15.

Human being glossary: Agon. Noun. (In Manchester and other advanced civilisations.) A struggle in which the winners earn glory, mating opportunities, and fat stacks. Can be in the field of sports, rap battles, or bake-offs. Agon is the root of the words protagonist and antagonist.

***

Extract from the voluminous first draft sent to the editor of The First Footballer In Space: The Pascal Bochum Story, Volume 5

Chapter 15 - The Bottom That Was Bitten

Wednesday, April 23

If.

Not the novel about Tim Curry, but if. The conjunction meaning 'in the event that'.

If we defeated Woking by one more goal than Grimsby defeated Wealdstone, we would be the champions.

If we won back-to-back titles we would be written into the folklore of a football club that was founded in 1885.

If we were promoted to the football league, there would be pay rises, we would be regulars on TV, we would be featured in EA FC games, we would score a major kit deal, my career would skyrocket.

Unless.

The very word made my gut clench. I took an antacid before going to training and told myself it helped.

We had been informed that it would be a light session, and Sandra, Well In, and Clive led us through some attacking drills that were intended to be fun. I looked to our coaches - the A team - hoping to see they were as relaxed and confident as I wanted to be, but they showed signs of going through the same if/unless cycle.

Then the moment came. A sucker punch months in the making. I hadn't known exactly what would happen, but I knew some of Max Best's behaviour would come back to bite us on the bottom.

It happened during a drinks break. Aff checked his phone, listened to a voice message - quickly walking away from the group - and turned white. He went to Carl Carlile, spoke, and the pair went off on their own, whispering urgently. They were so intent on their conversation they didn't seem to hear the whistles or the call from Well In. Sandra allowed the pair to get on with whatever they were doing. After all, they were leaving in a few weeks and most saliently, they were model professionals. If they needed a minute to themselves, they had certainly earned one.

When they rejoined training they were in a daze.

Two key players with their heads spinning mere days before the most important match in the club's recent history. I would say my heart sank but perhaps it would be more accurate to say it flipped over on the ocean floor, for there were no more depths my anxiety could plumb.

We trained in a fitful, increasingly worried state for perhaps ten minutes, and after hitting an easy pass metres off target I found myself down on one knee, sweating profusely as though I had a fever. I hoped it was playoff fever, because that was where the team was heading, I kid you not.

And then came Max.

I heard a screech of brakes and turned to see Max poke his head around the corner of BoshCard's HQ. He popped his head back and three seconds later strolled, casual as you like, towards Bosh Bistro. He ordered his morning tea - Pete liked to bring it up to Max's office - and wandered in the direction of the back entrance. As if making a spontaneous decision, Max turned around and ambled, flip flops and all, towards pitch 3.

A completely transparent performance. Obviously Sandra had texted him to warn him of the danger and he had rushed from home.

Sandra was an amazing actress; she pretended to be surprised Max had arrived. I got to my feet and jogged close enough to hear some of their conversation.

"Awite?" said Max.

"They're quite nervous," said Sandra. "But it's good. Some sloppiness but overall they're sharp. Fit."

"Hmm," said Max. "If I was going to give a quick pep talk to someone - Aff, maybe, or Carl - who would you pick?"

She frowned. "I really have no clue."

And the Oscar goes to... Sandra Lane!

"Can you send them both, then? I'll be in my office."

"Now?"

"Yeah," he said. "I've got something for them to sign. They'll be back in five."

Sandra eyed him strangely. "You could call them. You're right here."

"I don't shout in the morning, Sandra, you know that. I wouldn't shout until six p.m. if it wasn't for Saturday kick offs." She was unimpressed so he added, in a pathetic bleat. "You're the best at shouting. Come on, don't make me."

She continued to stare during his performance, but cracked. She laughed, called the players over, and when Max, Aff, and Carl had left, Sandra, Well In, and Clive laughed and joked with each other about how lazy Max could get. Their laughter fed into the session and the next time I got the ball, my return pass was crisp and sharp.

Five minutes later, Aff and Carl returned, still shaken in some way, but with an air of determination about them.

Max Best was on the case!

My heart, having grown hesitant fins, now soared up through the waters.

Max Best was on the case. No ifs or unlesses.

When.

When we won the league, I would get a pay rise. When we won the league, my career would skyrocket.

***

Chester FC End of Season Awards Ceremony

(Transcript edited for length and clarity.)

Boggy: So once again I'd like to thank you all for coming and thanks to the Crowne Hotel for going the extra mile with the decorations and for adding vegan hotdogs to the menu at the request of one particularly fussy diner.

Audience: [Laughs.]

Boggy: If it's your first time at one of these awards dinners, yes, it's normal that we do it before the final match of the season. Usually we're 14th so there is less tension! These dinners are a time and place where fans and players can get together and show mutual appreciation; it's a much-loved institution. What we do is introduce the categories - Men's Player of the Season, Women's Goal of the Season and so on - have a little chat with the winner, and move onto the next one. We're normally finished in time for dessert but oh God what now?

Max Best: Sorry, Boggy, change of plan.

Audience: [Ear-splitting applause.] Best! Best! Best!

Boggy: You said you wouldn't come.

Max: But then I met myself from the future and I told myself I needed to come and sort this out.

Boggy: What's wrong with it?

Max: I've got twenty-five highly-strung athletes there and they've been told not to be on their phones and they've got withdrawal symptoms and it's driving them fucking bonkers. Isn't it, ladies?

Women's team: [Jeers and boos.]

Max: The men's team are here too.

Men's team: [Polite applause, one whoop.]

Max: Am I allowed to swear?

Boggy: No.

Max: Oops. So, look. Serious now. We've got a bunch of introverts and this is a social nightmare for them - me included, if I'm honest - no, don't laugh. I'm an introvert. I said don't laugh. So the new plan is I give a little speech, we race through the awards, we get stuck into dinner.

All: [Cheer.]

Max: Any player who wants to slip out at that point can do so while the rest will mingle with the fans. You don't want our lads burning up all their mental energy today instead of Saturday, do you? All right!

[Sound of a chair being scraped along the stage.]

Max: I know some of you are all stressed about Saturday and that's understandable and you'd think I would have some sympathy with you, but I don't. You are football fans and it's your job to suffer. [Nervous laughter from the fans.] Personally, I think it's pretty funny. You pay twenty quid and what do you get? Agony. There's a word for people like you. And you might be thinking oh Max, say something that puts our minds at ease!

Yeah, no. I'm fine. I'm actually loving it. I get a bit nervous now and then but that's when I think into the far future. When I think about three o'clock on Saturday all I feel is anticipation. Excitement. But it's different for me. If things are going wrong I can change them. Try a different formation, switch some players. Heh - I can even play a bit myself. I would go as far as to say I am the person with the most control over the outcome of that football match and that is a pretty sweet feeling and I love being up here on my throne popping grapes into my mouth while you guys are down there wailing and gnashing your teeth. [Paper rustles.] Item one, lord it over the fans, done, tick. [Fans laugh.]

Item two is a motivational poetry reading. [Huge laugh from Henri.] I asked a chatbot how to get you lot off the tension train and onto the excitement superhighway and it told me to read you this poem. It's called If. Pascal, you okay mate? [Clears throat.] If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you. Whoa! Is this about me? These chatbots are getting really specific. [Fans laugh.] If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, or being lied about, don’t deal in lies, or being hated, don’t give way to hating, and yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise. Right, poem's over. Don't look too good? How is that advice suitable for a footballer? Have you seen this suit? This haircut? Come on.

I tell you what, there's one bit I like. If you can fill the unforgiving ninety with fourteen kilometres' worth of distance run, yours is a Nando's, my son. [The players laugh and cheer.] I am smashing this. Don't worry, Boggy, you're still getting paid. Okay, item three. Season review.

[Sound of water being poured and a few gulps.]

Max: It's been a long old season, hasn't it? I took a while last night just sitting in the garden having a think about it all. We made some signings. Femi, Scottie, Luxury, Ridley. Was it a rule of the league that made all the names end in 'e'? Can't remember. Turned out all right though, didn't they? [Applause.] For the men we got Wes, the five young guns, and Zach. [Applause.] By the way, Zach, there's a woman here who wants to get some private time with you later, maybe here in the hotel. Brooke. Brooke, is Overprepared Grandmother here? No? Huh. Maybe I got crossed lines, Zach. Sorry, mate.

Those weren't our only signings! Don't forget William, Christian, Ziggy, Sticky, Wisey, and let's be fair, Chipper scored a few important goals. [Applause.] We gave debuts to fourteen young players. [Big applause.] We had a visit from Dieter Bauer. [Applause and whistles.] We had cup runs. The men got to the third round of the FA Cup and won the Cheshire Cup - get used to that, by the way. The boys gave Chelsea the fright of their lives in the FA Youth Cup. The women, er, tried their best. [Some laughs, some jeers, some audible scowls.]

The weather turned our pitches into bogs and we had to work around that. We went on a long unbeaten run that took us to within a whisker of the title. [Cheers.] And there was a bit of unpleasantness in there, too, wasn't there? Had to ward off an asset stripper and it got a bit heated. [Awkward silence.] Ha! I'm not here to open old wounds but I've got some news about Daddy Star and Chip. The long and short of it is that they have bought Bradford City. [Worried murmur.] Yeah, now the obvious concern for us is that they've bought two of our key players and what does that mean for Saturday? I'll tell you what it means - nothing. Because I would trust those two men with my life. [Huge applause.] They didn't know Bradford had been sold and neither did I and honestly if I had known I wouldn't have changed anything - maybe pushed for a bigger transfer fee!

It's still a good move for our players and I'm proud of them. We have to differentiate between Bradford City - awesome club - and Chip - who is Chip. I think his plan was to time the revelation to cause us maximum distress but that ain't gonna work. First because Aff's mum delayed the deal so Chip couldn't drop the bombshell before Gateshead, which might have caught me on the hop, and I have this sort of mystic sense that if Aff and Carl's deals had gone through on time, Chip would have tried to bag a bunch of other staff, too. So the delay was helpful. Thanks, Aff's mum! Second, I am slightly better connected to the world of football than people think. I found out just after Aff did. Okay now that I've prepared you, the news will break and you'll shrug.

But hang on, there's a twist. When the Stars were trying to buy Chester, they wanted to sell everything off and do a runner. I believe that and I stand by that. But they're not doing that at Bradford. I think they're going to have a go at running the club the right way. They'll spend a bit of money and get a good manager and have a fairly serious go at it. If you're the Stars it's a decent risk to take because if you could get Bradford to the Championship you'd have a huge asset on your hands. You might think oh but they're splashing the cash on new signings, that means Max got it wrong about their intentions at Chester. I didn't. They're doing this to spite me. [Max laughs.] Spite is pretty motivational. Ask the guy who sacked me from Grimsby. [Some laughs.]

