Player Manager - A Sports Progression Fantasy - 10.9 - The Prisoner

 

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9.

 

Wednesday, 5 March

Like most of the first team squad, I didn’t set an alarm and treated myself to a lie-in.

After a lovely, lazy morning in bed I pottered around the garden at the front of Ruth’s cottage. It was coming to life, or thinking about it. The star was a patch of daffodils… that I didn’t plant. Was that a metaphor for Chester? Not really. Just as I had planted most of the shrubs and bushes that were starting to produce hesitant little buds, I had brought in most of the squad’s quality. If the daffodils symbolised anything it was either Carl Carlile or Aff – guys I had inherited.

Both were CA 70 and were churning out 7 out of 10 performances as a minimum. I still didn’t have the perk that showed me average ratings for this season but I reckoned Aff and Carl were solid 7.5s. I wandered off to the back garden, the part I had done almost nothing with. I had plans for it that had been deprioritised, just as once upon a time I had been working towards unlocking this season’s average ratings. Those numbers had seemed like they were going to be transformational, but now I suspected I understood the match ratings better.

Someone putting in 5 out of 10 performances every week was probably being misused by his manager. Take Youngster. Played in the DM slot, he regularly popped out 8s. Pushed to CM that fell to 7s. His only appearance at right midfield had been 4 out of 10. If a struggling player’s CA, PA, and attributes were solid, I would probably still want to sign him, right? A player averaging 6.5 was no less appealing to me than one averaging 8.5. In fact, the 8.5 guys were probably fairly priced by the market; I was shopping in the lower end. Huh – stray thought. Maybe I needed the average ratings perk so that I could find high CA players with low match ratings. Buy them, put them in the right position and role, boom! Turn them into assets.

My eyes swept the space. It had briefly threatened to get overgrown in the autumn but I’d had a pruning Sunday with the Brig (rock star), Henri (wise but slow), and Ziggy (useless but great company) while Ruth, Luisa, and Emma brought us teas and tartlets before riding out. Now it was looking like a fun project… for someone else. I liked living in Ruth’s spare house – the price was right – but I was starting to think bigger. If the stars aligned, if we got promoted, if I found a couple of Brazilians for Tranmere, maybe if I did a bit more media work… there was the slightest chance I could get on the property ladder.

A place of our own. My income plus Emma’s.

Could we?

I smiled and went to make a tea.

While waiting for it to brew (five minutes, minimum three jiggles of the tea bag), I thought about my God Save the King perk. It would allow me to boost one attribute on one player and I had to use it before the end of the season. The most obvious thing to do was to use it on Youngster, my walking lottery ticket, but he was off in AFCON adding a point in CA every four or five days. As his agent I would make sure he maxed out his PA by natural methods. A slightly left-field idea was to use it on Angel. Would her Finishing rise from 20 to 21? It seemed impossible, but I regularly did impossible things. Why, only that morning had I managed to listen to the news without tearing my ears off my head.

Giving a boost to anyone who wasn’t maxed on PA seemed stupid. Wasteful. Almost cowardly. I had to believe that I would be able to get the coaches and facilities needed to train everyone to their best. Anyway, Angel’s Finishing would still be at 20 next year if I wanted to go down that route. If the women’s transfer market continued to inflate, maybe I would think about it but really if I was going to use the perk on her I’d have given her a point in Heading. There weren’t many female strikers who were deadly from crosses. Angel was already better than most, but unlike Youngster she wasn’t my client. If I wanted a house in Cheshire, a new car, a villa in Gibraltar and a mansion in, er, Saltney, I needed cash. Angel wasn’t my client; Youngster was.

No, not Angel, but not Youngster, either. Who in my realm had maxed their potential? Glenn Ryder, but giving him a point in Strength or Heading wouldn’t get him back in the first eleven. Steve Alton was out on loan and probably wouldn’t be coming back. Ben Cavanagh was close to his maximum, but the perk wasn’t set up for goalkeepers.

Aff, then. Giving the bonus to him would make him a better player (helpful for the rest of the season), would let me increase his transfer value, and would let me test my theory that by using this perk I could increase a player’s PA. It was the curse equivalent of using Champion Manager’s data editor to change the values. God, how many XP would it cost to get a full editor? A billion? First thing I’d do would be to edit Man City’s points to minus 115. Second, edit my aggression down to 1. Third, change Henri’s nationality to English for a couple of days.

I brought up the description of God Save the King. The text seemed ancient, like reading Chaucer or something.

 

Effects: Nominate a ‘King’ and channel one of his notable attributes into a player of your choosing. One use per season.

Kings: John Charles (STR; HD). Carlos Valderrama (FL; CRE). Michel Platini (PAS; SET). Denis Law (OFF; FIN).

 

Aff was a two-way left midfielder. His role in the team was to provide defensive cover on his wing while exploding forward to hit crosses to the strikers.

Strength? Heading? Aff had no problems there – he could hold his own against most full backs.

Flair and Creativity? Aff wouldn’t be joining me on my Relationism journey, and whatever his scores were in those attributes, they were surely low, which meant adding one point would be wasted. There were two things I was sure of when it came to attributes. First, there were decimals and they were invisible. A player with Passing 10 who was getting regular training in good facilities was improving even if he didn’t turn green. For example, in a particular week he might go from Passing 10.56 to 10.58. Such a marginal improvement would be invisible, of course, to the naked eye. The second thing was that the effects of the numbers were something like exponential. In curse terms, the difference between Heading 1 and Heading 2 would be tiny, like 0.1 CA. The difference between Heading 19 and Heading 20 would be pretty big, perhaps 2 or 3 CA. Obviously, if I wanted to boost Aff’s PA it would have to be with an attribute that was already high.

Passing and Set pieces? My playing style – Cambrian Explosions apart – was based around passing. Giving Aff another passing point (from 11 to 12) would be a safe option. But over the remaining dozen games, would anyone notice? Set pieces was a very, very tempting option, but I hadn’t unlocked that attribute and I didn’t know Aff’s rating. Tempting as it was to make him better at corners, there was no way I would upgrade an invisible number.

Off? Aff wasn’t caught offside very often and, again, I hadn’t unlocked that attribute.

So, yeah. Finishing. In a way it wasn’t sexy because it was the obvious choice. The decision didn’t make me feel like a wizard. But taking Aff from Finishing 12 to 13 could mean another couple of goals in the next twelve games. Goals that could get us promoted. Goals that would attract the attention of other clubs even if you’d need to see him take a thousand shots to definitively see that he had improved. And, crazily, my strategy for the Grimsby match would not encourage my guys to take shots.

Done! I went to get my phone – so many messages – and after checking there was no new information that would affect my decision, called Aff and added him to today’s Tranmere party. We would do twenty minutes of finishing practice and I would trigger the perk halfway through to see if I could notice anything.

I was quite pleased with myself, and quite excited, too, when I doomshadowed myself.

What if I used the perk on Aff and the curse refused to change his attribute?

What if I was about to waste one of my most powerful weapons?

I nearly triggered it there and then just to get the dark thoughts resolved one way or another, but the timer on my tea beeped and the ritual of squeezing out the last bits of deliciousness and adding the milk calmed me down.

Tea. It just sorts you right out.

***

At Tranmere I left my phone in my locker and while Well In coached Aff, Henri, Ziggy, Wes, and Angel in striker skills, I did my own session. To try to ensure the curse counted me as being trained by the elite coach, I stayed on the half of the pitch that Well In was patrolling and I asked him to shout ‘yes, Max!’ sometimes. Obviously he thought it was weird but I didn’t much care – I needed my CA high for Grimsby.

The build I was temporarily going for was kind of the opposite of the ‘twenty minutes of technical perfection’ that I’d been using the rest of the season. Now I needed fitness, so I was doing shuttle runs. When cooling down, I slapped free kicks at goal. Sprint. Free kick. Sprint. Free kick. In the morning I would test myself with the Airofit device to see if my lung capacity had changed. It was rising slower than I would like but even I couldn’t go from having twenty minutes of stamina to ninety in a matter of days.

Then the big moment!

Halfway through a shooting drill (combined with some build up play), I Max Blessed Aff with my mighty, reality-bending powers.

At the time, he was behind Henri and Angel waiting for his next turn. When I added one to his Finishing, parts of his profile turned green. He himself got a confused look on his face, stuck his finger in his ear, and jiggled it around. I waited for more, but that was his entire reaction.

It was his turn. He ran to a mannequin, touched it, crabbed five steps left, took a pass from Well In, gave it back, went around another mannequin, and side-footed the return pass into the bottom-left of the goal. Fairly basic. No visible difference in his play, not that I expected it.

But his profile!

His profile was so beautiful. Three numbers had gone up.

 

Finishing 13

CA 72

PA 72

 

“Well in!” I cried, punching the air.

“Yes?” said Llewellyn.

“You praise that scuffed daisy cutter but not my thunderbastards?” said Henri. Somehow he had lived his entire life without hearing the word thunderbastard until recently and now he was obsessed with it.

Thrilled that something had gone right for once, I rolled a ball to the right, took a step, and cannonballed it. It flew, wobbled in the air, and cracked against the crossbar. “Whoo!” I said. “Checkmate, Grimsby! Say goodbye to your season! Come the fuck on, lads! Yes!”

I got another ball, rolled it left, and Beckhamed it so that it rose, curved, dipped, bypassed the mannequin who was acting as the goalie, and swished into the side of the net.

“Holy shit,” said Ziggy.

“Why don’t you do that in matches?” said Wes.

“Because it wouldn’t be fair,” I growled. My blood was pumping, my jaw tight. Aff’s PA was up. My PA was sky high and my CA was climbing. The season had been a slog, a struggle, we had suffered, but now it was all coming together. Grimsby were old, tiring, and in decline. We were improving in all areas of the pitch and if we started the season right now we would absolutely crush it.

Was there enough time left?

Thirteen points behind. Twelve games left. Eleven improving players. Ten set piece goals. Nine clean sheets. Eight views of Emma.

I blinked. They were all watching me. “Get back to work!” Henri and Angel exchanged a smile and the drill recommenced.

***

I lay on my back, panting, sweating. I had gone mental: sprinting, shooting, taking free kicks, sprinting. Every time I felt I’d done enough I got another burst of motivation and at some point I’d decided I would run till I dropped.

“What got into you?” Angel was looming over me.

“Questions are a burden to others. Answers, a prison for oneself.”

“Is that a poem?”

“I’m going to crush your boyfriend on Saturday. Soz in advance.”

She did a tiny grin. “You’ve got your main character energy back.”

I forced myself up onto my elbows. “What does that mean?”

“In a TV show you’ve got the hero – “

“I know what the words mean. What do you mean?”

She assessed me. “You’re going to beat Grimsby and set up a wild finish to the season.”

“I have no ambitions in that direction.”

Her smile rolled like a wave as she cycled through various conversation options. “The documentary needs this.”

“The documentary’s about the women.”

“If the men get promoted you’ll give us some of the budget, right?”

“Right.”

“So that’s actually more important than our own promotion.”

“Er, no.”

“Don’t worry,” she said, with her cutest pout. She noticed my frown and switched tack. “Don’t worry,” she said. “We’ll take our games seriously. But I’m thinking the third-last episode of the documentary should be some of us going to Grimsby to watch that game. We talk about our hopes and fears. How we’re your prisoners.”

“Prisoners?” I brought my knees up.

“It’s like you said. If the men’s team stuffs up, we suffer. If you win a prize, we get to keep the box. I know you want us to break ourselves out but we’re relying on you for the next two seasons at least. I don’t want the doc to fizzle out and Henri agrees with me. We need more from you. You’re the main character.”

I rolled my neck around and enjoyed it so much I did it again. “What do you and Henri suggest?”

She grinned and knelt down in front of me. “You’re being all secretive about your plan, right? The goss is that you’ve got a Maxterpiece all cooked but you’re not sharing. Which I get because you don’t trust anyone but can you tell it to someone and film it? It’s always really impressive when you say the plan and then it happens just like you predict. At least let us film the pre-match team talk… but we’ve already got a lot of dressing room footage. We’ve got two days to make it visually arresting.”

