11.
Dixie Dean (1907 – 1980) was an English footballer who played as a centre forward. He is regarded as one of the greatest of all time.
The shop was from a bygone age. An age of muddy pitches, heavy leather balls, brutal tackles, and no substitutes. Still, an age where a PA 190 striker competed against PA 180 defenders every week. Could he survive? Could he thrive? Could he live up to his talent despite all that bedevilled and beset him?
While the shop's fixtures and fittings seemed authentic, down to the till that looked like a typewriter and twee decorative plates sitting proud on shelves, it wasn't quite right - there was no dust, no old carpet smell, no creaking floorboards. Not quite convincing when you knew where to look, or sniff, or step. It was no more convincing, really, than the static projections from Henri's production of SILK!
Nick, though, was twice as real, twice as vivid, twice as furious as when I'd last met him. Then, I'd been in a hospital bed, more helpless than a newborn, and he'd been pretending to be a doctor. Now, though, I was the all-time goals-per-minute king of Tranmere Actual Rovers and his mood swings didn't interest me much. "How much is the lamp?"
"What?"
"How much for the lamp and do you take Scottish money?"
Nick massaged the knuckles of his left hand. He looked up at some point on the ceiling. "I gave you a gift, Max."
"Oh! You were my Secret Santa! I'll use that voucher to buy one of those big candles. You know the big ones?"
Rage poured off him in bone-shaking ebbs and flows. Jaw set, teeth grinding, eyes blazing, he turned his head like an animatronic executioner towards the fake till in his fake shop. A very real Post-It note had been stuck there. Before he plucked it away I saw the text: NO KILL GOLDEN GOOSE. I relaxed, almost completely. He could rage and shout and give me the hairdryer but he wouldn't hurt me.
He became quite still, only moving his lips a quarter inch, whispering in a way that some may have found blood-curdling. "Do you know the story of the goose who laid golden eggs? His owners ate him. The story is meant to teach long-term thinking, but never before has such a tale involved a goose who chose to stop laying eggs. A goose who left the farm where he belonged for a languid cruise around Guadeloupe and Grenada where he didn't. That animal would lose his protections." He smacked his lips as though he was imagining eating me. It's possible I was reading too much into the gesture but he had the teeth for it. "You have made my life very difficult."
"I do that, yeah," I said, examining one of those wire-framed rotating postcard racks. Nick's pop-up shop stocked postcards from all kinds of random places, but the newest ones were from the Middle East. Made sense based on the little I knew of his movements. The most aesthetically pleasing ones were from Asia, though, so I rotated the rack to that section.
Nick growled, "You've guessed, it's clear, that when you gain what you call experience points, I also benefit."
"Yup. Hey, what's Singapore like? I heard the Prime Minister shaves your head if you're caught chewing gum."
"So imagine my surprise when I discovered that instead of earning the predicted amount from managing Chester versus Waddington Town, you were playing for a completely! Different! Team!"
He was worried about 60 experience points? What? So he was angry because he didn't understand his own curse. And now I had to explain it to him? Abysmal. "Yeah the difference in XP was pretty small, actually, because I only played twenty minutes and the base XP was the same. No biggie. I mean, if I'd played twenty minutes for Chester you'd have got the exact same amount. What's the problem? Oh! You've been to Jeddah. I hear the cheese is good there. Nick. Right? Do you get it? Jeddah? Cheese?"
Nick pulled his hand behind him, arced it round in an unnaturally perfect circle, and slammed his fist into the counter, which cracked into a spiderweb. I couldn't help but imagine what he could do to my precious, precious skull, but I quickly mastered the fear. He couldn't do anything to me. Not really. I was his golden goose and all that. He didn't even realise how golden I was. I was Dixie Dean reborn.
He looked left again and a new post-it had appeared in the exact place the previous one had been. It said 'REMEMBER HE DO OPPOSITE'. Nick inhaled so massively he grew two inches, then he fixed his steely eyes upon me. "I'll try to be patient. I would appreciate your assistance."
"Boom," I said, slapping the counter, giving him my full attention. "You only had to ask."
Again the stillness, but now with a hint of a twitchy eye. "Max. I like when you earn experience points. I do. It's good for you. It's good for me. It's good for my colleagues!" He added the last part almost manically. His words hinted at why he'd chosen me for this curse, or why it was working so well. We had a lot in common. For a start, we were both selfish team players. But although I was sure he was some sort of eternal being, a demon, a hellspawn, he was also doing a really fucking good impression of someone who hadn't slept for days and was stressed off his tits. "We like when you use your gift as your gift was intended. We don't like publicity that attracts attention to the fact that you're abusing the System." He tapped the newspaper. "And we really, really, like stability. Guaranteed income, you might say. When you announce a hypothetical plan to go to Exeter to watch a cup match and at the last minute you decide it's too cold and you'd rather stay home watching Sunderland 'Til I Die for the thirtieth time, we take it on the chin! We accept it with good humour, even if we've already spent the money, so to speak."
"Sunderland 'Til I Die is top," I informed him. "The first five watches are tragedy. The next ten are comedy. Eventually you realise: this is horror."
He bared his teeth, snatched and crumpled the latest Post-It note: HE HATES WHEN YOU NAG ABOUT WIBWOB. Clearly the writers of the notes were only guessing what we were talking about. Or they could hear but knew I was watching and wanted to nag me by not nagging me. The little shits! Nick was still blabbing on. "But when you are scheduled to manage a double-header against Wallington, we really expect you to be in harness for those. We can estimate how much you will abuse the System in those matches. My colleagues are really quite good at it. He won't play against Tamworth - he's saving himself. Accurate. When he comes on against Darlington he'll stay on the pitch. Accurate. He won't play against Wallington - he thinks they are beneath him. All too accurate! Not only do you not play, though, you don't even manage! You give the honour to your subordinate! So you may experience yet more indolence!"
Okay so he had the power to create pop-up shops and grant wishes and smash things, but no-one was allowed to talk to me like that. "What is your problem? Who are you shouting at? Calm the fuck down. I'm not one of your imps. Jesus Christ, get a grip."
