Player Manager 11
The story so far:
After ten months of toil in England's fifth tier, player-manager Max Best led Chester into the football league by the narrowest of margins. Both men's and women's teams will move to the 4th tiers. The women look well set to continue their rise, especially if the Chesterness documentary is sold to a TV company. The men will start the season with the weakest team in League Two and a budget one-third as high as Gillingham, MK Dons, Carlisle United, and Bradford City, now owned by the Star family. Max has stated his intention to win the FA Youth Cup, he must develop the Bumpers Bank training ground, and he must reinforce his squad after several departures. The good news? He has a million pounds to spend. The bad news? A million ain't what it used to be.
***
"And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music." Megan Fox's tattoo.
***
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Interior: Deva Stadium Trophy Room
A carpenter has a measuring tape across Chester FC's trophy cabinet. He flicks a pencil and allows the metal tape to retract. He turns to Max Best.
> CARPENTER
>
> Three thousand pounds, guv'nor.
Henri appears.
> HENRI
>
> What is happening?
>
> MAX BEST
>
> Got to make a new, bigger trophy cabinet because we keep winning the Cheshire Cup and I've got all my Manager of the Month awards.
Henri produces his Player of the Month for April trophy.
> HENRI
>
> Put this in there, too. Are you going to pay with your BoshCard?
>
> MAX BEST
>
> [Shows the card is ready in his hand. We get a close up while Max speaks.] Of course.
Bonnie enters, stage right.
> BONNIE
>
> Boss! Chester Women won the league! I got the trophy right here.
She holds it up and puts it on top of the cabinet.
> MAX BEST
>
> Will it fit?
>
> CARPENTER
>
> No chance, guv. I'll need to go even bigger...
He whips out the measuring tape.
> CARPENTER
>
> Three thousand five hundred pounds, guv.
>
> MAX BEST
>
> [In pain.] Come on.
Glenn Ryder enters stage right.
> GLENN
>
> Boss! We won the National League!
He places the trophy next to the others. The carpenter winces and shakes his head.
> CARPENTER
>
> You're talking four thousand, at least.
>
> MAX BEST
>
> [Petulantly stomping his feet.] Everyone stop winning trophies!
Jackie Reaper enters with his Manager of the Year award.
> JACKIE
>
> Max, quick question. Where do I put dis?
Max faints.
As Max falls, Henri smoothly takes Max's credit card and beeps the carpenter's payment device.
> HENRI
>
> [To camera] Don't just buy it, Bosh it!
***
1 - Speed Dating (Part One)
1.
Wednesday, April 30, 2025
A bell chimed and I followed my little card to table 6 and hovered around it, wondering which of the gorgeous people I would be spending the next ten minutes of my life flirting with. Everyone else was doing the same, casting lustful glances, getting shy when eye contact was finally made. The air was heavy with a sense of possibility. Could this person be the one? Oh, I do hope it's that one. Look at that outfit! I bet that hair smells great!
Another chime and a countdown appeared on the central screen. Ten seconds to go!
I eased into my chair, placing my ice cold drink to the right of the table that separated me from my date. Separated? Barely. We could touch knees if we wanted. If things got really steamy.
My date smiled at me and I knew I'd hit the jackpot. An absolute ten, immaculately put together, hugely sexy confidence, and I soon discovered the accent stroked all my pleasure zones.
Hubba hubba.
A third chime signalled that the countdown had started. Ten minutes. More than enough to arrange a meeting in a second location and as luck would have it, this date was taking place in a hotel.
"So, Mack Best. The clock is ticking. Seduce me."
Prrrr! You little minx! I twirled my drink around, took a swig feeling like the sexiest man alive, and smiled. "Let's talk about me. Then let's talk about you." I leaned forward and got husky. "Then let's talk about us."
The eyes twinkled and the smile got all kinds of playful. Max Best shoots - he scores! "I am putty in your hands."
I laughed. It wasn't going to be that easy. This was a top-tier challenge; one false move and I would blow my chances of getting into bed with them. I found my pulse was suddenly racing, my thoughts clear, my injuries fully healed. "I fucking love Brasil," I said.
***
THE PREVIOUS DAY
"I kinda hate Brazil," I mumbled, quietly enough so that only Nick could hear me. Nick was a demonic entity who had cursed me with the ability to be a top football manager. Basically the kind of weirdo you bump into all the time in my home city of Manchester. He was following me around for a couple of weeks to make sure I didn't get murdered again and he was deeply unimpressed with 'Travel Max'.
"This isn't Brazil. This is Sao Paulo."
"What does that mean?"
"Brazil is not for beginners."
"Stop saying cryptic shit like you know more than you're letting on. It's so tedious. You know what? Why don't you move over a couple of seats?"
"Someone is there."
I scoffed. "Make them remember they've got a table booked at Nando's or whatever it is you do to get rid of people."
Nick looked to his right and thought about doing it. "Too expensive," he sighed. "How about you try to enjoy yourself and keep your complaints internalised?"
I tutted. "People keep saying it's winter. If it's winter, why is it 25 degrees in the evening? For fuck's sake. And as soon as I step into the street I feel like I need to wash my face again. It's so polluted. Where are the plants? There are more football agents in this stadium than green things in the city. Look at them all over there; it's like they're growing in a petri dish. You know the people in charge of everything. Can you ask them to dial the concrete down from a hundred percent to maybe just ninety-eight percent and chuck a couple of trees in? The whole city smells of petrol and they drive on the wrong side. I nearly got run over six times. Why aren't they doing Carnival? If you need an excuse for a party, how about the arrival of Max Actual Best? I want to see a hot feather girl jiggle her arse and I want it yesterday. Literally."
Nick exhaled and did a thousand-yard stare.
I shook my head and got back to work. I was in Brazil for three main reasons. One, to relax and decompress after a long, hard season. I was absolutely nailing that aspect, as you can tell.
