5.

Football glossary: replay. A re-run of a fixture that ended in a draw or couldn't be finished owing to weather or an emergency. In English cup tournaments, a drawn match is typically replayed at the away team's stadium. It was the dream of small teams to earn a lucrative replay away against a Premier League giant but replays were an inconvenience to said giant. At the behest of the ‘Big Seven’, in the 2024/25 season replays were scrapped.

***

Tuesday, October 29

Before training, the first team squad gathered to hear my revised plan. I was in a great mood - my life was going great and I was confident in my strategy for the weekend. Win the match, blast the Football Association in the post-match interview. Literally nothing could go wrong.

"Hear ye, hear ye. Swindon Town, first round of the FA Cup. The stakes are massive. A win is worth forty grand and a shot at another fifty. Forty thousand pounds, lads. It's a lot of happy kids. A few nights out for us too, but think about dem kids, yeah? There will be a winner on Saturday. It's no replays for the first time ever and that's because our sport is run by vipers. I'll just warn you now that when we win, I'm ready to spit sick rhymes at the Football Association, the bunch of useless pricks. So it's ninety minutes, extra time, penalties, he said what?! I'll be working on my script to make sure it goes viral. Sandra's got some fun stuff for you this week but I also want everyone doing at least five pennos a day. Keepers, too."

"Taking or saving?" said Sticky.

"Both. If you want I can share my process. The way I settle myself, decide where to shoot, and tune out the noise. A penalty is a 76% chance of a goal but follow my process and it'll be 85% at least. I've been studying the psychology of penalty shootouts and I think I've cracked it. I'm incredibly confident that we'll win our first penalty shootout whether that's this week or in the future. Let's put a 'nothing can go wrong' in here to show how confident I am. You still need to put the work in and goalies take pens in quite a lot of tournaments so practise. Remember the FA Cup is different from the other tournaments; we can name nine subs and we can use five. I'll be using three subs very early so don't go crying that you're not starting. We win by using sixteen players, not eleven."

Pascal had his hand up. Respectful! I pointed and he said, "Could you please explain why you will blast the Football Association? You are already not their favourite person."

"Yeah, so one more little blast won't do shit, will it? Look, they're killing the game. Chopping the sport up slice by slice and handing it to Liverpool and Man United. As a non-league manager I don't have a lot of clout but when better to protest against changes to the FA Cup than after an FA Cup game?"

"Yes, I see, but it could be interpreted as unsporting to complain after we lose."

"We're not going to lose, you little shit! That's the whole point. If we win I can say what I want. Look, you guys don't need to get involved. It's my personal crusade, okay? I am Max Best and I have a duty to protect this sport from those who would seek to plunder it."

Henri clapped and a few others joined in. "Speak for England!" shouted someone.

I laughed. "All right you sarky bastards. Enough about that. Onto... the plan! My favourite movie is..." I wrote Beauty and the Beast in massive letters on my trusty flipchart - MD had emailed to complain about the rising costs of paper and markers. "It's about a powerful and charismatic man who has been... er... cursed... and he starts off doing long ball but in the second act we realise he actually knows loads about positional play and reads about Cruyff and Rinus Michels and he rotates his goalies."

Sandra said, "Max, have you seen Beauty and the Beast?"

"No, not really. That's basically the synopsis, though, isn't it? Right. Swindon Town is a sexy princess that we want to ravage. The first twenty minutes will be called Project Beast. I've decided all this pretty passing is overrated. Effeminate, even. So we're going to go route one. Get it launched, get up their arses, see who wants it more." Route one means the most direct path to the opponent's goal. When the ball comes near you, you're supposed to welly it long and high towards the other goal and see what happens. It's horrible football to watch and to play. "Obviously we'll be doing long throws as well. Where's the key man? Where's Josh? Come up here. It's time for your naming ceremony."

Josh had stood and was coming towards me when he heard the last part. He hesitated. "My what?"

I tutted and waved at him until he arrived. I gave him a friendly pat on the back and turned him at a 45 degree angle from the front. He was facing me but very much the centre of attention. Small dark spots blossomed on the tops of his cheeks and I saw him glance towards the doorway. The Brig watched the scene with apprehension - was I about to undo some of his hard work?

I said, "What it is, right, is you've got a generic name that's hard to remember. You don't have a cool nickname like the rest of us."

"I do. I'm Joshy."

I ignored him and pointed around the room. "Youngster is The Butcher's Apprentice." Laughs from a few people. "Eddie Moore is The Wheelie Bin, because I always leave him out on Tuesdays." BIG laughs from everyone, including Josh. His was a reluctant laugh, though, because he knew he was next in the firing line. "Ziggy is the One-Touch Wonder, because... well, that's between him and his girlfriends." Uproar. "Someone's The Labradoodle, but I can't remember who." Laughs and lots of people pushing Zach Green. "And I'm Max Best, the Greatest Living Englishman." I put my hand on Josh's shoulder and stared into his eyes. The group laughed and giggled and whispered nickname suggestions to each other. Josh's blush deepened. "I've never had a long-throw player before. That's going to be a pretty unique skill in the Max Best Universe so I thought we should lean into that. Okay, here's the list."

"The list?" cried Josh, causing more laughs.

"The Joshapult," I said.

Josh waited for an explanation I had no intention of providing. "Because I throw like a catapult?"

"Right. Do you like it?"

"No. I mean, no, boss."

"Trebuchet Guevara."

Henri laughed, as did Ryan and a couple of others. Josh blinked. "What's... both of those words?"

"Okay, let's try something simple. Your superhero name would be Slingshot."

"Slingshot?" he said. It didn't sound good the way he said it.

"The Hurlimann Brewery."

"What?"

"It's in Switzerland. I thought... you're a man who hurls. You're a hurly man... Yeah, bad, bad, I know. Bin that. What about this? Throw My God."

"Is that a name?"

"Forget I spoke. Here's one for the older gentlemen... Deep Throw." Vimsy nearly died laughing at that one but Josh didn't so much as twitch. I tried again. "Long Josh Silver. No? Look, your name is Josh Owens. Check this out: Josh Throw-Ins." Now he laughed. "Boom! Name accepted. Okay, you can sit down, J.O.. Let's talk line ups." I took up a marker and, on the left of a clean page, wrote ten capital letters in a 4-4-2 formation. The defence read J, G, Z, and C. "Josh, Glenn, Zach, Carl." The midfield was A, W, Y, M. "Aff, Wisey, Youngster, Magnus." Finally, Z, T. "Ziggy and Tom. These three will come off early so we can switch formation." I underlined J, W, and Z. "Tom will stay on into the second half and I'll replace him. Wisey will be disappointed but the other three, you're getting to start an FA Cup match. Think about that - that's top. We're not live but we'll be on the highlights. So give me twenty whirlwind minutes. Josh, I obviously want you slinging throw-ins into the danger zone. We get all our big boys into the box whenever we can. We get corners, free kicks, we shuffle and slide and hoof the ball." I laughed to myself. "Most of you know how to do this. We'll do it for twenty minutes. Have fun with it. Channel your inner caveman, get physical, smash into someone, spend thirty seconds drying the ball."

Ryan Jack spoke. "We should give towels to the ball boys so Josh can wipe the ball before he throws it. I always hated seeing that because I knew there was going to be fucking pinball in our penalty box."

"Yes!" I said, eyes bulging. "That's it! That's the shit I want. All of you get together and brainstorm all that kind of garbage. We're a stupid team of fucking non-league nobodies and all we know is 4-4-2 and getting stuck in. That's the vibe. With ball - Aff, you'll need to beat your man on the outside and whip crosses in. Carl, you'll be doing it on the right. Overlap Magnus. Zach and Wisey, send balls down the channels for Tom to chase. Tom, get us throw-ins up the pitch. Clear?"

