8.

Chester Men, Chester Women. Twenty men, fifteen women, companionably squeezed into a downtown sports bar. Midfielders playing snooker, defenders playing pool. The goalies playing darts, Robyn holding her own. Trick nursing a beer, waiting for me to see it before he could really enjoy it. Raffi tucking into a burger, feeding fries to his daughter when Shona wasn't looking.

And on the big screens, any second now, the World Cup final! England versus Spain. Probably the two best teams in the tournament.

We had a bumper turnout of wives and girlfriends. WAG culture hadn't touched me yet, and that day was my first taste of it. The social undercurrents, the glances, the jealousies and rivalries. To take one example from many, Robbo's wife absolutely loathed Joe Anka's girlfriend. How on earth had that happened? The men barely ever hung out. Barely even trained together.

I wondered if these social events could do more harm than good. Robbo refusing to pass to Joe wouldn't crash our tactics, but I couldn't deal with that sort of shit on top of everything else.

Or maybe I was overly worried about Emma. As the boss's girlfriend, the rest of the WAGs were cautious around her. Kept a bit of a distance. Scoped her out. Emma was charming and friendly to absolutely everyone, and didn't do any of her weird jokes. Still, I saw one woman look her up and down with a big sneer. She caught me looking. I stepped towards her to ask what the fuck was going on in her tiny little mind, but suddenly Gemma was blocking my path. I thought Gems had come to re-seduce Henri, but he wasn't coming, and I'd told Emma that. Didn't want to be in a room with 'a hundred happy English', he said, but he might pop by if Spain won. So then I thought Gemma was checking out who else was available; she loved a footballer. But in that moment I realised she'd come to provide moral support for her best mate. Protect her from the wolves. And protect me from me.

"Did you see that?" I said.

"I did, Max. I'm impressed you caught it. Most men are oblivious."

"Why aren't you as enraged as me?"

"I am. Look." She smiled.

"I don't see it."

"That's right, Max. Very good."

"You think I should... what? Ignore it?"

Gemma fussed with my shirt. "Emma's smarter and fiercer than any of these women. If they start anything they won't know what hit them. When she needs something from you, she'll ask." She finished adjusting me. "She won't ask. You've got the Brig. Emma's got me."

I shook my head. "I always get you wrong. What's up with me?"

"I'm enigmatic," she said, and her eyes danced. It was the first time I'd ever been attracted to her. She looked around the room. "You're pretty good. You knew it wouldn't work with me and Henri." She sighed. "Who would you set me up with?"

"Andrew Harrison," I said, without hesitation.

She hadn't been expecting that. "The Triplet? Why him?"

"He's outstanding."

"As a player?"

"As a man."

"He's pretty young."

"He's almost the same age as me."

"You're older than you are. Go on, then. What's the sales pitch?"

I hesitated. It wasn't really my story to tell. But she could have gotten the details from Emma. Why hadn't Emma suggested Andrew to Gems? Emma had been there in Tenerife when I'd scouted the Triplets. The five of us had hung out in bars and restaurants together, had a whale of a time until it was time to fly home. "He's been raising his brothers. Parents died. The guy scraps every day to give them the best life possible. Noah, the youngest, said he wanted to go abroad this year, so Andrew's been doing extra shifts, side hustles, overtime, to make it happen. He's beyond determined."

She smiled. "Love that."

"He's from Bolton. Greater Manchester, right? Basically a Manchester lad, swimming against the tide, putting in the hours. No-one's ever given him anything, not that he's asked. First day of training, we make him run. Second day, run more. Couple of weeks of that, we put him in a van and make him sleep in huts carrying bricks around. He didn't sign up for that, but he gets on with it, never complains. Does his best. The army guys who ran the boot camp picked out a few lads they'd want in the trenches. Andrew was one." For the hundredth time, I wondered how I would have done in the boot camp. Probably shit. Too rebellious. Too analytical. But I felt a kinship with Andrew that went beyond superficial details like place of birth. "Emma's worried I've got sentimental, helping him out because he reminds me of me."

Gemma closed her eyes, trying to remember some snippet of something she'd heard. "You had to sign all three to get the one you wanted, but no-one knows which is the good one."

"Oh, someone knows," I said.

"Who?"

I smirked. "Me."

"Still a prick, I see." She smoothed out my shirt. "A well-dressed one, for a change."

My smug grin left and I grew embarrassed. Emma and I had made a deal that she'd put knives away when she'd finished using them. Seems absurd to say it, but she always left them dangling off every kitchen surface, and I had a morbid certainty that if one fell I'd stick out a foot to stop it hitting the floor. Dave Beasant, a really good goalkeeper, had injured himself once when he tried to stop a bottle of salad cream. The story had stuck with me. Emma thought I was utterly bonkers, but she'd agreed because in return... "Emma's allowed to choose what I wear once a month."

"And the rest of the time you wear any old shit. What a lucky girl."

***

The match was hard to watch. England huffed and puffed but couldn't build attacks. Spain had incredible technique and beat England's press with superb one-touch passes, then drained England's energy by keeping the ball for long stretches. England were pretty solid, but the one time a defender lost her position, Spain scored from that very zone.

It reminded me of Man City's toddlers against the Beth Heads. One team had a lot of heart and passion. The other were cold, ruthless, untouchable. Belief versus science. Emma gently rubbed my arm; I'd been grinding my teeth. I hated to be on the wrong side of the equation.

Science > belief.

With the Beth Heads, I had overcome City's technique. What did we have that day that was missing from this England performance? A tactical platform that allowed players to make good, quick decisions. England didn't seem to know their system and their players were doing wild, inexplicable things. A pointless backheel that ended an attack and gave the ball to Spain. A shot from forty yards when there was an overload on the far post. Players caught offside in places it made no sense. Everyone thought the boot camp was about team building and fitness, but it was really about making good decisions when tired and stressed.

So a clear tactical plan that helped tired, stressed players make good decisions. What else did my best teams have? The ruthlessness to see the plan through to the end.

Science < belief plus decisions plus ruthlessness.

Great. But I didn't want to have to choose which elements I wanted. I wanted it all.

Science plus belief plus decisions plus ruthlessness.

The team I would one day assemble and manage would combine all those elements. What about when I was fit enough to play myself? What qualities would I bring?

I realised Emma was holding her phone up so she could snap a photo of me. "What?"

She turned the phone round, showed me my face. I was doing a Youngster-style savage grin. "What were you thinking?"

"I want it all. With a sprinkling of stardust. Soak it all in razzle-dazzle. Belief plus science plus art."

"Oh, right, then. Good. Let me know when you're back in the room."

***

England's best moment came when Spain were awarded a penalty. The handball rule is supposed to stop outfield players using their hands to gain an unfair advantage. The football haters who are in charge of modern football have warped that rule, bent it backwards over itself so that almost any contact between hand and ball is given as a penalty.

Sometimes when a penalty is given that is patently unfair, the player taking it subconsciously takes a few miles an hour off their shot. That's what it felt like in the final - the Spanish player struck it, not all that hard, to her right.

Mary Earps, England's goalie, later named the best in the world, didn't just save it but caught it, which is pretty rare. Everyone in the bar went tonto - a gutteral roar, flying beer, chairs pushed over as their occupants jumped for joy.

