19.

My ten minutes of rest was followed by an Henri-length cold shower and half an hour staring at the ceiling of my windowless little bed-office. There was no point leaving the stadium until the traffic had cleared. I got cursemail immediately after the final whistle, but was in absolutely no mood to open it. In fact, I didn't want to talk about football for the foreseeable future - a task made tricky by the fact that I'd be managing the women's team the next afternoon. I turned my phone off, lay still, and counted ceiling tiles.

***

Emma spent her first ever night in the barn. I hadn't prepared or shopped accordingly, but she was patient and somehow rustled up a nice, simple dinner like the first one she'd made for me in Darlington.

"We can watch a movie if you want. Your choice."

"My choice? Even Predator?"

"Is it scary? Nothing scary."

"It's scary how there's always a residue of testosterone on the screen when it's over. How about Spirited Away?"

The living room wasn't set up for two people, so we spooned on the bed with my new laptop turned sideways.

Emma liked the film but fell asleep after about half an hour. I watched the rest, had a hot shower, and hoped I'd fall right to sleep after. Nope. Hard as I tried, I couldn't stop going over and over the chain of events, before and during the match, that had led to disaster.

But finally I crashed, and when I opened my eyes it was bright and Emma was gone. I threw some clothes on and got slightly more panicky as every space I checked proved to be Emmaless. I went through the stables, thinking that maybe she'd gone to look at the ponies. Eventually, Ruth appeared and pulled me into her house, into the kitchen. Emma was there along with a posh buffet of breads, butters (yes, plural), jams, meats, cheeses, grapes, and mueslis.

"Hey, babes," she said.

"We saw you darting around in a panic," said Ruth. "Scaring the horses."

"I was worried."

"I sent you a text," said Emma.

"Phone's off." The women looked at each other.

"Max lost yesterday," said Emma, as though Ruth might somehow have missed it. "So he has to wear sackcloth and ashes and isolate himself."

Ruth rang an imaginary bell. "Unclean! Unclean!" The pair of them thought that was hilarious. Ruth looked me up and down. "Are you going to manage the women today?"

"Of course," I said.

She shrugged. If I wanted a pity party, I was welcome to it. She sat down, picked up an iPad, and popped a grape in her mouth. Emma was texting away while sipping on coffee.

"Can I have a tea?" I said.

Ruth gave me a look. "If you think I'm going to wait on you hand and foot, you've got another thing coming."

"Oh. It's self-service, then." That earned me a tiny smile. I looked at what was on offer. All very nice, but I was in the mood for something sweet. "Have you got any tartlets?"

"No," said Ruth. "Never eat them."

I nodded. Maybe I'd try the jams. I went to fill the kettle. For a second, I thought Ruth had frozen - she was absolutely motionless, not chewing, not scrolling on the tablet. Then I blinked and she was back to normal. Must have been my imagination.

***

After a nice brunchy breakfast, I announced my intention to go for a walk. Emma announced her intention to stay flopped on Ruth's sofa.

So I walked alone on the paths around the area. Sometimes there were horse riders, joggers, dog walkers, but this morning it was completely isolated. Just me and my thoughts.

There was a spot where, if the sun was right, there was a spectacular view of the countryside. Rolling hills, hedges, a couple of cute farms, a small lake. The path just before and just after were always in shade, which added to the sense that you were turning into a secret garden. Cold, cold, warm, what a view!

This morning was exceptional - the sun defrosted me and a little bird dude alighted on a nearby hedge to see what I was looking at.

The bird flew off, unimpressed, and I finally felt alive enough to check my cursemail.

New achievements: You Arrogant Ass, You've Killed Us!; Failed Audition; Raise the Roof; Tinkerman 5; Life Begins at Fifty

I'd been getting achievements pretty consistently, and had been all but ignoring them. Most seemed to be ways for Nick to poke fun at me. There was 1 XP for being 'Tommy Transfers', 1 XP for 'Make Up Your Mind' (for using a different starting formation in three consecutive matches), and zero XP for ‘Know You Are, Said You Are, So What Am I?’ That came when I’d ‘childishly’ provoked an opposition manager.

Achievements were useless in themselves, and only interesting in that they sometimes led to new perks becoming available. In that respect, this latest batch of five were highly significant. But as I stood there I found I envied the little bird. If he didn't like where he was, he could easily go and find somewhere better.

