5.

The Curse

by Bethany Alban

Reprinted with kind permission of Lionised magazine, the only women's football magazine dedicated to long-form content and in-depth tactical analysis.

Introduction - Urine Trouble Now

In sport, curses are everywhere you look. The Boston Red Sox were cursed after trading Babe Ruth to the Yankees and didn't win a World Series for 86 years. At least two English football clubs were cursed when they forced Romani people away from land they had been using. (In Birmingham, a manager called Barry Fry urinated on every corner flag to lift the stadium's curse, while in 1946, after five decades of bad luck, representatives from Derby County begged for forgiveness and finally won the FA Cup.) Most ominously, there is the Curse of Ramsey. Whenever the Welsh star Aaron Ramsey scores, someone famous dies. Ramsey has slain Robin Williams, Alan Rickman, and David Bowie.

Those are the famous curses.

I believe I have discovered another.

Maxday One - Like Clockwork

The old saying goes, 'Football is a game of two halves'. The first half might be drab and featureless while the second explodes into life. From nil-nil to three-two, and one's mood is irrevocably changed. Suddenly there is something to talk about, there are events to discuss, there are feelings to feel. Suddenly, the game is worth playing.

The first half of my trip to Germany was like that nil-nil. I had been sent by my newspaper, The Daily Mail, to the Men's European Championships to collect 'colour' - quotes from the man in the street, the new songs invented by wandering hordes of Scottish fans, the latest must-do trend from the England banter brigade. My work would support the work of more senior colleagues, those who actually got to go inside the stadiums. The ones who got to see the matches. If I was very lucky, I might stumble upon something interesting or silly enough to warrant its own brief article under my own byline. Four inches, ladies, was the best I could hope for.

Work is work, work has its own dignity, and I was lucky to have a stable job in a dying industry, but a week in and the monotony was starting to weigh on my shoulders. The Mail paid for my accommodation and gave me a stipend but I was shocked at how little it bought me. I was living on bretzels and beer - it was that or go bankrupt. Nor was my work sustaining me - tramping around Munich talking to butchers, bakers, and TikTok clip makers. Did you see yesterday's football? What's your prediction? Who's your favourite player? The problem with grinding is that you get worn down.

Thus was my mood as I stood in Marienplatz in the heart of the city, staring up at the Glockenspiel. It is a geriatric clock stuck onto the side of the town hall and twice a day some figures slowly rotate while bells ring. In 1908, I'm sure it was a sensation, but in 2024 I can summon an AI filmmaker to produce any clip I can imagine. Computer, show me highlights of Brazil 1970 playing against Spain 2008.

There's a crowd of people around me, also trying to enjoy the show, and I know I should use the clock as an icebreaker to ask some Danes or Serbs what they're feeling about their team's chances. Or I could ask the woman in the frankly enormous hat if she is cosplaying as Audrey Hepburn. My boss would lose his mind if I sent him a photo of a ravishing blonde along with a snappy quote about, I don't know, Portugal versus Turkey.

The show finishes and the crowd disperses. A few people walk in the direction of a collection box, but no-one drops in a Euro. The clock, it seems, is a metaphor for journalism itself. People are happy to crane their necks when there's nothing else to do, but they aren't willing to pay for it.

My stomach growls; it is time for my twice-daily giant bretzel. My growling stomach will be the catalyst for everything that is to follow.

Just then, I hit my lowest ebb for a long time. I'm an award-winning writer. My podcast interview with Donnie Wormwood, the champion boxer, has moved my hard-nosed, embittered colleagues to tears. In the half-ironic words of an old friend from Manchester, "I'm massive." So why am I still on the bottom rung? When will I be able to afford three meals a day? If this is success, what is failure?

"Bethany!"

I can't believe my eyes. It's the blonde woman in the enormous hat! She is, in fact, Emma Weaver, a lawyer whose world is divided. Five days a week she's a straight-laced pen-pusher and desk jockey. Come the weekend she attends the madcap adventures of football's most energetic puppy, Max Best. He's the player-manager of fifth tier Chester FC and while on any given day he may pretend to be rude or uncaring I know for a fact he's got a heart of gold. More importantly, since I'm supposed to be writing about football, when it comes to this crazy sport of ours he's a genius. After a wildly successful season, he should be on Cloud Nine.

Emma takes me by the elbow and I find myself being plopped in front of the man himself. Our metallic, rickety table, is outside, on the platz, a real tourist trap. The last place I'd expect to find the reclusive Mancunian.

"Guten tag," I say.

"I don't know what that means, you dick."

I smile. He's in one of his moods! The only man in Munich who would have interesting thoughts about the evening's match between Portugal and Czech Republic is the only man who would refuse to talk to me about it. I'm suddenly elated. Is my exciting second half about to kick off?

"Where's your Manager of the Year award? I heard you never leave home without it."

Despite himself, he laughs, and I feel the sun on my skin and hear the happy chatter of the nearby tables. I'm in Germany reporting on a big football tournament. It's not so bad!

"Did you see the clock?" says Emma. "It's great, isn't it?"

"Oh, fantastic, yes. Did you like it, Max?"

"Questions are a burden to others; answers a prison for oneself." I don't know why, but I smile harder. This disarms him somewhat and he pushes his sunglasses onto his forehead. "It must be a good piece of engineering and it's funny in its own way. Given the constraints of the medium - it's a clock for fuck's sake - it's pretty good. But what I like is that we've all just done something that people've done since the clock was installed, right? We're part of that tradition, now. That's one of the things I like about football. I'm the manager of Chester FC but there were guys before me and there will be guys after. The clock, the Saturday match, the Euros, it's part of a thread, isn't it? A sort of ritual that tells us we're not just corks bobbing in the ocean. We're connected."

"That was beautiful, Max," says Emma, who is taking the piss.

He sighs. "She complains when I snarkily comment on everything - which is the whole point of being abroad, surely? And she complains when I'm romantic. Well, Beth, it was lovely to be stalked by you today but I wouldn't like to keep you from your duties."

"She's my guest, Max. You can't kick her out. Bethany, do you want a beer?"

"Oh, I couldn't."

My stomach chimes louder than the Glockenspiel.

"Did you skip brek, mate?" wonders Max.

I freeze. If there's anyone in the world I don't want feeling sorry for me, it's Max Best. On the other hand, it's obvious I haven't eaten. "Germany's a bit more expensive than I expected. I was just on my way to eat, though."

"Don't you work in London?" He's suggesting that if I can afford London prices, I can afford Munich.

"Not really, no. I'm based in Manchester. I work the northern beat. But yeah, anyway, I'll get out of your hair."

"Go fash, lose cash," says Max.

"What the fuck," says Emma. She's been on my side ever since I helped get an innocent man out of trouble. Max is on my side, too, but in a different way.

"I'm just saying - "

"Well, don't."

"I'm just saying that while I'm broadly pleased that the Daily Stain doesn't have a massive expenses budget I'm also deeply concerned about the well-being of my longtime friend Beth. We have a saying in Chester: leave no Manc behind. Beth shall join us for lunch! Max Best has spoken."

Before I can refuse, my stomach accepts the invitation on my behalf. So begins the second half of my trip.

***

We drink our beers and walk around until Max finds a place he likes. It's identical to six other restaurants we walked past.

Even though it's a gorgeous day, we're inside by the window. This is because Max is infuriated when people smoke during meals and if there are rules against smoking in the outside sections of German restaurants, they are not enforced. The enormous beer and the warmth of the space brings me out in a light sheen but the prospect of ordering from a menu - an actual menu - makes this my favourite spot in Germany. Max has said I can order what I want, without exception, except the lobster. He likes me, he says, but not enough to drop 'lobster money'.

"Why this restaurant?" I say. "Not that I'm complaining. It looks lovely."

He gestures vaguely. "I wanted one of those German versions of Hooters. The ones where they're dressed as lusty medieval wenches. Maybe they're only open in October. Oh, shit!"

"What?" says Emma.

"The Scotch are here." A gaggle of burly men wearing blue are wandering around the streets of Munich looking for a place to eat. They seem to have been following the same thought process as Max. Where are all the bewbs? Max sinks partway under the table as though he has offended the entire nation of Scotland at some point and needs to hide. "Why are they still here? They played Germany on the 14th but their game today is in Cologne. That's like, far. Look at the sunburn on that one. You should lend him your big hat, bebs."

"He does look ill. Who are those ones coming the other way?"

"Er, Serbia, I think. They're playing Slovenia here tomorrow."

"It's fun, isn't it? Seeing all the countries. Everyone's getting along. Everyone apart from you and - "

"Yeah, yeah." Max looks away from all the passersby and gives his girlfriend his full attention. "Are you having a good time? Is this your dream holiday?"

Emma sips on her European coffee, which she later tells me is the same as what she drinks in England but being priced in Euros makes it seem exotic. "There's been more driving around and breaking into training sessions than I expected. And a lot more complaining about parking, how they serve tea, and people driving fast on the autobahn." A little smile breaks out as she looks at me. "I do like a beach holiday but that's Max's least favourite. It has been fun. I'm looking forward to Dusseldorf."

"I was born in Dusseldorf and that is why they call me Rolf."

She smiles. "Why do you keep saying that? Do you know, Bethany?"

"No. It's just Max being weird, isn't it? Did you listen to my podcast?"

"No," says Max. "And I didn't cry."

I beam. That means he did and he did. I flick through the pages of the menu. "There's no lobster."

Max explodes into laughter. "Is that why you've been taking so long to decide what you want? You're busy looking for lobster?"

"Bethany, what are you doing in Munich?"

"Oh, covering the Euros for the paper."

"That's great!"

I try to smile but it doesn't happen. I realise I'm desperate for a proper conversation even if it makes me look bad. "Not really. I mean, it's amazing and everything but I'm not in the stadiums. They've got me doing street reporting. Getting quotes from the fans."

