6.
Friday July 5
I took a cup of tea into the garden and spent some time watching birds come to the feeders I'd put up. Ruth's barn, or Ruth's dad's cottage as I had to call it when others were around, was nice and cool in the summer, with its thick walls and old-school materials. No-one knew how old it was but it was far from decrepit. People had looked after it and it had a good few years in it yet. What it most lacked was a shady spot in the garden where I could set up a typewriter and write the great American novel.
The garden lacked anything except a collection of old bits of wood, some small bushes, some medium bushes, and some large piles of building materials stored under plastic sheets. The space had very much fallen into neglect over the years and since I had treated myself to a few weeks away from football, I had taken it upon myself to do something about it. The challenge was that I had no relevant skills or knowledge except to say we could probably relocate the eight hundred roof tiles into a little shed somewhere so that I didn't have to look at them. Apart from that, I had no good ideas and couldn't have told you the difference between an acer and a maple. What I did have was time, so when I wasn't dipping into the curse screens to check on my squads or jogging to Clive OK's house to check on him, I was learning.
Learning about garden plants and landscaping options. Reading gardening magazines. Watching gardening shows with Emma. Pottering around garden centres peering at pots, plodding next to my groundsman learning about sods, treading around country estates looking at bedding.
I went into the barn and found myself in the living room looking from left to right. Why had I gone in there? I couldn't remember. I went back outside and sighed. Gardens, bird feeders, forgetting why I went into rooms, having two appointments on an entire Friday - I was getting old.
Max Best, 24. I'd been 24 for a while but I was only just starting to feel it. How old are you? 23. No wait, 24.
We spoke to Max Best, who at 24 is Europe's youngest director of football.
That sounded good. That sounded right. That's a young man right there.
We spoke to Max Best, a 24-year-old midfielder playing in the fifth tier of English football. Ah, hang on, now. I do not consent to that number going up.
Age in football is strange. Players have nasty, brutish and short careers. Once a player turns twenty-four he is zooming towards ‘the cliff’. Chelsea no longer sign players aged 25 or older. I was nearly at the point where a club with more money than sense wouldn’t want to sign me simply because of my age.
A twenty-two-year old mystery winger in the sixth tier has unlimited potential. Let’s go take a look at him. A twenty-four-year old midfielder in the National League? Yawn. Too old. Bin him off let’s go to Nando’s.
It’s better for managers. A thirty-year-old manager is by definition young, exciting, and dynamic. A sixty-year-old has tons of miles left in him.
After the yearly curse update, I added one to the age column on my squad list spreadsheets. When I thought about Angel, I thought about her as being seventeen even though her birthday was not until February. This season she was 17, Henri was 29, Pascal 19, Ryan Jack 36. There were so many numbers I needed to keep track of that this solution was simplest, and so my players had two birthdays - their useless real-life ones and their spreadsheet one. (Charlotte and Youngster had trolled me by organising an early-June birthday party for all the players in the digs.)
Most numbers only have meaning in context. So how old was I, really?
According to my infallible spreadsheet, there were twelve members of the first-team squad younger than me, and that didn't count guys like Benny and Tyson who would get meaningful minutes through the course of the season. There were now only twelve guys older than me. Of the summer signings, three were older (barely) and six were younger. Chester was de-aging fast.
I remembered what I wanted to get from the living room and stood up. I felt a tiny, unfamiliar twinge in the lumbar region. "Ooh, me back," I said and my joints creaked and groaned. Whatever I did with this garden, it needed to be age-appropriate. All nice and level, no trip hazards. Maybe raised beds so I didn't have to bend too much. And none of that low furniture.
I blinked. Why was I in the living room?
***
"Are you nervous?"
I scoffed. "Are you joking?"
"No. You're in your second-best suit."
I sighed and put my phone down. I'd been pretending to scroll while in fact I was in the perk shop in my head drooling over the goods. My assistant manager, Sandra Lane, was dressed smart casual. After taking training - almost everyone was back from holiday now - she had gone home to change. "That's your third-best top and those are your favourite trainers. Me looking good is just me being polite. Giving the newbies some eye candy. You're actually nervous."
"No way is this my third-best top. That's cheeky, that."
"Am I wrong higher or lower?"
"Never mind."
We were about to meet the new board, a meeting that could have serious repercussions for the both of us (and did, for one of us). The seven newly-elected members were in the boardroom - good place for them - getting to know each other while MD steered them into thinking about what questions they wanted to ask us.
I opened my curse screens again but was interrupted.
"How do you know these are my favourite trainers?"
"You wear them on Fridays or after we get beat. They cheer you up."
Sandra smiled. "That's true."
"I know."
"Do you think it'll be anyone we know?"
"Ruth, I imagine," I said. "I know she stood and she's got lots of name recognition and these days she's an industry insider, too. People who like me will vote for her as a sort of ally."
"People who like you? God, is this going to be all second-preference voting and tactical votes and stalking horses and all that bullshit?"
"Nah. We won the league. I'm Father Christmas and you're Head Elf. It's next year we need to worry about."
"Oh, that's good to know."
I went back to the shop. The first thing to consider was my stash. After a moderate amount of summer scouting, the Exit Trials, and three European Championship fixtures, I'd added a fair few experience points.
XP balance: 6,902
I was still short of the 9,000 I needed to buy the next option in my shopping list. I also craved Finances and really, really needed more Attributes. Sandra's favourite tactic, 4-2-3-1, was the next formation available.
Like the skilled Mariner I was, I'd been keeping my little boat true to its course, sailing hard towards WibWob, a perk that would give me greater tactical flexibility. The seas were calm and the wind was gentle when suddenly the July perk leapt onto a rock and called out to me. "Max!" it cried, splashing its tail into the sea. "Max, forget your silly formation adjuster. I'm the perk you really want. Come here. Giggle! Yeah, just crash into this rock and we can be together."
Friendly Special Offer
New perk available for the month of July: The Friendzone
Cost: 1,350 XP
Effects: Increases the XP earned from managing up to six pre-season friendlies by 50%. This effect is annual, and permanent.
For the twentieth time since the perk landed, I got my calculator out and did some maths. We had six pre-season friendlies scheduled, so the imps must have assumed six was what we would always aim for. To be fair, we probably would. Personally, I thought five was already too many and would have been happy with two but for once I let myself be overruled by all the experienced pros.
Friendlies were worth 1 XP per minute. Being a manager always doubled what I earned, so pencil in 2 XP for the pre-season matches. With this 50% boost, I'd get 3 XP per minute for six friendlies.
With a cost of 1,350 XP, I would break even after the third friendly in the third year. Two and a half years to get payback, then pure profit for the rest of my life.
It was irritating how well these imps knew my psychology. Of course I wanted this perk. A two-and-half-year payback time was nothing. This was a good investment! Better than the solar panels!
Our first friendly of the 2024/25 season was happening the next day, so I would probably sleep on it and buy it over breakfast. It was frustrating to be pushed back from buying WibWob, but that was Old Nick's game. Keep me grinding. Keep me motivated. Drop enough cheese to keep the hamster on the wheel.
"Do hamsters eat cheese?" I asked Sandra.
"Max." MD opened the door. "Miss Lane. Won't you join us?"
Sandra stood and tapped me on the chest with the back of her hand. "Don't be talking about hamsters in there. Or mermaids."
"Mermaids? When was I talking about mermaids?"
She gave me a pitying look, closed her eyes, and put on a friendly smile. An old teacher's trick, I reckoned. I hadn't unlocked that perk, yet. I went to face my destiny not knowing how to motivate a hamster.