Nick took my suggestion far too literally - he gripped the edges of the counter, head bowed, desperate. Without looking up he asked, "Do you know what a derivative is?"
"Yes! It's this shop. It's derivative of a Stephen King story. If I were him I'd sue you for plagiarism."
"Plagiarism? Where do you think he got the idea?" He briefly blazed at me, but his attacks were futile, now. When I went on the front foot, he backed away, like all bullies. He was hanging his head in defeat again and talked to the epicentre of the spiderweb he'd created. "A derivative is a financial contract that can develop when economies are stable. Stable, do you hear? If person N has an extremely stable income stream, he can use derivatives to do all sorts of wonderful things including leveraging, hedging, and speculating. Person N might be literally superhuman in the assessment of risk and Person N might be able to turn stable income into riches beyond the dreams of avarice."
I scratched my neck, pretending to be lost. "Hedgehogs?"
"Person N," continued Nick, his voice dripping with venom, "might back the wrong horse. He might back a horse expected to run at 3 p.m. in Wallington, only to find that selfsame horse wearing flip-flops, sauntering around Merseyside, feathering his own nest!"
"Am I a goose or a horse? Make up your mind." I tried to process what the guy was saying. I wasn't in the mood for Nick. I wanted to think about scoring goals in front of massive crowds, soaking up the acclaim and adulation. For the first time, I'd had a taste of what it was truly like to be a PA 200 player, and I wanted more. Not only that, someone I'd met recently had planted the idea in my tiny mind that I might take a shot at Dixie Dean's goals record. And why not? The curse had given me the skills and I was adept at using them. With a big effort, I brought myself back into the room. "You want to know where I'm going to be so you can spend money you haven't earned yet. How is that my problem? I didn't sign up for any of this shit. You're lucky I'm still motivated to do it." I matched his glare for a few seconds, but relaxed. This was a chance for me to learn some things. "What if I'm sick? Are you going to throw a tantrum every time I catch the flu?"
"Being poorly is a good excuse. Taking a good month off to abuse the System is a poor one."
Ah. I understood things a little better, now. He was relying on my XP income and he thought I had just cut off his supply. I grabbed the newspaper with the provocative headline and pulled it closer. Then I looked for a pen and found one instantly - it was right there as an impulse buy. "Ha! Look at this. This pen has a picture along the side. It's a naked woman but you turn it upside down... ha! She gets dressed." I smiled at Nick - he had heat coming off him like the boiler of a steam train. I laughed. "Mate, relax. Watch this."
I wrote some numbers down in the margin of the paper. Despite himself, he was interested. "What are you doing?"
"You've been leveraging my XP to buy helicopters and shit. You need to live within your means. Drag yourself up by your bootstraps. First thing we need to do is make you a budget."
He turned and smashed four shelves of decorative plates in one fell swoop. "Insolent child!"
The noise of the plates disintegrating was upsetting. It sounded like a whole body of bones being broken, but after a slight pause to remind myself that the plates were almost certainly not real, I kept on with my maths. I soon had to consult my phone. The intensity and duration of my work brought Nick from Rage 10 to Rage 3. "What is it?"
I cricked my neck. "If you're counting on my XP to buy helicopters, then fuck you. I don't give a shit. All right? But don't call me indolent. This month is going to be mega. Probably the number one month for XP ever. Dixie Dean has the record for the most league goals in a season, and I'm about to smash the record for the most XP in a month. See here? Each one of these numbers is a football match taking place in January. There isn't a lot of footy this week. There's West Ham tonight but I couldn't get a ticket. So the first game is this Friday. Queen's Park versus Dunfermline in the Scottish Championship. I'm not sure but I reckon that'll be four XP per minute. So let's say 360." I tapped the number I'd written. "Plus up to thirty new players in my database, and coaches and physios and I might meet a super scout I can poach. Saturday I'll play the second half for Tranmere, I hope, so it's 180 for the first 45 mins, 45 for the second. Let's put 225. And, of course, the money I get for playing will pay for the Brig. Who you foisted on me, so once again what looks like chaos is me cleaning up your mess."
"I didn't - "
"Sunday there are some FA Cup Third Round games, or I could do Notts Forest Ladies against WBA in the third tier. I haven't decided where I want to go yet - that's the beauty of being on holiday - but let's pencil in 450 for that match. Tuesday 9th I was thinking of Wealdstone v Aldershot. It's a long drive but it's much more tolerable when you know you won't have a full inbox to work through the next day. No chance I'd be going to that one in a normal month. What I'm saying is I'll be in Glasgow one night, London the next. Watching three or four matches a week in addition to training and playing and everything else. What did you say? Indolent? This is legendary grinding, you prick! This is unreal levels of dedication."
I wrote 270, followed by a couple of 630s, more 270s and 360s and mumbled names like Everton, Burnley, and Man City Women. When there was a choice, I was limiting my travel to the north of England, as usual, but on some days there was only one place to go, and that place was never local. Nick watched and listened. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw him licking his lips - this time because I was laying golden eggs - but when I glanced up he was regarding me with a look of bored civility. "Is that the end of the list?"
"Nope. These are just the pro matches. There are untapped five-a-sides all over Merseyside, and I might be able to get to some Sunday League matches. I'm going to sneak into the training sessions of pro and semi-pro teams. There's so much talent on Merseyside. I love making fun of them but they're brilliant at football and they don't need to be asked twice to go visit sick kids in hospital. Yeah, it's going to be just like the old days. Me, on my own, running around earning experience points, finding players, turning your bicycles into helicopters. I don't want to ruin the holiday vibe by setting an arbitrary target, but I'm thinking I could get 10,000 XP this month. That and twenty untapped talents, two hundred coaches and scouts, two thousand new players in the database. And you know my favourite thing?"
"I do not know your favourite thing."
