Player Manager 6
Recap:
Max Best has recovered from a near-fatal attack and has led Chester men's team to fourth in the league, while the women's team is competitive in tier six. Exhausted by performing three jobs and pushing his body to its limit, he is delighted that help has finally arrived. With a new manager and a new scout easing his burden, he can focus his efforts. His first task? Learning to deal with ultra-defensive opponents.
***
"If everyone likes what you're doing, you're doing it wrong." Hope Solo
***
1.
Tuesday, October 24, 2023
Match 13 of 46: Southport versus Chester
"Boo!"
We were only five minutes into the match but the home fans were livid. They watched as their goalkeeper passed to their centre back, who passed to the other centre back, who looked around for an option and didn't see anything he liked.
"Booo!"
The ball was played forward, and their two strikers combined, venturing into the Chester half. We engulfed them, stole the ball, and Ryan Jack kicked the ball long. It spun out for a throw-in.
The crowd hushed, waiting to see what would happen. Southport cycled the ball across the pitch in a flat line, then passed it back to the goalie.
"BOOOO!"
Magnus Evergreen was next to me. He was a strange guy and a strange player. He had CA 41, which was a measure of his overall ability as a footballer, with CA (I believed) standing for Current Ability. There was another supremely important number that I could see floating above the heads of every footballer I watched live. This was PA, Potential Ability. Almost every player had a PA higher than their CA. Magnus was an exception - his was minus 2. What did it mean? No clue. I felt I would only know when Magnus reached his CA limit.
"Er, Max," he said now, with a little undercurrent of something in his voice. "Didn't you give Jackie Reaper a stern telling off for playing defensive football last time he was here? And he's been back at the club for a day and this is the most defensive performance by a Chester team... probably ever."
"As Director of Football, I'm furious," I said, but I snapped my head around to look at the home fans. I got the sense, the very distinct and clear sense, that latecomers were arriving into the stadium, asking what the hell was going on, and were being told. All around were pockets of quiet disbelief that soon turned into anger.
"BOOOOOOO!"
Magnus sensed I was preoccupied, but curiosity got the better of him. "How long do you think he can keep this up?"
"I'm astonished he's lasted this long. He's writing his resignation letter, don't you think?"
Magnus looked at the pitch, the fans, and the beleaguered manager. "I'm afraid you're right."
I gave him a friendly pat on the arm. "Forget that guy. He tried being a football manager but he's out of his depth. He's history. Magnus, mate. How's my aura?"
He looked me up and down. "Resplendent."
"Oh," I said, savouring the way the word bounced along my ear canals. "I like that. Yes, I like that a lot."
***
Twenty-five minutes earlier
Southport is in Merseyside, north of Liverpool, and it was my first time there. I didn't know if Merseysiders talked about the Beatles a few percent less the further they lived from Penny Lane, but I did know that when Red Rum won the Grand National in 1973, he was paraded on Southport's Haig Avenue pitch at half time. Red Rum was a horse, by the way.
I also knew I'd played for Darlington against Southport and we'd swatted them aside in the first half before taking it easy in the second. That was 2-0. And in my third match as Chester caretaker manager, we'd smashed them 4-0. So if I understood maths, and I felt like I did, we would beat them 6-0 tonight. Or would it be 8-0?
Anyway, as with any trip to Merseyside, where grinning strangers called me 'la' and offered to sell me 'charcoal chicken an' chips', I was happy to have Jackie Reaper by my side.
The away fans were crowded behind the goal in the uncovered Blowick terrace, about 500 of them, many wearing Chester's blue and white kit, but many more wearing coats and macs, since the endless summer was finally over. For the time being, they didn't care about the impending rain. Rain was coming, but one reign was about to start.
We'd announced Jackie's new role on social media, but I hadn't been tracking the response. So now I pushed Jackie slightly ahead of me, clapped, and the fans told me what they thought of the news.
"Jackie Reaper's blue and white army! Jackie Reaper's blue and white army!"
The man himself clenched his fist, punched the air, waved for more. After a full minute of exultation, I pulled him away, applauded the fans, and we headed back to the dugout.
"Did you grow up on a farm?" I asked.
He did a tiny smirk and pretended to sigh. "No, Max. Why?"
"Because you milked that like a pro."
He shook his head but didn't reply. We both knew I was right. He was shameless.
We were soon back at the away dugout where we would part ways for the rest of the evening. Livia was there, looking quite emotional, and finally some inhibition melted away and she dashed to Jackie and kissed him.
"Whoa!" I said. "This is an undeclared relationship. No public displays of affection until you've spoken to HR."
"We did that," said Jackie. "Last time."
"But you quit, mate. You're a new hire. You've got to start again."
"Yes, bosh," he said, which is Scouse for 'boss'. I often wondered if our new sponsors hadn't intended to call themselves BossCard and asked a Scouse IT guy to buy the domain name. Now they were stuck with the name BoshCard. It was very, very plausible. "Are you ready to play?" he said, worried I hadn't warmed up with the rest of the first team players.
"I'm feeling a bit tense, actually. I might ask your girlfriend to give me a good rub. Is that all right?"
"Sure," he said, not rising to the bait.
I flicked my head towards the dressing room. Livia frowned. "You're serious?"
"I actually am."
"Lead the way, then."
"Bye, Jackie!" I said, overly loud, winking and giving him a Maxy two-thumbs.
His tongue poked out of the side of his mouth. Welcome back, mate! Vimsy slapped him on the back, and Jackie stayed, soaking up the atmosphere. It was obvious he'd missed it. Vimsy followed Livia and I down the tunnel.
My good mood stayed out on the pitch. The closer I got to the dressing room, specifically the home dressing room, the more I felt my jaw clenching and my eyes narrowing. I burst through the door to the away room and was assaulted by the familiar sights and smells of a large group of men in a small room.
"All right, shut the fuck up," I demanded.
The players were absolutely buzzing. I saw it in their smiles and ready laughs, and in the squad overview screen given to me by the curse. Morale was very, very high. The return of Jackie had lifted the entire club. The lads settled down, quiet and alert.
"Southport are going to play 4-4-2," I said. So far, so normal. Everyone in the National League North played 4-4-2, unless forced into a change by playing against superior tacticians like Jackie Reaper. Or me. "Low block."