***
"Oh thank fuck," I said, and went to bump fists with my allies. More specifically, I fist bumped Sumo and Barnesy and acceded to Ruth's request for a handshake. Three out of seven of the board were Best fans! The relief was instant. The season would have its grim times and bleak moments, but the chances of four of the board working against me seemed low.
With a huge smile, I fist bumped the new guys, and gave MD a brief but powerful shoulder massage. I made eye contact with one of the newbies and jerked my head towards Sandra. "This is Sandra Lane, assistant manager to the stars. Sandra, you know Ruth. Have you met Sumo? He knows how to glitch Palworld and he can't resist a Haley slash Abigail harem in Stardew Valley. And this is Barnesy. Former player, always got a tip on the three thirty at Kempton, can beat the Brig in paintball. MD, are you going to introduce the rest?"
"Actually, Max, you're going to sit down until you're needed," said the biggest idiot in history.
"Don't be all board about this," I said. "We're a team. Let's get on with it. I want to be early at the train station for when Emma gets here."
MD sighed, but he seemed to be in a very good mood. "Fine, fine. I'd just like to say before we begin that I might have found a stadium sponsor for us! Eat your heart out, Brooke!"
So that's why he was so upbeat! Brooke had stirred him into being more capitalist. Striding the world of business like a colossus! Yes, mate! I went into the curse and checked his ambition score. It was still 4. "That's great. When are we going to hear about it?"
"Oh, when there's a tentative agreement and the board needs to approve it. We're not close to that."
"Right," I said, feeling a teeny tiny sense of dread. He wasn't seriously going to sign a deal to get the club more money... after the transfer deadline? Surely? With a sinking feeling, I knew that's exactly how it would go. The deadline this year was September 2, and the money would plop uselessly into our accounts on the seventh or the fifteenth or some garbage. But MD was excited and I tried to be happy for him. "Good job, boss!"
He smiled. "Could the new members introduce themselves?"
"I'll go first!" said one woman. She looked like she had two teenage daughters who were newly mad on footy. "I'm Violet and I'm here to make sure the women's team gets looked after."
"Kewl."
"My name's Lily," said the next one. She looked like the sort of woman who was 97% normal but had two offbeat habits that made you question everything else about her. "This is all very exciting. I didn't think I'd win and I hope I don't make a fool of myself."
"You just need to make sure I'm not doing anything illegal or sinister."
Next guy was a big boy in a polo neck. He had Professor Snape hair that he kept pushing back. "Name's Dave. Been a fan forever. Last season was amazing. You kept pushing the community aspect so I thought I should get involved. Give something back."
"Top bins. Love it."
The last guy was one of those dudes who doesn't like blinking. You've met people like that, I'm sure. They sort of, how can I explain it? They sort of don't blink? He was thin and quiet and had dirty glasses. "My name’s James. James Pond."
There was a slight pause while everyone replayed his words with a slight air of puzzlement. I said, "That felt strange, for some reason. All right, anyway, pleased to meet you all. MD, what's the plan?"
"If I may," said James Pond. "I'd like to check something about the stadium naming rights and shirt sponsorships. I heard a rumour that we had good offers that we turned down."
"We chose not to explore them further," said MD in an attempt to separate language from meaning.
I stepped in to help push the meeting along. "We don't promote betting companies, beer, tobacco, gun-runners, parasites, ne'er do wells, climate criminals, or Hewlett Packard." Not for the last time in this meeting, three of the newbies laughed thinking I was making a joke.
"And when was that decided?"
"When someone wrote Our Community on the front of the stadium like it matters."
"I see," he said, drily. Guy was rather annoying.
MD opened one of those luxury textile binder things b-boys love and turned over a piece of paper. "Max. The board would love for you to explain some of your recent decisions regarding transfers so they can understand your thought process and feed that back to the fans. Then they'd like to discuss the state of the squad."
"Squads," said Violet, the one who was very interested in the women's team. "I hope we give the women's team equal footing in these meetings."
"Let me save us all loads of time," I said. "Violet, the women's squad is unbelievable. We added four defensive players and now we're a proper, proper team with no weaknesses. We are going to smash teams up left, right, and centre and genuinely there has never been a more sure-fire thing in the history of sports. Okay? Now, it's not my job to tell you how to do this board thing but if we all leave this room saying 'oh the season's over before it's begun' we're not going to sell many tickets to our home games. We have to preserve the illusion that there's somehow a competition going on. Do you get me? And, yeah, there could be injuries or some key players could get some personal problems but in pure footballing terms, boom. This goose is cooked. Enjoy it. Just pretend to be surprised, is my advice."
Violet gawped at me. "Oh." She looked at her notes. One was heavily underlined. "How do you see the rest of the division?"
"Good question. On a personal level, it's lots of fun because of the teams we're up against. On a sporting level, we’re in good shape. There's one team I haven't seen but based on history they should be our biggest rivals. Cheadle Town Stingers. Can I just say, great name. I wanted something like that for us but I was outvoted infinity to one. Let's call Cheadle rank one. Then there are two teams at rank two. That's Tranmere - did you know I used to play for them? - and West Didsbury, an obscure team in Manchester. So those are three teams we can't take for granted. The rest of the teams are much of a muchness, rank three, no big deal, but the list includes Crewe, Salford City, and FC United. Three teams I've had dealings with! Then there's Fleetwood Town Wrens who are not very good, I'm afraid. Rank five."
"You missed rank four," said MD.
"That was deliberate to highlight how bad the Wrens are."
"Hold up," said Dave, who had been making notes. "Are you saying our women's team is already better than Crewe?"
"Yeah, billion percent."
He looked sceptical. "I see."
"You've never been to see them, have you Dave?"
"I have! But... Okay."
"The league table will tell you soon enough." I remembered something. "The cups, yeah. Good point, Dave. I'm not expecting too much from the Welsh Cup but who knows? There's maximum three good teams, there. I don't want to get too cocky because we could draw Wrexham in the first round and get a black eye but I imagine there's a fair few winnable games sloshing around. English FA Cup, no chance but give us a good draw and we could go a few rounds. The prize money would be handy, actually and the women would love to be on TV. The Cheshire Cup I'm not sure about. Stockport County beat us straight up last time, so again, I'd take going a couple of rounds in. I don't see us getting rolled over, though, except by WSL teams. The focus is on the league, obvs, but let's see if we can upset a few teams in cups this year and next year start to get close to finals and whatnot."
Violet was pretty stunned by this torrent of information. She took a second to recover, looked down at her notes, and said, "You created new girls teams but they aren't very full. There are five players across three teams."
I leaned back and crossed my legs. "Interesting topic. Do we want to bring randos in to make up the numbers? Or wait until we have proper quality players? I decided we needed to get going so we've got a bunch of casual players who can come and fill out a squad. What I want to avoid is a situation like in big clubs where young players think they're going to play for the first team and for England but their coaches know they aren't but they need to string the kids along for whatever reason. I've found with these kids if you say to them, look, you won't play for the first team but these are serious matches and we'll train you and you'll have fun and some great stories, do you want to be on call? If you do that, they all go yeah, course. And they get to meet the first team ladies and we give them training kits and all that so I reckon they're super happy with the sitch but they also know we've not earmarked them to be the next Bea Pea. So, yeah, we have girls teams and we can fulfil our fixtures and I don't need to lose my mind trying to flesh them out before some artificial deadline. We've got at least one good player in each age group and over the summer I found two good ten-year-olds." Two Playdar finds: a PA 70 right back and a PA 75 centre back. "So it's actually seven hot prospects and we’re talking to schools getting sort of trial days set up. It’s easier now that we’re massive. Violet, we're racing ahead with the women's stuff. I think it's a great mix of local girls coming through and the best of what's out there on the free market, plus we've got the best coach." I laughed. "It's crazy how over-specced Jackie Reaper is. Honestly, it's not even fair what we're doing. It barely counts as sport. Again, not my job to tell you what to do but you can let this all rumble along. We're going to have our games in Flint and there could be some logistical problems so that's something you could keep an eye on."
