Player Manager - A Sports Progression Fantasy - 10.11 - Emlyn Hughes International Soccer

11.

Player Profile: Emlyn Hughes. A versatile player who won every club tournament it was possible to win. Played for England across three decades. Despite playing for Liverpool, he was considered likeable and had a career as a captain on the BBC’s A Question of Sport – a sort of lockdown Zoom quiz watched by up to 19 million people every week.

***

Tuesday, March 25

Our flight was cancelled. We weren’t told the reason, which drove one of us crazy, but ultimately it didn’t matter. We were stuck. We flew into action – literally not literally – calling MD, Brooke, Mateo, and Emma’s dad. They got plotting and scheming and soon we had options – drive to a big Spanish city and fly from there, or wait till the morning for the next flight out on British Airways.

That one would land at Heathrow at three thirty, and it was an hour’s drive from there to Aldershot. The Brig had loads of friends in Aldershot’s army base and could easily arrange a pickup, and so I would almost certainly be at The Recreation Ground before Chester’s team bus. I knew the wait would be stressful but it was the least worst option, as far as I could tell.

When everything was sorted on the logistics side, I called Sandra and told her the starting lineup and subs I wanted. It was pretty much our strongest eleven except Youngster – I wanted to let him rest – and I asked her to ask Josh and Wibbers to travel just in case.

After all, it would only take one incident to leave me stranded. Or a chain of small delays that added up to me arriving at the stadium two minutes too late to play. Or worse, two minutes too late to manage.

Missing one match out of 46 was no big deal, really, in the scheme of things, but this one was going to be huge. Epic. Aldershot were gunning for the playoffs and I expected their CA to be over 70. Not exactly David versus Goliath, but we would be underdogs for sure. We needed to be switched on to get a win.

If we could win, though, the rewards were going to be considerable. Grimsby were playing Barnet, away. If Grimsby lost and we won, that would put us in pole position. If that match was a draw, we could gain two points on both teams. If Grimsby won, we would leapfrog Barnet and go into second place.

Winning would pile the pressure on those teams. And why shouldn’t we win? We had won our last eight league games. We were obdurate in defence and we had weapons. Hard shell, teeth, claws, and in Henri, beautifully extravagant plumage. Our starting eleven would average CA 66. Close enough to give Aldershot a game, and if I came on for the last twenty against tired defenders, we would have a fair chance of snatching a winner.

The thought of not even being in the country on the morning of such a vital game stressed me and my stress stressed Emma. We found a decent place to stay the night – I slept not a wink and ignored an invitation from Sumo to play a ‘hot new game’ on his Twitch stream some time soon. In my state I couldn’t plan. Couldn’t think beyond Tuesday night. I had XP burning a hole in my pocket but every time I opened the perk shop, I closed it again.

After breakfast I went straight to the airport and got more and more wound up until I saw a plane in the distance. It made the absurdly hard landing and I watched it roll all the way to the terminal, expecting the front to fall off at any second.

The front stayed on. At the exact right time, we started boarding. As it was the only plane in Gib, there was no queue of planes to delay us. We took off. Still I couldn’t relax. What if there were storms around London? What if the Brig’s mate wasn’t there to meet us? We would have to rent a car and that process always seemed to take at least an hour. Taxi? Can you take us to Aldershot? No, guv, but by the way have you ever heard of trains? Trains! In England! When you needed to be on time!

I spent three hours and three minutes catastrophising, to the point that Emma asked if we could watch The Rock together. I said I was done with Nicolas Cage for a while, and that seemed to worry her.

We landed, I grabbed Emma’s case and mine, dashed through the airport, spent an agonising twenty minutes queuing at passport control, but then we were in London, and that city’s heavy, sinister air has never smelled sweeter. The Brig’s mate was there to meet us, cheekily holding up a sign saying ‘Mr. and Mrs. Weaver’. I scowled but Emma dug me in the ribs and said it was her idea and it was funny and I needed to give my head a wobble.

“I just hate travelling,” I said. “I hate airports. Waiting lounges. Timetables.”

“Brazil is going to be fun,” she said. “Be nice to this man. He’s gone out of his way to help us.”

“I am always nice,” I said.

She pulled a face.

***

Match 39 of 46: Aldershot versus Chester

We got to the stadium exactly on schedule, crazily early, and the Brig and Emma chatted to the Brig’s mates while I tried to get out of the travel zombie state and into the whoo let’s have some fun while playing winning football yeah mentality. I would like to say that I made the transition smoothly.

A text came – the bus had arrived. I went down into the away dressing room and for the millionth time, checked everyone’s player profiles. Morale good, no new injuries. Okay. Okay, that was good. I simply had to pretend to be in a good mood for a while and we could get through it like nothing had ever happened.

We had our strongest line up, with Ben in goal, our miserly back line of Eddie, Christian, Zach, and Carl being guarded by Magnus. The midfield was Aff, Wisey, Jack, and Pascal. Henri the striker.

For some reason, everyone kept asking me if I was all right. I said yes, but just in case I was accidentally giving off weird vibes, I let Sandra do pre-match duties and while the lads went out to do their first warm ups and to test the pitch – pristine, by the way – I hopped in the shower. The water had a numbing effect. Sort of tethered me to the here and now, washed away some of the stress of the last thirty-six hours. When I pulled my shorts and socks on, I felt twenty percent better, but there was news to undo my gains and more.

Dean came over to my corner of the dressing room with Henri. Sandra followed. The physio spoke first. “Max, Henri’s got a tight calf.”

His player profile didn’t show anything. Had I been fresher, I might have suggested something of the sort. Instead, I said, “Huh.”

“I can play if you need me,” said Henri. He gave me a worried look. “Of course you need me. I should play. I will play. Yes, I will play.”

“We have seven more matches and a cup final,” said Sandra.

It wasn’t like Henri to malinger. What was going on? Was he just looking for attention? “Dean?” I said.

He exhaled. “In the olden days, we wouldn’t have thought twice. Get him out there. But…” He gestured, meaning ‘it ain’t the olden days’. He shook his head. “If we lose tonight and Grimsby win, that’s game over, right? So we could play him and if something tears he’s got six weeks before the first playoff match. I mean, I’m just saying. Obviously, I don’t think we should do that. I’m just telling you the options.”

Making a guy tear a muscle to prove he wasn’t lying? Nah. Mega nah. “We don’t risk it. We have him on the bench,” I said, “we keep an eye on the Grimsby score, make a calculation about the risk reward of bringing him on for the last twenty.”

“Boss,” said Sandra. “Team sheet’s already in. We can replace him in the line up but if we do that, we can’t use him.”

Everyone was talking to me like I was in a bad mood and/or unable to make good decisions. Completely unjustified, but I rose above it. In football terms, the drop from Henri to Ziggy was alarming. We would effectively be playing with ten men until we got the ball into Aldershot’s penalty box, which would be harder without a big, strong target man. In social terms, I knew that if Ziggy was an ineffective starter in a match ‘just crying out for Chipper’, I would get a ton of shit from the media and from fans.

I would also get stick for not asking Henri to take some painkillers or to ‘run his injury off’. Play through the pain, mate. That’s what champions do.

And where was Tom Westwood, who had done so well in the previous match against Aldershot? He was in the Welsh third tier, banging in goals for a club owned by Max Best. Is that the optimal use of Chester’s resources?

And finally, if it ever got out that the reason I didn’t play as striker instead of Henri was that I was in no physical state to do it because I’d skipped a key weekend of the season to go clubbing – literally – in Gibraltar? Hanging out with the owner of a rival team?

The thought of some gammon coming up to me on the street to complain about one or all of these things made my mind up for me, which is maybe not the best way to make key decisions at a critical point in the season. “Henri, I need you against Oldham on Saturday. Rest yourself up until then. You could do me a favour and go and sit with Emma. She’s had a miserable last couple of days. Sandra, can you tell the ref Ziggy will start? Who do you want on the bench to replace him?”

“Chipper,” she said, but she must have imagined something dark crossing my face because she hurriedly added, “Bad joke. Bad joke. Are you fit?”

“Fighting fit.”

“Sharky. Aldershot have some slow players.”

“Cool.”

***

In our home match against The Shots, we had gone three-nil down. That had been the last hurrah of a no-mark known briefly as The Influencer, because I had orchestrated a stunning second-half comeback and booted his phone onto the roof of the Harry McNally Terrace. He left with his tail between his legs, and so did Aldershot.

That experience, plus the fact that we were on a long winning streak and were above them in the table made the home team start out more cagily than Sandra had expected.

“Playing it safe, aren’t they?”

“We are scary,” I said. “I’d hate to play against Chester.” I checked the match ratings, our Conditions, and the score from the other top-of-the-table clash. “How would you set up against us?”

Sandra raised her eyebrows. “Uh. Three-four-three. It’s my new favourite. I’m getting obsessed with it.”

That woke me up a little bit. 3-4-3 was the next formation I could buy and I didn’t like it. To me it seemed like the latest must-have tactical fad that worked with elite players but not in tier five. Sandra saying it was her new favourite was fascinating, not least because her staff profile still showed her as being a 4-2-3-1 girl.

My XP balance was growing and had shot past 11,000, more than enough to buy 3-4-3 plus something else, but I was saving up to buy Relationism. To some extent it was stubborn pride – surely my skills were good enough for the National League? Buying new formations, unlocking Attributes, even buying a monthly perk was repellant. “Three-four-three, wow. I’ve never seen it used well. Tell me more.”

She eyed me. “How about we have this conversation when you’re less… tired?”

I eyed her right back. “Is my banter not sparkling enough for you?”

“Your banter is as radiant as always, boss, especially the grunts. Ugh for yes and ugh! for no. Head in hands staring at the floor means ‘safe to approach’. Staring at the ceiling while gnashing your teeth means ‘ready to hear all your funny stories from the weekend!'”

I simmered for a few seconds, then let out a laugh. “I had a shit time.”

“I know.”

I checked nothing interesting was happening on the pitch. “Have you got any funny stories from the weekend?”

“Yes,” she said. “I’ll tell you after we win.” She scanned the pitch. “Looks like a stalemate.”

