4.
Football glossary: to ghost in. To appear out of nowhere, like a ghost, with a perfectly-timed run into the penalty area. He ghosted in at the far post.
***
Saturday, November 11
Match 1 of 1: Darlington versus Chester
One hour before kick off.
The dressing room was ghostly quiet. Almost silent. No claps, slaps, shouts. No come ons, no big game today boys, no make sure you fucking want its.
Instead of talking, I scribbled names on the tactics board. Robbo in goal. Re-energised by being dropped and put back in the starting eleven, he'd been training like a demon. His CA had crept up to 40, which given he was 34 years old really seemed like turning back the clock. He watched as my marker formed the shapes of his name. No reaction. He was as affected by the mood as everyone else.
The back four was Magnus, Glenn, Gerald, and Carl. The half-American right back was on CA 52, now. He was very close to catching Glenn and becoming our best defender.
Youngster would roam the lines between defence and attack. Today he looked very young. Very callow. As one of the most sensitive members of the squad, he was one of the most affected by the Judas article and what had come after. This match would be a big test for him.
In midfield, from left to right, Aff, Raffi, D-Day, and Joe Anka.
Up front, Henri.
I wrote out the subs. Ben, who had put his recent tribulations mostly behind him, had improved to CA 43. Steve Alton, who had moved past Gerald May in CA; Sam Topps; me; and Tony.
As soon as I wrote the last name, Trick Williams stood and threw down his shinpads. "What about me?" he hissed, because even if he was angry, it would have been unthinkable to shout into that void of sound.
I clicked the lid back on the marker, then shook my head.
He put his fingers to his nose, fussed in his bag to get his wallet, and went out, slamming the door behind him.
Another sign of our very obvious dysfunction. Our very public disunity.
The article, it seemed, had done its job.
***
Boggy: And we're off! Darlington get things going, kicking from left to right in their black and white kits. If you're just joining us, Chester coach Spectrum is back for this big game. Top of the table clash.
Spectrum: Hi.
Boggy: The atmosphere is febrile.
Spectrum: What does that mean?
Boggy: Noisy.
Spectrum: Oh, yes. The home fans are well up for this one. The team, too. Very fast start from them. Playing high balls forward. Direct.
Boggy: As we talked about before kick off, that's probably because they let the grass grow long. Trying to make it hard for Chester to play their usual passing game. And they've overwatered the pitch for the same reason. It's all very underhand these days, isn't it?
Spectrum: I'm trying not to think about it. It's all making me very, very angry.
Boggy: Long balls being hit towards the Chester penalty area, but so far the back four are coping. Youngster trying to mop things up but he's struggling with this pitch. It's been less than sixty seconds here and he's already played two wayward passes.
Spectrum: Not sure he'll have played on a pitch like this. He'll adapt.
Boggy: Cross swung in from Hurts, the seventy thousand pound left back. Headed away by May, not very far, ball played back to Hurts, another cross, another half clearance, my goodness is it going to be like this the whole match? Now Chester get some control. Raffi Brown holds off a challenge, finds D-Day. He tries an ambitious pass out to Anka, but it's easily cleared by Hurts. What do you make of this team selection? Ryan Jack is injured, but no Sam Topps?
Spectrum: I can't really work it out. Of course, it could be... you know. Fallout. From all the stuff that's been happening.
Boggy: [pained groan.]
***
Five minutes in and Darlington were well on top. They were bullying us in midfield, especially. Tough tackles, yes, but also quick to the ball. Aggressive, powerful, and the crowd loved it.
I spared a few seconds to tune into the vibe. It was hard to tell how much they had been turned against me and how much they were using any excuse to force a win. They knew they had the best team in the league, on paper, and had invested heavily in a bid to get out of the division. And they knew we were the biggest threat.
If they could beat us today, we would have lost to each of the top three teams, and teams that win the league don’t do that.
Yeah, fair to say the home fans would have been up for it anyway, but the article had pushed some of them over the edge into nastiness.
The left midfielder they had bought, Dicks, had one of those long throws. He hurled it in now, all the way to the penalty spot. There was a bit of chaos, and Captain Caveman leapt and headed into the net.
The noise was intense. On another day I’d have found it intimidating, but today it passed right through me, touching nothing. They were ghouls; I was a ghost.
As the initial celebrations died down, a chant rose up.
“Sacked in the morning! You’re getting sacked in the morning!”
I tried to pick out MD in the Directors’ seats. How close was he to firing me? I didn’t see him, but I did see one of my players wandering around the stand like a lost soul. I knew who he was looking for. I knew it all too well.
***
Boggy: Twenty minutes gone here in Darlington and the Blackwell Meadows stadium is bouncing. It's one-nil to Darlington, and it has been pretty one-way traffic so far this half. Darlington started ferociously, an absolute maelstrom of long balls and crosses, and when Chester have broken forward, player-manager Folke Wester has snuffed out the danger. So far, Henri Lyons has been a virtual passenger. This is where I get nervous about him lashing out.
Spectrum: Doesn't seem much danger of that today. Like a lot of the players, he's subdued. They aren't even talking to each other. Have you seen it? Glenn Ryder is organising his defence, but that's it.
Boggy: Isn't it very Sunday League to want your players to gee each other up and shout?
Spectrum: Not really, but even if it is, we normally do it and today we're not. I don't like seeing us... not be us.
Boggy: D-Day has been ineffective, but I must say he has worked hard.
Spectrum: Very hard. He's playing like someone who was told he'd get the first half and to leave everything out there.
Boggy: Mmm. So maybe Sam Topps will come on second half. Maybe he has a slight knock.
Spectrum: Oh. Look. He's coming on... now. What?
Boggy: You're not impressed with Best's decisions today.
Spectrum: If there's ever a match where you could understand that his mind wasn't sharp and clear, it'd be this one. Right? All the drama. It's shocking how much it has affected the rest of the team, though. I think we might have to write today off and, sort of, rebuild.
Boggy: That's the end of Donny Dorigo's shift. Little twenty minute cameo from him, there. Lots of industry, no end product. No handshake from Best as he leaves the pitch. No words spoken from the bench. It's like the Marie Celeste. A ghost ship. Oh, I don't like this. We've gone from riding the wave of the cup run to this, all because of one horrible, scurrilous little piece of vicious... trash.
Spectrum: Come on, Boggy. It'll be all right.
Boggy: Reports of an incident with Trick Williams in the dressing room. Players not talking to each other. Team spirit gone. Strange decisions. Being battered by Darlington. The manager standing there, arms folded, not moving. His every move since joining put under the microscope, examined and reexamined. Are we witnessing the end of the Max Best era?
***
Triple Captain looked like it was working. Glenn Ryder had shrugged off the early setback of the goal and was leading by example. When he played like this, he was enormous. He wasn't quite at the Christian Fierce level of physicality and mental strength, but he was close enough for my purposes. To Glenn’s left, Magnus was winning his duels. To his right, May was struggling manfully against Blondie. Blondie had a big CA advantage, but May was just about keeping him under wraps. Just about. And on the right, Carl was up against one of Darlington's two big money signings. Dicks, the left midfielder, was on 6 out of 10, which showed that Carl was winning those battles.
