DoF 1.3 - Smooth [T1] (Patreon)

3.

Monday, January 15

[Image alt text: A six foot two centre back with a baby face is holding up a blue-and-white scarf on the pitch at the Deva Stadium.]

Chester FC are delighted to announce the signing of the Türkiye national team defender Ender Ciritoglu on a permanent transfer from Hoffenheim! (For maximum authenticity, pronounce it 'cheery-toe-loo'.) Please welcome Ender and his wife, Salome, into the Chester family. Ender will join first-team training tomorrow and will be available for selection against whoever we're playing on Sunday.

I hit 'send' and counted the seconds until the notification hit Brooke's phone. She was over to my left, making sure the media team were getting what they needed from Ender. After the photo shoot and a quick tour of the Deva - which would double as a progress update on what was happening inside the PetPride - he would go to our media centre and record a few interviews.

When she got to the end of my announcement, Brooke shook her head. My refusal to name Ipswich Town would not go unnoticed, and there would surely be great media interest in that particular match. After all, it was against Ipswich that I had given a pre-match speech that had led to me getting a two-game ban and had caused MD and Brooke to announce their departures from the club.

Near Brooke, Salome was smiling at her husband, being very interested in our processes. "Hey," I said.

"Hey," said Salome.

"You're watching everything like a hawk. Are you into media stuff? Do you want to hang out with our teams and find out what they get up to?"

"Really? Like a job?"

I shrugged. "I don't know about that. Hiring a player's partner could raise questions but you can work for my company. You know those Harper Splat videos?"

"They are the ones where the camera moves around the scene freely, even through objects. One moment the player is here, the next he's on the moon. It's very amazing."

"We're going to film some with Ender after this so you'll get to see the tech and how it's made. If you want to get involved in that and don't mind being paid minimum wage... Something to keep you busy. Or not, whatever. If you find something you'd like to learn more about..." I swirled my finger around. "I've told everyone they need to keep you happy. If there's ever a day I see that you're not smiling, fifty people are going to lose their jobs."

Brooke, without missing a beat on whatever she was doing, said, "Max is joking."

"Yeah, I'm probably joking," I said. "I'd probably give them a warning shot before sacking them."

Salome wasn't sure what to make of this, but Brooke said, "You dropped the G from cheery-toe-glue, I notice."

One of the agents had told me that was how to pronounce Ender's surname, but Salome had set me straight. "Never let it be said I don't take feedback on board, Brooke. I'm always striving to be a better person, as you know."

"As I know," she said, in an enigmatic tone.

I rubbed my hands together. "This is going to be so great! I can just see the giant poster. Ender's Came! Oh, that's actually gold. You can use that, Brooke. No charge. Salome, listen, there's a local delicacy I'd like you to try."

She perked up. "Yes?"

"Yes. It's called a kebab. It's... Hmm, let me think how to describe it. It's a sort of skewer. The meat is impaled on a stick and when you heat it, it gets good. Oh, but you've got to rotate it! Rotation makes it juicy. Don't ask me how! I'm not a food scientist."

Salome showed me her big, black eyes. "We have something similar in Turkey."

"No! With onions and yoghurt and so on? Wow. Small world. Sounds like I know where my next holiday will be, just as soon as the temp there dips below 30 degrees." I gave Salome a sideways hug. "Try to enjoy yourself! You will look back on this time in your life with great fondness!" I pointed, then walked solo in the direction I had indicated. "Onwards!"

***

I opened the curse's transfer news screen, which showed the names of the selling and buying clubs, the league a player was moving to, and the fee.

Ender Ciritoglu - Hoffenheim - Chester FC - Premier League - £14,000,000

Officially, the transfer fee was 14 mill, but we had paid half a mill to Ender's agent. They had initially asked for 2 million, the rapacious pricks, but I had kept my temper, told them their client was getting a pay rise (from about 30 grand a week to 40), and that if things went well, they would be able to demand another, bigger fee from his next club within six months. They did believe in their client, didn't they? It would be a shame if I had to tell Ender and Salome that their agent didn't really believe in them...

The agents backed down, of course. The worms.

I skimmed January's transfers. A few new deals had gone through since last I checked, but some of the most consequential ones had happened on January first. Jari Köngäs and Miina Timonen had come to Chester from Finland, while Marcus Wainwright had gone from Bruno's Magpies to West Didsbury. Marcus was way, way too good for the National League and he already had three goals in three games for West. They were now heavy favourites to win the National League.

I sauntered into the medical rooms at Bumpers Bank. On three treatment tables were Jenni Fairbrother (aggressive young midfielder), Poppy Lampard (PA minus 2 defender), and Cheeky Rabanne (one of our two genius Spanish midfielders). The first two had picked up minor strains when training on their own during the winter break, while Cheeky had tweaked something in yesterday's match against Everton. Nothing major, all under control, so I chatted with them and left the physios to it.

In the bigger rehab room, which seemed to have new equipment every time I came in, Physio Dean was working with Ruud Berkenbosch. The Dutchman was doing well with his recovery from an ACL. Sometimes I came to this room and did some emails and texts, just to show support while the guys were doing their brutal reconditioning exercises or Colin Beckton's experimental Decisions-based VR training. "Hey, boss," said Ruud, while Physio Dean watched carefully. In this exercise, Ruud had to stand on a step, let his body weight go onto his knee, jump down, stay low and stable. In a minute, he would have to 'cascade' down from one step to a lower one and then to the floor. It hurt my brain to watch it, knowing that Ruud's knee had literally imploded a few months earlier.

"Wassup," I said, pretending not to be alarmed every time Ruud so much as blinked. "You have been randomly chosen to give feedback. Please rate your experience of Chester's training ground setup from one to ten."

"Eight," he said.

"Eight?" I said, genuinely aghast.

"I have to make my own coffee."

"Oh, boo hoo!" I said.

He smiled. "My friend says that at Manchester United they have a fully-trained barista who works in Carrington full-time and does whatever you want."

"Hear that, Dean? United have got a fully-trained Barista to press the button on the coffee machine. Maybe we should hire an official shoelace-tier. Oh, and someone to wipe our faces with tissue when we get mucky."

"I'm staying out of this," said Dean.

"Are you still seeing that naked woman from my stag party?"

"She isn't a naked woman," said Dean. "She's a woman who is sometimes naked. But yes. It's going well."

"Please rate your relationship from one to ten."

He sighed, shook his head, tried to scowl, but then said, "TEN!"

Ruud smiled briefly, then had to focus on his next jump. As he landed, I had visions of his lower leg literally just popping off. "Yes, mate," I said, encouragingly. "Knees of steel! Ligaments of lead. Tendons of..."

Dean said, "Ten out of tendons."

That deserved applause, and got it.

Ruud pushed his hair back on either side of his head. "Amazing result at the weekend, boss. I felt euphoric at the end, positive. New players are joining, the bench looks powerful, we can compete against anyone. How is your analysis of our prospects of staying in the Prem?"

"Good," I said, slowly. "I think... The problem is that time's running out and we can't afford too many fuck-ups and there are still plenty of tough games to play. Like, in a way Liverpool are an ideal opponent for us."

"Styles make fights," said Dean.

"Yeah. We have the tools to mess them up. But Arsenal, Forest, Everton, West Ham. That's a different challenge because they play no-risk football. They'll grind us down." I hopped onto a treatment table, lay down, and put my arm under my head for support. "I went through the fixtures giving us one point for a draw, three for a win, based on how I honestly expect every match to go..."

"And?" said Dean, who was staring at me like I was a gorgeous woman about to drop her bath robe.

"I think that before kick-off on the last day of the season, away to Chelsea, we will have 38 points."

"Oh my God," said Dean, hands on his head. "That's... I would actually take that, but that whole week would be pure torture. Or do you think 38 would be enough?"

"I didn't calculate the results of every team but... I don't know. It's 50-50, I think. There might be two teams on 38 points and it would come down to goal difference. Probably a draw on the last day would do it, right? Proooooobably. The nightmare scenario is if Chelsea need to win to get into the Champions League and we need to win to stay up."

Ruud turned towards me, eyes blazing, and said, "I'll be fit for that one. I'll be ready to play."

"Hmm," I said, dropping my head to the table so he couldn't get any encouragement from me. Ruud was being an absolute maniac, training hard, working towards the goal of playing this season. I didn't want to demotivate him, but no way was I going to risk him for ten minutes in the last game of the season only for his knee to blow up again. No, he would get the slow version, the sensible version. He would start kicking balls in the summer, and his career would restart next season. "Slow is smooth, smooth is fast." I peeled myself off the table, ambled towards Ruud and said, "Do you really want to play with teammates who can't make their own coffee?"

He scoffed. "Yeah, no, maybe not."

"Dean, I'm gonna be ordering the X-ray machine soon."

"Oh, great!"

"We're getting there, lads. We're getting there." I gave the men fist bumps, and wandered out.

***

Half the women's squad, the ones who hadn't played the day before, were training on the smaller pitches. Jay Cope was monitoring, while Elin, Jude, and the delightful Simone Ashton were running small-sided skills sessions. The whole thing looked fun, and the fact that the players were so close to various building sites didn't seem to be slowing down their training boosts.

After the winter break, the women had come back with new energy, new optimism. The winter break was an escape from the Bumpers bubble, and because we were second in the league, because there had been so many newspaper articles and podcast episodes about our remarkable rise and the individual players who were tearing up the WSL, the women had spent two weeks hearing nothing but rapturous praise from friends and family.

Time to bring them back down to earth. I clenched a fist and shook it. "Run faster! Work harder! Grr!"

"Yes, Max," called back Simone.

I stationed myself next to Jay Cope and thought about my impending fatherhood. Since Christmas, I had been thinking hard about how I wanted to allocate my time. I was already stretched thin, so what could I cut?

Gibraltar was not a massive commitment. I flew over twice a year and stayed in my flat in the national stadium. Over the course of a long weekend, I saw every team and watched the majority of the young players. All I had to do was rebalance the three conspiracy squads in order to maximise our collective UEFA prize money. I had done the hard yards when it came to getting coaches in place and raising the standards. Mateo had built a ten-million-pound training camp not far away, so really the only hard part was finding players who would move to Gibraltar for six months or a year to help us progress in the various UEFA competitions.

If I thought about how many hours I put in versus how many millions of pounds I was getting each year, my hourly rate was probably on a par with Taylor Swift or Elton John. It would make no sense to give it up.

Ditto Saltney Town.

