3.

Tuesday, May 14

Exit Trials Day One - Slough

"First time I kicked a ball, I was two. My dad already thought I'd be a pro. My grandad placed a bet that I'd play for England."

We were driving down to Slough (rhymes with cow) for the first Exit Trial of the summer.

Exit Trials are specially-arranged matches where players who have been released by academies can play in front of scouts. For some of the participants, it's their last chance saloon. One YouTube video about these events is called 'One Game to Save a Career.' A scouting website calls them 'The Hunger Games for footballers'.

No football team in the history of the sport had ever taken the Exit Trials as seriously as Max Best's Chester FC. To most industry insiders, an Exit Trial was a chance to see a bunch of cast-offs in one place and maybe pick up a fourth-choice centre back for the reserves or find a couple of lads to fill out their under 23s. In addition, there was always a gambler's chance that you'd find a Jamie Vardy or a Chris Smalling that another club had unaccountably let go.

But I was absolutely convinced that over the next three days I would be able to beef up my squad with super talented kids from all over the country. Ones who had been spotted at an early age and been trained by elite academies for thousands of hours. Ones with high PA and decent CA, too. Kids who'd be able to feature in matches. And best of all, ones I wouldn't have to pay a fee for! They'd been released from academies. Those clubs didn't want them.

I did.

I stared at my Chester Squad screen and tried to think of the perfect constellation of players I'd sign. I wasn't the only one whose thoughts had turned that way. From behind me, I got a tap on the shoulder.

"Max," said MD. "Can we talk about the squad and what we're looking for today? And maybe put that into the context of the budget?"

"Sure thing, King Bling."

"Great."

I felt him lean back and turned to see what was happening. Apparently nothing. "Go on, then."

He leaned forward. "I thought you'd do it. You're hyper, today."

Next to him, in the middle of the back row, Brooke nodded. "When you're up like this, Max, you rattle off ten words a second with gusts to fifty."

I sighed. "Hands up who thinks Brooke makes up these phrases to see how deranged she can make Texas sound?"

Four hands went up, including one of mine. "Hey, now," she said, before adding with a mumble, "That one's real."

"First of all," I said, grandly, "I'm not hyper, nor am I gusty. I merely see the chance to do some good in the community. These poor boys are homeless and we can offer them a home. As Ruth gave me a home, so shall we house these poor, poor - "

"Million-pound players," said Ruth.

"What cynicism! Come on. Look, we all win. The kids get to stay in football. I get a million pounds per kid. And the Brig gets some young minds to thingy. Mould and that."

"What does Ruth get?" said MD.

"She gets to become the agent of any kid talented enough to make it to a high level. And if she gets bored she can talk to Brooke about Biccy."

"Biscotti," said Brooke. That was the name of her dream horse. It lived in Cheshire somewhere and was the only reason someone with Brooke's business background would work for, essentially, minimum wage. Long story.

"Squad chat. First things first, we're somewhat short on goalkeepers."

MD groaned. "There's still time to reconsider."

He wasn't all that pleased with my recent decision to let Steve 'Angles' English leave the club. Angles was our goalkeeping coach, or at least he would be until the end of May.

"What's this?" said Ruth. The news wasn't out yet.

"You were there the last game of the season. I played in goal because Angles isn't up to it any more. He came on at the end, didn't have much to do, kept a clean sheet. A wonderful and fitting end to a long career. Top. All top. But I sat down with him and said my goalie coach needs to be able to play. Third-choice maybe, but he needs to be a proper option and that time had passed for Angles in the National League North so it’s ten times worse in the National League. Don't look at me like I shot Bambi! Angles will be the first to admit that's right. The thing is, we don't have the budget for a pure goalie coach. We just don't. Our coach has to be able to play. So we talked it through and agreed he should move on. Now, I'm helping him find a new club and I've even got him some hours at the local goalkeeping school for a bit of extra pocket money and to see if he likes doing that sort of thing. If he hasn't found anything by July first, we'll keep him on, month-to-month. You know, for a while. God knows we have enough goalies to look after, when you consider all the levels and the new women's teams. No, it had to happen and this way he'll get a new life as a pure coach and that'll be good for him."

"Poor Steve," said Ruth.

"No! Not poor Steve. He's going to be fine. Listen to what I'm saying. This is good for him."

"It's not nice to have to leave a job, Max. He's been at Chester for a while."

"That's right," said MD. "Years."

"Okay," I said. "It's hard. But we love him and we're doing our best to turn something that could be harsh into something positive. Aren't we, John?"

John Smith, AKA the Brig, checked his rear view mirror. "Max has behaved beautifully. My chief regret is that Steve wasn't mentioned in Max's speech at the end of the Darlington match. It would have been a perfect send-off."

I waved the idea away. "We'll do it in the first home match this season. That's easy. Look, Steve's fine. We'll put out a statement. Mutual consent, super positive, wish him the best of luck. Ruth! What did I say about that face? This club needs three players who are better than me in goal! Christ. I really tried hard to do it classy so please don't give me shit for it. Okay so we've got Ben and that's it. He's getting a new contract. Little pay bump. 600 a week, two plus one."

"What does that mean?" asked Brooke.

"It's two years, meaning two seasons. The plus one is an extra year we can activate. I've agreed that with most of the players. The two years gives them loads of certainty and the optional extra year gives us flexibility and helps make sure we get a transfer fee for them if that's what we want."

"Is that a good idea for them? Sounds like you could make them stay a year longer than they want."

"It could go bad, but basically they know I'm committed to training them and investing in them so it's okay. The worst thing would be if MD sacked me. Then it's..." I mimed the planet exploding. "Where was I? We've got one goalie. I assume the next coach we hire will be in his thirties. Early thirties, just starting to transition into coaching. That'd be perfect. Then there's an obvious slot for a young, super talented goalie. If we signed an eighteen-year-old with Premier League talent, he'd be our third-choice goalie but would get first team minutes and a genuine chance to come with us all the way."

"All the way?" said MD.

MD had a low ambition score so I had tried to avoid mentioning my plan of going all the way to the Premier League. "To, ah, League One or whatever."

"Right."

"Full backs. Eddie Moore's extended. One plus one, still on 900 a week. Carl's got a bump to 650 and that's two plus one. They're solid and can come to League Two with us. Centre backs. Glenn and Steve have renewed on one plus one. 600 for Steve, 775 for Glenn. Tiny raises but very welcome and well earned. They are... okay for the level. I'm going to need a very serious guy to come in to raise the standards there. If there was a superkid... the next Rio Ferdinand or John Terry, yeah, I'd probably go with that. But realistically we need someone pre-beefed. Ready to handle a bit of long ball and be good at defending set pieces from day one."

Brooke twinkled. "You gonna bring in a few corn-fed boys for me, Max? Could ya make sure they're unattached?"

