18.

Saturday, October 21

At the start of the season, I thought everything would build up to the Darlington match, but one of my post-match interviews had rocked their boat, as I'd hoped it would. By insinuating that referees were giving them an easy ride, I'd brought more focus on their hard tackling. A couple of red cards had cost them wins, and from what I'd heard Folke Wester had been forced to modify his tactics. My tactics. They were still winning, but it was a few percent harder than before. Destabilising Darlo had cost me something in terms of my relationships in Chester, but at the time I thought it had been worth it.

York City had also been slightly erratic, leaving Kidderminster Harriers with an easy ride to the top of the league. They had the meanest defence in the division, and their two strikers were near the top of the goalscoring charts. An hour before kickoff, after I'd handed in my team sheet, I saw that Kidderminster had named their strongest team, with an average CA of 51. Our starting eleven would be CA 48.8.

The Triple Captain and Bench Boost options loomed in my vision, but I swiped them away. Yes, the stakes were high - win and we would go top of the league, impress our potential new sponsors, lay down a marker, lift the city. But we were at home, we were flying, we had a slight morale advantage. My once-per-season perks were still earmarked for Darlo away. No, our secret weapon today was me. I would play the final thirty minutes as a DM, and Harriers wouldn't get a kick in our half.

I had almost 2,000 XP. Enough to buy Attributes 5, but the plan was to get Injuries, next, which was 3,000. It’d happen soon enough, though playing was slowing me down.

The Brig was with me in the manager's room, cosy, seemingly unaffected by the nerves and excitement that had spread through the city. He sipped on a cup of tea and picked his newspaper back up. Instead of reading his usual Daily Telegraph, he'd gone out of his way to buy The Socialist Worker, which was his version of a prank.

"You seem to actually be reading that."

"Yes, sir. I recently learned about filter bubbles. I am endeavouring to pop mine."

"Once you pop... How's it going?"

He squirmed. "This periodical reads like it was written by your friends at West Didsbury and Chorlton." Slight twitch around the mouth. "I don't agree with what's written here, but it is interesting to read different perspectives."

"Are you trying to say something?"

He frowned and tilted his head. "Sir? No. No, I don't think so. You are receptive to new ideas, though you have a blind spot when it comes to menswear. The scout suggested you use Carl as a centre back today, and you're doing that."

"She meant as one of a back four." I stretched. "I hope I listen to people. Don't want to end up as a dinosaur." I pointed to the paper. "Those guys don't listen. They'd call you a warmonger. That's where I lose patience with them."

He closed the paper and folded it neatly. He gave it an almost affectionate flattening rub. "We'll always need an army. But I don't resent them for dreaming."

We enjoyed a minute of dreaming of our own.

The Brig sighed and reached into his coat pocket. He withdrew a little notebook. "May I ask some questions?"

"Absolutely."

"Vivek and Tyson spent a week training with the first team. How did that go, do you think?"

"Superb. A new tradition is born. They were overawed, but I don't mind that. They have time to think about it, now. First shot of the vaccine, isn't it? When we do it again, they'll be way more ready."

"Who is closer to playing for the first team?"

"Tyson."

"Though he is two years younger?"

"Vivek's only just started playing the sport. I’m thinking about loaning him out to a small club so he can get a crash course."

He made a little note. "You watched several matches in schools while I was otherwise engaged this week. I believe that makes six school visits in total."

"I think that's right."

"Any players of note?"

"Fungrieve is still the best, but I found another couple of okay guys." A 16 and a 15-year-old, both PA 33. "There's talent out there. But I've asked Inga to stop booking more until further notice. For now, I'll dial down the scouting and hit it hard over the winter when our matches are postponed."

"Won't the school matches be postponed, too?"

"Indoor games, all-weather pitches, five-a-sides. There's enough to keep me busy. You'll help me find places to go."

"Very good, sir." He made another note. "You extended Sam's contract, but not Tony's."

"Yes." He waited. "Next season we can improve on Tony. And several others." Gerald. D-Day. Trick. Joe. Robbo. "And if we can't, we can offer a new deal in March or April. Save a bit of money on the pay rises." I wasn't often dishonest with the Brig, but I didn't see the benefit in outright telling him I planned to cut six players next season. It could filter through to the players themselves and affect their morale. The Brig didn't have Super Scout, so in this way he was more of a socialist than me. He wanted to believe in the best version of every young man he ever met. In the army, anyone could turn out to be Audie Murphy. In football, there was only one Messi.

"Why do you think Glenn Ryder is hesitant about signing his extension?"

I sighed. Glenn had been a rare disappointment. "I don't need to think. He told me. He thinks he can get a bit more base salary elsewhere. But also... he likes it here, but he doesn't want to stay if I'm going to leave ten minutes later." I shook my head. "I still think hinting that I'd go to Darlington if they asked me was a net positive. But it has made a lot of people kind of lose their minds. MD has only recently stopped treating me like Typhoid Mary. And being doubted by MD, by Glenn, by the fans... it doesn't bring out the best in me. Bit childish maybe, but that's how it is."

"If I may be esoteric... I feel I've seen you staring at Ryan Jack and Henri a lot recently. While biting your nails."

"They're not improving. I didn't really expect Ryan to improve, but he's sort of..." He was fluctuating between CA 60 and 61. "Sort of threatening to get better, but also threatening to get worse. It's perplexing. And Henri's simply stalled." He'd hit CA 58 weeks and weeks ago, and there was no sign of any further improvement.

That was distressing, not only because having a CA 90 striker would make my life a lot less stressful. No, it all implied that around the CA 60 level was the limit of where we could take players. What was causing the ceiling? Our coaches? Our facilities? The league itself? If we got promoted, would that automatically let us get another 20 points out of every player?

The Brig made another note. "MD has implied he'd like to whisk you up to the Director's Box after the match and to facilitate that, I might do the post-match interviews."

"Do you mind when he gives you little tasks?"

"It's always very clear that it's a suggestion. In which case, I'm happy to oblige. It's not my place to suggest that Agatha would be happier to see me than you."

I rubbed my lip to hide my smile. "Right."

He tried to stare me out, but it became a twinkling contest. When we stopped having fun, he tapped his pencil against the paper. "I made notes in case you suddenly asked me to do the interview. Themes from recent media coverage… Goalkeeper rotation. Vulnerability at set pieces. Our own powderpuff set pieces. No goals or assists for Max Best. You taking minutes from Youngster. Lack of harmony in the group. Pascal too short."

"Are they still on that?" I said. "How many guys has he got sent off with his pace? Is it two or three? Lack of harmony? We're not at the absolute high mark of a few weeks ago, but we're still way happier on average than any other team I've seen. Even West Didsbury."

"Would you like me to be uncontroversial?"

"Probably best that way," I said. I looked up at the wall clock. There was still ages to go. "I'm bored. Let's do the Dean thing now."