West Didsbury were on the verge of promotion to League Two. From the summer, I wouldn't need to send any of my own money - it would be totally self-sustaining, and the squad would be 80% Exit Triallists. Young lads getting a second chance after being discarded by heartless clubs. I needed to attend the three Exit Trials every year, plus visit the PFA Pre-Season camp, which featured experienced players who were out of contract. Those guys had been sensational in terms of helping my Gibraltarian teams outperform.

The Exit Trials and a couple of camp visits added up to five mornings a year that were spent helping people, and it just so happened that some of those people were incredibly talented. Guys like Banksy, Josh Owens, and Kam Kam Offiah, a winger I loved watching when I had the chance to visit West Didsbury. PA 120, blazing speed, too hot for most defenders to handle. He was approaching CA 60 and I was enjoying following his story from afar.

Would I give any of that up? No chance.

[Jay blew his whistle, yelled 'change', and the groups moved clockwise to the next drills.]

I was taking a break from managing Wales, but hoped to be back for the World Cup qualifiers and the tournament itself. That would cost me the summer of 2030 but if I knew my baby, he or she would want me to lead Wales to the quarter-finals and dump England out to spite Alan Turner, the English FA, and the entire English media ecosystem.

"How old are babies when they learn to spite?" I said.

Jay said, "Not like that, Amy, like this. Here, I'll show you." He scarpered.

That group paused while Jay talked to Amy, so Angel peeled away and came over. "Hi, boss."

"Hi, 29." That was her new shirt number. It was that or number 2, which had the benefit of being low, like a first-team player, but was associated with right-backs.

"I like the number. I'm pleased with the number. It's got a nine in it so if you're trying to wind me up by teasing me about my shirt number, it's not going to work. The girls want to know if you're going to buy this Portuguese hottie."

"I have agreed a fee with a Spanish club for a Portuguese midfielder who is objectively not a hottie. He barely even looks like a pirate! He's not very keen to come - a trope that is starting to get on my tits - but he's going to visit us on Thursday or Friday so if you could tell the ladies to keep their tongues from rolling down to the floor like in a fucking cartoon, that would be great."

Angel was smiling, eyes shining. "Do you want us to help?"

"What, by offering to oil his abs?"

Angel laughed. "No! By, like... We've got Macca and Cheeky and they're serious players. They can tell him that it's mint here, and didn't they play for Real Sociedad?"

"No," I said, "they didn't. The best thing you can do is just be normal. This guy, he needs to hear it from me straight. No tricks, no obfuscation, no random group of attractive young women walking past dressed as perfume bottles. If he doesn't want to come, that's fine. We will somehow muddle along."

She eyed me. "It sounds like you don't even want him."

"It would be a win-win transfer but he doesn't see that. I'm going to give him the pitch, see what happens. I'm not exactly writing his name on the team sheet against Ipswich, if you get me." She opened her mouth, then closed it. Crazy as it sounds, that was character development. I pointed. "You were just about to ask if I was planning to write your name on the team sheet any time soon."

"Course not," she muttered, looking away. "Wouldn't dare."

Coming back to Chester had been good for her - she had already added two points of CA since the winter break. "Next Sunday we've got London Bees, the women's team of Barnet FC - wish we had a cool name like that - and in midweek it's the Nando's quarter-final against London City. We should win both of those but I'll want to rotate and avoid injuries, because then it's Aston Villa in the WSL. Three matches in a week and the one in the middle is the most important."

"Not the WSL?"

"We're in a good spot there, aren't we? We've opened a gap to fourth, so we're looking good for Champions League football."

"We could still catch Chelsea."

"Sure. But we are the best team left in the Nando's Cup and we should go for it. Nando's plus a top-three finish in the league is an amazing debut season. I think we can do better than third and have an FA Cup run, too, but what I'm saying is, you can expect some minutes in the next week. You against the Bees, Elsa against London City, Kit against Villa. It will go something like that, and there's a motivation for you to make sure we go through in the FA Cup. The more cup matches we play, the more the schedule fills up, the more minutes you'll get." I left a beat. "Can you get back to work, please?"

As she jogged away, I tutted loudly, which made her smile.

The women's team didn't take up too much of my time. It was my choice to co-manage with Jay, which was a hack to keep my XP income ticking along. As you can guess from Angel's shirt number, the squad was choc-a-block. With the addition of Miina Timonen (and the return of Angel), we had 28 players. A few were young, a few were capped or capping and would move on next summer, but basically the squad was big enough and good enough to compete for three trophies. When we got into the Champions League next season I would be tempted to add one or two names, but it wasn't like I would have to go on a six-week tour of South and Central Europe to find those players.

Jay had come back. I said, "Is there anything you think we need?"

"Need? You mean the squad? Or gear? Coaches?"

"Anything."

He stuck his bottom lip out while he considered the question. "Nothing stands out. We might need a couple of bodies for next season."

I smiled. Great minds think alike. "I'm still gonna be around, still dipping in and out, but I feel like this particular show could run without me for a few months."

He tapped me on the arm. "You can't spell 'paternity leave' without 'leave it to Jay'. Hmm, that was terrible."

"I enjoyed it." I scanned the area and pulled up the squad list. We had a top-class goalie and an even better wonderkid. Poppy, Meghan, and Victoria Rose would be one of the best defensive trios in the world. Our midfield was stacked and Elsa Lund was an elite goalscorer. Angel would move on this summer but if she decided to stick around, she was just as lethal.

And just to make things even more unfair, Meredith Ann was rapidly moving up the list of the WSL's best players. She was already CA 114 even though I had radically cut back on how many experience points I was sending to her via the Secret Sandra perk. CA 114 was enough to make her a starter for any team in the country except for the top six. By the end of the season, she would be good enough for the fourth-best team, Man United. Next season, her growth would get another catalyst in the form of Champions League football.

She didn't need more help from me.

As it stood, Roddy Jones was getting more of my Secret Sandra XP, but from tomorrow I would switch to boosting Ender, and if I signed the Portuguese midfielder, he would need some boosts, too. So many players needed boosts that I asked the Perk Construction Kit to upgrade the Secret Sandra perk. If it was approved, I wouldn't buy it just yet, because I had to collect the four grand that would unlock Facilities.

XP balance: 3,334

That evening's only high-level fixture was being played in Brighton. It was a long, long way to go to pick up 630 XP, so I decided to be sensible. I stayed in Chester, picking up a few hundred XP by watching matches at Bumpers and our five-a-side centre. The XP went into the Secret Sandra fund, but I would get a big infusion tomorrow night when Saltney played in the Champions League.

***

Henri: Have you spoken to your SP recently?

Me: My whut?

Henri: Sports Psychologist. Alex Short. Tell him you need an urgent diagnosis for a disease called main character syndrome.

Me: Sigh. YOU should come and talk to him. Ask him about projection.

Henri: Your MCS is not life-threatening, by any means, but it is rather foolhardy. You know full well who is the main character. And fortunately, there is a simple test.

Me: Oh please, tell me about the test. I am agog.

Henri: The main character in a story usually has twins. For this reason, I am convinced that I will have twins. QED.

Me: You'll have twins... when you're babysitting for me.

***

Tuesday, January 16

New Perk Available: Secret Sandra Deluxe

Cost: 1,000 XP

Effects: Gift up to 200 XP per day per player to boost the training rate of two players. Those players will receive their usual improvement plus bonus improvement calculated according to the amount of XP gifted. 

I went down to the kitchen in our little cottage. Emma had been busy; at some point in the past couple of days, another tower of cardboard boxes had appeared in the corner of the living room. I moved one off the sofa and sat down, thinking about the latest perk. It was half the cost of the original, but that made sense, since I was paying for the privilege of burning XP to improve players faster. I would buy it one day, for sure, but not until I had cleared out all the God Save the Kings and Queens.

I opened up the Match Archive and looked through the matches of Real Sociedad. Saltney Town had lost to the Spanish team quite comprehensively, and one of their midfielders had earned a 7 out of 10 match rating. Not eye-catching in the slightest, but we hadn't forced them out of first gear. I was more interested in how he had performed against big teams. Barcelona, Real Madrid, Atletico, and the European megaclubs. He had done all right. Better than most. To me, it signalled that he had a big match temperament, was not going to be overawed if he played against big clubs every week.

Emma came in, wearing a thick, fluffy hat. "It's lovely out!" she said. "So quiet."

I said, "Do you feel like it's twins? Could it be twins?"

"Do you want twins?"

"I want twins if it annoys Henri that we have twins."

"Hmm. Great reason. Are you ready for tonight?"

"Tonight? What's tonight?"

She threw the fluffy hat at me. "The match!"

I caught the hat and spun it around on my finger. "Oh, that. Yeah, I'm ready. It's not like I'll be on the pitch and the team is set up to play in exactly one way, so... It's important but not interesting, if you know what I mean."

"I don't know what you mean, no. If we win, we get into the Champions League knockout stage. That sounds like we would make enough money to afford a bespoke baby gate for our new stairs."

"My cut is a million quid if we win, yeah. Decent."

She waved her hands. "So do you want to, I don't know, prepare?"

"Babes, I said I'm ready."

She eyed me, then relaxed. "Kay. What are our chances?"

"Fifty-fifty."

"Is Ryan Reynolds going to be there tonight?"

"I don't think so."

She looked disappointed. "Hmm. People are asking if we're signing this Portuguese hunk."

I twirled the hat some more. "Changing the subject completely, how are Gemma and Andrew getting along?"

"Why do you think I'm talking about Gemma?"

"She likes them tall, dark, and piratey."

Emma twisted her lips. "Who doesn't?"

"If this guy was a pirate, in a battle he'd stay on the deck writing soppy poetry in lower-case."

"That isn't the sledge you think it is."

I spun the hat onto the coffee table and eyed the moving boxes. "I'm already getting buyer's remorse from him. He's the player equivalent of our house. It's great, it's stylish, it's sort of exactly what we need but somehow not really, and it's way too expensive."

"It's not too late to back out, is it? You haven't even done the final pitch. Call him today so he doesn't waste his time."

I closed my eyes and brought up the guy's player profile. It showed that Chester had made a bid of 30 million pounds for him, and that two other English clubs were thinking about doing the same. I sighed. "No, if he agrees to come, we'll sign him. He'll be good, it'll all be good, it's not really about him. It's just that I scoured a database of thousands of midfielders and this is the only deal that fits what I want to do. I should have 30 options, do you know what I mean? I have to do this one to make the profit that I can roll into the next guys. And I have to beg him to come. We just smashed Liverpool, the plan is working, there should be a queue of players beating our door down."

"I thought there was."

"Good players, I meant. Not mercenaries. That's one thing about this guy - he's not a mercenary."