I bent my head into the space between my knees while I hid a smile. “Where are you learning to talk like this?”

She blushed, which was incredibly rare. “Bonnie’s letting me do some media training. Ruth’s helping. So’s, you know, Danny.”

“Is he good at that?” I asked, not bothering to hide my doubt.

“His uncle’s a genius at using the media,” she said, referring to champion boxer Donnie Wormwood. “Okay, I’m thinking we rent a warehouse and get a fog machine and you’ll record your team talk and we’ll put it to non-diegetic music in the style of a heist movie.”

I laughed. “And what if we get slapped four-nil?”

She smiled. “That’s great content. We’ll transition between the planning stage and the match footage, going from, like, moody and atmospheric to clown car music. We can speed up the footage like in Benny Hill.”

“How do you know about Benny Hill?”

“Henri’s always pushing Sophie to include a Benny Hill sequence. He says Benny ‘ill is this country’s only serious contribution to world culture.” She tilted her head. “I’d prefer if you won, though. Have you got a good plan?”

“Yeah.”

“Can we do something then, please? Please?”

I held a hand up – thoughts were assailing me from all directions. “I want to say no but I’ve just had a good idea. I can feed two birds with one worm.”

“Feed birds?”

I got to my feet. “I’m trying to use less violent imagery. You know, killing birds isn’t really compatible with the woke champion image I’m trying to create.”

She fell into step beside me on our way back to the showers. “Two things. One, your version involves killing a worm, so that’s not much better. Two, I don’t think anyone’s ever going to believe you’re woke. Hard prison warden with a heart of gold, yes. Woke champion, no.”

“Angel, do you ever think about anything other than the documentary and getting famous? Have you got a hobby? Interests?”

“I’m learning French.”

I made a spluttering kind of noise. “Of all the dead languages! Why?”

“It’s the language of love.”

“80s pop music is the language of love. Really why?”

She looked at me and went through a decision-making process. “When I’ve helped you save football,” she started, “and when you can’t take my career any further, I might not want to stay in England and play against Chester. So I’ll go to PSG.”

I stopped walking and she gave me an apprehensive look. “Why them?”

“By then they’ll be the best team and pay the highest wages. I’ll get next-level famous there and I’ll be the face of Chanel or Dior.”

“I like it.” We started walking again and she smiled all the way to the door. I was about to pull it open for her when I paused. “I hope you’ll give me the chance to match their offer.”

She seemed disappointed in me. “Max, they’re European giants. They’ve got the best players in the world.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Give me a chance to match it.”

She half-smiled. “You’re delulu.”

“That’s not my delusions talking, that’s my main character energy.”

***

On the drive back, I got a call from Gwendolyn, my mate at the Welsh FA. “Max. Quick call. Saltney keep winning. It’s almost scary.”

“Yeah it is.”

“Are you happy with Llewellyn?”

“Am I happy with Llewellyn?” I repeated, partly because I was surprised by the question and partly so he could hear my answer. “He’s amazing. If he looked good in a ponytail, I’d marry him.”

“That’s good. I think. We’ve been talking and we’ve agreed it would be stupid to wait to the end of the season to decide what to do. We’re going to finance the 3G pitch at Saltney.”

“Yes!” I said, slapping the dashboard.

She put her hand over the phone and turned to someone and said ‘he’s happy’. To me, she said, “I thought you never celebrate?”

I celebrate a national FA handing me five hundred thousand pounds! “I’m stoked. Are you going to do the northern powerhouse?”

“One step at a time, Max. But I wanted to get started on this so we can book the builders. They get busy in summer, as you can imagine. Did you get the grants and finance for your pitch at Chester?”

“Yeah, it’s all ready. Brooke has a date, I think, but she’s not happy with it or she’d have told me. She’s going to try to charm them into getting us moved up the priority list.”

“We can help. We’ll do both pitches at the same time, yes? That’s convenient for the builders. Send me Brooke’s number and we’ll work it out for you.”

“Oh my God, wow. This is above and beyond!”

“You gave five Welsh girls their debut in an eight-nil win. That’s above and beyond.”

I thought about it. “Actually, no. That’s just what we do.”

“You made a lot of people very happy that day, Max. I’m, er, stoked to return the favour. Good luck this weekend!” She clicked off without saying goodbye, like a detective in a movie or an Australian.

I stayed calm for four seconds, then slapped the dash five times in rapid succession. “Yes yes yes yes YES!” My all-weather pitches! My cash machines! These bad boys would definitely improve our facilities score and help us attract better players. Maybe not in time for the day when all the free agents came on the market, but by the end of the summer, surely. By the end of the summer transfer window. Yes?

“Good news, boss?”

“Yes, Wes. Very good. Our training pitches might get built early. Time to buy some portacabins. Whoo! I. Am. Psyched!” I felt bad about hitting Well In’s car, so I slapped myself on the thighs a few times. “Urgh! I love Wales! I love WALES, Well In! Well In?”

“Yes, Max?”

“Do you want to come to Wales with me tomorrow? Or Friday, maybe. I might need some equipment.”

“What kind? Mannequins? Ball bags? Cones?”

“No, recording equipment. I’m going to Portmeirion to record my pre-match team talk.”

“Oh,” he said. “The theme is The Prisoner, is it?”

“Damn skippy, it is.”

He nodded a few times. “I’ll go, yes. It’s a lovely town.”

Wes leaned forward as far as his seatbelt would allow, like a guy in an olden-days cell who was chained to the wall. “What’s Port Marion? What’s The Prisoner?”

“You have to wait till Saturday,” I said, smugly. He whipped his phone out. “Oi!” I said. “No peeking or you have to go in goal at training tomorrow.”

He grimaced, shook his head, and decided he would have to suffer the agony of not knowing.

I sat back, closed my eyes, and imagined the day I checked Saltney’s bank account and saw that someone had deposited sixty pounds to rent our pitch for an hour. The first sixty pounds of many! I wondered if I could set up a ping that would sound every time I got another booking.

Ping! Ping! Ping!

It was hard to believe it had just happened, but it very much seemed that with one phone call, my personal income had just risen by eighty thousand pounds a year.

“Pull over at the next services, Well In! I’m going to treat you all to coffee and croissants!”

“I’m not thirsty.”

“Twixes for everyone!”

“Don’t really like them.”

“I’ll fill your tank with premium unleaded!”

“It’s diesel.”

I thumped my skull back onto the headrest and roared with laughter. The possibility had just occurred to me that Well In wasn’t miserable, but that he simply had a sense of humour so dry it could be used as a towel. I got my phone out and sent Emma a long update. She replied pretty fast.

 

Emma: You’re excited!

Me: What makes you say that?

Emma: By the end half of every sentence was emojis. You never use emojis.

Me: I am excited. It’s happening. We’re going places.

Emma: Where are we going?

Me: I mean right now I’m going to Ellesmere [anchor emoji] and maybe a McDonald’s [car emoji]-through but then we’re going to the [moon emoji]. Me and my [plane emoji][bee emoji].

Emma: What was the last bit?

Me: Fly honey. That’s you. I don’t have better emojis.

Emma: Babes, you’re a [football emoji] [brain emoji] and you’ve got some [cash emoji]. Buy an emoji pack!

Me: Sure. Right after I buy cosmetic horse armour.

***

In the afternoon I went to watch a match between players from the school next to Saltney – soon to be home to the most wonderful 105 by 68 metre piece of real estate in the galaxy – and in the evening I went to watch the youth teams train while having an excited natter with the parents, guardians, older siblings and whoever was there. I wanted to talk about their kids; they wanted to ask a simple two-word question. In between conversations, I popped to the nearby five-a-side pitches to scout.

I caused a commotion when I went to the bar to get a water. The staff wanted selfies and the guys waiting to play came over and everyone was yapping could we could we could we and it was like feeding time at the puppy pound. Finally, I got up on a chair and, while they recorded me and while my main character energy was spiking to preposterous levels, leaving me incredibly stupid but incredibly charismatic, I yelled, “Message for Grimsby!” I imagined an expert cameraman sensing the moment and zooming in on me, then did my cockiest Patrick McGoohan expression as I took the energy all the way down and murmured, “Be seeing you!”

***

Thursday, 6 March

In the morning we had the best training session in a long time. I had switched the big foot cast to a more subtle blue strapping that was just visible if I hitched my tracksuit bottoms up. The idea was that Grimsby’s spies might think I was injured but pretending to be healthy. This scam was probably a lot of work for nothing, but it was the biggest game of the season and there was no reason to skimp on the mind games.

Yeah, the session was intense. Morale was high but it had been rising for a while so that wasn’t the cause. I think the extra effort and quality came from a general sense the players were getting around the city that something amazing might happen. The ‘could we?’ line wasn’t old yet. As I watched my talented players thunder around Sandra’s session, I realised the mood would last until we next lost or got a disappointing draw against one of the minnows.

Vimsy told me he had seen a flag hanging out of a tower block with the words COULD WE? written across the centre.

Physio Dean said he’d gone to pick up some medical supplies and everyone stopped work to pepper him with questions.

Henri said he’d gone to Tiny Tino to wait for Luisa to finish her shift and the entire place had burst into applause. (A likely story!)

Even more telling was when I gathered the squad and said that after Friday’s session I would be popping to Portmeirion to film something and while it was a two-hour drive one-way and it wasn’t exactly Vegas at the other end, everyone was invited. Josh Owens, who normally hid behind a watchful, guarded mask, shot his hand into the air, first to volunteer.

I regarded him. He was just as much a prisoner as any inmate of Alcatraz. His desire to be a professional football player was all-consuming even though the sport had mostly caused him pain. Aged eighteen, binned off by his former club, the door to his cell had opened but he’d shied away from the harsh light of the outside world. Just as he was coming to terms with his unwanted freedom, an absolute madman had offered him the shittest contract Josh had ever conceived of but such was the nature of his self-capture he had clutched the contract to his chest and slammed his cell door shut.

Now, though, the city of Chester had installed fifty-foot tall Tesla-coils that were zapping all and sundry, zapping them with unfamiliar energies called hope and belief. Josh had been zapped, big-time, and while he wanted to stay in his cell, he also wanted to get zapped again. Whatever we were doing, he wanted to be part of it, even – especially – if it was only going to last another two days.

His hand was the first of many.

I got another blast of the untamed electricity. “Fucking come on!” I said, punching the air so hard I almost span. While every screensaver ever made played in front of my eyeballs simultaneously, one maddening little sticky note popped up. It read: organise cars. The younger guys didn’t have wheels, yet. “Er, who’s coming who’s got a car?”

“Boss,” said Glenn Ryder, stepping forward. “Let me handle the arrangements.”

“Urgh,” I said, clenching at the effort of containing the immense pride I was feeling. “I can’t wait till kick off! I’m gonna fucking burst! Grimsby on toast, mate. Breakfast of champions!”

***

I went to another school match, went to watch more of our youth teams train, went to trawl the five-a-sides. I didn’t find another Raffi Brown but I invited any young prospect with a PA higher than 40 to train with us. After all, I would need players at Saltney and guys in the 40-50 range would get into most Cymru Premier sides.

Would it be ethically wrong to use Chester’s resources to train players I intended for use at Saltney? How about… no. I’d told the world my plan was to develop talent and that’s what I intended to do. So some Chester lads would play for Saltney and some Welsh stars would play for Chester. So what? Sounded like multi-culturalism done right to me.

That evening, I drove to Henri’s house, bundled him into my car, and went to Bumpers Lane. I plopped down two little camping chairs in the approximate location of where the first of many centre spots would be. We sat there drinking warm, alcohol-free punch while staring at the Deva. I talked about how I was going to make hundreds of millions of pounds and turn this unloved, unremarkable corner of the country into a gleaming, shining, roads-paved-with-gold football paradise.

“No-one who enters will ever want to leave,” I said.

“Ah,” he said. “That’s why you want to visit Portmeirion. You want to build a prison.”

“No,” I said, fake annoyed. “I want to build a place where billionaires pass through but every time they come they leave behind a hundred million pounds.”

Henri grinned. “You want to build a bank.”

