3.
Football glossary: Judas. A player who betrays his team. See: Sol Campbell leaving Tottenham to join Arsenal. See also: Luis Figo, Ashley Cole, Mo Johnston.
***
I had to do my post-match interview before my shower, before I'd calmed down, so my emotions were all over the place (elation, aggression, salesmanship, blind loyalty) and my responses were a weird mix of charming and snarky, patient and intense.
The shower was more like an ice bath and I was in urgent need of warming up. Two options - Emma or alcohol. Por que no los dos?
"Captain," I said. "Where are we going?"
"Somewhere close," said Glenn. "What's our booze budget?"
"Five hundred English pounds," I said, bold and brash, and instantly regretted it. That was a week's wages. Three hundred would have been fine!
"Reckon that'll go a long way," he said, pulling his jacket on. "Since drinks are free."
"What?"
He looked around - I was the last to get showered and dressed. Even Henri had cut his ablutions short. Glenn nodded. "All good, lads? Best behaviour now!"
Seemed like the plan was to leave our gear in the changing rooms and come back to get it. That was optimistic. In a few hours most of these players would have drunk themselves into next week - in some cases, literally.
"This way, Max," said someone. My thoughts were a bit hazy and insubstantial and the lads seemed to have learned not to let me make decisions after matches. From being the focal point, the leader, the decision-maker, I had switched roles into being the meekest little sheep. One sheep, many shepherds. One more moment to tug on the heartstrings. One more surge of sentimentality for the group. One more reason to run through a brick wall for them.
I followed the conga line through the bowels of the stadium towards the car park - had they booked some minivans? - up and down some stairs, and there we were outside the Blues Bar. I hadn't been back since my attack. As soon as I stopped at the boundary, I found the Brig to my right and Henri to my left, hands under my arms, guiding me through the doors.
A huge cheer erupted from the fans. There must have been a hundred and fifty in there. (I later learned loads had been turned away to make space for the players and WAGs.) D-Day and Trick raced to the bar, keen to get started on their binge. Steve and Robbo did, too, but on the other side. They colonised a section and started pouring pints - they looked pretty good at it.
Emma appeared out of nowhere and wrapped her arms around me. She tried to pull away but I held her there. "What?" she whispered.
"I'm bloody freezing," I said, and she stayed snuggled into me so long I closed my eyes and nearly drifted away.
"My dad wants to congratulate you." She looked around - he'd been swallowed by the seething mass of bodies.
"Oh," I said. "Better do it soon. We're about to embark on an epic session. It's going to be despicable."
"Didn't Glenn tell you?"
"No," I said, and it struck me for the first time how odd it was to choose the Blues Bar. The fans wouldn't mind us getting wasted - unless we lost on Tuesday. Then this very public session would come back to bite us on the arse.
"Glenn," called Emma, and my captain came over. He handed me a pint. I took a sip, and the pleasure was unreal.
"Okay, confession time," said Glenn. "We love the idea of a mid-season blowout, Max, we really do. But we had a chat and decided we'd rather win the league."
"What? We can do both."
"No. No, we can't. We're doing a two drink maximum and we'll be ready to play on Tuesday. You, though. You can get blottoed."
"Wait, no. I thought it through."
"Max, you're not in charge of events. That's my job. There's always a week in December when the Saturday match gets postponed. We'll do it then."
I had questions. Lots of questions. But Gerald May grabbed his fellow centre back and whispered something urgent. They went away, leaving me with my thoughts, and with my girlfriend. "What a group," I said.
"Yeah yeah yeah," she said. "They've realised they're riding a wonder horse and don't want to mess it up. Now come find my dad. I want to show off."
***
I worked the room a little bit - was forced to work the room, more accurately - making my way to Sebastian and Rachel Weaver. The latter was still visibly flushed with excitement from the match and was on her second G and T. The former was extremely gracious and said something along the lines of how he'd misjudged non-league football. I nodded and went 'uh-huh' but it was clear something was going on. Some news spreading round the room - not so much the fans, but the senior players.
"Something's up," I said. "Have they done the draw for the next round already?"
"No, it's tomorrow," said Emma, which warmed me even better than the beer. I gave her a kiss - our first in front of her parents, I guessed, but then the music in the room cut off and someone tapped a microphone.
Over on the raised platform in the corner, where bands sometimes played little gigs, Glenn Ryder was looking sombre. "Max? Where's Max? Can you and Emma come over here, please? MD, you'd better come, too."
Me, Emma, and MD? WTF?