Max says, "Are they making you talk to guys with Scottish flags painted on their faces?"

I laugh. "That kind of thing, yeah."

He leans forward, all serious and intense. He pats me on the hand. "You go ahead and order that lobster. I mean it."

"Have you got lobster money or not?"

"Yeah, I suppose I do. We're both underpaid, but we're underpaid on a different scale, I reckon."

This is confusing. It's not like Max to complain about his wages at Chester; it's his choice to be there instead of plying his trade at a bigger, richer club. So if he isn't complaining about Chester underpaying him...

Our starters come, along with another massively tall glass of wheat beer.

Max pokes at a delicious-looking white wine soup. "I got my pay rise, Beth. From Chester. That's nice. I feel a tiny bit less constricted, now. I've got more opportunities. And this TV thing - "

I slam my beer onto the table, causing a tiny, wheaty wave to launch upwards and drop back into the glass. "Sorry," I say, then remember my Duolingo training. "Tur me lied," I say to the waitress and the customers on nearby tables. They act like I spoke total gibberish which is impossible because I got five owls in a row. "I totally forgot about your TV thing!"

"Yeah, well, I'm not really doing it for the money. It's a free holiday, right? So that's good. But mostly..." He spoons some soup into his mouth and frees his hands so he can massage his forehead. "I need a striker."

"Then get one."

"Yeah, I'm trying. I started out fussy then got picky. I'm on choosy at the moment, heading very quickly towards grabby."

"Choosy? What sort of striker do you want?"

"One with any sort of discernible quality who will come for a decent wage. It's... I'm not dispirited. I'm not. I'm upbeat. I'm peppy. Tell her, bebs."

"He's peppy."

"Are you okay, Max?"

I watch as he answers. He's not okay. He's struggling in some way. It's hard to think why - his life's on track. He has overachieved for his age and his peers are jealous. Five years from now he'll be within touching distance of the very top of his profession.

I catch my own reflection and realise I'm describing myself. I'm coming out of my bad first half. Max is stuck in his.

He tries to put his thoughts into words I might understand. "I've been rejected by, like, three strikers and two goalies. At the moment I'm just trying to get a striker. That's like, mad focus to reduce the variables. So... there are three strikers who haven't rejected me out of hand. They're coming at me with wage demands, right? So when I get to a higher... Wow, this is hard. Er... If I was more famous, they'd come for less money, right? That's obvious if you think about it. So I'm doing some science. If I get famous and their wage demands go down, I know what to do."

"You're trying to get more famous? That really doesn't sound like you."

"I think my, er... let's say my reputation is close to a boundary. A good Euros could push me up into the next category of manager, right, and that'd help me attract new players. Access to a bigger pool. You're laughing. I know. It's moronic. But it's like, what else can I do? I'm almost getting desperate."

"You're not desperate, bebs, you're peppy."

"Right! I can't change anything in the next couple of months - except myself. If I can get a bit more of a name, that might make players more willing to drop a league or two. Maybe. Probably not. But I have to try because I don't have money for transfer fees."

"Max, I wasn't laughing. I was smiling because I just really fucking need a proper conversation. You can't believe how much I'd love to hear you talk about Chester Football Club."

"Well, let's talk," he says. "But it's all off the record. You can't use it."

"What are you doing?" says Emma.

"I like saying 'off the record'. It makes me feel like an insider."

"It can be off the record if you want. I suppose I should ask you about the Euros, though, since that's what I'm here for."

"Sure. Off the record."

"Well, tell me about your TV career. When does that start?"

"Yesterday afternoon."

"What? I missed it? Oh, no. But why haven't I heard anything about it?"

Max tucks into his soup in earnest. Emma has finished hers so she takes over. They're a surprisingly good team. "They have to record this as part of the TV contract but it's not clear that many people actually watch it. It's a bit odd if you ask me. Max and two German experts talk about the game. It's all very good, very professional. That's shown here in Germany for anyone who wants the English version. You know, red button stuff. And that feed is sent to other countries that want it. Most don't. Like in England they did their own stuff with their own analysts and half-time competitions and all that crap and in, like, Albania they do their own thing because not enough people speak English. So Max was on for, like, countries with English speakers who didn't want to spend money on their own presenters for Iceland versus Romania. Based on Twitter reactions we think he was on in Ireland and parts of Scandinavia."

"And Malta," says Max. "I'm massive in Malta, now."

"Are you? But wait. If no-one's watching, how does this help raise your profile?"

"I mean, we can clip it and put videos on our socials and all that. People will see me next to two German legends. They'll see me talking about football in the second-biggest international tournament. And I'm in the Allianz Arena - 70,000 people, Beth. It's fucking incredible in there. It's staggering. It makes me look good just to be there in any sort of official capacity. Although I wish they didn't cut from the match to show the president of UEFA talking to some dictator. That shit makes me look bad."

"So you weren't doing co-comms, you were an analyst. Pitchside or studio?"

"Pitchside."

"Amazing. Did you wear your shit hoodie? Never mind that - how did it go?"

Emma is about to answer when Max intervenes. "We should make her find out through OGM."

Emma decides this is a splendid idea. "Yes! Do you want to do it?"

Max looks up. He's trying to remember what he's told me because he hates repeating himself. Sadly, someone in his position meets so many people it's impossible to keep track of everything. Some repetition is inevitable. "You know the Chester Chatters? It's a group we've started to try to get lonely people into the stadiums so they get some social contact. It was going quite well under the leadership of Brooke, but in the last game of the season a new person came."

"OGM," I guess.

"Right. She's not a lonely person, not like the rest, anyway. She went more in the volunteer role and because she was curious and long story short, she fell in love. It helps that I played in goal and took the piss and we had a big party, but anyway, she's absolutely enchanted by the whole thing."

"What whole thing?"

"The whole let's go to football matches and talk about it thing. She'd never been to a match before."

"Once when she was little but she hated it," says Emma.

"Oh, I thought that was her first. She liked the vibe and the Chatters concept so she's trying to understand formations and offside and all the rest. Anyway, she's quite tech savvy and she's got her own username that she goes by - Overprepared GM."

"She's a Games Master?"

"Er, no? She's a grandmother?"

"Right."

"Anyway, she's taking Chester Chatters to a whole new level. She's got some app that lets her do group chats with the other Chatters whatever platform they're on, so if one guy only knows WhatsApp and one only does Facebook, they can still participate. It's great. She's got mad ideas and energy." Max laughs. "If she was our age she'd be running a startup."

I squeeze one eye closed trying to see where this is going. "Max, what are you talking about?"

"Brooke suggested to OGM that my appearance on German TV was a big deal - you know, because it might help us sign a good striker or whatever. And Brooke said she would get OGM access to a stream if OGM would do a liveblog of it."

"A liveblog! How old's this woman?"

"Oh, seventy-something. Don't worry about it. She does voice to text and anyway, once the idea got going, it got going, if you get me."

"I don't."

"You know, like Sumo came and set her up with a good microphone and showed her how to start a Twitch stream. How to do screengrabs. You know when you're watching a stream and someone puts the top comments on the screen? She learned that. Oh, and Spectrum got some AI bot thing to transcribe what us analysts were saying. OGM could click on it sentence by sentence to put it on the blog with her own commentary. And Spectrum said he would help on the day and they got special guests and there was a pretty good turnout. I think there were like 400 in at one point."

"Four hundred?"

"Yeah. Only about a dozen Chester Chatters, I think. Everyone else was a normal Chester fan who wanted to know what I said so they kept a tab open on their phone."

"But what did you actually say? I asked you about an hour ago!"

Max smirks. "I'm going to send you the link, Beth. Could you chill out?"

***

Chester Chatters Maxday 1 Liveblog

Reproduced with the kind permission of Overprepared Grandmother and Chester FC

13:50

Hello and welcome - is this on? Ah, yes, the light is flashing. Or does that mean it is on mute? Fiddlesticks! How do I know? Ah, everything I say is showing on the screen. Something can hear me. Hello and welcome to Chester Chatters European Championships Edition. In a rather surprising turn of events, our Dear Leader is over in Germany teaching them how to football, as my grandchildren like to say. How did this all come about, Mr. Spectrum?

Spectrum: I honestly don't know. A friend of a friend of a friend thought Max might look good on camera. Something like that.

I had a friend of a friend of a friend, once. Terrible what happened to her. Now, then. Let us set the scene. Where shall we start? Mr. Spectrum, where is Max?

Spectrum: He's in the Allianz Arena in Munich. That's the home of Bayern Munich, who are normally the powerhouse of German football. That's where Harry Kane plays. He's the England captain. Ah, he's going to be an analyst for the match about to take place between Romania and Iceland. Max, I mean, not Harry Kane. Wow, I'm not good at voice-to-text.

We are all learning, young man, we are all learning! Romania, you will be pleased to discover, are ranked 45th in the world. Iceland are ranked 73. Mr. Spectrum, for those of us who will watch the match, which players should we look out for?

Spectrum: Honestly, nobody really. Romania have two players in the Premier League and a couple in Spain. One is the son of a legend but I don't think he's at that level himself, which is a shame. It would be good for the tournament to have a breakout star. Iceland have a similar story - not many players in the top leagues and their best striker is the son of one of their all-time greats.

Do we know what formations they play?

Spectrum: I'm not sure but in footballing stereotypes we can expect Romania to be small and technical and Iceland to be tall and powerful.

Yes, they need to be tall to see the sun. Very well. Onto the television broadcast. Max will appear before the match, at half time, and after the final whistle. He will be alongside two famous German experts. One is Dieter Bauer, who is a much-loved former player and manager though sadly he is now old enough to be a Chester Chatter. Watch out for his magnificent hair! Beside him will be Uli Gross, a former player and out-of-work manager who is somewhat less loved. He was Director of Football at RB Leipzig. Mr. Spectrum, tell us about that football club.

