7.

Tuesday, November 19

We were approaching the halfway point in the season and it's fair to say I had mixed feelings. The men's team were a step away from the glory and riches of the FA Cup Third Round and we were on track in the league. The women were in a slump but the slump revealed how well they had been doing. And the boys were cruising through the Youth Cup.

I had the chance to sign my first private sponsorship deal, a big summer trip to Brazil was on the cards, and most of my players were various shades of happy.

With Daddy Star on the horizon I found I couldn't really enjoy the highs. Given half a chance he would blow everything up.

Meanwhile, there were still lows. I got calls from Secretary Joe and the admins at West Didsbury that hinted that the FA were looking for dirt on me. I wasn't breaking any rules now but I had in the past. How malicious did they want to be? Joe also reported a huge increase in demands from the board. They wanted to see our training schedules, our insurance coverage, our agreements with teams we loaned players to. They wanted documents related to our negotiations for the purchase of the stadium - fortunately, none existed. Suffice to say, behind the scenes, James Pond was slipping knives into his belt and stuffing a grenade into every pocket. Gearing up for war.

The daily grind of running a football club was getting to me. It was supposed to be fun, wasn't it? But lots of the time it was a hard, stressful job and every pound the club earned was spent before it dropped in our account.

The truth is that when it came to football, this part of the season was boring. As with our tier six season, we had come out of the being shit phase and were well into the era of competence. There was more competition at the top of the National League so we had a long way to go, but there was no sign of our training slowing down or hitting any caps. We were on track. I had done the work.

I was bored.

Fidgety.

Thinking about transfers. Loan signings. Another Goliath! Someone to come in and shake things up. Give us all a kick up the arse. A jolt of energy.

And then there was Wales. Beautiful, scenic Wales with its good national team and dogshit football league. Thinking about the mischief I could get up to there filled me with massive energy and excitement which all came crashing down when I realised there was no way they would go for it.

But still, though. What if...?

I couldn't stop smiling when I thought about what if.

***

Tuesday, November 19

After losing to Forest Green on Saturday, the men's team had a quick turnaround before another away trip. This one was against FC Halifax Town, yet another phoenix club. The Shaymen had an average CA of 69 so I didn't hold out much hope of a win and rotated pretty heavily. Sharky, Omari, and Ziggy started and with some help from a dreadfully out of form home striker, they did enough to keep us in the match. At seventy minutes I went on for my usual twenty-minute cameo. There must have been some alignment of the stars because everything went my way. I scored two quick goals to give us a three-two win. It was an impressive shift from the lads, to be honest, because back-to-back away games were really draining.

On the team bus home I sat alone to decompress. While munching on little blocks of cheese I checked our fitness, morale, and the state of our CA.

Fitness was good. Thanks to the Brig's intuition for how hard he could push individuals, we were finishing games stronger than most opponents. Like any team we picked up knocks and aches and strains but as with last season, our treatment room was quiet - all our rotation and preventative work was paying off. Climate experts were saying it was going to be a very damp winter and lots of matches would be called off, so I planned to rotate much less in the coming weeks. The weather would give our first eleven the rest they needed while the reserves trained as hard as poss.

Morale was strong - the players knew we had just won three of the hardest points we were likely to get that season, and we all seemed to be over the unpleasantness that stank up the dressing room after the Swindon match.

That day, after making my frankly hilarious public offer to replay the match, I had returned to the dressing room to find a mutiny was brewing. A few key players loudly suggested I had taken my crusade too far. They were pissed that they had worked so hard for that win and that prize money and I would so casually throw it away. In reply, I went thermonuclear. Absolutely ballistic. I gave myself a splitting headache and my throat was sore for days after, but I'd made the point - this was my ship and I would steer it how I wanted and if their principles could be bought so cheaply why pretend to even have any? I'd shouted that and much more and morale had collapsed.

But then, of course, the lads went home and saw that the entire fucking country agreed with me. They saw Gary Lineker calling me the voice of the true football fan and they heard radio show listeners demand I receive the Nobel Prize for Sport while the hosts said there was no such thing and that my offer had clearly been insincere and impossible.

When my players realised they'd got the wrong end of the stick and there was, in fact, not going to be a replay, morale climbed back up and the next week's training was tight. It's hard to pin down individual factors when it comes to attribute and CA growth but I was pretty sure that screaming in their faces had ticked some kind of box. My manager has the capacity for empathy and kindness? Tick. He has technical expertise? Tick. He can give you a hairdryer blast the likes of which you have never experienced and he could probably batter you? Tick. It had been a long time since I had ragdolled Donny Dorigo after his pathetic penalty miss - maybe I needed to do one temper tantrum per season to inject a healthy dose of fear into the newcomers because since that weekend, training had kicked up a notch and our best eleven had finally broke the CA 60 barrier. We were now on 60.2, to be exact!

The season was on track. Nothing could derail us. But maybe it'd be fun to pour jet fuel into our engine.