Two, to find new players for my projects. The priority was Chester FC, the team I managed for a day job. I had a feeling, one I couldn't quite understand, that my team was like an incomplete treasure map, or perhaps a jigsaw puzzle with a piece missing. I had been drawn to Brazil; perhaps the missing piece was here.
There were other football clubs which needed talented players. If I could convince one or two prospects to go to Tranmere Rovers I could get a kickback from those deals. I also had stakes in three other teams and in theory two of them could be used as Trojan Horse clubs to allow ambitious but undervalued Brazilians to move to Europe and show their stuff to more scouts and agents. I wasn't doing too well on the scouting score but I'd only been in South America for a couple of days and Nick wasn't letting me follow Playdar wherever it led me; I had agreed to stick to the main roads and places with crowds.
The third reason to go to Brazil was to learn a new style of football. I wasn't exactly doing that, but I was working towards it.
My curse was fuelled by experience points and I gathered those by watching live football matches. That's why I was in the colossal Estádio do Morumbi watching a Brazilian Série A derby between São Paulo Futebol Clube (or as I was calling them in my head 'the ones on the left') and Sociedade Esportiva Palmeiras ('the ones on the right' or 'the ones with the Starbucks logo'). 55,000 nutjob locals were alongside me and I can give you a one-word answer to the question 'were they noisy as fuck?' and that word is 'yes'.
Sao Paulo played in white with black and red details, earning them the nickname 'Tricolour'. The kit was really sexy and they had plenty of good players. Their CA (Current Ability, a brief summary of how good at football a player was) ranged from the low hundreds to the 150s with an average around 130. In terms of CA they were on a par with English Championship (tier 2) sides, but it seemed to me there was a lot more PA (Potential Ability). These guys could have been pushed further, been taken higher. Some of them still could, of course, but I didn't have the budget for these players. That said, some of them were on shitty contracts and lots of clubs in England could double their wages. Not Chester, but I wasn't doing much daydreaming about the home team's players.
I had even less chance with the away team. Palmeiras played in green and were nicknamed 'Verdão', which I think means 'the red card magnets'. One-word answer: did they enjoy kicking the shit out of people? Yes. They were the reigning champions and were as talented as they were cynical. Their average CA of 140 would put them at the bottom of the Premier League, but I reckoned if Nick clicked his fingers and transplanted them from Brazil to the Prem they would survive because, again, they had spare capacity for growth. Playing teams like Man City and Liverpool every week would add 10 CA in a couple of months.
Playing against better teams was a big part of maximising a player's potential, which was why I was moderately relaxed about Chester's prospects for the coming season. Okay we would start as the worst team, but we would improve very quickly. My ambitions for the season depended on what extra quality I could sign, but I had three months before the first serious ball was kicked. Plenty of time to find five or six players. I certainly wasn't going to jump on the first sweet-smelling lovely I chanced upon.
I blinked, realising I had drifted away from watching the match again. The home and away fans were up for it, but it was quite a tough watch for a neutral. The Tricolour were working extra hard to shut down the away team, the champions. To be fair, when the Tricolour counter-attacked they did so fast and with quality - until they got to the penalty box. The striker was wayward, to say the least, and he was giving the home fans absolute conniptions.
So yeah, an absolutely fascinating experience, incredible atmosphere, but not a fun match. A big local derby in a megacity of 20 million people was just too important for the players to take risks.
I had added my XP counter to the match overview screen because watching it tick up was as fun as the game itself. The match was giving me 6 XP per minute, which tracked with my opinion that the general standard was akin to England's second tier. In the coming season I would compete in the fourth tier, in which matches were worth 4 XP per minute, and amounts were always doubled when I was the manager. Managing a full 90 minutes against Accrington Stanley or Tranmere would bag me 720 XP!
"Does it tickle?" I said.
Nick closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. I was surprised his horns didn't sprout. "Pardon me?"
"When I'm earning XP you get a cut and it goes into your own curse - oh that's interesting. You're a victim, too. Let's talk about that later! - I'm asking do you feel my XP adding up? Is it like a ticklish feeling or is it more like watching a barman pour you a beer? Or is it - "
Nick slapped his knees, stood up, looked around, and strolled away. Somehow he was able to leave our row without anyone having to stand.
"The mood swings on this guy," I said. I looked around at my neighbours. Lots of Tricolour shirts. Lots of people raging at the referee, at the strikers, at the manager. It was all very familiar. Not knowing the language made things slightly more interesting - I found myself wondering if that chap over there was yelling 'you're not fit to wear the shirt' or 'I pay your wages, mate'.
But while the familiarity was comforting in a way, it was also frustrating. I hadn't come to Brazil to learn about foreign gammons, I'd come to learn a completely different style of football called Relationism. The plan was to do loads of scouting in the next two weeks, find some players to bring to Europe, and then come back with Emma, Henri, and his girlfriend Luisa to meet some Relationism experts. However, the guy who had invented this new style, Fernando Diniz, had been sacked one too many times and was out of work, perhaps forever. As far as I could tell, no teams in Brazil were currently using his daring and interesting methods.
I wasn't catastrophising just yet - worst case scenario was that I would save up the 27,000 XP I would need to unlock the Relationism module and learn how to use it by trial and error. But it would have been absolutely thrilling to see this crazy new style in the flesh and it was, truth be told, a little bit depressing to think that I wouldn't get any help. Almost my entire experience in the football world had come without a tutorial, without a help page, and for once I was hoping for a bit of an easier ride.
Now that Nick had flounced, I could do something I'd been thinking about since leaving my hotel in the afternoon. I refreshed a page I had open on my phone's browser and checked the numbers.
£405 of £1,400 goal.
Raised by 27 people in 6 days.
I turned my phone to selfie mode and hit record.
"Hi, Chester. Your boy Max Best here. I'm out in Brazil at this huge stadium where 55,000 locals have turned up to celebrate our National League title win. At least, I think that's what they're here for. My Portuguese is even worse than I thought - and I thought it was zero."
