14.
TEN
ten ten ten
Tuesday, April 2
Sandra was leading training in preparation for Saturday's match against Gloucester and I was taking part, partly to keep fit, partly to gauge the mood. There was a strange vibe in the camp; the league was won and the remaining three matches weren't important in a collective sense; as a team we weren't too bothered about going for records. The final match against my former team was one that I cared about, but for most players the day would be one big party. For our youngsters, these three matches were an outstanding opportunity to get minutes on the pitch, and for our players with expiring contracts they were a way to remind other teams they existed.
Generally, though, the level of motivation was much diminished.
Except...
Except we still had a cup final to play, against mighty Crewe in their own stadium. Players wanted to play in cup finals, even relatively unimportant ones, so they had to train well and play well to secure a spot. But if they trained too hard or played too hard, they could get injured. Decisions, decisions.
My mood was fairly all over the place. In a sense, the final was the ultimate in low stakes. If I went to a job interview and said 'I turned a team that was nearly relegated into title winners' that would have been met with many rumblings of delight. If I followed that up by saying 'and I won the Cheshire Cup' there would have been a frosty silence. Almost no-one in the world of football gave a shit, including in Cheshire.
I gave a shit, for seventy-seven reasons.
First, I didn't want to be one of those managers who got to cup finals and lost. What could be more tedious than a reporter asking me if I had a 'cup final hoodoo'? Second, it was a tournament we were in and that was reason enough to go for it. Third, for some of my players it would be the only cup they ever won, for some it would cap their careers, for some it would be the catalyst for more. Fourth, Chester had barely ever won the competition and that didn't look good on Wikipedia. Fifth, I wanted another trophy to parade around in front of Folke Wester. Sixth, minor glory is still glory. I'd always wanted to go to a big stadium and lift a trophy as thousands of fans cheered. If that doesn't motivate you, why are you in the sport?
And finally, seventy-seventh, I really thought we could win. Against Crewe's absolute best team I'd need my goalie to play a blinder, the defence to be sharp as tacks, and for my personal performance to be basically flawless. I was pretty confident I'd be able to pull my part off against Crewe in a way that I wouldn't next season. In fact, it was easy to think that my personal playing abilities might not be this high again for two years. Having trained at Grimsby for a month, I was at the top range of what their training facilities could support. CA 110, perhaps? I'd be able to play at this high level against Crewe and Darlington, but over the summer my skills would regress towards the current training cap. It was around 60 now and my current guesstimate for Chester's tier five cap was 80. Would I be able to get a big club to let me train with them for a couple of weeks in January? Unclear, and I was less willing to annoy the Chester fans than I had been previously.
No, all I knew for certain was that I wanted to drop some hand grenades while I still had a full armoury. The fact no-one cared about the Cheshire Cup meant I could go wild and not worry about the Sentinel.
"Max," said Henri, and I snapped out of it. I found a ball under my right foot - I'd been rolling it around while staring at nothing. With an apologetic wave, I rejoined the drill. Nice simple one where the blue bibs had to complete six passes to get a point while the red bibs scored by turning the ball over and shooting into a large goal. But Henri hadn't been calling me to wake me up for the drill. "You have a visitor."
I assumed it was Brooke and had a smile ready, but it wasn't Brooke. It wasn't a woman. It was someone incredibly unexpected, someone worthy of a cliffhanger. It's up to you if you want to pause and think 'wow who could it be?' and make yourself wait three days to find out.
The Jurassic Patriarch himself, Ian Evans, had turned up, and his hair had come, too. In a separate car, maybe.
I wandered out of the drill - someone dashed in to replace me without being asked, which just went to show how well we functioned as a unit; I got a little buzz of pleasure from that. Ian had introduced himself to Sandra and he had apparently met Jude before, or seen him around.
"Ian Actual Evans," I said, offering a fist bump.
"Maxy No-Handshake," he grumbled, but he bumped anyway. "You're looking well."
I jabbed a thumb to the training pitch. "What, the nutmegs? Yeah the passing drills are too easy for me so I only get a point if I do six nutmegs."
Ian gave Sandra a flinty smile. "How do you stand it?"
"I think how I'll spend my win bonuses."
Ian liked that and did his sixty-five million-year-old laugh. "Can I have a word, Max? I can wait till you're done."
"Let's do it now. I was only really in the session to burn off some excess energy and talking to you is even more draining."
"Cheeky git," he said, walking five yards away. It was an interesting distance. Not so far that he was likely to say something explosive, but not so close he wanted the entire world to hear. He watched the drill for a while and I watched him. "Good, this."
"One of Sandra's. My best signing of the season, probably. She calls this one City v Liverpool. It's fun. For me, at least. Some of the lads struggle."
"Aye, well, they would." He did a strange thing where he looked away - strange only in that I couldn't remember him doing it before. Then he did something I'd seen very rarely - a cheeky grin. "Saw you've been playing a lot of 4-4-2. Told you you'd end up back at 4-4-2."
"You did," I said, because that was the most diplomatic and sophisticated way of saying 'this ain't what you meant, mate'.
"All right, brass tacks. I was offered the Grimsby job. Interim till the end of the season."
"Oh," I said. I had been gently wobbling to keep my limbs warm but I became very still. My only movement was putting my hand to my mouth and gently squeezing my lips.
Ian Evans, Grimsby manager. How did I feel about that?
They had four games left, and Ian would probably only need a win and a draw - very achievable. He was famous enough that the coaching staff would get behind him, his defensive mindset would suit the squad, and the fact that his training sessions were boring and dour wouldn't matter - he would only be in the job for three weeks.
