8.
Football glossary: Well in. Praise for a good piece of play. Good job! Well played! Works best when shouted or when there's grunted vibrato on the second word. "Well innnnnnn!"
***
Monday, March 3
I was looking out of my office window at BoshCard when I saw Brooke amble up to the Best Bistro to get a coffee and ask what the yoghurt of the day was. Patricia, the head chef, was super busy but she always made time for Brooke.
"ETA two minutes," I said.
"Checked, set, Roger," mumbled Emma, who had insisted I move the cosy armchairs from the back of the room to the front; she was now practically horizontal with her legs over one arm rest. That inverted the power dynamic of me - the mighty leader - gently oscillating on a comfortable chair while my minions and enemies perched on hard-backed, harshly-angled wooden chairs - but sometimes Emma is not to be denied. "What's the topic?"
"Hot goss," I said, which caused her to sit up a bit straighter.
I went back to staring into the world. The weather had turned idyllic and the team was busy out on pitch 1. It wasn't my team, though, but Jonny Planter's. Grafting to get us a grass pitch safe to sprint and turn on. The sooner we could bring training home, the better, because by that point it was basically mathematically proven that training at the King George was giving us almost no CA growth, despite the quality of our coaches.
The extra sessions I was laying on at bigger clubs were having an effect. I was pretty sure that by taking some players to Tranmere I had scrambled the curse and whatever soft caps it imposed on them. Going to Everton had very much done the same. In fact, it was perfectly possible the ninety minutes I spent training at Finch Farm had reset my personal soft cap to 200. While it would decay pretty quickly, any training I did at Tranmere would definitely boost me. It had to, right? I was certainly feeling some of the old swagger coming back, and my free kicks and corners were starting to zip. Starting to fly into the top corner. Flames, smoke, confusion, tears. At last, I was evolving teeth. Watch out National League goalkeepers! Here be dragons.
We were going to need every slight advantage we could get. My relationship with Chipper was virtually doomed.
After five minutes of the Rochdale match, when they had scored and the Live Tables showed us sinking to eighth, a new comment had appeared in the Future section of Chipper's player profile.
Has lost confidence in his manager's ability.
Wow. I mean. Chipper had lost confidence in my ability to manage a football team? Because we briefly dropped out of the playoff spots?
Get. Fucked.
In the dugout at Rochdale I had stewed for a couple of minutes, wondering what this would mean in terms of performance. When Pascal acquired his outrageous and unacceptable 'dislikes Henri Lyons' message he had continued to play well, but while his personal performance didn't suffer, if I had left the situation unchecked he would surely have tanked the group's morale?
It had to be the same with this one, right? If Chipper had lost confidence in me, he would speak darkly about me in the dressing room. Eye rolls, grumbling about my tactics, dozens of tiny comments, each one chipping away at the squad's belief in me.
Chipper. Chipping away at me.
No no no.
Uh-uh.
Not my tempo.
His yellow card allowed me to get him off the pitch almost immediately, although that cost me, too. A second message appeared.
Believes he has made a mistake in moving to the club.
The mistake was all mine, mate.
In the referee's room, I had watched the first nine minutes of the match with growing fury. A couple of Chipper's snide remarks about me were audible, and while the things he was saying to the ref were moronic, they wouldn't necessarily affect our performance. Him sniping at me definitely would. I hoped it wasn't weakness that made me react so strongly. The squad needed to believe I was capable of doing a good job. There was no room for doubt; Chipper was out.
That had been my decision after the Rochdale match, but in the days since, I'd had time to think. It hadn't been too hard to convince Chipper to join Chester - his career was in the toilet and I had shown some tactical chops when helping TJ at Crawley - but then our first meaningful interaction had been my Cambrian Explosion speech. It was weird, okay, but anyone who had been at the club for more than a few days understood that I did things different. Christian Fierce had been into it - this was the next level of football he craved. Llewellyn had been hard to read but I think my presentation had a mostly negative effect on him. Chipper had been even more opaque but now it was clear. My speech hadn't inspired him but had led to a sense of suspicion and distrust and those feelings had only grown.
So what to do? As it stood, I couldn't use him and if the option had been available I might have sent him back to Crawley. I had a meeting with him later, at the King George training centre, and perhaps I would make a final stab at diplomacy - stab being the operative word.
I eyed the mobile kitchen we'd bought. It was pumping out healthy, nutritious meals that were a hit with the players, BoshCard staff, and local residents. Instead of signing Chipper I could have bought another mobile kitchen and put it somewhere there were loads of hungry kids. I could have done something actually useful. But I was paying the Doubting Dragon two thousand a week and that was a fortune for Chester. If I didn't use him for the rest of the season there would be questions - including some valid ones - and it could make it harder to get players on loan in the future. Players I wanted to sign might say, but you fell out with that Welsh guy after ten minutes and made him waste half a season of his short career.
Not that I planned to loan a player ever again. For every Goliath and Ziggy there was a Jack Litherland and a Chipper. But still, it would be unprofessional to take away the option. Future Max would appreciate current Max making an effort.