That last line was funny but also true. I had expected I would be able to get by on my rudimentary Spanish but words I was sure would be the same in both languages weren't. I also found that when I tried to summon a non-English word, it burped out of me in German, the foreign language I heard most often. Henri liked to practise his with Pascal, as did our part-time coach Clive O'Keefe, and oftentimes when I watched a footie stream on my laptop it was in German. Eckball! Gelbe Karte! My favourite was when the flow was interrupted by the commentator saying in English, 'You'll never walk alone!' or 'Here come the Toffeemen'.
"Chester, I've got a question for you. And maybe a request. And maybe a challenge. It depends how you answer the question."
I paused and smiled as a big roar came from the home fans - it turned into an 'ooh' as a good move ended with a long shot that went just wide. I would send this video to Emma - she loved cutting my raw footage up to be more TikTok-friendly and loved adding funny little graphics or inserts - I hoped she would keep some of the febrile atmosphere.
"Yeah I'm out here looking a million-pound player. Someone I can get for a hundred grand. Train him up, flip him. I look at that guy there - " I turned the camera to a congested spot of the midfield - "and I see a guy you could buy for five mill and sell him in a year for ten."
It was true enough, what I'd said. Green 8 was a pretty dreamy midfield technician built on a base of steel. He was CA 130 with a ceiling of 160. A Championship team could make an easy seven-figure profit trading the guy. That said, I was painfully aware that some people in the football industry were in the 'copy Max Best' niche, and it seemed to be a fast-growing industry. Chip Star claimed to have a superb data model but in fact he was listening to me talk on podcasts, watching which players I made a fuss of after matches, and at times even following me on scouting trips. I hoped this two-second, shaky footage of ten players would drive him mad, and that he would spend hours pausing and noting down the names and numbers of the players, trying to work out which was the guy I was talking about.
"The more I daydream about these Brazilian players, the bigger the numbers get. A hundred grand. A million. Two million. Ten million! So it was a bit of a reality check when I opened my emails back at the hotel. I had one from Brooke, our head of marketing and badassery. It basically said, should we help with this? There was a link to GoFundMe. The guy had raised 400 pounds from a target of 1500 to buy kits for a youth team. I'm still a bit mashed up from the season and the drama of the Woking match and the long flight and walking around Brazil in a sort of daze for a day so I was just yeah, course, do it. But hang on. The listing said he worked for the Cheshire FA. The FA needs to raise 1500 pounds to buy football kits? I mean, obvious scam, right? I've been to a couple of FA hearings - " Cheeky grin time. "And what does it cost those guys to get to London for the morning and what do they spend on lunch? 1500 minimum, know what I mean? So I read it even more closely and he's saying he wants to buy new kit for the Cheshire Schoolboys team. You know, for when they play against Merseyside or Manchester or Yorkshire."
Another wave of noise from the fans as they demanded a red card for one of the many savage tackles that went on.
I shook my head. "Okay so I call the guy. Richard. He tells me the whole tragic story. He volunteers for the Cheshire FA and his budget is fourteen thousand pounds and I say what, a day? And he says, that's per year. With that money he's got to organise the whole of schools football in Cheshire. Competitions between schools, tournaments, referees, trophies, medals, food after the matches. Trips to other counties to play those teams, I mean you can imagine, right? I wouldn't do it if you paid me. Richard does this in his spare time because he's passionate about schools football. He wants kids to have the chance to represent their schools and their county.
"It hit me then. Some memory I'd blocked or just never thought much about since Jackie Reaper brought me to Chester. I played for my school. Twice! The first match I was a late sub and I did some tricks and flicks that got the school buzzing. I was floating on air for days because rando kids would say 'You're the one that did that tekkers in the match!' The second match I got subbed off because I didn't fly into what the manager thought was a 50-50 tackle but was more like 20-80. You wonder why I don't like football dinosaurs? But still, I played for my school team and for a long time that seemed likely to be the highlight of my entire playing career. I think I was pretty proud of that and it made me feel like less of an outsider and you know what, pretty much every friend I've ever made since I was ten has been because of football.
"Okay so Richard says he's embarrassed to be begging for money but this year's budget is just nowhere near enough and it can't be stretched any further. I'm listening and to be honest my blood is boiling because I work really hard to get to schools games and he works really hard to put on games and it's like we're the only two people in Cheshire who care about it. That's not true, by the way, there are plenty of volunteers who feel the same, who want kids to play sports instead of video games and get healthy and socialise and all the rest of it. But Richard and I, we're peas in a pod. We're sort of speed dating and it's going great!
"Richard tells me the national FA do not give a flying, er, fig about schools football unless it's elite players who might go to the Premier League. That's because the FA have given up on running the sport and everything they do is about getting onto superyachts with autocrats and monopolists. Erm, those are my words, to be clear. Not his. So the FA don't care about schools football in Cheshire and to be frank, most parents and teachers don't care about it. So why should I send this guy a thousand pounds of Chester FC's money? Apart from the fact it's probably against the rules somehow, maybe it's time we just binned the whole thing off.
"On a related note, I know a lot of parents in Cheshire spend big money sending their kids to coaching camps. You pay 1500 quid and your kid does some drills, plays a little match, and there's a promise that a professional scout will be there. Hey, guys. No serious football club will ever ask you to pay for your kid to be scouted. We want the best players and I want to see every kid in Cheshire with my own two eyes. These scouting camps are preying on your hopes and dreams.
"My view, and it's just my view, is that we don't want a pay-to-play model. There is an infrastructure in place that's a low-stakes, high-return-on-investment way to get kids healthy and to learn about teamwork and to have pride in themselves and get scouted by me. Schools football exists but it's crumbling. Do you want it restored, healthy, and vibrant? Or not? I'm going to include the GoFundMe link with this video. If you think schools football should be kept alive in Cheshire, donate and volunteer. If enough of you donate some money but more importantly your time, I'll end Richard's money troubles... permanently. If I'm not allowed to do it for whatever reason, our sponsors will do it.