I got up and knelt on the seats in front of Sandra. I poked my head through the head rests like a little boy. "I've got you a present," I said.

She put her phone down. "Two late goals, three points, seventh in the table?"

"Are we in the playoff spots? Wow! That's actually awesome. How far are we behind Barnet?"

"We're sixteen points behind Grimsby," she said, which was not what I asked. "Ten behind Barnet," she added.

I tried to do some calculations. We were CA 60 now and only one of our first teamers had hit his PA limit. By the start of January we might get to CA 63 or so. By March we could have CA 70 in sight. If we could maintain our current rates of improvement we would probably overtake Barnet in CA by the end of the season, especially with Ryan Jack back in the squad. It was going to be virtually impossible to make up a ten-point difference. Barnet had a very good defence, which meant they didn't lose many games. They picked up points even when they played shit - something we couldn't do. We could aim for third, though. That was achievable and would bring the playoffs down to two games instead of three. "I think," I said, then nudged closer and lowered my voice. "I think I'm going to do something in January."

"We know. Save the club from itself."

"I meant transfers."

"Oh!"

I nodded. Project Youth had been a success - while turning the Exit Triallists into proper players we had stayed in contention and if I let the season play out we would be the best team heading into the playoffs, no doubt. But the difference between us and Barnet would be fractional and our squad players were unlikely to come on and be the matchwinner in a playoff final at Wembley. The way things were developing, Chester would still need some magic from me. What if the FA gave me a one-match ban timed for the playoff final? Anything was possible with those bastards. So I really wanted to be sure of winning even if I didn't play. And, if I'm being really honest with myself, my inability to deal with boredom was a problem. "Things are getting stale around here. Remember we added Goliath to the mix and he gave us a lift? I'm thinking of doing that again."

Sandra's poker face failed her again. "Another loan signing? You always talk about how you hate them. It's dead money."

"It is dead money. We're developing someone else's player when our own resources are so limited. But we've turned four rejects into players with genuine value. Sharky will come good, Wisey has already doubled in value, Youngster's come back from his international trial with a spring in his step. Pascal, Zach, and Carl will get us good fees. We've done the grafting and we've earned a bit of fun. Don't you think? All grind and no play makes Max a dull boy. We've got space for one really good signing."

"You've been giving our budget away twenty pounds at a time. Who was it this week?"

"Sharky. Okay, so in retrospect that was unhelpful but it'll be fine. I might need to beg MD for a few hundred a week extra but if we make it into the third round of the FA Cup that's a no-brainer. I reckon we get a striker. Someone who can push Henri." My friend had been improving - he was CA 65, now - but he was still going pretty slowly. "I'm going to see what TJ's got. Imagine if we got someone like Marcus Wainwright for six months. Boomshakalaka!"

Sandra pulled a face and looked around to check she couldn't be overheard. "I think I'd prefer a centre back. We're still quite porous no matter how much we work on the defence." I knew exactly what she meant - that Glenn Ryder was starting to look like the weak link. Everyone else was improving, but he had reached his PA limit. Him and his backup, Steve Alton. Sadly, those limits were already more National League North than National League.

"Hmm. Okay, well, you know I'd rather win 4-3 than 1-0 but I'll think about it. Whoever it is, I want to get someone with a bit of character. A bit of personality."

"The squad might get bloated."

"We're going to lend more kids out. Once they're out of the Youth Cup they're all gone. Preparation for next season starts now, kinda thing."

"Oh."

"Ready for your present?"

"I thought my new defender was the present."

"No." I double checked all the numbers in my head. Fitness, morale, CA. "I think the squad's in good shape. There are some injuries to manage and some guys close to suspensions, but it's looking okay. I'm tired, though. I want a break. You're doing the Cheshire Cup next week, but how about you do Dorking this Saturday, too? That gives me most of two weeks off."

"You're giving me a league match?"

"Yep." Dorking were around CA 53 and struggling at the bottom of the table. Sandra and her CA 60 army would give them a good battering.

"You won't play?"

"No, I'll probably go scouting. You're on your own. Happy with that?"

"Very."

"Top. So after that we've got Solihull Moors in the FA Trophy." The Trophy was the cup designed for non-league teams. It was much more important than the Cheshire Cup but much much less important than the FA Cup. "Not a good draw, is it? The weekend after that it's Yeovil in the FA Cup. Yeovil is obviously the absolute top priority of the whole season until the playoffs."

"Obviously."

Winning it would give us a huge injection of prize money, but just as importantly, we would be one of only sixty-four teams left in the competition. Twenty of those would be from the Premier League and twenty-four from the Championship. There were plenty of huge football clubs in those divisions and gate money in the FA Cup was divided between the competing teams, giving us the chance to make an absolute fortune. Anywhere up to a million pounds!

"So it's that time again. What do we do about the FA Trophy?"

Last season, the schedule had been similar and we had decided to abandon the Trophy. It was a shame since the final gets played at Wembley, but given the timing and fact we had been drawn away against one of the top teams in the National League, once again the logical thing to do was to bin it off. I was keen to know if Sandra had reached the same conclusion. She responded by turning her thumb downwards and making a raspberry sound.