“No,” I started, but got a jolt of realisation. “Hey! I kind of do. I was imagining myself more as Robin Hood. Take from the rich, give to the poor, minus commission.” Henri cackled. “But a bank… Take their money, invest it, have assets so it’s self-sustaining. Bumpers Lane. Bumpers Bank.”

Henri tested it. “Bumpers Bank. Hmm. No-one will understand. They will think it refers to the bank of the river, there.”

“Good. Fine. I’ll know. It’s the place I store my savings, the place I keep my valuables. My rough diamonds and my trophy cabinet full of silver and, er… Help me out, bro.”

“Are there any female players called Ruby?”

“No.”

“Could you sign a player called Bearer Bonds?”

“I wish.” I got my phone out and texted MD and Brooke.

The training complex will be called Bumpers Bank.

I sighed, content, and stayed that way until Henri shifted. “Max,” he said.

“Yes?”

“Could we?”

I clapped my hands. “Time to go!”

***

Friday, 7 March

The excitement was getting out of control. If a shop had a chalk board outside, it had a ‘come on Chester!’ message. If kids were playing out, they were wearing their Chester tops. Overnight, some rapscallion had pasted a dozen ‘SEALS ARE GOING UP’ posters on the windows of the Liverpool FC shop in the city centre.

I don’t approve of such behaviour, and that’s the honest truth, no word of a lie.

The 35th match of our league campaign had the feeling of a cup final. It was incredible.

I stood next to Sandra and gave feedback on the firsts vs reserves session we were watching. Adjusting what we were doing based on what I knew the Grimsby players were and weren’t capable of. It was nothing drastic, just tweaks. Optimisations. Getting the last one percent just right.

The more specific and technical I got, the more Sandra’s eyes lit up. After fifteen minutes, I cracked.

“Okay, what is going on? Why do you like it when I get into the weeds?”

“Who wouldn’t like that?” she said.

“Ninety-nine point nine percent of people.”

She shook her head. “My partner will spend time and money getting her computer to go two percent faster. People spend hours getting their car exhaust noisier or reducing their energy bills like it’s a hobby. I love it when we get so granular, Max. This is where I learn the most and I love the feeling that we’re really, really prepared and we really, really, have a chance.”

“Interesting. We’ll need to get more granular the higher we go so that’s something to look forward to.” Sandra nodded her head eagerly even though I’d been taking the piss. I laughed. “And we’ll have loads of visualised data. Heat maps and pass maps and that sort of thing. As for our chances against Grims – yeah, we’re favourites.”

She glanced at me, then away, then back. “Would you reconsider using Chipper?”

“No.” I had given Sandra the outline of our falling out which was hard given that I couldn’t mention the curse.

“So that’s him out for the season?”

“Yes. Except…”

“What?”

“The weekend I’m away. I was thinking you could use him then. He’ll be fired up, won’t he? He’ll rip into Maidstone and Henri can have a rest. It’ll be Henri’s only break until the end of the season, probably. I mean, you’re in charge so if you’d rather not take the risk with Chipper…”

“No, I’ll use him. That plan makes sense. I’m the assistant, I believe in him. I say to him, prove to the world you’re right and Max is wrong. That sort of thing.”

“Yeah. It seems… good?”

“Not as good as letting him play every match.”

“Ah, well,” I said. “But he’s the only person in this entire city who isn’t optimistic, so, not to put too fine a point on it… fuck him. Are you coming to Wales?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

***

Portmeirion

I wore a black top under a black blazer with white piping and stepped out of the car, eyes hooded, looking up suspiciously. With my homage to Patrick McGoohan complete, I burst into a smile. The place was worth the drive!

Close your eyes and imagine you’re on Brooke’s superyacht traveling around the Mediterranean. You point at a cute village with houses coloured yellow, pink, red, and cream, and it’s so pretty and idyllic you burst out, “Please hurry and tell me the name of this eighth wonder of the world!”

And Brooke replies, “That’s Portofino.”

Now – hey! Eyes still closed! – now imagine Portofino has been copied and pasted… into North Wales.

That’s Portmeirion.

Josh Owens came up to me with a big, confused smile. “What is this place?”

I held up a finger, slapped a big round badge on me that said ’77’, and took a hand-held camera out of its case. Sophie had shown me six times how to attach the microphone and get it to record, and as luck would have it, Henri was around to do it for me.

I pointed the lens at my long throw specialist. “Josh, ask me again but do that same goofy smile.”

He rolled his eyes but did a pretty good approximation of his original tone as I filmed him asking. “What is this place?”

I swept the lens around the pink, yellow, and cream buildings set into the lush green Welsh countryside. “This is where an absolute mad lad called Patrick McGoohan filmed a TV show called The Prisoner.” A collection of my players gathered around as I started monologuing. Should I get into it already? Why not? I handed the camera to Henri and brought Josh into shot beside me. “Henri told me about it. It’s from the 1960s and it’s psychedelic and totally bonkers. There are seventeen episodes but only the first and last have a fixed place in the running order. No two countries broadcast the episodes in the same sequence and no two fans can agree on what the proper order should be. It’s about a former spy who resigned and was imprisoned on an island while the government or the illuminati or whoever tried to make him say why he quit. He got a squad number – he was Number Six – and while they were trying to crack him, he was trying to crack them because the villain every week was a different person called Number Two and Number Six was going crazy wondering who Number One was.” I smiled. “Was it Grimsby? Barnet? Or Chester itself?” Behind the camera, Henri pursed his lips and nodded, delighted by how I was adapting the source material. “Number Six was a badass and he had the upper hand in fights and mental sparring but he could never beat the system and every time he thought he was getting off the island, a giant football would seduce him and bring him back.”

“Superb,” said Henri.

“What,” said Josh and several others.

“Guys,” I said, “The whole thing was batshit crazy. I watched, like, six episodes. Some aren’t very good, four out of ten you’re dropped mate, but some are stellar. Man of the match, let’s talk about a new contract. What’s crazy is that the Mediterranean village you see in that show is actually this! Here, in North Wales. When Henri told me that I literally couldn’t believe him. All right. This whole place is a feast for the senses. Let’s go have a potter, check out the living chess board, and we’ll go get a snack when I’m hungry.”

“When you’re hungry?” asked Well In.

“Yeah,” I said. “If you want to get involved in decision-making,” I tapped my number. “Get registered to vote. They sell number badges in the shop.”

“Bagsy number 9!” said Tom Westwood.

“You can’t!” said Henri. “I’m number 9. Max, tell him!”

Tom and the other youngsters rushed off, and Henri looked from me to them. Seeing I wasn’t going to get involved, he gave me the camera back and scurried off after them, pausing to veer left when they went right. The fun had started!

Sandra came next to me and I adjusted the camera to show us both. “I’ve seen this aesthetic somewhere,” she said. “The big round numbers and all that.”

“The show was extremely influential,” I said. “And the ending, where we find out who Number One is, was so anticipated and so hyped but people expected a simple resolution and what they got was so mental and allegorical there were billions of complaints to the TV station. Patrick McGoohan had to leave the country for the storm to die down.”

“I hope that’s not foreshadowing for our result against Grimsby.”

“I got you something,” I said.

“Oh?” I went to the car and came back a few seconds later, going arm-to-arm with Sandra again. I held her gift up to the camera. It was a big, round badge with a number. She raised an eyebrow. “I thought you said the Number Twos were villains.”

“Some. Not all. Number Two and Number Six were symbiotic. They needed each other. Made each other better, until at the end they had a therapy battle resulting in one character breaking the other’s will.”

She laughed. “Jesus, Max. What do you watch?”

“Grimsby versus Boreham Wood, mostly. But The Prisoner is a good distraction from heavy themes.” I laughed. “Sometimes the Number Twos get a phone call on the red phone – I think it was red – and they look at it all terrified and however cocky they were a minute ago, they’re crapping themselves now. They pick up the phone. Yes, sir? I’m sorry, sir. I’ll try to do better, sir. And so on. That’s how I want Chester to run. Carrot and stick, but without the carrot. Hammer and anvil, but I’m the hammer.”

She gave me the look my teachers used to give me when I went on a flight of fancy. “This is a fun place to visit, Max. It’s incredibly strange and somehow perfect for you and Henri. But how does it relate to our match tactics?”

“The Prisoner,” I said, simply, and waited.

After six seconds, Sandra’s eyebrows ascended. “Oh! Of course.”

***

After touring the village, where Henri taught me two new words – loggia and portico – we retreated to a restaurant to talk and laugh and most importantly, drain tea cups and get immediate refills.

I asked Glenn if he would join me outside for a tea and a scone. Perhaps a sandwich would have been more appropriate because I was about to use my most advanced management technique on him.

“Glenn,” I started, and his face showed that he understood my tone. “You’re fantastic.” One slice of bread in place! Now for the bad news. “I don’t know if you noticed but I signed another centre back.”

Despite himself, he laughed. “I saw the posters, boss.”

I smiled, but it turned into a sigh. This part of the job was a hundred times worse than dealing with pricks like Chipper. “Whoever signed you to Chester is a genius. Top ten transfer deal in the club’s history. And you’ve still got a huge part to play if we’re going to have success this year. I see you lifting the Cheshire Cup again. Crewe are in a relegation scrap so there’s no way they’ll put out their strongest team in the final.”

“You’ll put out your strongest team.”

“Yeah, but I’m stupid.” That got another laugh from him. “I think I’ll go strong, yeah. I want it. So there’s one cup. The league. Could we?” Another laugh. “Okay but a playoff final win at Wembley with you in the middle of the photos. How does that sound?”

“Sounds good.”

“Whatever we achieve, you’ll be front and centre, as is right and proper. But let’s talk about next season because I’m fucking off to Brazil as soon as the last ball is kicked.” He steeled himself. I tried to calm him. “Hey, now! You get a choice. I’ll start with, let’s call it option two.” He closed his eyes and did a sad smile while shaking his head. I continued. “Option two is you stay at Chester. You’re third or fourth choice centre back. You play in the Cheshire Cup. You play the early rounds of the FA Cup and those weird trophies they have up there. But when we come to the business end of the season, you’re, er…”

“A glorified cheerleader.”

“I was going to say a tremendous role model for the young players etcetera etcetera. Honestly, you’d be valuable to the club so if you want that role I’m more than happy to give it to you. Option one is we sell you and you go into another club as first-choice, probably as captain, and as someone who has just won back-to-back promotions – back-to-back titles, even – you should get well paid.”

“What kind of club?”

“Based on the current squads, Hartlepool. Ebbsfleet. Southend.”

“Not League Two?”

“If you go to League Two it’ll be for money. We could try to get you a big pay day there if that’s what you want. But I don’t think you’ll play much.”

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“You don’t think I can hack it in League Two?”

“I don’t like that framing. Your leadership is Premier League quality. International quality. Heading amazing. Positioning very good and getting better. It’s your on-the-ball skills that would hold you back, and League Two clubs have fast, skilful strikers. You’ll be 32 next season. You’re not going to get faster. Could you do a job for a team that played three centre backs? Yeah, that could work. Crewe, for example, where you’d be a wise old head calming down all their young tearaways. If I were you, though, I’d want to be in a side where I was one of the best players full-stop, no ifs ands or buts.”

He stared for a while. “I want to play in League Two and prove you wrong.”

“Of course you do. You’re a warrior. You can’t let anyone put a wall in front of you without wanting to smash it down. That’s top. But you’re my captain and I hope we’re sort of friends and it’s my duty as a genius to make sure you’re in a team, playing full-time, and you’re happy. I think at somewhere like Crewe, after the initial proving-me-wrong phase you’d be unhappy. I would like to – without putting any pressure on you – I would like to mention that you might be available to other managers so that when you decide, there’s a market for you. If you want that to be League Two, I can put the feelers out, no problem.”

“Or I can stay here as a reserve. Those are my options?”

I did a cheeky smile as I made a joke. “Or you can play in Gibraltar.”

He blinked. “What?”