Just to make sure Daddy Star does the right thing I've been on a Bradford City podcast today poking the bear. It'll be out tomorrow if you want a laugh. Every time it looks like Chip's bored of his toy I'm going to rip the piss and they'll pour money into the club, keep it afloat. Look, it's going to be strange next season because if Bradford do well - and they've got two-elevenths of an awesome side already - you're going to be a bit conflicted and that's what the Stars want.

All I'll ask is that you park those conversations until this season's over. Do you know what I mean? It'll be a long summer and there will be plenty of time for doubt and worry, if that's your thing. My thing is taking down all the National League signs in the Deva and putting up ones that say EFL. [Cheers.] Back to the fucking football league, mate! [Huge cheers.] We are your team, we are here, we need you. Oh! I did another rallying cry. It's kinda fun.

[More gulps of water.]

Max: Smell the soup! My stomach is going crazy. Let's power through these awards. I don't know who won but let's start with my one. [Fan laughter.] Men's Goal of the Season. Where's that card, where's that card? Gotcha. Drum roll. And the winner is... Hey! What the shit is this?

Boggy: Er, what's wrong, Max? The fans voted for most of these. It's the will of the people.

Max: Didn't you see me against Grimsby? Beautiful team move, carved them open, backheeled some Mariners into the reefs. It was mag-shitting-nificent.

Boggy: Let me see the card. Max! [Pause.] You won!

Max: Yeah, for a bog-standard long ranger against Crewe. That's the wrong goal! This is recency bias, plain and simple. I want my backheel put up on the screen right now. Where's my tech team?

Boggy: It wasn't bog-standard, it was sublime.

Max: Listen to my words, guys. The goal against Grimsby was an aesthetic and narrative masterpiece.

Boggy: But this one you hit really hard. [Big audience laughter.] The backheel got second place, look.

Max: [Scoffs]. Third place was William B. Roberts, also against Crewe. He shinned it! It was off his shin! [The players jeer. Max laughs.] Look, Boggy, he's mad at me. Mate, are you gonna take it out on me or on Woking? [Inaudible reply.] Oh, I just got goosebumps. Unleash Wibbers! Yeah, we could do with a couple of jammy shinners creeping in at the back post. [Players jeer louder.] Heh. Okay I'm joking, I'm joking. It was an unbelievable finish. Okay so I won. Where's my trophy? This one? Top. Okay, next award. Chester Manager of the Season. And it goes to... Sandra Lane? What the hell?

Boggy: [Laughs.] You scared me then. Just to be clear, everyone, that's not a real award. Max, some people take this really seriously.

Max: Yeah, quite right too. The ancient Greeks had a god for this stuff. Agon, God of Athletes. Our football pyramid is just like the old agonic competitions. This dinner tonight honours a tradition older than writing, mathematics, or Jackie Reaper's shell suit. I just thought maybe I would lighten the mood with a bit of silly banter, Boggy.

Boggy: Thank you, Max. I'm sure we all appreciate it.

Max: Awards are good. These players work their arses off and it's good to get recognition for that but remember, everyone. It's a team sport and individual awards don't really mean anything. Now, if you'll excuse me I'm going to clear space on a shelf to put this magnificent object next to my Manager of the Month for March, Player of the Month for April, and Manager of the Month for April awards. [Fans laugh.] Boggy, you can take over as long as you hurry it up. I smell... leek? Leek and mushroom soup, oh my God, yes. Read out the awards, applause, no chit-chat, next. Bosh.

[Fan in audience]: Max! Are we going to win?

Max: [Audibly smiling.] We're going to win. Heh. That wasn't your question though, was it? Heh.

Boggy: Max Best there, in a very cocky and positive mood. That makes one of us. The next award is Men's Save of the Season. And the winner, as voted for by the fans, is...

***

Thursday, April 24

Internal document accidentally included as part of the discovery process in a court case involving Grindhog Ltd.

From: Ken Carr

To: Board

Subject: Chester FC

I had a very strange but productive meeting with the main characters at Chester. Manager Max Best is completely delusional about his team's prospects but his finance and legal team are very switched on, very professional. The proposal is to produce an ultra-high quality kit with reduced margins for us and no margin at all for Chester. A losing proposition but one I think we should pursue. The small loss we make will gain us access to multiple stars of the future.

Chester have made a documentary about their women's team and six of eight episodes are finished. I just this minute completed a binge watch; it is a surefire hit. Their young striker, Angel, is going to be a national star and we have the chance to get her in our gear. Her agent is amenable to signing a personal sponsorship deal, but we must wait until Feb 2026 to actively use her in our promos. Two midfielders have huge potential and are almost as marketable - Kisi Yalley and Dani Smith-Smithe. A second series is planned and if we supply the kit our brand will be put in front of millions of eyeballs.

The men's team have players with potential, but of course it's impossible to say how well they will develop and there will be no documentary for them. I have seen footage of Chester's youngsters destroying their age groups and I feel safe saying that having this squad wearing our kit will be a fillip.

The real prize is the player-manager. He will either succeed in taking Chester to the Championship (unlikely) or he will move on to a huge club (virtually guaranteed). He acts as director of football, chief scout, manages, plays, and is a publicity magnet. If we give him what he wants now he could be our ticket into one of the top six clubs when one inevitably turns to him to revive their fortunes.

We will need to assign our gun designers to the project and will need to eat a small loss. There is a risk they may miss out on promotion this season but sealing the deal regardless will only boost our brand in the eyes of Best. He is said to be fiercely loyal to those who are willing to stand by him in tough times - for a pittance, that could be us. Please reply asap so I can offer head terms before their final league match and sign a full contract before Best departs to South America (where, rumour has it, he will sign two Brazilian stars. More reason to get in before Nike lay eyes on the documentary).

***

The Bantamweight Podcast, Episode 77 - Max Best Interview

- Welcome to an emergency episode of the Bantamweight podcast, your home for all things Bradford City. I'm Jimmy Lockwood and I'm joined today by Chester FC's Max Best, who got in touch about coming on the show. Max, hi.

- Awite.

- If you don't know, Max is 24 and he's the youngest director of football in, what, the world? And he's Chester's player-manager and, er, anything else?

- I own a club in Wales and I invented saying 'cuz' to mean 'cousin.'

- Some listeners may remember you as the manager who was assaulted outside the stadium by one of your own fans. You were in a bad state for a while there. How are you doing?

- Er...

- I'm sorry, that was crude. I'll cut this.

- No, it's fine. I haven't talked about it for a while. People who see me every day don't ask about it, do you know what I mean? I'm trying to think how I'm doing. Mentally all right, I think. Sometimes I get flashes of anger like if someone confronts me I might laugh it off or I might go tonto. I don't know if that's from the attack. God, it makes me sound psycho.

- I think it's understandable.

- Don't cut it. Loads of people get head injuries and it might help someone to hear that I'm not having it all my own way. As a player, I'm way off my old levels. I'd say I'm a good League Two player but I prefer to play in short bursts or I get really tired. I'm getting there but yeah, it's cost me a couple of good years. Huh. It's not like I've actually lost anything because this whole thing I'm treating as a bonus but yeah, I wonder if I'm bitter about that on some level? I need to talk to our psychologist about that. Good call, Jimmy.

- You don't have any connection to Bradford City, do you? You've sold us two players but this interview isn't about them. You won't tell me what it is about so I don't even know where to start.

- Let's do some classic podcast random banter to filter out the lightweights. Drone on for a bit then get to the good stuff.

- Well, fine. Tell us about Chester. It's got awfully spicy over there in recent weeks!

- Yeah, we're gunning for the title. It's almost a straight shoot-out between us and Grimsby. We need to gain one goal difference over them on Saturday to win the league on goals scored. It's that close it could go to the third tiebreaker. I'd never heard anything like it but apparently there was a title race in Scotland between Rangers and Celtic and they were dead level on the last day and it was whoever scored the most goals would win. Ours is almost the same.

- And are you confident?

- I mean, sort of, but football's wild, isn't it? Barnet started strongest this season and it would be poetic in a way for them to start and finish on top. Grimsby have been top for literally the entire Cambrian era. We haven't been top for a single minute of the season and if we sneak in right at the end it will be pretty funny but you don't get that 'yeah we got this' feeling from making a late charge. I'm desperate to win it, to do it, to time that late run to the back post and nod home but I can't let that mess up how I approach the game. We need to be grounded and yes, humble, to the extent someone with my jawline can be humble, otherwise the universe will absolutely bite us on the bottom.

- You were filmed recently telling Oldham fans your tactical plans for that match. Want to do the same here?

- Ha! I do need to win so I can take care of my mum financially so I'll keep a couple of details back if that's all right.

- Oh, shit, sorry, I was joking.

- No, Jimmy, it's cool. I'm just saying that I would normally blab the whole thing because it'd be funny to make Woking have to listen to a Bradford City podcast to find out my plans, right? That's my sense of humour but this time I'll pass. I'll say that Woking are a good team and we're taking it seriously. We'll keep it tight first ten. Anyone who knows me who's listening to this will be laughing now but I'm not joking. One of my coaches, Vimsy, was telling me about when England needed to score like six goals against San Marino and it was a big hype like how many are they gonna score but San Marino scored after seven seconds. Absolutely humiliating and it was because England didn't treat the match with respect.

Woking, by the way, are not San Marino. They're a good team, like I said. If we get promoted we'll play Bradford next season and you'll hear loads of shit about me but if anyone ever tells you I'm not serious about this sport, they're lying. So we'll keep things steady and earn the right to play our football. If it's still nil-nil after half an hour I'll be fine with that. As we get a grip of the match we'll sort of turn the screw and push bodies forward but if Woking come back at us we'll dial it down again. I'm prepared to be very, very patient on this one because the more they realise we're willing to grind and duel and do the nasty shit where they think they can outwork us, the more they'll lose morale because we can do what they can do but they can't do what we can do. We will get our chances - if we earn them.

- I suppose you can't tell us if our new signings will be playing.

- They'll start, yeah. They're great and they're versatile, too. Give me two or three players like that and I can switch between loads of formations. Okey-dokey we've got rid of all the guys who clicked on this podcast hoping for boxing chat - I'm best friends with Donnie Wormwood, you know - so let's get into the reason I'm here. Jimmy, let's talk hypothetically for a while. If Bradford City got bought by a rank amateur who through his ineptitude crashed this football club so hard every airbag in Bradford went off -

- Holy shit what.

- And the club was put into administration and you were close to the wall, how would you feel if I nipped in and bought some of your players on the cheap? I'm talking a guy who's worth half a million and I snap him up for fifty K. Like, are you happy that I did it because I sort of saved the club, or are you mad at me for taking advantage?