I left the beauty spot and walked in the direction of a stile that separated two fields. My habit was to go there, climb the two steps, and proclaim myself 'the King of the World' before turning back.

I recognised the name of the first new achievement. It was from the film The Hunt for Red October. A submarine captain removes the safety protocols from his torpedoes and one of those torpedoes ends up circling around, powering towards his own vessel. His right-hand dude says, "You arrogant ass, you've killed us!" It's awesome. The curse awarded me one experience point for having one of my tactics successfully used against me. Bit of a weird one - why not give me this achievement when someone beat me using 4-4-2? The only tactic I used that was uniquely mine was the Two Jackies Trick.

The Failed Audition one came with zero XP and was given because I had lost a match when given the opportunity to impress a VIP spectator.

Now, that got my brain fizzing. I became convinced that the imps had persuaded Old Nick to come and watch the match just so I'd get this achievement. Which meant they'd fixed it so I'd lose!

I dismissed the idea - I'd lost fair and square and had no-one to blame but myself.

My initial thought was compelling though. Otherwise, why had Nick turned up? He wasn't interested in the match in the slightest.

Raise the Roof came with 1 XP and the description said the stadium had been 'uncommonly loud'. I tuned out most of the noise when I was on the pitch - I'd have to check with Crackers.

Tinkerman 5 was for my continued tactical tweaks and changes.

And then Life Begins at Fifty. It came with 50 XP - by far the most the achievements system had ever given me. It was awarded because I had unlocked 49 achievements.

Now I had 50 in total, and the cursemail ended with a few words that got my pulse racing.

New perks are available to buy.

The stile was just ahead, so I jogged there, and hopped on to the first climbing post. I went to the perk shop and saw all the usual options: Injuries, Contracts, Form, Player Comparison. And two new ones!

Future

Unlocks the Future area of a player's profile.

Cost: 900 XP

With Ball/Without Ball

Unlocks the With Ball/Without Ball tabs in the tactics screens. Deformation range is limited but can be extended by unlocking achievements.

Cost: 10,000 XP

Ten thousand! But wait... where was Wibwob? It seemed obvious this was all leading to Wibwob. I took a closer look.

With Ball... WIB.

Without Ball... WOB.

Okay! But what was it? What did it do? I felt pretty sure it would let me put players wherever I wanted them, limited by this 'deformation range' guff.

I stared down at the stile. This was the boundary between one plot of land and another. I could cross it and follow the footpath, but I wasn't supposed to stray onto the farmer's working land. If I did, either the farmer or one of his guard cows would come and shoo me away.

I opened the men's team page and looked at the 3-5-2 graphic. I hoped Wibwob would let me push one of the CBs forward into DM, or drop the second striker in a 4-4-2 into an attacking midfield role. But this ‘deformation range’ suggested I wouldn't be able to drop a midfielder all the way back into the rearguard - that would be a two-slot jump. And the right mids could go one slot up, one slot down, but I couldn't turn them into full backs or actual forwards.

That made sense, actually, otherwise I wouldn't need to buy any more formations. There had to be some limits. All I wanted, really, was to make little tweaks.

So, yes, I was pretty confident I knew what Wibwob would do. And it made sense that the tactics imp would encourage me to go for it. It was a powerful tool and in the right hands - mine - there could be some fairly entertaining exploits. But I wished the curse had spelled it all out. Based on the description alone, I probably wouldn’t have looked twice at such an expensive, mysterious perk. It was only the imps constantly nagging me about it that made me want it. It would take ages to save up for this thing, and in the meantime I'd be missing out on unlocking more attributes and more tactics.

I started walking home.

Should I skip Injuries and Contracts and go straight for Wibwob?

Manchester United had four left-backs injured, including the one they’d signed to cover for the other three. Chelsea had 13 first team players in the medical room. Wibwob would help me win matches, but not as much as having my best players on the pitch. And I was pretty sure Contracts would give me the skills to find great players to bring in during the transfer window.

Stick to the plan, then, but Wibwob was now third on the list. In the meantime, I'd keep trying to unlock new achievements so that one day I'd be able to reduce the 'deformation' limit.

***

When I got back to the barn, I found a post-it note that said Emma had gone 'riding out' with Ruth. I took it to mean they had gone out riding.

So I watched a bit more footage of today's Cheshire Ladies Cup opponents - Stockport County. They were well-established, competing well in the fourth tier. They would probably smash us to bits, but there was a chance they'd put out a weaker team and we'd at least be able to leave the pitch with our heads held high.