"When can the women play at the Deva?" said James Pond. MD squirmed. For a second I thought it was because he didn't like Pond but later I realised he was itching to tell us what the new stadium name would be.
"We need to dig up the pitch and put undersoil heating and mega drainage. It's mind-bending how much work goes into getting a durable, modern pitch. There are these machines that stitch artificial grass into the soil so that you get a sort of framework for natural grass to grow around. The pitch gets way more resilient and you can play up to three times as many games. I saw a quote for the stitching that was 400,000 euros and that’s a lot of tiny coffees and giant bretzels. Undersoil heating is multiple hundreds of thousands. Now, it's not just a cost - you get some money back because matches don't get postponed, but it's not a slam dunk investment, either. We'll have to do it one day but there's also the question of timing. Those ground works are easier to do if there's space around the pitch so we'll do it when we start expanding the stadium. Knock down one stand, sort out the pitch over a summer, boom. Synergy. Just need ten million to get started."
Again, they all laughed, except James Pond either because he was humourless by nature or because he understood I was being serious. "We're really thinking of expanding the stadium, then?"
"The goal's to get to League One, right? Five thousand four hundred is going to get cramped, fast."
His eyes twitched. Was he doing hypersonic blinks? "Why don't we move to a purpose-built stadium?"
I shrugged. "This is our home. Why move?" I didn't want to get into my plans to surround the Deva with a training complex, and I didn't want to point out that straddling the border could be a big benefit to us. In general I was trying to be less secretive and more open but something about this new board was making me cautious.
"So you'd knock down one side?"
"Are we really talking about the stadium? I don't want to talk about the stadium." As the words left my mouth, I realised I was being stupid. Chester fans were disproportionately obsessed with the idea of stadium ownership. Talking about a future where they owned their own stadium again would score me big brownie points and help keep them off my back. "It's fantasy land right now, but in principle I think we knock down the west stand near the end of one season. When was that built? 1990? We get rid and put up a new one and the stadium'll get younger just like the squad. Maybe we can jiggle our fixtures so we can finish the season with seven away games or whatever to give us more time. After the last home game, we dig up the pitch and get stuck into that. Come start of the next season we've got a three-sided stadium and the best pitch outside a major league. Boom. Hamazing."
There was a pause. MD coughed. "Er, what about the missing west stand?"
"Oh, right. So there's this Italian company that makes modular wooden stadiums. They're beautiful, practical, and eco-friendly. I luv it. Big-time luv it. It's a bit cheaper than your typical concrete brutes and it goes up fast and it's just gorge. They make the stadium in bits back in Italy and ship it over and some dudes in cranes put it together like the best lego kit ever. It's amazing. Six thousand seats goes up in no time, we plug it into the mains and the water, boom, we've got over ten thousand capacity and more executive suites and bars and food courts and all that. 7.8 million pounds and it's as simple as a dream. When we're ready we do the same on the main stand and four thousand each on the sides. Glorious twenty thousand all-seater stadium the city will be proud of."
Dave put his hand up. "I'd like to talk about that for about an hour, if that's okay?"
"Soz, dude," I said, getting up. "It's time for me to chat your head off about the men's team. Er... where's my flipchart?"
MD looked around the room. "It was here... Oh! You took it to Nando's for the post-boot camp meal."
"Where is it now?"
MD thought. "In reception."
"I'll get it," said Sandra.
"No, I'll go," said MD. He zipped off.
"Tell us about the boot camp," said Ruth. She'd heard some of the stories already but had judged it would be fun for the others to hear.
I sat and drummed my fingers on the table trying to think of the most efficient way to tell the tale. "Last year we kidnapped the guys and dumped them in the countryside and made them do tasks to earn food. They loved it and the shock was effective in terms of getting team spirit fast but we can't really go round stealing people and making them carry logs across streams and all that. Not on, you know, an ongoing basis. So this year the Brig got everyone on a coach and they drove somewhere. Nice little day out. He told them they were going to a luxury hotel that closed down and it was all good stuff but they'd have to, like, boil the water before they drank it and stuff like that. Basically, it's nice but you've got to do little tasks and work in groups and that sort of thing. Everyone relaxes, right, because it's way easier than last year and hey - it even sounds like fun."
"Oh, boy," said Sumo. He'd been around long enough to know where this was going. He looked at Barnesy. "Did you know about this?"
The former soldier nodded. "Yes, sir. I helped plan it."
I continued. "So they get to the place and it's a bit more run-down than they'd been expecting and there's no staff. Like, the Brig drives off and they're totally on their own. It's okay, mind. It was a hotel and there's a reception area and carpets and things. There's no heating but it's the end of June. It's not that bad. The Brig had split them into small groups and each group leader got a beeper."
"A beeper?" laughed Sumo. "Like in old movies?"
"Right. You probably guessed by now that the Brig and his old army mates are about to try to mentally disintegrate my football team over the course of a long weekend and they're nearby observing on hidden cameras and mics and they're giving instructions via the beepers. It starts out okay, like, 'find water'. Nothing comes out of the taps. They work together doing some escape room puzzles and then group 1 gets a message. 'Bonus rations if you steal water from group 2'. Just sort of mid-level mind games. Long discussions about whether they should do it or not. Some of the tasks are based on questions like 'Who is Max's favourite player?' and 'Who was Max trying to sell to Halifax Town at the start of June?' Of course, there's no right answers. It was just to get them in a worked-up kind of mental state. Distrustful and that." MD came in carrying the flipchart. I gave him a Maxy Two-Thumbs. "So yeah, anyway, at some point they realise they're in an old lunatic asylum."
"What!" yelled Lily.
I smiled and raised a hand. "It wasn't. It was a care home. Worst thing that ever happened there was a few guys dying peacefully in their sleep, that sort of thing. The army guys dressed it up to look sinister and stuff. You know, some weird dolls and stains and boarded-up doors and that. The only evening activity was movie night and the only movie was The Shining. You get the idea. Basically, we scared them and tried to turn them against each other which we did, especially between the guys who were scared and the guys who were laughing at the scared ones. There was a way to turn all the lights on and unlock the wing with the beds and showers and for that the teams had to proper work together." I shook my head. "I wish I could join in on that stuff. It sounds like a ton of fun, to be honest, but the Brig says I'd ruin the dynamic."
"It sounds horrible," said Violet.
Sandra said, "The lads came back buzzing. The weekends are designed so that it's hard enough to trigger a moment of euphoria when you achieve the goal. There's loads of energy at training. It's not something they'd do at Man City but it works with this lot."
I clapped my hands and started walking around. "Okay let's talk about... me. Achievements unlocked - harnessing the power of the sun. Done. Tick. Fed the hungry. Tick."
"You mean the mobile kitchen?" said James Pond.
"Right. That came online on the first of July. Breakfast and lunch and they'll be making the stuff we eat on away trips. Sandra, have you tried it?"