Spectrum: It's not so much a football club as a marketing exercise. The German football model is characterised by fan ownership. RB Leipzig was created by a drinks company with zero connection to the community or even the country; it's considered a plastic club, a step in the direction of the death of German football, and they are despised to the point many other teams refuse to play them in friendly matches.

I see. It is perhaps telling that most of the information about Uli Gross is not about his expertise or kindness but about his tight red trousers.

Spectrum: I have a bad feeling about Uli Gross. I think Max will take an instant dislike to him and there will be trouble.

Brooke: I'm sure Max will behave himself. He wants this to go well so we can attract new players.

Thank you Miss Star. We have lots of other people following along. Hello, all! And Dani Smith-Smithe from the women's team. Very pleased to have you here!

Dani: I'm nervous.

Please don't be! You are simply wonderful.

Dani: I'm nervous for Max. It must be scary talking in front of so many people. I'm glad I won't ever be asked to do it!

Oh my goodness, there's Max! Let me set the scene for those of you who can't see it. There's a table on the side of the football pitch. On the left is the host. Did they say her name? I'm afraid I missed it. She's very beautiful with dark skin and black hair. Next to her is Dieter Bauer. He has salt and pepper hair and kind eyes. Then comes Uli Gross. He's holding his microphone like it's a medieval mace. Oh, dear, Mr. Spectrum you have turned me against him with your Iago-like proclamations. His hair is nice but he is unsmiling and his trousers are frankly ridiculous. Then comes a small but noticeable gap between him and Max Best.

Dani: Oh, wow he dressed up!

Brooke: He seems relaxed.

So, let's listen to what they say. Oh my goodness, the robot is sending me the live transcript. My word, that's impressive. So far they have introduced Max but not let him talk. They still haven't asked him a question.

Spectrum: It's okay. He thinks it's funny. That's the look he does when I ask why we're using a strange tactic.

13:59

Well, that was terribly disappointing. They asked Dieter Bauer and Uli Gross about Germany versus Scotland, which isn't even the match they are there to talk about! They didn't talk to Max at all. I must say, I'm quite frustrated. I am going for a walk. I will be back in half an hour.

14:48

I do find the crow to be a particularly cheeky bird, don't you? They torment the cats. They swagger. Ah, I see the score is still nil-nil. Did anything of interest happen?

Clive OK: The teams have neutralised each other. I'm afraid Max won't have anything to talk about.

Dani: If they even ask him a question.

Brooke: This match here is what Americans think soccer is like.

Spectrum: OGM, if you leave the area we can chat but it won't get shown on the page.

Yes, I see, Mr. Spectrum but I simply must check on the garden. They fight their reflections, you know. As for Max, he travelled all that way and they wouldn't allow him to talk. Most vexing. Now, did I understand correctly that the referee blew the half time whistle? The players seem to be leaving. Some advertisements, no doubt, and then Max will be on. I shall allow the robot to give us the transcript and interrupt only if something interesting comes out of it.

14:50

Kate: Well, I think it's fair to say that was quite a cagey affair. Dieter, what did you make of it?

Dieter: Of course it's the first match for both teams and they will be keen to avoid defeat. Perhaps more keen to avoid defeat than eager to win, yes? This is tournament football. Sometimes entertainment must be given a lesser consideration in pursuit of targets.

Kate: You usually managed to be entertaining while pursuing your targets.

Dieter: I was lucky to be involved with teams with important players. This afternoon we see good players in both teams but they are good players with little experience of important tournaments. They play with spirit, however. They wear their shirts with pride. That cannot be discounted.

Kate: Uli, we didn't see a lot of chances being created. Why do you think that was?

Uli: It is simply a function of the quality. These players are not of the requisite standard. They do not look well-coached or well-drilled and neither team will go far in this tournament. Before kick off we said it looked like the weakest group and that is sadly apparent. Belgium aside, there is little of interest to the neutral.

Kate: Did you notice anything tactically noteworthy?

Uli: Not in the least. It does not look like modern football, but a field of sheep. Sometimes they bleat at the referee, but that is the limit of their ambition. We can only hope for the second half that one team has a wolf on the bench.

Kate: Max Best. You are the youngest manager in England and I believe you're looking for new players. Is there anyone who caught your eye?

A quick pause to note that at this point Max looks at Kate - the robot knows her name better than I do - and gets a cheeky look about him. Do we all agree he's thinking about flirting with her?

Brooke: Absolutely yes.

Spectrum: Absolutely yes.

Dani: No, of course not.

Whether it crossed his mind or not, he has decided not to.

Max: I'd like to respond to something Ueli said, if I may.

Uli: Uli. I am not Swiss.

Max: His line about the sheep was really witty. With charm like that, it's no wonder RB Leipzig are so popular.

Dani: Max, no!

Brooke: Oh, boy.

Clive OK: Look at Bauer's face!

Let me play with my buttons here. I know how to do this. You should be seeing a photo now.

[Image alt text - Dieter Bauer has turned away and is covering a laugh. Uli Gross is fuming. Max Best is a picture of innocence.]

Max: Ully has accidentally hit on the key point though - the referee.

Kate: You think he's having a bad game?

Max: No, the opposite. He's sensational. He's the best referee I've ever seen and if he keeps this up we could see an absolutely explosive second half.

Kate: I think you're teasing us, now. This is your British humour.

Max: No, and I can explain exactly what I mean. I was talking to your producers and if Dieter doesn't mind me taking some of his time...?

Dieter: Be my guest, young man.

Max: You see...

I think I need to pause once more to describe what's on the television. There's a big computer screen inlaid into the table and Max is leaning forward to draw on it. Sometimes he looks up to check that Kate is interested. Good. We continue.

Max: You see, Iceland have their plan and Romania have their plan and those plans are clashing. They're trying to play in the same space. It's actually crazy - I've never seen anything like it. I can explain the tactical overview later if you want. But let's take the key point. At the moment, when one of the teams has a break, an opponent makes a foul and stops the move. In the Premier League this happens forty times a game and it drives me crazy. But this referee is having none of it! Every time it's happened, he has given a yellow card. One more yellow card and it's red and the player is sent off and that's a big advantage to the other team. Here's an example. This is Romania breaking three against three on the halfway line. You might think there's not much danger but three seconds from now these players could be in the penalty box. If I'm this guy with the ball I'm already thinking about my goal celebrations. This number 18 from Iceland decides he has to foul the ball carrier to stop the attack and anyway, it's far from goal so there's no risk. Normally not, but today the referee gives him a yellow card. Amazing! Now the player can't do it again. Here's a scenario two minutes later on the other side. The Iceland player breaks this tackle and the Romanian 8 fouls him. Yellow card. When that happened my pulse started racing. This referee is playing like Messi! I asked for a graphic showing who's on a yellow - here we go! Your production team is fantastic, Kate. You see five of the six central midfielders have yellow cards? And two defenders. It's quite attritional football now but if the referee does the second half like the first, we're going to start seeing teams have more and more attacks. More chances. The first one of these fouls in the second half will decide the entire tone of the match. If the referee lets one of these guys away with it, if he gives them one last chance each, then it will be just as boring as the first half. We have to see what he decides!

Kate: Dieter, you're nodding along.

Dieter: Yes, I agree completely. I would like to hear his analysis of the tactics.

Kate: Max?

Max: Yep. So Iceland are playing 3-4-3 but their three strikers are making runs into this area, here. Let me draw it.

[Image alt text - An overhead shot of the pitch showing that Iceland's front three have bunched up into a small zone on the viewer's right. Max has drawn a box around that area.]

Max: Do you follow? They overload the area around this defender - he's the shortest - and their best long passer, the right back, is hitting direct passes to this zone to see what damage the strikers can do. Okay, but let's look at Romania. This is an image from about twenty minutes into the half. We could draw a box around the entire team, almost. See this?

[Image alt text - An overhead shot of the pitch with most of Romania's players squashed into a box that Max has drawn. It's much bigger than the previous box, but the two would overlap.]

Max: The aim, obviously, is to bring Iceland's players over into this area of the pitch. The manager thinks his team's superior technique will mean they will keep the ball and anyway, if there's a turnover Romania have all their players nearby. It's not that dangerous.

Kate: I see what you are describing but what's the advantage?

Max: This guy on the left, here. He's just on the edge of the line I've drawn but he's always ready to zoom away. If we could track him for a while we'd see him zigzagging around waiting for his chance. He's fast. Very fast. Three times Romania sucked Iceland into this zone and tried to play a pass to this guy. They're trying to get him space so that he can break and not be opposed. I gave the producers the timecodes if they want to make something out of it. But you see the problem, right? The problem for us, the viewers?

Kate: No.

Max: Iceland are trying to isolate this defender but he's never isolated because Romania's plan is to play the entire match in that exact space and Romania are trying to get their left winger free but he'll never be free because Iceland's plan needs the right back to stay wide.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Dieter: Bravo, Max.

Max: It's a stalemate and a half. Personally, I found it mesmerising, but I can understand why some people preferred to spend the entire half on their phone. What was that app, Ully?

Uli: What?

Kate: Time for a quick break.

Dani: Max! Max! Max!

Spectrum: He shoots, he scores! That was awesome.

Brooke: I like him best when he's positive. I barely understood what he was saying but he was so enthusiastic it almost made me think I liked what I saw.

Dani: Haha and he got his digs in, too. The guy wasn't watching the match? WTF man? You're being paid.

That was very interesting in lots of respects. Max was enthusiastic as Miss Star says, but was he right? It seemed to me he praised the referee as a way to score points against Uli Gross. I suppose we won't know if this performance was good for Max until we see what happens in the second half. I'm going to pop into the garden to check on those pesky crows.