I scoffed. "You wouldn't date a defender. Have some self-respect. Oh! We've got Magnus Evergreen. He's single. I bumped him up to 600 a week and had a long talk with him. He doesn't want a long contract so he's going to decide year on year if he stays. I mean, what can we do? Personally, I think if he leaves Chester he'll quit football and if that's the case, we can't stress about it. I can't imagine him rocking up at Man United but yeah, when he says he'll be here this season he'll be here this season a hundred percent and that's cool. Then we've got Vivek but will he get up to speed fast enough to help us this season? No chance. So I'm definitely, definitely in the market for some defenders."

"Centre backs," said Ruth.

"Anyone. If I get a right back, Carl Carlile can play CB." I rubbed the back of my neck. "We do have a bit of a quality gap with the defenders."

"What's Vivek's wage?" said Ruth.

I realised she was writing all this down. "Whoa! Steady on, old chap. This is privileged information. For your ears only. Don't document it!"

"It's just so I can follow the conversation," she said. "Anyway, what if I was on the board?"

"You're not," I said, just as the realisation dawned. "Oh! You're standing again? That's cool. But still. Eat that paper when we're done."

"Vivek," she said.

"I've got him to agree to 350 a week. It's a kind of nothing amount of money but he's ecstatic. He's a professional footballer."

"What's the plan with him?"

"Train him as far as we can. MD's made contact with clubs a bit closer than West Didsbury who might want to loan our players. In tier 8 there's Bootle, Nantwich, Runcorn, Widnes, Witton Albion. In tier 7 there's Warrington Rylands. Macclesfield is a bit further east than I'd like but it's still technically Cheshire."

Brooke shook her head. "Hands up if you think Max is inventing place names to make England seem deranged."

"No hands, mate. Anyway, he's played tier 9. How about he goes to tier 8 for a month in September and tier 7 for a month in January? Maybe it's that simple. We'll pay his wages and if clubs don't use him, they don't get free players from us. Yeah, we have to eat the cost of his wages for a while but I promised him and his mum we'd look after him and it's a good experiment, too. If it works with him we can do it like a factory thing. What am I thinking of?"

"Production line," said MD.

"Right."

"Battery farming," said the Brig, who didn't like it when I treated young men like numbers.

"No, not battery farming," I said, annoyed. "Free range chickens! Happy hens, mate! Let's peck some goals in tier nine, let's nibble some corners in tier eight. In tier 7 they get one of those little huts with a walkway and they can quack up and down to their heart's content. Their lives will be fucking magical! While I'm working hundred hour weeks trying not to go fucking mental!" I put a finger to the side of my eye to see if it had started twitching. The act calmed me down. "Anyway, I'll be keeping track of them all and if they aren't treated well by their hosts you'll go and shout at them and remind them who's the boss of Cheshire. That's us, by the way, and we've got the fucking trophy to prove it. In between those loans the lads'll be training with the firsts or the reserves. We'll do it all classy and that. I want fucking organic footballers, but if there's a process that works that is understandable, great! What kind of stupid brat can't understand a number sequence anyway? You do a month in tier 9 and a month in tier 8 and in no time at all you're in the first team. It's a literal progression fantasy you ungrateful little..." I mimed strangling someone.

"I think I spaced out for a second, there," said Brooke. "Who's he mad at, now?"

MD frowned and pointed to the invisible neck I was throttling. "I think... I think that's one of the Exit Trial boys, freshly released from one of the biggest clubs in the land, who has refused to join tier five Chester because Max said he planned to immediately loan him out to a pub team."

"Conversation's over," I said. "No talking until we get to Slough."

***

"When I was six I was playing grassroots football. We played a cage tournament and this scout was there and said do you wanna play for us? I thought, damn I'm really good at this."

They disobeyed me, the dicks, and chatted merrily away during the long drive south. Slough, apparently, had been chosen because it was west of London and so was a good option for all the lads from the west country (Cornwall and Bristol and all that) as well as the capital itself.

Slough Town's stadium, Arbour Park, was tiny but quite nice. The main stand had a lot of high glass behind the few hundred high-sloping seats, giving the impression lots of VIPs were just behind, watching and drinking prosecco. The dugouts were offset to the sides of this stand, reducing the amount of belligerence between the home and away teams.

Of course, today all the teams were away teams and all the players were hoping to find a new home. I settled into a spot next to MD. Brooke sat on her own, while Ruth and the Brig formed a third unit. Divide and conquer was the plan for the day.

"Max," said MD, with his notebook open. "Can we finish talking about the squad? Midfielders?"

I nodded. We'd talked about the squad quite a lot but it was a good time to restate what we had and what we needed. If we didn't find players today our next best chance would be June 1st, when a million free agents would suddenly appear on the market. First things first, though.

"Sam Topps. New contract, 775 a week, one plus one. Ryan Jack should be back in January. Aff, slightly improved deal, 575, still one plus one. Youngster bumped up to 700, two plus one." I waited.

"Why did you stop?"

"This is where you say thank you."

"Thank you for giving your client a pay rise, Max."

"Thank you for tying down a hundred-million-pound player to a new contract, Max. Okay then we've got Wes Hayward, the Sharknado himself."

"I really think we should get him a new nickname. We can't use that in our marketing."

"Then it's the Triplets. They've both got two years left, no pay rise. By the end of the season, Aff left, Sharknado right, Sam Topps and Youngster in the middle. I mean in terms of quality it's good enough. Bit of pace on the wings. We're short of some guile in the middle, though. We don't know what state Ryan will be in so we can't count on that. Andrew's going to be very good but he's a runner. If one of these exit kids can dribble or pick out a pass from central midfield, we need to get right on it."

"What about the Triplets, Max? You've been very coy about them."

I looked around. The main stand was filling up. Not long until the first match! My pulse increased. Three matches a day across three days! Nine batches of talented kids! Nine Christmases! I tried to calm myself down. "Okay, look. Andrew's the one, okay? He's the one who can come with us. To the... to League One. He could play in the Championship, I reckon. So he's going to fetch a few million when it's time for him to go. We've put a lot into him and his family and he understands that and I think he'll be loyal. But Michael's pretty much in the same boat as Vivek and Noah is a bit lower than that. The three of them can have careers but Andrew's the golden ticket."

MD eyed me. "I feel like you're telling me that because you want something. I can't tell what."

I declined the invitation to elaborate. "Then we've got WibRob and Pascal. No new deal for Pascal in case we piss off the work permit people. He's not too happy about it."

"He's not too happy with anything right now."

Pascal had left the digs in a huff. Didn't want to live there anymore and the reason was clear. In the Future area of his player profile it said 'Dislikes Henri Lyons'.

"I know. I'm hoping it'll blow over otherwise we've got six more years of dealing with the moody bastard."

"I don't want to do such long-term contracts again, Max. It's bad for my indigestion."

