied, I sped up, thinking I might grip the corner flag the way Freddy Mercury gripped a microphone stand - but only if I knew the words to Joe Anka’s next banger.

He played the chorus from Stop Me If You Think You’ve Heard This One Before by The Smiths. Manchester band? Yeah, I knew the words! I crooned them down the nearest camera lens before I was swallowed up by my joyous teammates.

The red-and-black flares bellowed satanic smoke while two thousand people sang along to a whimsical 80s track. Henri was in the main stand, wearing a France scarf; he would be absolutely loving the absurdity of the night. Stag night karaoke meets high-stakes knock-out football.

Saltney 3, Pestis 3, with the away team down to 10 men.

In our celebratory huddle, Dan Badford called out, ”Max! What was that you were singing?”

”Man United song,” I said, which got some laughs. With an earnest expression, I wagged my finger. ”We are the pride of all Europe, the cock of the north. That’s how it goes. The pride of all Europe, lads. All Europe is watching and the scores are level, do you get me? If we don’t score again, it’s penalties and these fucks get a chance to snatch it. Keep your foot on the accelerator. Keep playing. Dan, are you listening?”

He was the youngest and the most likely to lose focus. ”Yes, boss.”

”You want to impress the guys in the stands? What elite players respect most is consistency. Anyone can score a rabona or a backheel nutmeg. Anyone can play a one-two-three that gets past four players and takes the piss. But can you do it again? Keep your heads in the game, lads. Focus. Let’s go.”

Colin stayed close to me as we walked back to our half. ”Boss, what you said to Dan is fair comment but you’re the only one who lost focus so far.”

”That wasn’t me losing focus,” I said. ”That was intentional. Let Pestis build a dangerous attack to see how our guys reacted. Plus it got them out of position.”

”Sure,” he said, with a slight smile.

As he jogged away, I conceded that he had a point. The last goal had been extremely lucky and it could have gone the other way. Every team’s biggest strength is also their biggest weakness. I had a lot on my plate and I was out of practice with the whole player-manager thing.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

I checked the match ratings and everyone’s Condition - no dramas there - and switched things around so that Magnus went to left back, Davey Barnes went to left midfield, and Edgar Wilde moved from DM to CM. With me on the right of midfield, we had a 5-4-1 shape. Peter could dribble the ball out of defence creating the 4-1-4-1 we had started with, and I would have Dumi behind me, which would offer us good protection if I lost concentration again.

The match restarted with us looking extremely resilient. This was the kind of eleven that would get us a solid nil-nil away in the farthest corners of the continent. Dumi spotted a flaw, though. After a couple of minutes of us passing the ball around against virtually no opposition, he jogged a few steps closer and said, ”They’re down to ten, Max.”

I nodded, but let the match happen for another minute. I was 28 years old, married, and didn’t feel the need to show off by making radical formation changes non-stop. The squad had a lot of togetherness and a great dressing room vibe but we hadn’t played together in a serious match. We had to win today, sure, but I could spare a few minutes to try things out.

And there was a footballing reason to default to a cautious approach and expand step by step: our relative lack of attacking options.

Colin gave us goal threat, while Peter and Dan were press-resistant and could progress us up the pitch. But I was the only natural playmaker, so until I made substitutions, we would have this somewhat lop-sided, ungainly quality.

That said, we definitely didn’t need a flat back five.

I moved Magnus to a left-sided DM slot, stationed Peter as a right-sided DM, and laughed to myself. An asymmetrical 3-2-4-1 with a big doughnut hole. Surely this was the ugliest formation I had ever devised?

To make it less appalling, I moved Dumi from right back into the middle. That gave us a 3-2 base. Three centre backs, two DMs, with every player having the profile of a centre back. It was a setup that Pep Guardiola had employed at times and it felt overpowered for this opponent. If Pestis attacked, they would have to get through five high-quality centre backs. They would need to attack with numbers, leaving them open to counters, or they would need to get insanely lucky.

Pestis had a goal kick that they took long. My guys fucking devoured the oppo and I felt my pulse picking up. This 3-2 base was the fucking bomb! It would carry us into the Champions League, I could feel it!

Emboldened, I got more aggressive with the rest of the team. I pushed Davey Barnes into a left winger slot and nudged Dan closer to Colin. I moved forward one zone on the right to match Davey’s height. That left Edgar Wilde as the only guy who looked out of place, so I said ’fuck it’ and made him a second CAM.

This slapped.