Hurts versus Anka was not an equal battle, though. Hurts was a seriously good player and was on 9 out of 10, which was massive for a left back who hadn’t scored or assisted. I'd known he would be a pain point and there was nothing I could do about it.
Bench Boost was working, too. When Sam had jogged onto the pitch, it was like he was gliding. Changing direction as easily as Pac Man dodges ghosts. And in the first couple of minutes of being on, Pac Sam ran around gobbling up balls and burping them to Raffi.
It would be an exaggeration to say putting on a Bench Boosted midfielder turned the tide in our favour, but the difference was stark. The contest evened out. We were snapping into tackles the way Darlington had been doing. We won midfield duels in a way we hadn't before. Suddenly, the Aff-Raffi-Sam line became the dominant factor in the match. They didn't have things all their own way, but the more they outperformed their rivals, the more Henri got into the match, which pulled Darlington backwards, and the more they were pulled back, the more Youngster had the breathing space to think his way into the contest.
Around the twenty-five minute mark, I noticed that the crowd were far, far less noisy. I hadn't known what to expect in terms of reception, and the whole day was made even weirder because, just as things were getting spicy, we had a one-minute silence to honour those who fought and died in our many wars. Sneaking the stuff about me abusing Remembrance Day into the article made sense - when the referee blew to end the silence, there was what felt like genuine, deafening anger, aimed at me, for disrespecting the memories of the fallen. Then a spine-tingling roar, urging the home team to start fast.
Now, though, their team's early energy and verve was fading. They had come out throwing haymakers and one had landed, but one wasn't enough. The team knew that, Folke Wester knew that, and the fans knew that.
We got our first jab through the defences.
Nice interception from Youngster. He plays a simple pass to Evergreen.
It's played forward to Aff. He turns and finds Brown is in support.
Brown moves across the pitch and fizzes a pass to Anka.
Played first-time back inside to Topps.
Topps touches it to Brown, who looks up.
Glorious curling pass out to Aff. He's motoring forward.
He tries to pick out Lyons.
Great pass!
First time shot!
Good block from Caveman.
He really had to stretch there.
I nodded. Yes. Good. Let it happen.
Words and phrases from the article swirled around me like smoke. Judas, leech, mutiny. I looked up, exasperated with myself, fixed my jaw, and concentrated.
The racket from the home fans bumped up a level as they attacked, but suddenly my whole body started tingling, and as the ball was played to Blondie’s feet the hairs on my neck went haywire.
Strong tackle from Ryder. He meant that one!
The ball pops out to Youngster.
Great first time pass to Anka!
He's got some space for the first time in the match.
He looks for a cross, but decides to keep going.
All the way to the byline.
He cuts the ball back...
Lyons cocks his leg, ready for the volley...
But the ball's blocked!
It seemed to come off the defender's hand.
The Chester players are demanding a penalty.
And the referee has given it!
The assistant referee had a perfect view of the incident.
It looks like Lyons will take the spot kick against his former team.
Ah. Right. About that.
***
Boggy: Huge excitement here at Blackwell Meadows where Chester have a penalty. Chester have a penalty to draw level! Spectrum, be honest with me now, something weird is going on, we can all see that, but this doesn't look like a team that have given up.
Spectrum: No, they don't. They weathered the storm, and now they're giving some back.
Boggy: Bit of a delay here while the usual gamesmanship goes on. Referees are far too lenient with these players who try to put the penalty taker off. It's cheating, plain and simple.
Spectrum: Oh my God.
Boggy: What? What?
Spectrum: Max is going to take the penalty.
Boggy: But he's not even - oh! Chester are making a substitution.
Spectrum: Max, no. What are you doing?
Boggy: Youngster is leaving the pitch. Just as he was coming into his own! That's a shame. But Max wants to take the penalty, it seems. There's absolute bedlam here. No-one can believe what they're seeing. Folke Wester looks like he’s seen a ghost. Best has used two substitutions in the first half. The second, to bring himself on to take a penalty. Will he sub off after he takes it?
Spectrum: I don't know what's real any more.
Boggy: I'll tell you what, no-one is trying to put him off. It's a straight contest between Best and Larkin. Oh, my nerves. The... everyone in the stadium is grabbing the person next to them. This is unreal. Unreal.
***
Folke Wester had been planning for this day since the start of the season. Like me, he'd realised this would be a massive, massive moment. Possibly the pivotal day for both teams. Winning would be a statement, would boost one set of players and fans. Losing would be a disaster, would demoralise and demotivate the other.
His manager stats were the same as when I’d last seen them: Discipline 18, Motivating 20, Man Management 8. A banshee. Ruling by fear. Not a good coach, not much of a tactical brain. His playing stats had decreased slightly - his pace had dropped one point to 6. His positioning was still 20, he had heading 16, tackling 14, and his stamina of 11 wouldn’t be tested if he stuck to the confines of his defensive midfield role.
He was, in truth, a formidable presence in that part of the pitch, but we didn’t normally attack through the middle.
Wester had grown his grass long and come to watch me play. He'd studied his tapes, noting that I tended to play the last half an hour. He had a plan A that would be something like what Kidderminster did to us. He had a plan B in case I played from the start, as I'd done against Salford.
He'd dropped his dirty bomb, spreading toxicity, hate and bile.
And, I had absolutely no doubt, he'd been studying my new penalty technique in great detail. He would have a plan to counter it.
But he just didn't get it. He couldn't conceive of the ways I'd been preparing for this match. He didn't have the imagination to think beyond me starting and finishing the game. What if I played the middle?
There was no question he had instructed someone to go in hard - real hard - as soon as I stepped on the pitch. But again, lack of imagination. Who could have dreamed I'd be so arrogant and selfish as to bring myself on to take a first half penalty? They could still try to kick me out of the game, but only after I'd scored.
The referee pointed to the goal line, ordering the keeper to step back.
In goal was Paul Larkin. Smokes, the first choice goalie, was out with a minor finger injury. It didn't matter too much in terms of this match, but if I humiliated Larkin it would make Wester blame him for their defeat and would cause the kind of division Wester had been hoping to create in Chester.
While the ref tried to make himself the centre of attention by walking along the edge of the penalty area pointing at players, I had a look at some faces in the stand to my left. There were plenty of people who believed what they'd been told this week. They were all kinds of mad at me. There were a fair few, I thought, who were unsure.
Paul Larkin took a step behind the goal and picked up his water bottle. Someone had taped notes on it. How to save an Henri Lyons penalty. How to save a Max Best penalty. I wondered if they had bothered doing one for Tony Hetherington? Probably.
The whole thing was almost certainly theatre. There was no way to stop what I did. Put simply, I made the keeper dive, then kicked the other way. If I kept my cool, it was virtually foolproof. I would only miss if I was, for example, blazing with fury about an article that Wester had funded.
The free hit button was flashing. How tempting was that? This goal could change the entire course of our season. Could change the entire course of my career. Could be the goal that propelled me to the Premier League. I pushed the button away.
The referee was ready now. Paul Larkin was ready. He looked confident. He had a plan.