Glenn made me stand to his left - I leaned against the wall, frowning. Emma was next to him, and MD was behind her. Still on the platform, still visible, but not part of the immediate scene. Not one of the presenters. And that, I realised, is what it looked like. A TV show. The rest of the first team crowded round the front of the platform in a semi-circle, with the sponsors next, and then the mass of fans. The only ones who hadn't come over were those still queuing for drinks. When the drinks arrived, so did the fans. It was clear that something portentous was about to go down.
"Hi, everyone. I'm Glenn." Big cheer. "Max has asked me to come up here and apologise for shipping four goals." Big laugh, and I relaxed. Whatever this was, it was fun. "Personally, I blame the defensive midfielder. He went missing." Laughs mostly from the players - the fans had seen me lining up as striker and that was where they assumed I'd played. "Okay, don't want to interrupt the celebrations for too long, but I thought it might be interesting to hear what Max said in his post-match interview."
I stopped smiling and stopped leaning. Oh, shit. MD's eyes locked onto mine with impressive speed. I tried to smile but it ended up being one of those things where you bite your bottom lip and your upper lip curls away.
"Emma, can you act the role of the hot blonde reporter?" He handed her a second microphone.
"I can try," she said, with a delicate giggle.
"I'll be Max. Hang on. Let me get my Manchester face on." He did something like Jamie Tartt from Ted Lasso - pretty, smug, vacant. The first traitor detected! "Here we go."
Emma spoke in her best BBC reporter voice for a while, but eventually reverted to her natural Geordie. She read the question from the transcript on Glenn's phone. "Max Best, you've led your team to a famous victory. How do you feel?"
Glenn didn't even try to do a Manc accent. He read what I - allegedly - had said. "Yeah, fine." Massive cheer from the fans for this.
"Great win but there was an incident in the first half where you could have been sent off."
"What? Ah, no, they changed the rules from when you played, Carly. That thing where the guy grabs me and tries to rip my shirt all the way off? We do that in private now and sell the feed on a special website. Seven ninety-nine and you can use the offer code ooh that's spicy for ten percent off your first month."
Had I really said that on TV in front of an audience of millions? Emma giggled for quite a while. "Max, were you flirting with that blonde reporter live on the telly?" I shook my head and there were laughs. She rolled her eyes theatrically and continued. "So you don't think it was a red card?"
"Yes, clear red. Pascal was through on goal and the keeper wiped him out."
"I meant the one where you elbowed the guy who was grabbing you."
"I think the referee gave a yellow card."
"But do you think it should have been red?"
"Do I think the yellow should have been red? Wait, this came up in my Science GCSEs. It's something to do with prisms, right? Refraction or something. It's hard to think about light waves and all that when you're being manhandled by a lot of beefy boys. As you know better than me, Carly."
"Max," said Emma, disapprovingly. Back in character, she said, "What did you think of the referee?"
Glenn smiled, shaking his head as he read my reply. His smile wouldn't quite die down, making it hard for him to read it in the right tone. He took a breath and attacked it. "I thought the referee was great. He handled the game well and showed that he has a crystal clear understanding of modern football. I'd say he has nothing to improve, and do you know something? I feel pretty sure he would agree with me."
The laughter was quite pleasing, I have to say. Even MD, who was trying to look stern, couldn't help but shake his head and let one out every few seconds. I wondered why he was there and got a slightly uneasy feeling about it. What had I said?
"Can you tell us about your penalty?"
"Yep. So as you can imagine, with the occasion and the pressure and the importance of the prize money for a small club like us, I was a bag of nerves."
Glenn held the phone up to Emma, who hadn't expected it so soon. "Oh! Er... You didn't look nervous. Wait, probably... You didn't look nervous."
"Inside I was a big old bag of worms. Very anxious. And do you know what I did? I said a little prayer. I asked Jesus if he wouldn't mind awfully making the goalkeeper just, like, fall over or something. And do you know what?" Glenn couldn't continue - the laughter was almost as loud as the goal celebrations had been. Finally, finally, he felt he'd be heard if he spoke. "And do you know what? He just fell over. Just like that." Henri was wiping away tears. Trick and D-Day, with half a pint left in their plastic glasses, were red. Youngster was no less amused, but he wagged a finger at me anyway, for blasphemy or whatever.
"There was a bit of afters?" Emma frowned. Off mic, but still very audible, she said, "What does that mean?"