I thought about what I'd say to the ladies before the match, and nothing came.

***

I got to the sports centre early and waited in the men's changing rooms while Jill and Terry did all the preparations. It was a surprise to see our Chester Knights coach helping with the women's team. I didn't interrogate it further - it was more proof that I needed to hire another coach ASAP to take the burden off the ones I already had. Sighing, I thought about the Finances perk that was available. It would show me that while I needed more coaches, more players, and more scouts, I didn't have the money for all three.

I filled in the team sheet with our usual 4-5-1. We'd crept up to an average CA of just over 18. Lucy, who was in her forties, had stopped improving at CA 17, leaving Bonnie as the only one of our defenders with growth potential. The midfielders were more talented, and with some league and cup experience under their belt, had kicked on a little bit. Pippa and Dani were CA 20, with Bea Pea and Maddy just behind. Julie McKay was still only CA 7, but catching up fast, and as she came out of her shell was proving to have a wicked sense of humour.

Which left Kisi. She'd added a couple of points in CA thanks to getting a taste of real first team action. I'd talked to her and told her I'd keep her for another month or two and when she stopped improving, I'd kick her back to Man City. She pretended to agree, but I knew what she was thinking. "I won't stop improving."

"So it's true!" my star striker had come into the sweaty room, surrounded by an actual vortex of fragrant top notes. "You're really in here. Sulking!"

"I'm not sulking," I lied.

Henri laughed. "We can talk about this later. First, do your job."

I handed the team sheet over. He scanned it and disappeared. A couple of minutes later, he came back and gestured that I needed to follow him. I obeyed and found myself walking the one metre across the corridor and into the women's changing room.

"The financier doesn't like seeing you do the team talks on the pitch like some Sunday League team," he told me. He was terrible at giving nicknames - they never caught on. The financier was Ruth. "So she's booked this room for us. Like a proper team."

"Us?"

"Us. We are us, Max. A wise man once told me that. In between sulks. Ladies, may I have your attention?" They were very happy to offer it. "I have found your manager. His girlfriend tells me he has switched his phone off and does not wish to engage with the rest of the human race. So I am here to be his assistant manager for the day. I see you are pleased. That is good. That is one of the correct reactions. Another is euphoria. Now, Max. What is your plan for the match?"

He pushed me towards the tactics board with its multi-coloured magnets. I sighed. "Goalie," I said. "Defenders." I moved four magnets in a line just below the keeper. "Midfield." Another four, touching the defenders. "Forwards." Two more. 4-4-2, all squashed into the penalty area. "Low block. Keep it tight. Nothing silly. Win second balls. Defend for ninety, win on penalties."

Some of the women were frowning like I was really serious, but Henri clapped his hands with delight. "Amazing. Your humour when you are in a black mood is drier than the Gobi. But why on earth are you in a bad mood? Because the Brig took some of your limelight?"

"What?"

He stopped smiling. "Why are you grumpy? Tell me now. Come on. I insist."

I swept my gaze around the room. Twenty women were watching us in a state of great interest. Another bonkers scene. Just how Henri liked it. I didn't have the energy to obfuscate or delay. "Yesterday was dispiriting. It came out of nowhere. Sucker punch. I let everyone down. The team, the fans. MD was showing us off to new sponsors. I... I don't know what I'm supposed to do now. I need to go and lick my wounds but I have to do this. Tier 6 against Tier 4. I normally turn up with a trick up my sleeve, some mad idea I'd like to try. But today I'm empty. I've had the stuffing knocked out of me, is how I feel."

Someone snorted. Charlotte. "What, have you never lost before?"

Henri answered for me. "Not when he's been playing."

Charlotte's eyes widened. "What, seriously?"

"Seriously. Why should he have lost? He could score whenever he wanted. The Darlington players called it God Mode. Now? Now, he's merely a demi-god." He rubbed my upper arm, with affection. "My friend. You need time to process your feelings. That is true. But a wise man once said 'Life can only be understood backwards but it must be lived forwards'." He paused. Frowned. "That was a very good line. I said something exceptionally helpful, there. I expected more of a reaction."

I smiled from one side of my mouth. "Round of applause for Henri." The ladies obliged. Kisi threw in a few whoops. When the merriment subsided, I asked a ludicrously pleased Henri to repeat the phrase.