16:00

Who left this computer on? What's all this? Romania? Oh, gosh, the football match. Is everyone still there? Oh, dear, what a pickle. Iceland 3, Romania 2. Three red cards. My goodness! So he was right. I hope this doesn't go to his head. Oh, who am I kidding? Fudge and fiddlesticks, I'm very disappointed in myself. Those crows have a lot to answer for!

***

Max and Emma have been watching me, trying to guess where I'm up to.

I try to sort my questions into some sort of order; I fail. "So Uli Gross wasn't even watching the match?"

"I genuinely think someone was watching it for him and telling him what to say."

"What was he doing instead?"

"Sexting, I think. Horny bastard."

"It sounds like he just stood there and let you take over."

"He was stunned. He couldn't believe this random English guy wasn't treating him with maximum deference. He's one of those guys who turns into a sycophant for UEFA when his coaching career starts to unravel so that he can keep on the gravy train. He thinks he's got some sort of clout. Not with me, mate. I despise UEFA almost as much as FIFA. I'd love to have a little pop at them but I'll probably save it until I'm proper massive."

I skim the text again. "It sounds like you found something to be positive about after a shit first half. The producers must have been ecstatic. And then you did your whole wizard act and predicted the entire second half."

"If you read it closely, I didn't predict anything. I simply said the second half had the potential to be better."

"You went full wizard and you got lucky. That's a very annoying trait."

"Was I lucky or was I right?"

We are in danger of reaching peak smug, so I switch tack. "How did people respond to OGM wandering off and not coming back?"

"Someone reached out to a neighbour to check she was okay. The neighbour reported her as alive and well and talking to crows. If you lower your expectations with this stuff you enjoy it a lot more. Not everything has to be a home run and I think some people even like the idea that it goes off the rails and no-one fixes it. It's authentic. And there was still activity; everyone was still chatting in the text. Dani had a German stream so she reported on my post-match section."

"Let me guess? Insufferable."

"Nope!" Max is so pleased with himself he raises his glass at a Scottish fan who is peering through the window. "I was modest and humble and said the referee was the true hero."

Emma squeezes his hand. "He said it very heroically, though. Didn't you, babes?"

Max shakes his head. He's not finished with his lunch and wants to polish it off. "I simply stated the facts."

"And then asked Uli Gross which phone network he was on because you couldn't get more than one bar."

I tut. "One last dig. Really, Max?"

"He's a knob and I don't like him. Anyway, it's great TV. We're doing Slovakia Iceland together and he's going to come at me. That's guaranteed screen time for me."

I wince. "Where's Max Best gone? You don't even promote your own club. Now you're doing fake beefs for clicks."

"There's nothing fake about it. He had a pop at me after the broadcast finished. I smiled and said something like 'save it for the replay, darling'. The guy's livid. Anyway, from my point of view things went okay. The crew were all smiles afterwards, I got to draw lines on a telly, we got some clips to put on Chester socials, and hopefully we're one step closer to getting a new striker. The harder Gross comes at me, the more people will share the clips. Even if he lands a couple of good punches, he's going to help me get what I want. I've gone full wizard, Beth, I can't deny it."

There's a pleasant moment where Max forgets his doubts and basks in what he has accomplished. Emma looks from him to me and says, "Bethany, what are you doing this evening?"

"I'll probably watch the Portugal match in a bar somewhere. Try to get some good quotes and all that."

"Will you have dinner with us?"

"Oh, er..."

"Our treat."

"Well, I don't think - "

"Stop being a baby," says Max. "You'll come to dinner, the end. But what are you doing tomorrow?"

"I have to make my way towards Frankfurt to be there when England play."

"All right, perfect," says Max, eyes darting around the restaurant to check for spies. He leans forward. Whatever he's about to say next, it's exciting. "You'll come with us to Mainz."

"Where's that?"

"That way somewhere. Who gives a shit where it is? Do you want to come or not?"

"Max has missed out some basic details. Mainz is near Frankfurt and it's where Slovakia's training camp is. We're going to gatecrash their session so that Max can learn about their players and, as he tells it, use the information to entertain and inform the general public."

"Gatecrash the session? They'll never let us in."

Emma scoffs. "We got into Iceland's and Romania's."

"How?"

Max explodes. "Oh, for f... Who cares how? We can tell you all about it in the car. It's four and a half hours and we can do a big old chat, okay? We'll tell a fucking Daily Mail journalist all about our criminal past. What the... Just agree to be part of our conspiracy to spy on Slovakia and we can start synchronising our watches. God sake."

"But then what do I do?"

"Then you go to Frankfurt and we'll go to Dusseldorf. It's like going from Didsbury to Chorlton. It's no big deal."

"Can I call my boss and ask him if it's all right? And tell you tonight?"

"No. You have to decide now."

"Yes, you can tell us later, Bethany."

"Yes, you can tell us later, Beth."

I cheer up. The food's good, the beer's better, and I finally have the prospect of the kind of adventure every journalist dreams of. "Okay!"

"Beth, there's just one thing." Max chews while pointing a fork at me. This goes on for some time. "Everything we just said... was off the record."

Maxday Two - A Handmaid's Tale

My boss agrees to let me change my itinerary - he knows me spending time with Max Best is likely to lead to some good content, one way or another. I don't exactly mention that we're planning to sneak into Slovakia's base camp. It's possible I gave him the impression we had permission to be there.

It's only in the car to Mainz that I think a Daily Mail reporter being caught breaking into a team's sessions could be a very, very bad look. Especially since the runners-up in this group would likely play against England in the next round. That's when I get nervous.

"Guys, how did you get into the other sessions?"

"Iceland was easy," says Max, as he glares at a BMW. He tells me multiple times he despises all German drivers and hates the autobahn. "We said Emma was a player's girlfriend and walked right in. Where was that, bebs?"

"Nuremberg. And Romania was Wurzburg. I'd never heard of it but it was lovely. Really nice spot."

"How did you get in, though?"

Emma picks at her top. "We noticed these sewer lids inside the compound, and followed them to a side street where no-one could see us. We pulled the cover up, went down, through, and up into the centre. I don't want to say it was easy, but it was easier than it looks in the movies. And we bought new shoes after. No problem."

I look out the window and worry until I detect a lightening of the atmosphere in the front of the car. They are taking the piss. "Guys," I say, "What's the real story?"

Max tuts. "Don't worry about it. We'll scout the place when we get there and come up with a plan. There's always a way. Call and say there's a problem with the wires and turn up ten minutes later in an electrician's van. Something like that."

"Guys," I say. There are times I'm too sober to deal with Max.

"Hang on, I'm getting a call." His phone connects and comes out of the rental car's speakers. "Max Best, pundit-at-large."

"Max, MD. Alles in ordnung?"

"What?"

MD is Chester's Managing Director and the closest thing Max has to a boss. "Never mind. Quick update. Lancashire wants 5K. Please tell me you agree that's madness."

"That's madness. That's from today, is it?"

"Yep. Fresh in."

There's a long quiet and all we hear are four dozen Audis and Mercedes overtaking us even though we're doing a hundred and thirty.

"Bin him off."

MD's diplomatic skills are off the charts. He waits until he hears Max punch the steering wheel before continuing. "That just leaves McLoughlin and Delaney."

"Let's, er... Let's wait till the 22nd."

"After your second TV appearance?"

"Yeah."

MD is a diplomat but even he can't disguise his feelings. A slightly-too-long-pause screams that he thinks Max's plan is futile at best. "Zach Green is still using our facilities but isn't interested in talking more seriously right now."

"That's fine."

"Brooke joked about inviting him to her July 4th celebration since he was around so much."

Max isn't interested in jokes or side quests and I feel a pang of pity for him. He should be on top of the world. Why isn't he? He does something I think he rarely does; he pleads. "Have you got any good news?"

MD tries to inject some positivity into his voice. "Season ticket sales are going well."

"Do I get more budget?"

"No."

"Okay bye."

"Bye, MD!" calls Emma.

"Auf wieder - " starts MD, but Max hangs up on him.

"Bloody shitting Christ."

"Aww," says Emma, because she knows what's going on.

I don't. Not really. "What's up?"

"Whoa," says Max. "That conversation was off the record. And so's this one."

"You already said that like six hundred times."

"So it's on the record that this is all off the record?" Even Max doesn't think this is funny; he's flailing. I wish I could help him. "Yeah, so we need three players and we're struggling to get anyone."

"I saw you signed loads of players. Got it all done early in June. It was pretty eye-catching. You even paid money for a transfer fee on the women's team."

"Yeah, the women are going to crush their league."

"Can we talk about that?"

"There's nothing to say."

"Come on, Max. You own West Didsbury but you work for Chester. They are in the same division. That's unprecedented. There will be a lot of media interest. It'll blow up and if you don't control the narrative it'll blow up in your face."

"You're reaching, Beth. It's not interesting in the slightest."

"Just - who do you want to win?"

"It doesn't matter. Chester will win. They'll probably win every match this season. They're fucking awesome. The women's game is so underdeveloped I can attract good players even in the state I'm in." He sighs. "It's the men I'm worried about. Lancashire wanted 5K last week and he wants 5K now. That's... That means nothing's happening. I'm grinding for nothing. TV does nothing."

He's definitely stuck in the 'first half'. "You're not making any sense. Why would it have an immediate impact like that?"

"Because it's all mathematical, Beth. I mean, think about it."

I think about it. In no way do I follow.

Max isn't waiting for me to talk, though. He's trying to break a big thought into smaller chunks. He's in TV analyst mode which is actually helpful because what he's saying would be perfect conversation fodder for an acid trip.