How could I get something out of a player who didn't respect me? Even the thought of naming him in the matchday squad against Grimsby set off spasms in my eyelid muscles.
Brooke coughed. "Great power play, boss."
I turned to apologise but Emma said, "He wasn't ignoring you. He was off with the fairies."
"The dragons," I said. The women looked powerful on the comfy chairs; I had to establish dominance. "Right, let's blitz through these action items."
"Action items?" scoffed Emma.
I smiled. "Great, innit? I'm learning to talk like a real b-boy. Breaks the ice at parties."
"Item one," said Brooke, big-dogging me. "There's a new phrase blowing up on the socials. Could we?"
"Could we what?" said Ems.
"That's the whole thing," I explained. "It's idiots who think we've got a chance at the title. It's like, could we win the league? It's a joke. They're joking."
"It's hopeful," said Brooke. "Aspirational. You love that. We could use it." She smiled. "Could we use it?"
I smiled back but shook my head. "Let the fans run with it but for the club it would be dishonest. We lost our chance when we lost to Barnet. Okay, we're in with a chance mathematically and you're going to hear me spend the whole week talking up our ambitions but that's only to destabilise Grimsby. They're better than Barnet but it's one of those fire water wood things. Grimsby beats Barnet, Barnet beats Chester, Chester beats Grimsby. If I could choose, I'd have Barnet win the league and knock Grims into the playoffs."
"Because you know everything about them from your time there," said Brooke.
"The squad hasn't changed much, yeah. But also the matchups work in our favour. We can shut them down as an attacking threat - I have a plan for that. And they have a couple of slow defenders and if there's one thing we've got, it's pace. Yeah, it's not straightforward but I really fancy us. Barnet's style is tough to crack right now so we go hard at Grimsby, get some Max Best chaos eating away at them and bosh, they implode, lol, see you at Wembley you dicks." I closed my eyes and imagined the look on Chris Hale's face when I -
"Max," said Emma.
"Right," I said, snapping out of a delicious daydream. "One thing, though. If you want something to put on the socials please lean heavily into Devon Loch." Brooke was tapping away on her phone before I'd got to the 'N' in Devon. I clarified. "He was a horse. He was winning the Grand National, miles ahead, serene, and with about ten inches to go, slight exaggeration, he flopped. Just flopped to the ground." I held up a hand. "Don't worry, he's fine. He was fine."
"That was in 1956," said Brooke.
"Horses live hundreds of years, right?"
"They do not."
"Yeah, okay, so he's gone to pony paradise by now but he was fine after the incident and when you know that, it's easier to watch. I replayed the moment ten times and it's more confusing than distressing. He was running, running, then his legs gave way. Some people say he tried to jump the shadow of a water jump that was parallel. Some said he must have had cramp after the long run with all the jumps. Anyway, in the UK Devon Loch is synonymous with blowing a huge lead. It's one of the most traumatic sporting disasters of all time and even worse it belonged to the Queen or the Queen's mum and she always wanted to win the Grand National and pretty much the whole country wanted her to win and what she got was Devon Loch."
Brooke was trying to follow. "You think people at Grimsby will understand the reference."
"Oh, they will one hundred percent understand what we're saying. We're saying that we're about to watch the biggest choke since 1956." I held my hand up again. "No shade on Devon Loch or his jockey. Don't tase me, bro."
"1956," mused Brooke. "Shame it wasn't 1955."
"Why?"
"We could whip up a couple of videos based on it being the 70th anniversary of a famous sporting moment."
I slapped the table and cackled. "Even better! If we're making videos because it's the 71st anniversary that's even better because it's even more clearly done to wind them up!"
"2025 minus 1956 is sixty-nine."
"Shit. Okay forget the anniversary angle. It almost doesn't matter what we do, it just has to be about Devon Loch. Talk to some old people to ask what their memories of that race are and put hashtag Grimsby Town in the description. They will get it. Everyone will get it. It'll spread like dragonfire."
Brooke nodded. "Understood. I've made progress on setting up a meeting with the founder of Grindhog, but let's discuss that after Grimsby. Can I ask a random Q? You're giving the men's first team and Angel extra training. Is there anything behind that?"
"No, that's just, like, performance maximisation. Sport stuff. No angles."
"RIP Angles," said Emma.
"Those extra sessions are with our coaches, though. You could do them here."
I shook my head. "Do you have your best ideas in the shower?"
Emma said, "That's an inappropriate question to ask a female employee. If you want to rinse him, Brooke babes, I'm all over it."
"Ambulance chaser," I said.
Brooke smiled. "I don't have ideas, Max. I'm a ditzy blonde."
I tutted. "When I'm out and about doing shit, phone in my hand, trying to solve some problem, sometimes I can't make that last, thrilling leap of stellar brilliance even though it normally comes so naturally to me."
"Don't pause for a reaction babes, it's not attractive."
"But I go in the shower without my phone and I'm like, should I do my legs or will they get clean anyway because the suds are flowing down me and then eureka! The solution presents itself."
"Clean your legs, babes."