"Wow," I said. "I'm afraid I agree. There's no point risking Henri and Pascal in that game. So do you want to manage that one?"

"I'd like to keep my win percentage higher than Ian Evans' if you don't mind. You can jump on that grenade."

"Kay. Strong against Dorking, whatever you want against Congleton, weak against Solihull, mega super strong against Yeovil. Good?"

"Good."

***

I took a few minutes to think about my battle with Daddy Star. James Pond was trying to set up a date for us to meet. It seemed like it would happen soon. In the meantime, the first skirmishes had very much started.

It would have been easy to miss, but when you knew where to look the attacks were evident. First, there was an army of social media bots. Their job was to turn positive sentiment into neutral. Not negative, just neutral. For now.

For example, the Deva Station podcast had a new guest who was absolutely unbelievable in his tactical analysis and he had reframed my offer of a replay into its proper context. The guy was amazing and in the hours after the release of the episode there was a lot of chat from listeners who were sorry they'd misjudged me yet again. But then the bots came, all pitching the idea that 'Ray Hart' was actually 'Max Best' using a voice changer. They cited the compelling evidence that our names had identical vowel and consonant constructions. It was bonkers, but it successfully deflected the conversation away from the valid topics Ray Hart had raised and onto 'does Ray Hart exist?'

Similar things happened on other posts. One that started out praising me for getting Chester in the media and delighting our sponsors turned into a long bicker about whether Ben Cavanagh was 27 or 'nearly 28'. Quite bizarre.

And there was the strange phenomenon of seemingly random people using identical words and phrases. I found 'spend the Raffi money' everywhere I went. 'Our stadium' was always linked linguistically to 'our destiny'. And the phrase 'sugar daddy' exploded into life. We need a sugar daddy. If only we had a sugar daddy.

I knew this game from our soon-to-be-former government - these phrases were being seeded in closed Facebook groups, secret Telegram channels, and presumably, face to face in shadowy pubs.

It was pretty interesting to watch it all happen, but I couldn't wait for the whole mess to be over. The optimal outcome was that a group of fans would band together and campaign against any takeover. It was all the more reason to wish for a lucrative Third Round tie. A million in the bank would be the ultimate defence against Daddy Star. We can make our own money, lads! We don't need this prick!

***

XP balance: 2,671

The November perk dropped immediately after I'd asked Sandra if she wanted to manage against Dorking. The offer was tempting. Very tempting, It was called 'Talent ID' and it would let me search the player database by CA or PA. An amazing timesaver, but it was overpriced at 4,000 XP.

I could easily save up for it, but the task would have been a lot easier if I'd turned to Sandra and said, you know what? I'll manage against Dorking after all. That was what the imps wanted and it was not going to happen. I didn't like being manipulated and anyway, I had my workflow. When using the player search screen I would set my filters - minimum 10 Positioning for defenders under the age of 23, for example - and manually click through each player. There were worse ways to spend time.

But perhaps one of the reasons I was feeling slightly uneasy was that, having bought WibWob after such a long pursuit, I didn't have a clear current objective. There were many perks I wanted - upgrading Playdar would be epic, adding squad lists to my screens would let me check the health and wellbeing of my young players, Contracts 3 would show me who a player's agent was, and of course I wanted more attributes and formations. Looming over it all was Relationism, which at 30,000 XP would take many months of grinding.

No, Talent ID wasn't quite what I wanted. I'd have preferred something that allowed me to use the With Ball and Without Ball screens without getting fatigued. It felt like the curse was adding a stamina drain effect for every player I moved. It probably wasn't the case; more likely I was just concentrating extra hard and would get used to it.

Oh, and I would have paid a few hundred XP to get clarity on whether another Bench Boost would be available in the playoffs. Did the playoffs count as their own mini tournament? Or did it count as a continuation of the league? I'd already used my one Bench Boost against Grimsby. Would I get another? It was 90% likely that the playoffs didn't count as a new thing. I wish I knew for sure, though. The playoffs were starting to fucking LOOM.

***

I spent the rest of the week touring North Wales pretty hard. First for players, obvs, but also for a suitable club I could take over.

There were good options in the second division. Flint Town United, for example. I already had a relationship with them - Chester's women's team used their stadium on Sundays and their directors sometimes turned up and enjoyed a bit of banter. Mold Alexandra had a relatively central location but the road connections to it weren't that good. Buckley Town was decent in terms of population.

Population. Why was that a consideration? What was I thinking of doing in Wales?

I didn't have the capacity to run a second club the way I was running Chester, but I could certainly do what I did with West. All it needed was some scouting. Find a good coach, give them better players than their opponents, hit the beach. Standards in the Welsh pyramid were pretty low. The best team was about as good as Chester. Last time I'd seen them, they were CA 65. I could start in the third tier at a club with zero fans and race to the top.

One club stood out. Its home matches were played at Sandy Lane. Maybe Sandra would want to manage it!

