10.

Life glossary - Busman's holiday. The kind of holiday where you do things you do in your day job. For example, a bus driver from Chester whose idea of a break is driving around the Wirral.

***

Monday, January 1, 2024

I woke up, slightly confused, as per usual, and grabbed my phone. 7 a.m. and my pristine inbox had been defiled by hundreds of emails and texts. Some from people wishing me a happy new year, some from agents offering me players, plus about fifty from ghoulish online retailers trying to ‘build a relationship’ with me.

We had a match at three, so I had to -

No, hang on.

I was on holiday.

After some contented stretches and an extremely decadent yawn, I texted Ruth to ask if I could gatecrash her breakfast. She replied almost instantly with a selfie - she was rubbing heads with a horse called Tempest. A few seconds later she sent a text.

Ruth: You’re only just getting up? The early bird gets the worm.

Me: But the second mouse gets the cheese.

Ruth: There's remnants in the fridge. Help yourself.

Me: Thanks.

But I lay there, wondering. Maybe there was a better option - breakfast in another part of the world entirely.

There was no rush, so I took my time going from room to room in the barn, making sure there was no food lying around to attract rats, no windows slightly ajar, nothing in the fridge that would sprout mould, and so on. I had already packed a couple of bags, and I chucked those, plus my footy gear, onto the passenger seat of my Subaru - for some reason there were two mattresses squashed into the back - and drove off.

Forty minutes later I was in the training complex, pottering around, getting my bearings. The dressing room was crazy cold, so I popped into the shower area to see if someone had left a window open since Christmas. They hadn't, but I overheard a couple of players chatting about me. When they were gone, I checked I had cash in case something I ordered cost money, then wondered how long to wait until I followed the pair into the canteen. Five minutes? Nah - I had a better idea. It'd be fun to let them know that I'd heard them.

First, though, I checked the Transfers screen. There were a lot that had already gone through. Two stood out.

Mon 1st Jan - Chris Beaumont - Banbury - Chester - loan

Mon 1st Jan - Eddie Moore - Sutton United - Chester - loan

Here we go! I love it when a plan comes together! Yes, mate!

Hmm. Thinking about it, there might be some mild interest in another item, though if you ask me it barely warrants a mention.

Mon 1st Jan - Max Best - Chester - Tranmere Rovers - loan

The canteen was warm and smelled of chicken and rice. Two employees in smart aprons and hats were there nice and early - one going round wiping tables and checking there was enough salt, pepper, and ketchup in the appropriate containers while bantering with some early birds. Another was at the food counter serving two players - surely the two who had been talking about me.

The first was James Gladfelter, the cheeky chappie left back who had flirted hard with Emma while I was learning to walk again in Tenerife. She liked the flirting - he was good-looking and funny (her words, not mine) - and while it was annoying, he never overstepped. In the meantime, I'd learned that no-one called him James. Everyone called him Jack the Lad.

The second was Reece Cox, a young midfielder who had been out on loan at Dunfermline but hadn't played much so had been recalled. There was a reason he hadn't played much - he was garbage. For League Two level, I mean. With PA 45, he'd do all right for most National League North teams.

I made a beeline right to them. "Jack the Lad! And you must be Reece. Very, very pleased to see you again Jack, and very pleased to meet you, Reece. And you lads must be delighted that I'm here. You're made up, aren't you?"

"Er... yeah," said Jack. "Is your bird with you?"

"My bird? No, she dumped me after Tenerife. Said she had her heart set on another."

He looked ecstatic until he realised I was taking the piss. But there was a reason everyone liked him - he took the joke with good grace and turned up the charm. "But you're here, at least. Reece, this guy's a tactics nut. The lads were raving about him in Tenerife and Henri was telling us mad stories. You gonna help the gaffer, then? What's the deal?"

"Nothing like that. Just gonna train. Have a break from working so hard, being on call, all that."

"You'll play though?"

I smiled. "I don't pick the teams, mate."

Reece was looking from me to his phone. He had WhatsApp open. Guess I was the hot topic of discussion. "But you're the manager of Chester."

"I don't pick the teams here."

"No, I know. I mean. How can you play for us if you're the manager of... Chester?"

"Reece. Eat your breakfast before it gets cold. And don't worry about it. It's all perfectly simple." They took their trays to a table while I walked along to the end of the counter and looked at the scran that was available. It was all in metal rectangles. "It's just like being back in school," I said.

"Aye, it is, right," smiled back the kitchen worker. "You're the new guy?"

"I'm the new guy," I said, staring at the options. There was bacon, scrambled egg, beans, sausages, and fried brown. Not hash browns. Just brown. The colour brown, fried. "Can I have smashed avocado on toast?"

"You can have mushrooms on toast and I can flatten it with a spatula."

"Tempting. Can I have a little bit of everything that isn't brown, please?"

The guy lifted things onto my plate. He hesitated over the bacon. "Is this brown?"

"Give me two slices and I'll subject it to a barrage of tests. Is the scrambled egg made from egg?"

He knew exactly what I was worried about - I wasn't the first to hear reports that so-called scrambled eggs were made from a gross powder. "It is, yeah, don't worry. It's all fresh here, not like that hotel crap." He hoisted a big blob of it and my mouth started to water. It looked soft and fluffy and moist and when he slapped it onto the plate I felt a full-body shiver of something like ecstasy. "If you don't mind me asking, is this all a publicity stunt or what is it? No-one can get their heads around it."

"Is me eating breakfast a publicity stunt? I think you've got me confused with..." I hesitated, trying to think of someone for whom eating breakfast would be a media circus. "Er... let's have this conversation again tomorrow and hopefully I'll have thought of a way to finish that sentence. Thanks!"

"Oh, here he is! It's really true! Max Best in the house!" Lee Contreras, a full-of-himself midfielder who ran pretty abysmal YouTube and TikTok channels, was clambering over tables and benches, pointing his phone at me. His mad toddler energy nearly killed my holiday vibe. Behind him, about eight other players had come in at the same time and were amused by his antics. Most of the first team squad were around, so this would be a good time to set some boundaries.

I placed my plate down and wrapped my arm around Lee’s shoulder, smiling as he turned the camera to selfie mode. I leaned my head against his as I said, "Hey, Lee?"

"Yeah? Whoa, man! I can't believe this! What a story!"

"Lee, you remember you guys were nice to me in Tenerife and all that?"

"Yeah, that's right! You were there! Tenerife was wicked, yo! If you're new to the channel, check out the videos I made. They're bangin'!"

"So I like you and, as a mate, I'd suggest you press that big red button there, delete the file, and never do this again. And I'll say nothing about it to the people who are going to decide on your next contract. If you want some fun content for your channels, you come and ask me, but not this morning because my mind's completely set on the Notts County game, isn't it? Same as yours."

The threat to his contract cooled his fires. They all knew I hung out with Mateo and had killed at least one incoming transfer. "Notts County, right," he said, as he went through various calculations.