"Yes, today. It's good!"
"Something for me to look forward to," I said. "Anyway, it's happening. Things are starting to cook around here." I allowed space for laughter. Space that wasn't filled.
"Can you tell us about the transfers?" said Dave, even though it was clear I was about to launch into a speech.
"Yeah that's ninety percent of what I'm about to say."
"Oh, okay. Sorry."
"We're going to talk about our reputation, my ambition, and Arsenal from 2005 to 2013."
"Specific," said Ruth.
I drew a few horizontal lines on the top-left of the sheet. "The football pyramid is immense but at the very top it looks like the side of a ruler. Premier League, Championship, League One, League Two, National League. It's a straight up and down ladder. The first little dash on this ruler, very much in pride of place, the greatest club in the land, Aston Villa."
"Is that judged alphabetically?" asked Barnesy.
"It's based on clubs that are doing well whose names I am willing to utter in polite society. So Prem, Championship, League One, Two, National League, and we've just escaped the National League North. You with me? We want to move up these rungs. That's not easy, surprisingly." I drew four big black horizontal lines and picked up a blue marker. "Try to think of Chester's overall attractiveness to new players as being a single number. It might surprise you but that number doesn't change much. I'm working on a theory I find very compelling which is that it changes once per year, at the end of a season. That's when everyone in the football industry takes a minute to breathe and thinks wow what just happened? They clear their heads, process their successes and failures, then take a gander at what everyone else did. Oh, look, Chester got promoted. This, by the way, explains one thing that was driving me tonto - why attendances were so slow to rise. Everyone's mindset was stuck at one level for the whole season! It's not realistic, but that's how it works. We're all hyped because we won the league but to outsiders we're currently rated as one of the four lowest teams in the National League. Makes sense? A player looking at us has to think we're favourites to go straight back down. It's frustrating but there's a lot of logic to it. So as we clamber our way to higher and higher league positions, our reputation will look like a staircase. Like this." I drew a blue line that jumped up at regular intervals. "But I want to go much faster than that." I used a red marker to draw a big line rocketing to the top-right of the page.
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"Imagine a crazy world where we get promoted this season finishing seventh in the playoffs. We're the seventh best team in the National League, is what players will think of us. But we'll be in League Two and I'll be trying to win it. So there's a gap between sort of reality and what I want to happen."
"You need a consolidation season every time you go up," said James Pond.
"Nope. No, thanks. I'm getting old fast and my time in this game is short. You can consolidate when I'm gone. The issue is that this gap between our reputation and my ambition is going to get bigger, probably peaking next season. Best case scenario, it'll be this vast chasm, and it's going to stay that wide. Great. That means I have to rein in my ambition, right?"
"Yes," said MD.
"No chance," I said. "Let's talk about Arsenal. They moved to their new stadium in 2006 and had to pay like 400 million pounds, which in those days was a lot of money."
"It still is," said MD.
"They embarked on what the fans called Project Youth. Every year they sold their best player to finance the loans and tried to fill the team with talented little brats. You could say it worked, since they got to the Champions League every season but they didn't win anything until Project Youth ended and they started spending Arsenal sorts of money on players."
"I'm lost," said Ruth. "Are you holding them up as an example of success or failure?"
"Both. They were Schrodinger's Arsenal. Arsenal are one of the biggest teams in this country so they should compete for trophies, right? I think the fans were frustrated at that time. But my thesis today is that it was a successful period. They had to pay for the stadium and the surest way to do that was to finish in the top four every season and they absolutely did it. They played good football, too. And they did it while making a profit in the transfer market. Project Youth worked, and Project Youth will be our model going forward."
"Young players?" said Dave, dubiously.
"Not only, but mostly. Here's the thing. I've been struggling and struggling to get experienced players to join us this summer. To me, it's a no-brainer that these guys would benefit from a move here, but this reputation limit is hard-baked into the industry. I thought maybe it'd be a one-off this summer but I realised looking at some random village in Germany with elite facilities that it's always going to be a problem. Ready-made players can get better facilities and wages elsewhere and that will always be true. The way around it is to convince talented young players to join us. So if that's how it has to be, let's really lean into it. Make it a feature. We've brought the average age of the squad down from 27 when I arrived to 23 now."
"Best's Babes," said Sumo. Apparently Dieter Bauer's reference to the Busby Babes had cut through.
I held a hand up. "I'd really rather not have us make that comparison, please. Matt Busby was one of the greatest managers ever and a real gentleman and I'm a grubby nobody and yeah, let's please not. If we want a name to sort of sum up what we're doing, it'd be more like Max's Misfits. Most of our signings are guys who don't really fit in elsewhere."
"Can we go through them one by one?" said Dave.
"Er, sure. Sounds boring, though. How about I whizz through and you tell me if you've got follow-up questions? Yeah? So we registered William Roberts. We call him WibRob. Bundle of energy, not small but low centre of gravity. Cost twenty thousand pounds but I reckon we could get more than sixty one day." That was technically true, though I was thinking in millions. I was struggling not to hype WibRob too much, for his own benefit. If I had to act surprised at him exceeding my predictions, fine. "Then we signed five kids from the Exit Trials. Cole Adams, left-back. Tall for a full back, which could be handy in some games. Josh Owens, left wing-back. Aff is going to mentor him and we think he could be an Aff type two-way player. Omari Naysmith, central midfield. Good all-rounder. Tom Westwood, striker. Er..." I looked at Sandra. So far, we hadn't seen anything from Tom to indicate he had special skills. "He's a good lad."
"He'll come good," she said, trying to encourage me. Tom Westwood was a rare example of me getting buyer's remorse from signing a high PA player. He just offered nothing. He came near the bottom of every drill. The Brig loved him, though, and Sandra didn't mind having one dud out of a whole squad. Weirdly, she liked Tom Westwood far more than she ever liked Tony Hetherington who was pretty similar in profile.
"The kids are all on 500 a week with two plus one deals. So's Wes Hayward. The Sharknado. Very fast, lots of upside, and he's twenty-six and he's been up and down the leagues so he knows loads of clubs and he's seen it all. Good in the dressing room, isn't he?"
"He is," said Sandra. "And even if he's a little..." I could see her trying to avoid the word 'wayward' and felt a bit of a cringe. We would be doing that the whole season! "Even if his decision-making needs work, he's more immediately useful than the kids and I have to say for the price it's a good deal."
"Why's he on the same as the Exit Triallists?" said James Pond.
"He's come from a lower league and the kids have all come from above. The deal is we make him look good and he gets paid properly at his next club."
"You expect to turn a profit on him, then?"
"We'll get fifty to a hundred grand for him, easy."
"How can you be so sure?"
I smiled. "When a player rips you up on a Saturday afternoon you tend to leave the stadium thinking, 'I wish he played for us'. When we get him going he'll terrify teams in League Two. I only wish I had another guy like him aged twenty-three and another aged seventeen."
"A production line," said MD.
I glanced behind me, checking that the Brig wasn't around. "Yeah. But not a horrible one. One that leads player after player to wealth and happiness."
"We're one short," said Violet, looking at her notes. "You said five Exit Trials players."
I frowned. Sandra helped me out. "Owen Travis. He's a goalkeeper. Quite well regarded but he will be our third-choice this season."
Right. Owen Travis. Sort of a generic name and I hadn't met him so he hadn't imprinted on my psyche in the slightest. He was eighteen and had CA 20, PA 99. Good prospect but unlike the outfield players I worried about giving him enough game time to let him improve fast enough. He would be a perfect candidate to loan to West for a month to get some minutes into him - if I could find a goalkeeping coach in time.