Under the weight of our press, Pestis fell into a low block. I moved my defence up to the halfway line, and we camped in the oppo’s half, probing, looking for ways through their lines. Edgar played his role surprisingly well, keeping it simple, passing wide, running into the box when we were aiming crosses.

But our biggest threat in this phase was from set pieces. Pestis gave away a ton of free kicks and corners, and I had a pretty imposing set of players to aim for. I mostly sent my crosses towards Dunners and Tony Herbert but Edgar, Magnus, and Dumi were beefy boys. I used Masterpiece Theatre to station Peter Bauer a little deeper because he had the calmness to gather rebounds and make good decisions. Davey and Dan were my rest defence, while Colin had the freedom to go where he wanted, and because he was Colin, that meant the penalty spot.

We spent five minutes crushing Pestis, remorselessly grinding them. Corner, free kick, corner, free kick.

We were getting closer to scoring and their nerves were getting frazzled.

Best to take the corner, right-footed.

Saltney have two pockets of players for him to aim at. The pockets converge in front of the keeper.

Best’s cross arrives...

Good punch by the goalie!

It goes as far as Barnes.

He slips it into the path of Best, who asks Barnes to overlap him on the left.

Best waits for the run...

And ignores it! He moves the ball onto his right foot...

And bends it into the right of the goal! The goalkeeper dived but couldn’t get near it.

Max Best has scored four goals in twenty-five minutes!

I wheeled to my left, blowing kisses hither and thither, not even worrying what Emma might think about it. She was in the main stand somewhere, with her parents, probably grooving to Joe’s latest song choice, ’thank u, next’ by Ariana Grande. I sped along the touchline, slowing to sing ’thank you, next’ to the Pestis head coach.

He appreciated that I included him in my event.

Dylan cried, ”Max! Max!” and I diverted towards him. He was gesturing towards the stands, where two of the greatest players in the world were leaning over, waving towards me. One was Adam Adebayo, the French star, and the other was Germany’s Danny Kowalski, player of the tournament and golden boot winner in Euro 28. They had faced each other in a titanic semi-final at Wembley, a match in which sparks had flown, reigniting some of my passion for the sport.

”Fellas?” I said, trying to play it cool, like I wasn’t a total fanboy.

”Boss!” cried Adam. ”The record goals in a Champions League game is five! You gonna smash it!”

”Five?” I said, looking over my shoulder then up into the sky. ”I’d better stop scoring, then.”

They laughed hard. They seemed to enjoy watching me play as much as I loved watching them. Danny flicked his wrist and said, ”Stop scoring! Max, you’re hilarious.”

Adam gripped him. ”He’s not joking!”

Danny gawped. ”Shit! You’re right. Why isn’t he joking? Why is he not joking?”

***

We were ahead in the tie, our oppo were down to ten men and disintegrating. There was no need for me to score another. Getting a two-goal lead would be useful, though, because it would let me use all my subs. In an ideal world, I would be able to give at least ten minutes to four young players, three of whom were Dragonballs.

The guy with the lowest PA, but the one we would need the most in the qualifying campaign, was Toquinho. Tockers was a 21-year-old Brazilian winger I’d picked up in Brazil. He was CA 92 and didn’t have any outstanding qualities, but he was technical, could play left or right, and had PA 154. It was possible that he would hit triple digits by the end of the qualifiers and would be a very useful player in the league phase.

The next priority would be Engelbert ’Bertie’ Kornek, the Polish striker. He was 18 so I didn’t want to push him too hard too fast, especially since he was new in the country, but he was PA 180. With early Champions League minutes, he would surely add 30 points of CA this season. Okay, he was only CA 79 but the sooner we got him on the pitch, the sooner he would shoot up.

The same could be said for Ludo Peeters, who was the most talented male player in the Max Best Universe. PA 196 was pure madness, and he would be great in this match because he could play MC or AMC. His CA was ’only’ 82 but again, that would shoot up in the coming weeks.

And finally, the best young Welsh prospect not called Roddy. Charlie Cullen was a box-to-box midfielder, 17 years old, PA 170, and thanks to my wise policies only 9 CA behind Ludo.

Brazilians, Poles, Belgians, the Welsh. If England was going to come at me, I would hit back. I would surprise England’s gammons with the fact that the world is a fucking big place.

Now, why did I have to go and remember Alan Turner and the Shit Piece?

I trudged around the pitch, moodily playing wall passes, deflecting the ball first time at mad angles, scowling as Pesters kicked me late, gave me little digs in the ribs when the ref wasn’t looking. I remembered that these fucks had left me with a broken arm and I ascended into a state of pure vindictiveness - I switched us into the Relationism module.

