17.
Monday, October 16 - Five Days Until Kidderminster
From: Physio Dean
To: Max
Subject: Notes from Underground
I am a sick man, I am a wicked man. I am an unattractive man. My undiagnosed neuroses are legion, but I choose to believe they compete with each other rather than their host, leaving me able to muddle through as a somewhat functional member of society. I lie awake wondering what I'll get wrong next. Daily life with all its mundanity is joyless and solitary. My office is a cave burrowed into the side of another cave. Everyone I meet despises me, and I despise them for being justified.
Long ago, a fellow undergrounder on LinkedIn confessed that he writes scathing, vicious emails to his boss with the To: field filled in. Typed it all out, always a key press away from disaster. Typed it all out, and at 5 p.m. deleted and went home, cleansed and refreshed. Like most advice on LinkedIn, it's gold. It keeps me sane, though I'm too vain to delete my work. The man is my hero. I spend three hours a week trying to rediscover him, but misanthropes don't like and subscribe. My highest ever review was four stars. Uber drivers are one of many groups who rightly spit on me. The others are women, footballers, authority figures, and water park employees.
Today was the usual - a bunch of miserable men asking me to check their aches and pains. Players who start every match, players with fresh ink on their contracts, those players don't come. They have the same aches and strains as the marginalised, but they don't feel it. Donny feels the aches. Joe Anka feels the pain. Gerald May is starting to complain about his back. Max promised to use everyone through the season, and he has, but these three are sliding down the pecking order. Joe, along with Vimsy, along with me, is being punished. Left out of matchday squads, banished from the touchline, pitied and mocked by the others. The others who, to a man, joined in the fight at Boston. The inequity is staggering. Spite is the only logical response, and I came to work today full of spite. Yesterday, so close to catharsis: Max's precious women were losing, losing, losing, then got two jammy late goals. Of course my bitterness lasted only a fleeting moment, then I was happy for the ladies. I can't blame them for what Max does. The dust of understanding comes a microsecond before the collapsed ceiling of self-loathing.
Max. The talent, the looks, the girlfriend, the late goals to save his stupid dreams of winning the league at the first swing. Why does he get everything?
Then he comes in, boss baby himself, drops his bags, and the walking wounded stand up and insist he go to the front of the queue.
"It's just my neck," he says, not for a second thinking to wait his turn. "I bought a tent to sleep in. Try to get some quiet. Have you ever slept in a tent? It's shit. You're lying on the actual ground. Why's that fun?"
We're all looking at each other thinking this is a wind-up, but I sit him down and test his traps. They're rock hard. Doctor voice says, "Hoodie off, get up on here."
"You need a bigger tent," says Gerald, who is tall. We concede more from set pieces when he isn't playing, and there's only one person in the world who can't see that. "Otherwise you get yourself curled up and, yeah, you get cricks and cramps."
"Argh," says Max. I've gone in medium strength but he's so tense it's agony.
I try my soothing voice. It comes easier with the aromas and the plinky plonky music. "We'll get you relaxed, loosen these knots, then later we'll go in for some deep tissue stuff. All right?"
"Yeah," he says, but as I start making circles on his upper body, I feel him sink, through the massage table, through the foundations of the building, into snoresville. The podcast interview that was released yesterday morning had seemed like self-serving claptrap to me, but no. The boy is genuinely wrecked. I keep massaging while I try to think of all the parts I spat at. Scoffed at. Made rude gestures at.
Livia comes in, wondering what's going on.
"It's Max," whispers Joe. "Says he camped out in a tent and now his neck's mangled. Dean found his off button. Lights out. Never seen anything like it."
"Why don't you three go and train?" she murmurs in her most seductive voice. She's got that in her locker, but she only uses it in dire straits. "Tell Glenn no-one's to come in."
Annoyed, I stop the massage. Max stirs, Livia notices, and she gestures that I'm to move aside. I obey and she takes over, but she goes straight to his neck and starts a fucking ASMR routine on it. The result is immediate - a deep sigh, slow breaths.
"What about the treatments that are scheduled?" I whisper.
"Do it outside," she says, in a lullaby voice.
This hits me right in the spleen. Spite and bile bubbles up. Livia is not my boss. Livia does not get to make these decisions. Treating players outside is not professional. But she's a thousand percent on Team Max, because Max is a thousand percent on Team Jackie. No-one is on Team Dean. Not even Dean.
Joe tugs on my sleeve. "Didn't you hear the podcast?"
I am a few glands short of spitting a globule of acid in his face. "Of course I did." Max is tired? Boo hoo. Stop trying to be an action hero. Easy fix.
"Come on," he whispers. "Let him sleep."
He cajoles me into going outside, explains what's going on to Glenn, and then it's all about finding different solutions. Henri nominates himself as the stealthiest - says he has certain trophies he could show as proof - so he'll sneak in and come back with a massage table without disturbing Max. Glenn asks what else I need. I mention a few things, and twenty guys start explaining where we can get some without stepping foot in the medical room.