"Two more to go," said Dave. "Should we start with the controversial one or the ruinously expensive one?"
"I literally don't know which players you're referring to," I lied.
"Tell us about Ziggy."
"Ziggy is a fox-in-the-box, a poacher, an instinctive finisher. He's twenty-five, likes Oasis, and doesn't understand the timeline of Memento even if you write it down on flashcards."
"He's your client," said James Pond.
"So?"
"So it's odd, isn't it?"
"Nope. MD will tell you I looked at ten strikers."
"More," said MD.
"Guys who can score, or win headers, or hold the ball up, are like gold dust. It's this reputation graph all over. Strikers know their place on that sheet to the Nth degree. They're wrong in most cases but they think they know exactly how good they are. This one guy, Simon Lancashire. He thinks he's good enough for a League One playoff team and he wants two and a half grand a week. So to come down to our level he wants five K. Do you see the problem? I spent all summer chasing ghosts. We need misfits. Someone dead old, someone coming back from a big injury, someone out of favour, or, yeah, someone young. Project Youth for the win. Win is German for profit."
Dave followed my finger to the graphic I'd drawn. "But Wrexham were able to sign players from higher levels."
"Yeah," I agreed, because the guy was making my point for me. "By paying two or three times the market rate. I don't want to do that, tbh. When I took over here there were some inefficiencies in the wage to talent ratio but now there aren't. Actually, there are, but in our favour. Couple of guys are quite underpaid. But paying triple to get what I can get for half? No thanks." I got to my feet again and tapped the 'reputation' line. "It's interesting, though, because what can happen to make these stairs move mid-season? Points deductions, players not being paid, that sort of thing has to stop you attracting players. That's obvs. What about the other direction? If you win a cup your reputation has to get an immediate boost. And - I'm very excited about this one - if you qualify for a European tournament you get access to loads more players. Guys who want to play in Europe. European competition is a big draw and the effect on the market is immediate." This revelation, earned while complaining about how my tea was served in a cafe in Copenhagen, had startled me for it hadn't come from real life but from a memory of playing Champion Manager. I wasn't sure if I was being allowed to remember certain things or if it had happened because of Nick's customary sloppiness but the memory had popped up, vivid and fully-formed.
"Max," mumbled Sandra, because I'd gone internal, and because getting into European competition wasn’t immediately relevant to our discussion.
"Okay but another possibility," I mused, "is the takeover. Wrexham were where they were. Seventh or something, right? But their new owner was rich and sexy and that could count towards the overall attractiveness of the club. Why wouldn't it? At least a little bit. If there's a rich, ambitious owner you know you won't be the last marquee signing but one of many. You can think the club's on the up."
"And they bought the stadium and they're improving it," said James Pond.
I was still miles away. "Yeah, they're good owners. Until they sell. Then what?"
James Pond had no sense of fear. "They invest in the stadium and the squad and they do what it takes to bring the club up to the top. They want to get to the Premier League. It's an exciting time to be a Wrexham fan."
"Until they sell," I said, starting to turn my full attention in the direction of this idiot. Was he even a Chester fan? Didn’t he remember what a bad owner could do to a football club? Didn’t he remember?
Sandra recognised the danger. "We were talking about Ziggy," she said.
I glared at James Pond for a few seconds, but a head tilt from Ruth was enough to remind me to be diplomatic and sophisticated. "Ziggy's a stopgap. He's a guy who will score goals at this level if we give him the right service. He's also cheap. We're paying his wages, nothing more, so that leaves me some powder dry for January if anything comes up. I'm pretty happy with the deal. It's not earth shattering but it's sensible and he'll benefit and so will his club. When we send him back he'll be their best player. I don't really want to develop another team's player but I don't see what the choice is. We need to get ahead of this situation so we'll give minutes to Chas Fungrieve this season. He's a fifteen-year-old who could do a job for us when he bulks up. And we'll see if there's some hotshot who comes on our radar in the meantime. The problem is National League defenders are beefy and a kid's going to struggle. Ziggy's not a big guy but you can't bully him out of a match and he'll dart around making you lose position." I had the weirdest feeling just then - my words weren't getting through. Lily and James Pond exchanged a glance and it was like being punched in the face. "Guys, we can't go into the season with Tom Westwood as our second striker. By all means find me a better option than Ziggy but we need someone." I got nothing back. What was going on? My body knew what was going on even if I didn't. My fingers started to curl, my eyebrows pushed themselves down into a scowl, and my heart hardened. "Ziggy's here now and he's going to play and the fans are going to love him."
Lily made a worried face. "But he's your client so there's a conflict."
A couple of hairs rose on the back of my neck. Danger! "He was getting paid at FC United. We're not paying him more than he was on. That's not how loans work. We're just taking over his contract until January with an option to extend it for the whole season if both clubs agree. If anything, I lose money because he'll score more goals in the seventh tier than in the fifth. He gets a goal bonus."
"But you'll put him in the team."
"I'll put our second best striker in the team? Of course I will. What?" My brain caught up. We had slipped right back to day one of my time at Chester. Ian Evans saying I was a con artist and MD was my mark. A hundred and twenty goals and multiple trophies later we were still talking about me slipping twenty quid from the till into my own pocket. Was it never going to end? I closed my eyes and rubbed my head. The rubs started out soothing but soon became furious.
That's why God made MD. "Lily, I've made enquiries about a dozen strikers this summer. We've explored all kinds of avenues, as Max has alluded to, and been quoted ridiculous wages for some highly average football players. Ziggy wasn't in our first dozen choices but he's a player willing to come to the club and he’s a player both Max and Sandra have known for a long time. I wouldn't say we're lucky to have him, exactly, because it's a step up for him, too, but I'm relieved he agreed. There's no question of impropriety here. Not in the slightest."
Dave asked, "What do FC United get?"
I was still seething, so Sandra took over. "We've given them a pre-season friendly at their place and we're going to be loaning players to them. We'll start with Andrew Harrison and we'll see what injuries FCU pick up before the transfer window closes. Whoever ends up going, we're happy with that since our players will get minutes and the squad's very slightly unwieldy at the moment. Twenty-three outfield players and Max wants us to include the best of the under eighteens as much as possible. FC United also benefit, as Max said, when Ziggy goes back as a much better player. It's definitely a win-win."
Ruth tried to stop me boiling by talking to me in her soft, husky phone sex voice. "Max, did you want to tell us about Zach Green?"
I didn't. Sandra went to bat for me. "Zach's a powerful defender with good technical abilities. He'll give us the option to pass the ball out from the back down the middle regardless of whether we have a DM. He's been rotting in Wrexham's reserves for a year so he's very, very rusty but it's clear he's going to be a mainstay of the team this season."
"He's very expensive," said James Pond. "Twelve hundred a week?"
I glanced at MD then went right back to raging turtle mode. I had begged Zach to take a basic wage of twelve hundred and another eight hundred in bonuses. Not only were the bonuses trivially easy to earn, but there was a release clause hidden in the fine print of his contract stating that if he didn't get his bonuses he could leave the club for free - not something that would ever be in Chester's interest. In short, the only way he wouldn't get the two thousand a week I'd promised was if the club literally ran out of cash. Zach understood the goal of his payment structure - you couldn't have a dressing room where the highest-paid player earned double the next one. Especially when the next one was Henri.