His success would be portrayed as being in contrast to my failure. The steady old hand comes in and steadies a ship that the wild young thing had steered towards the nearest rocks. Also: Ian Evans would get my fifty grand.
On the other hand, if he pulled it off, next season Chester would face an imploding Forest Green Rovers and a willing but financially limited Sutton United instead of a Grimsby squad that should have been gunning for the League Two playoffs.
"All right," I said, deciding that overall, I wanted him to succeed. "Congratulations, I guess! Did you come for my advice or whatever?"
As I said it, the very concept seemed laughable, but Evans didn't so much as blink. "Is that on offer?"
"Yeah. Not saying I know more than you, obvs, but I did work with the players. I can tell you who'll put in a shift and all that."
"You reckon I can do it, then?"
I made a doubtful noise, then realised I was being neither diplomatic nor sophisticated. "If anyone can, it's you. My only worry is them getting smashed yesterday. That was pretty bad. I think you'll write the next game off while you get their heads straight again, and the next game was one of my two bankers. The other was yesterday. I don't know. Maybe I'm overthinking it." I checked my phone. "If you want we could get an early lunch and I'll tell you everything I did and everything I saw. Almost everything. And you can do what you want with the info."
"Aye," he said. "Aye, that'll be grand." He seemed to be answering on autopilot, and it took him a second to realise what he'd just agreed to. I was absolutely convinced he was about to make up an excuse to get out of it. "Heard about this place. Portuguese, I think it is? Never tried it when I was here but Vimsy never shuts up about it."
"Tiny Tino? Yeah, we can go there. I haven't been since Valentine's Day." My brain froze. Was Vimsy one of the guys trying to get a date with Luisa? What on earth would they talk about? "We could get him. He's on the way."
"Where is he?"
"Watching Crewe matches at Spectrum's house with Ryan Jack. I've done a lot of prep myself - Crewe always play 4-1-4-1 - I swear it's like looking in a mirror sometimes - but it's our only meaningful game so I thought, let's get some more eyeballs on it. They're gonna do a presentation before training tomorrow. I think he's dead nervous. Vimsy, I mean."
Ian smiled. "Video analysis? Presentations? You do push folk out o' their comfort zone, lad. No, leave him be. We can talk manny to manny."
***
One quick shower later and I was opposite Ian Evans - on a good table - taking him through my experience at Grimsby step by step. Over our two-course special value lunch deal - Ian had offered to pay and then told me I'd be happy with the cheapest thing on the menu - I told him pretty much everything - especially what I did wrong - so he'd be able to slip into the role twice as fast and ten times as smoothly. Of course, I didn't skimp on the details of what I did right, such as using Alex Evans - no relation - sparingly. I didn't mention Otis King, but I did say there was a mole - not that it would bother a guy who only ever played 4-4-2 - and I asked Ian to include Coach O in his circle - it'd be good if two managers saw something in him and he wasn't just seen as the weirdo coach that the weirdo manager liked. "Anyway, he's mint. You'll love him."
When I was done, Ian scoffed. "That was comprehensive, lad. And generous. I feel like I could walk in there and pick a team right now."
"Course you could," I said. "Just copy what I did. It was mustard."
"You want mustard?" Luisa had done her trick of teleporting next to me.
I put my arm onto the back of the chair so I could twist and look right into her dazzling eyes. "You know I don't want mustard, Luisa. You're being silly. Now, it's good you're here. I need to know if you're going to the cup final."
"What cup final?"
"Okay, that's a no. Good. Please don't go to the cup final."
"Why not?" she said, heat rising.
"Because it makes it easier to leave certain players out of the line up. If you're there and they don't play, I'll never hear the end of it."
"Which players are you thinking of leaving out?"
"Obviously I have no intention of discussing my thought process with you."
"As you wish. I will go to the cup final and see for myself."
I tutted. "Fine. Crewe play 4-1-4-1 which is my personal favourite formation and one I know very well. So I have the option of matching them but with worse players, which seems a trifle foolish, and don't offer to bring me a bowl of trifle."
"What is trifle?"
"Or I could get weird. I'll probably get weird. Some kind of defensive mesh with explosive outlets. I wish I knew how strong Crewe's line up is going to be. If they rest enough key players we could go toe to toe and slug it out. If they play their best team we need to have something up our sleeve. I won't know their lineup until an hour before the match so I need to put loads of flexible players in the starting eleven and work it out as I go. I'm sure I won't start, and neither will Henri. Which means neither can Chris. Henri will accept that plan if it's a purely footballing decision. If he thinks I'm trying to sabotage his dating life he will become truculent."
"And Pascal?"
I thought about how I would take advantage of my last Bench Boost of the season. I hadn't used it in the Cheshire Cup. We could name five subs and use them all, but in practice one would be a goalie we wouldn't bring on. Four subs, then. Me, Henri, Chris... the last had to be a defender, surely? "He's flexible so I could start him but with the caveat he'll only get fifteen minutes while I cook up a proper plan. Again, if you're not there, he will do what the team needs without a second thought."
"I seem to be a bad influence on your players."
"Only for that particular match. It's likely to be one where I have to do all the heroics." I sighed at the burden of being the star player, and then decided to do some of that diplomacy thing I'd been practising. "Normally your presence would inspire them to do heroics of their own."
"You are not inspired by my presence?"
"What I do," I said, grandly, "I do for the people of Chester. All the people of Chester."
She swept away, giving Ian Evans the best view. "I should have had lunch with you more often, lad. Heh heh. Course, Crewe won't put out their strongest team but it won't be weak, either. It's not their style."
"Right! That's what I've been saying. They'll put out an eleven they think is just strong enough to win. But everyone says oh, they're playing Wrexham a few days later they'll use loads of kids. Whatever they do, I can beat them, but God it'd be less stressful if I knew what they were thinking. It's funny, I've been looking through their line ups and can't see any rhyme or reason to them."
