Player Manager - A Sports Progression Fantasy - 10.5 - Whiplash

5.

Football glossary: To whip (a cross) (in). To send a pass, usually from the sides of the pitch into the centre, with extra ball revolutions in order to produce pleasing curving and dipping effects. See: David Beckham; James Ward-Prowse; Max Best; Ziggy (accidentally).

British glossary: On the lash. Out drinking.

***

Extract from The New Pink Online, Saturday, February 15

 

Chester 1 Barnet 3 – Max Best Post-Match Interview

 

Max, you’ve lost to second-placed Barnet. How do you feel?

It was a game of two halves but I’m as sick as a parrot.

You’re going to struggle to lift your players and get back to the grind.

The players were first class but at the end of the day it’s a results business. You’ve got to take it one game at a time but three points in the onion bag is better than a no I’m out of cliches soz.

Would you like to comment on the referee?

The referee refereed the game to the best of his ability.

That’s it?

That’s it. I can say it again if you want.

What were you saying to Barnet’s winger at the end?

I was saying he’d done us up like a kipper and no mistake. I was saying ooh you cheeky so-and-so. I was saying grr I would have got away with it if it wasn’t for you pesky wingers.

You’ve been quiet recently and we’ve missed your insightful post-match interviews. Is there anything you’d like to say to the fans?

Dunno. Soz maybe.

Sorry for what?

Just for falling short.

Not for blocking investment in the club?

I didn’t block investment. I said to the guy if he lent us two million I’d give him three back. It was the sweetest deal in the history of the world and he didn’t want it. People like that don’t want to grow the pot and share it; they want the whole pie. No sharing.

Does that offer still stand for other investors?

No because we don’t need it. If we get promoted this squad is going to blast through League Two. All we need is a hundred and fifty grand to get our training ground started and we’ll get that when we go down to Wembley for the playoff final.

It’s disconcerting the way you flip between goals. We’re not good enough to win the National League but we’ll definitely win League Two. You want the title one week, the playoffs the next. You’re clearly devastated by the loss today but you won’t admit it. You can’t blame fans who feel a sense of whiplash.

I’m a Gemini.

What about your players? It must be hard for them.

They’re all Gemini, too.

If you need a cash injection why don’t you do a Boost the Budget?

Because I said we wouldn’t need to do that again and we don’t need to do that again. Everything I want to happen is happening. It’s not a smooth ride and it’s not always fun but everyone’s working hard, everyone’s making the best of our situation, and we want to give to the people of Chester, not take. We can do it on our own. So the facilities are six months late. So what? It’s not worth endangering the club over. We’ll battle for every point and keep climbing that table and whether we’re up or down on the last day of the season you’ll know that we gave it our best. I need to come to terms with the fact that our best isn’t good enough yet but we’ve got a couple of months to look inside and bring out the best in all our players and staff and okay, Barnet are ahead of us now, but would you really be surprised if we outplayed them at Wembley Stadium?

Thanks for your time.

Josh Throw-Ins towels are available in the club shop and online.

There’s another whiplash. We never do long throws, ever, but then it’s the whole tactic.

It’s not that complicated. Buy a towel and you’ll understand. They’re machine washable and 100% cotton that I’m assured is non-toxic.

***

I spent a quiet Saturday night at home with Ems, letting myself decompress. The new media dude was correct – Chester was experiencing more whiplash than an Indiana Jones movie. I’d started the season aiming to finish seventh. Then at the Fans Forum I’d gone all-in on the title and that had felt so, so right. Now first place was off the table and I felt… yeah, it was okay. I mean there was no point wishing I’d done everything different. I’d made my choices and they had seemed valid at the time.

The pressure was off. On Tuesday we would play Solihull, a playoff rival, but then we had four much easier games leading up to what, in a different timeline, would have been a key contest against Grimsby. Those four matches would be perfect for giving minutes to players like Pascal who hadn’t featured much recently, and their relative ease would allow me and my staff to focus on player development.

I checked our fixture list for the millionth time. Solihull this Tuesday. Four winnable games. Grimsby. Three winnable games after that. Then our rock hard trip away to Aldershot which coincided with Grimsby’s away trip to Barnet. When I had been daydreaming about catching Grimsby, that day seemed likely to be pivotal.

Ah, well.

As the pressure of needing to be perfect for the title chase relented, as I thought less about my bruised ego, ideas started to form.

I personally needed to train at a higher level for a few days at least. Why not do that while spending time with my players? I fired out some texts, starting with one to Mateo.

I needed to make sure the women didn’t get complacent in the easiest match of the season. I fired out some texts, starting with Jill and the volunteer who put names and numbers on our kits.

I needed to do something with this idiot striker I had signed. I fired out two texts – neither to Chipper.

By bedtime, I felt at peace. That’s when the bruises from smashing into Barnet players for forty-five minutes started to hurt.

Emma asked why I was laughing; I told her.

“I’ll get the healing crystals,” she said. I think she was joking.

“What I need is a good night’s sleep. Tell me about contract law.”

“Oi,” she said. “Contract law is actually fascinating.”

“Is it?”

“No.” She turned the light out and snuggled up. She put her arm across me but it was resting on a bruise so I moved it. That only moved it onto a different bruise, so I moved it back. You’ve got to be flexible in this game. Take on board new information and adapt.

***

Sunday, February 16

Match 14 of 22: Fleetwood Town Wrens vs Chester Women

Fleetwood Town play on the west coast, north of Blackpool, and I wanted to get there early because the match would be played at their training centre, Poolfoot Farm. It had cost eight million pounds when it was built in 2016, though I’d heard an interview with their owner who said ten million. What was that in today’s money, with higher material and energy costs? Fifteen mill? I’d studied up and it had twelve grass pitches and two 4G ones, plus a bar, restaurant, meeting rooms and everything else a League One or Championship side would need.

Online, it looked absolutely mint.

But before I could feast my eyes upon it we had a ninety-minute drive. MD wanted me to spend more time with the players in the men’s squad, but you know me, I like to overdeliver. I had decided to spend at least a couple of minutes talking to every single player in our entire system, from Lucy (our oldest at 43) to Benjy Garland (eight years old, look at his little legs! Look how cute eeeee).

As we turned onto the M56 – definitely my favourite motorway – I scooted next to Jill. She was the first coach I’d ever hired for the women’s team, though that was before I had the Staff Profiles perk to show me how low her numbers were. There was nothing low about her enthusiasm, her love of the game, and her connections with women’s teams in Cheshire and beyond. The players respected her. Jill was an OG women’s footballer from the days when putting a women’s match on TV would have caused riots.

“Jill,” I said.

She had been tapping away on her phone with her glasses pushed up into her increasingly-less-terrible haircut. She pulled them down and gave me her full attention. “Max Chopper Best.”

That was a reference to my barnstorming and completely within the laws of the game performance against Barnet. Uniquely, I didn’t want to talk about myself. “How are you doing?”

“Surprisingly calm, actually. Jackie’s great but this is like the old days, isn’t it? Do you ever think about it? When we were the underdogs and you had to find an edge with mad tactics or antics. Now we’ve got this lot – ” she jerked her head backwards to indicate the amazing squad I’d built – “with you in charge, I’m relaxed. I can’t remember being this relaxed before a match. Certainly not an away one!”

“Ah,” I said. “I mean, yeah, but you’re not going to like how I keep our edge today.”

She pushed her glasses up so she could pinch her nose. “Why, Max? Can’t we just have a simple win?”

“No,” I said. “But we’re talking about you. You came up to me in the pub that day, didn’t you, and demanded a job. But I think that job’s been changing, right, and we haven’t really ever talked about it. So let’s talk.”

“Oh.” She took a moment. “Yes. It has changed. I started as a coach but I don’t do that anymore.”

This was quite hard for me, but I didn’t see the point of being overly diplomatic. Honesty was best. That said, I remembered Brooke or MD or Jackie had taught me a management tool called sandwiching. If you had something bad to say, you wedged it between two delicious slices of bread. “I want to promote you!” I said, but I got the energy wrong. I sounded like a demented politician talking about pork markets. “I want to promote you,” I said, very much like a normal human being. The keeper had saved my penalty but I had tucked away the rebound. Jill looked intrigued. Time for the sandwich filling! “I want you to lean into your best skills. I’ve slowly been finding people who are more suited to the menial day-to-day coaching. It’s all just evolved, hasn’t it, and I’ve been too busy to sort of formalise it. So let’s make it formal. You don’t need to coach unless there’s an emergency.”

A little flash of pain showed on her face. Fetch the second slice of bread!

“Hey, there’s enough for you to do around here. You’re a kind of mentor to these women and they look to you and Lucy for advice and that’s important. The average age of the squad is twenty-one. They need you. The club needs your networking skills. There have been a lot of times where we’ve gone about things the wrong way and you’ve made a call and smoothed it out. I see you as being a sort of general manager for the women’s team. Doing the logistics, talking to the FA, talking to other clubs, getting ahead of the referees so we don’t need to explain about Dani’s whistle, just all the things you’ve been doing and then more as we rise up through the leagues.”