"Life can only be understood backwards but it must be lived forwards. Tonight you will think. Tomorrow you will think. By Saturday you will have seventeen solutions to a low block. But today you have a job. So do your job." He looked around the room. "It is a cup match, yes? Against a very good side. So, tell us what to do."

I closed my eyes and thought about what he had said. Life can only be understood backwards... "4-5-1," I said, snapping out of battery-saving mode and into something resembling normal operations. "We will have to do a lot of defending. Suffer, sacrifice, shuffle, slide, spacing. Now, this lot are going to take one look around, wonder how they've ended up in a shithole like this, and they'll be walking around with a big sneer. So..." I looked down, suddenly ashamed.

If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

"Go on, Max," murmured Henri.

"So... pretend to be shit for five minutes. You have to defend well. But when you get the ball, Charlotte, Bea Pea, make a big mess of it. Someone send a long pass to the left and Dani, make a big deal of how you didn't hear that the ball was coming." I looked at my feet. Another half-baked idea. Another piece of deception that had no right to work. That wouldn't work. Because I didn't even believe in it myself.

"Why is no-one asking why?" said Henri.

"Because it's obvious," said Bea Pea. "Get them to underestimate us. Even more."

I gave her a tiny smile that died on my face like a snowflake landing on a hot car. "Do that for five minutes. They'll relax. Then close the trap. Our first piece of quality needs to lead to a goal. Do you get me? Shit, shit, shit, goal. Hopefully that's one-nil."

"And then?" said Henri.

This was it. The moment I didn't want to face. The moment I had to tell them they had absolutely no chance of winning. Stockport's average CA was in the 40s, and their bench was even stronger. "Then whatever. Just do your best or whatever."

Henri rubbed his palms down his sides. He looked worried, suddenly. "I see."

Dani got up and went to Henri. Showed him something on her phone. "Dani says to turn your phone on."

I looked at the ceiling. "Yeah. Later."

Henri mimed. Dani responded. Typed, her thumbs a blur. "Dani says turn your phone on and read what Bethany sent you." I was about to complain when he glanced down at her screen. "Do it now."

With a grunt, I sat in the corner, and held the power button down. While I waited for my home screen to load, I tried understanding life backwards or whatever. I didn't get very far.

My phone finished loading and I found I had been bombarded with texts, calls, voice notes, and emails. Messages from Beth begged me to read an email she'd sent. I opened it.

From: Beth

To: Max

Subject: The DM Podcast

Max. I've got the chance to record something for my newspaper's daily sport podcast. It's called Our Jackboot, Your Neck. Short snippets of sport from around the world. Mostly football but anything with a fun little story. This is what I'll read and submit - it could be great for my career. Another string to my bow if I can get audio work as well as written. Journalists have to hustle like crazy. It's grim. You might consider being nicer to your local guy.

I'm not asking for your approval, but I don't want you getting all Max on me so here's what I've got planned and if there's anything you don't like I *might* change it.

Purposing the Defeat, written and read by Bethany Alban

What does it mean to lose?

Don't ask Max Best. He likes to over-complicate everything.

Max is, among many complicated things, the manager of Chester FC men's first team. Earlier today, his men had the chance to go top of the National League North in a match against the current leaders, Kidderminster Harriers.

All very simple so far, but Max doesn't do simple.

Since taking over as manager, he has done a lot of stirring. Not only whacking hornet's nests and running away, but also planting nests for future use.

Take one example. He suggested he could easily be tempted to return to his former club as player-manager. That club's form dipped just enough for Chester to overtake them in the table. Annoyed at his decisions being questioned by the club's board, Max hinted they were contributing to a feeling of burnout. The club recently took steps to relieve Max of the terrible burden of explaining himself. And while Max gets whatever he wants, Chester's fans don't get the one thing they crave - for Max to sign a long-term contract. A move they say will show that he is committed.

All this chaos is intended to strengthen Chester's position. Most observers think it defeats the purpose. Every time Max flutters his lashes at a rival team, every time he adds another floor to his ivory tower or sends his minions to communicate with the media, he creates a wedge between him and the fans who pay him. They want a king for their castle; he wants to be a jester.

Why would any club put up with such a complicated person?

[leave a pause here]

Because Max Best is a winner.

The last 13 results for the men's team? Won 12, drawn one. Goals galore, delightful football, and playing time for Max Best himself as he recovers from a serious injury.

