8.

Monday, March 4

I was on the M62 going past Huddersfield when Emma called me back. Her voice filled the car, filled my senses, made me forget the strange, fluttering insecurity that had been building up inside me the further I got from Chester. "Hey bebs."

"Hey bebs," I said.

"What are you smiling at?" she asked, knowing the answer.

"I'm not smiling. I put an AI voice changer on my phone so it always sounds like I'm smiling."

"That's not the worst idea you've ever had. It'd be good for sales people, wouldn't it? Did you see your mum?"

"Yeah, popped in. I don't want to arrive too late at the place so I only stayed ten minutes. The landlady said she'd wait up but, you know."

"God, I've got like twenty questions."

"I know that game. I can only answer with yes or no."

"Henri would tell me to go chronologically."

"Yes."

She laughed. "Don't, Max! I need a mindless conversation. So how was training this morning?"

"Hungover. Lots of stray passes."

"But you've a match tomorrow."

"Yeah, against Brackley. They're quite good but they'll probably spend the first half in a low block so we can take it easy, sort of thing, until they realise we're not on it. When Sandra was busy I got the lads together and told them they'd had their party and they could have one shit game but they'd better get right back on it after that and if they were the reason Sandra quit I would do unspeakable things to them and they promised to be good if only I'd stop shouting at them."

"Then what?"

"Then I packed my stuff and loaded The Duchess and went to the women's training. Checked the standards and all that."

"Checked the standards. You should listen to yourself sometimes. You've just come from the men's team turning up half-cut and you're talking about standards."

"The women can have a blow-out party when they win their league. They've got their big match on March 31. It's Easter Sunday. You coming?"

"Hold on. You've got a Grim on Good Friday and one on Easter Monday. You want to do Grim, Chester, Grim in four days?"

"It's the biggest match in the history of the women's team. I should be there. It's all right if you don't want to come that weekend. You can go to church with your mum."

Slight pause. "I love criss-crossing the country in The Duchess, Max. I love Grim and I love driving to and from Grim."

"The women's match is in Altrincham. Manchester, basically. Not that bad and we can pop in to mum and Anna but not Solly because I'm still mad at him for lying to me about the traitor."

"Aw, don't. Not even as a joke."

I paused while I assessed the driver in front. Very wobbly. Probably texting, the dick. I backed off; I didn't want him wrecking The Duchess. Some of the nerves came back. If this Grimsby thing went well I'd get fifty grand. Fifty grand! I could get a new car. "Right, women's team. So I was checking the standards, all good, obviously. Jackie's ace and he's got Jill doing his admin and whatnot. It's running smoothly. After fifteen minutes I called the ladies over. Told them I've been using my new minion to go on a charm offensive."

"Ah. Let me check my timer. Ninety seconds."

"What?"

"I time how long before our conversations get to The Texan."

I indicated and eased into the slow lane. Was this a problem? I decided it was almost certainly Emma teasing me and went back into the fast lane. "The last women's game is the 21st of April, which as you know is after the 20th."

"Yes that trivia came up in a pub quiz once."

"On the 20th, the men are playing my former team and we'll parade our trophies around and have a big ol' party. But even if the women beat Altrincham, they'll need to win their last game to be mathematically certain of winning. So we've asked the league and Runcorn Linnets if we can move that game to the Friday before, the 19th, so we can get the trophy."

"That's pretty cocky. What did they say?"

"Runcorn were totally cool about it. And the FA are thinking about it but Brooke - "

"Brooke," mumbled Emma.

"Got them to think how it'd be for women's football in Cheshire to have the victorious men's and women's teams side by side. I think the fact we're pushing for it so hard is helping. Altrincham aren't completely happy because the matches should be played at the same time to make it fair but we've suggested they play on the Friday as well and we'll owe them one."

Emma laughed. "You'll owe them one. Is that how football works? Playground rules?"

"I told their manager that whoever wins the head-to-head is the best team and if it was me in her shoes I'd agree to the date change and then go and win the match so that it wasn't an issue and I wouldn't bleat about it like a lost sheep."

"Maybe you should leave the negotiations to Brooke."

"Nah, the manager liked it. Challenge accepted, she said. I don't think she quite realises how much we've improved since we played them at Christmas but she's got fighting spirit. I don't like managers on match days; they lose their minds. But I should make more of an effort to get to know them. They're the people who understand what I'm going through. Anyway. It's all going great."

That last part didn't ring true in the slightest and Emma must have heard it. She chose not to investigate. "Tell us about your AirBnB you've booked."

"I was looking for something near Cheapside - that's where the training ground is. But there's this huge thing called the Lincolnshire Wolds. Just miles of fields and trees and stuff. Great. I didn't check but I assume there's hedgehogs and deer and mysterious trees. So I thought it'd be nice to be there, instead of, like, Grimsby town centre, and as I kept zooming out I saw a village called Brigg."

"And you want to stay in Brigg. Brigg makes you feel safe."

"Amazingly, there was a place to stay there. It's this old couple and I get a room but have to share the bathroom. I was thinking, um, no, I'm kind of a big deal now but it's 25 minutes from Cheapside and Cleethorpes so I thought it might be good to have some distance, just in case things go wrong." The nervous energy was leaking out again. Or in. It was leaking out or in and I hated it but I loved it. Whatever happened, it had to be better than watching idiot managers try to low block us three months after I'd rendered that strategy obsolete.

"What's Cleethorpes?"

"That's where Blundell Park is. The stadium. But the real killer was the name on the listing. There are two rooms available in that house. I'm in the Taj Mahal Suite - twenty-five pounds a night - and the other is The Villas of the Papal Nobility. The price difference is two quid a night which as far as I can tell is because in one room the beds are pushed together so they can claim it's a double. The entire thing is so outrageous! The reviews say it's quiet and clean so tick and tick but mostly I want to meet the host. I booked for a week for a laugh and I'll scout for something better when I'm not busy."

"Won't you be dead busy all the time?"

"I'm not really doing most of the manager things I do for Chester. I'm supervising training and picking the team and to be honest, supervising training is pretty optional. Training isn't the problem at Grimsby. It was the manager's line ups, tactics, and in-game management. Those are things I'm good at and that's match day stuff. So... yeah. I won't be that busy. Tomorrow morning, Chris is giving me a tour but then the next fixed thing on my schedule is Saturday's match."

"That's in London."

"Right. The team at the bottom of the league. It's the two bottom teams so I'm imagining the quality will be diabolical. I mean, from my point of view it's exciting, right, pitting my wits against a League Two manager. Our teams will be broadly similar so I'll have to try to outthink him. I'm expecting a little more cleverness from the guy than I get at National League North level. He'll use his subs to make tactical changes and I'll have to respond and all that sort of stuff. The chess side of it. Which, you know, a lot of fun for me, a lot. But watching from the stands?" I laughed. "Diabolical, I'm sure. Don't worry, babes. You don't have to come. I know you've got your project. Tell me about it."

"Not when you're driving. It's not safe. Call me when you go to bed and I'll put you to sleep in minutes. So..." The telltale silence of someone tiptoeing around a difficult topic. "How are you going to handle it all? I was thinking about when you were at Tranmere and no-one knew who you were. I mean... They know who you are now, right?"