“General manager?”

“You’ll support the head coach and you’ll help coordinate the youth teams and all that sort of thing. Make sure we don’t get double booked on pitches, make sure we’ve always got a coach for a session and a physio for a game. If I need to know when the next girls under fourteens tournament is, I’ll call you. If Jackie needs to know how big the team bus will be one Sunday so he can bring some youngsters to get matchday experience, he’ll call you. When we’re in the WSL you’ll take media requests and decide who we talk to and you’ll book our hotels and things like that. When we’re on pre-season in Marbella and there’s a spy from Leeds United hiding in a bush, you’ll go and smack him with an umbrella.”

“Why Leeds United?”

“Don’t you know that story? Leeds sent a guy to spy on Derby’s training session and instead of buying a Derby top and pretending to be a fan – “

“Like you would have done.”

“Yeah. Instead of that, he hid in a bush. Extremely comical and there was a big blow-up about it. Anyway, this job. You’re basically doing it anyway, but it’ll grow and I need you to stop thinking about passing drills and start thinking about what courses you might need to take. Maybe you can shadow Secretary Joe and Brooke to learn what they do. Oh, and Ryan Jack, too. He’s a genius at relationship-building with these smaller clubs. I want to lift them all up with us as we go.”

“That’s thoughtful.”

“Yeah but they’ll send us their best players, too. I’m not a charity! I’m happy to have a reputation for overpaying for kids with talent.”

“Everyone says you paid far too much for WibRob. And Roddy Jones, too. That was part of a plan, was it?”

“Let’s say it’s part of a culture. We get money from bigger clubs and give it to smaller ones. And we take a ninety-eight percent cut.” I grinned. “But look, are you even interested?”

“Yes,” she said, before I’d finished asking. “If you think I can do it.”

“It’s easy!” I said, pushing her on the shoulder. “It’s mostly talking to people and being nice but not letting anyone take the piss. The fact you’re an OG Chester player and the women respect the shit out of you is the icing on the cake.” I realised I had mentally sort of skipped over the bit where she said yes. I tutted. I needed to get more present in these conversations but I was finding it hard to concentrate on one thing. “Bulldog tried to teach me something once: Don’t sell past the close. Okay so you’re in. Top.” I munched on my lip for a while. “James Pond said I never wrote anything down. Can you, sort of, make a note of everything you do? That can form the basis of your, sort of, job. What’s the word I’m thinking of? Your job profile or something like that. If you want to go be a missionary in North Korea for a year we’ll be able to use that to hire someone. Yeah, let’s document the shit out of all this.”

“What does it pay?”

I tutted. “It pays what you get now. And it pays more if we get promoted.” I pushed her again. “I promise you’ll be the lowest-paid executive in the Women’s Super League. How does that sound?”

She shook her head while laughing. “You want me to describe my own job? How do you know I won’t leave out the bits I don’t like?”

I scoffed. “Because you’re one of us.”

***

I spent a few minutes talking to one of the new physios we’d hired, then repeated the trick with Elin, one of the coaches we had on loan from the Welsh FA. Both were happy and excited to be involved in what we were doing at Chester.

I wanted to bring up the idea of Elin joining us full-time, just to see if that was even something she would be interested in, but Emma tapped Elin on the shoulder and said, “We need you to settle a debate.” Five seconds later, Dani, Emma, and Elin were deep in conversation again, laughing and joking. Dani’s Morale was at maximum.

A good time to talk to her?

No, chats with the players would go better after the match. After the surprise.

***

Fleetwood’s facilities were amazing. We got a tour from their captain and it was just inspirational. She handed me a colourful, slightly glossy map like I was at Disneyland or a big zoo. A horseshoe of pitches hugged a central building in which were seven changing rooms with showers, a restaurant, bar, gym, classrooms and meeting rooms. Everything was well thought-out and conducive to improving players while also leaving the option open to rent out pitches, host football tournaments, and run charity events of all kinds.

Our tour group dispersed – the players started to go to the dressing room, leaving me mostly alone with my thoughts.

I’d been poking around Fleetwood’s accounts but couldn’t find out how much they were making from renting their stuff out. A decent chunk, I reckoned. They were getting half a million a year in grants to do community programmes. Talk about aspirational. If I could get a grant to equip a dental clinic that would save me a hundred and fifty grand right there.

But the main thing was to have facilities of this quality in place so that my players’ CA could continue to rise. If the curse treated men’s and women’s football more or less equally, which it seemed to, then the soft cap for playing in tier five should have been the same for both. The only man who hinted at having hit a cap was Chipper. His CA had briefly dipped from 80 to 79, but gone back to 80 again. If 80 was the training limit for the men, surely it was for the women, too? Apparently not, because Femi and Charlotte were wading through treacle having hit CA 50.

They were basically part-time, though, and there were only three official training sessions a week. There was also the quality of our opposition to consider. While the men had just crossed swords with a CA 75 team, the women were about to play one with CA 18. The second-best team in the league, Cheadle, had CA 33. It could be that we needed to get promoted to increase the soft cap, but if we trained at Man City’s Death Star, I had no doubt our numbers would shoot up. No more transfers until we had the right setting and equipment. My mantra had to be facilities, facilities, facilities!

That determination lasted no more than five seconds.

“What are you smiling at?” said Emma, who had finally detached from Elin.

“Just thinking if I had fifteen million I could buy this, but I wouldn’t buy this. I would put down one grass pitch, one 3G, rebuild one stand at the Deva, buy six players and half a dentist. I’ll never go all out on any one thing.”

“Except today. You’re going to go all out against Fleetwood, aren’t you? Dani said the league was so tight it could come down to goal difference.”

I smiled. “Leagues are almost never decided by goal difference. It happens like once every hundred years. No, we’ll win by miles if we can keep this new focus we’ve got.”

“They’re fighting your mission.”

I thought about that. “I really think it’s our mission. Ah, there’s Jill. They’re ready for me. Do you want to come in?”

“Is it going to get dramatic?”

“Only a little bit.”

“Then I’ll only come a little bit in.”

I grabbed her and gave her a squeeze. “You are a weirdo.”

“What else do you like about me?”

I counted off on my fingers. “Zips. Accent. Work stories. Make me feel like a real boy.”

We hugged almost all the way through the corridor and into our changing room. The five Welsh girls had come separately and were hanging around near the entrance.

“Where is the doc crew?” demanded Angel as I went to the front.

“There’s not enough room,” I said. “Or they’re sick. Or they’re lost. Pick one. All right. First of all, thanks for coming early. It’s nice, isn’t it? Really good stuff. I want to build something like this but with blue pitches.”

“Blue pitches?” said Charlotte.

I pointed. “Didn’t you see those five-a-side pitches? They’re the same red as the home shirts. It’s top, this place. Football heaven. We’re going to have this, but we’re going to build it step by step, not all in one go. Okay, next. Thank you for the last two matches. It was fantastic to watch you play with such intensity and I love how you came out for the second half like it was nil-nil again and you had it all to prove. What I saw from you was a champion mentality. None of this playing with your food, just a clean kill. It’s not much fun playing in the men’s team at the moment so really – thank you.

“Let’s talk about today. First of all, there will be more disappointed players than normal and I’m sorry about that. I’m honestly not here to ruin your weekend. I want to talk to everyone on the drive home, even if it’s just for a couple of minutes. Just checking on how you’re doing. If you’re playing, how your careers are going and how the club can help. If you’re not playing, what are your next steps and that sort of thing. Okay? If you don’t want to talk to me today, that’s okay! But the men’s season is over until the playoff final, basically – er, don’t tell them I said that – so I’ve got time to come to training and that kind of thing. I might join a couple of sessions if that’s okay with you; I need to sharpen up.

“Right. Today, then. Oh, girls, can you step outside for this? Don’t go too far.”

The five Welsh girls didn’t seem to mind being kicked out – they were at the stage of their careers when everything was new and exciting and Fleetwood was probably the best facility they’d ever been to. Emma closed the door behind them and gave me a thumbs up to say they weren’t hanging around outside the door.

“Okay. Last time we talked, we talked about complacency. Fleetwood are by far the worst team in the division and you’ve already beaten them six-nil this season. If there’s ever a day for you to take your foot off the gas, it’s today. Right, Bonnie?”

“No.”

“Right, Bea Pea?”

“No.”

“Right, Dani?” This section didn’t need Elin’s translation. Dani blew a raspberry and stuck her thumb down. I grinned. “Okay so you won’t mind what I’ve got planned.”

“Shit,” said Jill, and there was an uneasy stirring amongst the group.

Dani signed and Elin said, “Why do I get the feeling I’ve been tricked?”