Enter top-of-the-table Kidderminster. They came to Max's fortress armed to the teeth and carrying an enchanted item - the Sword of Superior Set Pieces. As Chester pressed and probed, Kidderminster slashed their way to a two-nil lead. Max Best, habitual winner, brought himself on for the last half hour. His opponents reacted by revealing their second magical item - the Shield of the Legendary Low Block.

Max knew he had no answer to the Shield. He gave up. He wilted like old lettuce.

But he kept fighting.

Standing unopposed on the halfway line, Max did kick ups, a challenge, a challenge that went unanswered until he reached the edge of the D, when finally he found an opponent willing to face him. Facing the goal, facing defeat, Max flicked the ball left and right until the defender was facing the wrong way. His shot arced to the top corner, and though it was saved, there came the first stirrings from the crowd. The first audible recognition that they might be witnessing something special.

Joining the dots, playing one-twos, recovering the ball, Max was everywhere on the pitch, a man possessed, but one too many shots went wide, were blocked, were saved, and he quit. He gave up.

But he kept fighting.

He ran, he dribbled, he passed long and short, he tried everything, threw the kitchen sink at the problem. As one by one his considerable bag of tricks failed him, he kept fighting, kept banging his head against the enchanted shield, and amazingly, as the volume from the crowd hit eleven, the shield cracked. Surely one more charge would break it?

The next charge came, and the next, and the next, and each time more players fell with cramp, more players begged the referee to stop the contest, and still the jester king mounted his horse and gathered his lance. One final tilt! And another!

Kidderminster's defenders had never seen anything like it, and nor had the Chester fans. Oh, perhaps in the old days, in the eighties, but not recently. Certainly not in the age of Max Best. This aloof, process-driven cipher, this chaotic neutral character, me first, you second, this boy so arrogant he doesn't even celebrate his own goals, was smashing himself into a brick wall, time and time again, and the wall was finally starting to wobble.

The walls of Jericho fell when the horns and the shouts of the enemy brought them down - perhaps history would have repeated in Chester, such was the noise generated by the home supporters. Whatever distance had come between them and Max in the past few months was cut away. Many Chester players contributed to a performance full of heart and quality, but two thousand Chester fans lived every second of the last ten minutes as though they were controlling Max in a video game. Perhaps one might say Best was controlling them. When a pass went astray and he had to break stride to collect it, his two thousand mouths groaned. When he was patiently building play on the right in order to work an opening, they fell to a patient, nodding hush. When he ran to the left to add his weight to that thrust, they swayed left, then swayed right as he cut into the box, then bobbed up and down as his shot crashed back off the shield. And in the final, frantic few minutes where Chester did everything but score, as Max orchestrated incessant attacks, they roared their approval, roared in a stupefying, endlessly overlapping series of waves.

[pause]

The shield held.

Max Best was dragged to the dressing room, disconsolate, apparently unaware that he was receiving a standing ovation of biblical proportions. Unaware that, in valiant defeat, he'd formed an eternal bond with every Chester fan present. They understand him better, now. He likes to project an image of being all style, no substance, because being underestimated helps him win football matches. He likes to keep those around him in suspense, likes to put on an air of sophisticated detachment. But today there was no hiding his commitment. From jester to king in thirty inspirational minutes.

What does it mean to lose?

For a complicated man, losing is just another way to win.

***

I read it again before replying, fact checking that I did in fact have a contract with Chester and suggesting she change the word 'minion', but saying she had my blessing.

Something had happened the day before. Something I couldn't understand through the lens of my own experience. I needed Beth, and Boggy, and to hear from the fans. Like Henri had said, it could wait.

I got to my feet and smashed Triple Captain and Bench Boost.

"All right, shut the fuck up. It's going to be fucking hard, today. Do my little scam and you might get an early goal out of it. If we have insane luck, we might get a second. Then what? Do you want to do a low block, hope to survive? Or do you want to do what I did yesterday? Attack until you drop and get dragged off the pitch because you've left your mind, body, and soul out there?"

"Yeah!" cried Bonnie, not realising that I'd proposed a multiple choice question.

"Attack until you drop!" called Maddy, clapping her hands.

They went out to do their final warm ups and all that. "Maybe you should wait here," said Henri.

"Why?"

He was staring at something. "Just a feeling."

I shrugged and lay with my back on the hard slats of the bench until it was time to go out and start the match.