"I'm really not sure. I kind of don't think so. Footballers are quite insular. Max Best is not on FIFA and there's no way any of them watched the FA Cup match against Salford. They'll have passed some clips around. Heard some stories maybe. Might have read, you know, the scurrilous article."

"Oh."

"I'm probably not right," I said, to reassure her. "They probably got an email with loads of my highlights and info about what sort of formations I use. They've got a data guy. That's going to be interesting to see if he can help me. I don't think so, but I'll need one eventually to support Sandra and Jackie so I'll be keeping an eye on what he gets up to. Nah, look, if they don't know who I am it's fine. I really don't give a shit as long as they do what I tell them. As for how I'm going to approach it... Yeah." I laughed.

"What?"

"Mateo called and suggested I don't jump in two-footed. MD called and said maybe I should look before I leap. Henri called and said that while the lesson I should learn from my life was 'always go full Max' and that he didn't doubt me in the slightest, perhaps I might want to only sometimes always go full Max."

"You're going to go full Max on day one, aren't you?"

I eased into the slow lane to let a supersonic BMW go past. "No. As one of my unnamed employees probably says while fixing his or her Stetson, 'this ain't my rodeo, y'all'. I'm going to keep out of trouble, float around like a sexy ghost, and come alive on Saturdays."

***

Around ten p.m., I pulled into the spacious driveway of my temporary residence. It was a detached house on a quiet street. The AirBnB listing had a 4.9 rating and all the four-star reviews were very enthusiastic which just proves that people don't understand that four stars is a NEGATIVE REVIEW and needs to be changed immediately if you care about the author. I mean, if you care about the AirBnB host.

A curtain twitched and seconds later, a tiny elderly lady appeared at the front door. She had big glasses and lots of energy.

"You're Max," she said, summing me up. "I'm Angela. I'm 72."

I tried to offer a fistbump instead of a handshake and she surprised me by accepting it instantly. "I'm Max. I'm... huh. Yeah, I'm 23. Feels like I've been 23 for a long time."

"That'll change," she said, all twinkly. "Time always speeds up. When I was a girl, June used to last six weeks. Let me show you the room. Or do you want to get your bags?"

"I'll go back. Thanks for waiting up for me."

"Waiting up," she scoffed, as she led the way. "George is asleep but not me. Not for hours yet. Too much to do." She went up some stairs, showed me the bathroom that I would be sharing with another guest if one suddenly booked, then opened the door to the Taj Mahal suite. It was an extremely plain guest room with two towels, a nightgown about the same size as Angela, and a computer monitor perched on a chest of drawers. I guessed that was the TV.

"Nice," I said. "I was expecting a big photo of the Taj Mahal, to be honest. Or some Indian ornaments."

"No need," she said. "No need. The name's enough. Where are you staying? I'm in the Taj Mahal Suite at Le Clos aux Roses. Oh? Wonderful."

"You're clearly Lincolnshire's greatest living marketer. I should introduce you to Brooke," I said, and had the strangest feeling it had been exactly ninety seconds since I'd met Angela. Wow. Did I have a Brooke problem?

"Is that your girlfriend? Will she be coming?"

"Brooke is a b-girl I know. She likes ponies. My girlfriend is Emma. She's from Newcastle. I doubt she'll come; she's busy with work and the Taj Mahal might be a bit fancy for her. What's the other one called again?"

"The Villas of the Papal Nobility."

I beamed. "You're fantastic."

She took the compliment well; I was only confirming what she already knew. "What are you doing here in Brigg?"

"Oh, I'm working in Cleethorpes for a few weeks." I didn't want to mention Grimsby Town if I could help it. Much better if no-one knew where I was staying and if I had a place where football wouldn't be mentioned.

"What do you do?"

"I'm a fireman. I'm a consultant. I operate across multiple vectors. Where there is discord, I bring synergistic multi-phase harmonies."

"Ah! A kindred spirit. Heh heh. Well, Max. Welcome to Lincolnshire."

***

The bed in the Taj Mahal was as comfortable as the name would suggest, and I slept wonderfully. In the morning, I made myself a tea and sat by the window admiring the view. Lincolnshire, mate! Hedges, trees, open fields, and everything such a vivid and soothing shade of green that you might almost feel that maybe you haven't made a terrible, terrible mistake.

Part of that uneasy feeling came because something had changed overnight. Now when I brought the curse screens up, the Chester Men and Chester Women Squad links were one section lower. In their usual place was a new one: Grimsby Town Squad. Although I would be announced in the afternoon, the papers had been filed with the FA and I was Grimsby's official interim manager.

The main reason for my unease was fairly stupid - there were 24 names in the squad.

Twenty-four.

When Old Nick had visited me in hospital and made me watch a TV show called The Traitors, he talked about two versions. In some countries, the format had 22 contestants including 3 traitors. At the time, Chester had 22 in the first team squad; he had implied that three of them would betray me. The other version started with 24 contestants and there were 4 traitors.

Twenty-four Grimsby players, four traitors.

Stupid! I pushed the whole stupid idea out of my stupid head and went through the player and staff profiles. I'd seen a lot of them before, but seeing the new ones brought up a whole range of tactical possibilities. In this league I could name seven substitutes and use five, which was an unbelievably luxury. I had to back myself to use my subs better than most managers, even if the ones at this level were a whole lot more switched on than the ones I was used to.

With new confidence, I hopped in The Duchess and drove to Cheapside, Grimsby's training ground. I parked in the space labelled manager, which always added 1d6 smugness points. There weren't many people around and I didn't have a badge so I couldn't go and explore. The reception desk remained unmanned for over 20 minutes. Lincolnshire. Mate.

After a tetchy encounter with the reception woman in which I thought about but refrained admirably from going full Max, I got an access-all-areas badge and had just beeped myself through when Chris Hale turned up. "Max! Great to see you! Amazing result at the weekend. Congratulations! How are you?"

I glanced at the receptionist and made a quick calculation. She was taking the piss wandering off having chats and not fulfilling her one tiny function, but it wasn't my problem. I knew I was going to find dozens of things like this that I wouldn't tolerate in my club, but how many was I really going to do anything about? None, that's how many. My only job was to get Grimsby out of the relegation zone. Sexy ghost, come alive on Saturday, stick to the plan. "Yeah, great. Had a great start to the day. Absolutely flawless in every respect with no bottlenecks or hindrances. Nothing at all that requires your immediate attention."

The receptionist flushed and bent her head, but Chris was clueless. He frowned slightly, decided it was weird Manc humour he didn't get, and opened the first door, holding it for me. "Start in the canteen, can we? I need a coffee."

We chatted for a while and various employees went past on their way to a meeting room. The plan was that I would have a quick meet and greet with them before they did the day's training, which I would observe before going to Chris's house for lunch.

A few people wandered in and out of the canteen to get a tea or a coffee. Most of them didn't acknowledge me, which was slightly weird but fine, but most blanked Chris, too. And that wasn't fine. The guy was paying their wages, for God's sake. It didn't seem to bother him, and it wasn't clear that he even noticed. He did, however, notice when some of the squad's key players ambled in. "Danny and Marcus!" he whispered, fangirling almost as hard as Dani would do if she ever met Harry Styles. Grimsby's star strikers gave Chris a friendly smile and a nod, which was something.