"No, he's a pirate," said Emma. "Yarrr."

"Thing is, he's not. I wish he was, but if he was, someone else would have bought him already. He's a good player but he doesn't have an edge. He's seen as safe and boring and that's not doing much for his career. Before the world of data, he wouldn't have made it this far. I would like him to be more swashbuckling. Gemma and her ilk... will be disappointed."

"Her ilk," said Ems, amused. "So what does that mean? You're gonna buy him and make him a more dynamic player?"

"More like I'm gonna buy him, stick an eye patch on, tell everyone he's Long John Silver."

***

UEFA Champions League Match 7 of 8: Saltney Town versus Union Berlin

The stakes were decently high for this match, though nothing so intense as the Liverpool game, which allowed me to feel quite chill about the whole thing. It also helped that Berlin had such a specific play style. I predicted they would get their philosophy to work for most of the match, but they would fuck up five or six times and the outcome would be determined by how well we exploited those opportunities.

Berlin came to The Racecourse with an average CA of 136.

We had the advantage of being able to rest as many players as we wanted for our league games, so we had almost no injuries, no fitness issues of any kind. Tockers (CA 107) was having a good winter and was catching up to Davey Barnes, who had capped at CA 121. Ludo Peeters had already caught up with Omari Naysmith - both young midfielders were on CA 103. But no-one had improved enough to displace the eleven that had played most of the league matches.

We were in our usual 4-4-1-1 formation, with everything designed to create chances for Colin Beckton to finish. Average CA 133.8.

Just a couple of points behind the Germans, and we had home advantage. Sort of. The Berliners had snapped up their initial ticket allocation in a couple of hours, so we had offered a few more, and a few more, and a few more. They had less than half the seats, but the match would have a very Berliny feel to it.

Not that I minded - any atmosphere was better than none and their money was going into my pocket, wasn't it? I didn't think the presence of away fans would affect the match all that much. Berlin always played 4-3-1-2, basically a 4-3-3, and their system was almost entirely about pressing and counter-pressing.

Well In reminded the lads of the plan, which was to be patient, draw the press, and look for counters. Super simple and we had the players to do it. "Max," he said. "Anything to add?"

I looked around the dressing room, thinking it would be really great if I said something that would boost our Morale, even if only for the first ten minutes, but what could I say that we hadn't already said twenty times in training and analytics sessions? "My favourite movie is Die Hard," I said, which triggered a surprising amount of jeers. "What?" I demanded. "It is! Shut up and listen!"

The lads settled down. Davey Barnes, the captain, said, "Go on, boss."

"My favourite movie is Die Hard because it's about a load of Germans who plan meticulously, who are ruthless, who are really good at their jobs, but it all goes to shit anyway!"

After the applause died down, Dan Badford said, "You know, one of these days I'm gonna have to watch that film."

I took big handfuls of my hair and went, "Arghhhh!"

Dan laughed. "I'm joking, boss, joking. It's the one with the boat that's out of control, yeah?"

I pointed at him, eyes blazing, then showed my finger to everyone. "This is your Casablanca in Casablanca moment, lads. You win tonight, get us into that knockout, and we'll watch Die Hard in Nakatomi Plaza."

Bertie Kornek flicked his wrist, making a cracking noise, and said, "Raaassssss!"

Omari Naysmith said, "Is it in Japan?"

"It's in L.A.," said Dan. "John McClane goes there on Christmas Eve because his wife's working there but she's using her maiden name because it's a Japanese company."

"Oh you little shit," I said.

He grinned. "Are we gonna go at Christmas, boss?"

"How would that work? You'll all be at different clubs. No, you'll go when the season's over. The summer."

Davey said, "Is this a serious offer, boss?"

"Course it is, why not?"

"It could get expensive for you."

"How much could it cost to go to L.A.? Sixty pounds?"

"Is everyone invited?"

"Yeah."

"Lucas?"

Lucas Hussain was CA 50, and while he was getting minutes in the league games, he was more of a mascot when it came to the Champions League, except for that one time I had put him on the pitch as an XP hack. "Of course. Everyone."

"Flights, hotels, renting a room, hiring the gear, Alan Rickman lookalike, it could be ten grand a person. Not everyone will be able to fit it into their schedule but you might have just talked yourself into spending 200 grand."

There was a long, heavy silence. Tony Herbert, the hulking Panamanian centre back, intoned, "That was a very expensive team talk."

I laughed. "Fuck it. Win tonight and we'll watch Die Hard in L.A."

Carl Carlile, one of my OGs from Chester, said, "Aren't you having a baby this summer?"

"Oh, shit, you're right, there's no way I'm leaving the country. Shit." How painful would it be to drop 200 grand as a special bonus? Not very. The club would get two million for the win, a straight million for getting to the next round, and a decent amount for every place we rose in the league. "I have to drop 200 grand to send you lot to watch my favourite movie..." I bit my nail in mock worry, then said, "It's a safe offer; you won't win anyway."

That caused uproar. Jeering, shouts, boos. After the guys had stormed out onto the pitch, Well In said, "Great speech, boss. The build-up, the payoff, chef's kiss."

***

The first half went exactly as our models predicted. We passed the ball around, Berlin pressed, we counter-pressed, there were turnovers aplenty, but neither team could use those brief moments of chaos to create good opportunities.

Considering that we weren't creating chances, our Match Ratings were pretty good. Tony Herbert (134/150) was on 8 out of 10 and was bullying his opponent. Nikos Iliades, the Greek midfielder, was on 7, while Dan Badford was on 8.

A thought struck me - Dan was playing too well...

No, Max, come on, that's mental. That's galaxy brain nonsense. There's no such thing as playing too well.

I walked to the far end of the technical area, decided I needed an entirely different perspective, and hopped up into the stands, where I sat next to a rando. He told me off for biting my nails.

"Good call," I said. "Thanks."

"It's tense, isn't it? Not what I would call a classic."

"I think I know how to win."

"Oh, yeah?"

"We have to play worse."

"We've tried that many times over the years here at Wrexham. Can't say I noticed it leading to wins."

"Okay but the secret is, don't be Wrexham."

He smiled. "Thought you might say something like that."

The match continued. Colin Beckton took a pass on the break but had no support so he was forced to run at goal and shoot from an unfavourable angle. Berlin countered with the next chance, a cross that went over Tony Herbert's head - the second striker should have done better with his half-volley. "Feels like there's only one goal in this one."

"Next goal wins," said my new friend.

The tension started to get to me, so I whipped my phone out and sent Henri a message. He was playing for Newport County so he wouldn't get it until full time.

Me: You love those RPG books, reshaping your character and all that. I'm going to get Ems to put points into our baby's drought-resistance. I've future-proofed my home, I'm future-proofing Chester, now we need to future-proof our child. With his new perks, he'll need 10% less water than other humans and he'll be able to use ambient heat to, like, heal quickly.

Berlin were on top, suddenly. Our midfield was struggling, so Well In moved Nikos to DM and brought our CAM back one slot. Just as I thought, Berlin didn't react by letting one of their defenders take more risks.

Me: Cold Shoulder. Cost, 1,000 XP. With this perk, your child's shoulders are always two degrees cooler than room temperature. Or the rest of his body? Not sure on the specifics. But it helps him sleep.

Just as the pressure from Berlin was reaching a peak, Dan Badford did a nimble piece of footwork to manoeuvre himself out of danger. The move earned him a round of applause from the 'home' fans and from Well In.

Me: Would you accept baldness in exchange for a permanent plus one to a main stat? I don't think you would because you would look weird without hair. I bet you have quite a bumpy head.

"Excuse me," said someone from our row, who was trying to get past. I looked up from the phone and realised the whistle had blown.

I got up, went down the stairs, and a steward opened a gate for me. "My man!" I said.

***

I let the lads decompress for a while, forced myself not to go too early. We had a rhythm, we had a routine, and there was no benefit in disrupting that.

"Okay, lads," I said, when the time was right. "Good half. We are competing against a really good team. There's not a lot of goalmouth action but it's very high-quality, you're needing to be alert, on it, make good decisions. It's tactical and technical. In cricket, they call this a test match. It's not as dramatic and spectacular as the ten-minute version but it's a test of all your skills, especially your mental ones. It's a quality meal, not just a sugar rush, and in the end it's more rewarding.

"But it'll be even more rewarding if we win, right? And I have a mad idea. No, it's not mad, it's perfectly sane. Let's call it unconventional. Is everyone ready?

"Dan, I want you to play a bit more shit."

Laughter and derision flooded the room. The Italian lads checked they had heard me correctly, then their eyebrows went on a trip to the moon. When the volume reduced, Dan said, "Play shit? Sorry, can't help you there, boss."

More jeers. Lucas Hussein stood and said, "I can play shit! Put me in!"

Another volley of cheers and jokes.

I held up my palm. "Listen now." I made some tiny adjustments to the red-and-black magnets on the tactics board, just to look in control while they were calming down. "Our plan is working. We're holding onto the ball better than most teams that play Berlin. That's good, right? If we keep going, it's about 70% likely that we'll get a draw. Again, it's a good result for a tiny club but we don't feel tiny and we don't want a draw. We need a win to get through to the playoff round. We might as well go for it today, right? Home advantage, we're evenly matched, next game's against Porto in Portugal. If I were you, I'd want to fucking go for it today, but that means taking a bit more risk."

I slid some white magnets onto the board, along with a small yellow one to represent the ball.

"When the ball's getting to Dan, they're trying to pressure him, getting ready for their scripted swarming of the full-backs and wide players. Yeah? Remember from the tapes? But then Dan is doing his fucking ballet, his fucking northern soul dance moves, his fucking Toni Kroos impression! Mate! You're too smooth! Holy fuck."

I pretended to calm myself.

"Dan's getting out of trouble and Berlin are rushing back into their structure. So we've got a stalemate, yeah?" I tapped Dan's magnet, jostled it a little lower on the board. "We need you to be a bit shit, just once or twice, because when you take a bad first touch..." I shoved loads of white magnets towards Dan and the right midfielder. "They spring their trap." I tapped the top half of the pitch. "Which is our trap against them."

"Got it," said Dan, who was enjoying the attention a little too much. "So what exactly do you want me to do?"

"Spill the sails," I said. "Bad first touch, we're under pressure, you hit a loose pass, we're scrambling backwards. Nikos will scream at you to wake the fuck up, you'll bite back, you'll stomp around with a face like a slapped arse."

Nikos said, "Unless they score from that move, in which case we are in the shit."