***

What happened next was like a dream. It was a series of madnesses joined by the loose connective tissue of a football match.

I left the dressing room and there was a burst of applause. The spectators around the pitch were two, sometimes three deep. To my right, families and players and randos. To my left, along the length, a lot of aggressive-looking young men. For a second I was scared - my skull, except for the part that had been operated on - tingled. But they were doing most of the clapping. Half a second after that tiny burst of anxiety came the realisation that they were Chester fans. The hard core. The proto gammons.

I waved at them as I passed.

"What's going on?" I said, but Emma and Henri were busy bickering about who was going to be my assistant manager. I laid my hand on Jill’s shoulder. Long-suffering Jill, always the bridesmaid, never the bride, except I supposed at her own wedding. "Jill's my assistant manager. You guys can be cheerleaders."

"You've got enough of those," said Emma, but before I could ask what she meant, the match was underway.

Stockport County passed the ball around, very neat and tidy. Their team was lumpy - pockets of very good players, with some who were overrated. It didn't help us much but it did mean some of their moves were sloppy. Some instinct made me man-mark their number 10 right away, even before I'd fully processed why.

When we got the ball first, Charlotte smashed a low pass... almost to the corner flag. She held her hand up, yelling sorry.

We defended for a while, then got the ball again. A nice combination between Pippa and Charlotte ended with a pass being pinged out to Dani. As the ball zipped past her, she ran in quite the wrong direction. Hundreds of people had inexplicably turned up to watch, and along with the Stockport players, looked slightly embarrassed as Dani bent and pretended to fiddle with a hearing aid. Stockport's two centre backs turned away. One said something to the other and there was laughter.

"Oh my God, oh my God," I said, practically hopping around.

"Max," hissed Jill. "Don't ruin it."

I got my poker face back on, and watched, feeling like I was slowly unwrapping an enormous Christmas present, as my players waited for the right moment.

The long ball comes to nothing.

Bonnie heads clear.

It's gathered by Lucy. She has no-one to pass to.

She's furious! She points to where Pippa should be.

Stockport sense a chance to press.

They're pushing forward.

Lucy plays it over the top.

Dani chases... and gets there!

She shapes to shoot...

But drags the ball onto her left. She powers forwards...

Draws the keeper...

Oh, that's a clever pass.

Bea Pea can't miss!

The roar from the crowd told me what had happened even before the curse did. I lost my mind, running up and down in a four-metre rut.

The crowd! They were into it. Really into it!

When the match resumed, there was a real crackle around the place. It was almost hostile. They really wanted to see Chester win, and the Stockport players felt it. They were good, though, and they snapped out of the complacency. They’d learned the hard way that Chester Women could play. Time to step up.

And step up they did. A few minutes of pressure led to an equaliser.

I sighed. This was inevitable. At least we'd scored. At least we'd had that moment. But a CA 18 team wasn't going to beat a CA 43 one.

A cheer came up from the far corner flag. The crowd parted, briefly, and someone hopped over the railing and walked along the touchline. The fans yelled something, a single syllable, but it wasn't until the man came closer that I realised what they were chanting.

"Brig! Brig! Brig!"

I laughed. "What now?"

My assistant manager offered me a handshake, all smiles. "Can I have a quick word, sir?"

"Yes. Tell me why you've got a chant. That's new."

He frowned. Emma replied. "He doesn't know what happened. He turned his phone off and he's been feeling sorry for himself since the match ended."

The Brig grinned, but then got serious. "That's why I've come. The chant, I mean. You instructed me to be uncontroversial in the post-match interview. But I'm afraid your display was too much for me to take and I... spoke my mind. I have come to tender my resignation."

"No!" said Emma, pushing me angrily as though I had done something wrong.

"Er... maybe I'd better know what you said."

"Let me," said Henri, first to his phone. He tapped and I heard a whooshing noise. My phone pinged.

"Excuse me," I said, fishing my earbuds out of my pocket and popping them in my ears. I took a quick glance at the match ratings. Stockport's talented number 10 was on five. She did not like being man marked. How had I spotted that so fast? I noticed what the link was. "This is the post-match interview? Why's it on YouTube?"

Jill knew. "Glen's been filming them for a while but he doesn't upload the ones where you bully him."

I pressed play. It wasn't a long clip. I could watch it while keeping an eye on the match.

Glen kept himself out of frame, so all we saw was the Brig, his eyes shining, shark-like. He didn't bully Glen, but surely this was more terrifying than what he got from me?