A new person arrived. The curse told me his name but his staff profile was a string of question marks. "Ah!" said Chris, rising. "Here he is! Wolfie! Max, this is John Wolfe. John, Max Best."

I knew Wolfie from reading everything I could about the club online and from listening to their awful fan podcast. He was the head of recruitment but he had only been in the post for a few months, starting just before the transfer window. The question marks, I mused, were because Wolfie wasn't a coach, wasn't a physio, wasn't an owner, and head of recruitment wasn't a position that existed in 2001, which was when the curse was based. Maybe I'd get a perk to unlock those numbers, or maybe it would come for free with the mid-season update as the curse scrambled to catch up with 20 years of progress.

Wolfie was said to have good connections with agents but the two players he had added in January were pretty terrible. Again, not my problem, but I couldn't help but take an instant dislike to him.

I shook hands with the guy. He had sandy goalkeeper hair (short, centre parting, floppy) and eyes too deep in his head. His smile was the fakest thing since Al Capone's Vault. He was in his thirties but had the air of an aggrieved seventy-year-old - a thought I regretted as soon as I had it. This guy was the polar opposite of my enthusiastic and spirited new landlady.

"Nice to meet you, Max," he lied, the liar.

"Likewise," I said, fulfilling my social obligations in the fewest possible number of words.

"Wolfie is our Head of Recruitment. Basically Director of Football for now. That's why you're our interim head coach instead of interim manager. We're bringing the club into the future. Aligning with best practices."

"Okay," I said, because I couldn't think of anything else. Was the insinuation that I would be reporting to Wolfie? That was fine for the next 'head coach' but that wasn't the deal I thought I was getting into. Some of my excitement faded. If Wolfie tried to tell me who to pick on Saturday I'd go full Max. I'd have to. There couldn't be any interference with what I did on match days or there was no chance of me being successful. But Jesus Christ, I was trying so hard not to get into conflicts and one had just been shoved in front of me. Totes unfair, mate. Totes unfair.

Chris's phone vibrated and he stopped it. "Let's meet the coaches."

As we exited the canteen, a gaggle of players emerged from reception, ignored us completely, and headed left to where I assumed the dressing room was. One of them was in full hyena mode. "Have you ever seen such a piece of shit! What the fuck, man."

"Dirtier than my side piece, too, yo!"

"If it's brown, flush it down!" said the first one. I was 92% sure it was Simon Green, a suspicion that was later confirmed. "That's shameful shit, that. Coming here in that."

"Max," mumbled Chris, trying to get me to move. But I was rooted into place, shooting daggers at the guy who was being rude to The Duchess.

The guy looked over, saw me, and shut his mouth. But instead of looking suitably scared or intimidated, he merely waited until his group was through the nearest door and then they all laughed, hard.

Okay. It was one of those clubs. I had suspected as much. Chris tugged at my elbow and this time I allowed him to move me.

Grimsby's training centre was leafy and well-equipped, but the buildings were, not to be rude, one elderly brick building supplemented by a load of portacabins. I think a Premier League footballer would have turned his nose up at the compound, but I was in heaven. This was very much what I had in mind for phase one of my training centre project. A lot of cheap and cheerful boxes with equipment inside. Done. We didn't need a cathedral-like reception area like some clubs had. For phase one, a sign saying 'reception' and a waiting area would be enough and if we had an employee who stayed at their desk 99% of the time with a cheerful smile we'd be miles ahead of Grimsby in at least one regard. Yes, if this was working for a League Two side, it would work for us. I could start building a more premium complex when we sold Youngster for twenty million. Until then I could copy paste what Grimsby had - maybe with a little more space between the cabins.

I followed Chris and Wolfie into a unit that had views of the nearest training pitch. Here I would meet my closest colleagues, the people I would rely on for the next six weeks. The Fellowship of the Train-ing? No, that's terrible. Cut that.

There were some things I knew to expect. First, they probably thought I had a hand in getting the previous manager sacked. Second, they knew I had a role in whatever rebukes were dished out to the scouts Chris had sent to watch me. Third, they thought I was too young, too flash, but perhaps most of all, too attacking. Those in the room with coaching profiles showed a defensive mentality, which fit the previous manager's style and the overall makeup of the squad.

My mistake, I think, was to imagine they would have put their misgivings aside for a few weeks, for the sake of the club. I was, after all, the floating megabrain who had saved Chester from relegation last season and only a week ago had invented a brand new formation called 'Sweeper'.

Wolfie took a seat at the table. His job, you remember, was to decide which players should come and go, but it was hinted he would have extra duties for the duration of my employment. I needed to shoot that down pronto.

Next to him was Coach G, the previous manager's assistant. Grimsby's version of Sandra. As the former manager's closest ally, I fully expected Coach G to be difficult but he was a good coach and if he stuck to his job, we'd be fine. If he was one of the four traitors, we would be in pretty deep doo-doo. Standing behind him, by the window, was Coach W. Opposite him was Byram, the head physio. In front of him at the table, all kinds of fidgety, was the goalkeeping coach. He was the son of a famous keeper from the old days and had been a good shotstopper himself. Finally, there was the Data Analyst. His job was to turn the sport into a series of numbers - lol as if - so I'll call him Neo.

Six faces. No smiles.

Chris, again, seemed oblivious to the vibe. "Hi everyone. This is Max Best, the prodigy. Fresh from opening up a 14-point lead in the National League North!" Chris said it like it was impressive - correctly - but the two main coaches, Coach G and Coach W, exchanged a dark look. Chris continued. "I'm just showing him around today and he'll start properly tomorrow."

"If you don't mind, Chris, there's really no time to lose. There's a couple of things they can start on today." Chris made an approving little noise, apparently pleased that I was taking charge. "Top." I gathered my thoughts. Hostility? People who resent change? People who don't believe in me? Tsch. I've done all this before, mate. "Grimsby Town will get relegated if we don't work together. It's obvious you have reservations about me coming here and to some extent I don't blame you. But my only goal in taking this job is to keep the club in League Two. That's success. Everything else is failure. We don't need to like each other to get the job done. I'm not here to charm the fans or make new friends or anything like that. I'm here to get enough points to keep us above two other teams. Okay? It's not Sutton United or MK Dons that can stop us achieving our goals. It's if the people in this room can't work together for six weeks.

"Is there a flipchart? Oh, mate." There was one at the back of the room. Seemed like they never used it. How can you run a football club without using flipcharts non-stop? I loved writing on flipcharts. "We're doing 4-2-4 on Saturday so let's use today to make sure we're co-ordinated. Goalies with the back four working on spacing and evading pressure. Front four moving up and down as a unit. I want any missed crosses from the right to end up with our guy on the left. Second drill, bringing the two midfielders forward to create triangles. One goes, one stays. If you have time, let's get the full-backs involved. Again, I want to make sure when one goes, one stays. Real old-fashioned stuff."

image [https://ted-steel.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/01/b7c8.png]

This utterly banal proclamation was met with astonishment and, yes, hostility.