"The 28th of January, the last day of my loan, is Liverpool Women against Arsenal. Big game! 7 XP per minute! And you know where Liverpool Women play their games? Prenton Park. Same as me! I'll get in for free. Which makes me think this whole thing was planned. Not by you, because you're utterly fucking clueless, but by a higher power."
Nick seemed dizzy. He very much had the demeanour of a man whose prospects had gone from extreme poverty and a short life of long beatings to one of incredible wealth. "You've been telling everyone this is a holiday."
"Yes, you fucking cretin. So they'll leave me alone. If I said they could call me if they had questions I would never get anything done. This way, this genius way, I get hundreds of things. One, I get to increase my playing level. I was motivated to do that, but after scoring in that big stadium, even more so. I'm addicted already, holy shit. I recently realised I'm quite vain. Isn't that strange? I want ten goals in these five games. A hundred years from now, people will look at my Wikipedia page going, what the hell was that?! Two, I get paid. Humans need money, right? You know that by now. Three, I make sure Chester will get to a higher level because if I can get my skills up, winning football matches will be easier than skimming stones. Four, I get the XP to buy an attribute and the Contracts perk. Contracts, mate. That's going to be such a power up! Five, I get new players and maybe some new staff. Six, I get a break from being responsible for everything. I get to switch my phone off if I want. Everybody wins, mate. Including you. Oh, and seven, I get to play for the same team as my boy Dixie Dean, whose record I'm plotting to smash. It's all gravy. So why don't you get out of my face?"
Nick stared at nothing for a long time. Finally, he nodded. "Ten thousand experience points? My colleagues made a mistake, Max, in doubting you."
"Don't blame the imps! Look, leave me out of all your stuff. Okay? I'm unpredictable. That's not a bug, that's a feature. Deal with it. Don't gamble on me doing things the normal way, and don't do this again." I swirled my finger around, indicating the shop.
Nick didn't seem to be listening. He picked up the newspaper and ripped off the part with my numbers. He screwed them up into a ball which caught fire and turned to ash in an instant. "Good. I understand it better, now. Leaving the farm to lay more eggs. Very creative. You value creativity, and it has served you well so far. But you must be careful; creativity is inherently risky." He took out his pocket watch and fussed with the crown. He was trying to put some thought into words I would understand. "When one steals a famous painting, one does not display it in one's drawing room. That would be foolhardy, would it not?" He tapped the headline. "You have stolen La Giaconda, displayed it, and invited the local constable to come and admire it."
I tutted. "What are you talking about?"
"I refer to your ambition to beat a longstanding record. To bask in unearned acclaim. Try to imagine - this will be hard for you - a universe with rules. One rule is that I'm allowed to give you a gift and you're allowed to use it. Nothing you do as a manager will raise so much as an eyebrow. When you play, imagine a policeman is watching, wondering how such a treasure came to be in this place."
"Are you saying I need to stop playing?"
A Post-It appeared, and I thought I caught some imp-sized fingers vanishing into nothingness. It was the same one as before: REMEMBER HE DO OPPOSITE.
Nick pushed his hands back through his hair. "You should stop, yes. That's the truth of it. But I know you won't. So work with me. Let us get creative." He looked at the watch again, shook his head, and put it away. He paused for a long time. "I have it. There are rules. There is a person who enforces the rules. The person is impartial, incorruptible, and entirely without humour. The person is, in fact, a referee."
I nodded. It hadn't occurred to me until then, but when he said it, some out-of-focus thoughts became foregrounded. "Right... because this is all a game to you lot. So there are rules. So there's a referee. Okay, I'll buy that. It's another demon, obviously. A referee for demons. The Refereemon."
Nick gave me a withering look that was far more effective than most of his outbursts of temper. "That is not even close to its name. As I said, you are allowed to use your gift. Have at it! But you would be wise not to attract the attention of... what's a more suitable translation? The Sentinel. It seems logical to me that you can play for Chester. The level is not so high - yes? - and you are young and not stupid and you train with your players. Why should you not reach their standard? And slowly, slowly, as your team improves, so do you. Yes, why not? Who could argue with that? Many years from now, you are offered a role in a Premier League team and you perhaps have one final season as a player in your legs. You score a few of your unearned goals and dance around the sides of the field like a dressage horse. Tolerable. Enjoy it. Then you cease to be a player and enjoy many long and happy years as a famous manager. Risk free."
"So there's no time limit on the curse?"
He ignored me. "Let me take the other extreme. Next year, you get bored with the challenge of managing Chester and find yourself playing for - what is the best team?"
"The best best? Luton Town, maybe."
"You play for Luton Town in the World Cup final and you score six goals. Your name is engraved into metal, there are parades in your honour, books and songs are written about you. That, anything like that, would be... inadvisable. The Sentinel would be sure to notice. That would be bad, for both of us."
I grunted and rolled my neck around. Nick still didn't know about football, and he didn't know that I already had two chants. But he knew the rules of his own games. That said, I didn't want any restrictions placed on me. I wanted my name in lights and there had to be a way to get it. "Right. Here's the thing. So far, I haven't done anything noteworthy. Yesterday I scored a tap-in and a penalty. Easy. I did some good things and some bad things. No expert who watched that match would think I was better than Henri or Ryan Jack. In a month I'll be the exact standard of a Chester player who has had a few weeks of better training. It's a totally believable story. Now, Chester's good and all, but I'm smashing it there and there's still only two thousand coming to the games. I'm wondering if I might not skip a few divisions, learn my trade in the Championship for a couple of years, then mess up the Prem. Dixie Dean, right, his family was from Chester, he played for Tranmere, he had his skull smashed in, two years later he set a record people say will never be broken. I'm way along that path! It can't be coincidence. I'm his regen. Don't particularly feel like going to Everton, truth be told, but a club with a smart owner. Brighton. Yeah. I could do for Brighton what Dixie Dean did for Everton. People will talk about me for as long as the game is played."