I twitched and the stadium hushed. A few stray shouts could be heard. They were not very nice.
I took a step to the right. Then another step.
Paul Larkin did not look very confident.
No more shouts came.
***
Boggy: Here we go. Oh, what? Best is moving away. No, he's - he's what? He's going to take the kick with his left. What's he playing at?
Spectrum: Oh, Christ.
Boggy: This is it. Best, left-footed, steps, goalie moves, no, the ball - it's in!
Spectrum: [guttural scream]
Boggy: Best scores! He's scored! With his first touch of the match. He - what did he do? His new technique. He's... he's... what's he done?
Spectrum: Come on! (Off-mic) No, I won't be quiet. Get bent.
Boggy: Spectrum, did you get a good look?
Spectrum: Yes! The keeper had instructions, right? He'd been told which way to dive. But that was right-footed. So when Max changed his feet, Larkin was in two minds. Does he do what he was told? Or the opposite? So, Max, he's about to kick, and the goalie, he's about to dive one way, thinks better of it, and when Max makes contact the goalie just falls to one knee. Max has done him all ends up. Oh my God, the adrenaline. What a rush. The balls to do that. Fuck me.
Boggy: Language, Spectrum. I have to say, there was absolutely no response from any of the Chester players. No celebrations. When the ball went in, the away fans went crazy, but the players, they turned their backs and walked back to their half. And nothing from Best, either. So it's one-all, but... I don't know. I don't know what's happening.
Spectrum: The next five minutes will tell us.
***
I scored, and told myself not to look at the Darlington players. But I couldn't help but walk past Folke Wester, even if it wasn't exactly on my way. He was tall, slim, powerful, good-looking. But under the light brown hair, above the dashing, sensual lips, were the eyes of a true psychopath. This guy was vindictive, unremorseful, and exploitative. He was smart, too. Smart enough to plagiarise my tactical ideas.
But he'd made a lot of mistakes recently, and was about to make another one.
I walked past, saying nothing. Three-quarters of the stadium had fallen silent, but now a spark of life came back as they tried to encourage their team to get back in the game.
I took up the DM position and looked around. Darlo's average CA had crept up since I'd seen them in training, and they were now on CA 53. With Smokes in goal they might have been 54. The best team in the division, on paper. Far ahead of our average CA of 48, plus they had home advantage, plus whatever deleterious effects their media assault had engendered.
They should have been hyped. Super motivated. Confident to the point of arrogance.
So why did they look terrified?
***
Boggy: It's, er... It's Chester in the ascendency here at Blackwell Meadows. Sam Topps is absolutely bossing this game. Is that right?
Spectrum: Yes. This is the best I've ever seen him. He's unbelievable. But I know people laugh at me for being a kiss arse, but it's not Sam, it’s Max.
Boggy: What's he doing? What does an expert see when he watches this?
Spectrum: He's giving a masterclass in the position. Youngster was doing okay, making interceptions, taking the pressure off. But here, there's no pressure. There's zilch. Darlington can't get through.
Boggy: But what's he doing?
Spectrum: It's his positioning. He's in the right place for every second ball. Quick one-touch passes up to midfield and the break is on. The front five are playing with all that freedom now because the back five are so solid.
Boggy: There's a lot of long balls still from Darlington.
Spectrum: That's my only doubt about Max in that role. He's not going for headers. He hasn't headed a football since his, you know, and Darlington are trying to target him with high balls.
Boggy: It's not working though.
Spectrum: [laughing] No. Gerald or Glenn are swapping places with him when the high balls come. Watch and you'll see Best drops to centre back, May goes to DM, wins the header, or not, and they switch back again. It's so smooth it took me all this time to notice.
Boggy: That doesn't seem like a team that's, well, as dysfunctional as it looks.
Spectrum: [musing] No. But when did they practise this?
Boggy: In training.
Spectrum: After the article came out, Max trained with the women.
Boggy: Oh. Oh dear.
***
Boggy: Coming to the end of a very strange half. 44 minutes on the clock, and I'm sure there'll be a minute or two added on for the substitutions and penalties, and a couple of stoppages where Chester players were hurt by hard tackles. Still this aerial bombardment, still Best has nothing to do with it. Darlington's number 10 wins that header, there's danger here, Ryder is isolated, and Best comes out of nowhere! He raced in front of the striker, Blondie, and let it go out for a goal kick. Blondie gave him a push, trying to wind him up, but there was zero reaction from Best or from anyone.
Spectrum: That's incredible recovery speed. He could play as a centre back, you know.
Boggy: Not if he won't head the ball.
Spectrum: That's true. Maybe he could be a sweeper.
Boggy: Can you have sweepers in the modern game?
Spectrum: I wouldn't have thought so, but Max talks about it sometimes. It wouldn't surprise me if he tried it once.
Boggy: Robbo takes the kick short - we've adapted well to this long grass. Such a base tactic, that. Really poor. We're moving it around the backline. It's played to Best - ooh, he dodged a savage tackle there.
Spectrum: They can't get near him.
Boggy: They keep trying, though. It only takes one. Ball's out on the left with Aff. Chester pushing up the pitch. Comes to Best. He brings them back again. This is the thing they do where they make space?
Spectrum: That's right.
Boggy: It's awfully stressful, you know.
Spectrum: I'll tell him you want him to stop.
Boggy: Ball's clipped forward to Raffi Brown. He's quietly been having a good game. Not put a foot wrong, has he?
Spectrum: They've been trying to provoke him with snide kicks and elbows and all that. They've picked the wrong guy.
Boggy: Who's the right guy to try to wind up?
Spectrum: I would have said Max but... not today.
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Boggy: He's back on the ball again. Darlington are chasing shadows. Wester is screaming at everyone to get back into shape. Best with a simple pass - no! He's on the move. Here we go. Goosebumps! Best's dribbling. He's surging to the centre circle. Going right for Folke Wester! This is the duel we were all waiting for, player-manager against player-manager. Has it ever happened before? Not that I can remember. Best, what will he do?
Spectrum: Nutmeg.
Boggy: He's slowed down, looks like he's ready to get cheeky, oh! Big pass out wide. Darlington were just coming for him, but the pass... and Aff's surging ahead. He's isolated. No support. He doesn't need it. Cross comes in...
***
Folke Wester was there, in my path. I shifted my weight to the right and surged ahead, towards Jonathan Hurts in the left back slot. Could I bring Folke all the way out of the centre? This was his one chance to get up close and personal himself.
Wester followed, tracked me, and I felt a full-body thrill. The Bench Boost had smashed me past my limits, past my Current Ability, and I was playing with something like the pace, skill, and power I'd had before my murder.
I could do whatever I wanted. Nutmeg the bastard, double dribble, do it again. I could score from long range. I could pop the ball on my forehead and run twenty metres.
Snippets from the article slid across my vision like subtitles in a movie. Emma, my mum, Miss Fox.
The ice cold rage returned, and I slowed down. I clipped the ball to Aff, and stopped. Folke turned, surprised, and tracked back towards the space between his centre backs. Hurts tucked in to protect the far post.
With their aggro off me, I sprinted.