"If you've got a talented kid, boy or girl, I want to find them but if we let schools football die it gets so much harder and it gets to be that only parents with a spare couple of grand can get their children seen by scouts. I mean, that's gross. That's not football. That's not Chesterness.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
"Your call, Chester. The look on your daughter’s face as she tells you she got picked for her school team, or skipping a holiday so you can send her to a shady ‘football school’. How do you want it to be?"
***
I wasn't sure if people would respond the way I wanted, but I was about as popular in Chester as I was ever going to be. If I couldn't make an appeal like that now, I would never be able to. I got a queasy feeling in my stomach and thought about saying I didn't want the video to go online. If the response was 'meh' it would be pretty crushing, actually.
After a few minutes of indecisive fretting, a text from Brooke came through. Somehow the video was already up.
I just saw your appeal. Very well pitched and the fact you're thinking about boys and girls in Cheshire while you're in Brazil is gold. This is why people follow you. Unrelated to recent discussions, I had an idea. The most Max Best idea I've ever had! I know you'll love it and it will save money but there will be an upfront cost.
Brooke going full Max? I felt an invisible thread tugging at my cheeks, forcing my lips wider. People were more fun than numbers. I scrolled back to another text that had made me smile. It was from the Tranmere Rovers player Lee Contreras.
Hi, Max. Remember me? Midfield general, good on the ball, know my way around TikTok, soon-to-be out of contract. Just thought I'd give you first dibs on the Lee Contreras experience. We played well together, didn't we? I'd give you a discount on my wages since we're old friends and all.
The text was cheeky as fuck and I loved it. Why shouldn't the guy hustle to get himself a new deal? He absolutely should. I hadn't replied right away, instead sending one to Mateo to ask why they hadn't renewed Lee. Lee was annoying when he was trying to build his brand and he wasn't as serious as I'd liked but when I'd pushed him, he had got his head down and grafted and he was right - we played well together. In many ways, though, he was the sort of signing I was trying to avoid. He would take up a slot, cost a fair amount in wages, and he didn't have an enormous ceiling. He would do a job in League Two, though, that was for sure. He could be my new Sam Topps/James Wise but with much better technique and passing. Not much goal threat...
Energy, though. Fun. He would bring energy and fun to a dressing room that maybe risked going too far in my own image. One of the original Chester players, Donny Dorigo, was like Lee. A bit more irreverent than I liked, but sometimes that was what the group needed. Sometimes it was what I needed.
Lee Contreras. He would be 25 next season and would cost me something like 2,000 a week, no transfer fee. He was probably CA 70 or thereabouts - he hadn't played much in the last six months - but he would quickly improve to 80 and had PA 98. He could help in League Two and come with us to League One, but what I really wanted were guys who could come multiple steps or ones I could sell for quick cash. What would I get for Lee next summer? A hundred thousand maybe? I needed guys I could sell for ten times that.
***
They say hell is other people, but another version of hell is being alone in a crowd of 55,000. The problem with Nick following me around was that he was blocking me from meeting cool and interesting randos. My isolation would all be worth it if I went home with some star players but reading Brooke and Lee's texts suddenly had me craving company. Someone to talk to about, well, anything really.
I went for a walk around the stands. There were stewards blocking some points but I simply asked to go through and they let me. My destination was the halfway line, because the curse was showing me an unusually large number of scouts, agents, and club administrators congregated there in the middle tier behind the dugouts.
I mean, I say unusual but this was a big derby in the biggest city in all of the Americas. Maybe it was totally normal. Maybe if I went to watch Arsenal v Tottenham it would be exactly the same.
I was in no hurry, and as I shuffled along, taking in the sights and sounds and letting the warmth of the evening massage my shoulders, I perked up a bit. Life wasn't half bad, you know. I had spare cash and two weeks to do pretty much anything I wanted. I also had a demonic bodyguard.
After my slow journey I found myself standing near an absolute swarm of agents. Surely this was more than was usual? The place was teeming! Instead of wondering, I decided I would pick one and strike up a conversation. It would be quick and if I bombed I would move onto the next one. What did I have to lose?
***
Milton Orcelli
Agent
Fútbol Focus
Assets Under Management: £34,000,000
"Excuse me."
"Sim? Yes?"
I'd chosen the youngest-looking guy, the one I thought was most likely to speak English. He was also pretty much the friendliest-looking man I'd ever seen. Short of stature, round of face, I've-seen-worse of haircut, he had an aura of softness and an ease of smile that made me warm to him instantly. I tilted my head. "Are you the world-famous football agent Milton Orcelli?"
It was a bit desperate, using the curse like that, but I couldn't be arsed going through an elaborate routine. Bosh. Route one. "World-famous?" he spluttered. "I think not. But I am Milton. Jelly."
"Jelly?" I repeated.
"Chelly," he said. "Call me Chelly. Like the instrumento."
I frowned. Maybe I was jet lagged. I'd heard about jet lag, that it made you tired and stuff. I'd never heard that it made you stupid. "Cello. Okay your nickname is Chelli. Sounds like a cello made of jelly. Gotcha." He was smiling at me with those chubby cheeks of his. Expectantly. "I'm Max Best!" I proclaimed. "Player-manager of Chester FC."
"Manchester?"
It struck me for the first time that my worldwide reputation of 'unknown' might actually prevent me from achieving my goals on this trip. "Chester. It's, er, left of Manchester. I'm from Manchester." I was confusing the guy and the last thing I wanted was to turn those thick eyebrows into a frown. "Chelli, don't worry about it. In England I am a very famous football player and manager." I gestured to the endless rows of seats behind him. "I see a lot of agents and scouts and directors of football and so on. Is this normal for a derby match?"