Nick stared into space. "I'm not getting through to you, but I can't tell you the consequences. It's one of the rules. What are my options? Regulation. Intervention in your economy. A forcible realigning of your incentives. Every minute spent playing loses experience points, and when you hit zero you begin to destroy your purchases. Harsh but clear. Threats. You don't respond well to threats, but I think a small threat is in order. You see, you are not the only one with a Retire option. I can end our arrangement, too. Will I suffer? Of course. But there could come a point where the result of this - " he tapped the newspaper for the millionth time - "is banishment from this realm for a thousand years." He shook his head. "From what I've seen, next time round, there will not be helicopters. I would very much like to stay while the going is very, very good. Do you understand?"
"If I attract too much publicity you'll pull the plug. Sorry, but that's out of my hands. People think I'm weird. They love talking about me."
"As a manager it's fine! Let them talk! As the third or fourth best player on your team - perhaps! Use your brain! My preferred option, Max, in almost all things, is self-regulation." He turned around, and as he did so he trod on some broken ceramic. He kicked out at the debris, and I swear time slowed and my eyebrows were singed with the heat of some unseen flame. Nick flicked part of the counter up and walked through. I realised the counter had been keeping me brave, and now that there was nothing between me and him, I was literally frozen with fear. He paced around me in an endless, irritating loop. "You are restless because you are overpowered for your level. There is little challenge for you until you reach the next step. I understand that much." He paused, whispering into my ear from behind. "I can help you. A few off-the-cuff remarks here, planting a few ideas there, and hahu! The challenge is back. The struggle returns and you are kept busy." He was off again.
"Ah, veto. No, thanks. I'm doing just fine without your help."
"Too late. The wheels are in motion. Don't worry - there's no charge."
"Fuck me."
And then that particular moment had passed and Nick was leaning against a display of jars and containers. He gently rubbed his bottom lip - a gesture intended to be casual. "It was interesting what you said about earning ten thousand experience points this month." Casual casual casual. "That would be quite a feast. You mentioned there is a high-level match tonight. Surely attending that would be a considerable help?"
"West Ham are at home to Brighton. 630 XP, plus injury time."
"Fascinating. Injury time, you say? That's when the injuries happen? No matter. If you are willing to travel to Ham, I am willing to use my contacts to ensure your admittance."
"Oh!" I exclaimed, faux-surprised. "You're willing to help me and you have no skin in the game?"
"Let's just say it would go a long way to repairing the damage you have caused."
I ignored his jibe; I wanted to go to that match. "If you want me to drive to fucking London I'll have to leave right now and I'll get back home at 4 a.m. or some shit. So there are conditions."
"Oh?"
"I'm only here in this shop because I want a lamp. So I want a lamp. It doesn't have to be amazing, but it has to work. I want to read books in bed. Right? And I want some books. Page turners. Something like The Da Vinci Code. Holiday stuff. Because, Nick old bean, this is my holiday. My holiday on my terms. All right? Ticket, lamp, book. What do you say?"
He took out his ancient pocket watch and fussed with it. "The ticket will be waiting for you. As will a lamp, and a book."
"Great," I said. "Bye." I strode to the door and rested my palm on the handle. "One last thing. Did you ever do a deal with Dixie Dean?"
His eyes darted around as he went through his personal memory banks. "Dixie... Dean. You mentioned him but the name does not, shall we say, ring a bell."
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"Fuck me," I mumbled. "You're telling me he did that for real?"
"What?"
"Nothing. If I drive to London and there's no ticket, I'm hitting Retire. Just so you know. Say hi to the imps for me."
***
In the 1933 FA Cup Final, Dixie Dean became the first ever footballer to wear the number 9 shirt. (The match was the first where players wore numbers to help spectators identify them. Everton wore numbers one to eleven; a small team from Manchester wore number twelve to twenty-two.)
West Ham versus Brighton was a fascinating clash of styles, with one team playing hard-boiled, stripped-down football not a million miles away from what Ian Evans would do with a five hundred-million-pound squad, and the other trying to evolve the sport in real-time.
West Ham's number 9 was Michail Antonio, a player who had started his career in non-league. He'd started as a winger, like me, but now was a hard-working striker. He scored a first half header and ran around the huge stadium while fans screamed with delight. I was pretty jealous.
The match was also a chance to see Brighton's double dribbler, Mitoma, cause havoc on the left wing. He was fantastic, but his final decisions weren't always the best. He could take a difficult pass, dribble past two players at high speed, and then give the ball straight to the opposing goalkeeper. He was better than me at everything except decision-making.
While I watched and my XP counter ticked higher, I thought about my meeting with Nick. He'd confirmed that he relied on me getting XP and had finally said out loud that he didn't want me to play football at a professional level. He didn't want me to catch the eye of The Refereemon, but as long as I avoided that I could do whatever I wanted. Self-regulation, he'd said. That was clever - make me set my own goals and limits and if I messed up I'd only have myself to blame. Something to try on my players!
West Ham were soaking up pressure and then hitting long balls for Antonio to chase. He had started at a tiny club and bounced around the lower leagues for a while, gaining experience. It took him seven years to get from non-league to Premier League. If I did the same, who could argue? Luton Town had brought players all the way from non-league to the Prem. It did happen. It just had to happen slowly. Well, fine - until recently, that had been the plan, anyway.
I was 23. If we got one promotion per year, I'd get to the top flight aged 28. One year to inject some CA into me, then aged 29 I could have a bash at Dixie Dean's record. Injuries permitting, I'd probably get three or four years at the top level as a player. That was enough, right?
Another way to think about it was that I could improve as fast as I wanted as long as I did it in private. Playing for Tranmere in January had seemed like a fun template, one I could repeat with a League One team next year and the Championship the year after. That plan was out. That plan, I hadn't realised, was me walking into the crosshairs. What about that idea I'd had once where I paid a club to let me train with them? If I paid Birmingham City twenty thousand pounds to let me spend next January cosplaying as one of their players, would they? Maybe if I included it as part of the deal when I sold them a player. I could get my levels up without making myself more visible.
Ah, but what was the point? If I couldn't get on the pitch to use those skills, why bother?