I let my smile grow even wider and spread my arms. “No trick! We will put out a great team. 3-5-2, Jackie Reaper special. Sorry in advance to the left backs.” Ridley T and Lucy grimaced. “But I’ll start by naming the five subs. All right?” I cleared the tactics board and moved five blue magnets into position on the right edge of the space. Two defenders, two midfielders, one striker.

“Oh my God,” said Kisi.

“What?”

She had her hands raised in a theatrical display of having seen something awful. “Please tell me we will have a goalkeeper on the bench.”

“No need.”

“Max, pick up the second green magnet and slide it up there. Go on. There’s a good chap.”

“I’ve already handed the team sheet in. No goalkeeper. Now, let’s go through these subs. Two defensive options: Tanwen and Dafina.” Elin stopped translating. I pretended to misunderstand why. “Tanwen is a centre back. Dafina can play centre back or left back. Great options. Could even switch to a back four if I wanted, which I don’t.”

“But,” she said.

I pressed on. “For the midfield we’ve got Mari and Fioled. Similar coverage. Mari covers central midfield and offers leadership if standards slip. Takes after her mum! I don’t think her mum ever sat a former Man City player down with a Cruyff turn, though. Yes, Charlotte, I saw that! Lol. Fioled’s centre or left. I’m not quite sure how she’ll develop, but I know she’s going to be mustard. And up front we’ve got Alwen. She’s been a goalpoacher in the youth teams but I see her becoming more of a link player.”

Five hot prospects, each with PA over 100. Who could possibly complain?

Quite a lot of people, it turned out. I let the women grumble and say things for well over twenty seconds.

“Yeah, you can stop talking now. This is a done deal. This is happening. These are Chester players and they’re ha-mazing. I’m going to go out on a limb and say that in terms of potential this is the strongest bench the fifth tier of women’s football has ever seen. I’d open it to the men’s team, too, but if you put me and Wibbers on the bench that tends to drag the average up.”

“Max, they’re fifteen,” said Elin.

“Was that you talking or Dani?”

“Me.”

“Ask Dani what she thinks.”

“She trusts you.”

“So there you go.” I bounced on my heels a few times. “This is exciting, ladies. This is life on the edge. We’re walking in a Max Best wonderland! Here’s the deal. The starting eleven better hurry up and win this match because if Scottie gets injured there’s no backup goalie. If one of the outfielders gets injured or sent off, that’s it. It’s all over! One of these fifteen-year-olds will come on and guess what? They ain’t ready!” I laughed. “Are you feeling complacent now?” I laughed some more. “If you’re in the starting eleven you’d better get ready for kickoff because this is what I want from you. I want you on it from the first second whoever we’re playing. Before I announce the team, is there anyone in the room who can’t handle the pressure? Who can’t take the jeopardy?” I waited and made eye contact with over a dozen women. Some looked frustrated, some amused. “No no no,” I said. “This isn’t the right vibe. I’m setting you a challenge, ladies. This is why we get knocked out of cups. There’s a challenge and you don’t rise to it. Is there anyone excited by this?”

Charlotte’s head dipped but when it got as low as it could, it popped all the way up. “Me. I’m up for it. It’s fucking mental but yeah. Come on. I’m the best player in the league. I don’t give a shit.”

My smile turned hard. “That’s what I’m fucking talking about!”

“We don’t need subs,” said Angel. “We can beat these with nine.”

Maddy Hines stood and pointed at Scottie. “I vote we play without a keeper.” The laughs broke the tension and Maddy was pelted with socks and bits of tape.

“Hey,” I said, palms up. “I said we’d put out a strong team and I meant it. Check this out. Scottie in goal. Bonnie, Femi, Luxury Bell. Sorry, Fleetwood, no shots allowed. Midfield of Pippa and Charlotte as CMs and I’m going to rotate Dani, Kisi, and Maddy in the other midfield slots. Ladies, did you see the surface? It’s a passing pitch. Pass them to death. Slide the dribbling slider way down, do you get me? No showboating unless it’s productive. I want trackbacks, slaps, and overlaps. Bea Pea and Angel to bag the goals.” That eleven had an average CA of 43.2, and just to make sure we won I would use Triple Captain and, yeah, Bench Boost, too. Why not? I wouldn’t manage another women’s game this season. After today, they might not let me. “Ladies, that’s a terrifying side if you’re Fleetwood. They don’t know our subs, do they? No-one’s ever heard of them. For all they know, I’ve signed the five best fifteen-year-old players in Wales.” I smiled. “They’re going to go hard at you is what I’m saying. They’re going to give it everything at the start. Have you got it in you to stand up to it? You’re on a tightrope and I’ve taken away the safety net. Let’s see what you’re made of. That’s it. Jill?” Jill came to the front with a Chester-branded kit bag and was about to speak when I reconsidered this part of the show. “Err, should we do it in here or on the pitch? Better photos on the pitch maybe?”

“Don’t know,” said Jill.

“The Welsh girls don’t know what’s happening,” I explained to the group. “They don’t know they’re going to be on the bench and potentially make their debuts.” I pointed to the bag and looked around. “In there we’ve got their brand new kits with their names and squad numbers. Big moment, ladies, yeah? Magical moment for those girls. So I need five volunteers to present one shirt each and we’ll take photos and record it for the socials and all that shit. Angel, should we do it in here or on the pitch? What’s better?”

“For the club or for the girls?”

“For the girls.”

“Outside. Let their mums and dads see.”

“Amazing. Will you give Alwen hers?”

As if she’d pass up an opportunity to be in a photo. “Yes.”

“Jill, we need two defenders and two midfielders. We’ll surprise them out on the pitch. Everyone who’s in a bad mood, all smiles for a few minutes, please! Then it’s warmups, then three points. Okay, let’s go.”

***

The photos were adorable. Surprise, smiles, tears, and that was just the parents.

Then it was kickoff. Fleetwood’s striker passed the ball back to the captain who launched it forward. Femi got a big head on it and that was pretty much Fleetwood’s only attack in the first ten minutes.

We crushed them. Death by a thousand passes, but I’d added a kind of ticking timebomb to the match and my players wanted to make sure of the win while they were all fit and healthy; when they attacked, they attacked with purpose.

A desperate foul on the left led to a yellow card and a Dani free kick that Femi nodded home.

A slick series of side-to-side passes in midfield led to Dani surging into the CAM slot from the left while Kisi did the same from the right. Dani rolled the ball underfoot and Kisi took it past a hapless defender who ended up doing the splits. Kisi combined with Angel, combined with Bea Pea, and Kisi played a simple ball right. Dani could have taken a high-probability shot but she elected to cut back for Angel to roll it into the open net.

And then they relaxed. The win was in the bag. Job done.

Ah, no.

No. Fucking. Way.

I got on their case in a way I almost never did. I went past the edge of the technical area until I was more or less in position as a third linesman.

“Charlotte! Charlotte! Fucking pass! Hurry the fuck up!”

“Bonnie! Relax! What the fuck are you doing? You’ve got her on toast! Simple pass!”

“Dani! Ugh. Elin. Shout at her. If she goes left there she’s isolated.”

“Maddy! Combinations! Combinations! Jesus fuck!”

One by one they unrelaxed, the bastards.

The ball zipped around. I got into the flow in a way I hadn’t for months. Lived every pass. Jumped for every header. I screamed seemingly random words like ‘control’, ‘push’, ‘zip’, ‘second’, and ‘breathe’ that the players understood completely. I brought Kisi across to give her some technical feedback. I used the With and Without Ball screens to drop Pippa and Charlotte a few yards and pushed Maddy and the wide players forward a fraction. I yelled “diags!” and the ladies knew what to do. We bypassed Fleetwood like they only had four players. The match ratings of our midfielders shot up to 8s and then hit 9s.

The score went three four five.

The half time whistle was gutting. Leave me alone! I’m having fun! I forced myself to follow the players to the changing room. Then I remembered I had to wait a few minutes. When had I last managed the women? Ages. How could I arrange it with Jackie that I could do one match a season without it seeming like I was showing him how to do it properly? Taking one match a season would let me use my full range of perks but there was no social reason to do it.

Ah, well. I had enough to be getting on with.

Jill gave me the nod and I went inside.

“All right shut the fuck up,” I said. “My favourite movie is Whiplash. It’s about an angry man who shouts at people until they get better at their jobs. I know, right! Very inspirational stuff. When the film ends it’s five-nil at half time and the assumption is the angry man will demand more more more but I’ve got some more whiplash for you now. Ready? I’m happy with the score! What! You’ve done some Chesterness in that half by being fucking amazing, playing fantasy football, drawing actual gasps. There are little girls from this area watching and right now they want to play for our team. Mommy can I have a Chester shirt for my birthday? Winning is the building block of Chesterness because if we don’t get promoted we can’t do anything. But there’s more to Chesterness than winning. We’ve got to help the next generation come through, and that means these tiny little teenagers. Yes. Here’s the twist! They’re not just here so I can make a point. We’re going to get five debuts today.”