There was a huge groan.
Three days before, top of the table Kidderminster had turned up at our stadium with a plan. They would get ahead, then when I brought myself on, retreat into their shell. Turtle up. I'd done my best to get us back into the match, but no dice. I had taken the defeat with sublime grace and dignity and just the merest hint of frustration. It seemed to me at the time that the tactic would be repeated, again and again, for the rest of the season. And now, here was proof.
I had not expected it in away matches.
I took the marker pen and got ready to draw on our tactics board. It would have been better on a flipchart, but the less equipment we took with us, the better. Dressing rooms were often tiny. The tactics board would do, even if I was drawing over the top of a football pitch.
"Mikel Arteta inspires his Arsenal players," I said, making eye contact with my troops, "through the use of imagery. He uses drawings to tell a story simple enough for his players to understand." I drew a car. "You are a car. You've got four wheels. That's, er... the midfield? No, sometimes we use five in midfield. Cars have an exhaust. That's Youngster. He's exhausting. Rear view mirror. Something about Henri always looking at himself. Who was that Greek chap?"
"Max," said Henri Lyons, my French striker. He had Current Ability 58, which was very good in this division, but his improvement had stalled. I had a plan to deal with that. If it worked, it would open up all kinds of crazy possibilities. "How long did you think about this, ah, imagery?"
"Not long," I confessed. "I thought we'd turn up, slap, and go home with three points. I literally cannot believe they are doing a low block at home to a team that was nearly relegated last year. Jesus Christ." I shook my head. "There will be something like two and a half thousand people here today. That's more than we got against Kidderminster. Some matches Southport get like four, five hundred spectators. Imagine your biggest attendance of the season and you wake up and think, 'I know! I'll make the match as boring as possible!'" I shook my head some more, then vented one, large, "Argh!" I drew a second car, then tapped the 'Chester' one. "I've been tuning this car. Making the engine good. The engine is... the midfield. Shit. Look, lads, don't tell Jackie how bad this team talk was. Ah, wait, I remember my point. We've been getting faster, smoother, fewer oil leaks. And our opponents," I tapped the second car, "instead of doing the same, have given up racing and become bricklayers." I rubbed out the drawings and slid eleven yellow magnets onto the tactics board, all squashed up against the goal at the top. I jiggled both middle fingers towards the home dressing room, and took a few seconds to compose myself. "What do we do?"
"Crosses," said Henri. "These players are not as physically dominant as Kidderminster. We will score from crosses."
"Slaps," said Sam Topps, my marauding midfield terrier. He hadn't liked me at first, but the more I pushed him, challenged him, the more he tried to impress me. When it came to football, he had absolutely no problem doing things my way. "They're not as disciplined as Kidderminster. Not as well coached. If we get to the sides and cut into the penalty area, we'll get great chances."
"A mix," said Pascal Bochum, my short German forward. "We had thirty-one shots against Kidderminster. They were incredibly lucky. We don't need to change anything. If we have that many shots in ten matches, we'll win nine. I say we change nothing."
"Thanks," I said. "I agree with two of you." That made Pascal frown because it was logically impossible. I smiled. "Here's what we're going to do."
I got the blue magnets and laid them out in our 4-1-4-1 formation. It was probably my favourite way to set up the team, but I hated our left back and he was by far the worst player in the core squad. I had been using 3-5-2 recently, which allowed me to cut out the left back and utterly dominate midfield.
Today I made one slight tweak to our usual version of 4-1-4-1. I pulled all the magnets earthwards until, like Southport, they crowded around our goalkeeper.
[https://ted-steel.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/10/b5c1.png]
"Low block?" said Vimsy. He was my defensive coach. Not very talented and quite combustible, but he had been at the club much longer than me and I didn't have the heart to replace him just yet. I wanted to make personnel changes over years, not months. "Max Best doing a low block? Do I... What?"
"That makes no sense," said Sam. "They're doing a low block. We can't do a low block as well."
"Why not?" I said.
"Because... what will anybody be blocking?"
My assistant manager, an ex-army guy who'd been hired as my bodyguard, laughed. His name - he claimed - was John Smith, but we called him the Brig. He wasn't a football expert, but he understood comedy. When he laughed, Sam grinned, realising how asinine the situation was.
"Low block," I said, in the form of an order.
Henri, my friend and former client, sighed. "I'm sorry, Max. I do not understand this one. We're the better team. What happened to 'attack until you drop?'"
"Slight detour, mon ami. We're a car, yes? Driving to... where do we want to go?"
"Fountains Abbey," said Youngster, an incredibly talented defensive midfielder who was a devout Christian.
"Is there a Nando's there? Never mind. We're driving to see some fountains, but on the way we stop off for twenty minutes. Right? And in that twenty minutes, we get the Southport manager sacked and make everyone think twice about low blocking us."
Vimsy never could follow my logic when it got more than slightly twisted. "I still don't get it."
I nodded. Clarity was usually best. "We have something like 17 more away matches in the league this season. I, for one, don't want to be playing against ultra-defensive teams in every one of those. It's all right if they do it at our place. That's on us to bring the heat, isn't it? But if you're at home, in front of your own fans, you've got to put on a show. Unless you're playing peak Barcelona, you've got to try to win. Do we all agree?"
Most people did. Vimsy mostly did. "Are we going to do a low block against Salford City?"
Salford were owned by a bunch of former Manchester United legends. The owners had pumped money into the club, and it now competed two divisions higher than us. We had drawn Salford in the FA Cup first round.
"Well, they're much better than us, so it's fair to be defensive. They'll push us back anyway, whatever we try to do. But we're at home, so we'll have a plan to score goals. I've, er... I've started watching their matches and..." I grinned. "I've got something in the oven. It's on low heat but... starting to smell nice. All I'm saying is that in football terms, we're allowed to do a low block against Salford but Southport aren't allowed to do it against us. Anyone who doesn't understand that, talk to Youngster on the way home." That sentence was deliberately vague. It could have meant they should ask him to explain it. Or it could have meant, talk to him as a punishment.
"Me?" he said, with his goofy smile making an appearance.