Mitoma took the ball on the left and tried to thread a pass through the eye of a needle to a teammate. It was ambitious - if it had come off, his teammate would have had an easy chance to score. It didn't come off, and West Ham were back in possession. Mitoma's match rating dropped one point. The curse did not approve.
The move gave me an idea. I could be CA 200 player as long as I didn't look like a CA 200 player. Coming on for the last ten minutes to turn a defeat into a draw? Yes, as long as I stank the place up in the next match. I could play like dogshit in matches we were winning easily. Passes could bounce off me, I could miss headers, hit free kicks into row Z. Then against good teams I'd put on a show - not too much - and make sure we smashed the league. 'He plays better against better teams,' people would say. That was a thing in sports. That happened.
Creative, he'd called me.
This was very creative thinking, since I was nowhere near CA 200.
I wanted to do something extraordinary as a player. Scoring 2 goals a game wouldn't go unnoticed no matter how many passes I miscontrolled.
Mitoma got the ball again, waited for the defender to commit himself, burst past, and was fouled. A pretty wild tackle. Orange card level - it needed more punishment than yellow but maybe wasn't quite a red.
As the Japanese winger rolled around in agony, I remembered why I hadn't ever wanted to play every league game. Things were different, now, though. Now I wanted another rush of the goal drug.
If only the Refereemon had a yellow and red card system. I could go crazy as a player until I got the yellow card, then stop. But I felt certain the dude only dealt in red.
All right. Frustrating, but the upshot was that I wouldn't be signing for world champions Luton Town anytime soon. I would keep my head down. Keep out of the papers. Self regulate like a champ. If I stayed with Chester, I'd find ways to increase my CA and be ready for when we got to the Premier League. Maybe five years from now I could ask Nick if he thought it was safe for me to take a tilt at Dean's record. Or even better - I'd ask one of the imps. They were more likely to give me an honest answer.
Pockets full of experience points, head swirling with desires and fears, I drove way, way, way back up north. I parked and went up the lift to find a little present outside my door. A plain, silver lamp and a book.
Something like the Da Vinci Code, I'd said. Nick had picked up another book in the series by the same author. This one was called Angels and Demons.
I shook my head as I flicked through it. Not a very creative choice, but the chapters were lovely and short.
***
Dean's family on both sides hailed from Chester.
Wednesday, 3 January
I wasn't at my freshest for training, but I did the work. It was a tough day, physically, but even though I was struggling - and failing - to match what the other players were doing, I couldn't help but keep a manager's eye on proceedings. There were a few lads, I started to realise, who were coasting. Doing the bare minimum. The list, you'll be shocked to hear, included Jack the Lad and Samuel.
After lunch, I went back onto the pitches to take free kicks. Beckhams and Cannonballs spluttered off my feet. No risk of The Refereemon mistaking me for a talented footballer today.
As I showered, I thought about Chester. I was trying to keep out of the squad screens - a digital detox of sorts - but it would have been unprofessional not to keep an eye on the latest transfers. A lot was going on!
3rd Jan - Trick Williams - Chester - Eastleigh - free
3rd Jan - Vivek Purwaha - Chester - West Didsbury - loan
3rd Jan - Michael Harrison - Chester - West Didsbury - loan
3rd Jan - Calabash Barkley - Tranmere Rovers - Chester - loan
The squad was pretty full, now. 24 slots filled, including Michael who would be back in a month unless he wanted to stay longer. With Trick safely gone - hurrrrr! - Sandra would be able to use Eddie Moore at left back. Bark was cover for Joe Anka, and Sandra knew we'd promised him minutes. Today, Tyson's name was included in the squad list, meaning he'd trained with the first team. Yesterday, it had been Benny and Lucas Friend. The youth system was well and truly linked to the first team.
With the new signings, we were 900 pounds a week over budget, but MD understood we needed bodies and said he would make it work. The truth was, we'd been under budget for most of the season.
The women's squad had a few minor injuries and was looking threadbare, especially in defence. I needed to send Jackie some reinforcements, ASAP.
***
He left school at fourteen and worked for Wirral Railway. He was a late starter; his father had done the same aged eleven.
While I watched the horror unfold in front of me, I tried to remember the last time I'd watched a five-a-side match simply for XP. Before I became Director of Football at Chester, surely? Before the World Cup.
Well, I was back! There was no danger of me finding a useful player - I'd stumbled across an over 45's league playing in a flat-roofed Soccerdome. One team was a bunch of rail workers playing under the banner Railway FC. They were playing a team of bus drivers called Park the Bus FC and the score was currently eight-all with two minutes to go.
I'd like to say all the stray passes and mistakes were because of the pressure of the situation - next goal wins - but it was no different to what I'd seen in the previous 58 minutes. Neither team found a winner, face was saved, hands were shaken. Players would go home and tell their wives and kids how many goals they had scored. Perhaps they would write them down in a book. A record of their achievements. Something for people to remember them by. Every goal a slice of glory; the numbers on the page humming for all eternity.
The next lot came on - Queen's Park Vets against Park Road Vets. Once I'd added them to my database I went round to check the other pitches were empty, then hit Playdar. I probably wouldn't find a good player, but it would lead me to another park or pitch or field or gym where football was played.
***
Dean took a night job so that he could concentrate on his first love, football.
Me: Sending you a DM to take a look at. She'll come to training when she can but she works nights so it's hard. Sorry about the accent.
Jackie: What's her name?
Me: You know the rules. Can't ask me questions. I'm on holiday.
Jackie: I need to know her name.
Me: Fine. I think she said Diane but it's hard to be sure. Her English isn't very good.
Jackie: Where's she from?
Me: Merseyside.
Boom! He walked right into that one. Diana was a twenty-two year old DM. CA 1, PA 60. Jackie didn't often play with a DM but now he had the option. The hit of dopamine when I found a low CA, high PA player was really something. Nothing like scoring in front of seven thousand maniacs, but it was in that direction.
