2.

Curzon Ashton 0 Chester 2: Seals Third After Drab Affair

Chester went third in the table with a solid if uninspiring win over a woeful Curzon Ashton team. Two goals in quick succession saw the Blues race into pole position for the win, and they never had to get out of third gear to maintain their lead.

The first half saw the home team show no ambition, but they made it difficult for Max Best's men. At half-time, no changes were made in the playing staff or playing style, but one of Chester's attacks paid off, with Henri Lyons heading home from a Ryan Jack free kick. Curzon briefly showed some initiative, but their first real foray into the Chester half resulted in what is becoming a Chester hallmark - a fast, accurate, and deadly counter-attack. The move was finished with aplomb by Raffi Brown.

Then came a bizarre cameo by player-manager Best, in which he seemed to reimagine himself as the second coming of Michel Platini, with disastrous results. Best, normally so controlled and composed, buzzed around like a drunk wasp, sprayed shots miles over the bar, hit crosses that nearly exited the stadium, and took one free kick that floated so slowly and softly into the arms of the goalkeeper that there was laughter in the press box when Best fell to his knees in disappointment.

All in all, a decent performance from the away side and most of the squad seem to be in good form for the massive FA Cup tie against moneybags Salford City next weekend.

***

During my post-match shower, I remembered that I had waited until after the 70th minute to go on the pitch so that I'd definitely have enough XP to buy the Injuries perk. I bought it there and then, and as I dried off I checked out the sitch.

Buying the perk enriched the Injuries and Bans tab of a player profile. I looked at Henri's.

Injuries: None

Okay! That was the same info I got with the first five guys I looked at. But Glenn Ryder was talking to Physio Dean and they both had frowns on their faces.

Injuries: Potential foot injury

I wandered over. "What's the haps?"

"Guy stood on me at a corner," said my captain. "Twat."

Having a giant dude with spikes coming out of his shoes stand on your foot is just about as painful as it sounds, but as long as there was nothing broken, Glenn could play in the next game. "Dean. Full works. X-rays, MRIs, Rorschach tests."

"Rorschach tests on his metatarsals, Max?"

"You heard me. Get photos distributed to all the churches. I want people praying and laying on hands for this foot. I want, like, questions asked in the House of Parliament about this foot. This foot has to be ready to play next Saturday."

"I'm definitely in the team, then?" said the guy who was pretty much the first name on the team sheet. He'd never asked that before, even as a joke. I noticed that a few conversations near us had died down. People wanted clues to how I was thinking. If I wasn't careful, I could piss a lot of people off by excluding them from our televised FA Cup match.

I looked around before returning my attention to Ryder. "You're in if you're fit. I'm going to explain the whole kit and caboodle on Monday morning. There will be some unhappy people and I'll need your help keeping their chins up. Do you know what I mean? We need to practice my weird idea instead of normal training, but standards can't slip. We've got Darlington soon."

"I'm with you, Max."

I looked around. The curse didn't say anything about Robbo's dodgy shoulder or Joe Anka's tight calves, so clearly they didn't meet the threshold of hurting enough for me to care about.

The only other potential issue was with Pascal. "Dude," I said, waving him over.

He hadn't been in the matchday squad, but he'd warmed up and kicked some balls around. He said he liked to get a feel for the stadium in case he ever played there again in the future. He would note the pitch dimensions and how the wind blew and so on, along with tips on how to get the most out of the referee. Next time he played in that stadium or against that team or under that ref, he'd be even better prepared. "Yes, Max?"

"Anything you want to say to Dean?"

Pascal looked slightly panicked - he was never sure if I was pranking him or if there was some puddle of British culture he was about to splash into. "Happy birthday, Dean?"

"Why don't you tell us about your knee?" My new tab had said 'Potential knee injury' and I didn't like the sound of that. Knees were a lot more expensive than feet.

"Oh," he said, flexing it. "It's fine."

"Is it fine, mate?" I said, unimpressed.

"Well... I did feel a twinge."

"Report!" I barked. "Self-report! What the fuck!"

He turned red. "Sorry, Max, it's... it's nothing. I felt a twinge and then it was fine."

"Bullshit. Dean, can you pop in tomorrow and check it out?"

I had never asked him to work on Sunday before. This was serious. "Yes, Max."

"Thanks. Pascal, you better be fucking honest, right? No dicking around with this one. You are my tactical plan for Salford. Do you get me? So if you're going to pull up after five minutes, we're fucked. Like, we'll be a laughing stock, nationwide. If you can't play, I'll come up with something else. But if you tell me you can and you can't..." I tried to think of a threat that expressed how angry I'd be without getting into overly violent imagery. The way I was squeezing my fists seemed pretty clear, though.

"Yes, Max. I promise."

I glared at him as he went off to his part of the bench. He sat and stared at his knee as though he'd never seen one before. "Boss?" said Glenn.

"Yep."

"I thought I heard a couple of boos at the end. Does that qualify for a piss-up?"

"Brig," I said, waving my assistant over. "Did you hear boos at the end?"

"No, sir."

"That's just these home fans lacking imagination. Their team was dire and we stuck to our task like champions." Having a post-match party was either stupid or necessary, depending on what happened in the match after the party. Squad morale had gone up when I'd mentioned it, and I didn't want to be a relentless taskmaster. The guys were doing everything I wanted, and a trip to Vegas, so to speak, could go a long way in terms of team bonding. "I was thinking this week might be ideal for a bit of a blowout. The cup match will be fucking agony for almost all the players; win or lose they'll have earned a pint. Then on Tuesday we're home to Tamworth. They're one of the worst teams in the league. I'll take a scrappy one-nil, there, and then we'll have high morale going into the Darlington game."

"Some players will overdo it, sir."

"This Monday morning, I'll outline the likely teams for the next two games. For example, Trick will start against Tamworth unless he drinks himself out of contention. And so on. Glenn, do you guys drink more or less when the WAGs are with you?"

He considered that for quite some time. "Less."

"Bingo."

"And you're paying, are you, sir?"

"I'll pay... the first such and such an amount. To be confirmed."

"There's nothing else you might need the money for in the near future?" said the Brig, watching me carefully.

"Can't think of anything. Can you?"

Of course he couldn't talk about our deal in public, so he said, "No, sir."

I tried to give him a cheeky grin, but it didn't come out right. Maybe it was the chat we'd had about dark mode. His eyes were cutting through me like a chainsaw. I could get afraid or I could get practical. "If we were based in Manchester we'd go to Stalybridge," I mused.

"What?" said Physio Dean.

"Staly Vegas, we call it. Good night out, there."

"Leave the planning to me, boss," said Ryder.

So I left him to it. I walked to my little spot of bench and got dressed. The Brig came over. "Would you like me to do the post-match interview, sir?"

"Yes, please." He started to walk away. "Wait." I got quieter. "Are you going to be monitoring my spending on an ongoing basis?"

Something of a twinkle came into his eyes. "No, sir. I was joking, before."

"Huh. Today I learned: jokes can be terrifying."

"One thing, sir. May I ask... why you played like that? In case it comes up in the interview."

While making sure we didn't let Curzon back into the game, I had played like hot garbage. "Sure. Some analyst at Salford will watch the footage of this and think I'm going to try to play CAM or right wing or something. And they'll see me playing dogshit and plan accordingly."

"So it's misdirection."

"Yes."

"I will say you played your best but had an off day. Something like that?"

I thought about it. My new perk came to mind. "Say I'm carrying a calf strain and tried to play through it but obviously it didn't go well and now I face a race against time to get fit enough to play in the cup, blah blah blah."

"Race against time. Got it."

"Actually, no, then people will stress about that the whole week. Just... pretend I played great. That will make Salford even more complacent. Say you thought I played with great dynamism and..."

"Thrust."

"Perfect. I'll watch the women tomorrow, by the way."

"Very good, sir. I'll pick you up."

***

Sunday, October 29

Jackie Reaper's luck had turned in a big way. When he took over as the men's team manager, he had been catapulted into a stressful relegation battle with a series of tough away games. Now, his first match was at home to the worst team in the league, Ellesmere Port.

Their average CA was 16, and with Jackie playing an unexpected 4-5-1, ours was exactly 19. A few players had hit their CA caps already, but with the others progressing quickly under Jackie's coaching, we'd surely be the strongest team in the league from around January or February, depending on exactly how good Altrincham were.

A few postponements would be good, I thought to myself as I watched us quickly get a grip on the midfield. Like with the men's team, any matches that got moved to the end of the season would be ones we'd have a better chance of winning.

Ellesmere had a couple of players that would improve our squad, so I asked Jill to sound out their manager about a possible January transfer. Of course there were plenty of players I could get for free, but if I could sign a few tier 7 nobodies for a nominal fee, say two or three thousand pounds, then why not?

Jackie looked relaxed and confident, and his team played relaxed and with confidence, and they eased to a three-nil win marred only by Lucy hobbling off with a bad knock to the ankle. Later that evening, the curse told me it was strained ligaments and she'd be out for two weeks.

So... that was good to know, but Dean or Livia could have told me that. Did it benefit me to know it as soon as Dean did? Sometimes the curse seemed to come from an age before smartphones. Which it had.

The Injury perk was probably most helpful when it came to Pascal and his possible knee injury - if I could see those things we wouldn't put him into a match and make it worse. Was that worth three thousand XP? Probably. Long term. For the moment, I still had a fair amount of buyer's remorse.

More positively, Dean texted me that both Glenn and Pascal would be fit to play against Salford.

With the win in the bag, and another 180 experience points in my pocket, I slipped away and followed Playdar to a field where a PA 55 ten-year-old right midfielder was doing outrageous things against his mates. I added his uniqueness to my collective.

Then it was back to Ruth's barn to watch video after video of Salford City, looking for something that would make me change my mind about the crazy tactical idea I had come up with one night where I'd eaten way too much cheese.

In the evening, Emma called and I explained my latest Maxterplan to her. She fell asleep before I got to the second slide.

***

Monday, October 30

Both Salford and the club that bears its name have undergone remarkable transformations in recent times. Massive redevelopment centred around Salford Quays (at the end of the famous Manchester Ship Canal) led to the area being chosen as a major BBC office. The Quays are also the home of the Lowry Centre, where I had brought Emma to look at paintings of matchstick men going to watch the football, and the Imperial War Museum, where you may see another Lowry painting, this time of matchstick men going to work. Yeah, I don't understand that one, either. Still makes more sense than parading a horse around a football pitch, though.