"You'll be up against that Irish lad in midfield. Have you noticed the way he tends to take loose touches as he accelerates?"

"He... what? No."

I smiled. "No problem! There's still, like, ages before the game. You can use your top tech skills to find the clips I watched. Of your opponent."

He realised this footage was not good for his brand and finally hit red. "Er... But where are you going to play?"

"It doesn't matter," I said, sweetly. "Because I know the strengths and weaknesses of every Notts player and I can play anywhere. If I decide to play as the middle of the central three, you'll be the first to know." That was me gently threatening to take his spot in the team while hinting that I had powers beyond a normal player. "Hey, do you think we should call them Notters or Nottsos?"

"What?"

"Never mind. We're going to have a lovely time this month, Lee. It'll be just like Tenerife, but we'll be having our parties on the pitch. Getting points, getting out of trouble, and getting our careers moving in the right direction. You with me?" I'd frazzled the guy's brain. "You can say 'Yes, Max'. It works in most situations."

"Sorry, hang on. Are you our new manager?"

I gave him my best Cheshire Cat grin. "We’ve got a manager. And it will stay like that… if we win." I picked my plate up and came as close as I've ever done to whistling a jaunty tune.

Hmm. Where to sit? I wanted to chat, but I didn't want to chat about me. I sat next to Jack the Lad and got him started on his favourite topic. "So how's your season been so far?"

***

After brek, I drove to my home for the next four weeks. It was a stupendously ugly block of flats in an area called Wallasey. It was unfurnished, had no wifi, and did I mention it was ugly?

But I was on the top floor and the view was top drawer. Unspoiled grasslands leading to a sandy beach, then the endless, choppy blues of the River Mersey and the Irish Sea. I planned to get all maritime with my free time.

I hauled the two mattresses from my car into the lift. They were the ones from my 'office' at the Deva stadium - I hadn't used them recently. They'd do. I looked around my new base. I'd need a little lamp so I could read in bed. And some more books, maybe. The ones I had didn't quite hit the spot. Ever since I'd seen SILK! I'd found that most content didn't quite captivate me.

A little shopping would give me something to do in the next few days. A mission. Instead of scouting for full backs, I'd go scouting for books. Instead of buying big lumps, I'd buy little lamps.

But first, I had to earn my pay.

At eleven, I drove back to the Solar Campus and joined the rest of the lads in milling around. Despite my little warning shot at Lee, I was once more the centre of attention, which you know I hate. I chatted fairly happily but when people asked me about Chester I got confused and said 'what's that?' and if they insisted that I was the Chester manager I looked down at my new training top and tried to read the letters on the badge, upside down. "Says here... F... R... T... G. Fried rice to go?" After five minutes, they'd basically given up trying to understand why I was there and were asking each other about what they did for New Year's Eve.

I mostly hung out with Junior, who I'd rescued from the north east by recommending him to Mateo. Junior had improved up to CA 60, which was obviously great, but he was still short of the level needed to succeed here. My scouting had suggested that 75 was the minimum. When he hit his PA of 80, he'd be a regular goalscorer in League Two and would have a decent career. Until then, he’d struggle to get minutes. I was looking forward to training with him, anyway - he had good movement and was fast. We worked well together.

We boarded the team bus, drove the ten minutes or so to Prenton Park, and after some of the guys stopped to sign autographs for some of the early birds, we made our way into the players' lounge. This was a comfortable space with PlayStations, comfy chairs, table football, ping pong, and a darts board. The guys chilled for twenty minutes, and then it was through a corridor with murals of past players and their achievements, into an events room to listen to James O'Rourke give his pre-match instructions.

It was great to see him and shake his hand again, but holy shit his talk was remedial. He said it would be our 4-3-3 against their 3-4-3 (wrong!) and droned about passion, desire, duels, spaces, making things difficult for the opposition. I nearly laughed when he talked about giving the fans something to cheer about in a withdrawn, apologetic tone.

We were playing Notts County, who were third in the league. They had scored twice as many goals as Tranmere, but had conceded the same amount. One small, gobby part of my brain was begging me to scream 'attack the bastards!' but the rest of me was saying 'chill, fam, we on vacay’.

And anyway, Tranmere weren't exactly a free-scoring team. Notts already had three players who had at least ten league goals to their name. Tranmere's top scorer, a Nigerian powerhouse with the single name Samuel, had five. After twenty games that... that was diabolical.

"So we'll keep it tight," James said, bringing his talk to a close. He was normally a funny guy, charming and lively, but I'd noticed that football pitches diminished him. Here, again, he was a shadow of himself. I reckoned he was always like this in his pre-match talks, but now the pressure had been dialled up a few more notches. Fans were calling for his head and his owner had taken a very, very public step towards replacing him. "Try and make it hard for them. If we're still in it near the end, we can have a wee go, but obviously they're a top, top team so we'll have to be on our toes for ninety-eight minutes and maybe if we make things hard for them we can nick a draw and that'll be a good point against these lot."

Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!

He should have been saying, lads, let's go slap. Lads, they can score a few but so can we their defence is shit let's get ready to rumbllllllle!

I kept my face blank as I checked what the players near me were thinking. Amazingly, they were paying attention. A few were nodding. It was a good group. They liked James and wanted to do well for him. No problems with the attitude. The biggest troublemaker, from what I'd seen, was Jack the Lad, and while he was pretty slappable, even he was more the lovable rogue type than the malicious dressing room virus type.

James hesitated. I think he was battling to control his tone, trying to make what he said next sound like what he'd said before. "And we've got Max with us for January. He'll be on the bench today. It's a shame we're playing on January first so there's no time to integrate him into our system, but that's football. Every other match this month is on Saturday, so plenty of weekday training sessions for him to get up to speed."

"Er... question about that," said Jack the Lad.

"Not now, son. That's it. Warm up."

We got changed in the dressing room - twice as big as Chester's (life goals), but covered in cheesy motivational messages (why? vom) - and went onto the pitch to get the old juices pumping. I didn't need a warm up for that - the stadium itself was enough. It was filling slowly, a few flags waving in the simply ginormous Kop, a bumper crowd expected since everyone had the day off and there was nothing better to do. The music was too loud, drowning the fans if they wanted to sing, but it all helped add to the sense of expectation. Gave the occasion a sense of weight. Was this bigger than the first round FA Cup match against Salford? Maybe. I got a few butterflies in the stomach. Wow! Hadn't expected that.

When my name was called out as one of the subs, there was a big buzz around the place. So it was true. But... but how does that work, exactly? How can a manager loan himself out? Is this a prank or what?

We started by jogging around and doing some stretches. Coach Colin led this phase. He kept yelling about mobility and 'activation'. We did ten full minutes of hip stretches. "Hips don't lie!" he yelled. Then we worked with resistance bands - for example, with them tied around our ankles, pushing the legs out to the side or cowboy strutting with them. Lateral movements, hips, glutes, A-skips, aaand relax. Some players took this chance to blast themselves with massage guns, but I didn't have one so I took another look around the stadium - wow! - and wanted to go round talking to all the inexplicably busy workers to see what they were doing.

