9.

Windmill tries a pass to the midfield, but it's nearly intercepted.

Brothers recovers. He plays it out wide.

Danny Grant gets his head down, knocks it past the left back, and he's away!

He looks up and sends a cross to the far post.

The goalie punches away.

It falls to Mehew - he sends it back to the penalty spot.

Wainwright with the header!

Just wide!

This has been a very bright start from the away team.

4-2-4 was slapping. When we got the ball we tried to get it to Mahew on the left or our star boy, Danny Grant, on the right. They could dribble or cross as they wanted and we had two guys waiting in the penalty area. If we did these moves fast enough we cut out Sutton's defensive midfielders. Our attacks were four against four, at least in the first phase.

Our defenders looked solid, overall. The captain, Mike Dobson, was on six out of ten and wasn't passing the eye test. There was something off about him but I couldn't put my finger on it. In possession, though, their limitations were apparent. Jayden Ward, the left back, could play, and the right back had played most of the season as a midfielder so he could play a pass, but the two centre backs were very insecure technically.

Okay, no problem. It was my job to get them to do what they were good at and avoid doing things they couldn't. I dipped into their personal instructions and got them to play direct passes (instead of short). Dobson would hit the left, Windmill the right. While I was tweaking, I stopped my full backs from making forward runs and did the same with my central midfielders. We would have six in the rest defence and attack with four. The balance looked good to me.

A quick note to put your mind at ease - when making these changes I gestured and yelled random syllables. Sometimes I stuck one finger up and rotated two other fingers around it. Sometimes I described circles with one hand, or both, or pointed wildly. Just theatre, but the video analysts wouldn’t be wondering when I made the changes I made. And, of course, sometimes I did a whole performance when I wasn’t changing anything. You know, to worry my opposing number.

What else? We got a couple of free kicks and I got the option to use my Free Hit perk to boost our chances of scoring. I'd save that until we had a shot in a good position or ideally a penalty. Marcus Wainwright would take any pens we got, while Danny Grant looked the most likely to hit a good corner and free kick. I'd already set them as the takers before kick off. Masterpiece Theatre allowed me to tweak the positions of players at set pieces. To start with, I didn't change much; I wanted to get an idea of the sort of threat we posed in the default state. I did, though, adjust where a couple of people stood, putting them in positions I thought they were more likely to get second balls. In other words, when a defender cleared the ball with a header or the goalie came to punch, where would the ball go? I felt I was pretty good at anticipating that sort of thing.

Time passed and Sutton United's manager, Bill Turner, was looking worried. Every time I looked he was having deep chats with his assistant. I'd learned in the World Cup that it was great to have a sounding board and that I worked better with someone to talk to. The only problem was everyone on my side of the halfway line was a dick. Maybe I could give him five hundred quid to loan his assistant for the second half?

Dobson clears to the left - a rather aimless pass.

Mehew competes for the header but loses out.

Blair scampers and slides in.

The ball breaks to Ward. He plays a nice pass into midfield where Brothers collects.

He's in a lot of space. He plays a nice through ball...

Wainwright collects. Danger now!

Wainwright picks a nice pass to Flash...

But Flash is offside.

"Fuck!" I yelled, eyeing a water bottle and feeling an almost overwhelming urge to kick it. I picked it up and moved it away then went back to patrolling my area.

That was a great move, the best in the match so far, and Danny Flash had brought it to a shuddering halt with his lazy movement. How the fuck can you be paid three thousand pounds a week and be so fucking clueless?

Another five minutes passed in very much the same way - we attacked down the sides and if our winger won his duel, we got a cross in. Poor quality chances, but chances. We'd had four shots, Sutton none.

I got the sense that Bill Turner and his assistant had worked out what was happening and were nearly ready to tweak their formation. So I changed from 4-2-4 to 4-4-2, mostly to fuck with them but also because it was more solid and a draw wasn't a terrible result for us. It also put the wide players in even more space and allowed us to get the ball out from defence even more reliably.

And, of course, as soon as Turner locked onto our shape, I changed it. This was so much fun! It made putting up with all the social crap worth it.

Flash wins a header. Nicely into the path of Grant.

He's forced wide. Looks for support.

Wainwright moves over and plays a one-two with Grant.

Nice football from Grimsby but Sutton have bodies back in the box.

Grant hits a cross.

It's easily cleared.

I bit my nails. Scoring was going to be a problem. We were on top but we weren't exactly peppering the goal. If we kept going as we were, eventually Wainwright or Danny Grant would get some shots. If those guys got five shots from good positions, we'd score one or two goals. If we defended well, we would concede zero or one. Over the course of a season, playing like that would get you into the top half of the table.

In our current situation, where we had to gain more points than Forest Green Rovers over a ten-match stretch, we couldn't rely on statistical variance to bail us out. We needed more goals.

I set Tommy Blair to 'make forward runs'. Now we would have five in our attacks and five in the rest defence.

Mehew with the ball on the left. Blair runs to support.

Mehew tries to take his man on...

It comes to nothing.

But Sutton can break!

They attack through the centre. There are yellow shirts everywhere!

Dobson slides in - foul! The referee plays a good advantage.

Danger here for Grimsby.

The shot comes in!

Great block by Windmill.

The ball breaks to the left of goal...

Wide! Conor Quinn did just enough.

I pressed the 'allow heart to resume beating' button and smashed the 'try not to show the horror on your face' option. Then I very much stopped Blair from making forward runs.

When my knees had stopped wobbling, I shuffled around my technical area. This was hard. Using all my tricks I could just about get into the ascendency - which was bonkers because despite our flaws we were a much better team than Sutton. Their morale wasn't as bad as ours, though, and all their players were match fit.

The most I could do, as far as I could tell, was what I was doing - get slightly more shots in slightly better positions and hope for the best.

My instinct was that Bill Turner, if he changed anything, would do so at half time, so I allowed myself to relax, just for a minute. Gander Green Lane was a funny one. There were a few covered stands and some curved, uncovered terraces that hinted there had been an athletics track by the side of the pitch once upon a time. In fact, much of the stadium looked ancient. The most modern thing was the mascot - Jenny the Giraffe. With half time imminent, she had appeared by the side of the pitch. Someone was wearing a generic animal costume under a Sutton United kit, and then a four-foot-long giraffe head. Ugly and absolutely bonkers. I could say the same about the grotesque TV tower, but the new stand for away fans was simple and modern. We had a few hundred in there and they were trying to make some noise.

Two minutes left in the half and I was quite drained. So many decisions under so much pressure. What about one quick punt? Or was it better to keep things tight? Where's my fearless football? said the disembodied voice of a girl from Newcastle.

Okay, let's get funky. I switched to 4-4-2 diamond with Brothers as an okay DM and Blair badly out of position on the right. To mitigate that, I turned him into a blocker - no forward runs, just stand there and don't do anything stupid. As the CAM I had Danny Grant - a position he was perfectly suited for.

Sutton had two defensive midfielders so in theory this formation should have crashed and burned, but it was something I could try that was defensively rock solid and who knew? Maybe the DMs would think Grant would be picked up by the other one.

With time in the half running out, a hopeful hoof from Windmill was won by Marcus Wainwright. He nodded it back to Grant who took a long-range shot that had the keeper bricking it. By the time it hit the stand behind, it looked like it had gone well wide, but I knew, and Bill Turner knew, that it had been the closest thing to a goal in the first half.

We finished with seven shots to Sutton's two. Still nil-nil and to the outside world it must have looked like I barely did anything. I rubbed my temples on the way to the dressing room. That had been fucking gruelling.

***

The first thing I did was check that fuckface wasn't hiding in the showers. The second thing was to grab some marathon paste and sit in the corner, ready for my couple of minutes of quiet downtime. A walk through my garden of mental contemplation.

Now, a lot of people think I'm pretty stupid but I don't think that's entirely fair. I listen and I reflect and sometimes I make changes. When I read Beth's article it made me realise that I was unconsciously poking at buttons that only I could see. With a lot of effort, I'd made sure I stopped doing that, but how did it look when I suddenly announced that other teams had changed their formation?

My imperfect solution was to spend some of my growing bank balance on a luxury item - a third-hand Apple watch. I liked Apple products and if I got my fifty thousand bonus I planned to upgrade my phone and buy some of those five hundred quid headphones. As something for my daily life the Apple watch didn't interest me in the slightest and the thought of being constantly tracked and monitored down to my pulse rate made me feel almost sick to my stomach.