Aff had no choice but to attack the line and whip in a cross. Fortunately, he'd been brought up on his home pitches doing nothing but that. Long before he learned to slap, he had mastered the art of crossing at the end of a long sprint.
He was aiming, I think, for Henri, but Henri had gone to the near post.
He had gone to the near post because I was arrowing into his usual hunting ground.
The cross, holy shit, the cross was beautiful. You can't understand how gorgeous it was. The height, the curve, the speed, it was sublime. I like a nice team move. I love me a dinked finish, a chip, a volley, a no-look backheel nutmeg, but there's something about a perfect cross that sends me into raptures.
I leapt, crashed into Jonathan Hurts, met the cross full between the eyes, and powered the ball down at the goal line, where Paul Larkin could do nothing more than fall backwards, slowly, a sandwich board toppling at the first breath of the coming hurricane.
The surge of joy was almost overwhelming. The need to run to the fans, to cheer, to pump my fists, to shout, was almost irresistible. Two seconds of a snarling, contorted mouth, of fingers curled into cat claws, of crunched abs, and I remembered my purpose. I got a grip, wiped my face clean of emotion, and walked back to my slot. Ready to go again.
***
Boggy: Stunning! Stunning from Aff. Sensational from Chester. What a goal! What a headed goal! Best ghosted in at the far post, leapt high, and left Hurts in a heap, left the goalie on his backside, again. Darlington are shattered; Chester are leading two-one. Chester are beating Darlington in their home patch. Chester are making a huge title charge here. But... a header! And no celebrations again. It's surreal. Spectrum, explain it to me.
Spectrum: I can't. What I heard was that the men trained as normal. Normal stuff, Wednesday to Friday. Best was separate, but whatever this is, this vow of silence thing, that must have happened today.
Boggy: Oh, God. Something else happened today? Something we haven't heard about yet?
***
Ninety minutes before kick off.
The team bus was making good time along the A1M. I went to the driver and asked him to pull in at Barton services. He suggested he didn't really want to, and I suggested he did, he just didn't know it yet. He gave me a funny look, but turned in and parked.
The place was an absolute mess of concrete and seemed to be a dumping ground for anything and everything, as long as it was ugly as sin. The driver opened the doors, I got off, and I heard the Brig command the players to follow.
A minute later, the guys were assembled around me in a semi-circle.
I'd barely spoken a word to them since the article had come out.
My jaw, as it had been for days, was tight. I tried to loosen it. "Guys," I said, but it came out gruff and angry. I counted to five and tried again. "Guys. You know what the deal is today. The stakes. And you know I never ask you for anything. Only to train like lions, play like kings, and do your community work like legends. It's really not much. Well, today I'm asking you to do something for me.
"You know what this is all about. People slagging me off, trying to get personal, trying to get me angry so I make mistakes. Trying to turn us against each other, blah blah blah.
"Now, listen. I talk shit about you all the time, and you shrug it off. I say you've hit a shit pass or aren't training hard enough or you're late or your haircut's bad for the brand. Doesn't bother you, why would it? But if I ever said anything about your girlfriend. Your wife. Your mum." They bristled, just imagining it. "Right? They crossed the line. They knew they were crossing the line. That was the whole point of it.
"Since Tuesday night I've had people begging me to respond, pleading with me to do an interview, get my side out there. And I said, no, I'll do my talking on the pitch. I'm going to put on a show, lads. A real treat. You've seen some of it before, but they haven't. I promise you this, there will be a lot of regrets in that town by half past five.
"Now, what I'm asking - not really asking, actually, demanding - is that you don't say a fucking word in there. We don't talk. Nothing more than the essentials. As soon as we get back on that bus it's mouths shut until we're back here going the other way, home sweet home. We're going to play football, smash them out of the title race, and leave. Leave the talking to me, you hear me? And by the way, I won't be talking. I'm not talking to the media. Not in there. The club will pay the fine, and if they don't want to, I'll pay it.
"Don't celebrate goals. I'm fucking serious. I told you not to knee slide and you keep fucking doing it. I told you not to jump on each other's backs and you keep fucking doing it. But I swear to God, if you celebrate in there today I will savage you. If you're chatting and laughing at corner kicks, you'll be training with the kids on Monday. If you start fucking swapping shirts with those pricks, holy Christ, I will end your careers."
The lockjaw was back. I counted to ten.
"People are going to talk about this for years. The day they wiped the smirk off Max Best's face." I nodded a few times. Let's see how they liked me without the grin. Dark mode. "At the end of the season we'll parade all our trophies round, shove them in their faces. We'll smile, then. I promise you that."
Donny Dorigo had a death wish, because even as I blazed with fury, he smirked and spoke. "So you're staying, then?"
There was a horrified silence, but as I glared at him, I realised what he'd done. He'd taken the edge off, just enough. My face softened - not quite into a smile - and I blinked. "Mate," I said, affectionately, and the group exhaled. But then I frowned. "I need you in midfield today. You know the plan. I need to trust you today, Donny."
He took a few steps forward and reached out his hand. "You can count on me." I clasped it. He nodded. "They shouldn't have brought your girls into it. That was low." He nodded some more. "No talking. No celebrations. What is it, though?"
"What do you mean?"
"Like, we're some kind of... ghost army? Silent assassins?"
I put my arm around his shoulder while I pondered his words. "I don't know what it is. But it's what I want."
***
Boggy: Oh, nearly! Great play from Brown, but Anka couldn't quite control it. Here come Darlington. Hurts. Long ball - and Best with a towering header! I can't believe what I'm seeing, but it very much seems to be the case that the Chester manager has been pretending he can't head the ball... for months! It boggles the mind. There's the half time whistle. Two-one to Chester in a bizarre, incredible match. Don't go anywhere!
Spectrum: Neither are Chester.
Boggy: What? Oh. The Chester players are... what are they doing? Sort of milling around, ten yards from the side of the pitch.
Spectrum: They're waiting for the Darlington lot to clear out. Don't want any aggro. It's very telling they're expecting some dirty tricks in the tunnel. Very telling, indeed. Sums this place up. [not into the mic] Yeah, you heard me! You know full well what I mean. Shut up. Shut uuuup!
Boggy: Spectrum's made a friend with a local so-called reporter. On the pitch, still no-one's saying anything to anyone. Very, very strange indeed. Okay, well, we'll be back in fifteen.
***
When the tunnel was as clear as it was going to get, I nodded and the Brig led us through. Vimsy was stationed in the middle of the pack, with the subs at the end. Whatever Darlington had planned, our precautions put paid to.
We got to our places and sat in near silence while we drank and ate marathon paste. There were a few whispers with players asking each other to pass a bottle or to mention a problem they were having on the pitch. Dean and Livia were checking on Joe and Henri.
Next door, we heard the demented ranting and raving of Folke Wester. He was giving it the full hairdryer treatment, and poor Paul Larkin seemed to be bearing the brunt. It didn't affect me. I was a ghost. Still on earth for one purpose only. To haunt those who had hurt me and mine, to turn their dreams into nightmares.