"It's not very cosy out here," I suggest, trying to play up the 'medical room should look like a spa' concept so that someone will see sense and wheel Max into the meeting room or something. Something sensible.
Ryan Jack says, "I've got this." He gets his car keys, wanders off, and comes back with a lamp he's got in his boot for some reason. He puts his Christmas tree air freshener on the top, slaps his hands together, says, "Diffuser."
And then it's bedlam. Energy's through the roof and training is paused while they rebuild my medical room, outside. Additions to the 'room' get sillier and sillier, with Raffi Brown noisily pouring Powerade from one glass into another - a water feature - and two young players are told to stand apart and lean towards each other, fingertips touching. This is, apparently, the wall art.
I keep waiting for the Brig or Vimsy to get a grip, get on with the actual training, but no. This is our life now. When Henri comes out, with Pascal and Youngster holding the doors open for him, he lifts the massage table over his head like it's a trophy, and the squad goes bananas.
While Carl and Henri, cosplaying as me and Livia, do a reiki treatment on Magnus, who is laughing his head off as they talk about unblocking his 'chlamydians', I look at the two kids who are there and say, "Who's this?" even though I know. Why? Some mad power play. Make someone justify their presence to me. I'm filled with bile and self-loathing.
Glenn hasn't noticed. "Vivek from the eighteens, and Tyson from the sixteens. It's half-term at school. Max wants them to get a taste of what professional football looks like."
"When's that going to start?" I say, using one of Max's favourite lines to devastating effect. But far from being hilarious, it bombs. Glenn looks embarrassed that I would say something like that. Tyson looks furious - I've made another enemy. Why am I so shit at life?
"Come on Viv," Glenn says. "I'll show you the ropes."
There's a bit of a comedown and in the gap I tap the massage table and say 'who's up first?' but everyone's in such a good mood they shun my therapy and get on with training. I put my foot down, and demand Aff lets me do his stretches. He doesn't want to, so I say he needs to get on the table or I'll tell Max.
What have I become?
...
It never rains, only pours.
I've been in my sub-cave, venting by email. I have a string of emails in draft form describing how much I hate Max. I fantasise about sending them out one day. The day I get my new job. As soon as I find a job that's somehow more of a dream job than working for a football club, and as soon as I fix the many and various character defects that make me unemployable.
I re-read today's missive, and while the act of writing it up is mildly therapeutic, the act of reading it brings up the bile and the spite and the loathing. Max is right to keep me in my cave, away from sunlight. Sunlight is the best disinfectant and I am a germ.
"Help! Can you help us?"
I shoot to my feet. Max, snoozing like an old bloodhound, wakes up. I'm spitefully happy to see he gets nap face and drool like the rest of us. "Come in!" I say, and it's my doctor voice. The one I try to use all the time, the one that only comes when it wants.
It's three people from the credit card company. Two young, one old. The old one has had a fall and hit something sharp on the way down. She's in tears, she's in pain, there's blood. Max puts his hoodie back on and offers the massage table. He helps lift her up, and I'm right into action.
I blink, all is quiet, and I've finished the cleanup and assessment and got her patched up. It's a nasty cut but I'm pretty sure nothing's broken. It hurts and it will get worse. I tell her all this, but she refuses to take any tablets I give her. She's shaken, but this suspicion of doctors comes from the pandemic. It's depressing, but there's so many like that I have to ignore it or I'll crack. I recognise her - she's the boss. Head of the UK operations of the credit card company. I retrace all my steps. Did I miss anything? Should we send her to the emergency room, if only to cover our backs?
Max doesn't know who she is, and is giving her double barrels of his so-called charm.
"Stop complaining, you big baby," he says. "It hurts. You're fine." The woman's underlings are scandalised, but they're too scared to intervene.
"It's broken! I can't feel my toes!"
"Dean's fixed you, mate. He's a genius. You've probably got more toes, if anything. Right. Let's talk about this cover. You've got all blood all over it. That's cost me, hasn't it? Hey, what gets red blood stains out? It's white blood, isn't it? Dean, where's the white blood?"
I work for a toddler. "We're out, Max. It's all stuck in the Suez canal."
He gets close to the knee. "Can you make this bruise come up in the shape of Jesus or something? Could make some cash out of that. Try to think holy thoughts. Although you've just seen me topless, so that'll be hard." He shapes his fingers into a square, like a movie director. "That knobbly bit could be his forehead."
"My knees," declares one of Chester's most senior businesswomen, "are not knobbly." She locks eyes with Max, they have some kind of contest, but when Max smiles, she does too. "It hurts like hell."
"Dean, what do we do? Do we need to amputate?"
"Shush, you," says the woman, rolling her eyes.