But it got better. Earps got to her feet and as the camera zoomed in, she screamed, at Spain, at the referee, at the universe, FUCK OFF! FUCK OFF!

Possibly the most English thing that's ever happened. Earps was instantly catapulted into top spot for Sports Personality of the Year. Her skill and defiance struck a nerve. The players and WAGs doubled down on the celebrations. Somewhere in the north of England, Henri was turning in his grave.

I pushed my way through the mob to the biggest screen and yelled, "Goalies! MD! Ruth!"

We formed a huddle in a corner with a view of Chester old town, right there in the middle of the second half. My head was spinning from the excitement, the sense of opportunity. My blood was pumping, and it was hard to keep calm enough to even speak. "Did you see that? So did ten million others. Every little girl in Cheshire is going into her back garden right now to see if she likes saving penalties, too. Right? We've got to seize the moment. There are five superstar goalies out there and four will never be interested again. We've got to get them, right now. Right now! Angles, get onto the goalie academy guy. I want to do an open day. Fill the place with tiny goalie girls. Free training from every Chester goalie. Selfies, photos, whatever. I'll be there. I'll get Smasho and Nice One. Is everyone with me? Ruth, MD, I want to go hard on this. No dicking around. Don't talk to me about money. This is massive. This is worth it. Pick an evening. Put out the tweet. We'll get all these pricks to spread the word, too." I scanned the members of the huddle, picked my champion. "Ruth, you're in charge. Let's go!"

I paced around, glaring at the screens. I wanted to get on a pitch. Do some drills. Put my ideas into practice. Summon something. Reshape something.

England couldn't get any pressure going. The cumulative effect of lots of details. I was obsessed with Chloe Kelly being caught offside all the time in right-midfield. I'd never been caught offside. Not once. So why was that happening in a World Cup final? I needed to watch the footage a few dozen times to work it out. Emma came up to me. "Babes. We need you."

"Yeah?"

"You're going to talk to camera for the socials."

"No, I'm not."

"For She's A Keeper!"

"What?"

"That's what they're calling it."

"She's A Keeper."

"With an exclamation mark."

"Oh, the goalie thing. Talk to camera. Right, sure. Great. Now? Why are you asking?"

"Ruth says I know how to make you look good." She fussed with my collar, the way Gemma had done. "It's going to be tomorrow from five to nine p.m."

"Tomorrow? The goalie school guy's motivated, then."

"Oh, he can't believe his luck."

"I bet. Right. I'm ready."

Emma tapped her phone and pointed it at me.

"Hey, Cheshire! Max Best, here. Everyone at Chester FC is watching the World Cup final. Mary Earps just saved a penalty and we all lost our minds. Do you want to learn how to save a penno? Come to JM Goalkeeping Academy tomorrow from 5 to 9. Free goalkeeping lessons for girls and boys, all ages. It'll be fun, and maybe, just maybe, it'll be you saving a penalty in the next World Cup final! See you there."

***

Monday, 21 August

The lads had gathered for my big speech. My pre-season speech that was happening three weeks into the season. We'd got every coach, the physios, plus I'd invited MD and the new board. Two randos showed up; I guess that was two of the seven.

There was a lot I wanted to say, so I didn't waste time with pleasantries. Many of the guys were clearly suffering from hangovers. After their supervised pint and a half, they'd gone to have six and a half more. In case I couldn't see it from the bags under their eyes, or the ginger way they were walking and talking, their player profiles had red attributes. Minus one jumping, finishing, technique. Most of the women's team had similar drops.

"Couple of sore heads in here. I'll let it slide because I like seeing you treat the women's team like part of the gang. Which is what they are. And World Cup finals don't come round very often. But that's your party this season. Okay? Any questions about what I've just said?"

Some head shakes.

Henri said, "I was not drinking, Max. Does that mean I retain my party joker?"

"Yes."

"You are as wise as Solomon."

That reminded me. "Did I ever get you tested by a psychic dog?"

"No, Max."

"We'll go soon. You can meet my mum." I lost confidence. "If you want to."

"Of course I do, my friend."

"Right. Good." Things had gotten out of hand already. Better stick to what I had prepared. "All right, listen up, you worms." I closed the door. We were in the meeting room at the credit card company. It had super bad feng shui, but today I didn't care. Today was the ultimate expression of substance over style: Max Best was going to talk football. I jiggled the flipchart into place. Ideally this presentation would have happened in a VR world where I was a six-hundred foot floating megabrain, but you can't have everything.

I rubbed my chin, and stretched. Turned to the first page of my presentation. It simply said: Last season versus this.

"Last season was bad. You flirted with relegation. You stank the place up. I did a survey and found that four percent of the population of the British Isles will never again watch this sport because of what you did to it. But you pulled through. Some people call what you did at the end a miracle. The Great Escape and all that. Not me. I knew you. I knew your levels. I'll take some credit that I reminded you how good you are. But I wasn't on the pitch, was I? You did it. 19 points from the last 21.

"What about this season? Where are we? I'll tell you with incredible precision, but if you'll indulge me for a second..."

I picked up a little printout I'd made from a Wikipedia page.

"Ahem. I've been listening to an album recently. Albums are, like, bundles of songs. In the old days, you'd listen to a whole album in one go. Joe, am I saying this right?"

Joe Anka was our biggest music buff. He had a machine that played music from large plastic discs. A grandmaphone, I think it was called. "Yes, Max."

"Check this out. This is what people thought of the album when it came out." I started reading. "Initial critical response towards the release was negative. Metacritic... average score of 42 from 100... some quotes now: bizarre... big-budget disaster... an exercise in misguided ambition that makes no sense outside of pure theory."

Joe was eating it up. "Are you going to keep me in suspense for hours like you did last time?"

I shook my head. "I'd love to but I need you to pay attention during the football bit. This is what people said about Scream by Chris Cornell. He was a grunge, rock dude, and he wanted to do something a bit different. He collaborated with Timbaland, hip-hop guy, to make this weird album. No guitar. His fans hated it. I didn't know any of that. I found it, listened to it, went right back to the start. I love it. It's been on repeat for days. It's ten out of ten for me.

"So this is the first thing to say. We don't look at Metacritic in this football club. We don't read our reviews. Don't care about the press, Twitter, Facebook, or anything. I don't care what your girlfriend says, your boyfriend, your kids, your former managers. There's one critic in this world, and it's me. We're going to make some fucking weird music this year. People are going to freak out. They're going to give us all kinds of shit. And we won't be listening. Because there's only one opinion that matters. Mine.

"Now, this album probably isn't exactly like our season, so I didn't make it the theme of the presentation, but it starts weird, quickly gets into its groove, and the end is non-stop bangers. Every song... match... sets up the next one, clarifies the previous one. So... maybe it does fit our season."

I took a sip of water. Joe was on his phone, which players weren't normally allowed during these meetings but I knew he was buying the album and would give me detailed feedback a week from now. I was struck by a wave of nostalgia for this very moment. Deja vu for the first time. Deja preview. I would remember this again and again, replaying it, re-experiencing it for years to come. If I lived to be an old man, I'd remember Joe Anka, keen to listen to every piece of music someone else loved. He had his preferences, but never looked down on anyone else's tastes. Maybe when I was old, I'd have learned a lesson or two from him.

Probably not.

