6.

Wednesday, May 28

07:30

Chelli texted to ask for a quick chat before breakfast so I went down and met him in the tiny space near the hotel's pint-sized reception.

"Oh, good," he said. "It's good to talk before you do your hard training."

"I've already been for a jog," I said. Chelli gawped at me. I scoffed. "Don't look at me like I'm some sort of super-professional workaholic. It's to clear my head as much as anything. Set an action plan for the day, reorder my priorities, check my workings. You wanted to talk."

"Reorder your priorities?" said Chelli, interested. "Do you still intend to work harder than - what did you say? Harder than a bastard?"

"Absolutely."

"Okay, so..." He checked the area for spies. "It is good to demonstrate hard work for Toquinho but also it is good to show him fun, no? When our group is together it is big fun and Toquinho feels good about moving to your country. He sees the fun, he doesn't think about the rain. Am I right or no? First thing is to make him think England is not so bad."

"Yeah, I get it. Got to factor in the salesmanship, so to speak. You're absolutely right." I couldn't stop myself shaking my head, though. "We're going to drive back to Rio again. We could have stayed in the nice flat with the others. I could have been with Emma."

Chelli shrugged. "I think it is better like this. Maybe I am wrong."

"No, you're right. We don't need to spend the entire day here. Okay let's get on that motorway again. Wow."

***

10:05

We took the lift up to the top floor of the apartment and I wandered into the kitchen. Henri, Emma, and Luisa had prepared a nice brunch.

"Ooh," I said, taking it all in. "Fancy. What's this? Two and a half hams?"

"Henri went to the deli. I'm doing you a smashed avocado," said Emma.

"I'm making omelette," said Luisa. "Extra cheesy, just the way you like it."

Emma took a couple of steps to the kettle and came back with a very familiar box. "Yorkshire Tea, babes!"

"Lovely," I said. "I'm gasping." I gave Chelli a pleased nod. This was exactly what Tockers needed to see! The Chester people living in harmony, companionable, easy-going. All we had to do was teach him about umbrellas and he would stop worrying that it sometimes rained in my homeland. Chelli, though. Chelli smiled back in a strange way that got me mad suspish. I started to see numbers everywhere. Twos and twos that could be combined to make four. This brunch had nothing to do with Toquinho. "Hang on a second. What's going on?"

Emma pushed a plate of mouth-watering smashed avocado on toast towards me. "What do you think, babes? I put a secret ingredient on."

I lifted it, took a bite, and made a happy little noise. "Dat good," I said.

Henri put a finger to his lips, considered the spread he had organised, checked everyone was in place, and started. From this moment, Luisa translated everything so that Tockers could follow. "Max, this is an intervention."

I couldn't properly complain because I had my mouth full. I gave a thumbs down and bleated, "No, fanks. Stop doing interfention."

"You want to learn Brazilian football but you only have three more days to do so. Your response is to work even harder."

I glanced at Henri's informant; Chelli looked away. Emma slid a beautiful cup of tea towards me. Good timing! I took a sip, let the amber nectar restore harmony to my soul, and said, "The master has failed more times than the beginner has even tried."

Henri dipped his head to acknowledge the awesomeness of my quote. He said, "I would not dream of asking you to stop trying. Your desire to improve yourself and learn new things and to try new things is a constant source of inspiration." He smiled. "Sometimes I see it bubbling up in you. Days go by where you watch our training sessions and it seems to me you are not looking at the way we are but the way we could be. Then it erupts! 'We're doing the sweeper system!' Or after weeks of some internal agony you stand in front of us and you cry, megashrimp!"

Luisa translated and there was a crazy moment where both Chelli and Tockers became animated. Megashrimp? What did it mean? Luisa promised to explain it later.

"I want to learn Relationism myself," I said. "It's important to me."

"Yes, fine," said Henri. "But be reasonable. We have limited time in Brazil and you're running straight at a brick wall every evening. Let us get you over that wall where the real lessons are." He shrugged. "You may still do it all yourself but please consider what you learned from Cole Adams. Sometimes you need a different teacher."

"I don't think Geraldo is the problem."

"Then let me be your teacher. Just for one thing. In the interests of efficiency," he added.

While I was thinking of a reply, Luisa finished translating and I noticed Toquinho eyeing me. I wanted my players to be hungry to learn, right? To be willing to take advice from wherever? If so, I had to set an example. "Go on, then."

"Please note that it was the word efficiency that persuaded you. That might be relevant." He popped a little piece of cheese into his mouth and chewed on it. "When you spoke of Relationism the other day you complained that discussion of the topic veers towards the philosophical, but I think a spot of philosophy may help. You see, you are exceptional at positional football."

I took a spoonful of omelette and allowed myself a moment of smugness. "I have to say this is my favourite intervention so far."

"You see ahead in a way you utterly fail to do when playing chess. It is crazy how bad you are at chess. You are simply wretched. But change the pieces to football players and you are a grandmaster. As a player, too, you excel. Often times I've seen you dash between the lines to be in the perfect spot to receive a pass, sometimes even to receive a deflection. How do you know? It is uncanny. Then comes the cross, the through ball, or the thunderbastard. What the situation demands, you supply. Wonderful. Now take what you call the Riverdance exercise. There is no structure for you to undermine. No order for you to subvert. What emerges from the disorder? Fleeting moments of opportunity. It comes, goes, and is never repeated. The particles are never in the same space twice. You cannot build a mental map of the scene as you so easily do when playing versus 4-4-2."

I nodded. "Yeah. You do it though. You find it easy."

