10.

Football glossary: Running through on goal.

The act of sprinting with the ball towards the opposing goal, often during a counter-attack. Often leads to a one-v-one situation between forward and goalkeeper. Famous players who mastered the art of running through on goal: Eduardo; Michael Owen; Max Best.

***

Wed 30th Aug - Junior Howland - Darlington - Tranmere Rovers - £60K

Wed 30th Aug - Calabash Barkley - Darlington - Tranmere Rovers - £50K

The curse confirmed the transfers in the morning, and I was intrigued to note that Mateo had told me the right fees. I seriously doubted I'd get the truth from most football insiders and I seriously doubted I'd have told him the true figures if our situations had been reversed.

It made me think of Mateo as a man of his word. Someone I could trust more often than not.

***

The Brig and Vimsy put my players through their paces. Fitness shit. Caveman shit. While my guys ran, and ran, and ran, I plotted.

I had 2,757 XP. Unlocking 3-5-2 would cost 2,200, leaving me with about 500 to put towards Injuries or Morale. Those were absolutely essential for someone in my position, but I felt that 3-5-2 was even more urgent. Every formation I owned used four at the back, meaning Trick Williams would feature heavily in the rest of the season.

Since I'd challenged him, Trick had been training better, but would soon hit his maximum CA. Even Pascal, who I could barely use, was already on CA 31 - Trick's maximum. Trick hadn't let me down in a match so far, but he was quickly becoming our weak spot and mixing formations up would stop rival managers developing plans against him. No point spending a week aiming to target our left back if we might play without one!

Our next match was against Spennymoor, who I rated as the ninth best team in the league. If I used 3-5-2 against them, we'd have an average CA between 41 and 42 depending on how training went. With Henri suspended, D-Day would have to play up front. Our usual 4-1-4-1 would have the same average if I picked Youngster to start. I wanted to play him every other game, but after I'd yelled at him, I was tempted to play him against Spennymoor and rest him in the (easier) home match against Hereford. He wasn't some thirty-year-old prima donna whose sense of self-worth came from being named in the first eleven, but he was still human. Being told off and left out of the next game might have been overly demotivational.

From what I'd seen and heard, the group had taken my latest rant fairly well. We'd see if there were any lingering effects, but Henri said that while there was more grumbling than usual, most of the guys accepted I was right. Notably, Raffi and Youngster didn't complain at all.

I saw the first signs of the group flagging and blew my whistle. I gestured to Vimsy. "Lunch," he called. "Back in an hour."

As they walked towards the credit card building, hands behind heads, blowing hard, I picked up an enormous bag of cones and went to lay them out according to my session plan. Many heads turned to see what I was doing, but the layout was nothing like any drill we'd ever done.

***

MD turned up as the squad returned. He had a guy with him - had to be Ryan Jack.

He was ready to train, apart from being in flip-flops. The drill wouldn't involve contact and Rochdale trusted him to make professional decisions. His boots were slung over his shoulders. He was short, thin, and scrawny, but had oversized thighs. Being old, his curly hair was receding, but only at the sides, above the temples - the rest was intact. He was one of those guys who would end up with a wispy, central, cotton-candy patch, an oasis of joy on an otherwise lifeless, barren moon.

"Max, this is Ryan."

We shook hands. "Ryan, thanks for coming."

"Yeah, no, delighted."

Two things. First, his expression was the exact opposite of delighted. He had a morose look about him, which was understandable if he'd started life as an Everton player and been reduced to this. Second, he was Scouse.

"Heard you're big mates with Jackie Reaper."

"Jack's sound, yeah. Good lad. Good crack. Kept an eye on him coming through. Kept in touch."

These few sentences seemed to exhaust the guy. I half-expected him to fall to his back and raise his leg for me to push on.

"You've not played much recently."

"Nah. Dale got some kids. Tyros. Little tearaways. Never stop running. It's like that cartoon. It's all pressing these days, innit? Never been much for pressing."

MD chipped in. "Ryan was planning to see out his contract, see what came up in the summer."

"Coaching?" I suggested.

"Not me."

Hmm. Annoying if he wouldn't even do the basic course so I could see his coaching profile. But there was no point making a big deal of it before I'd even seen him kick a ball.

MD continued. "Basically, Max, Ryan doesn't want to step down to the National League North. But he will for a two-year contract. For job security."

I looked at Ryan. "And for the thrills and spills of playing in front of an adoring crowd, of course."

"Not much thrill at my age," said the guy, and I realised his morose mood wasn't a mood. It was who he was. "Plenty of spills."

I laughed. This guy's humour was so dry we could slash our towel budget. Personality-wise, he was the opposite of Jackie. How had they ever become friends?

"Can we afford this, MD?" I was asking what the wages would be.

"For a two-year deal, he'll take what our top earners are on." 750 a week. A lot for a guy with no legs, and locked for two seasons. It'd still leave me with about a grand a week to bring in two inexperienced coaches... or one experienced one. I wondered if signing Jackie's mate made it more likely that he'd come back to work. "It's a pay cut, Max," MD said, like that's what I was worried about. "We're very lucky on this. Also, Chester's a bit closer to home than Rochdale. I think this could work out well for all concerned. If, of course, he passes your tests."

He was talking about football tests. Like everyone, he wanted to know what my new drill was. (Out on the halfway line, Jude was explaining it to my players. There seemed to be a lot of pointing and asking him to repeat things.) But there's more to being a footballer than being a footballer.

To Ryan, I said, "I've had some basic research done on you. No red flags so far. Mind if I ask you a few questions?" I wanted to weed out some of the nutjobs that infested the football world. There were plenty of dressing rooms where they were welcome. Mine wasn't one of them.

"Go for it."

"What shape is the earth?"

"What are the choices?"

"Round or flat."

"Round with flat bits."

"I decide to turn the club vegan. What do you say?"

"Two quornburgers, please. Extra ketchup."

"What do you think of the Daily Mail?"

"Max!" complained MD. "You can't ask things like that. It's not relevant, anyway. He's allowed his own beliefs."

"What do you think of the Daily Mail?"

"Not much."

"What do you think of women's football?"

"Love it. Have you read Unsuitable for Females?" That was a book about the Football Association's shameful ban of women's football in 1921. "Women's footy was getting too big, so they shut it down. They were unfit to govern then and nuttin's changed."