I was already past that joke. "When we do this low block, now, there will be this horrendous chasm in midfield and it will make it clear to everyone in this stadium what their manager tried to do. You got that? We are going to show this guy up. Do not pass the half way line. Ideally, you'd stick by the penalty area. If you get the ball, belt it away as far as you can. Repeat until I tell you otherwise."
Now that I'd made him the official explainer, Youngster wanted to understand better himself. "What if someone puts it out for a throw in, like you did against Kidderminster?"
"Walk towards the ball as slowly as you can. Throw the ball six inches. Jog back into position. All clear?" It was. "One more thing. While we're doing this, I don't want entertainment. No kick ups. No overhead kicks. No triangles, overlaps, nutmegs. Get the ball and kick it hard. Anything else, I'll be pissed. Now get out there and stink the place up. You hear me?"
They walked out, not happy, not sad. They would obey. After all, I was their manager, and if I sometimes had weird ideas, that was because I was a handsome maverick tactical genius. I slapped my hands together, satisfied.
"Wait," said Livia, with a little frown. "You're angry... but you're not... but you are. I can't tell what's real."
"What's real is that I'm feeling frisky." Her eyebrows shot up. I laughed. "Not like that. Jackie's back, the women are going to the moon, and I feel unstoppable. Did you ever walk into a football stadium and feel like you owned it?"
"No. But you actually own a club."
"See," I said, thoughtfully. "I don't get that feeling, there. With that club, I'm more like a consultant or something. Just helping out, and doing a couple of side projects. We're all going down on Thursday, if you want to come."
She smiled. "I might."
"My calves are tight. Can you slap them like a karate kid?"
She tapped a treatment table. "Hop up."
***
I'd sent out a weakened team. After Ben Cavanagh's horror show against Kidderminster, I had no choice but to put Robbo (CA 38) in goal for a few games until Ben (CA 41) got his morale back up.
Then we had Trick, CA 31, the abysmal left back who at least gave balance to the side, and the overrated Gerald May (38) was back in at centre back. Youngster (40) got some minutes, as did Donny 'D-Day' Dorigo, a flair player who was past his best but just about still had something to offer with his CA 34.
I'd rotated Sam Topps (56) out of the starting line up, leaving Ryan Jack (61) and Raffi Brown (46) to roam the centre of the pitch. Ideally, I wouldn't need to use Sam today. It was going to be a long season and he would play most of our matches.
Up front was Tony Hetherington, my second best striker. He'd hit his CA limit of 44, but that was more than enough to score goals at this level.
That all gave us an average CA of 45.5, which showed how far we'd progressed as a team. The 'strong' eleven I had picked against Southport at the end of the previous season had CA 41.
One invigorating massage later, Livia, the Brig, and I went down the tunnel and turned to our dugout. Livia looked up at the VIP section, where Jackie was sat with MD (short for Mike Dean, our managing director). MD was in heaven - the Three Amigos had reformed! In a slightly different alignment, this time. Before, I had been very much the d'Artagnan of the group. Now, Jackie was the junior partner in the Three Maxeteers. And that's exactly how he wanted it. Less stress, fewer matches per season, and a group of very, very talented footballers to work with. He could build his management career - and his confidence - out of the spotlight. And, not that it affected his decision, I'm sure, he could get paid a full-time salary for three short evening training sessions and one match every other Sunday. Nice gig. I was beyond ecstatic to give it to him.
MD's ecstasy was slightly tempered by the startling news that I had bought a football team. His first question was, how could I afford one on my five-hundred pounds a week salary? And why had I done it? Did it mean I'd be leaving Chester, just as I'd started to get the car purring, reliable, and turning heads?
"BOOOO!"
Southport's manager was starting to crack. His name was Reece Killen and he looked like a bodybuilder. There was no question of his players refusing his orders - he would put traitors in a big blender with some yoghurt, kale, and protein powder and drink them for breakfast. His stubbornness was actually incredible - surely it was hard to stick the course amidst such fury.
He looked over at me, shooting daggers, blaming me for this debacle.
I very much wanted to go within earshot of him and give ten pounds to a nearby Southport fan. I'd say something like, 'your manager won't give you a refund, but you won't see any football tonight'. Something like that. And that would cause an explosion and a chain reaction and I'd end up running around, laughing. But the Brig had asked me not to be provocative for a while. The more I kept myself out of trouble, the more he could devote his attention and energy to getting the person who had attacked me sent to prison.
And adding to the combustion was not the right move. Much better to do what I was doing - nothing - and let this play out as a contest between the manager, who thought defending for ninety minutes was his best chance of getting a point - and the fans, who wanted to be entertained.
Magnus smiled as he did a tiny head shake. "You're enjoying this."
"Aren't you?"
"No. It's excruciating." He laughed. "What are the chances you will crack before him?"
It was my turn to laugh. "What do you think?" I nodded towards the bench. "Have we got anything to read?"
"I've got some books in my bag," he said, turning to stare at it, like he had X-ray vision. "Er... Gaslighting Recovery for Women. Owning Our Struggles. Your Brain on Art, which, you know, is about neuroaesthetics. Obviously. Oh, and I got The Science of Stuck, just because everyone's talking about it."
"They are?"
"My friends are."
The title finally registered. The Science of Stuck. Henri was stuck at his Current Ability. So was Ryan Jack. And if there was one thing I was afraid of this season, it was that I would get stuck, too. I guessed so far in my recovery I'd eased back to CA 30, and my improvement was still rapid, but perceptibly slowing. If I was subject to the same limitations as my players, I'd get to CA 60 and stay there. "That one, please. Actually, you know what? You might be the perfect person to help me with something. Bit of an esoteric project. Sound fun?"
"More fun than watching two teams refuse to leave their halves."
"Ah, but you're wrong. Southport left their half. We didn't."
Magnus blinked. "You're actually proud of that."
"Course I am. It means they trust me. Oh! Look."
It looks like Southport will take a more adventurous approach.
"What?" said Magnus.
"Better sit down, if that isn't too bossy of me. Things are about to get unstuck."
***
I had one choice. To react immediately, and send my guys flying up the pitch, or to wait a fraction.