***

We found Dean out on the pitch, monitoring the lads as they did some light jogs and stretches and whatnot, under the watchful eye of Vimsy and Jude.

I motioned for him to come away from the others so the three of us could have a chat.

"Dean," I said. "I was so excited last night I couldn't sleep. So I read your email again." He shrank. Got a hunted kind of look. We hadn't talked about it face to face. I suppose he'd been wishing I would never bring it up. I nodded. "Yeah, it's pretty intense stuff. You write loads of these, right?"

He looked left and right as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. Flight animal. "I do one on Monday, one on Friday. But, you know, it's just - "

"The Brig's been encouraging me to get out of my echo chamber and seek out new perspectives. And the thing is, I loved your email. I know that makes me a bit of a crazy person. I genuinely think I'd pay ten dollars a month to get these sent to my inbox twice a week. And I'd understand if you needed to take a break every now and then to keep the quality up." Dean looked at the Brig to see if he was the only one not enjoying this conversation. I continued. "Anyway, last night I had weird dreams that I was turning into an insect or something, but when I woke up, there was this thought nagging at me." I took my phone out and got the screenshot I'd taken. I turned my phone to show him the screen, then flipped it round and read it aloud anyway. "I'm too vain to delete my work. Mate. Have you got a stash of these email drafts going back years?"

"No," he said. We waited. "Yes," he said. "But, Max - "

"Did you write one the Monday after my murder?"

He stopped jiggling. "Oh. I'm... No. But... The Tuesday or the Wednesday, maybe. But I wasn't slagging you off, then. I promise!"

I raised my eyes to the sky. The forecast was for some rain in the second half. "Mate. You're allowed to slag me off. In private. You think I don't know I'm annoying? I annoy myself! I annoy you, don't I Brig?"

"I find your antics charming, sir."

"Dean, let's cut the shit. You were one of the first on the crime scene. I've learned this week that you're highly observant. Highly observant. Do you get where this is going?"

"Yes. No."

"I want you to let the Brig read the email you wrote after the attack. I'd love to read it myself but we talked about it and you probably wouldn't want that. Frustrating, but if the roles were reversed, I wouldn't want my boss reading my diary either."

"But, then, why?"

"Because someone tried to kill me, mate! And the Brig's out of leads. Maybe you noticed something and you wrote it down and you don't think it's important but the Brig can use it."

"Oh."

"Look, the Brig's going to read it. And I'll say, 'Well?' And he'll puff out his cheeks and say 'Physio Dean is batshit crazy'. And I'll say 'Yes but is there anything we didn't know?'" Dean bit his bottom lip while looking at his shoes. "And there won't be anything useful or new or relevant to the case. But maybe there will be. And maybe you'll be the guy who caught my murderer. Know what I mean? I just... what if? Right? What if that's it?" I could tell he was thinking about what sociopathic things he'd written that day. "Brig, tell Dean how many people you've killed."

"That's classified."

I raised my thumb. "See? Army secrets. Don't ask, don't tell. Right?"

The Brig did a tiny shake of the head while he smiled. "That's a different thing altogether, but yes. I won't repeat anything, Dean."

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. "It's humiliating."

I stretched my arms. "I'll take a yes or a no, mate."

"Yes," he mumbled.

"Give us a second," I said to the Brig. He went over to chat to Vimsy. I looked at Dean. Proper eye contact for the first time this week. "I should probably keep my mouth shut because I'm not good at this sort of thing." I inhaled. "How many football physiotherapists do you think have saved someone's life?"

"In this country? I don't know. Fifty?"

"Fifty? I thought the answer was one. You."

"Footballers are always collapsing on the pitch and getting resuscitated. There are players who have heart attacks."

"Right. Okay. How many football physios have saved a CEO's leg from being amputated and ended up getting their club a massive new sponsorship deal?"

"That one is zero. Including me."

I made a harsh buzzing noise. "Nope. You made the room nice. You made it so the credit card people - what did you call them? The underlings - thought to come to us first. They walk past it all the time, probably talk about how nice it smells, talk about how everyone's always laughing in there. You know what? It's probably not even that. It's probably your reputation."

"My reputation?"

"You fucking unsmashed my head, you dick! You think everyone in that building doesn't know you're the guy to see if their skull's been cracked open? Anyway, look, I know what it's like to be too hard on yourself. I just think you're being a bit too hard. Most people think you're pretty top. In fact," I added, in a warm voice, "some people are saying you're the Max Best of football physiotherapy."

Microexpressions came and went - pride, rage, doubt, hope. In a flat voice, he said, "Yes, Max."

I laughed. "I want to read this chapter."

That's when he knew I was taking the piss. He untensed and shook his head, annoyed at himself. "The Max Best of physiotherapy. Where do you come up with this stuff?" I tensed, and he noticed. His neck swivelled like an owl's "What? What is it?"

Kidderminster were on the pitch, doing similar things to us. Craddock, one of their two great strikers, CA 58, same as Henri, had been taking shots on an empty goal. His acceleration had turned red and he was feeling his hamstring. Dean followed my gaze, saw it, too. "I wonder if he'll tell his physio," I said.

"They could swap him out for free, right? If they do it now it won't cost them a substitution."

"Right. But he's desperate to play. I bet you a million pounds he doesn't say anything."

We watched as he went on a little jog. He went up and down, then got a ball and did a few kick ups. He stood still for a while, then wandered over to his team's head physio and they had a chat. Bob Horseman, Kidderminster's manager, was summoned and informed. Horseman put his arm around Craddock. Thanking him for being honest, I reckoned.

"You owe me a million pounds," said Dean.

I barely heard him. Horseman's manager stats were merely all right. His highest attributes were motivating and man management. I hadn't been worried about him. Until now.

Dean had seen a lot more of Kidderminster than me. "Isn't that one of their good strikers? If he can't play, that's great for us. Why are you worried?"

I bit my nail. "Something's happening."

Dean looked around. All he saw was excited, nervous fans and players. "What?"

Henk's mum had said Harriers had been practising for going down to ten men. I took it to mean they would go in hard against us, maybe try to take one of our best players out of the game. Would you take a red card if it meant Henri was off the pitch? Yeah, but you wouldn't set out to actually break his leg or something like that. I went into the tactics screens and saw Harriers were set to 'normal' tackling. What the fuck? Could you have normal tackling and still be out for blood? "I don't know," I said, but before I could get any further, it was time to go back to the dressing room for our final preparations. "Dean. Stay on the bench today. Stay calm. I need my best people."

"Yes, Max."

***

This was our biggest game of the season so far, so I took the pre-match team talk seriously. Went through the Harriers player by player. The goalie, the formidable defence, the weak midfield. As I got to the forwards, I paid attention to the guys I had picked to oppose them.