The squad had trained it a couple of times and I didn’t expect it to slap, not with six centre backs on the pitch. This was a way of playing best suited to flair players, right?

We moved together and formed a blob on the right of the pitch, dabbing the ball to each other at short range, doing flicks and skills. Tony Herbert, the man from Panama, a guy so big he could have a second career as my bodyguard, took to Relationism like a duck to water. He loved it! Dan Badford was a natural and had trained it the most, Dunners stayed outside the blob, Edgar and Dumi were highly motivated to show they were old dogs who could learn new tricks.

We had fun. I noticed how colourful the stadium was, how many smiles were visible.

Then Peter Bauer, normally a hyper-efficient player, did an extravagant rabona, in which one plants one leg and sends the other foot the ’wrong’ side of it, propelling the ball forward in a show-off way.

The guys in the stands were loving our display. Most were not hard-core football fans, and I suspected a great many didn’t even like the sport, but we were putting on such a show that maybe some of them were turning from spectators into fans.

The thought transported me into a state of excited, enthused elation. I left the blob, sprinting ten yards towards the ’top-left’ of the pitch, then cutting back towards the top right, into a position fifteen yards ahead of the blob.

Davey Barnes fizzed a left-footed pass into my path and I switched us back into the Positional Play module. (The Pestis guys had no fucking clue what was happening or what to do about it. Gaps appeared everywhere.)

As the noise from the fans grew, I did a few needless stepovers just for the entertainment value. That earned me a painful whack on my left leg that I ignored as I skipped past the first oppo.

I moved towards the goal line, coming close to the penalty area. One guy came steaming at me, clearly intending to foul me while I was still outside the box.

I pretended I hadn’t seen him by holding my head high and looking gormlessly towards the far post, as though deciding what I wanted to do with the ball. At the last possible moment I rushed to the goal line, jumping while the guy slid through me.

The problem, from his point of view, was that I had left the ball where it lay, so the guy essentially did an assault on me. I should have tumbled to the pitch and rolled around. Should have let the ref send the dude off. We would have played the rest of the match against 9 guys! But I didn’t trust the ref to do it, and I had spotted something I couldn’t ignore.

I hopped to the ball and did a rabona, wrapping my right foot behind my left ankle, firing the ball low, hard, and into the path of the right-footed Dan Badford, who had timed his entry into the penalty area to absolute perfection.

So what did he do?

Did he side-foot the ball into the goal like every coach in the world would have told him?

No.

He shifted his body weight, adjusting his feet as if he was about to strike the ball left-footed - infuriating! I had laid it on a plate for him! - and from my rabona pass, Dan did a rabona of his own. The ball purred into the bottom-right of the goal. Pause for the photo: the keeper looking to the heavens and swearing, half our team with hands on their head because they couldn’t believe the kid’s fucking impudence and skill.

I stood with my hands on my hips, mock annoyed, but the act only lasted a second because Dan raced at me, hurled himself, forced me to catch him and hold him high. He punched the air, then we were surrounded by laughter, cackles, whoops, and Don’t Stop Me Now. Were we having a good time? Yas, Queen!

***

At 5-3 on aggregate the tie was over as a contest, but not as an exercise in cruelty.

I spent the rest of the first half taking up positions between Pesters, receiving the ball, drawing the oppo towards me, then a split-second before they could set themselves to make a tackle or an interception or anyfuckingthing I would move it on, endlessly forcing them to move, to reposition, to make decisions, to choose between equally bad alternatives. In short, I was letting them know what it feels like to be a repressed minority.

Their Condition scores were tumbling and they were picking up yellow cards far too fast. Their manager would have to make a decision: replace his better players with weaker ones and be humiliated, or let more players get sent off, pick up injuries, and be humiliated anyway?

At half time, after talking through my options with Well In, I decided I wanted to move towards a 3-3-4 formation. Subbing myself off would have been amazing for XP, but I couldn’t take the risk, not if I wanted to ensure we progressed. So the back three became me, Peter, and Dunners. (Dumi, being old, got a rest.) In the second half, I won a few headers, played a few passes, basically kept myself to myself and let the rest of the guys take centre stage.

The new midfield was Ludo Peeters, Dan Badford, and Magnus. Ludo kept things simple on his debut and mostly passed to Dan. This humble version of Ludo wouldn’t last long, I was sure!

Wide left was an CA 85 left winger, Ash Bradley. If things went to plan, Ash wouldn’t play a major role in Saltney’s European campaign, but my plans had become less and less reliable so it was good to give him a boost, and in a match against a low block it was great to have a left-footed wide player who could hit crosses. Colin Beckon loved the service he was suddenly getting, and scored from one of Ash’s crosses. 6-0 on the night!