The more I looked into it, the more I saw a completely blank slate in a location that, for me, was utterly perfect.

I would need some help to get it started, but then it would be chocs away.

I gave some thought to how I would persuade the Welsh FA to help me and within minutes had convinced myself it would be the easiest sales pitch in the history of sports.

I called Gwen and told her I couldn't wait until the Yeovil match - I was too hyper. Could she bring some of her FAW dudes to watch me manage a match on Monday?

***

Monday, November 25

FA Youth Cup Second Round: Cheltenham Town Under Eighteens vs Chester Under Eighteens

I was able to make two of my side quests collide and it was all tremendously satisfying.

Chester had been drawn away to Cheltenham, which as you know is in Gloucester which as you know is only an hour from Cardiff and Newport. I drove down separately from the boys - wild with the excitement of their first big away trip and in complete awe of Whaddon Road, even though it was basically a red version of the Deva - while five bigwigs from the FAW drove from their base near Cardiff to watch the match. It was Gwen in her civvies, two business boys (older than MD) in suits, and two younger administrator guys in casual gear. All very friendly, but the men were clearly sceptical. I already had some points in the bank - Gwen's unfettered approval seemed rare, Dieter Actual Bauer had visited me, and yeah, they liked the fact that I was managing the youth team for this tournament. I asked what scoreline would impress them enough to listen to my cockamamie scheme and one guy said 'any sort of win, you're completely outmatched.' I managed to avoid laughing my head off.

Cheltenham's first team had been relegated from League One to League Two and they had a tidy setup. Their youth teams matched the firsts in playing an attractive, possession-based 3-5-2, though like the firsts they lacked a good goalscorer. They were almost ideal opponents - they were from a higher league so beating them seemed impressive, but in reality I could have picked any formation I wanted and expected to win.

My lads had kicked on after being pushed hard in training and given opportunities with the first team. In the last round they had been CA 16. Now three weeks later they were CA 20. I felt like I was whipping them pretty hard but the pressure and the variety of the challenges was exciting and they were responding.

Talking of fresh challenges, I was keen to continue my personal education by using WibWob to enhance 4-3-3. The default version of that formation was very narrow. Very central. That was fine against some opponents but I wanted to do something more like Klopp's Liverpool - spread the three forwards nice and wide and cause a bit of panic on counters. I felt it would be especially effective against Cheltenham's back three.

I could only 'deform' one of my three strikers, so I ended up having Benny as the central guy with Tyson near him but WibWobbed to be as far to the left as possible while still counting as a striker. William B. Roberts, perhaps the most talented young player in England, got to play wide right in the Mo Salah role.

In our two most recent private sessions I had tried to get William to be more decisive when running through on goal. Like most players he tended to dribble one or two steps closer, look up, decide what to do, and then do it. With his raw talent he would get away with it for a while but at a certain level defenders would recover before he could shoot. I had used our time to encourage him to make crazy fast decisions and to take early shots. Like, I wanted him to decide what to do while the ball was on its way to him, before he had even taken his first touch. Degree of difficulty? Maximum.

I knew it would take a while for the lesson to sink in, but I was taking a five-year view of his development.

I explained all this to the guys from the FAW, who were in the stand behind my dugout. They pretended to be interested and I took a few steps back to my technical area.

Good early pressure from the Robins. The home team have made a bright start.

More good passes in the centre of midfield. There's an overlap on the left...

But Noah Harrison gets across to help Sevenoaks.

Cheltenham retain possession. They look for an opening.

Good tackle from Hope.

The ball breaks to Dan Badford.

He draws a challenge and slips the ball twenty yards out to the right.

Tyson and Benny make zigzagging runs in the box! They're calling for the pass.

William Roberts takes a touch... and hammers the ball goalwards.

GOOOOAAAALLLLL!!!!

It flew like a rocket! The goalie didn't have time to plant his feet!

I gave the FAW guys a Maxy Two-Thumbs, but while I was pretending to be cocky, I was nervous.

This kid, man, Jesus Christ. He absorbed lessons so fast and if something didn't work right away he went off and practised for hours on end until he could do it. The Cheltenham dugout had reacted to his strike with dropped jaws. If they had any sense, they would call the first team manager and get him to the stadium before full time. I looked around and saw a handful of scouts and agents in the sparse crowd.

What if William got loose against a big team? What if he scored a goal like that in our cup match, live on TV?

The way he was going I would soon be fighting off the big six clubs. How could I keep him a secret while he was so clearly better than everyone around him?

Henk with a smooth pass to Badford.

Badford chips the ball over the defence!

Roberts is onto it like a flash.

The ball's bouncing...

Roberts helps it up and over the keeper...

Has he put too much on it?

GOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

Into the roof of the net! It was never in doubt.

Roberts scores his second. Cheltenham don't know what has hit them!

We hadn't even had ten minutes yet but Cheltenham's manager switched to a very defensive 5-4-1 with the intention of stopping the bleeding. I was fine with that - the worst outcome would have been a ten-nil that made big clubs seek out the video of the match. How could I hide William without him feeling I was hiding him?