"Well," I say, and doctor voice is fading. Max is in charge, now. "We've cleaned the wound. It's disinfected. Next we bandage it. Then ice and elevation against swelling. Ideally some ibuprofen." Her face says no, no way, like I want her to suck on plutonium. If I keep my sadness off my face, it's a miracle. "It looked horrible but on the whole, I'd say you were lucky. An inch to the side could have been very unpleasant. You might have a tiny, tiny scar."
Max jabs his finger at her. "You heard the man! You're fine. Get back to work! No malingering!" For some reason, she laughs. He grabs a roll of bandage. "What do you do, anyway?"
"I'm a manager," she says, which is something of an understatement.
He makes a dismissive noise. "Nothing important, then." That gets him a playful slap. He looks at the underlings. Now that my tunnel vision is fading, I realise one is attractive. Very attractive. It feels like Max is winking at her, but I know that's the jealousy talking. Winking is what people like me think people like him do. "I'll do the bandage. I'm a genius at bandages."
Everyone in the room, including the two underlings, know where this is going. Max is going to act the maggot. And sure enough, within seconds the boss's entire leg, from knee to ankle, is mummified.
"Beautifully done, Max," I say, as I help the patient lean back on the table and put cushions under her head and under her ankles.
"Keep that on for, what, fifty-two days? Don't worry if there's a kind of rancid smell that develops. That's normal. Shows you're healing." As he babbles, I undo his work and rebind it properly. "Oh," he says, sniffily, "you prefer the Double Thatched Method. Each to their own, I suppose."
"And what are you?" says the big boss.
"Me?" says Max, and I'm gobsmacked to realise that just as he is ignorant of her status, she is also unaware of his. "I do a bit of this and that. Some copywriting. I did a TikTok, once. They retweeted it but didn't pay me." He moves my stool and sits on it so she can see him without moving her head too much. "And sometimes I talk a load of shit so people can take their minds off things." He looks at her knee. "How's that working out for you?"
"Good. I'm fine, now. I'll go, soon. Be out of your hair."
"Nope. You're staying. You're in shock and when you calm down we'll find out if you've banged some other bits. We're not letting you leave here with a broken collarbone or something mad." He gets up, goes into my cave, writes the number 1 on two post-it notes, and hands one to what I am starting to realise is the woman I'll be fantasising about for the next two years. "Come back in..." He looks at me.
I shrug. I'm sure there's no more damage, but Max is right to be cautious. And he has that weird sixth sense about when people are more hurt than they look. I've learned not to gainsay him. "Couple of hours?"
Max finger guns the one holding the note. She looks at it. "What's this for?"
"So we know which one is yours." He places the other post it on the boss's forehead, and she snatches it off, looks at it, laughs, and sticks it to her chest like a name badge.
The underlings leave, and Max sits patiently next to the... patient. (Christ. Glad no-one will ever read this.) It's not long until she's restless. She squirms around until she spots the diffuser. She relaxes. "It's nice in here." That's it. That's all she says. But Max's face lights up. He gives me a wide beam and double thumbs up. It's a bigger celebration than he does for most of our goals.
I don't know what it is, but this tiny moment pushes back the date I will unleash my resignation email storm by a week or two. I realise I'm smiling, too. "Max, can I... work in here?"
He muses. "I think your patient would like some action. She's not the type to sit and suffer." He nods at the treatment table. "Do you want to see a fit young man get expertly stretched and bent while both doctor and patient grunt and groan? Don't answer that. Dean, use extra oil. Extra grunting."
The boss laughs more. I get the feeling she doesn't do much of that. "Laughter is the best medicine."
"Ibuprofen works, too," I say.
She grimaces and turns away. Oof. All my good feeling gone in a second. Why did doctors become the enemy?
I go out and wait for a drill to end, then drag Joe out of the session. He's got a long-term calf problem that needs a lot of attention. Max banishing him from the team couldn't have come at a better time - we might be able to get on top of it. Joe is finding it hard to see the silver lining.
When we're about to go in, I get suspicious and block Joe. We both lean forward to eavesdrop.
"Expertise, athleticism, moments of surprise," Max is saying. "Right? And I love that. But my job is to reduce the surprise."
"How exactly do you mean?" says the boss lady. I realise he's never going to ask her name. He's enjoying this little drama, but he's not interested in meeting her again.
"It's like... I've got this system of playing that's very, very hard to stop. It's designed to be overpowered for this level, but still within the, like, realm of possibility for our players. They can do it. None of the individual moves are hard. It's just a question of doing it under pressure, and I take away the pressure."
"How?"
"By reframing their jobs so that the only pressure comes from me. Outsiders? They're welcome to their opinion, but no-one understands what we're trying to do. So why would you care what they think? No, you do what I want and you get praise, even if we lose. Because do what I want and we'll win almost all the time. We're better than almost everyone we play. It helps that my methods work. We're second in the league and on Saturday we play the team who are top. That could be tricky, but we've basically eliminated the surprise result already. You know, where weaker teams beat us. We're way ahead of schedule. The guys have been really working hard. We have buy-in from most."