"It means your boyfriend dumped the goalie on his arse then let him know about it," explained Glenn. "Shit, I lost the place. Here we go, bit of afters. Er... Max speaking again. That goalie is a big talent with great character and temperament and I'm sure he'll have a long career in whichever industry he tries his hand at next."
"Max!" complained Emma, but Glenn was showing her the next question. "Raffi Brown was very impressive today." Big cheer from the Blues Bar, and the man himself was sent up to the platform. He was holding little baby Serina in his arms. She was fast asleep even though we were being super loud.
"Scouts are always coming here asking me about Raffi Brown. Raffi, Raffi, what about Raffi? And I always tell them, Raffi's terrible." Raffi looked at me with surprise and perhaps a flash of anger. The crowd's buzz died down. "He isn't two-footed, he can't go box-to-box, he isn't a Rolls Royce player who should be playing at a higher level and he wouldn't grace the midfield of teams such as Everton, Bournemouth, or Leicester City. So stop scouting him."
Raffi smiled, accepted the round of applause my one-star review generated, and retook his place in the mass.
"Tell us more about Pascal Bochum," read Emma, and there were more cheers and the little guy got up onto the platform. He looked very, very ready to be assessed the way Raffi had.
Ryder put his hand on the forward's shoulder. "Pascal Bochum is too small to play at this level or any level. Pascal Bochum does not know how to move into space, how to combine with other players, how to use his gifts for the benefit of the team, and is not a player who has earned the respect of every player and coach at this club. He's not for sale, don't ask, next."
"Bad boy! Bad boy!" came the cry from about twenty people, almost immediately rising to include everyone in the room, save perhaps the Weavers and sponsors. "Whatcha gonna do? Whatcha gonna do when he's running through?" The chant was followed by the usual round of applause the fans gave themselves when they were pleased with their own work.
Emma cleared her throat and gave Pascal an arm rub as he departed, smiling but weepy. "You're through to the next round. Who do you want?"
"Pierluigi Collina or Uriah Rennie," said Glenn, and about half the audience laughed. I'd named the two most respected, most famous former referees.
"I meant which team."
"I absolutely do not give a wotsit," Glenn said I said. "But do not choose us to be on TV again." MD was suddenly seven feet tall, all the hairs on his head seeming to stand on end. Glenn continued. "And if you do, you'll need to treat my employees with more respect."
"Me?"
"All of you. Your engineers and sound men and all that. We have a guy, Mr. Marsh, who commentates on every match and I've heard that you kicked him out of his room and were sniffy and demanding and you've basically been bossing my staff around for days. There's no amount of money you can pay me that will give you the right to annoy, disrupt and demean my employees. If you want a second date, Carly, someone with a corner office will get in touch with the employees whose weeks have been ruined and they'll explain what went wrong."
Emma said, "Max Best, thank you very much," but no-one could hear it over the cheers and applause. A very drunk man was yelling 'Don't mess with Chesters!'
I went over to take Glenn's microphone - he was nearest. I divided my attention between MD and the semi-circle in front of me. "Maybe I should say something, here. I know the TV money is good and all, but we're not moving Seals Live again. Not while I'm in charge." I waited for a response from MD. He was looking at me like I was The Joker in the Batman movie, setting fire to an enormous pile of cash. "The thing is," I started, solemnly. "The thing is..." I turned the volume up from 3 to 8. "Nobody puts Boggy in the corner!" From 8 to 10, pointing at the crowd, I added, "Boggy Boggy Boggy!"
The crowd knew what to say, and they knew to point back. "Oi oi oi!"
"Boggy Boggy Boggy!"
"Oi oi oi!"
"Boggy!"
"Oi!"
"Boggy!"
"Oi!"
"Boggy Boggy Boggy!"
"Oi oi oi!"
And so our media guy became the first in the world to get his own chant. The music came back on, and the party kicked into high gear.
MD came up to me a moment later and suggested that I had cost the club fifty grand. The same fifty grand that could have bought us a new striker. He was seriously unhappy.
I didn't flinch. "In this world, it's just us." The unhappiness continued, so I repeated Chester's motto to him. "Our City, Our Community, Our Club." I kept staring at him until he took in a little breath. I saw the exact moment he deleted fifty grand from the imaginary ledger in his head; he nodded. Still not happy, but I chose to believe that on some level, he knew I was right. I tapped him on the upper arm. "What we're selling can't be bought." In my mind's eye I opened the glossy catalogue of the anti-septic, anti-fan, anti-football fare being served up by almost every club higher than us in the English pyramid. "They'll be back. On our terms."