I glanced around. A guy about MD's age had taken a seat one away from Brooke and had started chatting her up. "You've seen him play. You get what he can do, now, and so do a lot of people. Worst case scenario we let him go for free. There will be takers and we'll have that contract off the budget. But I'm hopeful he'll get over it by the start of the season and he can really kick on. This could be his year. WibRob's on 500 a week which you'll soon see is crazy cheap. You'll spend most of the season fending off calls about him."

"Would you want another player like that? A flexible forward type?"

"Sure. The only downside would be the guys getting in each other's way in terms of first-team minutes. But players like that are worth a fortune. If all I get from these days is one guy half as good as William, I'll be pretty satisfied."

"What about strikers? We're very, very short. We've only got Henri."

I scoffed. "Luisa has Henri. No-one's seen him. Have you heard he's moved out of the digs, too?"

"No. When?"

"Since they started dating but now it's official. He's got himself a love nest somewhere. Somewhere he can bring her without being surrounded by my free range footballers." I tutted and shook my head. "He's left Charlotte in charge. She gets her rent free but has to get Andrew to get Noah to clean up his mess. Poor girl."

"How does that work financially? As far as I can tell he's not making enough from the digs to pay the mortgage."

"Yeah he's eating money on it at the mo, plus now he's got his bachelor pad. Can you imagine what he's spending on candles? I'm not sure how long he can stay like that."

"You increased his wages to a thousand a week. I feared it would be more than that so you did well there. Adding the squad as it is plus your management team of John and Sandra plus your good self gives us a sum of 14,625. I've given you a discretionary budget of 22,000. That leaves you seven thousand three hundred to get two goalkeepers, at least one defender, a crafty midfielder, and two strikers. Does that sound about right?"

"Yeah but when you say it like that... Seven thousand for six players. That's crazy tight. Give me a gee gee, bro."

"You have a few hundred thousand in the kitty if you want to really push out the boat."

That money was what remained from selling Raffi Brown and buying solar panels, plus giving the women's team a capital injection. I was treating it like an emergency fund, for now, until I saw how the squad looked on June 2nd. It was perfectly possible I'd have a sensational squad by then. If not, I could burn my reserves to add in another couple of players. "Oh, shit. Here they come!"

***

"At twelve I was bossing matches and living, breathing, sleeping football."

I grabbed MD by the arm and shook him. "Come friendly scouts and fall on Slough, it's full of hot prospects now!"

"Is that John Betjeman?"

"You betcha, man. Oh, give me a minute, this is incredible."

Two sets of twelve players had emerged along with a referee and his assistants. The players were in green or white. MD took out a tablet computer and went to a website where he was able to watch the stream of the match. Pointless since we were in the stadium, but it showed that we were in competition for signatures not just with the people in the ground, but football clubs and universities all over the world. He paused the feed on an image of the player line-ups - just like on real TV! - and compared them with the handouts we'd been offered when we came in. They matched.

The pitch was in good nick and the players were clearly motivated to impress. These were the ones who had been given the dreaded news and opted to keep fighting. What of the others who had simply slipped away? Were their talents lost to the game forever? I blinked and refocused.

The first thing that struck me was the pace of the match. The quality was decent but slow with soft tackles and it was painfully obvious that the teams comprised absolute strangers and that the managers had shoved a few square pegs into round holes. The second thing I fixated on were the CA and PA ranges.

The CAs went from 10 - how was that possible after so long in an academy? - to mid 30s. That was interesting. If their former clubs were acting rationally and these were the lowest performers, I'd need to put out a CA 30 team to stand the slightest chance of winning the FA Youth Cup. That seemed hard to achieve. I could get to 20, perhaps... Thirty would come next year. Did I really want to write off an entire season? No chance. I'd have to get first team minutes for as many of my potential Youth Cup team as possible.

I took a deep breath. The PAs.

These kids had Potential Ability ranging from the 20s - fool's gold - to way over 100. Some were so talented it was pure madness they'd been released. Plymouth Argyle had released a Championship level striker. QPR had shed a very, very good midfielder. What the actual fuck?

I swung into action, whipping my phone out so rapidly I bumped into MD and nearly made him drop his tablet. I started with Ruth.

Lucas Cook.

I glanced around and saw her show the message to the Brig. They got up and ambled to an organiser. If Lucas's family was in, Ruth would begin the schmoozing.

"What?" said MD.

"Huh?"

"You were clicking your tongue. You do that when you're trying to make a decision."

"Oh, it's nothing."

I'd been wondering about buying Contracts 3. It would tell me which agent represented a player. That would be very handy right now since I'd be able to save Ruth some time. If this kid already had an agent, there was no point in her trying to sign him up. Our agency was still in its infancy, though, and Ruth needed the practice. If she could steal players from rival agents, that would be worth a lot of experience points for her, wouldn't it? I scratched my chin. I hoped no-one else had a curse, though it seemed likely there were people like me all over the world. I snapped out of it - I had a mission. I texted Ruth again.

Fast, powerful striker with mad potential. It's absurd he's here today. Mention Chester by all means, but more likely you'll have to suggest Tranmere or Crawley.

There were about 50 scouts and agents in the main stand, and lots of parents. Inside there were refreshments - tea and coffee for the professionals, the same plus sausage rolls for the families. The overall vibe was, to me, positive and hopeful.

Next I texted Brooke.

Stop flirting with that guy. He's an agent and not a very good one.

His assets under management were rated by the curse at thirty thousand pounds. Ruth had those numbers floating over her head, too. The curse rated Dani, Angel, WibRob, and Bark as only worth a combined forty-five thousand pounds. All right, but let's see that number a year from now!

We'd made an Exit Squad Whatsapp group for the day.

Brooke, please find out about Osei Bentil. He seems a level below everyone else.

Osei was the CA 10 kid. I watched in silence for a while, calculating. Lucas Cook was the standout player - PA 142 with good attributes. He would score goals in the Championship for sure. Was he a dick? Ruth and the Brig would find out. The next best was a PA 128 midfielder with poor technique. What could you do with him? Turn him into Sam Topps on steroids? It wasn't my kind of player. Next was a PA 99 right back but he was so slow. Pace 4. Could he make it? Could he have a good career? I spent a few minutes convincing myself he could. But he couldn't.

Osei had a bad injury. He hasn't been able to play for a while.

I pushed my phone into my lips for a minute. The kid was PA 60. Did I want to take on kids that low? From the far side of the country? I couldn't. I couldn't give away minutes that Dan and Tyson needed unless the new guy was an amazing upgrade. I didn't really feel like abandoning the kid, though. We'd be putting out CA 100+ teams soon enough.

This Osei could be as good as Sam Topps. We don't have a space for him. Call some of your National League South friends and tell them to give this kid a chance. Tell them he is Max Blessed.

"I'm right here," he said.

"I know. I don't want to say it out loud. Bradley fucking Rymarquis just turned up, the twat. He's just out of punching range."

MD shook his head and idly looked through his phone. Finally, he landed on a name he liked and dialled. He got into some chitchat before talking about the player. I was pleased to hear that my recommendation impressed the guy on the other end of the line.