On my handwritten flipchart page, I circled the word 'this'. "Summary of slide one: L'État, c'est moi. Henri, did I pronounce it right?"

"No. But I fell in love anyway."

"Would you like to translate it for the two people with sub-par French?"

"I am the state. Max is the Sun King. Our absolute monarch."

"I am the state." I let that thought permeate all those pickled minds. "When I say you played well, you played well. If you're winning two-nil and I say you're playing shit, you're playing shit. If I say you're not playing on Saturday, accept it. Don't waste my precious time and energy by complaining. I'll explain most of my decisions for the whole season, right here today. Because I'm not writing songs, I'm writing an album."

I turned to the next page. It said: Actions>Words.

"There's going to be a lot of words, today. Three months from now, you might have forgotten a lot of this. So look to my actions. Are they consistent with what you remember me saying? You'll find they are. And when they aren't, I'll explain.

I turned the page. It said: Money=action.

"We're Chester Football Club. We don't have loads of resources. So when I spend money, it's meaningful. There's a lot of resource here." I pointed to people as I named them. "Vimsy. The Brig. Jude. And me.

"We need Vimsy. We need to be solid. We need to know our defensive roles. Gaps, distances, lines, offsides. I'd love to talk about slapping all day. I daydream about fast counters, overloads, pressing weak spots. If it was just me doing the coaching, we'd lose every match five-three. It'd be incredible, and I'd get sacked. That's why my first signing was a defender. That's why Vimsy's still part of my fantasy football laboratory. Defence wins titles. I've put money into that statement.

"The Brig. Fitness. This year's going to be a long old slog. We're fit and getting fitter. I notice we're fading at the ends of games. That's the price for what we'll start seeing soon - those last five minutes will feel like walking down a hill. Do I get up in the morning and lick my lips at the thought of watching you lot run until you pass out? No. But we've put money there because it's important.

"Any questions so far? Good.

"Jude. He's our skills guy. I want to get another Jude. Twode? No, cut that. That's terrible. You saw Spain yesterday. You saw what technique can do. We're never going to do tiki-taka on these pitches, but the better our technique, the more we can slap. I'm saving some money for another coach. Someone like Jude with a different perspective. More challenges. More variety. We'll win ten matches this season just because we've mastered more of the art of football. We can battle in a 4-4-2, we can be sophisticated in a 3-5-2. That's not wanky garbage - that's points on the board.

"So we've got loads of bases covered. Defending, fitness, skills. But I want more. I want decision-making. I want to be able to use whatever mad tactic I come up with. Counter-attacks. Pressing. Overloads, overlaps. Shuffles, slides, pivots, double pivots. We will do it all. You think that's overly ambitious for a National League North team? Then get the fuck out. Those things aren't even hard."

I spun a marker around my fingers. I was getting to the point where I rarely dropped things.

"An aside, on the topic of resources. On match days, we've got limited mental and physical energy and when we put all our effort into playing football, we do well. When we get distracted by opposing managers, opposing players, shit referees, we play shit. Some of you like a fight. I'd like you to stop. Focus. Use our resources where they can be effective."

I put the marker on the base of the flipchart and turned it to a page that said: play; facilities; coaches; opponents; shouty shouty.

"The word of the year is improvement.

"How do players improve? Six main factors. By playing matches, the quality of facilities, the quality of coaches, the quality of the opposition, and being shouted at by Vimsy and the Brig.

"As long as your attitude is right, you'll play. Proof? Four games in and everyone's had game time except the Triplets, who aren't ready. The rest is what it is. Could be better, could be worse."

"More shouting can be arranged," suggested Vimsy.

I smiled and turned the page. The next one said: training.

"And the sixth thing. Training.

"Training is everything. You dicks are obsessed with match day. Who gets picked, who gets left out. That's not even twentieth century thinking, lads. That's Victorian. I want you to completely change how you approach your job. I want you to train like you're being paid to train and there aren't even any games. Do you know what I mean? Forget who gets picked against Scarborough. Believe me, that is not how this club measures your worth. Your worth is entirely based on what you do Monday to Friday on the training pitch.

"As an aside, that's why I got so worked up about all that Goliath shit. You were so focused on that guy you weren't training. You weren't improving. There isn't a minute to waste. As you'll see."

I turned the page. The next one was a simple chart with an X and Y axis. X was time; there was one dot for every league match we'd play. The dots were evenly spaced. Y was team strength.

"The league is forty-four matches. James, put your hand down. We agreed to forget the first two. What did Pastor Yaw say about being pedantic? In a second, I'm going to tell you how good every team in the league is. But let's take Banbury." I took a green marker and drew a horizontal line close to the bottom. "They're not that good, and that won't change. They'll be about the same until January, and unless they buy Messi in the winter transfer window, they'll finish the season at the same level. They don't have much ability to improve as players, and therefore, not as a team."

I took another pen.

"Blue for Chester. Let's do a dotted line. We're about here. Better than Banbury. Now, yellow. Yellow for York. We played them and we all saw how good they were. They're definitely one of the top three teams in this league." I drew the yellow line a good few inches above the line of blue dots. "Thing is, York are better than us today, but they're also not going to change too much. They have good young players, but they won't get much game time. So they're not going to get better, are they? And their best players are maxed out on talent. What you see is the most you're going to get.

"Chester, though."

I put the markers down and walked left and right, staring into the eyes of my dudes. They were engaged. They were listening.

"Hands up if you think Raffi Brown is done improving."

No-one budged.

"Hands up if you think Henri's reached his limit."

Nothing.

"Hands up if you think MD can never play at a higher level."

Most hands went up. MD shook his head and folded his arms.

"Just checking you're paying attention," I said, walking back to the flipchart. "This is why I've got such a bee in my bonnet about training. Treat every session like it's a cup final and we're going to improve. There's massive potential in this squad. We've got Premier League, Championship, League One players. It's an unfair advantage." I took the blue pen and drew a thick line on a slightly upwards trajectory. "I'm not sure the exact dates, obviously, and if we stress about this too much it'll stop it happening. But let's say we overtake York by January. That makes us the best team in the league already. Then we keep going, keep going. March, April, May, we're really smashing everyone. Did we drop a few points at the start of the season? Sure. But we're the only team that can go on a twelve-match winning streak. We'll more than make up for a slow start."

I paused. Checked a few key faces. Henri. Glenn. Sam. Trick. Were they buying it?

"It's my job to make sure this improvement happens. I'll do everything I can. New coaches. Better facilities. I'll beg, steal, and borrow to get you equipment. You'll self-report injuries and tweaks so you don't miss too much time. When you're not playing a match, you're thinking on a ten-month horizon. Like me.

"I'm going to repeat this because I don't want anyone saying they didn't hear or didn't understand. Your future as an employee of Chester Football Club is one hundred percent linked to how you train. How committed you are to improving as a player. If you are less motivated by your own improvement than I am, we have a big problem." I slapped the 'progress' flipchart. "Because when it comes to this, there's no negotiation or compromise. I'll listen to your opinions on how we should do it. If you think there are better drills than what we're offering up, I'll listen. We all will. But the basic principle that we finish the season as the best team in the league - that's not up for debate. If you don't have it in you to be better tomorrow than today, come and see me and we'll ask Banbury if they want to take over your contract."