Salford City, meanwhile, were bought by five legendary Manchester United players in 2014. These players were part of the 'Class of '92', the group of young players who won the FA Youth Cup in 1992, progressed into the Man United first team, and dominated English football for years to come. (David Beckham, the sixth member of the Class of '92, invested in the club a few years later than the rest.)

The owners tracked their progress in a documentary - that sounds familiar - and Salford rose from tier 8 to tier 4. Last season, they'd made it to the playoffs, hinting they were one of the better teams in the division. I reckoned their best team would be around CA 90. Maybe even as high as CA 100. They would probably rotate the team to some extent, and they probably wouldn't come to Chester fully fired up, but still - they were almost certainly going to dick us.

"All right shut the eff up," I said, sweeping my eyes around the drab meeting room.

"Eff?" said Steve Alton.

"I'm trying to swear less," I said. My players and staff looked at me like I was crazy. "I'm going on telly, aren't I? I have to watch my Ps and Qs and not offend the wee 'uns."

"Can you say 'wee'?" wondered Trick Williams, because that was his level as a human being. Getting rid of him in January would be better than a cup run.

"Let's get stuck in," I said. "It's going to be a long week. It's cup mania out there, but in here we have to be able to switch it on and off. Now is off. Later, get on your socials, hype it up, promise the moon. I want a full stadium."

"Boss," said Glenn. "Can we discuss something important first?"

"Yes," I said, getting slightly hot. "Let's talk about all the things that are more important than our televised FA Cup match against the team owned by David Beckham, Ryan Giggs, and Paul Scholes. Yeah, great."

He looked down, but decided it was important. "There's a rumour that Henri has been training with Tranmere Rovers."

"Well, that's crazy bonkers. Don't listen to mad internet things. You know all the footballers who turn into full nutjobs because they click on a flat earth video and get lost in the algorithm. Do I need to stage an intervention before it's too late?"

"No. I think Henri is training with Tranmere because Henri told me he is training with Tranmere."

It was my turn to look down, and I got a rueful, sheepish kind of look on my face. "Fine. Henri's training with Tranmere. Great. Now you know. What's the problem?"

There was the mildest kind of uproar. People turning to each other, eyes popping, saying 'Did I hear that right?' and going 'What the - ?' Some guys flicking their wrists - that gesture meaning 'holy sheeeet what'.

"So is he leaving?" said Tony Hetherington, my only other striker. I wasn't sure if he was excited - because he'd get to play every game from now on - or terrified - because he'd have to play every game from now on.

"How do you get from there to there?" I said.

"He's training with Tranmere," said Tony, turning to look at Glenn for confirmation. Glenn nodded.

I put my fingers to the bridge of my nose. "Everybody shut up. I've sent Henri to train with Tranmere. That's the end of the story. I've sent Henri to train with Tranmere and there's nothing more to say. That's the epilogue. You might say, hey that's a pretty boring and stupid way to end a story you need to work on your epilogues mate, and I'd say, yeah but that's the end so I don't know what to tell you. But that's it. He's training with them. He'll play for us on Saturday, as a sub probably, and he'll start against Tamworth, and against Darlington. Do I need to get the fixtures and read them all out? I don't get why you're reacting like this."

Glenn rubbed his fist against his cheek. "It's quite strange, Max. He plays for us. Why's he training with them?"

"What's strange about it? Look, I made a bet with the owner of Tranmere. He's a great guy, by the way. More money than sense, but I like that about him. Tranmere have those GPS vests, and we're doing an experiment. Today and Wednesday, they'll train as normal. Tuesday and Thursday they'll surround the training pitch with Go Pro cameras. It's my hypothesis that Henri will train 20% harder on days when there's cameras around, and we'll be able to measure that thanks to the vest. All right? It's completely explainable. Explicable."

"But he was there last week," said Youngster.

"Holy eff!" I snapped. "Can we talk about effing Salford City? The biggest game of the season? Maybe? Do you think? I've already said I don't want him to leave and he doesn't want to leave. Effing wake up, lads! Are you going to walk out at three o'clock on Saturday, walk up to the nearest camera and start crying? Wailing and gnashing your teeth? Waah! Max did something I don't understand! That's more important to me than my career as a professional football playerrrrrr!" I stood with my hands on my hips for a moment, but the fake tantrum wasn't moving anyone. Ryder, in particular, looked like he would dig in for battle. I probably needed to tell them something close to the truth. "Look, I've had the fantastical, outlandish idea that training with different coaches with different tactical ideas, with a higher intensity, with better facilities, might help Henri. Might kick him up a level. Okay? The Tranmere owner is a mate. He thinks I'm bananas but he's letting me indulge my little daydream. He owes me a favour, which I've called in to get Henri sharper. Couple of weeks away from you lot might do him some good, don't you think? If you really, really need to hold his hand during training and swap bits of your packed lunches with him, let me know and I'll call him back."

Sam Topps had heard enough about Tranmere. "I'm ready to talk about the Salford match, boss."

"Thank you, Sam," I said, politely.

"Five thirty kick off," said the Brig.

"Shit, right. We're on TV!" I beamed. "Guys! Guys! We're on TV! You excited? Ooh, Youngster, are you excited?"

"I feel that there is a wrong answer to this question. I will back my gut feeling and say no, I am not excited, even though in truth I am."

I nodded and pointed at him. "Be excited. You've earned this. But be proportional. This is not the best thing that's ever happened to us. This is going to be routine, from now on. Cup runs, games being moved for the broadcasters, trips to Wembley. Enjoy it all, enjoy every minute, but don't come crying to me if you don't play this Saturday. This is the new normal. Got that?"

Sam Topps, the maniac, was in heaven. He loved it when I got intense like this. "Yes, boss."

"Quick word about us. When we're not freaking out trying to understand the interesting and creative decisions I make - and let's face it, modern psychology isn't advanced enough to help with that - we are a good team. We've got togetherness, heart, fitness, and sometimes a bit of quality, too. In this league, we are a menace. I effing resent the way teams are low blocking us, but in a way it's a compliment. They know if we play our best, we'll smash them. Right?

"Salford are a different proposition. They've got expensive players, okay manager, modern coaches, and with their celebrity owners, they're used to being televised. They had a bad start to the season, but recently they added a big, strong striker to be their focal point and since then their form has gone right up. It's a strong, fit team, good on the ball, and they've got a bit of a battering ram to bash through us if plan A doesn't work.

"So how do we beat them?

"We don't. It's impossible." I paused, waiting for some reaction, and got nothing. "Why is no-one saying anything?"

"Because you've got a plan," said Aff, with a hint of excitement. Like Sam, he liked when I pushed him past what he thought was possible.

"Yeah, but when I say it's impossible, you say you have sometimes believed six impossible things before breakfast." Nothing from this bunch. Henri would have laughed. "Didn't we set that up? Sort of a call and response thing?" I walked over to my flipchart and brought it closer. The team stirred. The flipchart was proof I did have a plan. Even Vimsy shuffled from foot to foot, unable to contain his curiosity.

"Salford mostly play 4-1-4-1, switching to 4-3-3 quite often. They like to get narrow and dominate the middle - that's important.

"Next, a quick lesson in pressing.

"Most of you think pressing means running fast at the guy who's got the ball, but that was twenty years ago. It's been refined and refined since then. I'm going to give you a crash course in modern pressing... in four slides.

"Slide one," I said, flipping to the first page of my presentation. I'd drawn a large black circle, representing a player, and a small black dot to show he had the ball. Four purple arrows showed the guy had complete freedom to move. "A world without pressing. This player can do whatever he wants with the ball. For now, let's focus on passing. He can pass in any direction."

I flipped to the second page. It showed the same scene, but now on the right of the black circle was a red circle, and the two purple arrows on that side were gone.

"One player comes to press from the right. What happens?"

Ben Cavanagh, keen to get back into my good books, spoke. "You can't pass to that side any more."

"Right. So if you're coaching the team, what does this do? What's on the next slide? Turn to the person next to you and discuss it. Sorry, Pascal, but I'm going to ask people to snub you for this one." He smiled. He knew all this pressing stuff way better than me. German maternity wards were full of fluffy rabbit toys, wooden train sets, plastic things to smash, and Pressing und Gegenpressing: Das Ist Der Hammer by Ralf Rangnick. I let the guys chat for a minute. It was pretty interesting, really, watching them come at the question from all kinds of footballing angles, and all kinds of levels of intellectual curiosity. "Hit me."

Glenn went first. I think under Ian Evans he would have kept his mouth shut - now he was willing to be seen to get the answer wrong. Progress. "Well... if you get another guy from the other side, you can block off all the passing lanes. Make him make a mistake."

"If you're willing to throw bodies at one player, yeah. If you can get them there in time. Good, thanks. Anyone else?"

Sam was our second most enthusiastic presser. "You slow down their attacks. Make them take another couple of passes and your defenders can get back into shape."

"Yeah, but the modern manager wants them to pass forward. Nice thinking, though. Pascal, tell us."

"You can control where their next pass will go."

I reached out to flip to the next page, but hesitated. This seemed like a good place to let them digest. "You can control where their next pass will go. Think through the implications." Watching people like Trick and D-Day try to think through action and reaction, cause and effect, was incredibly funny, but again, I wasn't allowed to laugh. "Okay." I turned to the third drawing. It had the same scene as before: the black circle being pressed by the red one. Down the page was another black circle, ready to receive the pass, but with another red circle storming towards him.

"I hate being pressed," said D-Day. "That picture gives me the willies."

"Me too. Coaches who do this stuff use words like suffocation. They want to suffocate the other team. Give them no space to breathe, no space to pass. It's pretty nightmarish."

"Are we going to learn to do this?" said Sam.

"Amazing question," I said. "By the time we get to League Two, yeah. I might not use it all the time, but we'll definitely have it in our locker. But today we only need to understand it and work out how to play against it."

"You're staying at Chester then?" said D-Day, and the two nearest players punched him in the upper arm while everyone else hurled insults at him. "It was a joke! I was joking!"

I laughed. "All right, settle down. Fucking hell, lads."