"Now you know how everyone feels about you."
"What? I've just told you why I did everything I did in my last five matches. It's completely logical."
"About that," he said, back to being a gruff Yorkshireman. "Grimsby. That were right interesting, all that you said. Right interesting and fits what I heard from a few in the know. Yes, that were very interesting. Okay, but. But I didn't come for all that. I came to tell you I were offered the job but din't take it."
"What?"
"Owner called when Bradford's second went in. Offered me the chance. I din't tek it. I said to him, if Max Best can't get them going, what chance have I got? Told him you were a bloody nightmare but you knew football. Yeah. I wanted to tell you to your face. We didn't do enough of that, did we? Both wary of each other and look where it got us." He held a bread crust in both hands and felt it crack and tear. "What you grinning at?"
"I'm not a bloody nightmare. I write poetry."
"Oh, you do, do you? Go on, then, let's hear summat. I don't mind a bit of culture."
I couldn't believe I was about to read a poem to Ian Evans in the official romantic rendezvous spot for Chester Football Club. I pulled out my notebook and turned to one I'd drafted for the Eight Views of Football collection. "Ahem. The sun sets in the east; Grimsby go down like descending geese."
I watched his reaction carefully. First, the chest shook. Then, a single wheeze that could have been his death rattle. Finally, the granite of his face emitted holy tears.
Luisa - how did she do it? - had been present for the whole thing. "The sun does not set in the east."
"Yeah, duh, I know. It's a poem. It's supposed to be fun."
Her lips twisted. "These fun poems. You write them for the people of Chester? For all the people of Chester?"
I snapped my notebook closed and narrowed my eyes. "They're for posterity."
"Oh," she said, swaying away again.
"Look at the posterity on her," said Ian, who'd stopped crying at the beauty of my creation long enough to... yeah, that sentence is self-completing. He took one final wheezy breath and the rock face was back.
I realised I was having a ton of fun. Ian was my best manager friend! We were talking football and enjoying Luisa's little interventions. "You must have won loads of cups."
"Just one. Near the start o' me career. Runner up in another. Great memories. You're right to go for it if you can. Yeah, take it from me, don't listen to all the grumblers."
"Talking of grumblers... If you're not taking the Grimsby job, what are you going to do?"
"Nowt," he grunted. "I'm retired."
"Don't talk shit. What are you planning?"
"I've had offers. Southport fans are up in arms. They shouldn't be a bottom half team. Heh. You did a number on the old lad, didn't you, you cheeky twat? But the new muppet's not much better. Yeah, Southport. Big club for this level."
"Oh, take it! That's great. You could get Robbo, Gerald, Donny, Joe, and Tony! That's half a good team, that."
He waved his hand. "Bah. I'm getting on, Max. Not sure if I need the hassle."
"What about lower down the pyramid? 4-4-2, no need to think twice. Wait..." I'd been thinking of getting four new players for West Didsbury. What about three and a new manager? "Hey, Ian... Do you like hummus?"
***
NINE
nine nine nine
"Hi, everyone, thanks for coming. I don't have my C-suite team pressing the buttons, so bear with me. I haven't done a Zoom in a while. Where's the thing...? Okay, got it. Yeah, just a quick update and I could take a couple of questions if you've got any. Don't spam the chat please or I won't be able to find them.
"First thing. Yes, I'm back from Grimsby with my tail between my legs. No, I didn't get my bonus or my super holiday. I did meet Donnie Wormwood and Don Flash, though. That was pretty cool. And I derailed Wrexham's season. You enjoyed that, didn't you, you weirdos? God, when the ref came to me and said 'it's full of Chester!' I just didn't know what to think. Holy shit, guys that was wild. And what's mad is because of that game, Crewe have a shot at getting automatic promotion at Wrexham's expense, and they play each other just after the Cheshire Cup final, so maybe just maybe I caused a chain of events that will lead to Crewe resting some players for the cup final. That'd be mad, wouldn't it? If we won because of that.
"Yeah so I wanted to clarify my intentions for the next couple of weeks. You saw I wasn't in the dugout yesterday and I won't be for the next two games. The plan was for Sandra to do those and I don't see a good reason to change it. I'm doing Director of Football things. Yesterday I watched Alty versus Oldham - very interesting. This Saturday I haven't decided what to do but I'll probably watch Crewe. Grimsby are playing them the Saturday after, which is when I was going to see them up close before our final, and I might go to that one too just to be professional about it. We've been gunning for the Cheshire Cup the whole season - it's the one cup we had a proper shot at this year and we're in the final. Ninety minutes from glory! Crewe play good passing football and it should be a quality match.
"Erm... lots of people in the chat saying Crewe will one hundred percent rest all their best players. I'm not so sure about that. It's a cup final and their players want to be in it, same as ours. Personally, I hope they put out a strong team because I want the challenge.
"Quick reminder that the women won their big game and the last match of the season has been rearranged to Friday 19th. The party starts there! Get yourselves to that one.
"What else? We're going to announce a lot of things in the coming weeks but there's a couple I want to tell you about so we can get planning. Brooke, our new Head of Marketing, has been trialling something we're calling Chester Chatters. When I was in Lincolnshire I didn't exactly have a buzzing social life and it really hit me that this project was one we had to double down on. The idea is, we find some people who maybe don't have loads of social contact, like their kids moved somewhere cool and exciting like Manchester and they maybe don't have anyone to talk to. We pick them up and put them together in a section of the stadium and we've got volunteers who sit with them and chat about the match or the weather or the Amiga vs Atari debate. It's been a hit, honestly, and we can expand it if we have more volunteers. Are you interested? You'll get into a match, there's the chance to meet players, and you'll be doing something for the community. There's a new section on the website where you can register your interest. We also need volunteers to coordinate the volunteers! If you can't get to the stadium there's loads of ways to help.