But after ten seconds with my eyes closed, I put it on my wrist. It wasn't connected to my phone but the screen did flash when I moved my wrist up.

The idea, as the brightest among you have guessed, was to use it as a prop, a way to explain how I knew what was going on. Perhaps the other manager had told the BBC his plans for the second half. Perhaps one of the players had written an angry tweet about being subbed off. Or maybe I had a friend watching on a stream and he was using an 'AI computer' to predict what would happen next. As soon as Sutton's tactics changed I would bring the watch closer and pretend to read a text message.

Genius.

The room was almost full, now, with players talking and complaining and generally being about 20% noisier than I wanted. Then Coach G came in and clapped his hands. "Good work, lads, well played. Good half. Get your heads straight, now, and we'll have more of the same. Keep it tight first ten and hit them on counters."

With tremendous effort, I got to my feet and wobbled towards him. As I got nearer, my vision sharpened and I felt alive again, "Gareth," I mumbled, for such was his name. I nodded towards the door. He understood I was asking to speak to him outside and didn't bother to try to hide the resentment.

Still, he obeyed, and I waited for a couple of randos to go past. "You seem to be giving players tactical instructions, mate."

He looked up and exhaled in a big show of being patient. "Getting them hyped for the second half."

"You don't know what we're going to do in the second half. Maybe I want a fast start, in which case what you've just said is the exact opposite. Do you get me? Hit them on counters? How can we do a counter when they keep six back at all times?"

"Nah, I just meant..." I waited to hear what he meant, but he never finished the sentence.

I shook my head. Like most Proper Football Men he had a stock of set phrases that he used again and again, like a tourist ordering dos cervezas even if he only wanted one. The phrases grated on me at the best of times, but now they were being used on my team. I snapped, just a little bit. "Okay, tell you what. You stick to undermining me at training and talking shit about me in your little playground cliques, yeah? I don't see how that helps the fucking club survive but hey! Maybe that's just my inexperience. On match days, in stadiums, I'll do the talking."

I gave him one last glare and burst into the dressing room where I found Mike Dobson was the only voice. He was berating Tommy Blair for being out of position on Sutton's one major break.

"Cut that out," I said, and Dobson's mouth stopped running, mid-word. I think he was just that surprised. I pointed to Blair. "I told him to do that. That's on me. Anything you want to say to me, mate?"

He popped his head forward like an angry turtle, but he wasn't completely stupid. "No."

Everyone was watching. I turned my head this way and that and raised a finger. "There's some fucking weird stuff going on in here." I made eye contact with a few players at random. "If anyone needs a bollocking, it'll come from me. Guys doing five and six out of ten performances don't get to slag other guys off. Do your job. That's it. Everyone shut the fuck up for five minutes."

While I sat back on the corner of the bench and drank water - I felt a dehydration headache coming on - I watched Sutton's tactics board. It switched from 4-2-3-1 to 4-5-1 and back again. In recent months they had sometimes used 4-4-2, but that would involve making a substitution and Bill Turner didn't much trust his second striker. I thought there was a good chance of seeing 4-4-2 if we took the lead and Sutton really had to push for a goal. But I felt comfortable expecting some sort of 4-5-1 variant.

"Right," I said, going to the tactics board. "I reckon I know what's coming second half. We'll switch to 4-1-4-1. Alex replacing Danny Flash." That was a big swing in CA. We'd start the second half with 79.7. The natural range for teams in League Two, based on my experience, was between 75 and 90. A few big spenders had distorted that this season, but I felt pretty confident the numbers would check out long term. We were close to 80, then, which meant we had the talent of a mid-table team. If I'd taken over Grimsby at the start of January I would have been looking for a playoff push. "We'll control the game and look to get quality shots while shutting them out of it. Any questions?"

Danny Flash looked like he had a few questions, but given he was four hours from home he decided to keep them saved for a rainy day. (He wouldn't have to wait long to get them off his chest.)

No-one wanted to speak, which I took to mean everyone thought my tactics were optimal and could not be improved upon. "Top. I've got three more subs to make and will be making them. I'll make two around the hour mark. That's it. Get out there."

I had delivered the antithesis of the usual half-time team talk. There was no heat or passion in my voice. I turned to Coach G to see if he had any thoughts about it because if he wanted heat and passion he could bally well have some. He had his arms folded and looked surly and resentful.

Well played, Max!

***

As soon as the second half started I felt a wave of exhaustion crash into me and I sat on the bench beside Byram, head in my hands.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"No. You ever have those dreams where you try to run but can't?"

"Yes."

"I feel like that but what's holding me back is the players and staff of Grimsby fucking Town. Have you got any paracetamol?"

He gave me one and I popped it while seething about what had happened at half time. Coach G, man. Grabbing onto me while I'm trying to break into a sprint. I spent a couple of unproductive minutes replaying the incidents with him and Dobson knowing I could have handled both better. I snapped out of the funk and spent a couple of minutes tweaking individual instructions.

The two centre backs had an easy passing option, now. Alex Evans was a hybrid of me and Youngster - not as tenacious as Youngster, not as technical as me, but man did I like seeing him on the pitch in his proper position. I set Alex as our playmaker and put the centre backs on short passing. Our right-hand side was quite strong, with Conor Quinn motoring at right back and Danny Grant at right mid, so I set Alex's tendency to 'right'. If that got too predictable I'd switch it to left for a while, or give him the choice himself.

Up top, Marcus was ploughing a lone furrow. I switched him to pressing ‘no’ so that he wouldn't exhaust himself on futile defensive duties. When his chance came, I wanted him fresh.

With fifty minutes gone, the match was still finely poised, but we really had taken control. My biggest fear was that Sutton would man-mark Alex, but at the same time, that could have worked in our favour. Bill Turner didn't risk it.

The next five minutes were pretty glorious. We played neat, tidy, progressive football very much in the Let It Happen mould.

Evans collects the pass and sweeps it right to Quinn.

Quinn to Grant. Grant passes inside.

Brothers to Blair. Blair to Evans.

Evans chips the ball behind the defender.

Can Grant get there?

He can! He whips in a smart first time cross, low.

Wainwright reacts fastest - it's just a fraction too far in front of him.

He slides at the ball...

But it dribbles just wide!

Generous applause from the away fans.

Huh? Really? I realised I'd tuned them out. I didn't have the slightest sort of connection to them so I couldn't go over there and start whipping them up. I'd been warned that if I left my technical area to go chat to fans or whatever, I'd get an instant yellow card. Three yellows would be a one-match ban. Fine in Chester, since if I got a day off I could go for a long weekend with Ems, or I could play and let Sandra manage. Not sure how that would work - presumably the curse would let me manage even if Sandra's name was written on the team sheet. Yeah, fine in Chester, but I couldn't get a ban during my eight games in charge of Grimsby. If I did that, I'd have no defence against people who thought I was a prize idiot.

The minutes ticked by and we had more possession and were the only team getting shots away. They weren't good shots; they weren't quality chances. I wondered if Neo would be calculating the xG. Expected Goals was a way to assess the value of shots instead of just the number. A shot from the halfway line was worth very little. A shot from six inches away from the goal line was worth a lot.

I reckoned we'd had five chances worth about half a goal in the second half. If we kept going, surely we’d get a slice of luck…

Around fifty-five minutes, the match became a lot more scrappy. Bitty. We struggled to put a passing sequence together. I checked Sutton's tactics and couldn't find anything different. The match ratings hadn't moved much - we had a lot of guys on sixes and sevens and so did Sutton.

My gut told me to look at Mal Mehew on the left, and indeed he seemed quite tired. He hadn't played much in the last few months - he'd fallen out with the previous manager. I went through the motions of swapping him out for Greg Fasanmade. Greg was 20 and had CA 60, PA 67. Not really good enough for League Two but he was fresh and had a left foot.

As Mal came off, I pulled him into my area. "Good job, dude. You ran out of steam a bit there, yeah?"

"Yeah. Sorry."

"Not your fault, mate. Not your fault. Last guy didn't use left mids much, did he?"

Something flashed across his face. "No."

"Well I need you. Reckon you can give me half on Tuesday night?"

His morale jumped up. "Yes!"

I smiled. "Mate. Take a deep breath. You're not fit. You haven't played. Look inside and tell me if I can get thirty minutes or a full half."

He gave me a quizzical smile back. "Half, boss. I promise."

