7.

@ChesterFC

Here we go! Chester are pleased to announce the signing of defender Steve Alton from Hereford on a two-year deal. Manager Max Best says, "Steve is an exciting addition to the first team squad. He's experienced enough to slide right into the team, but has a high ceiling, too. It's my first transfer with a fee and as my own boss I rate this a ten out of ten bit of business. I'm happy, Steve's happy, and my boss is happy."

***

Extract from Deva Victrix, the only Chester FC podcast made by idiots, for idiots.

Huey: "All right, let's talk social media. It's been a busy time for Chester on the old socials. Can either of you remember a busier week?"

Louie: "When we beat Southport and Best got attacked. That was wall-to-wall."

Huey: "Yeah. That was hectic but that was all the same story. This week's been so random. We've had the win over Chorley, the team livetweeting the World Cup semi-final, walking around the old town looking for Max's car, a mad new signing, shaky footage of Max Best training with a load of kids, then yesterday was all about Simon Black."

Dewey: "I've still not seen the first video."

Huey: "So you'll be the last person in Chester, then. I'll describe it quick. So it's this guy, this dad, and he's in his kitchen recording himself going 'I can't believe this, Max Best has just been here playing Headers and Volleys with my Simon, and he wants to sign him.' Dad’s buzzing. And his wife's on her phone, on speaker, and she tells her sister and there's just a big scream. And they're hugging each other and laughing and crying. So happy their kid's signing for Chester. It just got me, I don't know. It's raw. They're just happy. And they finally turn the camera to this little kid. Little Simon."

Louie: "He's tiny."

Huey: "He's sooo tiny it's unbelievable. And his dad says, hey, you've been scouted by Max Best, what do you think about that? And the kid is, I don't know, shy, and he says, It's okay I guess. And his dad says hey! You'll go to training and play games every week, isn't that good? And the kid almost smiles, says yeah but Max says I need to work on my heading so I'm allowed to jump on the bed. And that sets them all off laughing because it's so funny. Big joke. So it's a great video, just really sweet. It starts getting traction this morning. And after a while, the club's official account leaves a comment. Goes, Max says that wasn't a joke. We asked him to stop telling kids to wreck their beds, and he's agreed. He's bought Simon a mini trampoline instead."

Louie: "Next thing, the dad posts a picture of a cardboard box."

Huey: "He's bought a little trampoline with his own money."

Dewey: "Who has?"

Huey: "Max!"

Louie: "Has he fuck. That's marketing. It's good marketing, but it doesn't fool me."

Huey: "You're so miserable. You're really starting to get on my tits. Why wouldn't he buy a kid a trampoline? It's only a hundred quid."

Louie: "You saw his car. It's a piece of crap. He's not rolling in dough. We heard from our mates on the board what he's paid. So unless he's got some secret source of income..."

Dewey: "You need to be careful what you say next, mate. His girlfriend is gunning for you. I heard she wants to grab you, turn you upside down and shake you until your last penny has fallen out. But what's your issue with Steve Alton? He's your common-or-garden sixth tier defender. How is that a 'mad signing'?"

Louie: "It's not. That's the point. That's what's mad about it. One week he's signing three lads he met on holiday. That's what we expect from him, right? Someone says 'guess who's done a madness?' and you say 'oh, shit, what now?' Three total randos. Not on trial, either. No experience? No problem. Straight to contract. Then it's a proper defender. Someone who's actually played professional football. Someone who can perform at this level. It's not his style. It worries me."

Huey: "I'm not worried in the slightest. We were all stressed about his clients, right? Well, Youngster's being scouted left, right, and centre. We know that. Raffi Brown's one of my favourite players already. Henri Lyons - we were promised goals, and he scores goals. Absolutely no way he's still at the club if he isn't mates with the boss. And this Simon Black kid, someone's dug up footage of him rampaging through his school teams, scoring ten goals a game and mad shit like that. My question is, why wasn't he already a Chester player? Best is out there throwing our weight around. Like we should have been doing for the last ten years. We're fucking big at this level. Why is no-one acting like that?"

Louie: "You've been brainwashed. We're not big. We're small. Literally. You heard what Spectrum said on Seals Live last match. They've stopped tracking the kids' height and physical data. If you don't know how tall a kid's going to be, you're going to be investing a lot of time and money creating a team of Pascal Bochums."

Dewey: "What was the reason for that? Did he say?"

Huey: "Said Max doesn't give a shit. Kid's going to be as tall as he's gonna be. Why make them feel bad about it? Right, that's enough of that. Let's talk upcoming fixtures. Two tough away games on the horizon. Banbury, then Scarborough. What do we reckon?"

Dewey: "Banbury's all about Chris Beaumont."

Louie: "Goliath."

Dewey: "Shut him down, it's an easy win. But give him too much attention, they'll hit you somewhere else. Jackie Reaper couldn't thread the needle. Best's good on the old tactics but this sort of thing might be a bit basic for him. Not sure if he gives giant strikers a lot of thought. Could be a tough day down there."

Louie: "I'd be happy with a draw. Two-all. Pride intact. Beat them at home. Four points from six, good stuff."

Dewey: "Agree. I'd bite your hand off for that."

Huey: "A point? Against Banbury?" [Heavy sigh.] "Yeah. I suppose."

***

Spectrum put the Steve Alton tweet out on Thursday morning. Nice bit of news for people to read on their way to work, and most of the replies were positive.

Just what we need! Good to see the club doing the business. I've been crying out for this kind of signing. Good stuff, love it.

There were a couple of negative ones, but they weren't complaints about Steve Alton, per se.

Steve Alton is why my season ticket went to the moon? Hang on, this nobody is why I can't afford to go to games? This guy better be 15% better than the others.

I hadn't seen MD on Thursday to ask him about it, but he popped by on Friday to see our new defender in Chester gear for the first time.

I showed him one of the tweets I'd saved. "What's all this stuff?"

"You're on Twitter!" he said, surprised. "The app formerly known as Twitter."

"I'm not. Cliff Daps is. It's easier than asking Emma all the time. But looks like I've joined at the wrong time. It's falling apart."

"What isn't?" He read the tweet, unbothered by its tone. "Ticket prices were increased."

"Were increased? By a warlock? By a rogue AI? You mean you increased the prices."

Still unbothered. "Yes, Max. I increased the prices. By fifteen percent. After full and frank deliberations with the new board."

I ran my fingers through my hair. I wanted to get it cut really short. Summer buzz. New season, new hair. Put the past where it belonged - in the barbershop hairbin of history. "I went back to look at the club's tweets after the first games. The replies are all like this. Losing to Stortford, this is why prices have shot up? And so on. This feels like a wedge between the club and the fans. I'm sort of trying to do the opposite of that. Remember?"

"I know, and I love it. I'll support you as much as possible, including finding eight thousand pounds to buy a player shortly after I told you the transfer budget was zero. But the survival of the club is paramount. Don't look like that, Max. Bills have shot up."