I remembered I was on holiday - that shit could wait - and went back to the lounge to see what games they had on the PlayStation.

I'd just picked one when a bunch of lads burst in. They saw me and hesitated. I was that manager-in-waiting guy. How should they act around me?

I smiled to show I was pleased to see them. "Hey, who knows how to play Mortal Kombat? Lee?"

"Not really, Max."

"Perfect. Me neither. Come over here and let's punch each other in the face for ten minutes."

"Yes, Max," he said, all friends again.

***

Either he lied about not knowing how to play or I was as bad at beat-em-ups as I was at chess. Everyone in the chill room stopped what they were doing at the exact same moment - responding to the same inaudible cue. Time to get back to the dressing room for the final pep talks, where a seemingly calm James O'Rourke gave us the usual speech about winning duels, keeping it tight, and sticking together. I wondered what Sandra would have been telling the lads at that exact moment? Probably something like, anyone kicking a high, aimless ball towards Chris Beaumont is going to wake up unemFUCKINGployed!

"Something funny, Max?"

"What?"

James was eyeing me. Having another manager as a player must have been a bit of a mind fuck. I hoped he wouldn't try to establish dominance over me or some crap. We hadn't been able to get together and talk about this new phase of his life - I'd offered but he had said he was busy. "You were smiling."

I blinked and realised everyone was looking at me. I got to my feet and beamed. "Just happy to be here, boss! Excited to play alongside such legendary players as..." I stuck my finger out and swept it slowly around the benches. I completed my sweep and put my finger away. "Well, I'm happy to be here."

"Cheeky bastard," laughed Colin, and I got middle fingers from some of the guys.

The bell rang and there was lots of incoherent shouting. Our captain, a centre back - of course - clapped his hands and led the lads out.

All very familiar, all very soothing.

"Max," said James. "Quick word?" We glared at a physio until she left, and then it was just James and I. "I've put you on the bench for obvious reasons, but realistically I can't actually use you today."

Ah. So he was going to be difficult. "Huh," I said. He'd been told by on-high to select me, so I had to be on the subs bench, but after the game he would go to Mateo with some bullshit about why he didn't feel it was the right match for me. He thought this was the best route to self-preservation. He thought I was after his job.

"You've come from a low level, you haven't trained with us, Notts are one of the best teams in the league, it just doesn't make sense. Let's see how you get on in training and we'll see about giving you minutes against Barrow."

"Yeah," I said, amiably. "That's one option. Another option is you give me twenty minutes today so that I can do a full half next week and start the three games after that."

"Max," he whined.

"James. Do you remember Tenerife?"

"Yes."

I smiled. "So do I." One of the moronic messages on the wall was 'The body achieves what the mind believes'. If I took over here, my first task would be to paint over all that guff. "James, you're not thinking straight. You think I'm here for nefarious purposes. I'm not! I've come for the exact reasons I told you. A break from the grind, get my levels up, and get paid silly money for five matches. Then I'm fucking off back whence I came. But even if you think I'm here to steal your job, what better way to stop that happening than to throw me on for twenty minutes against a strong team? We both know I'll play shit, we both know we'll lose today. It's not going to be a very effective whatsit, is it? Audition. But twenty minutes today will do me the world of good. I can feel it." I bounced on my heels. Very springy! Body was feeling limber. "Right, let's get out there and get at 'em. What was it, 4-4-2 and hit the channels?"

"It's 4-3-3. As you know." He wanted to say something else, but I had the ear of the owner and if there's one thing he knew better than me, it was not pissing off rich men and decision-makers.

As luck would have it, the big man himself appeared. Mateo put his head round the door and came in. "Knock knock! My two favourite football managers! Good to see you getting on well."

James opened his mouth but I got there first. It was slightly cruel, in a way, but I had to save him from himself. "We were just talking about Notts," I said. "They play 3-4-2-1 so James was thinking there would be space in the full back areas I might be able to exploit. He promised to put me on for the last twenty and see what havoc I could wreak. Oh, and he was saying that Notts have a habit of getting ahead in matches, thinking they've done enough to win, and switching off." Boom! Look who'd done his research. "He's expecting a tough game but if things land right, we might have an exciting finish. Oh, and he promised to let me take the penalties because he's studied my technique and proclaimed it to be flawless."

Poor James had listened to all this with his mouth agape. He closed it now, frowned, and was again this close to sabotaging his future.

This time, Mateo was the one who saved him. "Splendid!" He slapped James on the back. "Rachel said you'd be moody about Max coming, but I said, no chance. He'll see Max as a resource. Someone to bounce ideas off. Yes, it's great you're getting on. Makes me optimistic about the future!" He rubbed his hands together. "Bloody cold in here. I'm going to my box. Talk to you later!"

He left. James looked pretty furious. As far as he was concerned, I'd just confirmed that I wanted his job. But what could he do?

He could get out of my way while I saved his skin.

That's what he could do.

***

Prenton Park is huge - way bigger than the Deva. This place could hold sixteen and a half thousand people! The Kop and the main stand were so big, so chunky, so perfectly what a football stadium should look like, that when the match kicked off I got dead excited about taking to the pitch.

Of course, there was zero chance of that happening in the first half, so I stretched my legs out and switched off my brain.

Junior was next to me. I asked for his impressions of the players and he gave me a running commentary - a walking commentary in the case of Samuel, the striker, who lumbered around doing almost nothing. He had good scores for pace and acceleration, even for dribbling, but he just didn't want to break into a sprint. Junior liked him and refused to confirm what I was seeing. Four out of ten - a stark contrast to his opposite number Bailiff, who was fast, furious, and clinical.

After twenty minutes, in which time Notts battered us and quietened the crowd by scoring the opening goal, Junior finally cracked. He leaned over and whispered, "What the fuck are you doing here, man?"

I grinned as though I would launch into a hilarious cock and bull story, but decided to tell him the entire truth. "Being murdered set me back to level one as a player and I’ve been grinding to get back to where I was. I believe I'm blocked in my recovery by an almost arbitrary game mechanic taken from an ancient version of what is now called Soccer Supremo. That mechanic caps how much I can improve based on the division I play in, but I've found a loophole. By coming to a League Two team I'll benefit from their coaching and infrastructure ratings, and any game time I get will be a huge bonus. I reckon I can move from CA 60 to somewhere in the region of 100. Not only will that give me the boost I need to make a difference in matches when I go back to Chester, the time away also affords me something of a much-needed break from the strains and stresses of running a football club. Last but not least, I'm very slightly exploiting my relationship with Tranmere's owner, who I suspect wishes to sack James this month and offer me the job while I'm in situ. Although it was my idea to come here, he's so keen on me taking over that he's paying me five thousand pounds a week, which is big money for me and will get the Brig off my case. What Mateo doesn't realise is that if my CA increases as fast as I suspect it will, and if I ignore James's shitty tactics and do what's best for the team, we will win at least three of the five matches. Nine points will really shoot Tranmere up the table, and I'll achieve my secondary goal of repaying James for his kindness."