Nods.

"Without ball - fucking hard work from everyone. These guys are struggling in League Two and they'll see us as a chance to get their season on track and get their fans off their backs. All right? Now, listen." I got serious, and not fake-serious, either. Actually serious. "I know I'm gobby with this stuff and I'm acting all superior like this is a hilarious prank, and yeah," I did a charming-but-still-serious grin. "It sort of is a bit meta. A bit knowing. But our fans will fucking love it. They're still not used to fantasy football and they like a bit of starch in their diet. So that twenty minutes is going to fire them up. Really. It's going to get them bouncing. All that work you put in, those shuttle runs that go nowhere, those blocks you make, those headers you compete for, all that shit. They love it. We'll get the place rocking. That's it."

Nobody moved. Henri said, "What do you mean, that is it? That is not it. That's the plan for the first twenty minutes. What about the rest?"

"The rest?" I scoffed. "The rest is, we fucking slap."

***

We are pleased to announce that Magnus Evergreen has been given an improved contract! Manager Max Best says, "Magnus is a vital and much-liked member of this squad. His flexibility is important and gives me great options. He has been working hard to take his game to the next level and I'm more than happy to reward that."

***

Saturday, November 2

FA Cup First Round: Chester vs Swindon Town

It wasn't quite cup fever, but the mood around town was buoyant. Brooke apologetically informed me the attendance might not hit 5,000, which I felt was a mark of how far we had come. By the end of the season, we might already start selling out our home matches and in League Two there would surely be 5,400 at every match.

Around town, fans were idly walking to the Deva, stopping in at cafes and gift shops, boosting the economy.

There were dads and sons, boyfriends and girlfriends, guys with menial jobs looking for their weekly scream therapy. MD was schmoozing the people from Kirschgarten in the VIP boxes, coaches from Swindon were starting to arrive, Beth was prowling around looking for scandals, and the ground staff were busy poking and prodding and expressing their excitement through the medium of looking surly and bored.

The forecast was for light drizzle every now and then, but the sun would be out for most of the match. An almost perfect afternoon in a town falling back in love with its local team. A win today would do a lot to make Chester seem like a club on the up.

I could almost hear a Texan voice going, 'nice little soccer club ya got here. Shame if somethin' happened to it.'

I pushed such thoughts away and checked my working. I felt like I had done everything I could. This would be another Max Best masterclass or it would be a faceplant for the ages. Our starting eleven would take to the pitch with an average just shy of 52. Swindon, short a couple of starters, were on 73. Miles ahead of us, but not miles ahead of Gateshead or Oldham. Still, there was no alternative but to use Triple Captain and Bench Boost and make early changes. If things went to plan, we would finish the match with a non-Best average CA of 59. Add twenty destructive minutes from me, plus the perks and home advantage and we were very much in with a chance of scoring an upset. In fact, I had us as slight favourites.

Meanwhile, Sandra could do my pre-match media duties, using the trusty old excuse that I was warming up or getting a bit of late treatment or some guff. This was life on easy mode!

Whistling wasn't my thing, but I ambled around the stadium in a jolly frame of mind.

Old Nick emerged from one door and went through another one.

The fuck? I hadn't seen him or the imps for ages. What did he want now? He hadn't come to see Josh's long throws. I wasn't going to get any answers standing still with a gormless look on my face. I went full Tom Cruise, chasing the bastard at full speed, slowing at corners only to make sure I didn't bulldoze some old boy who was already on his third hip.

I found myself in our small reception area. Nick was gone, of course, but a slight breeze wafted over a guy in a black jacket. A red Swindon top was visible underneath and he was typing away at his phone. I double checked but there was no-one else of interest.

"Hi," I said, sitting next to him, staring at him with frankly rude intensity.

He looked up. "Hi? Oh. Um... am I in your seat?"

"Nah. Mine's by the pitch."

"Good view, is it?"

The cretin didn't know who I was. Annoying. Forget my network of 3G pitches - I needed to get that 50 foot statue. "Pretty good." I nodded at his phone. "What's going on?"

"One of our lot had a funny turn on the coach."

"Anything I can help with?"

He looked confused and realised I was someone senior at Chester. "I think it's all under control, thanks."

So this was hard. Nick wanted me to talk to this guy but I had no clue why. "Are you here in an official capacity?"

The look in his eyes told me he had the same question for me, but he had lost his window to ask. "No, not really. I'm a Liaison Officer. Just a fan with a few more numbers in his contact book! From the club, I mean. They even pick up these days, so that's good."

I stared directly above me, which must have seemed weird to the guy, but I couldn't think what to ask. What motivated Old Nick? He had led me to Youngster. And Kisi, I suppose. Or was he leading me to Mr. Yalley so he could save my life? No. Nick had been enraged by the whole story - he couldn't see into the future in such a specific sense. He had led me to Bonnie and Angel. He had warned me about the Sentinel. He got me my sponsorship deal for West Didsbury. Oh, and one time he had turned up to watch me lose so I could get a certain achievement. All kinds of helpful things. But he had also stopped me getting signed by Sheffield Wednesday by landing a helicopter on the training pitch and he had stopped me from playing when Chester looked like they would be relegated. The fuck did he want now?

"Do you play yourself?" I tried.

"Yeah. Left back. Left back in the changing room!"

"Do you... know any Ghanaians?"

"Oh. Um, no."

I had it! It wasn't this guy, it was someone this guy would lead me to. "Oh! Are you waiting for someone?"

"No. I couldn't get reception on my phone so they suggested I come in here. The best reception is in reception, they said! Ha!"

This was far too hard. I mumbled, "Yeah and the wi-fi's shit, too. It's on the list, believe me." I sighed. "You said something about these days. They pick up the phone these days. What changed?"

"Do you know anything about Swindon?"

There was an insurance company called Swindon, but it might have been Swinton. "Let's go with no."

"We had, ah, colourful owners. Things were fairly chaotic for a long time. The players used to warm up and listen to the public address system to hear what the team was going to be. We had GPS vests but no-one knew how to see the data because the old guy quit. No-one knew how to make the protein shakes. Finances were already strained when Covid hit. There were some very strange goings-on and suddenly there was a court case with two men each saying they owned the club. Rather messy, players not being paid, all that kind of carry-on. And then the second man told the judge, okay, fair cop, I don't own the club, Delroy Deed does."

"Delroy Deed!" I exclaimed. Deed turned pro when he was about fifteen and kept playing until he was forty-five. Every season he would turn up at a different club. Good player. Played for England. He wouldn't have been in the top thousand names I'd have guessed I was going to hear.

"I know. He'd lent one guy money in secret to acquire shares in secret. The FA got involved and it was pure chaos."

"Because they wanted to know who owned the club."

"No, they don't care. They're completely useless. Oh. You don't work for the FA, do you?"

"No. I have beef with that mob."

"Completely useless. Our club was on the verge of going to the wall but they didn't so much as lift a finger until they heard a player might be involved."

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"Players can't own clubs. Nor can agents, so two of the three men at the heart of the storm got charged and of course the club's in the firing line for punishments. Whatever happens, it's always the fans that get hit hardest."

My skin had turned cold and I realised it was because the blood had drained from my face. Then came the sweat. "Hang on," I said, almost dizzy. Why had I bought a football club without checking the rules? Because someone else had done it before me! It was one of the first things I'd learned after being cursed! "Erm... Agents. There was an agent who owned Oldham Athletic. They were really mad about him. I remember it vividly, but they were mad because he was shit not because of any rules. An agent actually owned Oldham Athletic and that's a fact. And that's... That's kind of the opposite of what you're telling me."