Waiting would allow Southport to come all the way to our penalty area and blitz us with shots and crosses. Risky. But I couldn't really imagine when I'd next use a low block in a real match. Possibly there would be times in the Salford City match. But after that? I sensed that this would be good experience for me and good practice for my players. We hadn't been doing a lot of serious defending recently. Southport, with their CA 38, weren't a major threat to us. The worst that could happen was that they'd fluke a goal and would then have legitimate reason to defend for their lives for the rest of the match.
Southport surrounded us, and the home crowd, riled up, loved it. They cheered as the first shot of the match was struck. They oohed as a through ball was cut out. They applauded wildly as a series of crosses were headed away by my defenders.
What I couldn't quite tell was the mood of the Chester fans. I'd got them all worked up before the match by showing off the new women's manager, then I'd parked the bus and we literally hadn't left our half.
I smirked. Maybe I'd listen to the stupid fan podcast after this one.
Glenn Ryder, my dominant captain, headed away another cross.
Enough.
I took the shackles off, using the hotkeys to make Aff our playmaker, pass left, and focus on counter attacks.
Southport attacked, we took the ball from them, and four slick passes later Aff was driving forward on the left. Seeing Tony as his only option in the box, he drove, drove, and smacked a low shot diagonally towards the bottom right corner.
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
The keeper got his hands to it, but only spilled it into Tony's path. Open net, one-nil Chester!
Reece Killen looked small, his arms hanging futile. After the match, I would savage him in the media, but why not get some extra digs in now? I turned and made eye contact with the Brig. "I'm feeling frisky."
"Please, sir," he said. He could handle the bodybuilder guy, but he wanted a quiet evening.
"Fine," I said, with a hint of petulance. If I wasn't allowed to dick around on the sidelines, my players would have to do it for me. I switched from a counter-attacking mentality to simply attacking. Normally, I'd have removed the playmaker and allowed everyone to make free choices, but some instinct made me set Ryan Jack as our on-pitch creator. Maybe it was because he was from the area. Maybe it was the sea air. Or maybe it was the way he was the best player on the pitch.
Whatever it was, I was right. He tore them apart.
Jack takes the ball under pressure and lays it off to Brown.
Brown passes wide and makes a forward run.
The ball comes back to Jack.
He sprays it left, first time, into the path of Aff.
Aff crosses low...
It's behind Hetherington...
But perfect for Raffi Brown!
He leans back and sidefoots it...
GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!
Brown timed his run to perfection.
Raffi, by the way, had added goals to his game in a big way. Late runs into the box, headers from set pieces, and composed finishes after fast counters. For example...
Robbo claims the cross easily. He rolls it left to Williams.
Down the line to Aff.
Aff is under pressure. He touches the ball back to Williams.
Square to Jack.
And a first-time pass over the halfway line finds Raffi Brown bursting forward!
The pass has bypassed the defence completely!
Now it's Brown rushing towards goal with only the keeper to beat...
GOOOAAAALLLL!!!!
It was never in doubt!
Three-nil and Chester are rampant.
Some home fans are already leaving. The away fans are wishing them the best of luck as they depart.
***
At half time, my players were laughing, joking, having a blast. I usually left a space for them to talk about their individual battles, discuss key opponents and so on. This evening, there was none of that. There was no point. Southport were gone. Spent. We could do whatever we wanted.
I knew what the players would do - ease up. The game was won. No point wasting calories when we had another away trip on Saturday.
Wrong.
"Listen up," I said. "If you think I'm happy with three-nil, you're way off. We need to send a message. A message. Do you get me? Managers who think about low blocking us on their patch need to think what's worse - trying to compete against us and losing, or trying to low block and getting humiliated during and after the match. Trick, Gerald, Youngster, good game, you're coming off. Me, Sam, and Henri are going on. Anyone who eases up in the second half will not be considered for the Salford match."
Putting Sam and Henri on for the second half had the desired effect. I had them on the bench for emergencies but my intention had been to give them the night off and the squad knew that. Bringing my big guns on with the game as good as won was quite a message. The players also knew from my changes that we'd be doing 2-6-2 for the second half, and that was as attacking as we could currently get. My threat would surely work - they were all desperate to play in the FA Cup match - doubly so if it was televised.
Glenn said, "How many goals is enough, boss?"
I thought about it. For some reason, I took the question very seriously. "Eleven," I said, nodding. "We can stop at eleven."
***
We didn't score eleven. We got to five soon enough and then the spark was gone. Five seemed to be the limit for the day, no matter how much I glared and pushed and cajoled.
I couldn't fault the players' effort or attitude but there was no on-pitch reason, no sporting reason, to keep playing at peak intensity. Sure, at the end of the season, goal difference could come into play, but that possibility was so distant, so abstract, it would never work as a motivational tool. Not until the end was in sight.
Missing the chance to really put a team to the sword - and get rid of this shitty manager - irked me for a couple of minutes, but I pretty quickly saw sense. There was no point raging about it. So I stood in the DM slot, sometimes mopping up half-hearted Southport attacks, but mostly thinking about Salford City and how we would play against them.
I switched places with Raffi - he went into the third centre back slot with me in central midfield. I kept walking ahead, into the central attacking midfielder (CAM) zone between the midfielders and strikers. I didn't intend to play there against Salford - the attacking side of my game was coming back much more slowly than the defensive side - but I wanted to be surrounded by opponents. And the Southport manager did one good thing that match - he set a midfielder to mark me.
Surrounded by players and being man-marked, I made myself playmaker to make sure I got a lot of the ball and experimented with turns, half-turns, and one-touch layoffs. My question was, could I get the ball under pressure and make good use of it? Against Southport, yes. Very much so. The curse gave me a ten out of ten rating, as it had against Kidderminster. But against players of a much higher quality? I wasn't so sure.
***
Max, congratulations. Five-nil away from home. How do you feel?
I feel sorry for the two thousand, six hundred and fifty fans who bought tickets, rearranged shifts, got babysitters, to come here and watch a sporting contest. I feel sorry for any dad who's brought his kid to his first ever football match and seen one team curl up into a ball and play dead before the referee had even checked the nets and corner flags. It does me no good to see fans turned off the sport. I'll take the points but I'd have preferred to lose 4-3 in an all-time classic with both sets of fans applauding their team off the pitch. That's the God's honest truth. Two thousand six hundred and fifty. Is that the biggest attendance of my career? I think it is, you know. And one guy denied them a spectacle. So I'm sympathetic to the fans and pretty angry at the person who did this to them. And to the directors who put that guy in a position of responsibility.