John, that's a tough loss to take. What's the mood in the dressing room?

Professional footballers are competitive. They play to win, and if they don't win, they react badly. There were some shouts, some thrown drink bottles. I believe it was performative.

Sorry, what?

The players don't like losing, of course. But I'd say the overall mood is one of euphoria.

Euphoria?

Football players go to work every day, the same as everyone else, and they work hard, clock off, and do it all again the next day. They worry about their mortgages and providing for their family, the same as everyone else. There's one difference between a footballer and most people - everyone dreams of being a sports star. Sam Topps didn't grow up wanting to be an accountant. He wanted to play football in a noisy stadium. Even more than that, he didn't grow up wanting to shuffle and slide and keep proper spacing. He dreamed of attacking, of taking shots, scoring goals. Today was, I believe, the closest he has ever got to living out his childhood dreams.

What did you think of the referee?

The referee refereed the game to the best of his ability.

Would the result have been different if we had played a weak team in the Cheshire Cup on Tuesday?

Yes, because in that alternate reality, Max Best would not be the manager of Chester Football Club.

Some players who played in that match didn't look at their best today. Perhaps they were tired.

On Tuesday night eleven men plus substitutes were asked to pull on a Chester shirt and represent the club. There's a badge on the front of the shirt. I'm an outsider to this club, but I like to believe someone made a choice to depict a lion and a crown because they hoped it would inspire the players to fight like lions and play like kings. If you want us to play like mice and cowards, you must give us a different shirt with a different badge and find us a new manager because the one we have wants to win every game.

What about the goalkeeper situation? Many people are saying -

Ben Cavanagh is a king. Robbo Robson is a lion. Max trusts them both. Demands more from them both. The same as with Sam. The same as with Henri. The same as with me. But there is no-one Max demands more of than himself. If there's a player at this club who feels harshly treated, he can ask himself if he's ever had to be peeled off the pitch like Max was just now. If there's a fan who thinks this manager and this team aren't sufficiently committed, I'd like to see what state they're in when they clock off from work. If this team, this line up, this formation, is not exactly how you want it, not exactly how you'd do it, then I have news for you. You are wrong. Max knows best. Goodbye.

I popped the earbuds out and put them in their case. I treated myself to a few seconds of staring at the backs of my hands.

A few seconds later, after telling the Brig I didn’t accept his resignation, I found myself prowling up and down the touchline, jaw set, eyes sucking in all the data that was available to me. I barked out a few orders. Tweaked some settings. Waved my arms around, trying to push my rekindled passion into the players.

It was hopeless. It was a lost cause. But defeats could be glorious, too.

The crowd responded. Maybe Beth was right. Maybe I could control them.

I stopped what I was doing, amazed, disbelieving. Stockport had been pushed back. Not quite into a low block, but they'd gone defensive. I checked the screens - their tactics were the same as at the start.

It wasn’t the tactics; it was the crowd! Pushed right up against the sides of the pitch, closer than in any real stadium, they were yelling and screaming and generally being fucking intimidating. And Stockport, though they must have been used to playing in front of bigger crowds, were used to playing in front of women's football crowds. Raucous, sure. But, let's face it, wholesome.

This bunch of pricks weren't wholesome. They were rabid Chester fans. High on the drama from yesterday, come to inject more into their veins.

I grinned, savagely. Holy shit!

The more I pranced up and down the touchline, yelling mindless shit, the more the fans responded. They fucking loved it!

And as Stockport sat back, waiting for this unexpected fire to go out, Dani exchanged passes with her fellow midfielders and worked her way to the centre circle.

Where she started doing kick ups.

The reaction was electric.

Kick ups in a match? Pointless. Stupid. What kind of idiot does that?

She moved forward. A Stockport player ran to do something about this upstart, and Dani flicked the ball over her head, much as I had done. The second defender came faster, but Dani was smarter than me, and she passed the ball to Charlotte. Who in turn, passed it back, so that Dani could flick the ball up again, laughing at her own talent. Was that an impression of me?

Stockport's number 10, who Pippa had tracked and followed almost wherever she went, depriving her of contact with the ball, went into meltdown. She lunged at Dani, who crumpled into a heap. I saw from her attributes that she wasn't seriously hurt, but the swan dive was so convincing that I was racing onto the pitch almost before she'd screamed.