"Why do players choose the clubs they choose? If there's only one offer, it's pretty binary. Accept the offer or retire. What if you're a good player and there's loads of offers? How do you actually choose? I think there's three things. One, the reputation of the club. I'm using reputation loosely, there. Two, the facilities. Three, the manager. You happy with that?"

"Yes."

"The club. Chester are 1 out of 10 and we get promoted so we're 2 out of ten. Oh!" He smiles, briefly. "There's a better way. We rank all the teams. There's 92 in the league. 24 in the National League. What's that?"

"116," says Emma, who didn't appear to be listening.

"We were the best in the National League North so we're the 117th best team in the country. But we won some cups and we've got a cute liddle stadium and more history than a club like Dorking. So a player from the north of England might know that and he might think we're the hundredth best. Do some funky maths to work out these rankings and we get back to one out of ten. That's our club rating."

"Are you talking about Soccer Supremo?"

"I'm never talking about that. That's a banned name, okay? Facilities is easy to numberise, too. Is that a word?"

"Nope," I say.

"Leicester are a ten. Chester are a one. We put in the kitchen and get more physios and a salt lamp and a new pan pipes album and we're 1.3. Done. Easy."

"Right," I say, annoyed that he's talking non-stop shit. It's only later when it hits me with a jolt - he's trying to describe his curse. Not long from this moment I will spend hours trying to remember exactly what he said and how he said it.

"So Chester FC is what it is. That leaves the third variable - the manager. Beth, thought experiment. If Klopp came out of his break to manage Chester, do you think this striker I want would take three grand a week to play for him?"

"I don't know the player you mean but probably. You want to play for Klopp, right?"

"That's what I think. That's what this whole trip is about, now. So what makes up a manager's reputation? Winning and drawing games gets you points, right? That's obvious. Then there's got to be tons of soft factors somehow turned into numbers. Young players developed. Transfer fees. Records broken. I mean, I have the record for highest-ever sale in the National League North. That's got to count for something, right? Other managers, players, they should look at those things and think yes! That guy's the bomb. I thought maybe those things do matter but the impact is so tiny I don't notice them. Do you know what I mean? Maybe it's a multiplier and all the numbers involved are quite small so it's turned three hundred into three hundred and six. I need three hundred and seven to get this striker. Something like that. So let's go on German TV for a big tournament. That's got to get my numbers up. It's got to! So I'm thinking, let's steal the show." He blows air through his lips making them vibrate. "You can't believe how much I've prepared for these matches. I suppose it's the equivalent of you wandering around Munich talking to randos. So much work to get that one, little, snippet that could make the difference." He taps the steering wheel. "I'm booked for three so I've got two more goes. Maybe it'll take three to see the difference. Maybe it's a wild goose chase. Or maybe I need to go even bigger."

"Don't do that," pleads Emma, who seems to have understood what to me sounded like a lengthy string of gibberish. "You were perfect. You're a TV executive's dream. You turned their boring match into an event. You explained football to people who don't follow it and you gave them things to look for. And I personally could do without it but your little feud with Cap'n Red Pants keeps you glued to the screen. Do what you did two more times and we'll be invited to the USA for the World Cup."

"We will be invited?" smiles Max.

"Yes. We. You know I want to go to Kansas, babes. They've got the biggest Dolly Parton statue in the world."

This is surprising. "Are you a Dolly Parton fan, Emma?"

"No." We drive for a while before Emma says, "Bethany, you should interview the Brig."

"No, she shouldn't."

"But - "

"Really, bebs. That's not a thing."

"Oh."

I'm on tenterhooks, now. The Brig is Chester's ridiculous nickname for John Smith, their Head of Performance. I make a sneaky note and when I'm alone, I discover that four of Chester's summer signings are young men discarded from football league academies and recruited at the urging of Smith. One thing that's clear is that Chester will be an extremely youthful team. "This Zach Green guy MD mentioned. Is he another eighteen-year-old?"

"Nah, he's like 25. I thought I had a chance of signing him but he's in a sulk because I beat him in a race."

"He's not in a sulk," says Emma. "He's considering his options. He's in a funk because his last move turned sour and he hasn't played for a year and it's made him risk-averse and it's like Max has been explaining, people can't see that Max is as good as Klopp."

"Babes, come on," says the third best manager in England (his girlfriend's rankings, not mine). "I'm miles off that but I'm obviously good enough for the National League. That's what's frustrating."

"Ruth's been working on Zach and she says he's got doubts about the squad and if we could sign a striker he'd probably join but at the moment there's too much uncertainty and he wants a sure thing."

"I never really wanted him anyway," says Max, ever the unreliable narrator. "He's slow and dumb and his abs aren't symmetrical and he's a big dummy. And you can put that on the record. Unless we sign him and then it's off the record."

I decide to change the subject before Max decides to shut the conversation down completely. If I leave it here, I'll be able to pick it up again later. I'm incredibly unlucky with my new topic.

"Did you go to Manchesterplatz when you were in Munich?" Manchesterplatz is where you can find a memorial to those who died in a plane crash in 1958. The famous Busby Babes - the sensational young Manchester United team - were on that plane. Many never made it home.

"What the fuck are you doing?" says Max, genuinely angry. "Don't talk about that when I'm doing 600 miles an hour on the fucking autobahn, Beth!"

"Sorry."

"How can I drive with tears streaming down my face, for fuck's sake?"

Emma, who has been on my side through most of Max's outbursts, gives me a 'Come on, mate' kind of glance. She leaves space for the worst to pass, changes the subject, and with her expert navigation we are able to put the incident behind us.

***

Max's phone leads us to a suburb of Mainz and we park up. "Oh, perfect timing! They're training right now, look. Let me think."

He bites his nail. His attitude suggests this is the most important part of the day, and for him perhaps it is. For me, it's going to be one of the most important moments of my career. We're about to see the exact moment the curse kicks in.

Max nods. "Yes, got it. You guys wait here," he says.

We watch as he slips the lanyard with his TV credentials over his hoodie. Ahead of us are three football pitches and to our right is a big stadium. The Slovakians seem to be content to use the pitch closest to the car park. I see their coaches and physios and the nerves come flooding back. What insane scheme is Max going to cook up?

I watch, horrified, as Max talks to one member of Slovakia's background staff, who summons another, who summons another. Soon Max is talking animatedly, apparently begging them to let us in. Many times, he points to the car. Finally, one of the men nods. His colleague complains, but the senior man snaps at him.

Max jogs over to us and waves us out of the car.

"Right, here's the sitch," he says. "No clue why but they think Emma's the Queen of Iceland."

"What the fuck," I say.

"Beth, you're her thingy. Lady in waiting? Handmaiden? Don't worry about it. Just call her Your Maj or whatever and it'll be fine."

"I feel sick, Max. I'll stay in the car."

"How can I get in when the Queen's got no servants? Fucking think about it. I need a striker, mate, so you're going to do as you're told for once. Come on, just talk that weird German you've been doing. It doesn't sound like any sort of language. Emma, you talk as Geordie as possible. They won't understand that, either. Okay, let's not keep them waiting."

"Max, I can't. I'm gonna throw up."

He jabs his finger in my face. "I've bought you lunch, dinner, and breakfast and driven you across what used to be about twenty countries and I need to get into that training session so don't be a dick, okay?"

"Okay," I say, which in retrospect is disappointing.

"Ems," he whispers, urgently. "Your big hat, I think. That's quite regal."

"Fuck yeah, it is. Good?"

"Perfect. Let's spy on some foreigners. Whoo whoo!"

"Whoo whoo," agrees Emma. Ten seconds later and Emma is shaking hands with the Slovakians, one by one. "How do you do?" she says to the first one. "And what do you do around here?" she asks the next.

"Bob," hisses Max, from behind me.

"What?"

"Bob your knees when she shakes hands with the guys. Don't you know anything?"

Emma gets to the next guy and offers a handshake. "Awfully pleased to meet you," she intones, and I bend my knees all ladylike.

From behind me comes a horrible, gassy sound, as though someone has dropped a haggis on a bagpipe. I turn and see Max Best, manager of the Blues, red, struggling to breathe, tears streaming down his face. He doubles over and there's laughter from Her Maj. "Oh you absolute fuck," I say, and the Slovakians burst out laughing. "You absolute fucks."

***

It's not clear why we're allowed in. Was it the TV credentials? Was it the prank? Was it the fact that Max Best swans around like the King of Football and everyone falls into line?

He asks about the drills the squad is doing and from the answer deduces that they are planning to use 3-5-2 in their next match. Many of the Slovakian coaching staff are Italian and they don't want to talk tactics with Max. But when he shows them a clip of him standing next to the famous German managers, their attitude flips completely and they suddenly can't stop talking.

They've lost to Belgium - no surprise there - but if they can beat Iceland they have a great chance to go through. Their squad, Max tells me, is much more experienced than Iceland's and Romania's but like many teams they lack an outstanding goalscorer.

What fascinates me is the extent to which Max pushes back on their ideas and suggests different options. "You should play 3-4-3 and slap them at their own game."

There's a communication breakdown which Emma resolves by playfully slapping Max on the cheek. "Slap," she says.

"Slap!" says one of the assistants, laughing. "3-4-3. I think we no do it, but good to think."

"Well, it's your funeral. Can my friend do some interviews?" says Max. "She's from the Daily Mail. Big newspaper in England. She came a long way."

"Yeeees," says Max's new friend. "The players are boring."

"Bored," suggests Max.

"Bored. So why not?"

Fucking Max. Just when it's safe to hate him, he goes and gets me incredible access. My brain whirs. The Mail won't be interested in this. Who can I sell it to? Well, first I need to talk to some people, see what they say. Then I can turn it into something.

Max takes me by the shoulders and points to a scrawny little thing. "Start with him. He's called Leo and he's the next big thing out of Slovakia."