I lowered my voice. “We’ve got the same problem as Grimsby. Very good defence, solid midfield, not much threat up top.” Grimsby versus Barnet was still nil-nil. I checked the Live Table and didn’t mind the look of it. If both games were draws, our destiny would stay in our hands. Or was I missing something? “Are we happy with a draw?”

Sandra sucked her lips into a hard pout while she considered the question. “Away point against a rival is always decent. How it feels depends on the other result but we can’t control that, can we? You’re always saying control what we can. You missed your plane, you’re in a grump, Henri’s got a mysterious injury, Shots have a top-five defence. Unless you go on a rampage like last time, I don’t think we’re carving them open. We keep the game tight like this, keep the scores close, and you unleash your special brand of sparkling banter near the end.”

“I’ve got great bantz,” I said, sulkily. Sandra turned away and covered her mouth.

***

Every few minutes, someone would do something to cheer me up.

On the pitch, Pascal showed why the curse rated him so highly – he found space, passed, and darted away, a perpetual motion machine. Ziggy had finally turned CA 50 – getting that last point had been agonisingly slow. He was completely dominated by the two hulking centre backs he was up against but when Pascal hit a sharp square ball to him, Ziggy first-timed it just wide of the post. If we fed him, he would score! The defence was rock solid – adding Zach and Christian to the mix had been worth every penny of their fees and wages. Meanwhile, Aff and Carl showed why clubs were calling me every week trying to get me to discuss transfers.

Off the pitch, Vimsy came up to me with a weird drawing he’d made. “What do you think?”

I examined it but couldn’t make head nor tail of what it was. Lots of shapes and cylinders on two sort of shelves. “Mate, a few hours ago I was practically in Africa. Don’t give me blob tests.”

“It’s the trophy cabinet, look. I’ve moved the Cheshire Cup to the side, see?”

I held it away from me, like old people who don’t have their glasses do. “Oh, okay. Why?”

He’d been waiting for that. He whipped out a pencil and drew a small circle. When he saw that I had no clue, he explained. “It’s your Manager of the Month award! For March! Six wins at least.”

“Sandra did Maidstone.”

“Bah,” he said, waving my words away. “You’re nailed on.” He looked up as a red-shirted player struck a long shot miles over the bar. “Did you find anyone?”

“What?”

“You were off scouting, right? I heard you got a tip about a player.”

“Oh. Not for us, I don’t think, but it wasn’t a wasted trip.”

“Good. That’s good.”

Yeah, I thought. It was good. I was building a web of connections that would help me put good footballers into suitable positions and I would get rich along the way. It was just that this bloody National League was getting to me. One automatic promotion slot! It was crazy. Almost every team in the league was full-time professional and some had budgets bigger than League Two sides. The division needed to be absorbed into the EFL as League Three. The bottleneck was so narrow. If we couldn’t slip through…

If we didn’t get promoted there would be no dentist, no progress towards a new stadium, we would lose Wibbers, and there would be no Brazilians.

It didn’t bear thinking about, but there I was, passively waiting for the second half. Oh, sure, I was mechanically hitting my hotkeys, making tweaks, using the Without Ball screens to tighten up the defence. I would use Seal It Up near the end if we needed to get gung-ho and I would use Cupid’s Arrow to connect me and whoever looked the most dangerous. I was doing all the right things. I was being a seriously good football manager. But I wasn’t in it. I had no emotional connection to the match. Maybe it was because I was tired, maybe there was a deeper reason.

The one time I left my dugout was on the 40th minute, sensing danger. Carl Carlile won a header and thought it was going to Magnus, so he sprinted forward to create an overload with Pascal. A really good chance to do something with a lot of expected threat! But he had completely misjudged it.

 

Carlile with the header towards the DM slot.

Evergreen glances over his shoulder to see what his options will be.

But Baxter appears out of nowhere! He leaps and chests the ball forward.

Fierce leaves the defensive line and slides in.

The ball ricochets kindly for Onions. He plays it forward to his left.

Smith is wide open!

The winger dashes into the penalty box. He has got options.

He elects to shoot…

GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

Finished with aplomb!

Chester were carved open.

Aldershot move up to fourth!

 

I shook my head, but I wasn’t even angry. It was just one of those things. Neither Carl nor Magnus saw that Baxter guy in their blind spots, and that was enough to cause havoc. Christian probably should have stood his man up and kept the shape of the defensive line, but on the other hand, he won the tackle and nine times out of ten that would have been the end of the danger.

Aldershot dropped back to a mid block and invited us to play through them. We did, but struggled to create clear-cut chances. I didn’t mind it – we’d had a lot of practice playing against packed defences. Later, I would go on and unleash a barrage of long shots. One would go in and that would be that.

***

Half time was quiet, but not in a bad way. Morale was still exceptionally high – an average of 5.8 (out of 7) across the whole squad. That had been the first goal we’d conceded in the entire month of March. It was nowhere enough to put us off our stride.

“Guys,” I said, after the usual decompression phase. My energy was relatively low, but that simply made the players listen harder. “Decent half. They got their break. We’ll get ours. It’s still nil-nil at Barnet but it really doesn’t matter what happens there. Every result is great for us, one way or another. We have to do our jobs, and the absolute priority is to get a goal and get back in this game so I can win Manager of the Month for March.”

There was a moment of quiet bafflement. Eddie Moore said, “Say that again, boss?”

“I want to be Manager of the Month for March and then I’ll be Player of the Month for April. No-one’s ever done that before and no-one’s ever gonna do that again.” I caught Zach’s face – half pumped by the awesomeness of my words and half-sedated by the flatness of my delivery – and had to laugh. It broke what little tension there was in the room. If the boss is relaxed, I can relax! I tapped the tactics board. “The formation is fine. What we’re doing is working. This lot are good. They’re really good but we’ve got tricks up our sleeve. So for now we stick at it, hang in there, all that Vimsy stuff. Vimsy, say one of those things.”

Vimsy stepped forward. “Keep working your bloody socks off, lads! These guys aren’t as fresh as you. They’re all carrying knocks, they’re gasping, they’re running two yards for every one you’re doing. Turn that screw, lads!”

I absolutely beamed at him. “Come here,” I said, waving him in.

“It’s half time, Max.”

“Come on.”

Reluctantly, he took little steps towards me until I bear-hugged him. I slapped him on the back a few times and on a whim, took him by the hand and raised it above his head. “Employee of the Week!” I yelled. An ear-splitting round of applause followed, supplemented by whistles, and, of course, Texan whoops.

“Max,” complained Vimsy, but I hugged him again and made him stand by my side while I draped an arm around his shoulder.

“Lads,” I said, when I could be heard again. “I’ve had a shit day. But I had a great weekend before that and I’ve come home and I’m your manager and you’re my players and I’ve got Vimsy in my corner. I’m grumpy on the outside but on the inside I’m loving life, all right? I wanted us to evolve this season and what have we done? In the first match against Aldershot they tore through us again and again and it was three-nil at half time. Could have been six. Today? They’ve got lucky but barely created anything. We’ve got our hard shell. What about teeth?” I smiled. “Aff’s deadly. Ziggy’s sharp. Pascal’s, er…”

“Relentless,” suggested Pascal.

I stared, stupidly, because I couldn’t think of what Pascal was. I rubbed my eyes.

“Dynamic,” suggested Pascal. “Fearsome. Football intelligence made flesh.”

“I think I was going to say an invasive species.”

“Space invader!” he complained.

“That’s what I said. And we’ve got a shark on the bench. But the most efficient animal – don’t fact check this – is one who lets someone else do all the work and then moves in after the kill. Erm. Can’t remember the name. Not a vulture. What’s a land-based vulture?”

“Coyote,” said Zach. “Could be you fellas call ’em jackals.”

“Day of the Zachal,” I said. “That could be a match programme theme.” The bell rang. One minute. “I’m mentally tired but I can do twenty-five minutes, easy. When I come on, I’ll revamp the whole midfield, I reckon. Andrew and Sharky will join me and we’ll raise the tempo against their tired legs. Pascal, Ryan, Wisey, you’ll be coming off most likely so if you can put a bit more in for twenty minutes that’s gonna make it easier for us. Tire them out, give me an easy kill. Got me? Good. Let’s go chomp-chomp.”

They clattered out. Sandra, Vimsy, and I were the last to leave, apart from the physios. Sandra said, “I’m not Employee of the Week? I beat Maidstone while you were off gallivanting.”

“Vimsy said a thing.”

She shook her head. “I can say things. Better things than let’s go chomp-chomp.”

I smiled. “Either I’m absolutely shattered or the evolution theme has run its course. What do you reckon?”

“I reckon sometimes two things can be true.”

I cocked my head back and to the side. “See, that was top. Why didn’t you say that at half time?”

I tried to jauntily skip past her but she put her hand on my chest, forcefully. “Shinpads, boss.”

“Yes! Right.” I went back to my kit bag, which the Brig had brought for me. Over time I’d tried different types of shinnies, but had settled on oversized ones with ankle protection. I picked them up and slapped them into my palm. “Sandra Lane. Employee of the Second Half! See? We’ve got everything we need. Don’t need to buy anything else.”

***

Gambling adverts say ‘when the fun stops, stop.’ But I couldn’t stop the match; I was forced to sit through twenty minutes of so-called action that were every bit as dispiriting and stressful as waiting at Gibraltar airport trying to will a plane into existence.

Aldershot must have been chastened by the second-half spanking we’d given them at the Deva because now that they had a lead to defend they were super organised, super hard to break down, super risk-averse. It didn’t help that our focal point was Ziggy, but I could hardly get mad at him, could I? If he had stayed at FC United, he would probably be on 15 goals. The lesson of our season – and Grimsby’s – was that you needed a good striker if you wanted to be successful. Which is easier said than done, guys.

I wondered what had happened to Henri. Had he faked it? The curse said there was nothing wrong with him in the slightest. Worrying. If Henri had checked out of the season, we would achieve precisely nothing. I rubbed my head. That wasn’t right. I would try to re-skill as a striker as fast as I could. Stop practising set pieces and technique, do more headers, more strength work. I didn’t like playing with my back to goal and didn’t enjoy the physical contest, but I would do a passable job.