Pause for water.

"Let's talk about our place in the food chain." I turned to the next page. There were some numbers that I circled as I said them. "Despite being dogshit for most of the season, we had the fourth highest attendance in the league. Three times higher than clubs like Banbury. If we start playing our football, we'll shoot up to first. You know our fans. They're noisy. We'll turn the Deva into a fortress. Last season we finished with 57 points. The winners got 95. 68 got you into the playoffs, but that's the last time we're ever going to mention the playoffs. They're a lottery. I play the lottery when there's a rollover. This football club isn't a lottery ticket. We win the league. End of. Including me we have 21 players. That seems like enough, but it's not."

I turned to one of the most important pages. The players sensed it, too. They all leaned forward.

"Who's who in the National League North. Some of this is educated guesswork, obviously. But let's be honest, I'm good at this. Teams might be out by a place or two, but not more." I sucked in a breath. "Last season, Fylde and King's Lynn got promoted. We've seen the best team to come down - York. They're good, but nowhere near as good as the two who went up. The promoted teams are not good, apart from South Shields. So overall, the league is much weaker."

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

I'd made a mistake in turning the page so early. People were reading instead of listening. I flipped the whole thing closed and asked Trick to repeat what I'd said. He had been listening.

"Perfect, thanks. So let's take a proper look."

I'd divided the league into four groups. Title contenders, playoff hopefuls, mid-table floaters, relegation fodder.

"Title contenders. York, Kidderminster Harriers, Darlington. Any questions?"

There were none. Everyone agreed with me.

"Best of the rest: Alfreton, Gloucester, Scarborough. I've got South Shields next, based on what they've done so far. We play Scarborough this weekend, so that'll be very, very interesting. Because you'll notice I haven't put Chester on this list. That result will give us much more of an idea of where we are.

"Interactive time. Turn to the person next to you. Make groups of three if you want. Discuss where Chester go on this list. Be honest. We're not number one. I'm not looking for stupid answers. York dicked us. We lost to a team I've got down as the 19th best. So discuss it properly. Three minutes, go."

I stopped them after ten seconds.

"MD! Brig! Livia! You're part of this. Join the fuck in."

Soon the entire room was abuzz. The only person who had absolutely no clue was the Brig. Everyone else had seen a lot more non-league football than me. Except Youngster. I wondered how well he'd do.

"Top," I said. I'd been eavesdropping and the chats had been good. I wanted to do a lot more of that sort of thing. Engage their brains. "Right, hit me."

I pointed at the first little group. They called out the number. I kept going round the room. Most had us around eighth. Only one person had the same answer as me - fourteenth.

"Vimsy, explain yourself."

"That's where we finished last season. They say the league table never lies."

His reasoning was old-fashioned, but hard to argue with. My conclusion was slightly more scientific - our average CA was a weak 42 and there were thirteen teams with 42 or higher, based on the last time I'd seen them and a bit of analysis of the season's results so far. Some clubs had refreshed their squads to a greater extent than others, but I doubted there would be huge changes.

I wrote Chester in the gap between Boston and Buxton.

"Fourteenth is honestly about right... with caveats." I flipped back to the progress timeline. "It's very temporary. By the end of September we'll be what? Seventh? Why not?

"Bit of an elephant in the room, now. Best 77. I'm starting to feel good in my body again. Will I be on the bench against Scarborough? No. I'm ages away from playing. But what if I start getting minutes in November, say? That's realistic, I think. Dean's shaking his head. We'll see! Then twenty minutes in the December games. First eleven in January. 'It's like a new signing.' Sorry to be all Max about it, but if I'm back to my best..." I closed the flipchart. "None of that shit matters. I will go on a rampage like the world has never seen."

"Whoo!" said Youngster, to a chorus of sniggers and affectionate chuckles.

"Thanks, bro. Obviously, we have to act and plan like I'm not going to play even a minute this season. Dean's shaking his head again. Make up your mind! What I'm saying there is, we keep in contention. Be near the top of the table and at the end we'll go on a hell of a run. Either from your relentless improvement, or from me playing on God Mode. Or - get this - both.

"I one million percent know you can all give me at least ten percent more. It all comes down to you. Your mental state. Do you believe you can play better? Are you willing to stay in the gym another ten minutes? Can you leave off the sauce when all your mates are on one? Maybe you cry off a stag party. Maybe you switch to cold showers. I don't know, do I? You know. I'm asking you to do what you know you need to do.

"Okay, last thing." I grinned. "This... this is where it gets weird. Gets a bit Max Best, maybe." I flipped to the last page. It was another progress timeline, but without the dots representing matches.

A few guys sat up straight including Sam, Aff, and Joe. I took it as a sign they liked when I got weird.

"We don't have a lot of money. And we have a lot of matches to play. And over the winter, there are bound to be postponements. So if we assume you train like champions and all that..." I drew our progress line, trying to keep it the same as the one I'd drawn earlier. "Something like that, right? We're so, so strong in the last weeks of the season." I looked around, and encouraged someone to join the dots. Dots - I drew a few month's worth, and then stopped. "Winter... Postponements..."

Pascal jumped up. "If matches are postponed we'll play them when we're stronger!"

"Right," I said, pacing around, starting to get excited. But I had to calm myself. I went to my little pile of papers and rummaged around, emerging with a printout of our fixtures. "I've printed the fixtures, and tried to work out when all the cup matches will be. Now, humour me for a minute, and let's assume we win all our cup games..."

The fixtures covered seven pages. I stopped at the third page. “17th October is our first Cheshire Seniors Cup match. They're always on Tuesday nights. It doesn't clash with a normal fixture. Fine. Bosh. Win that.”

Something was up. The energy had changed around the Brig. Right. He didn’t have any context for this stuff.

“Brig, you’re lost. Okay so we play the league. But we’re also in three cup competitions. There’s the Cheshire Seniors. Teams from Cheshire and Greater Manchester. It’s the least important cup, but we’re the big dogs in Cheshire. I want to show that.

“Bit of a bigger deal is the FA Trophy. That’s a cup for non-league teams. The final’s at Wembley.

“Then there’s the FA Cup. You know that one. Oldest cup competition in the world. If we go far in that, we’ll play Man United and Chelsea and all that.

“They’re all knockouts, very exciting, all that jazz. But the main thing for right now is that cup matches take priority. If there’s a scheduling clash, we play the cup match and the league one gets pushed back.”

The Brig nodded. I shuffled the first couple of pages to the back of the pile.

"January 13th. Ready for this? FA Trophy fourth round. We already have a fixture for that Saturday. Peterborough Sports."

I turned the flipchart back to show the ranking of the teams. Peterborough were rated tenth, four spots above us.

"February tenth. FA Trophy fifth round. Scheduled fixture is Scarborough at home." I pointed to the rankings. Scarborough were sixth. "If we're in the FA Trophy fifth round, that match will be moved back.

"Next page. 9th March. FA Trophy sixth round. Home to Curzon that day." Curzon were twelfth. "They're decent. Tricky match if we played them tomorrow. But if we get to the sixth round of the FA Trophy, we'll play them in fucking April. When we'll be the slappingest team who ever slapped! And here's another one. FA Trophy semi final, April 6th. Away to Gloucester. The fifth best team in the league, and we can get that pushed back, maybe all the way into May!"