- What's happening? Do you know something?

- Jimmy, try to focus. You're up shit creek and I'm offering you a paddle but I'm emptying your pockets as I let you on my boat. Are we still friends?

- Who is it? Mike Ashley? No, you said amateur. Oh, my God, I'm stressed.

- You can breathe. It's probably fine.

- Probably?

- Are you sending a text? That's bad content.

- Wait. Did the new owners sign off on Aff and Carlile?

- Yes.

- So they've got good taste. You said so yourself.

- Ha. I mean, yeah. As long as he copies what I do, he'll be fine. It's when he gets cocky and goes off on his own, that's when it will turn to shit.

- Who?

- Ah, you nearly got me. Look, I just want to say that I like Bradford City - I used to play as you on Soccer Supremo.

- A lot of people are doing Chester saves trying to do better than you.

- Oh, doing better than me is easy, so I've heard. [Laughs.] Okay, I think that's it. I just wanted to get in touch and sort of make friends with you lot before everything kicks off. When you fall out with the new owners, invite me back on so I can wind them up. It's something of a hobby.

- I'm gonna be hitting Google pretty hard after you hang up.

- Well, don't do it too hard or you'll go blind. Jimmy, good chat.

- Oh, wait. We don't know much about Aff and Carlile. You've been their manager for...

- Two years. You want the hot goss on them?

- Have you got time?

- Yeah, totally. Love to. Check this out. Aff, 28, can play anywhere on the left. We've had him left mid, left back, left wing back, left wing, and we've even tried him...

[Best spends six minutes dissecting the players. By the end, the level of detail is so high only professional analysts can hear him.]

***

Friday, April 25

Beth: Max, please can we do an interview? Please? I know your feelings about my employer but I've been promoting the shit out of this title race. Normally tier five would get two inches at most but I've been doing longer and longer stuff and now I need something killer for tomorrow morning. They're giving me a big interview slot if I can get you, and they're letting me do an on-the-whistle and a long read. Please? It's for the good of football! The pyramid. The things you care about!

Me: I already said yes.

Beth: When?

Me: When you said can we do an interview. The rest to me was just waaaaa. I'm eating a tartlet. Call me in fifteen minutes.

***

Dieter Bauer: I do not remember being so nervous about a football match for a club I never played for or managed. Are you confident?

Me: Yes. Billion percent. As we say in Manchester, Tut mir leid, ich kann das gerade nicht übersetzen.

Dieter Bauer: You English are so strange but I love it. Zeig mir deinen furchtlosen Fußball, Max!

Me: One fearless football coming right up!

***

Me: Jackie, would you like to come down to Woking with us? Sit on the bench maybe?

Jackie: Need your old mentor to hold your hand, Max? I thought you'd evolved past the likes of little old me.

Me: I want to rub your head for luck before kick off.

Jackie: [Bald head emoji.] I'll be there.

Me: Thanks. I mean... Just, yeah. Thanks.

***

Saturday, April 26

Match 46. Woking away.

Just another day. Just another match. Our CA 67.9 against Woking's CA 63.

We got on the team bus - the last before we upgraded to StealthBoy, the new name for the DopeMobile - and settled into our usual routines. Absolutely normal. Was there a hint of extra tension in the air? A stiffness in the arms of the players as they laid down their playing cards?

No. I just said it was a normal day. Try to pay attention.

One thing that was different was that we had booked a second bus and stuffed the women's team, Jackie Reaper, Ruth, the Brig, and the documentary crew onto it. Woking were being very generous, letting us have a big section of the main stand for our women and reserve players, our admin staff, and our sponsors. It was a sporting decision - they knew days like these didn't come around very often and it helped that we'd sold out our allocation for the away end and that our fans had bought thousands of tickets in the home sections.

Woking were going to make bank, and we were going to make history.

My stomach made an uneasy growling sound but that was because of some late-night cheese and nothing to do with nerves.

***

Extract from Beth's long read article on the title decider, which was published later that night.

The Agony and the Ecstasy

by B. Alban

[The article starts with a tortured analogy relating to Michelangelo and the Sistine Chapel. It sets the scene and the stakes, has a bit about Grimsby and Barnet, blah blah blah. We can skip to the good bit.]

Best was unusually talkative and agreed to give me enough material for two articles, one to be published in the aftermath. Perhaps it was the surprise - Best normally feeds the media scraps or approaches them with a Scrappy-Doo 'I'll fight you' energy - or perhaps it was his unexpected aura of tranquillity, but I made a spectacular blunder.

"If you don't mind," I said, "I'd love to know your plans for the match. It'll help me write the on-the-whistle match report faster if I know what you were trying to achieve."

"Yeah," he replied. "You know I would normally but this one's too big. This one's for all the marbles. I could write it out and email it to you with like 70 minutes gone."

"Or you could embargo it." That, dear reader, was the mistake.

"I'm not an oil tanker. What are you talking about?"

"You can do an interview and have an embargo section. That's where journalists agree not to release those quotes or use that info until a certain time. Premier League clubs do it all the time. Have you never wondered why at midday, four newspapers suddenly all have virtually identical articles based on the same quote?"

"I thought they were copying each other."

"No, they were at an embargoed interview or they got together and agreed to embargo the quotes so they could drag the story out. We don't get much access, you know, compared to American sports. We survive on scraps."

"How does it work? Is it like on the record off the record?" In my last big encounter with Best he had recently discovered the phrase off the record and he childishly tormented me with it for days.

With a sinking feeling, I realised I had created a monster. "Something like that, yeah."

He laughed. "Okay, here's what I'm going to do. Embargo! Woking will do 4-4-2 so we'll do 4-1-4-1 to start with. End embargo!"

"Oh, my God. Please don't do this."

"Embargo until I next blink. 4-1-4-1 will stop Woking getting into the game and we'll get control of - shit did I blink or was that a twitch?"

"I won't print the tactics stuff pre-game, okay?"

"Still in the embargo here. We'll get control of midfield and Youngster will be in his best position. He's going to absolutely boss the game. First twenty minutes we won't attack in numbers. We'll probe but one full back at a time at most.

"Embargo continues. What I want is to see where the Woking lads are at. I'm expecting them to be right up for it because they'll be on TV and they're looking after their own careers if they play hard. Someone might watch and say 'hey look at that lad, nothing to play for but pride and he's giving it his all'. For all I know, the Woking lads will be trying to impress me! I wish they wouldn't, but that's the kind of player you get at this level. I don't see a lot of guys who play like they're already on the beach. I see warriors. Guys who play every game like it's their last and it's like if they don't run like a whirlwind for ninety minutes they ain't gonna be able to pay their mortgage. So it's going to be an absolute bastard of a match and we can't come with 3-4-3 or some Fancy Dan stuff. We've got to battle and you'll see us get more expansive through the match."

"What happened to attack until you drop?"

"It's still there. Fearless football, attacking football, it doesn't mean stupid football. If we're leaving gaps at the back in a reckless drive forward, we're going to get done. 3-0 becomes 3-1 and we've got to score two goals to get to where we were going. No, keeping a clean sheet is imperative. If I see my guys are being silly in the warm up, thinking it's gonna be an easy match, I'll go men behind ball for ten minutes. Shock the blinkers into waking the blink up. Er, embargo."

"Could you stop swearing? I can't use that in the paper."

"I didn't even swear! What else do you want to know?"

"Can you tell me your lineup and what you'll do when 4-1-4-1 has done its job?"

"Beth? Listen carefully. I'm putting on my embargo shorts now." Best moved his laptop and went to the back of the room so that I could see his whole body. He mimed stepping into a pair of shorts, pulling them up, struggling with the buttons, fastening the belt, and tapping the pockets to check if he had his keys, wallet, and phone. It was deeply annoying but unfortunately I was too busy laughing to tell him so. He came back to the camera, very pleased with himself. "Ben Cavanagh in goal. My first choice back four: Eddie Moore, Christian Fierce, Zach Green, Carl Carlile."

"You're not worried that he works for Chip Star now?"

"No. Most of this side was here last year and they have the chance to become back-to-back champions. Non-league legends. There's an article title for you, Beth. Non-league of Legends! The lads had a tiny head wobble when they discovered who their new owners were, but we dealt with it. It's moronic for Star to think I somehow won't notice one of my players is having a bad time. I might not be able to help with family drama or a sick relative but this was a pure football issue. Carl's head is all the way back where it needs to be, and the same with Aff. Honestly if you're looking for an angle there you're miles off. Drop it."

"Not looking for an angle, Max. Just asking."

"Midfield's Aff. Dramatic pause for stupid questions."

"No questions."

"Aff, Ryan Jack, Andrew Harrison, Pascal."

"Andrew instead of James Wise?"

"Yeah, they're similar players but Andrew has that middle-distance runner thing. He'll lead the running charts and basically not get tired and he can play on the right, too. Wisey has more experience but Andrew gives me more flexibility and lets me get more creative with my bench. Wisey's gutted but I had a long talk with him and he understands. He doesn't like it but he understands and he's gonna be there at half time giving Andrew a pep talk and some tips."

"Henri up top?"

"Yes."

"Subs?"

"Sticky, obvs. Need a goalie. That leaves me four outfielders, which just isn't enough. Can't wait to get promoted and have seven subs, Beth. I'll be able to get up to all sorts of mischief."

"I bet."

"Magnus Evergreen's our defensive cover. That means no Glenn Ryder, no backup left backs. Magnus can cover both but more realistically if something happens to Eddie I'll move Aff back and switch Pascal to left mid. I've also got Sharky and Wibbers to come on in the last half hour and hopefully cause mayhem. Then me. I could do left back, centre back, whatever, if we get multiple injuries, but I want to be in a forward position. It should be my last match in non-league and I want to enjoy it. What else? You know from 4-1-4-1 we can switch around pretty easily. 4-4-1-1 with Pascal behind Henri. That looked good recently, but Andrew on the right and Youngster as a CM is a bit weaker than in their starting roles. If Woking are looking strong at the sides we can blast them with 4-3-3."

"Aff as a third striker?"

"Right."

"You've used him in almost every position on the pitch. You'll miss him when he's gone."

Best smiled. "I miss him already. No, that's terrible. Embargo that forever. Yeah but I think we'll finish the ninety in some sort of 4-2-3-1 shape. That's the evolution from 4-1-4-1, isn't it? I think that's what I love about the plan, actually. It's sort of an encapsulation of what the whole season has been about. 4-1-4-1 was the best version of us last season and it's helped us survive this term but against these defences with the players we've got it has sometimes looked toothless. 4-2-3-1 is really solid."

"Two DMs."

"Yeah. But four guys in forward positions."

"Teeth."