This guy was all right! A bit dour, but I liked him. Maybe he'd cheer up with a ball at his feet. "Ryan, you're an experienced pro. I'd say you've forgotten more about the game than I know, but that would be bullshit. My coming was literally predicted by Nostradamus. There's a TikTok about it. Still, you deserve better than to wind up here playing in a business park for some baby genius, but it is what it is. It'd be more respectful for me to go and watch you in a match but there's no time."

"I get it. And I'm here, yeah? Been a while since I had a trial, like. This," he said, nodding to the pitch. "Doesn't look like a match. Jackie said you do things different."

I perked up. "Jackie's alive?"

The hangdog expression didn't change. "Yeah. Said to ask you not to mention him in the match programme again."

I tsked. "Sorry, no can do. I need him back. If I have to get the entire of population of Chester begging him, that's what I'll do."

"He said you're a prick."

"Why are you here, then?"

"Because he was smiling when he said it," he said.

"All right," I said, clapping my hands, starting to walk towards the halfway line of the pitch where my squad were stretching out. "Bit of an experiment. New drill."

"MD said it's double sessions because you didn't like how they played."

"Right."

"In a five-nil win."

I stopped and put my hand on his arm. "Ryan, mate. This isn't Everton. This is Chester. We have standards."

He nodded. "That's funny."

It was funny, but you wouldn't have known it from his face.

***

The drill was simple. Describing it... not so much.

My entire squad, plus Ryan Jack, lined up on halfway. Half wore blue bibs, half yellow. In one goal was Robbo. In the other, Ben.

I'd choose an attacker and a defender. The defender would start ten yards inside the half he was defending. The attacker would dribble at him.

Good so far?

As the attacker got going, the Brig and Vimsy would unleash two more blues and two more yellows who would race along 'cone valleys' to help or hinder the attack. Every cone valley was a different length, and as you started dribbling it was practically impossible to keep track of all the lengths. This was to replicate the chaos of a real match, where players wouldn't run where you hoped they would, at least at first. Once outside the valleys, players could do what they wanted.

So it was a three-on-three attack, but starting in media res, and with an arbitrary restriction that no-one liked except me.

When the blue team scored, or didn't, we'd do it again, attacking the other goal with different players, so everyone got practice on both sides of the transitions. Teams were rarely the same twice, by design.

When I took Ryan and a fascinated MD to the starting point, Joe Anka called out, asking what this drill was called.

"Bad Boys," I said.

Long pause while everyone tried to work it out. They gave up. "Why?" said Joe.

I sang the theme from the Will Smith movie. "Bad Boys, Bad Boys, what you gonna do? Whatcha gonna do when you're running through?" There were a surprising number of blank looks, but I didn't feel like explaining.

We started in earnest, attacking Robbo and ten seconds later attacking Ben. It became a whirlwind of limbs, a frenzy of sprints and shots. The gaps between moves could be counted in milliseconds. Left, attack, right, attack! Left, right!

An example of doing the drill well.

I threw Pascal a ball, and he dribbled towards a yellow. He feinted to surge on the outside, but passed square to Henri who had just stormed onto the pitch (through a short tunnel) with a yellow five yards in front of him. Henri passed left, to Ryan, who emerged from his long tunnel in slow motion as Henri whizzed around him. Ryan took a simple touch that somehow bamboozled two yellows into stepping away from their men towards the ball. Ryan feinted to pass left, back through traffic, to Henri. That was a pass most of my idiot players would have tried. Flashy. Look at me! But Ryan leaned back and hit a simple, but glorious, thirty yard pass on the diag to Pascal. His first touch was perfect and he had the choice to shoot or wait for support from Henri.

As he always did, he played the percentages by passing. One day, that would become a weakness. For now, I didn't give a shit. What he did in the box was up to him; it was everything leading up to that last, decisive moment that I cared about.

"Very good," I called out as Henri applied the finish. "Bad Boys!"

And now an example of the drill done badly.

D-Day got the ball and immediately started doing stepovers. No point doing them when the defender is ten yards away, but it seemed to make him happy. To his left, Raffi and Aff were surging forward. D-Day decided to bypass Raffi and hit a beautiful, chipped pass out to Aff. The beauty was all in the execution, not in the planning; the defender read it and had plenty of time to intercept.

"Sad Boys!" I called, and a few watchers repeated it in tune with the song: "Sad Boys, Sad Boys!"

At first we had more Bad Boys than Sad Boys, but my assistants were ruthless in choosing who should take part in each round. Anyone who was struggling would get picked to defend after doing a big attacking sprint. All too soon, our guys were tired and back to doing inexplicable things. It really frazzled them when we sent four defenders, or five, breaking our own rules. Once, we only sent two defenders out, and that somehow caused an even bigger meltdown.

I was trying to improve their decision-making. Whether it was working or not, I couldn't say. I was in charge of the session, which meant there were no changes in attributes and no movement in CA. That was one reason I barely did any coaching - it was a waste of a session. But I thought it was important that I did these special events every now and then. Nothing could signal my demands more strongly than me showing the players out on the training pitch exactly what I valued and exactly what was important to me.

After a while, I began weeding out the worst performers. I cut D-Day, the Triplets, Steve Alton and a few more. In the next round I cut Youngster, Tony, and Trick. With only smart players on the pitch, the quality got seriously good, before plummeting - the guys were toast.

I blew my whistle - my players needed time to catch their breath, and I needed time to think.

It came as no surprise (to me) that Henri, Pascal, and Aff nailed it. Henri was shaky (but surprisingly willing) on the defensive side, but made ruthlessly good decisions when going forward. Pascal knew what to do defensively, but would sometimes be knocked down by our more cut-throat players. Aff was probably our best all-rounder - he was top three in both attacking and defensive phases.

None of that came as a shock.

No, the main surprise was how fucking good Ryan Jack was.

I'd been all set to smash Playdar to get his details. After all, Scottish Jo's profile hadn't shown when he 'joined training' up at Tranmere. I had needed to use Playdar to get his deets. But Ryan was 'in' our session in a way that Jo wasn't, and the curse offered up his profile with no superpowers needed.