The absolute pleasure of being on the pitch and being something like my former self washed over me, and I found myself smiling. The speed, the purity of thought, the ability to think something and expect it to come off. Memories of a hospital bed, of weeping because I couldn't feel my toes, and now this. Not quite God mode, but good enough for the National League North. Ghost mode.
I closed my eyes and imagined what I'd do in the second half. Go crazy on the nutmegs? What about an overhead kick? Nah, too flashy. I didn't want to entertain these fans. I wanted to smite them.
"Excuse me," came an unfamiliar voice. Someone from Darlington. A match steward. I tensed. Was this part of the attack? "Mr. Best? Your girlfriend is here. She's asking if she can come and see you." The guy grinned. "I said it wasn't the best time an' all, but she doesn't seem to know much about football."
I frowned. "Let her in," I said, and thought back to this morning's text exchange.
Emma: I want to come today.
Me: No.
The door pushed open a little and an Emma-sized woman came in.
I got to my feet. "Miss Fox," I said. All movement in the dressing room ceased. At the time, I thought everyone was wondering if I had a secret second girlfriend, but later I realised they knew she was from the article, even though it had named almost nobody, including Emma. I introduced her anyway. "Everyone, this is Miss Fox. She teaches English here."
"And business studies," she said, which in retrospect was absolutely wild. I suppose she was nervous. She looked around, uncertainly, at all the people staring at her. I thought her gaze lingered on the Brig a fraction longer than on anyone else.
"This is Chester football club. The man about to kick you out is the Brig."
Again, she looked at my assistant manager, and again, the sizzling chemistry. But Miss Fox wasn't there to flirt. "Mr. Best," she said. "Max," she said, inhaling. "I'm sorry to barge in on you like this but you wouldn't take my calls. I want to tell you to your face that I had nothing to do with that horrible man or his horrible article."
"I know," I said, softly.
"Oh."
I gave her a tiny smile, even though it broke the whole ghost avenger army of assassins vibe. "I'll return your call some time I'm less busy, if that's okay."
"Yes, of course. I mean... But the boy. None of the boys said what it said. You know they loved your interruptions. They all thought the world of you."
"What about Bingo?"
She looked down. "He got laid off. Cutbacks. He's scrambling around for whatever work he can get." She rubbed her arm. "It's no excuse, but..."
“Are you in trouble?” It hadn’t occurred to me that other people might be affected by the article, which is one of my many failings as a person, but someone had idly wondered if the teacher would get in trouble for letting me barge in all the time.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” she said, chin up, and a ripple of admiration spread through my squad.
"Miss Fox," I said.
"Faulkes," she said, speaking directly to the Brig.
"You can't just barge into my classroom whenever you want. You're distracting my boys."
"Oh," she said, recognising the way I'd turned the tables. She smiled. "He's going to kick me out, is he?"
"John Smith," I said, "slap her on the arse, say 'there's a good girl', and don't let her back in."
The Brig didn't move, so Miss Fox raised an eyebrow and said, "Well, John Smith?"
The Brig gestured towards the door and he closed it behind her. When he came back, we saw something unbelievable. He was blushing.
"Go on," I said, gesturing that he should follow her.
"What about not saying anything inside the stadium, sir?"
"Go and chat her up, you dick," I said.
He looked down and gruffly cleared his throat. "I'm, er, in a relationship, sir."
"What? Oh. Fine." The scene was over, so I instantly fell back into the ghost assassin mindset.
"I thought you knew," he said from behind me, but I was back at the tactics board, sliding magnets around.
With Aff at left back and Magnus in midfield, we could bring Tony on and play 4-3-3, with me dropping back to DM, making it a 4-1-3-2. I really liked the look of that. Showing good formations in front of Folke Wester was maybe not the best idea, though. What else? 3-5-2 with me as second striker moving back to CAM to face up to Wester. Or swap Joe for Tony and I could go right midfield. I couldn't do all my mystery winger stuff, but I'd be able to do some of it, thanks to the Bench Boost. And just the fear of having me there would probably make their talented left-sided players go defensive.
Henri appeared at my side - stealthy as fuck! - and I glanced at him. He looked like he was in agony. I checked his profile in a brief panic but it was all good. "What?"
"It's not fair," he whispered. "You make us stay quiet. Then in comes a goddess and you kick her out in an instant, and the Brig blushes and the revelation that he is dating. Maaaax, please. We need to vent. Give us two minutes."
"You can have two hours."
He groaned. "On the bus home, yes?"
"Yes."
"Fine. You are banned from my house. For two days."
"Fair. Now get your game face on."
"Oui, Max. Oh, and Max?"
"Hmm?"
"Good header."
***
On Wednesday morning, I didn't go to training. At nine o'clock, I was knocking on Livia's front door. She was at work, of course.
The door opened, and a bleary-eyed Liverpudlian peered round it. "Fucking hell, Max."
"Are you awake?"
"No," he lied. "What do you want?"
"I want private coaching."
He scratched his chin. "Is this about Darlington?"
"Yes."
More scratching. He didn't think to invite me in. "What do you want?"
"Headers."
"Headers?" he said, confused. "I would, but..."
"But you don't want to overwork yourself. You're easing back in."
"Yeah."
"That's fine. I'll train with the girls. Or rather, they'll train with me. Twenty minutes getting on the end of crosses and doing clearances, twenty minutes beating the press, twenty minutes something I'll think about when you say yes."
"And on Friday? You shouldn't overdo it the day before."
"Today and tomorrow if you can manage that, and then you can have Friday off. Someone else will do the women."
"If I say yes, can I go back to bed?"
"Yes."
"Then yes."
***
Wednesday was good, but the Thursday session was better. I brought Aff, Joe, Ben and a bunch of kids, and the first team guys fired crosses for me to head at goal. It was, in fact, my dream session, because I was sort of tricking Jackie into coaching three of the men's team. Just being in a session led by Jackie made at least one attribute go green on each of them.
I wondered what it was doing for me. In his first Beth Head masterclass, Jackie had barely glanced at Youngster to make him go from CA 1 to CA 2. Youngster was a high potential kid, but I was almost certainly PA 200. Two sessions with Jackie had probably added five points to my CA, given the low starting point.
What was I now? 35? 40?
If I was CA 40 and had the Bench Boost, could I perform like a CA 50 player? We'd find out soon enough.
***
We left the dressing room a minute early, to avoid aggro, and I made the lads line up in our half in a 3-5-2 formation. A coach spotted it, and when a steaming Wester sprinted out of the tunnel, the coach buttonholed him.
He and his staff then had a blazing row, which resulted in Wester smashing his fist into his palm as he laid out some very, very clear instructions.
By my own rules, I wasn't allowed to laugh.
Wester was so stunned by my change that he fell into a low block. And so I really did change to 3-5-2, since he was so afraid of it.
For a couple of minutes, we passed the ball around aimlessly. I followed the referee so that Darlington would think twice before elbowing me or kicking me off the ball, as they had been trying to do the whole time I’d been on.
Suddenly, Wester realised he'd been tricked in some way and screamed for his players to revert to the plan. I instantly switched back to 4-1-4-1, and the moment he realised I'd somehow done that wordlessly led to another face of fury.