I turned to the last page and added some dots to show our league games, with a big cluster coming right at the end of the X-axis.

"We get cup glory, we get to play difficult matches at a time when they're not so difficult. Any questions?"

Henri nodded. "We'd have a lot of games to play. Three a week sometimes. Yes, we can move some tricky ones to the end, but only by replacing them with high-intensity cup games. So we will be exhausted."

"Yep, normally. That's why I'm rotating the team. That's why I don't want to hear complaints about being 'dropped'. You're not dropped. You're rotated. I want to win the Cheshire Cup. Chester should win that every year. I looked on Wikipedia and we're barely even in the top ten winners. I want to win the FA Trophy. And have a pop at the FA Cup, too. See if we can't get to the third round. Pit my wits against Pep. So you see, there will be enough minutes for everyone. If we lose a couple of full-backs, we'll switch the formation. If we're short in central midfield, we'll play diamond. And so on. We'll keep things fresh. We'll roll with the punches.

"By the way, this insanity is why Andrew was on the bench last time. He needs matchday experience. We all know he's not ready for proper action, but if we can get him up to speed for the last month of the season... You think that's not much but we could play ten games in April, plus some in May. It could get bonkers. Good bonkers, but if Andrew can play four of the last ten, it could be the difference between winning the double and getting nothing. Do you know what I mean? I'm thinking long-term. And when you start seeing Michael on the bench, that's when you know I've started to think about next season.

"Right. Really, really, the last thing.

"Cup wins come with prize money. I haven't discussed it with MD or the board, but if they go against me I'll throw endless tantrums until they cave. When we start winning cup matches, we'll be guaranteed prize money. A few thousand here and there, rising to decent amounts for semis and finals. And my pledge to you now is, if you train, hard, eat well, cut out the drink, all the things, I will take that prize money and put it right into the facilities. Example. FA Trophy fifth round win comes with five thousand pounds. More weights, more machines, more whatever we need. You can start telling Glenn what's lacking and when the dosh starts rolling in, we'll get right on it."

MD didn't seem opposed to the idea of motivating the players with the prize money they would earn. He was looking thoughtful.

I stretched. "I think that's enough grand strategy for one day. That's the season. That's what's ahead." I smiled. "The rest of the league is not going to see this coming."

I pushed the flipchart out of the way and started collecting my papers. I looked up, surprised. No-one had moved an inch.

Glenn Ryder, club captain, said, "Boss, can we ask questions?"

I blinked. I thought they would have been sick of my voice. "Sure."

"I was just thinking," he said.

Henri interrupted. "Forgive me, Glenn. Before we lose the moment." He smiled. "Am I the only one thankful to have been present for this? At last," he sighed. "At last I know how it would have felt to live in the Three Kingdoms. Yes, it's the Three Kingdoms but Max is both warlord and advisor. The Crouching Dragon has spoken."

"Jesus Christ," mumbled someone.

Henri stood tall. "Now that I have Max, I am a fish that has found water. I intend to stay at Chester. MD, prepare a five-year contract."

"Thanks for the feedback on my presentation," I said. "But no. Now sit down."

"I would also like to offer feedback." Pascal, pushing his black hair away. "The analysis is impeccable. Almost as good as what we get in Germany."

"Someone punch Pascal," said Glenn. Raffi obliged. While Pascal rubbed his arm, Glenn continued. "I'm with Henri... I think. Sometimes I don't understand if he's for or against. But boss, if... Thing is, it all depends, doesn't it?"

"On what?"

"On whether we can improve like you say. If that's not true, then we're, you know... not." Not going to win the league, he meant. Not going to finish as the best team by far. "We joke about the Cult of Max. But this is a bit... we need to believe, don't we?"

"No," I replied. "No. This... Imagine a Venn diagram. Fuck it, I'll draw one." I did. "Three circles. Art, Belief, Science. We're slap bang in the middle. To me, football is science. Technique and passing is nine-tenths of the law. Okay, so there's more to football than that. Duels and shit. Great. Everything can be improved. You will improve all aspects of your game, individually and collectively, and I'll be able to prove it with facts and figures. Pass accuracy, running stats, shots per game, expected goals for and against, points per game. All that shit will rise non-stop through the season. We don't have great data but look at any metric you want from the time Jackie Reaper took over. Right? It can be proven.

"But sure. Belief. If you believe it's going to happen, it's going to happen faster. So trust me. And why wouldn't you trust me? Think where Raffi and Youngster were a year ago. Henri will tell you I spotted him in the warmup of a Darlo match. I saw he was amazing from the fucking warmup! Wait, MD was there. MD, you remember you were trying to give me a job and I kept asking about Henri?"

"It's true, lads. He didn't know the first thing about non-league. He thought we were called Chester City. Hadn't seen 4-4-2 in a live match, before. He was a non-league novice. But he wouldn't shut up about Henri, and you can check, Henri didn't play a minute that day."

"Right. So, look. I'm not going to lose my shit if you ignore me and train like you always have. It's not a cult." I laughed. "Why do I have to keep saying that? But it's like religion in one way. Do what the book says and if heaven's real, you get in. There's no downside, is there? Do it just in case. That's what religion is all about, isn't it Youngster?"

"No."

"Exactly."

"What's the art?" said Joe.

"The Art on the Venn diagram? Different things. First, the beauty. One of Aff's crosses. Glenn's thumping header. A flying save. But let's talk about improvement. It's hard to know exactly what works and what doesn't, right? Sometimes with the kids I try for ages to get them to learn something, then one day I do something totally different and suddenly they've understood the first thing. Progress is scientific in that it's measurable and repeatable, but it's art in that you don't know exactly what works."

"I have thoughts about this," said Henri.

"Amazing. Please email them to me. Is that the end of the questions?"

Apparently not. Carl said, "Are you all right?"

I knew what he meant. "Yes. And I'm going for an MRI this week. They're going to look at my brain and that. I'm not worried." It was true. Surprisingly.

D-Day. "You said you want more players? Like what? What positions?"

"Another forward. Someone like you, to be honest, Donny. If I had two of you on the pitch I could get really freaky with sudden formation changes." I battled to stop myself cackling. "Or a pure winger. And someone else just for the numbers. Anyone with a bit of upside. Ideally who can cover two positions."

"Have you got anyone in mind?"

"Not really. The free transfer market is slim pickings. There are some guys who could play, they're decent, but I want more."

"What about loans?"

"Only in emergencies. Don't like them."

Tony. "Are you still going to manage the women?"

"For now, yes. When I find someone good, I'll step down. But I need to improve, too. I'm far from the finished package. Isn't that right, Trick?"

"Er... what?"

"I need to improve my man management skills, don't I, Trick?"

His eyes narrowed while he tried to plot a safe path through. "No," he said, and that got a few chuckles. He smiled with relief.

Raffi. "You want us to become coaches to help with all this?"

"Yes. It'll make you a better player, too. And anyone who wants to stay in football when they retire but isn't sure about coaching, there's a scouting course, too. One big problem we've got this season is that our rivals play at the same time as us, so I only get to check them out when we play them. It's not ideal. If you're injured, I'd love to send you to watch Kiddie or Alfy or whatever. Help me, help the team, even when you can't play. I don't know, maybe I'm crazy, but I'd prefer that than being miserable in the stands."