"We're going to start generating income this year. Trust me."

"No. I have placed a lot of faith in your hands, but I have to act as though you might quit tomorrow."

"I won't."

"You might. And then what? Pascal, for example. You believe in him. No-one else does. Not even Jackie did. So if you go, that investment goes with you. Raffi's a more obvious talent, but if we sell him, do you know what we get?"

"Eight hundred thousand pounds." That was Raffi's release clause. High enough to do a lot of good for Chester, low enough to tempt some Championship or League One sides into taking a punt on him.

"If we get something astonishing for this level, such as fifty thousand pounds, that will pay the increase in our electricity prices."

"The increase?"

"Last year our electricity bills alone went from fifty to ninety thousand. Joe and I spent hours calculating if playing Saturday matches earlier would save money. Pro, save a few hundred pounds per match on floodlights. Con, lose money from hospitality lunches. The bills we pay are increasing, so are the prices we charge. There's nothing we can do about it."

It was hard to argue with his point, except I knew this club would soon be a cash machine. Income from matches would be a drop in the ocean compared to transfer profits. I made little clicking noises from the side of my mouth. "Right." I scratched my eyebrows triggering a once-per-week perk called Super Patience. "I'm going to generate a lot of money for this club. A lot. Most needs to be reinvested in the squad but we need to make sure fans can afford to come to games." He wasn't quite listening. I got a bit heated. "I want a full stadium, MD. I want to give Crackers the atmosphere I promised him. I don't want fans moaning and complaining. I want them cheering and singing. It helps us win, too."

"I also want a full stadium. Bring in money and you'll get a say in how it's used. If you want new players, it can go to new players. If you want to keep tickets cheap, great. But I promise you, it will always be a choice between one or the other."

He wandered off.

My jaw had tensed up. I tried to rub it loose. Getting an extra fifty quid a season from a fan was meaningless in the grand scheme of things. All it guaranteed was bad publicity and ill-feeling. I wanted happy faces around me. Smiling little kids, excited to train. Fans walking around in blue-and-white scarves. Optimism. Excitement. Feeling like the club was on the way up.

If electricity prices had doubled, there was an obvious solution - generate our own. Solar panels and batteries. How much would it cost to become self-sufficient? Half a Raffi? And the savings... I worked it out on my phone. 90,000 a year was 1,730 a week. Three new players. Or a ticket price freeze.

I needed money.

I scanned the pitches. We had some decent players. Some that would eventually turn into real assets. But nobody worth selling before the window closed on the first of September. And probably no-one who'd fetch their peak price in January. If things went great, Raffi would be catching the eye by next summer.

A year from now. Too slow. Too late.

I was so deep in thought it took me a while to realise the players had stopped training.

I went over to investigate and found there was a heated discussion going on. Not a crazy one like you sometimes got where players would start beating the shit out of each other. This was Trick and Gerald versus Glenn and Carl. My defence attacking each other.

"What's all this then?"

"Max," said Glenn, relieved. "Trick's... we're talking about Beaumont."

"The match is tomorrow," whined Trick. "We don't know the team. The plan. What do we do about Beaumont?"

So, a little background to explain what I did next, maybe. Remember, I was feeling aggrieved. Annoyed in general. Annoyed by MD raising the ticket prices. Annoyed that I was going to have to appear in public and defend the decision. Annoyed that the Man City women couldn't see this club for what it was - a sleeping giant. Yeah. The mismatch between what I knew and what the rest of the world believed was getting to me.

But nothing grated harder than hearing the name Chris Beaumont. This was literally the hundredth time I'd heard it said since Monday.

You might remember that I had given Jackie Reaper a verbal dressing-down when I drove him to the clinic in Liverpool because he'd treated this Chris Beaumont guy like he was prime Zlatan Ibrahimovic. Suffice to say the two players were NOT comparable. Jackie took my rebuke well, quitting shortly after and leaving me knee-deep in shit. The prick.

"Oh, you're talking about Chris Beaumont," I said. "The striker who plays for Banbury."

"He's enormous," said Trick.

"Oh, is he? Is he an enormous, unstoppable striker?" I was being sarcastic. Incredibly, no-one picked up on my tone. They were that afraid of him.

"Boss," said Sam Topps, who was taking part in training on a non-contact basis. "I know you're busy and still getting up to speed and all that, but if you've already decided on a team and a plan, it'd be good to hear it early like you did last year?"

"Right," I said. "But back then I thought naming the team early was smart, but later Vimsy pointed out that the guys who knew they weren't in the team trained like shit for a week. So that fucking pissed me off. If I had my way I wouldn't tell you the lineup until ten minutes after a match had kicked off. I need you all to train flat out, all the time. We win this league here in training, not on match days."

"I'm with you, boss. I get you. And Vimsy's right about that week. But Beaumont's a nightmare, he really is. If you've got the answer to it, we should start preparing that. Practising it."

Even fucking Youngster was afraid of this neanderthal. "He is extremely large, Mr. Best. Truly, he is the Goliath of the league."

It just so happened I knew a thing or two about the David versus Goliath tale. I was about to launch into an epic rant, but I stopped myself. Did I have the skills to handle this maturely? Probably… if my head was clear.

But my team's CA hadn't been increasing as fast as I wanted. I thought it was because we'd played a Tuesday night game but now I was wondering... Were these pricks so busy fretting about Beaumont that they weren't even concentrating on their own improvement?

"Brig? I need you for a minute. Lads, I'm popping inside to get something from my office. Now, when Henri was at Darlington, he gave an interview that got him in a lot of trouble, but all he was saying was that managers should listen to their players more. So split into your boot camp groups and I want each of you to come up with a solution. David versus Goliath. We're David, obviously. So how do we win? All right? You've got five minutes."

The Brig and I strode away, and once we were inside I took him into the break room and gave him a paper cup of tap water. I had one, too, which I drank while staring out of a window trying to process my feelings.

"What's your plan, sir?"

"Not sure. Think I might try and vent some of my frustrations. It might blow up in my face. What do you think?"

"I'm afraid I don't know the issues, sir."

"The team we're playing have a very large object playing as a striker. A small moon with his own gravity, attracting the ball. It's hard to win a header against him, and that causes chaos."

"That does sound problematic."

"Nope. We know exactly what Banbury will do when they get the ball. They have one weapon. One way of playing. It's hard to talk about this without sounding dismissive or disrespectful... but it's small time. It's beneath us. It's one thing to mention it as something to look out for. I mean, that's just being professional. But it's another thing to obsess over the guy for a whole week. Have fucking training ground bust-ups about it."

"And you have a plan to stop him?"

I eyed the Brig. It felt like he was winding me up, but that was just because I was on edge. "My plan is to say happy birthday to that cute girl at reception."

"How do you know it's her birthday?"

"Didn't you see all the balloons?"

***

I left the credit card building alone and went to collect the ideas the players had been dreaming up.

Before I did, Jude jogged over to me.