Jaws actually dropped.

“You remember at the start of the season we talked about the rules of the league and said we could basically do rolling subs? Yeah? Jackie and I decided not to do it because we’re trying to prepare you for higher leagues and we don’t want you getting whiplash from rule changes. So when Jackie brings you off the pitch, that’s that unless there’s an emergency. It’s better like that. Remember I said we’re going to the WSL? There’s no rolling subs in the WSL. We’re trying to teach you elite football.

“But I’ve made an executive decision and today I’m going to use the rules to the max. These ladies will rotate on and off over the next forty-five minutes, okay? We will never have more than two on at the same time. What’s going to happen is that you’re going to fucking support them. Back them up when they’re defending, trust them when they’re on the ball. And if someone starts on them, you fucking finish it, okay?

“You’ve earned the three points, now we give birth to five little Welsh dragons.”

Ridley T grinned. She was peeved at coming all this way and not even being on the bench but now she had a better idea of why. “You told us not to get pregnant.”

I put my finger in front of my mouth. “I’m not touching that setup with a bargepole. Does everyone understand what we’re doing? It’s Project Youth. Elin, how do you say Project Youth in Welsh?” She said something. “How do you say Project Youth in sign language?” She showed me. “How do you say Project Youth in Welsh sign language?” She showed me her middle finger, which drew laughs. I gave her a high five. “Ladies, more of the same please. There’s five new players here and I don’t want them learning bad habits. Show them what’s it’s like to be awesome. Kay bye.”

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

***

The second half, if I don’t mind myself saying it, was a masterclass in command and control. First, Mari replaced Pippa. I took the time to chat to Pip while she took on liquids and marathon paste. I talked to her about the match, her opponents, and her day job. She begged me to concentrate on the pitch.

The rules of the division said that players subbed off could go back on, so I gave Mari five minutes and swapped her with Pippa while Dafina replaced Luxury Bell. Dafina went to the left of the back three and I chatted to Mari and Luxury.

The next five minutes went great – you would barely notice such a young, inexperienced player was on the pitch, so I swapped everything back and went one level further, putting on Mari and Alwen and bringing off Kisi and Bea Pea.

I kept going, chatting to the players who had come off, giving them tips while saying what they’d done well. If I needed to criticise, I sandwiched it.

And the more I rotated different players off and on, the more players counted as being substitutes, meaning with ten minutes to go almost the entire outfield were getting Bench Boosted.

At eight-nil I took Bea Pea and Angel off and created a kind of Frankenstein 3-6-1 with Kisi as a right wing back, the idea being we would keep the ball and not run up the score any further.

Bea Pea went a few yards back to flop onto the ground – she always worked her arse off. Angel stood next to me.

“Can we talk?”

“Yeah. But if you wait a minute we can do it on the coach.”

Angel looked around. “Now’s better. More private.”

“Not sure I want a private chat with a seventeen-year-old. How was your birthday?”

“The last boring one I’ll ever have.”

“Good.”

Amused, she threw her dark hair around and tucked it into a scrunchie. “I want to talk about the documentary.”

“Okay.”

“Your girl’s messed you up.”

I frowned, trying to understand what she meant. “Sophie?”

“Emma,” she said, not really trying to disguise her annoyance. “She broke your trust. Recorded you against your will.”

“Whoa whoa whoa,” I said, hands up. “Let’s all calm down.”

“I’m calm. Why aren’t you?”

“What?”

She gritted her teeth. “You never liked being on camera but now you’re psychotic about it. No phones in the dressing rooms. No cameras except to film the Welsh girls. What? You’re going to be in the documentary at the start and then just vanish?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m not even supposed to be in it! It’s about you.”

We watched as Alwen got bullied off the ball by a defender. Bit late to win a duel, mate. “We’ve seen some of the rough edits so we know what it’s going to look like in the end. They say it doesn’t go good without the music and the text on screen and all that, but we saw one they’re calling Influence. It’s when you went to war against that twat.” She did a thousand-mile stare. “I’m in it a lot.”

“That’s great. That’s what you want.”

She shook her head. “No. You’re the star. The viewer wants to get to the next scene with you.” She lowered her head as she did a demure smile. “You started out dismissing the whole influencer problem while boosting Glendale Logistics. You had that fake phone to do comedy. You were pretending not to understand what was happening and it was fun in the room but on the screen it’s… And when you’re on the pitch you’re enormous. Everyone else is normal-sized but you suck up all the attention. It’s what I want to do. But I don’t come across as very nice. I’m, like, manipulative.”

“I’ve seen that rough cut. You’re being you and it works. You’ve even got some comedy chops. It’ll get you what you want.”

Angel pulled at her bottom lip for a while. “When I saw that episode I was sure the doc would be huge. They had amazing material like with the West loss and the takeover. I mean, great pillar content but that was when you were front and centre. Jackie’s a great coach but he doesn’t have screen presence. He isn’t at war with the FA and everyone. I was thinking you being the breakout star is fine because the doc will be so good and I’ll be a great supporting character and I’ll have a bigger role in season two. But now you’re out what even is it? It’s just some girls playing football and not even that well.” She looked into my eyes. “This, today, again, is crazy. No goalie sub for no reason. Five debuts for no reason. Just to prove a point! After you say it’s important we win every game, you make it harder to win. And it just works. It’s unbelievable. No-one will believe it because it’s not being recorded. If you want me to stay for three more years you’ve got to get over this phobia. I don’t want to be in a shit football doc like All Town Aren’t We. I want to be in Welcome to Wrexham, and that doesn’t work without Rob and Ryan. You’re our Rob and Ryan so talk to your girlfriend about how she hurt you and do it soon because we’re playing the three best teams next.”

Since the Fans Forum, no-one had mentioned that Emma had recorded me and put it up on screen. No-one had asked how much footage Henri and Sophie had sifted through to get to the good stuff. I was happy about that because I didn’t want to talk about it, ever. Now Angel had blindsided with me when we were eight-nil up. I was worried about tears at eight-nil up. What the actual. I took in a deep breath and imagined I was holding all kinds of crystals. “Thing is, Angel, it’ll take a lot more than one conversation. Because they did the right thing, right? It’s what I would have done and I would be upset if they got upset. So I’m not upset.”

“But you are.”

“I’m saying okay maybe it’s fucked me up a bit but I’m hiring a psychologist next season and Jesus, I have a lot to work on and that’s one of the smallest things. I might talk about my murder first, or my mum. Do you know what I mean? And maybe the psychologist will tell me I need to talk to Emma but I’m not doing anything just because there’s a documentary.” I set my jaw and used the tactics screens to make some fairly pointless changes. “I need some quiet. I need to get to know my players and make sure they’re getting what they need and what you need isn’t to be in a hit documentary, it’s to play in the WSL. Along the way, I promise to help build your profile – it will be a piece of piss – but the key to everything you want is to start scoring goals against famous teams and for that we need to get promoted so you’re up against next-level defences. We need to get promoted, we need to move to four days a week, and we need to get our training ground built.”

She was quiet for ages. “That’s delayed, is it?”

“Yeah. We’ll get our TV money in June or July and we can start then. If we’re lucky, we’ll have something we can use at the start of 2026.”

“There must be loads of ways to get the money sooner.”

“There are and they are all shit.”

“You know that Netflix pay three hundred thousand pounds per hour for documentaries they option?”

“Option?” I said, smiling again. I sighed. “Angel, I don’t want money for the doc. I want to put it on the BBC or ITV where it will be watched by three million people instead of thirty thousand. Do you know what I mean? I promised to get your name out there. And I want people to know what it’s like trying to survive in a world ruled by predators. We will take them on a journey where they watch the prey become the predator. We will have the whole country cheer us on as we evolve and demolish the superclubs one by one. A million quid doesn’t stack up to that.”

Angel tutted. “That? That’s what I’m talking about. Say that on camera and I’ll stay at Chester. Am I going back on?”

“No. Eight-nil is fine. I don’t want Jackie to feel like shit when he sees the score.”

“Urgh!” she said, and went to flop next to Bea Pea.

Erm, good chat. I think.

***

The ride home was noisy. Bonnie demanded that the Ffamous Five be allowed to travel back on the bus with the rest of the squad, so our physio, spare coach, and Jill got kicked off to make room. I tried to talk to the women one at a time but when a good song came on they would look at me, eyes pleading, and I would sigh and gesture and they’d rush off to join in the singing. The more soppy and sentimental, the louder they sang.

The overall vibe I got from my chats was that the players were happy and enjoying being part of the team’s journey. The ones out of the team said they were working hard to get in. Those on the fringes of the squad were unhappy about that but still loved being part of training and matchdays. I suppose it was unreasonable to expect anyone to really lay into me with their negative thoughts and feelings, but at least I gave them the opportunity.