"No swearing, Mr. Best."

"Right. Right. So remember in the second picture the red circle came to press and we lost two passing arrows? I wanted to draw a kind of cone behind the red guy but I'm not a good enough artist. But does it make sense to you that behind the red circle there would be a sort of dead zone? A shadow. Into which shadow, the ball cannot be passed?" Lots of nods for that one. You couldn't pass through a solid object, and if you tried, you'd risk losing the ball in a very dangerous position.

I turned to my last, and biggest, sketch. Now the black circle with the ball was at the top of a rectangle representing the pitch. To the left of the pitch were four black circles, being pressed by five red ones. Beneath the red circle that was pressing the guy with the ball, I'd sketched a large grey rectangle and labelled it 'cover shadow'.

[https://ted-steel.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/10/b5c2.png]

"This cover shadow concept is really important to these top coaches. Basically, that's the zone where the ball carrier can't pass into. If the first presser gets there fast enough, the ball can't be played into this shadow. Got that?" Nods. "So the ball carrier is pretty much forced to play into this zone, but the red team can swarm into it, feeling pretty safe that there's no danger from the rest of the pitch."

"Max," said Vimsy, who was learning along with the players. "This cover shadow is only there for a few seconds, right? As soon as the ball is passed, it's gone."

"Yep, but it only takes five, six seconds for the reds to get the ball, or to set up the next situation where they get the ball."

"Your defence would be out of shape," he said.

"It's risky," I agreed. "But effective. In normal circumstances, we, Chester, wouldn't get a kick for ninety minutes. We wouldn't be able to exploit this space and any defenders who were out of position. Most teams at this level would panic, kick long and give the ball to Salford and they'd come right back at us. A weak team would have to defend for ninety minutes, would get exhausted, and get smashed in the last twenty minutes. All right. Pascal, what's the solution to pressing?"

"Gegenpressing. Counter-pressing," he said, for the benefit of the others.

"We're not doing that today! We've only just learned what a cover shadow is. What's the other solution?"

The guy pushed his black hair across his forehead. "Other solution? Do you mean... technique?"

I smiled. "I do mean technique." I left another pause for the rest of the group to try to parse our words. "Guys. Imagine you run full speed at Messi. Is he worried about it? No, course not. Because you're shit, no offence, and he's Messi. Right? He's not going to lose control of the ball just because you come near him. He's got loads of options - nutmeg, using a skill, one touch pass. There's no cover shadow against Messi. That's the power of technique. Now, we have a couple of midfielders who are way more press-resistant than this level - Ryan and Raffi. So that's handy. But what we really need is some kind of Messi-like figure. Some kind of technical super genius. A wizard, perhaps."

"You mean you," said Carl Carlile.

"Oh, thank you very much," I said, smiling broadly, pretending to flush from surprise and pleasure. I fanned myself with my fingers. "Gosh. What a nice thing to say."

The guys were smiling and shaking their heads. I'd set it up and they'd fallen right into the trap. Carl, as the victim, felt he had to push back. "Boss, if you don't mind me saying... you weren't very Messi-like against Curzon." I looked at the Brig and Vimsy and smiled. They smiled back. "What?" said Carl.

"Mate, do you know how hard it was for me to play like that? That was deliberate. Imagine you're the manager of Salford. Are you going to man-mark the guy who has a boomerang for a foot? Anyway, I've only played the last parts of games. No chance they'll be expecting me to start, and at half time when they reorganise... lol. Now, listen. I know my limitations. If I was doing my mystery winger shit this conversation would be very different. I can't beat five men in one lightning fast dribble. But I can beat the press, I can play medium-length passes with accuracy, and I can do it on repeat." I tapped the ball carrier black circle. "See... if this is me... then this..." I dragged my fingers across the cover shadow. "This doesn't exist. And you know what that means?"

"What?" said D-Day, who had a large collection of books but had never got past the cover blurb.

"It means absolute fucking mayhem."

"Come on!" yelled Youngster, earned him affectionate pushes and back pats from the players nearest to him.

"I'm still thinking about my final line up. This isn't a gambit to make you train well, by the way. But let me tell you what I'm leaning toward right now. 4-5-1 with me as the one. We're going to be under the cosh, so I'll mostly be playing as a DM. Basically a low block, working very, very hard to close down space, throwing bodies in front of shots, all that stuff you clowns love. Right? We need an absolutely immense defensive shift. But when we get interceptions, rebounds, whatever, you get that fucking ball to me. I don't care if I'm marked or surrounded. You can pass to Ryan or Raffi to get the ball to me. You with me?" They were. "Over on the wings, well, one will definitely be Pascal. He's absolutely essential. The other's Aff. That's how we get chances. I get on the ball, break clear of the press, slap the ball out to whoever's in the cover shadow. Right? Say it's Aff. Salford are all over the place at that point because they thought we'd play on the other side. So then it's a foot race between Aff and Pascal and their defenders. Raffi will steam forward and try to be an option for a cut back. But I'm imagining lots of balls played in front of the goalie for the other winger to get onto."

"What about Henri?" said Glenn.

"Sub. I'll see how I'm doing at half time, but probably I'll have to come off and then as they're reacting to what we did in the first half, we'll totally change it. Go 4-4-2 or something unexpected." As I spoke, I remembered I hadn't used Triple Captain and Bench Boost in the FA Cup so far. "Second half, 4-1-4-1, with Henri, Sam, and Youngster coming on. Look, I need to think that through, but I promise you, the subs are going to be as important as the starters. This will be a game of two halves. If we're ahead at half time, anything can happen. Er... we need the first goal, I think. I don't think we can do this if they score first. But if we get the first, it's going to be epic. And if we get the first, the crowd are going to go mental. If we give them something to cheer, they'll be our twelfth man." I went through a mental checklist of all the points I wanted to cover. "Does everyone feel confident they understand the basic principle, here? Salford think they're closing off the pitch, but we're going to play there anyway. Right? Lightning fast breaks with their team all out of shape. Remember they like to move central? Yes? We're blitzing them down the wings. All right. So training this week is all going to be about these elements. I'll be working on beating the press and I'll need the goalies twice a day to work on my penalties. Aff and Pascal will be coordinating these fast breaks. Vimsy will be doing shuffle and slide drills for a 4-1-5-0 low block. That's a new one, isn't it Vimsy mate?"

"New to me," he said.

"I might try something like playing Steve or Gerald in midfield, since we'll be defending so much. Spectrum's watching their set pieces and he'll show us some clips on Wednesday and we'll work on that. And every day we'll finish with an A versus B match where we set up like we're going to on Saturday and I can see what needs tweaking. I want you to think of this match as a heist. We're going in with a plan. Ice in our veins, execute, and we've got a serious chance. All good? That's it." I closed the flipchart, and, as always, found that nobody had moved.

Sam said, "How do you know all this?"

"This?" I said, tapping the flipchart. "I got this from a YouTube video. It popped up in my feed. You might want to stop watching your flat earth videos and see what's going on in your industry."

He grinned. "I watch them sometimes. How did Arsenal beat Man City, things like that. It's this stuff, like what you've told us. But I can never really get my head round it. I mean, I know that I'm never going to be doing it." He got thoughtful. "But... now we are doing it."

I shook my head and got a mischievous grin. "We're not doing it. We're undoing it. That's much easier."

***

I invited myself to the digs for dinner, and of course Henri turned it into a whole thing. Charlotte had training, but all the other residents of Fawlty Maison sat around the dining table, eating a simple but delicious meat and two veg.

Henri tried to make me sit at the head of the table like some sort of Godfather, but it was his house so I insisted he should sit there. We ended up leaving the seat empty, with Henri and I at the end, facing each other, with Youngster and Pascal to my left, then the Triplets.

"I hear you are creating some football without me," said Henri, veering towards sulk.

"I hear you've been telling the world our secrets," I replied, with equal snark. We eyed each other, then laughed at the same time. "Who first?"

"You. Tell me the plan for Salford."

I told him, finishing by saying that he wouldn't start, probably, and that he'd have to suffer and sacrifice in the second half and lead the boys home.

He thought about it. "You'll make the changes at half time?"

"Mmm. I might play five minutes of the second half, just so they don't have time for complicated adjustments. If I'm absolutely wrecked, I'll do one minute or something."

"Good. Then I will replace you."

"I'll be making three changes at the same time, if all goes well. Three will replace three."

"I will replace you."

"What's the difference?" I laughed. This request was more batshit crazy than anything I had ever done.

"The difference is how it will be presented on the television. How it will be consumed by the collective unconscious."

He meant the camera would linger on my departure, meaning it would linger on his arrival. "Christ, you're vain. Fine. How about if I hug you like a brother and let the world know you're my special little pumpkin?"

"Yes, good. I like that. Now. A quick chat about your club. West Didsbury and Chorlton. Quite a mouthful. I assume you will rename it Best Didsbury and change the team colours."

"Changing the team colours would be an act of vandalism and show you don't care about history or community."

"Salford's new owners changed the colours."

"I know. Shows it's all about them and not the fans."

"What's your motivation?"

"Bit of fun, isn't it? And when Chester sack me, I'll have something to fall back on."

"How much did you pay?"

"I'll tell you later."

"Vivek will train there and play some matches. I see how that could aid his development."

"Hope so. We'll find out, won't we?"

"And will you be sending other players there?"

"No real plans, but it's an option. Guys like Benny and Tyson could get some game time. Michael, too, if he wanted."

"Me?" said the middle Triplet.

"Yeah. With you, we could loan you anywhere. Vivek's mum wouldn't let us send him somewhere rough, so West is perfect for him. In fact, I'd say we're the only club that could get him started. You're welcome to go and watch a match there and see what you think. We could send you for a month, you'd play five or six games. Five times ninety minutes, see if it benefits you. At the least, it'd build your fitness."

He was frowning. "Do I have to?"

"Jesus, mate. No. If you're scared you wouldn't get in the first eleven, there, yeah, maybe it's not the right challenge for you." His brothers loved that, and I thought they would tease him about it until he came to me and said he'd had a think and wanted to try it. I turned to Henri. "Now tell me about Tranmere."