"Derby?"
"A classico. Sao Paulo versus Sao Paulo." I frowned. Now that I was closer I could read the information in the profiles more clearly. "Wait. He's from Botafogo. That's in Rio, isn't it? That guy's from Vasco da Gama. They're in Rio, too. Internacional are from miles away. Alianza Lima! That's fucking Peru! I think that one's Paraguay. Orlando City! FC Dallas. What the shit is going on, mate? It's like a James Bond gathering of all the baddies!"
The enormous eyebrows furrowed. "How do you know?"
"I have a photographic memory for the faces of people who might give me money. You, for example! Fútbol Focus is your agency, I think?"
"Not mine," he said, with just a hint of sadness. "I work for heem." He turned and did a little eye tour of the area. He didn't have access to my wealth of information but he must have known enough people and spotted enough others in sharp suits to realise I was right. "Many are here before the Transfer Room tomorrow afternoon. That is why I am here. Is it not why you are here?"
"I'm on holiday, mate. If I bag a few superstars along the way, that's all gravy. That's a bonus," I added, seeing the confusion on his face. I needed to avoid idioms and complicated phrases if I wanted to be understood. "What's the Transfer Room?"
"It is a room," Chelli said, apparently in earnest. "I mean to say it is a real room. We go there. Clubs, agents, decision-makers. We sit on tables. We move tables. Ten minutes to discuss."
"Discuss what?"
"Transfers! What is your name? I didn't catch."
"Max." I offered my hand. He shook it.
"Transfers, Max. It is why it is called the Transfer Room."
"I'm trying to imagine what the hell you're talking about. A room. I'm opposite you. We talk shit. Then I'm opposite a guy from Botafego. We suggest transfers we might do. I'll swap my fast left back for your tricky winger. Ten minutes, we move on. Holy shit it's speed dating!"
Chelli got a biiiiig smile. "Yes! Speed dating for football. We say this."
I laughed. I had stumbled into a part of the football world I had never heard about, one that seemed perfect for my needs. I would not only be able to try to get a deal or two done but also I would meet the directors of football at most of the top clubs in the Americas! And FC Dallas! I could not believe my fucking luck, and for once Nick had nothing to do with it. "Chelli, this is unbelievable. I have decided to grace the event with my presence. Where is it?"
"The Sheraton Hotel, Max. But you can't enter. It is fully subscribed. Ah, but many agents wait in the lobby and they are always keen to meet football club managers. Better if you were the director of football!"
I sighed. "I'm that, too. I'm actually massive."
When I said I was the director of football, Chelli's thick brows pulled together. He decided he had misunderstood me and was happy to let it go. "If you want to talk business it could be good to go there. Brazil has many good players, you know. Perhaps you find some opportunities, no? I will be outside. I am too small for the big room."
“Too small for the big room? I like that. Let me write that down.” Chelli knew I was teasing him and he smiled with a tiny shake of the head. There were a lot of other agents in the area, many from companies with a lot more assets under management, but I had pairbonded with Chelli and could use this meeting to get to understand the world I was about to step into. Hadn't I been complaining there was no tutorial? Here was one!
Chelli tapped the seat next to him. He wanted to talk as much as I wanted to listen! "Mate, I need to say something to my friend Zakan Nicolini. Maybe you know him? He worked on the Manchester United takeover bid, is an expert in the multi-club model, and has amazing contacts in the Saudi Pro League."
Based on my description, Chelli very much wanted to meet Nick. "I do not know him!"
"Yeah, he's kind of annoying. Keeps flouncing out of rooms. Lacks what we call in Manchester, los cojones. Ah!" I laughed because Nick was suddenly at the back of the concourse, glaring at me. "There he is. Chelli, I'll be back in a second. I just need to get invited to a party."
***
It was alarmingly easy to persuade Nick to kick someone out of tomorrow's Transfer Room. I decided not to think about it to any great extent and Nick agreed that was wise.
I went back to Chelli, primed to ask him the thousand and one questions I had about this secret club he was a member of. Instead, he was interested in me. He had his phone open to some website or other.
"Chester FC! Max Best! This is you, no?"
He was looking at a league table that showed us level on points, but above, Grimsby Town. "Yeah. Here, this is better."
With the help of my most recent photo album, I took him on a brief tour of the last day of the season. Told him that we had needed to improve our goal difference by more than Grimsby did. They won 2-0, we won 3-0, bosh, thanks, bye, have a nice life. I told him Grimsby's owner had sacked me and I suggested that the smart thing to do in this world was to not sack me. I discovered Chelli was more comfortable with the word fire than sack. Good to know!
I showed him photos of the open-top bus parade around Chester city centre. "When was this?" he said, because something didn't add up.
"Sunday."
"Which Sunday?"
"Two days ago."
"And now you are in Brazil?"
I eyed him. "That season is over. Finito. Fertig. Time to get ready for next season. Football never sleeps."
He grew serious. "You must have time away from work. Work-life balance. Is important."
"I'm five thousand miles away from work. And I'm in the southern hemisphere. Talk about balance."
It took him a few moments to understand what I'd said, but when he realised I was joking he laughed. "Too funny! You are not like most in football! How old are you?"
"24. Nearly 25. Go to TikTok and type Max Best madness."
"Madness?" he said, as he obeyed. I allowed him to wonder as he entered the words. The top result was my outstanding backheel goal against Grimsby, the one that had sent them into a tailspin. "Uau! You can play!"
"I'm fucking mint, mate. Grims were twenty points ahead."
"Twenty points? And you won the championship?"
"Yep. I mashed them up. Cracked them like an egg. Very satisfying. How many players are on your books?"
"Almost thirty."
"Who's the most important?"
He named a guy; I searched the curse's transfer news feed and saw he had gone to Portugal for 20 million Euro. So basically the 34 million pounds of players comprised one star and twenty guys with little market value. That was probably absolutely perfect for my needs while being small fry for this Transfer Room thing. A little gust of tiredness buffeted me; I pinched my nose.