I asked everyone if they got anything from the ‘life after football’ talk and most of them said ‘yeah that was great’ but they meant for the other players. Well, they were young and invincible and all I could hope was to plant some seeds and maybe one day they would sprout.

The most interesting talks were with the older players – Femi, Pippa, and Lucy.

But first, Angel jumped the queue. “Did you talk to her yet?”

“Who? Ems? When would I have done that?”

“How much did you get for that BoshCard advert?”

The question was pretty surprising – quite rude to talk about money so directly but she asked in a businesslike way and if there was anyone in Chester likely to be doing adverts of their own, it was her, even ahead of Wibbers and Youngster. “Are you going to keep it to yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Twenty grand.”

“That’s not bad considering you mostly have a local profile.”

“And considering I’m not even popular within the target demographic of Chester fans.”

She eyed me. “You’re popular. One time you talked about you and Chester being like an old married couple.”

“Pretty sure I didn’t describe myself as old. Take that back. You’re old.”

“You’re having a tiff. It happens. Twenty thousand pounds. Are you going to take us all out on the lash? Or buy a new car?”

“I’ll use the one I’ve got until it gives up the ghost.”

“You should get a new car. That one isn’t sexy. It’s bad for your brand.”

“My brand isn’t about being sexy.”

“What’s it about?”

“Good question. But I went to Grimsby and the players who laughed at my car turned out to be shitheads. So it’s a way of saving time instead of getting to know people.”

“Danny Flash isn’t a shithead.”

Funny. I hadn’t told many people that story, which meant Flash had told Angel what a dick he had been. Weird pickup line. “How is Danny?”

“How would I know? Okay but get a new car and then rent a shit one next time you go to manage your main rivals.”

“They weren’t our main rivals then, were they? But that’s not a terrible idea.” I smiled at the idea of finding the worst car I could rent for a week. Where would you look? Maybe the movie props place where Brooke had got the fake money.

“I like the Christian Fierce campaign.”

We had put up simple posters all around Chester with a misty, moody photo of our new star with the single word ‘Fierce’. We didn’t even put the Chester badge on. The aim was that people would talk to each other about it and what it meant. “Yeah?”

“How do I get that?”

“How do you get what?”

“How do I get to be in a poster on my own?”

“You don’t. We always put three players in a collage, you know that. Fierce is a special case. One-off.”

“Make it a two-off.”

“No.”

“Chelsea will do it when they sign me.”

She was trying to provoke me. “Good for Chelsea.”

“Boss. Gaffer. I want to be in a poster on my own. Tell me how.”

I tutted. “First, turn eighteen because I’m not doing anything until then. You might remember I promised your sister.” She huffed, but as a thought experiment I considered what would make me single anyone out for the kind of attention she wanted. “I really don’t think it’s good for anyone to have solo promos like that but I could imagine… Yes, if there was a special reason we could put you on the cover of the match programme and things like that.”

“But how?”

“If you got selected by the England under nineteens.”

“Can I do that?”

“You’re talented enough. Not sure what the level of the other girls is but they won’t beat you for Finishing and your link-up play and teamwork is really picking up. How about I research it? I’ll go and check out the competition and see how you stack up. Are you willing to do extra training and that?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, let me look into it. Maybe I can combine that with some other scams I’ve got planned.”

She left and I whipped my phone out. The most recent England nineteens was full of players from the WSL, but a couple of the reserves were from random American universities. It was unlikely the England scouts were coming to Chester matches – I had never seen one – so I would have to get creative to generate interest in Angel. I sat up and looked to the back of the bus. Angel was looking very pleased with herself. Her Morale had gone up one notch and she had a target to aim for that suited both our needs.

I grinned as I imagine a match programme cover with her, front and centre, in an England kit… flanked by Dani and Kisi.

Walking in a Max Best wonderland…

***

Pippa was interesting. She told me how she felt older and older with every passing week and that me signing toddlers and putting them in the team wasn’t helping. I laughed and said I was happy with her progress and performances. She was on the older side – 33 – and had only added 12 points in CA over the season, but that had brought her to 40 – perfectly good for the division.

“I really think you can keep improving,” I said. Her PA was 111. “Okay you’re a late starter so you don’t have loads of matches under your belt but you weren’t overplayed as a kid, you haven’t had any bad injuries. I’ll be honest, I’m fascinated to see how you get on next season. You’ll get loads of minutes and when it’s time to wind things down, I’ll let you know.”

“I don’t want to end up embarrassed.”

I made a noise. “Imagine playing for the men’s team. Imagine slipping into touch trying to take a corner.”

“Twice.”

I chuckled. “See? My whole career is cringe on toast. That’s not the hard part.”

“What’s the hard part?”

I leant back. “The feeling that you didn’t give it everything.”

***

The last chat was with Lucy. She was 43 and had played for the first version of Chester Women back when the club was still called Chester City. Her height and experience had helped my youthful side hugely in the early days of the new project but now she was finally looking like her legs were going.

Thanks to her dedication and intensity at training, her CA had hovered at 20 for a while, but in the last weeks it had slipped to 19 and I very much got the feeling that this slide would be irreversible. While I was more than willing to be proven wrong, I somehow doubted I would be.

She sat next to me, watched me put my thoughts in order, and her eyes almost instantly turned red.

“Hey,” I said, gently touching her arm. “Hey, now.”

“It’s The Talk. I know.”

“It’s not The Talk,” I said. “It’s lovely chat time.” She sniffed and wiped under her eyes. I said, “Who’s your favourite Beatle?”

“Paul,” she said, without thinking.

“Lucy. Talk to me.”

“You’ve dropped me for a fifteen-year-old.”

“First of all, I haven’t dropped you. The only thing I drop is the T in the word water and, ironically, in glottal stop. Second, Dafina got some minutes today and she’ll be buzzing and she’ll work harder because she wants more and that will pay off next season. It’s an investment in the future of the club and I think you know that. Shed one tear to show you agree, two if you don’t.”

She laughed and wiped her lids. “You’re funny.”

I sucked some air in and blew it out bit by bit. I really didn’t have the resources for this conversation. “I’m twenty-four and I don’t really know what it’s like, what you’re feeling. You’re thinking you’re going to miss it.”

“And that I’m for the scrapheap.”

I smiled. “We recycle round here. Upcycle? What’s that thing where you take a chair and give it a new cover and make it good again?”

“Upcycle.”

“Right. There’s loads to do when your career’s over but the scrapheap’s not one of them.”

“When I came back to the team I thought I was worth something but that’s over.”

“It’s not over. Yeah, it’s winding down. You know that better than me but you’ve done a lot for this club. Here’s how I see it. You did a job for the team and gave us things we didn’t have and gave me time to find other players who have those things. Bosh. You showed me that players can keep going into their forties. Ryan Jack doesn’t realise it but his new contract is because you proved he can keep going. Bosh. You know I like bringing in young players because we can train them up and sell them but this summer when I’m looking at free agents I’m willing to go ten years higher than I would have when I started managing. Can a thirty-eight-year old defender come in and do a job for us for a year? Course he can. How do I know? Because you showed me! I learned a lot from you and I’m definitely a better manager now and I can allocate Chester’s resources even more efficiently. Bosh. And most important, you were a role model for the teenies. How much did they learn from you? How to prepare for matches, how to deal with gobby opponents, how to get referees onside and catch forwards offside. You’ve been mint.”

“I feel like I should quit now.”

I experienced a jolt of panic that, in retrospect, was the best thing that could have happened. “Holy shit! No fucking way! What are you talking about? We need you!”

She smile-laughed and got teary again. “Okay.”

I patted my heart. “Don’t do that again. Fuuuu. We’ll talk again in a month or two and see where we’re at but we need you this season. All right, is there anything you want to talk about?” She gave me the weirdest look. “What? What did I do wrong now?”

She shook her head. “Can I go?”

I looked around. Something was happening at the back. “Yeah. Course.”

She practically leapt out of her seat and ran to the mass of players hugging each other while swaying as much as was possible on a cramped bus. They were all singing – bellowing – Someone Like You by Adele. Somehow that was the song on the playlist that most resonated.

I sat back and tried to review my management for the day. The match had gone well, obviously, especially the way I’d faked the jeopardy. With Bench Boost we would have won even if our goalie had been sent off in the first minute. Yeah, the match was great but I thought the little talks had been even better. I rated myself four out of five – no possibility for improvement.

Someone grabbed me. Emma was trying to pull me up. I shook my head. She insisted. I sighed and got up into the aisle. “I don’t know the words,” I lied.

Emma crooned the chorus at me and with a laugh I thought fuck it and decided to sing back. I noticed Angel filming me. Huh. It felt like a test. I glared at her for a few seconds – bad content – but with an effort I snapped out of it. The song is pretty downbeat, pretty depressing, but when sung by an entire football squad, I don’t know, it gave me goosebumps.