We had Ben in goal, with a back three of Glenn, Carl, and Steve Alton. Alton still had slightly lower CA than Gerald May, but May was maxed at 38. Alton, if he kept improving, could be my third gold defender by the end of the season. He was better than May on the ball, too. Literally the only benefit of May was a bit of height. The choice, really, was between Steve and Magnus. I started with the specialist defender.

"Craddock," I said, coming to the last two Harriers, "tweaked his hamstring in the warm-up. It looks like he's going to play anyway, so Carl, if you are one on one with him, don't beat him for pace too soon. Okay? Let him make sprints. Is it a risk? Yes. But that's what I want. Understood?"

"Yes, Max."

"It might be they'll see how he goes for ten minutes and reassess it, because this is a big game for them, too. My instinct is they'll sub him off, and they don't have much attacking quality on the bench. If he goes off, Carl will man-mark the other one."

"Peabody," said the Brig.

"Right. We're going to dick them in midfield so we'll have most of the ball and these fucks won't get many chances." Four of our midfield five were awesome. Aff on the left, then Raffi, Ryan, and Sam Topps. Mwah! Chef's kiss. The right of midfield was becoming an issue. Joe had done well against Stockport Town, as had D-Day, but showing off against a tier ten side didn't impress me much. Joe was CA 38, D-Day 34. Increasingly looking out of place as the rest of the team improved around them. Joe had a better cross, while D-Day, if he was in the mood, had more individual skill. Both had Ok morale. "Obviously, their main thing is corners and free kicks. Jude's been showing you the tapes and that. We think we've nailed their signals. Last refresh Jude?"

He stepped away from the wall. He raised two hands. "Far post," called out six or seven players. He raised one hand. The same players and more said, "Near post."

I looked at the tactics board. We'd analysed Kidderminster's players. We'd talked about their set pieces. I had a vague sense of disquiet that I couldn't put my finger on. But we had prepared well. We were in incredible form, we had a great system, we had options on the bench.

And as for me - when I trained I slotted in with the defenders. I'd never be a great defender - I didn't have the temperament for it. Didn't want to concentrate and be disciplined for ninety minutes. Didn't want to suffer and sacrifice and throw my body in front of shots. Didn't want to play a forty-six game season and finish with one goal and no Man of the Match awards.

But I had the toolkit of a great defender. Especially the awareness, the sense of danger, the ability to make calm decisions with players running at me. Over one thirty-minute period that could decide our season, I'd concentrate, and if I concentrated, I'd snuff out attacks and get the ball forward where our system would do the rest.

I was confident about one thing - the last thirty minutes of this match would be one-way traffic.

***

I left the changing room and walked down the tunnel, slowly, with my forehead slightly creased. Something was off. Some thought nagging at the back of my mind.

When I got to the side of the pitch, I understood the feeling better. The stadium was resonating at the same frequency as the Southport game last season. You might remember I mentioned that one. It was the one where someone tried to kill me.

"Brig," I said. "John. Stay close to me."

"Yes, sir." He gestured and the six nearest stewards moved closer. One of the on-duty policemen noticed, stood more erect, spoke into his walkie-talkie.

I looked around the stands. I thought I saw the women's team supporting me from behind the goal to our right. To the left, the away fans, bouncing, chanting 'We are top of the league!' Was Ian Evans in there with them? Across the other side, were the Yalleys surrounded by Man City players?

I didn't want to turn and look at the stands behind me, but I forced myself. Bravery 20. I saw scouts dotted around. No Bradley Rymarquis, this time. He hadn't shown his face since my attack. In the Director's Box, I knew the guys from Glendale Logistics were there, along with Agatha and some bigwigs from BoshCard. MD's plan was to play them off against each other. Seemed like he'd be having fun, at least.

A dazzling flash of blonde hair appeared at a window, and suddenly Emma was bursting out the door and coming down the steps.

"Bebs," I said, delighted. She'd surprised me against Southport, too, but I hadn't known about it. We kissed.

"Mum and dad are here. Dad wants to talk about Newcastle United's winning streak. Apparently they tore Mbappé a new one? Ever since you got gobby about their bad start, they've been playing amazing." She bit her lip. "He says."

I pulled her close, face to face, let her hair tickle my cheeks. She was deliciously warm; I could have stayed like that for hours. I peeled myself away and smiled. "I don't suppose you've seen the helicopter twat from Sheffield?"

"Oh," she said, surprised. "Yes." The hairs on my neck went haywire. "He's right there. Oh." She pointed to five empty seats. Nick and the imps had gone to get a vegan hotdog, no doubt. "Why is he here? Getting involved with the sale of Man United one day, ten billion dollars, the day after, keeping an eye on Max Best?"

I shrugged. "Guess he thinks I'm worth more than ten billion."

It was like all the floodlights in the stadium turned on and shone directly onto her face. "I think he's right. I got you a present." She unzipped her puffy coat, revealing a blue and white Chester home kit. She handed me the coat, turned around and jabbed two thumbs at the name and number on the back. BEST 77.

"Seems more like a gift to the universe than to me."

"This isn't the present," she said. "I'll send it at half-time. It's not finished, but... it nearly is. What's the plan today?"

"Keep it tight first ninety, try to snatch something in injury time."

"Are you going to play?"

"Probably."

"Are you going to score a hat trick for me?"

"Me? I won't be going anywhere near their goal. I'm a defensive hard man, now."

"A what man?"

"A hard man."

"Gosh." Her lips twisted and she slunk back up the stairs. She was so busy being a temptress she forgot her coat.

***

The match kicked off. In the first minute it became clear that Craddock wasn't interested in sprinting. Peabody stepped up his work rate - apparently he'd been told to do the pressing for both of them.

We very quickly got a grip of the ball, passing it neatly around midfield, making triangles, bringing it towards the corners of our attacking third, looking for overlaps and slaps, but being patient. I'd told Joe and Aff not to hit crosses unless conditions were absolutely perfect, since Christian Fierce and his fellow beefy boys would gobble up any aimless high balls.

While the 'feeling out' phase was happening, I took the temperature of the away dugout - very calm, very professional, very disciplined. There would be no foolishness today. So I went to the tactics screens and checked my new Hot Stuff! perk. It allowed me to create hotkeys that would appear in my vision that I could use to quickly change formations or tactics.

For example, I had my seven formations floating on the upper left of my vision. When I wasn't thinking about them, they became completely transparent. But now I could instantly switch from the 3-5-2 we were using to 4-2-4 or whatever I wanted and save myself a couple of clicks.

Then I had three icons linking to strategies I'd designed that simply told everyone to play left, to play right, or to play through the centre.

Underneath was a slightly more advanced version of that, where it was play left AND set the left mid as playmaker.

