Player Manager - A Sports Progression Fantasy - 10.3 - Gemini

3.

“Geminis are agents of change, experts in disruption, and they delight in unbound communication. The more their ideas tend to the abstract and the overarching, the greater the chance of overreach. Geminis may cause hurt without meaning to, but as a natural chameleon they are able to recover quickly.” From Astrology to Astroturf: Making The Stars Your Twelfth Man by Magnus Evergreen (self-published)

***

Sunday, January 26

Match 12 for the women was away to Bury FC, who they had beaten six-nil at home. The prospect of another easy win meant the women’s mood was sky-high and I had thought long and hard about whether I wanted to risk that. In the end I decided I simply had to speak my mind because otherwise I risked going apeshit without them knowing why.

The match was to be played in the grounds of a school – in Bolton, weirdly – and I’d called to ask the headmaster if I could use a classroom before the match. He said he would call me back and did so. Obviously doing a quick search to see if I was a wrong’un. Apparently, he liked what he’d found and the classroom was ours for the morning.

The day before, after the win against FGR, Magnus Evergreen had asked what was on my mind and I had told him I needed to speak to the women and I was worried about my tone. He nodded, asked what time I’d been born, and requested I go to his house in the morning. There he had given me three small bowls of crystals that I was to touch when I felt my blood starting to boil. I humoured him but left the crystals in the car. When I saw the women laughing and joking and talking about anything but football, I went to get them.

The crystals – blue agate, aquamarine, and labradorite – lay on a teacher’s desk next to my laptop.

I picked up a blue agate. Magnus said to hold it to my throat to ensure clear communication. That was a bit too woo-woo for me, but I chucked it up and grabbed it a few times while the women’s team shuffled in and took positions behind desks. There was instant silliness. I found myself glaring at them – teacher DNA – and I pressed the blue crystal to my neck.

This wasn’t how I wanted to spend my life. Neither relying on crystals to help me talk to people nor teaching these innocent young creatures about the cruel realities of football. They were awesome, they had Chesterness, and they deserved better than to be pawns in a grand game of chess, but it felt like we had reached a decisive moment and something had to change. Either their levels of commitment would rise, massively, or mine would fall, precipitously.

“Thirty seconds,” I said, and the general level of merriment halved. The more serious students – I mean, players – sat up straight or instinctively leant to get a pen out of their school bags. Charlotte was one such swot and she shot me a guilty look. I smiled – yes, I saw that. She flushed and got a big smile. My mood lifted hugely. I could do this with diplomacy and sophistication. I could.

I put the crystal against my neck.

To the side of the room, Emma, Gemma, and Ruth were on their phones. They would give a presentation of their own after I had finished – I was well aware that if I lost my temper the change in the tone would be major whiplash, so that was even more reason to keep things on an even keel.

“Bea Pea,” I snapped. Everyone looked up, shocked by my sudden aggression. “Are you chewing gum? Did you bring enough for everyone?” Bea Pea had a fit of giggles and everyone laughed. “Was that believable? Sandra said I had teacher DNA.”

Angel, the team’s dangerously beautiful striker, said, “You’d be the cute supply teacher that all the girls fancied but you’d shack up with the hottie who taught Business Studies.”

I tilted my head. “How do you know about me and Miss Butterfield?”

Emma looked up from her phone. “Excuse me what.”

I clapped my hands. “Great. Everyone’s in a good mood. I think I’m ready to do this.” While holding the crystal against my neck, I checked my laptop was screensharing with the fancy whiteboard and for the last time considered whether the Ffamous Five should be present or not. Keen-to-please youngsters that they were, the five precocious teenage Welsh girls had taken a cluster of seats at the very front. I went over to them, crouched, and said in a soft voice, “Hey, girls. If I do lose my temper it’s not about you, okay? But this is about the future and you’re the future of this team so I thought it was better if you were here.”

I put the crystal back in its bowl and turned my laptop to face me.

“Where’s the documentary crew?” said Angel.

I wasn’t interested in discussing that. “They went to get biscuits.” I glanced to my left and for some reason, Angel was glaring at Emma. I clicked and the first slide of my presentation came up. The text on screen read MID SEASON REVIEW AND RANT. “All right,” I said. “Let’s get this over with.”

Elin, the coach who knew sign language, was standing a couple of yards to my right, translating for the benefit of Dani, my awesomely talented midfielder. Dani had improved a lot since I’d discovered her playing in a pan-disability tournament, but somehow it wasn’t as fast as it should have been. If her improvement accelerated while Elin was at Chester, that would be a clear signal that I needed to hire Elin or someone like her. Certainly Dani was paying close attention in a way she simply couldn’t normally.

I rolled my head around and made eye contact with as many players as possible. “Ladies, I am not happy with your performances or how you are approaching matches.” This opening salvo was pretty stunning. “I hoped that over the winter break you would rediscover your hunger and passion for the game. Instead it was more of the same last weekend and no doubt it will be more of the same later today. Then it’s one more easy game and three big ones. Tranmere, Cheadle, West Didsbury. We’re so close to our goal but I see it slipping away. You might scrape by through natural talent, or you might not.”

“We’re top of the table!” said Bea Pea.

“We’ve won ten out of eleven in the league!” cried Diane.

“You’re top of nothing,” I snapped, “and you’ve won nothing.” I looked up at the ceiling and pushed my thumbs into the space between my eyebrows. I picked up a chunk of aquamarine. It didn’t help.

“You’ve got to hold one in each hand,” said Angel.

“Oh,” I said, trying that. It did feel like some of the anger flared off. “Hey, now! That’s better. Look, I’m struggling with this but I’ve been thinking about it and you and I don’t have the same goals. I once heard Brooke talk about an expectations mismatch and I thought that was a cool phrase. What you want from this team and what I want are different and our levels of urgency are not even on the same planet.”

It felt good saying that. I put the crystals back in their bowl, wiped my hands on my hips, and tapped to the next slide. It was more text: THE 8/2 RULE.

“I’ve been seeing the same shit almost all season. Eight players doing one thing, two doing another. Normally those eight are lethargic, slow, and aimless while the two are overexerting themselves. We’ve got Bea Pea running around super committed but instead of everyone backing her up, that’s an excuse for the midfield to take a breather. Normal players take a breather after some exertion but you take breathers between breathers. The first twenty minutes of every match is appalling. When you get going, you score a goal or two, think ‘job done’ and fall right back into slow, sloppy play. My opinion is enough, but now we’ve got the GPS data and trust me, it’s abysmal.

“I don’t enjoy watching you play. You’re the only Chester team I don’t like watching. You’re arrogant, which is fine, but complacent, which isn’t. You got knocked out of every cup at an early stage and you lost against West. You don’t play with hunger or fire or passion and you walk off at half time when you’ve been shit and it’s all a laugh.” My heat was starting to rise so I went back to the blue crystal and held it against my neck while I continued. “I can’t put my finger on how it got like this. You’re top of the league because I assembled the most talented squad ever seen at this level, but you’re sleepwalking towards disaster and it’s like you don’t give a shit. One more performance like West and this season is over. There are no extra lives in this game.

“I’ve diverted time and money from the men’s squad to fund this campaign. I’ve fought gammons and missed opportunities to scout boys because I want to find girls, too. Everyone who wants to play this sport should have that chance. But if you don’t get promoted this year, if you don’t win the league, it’s because you don’t care enough and there can never be a time when I care more about your career than you do. That’s not an acceptable situation to me. It’s not a place I’m willing to go, so if this is your level as a group then this project is basically finished.

“I’m going to make this one last effort to communicate and after that, it’s up to you.” I inhaled and picked up a crystal from the third bowl. “Labradorite. Magnus says it helps people understand what’s happening beneath the surface.” I pushed the crystal into the middle of my forehead and stared ahead.

“Did you bring enough for everyone?” said Bea Pea.

I laughed my head off and the tension broke. I walked forward and gave Bea Pea the crystal and returned to the front. “I’ve got three chunks but I’m not here to single anyone out. This is a collective failure. Maybe it’s my fault because I didn’t do this when I signed you. I don’t know. It’s not about which three players need these crystals, it’s about everyone understanding what’s happening. You’re fish happily swimming around and you don’t seem to realise the water company is dumping raw sewage into this lake.”

I scratched my eyebrows and pressed the right arrow key. The screen changed to read: GAME OVER, MAN.

“Game over. Let’s start with injuries. Have any of you ever heard of a female player who got injured and the club wouldn’t pay for treatment and she had to crowdfund it herself?” Every hand went up. “Can you imagine a scenario where a player in our league gets injured and that’s the end of her career?” The hands stayed up. “I’m not even going to talk about pregnancy but I hope we can all agree that there aren’t many clubs who are going to give new contracts to players who are pregnant or just had a baby or whatever.