"Most?"
"There's a few holdouts. People who think they're on board, but they're not. They understand some specific parts of their roles, but still haven't grasped the, ah, holistic view."
"Why are you laughing?"
"A football outsider used the word holistic a few years ago and everyone laughed at him. His team wins the league every year, now."
"I had no idea your industry was so fascinating. I see you playing on our fields but it all seems..."
"Homoerotic?"
"Medieval."
I tap Joe, and we sneak away, then return, noisily clomping our way down the corridor and into the room. Joe hops onto the second massage table and I get to work. Joe, at least, values what I do.
Max and the woman talk about management styles, the Art of War, Myers–Briggs. They're very different, chalk and cheese, really, but they've got a strange kinship. They've both got hard jobs, a lot of responsibility, and both are delighted to discover that another Tsar has been in this building the whole time. Max jokes about mentoring her, and she laughs so much it hurts. He's not afraid to make fun of himself. They don't teach that on LinkedIn. Maybe there's a TED talk about it.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
Max says he needs a tea and he'll get 'one of the noobs' to make drinks, and does she want a vegan hotdog or something? She's been losing the alpha personality contest, but she's got an ace up her sleeve - a PA who does her coffees just right, and access to all sorts of corporate snacks. She puts her phone on speaker and they place their order, with Max asking what Joe and I want before telling the PA exactly how he wants his tea brewed. Even by the standards of British tea culture, it's so convoluted it has to be a joke, but Joe changes his order to have his tea done the same.
Six minutes later, the PA comes, and I see the very moment when Max decides he needs a hot assistant of his own. It's when she bends to put the tray down and pushes her hair behind her ear. He's briefly on the back foot, but then he sips his tea and says, "By jove, she's done it! God, I'm in the wrong business. There's twenty men outside who can't follow instructions."
"They don't do what you tell them?"
"On the pitch, yeah. But there isn't a single one who can make a cuppa."
The PA slinks away, which unleashes another torrent of manager-bonding, and while I drink my delicious, perfect cappuccino, Joe sips his tea with wide eyes. Then it's back to work on his leg. Soon, I'm in the flow, a state where I barely hear anything. I snap out of it because Max is pacing the room, berating my other patient.
"That's a piss take! You don't seem to know who you're dealing with! We're going up! We've been in the Daily Mail twice. Massive photo of me with a future star wearing the club kit with a sponsor who isn't you!"
"You just said you were in the sixth level."
"Yeah, and then fifth. And then fourth. You're talking about paying sixth tier rates for fourth tier exposure. You're thinking local. I'm going national. Have you never heard of Ryan Reynolds? You're crazy if you think I'll hand over the family silver. I've told MD we're only doing year-long deals because every year we'll double our money. We're scoring goals, we're playing fantasy football, kids love us, we're in the FA Cup! The draw's this evening. Get on your socials tonight - the whole of Chester will be talking about it. We fucking slap."
"It needs careful consideration."
"Consideration? You're the one who brought it up! We're the sexiest thing in Cheshire. The stadium's capacity is five thousand four hundred. Imagine that! Two years from now, there will be twenty thousand applications for five thousand tickets. Christmas morning, 2026, there'll be some kid who gets a ticket to see us play fucking, I don't know, Barrow, and the kid will burst into tears. Tears of joy. Mummy! I got a ticket! Will Max Best be playing? I heard he slaps so hard you can hear it from space! That's right, little Timmy, he does. Now you've had your Christmas present, singular, so get back to work. Break's over. You've got to print a hundred credit cards before lunch or it's half gruel for the whole family."
She smiles. His rant is delightful, somehow. "I'm Ebenezer Scrooge, am I? There are many who would agree."
"Choose a number between one and ten."
"Seven."
"Fine. We're going to win seven-nil tomorrow night. And I'm going to rave about our sponsors. Glendale Logistics. And you're going to be on your bed with massive, swollen knees because you won't listen to Dean, looking at the ceiling, thinking, oh God, that could have been us. I chose the wrong guy to lowball. Okay? Nice chatting to you. Bye."
And then he walks out, and she tries to get up, but she gets a big twinge so she stays there. She calls her PA down.
While we're waiting for the PA, I'm thinking about what to say when she arrives. Something like 'what a fucking prick that guy is, am I right?' But then the Brig comes in.
"Marm? I'm under orders to take you home."
She shakes her head. "No, I'm not going home. I'm going back to work."
The Brig looks at me, his face a question. The PA arrives, which makes me want to say something impressive. "She can't work horizontally. She's not a pen designed by NASA." In my head? Great line.