Wide right was Tockers, and for a while the strikers were Tom Westwood and Colin Beckton. With 15 minutes to go, I replaced Colin with Bertie, the Polish wonderkid.

That meant no minutes for Charlie Cullen, but very close to the end of the match, Tockers combined with Magnus, the Brazilian got to the byline and pulled the ball back for Tom Westwood to bundle into the net. 7-0 was decent, wasn’t it?

It would have to do. The final whistle resounded around The Legends Stadium, Joe let us hear the applause and cheers of the crowd, then he went into a medley of bangers, starting with I’m Still Standing. Wild to think that a guy who pressed play on a control panel was as popular as one who scored four goals and assisted another, but that’s life.

Meanwhile, Pestis FC were right where they belonged - out of the Champions League.

***

Joe faded down the music and said, ”Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for the main event!” He paused for laughter, before saying, ”We invited current national team players and coaches, former players and coaches, to join us in a demonstration, to show that love will always beat hate. Those who have been invited, please join me on the pitch.”

Our match stewards opened gates; stars came walking down from the main stand and onto the pitch. They came like columns of ants, towards me.

I knew this was going to happen, of course, but I was staggered by the scale of it. Dozens of people, forty, fifty, sixty, closing on a hundred, all wearing their national team kit or a scarf.

Adam Adebayo, Kumba Viera, and Henri Lyons came together as the French section. I annoyed my best man by telling Kumba his scarf was a tasteful classic, a masterpiece of design, even though it was the same as Henri’s.

There were tons of Germans, including Peter and Dieter Bauer, Pascal Bochum, Paul Braun, Danny Kowalski, Willi Tillmann, and even Fabian Fromm, the captain of Bayern and Germany, the prick who had given me non-stop grief during my time in Bavaria, who I had last seen lifting the European Championship trophy. ”Am I welcome?” he said.

”Very welcome,” I said. I swirled my finger. ”This whole thing was a ruse to get you a redemption arc. Did you bring the cup?”

”The Europameisterschaft Pokal? I did not.”

”Shame. It’s a nice trophy. Keep it warm for me, will ya?”

I welcomed Cole Adams in his Ireland top. Brazilians flocked together, there were Welshmen everywhere, plus a sneaky batch of Slovakians.

Haley Goodhew came in her green England goalie top, Kisi Yalley wore the white of England, her older brother the white of Ghana.

Meredith Ann wore Colombia, Hamish Andrews Scotland, and on it went. Flags, colours, smiles. Northern Ireland, Gibraltar, Turkey.

We lined up three deep for a mega photo, one that contained at least three generations of superstars.

When we were more or less ready, instead of going, ’say cheese’, Joe Anka came up with something better. ”Look straight ahead, everyone. Okay, say pride.”

The resulting photo was one you could pore over for hours, going through the faces.

Is that Don Pino, the superagent? Is that Macca Senna next to Elsa Lund? Who’s that? I think that’s a guy called Patricio. He played for Man City a couple of times. Here’s a hot blonde! What country is that? That’s Newcastle. Why’s Max Best smiling so wide?

Why wouldn’t he be?

***

The football industry insiders, of which there were many, were invited to eat and drink at the Get Fed and Wed Shed. I hadn’t expected such a huge response, so I had initially booked the entirety of Tiny Tino, the Portuguese restaurant, but as more people RSVPd, Bonnie had calculated that there wouldn’t be enough space and had moved the event to the bigger venue. The Tiny Tino staff had decamped to our kitchen and alarmed me by complaining that it was too clean.

I sat in a corner, dipped some peri-peri sauce on a piece of pita bread, and took a minute to myself.

In the opposite corner, a karaoke machine had been set up, and Henri was already there doing a duet with Kumba Viera, one of the best defenders in the world. Most of Saltney’s players were eating while standing up, enjoying the adulation they were so rightly getting. Ruth and Don Pino were swimming through the ranks like sharks. Briggy was chatting with some of the younger players.

One game finishes, another begins.

A couple of TVs were showing highlights of the other matches. College 1975 came on, but not for long. They had played out a drab 0-0, which put them safely through to the second round. The team I had assembled was good but perhaps not good enough. In the coming days I would try to convince the Conspiracy to give me more budget so that I could send College a couple of reinforcements.

MD and Gwen came over. MD said, ”My God, Max. Seven-nil! Extraordinary. My stress levels plummeted during that match. I’m on minus 100 now. What a show that was!”