"Max?"

"What?"

"You're just, like, smiling."

"Didn't I say all that out loud?"

He tsked. "No."

"Oh. Weird. Okay, short version, I need a break from managing and here I can work on my fitness, push myself to become a better player, and get some sea air."

"But what about your team?"

It was my turn to tut. "I've sorted it. It's all done. They can do without me against fucking Warrington. Fucking Rushall Olympic. Jesus. It's four weeks."

"I'm sure you already know but it's kicking off. Chester fans are going ballistic."

"Oh, no," I whimpered, putting the back of my hand to my forehead. "My team is top of the league playing the best football for miles - Tranmere included, by the way," I added in my normal voice, pointing to the feeble display from the team in white. I returned to a sarcastic whine. "We're on track to win the league by fifteen or twenty points and I'm still not happy. Waaah."

Junior shook his head. "You're absolutely mental, you know that? There isn't a single person who would do this, this, this madness, and act like everyone else was crazy."

"You know what the real shame about all this is?"

Junior narrowed his eyes, suspiciously. He suspected I wasn't going to address the conversation with sincerity. "No. What?"

"It's not a good progression fantasy."

"Why do I bother?"

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

"See, we've got five games in January. This one, Notts County. They're third. They're really good, though not quite as good as James thinks. Saturday is away to Barrow and they're sixth. Next is MK Dons, eleventh, then Swindon, sixteenth. Last game is Doncaster, eighteenth. So the games get easier."

"Ah. I can see how that would ruin it for you."

***

It was something of a miracle that we were only losing one-nil at half time, but then again, the team's morale was only a bit lower than County's and the players were willing to suffer and sacrifice for the collective. All except Samuel, who was less use than a statue. His attributes were good and he had very high PA - 128. But he looked unmotivated.

When I finally sauntered into the dressing room - I'd paused every three yards to take in more of the sights and sounds - James was in discussions with Coach Colin. I eased past them to the tactics board and slid two of County's three ‘strikers’ back to the positions they were actually playing - CAM.

[https://ted-steel.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/11/b6c10.png]

The two CAMs were set to 'make forward runs' and perhaps that was making James think they were playing as strikers. They weren't, though. They were starting from deeper and neither the midfielders nor the defenders were taking responsibility for picking them up. Me moving the magnets was a big signal to James. A reminder that I'd told him this before the game had started. He absolutely had to change something or Notts County would score at will and literally the only thing that would save him was that Notts had that habit of taking the lead and mentally switching off.

James and Colin looked at the board. Colin nodded - he knew I was right, but James didn't want to talk about it. As far as he was concerned Notts had three strikers, or he didn’t think the exact positioning mattered.

That's what was great about the whole holiday thing. It wasn't my circus and I wasn't the ringmaster. If the circus wasn't selling enough tickets, if the jugglers were sloppy, if the lions were timid, what did I care? I had a beard of bees, and unlike the gymnasts and tightrope walkers, I'd always land on my feet.

***

As I lazily followed everyone down the stairs that led to the tunnel, I paused to read the Latin text written in huge letters: Ubi Fides ibi Lux et Robur. It was the same text that crossed the club badge.

My Latin is pretty exceptional, as you know, but that one had me stumped even though I'd looked it up in the past.

"Junior, what's this motto mean? Everybody believes in lights and robots?"

"Where there is faith there is light and strength."

"That's too complicated. Too long. It should be short and snappy. Chat shit get banged. Who dares wins. Eat my goal." I went through the words again. "Why does a football team need light?"

"I kiss the badge, Max. I don't read it."

***

After sixty minutes, Notts finally got the second goal they deserved. Their players, who I will call Notters, visibly relaxed, while the grumblings from the home fans doubled in intensity.

After sixty-five, Notts began making substitutions that weakened the team. This took their average CA down from around 85 towards 80. Ours was a smidge over 70, which was higher than Sutton United's, but might have been the second-lowest in the division. Mateo said he planned to bring a hotshot player in during the January window. I shook my head - it had just clicked that he meant me. Well, he'd need more. This team needed an injection of quality.

And a bit of something else, too. What was it this team lacked? Pace? They had a couple of quick lads. Leadership? Experience? I couldn't put my finger on it. Jack the Lad was playing all right. Lee was battling. Only Samuel was truly absent.

Seventy minutes. No sign of a substitution. More signs of the fans turning against their manager. "You're shit, O'Rourke!" cried someone who must have been sitting near Mateo. But generally, the home fans were trying to be positive. Trying to find something to cheer.

There were massive gaps all around the stadium, blocks of empty seats, but there were pockets of singers. "TRFC! Ooh!" was one chant. Four out of ten. "Superwhite army!" was another. An old chant that was perhaps somewhat unfortunate in the modern world. It came from the 60s, when a manager had decided that since Liverpool played in red and Everton in blue, there was a gap in the Merseyside market for a team that played in white. The Superwhites were born. Yeah, anyway. Not a song I'd be singing.

At seventy-two minutes, James turned and mumbled that I might want to warm up.

"No need, boss," I said, whipping my tracksuit off. "I'm ready to go."

I went right to the touchline, pulling my feet up behind me, jogging on the spot, all the stuff substitutes did.

The kit was all white with blue details. The sponsor was a company Mateo owned. My number - 77 - was on the front of my shorts as well as on my back, below the word BEST.

The fourth official - the guy who helps the referee by keeping control of the managers - complained that he hadn't been told what the change was going to be. "I'm going on for number 10, Samuel," I said.

"No!" said James, almost in a panic. He chose a different striker - the guy playing furthest to the right, the only one who'd been playing okay. Fine. As long as I got my twenty minutes I didn't give a shit. This match was basically over, anyway. It was pretty much a consequence-free environment.

So then there was a free kick and the ref held up the game so that I could make my League Two debut. I high-tenned the unlucky striker and strolled onto the pitch, waving at the fans in all corners of the stadium. The home fans were applauding me - politely - and the away lot were jeering.

Notts had a free kick deep in their half, and my sixth sense kicked in. I jogged towards the DM slot, and just as I arrived, so did the ball. One of County's tricky CAMs dropped to get it, turned, and accelerated to the left, from which position he'd chip the ball into the penalty area. I knew because I'd seen him do it since kick off and no-one had thought to stop him.

He was pretty surprised, then, to find that the ball had long gone. I'd picked his pocket so cleanly he didn't notice until it was too late. I popped the ball forward to Lee and darted left. Lee exchanged passes with a fellow CM, brought the third CM into the move, and by then I'd made up the ground to the left mid slot. Lee fizzed the ball out to me but my first touch was unusually poor - all I could do was a protective move I'd seen Jackie teaching the women. I put my body between the ball and the nearest Notter, sorted my feet out, and was about to play a short pass back to Jack the Lad when I realised he was nowhere to be found.

A Notter slid in and knocked the ball out for a throw in.