“Moving on. I think there was a certain level of amusement recently, when after beating the takeover I tried to, ah, reshape the structure of the club. Some of our fanbase were joking – let’s be generous and say they were joking – about me losing the plot, losing my marbles, losing all sense of perspective. After all, everyone at the club wants the same things. Why get so hot under the collar about it?”

I pressed right to bring up a photo of a middle-aged white man.

“Check this guy out. For legal reasons, he will be known as Chandler Bing. Normal-looking guy. Could be a gammon, could be a sweetheart. When he came to my attention he was in charge of a football club. Let’s see if we’d vote for him to be on the board of Chester. Exhibit A. This is a list of all the girls and women’s teams at his football club. Quite a lot, isn’t it? More than we’ve got right now. Exhibit B, a screenshot from his LinkedIn page from when he liked a post praising International Women’s Day. Absolutely stand up guy, wonderful person, let’s definitely put him in a position of power over women. Everyone happy with that?”

No-one responded.

“Ah, what’s this? Oh! Check this out, ladies. This guy woke up one day and decided that his club, Thornaby FC, in beautiful North Yorkshire, would be a lot better off without any women’s teams. He got his mates on the board to raise their hands and boop – every women’s team – one hundred girls and women – were binned off. Just like that. Were they top of the league? Had they won ten out of eleven? I don’t know, but I know they weren’t top of the league the next day. Next day, they didn’t exist. Do you get me? Whatever they thought they had accomplished did fuck all to protect them.” I clicked back to the picture of the man, something I would be doing more than a few times in the next ten minutes. “This person had decided the women’s teams had no right to exist. Buh-bye. Well, that wouldn’t happen in Chester. Not with stand-up characters like James Pond and Chip Star looking out for your interests. Huh. Wait a second.”

I grabbed the aquamarine and pretended to be calming myself all the way down. It got some smiles but the women were really listening to me, now. Really switched on. Even Ruth, Gemma, and Emma, who had been expecting me to talk about using the sweeper system or something dull. I dropped the crystals into the bowl.

“Some of you are thinking, oh, maybe Max hasn’t gone loco. Maybe English football is littered with middle-aged men going through bad divorces who will take any opportunity to punish women. That’s right, and if you aren’t thinking that, why the hell not?”

I clicked to a composite I’d made of Chandler Bing’s face plus five social media posts from distraught women and girls who one day had a football team and the next, didn’t. I left it there while I sipped from a bottle of water. A few players lost a point of morale as they read the texts. Good. That meant they cared.

“Now let’s talk about the Women’s Super League. Bright, shiny, record attendances, matches on TV, yay! You might know that someone decided the WSL should merge with the second tier and have it all be run by the same company. Sort of like if the Premier League absorbed the Championship.”

I clicked to an image showing the top of the women’s football pyramid. At the peak, the WSL with twelve teams and below it the WSL Championship with twelve teams. The third tier split into a north and south, while the fourth tier further divided into four feeder leagues, and so on. A star highlighting Chester’s position showed us as being in one of eight divisions at the fifth tier.

“Unifying the top tiers is not in itself a bad idea, necessarily. They can do more marketing and maybe get a better TV deal and try to avoid the problem in the men’s game of the gap between tiers one and two being so huge. Okay, but when I read the merger story I had a panic attack. Seriously, I thought our goose was cooked, that they would pull up the drawbridge. What do I mean by drawbridge? I mean ending promotion and relegation. The teams who are in it now are in it forever. The same twenty-four teams playing each other until the end of time. Today Chester can go from tier 5 to tier 4 and so on, all the way to the top. What about tomorrow? If they pull up the drawbridge, top of tier 3 is our limit. Best of the rest. Who cares about tier 3 if you can’t get promoted? Literally no-one. Oh, we’ll put out a half-hearted side, I guess, but it’ll be hard to give a shit. To all extents and purposes, we’ll be dead.”

Lots of eye-bulging looks from ladies who hadn’t been following the meta narrative.

“Fortunately, they didn’t do it… this time. Relief. We’re still in with a shot. We can go up. But for how long? For how long, ladies? Remember, the WSL includes Liverpool, Man United, and Man City, three teams run by men like this.” I clicked back to Chandler Bing. “These clubs are radioactive. They would love to kill Chester, Tranmere, Wrexham, Leeds, Alty, and everyone else. Men’s and women’s. Am I exaggerating? Open your fucking eyes. Project Big Picture and the European Super League happened in the last five years! Tottenham came out and said the WSL should be a closed league. Emma fucking Hayes, on paper the best women’s manager, said she didn’t mind the idea of ending relegation. To me that’s the same as saying she wants to exterminate the entire rest of the pyramid. Why didn’t she mind it? Because she worked for fucking Chelsea! She’s not a legend, she’s a fucking Dalek!”

I picked up the aquamarine and tried to unclench my jaw. I checked in on the five younger girls – they were interested and not alarmed. Nevertheless, I counted to five and when I spoke again, I was calmer.

“None of this is ancient history, ladies. This is ongoing. They want us dead. Man City, anyone? Anyone remember them threatening to shut down their women’s team if they lost one of their endless legal battles with the Premier League? Their women’s team isn’t a team – it’s a hostage. You know the way gangsters say, ‘nice place you got here, shame if anything happened to it’? They do that when they’re trying to extort money from some poor businessman. Well, City are the only club who have ever said, ‘nice women’s team we got here. Shame if anything happened to it.’ They are absolutely toxic and will wreck our sport. Absolutely guaranteed.

“Ah! I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking the FA won’t let anyone wreck women’s football.” Half the women tutted or shook their head at the mention of being defended by the FA. “You know how I feel about those pricks, but again, you don’t have to trust my opinions.” I clicked through to a book cover. “Unsuitable for Females. Is there anyone here who doesn’t know the origin of that phrase and why it’s the title of a book about football?” A few hands went up. “Our glorious Football Association, full of men like Chandler Bing and egged on by olden-days billionaires, banned women’s football. One day you were allowed to play, the next you weren’t. If you think that can’t happen in 2025, I’ll postpone hiring the dentist and go straight to the sports psychologist. If Liverpool, City, and United go to their servants in the FA and say, this women’s thing is a distraction and we could make an extra twenty quid a year without it, the FA will suddenly have a lot of opinions and a lot of people in the media and politics will suddenly have the same opinions.”

I clinked the crystals against each other and eased up onto the front of my desk like a dreamy supply teacher. It was easy to be charming and diplomatic now because we were getting to the good stuff.

“When the men get promoted this year, we’ll go into the EFL. The EFL is the three leagues below the Prem. The EFL and the Prem are member’s clubs. Essentially, the members decide what to do and then some admin dudes try to make it happen. As one of the 72 EFL clubs, I will get to go to the meetings and I will get to vote. If they try to end relegation I will fight them. If they try some sneaky fucking shit, I will fight them. I only have one vote but I can get allies and can mobilise the fan bases of teams who are up to no good. I’m saying that from next season I will be able, in a small way, to defend Chester and football against some of the crap that goes on.

“There’s no such thing in women’s tier four. There’s no such thing in women’s tier three. Until we get to the second tier, we are nothing. We are prey. If we draw Liverpool or United in the FA Cup, one of these guys – ” I clicked through to a composite of headlines about Liverpool and United trying to erase some hundred-and-fifty-year-old tradition to save a buck or make a buck – “will think to himself, why are we paying eight thousand pounds to send our team to play, what was it called again? Chavster? He’ll think to himself, gosh fellas, I sure wish I could shut that whole thing down. It’s just a cost centre. A cost centre is a part of the business that costs money and doesn’t make a profit. And profit’s all Liverpool and United care about. Those owners don’t like football and never have. If they could shut down the football arm of their football club and only sell replica shirts and license the badge to video games, they would. Not a bad idea, right? They’d make more profit that way.

“Ladies. Listen, please. I need you to get to the second tier and I can’t accept any delays. With the men it doesn’t matter a whole lot if I’m in tier four, three, or two. It’s all the EFL. Obviously I’ll have more clout in the Championship but you get my point. I need you to take your arses into the second tier and I need you to do it right away because who the fuck knows what these twats are planning even now? If I’m in the room I can try to stop it. As we go up we’ll make friends and allies and when shit goes down, we’ll unite as a football family. But if it happens while you’re in tier five, it’s game over.

“The girls and women at Thornaby FC had no power. No votes. They were at the mercy of Chandler Bing and all the other Chandler Bings. You. You, ladies, have a chance to dig yourself into the belly of the beast. Get all the way inside, stick your claws in, be impossible to shift. The power is there if you want to take it. If you leave that power in the hands of Chandler Bing and the superclubs, it’s game over.”