"Absolutely," I said. "But so what? Everyone in the room loses about 300 quid. We're staking that 300 quid to put serious money on the table."

"Plus a trip to L.A.," said Bertie Kornek.

"Exactly. Your agreed bonus plus you get to absolutely fucking rinse me in the summer and you know what? I'll be ecstatic about it. As long as you watch the fucking movie... Heh. Okay, so step one, we succumb to the pressure. Nikos lays into Dan, Dan gets sulky. Dan, show us your sulky face." Before he could change anything, I said, "Perfect."

That got a delayed laugh, but a big one.

"Okay, next step, we do it again, but although it looks out of control, we're zipping the ball around and Nikos is sneaking up the pitch while Berlin are sending more bodies forward. We get a pass up through the lines and if we play our cards right, we've got 3 against 2, maybe even 4 against 2. But this move, once Dan has fucked up and triggered the press, this move has to be so fucking smooth, guys."

Well In said, "If Dan's the fuckup and Nikos is up the pitch, who's gonna hit the ball through the press?"

I nodded - it was the most pertinent question. I took the ball magnet and moved it from Dan to the right midfield, then to our right back. I nudged white magnets towards them. I pushed the ball to Henry Dunston, then to Tony Herbert.

"Me?" said the Panamanian. He wasn't a shit footballer by any means, but his outstanding skills were his physicality, Aggression, and increasingly, his Positioning. He could pass the ball but he was almost as far from a Peter Bauer type as it was possible to get.

"You," I said. "They think you can only pass with your right foot."

"I can only pass with my right foot."

"Yeah, that's what they think."

"That's also what I think."

I grinned. "They are wrong and you are wrong." I picked up a marker and waved it towards him like it was a magic wand. "I grant you the power of left-footedness, for one pass only. This offer must be redeemed in the next half an hour." I flipped the marker up, watched it rotate, caught it. "Dan fucks up, but just about gets the ball out wide. It comes back, comes central, comes to you via Henry. You'll find yourself facing Henry, white shirts streaming towards you, and you'll be in a panic. Oh no, the only option is to pass back to Snakey! I hope he doesn't smash the ball right into the onrushing striker!" As smoothly as Dan Badford in a tutu, I pirouetted, turning 270 degrees, then mimed clipping the ball forward, left-footed. I put my hand over my eyebrows as if following a golf shot. "Oh, that's mustard," I said.

There was a brief silence, followed by Ludo Peeters saying, "This is one of the worst plans I have ever heard."

I raised my arms. "I have consulted the heavens!"

Ludo said, "Is that what you were doing when you ran out of the dugout? You tested scenarios on DOVE?"

"No, I consulted the Evans," I said. "Steve Evans. Lovely man. He told me to indulge my whims."

Ludo was torn between laughing and being genuinely pissed. "Okay, but - "

"Mate, this will work. It's all about the execution, but it will work. We only need to get lucky once."

"Yes, but it should be Nikos in the back line making that pass."

"We don't know when this move will happen, Ludo. Dan will be working from instinct, waiting for the right time. Then we need bodies in the counter when it happens. Yeah, the pass might be better when it's coming from Nikos, but Nikos can't pass to Nikos. It's one of his biggest failings as a player."

Ludo nodded, then said, "Yes but switch Davey to left back when the move is happening. His long passing is excellent. Or swap Nikos with Tony when this is going on."

I tapped my lips for a while. Tacticos like Ludo were obsessed with formations and space and exploiting quantitative advantages but they very rarely got to the second level, which was to see the strengths and weaknesses of individual players and include them in their thinking. Ludo was cut from the same cloth as Pascal. "I like that. I like that a lot. There's a risk with the Davey plan that because we play that extra pass, one of the Berliners gets back into the rest defence, and while I find the idea of Tony Herbert rampaging into the oppo's half from open play thrilling, the risk-reward is out of whack. But..." I said, closing one eye to better help me see the future, "it's something interesting for later in the match if we don't have any luck the first time. In fact," I said, nodding hard, "I'll put you in defence and send Tony up."

"Me?" said Ludo.

"Yeah. You can hit that pass, no probs. Now, if you're the last man and you fuck it up - "

"I won't fuck it up."

"If you fuck it up, you might have to take a red card. You'll miss the Porto match. How much do you believe in your idea?"

"Enough to take a red card."

I clicked my neck left and right, fought back a grin. I was getting frisky. "We get two shots at this move, lads. The Dan Plan and the Peeters Principle. When we're not putting all our chips on red, we're playing the way we did in the first half. Everything clear? Any questions? Fucking come on then."

***

Out in the tunnel, I grabbed Dan, took him aside. "Be patient," I said. "Choose the right moment. I don't care if it's the 89th minute."

He returned my gaze, unblinking, and said, "Got it."

***

The 46th minute was awful. The 47th was turgid. The 48th was frantic nonsense.

I distracted myself with thoughts of a swimming pool full to the brim with cash. That would come if we won, but what if we lost? I tormented myself with the imagined mockery of Friday's press corps, drafted some incendiary social media posts in the style of our local Conservative MP. What rhymes with fraud?

Ah, fuck that miserable waste of botox; the future was mine. I pictured Little Baby Bob Dylan, Little Baby Voltaire D'artagnan, and Little Baby Unnamed Max Best Offspring being taught how to play football by Jamie Lane-Beeks. Inspired, I ran to the touchline, waving, pointing, making tiny tweaks. Plan A was still Plan A. It wasn't mint but it was a tiny Welsh team going toe-to-toe against a German club with 72,000 members. We were the underdogs and we had to scrap for every header, every tackle, every refereeing decision. So what if we were mostly playing highly-competent, well-structured football? Didn't change the fact that this was David vs Goliath.

Snakey caught crosses, Tony Herbert won headers, Nikos set the tempo, Colin Beckton ran around under a massive LED screen that said 'MY MIDDLE NAME IS DANGER'. And Dan Badford did turns, half-turns, quarter-turns of such quality that I genuinely thought he was disobeying me, playing the game his own way, trusting in the team to create a goal.

In the 58th minute, Nikos pulled him aside and very clearly said, "What are you waiting for?"

Dan explained it to him, full of pointing that I couldn't follow. Nikos nodded, and spent the next three minutes thinking about it.

In the 61st minute, Nikos talked to Dan again, whispered in his ear. Dan nodded, gave a double thumbs up.

The skin on the back of my neck kept going haywire. Well In asked what was happening but I could only fall into his arms.

Nikos jogged around, giving instructions. Time crawled. My XP counter went up at the rate of 14 a minute.

Then Dan Badford got sloppy. He was so carefree, so casual, and everything was so easy for him that he stopped doing the basics. The ball popped off his foot and he had to lunge into a tackle to stop Berlin from breaking. A moment later he made a mess of a short pass, turned into trouble, and was bailed out by his team mates. Nikos gave him both barrels and so did I, the only difference being that I fucking meant it. I had to be restrained by Well In and some of the subs, and then Ludo reminded me that this whole thing had been my idea.

"Holy shit," I said. "The prick even fooled me!"

Ludo scoffed. "He had me going for a moment. He's far too good. Send me to warm up, boss."

I eyed him, then it clicked. Of course I would want to replace the shitty, casual Dan with someone more serious! "Put on a good show, mate."

My outburst and Ludo's aggressive warmups tricked the Berlin bench, that was for sure - they released some of the clamps on their defenders. They smelled blood!

So did the Danster.

In the 66th minute, Dan did one of his special moves, messed it up, only barely recovered. His pass to right mid was behind the guy we had on loan from Wrexham. He only barely got the ball to the right back - also on loan from Wrex - who toe-poked it to Harry Duston, formerly of Wrexham. Three guys signed by Ryan Reynolds who couldn't play simple passes? That was the most believable thing of all time.

Berlin went feral.

As the ball was rolling towards Tony Herbert, Snakey was moving away from his six-yard box, waving his arms like one of those killer jellyfish his country is so proud of. Tony lined up the back pass, then did a recreation of a video called 'How to turn a steam train around using a turntable'.

He rotated, agonisingly slowly, checked where his feet had ended up, and clipped a left-footed pass thirty yards towards Nikos. The ball arrived at an awkward height, but the Greek touched it to our Italian CAM, who dribbled forward, drew a defender, played it square to Nikos, who passed to Colin, who lined up a low shot. When the goalie was close enough, Colin checked back and passed to the CAM, who slotted home into an unguarded net.

A classic counter-attacking move. Hang it in the Louvre!

The bench went mental. Well In jumped on me, screaming, "We're going to Disneyland!"

Snakey and the defenders were bouncing around Tony Herbert. The midfielders and Colin had celebrated with the goalscorer. Dan had been stranded between the two groups, but when the second group returned to our half, Nikos slapped the back of his head. 

Slapping another human being can mean many things.

This one meant, "Christ, what a player you are."

Dan, cool as ever, tried to play it down. He let out a little smile, pushed his hair back, got ready for the kickoff. But his Morale had spiked, big time.

I had a thought: Don't buy this Portuguese player, recall Dan to Chester. 

This wasn't the time for squad-building.

"Well In," I said. "Lock this down."

***

We switched to 4-5-1, defensive, and were very cautious with our subs. Ludo got ten minutes - I told him not to do anything tricky. The target was to see out the win.

Berlin got more frantic in their search for an equaliser, leaving more and more space. In the 90th minute, they sent their goalie up for a corner, and I told three of our guys to stand on the halfway line. If we got the ball to one, we would score!

A Berliner headed the ball miles over. Snakey grabbed the nearest ball and tried to ping it downfield. One of the Berlin guys literally threw himself on the ball to stop Snakey from taking the kick quickly! It was insane, caused a lot of pushing and shoving, and added an agonising few minutes to the end of the match.

In terms of XP, great.

In terms of my blood pressure, holy shit.

96 minutes gone.

97.

Fucking 98! What the hell?

At last, the ref blew for full time, and just like that, Saltney Town had won their third match in the Champions League. Even if we lost to Porto in the last league match, we had a 99% chance of finishing in the top 24, which meant we would get two more matches. More prize money, more bonuses, and probably a full sell-out of The Racecourse.

Absolutely drenched in cash.

And what was this?

XP balance: 4,720

I had enough to buy the Facilities perk! Yeah, later. First it was party time...

***

Wednesday, January 17

I packed some summer clothes into a couple of boxes, hung out with Ruth and the Brig as they had breakfast, went to training, told Sandra I would do Friday's media appearances, took care of the day's biz, then headed to the Midlands to watch Aston Villa's Champions League match against Real Sociedad.