Sam. "What else can we do?"

"Fuck me, mate," I said, beaming. "Eleven out of ten question. You're already doing what I most wanted. There's loads of knowledge in this room. Don't wait for the coaches to ask you to pass on what you've learned. Teach each other. Talk about things you notice in other players. Sam, you've been teaching the kids and the women some of your tricks. It's great. They love it and they love you. I turn up - me, the boss, the big star - and they're like 'Hi Max. Is Sam coming?'" Sam pretended not to like this praise. "Anyway, we've got players here who could learn a lot from you. Youngster, Pascal, Raffi. And me. I'd love some tips." I looked up at the ceiling lights. "Not sure how you want to do it. Casually after a session or more organised with the coaches backing you up. Whatever you want. Some of you don't want to help your rivals progress because it means less game time for you. But if you're making players in your position learn fast, I'm going to want to keep you around a season or two beyond your use-by date. Think about it. Just saying.

"Oh. Another thing you can all do. If I tell you you're not going to play the next two matches, that's me giving you two weeks where you can do extra. Sulking and whining is not helpful. If you've got a problem, train like a champion then come and talk to me."

Aff. "Can we ask about you?"

"What do you mean?"

"When you were in the hospital, me mam was worried sick. That poor boy, she kept saying. She was asking after your family, and I had to say we didn't know much about you. MD came and talked to us. I asked about your mam and he told us they'd decided not to tell her; it was best like that. Okay, that melted my ma's brain but it was something to say, at least. And you're the boss, now. I... I suppose I don't need to. But I'd like to know... something."

"Oh. I mean..."

"Not if you don't - "

I scratched my nose. "Nah, it's - "

He put up a hand. "Forget I said anything."

Awkward pause. "Go on, Aff. I didn't think... didn't expect... but okay. We're going to be spending every day with each other. For literally ever. Go on."

"Tell us about your da?"

I looked down. "Nothing to say."

It was crazy, but everyone was absolutely riveted. Why? "What about your mammy?"

"Well, you know she's not well. We, er... try to keep every day the same. Routine's good. And she's got her best mate, there. And a psychic dog. Raffi, you've met him, haven't you? Dog said Raffi was a good egg. Said I was a prick. He's never wrong." Aff had asked about my mum, not who she lived with. "Er... she's… she likes trashy TV. Love Island, Fuckboy Island, anything like that. I tried to get her into The Traitors, which is top, but it didn't take. Not enough slutty young people."

Henri. "Do you think she likes those shows because they remind her of you?"

I gave him a middle finger on one hand and flicked Vs at him with the other.

Aff. "So... But she doesn't know about all this?"

"About what?" I was calm, but I felt something inside me start to bubble. A chemical process getting under way.

"That you run a football club. That you're a genius. That you're an amazing player."

Eyes starting to sting. "No." Slight lip tremor. "She thinks I'm still in the call centre."

Aff shifted. He was uncomfortable, now, but he ploughed on. His own mum had given him a mission, and he wouldn't let his discomfort - or mine - get in the way. "And... that must be hard, so."

I wiped something from the side of my right eye. I wasn't sure what I disliked more - the people who were looking at me, or those who couldn't. "A bit." I pushed my rear teeth together until I had control of that whole region. "I'd like to tell her. But I won't. It'd do more harm than good. It's enough for her..." Oh, shit. Don't even try to finish. Why are you trying to finish? "It's enough for her that I'm happy."

Suddenly, Henri was by my side, pulling me into him.

The Brig coughed. "I think that's enough for now."

I wiped my eyes some more. "No, John. It's all right." I waited, and took a few breaths. Nodded a few times. "Life's not fair. No news to anyone in this room. I'll leave the philosophy to the taxi drivers. And the French. All I know is football. We're going to win the league. And I'm going to get rich. I'm going to find a care home that looks like the house my mum grew up in. All 80s stuff. Sofas wrapped in plastic. Phones with pig tail wires. Those music things, Joe. What are they called?"

"Albums."

"Albums. Made of plastic. All right? I'm going to take care of her. Aff. You tell your mum not to worry, yeah?"

"Yes, boss. I'll do that."

"Great. Fuck off to lunch. Back in an hour. Run off those hangovers. Tomorrow we start our season for real."

***

Henri bundled me out of the room, dragged me along a corridor, pushed me into his car. The Lotus Seven was back. I hadn't seen it for ages. He dropped me into a chair, and when I came to my senses, I realised I was in Nando's.

After a while, Henri came with two plates. He'd ordered my favourite: piri-piri chicken.

"Why are we here?"

"There is comfort in the routine, Max. Even for a warlord."

We ate for a while. I warmed up. Felt better. Good enough to be honest. "That was a disaster."

Henri mumbled to himself in French for a good ten seconds. "I wonder, sometimes. Are you infallible or is that a load of old bull?" He waited for a reaction, got none, and sighed. "Max, you are very stupid. That was not a disaster. You gave us all something we needed. For Pascal and I, the education. For Glenn, the shot at glory. For Sam, the pursuit of excellence. For Joe, the creativity. But for all of us, the emotion. The humanity." He shook his head. "Aff's mother may have just won us the league. But listen. I wanted to dispute your analysis. In private, I thought was best."

"You'd have Kidderminster ahead of York?"

He put down his cutlery and wiped his lips. "Max. The real danger in this league is Darlington."

I frowned. It was the team I knew best. "I don't think so." I had them as solidly third, and last season they had underperformed their CA.

"Things have changed. They have a new manager." He eyed me. "Player-manager."

I shrugged. Being player-manager was hard. It was even hard for me when I had massive CA. "And?"

"Do not dismiss me, Max!"

"I'm listening!"

He did a dramatic show of controlling his temper. "His name is Folke Wester."

I laughed. He said it so portentously. "Oooh!" I said, like a child showing he's not afraid of a ghost.

"The name isn't familiar?"

"I mean, I've obviously seen it on the lists and that. But it doesn't mean anything to me. Some 4-4-2 caveman, I'm sure."

Henri nodded. "Do you remember your last game for Darlo? Against Scarborough?"

"Vaguely," I said, spearing a stray slice of red pepper. "I assume I slapped."

"You slapped very hard. You slapped Poul Wester out of a job."

"Paul?"

"Poul. The manager. Scarborough were heading for the playoffs. Your antics led to a crisis of confidence throughout the team. Humiliation followed by humiliation. They sacked him, hoping the replacement would pull them back into the playoff race. Poul's son, Folke, followed at the end of the season."

I scanned my database. "He's a player? I've never seen him."

"He was injured at that time, and was bitter about his father's treatment. He took the Darlington job. Switched to a new formation. 4-1-4-1."

"You're kidding."

"I am not."

"Darlo don't have a DM."

"They do. Folke Wester. He plays your system, but with more brutality."

"They've scored a lot of goals."

"That is why he's a problem. He's not defensive. His teams attack. He's Ian Evans with a brain."

"Copying my system."

"What could be more intelligent? A hard-tackling, defensively capable Ian Evans team, but always attacking, and using your tactical ideas. And... he does not like you. He will be extremely motivated to defeat you."

"How do you know?"