I waited for Elin to finish translating, got to my feet, and drifted around the room, walking up and down the aisles.

“I started this little project as a way to develop players to sell to the bigger teams and make people happy while making a tidy profit. As the level of talent has grown, so have my ambitions. I’ve never said this out loud. I’ve never said this to anyone.” I locked eyes with Emma and looked away. “Apart from knowing I was about to look like a crazy person, this is why I didn’t want the documentary guys in here. I would appreciate it if you kept this to yourselves. Let it be our secret ambition. When anyone asks, our goal is promotion. Get to the next level. That’s it. That’s all. But we know – that’s not all.”

I gripped the crystals tighter and looked from Femi to Dani to Charlotte to Angel.

“We are here on this earth to save English football. Let me say that again. We are here on this earth… to save English football. I don’t want to sell you. If you want to go to Chelsea and start talking about ending relegation now that you’ve made it to the top, I won’t stand in your way. But if you’re good enough to come to the Championship, I want you there with me. I want to smash all these Chandler Bings. I want to go to these fucking meetings and make all the Chips and Ponds walk out with their tails between their legs. Every Monday, another defeat for the b-boys, another win for football. Just to be clear, I won’t be there defending Chester, I’ll be defending football. Every girl at Leeds and Alty and Stockport and Thornaby will have an ally.

“But I can’t go on the pitch and get us there. I can assemble an incredible squad, but I can’t go on the pitch. I can beg you and bribe you, but I can’t make you sprint. I can’t make you look around and think Christ, this is shit, we need to move up a gear. I can’t make you shuffle and slide and throw yourself in front of shots like keeping a clean sheet against Bury is the most important thing in the world. That has to come from inside you.”

I clicked back to GAME OVER, MAN.

“Ladies, you could get injured or pregnant and that’s the end of your career. Your club’s board could dissolve the women’s teams overnight. The WSL could vote to become a closed shop and we’d all be stuck down here with no way to the top. Your FA could work in conjunction with their superyacht masters to scrap women’s football altogether. If I were you, I would play every game like it was my last.” I left a long pause there, because that was a key point. “I want you to have fun here. Enjoy the training, the banter, the coach rides to and from games. I hope Chester FC is the time of your lives, I really do.

“But when you get on that pitch and the ref blows her whistle, see the world from my point of view. There are countless people like Chandler Bing who want to take all this away from you – that kit, your team WhatsApp, your mates, your dreams of glory – and the only way to stop them is to win. Play like you fucking mean it. Get to the Championship. Get me into those meetings and get me a vote. Do it fast because there’s a sword hanging over our heads and it’s hanging by the slightest thread. The Sword of Gammonclees. You can’t see it, but I can, and that’s why I get so frustrated when you start matches at walking pace. No-one ever walked to glory, ladies. Run.”

I freed my hands so I could unplug my laptop and shove it into my backpack. That was me finished and if I’d had the option I would have thrown down a smoke bomb and snuck off. Julie McKay had her hand up. “Did you mean that about injuries or getting preggers ending our career?”

“At most clubs, yeah, even at quite a high level. Think about it – if you’ve got to wait two years for an operation, who’s going to wait for you? None of those big six fucks, that’s for sure.”

“I thought you would take care of us.”

“Of course I will,” I said, before realising the miscommunication. I picked up the blue crystal. “I don’t mean here. This is – This is fucking Chester, mate. That’s what I’m trying to say! We do it different. But I nearly got kicked out, didn’t I? And I’m always five defeats from the sack. What if I’m not here? How long until this is just another football club? This battle is not over just because we beat James Pond. He’s one man. There are a billion more just like him. Do you get me? I’ll do everything I can to take care of you but if I go to the board and say I need twenty grand for an operation for our third-choice women’s whatever, the gammons are going to go ballistic.

“If you guys are getting promoted every year, the idiots will be shouted down by the decent fans. If you’re fourth in the league because you play hopscotch for the first twenty minutes of every fucking game and it looks like you don’t give a shit, who’s going to have your back? I’m… I’m trying to make you understand the urgency and the importance of your performances. Do you know what I mean?” I sighed and shook my head. “If you play your heart out and lose I’ll be fine with that. Honestly, I will, and so will the average fan. But if you play your heart out, you can’t lose.

“Injuries. I want to say that at Chester it’s not game over but if three of you get ACLs at the same time I’m gonna be honest, two of you are going to have to wait for me to find some money and that will take time and that will fucking suck. I’ll be as patient with your recovery as the club can afford. Maybe you heard I want Ryan Jack to stay on the playing squad for another year. I’ll bin you off if you’re not ambitious enough or determined enough, but not because you got injured. No way. The club isn’t rich but it will always do its best to give you great medical care and that’s a promise you can take to the bank as long as I’m here. And as long as you fight like, er, wolves, I’ll be here. As for pregnancy, er…” For the first time, a cheeky little smile played on my lips. “I mean, if you could wait till it’s mathematically certain that the men’s team are getting promoted, that would be tremendously helpful. We’ll get close to a million in TV money. That’s a lot of nappies.”

I started packing the crystals away and signalled that the documentary crew could come in.

“Er… Bit of a change of pace, now, and you might not believe that this is a coincidence, but it is. Those three ladies there are going to talk to you about life after football. Enjoy that.”

Mari, daughter of my Welsh FA superfriend Gwen, put her hand up. “Sorry, sir, but you were talking about saving English football. What about Welsh football? Can we save that, too?”

“I already did that,” I said.

“When?”

Big smile, full teeth, twinkles. “When I signed you. Kay bye.”

***

Geminis are often hyperactive with short attention spans and flit from one idea to the next. In the language of Soccer Supremo, Geminis have below-average loyalty scores.

 

“Fucking hell, Max,” said Emma, to nervous laughs from the women’s squad. Emma’s speech had been put back by ten minutes so the squad could digest what I’d said in small, intense groups. It wasn’t clear to me if they were mad at me for ruining their day or if they would play any different or what, but the delay also gave time for the documentary crew to get set up so I was able to watch footage of what came next. Only the start was interesting to me. “Erm… Most of you know I’m Emma. Max’s partner. He told me he wanted to say something before we started but didn’t say he would be getting that intense. Comedians say so-and-so is a ‘tough act to follow’ and now I think I understand what they mean.” Good-natured laughs. “So this is Ruth, who put up the money to get the latest incarnation of the women’s team started.” Ruth waved. “She’s one of Max’s allies on the board, as you saw at the Forum. Together, we run a football agency. To my left is my best mate Gemma.”

“Hiyas,” said Gemma.

“She works with me at me dad’s law firm. Dad met Max, said ‘that boy is trouble’ and went looking for examples. Obviously, he found plenty, but when he realised Max wasn’t always to blame, my dad clocked that footballers and clubs are always getting into legal trouble and there was a good opportunity to expand his business. He set up The Wall – W.A.L.L – tagline ‘The Wall did its job’ and we’ve already won cases against the F.A. I can’t reveal who the client was, but it was Max.” Laughs. “Gemma’s a big part of that new company and since it’s based in Manchester she’s a lot closer to her boyfriend, Andrew Harrison, who you know as the older triplet.”

Robyn, our second-choice goalkeeper, said, “Ridley T wants to know if Michael Harrison is single.”

“Shut the fuck up, Robyn!” hissed Ridley, and there were some jeers and silliness.

“I got you, Ridley,” said Gemma, smiling warmly.

Emma chose her next words carefully. “So… Max likes football, as you know, but he likes the game and not the business. He gets upset about all that stuff he talked about before but also how football clubs treat their players. Clubs who’ve got a lot more money than Chester do a lot less and that million pounds he’s chasing, it won’t all be going on six foot six centre backs.”

“Christian Fierce is six five,” said Ruth.

“How do you know?”

Ruth grinned. “I was passing by when they did his medical.”

“Passing by?” said Emma. “You know what? I don’t want to know.” She turned back to the group. “You’ve all met the Exit Trial boys and you know the stories about how those young lads are treated. But what about the ones who get a contract and play for a while? Most football clubs, when your time is up, it’s seeya! Bye! And you’re on your own. Max doesn’t want to do that. He wants to help you if that’s at all possible, especially if you want to stay in football.”

Pippa spoke. “Sorry, Emma, are you talking about when we age out?”

“No, we mean everyone, any time. Whatever it is that stops you from playing. If you get a bad injury or you start a family and don’t return to playing. Or some of the stuff Max was talking about, like if the whole team is dissolved. But more likely, you know, when you get eased out of the squad. It’s the main thing I don’t like about this world but it’s going to happen to all of you. You won’t be in the first team when you’re fifty, right, so there will come a day when you’re eased out and that’s what we want to prepare you for.”