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe he had handed in his licence? You might be able to do it - God knows nobody checks anything except at the very top - but you're not allowed. Ask anyone at Swindon. We're experts in the topic! Our case dragged on for years. Some of it's still going on. Lots of fees for lots of lawyers. Lots of stress. Lots of needless worry. And all the time we were getting closer and closer to ceasing to exist."

Shit shit shit. "Players can't own football clubs."

"No. Well, they can own ten percent so long as the teams are not in the same division. You need to be on Delroy Deed money for a long time to get anywhere close to that sort of money, though. It doesn't come up. Plus players waste all their money. It's only agents you need to worry about, really. They're the ones with the deep pockets."

I remembered another reason I had been sure I was allowed to buy West Didsbury. I clung onto the fact like a life ring. "That midfielder who played for Chelsea bought a little team in Belgium."

"Well," said my new nemesis, with a sniff. "That's nothing to do with the English Football Association, is it? He would never play against that team except in unlikely circumstances. Plus he was all but retired."

Jamie Vardy had bought a stake in an American club, too, but I thought I was starting to understand the rule, now. If Chester and West were in the same division, I could fix the results. "I'm writing a book about a football player who owns a team. It's called He's Done What?! If you were writing it, would you, like, sorta make him sell the team so he doesn't get in trouble?"

"Of course. Right away! But that seems like a disappointing plotline. Man stays out of trouble. I'm no writer but that sounds bor-ing!" He laughed. "On the other hand, the alternative is worse. Believe me, no-one wants to read about Swindon Town!"

***

One thing I had done really well at Chester was to delegate the routine work. Sandra and Vimsy could fill in team sheets, warm the players up, remind them of the plan, and I could wander around the stadium gladhanding or popping to see the Chester Chatters or pretty much whatever I wanted.

On that particular Saturday I used the time to sit in my office and catastrophise. The Brig sat opposite me, doing a crossword. "You seem troubled, sir."

"Do you ever have that dream where you're in school but you're not wearing any clothes?"

"Not for a long time, but I know the one you mean."

"My day is that."

"You were chipper this morning. One might almost say, insufferable. Did something happen?"

I would probably tell him the whole truth eventually, but right then I didn't feel like it. "I've been spinning plates like an absolute crockery maestro. The men, the women, the youth teams, the club's money, Daddy Star, West, the Welsh players. But I've realised one of the plates is a time bomb and my life just got a whole lot less fun."

"If it's a time bomb, you don't need to keep spinning the plate; it won't detonate by falling. Perhaps you're thinking of a contact explosive."

"Thanks, very helpful," I said, with zero sincerity. "Actually, hang on. That is helpful. It's a time bomb so it'll explode when it explodes. Right." I'd owned West Didsbury for months and only Beth had even mentioned that could be a problem for me. In theory I could get away with it for years, but Chester women were playing West in a couple of weeks - that would be my deadline to sort out the mess. Not much time, but on the other hand, loads of time. Two weeks! We had a run of easier matches, too. I could let Sandra manage them while I focused on these ticking sticks of dynamite. "Hang on. I've seen movies where you cut a wire and the timer skips to the last few minutes." Rinsing the Football Association after the match would be like cutting the wire - it would make the bomb go off sooner.

The Brig looked at one of his watches. "The last few minutes, sir."

I took another few seconds and then pushed myself to my feet, letting out an old-man groan. I didn't exactly feel like the best football player in Cheshire.

***

I slumped into the dugout and didn't speak to anyone. This didn't worry my players but on the highlights package ITV said I looked nervous before the biggest game of my career.

Swindon kicked off and fell into their pretty patterns. Three at the back, five in midfield, a central attacking midfielder, a big target man. Pass pass pass. The first time we got the ball, Glenn launched it in the general direction of the moon. It landed with space debris on. Swindon battled to regain control, played some pretty passes, Wisey crunched into a tackle. Clear foul, but just good enough to avoid a yellow card. Pass pass pass, Zach intercepted and played a long ball towards the corner flag for Tom to chase.

Swindon were rattled. I could feel the contempt from the away fans. You call this football?

The home fans, though, after suffering through so many months of clever passing, subtle overloads, tactical innovations, and being visited by a World Cup winner, finally understood what they were seeing. They were watching the football they grew up on and they fucking loved it! They cheered our statistically-shit way of playing and booed every tedious passing sequence Swindon put together. When our mob realised Josh could throw the ball all the way into the penalty area they went bonkers. Grown men hugged each other.

Sandra was working the touchline but now she came back and poked her head under the dugout roof. "They're pretty insipid, aren't they?" She meant Swindon.

I said, "I think they've been told to go out and quieten the fans. Weather the early storm. That kind of thing. They normally have a bit more cutting edge."

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah," I lied. She didn't believe me but went back to the technical area.

Shit shit shit.

I wasn't allowed to own a football club.

But, and here's the weird bit... I did own a football club.

Agents weren't allowed to own clubs. Okay, in theory I could have handed my clients onto R.E.M. My name wasn't listed there in any way, shape, or form. Ruth had advised me that if I wanted to hide my involvement I should set up a string of shell companies in various countries to make it hard to find out who owned the shares. The process had been crazily simple and so long as we didn't fuck up there was really no reason why anyone would worry about what R.E.M. was doing - unless they were talking about the band.

Ziggy paid me in cash and my name never showed up on any of his paperwork. I hadn't done any work for Kisi yet, so that wasn't a problem.

But Youngster. That goofy bastard was going to make me proper rich. One transfer could net me ten million pounds. Seriously, if I had to choose between owning West, managing Chester, and agenting Youngster, it would be the Christian every time.

He was out there now, playing as a central midfielder. CA 59, seven out of ten and already two interceptions. When Wisey went for a tackle, I always had anxiety that he would try to snap his opponent in half. No such feelings from Youngster - he was surgical.

I pulled at my bottom lip. I couldn't give up being a player. Not this season, anyway. Project Youth was predicated on me filling in gaps and bagging us enough goals and assists to keep us within sight of the top.

It wasn't very humble but I liked my new supersub role. Twenty minutes of swanning around being a genius? Who wouldn't want that?

Sell West Didsbury and Chorlton, then? No, thanks. No way would I take it out of the fans' hands and then give it to some b-boy who would pillage it or change its character. The obvious thing would be to give it to my mother, but she couldn't fill out forms and there was a risk of media attention being drawn towards her - an absolute no-no. I could hand it off to Emma but she was basically an agent and what if we broke up?

There was no way to play, be an agent, and own a club. I would have to give West back to the fans and hope they would continue to let me do whatever I wanted, indefinitely, no matter how crazy it seemed. Yeah, good luck with that. Oh! Maybe I could give it back without telling them?

Fucking stupid, Max. You're floundering.

Josh got ready to take a throw-in by wiping the ball on a towel. It was blue with a face and white text that I couldn't make out. I had the craziest notion that it was a picture of Josh with one of the nicknames I had given him. Was it possible Ryan and Brooke had got some special towels made? Were they in the club shop right now?

Josh hurled the ball, Carl won the header, and there was a lot of agricultural hacking and slashing until the ball was cleared. Another throw-in on the other side; Josh walked across ready to repeat the tactic. Our fans were absolutely loving this!

The match wasn't uppermost in my thoughts, though. What would the consequences be if I was 'caught' owning West? Half a season ban? Million-pound fine? Knowing the sport's servile administrators it would be something outrageous. Some kind of hammer blow. A lesson to teach me my place. The more I thought about it, the more my cold sweat turned to hot anger.