"Just how tall is this guy?" he whispered.

"What would you guess based on their reactions?"

"Oooh... based on their reactions... twelve foot?"

I finally cracked a smile. One little joke was all it took to boost my mood by twenty percent.

The first boot camp squad suggested that Glenn should man-mark the giant. Minus four percent to my mood! Footballers are so fucking stupid, sometimes. They'd literally just seen that tactic fail.

Raffi's group - Pascal's group, in this case, since he had the best tactical brain - suggested getting tight to the wide players to stop crosses coming in. Fine, but Banbury hit long balls from everywhere. It wasn't only crosses that were a problem.

Henri's group proposed a 'Max Best Special'. Flooding the midfield to gain complete control of the ball, denying Banbury any possession whatsoever, and having Youngster play just in front of the ogre. Henri explained. "It would have the dual effect of making Goliath waste energy trying to press Youngster, while also being another body in the area for knock-downs and second balls. Youngster will block, intercept, and annoy."

"All right," I said. "Some interesting ideas, there. I find that I'm so intimidated by this guy's vast enormousness that I can't think straight. So I've come up with a way to put all your ideas to the test. To the sword, you might say, since we're talking about David versus Goliath." I waved, and the Brig emerged from the credit card building.

He marched, upright, dignified, while holding, by its string, a shiny helium balloon.

I studied the players. There was some amusement. Some retreated behind blank poker faces. This sesh had taken a turn for the weird and they didn't want to get embarrassed.

"What we're going to do now is replicate the experience of playing against Goliath Beaumont. We don't have a massive hulking brute we can swap into the party - actually, that's a good idea, someone write that down - but I think we can approximate it. So listen. Goliath is tall and has too much bulk to move or grapple. So what do we do? Easy. We devote all our focus and attention to him. We dream about him. We have nightmares about him. Fear is tremendously helpful. Much better than worrying about silly old passing drills."

The Brig passed the balloon over. It was in the shape of a rabbit coming out of a magician's hat. "Dude," I mumbled. There had been a unicorn one. The Brig shrugged.

I tied the string around my wrist so it couldn't float off, then gripped the hat and held it in front of my forehead. "Right, I'm holding this balloon. It's about the height of Chris Beaumont, yeah? Someone come and compete for this header."

No-one came, so the Brig volunteered Michael Harrison, the eighteen-year-old Triplet.

He stood next to me. I gave Vimsy a nod and he threw a ball up. "My ball," I yelled, pushing the balloon into it. "Have it," I grunted, as the ball blopped away. "Oh. Let's get someone taller. Glenn, get over here."

"I'd rather not."

"Brig, yell at Glenn."

Glenn sighed and replaced Michael. Ryder made no effort to jump for the header, but I barged into him as I 'won' the ball. "Banburyyyyy!" I yelled in an overly deep impression of a caveman. "Well up, Chris. Get in!"

"Max, come on," said Angles, who'd brought the goalies over when he'd seen the balloon.

I released the balloon, trusting my knot to keep it tethered, and waved my arms around like a managerial octopus. "No, you missed it, mate. Big chat about Chris Beaumont over here. You know him, right? Banbury and England striker Chris Beaumont. Top scorer in every league he's ever played in. Three billion followers on Instagram. You know. Chris Beaumont! Nicknamed Goliath. We've got to do something about Chris Beaumont!"

The players were unhappy I was mocking their fears but this was my first real outburst since coming back from hospital, so there was also some interest. No doubt some of it was morbid curiosity - was I more damaged than I seemed?

Sam still had belief in me. Enough to challenge me. "Max! He's good. He's dangerous."

I frowned. I knew everyone's CA and PA. I was acting the way I was because my players were being stupid. Fear of Beaumont, whose CA was in the 20s, was completely irrational. But it was rational to them. I couldn't discuss this in terms of CA and PA. But there were other numbers. "Sam. Guys. He scored six goals last season. Six league goals in forty-six games. That's shit. He's not good at football."

"He wins headers," said Glenn. Losing aerial duels was rare for him. So rare it frazzled his brain when it did happen.

I took a few seconds to compose myself. I'd tried words. Now something for the visual learners. "I know some of you think I can pull a rabbit out of the hat. No? Nothing for that? But honestly, lads, I'm all out of ideas. David versus Goliath, there's only one winner. Big old Goliath, every time. Am I right?" Surely even the thick ones - which I was starting to suspect was all of them - knew who won that particular fight. "I did have one small idea. Not quite a rabbit from a hat, but maybe a... mouse... from a sock. Let's run a simulation since you're not in the mood to do the actual drills I wanted you to do today. Aff, over there. Henri." I pointed to where I wanted them to stand. Aff walked to the left of the penalty box. Henri in front of the near post. "Joe." I sent Joe Anka over to the right, but further away than Aff. "Aff and Henri, you're Chester. Joe, you and I are Banbury. Round one, Chester. Try to score a goal."

Aff looked suspicious, but passed to Henri. Henri jabbed the ball into the empty goal.

"A classic Chester goal!" I said, eyes blazing. I would have clapped but my hands were full. "High percentage chance, expertly tucked away. One-nil to Chester. Joe, swing in a cross." He frowned, but then did as I said. The ball flew right at my face. I dodged inelegantly. "What the shit, man?"

"What?" said Joe. "You said cross it!"

I nodded to the rabbit. "My head's up there, you dick. I'm not ready to smash balls into my own skull. What the fuck. Good cross, though. Do it again but higher."

There were plenty of murmurs of complaint from the rest of the squad - they weren't enjoying this game - but Joe sent in another cross. I tried to push the balloon into it but missed.

"Argh, no good. Hard to score that kind of chance. Okay, Chester, your turn."

"Max," said Henri.

"Chester's turn!" I said, louder than I'd meant. They went through the charade of passing and scoring again.

"Great goal! Two-nil! Joe, here we go."

Joe sucked in some air, looked away, then clipped a cross in. This time I got good contact on the balloon but the ball bounced off at a crazy angle.

"Oh, so close!" I said. "Chester."

"No, Max," said Henri.

"What?"

"You've made your point."

"I've made my point?" I said, turning and looking everyone in the eye, one at a time. "Made my point? What's my point?"

He sighed. "That we should play our game and not worry about Banbury. Our style is more effective than theirs."

"But that's not it. That's not it." I gestured at Joe and Aff, telling them to come join the main group. When they were close enough to hear, I continued. "David versus Goliath. You think we're David? Nobody understands the point of that story. David sees this gigantic guy who's taunting the army his brothers are in. David listens, goes 'let's go kill him'. And his brothers are like, no, dude, he's tall. Look how tall he is. Look how many headers he wins! David says, mate. I killed a lion. I killed a bear. Let me go sort him out. No big D. King says, you sure? David says yeah but let's hurry this up I've got to look after these sheep and that. He gets his stones, walks up to Goliath, swings his little whatsit, boom. Headshot. Tall guy's got a big head. Easy target. David? David turns any little stone into a fucking railgun. He's killed a lion. A bear. Why's he gonna be afraid of some one-mile-an-hour dude? The absolute worst thing that can happen is Goliath falls onto one of David's sheep as he's dying. Collata-wool damage."