"So imagine that same principle but it's about training grounds. I'm here at BoshCard and I'm thinking huh Best Bistro is quiet today maybe we should hire a hot air balloon to promote it. Or someone's come in a different car and I'm like hey now what's that story? Or we're at the King George and Pascal's got a bad ankle or Wisey's in a mood and I'm like do I say something or is it family stuff and I leave it? But if we go to Everton or Tranmere we don't have those distractions. I don't have my phone in my hand, sort of thing. We focus on the training and nothing but the training." This speech felt as full of holes as a Swiss cheese grater but Brooke seemed to accept it. "We're a pretty solid team, now, but solid doesn't score goals, as Grimsby will find out this weekend. I'm going to be working a lot with our attacking players on set moves. Certain counter-attacks, combination play, strange corner kick routines. So far it has been a lot of fun."
"Are you going again?"
"Yes. Tranmere every day this week. I want to surprise Grimsby by how long I stay on the pitch. Okay, hit me with the hot goss update."
Emma sat up straight. "Hang on. Update? Update to what?"
Brooke did her version of a frown. "You didn't tell her?"
"There was nothing to tell. You do it; it's your family."
"So," said Brooke, somehow turning my office into a slumber party with the subtlest shift in her posture. "My sister - "
"Whoa! Sister?"
"Did I never mention her? She's, ah, she's a sweet girl but she's got her troubles."
"Older or younger?"
"She's the youngest."
"You're Brooke. Chip's Chip. So she's called... Donna."
"Close! Dallas!"
I didn't know that detail. I said the only logical thing. "What."
"Dallas lives with my daddy but he and Chip don't think much of her intelligence and they don't know she's in touch with me. After the botched takeover daddy was in a horn-tossin' mood. He raised hell and stuck a chunk under it."
Emma was leaning forward, eating it all up. "I bet."
"Chip played it smart. He egged daddy on for a while then he kinda goes, funny though, we could make a heap of cash while rubbing that boy's nose in it. Daddy told him to pipe down and Chip, for once, did. So later daddy says what did you mean? And Chip says why don't we buy a soccer club for real? Buy players low, sell 'em high, get promoted, sell for a huge gain, force Brooke to deal with us, do it classy to make Max Best look like a dolt, and beat him on the pitch, too."
Emma listened with her mouth slowly opening. She extended her palms and glared at me. "You didn't think I'd want to hear that?"
"There's nothing in it," I said. "He's not going to blow five million Texaroons on a loss-making football club to spite me."
Brooke shook her head. "I think you underestimate the power of spite. My first riding teacher told me I was too tall and ungainly, to be a good rider. Every ride ever since has been part joy of riding, part spite."
"Max knows about spite. You'll see it this Saturday in Grimsboo."
"Yeah, okay, spite is powerful," I said. I closed my eyes. "Josh Owens is a good lad but he's always talking about proving people wrong. It's his main motivation. Maybe it's the same with the others but I'm more sensitive to it with the Exit Trial boys." The spark of an idea formed about how I could get some use out of Chipper. I forced myself to get back in the present. "All right, Ems, that was the whole goss. There was a discussion about buying a club. It's never going to happen. Brooke, what's the latest?"
"It's going to happen."
I cocked my head back and laughed. "It's not. Come on."
"Chip's a dog with a bone. He's really into owning a soccer club. Dallas says he's obsessed with squad building; he really thinks he can do it better than anyone, including you. He wants to get a deal wrapped up soon so he can make a splash in the summer transfer window. He sees himself doing for soccer what daddy has done for retail."
"Does Dallas know which club Chip is looking at?"
"Half a dozen. Leagues One and Two, I think."
I laughed again. "If they buy Wrexham I'll know we're living in a simulation and I won't have any qualms about sponging off my girlfriend full-time while reading comics."
"Oh!" exclaimed Emma. "I thought I had to call them graphic novels?"
Brooke dipped her chin to hide a smile and was straight back to being a b-girl. "What would Wrexham cost these days?"
I looked up. "If they got promoted to League One, which looks likely, you'd be looking at something like twenty million. Ish."
"I think we can rule Wrexham out. No, it'd be something cheap where Chip could cut his teeth."
I pursed my lips and blew some air through. "Right. I'll keep an eye out and an ear to the ground. Maybe I'll be able to find out using my wit and wisdom." And the curse. "Tell Donna she's a ledge and she's my fave."
"Dallas," said Emma.
"Fave?" said Brooke.
"What's the news from The Nursery? We all good there?"
Brooke nodded. "I did extensive research and regression analysis and I've concluded that no-one likes the name Nursery."
"What are you talking about?" said Emma.
"The training ground," said Brooke. "Max is trying to name it."
"Babes, that's terrible. Nursery? No. Veto."
Brooke pointed at Emma as though Emma's word was final. "The Weavers and I are going through the constitution for the trust to make sure it does what you want it to do. But basically everything's in place for the builders. Zwillinger."
"Doesn't that mean twins?" said Emma.
"Yes. They're number one in the space. Very professional."
I said, "When will the pitch at The Nest be usable?"
"The Nest?" said Emma. "Babes. Please."