"It's a huge pay cut," said Sandra, "so he can get his career back on track. To be honest, I had given up on it ever happening. Max let him train with us and use our facilities and everything. Do you think that's what did it?"
"No," I mumbled.
MD brushed some lint off his trousers. "It was, indeed, a big surprise. Weeks of prevarication and suddenly he's ready to sign. We thought perhaps hanging out with Brooke, Carl, and Cheshire's American community yesterday would do it. But he called on the first of July and we signed everything on the second. Quite strange."
"What changed on the first of July?" said James Pond, eyeing my reputation graph.
"Nothing," said MD. "It was just another day. But there we go. It's quite a coup." He checked his watch. "Perhaps we'll finish with a quick SWOT analysis, Max? Perhaps a discussion of our targets?"
"No," I said. I'd decided that I didn't have to sit there and take snide accusations even for a second. "We'll do our best in every game. If that's not good enough for the board, the board can sack me. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to return some video tapes."
***
I went outside and leaned on the Duchess. She was getting old and she had her grumpy mornings. This would be her last season for sure. I gave her an affectionate pat.
Sandra came out ten minutes later. Ten minutes! "I was just telling them that I was settled in the area so if they sacked you I'd want the job."
I nodded. "Good."
She gave me a little punch. "I'm joking! I was actually telling them to go fuck themselves."
I shook my head. "Even better."
She punched me harder. "I was in the bog, you dick." She sat next to me on the bonnet of my car. "What was it that got under your skin?"
"The implication that I'd risk everything I'd built here for forty-five pounds a week."
She made an O face. "People are such dicks."
"That's what I always say!"
"I know. I'm parroting you. I'm managing up."
I smiled and gave her a quick back rub. "You don't need to manage me. You're mint. You're mustard. You're mustard with bits in. I need you to turn these kids into players which means I need you more than you need me."
She pulled an amused face. "When you brought me here I was attracted by the idea that I'd have to work with loads of grizzled veterans. Win over a dressing room full of snarling manimals. Know what I mean? I did that and now you're replacing the older guys with teenage boys. It's much easier than older guys and ten times easier than teenage girls." We stared at the brown box that was stuck onto the side of the stadium. It housed the club's offices, but neither Sandra nor myself spent a lot of time there. "I was looking forward to your predictions for the season. The lads say last year's one was great. They keep talking about it."
Two games into the season I had recovered enough from my coma to lay out my Maxterplan for how we would approach the season. "Yeah. It's good to have that sort of meeting. We will definitely do it with the players and staff. I'm not sure when the best time is."
"Why not tomorrow before the match?"
I looked up at the big sign: Chester FC. Our City, Our Community, Our Club. I still didn't understand why the words were in that order. According to the rules of climactic order, they should have been reversed. "How are we going to play? That's one issue. 4-1-4-1 again? And integration. Henri told me not to prune more than a third of a tree. The way it's turned out, if we include Vivek and WibRob as new guys in the squad, we've got something like eleven new players in a squad of twenty-four and there's still a senior goalie to come. It's like, half our guys are new. Do we need to do anything special for that? Does that need to be the focus for the first half of the season? What are you grinning at?"
"You're interesting, sometimes. So let me help you with how we should play. You ready? 4-2-3-1, the wave of the future."
I tutted. "No wingers even though Aff's our best player and I've just signed a literal Sharknado. Two defensive midfielders is the exact opposite of fearless football. Three central attacking midfielders. Pascal, WibRob, and Dan Badford. Yeah, the formation's perfect for, ooh, two years from now."
"It's a banging system. You can use Aff at left back and you don't plan to use Wes in every match anyway. Two DMs takes the pressure off Youngster and means we start every match with Magnus in the lineup, which makes switching formations a piece of piss." She looked dreamily into the distance. "Pascal and one of Aff or Sharknado as the attacking midfielders. And the third spot for the best player in the league."
"Marcus Wainwright plays for Grimsby."
She nudged me. "It's the system that'll get the most out of our star asset."
"Our Chesterness?"
She smiled but her face fell. "I'd like to try it in a friendly, at least. That's what they're for. I don't really understand..." She bit her lip. She didn't understand why I wouldn't let her practise it.
Okay so this formation thing was starting to become an issue. I looked up at the big motto again. Community. My immediate footballing community was the Brig and Sandra. I'd invested a lot of time and resources into the Brig's pet project, which had evolved into Project Youth. Now it was time to invest in Sandra. "Okay. Put it in your training schedule. I don't want to use it tomorrow or the next game; I want to play the hits. And I probably won't play in the friendlies so you'll have to work around that."
"Okay," she said, which seemed noncommittal, but I checked and she was absolutely delighted.
"Let's see how we get on in the first couple of friendlies, then I'll give my big Maxterplan speech in the days before the West Didsbury game." Inga had thought it would be funny to schedule a match against them, but on the whole I wished she hadn't. She was simply drawing attention to a story I didn't want to become a story. I planned to let some players go out on loan after the West match. Those players would have the benefit of some pre-season with us but would still have time to integrate into their new team's playing style. "Hang on," I said, side-eyeing my assistant. "Did you just manage me?"
"What do you mean?" she said, a picture of innocence. At exactly the same time, we both started laughing.
***
Before starting my car, I bought The Friendzone and 4-2-3-1.
XP balance: 2,952
Buying Friendzone made me realised I'd been played - kind of. I didn't want to risk injury in meaningless games and we had so many players who needed minutes on the pitch that I wasn't keen to play in the pre-season matches anyway. But the imps had pretty much guaranteed that I would stick to managing for the first six matches every season. Predictable income for Old Nick!
Buying the formation unlocked the next in the formation tree. It turned out to be 3-4-3, which I'd seen a few teams using. I instinctively liked it for many reasons including its aesthetics and because I currently only had one three-at-the-back option. 3-4-3 was on the market for 3,430 XP.
***
Pre-Season 1 of 6: Chester vs Wythenshawe Town
It was the first day of the season; time to blow off some of the cobwebs. Volunteers were going up and down the stands looking for litter and broken seats. Stewards were in place. Brooke had gone mental in selling tickets to a match no-one cared about. With a massive discount in place she hoped to get over a thousand people in. That was pretty impressive. Almost as impressive as the job she'd done selling season tickets. They were flying off the shelves! The stadium was going to be packed all season!
Another fact gave me that exciting, first-day-of-school feeling - it was the first time I'd seen all my male players in one place. They'd been training at BoshCard for a few days but I didn't feel like going so I'd stayed home watching Garden Rescue wondering why everyone said pergola differently.
We had sixteen men in one quarter of the pitch doing a light jog, and sixteen in the next quarter doing a light jog. Wythenshawe had sixteen in total and they got half the pitch to themselves. The Brig was joking with the ref and his assistants. We were playing music on the stadium's PA system, but it wasn't too loud. Fifty Wythenshawe fans were in the main stand - no point segregating them - having a lovely old singalong.
The Chester Chatters were in their new, dedicated section. Those seats had little slip-on covers with a logo Brooke had designed. Clive OK was there, as was Overprepared Grandmother, and some of our former under eighteens. I made a note to go over at half time and make a fuss of them.
Emma came down the stairs and let herself onto the pitch. She joined me in the dugout area. Livia was checking her medical bag. Everyone was checking everything! It was like a spring clean. A fresh start.
"What are you thinking?" said Emma, to me.
I pulled her close for a squeeze. "I'm thinking about the last match here. It was pretty epic. I'm wondering how it's going to end this season."