I went to 4-4-2 with William as the left-sided of the two central midfielders. I made him the playmaker but also put him on 'no forward runs'. The idea was to keep him involved in the game so he felt happy, but not to the point where he would utterly annihilate our hosts.

It worked - at half-time we were only three-nil up.

At the break the lads were laughing and joking, loving life, irrepressible little bundles of Chesterness. I did the thing I wanted Jackie to do with his team - I redirected their energy towards a new goal so they didn't get complacent.

"Guys," I said. "Listen very carefully to what I'm about to say." They listened. "I want you to speed the passes up. I want to break the world record for passes. Okay? So I want you to get as one-touch as possible. Zip that fucking ball all round that stadium. Ping it around. You get me? If you put together a sequence of ten one-touch passes, I'll take you out to Nando's. If you make one of their players fall over because he's actually dizzy, I'll take you to Disneyland. Or DisneyWorld. The cheaper one."

It took a few minutes to adjust, but with the home team sitting deep, we were soon pinging the ball around with speed and accuracy.

"Ten!" shouted WibRob, who then booted the ball out of play so he could claim his prize. "That was ten."

"No way! That wasn't a pass. That was a miscontrol."

"Ten!" he yelled.

I threw my hands up. "Fine!"

The lads laughed and the subs cheered. WibRob looked happy and returned to the match. He understood I wanted to play keep ball, though, so he stuck to playing one-touch passes for the next few minutes and the other lads, who had reverted to playing normally, quickly fell into line. Will was the technical leader of the team, all right.

I had forgotten about the Welsh people, but I glanced at them and saw they were impressed. By what? I looked around, trying to see what was so good. I shrugged and went back to my task.

Cheltenham got sick of chasing the ball and reverted to their beloved 3-5-2 for the last twenty minutes. I switched back to my wide 4-3-3 with Chas Fungrieve coming on to be the central striker, and since the home team had tried to strengthen the area where Will had done so much damage, I moved him to the other side.

Carnage ensued.

At five-nil, the home manager went back to 5-4-1 and I put my tigers back in their cage.

William finished with a ten out of ten match rating. Two goals, three assists, and no fouls.

I shook hands with the home manager, cheered up their best player, and walked over to the FAW mob. They raved about Henk - he was easy on the eye - Dan Badford, the style of play, the joy, the togetherness, the quality of our attacks.

But most of all, they raved about WibRob. Gwen took the lead on that one. "Roberts is a good name. Has that boy got any Welsh grandmothers?"

"Sorry but that kid's the future of English football." I looked from eye to eye and right then and there I could have asked for almost anything. "If it's Welsh football you're interested in," I added with a playful smirk, "I have thoughts."

***

They agreed to meet again in a more formal setting and a few nights later I drove to the Vale Resort in Hensol near Cardiff. My room was in a stupendous hotel in the Vale of Glamorgan that boasted two golf courses and five-star football and rugby facilities. It was the base of the Welsh national football and rugby teams and was home to the Football Association of Wales.

My sleep was only slightly ruined as I fretted about the draw for the third round of the Youth Cup - Chelsea away. It was much too early in the season for that kind of tie - Chelsea were one of the powerhouses of youth football and spent millions of pounds snapping up all the best talent from around the world. They would crush us.

The thought nagged that if the men's team had got the exact same draw, it would have generated a million pounds.

Another thought kept me turning left and right and flipping the pillow upside down - what to do about WibRob.

On Saturday the 7th there would be a televised cup match and he would hope to play in it.

On Monday the 9th the boys would play against Chelsea in their gaff and Will would demand to play in that one. It was all too easy to visualise him barging past three defenders before cracking a precision thunderbastard into the top right... in front of some of the best scouts and coaches in the country...

A cowardly but elegant solution presented itself. I would give him the option of twenty minutes in the FA Cup or the whole of the Youth Cup, but I'd tell him he couldn't have both. He would obviously choose the former and the chances were he wouldn't do anything particularly special. Yes, that would work. It was a pretty cheap trick but it was for his own good.

I drifted off and slept well.

***

I met the five bigwigs from the Welsh FA at 9 a.m. and they showed me around. The quality of the facilities was sky-high and it was both exhilarating and depressing to see them. Perfect green pitches, including some hybrids, as far as the eye could see. Fully stocked, gleaming equipment rooms. A spa and a twenty-metre pool. Chester had a long way to go!

But I was being welcomed by the people in charge of Welsh football. People with decision-making power. I had come so far!

After the tour, we sat around a meeting room with coffee and croissants. The room was one of those with no formal table to encourage collaboration and it had been designed to within an inch of its life. There were no windows, though! No windows with that spectacular view outside. Quite strange.

"So, Max," said Gwen. "We've seen what you can do and you've seen our base. What shall we talk about?"