If you want some brownie points, call around to recommend green 6 and white 2. They're not perfect but they'll do amazing work in tier six and maybe make their clubs a bit of cash.

I showed it to him while he was still talking. He nodded and continued his chat. Networking was a big part of his job and the better he did it, the more booze he got offered when we played away games.

Who else? What about the PA 60 goalie or the PA 70 centre back? They had no obvious weaknesses but could I really give up more slots in the squad and commit wages to such players? My database was so large now I would easily find dozens of PA 70 options amongst the hundreds of experienced pros whose contracts were coming to an end. I could get players with the same ceilings but much higher CA. I could skip a year or two of development. I could make life easy for myself.

"What's up, Max?"

"Huh? What?"

MD had paused his call to check on me. "You were huffing and puffing."

"Was I? Just thinking things through. Maybe I'll go for a walk and clear my head. Get a tea." I stood up to do just that and had a thought. These were matches, right? Fifty minutes with a referee in a proper stadium. Was I getting experience points?

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

I was. 1 per minute. I sat down. Tea could wait till the break.

***

"We went to a youth tournament in Holland and I played great and I was buzzing all the way home. At the next session my coach pointed to the first team and said you'll be there soon. One more season you'll be on that pitch. I was made up. So happy. He was saying how close I was to my dream. I told my friends, my parents, the coach said my dream was alive."

Ruth was happy. She'd spent almost the entire first match flirting with Lucas Cook's older brother, who'd driven him to the event. The Brig was less happy, which made me laugh. Then they'd met Lucas himself, who seemed surprised events were moving forward so quickly.

"Did you get him?" I asked. MD and Brooke were elsewhere.

"We're in with a shot," said Ruth. "The brother's been a sort of agent for him and it hasn't gone that well. He's willing to accept Lucas needs professional help."

"Why," I started, but then lowered my voice. As part of the pretence that we were a bunch of strangers, we were in a deserted corridor near the drinks area and our voices could easily carry. If I didn't know where Rymarquis was, I'd prefer to do the entire conversation by text. "Why did he get cut?"

"We need to investigate," said Ruth, leaning into the Brig. "Their version is personality clash. Things were okay until the last couple of seasons but then he got a new coach who didn't like him and whatever Lucas did was never enough. Lucas himself readily admits he got lazy. Stopped working hard. So it could be that he's got a bad attitude but it really didn't seem like that. We'll investigate."

"He's a young man of great promise," said the Brig, sternly.

I blinked at him. His tone was odd. "Did you mention Chester?"

"He was like, is that a university? He says if he's going to university he'd rather go to America. But he'd heard of Tranmere. That's a proper name. That got him excited."

Mildly infuriating, but it was okay. He could go to Tranmere and start his career and our agency would make a couple of mill in fees over the next ten years. Acceptable.

Yes, all in all, a good start to the day. They announced the next match would start soon and we made our way back inside. The Brig still had a tiny storm cloud over his head. Quite unexpected. Surely he didn't mind Ruth flirting a little bit?

***

"I got a letter in the post that said unfortunately we won't be bringing you back next season best of luck. To get that knock back after what I'd been told was just around the corner was horrible. I couldn't process it and I buried it deep down, as far as I could."

The next match was black versus red, and I noticed Rymarquis perk up. He was here to scout one of the guys. If I could find out who...

Me: Brooke, could you sit near the guy who looks so smothered in suntan oil that if you pushed him he'd slide for about five metres? I want to know who he's here for.

Brig: Pardon me, Miss Star. Sir, what are you planning?

Me: We could mess up the move or dangle some less talented kid in front of him. Make him waste his time!

Brig: And waste the young man's time, too? Are we here to cause inconvenience to your enemy or to support these young men?

Me: The second one. FINE. Forget the fun side quest. Let's be deadly serious the WHOLE DAY.

Brig: Yes. Let us be deadly serious when it comes to the lives of young men who have recently received devastating news.

Wow. The Brig was fuming about something! I let it drop. Brad could do his bad Brad things as long as it didn't get in my way.

The match kicked off and this time there were no guys over PA 130, but there were a couple of interesting midfielders.

Ruth, can you find out about Josh Owens? That's Chester business, by the way. Brooke, Omari Naysmith. Brig, there's a good player there called Snij Punt. I'd love to know more about him.

"There's no-one called Snij Punt," said MD, looking at his lists. "Oh. Snipe hunt. You love to live dangerously. John's clearly not in the mood for jokes. By the way, I checked the match feed and they didn’t show the team sheets for the second match. Someone in the office got lazy, I think. Someone watching at home might like a player but have to do some extra work to get their name and that might put them off. You know, if they’re busy or lazy. So that could be an advantage, right? If we like players in the second or third matches?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Good catch.”

“So tell me about the real players. What are we looking at?" said MD. We were next to each other again, while Brooke was in the same general area as before - pointedly avoiding the agent - and Ruth and the Brig were over to the right. They set off to ask the organisers about the targets I’d given them. I realised I was rushing into things and it would get very weird if Ruth and Brooke kept finding gems within minutes of kick off.

"Owens is a left-sided player. Wing back's his best position. He's playing central midfield, here, which is nuts. I wonder if that's where he played for his club and that's why he got cut? This whole world is mad, Mike. He'd be amazing for us. He could cover Eddie or Aff. Naysmith is a conventional midfielder. Not my dream signing given our squad but train him up, sell him, I mean, what's not to like?"

"We can't do a scattergun approach, Max. I liked it when you compared our squad-building to playing Tetris. Slot one player in, slot the next one, the next. Very rational."

"Yeah but sometimes Tetris gives you five of the same blobs in a row. We have to embrace our blobs."

The ladies took an inordinate amount of time getting back to me, but as the match neared its conclusion, my phone vibrated.

Brooke: Naysmith's former team have sent their Head of Recruitment to watch this event and to support their player in finding new opportunities. They liked him as a player and person but have lots of similar players of that profile. They expect him to find another club but apparently he hasn't played well today? So it might take more time.

MD and I looked at each other. I nodded. He got up and brushed some sausage roll crumbs off himself. When had he got a sausage roll for fuck's sake? My stomach growled.

Ruth: Owens won't move north.

Me: Okay.

I sat trying to decide if I wanted Omari Naysmith more than I wanted a sausage roll. On balance, yes. CA 20 PA 103, no obvious weaknesses. His only flaw, from my point of view, was that he played a position I had plenty of cover for and he played the role in the same way as everyone else.

Beggars can't be choosers. If he would come for a decent salary, I'd definitely take him. Turning him down wasn't really an option unless we got terrible references.

Where were my squad? Brooke was back on her side of the stand, networking with someone the curse told me was an administrator at Lewes FC. Ruth was chatting up an event organiser - good idea - and the Brig... The Brig was having a very intense conversation with a rando. It looked like a player's mother and she seemed to be crying. The hell was he up to?