"And claws. That's what I've been trying to do this year and it's satisfying to think we can sort of reprise the whole season in one fluid ninety minutes."

"I like it."

"Yeah, it's good," said Best, deep in thought. He snapped out of it. "Use that in your article. It's good stuff. Take this conversation, put your own spin on it, weave it into your tapestry. Don't just type it out verbatim."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

***

Descriptions of the action and commentary taken from DigiWorldHD+, which decided to cut between the Grimsby, Chester, and Barnet matches. This editorial choice, while successful in building the hype and ratcheting up the tension, led to one incredibly satisfying nutmeg not being broadcast live. For shame.

If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

[Introduction montage. Ride of the Valkyries blasts as key figures from Grimsby and Barnet do things in slow motion and in black and white. After 40 seconds a record needle skips and a new song plays. It's about 2:45 into Red Socks Pugie by Foals, the bit where the piece swells and accelerates. The footage turns to colour and it's all Chester stuff. Thunderous tackles, long-range thunderbastards, frenzied celebrations, Max Best doing close-control madnesses. As the music fades down, we get a blank screen. A scowling black-and-white Danny Grant slides up the left half. Barnet's star signing Larry Goldings, also black-and-white, takes up the right. A colourful montage of Best, Pascal, and Henri joyously laughing together is slammed down front and centre. Giant, chunky text slams down above them. DECISION DAY.]

Studio host: Welcome! To DigiWorldHD+! For this epic title decider! Boy, have we got a show for you!

***

Transcript from Seals Live

Boggy: Ghastly tension already as we near kick off. Woking look resplendent in their red and white halves. Chester in blue with thin white stripes. Do they look like champions? Huge numbers of Chester fans in the Kingsfield stadium. Some are there in the hideous away end that abuts an indoor tennis centre. The rest of the stadium is more charming and there are sections where it's all Chester. No segregation going on - I hope that doesn't bite us on the bum. If the away fans are feeling like me they will be in no mood for aggravation. Like me they simply want this ordeal to be over. This delicious, gruesome agony must end today.

Final checks from the referee and we're off! I - [gags] - sorry. [Sound of water bottle being opened, some swigs.] That's going to happen. Sorry about that.

***

2'

DigiWorld

Matt: And we're hearing there has already been a goal at The Hive!

[We cut from the Grimsby match to Barnet. Amber and black shirts are streaming towards the left of the pitch. Lime blue shirts seem to be outnumbered. The ball is played out wide. An amber shirt takes a touch, crosses left-footed, it's side-footed into the net. The score changes to Barnet 1 Ebbsfleet 0. We see wild celebrations from the home fans - Barnet are level on points with their rivals!]

Matt: The perfect start for Barnet and the perfect start for neutral fans!

Ally: That's unreal. Look at the 'as it stands' table! Three teams on 92 points. Wow.

Matt: News of that goal is filtering around Grosvenor Vale where Wealdstone host Grimsby Town. Some worried faces out there. What are you seeing on the pitch, Ally?

Ally: Looks like Wealdstone are man-marking Danny Grant, like everyone does these days. But they have two midfielders on the case and they are rotating. That's smart. Man-marking can be tedious and mentally exhausting. If that's what they're doing, it's a good call.

Matt: A good call from Max Best?

Ally: You think he's been on the blower to Wealdstone?

Matt: Would it surprise you?

Ally: Haha, no.

***

4'

Pascal

We started like crap. Total crap. Two minutes of scuffed passes, being beaten to the ball, chipping passes straight into touch. We passed back to Ben more times in those two minutes than in some entire halves. Twice he booted the ball long towards me, in defiance of all logic and the manager's strictest instructions.

A murmur went around the stadium. Had Grimsby scored? It felt like it. That, plus the way we were playing, was a bad combination. We were sinking. That's when Max threw a rope.

Not long after the buzz from what we thought was Grimsby's goal, there was a much bigger buzz from behind the dugouts. The strange-looking stand was full of Chester employees and fans and they were on their feet cheering and stamping as someone made their way out of the tunnel and into the away dugout.

A fake Jackie Reaper!

Just like the old days. Max Best up to his tricks. Youngster grinned at me; I smiled back. We got to work.

***

5'

Max

Things were going fine. I was saving Seal It Up until the last quarter of an hour so that we could attack more recklessly if needed, and that seemed like the best time to use Cupid's Arrow, too. April Fuels would give us a slight energy kick in the second half, but what I would have given to have Triple Captain and Bench Boost available for this one!

Thinking about it, I was happy enough to have used my once-per-season perks against Grimsby early in the campaign. That win gave the players and fans a lot of hope in the dark early months.

Yeah, I had managed the season quite well. It hadn't been flawless but I'd used my tactical skills to turn some defeats into draws and some draws into wins. I had added a ton of value to the squad. And the proof was in the pudding - we were right here on the final day of the season, in with a shot.

I'd done a decent job in the past week, too. It became clear to me after we beat Southend that my main job was to project an unflappable air of confidence. I was cocky at the end-of-season awards, I joked around in training, and I was so generally upbeat that everything I did took on the aspect of a jape. When Jackie Reaper finally arrived at the dugout after schmoozing the Weavers, the Yalleys, our sponsors, and basically every single person in Woking, the team's morale shot up. We started putting more than three passes together. We grew taller. Why? I have absolutely no clue.

I'd checked that Sandra was okay with him being there, of course. But my thinking was we had top talents at the club and everyone had a part to play, whether that meant Clive and Ray popping down to do a spot of coaching, bringing every single physio who wasn't nailed down, or getting Jackie's insight into how the match was going. All hands on deck.

The man himself looked around and sighed, happily. He glanced at the home dugout. "If I had to guess, Max, I'd say you wanted me to stand close to them lot and act the maggot."

I smiled. That had been my role - self-appointed - when I'd first stood on the touchline in a professional match. "No, mate. Your job is to look handsome and you're absolutely smashing it."

Jackie smiled from ear to ear.

***

6'

DigiWorld

Matt: Action in Woking!

[Cut to: A Woking player hitting a ball from deep. Christian Fierce heads it away but only to a Woking player. He launches it into the box. Ben punches clear but it lands near a winger. He controls and tries to lob the rapidly-retreating Ben. It sails over and wide but the camera cuts to some Chester fans who are in absolute agony. You don't need to be a lip-reader to see what he's saying: I'm going to be sick.]

7'

Matt: Grant evades his marker. Plays it wide to Amadi-Spokes, in for the injured Conor Quinn, of course. Terrible pass. Wealdstone can break! Windmill is the cover, but he is beaten for pace. He grabs the striker's shirt - he has to be careful or he'll get a red card! Wealdstone through on goal... wide! He put it wide. Chrichlow did well to narrow the angle. Oh, my!

Ally: Big moment, that. You start to feel that the luck's going Grimsby's way.

8'

Matt: Penalty shout at Woking!

[Cut to a camera pointing up at the sky and jerkily being repositioned. Cut back to the Grimsby match.]

Matt: We'll try to get that footage sorted as soon as possible. Pascal Bochum broke into the box and... I can tell you... I'm hearing... No penalty! Repeat. No penalty.

9'

Matt: Yellow card at Barnet! Shot off target at Woking! Here come Grimsby. Shot... saved! The keeper made it look easy.

Ally: This is going to kill me.

***

10'

Seals Live

Boggy: This match has calmed down after a frantic start. On the pitch, anyway. Off the pitch people are biting their nails. There's one gentleman over there in a Chester top who has turned away from the pitch. He has travelled down from Chester, bought a ticket, but he can't bear to look at the action. Every couple of minutes there are cheers as scores come in from the other fixtures, but they seem to be fake news. The only goal so far has been at Barnet. As it stands, Chester are still second but there's a long way to go.

19'

DigiWorld

Matt: There has been a goal at Barnet!

[Corner kick to Barnet. They gather their beefy boys around the Ebbsfleet goalie. The delivery from the corner is world-class and a big slabby forehead appears to power it down and into the goal.]

Matt: Barnet on the march! Two-nil! The as-it-stands table looks like this. Three teams on 92 points. Grimsby top with a goal difference of plus 41. Chester behind on 40. Barnet closing in with 39! Two goals behind. But their goals scored and head-to-head with Grimsby is inferior. They need three more goals to go to the top.

Ally: They look in the mood for it, though.

Matt: I'm hearing we're going to be staying with the feed from Barnet's Hive Stadium.

***

30'

Beth

We were one-third of the way through but we had only suffered one-tenth of the agony. Some faces in the stands were carved from stone, some were as wobbly as jelly. The most relaxed man in three stadiums seemed to be Max Best - he gave an impromptu boxing lesson to his old friend Jackie Reaper, he posed for selfies, he played Charades with a Woking fan (book, five words, The Unbearable Lightness of Being). To many, it seemed overly arrogant, but I was struck watching Chester's bench by how little communication there was between the coaching staff and the players. Chester had worn their formation many times before and it fit like a glove. No need for adjustments. Best's role was to transmit confidence and he did it in spades.

***

38'

Boggy: If you're just joining us, it's still Woking nil, Chester nil, but we aren't worried about that, are we? We've decided to have a pleasant Saturday afternoon chat about superstitions. Don Boy in the chat says on match days he always touches everything four times. Once with his left hand, twice with his right, and once more with his left to balance things out. Sally in Upton says when she used to play hockey she always put her right sock on first. Nelson in Maltby says when he goes to Japan he makes sure never to sleep on the fourth floor because the number four is considered bad luck. He adds: but I've never been to Japan. Still, Nelson, better to be safe than sorry. Moonman21 says please can I get back to describing the football? I'm sorry, Moonman, but I can't. You see every time I - oh, Woking are on the attack. Cross comes in! Headed clear by Zach Green. [He gags.] Excuse me a minute.

42'

Boggy: And we're back! Quite the strangest thing. Magnus Evergreen came up to the media centre here in Woking and he calmed me all the way down! I feel simply splendid. And he gave me a piece of paper. It's from Max! What's this? Woking 43, Chester 57. I'd take that as a final score! Oh! Must be possession. Ah! It's the match stats. We've had 4 shots on target to Woking's 1. 7 shots off target to Woking's 3. Huh. When you put it like that, it has been quite a good performance. Doesn't help with the goal difference but - uh oh... no, I'm fine. And Chester with a couple of quick passes! Green to Ryan Jack, first time to Lyons, first time layoff to Bochum! He's fast, he gets there, he fizzes the ball across goal! Bundled out for a corner.

Wow! Chester with the best move of the match so far. Woking were carved open. That's much better! Chester's attacking threat is growing. Still nil-nil for Grimsby. Barnet two-up. Here comes the corner. Oh, but Aff underhit it, straight to the first defender. Some nerves there. Um... I need to do my breathing exercises. In 7, out 4. Or is it the other way around?