Is that why you didn't shake hands with Reece Killan at the end?
I'm not going to shake his hand knowing I'm going to come out here and slaughter him. Maybe he's a good guy, a good coach, I have no clue. All I know is he turned what could have been a fun night, a night of escapism for both sets of fans, into something pathetic and dispiriting. For what? To sneak a nil-nil? At what cost? Two thousand fans who'll think twice about coming to a Southport game again? Nah, it's shocking. It's cowardly.
But you played your part in that crazy first ten minutes. You didn't attack, either.
We're the away team. We were nearly relegated last year. When a match kicks off and the home team, in front of their highest attendance of the year, sets up against us like we're Brazil 1970 and they are Zaire, it's very confusing. I'm new to all this, Gary. I'm 23. I don't have the experience to understand what's going on. What looks to me like open cowardice could easily be some highly sophisticated way of playing. I don't know, do I? I do know it's not my job to entertain Southport's fans. If I accidentally showed them how their manager had chosen to set up his team, that's coincidence.
Max, I think you might be teasing me a little bit here. I think you knew exactly what you were doing.
We've got something like 16 away matches left this season. Maybe 10 of those managers will think about going ultra-defensive against us. Now they know what will happen. We will copy them. Not a single interesting thing will happen in the match. As Director of Football here, if one of my managers put out a team like that, I'd sack them at half time and take over myself. I'd offer refunds to all the fans who had to witness the shameful capitulation. But it'd probably be too late. Some fans who turned up will simply never come again no matter how many grovelling apologies I wrote. If there are any Southport fans reading this - hello, camera! - or watching, let me advise you to call Southport and ask for your money back. Gary is going to flash the phone number up on the screen now.
I don't know how to do that.
Ah, someone will have the number. Pass it around on social media. That wasn't acceptable. Get your money back.
Some people might say this is sour grapes because Kidderminster beat you with a defensive style.
No, that's not right, for many reasons. First, Kidderminster went toe-to-toe with us for an hour, and in that hour they outplayed us. Then they did a surprise switch in tactics which - no fake irony now - shocked me to my core. It was absolute genius. Perfect plan, perfectly executed. I have incredible respect for what Kidderminster did to us. And, by the way, their fans loved every minute of it. Everyone in the stadium loved that match and will talk about it for years. There's no comparison between that bravery, those warriors, that titanic contest, and tonight.
Who was your man of the match today?
Reece Killan. He was the star of the show. When people think of this match they'll always think of him. This match is how he'll be remembered.
***
XP Balance: 2,799
Debt repaid: 2,480/3000
While I took a shower, I thought about the rest of the season. If the interview did what I hoped, this Killan guy would get sacked and every other manager in the league would be wary about going ultra-defensive against us. Certainly in their home matches. We had another away game on Saturday - very interesting to see how that guy set his team up.
Meanwhile, playing the whole second half had really cut the amount of experience points I got. I got 4 XP per minute as the manager, and only 1 per minute as a player. I would need to give serious consideration to the number of minutes I played. I could play the last fifteen or twenty minutes every now and then, and maybe more if we were losing. Something like that.
Still, I was getting fitter and was moving - crawling - towards the 3,000 XP I needed to buy the Injuries perk. I had discount codes I could use in the shop, but saving ten percent on a ten thousand XP perk made more sense than saving ten percent on a much cheaper one.
I had decided to buy Injuries, then explore the Contracts section. If I could find out how much players from other teams were being paid, and how long their contracts were for, I'd be able to do all kinds of interesting things. After that, I was supposed to buy Wibwob, the ten thousand XP perk that it seemed would give me incredible tactical flexibility.
But I hadn't unlocked any attributes for ages. I really needed to see some progress there. Seeing one more attribute wouldn't make a massive difference to my performance as a manager, I didn't think, but on the other hand, the attributes were pretty fundamental. So... Injuries, Contracts, Attributes, Wibwob.
Quite a lot of XP needed for that lot, and that's if I didn't get sidetracked picking up monthly perks, which I would, because they were designed to be irresistible. I'd lost the XP from managing the women, although I planned to put the free time to good use.
One thing that would help get XP faster would be finally paying off my debt from when I bought God Save the King on credit. The curse was deducting ten percent from my income to pay down the debt, and the end was nearly in sight.
God Save the King allowed me to increase one attribute on one player every season. I didn't have a completely free choice, but one of the options was finishing. Last season, I'd used the perk to increase my client Ziggy's finishing from 16 to 17. Ziggy was doing okay down at FC United in the division below Chester. He'd played 4 times in the league and 3 times in various cups, scoring twice. Not amazing, but solid.
This season, I had planned to use the curse to boost Youngster, but he was improving steadily without extra help, so I'd started to think about using it on Henri Lyons - ironically another increase in finishing from 16 to 17. But then Henri's progress had stalled. Tomorrow he would go out 'on loan', and if his CA started to improve again, I would use the perk on him. If it didn't, if Henri had some kind of... block stopping him from getting better...
A block stopping him from getting past CA 58? When he had PA 90?
That would be a very low block.
"You okay, boss?"
"Huh?" I turned to see Raffi was showering next to me.
"You were laughing."
"Laughing at my own jokes." He tsked and got on with his scrubbing. "Six goals for you this season, isn't it?"
"I don't count. Take every game as it comes, Max."
"Maybe it's five."
"No, it's six." He grinned, showing all his teeth. Rare for him to be so demonstrative.
"People are taking notice," I said. "Scouts and stuff."
"Scouts?" he said, surprised.
"You just keep doing what you're doing," I said. "Good things are coming."
***
MD: Please do not initiate refunds at other clubs. Not at this club, either, but especially not other clubs. The Southport directors are not very happy with us right now.
Me: Okay, Amigo. I pwomise.
***
Wednesday, October 25
At training, there was an overwhelmingly good vibe. Physio Dean was by the side of the pitch, ignoring requests for massages, while he scrolled through social media. He was convinced, as we all were, that the Southport guy would be sacked as we trained.