Was there a perk that could help me if we didn’t have a striker? The shop – closed during the match, of course – was uninspiring. Nothing screamed that it would help me beat Oldham or Gateshead. One option was Form for 500 XP. What it did wasn’t well explained but maybe buying it would satisfy my lizard brain’s need to consume. Some retail therapy. Just enough progress to make me feel like I wasn’t finishing the season too passively, to shut down the nagging thought that I shouldn’t be saving up, not now, not now.

The minutes drifted past. There were headers, tackles, sprints, throw-ins. It was football straight from 1988. Not quite garbage, but it was close.

We tried our best to put moves together. We never dipped below sixty percent possession and we achieved one aim – we made Aldershot run and run. The match ratings were very slightly in their favour, but we were draining their Condition. As the minutes ticked by, more of their players dropped below 80%, then 75%, and even past 70%, which was when fatigue was visible to the naked eye. More Aldershot players got messages in their player profiles.

Suspected ankle injury.

Suspected foot injury.

Suspected knee injury.

We got some, too – we always did. But I’d learned – or I thought I had – that if someone had a suspected foot injury but his Condition was still high, you might as well keep him on the pitch. His injury wasn’t going to get worse, most likely. If someone got a knee injury and his Condition dropped to 44%, you took him off the pitch right away. Alarm! Danger!

I got the feeling that Aldershot’s manager was waiting for me to make my move before changing anything, which given he had better players overall was probably smart. But it did make me wonder what would happen if I simply didn’t change anything. His guys would be absolutely wrecked in the last ten minutes. I could switch to 4-4-2, push Magnus to right mid, Pascal up front.

While I was ruminating, Grimsby Town scored. Barnet 0, Town 1. Danny Flash.

Okay, so that meant I had to get proactive. The clock hit 70 and I thought, fuck it. We had nothing to lose.

 

Triple change for Chester.

Off go Ryan Jack, James Wise, and Pascal Bochum.

They have worked hard.

On come Max Best, Andrew Harrison, and Wes Hayward.

Christian Fierce offers Best the captain’s armband.

Best waves it away.

 

I took thirty seconds to finish my warm up – when I was doing manager stuff I found it hard to concentrate on my needs as a player – and then did a big sprint at the ball. A defender cleared it and I had a tiny out-of-body-experience.

I was fucking wrecked. I felt like a ship whose sails were full of cannonball holes. Clearly it was going to be one of those days when mind and body weren’t in total sync. It happened to me a few times a season, same as with any player, but the timing, man. The timing. Maybe if I had stayed in England instead of – No! Try to stay positive.

Now that I’d made my big move, Aldershot’s manager made some changes of his own. That gave me some time to catastrophise while I walked to Sandra.

“Sandra, he’s taking his wingers off; they’re doing 5-3-2. Is that keep it tight, look for breaks?”

“Sounds about right. Any signs of them marking you?”

I checked the screens. “No.”

“So business as usual.”

She was fresher; she could think straight. I should do less managing and focus on getting on the ball. Keep it simple, Seals. Listen to the boss lady. “Okay. Erm… 5-3-2. The full backs won’t attack, so there’s nothing coming down our flanks. What about moving a full back to wing back?”

“Why not both?”

“Too much,” I lied. It was only the constraints of the curse that stopped me pushing all my wide players one zone further. As it was, I could shift one and nudge the others.

Sandra considered it. “Eddie.”

“Aight.”

I slid Eddie’s icon one step forward and used the With Ball screens to push Carl, Aff, and Sharky as far forward as I could.

I walked back to central midfield and looked around at the familiar faces. We’d been contacted about selling Aff and Carl to a League Two club – I had asked to delay negotiations until after the Oldham game – but it seemed we had eight games left with the current crew. Ten including the playoffs. That was an eternity.

Aff held off a challenge and looked for a pass. It was supposed to be me supporting him! I raced across and pointed – Aff used his weaker right to put the ball where I wanted. I nudged it first time out to the left where Eddie was bombing forward. He was in space but he wouldn’t have an easy cross; Aff and I hurried to give him more options.

Eddie got to the edge of the box and cut the ball back to Aff. Aff had to use his right again, but flicked the ball into my path. It bounced up a fraction too high for a half-volley so I checked where the goalie was and sort of lashed down at the ball, imparting vicious spin and power…

Which was a real menace to whichever vehicle it hit in the stadium’s car park.

“Fuck me,” I said, hands on knees while the home fans pissed themselves. Soon they were chanting, “EFL? You’re having a laugh!”

Ziggy ambled over. “Was that Manager of the Month material?”

“They don’t count what I do on the pitch.”

Ziggy looked up and shielded his eyes from the floodlights. “They might if they see that.”

“The cameras are in Barnet,” I said. “No-one’s watching this except on highlights.”

“If I was the director, I’d put that shot on the highlights. It went higher than the lights.”

“If I do that again, can you punch me in the dick, please?”

“Yes, boss,” he said.

The goalie took the goal kick – he booted it long – and the new patterns of play emerged. Our back line was higher, our wide players would get more joy, but there was little danger from crosses when it was Ziggy against three centre backs. The image of him alone in the penalty area, alone in a sea of defenders, was startling. How are we supposed to score from that?

For the millionth time, my traitorous mind wished I had brought Chipper instead of Sharky. The latter could get to the byline, but then what? It was one-in-a-million that anything he did would lead to a goal when the penalty box was awash with defenders. Chipper would win headers and draw aggro onto himself while others exploited the space he made. Okay, but Chipper was a dick. I couldn’t let him spread his Chipperness no matter what it cost on a game by game basis.

What could I do with what I had?

Maybe we could draw Aldershot onto us with some Let It Happen.

I swapped places with Magnus and put my foot on the ball in the DM slot. Shot’s strikers came to press me but the midfielders stayed put. Let It Happen was not on today’s menu. I passed to Andrew and rethought. I was too fried to come up with anything really clever, so I tried to keep things simple and went back to basics.

“Zach,” I said, keeping an eye on the action in front of me.

“Yes, boss.”

“You’re a science boy. Let me check some science on you.”

“Ready when you are.”

“Positional play is underpinned by having numerical superiority.”

“Yes, boss.”

“Aldershot have two strikers so we should have three defenders.”

“Yes, boss.”

We paused as it seemed Shot might turn the ball over, but nothing came of it. “They’ve got three in midfield, so we should have four.”

“Sounds right to me.”

“That means… Do I want 3-4-3?”

“We’ve never trained 3-4-3, boss.”

I nodded and jogged forward. A ball was played into midfield and Shot’s most creative CM, Onions, ran onto it. When he touched the ball, hoping to break through the lines, he ran straight into my shoulder while the ball found itself trapped under my studs. Onions slid three yards away; I rolled the ball to Magnus.

Christian had been listening. “Qualitative superiority, boss. Don’t forget that.” He meant I was better than Onions. Okay, true, but unlike against Grimsby, me marking someone out of the game wasn’t going to help us get a result.

The rush of adrenaline from the shoulder barge brought me some clarity. “We haven’t trained 3-4-3 exactly, but we’ve got something close.” I switched us to 3-5-2 and slid my players around. The back three was Christian, Zach, and Carl. Left mid was Eddie, right mid Sharky (both set to be as narrow as the screens would allow). Centre mids were Andrew and Magnus. Up front, Aff and Ziggy. In theory I was the third CM, but was free to join the strikers, turning 3-5-2 into 3-4-3.

The effect of this change was almost instant – our possession stats leapt and we forced Shots all the way back. When they tried to break they got smashed in duels. We had the numbers in defence, and it was child’s play to move the ball through their feeble press!

I found myself loitering near Ziggy – I simply wasn’t needed elsewhere. Then…

 

Evergreen passes to Hayward. He drives towards the left back, who retreats.

Hayward puts his foot on the ball and looks inside. He finds Best.

Best points to the far post and prepares to chip a curling cross.

Best controls the ball through two defenders! He spotted a gap.

Tremendous burst of speed.

Has he taken the ball too wide?

He’s going to have a crack…

Off the post!

Did the goalie have it covered?

The Chester fans have their heads in their hands.

Much better from Best.

 

It was happening! The momentum changed so completely it was just as disorientating as seeing there was no plane waiting to whizz me home. I ran with more purpose. The ball obeyed me.

We pushed forward and got openings. Sharky menaced his man but then cut back to roll passes for me to thrash at goal. The first one went just over. The second had much more dip and bend and the goalie got a hand to it. The third exploded off me and was heading for the inside side-netting – perfection – but the goalie found another inch of arm from somewhere and tipped my shot onto the crossbar. It shot up and gravity took an age to kick in. Ziggy and Aff were waiting for it to drop but it hit the wrong edge of the bar and bounced back behind the goal.

But Aldershot weren’t stupid and they weren’t going to let me keep taking potshots. They didn’t exactly mark me but when I broke from midfield they tracked me, and their smarter players tried to close the passing lanes between Sharky and me.

With fifteen minutes left I used Seal It Up so we could get even more attack-minded. But who to link with Cupid’s Arrow? Me to Christian Fierce, perhaps? I could target him from corners and free kicks. Or Aff? No, my passes to him were fraught with danger. Shot had too many bodies back. I gambled on connecting with Andrew Harrison, then put him to make forward runs and allowed him to dribble. Perhaps he could make a difference with some penalty box entries. Another body in there, causing havoc, disrupting the defence. 3-5-2 turning into 3-3-4.

Andrew and I passed to each other a few times. I drifted wide right looking for Sharky, but his marker did a good job. I did a Cody Chambers chop-turn and pinged a ball to the left. Eddie took it forward and fizzed it back to my feet. Instinct told me to let it run through my legs with just a feathery redirection.

The ball ran perfectly into Andrew’s stride and he took it past a defender.

The defender, though, hadn’t expected such quality and he had slid in to where he thought the ball would go. He crunched into Andrew, leaving him in a heap. Andrew’s Stamina and Strength turned red. We had used our three subs. Yet another reason we needed to get promoted this season – in serious leagues you were allowed to make five changes. More minutes for young players, more grandiose tactical reorganisations, more more more.