I slapped him on the back. "Top man. If you wake up on Monday morning and think you might have overstated things, you'll tell me, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Off you pop."

I went back to my spot, the little patch of my area that had the best feng shui, and scanned the pitch. We now had an average CA of 78.9. Very acceptable, to be honest, but we had much less threat on the left. It was a shame we didn't have a proper good Aff-type left midfielder because that would have unlocked Jayden Ward at left back. He looked like he'd enjoy marauding up and down the pitch.

Sutton had a little spell where they got into our half for longer, but as we retreated the defence clicked into place. Coach G, the dick, knew how to get them shuffling and sliding.

One slick pass from Alex put Greg in a dangerous position and Sutton realised they'd overextended themselves. Greg made a hash of his cross but the move pushed them back into a more defensive posture.

With sixty minutes on the clock I made another change. Greg Brothers had worked hard in the middle of the pitch but I wanted to give Devonte Payne some minutes. So on went the CA 71 attacking midfielder with the high defensive skills. I put him on the right and moved Danny Grant to the middle.

A few minutes passed in relative peace, but I started to get anxious. How were we going to score? I had to get proactive. I tried to get weird. Since Payne had such defensive skills, I set him to man-mark Sutton's left back. It made very little tactical sense, since the left back wasn't hurting us in any way. But it was something I could do to change things up without risking our defensive structures.

At the same time I made Danny Grant our playmaker.

Nothing happened at first. But then...

Jones receives the pass.

But Payne is on him like a flash! The attempted clearance squirts up into the air.

Payne wins the header and slide tackles the ball into the centre.

Grant with an exquisite first-time chip!

Wainwright is there. He takes it on the volley...

Off the crossbar!

What a strike! But the ball rebounds to safety.

The crossbar is still rattling.

"Can I have another tablet, please?"

***

With twenty minutes left, it was still nil-nil, my tactics were still working. I had one substitution left that I could make and in some ways it was a no-brainer.

On the bench I had the backup goalie - not an option.

I had a twenty-one year old CA 63 left back. He was called Alfie Grimwood and I liked that his name had Grim in it. Changing a full back is one of the safest moves in football. The new guy has fresh legs and is mentally alert. In the coming weeks, I might need Alfie to play a few minutes here and there, but he was a big step down from Jayden Ward so I was hoping I might get away with keeping Ward on most of the time.

The last option was Ed Williams. He was the centre back who could play striker. He had CA 83 and had been bombed out of the squad by the last manager. That meant he'd probably started the season at CA 90, maybe even 95. If he could do a job for me in the coming weeks, he'd be a real asset. But managers generally didn't swap centre backs if they could help it - it was probably the move that was most likely to lead to a goal.

I couldn't exactly chuck Ed on as a striker, though, and my only formation with three centre backs was 3-5-2. If I used that, I'd lose Alex Evans as DM.

No, my heart said Ed Williams on at centre back, and my head was on the same page. The only slight difference in opinion was that my heart wanted me to take Mike Dobson off, while my head said I couldn't sub off my captain with the match in the state it was.

So I went through the steps to replace John Windmill. He was having a good game - seven out of ten - but Williams was much faster and actually had three points more CA.

Good decision. Good process.

Of course, it instantly bit me in the arse.

Good play from Sutton. The ball is moved wide right.

A slight mix-up between Ward and Fasanmade and the winger is to the byline.

He sends in a lovely cross. The keeper starts to come but thinks better of it.

Ed Williams rises to clear. He gets a good head on it.

But the ball smashes into the back of Dobson!

They went for the same header.

The ball bounces loose...

GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

Smashed home by a gleeful Sutton player!

He'll never have an easier finish!

I walked up and down my technical area, trying to keep my face neutral. What happened was dumb luck. Two slight moments of hesitation and miscommunication. Two instances of the sub-par teamwork you get when morale is low. There was absolutely no point getting mad at anyone in particular and to be fair, after about two seconds the brief spasm of rage was over.

Bad luck, but would we get an equal amount of good luck at the other end of the pitch? Would we fuck.

Some movement caught my eye and I saw Bill Turner yelling at his players. My heart pumped faster and my steps grew longer. Was he going to switch to a low block? Men behind ball and try to hold onto the lead?

I would put Ed Williams as a striker and we'd have a fucking good go at them!

But no. He was making a couple of minor tweaks. Players not allowed forward any more. I scratched my neck. Opponents at this level weren't going to make it easy for me.

I exhaled, closed my eyes, and counted to ten. At the end, I stopped Devonte Payne from marking his man, turned off the playmaker feature, and thought some more. I still had my perks up my sleeve. I put Danny Grant on the right - Payne should be able to battle in the middle of the pitch - and used Cupid's Arrow to connect Grant to Wainwright. They would connect better for the next fifteen minutes.

I realised I'd fallen onto my haunches and pushed myself up and resumed pacing around.

A minute passed and Sutton looked very solid. The goal had given them a short-term injection of motivation. They had something to hold onto. Grant was causing a nuisance on the right but our left was weak. Sutton's wide players weren't getting forward, so I swapped our left back and left mid. Greg would stand uselessly in defence and Jayden Ward, CA 88, would have a starting point twenty yards higher.

The game changed. We had threat from both sides, now, and the surprise element was incredibly helpful. I found myself regretting using Cupid's Arrow on Danny Grant. Good as he was, the unexpected nature of our sudden strength on the left was even more potent.

After a few minutes of close calls and lucky escapes, Bill Turner ordered his right mid to attack our feeble left back, and I had no choice but to swap the players back into their proper positions.

Into the last ten minutes and I was hoping to get a set piece in a good area where we could use Free Hit to boost our chances.

A pass from Danny Grant was taken by Wainwright with his back to goal. A centre back bundled him over. Yes! Perfect shooting opportunity! But the game kept flowing and all I could do was stand there with my arms outstretched. Referee!

Eighty-five minutes gone and we got a corner. I smashed Free Hit and used Masterpiece Theatre to optimise our attacking threat. Grant hit the ball to the near post, as he liked to do, but I'd put Wainwright on the back post. Another small, small mistake and the first that was caused mostly by tiredness. Cupid's Arrow ran out - the arrow between Grant and Wainwright on the tactics screen vanished - and I was all out of tricks.

The formation and personnel were optimised. After a rough start, Ed Williams was on seven out of ten. Changing things could put us at risk of conceding a second. Losing two-nil to Sutton was about six times as embarrassing as losing one-nil.

Fearless football.

I mashed everyone into a 4-3-3. Wainwright, Williams, and Payne as the strikers and Alex Evans dropping into the centre back slot. The result was as close to carnage as this Grimsby squad was likely to muster - we had four shots in three minutes and were tearing through Sutton, who had weakened their centre to shore up their wings. Bill Turner caught on and shoved them back into 4-2-3-1. So I went back to 4-2-4 and had yet more joy. More giddy, desperate attacks.

For the last minutes, Turner finally hit the panic button and fell into a 4-5-1 low block.

We had Wainwright and Ed Williams in the mixer, two decent targets to hit. But the crosses were poorly directed and lacked belief.

The referee blew the final whistle and the home dugout went bonkers. I didn't move for quite some time. In my first match in the EFL, I'd lost to the 72nd best team. The worst team. They were now just one point behind us and they would take their boosted morale into their next fixtures, while our morale would dip even further, our fixtures would get even harder.

My head was absolutely pounding but through the dreadful drumbeat I had just enough awareness to hear the Grimsby fans booing their team off the pitch. No doubt a decent percentage of the boos were aimed at me. Maxy No-Wins. Max Zero.

***

I shook hands with Bill Turner and he said some stuff I didn't hear. I think I mumbled something in return and headed down the tunnel. I suppose if you'd stopped me and asked me I'd have said I was going home, meaning the barn in Chester. Sutton's media person had decided I was a bit of a dimwit and he intercepted me and dragged me to the press room.

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Post-match press conferences have got to be one of the stupidest rituals yet devised by our species. Take one happy man and one unhappy man and ask them how they are feeling. Take half a sentence out of context and try to use it to generate clicks and hits.

There were ways a manager could use these to their advantage, I knew, but right then and there it seemed wise to say as little as possible. Be as boring as possible, as uncontroversial as possible.

The same four reporters were in the room. The main difference between the pre-match 'presser' and this one was that Bill Turner was in a corridor not far away and his players and his staff were walking past cheering and praising him. Well in, Bill mate! Yes, get in! We are staying up, said we are staying up! And, of course, people were singing the Great Escape song.