Wolfie was the only one brave enough to risk gainsaying me in front of Chris. "Very interesting, Max. Love the use of colour. Flamboyant in all respects. I think we should stick to 4-2-3-1 for this weekend's match, though. The data points to that being optimal, and the sessions for the week were set yesterday morning. There's a lot of thought and care that goes into planning a team selection at this level." He finished with a little nod at Coach G. It seemed to say, there, I've put the little shit in his place for you.

Please note that I didn't go full Max. I went, at most, one-twelfth Max. "It's not too late to put Wolfie in charge, Chris. Maybe what this team needs is more of the same." I laughed, charmingly, to show that I was teasing him in good fun. "Chris knows I don't think 4-2-3-1 is right for this team so it'd be pretty weird if I started using it. That was one of the first things I ever said to you, wasn't it, Chris? This team can't play this formation."

"Yes, that's right. I wish I'd listened to you at the time but I thought you were a brat."

"The brat has spoken! So, 4-2-4, then." Decisive but charming. Who was I channelling there? MD maybe.

Neo, the data nerd, was swiping on a tablet PC. When he spoke, he sounded like everyone else from this part of the world - dour and bored. "We don't have the players to do 4-2-4."

"Yes, we do."

Wolfie saw his chance to show that his willy was bigger than mine. He handed over a binder. "We prepared this for you, Max. As our interim manager - " he said interim the way someone else might pronounce the ex in ex-wife - "we thought it would help you get up to speed."

I opened it and flicked through the pages. One had a spreadsheet printout with the names of the players. There were 21. I ran my finger down and two seconds later said, "Where's Mal, Ed Williams, and Greg Brothers?"

"You know the whole squad?" said Neo, brows furrowed.

"Yes, Neo. And I know your names, too." I went round the room reciting them in full as a little willy-waving demonstration of my own. I removed the offending page and slid it back to Wolfie. The gesture said, incomplete, please redo. "It's good we did this because two of the missing players will be starting on Saturday and one will be on the bench. They need to be in the training session."

"But they're not match fit," said Coach G.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

"Let's make sure the sessions are rocking, then."

"Who's left wing?" This was Neo again, staring at the flipchart.

"Mal Mehew."

"Mal left wing?" he said, deeply unhappy. Mal had played most of his career on the right, but the curse told me I could use him on the left.

"It's definitely the weakest link but he'll do a job there. Unless he's injured, in which case Greg Fasanmade can step in. I will, of course, get a full injury report from Byram shortly." The physio blinked and nodded. I felt like I'd done enough to establish that, whatever else they thought about me, I knew what I wanted and I knew what I had to work with. And I felt like I'd handled the situation with decent diplomatic skills. Sure, MD or the Brig would have been far smoother, but from this moment if Wolfie and Coach G wanted to make life difficult for me, that was on them. "Maybe we could get training started. We all know not to leave players unattended for too long."

The three coaches stared at Wolfie for five seconds, then at Chris. Finally, they left. "I'll go get the report ready," said Byram, leaving me with the owner, the head of recruitment, and the data guy.

"That went well," I said, enthusiastically. "I'm glad that went well. Yes, that went really well. Oh. Something on your mind, Wolfie?"

He grimaced. "I was just thinking that while it's very bold to switch to such a dramatic attacking formation, we don't really have the players for it."

"Sure we do." I waved at the incomplete report he'd given me. I didn't know why he'd left the three names out and I didn't care. If it was something really bad he would have mentioned it by now.

"You don't know that. Which is why I've scheduled meetings for you this afternoon explaining the direction the team should take for the rest of the season and the data that underpins this analysis." He gritted his teeth again and was barely audible as he spoke next. "If we play 4-2-4 we will get murdered in this league."

"We won't use it every week, will we? I'd say that by the end of the season we'll have used every formation known to man. Except 4-2-3-1, of course, which is the most unsuitable one imaginable. You know Chris," I said, pretending to be serious and helpful, "if your processes are spitting out 4-2-3-1 with this group of players, maybe Wolfie should do a process to fix the process. Before the new manager takes over, like. All right, good talk. How about that tour?"

***

Everywhere I went, I saw some bullshit.

In the weight room, a player was throwing weights around at high speed. I was no gym rat but even I knew his technique was shit. At Chester, we had Magnus who would sometimes pop in to watch what players were doing. He was a world champion bodybuilder so almost everyone listened to him. The only person who Magnus had to win over was the Brig, but even that didn't take long. I'd established a culture where we all wanted to do better and we were not afraid to ask for or receive help. Who was the Grimsby guy who made sure players were using the equipment right?

In the conditioning room, two under eighteen players were slumped over exercise bikes, pedalling half-heartedly while they watched TikToks. Virtually pointless.

In the medical room, Byram was scatter-brained and trying to do three things at once. The massage therapist was chatting to her physio friend while three players waited for treatment.

On the training pitches, the players were doing unsupervised warm ups while the coaches had a little bitching session. Only when they saw me looming did they get to fucking work. The three outcast players had been found and were in the main group in their personal gear, as though in the previous regime they hadn't been allowed to wear Grimsby kit. When they saw me watching them, they doubled their efforts. Last-chance saloon for their Grimsby careers. That could work in my favour.

Meanwhile, half the players were dogging it. One activity involved hopping over some tiny hurdles and then sprinting on the spot. Some players took it seriously, counting to three while going flat out. Some threw out two feeble jabs and felt that was enough.

All the time, Chris proudly explained all the improvements he'd been making and how much things had cost. That was its own kind of horror. The result looked cheap but never before had cheapness been so expensive. The pitches, for example, used to be unusable for most of the winter but after many hundreds of thousands of pounds in investment they were near the quality of the one at Blundell Park itself. Chris used the phrases verti-drained and top-dressed and I nodded along as though I had the first clue what he was saying.

"You look overwhelmed," he said, finally locking onto someone else's emotional state. "Let's set off and we'll have lunch at my place."

"Great," I said. "Let's just pop back to training and check they're doing what they need to be doing."

They were, but it was all five percent slower than it should have been. Five percent surlier. It reminded me of a prison yard. "Isn't it great?" said Chris.

My mouth had a mind of its own and it opened now, but I was able to throw a lasso around it just in time. Chris Hale was beaming with pride. For a moment I stopped seeing the half-assed sprints and demotivated employees and I saw Cheapside through its owner's eyes. The lush pitches, the gleaming new equipment, the modern new approach to data and player recruitment. "It's great." I felt some of the butterflies peek their little heads out. The culture could be changed. I'd done it at Chester and someone could do it here. A few tweaks and Grimsby could find themselves at the top of the table, battling for a playoff spot, playing fearless football in front of Town's passionate fans. "It is really great."

***

We drove off in separate cars. Mine, an elderly brown Subaru known as The Duchess. In some eyes, the worst vehicle in the car park if not the entire county. His, an Aston Martin Vanquish Volante, recommended retail price two hundred thousand pounds.