That, though, was an increasingly unlikely future. In the here and now, I watched through a kind of fog while Dean checked Andrew and the ref booked his assailant. Zach had words with the guy. Aldershot’s captain had words with Zach. Christian had words with their captain. The match was spiralling. My Cupid’s Arrow partner would play no further part in the game. Barnet had equalised. I was too drained for any of it to get to me on an emotional basis. I looked at where the foul had happened. Twenty-five yards out, right of centre. Dreamy. It’s like a dream. After this shot we would play the match ten against eleven. Backs to the wall defending. Would we get another chance? Very possibly not. This was one shot to save our season.

I stayed still while Dean helped Andrew hobble off the pitch, while the ref tried and failed to restore order, while the noise from the stands died down until there was only a light hum.

Eventually, when it was time to take the free kick, all I could hear was the ref’s whistle. I used Masterpiece Theatre to drag Aff to my side. If the angle was great for a right-footer, it was even better for a leftie. The goalie had set his wall for me, not for Aff, and it was too late for him to readjust.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

“Aff,” I said. “Hit it side foot over the wall, top right.” He gave me the blank look I always got if I gave verbal instructions that contradicted what I was asking for via the curse. I was set as the team’s free kick and corner taker, so Aff couldn’t take that kick even if I told him I would give him twenty thousand in cash if he did. It was hard to know if he had heard me or if the curse had sort of filtered out my instruction.

Next, I waved at Zach to go more towards the far post, while bringing him closer to me on the Masterpiece Theatre screen.

Then I did three things almost simultaneously.

I smashed the Free Hit button.

I stepped away from the ball, screaming at Zach. “What the fuck are you doing?”

I set Aff as our free kick taker.

Zach’s surprise was real, and every defender turned to see what was happening. The goalie, too, looked away from the ball and relaxed, and by the time he realised he’d been scammed, it was too late.

 

Best to take the free kick. He motions to Green.

Green comes closer. He doesn’t seem to be sure what his manager wants.

Best berates his defender.

Aff swishes the ball into the top-right!

GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

Struck so sweetly! The goalie barely moved!

The Aldershot captain is complaining to the referee.

Best embraces Green! Aff runs to the joyous away end!

Chester are level! Their destiny is still in their hands!

***

The last ten minutes or so were wild. Aldershot, seeing that we were playing with ten, reorganised to 3-5-2. I dropped to the DM slot and sprinted for all my life. This draw, this point was suddenly the most valuable substance in the known universe. I thundered into tackles, shoulder-barged Shotters into touch while stealing their lunch, and dribbled past their frantic, disorganised press. Once clear of danger we reset and passed the ball around. After a couple of minutes of chasing our shadows, Aldershot were so far in the red zone it was like we had the extra man.

In moments where there was an injury or the ref was lecturing a player, I heard the thousand Chester fans in the away end singing their hearts out. During the action itself, I only heard the hum. But one time, the volume got so loud it shattered my bubble of awareness.

I got the ball, did a shake n’ bake where I sent a defender’s body weight left then burst past him on the right, and suddenly there was absolute delirium. I looked around, confused, and chipped the ball towards the far corner flag. Max Best goes for the corner!

The Chester fans had gone wild because Barnet had scored again. Barnet were beating Grimsby. If that match stayed the same score, Barnet would go level on points with Grimsby, and the goal difference would be close. But more importantly, Chester would be five points behind both… with two games in hand! Win those and we would be one point clear at the top of the league.

I lifted my arms in waves, trying to fill our wings with air. This flight would not be cancelled. The Aldershot fans had long since quit mocking us, and their attempts to gee up their players were weak. The spirit was with the blues.

Carl went up for, and won, a header, but Onions won the rebound. He did a little shake n’ bake move of his own and he was shaping to shoot. Could have been dangerous, but I made up the ground and slid in, hooking the ball away. Christian Fierce tackled at the same time, while Magnus had arrived from the other side and Zach Green had hurled himself in front of the shot.

There was only one logical response to such a display of teamwork, determination, and self-sacrifice: I clenched my hands into balls and roared, the kind of full-on guttural scream where you’re surprised your abs don’t pop out.

I prowled around, waiting for someone to break clear of his marker so I could fucking smash into him, but we didn’t lose another duel. The ref blew for full-time and I joined my players over at the away end. Our winning streak was over. Nobody gave a shit.

The fans thought they knew where we stood and for those brief minutes, at least, I had zero doubts they were right.

“We’re gonna win the league! We’re gonna win the league! And now you’re gonna believe us, and now you’re gonna believe us… we’re gonna win the league!”

***

I got showered, dressed, and went straight to the team bus. I thought I would fall asleep instantly, but I was far too wired. I put my MaxPods Max on and played some brown noise. I think I was just starting to do some microsleeps when something touched me. Emma was gently drawing her hand across my face. Sweet, but her hand was bloody freezing. “Babes,” she said. “We’re not going home on the bus. Did you forget?”

“Uh?”

“Come on.”

I got up and followed her off the coach. The Brig was waiting. He led us to his car. Wait, that wasn’t right. “No, John. You stay and hang out with your mates.”

He smiled. “These particular friends are better in small doses, sir. If you don’t mind, let’s crack on. I’ll drop you off and bring Emma home.”

I was compos mentis enough to make one good decision. “Er, no. Emma first. Ladies first.”

“Very good, sir.”

***

On the drive, I woke up a few times, and each time there was a growing sense of unease located somewhere around the middle of my stomach.

In the minds of the players, the media, the fans, of everyone, we were one point clear at the top of the table.

But we weren’t. We were five points behind, Oldham was going to be even harder than Aldershot, and Gateshead would be even harder than that.

I wanted to put out a tweet saying ‘everyone calm down and get real’ but I also wanted everyone to enjoy the moment. Let them dream.

Oldham were likely to stop us in our tracks, and the brevity of our ‘lead’ at the top of the table would be crushing. The more the fans rejoiced now, the harder a setback would hit them.

The queasiness grew. What could I do, though? I couldn’t get higher Morale or new players. I couldn’t get more motivation. Inwardly groaning at my weakness, I went to the perk shop.

XP balance: 11,642

 

Playdar 2 would give me an extra token slot so that I could change how Playdar worked. For example, I could set it to look for goalkeepers or extend its range – at an additional cost. No, thanks, plus it always led me to eight-year-olds, and none of those were likely to score on their debut this weekend.

The Stattoo Parlour would open up loads of stats pages, like lists of the top scorers, players with the highest average rating, and so on. It was the kind of quality of life improvement that was nice to have, but it seemed massively overpriced given I could go on a website and get the same info and more.

No, the only really tempting perks were Attributes – it was always good to learn more about players – and the next formation. My version of 3-4-3 had surprised me with its effectiveness, but if I was on the pitch, I could already hack a 3-4-3. Why did I need to buy it?

I closed my eyes and told myself to stop looking at the league table.

I couldn’t.

 

***

The Brig and Emma dropped me off first, the scamps! As I was clambering out of the car, bleary-eyed, I caught Emma trying to hide in the space behind the seats.

“You’re here now. Why don’t you stay the night?”

“I’ve got to get back to work, too. I don’t have a Sandra to do my paperwork. Go and sleep, babes. I’ll see you on Saturday in Oldham. That’s gonna be easier than tonight, right?”

“No, harder.”

She tried to smile. “I’m sure you’ll win. Seeya.”

“Byes.”

***

Wednesday, March 26

The buzz was incredible. The entire city had woken up, looked at the league table, and realised that the question was no longer, ‘Could we?’ but ‘Why wouldn’t we?’ A thousand evangelists had travelled back from their pilgrimage to Aldershot and were spreading the word; the word was good.

As for me, I had woken up not quite fully fresh, but nicely rested. A check of the squad screens told me that Henri had a ‘suspected calf injury’. I punched the air. I’d been right to trust him! Right to let him sit out the match. If he had aggravated that injury, our season would have imploded.

I texted him that he was a ledge for coming forward and that if I ever changed the club’s badge, it would be from a wolf to his face. He replied that he would get ‘his people’ to mock something up after training but I replied saying if he was seen at training he would be chased away with pitchforks. Rest, man, rest!

The training session was intense for the young players and reserves, but light for everyone who had gone to Aldershot. I had a long chat with Sandra about 3-4-3. It seemed that 3-4-3 would let me cover quite a lot of bases.

• It would allow us to play fast, attacking football.
• In the wild, 3-4-3 could be seen in wide versions, narrow versions, or even a midfield diamond, creating vastly different effects. I wasn’t sure which version the curse would give me but in principle it was a Swiss army knife formation.
• The three-man attack would allow us to press teams that used DMs. Tremendous, but we were unlikely to face one for the rest of the season.
• It would allow us to create what Sandra called ‘pressing traps’ – zones where we would encourage weaker opponents to bring the ball so we could give them a good tickling. Again, it seemed like something we would need at higher levels when we had tactically smart players in all positions.
• It would let me give Glenn Ryder some game time, but reduce the minutes for my (three!) left backs.
• Sandra suggested Wibbers and Pascal would thrive in this system, as would I.

I listened carefully, but couldn’t quite visualise all of it, and I couldn’t get past the feeling that I was already incredibly overpowered for the level. But no sooner had that thought arrived than another did on top of it – what was the harm in upgrading?

Well, the harm was that anything I spent now would delay the time when I bought Relationism. Who knew? Maybe I would need to unlock that module to have the first clue what I was seeing in Brazil. It would be nice to be in touching distance of unlocking the concept that was fundamental to the entire trip! To my entire summer!

But, I thought, sending my queasiness into overdrive, getting promoted was also fundamental to the trip, and to a hell of a lot of other things.

Sensing that I was falling into a doom spiral, I suggested to Sandra we park the discussion of getting 3-4-3 for now and revisit it next season. She gave me one of those looks where she couldn’t quite understand what I was saying, but didn’t push back.

We discussed what we would do against Oldham. We had drawn 2-2 against them in our home match, but that was thanks to a stupid red card from one of their players. That day they had been CA 72, but they had lost one of their stars in the transfer window. His replacement was an unknown quantity but on the footage I’d seen, not an improvement.

“They’re good,” I said. “Solid 4-4-2 merchants. They’ll have their moments. Set pieces, direct balls. All that shit. But when we went at them they folded. That was with home advantage and playing against ten but I’d really love to unleash Wibbers. It’s just…”

“What?”