He sipped on a tiny cup of coffee. "What's the difference between you and me? Here's how I perceive it. I am in the middle of what you call 'the blob'. The ball comes to me. I check behind. If there is someone behind, I let the ball roll past me and my team scores one point. If there is no-one behind or the ball will be intercepted, I take control, retain possession, and go again." Toquinho was nodding along, deeply interested. Henri continued. "You? I think it goes something like this. You move into the blob and a teammate passes the ball to you. Freeze frame. What's in your head? The urgent need to score a point. If this pass won't lead to a point you are already trying to think five steps ahead. I could turn this way, pass there, get behind him, set up a river starting there. Of course, it doesn't work because there is no structure except in your head. Every second every player is moving according to their own interpretations of the space and the game."

"Yeah."

"You can never return to the river. When you do, both yourself and the river have changed."

"What are you doing?"

"That was a pause for applause. I said something very clever. Ah, well. The artist is cursed. Those are your first level thoughts. There are many more. You are also thinking, I must be good at this to impress Toquinho and Chelli and because Henri beat me at the high jump."

"Those results are contested."

"You are also thinking, is Geraldo a good coach? What would I do differently? Can I bring this to England? How does this help me this year? Next year? You are thinking of Chester versus Brighton four years from now. You are thinking which twenty players you need to sell and which twenty you need to buy." He sliced off some of the omelette and put it on his plate. "Are you angry? Are you receptive?"

"I'm receptive."

"Please don't misunderstand, my friend. It is that level of thinking that makes you a great football manager. But here's the philosophical aspect. The football you are used to, that you grew up with, that is in your blood, is structured and organised. Relationism takes away formal structure. Patterns are ad-hoc. Emergent. Trying to map it onto your current way of thinking is not only impossible but undesirable. If you want to learn Relationism, to really learn it..."

I was happily munching away and was surprised he stopped. "Go on."

Henri was searching for a delicate way to finish. Luisa stepped in. "You must remove the stick from your arse."

"Lulu," complained Henri.

Luisa moved along the counter opposite me, practically barging Henri out of the way. She looked me down and up. "You are twenty-four. You are on holiday. In Rio! With your beautiful girlfriend. You don't want to see her on the Copacabana in a bikini, you want to be with Geraldo. How can you learn Latin football, red-blooded football, when you are so cold? You are a shark, you are deadly in your home. But this is a place for piranhas."

Henri gently eased Luisa back towards where she came from and waited for Chelli to finish translating for Tockers. "Max. Relationism is the inverse of positional play. That's why you are so intrigued by it, yes? It is the inverse in all respects. Positional play on one extreme of the spectrum is structured and anxious. Relationism on the other end is chaotic and exuberant. You are a structured manager. We follow your system exactly or you get rid of us. You are a structured player right down to how you pass the ball. Plant off leg, balance, hit through the ball to the far side of the receiving player. It could be drawn in a positional play textbook."

"Do you think I'm anxious?"

He rubbed his lips a few times. "I would never say that," he said, "and neither would Luisa," he added, quickly.

I thought about what they had said so far and I have to say it did resonate. The blockage was in my head. I turned to Emma. "What do you think?"

"I mean... I think you are doing great just as you are. You're anxious about players leaving so you make it so good they don't want to leave. You're anxious about players getting injured so you sub them off when you think they're running funny. You're worried about your mum so you work hard and don't waste money, normally. I don't think you're anxious in a bad way."

"Neither do I," said Henri. "I only say this because you want to learn Relationism and I don't think you can with your current approach."

"Hmm," I said. "And you and Tockers are better at it than me because you know how to live in the moment?"

"Max," said Henri, completely in earnest. "I think you might be the person in the entire world least suited to this style of football. And I mean that as a compliment."

"We need to work on your compliment game," I said. I got a fork and pushed bits of food together. Omelette to avocado, ham to cheese. I pushed the sections apart again. It felt better like that. Spaced out. In position to receive a pass. I looked at the fork. Prongs. Players in an emergent line? No. Someone designed this fork, created a mould, someone else poured metal in and waited for it to cool. This fork was the result of spreadsheets and cost benefit analyses and processes. Guys didn't go round throwing liquid metal into random boxes to see what would come out. "I can't learn this, then. I have to stick to my lane. Stick to having a stick up my arse."

"No, Max," said Henri. "That's not what I believe at all. Not for one second. You will have a breakthrough one day. Perhaps you will be watching one of your 1980s action movies and one of the muscle men you like will say something epic and you will have a Road to Damascus moment. You will throw yourself into learning more about Relationism and you will smash it. Bish bash bosh. I only propose we try to manufacture such a breakthrough. Today. In time for tonight's training. What do you say?"

Emma and Luisa were on high alert. The sense of excitement was palpable. Even Tockers picked up on the mood - he had sat bolt upright before Luisa even started to translate the last part.

"Manufacture a breakthrough? What... What would that look like?"

Henri shook his head. "Again you plan. As always, you anticipate. No, Max. Today you must do the opposite."

"Ah. Right. It's going to be some sort of It's A Wonderful Life thing where I see what the world would look like if everything was overly structured. Something like that."

"You are planning again. Living in the future again. We want you to do the opposite. Are you willing to try?"

Something told me I would regret saying yes but there was one thing very clear - whatever this was, Emma was into it. "Yes," I said. She didn't leap and do a star jump, but there was a twitch of the lips, a twinkle in the eye.

Henri checked the time. "Let us stuff our faces. Then we shall go for a walk."

***

10:35

In the lift, Henri told a story that continued out on the street.

