Player Manager - A Sports Progression Fantasy - Book 1: Pre-Season 5 - Hoofing at Random
5.
4/11. I got up early and drove to Hough End. It wasn’t that far to walk but it was a little bit too far in case I was stupidly early. But even when I got there at 9 am there were people milling around getting the pitches set up. Tying nets to the goalposts. Setting up corner flags. Rummaging inside a huge bag of shirts and shorts. The rituals of Sunday League football.
I went to ask a manager-looking guy what time the games were kicking off. There were some at 10, he said, and after that he didn’t know. I popped home for a nice cuppa, and was back at five to ten. I watched the game as closely as poss. These were proper 45-minute halves, so I came out with almost 80 XP. I did lose concentration a few times, but we can gloss over that. No-one concentrates on anything 100% of the time. Also, the quality was abysmal. One of the worst games you’ve ever seen. Just loads of men with low attributes running around shouting and trying to run off their hangovers.
Mercifully, that game ended. Another team was hanging around the side of the pitch waiting to use it. Their game would start at 12:15, they told me, but the genius of going to Hough End was that there were so many games happening that I didn’t need to take a break. I shuffled across to another pitch and watched part of that, then went back to the pitch I’d started on. Doing that meant I could watch games pretty much non-stop from 10am until the final whistle on the final game at two thirty.
In total, I got 225 XP. It could have been more but the more I tried to power through, the more tired and distracted I got. Still, good haul. Really good haul, bringing me to 475 XP. Nearly halfway there, with a week to go.
***
The next few nights were a slog. The poor quality was starting to get to me, as was the sameness of all the players. There wasn’t one guy with good attributes.
Monday was all right because the game I ended up watching was pretty good. Both teams had enough half-decent players to make every attack seem dangerous and it seemed like both teams were trying to do tactics, though I couldn’t tell you what. It was pretty easy to concentrate during that one. But Tuesday I couldn’t find a good game and I ended up frustrated and going home early. Then on Wednesday there was a pretty huge thunderstorm and no games were played.
Which left me slightly stressed, because I was on 560 out of 1000 with only 4 days left. The last day was a Sunday so I assumed Hough End would be rammed with Sunday League games again, but what if the weather was bad? If I missed this deadline the chance of me ever watching enough abysmal football to get 10,000 XP (to buy Super Scout full-price) was zero. Less than zero.
I spent much of Thursday wondering why I was putting myself through this. Most of the matches were beyond dull and veering into something like torture. When a player blonked the ball at the goal and it flew so close to the sun that it nearly hit Icarus, I had to watch that player half-heartedly jog towards the ball, get it, come back to the pitch, and throw it to the goalkeeper. That’s what I was doing with my life because if I didn’t pay attention I wouldn’t get XP. When there was an injury and all the players ran to the side of the pitch to drink blue Powerade, I couldn’t have a little potter around or check my phone. I had to stare at the injured player or the referee or the stationary ball.
And why? What would I get?
I didn’t know. But I knew I’d already come this far. Surely I could summon up a little more effort? A handful of evenings?
***
Thursday night, I dragged myself to Platt Lane and watched parts of two games. 120 XP and a nice chat with the chicken wrap guy who I was getting to know a bit now that I was a regular customer.
I went into the sports hall to watch some more, and there was a bit of an upsetting incident.
Both teams were pretty thuggy. Very snide and aggressive, and the game reminded me of a simmering pot. It always seemed like it would come to the boil at any moment, but it never quite got there.
One team had a kind of super-thug running around windmilling his elbows. If you believe in-breeding causes facial defects like eyes being too close together, then this guy was your poster boy. I knew his name from the curse, but let’s call him Pitbull. The profile page told me that Pitbull was a defender, but he was playing up front. I scanned the rest of his team and they could have reorganised more efficiently. But then again, I was pretty sure the attributes I could see were based on full-size matches. After all, you didn’t really have left-backs or defensive midfielders in these smaller games. So maybe the ‘position’ attribute didn’t matter in a game like this. Right? Or should players with defensive characteristics play in defence no matter how big the game was?
By now, you might have guessed what happened. Pitbull felt me staring at him and when his team conceded a last-minute equaliser having been in the lead for most of the game, he blew his top, and I was first in line for his wrath.
With his eyes so close together, his forehead looked massive. I was sure his primary form of communication was via the medium of headbutting.
“What you looking at?”
I’m looking at your genetically malformed face, mate. “What?”
“Said, what you looking at?”
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“Oh,” I said, leaning back. I had been angled forward, watching the game so intently I strained my neck. I rubbed it while twisting. “I was trying to work out why you don’t play at the back.”
“You what?”
“Aren’t you a defender?”
“No. I’m a striker. Top scorer.”
I massaged the little muscle above my collarbone. This was worrying. If I couldn’t trust the position attribute then I couldn’t trust anything. Which would render the whole thing futile. Which meant if Polish Nick had done this to me, the whole thing was a prank. “Oh.”
Pitbull, to his huge credit, saw my confusion and calmed all the way down. He even showed a little empathy. “I used to play centre-back at school. Were you at Ducie?”
“No. Maybe I saw you once, though.” I was about to make some suggestions about how they could reorganise their team, but decided to beat a hasty retreat while my nose was still in one piece.
***
[Day 9 of 11]. Friday was brutally hot. A game started, but at half-time both teams agreed to quit. There were games in the sports hall, but I was a bit wary of going in and having another confrontation. Especially because the heat was making me fractious. Every little thing was driving me insane. Bus taking too long at one stop? Holy fuck sort it out! Shop out of cheddar? Who do I have to murder to fix your supply chain, mate?