***

"I felt humiliated and I didn't know who to talk to. The club said their door was always open if I needed it but they did this to me so why would I talk to them? I had to clear my stuff out and leave just like that. I'd been there five years. They was all my besties one minute and next thing, I'm done. Everything to nothing in the blink of an eye. My mates from outside the game couldn't understand what it was like. My parents had sacrificed so much, driving me around, taking days off. It was hardest when I thought of me dad. He'd done so much and now I wasn't gonna be a footballer."

Seeing my guys 'work the room' led me to reconsider my position. I'd intended to be the spider in the centre of the web, directing my flies to go hither and thither. Maybe it would do me some good to talk to a few people, though, if only to make it seem like I was the kind of person you might call if you found a hot prospect.

I made a show of trying to flirt with Brooke, who was more than happy to shoot me down. With a sheepish grin I went back a few rows and sat near the failed agent and got talking to him. Now that I'd been brought down to his level - as if! - the conversation flowed freely.

Turned out he wasn't a failed agent but a good one. The industry had begun to sicken him, though, so he had been moving his clients on or letting them go and was down to his last two. One was about to take to the pitch. The agent would try his best to get the kid's career going and then step aside.

The story got my pulse racing - destiny calling! - but when the yellow and blue teams emerged I was quickly disappointed. The kid had CA 25 but only PA 36.

I waited for ten minutes, watching more and more gloomily until finally I said it was nice to meet the guy but that I wanted to spread my wings. My entire body screamed that I'd made a mistake and tensed up so much I had to go and get a cup of tea. As I stood at the back and followed the match, I wondered what it was that felt so off about the whole day.

***

Exit Trials Day Two - Solihull Moors

Solihull is a place that, viewed on a map, is clearly part of Birmingham, but don't make the mistake of saying that to a local. It's just south of Birmingham Airport and is featured on the Visit Birmingham website, but hey! If you want to get snippy and say it isn't Birmingham, fine.

The same group took the same car to Birmingham and settled into the same routine. Three matches, lots of talented players, lots of networking. The only difference, really, was that the Brig was even more distant than the day before and was ruining everyone else's sense of fun and adventure.

While Ruth talked to the relatives of guys with high PA for our agency and Brooke tried to get the goss about ones who might suit Chester, the army veteran went from parent to parent like an idiot bee. A bee who didn't care how good their sons were at football. A bee wasting its time.

Me: Ruth, have a squit-squit at yellow 3. Brooke, can you bwip-bwip-a-snip blue 5?

Ruth: What are you doing?

Me: Trying to guess what the local slang words are. I know a thousand times more about Texas than this part of the world.

Brooke: I'm not sure you do.

Me: Aw, honey. Bless your heart.

Later:

Me: Ruth, take a Peaky Blinders at black ten. Brooke, the red goalie is canaltastic. Probably too much interest in him but can you find out what his story is?

And finally:

Ruth to white 11. Brooke to green 5. Checkmate.

The stories came back and I imagined what our squad would be like if I could persuade Green 1, White 2, Red 3, and Black 4 to join. How many minutes would the player get this season? And next? How many millions would I get, and when? But the message coming back was pretty consistent - the player was not interested in joining Chester.

I wondered if these were real-world decisions or if they were based on numbers cooked up by the curse? My own reputation was still on Very Poor, though I was near the top of the Very Poor list. Chester, in the world of the curse, was still a tier 6 club. That would change (I assumed, along with lots of other things) during the curse’s post-season update. When had the last one been? During my hospitalisation? I assumed it would happen on the night of May 31 when most player contracts expired. That seemed the most natural spot for the end of the season. Anyway, it was perfectly possible that players would be more keen to join us after the update when the curse shifted us to tier 5, even though in the real world, those players understood that we had been promoted. Yes, that made sense.

Made sense? Who was I trying to kid? The whole thing was a mind fuck.

As always, I ended the day by filling in the online form saying which kids I wanted. I'd read about speed dating - you met eight people quickly and said who you'd like to meet again and if they ticked your name too, you got their phone number. Great. The problem was, when it came to these academy kids, I was a total uggo.

***

We drove back with Ruth, Brooke, and MD chatting away about the parents they'd spoken to. They swapped stories about the scouts, agents, and officials from other clubs who they'd met. About a quarter of the clubs who had released players had sent someone along to the trials as a kind of aftercare. I wasn't sure if they had to do that as part of the academy process or if they were doing it because they genuinely wanted the kids to do well.

The Brig cleared his throat and we fell silent. He hadn't spoken to anyone except Ruth for hours, except to grunt. "I propose we stop off somewhere and have an early dinner. If everyone is amenable to that."

"Oh, yes please!" said Brooke. "That'd be swell."

I turned to give Ruth a look and saw that she was worried. "I'm in," I said.

***

Ruth got busy choosing and booking a place. We drove to The Old Swan in Crewe and ate burgers and steaks out the back. If Brooke was disappointed her steak was smaller than the plate it was served on, she didn't mention it.

I suggested a bottle of red, since I got the feeling I was about to be told off by the Brig. Mercifully, it didn't take him too long to start offloading the weight he'd been carrying around.

"Max," he started, which was ominous. "The under 18s. You paraded them around the pitch in the final match of the season and told the world they were a good bunch of lads."

"Yes," I said.

"You couldn't do it the year before because you were in a coma but you mentioned them several times afterwards. In the match programme, for example. How are their releases dealt with? Who talks to them? Does anyone talk to them or is it done by email?"

"Email?" I scoffed. "I'm not releasing a player by email. As for the details, well, Spectrum does it. I tell him who we want to keep. So far it's only been Vivek."

"When do they know they won't be retained?"

I stuck my bottom lip out. "I don't know the timings. Look, what's going on?"

He stared at his tiny plate of salad and pushed it away. He put his elbows on the table and wrung his hands together. "I wonder if... I think that I'm... I was in the army."

"Yes."

He rolled his head around in some kind of anguish. He didn't want to be having this conversation any more than I did. "Coming to the football world, to your Chester, I've found a lot of similarities with the army. Our men fight for each other and there are genuine bonds forged through shared misery."

"And poems."

"You've probably heard the phrase 'leave no man behind'. It's controversial in military circles. There's only one unit in the world, I think, where it's a formal part of the doctrine. If the enemy knows you'll always go back for your mate, it leaves you open to an ambush. So it's unwritten, but if you ask me, any soldier worth his salt will always go back. I, er... I only ever disobeyed one direct order. Some orders have to be disobeyed. You saw the result when I was out drinking in London." He meant he'd gone back and saved the life of one of his drinking buddies. Or all of them, maybe. He took a big gulp of what people in Birmingham - and Solihull, strangely - call 'council pop'. "I heard you on that podcast. Rescuers are heroes, you said. Many medals have been awarded for going back to retrieve a wounded comrade."

"Yeah, course. It's your mate. You can't turn your back on him. Leave no man behind. Totally. You don't need to tell me twice."