Brooke said, "Everyone's calling it Bumpers Lane."
"That's fun," said Emma.
"As for the timing, Max, I'd love to underpromise and overdeliver on that one. It depends on when Zwillinger has availability. My best guess is it won't be ready for the start of the season."
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
I tapped the table. "We'll have to extend BoshCard for another year but after that we're moving to The Arboretum lock stock and barrel." I paused while I thought about that. It didn't seem overly ambitious. The only question would be whether to move the mobile kitchen or not. Or could we buy another one? It would cost us thirty grand or so but then would break even. For a small initial outlay I could create two jobs and maybe have a mobile kitchen that was actually mobile. We could shuffle the training ground kitchen along Bumpers Road to serve fans at the Deva on matchdays. I stopped drumming my fingers. "I think we're going to get promoted. I'd feel a lot more certain if Grimsby were in free fall but our first eleven is getting very serious, our subs are a handful, we've got massive tactical flexibility, and let's say the trip to Everton reminded me how good I used to be." I smirked for a while. The smirk turned into a daydream about making rude gestures towards Grimsby's VIP box after scoring a goal. "What? What?"
"I don't know," said Brooke. "You were fixing to say something but you bared your teeth instead."
"Erm... Right. With higher ticket sales and sponsorships, we're going to have an increased budget, most of which needs to go into player and staff wages. But we'll get that million pounds in TV money, too, and I've got approximately fifty million pounds of ways to spend it. Can we have a chat one day where I say some things I want to buy and we try to make a priority list?"
"Sure. Sounds fun."
"Does it?" said Emma.
"Yeah!"
"All right," I said, rising to my feet. "You guys enjoy being legal eagles. I need to catch the end of training." I walked to the side of the window where Vimsy liked to stand and slipped into a big, blue foot cast. I picked up a pair of crutches and swayed to my flipchart. I took a photo of the formation and line up I wanted to use against Fylde.
"What the very devil are you doing?" said Emma.
"Babes! I told you! I'm pretending to be injured!"
"You didn't tell me. This is stupid. No-one will believe you."
"Ah," I said, smiling. "I know they won't. But I'll name myself on the bench against Fylde and if we're winning I won't go on and that'll be two games where I didn't play a minute and they'll think oh but maybe he is injured and they'll have photos from me at our training ground looking like that time Keanu Reeves was sad on a bench. It will mess with their heads one way or another. Yeah, in Chester I'm injured. Another reason to train up in beautiful Birkenhead! They don't have spies at Tranmere!" I beamed, happy as a clam.
"No-one has spies," said Emma.
"I have spies at Grimsby," I said. "I am the Eye of Sauron. The Eye in the Sky. I know all and see all." The silence that followed, the way their eyes widened with impressed shock, was beyond gratifying. "Nah," I said. "Not really. But I have been watching a fuckton of match footage. All right, I'm off to Tranmere with Wibbers, Jackers, Pascers, and, er... Henri."
Emma tilted her head. "I thought you were going to talk to Chippers?"
I sighed. I'd forgotten about that.
Has lost confidence in his manager's ability.
Jesus! But at least I had one idea of how I could approach the meeting...
"How to tame your dragon," I said, while staring into the distance.
"How to train your dragon," said Brooke.
"That's what I said."
***
I clomped to my car, took the foot clamp off so I could drive safely, and put it back on in the car park of the King George. There I allowed the weirdo who had started News of the Blues to take photos of me looking miserable because I couldn't train, then I suggested he might want to clear off.
While waiting for the session to finish, I took stock.
We had thirteen league games left. That included four hard games against Grimsby (estimated CA 77), Aldershot (70), Oldham Athletic (72), and Gateshead (72). We had a couple of tricky games against Hartlepool (68) and Rochdale (67 at their best). Maximising for CA I could put out a non-me eleven of CA 68. Dumping Chipper into a chipper would leave me with CA 66. Long story short, those were six matches where either my tactics or my playing skills would have to see us through. Could we get... three wins and three draws? More like two wins, two draws, two defeats.
Four of the remaining seven matches looked very easy - so easy I was willing to fly to Gibraltar and let Sandra handle one of them. Honestly, if I could get Chipper firing he could be our Marcus Wainwright and we could... we could... Could we?
I scanned the short-sided scrimmage Llewellyn liked to finish sessions with. It was designed to make sure players had nowhere to hide and it brought out their competitive side. Chipper was one of the most valuable players in such a contest, which made sense given his temperament and high CA. Yeah, Chipper would give us a much-needed cutting edge but only if he lost his 'lost confidence in Max Best' message.
Perhaps his best contribution to the side would simply be that his CA was 80. In the olden days, when I'd signed Ryan Jack the talented players in my squad had responded and trained harder. If Pascal and Wibbers were learning from watching Chipper in training then his inflated wages suddenly didn't take on the aspect of concrete boots but wings. Seventy thousand pounds to add five points of CA to Wibbers? Long term that was going to be like buying Apple stock in 1980.
What else was on the horizon?