For me, it isn’t oh-verrrrrr.

***

Tuesday, February 18

Match 30 of 46: Chester vs Solihull Moors

It was the last match of Chipper’s ban and I only really had one decision to make – whether to stick to my concept of putting out the hugest possible team. I looked at the pitch and decided – yeah. Solihull were a fraction less impressive than Barnet (CA 72 compared to 75) and it was perfectly possible this match would be the last time I ever got to use this tactic. It wasn’t like I could have done anything else, tbh.

One concession I made to CA was to replace Glenn Ryder with Zach. I lost an inch in height but gained 7 CA. Fair trade. I also decided that I would start the match and try to give us a first-half lead. That would also allow me to ease the captain’s armband onto Christian at half time without it drawing too much comment. Discussions about who was captain for a particular match were tedious.

I let Vimsy and Llewellyn do most of the pre-match preparations and wandered around talking to the unused squad members as part of Project Talk To Other Human Beings About Their Hopes And Dreams which was a slightly upgraded version of Project Never Talk To Anyone. A friendly chat with Pascal – bursting at the seams to get back into the starting eleven – was interrupted by a text from Brooke. She wanted to see me if I had time. I did.

The Brig came with me in case we bumped into any gammons on the short journey to the executive suite. Now that I spent most matchdays on the touchline, I hadn’t been in the space for ages. It was like the medical bay, an area where I had been made to feel special and still felt special.

Brooke was with some of the board, plus Bulldog, J, and some other well-known Chester fans. Being this close to them made me strangely uneasy; I was happy to have a table between us.

Brooke was in full b-girl mode. “Max,” she smiled, “sorry to disturb your warm up.”

“The thought of serving the people of Chester is what keeps me warm,” I said.

That put her off her stride by about half a second, which in the world of Brooke was like the Cambrian age. “The topic up here has been your interview after Saturday’s match and how we could find some monies to finance the first phase of the training ground development.”

“Monies?” I said, confused. Money was an uncountable noun, wasn’t it? But then, I reflected, you could count money. Or was Brooke so rich that money existed on a different linguistic plane to the rest of the species?

Brooke had continued talking and I only caught the end. “It’s an exciting idea and we wanted to sound you out about it right away. We could get started today!”

“Started on what? I spaced out because you said monies.”

Bulldog shook his head but he knew I had a lot on my plate on matchdays. “MD’s working on two budgets for next season. One if we’re promoted, one if we’re not. If we stay in the National League, season tickets will be three hundred and twenty pounds in the Harry McNally, three nine five in the east and west stands.”

“Okay,” I said, and tried to put the numbers into context. “Three nine five is about the same as Wrexham. They’re two divisions higher than us. Yeah, that seems steep.”

“It’ll be even higher if we go to League Two.”

I frowned. “If we get promoted we won’t need more money from tickets. We’ll have the TV payments.”

Brooke said, “Prices will go up, Max, and everyone accepts that. The stadium will be sold out most weeks. Supply and demand pushes the prices up and so does away fans trying to get into the home areas. Now, you’re saying our promotion chances are fifty-fifty.”

“Something like that, yeah.” I turned to the pitch. I would need to get out there soon. Solihull had beaten us two-nil in the league at their place and they’d hammered a weakened team four-nil in the FA Trophy. Today’s result didn’t matter too much, but the performance did. We needed to let them know that if we met them in the playoffs we would dick them. We needed a fast start. We needed to do what I’d been demanding from the women.

I’d spaced out just long enough to miss the key info again. Bulldog was saying, “So anyone buying a ticket now at these prices gets to support the training ground development and if we get promoted they’re laughing because they got the lower price.”

I was about to complain that no-one was making any sense when the Brig stepped in. “Sir, they are proposing to sell five hundred season tickets now to raise the finance for the first 3G pitch and avoid the building delay.”

“Five hundred?” I said.

Brooke said, “Five hundred tickets times three hundred pounds is one hundred fifty thousand pounds.”

“But that’s great.”

“We know.”

“So what’s the catch?”

“No catch.”

“Wait,” I said, finally fully in the conversation. “That’s next season’s money that we need. MD won’t let us use next season’s money.”

“He will. The pitch will generate income, won’t it?”

“It make monies?”

Brooke laughed. “Yes, Max. It make monies.”

“The catch,” said the Brig, “is that the club could make more money by waiting to see which division it is in.”

Bulldog shook his head. “Season tickets normally go on sale in April. The hardcore will always buy no matter the division. The five hundred who buy these will be the ones who’ll pay whatever we charge if they can afford it. The most loyal.”

“Wait,” I said. “Why are prices going up? We did the solar panels to guard against that.”

“That’s why the increases aren’t even worse.”

I looked at the pitch. It was fascinating to note how many Solihull contracts were expiring this summer. Many of their players didn’t have agents. Juicy possible summer signings! “I need to get out there. Let me sum this up. We sell five hundred of next season’s season tickets. Superfans get a discount. We can get the first training pitch started and have it ready months before I thought. Is that it?” Lots of nods. “And MD’s okay with this?”

Brooke said, “MD is fine having a half a million pound asset added to the club’s balance sheet, yes. Especially if we only pay a hundred fifty for it.”

I checked the faces on the other side of the table. They seemed really enthusiastic. “Um, Brooke, can I speak to you over there for a second?” We moved away to a private area and whispered. “There’s a problem. If the money comes from the fans I can’t keep it safe from the fans. Do you get me?”

She shook her head. “No, it’s the opposite. The training ground needs to be in a trust so we can get the maximum funding from grants. It will be in the small print that the fans are sending money to a trust and not the club itself. Technically they’ll be donating the cash to the trust and getting a free season ticket. That’s how we get around the legal split. But they won’t care; the difference is invisible. To all intents and purposes, this is Chester FC’s training ground they’re paying for.”

“Okay so the trust docs are all ready?”

“Thanks to Sebastian and Gemma they will be. We’ll need to go over them one last time to check they’re foolproof. And we have planning permission and the contract to buy the land at a set price at a future date.”

I rubbed my forehead. “You’ve thought of everything.”

“Yes.”

“I should trust you.”

“Yes.”

“This is going to bite me on the arse.”

“No. This was their idea.”

I did a cheeky smile. “What’s going on? Fans don’t normally come with solutions, they come with complaints. This is giving me whiplash. What’s happening?”

“You don’t normally ask them for help.”

“When did I ask for help?”

“You said you needed a hundred fifty thousand to build something they’re excited about building. It’s not the stadium but it’s the next best thing. They want to buy a season ticket and why not get it cheaper and see some tangible progress? It’s your favourite: a win-win-win.”

I emptied my lungs while trying to understand this twist. I decided I would need a few weeks of therapy to process this one. I jerked my head towards the fans. We walked back. I slapped the waist-level table we were gathered around. “Okay. What do we call the campaign?”

“Max!” complained Brooke. “We’ll think of a name. We just need you to give the go-ahead.”

I nodded as though I was paying careful attention to what she was saying. “Boost the Budget is like a brand around here, but this isn’t Boost the Budget. Buy to Help. No, that sounds like a government initiative to inflate house prices. Er, Ticket to Ride. Ticket to Nowhere. Um… Training Day. Good movie. What are we building? A pitch. Pitch Perfect. Pitch Invaders. Vaders. Darth Vader. Let’s Build a Death Star! Death Star Begins. Why am I the only one brainstorming?”

“Boost the Build,” said the Brig, to near-universal acclaim.

“No, that’s terrible,” I said.

“What is?” said the Brig.

“Boost the Build.”

“Oh, very good, sir!” he cooed.

“I like that, Max,” said Brooke. “Great idea.”

“It was my idea, wasn’t it?” We smiled at each other for a few seconds then took in the horrified faces of the people who didn’t know we were joking. That made me laugh pretty hard. “Boost the Build. I mean… done. What do I need to do?”

Bulldog looked around. “We’ll take care of it. It, er, would help if we won today.”

“Oh, would it?” I said, sarcastically. “I’ll get right on it, your majesty. What the fuuuu.”

***

First Half

 

0′

Solihull clearly expected me to play for the last twenty minutes like I usually did, because two of their best players were on the subs bench. Either they were being kept in reserve to deal with me or their manager assumed that since he kept beating us he didn’t need to go all-out.

I didn’t go all-out, either. I spent five minutes doing the basics. Tweaking the Without Ball setup. Winning a couple of headers. Looking for weaknesses I could exploit, either today or in the playoffs.

Today wasn’t a big deal, really. A win would make it more likely the fans would part with their cash a few months early, but selling five hundred season tickets didn’t seem that hard. No, it wasn’t a big deal. Today was simply one forty-sixth of our season.