I waited to see if Youngster was going to complain about my framing of the story... and he came through. "Mr. Best. That story is about having faith. David won because he believed in God."

"Sorry, bro. Not having it. He killed a lion and a bear long before he ever saw Goliath. It's not a story about faith. It's a story about being so skilled winning is inevitable.

"I'm struggling, here. I do want to encourage you to give me ideas. Genuinely. But when footballers talk about David and Goliath they're talking about small clubs playing against big clubs. We are the big club. This week I met three women I wanted to sign who don't get how big this club is. They'll end up in some tier three, tier four team, and we'll zoom right past them. I need you to get this into your head. Imagine me writing this all down on a little stone and slingshotting it right into your brain. We have the skill of David. We have the size of Goliath. Banbury is some blank space on the page where we tell our story.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

"What do you think Banbury have been talking about this week? Think they've been going oh, Chester, who get triple our attendances? Chester, whose manager is the only one in the league who can count to ten without using his fingers? Of course we'll smash them. Think that's what they've been saying? Have they fuck! They're having these same conversations you've been having, but about Henri."

I walked over to my star striker and circled him. "Henri's ten times scarier than their guy. Henri can head, shoot, shoot with power, left, right, first touch finish, unbelievable movement, penalties. The only person who's watched more videos of Henri than Henri in the last five days is Banbury's manager."

Henri grinned. Sam was nodding. He understood my point. Not everyone did. I reinforced it.

"Chris Beaumont and Henri Lyons do NOT belong in the same conversation. So what the fuck are we doing here?"

I let the scene breathe. Changed my tone to wistful.

"You don't understand what's happening. We're here, we're training, to win the league. To win. The league. The fact you're even thinking about some dude from Banbury worries me a hundred times more than the dude. You need to get your head around this. I'm plotting our path to the title. We've got the best tactics, the most flexible manager. If we aren't the fittest team in the league by the winter, there's going to be one less Brigadier in our ranks. The five best players in this league play for us!" I smacked the nearest ball into the goal. It might have looked more impressive if the floating rabbit hadn't bumped into my head six times in two seconds.

I sighed. My vision for the club wasn't aligned with anyone else's. How could it be?

I handed the balloon back to the Brig, then vaguely wagged a finger at the squad. "It's not your fault. It's not my fault. We didn't have a proper pre-season. We never talked about what was going to happen. I didn't tell you my expectations. We'll have that talk soon.

"I'm going to tell you tomorrow's team. Anyone who uses that as an excuse to slack off for the rest of today will fucking regret it.

"4-1-4-1. Ben. Trick, Glenn, Gerald, Carl. Youngster. Aff, Raffi, Magnus, Joe. Henri.

"We won't be marking Chris Beaumont. He brings chaos. How do we fight that? With order. Glenn? Order. Organisation. Concentration. Yes? Youngster at DM mopping up, like Henri said. Aff and Joe closing the wide players down, stopping them getting quality on their crosses like Pascal suggested. That's it. That's the plan. The under twelves could do it. The rest is about what we do when we get the ball. Our quality. How we attack. We're better than them, so I want relentless attacks. Left, right, centre.

"I want Andrew on the bench for the matchday experience. And I want a comfortable lead so we can get Steve on. We need to load some minutes into those legs. It's going to be a long season, lads, but it's going to end with you as champions." I cracked my neck left and right. "So you better start thinking like champions. We've killed a lion. A bear. What's left to fear? A slow, predictable striker who wouldn't get in our squad?" Quick look around. Mixed response to my words. Hard to tell if anything had hit home. "Get yourselves warm again, then we'll do eleven on eleven to finish. Trick. A word, please."

I pulled off to the side. The Brig automatically came with me. Trick didn't seem happy about being singled out, but this wasn't about Chris Beaumont. Not directly. This was about his CA being stuck. "Max?"

"You came back from the summer break off the pace. Not too happy with that, but it's understandable. I'm not a complete dick." Silence. "This is where you agree that I'm not a complete dick."

"Right, yes. I mean, no."

"You struggled at boot camp, and you haven't kicked on." His CA was flat on 27. His PA was only 31, but there was a hell of a difference between a weak player who was maxed out and one who wasn't even living up to his shitty potential. I fucking hated seeing that number 2. Every time I thought about Trick I saw a giant, steaming pile of number 2.

"I feel fit, Max. I feel good."

I glanced at the Brig. A signal that I wanted his help. Something along the lines of good cop, bad cop. "I'm not enjoying my Friday, mate. Let's skip to the bit where you tell me why you're not doing the basics."

I caught his micro-expression. Annoyance. "I am."

With an annoyed tap of the foot, I turned away. Carrot or stick. My first instinct with this guy was always stick. I wanted to try to treat him like any other player. "Have you ever won anything?"

"Won? Yeah. Stuff. Loads when I was a kid."

"You need ten games to get a league winner's medal. You'll have that by January, then you can move on."

"Move on?"

"You're not happy here. You thought you were getting Jackie. Thought I'd be in a coma for a year. I'm picking you. I'm trusting you in big games. But you're not giving me anything. I don't have the experience needed to get that last ten percent out of you, so let's just front up here and we'll agree you can move in January and instead of finding another forward player like the squad actually needs, I'll spend my extremely limited and precious time replacing you."

"I've been playing well."

I leaned close to him. Bit of bad cop. "You don't listen, mate. It's so frustrating when people don't listen. I'm asking you to train harder. I'm asking you to train. Harder." Leant back. Reasonable cop. "I've got Magnus who can play left-back, but I prefer having a left-footed player there; the attacks are way sharper. There's no-one in the under eighteens. Right now, I don't have money for a transfer. I might find some rando to come in, but it'll take a year to get him up to speed. So it's you. But you don't want to be here. See my problem?"

"I want to be here," he mumbled.

I pretended I hadn't heard him. "Left-back's my achilles forehead. I could switch to 3-5-2 and that'd be the last time I ever think about left-backs. Sucks for the team, sucks for Youngster, sucks for the fans, sucks for you. But I could do it." I'd gone from carrot to stick so fast I almost didn't notice I'd done it. "Or you could give me an extra ten percent. Get back to where you were at the end of last season. That's all I'm asking. Be a valuable member of the squad who plays most games and bails me out when my tactics run away from me."

The Brig judged that more stick was needed. "Sir, I've heard you can play left-back. Perhaps if Mr. Williams doesn't fancy it, as you footballers say, you could step in."

"Of course I can play fucking left-back," I snapped. "But why would I want to?" I pretended to hesitate. Got thoughtful. "If MD sees me playing in defence, shuffling and sliding like a good little boy instead of scoring a goal every thirty minutes, he'll find me some transfer budget." I let that hang in the air, then turned to Trick. One last try. "Or Trick could play there, like he was born to do."