I got there, did some fake sign language, and as she writhed and made weird noises, Dani signed back. "Ambulance!" I screamed. "Fucking ambulance!"

The crowd had gone feral, and now they bayed for blood. It would have been legit concerning, but I knew I had control of the mob. The mob and I were besties.

As I pretended to mourn for Dani's broken bones, I saw the referee flash a card at the vile number ten. Red.

"Sub!" I yelled, jogging back to the touchline, and four hundred people expected me to replace Dani.

There was tremendous surprise when, in fact, I replaced a defender, Mo, with a striker, Julie.

"Attack!" I yelled. There was a strange moment where all my players turned to me, confused. I'd already changed the formation to 3-5-2, and now I clicked various hotkeys. Make forward runs: yes. Try through balls: yes. Crosses: yes. Pressing: yes.

I sucked in air, ready to try again. It was for the benefit of the fans, really. "Attack! Attack! Attack attack attack!"

I repeated the chant, and this time, all the fans on my length of the pitch joined in. One more time, and it was everyone.

Charlotte passed to Susan, who went wide to Maddy, whose first touch bamboozled the defender. Maddy's run brought Bea Pea across and they tried a one-two. It wasn't quite right, so Maddy had to turn back. She found Charlotte had made a darting run, and when the ball was played to her, she hit a fast, high, spinning pass that went over all the defenders, all the way to Julie, who tried to redirect the ball at goal. Supremely difficult, but she made good contact. It hit the post.

I celebrated like we'd scored. It was thrilling to see them play like this!

And that's when it happened. Other people said the defeat to Kidderminster had been magical for them. Some said they'd had out-of-body experiences. But for me, this was the most magical moment. In the first half of our heroic 4-2 defeat to Stockport County in the Cheshire Ladies Cup, as I punched the air and jumped around like a hyperactive kitten because my players had put together a half-decent sequence, the fans sang something I never thought I'd hear sung in earnest.

"Max Best's blue and white army!

Max Best's blue and white army!"

***

Monday, 23 October

The guys were jogging around the training ground at BoshCard HQ. I was ready for action, but Physio Dean had ordered me not to play until he'd checked me out. I had said something like, "You're not the boss of me." And he had said something like, "I'm the Max Best of physios so sit the fuck down." And I couldn't argue with that.

So I sat on a football, thinking. Trying and failing to understand my life. I got so many things backwards. So... if I thought backwards, shouldn't I have seen the backwards parts... forwards?

"Henri!" I cried. He looked over. "I need a crash course in philosophy."

He shook his head. "And chess. And fashion. And car maintenance." The rest of the players loved this exchange. They liked that someone was allowed to talk shit to me.

The Brig strode into the area and blew his whistle. He summoned everyone, ordered them to form a circle. Intrigued, I joined in, with my arms around Henri and Ben Cavanagh. I gave the goalie a smile and ruffled the back of his training top. His morale increased from Very Poor to Poor.

"Men!" barked the Brig. "A few months ago, your Director of Football laid out how the season would go. He said there were three dangerous teams. Today, those teams fill the top three places in the league. He said if we trained hard, we'd soon be the fourth best team. We're fourth in the league. He said if we kept training hard, we'd overtake those bastards by January." This got him some laughs, some cheers. "Your Director of Football took Saturday's result to heart, but by his own admission we're ahead of schedule. We're doing what he told us we would do, including progressing in every cup competition. As soon as he stops sighing and asking Henri to comfort him, he will soon realise that." More laughs. "He will realise that. I'm no football expert, but what I saw on Saturday was clearly the best team in this league. And I don't mean Kidderminster." Nods. Nods from pretty much everyone.

"I agree," said a new voice. The circle opened a fraction, revealing MD and someone with their hood pulled over their head. MD looked curiously stern.

"Me too," said the man in the hood. He pulled it down, revealing he was as bald as the day he was born. The squad cheered. "Not bad for a Manc," he said in his languid Scouse accent. It was none other than Jackie Actual Reaper.

Vimsy smiled at his mate. “You’re looking well. How you feeling?”

“Never better,” said Jackie. He was, indeed, looking well-rested and healthy. “Ready to get back to work.”

Lots of smiles, especially from players like Trick and D-Day. With a flicker of his eyes in my direction, Sam risked a cheeky comment. “Are you going to teach us how to beat a low block?”

“Nothing like that, no, lad. I've come to apply for the manager's job."