So the joke was… appealing to him? “Erm, Mateo, Tranmere’s owner, is looking at buying a club there. The plan is to win the league in the first season and play in Europe the next. Is that…? Should I continue?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going over soon to check the levels and see what’s up but in theory, you could stay on Chester’s books and we’d loan you there for six months. If you hate it, you come back and we try to sort you a deal in the January window. Or you like it and you stay out there. I’m imagining the levels are similar to the Welsh Premier so you would boss it.” I frowned. “I could build a team around you.”

“I’d be on the same wages?”

“Erm, the Chester contract would be the same I suppose but then you’d have to negotiate with Mateo about, er, some kind of subsidy or I don’t know what you’d call it. I’m not sure what sort of rules would be about that kind of thing but we can look into it. It’s, yeah, the day-to-day would be sort of boring after the stuff we get up to here, but moving countries would be exciting and you’d be the first of my Chester lads to play in Europe. Don’t tell anyone but I’m sort of thinking of loaning myself to the club if they get into the Conference League or whatever. I’m going over when the Maidstone game is happening and that’s one where you will be starting but if you want to fly over with us…?”

He said, “I’d rather play.”

I shoved the scone in my mouth and chomped happily. “That’s why you’re a ledge, Glenn. An absolute ledge. Number Four in the squad, number one in our hearts.”

He tutted, but did a little grin. “Don’t talk shit,” he said. He picked up his scone and took a bite. I’d given him a lot to chew on.

***

Saturday, March 8

Match 35 of 46: Devon Loch vs Chester FC

The morning was slow beyond belief. The afternoon was agony, made worse by the fact the match had been picked for TV coverage and moved to the 5:30 slot. The drive to Grimsby took, with no exaggeration, a thousand trillion years.

To say I had a lot of trains of thought competing for mental run time was an understatement and I longed for the match to start so I could have a hope of concentrating and focusing. When the match was done, the world would be infinitely clearer and I would finally be able to get some healthy, natural sleep.

Without thinking, I tapped my phone’s screen and saw there were plenty of new messages, all two words with a modal verb, a pronoun, and a question mark. I had banned people from saying the original version so now they were caps lock yelling: Might us? Will us? Ought thee? Might thineself?

I tried to distract myself by daydooming – daydreaming about everything that could go wrong in my life.

Chip Star buys a team, snatches Jay Cope. It would hurt somewhat. Jay was still undefeated in the league, though West had been knocked out of the FA Vase by a team that, in retrospect, was much weaker. Shit happens – Chip surely understood sports enough to realise that Jay was a hot prospect. How high could Jay bring West? When would he want to move on? Would he consider Saltney, by then in the Cymru Premier, a step up? Could we –

Shit!

West and Saltney were romping to their titles. What about Chester women? If we lost to Cheadle, could we –

Argh!

I got out of my chair and walked back a few rows. “Wisey, go and mingle, please.” James got up and I sat next to Magnus. “Mate. What’s that thing called where you drill a hole in someone’s head and let all the demons out?”

“Dentistry.”

I laughed. “Begins with T, I think.”

“Trepanning.”

“Can you do some reiki trepanning on me?”

He smiled. “Are you stressed? It’s not like you. You’re the ice man.”

“There’s a song about an ice man on the album One Man Band by James Taylor. Erm, I think there’s, like, twenty threads leading to this one match. It’s monumental and the stakes are making me crazy. If we lose, a whole city is going to roll their eyes and go ‘oh well, what do you expect?’ and we’ll miss the chance to get every six and seven-year old kid locked into Chester fandom. If we win, it’s, it’s, urgh!” I gave myself a healthy punch in the forehead. “It’s everything. What’s it called when prisoners go nuts? I’m a prisoner of my thought patterns and only kick off can break me free.”

“You’re stir crazy. Stir was an old word for prison.”

“I’ve heard of a TV show called Porridge. That was about a guy in prison. Apparently, we called prison ‘porridge’. Do you think that’s connected to stir? Because you can stir porridge?”

“Why don’t you do some squad building with William and Pascal?”

I groaned. “They can’t get past Tom Hickman. The kid’s made, like, three sub appearances but he’s got one of the biggest fan clubs outside the Premier League. It’s wild.”

“Why don’t you watch The Shawshank Redemption again? Escape from Colditz? Con Air? Orange is the New Black? Prison Break? Have you ever watched Prison Break?”

I sighed. “Yeah. He’s got a tattoo of his escape plan on his body because although he’s a genius, he can’t remember the whole thing. Please.”

Magnus smiled. “One day, your plans will be so complicated you won’t be able to summarise them in a short, movie-related speech.”

Huh. I sat back and thought about that. What sort of tactics would I be using in the Premier League? Putting bodies in the way of key passing lanes. Inverting full backs, pressing, counter-pressing, sweeper-keepers, the judicious use of long balls. Where would Relationism fit into my team talks? Would I be saying, ‘after ten minutes we’ll do five minutes of Relationism’? Would I have thirty different hot keys so I could switch between lots of slightly different settings? Would I have to micromanage every phase of play or would I do it like a normal manager and have a style of play, some principles, and play within those limits? I thought about some high-level matches I’d seen recently and imagined what sort of pre-match team talk would be needed against such opponents.

The team bus slowed, turned, and I saw the familiar ‘Jesus fish and boat’ logo of Grimsby Town.

I punched the seat in front of me. “Let’s get to fucking work!”

***

I did things. I went from there to there. Can I get more specific? Soz, no. I went onto the pitch, I remember that. It was practically perfect – Chris Hale knew the value of a quality playing surface and invested in it.

Someone told me Barnet had won two-nil. If we didn’t win today, third was pretty much the limit of what we could achieve. Stakes? The stakes were on the grill. The title race was sizzling.

An hour before kick off; time for my team talk.

“All right, shut the fuck up,” I said, and the clomping of feet settled down. The players knew who was starting, but it’s always good to repeat things with people who might not be paying proper attention. It’s always good to repeat things with people who might not be paying proper attention. “Grimsby are doing 4-4-2. We’re doing 4-4-1. Our ten are Ben.” I slid a magnet into the bottom half of the tactics board. The top half showed Grimsby’s formation. I didn’t normally do it like that but today was a special case. “Back four,” I said, also sliding things into place, “are Eddie, Christian, Zach, and Carl. Fuck me, that’s sexy! Not conventionally attractive, maybe, but sexy. Midfield, Aff, Ryan, Magnus, Pascal. Holy shit! Up front is Henri. Whoo,” I said, with little enthusiasm. This drew laughs, of course, but then I leaned down and hugged my friend.

Those ten had an average rating of 66.1. With me, the average would perhaps be 70. Grimsby’s line up would be just over 75.

“Quick overview of Grimsby’s lads. Sam Crichlow in goal. He’s good. Pretty much the best goalie in this league, certainly top three, but he’s got a fractious relationship with the fans. Do not take shots, guys. Do. Not. Shoot. I don’t want shots, I want goals. What the fuck are you talking about, Best? I’m talking about this guy finishing the match with zero saves. Zero. Okay? Listen to me, this is really important. If we have three goals from three shots, the home fans are going to tear into the goalie. They’ll savage him. It’s not fun to think about it but it’s our job to wreck Grimsby’s season and this is the simplest way. If we do that, if we turn the fans against him, that’s worth maybe five points over the rest of the season. That’s an eight-point swing today, do you get me? Don’t give him an easy chance to settle into the game. Henri, if you have a half-chance and you think you can’t nail it, don’t.

“Their strikers, next. Danny Flash. He’s a pest. His main job is running around a lot, trying to wind people up. Zach, you’ll be on him. Grimsby’s main threat is set pieces and Danny earns most of them. I want you to stay on your feet. Do not slide in to tackle him, do not let him know you’re there or any of that macho shit. Stay on your feet. Do not push him or pull him or even touch him. Give him the time and space to turn and run at you and do precisely nothing after that. Is that clear, mate?

“Ed Williams. He’s the guy I turned from a centre back into a striker. He wins headers and holds the ball up. Not today! Christian, he’s yours. Sorry, Ed! Huh. Managing is easy sometimes.

“Their defenders. How they held onto Jayden Ward I have no idea. He might be the best player in the whole league, never mind the best left back. Pascal, Carl, keep your wits about you because this guy is dynamite. Lee Slade doesn’t let him attack much but when he does, wow.

“On the right, they’ve got Conor Quinn. He’s solid but he’s getting old and he doesn’t get much rest. Don’t expect much attacking threat from him. Aff, go at him hard and I’ll swap you for Pascal to give you a breather sometimes and then Pascal, give me as many sprints as you can. It’s all about tiring him out and slapping in the last ten. Or getting him subbed off because his replacement is dogshit.

“The centre backs are John Windmill and Otis King. These guys are fantastic but they are also old and slow. Really, really slow. That’s why I’ve got Sharky and Wibbers on the bench and that’s why we’ve been doing wild sideways runs in our special training sessions. We’ll fry their tiny little minds and create holes.

“The midfield. Left midfield is Greg Fasanmade. He’s okay. Nice lad, tidy player. Won’t let his team down but won’t hurt us, either. In the centre they’ve got Greg Brothers, who is another solid player. Is he going to play a killer through-ball? Is he going to chip one over the top that sends us into a tizzy? Is he fuck. Respect him and his energy but don’t fear him.

“Simon Green is the other CM. He’s the twat I kicked off the bus in London so he’s going to come looking to see if he can land something on me. Good news is, he couldn’t find his arse with both hands and a map. He likes to cash people off. He’ll tell you what he’s earning, though he’ll inflate it by five hundred quid. Ask him if he can afford a taxi from London to Grimsby.

“Okay so what have we got so far? A very, very good goalkeeper. A very, very good defence. An okay midfield. An okay strike force. With Marcus Wainwright, they had too much quality for any team in this league. Without him, they’re stuttering. But they still have one outstanding player who makes Grimsby greater than the sum of their parts. That player is Danny Grant.” I paused and the act of not speaking spoke volumes. My players were rapt. “He’s a local lad. Came through their academy, absolutely loves the club. If you think you can outwork him, you’re delulu. If you think you can bleed for the badge more than him, let me tell you he carries blood packs around with him like he’s playing Fallout. The guy’s got twenty out of twenty for heart, okay? There’s no point kicking him, sledging him, or any of that. Jayden Ward is the best actual player, but Danny Grant is the number one creative force in the league right now. He’s crushing goal contributions. Goals plus assists? Danny Grant. Everything Grimsby do goes through him. He does the through-balls, the chips over the top, the dribbles, the counter-attacks, the free kicks, the corners. He’s so far ahead on so many statistical categories it’s going to be a sporting tragedy when he doesn’t get a league winner’s medal.” I took a moment to grin.

“Devon Loch,” said Glenn Ryder, the magnificent bastard.

I grinned harder. “Devon Loch,” I agreed. I spotted the dude from the documentary crew filming me – as agreed beforehand, by the way – and remembered all the footage I’d taken in North Wales. I had nearly forgotten to introduce the theme of the week! “My favourite movie,” I said, moving around the dressing room while the camera guy backed away. Bags were hastily pulled out of his way, and Vimsy went behind him to make sure he didn’t fall. “Is The Prisoner.”

William said, “Your favourite movie is a 1960s TV show?”

“Yes. Most of you know a little bit about it by now. There are forty-six ninety-minute episodes and the entire show is about finding out who is Number One. There are episodes where the hero wins and ones where he loses but the end credits always show a cell slamming into place. He might win but he’s still The Prisoner.” I moved back to the tactics board and touched Grimsby’s right midfielder. I made eye contact with a few people and became introspective. “Recently I’ve been asked what it’s like being a one-man band. I’ve been accused of having main character energy. That stuff is fun, sometimes, a bit of an ego boost, but it’s not how I think. No, I’m humble enough to say that right now, Danny Grant is the main character. He’s playing with main character energy. He’s the one-man band.” I jiggled his magnet around. “He plays on the right, moves into the middle to set the tempo. Everything revolves around him. There’s a version of this universe where I’m doing this for Darlington, but with a better haircut.” I put my back foot up on a bench and folded my arms. “Here’s the tactical plan for this match. I am going to mark Danny Grant. Danny Grant is going to have zero offensive output. I am going to put him in my pocket. He is going to be my prisoner. The only time he will touch the ball in a meaningful way, Zach, is if anyone gives away a cheap foul, Zach, in our half, Zach. Without Danny Grant, they have practically zero creativity. They will pump balls forward where our hard shell boys will gobble them up. We will play our football and we will play most of the game in Grimsby’s half. We will get some half-chances and some set pieces.