Emma looked uneasy.

“Max let three players go from the men’s team last season and he helped find them a new club and that’s the best case scenario and it’s already horrible. You get to know someone and then your boyfriend cuts them. I know he’s got to do it but it’s horrible and I’m, like, guilty by association. Joe Anka, everyone? Amazing person, great taste in music, and I’m sure we’ll meet again but it’s not going to be the same. So…” She rubbed her hands before catching herself and putting them behind her back. “When Max was talking about this life after playing thing I was more than happy to get involved. The three of us standing here are in small but growing companies and we’re going to need all sorts of people as we expand and having employees who have played the game could be really helpful. Truth is, Max beat me at football golf when he could barely walk after his coma. That’s my skill level!”

Some polite laughs.

“We’re here to give you some ideas of the kinds of jobs we will be offering – Max says when he’s got money the club will fund you to do courses in whatever skills you want to learn – and to offer some general advice. Ruth said that Gem and me should start.”

“Gem and I,” said Ruth.

“Me and Gem, yeah,” said Emma. But Angel had her hand half-raised. “Angel?”

“Yeah, just… With the timing, it does sort of feel like a threat. Play better or look for a different job. Was this really planned before?”

Emma nodded. “This was the first time this year the three of us could make it on the same Sunday that you had a match. Max decided he had to talk to you after your last game. It’s not ideal, really, because if I were you I’d want to talk about what he said and not listen to three girls blab about their businesses.”

Angel glanced at her older sister, Bonnie, and after some non-verbal communication far faster and more nuanced than sign language, turned back to Emma. “Okay, so he gives us a lecture about how we’re letting him down but he’s also trying to take care of us. He’s just a typical Gemini, right?”

Gemma let out a little yelp and slapped Emma on the upper arm. “See! I told you!” Gemma smiled at Angel. “I’m Taurus and I clashed with Max a lot at first. It’s better, now, but it was dicey for a while. Emma’s Aquarius. I mean, how perfect is that?”

“I’m Aquarius,” said Angel.

“I’ll get you a list of Geminis who are single,” said Ruth, dryly.

Gemma laughed and took a step forward. “So, the first thing to say about a law firm is that you don’t need to be a lawyer to work there…”

***

Geminis are smart, adaptable, and curious about the world around them. They like keeping their options open. A Gemini may wind his contract down while he flirts with other clubs.

 

Monday, January 27

After training I took myself to a strange meeting at the Deva, strange because it was the first meeting ever organised by Jonny Planter, our groundsman. MD and Brooke were there, as was a sales rep from Zwillinger Pitches. Their featured product was a synthetic yarn that was ‘injected’ into a normal grass pitch to help it recover faster and allow it to be used three times as much as a pure grass pitch. The full system included a water retention element so that you could have a completely closed system and never need a drop more of the blue stuff. Absolute sex, but crazy expensive. With all the sub-surface work it was three hundred and fifty thousand pounds per pitch, and I would want to do three – the Deva itself and two training pitches.

The guy knew, therefore, that in the coming years I would be splashing out over a million pounds on this tech and he wanted to place his company in pole position. To that end, he was offering to stitch the corner quadrants and penalty spots for free. They would recover faster and next winter they would be far more resilient to damage. I would be able to take proper corners all through the winter!

Brooke saw the problem. “But we’re gonna dig all this up when we put in the drainage and undersoil heating. We’ll lose those patches, won’t we?”

“You will,” agreed the guy. “But from what I hear, it’s not going to happen in the next couple of years. We do undersoil heating, by the way. And drainage. It’s part of the package.”

“Let me sum this up,” I said. “You’ll do a few patches for free now-ish but when it’s time to do the whole thing I have to pay your premium prices.”

The guy wasn’t worried about my doubts. “We’re not the cheapest but we’re the best. You’ll come to us, anyway.” He gave Jonny a smile. “Planter’s a top lad. Happy to help him out. And, to be honest, the machines aren’t busy this time of year and because it’s just the corners we won’t need to be precise. Normally we’re very careful and use lasers to get everything just so. This time? Quick and dirty, half a day, hit the pub. Tell you what, though, you’ll see the difference and you’ll want what we sell. Without all the drainage and membranes and so on you won’t even see the full effect and it’ll still change your life.”

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“And you do 3G pitches as well,” I said.

“We do. Market leaders.”

I made some quick decisions. I didn’t want to be tied down but the guy was right – his company did the best work. “Give me a strip in front of goal, thirty yards out, in front of the McNally, that’s that stand, and as long as you don’t try to gouge me I’ll give you more work than you can handle. And an introduction to the Welsh FA.”

He smiled. “We did their Vale headquarters.” He looked at the place I’d indicated. “That strip’ll be for your free kicks? Don’t you want it both ways?”

“No. We shoot this way in the second half.”

Brooke did her version of a frown. “I thought you tossed a coin to decide that.”

“Ninety-nine percent of teams let us shoot the way we want and it suits them because they shoot towards their own fans, too. You get dicks who do the opposite to try to ruffle our feathers but every player wants to score the winning goal in front of his fans so he can dive in and get swallowed up. There’s nothing like it.” The others fell silent as they imagined what that would be like. I did too, but for some reason in my imagination I was wearing a Tranmere shirt. “Zwillinger. What’s that, German?”

“The name? I think so. We’re big in Germany, France, Turkey.”

“I’m massive in Malta,” I said, bending to touch the Deva bog. “All right. MD, any objections?”

He shook his head. “Not from me. Seems like a win-win.”

I nodded at the sales rep. “You just made yourself a million pounds.”

“A million?”

“For three pitches!” I said, spreading my arms wide. “You’re going to give us a bulk discount, right?”

***

Do not underestimate a Gemini’s ruthless side. Their creativity and willingness to ignore convention may lead them to produce frankly sociopathic solutions to the problems they encounter. Geminis love new news; avoid becoming old news. Do not get booked for dissent – Gemini managers fucking hate that.

 

Wednesday, January 29

 

York City Under Eighteens vs Redditch United Under Eighteens

Minutes Played: 30
Goals witnessed: 0
Throw-Ins witnessed: 15
Sexy spy ladies flirted with: 0
Just women of any kind in the area: 1 (selling teas and Twix bars at a nearby kiosk)

 

XP balance: 5,973

 

York City’s youth teams played at a space called Wigginton Road in the north of the city. It had four full-sized pitches and two smaller ones for shorter-sided matches. Cheap and cheerful but there were no stands and no turnstiles. No-one took my ticket and a quick chat to a nearby scout revealed he didn’t have one.

The ticket was fake and I spent the first thirty minutes of the match wondering why someone had gone to the trouble of making it.

“John,” I said, to the Brig, who was my companion for this adventure. “Any chance we’ve been led here so that I’m out of the house and thieves can get in?”

“Yes, there’s a chance of that, sir.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“You weren’t very convincing.”

“So why are we here?”

He was reading Alice Through the Looking Glass and his left thumb partially covered a drawing of Tweedledum and Tweedledee. “To scope out the facilities, perhaps.”

“You joke but they’re not bad. Our training ground might look like this at first.” To my left was a big cabin that looked like a smoker’s lounge at an airport. Something like that could serve as a rudimentary reception area for a few years until we built something more permanent. Parents would be able to keep warm and dry while watching their kids playing on the adjacent pitch.

Spreading out from the lounge, looking very much like a long row of portable toilets, was a string of portable toilets. There were also four small changing rooms. Far from life in the Premier League, perhaps even a step down from BoshCard, but we’d be able to afford it by the end of next season and it would be ours. The company that supplied the cabins had come on my radar after offering support to the women binned off by Chandler Bing. It would be my absolute fucking pleasure to shove some cash their way in the near future.

Yes, it all had a very basic but very real charm. That said, in no way was this the future of English football. I took the ticket out and looked at it again. No clues there. The future of English football. What?

I scanned the area. Eleven boys representing York, with the outfielders wearing red. Their best prospect was a big PA 50 striker. Redditch United in a silvery grey, best prospect a PA 44 midfielder.

Perhaps the future of English football was in the lounge itself, because it was weirdly full of scouts from clubs as high as League One and as low as the National League North.

“Maybe she’ll arrive at half-time,” I mused.

“Who? The Countess von Fictional?”

“She’s actually called Elektra von Ravishing and she has a pet leopard and lives in a castle with secret corridors.” A midfield player in red went on a dribble and passed to the tall, powerful striker. He took a touch, held off his marker, and played the ball out to the right wing. The winger took one touch, kept his head down, and whipped in a cross. The striker leapt and directed the ball towards the top-right of the goal. It went just over but it was very good work from the number nine. Surprisingly neat and tidy. The kid could play but at PA 50 he wouldn’t get anything from a move to Chester. “Oi!” I called out. “Nine!”