"Another thing. I told Brooke about those people who go to the 92 league grounds. We're not in the league, I know, but we're thinking ahead. What normally happens is these groundhoppers buy tickets, watch the match, and leave. To me that's a wasted opportunity to boost our image. I want to have a little 92 section where we make it easy for groundhoppers to come, and maybe we include a little tour and make a fuss of them. I might be wrong - scratch that, I'm not wrong, I'm one hundred sure about this. These are football superfans and I want them to think Chester's the absolute best place to go. These groundhoppers will be our ambassadors in pubs up and down the country. You're thinking of doing the 92? Start in Chester, mate, it's a great day out and they look after you. Do you know what I mean? And it'll barely cost the club anything, especially if we've got a volunteer doing the tour. One of the former players who's doing the Legends Lounge could do tours before the match, but I think it might be better with a fan. You're proud of your club and you want the world to know how good it is. All right, then, let's tell them! What's the benefit? Maybe our sponsors like it. Maybe one of these visitors has a talented kid and when it comes to choosing between Chester and Wrexham he or she remembers how nice it was here and how much like one big pub brawl it was there."
I laughed and shook my head.
"I'm joking. I need to stop doing that. I like Wrexham and yeah, at the moment it's punching up but we'll be above them soon enough and then it won't be funny, it'll be mean-spirited.
Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.
"That's my little speech, I think. I'm taking this time to think about next season and where our money goes. Transfers, infrastructure, all that jazz. But there are some things we can do with a bit of community involvement and we can start collecting names for that work.
"Let me see if any questions came in. Oh, shit. Rather a lot. Oh, this is a fun one. Now that you're unemployable - thanks - and we're stuck with you the whole of next season - oh, there's a winky emoji, what a relief - how are you going to keep Sandra? Top, top question.
"I want to win the Cheshire Cup this season and I want to compete for it every season but I know that realistically there will be times when we won't have the resources to go flat out on four or five fronts. Like, would anyone really be surprised if Crewe sent out an entire B team in the final? I don't have their fitness data - maybe all their players are in the red zone. What I was thinking was that next season, Sandra would be manager for most of the Cheshire Cup matches. I'll still do one to make sure the players get that it's not a holiday. So that's a starting point. If we've got games against ninth tier teams in the FA Cup, that could be a day off for me. I think early in the season, I'll have to play every game while our new signings settle in so maybe I'll be ready for a week off in November or December. Plus I'll get bans and I'll get sick. I think by the end of the season Sandra will have added to her CV. It's a great question, though. I don't want to get complacent.
"Will the women be playing in a proper stadium? Yes, that's nearly ready to announce.
"How are the players we loaned to your club in Manchester doing? They've done well. They're both first choice regulars and I haven't put my thumb on the scale whatsoever. I think if you saw them before and after you wouldn't think wow, what an improvement! But I think all those minutes in real matches will pay off big time next season. They both look more solid. I'd do it again for sure.
"Miss Wrexham. Not a beauty pageant, just good advice. What? Oh! Guys, don't trick me into reading jokes. Please. Thanks.
"If you do one of your mad holidays again, why not do it abroad? We don't care if you manage Aberdeen, Benfica, or Copenhagen. Yeah, interesting. I think Emma would like that but then again, she's from Newcastle. Aberdeen might be a bit too swanky for her.
"Are you excited about the cup final? Wow, this is a real heart versus head thing. My head makes a lot of good points. You don't want a cup final on a Tuesday night in a mostly empty stadium. It won't be on TV, it won't be streamed, and we're not allowed to give away tickets to build the atmosphere. But my heart says Crewe are the big birds in Cheshire and we want to knock them off their perch. They're riding high in League Two and could be in League One next season. But we're catching up faster than anyone realises. Soon when parents are deciding where to send their talented kids, we'll be neck and neck with Crewe, even though their academy has a great reputation. So there's all that, plus there's the actual football match. Crewe play the kind of football I like - they're a little naive at times, maybe - so I'm really fascinated by the thought of fighting myself. You know when Spider-man has to fight alternate universe Spider-man? A stronger, richer Spider-man? That's this game. I love that challenge. But most of all, I daydream about filling the cup with champagne and pouring it down my gob.
"All right, that's it. Next time I talk to you will be before the trophy presentations at the Darlington game. See you there!"
***
EIGHT
eight eight eight
Wednesday, April 3
I had a meeting with MD, Brooke, and a guy from the board with a finance background. MD pushed a financial statement towards me and blabbed for a bit. The upshot was that, since I wouldn't let him include the Raffi money in his calculations, he wanted to increase my playing budget from 16,000 a week to 19,000.
That was a million a year for players, which according to some website was more than Southend, about the same as Woking, 200,000 less than Rochdale, and half a million less than Oldham. I hoped I would have precise info when I got the Finances perk unlocked but MD's calculations were pretty grim reading. I'd already promised most of the increase to me, Sandra, and the Brig.
MD's low ambition score was biting me on the arse for the first time.
"If I wanted to be diplomatic and sophisticated," I said, "I would describe these numbers as awfully frustrating."
"Football clubs are expensive to run, Max, and we'll be travelling all over the country, not just the north. And what you don't see there is the kitchen, two new physios, and half a dozen part-time coaches to run your expanded youth teams."
It was true. There would be more money at the club delivering tangible benefits, but we wouldn't see it on the pitch. "This includes what we'll be getting from Boshcard?"