Anyway, as soon as he'd joined the session, his profile had appeared, and it was not awe-inspiring. As usual, I first looked to his ability scores, and they did get the old ticker pumping. He had PA 151, which made sense if he'd once been thought good enough to play in the top division. His CA was 60. I could get a CA 60 central midfielder for thirty thousand pounds! That seemed like a hell of a deal.

But then I took in the rest of his profile, and I understood why he was available, why he wasn't playing for Rochdale, and why there wasn't a bidding war for him.

Mostly, it was the speed. He had acceleration 4, pace 6. I knew it'd be something like that because I'd watched clips of him playing and when I set them to double speed, he didn't get faster.

But it was also the strength and tackling. 10 and seven, respectively. In the hurly-burly of non-league football, central midfielders needed a bit more about them or they'd get bounced and buffeted all over the place.

And it was the heading. Actually, his heading was fine, but his jumping was six. Not much help at a set piece, this guy.

Except he'd be taking the set pieces. His passing was seventeen. His technique was sixteen. And to perplex me even more, his finishing and teamwork were both high - thirteen and sixteen.

This guy... was confounding. He was half of an amazing player, but most non-league stars had the other half, the physical half. What could I do with him? He was a luxury player. A passenger. When we were winning, he'd be great. But I needed someone for the games where we were the underdogs.

All those doubts and misgivings vanished as soon as he got going.

Running at one mile an hour, looking like his boots were made of recycled ship anchors, arms flailing like windmills trying to help him get up to his top speed of two mph, he was nothing like my dream footballer. But the first time he got the ball, he made the exact pass I was willing him to make. Same with the second, same with the third. It was uncanny, like the curse was controlling him more directly than with most players. But the tenth time he made the right decision, it struck me - he was my dream player simply because he was hyper-rational. He'd float around the midfield - an on-pitch floating megabrain! - keeping us on track, making the right choices - shit! I could make him playmaker and make my idiots give him the ball! If they stopped thinking for themselves, we'd increase our team's IQ by, like, a factor of ten!

A floating megabrain. Who cared if he was slow? The youngsters could do all the running. Put him in the middle of a 3-5-2 with Sam and Raffi doing all the donkey work. I started to salivate. I wasn't thinking clearly - I was dizzy. This was why I still didn't have a credit card.

I went for a little walk. What about the fast winger or the dominant centre back I'd seen on the transfer list? They'd be worth thirty thousand pounds, too. They'd help us.

I looked over my shoulder. Ryan Jack was explaining something to Pascal and Raffi. The morose Scouser was slapping his arm and pointing. Explaining how football worked. Pascal was mooning over him. The German yearned to learn more about this game, and he had seen enough in the last half hour to show him that Ryan was a master. Little Pascal Bochum was ready to sign up for an apprenticeship; he knew extraordinary talent when he saw it. After all, I said, standing tall even though no-one was watching and no-one could hear my thoughts, that's why he had come to Chester.

I'd already made up my mind when I saw Dean and Livia on the sidelines. There was always a buzz when a new signing first arrived. They'd missed the action, but seeing Livia there made me smile.

Back in the middle of the pitch, I waved everyone in. I'd barely talked to them since the Farsley debacle. But all that was more or less forgotten. Forgive and forget, as I sometimes say. When it suits me.

"Lads, I hope you made Ryan Jack feel welcome. Because if he signs for Chester today, you can have your afternoon back tomorrow."

***

I grabbed Ryan and MD and herded them, double-time, to Dean. Sent them off to do the medical, ASAP. I wanted Ryan in my dreams that night and in full training in the morning.

Livia smiled. "This guy's cheered you up."

"I just love Scousers," I said. "So bubbly. So alive. So very, very positive."

She looked down to hide an even bigger smile. "I like him."

"Me too," I sighed. "Now you and I have got one more thing in common."

"What's that?"

"We've both fallen for older men."

That got a little eye roll. "He's got a few years in him, yet."

She meant Ryan, but it became clear to both of us that I would deliberately misunderstand and make a joke about Jackie. We both sort of almost-laughed, and that was enough. "There's one thing that worries me, though. Ryan's still in great shape, still a valuable asset. But his level is above the level of our facilities, if you see what I mean. This guy played in the Premier League, for God's sake." I shook my head, performatively, but Livia knew me too well to buy it. I ploughed on. "I’m just worried our poor coaching will take its toll and his career will be over even faster than if he'd stayed at Rochdale." She gave me nothing. "Poor guy. If only we had an elite coach," I sighed.

She finally blinked. "Am I supposed to pass this on to Jackie? What's the plan? Emotional blackmail?"

"What's he doing today? Sitting on the sofa, drawing hair on his head with a ballpoint pen, watching Antiques Roadshow? When was his last shower? He's earned a few weeks of moping around the house. Earned a break. But that's not his destiny. He should be here, now, telling me the eight things that were wrong with my drill design. I'm going to do everything in my power to get him back here. Proclamations, post-match interviews, constant, obnoxious name-dropping. And now I've got his mate here, you'd better believe I'm going to use that, too. I've kept some budget back. I'd pay him full salary to come and do one day a week. Don't tell him I said that, but I would. If it's money, if it's status, if it's respect, I'll make sure he gets it."

She blinked. I realised I'd got a bit worked up. Hadn't really spoken about Jackie for ages, not even to Emma.

"Livia," I said, and though I tried to be calm, my words came out with heat. "There's another thing we have in common. You never gave up on him. I never gave up on him. And I never will. I'm writing a new story: The Prodigal Scouser. I'm going to weave a dream - Max and Jack, the genius fist in the bald glove, beauty and the beast, Fred Astaire and Brendan Rogers - I'm going to make people delirious at the prospect of what we could achieve together. I'm going to build the pressure, build the tension, and the day Jackie walks back into that stadium will be electric. The fans will go fucking mental."

She gave nothing away. Nothing. "What if he joins some other club?"

"Then I'll stop." I smiled. "I'm famously very reasonable."

She put her hand on a little post, gave it a shove to see if it would wobble. It was unmoved by her efforts. I knew she was about to ask me to stop. To leave him alone. Would she be able to move me? "It's Cash in the Attic."

"What?"

"Not Antiques Roadshow. He watches Cash in the Attic."

She walked back inside, ready to assist players who came in with a strain or a knock. I took her last statement to mean she wholeheartedly, unreservedly approved of what I was doing and how I was doing it.