Mic dropped, I walked towards the offices. Time would tell if I’d made things better or worse. The Brig fell into step beside me.

"Was that all right?" I asked.

"Sir?"

"Pretending to bite your head off. It felt right but maybe it's bad to undermine you."

"You're the boss. You're the football expert. You can bite my head off." He looked behind us. "It was my intention to suggest there is more competition for his place than Trick suspects. Perhaps it wasn't the best move to imply he was safe."

I nodded. "It felt like a fifty-fifty. Not every formation needs a left-back. He knows I'm flexible."

"But he knows you want to play Youngster in the defensive midfielder position, and that's best achieved with a flat back four."

I laughed and slapped the Brig on the back. "Listen to you! You sound like a real boy." Don't ask me why, but him using the jargon cheered me up.

"I shall take that as a compliment, sir." He hesitated. "Can you really play left-back?"

"Yes."

"Will we ever see it?"

"Perhaps not. I can do all the bits - the passing, the tackles, whatnot. But keeping in line, being disciplined. It's not my nature."

"I understand. And you prefer a left-footed player on the left."

I glanced at my assistant. It wouldn't do to tell him all my secrets, but I felt I could trust him. "My left foot's as good as my right. I like to hide that fact."

He stopped. Rare confusion. "But why?"

Why indeed? "One day... I'll have a free kick in a big match. I'll stand there, all lined up to hit a right-footed Beckham. And I'll pretend to get annoyed by something, and I'll step to my right to point and gesticulate at a teammate, and then when the goalie is relaxed I'll dab the ball over the wall and into the net, left-footed."

"You'll hide your talent for years with that one, theoretical, moment in mind?"

"Yep. Absolutely. It's not like I'll never hit the ball left-footed. But if I score an amazing goal with my left, I might spend the next half an hour making it seem like I got lucky that one time. You know, like shanking three crosses in a row out to touch. Play like Trick Williams for a bit."

It was interesting watching his eyes. They locked onto some spot, then made a small jump, then another. It was like watching a clock hand travel in increments of two or three hours. Finally, he looked at me, back to his most opaque, unreadable blankness. "But then you're serious."

"About what?"

"About winning the league."

I wasn't sure what equations led him to that conclusion. "The playoffs are a lottery," I said. “We have to win the whole thing.”

His lips twitched. Not with amusement. No, it was his version of James Yalley's savage grin. I imagined him in an underground fighting pit, sawdust everywhere, tossing a knife from hand to hand. "Indeed," he said, and the twitch of triumph moved from his mouth to his eyes.

But my heart sank. Even the Brig, who spent more time with me than most, wasn't listening. Not really listening. But why? If the Brig told me he was going to cut off my legs, I'd believe him. What was I doing wrong?

I had to talk to the squad. Tell them how the season would go. But that wouldn't be enough to make them really believe it. How could I make them believe something that would be true tomorrow, but was not true today? How could I make MD start acting like we were drowning in transfer income? How could I make talented players see beyond the bumpy pitches and frayed corner flags?

I pushed my thumb nail into the gaps between my teeth. It didn't help.

***

Still annoyed by dozens of small things, I went to evening training with the women.

It was pleasing to think that my body was starting to obey me more. Had I shot from CA 1 to CA 3? I knew it was likely that after one good session I'd be absolute dogshit in the next, just as night followed day. I could deal with that - the memory of not being able to push my feet forward a couple of inches was still present. Still vivid. A failed dribble, a mis-hit cross, a bizarrely poor first touch - it was all such a bonus.

And if the session was so bad I couldn't even laugh at how bad I was, I'd go out and hit Playdar again. I'd watched the Simon Black video twenty times and it never failed to make me feel better. And it wasn't just a happy moment for that family. Simon was a fast little striker. PA 77, same as my squad number. He reminded me of Michael Owen. If we trained him right and showed him in the best possible light, teams would definitely overpay for him when the time came. Those Man City women had irritated me into finding a valuable asset. They didn't understand the story. They wanted to play for Goliath, but David was the only one with a future.

Fuck 'em. I'd outwork them, outthink them, outperform. Anyone who doubted me would end up in an unloved heap.

I thought all that as I did my own warm up, separate from the women, with the Brig jogging along next to me, so at first I didn't notice anything weird. But when I decided I was ready to join the main sesh, I saw her.

Charlotte, the PA 101 midfielder who hadn't made it at Man City had turned up to training.

My mind boggled. "Brig, are you seeing that? Didn't I do a big monologue and flounce out of the bar?"

"It wasn't quite a flounce, sir, no. An abrupt exit in three acts, perhaps. But I confess, I'm surprised to see her."

I'd already Whatsapped the squad informing them that the City girls wouldn't be coming. I had blamed myself for it. Said I hadn't been persuasive enough. Hadn't mentioned the whole 'they think you're shit' thing. "The others?"

"It's just her."

I took a second to compose myself, but it didn't help. Why was she here? I wandered over and there must have been something about my face that made Jill defer to me before I'd even spoken.

"Charlotte." I squeezed my eyes tight while I tried to formulate my question. "Er... what?"

She swept her fringe to the side. Glanced around. I think she didn't like being the centre of attention, but the rest of the squad shuffled closer. This had the potential to be a good scene. "I've come to continue my trial."

I took a minute. I had to be careful, here. Did I want to tell the squad that these Man City fucks had been bad-mouthing them? It would certainly be motivational. Something like that could see us through a difficult first season. Keep us warm during long winter nights. Or should I mention their complaints about the facilities? Didn't seem the right energy. Better to stick to diplomacy. "I thought we decided I wasn't the right person to help you get your careers on track."

"Sorry, Max, but I didn't agree to that. I liked what you said."

"What did he say?" said Bonnie.

Charlotte was also wondering how much to repeat. "It's not what he said, it's how he said it."

"How did he say it?"

"Intense." There were some chuckles. Some nods of recognition. Charlotte spoke to Bonnie and the players near her. "He challenged us. Said he was only looking for players who'd suffer and sacrifice like what you done, which, by the way, hello? I didn't get into Man City by pressing snooze on my alarms. And then he goes, fuck you spoilt brats I can go find a player like that." She snapped her fingers. "And by the time I got home, there was all this stuff on Chester Twitter about some kid he'd found in a park." Charlotte shook her head, nearly laughed. "I've done my research. There's a buzz about this club. This team. I liked what I saw on Wednesday. I want to be here."

"Well, it isn't up to me," I said. "If you want to join the squad" - I'm sure she noticed I didn't say team - "you need to prove yourself in the crucible of competition."

"All right. What do you want me to do?"

"Easy. Take a penalty. Score and you're in. Miss and you can do one. Robyn, you warmed up?"

"Enough to save a penno, yeah," said the goalie.

Every single person shuffled over to the penalty box. Charlotte put a ball on the penalty spot. Robyn danced around, waving her arms, pushing the crossbar.