45'

Half time

Matt: Wow. Three absolute nailbiters. Still anyone's game. The National League well and truly up for grabs! How are your nerves at home? [He chuckles.] We'll be back after this quick break. Don't go anywhere.

***

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***

Pascal

The dressing room was packed - so many physios, Jackie Reaper (not a fake after all!), players like Glenn and Wisey who weren't in the squad - but it felt cosy, not crowded. We went through the normal phase of contemplation, but it was not so quiet as was typical. Glenn was bending in front of Christian and Zach, giving his outside perspective, which was very welcome I'm sure. Wisey was squashed in beside Andrew Harrison, not saying much but patting him on the back.

Perfect. Perfect process with perfect people. If only we had a few more weeks to gel we would truly be as dominant in the National League as we had been in the National League North.

But there were only 45 minutes left to go. 45 minutes that could define our careers. If we didn't win, Max would leave Chester for at least a year. My career? What would happen to me? 45 minutes to make the question moot. 45 minutes that would become 40 that would become 30 and suddenly -

I experienced a brief, incredibly intense surge of fear, but when I looked around I saw winners and champions and remembered I was one myself. Henri had his head pressed back against the wall and his eyes closed. I believe he was visualising the runs that had worked and the moves that hadn't.

I tried it myself, but all I saw was another year in the National League. Another year finishing second behind a richer team and a heroic defeat in the playoff semi final. As I started to feel the pain of the future I became aware of a presence. Max Best, crouching down, eye level.

"Dude," he said.

"Yes, boss?"

"Remember when we played that match together with the randos? The ones that meet through an app and have a kickabout."

"Footy Addicts."

"That's it! I haven't thought about that for ages. You were really good. I knew I'd love playing with you."

"You hit the post four times. On purpose."

He smiled. "Yeah. That was weird, wasn't it?"

"Why did you do it?"

"Oh, who knows why I do things? Not me. I remember it was fun, though. We were miles better than those guys."

"They were randos, like you said."

He nodded, thoughtfully. "We're miles better than these guys, too, though." He wanted to do a fist bump but I was holding a water bottle and a gel pack so he bumped my knee. "Save some energy for the last twenty so we can tear these a new one."

"I won't be substituted?"

He scoffed. "Take my best forward off the pitch in the biggest game of the season? Come on, man. I'm actually good at this." He got to his feet and wandered off chuntering 'Jesus Christ what the actual' under his breath.

I wanted the second half to start immediately.

When when when.

***

Max

"All right shut the fuck up."

The room quietened. Lots of smiles. Anticipation. The looks I was getting showed that they knew I was in a silly mood, but the dressing room was so overflowing with people I couldn't have made eye contact with all eleven starters even if I'd walked up and down. I could have sent some guys out but my God, that did not feel right whatsoever. Livia had a little plastic stool that she used to reach high shelves and high shoulders; I asked for it. I put it down next to Sandra, stood on it, and when I saw the breadth of my domain - Jackie, Vimsy, Henri, Youngster, Wibbers, Pascal, Christian, Physio Dean - I smiled. My first utterly honest smile in a week.

"My favourite movie is the 1965 historical melodrama The Agony and the Ecstasy," I proclaimed.

"No, it isn't," said Henri.

I nodded. "That's right, I've never seen it. Okay my favourite book is The Lord of the Rings." I checked with Henri; he didn't react. "It's about some guys who go to Woking to get a championship ring in the American style."

"No, Max."

"Okay my favourite, er, tree... Scratch that. My favourite mission in Grand Theft Auto 6 is... nah. My favourite recipe is pizza dough because what you do is you get 140 millilitres of water and a teaspoon of salt - oh, but the water should be lukewarm."

Henri shook his head, but it was with something like admiration. "Max, do you have anything prepared?"

"No," I admitted. People were smiling, relaxed, but Wibbers was gritting his teeth because he hated when I used distraction techniques on him. Taking people's minds off the drama and tension had been good, but now instinct led me in an unexpected direction. Jackie was blasting me with those crinkly, wise old eyes and I felt I should be more like him. "Is it all right with you guys if I speak from the heart?"

As I said the word heart, my voice cracked in a way that surprised me. There was much approval. I was taken aback to realise that some guys were putting their arms around the people next to them in anticipation of an absolute banger of a team talk. One they weren't going to get.

I hesitated. This had been a mistake.

"Do you want to hear about my favourite football match?"

Big approval. Youngster hummed like he was in church. He didn't say 'yes, Lord!' but I sort of heard it anyway.

"There have been some bangers. Grimsby this season. Darlington last. Kiddies: Max Best versus Christian Fierce! I hated it at the time but now it's right up there. You know what a big one was? The Lionesses in the final of Euro 22. I honestly don't think I'd be here if it wasn't for that."

I closed my eyes and dropped my head. My voice lowered and the guys had to strain to hear.

"It's so corny but my favourite ever football match is this one. Right here, right now, with you." I opened my eyes and let my gaze land on different warriors. "The way you look out for each other. The quality on the ball. The bravery with your movement and decisions. Everything I want. That first half was like the first half of the season. Bit rough at first, starting to hit our stride, and now the second half is where we accelerate. I just love everything about what we're doing. Ben and the defence, you're so on it Woking only look like scoring through an absolute fluke.

"Midfield, you've got the beating of them and you're giving them more work than they can handle. I'm gonna go on and rip the lid off but it's because you loosened it for me. I see what you're doing. I see you. Henri. Henri, what can I say? You've been doing this all year. Working your fucking arse off, suffering and sacrificing. One against four but it looks like three against four. You can get more selfish now. I'd love for you to get the first goal so you can say you scored the winner; you deserve it." I nodded a few times. "Ryan, Andrew, Aff, increase your tempo. If we get an injury, dial it all the way back down until you get a message, but basically I need you to work till you drop." The energy was right there. Just below the peak. Now for a different voice. "Captain," I said.

Glenn looked at Christian. Fierce shook his head and pushed Ryder in the back. Glenn Ryder, club captain, narrowed his eyes, opened his throat, and roared, "Come on you Seals!"

***

55'

Beth

Six teams emerged from the tunnels and it was clear that they hadn't dined on the oranges and biscuits of yore, but that six Al Pacinos had been smuggled into six dressing rooms. The action restarted, synchronised to perfection, fast, furious, feverish, farcical. The intensity was stupendous; the quality was stuttering.

DigiWorld's coverage was Barnet-heavy and they were rewarded with two quick goals. First, Ebbsfleet scored from a potshot to make it 2-1. Barnet were not so keen for their party to be pooped and they hit back with wave after wave of pressure. Their third goal was scrappy, lucky, and well-deserved. They continued to press, and press, and press, with The Fleet ever-dangerous on the break.

Then the action, wordlessly, returned to Grosvenor Vale, London, close to Wembley Stadium. From a free kick, Danny Grant whipped in a dreamy cross that Ed Williams powered home. One-nil! Grimsby first, Chester second, Barnet a distant third.

But in Woking, Chester's hyperactive start to the half, all pumping legs, overlaps, and selfless runs, proved too much for Woking. That wily old head Ryan Jack had the key. He chucked it to Henri Lyons, who tossed it back before spinning and moving into space. Jack, clip, Henri, touch, finish. Such is the simplicity of sport when done right. 55 minutes of huffing, puffing, nothing, and now this. Chester ahead. The relief was enormous. The race was on. Barnet? What's that? This was Grimsby versus Chester all the way home.

***

61'

Pascal

Max's first change shocked me. It still surprises me when I think about it now. Aff was playing so well. The perfect two-way player for the level playing flawlessly, so far as I could see, and with energy to spare. I had expected the first change to be Ryan Jack, as had been happening so often since his return from injury. But no - it was Aff, and almost more of a surprise, his replacement was Sharky.

Don't get me wrong. Sharky was a good player, a weapon, but he was more useful for counter attacks than breaking a packed defence. After our goal, Woking retreated and would continue to retreat the more we controlled midfield. I couldn't understand it.

Unless... unless Max wanted to give up midfield? Wanted to make the game more chaotic?

But he had told us in the team meetings that his goal was control. Had he been lying to us? If so, I didn't mind. He operated on a higher level, 4D chess, games within games, but it really seemed like he had been speaking plainly for once. How could we get control with Wayward Hayward on the wing?

I fretted for the ten seconds it took for me to move from the right of the pitch to the left.

In Max we trust.

***

65'

Boggy: It's all Chester. Chester have wrestled control of this match and it's incredible to watch. It's pulsating stuff. Woking are deep, pushed back by the relentlessness of Chester's quality. Hayward on the right. Harrison. Jack. Bochum. Moore. Fierce. Green. Carlile. Hayward. One-touch passing. Woking barely bothering to press! But that's loose from Harrison. He has put a shift in, but that was sloppy. And here come Woking! Their first attack in living memory. Chester with bodies back, but - Zach Green with a huge tackle! That was huge! Youngster collects. First time to Jack. Hayward's in behind! Hayward! Squares the ball... Lyons pulled back! Foul! Foul in the box! The referee signals... play on! I can't believe it! I can't believe it! Max Best has left the dugout; he's on his knees. Even he can't believe what this referee has done. Henri Lyons was about to pull the trigger and instead of Chester being two-up, instead of a penalty and a red card, it's nothing! We get nothing. That is a travesty. Woking's manager is going berserk. It was his left back who led the counter attack and left his entire flank open for Wes Hayward to roam in. What are you doing, young man? Don't you know there's a Sharknado warning in effect? Come on Wes! Come on Chester! Come onnnnnn!!!!!!

***

68'

Harrison plays a neat pass to Jack.

Jack to Bochum.

Bochum cuts across the pitch looking for options.

He turns and lines up a backwards pass to Carlile.

But Bochum slips the ball behind the defender!

Wes Hayward zooms forward. First time cross.

Lyons rises...

A powerful header...

But it's saved!

Applause from all four corners of the stadium.

That was scintillating football.

And that will be Harrison's last action. He is replaced by Roberts.

***

72'

DigiWorld

Matt: There has been a goal at Barnet!

[Cut to: Barnet playing a couple of passes outside the penalty area. We can guess from the movement of the players what will - ]

Matt: Back to Wealdstone!

[The Grimsby players are celebrating, hugging, rubbing each other's heads. We cut to a feed that is rewinding. We cut to a feed that is a cameraman doing a close-up of a bored hottie in the stands. We cut to the celebrations again. A shaky angle homes in on Grimsby's manager snarling with triumph.]

Matt: We'll get you that goal as soon as we can. Here's the as-it-stands scores. Wealdstone 0, Grimsby 2. Barnet 3, Ebbsfleet 1. Woking 0, Chester 1. What does that mean for the table?