***

@ChesterFC

Chester are delighted to announce the signing of Ryan Jack from Rochdale. The 35-year old midfielder's experience will be a valuable addition to Max Best's squad. "Ryan played with our very own Jackie Reaper," said the Chester manager. "If Ryan has half the impact his old mate had on this club, we've just made the signing of the season."

***

Friday, September 1 - Transfer Deadline Day

New perk available: Pre-loading

Cost: 100 XP

Effects: This patch allows the SYSTEM to pre-load new content, minimising deleterious effects.

I woke up to an underwhelming monthly perk option. It seemed like this patch would stop me getting headaches every time I used a new formation or tweaked the user interface to be the way I liked it. It didn't really help me in terms of progressing as a football manager, but I bought it right away. The headaches were legit unpleasant. And since that seemed to be that for extra perks in September, I went ahead and bought 3-5-2.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

It unlocked a weird formation - it was simply called 'Sweeper'. For 1,900 XP I could have a sweeper behind two centre backs, two attacking wing backs, three central midfielders, and two strikers. I'd have to buy it one day, if only to get the next one. But would I ever use a sweeper in a meaningful game of football? How would it work with the offside trap? Also, how many players could even play as a sweeper? You'd need amazing positioning and outstanding technical qualities. There weren't many Franz Beckenbauers in the modern game.

I knew one thing - I was done buying formations for a long while. My next dilemma would be whether to buy Injuries or Morale.

***

Friday morning's training was a match where we practised our formations. The first team did half an hour of 4-1-4-1, then half an hour of 3-5-2, while the seconds did 4-4-2 to replicate what we expected from Spennymoor.

One bonus of Henri being banned was that he played on the second-string team - a big test for Glenn and the other defenders. In the first section, Raffi lost his place to Ryan, while in the second, Youngster did. Adding their energy and dynamism to the reserves meant the first team had to be on their toes. The matches were ten percent sharper than normal.

It felt to me like the squad was starting to get really good. The average CA across the whole squad, including Angles, the ancient goalie coach, and the Triplets, was 37. Better than some first teams! My stated goal was to have the best first eleven in the league by the end of the season. But what about my seconds? How good could they get?

It was an excellent session, wrapping up a good week of CA pops. Most players were at least back to their levels from the end of last season, while a few had improved markedly.

So I was in a good mood when Livia came to get me. I followed her to the medical room, and felt my heart sink. What now?

Dean came out of his little room, smiling. "Oh, Max!" he said, and his smile dropped. Fake smile for the patients! That was progress. "We've got you a present."

"A present?"

"Yeah. For your recovery. It's going well, isn't it?"

"Yep. Think so, anyway. I'm going for my MRI after lunch."

Dean nodded, and reached into a shitty plastic bag. He glanced at me, realising his mistake. He should have made an effort with the presentation! It didn't bother me - I was shit at wrapping Christmas presents. I was also shit at remembering to buy them.

He handed me a little box. It was red and black and the logo said Airofit. The product displayed on the front looked like the part of a snorkel you put in your mouth.

"It's a breathing trainer," he said. "There's an app. You follow the instructions, breathe in and out when told, and it should, over time, increase your lung capacity. Build your inspiratory muscle strength and flexibility."

"Wow," I said, starting to open it. "That's weird."

Livia laughed. "Dean loves his gizmos. He's hoping you'll love it and buy one for all the players so he can make a little spreadsheet and track everyone's numbers."

Dean didn't look embarrassed. "Yep."

"Mate," I said, "This is exactly what I want from you. How much are they?"

"About two hundred and fifty."

"For the whole squad?"

"Each."

That'd be about six thousand pounds to equip the entire first team. "Fuck me. Don't set up your spreadsheet just yet, Dean."

"I know. But you said you wanted us to start thinking about where we want our future riches to go. So I've started. There's a subscription model with added features but I don't think we need that."

"Dean, I'm very happy with this," I said, feeling the box's weight. "Yes. This is exactly the kind of thing I want us to be doing."

"It helps with snoring, too," said Livia.

"Huh. Top Christmas present idea for MD, then." I looked at the thing. It was a chunky piece of plastic with two dials on the sides. I got the app, paired it up, and took my first lung test. I had to breathe out to empty my lungs, breathe in as hard as poss through the mouthpiece, then blow as hard as poss. Dean and Livia crowded round, watching the results on the app. "Three point three litres," I said, slightly light-headed. "That feels shit."

"But it'll get better," said Dean. He looked at his laptop in a vaguely desperate way.

"Go on, you weirdo," I said. "Write it down." I looked at the packaging. "Ten minutes a day? I can do that. I'll text you my numbers, what, once a week? Oh, look!"

"What?"

I was pointing to an image on the box. "Red when number goes down. Green when number goes up!"

They looked at me like I was mental.

***

The MRI went fine. Being in the machine with its insanely loud clacking noises is a horrible and scary experience, but I went into my screens and tinkered with formations and tried to optimise in terms of CA. When Henri was back, we'd potentially have some very sexy average CA numbers.

The specialist talked me through the images. Said I was all good. I asked him if I had what my mum had. He said there was no evidence of that, but there wouldn't be. I said I needed to know so I could decide if I would have kids or not.

He got still, went internal, and finally said that my mum getting it early did hint at a type that might be passed on genetically. He said it wasn't his place to say such things, but that the percentages were massively in favour of my children having long and healthy lives, and if not... he shrugged. It meant: life's a bitch.

I left with mixed feelings. Yes, I was in good shape. My brain was not full of holes and I felt completely confident about buying and using new formations and perks.

But while I wanted my footballers to make rational, percentage-based decisions... it wasn't so easy when it came to starting a family. My mother hadn't known about her condition when she'd had me. I did know. I couldn't ignore it.

I decided I would sit down with Emma and have a very serious chat about our future. When would be a good time to do that? I checked my calendar and decided to pencil that in for the year 2030. If we were still together in seven years, maybe the relationship had legs.

***

I trained with the women's team. Their first match of the season was coming up on Sunday - a pre-season friendly. The week after would be an FA Cup Qualifying match against Nantwich Town, who were in tier 7. I was treating it as a pre-season friendly, because if we weren't miles better than Nantwich, we were seriously fucked.

We seemed to be in good shape in terms of fitness and morale. Dani was back, and while her CA hadn't improved, it hadn't regressed, either. She was looking at Charlotte - our new midfielder - the way Pascal had looked at Ryan. Massive respect, ready to learn.