"Sorry, marm. Orders are orders. I'm to take you home, put you, ahem, 'all cosy on a sofa with some pills, cigarettes, and gin, she looks like a gin girl', that was all a quote, and I'm to fluff up the cushions and make it all relaxing, and then I'm to put on a sponsor-friendly compilation of goals from Chester's season so far, which will be online by the time you get home under the title 'Look What You Could Have Won'." It suddenly hits me - while he's pretending to say all this with extreme reluctance, the Brig is absolutely loving it. He's revelling in the role, like a ham actor. "The compilation will include a semi-viral dance video in which Max Best, ahem, struts his stuff. And there will be a short clip of our former manager promoting a local food company. This is to showcase 'the many and various possibilities'. He assured me you'd know what all that meant."
A thin smile. She likes the Brig, and doesn't mind letting him know it. "It means he is a very strange young man."
"Indeed, marm. But he told me to check you weren't in pain before I tried to move you."
"Currently not."
"I am to encourage you to keep it that way."
The woman looks at me and I realise that between Max's weird charm and the Brig's ladykilling seriousness, she is willing to see sense. I step over to my little bottle of painkillers and the glass of water I'd prepared earlier.
She looks at the pills, the water, and then at the Brig. The pills revolt her.
"The boy trusts this doctor, does he?"
The Brig doesn't blink. The flirting is over. "With his life."
"Go on, then," she says, but I'm frozen. The boss lady, the hot PA, and Joe are looking at me with renewed respect. More respect than I have for myself. Max trusts me with his life, but not to sit behind him during a football match. Somewhere, my career has gone very much off the rails. "Before I change my mind," she says, and it's said kindly, but my brain interprets it as a sharp rebuke. I give her two pills, and she shudders, but takes them. She'll be glad of it in an hour or so.
Half an hour later, everyone's gone. I'm drained.
Max has come in, fallen asleep, promised to win seven-nil in the cup tomorrow, helped then harangued an intimidating CEO who had seemingly done no worse than express interest in sponsoring the team.
I made a few paperwork errors. Caught them in time, nothing serious, but I'm not thinking straight. I'll send Max the injury update and have an early lunch. Maybe a mega dose of B12 will help me make sense of it all.
I'll finish how I always finish: fuck you, you grotesque monster, I quit.
***
From: Physio Dean
To: Max
Subject: Injury updates
Hey, still looking pretty good. Almost a clean bill of health! Keeping an eye on Robbo's shoulder. Joe's calf is improving. Andrew's groin is sore but you can use him tomorrow and then we'll assess him after. I did some preventative work with Aff. Since Henri adjusted his car seat, his hamstrings have been much less trouble but if you could encourage him to do the extra stretches I showed him, that'd be very helpful.
***
From: Physio Dean
To: Max
Subject: Notes from Underground
UNSEND
***
From: Physio Dean
To: John Smith
Subject: Help
John, I sent Max an email that wasn't meant for him. Please can you intercept it. Please.
***
From: John Smith
To: Physio Dean
Subject: re: Help
He's reading it.
***
From: Physio Dean
To: Max
Subject: I'm fired, aren't I?
I'm sorry.
***
From: Max
To: Physio Dean
Subject: re: I'm fired, aren't I?
I believe you sent me that 'draft' because subconsciously there's something you very much want but are too afraid to say to my face. But I can read between the lines. So my answer is yes. Yes, you can buy a water feature. I like the ones where there are buckets that pour into other buckets, but I also like the ones that are just a whole wall of dribbling water. Talk to Magnus. If it's going to be more than five hundred quid, let me know.
***
Voice note from Secretary Joe.
"Max! Are you watching the FA Cup draw? Home to Salford City! They're owned by your lot! The Man United legends. Beckham and Giggs and Gary Neville and the other one! Bit of a glamour tie. We might get on TV! Chester in the FA Cup on TV, Max! You've brought back the old days. I don't care what anyone says about you, I think you're - "
***
Tuesday, October 17
From: Max
To: Inga; MD
Subject: WHERE IS EVERYBODY
Hello. Max here. If you look down from your ivory tower you'll see me on the touchline managing the local football team in its nice stadium. Capacity is over five thousand, I think I remember hearing? So my question is WHERE IS EVERYBODY
It looks like there are 200 people here.
WHAT THE SHIT IS GOING ON
***
From: Inga
To: Max; MD
It's the Cheshire Senior Cup. There isn't a great deal of interest in it, and season tickets don't provide entrance to these games.
Would you like to manage the game instead of sending me emails?
p.s. I'm not at the match. Because it's the Cheshire Senior Cup.
***
From: Max
To: Inga; MD
I AM managing, Inga. I could manage this one from a barrel over Niagara Falls. We're playing Stockport Town. That's a tenth tier team, Inga. West Didsbury could beat them. They don't even have ironic chants.
Listen. My team, our team, this city's team, are putting on a MASTERCLASS right now. This is incredible stuff that's happening. FOUR players are putting on ten out of ten performances. I am not motivated by playing in front of 200 people and neither are the superstar players I want to sign. We had more people at the posh school. This is DEMOTIVATIONAL.