To calm down I checked the numbers. Match ratings, possession stats, condition.

My instinct was that Old Nick was trying to protect me from beefing with the FA. These days I was earning a nice steady stream of XP that he could use to hire helicopters and mess about with takeover bids and have all kinds of fun. He didn't much care that I owned West, probably because that was a good backup plan to Chester and if he was anything like Brooke he probably thought there was a fair chance I would lose the Daddy Star battle. Not that I could immediately take over at West - Jay Cope was still undefeated in the league and was doing just as well as I would.

Yeah, if Nick wanted reliable hits of XP it was in his interests for me to stay out of trouble.

So, the solution. I had to hand West Didsbury off to someone I trusted. Who did I trust completely? It needed to be someone who would give the shares back when I asked for them. Someone who wasn't a player or an agent.

Strangely, the first name that popped into my head was Beth.

***

With twenty minutes gone, Swindon had 76 percent possession and no shots. We had 24 percent and three - two created by long throws from Josh. Wisey finally got his yellow card and that seemed like a cue.

"Sandra, will you make the changes, please?"

I rested my head on the back of the dugout while Josh, Wisey, and Ziggy came off. Eddie Moore, Henri, and Pascal went on. Three of my five subs used. Three Bench Boosted players on the grass.

Max Best making a triple substitution after twenty minutes? The home fans understood that just as well as they understood old-school football; the noise levels rose by several decibels. There was an absolute cacophony and the home fans were ready to take the battle to the next level. Long throws? Yes, please. Corners? Oh, baby! Tom Westwood working the channels? Absolute swoon.

Instead, they got Sandra's 4-2-3-1. Ball on the deck, short passing, interchanging players, mastery of space and angles. It was modern, dynamic, thrusting. From 1984 to 2024.

While Swindon steeled themselves for the next barrage, Chester Football Club got the ball on the ground and kept hold of it. Eddie to Glenn to Zach to Carl. Solid. Carl to Zach to Magnus to Youngster. Energetic. Youngster to Zach to Pascal. Pascal to Aff to Tom. Graft. Tom to Henri. Dangerous.

The mood in the stadium shifted. We had changed and now they had to change. They wanted us to do well and while they felt long-ball football in their bones, they'd had some experience in watching 4-1-4-1, 3-5-2, and my other possession-heavy tactics. This 4-2-3-1 was a hybrid - fairly tedious when building from the defensive slots, but then with sudden bursts through the middle. Swift, deadly attacks.

But this wasn't Sandra's 4-2-3-1.

This was mine. 4-2-3-1*. That's right, there was an asterisk, because I - Max Best - had been grinding like a crazy person in order to be able to slap down ten thousand XP to finally buy... WibWob. What, you thought I'd spent ten thousand XP on Locktober?

***

I had saved so long to buy WibWob and my first chance to use it had been ruined by the stupid Swindon guy telling me I was in trouble. While we were playing long ball I had left everything alone - the more unsophisticated we played, the better. But now that we were playing real football I felt some of that Christmas morning rush and opened my present in earnest.

The WibWob perk was so named because it gave me two new screens in the tactics area. Now, the formation graphic was shown in a tab called Overview. Next to it was a tab called With Ball. Next to that was a final tab called Without Ball.

On our Overview screen, the player icons were spread out in the 4-2-3-1 formation that we had used a few times before. The icons had thin borders. I could swap players, but since being cursed I had been quite unable to drag the icons to brand new slots. For example, I couldn't push Carl Carlile from right back into a right wing back slot.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

On the With Ball and Without Ball screens, the players were still in the 4-2-3-1 formations, but there were differences. On those screens, the pitch was divided into twelve equal squares, six in each half, something like a chess board. If I clicked on a square, it would show me where the players were supposed to stand when the action was in that zone. When we had the ball in the top left square, my players pushed forward in that direction while keeping to the 4-2-3-1 shape. When we had the ball in the bottom right, the players moved accordingly. When the other team had the ball, my players were a few notches deeper and narrower.

It all made complete sense to me. During a quick break in play I cycled through a few other formations and there were no surprises. I could have drawn a picture of where everyone would stand in a 4-4-2 when the opposition had the ball on the left of the pitch just above half way. Honestly, Brooke could have done it. Fuck, Daddy Star could have done it!

But knowing where everyone was stationed at any particular moment in the action was only the beginning. I could also edit their positions! Every player in the Wib or the Wob screen could be nudged left, right, up, or down a few notches. That was absolutely no problem.

I tried it now by moving Aff a few spots to the left in the Wib screen. In the overview screen, he acquired a thick white line around his icon. It showed that his default positions had been overridden. So that's what the thick lines meant. So simple!

On the pitch, Aff took a few steps to the left, then a few more. He was closer to his natural home now, but he was still far more central than was ideal for him. I nudged him a few more notches to the left.

On the Overview screen, his icon snapped from being a left-sided CAM to being a left winger, while the two remaining CAMs adjusted to be on the same lines as our DMs, Magnus and Youngster, who were also on the same lines as Glenn and Zach. This look was better for Aff, but now we had three men in a vertical line and the rules of positional play said not to have more than two. It wasn't just an abstract admonition; I instinctively felt the 'wrongness' of having three in the line when looking at the graphic and at the pitch. I nudged Aff back across until he once more counted as a CAM. Pascal and Tom clicked back into their starting slots. Only the central CAM (currently Tom) was in line with Henri while Aff and Pascal had a vertical line entirely to themselves.

After playing with the screens for just a few minutes, the two-in-a-line rule finally made complete sense. If Glenn, Youngster, and Pascal were in a line, the ones at the end would only have one passing option and the guy in the middle would have to gather the ball and do a complete 180 in order to pass to the third player. My current setup ensured lots of passing options and the chance to collect the ball on the half-turn. Yeah, having players at angles would encourage triangular passing and make keeping possession easier. That was clear. It wasn't that I would never break the verticality rule, but I would want to test it in a lower-stakes environment than an FA Cup match.

I yawned for some reason.

I took a break from making changes and watched as our match ratings crept up. Swindon had better players but we had higher morale, better fitness, and better tactics. This was great!

WibWob allowed me one 'deformation', meaning I could move one player into the next zone, as I had just done with Aff, but other guys in the same 'section' would adjust. So if I had two centre backs and took one out, the remaining guy would always go to the very middle of the pitch. That was unexpected. Unwanted, too, probably, but until I powered up the perk that's the way it would be. Given the current formation, the only deformation that made sense would be to move a full back one slot further forward. Carl to wing back, for example. I didn't think that would do much in the current match, so I left it.

Another yawn.

I took another break and monitored all my numbers closely. Henri, Pascal, and Eddie Moore were on 8 out of 10. Youngster went from 7 to 8. Everyone liked their current roles except Tom Westwood, who was out of position. I used the WibWob screens to push him as close to Henri as possible without deforming him.

Then I tinkered with the defence.

When we had the ball I wanted them to spread out. Eddie far to the left, Carl far to the right, with Glenn and Zach spaced out accordingly. It was absolutely beautiful - we would tire Swindon out by moving the ball left and right and force them to cover more of the width of the pitch. To combat the big gap between my centre backs, I stationed my DMs more narrowly.

I made those changes and immediately fell in love. The difference in everyone's on-pitch position was only a few yards - I doubted more than half a dozen people in the stadium even noticed the change - but the difference was staggering to me.