Overall, I was optimistic, but we were probably behind where I would have wanted in terms of CA. I was hoping that our first real, competitive match would kickstart our growth, and we'd get another bump from playing our first league match. Both events would signal that we were a real team.

The contrast between the men's team, with its CA 60 star and the women's, whose best player was only CA 23, made me even more painfully aware that we really needed a great coach and another striker. As always, I'd have more time to find them when the transfer window closed.

"Max," called Jill.

"Huh?"

"Duels," she said. I looked up and saw I was standing in front of Dani. She had a ball at her feet. Looking around, I saw we were doing simple one v ones. Try to dribble past the person in front of you.

I gave Jill and Dani a thumbs up and took a few steps forward, trying to get my defensive balance right. What I wanted was to be able to move left or right with equal ease. Most players had a stronger side so you could defend against their weaker foot, but Dani was two-footed. Not that she'd been playing like that... I fractionally turned towards her right foot.

She came at me, hesitated, and I kicked the ball away. Abysmal. Worse than D-Day. I held my arms out. "What the fuck was that?"

She didn't look at me.

"Your turn, Max."

We swapped ends and I dribbled at Dani. When I got close, I did a shitty trick, got it all wrong, but yet I was past her with the ball safely at my feet. Jill was watching. I said, "Did she even try to stop me?"

"Not really."

I pinched the bridge of my nose. Training with the under twelves had been great but I was starting to find it too easy; next week I was going to promote myself to the fourteens. The women were way, way better than me and I'd been enjoying the challenge of trying to compete. While they hadn't gone trying to smash my shins off, this was the first time one of them had gone easy on me.

"Switch," called Jill.

"No. I stay with Dani. She's not switching until she beats me. She's not doing any other drill until she beats me."

Jill typed it out and showed Dani the text.

Dani's head dropped. She wasn't into it. Well, she'd get into it. What the fuck was it with her? She was the weirdest person I'd ever met, and it was nothing to do with her being deaf.

She came at me. I snuffed her attack out in seconds. I went at her; I drifted past like she was a ghost.

For the first time since learning to walk again, I had done two successful dribbles in a row. It had been something I was looking forward to, a landmark of my recovery. To get it like this was infuriating. I threw a little tantrum.

Bonnie and Maddie were the next pair - a very interesting battle, there. They stopped what they were doing and came to calm me down.

"Max, what's up?" said Bonnie.

"Didn't you get your afternoon nap?" said Maddie.

"What's up with Dani?" I said.

"Nothing. She doesn't want to hurt you."

I sighed. "If she doesn't step it up, I can't join in the training. This makes no sense. She was the one who invited me to join in."

"That wasn't duels, Max."

I looked up at the darkening skies. I'd been enjoying these sessions, enjoyed feeling my improvement. It's hard to explain how motivational the sessions had been, especially when I got my body to do things it used to be able to do. One of the women would notice and make a fuss, and I would pretend not to like it. Yeah, losing these sessions would be a downer. But it was over; I was a liability now. "Fine. I'll get going."

Maddie stepped in front of me, blocking my path. "Let me handle it."

"What?"

"Man up, Best. Watch me fix your shitty broken superstar." She walked away, backwards, jagging her head from side to side. It was pretty awesome.

Maddie lined up in front of Dani, and rolled the ball to her. Dani, noticeably more determined, ran. Maddie sprinted forward, got into a good defensive stance, then stepped across Dani's path. The collision left Dani flat on her arse - and Maddie with the ball.

Maddie punched the air, turned to see Dani still on the grass, and gestured 'get up!' Not sure if it was proper British Sign Language, but what it may have lacked in grammatical accuracy, it made up for in clarity.

Dani, slightly dazed, got to her feet, and before she was up, Maddie was haring towards her. Dani stuck out a leg, Maddie did a spin move to go the long way round her opponent. This had the bonus effect of sending Dani tumbling.

Maddie dribbled to the end cones with her hands aloft.

Dani slapped the surface of the pitch and got up. What are you doing? she signed.

Maddie made a boo hoo crying gesture. Then slapped her fist into her palm, like Dani had done the day we'd stolen Maddie from her former team. Dani fell into a hunch and slapped her fist into her palm.

"How does this end with Dani dribbling at me?" I said.

"It doesn't," said Bonnie. "It's not always about you, Max."

"This time it was," I whined.

She pushed me. "Why don't you pick on someone your own size?"

I looked her up and down. "Because you're shit."

"Ooh, bad boy!" she laughed. "Come on, Best. Do your worst."

***

Henri: Some activity in Darlo. Looks like they're about to spend the money you gave them.

Me: Stop trying to make a rivalry happen. It's not going to happen.

While the women played a training game with Dani up front in a 3-5-2, I pottered around the touchline with my phone in hand. I was tracking the transfer rumours, while fielding calls from hopeful agents and even a couple of out-of-contract players.

The amounts of money being spent continued to boggle the mind. During the summer, the Premier League spent a combined £2.36bn on new players. God knows how much the Saudi Pro League spent, but in addition to that, they also made a £150 million bid for Liverpool's Mo Salah. Now that would have been a hell of a coup, but if they really wanted him they wouldn't have left it to the last minute. Liverpool wouldn't sell Salah if they couldn't replace him, and they couldn't replace him within a couple of hours. Maybe the point was to destabilise the player so they could get him in January.

The BBC, Sky, and the rest weren't very good at tracking non-league transfers, so I was glad of the constant updates from the curse. By the time of the next window, I'd have seen almost every player in our league and this information would be even more useful.

As it was, there was only one team on my mind. How would Darlington spend their money? Would Folke Wester even see any of it?

The answer came pretty definitively.

Thu 1st Sep - Jonathan Hurts - Ebbsfleet United - Darlington - £70K

Thu 1st Sep - Christian Dicks - Dagenham and Redbridge - Darlington - £40K

All right! Talk about a statement of intent. I was able to find out that Hurts was a left back and Dicks was a left mid. Darlo had upgraded their weak left-hand side of the pitch. But were these big-money signings actually upgrades? I didn't know anything about these players, and the problem was that I wouldn't get to see them until we played Darlo in November. We'd always be playing on the same dates.

Unless...