I sighed. “Maybe we should play our best eleven every match and grind out wins. Seven wins, the title is ours.” Something inside me twisted when I said those words.

“Are we going to win all seven?”

I pulled at my bottom lip. “We’ll win five. Oldham and Gateshead are slightly ahead of us. A draw at Oldham would be good. We’re at home against Gateshead but they absolutely battered us at their place. I’d take a draw.”

“Five wins and two draws? That would make it, er, sixteen games unbeaten. What more can we do? I want to push for every win but a little voice in my head is telling me to have something in reserve for the playoffs. That little voice… is yours.”

“I’m all over the place, Sandra. If we go flat-out at the title we’ll probably end up with five wins, one draw, one defeat. That might be enough to overtake Grimsby or Barnet, but not both. And I just have this feeling that we’ve been going flat-out for a while. I’ve been thinking about machines in factories that are being used, used, used, and not maintained. We’ve been doing less rotation. Trusting the young players less. It’s all logical, it’s right, but… is it? We’ve been thinking long-term for ages and it’s been working and now suddenly the end’s in sight so we’ve ripped up our playbook and gone full dinosaur. It’s really confusing because obviously you don’t change a winning formula but obviously you’ve got to put your best team on the pitch when the chips are down.” Because I said ‘chips’ we both glanced towards Chipper, which annoyed me twice over. “Our season might get two additional matches, right? We’re actually in the sweet spot where we can cruise into third place. Rest some weary legs. Can we take Carl out of the team and dip him in oil? Henri’s had a couple of tiny breaks. Pascal had a winter break. So we can go hard in the next match, but after Oldham it’s Hartlepool and Rochdale. They’re quality. They’ll slap us if we don’t go hard.” Not for the first time that morning I had contradicted myself and said the exact opposite of what I had set out to say. The hell was up with me?

Sandra smiled. “Is this the first time I’ve seen you agonising over team selections?”

“It might be. It’s not a big deal if you’re eighth in the league. If you’re basically first with two teams a hair’s breadth behind… man. One mistake and you’re done. We have to be perfect.”

“We’re not going to be perfect. What’s the most Max Best version of our line up this Saturday? Away against the team in fifth.”

I shrugged. “4-2-3-1. Rest Carl. Wibbers starts.”

“Don’t we have to pay money if he plays too many games?”

“I asked MD to ask Banbury if we can delay the payment till the summer. They said yes.” A cloud descended on me. Another of my past decisions with the potential to bite me on the arse. It wasn’t that I was keeping Wibbers out of the team to avoid making the payment, but the timing of his eleventh appearance had been a source of worry. We were tapped out. There was no cash in the bank and if we were late paying, Banbury could have kicked up a fuss and potentially got us a transfer ban or something like that. I needn’t have worried – to them the twenty thousand pounds was free money. Still, maybe I should have stolen their player from under their nose with no compensation. That’s how a proper football club would have acted.

Sandra lifted her arms in a stretch. “4-2-3-1, then. Youngster and Ryan as DMs?”

“Not Youngster. He’s not coming.”

“Max,” said Sandra. She was annoyed that I was refusing to select Chipper, but she understood something had happened between us. Not using our best midfielder, though – Youngster had raced ahead to CA 75 during his time away – that seemed wilfully stupid. “He barely played in AFCON. He’s fresh. He’s ready. We could use him. He could be the difference!”

“I know,” I said. “Which is why we need to be kind to him. Look, I just went through travel hell. The waiting around, the stress, the anxiety, then the flights themselves and the airports and all the people coughing and the germ-filled babies and all that. It’s a nightmare. I look at Youngster, I see me times twenty. He has been in Togo waiting for his turn to play, no control, not sure what’s coming, his manager not talking to him much, loads of waiting around, being shuttled from place to place. I know he wasn’t sleeping well because Meghan told Kisi who told me. Then the flight to Casablanca, to Madrid, to London. It’s draining. He looks fresh but he’s not. He’s really not. Yes, we need him. Yes, he could get us some points. But there’s a little voice in my head telling me to give him another weekend off, and do you know whose voice that is?”

“Mine? Yours? His mum’s?”

“It’s the voice of whoever’s doing the documentary voice-over. He’s saying ‘Youngster was rushed back into the team. What could go wrong?’ No, on Saturday, I’ll play the Youngster role. We will be quite solid. Let’s do Pascal, Wibbers, and Sharky behind whichever striker is fit.”

“Whichever striker is fit,” she said, looking down between her feet. She had Chipper on her mind. “Boss, can I be serious for a minute?”

“Yep,” I said, tensing. As soon as she said the ‘ch’ from Chipper I was liable to fly into a rage.

“I can’t tell if you’re making good decisions. I think we’re both on edge. This run has cost us, hasn’t it, and now we’re where we need to be and it’s…”

“Bit of a mindfuck,” I suggested.

“Yeah. I don’t think you’d normally care about missing a flight. You’d shrug it off and do something mental and fun while waiting for the next one. It’s not a good sign that one, you had a freakout and two, every single person at this football club empathised so strongly. I know you cancelled all your meetings this week so you could focus on the football but maybe a distraction would do you good. Do us good.”

“Bit of downtime?”

“Yeah.”

I checked the squad screens. Sending five players to Tranmere every day had got me some much-needed CA growth. Morale was high. We had won eight out of the last nine. We’d been pushing, pushing, pushing. “Two days off?”

“Tomorrow off. Friday, Glenn should take them somewhere.”

I nodded. “Yeah. That’s it. That’s perfect. One last break before one last big push.” I closed my eyes; it felt right. Really right. The queasiness felt fifty percent weaker already. I opened my eyes and smiled. “What are you gonna do?”

She shook her head. “Go shopping? Finish unpacking?”

“You haven’t unpacked? Are you serious?”

“When would I have done that, Max? You make me watch three action movies a week on top of everything else. Actually, my new gaff doesn’t have much storage. I should do that IKEA trip I’ve been putting off.” She visibly sagged. “Or that can wait! Have you got something that’ll take your mind off football?”

“Yes, actually.” I pulled my phone out. “Sumo invited me onto his stream. He’s got a new game he thinks I’ll like.”

***

Thursday, March 27

“With me in the dohyō is Chester FC’s player-manager, Cheshire’s first ever yokozuna, Max Best!”

I was spinning lazily on the second chair in Sumo’s bedroom. Giving everyone two days off before a huge game had caused fury and consternation among the gammons, and I imagined myself doing laps in a swimming pool filled with their tears.

I say fury and consternation, but that might be a slight exaggeration. There was definitely at least one tweet that went something like ‘typical Chester joke club’. Anyway, if the response from the fanbase was generally ‘yeah the lads have earned a break’, my internal instruments had swung hard towards ‘yes, mate, quality decision.’ In the time since telling Glenn the news, my mood had improved three thousand percent.

The entire organisation knew what to do against Oldham. Whether we could do it or not was a totally different issue, but there was no point watching more tape, doing more sprints, more more more preparation. So I had spent half of Wednesday pottering around the Trafford Centre looking for things to buy, trying on hoodies, new kicks, and even booking an impromptu leg massage before remembering how bruised my calves were and changing it to a back rub.

“Max, say something.”

I blinked. I was in Sumo’s bedroom slash studio and we were about to do battle in some thrilling fantasy world. “Sumo, I’m very pleased to be here. I have injected six inches of silicon into my scalp to make sure I meet the height requirements.”

“That’s good, Max. You always put the extra effort in. Except today, when you should be working.”

“Ha,” I said, relaxed ay-eff. “It’s funny but we’ve been grinding and grafting so hard for so long. Nine months, we’ve been at it, and there’s another month to go. We could be in a playoff final six weeks from now. You know Lord of the Rings where you’re like gosh that was a good story wait why is there another 45 minutes? We’re in that phase of the season. Personally, I’m glad to be taking a break from footy for a day or two.” I leaned forward and clapped my hands. “Right! What are we playing?”

Sumo pulled a face and only his eyes moved left and right. The chat was exploding. Sumo, or one of his mods, highlighted some top comments.

 

HAMBO

I’m dying, lol.

GRUMPYTITS

It’s so obvious that he actually knows otherwise he wouldn’t have said that. I hate it when streams jump the shark.

 

“Mate,” I said, leaning forward to read. “We’re not playing Beefer, are we?”

“Beefer? What’s Beefer?”

“You know. Fifa, the B version.”

“It’s called EA FC 25.”

I pulled a face. “That’s not a name. That’s a wifi password.”

Sumo laughed. “Okay it’s not Beefer but it is football. I, er, didn’t know about… We could do something else.”

“Like what?”

“American Truck Simulator. Pressure Washer Simulator 2. Reality TV Make Up Artist Simulator.”

I exhaled. “I’m happy to be hanging out with you, mate. Let’s fire up the footy game.” I’ll admit I was briefly, microscopically annoyed that my break was being filled with the thing I was trying to have a break from, but my humour quickly returned. Of course the universe had done this to me. “Hotel California. You can check out any time you like…”

“But you can never leave.”

I slapped my thigh. “That’s why it’s called a curse!”

Sumo side-eyed me. “Sorry, what?”

“Nothing. What’s the game?”

“Okay, let me set the scene. First of all, Spectrum set this up for me.”

“Spectrum?”

“Yeah he loves a retro game. He says a guy in a pub had a big chat to him about this game and they agreed it would be amazing if you played it.”

“A guy in a pub suggested this,” I said, slowly, eyes narrowing. “Was he short? Weird-looking? Overly interested in football tactics? Terrible handwriting?”

“Er, don’t know. I wasn’t as drawn to that part of the story as you. Okay, so. We’re doing a C64 classic. I haven’t played this, Max. I know what it is but I haven’t played it so we’ve got a fair contest ahead.”

 

THE_STEVE

Why is someone called Spectrum running Commodore 64 emulators?

 

Sumo chuckled – why? – and picked up a card. “So it’s called Emlyn Hughes International Soccer and it’s from 1988.”

“What?”

“It’s from 1988 and it was a big hit. Emlyn Hughes was a famous player from the olden days. I won’t say which club. After he stopped playing, he was popular on a TV show and made headlines when he called Princess Anne ‘mate’.”