The fourth-last match of the season was going to be a repeat of last year's Cheshire Cup final against Crewe. Not very important in the scheme of things but ex-pros said winning was a habit and I wanted to instil that habit into my players. It would also extend the attendance bonus I was getting from the Winner of Us perk. If we could win another senior trophy that would add 4% to next season's attendances. That was starting to get interesting. Definitely worth putting out a strong team.
Training finished and while most players went to get a shower, Chipper came to sit near me.
I behaved beautifully.
"Leslie," I said, using his real name that he obviously hated. "How are you enjoying being at a team that's fourth in the league with two games in hand over the league leaders whose run-in is harder than ours?"
"It's a novel experience being fifteen points behind," he said. Game on, he thought, getting into full dragon mode. He had missed one key point. This was my football club. My club, my rules. Around here, I was Skyrim's Alduin - the biggest, baddest dragon.
I took a breath to make sure I didn't get too heated. I didn't want to harness the power of my own flames, but the power of Chipper's spite. "Okay, here's where I'm at. You're a good player but I don't trust you to play against Grimsby. You might know that Grimsby sacked me last season and I don't like that. I'm going to fuck them up this Saturday, single-handed if needed, but a red card will kill us no matter how good I am. Everyone thinks you're an outstanding player so if you're not in the starting line up or on the bench, people are going to say annoying things like 'Where's Chipper?' 'Why didn't you pick Chipper?' 'Yes you won but where's Chipper?' I find that kind of thing very tedious so what I'm going to do is give you the whole ninety minutes against Fylde. You're going to get sent off and then you'll be banned for the weekend. If I'm lucky, you'll say something to the ref that gets a one-match ban upgraded to three, just like last time. What a team player you are! Okay? So you'll start tomorrow night and you'll spend the whole game trying to get sent off and when you do I'll be laughing. Because the only fucking thing I care about until the playoff final is beating Grimsby and I'm not going to let anyone sabotage that. Any questions?"
He did his so-angry-he-got-super-calm trick. "No."
"We don't need you at the strategy meeting on Wednesday morning. Treat yourself to a nice, long brunch. Okay, good chat. Bye."
He was so furious I really thought the plastic chair would melt. He got up and walked away. If he blinked on his way to the showers, I didn't see it.
Diplomacy 20, Sophistication 20.
Bites on arse? Zero.
***
Once again I went in the car with Llewellyn. This time the other passengers were WibRob and Pascal, but my focus was on the Welshman. With all those 20s in his profile he was destined for big things; he was so good I hadn't even dared to dream of somehow getting him to stay at Chester long term. There was also the fact that he was miserable. While he did his coaching work with something like enthusiasm and he was leading Saltney to win after win, he walked like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. From his point of view, he had been sent to football Siberia.
The irony was that he was on the fast track to stardom. If he stayed with my little project for another full season he would have a ludicrous record as a manager - a win percentage of 90% was achievable - the Welsh FA would push him to the front of the queue for gigs like their under 21 head coach, and he would be offered senior jobs by club owners who respected my judgement... or who hated me. Yes, if Daddy Star bought his idiot son a football club, Llewellyn would be an amazing choice for manager.
I pulled at my lip as we drove towards Tranmere's Solar Campus. I wanted to talk to Llewellyn, either to get to know him or to hint that the way he was judging his exile was completely wrong. Talking to people was good, mostly, but I was in a bad mood after the chat with Chipper and almost the worst thing I could do was to annoy Llewellyn into quitting two months before the end of the season.
Apart from what he was doing at Saltney, with him leading these extra sessions I thought I could squeeze an extra point of CA out of my players per month. Having two additional points on top of normal training was massive. Colossal. It could be the difference in the playoffs.
I sighed. I didn't know what to do. I think in a strange way I was intimidated by the guy. With him I felt like I was on a date with a gorgeous woman and I felt inhibited and unable to be myself. If I said the wrong thing he might leave and so I barely talked to him, and that got me frustrated at myself. The stakes were enormous, though. This promotion would be the biggest ever, even more consequential than going from the Championship to the Premier League.
"Boss," said Wibbers.
"Mmm," I said.
"I was on Sumo's stream yesterday."
I stopped breathing. "Did you say anything problematic?"
"No!"
"Did you say the only problem with Brexit was that it wasn't done properly?"
"No."
"Did you say women shouldn't be commentators?"
Llewellyn said, "Political commentators?"
I smiled. "Football."
"No!" said William, annoyed that I would even joke about him having retrograde views. "Nothing like that! We were playing EA FC and - "
"And Sumo was crushing him," said Pascal.
"Urgh! Yes, okay, but he's a professional gamer, isn't he?"
"He slaughtered you."
"Just! Fine, have a laugh but have you ever even beaten me?"
I tutted. "Will, get to the point if there is one."
"I'm trying!" He took a calming breath. I wasn't sure if he learned that one from Magnus or Vimsy, which was an amazing thought. "I was causing him some problems, obviously, because I'm actually brilliant at the game... although to be fair Sumo was reading the chat and talking while he was scratching out jammy wins. Someone in the chat goes 'Sumo, ask Wibbers a question. Could we?' and then it was thousands of people writing could we could we could we."