Get people in for these matches. Give away tickets. We should have two thousand screaming schoolkids in tonight. I heard a guy BURP just now.
***
From: MD
To: Max; Inga
If we let two thousand kids in for free, we'd need more police, more stewards, more everything. We'd lose money.
***
From: Max
To: MD; Inga
Free tickets or I quit.
***
From: MD
To: Max
Please don't be so belligerent. Of course you want to play in front of big crowds. I understand. We will do something for the next round, I promise.
That's made easier by recent events. As you know, BoshCard is interested in sponsoring us from next season. It's early in the process but the numbers being discussed are already excellent. Agatha seems to believe she's catching a rising tide. Wonder why. (Well done, Max!)
And a bit of a strange one. We got a donation from a British military foundation. They claim to offer grants for companies that employ ex-servicemen. Apparently, when we hired John Smith that put us on a shortlist, and we 'won', so they're sending us 52,000 pounds. It's one year of John's salary. Curious, isn't it, Max? Is there anything you'd like to say to me about that?
***
From: Max
To: MD
Weird timing, dude. I'm trying to manage a football match, here. Don't you know how hard that is?
Also: when the final whistle goes, send Agatha (really? She doesn't look like an Agatha) a smiley face message. No, SEVEN smiley faces. And send her a link to the match report with my post-match interview.
***
From: MD
To: Max
Why? What are you planning? Don't do anything crazy!
***
Wednesday, 18 October
Chester 7 Stockport Town 0 - Stockport Stare Into Abyss; Max Best Stares Back
Chester annihilated a willing but limited Stockport Town team in last night's Cheshire Cup match. The poorly-attended affair was illuminated by masterful performances from Raffi Brown, Youngster, Donny Dorigo, and Joe Anka. Max Best brought himself on for the last twenty-five minutes, playing in a defensive midfield role from where he could scheme and plot.
The plotting and scheming fell apart in the last ten minutes, however. Chester, leading by seven goals at that time, found that their shooting boots deserted them. Star striker Henry Lyons had a blazing row with Best, seemingly because Lyons, after sending several shots into orbit, crashed a stunning half-volley against the crossbar. It seemed as though Lyons simply gave up after that failure. Best's mania for high standards was further undermined by Pascal Bochum's cameo, which ended when he outpaced two defenders, rounded the goalkeeper, and faced with an open goal, collapsed in stages, clutching his hamstring with the ball waiting to be pushed across the goal line.
Best was all smiles at the final whistle, and was unusually garrulous in the post-match interview.
"Great performance, very happy with that. Before the match I gave a team talk in which we looked at an internal PowerPoint from Glendale Logistics, our main club sponsor this season, and we talked about what high performance really means. It isn't just about delivering, it's about delivering on time, with a smile, and exceeding customer expectations. Glendale Logistics have a great motto. We truly recognise the needs of manufacturers and adapt our business around yours. I said that to the lads before the match and there was a lot of emotion. We talk a lot about recognising needs. In our case, it's the needs of the other players, of the fans, of the community. For Glendale Logistics it's about warehousing and storage, but it's much more than that. I'm obviously oversimplifying, but if there's one thing you learn as a manager it's that amateurs talk tactics, professionals talk logistics, and the real wise men leave it to Glendale! Anyway, we're happy to be in the next round, and if it's an away match, we can count on Glendale to help get us there."
***
Thursday, 19 October
Voice note from Fleur (Henk's mum)
"Hi Max. This is Fleur. Henk's mum. I went to watch Kidderminster's league match on Saturday and their friendly on Tuesday. Kidderminster Harriers. You know that. Sorry. I still can't believe you've asked me to do this. I'm trying hard not to fuck this up like I did first time we met. Deep breath.
[audibly reading from her notes] "Bob Horseman likes to set his team up in an unambitious 4-4-2 formation. Christian Fierce is a rock at the back. Kidderminster's defence is very physical. You won't have much luck if you try long balls or crosses. I know that's not how you play, but I'm just saying. They all go up for set pieces, too. The two central midfielders stay on the halfway line when they've got corners. To me it looked like Kidderminster were going to score from every corner they had, and I never felt they'd concede from one. I know that's 'eye stuff' but I looked at the stats and it seems true.
"The midfield is just all right - from what I've seen you'll dominate the middle. But the strikers are fast and dynamic. Peabody and Craddock. Can you play Carlile in the middle? This pair are a real handful. You need mobility and a bit of devil.
"What else?
"To me, it's clear why they're top of the league. They're a unit in everything they do. There are no silly mistakes. There's a lot of talking. It will be a very tough match. They're not fast, which is something.
"One last thing. Probably not worth mentioning, but in the second half of the friendly they took the strikers off and played 5-5-0. Men behind ball, shape, closing down space. It looked to me like they were practising what to do when they got a man sent off, but with all their players on the pitch. Not everyone has the you-know-whats to take a player off just to do an experiment. Or it was a punishment from Horseman for something they'd done wrong. Which is not something you'd be overly familiar with. Fuck. Why am I being passive aggressive? Sorry.