I had a little chat with Emre, the chicken wrap guy, hoping to vent my frustration a bit, but he said it wasn’t even that hot. That wound me up because it was the hottest day in recorded history and sure, maybe it’s technically hotter in Turkey sometimes but Turkey has a fucking OCEAN and air conditioning and buildings with those Byzantine protection wall decorations that sort of keep the heat out somehow.
“There’s aircon in the hall,” he said.
“They aren’t always that keen on me watching,” I said, casting a forlorn glance at the building.
He went quiet at that. Stopped fiddling with things on his little stand. He was weighing up what to say to me and how to say it when he glanced over my shoulder and called to someone. “Beth. Got a sec?” I turned to see a woman striding past, about 20, wearing a tracksuit and carrying indoor trainers with little rubber grips on them. She was attractive enough, but she had those eyebrow things. Sort of looks like they’ve been shaved off then drawn back on in marker pen? I don’t know if that’s what happens and I don’t want to know.
“Sup Emre?”
“My best customer here wants to watch a game but he’s shy.”
“And you want me to take care of him?”
“Yes, please. But don’t get him wet and don’t feed him after midnight.”
She looked me up and down and flicked her head towards the hall. “Come on, then.” I nodded thanks at Emre and tagged along with the woman. I thought I should make polite small talk but she didn’t need any prompting; she had things she wanted to say. “It’s the first game of the season. We play 7-a-side, rolling subs. This lot are dirty but we’ll beat them. Been working on me fitness over the summer. Every time I thought about skiving and going on the razz, I thought of Chloe Kelly. How hard it’s been for her. If she can come back from an ACL I can do a few shuttle runs in the morning. God, I hope we win.”
Her way of talking was disconcerting – surely she’d just expressed confidence they’d win the game? Had I missed something? “We?”
“Duh. England?”
She thought she was playing for England? What? “What?”
“The final! Are you – Oh.” I knew that look she was giving me. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen it from someone who’d just met me. She wasn’t sure if I was ‘mentally challenged’.
I tried to smile to show her the incandescent intelligence that burned within me. “This is the first game of the season, you said. But now you’re saying it’s the final. You’ll forgive me for being confused.”
She pulled a face. “This isn’t – I’m talking about England. England vs Germany. Euro 22.” It was obvious that I didn’t know what she was talking about. Her mad eyebrows shot up with surprise. “Women’s football,” she said, but her good humour had left. To her, I was one of those trolls who always banged on about women’s football being slow and the goalkeepers being shit.
I showed her my palms. “I come in peace, sister. Hashtag not all men.”
“That’s not a very good hashtag.”
I grimaced. “Isn’t it? Sorry. I don’t do social media. I’ve only heard about it second hand. Got the wrong end of the stick maybe.”
She looked at me much like Solly the dog had done, but she came to a different conclusion. Or just gave me the benefit of the doubt. “England are in the final of the Euros. Playing Germany. It’s huge. The whole country is talking about it. You literally can’t have not heard about it.”
I had heard some podcasts talking about something with women, but that’s what the skip forward button is for. Now I wondered what I’d been missing, tried to fill in the blanks. My imagination ran wild. All the way back to 1966 in the World Cup. The men’s World Cup. “England v Germany in the final? That’s pretty… epic.”
She smiled. “At Wembley.”
“You’re fucking kidding.”
She liked that, for some reason. “No.”
“Women’s football at Wembley. The Wembley? 90,000 seat stadium Wembley? The literal home of football?”
“Yep.”
My mind started racing. So there was a game on Sunday night! If I was still short on XP after the Sunday morning games, or if they were canceled because of bad weather, maybe I could get down to London and watch this women’s football thing. If I got XP for watching malcoordinated male players hoof the ball at random all over Manchester, surely I’d get XP for watching the highest level of women’s football. The curse would have to be very misogynist to only give me credit for watching men, or mostly-male teams. How long would it take to drive to London? Three hours, was it? Four? If the kickoff was at 7pm I could watch a few hours of Hough End magic in the morning and still be at Wembley with hours to spare.
Beth was watching me go through these calculations. “What are you doing?”
I was close to blushing. “Just wondering if I could watch an early match here in Manchester and still make it to the game.”
“To the final? Are you crazy? It’s sold out.”
“90,000 tickets for women’s football sold out?” I was incredulous, which was a bad vibe. But my surprise wasn’t really along the lines of ‘but the games are shit’. It was more like ‘but when did this get so popular?’ I had just enough intelligence to realise I’d offended Beth in the microseconds before she made certain I knew she was unhappy by turning away and leaving. I would likely never see her again but I didn’t want to end on a low note. I chased after her and said, “Sorry, sorry. I’m not trying to be a dick.” She stopped and turned. “I’m just blown away. Honest. You’ve got to admit that’s mind-blowing.”
She briefly looked furious, but it passed. “Barcelona had over 90,000 twice in one month.”
“Fucking hell.”
She gave me another long look. It felt long, anyway. “How old are you?”
“22.”
“And you don’t do social media?”
“I had Facebook but I deleted it.”
“You’ve got TikTok though.”
“I don’t.” At that, she seemed to lose interest in me. She looked at her watch and started striding towards the sports hall. I tried to keep pace but fell behind. She was nearly at the doors. I had to yell. “Can I still watch?”
“It’s a free country.” The doors slammed behind her.
Not exactly a glowing invitation. But I took it. In that brief moment I wanted the XP more than I feared what lay inside.