Yeah, this league was fast! But it wasn't like when I'd played against professionals for the first time. That day I'd had a minor meltdown, believing I was dogshit and would never be a player. Now, I was pretty sure I had once been CA 150 plus and was certain I could get back to that level.

Losing the ball here hadn't been my fault. Why hadn't Jack come to help? I checked his individual instructions - he was allowed to make forward runs. He simply hadn't. Weird.

I pottered around while play went on around me. Sometimes I'd accidentally be in a good position for a pass and I'd one-touch it, keeping it moving. After a few minutes I was starting to feel frisky - my match rating was a solid 7 and Notts were an attack-minded team which meant they left spaces all over the pitch. Space I was happy to invade. Check this out, Pascal!

If we wanted to get back into this game, I mused, the priority had to be not to concede another goal, so I found myself dropping into the DM slot more and more. I fucking crushed it - either I straight up won the ball before one of the twin CAMs could get it, or I put enough pressure on them that they lost it, or if the CAM did get there ahead of me, I positioned myself between him and his mate, using the cover shadow concept I'd learned from Salford City. If the CAMs couldn't combine, they couldn't do shit.

As my confidence grew, I spun these turnovers into breaks. Proper, direct, fast breaks, limited only by how accurately I could pass and how fast I could get to County's offside line.

A dangerous ball is hit long.

Best rises to head away.

Contreras controls and plays a neat one-two with Dodd.

He combines well with Best.

Best shapes to pass to Samuel, but pushes the ball past the defender.

The crowd are getting to their feet for a rare Tranmere attack.

Best is on the left with only one defender ahead of him.

He plays it square, looking for the return pass.

Samuel gathers, uses Best as a decoy, turns onto his right and...

His shot dribbles harmlessly wide.

Best looks distinctly unimpressed - he would have been clean through.

I was on one knee, rubbing the bridge of my nose. This twat Samuel was ruining my holiday.

Perhaps like many other people, you have been in a house or a car when it has been raining outside. And you've watched, fascinated, as a certain raindrop has hit the glass, dribbled, stopped, dribbled some more. Perhaps you willed it to stay motionless, to defy gravity. Perhaps you cheered when it reached the edge. But if someone takes a shot with all the power and purpose of a slothful raindrop, you do not cheer. Unless, maybe, you support Notts County, in which case you might sarcastically jeer the fact your opponents finally had a shot against you.

I got up and tried to relax my jaw.

Tyson. This is what it was like playing on the same team as Tyson. This is why I'd kicked Tyson out of the youth system.

Because it fucking SUCKED.

Why would James keep this guy on the pitch? It was like we were playing with ten men. We weren't all that far away from getting a result, here. One piece of quality would get us back in the match. At two-one, we would activate the crowd. The last few minutes could be epic.

James was perhaps trying to balance various factors. Long-term versus short term, different factions and cliques within the dressing room, players returning from injury, workload, contract discussions, and so on. None of that mattered to me. While I was on the pitch, my job was to get points on the board.

I walked across the grass while the match was going on. No-one was in our DM slot so there was once again a massive chasm between our defence and midfield that Notts were more than happy to exploit.

"Max, what? Are you injured? Get back out there."

"Take Samuel off. Put Junior on."

"What?" James wasn't angry - he couldn't believe he'd heard what he thought he'd heard.

"We could get something out of this," I said, as I pottered away.

Seventy-seven minutes gone. When I died, there would be an emotional applause in the seventy-seventh minute. That'd be nice. All heart-warming and stuff.

I didn't feel motivated to chase the ball around or help the defence out. There was no possible world in which Max Best on holiday should care more about winning this match than the manager whose full-time job it was to care. CAM felt good. I hovered there for a while, walking up and down in step with the rest of the players. Notts kept the ball for a while and I concentrated on them.

They had lower CA than Salford City but were far ahead of them in the league. A lot of that was because they had a superstar striker and two clever players feeding him. But a couple of years from now, a much-improved Youngster in the DM slot would shut down half their attacks. A midfield partnership of Raffi and Andrew Harrison would dominate the centre. Pascal would be so dangerous on one of the wings that Notts would almost certainly change formation, especially if I was running riot on the other side. Nah, they'd have to switch to 5-4-1 or something equally cautious or we'd absolutely smash them.

Jones, our captain, put in a thundering tackle that got the crowd roaring. The ball spun out to the right back, who passed it to Lee. I waited as long as poss - not very long - before pointing to one side of a midfielder. Lee understood my intention and rolled the ball to that position. I got there, took a touch, and dabbed the ball forward to the feet of Samuel. I ran back the way I'd come, already plotting what I'd do when the ball was laid off. I glanced left, but Jack the Lad was still stuck at left back. Why hadn't he raced forward when the transition had started?

But it wouldn't have made the slightest bit of difference.

Samuel, who was enormous and had strength 18, grappled a strength 15 defender. The pair battled for half a second before Samuel gave up. Notts countered our counter - naughty - and we were lucky to see a shot rocket over the crossbar. The Notts forwards were laughing and joking, having a blast.

I walked over to the left mid position to be as far away from James as possible. The guy was pissing me off. Pissing the Tranmere fans off, too, by the sound of it.

When there was a little break, I tested myself with some stretches. Body? It all felt good. Mind? I was clear-headed.

The speed of the game was impressive. I'd had a bad touch and struggled in a couple of moments, but it wasn't way above my level. The match against Salford must have really helped me. Next Saturday, now, that'd be interesting. How much CA could I add in a week? Five points? Why not? So what could I do now, in the last ten minutes of this match, to make sure I got the most CA growth?

First team minutes? Check.

Good coaches and facilities? Check.

The only other factor I thought I'd detected was that maybe, maybe, players improved more when their match ratings were higher. It made sense - playing a guy out of position would lead to him getting bad ratings and then why should he improve? But a striker played in the right position could still improve even if his form was bad. However, he would improve faster if he was playing well and scoring goals - that was obvious.

So, fine. I decided to see if I couldn't bump my match rating up.

I was currently on 7 and the curse liked it when I combined with other players to progress the ball. Samuel was a big stumbling block. (Good nickname for him, there - write that down.) I decided to wander back to the DM position - at least I could play some passes to Lee and the other midfielders.

Something unusual happened, then. I lost a header.

Hunt plays a quick, low pass to Hemmings.

He turns inside and passes to Murphy.

His first touch is poor, but he recovers. He chips it forward.

Best is in the way - but he loses out.

Reynolds nods it into the path of Bailiff.

He's crowded out, but finds Edwards.

He cocks his leg to shoot...

But Best is there!

Fantastic block. He had to time that just right.

Corner to Notts County.

As I got to my feet, our goalie and Gareth, the captain, came to give me high fives and congratulatory slaps. They were still fighting. They still had pride.

Samuel - the world's most expensive totem pole - was placed on hundreds of logs and rolled back into our penalty area. Future generations would ask: but with their primitive technology, how did they do it?