He talked about the training. Certain drills that Coach Colin liked. Some ideas the manager, James O'Rourke was trying to implement for the next match. "And we play short-sided matches at the ends of most sessions. I am struggling to make an impact. Even Junior, who was my junior at Darlington, is sharper than me. Now, Max, let us be honest with one another." He stared at his empty plate. "I'll put away the dishes."

Andrew slapped Noah, who announced that he would do it.

"Thank you, Noah," said Henri. Noah moved with impressive rapidity - he didn't want to miss any of the football talk. "I understand your concept. You send me to train in a tougher group and it makes me tougher. I understand that. And I think if I stayed there for long enough, I would be able to compete better than what I'm doing. But I think your plan is to send other players there, too?"

"I don't have that good a relationship with the manager and owner to do it like a factory process. But if I could, I would. For example, if I sell Youngster to... Everton... I could put as a condition that I can send five players to train with them for a month. Something like that. If the concept works, I can find opportunities."

"So you don't believe in our coaches."

"I do. To a certain point. But there's also the rest of the team, the opposition, the facilities. Everything will get better over time, but if I can send you to train at clubs who have solved those problems... it's a loophole." I looked down the table and told a white lie. "Everyone here can improve beyond the current ability of Chester. It's my duty to look for ways to make sure that can happen."

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

Henri nodded. "I have been welcomed at Tranmere, even though everyone agrees it is strange. There's an assumption that I will sign for them in January. An assumption that I allowed to fester because it was easier. Also, I have played against some of the guys. They know I have something to offer. But if you sent Andrew, or Michael, to a similar club, even Tranmere, it might not go so smoothly. In fact, I'm sure it would be a disaster. You went to Darlington. You know how it can be for a new player. A new player who isn't even part of the club? Who blows into the house like a virus? The home cells, they enrage themselves. No, Max. I think... I think you need to reconsider this. It's a beautiful concept, but it doesn't survive contact with reality. You may loan players down, to your West, for example, but not up. That is my home truth, even if the truth hurts more at home."

I squeezed my eyes closed. Limits. Always limits. But since Jackie had returned, my mind had been fizzing with ideas. "People are scouting Raffi. How about if I let him train with one of those teams for a couple of weeks? They get a good look at him. I get a better player."

"And you sell him to that club?"

I made a noise. "Why would I? Highest bidder. It's on them if they assume I'd treat them different. But that's a good scam, isn't it?"

Henri considered it. "Possibly. He might be accepted if his signing was presented as a fait accompli."

I got up and walked around. "What if I paid teams? There are higher level teams with good coaches who are broke. Here's five grand, train five of my players for a month."

"Max," he said, in a whiny voice. "The other players will snub them. Your employees will become depressed."

"I'm paying for a service," I said. "It's not just a favour to a mate. If someone bullies my guy, I'll be there with the Brig ten minutes later and we'll have a chat."

"You make enough enemies."

"You've made one great point," I said, stopping suddenly. "I can loan players up. The best West Didsbury players should come and train with us for a week. Imagine that. We can train them way past the rest of their division."

"What do Chester get from that arrangement?"

"They get me."

Henri smiled. "You shouldn't use Chester as your personal fiefdom. May I speak to you alone?" He stood and invited me to the patio, where we sat around a wooden fire and drank tea. I had peppermint.

After we'd fussed and got cosy and settled like a couple of OAPs, Henri had a question. "How much did you pay for that football club?"

"A hundred grand."

"That's not much for a whole club."

"It's about a hundred thousand more than I should have paid. Those clubs don't make a profit. West was just about breaking even. If they paid staff, it'd go broke in weeks."

"I see. So what is your ambition?"

"Turn it into a talent factory. Use my abilities as a scout to dramatically improve the quality of the players - without losing the culture, of course, that's vital - and start making money from transfers. Plus, having good players means winning the league, getting a couple of promotions, going on cup runs. I don't see why they shouldn't get to the league below us in the next five years and compete with FC United. But there's no rush; I only need it so that if I absolutely had to, I'd be able to take ten grand a year out to repay the loan. Which seems pretty trivial, really. Same as here, if we are able to get the most out of the players, everything else will fall into place."

Henri shook his head. "Max, you have a mania for personal improvement."

"It seems so."

"Where does it come from? Your father?"

The fire crackled. "No."

Henri sipped his drink and looked up at what little could be seen of the night sky. "My father took great interest in my career when I was a phenom. He made me work harder and harder. He was never satisfied, though he followed my career with great interest. When it became clear I had been overrated and would never achieve great things, he lost that interest."

"Fuck. What did he want? For you to play for France? Anything less is shit? That's bonkers. Twenty guys play for France at a time. There's tons of incredible players who don't quite make it."

"I fell a long way short of that. I rose quickly and fell slowly. I thought I had found my level. The sixth tier of English football. Then I met you." He was quiet, and with anyone else I would have piped up to fill the awkward silence. "What was it you saw in me?"

"Movement. Composure, heading, intelligence."

"Scrapping?"

"That's always been your biggest weakness."

Henri inhaled, and it took a long time for the exhale to come. "My father wanted me to scrap. To make the defenders know they had been in a contest. To make them dread playing me."

"Your dad sounds like a shit coach," I said, and regretted it. "No offence."

"I do not take offence when you are honest. Truth is beauty. I... If I promise not to kick anyone, can I start the match on Saturday?"

"No because that's not why you aren't playing. There's only one way to win, so we're doing that. You'll play the second half. Henri, mate, are you okay?"

"Being sent to another new club stirred up a lot of memories, Max. I've moved many times. The first four or five were upward. Villefrance to Bordeaux. Bordeaux to Lens. When I went home, the house was full of joy. Was it down or sideways, moving to England? Financially, it was very much up. Reading, when they had money, but my boots were cursed, I couldn't score, I was floundering, then the loans, the contracts signed and not renewed, down the slide. On my visits home, I would find that my father had been called away on 'urgent business', or he would be civil but refuse to ask about football. My family home became a memory that hurt. I moved to Corsica and became incredibly happy there. Corsica, where the goals came as easily as they ever had, then the strangest call. Darlington. Such a small club, such a cold town, but so seductive. They were desperate for me to sign." His eyes flickered towards me. "I want to be wanted, Max. It fills a need. I know it's pathetic to you."

I shrugged. "I'm too much a mess to judge you for that."

"What would you judge me for?"

"For scrapping when you should be dragging defenders out of position."

He looked up again. "Merde." He adjusted the little blanket he wore over his lap. "I know. Put all the pressure on a single point. Use your talent in the most efficient way possible. That's very Max. Max for maximum. Maximum output. From your team. From your players. From your friends."

"I want what's best for you, if that's what you're saying. My friends are footballers, so... I try to help them in terms of football. Is that bad?"

"No."

I had the feeling he was on the verge of trying to tell me something, and he would if only I asked the right question, but I was way out of my depth. Someone like Henri would probably guess and be all sophisticated about it. "Is there something you want to tell me?"

He put his tea down and folded his hands. "Please don't give up on me." I was about to say something 'funny' when I caught a shimmer of moisture reflecting on his eyeballs. I kept my stupid Manc gob shut. "You think I'm something, something that I am not. When you realise, you will share the disappointment of so many others."

I knew where I was, now. The relief was exhilarating. "Have you ever heard of the sunk cost fallacy?"

He blinked. "Of course."

"Well, I haven't. I'm going to keep investing in you until I get what I want."

"What is it you want?"

"I want to see peak Henri Lyons."

"He's not as good as you think."

"I know exactly how good you can be." I smiled, imagining the day I checked his profile and saw he was CA 90. "That'll be a good moment, when you get there. Do you want me to tell you when it happens? No, that'd be weird. That'd be like saying, 'it's all downhill from here'. Or would it? What would I want? Maybe I'd want to hear it. Hitting your peak's an achievement, and then after that the contest is, how long can I stay at this level? Someone like Ryan Jack must have stayed at his peak for fucking years. I think I'd want that, if I were you."

He was shaking his head. "You think you can spot the, what, the exact moment I can get no better?"

"To the minute."

He didn't blink for a long time. "I want that."

I touched all my fingers together and rested my chin in the first gap. "You're 28 and 6 months old. If we get promoted..." If we got promoted, that would theoretically unlock another twenty or so points in the CA he could get while at Chester. If he could get to CA 80 by the end of next season, he wouldn't far off his PA of 90. Which he'd hit during our first League Two season, provided there were no unforeseen stumbling blocks along the way. And as long as we got promoted every year. "You'll hit your absolute peak aged 30 and 6 months. Give or take a few weeks. It'll be faster if I find a coach like Jackie."

"But you have a coach like Jackie. Jackie is a coach like Jackie."

"He's the manager of the women's team. Why would he coach the men's team?"

"Because you've got everyone doing everything."

"I'm not going to push him. We've only just got him back. If he volunteers, holy shit, wow. That'll be a red letter day. But I won't ask. I do have a couple of scams lined up where he'll want to volunteer, but right now I feel bad for even thinking of them. He's allowed to be happy, right? He's allowed to have a go at being a manager." I laughed. "He's like a sexy woman who wants to be taken seriously as an artist or something. He's desperate for me to see beyond his gorgeous bald head. Nah, I'm working on the assumption he won't coach the men. I don't need someone as good as him, anyway. Don't need the grin, the humour, the man management, the tactical ideas. Just need the coaching. I hope to find it. In the meantime, it's mad schemes and plans, Henri, that you will go along with willingly, because you are not going to give up on you."

He breathed out, slightly shakily at first, but then with confidence. "Agreed."

"Come into the light for a minute." We went back inside, where all the others had already gone. "I learned a shamanic trick while on a mountaintop. Tell me if you feel anything."

While I kept a close eye on him, I used God Save the King to increase his finishing by one point. Annoyingly, his CA increased, too, which distracted me from his face. That said, I felt sure he didn't flinch or show any visible sign of anything having changed.

"I didn't feel it," he said.

"Probably for the best," I said. He gave me a strange look and wandered off to the kitchen. I double checked the information the squad screen was giving me. Increasing his finishing had bumped him from CA 59 to CA 61.

I stood there, with my mind very slightly blown. Of course I'd realised there was a connection between attribute growth and CA growth, but I wasn't sure I'd ever seen it play out so obviously one to one. PA was a limit to how much all the other attributes could improve. I'd suspected that already, with some level of certainty, but now a new and interesting thought occurred to me - if Henri's PA was maxed out and I increased his finishing, his PA would have to improve. Right?