"Max?" The media guy was talking to me.

I turned my head away from the doorway. "What?"

"We've started."

"You're just going to leave that door open, are you?" He flushed slightly and got up and closed it. "I'm just thinking of the sound quality. Would hate to have to sue someone for misquoting me only to find out they were quoting some rando celebrating six inches away in the corridor."

"Becky, could you start again please?"

Becky Stead, BBC Radio Humberside. What did you make of that?

What did I make of it? I don't know how to answer that.

It's not what you were hoping for.

Correct.

You got your team selection wrong.

Nope. That's a good team.

What happened with Simon Green?

Twisted his ankle and tried to run it off but didn't happen.

Did something happen between the two of you?

When? I just got here.

So if you just got here how can you be sure you picked the right team?

Because Messi wasn't available. Who would you have picked, Becky?

Fred Hook, Surrey Comet.

What, are we not going to answer that? Saying I got it wrong implies you know what's right. Teach me, Becky.

Fine. You had players out of position throughout the game. Conor Quinn, for example. He's a midfielder you played at right back. John Windmill, a right back, was at centre back. At various points you had left backs as wingers, defenders as strikers. Did I see Alex Evans at centre back?

You did.

So that's what I mean.

Okay. You're observant, at least.

You were scrambling around looking for a formation.

That's a fresh and interesting perspective. I'm sure there are many who will agree with you.

Fred Hook, Surrey Comet. Max, there was a stark contrast between you and Bill Turner. He was animated and passionate. You were very static. Don't you think fans want to see passion from their manager?

Fans want lots of things.

Do you have any message for the Grimsby fans?

Thanks for your support.

Is that all?

Hey, what's your name? Do you have a question?

Me? I write copy for the Sutton United website. I'm nobody.

Ask me a question.

Oh. Er... What would you have done differently? I mean, what would you do differently? I mean, if you could -

I get you, buddy. Different? We came with a good plan and mostly executed it well considering our form and fitness. First half was seven shots to two and we had a fair amount of control and looked solid. Would you change that? No reason to, is there? Second half we were even better, even more dominant. If this was the first game of the season I'd be pretty optimistic and with a couple of tweaks and maybe one or two clever bits of transfer business I'd be aiming for the playoffs. But given the league table, the next fixtures, and how many games are left, today's result is awful. Awful. But most of the performances were good.

What did you think of Bill Turner?

Yeah he's good. He reacts to what's happening on the pitch, doesn't make stupid mistakes, and he's got good help from his people.

Bethany Alban, Daily Mail. You looked lonely out there, Max.

Nah. There's like twenty people in our dressing room. That's twenty new friends, isn't it?

Thanks for your time, Max.

***

As I stepped out, Bill Turner invited me to have a glass of wine with him when he was done. That was a surprise. I told him I appreciated it but that I'd rather get going because it was four hours and it would be a miserable trip in every possible way. He said he understood and then went to crow to the media.

I went to the dressing room and half our guys were still in the shower. I asked Byram to text me when the team bus was ready to go, then went back to the media room intending to get that glass of wine. The door was open - no-one seemed to give a shit about hearing the celebrations - and I listened for a minute.

Turner finished answering some dumb question, then Beth introduced herself. "What did you make of Max Best?"

Turner made some sort of spluttering noise and obviously pulled a face. Everyone laughed, including the media guy. Including Beth.

I went back towards the dressing room and just sort of froze. I couldn't go back thirty seconds after asking Byram to text me. I didn't need people thinking I was indecisive on top of everything else they thought about me. There didn't seem to be anything to do, so I made my way outside and stood in the cold.

***

Byram: Nearly ready to go.

Me: Thanks.

I waited for almost everyone to get on the coach then boarded. My spot was near the front and I didn't want anyone to talk to me. It took a couple of minutes to finish loading our gear into the storage compartment, then we pulled away.

In my hyper-sensitive state, I became aware of some very inappropriate giggling and snickering from the back. I stood and shuffled next to the driver. "Pull into that petrol station there."

"Can't do that, mate."

"Pull into it or in ten minutes you'll be on the phone to your boss explaining how you lost the Grimsby Town contract."

He gritted his teeth and made a big show of the turn. We filled the petrol station's little car park and with a hydraulic hiss, we sank into place. I walked down the aisle to the back where I found - oh, look! - Simon Green, hiding behind Caine, a CA 62 right back. Caine had been the one who said The Duchess was dirtier than his side piece, so he was on my radar as a dick but he hadn't done anything actionable.

I gestured in the direction of Green. Off.

"Oh, come on," said Coach G, who had come up behind me.

"Mate, you don't want me here and you've made that super, super clear. But I'm the manager of Grimsby Town. I'm the avatar of the fans and the face of the club and if someone has a pop at me they're having a pop at the entire thing. Are you seriously telling me you think I should let this prick slag me off in front of the entire dressing room? Is that what you think? I should suck it up? Serious fucking question, mate. Would you let this slide? Would you let him talk to you like that?"

"No."

"So what the fuck are you doing? I said he's off the team. I said I didn't want to see him again. This is the team bus. It's for the team. If you're not one of us, you get off the bus. Get him off before I proper lose my temper."

Caine had a death wish. "How's he supposed to get home?"

I felt my lips curl back and my hands form into fists. "With you, by the sounds of it."

The guy shut up and sank back into his seat. It took a while, but Green eventually got off. I wanted to make him take his kit bag from the storage, but a bit of a jam had developed behind us, so I told the driver to go.

The team bus crept forward, waiting for a gap in the traffic so we could get onto the main road. I'm sure Simon Green expected the bus to stop and the doors to open again. We emerged onto the road and as we crept away from him, Simon Green's unshakeable morale finally cracked. When we finally vanished into the distance, he'd gone all the way from superb to abysmal.

***

On Sunday I woke up crazy early and went for a walk to try to clear my head. It didn't work, so I went back to the Taj Mahal and watched extended highlights of Sandra Lane's blue and white army slapping Curzon Ashton all over the Deva. We won 3-0 but picked up a couple of minor injuries and one suspension. No big deal but it was all increasing the level of difficulty for Sandra. As talented as she was, she didn't have much experience of such intense match day exertion and squad management. Unlike me, she had a lot of support around her if she needed it.

Anyway, we had 90 points now and even the biggest worriers in the fanbase were starting to believe that yes, we were quite good. MD texted wishing me better luck on Tuesday and thanking me again for putting Chester back on its feet.

I replied that he didn't need to worry about me because I was off for a hike around the Wolds and I was sure to spot a hedgehog.

I didn't spot a hedgehog.

***

Monday, March 11

While I waited for everyone to arrive at Cheapside, I doodled some numbers. One good thing about the match on Saturday was the injection of experience points. I'd earned 8 a minute, meaning in one afternoon I'd got four times what I'd accumulated in the previous four matches I'd played in. In other words, managing one Grimsby game was worth eight that I played in.

XP balance: 3,034

With my ten percent discount code, I could buy WibWob for 9,000 XP; I was six thousand short. If I didn't get sacked and saw out my 7 matches as Grimsby manager I would earn about five thousand XP. The way I felt about football and footballers didn't make me feel like going out grinding.

So if I wanted to upgrade my skills to help me through this crisis, there was no point saving up for WibWob. I needed something now.

The March perk hadn't dropped, which made me think it would be day-specific like the Valentine's Day one. A website informed me that March included St. Patrick's Day (Irish players get plus 1 PA?), St. David's Day (players called David run faster?), and World Book Day (tables at Tiny Tino are always available?). Or how about International Women's Day? If you said 'yeah but when's International MEN'S Day?' you would get a morale boost.

I had a more detailed look and found most of those days had already happened, as had Barbie Day. What would that one be? Spend 500 XP to meet Margot Robbie. Yes, please.

People started arriving so I put my notes away but continued to muse. I could unlock another attribute, but that might not help me in the next few matches. Unless it gave me Influence so I could really tell if Mike Dobson deserved to be the captain. Condition had become more tempting. It was 2,000 XP and offered me more fitness information. I didn't think I needed it, but it did seem like one of the only perks that would have an immediate, tangible benefit in terms of managing this crappy squad. Future was 900 XP. It would tell me how a player felt about the club he was at. It wasn't high on my shopping list at Chester because there we all gathered around the fireplace and sang Row Your Boat in cascading harmonies and told each other we were special. Here at Grim, it might tell me something useful, like who the other three traitors were.