He gave me a surly look. “What?”

“Head that down, not up. Same way.”

He muttered under his breath and turned away. Not the type to take advice from a rando.

The idea that it was better to head the ball down when trying to score was real caveman stuff, something that old men in pubs said to each other. Amazingly, it was right. There was something about the constellation of movements that made it really hard for a goalie to adjust to a ground-level header. If it came at them knee-height or higher they could use their agility to give them a fighting chance. A downward header was also far more likely to hit the target, thus also boosting the chance of a goal versus a header aimed high.

Why the fuck was I thinking of probabilities? I put my knuckles to my temples and pushed. “I am unhappy, John. What the shit is happening right now?”

“Perhaps that’s a clue, sir.”

I followed his gaze to the smoker’s lounge – all the scouts were watching me, agog. “The fuck?”

“It makes little sense, sir, but I think you’ve been brought here to meet one of them.”

“Let’s walk away and see if someone follows.”

“It’s warmer inside, sir. We could go inside and see if someone strikes up a conversation.”

“Warmer inside. Listen to you! Big army man. Who needs warmth?”

“Human beings, sir.”

We walked twenty yards away from the cabin and waited for a reaction. Nothing happened. The match continued. At least I was earning XP, though it was only 1 per minute. Not worth travelling to Yorkshire. I bit my nail trying to understand my predicament. I’d been teased into coming here on the basis that I would see an extraordinary talent. This PA 50 striker was not that. “My best hope of seeing the future of English football is to find a mirror.”

“Very droll, sir.”

“I think…” I started. “Yes. I think I’m getting pissed off.”

He closed his book and slipped it into a big coat pocket. “Can we wait until half time before deciding to erupt? As you say, something might happen during the interval.”

“Fine.”

“Can we discuss the young players?”

“Go for it.”

He took a little notebook out of an inside pocket. “Rainman, Omari, and Tom are playing in Wales. Everything seems to be in order there.”

“Yes. Llewelyn doesn’t understand he’s on the fast track to becoming the manager of the Welsh national team, but he’s competitive and that first match will have got the blood in his nose. What’s that phrase?”

“He smells blood.”

“Right. He’s got our three and they’re a cut above the rest of the league. He’s got three from Buxton and Southport. Six is the maximum loans you can have, max three from one club. So there’s six players way above the level. I brought in half a dozen guys from other clubs, just basically skimmed the best guys from the Welsh third tier. The best eleven is hilariously overpowered and Llewelyn might actually be the best manager in Europe! So our three lads are going to get minutes and another winner’s medal. I’m pretty confident on that. It’ll be interesting to see how much the lads develop in this time. Then our domestics. Should we start at the top or the bottom?”

“The top of what?”

“Top, good call. So Andrew Harrison is back from tier six. I moved Michael from West Didsbury, tier nine, to Warrington Rylands in tier 7.” Rylands had an average CA of 30, and Michael’s was 29. “At this stage in his development I want him to play. Like with all these lads I’m sort of outsourcing his development to other teams but it’s better than getting no minutes at Chester.”

“They’re good young men.”

“The triplets? Yeah. It’s interesting doing experiments on them. My working theory is that if young players are moving up the tiers they’ll have high motivation and that makes my life much easier and will allow me to develop more talent. We’ll see. I kept Dan at Witton in tier 8. Ryan says Dan is loving it there and they love him. Strictly speaking it would be better if he moved up a tier but he’s only 16. He’s their little starboy and he’s a hit in the dressing room but he’s getting kicked about by ne’er-do-wells. I think that’s a pretty decent year for him. I also kept Tyson and Benny in tier 8, and sent Henk there, too. They’re not starters but they’re getting time on the pitch. Lucas Friend was doing well at West but he was ready to shed his skin and get bigger so I sent him to Bootle. Ryan Jack knows all these Merseyside clubs and they know him. He’s such an asset!”

“He is.”

“At West we’ve still got Vivek – it’s perfect for him – and I added Sevenoaks and Captain. Then Ryan put me in touch with AFC Liverpool. They’re the Scouse equivalent of FC United – they hate what their club turned into and they made a new club along the lines of how Liverpool FC is supposed to be. A proper community club and not a vast conspiracy to rinse its fans. I love AFC Liverpool! Never thought I’d say something like that. They are hilarious and they try to play good football, too. I sent Bomber and Bivvy. They won’t get much time this season but anything is a bonus with those two.” Bomber was our third-choice centre back, one of the heroes of Das Tournament, while Bivvy was currently our best under eighteens goalkeeper. His mistake had cost us a win against Chelsea in the Youth Cup and going to a tier nine club was his best shot of improving enough to make a difference next year. I checked to think if I’d missed anyone. “Quite a long list. The eighteens are getting serious match practice and we’re making friends with all these local clubs. It’s almost perfect.”

“Almost?”

“I wanted to sign a few guys to help WibRob next season. I had a few targets in mind but it would mean some small transfer fees. Not much, probably, but the cupboard is bare. It’ll have to wait till the summer and it just means six months where those guys aren’t growing as fast as they could with us. That said, maybe it’s for the better. Our facilities are dire right now.”

York City attacked down the middle. A midfielder took a long shot that the goalie parried. The big number nine got to the rebound and hit it over the bar. The kid glanced in my direction.

“Sir,” mumbled the Brig.

I looked behind him and once again the scouts in the cabin were looking at me. “Umm,” I said.

“They seem to think there’s some connection between you and the young man.”

“Why would they think that?”

The Brig didn’t even bother to shrug; he didn’t give a shit. He made some notes in his little book. “The plan for the young players seems considerate. I’m happy to have Ryan as an extra pair of eyes.”

“Me too. He’s amazing at dealing with those other managers. Can you give little Benny ten minutes this weekend? Ah, top man. Doesn’t always work because if a manager’s two-one down he doesn’t turn to a sixteen-year-old but Ryan’s definitely putting our lads in the shop window, so to speak. Yeah, if we get any Exit Trial lads this summer, this will be the model. The thing is… The thing is we’re likely to get promoted faster than the kids can improve.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Take Tom Westwood. He’s a National League North quality player right now but we’re National League. Next season he’ll be National League and we’ll be League Two. The one after, League Two, but we’ll be in League One. There could get a point where we have forty talented kids one or two seasons behind. That’s, er, not sustainable.”

“One could forego promotion for a season or two. Let them catch up.”

I tutted. “Next time you go paintballing, frag two of your own men at the start. You know, to let your opponents have a chance.”

“I don’t paintball,” said the Brig, rising to his full height. “I lasertag.”

***

At half time, exactly nothing happened. We pottered inside to get a tea and a biscuit and while I got a lot of very strange looks, no-one tried to talk to me. The curse told me the names of all the scouts and which clubs they worked for. Why were there so many? Eleven scouts for this particular match seemed crazy bonkers.

I went up to one at random. “Who are you looking at?”

“Same as you, I reckon,” said the guy with a knowing smile.

“Right,” I said, staring right through him. The shape of a story was starting to coalesce. The Brig and I munched on Twixes and waited in the warmth until the second half kicked off. Once we’d gone back to our spot far away from everyone else. “Okay, I think I’m starting to get it.”

“Sir?”

“You remember at the Fans Forum, Roddy Jones’s dad was up there talking about how hard I’d pursued him?” Roddy was a stupendously talented right back I’d spotted playing as a striker. The kid was PA 184 and even though I’d tried to dampen expectations as much as I could, the way the Forum unfolded meant everyone knew how highly I rated him. He had picked up a nickname, one based on a contender for the title of Wales’s best ever player – Gareth Bale.

“Baby Bale’s father. Yes, sir. He was flattered.”

“Right but he said something about how suddenly there were loads of scouts from English clubs round him like flies.”

“I remember.”

“I think people are following me.”

“Following you?”

I clicked my tongue a few times. “Can you get one of your guys to check my car for bugs?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes? Just like that? No questions?”

“No questions, sir. And you think tonight’s farce is connected?”

I looked around. The floodlights were on and a lot of young men were chasing a ball around a big green rectangle. It was happening hundreds of places all around the country, so why had so many scouts been drawn to this one unremarkable event? “I think people have finally realised,” I said, slowly, “that I am the greatest judge of talent since someone had the idea to make Arnold Schwarzenegger and Danny DeVito twins in the movie Twins.”

“Is that the one where Arnie gets pregnant?”

“Might be,” I said. “Give me a second.”

I walked off on my own, keeping half an eye on the pitch so I would continue to accrue XP. If people had realised I was really a super scout, that had all sorts of consequences. It would mean, for example, mad competition to sign the Roddy Joneses and WibRobs of the world. Where I appeared, a string of scouts from richer clubs would follow. That process had already started and would only intensify.