I smiled; I could just imagine it. "That's going to be funny for about two and a half more days and then it's going to get very, very tiresome."
"Sumo was kind of playing it off and kind of joking about it but he was kind of serious as well. He goes, William, I know we couldn't, but could we? I mean, I'm not saying that we could because obviously we can't but could we?"
"What did you say?"
"I didn't know what to say! Because we could. But we can't. Can we?"
I was still smiling. The conversation was being replicated all over Chester. We were in that tiny sliver where the maths didn't rule anything in or out and while football logic was very heavily weighted on one side of the scale, the other side was bigger than expected. "Pascal, what do you think?"
"We could win the league, mathematically."
"A very inspiring answer, mate. Llewellyn, where's your head at?"
"I don't see it."
There it was. The lack of enthusiasm summed up. "What's your team?"
"Swansea."
"I like the look of your manager. Williams. His teams play some great football, don't they? Broke the record for most passes before a goal at MK Dons. 56, wasn't it? 56 passes then a goal. Mwah!" I did a chef's kiss.
"He was only the assistant, then." Another joyless answer!
"Hmm. Good partnership, wasn't it? Good partnership before setting off on your own." I fell back into silence.
"Boss!" complained William, when he realised I had shut up. "Could we?"
"Tell you what, Will. We win tomorrow and beat Grims on Saturday and it's going to be pandemonium here and in Lincolnshire." I glanced at Llewellyn. "Where it's going to lead I have no clue but why not enjoy the ride? Opportunities like this don't come along very often. I'm going to put my back into every training session because I love the idea of being part of something people will talk about forever. So let's put our entire focus on this next hour, yeah? Who knows? Maybe the owner of Tranmere Rovers will be watching me work again." That hit home - Llewellyn tensed slightly. "I hear he's buying a club in Spain, too. He's a good person to know, right? Yeah, being the guy that gets taken to these bonus sessions is great for your career. Everyone at Tranmere and Everton are going to think, why did he get taken? Max Best must think he's the next big thing."
"I didn't go to Everton," said William, with a hint of a sulk.
"I was talking to Pascal, obviously," I lied. My little speech had landed, and now was the time to shut up. Let those seeds germinate.
"How come Llewellyn doesn't have a nickname?" said William, who was the kind of gardener who poured a pint of water into a plant pot once a day and complained his plants always died.
"Because he doesn't work for us so I can't bully him into taking one. And because he is a man of gravitas. Of dignity. Of - "
"Well In," said Llewellyn.
"Pardon me?" I said.
"My nickname's Well In."
William flicked his wrist so his fingers cracked together. "Yes! Well In! That's a boss nickname! Yes, mate!"
I tried to hide my utter delight. This nickname offer was the greatest breakthrough in the history of human relationships. One dragon fired up, one dragon tamed! "Doesn't it get confusing? Everyone shouts 'well in' all the time during training."
He glanced at me the way I had done to him. "A lot of things are confusing."
***
Tuesday, March 4
We started the day with a light session at the King George - some shuffling and sliding and some skills work. I sent Josh, Cole, Wibbers, Omari, and Tom Westwood to Tranmere for extra training with Well In. I would have gone myself but the back-and-forth would have risked me being late to the team bus for the ninety-minute drive to Wesham, home of AFC Fylde. Never heard of Wesham? It's just north of Freckleton and east of Little Plumptom.
Instead of going to Tranmere I went for a jog in what was effectively my private lane - the one that took me to Clive OK's house - and then decided to use my free time to go to my office at BoshCard. Jackie was there - we shared the computer and he always messed up my settings - so I waited on the comfy chair and did some work in my head.
I'd been ignoring the monthly perks to the best of my ability and had saved up a fair few experience points.
XP balance: 8,128
This month's perk was intriguing. I looked at it again.
New perk available: March Madness
Cost: 3,333
Effects: Provides a slight boost in matches when your team is the underdog.
It might be worth mentioning that the first time I read the perk, it said 'Go Wildcats!' at the end. Or at least, I think it did.
As for buying it, we were back to the whole 'slight boost' kind of language. How slight? If the boost was ten percent then it would have been a no-brainer. This March we were due to play Grimsby, Aldershot, and Oldham. Those three teams had higher CA than us. (The perk would have done nothing against Fylde, Kidderminster, Wealdstone, and Maidstone, but we didn't need help against those guys.)
I suspected, based on the price, that the perk would give a one or two percent boost. Okay, you take it if you can, but I felt I could use my XP much more productively.
I glanced through the perk shop and one that stood out, one that was starting to gnaw at me, was the one called Panopticon. I had already bought the perk and now I had the option of spending 2,000 XP to add squads to my mental screens. I could, for example, add the boys under thirteens and keep an eye on the new players I'd added.
One was a PA 45 centre back, one a PA 39 left back. Of course I would have liked to stock up on players over PA 100 but I also needed to flesh out the squads for the benefit of the talented players I'd already signed. It was also possible that the scouts who followed me around would eventually come to see these players as 'failures'. Every failure, perceived or actual, would take some of the shine off my perfect scouting track record. And these lads were local and as far as poss I wanted loads of Cheshire and Flintshire kids in the ranks. Long-term that would be great for the club, for example in turning attention from Liverpool and City to the scrappy, increasingly cool local club.