He didn't want to say. "I know what he says in the dressing room. I have some friends there, and so do you. They do not wish to see you come to harm on the pitch. In public, Wester is charming and personable, but if you play against Darlington, he will see it as an opportunity to hurt you. Physically. Take you off the chess board, so to speak."

I knew exactly when the Darlington fixtures were. And it seemed like I knew when I'd be using Triple Captain and Bench Boost. "November 11th. Away. I reckon I might be able to play the last twenty."

"Please do not be rash! The man is serious. He's not to be trifled with."

I smirked. "Wester can go Folke himself." I laughed at my own joke.

He held his hands out, pleading. "At least promise to stick to the wing. Stay away from him. Do this for me." So said a man who wasted nine-tenths of every match butting heads with cavemen. If Henri was an animal, he'd be a ram. A ram in a scarf.

The problem was, he'd accidentally set me a challenge. One I knew I wouldn't be able to resist. "You know, I think against 4-1-4-1 I'd play 4-4-2 diamond." I laughed at Henri's expression. He knew what I was saying - that I'd play as our CAM in that formation so that I'd be in direct confrontation with this Wester guy. "Henri. I heard you. I'll check him out. See what he's up to. And I promise," I said, with maximum sincerity, "not to do a no-look backheel nutmeg on the twat. Okay?"

Henri fumed. It was almost as though he didn't believe me. "I was going to treat you. But you can pay for your own lunch."

I let him steam for a bit; he seemed to enjoy it. But then I genuinely asked for help. "So... I check this guy out. In a couple of weeks, I say, lads, my rankings are holding up but there's one change. We've got to look out for Darlo. Something like that? Or do you want to tell them?"

"It should come from you."

"It would make you look good, knowing more than me."

He lifted himself up. I imagined peacock feathers spreading as he went. "I do not need their admiration to preen my ego. I have no ego, Max."

I smiled. "Skip training tomorrow. Let's go see what the psychic dog makes of you."

He eyed me without humour. "No. Tomorrow will be the best day of training in the history of this football club. And I," said the man with no ego, "will be the best of the best."

***

The goalkeeping try-outs were absolute mayhem. Little kids everywhere, frazzled coaches trying to create some semblance of order, dozy parents wandering into drills asking where the toilets were. In terms of publicity for the club and the goalkeeping academy, it was an indisputed win. In terms of finding talent, it was only a moderate success.

When the number of participants was at its peak, I hit Playdar and was swamped with data. Very few of the wannabe goalies were actually goalies, and most who had potential had less than 20 PA. But I did pick up an eleven-year-old goalie girl with PA 33, and two decent boys: an eight-year-old centre-back with PA 35, and a tricky winger with PA 44.

The turnout of girls was a bit disappointing. We'd pitched it as a girls event with boys welcome, but it was seventy percent boys (and one optimistic forty-year-old P.E. teacher who claimed the reason he'd never made it as a pro was pure jealousy and conspiracies against him. He was PA 1). I hoped that when the women's team got going, people would realise we were serious about the project.

***

For the men's team, training intensity went up a level. Whether it would pay off with sustained CA increases remained to be seen, but this week's improvement was nothing short of spectacular. Green almost across the board. I suspected that at some point, for example, CA 60, our facilities and coaches would hold us back, but if effort from players was one potential bottleneck, I had stuck a knife down the opening and rammed the cork out of the way. For now, at least.

The main problem, which a more experienced manager might have predicted, was that the most determined players went too hard. Henri, in particular, ran around like his feet were on fire. Perhaps booting Glenn Ryder up the arse would help? It didn't the first nine times, but perhaps the tenth...?

We spent the week having increasingly fractious interactions where I suggested he focus more on playing football and less on trying to establish dominance over his markers. He insisted that roughing up defenders would open space. I said it was pointless and risked a red card. I wasn't totally sure I was right; Henri had always seemed to need the jostling, the wrestling, to bring out the best in him.

One thing I was sure of: he and the rest of the team were motivated as fuck.

***

Match 5 of 46: Scarborough Athletic versus Chester FC

The schedule was pretty weird in that we had a tough Saturday away trip to one of the better teams, followed just two days later by a 3 p.m. home game against one of the weakest. Monday was a bank holiday, which is UK-speak for 'public holiday', which meant a bumper crowd.

The trick was managing our levels of fatigue across the two matches. I decided I could play my strongest team against Scarborough, and then field a weaker team against Farsley. Farsley were also playing two games in three days, and they wouldn't rotate as much as I would. If we didn't dick them, I'd probably just quit and become a music critic - I couldn't be any worse than the ones who had savaged my new favourite album.

So I went for our usual 4-1-4-1 with Magnus playing DM instead of Youngster. Sam Topps was back, boosting our average CA to 42.1.

Scarborough were 4-4-2. Average CA 46.

First half, they battered us. Ten shots, seven corners, one goal. I tried to tweak things, to use tactics to change our fortunes, but no dice.

It was because we were effectively playing with ten men. I'd just witnessed a brainless performance from our resident intellectual, who had spent forty-five minutes smashing into defenders, grappling, arguing with the referee, and offering absolutely nothing to the rest of the team.

My half-time team talk was cool. I pointed out a few weaknesses in the Scarborough team. If Aff was closing down the right-back, he might like to notice how he tended to cut back and clear with his weaker left foot. Raffi could push a bit higher when we broke because his opponent was lazy and didn't do his defensive work. And I suggested to Henri that he might want to try moving into positions where he might receive a pass. You know, to help the team.

If looks could kill, I would not venture across the English channel, which Henri probably called the French channel.

The second half started much the same. I looked at my options on the bench. "Tony," I said, looking at my second striker. "Take your socks off."

"Sorry, boss. Didn't quite catch that."

"Socks off, please."

He didn't argue, but simply started untying his laces.

"Henri!" I called, as I used the tactics screen to drag his icon off the pitch. Doing that didn't trigger a substitution, which I'd learned in the Dani yellow card match. He came over with a curse-powered blank look on his face.

Off the pitch, he woke up. "Max, what the fuck?"

"Stand there."

"No. Put me back on at once."

"Why? So you can get a red card? I hate how you're playing. It's shit. You might as well watch from the stands because you're not helping us. Everything you're doing is shit. I can't watch it any more. Tony, are you ready?" I turned and saw, to my shock and horror, that my second striker was tapping the bottom of his upturned football boot. He wasn't even wearing socks. "Tony what the fuck?"

"Got stones in my socks or summat," he said.

"Put your kit on, you twat! Fuck me."

"I won't get a red card, Max!" yelled Henri.

I pushed him in the chest. "What the fuck is wrong with you? I've told you fifty times to cut that macho shit out. Fucking off-the-ball nonsense, fuck that, fuck you. We both know you're only doing it because their number four has you in his pocket."

"He does not."

"You can't compete with him. Can't win your duels, can't beat him on speed or quality. So you get yourself sent off, have a big old whinge, complain about how unfair life is. Pathetic. Tony!"

While I was looking away, I slipped Henri's icon back onto the pitch. Henri waved at the referee, asking permission to return, and sprinted to his position. He spent a couple of minutes sulking, but noticed Tony - who got a huge, cheeky grin from me and a quadruple thumbs up from the management team - vigorously warming up, fully shod. Henri nodded to himself a few hundred times, then suddenly he dashed away to the right of the pitch. He latched onto a loose pass, touched it to Carl, raced back towards goal, doubled back, held the ball up again, brought Sam into the move. While Sam played it out to D-Day, Henri circled around, getting tight to the number four. D-Day squared the ball behind Henri, who took a touch, dropped the defender on his arse with an outrageous shimmy, powered forward, and slipped the ball into the bottom-left hand corner.