Uh-oh.

If I continued to bat a thousand, finding international quality players like it was nothing, my every move would be scrutinised by the entire football industry. If I tried to buy a player for ten thousand pounds, his club would assume I was seeing value they couldn’t and would demand fifty. Buying, selling, scouting, negotiating – it was easy to imagine the degree of difficulty going through the roof. I would need to recruit in Brazil not to find a wonderkid but simply to find a club willing to deal with me at market rates.

Muy muy no bueno.

I catastrophised for a while – nice night for it – but soon found myself grinning. I went back to the Brig and told him the good news. “I want to sign some shit players.”

“Indeed?”

“Yep. Need to make people think I’ve lost my touch.”

“I see.”

“You don’t see, but let me tell you what it means. It means I can get two of the worst Exit Trial lads. Give them a two year plus one contract. Two guys who are, like, loads of fun or determined or something. Good in the dressing room, keep morale up, set a good example, but – and this is important – dogshit at the actual sport.” The Brig’s moustache quivered, which was strange because he didn’t have one. I ploughed on. “Another thing would be if there’s a super smart one. One who could be a good coach or an analyst or whatnot. We’ll be hiring them for their brains but every weekend they will play shit and people will laugh at me. It’s genius!”

“I am uncomfortable, sir, making any young man believe he has a future in the sport, even if it’s only two more years. You know what happens when their athletic identity is stripped away. I am also uncomfortable with the notion that their bad performance is in some way useful. The very thought would be humiliating.”

I tutted and fell into a brief sulk. I needed an anti-sulk crystal. “You know I don’t want to do anything bad but there could be an opportunity to keep them in the sport and solve my problem along the way. Maybe we can explain it to them and see if they go for it. I need some failures and if we can do some good while we’re at it, why not?”

“Hmm,” said the Brig, and that was the end of that idea. There was something to it, though. Some way I could make myself look foolish while secretly doing something beneficial.

We fell into a silence as the match continued. The big nine was the key to all this. He looked like a hot prospect. That’s when it hit me – York City! They had set up a beauty contest. They wanted Chester and the other clubs to compete to sign this big striker. Maybe they knew he wasn’t quite as good as he seemed and would be happy to get a quick twenty thousand from a League One team with more money than sense.

Or…

“Sir?” The Brig was suddenly alert, hands free, turning left and right as he scanned for danger.

“Clear,” I said, and tried to untense. All the pieces had just fallen into place. But how could I prove it? “Fucking stupid!” I said, smashing myself in the forehead. The Brig got very still, one inch from dark mode. If the tea lady had tapped him on the shoulder, she’d have lost an arm. I cleared my throat as a signal to my body that it needed to stop sending out shitty chemicals. I took a few calming breaths. “It’s okay, John. Set Defcon 1.”

“Five,” he mumbled, as he scanned the area one last time.

I went into the perk shop and bought yet another formerly low-priority perk.

Contracts 3 was 1,300 XP and did just one thing – it showed me who a player’s agent was.

I bought it and experienced another burst of white-hot rage.

Thirteen hundred XP to tell me what I already knew. The number nine had chosen as his agent… Bradley Rymarquis.

***

Geminis have a knack for keeping up with the latest gossip.

 

The Brig pushed me five more yards away from the box of scouts. “Max. Breathe.”

I breathed. I sucked air all the way in and hissed it all the way out. Fucking Brad. When I got calm enough to count to two, I decided I needed advice. “Remember I had that issue with the agent? Rymarquis? He thought I was slagging him off all around town and he tried to wreck our chances of survival?”

“I remember the story.”

“That’s his client, there. The big lad. Brad’s invited a bunch of scouts and when they see I’m interested, they’ll try to snap him up before I do. Brad will make a few grand up front and a few hundred a week. That’s the plan. Tell me what to do.”

“I understood there was the possibility of a rapprochement with the gentleman?”

“No. We don’t need to feud but if Chester had gone down because of his transfer deadline stunt, twenty people would have lost their jobs. He can go fuck himself.”

“Understood. What are our options?”

“One. We go into that room and say the nine is a good tier seven player and then we leave.”

“I am hopeful there is a second choice. The boy did you no harm.”

“Second choice is we do nothing and let Brad make this deal and one day in the future, his new club will realise the player isn’t all that hot and word will spread that I got one wrong.”

The Brig got unusually animated. “But that’s ideal!”

“But then there will be more shit like this! More stunts to get me to certain grounds at certain times. Brad needs to know I’m not dancing around the country making him rich. Okay, here’s an idea. We let him do this deal but you break his legs. Win-win.”

“Sir.”

“Ugh. All right. I talk up this kid. Brad wins. Then what?”

“Perhaps word will get to the gentleman that Mr. Best is not in the business of being mucked about.”

I pinched my lips for a while. “You know what? He’s not here because that would make it too easy to put two and two together. But he’s around, right? He’s nearby.” We looked around and simultaneously said, “Car park.”

The Brig wiggled his invisible moustache. “Sir, would you wait in the lounge?” This was interesting. He thought it best if he dealt with it. Perhaps he thought if I confronted Brad I would lose my cool. As if! But maybe it was better to let the Brig do his thing. Perhaps this was a way to take one enemy off the board. The Brig continued. “I think I left something in the boot.”

“Is it a Twin Mag SMG? Please say it’s a Twin Mag SMG.”

The Brig half rolled his eyes. He had a love-hate relationship with my random bouts of enthusiasm for military equipment. I had wanted him to get two MRE meal packs to eat on this trip but he had pointed out that there were three thousand restaurants between Chester and York. Sometimes a dour ex-military guy is just no fun. He walked away.

I stared at the pitch for a while – the nine was the only player with an agent. I regretted having to buy that perk, but I kinda liked having it. Could lead to some fun stuff.

Talking of fun… the Brig was waiting by the door – bodyguarding me – and I followed him through into the lounge. While he continued through the front door, I struck up conversations with the other scouts. Getting to know them, trying to get them to blab about their clubs. I struggled to turn the charm up – the damned dial got stuck on 6 – but after a rough start, the conversation started to flow and soon the dial was turned all the way up to 11 and the scouts were eating out of my hand.

The hot goss flowed, big time, and when the match finally finished – two-all, who cares? – I didn’t want to leave.

I hadn’t learned anything actionable, hadn’t got a head start on any hot prospects, but perhaps there were eleven guys who had started the day thinking I was a prick and went to bed thinking I was their kind of prick. Not the absolute worst use of my time.

As the Brig rolled us onto Sutton Road and towards the A1237, and while I craned my neck to get a glimpse of York Minster, my driver coughed. “The gentleman has seen the error of his ways, sir. He was surprised, to say the least, that you were able to put two and two together without possessing either a two or a two.” We drove on and I realised the Brig was slowly shaking his head. He tapped the steering wheel. “How did you do it?”

“No big mystery,” I said, smiling broadly. “It was in today’s horoscope.”

***

XP balance: 4,719

***

Their dual nature is both a blessing and a curse. Geminis are seen by some as two-faced, by others as flexible. Geminis do well in a 4-2-2-2 formation.

 

Monday, February 10

 

Extract from the Deva Station podcast

[Epic theme music plays, interspersed with commentary of memorable moments from Boggy and the BBC]

J: Yes! Welcome to Deva Station, I’m your host, J.

Smakk: And I’m your other host, Smakk.

J: We’re the number one unofficial Chester FC podcast and today we’re going to talk about the transfer window. [Sound effect: a choir singing Hallelujah.] Our recent results. [Sound effect: a pane of glass smashing.] The women’s team. [Sound effect: a wolf whistle, a woman saying ‘oi!’, a lusty slap.] And the latest communications from Max Best. [Sound effect: crickets chirping.] That’s right, folks, it’s going to be spicy. [Sound effect: sizzling chilies and someone going ‘hot hot hot’.] Get ready for the hot takes! In the studio today is our special guest, Chester FC coach Ray Hart.

Ray: Hello hello.

J: Good place to start. Ray, you got scouted.

Ray: [Deep, soothing chuckles.] I have to thank whichever listener it was who sent my last appearance to the club because some people there were kind enough to say they enjoyed it and they gave me the chance to coach a couple of sessions with the under eighteens.

Smakk: Don’t be coy, Ray! Max fucking Best was stalking you all over town!

Ray: Come on. He heard I was a coach and whatever we all think about him, he’s trying to promote local talent even if the local talent is not at the level.

J: I hate it when you put yourself down like that. Come on! Tell the world what really happened.