Sociedad had a player who fit the bill of someone I could turn around for a quick profit. His first name was Martim, he was a DM slash MC, and he was a good all-round midfielder. He was Portuguese playing in Spain, and he fit the stereotype of such players - top Passing, great Technique, exceptional tactical awareness. He had been CA 155 when Saltney had played against Sociedad, and since then he had improved to CA 158.

He was tall, was decent in the air, looked like a player who would improve most midfields in the Premier League. In fact, two Prem clubs had scouted him with such intensity they were rated as 'interested' by the curse. So why had no-one yet taken the chance on him? I had made three bids. With the first two, Sociedad had pushed back trying to insert all kinds of sell-on clauses and crap like that, so with the third I had offered 30 mill straight up, no clauses, take it or leave it. That bid had been accepted. For most Premier League clubs, 30 million was nothing. Why had no-one taken a punt?

Because every team in the Prem had had their fingers burned on such players in the past. The transfer histories of English clubs were strewn with Iberian technicians who looked amazing in Spain or Portugal but who couldn't cope with the frantic pace of the Premier League, who got bullied, who wilted under the pressure.

Martim wasn't such a player, I was sure. For one thing, I had scouted him obsessively in the Match Archive, paying close attention to his performances against big clubs and English clubs. For another thing, I knew something that other clubs didn't: his PA. It was 174, which meant he had a decent amount of improvement in him.

He was struggling, as had Chester, against Aston Villa's press and against their clever passing routines. Villa had beaten us twice this season and were one of the teams I was most hoping to avoid in the FA Cup. Martim's 6 out of 10 rating wasn't putting me off the deal, but I once again thought about sacking the whole thing off. Bring Dan back, live life on the edge.

Fun, yeah, but this Martim deal had the potential to make the club twenty million quid for six months' work...

I read the string of texts I got from Henri in the early afternoon. He didn't explain himself, but it was clear that he was watching Saltney against Berlin 'as live' and was giving me his commentary.

Henri: This is diabolical. You call this football?

Henri: Thank God for the fast-forward function. Less happens in this match than in Waiting for Godot.

Henri: The highlight of the first half was you going up into the stand to sit. Stand to Sit: The Max Best Story. No, that's terrible. This is what happens to a great mind when it is slow-cooked.

Henri: My head is not bumpy.

Henri: Hey, what's this? One of your scams, it seems! Dan must act the fool, but why?

Henri: Yes yes yes! A goal. A wonderful goal. Football has been created! Hahaaaa!

Henri: 'I can't believe you have done this.' Three wins from seven in the Champions League, when most predicted you wouldn't even gain a solitary point. There is money to be had, yes? Perhaps you will see sense and spend some of it on new wallpaper.

Me: The wallpaper is staying. I love it. The fact you don't like it shows you are not to be trusted on matters of taste. Also: good win last night.

I slipped my phone into my jacket, looked around Villa Park, where the massive new North Stand brought the stadium's capacity to over 50,000, and considered my new toy.

Buying the Facilities perk had added a single line to the 'Club Information' part of the curse - Facilities Score. For most clubs, this was rounded up or down, but my clubs were treated to a couple of decimal places. Thanks, imps!

Villa's FS was 19. Man City, Tottenham, and Leicester were on 20. (Leicester had spent 100 million on a state-of-the-art training ground, mere minutes before their owner's business had tanked. Oops.)

Chester had the lowest in the Premier League (15.88), while Saltney had the lowest in the Champions League (15.1).

Those numbers were fascinating. At first, they really bothered me, because we had worked so hard at getting things right off the pitch and some surprising clubs had similar ratings that felt undeserved. Wrexham, for example, were miles behind us when it came to the training ground. But they could host Champions League matches at their stadium and we couldn't. After some hacking around on old Soccer Supremo forums, I had decided that the Facilities Score was a single number that included items that got separated out in later versions of the game. My theory was that the old score, the one I was seeing, included things like the training ground, the academy, what swag was available to sponsors and VIPs, the quantity of parking around the stadium, and more.

I would be able to test that theory in the coming months, when the X-ray machine arrived and when the UFO was launched, but I was moderately relaxed about the role of the Facilities Score when it came to training speeds and training caps. First, Chester's players sometimes trained at Saltney, and vice versa, with the intention of tricking the curse into rating our Facilities more highly. Together we had more pitches, more gyms, more showers, more training cones, and each base had stuff the other one didn't. My instinct told me that my hack was working as intended.

Second, it made no sense that the number of burger stalls in the PetPride would affect how fast Wibbers added points in Tackling. But it did make sense that a Portuguese midfielder hoping to break into his national team's starting eleven would be more willing to join Chester when our Facilities Score was higher.

So the incentive to raise the score was there, and if all our new zones came online and didn't shift the needle to my satisfaction, well, that's why God invented credit cards.

So Facilities was in the bag. Next stop, another boost for Pascal, three more for Kit Hodges, Hybridism, Secret Sandra Deluxe, and so on and so forth...

***

The full-time whistle blew. Villa 2, Sociedad 0. Good for English football's coefficients, good for my stash.

XP balance: 1,392

***

Thursday, January 18

Emma and I hung out with Ruth and the Brig again. Ruth was getting sentimental about our impending departure even though she would be able to rent out the cottage and make a decent chunk of change.

"There's more to life than money," she said.

"Ah," I said. "You mean poetry. Here's one I wrote last night."

The Brig looked at his watches. "I have to go. Don't want to be late for my colonoscopy."

"When's that?" said Emma.

"September," said the Brig.

***

Halfway through training, Martim arrived. He was flanked by Brooke Star and Zach Green, which was an interesting sales team. A woman who had quit out of sheer exasperation with me, and a guy I had binned off to Middlesbrough.

Martim was six foot one, had stubble that turned into a scruffy goatee beard, short frizzy hair, light brown eyes that were watchful and intelligent. We were just finishing our skills drills and were getting set up for a mini-match. I was playing right-wing for the first team. The reserves were Ipswich, set up in their 4-2-3-1 system. Ipswich had a two-goal lead and had conned the ref into getting one of our players sent off. We had ten minutes to get the win.

I wandered over to the side, fistbumped Zach, politely said 'Hello' to Brooke, and offered a rare double-bump to Martim. "Thanks for coming," I said.

"My pleasure," he said, in a soft voice. The guy was an enigma, really. He sort of looked like he would be tasty in a fight, and every now and then he would get up after a tackle and push his forehead into some other guy's face, but I had never actually seen him lose his cool or do anything rash. From some angles, he looked like he would be a gruff caveman type, but from others he really did seem like he would write poetry. He gave me strong eye contact then gestured left and right, indicating our various construction projects. "It's a very nice place. Much work. Bigger and better."

"Absolutely," I said. I jerked my thumb behind me. "I have to go fuck up Ipswich now. I will score a goal in your honour."

"Oh, please," he said, amused.

I jogged to the far side of the pitch. Sandra was the referee and blew her whistle. A ten-minute counter started on the big screen, and the action was instantly fast and furious. The ball came to me, I fizzed it to Wibbers, who held off a challenge from Dumi. Wibbers played the ball into my path, and I surged towards the penalty area. I threw my shoulders to the right, as though I would rush to the byline. That sent Helge flying. I cut the ball onto my left foot and hit a crisp shot low into the far-left corner of the goal, past a pissed-off Owen Elmham. It was bad enough he had to play for Ipswich without me rolling shots past him in slow-motion.

I jogged over to Martim and looked confused. "Soz, how many goals did I say I would score in your honour?"

He looked up at the scoreboard, which now read Chester 1, Fascists 2. "Two more, I think?"

Brooke laughed. "Stop showing off, Max."

I tutted. "If I was showing off, I'd play topless."

Martim grinned, but noted that the clock was still ticking. "Time's running out."

"Yeah," I said, my face hardening as I pointed to the reserves. "For them."

Zach said, "That makes no sense." He shook his head. "Got me hyped anyway. God, I miss this place."

Yeah, so Brooke and Zach were perfect for the job. Did you really have any doubts?

***

I returned to right-wing and played how I intended to play on Sunday - fast, clean movement, simple decisions. I nutmegged Helge, sprinted away from him, chipped a cross to Foquita, watched him head the ball down and in at the front post.

We paused to watch a replay on the big screen, then watched it again with DOVE-enhanced stats and suggestions. Peter was playing next to Ender Ciritoglu and pointed something out. Ender asked a clarifying question, so Peter shouted out and Tyson ran onto the pitch with an iPad. Peter showed Ender whatever it was - probably how the Turk had been drawn towards the ball when he should have stayed put.

Thirty yards from that scene, Pascal rushed to Foquita and Wibbers to discuss how they had moved. Sandra spoke to Edgar Wilde about something. Sticky wandered onto the pitch with an iPad of his own and showed something to Owen Elmham. There was coaching going on all over the place. It was mint.

Play continued, until I saw something and asked Sandra to blow up. I jogged over to Magnus, whose profile had turned slightly red after a tackle. Not a major injury, but he would miss the Ipswich game. "Go get yourself checked out," I said, looking down at him.

He pointed to the screen. "We've got seven minutes left."

"You don't," I said, glaring. He flopped to his back, hands on his head, then held out an arm. I pulled him up, slapped him on the back. "We play with nine!" I yelled. "We have to be perfect. Let's fucking go, Chester."

***

At the end of the second scenario run, which was much harder than the first because the reserves didn't want to be shown up again, I took a moment to myself to rethink our approach to the Ipswich game now that Magnus was out.

"Sandra," I said. She came over. "We can stick to the plan. 4-5-1 first half, 3-4-3 second. I'll do the Magnus role in the second half."

"You sure? You're in top form. I'd be happier to see you play right wing the whole ninety."

"Yeah. This way gives good minutes to Willi, Ender, and Rushy. Matt needs it - his improvement has stalled a little. He needs a couple of long runs, not just ten minutes here or there. And setting up in a 5-4-1 will draw a response from Ipswich, who won't expect me to sub off two new signings at half time. Second half, they will be set up for a battle that we're no longer fighting. And I'll take the free kicks and maybe some corners. It'll be good."

"Okay."

"I'm gonna try and give us even more of a selection headache now. Where are you at with this transfer?"

"It's a lot of money, but if there's anyone I trust to spend 30 million we don't have, it's probably you."

"All right, wish me luck."

***

I showered and picked Martim up from the canteen, where some of the women's team had, by chance, bumped into him. Angel, Meghan, Macca, Cheeky, Saffron Walden, and even Elsa Lund, who was normally the most reserved, who needed to watch someone from afar for a few months before she would maybe venture closer to say 'hi'.