“He sounds top.”

“The game was voted the 44th best of all time. Er, on the Commodore 64. That list doesn’t include, like, Zelda and Stardew Valley and Skyrim.”

I spun on my chair. “You know, I really think I should be playing the ninth best game of all time, at this stage of my career. 44th seems beneath me, to be honest.”

“Let’s load it up and take a look.”

He pressed a couple of buttons and the screen filled with one of those old-fashioned loading screens – loads of colours dancing in lines. That took about half a second and then it was ready.

I read out the text on the screen. “Emlyn Hughes International Soccer. I thought you were joking.”

“You’ve never heard of this? So we’re going to play a match but let me show you some of the features. You could build your own squads and change the colours and everything. Play on a blue pitch with a blue ball! Spectrum edited the database to have the modern Chester players.”

“What? That’s awesome.”

The screen was pretty basic – blue text on a white background. Sumo moved his mouse to the top of the screen and a menu dropped down. He clicked ‘edit team’ and we saw Wrexham. Spectrum had renamed every player as ‘Cheat’. Players had three attributes: Speed, Defence, and Attacking. Every player had been given one out of three – the lowest – in everything.

“Oops, how did that get in there?” said Sumo. Someone in the chat sent him money. Sumo cackled.

“That’s juvenile and I don’t approve,” I said. “Let’s look at Chester.”

Sumo nodded and clicked a few times. The Chester squad got another big laugh out of Sumo and more cash came from the chat. The names of the squad were accurate but once again every player had one out of three in each attribute. Every player except one – Max Best had three stars in everything.

I frowned. It was a good joke, good banter, but it was eerily accurate. I’d done this with Champion Manager, hadn’t I?

“Sorry, Max.”

“What? Oh, no, it’s funny. I was just thinking, would I have actually done this in, what did you say? 1978? I think I would. But not because I thought I was actually better than everyone else. Hey! You know what?”

“What?”

“I think now I wouldn’t do this. I’d, like, want everyone as good as me.”

“That’s character growth, Max.”

“Yeah? Or laziness.”

Sumo clicked away but I asked him to go back. I had just noticed that after the attributes there was a column called Fitness, rated out of 100. Just like my team! It was odd to see the names and numbers together on screen. The last time I’d watched someone play Fifa, I hadn’t been able to see the parts of the game that involved numbers. Looking at Soccer Supremo was still weird, but much less so than in the early days of the curse. “Youngster has Fitness 100,” I mumbled. “Guess we should play him.”

“Of course,” said Sumo. “Why wouldn’t you? You know what? He’s a hot prospect. I’m going to give him two stars in everything.” He did just that. “Spectrum said the controls on this were crazy, but he said there’s a practice mode. Here we go. Chester versus Wrexham. I’ll be Wrexham just for the hate-watches. Want to get used to the controls with no score pressure, no in-game clock?”

“That sounds like the best way to play the entire sport, tbh. But let’s do a proper match. It’s from the olden days. How hard can it be? It’s probably just a re-skinned Pac Man.”

“Here.”

Sumo handed me a controller, but it was another joke. It was a small square with a vertical shaft and one red button. Sumo wasn’t laughing. “Mate,” I said, twinkling. “Very funny.”

“What? No, that’s your joystick.”

“That’s not fair! You’ve got, like, twenty buttons. I’ve got one.”

“There’s only one button in this game.”

“One button?”

“Yeah one button does everything.”

“How does that work?”

“No clue.”

He did something and we switched to the match screen. I said, “Ha! For a second I thought it would be text-based.” There was a side-scrolling football pitch surrounded by advertising boards. Blocky players emerged from a tunnel and ran. First guy to the left, second guy to the right, blue shirt to the left, red to the right.

Sumo glanced at me. It was easy to forget that to him, I was the big star, the person in the world he would most like to impress. “What do you think so far?”

While I tried to gather my thoughts, the last players emerged from the tunnel and formed a line along halfway. Two guys stood by the ball with one either side, looking serious and ready for action. Ready for kick off! “I mean, it’s obviously shit but there’s something about it. Some kind of charm. It’s…” I held up a finger and leaned forward. There was crowd noise! Someone had one of those horn things from olden days matches. “I don’t know. What do you think?”

“It’s clever,” he said. “These old machines struggled to show lots of sprites. Sprites are the images that move. The ball is one sprite and the players are one. The C64 could only show 8 at a time. The coders found hacks, of course, but look.”

“Seven players on screen, plus the ball. That’s why they ran left and right from the tunnel the way they did. Okay. But when we run around we’ll see more than eight sometimes.”

He shrugged. “Only one way to find out! Are you ready to get crushed by a Sumo? Again?”

“Wait, what are the controls?”

“Beats me. You’ve got kick off. Press fire!”

***

I tapped my only button and the ball moved forward. A blue-shirted guy turned grey, which confused me for half a second. “Oh, that’s me. Wait – oh!” Sumo hadn’t waited for me to get my bearings. He moved one of his players towards the ball and took it from me. The top of the screen said Cheat on the right and on the left, Best. The word Best changed to Wise and when I looked back, we were in midfield and the red shirts were piling forward. Three of them.

I angled my joystick and Wisey turned, ran slowly, and picked up speed. I adjusted his path and he slowed a fraction and sped up again. “Hey it’s like they’ve got momentum.”

“Watch this!” cried Sumo.

He hammered his controller and struck… a pea roller that dribbled wide. I gave him a pitying look. “I’m not even going to trash talk that one.”

I had a goal kick. I pressed the button and my dude pea rolled it straight to Sumo’s nearest striker. Surprised, he reacted slowly. The nearest defender, Carl, was well-placed and while still under computer control he shoulder-barged his opponent. When the ball was under his spell, control of Carl passed to me, as denoted by the change in shirt colour. Ohhh. I dribbled away, experimenting with the momentum system. Sumo’s nearest player came at me from an angle so I flicked my joystick to the diagonal and evaded him. How had I known to do that? Because there were only eight ways to move! The joystick had little arrows, one for each direction it knew. Modern games let you move in a full 360 but this had eight. I opened my mouth to explain but then thought – I’m learning this faster than Sumo. He has to unlearn everything he knows about modern games. This might be my one chance to ever beat him!

I ran across halfway.

“Oh!” he said, pointing. “It’s genius, see? Players have to fall off the screen before the next ones can come on. You and I can control one player each at a time, but the computer players run off! Look at that guy! He ran off the screen!”

“Nah, he’s just getting into position for the counterattack.” I was getting the hang of the movement and dribbled past another challenge. Sumo’s next player launched a vicious sliding tackle at me! “Cor, steady on!”

“I didn’t know that was gonna happen.”

“Shoulder-barges, slide tackles.” I was in position for a shot, so I unleashed one. I held the fire button down for a while but again it was just a pea roller. “Huh. That’s disappointing. The ball stays on the ground. How did this get popular? Or could sprites not, like, do 3D?”

“Wait, wait,” said Sumo, putting the controller down. He picked up a piece of card. “To chip or lob, hold fire and pull backwards against the direction your player is moving.”

“What the shit does that mean?”

“Just experiment.” The match continued for a hectic minute, with players smashing into each other. Our moves were of National League North quality. No passes were completed. Suddenly, one of Sumo’s players dribbled at one of mine and then dinked the ball past me. “Oh, here we go!” he cried. “I get it! Fire and go opposite. Let’s do that again. Heh heh.” He cackled as he used his new move on me again. He was in prime position for a shot. “Bit harder this time?” His player lined up the shot and BLAZED it over the bar. “Oh, too much sauce on that one.”

I glanced at the chat. It was a flurry of people yelling SAUCE with one particular message being highlighted. The internet is mental.

It was my goal kick again. I took a few seconds to rewire my brain. Pressing fire would do a daisy cutter. I had to hold the button and pull back the opposite way… He do opposite. Well, my goalie would run right to take the kick. So I had to pull the joystick… left. Was it that simple?

It was!

“Boom!” I said. “Look at the launch on that!”

I chased the ball with my midfielder, Ryan Jack, and like the real one, running was a big struggle for him. He got there just ahead of one of Sumo’s cheats. I tried to do the dink move and got the ball up, but it bounced off my opponent and out for a throw-in. The players automatically ran around. “This is great,” said Sumo, as Ryan held the ball above his head looking for an option.

“Is it?” I said, faking to throw left, drawing Sumo’s controlled player that direction, before hurling it right.

“Max, this machine had 64K. That’s kilobytes. That’s nothing. They put this whole game in a space the size of, like, a full stop in a Microsoft Word document. It’s blocky but it plays pretty well. Don’t you think?”

“I’ll tell you when I work out how to pass. All I ever wanted from a football game was to put together some slick passing moves.”

Something clicked for me, then. I couldn’t possibly explain it, but suddenly I sort of got the game. Not the controls, but the way the players moved. When the ball was fired long, the game was spawning the sprites off screen and I knew exactly where they would appear.

I turned my player around and passed the ball backwards. The screen tracked the ball back to the midfielder I somehow knew would be there. Appropriately, it was Youngster. I angled my stick up and to the right and tapped the fire button. The ball fizzed right to the feet of a striker inside the penalty area.

“Shit!” said Sumo. While he was trying to make his nearest guy do a block, I was angling my guy towards the left-hand post. I jabbed fire and adjusted the joystick to the bottom right. My guy on screen rolled the ball, calm as you like, into the net. The goalie did a cool but futile dive.

I was too stunned to gloat or to do anything – I was beating a professional gamer! – but my scorer ran to the bottom of the screen and did a wild celebration. “Shit! It’s Ziggy! It’s just like him, too!”

Sumo was gracious. “It is like him. Love his passion.” He side-eyed me. “How did you do that?”

I looked down at my hands. “Which button is pass again?”

Sumo bit his lip and gave me what for him was a stern look. “It’s going to be like that, is it?” I wasn’t really confident enough to get cocky, but I must have smirked to some extent because he said. “Game on!”

We duked it out for another minute. Sumo quickly got better at the close control and skills but I knew the secret to quick, end-to-end passing moves. When Sumo tried to do the same, more often than not one of my players was in the way.