I grinned. What I was about to say was pretty insane even by my standards, but I had nothing to lose. "Right." I sipped my drink and decided to go for it. Embarrassment is the cost of entry. "Stop me when things get too bonkers for you to stomach." Two of the four men perked up. This was going to be fun! I half-closed my eyes. "Let's talk about your challenges. First, the country is split in half. Wales is basically England's beer belly and everyone lives on the sweaty underside or the flap of skin at the top. No-one wants to live in the big hairy mass in the middle."

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

"Where's the belly button?" said one of the two younger guys.

"Brecon," said an older guy, and all the Welsh people laughed.

"Is it an innie or an outie, though?"

"Don't answer that!"

So that was all hilarious, apparently. Good start! I blinked and realised they had finished their joke. "Okay so going from north to south is a pain. It's four hours from Chester to Cardiff. That's mad. So you've got a north south split and all the football stuff's in the south. You've got Cardiff, Swansea, and Newport County. Great. In the north you've got Wrexham. Okay. But they all play in the English leagues. It's not a massive problem because you're still producing enough good players for your national team to do well, but it's not ideal, is it? There should be a couple of Welsh teams that can be a home to Welsh players." I adjusted on my chair. "Related problem, no-one is interested in your league. There's a monopoly and the team that wins everything is not liked. They're based in England and the squad isn't even fifty percent Welsh. Correct me if I'm wrong but they're not really contributing to the game in Wales, are they? They don't help you develop coaches or players. I couldn't find a national team player or manager who started there."

The five guys looked at each other, trying to think of someone. "There might be one or two," said Gwen, diplomatically.

"Okay so the way I see it, you guys are trying to boost the quality of your league but you're up against a huge problem and that is your champions. TNS win every year and as the winners of the Welsh league they get into European competitions where they soak up hundreds of thousands in prizes even though they rarely win any matches. This prize money keeps them at the top and no other team has the slightest chance to get close to them. That's messing up any plans you might have. But as luck would have it, you've met me."

"You," said one of the older guys.

"I can smash this monopoly and create a team that actually serves Welsh football. Maybe not in a very dramatic way, but certainly in a small and symbolic way. But it all starts with one little fact - I want to own a football club. Only as an owner can I financially benefit from my talent."

"What is your talent, would you say?" This was one of the older guys.

"Scouting. What the big clubs call talent ID. I did a tour of Wales a few weeks ago and found a women's tournament being held and there were five girls good enough for my Chester team." I decided not to mention the sensational right back I'd found - he was too young to have the hopes of his nation hoisted upon him. "Yeah, if there is undiscovered talent out there, I can help with that. Player development is another of my skills. Making sure their numbers are going up, if you see what I mean. I spot dips and regressions very early and can intervene. I mean, formations, tactics, all that stuff, but that's not so relevant to this project. No, this is about taking a small club and turning it into the number one team in Wales." I reached into my backpack and pulled out a map of north Wales. "Here's the top of the beer belly. What's the population here? A million? Pretty much all of this is within an hour of Chester. Llandudno's an hour. Wrexham's twenty-five minutes. As a sort of northern hub, Chester's not a bad place. But you don't want it in Chester, you want it in Wales. Bosh! Look at this." I pointed to a town that looked like part of Chester but was its own thing.

"Saltney," said Gwen.

"There's a team that plays on a bare patch of grass round the corner from the Deva stadium that calls itself Saltney Town. It's seventh in your third tier right now." I looked around and was completely sure that three of the bigwigs had never heard of this club. "The club is basically a field, two goalposts, some footballs, end of list. Completely blank slate. Now, I've been working like a crazy person to engage with Chester's fans and get them excited and grow attendances and all that sort of thing. It's hard work but it's what you do if you're building a club." I sipped my coffee. "That's a fucking waste of my time, by the way, since they're all desperate to drop their knickers at the first rich guy who walks past." That hint of bitterness surprised me. Where had that come from? "So what if I wasn't trying to build a club? What if I was only building a team?"

"What's the difference?" said Gwen.

"If you don't worry about fans life gets a lot easier. My skills are team building. That means scouting and making sure training is going well. TNS have won your Prem like twelve times in a row and they get crowds of 200 to 500 for most games. That's dreadful. But it means having fans isn't the point. It's all about winning the Prem and getting that European money. Okay so the starting point to all this is that you guys convince the owners of Saltney Town to sell it to me. I'm willing to pay one pound."

I paused to wait for objections. Gwen said, "We have to help you buy it?"