"Shouldn't you be preparing for your big FA Cup match?" I said.

"Shouldn't you be preparing for Ipswich?" said Meghan. "Maybe you want to re-think dropping Youngster."

"Maybe you want to rethink dropping him in the shit," I said. "Martim, let's go. Our chariot awaits."

"Where are you taking him?" said Angel.

"To the most important place in Chester," I said.

As I pulled Martim away from the scene, Angel and Meghan eyed each other.

***

In the car, Martim said, "What was that?"

"Oh, they want to meet the hot new guy. The new hot guy. The hot new new hot guy."

He scoffed. "I meant the last thing. The most important place in Chester. You said it, the women were interested, you were very pleased."

"Yeah, last time I took Ender's wife to a baby shop and I think Angel and Meghan might go there now so they can get another eyeful of your wonderful beard."

He rubbed his chin. "You don't like it?"

"Oh, it suits you. I prefer to be smooth." I glanced at him to see if the word would have any impact, but it didn't.

When we got to Fountains Roundabout, Martim leaned forward and jabbed his thumb towards a giant poster. "Liverpool do the advertising in your city. That says a lot."

"That's our poster, mate. It says, Chester FC, we put the L in Liverpool."

"Oh, hoho!" He tapped the dashboard. "Very good. You like to poke the bear. This can be trouble."

"Trouble is my middle name," I growled, which got another tiny laugh.

***

I parked the Mini, waited a moment to see if I had been followed - by a national newspaper or worse, the women's team - then rushed Martim down the street and into a large shop.

There were guitars, trumpets, keyboards, drums. Martim's smile grew wide. "Do you play?"

"I might be the best guitar player the world has ever known," I said. "But we will never find out. I have never even so much as held one. As long as I never try, I can cling onto the illusion that I might be a hidden genius."

His smile faded. "Is this a message? Have we started the date?"

I laughed. "No, mate. I'm just talking shit. It's sort of my thing. I am not the world's greatest guitarist or anything else. I'm a shit dancer, bad singer, can't play an instrument. If I ran this shop, I would ban me from coming in."

"Maybe you would come to buy something for your cousin. Or your friend."

"Shit, you're right. Okay, I'm repealing the ban."

The guy who was working the shop floor had spotted me and was hovering around, wide-eyed, very slightly bouncing. A Chester fan! That would help. "Max? Can I help you with anything?"

I peered at his name badge. "Jake, I want to wander around looking at stuff without buying anything, if that's all right."

He grinned. "Course it is!"

I nodded towards Martim. "I'm doing a transfer negotiation. Can I trust you not to tell anyone?"

"Oh... Yeah, course!"

"Top. Take a photo of us, keep it on your phone, don't show it to anyone, and if the deal goes through, you can post it and say it was your shop where the transfer was concluded. You'll get mad publicity, Jake. You'll be the hero."

"Great! Yes. Oh my God."

Martim posed with a guitar while I held a trumpet. I tried blowing into it, but succeeded only in making an awful din. Jake got a great photo out of Martim's reaction to that. Jake stared at his camera, delighted, then said, "Sorry, what's your name?"

"Martim Santana."

"And he plays just as well as his namesake. Hit us with a bit of Smooth. Or Maria Maria."

Martim shook his head. "If you brought me here to hear me play guitar like Carlos Santana, you will be very disappointed. But I can play a little." He strummed a few times, then started to pluck the strings. It sounded like Bach or one of those guys - Henri would have known exactly.

"Holy shit," I said. "That's mint. Jake, can you play Santana?"

Jake went to an electric guitar, twisted a knob, and started to fucking groove. Martim laughed. "Jake Santana!"

I blew air from my cheeks. "Jake, you're not supposed to big dog me when I'm about to start a meeting." He laughed and put the guitar down. I pointed to the ceiling, from which was coming light music. "I meant can you put Santana on the stereo, kind of thing."

"Oh, sure, I can do that."

Martim smiled at me. "Was this the plan?"

"How could I plan this? Random shop guy has hidden talent? Nah, I read everything I could about you, talked to everyone who might know you or might know someone who knows you. I didn't get much info but I did find out that you play music."

"Piano," he said.

"Oh, cool!"

There was a slightly awkward pause. He frowned a little. "Do you want to hear?"

"Do you want to play?"

Another awkward pause ended with two big smiles. He went to a keyboard and settled into position just as the music in the shop changed. Martim tapped the keys, starting simply, but as he got into the groove he added more flourishes.

When the song finished, I said, "Do you write poetry?"

He thought that question was funny. "No. Do you?"

"Yes. I consider myself to be one of the foremost poets of the age. Other opinions are available."

He got vaguely mysterious, spoke slightly more softly. "You have done something amazing here. Here and Saltney. Incredible."

I nodded. "I'm going to do my pitch now. I want to be honest with you. Completely honest. Maybe more honest than is good for me, but I think you deserve that. I am grateful for you coming here today. I mean, yeah you were in the country but still, I appreciate it. So I'll give it to you straight. Okay?"

He eyed me, and I couldn't read his expression. Was it cynicism? Mild interest? Him trying to hide the fact that he had already decided to reject Chester? "Okay."

"So, it goes like this." I stopped dead, eyed the keyboard. "Hey!" I said, grinning like a maniac. "Can you play something, one of your faves, whatevs, and when I say something you don't like, you do one of those CLANG! noises. You know, discordant, something's gone wrong, sinister."

He slammed his hands on the keys, made a sound just like the one I was imagining. "Like this?"

I laughed. "It's perfect."

He started to play one of his Bach things while shaking his head. "This is not like when I moved to Sociedad."

I tapped the keyboard. "Sociedad. Let's start there. You want to stay. They're in the Champions League, the quality of the football's good, the weather's good, life's good. You're not so far from home, not so far from the Portugal team and you could keep doing what you're doing, no problem. But you're 25 and it's time to get paaaaiiiiid."

He looked rueful. "You sound like my agent."

"I'm an agent to a defensive midfielder, too. Youngster. He's my client."

"I didn't know that."

"He's the worst client ever. Every week I say, bro, time's up, I'm sending you to Chelsea and I'm gonna use my agent fee to build an underground go-kart track and a private rollercoaster. But he refuses to leave! He's happy and he won't go. So yeah, I understand your agent very well." I smiled. "Youngster is 23 and he's still learning. And he's already earning almost as much as you, because he plays in the Premier League. We can discuss for hours which is the better league to play in but when it comes to making bank, there's no contest. You have to move now or in the summer. Okay, but where?"

Someone opened the door of the shop; I checked to see if it was any of my players hoping to perv at Martim.

"Everton and West Ham are tracking you. Those moves are completely logical. You fit the profile for those teams very well, because you can defend, hold your position, win duels, all that stuff, but you're also a progressive passer and those teams are lacking in that department. My theory is that the data guys from both clubs have been bringing your charts to meetings for fucking ages going look, it's this guy! He's right there!

"Okay, so if you want to move to the Prem, you should go straight to West Ham or Everton, right? Why would you get involved in Chester?

"Yeah, it's simple. If you go straight to Everton, the manager's gonna look at you and think 'This guy needs to toughen up'. How do I know that? Because it's January the eighteenth and no-one else has bid for you. I've seen the data that the other clubs are seeing so what we have is a conflict between the data guys and the football guys. The football guys are seeing a type of player. Portuguese midfielder, technical, good player, but with no outstanding quality. To them, you're like a second-rank tennis player. To get to the very top you need a big serve, a mad forehand, a big weapon. Do you follow me?"

"Yes."

"So they don't see anything outstanding and they think you will be one of the 95% of Portuguese midfielders who can't quite hack it in the Prem. You will get games but the first time you lose a duel that leads to a goal, the manager will bin you off, and yeah you'll have a nice contract but if you don't play you won't get appearance bonuses, win bonuses. And if the fee is 30 million quid, it's not enough where the fans will say 'hey why are you wasting our asset?' But it's different at Chester.

"One, you would be our record signing. That doesn't guarantee you get into the team, but it fucking helps. Two, I'd be looking to sell you in the summer, so that's my incentive to play you. Three, if there's one thing I'm outstanding at, it's making DMs look good. You will look very, very good in my teams. Then when I sell you to Everton or West Ham, it will be a 50 mill transfer so they will take you more seriously, and the manager won't look at you and think 'he can't do it' because you will have done it. Not just in the Premier League but against those clubs! We're playing them back to back in April and by then the Chester machine will be well and truly purring.

"So listen. We have a wage structure here and it's quite simple. No-one gets paid more than me. Easy, right? I scout, I play, I manage, I do charming press conferences. No-one gets paid more than me. But I will make an exception in your case. That's how much I believe you will be a success."

"What if I am not?"

"Then I sell you back to Sociedad for 20 mill."

For the first time, he played a false note. CLANG! "You lose 10 million."

"Yes."

"It's big money for a small club."

"On Tuesday, I said to the Saltney boys, we need a goal. To get the goal we have to take a risk. The risk is, we lose the game. The reward is to win. The reward is glory. Taking the right risk at the right time is what built this club. I have no doubts this transfer will pay off for you and for me." I pointed to Jake, the other customers, the people outside the windows. "This money is theirs. I take it seriously. I'm professional. Can it go bad? Yes." I wagged my finger at him. "But I studied your matches. Hundreds and hundreds of matches. If I told you exactly what I did, you would think I am very, very creepy."

He made his second CLANG, then laughed and said, "It's a joke."

"You are very, very consistent. 7 out of 10, 7 out of 10, 8 out of 10. Sometimes 6, sometimes 9, but overall, 7 point 5. That's solid, that's serious. But my favourite, the reason I will make you the club's record signing, is that you are misunderstood. People here think you're soft." His eyes flashed. "Yeah, they do. But I know you're not, because I've looked into how you play against Barcelona, Real Madrid, Atletico. When your teammates do 5 out of 10, you do 6. When they do 6, you do 7. You look across the pitch at the big names, the superstars, and you think, I'm as good as you. And you play that way. I fucking love your attitude, man. You're my kind of player. You've got balls. You're no fucking risk at all." I was getting hyped, and told myself to calm down.

Martim took his hands away from the keys. "Max, I like you. I really do. You're amazing, honestly amazing. My team, my coach, I thought they would laugh that Chester want to offer for me. Chester, what is this? You know? Those jokes. But they say, Max Best. Bayern Munchen, Wales, Saltney Town. Chester from the very bottom to the top. This is the greatest story. They look at me in a different way since you made your offer. Someone says, oh, so you're that good?" He laughed, darkly, shaking his head. "It is not a big favour that I do you by coming here today. You do me a favour. Everyone will say, what was it like? What was he like? I will say, so good, so interesting, he is a little bit crazy but my God can he play football."