"You refuse to watch it, Max, despite my repeated exhortations, but I like the TV show Seinfeld. It is funny and the construction is very interesting. When the writers got into their stride they tried to have three apparently disparate storylines that would intersect at the end of each episode."

"With hilarious consequences," I said.

"That's the sort of cynicism we need to stamp out of you by 7pm There are many classic episodes. The Puffy Shirt. The Chinese Restaurant. The Soup Nazi. My favourite by far is called The Opposite. George laments that every decision he makes is wrong. Jerry says, then why not do the opposite? George scoffs but he has nothing to lose."

The story paused while we went in single file around a van that was stocking up a shop and taking up half of the pavement.

"There is a beautiful woman close by. George decides to act in the opposite manner to how he normally would. He introduces himself. 'My name is George. I'm unemployed and I live with my parents'. She loves his energy. 'Hi! I'm Victoria.' Doing the opposite works! Soon after they are driving to a date. A driver cuts him off. 'Take it easy,' says George, and the audience laughs. We know he would normally scream his head off, you see."

"I get it."

"It is really superb. I think of it often. I always imagined that when I failed at something I would try to come at it from the opposite angle. Alas, I have never failed. You shall live out my fantasy, Max."

"Wow. Er, hang on. I'm willing to - I don't know what I'm willing to do. But I don't want to eat chicken heart."

Henri stopped walking, looked up, and blew air from his cheeks. "No-one will force you to eat a local delicacy," he said, before setting off again. "Mon actual dieu. Okay, we are nearly there."

His words chilled me. What was I in for? What was going to happen? But that was the problem, right? I wanted to know the second-phase results and third-order effects before I so much as got out of bed. I needed to go with the flow more. Be less uptight. Do the opposite. "I'm excited!" I said, loudly. "I can't think of a single reason to run back to the hotel!"

I kept walking and at a certain point realised the others had stopped. I walked back a few yards. Emma said, "Don't panic, babes."

I looked around thinking maybe there was a Grimsby fan in the area or something like that. It seemed safe. "What up?"

But then I noticed the shop they were standing outside. One wall was covered in big mirrors. In between the mirrors were photos of Neymar and other footballers, plus actors and actresses I didn't know. There were some cylinders in the shop window. I spotted words like foam, cream, and gel. Inside I saw a hairdryer being wielded alongside a pair of electric clippers.

"Oh, hell no!" I cried, as I sprinted away like my life depended on it.

***

10:45

I hid behind the delivery truck and when it was clear no-one was chasing me, I moved back towards the hairdresser, always keeping a lamppost or a display of cheap plastic tat between me and the others.

"I've decided I'm ready to eat chicken heart," I announced, but the others ignored me. Emma opened the door and bade the others follow her. The door closed with the tinkle of a bell and almost instantly came a burst of laughter. They were bonding with the hairdresser.

I got closer and peered in. The barber looked normal but for all I knew he made a living ruining people's trims. Sweeney Todo. The Butcher of Brazil. There was a clock on the wall - time was running out in the day. Time was running out in Brazil. I needed to control my haircut the way I needed to control what happened in the dressing room and on the pitch. Power is nothing without control. All systems of control will collapse; who will be there to pick up God's dice?

I pushed the door open - the bell chimed like I was making a wish - and loudly announced, "I am excited to get a haircut in Brazil!"

Emma reached out her arms, took my hands, and pulled me into a chair. I had to wait for the previous customer to finish and in that time I experienced waves of dismay not dissimilar to waiting for Grimsby's final result to come through.

The others were laughing and joking and almost completely ignoring me. Far too slow but far too soon it was time. The hairdresser asked what I wanted. I pointed to the picture of Neymar on the wall. "If you give me a mullet like that I'll take you outside and show you what it's like."

Luisa translated. Chelli and Tockers laughed, which made me think she hadn't given a word-for-word translation, and now I was stressing in case I had made it more likely to get a shit trim.

I turned the chair round to face the mirrors but Emma turned me back round again.

"What, I'm not even allowed to see?"

"You'll see at the end," she said.

"Have fun," said Henri.

"Where are you going?"

"I know you would like me to hold your hand through this ordeal but there is a perfumery not so far. I want to visit and see if it sells my family's brands. If not, I will hype them up. Perhaps drive some sales."

"Hang on, what? Brands?" But they left, leaving me utterly, utterly alone. Apart from Emma.

"It's gonna be fine, babes."

"What brands does he mean?"

Emma settled down and got Instagram up - I could tell because all human intelligence fell off her face. "I don't know, babes. He never talks about his family's niche luxury perfume company, its factory in Grasse, or its charming shop in Paris."

I had more questions but I looked up and the Butcher of Brazil was eyeing my locks like Banksy staring at a pristine, perfectly nice wall. "Let's fuck this shit up," I think he said.

***

11:15

The others came back just before the guy finished - I think Emma texted them.

"Awawwww!" said Tockers, flicking his wrist around in a show of approval.

"Looks good, Max," said Henri, but he was displaying all five of the top signs of deception.

Luisa's reaction was the most interesting - whatever was on my head, she was into it. I hadn't expected that.

The Butcher did a few last things and brushed my neck with something the bristle size and texture of a witch's broom. Ow! The others, without exception, gathered around and started filming. They wanted my reaction from all angles. Something big was about to happen!

The Butcher turned my chair so I was facing the mirror.

He had done a fade at the sides and back - nothing much to complain about there - but he had given me a mohawk. Not a spiky punk-rock one, but a continuous triangle running from my crown to my forehead. As if that wasn't extrovert enough, he had dyed it green.

Green!