***
The team, incredibly, stuck to the two-drink limit. Something like half didn't imbibe a single drop of alcohol. Trick and D-Day had their two pints and went home. I was a billion percent sure they were leaving to continue boozing away from prying eyes, but no. They went to sleep. They really wanted to start on Tuesday night!
On Sunday morning I woke up, brushed my teeth, went back to bed, and snuggled close to Emma, suggestively. She didn't have a midweek match, though, and she hadn't felt much need for restraint, so she'd been knocking back all kinds of cocktails and shots at the club's expense.
While I waited for her to stir, I went through my curse screens and nearly leapt out of bed.
Something had changed. Finally!
Your Reputation in England: Very Poor
Your World Reputation: Unknown
Ha! Whoo! I existed! At last.
Something told me it had to do with Manager Points. I'd long since suspected that Manager Points weren't something I could spend like Experience Points. My MP went up when I drew or won, sometimes by baffling amounts, but all in all it seemed to be a numerical value for how good a job I was doing. Winning against Salford had earned me around 1400 MP, taking my total to 2050, way ahead of Folke Wester and everyone else in the National League North. Pep Guardiola got more than my season's total by winning one Champions League match, so I was extremely aware of how unimportant my results were in the grand scheme of things.
Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.
But it was progress!
We were getting somewhere!
Also, the monthly perk dropped. It was like it had been waiting for me to get the big cup match out of the way before landing.
November Special Offer
New perk available for the month of November: Parasight
Cost: 3,000 XP
Effects: Whenever player or staff profiles are displayed, Parasight will also reveal any agents in the area, their employer (if applicable), and the total transfer value of the AUM (assets under management) of the agent or their agency.
I mean, wow. It would take some grinding to get the XP, and it would delay the Contracts perk and Wibwob and all the rest, but this seemed absolutely essential. Imagine seeing all the rival managers, scouts, AND agents who were at a match. That could be really fucking useful.
And the assets under management thing was intriguing - if I met an agent with only one player, I would learn what the curse thought that player's transfer value was. That could be a very useful data point in the lower leagues where a lot of agents only had a few clients. I assumed as we rose through the ranks I'd end up mostly dealing with giant companies so it'd be impossible to learn anything about individual players from the aggregated data. But take, for example, Harry Kane. His agent was his brother, and I reckoned Harry was his only client. If I got in a stadium with him, I'd know Kane's transfer value, as assessed by the curse.
Would that be useful? No clue. But I wanted it. God dammit, imps! If their goal was to get me back watching Premier League matches on my nights off, they'd absolutely nailed this one.
***
On Monday morning after training, I had two visitors.
The first was Michael Harrison. He was the only member of the squad who didn't get named on the subs bench against Salford. He was a bit down about it, which was crazy, really. He was nowhere near ready for action, but he had been training with the guys for a while and he felt he was starting to find his feet.
He asked if I was punishing him for not wanting to go to West Didsbury. I didn't like that and got a bit hot. All I wanted was for him to improve faster and I was willing to try anything, and let him know in no uncertain terms that I didn’t appreciate him doubting my motivations.
He cooled down first and said if it helped him, he'd go. I told him that I would never send someone with a bratty attitude to West because it was fucking top there and I didn't want ungrateful guys stinking the place up with their inflated sense of entitlement.
The Brig smoothed things over and after restating our positions to us - which was really calming because it made us realise we wanted the same thing - we agreed Michael would probably go to West in January for a month, with the option to extend it for the rest of the season if the experience was good for him.
Then Sam came in. During the Salford match he'd been all team-first, don't worry about me, boss. But in the cold light of day, he wanted to talk about his status. Why had I picked Raffi over him? Why hadn’t he been the first sub to come on? And so on. I took him through my tactical thoughts for the entire match, told him what I thought of him, that I needed him, but that sometimes the tactic picked the team. He knew that, he said, but he'd never been at a club that rotated the team before. He understood it, he respected it, but... he wanted to be first pick.
He was at CA 57 out of 60, making him one of the top three players in my squad. I felt like I knew him well enough to say the right thing. But me being me, I decided to do the opposite.
"Okay, Sam. I'll pick you first, no matter the situation, no matter the scenario. And I'll never sub you off, either, no matter how badly you're playing or what the team needs. You know what? I’ve got a little tent I don’t use. Let’s put that in the centre circle and you can fucking live there. I’ll get you a little mailbox."