It didn't seem like I would ever use this loophole, but for the first time I saw a way to increase someone's PA. Another rule I could bend! And if similar perks ever became available, I might be able to go from bending the rule... to breaking it.

"Shall we return to the fire?"

"Absolutely."

***

Most of that week, I had horrible, oppressive dreams. Themes of suffocation, strangulation, confinement. By day we worked on my tactical idea and refined it. I worked on evading the press and took penalties against the keepers until I thought I had my new technique down pat. There was an air of quiet optimism, of determination. Around the town, growing excitement as the big day was arriving.

On Tuesday night I went scouting at one of Chester's five-a-side places - found a couple of half-decent squad fillers. Sent Jackie a fifteen-year-old PA 20 forward, just in case. But I was stopped every two minutes for selfies. It didn't help the feeling of claustrophobia.

So the next three nights I drove to Manchester and Stockport and watched five-a-side, adding XP and finding a few prospects for West. It wasn't an easy sell, getting them to go for a trial at a tier nine side they'd never heard of, but I didn't need to sell it. I just needed the guys to go down and watch a match. They'd get sucked in, and if they didn't, there were plenty of fish in the sea.

Going home eased my dreams at first, but on Friday night, the foul mood came back with a vengeance.

***

XP balance: 501

Debt repaid: 2,558/3000

West Didsbury and Chorlton first team average CA: 10

***

FA Cup First Round: Chester vs Salford City

I named the 4-5-1 that I had planned, but one thing Secretary Joe had pointed out when I'd told him my plans over a quick coffee was that I'd be able to name nine subs and use five (instead of five and three). What a luxury! Especially considering anyone who came on would be benefitting from Bench Boost. It was also amazing in terms of keeping players happy and motivated - everyone except Michael Harrison and Angles (our goalie coach) got named and would be able to dream of getting onto the pitch.

Salford would play 4-1-4-1. They'd rested a few players, but had their key striker and DM in the starting line up. Their average CA of 98 was alarming - the players were far more talented than their recent performances would have suggested. The Class of '92 might have changed the kit and badge - vandalism - but they were investing.

Our fans were streaming in. The stadium wasn't sold out, which disappointed me, but the ticket people thought we'd get close to 4,000. The biggest crowd of my playing or managing career. If we got them going...

The BBC had been in the stadium putting up cameras and whatnot. They'd kicked poor Boggy out of his little room, and generally strode around like they owned the place, making demands, upsetting the regulars. I supposed that would happen more and more as we rose up the leagues, but it was still fucking annoying. Didn't make me want to play nice with the broadcasters, although I had it in the back of my mind that if we were media friendly we'd get picked for more of these games in the future.

The players prepared as close to normal as possible, though the nerves and excitement and tension wasn't helped by the late kick off. The extra two and half hours of waiting and dreaming and dreading was sapping their mental energy. They'd been giving it large on their socials through the week, but now they were raw with nerves. Their mistakes would be broadcast live to millions. But if they scored... The Brig and Vimsy seemed to have decided to let the lads enjoy it, let them vent their tension with extra silliness and banter and bombast. I went along with it - I didn't want the lads freezing before the match. They'd switch on when the match kicked off... probably.

The only real difference for me was that I popped up to the Director's Box to show my face to the Weavers - Emma was in Chester kit with a West beanie; she always knew how to put a smile on my face - plus various Cheshire bigwigs, Chester board members, and sponsors. Then it was down pitchside to talk to the BBC guys. The BBC guys turned out to be an attractive blonde called Carly.

Max Best, you're the manager of Chester Football Club.

Yes. Yes, I am.

There's a fantastic atmosphere building.

One of the first things I did was turn the pre-match music off. I want to hear the fans, not Ed Sheeran.

What are you doing today?

Do you mean what formation?

Yes.

That's pretty personal. You should take me to dinner before you start asking things like that.

You might be a bit young for me.

I'm getting older every day. It's one of my superpowers.

You've been doing a lot of 3-5-2 recently. Will we see that today?

Do I have to tell you that? Is that part of the deal? It seems weird. Tell me what Salford are doing and I'll tell you my plans.

They're doing 4-3-3.

No, they're doing 4-1-4-1. Watkins as DM, Johnstone as the striker. Looks like they've put their reserve full-backs in for today. The guy's got to rotate his squad but we might be able to do something with that.

You're optimistic, then.

No, we are going to get absolutely thrashed. This morning we were on social media reminding fans that we've got slots for player sponsorships. For two hundred pounds we'll write your name next to Magnus Evergreen or Steve Alton in the match programme. That's the level we operate at, Carly. We're a fan-owned club. No billionaires in the shadows behind famous players. We don't even have a nutritionist - I saw my backup goalie eating a Mars bar this morning. (Other chocolates are available.) No, this is going to be one-sided. Dull as dishwater. I've told the lads if they get a shot on target, I'll take them to Disneyland. Not the real one. I mean Flamingo Land in Scarborough. They've got flamingoes. And land.

You've named yourself in the starting line up, but you've only played twenty minutes here or there. Do you think you can play the whole ninety minutes?

Nah that's politics. The board want me to play today so that I'll be cup tied. They want me to stay here and they think if I can't play for another team in the cup this season I'm less likely to be snapped up. I'll probably potter around for ten, fifteen minutes, try to make some new friends. Maybe I'll ask Watkins if he wants to swap shirts with me. Get first dibs on that, know what I mean? Then, yeah, let one of the proper players do the rest of the game.

Max Best, thank you very much and good luck.

Yep.

***

I went into the dressing room to rouse the troops. What they needed, of course, was to stop thinking about the magic of the cup and what it'd be like to score a famous goal and what it'd be like to get annihilated on TV.

"Guys," I said, in a quiet, calm voice. It took much longer than normal, but the group settled down. I nodded as I looked at them. Average morale 6.1 (compared to Salford's 4.6); average CA 46. The lineup was a bit strange - we were nominally a 4-5-1 but the striker was me and I would play as a DM. I had Gerald May, the defender, playing in central midfield. "Henri, how you feeling?"

His time at Tranmere had been incredible - with harder, higher-level training, plus the bonus he got from God Save the King, he had added four points of CA in two weeks, and was now my best player with CA 62. He was on the bench. "Good, Max," he said, apparently in earnest.

"Amazing. We know the plan. Low block, defend for our lives, earn the right to play. Now, I know you're all a bit hyper, so it's time to get back into heist mode. Remember the heist? Ice in our veins. Clarity of thought. For that reason, I am going to read you a poem. This will, I'm sure, get you in the right frame of mind. Everyone ready?"

This got some smiles. I was being weird because they needed me to be weird. "Ready, boss," said Glenn.

"Top. Here we go." I cleared my throat and read from my phone. "A centipede was happy quite, until a frog in fun... said, 'Pray, which leg comes after which?'... This raised her mind to such a pitch, she lay distracted in the ditch, considering how to run."

Tony Hetherington was the first to react, which was a good omen in case any balls bounced near him in the penalty box. He slapped his thigh and got up. "You're mad, you are! You're absolutely crackers."

"It's about not overthinking things," I said. "It's another way of saying Let It Happen."

"Crackers."

It was smiles all round. Job done.

We were as ready as we were ever going to be.

***

"If you're just joining us, Salford City, owned by David Beckham, Ryan Giggs, and the rest of the Class of '92, have come to non-league Chester City for this first round FA Cup match."

"Chester FC, Clive."

"That's right, Andy. I always make that mistake. And some are saying Chester manager Max Best has made a mistake. His star striker, Henri Lyons, is only on the bench today. What do you make of that?"

"It's a strange one, Clive. Must be a bit of tension in the camp because looking at the team, here, Chester don't have a natural striker. They'll need a target man if they're going to relieve the pressure Salford put them under. It's a bit of inexperience from the young manager. They think highly of him round these parts, but I'm surprised to see a non-league team playing a big game like this without a target man. Teams need an out ball. I just hope that decision doesn't hurt them."

"Nearing kick off here at a boisterous Deva stadium. Let's see if this game produces a diva, and if the fat lady will be singing at the final whistle."

***

Triple Captain.

Bench Boost.

Salford to kick off. I lined up in the striker position, but as Salford knocked the ball around, I took a few steps back.

They came at us like lightning. Fast, athletic, technical, zipping the ball around for thirty demotivating seconds. When they finally hit a loose pass, our throw in looked like a minefield. Carl Carlile looked around, saw danger everywhere, and threw the ball down the line towards Pascal. There followed one of the most unequal physical contests in the history of football, and the reds - formerly the tangerines - were back in possession, back in our half, and we settled into our low block.

A couple of midfielders exchanged passes, and I saw where the ball would go. I moved towards it, expecting to take it off the toes of the receiver. But by the time I got there, he'd burst past me. He played the ball wide left, a cross came in, and Johnstone headed the ball powerfully down and in.

One minute, one goal. At this rate, we'd set all kinds of unwanted records.

We were too stunned to get mad, or scream at each other, or whatever. I stood there, head empty, when Ryan gave me a little push towards the halfway line. As the 'striker', it was my job to restart the match. At least I'd get a kick of the ball.

I passed to Ryan, who zipped it to Aff, who played it back to Magnus. He played it to Ryan, who passed to Raffi. I went on a curving run outside him. He dabbed the ball into my path, and I was instantly dumped on my arse by Watkins, the quality defensive midfielder I had a bit of a manager crush on.

Salford, a goal ahead and confident we were shit, passed the ball around for a while, not too bothered about attacking. They would do a professional job, taking the heat out of the match, quieting the crowd, winning by expending as little energy as possible.

They passed around the defence for a while, forcing me to go and pretend to press them so that they'd pass forward. When they did, they broke through our lines with ease, and six, seven, eight passes were zipped around on bewildering diagonals, ending in a shot that went just wide. Robbo in goal got nowhere near it.

Robbo took the goal kick to Carlile, who passed it to me even though I had an opponent close by. That was very much the plan. I received the ball, feinted to pass back to the keeper, burst the other way. My move took the guy by surprise, but he flung out an arm, grabbed my shirt, and stopped me moving.

The ref blew for a free kick, then jogged away. I frowned. Didn't he realise I was just about to launch a counter?