"Where's Henri?" said Glenn, as we drilled side by side.
"He's on secondment," I said.
"What?"
"He's not training with us today."
"Oh. You gave him the day off?"
"No. He'll be working harder than he has for years."
"You're not going to tell me, is that it?"
I smiled. "There's a good chance I've done something very stupid. If that's the case, Henri and I will never speak of it. If it works, we'll let you know."
He looked into the middle distance. "Expect the unexpected. This place is a bit of a mind fuck, boss. There's always something mad happening. People like me need stability."
I bent to do some stretches. "You're doing great. You're more adaptable than you think."
There was no change in his expression, but I think he was pleased. "So Jackie's back. Got your Wednesday nights proper free again. You can go scouting or do some extra training or take your girl out."
"Absolutely," I said. "But not tonight. Tonight's all about the peaceful transition of power."
"Right," he said, not knowing what I was talking about.
"Tonight's the handover ceremony."
"Oh, I see."
"No," I said. "You don't."
Just then, Physio Dean jumped up and punched the air. To the tune of Guantanamera, he sang, "Sacked in the morning! You're getting sacked in the morning. Sacked in the morn-ing!"
Glenn put his hands on his hips and stared. "You've done it again." He resumed his stretch. "Is that the end of the low blocks, then?"
"Far from it. There will be loads here in Chester. But away? Yeah. Let's see what Curzon do on Saturday. I think that'll tell us what we can expect."
"How do you get these ideas, though?"
I spoke a little more harshly than I wanted. "It's pretty simple. I imagine paying thirty quid to take my kids to see a football match. If they never want to go back, something's gone wrong."
Ryder nodded. We'd hit one of those weird little air pockets caused by my dual role as player and manager. When someone hit those pockets there was turbulence. He clicked his seatbelt back into place. "Yes, boss."
***
Before Jackie Reaper's first training session with the Chester Women's first team, he checked the ladies were decent and went into the changing rooms at the sports complex. It was my instruction that he should say a few words to the women. Introduce himself to the new players like Julie, outline his methodology, talk about his preferred formations, and answer questions.
I'd sent him a text saying I'd be late and he should get on with it.
Jill told me later that it was obvious Jackie had prepared well. He had lots of little notes on cards.
"Hi, ladies," he said, and that was as far as he got with his prepared remarks.
"Can I stop you there?" said Maddy. "Max hired an interpreter for Dani for today. Normally, we do it by text message but Max wanted a smooth introduction so he's got a guy to come. Paid with his own money, he said. I think he's just in the toilet."
On cue, there was a flushing noise and an older guy, perhaps fifty, emerged. He didn't use the sink, but wandered out, admired the young women vaguely, and spotted Jackie. "You must be Reaper!" said the guy, in a posh voice. He looked and dressed like an aristocrat who had fallen on hard times. He shook Jackie's hand, and Jackie reacted with horror as some liquid transferred onto his hand. "Now, then. Which is the deaf one? Oh, really? Splendid, splendid. Well?" he barked. "Let's get on with it! No slacking!"
Jackie stared at the interpreter with some distaste, but composed himself. "Hi, ladies," he said, and glanced over. "Aren't you going to sign that?"
"What?" boomed the guy. He had the delivery of an olden-days board-treader. An act-OR. "No need, man. No need. Skip dessert, straight to the port, what!"
Jackie's jaw clenched and unclenched. He decided to rise above. "Me name's Jackie. Got scouted by Everton when I was a kid. Played striker at school, but they moved me to centre back." He was just warming to the tale, and the women were very interested, but Jackie couldn't help but look at the interpreter. He was making no effort to translate. "Are you gonna do your job?"
"What?" barked the guy.
"Are you going to interpret what I'm saying or what?"
"What on earth are you saying?" said the man, peering through rheumy eyes at the young whippersnapper. "I can't understand a bloody word."
"Is dat right?" said Jackie, a hint of menace in his eyes.
"Bloody foreigners," said the man, his cheeks flushing. "Come here, take our jobs, take our women. Can't even speak the bloody lingo! Brexit means Brexit!"
That was the moment Jackie hesitated. He looked around the room and some instinct made him focus on Dani. He pointed at her, and that was it. The women burst into laughter, and I emerged from the showers where I'd been listening. A few women, under the guise of texting Dani, had been filming the whole thing for me to watch again and again.
"Fucking hell, Max!" said Jackie, his entire head crimson.
I went over and gave him a hug, and noted that his good-natured response to the prank had won him a lot of reputation points in the room.
When the euphoria died down a little, I spoke. "Jackie, this is Tom. He's an actor and, by the way, big fan of yours. He really, really didn't want to do this to you but fifty quid is fifty quid."
"I'm really sorry," said Tom, stretching out a hand. Jackie looked at it. Tom noticed. "Oh! It was hand sanitiser."
Jackie smelled his hand and sagged with relief. He shook Tom's hand. "You were bloody convincing." Dozens of tiny head shakes suggested he was mentally reliving the scene. "What would you have done if I hadn't said anything?"
"Fake sign language," said Tom. "Increasingly obvious until you confronted me."
"Should I do my speech or what?"
"No need," I said. "Everyone knows who you are. They know you're the new bosh. We can get out there."
Dani had come forward, and pulled me on the elbow. I stepped back and she looked at Jackie and signed.
"Sorry, Dani," he started, but Tom interrupted.
"She's asking if you can make her a better player."
"Oh, you really know sign language?"
"Of course."
As he replied, Jackie looked from Dani to Tom. "Look at her, not Tom," I said, which was the polite way but was harder than you'd think.
Jackie nodded and started again. "I'll make you a better player."
"Will we win the league?" asked Dani.
"If we beat Altrincham, yes."
Dani's next question came with lots of violent hand slaps. "Are we going to defend or are we going to attack?"
Jackie smiled. "Both. But most of the time we'll attack."
"I want to attack," said Dani. The sign for 'attack' seemed to be one finger pointing up on one hand enveloped by the fingers of the other.
Jackie tried to do the sign himself. "Attack."
"Attack until we drop," said Dani.