Half an hour later we slowed on a nothing sort of road. I couldn't see anything of interest behind the endless rows of bushes and trees, but once clear of the foliage the space was dominated by one of those Grand Designs houses. Huge windows, recessed lighting, exposed structural elements. As our feet crunched across the gravel driveway, Chris babbled about his love of aeronautics and showed how the roof was shaped like an abstract wing and tailfin. I didn't see it myself, but I'd learned from hanging out with Henri not to dismiss such things. Sometimes a simple boy from Manchester needed some time for the artist's vision to click.

I was extremely surprised to find that Chris's sultry club girl companion, Candy, was at home. It had been my assumption that she was a rich man's fling and he would soon be onto the next one. I was even more surprised to find that she had made lunch for us. Surely they had maids and cooks and whatnot? The guy was worth a hundred and fifty million last I looked.

The food was simple but delicious and made me realise my chopstick game was rusty.

"So," said Chris, perfectly at ease in the ultra-premium kitchen while I was afraid of scraping his marble countertop or moving my stool across the stone flooring. "Why 4-2-4?"

I shrugged. "Sutton play 4-2-3-1 but their attacking midfielders are even worse than yours." Chris grimaced and Candy - a wonderful host in most respects - shot me a baleful glance. "Sorry," I said, with a shake of the head. Mateo's warning, not for the first time, echoed in my imagination. Don't dive in!

"No, give it to me straight. I can't afford to be squeamish."

"Yeah, okay. They don't have the players for that formation, is what I'm saying. If you ask me all these teams playing 4-2-3-1 is like one of those Christmas toy manias. Everyone wants a Squishmallow but no-one knows why."

"It was Tracy Island in my day."

"Yes," I said, politely, because I wasn't sure if he was teasing me in some way. "Anyway, Sutton will be very central and we'll slap them down the wings. It'll be loads of one-on-ones between our wingers and their full-backs. Win those duels, win the game. Easy."

"Good. Good to hear it. So what, er... What should I be worried about?"

"Worried? Erm... So you've got a fair squad. There's more quality in the twenty-four than I've seen out on the pitch. That's great. But some of your good players haven't been playing so they won't be match sharp. It's five subs in League Two so I'm hoping we can get a goal or two ahead and then replace the guys who haven't played with guys with fresh legs. That'd be ideal. Every match I'll use all five subs to try to get more guys up to speed."

"Can't you make them do extra training?" said Candy.

"Yes but nothing's like playing in a real match. You can't replicate it. The brain does funny things when the floodlights are on and the stakes are real. The only way to prepare is to play. So that's one issue. Match sharpness, players lacking fitness at the ends of matches. Another is morale. Morale is low across the board. You can see it in training. That's going to be a problem. What else? I love Alex Evans."

"You complained about him when we met at Christmas."

"No, I said he was old. He's still mint, though." At CA 90 he was one of the better players and his PA of 135 spoke to me of a guy used to playing at a higher standard. Very much this team's Ryan Jack. "I need to decide if I play him every other match or use him for half of every match. Oh, another issue is the squad composition. Your dude was partly right that the squad isn't set up for attacking formations. It's quite a slow, stodgy bunch of lads. Hard to beat, but ten nil-nil draws isn't going to guarantee safety. We need some wins. Four wins is better than ten draws."

"It's three points for a win," said Candy, echoing something I'd said to her when we met.

"Exactly."

She poured me more yellow tea. "What are our chances of staying in this league?"

"Here," I said, grabbing a piece of paper and writing out the bottom of the table.

P GD Pts 20 Colchester 36 -12 35 21 Salford City 36 -13 35 22 Forest Green Rovers 36 -26 30 23 Grimsby Town 36 -21 29 24 Sutton United 36 -24 25

"Played, goal difference, points. Bottom two go down. We play Sutton next. Obviously losing that would be pretty disastrous because it'd bring them back into the scrap. If we win, they're as good as dead. A draw would be disappointing for me but at least it would keep us above one team. The next target is Forest Green. They came down from the league above. They're in freefall. I think the owner cut the funding or something. They're the kind of team where we only need to pick up a few points and let them implode." I shook my head. "But I don't like talking like that. I don't even believe it. Every team can get a couple of wins. Six points goes a long way. But it could come down to us being solid and picking up points and Forest Green having a full meltdown."

"You beat Salford City," said Candy. She'd turned into a proper Max Best historian, she could cook, and she was wearing one of those woollen cardigans that are great for hugs. For some reason, I took that moment to warn myself not to get stuck in any lifts with her.

"Yeah but they're actually a brilliant team. On paper, they're as strong as Wrexham and Stockport. They should be third; there's no way they will go down." I laughed. "Being in a relegation dogfight with a team as expensively assembled as Salford verges on criminal. Amazing. They're on their third manager of the season, I think. Colchester are on their fourth. I'd love to win four or five matches, climb above them, and get some more bad managers sacked and make some bad owners have to write big cheques."

"Careful," said Candy. "Now that Chris has sacked a manager, maybe he has got a taste for it."

I shook my head. "After Sutton it's MK Dons, Gillingham, Wrexham, Barrow. All in the top half of the table. It's very easy to imagine losing those four." I had Triple Captain and Bench Boost available, since I hadn't managed a game in League Two this season. I was tempted to use it against Wrexham - beating them would endear me to the Chester fans forever, but realistically the Welsh side would destroy us. I would probably keep those boosts in reserve until I'd got my team working properly and I knew the perks would be effective. Triple Captain, for example, was very much a double-edged sword. It could hurt us if used on the wrong guy. "One draw and four defeats, Chris. Are you going to sack me then?"

"Sounds like grounds for dismissal. And cheap. You don't get a payoff."

I grinned. "I just realised that my contract is shit."

"Let's drink to cocky hotshots," said Chris, who raised his glass of red wine.

I clinked my tea cup against it. "Yeah, let's get some of those guys in. They sound fun."

***

I spent Tuesday night in a cosy pub within walking distance of the Taj Mahal. I treated myself to one beer and listened to Seals Live with an AirPod in one ear while I enjoyed the ambiance. As predicted, my team stank the Deva Stadium up and fell behind in the second half when Brackley realised we'd spent the weekend partying a little too hard. But Joe Anka found Chris Beaumont and we got a one-all draw. Very acceptable.

Then Wednesday morning found me watching pretty much the worst training session I'd seen since turning pro. (The worst, Max? asked my English teacher. Yes, I think so, I said, defending myself. Now get out of my head, please!) Sure, only two days prior, Chester had gone through the motions in the morning, but there had been laughs and jokes and that had come after many long months of hard work and accomplishment. We had earned our morning of dogging it. This Grimsby session was inexcusable. So yes, the worst.

I was getting to know the players. Not personally - I'd barely spoken to any of them and didn't see the point in doing so. But I was getting to know them in terms of effort and will to win and certainly in terms of quality. As everyone in Grimsby knew far better than me, they'd been assembled under a defensive manager. At their best, they were obdurate and rugged. Their best hadn't been on display much this season, though. There had been a six-one home defeat, the worst in about eighty years, and many, many second half collapses.