As It Stands GD Pts 1 Grimsby 43 94 2 Chester 41 94 3 Barnet 39 92

Ally: There are your National League champions right there, Matt. Grimsby Town. They have stumbled but they have recovered magnificently. They're the champions and rightly so.

Matt: Still time for Chester to get two goals, Ally. Two goals will do it.

Ally: Aye and if they do I'll take my hat off to them, I really will. But Grimsby are on it here. This has been a perfect performance. Control, defensive solidity, team spirit, and now they can add bouncebackability to their CV.

***

74'

Max

We were bossing the game, killing it. Okay, Ryan was blowing a little bit and normally I would have taken him off but he had unpicked the lock for the goal and while he was getting jostled off the ball or hurried into sideways passes, he was the most likely source of some magic. He was -

"Still happy with 4-1-4-1 boss?"

It was Sandra. Interrupting my train of thought in a way she normally didn't do. "Er, yeah. We're killing it."

"We planned to go 4-2-3-1 when Wibbers and Sharky are on. They're on. You for Ryan and we're golden."

"Yeah, just a minute. I love what I'm seeing."

75'

"Boss?"

I tutted. "Please."

I shook my head, annoyed, as I activated Seal It Up and connected Cupid's Arrow from Henri to Wibbers. That was a golden ticket right there. They were both amazing at assists and goals. Now they were more likely to help each other score. Advantage Chester!

I luxuriated in the moment. This was sensational stuff. Manager of the Year stuff.

76'

I noticed Sandra and Jackie away from the action, talking to each other urgently and looking back at me. Jackie closed his eyes and nodded. Weird, but I had to watch the pitch to make sure I got my XP.

77'

"Max," said Jackie, pulling at my sleeve.

"What? Not now. I'm managing."

"I need a quick word. Come 'ere, lad."

"Fuck me," I said, but he was blocking my view so I had to get up to see the pitch. While I looked to my right, he cajoled me to the left. Finally, I realised how strange the situation was. I was in front of some rando fans, miles out of the technical area, being gripped by my women's team manager live on TV. "What the actual shit are you doing?"

"Why aren't you on the pitch, Maxy boy?"

I tutted. "I'm managing. The lads are doing great."

"Ryan Jack is knackered. You need to go on for the formation switch. Second DM so the others can run riot. That's the plan. It's gone to perfection until now, but now you're not going on. You've not even warmed up. Why would dat be?"

His Scouse accent wound me up. I got in his face. "I'm making a call."

"Dat's what you call it?"

He was absolutely adding a few percent to his accent. "What is your problem?"

He looked away and blew through his lips. He shook his head. "Talk to me, Max."

"There's nothing to say. Get off me."

He let go of me but for some reason I didn't storm back to the dugout as I'd planned. I found my throat was tight. Knots in my stomach. I was glad I was probably not front and centre on TV because I must have had a hunted look about me.

Jackie's face was soft as suede. "Talk to me, Max."

I glanced at the pitch, guiltily. I swallowed and it was like ingesting a brick. "I can't."

"You can't play?"

"I'm toast, mate. I'm a wreck." I found all the tears I'd ever lost and put them in a little bag just behind my eyeballs. "I went to warm up and I couldn't put one foot in front of the other. I kicked a ball and it was like kicking a tree stump. Legs jelly. Mom's spaghetti."

He nodded and inhaled. He pushed the air out in one tiny little blow. "I know. I've been dere."

"What?"

He looked awkward for a while, even twisting one foot as though putting out a cigarette. "Been dere, done dat. It's all fun and games, innit, and den it gets real."

"They're all counting on me. They need me. The fans. The club. The players." I swallowed another brick. "Me mum."

He sort of smiled to himself as if to say, 'I knew it'. But he softened again. This was Jackie the ultimate man manager. He got a cheeky smile and looked up. "What's your favourite memory as a player?"

"Nutmegging you."

He laughed, light as a butterfly's wings. "Close your eyes and think about it. You came at me, I knew what you was gonna do, you did it anyway, you bastard. In front of dem girls an' all." I peeked and saw he had his lids closed and was grinning. "But look, you don't need to do anything to make the tactics sing. You've already put the work in. You don't need to be good. You only need to be on the pitch."

"What are you on about?"

He grabbed my arm and turned me to face the action. He pointed to where Youngster was patrolling. "You go there. You get the ball, you curl your bicep, you blow kisses to the fans, you put your knee on the ball. You say to Woking, Max Best is here. Then you walk around like a Pharaoh and they have one, two guys marking you. You act the maggot, draw their aggro, free up space." He gave me a playful bump. "You make a run across the defence, you're gonna draw three guys after you. It's like your Sun Tzu phase. You've already won before you step on the pitch. You've set this up with two years of being an absolute prick."

He was right! "I have, haven't I?"

He jabbed me. "This is your Weekend at Bernie's match. They won't realise you're dead until it's too late to stop the party. You only have to stand there looking like the fucking Wizard of Us and you tell Eddie and Carl to bomb forward." He jabbed me a few more times as he pushed words at me. "Overloads. Overlaps. Slaps. Max Best football. Unleash." He went back to his cajoling tone and put his arm around me. "All you have to do," he said, in admiration for my genius, "is be on the pitch! You don't even have to touch the ball!" He sighed, happily. "Not many people understand what you've been doing all this time, but I do. It's annoying," he chuckled. "Fucking infuriating, in fact. But it's absolute boss." He slapped me on the back, forcing me back in the direction of the dugout. "Don't just buy it, boss it."

I was enjoying our time together - it was like having an older brother - but to my horror, the referee's assistant was holding up a substitution board. On one side it said 19 - Ryan Jack. On the other - 77. Me.

"I'm not warmed up," I said.

Jackie coaxed me a few steps onto the pitch. "It's like I said. You don't have to do anything. Just, er, just switch to 4-2-3-1, yeah? There's a good Max. Who's a good Max?" He walked up to Sandra and they exchanged a huge high ten. They were very pleased with themselves.

I looked down at my feet. I was on the pitch. What?

This was going to be a humiliating disaster.

This was going to be agony.

***

79'

Beth

The Barnet match had turned into an amusing sideshow. 3-1 became 4-1 became 4-2. There's been a goal there's been a goal there's been a goal! At 4-3, Barnet realised their goose was cooked and they finally, after a truly remarkable initial effort, switched off. They would be in the playoffs. Spoiler alert - a final score of 4-all took them to a very respectable 90 points.

DigiWorld's attempt to cover three matches had provided some very shaky moments that, while borderline unprofessional, added to the intrigue and mystery. Now that they focused on Chester's match, their coverage shone.

Chester's new shape, with three attacking midfielders behind a striker, caused Woking problems they could cope with, but as Chester's full backs started to bomb forward, carnage ensued.

The strangest part was that the player-manager himself, the self-appointed Player of the Month for April, had not had a single kick of the ball in the first two minutes of his time on the pitch. He looked like a man for whom the pressure had told. He was a probe sent to a distant planet, finally crushed after two years of sending home wonderful images. When the ball finally came to him, he looked down at it like it was some spherical, polyurethane-coated alien, before bending to touch his knee to the thing. He looked around to see if he had done good.

Woking did not like that.

***

Boggy: Moore goes on a run. He pauses and touches the ball to Bochum, playing as the left-most of the three support forwards. Bochum exchanges passes with Roberts, who has played with a lot more control than I expected. The entire Chester team are playing in a very contained way. Time is their friend, one would think. That's not what my clock says. Approaching ten to go. The ball's back with Youngster. He wants to give it to Best. Best not interested. He looks out of sorts, to say the least. Youngster forced to dribble away - oh, well done! That was superb.

It's back with Moore. Fierce. Green. Green fizzes it to Best, who controls without thinking. No-one is near him. He's having an existential crisis! Not another one, Max! He's, oh, no. Oh, my God. He's going to touch the ball with his knee! He does! He's looking for approval. What the bottom is happening? He's in no state to... If Woking get this we're in deep... Best under pressure. He points to Carlile. Here’s the challenge… Nutmeg! Best is away. Best up to full speed. Argh. He's whizzing. Finds Roberts. Bochum. Twenty yard pass to Best. Best cuts inside, passes forward to Hayward. Cross! Lyons! Saved!

Best crashes into the 6. My ball! Carlile is up. Sets off on a run - no! Best demands it. Best... sweeps the ball crossfield. Wow. Eddie Moore in space. Chester players running everywhere. What is this formation? It's like a kaleidoscope. Moore chooses Bochum. He slips it to Lyons. Another chance to shoot? No, there are too many bodies. Woking defending with all their lives - I wish they wouldn't. The ball's worked back. Roberts... we know he can hit them! But it's a tame one, into the keeper's hands.

***

81'

Max

I was warmed up now, mate. I wasn't sure what Jackie had done to me but he'd got me on the pitch, incepted the idea to knee the ball, and when I did it this guy ran at me full-pelt like a charging bull. Quick meg, run round him, and I was locked in.

4-2-3-1 and I was on the hot keys like a mofo. Eddie goes, Carl stays. Carl goes, I go, Eddie stays. Eddie goes, Carl goes, I stay. I moved Pascal one slot left or Sharky one slot right. One time I wanted to push Wibbers next to Henri but we hadn't done that during the season and this wasn't a time for invention. This was the tour that followed the album release - fans wanted to hear our hits and the best stuff from the LP, not some fucking jazz number we'd made up in the hotel bar.

Possession went up. Shots went up. Number goes up. Hype goes up. Nostril dilation goes up. Some chump tried to dribble out of his final third and I was about to flatten him when I thought, nah, I'll take the ball instead.

***

Beth

Sometimes I wish Best wasn't so good at this.

***

Pascal

'He does it all the time in training'. It's a phrase used very often in the world of football. When someone like Andrew Harrison, who performs a function for the team with extreme diligence, strikes a shot of uncommon purity from outside the box, fans are amazed, but we insiders say 'he does it all the time in training'. We have seen it all before. There is nothing anyone does in a match that we haven't seen ten times at least.

Max was different. He didn't train with us all that much. He had meetings in the morning, or he was recovering from his latest battering, or he couldn't be bothered. He did his training on his own or with a trusted companion. It was rare that he joined our post-session small-sided games.

He didn't do it all the time in training.

***

82'

DigiWorld

Matt: Good from Chester.

[Woking are camped around their penalty area. Christian Fierce and Zach are on the halfway line, with Youngster a couple of yards ahead. Eddie Moore and Carl are ten yards further. Henri is up against one of the centre backs. The three CAMs are in motion, playing three-yard passes to each other in a triangle, hoping to draw defenders away from the defensive line. There is a loose touch from Roberts that allows a defender to clear. It goes out for a throw-in and Woking can regain their defensive shape.]