I quickly put everything back the way it was and scrambled out into the technical area. I shouted at the players what I wanted from them. Sandra gave me a very strange look - she had been trying to get me to make these changes for a long time and I had resisted saying the players weren't ready for it and we shouldn't ask more than they could give. "What?" I said, trying to look cheeky. "It's time."

Now that I had covered my tracks, I made the changes in the curse and crouched to admire them. Within a minute, our possession stats had gone up, as had our passing accuracy.

All the defenders enjoyed the extra space, that was clear. If they found themselves in trouble, the formation gave them two passing options but now they had half a second more to think about it. And one reason this wider set up worked was Zach's extra passing range. If Glenn, Carl, and the DMs were marked, Zach could spray a pass all the way to Eddie, and Eddie was already nice and wide.

"This is beautiful," I said.

"I knew you'd come round," said Sandra. "You're too smart to fixate on 4-1-4-1 when the superior tactic is right there."

"4-1-4-1 is still my little princess," I said. "It's got two players in every vertical. Pep approved. Plus, it slaps. This, though... This overloading the CAMs. When we get WibRob firing... WibRob plus WibWob. Wow."

"Wib plus what?"

"Nothing." I suddenly felt drowsy. "I'm going back to my chill room for a bit."

"Roger Roger."

I hesitated and looked over my shoulder at the pitch. "What about... moving the defensive line up?"

Sandra bit her lip and her cheek pulled itself up. "Glenn won't like it."

"Just the tip. He won't even notice."

I barked out some instructions - "Squeeze five! Buy the dip!" - and used the With Ball screen to nudge my defenders a couple of notches forward. Up up up! With a beating heart, I went to the Without Ball screen and moved the defensive lines a couple of notches forward, too. It was only a slightly higher line, but a high line was high risk, high reward. I was compressing the playable area to make our pressing more effective and to make the offside trap more dangerous. Big teams did it, but big teams had defenders with terrific recovery pace. My fastest guy was Zach and he wouldn't beat me unless I was carrying an egg on a spoon. Fuck it - I 'saved' my changes and created hotkeys so I could move the defensive line up and down.

Almost immediately, Swindon played a ball over the top and their big striker was caught offside.

I skipped a couple of steps down the touchline and punched the air.

"Fuck yeah!" I said. "Fucking let's go. Jesus, yes!"

I had ascended to the next plane of football management.

***

The start of half time was normally pretty quiet in my dressing rooms. It's how I liked it and it gave the players time to decompress and think about problems or opportunities. Glenn would often discuss the opposition strikers with his centre back partner. Carl liked to talk to the guy playing in front of him. Any goals we conceded provoked sharp exchanges but I had reshaped those away from being blame games and more into the technical aspects of why certain moves weren't covered or how a player had found so much space. At most I allowed a quick burst of frustration, let it go, what's next.

But today the chatter was massive. The excitement of the cup, the way we were on top against a higher league team, possibly the fact that fourteen of our guys had been on the pitch and had strong opinions about Swindon's players.

By far the quietest person was me - I didn't say a peep but simply sat in a corner thinking about various intersecting topics.

I wanted to own a football club. Having complete power to buy and sell players was the most logical way to turn Super Scout into a cash machine and to build something special in my place of birth. But according to the FA's rules, I wasn't allowed to own a football club. Hmm.

By abolishing replays, the FA had taken the next step in killing the football pyramid and I wanted to push back on that in the post-match interview. An FA Cup win was the ideal time to complain about what the FA did to the FA Cup. My rant had to be today.

If we lost I would be graceful and praise Swindon. But if we won I would launch into a tirade about the FA's disgusting collusion with six big clubs at the expense of eight hundred smaller ones. Someone at the FA would read the interview or see a clip and think 'Max Best, huh? Where have I seen that name before?' He would find my name listed as the owner of a football club; my big flappy gob would be the catalyst for an investigation. If I kept quiet, I might buy myself a few more weeks or months to try to dig myself out of this hole. Nah - it was more likely that I had two weeks to offload West Didsbury. Beth had warned me about my teams playing each other. Someone would write something somewhere.

What's the difference between two weeks to find a solution and two days? No difference, really. I needed to fix this on Monday morning.

"Boss?" Sandra. Worried about me.

"How are we doing?" I said.

"Great. Amazing. Beauty and the Beast, just like you said. Swindon are reeling. It's working."

"Yeah. But their manager's showing no sign of changing anything. I don't get it. There are ten things he could do." I yawned again and stood up. WibWob added a new layer of complexity and challenge and it was more draining than I expected. It would be good for me to think about something completely different for a few minutes. I scanned the room. Medical, good. Mood, good. Subs, calm but ready. Josh and Wisey had come off after twenty minutes; I would talk to them. "Josh," I said, starting with our very own catapult. He had put in a six-out-of-ten shift. Absolutely fine, but the Brig had said the young men liked it when they got feedback even if it was basic or repetitive. "Did you enjoy that?"

"Yes, boss! Wish I could have stayed on."

"Mmm," I said, rolling my eyes slightly. Players weren't encouraged to talk to me about their minutes. They got what they got, the end. Also, that wasn't what I wanted to talk to him about. If I were Josh I wouldn't want to be pigeon-holed as a mere long-throw merchant, and that for sure wasn't how I planned to use him. "You get that this bombardment was a one-time thing? Everyone knows what you can do, now, so they'll be able to prepare for it. This was shock and awe. From now on you get one long throw per match and that's only so opposition managers see you do it. It'll help you get your big move. No, what I liked about you today was you were solid. You were solid defensively and neat and tidy on the ball. From my point of view, that's ideal. The worst thing is a player who tries to do more than they've got in their locker. Feel free to play like today for the rest of this season and next season we'll have you getting more ambitious. Make sense?"

"Yes! That's what I've been trying. Like, to not make mistakes."

My tiny heart broke. Mistakes could lead to him getting binned again. "Okay but there are different types of mistakes. One mistake is to hide what you've got. I don't mean the long throws - you were right to hide that." I laughed and he smiled. "You need a proper start to your career so what you're doing is great. You're putting down roots in the game, aren't you? Building up your profile. You can keep doing that but try to believe I'm not going to be mad if you dribble past a guy and whip in a cross. I'll let you know when I need more from you but today was top. I'm happy."

Josh nodded slowly. I wasn't sure he really got what I was saying, but that was okay. The Brig said time and repetition would help the message sink in, and Josh still needed to know he could really trust me. When that happened, said the Brig, Josh's improvement would accelerate. He had seen it many times.

"Last thing, mate." I made a big show of looking round moved closer to whisper to him. "Make sure you pay attention when we do our money workshop; you're going to be a millionaire."

I punched him in the arm and sat next to Wisey. And waited. He was torn between two emotions - frustration he had only played twenty minutes and pride at how well the team was doing. Finally he said, "We're smashing them. It's like you said."

"And you got a yellow card. Your favourite."

He scoffed. "Wanted to make my mark on the game."

"I know. It's fine. We good?"

"Yeah. I still don't really know what my part was and why I couldn't stay till half time but it's like Sam said, you can't argue with the evidence of your eyes. We're gonna win, right?"

"Huh. Er... it's sixty-forty in our favour, I reckon."

"Good odds."

"Yeah," I said. They were good odds. I pushed myself to my feet and went to the tactics board. Bench boost had turned 7s into 8s and my tweaks had turned 6s into 7s. We were on top. They didn't need a big hype session. "Lads, listen up. Without the ball you've been superb. Big commitment, big effort, big energy. Zach, you're doing what I asked you. Not letting the ball even get to that striker. Feels good, yeah? DMs, you're like a screen in front of the CBs. Security for days. CAMs, you're pressing well. Their centre backs look like Bambi on ice when you run at them. Top bins. With the ball, slight area for improvement. A few attacks have fizzled out because you've been taking the biggest swing every time. Can we just turn the screw for a few minutes? Keep the pressure on. Don't give them an easy out. Pascal, can you dial your ambition down a bit? Some of what you're trying looks amazing but the percentages are off."