He smiled just a fraction. "I know, Max. You'd be a terrible soldier but you'd win medals, all right." He resumed his awful hand-wringing. "These two days have been horrible. Almost every young man there has a horror story. I spoke to everyone I could. I called my friend at Aldershot Town. I spent all night reading the limited research on the topic. As kids they are invited into clubs and told they are special. Clubs dangle dreams of fame and fortune in front of them. The groups form into teams. Second families, in fact. And then it turns sour. And it turns sour for the majority, Max. Fifty percent of all academy youngsters leave before they're sixteen. 98% who get an academy scholarship aged sixteen are no longer playing serious football by eighteen. 98%! It's not just the quantity but the quality of the damage. The research describes being deselected as coming with high levels of psychological distress, Max. It's an identity crisis. Their athletic identity has been stripped away leaving nothing behind but humiliation. It is like giving a dishonourable discharge to ninety-eight percent of your squaddies. It is a fucking disgrace."

He took a moment to compose himself while Ruth reached out to hold his wrist. In the mad, intense, unpredictable stress of the moment I genuinely expected her to say 'there's a good Briggy' and nearly laughed out loud. Luckily, it was a stray thought and MD helped me out. "Those numbers are grotesque. I knew it was bad but not that bad."

"I must say that while some clubs conduct themselves well and treat their young players with dignity, most clubs are utter cowards. The first step in deselecting players is to freeze them out. They are marginalised by the coaches. A player will arrive at a session and be told there's no place for him. He'll be removed from the WhatsApp groups. Trialists will play matches instead of them. The goal, it seems, is to publicly humiliate the player to the extent that he chooses to leave or so that the player will become emotional which can be used as an excuse to deselect them."

"We don't do that," I said.

He ignored me. "Next comes the day of the rejection. The best academies stagger these decision days through the year and the worst throw all the young men into a dressing room and call them into the manager's office one by one. You can imagine how stressful that is. The best explain the decision and go through the next steps explaining all the support that's on offer. The worst tell them they've got ten minutes to clear their lockers and get their boots."

"Holy hell," said Brooke. "After they've been there for years?"

"There are still clubs that sever ties with these players by email. One from yesterday found he'd been deselected from his top six Premier League club when the retain and release list was leaked onto social media."

"Fuck," said MD.

"I spoke to him, briefly. He said the moment had left him feel shattered, and I didn't take it to mean tired. He said he had gone from someone to no-one in a split second. I talked, Max, to several parents who told me what they most worried about was losing their child to his dark thoughts. One mother got a call from a friend who'd spotted her son - her son, Max - on a bridge."

The wait staff arrived with our mains. No-one was in a rush to tuck in.

"I've been reading stories about young men trying to recreate the buzz of high-level sport by gambling, and trying to recreate their lost earning power by selling drugs."

"Did we meet those kids?" I said.

"No. The ones who come to the Exit Trials are the young men who have been shattered but are still hopeful. They're clinging to what remains of their athletic identity. Their darkest times are still ahead."

"Hang on," I said. "Half those players are good. They'll get contracts."

"The organisers said they would be happy if three or four were picked up across the three days."

"That's mental. You could easily put together a team that would win League One from that bunch."

"Then let us please do that."

"What?"

He shifted uneasily and seemed to notice his food for the first time. He sliced into his steak and that was the cue for everyone else to tuck in. "I recognise there are limits to what we can do. The ones who are lost to the game are lost to us. For now, let us focus on the Exit Trials. You say some are talented, like Pascal and Youngster. They need someone like you to teach them the sport like you did with Pascal and Youngster. Someone who will put them into the team like you did and like Miss Lane did. They need someone like me to help build them up and teach them resilience and to turn this negative into a positive. I know I can do it. I've been doing it for years and I love doing it. Put the elements together and it's clear to me that the best place for these young men is Chester Football Club."

"I agree. That's what we're doing, John. We're trying to get them. That's why we're here. I mean... what?"

He chewed for a moment. I took the chance to shove some food in me. "I couldn't sleep last night. It is good to work with Pascal and Youngster but these young men really need me. They need us, Max. I feel... this is my calling. My army friends used to ask why I'm in the football industry and these days they ask why I'm still there. Now I know the answer. This industry is cruel beyond belief and discards young men at rates that are frankly sickening. You want them at Chester. I want them at Chester. Let's get them. Let's get lots of them."

"Okay." I gestured that we could slow down and calm down. "You've been in the meetings, John. We've got budget for maybe seven new players. At least four need to be ready to play in match one. I'm already trying to develop Lucas Friend and Dan Badford and that lot. If we sign twenty new players, we will be able to help precisely nobody."

"How many can we get?"

I shook my head. "John, it doesn't matter. They don't want to come to Chester. A scholarship in America is more attractive than us, and in terms of their mental health and all that, it's probably a good option. Right? Sunshine, joggers everywhere you look, honky tonks. Then there's teams from Scandinavia and Scotland. In football terms we're below Kilmarnock and Dundee, which is an astonishing thing to say. And one of these kids moving to Sweden aged eighteen? Holy shit even I think that's better than Chester."

For the second time, John cracked a fraction of a smile. "The thought has its merits." The smile vanished. "But there's good, better, and best. We are the best option and if we aren't, we will be. I want to go through our processes so that young men leaving Chester never experience devastating trauma."

"Absolutely."

"But regardless of the ways in which we can improve, we are still head and shoulders above our peers. We should fight for these talents, Max. We have a moral imperative to do so."

I put my knife and fork down and made a slightly exasperated gesture. "John, we're on the same page. We agree totally! You don't need to be so brooding and intense and scary about it. I'm doing my absolute best. Ruth's getting those top talents and will take care of them. MD's pointed some of the kids in the direction of friendly clubs. The ones who can't hurt us by going to rivals. And we're going to show interest in, like, twelve or more. And we'll get one. Maybe two. Which by the way is fine because in my opinion it's better to get two who we develop the shit out of rather than ten we improve a little bit and their careers end anyway."

Brooke said, "What's the stumbling block to training up a whole bunch of them? Apart from money, that is."

"Yeah, well, money's the main one. But players develop from training and playing time. Most football squads have twenty-five players or fewer. It's one of those soft caps that makes sense when you see training. If you've got thirty players there's ten standing around doing nothing. So let's just say twenty-five is the limit and beyond that you start getting in your own way. These players have had training, by the way. They've had eight thousand hours of training, some of them. So then the bottleneck is that I can only have eleven players on the pitch. National League is five subs and I can use three. If I put five kids on the bench, we're going to lose games. It's that simple. If I lose too many games, I'll get sacked and MD will hire some dinosaur and every single kid we brought in is fucked. So we need to win. I need to spend most of our budget on players who can win enough matches to keep us in the top half of the table, at least. While that's going on, players like Sharknado will be getting up to speed so we can finish the season with an almighty bang. Where it's possible, I'll be giving minutes on the pitch to our young talents, believe me. But it's going to be one per league game on the bench at most, and I probably won't be using kids against the top teams because they'll just get battered and I don't think that's good for their development. Do you get me? It's incredibly complicated. I want to help these Exit Trial kids. I do! But it's not like an army where we're all on the same side. They don't want my help and I can't rescue all of them."