He spluttered for a few seconds as if what I had done in training was in any way out of the ordinary.

"I will tell my friends... But I told him, Max, the Premier League, it is the big shit of football. It is a golden shit, but it is still a shit." He shook his head and started to play another tune. "I am not a poet, no, but maybe I have some soul. You are right, it is time to get paid but the Premier League? It is running and running and corners and running and headers and tackles and what is the difference if I am there or not? There is no mind, no heart, no soul. Ah, I cannot say there is no heart. There is heart, from the supporters, yes, like Aston last night. Very much noise, big heart. I enjoyed the supporters, the passion, if I did not enjoy the result. Mind? Some, because they have a Spanish head coach."

He eyed me to see if I would snap back at that. When I didn't, he continued.

"Soul? What soul? Aston is a beautiful club, a long history, but today it is expensive tickets, expensive players, the stadium is a temple not for football but for money." His fingers paused and he slumped a few inches. "I am not an angel. I will sell my soul for the right price. My fear is that my price is so low."

I waited for him to continue speaking, but he spoke through his fingers, a mournful tune. I turned slightly away. "I can't play an instrument. I'm not an audiophile. I just know what I like. I like gay bangers. I like songs that go whooh. I like Tchaikovsky's fifth and Rachmaninoff's third. Sometimes I want something harder, edgier. Massive Attack, metal, stuff that gets weird. I'm not a poet, not really. People say I have a lot of heart but I don't feel that I do." I stood, walked to get a flute from its display, sat again. "I'd love to be able to play an instrument. You see these videos sometimes, on YouTube, where it's just some dude who's unbelievably good at something. There was one guy who was shredding an accordion. One guy shredding, like, a lute, playing some heavy metal banger."

"You like shredding."

"I do. But mostly I like smoothness. People who are so good they make hard things look easy. Dancers, musicians. I can't do that with a flute but I can do it with a football. You'll watch this Ipswich match on Sunday and you'll think, yeah, that was an easy win. But let me lay it all out for you. I'll tell you the whole flow of the match, every sub I'm going to make, everything. Now, you just saw Magnus Evergreen get injured and I had to tweak the plan and if I have to tweak it again, I will, so if we end up playing industrial 4-4-2 both halves, you'll have to forgive me."

He smiled. "Things change. Not reacting is stupid." He stopped playing. "Tell me."

"Yeah, but keep playing. I'm literally falling in love with you right now."

He clicked his tongue, looked at the ceiling, muttered in Portuguese. Then he did a very minor cackle and continued playing. This tune was much more upbeat than the last one.

"Here's the plan," I said, shuffling closer, lowering my voice. "First, when I talk to the media on Friday, I'm going to mentally disintegrate the Ipswich manager. That's going to plant the seeds of his self-destruction."

"Okay."

"Then first half, we're going to do 5-4-1. I need three CBs to protect Ender in his first match because while he's a Turkish international and he's a big boy, it's hard to recover from having a shit debut. People remember shit debuts, so he's gonna get help to make sure it goes okay for him. It will look very defensive and for much of the half, it will be. But there will be periods when I unleash Willi and Cheb on the left and let Leo rampage in the middle. I will join in from right wing, or if I'm worried about counters I'll drop to right back and let Matt Rush go forward. That will be a 5-oh-5 formation, totally disguised. We will one hundred percent fuck them up."

The tune picked up pace, like when you're playing Tetris and the screen is nearly full.

"At half time there will be boos. Stadium-wide boos because the home fans will be desperate for their boys to land punches on me, but I'll be absolutely imperious. So in the break, the manager's going to ask his analysts to explain what just happened and they will show him charts and data that proves that we were doing the defensive 5-4-1 that everyone's eyes told them we were playing."

"How?"

I held up a finger. "Sorry, but that one's for Chester employees only. Trust me, the heat maps, the average positions, all that stuff, it will be unequivocal. I am fairly sure Ipswich will make changes at half time. With my press conference ringing in the manager's ears and the boos fresh in their minds, they will get more adventurous, but we will have switched to 3-4-3, and we will pick them off for the first ten, fifteen minutes until they realise we have dicked them. The last half hour will look like a training match, but not a high-class one like what you saw this morning. I'm talking a training match at a normal club, played at half speed. It will be an exercise in me giving minutes to my entire squad to prepare them for the challenges that lie ahead."

"And you'll play right wing."

"No, centre back."

CLANG! "What?"

"I'll play right wing for the first half, and I'll play it so well Ipswich will reinforce that part of the pitch. Except I won't be there in the second half. Oops. I'll be in the middle of the defence, making sure they get nothing, not even a sniff of an opportunity." I blew down the hole of the flute, and it didn't sound quite as awful as the trumpet. "You know, since I found out I would be a father, I haven't been able to concentrate in meetings, when watching TV, anything. But on the pitch, I'm alert, I'm focused. It's like my son's in goal."

"Will he be a goalkeeper, do you think?"

"That would be a good joke, wouldn't it? Or if I have twins and they're both goalies, equally good, but one gets 80 caps for England, the other gets 6. The Alan Turner of the future will have to get his digs in somehow, right? That would be one way to do it." I let my forehead slam into the keyboard and stayed there for a while. When I lifted myself up, I said, "Stay in San Sebastian, otherwise you're going to watch me have a slow-motion meltdown."

CLANG! Martim Santana turned towards me. "That's the most interesting thing you have said so far."

I sighed. "It's such a sweet deal. You get 3.1 million a year, your boss will be a floating megabrain who spends five months making you look like an essential player, you get to decide if you want to play in the Premier League in a consequence-free environment, and you get to watch the greatest living Englishman achieve new and greater heights on the pitch while his entire actual psyche collapses to dust off it. Front row seats to the greatest show in town. But look, if you don't want to come, I've got deals lined up for Kravitz, Page, Hendrix, and van Halen. So whatevs." I blew into the flute and experimented with the thingies. The buttons. The flaps.

He grinned and said, "Do you have a backup if I say no?"

"No. I need a wide forward more than I need a DM. You're basically the only midfielder I would consider signing across the whole of Europe. Anyone else, it would make more sense to bring Dan Badford back from Saltney and give him minutes. But Saltney will have three more Champions League matches so he's absolutely fine where he is. I need to be patient with him, don't rush him. No, when it comes to midfield it's you or nothing. I can play DM if it comes to it."

"You play DM, you play right-back, right-wing."

"I play where the team needs me. The point of what I'm doing is to make it so I don't have to play. We're getting close to that. Very close. The other guy I'm looking at is a wide forward. Guy who will score goals, make a big splash, increase his value. It's easier when we've got a solid base, a strong spine, which means you." I stood up. "That's my whole pitch. Think about it, watch us against Ipswich, see if it moves you in any way. Are you hungry?"

"A little."

"What are you in the mood for? Portuguese, Turkish, fish and chips...?"

"What kind of Portuguese?"

I had him! Don't ask me how, but I knew I had him. "We've got authentic. We've got chain. We've got home cooked by a woman who will kick your arse if you train shit."

Martim's stubble quivered. "Oh?"

I took my phone out and dialled Luisa. "Hey, it's Max. Yeah, I know my name comes up when I call. Yeah, I know you're busy. Yeah it's just that I've got a guy here, seven caps for Portugal, and he's got it into his head that you're the best cook in the north of England." I moved the phone two feet away from my ear, then slowly brought it back. "Top. So we'll be there in ten minutes?"

Mate, I'm telling you!

Martim was in.

***

Friday, January 19

Tractoring Detractors: Max Best Cuts Loose

by Bethany Alban. First published on her personal Substack.

It was a day like any other in the English Premier League. Transfer rumours were flying, memes were being forwarded, and managers were facing the media, defending their positions, justifying their salaries, pleading with fans to believe in them.

Out of work and out of ideas, I traipse along to the media event at 19th-placed Chester FC, expecting to hear Sandra Lane bat away question after question, answering with a smile and a wink but rarely with information.

What I get instead - what we all get - is an ambush.

In the media centre at Bumpers Bank are hacks from the major newspapers, from DigiWorld News, from Ipswich Town's fan media. I ask what people are hoping to get. News about transfers tops the list, followed by Sandra's thoughts about going to Ipswich, the club against which Max Best famously launched a pre-match tirade. The Tractor Boys sit one place above Chester in the league, a mere two points ahead. Does Sandra think Chester can overtake them?

It quickly becomes clear that Sandra Lane won't be answering any questions.

Max Best strides in straight from the gym, so out of breath, so red, one wonders how hard he pushed himself. He takes a seat, leans back, drinks vast amounts of water, demands the first question in a tone that makes it clear he wants this over with.

A journo from a right-wing newspaper can't contain his excitement. The chance to get Max Best to say something provocative! At last! The question comes out as an elongated sneer: "You're going to Ipswich on Sunday. You classified that club as right-wing, you dismissed the entire population of Suffolk as gammons, you sneered at good, hard-working English people who have done a lot more for this country than you ever have. What kind of reception do you think you'll get?"

Best guzzles on water, pushes his hands through his hair, and checks which newspaper the questioner works for. "I thought so. You love to lecture people on morality. Love to tell people that the only way to live is a life of obedience to our masters, people like your newspaper's owners. You promote a life of healthy serfdom for those good, hard-working English people but there's no morality to be found in your office. Your boss is serving 14 months for biting a guy's face off in a pub brawl."

The journo splutters, utterly astonished. It is not the done thing to mention such facts. Max Best couldn't care less. For better or for worse, he is the one Premier League manager who doesn't have to worry about his job security.

"I won't take morality lessons from a guy who was trained by Hannibal Lecter, I reckon. You know what? I didn't realise your newspaper was sending people to Chester. You might be welcome in Ipswich but I care about the well-being of my staff. What if you decide to gnaw on someone's cheek? Nah, I'd better not risk it; I have a duty of care to my employees. Maybe publish an apology to the people of Britain for the fact that your boss likes to chew on human flesh and then you can come back."

"I didn't bite anyone!"

The petulance of the response makes Best laugh uproariously. "Please sir, I haven't succumbed to the urge yet! Please let me keep my position of authority over the common people I despise, though I pretend to represent them. Ah, no, get fucked. Go on, clear off. Fuck aaaaaalllll the way off, there's a good chap. Tell your desk the next person I see from your squalid little rag around these parts will go home minus a few parts. Ta-ra."