”Yeah,” I said, somewhat flat, because I was running on fumes. The food and drink would kick in soon, giving me enough of a boost to smile and laugh and be part of the fun, and then we had a week until our next match. ”Yeah, it went well.”

MD shook his head. ”Went well. Listen to him! Okay, you’re tired. I won’t bug you but I’ve got so much money riding... This win takes us from a guaranteed million to something like 1.7. That’s already such a relief.”

I waved my hand around like a Jedi doing a mind trick or a Skyrim wizard casting a Calm spell. ”We will win the next round, and when we do, the minimum prize money we can get will be 4 million. We’ll break even at least, right? I’m gunning for much more than that but you can rest easy, Mike.”

His eyebrows rose a tad. ”You’ve already done the research on the next opponents?”

”Course I have. It’s a Latvian team called RFS and they play in the LNK Stadium. There’s got to be a joke there about them trying to hit every letter. Or a Scrabble joke or something. Uh, cut that. As a team, they are not amazing. My guesstimate of their strength has them 30 points weaker than Pestis, so we’ll win and we’ll be able to give even more minutes to the bairns. I’m allowed to say bairns now that I’ve been excommunicated from Englishness. The poor wee bairns. She’s turned the weans against us!”

Gwen put her hand on my shoulder. ”Instead of turning Scottish, let’s get you Welsh.”

”We talked about this. I can’t roll my Rs, Gwen!”

She pulled out the chair next to me and did a quick conspiratorial check of the area. ”We’re in no rush to replace Patrick David; it’s a long while before our next serious match. If you lose your job at Chester, I’m going to offer you the position of Wales manager.”

I dipped my pita into the sauce a couple of times and nibbled a tiny bit off the end. I can’t say I hadn’t had the odd daydream about this. In two years, if Alan Turner was sacked, the next manager would surely call up Wibbers and Matt Rush, put them straight into the England squad. I wouldn’t have to sell them to let them fulfil their ambitions. And the best way to get Alan Turner sacked was to outperform him at the World Cup. The day-to-day life of a national team manager wasn’t fun, though. It did not appeal. ”And if I don’t lose my job?”

Gwen was puzzled. ”What?”

”Wales play, like, eight qualification matches in two years, and the World Cup is going to be a month or whatevs. You don’t need a full-time manager. Well In can stay as the assman and take training and talk to the media and shit, and I could rock up on match days, boss people around for a bit, and fuck off home.”

Gwen’s eyes darted around. ”Uh... That’s not how we do it, Max.”

”Do you want to be normal or do you want to get to the semi-finals? Let me do it my way and I’ll work for free. Plus expenses,” I said, because it’s always nice to book the penthouse suite with someone else’s money.

”Free?”

”Yeah. The real work is scouting and keeping tabs on the players.” I paused, and not for the first time wondered if becoming the Wales manager would give me automatic access to their squad. I mean, of course it would, but what could I do with that? Could I have a ’squad’ of 500 players and use that to track every Welshman currently playing professional football? If not, why not? As the national team manager, surely I would set the rules? ”It’s no extra work because I’m always scouting anyway. Maybe some of the training camps could be held in Saltney instead of in South Wales. That would help. But hey, it’s just an idea. We’ve got ages to think about it, right?”

MD eyed Gwen and said, ”Perhaps you might brief that you are in no hurry to replace Patrick David. You’re waiting for an outstanding candidate. When the next serious match comes around with no-one in post, Max graciously steps in to help. That goes well and you tell the media, see? We can wait for the right person. Max does a few more games, gets a few more wins, says he’ll do it until the World Cup. Take it step by step and no-one will bat an eyelid.”

”Salami tactics,” said Gwen, nodding. ”By the time of the World Cup, everyone will think it would be crazy not to have Max in charge. Yes. Could work.” She touched my shoulder again. For a moment, I thought she was going to say the words to make me a Welsh knight, but she just said, ”That was fun tonight. Your mum would be really proud of you.”

***

Dan Badford, cheeks flushed with pleasure, came over next, his energy sky high. I couldn’t remember seeing him so animated. ”Max! Boss! Ahhhh, amazing. I was hanging out with Adam Adebayo and Danny Kowalski! Can you believe it? They were like bro, that goal was sick! I never seen a double rabona goal before. And they teased me coz I’ll get an assist for passing the ball to you and then you went half the pitch and chipped the goalie and they were like bro how you gonna claim an assist for that, that needs to be stricken from the records, yo! You didn’t do nuffink, bro! Hahaha! Rinsing me out!