“I can play ninety minutes. I can mark Danny Grant for ninety minutes, but I can’t join the attacks, too. Don’t involve me in the build-up play unless you have to. I believe in you guys. If you’re patient you’ll create enough big chances to win this from open play, but we’ll be dangerous from set pieces, too. I’m not going to take the corners because I don’t want to have to sprint back. At corners, I’ll be back on halfway, resting, and I’ll only resume marking duties when DG crosses the line. But I’ll take our free kicks if there’s a chance to shoot, and if the angle is just too delicious to resist. Okay? I’ll absolutely big dog DG and I’ll create like five expected goals while I’m on my breaks.”

Sticky was standing at the back, looking lean and relaxed; he’d been around plenty of games like this. “Sorry, boss, but it sounds like you’ve got a bit more of that main character energy than you’ve been letting on.”

I tipped my head back and laughed. “Okay, who am I kidding? Fine. But the theme is The Prisoner and Danny Grant’s the star of that show.”

There was an enormous, German groan from one of the benches. The camera guy turned faster than a bored office worker on a swivel chair and caught most of Pascal’s eruption. “Did you take us on a mysterious four-hour trip to a weird Welsh village just to tell us you are going to man-mark a player?”

I grinned pretty hard, not just because it was funny, but because I knew Angel would lose her mind when she saw this footage. “Pascal, as they say in episode question mark of The Prisoner… Du musst Amboss oder Hammer sein. You must slap, or be slapped.”

“That is not – “

“All right, Chester. Let’s do this and remember, take no prisoners.”

Glenn yelled something and there were claps, stomps, and roars.

***

“Number seventy-seven, Max Best.”

BOO cried seven thousand Grimsby fans.

YEAH shouted eight hundred Chester ones.

Whatever reservations they had individually, collectively the Seals fanbase was united today. They’d brought some portable tesla coils, it seemed, because I kept getting zapped by the energy rays.

While I did my final warm up – I rarely started games and had forgotten my old routines – I looked over to the media area to see if I could spot Boggy and Spectrum. This match was being televised, so perhaps Boggy had been relegated to some lesser alcove. I jogged closer to the away fans to see if I could spot any Chester Women. Angel had said something about turning up to film something but I couldn’t see her. A stray thought made me think she was more likely to be in the executive seats. I went over to the main stand to check and my heart nearly stopped.

Chris Hale was there. Fine. It was his club, after all. I had to grudgingly admit he was allowed.

Candy was there. Giver and taker-away of jobs.

Next to her was a model-type woman.

Next to Chris was Chip Star.

Chris Hale and Chip Star, sitting side-by-side, laughing and joking, scheming, plotting. I doubted they were discussing superyachts.

If Chip Star bought Grimsby Town I would literally explode.

I jogged across the width of the pitch, barely able to see, but had calmed down by the time I returned to the main stand. Yep, still there. Chris and Chip. Chip and Chris. I frowned at them some more, then got a weird suspicion that I was missing something.

I scanned the area, checking out the agents and scouts who were in attendance, and then I spotted an area where people were looking behind themselves instead of at the pitch. I jogged in that direction and saw Angel, Bonnie, Ridley T, and Maddy next to Donnie Wormwood and Don Flash. Angel was right to come – having the former boxing champions in her footage would elevate the documentary.

Just as I turned away from the stand, my spider senses tingled. I looked again and – of course – there were three imps. They saw me looking and stood up, pointing and waving, excited. One of them started chanting and the others joined in. I couldn’t hear a word but I was a hundred percent sure they were singing, “Max Best, give us a wave.” With a sigh, I waved at them. The one in the middle pretended to swoon while the other two caught him. They fell into each other’s arms, giddy and delighted.

Why were they here? Because Nick had brought Chris and Chip together? To remind me that I wasn’t supposed to play full matches? Or simply because it was the biggest game of the season and they wanted to know if I had it in me to concentrate for ninety minutes?

***

Untitled Documentary, Episode 8: The Lie In, The Rich, and the Wardrobe

 

Angel, on her phone, mostly in selfie mode but tracking whoever’s talking as best she can, plus supplementary clips from the other phones.

ANGEL

This is it! I’m here at the million-pound match with my sis, my besties, and my favourite pugilists!

DON FLASH

Wash your mouth out with soap, young lady!

ANGEL

[Giggle.] So hyper for this one.

DONNIE WORMWOOD

Why’d you call it a million-pound match?

ANGEL

Whoever gets promoted gets a million pounds. If it’s us, the women’s team will get some of that. He’s playing for us, too.

RANDO FAN

[Trying to impress Angel but too thick to realise she’s not supporting the home team.]

Don’t worry, chuck, Chester’s manager’s a fraud. He’ll stuff it up like he always does.

ANGEL

Oh, that’s confusing because I thought Grimsby were in the middle of an epic choke show? Blowing a twenty-point lead? Devon Loch? Sorry, I don’t know much about football. Maybe you can explain it all to me. Let’s start with how are you going to get past Christian Fierce?

RANDO

[Belatedly realising his mistake.]

Danny Grant, lass. Danny Grant.

MADDY

Delulu, mate.

RANDO

You can pipe down, now. This is the home end.

DONNIE WORMWOOD

They’ll chat what they want, mucker. It’s a free country, know what I mean?

RANDO

[Cowers.]

DON FLASH

You want our Dan to score, though, Angel?

ANGEL

No. He’s not one of us. Today I’m in the Zach Pack.

MADDY

I’m in the Ryan Jack Pack.

ANGEL

Zach, Jack, and the French Attack.

MADDY

Zack, Jack, the French Attack, Carl Carlile will give you a smack.

RIDLEY T

I like Pascal.

ANGEL

Ridley, come onnnnn.

***

Caption: 24 Hours Earlier

Max Best is walking around Portmeirion, looking from left to right, sometimes caressing the side of a building or getting in close to admire a particular architectural detail.

MAX

So this match. Grimsby Town. I was hired by their owner, Chris Hale, to save them from relegation. He was going to pay me big money if I kept them up. Big money! It was hard, incredibly hard, because they had some bad characters in the dressing room. It took me a couple of games to work out who was holding the team back. We competed in the next two games and were starting to look good. Chris Hale, though, didn’t like my methods so he said he’d sack me if I didn’t win the next game. The best thing for the club was to get a draw, so that’s what I did. If I’d stayed, we would have won two out of the next three, no problem, home in time for Christmas kind of thing. Is that a squirrel?

SQUIRREL

[Contemplates his existence; scarpers.]

MAX

I met a lot of nice Grimbarians and the fans were mostly supportive. I think a lot of them understand that I was doing well and that the club was rotten and, like, a firm hand on the tiller was liable to snap the oars. Behind the scenes, some of the coaches were unhelpful in a way I think is unprofessional, and that’s coming from me! But that’s just human nature, isn’t it? You’re friends with the old boss so you don’t like the new boss. I mean, I get it, but if there’s five games of the season left and you’ll get made redundant if the new boss isn’t a success, you need to work with him! It’s like they didn’t have a sense of self-preservation. I’m waffling. I’m trying to say I don’t hold a grudge against most of the players and none of the fans. I don’t even hold a grudge against Chris Hale. He’s just a typical rich dude. He’s the scorpion riding the frog. He can’t help crashing his football club; it’s in his nature. So I’m not going to run around trying to cripple everyone or whatever. It’s just going to be a super professional exhibition of complete tactical mastery. No big deal.

***

Footage from the TV company and the documentary crew.

Blundell Park’s pitch is green and lush. The stands are almost full. The sound mix feels off – the eight hundred away fans seem to be making more noise than the home ones. Grimsby have the ball and are passing it around like champions-elect.

DISEMBODIED VOICE OF BOGGY

Brothers. Green. Back to Windmill. Grimsby have Alex Evans on the bench and he’s highly-rated by Max Best. Getting on a bit, now, and struggling with recurring injuries, but he could be a danger man in the second half. Good possession from Grimsby. What are you seeing, Spectrum?

SPECTRUM

Well, it’s very interesting because… I think Max is marking Danny Grant. He’s not touch tight but I think… yes.

BOGGY

Can you explain what touch tight means?

SPECTRUM

Very close. Often, you’ll ask your marker to really stay with the opponent. Follow him everywhere, all over the pitch. Max isn’t quite doing that. It’s more like when Grant gets into certain areas, he wants to be there. And, yes, I think he’s trying to stop the ball even getting to Grant. See the way he’s blocking the pass now?

BOGGY

Couldn’t they simply chip the ball over Max’s head?

SPECTRUM

Max is faster, and if the pass is too heavy, Eddie Moore will get it. Grimsby look a bit confused, to be honest. Danny Grant is their out ball. That’s, er, the person you pass to when you’re under pressure.

BOGGY

Who is our out ball?

SPECTRUM

Pascal. You can ping the ball ahead and he’s so fast he might get there first. But he’s made a conservative start. They all have. This could be a slow burn.

***

In the main stand, three of the women and two champions are looking bored. Donnie glances at Angel; she’s the only one smiling.

DONNIE WORMWOOD

What are you grinning at? It’s a snoozefest.

ANGEL

I’m imagining this footage in the documentary. Max was making fun of the Wrexham one by saying they had to show almost all the action in slow motion because the quality was shit. It’s funny, the worst bits are in slow motion, but so are the best ones.

DONNIE WORMWOOD

I hope you invite me to the premiere. I love premieres. You get to dress more classy than what you normally do. Have you got a ballgown kind of thing?

BONNIE

No, she doesn’t.

ANGEL

Bonnie…

***

ACTION SEQUENCE MONTAGE!

Carl Carlile chips a ball to Henri in slow motion.

Henri jumps in slow motion.

He’s beaten to the header in slow motion.

Christian Fierce points in slow motion.

 

The footage speeds up.

Danny Grant drops deep to get the ball. He turns and faces Max Best. The crowd rises.

Grant feints left, feints right, dummies, shimmies.

Max Best almost yawns as he steals the ball and passes it to Ryan.

Danny Grant shrinks like he’s in Alice in Wonderland.

The crowd sits back on their stupid arses.

***

Shot of the commentators in the TV booth. They’re holding those microphones over their mouths. You know, the ones with the flaps. You know, looks like they’re holding fake moustaches on sticks.

MATT

Quarter of an hour gone. Honours even so far, Ally?

ALLY

It’s been drab, yeah, but I still think it’ll liven up. This is the league leaders against the in-form team. There’s too much quality and okay it’s cancelling each other out for the moment but one goal and that’ll change. It only takes a second to score a goal. One moment of magic. One mistake.

MATT

Windmill. Green collects. He runs at Best. Best, er, lets him go? I’ve never seen that. I’ve never seen that on a football pitch, Ally.

ALLY

I’m with you. That was extraordinary. Best practically waved him through.

MATT

Green’s brainwave got him up the pitch but he’s a fish out of water in the final third. He wants to lay it off to Grant but Grant isn’t around. Green sends in a cross… but it’s too close to the keeper.

ALLY

What have I just seen? If any other player did what Best has just done, Best would haul him off! You can’t let people run past you like that.

MATT

We know Chester is an oddity in some ways, but what an incident. I can’t wait to hear what our panel make of that.

***

All four Chester women are bored. Don Flash is leaning forward, eyes shining. Angel notices and swings her phone at him.

ANGEL

What’s up, Don?

DON

Your boy is really something. Heh heh.

ANGEL

He’s not my boy. We’re just friends. [Wistful look down the lens; she thought she was going to get a piece of insight or some caustic cockney wit.]

DON

I’m talking about Max.

DONNIE WORMWOOD

What? He’s not doing anything. He’s completely passive.

DON

Heh heh. Passive my foot. Heh, what a fighter he is. Wonderful. Wonderful!

ANGEL

But what’s he doing? I don’t get it.

DON

You watch, now. You watch. Heh.