"Yes!" says the coach. "Mr. Max is right! We no use him but we give the, ah, how you say? Experience."

"You should use him," chides Max. He goes to a tactics board and rearranges the magnets at light speed. "He's better than the other guy. 3-4-3 with Leo on the right of midfield and he'll rip Iceland a new one. Even better, they won't be expecting it. They've never seen him play!" He pretends to notice me. "What are you still here for? You're not on holiday! Earn some money! Mamma mia!"

"Mamma mia," laughs the coach, but Max has locked on to another target - a very, very tall man.

I go to this Leo kid and introduce myself. He plays in Holland and his English is excellent. I realise I don't know the first thing about him but inspired by Max's bold-faced cheek, I straight up confess what's just happened. Leo thinks it's amusing that I've been dumped into this situation and to say that he's flattered to be named the next young thing is an understatement. I explain that Max is browbeating the coaches into letting Leo play against Iceland. His eyes bulge. He begins to reel off his life story by the side of the pitch as his teammates come and go. I interrupt. "Sorry, Leo. Who's that man my friend is talking to? The very tall man?"

"Our goalkeeping coach."

"Do you think he would like to work in the fifth tier of English football?"

Leo thinks about it. "Do you mean Wrexham? Ryan Reynolds?"

"Chester."

"Ches-ter? I think not. It would need to be an important team to, ah, pull him away from his national side."

I agree. So why does that make me think Max could pull it off?

***

Half an hour after I start interviewing the players - their coach is right, they are bored and all are keen to have their names mentioned in the English media - I'm startled to see that Max has interrupted a drill.

I watch in horror as Max yells at his Italian friend - now his Italian enemy - that Iceland don't take set pieces like that. He pushes Slovakia's dead ball specialist out of the way and says, "Watch this you sloppy muppets."

I turn to beg Emma to intervene but she's playing a card game with three injured players - one of those insanely complicated ones they play in Eastern Europe where a 2 is good unless preceded by a 3 unless there has been a red face card... unless... unless.

I snap my head round as Max floats a free kick to the far post.

"Si si si!" yells an analyst, waving an iPad around. He shows the coaches a clip - it seems like he's been trying to do this for some time - and Max's Italian enemy is his friend again. The set piece taker floats the ball to the far post, Max yells 'molto bene!' and all is well once more. But five minutes later Max is unhappy again. He calls over his new friend the goalkeeping coach. They have a brief but intense conversation and the entire drill changes.

"Hello, miss," says a Slovakian player. It's his turn to be interviewed. He's cute. I could imagine letting him teach me to play card games and the more complicated the better. I smile and ask him to tell me about himself. He obliges.

***

Three hours later, Max drives us to the train station where he buys me a ticket to Frankfurt and says, "Bye." He strides off to continue his working holiday.

On the train, I whip my notes into some kind of shape and hawk the article around the usual places. There's almost immediate interest from everywhere except the English press.

It's only later, after the file is sent and I'm spending some of my new money on a late-night pizza that I spot myself in a reflection. It's the second half of my trip to Germany. Max has turned the game around and I am smiling.

***

England win, which will keep me in Germany at least a few days longer. Extra time! The thought is appealing. England's next game is due to be in Cologne, which is quite near Dusseldorf, where a wizard is about to perform. I decide to head to the north-west earlier than planned and I even think about trying to get tickets to see Slovakia against Iceland. But I realise I'd rather watch on TV, since the real area of interest is seeing what Max will get up to next.

So on the 21st June, I spend a glorious summer's afternoon in a dingy hotel room with the curtains closed, the TV firmly switched to Max, and my laptop very much tuned in to Overprepared Grandmother's live blog. It is from there that I have taken the transcript.

Kate and the three men stand side by side, holding big yellow microphones. Dieter Bauer's eyes continue to look kind. Uli Gross's trousers are too tight. Max is wearing a simple but effective shirt and tie combo. Every time Uli Gross speaks, Max looks like he's trying not to laugh. In contrast, when Dieter speaks, Max watches with an interest I hope is not feigned.

***

Kate: Here we are in the Merkur Spiel-Arena in Dusseldorf to watch the Group E game between Slovakia and Iceland. Slovakia lost their first match to an impressive Belgium side. Iceland beat Romania in an absolute classic. Dieter, what are you expecting to see, today?

Dieter: My hope is for another funny game but my expectation is that we will see something more prosaic. You used a word last time that I liked - cagey. Iceland will be happy to draw today so perhaps they will be cagey. Slovakia need to win but I know their coach and he is very careful. It could be a low-scoring afternoon.

Kate: Uli, what do you think?

Uli: Elite football - I define that as anything happening at a major tournament - something Dieter and I know a lot about - or one of the top leagues in Europe - also something Dieter and I know a lot about - is characterised by the ability to press, counter-press, attack from deep, and attack from transitional moments. We have seen that one team in Group E has mastered all of these aspects of top-level football, which, again, is what takes place at the top levels of football. That team was Belgium. Iceland may score from a free kick. Slovakia may score from a penalty. But they lack the technical qualities to play top-level football and the only person who would disagree is a person who has never played top-level football or managed at the top level.

Kate: Max Best, you are Europe's youngest manager. We've heard some strong words from Uli Gross, there. Do you agree with him?

Max: I think my earpiece is broken because I kept hearing about Belgium. This is Iceland against Slovakia, isn't it?

Kate: Yes, Max.

Max: Oh, cool. I'd invite the watchers to look out for a few things in this half. First, Iceland will play 3-4-3, same as last time, but Slovakia will play 3-5-2. What's most interesting is that we've just put up a formation graphic but actually the wingers will be on the other sides.

Kate: Do you think so?

Max: Oh, I know so. The goal is to have the best defensive wide player up against Iceland's right back. Remember him from the last game? He is kind of Iceland's playmaker right now. So we put a more defensive player against him, but also if Slovakia get the ball that winger will try to cut inside and shoot with his right foot. I worry Slovakia will lack width with this system but that's what's going to happen.

Uli: It is impossible to know this.

Max: Another fun thing. Iceland's favourite free kick and corner routine is to float a high ball to the far post. That's the post away from the guy who's kicking the ball. Iceland have some big, tall players and they think they have a good chance of winning those headers and kicking it a bit slower makes it easier to get precision. But I predict that Slovakia's goalkeeper will come off his line and punch the ball away.

Uli: He is a sweeper-keeper who is reluctant to come off his line at set pieces. He will do no such thing.

Max: So there are a couple of things to look out for. I think I'm going to enjoy this one!

Kate: Thank you, gentlemen. Over to our commentary team...

***

The first half is a drab affair, which is thematically pleasing.

The highlight comes after just three minutes. Iceland get a free kick and lob the ball towards the far post. There's a scramble and they score. The goalie was nowhere! The producers of the TV programme have realised that this feud between Max and Uli is absolute gold and they lean into it something rotten. As the Iceland players celebrate, the picture cuts to the analysts, who are in box in the media area somewhere. Uli Gross is the cat who got the cream. He is ecstatic with what has just happened. The young heretic has been given a smack in the face by the gods themselves!

Max, though, is even more smug. He spots himself being shown on the feed, finds the camera and winks at it. Dieter Bauer taps him on the shoulder and says something we don't hear - Max turns and laughs.

There's a delay and we realise the goal is being checked by the video assistant referee. The replays come and - oh oh! There's some mischief afoot. Slovakia's goalie indeed tried to run towards the ball but was blocked by an Icelandic player. Not only is it a certain foul, but potentially an offside, too.

After showing these images, the producers cut back to the analysts. Uli is grimacing. Max is smiling. He says something over his shoulder and Dieter Bauer, one of the elder statesmen of German football, rocks his head back and laughs heartily.

For the next twenty minutes, Iceland's free kicks and corners are punched away until during one break, Iceland's manager sends out the instruction to change the pattern. The commentator notes this, namechecking Max who, he reminds us, also called the switch in wingers.

Near the end of the half, Iceland score. A win would put them on six points and knock Slovakia out of the competition. Max's final game as an analyst could be a dead rubber between two eliminated teams.

I doubt he's too worried, though. He's had a good half. But there's better to come. For the both of us.

***

Kate: Well! Dieter?

Dieter: Cagey.

[They laugh.]

Kate: Do Iceland deserve their lead?

Dieter: Yes, in my opinion. They had a good balance between the defensive situation and the offensive situation. Their mentality is clear and they have made a good plan. It is a very efficient performance. This is good tournament football.

Kate: Can you see a way back for Slovakia?

Dieter: Football is a game of moments and while there is only one score between the teams there is always a possibility. Hope dies last, Kate. Slovakia have hope but I must say they have been disappointing so far and they will have to change something in order to save themselves in this tournament.

Kate: Uli, what were your thoughts on the first half?

Uli: Of course I agree with everything Dieter has said but I would be even more pessimistic about Slovakia. There is so much tension in how they play. Amateurs talk about formations but professionals focus on the characteristics of the players and I do not see players with the characteristics needed to carry out the head coach's ideas.

Kate: You think Iceland will have enough to see out the match?

Uli: Very much so. They are a strong team, physically and mentally. The plan is somewhat crude but as Dieter says, the mentality is clear and every player understands their role. They are not like Belgium who can make big tactical changes in the middle of a half. They must work with what they have and they are very effective at doing that as they showed when they eliminated England in a recent tournament.

Kate: Max, if Iceland win, they will likely meet England in the Round of 16. Would that worry you given what Uli just reminded us of?

Max: I'd love to discuss the match we're here to discuss, if that's all right, Kate. I don't think this is over by any means. Slovakia's manager is stubborn but he is tactically flexible and he has shown us that throughout his career. I think if the score stays like this he will take a big swing. And why not? He has nothing to lose at this point.

Kate: What kind of swing?