Darlington came at us hard, then, but they had been hyped up at half time, ready to come out with all guns blazing. The little delay while Wester tried to understand what I was doing cost them the chance to use all that pent-up motivation.
We swatted away their attacks with ease, and slowly rebuilt the momentum we'd had at the end of the first half.
I still had one more sub I could bring on - either Steve Alton in defence or Tony in attack. I wanted to wait until at least the 70th minute, though, and probably the 80th. A Bench Boosted Tony still wasn't as good as an Henri. A boosted Steve was probably way better than a May, but if I used him too early and we got an injury, we'd be down to ten men.
There was nothing strategic for me to think about for a good half hour, then, so I concentrated on doing my job.
And every time I lost concentration and thought about going on a silly dribble, doing a flashy nutmeg, or trying a shot from the halfway line, the article flashed in front of me and I was all the way back in the fucking zone.
I ran around, cleaning up, tidying, putting opponents in little boxes and marking them 'sorted' and 'for the bin'.
I headed balls away, I did one-touch deflections to bypass pressure, I played simple passes and sprinted to be an option for a third pass.
The home crowd, by now, were quiet. There were times I thought I could hear Boggy and Spectrum doing their match commentary, especially during our attacks. For example, the time we got a free kick about thirty yards from goal. This time I treated myself to a cheeky shot on goal, and a very slightly indulgent use of the Free Hit perk. After all, I'd spent two times ten minutes practising under Jackie's watchful eye. If I'd been free kicks 20 in the past, and recovered to, say, free kicks 5... A couple of free kick 'lessons' from Jackie (which was simply him standing near me and grunting), plus Bench Boost, plus Free Hit. Could I imagine I was free kicks 10, for one shot?
***
Boggy: Raffi Brown still hobbling around. That was a nasty one.
Spectrum: They're a vicious bunch, these. Cowards all over the place. [off mic] I'll say what I want.
Boggy: You're just winding him up. But now, it looks like Best will take the kick. It's to the right of the penalty area, about ten yards outside the box. Good angle for a far post cross, and indeed lots of bodies going there. The centre backs are up. Lyons and Brown are there. Aff lurking left; he'll compete for any scraps. Up steps Best. Oh! He's hit the crossbar.
Spectrum: Wow.
Boggy: That was some strike.
Spectrum: Pure. Oh my God, Boggy. Are we getting Max back? If he's back, this league is over. Yeah, even this prick next to me knows that. He's leaving! Yeah, leave, you knob!
Boggy: [quietly] He's just plugging his laptop in. Do you want to swap seats?
Spectrum: [quietly] No. I'm not scared of him.
Boggy: He's much bigger than you.
Spectrum: Head in the game, mate. Head in the game. [very loud] Come on, Chester!
***
An hour gone, and Darlington's spirits were sinking. The fans had known which way the wind was blowing as soon as I'd scored the penalty, but the players had kept chatting away, talking shit, trying anything to get under our skin, but our inhuman lack of response, the way we were robotically dismantling them, had drawn their sting and now was sapping their morale.
They had begun the match with fairly high morale - 4.9 on average, which was high for a non-Max Best-led team. Their fast start had brought that up to 5.5, but it had been steadily falling back to its starting point. With me on the scene, the decline had continued, and now was at 4.2.
The stadium was so quiet - apart from the Chester mob, those beautiful drunken louts - that I heard Wester call out the change he wanted to make at the next break. So I smashed 'men behind ball', set myself as playmaker, and we passed the ball around our penalty area for over a minute. It made no sense except to mess with Wester's head. I saw him staring at me, eyes wide with amazement. He realised I'd heard what he was planning and had gone defensive. Somehow, I was afraid of what was going to happen!
We finally lost the ball, it went out of play, and the change was made. Glynn, one of the main sources for the article, one of the few whose words hadn't been distorted or outright invented, was coming on to demonstrate his insipid brand of midfield scheming.
I wanted nothing more than to meet him on the field of battle, a nice old 50-50 tackle in the centre circle. We'd both go in hard and we'd see who was still able to walk at the end of it.
In fact, I found myself hunched up, fists clenched, moving out of my zone towards him. He noticed and his morale instantly plummeted. Scenting blood, I bared my teeth and calculated the next fifteen passes, getting into position for when it would happen. Getting in position for when he'd get the ball at a time where I could get him.
Here comes Best with his bimbo. The sad thing is, his mum really is sick.
The words assaulted me, smacked me in the back of the head, left me dead and dying in a ditch.
Thirteen, fourteen. I burst out of my body, a whole new one forming just in front of me. At Usain Bolt speeds, I homed in on Glynn. He felt me coming, and bravely turned, shielding the ball, and he tried to lay it off while cringing at the pain that was coming.
I stepped around the meaningless worm, latched onto his pass, and now the counter was on. I was past Wester before he knew what was happening. Caveman and Shrek both came at me, leaving Henri free, if only I could get the ball to him.
Get the ball to him? Are you joking?
I scooped the ball up and over, on a nice diagonal so he could bounce the ball across the keeper. Raffi Brown stormed past me, doing what I should have done, hunting the follow-up.
Henri shot left-footed - it smashed off the right-hand post. Larkin had frozen, but now he got his feet moving, and hurled himself bravely in front of Raffi, blocking the shot with his face. It came right to me.
Time slowed.
I saw everything.
Raffi moving left, getting out of my way.
Henri moving towards the far post, arms raised. I could clip it to him and he would nod home.
He wouldn't be offside, either, because Caveman and Shrek were running to the goal line to act as an extra pair of goalies.
The act of tackling me would fall to Wester, coming from my left, or Hurts, from my right.
Good defence from a good team. But it was a mistake to think they could stop me, just as it had been a mistake to try to anger me, just as it had been a mistake to try to play football against us. They should have low blocked and scrapped for a nil nil. They were the best team in the league on paper, but as I'd learned from Ian Evans - it was one of his favourite phrases - football isn't played on paper.
The ball rolled into that magical space between foot and leg, the front of the ankle joint, the place I'd always been able to make a ball spin for fun, even before the curse. It hit me just there in my personal sweet spot, began its new journey, and I turned and walked away, walked back towards the halfway line, waiting for the noise from the away fans that would confirm what I already knew.
***
Boggy: Brown with the rebound - he has to score! No! Comes to Best. He chips. It goes up, spinning, dips, oh! Oh, that's genius. That's perfect.
Spectrum: Ahhhh!
Boggy: Incredible! Three-one Chester!
Spectrum: Perfect hat trick.
Boggy: What?
Spectrum: Left foot, right foot, header. Perfect hat trick.
Boggy: You're right. But how did he do that? There were men closing him down, men on the line.
Spectrum: Don't ask me. I only coach humans.
***
The match was done, now. Darlington fans were streaming out. Those who remained were pale as sheets. Their players were going through the motions. I wanted to sub myself off, mostly because I expected a leg breaking tackle from Hurts or Dicks, but if I went off, Wester might have been able to rally his troops.
So I switched to 4-5-1 with me as the striker and Henri in midfield, men behind ball. See out the match with no more drama, no more entertainment, and no more injuries.