He was one of a mass of bodies in the middle of the goal. I knew that Notts liked to play corners short before whipping in a cross, so I scanned the area and decided to place myself where I thought the ball was most likely to go - past the mob of players in the six-yard box, all the way over on the edge of the area.

Sure enough, Notts played a short pass, then another, and the ball was returned to the original corner taker. He took a swing at the ball and lots of players - and the goalie - jumped to try to make contact. Someone did, but it was a glancing blow from the top of their head - he couldn't have passed it to me more accurately if he'd tried.

I touched the ball forward and ran as hard as I could.

One defender realised the danger and ran towards me - dumb - but I cut inside and outside in two fluid moves, leaving him on his arse. Another five yards forward and it was me against the world - what's new? - their two smallest players who'd been left as defenders, plus five or six guys who were screaming back to help.

I didn't have many options, so I ran. The constellation of defenders was forcing me a little further right with every stride, and I was starting to get boxed in. Even though I was rampaging into their half, none of the defenders were as stupid as the first one, and they all kept on their feet. I needed to do something. Needed an option. But as I scanned and scanned, I found no teammate had come to support me. They'd hung me out to dry.

Enraged, I lashed the ball out of play for a throw in, right in front of the main stand. Right in front of Mateo.

I was a player-manager playing for another manager. You didn’t see that very often. Nor was it a common sight to see a guy on a break angrily smashing the ball into the advertising hoardings.

I was really treating this Tranmere lot to some of my best material.

One of the Notts guys tapped me on the back. He understood what had just happened. "Played, mate."

The main stand had a lot of families, executives, and corporate types. The curse showed me there were more than a few scouts and agents around. But there were still enough normal fans for it to get fierce at times, and they did so now. Bald, pasty heads, bellies groaning under the strain of their own magnificence, these men were the pride of England, three lines on their foreheads, flecks of spittle exploding from their mouths as they screamed bloody murder. I stood facing them, hands on hips, as they vented their spleens. I couldn't tell if they were raging at me, at the rest of the team, at James, or at Mateo.

And I didn't care. I was on holiday.

Some red and green lights to my right made me turn - Tranmere were making a substitution. I was one hundred percent sure James would sub me off. Subbing off a substitute - it could be explosive enough to bring this manager-on-loan nonsense to a quick end. A footnote in history. A joke at a handful of parties in the Wirral, Chester, and Darlington. And you know what? Good. I'd go and have a proper holiday. A big one with Emma, not just a few nights in AirBnBs between Christmas and New Year. Not one where I'd have to spend my precious time and energy making a shit manager look good.

The red number was 10.

Samuel.

The green was 25.

Junior.

I shouldn't have done it, but I slapped my hands together and went, "Come on!" In an instant I was in full prowl mode. Pacing around, barking at the midfielders. There were at least ten minutes left, maybe eleven or twelve. We couldn't go too crazy or we'd get done on a counter.

Samuel, the twat, took his sweet time getting off the pitch. We're losing, you idiot! That's our time you're wasting! But then Junior sprinted on and my neck tingled.

I dropped to DM and watched as Notts took the throw in and passed the ball around. Junior and the other forward pressed. Notts went into midfield, trying to use their width to draw us out of our shape. But eventually they did what they always did - played through the centre. Something clicked - some pattern recognition. I'd seen this particular sequence before, in the videos of Notts. They'd pass there, there, there, and then boom - Bailiff would be one-on-one with the goalie. It was almost too late to stop it, but I put my head down and raced back to my own goal. I zipped past a startled Gareth Jones and arrived at the penalty spot at the same time as County's deadly striker. I shoulder-barged him and took the ball in a tight circle to my right. I passed left, to Jack the Lad.

Running forward, I overtook him and he was more than happy to play it into my path. I slowed just a fraction, marvelling at how much space I had, how many options I had. No low blocks, here. This was chaos. Notts didn't know what to do about a player who popped up in every single position, but they knew I was a threat, now, and three of their players came at me. I took another stride, feigned as though I'd knock the ball down the line and chase it, but instead thrashed a low diagonal pass through no fewer than five opponents, right onto the toes of Junior at the edge of the centre circle. He and his striker partner combined while I made my way - suffering, now - up the pitch.

Junior held off a defender, touched the ball back in my direction, spun and sprinted. I played a first-time chip with the outside of my foot, the ball curving beautifully onto his favoured right foot.

A golden chance!

The angle was fairly tight, the goalie was storming out to narrow it even further, and two defenders were about to slide in. But Junior was favourite. He looked up, looked down, steadied himself... and passed sideways.

I appeared between two startled midfielders and side-footed the ball into the net.

Two-one, and at last something for the home fans to cheer.

My first thought was to glare at the bench looking at the options. Did we have a different left back? One who might get forward? League Two allowed seven subs and this season you could use five. Tranmere used to have that amazing left back that Blackburn had poached. Imagine him, here, playing with me, with all that space in front of him.

"Yeah!" cried Gareth.

"Whoo!" yelled someone.

"Yes, Max!" screamed Lee.

They'd encircled me, were pushing me, jostling me. I laughed - I wasn't the manager and I didn't need to think about the subs. I was on holiday. "Come on," I cried, pulling them to the Kop so we could pump our fists and show our biceps and all that shit fans loved. When we'd done that and I had some space, I stood there, smirking, full of myself, cocky Manc twat, and they loved it.

But Notts were dangerous, so I dropped to DM for a couple of minutes. That extra-long sprint I'd been on had taken it out of me, so I needed to catch my breath. A Notts midfielder was on the ball and about to fire a low pass to a CAM, but he saw me moving that way and hesitated. Pleasing. While he was dawdling, Lee barged him off the ball and we were away. The move came to nothing but our fans were up for it, now, and in the away end there were lots of guys in black and white bobble hats biting their nails.

As I noted that our average ratings were flying up and Notts's were in decline, as I looked around at the fans and the pristine pitch with its wide-open expanses, inviting me to visit, I felt myself smiling.

This. This was a holiday.

My legs started pumping and I crashed - fairly, said the referee - into a midfielder and nabbed the ball from him. The counter-punch was on me almost before I could blink, but for once the bounce went our way and Lee came up with the ball, like a prize truffle pig. I raced towards Junior but suddenly felt claustrophobic. I hated this narrow 4-3-3 shit. If the full backs didn't get forward, everything was compressed into a fraction of the pitch. So I veered to the right, to the empty spot I'd told Mateo I would attack.

The midfield bounced the ball around a few times, then the most technical one swept the ball in my direction. The pass was shit - too high, too slow, too much spin - giving a centre back time to shuffle across and make life hard for me. His plan was to stand me up and -

I was already past him. Instead of cushioning the ball and thinking of what to do, I'd done what I'd told Dani, and Maddy, and Sevenoaks to do. Aggressive, decisive, forward-thinking play.