”But they were going, are you gonna sign for Bayern? I said nah I’m Chester for life, I don’t want to play for anyone else and they were like yeah but you’d play for Bayern though, obvs. And I said obvs yeah, Bayern, course, and I was like whoa, where did that come from?” He stared at nothing, mouth open, then smiled. ”They were raaaaaving about you, boss. You and Peter, but mostly you because you hit that same spot in the goal three times. Curled it round and inside the post, same spot every time. And Peter’s passing. They couldn’t get enough of it.

”It’s like you said, the elite players love consistency. That’s it. That’s my goal. I want them to watch me and go, mate, you’re rock solid technically. That’s what it’s all about for me now. Have you got drills to teach me that?”

”Yeah,” I said, sipping some water. ”It’s called Thursday.”

”Okay,” he said, nodding fast. ”This Thursday? Got something planned? Cool cool cool.”

I couldn’t believe he didn’t get my meaning. ”No mate. This Thursday, every Thursday. Every training session. Rock solid technique is the end goal, Dan. We’re getting there. You’re getting there. You were really good today. Just one thing - when you’re going to parties with Adam and Danny and meeting supermodels and talking about your flash cars and how hard it is to find a good butler, remember the little people, yeah? The people who helped you get there.”

He rolled his eyes. ”Yes, boss. I’ll remember the little people like Peter Bauer and Max Best. Those teeny tiny long-forgotten people.”

”Go and mingle, bro.”

He wandered off and was replaced by Cheeky and Macca (in Spain tops) and Elsa Lund (dressed casually but with a Sweden pin). Macca faced me. ”Can I get your autograph?”

My lips curled up slightly on the left side. ”Can I get yours?”

”Yes,” she said, plainly.

”Yes?”

”Yes,” she repeated. ”I will be proud to call you mister.” The wording was strange but Cheeky’s reaction told me that Macca was giving me a great honour.

I eyed Macca and motioned towards Cheeky and Elsa. ”On condition they sign, too?”

”No conditions.”

”You don’t have doubts?”

A huge smile emerged. ”I have many doubts!”

I nodded slowly. ”I knew you would come to me now. That’s why I’ve got your contract right here, ready to sign.”

”What!” she said, astonished, as I pushed my hand inside my hoodie.

When I brought my hand back, empty, Cheeky pushed Macca. ”He got you!”

Macca shook her head, ruefully, but then smiled. ”Yes. He did.”

***

Emma came over and squeezed me tight. ”What was that? Those handshakes.”

”That was me signing three top players.”

”Ooh, great!”

”I know. Two amazing midfielders and an elite striker. I wish it was that easy to sign strikers in the men’s game.”

”Foquita’s right there, babes. Go and get him.”

”Can’t. He’s dead set on staying in Lisbon for another year. Some idiot told him it was the right thing to do. Did your dad like the match?”

”He did, yeah. Loved it. He was confused, though. He kept going, I didn’t know this was a gay song! Dad, it’s Smalltown Boy! What are you saying?” She laughed, and so did I. She continued. ”They’re gonna go to Gibraltar on Thursday to watch the Magpies. Can they stay in your flat, babes?”

”Our flat, and of course they can.”

Ems looked around, with a slight frown. ”I haven’t seen Bethany. You did invite her, didn’t you?”

”Did I invite Beth?” I said, furrowing my brows, tapping a finger against my lips. ”Let me think. I don’t think I did invite Beth, no, and I didn’t invite Alan Turner, and I didn’t invite Skeletor.”

Emma squeezed her mouth closed while she swallowed her annoyance. She unpressed her lips and they made a disapproving smacking sound. ”You’re a married man; it’s strange how much you still talk about Skeletor.”

”I think I talk about him an appropriate amount.”

***

The nutrients from the food kicked in. I went around chatting with everyone, thanking them for coming, being super modest about my four-goal haul. ”It’s a team game,” I said, and for some reason this never failed to provoke laughter. People are so strange.

Paul Braun, the guy who ran Bayern Munich, was talking to Foquita. That made me feel rather queasy, but there were so few top-class strikers in the world it was inevitable that the good ones would end up at megaclubs on megamoney.

How was I going to solve the striker quandary? Gabriel was PA 161. In a fully-functioning Chester team, he would do well for us. He could be the backup striker in a title-winning squad, for sure. Bertie Kornek had the ceiling of a guy who could fire us to a title, but he was 18 so he was a few years from being a top player. When he did peak, for how long would we be able to keep him? A year. Two at the outside.

I needed to get a conveyor belt of strikers so that just as one was demanding to leave, the next would be more or less ready, and the third guy would move into the second slot.