***
While playing for Tranmere reserves, Dean was fouled and lost a testicle. To help with the pain, a teammate rubbed the area. Dean is said to have shouted "Don't rub 'em, count 'em!"
Thursday, 4 January
Nick's warning had been working its way through my tracts and pipes and a nugget of wisdom was excreted soon after I woke up. My epiphany was thus: If this January was the last chance for me to improve my CA to a higher level than the average of the team I was managing, then I needed to be extremely careful about how I spent my improvement points.
For example, did I really need stamina? Emma might have spent all my points there if she had a vote, but I tended to play less than half a match, and from the DM slot I could manage my fitness quite well. So there was maybe no point going flat out on all the running drills Tranmere did.
Did I need more strength? It was useful in situations where I had to grapple an opponent, hold the ball up, or release myself from someone's clutches. A few more points would be okay, but I didn't need to be an ogre.
Dribbling, pace, and finishing? Sure, if the plan was to be a mystery winger again. A more feasible plan was to stick to being a DM, where my anticipation and the curse would do a lot of my work for me. But I could be a DM who took amazing free kicks and penalties. With Chris Beaumont in the team, I wouldn't need to shoot all the time. Turning goals into assists would keep me away from the notice of The Refereemon.
I'd need to score some goals, though. I had a taste for it, now, big time. Everton's new stadium was being built not all that far from my temporary home, and seeing that several times a day really got my juices flowing. If I was going to stay at Chester, we needed to expand the stadium and - importantly - fill it. My goals needed to be met by deafening roars. They needed to produce that buzz. That hit. More, please!
When I got to training, I took my intensity down to about 80% of the day before. They say if you aren't a hundred percent committed you're more likely to get injured, but I wasn't so sure about that. It sounded like an excuse for idiots to throw themselves into reckless challenges. After the usual drills, we played a fairly serious full-sized match with the first team playing 4-3-3 and the rest of us matching the 3-5-2 we expected from Barrow. That meant I played right mid, so I was up against Jack the Lad. At one point, I had the ball on the right and I was strolling around, being all dickish and annoying. I bent to put my knee on the ball and the sky went CRACK! I looked up, expecting to see a thousand-foot high demon with twin Uzis, but it was just a plane that had gone supersonic.
Jack had taken my pause as a chance to get me, but I recovered just in time and passed the ball left. I sprinted forward into the slot Jack had vacated, and sure enough the ball was played there. I accelerated as the goalie rushed out to intercept. If I got there first, I could boop the ball over the keeper, but he would wipe me out and I wasn't much interested in that.
So I swayed, pretended to do the boop, but ran around the keeper without touching the ball. I didn't expect anything other than the goalie to collect it, or kick it clear, or something of the sort. But my move bamboozled him, and I found the ball rolling clear. I passed it into the unguarded net.
When I looked back, chuckling, I saw that the goalie and Jack had crashed into each other and somehow they were both prone, holding their groins, lightly moaning. What you do in this situation is, you wait to check how serious things are, then you make jokes.
I knew right away both players were fine - certainly no attributes had turned red - so I skipped the first part. "Don't rub 'em, count 'em. How many have you got, goalie?"
"Three," he gasped. He untensed his body a fraction. "Got one of his."
"It's meatballs for lunch, isn't it?" I wondered, as the physio arrived. I looked around at the half dozen players who'd come over to check on the sitch. "Seriously, though. We should start calling Jack's girls to let them know he's gonna be out of order for a while. Anyone free this afternoon?"
"Best," he groaned.
"What?"
"Shut the fuck up or I'll steal your girl."
"Yeah, I'm not worried about that. I've put her somewhere you'll never get to her."
"Where?"
"The other team's half."
Sharp inhalation of breath from the nearby players, followed by Reece Cox hiding behind Mark Dodd so he could laugh. Carlos, the team's exotic Spanish DM (who was returning from injury), shook his head. "Juu are savage, Max. Remind me not to cross you."
"Don't worry about crossing me. Worry about our only left-sided player crossing the half-way line."
"Fuck off," said Jack.
"I've been waiting for the right time to get that off my chest," I confessed. "I feel good, now. Better out than in, as they say."
We had lunch - Jack sat away from me - and I asked Trev Northcross, the reserve goalie who Emma liked, if he'd let me work on set pieces with him. He was up for it. I did twenty minutes of corners, ten minutes of direct free kicks, and ten of swinging crosses for him to catch - that was good practice for him, too.
In the shower, the monthly perk arrived.
January Special Offer
New perk available: Masterpiece Theatre
Cost: 1,000 XP (If your total experience point income in January exceeds 10,000. If you fail to reach that target, the perk will be added to the shop as a permanent option priced at 4,000 XP).
Effects: Allows for more precise deployment of players at set pieces.
I mean, wow. I'd wanted some kind of perk like this almost since I'd realised I could control football teams, but the fact Nick had taken my suggestion I could grab ten thousand XP and turned it into an actual goal was almost as annoying as the whole Sentinel thing. (I'd finally given up on the name I'd invented. Sentinel was better and more threatening.)
Fine-tuning where players would go would be fantastic - even from the limited description I was already fizzing with ideas. What about putting Goliath at the near post and everyone else at the far post? How would you defend that? Most teams tried to get two or three players near him. That would leave us with a three-man advantage on the other side. Fuck, what if I could get Goliath and Christian Fierce?
"Max?"
"Yep?"
It was Trev, the goalie I'd been training with. "Are you laughing because you're thinking about Jack?"
"No." I turned my shower off.
"Aren't you worried he'll give you a hard time?"
"No. I'm worried I won't be here long enough to annoy him into changing. Do you know what's up with him?"
"I didn't know anything was off. I thought he was playing well."
"He's defending well. Can we do this same time tomorrow?"
"Yes! It was great. Most players get worse as they get tired. You get better!"
"Top top top."
I dried off. After I got dressed, I sat and stared at nothing while I thought about the next perks. The curse was presenting my XP stash slightly differently.