And after lots of experimenting, I'd found I could make more elaborate hotkeys. For example, 3-5-2 with the starting left mid and right mid switching sides. That was more useful in the women's matches because there were times I'd want Dani and Maddy to swap sides. It gave their opponents a new challenge, and had led to our frankly undeserved equaliser in the most recent Warrington match, which had led to our win.

Yeah, the hotkeys perk wasn't a massive step forward, but when I was on the pitch trying to do twenty things at once, it was a time saver. I normally regretted my perk buys, at least at first, but this time, nah. Absolute banger.

Five minutes passed. We had sixty percent possession. Ten minutes. Sixty-three percent. The ball was ours and we were starting to make chances. We got to the sides and worked our way closer to the goal line. Joe or Aff fired in low passes that Henri and Tony tried to turn into goals. So far, so normal.

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Why had Kiddie been practising 5-5-0? I looked at the match ratings. Raffi, Sam, and Ryan were all on 8 out of 10. You couldn't foul one out of the game and hope to achieve anything. I could play CM. Surely even the dinosaurs at National League North level knew not to get me on the pitch too early? Surely they watched at least the highlights of our most recent games?

Henri, then? But he was struggling in his battle against Christian Fierce. No need for Bob Horseman to do anything special. Tony Hetherington was a journeyman striker. Aff? Yes, hurting Aff would make sense. That would make a lot of sense. He was over on the far side of the pitch from me, but things seemed perfectly normal over there.

I looked at my bench. Who could help me with this? "Dean, do you know where Vimsy is?"

"Yes." He pointed to a spot a little further down the stand - right next to the action, then, but far enough from the away dugout he couldn't possibly get up to mischief. "Will you get him, please?"

Dean scampered off, and they came back together. "Max?" said the old, defensive, easily-provoked coach whose most recent outburst had been perceived by some as a resignation letter.

"Can you do me a weird favour? Go round to the other side and keep an eye on Aff."

He nodded like an eager-to-please puppy, which made me feel bad about having mentally sacked him already. "Anything in particular?"

"I don't know," I said. "I just have a weird feeling that they're going to try to kick him out of the game or something. I... I don't know. Just call Livia if you see anything weird." Livia, as the most junior, was the one person on the bench who always had her phone handy.

Vimsy nodded and jogged away.

"What's happening, Max?" said the Brig, sensitive to changes in tone in my voice.

"I don't know," I said, getting frustrated. "It's a perfectly normal match. Perfectly normal in every way. Exactly as I predicted. So what am I...?"

I spun on a dime and for the first time, saw Old Nick and his imps were in place. Nick was pretty bored, it seemed. One of the imps waved at me, and Nick slapped his hand down. Nick checked the time, rolled his eyes, and picked up some kind of glossy brochure or magazine. If I had to guess, I'd say it was a private jet catalogue.

I looked away, then instantly back again. The tactics imp raised the thumb and index finger of both hands, shaping them into the letter W.

W for Wibwob.

I copied the gesture, but let my fingers flop down. Wibwob wilting.

The imp looked frustrated, but glanced at Nick and kept his mouth shut.

***

Around the twenty-five minute mark, I started to pace around my technical area. Things were... fine. But there's almost never a match against a team of your level where you dominate for ninety minutes. Your players get tired or distracted or your opponents smell their chance, and the momentum shifts. With our higher technique, these phases didn't normally last too long. We'd simply wait for the fire to die down, then with a few crisp touches we'd be back to our midfielders running the show.

So now came ten minutes where Kidderminster were in the ascendency. Craddock and Peabody started to hold the ball up better, started to bring their midfield into the game. They moved up the pitch. They competed for the morsels that were on offer. Worked hard at throw-ins. Made the game scrappy, broke up our tempo, earned the right to play in our half for a while.

They got a corner. Two hands raised. Far post. Their tallest players shifted that way - it was subtle, but blindingly obvious when you knew about it. Glenn, Raffi, and Henri moved to the far post. The penalty area was jam packed. Only Ryan Jack was on the edge for us, and Harriers had kept two players on the half way line.

The cross was hit hard, high, and flat. Not bad, not good. Ben Cavanagh raced out to punch it away, ran into Sam Topps who was turning to follow the flight of the ball, and they both went tumbling.

The ball went into an area with five or six tall men competing, heads up, eyes closed, fearlessly putting their skulls in harm's way. The ball bounced against the side of Craddock's head and floated, slowly, into our goal.

One-nil.

"What the fuck's Ben doing?" I said, borderline shouted. "Why's he come for that?"

"I couldn't say, sir."

"Where's Angles?"

"In the naughty corner, sir. Where Vimsy was."

"Fuck me," I said, fuming as I paced around. "If he stays on his line that's the easiest catch in the world. We've got enough height. Enough quality. No-one's going to get a good header against us. Just stay on your fucking line!" I re-read the match commentary in disbelief. "And he's smashed into Sam! At least run into one of their players! What the fuck."

Ben's match rating dropped to five.

I paced around some more, mumbling angrily. Then I stopped, looked up, and let it go. Shit happens. We had a process. We'd wear them down with our passing, get our rewards in the second half.

And that's how it went for the next five minutes. Pass pass pass. Zip zip zip. Raffi's sudden changes of direction made the entire defence have to shuffle and slide, again and again. They would tire.

Ryan Jack played a rare loose pass and the ball was fired up to Craddock. He didn't trust himself to run flat out, but he was fast enough to get between the ball and Carl. Carl did his job, stopped Craddock from getting anywhere dangerous. Craddock found his strike partner, Peabody, who soon had Steve Alton smothering him. Peabody did exceptionally well to buy his team a few seconds. Enough time to play a pass to the right midfielder. But Aff, being Aff, had tracked his man in a way most left-wingers didn't, so the pass turned out to be a mistake.

Except the right mid, in desperation, tried to slide tackle the ball back to Peabody.

A jolt of electricity went through me - this would be the moment! The moment Aff was injured. But no - the guy tackled the ball into Aff's stride, from mere inches away. The ball bounced off Aff's foot, travelled no less than forty yards, straight down the line, and out for a corner.

"Oh, shit." I knew what was going to happen.

Kidderminster did, too. They sent everyone up, including one of the two covering guys. This was their chance to win this game, and they were willing to take the risk.

Their players waited on the edge of the box - all our guys had a clear view of the corner taker. One hand was raised. Near post. Ben took a few steps that way. Too obvious. The Harriers surged forward, and one guy bounced in front of Ben, annoying him, getting in his way, being a dick. Ben pushed him. The corner taker raised both arms. Far post! But Ben hadn't seen the signal. He was too busy defending his territory. Too busy being a twat.

I turned away and watched Old Nick's face while Christian Fierce rose at the far post and bumped a header into that unguarded side of the goal. Two-nil.

Nick raised his head, clocked that there had been a goal, then went back to his brochure.

Whatever was going on, it wasn't him.