Sam sat there, rubbing his forehead, amused but frustrated. I waited for him to say something, but the Brig intervened. He moved over from the back of the office, where he normally hung out while I did my admin. "Sam. Watch this." He turned to me. "We've had a transfer bid for Sam, sir. Fifty thousand pounds."
My reaction was instant. "Fifty? This January? Forget it."
"They've raised the bid, sir. A hundred thousand pounds."
"Shit," I said, not really enjoying this role play. It was an agonising decision. I could replace Sam easily enough, but only with a guy who was CA 30 and would take a year or two to get to Sam's level. "I mean, I can't turn that down, that covers the budget shortfall and keeps the club solvent, but holy shit. We're not winning the league any more." I played out the ramifications in my head. "I'd have to switch formations. Andrew’s a year away from being ready. I don’t want to play CM. Nah, mate. Don't like this. Don't like this at all. No deal."
The Brig gave Sam a brisk nod, and the midfielder shuffled to the door, looking a bit perplexed, but with his morale a level higher than when he’d arrived.
***
In the afternoon, Secretary Joe called to tell me the FA were looking into the incident where I'd tried to free myself from the unwanted, sweaty attentions of that Salford player. Joe, the traitor, called it 'the one where you elbowed that guy and nearly broke his wrist'.
"What does looking into it mean?"
"You might get a ban. Three match ban, most likely."
"I thought you couldn't relitigate a ref's decision?"
"He's saying the yellow card was for kicking the ball away."
"Will it stop me playing against Darlington?"
"No."
The following three matches were ones we should win without me needing to step onto the pitch. So, whatever. It’d help me save up XP for Parasight. "Call the FA, tell them I said they're a bunch of twats, then hang up."
He sighed and told me he'd keep me informed.
***
On Monday night, the draw for the second round was made. We were away to Walsall.
They were mid-table in League Two, a few places above Salford City, but I was sure Walsall had a weaker team. Still, they would be way better than us, and without my perks giving us a boost and without our rabid fans intimidating the referee, it'd be tough. Really tough.
Walsall had decent attendances - five and a half thousand on average, but looking at their history in the FA Cup second round, we could expect something like four thousand. We would split the gate receipts (getting 45% of the income each) but it wasn't going to be a cash bonanza. And, with all due respect to Walsall, it didn't seem like we'd be in the top ten picks to be shown on TV.
(Incidentally, for the first time I wished I had the Finances perk. I wasn’t sure exactly how much we’d made from the Salford tie. MD was back to being distant with me.)
Getting Walsall was frustrating because there were plenty of teams in the draw we could have beaten quite handily or had a good go at, and if we got to the third round, away at Tottenham perhaps, we could have made millions.
Ah, well. That's football. At least it would mean another postponement of a league match. One more game being played at the end of the season when we'd be much stronger. We would be much stronger, right? The Brig’s role play had helped Sam but had put me on edge. Could we keep all our players in January? I needed to have backup plans in place in case we suddenly lost key players. People I could bring in, even ten minutes before the deadline.
I took my Director of Football glasses off and looked at the League Two table again. There in the middle were Walsall. Three places below but rising quickly were Salford. And just a couple of places above the relegation zone... Tranmere.
I sighed. How long would Mateo stick with James?
And, being honest, how long should he stick with James?
***
Tuesday, 7 November
Match 15 of 46: Chester versus Tamworth
Tamworth came to our gaff. Average CA 38, playing in red. They were known as The Lambs.
Yeah, lambs to the slaughter.
(That’s terrible. Cut that.)
On the footage I saw, Tamworth played 4-3-3 at home - quite attractive football with tricky forwards - and 4-4-2 away. It was a very sensible blend of trying to put on a show for your home fans while picking up some points on your travels. Good manager, good team, seemed like a club with its head screwed on.
But we'd been blasting teams left and right and had just hit five past a League Two side, so out came the low block. And for once, I was relieved.
We were hungover. Mostly from the incredible noise and intensity we'd experienced a few days before, but also from having a pint or two. It was shocking how much you could see the alcohol messing with people's legs, their coordination, their decision-making, three days later.
Naming the lineup was hard - I really wanted to leave Glenn, Ryan, and Aff out of the eleven - they needed a break (and I wanted them fresh for Saturday's Darlington game), while D-Day, Joe, and Trick needed to start. It was hard to balance all the factors, and in the end I took a risk on 3-5-2 with Ben Cavanagh back in goal for the first time since his meltdown against Kidderminster, Trick Williams playing the Aff role, D-Day as a second striker, and Joe right mid. The biggest gamble was throwing Andrew Harrison into midfield. He was CA 12, but he could run around, tackle, and pass the ball to someone good. Against a low block, he'd be fine. I had to start Ryan Jack, but I tweaked his instructions so he wouldn't have to run around or press.