Condition plus Future for 2,900. Tempting. Two new skills I could have in place before tomorrow's match without going to watch five-a-sides in fucking whatevershire.

Wolfie brought the meeting to order by droning on about what a 'disappointing' result Sutton had been. He kept going on about it to the point where I tuned out and went back to the perk shop. If I was going to buy perks I should buy them right away because I needed all the help I could get. But I liked to sleep on things. It was part of my frugal nature and it had served me well, most of the time.

I realised everyone was waiting for me to speak. "What? What was the question?"

Wolfie controlled his annoyance pretty well. "I asked if you had thoughts on the game."

"Oh, lots."

"Can we start with Simon Green?"

"He's a prick and I hope I never see him again."

"He's an important part of our midfield."

"Not for the rest of the season."

"We can't just throw players in the bin, Max. They have value to the club. We have to maintain their value."

"He's worthless as a player and a person. But look, new manager comes in, brings him back into the fold. Easy. Value's back. Also, I said he had an ankle thing. No lost reputation there. Plus, everyone's going to lose three-quarters of their value if you get relegated. Plus! The last manager binned players off all the time. I've brought good players back and binned a shit one. That's a good deal." I thought about adding 'you're welcome', but for once I kept a lid on it.

Wolfie had to accept that I'd made some outstandingly amazing points. "If we could try not to - "

"Ooh, hold on there, Wolfie. It sounds like you're going to blame me for what happened. That's going to cause a lot of friction between us because the prick was bang out of order and that's on him. That's a million percent on him and if you try to blame me for it I might just go apeshit."

"It was Si," said Coach W. "He was bang out of order."

Wolfie ran his hands through his hair. Looked like he hadn't slept well. "Right. Yeah, okay."

"Look, I'm not here for a fight. I woke up yesterday steaming and ready for a scrap but today I'm chill. I want to do well and save the club and I know I'm not going to get buy in and harmony but please don't make me out to be some sort of psycho. Let's be real. If a shit player gets in my face I'm going to shut that down PDQ."

"What if it's a good player?" asked a guy who was joining late. This was Otis King, a 37-year-old player-coach who had been ill the previous week. He was back ready to train and coach and I was glad of it. He could play centre back or midfield and even though he was ancient, he had CA 74. His PA was 143 and he'd been on a crazy career path with dizzying highs and lows.

I gave him my best Roger Moore raised eyebrow. "Better than me?"

"I heard you're cocky," he said, offering me a smile and a handshake. With a start, I realised he was the only member of the backroom staff to do that. "You gonna train with us? Show us your moves?"

"My moves would be bad for morale, which is already in the toilet."

He laughed, massively, and I felt a tiny stirring of optimism. This guy would laugh and joke and bring smiles to all those other miserable bastards. "Seriously, now! You can't chat shit and not back it up."

"Seriously, I feel if I train now someone will try to snap me. No, that needs to wait until we've got a couple of wins on the board."

"Let's get to that," said Wolfie. "We all saw the match. Looked like a big struggle, but that's nothing new."

"Oh, actually," said Neo, but Wolfie kept talking. He said he wanted to talk about using players out of position, a heat map that suggested Devonte Payne was disconnected from the rest of the team for large periods, and the unusual substitution that had led to Sutton's goal.

I raised my hand higher and higher until I had to support my arm with my other hand. Childish, but effective. Wolfie stopped. "You accidentally interrupted Neo," I said. "I'm fascinated to know how data is used in these situations."

"You are?" said Neo.

"Of course I am. Hit us."

With all eyes on him, he squirmed. He produced a weird handout and distributed three copies. I picked one up and scanned it as he talked.

image [https://ted-steel.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/01/b7c9expectedthreat.png]

"This shows the expected threat differential. Some clubs call it a momentum chart. Sutton are in yellow on the left. We're black on the right. When we have a higher expected threat, xT, we fill in an area. The further the area from the centre, the greater the threat. You can see in the first five minutes we had slightly more threat and it built to a peak around the ten minute mark."

"Hang on," I said. "What's expected threat, exactly?"

"Er," he said. Clearly he'd tried and failed to explain it many times. "Imagine you pass a ball from the centre circle to zone 14. Er, that's the zone outside the penalty area."

"I pass the ball closer to the goal," I said, hoping to help him explain it better in the future.

"Right! You moved the ball from a place you can't score to one you can. You created threat. We can calculate it. Players who generate threat and those who don't. Moves and formations that make teams more likely to score. It's a good metric!"

"I think I get it. You can do a hundred passes near your own goal and they don't make you more likely to score. But when you get the ball into the final third, you're actually doing something. So... looking at this, we had control of the game but didn't really have our knives sharpened."

"Oh! But look here. And here. And here." He was pointing to areas where the graph got further from the central line. "This is good. And it's sustained. And we normally fade in matches but on Saturday we got better."

"Of course we did. I was finding what works." I looked at the brief periods where Sutton's expected threat was very high. "This one was my fault. I went too far in the balance and they got a good break. It's interesting it shows up on the graph. That's useful. You could start a discussion with that."

"You admit you made a mistake?" said Wolfie, sharply.

I glared at him. Was he planning to use my honesty against me? "Not exactly a mistake but that one's directly the result of my actions. We do it at Chester and it works but we have better team spirit. Or," I said, going internal for a second. "Or it's the general defensive mentality. I pushed things too far in the attacking sense and the team collectively didn't like it." I got pretty quiet; I was basically talking to myself. "Probably just a structural thing. I tried to move a load-bearing wall. And it's League Two so there's more strain. Less tolerance for imbalance." I closed my eyes to better visualise the formations I knew and was sort of mentally stress-testing them based on this new architectural simile when I was rudely interrupted by the meeting I was in.

"What's this?" said Wolfie. He was pointing to a big surge in our favour near the end of the match.

"That's when we went 4-3-3," I said.

"We didn't do 4-3-3," said Coach G.

I looked at the ceiling. "Wow."

Neo's eyes were huge. He grabbed his tablet and started bashing it.

I was getting bored. This wasn't helping me with tomorrow night's match. I pushed the paper away. "Can we prepare for MK Dons, please?"

"Hang on," said Wolfie. "If 4-3-3 was working so well, why did you change?"

I tapped the space on the graph where the threat level dipped. "Other teams can do tactics, too. Sutton's manager strengthened the centre so we switched to 4-2-4 again. That's this next surge but we ran out of time. Might have helped if the 4-2-4 drills had been taken more seriously. We had players offside at critical moments. Wild crosses. Poor movement. But what do I know?" I was getting worked up again. Looking at Coach G's useless face wasn't helping, so I stood and went to get the flipchart. They'd pushed it all the way to the back of the cabin again, which made me unreasonably angry. Popping the lid off a marker helped. As I spoke, I drew a 3-5-2 in the top left corner. "When I was at Tranmere, MK Dons were 3-5-2 merchants but they changed to 5-3-2 because I was playing. Hey, Neo, if you have a spare week why don't you put my matches into your machine? I reckon it'll spit out some interesting graphs. We don't have a player quite to my level of expected slaps, so I'm expecting 3-5-2. Neo, what do we play against 3-5-2?"

"4-2-3-1," he said, the clown.

To ensure I kept the frustration from my voice, I counted to five. "Okay let's agree that might be good on paper but we don't have the players for it. So we can do 3-5-2 ourselves and win duels, or we can do 4-2-4 again and slap into the vacant full back areas."

"They'll have loads of possession and we'll be overrun in midfield."

"Yes but the goal isn't to have the best midfield; it's to score goals." I scribbled a quick formation picture on the left of the page. "So 4-2-4, soak up pressure, have loads of threat. They'll respond at half time. Some 4-4-2 variant I reckon, but we'll be ready. 4-1-4-1 all the way, baby." I added that to the right and labelled the two formations 'First Half' and 'Second Half'.

I expected someone to complain that those tactics were exactly what we'd done against Sutton - a dozen people in Chester would have spotted it - but this bunch were miles behind in the conversation. It didn't help them that Neo chose that moment to push his tablet along the table. It was a screengrab from the Sutton match that showed our guys in a perfect 4-3-3.

Since no-one wanted to talk, I did. "Wolfie. They don't listen to me. Can you please instruct the coaches to practise 4-2-4 like I asked the other day?"