Jackie grinned, and what he said next smashed away all doubts about his mental well-being. He was well and truly his old self. "My style is a little bit more sophisticated than Max's."
Dani grinned, and gave me a traitorous look. She turned back to Jackie. "Show me."
***
I watched as Jackie led the women through their session. Simple drills, nothing complicated, but somehow the ball fizzed a little faster when Jackie was leading things. Somehow, there was more intensity, more concentration, and more output. Attributes and CA went green all over the place, like flash bulbs at a film premiere.
As soon as we'd agreed terms, his staff profile had appeared in the Chester Women menu. It stayed in place even though I was no longer the manager, and I remembered that it had appeared when I was Director of Football, not when I'd started officially managing them. The same numbers hovered above his head now.
Jackie Reaper Adaptability 7 Coaching Goalkeepers 10 Coaching Outfield Players 20 Determination 7 Judging Player Ability 11 Judging Player Potential 14 Level of Discipline 11 Man Management 19 Motivating 15 Tactical Knowledge 15 Working with Youngsters 14 Coaching Style
Technique-based
Preferred Formation 3-5-2 Preferred Style
Prefers an attractive attacking style of play
Other n/a
His superpower, of course, was coaching, but he had enough going on to be a good manager, too. His high man management and motivating would pay off, as would his tactical knowledge. Fifteen. Did that feel high or low? We'd had interesting chats about football and he certainly saw most of what I saw. But not quite everything.
Could Jackie Reaper bring these women all the way to the Women's Super League? I was pretty sure he could. I'd give him great talents, he'd train them up, and he'd make mostly good in-game decisions.
Yeah.
I smiled. Passing the baton felt awesome, and it made me even more energised to find more Danis, more Maddys.
Their time was up and a lot of happy young women were collecting their gear and about to head to the showers. I asked them to come over for a second. They gathered around me in a semi-circle.
"Ladies. That was good, right? I know. I know. So, listen. I want you to know that I'm still here. I won't be at every match because I'll be out scouting. Checking out the opposition, stealing their good players. But I'm still here, the eye in the sky, making sure you're progressing, all that jazz. Jackie's your manager and you can trust him. He's, er... He's the guy who found me. Gave me my break. Believed in me the way I believe in you. All right? He's top. Have no doubts about that. Off you go."
They left, but Dani hang around. Tom was a good opportunity for her to say some things to me without creating a digital record and without her parents checking what was said.
As always, she was blunt. "Who is a better manager? You or Jackie?"
"Me," I said. "And I'm a better scout. But he's a better coach. This is the perfect situation for you."
She considered that, and accepted it. "I want to sign a contract."
"Okay."
"And I want Ruth to be my agent."
"That's smart. You're going to be a big star."
She thought about that and signed with an excess of energy. "How did you know?"
She meant how had I seen it the first time I laid eyes on her, playing poorly in a pan-disability tournament in Crewe. I smiled. "Because I saw you could play like me." At first she nodded, but then the arrogance of the statement kicked in and she erupted into a whirlwind of flailing arms and dextrous fingers. Tom remained silent. "What did she say?"
"Er... I'll tell you after you pay me the hundred quid."
***
Thursday, October 26
The convoy from Chester to West Didsbury and Chorlton AFC was sort of absurd, really.
Raffi led the way, and that made sense. He was going to have one of his private sessions with Cody, the second-best coach I knew. Raffi's wife Shona was in the car with him, and his dad was planning to come along. After training, they'd have some family time.
The next car was the Brig's smooth Volvo, a real Rolls Royce of a car, containing said Brig and myself. I'd asked Pascal if he wanted to come and help me with my session, and he had said yes before I'd finished asking. Then I thought, if we're going to Manchester, Youngster might want to see his family, so he was tagging along, too.
Not far behind - I assumed - was MD. He was coming with two of the board members to check out the club I'd bought. The idea was to put their mind at ease about my commitment to Chester. Enough to get them to shut up about it, anyway.
Then there was a car with Vivek and his family. Vivek was a young PA 66 defender who didn't have much experience of football and that was holding back his development. The problem was that back home in Chester I couldn't put him in the first team because he would one hundred percent cost us goals, and the under eighteens were pretty terrible so he wasn't learning a lot from the matches they played. The obvious solution - obvious to me - was to loan him to a club like West Didsbury and Chorlton. He would get minutes at exactly his level in a supportive environment and if he messed up, the club's handsome, one-nation centrist owner would forgive him.
In yet another car was Livia and Jackie, and I would soon find out they had managed to get Henri in the car, though of course he would only travel in the passenger seat, after he had adjusted it to his liking.
From the other side of the country came Emma, and from just down the road came Ziggy.
A huge turnout for something of little consequence! But people were curious, and the more people said they were going, the more it turned into a whole thing.
***
When I got out of the car, I felt that unfamiliar sense of thrill and pride that came from the word own. I own this place.
The giant floodlights shining down on us? I owned them. (I also owned the bills.)
The Ultras stand, with space for 50 hipsters? I owned it. (I also owned the cost of cleaning up the beer spilled after goals.)
The food huts, the changing rooms, the indoor spaces, and then - wonder of wonders - the pitch. I owned that. (I also owned a lawnmower.)
I tried to be ownerly. Suave and professional, but it was hard to stop smiling.
***
Some of the volunteers from West had come in to serve food and meet Emma and my various acquaintances. The main one was called Jane - she did a lot of fundraising, had the word WEST tattooed on her arm, and had two boys in the youth team. J.C., the men's first team manager was there. He was bubbly and enthusiastic and while his stats were low, he was open to the idea of helping Vivek's career get going.
I introduced Jane to Vivek's mum, J.C. to Vivek, M.D. to his West equivalent, and let them take care of each other. The area was bristling with hospitality freaks and organisers, and soon everyone was helping everyone take care of everyone.
Meanwhile, Raffi had half of the pitch to himself for his session with Cody. I kept half an eye on it while I mingled and talked to the people who cared about my intentions for the club and, most importantly, for the young players in its charge.
I grabbed Ziggy and showed him the man of the moment. "Ziggy, this is Vivek."
"Viv," said Viv.