My goalkeeper's match rating fell to 4 out of 10. That happened sometimes - especially with temperamental players like D-Day. He'd start shit, something would go right for him, and it was 50-50 if he'd end up with decent stats and 7 out of 10. If Ben made a good save, there was still a chance he could finish with a good rating. If he let the next one in, he was toast, and so were we.

"Brig," I said. "Get Robbo."

***

Chester are making an early change.

Ben Cavanagh will be replaced by Robbie Robson.

***

As he trudged past me and went down the tunnel, Ben's morale collapsed, hitting abysmal.

I think he didn't dare look at me, but I was too furious to look at him.

As calmly as I could, I explained to the Brig where Ben had gone wrong. Spectrum would get the footage clipped up, and the coaches would go through it with Ben. He would learn from this, or he'd be binned in the summer.

The Brig's jaw tightened. He didn't like it when I talked like that. In the army you had to do a lot worse than lose your head at two corners to be kicked out.

But I'd put my trust in Ben and he'd repaid me by shitting the bed in our biggest game of the season. He'd made me look like a dick, and every interview I did for the rest of my life would include a question about whether I'd realised you can't trust young goalkeepers.

Somewhere in the north of England, Ian Evans was laughing his head off.

"Fuck!"

***

We continued to have quarter-chances. Moves that nearly went somewhere, but not quite. The guys were working hard, fighting their duels, carrying out their roles. Most players on both teams were getting 6 or 7s out of ten. Fierce and Craddock, the goalscorers, were on nines. Raffi, Sam, and Ryan were on eight. Overall, advantage Kidderminster.

The away team pushed forward, got another corner. They did the same trick where they made one signal, then changed it when the goalie was distracted. But Robbo, instead of getting involved with the guy who was harassing him, kept himself behind the goal line so he could see. And when the cross came in, he realised immediately he wouldn't get to it, stayed on his goal line, and easily collected a header that was blooped up into the air.

Glenn and the rest of the defence took heart from that, and went about their business with renewed confidence. Harriers didn't get a sniff for the rest of the half, but we just couldn't get the ball to Henri in a position where he could get a shot away.

At half time, I let the guys decompress as I normally did. They were very quiet. They knew they were up against it.

Vimsy sidled up to me, loath to interrupt me while I was plotting, and mumbled that he couldn't see anything strange about Aff's personal battle. I said thanks and he could sit on the bench for the rest of the game. Then I got back into my head.

What could I do? I looked at my hotkeys. Formation switches. 4-4-2? If we turned the match into a caveman contest, we'd lose. 4-1-4-1? That meant putting Trick on, which would weaken us in terms of CA, and we'd lose one of our three central midfielders. No, I couldn't switch away from 3-5-2 because the only thing we were really crushing was the midfield. If we were going to get back into this match, it would be through having one place we were utterly dominant.

Just as I was about to get their attention and tell them to stick to the plan, I remembered what Emma had said about sending me a present. I got my phone out. There was a video file and a comment: It's nearly finished!

I clicked it and saw myself, looking like shit, looking grumpy. The camera panned down to my feet. There was a ball.

"Do a tekkers," says Emma from behind the camera.

"I can't."

"Try."

I try. It is pitiful. I look up and see I am being filmed. "What are you doing?"

"Doing a progress video so people can see what hard work can get you. Today, no tekkers. We'll try every day and edit it into a video. See where you are in... a while."

My face hardens. "That's inspirational is it? To who?"

"To me."

I take a slow breath, get the ball, and try again.

Cut to: me doing one kick up.

Cut to: me doing one kick up in different clothes.

Cut to: me doing three, looking a bit more perky. Four. Eight. Many kickups, with a faraway look on my healthy, tanned face.

Cut to: me training with Cody, doing explosive bursts and a pass forward.

Cut to: me playing for Chester, killing a high pass dead with one touch, waiting for an opponent to come to me, and passing the ball through their legs to a teammate.

The video ended abruptly.

I got the point - there was one more clip to add on. From today, perhaps. A clip of me doing something mad on a football pitch. The thrilling ending that would make it go viral. Come for the recovery montage, stay for the game-winning no-look backheel nutmeg.

"What's that, boss?" asked Sam.

I'd left the sound on. Emma had put a snippet from Let It Happen over it, though I supposed the final choice of music would depend on the nature of the last clip. "Emma was filming me doing kick ups in Tenerife. She's stuck them together with some recent stuff. She wants to make an inspirational video."

Sam smiled at someone on the opposite bench. Henri maybe. "We could use some inspiration, boss."

Everyone was listening. I took a couple of beats. "I made a bit of a promise to myself that I wouldn't use what happened to me to motivate you. That always felt like it would be... tawdry. Or something. I don't feel like learning to walk again is very inspirational, anyway. Every one of you would have done the same. Some faster, some slower. There were plenty of days I didn't feel like doing it, and someone like Dean had to fucking bully me into walking two metres holding the bannisters." I shook my head. "This video is fake. I love movie montages, but this doesn't make me feel good."

I put my phone away.

"The only thing I'd say is that... I had a goal and most of the time I worked at it. I know it's hard out there, today. They're a really good side. But we're a little bit better. You don't need to be inspired, you just need to let your technique do the work for you. Which is exactly what you are doing. You're doing everything I wanted, and if we stick to the plan, we'll cause them all sorts of problems. Stick to the plan. Overloads, overlaps, slaps. Fifteen minutes, then I'll come on and we'll push them even further back. We will get five amazing chances this half, even if they defend as well as they did in the first half. All right?"

In these situations I was normally pretty fidgety, but this time I was motionless. A memory resurfaced.

"Remember we all watched England v Spain? England huffed and puffed, but Spain won on technical quality. We're Spain. Yeah, we play fast. We play with heart. But we play technical football. We move the ball faster than they can deal with. We get into tighter situations than anyone else in this league, we make sudden breakthroughs, and we attack from angles they've never seen before. Stick to the plan and we will slap. Okay? You don't need inspiration."

Henri leaned back with a big smile on his face. "I'm quite inspired, anyway, Max. Is that all right with you?"

"It's all right with me," I said. "Now get to the corners, worm your way into the box, slap, score, and we'll be home in time for Christmas. Let's go."

"Come on, lads!" yelled Glenn, and they clomped out.

***

For five minutes, we were rampant. Fast, dynamic, thrusts down the sides. Overloads on the left, overlaps on the right. It was beautiful. We upgraded our quarter chances to half chances. For the first time, Harriers looked ragged. You could see where the goals were coming from.

But they were top of the league for a reason. They surged back at us, and they had five minutes where they got a few crosses in, had a couple of corners and long throws.

We resisted, turned the tide, and had five minutes back on top.

It was going to be a mad last thirty minutes, and if we kept slugging at each other, anything could happen. I was confident; Bob Horseman was stressed off his tits, barely able to stand the tension. He kept berating one of his members of staff. A young guy, a Spectrum type. He was telling his boss it was going to be okay.