***

Danny Grant moves into the centre of midfield. Best follows, gesturing to Eddie Moore to move to left wing-back.

BOGGY

Still no clear-cut chances in this match. Hang on. What’s happened on the left?

SPECTRUM

Brilliant, Boggy. You’re getting really good at this! Danny Grant has gone inside to try to break free of Max but now there’s a huge gap there because Conor Quinn can’t bomb forward. So Max told Eddie to push up. Lee Slade doesn’t like it!

BOGGY

Indeed. Grimsby’s manager is going bananas on the bench. He’s yelling – I think – for Grant to go back to the right. Do I understand that Max is winning the tactical game?

SPECTRUM

Oh, big time. The only problem is that nil-nil is a great result for Grimsby so we’ll have to force the issue at some point. Max tried to wind the home crowd up by making comments about Grimsby’s traditional attacking style but I don’t think it’s working. They’ll tolerate defensive football today. They’re nervous, the way we all are.

BOGGY

I’m actually quite calm. I’d take a point away to the best team in the league.

SPECTRUM

A point does nothing in the greater scheme of things. If we lose, we’ll probably finish third anyway.

BOGGY

Okay but we won’t be embarrassed.

SPECTRUM

You know, I used to think like that. Now I’m more embarrassed if we don’t try to win.

BOGGY

And how are you feeling with twenty-five minutes gone and we haven’t taken a shot?

SPECTRUM

[Laughs.] Fair point. But I promise you one thing. Hard as it may be to imagine right now, Max Best thinks we’re going to win this.

BOGGY

What makes you say that?

SPECTRUM

Because look at him. He’s bored. It’s all too easy. It’s no challenge. ARGH! Boggy, mate! Boggy! It’s happening!

***

Grant has worked out that if he drops to his own half, he can get the ball. He does so, now, and takes the ball on the half turn.

As Grant looks up to consider his options, Max Best crashes into him, shoulder to chest, and takes the ball forward. The crowd roars its displeasure. The referee waves play on. Best shapes to shoot from forty-five yards but instead threads a pass between two defenders that Pascal chases. Jayden Ward gets there first, and while falling backwards tries to clear the ball. It hits Pascal and goes behind…

The assistant signals for a corner. It touched Ward last!

Danny Flash complains to Best about the shoulder barge. Best stares back with cold, dead, shark eyes.

Lee Slade finally gets the message through to Grant – stay wide.

BOGGY

Corner to Chester! Their first of the half. Er, looks like Aff will take it. Best is on the halfway line. He’s, er, alone on the halfway line! Everyone else is in or around the box.

SPECTRUM

[Chuckling.]

BOGGY

Aff with the cross. Whipped in, inswinger, clears the first man, good defensive header, clipped back in by Bochum, headed clear, Ryan Jack drops a shoulder, lines up a shot! He can strike them! No, he plays it wide, back to Aff. He comes onto the pass, first time! Into! What? It’s chaos! The ball’s in the net! Chester are ahead!

SPECTRUM

Side-netting!

BOGGY

Side-netting! No goal! Optical illusion but I was sure it was in! What happened? I have no clue but it was frantic. [Chuckles.] Whatever happened, it was the first meaningful attack of the half and it was for Chester! I don’t want a point, Spectrum. I want all three!

SPECTRUM

That’s the spirit!

***

The TV commentators are more animated; they’re enjoying the game.

MATT

More pressure from Chester. They’re well on top. Lyons lays it off to Bochum. Another quick exchange of passes. Then it’s Jack. Evergreen sprints forward, takes Windmill with him! Space opens up for the shot! But Chester are content to play their triangles. The ball’s zipping around, Ally! This is slick.

ALLY

Last time I saw Chester they were lobbing long balls into the mixer. I’ve no clue what’s changed from then till now.

MATT

Ward steals the ball. He drives forward. Carlile is cautious, retreats. Bochum with a lung-busting sprint gets goal side. Ward looks for help. He finds it in Green. Green plays it simple to Fasanmade. Back to Ward. Again he asks for support. Brothers shows for the ball but is tracked by Jack. Evergreen back behind the ball. Chester have refound their shape. There’s no way through for Grimsby.

ALLY

It’s too slow. Their attacks are ponderous. They need to move the ball faster but the only player who can really do that is Grant. Who is, er…

MATT

Being marked out of the game by Max Best.

ALLY

Ohhhh.

***

Three of the four women are bouncing around.

MADDY

[shrieking] Come on!

BONNIE

Go! Yes! Yes!

RIDLEY T

Shoot! Shoot! Why didn’t he shoot?

ANGEL

[Has the same expression as the squirrel.]

***

MONTAGE!

Eddie Moore plays a pass to Henri.

Henri takes it on the half turn, is fouled, keeps going. Passes to Jack.

Jack turns towards Best and puts huge concentration into getting the pass right.

Grant and Green dash towards Best.

They dash in vain. Jack rolls the ball under his foot, backwards, to himself. He spins and hits it with the outside of his right foot behind Ward.

Ward and Pascal run, compete, Ward wins, Pascal harries, Ward looks for help – he’s swarmed.

He kicks it into the stand, knowing that Carlile will have to jog forward and in those ten seconds, the defence can reset.

The ball bounces back, by the wildest chance, into Pascal’s hands. He throws it down the line.

Carlile hits it first time, twenty yards square to Ryan Jack.

Grimsby’s defence is all over the place, not ready.

Jack clips the ball left into Aff’s path.

He has a clear run on goal but at a tight angle. He could shoot but…

He doesn’t.

His hesitation gives Conor Quinn the chance to get the ball out for a throw in.

Max Best does one of his first sprints in the half – he hugs Aff and doesn’t want to let him go.

Aff grins and shakes Max off, but Henri is there to give him a hug, too.

The referee asks the Chester players to stop hugging each other and get on with the game.

Max opens his arms and offers the ref a hug.

ANGEL

Holy crap! Listen to the Chester fans!

DON

Where are my fluffy earmuffs?

BONNIE

Christ, that’s loud.

DONNIE WORMWOOD

What’s got them wound up?

ANGEL

Main character energy.

***

BOGGY

Zach Green with a line-breaking pass to Evergreen. Evergreen dribbles past Simon Green. So much green!

SPECTRUM

Green is good. Michael Douglas said that in Max’s favourite movie.

BOGGY

It opens up for Evergreen. GREAT movement from Lyons and Bochum, but the, er, Englishman, turns back. Why aren’t we shooting?

SPECTRUM

Absolutely no clue but the pressure is building.

BOGGY

Approaching half time with the score still nil-nil. Remember Barnet won in one of the three P.M. kick offs so they’ll be licking their lips at this. Moore on the overlap. Aff finds him. Moore… good tackle from Quinn. He’s a good player, isn’t he?

SPECTRUM

They’re really good, Grimsby. Got to admit. It helps that their manager is copying what Max did last year.

BOGGY

They’re huffing and puffing, though, aren’t they? Quite an old team. I wonder what the running stats will be like from the first half to the second. And as Brothers and Jack compete in the centre of the park, the ref blows for half time. Well.

SPECTRUM

Well.

***

Angel is in the concourse behind her seat.

ANGEL

I’ve told my sister I’m going to the toilet but really I’m trying to sneak into the executive box to see if I can get a quote from Chris Hales. Is it Hale or Hales? He can go to Hales. Heh. Got to pretend to like him for now, though.

[Angel spots a door that seems like it might lead to her goal. She pulls it and it jiggles in a very locked manner. She turns right and goes up some stairs into a different part of the main stand. She zooms in on Bonnie, thirty yards away. Bonnie’s laughing with Donnie but looking over her shoulder every ten seconds.]

ANGEL

I’m fine, sis. Please.

[She takes a few determined steps then focuses back on Bonnie. Bonnie’s more worried. Angel bends and one-handed sends a message. We see it being typed out in a message bubble on screen. BIT OF A QUEUE LOL. She presses send. Bonnie looks down and visibly exhales.]

ANGEL

Don’t make me sad, I’m undercover. Right, where’s Count Twatface?

[She looks around and sees some seats that are more luxurious than the others. She heads that way and spots that someone has left a handbag. Its owner, the woman accompanying Chip, returns to get it, perhaps realising that she isn’t on a private superyacht.]

ANGEL

Excuse me. Is that a Birkin bag?

NEPO BABY

Yes! Yes it is!

ANGEL

I actually, like, really love your outfit?

NEPO

Really? Chip wasn’t keen.

ANGEL

I’m Bethany Alban from the Daily Mail. Do you think I could get a few words from Chip about the game?

NEPO

What game? [She looks with haughty disdain towards the pitch; it’s quite sexy.] Oh, the soccer. He simply adores talking about soccer – don’t I know it! – but he’s busy swooning over his new friend.

ANGEL

You’re, like, really funny. I like you.

NEPO

Oh, that’s sweet, honey. I like you, too! Sorry I couldn’t help.

ANGEL

That’s okay. Oh.

NEPO

What?

ANGEL

I do actually need the bathroom. Could you let me in so I don’t have to use the same one as the normos?

NEPO

Sure thing! You hop over here. Let’s chat!

ANGEL

[Looks back towards her sister.] Honestly I’d love that, like, a lot. But I have to get back to my boyfriend over there. He’s dead clingy. I’ll probably bin him off soon.

NEPO

Bin him off! I love your phrases. [Imitates British accent.] I’m going for a lie-down! [Normal voice.] Come on, then.

***

The players emerge from the tunnel for the second half.

MATT

No change for either side as we prepare to get the second half of this top-of-the-table clash underway. Ally, are you surprised?

ALLY

I am, yes, because Chester need to win but Grimsby haven’t put any attacks together and their fans were getting restless. It’s one thing to get a draw but it’s another to be outplayed like that. I think the fans will demand a response if it continues like this for too long.

MATT

Chester kicking from right to left in this half. Here we go!

***

Close-up on Lee Slade. He’s smiling and patting his assistant on the back. They have cooked up a tactical tweak for the second half. The camera closes in on them slowly. Their smiles fade, vanish, now they’re frowning, now they’re running around and pointing.

Close-up on Max Best. He’s watching Grimsby’s players fall back into their 4-4-2. He swivels his fingers around and his players do the same. He says something to Ryan Jack, who lets out one huge laugh.

Battle resumes on Max Best’s terms.

***

Sophie, the documentary maker and sadist, decides the time is right to overlay a huge clock ticking mercilessly up to 90.

Sophie does not care that the rising tension may wipe out human civilisation as we know it.

Sophie only cares about making the story visually interesting.

***

MONTAGE!

46.

Grimsby make a huge effort to get Danny Grant into the game. They fire early passes to him that turn into instant counters. It’s like Max Best can read their minds. He steals the ball and zips it to Ryan Jack. He steals the ball and gives it to Aff.

 

48.

Grant retreats into his half, feints one way, turns the other, realises that Max Best is ten yards away, calm as you like. Grant looks for an option; they all suck. He thinks about hitting a big diag but Chester’s back line is quite impressive. He decides to zip the ball to Danny Flash’s feet, but Zach Green reads it and intercepts. Green powers forward – Eddie Moore shuffles across to cover and Max slides back into the left back slot. Green hits Henri, who boops to Pascal, who whees to Jack, who scoops to Aff who picks out Henri, who is put under pressure from Windmill and so eschews the chance to shoot. The chance comes to nothing – Best, Fierce, and Evergreen punch the air.

 

50.

Grant dribbles at Best and thinks he has nutmegged him. Indeed, technically he has, but Best, as upright as an Irish dancer, flicks his foot behind him and to the left and when Grant explodes forward he can’t find the ball. Best has it on his left. He lays it off to Moore and another Chester attack brews.

 

51.

Lee Slade gives the order to launch an aerial bombardment.

 

52.

Christian Fierce wins a header.

 

53.

Christian Fierce wins a header.

 

54.

Christian Fierce wins a header.

 

55.

Lee Slade yells incoherently.

 

60.

Sophie, the dick, puts up an ‘as it stands’ table. It shows Grimsby on 78 points, Barnet on 72, Chester on 65.