"You helped some players find clubs. That was the Best I know."

"Yeah I can do that to an extent, especially with the weaker players, but at some point I'm strengthening a rival. We could lose to Tranmere next year because of what I did today. Do you know what I mean? It's okay if Ruth's getting paid from it because, like, she invested in Chester Women. But why is it my responsibility to look after a hundred and fifty randos? They'll be fine. The ones with talent will get picked up and the rest will become influencers."

"History suggests," said the Brig, "and the organisers agree, that there won't be a great deal of demand for most of the players we are watching. If we are willing to offer them professional football contracts, I believe many will agree to come. But," he said, forestalling my objection, "Let us say you are right and for the first time ever every one of these young men is in high demand. Most offers will be from clubs who will continue to treat them like cattle, will they not?"

"I don't know. I don't know anything. This is all new to me. Look, what do you want?"

He paused. The air filled with electricity. The lights illuminating our table flickered. The hairs on my arm stood up. "I want you to go full Max."

"What do you mean?" I said, through lips that were suddenly bone dry.

He squirmed again. "When my former comrades ask why I'm in football, I tell them it is because of a remarkable young man who can make things happen. You can persuade Henri Lyons to commit his future to the club. You can convince a talented coach to drop five levels. You can charm a charming MBA into working for cost. And you can persuade Bonnie to let documentary cameras into the dressing room to film her sister for a year!" He'd got a bit worked up but I'd finally worked out what this conversation was all about - he was asking me for a favour. "The Max I know doesn't sit meekly in the stands while top talent slips through his fingers. He drives to Banbury to knock on a door at 9 a.m."

"You want me to drive to the homes of these kids? Beg them to choose me? It doesn't work like that. WibRob was like... like Emma. These other kids are like joggers."

"What?" said Ruth.

"I'm saying... I can go and I can try but it's not in me. That hunger. Do you know what I mean? When I go full Max, as you put it, I need to mean it."

"But you would try?"

"Aww," I said, annoyed. "It's a waste of - You know what? Sure. I'll do it if you're asking me to do it. But we have to be strategic. There's only space in the squad for two."

"Six."

"What? No. John! Listen. We need a dominant centre back and a proper National League striker. Okay? If we don't get those I get fired. You with me? Think two grand a week for those. Two grand each."

"Two grand?" said MD, horrified. “Each?”

"Yes. They're absolutely key. We must upgrade there and that's going to cost. That leaves three grand a week and I need - Jesus, John, I need all sorts of stuff! I need a crafty midfielder."

"Were there any such players yesterday or today?"

"No."

"If there is one tomorrow..."

I let out one single amused huff of air. "Why would I give minutes to a rando instead of Dan Badford, who's been with us for a while and is showing every sign of becoming a silky smooth playmaker?"

"Because Dan has not recently experienced a traumatic rejection, sir. Dan needs you but he doesn't need me, sir."

The sirs were back. I thumbed my temples as I closed my eyes and tried to imagine adding six more eighteen-year-olds to the squad. It would be unmanageable. Unworkable. Even for me. "All right, look. Can we cool off? Send me those papers you've been reading and let me think about it overnight. But going full Max means taking, like five of these kids instead of three. It's not much difference."

The Brig spoke so quietly I almost didn't catch what he said. "It's a big difference to those two young men, sir. A very big difference."

***

Exit Trials Day Three - Rochdale

I read the research papers and watched the videos the Brig sent me. It was quote after quote or clip after clip of young men who had been sold a dream and then binned off, usually after an injury.

I called Jackie to talk about it. I called Ryan Jack. I even called my private coach, Cody Chambers, since he worked with dozens of young stars every week. Every time I put a quote to them - something along the lines of 'I was Man of the Match, did my knee, and got a rejection letter five days later' - they told me about a kid they knew who had the exact same story. The more specific I got - 'I found myself on a bridge looking down wondering if I should switch sides' - the more animated they became. The stories were legion; this had been happening since the dawn of time.

It wasn't clear to me exactly what I was supposed to do about it. I couldn't stop other clubs from being dicks. I couldn't stop them from cutting their players. Maybe I could be less gleeful about snapping up the gems. Maybe I could be a little more humble about the fact that I'd been lucky on a scale that was diametrically opposed to the kids in the Exit Trials.

Before I closed my laptop for the night, some moronic impulse made me check the news. Ukraine had lost a village to the invaders and the media was full of the voice messages the last defenders had sent before dying - buying time for their mates to retreat. They were, almost to a man, sent to their mothers. I slammed my laptop closed and stared at the ceiling for most of the next six hours.

By the morning I wasn't quite as fired up as the Brig, but had made a vow to go semi-Max. Two-thirds Max. If I went beyond my assigned budget to give an Exit Trialist 500 pounds a week on a two-year contract, MD would cordon off 52,000 of my reserves to pay for it. If I went all-in on my reserves, I could get an extra six players. Six more lives we could turn around. Six wrongs we could right. And, in the end, six players we could sell for a profit one day.

One day.

Not this season, though. And using that money would tie my hands in January. There would be no Christian Fierce.

Ah, I thought. There's no way we'll pick up so many of these prospects. There's no way we'll be the number one choice for all of them. Maybe it'd satisfy the Brig - and myself - to try. To tell the boys they were valuable and that they were wanted.

But although I had a more realistic view of our place in the pecking order than the Brig, I had no plans to leave anything to chance. In addition to our C-Suite Squad, I'd also summoned my Manchester Mob - Sandra, Kisi, Youngster, Meghan, and Ziggy. Fleur and Henk had come, too, which had been pre-planned, but Henk's struggles at Tranmere would give us yet another 'in' if we needed an icebreaker. I would blast prospects from all sides.

When the Brig saw Sandra, he stood ramrod straight for a few moments. He followed it up by wrapping his arms around her and squeezing. Meghan tapped him and held her arms wide. "My turn," she said. She got a firm handshake.

When it came to players I didn't want, I would hype them up to scouts from other clubs, which was pretty much the most I could do. If it came back to bite me on the arse one day, great.

In an ideal world, I'd help the kids with low PA ease out of their 'athletic identity' completely. Brooke came up with all kinds of ideas for that - CV writing workshops, getting them discounts on online courses, connecting them with careers advisors - but in the end they weren't our players and we didn't have the responsibility - or the budget. I suggested she call the Chester eighteens teams from the past few years and check how they were getting on. "Invite them to help with Chester Chatters and all that. Have a reunion day in the executive box. MD won't mind slumming it in the cheap seats one match a season."