"Are you okay?"
I shoulder-barged him playfully like he was my oldest friend. "Tired, Chelli. Really tired. Ten months. Ten months of fucking grinding." Don't ask me why but tears came to my eyes. I blinked the bastards down into their little grief hole and tapped through my photos until I found one of me staring at the National League trophy like it was an old Babylonian cylinder. "Worth it. Worth it but yeah, I need this time in Brazil to relax." I smiled. "But first, I'm gonna gatecrash your Transfer Room."
"Gatecrash?"
"When you go to a party but you weren't invited."
His soft face sharpened - I was already getting to know him and this meant 'I'm going to say something wry'. "In Brazil, you are invited to every party."
"No, Chelli. You are invited to every party because everyone likes you. That guy," I said, pointing to Nick, "is not."
"Isn't he your friend?"
"Meh. Right. Before we get into details, there's something very important you need to know. I don't want to come away from here with a player called, I don't know, Gabriel Silva."
"No?"
"No. I want something cool. Zico. Socrates. Hulk. Or one of those fun two syllable ones. Bebo. Mimi. Tito."
"We have a Bobo."
I punched the air. "Yes! I don't care how good he is. I want him. Right I've bought Bobo and I need one more. Let's talk about your client list."
"One moment, please," he said, tapping away on his own phone. He was an Android user but he was so likeable it didn't count against him. "It is good to know your client." He brought up the Chester squad list, complete with estimated transfer values, wages, and so on. It was absolutely wild how inaccurate it was.
"The shit is this?" I said, taking his phone away. "What a load of garbage!"
"Is not correct?"
"It's garbage. Trash. Bin that." I laughed.
"Tell me about your club and your needs," he said, though he looked hurt that I had dismissed his data. I found my mouth was running on its own accord. Maybe I needed to get some things off my chest - I had been making tough calls and communicating those decisions while out of the country was slightly shitty.
I sighed and pointed to my name. "Okay so first thing is this handsome fellow. He's worked hard for two and a half years and been murdered once and had, I don't even remember, two breakdowns? He's the manager, the best player, and almost the entire scouting department. And yeah, director of football." Chelli understood it this time - his eyes widened. I continued. "He's fucking amazing and he deserves a pay rise. This number here is not close to the truth but the real number? I tripled it. Trebled it. And you know what? No-one at the club batted an eyelid. Ah, no-one was surprised. I'm the highest-paid employee in the history of the club, I think."
"You should request more."
"I don't request, Chelli, I say. I am the state. This is my salary. Bosh, the end. But I don't want too much because then I can't have a good team. It's a problem of balancing. I don't need too much but I do need to take care of myself and my mother."
"Your mother?"
"She's sick," I said, but I wish I hadn't. His big brown eyes got all dewy and stuff. I had to remind myself I was a top international businessman. "She's sick but I have money now. I can help her, yes? But when we go to the next league, I can help her even more. You understand? We have to go up. Up up up. My salary is small but it is enough. I am not greedy."
"That is good. I am glad to hear it."
My pay rise would take me to 3,000 a week, and even that would only put me in the top 40 earners in League Two. I glanced at my new friend. He probably wouldn't be interested in hearing that I had given raises to the Brig and Sandra. The Brig seemed happy with a ten percent bump to 2,200, while Sandra was ecstatic about her fifty percent rise to 1,500. She was so worth it, though. For a start, if I had another meltdown or needed to just fuck off out of Dodge for a month, she would keep the club powering forwards. I think they call it 'business continuity', and a big raise was cheaper than replacing her.
"Goalkeepers," I said, pointing to the first three names. "Ben's the starter but I would like someone better or someone young with a high ceiling who can challenge him. Have you got any goalies?"
"Yes."
"I need to see them in person if that's poss."
He frowned slightly and I felt I was doing this wrong. Better now than in the Transfer Room with all the bigshots. Chelli said, "What profile are you looking for?"
"I don't think in terms of profiles. I mean, not like most teams. I think in terms of talent. Get the highest possible talent and adapt the tactics. For a goalkeeper I simply need talent. Rainman is the third choice. He's talented but he's very young. He was out on loan last season and I think that's the best thing for him again this season but I suppose it depends if I can find another goalie this window. Maybe I would sign another Exit Trial kid but they're always going to be behind the curve. If Rainman has another good season he might get to Ben's current level so that's absolutely awesome but by then we'll be in League One. I've got that problem all over the squad. It's a bit of a mind fuck."
"Oh?"
"Like, I'm helping these guys but I get so attached to them and I really want to put them in the first team but that wouldn't be fair to them. Rainman in League Two would get crushed. That's no good."
"No."
"Then there's Sticky. I had to give him a raise to keep him." I had agonised over the number. Sticky had been offered 2,500 a week by Bradford City, and I knew he would leave if he didn't see a 2 at the front. A flat 2,000 would have looked desperate so I slapped a whopping great 2,020 pounds a week in his face and he stared at it for half a minute and said okay, I'm in. "Expensive bastard but he's an unbelievable goalie coach. You have to pay for good staff. If he leaves, what am I going to do? No, he has ruined me but he's worth it and he could take over as number one if I give him some minutes. But there's a cost to that, too, right? We'll drop points in the time it takes him to get up to speed. In any case, I do need another goalie with room to grow, though, just to make sure Sticky pays off financially."
"You think a lot."
"We're just getting started, Chelli lad. So I'm in the market for a very serious goalkeeper who is good now and can improve, or a young player who is even more talented than Rainman. I can sign two Brazilians and if one is a high-level goalkeeper, that works, but I don't think I would sign a young prospect unless he was absolutely incredible. My goal is to flip the players this year."
"Flip?"