Charlotte centred herself, took three steps towards the ball, and rolled it, gently, towards the middle of the left half of the goal. Robyn watched the ball, then dived theatrically... the other way.

"Goal," said Charlotte, simply.

I frowned. "Robyn. The fuck?"

She got up, dusted herself off, and shrugged. "She's quality. We need good players."

I looked down, nodded a few times the way people do when they're really angry. "I loved everything about that. You're in. Get hyped, you're about to get your first league winner's medal." The ladies reacted hugely positively - they were ready to celebrate. It was obvious to all that Charlotte had leapfrogged everyone and was now by far our best player. Chester Women were on the move again, after a long plateau. I forestalled the party. "One thing, though. This... this is how you take a penalty."

Robyn got set, proper determination on her face. I breathed, exhaled, stepped forward, and blasted the ball closer to the moon than many rockets get. If I was David, Goliath would have chopped my head off about two seconds later.

"Well, fuck," I said. "A few months ago, that would have been so cool."

***

"Sir," said the Brig, later, when I was taking a little break from the sesh. It was getting more intense the closer we got to the first match of the season. I was playing better. CA 3 for sure. Jill was near me, as was Lucy, Pippa, and Bea Pea. "What would you have done if Miss Charlotte had missed the penalty kick?"

I shrugged. "Then she would have been out. We need winners, here."

The Brig smiled. He didn't believe me, but I didn't mind. This time he had good reason. "Sir. You were so excited about those newcomers. Before, during, and after you saw them play."

"You think I got to this point of my life without sticking to my word? Score and you're in. Easy."

"Sir," he complained.

"Fine," I said, getting to my feet. I was ready to do a few more minutes. Push myself the way Trick refused to. "But even you know enough about sports to deal with that situation. You simply say, best out of three."

"Ah!" he said, satisfied. "Of course." He grew thoughtful. "Didn't work for Goliath, though."

"This is sport, mate. It's not a matter of life or death. That's what's great about the league. Forty-six matches. You can lose your first two. Some giant can make you drop points. Some ref might send a goalie off after five minutes. But you win the next three, you're right back in contention." I jogged onto the pitch and took my orange bib off. "I'm switching sides. I want to be team Goliath. Charlotte, get ready. I'm coming for you."

***

Match 4 of 46: Banbury Pygmies versus Chester FC

I went into the dressing room to reassure the guys that I was there. I hadn't travelled with them; I'd spent the day with Emma on a romantic walk along Oxfordshire's canals. I got their attention. "Banbury are 4-4-2, as always, so we do our thing. Back in a bit."

A few minutes making sure Emma was okay in the tiny, off-centre, 250-capacity stand that was the only seating area Banbury offered. Emma deserved better, but the shitter the stadium, the more she seemed to enjoy being there. What was it? She wanted to suffer and sacrifice? MD was late, which was unusual, so Emma took his seat - it was slightly less obstructed by the three large metal pillars at the front of the stand. He would sit in her spot, and not complain about it.

I was chatting away, trying to be charming and funny and mostly succeeding, but then I noticed something weird - I was getting profiles from a couple of guys who were standing way over behind the fence that surrounded the pitch. They were just behind the floodlights opposite the mini stand.

"Babes, will you be all right? I've just seen some people I might want to talk to."

"I'm grand. You go do your Max things."

I didn't like to leave her there - like Chester, Banbury sometimes had idiot fans who caused trouble. Not before the match though, surely? I didn't want to have to think about it. I phoned the Brig and got him to sit with Emma for a while. I knew they'd compare notes about my hoodies and how best to protect me from myself and all that, but I also knew that if someone started something, the Brig would finish it.

The two men I'd spotted had scout profiles and were from teams in the division above ours. One was called Jack. According to the curse, he was employed by AFC Fylde and had a Judging Player Ability rating of 9. Tom was from Newport County, and had Judging Player Ability 7. Both had negligible scores in Judging Player Potential.

I introduced myself - they were taken aback that I knew they were scouts, but I said I was sure I'd seen them around, and they agreed it might have been possible. I asked if they were there to scout Chris Beaumont. They laughed - correctly - and said they had their eyes on some of my lads. They wouldn't say who, though, which was infuriating.

Scouting the scouts, though. I needed to do this at every match. Build up my database. If I ever found someone with a scouting rating of 15 or more, I'd try to poach them.

Talking of building up databases, Tom asked when I'd be playing again because he wanted to scout me for Soccer Supremo. I told him to give me 77 in everything, winked, and walked away.

***

As the team prepared for kick-off, I bit my nails. We'd had a weird week in training. I still had confidence in Jude, and blamed our lack of improvement on Beaumont-mania. Both goalies had improved, and they were off in their own sessions, not working themselves into a frenzy.

Youngster hadn't gone green in anything. It could have been the fearful mood, or the way I'd shifted him around the pitch against Chorley. We won because of it, but if getting a low match rating affected training I'd have to be very careful with my tactical innovations. I could lose a match here or there. I couldn't summon up another hundred-million-pound player.

Raffi had improved, as he seemed to every week these days. Trick, D-Day, and Joe Anka hadn't. They'd had game time in their preferred positions but still hadn't even caught up to where they'd finished at the end of last season. The first two were 33 years old, past their prime, but Joe was only 28. No need to worry just yet, but it was one of a hundred tiny details that weren't going in my favour.

What it all amounted to was the sobering fact that our average CA was 39.6. Diabolical. But how could I get it higher if I didn't rotate the team and give everyone the best chance to improve?

Banbury's was 39, so in theory it should have been a close match. I felt that we were much better, though. Banbury's players had lots of strength and heading, but they were slow with poor technique. If we got the ball on the grass and passed it around, we'd slap. If we fell into their trap of playing caveman football, we'd struggle.

Kick-off, a few minutes of blood and thunder, a few tackles the referee would have handed out yellow cards for if they came later in the match.

Then a long ball was sent towards Chris Beaumont. Glenn Ryder was behind him, ready to compete for the header. Youngster was in front, trying to block the guy, ready to pounce on the second ball.

Beaumont won the header. It bounced straight up, took an age to come back down. Beaumont had spread his arms, trying to hold Glenn off. But Glenn had dropped back five yards, organising the offside line. Surprised, Beaumont tried to trap the ball. It was a heavy touch, and Youngster darted towards it, nudged it away, and that was that.

"Whoa!" I said, surprised and delighted. I looked around, beaming. Vimsy was sitting, calm as a monk, not getting involved with the other dugout. "Vimsy. Who came up with that?"

"Carl," he said. "He called it the meatball sub. We practised it this morning. How was the canal?"

"Slow," I said. So Carl was stepping up. That had been a long process. If I had been conscious during the summer I might have cut him from the squad. Good reminder, there, maybe. Patience. And Vimsy had taken Carl’s idea and worked on it. Made it concrete. "Brig?"

"Sir?"

"Will you join me in a ceremonial quadruple thumbs up?"