***

Match 7 of 46: Spennymoor Town versus Chester FC

Spennymoor is in County Durham and so they are one of Darlington's rivals. They played at The Brewery Field, a cute little stadium where all the stands had been painted black, making it seem modern and low-profile. There were loads of little details that I liked, such as a little space to eat a burger and have a pint that had astroturf as flooring. Pointless, but fun stuff that added to the matchday experience. I was into it!

The pitch was incredible - from looking at it, I was sure it was more astroturf. But no - it was grass. Proof that the groundsman had excelled. Very well respected in his field etc etc. It was an absolute carpet.

'Moors' had an average CA of 44, and I knew from last season that they had a lethal striker, Taylor. He'd finished second in the goalscoring charts with a very healthy 23. They also had a tricky right-winger. You might remember he had dicked us when Ian Evans was in charge, just after the Jack Litherland loan fiasco.

For that reason, I knew I wanted the defensively solid Magnus at left back for this one, and that meant starting with 4-1-4-1.

I had a strange compulsion not to start Ryan Jack. He was our best player, but he had barely played this season. I'm sure every other manager in the league would have thrown him straight in, but I was taking the ten-month view, and that meant easing him into the squad.

So: Ben, who had finally edged ahead of Robbo in terms of CA; Magnus, Glenn, Gerald, Carl; Youngster; Aff, Raffi, Sam, Joe; Tony.

That gave us an average CA of 42.5. With Henri out of the team we were down to two 'gold' players (CA 50+), but we had four silvers, including Raffi, who'd crept up to 40. Ben and Magnus were close to moving from bronze to silver, and Aff was very close to gold.

It was happening!

I pottered around, taking in the sights and smells - one of the pies smelled unbelievable; I really wanted one of those bad boys - and was struck by how friendly everyone was. The opposing manager, the referee, the Moors directors. They were all happy to see me. I asked MD about it later, and he said I didn't realise how big a story my murder had been. It'd probably stop when I led my team to too many wins, but for now I could be assured a warm welcome almost everywhere in the National League North.

The match kicked off, and I knew from the first five minutes we were in for a classic.

Spennymoor liked to play football and on their day felt they could beat anyone. The question was, how many 'days' would they have? They'd lost their first match 4-1 and won the next 5-1. Their strength was their weakness - they had three outstanding players - striker, right-mid, centre-mid - and there was a bit of a drop-off to the rest of the team. I felt that if we could gain control of the midfield, we'd take their striker off the table.

Nah.

He scored after three minutes.

But we stayed on course, playing mostly Max Best football, mostly fearless football, even if it was all a bit frantic. Then Sam fed Joe Anka, who whipped in a cross that Tony threw himself at. Diving header! Gorgeous angles, but the cross had done most of the work, and the celebrations were rightly centred around Joe.

One-all, and that was the trigger for a real ding-dong battle. Proper end-to-end stuff.

The Spennymoor manager, who had been really gracious and welcoming before kick-off, turned into a monster as soon as the match started. He never stopped screaming, and everything needed to be repeated. "Our ball! Our ball! Here we go! Here we go! Ref that's red! Ref that's red!" When he tried to get in my face, the Brig was there. "Mr. Best is not currently receiving visitors."

I have no idea how we got to half-time at one-all. It could have been four-three. Christ, it could have been seven-six.

Both keepers were having blinders. Ben was on eight out of ten, and the Spennymoor guy nine, which to me hinted that although Moors had had more shots, ours had been higher quality.

The lads were buzzing at half time, but got subdued when I decided to speak. I reckon they thought they'd get a bollocking.

"Dudes. That was incredible. The effort, the teamwork, the togetherness. Ten out of ten. What's the opposite of double training? Half training? That sounds like a punishment, too. Er... yeah, look. I'm happy. Now, it was all a bit frantic. A bit harum-scarum, and I'm not writing a harem story." I paused. "No reaction to that? That's a good line. Okay, please give me the same in the second half. The same effort and intensity and whatnot. But we are going to switch to 4-5-1."

That surprised them. They'd been expecting a change to 3-5-2, but that would have meant putting D-Day up front, which I wasn't keen on. He wasn't bad there, but he wasn't good, either. 4-5-1 would let me get Ryan Jack in the centre of three CMs, which was my heart's desire.

Taking off Youngster and putting on Oldster improved our CA to 44.7. These were dizzying heights! A couple of changes from Moors slightly lowered theirs. We were now the stronger team!

Of course, they had home advantage. Any reasonable manager would have been happy with a point.

So I went bonkers in the first ten minutes. I ranted, I raved, I waved my arms, I demanded more, I demanded higher. I got what I wanted.

But it was very little to do with me and my antics. It was Ryan.

Good work from Magnus to knock the ball out for a throw in.

It goes long into the penalty area.

May and Taylor climb.

May wins it.

The ball bobbles around - Brown knocks it out of the penalty area.

Jack collects it. He's got Spennymoor players all around him.

He turns away from one challenge, turns more, keeps turning.

A simple forward pass...

And Brown is away!

He hits it wide to Aff.

Aff sprints down the wing.

Great cross!

Hetherington was so close to it!

A stunning counter-attack.

And so it went. Spennymoor tried to press my new signing, tried to deny him time and space. But he was far too good. He was CA 10 physically, and CA 100 between his ears. It was unreal watching him.

And it wasn't just fancy footwork, neat and tidy passing. Twice he sprinted - yes, sprinted! - and launched into fierce tackles. In those moments his expression changed from one of boredom, indifference, to pure savagery. My ball! That's my ball!

He turned the tide. We were starting to dominate - the possession stats shifted our way. We added three shots to every one from Moors. Our passing got slick and rhythmical.

Then, disaster.

A little hamstring tweak for Joe Anka. He self-reported early, so no more than a week out, but he'd been playing fantastically well. I had both Donny and Pascal on the bench. Half an hour to go. I liked the idea of using Pascal for the last ten minutes when the other team was as tired as they were going to get, but for thirty minutes plus injury time? Ryan Jack was shorter than average. With two short guys, Moors would loom over us at set pieces.

I can't explain it, but I threw Pascal on. Maybe it was how great the pitch was. Maybe it was the way the match had been played in a good spirit and no-one was going to try to break his legs.