There followed two minutes of living beyond our means, straining every sinew and finding we were slower, smaller, shitter. Salford had chances. Peppered our penalty area with crosses, through balls, even some intricate build up play. Even with all our players defending in a low block, they got our full backs isolated, dribbled past, hit endless crosses and pull backs.

And when we survived and tried to pass out, they smothered us. Got hundreds of players into the area around the ball, stopping us from breaking out. Twice more I got the ball, somehow got my legs working, got past my opponent, and was fouled. Both times, the referee blew for a foul and walked away.

I followed him. "Is that it?"

"What?"

"That's our break. We're on the attack. That's three times we've been shut down by fouls."

"So?"

"So that's a yellow card. Three yellows."

"Get lost, yellow card." He turned away, laughing.

I saw red.

The suffocation was happening. From Salford, fairly, pressing us into inescapable corners and traps, unfairly, with snide fouls and gamesmanship, from the ref, who was still reffing like it was the 1990s, from the TV guys who I knew would be slaughtering me, from the board who only understood 4-4-2, the fans, from every player who'd bought into this plan. What was that phrase? Home is where the heart is. Nah. I thought of Henri's dad covering his house with shadow. Losing this wouldn't mean a thing if we were in Salford. But we were in Chester. Home is where the hurt is.

CA 100 versus CA 50, and the bigger team could foul at will. Still, I'd expected some of that. Why was I playing so shit? Smasho and Nice One had warned me - when you step up a level, it takes time to adjust. Well, if it took me twenty minutes to get up to speed here, we'd be eight-nil down with fourteen completed passes. We should have played 4-4-2 and taken our chances. Conventional, boring, but that's how you did a giant killing. That's how you beat a better team.

Salford attacked while I stood, stock still, having something of a meltdown. The ball zipped around - so fast! so accurate! - until May, showing his worth by being a large obstacle where we needed one, got in the way of an attempted chip - bit early for Salford to be dicking around to that extent - and suddenly I was on the ball. I exploded past a guy, and was ready for his shirt grab. I smashed my elbow in the direction of his hand, made contact, was blessedly free, and suddenly the pitch was open before me. I sprinted, accelerated, but the rest of the players had stopped.

The referee had given a foul. Against me.

I wandered back, head in hands, unable to understand what I was seeing. The Salford guy was on the floor, clutching his wrist.

"Calm down, Best," said the ref, as he showed me a yellow card. The first yellow card of my career.

"Hang on. I get fouled but I get booked. That's what's happening here, is it?"

"One more and you're off."

The 'injured' guy went off the pitch for treatment, and my team lined up to defend the free kick. Not me. I stood in the middle of nowhere, blood boiling so intensely I'd soon lose all my body's water.

The cross was sent in - too soft, too slow, rubbish - and May was there, heading clear. I sprinted, gathered the ball, and hared to the left side of the pitch. Salford guys were sprinting back. My instinct was to run down the line, all the way into the penalty box, and shoot. But those days weren't back, not yet. I feinted as though I'd do just that, then tapped the ball once, backward, once more, to the side, opening my body for a massive diagonal pass to Pascal on the far side.

A Salford guy took me out.

Free kick. I got part of the way to my feet, watching, waiting for the inevitable yellow card. When it didn't come, my fury reached new heights. I glared at the ref, eyes bulging, veins throbbing, and finally reached a level of anger so pure it was like flying a plane through turbulent clouds and coming out to the absolute peace and serenity above.

From this new state, I heard the fans to my left. They were almost as angry as me. I gestured, demanded more noise. They obliged, spitting bile at the pitch. Salford might not have been intimidated, but the ref was.

Aff came next to me. "Pass," I said. He touched the ball, and I faced up the nearest Salford guy, the same one who had just fouled me. I moved towards him. There was no match, no wider contest. There couldn't be. Not with the ref so clueless. With a sudden drop of the shoulder, I bolted forward, but cut back to the side of the pitch so I'd only be in contest with this one guy. I cut in and out, waited, waited for his weight to settle, then bam! Double dribble, like the old days. It didn't need to be very elegant, and holy shit, it wasn't, but it achieved my aim. I got past the guy and surprise surprise, he fouled me.

The crowd went mental. Absolutely mental. I sat on my arse, watching as the referee went up to the guy, had a word with him, touched him on the shoulder, all paternal and shit, and walked away. No extra punishment.

I flopped to my back. A little bit theatrical, you might say, but it helped in working the fans up. For as long as we were in the contest, they'd go apeshit every time we didn't get a decision, every time the ref showed bias to Salford.

But so what? We had one way to play, and our opponents could stop it at no cost. Even if the ref finally gave a couple of yellow cards, someone else would foul me. They would take it in turns, never risking a red card. I suppose I should have been pleased to be considered worthy of rotational fouling. I lay there, panting, beads of sweat forming all over as my exertions caught up with me, thinking about the forty-one thousand pounds prize money we'd never see, about the tantalising prospect of another league match being postponed in my season-long Maxterplan. I thought about how I could make as many beautiful plans as I wanted, but if the other team cheated and were allowed to cheat, there was nothing much I could do about it.

Aff bent and lifted me up. "Come on, boss. Keep going, yeah?"

"Yeah," I mumbled. I didn't mean it.

***

"Still one-nil here, but Salford's early dominance has faded away somewhat."

"That's right, Clive, Chester have dug in well but they aren't offering anything going forward. They need a big man up top. I want to see Henri Lyons come on. He's a great player for this level."

"Come on for his manager, maybe. Best has spent most of the first twenty minutes here scowling and getting into heated discussions with his opponents and the referee. He's got to be careful or he'll be sent off."

"He's a very frustrated young man, out there. Whatever he's tried to do with this line up, it hasn't worked. If I'm on the bench there, I'm telling him to change it. Go 4-4-2, play direct, give your defenders a breather now and then."

"Funny you should mention that. There's some movement around the home team dugout. What's this? It looks like... they're dancing?"

"I wouldn't call that dancing, Clive. Swaying, maybe."

"Swaying. Perhaps we shouldn't laugh. Could be for a local charity or something. But they're all up there, waving their arms around."

"I think we're allowed to laugh. Look at Best."

"Look at his face! Just look at his face! Max Best's smile is lighting up this stadium. What on earth was that all about?"

"Watch out, here come Salford."

***

After the little scene on the left, we'd had a spell of possession. Ryan to Raffi, Raffi to Pascal, who had been virtually anonymous, back to Ryan, and he, Aff, and Magnus had played keep-ball. Salford had put a lot of energy into all their pressing, and seemed happy to let us have the ball in a harmless position.

Finally, after a little break in which I allowed my rage-o-meter to come down to 'toddler who can't remember why he's mad' I showed for the ball, turned, beat a man, tried to get past a second, and was barged off the ball. Fairly, I suppose, but the fans reacted like the guy had flicked ninja stars at my ankles.

I slapped the turf in frustration - at myself, this time. I put my hands on my hips and started to give serious consideration to subbing myself off. When I looked over at the bench, I saw Vimsy, the Brig, Henri, Dean, and Youngster side by side, doing the air dancer hand movements we'd used in the early days of 4-1-4-1 Let It Happen. They were telling me to stick to the plan. That they still believed in me. That I needed to stop trying to make things happen, and... you know the rest.

It was the Brig that made me laugh. That serious face, those arms ready to switch to dark mode in an instant, waving around live on TV.

I took a few breaths as I walked back towards goal. Salford were attacking down our right. The winger got himself a bit of space, crossed, and just before Johnstone nodded it home, Robbo was there, plucking the ball from the air like lifting a cat from a tree.

I put my hand up, and Robbo slingshotted the ball to me. I took a touch. Watkins was the nearest defender, and he came from the left of the pitch, creating a massive cover shadow there. The rest of the Salford team moved right, where they would swamp Pascal, Ryan, or whoever I passed to.

One... more... step... Watkins was nearly on me, so I lifted my leg like I'd play a long pass to the right. He reacted instinctively by moving his body weight in that direction. I smashed the ball, twisting my foot at the last second, nutmegging him. The ball zipped thirty yards, right into the path of Aff. There was no-one near him. He raced forward, and now Salford were in full panic mode. They streamed back, just about catching Aff, but Pascal was the fastest player on the pitch. Aff fired a long diagonal pass, too far in front of the goalkeeper for him to come. Still, he took a few steps towards it, realised he was in no-man's land, and could only dive despairingly as Pascal side-footed the ball into the unguarded net.

One-all, and the stadium erupted. Limbs everywhere, noise, passion, emotion. Pascal celebrated wildly, sliding on his knees to the corner flag even though we'd agreed never to do that because it wrecked your ligaments. The rest of the lads zoomed over and crashed into him - which we'd also banned.

I knelt and took the opportunity to make some calculations. The match stats were as expected - terrible ratings for me and for Gerald May. Pascal had been on four out of ten, but one kick later he was up to eight. Robbo and Ryder were defending like the old pros they were - both had eight. More important than the ratings was how well everyone was doing their job, and I found myself nodding. Very well.

This plan worked. Whether they knew it or not, Salford's greatest strength, their ability to press us, squeeze us, suffocate us, was their biggest weakness.

It reminded me of the famous scene from the BBC's Planet Earth series. A bunch of snakes grabbed a little gecko dude, but more and more snakes came to join the party, squeezing and squeezing, not realising the little dude had already slipped away. They were strangling themselves.

I looked over at my bench - they were delirious.

The emotion of the situation threatened to overwhelm me. I gritted my teeth and stretched my hamstrings. When my guys walked back to our half, I snapped at them. "Come on! Back to work."

Salford kicked off and, stung by our equaliser, immediately surged forward. Their clever midfielders played a few passes to each other, but with supernatural timing I stopped jogging sideways, burst ahead, intercepted, and I was away. In seconds I was at the centre circle. I dropped a shoulder left, went right, had Pascal running right, Aff left, and felt Raffi coming up behind. I calculated the next six passes in the blink of an eye, passed right just as a defender slid in - another guy out of the way! Change the calculation! - Pascal threatened to go right, but cut the ball back to me. I hit it first time, full of side spin so Aff wouldn't have to break stride. He cut it square and Raffi thrashed it into the back of the net.

The stadium shook. It was Salford's turn to look stunned.