"Yes."
Brooke leant forward. "But not the stadium naming rights."
Eyes scrunched shut, I palpated my forehead. With that budget we'd be fighting with one hand behind our backs. The National League was too hard to go at cautiously. "We can go straight through if you can find me another five grand a week behind the sofa."
"We sold the sofa to pay for Chris Beaumont," said MD.
"Every thousand a week is another Raffi," I said.
MD smiled. "This is as good as we can do. In December if we're in the top half with a shot at the playoffs and if there's a gap in the squad, we can talk about it."
"If we wait till Jan we lose six months of a player's development." I closed my eyes and realised I wasn't in the mood for a reality check. Not after I'd been daydreaming about beating a team fifty places above us in the pyramid in a cup final in their home stadium. Glory, not spreadsheets. "Where are we with grants, Brooke?"
"We've made progress on solar but the land is going to take time. I recommend we do solar this summer and aim to put the first pitch down in 2025."
I nodded a few times. "MD, if it comes to it, can we raise finance to get the land and put the pitches down? It'll generate revenue. It shouldn't be too hard to get some money."
He squirmed. "Debt is the road to ruin."
"Brooke, have you ever seen one of my tantrums?"
MD sighed. "Look, it's possible. Possible. No promises."
"Yeah, I get it and it might not come to that but we absolutely need better facilities when we're in League Two. We do the solar out of my Raffi money and that's two grand a week we aren't paying for electricity. Two grand a week you can add to my budget, right? We start the training ground project aiming to break ground next summer. Gives us a year to plan it properly. That leaves me with some cash for transfers."
"Please don't spend all the money," said Brooke. "We'll need some cash to get architect drawings, to consult with experts, planning permission."
My shoulders slumped. "Right. We set aside fifty gees to get started?" She looked at MD, who nodded. "Great. How much is the solar?"
"Four fifty all-in, but we'll get seventy-five back from grants. Eventually."
"Eventually," I groaned. "Seventy-five will get Christian Fierce, you know."
"If Kidderminster sell him," said the board rando.
"They will if they don't get promoted. If they come up with us, yeah, no chance." I shook my head as I turned my phone into a calculator. "I want to put 20 grand into the women so I can make sure we've got the absolute best squad in tier 5. That'll leave me with about 750. Minus 450 leaves 300 but unlocks two grand a week in extra budget. So we nudge that 19 to 21. One day we get the 75 in grants. Let's assume I throw tantrums until you let me spend it before we've actually got it. Oh, minus 50 to get the training ground started. That leaves me with three hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds. Let's say half goes on transfer fees, half on wages. Three grand a week to get us a star striker, two centre backs, a replacement for Raffi, a replacement for Ryan, backup for Aff, a mystery winger. Jesus, guys. That isn't enough!"
"You'll have to find players without transfer fees," said the board guy.
"I want Christian Fierce," I said. "I love him and I need to spend my life with him." I inhaled. Fierce seemed like all the toys I'd craved as a kid - way, way too expensive and by the time I could afford him, I wouldn't want him. "All right, if we forget fees and put it all into wages we've got an extra six K a week. So 19 becomes 21 becomes 27." I nodded. I'd have to start the season with lots of low CA guys in the squad, but we had a solid core and could have seven or eight talented fringe players who would grow into the season.
"How do you get that six K?" wondered MD.
"Three two five divided by fifty-two."
"But you need to divide a player's wage over the length of his contract. If you're giving out three-year contracts, you're committing us to paying them for three years and you need to back that with funds. If you sign a guy for fifty thousand a year, we need to put aside fifty thousand per year. Because what if you leave? What if we get relegated again? You'll bankrupt us and I know you don't want to do that. So to be prudent you need to divide by the number of weeks in a player's contract, not by fifty-two."
"The solution is easy," said the board guy. "Don't do the solar panels. Use the money for players. All the fans would prefer that, anyway."
"The players wouldn't mind a hot shower, bro. I'm going to these exit trials next month and I'm going to be looking at loads of pampered princes. It's one thing if they haven't heard of Chester, it's another when someone tells him we lose two players a winter to frostbite. Anyway," I mumbled, "it's one thing the next manager won't be able to fuck up. That investment will still be paying off in twenty-five years. I want a legacy. I want to put our name back on the cup and I want to leave the club better than I found it."
Brooke was trying to help. "What about winning the cup? Does that come with prize money?"
"Not this one. We'll probably lose money on it."
"That's mighty strange. If I could suggest, Max, and please don't bite my head off again, but if we could think like a business for just one minute."
I stretched out on the table with my left arm fully extended and my head cradled in my right elbow. It was the most suitable pose to show how much I wanted to talk about it without actually shutting her down. "Kay," I said.
"Not all businesses have ready access to a way to double their income. Perhaps we could consider using our assets to their utmost."
"What mean?"
"I mean," she said, "that when he isn't being a fussy baby, our leader is young, dynamic, charismatic, and handsome."
"MD isn't that young."
"We could do more than run one small poster campaign, is all. Or you can run the club on a low budget and let all that talent go to other organisations who won't know how to develop them properly."
I sat up and eyed her. Who had she been talking to? That last comment was a very deliberate attempt to push my buttons. I chose to focus on the first thing. "These are the posters I'm going to see around the stadium at the Darlington game? Posters that feature me and only me? The thing is, it's bad form to put all your eggs in one basket. When you look at Man United's marketing, there's always three players. No-one's bigger than the club, see? Everyone's part of it. If you make it all about me, it's not sustainable and not, like, interesting to every demographic. If there's a poster with me, Youngster, and Charlotte, you're hitting loads of markets."