XP balance: 3,659
January income: 973/10,000
Masterpiece Theatre was desirable but not urgent, and I'd only be able to buy it when I'd reached ten thousand XP, or on Feb 1st for an inflated price. Basically I needed to have a thousand XP in my balance at the end of the month. Easy.
So the next ones on my list started with Attributes 5, which was 1,900 XP. That was top of the list mostly because it had been so long since I'd unlocked any attributes.
Then there was Contracts 2 for 5,000 XP. That was expensive enough that I could justify using one of my discount vouchers. The five percent one would take 250 XP off the bill. Being so close to the perk was absolutely mouth-watering - it would show me how much money players at other clubs were on, and their contract expiries and release clauses and so on. That info was much more important than unlocking a single attribute, but I was in a holiday mood, and when you're on holiday you chuck your money around recklessly.
The third thing on my shopping list was Wibwob. Base price ten thousand, but I'd use the ten percent voucher on that one. At the start of Feb I might have something like five or six thousand XP, meaning I'd be in range of Wibwob at the start of March, or mid April.
Yeah. By the end of this season, unless I got turned into a bug by a cosmic referee, I would be a very powerful football manager.
For now, though, I bought Attributes 5 and watched as the crappy animation happened - I'd forgotten about that! I saw a generic player profile with almost as many empty cells as full ones. The first empty one turned yellow then returned to being blank, and the next changed giving the illusion of movement, highlighting only the empty cells, about fifteen of them, and the coloured one went round faster and faster, slower and slower, making it look something like a roulette wheel.
Finally, it landed on...
Creativity.
Fuck me - did Old Nick have his hands on the scales, there?
What did creativity mean in terms of a football match? The ability to do something unexpected? A reverse pass? A no-look backheel nutmeg? It had to be something like that.
I quickly took a look around the men's and women's squads, and there were no great surprises. D-Day's creativity was high and Glenn Ryder's was low. The women had a set of creative midfielders - Kisi, Dani, Maddy, and Charlotte. That made sense.
Well, I was pretty pleased with it, and I would enjoy working out exactly what difference it made to players and how they played.
In the shop, Attributes 6 appeared, retailing at 2,050 XP.
***
He is best known for his exploits during the 1927–28 season, which saw him score a record 60 league goals. In total, he scored 84 goals that season. He also scored 18 goals in 16 appearances for England which, as you know, is more than one per game.
Friday, 5 January
Me: I DON'T KNOW HOW TO SAY THIS BUT I HAVE MET SOMEONE ELSE
Emma: One day you're going to go too far with this sort of thing. Who is she?
Me: Goalkeeper! There are two of those goalkeeper school things here. One's down the road from the stadium. I called the guy and said have you got a tall, lithe woman who can handle balls.
Emma: Why do I feel these messages are going to be in a court case one day?
Me: I've just seen her in action. She's perfeck.
Emma: One for the agency?
Me: Not quite that good, no.
Emma: Shame. What is XG?
Me: xG. Expected Goals. It's how many goals you should have scored. Example: a penalty kick has xG of 0.76. You should score 76 goals for every hundred shots.
Emma: Okay. My friends who are boys who like football WhatsApp group said you were in a podcast. I'll send you the link.
***
Extract from Pyramid Schemers, the original and best podcast dedicated to the other 72 teams in the Football League.
Rocky: So that's my pick for 'over 2.5 goals'. Mike, what have you got next?
Mike: It's my pick for 'long shot'. The listeners really liked it last week when we picked bets with looong odds, so I'm doing that again. Going extra long.
Rocky: Spicy. But not longer than Juan Rosario to score against the tightest defence in the Championship? What was it, ten to one?
Mike: That nearly paid off! He hit the crossbar. This one's even longer odds. It's in League Two, for Tranmere.
Rocky: Hang on. You're not advocating for our listeners to bet on Tranmere Rovers... to score?
Mike: Unorthodox content, I know, but hear me out. For once, I think the market has made a mistake. After his two-goal haul last week, the bookies slashed his odds, but in my opinion, nowhere near enough. Max Best to score any time is twenty to one.
Rocky: Twenty to one is the longest pick in this show's award-winning history. You're suggesting that lightning will strike twice. That's what this pick is. Who are they playing?
Mike: Barrow.
Rocky: Barrow! With one of the meanest defences in League Two! Best won't start the match. He's a defensive midfielder. Yes, he takes penalties but twenty to one is the stingiest price in the history of sports betting.
Mike: Hear me out.
Rocky: Go on.
Mike: He plays DM for Chester.
Rocky: Maybe for some listeners this is a good time to mention that this player is, in fact, the manager of Chester Football Club. If you think it's bizarre that we're talking about him playing for Tranmere in League Two, there are many who would agree with you. Please continue.
Mike: He plays DM because he's doing a job for his team. When they're behind he gets forward and he's a different beast. For Tranmere, he's playing as one of the front three. He dropped deep against Notts County because they have such dangerous players, but Barrow don't have the same threat. I think he'll play in forward positions, and I think that'll mean he gets chances, and if he gets chances, he'll score. He's extremely clinical. I think when he's played enough games in higher divisions we'll see that he's an xG machine. We'll never see odds like this again. That's why he's my [gunshot sound effect] long shot pick of the week.
Rocky: Okay. [coughs]. Maybe this is a good time to remind listeners to gamble responsibly. Never bet more than you can afford to lose. Visit be gamble aware dot co dot uk to learn more.
This was fascinating. First, the existence of a podcast specifically designed for EFL teams - those NOT in the top twenty. Second, the way the hosts were named after boxers. Third, their analysis was really good! Fourth, neither were fans of Chester, or Tranmere, or me, so if one was saying I was good and one was saying I was shit, that would help with the old Sentinel business. I could use these guys as canaries in the soul mine - if both were raving about me, I might need to consider dialling down my performances.
Me: That podcast was interesting. Tell your mates I'm not an xG machine and they shouldn't bet on me. Tell them I have no intention of scoring against Barrow and the match will be of absolutely no interest to anyone. Tell them Dixie Dean's record is safe.