Ray: [pause]. Max Best in a terrible disguise watched one of my sessions with my local grassroots team and came up to me after and asked if I’d like to get involved with the club. Whether I’m the level or not I couldn’t turn it down, so I went and, well, talk about intimidating. William Roberts was in the session, as was Tyson and Benny. Noah Harrison, Lucas Friend. Dan Badford! A much higher standard than I’m used to. And that was just the players. Who’s on the touchline watching me? Max, Sandra Lane, Jude, Spectrum, Terry from the Chester Knights, and halfway through, Jackie Reaper!

Smakk: Shit.

Ray: They were having a big party. I was doing a pressing drill I developed on my coaching course. I can’t do it with my little eight-year-olds but I thought I needed to do something for those eighteens, you know? My best material, so to speak. It’s a twenty-minute drill, quite long, but when I was done Max got all the lads together in a semi-circle and said he thought it was what he called ‘mint’ and would they be okay doing it again with a couple of tweaks? They said yes. Max made a couple of suggestions about switching things up that were so simple for the players and so complicated for the coaches.

I got flustered and tried to explain it would need some planning and he said nah mate, Jude and Spectrum will help. You’re in charge, tell them what to do. So we went again and it was sticky at first because the drill wasn’t designed for what Max wanted but I found a way through and quickly explained it to the more experienced coaches and they understood quickly and before I knew it, the players themselves were rushing around moving the cones into place. And we did it one more time. Twenty minutes from start to finish. With my little ones I strive for variety so it’s interesting and they’re never bored and when I said that to Max he laughed and said mate, these little pricks would do this one drill for another five hours if you’d let them.

And William Roberts said, please sir, can we have some more. Max thought that was hilarious and gave him a high five but said playtime was over. He pulled me, Roberts, Dan, Tyson, and Benny over to where Sandra Lane was watching and then it got weirder.

J: Weirder?

Ray: Yes! The point of the drill was to identify – let me back up. You know the way teams pass the ball out from the goalkeeper to the defenders to try to create gaps in the opposition lines? So you identify a weak link in the defence. For example, and this is no shade, Glenn Ryder.

Smakk: Hang on, Ray. This is a question we had. If you’re working for Chester are you going to be honest with us when it comes to analysing the games and the players and the manager?

Ray: I asked Max this very question. What was his position on me remaining on the podcast? He gave me a blank look, to be honest. He didn’t know what I was asking. I had to spell it out. If I do some work here, can I continue to speak my mind on the podcast? He was really struggling to get my point. Say what you want, why the heck would I care? Just teach these little shits to play and we’re all good. But that was later. First we were discussing my drill. It’s a kind of double bluff. You press Ryder – I really hope he doesn’t mind this – and when he releases the ball you run around in a kind of disarray.

J: Is this drill called The Dis-A-Ray?

Ray: [Good-natured chuckles.] But there’s a deception going on. Two players run at the weak link. This suggests we don’t know he’s the weak link because normally you give space to the least technical player because it’s okay if they have the ball. You with me? The next step is to burst away from the scene. An explosion. Followed by an implosion. The weak leak is surrounded the second or third time he gets the ball and we turn it over twenty yards from goal.

Smakk: Okay that sounds fucking amazing.

J: You’ve got Chester’s best coaches and some under eighteens with you on the touchline. What happens next?

Ray: Max Best explains how he’ll use this drill to beat Notts County.

[long pause]

J: They’re in League Two. We’re in a different division.

Ray: That particular point doesn’t come up. He describes their default back three and their back four option, including some unbelievably specific tendencies those players have. One is a solid passer unless he touches the ball with his left foot before moving it onto his right. One has a blind spot with players running perpendicular to him. Things like that. It was a stream of detailed technical analysis and he followed that up by mapping out a complete use case for my pressing drill including which players would run at which defenders, which player would trigger the explosion and which would lead the implosion. Sandra was listening and asked a couple of clarifying questions. Jackie Reaper asked how many times we’d use this per match. Once, says Max, twice if we’re desperate. First or second half, says William Roberts. It goes on like that.

Smakk: Fuck me.

Ray: It’s not something I’ve ever experienced before. On my coaching course the more serious trainees talked like that but it was all on the meta level. Mapping a routine onto a future opponent in such a specific way? I was gobsmacked. When I was able to get a word in edgeways, I asked if they were making plans like those against all the teams. Max looked puzzled. He said, what else would we do?

J: For the millionth time, I can’t tell if he’s full of shit.

Smakk: You only have to think what he did against Dorking.

J: We’re coming to that!

Smakk: Sorry. Okay, Ray. Long story short, they love you and they want you back when we play Notts.

Ray: [chuckling] That did get mentioned, but Max asked what level of commitment I was comfortable with. I said, not much. I didn’t feel I was ready. What would make you feel more ready? Doing more badges. Great. Do them. We’ll pay. You don’t have to do that, I said, but he wasn’t listening. He said he’d heard normal people sometimes found it hard to get onto the courses and at higher levels you had to be on a football club’s books or they wouldn’t even look at your application. What we’ll do, he said, is we’ll give you a job and we won’t tell anyone it’s only two hours a week. Yeah, we’ll do that. Two hours a week so that you can write you’re employed by Chester FC on the form so you get in the course. That’s true, by the way. If you work for a club you get fast-tracked. He says, you don’t even have to do the two hours if you don’t want. Well, I’m more than happy to do two hours. Two hours a week? That’s fine.

J and Smakk: [sniggering]

Ray: What?

J: You got played. He played you!

Ray: Who?

Smakk: Max wanted two hours a week from you and he got it!

[pause]

Ray: I got played.

[laughter]

Ray: It’s an honour. I’m happy. I’ve been floating on air, lads.

J: You’re a ledge, mate. An absolute ledge. I was going to savage Best for not talking to fans and for leaving a blank page in the match programme where his notes are supposed to go, but okay, fine. He’s talking to the people he wants to talk to. That’s something, at least. Let’s run an ad and we’ll be back with our next section.

***

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***

J: Okay, we’re back! Sorry again to anyone who got weird adverts last week. Should all be fixed, now. Let’s talk transfers. This window we signed Christian Fierce for a club record fee, and Steve Alton went to Kidderminster on loan. I’m told there’s an option to buy at a generous rate. We allowed quite a lot of young players to go out on loan, retained Ziggy, and brought Chipper from League One. Smakk, how did you feel when the transfer window slammed shut?

Smakk: I was happy. Optimistic. Christian Fierce is huge – in more ways than one. We kept two clean sheets in his first two games and what can you say about the guy? He’s impressive. And Chipper scored two winning goals in January. That’s six points right there.

J: Four points.

Smakk: What?

J: It would have been nil-nil in both games. That’s two points. His winning goals added four points.

Smakk: This guy. He’s learned what xG is and now he’s a stats freak. If he’s worth two points or three points a game he’s priceless either way. Okay so overall it’s a big gamble, isn’t it? We’ve spent the Raffi Brown money, the FA Cup money. I kind of got used to having that down the back of the sofa. It was our safety net and now it’s gone. We’ve got a lot of eggs and we’ve got one basket. Do you know what I mean?

J: Do you agree with the moves, though?

Smakk: Chipper is the best striker I’ve seen in years, and Fierce the best defender. So, yeah. Money well spent, in theory. In practice, if we don’t go up we’ve fucked ourselves, haven’t we?

J: I think when the window closed I was exactly the same. Happy but nervous. Good moves but, to coin a phrase, it’s all or nothing.

Smakk: Don’t.

J: That’s what it is, though, isn’t it? Ray, you don’t want to talk about transfers, do you?

Ray: I’m happier talking about deals that went through than speculating. Boringly, I agree with what’s been said. Happy but nervous.

J: Great. We also signed rowdy Roddy Jones and he looks good in the clips, but who doesn’t? We don’t need to put pressure on the kid but my sources say we are committed to future transfer fees rising to fifty thousand pounds which is, look, it’s scary in one way. But if he’s Baby Bale like some people are saying then no-one’s going to remember the fifty K.

Smakk: It’s half when he turns 16, half when he turns 18, right? If we get promoted twenty-five grand will feel like being stung by a butterfly.

J: If we get promoted. If if if. I think we should ban the word if. Okay, that’s all the men, I think. On the women’s side the only moves were the five Welsh lasses who joined. Don’t want to get into the whole Saltney thing but if they’re good, they’re welcome, and the fees were negligible. Few thousand here and there. Anything to say about all that? Some head shaking here in the studio. All right, next topic. The women’s first team.

Smakk: Surreal stuff here, even by our standards. Mid-January, the women beat Merseyrail three-one, at which point, I’ve got it written down, hang on… Yeah, they’d scored forty, conceded three. Sensational stuff, right? But there were all kinds of rumours of Max Best throwing a tantrum before the Bury match. One of those things where the entire squad locks itself in after a defeat while they clear the air. I’ve never heard of that before a match with a team that’s top of the table and cruising. Ray, have you got any insight?