My first reaction was, I think, very British. I bit my lip and tried to hide my disappointment so as not to hurt the feelings of the hairdresser. I would tell him he'd done a good job, pay a tip, leave, and wait ten seconds before I launched into a rant.

But the others had their phones trained on me even more closely. There was more to come! But what? How?

The Butcher took his hairdryer and blew it on his hand for a couple of seconds. Then he blew the base of my pyramid...

The heat catalysed a chemical reaction...

And green turned to yellow.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

Movie magic right there on my head! Actual wizardry! The hairdressing equivalent of a backheel nutmeg last-minute winner. I had no idea such things were possible and it showed on my face. "What!" I cried, as the surprise took hold. "Holy shit!" I laughed. No wonder Emma wanted the moment captured from all angles - I was seven again and it was Christmas morning and there weren't four gifts under the tree but fourteen. I was bouncing on the chair going "wow!" I felt light as a feather, all worries and cares lifted from me.

I had a Brazilian haircut! Yellow with green highlights, the same shades as the flag. But where the flag promised 'order and progress' I needed to embrace disorder to make progress.

"Hairdo opposite!" I said, which was funny but of course the others had no context for it.

"What?" said Emma.

"Let's do the opposite," I said, still high on life. "Opposite Day! What's next? Let's play Pokemon Go!"

"Next," said Henri, all kinds of dramatic, "we Samba."

"I'm English," I said. "I don't dance. I throw shapes. Sometimes I shuffle around the kitchen singing into a hairbrush. At the absolute maximum, when a banging tune comes on, I pogo."

Henri pointed to my hair. "We have set you free, my friend. Opposite Day. What would your new trim say if invited to dance?"

He was right. I had slipped back into old habits almost instantly. "It would say... pump up the Jams Rodriguez."

"He's Colombian."

"Now who's being uptight?"

***

14:00

We had a Samba lesson in a studio with a view of the Copacabana. Life goals for Emma, who had an absolute blast, but it was not my idea of fun. I struggled through and got the dance teacher equivalent of a lollipop at the end. The main thing, I supposed, was to stop worrying about how shit I was and try to feel the beat of the music and do the steps. Honestly, mad as it sounds, the haircut helped.

"I thought you were getting it near the end," said Emma, giving me positive feedback in case it meant we could go dancing back in England.

"I think that was when the stick up my arse fell out."

Luisa had the decency to blush slightly and look away, but then we were at the beach. Henri pointed. "Max? Some beach football?"

A fit young man doing tekkers on the beach. Urgh. Could there be anything less British? We don't like tall poppies. We don't like show-offs. We don't like people with abs going around being topless. I was even more reluctant because I hadn't earned these skills and this body. Everything had been given to me. It was cheating. I ripped my shirt off. "The sand in my shoes will be a souvenir of the day Max Best brought football back to Brazil!"

"We have created a monster," said Henri, but I noticed he wasn't shy in taking his own top off.

We did tekkers down by the waterline and instead of knowing that I looked like a prick I told myself I looked like God's gift to women and showed what Technique 20 looks like when allied with Haircut 100. The longer we played, the more obnoxious I got. At one point I lay on my back and kept the ball up with dozens of tiny little kicks while I crafted a sandcastle.

Henri was pretty pissed off but Tockers thought it was the funniest thing he had ever seen.

"You like that?" I asked, as I kicked the ball high, got to my feet, and caught it on my instep.

Toquinho laughed some more but when he spoke, he said something interesting and helpful. The translation came as, "Your friend is mad because you do not share the ball. The ball gives energy. In Brazil we keep the ball on our team to build energy and take it from the opposition. When a player's mood dips, give him the ball. Share your energy with him. Not every pass is to make a hole or score a point. It is how we play here. Watch Dani Alvez play with Messi. He sees Messi is cold, he passes the ball. It is the wrong pass for the tactics, but it's the right pass for the humanity of the player."

Henri was on a beach in Rio with his top off; he didn't look cold. But he had a cold aura from being deprived of the ball. I flicked it up and hit a slow lob to his chest. He puffed up as his arms spread wide, and, yes, with all eyes on him, his energy spiked. This wasn't a completely alien concept to me - in matches where my teams were completely dominant I made the guys pass back to the goalie sometimes to keep him involved, to keep him interested and alert. But Tockers seemed to feel the principle on a much deeper level. Sharing energy, building energy, taking it from the oppo.

I was surely closer to understanding Relationism, but there was still that nagging feeling that it wasn't something to be understood, it was something to be felt. Progress, though. Undeniable progress.

Emma called out, "Are you having fun, babes?"

"Yes! I love being admired for my body, not my mind!"

"Don't forget your hair. We're admiring that, too."

"I've got a slogan for today. Want to hear it?"

"You betcha."

"I'll let my hair down!" I said, as I caught the ball on my thigh before booping it on to Tockers. "But my hair won't let me down!"

I glanced up for approval. All I got was an Emmy Two-Thumbs before she lay back on her rented towel. I wondered what I was doing over here when I could have been over there.

***

17:00

I snuggled next to my girlfriend on the Copa actual cabana. The sun was gentle, the sand was cosy and warm, and the waves lulled me to sleep. I was astonished to be woken and told we had to go or we'd be late for training.

That little half hour, forty minutes, whatever it was, had a powerful effect on me. The tension had oozed out of me. We went back to the flat to get our stuff then headed out to Nova Friburgo once more.

The Portuguese speakers went in one car. In the other, Henri drove while Emma and I held hands in the back.

"I've got to say," I said. "The sand that's all in me, like all in me, doesn't bother me at all. I'm completely devoid of regret."