Yeah. Good luck with that.

It was time for 2-6-2.

I subbed Steve off, and theoretically took his place as the third centre back, though of course I was free to go anywhere I wanted.

We passed the ball around a little bit. Matches sometimes felt different when seen from the middle. Liberated from the narratives you told yourself, you could get a truer sense of the action. The curse didn't agree - it only gave me 1 XP per minute when playing, versus the 4 I'd get if I stuck to the sideline. I wondered what Old Nick was thinking right now.

I took a pass from Ryan and was about to turn back to Glenn when Peabody barged me off my feet. It was so unexpected I went flying.

"Ref," called Craddock. "Sub."

The ref acknowledged him. Peabody helped me up. "Sorry, lad."

"The fuck?"

He shrugged and walked away. I mean, it seemed to confirm my fears that Kidderminster were out to hurt someone. Why me, though? I hadn't scored or assisted the whole season.

The thought they would target me was breaking my brain. What was happening?

What happened next didn't help.

Both Craddock and Peabody left the pitch, and Bob Horseman sent on another left back and another right back.

I got down on my haunches and stared at their goal.

It wasn't 5-5-0. Close, but not quite. Fleur's mistake was understandable. No, Kidderminster Harriers, top of the league, were playing 6-4-0 against us.

Two left backs. Two right backs. Insane. Why?

I had warmed up, but felt chills all over my body. They wanted to lock down the sides of the penalty area. Stop us overloading. Stop us overlapping. Cut out our main source of attacks. Force us to hit hopeful crosses into the box, which Christian Fierce, his centre back partner, or any of the four DMs would head away.

Why wait till I came on?

Because I would shut down all their attacks, draw players out of position, and start quick counter-attacks. But the way they were playing now, we couldn't counter. They were doing a ‘low block’, which is a fancy way of saying they were parking the bus. There would be eleven defenders between me and the goal at all times.

We couldn't slap, cross, counter, we were shit at long shots, the penalty area would be too crowded for crafty through balls, chips, or dribbles. Their goalie had been playing as a sweeper, coming off his line almost like an extra defender. Our goalie was simply taking up space, Glenn and Carl would sit on the halfway line like decorations, and I was useless in an attacking sense. Horseman had turned this match into 7 attackers against 11 defenders.

So how were we going to score?

We weren't.

The ref was blowing his whistle again and again. Trying to get me to take the free kick. I stood up and bashed the ball to the side of the pitch, miles over Glenn's head. It went out for a throw-in to Kidderminster. My players started to jog back, and I yelled at them to stay.

I got back on my haunches and watched as the Kidderminster guys looked at each other. They didn't know what to do. Bob Horseman and his Spectrum guy were in deep conversation. Horseman yelled something, and one Harrier walked forward, slowly, fifty yards, to where the throw in would be taken.

He picked up the ball, threw it away down the line, not really bothered about where it landed, and jogged back to his position in the low block.

They were not going to try to attack us. Not even with a ribbon-tied invitation.

Holy fucking shit.

While Robbo and Glenn moved the ball up the pitch, I stared at Horseman and his bench.

He wasn't all that impressive himself, but he had his Spectrum guy with Tactics 15, and his Assistant Manager had Judging Player Ability 16. Horseman had one ability not rated by the curse - hiring great staff and trusting them. He'd assembled a top team, good enough to win most matches at this level, and his brains trust had the ability to pull tactical rabbits out of hats. And he himself knew how to motivate.

"Max!" called Glenn. He wanted to pass to me. I stood, collected the pass, and stood in the middle of the pitch with the ball underfoot. Nobody ahead of me moved. I frantically, desperately searched for options.

But all I got was a rising sense of shame. My Maxterplan for the season was built on a foundation of sand. Mistake after mistake had piled up, and I'd gotten away with it until I'd hit the first opponent with a brain. And his solution would be passed around the National League North, just as the secret of how to beat Jackie had been. The solution was: the low block. Men behind ball. Park the bus. An idea so obvious I'd used it against Manchester City and thought myself clever. My cheeks were burning. I felt tears behind my eyes.

I'd rotated the goalies, trusting the young, talented, inexperienced one against the advice of everyone in the sport. The Art of Slapping was the art of being predictable. In God Save the King I had a way to get more goals out of Henri, but I'd been too indecisive to use it, and now it was too late. In front of Emma, her dad, the sponsors, in front of thousands of people, a little boy had shouted 'The Emperor's got no clothes on!'

I felt my whole face blazing red. My stomach churning.

As the rain started to come in a light drizzle, I thought of Emma's inane 'inspirational' video. The first change in the scene for at least fifteen seconds - a lifetime in the fast-moving world of professional sports - was me flicking the ball up and keeping it aloft with little flicks of my right foot.

The day was lost, the season was lost. The drawbridge would be pulled up. Chester would have no route to the top.

Donk, donk, donk, went the ball. No-one from Kidderminster moved a muscle.

So many people believed in me. Benny and Tyson, the Knights, Sam and Aff, Emma. And all it took to fuck me up was the most predictable thing in the entire world of football - a low block. Men behind ball. Don't even try to attack. Just shut us down.

Donk, donk, as a new wave of self-loathing rippled through me. Team Dean all the way. How could I have been so stupid?

But hang on. I couldn't have imagined the fucking best team in the league would have done this to us. No, but I COULD. Henk's mum had TOLD me. She'd fucking told me but I was too stupid, too arrogant to take it for what it was - a team practicing the low block.

I took half a step forward. Donk, donk, another step, another donk.

I'd been complacent. But no! I'd seen this coming. I'd predicted this the first time I watched Pascal Bochum play. I knew we'd have days like this and he was the type of player who could help out.

But he wasn't on the bench. So my only option for my remaining substitution was switching Joe Anka to D-Day. Wow.

I was gritting my teeth, making myself furious. Close to two and a half thousand people were about to get drenched watching a farce. I was sure they would be screaming their head off, screaming at me to fucking do something, but all I could hear was the fear and shame and rage that my heart was pumping out.

A stray thought - if I got one good long shot away, their fucking keeper would stay on his fucking line. That was the first thing I'd learned in Darlington. Pin the bastard keeper back and things got easier. One shot. All I needed was one shot on target.

I bent my knees, and that was the signal for my team to start making moves. Aff sprinted down the left, taking two guys with him. Henri and Tony crossed paths, giving their markers something to think about. Ryan came near then spun away, Raffi jogged backwards towards the penalty area, then sideways like a receiver in motion.

My kick ups got bigger, I pushed on faster, and when a Harrier took a tentative step towards me, I took it personally.