"Aimed at whom, sir?"

"At Vimsy."

"Very good, sir."

Vimsy blushed.

***

In the first half, we dealt with Beaumont well. Banbury's 'attacks' normally ended with Youngster scampering away from the danger zone, bringing the ball with him ten yards before playing a simple pass into the midfield.

Great. We were, miraculously, able to contain the league's slowest, least technical player.

But the midfield wasn't clicking. Magnus was doing well in place of Sam, but wasn't impacting the game going forward. He wasn't even going forward. I triple-checked his instructions, wondering if I'd somehow prevented him from making forward runs. I hadn't - in fact, I'd encouraged him to get up the pitch. It was key to the whole plan that he joined attacks. Him staying put in midfield meant Joe was isolated on the right. Sometimes Carl would make a run and we'd get overlaps, but not overloads.

I complained about this to the Brig.

"At the risk of sounding like I haven't been doing my homework... please remind me of the difference."

I was a little bit surprised because the guy seemed superhuman, sometimes. But football wasn't his game and he'd had to learn a lot in a short space of time. Not all of it was sticking. "The left is functioning pretty well. Aff's the left-mid, and he's the main weapon. He gets forward, crosses, we score. The other team knows that, so they have someone watching him. So we send Trick forward. He runs to the left of Aff, even closer to the touchline. He runs past Aff. That's the overlap. Now they need two defenders over there or we'll get crosses in whenever we want. So now we get Raffi to join those attacks, too. Three on two, that's an overload. They bring another defender across, we get Sam to help out. Or Magnus, today. And we do that same stuff on the right. The top teams will keep switching from left to right until the overloads create a gap or there's a really purposeful overlap. We can't switch left and right like that, but we also don't need to because these aren’t elite defenders. We just need to attack one part of the pitch with enough numbers until Aff or Joe get a chance to cross."

"Yes," said the Brig. "But that's what Banbury are doing. Crosses, I mean. So it's more effort for the same result."

I pointed to a spot ten yards away. "Banbury's crosses are from this sort of zone. When you cross from here, it's much easier for the defence to clear. And harder to score even if you make the header." I pointed much further down the line. "We do all our dicking about to get to the penalty box, because crossing from there is much deadlier. Especially from someone like Aff. But I don't even want crosses, really. Crosses are low percentage. I want the lads to keep playing, keep passing, and cut into the box from the sides. From there, it's havoc. It's headshots all the time." I sighed. "We're not getting anywhere, today. It's awful. I hate almost everything we're doing." The curse agreed with me - almost every Chester player was on six out of ten.

The Brig put his finger on his lips, and we stood there for a moment, watching the match. We must have looked like a pretty glum pair.

Finally, he said, "And it doesn't cheer you up that we've scored two goals?"

***

At half-time, the lads were buzzing. They'd worked hard in training - their opinion, not mine - and this lead was their reward.

I briefly considered letting them enjoy the moment. But rewarding this mediocre performance would bite us on the arse. The bite might come in the second half or be delayed until some future game, but it would come.

As always, I gave them a couple of minutes to talk to each other. In that time, they often mentioned players who were giving them problems, talked about moves that worked and moves that didn't. This time, there wasn't much of that. They weren't worried about the second half. Max had been proven right, Max was back, and all was well with the world.

"All right," I said. They settled. "You seem pleased with yourselves."

The mood dropped in a second. Went cold. Henri had scored a neat goal; he was one of the only players on seven out of ten. One of the only ones sure not to be in my line of fire. "We're winning, Max. The Beaumont Sandwich is working."

"It's the Meatball Sub!" called Carl, and there were a lot of laughs and counter-arguments. The sub versus sandwich debate, I later learned, had been a big feature of the coach ride down.

I rubbed my temples. I was angry enough to start shouting, and they deserved it. But the idea of traumatising my own brain made me get even quieter. I spoke in something like a growl. "I feel a headache coming on." The Brig stepped close to Carl; the American shut up. Sam Topps smacked his mate Tony on the back of the head. Resting Topps was common sense, but I wished I had him on the bench, at least. I'd named Andrew Harrison as a sub to see if that would give him a CA boost. Logical, long-term thinking, but it came with the cost that my options were limited. "I'm not happy with that performance. Henri's scored a great goal from nothing, and they've panicked and scored an own goal from a good cross. Okay? Take those moments out and the rest was pretty dogshit."

I rubbed my eyebrows, hard, trying to get positive, but the memories of shit moves, shit passes kept filling my head.

"Magnus, you're not joining attacks."

I waited for him to reply. "Sorry, Max. I'm trying to make sure I last the whole ninety minutes."

"You don't think you can last the whole match?"

"I can if I don't sprint into the box and back once a minute." He glanced around the dressing room, almost ashamed. "I haven't played a full ninety minutes, Max. I thought it was because you knew. I'm working on it," he added, downcast.

I looked at the tactics board, absorbing this new data and applying it to my system. The real value of Sam's ability to get box-to-box, up and down the pitch, many, many times a game had just become clear to me. Without that, we lost a lot of attacking thrust. Magnus knew his body well, and the way he was playing was smart. It gave me most of what I wanted, but not the last part, the last part that I craved. One less body in the box. One less attacking weapon. But there was no point asking him to give me something he couldn't give me, and there was no point reminding him I wanted him to lose some of his upper body bulk and do more cardio. He was already doing that. This scene would only make him more determined.

"Okay, this is my fault, then," I lied. "You're right to pace yourself; you'll play the whole match, today. So, wingers. Lots of crosses. I seem to remember asking you to get into the box from those positions, too. Remember we talked about slapping? Remember I played an awesome song and danced around? And we do the Art of Slapping drill once a day? You think we do those drills for fun? Let me say it for the hundredth time. I want you to grow a pair, stop taking the easy option, and get the fucking ball into the side of the fucking penalty box, like I constantly, constantly ask you to. You didn't do it once that half."

Aff started to speak, but I stopped him.

"Sorry, mate. Nothing personal but I'm done with this. Watching my team play like shit is depressing. Magnus, give me ten minutes of overloads, please. We're going to play my system, properly, for ten minutes. Anyone who doesn't feel like doing things my way, we'll find out in the next ten minutes. Ten minutes, please. Then we'll switch things up, get more conservative, see out the match. You've got ten minutes to play some Max Best football. That's it. Get out."

They got up, one by one, and walked out onto the pitch in silence.

When they'd gone, Vimsy's face changed. He'd been as subdued as the rest of them but now he perked up. Now he reminded me of Jackie. "Fuck me, Max. Talk about motivational half-time speeches!"

I managed a thin smile. "I don't have it in me to really let rip."

"Oh," he said, with a chuckle. "You let rip all right. No volume, but that was fucking devastating."

"How will they take it?"

"No clue. I'd say we'll see what they're made of, but we know that, don't we? We saw it last season."