"Oh!" I said, pleased. Taking a nickname shouldn't have been a big deal, but it felt like one. "Lot of great players called Viv."
"Viv Anderson," he said.
"Who's been telling you about Viv Anderson?"
He pointed. "Raffi."
"Top lad."
"Viv Richards," said Ziggy, with a hummus taco primed and ready to be shoved in his gob.
"That's cricket," I said.
"Still a top player," he said, though it was hard to tell with his mouth so full. He wandered away to eat next to Jackie and Emma, and I got ready for my session.
***
Raffi's drills were pretty conventional.
Mine were pretty fucking weird.
First, Cody tied me with a long elastic rope. He gave Raffi the other end.
I had to touch a mannequin, step back, receive a pass from the 'goalie', run away as Youngster sprinted towards me - the little shit was fast! - while Raffi held onto the elastic for dear life, and while Pascal made a diagonal run.
If I could resist all the stresses and make all the calculations, I had to fire a forward pass into Pascal's path.
Trying to move and sprint and calculate while Raffi yanked my chain - almost literally - was pretty brutal.
After ten minutes I was wrecked, and in a break Henri came over.
"Max, I love your football club," he said, appearing about five feet directly above my head.
"It's not mine, I'm just the custodian etcetera etcetera."
"What is this drill you are doing?"
"This is how we beat Salford City."
"Ah, yes, I see it now. The elastic represents the distorting effect of celebrity on a previously uncelebrated club."
"How was your training today?"
"Challenging. Strange. We need to talk, Max."
"Soon. Help me up."
He pulled me to my feet and Cody explained the next drill.
I would receive the ball with Youngster touch tight to me. I would use one of three moves to get away from him, then fire an accurate long pass to Pascal. All the while, Raffi would be pulling me here and there with the elastic, a job he enjoyed far too much.
While I put my body through hell, my friends snacked, drank, and relaxed. A good time was had by all. Almost all.
The shower was cold. Not enough money for heating, even for the owner. But the company was warm, and even Raffi's dad pretended to like me.
"I'll be able to watch my boy on television," he said. "Wrapped up nice and warm. Perfect!"
"Are we on TV, then? That confirmed?"
"Yes," said MD. He was smiling, but stopped when he saw me react strangely. "Is that no good?"
"It's good. We get money, right? But it's going to make it harder to leave players out of the team. I'd drop myself to make space for someone, but..."
"But what?"
I sighed. "I have an idea of how we might win... but if it goes wrong, it could be especially embarrassing."
***
Friday, October 27
Around one p.m., while I was checking videos of recent Curzon Ashton matches, I checked the Chester Men squad screen. Henri's CA had increased to 59.
I not only punched the air, but kung fu kicked it, too.
***
Saturday, October 28
Match 14 of 46: Curzon Ashton versus Chester
As we approached 2 p.m., exactly an hour before kickoff, I felt a crazy amount of excitement. In a few minutes, I'd find out if my plan to take a sledgehammer to the low block option had worked. I felt like I'd done my part beautifully. I'd humiliated the manager who'd tried it, turned the fans against him, caused a civil war at the club, and Chester had won the match anyway. Oh, and the prick got himself well and truly sacked.
Surely, surely, no-one would do it again?
Well, I was about to find out.
I didn't have a place where I could hide out like I did in the Deva. That was one big disadvantage - one of the only ones, really - of playing away. The options were uninspiring - wait in the dressing room, in the dugout, or on the pitch. Every option was far from private. I never did like opening my Christmas presents in front of others.
My mind raced through the other manager's options. If they played normally there was a risk we would pass through their lines and run up the score. Defend, then, keep our goal threat contained, try to score on a counter or from a set piece. Yes, absolutely. I was sure he'd be defensive. But how defensive? This guy was bang average in every way and had never had a unique or interesting thought. If he played normally, that would almost certainly be the default for the rest of the season. I was fairly sure of that. If he set up in a low block, it'd keep happening. 16 entertaining games of football, or 16 absolute snorefests.
Come on, come on, I said, to the clock.
"Mr. Best," said Youngster. "Are you okay?"
"Yes. Shush."
"I rarely see you nervous."
"I'm waiting to hear if I got planning permission for the large statue I want to erect. Of myself."
"On a Saturday?"
"Mate," I said, but then I burst out laughing. He'd distracted me enough. I stood up and went to the tactics board. "All right, guys. Team talk. You guys ready for this?" I scrunched my eyes up and clenched every muscle in my body. When I released, the feeling was moderately cathartic. "My information is that they'll be doing... a low block."
There was an outpouring of disbelief.
"What do you want us to do, boss?" said Glenn. "Copy them, stir up the home fans?"
I shook my head. Even I didn't have the stomach to do that sixteen times all over the north of England. Someone had said 'you beat Max Best with a low block' and that was Gospel now. We had to live with it for a few weeks, and then I'd very much sort it out in the January transfer window. "Just play normal. Normal rest defence. Normal overloads, overlaps. Mix the crosses, high and low. Be patient." I cleared my throat in a bid to mask my frustration, which of course only proved how frustrated I was. "This is our life now. Glenn, good news for you. Loads of clean sheets this season." A clean sheet is where you don't concede a goal.
"Yeah." He didn't look especially happy. None of us did.
Morale was high, though. We were fit. We would probably spend the next ninety minutes doing a glorified attack versus defence drill. And like Pascal had said, if we had thirty shots every game, we'd win nine times out of ten. The thought cheered me up. "Okay. Let's go plant our flag in their patch, yeah? Extra loud victory music, today. But you know what sound I really like? The home fans booing their players. Serenade me with that, lads, and you'll get a bonus."
"What's the bonus?" said Aff.
"A billion pounds each. I don't know, do I? I just thought of it."
"Boos?" said Ryan Jack.
"Yes, mate," I said, surprised by how dense he was being. He was normally razor sharp.
"No, Max. Booze. Booze for boos."
It took me a second, but then it clicked. "Yes!" I said, giving him a noisy high ten. "You give me boos, I'll give you booze. Boos today and next Saturday after the cup, we'll go out on the piss. My treat." I smiled as Trick and D-Day's morale improved one level. Our morale advantage was unprecedented, now. "Fuck these guys! Go and show them who's boss!"