Donk, donk, donk - I was close enough to goal he had to do something - donk - he ran to stop me moving right - donk - I lifted the ball across my body onto my left foot - two left donks, the second a big, looping one, back over the defender's head - as he spun, completely lost, I donked the ball further right, threatened to boop it to the right, to Joe, then pushed my left leg far forward and ripped my right as hard as I thought I could go. Too hard, the ball would go into orbit. But with it dipping from the kick ups, if I caught it just so it would arc and dip like one of my cannonballs.

We were shooting towards the away fans - a piece of bad luck from the start of the match I hadn't noticed until now. As I made contact and the ball flew towards the goal, a hundred spectators with a great view of the shot put their hands to their heads. They had probably been laughing at me when I was stationary. They weren't laughing now.

The goalie stepped, stepped, and flapped at the ball as it dipped below the crossbar. He got some fingers to it, it hit the crossbar, came back out, and Christian Fierce smashed it away for a corner.

Noise tried to assault me, but I didn't give a shit. The goalie would stay on his line from now on. It wasn't much, but it was fucking something. I ran over to demand the corner. I hadn't switched the takers yet. Ryan Jack sent the ball to me. I took a touch and thrashed it towards the penalty spot. Henri and Tony both launched themselves at it. Somehow, the ball went through everyone, but we got another corner. I set myself as the taker of all corners and free kicks, and ran over to the other side.

I dabbed the ball left footed to Joe, ran diagonally past him, and took the return pass. I feinted to shoot, then left footed, clipped a cross between the defenders and goal. My eyes widened with hope - Henri was going to get there! But just before he could control it on his thigh, Christian Fierce launched himself horizontally, and did an acrobatic kick to clear the ball.

It went out to the left, where Aff collected. I was there, legs pumping, mind blank, and I overlapped. He passed to me and I held the ball up. The two right backs weren't sure what to do. I faked a return pass to Aff, faked a dribble, passed back to Raffi and burst forward. He chipped it into my path and I lashed it, left footed, a metre in front of the goalie. Legs went flying. Henri slid towards it, as did Fierce, as did Tony, as did everyone. No-one got a decisive touch, and the ball went through to Joe Anka all the way on the right of the box. He steadied himself and hit a curling cross. A defender headed it away, but only to Ryan Jack. I ran around him and he touched the ball into my path. It was too delicious an invitation to ignore. I took a breath and focused on my technique as I leathered it - it started going straight at the goalie, but then exploded, curling away to the right. The keeper threw his hands up as he dived, batting it away, hoping for the best. One of his mates got there and hacked the ball away, anywhere will do.

It went out for a throw-in, and Joe took it. I received the ball with my back to goal, and a Harrier came charging at me from behind. I sensed him coming, set myself, and let him crash into my shoulder. It bumped me backwards, but I touched the ball to Joe, turned, got it back, and was powering towards the edge of the box. Another defender came at me. I dipped my shoulder left, surged right, and yet another guy was there. I feinted to cut into the box, he came with me, and I'd done enough to leave Joe wide open. I touched the ball towards the byline for him to run onto. He absolutely smashed the ball low across goal, and this time the forest of legs paid off - Tony got a toe to it. It deflected off one Harrier, and another, and Henri was able to stab at the ball - the goalie dived - but yet another deflection made it boop up. It went straight into the keeper's arms. He lay there for twenty seconds, unable to believe his luck.

I ambled back to my DM slot and fell on my haunches again. I rubbed my hair, covered my ears, then my eyes. Hear no evil, see no evil. "FUCK!" I yelled.

I got up and walked around. My head was complete jelly. I didn't know what to think, what to feel, what to do.

The ball came to me. Why? What's the point? I lashed it right footed over a defender, right onto Aff's left foot. He tried a few moves, got past one, found another, turned, played it back to Raffi. He touched it to Ryan, who thought I might have a better idea than him. Why? I smashed the ball as hard as I could, left footed, onto Joe Anka's right toes. He sorted his feet out, crossed, and it came back out. Sam won it, and after touches from Raffi and Ryan, Aff had it. He thrashed in a cross which was headed behind for a corner.

"Robbo," I said, waving our goalie up, while setting Ryan as the corner taker again. I would patrol the halfway line and clear any danger. It was all I was good for.

"Max," complained Glenn, as he jogged forward. "There's twenty minutes left. No need for that, yet."

"Attack," I said, but I didn't mean it. I didn't feel it.

The corner was sent in, cleared, a cross was sent in again, it was punched away by their keeper, sent in again, and finally a Harrier took the ball on his chest and calmly booped it out for a guy. He only had me ahead of him, and with Robbo stranded, if he could get a shot away, he'd score. He took a touch as he sprinted, looked up, saw me absolutely motionless, panicked, tried to push the ball past me and beat me in a foot race. I simply stepped to the side, took the ball into my ownership, and let the guy crash into my left shoulder. He went spinning, his attributes turned red, but I turned and played a long pass out to Aff again. I was thinking 'this is it' when the ref stopped the game and came running to check on the guy who had fouled me. He summoned the physios, urging them to hurry.

Clearly it was going to be a long break in play. I got down on my arse, held my head. My defeat was so overwhelming, so complete, it was hard to comprehend.

Henri was bent next to me, hand on my shoulder. It hurt like hell - they both did - but I was too stunned to worry about that just then. "Max," he said. "Max."

"What?" Sulky teenager voice.

"When did you turn into Al Capone?"

Lots of laughs. The whole gang was there. Looking at me like I was somebody. They'd soon realise I was the traitor. I nearly burst into tears. "Is he all right?" I said.

"Who gives a shit?" said Robbo. "Shouldn't have run into you, should he?" His morale had gone to Superb.

"Max, what do we do?" said Henri. He'd seen enough of me to think I would have a magic word to say. A genie's wish held in reserve for this moment. All I had to offer was 3-5-2 with a roving centre back.

"Swap Sam for D-Day," I said. I looked up at Sam. He'd been a dick at first, but when I'd gotten to know him better, I found I liked him more and more. "But no offence to Donny, if we're gonna sink, I'd rather wake up on a desert island with Sam."

Plenty of nodding. These guys knew exactly what I meant. Carl bent down next to Henri, right in my eyeline. "Max. Boss," he said. "You've got something, though. You've got the winning move, you just haven't played it yet. You've sent the Brig to break into Langley and you've got a flux capacitor. Right?"

I stared at the grass below me for way too long. "No, mate. I've got nothing. We attack until we drop. That's it. That's all I've got."

The referee broke the long silence with his whistle. We'd get a drop ball over on the left.

We stayed a couple of beats longer than we should. Glenn Ryder took his armband off and slid it up my arm. "You heard him, lads! Attack until we drop! Come on!"

Most of the guys ran off, shouting, leaving me there with Glenn and Carl lifting me to my feet. Robbo slapped me on the back and walked home.

"I'm with you, boss," said Carl. He went to the right of the centre circle.

I looked from Glenn to the armband. "Why did you do that?"