Astonishingly, there were things I could ask my Chester team to do that these guys couldn't. To be fair, these guys were up against a far higher level of opponent, but still. By the time I got to this level I expected every player to be able to pass the ball around, get up and down the pitch, and last ninety minutes. On the other hand, I could quite easily end up with exactly this sort of squad - I had to take whatever players I could get, right? I would take the guys with the highest CA/PA and try to shape them into some sort of winning formula.

Maybe it would be helpful to compare a couple of Grimsby guys to their Chester equivalents.

Mike Dobson. 32-year-old centre back and captain. With CA 77 PA 88, far, far better than Glenn Ryder. If I could swap them, I'd have to, right? But there was something off about Dobson. Ryder was limited but played his heart out every match. On the footage I'd seen, Dobson felt like a 6 out of 10 player. I assumed that would change when he was playing for me. The curse would mostly make him do what I wanted and I could tweak his settings. There was no possible world where I'd keep Ryder if I had the chance to get Dobson.

Devonte Payne was a hard-working player who was listed as being an attacking right midfielder but who had better defensive skills than attacking ones. He had CA 71 so obviously I'd pick him over Joe Anka any day of the week, right? Yeah... Joe could hit a cross, though. Watching Devonte curl in a corner was... Payne-ful.

What I was thinking was that in a perfect world I'd be able to find players with the same qualities of my existing squad, but much better. But in reality I needed to prepare myself for the fact that my squads would always be a Frankenstein's monster of random parts. Random parts with high CA or PA.

One trap I wouldn't fall into was signing donkeys like Simon Green, a 26-year-old midfielder. CA 57, PA 60. Actually worse than Sam Topps! But this clown had convinced himself he was the second coming of Roy Keane and what's worse, had convinced a lot of others, too. He was the guy who had mocked The Duchess, but despite loathing him with every atom the universe had given me I felt I had a fairly clear-headed view of his limitations - and his advantages. More on those in a moment.

What was spectacularly interesting about the curse treating me like the Grimsby manager was that I not only got to see the player profiles of injured and suspended players that I hadn't come across before, but also everyone's contract details. Chris Hale didn't want to share that information with me, since it wasn't relevant to the job I'd be doing, but I knew it anyway.

Dobson was on 2,350 a week, and Green was also a high earner, on 2,000. The highest paid player was Danny Flash, the CA 60 striker Grimsby had bet the farm on. That guy was on three grand. All had appearance bonuses, Flash had a goal bonus.

Seeing the premium wages in my head versus what they were offering on the pitch was depressing but also... exciting. Chester FC would be the most efficient team in the history of world football. No-one would get a contract they didn't deserve. If a player was earning 3,000, he'd be worth at least 3,000. Most likely he'd be worth 6,000 and when the market realised that, I'd be able to sell him for a huge profit.

The Grimsby squad's mood was low - probably because they lost almost every week - but one person had maximum morale. Can you guess? That's right. Simon Green. The absolute prick did not give a shit about the outside world, the team's form, or the fact that he had recently got the club's beloved manager sacked. No, he was loving life. And the worst part was, that awful, awful selfishness was making me give serious consideration to naming him in the team against Sutton. I'd learned not to underestimate morale and I couldn't send eleven sad sacks onto the pitch. Green would lower the CA but increase the morale.

After watching training (I didn't feel like participating - Green or someone would probably try to break my ankle), I went out into the car park and found someone had left an envelope under my windscreen wiper. The miscreant had written 'wash me' in block capitals and inside was twenty pounds in cash. I pocketed the money and kept the envelope - I could scam the players into giving me handwriting samples. But then again, I was already fairly confident I knew who was behind this amusing jape. I walked around the car park looking at all the other cars trying to match them to the players based on what I knew they were earning. There was a lot of money in that car park. Lot of nice wheels; I had a little pang of annoyance. Was I going to have to keep The Duchess forever because Simon Green would think he had made me upgrade? Or was The Duchess a cheat code for finding bad characters in double quick time?

I took the twenty pounds out of my pocket and stared at it. I'd come for the challenge, for the XP, for the lols, but mostly I'd come to Grimsby for the fifty thousand pounds. I had a strong feeling that this twenty pound note was all I was likely to get.

***

On Thursday I found new things to be annoyed by. The way the players talked - or didn't - to the canteen staff. The timekeeping. The way the coaches and some of the players formed huddles when I wasn't around and stopped talking when I arrived. Coach G asked if I knew the team already so he could prepare accordingly on the Friday. I was sceptical that it was necessary, but told him the team, subs, and the players to be given priority on the team bus as backups. In other words, who I wanted to bring with us. He said he'd 'try' to accommodate my wishes, and, heroically, I kept a lid on my anger.

***

By Friday, nothing much had changed. I had spent two hours a morning for most of the week trying not to lose my temper at all the garbage that was going on around me. Without even trying, I'd surrounded myself with hostility. Wolfie. The receptionist. The coaching staff. The data nerd - whose analyses were pretty and visually interesting but not particularly useful to me.

Byram, the physio, was okay. He couldn't believe that I kept going to the medical room to check on the lads, but the massage therapist had the hump with me after I had very gently suggested she do her work first and chat to her mate later, not the other way around.

And, most of all, the general public. It didn't take me long to realise that the Grimbarian population tended to think the worst of everything, and a 23-year-old taking over was just rubbing salt into the wounds of a long, hard season. I didn't venture into Grimsby or Cleethorpes and declined all media duties that I could. There was no getting out of the match day stuff - before and after - but everything else could jump off a cliff.

On Friday night I found myself in the local pub again, drinking another beer. That was definitely not a habit I wanted to get into, but I was feeling extremely morose. All my friends were in Chester preparing for home matches that would be ninety minutes of riotous slapping whereas in the morning, I would board a team coach with a literal busload of people who resented me, and four hours later we'd arrive in Sutton.

The squad's morale was low, which made the chances of winning much harder. But if we lost, we'd get even more miserable and the following match would be harder. I would be in charge of eight matches with the potential for a ninth if that would make a difference. There were things I could do in the first matches to help us win the later ones. Specifically, giving minutes to good players who weren't match fit. But using unfit players meant we were more likely to lose. So I could get players fit and watch our morale sink or I could try to get a win and boost morale but by matches 6 and 7 when I desperately needed more bodies, I wouldn't have them.

The more I considered how the squad had been mismanaged, the more I realised I was going to end this side quest with a massive stain on my CV - relegation and a zero win percentage - plus a ton more enemies, and not a single penny of my fifty thousand pound bonus.

"You look like you need another," said the pub guy. He was the perfect Yorkshire pub landlord, though I had to keep reminding myself this wasn't Yorkshire. Other gruff northern-but-distant counties existed.

"Worried about the match tomorrow. What team do you support?"

"Scunny, course." That was the nickname for the team down the road. The team's full name contains a rude word that gets blocked on some platforms so I won't ever be using it.

"There's a good few teams round here," I said, trying to orient myself. "Hull's not far. Doncaster Rovers. Lincoln City. I'll have to see if I can get to some matches while I'm in the area."

"You're one of those 92 people, are you?"

"What's that?"

"You go to the 92 stadiums." That was a hobby akin to Trainspotting. People went ground hopping and when they'd completed the set... they told people about it? I had no clue what came next, but there were worse ways to explore the country.