I made Sam Topps captain for the day even though I suspected his influence wasn’t that high, and he nearly burst with pride. His morale shot to Superb.
So with an average CA of 41.5, we set about our business, with the stadium eerily quiet. The fans had a hangover, too.
We moved the ball around quite well but the last pass always went astray. D-Day over complicated things - he really wanted to be the match winner. The only saving grace was that Tamworth's manager didn't realise how weak our team was and didn't come at us.
After fifteen minutes, Ryan Jack went down with an injury. The curse told me it was his knee, which gave me all kinds of stress. So I had to throw Raffi on - no break for him.
Fortunately, Raffi scored from a corner to put us one-nil up, and the guys passed the ball around for the rest of the game, taking some potshots every now and then but basically saving their collective energy. I thought about going on for the last ten minutes, but I really, really wanted to save myself for Darlington. I swapped Henri for Tony, and really couldn't have done any more in terms of freshening up the lineup while still making sure we were favourites to win.
Tamworth came at us in the last five minutes, but I went 'men behind ball' - ugh - and Ben didn't have a shot to save in the whole match. He caught some crosses and made some good clearances. I hoped the evening would get his season back on track.
Okay, three points, not a memorable game, but I'd learned a lesson: no more mid-season parties.
The win left us in a pretty decent position, all things considered. The top four teams were winning most of their matches, but the early season pace couldn't last. One thing was sure - we'd leap ahead of Darlington if we beat them.
Team P W D L F A GD Pts 1 Kidderminster 16 11 5 0 32 9 23 38 2 Darlington 16 10 5 1 25 14 11 35 3 Chester 15 11 1 3 39 15 24 34 4 York 16 8 6 2 26 17 9 30
***
There wasn't much time to enjoy the win, though. While I was in the shower, the countdown on the bomb hit zero and it exploded. My phone started popping off and didn't stop for days.
The scurrilous article Emma had been dreading finally arrived on some shitty website not worth suing. The biggest surprise was the ecosystem of content that had been pre-developed around the article. TikToks, YouTubes, all kinds of social media stuff, hashtags, memes. This wasn't just an article - it was a massive, co-ordinated campaign that came at me in waves.
Impressive, really.
But it all started with wave one - the article. And looking at the identity of the co-writer, I knew I had found my first proper traitor of the season. Bingo was the local sports reporter and he had come across as a cool guy. I'd given him an exclusive interview with Miss Fox and her class.
The main author, of course, was the Australian prick who had scammed Emma into dishing the dirt on me. I refuse to dignify him by using his real name.
***
Bigger Than Judas
by Cameron Sandpaper and Bingo Williams
reprinted without permission
Scarborough, Monday 2nd January, 2023. Max Best poses in front of the Darlington supporters, hands clasped together in fake prayer. Someone takes a photo, adds the words BIGGER THAN JESUS, and a meme is born.
Many Darlo fans remember Max Best's time at the club fondly. One recent poll named him second in a list of the team's best ever players. But our investigations have led us to a different conclusion. The gospel truth is that Max Best derailed Darlo's push for promotion, did for David Cutter, and left behind a deluge of devastation.
"It started before we ever even saw him," said one of our many sources, most of whom wish to be anonymous for fear of reprisals from Best, whose temper is notorious. "He had some kind of relationship with the receptionist at the training ground. She was only about sixteen but she'd do anything for him. She was at his beck and call, like she was afraid of saying no."
Another insider said, "He turned up on Remembrance Day so that he could act all sombre in front of Cutter. He's sharp like that. Got a sharp eye for a shortcut. He (Best) acted all sad during the two minute silence and Cutter lapped it up. We saw right through it but what can you say?"
What can you say, indeed? Once he'd softened the manager up with crocodile tears, it was time to insinuate himself into the team.
"He gets himself invited to join our training session, which was really annoying because we had important games coming up. Of course, he's a decent player but he can't resist having a dig. He says 'ah this is too easy let's make it more fun' to show us up, like. Very disruptive and annoying, but he realises he's gone too far and tries to laugh it off. Doesn't really work on us, but Cutter is only seeing the goals and free kicks so now we've got this brat training with us, and playing, too. We couldn't believe it."