I sprinted - legs were burning now - the main stand were rising to their feet in waves, heads turning to follow - "Go on, son!" - quick glance, two on two in the middle - darted towards goal, nightmare to defend against - so fast! Goalie forced to come - feint, push to the byline - open goal! - but a Notter was sliding in. Had to put my foot on the ball, wait - cut it back for the second striker. Open goal for the lad!

But the ball didn't go in. The roar from the Kop was one of outrage. Baying for blood, a spine-chilling, guttural noise that resolved itself into the chant, "Off! Off! Off!"

What had happened? I went to the commentary and discovered the last defender had decided to foul our guy, to wrestle him to the ground. It meant a red card and a penalty - the ref made no mistake - but if we missed the pen, his manager would be ecstatic with the decision.

While the mess got resolved, I checked the tactics screens. My match rating was nine, but there was something more important than that - I hadn't been set to take the penalties. Fucking James, man. What the shit.

The Notters finally started to leave the penalty area - the home fans were making a helluva noise - Gareth Jones, a centre back, was holding the ball. That was odd - one of the midfielders was supposed to take the pen.

"Best," he called, and as I looked up he threw the ball. I caught it and tried to be calm. Tried to be professional and serious.

Not very hard, though. I placed the ball down on the penalty spot and punched the air like I'd already scored. I turned away from the Kop - and the goalie - and double-thumbed my name and number. And while the ref did his final referee things, I laughed as I did kick ups and a little bit of Tekkers.

Peep!

The ref gestured that it was time.

I looked up into the Kop, where the most manic Tranmere fans were. I picked one out and gave him or her a Maxy fingerguns, a wink, and a cheeky smile.

I laughed to myself again - this was so much fun, holy shit, why hadn't I done this earlier? - and started my routine.

Forward an inch, feint left, forward two inches, feint right, inch, eyes left, big step, eyes right. Normally when I took penalties I wasn't laughing the whole time, but apart from that it was the technique I'd come to rely on.

The goalie, his own technique disrupted by my slowness, finally hurled himself to my left, so I rolled the ball centre right.

One day, I'd miss a penalty.

One day, I'd look a right twat.

Today, though? Nah.

The roar hit me like a sonic weapon - it was overwhelming, literally stunning. Our fans celebrated the goal with the force of six thousand alphorns. Christ, though, what a feeling. I'd never experienced anything like it. Retired players talked about the hit of adrenaline, of dopamine, of something, they got from scoring goals. It's like a drug, they say. It's addictive. You miss it.

I know that for the first time in my short career, I celebrated wildly, nothing held back, whipping up the Kop. Later, I saw footage of me running into a mass of Birkonians slash Squirrels, quickly swallowed whole with a wedge of teammates coming in behind as if to rescue me. Later, I was told I'd got a yellow card for inciting the crowd or jumping into the stands or some garbage. That was funny - if I got five yellows I'd be suspended for one match. Would that suspension be kept on my record for years and years until I played League Two again?

The fans had whipped me up into a frenzy, but by the time I crossed the halfway line, I was ice cold again.

We were slapping and Notts were down to ten. The three points were there for the taking. I checked the clock - we'd gone over the ninety minutes. Notts took their star striker off and put on another centre back - hello low block, my old friend!

For two minutes I stood on the left wing, being fed the ball, which I whipped into the box as best I could. Right-footed inswingers, mostly. Crosses, free kicks, corners - just because I'd played twenty minutes in League Two didn't mean I was suddenly great at them again. But I was able to put the balls into the box more or less where the strikers wanted them. Notts County clung on, though, until the final whistle, like the good team they were.

An unlikely draw, a useful point, a bit of drama, and a couple of goals for yours truly. I've had worse days off.

***

In the dressing room I lay down to get a massage - no-one questioned why I was first in the queue. Someone asked if I wanted to talk to the media. I was in my usual post-match haze, completely drained. I'm pretty sure I said no and they said I had to because I was Man of the Match. I'm ninety percent sure I told them Lee was my Man of the Match and they should interview him.

Junior came to admire me and I asked where I could get dinner at this time on this day in this part of the world. He tsked and said we always ate together after games, so that was a bonus.

I went through the motions of showering and exchanging handslaps with everyone, getting more and more sullen until I got some carbs in me. That cheered me up, and I even joined in with some of the banter.

The only fly in the massage oil, and I suppose it was a big fly, was when Barkley shuffled towards me during dinner and asked if he could have a word, but more on that later.

***

Tuesday, 2 January

Light flooded the flat, turning it into a warm, welcoming space, rays reflecting from every surface, rebounding like benevolent, healing lasers. However, the flat described in the previous sentence was located in Sydney, Australia. I was staying in the Wirral, a peninsula that used to be in Cheshire, I'd learned, but had been given a big-money transfer to Merseyside in the 70s. Inexplicably, people from the Wirral were not known as Squirrels. It's right there, guys!

In my flat in the Wirral, close to New Brighton Beach and The Promenade, the sun didn't flood in. It didn't wake me up. It didn't do shit.

I woke up naturally, and early, after a fitful, restless sleep caused by too much smugness in the bloodstream. Playing - and scoring - in front of seven thousand fans was not comparable to playing in front of two thousand. I closed my eyes and relived the moment where I’d scored the penno. What a rush…

A book would help calm me down, but I didn't have a lamp, and the big light was harsh. So I got up, grabbed my kit bag, and drove to the Campus where I read a few pages of Going Infinite, a book by the same guy who’d written Moneyball and Liar’s Poker.

Then we met for a video debrief on yesterday's match. James, who was now treating me with even more suspicion, gave an overview of his thoughts. Then Colin went through ten key moments, pointing out things that the team had done well or badly. It was fine - way better than what Chester did on video, which was nothing - but in my opinion only scratched the surface of the problems and completely missed the two things I thought were most troubling. He didn't mention Jack the Lad failing to go forward - they must have noticed! - and there was almost no mention of Samuel.

I spent much of the time rubbing my temples going holiday holiday holiday like a mantra.

After that, we had breakfast together, did a light session on the all-weather pitch, and that was it. My whole work day! I was free to go round the second hand shops in my new home looking for lamps and fast-paced action thrillers.

There was just one thing I had to do first.

***

Tue 2nd Jan - Calabash Barkley - Tranmere Rovers - Chester - loan

***

I swaggered into the hospital, smiling and happy, still bathed in the light of my own radiance. I knew the room number and found it soon enough.

In a bed, his leg splinted up, trying to look cheerful even though I knew his morale was rock bottom, was Joe Anka.

He saw me and tried to sit up straight. He winced.

"Joe," I said, clapping hands with him like one of the cool kids.

"Max, holy shit. Why are you here?"

"Can't have you in hozzie alone, feeling sorry for yourself while I'm having a whale of a time. Can I?"

He looked around. "I'm not alone. My whole family's here."

"Yeah, well, I've come to save you from them. Blink twice if you want me to kick them out."

He smiled, but winced again. He introduced me to his mum, one of his aunts, a cousin, and two nephews.

"Top," I said. "I promise to remember everyone's names. Now, tell me what happened."