"Very good, Max," said Henri, lips twitching.

"That Seinfeld episode," I said. "The Opposite. Remind me what he does that's opposite."

"Are you looking for more things to do, babes?"

"Yeah. Get it out of my system, right?"

Henri said, "He is honest with the attractive woman he meets. Instead of pretending to be someone he isn't, he announces who he is."

"I know who Max is," said Emma. "Skip that one."

"At a job interview he's honest about why he was fired from his last position and he berates the owner of the New York Yankees, who hires him."

"Max has a job. Anything else?"

Henri shrugged with his bottom lip. "Nothing especially relevant, I don't think. Max is not a loser like George. Max gets most things right."

"What don't I get right?" I said.

"You could do better with Banksy, for example."

I tutted and many of the negative feelings that had filled my chest when the kid had asked for more money came rushing back. "I've made an offer. It's the best offer he's going to get in his whole life. What more does he want? What more do you want?"

"Me, personally? I would like you to tell him it's the best offer."

"I did."

"Tell him again."

"No."

"Why?"

"Because it should be obvious. And because I just don't want to."

"Good. Do the opposite."

Emma squeezed my hand in agreement.

I could have thought about it, made a list of pros and cons. I could have planned what to say and underlined some key words and phrases I knew would resonate with Wilfred Banks. But I sighed and picked my phone up. "I'm excited about this," I said. "I think this is a good idea." I scrolled through my recent contacts and suggested a video call. "I hope he picks up!"

Annoyingly, he did. Almost right away. "Mr. Best!" he spluttered. "Why is your hair yellow?"

"Oh, right. Er, my friends think that if I want to learn Brazilian football I should have a Brazil flag on my head. Don't neglect your friend game, Wilfred, or you'll end up like me."

"Is it working?"

"The hair? We'll find out in a bit. Listen, not sure how good the connection is going to be so let me rush through this. I was pretty hurt when you asked for more money because it felt like a betrayal and maybe I'm overly sensitive to that after what happened with Raffi Brown, and of course that guy's at Bradford now so it all stings a bit extra. But that's my issue and that's something I need to work on, I guess. I probably won't.

"But you've got a choice and it's just obvious to me what the right choice is but maybe it isn't to you. Last season I gave debuts to fourteen teenagers including four from the Exit Trials. Folke Wester did none. Zero. I think his youngest player was twenty-one. He isn't interested in youth development. Maybe the owners will tell him he has to put these kids in the team and who knows, maybe he will.

"But from your point of view, that's a risk, isn't it? You're betting your future that a leopard will change his spots. I mean, I understand if you don't want to play for a manager with yellow hair - Christ, that would be the most relatable thing you've ever said - and maybe you gamble that your time in the reserves gets you noticed so you've got another club lined up when your deal runs out. It could work. It could. But it's a hundred to one. Honestly you'd be fucking crazy to try when you could go to Chester and be part of what we're doing.

"Okay but here's a different offer. Take your time. Wait for the pre-season friendlies and see what Bradford do. It's not really much of a guide to what's going to happen in the real matches but it might be interesting, right? If Wester starts Tom Hickman or some of these kids he's just signed, that might make you think, yeah, Best is an idiot or he was lying to me. If the first eleven starts old and gets older, you might think, huh. That fits what I know about this manager. Oh."

Henri looked at me in the rear view mirror. "What?"

"It cut out." I frowned. "I really didn't want to talk about Bradford or Wester. That's not my style."

Emma rubbed my arm. "You were honest, Max. That matters. Good. You did it. Now you can empty your mind for the session."

"Yes!" I cried. "I won't replay that conversation in my head and think of the twenty ways I could have done it better!"

"Good."

"And I won't think about how phones work. I mean, we're doing a hundred kilometres an hour. How does the signal find us?"

Emma leaned forward. "Henri, put some music on. Nice and loud, thanks."

***

19:05

Geraldo's Funky Football Faculty, Day Four

Luisa texted ahead that we might be a fraction late, which we were, which turned out fine for me because it meant I missed the warm up. A quick look around the astonished masses (my haircut was a hit, it seemed) told me we didn't have the full twenty local lads. Enthusiasm for the sessions seemed to be diminishing, perhaps because I was going every day, perhaps because I sucked. Or did I? Here was the big moment. Time to see if the opposite experiment had paid off.

I think Luisa had told Geraldo that there was no point doing European-style drills with me and that he should focus on Relationism; we got right into the good stuff.

We started with the Riverdance drill, now in an even smaller playing area. The goal was to pass along 'rivers', lines of three players. I fell immediately into my old ways. Stinking the place out, thinking too much. The more I tried to get out of my head, the more I was aware that I was doing so from within my head.

"Max," said Henri, who sensed my distress. "How are you doing?"

"Bad. The haircut does nothing!"

He laughed. "You're fine. Give it a minute."

I nodded and set my jaw ready to battle. Then I remembered that battling was wrong and I needed to do the opposite. What was the opposite of battling? Surrendering? I tried that, quite by accident, as I surrendered possession.

The stadium's PA whined, clicked, and fell silent. Then: music. The world-famous intro, the shaking maracas, the lyrics. Mas Que Nada remixed by the Black Eyed Peas.

Geraldo looked around, mystified, but it wasn't long until his toe was tapping. The ball took the rhythm of the beat. Oba, oba, oba! Pass, move, pass.