I clambered onto a bare stretch of bench and closed my eyes. Confrontation was draining. "Would you two like to stand on the touchline and scream at them for the next ten minutes?"

Vimsy's smile broadened. "I thought you'd never ask." He put his hand on the Brig's shoulder. "Let me teach you how we do it in non-league. It's not as sophisticated as what you're used to in the army."

They went off, happy as clams, while I thought about what I'd done. If I'd smashed morale and turned a two-nil lead into a draw, or, somehow, a defeat, it'd do more than push us a few spots down the table. It could seriously mess up the whole vibe of the club. The togetherness, the belief in each other, the belief in me.

A noise startled me, and I snapped my head in a panic - the Brig had left me alone for once. It was Livia; I relaxed. We hadn't talked much since I'd returned to work. I didn't know what to say. There was an elephant in the room, and the elephant was wearing Liverpool shinpads and refusing to come to work. Livia got something from her coat pocket, hesitated, then left.

I spent the rest of the half-time break alone.

***

Nerves. I didn't get nervous as a player, and almost never as a manager. But here I was, mouth dry, blood pounding against my eardrums. Why?

In the past, I had almost always asked players to do something I knew they could do. Telling Ziggy to be a striker. Moving Beth into defence. This, though, felt different. It felt like the players might say no. And if they did, if they wanted to play like they had in the first half, what would I do about it? What could I do? Replace them all in the summer. And what if the next lot didn't want to play Max Best football?

Yeah. I was nervous.

I slumped into the dugout. I must have looked fierce, because the subs stopped talking, and the chat didn't start back up.

The match resumed.

Again, the first interesting moment of the half was a long ball struck towards Chris Beaumont. This time, though, Glenn Ryder had his eye in. "Ryder!" he yelled. He sprinted from five yards away, leapt like Michael Jordan, and headed the ball so far it went for a throw-in deep into Banbury's half. My captain had smashed into Beaumont on his follow-through. The giant took his time getting up.

From the throw-in, we waited, waited, then suddenly swarmed all over a midfielder. He turned the ball over, and both Trick and Carl instantly sprinted forward, full-pelt, trying to get close enough to help the attack. The ball came to Raffi. He ran, holding onto the ball until a defender neared him. He played the ball to Aff, who burst past the defender. We were flying forward from all angles, now.

Trick finally got on the overlap, Aff found him, Trick played a simple square pass into the box - like we fucking practised non-stop - and Aff cooly took a touch, looked up, saw Henri zooming to the front post, taking the two centre-backs with him. Aff pulled it back to Magnus, who had also been sprinting to support the move. The second centre-back recovered his position well and flung himself at the ball, but Magnus simply played it diagonally forward five yards to a spot where Carl was slightly ahead of Joe Anka. I worried they'd get in each other's way, but Joe let Carl take the shot.

Bottom-left, keeper no chance, three-nil.

Vimsy hugged the Brig. The bench went nuts. The players ran to the away fans.

I was dizzy; I wanted to sprint around like a madman. That goal was mint. It was fucking thrilling. Fantasy football. Fearless play. But I kept it all bottled up. I'd told the lads this would happen if they played my way; I could hardly jump around like it was unexpected, could I? It would show that I didn't believe in myself. Vimsy came over. "Max?"

I showed him the time on my phone. "Six more minutes."

He blinked rapidly. Three-nil. He didn't understand what I was unhappy about. But he flicked his tongue around his lips, reset his face, and returned to the sideline. He shouted at Joe. If Carl's underlapping like that, he should have stayed wider. The Brig picked up the tone, and he barked out complaints, praise, urged the guys to keep at it.

The next six minutes were enjoyable, but I didn't let that show. We took risks, we spread Banbury, attacked from all angles, and their defence got deeper and deeper until Youngster put his foot on the ball and started trying to lead them back into our half. The plan was to annoy them into wasting their energy and moving high up the pitch, leaving gaps. Like we'd practised. But they didn't. They let us pass the ball around, almost without contest. The game was over.

The relief was incredible. I'd been so tense, and now I could relax. There was something I was doing, or not doing, that was making me trip up over my own feet. But we could still win football matches. We could still play the football I wanted. The team were still with me. We'd get the machine working smoothly again. I'd find the magic oil.

I got up from the dugout. Vimsy went to sit down, but he'd been doing great ignoring the wind-up merchants on the other bench. I let him stay.

Time for squad rotation and fresh legs.

I took Trick off, replacing him with Tony, who became our second striker in a no-frills, energy-saving 4-4-2. I moved Magnus to left-back, Youngster to central midfield. Then five minutes later, I swapped Carl for Steve Alton. Cosy debut for the new signing.

With twenty minutes to go, I swapped Joe with Pascal. The little German's first minutes of the season, and he flew out of the blocks trying to impress, trying to make things happen. At a break I called him over and I smiled. Showed how calm I was. "Let it happen," I said. "Relax. We've got ten months of this." He played less frantically. More like the real Pascal. Another positive step.

Banbury left Chris Beaumont on until the end, which was weird because we'd totally nullified him and he was on five out of ten. But I got another lesson in patience.

In the last minute, Steve Alton and Pascal, two guys who'd never played together before, got into a misunderstanding and Steve had to make a foul to stop an attack. Yellow card. I kept Pascal and Tony on the half-way line, hoping for a fast break.

But the free kick was taken from the very spot I'd pointed to when I'd told the Brig about low-quality crosses versus good ones. The delivery was virtually perfect. An invitation. Chris Beaumont skittled our defenders and thumped a header past Ben.

Three-one. Final whistle. Three points and lots for everyone to think about. But our fans would go home happy, and drink themselves into oblivion on the coach ride home. They'd sing our songs, and talk about our goals.

I'd added a few hundred XP, bringing my total to 1,680. Most things I wanted to buy were around 2,000. I'd have a decision to make, soon.

In the dressing room, I was calm. Forgiving of their abysmal first half. Said the second half was much more like it, and I'd see them the next day for the World Cup final, but if they didn't mind I would rush into the arms of someone who'd give me more than ten minutes of pleasure.

I also told them not to plan anything for Monday afternoon. "I'm going to teach you how to play football. Again."

"Will it be a different song, this time?" said Vimsy.

I laughed. He didn't like the song I'd chosen last time. "They know how to play for ninety minutes. They'll learn how to play for ten months. They'll learn why Andrew was on the bench today. Why I'd like to bring in a couple more players even though I'm happy with this squad. And you'll learn why I'm one hundred percent sure we can win this league. And why I'm sure there's no-one who can stop us."

That was intriguing enough to wash away any resentment at me suddenly annexing their free time on Monday. But it wouldn't be all one-way traffic in that meeting.

My players would learn a lot, sure.

But I was going to learn something, too. I was going to learn the name of my main opponent for the season. The only dude with the skills to stop me achieving my goals. A person with a massive grudge against me. Just because I'd, like, got his dad fired or some shit. He was the angry son of the slain Goliath. And I'd never even met him.

It was totes unfair.