There were the usual laughs as he ran onto the pitch. It did look like we'd sent a ball boy on by mistake.

And for five minutes, we were forced back. All our hard work clawing our way into a dominant position, gone.

Had I made a terrible mistake?

Five more minutes of scrapping and battling and fighting for territory and keeping it tight. A time of dread - every set piece seemed like a death sentence.

And then:

Topps with a good tackle. He plays it short to Jack.

Jack plays a quick one-two with Brown.

And another!

Spennymoor don't like that; they're moving in.

Jack hits a forty-yard, outside-of-the-foot pass.

Bochum hurtles forward. He's got the beating of the full-back!

Bochum pushes the ball towards the corner of the penalty area. The left back swings a leg.

He misses; that could have been nasty.

Bochum looks up. Hetherington steps toward the near post, then checks his run.

Hetherington is in space!

Will Bochum pick him out? The ball is on his favoured right foot.

Bochum points to where he will pass the ball - every defender moves to intercept!

Bochum taps the ball left-footed.

GOOOOAAAALLLLL!!!!

Bochum swept it into the empty net!

An impudent finish.

He's swarmed by his teammates.

And a yellow card for the defender. The referee played a good advantage, there.

I celebrated like I'd scored the goal. Scratch that - when I scored, I didn't normally dance around. Let's say I celebrated like a Chester fan. Joyously bouncing around, high on the stakes and the disbelief. So many things about that goal had been amazing. The midfield control, the pass out wide, the first touch that skinned the defender, and everything that happened in the penalty box. Everyone knew Pascal would pass - it was just a case of him guessing where Tony would go and if the pass would be accurate enough. Absolutely no-one expected him to simply roll the ball into the net.

So, so satisfying.

Spennymoor switched to 4-2-4 with direct passing. Pretty sensible - we were crushing midfield so there was no point competing there. Instead, they'd try to bypass it completely.

I took another risk and switched to 4-3-3 with Aff, Tony, and Pascal as the three forwards. 'No forward runs' for most of the players, and our team mentality set to counter-attacking. Aff wasn't the most natural fit in the role, but it was a seriously rapid frontline.

It worked - we scored a third through unselfish play from Tony. He laid the ball off to Aff, who was in a better position than him. Three-one. I exhaled; I'd spent minutes second and third-guessing myself.

But Spennymoor hadn't even realised we'd switched formation, so they stuck with what they were doing. Maddeningly, it paid off. Their star striker touched the ball to a mate and got it back in the box. His finish, as they say, was unerring. Three-two, and the last five minutes were agonising. Pascal pressed like a hydraulic machine. Glenn leapt for headers. Ben brought out his Octo-man moves - slapping away shots and crosses like he had eight limbs.

The last word fell to Ryan Jack. Carl Carlile rose to head a cross away, and Jack was in the right place to get it, as he so often was. He took a touch, looked like he was going to send a long pass to Aff, waved his arm, instructing Aff to go wider and higher. He was really going to leather this pass! But this whole scene took so long a Moors player came up behind him, ready to tackle. Jack cocked his leg and found himself on the floor in a heap, writhing in pain. Howling in agony. The Moors player had already had a yellow card, and out came another. Two yellows equals red, and he was forced to leave the pitch.

I knew from his profile that Ryan was fine, and before he'd even got up I'd switched back to 4-1-4-1, with Trick replacing the old man, who hobbled off, supported by Dean and Vimsy.

When I asked him if he knew the guy who was coming behind him was on a yellow, and that's why he took so long to get his pass away, Ryan gave me a sad look. "How would I know dat, boss?"

Scousers. Never believe something until they deny it.

Three-two, then. Good win, away from home against a strong team. It showed what we were capable of. I liked how we played.

The victory music was playing. Vimsy stopped it.

He brandished his phone like Neville Chamberlain waving a peace treaty. "Darlo lost! York lost! We are going up, say we are going up!"

That chant went well, but I wasn't satisfied. A couple of minutes later, I stopped the music again.

"Henri, get back here. Jesus Christ, you're always in the shower when I want to talk to you. Holy fuck." I looked around. The dressing room was small, with a central bench dividing the space in half. "Everyone on this side. Pascal, stand on that bench. Joe, stand on that one. Come on! Everyone in here." I looked around, plotting. "Right. What we do is, Joe, you film me starting the chant. I'll be here, and I'll move back into the mass. When I turn around, everyone else joins in. Yeah?"

"What's the chant?" said Sam.

"Fucking listen!" I said. I cleared my mind, got my social media face on. I was nearly ready to go when something occurred to me. I looked over my shoulder and saw Henri still naked except for a small towel around his waist. "Put a fucking top on!"

He rolled his eyes, but pulled a Chester shirt on.

"Joe, tell me when."

"You go when you're good. I'll edit it."

"You know what I'm doing, right?"

"Think so."

"Make sure you put subtitles on."

"For Dani, I know."

"For everyone! Jesus fuck!"

"All right, Max. Go when you want."

I pinched the bridge of my nose, got calm, and remembered what I was doing and why. Put simply, it had taken me a while to realise what Pascal had done. He'd done the Bad Boys Challenge... in a match. At speed, with a defender trying to ruin him. He'd made a decision under pressure that had led to a goal, and in the end, a win. He'd done everything I wanted. And now I wanted the fans to stop mumbling 'blunderkind' under their breath. I wanted him to have his own song.

I nodded at Joe's camera lens, and got a cheeky grin on my face.

"Bo-chum! Bo-chum!" I said, splitting the name into its component syllables as I jiggled my shoulders. "Whatcha gonna do? Whatcha gonna do when he's running through? Bo-chum! Bo-chum!" I turned, and the brighter slash more musical players caught on quick. "Bo-chum! Bo-chum! Whatcha gonna do?" Pascal didn't know what to do - he turned red and floundered. But we were singing to him, and he was a footballer, so he folded his arms and tried to look tough. "Whatcha gonna do when he’s running through?" The players loved it, which meant the fans would love it, too.

At exactly the right time, Joe changed the chant. He yelled, "Chess-ter! Chess-ter!" and we went nuts on that.

***

Later, when Joe sent me the link, I saw that Henri had stripped his top off in the half a second between him putting it on and Joe pressing record. See what I have to deal with?

***

Also later, when I looked at the Darlo match in closer detail, I spotted that neither of their new players had played, or even been on the bench. That seemed odd. Most managers would have thrown them right into the team.