***

Chester work the ball around to Ryan Jack. He shrugs off Simon Green and prepares to play a pass behind Conor Quinn – somehow it’s Pascal Bochum playing left mid. The German sprints, forcing Quinn to copy him. Jack touches the ball to Evergreen and Chester rotate it around the defence, from Carlile to Moore. The ball’s played back to Jack. He shapes to play the same left-sided through-ball, but now it’s Aff on that side. The Irishman sprints and Quinn, head down, tries to match the break.

This time, Jack sends the pass.

BOGGY

Jack with the pass – oh, it’s fantastic! Aff’s in acres! Quinn, what happened?

SPECTRUM

Hamstring.

BOGGY

He’s pulled up lame. Aff’s marching onwards! To the byline. Cuts it back. Lyons is in there… Wha – Saved! Outstanding save from Chrichlow!

SPECTRUM

Wow. That’s the first thing he’s had to do. That’ll build his confidence. Everyone’s looking at Max. Wonder why? He’s got his hands on his head. The first signs of worry from him.

***

Four Chester Women in various shades of agony.

***

BOGGY

Quinn’s finished. He’ll be replaced by, ah, Caine Amadi-Spokes. Another player for Best to avoid. That injury will rule Quinn out for the rest of the season, you’d expect?

SPECTRUM

He might be back in time for the playoff final. Against Barnet. Come on, Chester!

***

MATT

The Grimsby fans right behind their team, now! Urging them forward! Crichlow’s save, could it be the turning point? Grimsby playing it more direct, aiming into the channels, trying to turn Chester’s defence around. Brothers has had a very average game but he’s on the ball now. Clips it – Danny Flash could be through, here! Zach Green… fouls him! Foul in a dangerous position. And a yellow! Yellow card for Green.

ALLY

He’s a lucky, lucky boy. That could have been red. I’ve seen them given.

MATT

Four-man wall for Chester. Danny Grant hasn’t done much so far in this match but we know how dangerous he is from dead balls. He’s taking his time. What’s he thinking? Far post, curl it in? Onto the head of Ed Williams?

ALLY

He’s thinking, I wish Marcus Wainwright was still here because we’d have a hundred points and this match wouldn’t matter.

MATT

[Chuckles.] He’s nearly ready. Something of a hush descends… Clips it in, just over! Just over! I think it was Otis King at the back post. He beat Max Best in the air! Now Best is giving Zach Green a dressing down!

ALLY

It was a silly free kick to give away. No need at all.

MATT

They’ve been having a running battle. Lots of chat out there.

***

DONNIE WORMWOOD

Come on, Danny! Well in!

ANGEL

[Shakes her head; arms folded, fumes.] Zach’s as much use as a Birkin bag in Grimsby.

***

The clock hits 70 minutes. Close-up on MAX BEST. Is his MAIN CHARACTER ENERGY diminishing? He points, handsomely.

BOGGY

Chester’s first change of the match is coming. Looks like Ryan Jack going off. Seventy minutes is a good shift from him. He played well, I thought. Lovely to see him back.

SPECTRUM

Triple change!

BOGGY

What? Er, not sure about this. James Wise replaces Ryan Jack. Makes sense. But… Pascal Bochum is coming off. So is… Magnus Evergreen. I thought they were playing well!

SPECTRUM

I think we’ll switch to 4-2-3-1. That’s the same back four, Max and Wisey patrolling in front of the defence – yes, look, oh, but Wisey’s taking up a CM position. Not quite the default, then. It’s still Henri up front but with Aff, Sharky, and Wibbers close behind him. Wow, that’s attacking. If I were one of those Grimsby defenders right now I’d be asking for an oxygen mask.

***

Footage from Max in Portmeirion. He doesn’t speak. He simply looks at something, forgetting the camera is on. His expression is inscrutable.

***

DON FLASH

Here we go.

DONNIE WORMWOOD

What? What do you see?

DON

Here we go.

***

Crichlow pumps a ball long. Fierce leaps and bonks it past halfway. William B. Roberts, the National League’s youngest ever goalscorer, tries to hold the ball up but is bodied by Simon Green. It’s fair to say Green is surprised to lose the contest. Wibbers chops down onto the ball, turning as he does so, and drives at Otis King. The wily old gambler has seen this many, many times before and – holy shit! Wibbers is past him somehow! King, desperate, reaches out and grabs the kid.

Yellow card, free kick.

It’s a sickening moment for the Grimsby fans.

The Chester mob go apeshit. Max Best is walking towards the ball, utterly expressionless.

***

Max walks across the living chess board. Every square is big enough for a human to stand in.

Max stands on the second rank and bends down.

MAX

Most of us are pawns. We’re ants. We’re nothing. We’re cannon fodder, sent into battle by the Chris Hales of the world. I was a pawn all my life. But… [He looks towards the other end of the board.] Once every million games, a pawn gets to the other side and he becomes a queen. [Best’s jaw clenches.] And then he goes on a fucking rampage.

***

Angel and Bonnie are hugging. Bonnie can’t watch. Ridley T is on her toes like a goalkeeper. Maddy is down in the crash position like she’s going to be sick.

***

SINGLE SCENE MONTAGE WHAT’S THAT CALLED?

Max Best places the ball.

Max Best is ready to take the free kick. The angle is Sam Crichlow’s nightmare. He knows Best can put the ball anywhere, but there are also half a dozen players in the box who can score headers.

Best turns and bares his teeth at the executive boxes.

The ref blows his whistle.

Best doesn’t move.

The ref blows his whistle two more times.

Best glares at the ball, takes two steps back, two steps left for a right-footed shot. He changes his mind. He takes four steps right. He’ll shoot left-footed! Crichlow adjusts, but his wall is lined up wrong. He barks instructions and points and as Grimsby try to realign themselves, Best takes yet another step, and, standing almost on top of the ball, he clips it up, right-footed, over the defensive wall, towards the edge of the six-yard box.

BOGGY

Goal! Goal for Chester! Zach Green! Goal for Chester! Zach Green!

SPECTRUM

I can’t spake!

BOGGY

Chester lead! Chester are ahead! Best threatened to shoot left-footed and it caused havoc. There are scenes in the away end. Best led the sprint and he has launched himself into the mass of blue and white! It’s one-nil Chester and Blundell Park is silenced! Return of the Max! Revenge of the Max!

***

Sophie, beautiful Sophie, puts up an ‘as it stands’ table. It shows Grimsby on 77 points, Barnet on 72, Chester on 67.

***

ANGEL

I love Zach Green! I never doubted him!

[The women jump into each other and soon there are ten stewards surrounding them.]

STEWARD

I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.

DONNIE WORMWOOD

You’ll have to go through me, first.

STEWARD

I’m sorry, Mister Wormwood, but it’s a safety hazard. We can’t have away fans in the home section.

ANGEL

Best! Best will tear you apart, again!

MADDY

Max Best’s blue and white army!

RIDLEY T

Ooh are ya? Ooh are ya?

DON FLASH

Heh heh. Come on, ladies. They kick you out, they kick us out and we’ll never be back.

STEWARD

Please, Mister Flash. You can go to the executive box.

DON FLASH

Box? Like a fancy dan? I grew up on the streets and on the streets I’ll stay. I lost a few fights and I never kicked out fans who cheered again’ me. Let ’em cheer, I say. It’s sport, in’t it?

RANDOS

[Applause.] Let ’em stay, for fuck’s sake. Not doing any harm, are they?

STEWARD

If you’ll come this way, please.

***

MONTAGE!

76.

Simon Green gets the ball in midfield, drives forward through acres of empty space, sees James Wise thundering at him with evil intent. Green takes a shot – it’s not as bad as one of Youngster’s, but it’s bad.

 

GRIMSBY FANS

“Fucking idiot!”

“Get fucked!”

“Walk back to London, you prick!”

 

78.

A Chester attack breaks down. The ball finds itself at Danny Grant’s feet. Max is there, watching. Waiting. Grant tries to sprint past on the outside, no tricks. Best follows, tracking the run, making no effort to get the ball.

Grant runs the ball out of play.

Best throws it to Eddie Moore.

 

GRIMSBY FANS

“Get him off!”

“Useless!”

“Use the ball, you twat! Get it launched!”

 

80.

Close-up of Lee Slade. His head sinks, but then bobbles back up. He signals.

 

81.

Devonte Payne replaces Danny Grant.

Close-up of Max Best talking to Christian Fierce and James Wise. They both nod and get into position.

***

MATT

What’s happened here, Ally? Devonte Payne is a wide player. He might bring some energy to the right midfield slot. Danny Grant didn’t get much change out of Best but perhaps…

ALLY

I think Chester have gone back to 4-4-2. Aff left, Wes Hayward right. Roberts second striker. Best and Wise central midfield.

MATT

I think you’re right. So, Best doesn’t plan to mark Payne.

ALLY

Payne is more of a defensive wide player. How are Grimsby going to get a goal?

***

The Chester women are hurrying towards a TV in the concourse but Don Flash can’t move that fast.

DONNIE WORMWOOD

Sorry, ladies, but I need to get his chair.

[Angel looks stricken, but as she breathes in she comes to a decision. She stands next to the old campaigner and puts his arm around her shoulder.]

ANGEL

Bonnie and I will wait with him. Maddy, get some good clips, yeah? Try to get some Grimsbos in tears, yeah?

RIDLEY T

You’ll miss the end! We’re gonna do a madness, I can feel it!

ANGEL

Max will wait for me.

MADDY

What the shit are you even talking about?

RIDLEY

Come on. Someone’s gonna score from the halfway line and we’re gonna miss it. [They run off.]

DON FLASH

Leave me be, girls. You get out there and watch.

BONNIE

No fucking way. You’re one of us.

ANGEL

Leave no man behind.

BONNIE

Even if he’s a Colchester fan.

DON FLASH

Heh heh. Guess how many football stadiums I’ve been kicked out of?

BONNIE

Six?

DON FLASH

Guess it wasn’t that hard a question.

***

MONTAGE!

84.

Chester are fizzing the ball from left to right. Grimsby are chasing shadows. Max Best is taking the actual.

Best gets the ball in midfield and plays one-twos with Wisey, Wibbers, and then Aff. Simon Green comes steaming in to sort it out. Best nutmegs him, but then hovers around so that Green can have another bite. Best shapes to meg him again. Green closes his legs, but Best simply rolls the ball backwards and turns away. Green chases Best across the pitch and is about to launch into a challenge when he realises the ball has been laid off to Carlile.

 

85.

Best pops up in the right wing slot with Sharky close by. Sharky makes as if he’ll sprint down the line. Jayden Ward retreats but Best simply kicks the ball down into the turf, moving it precisely zero inches. He slinks backwards and smirks. The smirk proves to be unpopular in many sections of the stadium. When Grimsby players approach with complaints, Best whacks the ball to the left and Aff gathers. Caine takes him out and is lucky not to be carded. Best shows no interest in taking the free kick.

 

86.

Devonte Payne gets the better of Eddie Moore and is about to cross when James Wise slides in, puts the ball out, and demands the away fans cheer louder.

They oblige.

 

87.

Someone starts a chant of ‘twenty points and you fucked it up’. It spreads like wildfire in the away end, and catches on in a home end concourse where two women and a man pushing another man in a wheelchair join in.

***

As Angel and her sister arrive in front of a TV, Chester are passing the ball around like matadors teasing a bull.

BOGGY

Spectrum, I don’t like this! This is stressful!

SPECTRUM

What is?

BOGGY

This hubris! One goal from Grimsby and our season is dead and buried! One long ball that Danny Flash turns into a free kick. [He chokes.]

SPECTRUM

Long ball from Grimsby! Flash is after it! He’s got Zach Green with him, on a yellow card, one false move and – yes, mate! Yes!

 

[The stream cuts dead. Sophie’s choice at this moment is to cut to a laptop showing the Seals Live logo and the words:

TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES

[This is fine at first, quickly gets annoying, then becomes abject torture. Suddenly, we’re back, but it’s an almost-completely frozen picture with a few pixelated shapes in motion. The audio comes back.]

 

BOGGY

He’s clean through! What a pass! And… [splutters].

[The fans roar. The volume is stupendous. It has to be the home fans.]