One of my slick moves ended with a chipped shot that the goalie tipped over the bar. “Wow,” I said. “Nearly doubled my lead. Didn’t I, Sumo? Didn’t I?”

He grimaced and moved his player towards my corner taker. The game seemed to push him away – you’re not allowed that close! I took the chance to chip the ball up and by pressing fire I got my striker to jump for a header. He missed completely, of course, but the second striker was there. I turned him left and right, passed to the bottom of the screen, and dribbled to the byline. I wanted to score a Chester goal so I pushed the stick up and pressed fire. The ball flew where I wanted it – across the face of goal – but Sumo’s defender was in the way. He pressed fire and his guy slid – and tackled the ball into his own net.

“Okay, I’m starting to really fucking like this game!” I said, as Ziggy obnoxiously celebrated the own goal just as though he had scored it.

Sumo hunched over and got super serious. He took his striker on a dribble, but I got Youngster in the way and the game decided I had won the ball. Youngster was dribbling away when Sumo did another sliding tackle that left Youngster in a heap.

The picture was chilling.

“What’s his Condition now, I wonder?”

I couldn’t press the fire button to restart because I was too internal. I’d half-joked with Emma that our flight had been cancelled because the pilot had had a premonition of crashing. She had said that if he had called in sick because of that, she was glad. That’s what she would want. Don’t take risks. Now, here I was, having the same premonitions. Don’t play Youngster against Oldham! It was like this old game was backing me up. The guy Spectrum met in the pub. Was it an imp? Was this one of their insane ways of communicating with me? Was this a warning about Youngster? Or were they just fucking with me?

I’d taken too long to do anything, so the game took the free kick on its own. If only real life worked like that! But I was still in a daydreaming sort of mood and Sumo got his timing right on the next tackle.

“Thirty seconds to half time,” he said. “Come on! Goal in the dying seconds to change the momentum.” He went on a mazy dribble that took most of the thirty seconds. He had a great angle for a shot but he kept dribbling, even going away from goal until he was in front of the penalty spot. He chipped a shot and it bounced in front of my goalie. Easy save, but the idiot jumped up far too early, landed, and the ball hit him in the face or something. It bounced away and just then, the ref ended the half.

It was interesting that Sumo didn’t feel comfortable shooting from an angle. The view of the pitch made him feel safer shooting right to left in a horizontal line, where it was far easier to judge how high you could lift the ball. But the technique of shooting diagonally from the edge of the box towards the far post was actually exactly the same. I felt sure that if it had been a shooting game, he would have been far less conservative in his approach but because it was football, he tensed up. Or because he was playing his idol. I felt I was approaching some kind of wisdom, but he interrupted me.

“What are you thinking?” he said.

“Just, yeah. It’s interesting to play a game neither of us have played before. That’s fun. The game doesn’t take itself too seriously. I like it more than Fifa, to be honest.” I looked at the camera. “Good choice, Spectrum and your pub friend!”

“How are you doing the passes?”

I smiled. “I’ll tell you at full time, if that’s all right. I want to beat you.”

“Do you want to get right into the second half? We’ve got lots of Chester fans in the chat and they’ve got questions. I mean, if that’s all right.”

“Course it is. But I can’t play and talk like you do. Let’s do a couple of questions now and a couple after I’ve thrashed you.”

Sumo’s eyelids narrowed a fraction but he was a bad actor – he was having fun. “Okay. First question. Could we?”

The chat went wild with people shouting the question in all caps and saying lol and posting strings of emojis and gifs. There was one gif of me dribbling past a defender with loads of Manga-style effects added, followed by a close-up of me looking heroic. At the bottom came the text: COULD BOI.

I sighed and leaned back. I put the joystick down and dug my thumbs into the edges of my eye sockets. Magnus had told me there were chi points there and a quick massage would release tension. “It’s been a strange week, Sumo. Strange season. Normally I just power through and get to the next game, the next game, but now I’m… It’s weird. I’m stuck. Am I stuck? If we win our two games in hand, we go top. So that’s easy, right? We’re winning. But we’ve got to play Oldham and Gateshead and they’re as good as Aldershot. If we draw those, normally that’s a good result. But if we draw against them now it’s like we’ve choked. We got to the top and choked right away. That’s what it’ll look like.”

“But it’s not that?”

I scoffed. “No. We’re, like, the seventh best team in the league, on paper, and even that’s a miracle. We’re one of three teams in the division that doesn’t lose money.” I turned towards him while keeping the seat facing the camera, like passing in a different direction to the way your sprite is facing. “The average National League club loses seven hundred thousand pounds a year. Did you know that? That’s enough to sign seven free agents or loanees as good as Christian Fierce. Every team in the top eight has a squad as good as ours plus seven stars. We’ve been over-performing, big time. So no, it’s not a choke if we don’t win the title from here. But… it would feel like it. And we set ourselves up for it by going on and on about Devon Loch.”

“But you’re playing so well. Everyone loves it. People are raving about the team!”

I nodded, then did a disbelieving little laugh. “That makes it harder. When we were getting pelters every week it was easy to hunker down and scrap and fight. Now we’re getting praise and it’s like oh! We have to maintain this level.” I sighed. “We can’t maintain the level of Grimsby. Not every week. I can’t drop bangers twice a week, guys.”

“No-one’s asking you to. You’re putting too much pressure on yourself.”

I leaned back and tried the eye massage thing again. “I want to. I should be able to. If I can’t then I’m a fraud.”

Sumo highlighted and read out a message from the chat.

 

HAMBO

What you’re feeling is the difference between being the incumbent and being the insurgent. You’ve got a scrappy squad of up-and-comers. You’re not in the mental space to take on the mantle of front-runners. Before, you had nothing to lose. Now your loss aversion is kicking in. I can imagine it’s quite a sudden shift after so many months of playing catch-up. It happens a lot in sports. It’s not choking. It’s taking a breath.

 

Sumo was nodding along the whole time. “Hambo’s wise. Max, how have we done that? Got to this position?”

I read Hambo’s message a couple of times, then turned to Sumo. “We’ve spent our budget very efficiently. We’ve improved our players a lot through coaching. That’s most of it, but we’re tactically flexible. We can adapt to situations like if we need speed we’ve got some speed. The squad isn’t perfect but I can fill some of the holes myself sometimes. And, okay, there are disadvantages to being a player-manager – it’s bloody tiring for one – but I can react to tactical tweaks instantly while my rivals have to work out what’s changed, work out what to do, and communicate that to their players.

“And we try to rotate the squad. We don’t get as many serious injuries, touch wood. The Brig’s got us fit, Vimsy’s got us defensively sound, and Sandra and the others have been getting our technique up. You saw it against Aldershot. They’ve got a nice pitch and we were able to knock it around for minutes at a time. It’s demoralising to play against. It’s why I won’t play you at Fifa or Beefer – every little mistake I make ends up with you scoring. We’re not as good as you but we do make teams work hard to keep us at bay.

“We’ve had luck, too. Players have stepped up at the right time. Wibbers against Wealdstone. Aff against Aldershot. Sometimes you make your own luck, though. Aff has been working hard on his finishing and we’re getting more goals out of him lately.”

“Max, it’s all going great. Everyone’s buzzing. Absolutely buzzing. What are you worried about?”

“I don’t know, loads of things. When I think one thing, I instantly think the exact opposite and they’re both true. It’s hard to put it into words. You guys, the fans, you’re loving all this could we stuff. And honestly the players love it, too. But I think we thought it was a laugh, some banter. But now it’s serious and we have to all sort of…” I eyed the camera.

“Sort of what?”

“Like maybe at some point we have to accept that no, we couldn’t. We might overtake one serious, well-financed football club, but not two. I’m sure we’ll finish top three but if we aren’t going to win, why are we burning our energy?” I pulled at my lip. “I don’t think I have the balance right. It was right, I think, to go hard at Grimsby to get us into this position. If there’s any chance we could win the league we have to try, but not at the cost of exhausting ourselves. We might find that we fall just short and then we’ve got two more games to play but everyone’s wrecked! Do you know what I mean? I can’t, ah, calibrate. The whiplash is deafening.”

“But we’ve been winning and winning. Why would that stop?”

“It won’t. But we’re not going to win every game. No chance.”

Sumo glanced at the screen. “Not with that attitude, says the chat. I mean. We could, though. We could win every game.”

I did a sad little smile. I couldn’t reply to that. Saying yes would raise expectations to stupid levels. Saying no might demoralise people. “I think we will win five but I don’t think that will be enough for the title. So what do we do against Oldham? If we put out our absolute best team and we win, great! But then we need to use the same team against Hartlepool and against Rochdale. That’s three epic games in seven days. That’s how you get injuries. That’s how you blow yourself up. So we put in some younger guys against Oldham and if we don’t win it’s all hey they’re choking! These kids can’t hack it!

“You know those racing games where you have to drive over a star on the floor and it makes you go faster? And to get the best speeds you need to pretty much hit all of them? I hate those, by the way. But that’s what we’ve been doing recently. We’ve been hitting every power-up but Aldershot showed what our level really is and what to expect at Oldham.” I rubbed my cheek and twisted my neck. “For the first time, I feel like there isn’t a good option. I’m confident-ish about going up through the playoffs. More so if we heavily rotate and do the bare minimum to keep in the top three. Right? Barnet and Grimsby are going to hammer each other for the next four weeks and one’s going to come second and they’ll be battered and bruised and they’ll either lose in the semi-final or face us, fresh and frisky, at Wembley. But it’s a one-off game and anything can happen. Two injuries and an early red card and that’s our season over. Most playoff scenarios are nightmare fuel.

“And the league is right there! It’s right there! We’ve given ourselves a great shot. We literally have it in our hands.”

“All we have to do is win seven games in a row and finish the season on a sixteen-game unbeaten streak.”

“Yeah,” I laughed. “See? It’s mental. It can’t happen. Look, we played Gateshead and got our arses handed to us. We’re better now, but I don’t look at that and think oh there’s an easy three points. I look at it and think, oh fuck.”