One-all!

Henri, veins throbbing, neck tight, ran up to me and gesticulated, one might say, rudely. The rest of the team, shocked, pulled him away. Henri glanced back, and I mimed a big yawn. He stopped in his tracks, and even from that distance I saw one eyelid twitch.

He walked around, apparently disinterested in the match. Was he sulking? Suggesting that if he couldn't fight, he wouldn't play? But then he sprinted over to the left, even before Magnus won a defensive header - one of the benefits of having him as DM instead of the faster, more mobile Youngster. Trick took the ball, passed to Raffi, and hared upfield.

Brown plays a neat first-time pass to Lyons.

Lyons holds off a challenge, skips past another, and plays a square pass to Topps.

Topps pushes the ball to D-Day.

Carlile overlaps. He cuts back into the penalty area.

He picks out Lyons with a simple pass.

Lyons shapes to shoot...

But passes left.

Williams is running onto it...

He cocks his leg...

GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!!

A devastating counter-attack!

Wait! The referee is consulting with his linesman.

They're checked for an infringement in the build up.

The goal stands!

Scarborough are behind, after dominating for so long.

I punched the air, jumped around with Vimsy, Tony, the Brig.

When we played, when we just played and nothing else, we were fucking brilliant. We could play far better football than the quality of our team should allow, far better than anything else I'd seen in the division. I'd done this, somehow. The curse helped, of course. The curse was the starting point. But it needed more. The formation needed someone like Henri, and needed him to play the way I wanted him to play, not the way he wanted to play. Somehow, I'd been able to get that change, and now I was getting my fantasy football and the Chester fans were making all the noise. The Brig nodded at me. I felt... proud.

I don't know what it was, but Aff's words from Monday morning thundered in my ears. 'Does your mammy know about this?' I fled to the dugout, hid, pulled my baseball cap on for the first time since my recovery had escalated.

It was dreamlike. We were beating one of the best teams, away. Yeah, we'd ridden our luck, but as the saying goes, sometimes you make your own luck.

Henri was reborn, literally. He'd played like a worm, but now... Now he was playing with ice in his veins, making scientific decisions, linking up with the others, fluttering from Sam to Aff to Raffi like a beautiful little papillon. Playing like the artist he thought he was. He was so good it was unfair.

A Scarborough defender passed the ball to his goalie, who took a heavy touch. The ball bounced away from him, near enough to Henri to make the Frenchman think he had a chance of getting to it first. He ran, ran, and, realising he wasn't going to make it, hopped out of the way. As the goalie slid past Henri’s dangling foot, he cried out in pain, writhed around.

He wasn't acting; his attributes went all kinds of red.

The referee went red, too. Red card for Henri.

The rest of my players didn't even complain - it was such an obvious foul. They didn't even rush to protect him as he was jostled and sent on his way by the angry Scarborough guys.

It was cut and dried.

There was just one problem - Henri hadn't even touched him. The keeper had caught his studs in the turf and twisted something in his knee.

As Henri strode across the pitch, head high and haughty, I got as close to him as I was allowed. I didn't want him jumping into the crowd doing kung fu kicks like French players sometimes did.

He tried to push me away as I put my hand on his back, but I stuck with him all the way down the tunnel and into the dressing room.

He kicked our bag of footballs, kicked a bench, then sat on it.

"So. You were right. Are you happy, now?"

I crouched in front of him. "I am happy. More than happy. Can I ask a favour?"

That disarmed him, briefly. "A favour?"

"Can you always play like that, please? That was phenomenal."

He swallowed and looked up. "I got sent off, Max."

"No you didn't."

I'd disarmed him, and now dislegged him. "What?"

"You didn't touch him. I know that, and I'll get the card wiped out. The ref made a mistake. That's unfair. That's football."

He looked doubtful. "Why are you so sure I'm innocent?"

I laughed and sat next to him. "I'm not the best player in the league any more. But I'm still the best referee." We stared ahead for a minute. "Mate... If you play like that, we'll win the league. You've got to believe that."

"You want me to join the Cult of Max?"

I laughed. "Sure. Yeah, okay."

"You should go back and manage the rest of the match."

"What? You think I can't do it from here?"

He smiled. "If anyone could..." He pushed me away, so I stood and waited, enjoying the moment. The home crowd were roaring their team on, urging them forward, but I thought I could hear the Chester mob. Another little surge of pride. Henri had gone through some process of his own. He bowed his head. "Thank you."

"No, man. Thank you. You took my sketch of a tactic and turned it into a masterpiece. You're the science and the art." I held out a hand.

He clapped his into mine. "And the belief."

I nodded. That was the moment I stopped believing. Belief is when you think something's true. But the fact that we were going to win the league wasn't something I needed to believe in; it had become the water in which I swam. I smiled at the striker. I'd seen him in the warmup on my first visit to Chester and I'd been right about his talent. But MD had been right about him too; Henri Lyons was a total nutjob. "Good news is, if you start your shower now, you'll be finished at the same time as the rest of the team."

"You greatly exaggerate how long I spend in the shower," he lied.

"Actually," I said. "We might be late back in. I think it might be a good time to give my presentation to the fans. Don't you think?"

"You don't have your flipchart."

"I don't need it."

***

I got Vimsy to hang out in the dressing room so that Henri wouldn't get into trouble.

Scarborough equalised, and pushed, and pushed, and my guys fell back, and back, but held firm. Two-all. An unfair result, but both teams were unhappy not to win, so maybe that's the definition of fair.

At the final whistle, I ignored the other manager, who had been a total dick when he thought Henri had hurt his goalie, and gathered my players, dragging them across to the little band of Chester fans. A couple of hundred had travelled, and they applauded our efforts, sang some of our songs.

The wrong songs, though.

I motioned that they should be quiet, first by making the universal 'lower the volume' gesture of pushing my hands down, then by holding my finger over my lips. The squad - sans Henri, sadly - were looking at me like I was crazy. Most managers didn't ask fans to be quiet. Most managers didn't stand on the advertising boards in front of the away terrace while being propped up by his central midfielders.

But I wanted to start a new chant. Remind the Chester fans of a song they hadn't sung in ten years. They'd need it this year, that was for fucking certain.

I sucked in a breath, and prepared to bellow. It could have been interesting to track which of my players joined in, and when, but fuck it. This wasn't a time for art or science. This was a time for pure, insane belief. Time for an exercise in misguided ambition that makes no sense outside of pure theory.

I locked eyes with one fan. Just one fan - if he joined in, more would follow, and those who didn't sing today would sing on Monday.

I needn't have thought that hard. As soon as they realised what I was doing, half my team, most of the nearby fans, raised their voices alongside mine. And by the second line, everyone was in.

To the tune of ‘For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow’:

"We're gonna win the league!

We're gonna win the league!

And now you're gonna believe us,

and now you're gonna believe us

and now you're gonna bel-ieee-eve us!

We're gonna win the league!"