As for the football, the day went as the others had - three matches, 55 players, plenty of scouts and agents in attendance. My minions networked and eavesdropped on conversations - the Brig agreed that was a good use of time since we could know which kids were likely to be picked up and thus didn't need our help - and most of all, we chatted to parents.

After twenty minutes, I got busy in our new, expanded WhatsApp.

Ruth. Top prospect is Nelson Smith-Howes. Green 7. Right winger.

Sandra, can you ask about green 3? He was released from City.

Youngster, see that guy by the aisle with the shittest haircut in the north? He's a scout from Alty. Introduce yourself and ask him what he thinks of Sonny Oputeri. Point out Alty's manager loves that kind of player.

And so on.

In the next match there were a lot of middling players - we went around pumping the best ones up while MD made calls - but it was in the final match of the three days, yellow versus blue, that we struck gold.

Brig, the left back. Cole Adams. If you get his address, we'll WibRob him.

Cole was a tall, ginger left back from Ireland. I didn't really want a young left back, since I had Lucas Friend who needed first team minutes. Cole was PA 147, though. According to my analysis of the CAs needed to compete in the various leagues, that put him near the top of the Championship in terms of quality. And while I preferred a fast, dynamic full back, tall ones were interesting, too. They could help you defend and attack set pieces.

Brooke, yellow 9. Tom Westwood.

Tom was a striker with PA 92, which was an utterly maddening number. With his CA of 25, it'd take him most of the season to get close to National League levels. And, of course, we would get promoted so he would start next season miles off League Two pace. And just as he was getting to grips with League Two, we'd be in League One and his progress would have maxed out.

But I couldn't seriously turn my nose up at a free, academy-trained young striker with high PA. If I voiced my doubts to the Brig, he'd turn those ladykiller eyes on me and look sad. Why not skip to the part where I offered Tom a deal?

I shook my head. There was something off about him. He was just mediocre. He had Finishing 9, for example. Technique 8. Heading 8. He wasn't exceptional at anything and wasn't particularly good at anything, either. By far his best attribute was his stamina - 15. How would I use him?

I shrugged. The curse said he would develop into something. If I signed him right now, Tom Westwood would immediately become my second best striker and unlike with left backs, I could always throw more strikers onto a pitch and give him minutes that way.

I yawned and closed my eyes. Constantly cycling through my squad and imagining these young players filling in the gaps while calculating whose pathway they'd be blocking was bloody draining. I decided I needed a break and stood and stretched.

The Brig looked at me. Those big, sad, Disney eyes.

I sat back down. Leave no man behind. Inexplicably, I thought of my mother and the boots she had bought for me.

I could squeeze a few more names into the squad somehow, right? Just how many left backs were too many, really?

***

When it was all over, we went out to the car park and waited for the stragglers. The Brig was still inside, knee-deep in a conversation with some poor wretch and his parents. Ruth was still schmoozing one of the VIP players. And, surprisingly, Henk was talking to one of the boys, giving him a pep talk. Henk was two years younger, but his Influence must have been higher than I thought. Surprising amount of Chesterness from the lad! I said so to his mum and she got all dewy-eyed.

Fleur and the rest of us gathered in a talkative group. Chester Chatters on tour. Sandra, Ziggy, and I bickered about Tom, the striker, with two-thirds of the conversation's participants not rating him. I suggested to Ziggy that no-one had given him a chance until I came along and he flipped instantly saying Westwood made good runs and got into good positions.

Meghan was fascinated by Brooke, and I think the feeling was mutual.

The Brig, Ruth, and Henk came out of the stadium together and joined our huddle. Suddenly there was a guy next to me wearing the training tops the organisers wore.

"Was that you?" he said.

"Me? What? That smell was here before. You can’t prove anything."

The guy was in the Jude mould - quiet and serious and competent. He had short hair and thick-rimmed glasses. The curse gave me no information about him whatsoever. He looked from the group back to me. "I'm Sean. Normally at these events, people sit still and watch the match and go home. Yesterday was different and today it's been more like a cocktail party. What are you doing?"

I shrugged. "Just trying to make sure the good players get noticed."

"You're Chester, right? If you want them, register your interest. Why spread the word?"

"There's loads of talent. We can't take it all."

He was suddenly bright-eyed. "That's what I've been saying! My bosses are happy if we get four players signed up to clubs. I've been saying we should aim higher but - Well. It is what it is."

"You guys run a good event and it's admirable, but it's like a buffet. I come and gorge myself and I'm happy but all the leftovers get chucked out." I swirled my finger around to indicate my group. "We hate food waste. We're big hippies, aren't we, John?"

Seeing our motley crew throw themselves into the day's challenge had been uplifting for him and now he picked Meghan up and spun her around. She squeaked wildly. Youngster tapped him, held his hands out, and said, "My turn."

"Yes, Max!" said the Brig, returning to the conversation. "Yes we are big hippies. Vegan hotdogs all round." He had spoken to Sean a few times during the Trials. "Max wants to go and knock on the doors of the most talented players and convince them to join us at Chester. What do you think about that?"

Sean glanced behind him and murmured, "It's not exactly conventional." He thought about it. "But why not? They've only had bad news for weeks. Even if they don't join you, it'll be a happy memory just when they need it most."

The Brig beamed. "Just what I've been suggesting. Perfect! Sean, walk with me. We've helped some of these young men. What happens, I wonder, to the others?"

As the Brig walked away, he left a huge gaping hole in the area. His charisma was off the scale. He was living his best life, fulfilling his mission. His purpose. Everyone could sense it.

Sandra had stepped closer. She turned so that she was speaking towards my ear and away from everyone else. "I'm all for this, Max. I know you'll look after these boys the way you looked after Charlotte and I'm happy to be a part of it. But you're going to get some players we can use right away, too. Right? Max? Max!"

***

"I went to an Exit Trial and tried my best but I had to play out of position. I'd never played there before. I thought I did okay, maybe, but not enough to catch the eye of the scouts. That was it. My last chance gone. I can't lie, I went home and must have just cried for half an hour. Next morning I couldn't get up. Didn't see the point. Was on my bed not doing owt, not moving, not talking to anyone. Then there's a knock on the front door and I hear loads of people coming in the house. My mum's laughing and someone turns the radio up and it's like a Spanish song or something and it sounds like people are dancing. I want to go find out what's happening but still can't get going. There's someone coming up the stairs, knock on my door, this tall dude with brown eyes comes in. He looks around, nods at me, says rise and shine, soldier! Today's the first day of the rest of your life. Something like that, anyway. I was just, like, too stunned. He's about to leave when he stops. Come on, then, he says. Don't keep him waiting. I say, who? It's the first thing I've said in ages. He looks at me like I'm crazy. Your new manager, he says. Then he smiles. Eggs, bacon, sausage, that's what you need. And he rubs his hands. Just thinking about it makes me hungry, he says, sort of laughing. I laugh, too. And I get up."