He balled his hands and pushed them into his forehead. "It's a blur. I was going for the ball. 50-50, but I came off worse. They said there was nothing in it. Nothing malicious, you know. The guy's been texting me."

"Clean break?"

"Yeah."

"Six weeks out?"

"At least."

"I still have to pay you though, right?"

Joe's mum tutted, but he smiled. "He's joking, mum. He's winding you up."

"Not now, Max. My baby's got a broken leg!"

“That’s payback for all the heart’s he’s broken. You got an assist, I heard."

Joe smiled and I had to stop myself going into his player profile every five seconds to see what his mood was. I'm pretty sure it briefly went up three or four points. "You'd have loved it. We had a free kick over on the right. I sent it into the mixer. Chris headed it in. It was like... hey, that was easy! It's like you planned. Like you said it'd be. Warrington didn’t know what to do. The low block was just inviting us to hit crosses to Chris. It was over by half time."

"How's Sandra?"

He nodded. "She's very professional. Lots of detail. She's really crossing every T, if you know what I mean."

Of course she was. Otherwise, if it went wrong, she'd get savaged. "Well, we're top of the league now." I checked the time. "Right. You're going to be all morose and shit and I can't stand it. So I was thinking when you’re out of here you could do the music in our home games for a while."

His face lit up. "Really?"

"Yeah. I'm thinking themes. 60s night. Mostly hits, stuff the olds know. Know what I mean? But you can sneak in a couple of lesser known bangers. 70s, 80s. Get people into the idea that DJ Joe Anka is at the wheel. Then! Then we hit them with the really good stuff."

"The noughties?"

"Er... what's that? Backstreet Boys and Shakira?" I pulled a face. "It’s your gig… I was thinking... guess the theme."

"Guess the theme?"

"Yeah. You play songs an hour before kick off. There's a theme that connects them all. First person to text the right answer wins a prize. So, like it’d be Abba, then Bananarama, then the Cranberries. ABC. Or they’ll all songs from movies. They’re all one-hit wonders. They’re all bands with a replacement singer. The songs were all banned by radio stations in a moral panic."

"Oh, Jojo, you'd be so good at that!"

"Great, that's settled, then. If you get bored, there's millions of things you can do to help the team and the club. Watch scouting videos. Q and As with fans. Write letters to old timers who renew their season ticket for the 25th year. We send you three goals from the youth players and you choose your favourite. All kinds of stuff." I got up to leave. I would have stayed longer if he'd been alone, but he had all his peeps there.

"Max, wait," he said. "What about you? What's going on? It's all kicking off round here."

"I'll tell you what's going on." I pointed at one of the kids. I do remember his name, I’m withholding it here because of his privacy. "Guess my lung capacity. Go on, guess."

"Whaaat?" said the kid.

"That's right. Four point two litres. Four point two. Can you believe it? I've only been there a day. It's the sea air, Joe! It's full of healing salt."

"That water is rancid. You've not been swimming in it, have you?"

"No."

"Don't swim in that water, boss."

"Oh." That was ominous. "Okay, anyway, number goes up, finally. It's happening. And while I'm there, I'm going to have a pop at Dixie Dean's records."

"Dixie Dean?" he laughed. "MD said you'd be gone for a month. You can't score all Dixie Dean's goals in a month."

"Ah!" I said, holding up a finger. "What if I play for Tranmere every January? If I do that for ten years, I'll have played ten months. That's like a season. He scored, like, 27 goals for Tranmere in one season. That's not loads. I can do that, even if it takes me ten years to do it. Then I'll play one month a season for Everton and shoot for the big one."

Joe mashed fists into his head again. "I know you're joking but even to have the idea, even to think of it. You and Henri, you're not normal."

"Who's Dixie Dean?" said the kid, less shy now that I'd addressed him.

"When he was 21, he scored 60 goals in one season. Last year, everyone thought Haaland might catch him, but he ended with 36 goals in the Premier League. So the best striker today having an unreal season can score 36. Dixie Dean scored 60. I can see your mind is blown."

"And you're going to score 60 goals, too?"

"Nah that sounds like a lot of work. I don't feel like working hard. I'm on holiday!"

"But Max," said Joe, who looked like he needed a bit of peace and quiet. "Why don't you aim for the Chester records? Score more than Smasho. Dick Yates. Stuart Rimmer."

I sighed. "Joe, be serious. I'm a big League Two star, now. I can't even remember the name of the division you play in. Okay? Now, if you don't mind, I'm going back to my glamorous League Two lifestyle."

"All right, boss," he said. "What's first on the list? Mani-pedi at an exclusive salon?"

"Close. I'm going to a charity shop to buy a second-hand lamp and some paperbacks with short chapters."

"But Max, Max, sorry. I just... I've seen you. You don't do what you're told. How does it even work with another manager picking the team and everyone knows you're better than him and all that?"

I shook my head. "Joe, it's really easy. Smooth sailing all the way." I became introspective. "I can be very obedient, you know. Very disciplined. And what I think I'm going to learn from this experience is that sometimes, sometimes I don't know best."

He eyed me, waiting for the tell-tale signs that I was joking, but my eyes didn't crease, my lips didn't twitch. I gave him a final handshake and went down to my car. As I started the engine, I checked Joe's morale. It had gone from abysmal to poor - a two point jump. Yes! Some world-class football management right there.

I'd earned a treat, so I brought up Holiday Road by Lindsey Buckingham and blasted it through my car stereo.

***

I drove down the street with the most charity shops and parked. When I walked back along it, I saw a shop with a dark brown aesthetic that I hadn't noticed before. An ancient and faded sign proclaimed it was called Needful Things.

I went inside - a bell rang; it reminded me of an old bicycle - and I was immediately struck by how awesome every item was.

Here was an old Panini sticker of Rudi Völler sporting the quintessential German football look - porn star moustache, perm, and mullet.

There was a lampshade with the repeating motif of a goose biting the tail feathers of the goose in front of it. A hand-written label attached by a frayed piece of string said 'LIGHT NO WORK'.

I picked up a hardback copy of 'What Newcastle United Fans Know About Football' and found that almost every page was blank. AMAZING gift right here. I flicked through again and the 'by the same author' page showed the publishers had printed similar books for the top twenty teams in the UK. Good gag but the existence of the other books ruined the joke for me.

I bent to admire a medal in a glass case that was inscribed with the words, 'For Outstanding Achievement in the Field of Excellence'. Next to it was J.M. Barrie's actual hook hand.

While I was scratching my head at a pile of human bones labelled 'Piltdown Man', the shop owner came in and stood behind his counter. He'd been reading the newspaper, it seemed, and he placed it down on the counter. I was drawn to the headline - He's Done WHAT?!

My gaze moved up to the masthead. It wasn't one of the newspapers you'd get in this part of the world - it was from Chester. I finally looked at the shopkeeper, but I knew who it was.

Old Nick bared his teeth. "Max. How pleasant to see you. Why don't you and I have a little chat? Hmm?"