Also unbelievable was Best's attitude behind the scenes. One senior player, vastly experienced, told us just how bad it got. "He refused to sign up to the code of conduct. Like he was above all that. Teams need rules that everyone agrees to. Best said no and was frankly obscene in the dressing room when we brought it up. Then he comes in late, trains on his own, does whatever he wants. It wasn't long before the young players were running riot."
His on-pitch output made up for it, though, surely? Another source remembered the early matches. "There were certain people he didn't want to play with so he set about making them look like fools. He'd pretend their passes were no good, even though us on the pitch all saw they were just fine, and he'd thrash passes just far enough ahead of a striker so he couldn't quite get there. It was crazy. Look at those highlights again and you'll see there are two or three players Best never, ever passes to, and one striker who scored a ton of goals that season never got an assist from Best. And Cutter fell for the trick and the striker got dropped."
The more people we talked to, the more we realised how deep Best's poison had sunk. "One day I went to training and a few lads snubbed me. I didn't get it at first but I realised Best was forming his own little clique and splitting mates apart. He wanted us all fighting each other. Before he came, we were one big happy family."
It wasn't only naive young receptionists Best had inappropriate relationships with. "He spent a few nights at the digs, and within minutes he was tapping up the youth team’s star player." Tapping up is the unethical - and illegal - practice of talking to under-contract players without permission of their clubs.
"What would bother me if I was a Darlington fan," said Brad Rymarquis, a prominent agent with good connections to the club, "is how blatant it is. No sooner is he in charge of a club than he's poaching Darlo's best young players. For free. And those lads who went to Tranmere for cheap? Best was behind that. I'm not sure how it benefits him, but he was behind it, mark my words. Tranmere never had a scout up here. Never."
Surely the tapping up was a sign Best had his eye on the exit door as soon as he arrived? "He had his eye on a manager gig somewhere. He was always meeting people from Chester or Telford. We thought he was playing them off against each other and it was so obvious to us we couldn't believe how easily they were falling for it. He never gave two hoots about Darlo or the fans here. It was just a stepping stone, and while he was here, why not pick up a few impressionable youngsters? Because that's the sick thing about him - he doesn't mind if he's stealing players for his next team or for his agency. He'll make money coming and going."
Agency? A player on the fringes of the first team said, "When he came he said he was representing Henri Lyons, the guy who'd slagged the town off. Best was trying to get him to Chester so he could skim his ten percent, but what we later learned was that David Cutter wanted to reintegrate Lyons, and Best lied to Lyons about it so he could get paid. Lied to his client! He doesn't care about anyone but himself. When I see them laughing and joking these days it makes me sick. Lyons was a difficult guy to understand but I really think his heart's in the right place and the way he doesn't realise Best is taking the pee out of him - it makes me sick, it does."
So Lyons could have stayed in Darlington? We came up with an impeccable source. Someone incredibly close to Best. Close but, like Best, ever ready to betray. Over coffee, she dropped bombshell after bombshell. She offered to buy me something stronger; she was thirsty. Her story was enough for me. It made Best look even more twisted than we originally thought.
"Max had a plan to play until the end of January and leave after the evening match. He would cancel his contract right there in the changing room and ten minutes later, Chester would register him. Yep, right there in the changing room after a match, he would leave the club without telling anyone. He had it all worked out. Henri was part of the plan but not party to the plan. Max knew Darlington wouldn't let Henri go to the same National League North club as him because they'd be too dangerous together. So he got Henri out and then he would follow later. But something went awry with the schedule that ruined the concept so he left near the start of the month."
He left, in fact, after his Bigger Than Jesus moment, but we'll get back to that. What about Henri Lyons?
"Max arranged everything, then told Henri. Henri thought it was crazy and told him not to do it. He said it was disrespectful and all that kind of thing. He was really insistent on doing right by Darlington, but Max didn't care. He wanted to leave."
Get paid and leave. For not only would Best be extracting money from his new client, he was also on a hefty goal bonus. Another insider with knowledge of the club's finances said, "Best was on silly money for goals, so he was shooting from everywhere. He'd have ten shots a game because that was cash money to him. Didn't seem to bother him if other players were in a better position. He was costing the club so much money they were having to make cutbacks, but it didn't stop him. Cutter tolerated it because he thought Best would sign a contract and the club would get some money when they sold him, but Best strung him along and we never got a penny. I know for a fact in the back office they call him The Leech, which is ironic because the building staff call him The Lech. Short for lecherous."