Ray: No insider knowledge, no, but I take my girls to as many of the women’s games as I can and all I’ll say is that results aren’t everything.

Smakk: What do you mean?

Ray: All I want to say is that Max doesn’t ask his players to do more than they can do.

Smakk: Well, the women were three-nil up at half time and there was, apparently, a lot of in-fighting as they went to the dressing room. They were late coming out for the second half and they won six-nil. A week later, home to FC United, two-nil up at half time. In-fighting, unhappy faces, late coming out, six-nil, Max Best dishing out hugs and chest bumping Jackie Reaper. What the actual fuck is happening?

Ray: I have no clue. Those first halves were really okay but the second halves were unbelievable at times. The intensity’s gone up. Everyone is sharper, faster, and they’re pushing each other. I saw Femi run fifty yards to grab Bea Pea by the collar and move her into the centre. Stop wasting your energy, she seemed to be saying. There was a lot of that. The leaders starting to lead. Midfielders connecting two ways. Goalscorers scoring goals. I didn’t realise it but my girls were drifting away. There had been something missing and now it’s back, big time. It’s back and my daughters are excited to wake up on a Sunday. The women have Fleetwood next and they’re the weakest in the league. But then it’s the three big ones: Tranmere, Cheadle, and West. Win all three and the title’s all but in the bag. It’s exciting. I’ll be at all those and so will my daughters and I’m very grateful for that.

J: Well said. Should we take a quick break there and get into the men’s results? Let’s take a quick break.

***

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***

J: We’re back! Three matches in seven days to discuss and we’re talking about the first ones again because Ray’s here. Saturday, February first, we’re away at Dorking. Smakk and I have talked about it but Ray, what was your take?

Ray: Fascinating. Amazing. Sensational. On the coach down south we remember the two home games in the thick mud and we think, huh. We’ve bulked up. We’re older. Sneakily, the average age has gone up. I did some maths and at one point in the Forest Green match we had an average age of over 27. We haven’t had that for a while, not even close. We’ve gone from Project Youth to Project Max and the Beanstalk. So we roll up to Dorking, there’s traffic, the away fans get in five minutes late, and what do we see? It’s two-nil to Chester and Max is on the warpath. It’s Max, Bochum, Eddie Moore, Zach Green, Sharky, and we are running riot.

Smakk: Mostly Max, though.

Ray: Mostly Max, though. That’s right. I missed the long shot and the free kick and only heard the cheers and saw the scoreboard saying two-nil, but it was clear he was working out a lot of stress and frustration. Long shots, trying to score from corners, trying to set the world record for bendy free kicks. I got a five minute blast of it and then suddenly – boof! It was gone. Five minutes of falling back, shape work, virtually men behind ball. Dorking were shell-shocked from the early barrage but they eventually realised they had to come at us.

They had a bit of a pop but it was a ruse for Max to feed Sharky and Bochum and for us to run riot on counters. One chance went begging, then another, and finally Max gets the ball deep and sprints hard, combines with Chipper, slides the ball to Eddie, overload on the left, tap in for Henri. The guys go to celebrate but Max is in the back of the net picking the ball up and he’s shouting at them to get back. Three-nil, not enough, let’s go again. Three-nil after fifteen minutes. Four-nil after twenty. Max kicks some water bottles in disgust. Disgust! He’s absolutely fuming. To me it was ten out of ten all round but apparently not.

Smakk: Okay that’s interesting, Ray, because maybe that plays into the Dagenham result.

J: Hang on, guys. We need to go sequentially or we get tweets. It’s four-nil after twenty minutes and it’s just unbelievable stuff. Fast and literally furious. Max Best subs himself off with two goals, no celebrations, hiding in the dugout with his hoodie up. Thoughts?

Smakk: Only that we won five-nil and got two closer to Grimsby in goal difference.

J: Come on, man. Something’s not right.

Smakk: Yeah, look, he’s got high standards. Most fans only look at scores but he’s seeing players not doing what they’re supposed to and things like that. Tuesday night we’re at home to Dagenham and Redbridge and it’s the Big Boys Club again but we can’t even get half-chances going. We fight and we get a point but that was one of our games in hand and we really needed a win to have a chance of catching Grimsby. We all saw Best after – he was low. Really low. He knows that’s the season done. He always said we go for the playoffs and then there was the whole takeover mess and he spent our reserves and now he’s thinking, why? What’s the point? To win the title we need to win the games in hand but we’ve drawn at home to a mid-table side. And maybe whatever it was he saw against Dorking stopped us getting a goal against Dag.

J: It was a totally different team! One’s all huge guys, one’s all the technical lads. Who’s in both? Fierce, Wise, Harrison. Aff. Carlile. The strikers. They weren’t the problem, if there even was a problem.

Smakk: It was a problem that fucking Chipper got himself sent off!

J: That was in the, like, eighty-eighth minute. It didn’t affect the result.

Smakk: Who knows what might have happened? There were about eight minutes of injury time. And he’ll miss three league matches.

J: He plays on the edge. No big deal. Move on.

Smakk: No big deal. Christ. It’s one thing him not playing against Eastleigh but he’ll miss Barnet and Solihull, too. The hardest games we’ve got left!

J: It’s fine.

Smakk: Argh! We’re about to have another podcast schism. Back to Dagenham. Ray, we fluffed our lines. At the time, did you think that was that for us winning the league?

Ray: That draw took us seventeen points behind Grimsby with three games in hand. Win those three and it’s eight points. Beat Grimsby and it’s five. It’s still very possible to catch them but there’s something about those numbers that is daunting. We’re twenty points behind. We’re seventeen points behind. If we don’t go on a tear we’ll find games start to run out and that’s that. I’m confident we’ll get to the playoffs and get to the final but then it’s a lottery. I hope we don’t look back on the two points against Dagenham and have regrets because it was a whole-hearted effort from the lads in difficult conditions.

J: I think it’s interesting no-one wants to talk about Eastleigh. A two-nil away win against a decent team without our best striker. We’ve won seven out of eight. We’ve lost one out of fourteen in the league. Why isn’t anyone upbeat about this?

Smakk: Because Grimsby won and we’re still seventeen points behind. We’re doing well, true, and we’ll get to the playoffs, great. But it’s a long time until then.

J: Grimsby didn’t replace Marcus Wainwright.

Smakk: So? They’ve got enough quality. They can grind out results.

J: Their results are low-key tailing off already. One less goal per game. Take away what Wainwright was doing and they’re going to drop points. It’s like Ray said, we’re in a false position. If we keep going they’ll start to notice us catching them and they’ll feel the pressure and crack. Christian Fierce, five games, no goals conceded. We lost to Dagenham at the start of the season. We’ve upgraded that to a draw, at least. If –

Smakk: I thought we’d banned the word if.

J: [sulks]

Ray: I have a theory.

J: Tell us.

Ray: This week was the first time my daughters learned about star signs and we had a discussion about that. It got me thinking about our manager. Ask two people what they think of Max Best and it’s shocking how often you hear them give opposite answers. He’s too kind, he’s too ruthless, that kind of thing. There are two sides to everything he does. Most dramatically, he plays brutal, old-school football at home on our dodgy pitch, but away it’s slick, fast, progressive. He’ll spend literally half the season promoting youth players and giving them chances and the remaining half is all about wily old pros while the youth get loaned out. He’s got no interest in Wales one minute, the next he’s bought a club and signed ten dragons.

When I show him my humble little drills he can’t stop talking but when Saturday comes we don’t hear a peep. He’s a huge extrovert who claims to be an introvert. He wants to keep this a fan-owned club and the only way to do that is to cut fans out of the equation. He’s a bundle of contradictions in every way. What I think –

J: If you mention horoscopes we’re going to lose twenty percent of our Patreons.

Ray: [softly chuckling]. You got me. But I was just thinking, in a season like this, where we’re sixth but we think it’s a title charge and our best player is falling over at corners one minute and hitting worldies into the top corner the next and we look like Christian Bale in Batman on Saturday and Christian Bale in The Machinist on Tuesday, in a season where we need to hold two absolutely contradictory positions in our head and utterly believe them both… Am I allowed to say it?

J: [sighs, laughs.] Go on.

Ray: What you need at the top is a Gemini.

J: Any of them? There are six hundred and fifty million.

Ray: [chuckling.] One in particular, mate. One in particular.

***

Geminis are a reticent bunch; they won’t share their secrets with just anyone. But once you prove you can match their hustle, a Gemini is fiercely loyal. When you’re in, you’re in. They’ll do everything in their power to help you succeed and have a blast along the way. Hitch yourself to their wagon and you might win or you might lose but either way you’ll be glad you came along for the ride.