Moore's throw... Lyons under it...

[Moore tries to Josh Owens it. He gets decent distance, managing to clear the first defender, and Lyons runs a couple of yards beyond the six-yard box and gets his head to it. He tries to direct it back towards the gaggle of CAMs but it goes towards a mass of defenders at the edge of the box. From Chester, only Max Best is there, with his back to goal. The defenders don't try to tackle him because giving away a free kick there would be suicide.]

Best's erm...

[Best nods the ball at its apex, bringing it completely under his spell. Six Woking players are in a line behind him and four more are within fifteen yards. Best begins doing keepy-uppies with his left foot far away from his body. The defenders move up towards Best's line, ready to spring the offside trap. This is wise because it looks like Best is winding up to play one of his spectacular long passes out wide, in this case to Eddie Moore.]

Best now from Lyons' header and... Best… Juggles…

[The first flick draws the defence towards him. The second flick annoys and distracts. The third contact has to be the pass - but Best flicks the ball back over his own head, a startling and frankly impossible change of direction that - despite the preponderance of defenders in the area - leaves Best completely free. He's in front of goal! The nearest defender might as well be in Grimsby! Best can do absolutely anything he wants, but he chooses to volley the ball into the bottom-right of the goal.]

What a beautiful Best goal! Max Best enjoys the adulation of the Chester fans, as goal number 20 for the season goes in.

[Best tries to find the away end but gets confused. The entire stadium is the away end. He celebrates in front of two Woking fans; they don't mind.]

And wasn't it a bit special?

***

Boggy: Goal of the Season! Goal of the Season! That was beyond belief! All on his left foot! Chester are one goal from glory! We need one more to go level on goal difference and ahead on goals scored. We have scored more goals this season than Grimsby. The margins are that tight! Time running out but who would bet against us adding a couple more?

***

As It Stands GD Pts 1 Grimsby 43 94 2 Chester 42 94

***

84'

Boggy: It's all-out attack from Chester! It's Chester attacking! Relentless. They have been patient, they have probed, they have killed Woking with movement and overlaps and all that other crap and now it's shots! Shots and headers and yeah! Get up 'em! They don't like it up 'em!

Best. Terrible in aspect. Fear personified. He looks positively demonic out there. William Roberts and Pascal Bochum his imps. They are tormenting their markers. They are unmarkable! They pop up all over the place. Sharky doing his bit, too. He dribbles, gets to the byline. It's not on. He comes back. Yes! Best is there now. Gets the ball, lays it off. Ooh - that was a late challenge on Best! He's in a heap on the turf. Referee not interested. Shocking. Best laid the ball off and it was all of two seconds before he was absolutely levelled by the number 7. Best gingerly getting up, but he is getting up.

Ball's worked square. Bochum touches back to Youngster. He drives forward. Yes, James, go! No! No James!

He took a shot from distance and you knew what was going to happen. He put it into orbit! Woking will run the clock down. The Chester players are fuming but the good news is, it's cured Max Best. He has sprinted towards Youngster and he's giving him both blasts of the barrel! Now he's walking away. He shouts something unbroadcastable.

Henri Lyons is counting seconds on his hands. Is he up to thirty? Woking's goalie places the ball on the six-yard box. Will he go to take a sip of water? Yes, he will. Getting towards a minute of time wasted and Best is on his haunches. He can't believe this is happening. It had been almost a perfect game until that moment. The first really stupid piece of play from Chester and it could cost them the title! All the momentum is gone!

***

Pascal

[The section where he describes his feelings about Youngster's 'shot' is written entirely in German and features excessive use of exclamation points. The mildest adjective used to describe the 'shot' is 'unhelpful'.]

***

86'

Beth

Chester and Grimsby had approached their matches with similar intentions - grind out dominance and hit with purpose late in the game. Grimsby's flower had bloomed earlier, but Chester's was growing bigger and brighter until a dunderhead deadheaded the bud before it had come good.

I have played for Max Best and while he is many things, when it comes to football he is fair. Missed tackles, misplaced passes, stray shots, goalkeeper's hands that turn into inviting hoops - if you try your best he won't get on your case. If you are as lacking in flair as me and you try a backheel or a Zidane roulette, he might well lose his cool. For him, Youngster's shot was devastating. Time off the clock. The wind spilled from the sails. Time running out on the season. Having to dig deep to summon the sinew, to summon up the blood one more time. Nought to ecstasy in how many seconds?

After a minute of black despair, Max hadn't shaken off his blues. Christian Fierce strode over - I thought to punch his sulking boss into the next time zone. But Fierce put his arm around his manager, spoke a few quiet words, and walked away. Best sucked in some breaths, counted to ten, and did to Youngster what Fierce had done to him.

Let's put it behind us. Let's get back to where we were.

But, please. Don't do that again.

***

Pascal

I made a run to the left and when the ball came, I found I had an extra second to decide what to do. Woking were shot. We had run them ragged and they were shot. We had the tactics and players who could score. We had tired opponents who were on their last legs. All we needed was one bit of luck.

***

88'

Boggy: Bochum. Hayward. Bochum. Roberts. Best. Bochum. Chester are playing with their food. Best appears to be playing as a fourth central attacking midfielder! He sweeps the ball wide to Carlile. Carlile bursts past his man, great play! But he turns back and passes to Best. Best looks around. A defender closes. Best will chip to the left, will he? Oh, he's had a shot! Surprising power with no backlift! It's a lob from thirty yards, floating to the far post... tipped over! Well, that was so simple but nearly so effective. Best waited for the defender to come and curled the ball around him, giving the keeper just a fraction less time to respond, but Woking's stopper did well. Chester with the corner. Personally, I think we need two more goals because Grimsby will score one more. You know they will.

Best runs over to take it. No messing. He's breathing quite heavily - not like him. All the big lads are forward. Only Youngster and Bochum are back. Best... pulls up. He doesn't like it. Too risky! He orders Carl Carlile back. Three back for Chester and that looks a lot more solid.

Best nods to himself. Thumbs up from Sandra Lane and Jackie Reaper. Attacking play doesn't mean stupid play. What now? Best with the corner... fast, head-height, whipped, Fierce! Christian Fierce! It's in! It's in! It's in! Goal for Chester! Christian Fierce scores! The Kingsfield Stadium erupts! The Chris Lane Terrace is pure limbs. Beer flies across the Leslie Gosden stand. Moaners' Corner is a bouncing sea of blue. Sandra Lane is on the pitch.

The players run into the net to get the ball. No celebrations! Back to work!

Tell it to the bench. Jackie Reaper is lifting Vimsy aloft. Someone, oh! Someone just kissed me. Oh and even more amazing! Look at that! Would you look at that!

As It Stands GD Pts 1 Chester 43 94 2 Grimsby 43 94

The live table shows Chester are top of the league! Top of the league on goals scored. Top of the league for the first time this entire season. With two minutes to go! That is unbelievable! If it stays like this, Chester will win the league by dint of having scored more goals than Grimsby Town. The margins are paper thin.

Amazing.

Incredible.

[Pause.]

Right on the lips.

***

90'

Beth

The players and fans of Chester Football Club thought they had suffered enough. They were wrong.

In their match, the one that was in their hands, the referee awarded two minutes of injury time. It should have been three at least, but it gave new urgency to Chester. They ran, moved the ball, passed into space, and overlapped.

Best didn't quite like what he was seeing, though, and he ordered his full backs to stop going forward. Woking hadn't had a meaningful attack in twenty minutes, but for the first time, Chester had something to lose. Why go broke chasing a goal you perhaps didn't need?

We all knew Grimsby would score again. Best must have known, too.

Still, he wanted five in the rest defence, that group that stays back to prevent counter attacks. The other five? They went hell for leather.

***

91'

Boggy: Roberts, shrugs off a defender - incredible strength from the teenager - touches the ball to Best. He hits it crisply to Youngster. Out to Bochum, taking a wider position. Roberts. Lyons runs and points. Roberts safely to Best. He threatens to feed Lyons but passes to Hayward. Best wants to overlap but Hayward sees a chance. Chipped up towards Lyons - but the keeper comes to claim.

Not the best choice, but his manager pats him on the back.

The goalie takes his time getting up. The referee looks at his watch.

***

92'

DigiWorld

Matt: Booted long. Green wins the header. Youngster sharply onto it. Gives it to Best. Best tells Youngster to keep going and gives it to him. The youth international scampers forward, boundless energy, let's hope he doesn't shoot. He finds a way through to Lyons, keeps going. Lyons with a clever ball - Youngster could - great tackle! Defender got a leg in. Can Hayward get the rebound? It's hacked clear. Throw-in. Carlile sprints to get the ball and hurls it to Best. Best winds up a cross - vicious, dipping, Lyons, a defender punches the ball away. Punches? What's going on? Players are slumping to their knees.

Ally: Full time! He's blown for full time as the cross was coming in! That's the worst decision of the entire season, and I've seen a few stinkers. That's criminal. Let them finish the move and then blow! Awful.

Matt: I can't disagree but as we see pictures of exhausted and draining Chester players - they've given their all - we switch to Grimsby. At last, they know what to do. One goal will seal the title!

Ally: How long's left there?

Matt: Er... I'm hearing another four minutes.

Ally: Four minutes?

***

Beth

Four minutes. One goal.

Thirty miles away, the Chester players were mostly slumped, breathing hard, exhausted, spent. One player remained up on his feet. Their magnificent central defender and captain for the day, Christian Fierce, fluttered from player to player like a revivifying bee, talking to them and lifting them up. Gotta catch 'em all, he said, as he poked this one and that one. Finally, the group collected their manager, who couldn't move but meekly allowed himself to be dragged by Fierce and Carlile.

The eleven players who finished the match thus gathered in front of the Leslie Gosden stand, Woking’s largest and most picturesque, the one Chester had been shooting towards. Chester's travelling support shuffled from where they were to gather en masse on the red seats, while the players, the subs, the reserves, the coaches and physios, lined up in front of the fans, arm in arm.

Their fate was not in their hands. They had to stand and wait for four minutes, hoping Danny Grant would not smash one in from twenty-five yards, praying Danny Flash would not clip one from ten yards neatly into the bottom corner. Chester's time at the top of this league would either be eternal... or shorter than Heartbreak Hotel followed by Hurt.

***

Max

A lot of people talk about being stoic like it's a good thing. You sort of take what the world throws at you and you say 'huh' and you get on with it. Stoic. Sounds okay. I'll have to try it someday.

240 seconds is a lot of seconds to wait for an inevitable Grimsby goal.

A long time to wait before a TV camera was shoved in my face and some ghoul asked me how I was feeling.