"Mad glory. Crazy scenes. You doing cartwheels as the other scores from the other games come in."
I smiled. I hadn't tried to cartwheel since I was about four. It hadn’t gone well. "Our last match of the season is away, this time."
"That's no fun."
"I know, it's a swizz. But the National League playoff final is at Wembley. So there's that."
"Wem-ber-ley! Wem-ber-ley! We're the famous Chester FC and we're off to Wem-ber-ley!" Livia grinned. I stepped back so I could admire Emma. How did she always find ways to surprise me? "Where did you learn that?"
"You've been singing it for weeks."
"Have I? Okay this might sound odd but have I been... mumbling about mermaids?"
She rolled her eyes. "No. Do I need to get another costume? The cowgirl one is still at the dry cleaners."
Livia froze and decided she didn't need to finish checking her supplies. She left the area. I sat down and patted the spot next to me. Emma sat. "You shouldn't shock my employees like that. Save those jokes for MD."
"Who's joking? Oh, she's gone." She peered at the pitch. "So this is the new Chester. And that's... the under eighteens?"
"All that is the new Chester." I sighed.
"What's up?"
I leaned my head on hers and spoke softly. "You know it's my job to put together a good squad, right? Well, there it is. It is slightly ridiculous. I'm feeling mixed about it."
"But you were happy."
"Well, mixed feelings include some happy feelings, right? The negatives, first." I swept my arm around. "One. It's too big." I put my head back touching hers and played with her hair. Her breathing started to deepen. "A few of these guys will be out on loan at any one time. Andrew, Vivek, Benny, Tyson, Dan Badford. Maybe some more, we have to see how it goes. I wanted everyone together at the start so no-one feels like an outsider. And yeah, some of these are under eighteens but I want them getting first team minutes. Today we're going to completely switch the teams from the first half to the second and we'll probably do that in every friendly."
"Tommy Tactics," she mumbled.
"First world problems, I suppose, compared to how it was when I started. But it hints at mismanagement, if I'm being honest with myself."
"Best out, boo," she murmured.
"Two. Most of those lazy fucks have done fuck all work over the summer. I mean, I wanted them to rest and recharge, but not to that extent. Some of them have come back with little kangaroo pouches."
"Joey Anka."
"That's funny. I'm stealing that. Joe Anka was bad at summers, by the way. Came back like this lot." My first-choice goalie had lost 4 points of CA. My captain had lost 6. My midfield terrier had lost 5, and while the curse said that Henri had 'only' lost 6 points, in reality he had turned from wolf to sheep. Sandra had complained about his effort in training and seeing him now, he kept looking to a certain spot in the stands. Still absolutely loved-up and if he played like he trained he would be next to worthless.
"Three. Head stuff. Especially Henri and Pascal." Henri was goo-goo over Lu-Lu. Pascal was still so angry with Henri it said so on his player profile. Moreover, Pascal had changed his image over the summer. He was pure bad boy, now. He'd dyed his hair blonde and wore ripped leather and chunky chains.
"Tough guy, chest so puffed guy," mumbled Emma.
"The positives. One. I've given Ben the number one jersey and he loves it. His morale is maxed out. Same with Eddie Moore, our new number three, and William Roberts, our number ten. I'm actually regretting that one. It's a bit premature giving him such an important shirt number. It hints at how good he is in a way I've been trying to keep under wraps, but I couldn't fucking help myself. Seeing him in the number ten shirt excites me like almost nothing else."
"Spicy Mermaid Outfits dot co dot uk."
"Two. Although I don't have a proper goalie coach yet, Angles has accepted his new role as a non-playing human being and to be honest, I'm almost tempted to keep him around until January if he doesn't get a new job before then. I have the budget, after all, and with the threat of playing lifted from his shoulders he's a new man. There he is laughing up a storm. Does he look younger to you? Three. While the short term could get very messy indeed, I'm looking at an absurdly talented squad of players. I mean, if I had a sort of magic potion that would max everyone's ability for one day, I'd fancy our chances against any Championship team."
"Ooh are ya?"
"Four. I've done it on a shoestring. Seriously, having all this talent with budget to spare is amazing." Now that I had Super Scout, Contracts 2, and a functioning Player Search page, I was an absolute menace. A threat. There were always going to be trade-offs - in this case, the time it took for this talent to come to fruition. But wow! There were better first elevens in the National League but when it came to ceilings, all my grinding had paid off in spectacular fashion.
"It's Max Best, you know, never believe he's humble."
"But most importantly - point five if you're counting - the squad is so heart-warming I almost want to get another documentary crew in post haste." I couldn't because of the curse, obvs, but Emma liked it when I said things, especially if I was playing with her hair at the time. "Think about it. Five Exit Trial kids. One episode per kid! Sharknado. He's basically an older Exit Trial boy. WibRob. The last street footballer. A burly, irrepressible bundle of raw footballing power. A throwback to Dixie Dean, cobbled streets, and playing on Wednesdays because that's when the mine workers had a day off."
"War of the Monster Trucks."
"Lol, what? Zach could get an episode. Signed to get housewives in the flyover states - whatever they are - to watch a soccer documentary, but binned off almost as soon as he'd set foot in Wales. Lots of scenes of him walking his dog looking handsome and sad. Just don't look at his abs, ladies, or you'll go cross-eyed! And then an unusual shot at redemption whizzes past. Max Best, the white Jesus, in a chariot pulled by two reindeer, two Biscuits, and two big slobbering wolf dogs. He likes dogs, you see."
"Why did he sign?"
"Absolutely no clue. He was cold and then he was hot. He's a year older than me so he's probably got that bad circulation us old people get. And talking of old, we can have an episode dedicated to the oldest of the old. A man literally older than the Internet, cloning, GPS, the concept of mansplaining, and Crocs. Ryan Jack, halfway through his recovery from a serious injury, able to walk, drive, and after a certain fashion, talk. His episode could be just as emotional as any of the others. The long, arduous road back from The Snap. Many hours alone with only a club-provided hot nurse for company. Many hours alone with only a hot Texan who needed to learn about football for company. Many hours alone with only a dozen pensioners for company. And then that first match back and the first tackle and it takes him far too long to get back up. Has he..? Has it..? But then he's up and walking and the music swells and there's not a dry eye in the house."
"I'd watch that."
"So yeah, apart from the French idiot and the German idiot, it's a good group and I know we'll get through any rough patches that came up."
"Oh, there's Ziggy. Hi, Ziggy." She was still mumbling, by the way.
It was true. There was Ziggy.
Ziggy Born 13.1.1999 (Age 25) English Acceleration 8 Handling 1 Stamina 10 Heading 9 Strength 8 Tackling 5 Jumping 7 Teamwork 16 Bravery 4 Technique 9 Creativity 5 Pace 7 preferred foot R Passing 10 Dribbling 7 Positioning 6
Morale Very Good
Finishing 17 Condition 79% CA 33 PA 58 Striker
CA 33 was pretty feeble but I was working under the assumption that he had lost five points that he would get back in the next month. We'd get him to CA 40 soon enough, I reckoned, and with his work rate and application I felt sure we'd see him looking really sharp in a few months. I doubted we'd hit his max CA this season simply because he hadn't played enough football in his career but it would be pleasing to get him to CA 50. He was sort of useless in everything except scoring goals, though, so I wasn't worried about his pace or his strength. If he was on the pitch we'd have to get ahead of him and cut the ball back for him to score tap-ins. That was something he could do far better than most footballers.