"People who like midfielders," said the board guy, which was pretty funny.
"Max, you're right," said Brooke. "You're right. But if you want to get money right now, the asset is you."
"If I understand what you're saying, we could double our income from one million to two million. What you're saying, Brooke, is that I have a million dollar smile."
"Max!" complained MD.
"I just want to get a cash value on my handsomeness. It's completely appropriate for this conversation."
"It's not," said the rando.
"Million dollar legs," said Brooke, with apparent innocence.
"Okay, consider me open to... something. I don't know what."
Brooke hesitated. "The cup final. I was thinking... there's thirteen days left. What if we film short videos in the ten days before. Like a countdown! Countdown to the cup final. One day we talk to one of the players. The next a physio, a coach, a fan. And so on. A mini documentary. Just to see if you like it! The sponsors will be intrigued and most of all, it'll tell people why you care about this cup because frankly, Max, there's not many who do."
A heavy silence descended, but if people were expecting me to explode, they were miles off. "That's a good idea. I like it. We do need to communicate what it means to us. I think we'll see that everyone comes at it from a different angle and that's okay. And, yeah, Henri's probably an instant star and you'll see it doesn't need to be all about me. Yes, let's do that. I have one condition. One important condition."
"Go on."
"The countdown needs to be done in the style of a rocket launch sequence with echoing noises and I won't compromise on that."
Brooke smiled. "We can do that, I'm sure."
"Okay, while I'm busy selling out, let's take the idea one step further. I think it's a good, small test case but for something bigger but there can't ever be a documentary for the men's team. There is, though, a strong case for doing one with the women. I was thinking we could work with local schools and universities and production companies and do it in-house."
"Why the women?" said MD.
"Because of Angel. If she's in a documentary it'll let her focus on football knowing that when the doc launches she'll get a big burst of fame. Right? And when it comes out, she'll be 18. It's a way to satisfy her need for attention while keeping to the spirit of the deal I made with Bonnie. If Bonnie and Jackie agree, Brooke, you could find some students or whatever who would work on getting the raw footage. I reckon Henri would love to be involved. He could help shape the narrative and make sure it's not just loads of clips of boring matches. We'll follow Lucy and Jill over the season, too. The first generation of Chester Women who get to be on the fringes of this story but aren't really at the heart of it. That's the tragedy of getting older and being sidelined by all the hot new things. MD's age group will eat it up. Set the final scene to 'Walk Away' by Cast. It's Lucy leaving the stadium for the last time while a fifteen-year-old future star walks past not even realising that those older women made all this possible. Boom! Tears, BAFTAs, and EMMYs galore, mate. And we follow some superfans. Talk to randos in the street. At the start of the season no-one even knows we've got a women's team. By the end, people are chatting about them in pubs. We can take the best bits of Welcome to Wrexham, which is the community and the long-suffering fans, and take out all the shit bits, meaning the pub team football and the complete lack of sex appeal."
"It's got Ryan Reynolds," said MD.
"If you love him so much why don't you marry him? Look, if we do it and control it we can all get what we want, right? Not a sanitised, aren't we great kinda whitewash, but one where the players get to be themselves on camera knowing they'll be allowed to veto parts they don't like."
"We could tell potential sponsors we're doing a documentary," said Brooke. "They'll assume it's for the men's team."
"Will they? I hadn't thought of that."
"You're a terrible liar, Max," she said, finally unleashing a full smile.
"While you're at the university," I said, standing up and stretching. "Please talk to the computer science department. Or the statistics people. Whoever's interested in doing some data analysis for us. For free." Brooke made some frantic notes. "MD, get me my big slabs of electricity, please. And please check the backs of all the sofas. Raffi Brown was not a one-off. Give me more budget. I won't bankrupt the club, I promise."
"Max," said MD.
I paused on my way to the door. "Yes?"
"We haven't won a cup since 2013. If you can beat Crewe..." He glanced at the board guy, who nodded. "We'll smash open some of the old piggy banks."
***
SEVEN
seven seven seven
Thursday, April 4
I hadn't been to a five-a-side match in Chester for quite a while, so since there were no professional matches on, I went to the nearest place and watched for half an hour, sucking in 30 experience points and adding a few players to my database. I went outside, hit Playdar and had a rare stroke of luck. It took me to a row of houses - in one I heard some kids kicking a ball in the back garden.
From the sound of it, they were playing Wembley Doubles, a simple little game named after the very concept of getting to a cup final. The next person to tell me this final didn't matter was going to be a double blast!
I knocked on the door and tried to channel the Brig. The mother found it pretty crazy when I hinted that someone had said there was a talented footballer who lived there. I showed her who I was on Chester's website - which now had a high-res photo of me smiling paternally - and she let me into the garden. Any doubts she had that I was who I said I was melted away as the gaggle of kids there went mental.
When I calmed them down, I told them I was there to beat them at Sixty Seconds, which is a collaborative game with a countdown, and they should accept their beating with grace and dignity. I hit Playdar again, revealing all their profiles, and glory be, I'd found myself a caveman.
Lawrence Shaw was a ten-year-old centre back with PA 89. He was enormous. He was already six inches taller than any of his mates, and was twice as wide. If Chris Beaumont was the question, this kid was the answer. My main regret in life was that Lawrence would never get to play against Goliath - what a battle that would have been! Truly titanic.
He was slow, had bad technique, and no stamina. A lot of people thought I was crazy for signing Pascal Bochum and this kid was the opposite in almost every way, but somehow I suspected I'd get just as much shit for this one.
After watching him fail to do almost all of the skills involved in Sixty Seconds, I pointed. "Do you want to play for Chester?"
He thought about it. "Is it true you only eat vegan food?"