240 chances to catastrophise. To think what if. To unspend the money I'd mentally spent. To wonder what was written in MD's Scenario B financial report.

The fans were gathered in clusters around phones, waiting for updates, trying to stream the match. Good luck with that - the wifi and signal strength in the stadium was abysmal. For some reason the players were all standing, brothers in arms, when all I wanted was to lie down and curl into a ball. I wanted to devolve into a soft rock and think no more about the constant life or death struggle, the survival of the fittest. I could go back to being bottom of the food chain so long as this god awful agony would cease.

239 seconds remained.

I tried to slump but they wouldn't let me.

Youngster squeezed in beside me, the little shit, and I rubbed his head and smiled and was happy for literally twenty seconds.

238 seconds remained.

***

DigiWorld

Matt: So close from Grimsby! That was inches wide!

Ally: Inches! I thought it was in. Wow!

Matt: The Mariners getting closer and closer with every attack!

***

Beth

The thing about agony is, there's supposed to be some amount of ecstasy, too. In a three way race for the title that goes down to the final minutes of the final game, two sets of players and fans are given one final dose of agony to go on top of the agony they've already suffered.

***

Boggy: [Noisy breathing. Nothing else, for minute after minute.]

***

Max

The strangest thing about this scene was that we were virtually motionless. There aren't many sports where the winner is the guy who is most still at the end. The final moment is usually something dynamic like a rugby player booting the ball out of touch, a tennis guy walloping the ball as hard as he can, or a sprint finish that ends with a guy looking left and right and bursting into a smile.

We had none of that. Our game was done. We had to wait.

I had the curse in my head, but the curse simply said:

Wealdstone 0 Grimsby Town 2

Soon it would update. It would either update with a 3 at the end, or it would subtly change colour and say FT. Full time.

Time passed. The sands of time. Sandy Lane.

It felt like I'd been so despairing for so long that I would never know happiness again, but I was put out of my misery.

The text in my head changed. I closed my eyes and while I waited for the news to travel the thirty miles from stadium to stadium, I felt tears bubble up.

***

Pascal

The National League volcano had been rumbling for ten months and now we stood, arm in arm, on the edge of the crater, as it shook wildly. That would explain why my knees were knocking, why I kept losing my balance, why I could barely hear. It wasn't the pounding of my heart or the blood rushing through my ears, it was the volcano.

Tiggy appeared on the other side of the hoardings and shouted: "Why aren't you watching the end of Grimsby?" I detached myself from the line and was about to explain that there was no TV in the dressing room when I noticed the Grimsby match was on her phone. On her phone! She had signal. I hopped across and helped her to hold the phone up. Still two-nil, but Grimsby on the attack. Everyone was in Wealdstone's penalty box, except Grimsby's goalie, who was on the halfway line.

Some of the lads saw the flash of green and ran over. Twenty lads squashed close, peering at a six-inch wide screen. The ones at the back begged Tiggy to hold the phone higher and when she did, just as Danny Flash was lining up a shot, she lost the signal.

"Breathe it all in," shouted Ryan Jack, and many people laughed. It was a phone company's slogan.

"Put another 50p in the meter, Tiggy!"

"Top up your credit, girl!"

Galgenhumor. If you don't laugh, you will cry.

Tiggy was not easily barracked. "Your big head's messing with the reception, Sticky." She lowered the phone, refreshed the page, and then the green grass was back and Grimsby's players were making one last desperate charge. The volcano stopped rocking. This was it. The moment we had dreaded. I felt sick. Why were we torturing ourselves by watching?

The camera focused on the referee, lustily blowing his whistle with two hands raised. Two hands to hand us the title!

Full time, it said. Full time. 2-0.

At the bottom of the screen, in large text, it said CHESTER ARE CHAMPIONS.

The volcano erupted.

ERUPTED.

I screamed and jumped. Tiggy threw herself into my arms. We were buffeted on all sides by mindless players. Beer was spilled and fans spilled onto the pitch. Others stood on plastic seats and gyrated like monkeys. Blue flares were lit. It was the end of days. The volcano was spitting red hot liquid glory all over us and we were driven mad with its power, the release of tension.

Our bodies did our thinking for us.

We screamed, we shouted. Some held their hands to their cheeks repeating: "I don't believe it." Some wept, some leapt, some screamed into their phones as they filmed, some climbed the goalposts and dangled from the crossbar.

***

Max

At first it was relief and disbelief.

No playoffs, no having to pick the lads up and go again, no having to beg players to stay at the club.

Then the numbness started to fade and I felt my body again. I felt a tingling in my legs, a lightness in my gut. Could we? We could. We had. How? Who cares? Champions! Winners. Whatever happened, no-one could ever take that away from me. More relief, waves of relief, the tension leaving my muscles. The tingling rose up my back, spread down my arms to my fingers. When it hit my neck my brain fucking exploded with excitement. I felt like I'd been strapped into a jetpack.

Finally! Finally a jetpack fueled by a million pounds! Look, ma, I can fly!

I imagined buildings shooting up at Bumpers Bank while new stands were built at the Deva. The space around the stadium turning into a football factory, a place where dreams came true, people of all ages and types bettering themselves as I had done - jogging, turning around cones, sprinting, now they're in bibs and they're sweating, now it's a match and they're losing but they equalise and then they find a winner and they are running around the sides of the pitch, arms like wings, but they've got a jetpack - the wings are just for show. They're so happy they don't even know what they're doing!

"Best, what are you doing?"

They laugh as someone tries to stop them circling the pitch. Evasive manoeuvres! Whee!

"He thinks he's a plane."

I found a jetpack buddy and we hugged and bounced and roared inchoate things until our throats were sore and I blinked and realised I didn't know who this person I was holding was. He was in a Chester top. That was enough for me - we continued to dance. Technique 1, Teamwork 1, Artistic Merit 1, Not Giving a Shit 20.

More buddies joined the party.

"You did it, mate!"

"Best! Best! Best!"

"Arghhhhhh come on!"

"Let's fucking go! Let's fucking go!"

"Don't mess with Chesters!"

***

Boggy: [Silence.] Here we go. Something's happening. I don't have - I think it's over. People are coming out of the executive boxes, coming out of the lounges, floods of tears. MD is in bits. Ruth from the board, Smasho and his wife Jill. Nice One, wiping tears away but hang on. [Pause.] Wealdstone nil. Grimsby two. Full time. Full time? Full time! We've... we've done it! Have we done it? Somehow we've done it! [He lets out a high-pitched scream, overcompensates, does a low roar.] The news has reached the players! They can't believe it. It's an instant party. Party time in Woking!

***

Beth

All unhappy teams are alike; each happy team is happy in its own way.

Barnet FC with their amber shirts over one shoulder, slowly leaving the pitch, clapping over their heads, knowing they would have to lift themselves for a playoff run.

Grimsby Town with their black-and-white shirts draped over one shoulder, trudging towards their fans, clapping over their heads, knowing they would have to lift themselves for a playoff run.

Chester FC, running around like headless chickens, using their blue-and-white shirts as skipping ropes, as hype towels, as projectiles of joy, as tear sponges, as abdominal muscle wipers, while fans were hugged, lifted, spun, handed onto the next player.

Music blared suddenly, then stopped for the bewildering, surreal announcement that the league trophy was on its way in a helicopter.

***

DigiWorld

Matt: Sixteen years after Chester City's painful relegation to the fifth tier and the club's eventual demise, Chester are back in the football league! Look at the scenes! Look what it means!

Ally: The noise!

Matt: Most fans have congregated near the players but some are still in the other three stands. We have three, four, five different chants going on. There's no team work, no togetherness, and I don't think anyone cares very much!

Ally: It's brilliant.

Matt: By the skin of their teeth. By the finest of margins. Chester are the champions!

***

Boggy: Most fans have been shepherded into the big stand there. Max and Sandra have given an interview to the TV company - I didn't hear it but I don't think Max will have said very much. He's still feeling the agony and the ecstasy in equal measure. It's slowly dawning on him that he has done it. He has done it! Teamwork, yes. Togetherness, yes. But he has masterminded this. Many have tried, many have failed. He's wandering around the pitch, weaving through his players in a kind of daze. Now he finds another burst of energy! Off he goes, plucking his Emma out of the stands - he TWIRLS her around. Oh! Is he proposing? Right there on the pitch? Er, no! He is collapsing one limb at a time - there he goes! All done. He's flat out and she's joining him to make grass angels. Wonderful.

And that has opened the floodgates. Glenn Ryder and his wife embrace. The Harrison triplets share a quiet moment together. Who's that with Pascal? The women's team are dancing. Henri is with his partner. Brooke Star is in the mix, hopping around, looking for someone to celebrate with. Zach Green offers a handshake. What a respectful young man. There are Youngster's parents. They will watch their brilliant boy in the football league. The football league! Chester are back. We're back! Ee aye addio we're in the football league! As champions! I can't believe it. Champions again! I'm tearing up. We are tiering up. We will play Bradford City, Tranmere Rovers, Crewe Alexandra, and Wimbledon. We're back in the big time. League Two beware!

***

DigiWorld

[Most of the randos have been cleared away temporarily as a simple advert board is put in place. Chester's squad and core staff line up behind, each clutching champagne bottles. They slap the board while shouting nonsense.]

Matt: Just waiting for the manager. The man who has made it happen. This was his plan, this was his design. Max Best, what a talent. Now his captains, Glenn Ryder and Christian Fierce, clutch the National League trophy. They will lift it together!

[They do. The volume goes weird - a signal that the roar was so loud it overwhelmed the sound mix.]

Back to the football league they go!

[Booze sprays everywhere. It rains on the bouncing players. Their winner's medals dance as they do.]

Chester are the National League 2024-2025 champions!

[The players sing 'Championes, Championes, Olé, Olé, Olé!]

[While they're doing that, We Are the Champions blares on Woking's PA.]

[The players take turns to lift the cup. They take turns to drench Max Best with liquid. They take turns to lift Emma high into the air.]

[Photographers beg Max to lift the trophy in front of the massed Chester fans. He says no. Then he says: psyche. And he gives the people what they fucking want.]

***

Beth

Amidst all the joy and craziness, I spotted Max Best trying to edge his way towards the tunnel. Trying to escape. I pointed my phone in his face and demanded an interview.

He agreed, but placed capricious and silly embargoes on almost every answer, and moronic as it seems, I never break a promise to a source.

He forgot to use his new phrase on one question.

I asked him about the ecstasy of winning the league, of completing back-to-back titles with both men's and women's teams, if it made up for the agony and suffering.

"Agony?" he said, genuinely confused. "Suffering? When? Tonight? What are you talking about?" He shook his head, worrying for my mental state. "That wasn't agony, Beth. That was fun." He smiled. "And I loved every minute of it."