"One point!" yelled Geraldo, and I was surprised to realise I was the one who had earned it. Surprised because after dummying the ball I was already moving to the next connection. Already lending the ball to my mate, giving him energy, moving the ball around through the mass of legs and bodies. It had once seemed so dense, so impenetrable, but I had Brazilian hair now. I kept the move alive - we kept the move alive - and the energy built. The smiles came first, then the tricks. I flicked the ball over someone's outstretched foot. Henri scooped the ball over an oppo's head and I booped it straight back. He headed the ball and now I had three defenders rushing me. I let it land and pushed it behind me with a cheeky grin on my face.

"One point!"

It seemed to me we scored more when we tried less and that's because the drill wasn't about earning points, it was about making connections. Yes, there were technical aspects. A flick would break the press better than a formal pass, constantly scanning behind you to map the pitch was absolutely essential, and deception was very important. It struck me with a flash of sudden, blinding insight that the Attribute that would be most useful wasn't Flair but Teamwork.

That was why Relationism had struck such a chord with me! Teamwork. Individual skill was important, but what was more important was the collective.

19:20

At the break, lots of the local guys smiled and slapped me on the back. It had been a long time since some randos said 'oh, you're good at football' in a way that gave me pleasure and it's fair to say I didn't have to force this smile out of me. "It's the hair," I said, which got laughs. Henri came over, almost as happy as me. "Max, you were superb! It worked! What do you think? How do you feel?"

I sipped on water. I shook my head. "Yeah. That felt good. Felt right. I mean, it's easy. Yeah." I frowned. "It's easier when they play the music, though. It was good they kept playing it."

"Max!" laughed Henri, all but punching me on the shoulder blade. "She played it one time. Four minutes! The rest of the time you were in the zone. This is good, Max! You hear the rhythm of the dance even though you only listen to Manchester-based guitar bands."

"That's not true. I like soundscapes. Joe Anka diagnosed me."

He shrugged. "Joe knows better than me. By the way, the music? That was Luisa."

"Oh," I said. "She's got a good voice."

Henri's eyes rolled up. "Was that opposite Max or lame dad joke Max?"

"Erm, the second one."

"Bring opposite Max back."

"Good call."

***

The next drill was a new one, and it made me even more grateful to Henri for interventioning me. If I hadn't done well at the Riverdance, I might never have seen this new one.

We played by the edge of the pitch, against the touchline. There were two teams. The seven members of the 'defending' team - strangely the one with the ball - had to keep possession. The nine attackers had to press and force the ball off the pitch.

It made sense as a drill since a huge part of Relationism was to progress down the sides of the pitch and if you lost the ball you counter-pressed in a frenzy using the touchline as a sort of extra player. If you did it fast and furious enough, your opponents wouldn't be able to move the ball into the centre of the pitch where they had positional superiority. Worst case, you would give away a throw-in and give yourself time to settle into a defensively-sound 4-4-2. Best case, you would get the ball back and continue your maddening ascent up the pitch.

The problem was that Geraldo put me on the defensive team and, frankly, I broke the drill.

Doing the Riverdance so many times had made me think in new ways and now that my first instinct was not to play an elegant pass but to flick, scoop, or deflect, now that I was scampering around backing up my mates, sharing the ball freely and not worrying about outcomes, my side got the ball and kept it with relative ease. There were two sets of 'gates' set up that we scored points by rolling the ball through, but I got so good at the drill I stopped thinking about the gates and turned back into danger to see how long we could retain the ball.

19:30

Geraldo was not pleased, it seemed, but I wasn't too worried about his feelings. He wanted us to catch our breath and go again, with the team roles inverted and two players changing teams. He wanted me on the attacking side, though.

"Luisa," I said, "tell him I won't learn anything from that. It's piggy-in-the-middle with a twist. I'm good at that. Ask him to skip to the next topic."

This caused consternation, to say the least. Geraldo and Luisa bickered back and forth and based on the tone I was ready to hear the translation feature phrases like 'uppity little Englishman' or 'bad student' or 'his hair shames us all'.

Luisa's tone rose - when she wasn't savaging me she was fighting my battles, the delicious minx - and there was one final, tumultuous exchange.

"Max, he says he can't teach you."

My spirits sagged a little. I'd slipped back into efficiency mode. Trying to extract the maximum juice from the final thirty minutes of the session. I should have done the opposite. I should have gone with the flow. "Oh."

"He says you know tables and rivers and you cut the lights better than anyone he has ever seen, except maybe Ganso."

"I do?"

"He says you showed in that last drill that you proximate, you tilt, and you even yo-yo."

"Erm... when did I do that?"

"When you brought the ball back into the blob. That's the yo-yo. You didn't try to escape." Geraldo ran his mouth some more. "You wanted to make the connection more than you wanted to score points. He says that's too much overcorrection and you'll get into trouble. I tell him you are stubborn."

"Er, no need," I said, but she was already doing it. Geraldo went 'heh', but looked surly again. He talked more.

"He says he has nothing left to teach you. You can practise with your own club but these are the principles. He says you have the toolkit and now you need to try it out, play with it, see what you create and, more importantly, what your players create. He can't take more of your money when you don't need him. It wouldn't be... I don't know the translation. But you understand?"

I did understand. There was a board game we had in our cupboard when I was young. It said on the box, a minute to learn, a lifetime to master. The phrase put me off then, but not now. "It's simple. One-twos, rivers, movement. There are no particular steps to coach because it comes from the players. I have to start with my guys and see where it goes. It'll be different for every team. It'll be different for me in England than here. There's no point hammering it right now. Tutorial's over, go and try what you've learned. Yeah, I understand." I thought for a while. "Okay, let's do it now. Let's do a match with Geraldo as ref."

Luisa pitched it and he seemed surprised, but it was obviously a good use of the last twenty-something minutes.