"We did it!" snapped Coach G.

"Can you ask them to do it properly?"

Wolfie wasn't getting sucked into the emotion. He was still trying to understand what was going on. "What about 4-1-4-1?"

I pointed to the momentum graph. "In the second half we carried much more threat than in the first. That fits with how I saw the game. We've got limited time on the training pitch so we should focus on one thing. The skills are transferable to other match situations, like set pieces."

"We should work on dead balls. Some of our corners were diabolical."

"I agree but we need to get up the pitch more reliably so we earn those set pieces."

It took him quite a long time, TBH, but after looking from the graph to the tablet to his own steepled fingers, he looked at Coach G and said, "Do it, Gareth."

I was one stray electron from adding, "Can you ask him not to be a surly bitch while you're at it?" But I didn't. There's a reason they call it 'best behaviour'.

Soon after, the full training session started and with Wolfie watching, Otis the social lubricant, and one traitor banished, things were looking up. The energy was much better. Much, much better. There were things I didn't like - even in the drills, Danny Flash was offside more often than not. But I kept my mouth shut and let the coaches coach. They had their instructions and now I was back to being a sexy ghost.

***

While the players did some movement drills, I went to get a tea and brought it out. There was a cold wind coming in from the North Sea. I might have taken it for an omen but that was just what happened in Grimsby.

So... after the meeting I felt a lot better. Wolfie had been impressed by the threat map. Or, at least, it had made him willing to believe that maybe I knew what I was doing. I mean, football has always been full of chancers and blowhards but none of them ever switched to 4-3-3 and had their decision vindicated statistically.

I took my notes out of my pocket. Unless I went off on scouting trips, I wouldn't be able to afford WibWob. If I lost two more games I was at risk of being fired. I couldn't quite find a reason to hold onto my experience points. No point saving them for a rainy day. The forecast for tomorrow was dreadful.

I bought Condition for 2,000 XP.

XP balance: 1,034

At first, I couldn't see that anything had changed but then it screamed at me. On a player's profile, under Morale, was the word Condition, followed by a percentage. I prowled around the training area.

Marcus Wainwright, a natural athlete in the mould of Carl Carlile, had 100%.

Otis King, who had been ill the previous week, had 88%.

Conor Quinn, the midfielder I had used in defence, had 84%.

Before I panicked, I checked the Chester squads. Most of the men had 98% or higher. The big exception was Joe Anka, who was still getting up to full fitness after his leg break. He was on 94%.

Would I use Joe Anka in a match? Of course. And I had. So anything above, what, 90%?, was okay. Where was the cut-off? 80%? This was eighty percent of their full fitness, right?

I scanned the players in front of me and then dived into the Chester men's and women's squads again. The women had played the day before - a routine 4-2 win but Christ I needed to bolster their defence before next season - and there were a lot of eighty percents in their ranks. It made sense - you couldn't play two days in a row and they were a mix of semi-professional and amateur.

Lucy's condition was 64%, the lowest, but her profile didn't show any injuries and nothing was red. She was just knackered. Every day I read about a female player who had done her ACL and no-one could explain why it was happening so frequently. Best guess was fatigue.

This was going to sound fucking crazy but some embarrassment was nothing compared to one of my players being on crutches for a year.

Me: Watched some clips from yesterday. Well done and all that. Can you keep an eye on Lucy, please? Spider senses tingling. Don't let her sprint this week. Give her Sunday off. And get Dean and Liv to check her out.

I walked onto the training pitch with players and balls passing right through me. Conor Quinn kept up the drill until the weirdness of me following him around staring at his calves made him stop. "What? I mean, what, boss?"

"Give us a minute." He followed me off the pitch and Coach W sent someone else to replace him in the drill. "How are you feeling?"

This made him suspicious and a great big wall slammed down in between us. "Grand. Deadly."

I took a tiny step back and put my hands behind my back. My head tilted to the left and I realised I was looking at him like he was hanging up in an art gallery. "You're not injured." It was a statement of fact.

"No."

Another pause as I stared at him, limb by limb. Why was his condition low? "Pull your shirt up."

"What?" But as I continued to be fucking weird, he pulled his top up. He was wearing one of those sports bras.

"Where... Where does that data go?"

He untensed and let his shirt drop. "Neo."

"If I said I thought you were in the red zone, what would you say?"

"I'd say you're wrong and I'm ready to play." Defiance. Fighting for his place in the team. I liked it.

"Show me how it works."

He exhaled. "We're in the middle of a drill."

"You're not."

He closed his eyes but very quickly realised there was no point defying me. "That way," he said, and I got into step beside him as he walked to one of the portacabins. He knocked and entered. Knocking! That was another thing missing around here. I was allowed to barge in wherever I wanted but the players needed to knock if they were going into someone's office.

Neo had noise cancelling headphones on and jumped when he saw us there. He had two computer screens and one had a threat map. I'd never seen it before but somehow I knew which match it was just from the flow and the colours.

"Is that Tranmere away to Swindon?"

Neo blinked. "Yes. How did you...?"

"Yeah, that was too easy, that one. Then some hack got a good smash on me and I took it easy from there. Look, you can see on the graph where he got me. I do like those charts, Neo. Okay, let's talk about the second best right back in this cabin. Can you bring up Conor's whatever?"

"His Player Pack? Er... yes."

He clicked his mouse a few times and turned the monitor so I could see all the numbers.

"Yeah, I don't know what I'm looking at. I think he's fatigued. Does your thing there agree with me?"

Neo blinked, gave Conor a look, and clicked some more. He brought up a chart that said 'Load Management' and he assessed it for about a second. "Yes, it does. He's played almost every minute of almost every game."

"I'm fine," said Conor. "I could play a full match right now."

"And get injured?" I said.

"Your running stats are way down," said Neo, then shrank into himself as though Conor might hit him.

"Conor, mate, I need you to be professional about this. We've got eight more matches after tomorrow and you're going to start all of them. I can't have you injured. I just can't. You're too important to this team."

His reaction was a mix of frustration and pride. He went through all kinds of torment and anguish that culminated with him letting out a slight groan. "Last time I said I needed a break, the manager dropped me, permanently. Since then, I play the full ninety, no ifs, buts, or maybes."

"Understandable," I said, "but I'm not a twat. You're my right back. But not tomorrow."

"Can we talk about moving him back to his best position?" said Neo.

"No," I snapped. "Conor, you're way more experienced than me. Be honest with me now, what should I tell you to do? I need you on the bench tomorrow night but ideally I won't use you. What do we do so you can give me ten minutes if I need it but you're ready to rumble on Saturday?"

He wasn't used to being asked his opinion like this. His eyes darted all over the place. "Rest today. Light jogs tomorrow. Bit of time in the pool maybe."

"Top. Let's do that."

He stayed there until it got awkward. "Should I go?"

I shrugged. "I'm going to talk to Neo about this data stuff. If that's how you like to rest..."

A slight grin appeared on the Irishman's lips. "Dragon's Dogma 2 is out." He waited for me to say something; I didn't. "I'll be off, so. Right. Thanks, boss."

I rubbed my chin. "Neo, we've got this data. Why is no-one using it? Like... someone should get this report every morning so they can make sure players aren't overdoing it."

"The manager gets it."

"I'm the manager."

"But... You don't have a Town email. I can't send it external."

I shook my head. It seemed like I could do without this stuff but it would be better to base as many of my decisions on hard data as possible. Something else occurred to me. "Where's my office?"

"It's the one where we do the meetings."

"Oh. The one the coaches have colonised. This fucking place." I spent some time seething about how shit all these people were. "Please print it in the mornings and leave it on my desk. No, that's a waste of paper. Text me anyone who's in the red zone. Is that good for you?"

"Yes, boss."

"Hmm." I left, very, very thoughtful. This place was really starting to do my head in, but I'd already got something out of it. The intersection between the data we could collect and explaining away my abilities was fascinating. And buying Condition had been awesome. I really needed to know who was fit to play. That was pretty basic, right? It was amazing how well I had done without that knowledge. If I'd had that info since the start, could I have saved Ryan Jack? Maybe. Maybe not. Fatigue was only one possible explanation for those ligament injuries. Sometimes shit happened. But yeah, Condition was going to help me put out the strongest possible eleven, and would help me long term when it came to minimising injuries.

Boom!

The knowledge was so good I went ahead and spent the 900 to unlock Future.