"I'm not a genius, but I know a captain's performance when I see one."

"Inspirational, is it?"

"I can never tell if you're joking. But do that for five more minutes, I'll sign your contract."

He wandered off, and I bent, hands on knees, thinking, 'what's the point?'

But when the ball came to me, I sucked in a breath, and burst forward.

***

I popped up on the left, connecting Aff and Raffi. I scooted right, combining with Joe. And from the centre I let Ryan and Sam buy me space before trying chips, reversed passes, dinks, lobs, and if there were enough bodies in the way, long shots. What I wanted, the only thing I could offer, was pressure.

Relentless pressure.

Not mad shots into row Z. Not zero percent probability passes or dribbles into blind alleys. Simple things that I could do. Sometimes I tried things that were slightly above my current skill level. Sometimes I tried unexpected passes between the goalie and the last defender hoping that Henri or Tony would be able to create something.

Corners? No point firing them into the box. We did short passes, worked through our little triangles, drawing defenders away from the penalty area, then I'd slash a cross-cum-shot, always keeping the ball low since the defenders were so tall.

We attacked from all angles, relentless, tireless, but fruitless. Christian Fierce put in the single most dominant display I'd ever seen, from anyone, ever, including me. And he didn't seem bothered. He was a piece of iron. He had an aura around him, a demotivational field that got bigger and bigger the closer we got to full time.

I had to take him on head to head. So I moved to a third striker position. We were playing 2-5-3, and it was only my lack of Wibwob that was stopping me going even more attacking.

As I suspected, Fierce latched onto me when I appeared in the area. If I could get the better of him, we'd have a chance. Henri, surely, would have the beating of his new marker. And Tony would be there, too.

Ryan, Raffi, and Sam pinged the ball around in front of the low block. Ten defenders, shuffling and sliding, trying to stop balls coming forward. I sprinted away from Fierce, going to be an extra man for the build up, and there was a point near the edge of the box where Fierce passed me on to his midfielders. Noted! I took a step back and hung around that area. It took a while, but Raffi fired a pass at my feet, hard, knowing I could deal with it. I took a touch, feinted right, moved left, and put my foot on the ball in the penalty area.

The game now was - touch me and I fall over and we get a penalty. Christian Fierce was blocking me, too clever to dive in and make my life easy. With hundreds of tiny body feints, weight shifts, fake passes, leg pumps, the entirety of the match came down to me, surrounded by red shirts, all afraid to make a challenge, trying to create something out of nothing. Raffi came storming through, across me, and as I faked to pass to him, a fake so good even Fierce bought it, I clipped the ball with a little bit of side spin, headed towards the inside of the goal.

The goalie scrambled sideways, water flying up around his boots in slow motion, threw himself at the ball, and pushed my shot behind for a corner.

I wandered back to the halfway line, done. Absolutely done. Couldn't even be bothered sending our goalkeeper up. No matter what we did, we'd fall short.

I'd been so drained I hadn't even checked the time - still five minutes plus injury time left. Another ten minutes or more. A lot could happen in ten minutes. We could score four goals. But not today.

Ryan Jack sent in a tired corner, it was clear by a Harriers defender, fresh as a daisy. A mad scramble, Raffi sliding in, the ball bouncing around, winding up at the feet of Sam Topps.

Don't pass to me, I thought. Don't you dare fucking pass to me, I cried with all my being.

He fizzed it towards me, turned, head bobbing, exhausted but nowhere near giving up, and ran forward. He'd fight to the end.

My whole body sagged as the ball came towards me. I was so done with this shit. I flopped like a badly-controlled marionette, and popped back up all of a sudden, the ball spinning up from my standing foot. I snarled as I did kick ups, walking towards the opposition goal, gnashing my teeth, rabid, mad, literally driven mad, Tommy Tekkers, donk donk donk. A Harrier pushed his mate towards me, but I realised - the shock was so great I missed a kick - I realised he didn't want to come. He was knackered. He was spent. He was spent and he was afraid of me. I faked a long shot, drove forward, keen to see what mischief I could manage in the time that was left.

***

Kidderminster: 6 shots, two goals.

Chester Football Club: 31 shots, no goals.

I had the last kick of the game. I put every last calorie, every last mote of myself into a move that bought me half a centimetre, which was all that Christian Fierce was willing to let me have, and I smacked the ball toward goal. It was going top-left, top bins, top banana, and at least we'd have that. At least we'd leave the pitch with something.

But Fierce blocked it. Don't ask me how, but he blocked it.

The final whistle went. Peep peep peep, and some of the sound came back. The roar of the away fans. They were ecstatic. Top of the league. They had a team of warriors fighting for the badge, a top manager, top coaches, a floating mega brain.

I flopped to my back. Knees up, hands covering my eyes. I was too tired to dwell on my mistakes, all the people I'd lied to, all the people I'd let down. I didn’t need the Live Tables perk to know we'd slumped to fourth in the league. No chance we'd finish above Kidderminster. No chance we'd finish above Darlo.

We're dogshit, mate.

As the tears finally came, I was cheered by the thought that, as well as the away fans, someone in the stadium would have been enjoying this. Physio Dean's next email draft would be more uplifting than Holes by Louis Sacher.

***

I stayed there for approximately eight hours, but when I finally moved my hands onto the grass behind my head, I realised there were loads of bodies near me. Henri was on the floor. Tony was. So was Aff.

And I was gobsmacked to see the guy closest to me was none other than Christian Fierce. He was making weird moaning noises. The ecstasy of victory? No - he'd got mega cramp but couldn’t get attention. It was like the Battle of Gettysburg out there. I rolled over, clambered to one knee - I was attacked by a wave of dizziness; it passed - and I got to Fierce's leg. I lifted it and pressed it forward. He wailed with the pain and the relief. I switched legs and he groaned. We were a bottle of oil away from securing the UK's biggest ever non-league sponsorship - Wrexham included.

Job done, I decided it was time to go home, and strode off to the tunnel. Forget the media, the sponsors, the fans. I was going home. I got there and I was legitimately stupefied to realise there was no tunnel. No tunnel. Where's the fucking tunnel?

I realised I was on the wrong side of the stadium. Mate.

The tears nearly came again. I did my best to get to the other side of the pitch, but I knew there was no way I'd make it. It was miles away. I wanted to stop and take a break, but I knew if I did, I'd never be able to get going again. I wobbled, Schrödinger's Max, half dead on the floor, half staring at the tunnel that's receding into the distant distance.

Arms grabbed me, I was floating, being carried, hovering, falling, I was holding someone, I was dizzy, they were holding me. There's the tunnel. Goodbye, tunnel! I was being placed on a table. Someone was squirting paste into my mouth. Hey! Not on a first date! I lay there, face down, and someone was rubbing my neck, whispering, and it seemed like I was allowed to close my eyes.

So I closed my eyes.