"No. Don't listen to idiots."
"My dad said it."
"Is your dad as big as you?"
"Yes."
"He can say what he wants, then. We eat normal food, not junk, we train, we play, it's hard but we have a lot of fun. Come to training a few times and see if you like it."
"Yeah, okay."
"If you want, I'll get you cup final tickets."
"Cup final? Which cup?"
"Cheshire Senior Cup."
"I'll pass, thanks."
Cheeky little shit! Brooke's mini documentary sounded better and better the more I thought about it. Ten little clips to build the excitement and interest. Ten little films and maybe even Porkchoptimus Prime here would tune in to Seals Live.
***
SIX
six six six
Friday, April 5
I went with Fleur to watch the only decent match in the area - The New Saints against Caernarfon Town in the Welsh Premier League.
The New Saints were sort of the inverse of Chester - their stadium was in England but they played in Wales. They usually won the league every year, and they had some decent players.
The match only came with 180 XP, but it was good in terms of spending time with Fleur and focusing on the football. She was starting to understand what I wanted from a scout and what was important and what wasn't. She over-indexed poor forward passes, for example, while for me it was more important that a player was willing to keep trying those passes after some had gone wrong.
"Then again," I said, "in the end what I care most about is talent. I just signed a guy who doesn't fit my teams at all. Other managers will absolutely love him, though. We'll train him up and sell him. Any profit's a good profit. The more profit we make, the more I can pay you."
"Can I have a bonus if someone I find gets sold on?"
"Fascinating idea. Don't know. I'll talk to my b-boys."
"Do you get a bonus if you win the cup?"
"No."
"So why do you obsess over it?"
"I don't. I'm almost completely indifferent to it. I barely even think about it. Cup final? What's that?"
"Right."
***
FIVE
five five five
Saturday, April 6
I was torn between scouting our cup final opponents again or going to watch a big Premier League game to jump towards the 2,000 XP I needed to unlock the Finances perk. In the end, I decided not to try to force things. Would the Finances perk even tell me what other clubs were spending? I read and re-read the perk shop description and couldn't be sure.
One thing I did know for sure was that we would be playing Crewe. So I took Fleur and Emma and we went to see them play against Accrington Stanley, a team from Lancashire, north of Manchester. Accrington's stadium was sponsored by Wham, and for a delicious few minutes I convinced myself it was the 80s band - but no, it was a cookware company. Crushing disappointment. I fired a text to Brooke.
Please investigate the possibility of Harry Styles sponsoring the stadium. We could call it Harry's House.
By the final whistle, I had passed halfway in my quest to grab the Finances perk.
XP balance: 1,025
But shopping was far from my mind. Crewe, indeed, played like Chester in our best moments. Their team was a wild mix of twenty-five-year-old academy graduates and nineteen-year-old academy graduates. Looking back through Crewe's last ten matches there were a few nailed-on starters but the rest rotated and played different positions. It was all part of these technical young players getting a complete education, but while there were no stand-out stars, we could expect a fluid 4-1-4-1 from a team averaging around CA 80.
They would absolutely dominate possession, they would try to pull us into traps and exploit the gaps, and if we weren't switched on, they'd kill us. The good news was they weren't all that good on set pieces, they didn't have a defender who could cope with Chris Beaumont - if we could get into a position to make crosses, and while Crewe's Plan A was worrying, their Plan B was 'do plan A better'.
Brooke: We've had a stadium sponsorship offer from The Daily Mail. Three million a year.
Me: Jokes? Have you been day drinking?
Brooke: Yes.
Me: If you were Spider-man how would you beat Spider-man?
Brooke: I think you want me to say 4-4-2. Ryan told me to say 4-4-2 when I wasn't sure.
4-4-2 against Crewe? No way. Pretty much the worst option. Chris was my low block smasher, but never in a million years would Crewe low block us. They wouldn't do it against Man City or Real Madrid. No chance they'd do it against Chester. No, Chris couldn't start. I'd love to get him on as a thank you for powering us to the title.
Okay, so do we play 4-1-4-1 and try to beat them by doing the same thing as them but with worse players? It seemed absurd. We weren't slightly worse. We were much worse.
I looked at my formation list and one jumped out. 4-5-1. We could do the low block, let them come onto us, and then try to mess them up on counters. Pascal could cause them problems, and so could I. Who'd fire the forward passes, though? Ryan Jack would have been my first choice but he would be out for another nine months.
"Emma babes, I think I'm going to start the cup final with Henri on the bench. You've got that amazing way of giving him bad news. What's your secret?"
"I tell him in the form of a poem," she said. "Should be right up your street."
"Babes."
"United are red, City are blue..."
Fleur chipped in. "You'll start on the bench in our match against Crewe."
"Thanks, ladies. Most helpful."
***
FOUR
four four four
Sunday, April 7
I invited Sandra to watch Halifax vs Wolves in the Women's National League Northern Premier Division. It was a tier three encounter, making it worth 450 XP while adding thirty brand new names to my database - most of whom had contracts running out in the summer. Many would do a very nice job for us...
While I wasn't lusting after goalkeepers, I was talking to Sandra about the cup final.
The main dilemma, of course, was how to approach it. Sandra suggested that Crewe were fighting to get promotion and that was much more important to them than the Cheshire Cup. She believed Crewe would put out a team of reserves and players who needed minutes to get match fit.
I said we had to prepare as though we'd be against Crewe's first choice team, and while she thought it unlikely, she liked my idea of naming a flexible eleven that we could shape into a formation once we knew what our opponents were thinking.
"We'll plan our entire match strategy in the hour between getting the team sheets and kick off. That sounds very Max."