But surely a young man doesn't sign for his first professional club and immediately plot his exit? One player's girlfriend was more than happy to offer confirmation. "He was planning it from the start. We bumped into him the day after a match and he was really unkind and unfriendly. His girlfriend said he spent the whole morning reading about himself online, which is typical of the man, really, and when I tried to be nice and set up a dinner, just being friendly, like, Best says great let's do it in February. His girlfriend tried to hide a laugh - she's as two-faced as him; they're made for each other - and I didn't think much of it until later. He knew he'd be gone in February, even then. It was shocking when I realised he was planning to betray us the whole time he was there. It shook me up. How can you be so cruel?"
There was already a startlingly clear pattern of behaviour, if only one person had seen the whole picture. But Best was sly enough to limit how much damage he caused in front of any one person or group. One of the young players tried to raise the alarm and was ignored. "He came into our school lessons whenever he wanted. I was, like, trying to get an education and that. Because football's a short career and it's, you know, precarious. So when Best came in we'd all groan because it was like, mate, I've got exams next week."
But why was he there? "He fancied our teacher. I mean, to be fair, she was well fit, but he could have done that at breaks and stuff. But maybe he did it in class time so's his psycho girlfriend wouldn't find out. She was his stalker or something, I heard. But I got a bad grade and I think that's as much Best's fault as mine, in the end."
Yet another source confirms much of the above, but adds to it. Incredibly, Best became even bolder over time. "Oh, I could tell you stories about that man that'd curl your toes. Did you know he took Henri Lyons to Chester and they played a whole match in secret? A trial with Darlington's record signing as the star of the show. What if he'd got injured there? There's a reason people don't do things like that. The fallout could have been enormous, not that Best would give a toss. Then he himself went on a secret trial at Sheffield Wednesday, and the only reason he isn't playing there now is that he didn't like the way someone was talking to him and he shot his mouth off, the way he always does. Except at Wednesday he didn't have a couple of goals to his name, right? So they binned him off right away, as Darlo should have done the first time he skipped training."
Skipped training? "Yeah. Used the old sick mum excuse. She was sick anytime he needed a morning off. Oh, and he did a runner during a match, sulking after he got subbed off, and he said he'd gone to see his mum. It's horrible, really, because she really is sick but he never goes to see her."
But it was near the end where Best's ego was spinning wildest out of control. "He wanted to take a penalty in his last game, so he demands the ball. Cutter's said that Blondie is on pens, but Best is going mental. He says he wants the ball or Blondie will wake up in a ditch somewhere. It was sick. Then he scores and goes off to do his Bigger Than Jesus stuff. Which is really not on, especially not at Darlo with its Quaker roots. There's disrespect, there's extreme disrespect, then below that there's Max Best. They say those who the gods love die young, and that's how I knew he'd survive his attack. He'll live a long time, that prick."
Which brings us to perhaps the single most shocking part of the story. The events of half time against Kettering. With his team losing two-nil, with two players and the manager sent off, Max Best committed the ultimate crime in sports.
He refused to play.
"We had to beg him not to do anything stupid," says one player who was there. "He was already getting undressed. Ready to flounce just when we needed him. He'd taken so much from the club, disrupted everything, made everything into chaos, the way he does. And now we needed a bit of something, and he said, nah, I'm not doing this. I'm too good for this. We had to plead with him. His mate Junior asked Best if he'd play if we let him do the tactics. You know, like you'd do with a kid. Go to the dentist and I'll buy you a new toy. At the time we were all pumped full of adrenaline and everything that happens in a match seems normal, but later when I thought about it, I thought it was sad. Pathetic, you know? But it also made me angry. He wants to be a manager? Fine. But he's not the manager. He needs to shut the eff up and play like the rest of us."
Another witness was less equivocal. "It was mutiny. Plain and simple. He cost us the league that night. It was never the same in the dressing room. That was the night Max Best got David Cutter sacked, and I'll never forgive him for that."
This weekend, one year to the day that Best darkened Darlo's doorstep, he'll be back with his bimbo and his French ‘friend’. He will get a good reception from the home fans, those that only know him as a flying winger thrilling them with his on-pitch antics.
But there will be no such love from his former teammates, coaches, or backroom staff. They know all too well what Max Best did. For them, Best resembles a biblical character whose name starts with J. And they don't mean Jesus.
***
That night and all through the next day, as the article and the reaction videos and the reaction-to-the-reaction videos went viral in two English towns and almost nowhere else, I got urgent texts. Dozens of urgent texts. From Emma, from Henri, MD, Longstaff, Miss Fox, and many, many more. All were close variations on the same theme:
We need to talk.