Max: I'd love to see Slovakia switch to 3-4-3 with their number 25 playing on the right of midfield. Leo. I've heard him called the Slovakian Messi.

Uli: He is eighteen with two appearances as a substitute!

Max: That's right. Iceland won't have studied him in any detail. If he comes on it means Slovakia are really going for it so hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen!

Uli: He will not come on. He is eighteen with two appearances as a substitute.

At this point, Max simply looks smug as though he knows something Uli doesn't. I know he's guessing, though. It's an educated guess, a good guess, but a desperate one. I heard Slovakia's coach knock back Max's idea. Why would Max bring it up live on TV?

Kate hands off to a commercial break and when it returns, we don't see the analysts but a brief interview/montage featuring a Slovakian who plays in Germany.

I check what the Chester Chatters are saying and go for a walk.

The wizard, it seems, has run out of mana.

***

The second half is, as Dieter would put it, cagey. Slovakia can't get into the game. The referee lets fouls accumulate, making the game stodgy. It's too easy for the defenders and good play is not rewarded.

In the 75th minute, the ref loses patience with the professional fouls and brandishes three yellow cards in a minute.

Slovakia's manager senses a moment. I see the child I interviewed stripped and ready to come onto the pitch. Fucking Max! The captain rushes to the touchline to ask what's going on and I see, clear as day, the hand signal meaning 3-4-3.

I yelp.

I spend the next ten minutes holding my breath every time Leo gets the ball. The first time, he's fouled. Cleaned out. Welcome to international football, bitch! Yellow card. But Leo gets up and the next time the ball comes to him he glides forward, tricks his way inside a defender, leans back, and rolls a snooker shot through the masses of defenders right into the path of -

I yelp again. Goal for Slovakia! They've equalised. Why am I celebrating?

I don't know, but I am. Little Leo is swamped by his mates. The manager - he's far too old for this - sprints down the touchline and knee slides. Half the stadium erupts. We've suddenly got a game on our hands!

I glance at my laptop - the Chester Chatters are going bonkers. Overprepared Grandmother is posting meme after meme. How do people make them so fast? And - what? She's got custom emojis. One is a huge brain wearing a Chester home kit. One is a pair of tight red trousers behind a stop sign.

The distraction is nearly fatal - I look up just in time to see the Slovakian Messi dribble down the right of the penalty box. Just as I'm thinking it shows his inexperience - because one step to the left and any foul would be a penalty - he slashes the ball in the space between the goalie and the defenders. A lanky striker stretches, gets the bottom of his boot to the ball - and Slovakia are ahead! We're winning!

There's five minutes left and I spend them fretting about Iceland's attacks while trying to understand what is happening to me and what is happening to my friend.

Max Best has gone on TV to perform his wizarding act. So far, so good.

He's doing it because he hopes it will help him to sign new players. Yes, that's just about plausible.

He's also doing it because he wants to be invited to the World Cup in 2026. That's motivation enough for anyone.

But what is this wizarding act, exactly? It's smoke and mirrors! He has demanded Slovakia's goalies punch crosses away and planted the idea of 3-4-3 with Leo as playmaker and a drowning manager has reached out to grab it. To the TV viewers he must seem psychic. To me, knowing how the sausage is made... it's even more sensational! He's twenty-four. How is he persuading national team coaches to try new things in massive games?

Did he do something similar when he went to visit Iceland? And Romania? Is he trying to manipulate what happens in Group E so that the final matches are spectacular?

My head spins. Even the fact that I'm having these thoughts is crazy-making.

My phone rings and it's my boss. He wants my article on the Slovakian Messi and he wants it immediately. We can get the jump on the rest of the English-speaking media world. I'm about to agree when I decide to stand up for myself. I say I want a bonus or I want better work. He calls me an unprintable name and says I can have both. I hang up, edit the text to reflect the match, and send it. As the ref blows his whistle to end a thrilling match - no-one will remember the beginning - my story goes live and dominates the Mail Online sports section. (It stays as the hero article for an hour - an eternity for a story that doesn't involve England.)

On the screen, the analysts are pitchside again. I have the sound down because I'm starting to get a headache but I turn it up and it's clear Max is the star of the show. He's trying - and failing - to appear modest when Leo runs up behind him and hugs him from behind. Max laughs and seems to ask Kate if she wants to interview Leo. Kate is no fool; she agrees with a hungry gleam in her eye. Max suggests Uli hand his microphone to the kid and I laugh, which makes the headache worse.

Max conducts the interview himself - it's all so boyishly charming - and finishes by suggesting some areas Leo needs to improve on if he wants to be seen as more than a 'moments' player. Leo takes it all in - he's got his big break thanks to Max - and agrees he needs to work on his all-round game. "Top," says Max. "Don't party too hard - we've got another game in five days."

"Yes, Mr. Max," says the tournament's breakout star. He takes one worried look at the tight red trousers, remembers to return the microphone, and floats away. His life will never be the same.

Not long after, I get a call. It's BBC Radio 5. They cover sports and want to talk to me about Leo. I agree without hesitation but ask if they'll introduce me as Bethany Alban from the Goalscorers podcast. They agree, I do the interview, and for the next few hours there's a spike in downloads - and not only for the Donnie Wormwood episode.

I am massive in Malta, now.

Maxday Three Lions

My Euros goes from strength to strength. I've moved up an invisible internal league table and now I'm getting some of the plum jobs. I interview England's third-choice goalkeeper (who is surly until I ask him what card games they're playing at the team hotel). I appear on the Mail's podcast giving my thoughts on Group E. I may not get into a stadium this time, but the future is suddenly looking bright.

Max, though, is downcast. He sends me a text saying one of his striker targets has signed for a League Two club for half the salary he was demanding from Chester.

I tell him I want to treat him and Emma to dinner as a thank you, and we meet in Cologne the day before England's final group game. We smash a few beers and he tells me that he has "fucking nailed it" and he "probably couldn't have done it any better or any more handsomely" and still there are no strikers willing to sign except for silly money. And still Zach Green will not talk about a contract.

As he frets, I get goosebumps. I start to see the invisible shape of something surrounding this talented young man.

Not so long ago, we were treading the same path. I thought it and Max said something along the same lines. But our paths have diverged. Where breaking into Slovakia's training camp has propelled me higher, smashed me through a glass ceiling or two, Max is right where he started.

It's obvious that the fourth tier players Max wants to sign should be thundering towards Chester's stadium. They should be camping in front of his office and begging to be signed. But they're not. They don't see what I can see. Max Best, ever the trailblazer, has done something unique for a handsome, talented man working in football - he has hit a glass ceiling.

Why?

You know why.

"Max!" I say, excited. "Have you ever annoyed a Romani? Have you been bragging you’re more beautiful than Aphrodite? Oh, don’t tell me you stepped on a pavement crack!" The moment is lost as a waiter comes to ask if we want dessert. I order a tall wheat beer. It arrives instantly and I'm forced to take a massive swig because it looks so damned good. I lose most of my train of thought but one word remains. "Max, do you believe in curses?"

He gives me a strange look. A very strange look. But he relaxes into a warm smile. "You're all kinds of tipsy."

"I'm not, I'm - " What am I? Under his sardonic glare I realise I'm talking a lot of shit. "Look, you'll smash it. The glass, I mean. Just do it again. Do what you did again. It'll work. It has to work. There's no reason. You're so good at football! You keep doing madnesses! They'll see it, Max. Just go again."

He turns to Emma and grins. "Beth's gone."

"Head's gone," says Emma, which is a thing brutish banter boys like to say. She says it with a hyper-masculine sniff that sends me into fits of giggles.

"Beth, you dick. You're not allowed to worry about me. It's my first time in Germany and they're paying me. I look good on camera and I can explain things. Next stop, Disneyland. I'm disappointed I've not been able to put together an overpowered squad like I did for the women but it's not the end of the world. So I'm not getting the striker from above. I'll just have to find one from below. Oh."

"What?"

"I just had an idea. Huh. That's not bad."

"What? An idea for a signing?"

"Yes. Now listen very carefully. You ready?" I nod. He nods. "All this... was off the record."

***

The curse continues its dastardly work. Chester announce no new signings. Names I heard on calls between Max and MD find homes at new clubs. Chester's social media accounts begin to include phrases indicating that Max is happy with his summer business.

He's managing expectations. He's stuck.

I'm not.

On the 25th, I'm in Cologne to report from a vast beer tent full of joyous England fans where The Lightning Seeds and Fat Les perform Three Lions and Vindaloo before watching the match on a huge screen, and I spend a hungover morning at England's hotel hoping some players will talk to me. None are keen until the third-choice goalie spots me and gives me some much-needed social proof. I get a few good quotes and a photo of Cole Palmer riding a giant inflatable diplodocus. I beat Jack Grealish at snap.

I ask a new question. Would you play for the best manager in the world if it meant going down to the fifth tier? They think I'm joking about Manchester City being kicked out of the leagues but when I offer a different scenario - a manager like Max and a team like Chester - it's an instant no. A couple of players explain why. They want to learn the game and they want to improve their skills but they are used to a certain level of equipment and certain levels of professionalism and support. And they like being paid by the wheelbarrow.

It's a compelling case.

The following evening, I'm back in a darkened hotel room to watch Max's third and last appearance. The final group matches are played at the same time, so Belgium are playing Iceland and Slovakia are playing Romania. Whether it's the TV company's need to split their staff across two events or because Uli Gross has been kicked off I'm not sure, but it's just Kate, Dieter Bauer, and Max for this one. The stadium in Frankfurt is spectacular and Max is clearly fascinated by the huge video cube dangling from the ceiling and the high-quality digital signage.

Without a sparring partner, he is more centred. Less cheeky, less irreverent, and more keen to bounce questions onto Dieter Bauer than Kate would like. I get what he's up to. He can't use this trip to boost his profile in the way he wants - because of the curse, you remember - but he can learn from a true master.