"Their three best players are Christian Fierce (centre back), Peabody (striker), Craddock (striker).
"Let me know if there's anything else you need to know.
"Oh, and thanks again for giving me this chance. I mean it. Let's just say it came at a good time."
***
From: Max
To: Fleur (Henk's mum)
Amazing. You're hired.
(This is an expression of extreme satisfaction, not an actual job offer. You still have to finish the scouting course. But this is super helpful. Thanks!)
***
From: Spectrum
Subject: MYSTERY SOLVED
Wow. Okay. I KNOW. I can't believe it. Hahaha. It's like Das Tournament when everything came together. But without Bethany to spin it into a masterpiece. Are you still in touch with her? Never mind that.
So you invited Tyson to train with the first team. And Noah found out on Monday. He was like 'where's Tyson' and people said 'with the firsts' and he flat out didn't believe it. So obvs he goes home, asks his brothers, they say yeah, new kid was with us today. Noah takes this... NOT WELL.
Yesterday at training he's zooming around, full sprint into tackles and being reckless. Acting out. I say he might want to calm down. He keeps doing it. I tell him to take a time out. He grabs all his stuff and flounces!
I'm on my own doing the sesh so I can't do anything about it. I'm packing up, thinking about if I should call Andrew. I don't know him that well, really, but it's probably my best move because I'm clueless. Like: WHAT IS GOING ON.
But before I can even do anything, Noah appears and helps me put the stuff away. He's sort of crying the whole time, and doesn't say a word.
Eventually, we're all packed up and I'm thinking okay it was good when we had something to do because now what? So I walk back to the pitch and sit on the bench and he does, too, and he vents.
First up, he's all, 'It's not fair, I'm way better than Tyson. Tyson's only been sent up because his dad's a sponsor. It's an actual scandal.' I'm trying not to laugh because I know your history with Tyson and the idea you'd - never mind. You know all that. So I'm being stoic, it looks like, which makes him have to do all the talking.
'Spectrum!' he says. 'Max only signed my brothers to get to me. He's paying a grand a week to two guys he doesn't rate because he wants me. So why would he promote Tyson?'
'Did he tell you that?'
'No. He hinted, though. My brothers think the same.'
'I don't know if there's one of you he rates higher. What I know of Max is it's all about the football. If Tyson's training with the firsts, there's a football reason. Meaning Tyson deserves it.'
He doesn't speak for ages. I start to get cold. Then he goes, 'I fucked up.'
And I think, what would Max do? I decide you would pretend you already knew the answer and be sort of amused.
It pours out of him. His first day with the group, he's so excited the only way he can deal with it is to get cocky. So he gets all Charlie Big Bollocks, telling the group he's their new star player, he's gonna score all the goals, get all the boot deals and that. And they're just rolling their eyes so he doubles down and he's like, 'I'm only gonna be at Chester for a year then I'll get scouted by a proper team and you'll all be begging me for tickets to watch me play Premier League.' And that's a slap in the face to the club, a slap in the face to you, and that's what does it. He's done a treason. He’s out.
Ever since then he's been manic depressive, trying to be super cool one day, not talking to anyone the next, because he knows he can't get it back, but he wants to. He's desperate, but how? He didn't give himself a chance.
So that's it! That's the mystery. All that loyalty you wizarded up has turned the group into a bunch of white blood cells, and along comes an infection and they do. Not. Like it.
It's just us and if you're one of us you get on the bus. He got on the bus, but with no ticket.
Poor Noah!
Whoo. I'm hyper. Now that we know what happened, we can do something. I'm going to think what. I think I can deal with it. I just wanted to tell you. Might be a tiny weight off your shoulders. You're not to blame for once! (Well, you are, but only in a good way.) Maybe I'll talk to Andrew just to be sure.
***
From: Max
Very happy to let you deal with this any way you want but it seems obvious. Get them in a room. Noah says he was trying to be cocky to impress them. They ask questions. They talk. There are tears. When they are on the floor emotionally, you say that Max Actual Best has sent you a letter to be opened in the event of any unexpected team building.
And you open the envelope and you say:
YOUR MISSION
SHOULD YOU CHOOSE TO ACCEPT IT
IS
WIN THE FA YOUTH CUP
And when they say it's impossible, you say, yeah but he means next year though when you're 17.
And they say no that's still bonkers. You sort of look into the distance and smile, and you go, 'is it?'
I'm only writing it out because it seems self-evident. It's hard to think there's a better way to handle it. Seriously, though, your call.
***
From: MD
The match programme editor has just called me. You know we'd never spoken, ever, before you turned up? Now we have regular chats. I spend more time talking to this guy than my nieces.
His latest complaint is pretty much everything about your latest manager notes.