"Oh! Yeah, something like that."

"Get yoursel' to Blundell Park, then, while they're still in the league. Mark my words, Town are going down. How about that pint?"

Town going down. Urgh. "Yeah, one more, but then cut me off or I'll start filming TikToks." I handed him the twenty pound note.

His moustache wobbled and he wandered off.

***

Saturday, March 9

To sit four hours motionless and to then go and play football is absolutely crazy and for the first time, I had some sympathy for those megaclubs who took 17-minute flights. They were climate criminals, yes, but I could understand the desire to avoid these long, tedious road trips.

For the first ten minutes of the journey I was getting steamed up thinking of the many and various ways I could make Simon Green come to harm. When boarding, he had expressed surprise that I was travelling with the squad, asking if I didn't prefer to go in my car. There was absolutely no snark or sarcasm in his voice so I couldn't lash out, but of course when he got to the back of the coach he told his goons what he'd done and there was a huge roar of approval.

Look before you leap, Max...

For the next couple of hours, I took the opportunity to revisit my mental doom loop, but when I started seeing famous landmarks in London, I cheered up a bit. It was like being a tourist. Maybe I'd get a curse achievement when I 'completed' the 92 league stadiums. And whatever happened today, I'd get a ton of XP for the first time in a while. Old Nick would be happy. Maybe I could get him to chain Simon Green to a radiator for a while. Not long. Just, like, six weeks.

The closer we got to the stadium, the more my excitement returned. I was about to do battle! My first match as a manager in the football league. I thought about my advantages - smooth changes in formation, being able to tweak individual instructions at the speed of thought, Masterpiece Theatre, Cupid's Arrow, Free Hit. Yes, this could be one of my toughest games yet, but I had a few tricks up my sleeve.

It was far too early to have my pulse racing so much, so to calm down I thought about my plan.

My first line up as a manager in the EFL was a bit of a mess, but I was horribly limited by what my predecessor had done.

My goalie had CA 75 and was not a problem, though I soon realised the fans thought he was awful and were on his case, just in case my task was getting too easy.

The back four was something of a source of strength. I had a left back with CA 88 - Jayden Ward. Top quality, though like the goalie he'd maxed out his potential. The right back was CA 82. He had played in midfield most of the season and me using him in the defence soon turned into a point of contention between me and, well, between me and everyone else in the entire world, it seemed. One centre back was the captain, Mike Dobson, with CA 77. Couldn't really leave out the captain for no reason. John Windmill was the other one. He had CA 80. He had played most of the season at right back, which was laughable really because he was incredibly slow. At centre back his high positioning and heading would be valuable and his limitations wouldn't be so noticeable.

So far, so good. I did have another centre back option. Ed Williams was CA 83 and if I'd been playing a football manager game I'd have thrown him straight into the team. But as I said, I didn't want to drop the captain and Williams hadn't played much. The rumour was he had fallen out of favour with the previous manager. He was one I was very keen to get some minutes into, not least because he'd been training great.

One super interesting thing about him - his player profile had him listed as CB/ST. A centre back who could play striker? That... that was amazing. I very quickly developed an irrational love for him then just as quickly tried to suppress it in case he turned out to be a traitor.

The two midfielders were the abysmal Simon Green (57) and the acceptable Greg Brothers (71). On the bench I had the beautiful DM Alex Evans (90) who I wanted to use sparingly and allowing him to skip Sutton was an obvious place to save his legs.

The left winger was Mal, 69, but on the right I had some proper quality. Graduate of the Grimsby academy and all-round golden boy Danny Grant. He was 25 years old and had unlocked 85 of his potential 108 ability points. He was dreamy. If I died, I wanted Emma to get with him. Unless he was a traitor in which case - chain him to a radiator.

Up front was the overrated Danny Flash, simply because the third option was a CA 38 seventeen-year-old. Not sure why he was included in the first team squad. Presumably Wolfie thought he was a hot prospect, but I knew he had a PA of 57. Tyson and Ziggy would do better. (I planned to kick the teenager into the reserves or whatever, along with a few other players, so I could focus more training minutes on players I would actually use. But because of my legendary patience and tact, I hadn't dived in two-footed. I was looking, and any leaps would come later, after we'd beaten Sutton and I was in a position of power.)

And finally, the key to Grimsby's survival, the main man, the sound and the fury, the whoop-there-it-is, the yeah-yeah-yeah, Marcus Wainwright. On 2,500 a week, he was one of the only players paid commensurate to his considerable gifts. He was CA 95, PA 104 and if he proved to be one of the four traitors - not that I believed in any of that - then I was fucked and Town were truly down.

All in all, an average CA of 76.2 with a couple of decent guys on the bench and a few others I would give minutes to in the desperate hope that they might add 5 or 6 points of CA in my time at the club. It was very possible I'd need every CA point I could get.

***

We crawled our way through London to the wonderfully named Gander Green stadium. On the way, I discovered that they play on PowerGrass and that was a twenty minute rabbit hole. WTF was PowerGrass? It seemed like an artificial base with real grass growing through it. Something for Chester?

We parked and I tried not to think about the difference between me and Sandra. Me, alone, researching grass. Sandra, walking around the Deva stadium taking selfies and joking with our match day stewards.

I pottered around Sutton's stadium for a while - after our positive negotiations over Eddie Moore I had more friends in their director's box than on my own team bus. I talked to the referees - they thought it was hilarious that such a young guy was managing a match and made jokes about them bringing rattles and dummies (pacifiers) just in case I threw one of my tantrums. I filled the team sheet in right there in the referee's room because I didn't want to talk to my staff, and, feeling just a little bit less cocky than normal, headed back to the dressing room to make all the announcements before the first warm ups. That didn't happen; Sutton's media person came to get me for the media stuff.

***

They had a little press room with the sponsor logos on the wall behind me and seats for maybe twelve journalists. I was used to being questioned by one local journo. Today there were four. The number put me on edge. Or maybe that feeling was because I had slept with one-quarter of the reporters. Once the questions started, my nerves turned to excitement. So much media interest! I was moving up to bigger and better things.

And, for the first time since I'd had lunch with Chris, there were some people who really wanted to talk to me. The week's isolation might have made me a bit more garrulous.

Fred Hook, Surrey Comet. Hi, Max. It's your first job managing at this level. Are you nervous?

Nervous? I don't know the meaning of the word. No, seriously, I'm deeply stupid. I don't know many words. It's part of why I became a football manager. No-one notices if you make grammar mistakes.

It's your first job managing at this level. How do you feel?

Ooh, vaguely apprehensive. Sort of a tightness in the chest. Sort of a nagging uncertainty. Like, I'm being eaten by metaphysical doubts. Kind of got this feeling that nothing will ever be all right ever again for so long as I live. [Laughs] I mean, you say it's my first match at this level but I've managed against Salford and Walsall. Boom! Fact checked! Will this be on TikTok?

Becky Stead, BBC Radio Humberside. Your appointment has been quite controversial. What do you have to say to your critics?

Nothing. What? I don't get it. Why would I talk to them?