We were just finishing getting things set up when I remembered - the Attributes! I was going to unlock two Attributes during the last session on Friday. I needed to do that now before I got locked into the Match Overview screen.

"Luisa, stall him for a second. I, er... Tell him I need to pee."

I ran off into the bathroom - the weird smell had gone; I had almost certainly imagined it.

I didn't have time to mess about with the curse - at any second it could kick me out of the shop. I sort of wanted to force the curse to choose only Attributes from the middle column to make sure I got Flair, but the clock was very much ticking.

Plus how much could Flair really be decisive?

Based on what I'd seen, when it came to Relationism, having the imagination to do tricks and flicks was useful but not essential. I would start experimenting back in England and I would unlock Flair soon enough and would be able to back-test any theories I came up with. But I certainly had no intention of tilting my team towards having Flair in every position. Centre backs still benefited most from Positioning, Jumping, and Heading. Wingers needed Pace. Strikers needed Finishing. Those were immutable laws of the sport!

I bought Attributes 8 for 3,500 XP and chose 'no' when asked if I wanted to select a particular column. As had happened the last time, I got a result from the middle column anyway.

Off The Ball

Now that was wild - absolutely wild - because I was sure that 'Off' had been something to do with offside. Apparently not! Off The Ball. What did that mean? Both Henri and Toquinho had good Off The Ball ratings, but the rest of the players in the session had low Attributes in general and there was little to learn from them. I mean, it seemed likely that OTB was a rating of the quality of a player's runs when they didn't have the ball, their 'movement', in football jargon. As always when I unlocked an Attribute it took me a few seconds to remember I had access to two full squads in my head.

I sorted the men's squad by this new Attribute and found forwards and strikers at the top and defenders and goalies at the bottom. Pascal had the highest rating, which made sense because he often darted into the very gaps I would want him to. For the women it was Kisi.

Movement. How well they found space, moved into space. Henri and Pascal were both good at keeping on the shoulder of a defender and finding a yard in the penalty box. Okay so it was basically the opposite of Positioning. That made sense: it was Opposite Day!

Attributes 9 appeared in the shop for the not-excessive price of 3,700 - only a couple of hundred XP more. I bought it and once again gave the curse free rein. It went through its little animation dance and spat out:

Decisions

With the time-sensitive work done, I wandered out to the pitch so the mini-match could kick off. I quickly organised the men's squad by Decisions. Ryan was top and Wes Hayward was bottom. That suggested the Decision score was linked to what a player did when they had the ball. Deciding where to stand was covered by Positioning. What about decisions like when to tackle? I would need to do some investigating.

The overall level was decent, though. I would need to compare it to a rival club but it seemed I gravitated to players who made good decisions. The women were a bit worse, dragged down by the low PA players. The new signings, Meghan and Sarah Greene, both had 15.

The screens vanished, replaced by the Match Overview screen, and now the only profiles I could see were the ones from the match. Henri had the highest Decisions score by far. That made sense - he usually did the right thing in any given situation. Toquinho's was good. It made sense that the two guys who were being paid to play football were top of this particular class.

"Max," said Henri, shaking me. I'd gone internal for much longer than I thought. "We have started."

I smiled. "Right. I was miles away."

"Do the opposite."

I put my hand on his shoulder and stared into his eyes. "You're a great driver, I'm not attracted to your girlfriend, and French cheese is better than British."

He looked up with his hands on his hips. "Fuck me," he said, "you are abominable." He let out a theatrical sigh. "She is wonderful, though, isn't she?"

"Let's make you look good, bro. You ready?"

"I was born re - oh, he's gone."

***

I played my first match as a Relationist. It started normal, but over time we tilted either left or right depending on some ineffable shared feeling. We played one-twos, we looked for rivers, we counter-pressed using the touchline to stop chances being created.

Once, the spirit moved me to leave the blob and hit a big diag. I thought Geraldo might complain, but he didn't seem to think it was out of the ordinary.

I would fuse these styles, wouldn't I? Create a hybrid. Not dogmatic one way or the other, but flexible, progressive, surprising. I could reliably hit a long pass. Pascal couldn't. The shapes we formed would be different every match. How could our opponents prepare?

I became the dominant player in the match, and I indulged myself by not completely living in the moment. I tracked the way players with low decision-making scores did low percentage things, while the ones with higher scores kept things simple.

Someone passed to me and I froze so completely my nearest opponent didn't even try to tackle me, like it was one of my marvellous deceptions.

Decisions. This was far more important than Flair. Maybe even more important than Technique! If I could put together a high Decisions team, whatever style we used, we would absolutely fucking slap!

I clapped my hands and did a Samba dance. Geraldo threw his arms up as he turned away from the atrocity he was witnessing.

***

Our opponents found it hard to maintain a Relationist approach and they pretty much reverted to something like 4-3-3.

What happened was what had happened the first time I saw Geraldo's men. When we had the ball, I didn't get XP. I suspected, and later confirmed, that the cost of the Relationism perk was decreasing. When our opponents had the ball and played 'normal' football, I gained XP.

Pretty odd, but I didn't think too much about it. This was a strange new world with strange new rules. Opposite Day. I shrugged it off. Went with the flow. Lent energy to Henri and to Tockers.

We were really starting to slap when the clock hit 8. Geraldo whistled. Time's up. I'm clocking off!

***

20:02

"Max," said Luisa, as we gathered around for our final ever debrief in Brazil. "Geraldo has one last drill he would like to show you, if you have time."

"Oh, yeah, absolutely."