I went to the middle of the Darlington half, walking from side to side. They didn't have a fucking clue what I was doing, but Wester kept enough men back just in case I somehow launched a counter attack from this massively offside position. When Hurts went forward, I raced into his spot and waved for the ball. Wester brought him back instantly. By doing that, I was able to keep enough bodies out of our half so that Darlington's attacks lacked the numbers to break down our low block.
The clock crawled to ninety, the referee allowed three minutes for stoppages - there hadn't been many, and at the final whistle, while Folke Wester fled with his six out of ten match rating and his zero points, my players formed a vague circle around Glenn. I wandered over, sent them to the referee - silent handshakes - they returned, I waited twenty seconds for absolutely no reason other than to be weird - and sent them to the away fans. Claps over head, saluting the support, calm acknowledgement of the songs and chants.
While they were gone, some Darlington players tried to shake my hand, offered to swap shirts, tried to chat. I blanked them, and when they were insistent, walked away.
Finally, my players came back, created a barrier between me and the world, and we crossed the pitch, intending to shower and leave, silent as the grave. There wouldn't be much traffic - most of the home fans had long gone.
"Max," called a voice I knew. I stopped, and so did my team. They left a gap.
I looked up and saw the old driver and kit man who was one of the good guys at Darlington. He'd got my boots all cleaned up as a leaving present. "Pat," I said. He looked ten years older than when I'd seen him last. I wished the curse would show me his 'injuries'. I had a deep suspicion about why he looked so shit.
"Well played, lad. I want to shake your hand," he said.
I shook my head. "That won't be good for your career. Better to leave it."
"You let me worry about my career. Come on, now."
I shook his hand, and it was like he had released my leg from a bear trap. In that moment of humanity, I cast Bravery Boost on myself. "Are you all right, mate? You don't look well."
"Ah, I'm seeing a specialist. It's treatable, he says. You don't mind me."
"Jesus. There's some perspective, right? We're out here kicking a ball around like it's important. Listen. You call me if you need anything."
"Ah, no. No need for that. I'll still be here when you come back."
"Pat. We're not coming back. We're getting promoted."
"We could come up in the playoffs."
I thought about explaining to him that I would sooner let Kidderminster win the league, drop to second, and smash the playoffs just to make sure Darlington finished the season with nothing... but nah. I didn't quite have that level of spite in me. Not quite as much poison as had been written about. Plus it was Remembrance Day, and these old boys made me sentimental with their shuffling walks and artless dignity. "If we do come back, we'll have a cup of tea together, yeah? Just like the old days."
"The old days, he says. What does a kid like you know about the old days?"
I looked around the stadium that used to be my home. "I know you don't get them back."
***
The bus driver pulled into the same service station, and we got out just as before.
"Guys," I said, with the hint of a smile playing around my lips. "Thank you very much. You were my..." I tried to think what they were.
"Avenging angels," said Youngster.
"What's that?"
"Twelve angels who punish wrongdoers."
"Fuck, that'd be a good TV show. Wouldn't it? Twelve angels, is it?" I looked around. "Well, we're more than twelve. Everyone played their part, today. That was beautiful. Amazing. Just like in my dreams. Seriously, I owe you one. Oh, here's my ride."
With impeccable timing, a very fancy car - a Rolls Royce Phantom or some such - pulled up and Sebastian Weaver got out. He came over. "Did you win?"
"Yep."
"Well?"
"Pretty comprehensive, I'd say."
"Good. Fuck 'em."
My players were smiling. "Some of you know Emma's dad. If you don't mind, I'm off to Newcastle to have some lovely family time. Sunday in Newcastle. I'm sure there's lots to do."
I was joking, and Sebastian did a tiny head shake. "Monday, too."
"What?"
"Emma told me she'd disown me if I didn't let her off work. So we're kidnapping you. I hear that's all the rage at Chester Football Club." That was a good line. Lots of chuckles and little jeers as the lads mocked each other for their performance at the pre-season boot camp.
"All right, lads. Tell you what, how about you take Monday off?"
"No, thanks," said Glenn.
Henri added to the thought. "We have Buxton at home on Tuesday night, Max."
"Fuck me, this league is relentless," I laughed.
"I'll have Monday off," said D-Day, to more jeers.
"Guys, get on the bus. Turn the music up. Find out who the Brig is..." Porking didn't seem appropriate. "Find out who the Brig is courting. Enjoy tomorrow. See you on Tuesday. All right, get fucked."
They started filing back onto the bus, but D-Day came over and asked if I had a minute. Sebastian went back to the car to give us some privacy. "Max, er... Trick didn't come back with us. He asked me to take care of his stuff. It's just... I know you don't get on with him, but he's a mate, and... he was just as mad about the article as me, like. I don't know what got into him today. He's not a bad guy, honest, it's just - "
I put my hand on his arm and it was like pushing the off button. "Do you know the way I'm all like team team team and it's just us and all that stuff?"
"Yeah."
"Do you believe it?"
"Sometimes. Not... Sometimes."
"Do you believe I believe it?"
"Honestly? Not the way you say you do."
I smiled. "Trick's fine. Trust me. Leave him alone for a while, and hopefully in a couple of months he'll be able to tell you a helluva story." I patted him on the chest. "Good shift today. Love it."
"Er... good penalty, boss." Our first bust-up had been when he’d tried a cool penalty and fluffed it.
"It was, wasn't it?" I said, smug as a bug in a rug.
Then with one half-full backpack, I was spirited away to Newcastle for what had turned into an incredible luxury - a two-day mid-season holiday.
***
Audacious Single Chapter Epilogue
Trick Williams knocked on my office door. "You wanted to see me, boss?"
"Yes, close that, have a seat."
"Hello, Mr. MD. Mr. Brig."
"Relax, Trick. You're not in trouble. Tell him, Brig."
"You're not in trouble."
"Oh." He didn't believe us.
"Right, let's get down to brass tacks. You've read this article thing?"
"No. I mean, yes."
"Did you," I said, sternly, "at any point enjoy it?"
"No," he said, shaking his head.
"Max," complained MD, with a slight smile.
I held my hands up. "Sorry, Trick, that was a joke. I couldn't resist. It's fine if you enjoyed it. Thing is," I said, getting up and going to the window. The window where Ian Evans and I had once done battle. The fight that could be said to have started my journey to Darlington. "Thing is, if Ian Evans hadn't seen immediately that I was a total dick, I would have started my career in Chester. And that article and all the events that the guy twisted round, it would all be about Chester. Do you know what I mean?"
"I guess," he said, but he didn't know what the conversation could possibly be about, so he wasn't really listening. Only when he knew what it was about could he relax and process it. But that processing could happen later.
"I'm not going to defend my actions or try to put my spin on things," I started, but Trick surprised me.
"You don't have to," he said.
"What do you mean?" said MD, holding up a hand to forestall my question.
Trick nodded a few times. "I mean most of it was pure garbage. You show them up in training? Like, er… no. You’re miles better than us but you’ve never done that. You refused to play? Just doesn’t sound like you. Right?”
“Right,” said MD, softly.