I shrugged. "I don't have the time to find the people and convince them. You could do it in ten minutes. Hey, dude, we're doing a thing for the benefit of Welsh football can you sell to this chap, please? What's exciting about working with you is that people who love Wales will listen. Okay I've bought the club. January 1st, three players from Chester join on loan. Ten more sign. We win every game from then until the end of the season. Next. In the summer, you need to build me a super-duper 3G pitch." Again I waited for the objections. None came. "My Chester people have been looking into a project where we would put 3G pitches down and rent them out and believe me, Saltney isn't exactly the hottest location. It'd still make money, though. There's a secondary school across the road which uses the current pitch and with a proper facility next door they'd use it even more. Football, rugby, hockey. There's one guaranteed customer. Chester FC would be another. My club has got growing needs. Every time we add an age group we stress our current options and we've got reserve team fixtures we want to play. Having a top quality pitch ten minutes down the road - yeah, we'll use it. Put simply, that pitch is going to start generating money as soon as the builders clear off. In the right location a 3G pitch can make 150,000 a year. Let's say this one only does 80,000. Flint Town United are top of your second tier right now. Do you know their yearly playing budget?"

One of the b-boys smiled. "I'm going to guess 80,000."

I gave him a cheery fingergun. "That's yearly. For everyone! For twenty players that's 80 quid a week each. That's bonkers. Anyway, clearly 80 grand is enough to win the second tier. We will absolutely smash it and again there will be loan players from Chester. It'll be an absolute doddle. Now we're in the Premier. That's ten bad teams, one okay team, one good team. TNS have a yearly budget of half a million. That will be a challenge but with Chester I'm competing with teams with three times the budget. The advantage there is that I'm playing and managing the games myself, but still, it should be possible to win the Premier. I might have to stick some of my own money in but by then I should be doing much better financially. Should be able to stick a couple of hundred grand into the project to bridge that gap, if needed. Once that Champions League money is out of TNS' hands and in mine, it's game over for them. They'll be toast."

"And you'll be able to holiday in the Hamptons," said Gwen.

I laughed. "I'm not going to let my team crash out of Europe every July. Shit, by then I'll have some top, top players at Chester and if I say hey I need three volunteers to go on loan to my Welsh team for a month every hand will go up. All football players want to play in European competition. With three proper stars in the lineup a Welsh team might actually be able to get past the qualifying rounds. Now, I've looked at your UEFA coefficients and I could use some comparisons you'd hate even more than the beer belly one."

The five winced and shook their heads; the topic was a real sore spot. The coefficient was a way of calculating which countries around Europe had performed best in UEFA's competitions. For example, Germany outperformed England and that meant Germany got an extra Champions League spot.

"Right now the Welsh league is the 52nd best league in Europe. Out of 55. That's dogshit." I paused while I remembered the list I saw. Only Montenegro, Gibraltar and San Marino had a worse league than Wales. "You get four teams in Europe. If I win a few Champions League matches, that number's going up. Number goes up! We all love that. If you get one more team in one of UEFA's tournaments, that's a guaranteed cash injection for that team. You get a hundred and fifty thousand Euro for turning up in the third-best competition! It's free money. If I add two teams that's an extra three hundred thousand Euro for Welsh clubs. I'm describing a working trickle-down effect. Just let me loose!"

I chuckled as I thought of taking money from UEFA and giving it to my new Welsh mates. What a world. I shook myself out of my reverie.

"Sports and monopolies aren't supposed to mix. No-one gives a shit about the Welsh league because it's won by the same team every year. As I said, I'm sure I can get a better team on the pitch but even if we fall a bit short, at least you get a two-horse race until I bridge the gap. That's going to increase the interest in the Premier by many thousands of percent. From a low basis, sure, but you'll please your TV company partners. You'll have the chance to market the league as an exciting contest. Erm... should I go on?"

They were giving me various levels of strange looks, now. "Yes, please," said Gwen.

"Cool. You run the coaching courses in this country. You've got a database with hundreds of names. In there are probably ten world-class coaches that are rotting in, like, Swansea's under fifteens or something. We can work together to help you find the guys you should be fast-tracking. I'll be running Chester, obviously, so my Welsh club will need a head coach and an assistant but I'll take as many coaches as you'll give me."

"Give you?"

"Well, I'm imagining some kind of dual role where you pay most of the salary." I laughed. "I'm poor, remember. When I'm winning the league every year I'll chip in but the point is to develop Welsh football, too. I'll help you find your most talented coaches. One will be my head coach, one his or her assistant. With the players I give them, they'll smash tier three and tier two. Eighteen months from now they've already got a decent CV and some experience. When you need a new under 21s manager, there you go. My second guy becomes head coach, I pick a new assistant. Few years from now, the national team manager quits, you shove the 21s manager one level up, my guy goes to the under 21s. It'll be a production line of coaching talent."

"A production line that goes through your club, making you richer," said one of the men.

"Yep. Win-win."

"What do you think of the current national team manager?"

"He seems to be doing a decent job but I've never seen him up close. I can't really comment. I'm more interested in the league and to a lesser extent, how I could help you to develop more players. Maybe not better players, but a wider pool."

"How would you do that?"

I smiled. "In a way that benefits me, too." My smile turned into a full twinkle. "This will sound mad, but trust me. You've got your top coaches working in Saltney. You call it your northern powerhouse or some bullshit like that. It's a place kids from all over the north go to have masterclasses and special training sessions. You make it seem special but actually you're trying to get every kid in the north there at least once. I tried to do something like this with schools in Cheshire but I don't currently have the clout or the financial might to make it happen. You do. Get every kid who plays football anywhere in north Wales to Saltney."