***

"Scenes here in the north-west! Little Chester are on course for one of the biggest cupsets of the year. If you want to kill a giant, they don't get much bigger than a team owned by David Beckham!"

"It's extraordinary, Clive. I can't believe what I'm seeing. It was all Salford for fifteen minutes and now Chester are bossing the game."

"Salford look scared to commit bodies forward."

"And with good reason! Every time Chester break they look deadly. Pascal Bochum is a revelation. Such a bright player!"

"Chester's plan looks obvious now, though for a long time it seemed like a muddled mess. How will Salford respond?"

"Their old heads will put their foot on the ball, slow things down. Let this frenzy fade away, stamp their quality on the game."

"Let's see. There's Watkins, now, and he turns and plays it back to his goalie. You called it, Andy. There's one calm head out there."

***

It looks like Salford have adopted a more cautious approach.

I got goosebumps when the message came through. Attack! But no. They wanted us to spread out so they could counter us. Felt like a trap. I kept things as they were, even if that meant a quiet five minutes where the bubbling intensity of the cauldron died down. That was five minutes where I could let my mind and body rest.

It looks like Salford have adopted a more attacking stance.

Here they came! Another push. They'd added another body to the rest defence, though. Less threat from their attacks, but more solidity against our counters. It didn't bother me. If we got into their cover shadow, we'd create mayhem. Me, Aff, and Pascal had great decision-making, most of the time, and if you had the defenders facing their own goal, everything got much easier. The hard part was breaking through the initial press.

***

"Salford pushing hard to get back into this match, now. They've got a corner. It's fired in towards their dangerman Johnstone. It's punched away. Best competes for it - the crowd rises to their feet in anticipation of a counter! - but Watkins comes away with it, passes left - they've been dangerous down that side. Cross comes in. Nodded away. There's a scramble. Shot! Blocked by Ryder. Shot! Blocked by Alton. Shot - no! Passed wide. Great composure. Here comes Solent, pulled back, another block! Solent again. GOAL! It's there. He's done it! Heroic defending by Chester, but they couldn't clear their lines. It's two-all!"

"Argh, that's devastating for the non-league team. It'll be one-way traffic from here. Game over, I'm afraid."

***

"Approaching half time, Chester still just about in this game. At two-all, who'll be the happier manager?"

"Oh, that's tough. Salford's will be pleased to have got over that scare, but he'll be upset at how his players lost the plot for those ten minutes."

"Salford attacking down the right. Dubhlainn, the Irishman, is there covering - and he comes away with the ball! He's really a good player."

"Two-way player, Clive. Like gold dust."

"No chance for a quick counter, this time. Jack on the ball. He's a lovely player, isn't he?"

"He is. You can see he's played at a high level. Lovely passing range."

"Short pass this time, though. Lays it off to Best. First time to Brown. First time to Best. They're like a pinball machine!"

"Trying to get under the Salford players' skin. I've got to say, you don't see football like this at non-league very often. There's a swagger about this group. I'll have to come and watch Chester."

"They're making some new fans, I think. The ball's played wide. Carlile hasn't gone forward, much. Neither has May. They get some rare passes in. What's this now? Salford are pushing up, squeezing the space - "

"Kick ups!"

"Best is doing keepy uppies on the left of midfield. That's not going to be to everyone's taste. He's challenged now - OH! WHAT A PASS! Max Best has volleyed that, diagonally - he's, he's - it's Bochum on the end of it. The keeper's come storming out. What's he - OH! He's wiped Bochum out! Bochum headed the ball over the keeper - Best's pass - bounced up - what's?"

"Red card!"

"The red card comes out! The keeper's off! Salford are down to ten men!"

"That was absolutely magnificent from Best. He annoyed you, he annoyed me, he annoyed Salford. They lost concentration, and Bochum made that run. The pass, though, left-footed volley, fifty yards, bouncing in Bochum's path. He's only a little fella but he can still use his head! He nodded it over the keeper, then it's a simple case of running round and a tap-in. I've got to say, this Chester team are winning me over. They're outclassed but they've got heart. They've got imagination."

"And now they've got a free kick in a dangerous position. Salford are replacing Solent with their reserve goalkeeper. Down to ten men. This is some game."

"Salford are reeling. Ryan Jack standing over the free kick. It's just outside the penalty area. Is it too close for a shot?"

"You'd have thought so. A few yards back would be ideal."

"Well, finally ready for the free kick. What's next in this extraordinary contest? Ryan steps forward, but it's a sideways pass to Best. He shapes to shoot - we know he can hit them - but he helps it on to the left. Dubhlainn is one on one with his marker. Takes him on - that's brilliant - to the byline, crosses, no, he cuts back, oh and he's taken down!"

"Penalty."

"Yes! The ref's given it! And a yellow card for the right back. Some irony there. Chester couldn't buy one at the start of the half, now there are cards flying everywhere. Penalty to Chester! Salford are furious."

"Best."

"Best to take it. He did say Chester might get joy against the reserve full backs... Oh, there's some gamesmanship from the new goalkeeper there. He's scuffing up the penalty spot, knocked the ball out of Best's hand. The game hasn't been played in the best spirit, but that's disappointing."

"That's poor. That's really poor. But if he puts Best off, he'll think it was worth it."

"Very long delay here. What do you think, Andy? Will he score?"

"He'll blast it top-right. That's his move."

"Let's see if Salford have done as much homework as you. The crowd hush. The referee is telling players to stay out of the box. Now Best has gone forward. He's giving the goalkeeper a piece of his mind."

"Ah, there's no need for this. Come on."

"Best respots the ball. High drama. Waits for the whistle. Steps forward..."

***

Justified Flashback Cliffhanger!

In book 4, chapter 6, The Art of Phwoar, I took a trip down to 'Lahndan' where I watched Brentford beat Fulham. Playing that day was Ivan Toney, and I commented on his masterful penalty technique. You forgot the scene, and so did I, until I realised I would play a match with no strikers. Henri was my first choice penalty taker, Tony my second. One or the other had played every minute of every game this season.

So who would take our penalties, if we got one, against Salford? Ryan Jack, perhaps. But first, I wanted to try something out. I couldn't do my unstoppable 'blast the ball so high so hard no keeper could ever save it' thing. But maybe I could do the Ivan Toney method. After all, it was about mind games and anticipation more than technique or power.

I practiced and practiced, and thought I had got to grips with the method...

***

The Salford players jostled me, got in my face, talked shit about me and my hair, my skills, the fact that I was a manbaby. The goalie knocked the ball out of my hands, scuffed up the penalty spot.

The ref, of course, bottled it. Did nothing.

I needed a cool head for this penalty - it could be a forty-thousand pound kick. All I had to do was stay calm.

So when the dust had settled and it was nearly time to shoot, I walked up to the goalie and jabbed him in the chest.

"You classless prick. This is my house, and if you disrespect it you're gonna find yourself in a world of hurt. You fucking hear me?"

"Get fucked," he said, but he was raging. Desperate to make this save. Hopping around, bursting with energy, ready to spring to his feet and roar with triumph. I thought about pointing to one side of the goal to get into his head even more, but that hadn't gone well in testing.

I stood two steps from the ball. Everything would be compressed into fractions of movements.

The whistle went.

The first stride, slow, slow, eyes focused on the right of the goal.

The goalie on his toes, bouncing, then tense, ready to explode either left or right. Good balance, this prick had.

Into the second stride, slowing even further. The slowness was absolutely messing with the guy's head. He was used to opponents striking hard shots and this was messing up his timing something rotten. The tiniest glance left and his entire body was electrified, ready to go, but then my eyes were right again.

My foot was near the ball now, about to make contact. The shot would be slow, but the goalie had to choose, had to dive.

Eyes wide as saucers, he committed. Right!

I rolled the ball, very, very slowly, to the left.

My first goal for Chester happened at one mile an hour.

The slowness of the drama somehow led to an even greater release when it came. I jogged past the goalie, making sure he saw I was giving him a Maxy two-thumbs, and then - fuck him - it was all about the fans. Giving them something back for all their support. A cocky, smiling trot along the touchline, soaking up the adulation, suggesting I couldn't hear what they were offering, then a shortcut across the corner flag and over to the main stand, where I stood in front of the away dugout, arms aloft, face pointing straight up.

Then hugs for my staff, big drink of water, and, fists clenched, back onto the pitch.

This job wasn't done.

Salford kicked off, and the ref blew for half time.

Okay, so it was done for now.

***

There was some aggro in the tunnel. Some people didn't like certain things that had happened. Who gave a shit? I invited the Salford manager to do one (translation: feel free to leave the area) and went into the dressing room and flopped onto a treatment table.

Dean was there in a flash, asking me what was up. "Legs. Headache."

He massaged one leg, Magnus the other, and Livia did her ASMR thing on my neck and head. For a while I fretted about how like a pandered prince I must look, but then I relaxed into it, and my head started to clear.

What to do?

I hadn't for a minute thought we'd get one of their guys sent off. What would happen now? They would still slap us on talent alone. We could do insanely good counters for as long as I played. What was in my tank? Ten minutes? Fifteen?

And Bench Boost. I could bring on five guys who would all play out of their skin.

Henri had to come on. So from 4-5-1 to 4-4-2, with me dropping back to be the DM. But that was just 4-1-4-1. Why not do that? Why not get Youngster on? No, it was too early for him.

My head started swimming again. I couldn't remember a harder decision. There were so many variables, so many options, so much at stake. No doubt the TV guys would be replaying incidents from the first half, poring over them in slow motion, discussing them in minute detail. My mind drifted that way, too, thinking about the rough start, the jersey pulls - no! Focus on the future.

"Henri. Brig. Vimsy. Glenn. Sam."

They came and stood around the massage table. The Brig kneeled like a knight before his king. "You called, your majesty?"

His joke was pitch perfect. The others crouched or kneeled, too. All smiles. "How long can you stay kneeling like that at your age?"

"Long enough to receive my instructions, oh great one."

"Someone get the Brig a bean bag," I tried to yell, but it hurt my head. "Right. We've got a man advantage. I want to stay on the pitch a bit longer, but I want to get Henri on. Are you good to skip that scene you were fantasising about?"

"Yes, Max. I will sneak on at half time and not get the reception I deserve. Of course."