From what he says, you have written 'ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES JACK A DULL BOY' seventy times in different fonts and with letters missing sometimes and the spacings slightly different on some lines. And I'm actually tempted to let it go in like that because programme sales are way up and people talk about them and this one sounds like a classic of the sub-genre you've invented - the 'terrifying insight into a broken psyche' notes.
I just want to be sure this is what you want people talking about during the match where we go top of the league. I know it's a movie thing but it's the Jack part. People will think you're laughing at Jackie Reaper.
***
From: Max
You're right. I didn't think of that. I'll do something else. Dostoevsky maybe.
***
From: MD
But what can a decent man speak of with most pleasure?
Answer: Of himself.
So I will talk about myself.
***
From: Max
are you ok bro
***
Friday, 20 October - One Day Until Kidderminster
From: Anonymous
Subject: Sponsored swim 1
Max. Check out Eddie Moore at Sutton United when you get a chance. If you like what you see, there's more tips to come. I'll identify myself on Saturday with the password 'I gave you that tip that'll be a hundred pounds please'.
***
From: Max
To: Fleur (Henk's mum); Inga
Can you watch Sutton United next? Special eye on Eddie Moore. Talk to Inga about your tickets, as usual.
***
From: J Planter (Groundsman)
Subject: The Pitch
She's holding up well. Couple of bare patches in and around the penalty area. That will happen if you let teams warm up there, which you'll recall I've said to you many a time. You'll certainly be pleased to know I've been tracking the Growth Potential, rainfall, temps, and base Nitrogen. I know you've said you don't want to hear it but base Nitrogen of 4kg per week at this time of year is pretty staggering. We've used the warm weather to repair and improve fertility. That said, I'd repeat my previous request for more budget for the bio stimulants I saw demonstrated at GroundsFest 23. Especially what with the TV people likely coming. We would like to present ourselves shipshape and Bristol fashion, I am sure you will agree.
***
From: Max
Jonny, what have I told you about Nitrogen? I don't understand it. I don't understand any of the words you use. For me, grass will always be TIME PLUS SUN = GRASS.
I also don't understand why you talk like you're the embittered groundsman of a country estate and you've lived there for sixty years man and boy and you're a suspect in the murder of Lord Baguette since you possess the only key to the shed in which the BASE NITROGEN is stored. I feel it's my job to remind you that you are THIRTY YEARS OLD. I know for a fact you go to CONCERTS.
If you wish it, smother yourself with bio stimulants and roll around on the bare patches. If it costs more than five hundred pounds, talk to MD first.
Also, you get very shifty when I ask about zigzag mowing effects. They are so cool and no-one does them any more. Let's buy a fucking specialist lawnmowing robot that puts those patterns on the grass. How much is a zigzag robot?
Also, I asked for comically long corner flags. I want corner flags the length of a pole vault pole and I DON'T think you tried very hard to find them.
Also, I know you don't want to think about digging up your precious turf, but I want to go underground. I want to dig it all up, put drainage, undersoil heating, maybe an ice rink that we can slide in and out, anything else that's cool. And to plan for that I need a price. So stop counting nitrogens for ten minutes and talk to a person who likes digging things to find out how much the digging will cost me. All right?
p.s. The pitch is very nice. From what I've seen so far, it's the best in the league. Keep up the good work.
***
From: MD
Max, I'm stressed. It's worse than the relegation battle. No, that's not true.
It's a different kind of stress. Second versus first. If we win, we go top of the table. When was the last time we were top? Years. I can't stand the hope! What if we do it, though? As long as I can remember it's been a dour struggle. How am I supposed to feel about this all-conquering, attacking, winning football?
Please just tell me you've got a plan or something up your sleeve or something. Please. I promised to keep the new board off your back. You owe me. No, I don't mean that. But please though. Boggy gets a super-please once a year. This is my super-please.
***
From: Max
Don't waste your super-please on something so trivial.
We are fit and fresh. No injuries. Morale is high. We've scored 32 goals in 7 games. That's a preposterous number of goals. While a couple of players have hit their personal ceilings, and a couple have hit the limit of what we seem able to do for them, we're at least twenty percent better than we were when we played York.
We're not underestimating Kidderminster. The players know what to expect from the number one team in the league, and we sent our new scout to watch them. Her report confirms what we knew and gave us some extra insight. Worth the small fee!
It'll be a tough game, then, but I'm confident. Don't be so stressed you forget to talk to your fellow directors. Trick Williams is our most important player. We couldn't possibly replace him. etc etc
***
From: MD
I've been doing that.
Okay. I'm still nervous, but I do feel better. Thanks. I'd take a draw to be honest. Our new sponsors (fingers crossed) will be with me in the box.
***
From: Max
This is Chester. We don't play for draws. This time tomorrow, we'll be top of the league. You can take that to the bank. Now if you'll excuse me, I have an enormous tent to assemble.