Not easy, especially if young English strikers wouldn’t consider us as an option.

I spotted Oli Marches, the goalkeeping coach I wanted to rescue from West Brom. He had a big smile on his face as he talked to Snakey and Haley Goodhew. I went over and said, ”All right?”

Oli grinned. ”I was just saying to Snakey, if you need a guy to come in and coach your goalies to stand around doing nothing, I’m your man!”

Snakey smiled. ”Yeah, nah, I make that look easy, mate. There’s a skill to it.”

I rubbed my eyebrow. ”Yeah, in retrospect, this wasn’t the best exhibition match, was it? They barely got in our half. Tougher tests lie ahead! Oli, where are your kids? Did they meet some fame-os? They impressed?”

”Yeah, Max, they loved it. It was all fantastic. We’ve got one or two questions, some things to iron out, but... yeah. It’s exciting, what you’ve got going on over here. My wife was like, wait, you have to work for two clubs? Do you get paid double? I was like, I get to work with twice as many great players! Nah, it’s good. We’re gonna be happy here.”

”Course you are.” I turned my head because there was a big commotion in the karaoke corner. Dan Badford was standing on a chair while Henri regaled him with a heart-felt rendition of Danny Boy. ”What the fuck,” I laughed.

”Look at Danny Kowalski,” said Haley. Danny was getting on a chair of his own - he tried to get Henri to sing to him, instead. ”They’re too funny!”

I went to top up my water while I adjusted the crude ’spreadsheets’ I had created in the curse’s notepad area. Thanks to last season’s transfer profits and this season’s broadcasting revenue, my war chest had peaked at just over 100 million pounds. 100 mill to spend on whatever I wanted, pretty much.

Loaning Everton’s Murray Burnett for the season had cost 3.5m.

Rushing the PetPride Stand and building the corners would cost 6 mill, but Brooke expected that cash to return to my transfer kitty in January. Getting the stadium up to code as required by the Premier League would be around 4 mill.

Phases Two and Three of Bumpers would come to about 11 mill, plus I had splurged another 200 grand surrounding the zen garden with acoustic walls to make it feel really peaceful in there.

Expanding the pitch rental project at Winsford, buying the local five-a-side centre, and buying the three commercial slash industrial units across the river would be another 16 million.

Elsa, Macca, and Cheeky were going to sign, for a total cost of 3.3.

Even with all that, I still had 56.2 million pounds left in the war chest. Slice off six mill to finish building the women’s team and to stock up on under 18s and I would still have 50 million quid.

So much money. What could I do with it? I watched as Paul Braun detached himself from Foquita and headed towards me with a glint in his eye.

I knew where this was going.

Cheb Alloula.

***

”Twenty million Welsh pounds,” I said.

Paul’s eyes flickered. ”Is that a real currency?”

”I would normally say English pounds but I don’t feel very patriotic right now.”

”Twenty-five plus a 50% sell-on fee.”

That meant that Bayern would take a cut of any profit we made on Cheb. If we bought him for 25 and sold him for 45, that would be 20 in profit. If we had to give half to Bayern, Chester would only get 10. Complicated and demotivational! ”I’m not interested in sell-ons; they limit my options. I want to buy Cheb for 20 now and sell him for 30 when we get relegated. That’s solid for us, good for Cheb, and if we can get more, we get more. What happens to him after you’ve let him go is none of your business. I don’t know why you’re negotiating so enthusiastically. You’re third in the Deloitte money list. We’re not a megaclub just coz we got promoted. The money’s all gone.”

”Gone?”

”Yeah, it’s gone. We’re buying office space and a five-a-side centre. I wanted to rebrand it Tekkers but there are already some businesses with that name so we’re gonna call it Tekky Taka and I’m going to teach mad skillz.”

Paul was watching me with barely-disguised bemusement. ”Why would you do that? Waste your money in this way?”

I tutted. Paul was a legend but he was annoying as fuck, sometimes. ”Because when I popped over to Germany to help you out of a jam, Chester were in League One and our budget was 60,000 British pounds per week. These investments will soon generate 40 grand a week. That’s financial security for the club. We might crash down a division or two but long-term, I’ve turned this into a League One club. Do you get me? I’m raising the ceiling while lifting the floor and I’ve done it all while hiring dentists and supporting food banks and funding projects that help lonely old people. You can squeeze me till the pips come out but all you’re doing - ”

Paul raised a hand and chuckled. ”Okay, okay. You can have Cheb for 20 million if you stop laying it on so thick. My goodness. Also, I must tell you that there is a catch.”

”A catch?”