"I just feel amazing today, boss! Like everything I do will work!"

"Top. But you're too vertical. You're giving possession away for very low return. Save the fun stuff for when I go on. Until then, play the percentages. Keep it simple. This is one of our best team performances ever, considering the circumstances, and I want the score to reflect that."

***

The second half started the way the first had ended. I realised I had confused Swindon's manager by not changing the formation. It seemed like he thought I would switch to 4-1-4-1. It was funny what lessons people took from their scouting. I suppose I made it hard by being so capricious. Needless to say, the away dugout embarked on a mad scramble to get their players into the right slots and I was more than happy to let the minutes tick down. If we were still in the game with twenty to go, we would have an amazing chance.

If I scored late enough, Swindon wouldn't have time to reply. Could I risk waiting till the last five minutes to score the winner? No, not against a team this good. Better to score early, since I was already starting to feel drained. The prospect of extra time became a daunting one - managing had got a lot more complex and player-managing would be even harder than normal.

It'd all be worth it, though, when the crowd went apeshit at the final whistle. It'd all be worth it when Zach's dad did his first filling for the Chester Chompers. It'd all be worth it when I humiliated the FA in the post-match interview.

Don't mention replays. Don't complain about the FA. You're not allowed to own a football club. Don't give them any reason to come at you.

Who said that? That was cowardly. I had the curse. I had massive power and I had to use it for the good of the game. Otherwise I was just another parasite - no better than the vultures who owned Man United. Bunch of bastards. Some of what they did boiled my blood. They were allowed to own a club but I wasn't? That was wild.

While I was fraying at the edges and coming apart at the seams, the plan I had set up was winning fashion shows.

Westwood chases the ball. He puts the centre back under pressure.

It's cleared to the midfield. Youngster darts forward to intercept.

Swindon's captain does well to retain control. He passes backwards.

Bochum reads it and gets there first! There's danger here.

Bochum passes to Aff. Aff first time to Lyons.

Lyons is strong! He holds off his marker. He flicks the ball into Bochum's path.

Bochum is one on one with the keeper! He shoots...

Saved!

The rebound is loose...

GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

Aff applies the finish!

The Deva erupts. The underdogs are in front!

Wow. This was crazy. When we turned over possession, we typically had four players against Swindon's three, but their manager had made no attempt to correct that imbalance. What was he thinking? Now he was behind in the cup and in danger of being knocked out by a lower-league team. Combined with his poor performances in the league, this result could be the end of his career.

Fucking do something, then, I thought, annoyed. If I owned Swindon I'd bin him off right now.

You're not allowed to own clubs, Max.

Shit shit shit.

"Dean," said Sandra. Her tone snapped me out of it. To my right, I saw Tom Westwood prone, holding his leg. Red attributes, possible knee injury. He'd put everything into the match. Had he been playing with low Condition? I didn't think so - even when catastrophising I was always scanning the key numbers.

It was still bad news, though.

"He's done," I said. There had only been ten minutes of the second half. I would need to play for forty.

Forty minutes. Should I reset the WibWob stuff and leave it alone? I was sure that over time I would get more used to using it and it would be just another tool. Sandra put her hand on my shoulder. "Pace yourself. This could go to extra time."

"Shit," I said. Forty minutes of the second half plus thirty more? That would fucking kill me. "Er... we're saving that last sub."

"I know," she said. "To bring Sticky on for penalties."

"What! What makes you say that?"

"You've been hinting at it all week."

Sometimes Sandra was far too perceptive... Another thing to worry about.

"Replacing number 20, Tom Westwood, number 77, Max Best."

I walked out onto the pitch to huge noise, smiling faces, and an anxious chatter from the Swindon fans behind me, but I immediately felt that something was wrong. My head wasn't screwed on properly. There were too many competing thoughts - my latest mess, dentists, Daddy Star, Brazil, Relationism, Exit Trialists, Sandra. Why did Gemma know things?

My legs felt heavy. Was it possible the Bench Boost had increased my anxieties as well as my skills?

I jogged around feeling old and slow. We got a corner and I sent it straight at the first man, who headed it away.

We were under pressure and I found myself in the right place to hit a clearance, but only succeeded in skying it and putting extra pressure on the defence. My match rating fell to five out of ten. I had barely put a foot wrong the whole season and now I was absolute dogshit.

Henri came over. "Max, what's happening?"

"Just need a minute," I said.

"Talk to me."

"It's heavy."

"What is?"

I put my hands behind my head and tried to suck in some healing air. "The burden."

"Think of something positive. Something you're looking forward to."

"I'm looking forward to asking your girlfriend to spend the summer with me in Brazil."

My French isn't that good, but I knew some of the words Henri said next.

I wandered around, hoping someone would man-mark me so I could kite him into useless positions. If I could influence the game without taking part, that would be ideal, but Swindon's manager didn't seem to want to do anything other than the thing he always did. What happened to him? He used to be good.

One-touch. When things were going wrong, I went into one-touch mode.

Standing in the full-back space Swindon's formation left vacant, I tried to focus. I had one more sub left. Would I sub myself off already? I scanned the main stand. I saw agents and scouts. No Nick. No imps. Lots of families. Kids with holes in their mouths. Focus, Max. Come on!

I jogged back to the CAM slot and felt my legs were lighter. Springier. Here we go. Let's do this!

The away end erupted. Eight hundred sets of arms flying around, and a sustained roar. Swindon had scored. One-all. I checked the commentary and it seemed like a good piece of play. Ben's match rating dipped by one point, but that normally happened to goalies when they conceded.

I crouched and thought about the tactics. I could play in a slightly deeper role and let Aff move one slot to the left. Ah, but that would tire me out and would mess up the vertical lines. Scratch that. I would stick to the CAM role and keep Aff where he was.

I realised the ball was coming in my direction. I jumped but a defender had a head start and he crashed it away, giving me a smack on the back of the head while he did it.

Swindon's tails were up and they suddenly had a lot more energy. They pressed and ran and made us hurry our passes, forcing us into mistakes. Normally I would have dropped in front of the defence as a sort of cheat code that would let us get past the press, but even though I was starting to get into the game more I was too easily harried. One time, I even lost the ball with a loose touch. Crazy!

The minutes ticked down. Extra time and penalties suited us more than Swindon. Of course, the match should have ended at ninety minutes and gone to a replay - a thought which got my juices flowing. Little bit of righteous anger to wash away extraneous thoughts.

I one-touched a pass to Magnus, whose attempted first-timer in the direction of Aff was unexpected and very, very welcome. If he could add those strings to his bow... But his slight lack of precision cost us.

Swindon attack down their right. They work an overlap.

Eddie Moore tries to hold them up. Oh, that's unlucky!

Moore nearly intercepted a pass but only succeeded in pushing it into the path of the number 7.

7 whips in a cross.

The big number 9 gets his head on it...

GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

What a header! That was really something. A powerful header directed into the top corner.

Heartbreak for Chester. Their cup run looks to be coming to an end.

The away fans spent the next three minutes being noisy and chanting about how shit we were. I switched to 4-1-4-1 so I could drop deep and exchange some simple passes with the DMs and defenders. My match rating climbed to 6 and I was starting to feel frisky. I went back to 4-2-3-1, faked a pass, did a 180, did another 180, and as midfielders dropped on their arses around me, thrashed a fifty-yard pass to Aff. He tried to dribble around his man but a defender stuck his foot in and poked the ball out for a throw-in.