The third new addition - not all that new, I suppose, and certainly not local - was Adam B. Roberts, William's younger brother. He was an attacking midfielder who played in the centre. His PA of 92 meant he would have a long and at times glorious career in the sport, though he would always suffer in the comparisons to his brother. He wasn't with us full-time, of course, but I had joked that when Wibbers started to make mega money he could let Adam move in with him and he said, "Yeah, sure."
Yeah, the thirteens were starting to look decent, with Future and Big Sam in there, too. As yet I didn't have anyone over PA 100 but it would come if I kept up my scouting.
"Well in!"
I looked up. "What?"
Jackie held his hands up by the computer screen with no little reverence. "That's a great email, dat. World class."
If I'd been wearing sunglasses I would have lifted them up in disbelief. "You spent all that time writing one email?"
"I'm not like you, lad. I'm not as fecund."
"The next person to call me fecund," I said, clenching my fist, "is going to get a punch in the gob."
Jackie laughed hard, which turned into a cough. He still coughed sometimes, but was looking perkier by the day. He stood and stretched. "Done on the computer."
I sat up. "Right. You've got Cheadle away this weekend. That's the big one. You fighting fit?"
"Yes, bosh."
"3-5-2?"
"What would you do?"
I blew through my lips. "They need to win to have any chance of catching us, so I'd almost be tempted to do 4-1-4-1 and keep things tight first half. As they get desperate, change Diane to Kisi and go 4-4-1-1 and slap on counters."
"Would you take a draw?"
"Yes. Cheadle are the only team that can catch us. But I wouldn't play for a draw. That's asking to get beat."
Jackie pulled on his coat. "Are you thinking about Grimsby?"
"What?"
"That's what they'll do, lad. They're in the same position as our women's team. They'll take a draw."
I hadn't considered that possibility. "Huh. Barnet are chasing them pretty hard. They're at home. It'll be a big crowd. Those Grimbarians are a surly lot and if they think their team's playing for a draw they just might turn."
Jackie shook his head. "I think I'd be happy with a point in that scenario. I think you'd take a draw. I think the fans will take a draw. Their manager isn't exactly from the Ossie Ardiles school of management, is he?" Ossie Ardiles played some of the most gung-ho, all-out attacking football in history.
"Five strikers in a Lee Slade team? I, er, would be surprised. Especially as they only have two. Two and a half."
He grinned. "Watch out for him going defensive, that's all I'm saying."
"We've had quite a lot of media interest in this one. Me going back to the club that sacked me and all that. I'm planning to mouth off all week. Do you reckon I can annoy Lee Slade into having a real go at us?"
Jackie got his phone out and fired off a quick text. Telling Livia he would be down in a couple of minutes, something like that. "I don't know Grimsby as well as you. What are you expecting?"
"4-4-2, no risks, safety first at all times. Grind field position. When they go ahead they drop Ed Williams from striker to centre back and do a kind of 5-4-1. They've got Danny Grant, their academy star, pulling the strings in midfield. Most of their creativity comes from him and when Wainwright was there it was a deadly combo. Now it's Danny Grant to Danny Flash."
"The kid you hauled off the pitch because he was sulking? Donnie Wormwood's nephew?"
"Yep. He's okay but there are like eight other teams with better strikers in this league. I'm not worried about him but he works hard and he wins free kicks. Since Wainwright left, most of their goals have come from Danny Grant brilliance and set pieces." I'd answered my own question. "They're not going to go all-out attacking. It's not in the manager's nature and they don't have the players for it."
Jackie scratched the side of his jaw. "What about the fans?"
"They're great. When they're behind the team it's electric. I'll be doing a Vimsy special to shush them up. They're fickle. When they turn, they turn."
Jackie got a ping on his phone and glanced down. He smiled. "If I were Lee Slade I'd be shitting myself wondering what you were plotting. Wind them up, lad. Don't tame the crowd. Turn them."
We spent a few seconds grinning at each other. We were a good team. "If the media spends the next three days pecking his head about his team blowing a twenty-point lead, think that might change his outlook?"
"No. You should do it anyway."
I slipped into the chair he had vacated and stretched my fingers out, hoping for a healthy cracking noise. "Why?"
"Because it'll be funny."
***
AFC Fylde 0 Chester 2 - Post-Match Presser with Max Best
Kirkham and Wesham Advertiser: Well in, Max. That was a complete performance from your men. How do you feel?
I think it's best if we get something out of the way. I know you're going to ask me about the Devon Loch thing and I can't really comment on it. As far as I know those videos were the work of a disgruntled member of our social media team who was on his last day of work and wanted to go out with a bang.
What videos?
Haven't you seen them? They're all about Devon Loch, the horse who was twenty points ahead - sorry, twenty strides ahead - and he was cruising to the title and suddenly his legs just went. Poof. Just suddenly everything stopped working. I don't know what it is about the Devon Loch story that seems to resonate all these years later but yeah, there's still a kind of residual shock in seeing someone who's far, far ahead just blow an enormous lead like that. I think it's unfair to compare that story to what Grimsby seem to be doing because Grimsby won tonight.