”I require a favour.”

I sagged. ”No, I don’t want to be the Germany manager.”

He laughed hard. ”We don’t need you. Germany won the Euros!”

I scoffed. ”On penalties.” I scoffed again.

Paul scratched his upper lip, raised his eyebrows at my cockiness, then leaned forward a couple of inches. I mirrored him automatically. He licked his lips. ”Since I am helping you and your community club with such a big discount on our player - ”

”It’s his market value!”

”Please be honest with me for a moment. You have not spent all of the money, have you?”

I squirmed. Telling him the truth was bad for my negotiating position, but he had already agreed to a fee for Cheb and I wouldn’t be buying anyone else from him, probably ever. He was cooking up a scam and I wanted to know what it was. ”No. There’s some left.”

”Some. Hmm.” He pulled at his elbow and stretched his arm. Some idea came to him. ”Do you have another seven million?”

”Yes.”

He stared for a few seconds. ”Yes, good. It still works, or it can be made to work. Let me tell you about a player. A striker, Max.”

My neck tingled like crazy. Full-body tingles, but just on my neck. It sounds impossible, but that’s what happened. ”Uh,” I said, which was as close as I could get to ’please, do tell me more’.

”Our scouts have been tracking this player for some time - ”

I remembered a similar conversation recently involving Don Pino, which broke the spell Paul had cast on me. ”Before I get too hyped,” I said, slightly annoyed, ”is this a male player?”

”Yes. Our scouts have always liked the look of him, but his data was poor. We tracked him anyway, because some players bloom late, as you would know.”

”Why would I know that?”

Paul got very confused, but moved on. ”He is starting to score more frequently and his all-round data is on the rise. It begins to glow; our scouts are vindicated. In the normal course of events, he would be a Bayern Munich target. Zoran is 25. This player is 21. We have a 17-year-old German boy in our system who is exceeding expectations. You see how it goes? Now that you have fixed Zoran and he is the striker we thought we were buying, perhaps there will never be space for the man in the middle.”

”Wait,” I said, because the conversation was making me dizzy. ”You have a striker conveyor belt?”

”Of course we do. One must always have the next top striker lined up.” The pair of us glanced towards Foquita at the same time; we grinned, and as ever when he did so, Paul Braun looked like a cheeky little boy.

”Foquita is 23,” I said. ”You can’t have both him and Zoran; you’ll never keep them happy.”

”Maybe I plan to sell Zoran for 150 million and buy Foquita for 50.” He grinned again. ”I’m German, Max. I like to make a good deal.” He adjusted his face back to ’top international businessman’. ”Which leaves me with a dilemma. I know of a player I am convinced will become a top striker, but I have no place for him. We don’t need him and we won’t need him. Do you know who needs him?”

”Me.”

”Ha,” said Paul. ”I was thinking about Dortmund. Stuttgart. Our domestic rivals.”

”Ahhh,” I said, nodding as the scam became clear. ”You don’t want this guy moving to the Bundesliga.”

”Unless he wears the shirt of the rekordmeister.”

I pretended to look at a wristwatch. ”Took you four minutes to use that word.”

He accepted the dig with good grace. ”It’s easier for us to win the league if he does not join our rivals. So. My information is that Frankfurt have made a 27 million pound bid for this striker. Do you have such an amount?”

27 plus 20 for Cheb, plus some agent fees and whatnot. I would lose all my financial flexibility but gain two great players. ”I could just about make it work.”

”Good. I would much prefer him to join a Premier League team, because once he is on your bloated salaries, no German club but us will be able to meet his demands. You are a Premier League team. You will be able to offer a higher starting salary than Frankfurt.”

”Not sure about that,” I said. ”We could offer him Premier League football, though. If he does well, he can easily move to a club that will pay him silly money.”

”Details, Max, details.” He stretched his elbow again. ”I believe that when you see this young man, you will move heaven and earth to sign him.”

I tapped my fingers. ”There’s nothing to lose in checking him out. I suppose I have to do it soon, if there are live bids on him. I hope he’s in a country where pre-season training has started and I hope his agent isn’t a dick.”

”You could watch him in action this Thursday, and Don Pino is a wonderful human being.”

”Oh, Christ. Well, it’s possible that I’ve already seen him play; tell me his name.”

Paul leaned back, smiling to himself. ”I saw the flags of many nations at the match tonight. The pride of all Europe, as someone said. But I did not see any Dutch flags. Did you not invite your Dutch friends?” His smile grew. Clearly, he was very proud of what he was about to say. ”I must confess I find such behaviour very Ruud.”