They want to be reassured that you're the right person for the job. I mean, you seem to be committed to Chester. Don't you think Grimsby fans deserve a manager who only thinks about them?

They don't have managers, now, they have head coaches. Boom! You got fact checked. I'm good at this.

What do you say to the people of Grimsby who don't believe in you?

[Blows air through lips] Er... nothing, really. It's not Ted Lasso. You don't win by looking at the word believe while sentimental music plays. You win by individual skill and collective effort. You win by having a strategy and implementing it. I mean... There's like eight billion people who don't believe in me. I don't really spend a lot of time worrying about it. Just get behind the team.

Many feel that the team has let them down.

Has it? I don't know about that. They've had a lot of ups and downs in recent years and this has been a bad season, sure. But there's still time to make sure it's a bad season, dust yourselves off, go again next year. It doesn't have to be a disaster. One advantage Grimsby Town has over some of the teams at the bottom of League Two is its fans. When they get going, they really get going. If it's possible for us to get the faith back, great, but we've got a run of tough games. We could find ourselves on a very sticky wicket. As a fan you might say, ugh [bleep] those guys, bin them all off. Fine, okay, but that doesn't help. There might be a match where we're stinking the place up and we're a goal down after an hour and it's up to the fans. Do they boo and hiss and we go on to lose? Or do they get insanely supportive based on absolutely nothing, just blind faith, and the players respond and we turn it round? Like, it goes both ways, doesn't it? I can't ask for anything from these fans. All I can do is try to get a tune out of the players and, with a bit of luck, that'll be enough. What happens in the stands is out of my control.

You've been known to whip up the crowd now and again.

Ah, that was an imbalance in my zinc. I'm taking supplements and it's all good now. I won't be doing any more of that.

You did it last Saturday.

Nah, a while ago I was talking movies with this fan and I happened to spot him in the Harry McNally Terrace that day. I forgot the name of a film he recommended so I went over to ask him and then all the players surrounded me and I couldn't hear the end of what he said. The Englishman Who Went Up a Hill But Came Down a something. Urgh. So frustrating.

What are your thoughts on the match today?

Yeah big game in the season. The game itself will be cagey, I think. Not sure there will be a lot of goalmouth action and I think there will be some tension because obviously it sets the tone and the maths for what comes next. I would like for us to play with freedom and togetherness and yeah for the players to show the fans that they are fit to wear the shirt.

[I think we have to let Max get back to his team.]

Hang on. Beth. No questions from you?

No, Max.

Huh. Now that makes me nervous.

***

Back in the dressing room, I stood at the front by the tactics board and - to my surprise - people didn't instantly shut up. I looked at Coach G and Mike Dobson. They saw me and did nothing. I was getting pretty fucking sick of all this BS, now. I could just about let it slide during the week but on match days they needed to get in line.

"Shut the fuck up," I said, and a few people did. One who kept talking was Simon Green and I briefly saw red. I went and peered into his face. "Quiet, please," I snarled. "I'm going to give the team talk now."

He tsked. "Nah, mate. Not interested in what you've got to say. Non-league manager, non-league car, non-league money. Me? I'm on big money coz I know how to play this league. We all do. Don't need you."

"Oh," I said, superficially calm. I know a few people who would have fled if they'd seen me. "I understand. But I'm the manager, right? I pick the team. I can unpick you."

He shook his head and slapped the guy next to him on the upper arm. "This fucking noob! You've handed the team in. You can't change it, you knob. What a fucking loser. What was Haley thinking?"

Haley was Chris Hale. Outside this room, there wasn't a single person in the country who would dare to call him that. Why did this shit footballer think he had the right? There were so many ways I could handle this. So, so many. I tilted my head, checking for radiators, but decided I'd make everyone proud of me. I would handle this piece of shit exactly how the Brig would were he in my shoes. I nodded. "Right. You've got me. Completely outplayed. Put me in my place good and proper, haven't you?"

"That's right, you povvy clown. Now sit down and watch the professionals."

"Good idea," I said, and left. When the team came out for the last time I was in the dugout, doing nothing.

Physio Byram sat next to me. He leaned and spoke softly as the rest of the staff and subs came to fill in the spaces. "Max, er... This is a tough environment. You've got to stand up for yourself more. Believe in yourself more."

He was trying to help. That cheered me up. "Thanks, dude. I think I believe in myself an appropriate amount." I twinkled at him, but kick off was imminent so I put my game face on. There was a lot more fanfare and messing about in the EFL than in non-league, but finally the match kicked off. Two seconds later, I leapt to my feet. "Lino," I said, talking to the fourth official. "Sub."

"You're joking," he said.

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

"Fuck sake, what are you doing?" said Coach G, as Tommy Blair, CA 65, came to the side of the pitch. A guy I probably wouldn't sign for Chester but amazingly, he would be an upgrade on the guy who was leaving the pitch. We were losing some morale, gaining some CA, but most of all, setting a boundary.

At the next break in play, a dazed-looking Simon Green trudged off the pitch. I got the junior physio to pretend to look at his ankle. "Here's the deal," I said, pulling Coach G into our little huddle. "You two are going to take this person to the dressing room. He's going to get changed. He's going to leave. If he's in this stadium at half time I will get both of you fired." I paused to check they understood me, then turned to Green. "This is the last time you and I will ever communicate. We'll say that you've got an ankle knock and you tried to play - so brave! - but that it's fucked. You'll stay away from us for the rest of the season. Okay? That's that. But if you open your fucking mouth, start talking shit about me or my wonderful car, then I will fucking pile in and destroy you. I will start by telling the people of Grimsby and the world of football exactly what sort of person you are. That's it. Get fucked."

"But my appearance bonus!"

"You should be more worried about how you're getting home, mate."

Several seconds after I turned away, they shuffled off down the tunnel and the fourth official stared at me. He'd been listening. I didn't mind too much; refs were pretty discreet. The story would get round, but slowly. "Fuck me, Best. We heard some stories about you we didn't believe. You're absolutely savage."

"Nah," I said, with a weight off my shoulders. I hadn't dived in two-footed and I had looked before I leaped. It felt pretty good. "That was me on my best behaviour. If you want to see savage, come and watch us play Darlington on the last game of the season." Nothing on the pitch needed my immediate attention so I got a water bottle from the physio's box.

Byram was giving me a strange look. "There I was telling you to toughen up. You must think I'm an idiot."

I became aware that all the coaches and subs were listening. Suddenly they were taking me a lot more seriously. Funny, that. "I'm a 23-year-old Director of Football and I manage and play in the National League North. Twice a week my ankles and shins get mashed to a pulp." I took in some water. "I don't need lessons in toughness and I don't need lessons in football. I will get what I want from this football club." I pointed down the tunnel towards traitor number one. "Believe that, or start walking."

I took one last swig and glanced at the other dugout. My rival was watching the scene and I got the strongest sense that he knew exactly what had happened and why. He glanced at me and we had this madly intense moment. We were two men doing the loneliest, hardest job in football and no-one else in the stadium knew how horrible it was, how stressful, how addictive. He smiled, I smiled, and we turned our full attention to smashing the shit out of each other.