"Geraldo read that you like movies. Have you seen The Last Starfighter?"

"No," I said. "Never even heard of it."

"He loves it. This drill is called The Last Starfighter."

"Wow. Okay."

Geraldo nodded and described what he wanted to the lads. They ran around in a whir, moving cones and putting six small goals into apparently random places at random distances. After a minute, I walked into a rectangle of cones that had been placed just outside the penalty area. It was about twenty paces wide, ten deep. There were nine balls spaced out around the top three sides of the rectangle.

image [https://ted-steel.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/08/11-6-starfighter.png]

Luisa explained my task.

"You start in the centre, here. You are the starfighter and you have to shoot enemies. You run to a ball and shoot or pass into the small goal. If you score, the boy topples the goal to show the enemy has exploded. Also, it is so you can't use that target again. You run across and strike another ball. Then you must shoot at the big goal to score against the goalkeeper. You must not break stride or pause for breath. Straight into the next wave. Two passes, one more shot. Two more passes, one final shot. You must do all within thirty seconds or the world explodes."

I shrugged. "Okay?"

"Do you need me to explain again?"

"No. I don't get it. What's Relationism about this?"

"Are you going to do it, yes or no?"

I didn't see the harm in it, and maybe if I kept an open mind, something would come of it.

The first goalie got into position and Geraldo blew his whistle. I closed my eyes, made sure I had the positions of all the balls and goals down, and calculated the optimal route. There were a couple of small goals close. I decided to hit those before the final shot. Most targets were quite far away, so it was better to hit them first while I had maximum technique and concentration. Although unless Geraldo did something to increase the degree of difficulty, I didn't see that it mattered much which order I went in.

"Ready?" said Luisa. Geraldo was holding up a stopwatch.

I checked the positions of all the goals again, plus where the goalkeeper was standing. He was CA 12 so it wasn't much of an obstacle, though I noted the keeper from the other team was pulling his gloves back on. "Sure," I said.

"Time starts when you do."

I sucked in a breath to make the scene more dramatic than it felt. I ran right, hit a ball towards the most distant mini goal, didn't wait to check where it was going - I knew - ran across to the other side, hit the next one, instantly took a shot with the nearest ball, surprising the goalie, who had been expecting me to take more of a run-up, and went into the second phase.

My second shot was left-footed, and I was vaguely aware that they had switched goalies while I was working on my long passes. I did one of the short passes next, and as I crossed to do the penultimate one, noted that two goalies were getting in place for the final shot. Cheeky Geraldo! I passed, spun, and for my final act, wound up an almighty thunderbastard, but instead of smacking the ball I chipped it down the centre, where both goalies left it for the other one.

One hundred percent accuracy and surely well within the time limit. There was a light smattering of applause. Henri was smiling and nodding. Tockers was very still with very wide eyes. Geraldo, though, simply took another hit of his cigarette.

"Luisa, please ask him what I'm supposed to learn from that exercise."

They had a brief chat. Back in English, she said, "That wasn't for you. That was for him."

Emma had a big smile on her face. She had recorded the whole thing. "I knew he liked you."

With that, Geraldo wandered off, smoking his cigarette, and I never saw him again. Until two minutes later when he realised his dramatic exit wasn't compatible with being paid.

***

21:00

We were in a lively, crowded bar, squashed in along with a lot of the local players. Luisa asked if I wanted a drink, and she meant an alcoholic one.

"Erm," I said, considering the matter with due care and attention. "I've done what I came for. Got some new ideas. New tools in my box. It went great. I think I'm allowed a summer break now, don't you? But it's Opposite Day so I should... I should say no? Or is taking the break already the opposite?"

Luisa sighed. "No-one with your haircut should talk like that. I get you a capri."

"So that's that," Emma said to me as Luisa headed to the bar. "Does this mean it's Emma time? Can we go full Emma two days early?"

Could we? I'd seen Relationism, got over myself enough to do the drills, and even played a quick match. I'd unlocked two Attributes and for better or worse, Toquinho and Wilfred Banks knew what it was like living in my world. "I'm all yours," I said. "Only, it would be good to pop by some matches in Rio so I can get Chelli some players."

Emma made a scoffing noise. "Detours to watch crap players is par for the course, babes. No skin off my nose if we have to watch loads of hot, virile Brazilians."

"I like it when you talk like that!" I said. "It gives me a chance to work on my jealousy! Thank you for these ulcers!"

"You're so funny," she said. "You know what's weird?"

"My hair."

"Oh, big time. But you went on this whole journey, trying to learn the opposite way of playing."

"Yes."

"But watching you in that match... I mean, I'm no expert but you played exactly like you always do."

"Really? You think? It felt completely different." I closed my eyes while I tried to visualise what I'd done and how I'd done it. "You know what? I'm not going to worry about it. I've done my Relationism fantasy and now it's Emma time. First up, drinks. Then we Samba. Then I throw you over my shoulder and carry you up to my hotel room."

She twisted her lips. "First, drinks. Second, Samba. Third? That depends." She touched my wrist briefly and I got goosebumps. "You're entering a chaotic, unstructured environment," she said, with a mischievous look. "One where opportunities emerge - and vanish - depending on how you behave. Think you can handle it, babes?"

I smiled, leaned back, and crossed my legs. "You want chaos but you've made a list. One, two, three. Oba oba oba." I shot to my feet. "Let's Samba right now."

"They're not playing the right music."

"I'll hum."

Emma looked around. "We'll look ridiculous."

"Yeah, we will." I held out my hand; she took it. We danced to music no-one else could hear. We looked ridiculous; I loved every second of it.