They drew.
What? They drew? Against Halifax? Sorry, you must be mistaken. Grimsby are fifteen points ahead of us.
It's thirteen now.
Thirteen? Unlucky for us! Because Grimsby are in no way doing a Devon Loch and shame on you for repeating the phrase. Beth, did you hear that? Do not go on and on about it.
Daily Mail: I promise I won't. Can you answer the question now? How do you feel?
Yeah, good. Like this chap said it was a near-complete performance.
You picked a very strong team.
Well, you have to, really. Fylde are dangerous. It's not a game for rotation.
Chipper scored the first goal and appeared to gesture towards the dugout. What's the story there?
No story, just zeal. He's a red dragon and he's in full flight. He's magnificent and he knows it. So he breathes fire from time to time? That's what dragons do, Beth. You should know that by now. If you need to learn more about magical creatures there's a great colouring book I'll send you.
There's no beef between you?
If there is, it's roast beef, now. Chipper likes his meat well done and I like my goals well done and his goal was - nah, that's terrible. Cut that. He played great. He was absolutely immense, to be honest. I liked his assist for Henri even more than his goal.
You seem awfully pleased with yourself about something.
I have a medical condition known as smirky resting face and it's actually quite rude that you've brought it up.
Lancashire Evening Post: I know some of the home fans will be disappointed that you didn't play tonight. There are rumours you're hiding an injury. Are you?
No. I'm as fit as Devon Loch when he blew a twenty-point lead and I'm available for selection on Saturday if my manager wants to pick me. We know Grimsby will want to banish all talk of being a dour, defensive - hang on - a failing, dour, defensive team. They will come at us fast and furious with attacking, attractive football in the famous Grimsby Town tradition. Their fans demand and deserve nothing less.
What kind of reception do you expect from the Grimsby fans this weekend?
I think they will politely ignore me. Or they'll have forgotten I was ever there. That's what sports fans do, right? They forget things, like we all forgot about Devon Loch in 1956.
***
There was some impromptu karaoke on the team bus home. Morale was sky high and the team-plus-staff chat group (please do not confuse this with the team-only chat) was full of people shouting COULD WE.
Sandra pulled me to a free seat and said, "Max. I don't really know how to ask this, but... could we?"
I roared with laughter. "If we beat Grims, any-fucking-thing is possible. Did you see Chipper? We got a pure ten out of ten performance from him. A few more of those and we're going to romp this league. We could win by ten points! I'm not even joking."
Sandra bit her lip and closed her eyes. "Whatever you said to him, it worked. Are you going to tell me the secret?"
I shrugged. "Reverse psychology, I guess."
"Don't overuse it."
I glanced around. Chipper's profile still showed that he had lost confidence in me and that joining the club had been a mistake. But his Morale was up. The risk reward of using him against Grimsby was now massively in favour of reward. I would name him in the team and we would absolutely smash our rivals, climb to third, and chase them down.
"You know what?" I said. "We don't need to come in tomorrow morning to hear my tactics. The plan is really fucking simple. I can tell them right now and they can have the morning off. What do you think?"
She smiled. "You're not still planning to do the most frustrating tactic of all time?"
"Of course I am."
She took a few seconds to think about it. "Yeah, tell them."
"I won't tell them the whole thing." At Grimsby, my tactics had been leaked by a player-coach called Otis King - AKA The Mole - and while most of the time I didn't give two hoots if my opponents knew my plans, this weekend I did. The driver was a guy I knew and liked but if someone offered him two hundred quid to reveal the match tactics, he would. And did I fully trust Chipper? Did I fuck. Little did I know I was about to make a mistake - quite innocently, for once - that would come back to haunt me.
I took the microphone from the driver and got everyone's attention. "Guys. If you shut the fuck up and listen you can have tomorrow morning off." There were some cheers that got shushed by the more intelligent players. "Okay. I'll give you the broad strokes and you'll get more detail on Saturday. But basically we're going to play 4-4-1. Imagine someone got a red card and we have to play with ten. That's the plan." My voice was trailing off because Chipper was giving me a death stare. Something I'd said had taken his feeling that I was a shit manager and solidified it. His profile, in addition to the other messages, now included the phrases:
Dislikes Max Best.
Feels he has been victimised by his manager.
Considering his options.
"So rest tomorrow," I said, kind of stunned. "Unless you're in the Tranmere group. And on Thursday we'll do 4-4-1 shape work." I couldn't believe this was happening. "Just like we did last season when Goliath was on loan. You all remember that. You all remember how that turned out. Er... that's it." After a fantastic away win, it didn't feel right to end on such a tame note. "Enjoy the ride home. Enjoy your morning off. Well in, lads."
I clicked the microphone off.
I knew I would not enjoy the ride home. I knew I would not enjoy the morning off.
Somehow, I had screwed up. Llewellyn was well in, but Chipper was all the way out.