The pre-match sections aren't too interesting. Max gently corrects the formation graphics but then gets confused. He looks around the stadium.

Kate: So with that, let's hand over to -

Max: One second, Kate. Where is everybody?

Kate: Max, we have to -

Max: Kate, look. They can't kick off now. There's barely anyone in. This game's a sellout.

Dieter: You think - ?

Max: I don't know but there's no way the match is going to kick off on time.

Kate: We have to hand off to the commentary team.

It's the first time Kate has shown annoyance at Max's antics, and the view switches to one of the pitch. The players are ready, the referee is ready, but the match doesn't kick off. Minutes pass. More minutes pass. We see clips of chaos outside the stadium. Tens of thousands of fans are in queues. They look pissed.

Eventually, the commentators hand back to the studio.

Kate: We're hearing the start of the match has officially been delayed by fifteen minutes. A statement from UEFA confirms there's an issue with the ticketing system which they're trying to resolve with all due haste. So, Max, it seems you were right again.

Max looks away. He's in a mood!

Kate: Of course we're all hopeful for a speedy resolution to the issue and, again, we're expecting kickoff in just over five minutes. Dieter Bauer, what will the players be thinking?

They ramble for a while, trying to kill time in the most professional way possible. Max looks around the half-empty stadium with a variety of looks on his face. He contributes nothing until Kate provides an update.

Kate: Word just in from UEFA. The problem is resolved and fans are coming into the stadium, now. Expected kickoff time is six thirty, so that's a thirty minute delay. And of course, both matches must be played at the same time so the Belgium Iceland game is currently on hold. I expect those fans are not too happy.

Dieter: No, of course not. The tickets are not cheap and there's great excitement in the respective countries. This is unfortunate and I'm afraid it is not the first time this has happened at a major event run by UEFA.

Max: If I could briefly speak up in defence of UEFA, Dieter?

Dieter: Of course.

Max: See, they will get a lot of flack for this but I think it's not totally fair. Words like shambles, chaotic, dangerous. It's not fair to focus on one minor element of the organisation. I went for a walk around the stadium earlier and let me tell you it's a masterpiece of checks, controls, and backups. The viewers are probably worried the president of Slovakia and the bigwigs from UEFA don't have enough to drink. Let me assure you that the VIP boxes are laden with champagne and caviar. There's fridges of the stuff. There's crates and crates of champagne, prosecco, spirits of all kinds. They've got backup generators for the champagne fridges, Kate.

Kate: I think -

Max: Yeah it's absolutely fantastic organisation from the point of view of the people who really matter. I spoke to the guy who runs the helipads and he says it's like clockwork and there's plans B, C, and D. No helicopter will be delayed and no private jet is going to have the slightest hiccup. There's champagne, caviar, six kinds of hams, they've got a world champion mixologist up there. You want something that can only be made by flicking a shaker behind your head? There's nothing this guy can't do. Yeah, in the concourses the plebs get one beer to choose from. That's enough choice for the likes of me, Kate. I mean, it's kind of like beer, that stuff. Beer-adjacent, anyway. Personally, I'd rather drink from a puddle in Moss Side but at least they offer it to us! They're so good, these organisers. The plebs are happy to get a glimpse of the head of UEFA on the big screen, Kate. We can bask in his radiance knowing the billionaires and presidents have their champagne and they have their caviar and the waiters have been told not to look anyone in the eye and the airport knows that these private jets have take off priority. I think we all need to calm down and remember who's really important when it comes to football.

That seems to be the cue for Max's TV career to end, but it seems like the producers want to give him more rope to hang himself. It's better than watching fans enter the stadium in dribs and drabs. Kate's told to keep him talking.

Kate: You don't think much of UEFA, Max.

Max: Oh I have massive respect for them. Their talent is extraordinary. No, don't laugh. These are the best and the brightest among us. They have the talent and the nerve to bring their contempt for the fan into Germany, the one place in Europe where fan culture is well and truly alive. Well, not for long, meine Freunde, here comes UEFA to show you what the future of football looks like.

Kate: You have a German player in your team. What is it like to manage a German?

Max gives Kate a look. She's been told to cut off the anti-UEFA stuff and he knows it. He is probably thinking of Emma's dream of going to the biggest Dolly Parton statue in the world when he replies.

Max: Yes, I have a German player but he is very, very strange.

Kate: In what way?

Max: When I punish him, he always asks for more.

Dieter: That is indeed very strange.

Max: Yeah, when he makes a mistake in training I tell him to do eight pushups or eight laps of the pitch. And he always shouts, nine!

The joke takes Kate by surprise and she laughs. For a minute, she can't speak. Max is back to his charming best.

Max: Dieter, did you ever manage an English player?

Dieter: I don't have a joke prepared. I'm sorry, Max.

Max: No but really. I'm interested.

Dieter: I did not. In those days there wasn't as much trade between our nations.

Max: Don't get me started on Brexit.

Dieter: I won't! I meant trade in football players. You had a few Germans. Klinsmann, of course.

Max: Uwe Rosler.

Dieter: You know about Uwe Rosler? Surely he's before your time?

Max: I grew up reading everything I could about football. Rosler played in Manchester so it was quite interesting.

Kate: Is it true you're a Manchester United fan?

Max: Lapsed, I think you'd say.

Kate: You were in Munich with us. Did you have time to visit the Manchesterplatz?

Max: Don't, Kate.

Kate: I'm sorry. Are you okay?

Where Max's joke took Kate by surprise, this question is equally unexpected and just like when I brought it up on the autobahn, this isn't the right time.

Max: Look, it's just very emotional for me. It's always been a... It's always moving. It's so sad. But I've always been able to protect myself from those emotions. Emotions that I just don't want to feel. I can say it was a long time ago and things like that. But I'm a manager of a football club now and the team is getting younger and younger and I can't even buy senior players because they're all f... They're all risk averse and they don't want to come on this adventure with me. But the kids aren't jaded and don't have to think about their mortgages and they don't look at me and think this guy's weird they think this guy's a player-manager and he's awesome. So I'm building a team of kids and one day soon we're going to start smashing teams up and it's going to be a big story. And the idea that something could happen to them...

Dieter: Max.

Kate: I'm sorry. Really.

Max: Nothing's going to happen to them. I'm not going to let it happen. It's just weird. I'm all hormonal or something. When I think about them I get all weepy and sentimental.

Dieter: Max is entering fatherhood.

Max: No, thanks.

Dieter: When they told me I would be standing next to a twenty-four-year-old manager I thought how elderly I have become! You cannot be a trainer when you still need training wheels on your bicycle. But now it makes sense. You find a way to be older than your players.

Max: When you took over you were in your early thirties and you handled the older pros no problem.

Dieter: You did your homework.

Max: It's not homework when it's so interesting.

Dieter: I think I would be interested in watching your young players, Max.

Max: Right. I'll buy a champagne fridge.

Dieter: I'm serious, Max!

Max: Well, obviously you'd be the guest of honour. You'd be the best player who ever walked into that stadium.

Dieter: Not the best manager?

Max: Dieter. Mate. I'm standing right here. Don't be rude.

Dieter: I never got to see the Busby Babes. Perhaps I will see Best's Babes.

Max: Dieter, don't. You've set me off again...

Kate: I'm hearing the players and referee are heading out onto the pitch. We'll go back to our commentary team.

Max: Kate?

Kate: Yes, Max?

Max: Romania's number ten is injured and hasn't told anyone.

Kate: Something to look out for. Thanks, Max.

***

Max plays the rest of the match straight while the Chester Chatters create memes in which Max is Napoleon marching across Europe to save football from UEFA. Somehow the image of him wearing a bicorn doesn't even look PhotoShopped. Romania's number ten doesn't make it to half time and Max doesn't even brag about it.

I turn the TV off in my hotel room and feel sad. I fire off a text.

Me: Are you okay? Are they mad at you?

It takes a while for him to reply.

Max: No. They asked if I wanted to stick around and do some more work. We're off to Hamburg.

Me: Oh, great! Which games will you be doing?

Max: No games. I turned them down. We're going to the Miniature Museum and to the Beatles tour. Then we're thinking of going to Copenhagen after. They've got loads of Scandi-noir themed walks and escape rooms. We'll drive up and down the bridge from The Bridge looking for bodies.

Me: But you need to stay and fight! Do something about the curse and you'll get your striker.

Max: I think one side effect of this curse is that it makes me think I don't have a curse. Anyway, send me the article when it's done.

Me: Which article?

Max: The one about us hanging out in Germany living the dream.

Me: You said it was all off the record.

Max: And you'd stick to that?

Me: Of course. That's like, important.

Max: Wow. That's good to know. Write what you want, then. If you think it's even a good story. People like progression fantasies though so it might be good.

Me: Progression fantasies?

Max: You started lonely and hungry and you met a wizard and he gave you the call to adventure and dragged you across the threshold into the special world and then you moved up, up, and up. And you drank the elixir. That's German wheat beer, Beth. I really shouldn't have to spell this out. It's self-explanatory. Look, write it or don't. I'm turning my phone off, now.

Me: Wait! I can't turn this into a story unless you break the curse.

Max: How do I do that?

Me: I mean, you could pee on the corner flags. But basically, you need to sign a striker.

Max: Ah, that's easy. I've got one. Someone you know.

Me: Who?

Max: The curse is lifted. The End. MAX BEST HAS LEFT THE CHAT.

I stretch, shower, and check my phone is charged. I'm going to be interviewed on talkSPORT, and in the morning I'll head to Iserlohn to talk to an Italian player who has been heavily linked with a move to one of the Manchester clubs. If it goes well, I could be seeing a lot more of him. And he could be seeing a lot more of me.