“So those two lads from Tranmere, er... Junior and Barkley. They came to training yesterday. Wanted to see you, but you weren't there. Anyway, Henri stops training, we all go into the meeting room. Junior tells us some stuff, like how it really went down at half time in that match. He goes, everyone’s saying let’s keep it tight and Max is like fuck that, let’s go for the win. Sorry, boss, but that’s just obviously what really happened. Know what I mean?”
I nodded.
“And Bark said you never tapped him up because you promised Cutter you wouldn't, and you told him to stay at Darlington for a couple of years and fight for his place, and Cutter threw Pascal at you, which we knew anyway. Oh, and he said how you made their lessons fun when you interrupted and they were doing, like, fake interviews with you and all that." Trick was smiling, obviously remembering how Bark had told the story. It made me smile, too. "Plus we already knew loads of it was pure lies, like when you brought Henri for his trial. That wasn't you, that was Ian Evans. You had Henri doing free headers from crosses and shit. Evans turned it into a match. And the bit where it said you wouldn't follow team discipline. I mean, that does sound like you. Like, try and fine me, bro. I remember that day Glenn was kicking Henri and you lifted him up and pushed him twenty yards like it was nothing. Junior cleared it up, though."
"Excuse me," said MD. "What did Junior tell you?"
Trick looked at me, and I nodded. He told MD and the Brig about how I'd ripped up the list of fines and punishments, squashed the paper into balls, and given myself a little extra bulk in the underpants department. MD was soon cry-laughing, and I nearly joined in when Trick said something I never knew before.
"So after that, the captain, when there's a new guy and he gives him the fines list," Trick paused, struggling to breathe, "it's laminated."
We lost it.
Four guys, in a room, laughing. Big laughs, my first since reading the article. I retook my seat.
"Okay, Trick, amazing. Thanks for that. I needed that. But all I wanted to say was, I'm not going to defend myself but it did make me think about the way I act. You know? How could it not? And I am a bit schemey. A bit plotty. And that's where people misunderstand me, or I help them to misunderstand me. Now, I've been plotting around you." He instantly became wary. I held a hand up. "Hear me out - it's not that bad."
"It's not a bad plot," said the Brig, emphasising the negativity of the word.
I shook my head. Not helpful. "Let's just establish a few things we can all agree on. Starting points. Say yes to show you agree with me. First one. You and I are never going to be superfriends."
"Yes," he agreed.
"I think your sense of humour is," I waved my hand around, looking for the right words, "crude and exclusionary. You think it's standard in the football business and why should you change?"
"Yes."
This was going great. "Top. You are 33."
"Yes."
"You'll be 34 next year."
"Yes."
"Chester will be in the National League next year."
"Hope so."
"That one's a yes, mate. 34-year-old Trick Williams will struggle in the National League."
"No," he said.
I smiled. "I say yes. And that means you're not likely to get a contract here, and I doubt you were expecting one anyway."
Quietly: "Yes."
"That's where my plots come in. You read about this Bradley Rymarquis dude in that Judas article. He hates me. At one time I thought he might have - No, I shouldn't say that out loud. Anyway, he hates me and he's always looking for ways to put the boot in. You with me?"
"I think so."
"Now, I wouldn't mind if you left the club in January. When I'm feeling gloomy, I sometimes picture you shaking everyone's hand before getting in your car and driving off to your new manager." I smiled, and Trick pushed his teeth together and sort of smiled back. "And surely you'd like to get back to a proper dressing room where they tell all those jokes you like and where you can laugh at people like me."
"Max," said MD.
"No, it's all right," said Trick, adjusting on his chair. "I think I get where this is going. Go on, boss."
I leaned closer. "I've had MD in every Director's Box for weeks, right, bragging about how we're going to win the league and we're top and the only thing that worries him, he reveals, after a scotch gets him indiscreet, is my secret fears that you'll leave in January because we don't have left backs in the eighteens, we only have Magnus who's no good going forward, and you're also my cover for Aff. In short, you're kinda secretly the key to our whole campaign."
He was annoyed, now. "Which is a load of crap."
I looked right into his soul. "No, mate. Not a load of crap. It's basically true. You and I both know I'd switch to 3-5-2 or something if you left, but if you leave in January I will have to find a replacement. It'll be some kid, probably, so I might save on wages and maybe get someone who can grow into the position and all that. But you're good going forward, you're very consistent, and if you do end up staying, I'll be absolutely fine with that. It looks like a load of low blocks from now on, so Magnus being more solid defensively isn't an issue. You're a better fit for my system. But you're 33. If we can cook up a scam to get you a good contract somewhere else, let's go for it."
"With this agent guy?"
"Yeah. That's the joke - he's a good agent. He’ll find someone who will take you, on a good wage, maybe an 18-month deal, and he'll work extra hard for you, all to piss me off. And when the ink's dry, you and I will be able to have a good laugh about it. It's win-win, isn't it? One of my team gets a great deal, bit of financial security. I free up some wages and a slot for a kid. I get my enemy working for my players." I beamed. "I fucking love it. Oh, and you get things, too."
Trick thought about it. He looked at the other two men. "Is this legit?"
MD nodded. "He got me involved a while back. He mentioned you getting a tasty deal out of it. That's good for us. Helps us persuade players to come here, doesn't it? From here, if you’re a young gun you get a transfer to a big team, and if you're, ah, ageing gracefully, we still increase your market value. It's a good story for us to tell."
Trick moved his eyes one chair along. The Brig said, "I don't actually see any friction between you and Max. As far as I can tell and from what I've seen, you're a model professional." He shrugged. "Using his enemies to get yourself a nice, juicy contract." He grinned. "Why not?"
"What would I have to do?"
I pointed to the flipchart across from my desk, where I'd written out the team and subs for the Darlington match. "If you're with me, I'll cross out your name. Obviously I'd love you on the bench in case Aff gets injured, but there are ways I can do without a left footer. I have a vision for how the match will go, and you won't come on, anyway. I probably won't even use my third sub. Anyway, when I name the team, you make a big scene, flounce out. You storm around until you find Rymarquis. You tell him you're sick of me, you loved that Judas article, if he gets you a move you'll dish the dirt on me. Something like that. He might do it because he knows I need you without the dirt stuff. The Brig has suggested I remove myself from the plotting at this point and let him take over. Which... He's probably right. Mine have a habit of blowing up in my face while biting me on the arse, which is really something."
"And then I'm out of the team?"
"Fuck no. Until you move you're more in the team than ever. We're going to run up your stats. Get you some goals and assists. You're really proving your worth to prospective new employers!" I laughed, but got serious. "Thing is, though, if it all works out and you get a new club in January, we have to try to get you back here for the last game of the season."
"What for?" he said, with a deep, worried crease on his forehead.
"For the fucking league winner's party, you dick. For your medal. What the fuck do you think?"
We waited while Trick’s brain cells fired. It didn't take long.
He got up, went to the flipchart, and crossed his name out. He turned back to us with a massive grin on his face. "I'm in."
"Great. You'll talk to the Brig. All right? Oh, and Trick?"
He looked worried - my voice had gone stern again. Very stern. "Yes, boss?"
"Put the lid back on the marker." I leaned back, satisfied. "We're not made of money."