XP balance: 134

I knew where to look for this one - a player's Transfer tab. The new info I saw on the training pitch was absolutely shocking. I went to the side and sat on a football - mistake, it was damp and I got a wet arse - while I went into the Chester squads to see what my players thought about their Future.

Henri Lyons - Thinks Max Best is a tactical genius.

Glenn Ryder - Thinks Youngster is a talented player.

Robbo Robson - Would like to stay at the club beyond his contract expiry.

Dan Badford - Excited to be training alongside Sam Topps.

Benny - Proud to be at Chester.

Magnus Evergreen - Is proud of the club's league position.

It was all like that. Positive, positive, positive. Even the negative ones were positive - players whose contracts were running out wanted to stay. And little Tyson's was 'Enthusiastic about his future at the club'. I mean, amazing, but I'd rather it said 'excited about his future.' Depending on how fast he improved, he would probably have to leave to really kickstart his career.

But still, it was obviously fantastic that he was happy and enjoying life and starting to make the most of his talent.

So you're probably wondering how it was at Grimsby. More of the same, right?

Sam Crichlow - Feels the fans have been overly critical of him.

Caine Amadi-Spokes - Thinks the manager should be more patient with his players.

Mike Dobson - Feels he is too good for the club.

Ed Williams - Hopes he can stay in the manager's plans.

John Windmill - Dislikes Simon Green. Is pleased to see the manager taking action against Simon Green.

Marcus Wainwright - Is worried the club's poor league position is hurting his reputation.

You know the way some people don't go to the doctor 'because they might find something'? I understood that sentiment a lot better, all of a sudden.

My first thought was, what a shitshow.

Second, could this have helped me get a better result against Sutton? Maybe. If I'd known Windmill hated Green that could have been decisive in who played midfield. But although the result was crushing, at least I knew one of the traitors now and Windmill's morale was up. Crichlow, the goalie, was having a hard time with the fans but I couldn't pick his backup. That guy would be okay in the National League North but he was miles off League Two standard. Dobson's attitude was poor, but Wainwright had a point. Being in a team at the bottom of the league didn't do much for your rep. Still, how about scoring some goals instead of whingeing?

My next thought was, if I was going to sell Tyson and Benny to a team, I wanted to check this stuff to make sure the club's culture wasn't too toxic. At some point my players would all end up in this kind of environment but I would do what I could to minimise it. If two clubs were offering the same money for Benny, I could push him to the one that was more like Chester. If there was only one bid and it was from Grimsby - ugh. I'd have to cross that bridge when I got there, although realistically I couldn't stop him moving just because the team was full of meanies.

Finally, I thought about my hopes of being hired as an escape artist specialist. Knowing who hated who and who was unhappy about what would let me start knocking heads around on day one. Or at least, let me know what sort of problems existed before I decided to take the job.

***

Tuesday, March 12

Match 2 of 10: Grimsby Town versus MK Dons

I'd been in Lincolnshire for a week and had so far avoided going to Grimsby itself. I think I managed to keep my streak going by driving from the south into Cleethorpes and parking in the stadium's car park.

My space read: Manager. Plus 1d6 confidence points; I was the main man. Plus 1d6 pressure points; I was the main man.

I didn't have time for a full stadium tour, but I pottered out onto the pitch to check the grass and my view. From my dugout, I saw the away stand to the left. MK Dons were known by Grimsby fans as 'Franchise FC' and they were generally not regarded as a real football club. Someone had bought Wimbledon, a London club, and moved it a hundred miles north to Milton Keynes. That kind of thing happens every ten minutes in America, but not in England. MK Dons was as despised as any club in the country. Beating them would get me a LOT of reputation points with the Grimsby fans.

To my right was the Pontoon, looking smart with its black and white seats. It was named after the fish docks that made Grimsby famous. There was a lot of nautical stuff in the area. The club were the Mariners and a local landmark was the Ice Factory where ice was made for the fish to be packaged and a quick browse of The Fishy, a fan forum, taught me the word 'lumper' - basically a dock worker who hauls fish.

Behind me was the main stand, one of the oldest in the country. Some of the seats looked like museum pieces, but it was all very charming and I knew it would get noisy - if we could give them something to cheer. Opposite was the large Findus stand - named after a frozen food company famous in the UK for its fish fingers.

Inside, I was amused to note that the home dressing room was more than twice as big as the away one. While I probably wouldn't go quite that far if I ever redeveloped the main stand at the Deva, it did make me smile. Pack the enemy in like sardines, while you swim around like free-range salmon.

My manager's room was impressively large, too. It was almost as big as the away dressing room. Plenty of space for the entire board and first team squad to stand shoulder-to-shoulder and watch Chris Hale fire me.

Or we could start winning.

I filled in my team sheet, went to the dressing room and stood by the tactics board. It took ten seconds but everyone shut up without me having to say anything. I calmly restated the team that Coach G had told them after yesterday's training. I went over the plan for the first half and reminded them of the switch we would make at half time and they went off to start their pre-match preparations.

Good, I thought. Much better. Getting there. I looked at Coach G. "How many will we get in tonight?"

"Fans? Ought to be six thousand at least." I made an impressed face. "In the summer we sold five thousand eight hundred season tickets. This place is on the up."

Unless it goes down, I thought.

But I was quietly confident we'd get a result today. Everyone's condition had risen overnight, but Conor Quinn's had risen the least - clearly he needed a break. He was on 88% which seemed good enough for the bench. His understudy was the slappable friend of Simon Green, Caine Amadi-Spokes. He had CA 62 but my only other right back option was John Windmill and he was way too slow.

A more positive change was putting Otis King in. He had nine more CA points than Tommy Blair and a great personality. He'd give me more leadership and character, I was sure of it.

All in all, the team's average was 76 and there was every chance we would get stronger through the match as we brought the subs on. I got the option to use Triple Captain and Bench Boost but stayed my hand. I wasn't convinced by Mike Dobson's leadership skills, and while MK Dons had the edge on the starting elevens (they had two starters suspended and their average CA was 81) their bench was weaker than ours and their manager had a mistake in him. We needed to get a result under our own steam because the following matches were only going to get harder.

I went to the manager's room and waited until the media rep came to get me. I talked tedious shit until they let me go, and then I walked out to the roar of the Grimsby Town fans and the nerves really started to jangle.

***

The first half went according to plan. Sadly, it was MK's plan.

The first shock came two minutes in. For some inexplicable reason, they changed from 3-5-2 to 5-3-2. That on its own nullified the advantage of my tactic, but there was a further twist.

Normally when you have two up front, you put them in the centre so that they come up against the centre backs. Think of Goliath and Henri Lyons standing close to each other. But this MK Dons manager had one guy central and one striker all the way over on the left. On the tactics screen, a dotted line emerged from him to the centre. It didn't take me all that long to work it out. He was starting as a sort of wide winger but would make runs inside to support his striker partner.

The benefit of this wasn't obvious... until it was.

MK sent ball after ball towards our right back area, where Caine was bullied and dominated by the burly striker. In theory, the striker should have been useless in that winger position - his technique was awful. But he won a header and loped after the ball. He sent in a simple pass and his partner finished.

One-nil.

I had no choice but to abandon my plan. I pulled the wingers back and did a strict 4-4-2 while I thought about things. Danny Grant, our best attacking threat, was now covering the useless shithead Caine. It took six minutes after my change, but MK reverted to 3-5-2 with nothing funky on the wings. No-one on their bench was a tactical genius and they were slow to respond. How had they come up with that 5-3-2 plan?

There was a long period of stalemate where we recovered after the shock of the goal, and then we slowly started to turn the tide. Possession went from 50-50 to 51-49. Then it crept up to 52. We got our first shot of the match. And so on. I knew most of the players well enough to think I'd optimised their settings, and I started to feel positive about the second half. We would bring Alex on and get enough control of midfield to press forward.

It's the hope that kills you.

Our goalie got a back pass and tried to push the ball to his right so he could welly it away. He took a heavy touch, though, and the ball squirted away in the direction of a striker who was coming to press. Sam slid in and cleared the ball, but the fans went bonkers. They brought out the boo guns. Sam's morale dropped two points.

While they were still at it, MK sent a hopeful ball in the direction of their tallest striker. Sam rushed off his line to clear it - easy - but with the crowd on his back he hesitated, not wanting to make a mistake and get more shit. So he retreated, leaving Mike Dobson to deal with it.