 

6′

Grimsby fell a goal behind in their match. Wait, what? If we won today…

I burst forward, took a pass from Wisey, and faked a pass to Henri by means of an oversized stepover. The defender stuck his leg out and I fell into the mud. He definitely kicked me, otherwise I wouldn’t have gone splat, would I?

Free kick. Free Hit? Don’t mind if I do.

I found the likeliest patch of turf, gave the keeper the eyes – a quick glance to the far post to make him take a step that way – then curled it slowly but surely to the top left.

Bish bash bosh, thank you very much!

The Live Table showed us only seventeen points behind!

I ran around in front of the West stand laughing like a loon until I was swallowed up by Henri, Christian, and the rest.

When the huddle cleared, I looked at the closest fans. They were in dreamland. Was the title back on? As if. Get your phones out and buy season tickets. Give me your money, you dogs!

 

8′

I was daydreaming about having a 3G pitch to call my own when Aff got past his man on the right. Knowing him, he would cut back onto his left foot in about four seconds. I found that I was bombing forward again. I ran straight at Henri.

Aff cut back, right on cue, pushing the ball slightly behind where he would have liked it. He whipped the ball towards Henri.

I ran to the right thinking Henri could touch the ball that way and I could do a Chipper-style volley. A couple of defenders clearly thought the same and moved to block me.

At the last second, I veered left. Henri stunned the ball, fought his marker, and backheeled it into my path.

I was sooo in the mood to kick the ball as hard as humanly possible. Mule strength. A proper thunderbastard. But there was a dubious patch of soil ahead and instead of letting the ball roll into it, I simply toepoked the ball straight ahead, two yards inside the post, without waiting for it to fully drop. The goalie just stood there, stupefied that I had shot so early. No playing with my food, today. Clean kill.

I jogged to the section of the main stand where the Chester Chatters gathered when they came to matches. There were a fair few so I wanted to do a goal celebration. I hadn’t prepared one so I simply shrugged and said “Ey? Ey?” It made no sense but the fans seemed to like it.

 

15′

Solihull had dropped deeper and I found I had a guy marking me, so to conserve energy I shuffled us into a 3-5-2 with me as the second striker. I stood way on the right with the intention of taking my marker out of the match. Since we had three naturally left-sided players I directed our attacks down that side.

 

18′

Solihull realised the marker thing wasn’t working. They dropped it and I reverted back to our starting formation.

 

20′

Solihull put the marker back on me and I walked straight to the right wing spot for a lovely old holiday. It had been twelve minutes since my last serious sprint. If they kept playing into my hands, I would have the energy to play the whole ninety!

 

22′

Bit of an innovation. My opposite number decided to use the closest player to where I was standing, the left back, as my marker. That lasted a record twenty-eight seconds after I dragged him over to the right back slot and directed our attacks down the unguarded side. Solihull’s manager was not enjoying his time in my wonderland. Sorry, no refunds!

 

25′

The idea that Solihull would finish the match strong started to play on my mind. I decided to have a big go at them now followed by another pop before half time. I switched back to 4-1-4-1 and would shake off any markers when needed.

 

26′

Aff turned on the touchline and tucked the ball square, into my path, thirty-five yards out. The goalie was all the way across by his near post – an absolutely delicious setup for someone with my technique.

I planted my left – so far so good – and took a swing at it. Now, imagine the prettiest golf swing you’ve ever seen. Perhaps you’re thinking of Fred Couples, perhaps Ernie Els. At the moment of impact I personally was thinking of Payne Stewart, but sadly we weren’t on a lush fairway in the American south but in the northwest of England.

The ball crashed into a blade of grass and bobbled with, to be fair, impeccable comedy timing. My sublimely aesthetic shot was sliced onto hole 17.

Grim.

Oh! Maybe it had bounced down Bumpers Lane all the way to where my new pitch would soon be laid!

Grin.

 

28′

Two of my attempted dribbles came to nothing.

 

30′

A guy clattered into me as I took the ball. Rude. I stayed down for a full minute. If you’re going to foul me when you’re two-nil down, I’m going to do my best to take time off the clock. When I got up, I used Masterpiece Theatre to get as close to a ‘bomb burst’ of movement as I could, and dropped the ball onto Zach’s head. He outmuscled his marker but mistimed the header.

 

33′

The game got stodgy again, which mostly suited us. I mean, if you’re trying to reshape world football one pass at a time, that kind of football was ghastly, but if you’re winning two-nil while Grimsby are losing one-nil, you take it.

 

36′

Even though I wasn’t working flat out, I was starting to seriously tire and Solihull seemed to sense it. They pushed forward, and forward, and I really wished I had Pascal and Ryan on the pitch. Ryan to Pascal would have been a dream out ball – one that got us ‘out’ of pressure.

 

39′

The last meaningful sequences of the half. I dug deep, found some stamina, and created an overload on the left. Sure, it was loads of low-quality chips and scoops but we had weight of numbers – Cole and Josh, of course, plus Wisey.

Cole passed to Wisey but didn’t bomb on for the overlap. When I was forced into a sliding tackle because Josh had been slow getting into shape, I got up and screamed “TOGETHER!”

It was a rare case of me losing my temper with the Exit Triallists but it had one immediate effect – both teenagers got a permanent plus one to their teamwork attribute. Ecstatic, I clenched my fists and screamed, “And again!”

We repeated our patterns as best as we could given the conditions and we were really piling on the pressure when Josh was fouled from behind.

Free kick and a final warning for that defender!

The angle wasn’t ideal – I was about halfway inside Solihull’s half but quite far to the left. Two things worked in my favour. One, the fact that we had won a header at our last free kick after an unexpected, seemingly pre-planned move. That made Solihull nervous. Two, the angle was such that I could consider this partly as a cross, partly as a shot. If I could put the ball head height around the edge of the six-yard box, if everyone missed it, the ball could easily go straight into the net.

I eyed Solihull’s goalie. “Are you rushing or are you dragging?” I said.

“Sorry boss, what?”

Josh Owens was ten yards back, defending counters. I frowned at him. “Just summoning the magic, Josh. Get more central, please.”

“Thought you might want to pass to me, boss.” These kids always wanting to be the centre of attention!

I put my hands on my hips. “How about I score instead? What the fuuuu.”

I shook my head, lined up my angles, and launched it. My left got enough grip on the turf – I was getting used to the shit pitch just as it was about to get good again – and my right made sweet contact. The ball zipped away pretty much as in my imagination. It span and curved and went just over Zach’s head. Christian was next in line and he nodded down… and missed it completely! Everyone missed it! It bounced, gripped the turf slightly, spun left… and crashed up against the post! A defender threw himself at it, heading it over and out for a corner.

I got a slightly sinking feeling, but I personally was spent. Any more and I risked pulling a hamstring or tearing a calf muscle, so I let Aff take the corner and hid in the DM slot until the break.

***

I spent the first ten minutes of the break on the massage table getting a rub while munching on marathon paste, but there was nothing much left for me to decide. Andrew Harrison would replace me and then the only question was when or if to bring Ryan Jack on. The last sub would be reserved for if there was an injury, otherwise I would do something for the last ten minutes. I had Ben, Glenn, and Ziggy as options.

When the break was nearly up, Dean helped me to my feet and I went to the front. “Best movie,” I said, through a mouthful of paste. “Whiplash. Drums. Plays good. J. Jonah Jameson from Spiderman games is in it. Good game, that. Plays good, good game, you get it. Go play good.”

I remembered the captain’s armband. If we didn’t have a player wearing one, we would get a twenty pound fine or something insane. I took it off and slipped it up Christian Fierce’s arm. His Morale moved up one level. I couldn’t bear to look at Glenn Ryder directly, but I saw his Morale slip two notches.

The guard had changed.

***

Second Half

 

45′

Solihull brought themselves up to full strength after the break, while we were obviously weaker. From the early exchanges it was clear we were in for another dogs-of-war, backs-to-the-wall scrap.

I looked from my screens to the pitch and saw a defence that included Carl, Zach, and Christian, with Magnus patrolling in front. I saw Wisey, Aff, and Andrew Harrison. I saw Henri. All were warriors. Half were champions. The left side of Cole and Josh was inexperienced but I set them to make forward runs: no. That would allow them to mostly focus on defending and to do their best to win duels.

 

46′

Against Barnet, Cole had twice gone for a tackle he was never going to win. The first time he had missed completely and given his winger a free run into our box. The second time he had given away a free kick.

I hadn’t gone ballistic because he was eighteen and the guy who’d dicked him had double his CA, but I had pointed out that he was no good to us lying on the floor while a guy zoomed at goal.

Now he got isolated and Solihull’s tricky winger nipped around him. Cole turned, thought about diving in, but instead dropped his head and doubled his efforts to track back. His marker dallied long enough for Cole to make up two yards and when he launched himself, he was in time to block the winger’s cross.

Christian knew what was up and roared encouragement at Cole. The left back’s Morale soared.