"Buy cheap, sell for a million pounds. I can bring two foreign players very easily. If I can make two million from my two foreigners I can start to rebuild the stadium. But I mean, if I can sign the best young goalie in the world, I'm obviously going to do that. But then where will I get the money for the rebuild?" I sucked my lips into my mouth and made smacking noises. "I drive myself mad speculating but in the end everything depends on what I find and who is willing to come to Chester. Are you based here in Sao Paulo? Can I see your players this week? In matches or training - it's the same to me."
"Most are in Sampa, yes. You want to see them train? It's easy, yes."
"Amazing." It didn't sound incredibly efficient - it was possible I would spend a full week travelling around this enormous city to scout 30 players who were already under contract. But they had been pre-filtered by the Brazilian football-industrial complex and would be a lot more match ready than some rando PA 180 I found on the street. Plus I would still have the chance to find some unscouted gems using Playdar once I found the hotspots where lots of matches were played. The Sao Paulo version of Hough End or Hackney Marshes - I would ask Chelli about it later. Ah but Chelli seemed to be saying he would take me to the training grounds of lots of clubs - I would see the rest of the squads, too, not just the players his agency represented. And I would see the level of the facilities and something that was taking up a lot of my mental runtime - the layouts of the pitches and buildings. "That sounds amazing. Count me in."
"But what age? Young players only?"
"I don't care. Whatevs. Ambitious players. Hungry to improve. That's what I need. They have to be over 18 for the work permit and they can't take the piss on wages because I've got lots of holes in the squad." I pointed at his phone. "This squad list of yours has a load of guys who are gone."
"Gone?"
"Well, they are still there today but they will be gone soon. Steve Alton has been signed by Kidderminster. James Wise is going back to Eastleigh. Vivek has agreed a permanent move to West Didsbury - I'm gutted I'll never see him playing for Chester but it was a good move for him and the club. Sometimes doing the right thing is the wrong thing."
"I write that down."
He was rinsing me - I laughed and bumped him again. He seemed to like it. "So I could use some defensive cover and a tough-tackling midfielder. These guys, Ziggy and Chipper, we had them on loan. No more loans, mate! Never again! I'm down to two pure strikers so obviously I need another one but I suppose everyone does. This prick Chipper is going to join the Starvolution at Bradford City. Vom. I offered Ziggy the chance to play in Gibraltar and he's into it but he wants to have a full season at FC United first. He feels he owes them for their faith in him and he wants a 20-goal season like I said when I met him."
"Gibraltar?"
"Yeah, I'm sort of a consultant for a team in Gib. Oh, and I own a team in Wales, have control of a small team in Manchester - wow, this is confusing - and I've got a hotline to the owner of Tranmere Rovers. Ideally I'd find two Brazilians for him as well as my teams because he'll pay me a kickback. So it's not just about filling in the Chester squad, there are other clubs I can recruit for, too."
Now it was Chelli's turn for a spinning head. "Can you please tell it to me again?"
"Sure thing. If you take me to a cool bar later."
"Oh, yes! I love to show you my city. My home." He paused. "What does cool mean to you?" I recognised that facial expression - he was worried I would bankrupt him at a fancy downtown gin joint.
"Cool is wherever you are. If you like it, I'll like it. Okay next up is Aff and Carl. I sold them to Bradford, vom. I've used the money to order a 3G pitch. You know 3G? Yeah, it's in the east of Chester. People will pay 60 to 70 pounds per hour to rent it, and I'll be able to let local schools use it. In England every school used to have a football pitch but they have all been sold off to pay for like, hoovering out all the asbestos in the ceilings. It's a shit country, mate. I want kids to play footy so I can bag the best ones, so I'll probably cut some sort of deal with schools and the local FA. I'll probably let Ryan Jack handle that. He's this midfielder here. He's old but he's still good but I'm getting him to do more admin things because he's just a friendly guy who everyone likes. Did you ever play football?"
"Not like you, no."
"Yeah no-one plays like me. That's probably better; I'm really annoying. Okay so I sold those two guys and that cash just vanished but I'll make way more money from it - eventually."
"Eventually?"
"Yeah. Like now my budget is dogshit. It's the lowest in the league but I'll get more step by step. A little when my pitches make money. A little when I get my Brig rebate.” I was pretty sure Nick had told me he would cover the Brig’s salary for two seasons but he had only paid for one. I expected a mysterious hundred thousand pound donation to be made at some point in the coming months. “A lot when I sell the documentary. A little more when we go on cup runs, a lot more if we go deep. If I don't spend all my TV money I can use that, too. And I think most of all, when my boss realises we aren't going to get relegated he will open the taps. In January I hope to have, like, twenty or thirty percent more than I have now. I will be poor instead of very poor. Er, inside joke."
Chelli stuck his tongue out and did some sort of sigh. "The good people always have the less money."
I nodded. "Yeah but if it was easy, everyone would do it. Right now I'm chill about it. If we lose the league by one point I'll have a temper tantrum."
"Tantrum?"
"Like a baby. Waaah!" Chelli liked that. "Replacing Aff is hard because he defends and attacks, but recently we played a lot of 4-2-3-1 and that formation doesn't need a left winger. I could get a left-footed left-mid from the Exit Trials and that would be fine, probably. Or Josh Owens, this one, he could play left mid. He's fine but not as much of a goal threat from open play as Aff. I think we will do a lot of 4-2-3-1 and a lot of 3-4-3 so again, it's not vital to have an Aff guy. But then when I want 4-1-4-1 and I don't have a left-footed Expected Threat machine that's going to annoy the shit out of me. So if you have any left-footed attacking midfielders, that's something I'd be very interested in. I could use a right back, too."
"We have options. I can show you."