I did some digging and found - and this blew my mind - that both players were currently suspended for picking up a red card in a game for their previous clubs.

Darlington had signed a couple of bad boys.

Henri had said something about them getting harder, dirtier. Looked like Folke Wester was reshaping Darlo in his own image.

And I'd given him a huge, big push.

***

Sunday was all about the women's team and their first friendly of the season.

I'd asked Inga to set us up against the Puddington Pirates - the first team we'd ever played. They'd dicked us seven-nil. It wasn't that I wanted revenge as much as closure. Not just for the women, but for me. I was 99% sure Ian Evans had quit after that match so that it would be impossible for me to become the men's team manager.

Well, lookee here. See who had the last laugh on that one.

Another reason to play Puddington - their manager. I'd nicknamed her The Owl. From my point of view, she'd done something remarkable with her local village team. They were way better than they should have been; I desperately wanted to see her manager profile. Would she take a job at Chester? No clue. But I wanted to get those digits.

She turned out to be disappointing. Her superpower was Judging Player Potential - she had 11 out of 20 on that one. Her Man Management and Motivating were decent, but everything else was 5 or less. Shame.

We lined up in our usual 4-5-1 with an average CA of exactly 12. The Pirates had 8.

With Charlotte set as playmaker, we controlled the match from start to finish. Easy street. Bea Pea scored one, then another, allowing me to experiment with 3-5-2 in the second half.

I wanted to see if Dani could play as a second striker. Her profile said she could play as an attacking midfielder. Ideally I'd have dragged one of the striker icons back one slot, but I couldn't do that yet. Maybe when I had Wibwob. Anyway, Dani did fine. Not great, not terrible. I suspected I needed to be careful about playing people in the wrong positions, but using 4-5-1 every match was fucking annoying. I needed options, even if it was for a ten-minute burst.

Next, I moved Dani back, put a rando on a second striker, and experimented with the best placement for Charlotte. It seemed logical to put her in the centre of the three, putting her really in the heart of everything. But there was also the argument that putting her next to Dani would give us a stellar combination on the left, like I'd tried previously with Pippa. I tinkered with the formation pretty much non-stop, but didn't reach any concrete conclusions.

We won three-nil, in the end. The third was a powerful header from a Dani corner. Bonnie was a real handful at set pieces.

All in all, it was a ten-goal swing from the last time we played Puddington. The women played it cool, but after a respectful delay, they let loose. Dancing, singing, more dancing, more singing.

As for me, managing two games in two days was very, very decent for my XP growth.

I got 360 in total from the men, and 180 for the women because it was a friendly. I expected to get 360 from their league matches, same as for the men’s team. Some quick mental maths suggested I'd get 3,000 XP a month if I stayed in charge of the women.

Tempting, but I needed a proper succession plan. I went to talk to The Owl. She didn't have any tips for me about out-of-work elite coaches, but when I suggested I thought she had a good eye for a player and would love it if she sent any decent prospects to us for a trial, she got weird. It was only when Jill stepped forward to give her a hug that I realised she'd got emotional.

"What did I say? I'm sorry," I said, aghast. I thought I'd been doing better at not annoying people.

"It's not that. It's just so nice to get a compliment. So rare."

"Come on," I said. "You're killing it. You're top. You beat me seven-nil. Me! If you're not getting praise, it's because you're too good. It's just become normal."

Jill liked that - she gave me a little nod. And The Owl liked it as well. She promised to keep an eye out for hidden gems.

***

Monday, September 4

The best thing about being the boss is making your own rules, and the best thing about having a Brig is being able to plan your own capers.

I sent out a text blast delaying Monday training till the afternoon - guys with babysitting duties etc could negotiate with Vimsy.

We drove to Henri's place, essentially kidnapped him, then headed east.

Henri didn't speak for twenty minutes - I wondered if he was mad at me, but he was just waking up. His first word was "coffee", so we had to make an emergency stop to get one for him, which then turned into a whole drama when the Brig said he needed a tartlet. So that was yet another detour, during which we spent five minutes spitting the word tartlet at each other.

The idiots finally got the coffees and pastries they quote unquote needed, and we finally pulled into the car park at the Eastbourne Sports Complex. I put on my disguise: baseball cap, big sunglasses, fake moustache, and told the others to stay in the car.

The thing I'd realised is that I didn't need to wait for November to see Darlo in the flesh. I knew full well you could just walk into the training centre! Why had I not thought of this before?

I cut myself some slack; I'd been in a coma not long ago.

So I strolled around, calm as you like, my piping hot Earl Grey tea proving a useful prop for blending in and giving my hands something to do. I walked past the training pitches, just another guy, and re-scouted the players I knew so well. I also got Folke Wester's playing and management profile, plus the profiles for their two new signings.

While I watched, their new left-midfielder, Dicks, found himself through on goal, all the time in the world. Their new left-back, Hurts, appeared out of nowhere, steaming towards the sitch. Dicks unleashed a sickeningly powerful shot that Hurts blocked. Dicks rebalanced, and hit another shot, this time with his right, yet somehow Hurts was in the way of that one, too. Dicks got the ball a third time, nutmegged Hurts, and was taken out by Folke Wester. The three of them ended up crunched into a pile. As they unpeeled themselves from each other, they were all grinning from ear to ear. This was the new Darlington. Fast, fierce, committed, skilful. And the CA...

I sipped my tea.

Then, apparently more interested in my phone than the pitches, I turned right, cut through the reception building, waited in a toilet for ten minutes to make it seem like I needed more than five seconds to scout an entire squad, went out a doorway most people didn't know about, and was back in the car park before my tea had got cool.

The perfect crime.

The Brig didn't wait - he'd turned around so that we could drive off, just as though I'd robbed a bank. He wiped a bit of tartlet from his lips and accelerated away.

When we were clear, I removed my disguise. I grinned so hard I had to bite my lip to stop. I tapped the bottom of the window.

Henri, now awake, tilted his head. "What did you discover?"

I looked at him and raised my eyebrows.

"What, Max?"

"Tell us, sir," said the Brig.

"It's good news, isn't it?" pleaded Henri. "Tell me I was wrong."

"No, my friend. Your instincts were bang on. We..." I laughed. "We are in big trouble."