"Who's coming off?" said Sam.

"Yeah. Here's where it gets tricky. Henri for Gerald makes sense. Call it 4-4-2 with me as the second striker, but doing whatever I want. Do that for five minutes, see what they cooked up during the break."

"Their manager is roasting them," said Livia, delighted. She'd moved to the other side to give my brains trust a better view of the side of my head.

"I want to get Sam and Youngster on, soon as poss. 4-1-4-1, but that means taking Raffi or Ryan off, and they're killing it. 3-5-2 means no Youngster. 4-1-4-1 right now means no Pascal, and he's our biggest threat today."

"What's our best chance of winning?" said Vimsy.

I was silent for a while, and the only sound from our corner was the oily squelch as my aching muscles were cared for. "Stay as we are till we see what they're planning. Then probably 4-1-4-1 or a switch to 3-5-2."

"So Sam has to wait," said Henri. "And so do I. It's simple."

"Come on, boss," said Sam. "Don't worry about hurting my feelings. Win first, worry about the rest later."

I exhaled. "Right. Right." Something loosened in the calf Magnus was working on. "Magnus, thanks. Get yourself a break. Second half's going to hurt."

***

Salford made a few tweaks at half time - passing and marking instructions, certain players told not to make forward runs, small stuff. As far as I could tell, they would mostly keep playing the way they had.

The match restarted and I realised instantly that I was running on fumes. That spongey, bouncy energy I'd had in the first half was all gone. What, then? Swap me and May for Henri and Youngster? Already?

Salford attacked, we low blocked it, and Magnus fizzed the ball to me. I one-touched it back to him, moved towards the left touchline for the return pass. He fizzed it again and I made a show of turning to the inside of the pitch, then spun around to the right. The guy who'd come to press me was left floundering, and once again the entire gamut of possibilities was open to me. I dribbled almost lazily, and as a defender came sliding for the tackle I dabbed the ball left-footed, just a few feet forward, past the slide, for Aff to collect. I tracked him, and suddenly we were bearing down on the penalty area. The nearest defender didn't know whether he should go to the ball or cover me. He chose Aff, who stopped and turned full circle. The first poor decision we'd made on one of these counters.

But Aff, now on his right foot, had seen something I hadn't. He hit a soft cross into the penalty box, where Raffi took it on his chest, took one stride forward, and stuck the ball low into the corner before a defender could recover.

Four-two! I joined the celebrations on that one - not going quite as ballistic as my team - but came to a decision. "Gerald," I said.

"Is it time?"

"Yeah. How did you like being a midfield general?"

"I didn't mind it." He was all smiles. Four passes in the match, four headers, four out of ten, four goals for the team.

I sent him, first, with Youngster coming on to great applause. Then Henri replaced me, and there was a standing ovation. That's why Henri wanted to be the one I swapped for. Nothing to do with being shown on TV a few more seconds. It was so he could pretend the applause was for him!

Livia handed me my hoodie and some marathon paste, and I sat in the dugout for a couple of minutes while my heart rate recovered. "My massage didn't do much," complained Dean. "Ten minutes of rubs to get a minute more from you. Bad ratio."

"I'll be able to play on Tuesday, though, won't I?"

"Not if you get wasted tonight. Which you've earned."

I lapsed into silence, watching as Salford went defensive for a few minutes while they digested my changes. Our average CA was 47.8, now, but we had two Bench Boosted guys on the pitch. Could we keep hold of our two-goal lead?

I glanced at the rest of the bench and had an absolutely mad idea. What if I brought Ben Cavanagh on? His CA was three points higher than Robbo's, and he'd be Boosted. If I could get a super keeper for one match only, this was it! But the risk was enormous - if it went wrong, his confidence would be back in the mud, maybe permanently. I had to take a long-term view of his career. Maybe I would have done it if the TV cameras hadn't been there.

Henri was looking sharp. Youngster was gliding around nice and smooth. The drained feeling was replaced with cautious excitement. We could do this...

I got up and took stock of the stadium. Now that I was off the pitch, I could really appreciate the noise. It was amazing. It washed around in fits and starts, circular, sometimes vertical, drowning out the away fans then being drowned out by them. The competition between the sets of spectators was keeping ours on their toes. Keeping them hungry. I looked around to see if Crackers was enjoying this, and saw, in the stands, all kinds of things.

There, to the left, Jackie Reaper, next to Jill, their profiles above their heads. Left further still, a pocket of scouts. Just behind me, more scouts. And over to the right - I couldn't believe my eyes -

"Come on!" screamed Vimsy.

I snapped my head round and saw the ref had given a free kick over on the Salford left. That winger they had was a fucking menace! This situation didn't feel good. They'd pushed a lot of bodies forward...

***

"Fantastic finish from Johnstone! He had defenders all around him but he rose highest and headed home! Salford are back in this one! Four-three. Wow!"

***

I shook my head. Johnstone was a Goliath, and I wanted one. I texted MD, saying as much.

Then I looked over to my right, half expecting the guy would have gone. But no. He was there, staring at me, absolutely blank in that way Scandinavian detectives are on those TV shows.

Folke Wester. And next to him, his profile not showing but easily recognisable, was Jonathan Hurts, the league's most expensive player.

The Darlington manager (and his star left back) had, what, left his match early to come and watch this one? No, they'd played last night. I should have expected him here.

What did him being here change? I'd showed more of my hand than I'd planned. Showed more of my tricks than was ideal. The penalty would get him hot under the collar. He'd have to plan for me starting, not just coming on at the end. But I still hadn't headed the ball since I'd started playing again. He'd have noted that, that was for sure.

What else did I want him to think? That I was reckless. That given half a chance, I'd throw caution to the wind.

Suddenly, the path ahead hit me full in the face, fully formed. A formation I hadn't used in ages.

"Subs," I said, urgently.

"Who?" said Vimsy.

"Ryan and Raffi off, Tony and Joe on."

"Tony and Joe?"

"Yes, mate." While a bemused Vimsy got those changes ready, I went over to Sam. "I messed up, mate. Couldn't make it work. I'll make it up to you."

He tracked the changes. "What... 4-4-2 diamond? Are you sure?"

"Not really," I said, unable to stop smiling. Showing pleasure was definitely the wrong vibe. All of Sam's family would be at home, watching, expecting him to come on their telly like a real player.

"You've got one sub left," he said.

"You want to play CAM for the last five minutes?"

"Yes I want to play CAM for the last five minutes. Unless that costs us the match."

"Let's see how this goes. It might blow up. It'll probably blow up. It's madness."

***

"And once again the pattern of the game returns to attack versus defence, with Salford very much in the ascendency. They're doing all the pushing."

"Chester look good on the break, though. They're going more direct and Bochum is trying to get to the loose balls. It could pay off."

"Ball hit long. Johnstone wins it. Knock down. Hit wide to the right back. He can hit a good cross. Not this time, though. It goes all the way to the left. Bad tackle there! Yellow for Carlile."

"Lot of tired legs in that defence, Clive."

"Yes, you think that might cost them late on. Or now. Here comes the cross - oh, disaster! It's in! It bobbled around, it pinballed. Who stuck it in? Salford don't care - they've grabbed the ball. Want to get on with it. They don't want a replay."

***

Four-all, and the gulf in quality was finally starting to tell. Salford were still fit and fresh but our starters were really flagging. The diamond experiment hadn't worked - Youngster hadn't been able to beat the press like I had. He could defend, indeed, he had more interceptions and tackles than I had, but that burst of creativity to get the ball into that cover shadow was lacking.

"Sam, it's nearly time," I said. I would go 4-4-2 and hope Sam's energy would make a difference.

I bit my nails as Salford came at us yet again. Carl was walking a tightrope against the left winger - one more mistimed tackle and he was done. But the guy was a fighter. He never, ever quit, and now he won a duel. He played a tired pass to Youngster - so tired he mishit it completely.

Incredibly, this shit pass, this abomination of technique, utterly bamboozled the guy who was pressing Youngster, and he went the wrong way. Youngster, his tactical brain working a mile a minute, simply tucked the ball inside to his left foot, pushed forward, sorted his feet out, and scampered away.

The next phase was utterly bizarre. It looked like someone had glued chess pieces onto a clear piece of plastic, and when you moved one, you moved them all.

As Youngster ran forward two yards, so Henri and Tony ran two yards, and the defenders ran two yards. Youngster ran two more yards, and everyone else ran two more yards. And this continued for no less than forty yards, almost box to box, and suddenly someone had to do something. A defender left the line, moving to the ball. Youngster toe-poked it forward to Henri. He touched it first time to Tony, who touched it back. Henri had the chance to win the match! I was gripping Sam and he was gripping me. What would happen? The tension was unreal. I bobbed my head forward as though I'd slotted the ball under the goalie. But Henri still hadn't shot yet. Why not, you DICK?

Suddenly, the fans behind that goal fell silent, hands on their heads, despairing, and a hush went round the rest of the stadium. Only when Henri's arms rose, as Tony and Youngster and Pascal converged on him, did we realise what had happened. He'd sat the keeper down and dinked it over him, calm as you like, in front of the away fans.

The manner of the goal didn't interest me as I ran around in a circle like the stupidest hamster.

"Sam! Get on there," I demanded. "Think of the lowest block you've ever seen, then get fucking lower!"

When the dust settled, I heard the new song the fans had spent months perfecting. To the tune of Bob Marley:

"We're gonna be iron! Like a lion! Henry Lion!"

Henri locked onto it, cocked his head, and an ear-to-ear grin took over his face. He waved at them to sing louder, and they tried, but they were already at max.

I braced myself for the final, desperate bombardment from Salford. Five more minutes of non-stop pressure.

But it didn't come.

They were finished, and as the crowd whistled and booed, demanding the referee blow for full time, as Robbo watched a feeble long shot fly over the bar, he suddenly raised his hands, a gesture copied by a handful of other players. All my starters fell from exhaustion. Some of the Salford players collapsed, too, and a couple were in tears. A mini pitch invasion happened over to my right, the joyous fans contained by the stewards and police, and our hospitality person broke my no-music rule, blasting Bob Marley's Iron, Lion, Zion so that we could better serenade the match winner.

Chester 5, Moneybags Salford 4.

Getting knocked out of the FA Cup by a non-league team. That’s gotta hurt.