 

48′

The pressure mounted. Solihull’s CA 72 was too much for my CA 58 group. Could we hold on for forty-five minutes?

 

50′

Solihull scored. It was so easy! Just a cross and a header. What’s the fucking point of being massive if that can happen?

I fumed.

 

55′

I’d spent five minutes vacillating between loving my players for their heart and effort and hating them for being shit.

The latter feeling finally won and I subbed Josh off and sent Ryan into midfield. As against Barnet, I moved Andrew wide right and Aff to his natural home on the left. We immediately looked more compact. Our CA climbed to 59.5. So far short of the levels but all we had to do was defend. And who knew? Maybe Ryan would be able to send a pass over the top that Henri could volley home.

 

60′

Stodgy stodgy stodgy. Yes, please!

 

64′

I’ve got to be honest, the tension was unbearable. Grimsby were still losing, we were winning, we had games in hand, the mind boggled!

 

65′

Some dreams are not meant to be.

Solihull got a corner. Then another. Then another. Finally, after a mad scramble, they equalised. Two-all, and most of the remaining interest in the evening was waiting for the inevitable Grimsby equaliser and winner to show up inside my head. I seriously regretted buying the Live Scores perk. These constant six-point swings in our fortunes were giving me mental whiplash.

 

70′

Solihull had expended a lot of energy pushing for that equaliser and they needed a breather. Christian and Zach took the opportunity to reorganise and to galvanise the team. The sight of Fierce pumping his fists got me all riled up. There he was! There was the God of Walls!

I pushed my hood off my head and paced up and down the touchline looking serious.

 

73′

Ryan took the ball in a tight spot. The easiest thing was for him to knock it straight back to Zach and that’s exactly – no! He turned like a fucking garden mouse and scampered through two defenders! Henri got his head down and sprinted away from his marker. Ryan sent a delicious pass right into his path… and Henri blazed over the bar!

I found myself on my knees with my hands on my head. Surely we wouldn’t get a better chance?

 

77′

Solihull made their last change and came right back at us.

I scanned the Conditions of my players and there were a lot under 75%. That was the mark at which I normally wanted to sub guys off. They had played two back-to-back matches on this shitty surface; it was inevitable. My bench options were Glenn – he could only play centre back – or Ziggy. He could run around but he wouldn’t get much change out of defenders this good.

 

79′

It was all Solihull. They were launching high ball after high ball into our box. Much too early for that! If they had continued to probe down our wings they would have had more joy. I had literally designed a team to withstand route one attacks and my guys finally looked solid. Maybe it was a simple factor of Christian and Zach being partners for more than a set number of minutes. Maybe they had progressed to level 2 as a centre back partnership. Who knew how this worked? Not me.

I sent Ziggy on for Henri. It didn’t matter that he wouldn’t win headers or be able to hold the ball up – Henri was exhausted and couldn’t do it either. At least Ziggy had fresh legs. He’d be able to run for eleven minutes.

 

80′

Ziggy closed down a defender and chased the ball all the way to the goalie. I felt sure, given my recent luck, that he would collapse to the ground with a mangled hamstring, but instead he chased the ball down one more time, flying in front of the left back’s long ball. It went out for a throw in to Solihull. Ziggy demanded the main stand cheer and cheer they did.

I punched the air. Fucking Chester were back in town!

 

81′

A tackle from Wisey was met with cheers even I heard and a bulging-eyed ‘yes, mate!’ from Aff.

 

82′

Grimsby equalised. I didn’t give a shit. This was about us. It was about what was inside of us and what we wanted the world to see.

I wanted the world to see me demanding more more more from my players.

Give it to me, you miserable bastards. Give me everything, you worms. Fuck technique! Give me your blood. Sign your name across this pitch.

 

84′

My heart was pounding. A never-ending drumbeat. One hacked pass forward for every fifteen slaps of the old pump. I was astonished to feel sweat dripping down my forehead.

The fuck? This game meant nothing. What was I even doing? Third in the league was fine. Seventh was fine. Who cared?

“Come the fuck onnnnnnn!” I screamed. Zach screamed something back.

With no Sandra to tell me otherwise, I switched to an absolutely stupid, bonkers, unforgivable 4-3-3.

 

85′

4-3-3 slapped! Solihull didn’t expect it. How could they when it was the product of a furious, primal drumbeat only I could hear?

My unlikely front line, Aff, Ziggy, and Andrew Harrison, harried their defence and chased every pass into every channel. Solihull’s manager, suspecting trickery, retreated for two fatal minutes.

 

87′

The reprieve didn’t last; he was on to me! He went more attacking. I reset the formation and went men behind ball.

My name is Max Best and I’m addicted to defensive football.

 

89′

The rare sight of me, Vimsy, and the Brig together on the touchline shouting and waving our arms like a very, very shit boy band.

 

91′

Sweat dripped off me as my fatigue hit maximum. The curse screens actually flickered and I decided to close them all. I heard the home fans. They were whistling at the referee, demanding he blow the final whistle. It was loud. Seriously loud.

I clambered to my feet – why was I resting on one knee like a knight? – and found myself doing the most inane thing football managers do – pointing and yelling. No-one’s listening! It’s impossible for a player to take on board instructions they can’t see or hear. But there, then, with nothing and everything riding on the result, it was impossible for me not to do it.

 

92′

I pointed so hard it hurt.

 

93′

The referee was eight seconds from being attacked by a very tired football manager. Blow the whistle you absolute –

 

95′

I had suffered so much I had come to accept the inevitability of the last-second Solihull winner.

 

96′

Solihull were camped around our penalty box. They clipped in a tired cross. Magnus headed – Ryan Jack smashed it upfield. It was a foot race between Ziggy and a defender.

Ziggy was faster! Okay, not faster. Fresher!

He got the ball and took it to the corner.

Oh, fuck you you little shit.

“Not my tempo!” I cried. “Attack!”

Ziggy didn’t hear me and went to the corner. He was fouled.

The referee blew for full time.

Whistles that sound like sleighbells. (Vimsy and the Brig skipped onto the pitch like schoolboys.)

Draws that feel like wins. (Glenn and our unused subs sprinted to hug Christian and the defenders.)

Points that feel like prizes. (The executive box had emptied into the main stand. Brooke had dropped her b-girl facade and was red. She’d been screaming us on. Bulldog looked at me and fistpumped. J from the podcast mimed showering me with money.)

Wants that feel like needs. (I needed this, but more. Bigger. Wilder.)

 

Two Minutes After Full Time

I don’t know what I did or whose hands I shook. Everyone’s? No-one’s?

But I finally remembered that we weren’t alone in this world. I checked the Live Scores – Grimsby had drawn, after all. One-all. Not scoring as freely since they had sold Marcus Wainwright.

We were still twenty points behind.

Could we…?

Nah. Third, though. Third and a trip to Wembley.

Barnet. Could we beat them at Wembley?

The drumbeat pounding from the inside of my skull said yes, said yes, said yes.

FUCKING BRING IT ON.

***

Extract from The New Pink Online

 

Chester 2 Solihull Moors 2 – Max Best Post-Match Interview

 

Max, another disappointing home result. That’s one point from a possible six. Five from the last twelve. How do you feel?

Yeah, it was a game of two halves. First half good. Second half, not so good.

You’ve slipped out of the playoff spots with that result.

Sometimes you’ve got to hold your hands up and give credit to the oppo. The league table never lies. Is it a point gained or two points lost?

Some fans are wondering why you brought yourself off at half time.

We just didn’t turn up at times and okay it was a bad day at the office but the goals were against the run of play and we’ll be looking to bounce back and we know our performances are coming under the microscope but that’s what you get at a massive, massive club.

Sorry but are you taking the… What are you doing?

We literally put a shift in and we were literally all over them but the table literally doesn’t lie. We are definitely the tenth best team in the National League.

You’re eighth.

Okay, the table lies then.

Will Sandra be back against Boreham Wood?

It’s a game of two halves, mate.

Christian Fierce got the captain’s armband for the second half.

Glenn Ryder is our captain. The captain at this club is Glenn Ryder. Captain Glenn. Ryder captain. If we win silverware it’ll be Glenn hoisting it aloft. Because he’s the captain. Spin that into a story if you’re able.

There might be some criticism of your celebrations at the end, there.

So?

You think a home draw is worthy of the jubilation we saw from the players?

Are you the celebration police? Can I see some ID? You don’t tell us when it’s time to go on the lash. We’ll celebrate what we want when we want; we know what we did.

Will Chipper be back for the next match?

I’m a Gemini, not a fortune teller. Cross my palm with silver if you want but I still won’t be able to predict the future. Actually, yeah. Cross my palms with silver. Look out for a special early bird season ticket offer we’re going to announce soon.

Thanks for your time.

Did I say anything interesting?

Not really.

Okay, perfect.

[Max Best strolls off, hands in pockets, whistling ‘Walking In a Winter Wonderland’.]