"And we'll make early changes. Throw them off balance. It'll be fun. You'll love it. In the meantime, let's practise through balls. And transitions. And offsides. And cover shadows. And pressing traps. Did I mention through balls?"
"You want us to practise football. Got it."
"And penalties. It could go to penalties. Should we practise lifting trophies over our head and passing them onto the next in line?"
"Bad juju."
"Okay. We train all aspects of football up to and including penalties but nothing after."
"Gotcha."
"It’s just that sometimes the lid falls off. What about the Brackley match on the 13th? I don't give a shit about it. I'd like us to rest virtually everyone. We'll play Robbo in goal, Gerald May, Andrew Harrison, Joe Anka, Tony Hetherington, loads of kids. If you want, I'll be the manager so the loss goes on my record."
"Record. You're always pecking my head about my record. I want to manage. You wouldn't back down from the challenge, would you?"
"I would if I could. Remind me to tell you about Sun Tzu."
***
THREE
three three three
On Tuesday the ninth I went alone to watch Morecambe versus Crewe. Crewe had made six changes from the previous game.
On Saturday the thirteenth I went with Emma to watch Crewe versus Grimsby. Crewe had made six changes from the previous game. Emma cheered Crewe's goals.
***
TWO
two two two
Emma tried to talk to me about Grimsby slumping below Sutton into the relegation places. I answered by comparing the DMs Crewe had been alternating between and fretting about what it'd mean for Chester.
Henri tried to talk to me about Wrexham falling into the playoff spots. I said it gave Crewe a sniff of a chance of getting automatic promotion themselves and wondered if Sandra was right and there really was no chance they'd put out a strong team in the final.
Sam tried to ask me if I wanted York, Kidderminster, or my former team to go up through the playoffs. I told him he'd have to suffer and sacrifice in the final and he wouldn't get more than a few touches of the ball and he should prepare himself mentally. He said yeah but what about York? I said the Grand Old Duke of York may have had ten thousand men but he never had seventy percent possession and that's what Crewe would have against us and if we weren't up for the fight we wouldn't get halfway up that hill.
Vimsy asked if I'd really offered Ian Evans a job as manager of my ninth tier football club. I said I'd only asked if he liked hummus and Ian read waaayyyy too much into it.
***
ONE
one one one
Monday, April 15
I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, going over the last couple of weeks. Had I done everything? Had I done enough? There was little I could do.
What I could do was sleep so that I could carry out my part of the plan.
Henri had been expecting the news that he wouldn't start. He didn't like it, but he knew how these matches against stronger opponents went. I would cook up some mad scheme and the sacrificial lamb would be - quelle surprise - the foreigner.
Chris had been stoic on the surface, but his morale had dropped. The next day it was back up and I'd learned that Henri had had a long talk with him. Explained that he hadn't been dropped but reconfigured to be part of a tactical masterclass.
Well, yeah, let's hope so.
Pascal had said he would prefer to start the match instead of being an unused sub. Starting him seemed optimal in terms of making the best use of Bench Boost while letting important players beef up their CVs. In some statistical regards, being on the pitch for one minute in the final was worth more than scoring the winning goal in every previous round. Put it this way, Wikipedia would one hundred percent say 'Cheshire Senior Cup winner' on Pascal's page if he started, but might not if he was an unused sub.
Try to sleep, Max.
Henri's certainties. Chris's doubts. Pascal's choice.
Sandra had drawn at home to Gloucester and lost away at Brackley with a crazily young team. Some fans were disappointed we wouldn't get the National League North points record, ironically held by the last Chester team to win the Cheshire Cup. In 2013 they'd slapped 107 points on the board. If we beat my former team we'd get to 106. Even with a significant dip in goals per game since I'd left for Grimsby, we'd got the 'most goals in a season' record sewn up. And unless we lost five-nil against Darlington, we would break the record for the largest positive goal difference. That record was plus 71, held by the 2013 Chester team. As it stood, we'd scored 76 more goals than we'd conceded. Our new record seemed like it would last a long time.
Sleep, Max.
I'd scouted some players. One PA 100 thirty-nine year old. Very technical. Could have played at a high level but no-one had ever seen what he had. What a waste! I'd also found a PA 70 four-year-old playing with his dad in the park and two tiny girls who could dribble for days but couldn't pass.
The curse took the piss sometimes.
My first cup final.
I'd get some sleep and then wake up and do the last sesh and we'd all get on the bus to go to Crewe.
I wondered if the other players were excited?
I realised I'd been in full maniac mode the last few days and hadn't even checked the club's social media accounts to see if we'd done Brooke's countdown idea. I reached for my phone and mentally slapped myself. The last thing I needed was to blast blue light into my eyes and reset my sleep countdown!
I restarted the Night Rain video on my laptop, closed my eyes and tried to count sheep. Instead, I found myself replaying the entire season. Old Nick banging on about traitors and MD and Jackie forcing me to take the manager's job. The early losses, the Maxterplan, and trying to manage the men's and women's team while scouting and training. The first good results, the cup runs, and finding the training loophole that would let me repay Tranmere while getting my levels up. SILK! Grimsby. Hiring the Brig, Sandra, and Jackie. Brooke and Angel raising the bar in one direction while Chris Beaumont raised it in another.
The under twelves in Liverpool. WibRob scampering around trying to catch prime Max Best.
And up on the roof, a pine marten. He was gone and he wouldn't be coming back. I'd seen a pine marten but not a hedgehog. Not many in England could say that. What did it mean?
My alarm beeped. I hadn't slept a wink. Still, it was time for lift off.
I reached for my phone and as I checked the weather app, a message came in. It was from physio Dean.
Houston, we have a problem! Call me.