Dobson had been putting in a five out of ten shift - too good for the club, remember - and God knows why but he decided he had to foul the striker instead of standing him up and waiting for support. He was probably lucky to get a yellow card, and while the foul started outside the box, the striker fell over inside it. The ref gave a penalty and Dobson's rating fell to four.

MK scored the pen. Two-nil.

The Grimsby faithful were furious, dishing out boos for everyone. Boos for Sam, for Mike, for me, and for Chris Hale.

Astonishingly, things got worse. A couple of minutes later, Caine Amadi-Spokes decided he'd had enough. While MK were attacking he fell to the ground and raised his hand. The ref didn't stop the game - correctly - and MK got a shot away.

Byram ran onto the pitch and radioed back that Caine was injured and needed to come off.

Injured, eh? So how come no attributes were red? How come his injury tab was clean? How come his condition was 97% - the same as everyone who had started the match on 100?

I didn't have much choice but to send Conor Quinn on.

Someone in the crowd behind me screamed, "He's not a right back, you daft Manc twat!" I turned to pick him out and it was pretty easy - he was the one purple with rage. I couldn't help but laugh, which didn't help the chap's mood, I'm sure.

The change brought us up to CA 77.8, but there was a chasm in morale, I expected some of my players to tire, and the crowd were on our case.

Still I remained calm. Calm-ish.

There were one or two things to sort out at half time and the second half would go very different. There was no need to go full Max.

***

I was in the middle of the pack of people filtering into the dressing room so I heard - as if I could have missed it - Mike Dobson raging at Mal Mehew. Why our centre back had such a strong opinion of our left midfielder's performance I couldn't tell you, but I can say that pretty much the entire squad watched as I pushed Dobson down onto the bench and very slowly pulled the captain's armband off him.

There was dead silence in the room as I spun the armband around my finger. I went to the tactics board.

"Normally I like my teams to start half time quiet. Focus on getting your nutrients and your liquids, calm down, some chats about what's going right and wrong. It's all very civilised. Very productive." I flung the armband up and snatched it as it fell. "Slightly different, today. Couple of things to take care of. First, Caine. I would like everyone to know that your starting right back today feigned injury because he couldn't hack it. The kitchen got too hot and instead of helping out, he curled up on the floor and waited for a big strong fireman to rescue him."

"Hey, fuck you!"

"I've seen some shit in my brief time as one of the best players and managers in the country, but I've never seen a guy quit on his team like that. I'm going to think things over and decide how much to fine him because there's no fucking way he's getting paid to pretend to be injured. No fucking way."

"Sorry, Max, sorry." It was Byram. "But he's got a quad strain. Maybe a tear."

"No, there's fuck all wrong with him. I just want everyone in the room to hear it from me first because I'm going to fucking end his career after the match. Whatever happens in the second half, I'll still be the Grimsby manager for ten minutes after full time and this prick is getting both barrels. I promise you that. Dude, you might not want to be here because as mad as the fans are right now, when they hear you're faking injury and making us waste a substitution they're going to be really quite cross."

"You can't do that."

"And I can't dump your shitty mate at a petrol station in London. And I can't backheel nutmeg a goalie. And I can't spot a shit character from a mile off. Conor, your teammate, needs a rest. This is his rest. If he gets injured today because you think you're being smart putting pressure on me, you'll soon find out what pressure really feels like. Do you get me?"

Conor was looking at Caine with utter contempt. The idea of faking injury was so far beyond his personal code of ethics he had a new entry on his Future page - Dislikes Caine. "Boss. He'll get on his socials. Have his version out there before you get to the press."

Huh. Hadn't thought of that. "How many followers has he got?"

"One thousand one hundred and eight," said Caine, automatically.

"What if he's really injured, though?" said Danny Flash.

"He's not," I said, but the ramifications of piling into the player were uncertain. I decided to try some diplomacy, Max Best-style. "Tell you what, Caine. You're a disgrace but let's make a deal. I won't fine you two week's wages and you'll have the rest of the season off. You and Green can go round Moss Side laughing at poor people. Your best hobby, that. All you have to do is fess up. Tell Byram you're not injured. Don't make us waste medical resources on you. Don't make us waste any more time on you." I looked at my Apple watch. "Ten seconds to decide." I counted to ten and looked up. "Well?"

Caine licked his lips and gave his teammates a hunted look but in every one of those ten seconds someone in the room had turned against him. For once, people believed me. "I'm injured."

"He's fucking lying!" said Conor, who was getting steamed up.

"He is an' all. Fuck me," said Danny Grant.

"That's unprofessional, lad," said Coach W. "That fucking stinks."

"Here." Someone was pushing something into my hand. Danny Grant, the academy graduate and pretty much the most popular player at the club, had unlocked his phone and now he was trying to give it to me.

"What?"

"I've got six thousand followers. Write what you want and I'll send it."

"No, I can't. That's your account."

He was a placid guy, but he was angry now. He nodded at Caine. "I had to sprint back to cover coz he just went and sat himself down. That could have been the third goal. I'm not having that. I'm not having quitters."

I pushed his phone back. "I appreciate it, Danny. I do. There's a thing in storytelling where things start shit then turn good. We focus on the second half. He can post what he wants and then we'll tell the truth. See how that works out for him. Get him out."

Byram guided Caine out through the door. Danny put his phone back in his bag and sat down. Things were quiet.

"Very dramatic, this, isn't it?" I mused. "Lot of mess to sort out. Not sure I'll get the time." For the thousandth time that week I was reminded of Old Nick's hospital visit and his strong hint that I'd find four traitors. Two were gone already. And, let's be honest, Mike Dobson was the third. "Mike," I said. "I've heard you're not happy in Grimsby. I can't say I'm much happier than you but I'm not letting it affect my performances. No hard feelings and I'm not going to throw you under the bus, but we're in the shit and we need people who are on the same page. People pulling in the same direction, and that's getting points and saving the club."

"What are you saying?"

"Just that you've got the rest of the season off. I think that's what you wanted, anyway. You're welcome."

"Hang on a second. The rest of the season off? What? You what? Who said I wasn't happy? Who fucking said?"

I walked towards him. "Calm down or I'll kick you out. Your voice isn't welcome here. Grab a shower, then call an Uber. Bye."

Coach G hurried towards me, trying to stop me sabotaging the squad, but I was feeling lighter and lighter. Three of the four traitors were gone and it had only taken a game and a half. I was getting good at this!

I let my good mood show on my face. Maybe some people thought it was weird, maybe it cheered some people up. It was hard to tell, even with the morale perk. I left a thirty-second quiet time and then prepared to discuss the 4-1-4-1 formation I wanted to use for the second half. Ed Williams would replace Dobson, that was clear. But who would be the captain? I had the armband dangling around my wrist. Otis King was an option, but somehow it didn't feel right. John Windmill was a good character, but Danny Grant had shown his loyalty to the club by defending me against Caine. He was too quiet, though.

Alex Evans would make a good captain. But if he only played half of every match, how would that work?

"What the fuck?"

The exclamation had come from me.

The entire dressing room stopped what they were doing and stared at me. What now?

I remembered to look at my Apple watch. I pretended to read and then whipped out my phone and read more intently. In fact, I was staring at the MK Dons tactics screen.

They had switched from 3-5-2 to 3-4-1-2. It was an interesting tactic to use against 4-1-4-1. Our lone striker would be up against three defenders. Our four midfielders would be against four. And our main weapon, the DM, would have to keep an eye on their CAM.

Yes, it was a good idea.

Just one question.

"I've just been told that MK fucking Dons are switching formations. Their new formation works great against 4-1-4-1. Well played, that manager. And first half he had a great fucking plan to smash our 4-2-4 and he knew we'd have a fucking shithead playing at right back so he targeted him. Here's a question, though, lads. How the fuck does he know what we're going to do?"

"Max," said Danny Grant. He corrected himself immediately. "Boss. Didn't you know? This has been going on for years." He looked around at his teammates and coaches. His voice lowered slightly. "We've got a mole."

A mole? A rat? Selling our secrets to the enemy? The worst kind of traitor. The guy had cost us the first goal and our best chance of getting something from the game.

A mole. I thought about Simon Green and Caine - they'd only been at the club since the summer. If there had been a mole for years, it wasn't them. Dobson? Maybe. Probably not.

I was steaming. Stewing. Boiling. Three traitors down, and one to go.

Time to go full Max.