Best hasn't changed his tone in the slightest, which is the scariest part about it. The journo hunches over, tries to become more dense, harder to shift. I panic. "Clear off, for fuck's sake! He's not joking!"

The guy decides to go. He gathers his stuff, snarls, "You'll regret this."

Best gestures to the back of the room, then to the journo. "Make sure some harm comes to him."

The guy looks behind him, nearly trips, eventually realises there isn't anyone there. Max is toying with him. "Just leave," I hiss. "Fuck’s sake!"

Best laughs at the guy. "Christ, what an arsehole. Okay, who's next?"

That should have been the end of the clickbait questions, but some people were born stupid. A guy from another right-wing paper pipes up. "Why do you treat the media like you're above us? You need us as much as you need rain for the grass or cotton for the kits."

Best gives the guy a level stare, checks the dude's name. "Let's think about your recent output, shall we? You said Spurs were in pole position to sign William Roberts. That was a lie. You said Peter Bauer had agreed a pre-contract with Bayern Munich. That was a lie. You said Chester were looking at players from Brighton, Norwich, and Blackburn. All lies. I looked through your last 20 stories and 18 of them had zero basis in truth. You seem to be a congenital liar. What is it about you that makes you want to go through the world spreading lies and misinformation? Eh?"

"That's actionable," said my bro, somehow both whiter and redder.

"Nope," said Best. "Are you going to stand up in court and say you didn't write those stories? Think about what you're saying, you dimwit. You typed them all out, cross-promoted them on your socials, even replied to people in the comments. You got up in the face of millions of people, lied to them, and stood behind your lies. Why? We can let the judge decide, but since you're considering legal action against me, maybe you should pop out before you say anything that, you know, prejudices your case."

It's hard to explain just how smug Max Best is at this moment in time. 

He bites his lip as he watches the second journo clear out. Then he takes a big swig of water, says, "Neeeext!"

A woman from DigiWorld assumes she'll be safe from Best's ire, which is quite the assumption. She gets exactly this far in her question: "Regarding the Liverpool match, Gary Neville has said - "

Best cuts her off. "No, no, no, no, no. That is juvenile. That is desperate. Let me, for the millionth time, explain why I have zero desire to engage in such trivialities. I am a football player and a football manager. I am incentivised to get goals and wins so I produce goals and wins. You, these so-called analysts, and these so-called personalities are incentivised to get clicks, so you produce outrage. I want nothing to do with it. I have nothing but contempt for how you conduct your job.

"There are brilliant journalists who work in football. There are outstanding people, amazing people, but they would never interview me because if they did, the entire time would just be me saying oh my God you saved football, you're amazing, thank you so much. None of those people are in this room and none of those people ever will be. I get the clickbait dregs, don't I? Go into your garden on a wet day, turn over a rock, see all the little creatures that live there in the crevices, and know that I have a million times more respect for the work they do than the work you do." He claps his hands, once, loudly. "Who's next?"

Max Best has barely spoken to me in months, so I have nothing to lose. "Where's Sandra Lane?"

"Doing mum stuff. Probably gone to Chester Zoo, the UK's favourite zoo, in a CFC-branded car. All the travel, none of the guilt."

"Would you describe this Ipswich game as a relegation six-pointer?"

"I would describe Ipswich as a six-pointer, yes, because when we beat them once we get three points and when we beat them twice we get six points, so yes, Ipswich are a six-point club to us."

What's the cocky bastard playing at? He has an agenda for today, that's for sure. I feel the thrill of the chase, but I know better than to rush in head-first. "One of the pillars of your tenure has been rotating goalkeepers, but you seem to have stopped doing that. Is Owen Elmham your number one now and if so, how does Marek feel about that?"

Best slaps himself on the forehead. "I knew there was something I forgot! I'd better put Marek in the team on Sunday."

"You're giving us selection news?"

"Why not? It won't affect the result."

"You're saying that whatever Ipswich do, you'll take three points from them."

"Yep."

"Tell us the entire team, then."

"Marek, Willi, Peter, Ender, Edgar, Rushy, Cheb, Jimmy, Leo, Max, Foquita."

I stare at my handwriting - the list seems off in some way. Is he playing with us? He normally holds onto his lineups for dear life. "What's the formation?"

He sighs. "That was about ten questions, Beth. Let someone else have a turn. You're so rude sometimes."

No-one speaks, which makes Best even happier. He points to the dude from Tractor Talk, the biggest Ipswich Town fan channel.

"Bro, it's just you and me now. Ask me anything."

The guy doesn't take his chance, which offends me on a professional level. This is also very clearly our gateway to whatever it is that Best has come here to achieve. I turn to the Tractor Boy and say, "You've never assaulted anyone in a bar, you don't spread false transfer rumours, and you're a fan channel. He likes you and he's not going to bite your head off."

The guy licks his lips, refuses to make eye contact with anyone, but gamely tries a question. He forgets the question mark. "You was pretty harsh on us last time. Like, we didn't ask for no politician to come to our stadium, swan about like he owned it."

"True," says Best. "I don't hold any particular ill-will towards the Ipswich fans. Some of you complained about what your CEO did, but I didn't see a lot of people handing in their season tickets or whatever. There was basically zero pushback against the club. I mean, do what you want, but as an outsider it was pretty unimpressive and the guy who arranged the whole 'Bring Your Fascist Mate to Work Day' is still in post, isn't he? He's still running the club like nothing happened. He'll be there on Sunday with his tiny little features on his big, wide face, so it falls to me to exert the punishment. It falls to me to chase this guy around, wherever he goes, making his teams lose.

"Now you might say that if he's working for a company that makes bleach I can't get to him and you'd be one hundred percent right, but so long as he's working in football, I'm gonna fuck his teams up."

"It's not his team, is it? It's ours."

"Nope. Your club belongs to a pension fund based in Arizona. You're just financing the debt or whatever the fuck. If this presser goes on long enough, someone is gonna try to trick me into doing a war of words against your manager but there's no point. He simply won't be in the job come the end of the season, so why would I bother? If he had a backbone he would have pushed back against the club he represented being used as a backdrop for some grubby politics, but he didn't, so he's not going to have enough backbone to stop me taking three points on Sunday.

"DigiWorld have put this one in the good Sunday slot thinking it will be an intriguing relegation battle, but it won't. It will be Chester dominating from start to finish, no alarms, no surprises, us smoothly moving into 18th place. He's made a big mistake, your manager. He's spent his career making friends with journos, reporters, all these guys, but when Chester FC go above Ipswich this Sunday, which we 100% will, no amount of friends can save him. All right, buddy, good chat."

Max Best stands up, chugs a load more water, wipes his mouth, and stretches.

"Ahhhh! Pity no-one asked me about transfers. I think a lot more guys will be interested in coming when we're 18th in the league, know what I mean? Oh, if you're planning to go to Suffolk, bring your mittens because it's gonna be a cold one. Okay, seeyas."

***

Sunday, January 21

On-the-whistle match report from News of the Blues, the leading news and views platform for all things Chester FC.

Author: D.Cox

Ipswich 0 Chester 3 - Frosty the Snow-Points-Man Bested by the 18th Earl of Chester

Max Best was given a frosty reception on a bitterly cold afternoon, but while pipes were exploding all over Suffolk, Chester were busy bursting bubbles.

The Tractor Boys were left bamboozled by Best's tactics in the first half. I can't pretend to understand what I witnessed, but it was very defensive until, with devastating certainty, it wasn't.

The first goal came from a rapid counter-attack in the 24th minute. The Bayern boys on the left, Willi Tillmann and Cheb Alloula, combined, overlapped, and sent in a cross that was headed clear. Almost clear, anyway. Leo Los got to it, gave it to Max Best on the right, and he lazily whipped in a cross that Foquita headed low past the keeper.

The second came soon after, when Best dribbled past two Ipswich players on the right, cut back onto his left foot, thought about shooting, but instead floated a pass into the path of Cheb, whose half-volley wasn't struck perfectly but was accurate enough to beat the goalie.

Best signalled for his players to fall back, apparently content to lock things down until half time.

(This seems an opportune moment to praise Ender Ciritoglu, who had a decent debut. He was well-protected by Peter Bauer and Edgar Wilde, but the Turkish international will be pleased with his performance.)

Upon hearing the half-time whistle, the home fans shook the stadium as they voiced their displeasure. Max Best appeared to conduct them like an orchestra leader until he was bundled away by his players.

Ipswich made three changes at half time, including the unorthodox move of bringing on a second left back. Ten seconds later, Chester also made three subs. Was it my imagination or did Best look to the nearest camera and give it a little wink? Ciritoglu was one who made way, as was the impressive Tillmann.

Chester played 3-4-3 in the second half, with Wibbers, Foquita, and Pascal Bochum terrorising Ipswich's lopsided back line. They seemed to delight in popping up where they were least expected, trying hard to lay on goals for their mates. When Foquita was bundled to the ground, all eyes looked to Max Best to take the penalty, but he let Wibbers score the goal, and that in itself told a story. Best wasn't worried by the home team in the slightest.

And why would he be? Chester's back three for the second half - Peter Bauer, Max Best himself, and Edgar Wilde - has to be one of the most elegant and unruffled ever seen by a team in 18th place.

For that is where we stand. 18th in the Premier League, one point ahead of Ipswich Town. There is still a considerable gap to 17th and safety. Time is running out, there are many difficult fixtures ahead, and we might not make it. But there is a saying: smooth seas make poor sailors. This Chester team have been buffeted by waves, the ship's captain has been tossed overboard, and we're all out of life rafts. But now, on the other side of the storm, we are fast, we are sleek, and we are making our move.

***

Henri: Where is my dry-cured black pork Pata Negra?

Me: Probably in the other cupboard. The one you're not looking in.

Henri: I asked Luisa. She said to ask Max.

Me: Okay so SOME of it is inside a Portuguese midfielder. But we ordered a replacement! It will be there soon! Why do you do regular inventories of your meats, anyway? You're like a truffle pig.

Henri: Maddening. I trust, at least, that it served its purpose. A record signing is in the works?

Me: Yep. He just sent me a text. He's coming. He said it was 2% my pitch, 2% seeing us beat Ipswich exactly as predicted, 6% the ham, 90% wanting to play for a club whose CFO is a man of such taste and distinction. Seriously, he looked at your wines, your music, your art, and he swooned. He said, 'this guy's the man I want to be. I must befriend him at once.' As always, when I needed an X-factor, I turned to you.

Henri: I don't believe you but I'm flattered anyway.

Me: Needless to say, we didn't show him your book collection.

Henri: And the real Max is back!

...

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