"Top." I looked at the list again and I sighed. "Michael Harrison. That was a tough video call. There are three brothers we call the Triplets, but they aren't actually triplets. I talked to the older two, Andrew and Michael. Basically I said I wouldn't have any minutes to offer Michael this coming season. Until January, I said, any spare minutes would go to under 18 players. I need to give the kids experience of playing in League Two to juice their numbers to give me a shot of winning the Youth Cup, but I didn't put it like that to the Triplets. I said the best thing for everyone would be if Michael joined Saltney Town on a permanent contract. Saltney is the Welsh team I own. He would help us win that league and he would develop into one of the best players in the Cymru Premier, while living in the digs with his brothers and being part of the gang and whatnot."
"He can live with his brothers? That is good."
"I think so, too. They lost their parents and they are inseparable so it's, you know, hard to separate them. It wasn't an easy conversation but the deciding factors were that their younger brother Noah would be getting League Two minutes, and that as the owner of Saltney, I would be paying Michael's wages from my own pocket."
"You pay him personally?"
"Yep."
"That is big trust."
"Yeah," I said, doubtfully. I had been honest with the Triplets, but there was an extent to which I was happy to string the younger brothers along to make sure Andrew stayed at the club long enough to reach his potential. He would be able to play in the English Championship and thus had a potential transfer value of millions. "Yeah!" I said again, with more conviction. Michael could have a long and happy career winning the Welsh league and playing in Europe every season, if he so wished. I was pretty excited about having my first near full-time squad member at Saltney. "He can't play better than he can play. I've put him in the right place. I can't beat myself up for that."
"No!" said Chelli, with impressive loyalty for a guy I had met five minutes ago.
"It's horrible how my brain works, sometimes, Chelli. I've helped those brothers and I'll keep helping them but I was relieved to get him off the squad list. Does that make me a dick? I don't want to be a dick. I think I might be a dick. But, hey! Dan Badford gets that slot and a wage."
"Dan Badford?" said Chelli, scrolling up and down the website.
"He's not there," I said. "No-one knows about him. But this kid, mwah!" I did a chef's kiss. "He's beautiful."
Chelli smiled. "Has he an agent?"
"His agent is the God of Football, mate. This kid acts like some sort of effete Brideshead Revisited rich brat who carries around a teddy bear but you kick him and he'll fucking lock onto you like The Terminator. He's silk, he's steel, he's got technique, passing, and heart. I don't know how good he's going to get but I'm going to get him there. He's so aesthetic. Beauty has a value of its own, do you know what I mean? I was talking to my mate Henri about him. Who did we compare him to? Oh, yeah. Ray Wilkins. And you know what's crazy about that?"
"I do not."
"Neither of us ever saw Ray Wilkins play! We only know he was graceful and unflappable and that's Dan Badford!"
Chelli leaned away from me and grinned his widest yet. "I like you, Max Best."
"Yeah, I'm ace. I think I'll have money for at least one Brazilian but we'll have to find internal solutions where possible and don't tell anyone but Dan's better than Michael already." I was spitting out too many names for anyone outside Chester to follow, but that was okay. This chat was helping me process my decisions and was giving Chelli a sense of how I ran my club. "There's one more guy who's leaving." I tapped his screen. "Glenn Ryder."
His eyes boggled a little. "The captain?"
I swiped on my phone to find a picture of Glenn. As was typical of the man, there were no pics of him alone with the National League trophy. He was always trying to share the spotlight, share the glory. Teamwork till the very last. I felt a lump in my throat and pushed those feelings all the way back. You don't get sad for Glenn. You get hyped. "Captain Fantastic. Two league wins back to back but where we're going, he can't follow."
With him off the books and the biggest pay rises agreed, my weekly spend at the start of next season would be 21,570. My budget was 30,000, leaving me a microscopic 8,430 to cover pay bumps for the rest of the squad and four to six new signings. Pitiful. Glenn Ryder was looking down the lens at me, daring me to do better. 30K was enough. We had the talent. I was on track.
I made a tiny little coughing noise. "He's going to Gibraltar. The rock on The Rock. Mateo has done a bunch of the deals I suggested and we will have a competitive squad. There's this team called Lincoln Red Imps and I reckon we are dead level with them in quality. I don't like it being so tight so I want two Brazilians to really smash things up. Because Chelli, if we win that division, we go to the Champions League and we get fucking buried in cash. Buried. In cash."
If Chelli was understanding me on about a 96% level overall, he understood that last part 100%. "Max Best. I would like you to meet some of my senior colleagues."
"No, mate." I put my arm around him and gave him a friendly squeeze. "You're my huckleberry."
My phone vibrated, meaning Emma had texted. The message was simply a link. Clicking it took me to the GoFundMe page I had open in a different tab. The numbers had changed.
£5,965 of £1,400 goal.
Raised by 405 people in 6 days.
I clapped my hands together. Number go up, mate! I was the King of Football in Chester! Confidence surged through me. Maybe I would find what I wanted in Brazil, maybe I wouldn't. But I had a base. I had a foundation. The people of Chester were behind me and together we could move mountains. If I bombed in my meetings with all these bigshots and bigwigs Chester FC would still have an epic season. The jigsaw wasn't complete. The map had pieces missing. But our path was clear.
Up.
Up up up.
While I was exulting, Chelli was watching me. When he thought it was safe to speak, he said, "My firma is going to a bar after the match. I don't know if you think it is cool but my bosses invited a lot of agents and directors. It will be a Transfer Room before the Transfer Room."
"Sounds very cool."
"In the morning if you like I will join you on the tour of this stadium. It is very good. You see the history, the dressing room, the media room."
"I'd love that. I really know nothing about this club but it's obviously massive." The referee blew and the action paused. "Let's go for a half time walk, yeah? I need to stretch my legs. Teach me about Sao Paulo."
"We call it Sampa."
"Lesson one. Sampa. Great." I checked the time and realised it had been almost exactly ten minutes since I'd started talking to Chelli. My first speed date had gone to perfection. "Time to go to second base, meu amigo. I'll buy you a vegan hotdog. Lead the way!"