Swindon's manager had seen the danger, now, and switched to 4-5-1 and made three substitutions. Interesting. Or was it? I was having trouble focusing.

While the changes were made - slowly; Swindon wanted to run down the clock - I let my mind wander.

I had solved the Daddy Star takeover bid - or so I thought - not by stressing about it but by being relaxed and letting a solution come to me. Surely one would come this time? Surely I could own West without owning it?

One of the subs decided to waste a few more seconds by pretending to struggle to pull on his red kit. Red versus blue was my favourite combination. Man United against Chelsea was pretty much the ultimate football aesthetic. Chester's current kit was blue with thin white stripes - too thin for my liking. When I beat Daddy Star I would change it. Swindon were in solid red and looked more like Liverpool than Man United.

Man United. They were owned by an unspeakable family...

I didn't finish the thought; I burst out laughing. That was the solution! I had to act like a vampiric vulture capitalist! I had to take a lesson from the people ripping the game apart. It was so simple. The FA could come at me - let them - and I would swat them aside.

We had to win this match, though.

I sprinted to Glenn and did something I never did - I took the armband from him. Triple Captain was in effect and my Influence was higher than his. Amazingly, he reacted positively - he knew I was about to go full Max.

The effect was immediate - everyone had a little more spring in his step. Especially me.

Best collects the ball. He points left and dribbles right.

Stepover. Another stepover.

What acceleration! Best chopped the ball down the line and raced after it.

He's in position to cross...

But he slides the ball sideways, gets there first, lures a defender in...

Now a low pass across goal.

Lyons is there. He shoots!

It's blocked!

But surely that was handball?

It was!

The defender didn't know much about it, but he blocked the shot with his hand.

It's a penalty to Chester!

I grabbed the ball and tuned out most of the silliness that follows the award of penalties. Pascal stood over the penalty spot to stop opponents from roughing it up. The ref got most of the Swindon guys away, but then the goalie wandered towards me.

Goalies like to do that. They wander up to the penalty taker and say something to put him off, or throw the ball at his knees, or just generally behave like a prick.

As this one came forward, I walked an equal distance away. He came closer, I walked even further away. Confused, he wandered back to goal. Pascal vacated the penalty spot and I put the ball down. The goalie came towards me again. I picked the ball up and walked away. The goalie went back and when I put the ball down, he came again.

The referee whistled angrily, but I snapped at him. "The only way to stop it is to give him a yellow card. He's taking the piss out of you!"

As this was going on, the stadium was in tumult. Waves of sound coming and going, getting quieter every time I put the ball on the spot then exploding as the referee allowed the goalie to cheat. It was all pretty pathetic, really, but it put the crowd through the wringer. Lots of emotions going on, and what more can you ask for when you go to see your local team?

Finally, the goalie stayed on his line while I put the ball down. The referee did his last checks.

I'd done my homework and this keeper had a better-than-average record at saving pens. He fancied himself as a bit of a penalty expert.

Sadly for him, I was about to not only score this penalty, but give us a huge edge if it went to a shoot-out. Impressive, I know.

Best lines up the penalty.

He blasts it into the top-right corner!

He wheels away in celebration.

But the ref is blowing his whistle! He wants Best to retake the penalty. Best shot too early!

Best has his head in his hands. He can't believe it!

I could believe it - taking the penno before the ref was ready had been part of my plan.

First of all, the goalie was a lot less confident now - my shot had been absolute perfection. Hard and high, close to the post, bosh. Second, he knew I would aim for one of the corners.

I waited for the ref to whistle, sarcastically asked him if he was sure, approached the ball - the goalie flung himself to my right, where my last shot had gone - but I dinked the ball softly down the middle of the goal.

As it finished spinning in the back of the net, I walked to the goalie and told him how much I respected him, which caused a bit of a kerfuffle, but soon enough I was in front of the Harry McNally stand nodding and pointing to myself.

The crowd was roaring, now, and with the scores level it was anyone's game to win. Anyone's... but mostly mine. I dribbled, I played one-twos, and when I got in range I launched increasingly accurate piledrivers at the sides of the goal. The last five minutes were an absolute onslaught and Swindon were very, very lucky to survive to the final whistle.

I got down and lay on my back, absolutely spent. The physical and mental effort had been considerable. But then Henri was pulling me up. "Sandra wants to talk to us," he said.

"Huh? Why?"

"The plan for extra time."

Extra time! I had another thirty minutes of this shit. In the excitement of trying to get a late winner, I'd forgotten the new rules. We shuffled close to the halfway line, in front of our dugout, and stood in a circle. Sandra asked me what I wanted to do - we had one sub left. WibRob was an option. Sharky's speed would unnerve any team. Through my brain fog I saw the optimal outcome - to win on penalties. "Keep things tight and bring Sticky on for the shootout."

"You sure?" she said.

"Million percent." Sticky was tall and had crazy long arms. He was a nuisance at penalties. A Bench Boosted Sticky seemed like a penalty trump card.

Sandra gave a pep talk while I used WibWob to make our formation more defensive. Everyone got moved backwards a couple of notches and their instructions got set to defensive. Not quite men behind ball, but in that direction. I thought about what I'd learned from Ian Evans and David Cutter and pushed all the defenders closer together, too. Stay narrow. Defend the middle of the box. Win headers. Win duels.

When Sandra was done, I stepped into the middle. "Lads, one last thing. Big verbals on their keeper. Focus on how I made him look like a twat and he better hope it doesn't go to penalties. That sort of thing. Zach? Show us how you shit talk in Texas. Thirty minutes for glory, lads. Come on!"

***

The first fifteen minutes flew by. I took up wide positions that blocked passing lanes and forced Swindon to find alternatives. I dropped to win headers and booted the ball away. It was clear that we intended to defend but when Swindon got more adventurous I took the handbrake off and we launched a threatening break through Pascal. That led to a corner kick that I let Aff take. While he jogged over, I enjoyed seeing Zach Green chirp away at the goalie.

From the corner, Aff passed to me and I slapped a shot that deflected over. We got another corner and the shit-talking resumed. The keeper's morale didn't change but the more we wound him up, the more he would try to be a hero in the penalty shoot out. I wanted him riled up and stupid.

Swindon didn't like the amount of threat we were generating and went more defensive. That was fine by me - at this level of difficulty I would still be able to think at the end.

At half time in extra time, we changed ends. I knew from the Copa Mundial mini game that it mattered a lot which end you shot towards in a shootout. It was also extremely helpful to take the first pen so that the other team would always be playing catch-up. I admonished myself. Too soon to think about that! Survive fifteen more minutes!

We resumed and the game got very cautious and frankly, boring. It was only the tension of the situation that kept the crowd involved. Any mistake now would be fatal. Any moment of magic would be decisive.

We kept things tight. While my tank was empty and I was starting to worry about cramp, the other lads were fine - with his stopwatches and clipboards and his special sessions, the Brig had done a good job in building up fitness.

With ten minutes to go, I moved Henri to a CAM slot and went to be the 'striker' so that I could stand almost completely still. I needed a clear head for the shootout.

With five minutes to go, I swapped Ben for Sticky.

With two minutes to go, Swindon suddenly broke through on the right, hit a cross, and their dangerous target man got his head on it. Sticky was stuck to his line, but fortunately the header went wide. So close, though! So close to disaster. It was the kind of moment that gave football fans sleepless nights. What if...?

The match ended, and to the Football Association's eternal shame, an FA Cup First Round tie would be decided by penalties.