Emma: They're laughing at you.
Me: Is that right?
Emma: Said the closest you'll ever get to him is his statue.
Me: Send them some middle finger emojis then leave the group.
Emma: Okay, done.
Emma: [eye-rolling gif]
***
A statue of Dean was unveiled outside Everton's stadium in May 2001.
Saturday, 6 January
James O'Rourke hadn't spoken to me much during training, and that was fine with me. What I needed most in the world was someone to discuss my problem with - the problem of how to do whatever I wanted with no interference and no penalties if I went too far. Yeah, James was the last person I wanted to talk to. In some ways, he was like a feeble version of The Sentinel. James couldn't chop my head off and send it to a different ring of hell to my body. All he could do to hurt me was not pick me, not let me go on the pitch.
Huh. That wasn't so feeble, was it? Right now, that was the main thing I wanted.
Fortunately, I was friends with James's own Sentinel - Mateo - and if I didn't get on the pitch today there would be hell to pay.
I was feeling pretty glum, slumped on the team bus with my earphones in to make sure no-one talked to me. What was I going to do? We needed to get points to save the club from relegation. Given the chance, I'd have to score a goal. Maybe two. Would The Sentinel give a shit about a match in League Two? Did it even know what Cumbria was? It would be a bad day if I scored a hat trick but Nick hit Retire.
Tricky. Messy. Annoying.
The bus passed Everton's new docklands stadium - looking gorgeous - and made a right turn. That seemed to surprise everyone, so much so that I felt it even without hearing what they were saying.
A few minutes later, the bus stopped outside Everton's current home, Goodison Park. Huh? We were playing two hours away, in Cumbria.
"Here you go, Max," said James, with a little smile.
I frowned and got up. "Have you sold me to Everton?"
He laughed. I hadn't seen him in this good a mood the whole time I'd been at Tranmere. "You asked if we could stop off at the statue, remember? Said it'd only add five minutes to the journey. Said it might inspire you."
"Right," I said. It was all coming back to me. "But you said no."
"I said I'd think about it."
"But you meant no."
His smile faded, but came back. "But then I really did think about it, and what's the harm? He played for Tranmere, after all. I like that you care about the history. Go on, fill your boots."
The doors opened and I found myself walking towards the larger-than-life statue of Dixie Dean, a player so good that Stanley Matthews and Tom Finney were in awe of him. The rest of the squad disembarked behind me, confused but interested.
Lee Contreras asked if he was allowed to record in the area. "What?" Oh. For his YouTube. "Better idea. Let's do that interview you wanted. Tell me when you're ready."
He couldn't believe his luck. "We're on."
I stared into the lens. It didn't come naturally to me, but I'd found that if I didn't think about how I looked, I tended to look fine. "All right, Contrarians?" Lee blinked as I said the name of his tens of hard-core fans. I think it blew his mind that I'd watched any of his stuff. "Max Best here with all the Tranmere players. We're off to smash Barrow and I said, hey, let's pop by the Dixie Dean statue on the way there. Bit of a pilgrimage sort of thing. Lee, you been here before?"
"No, Max," he said, keeping the camera on me.
"So here's the man himself," I said, looking up. "Stocky, wannee? Powerful. Sort of a South American look to him. Down here, Lee." Lee dipped his phone. "People leave flowers and that. Everton aren't even playing today. And come over here." I'd read about this on Wikipedia or somewhere. "This metalwork, here, see? The little circles there? There are sixty. This guy scored 60 goals in 39 games. A year or two before, he had a crash and smashed up his skull. Remind you of anyone?" I rubbed the back of my head.
"You gonna score 60 goals, Max?"
"I was thinking about it," I said, talking to myself, now, pottering around, looking at the big man from all angles. "You can't be a fan of English football and not come across the name Dixie Dean. None of us have ever seen him play and there's no good footage. But we're still talking about him a hundred years later, and we'll still be talking about him a hundred years from now." I reached up to touch the nearest knee. "He had a crash and shattered his kneecaps. Metal plate in his head. Imagine how many goals he'd have scored if he was totally healthy. It boggles the mind. Guys like this built the sport. You're on big money, now, Lee, because this guy made everyone in the Wirral want to watch football."
"We're standing on the shoulders of giants," said James O'Rourke, who had come to listen.
"That's it! Yeah. You know how good players from the past were because of how people talked about them. Bill Shankly said Dixie Dean was on a par with Beethoven and Rembrandt." I blew air out of my cheeks. "Don't you want people to talk about you like that? What would you give?"
There was a brief silence, broken when Junior bent down to check out the flowers. "Hey! There's a Tranmere scarf." He picked it up and threw it around Dixie Dean's neck.
"Team photo!" barked James. He looked more like a manager, now. More in control. I slipped away. "Best! Where are you going?"
"I'm not in the team," I said.
"Yes, you fucking are. Get over here."
I stood next to him at the back row, while the front row knelt. I had a feeling this would blow up on Tranmere's social media accounts. When James announced it was time to go, most players were keen to get out of the cold and onto the warm bus. I was the last, along with Lee. He pointed the camera at me again, and I put my hand in front of it. He didn't argue, but he glanced up at the dominant player of his age. "You can't score 60 goals in one season. It's impossible."
"No," I agreed, but not for the reason he had given. Apart from the fact that The Sentinel would make me live inside out for a thousand years as a warmup to the real torture, it suddenly seemed disrespectful to think of myself in the same breath as Dixie Dean. He had earned everything he achieved. Earned through blood, sweat, and tears, not by exploiting a loophole. "I can imagine having a season where I score 20 in 10 starts. You know, just for shits and giggles."
"Sure, Max."
I took one last look at the Tranmere scarf. Someone had put that there today. I looked around, my neck suddenly tingling. Was there a PA 200 ten-year-old in the area just waiting to be found? Heading 20, strength 20, finishing 20? "And you know what? If I can't be Dixie Dean... I can find the next one."