SPECTRUM

Oh, no.

[Fade to black. Possible cliffhanger?]

***

Two numbers appear on screen. It’s an eight and a seven. It changes to an eight and an eight.

All is quiet, but sound comes flooding back – it’s hard to tell who’s saying what. It seems that the Seals Live and TV commentaries are being overlaid on top of one another.

The image is brought to life on the screen, with William B. Roberts neatly controlling a high ball. Jayden Ward snatches it off him and breaks.

Ward plays the ball forwards in the direction of Ed Williams.

ANNOYING FREEZE FRAME!

TIME REWINDS! WE SEE BITS OF THE MATCH PLAYED BACKWARDS! IT GOES ALL THE WAY BACK TO THE PREVIOUS DAY! WTF DON’T DO THAT!

***

Max Best in Portmeirion

Best walks through an archway, steps back, looks up. He notices it’s in the shape of a spade, as in the playing card. He grins and traces the outline with his hand. He keeps exploring as we hear a voiceover.

MAX BEST

Spite is a powerful motivator. Proving people wrong. There are people trying to prove me wrong and I need to prove them wrong. Grimsby? Sure. It was stupid sacking me. I’ll never forgive Chris Hale. That’s on my record forever. A stain I can’t clean. Spite pushes us to higher heights but that’s not how I want to live. I want dreamier dreams and I want to believe that a rising tide lifts all boats. Call me a snowflake, call me woke, call me what you want but if you’re starving and I’ve got an apple, I’ll give it to you. The people in this country are hungry for lots of things but what they’re really starved of is magic. I’ve learned in the last week that people want fantasy. They need fantasy. If I lock Danny Grant all the way down, he might get subbed off. If he gets subbed off I’m going to go full Max. Main character energy, a psychedelic masterpiece that leaves people asking questions and making art of their own to answer those questions. The Prisoner is mental and you might think, what does it all mean? What’s the message? But I get meta, sometimes, and in this case I think, what a wonderful world we live in where crazy things like that can get made! It’s fucking bonkers, mate! The TV show, the village, nothing about this makes sense. That’s why people still come here sixty years later. Because one man had a vision and he built a team and he made it happen and they let it happen. [Pause.] I have to build a prison so I can be free.

***

BACK TO THE FREEZE FRAME!

IT REWINDS A FEW SECONDS BUT THAT’S GREAT BECAUSE WE FORGOT WHERE WE WERE. IT’S FINE TO ADMIT IT.

 

Zach Green beats Ed Williams to the ball and sends a crisp pass into midfield. It’s helped forward. William B. Roberts neatly controls a high ball. Jayden Ward snatches it off him and breaks.

The ball is played forwards in the direction of Ed Williams.

Christian Fierce bodies him, sticks out a leg. Zach is once more alert and anticipates the break – he touches the ball left and is wiped out by Danny Flash. The ref allows play to continue. Eddie Moore clips the ball to Best’s feet. Best looks around and rolls the ball forward, doing a little dance as he progresses. Danny Flash sprints to challenge but Best dabs the ball forward to Henri. He drops a few yards and touches it to Wibbers. He’s got the option of Max outside him, but he brings it onto his left and feeds Sharky, who has made a run between Windmill and Caine. Sharky controls, turns, and plays it back to Wibbers. He shapes to shoot, but Otis King is a massive obstacle so once again he plays it to Sharky. The winger drops his shoulder and makes the defence retreat, but touches the ball back to Wibbers and sprints to the right. Henri and Max sprint left. In the confusion, Wibbers advances. Windmill comes forward but that only opens space for Henri to run into.

 

ALL SOUND CEASES AND THE ACTION GOES SLOW MOTION.

IT’S A REALLY COOL MOMENT, GUYS.

 

Wibbers dips the ball forward – it’s not a nutmeg but feels like it. Henri, running right, puts his foot on the ball and rolls it backwards.

Max, having conserved his energy for this moment, bursts onto the ball, taking it away from multiple tired defenders.

 

SOUND RETURNS BUT IT’S ALL DISCORDANT AND ECHOEY.

SERIOUSLY, THOUGH, IT’S SO SO COOL.

 

BOGGY

Roberts. Henri. Max Best! He’s clean through! What a pass! And… [splutters].

[The Chester fans roar. Best wheels away in ecstasy.]

SPECTRUM

Oh, no. He’s going to do an obscene gesture at Grimsby’s owner and get banned.

 

WE REWIND AGAIN BUT YEAH WE NEED IT BECAUSE WHAT DID MAX EVEN DO?

WE SWITCH TO THE TV COMMENTARY.

 

MATT

Roberts. Lyons! Best! Best with the pirouette! He has spun his way past the goalkeeper! He’s going away from goal… but he backheels it into the net!

ALLY

Ohhhhh!

MATT

Max Best with the no-look backheel to win it for Chester! Goal of the season! We have a title race! This is on! This is on!

ALLY

I can’t believe that.

MATT

He took the ball, burst forward, I think he shimmied left, put the goalie’s weight on the wrong foot, and did a Zinedine Zidane spin around the keeper! And then the backheel! What on earth have we just seen? And there are eight, nine, TEN Chester players trying to squash their manager flat! A joyous pile-on! Grimsby fans are leaving. Streaming out of the stadium. How can you leave after seeing that? He might do it again!

ALLY

When he gets up – if he gets up – we need to check his pockets to see what Danny Grant thinks of it all. Because he’s got Grant in his pocket.

MATT

I got it, Ally. Phew! This game. Something tells me this season could go to the wire.

***

Donnie and Don are shaking their heads at the replays. Angel and Bonnie are hugging each other while doing little jumps.

ANGEL

I knew it! Get the fuck in! Have some of that!

DONNIE WORMWOOD

Angel, darlin’, do me a solid and try not to get me into a fight. I might be tough but if I’ve learned one thing it’s never fight a fish’man.

RANDO

[Fleeing the stadium with a sourpuss face but lighting up when seeing two of his idols.]

Donnie Wormwood! Don Flash! I can’t believe it.

DONNIE WORMWOOD

I can’t believe that goal.

RANDO

Yeah, well. Reckon that’s stitched us up good and proper. Hard to get back up off the canvas after a blow like that.

ANGEL

[Trying to cheer him up.]

Don’t worry, mate. I happen to know for a fact that this Max Best character is a complete fraud. He’ll stuff it up like he always does.

RANDO

I’d be more worried about Barnet.

BONNIE

Nice meeting you. Bye.

[The rando departs. Bonnie mimes strangling Angel, but she’s laughing.]

DONNIE WORMWOOD

[Shaking his head.] What is it with you Chester lot? You’re a bunch of savages.

ANGEL

That’s why you like us.

***

BOGGY

Chester with men behind the ball. Grimsby desperate, trying anything. Nothing’s worked. They are bereft of ideas, as they have been the whole match. One assumes other teams will be watching this. It seems so simple. Mark Danny Grant. Put your best player on him if you have to. What does this mean for Grimsby’s season? Frankly, who cares? This is Chester’s day. Chester’s night. A blue and white party. Walking in a Max Best wonderland! Carl Carlile boots the ball long. Sharky’s after it… Amadi-Spokes is forced to put it into touch. Throw in for Chester. No! That’s it! Full time! Boos for the home team but Chester are in dreamland! Ten points behind, ten goals behind. What next? Whatever next? Spectrum… I’ve never said this before. I didn’t join in. I thought it was childish. But, really, if not now, when? Spectrum, mate. Could we?

SPECTRUM

Could we? We just did!

***

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***

I lay on the turf, drained. I’d given everything and as soon as I tried the stupid Zidane Roulette I’d felt my calves burn, starting to cramp. I’d made it through till full time without needing to call Dean on and if I stayed perfectly still for, let’s say, six days, I would probably be able to get to my feet.

This would cost me.

We’d done it, though. We’d blown the title race wide open. I’d wanted clarity and simplicity but I hadn’t got it – there were billions of permutations as to how the rest of the season would pan out.

I wondered what everyone made of it, wondered what Chris Hale was thinking. Had I knocked a million off Grimsby’s sale price? Normally that would have been top, but if it meant Daddy Star got a team even cheaper, that was no good. That ain’t right.

Dean was suddenly by my side, handing me a marathon paste and a bottle of water. “Take a second, boss, but there’s someone who wants you.”

“Tell them visiting hours are between one and ten past one. Or, you know, a funny version of that.”

“I think it’s your former boss.”

“My what?”

Dean helped me up and with his support, I hobbled across to the side of the pitch, nodding at the stricken Grimsby players as I went, fist bumping the closest ones. Dean explained. “These guys ran down at full time. You emptied the stadium with your, er, wondergoal, so it was easy to spot them. They’re holding up one of those big cardboard signs.”

“I hate them.” Stupid, barely literate signs begging for shirts, gloves, shinpads. If there were ten signs you, at best, disappointed nine kids. I’d banned such begging signs from the Deva.

“I know. But look for yourself.”

It was only a few steps away but it felt like miles. I checked the league table – that put a bit more spring in my step. Ten points behind, two games in hand. Hey, now!

Dean stopped and I looked at the shitty cardboard sign. It read:

 

MAX BEST THANK YOU

 

Odd. I tried to focus and saw a rando little brat wearing a Grimsby top. Clearly some kind of TikTok prank or whatever. I started to move away.

“Max,” came a voice.

I looked back and the kid was with an older version of itself, plus a more familiar face. No curse data showed over his head, and it took me a moment to work out why that was so strange. “Wolfie,” I said. He had been the Director of Football when I’d had my ill-fated stint as Grimsby manager. He had offered to quit to save me and his loyalty got him binned off.

He beamed, hugely. “I thought you’d forgotten me for a second.”

“I’m…” Why no profile data? I took a stab in the dark. “Did I hear you’d quit the industry?”

He looked impressed. “Yes! I thought it was my dream job, but nah.”

“Er, what are we doing? I have to go talk to people,” I said, vaguely.

“This is Jordan,” he said, indicating the little kid. He looked about ten years old and the black and white stripes on his shirt looked like the bars of a prison cell.

“Let me guess. You’re the world counting backwards champion.”

The kid frowned and looked at his dad, who also didn’t know how to take my joke. Wolfie explained. “Jordan is one of the boys you scouted! You told me to look after him. I moved him to a good local team and he got signed by Grimsby!”

I thought about making some joke but nah. Mega nah. Jordan had been taken on by his local team, his team, and that was special. One of the dreamiest dreams. It wasn’t as good as doing a madness in front of nine thousand fans, but it was close. I did a quick search of my database for players called Jordan but there were pages and pages. I couldn’t remember what I’d scouted in Grimsby. Two players, wasn’t it? One had been a midfielder, right? “Good for you, mate. I knew when I saw you you were mint.”

He got a dazed look, but recovered. “Will you sign my shirt?”

I looked at his dad. “You sure?”

“Wouldn’t a’ happened without you. Your name’s golden in our house.” He offered me a marker pen.

I bent and scribbled something, then signed it.

The kid stretched his top out and peered, but unlike Hercule Poirot and Max Best, he couldn’t read upside down. “What’s it say?”

His dad squinted. “UTM.”

“Up the Mariners,” I said. “Up the Town.”

“That’s class that, Max,” said Wolfie.

“After what Chris Hale did to you,” said the dad.

I shook my head, slowly. “Chris Hale did it to you.” I looked up at the VIP area. “God knows what he’s up to in there today but it’s nothing good for the club or the city.”

“Town,” said the kid.

I smiled. “That’s right. The town. All Town Aren’t We?”

The kid got a puzzled expression and looked up at his dad for help. He said, “Is he a Grimsby fan?”

I laughed. “Let’s not go crazy.” I handed the marker to him. “Next time I come here, maybe it’ll be you on the end of my skills.”

“I wouldn’t let you do that to me,” he said, the cocky little prick.

“Oh, yeah? What position do you think you’ll end up playing? Number Six?”

To reply, he turned around and showed me. It came back to me then. Even though he was wearing an outfielder’s kit, he was a PA 114 goalkeeper! Just in case I didn’t get it, Jordan said, “I am Number One.”