We would take five each, most goals wins. If scores were level after five, it would go to sudden death with my lesser players taking pens.

I was clear who I wanted to take the pens and in which order: Henri, me, Pascal, Eddie Moore, Aff. The first four were Boosted and Aff was a reliable option. The only question was, were the chosen lads up for it? They were.

We went through the rigmarole of tossing coins to decide things - so slow, so boring, we're in the entertainment industry for fuck's sake - and we lost both. We would shoot towards the Swindon fans and we would shoot second.

I went to talk to Sticky. "Steve. I need you to do exactly what I tell you."

"I'm good on pens, Max. Trust me, I know what I'm doing."

I nodded. "I know. But I've solved penalty shootouts. I've got a system. I'm going to signal left, right, or up, and I want you to dive that way. Up means do nothing."

He pulled a face; I knew I would run into this problem. "I always dive, Max, otherwise the fans think you're not trying."

"I know," I said. "But the fans aren't in charge, here. I am. We're going to do it right."

Sticky did a thousand-yard stare and an inner voice told me I'd just lost an expert goalkeeping coach. "You're the boss, boss," he said, before turning away.

Both sets of players lined up on the halfway line.

Swindon sent their first taker forward. Their big target man. He had scored in the match and that always helped with confidence. Vimsy came over with a bright blue bib. "Thanks, man."

"What's it for?"

"Winning cup matches. Can you step away, please? I don't want him saying he didn't see my signal. Soz."

I held the bib straight up. In the goalmouth, Sticky looked in my direction and sagged ever so slightly.

Swindon's number 9 to take the first penalty...

He steps up...

And slots it into the corner!

Icke didn't even move!

One-nil Swindon. I got the cold sweats again. Were my theories completely wrong? Henri detached himself from our line of players. He had to walk past me. "Don't choose the middle," I said. "Go left or right."

He nodded and walked forward.

Henri Lyons under pressure.

He spots the ball. Swindon's goalkeeper walks forward to put him off...

And gets a yellow card!

Ironic jeers from the home fans.

Lyons is ready...

Right in the corner!

The keeper guessed the right way but couldn't get a hand to it.

Lyons thumps his chest.

One-all. Swindon's next taker walked forward. Their number 7. Clever player. Too clever, I reckoned. I held the bib straight up again.

Number 7 is ready.

He takes a deep breath, lots of tiny steps, and...

And dinks the ball straight into the arms of the goalkeeper!

Advantage Chester!

I punched the air. I threw the bib up and kung-fu kicked it.

I knew it! I fucking knew it. The biggest area of advantage in a penalty shootout was the ability to kick down the middle, which players did because there was so little chance of goalies staying still. But now I had taken the middle out of the equation for all but the bravest Swindon players. They would have to shoot left or right, and Sticky would have a 50-50 chance of guessing correctly.

Talking of brave players, I was the next taker. I left the bib and walked forward, laughing to myself. There was no doubt the goalie would be expecting me to do another chip down the middle.

I placed the ball, waited for the ref, took three tiny steps, and gently rolled it into the left of the goal.

As I predicted, the goalie didn't move. I had absolutely megabrained the twat.

Two-one Chester, and there was a big party vibe around three-quarters of the ground. Swindon's fans were quiet, and their goalie was a wreck. I understood what Sticky had said about wanting to dive to be seen to be doing something - the away fans were screaming bloody murder at their goalie. I showed how sorry I felt for him by making a crying eyes gesture.

I went back to my spot and picked the bib up. I had a strong feeling about this next pen. I waved it and Sticky - no longer mad at me - nodded.

Swindon's captain to take the next penalty.

The pressure is on!

He steps forward...

Saved! Icke dived to his right and batted the penalty away!

Swindon are in deep trouble now.

Sticky raced away from the save, exultant, getting the sort of reception he should have been getting week in, week out at a much bigger club.

Pascal was next. I told him to hit to his left.

Bochum with the penalty.

Some of the away fans can't watch.

The goalkeeper stretches his arms and bangs the crossbar. He fills the goal, all right.

Bochum... scores!

The keeper dived the wrong way.

Swindon must score to stay in the game!

I didn't signal for the next one - Sticky could decide which way he wanted to dive. I felt sure it wouldn't go down the middle, though.

Number 19 to take the shot. If he misses, Swindon are out of the FA Cup!

He waits. He eyes the left of the goal...

But slots it home to the right!

Swindon are still in this.

The pressure was mounting but Eddie looked unruffled. I told him to shoot left.

Eddie Moore with the chance to win the match!

He'll take it left-footed. He's eyeing the left of the goal. Is it a bluff or a double-bluff?

What will he do?

He'll score!

He's done it! He's put Chester through!

Chester are into the Second Round of the FA Cup in the most dramatic of fashions!

***

Our celebrations were pretty huge - this result and the performance meant a lot to the players and fans. We had shown grit and guile. We had won forty thousand pounds in prize money and a chance to keep progressing. Everyone's morale hit seven.

Sticky came over and hugged me - all was forgiven! "Let's take your system to Vegas, boss!"

"Not the worst idea, mate. I'll take you next season. If you're still here."

He looked around, feeling the adulation, and I felt a tiny pang of hope. Maybe it wouldn't be so hard to persuade him, after all.

I went to Glenn and eased the captain's armband back onto his sleeve. "Thanks for the loan."

I asked Sandra to keep an eye on things while I went to talk to the media. She saw something in me that worried her. "Max, maybe I should do it. Why don't you go and enjoy the win? With the lads?"

"You know I take my media duties very seriously. After a famous win like this, they'll want to hear from me."

"You're not going to throw your toys out of the pram, are you? The rules have changed, Max. No replays. It's done. Let it go."

"Okay. I won't mention anything about that."

She swore and shook her head. "Can I come with you? I hate finding out what you said second-hand."

"Erm... how's your poker face?"

"Amazing," she said. "Flawless."

I laughed. "Let's see."

***

We went straight to the little spot in a random corridor where we did post-match interviews. Since it was the FA Cup there was a proper camera and a sponsors board had been erected. It would all look very professional. Very corporate.

The media guys were surprised that we were early, but quickly plugged things in and pressed buttons and whatever they did. As the main guy was about to speak, Beth snuck into the room. Ever the bloodhound, sniffing out a good story.

"Max Best, congratulations! You're through to the Second Round of the FA Cup. How does it feel?"

I glanced at Sandra before answering, and double-checked the viewscreen that showed what was being filmed. I wanted her face in shot so I could enjoy it in future. I looked, in my opinion, very handsome and noble. I looked very much like the saviour of English football. A knight errant defending it against its many enemies. "The FA Cup is all about history and tradition. This sport is about history and tradition. The Premier League is full of rich owners whose only interest in football is to pillage and ransack and they have somehow lobbied to remove replays from the calendar so that they can play in tedious tournaments with higher prize money. Every country has a Football Association and in every country that FA looks after the health of the game. Not ours. Ours sells it to the highest bidder and throws history and tradition into the scrap heap.

"The mediocrities who run the English Football Association are only interested in their next eight-course lunch and I have nothing but contempt for them. They have abdicated the running of the sport to capitalists and sportswashers who would happily kill 98% of the clubs in this land and, to be fair, they are doing a pretty good job of that. Today the score after ninety minutes was two-all. That's a draw. What should happen after a draw is that we go to the County Ground for a replay. If the Football Association don't want to do things right, I will do it for them. As Chester's director of football and men's first-team manager, I hereby offer Swindon the replay that is theirs by right of history and tradition."

I glanced at Sandra and nearly burst out laughing. Good poker face, my arse.