“Sorry, Max, I know it’s a hard job but it’s first-world problems, isn’t it? We were garbage when you took over and now we’re challenging for the National League. You scored the best goal I’ve ever seen and one of our players was at the African Cup of Nations! The city’s got Christian Fierce posters everywhere and if you wear a Chester shirt people stop you and have a chat. It’s never been like this. I could stand another year of it!”

I gave him a thin smile. Should I tell him that I probably wouldn’t stick around for another year of tier 5? What would I do? I decided I could probably talk about this without causing a panic. “If we don’t get promoted this year, we probably will next. Okay, that’s true. But I would go back to being Director of Football. I would do the summer squad building, leave Sandra in charge, and go and do something, somewhere.”

“Where?”

I shrugged. “I’m going to Brazil this summer. Maybe I’ll like it and end up working in a DVD shop recommending movies to people. Or maybe I’d want to play abroad. Osasuna. Hearts. Hajduk Split. FC Lucerne.”

“So random. Why those clubs? Why not ones I’ve heard of?”

“You’ve heard of Hearts.”

“Scotland’s not abroad, is it?”

“Thing is, Sumo,” I said, leaning forward and looking down. “If we fall short of the title by a little bit, that’s gonna bug me forever. I mean, there were so many incidents, so many decisions I made that I could have done differently. If we’d signed Christian Fierce on day one. If I’d taken two fewer Exit Trials kids and got one more grizzled veteran. It’s almost, like, if we finish ten points behind Grimsby, the season makes sense. Right? But if we finish two points behind, it’s sort of a disaster.”

Sumo gave me a thoughtful look, then his face cracked open. “You’re a very strange person! It’s your girlfriend I feel sorry for!”

I tutted and leaned back. “I’m not strange. I’m a vanilla normo in a strange sauce. If I’ve marinated some strangeness into me, it’s nothing that won’t wash off. In League Two.”

“Right, well. It would be nice to get another trophy but no-one thought we were going to win the league, Max. You’re overthinking this one. It’s enough that we have a chance! And we’re not the seventh best team. Chat says imposter syndrome and I agree! The league table doesn’t lie. We’re one of the three best teams. Okay one more question before the second half. Is it true you did a team talk about sea rocks?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Oh, no explanation coming. Okay. Ready for the second half?”

I stared. The soft rock metaphor wasn’t played out at all! The National League was my Cambrian era. Long-term thinking had clashed with short-termism and my little patch of ocean had become turbulent. I felt the currents settling as I approached a decision. Stick to the plan. The plan was mint. Take care of my players and they’ll take care of me. “The creatures of the Cambrian period tried on every possible anatomical costume,” I said, which caused a sensation in the chat. I had to keep evolving, had to keep adding new weapons to my arsenal. If we got promoted my base rate for managing league games would rise from 6 XP a minute to 8. Over the course of the season, I would get an extra eight thousand XP.

Was I trying to talk myself into spending eight thousand XP? I think I was.

I shook my head at my weak little lizard brain. Spend! Hoard! Build nest!

What should I spend my XP on? What would be useful in the final stretch of the season? Attributes? Maybe the player stats? Form?

“Max, you ready?”

“I wasn’t born ready, but I bought the readiness upgrade.” I lifted my joystick. “And the plus ten Stick of Slapping!”

Sumo said, “I’m using an Xbox controller with Great Wave skin,” which was even more confusing than what I’d said. “Premium vinyl, easy-glide application, water-resistant, scratch-proof, and very, very classy.” I gave him a questioning glance. “Links in the description,” he added. “Free shipping on orders over thirty dollars.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m at work.”

I chuckled. He had loads of top gear and he played games all day. “It’s a sweet gig, isn’t it? Dream job.”

He eyed me. “I can think of one better.”

***

As the players came out for the second half, I looked down at my joystick. It didn’t have a cool Great Wave skin but it was perfect for playing this particular game. One button. One button only. The right tool for the job. I had the tools for the National League, didn’t I?

I was quiet for the start of the second half, going through the motions of chasing the ball around the screen while Sumo unleashed his inner Boggy, calling every incident as if it was life or death. Suddenly I realised one of Sumo’s players was through on goal and I snapped out of it.

“Shit!” I said, dropping my joystick into my lap and watching through my fingers.

“Here comes the pain train!” said Sumo. “Cheat is clean through! Nothing can stop him now!” I watched, unable to do anything, as Wrexham’s player lined up a shot, the goal at his mercy… He backheeled it. Away from goal! Away from danger! “No!” cried Sumo. “What are you doing?”

I had a fit. All the stress and worry fell off me as I fell off my chair. I turned red and wheezed as I fumbled to get the joystick the right way round.

“It’s not funny!” lied Sumo. “He… heh heh, why did he do that? Comment from the chat. What were you trying to do? I was trying to launch it into the roof of the net. Really stick it to the goalie!”

I laughed harder, trying to get back on the chair while guiding my players.

Sumo picked up Spectrum’s notes. “It doesn’t say how to backheel. It doesn’t say backheels are possible. Why does a game with eight sprites have bloody backheels?”

I made it back up onto my chair, still wiping tears away. “Ahhh,” I said, cathartically. “That is the best thing that has ever happened. Oh, my God, I needed that. Ahhh.”

“Message from do_what_thou_wilt_666. To backheel you move the joystick back and then forwards with fire held down. No! That’s how you do chips. Message from Hypecarrot. Maybe Grimsby and Barnet will implode like Sumo just did. I see that Hypecarrot hasn’t followed Chester for two decades or he’d know better than to hope for such miracles.”

I took the throw in. “Josh Throw-Ins,” I said. Why did we like sports? Expertise, athleticism, moments of surprise. Well, there was a moment of surprise for the ages. I got chatty. “Chucks it down the line. Ryan Jack with the big diag. How does he know where Pascal is going to be? No-one knows!” Sumo scowled at me. I laughed. “Bochum to Lyons. Lyons to Best! Best is much faster than everyone else! Look at him go! Look at the haircut on that sprite! Best lines up a shot…”

I froze. While I hesitated, Sumo tackled the ball out for a throw-in.

“Sumo,” I said.

“Yes?”

“We can do backheels in this game.”

“Apparently so.”

I smiled at him. “I like scoring backheels.”

“No!” he said. “No, Max!”

“You play all the route one football you want, mate. You do your dinosaur shit. I’m going to pass you to death and I’m going to score a backheel goal. That’s Chesterness.” I sat up straight and looked at the screen with twinkly-eyed determination.

“But Max!” he whined. “How are you doing the passes? You’re passing to players who aren’t even visible.”

I side-eyed him. I wanted to win, but if I could get him to stop hoofing the ball downfield, that would be a victory for the viewers. A victory for football. “Both teams are playing 3-4-3,” I said. “Because of the sprites thing.”

“But how are you doing the passes to players you can’t see?”

I shook my head. “You can see them. They’re there, just off the screen. You can even move them. I run my active player off the screen and it changes to the one nearest the ball. That’s how I’m intercepting your aimless punts.” Sumo got quiet for a moment as he tried to work out if I was taking the piss or not. The chat was whizzing by too fast for me to read, but I thought I should do some yapping to keep things interesting. “I don’t think any team in England was playing 3-4-3 in 1988, not even by accident. This game was ahead of its time.” I twinkled at the camera. “3-4-3. I think the universe is trying to tell me something. I think Spectrum’s pub friend is trying to tell me something.” I put the joystick on the desk in front of me. “Listen, Sumo. I think I need to go.”

“What, now?”

“Yeah. I think I want to use 3-4-3 this weekend. Against Aldershot we had Ziggy on his own in the box for most of the match. Seeing these guys here, with three strikers in the penalty area, it’s, like, it’s what I want. Not all the time, that would be crazy. But seeing it here…” I laughed. “This old game is the best showing of 3-4-3 I’ve ever seen. I want it. We’re Chester. We have to be brave. We have to be fearless. We have to attack until we drop!” I’d worked myself up. “But, er, I have to go and study.”

Sumo looked from me to the chat to his hands. He mumbled something that sounded like, “I can show you.”

“What?”

“I can show you. On Fifa. It’s one of the best formations, all the top players have it in their locker. Anyone in the chat could write a compelling thousand-word essay about its pros and cons.”

I scratched my temple and kind of scowled. “Hold up. You’re suggesting I, a professional football manager, should learn a new tactic live on TV, by playing a video game?”

“Dumb idea. Sorry, Max.”

But the scowl was not aimed at him. It was a self-scowl. The chat was right. Life was easy when you had nothing to lose. When stumbles were not in the spotlight. Had Devon Loch flopped at the back of the field, no-one would even have noticed. It was only because he was at the front that anyone cared. Chester were in pole position now. People were watching.

I felt my cheeks starting to get hot. The gaze of the world would fall on us just as we fell on our arses. They would find the recording of this stream and they would laugh at me. It would be merciless.

Okay. And?

So what if we tripped? So what if we stumbled? So what if we got mocked on the Wrexham forums? I’d never been afraid of embarrassment before. Now was a fucking bad time to start.

I looked around Sumo’s bedroom. There were photos of me and my team, a framed shirt signed by the entire squad. But there was older stuff, too. Scarves from the days when Chester FC were garbage, from when they played dogshit football from a bygone age. Sumo was still a fan. He was locked in for life, through the good times and the bad. That was the pressure – giving him what he deserved for his unstinting support.

There was only one way to finish this season – my way. Carl would get a rest. Youngster would have one more weekend with his family. I would use my reserves and try a new system I’d never tried before and if it blew up in my face, so be it. This was National League football and you never knew when your rivals might miss an open goal. Stay positive, stay hungry, stick to the plan, the plan is mint.

“Sumo, here’s what I’m thinking. We’ll load up Fifa. You’ll be the player and I’ll be your manager.”

“You’ll be my manager?” he said, his voice weird.

“You and the chat will rate my performance. Tell me how I’m using the system wrong.” I laughed. “It’ll be a coaching masterclass! Teach me, senpai!”

“Yes! Yes, yes, yes!” Sumo’s knee was jiggling up and down, but it stopped abruptly. “Can we finish this match, though? Viewers hate it when a feed cuts out halfway through the second half and they don’t know who won. They’d kill me if I stopped on purpose.”

“Absolutely, mate. Absolutely. I’ve got all the time in my world; it’s my day off.”