Bringing Ziggy to the club had been incredibly easy. I'd gone to FC United and pitched my case. Neil, still the manager, had listened and said, okay. And that was that! I asked why it was so straightforward and he said he couldn't get in the way of someone having a go at climbing the ladder. So now Ziggy was back in my life on a daily basis and that had led to the news that there was a team in Manchester being gossiped about for its relentless winning ways. Its manager was a twenty-year old phenomenon who sounded, frankly, like a young Max Best. A less used-up, less worn-down, less world-weary Max Best. Max Best before one too many arrows of outrageous fortune hit him in the dick. I resolved to go and check the guy out.
The players finished their warm ups and filtered past in little batches. Youngster saw what looked like a sleeping Emma and turned to hold his finger to his lips. He stood like a sentinel while the last ones tiptoed past.
One player didn't notice Youngster. "Luisa, my darling!" cried Henri, causing Emma to wake up and rub her eyes. "Henri is here, honeybun!" He blew some kisses in Luisa’s direction as he clomped past, pausing to admire her a few last times before going down the tunnel and emerging once again to call out, "No, you say goodbye!" He thought this was beyond delightful.
"Ew," said Emma.
"I know."
"That doesn't look like a player who's going to bang you thirty goals this season. He looks - "
I interrupted. "I know."
***
"All right, shut the fuck up," I said for the first time in the new season. The dressing room was so cramped that guys were standing on the benches. It was sort of fun but sort of claustrophobic. They were using up all the oxygen in the space and I needed it. I needed it bad. I was mildly annoyed by their summer sloth but then again, we had a month before the new season. I expected everyone would add five points of CA and that would leave us in a less atrocious state before we played Maidenhead in the curtain-raiser. "Sandra's going to give the first half lineup now. You eleven listen to her instructions, then fuck off onto the pitch so there’s some fucking space in here. Then she'll tell who's left who's in the second half. We've got six of these matches and they're not for you, they're for us. We're looking at formations and doing mad experiments. You’ll get minutes. If you play shit and it's our fault, we're going to know that. Do you get me? Just play football and learn about your teammates and get fit and work off those summer beers. All right? Bye."
"Boss," called Sam Topps. "What formation do Wythenshawe Town play?"
"Four four two. This is a big day out for them, playing in a proper stadium and there's a decent turnout. They won't have had this very often so don't ruin it by snapping the ankles of a guy who will be fixing someone's taps on Monday morning. All right? They might have a bit of a lash out early doors to see what you're made of. Give them a warning, then a warning shot. Don't go full Arkham Asylum on them right off the bat, yeah?"
Sam shook his head. He had hated the asylum boot camp until it was over. Looking back, he could enjoy it. "We could get them to fix the taps of that asylum, boss."
Youngster was as excited by the new season and the new faces as anyone. He didn’t want me to leave the pre-match team talk so soon. "Mr. Best! You have not told us what your favourite movie is and how that relates to the day’s match."
I smiled. “My favourite movie is The Shining, all right?” That got some amused groans. “It’s about a guy who has loads of space to himself. A guy with a lot of freedom. A guy who doesn’t have Omari Naysmith’s muddy boots on his gardening magazines! That's Charlie Dimmock, that. Have some respect.”
The Exit Triallist panicked and moved his gear. Now his mud would drip onto Aff’s kit bag. “Ah, be off with you,” said the Irishman, so Omari picked his bag up and held it.
“Guys, we’ll do our team talks on the pitch next time. All right?” Lots of nods. “Now I’m off to play nice with the fans. Enjoy the game. New season, whoo!”
I squeezed through the mass of players, getting more and more gleeful as I got closer to the corridor. Outside, I discovered that Owen Travis had been locked out and didn’t have the confidence to force his way in. “Owen, mate! Why don’t you hang out with me for the first half?”
“What, really?”
“Big time. I’ll show you how I want you to analyse matches when you’re on the subs bench.”
“Oh, cool. Cool, yeah! Amazing.”
“It is amazing, actually. That’s right.” I paused. “Maybe I’ll take fifteen minutes to get back into the swing of things. I haven’t managed in a while. Maybe I’m shit at it, now.”
“No way!”
“I know, I’m top. I was being self-deprecating to put you at ease.” I watched him. He was a bag of nerves. “You’re not going to be at ease today. That’s okay! Come on.”
We wandered off with my arm on his shoulder. The dressing room door opened. Sandra’s head popped out. “Max! That’s my second-half goalie! Get off my goalie!”
I laughed and gave Owen a few friendly pats. “We’ll do the analysis thing some other time, right?”
“Yes, boss!”
He went back to the moronically cramped dressing room and the Bench Boost and Triple Captain buttons popped up. I dismissed them - winning wasn’t the point today - but smiled thinking about how awesome it would be to use Bench Boost in a match where I could use eleven subs. I could replace the entire team after ten seconds. Imagine! I also had no plans to use Seal It Up to boost my defence for fifteen minutes, or Cupid's Arrow, which would make players combine better. We needed to see where the guys were with no artificial help.
I went back to the dugout - Emma had scarpered - with a rising tingling sensation. Anticipation. Excitement. Soon I'd be back in control of a football team. I could change their tactics at the speed of thought using my hot keys. I could put Henri in goal. I could do all kinds of mad things and whatever I did I was rewarded with experience points that I could use to make myself even stronger.
I grinned and went to the nearest ball and started doing kick ups. I fell into a kind of trance; I was up to two hundred and fifty-three when Sandra nudged me. "Ref's waiting for you."
"Huh? Oh." The spectators were in place, as were the players and the ref. I dabbed the ball away, gave him a Maxy Two-Thumbs and started to prowl up and down the touchline.
Squad-building was fun. Travelling with Emma all over Cheshire and Germany was unreal. But football was back!
Yes, mate!
The match kicked off and it all came flooding back into me. The match ratings. The options. Man-mark, free role, forward runs yes or no, adjusting free kick routines on the fly. I lost myself in it for five whole minutes. Sandra, by my side, yelled out instructions and tips. We hadn't been side-by-side on the touchline like this for a while. I grinned and took a step back and let her command the troops on a micro level while I let my thoughts drift around the entirety of the pitch.
It was about ten minutes in when she turned and checked me out. She did a cute lopsided grin. "How's it feel, boss?"
I smirked back and glanced over my shoulder. Our crazy youthful second-half team was watching. As many were watching me as the match. Was I the shepherd they'd been promised? Or just another old guy who would disappoint them? They were so callow they couldn't play loads of National League matches, not yet. But they hadn't picked up a load of bad habits. They could be moulded just how I wanted. I could turn them into hyper-efficient footballing machines. "I feel pretty fucking fantastic, Sandra. Energetic. Have you ever heard of a young man in a hurry? That's me."
She did a slow blink. "National League beware."
I scoffed in agreement. We were already two-nil up and Wythenshawe couldn't get the ball. My kangaroo-pouched sloths were already playing like lions. Henri had trained like shit but he was playing sharp. One less thing to worry about.
I thought about our coming challenges. Grimsby, Barnet, Ebbsfleet. They didn't have our kind of squad, they didn't have our kind of coaching, and they didn't have me. A triumphant surge of optimism coursed through my veins as I declared, "The only thing that can stop us is ourselves."
I held my hand up and Sandra took the chance to give me a hearty old slap. It cracked like a starter pistol. Go go go!
She turned to yell at Sam, while I tweaked Eddie Moore's instructions.
Six friendlies, forty-six league matches, and an unknown number of cup ties.
Football was back, and that feeling never got old.