One of the younger dudes blanched. "On the same day?"

"No, spread them out. I live down the road, don't I? That's the point. I can pop down and scout them and get on with my day. I promise that I will spot the good ones right away. Imagine we find 50 kids good enough to play international football. I'd sign them all for my team and start their development. We should be able to take players to League Two level but then they'll need to move on to Swansea or Cardiff for the next step. I mean, I'll take the superstars at Chester if you really want to make sure they hit their ceilings! But they'll get early first team minutes at my club, and even the chance to play in Europe. That's good for your national team, isn't it? Yeah, with your organisational skills and my eye for talent, we'll absolutely clean up. It'll be the most efficient scouting operation in the world. Guaranteed."

Things had got a little too bizarre, I reckoned. A guy said, "Couldn't we do it in Wrexham?"

"That's an hour round trip for me. It needs to be close to my house so I can do it with virtually no time commitment. The thing is, we could do a trial project but it would take years to see the results. If you go hard at it, a proper leap of faith, the results will be spectacular. The problem will be telling people how we did it in a way that shuts them up. I normally say I use AI to tell me which players are good. They seem happy to believe that."

"And that's not it?"

"No, it's me. It's my talent. You saw Will Roberts. I found Youngster in a church in Manchester and now he's getting international recognition. You've seen Dani Smith-Smithe? These are top prospects but I have to go out and find them and it's not efficient. It's worth it, obviously, for me and for Chester. The point is, if you bring me thousands of prospects I'll very quickly tell you who's got talent. I can't tell you who won't work hard or who would prefer to run off to Saudi Arabia for a payday. But I can find the ones worth pursuing. True story. Erm, that's the core of my pitch."

One of the older dudes had a deep frown. It was almost as though he'd only just understood how outrageous my idea was. "Sorry, you want us to convince the owner of Saltney Town to hand it over to you, build you a modern pitch that you can rent out and profit from, and we should provide coaches and ship hundreds of players per month to the far north so you can peruse them and pick out the hottest prospects?"

"That's it."

"And in a nutshell, what do we get, exactly?"

"You get access to my skills."

"It doesn't sound like a terribly good trade."

"No, it's completely lopsided. In your favour. The only reason this is an option is because I'm currently poor. That won't last long - I'm going to make Chester triple my salary next season. I'm done being underpaid. Actually my poverty is not the only reason. The TNS monopoly annoys me and I'd like to smash it, though I accept that I'll create a new monopoly. And it'll be my first experience of European football. That'll be fun. And I see crazy synergies between my Chester and my Saltney. It'll be like adding a yin to my yang."

Gwen said, "I'm interested in working together but this particular vision might be unworkable."

"I thought you might say something like that and that's the best part. Get me the club and lend me a coach and do it before January first so I can rebuild the squad. I'll bring players in on a shoestring and your coach will manage them and we'll win the league. That'll be proof that I know what I'm doing, right? That'll prove I can pick players and pick coaches. If I don't win the league I'll hand the keys back, absolutely no prob. But when I win that trophy, and I will, you'll be ready to go with the building work in the summer. Do you know what I mean? There's no time to lose on this. But let's start with the smallest possible thing. Minimum viable product, it's called. It'll cost you almost nothing and it'll cost me a few hours. Oh, and your coach can come to Chester a few days a week, too and he can learn from us. Cultural exchange. We'll show him how we deal with colour blindness and deaf players."

Gwen smiled. "This minimum viable product means handing you a Welsh football club and providing you with a hand-picked coach who, in his spare time, helps your Chester team get promoted to the lucrative EFL?"

I smiled back. "You give me a loss-making football club with zero fans and zero equipment and you give me a coach for six months at a cost of like twenty thousand pounds. Your annual budget is eighteen million, isn't it? Twenty grand is extremely minimum and extremely viable."

"That's... that's really minimal, yes. Would you mind leaving so we can talk about you for a while?"

I got up and pointed, completely guessing because of the windowless room. "There's a castle, right? I love castles. I'll go for a walk."

I set off in the direction of the tourist spot, but I didn't get far. It took the Football Association of Wales no more than ten minutes to make their decision.

***

Selected Results

Men

League: Chester 3, Dorking Wanderers 1

Cheshire Cup: Congleton Town 2, Chester 4

FA Trophy: Solihull Moors 4, Chester 0

Women

League:

Chester Women 3, Blackpool Ladies 0

Crewe Women 1, Chester Women 3

Boys Under Twelves

Friendly:

Chester Tadpoles 11, Winsford Town Saxons 0

***

Saturday, December 7

FA Cup Second Round: Chester vs Yeovil Town

In the First Round we had knocked a bigger team out of the cup, which in addition to our run the previous season cemented our status as giantkillers. We were in pole position to be this year's FA Cup fairytale and everyone at the BBC knew it. Thus they had chosen plucky little Chester to be shown live on TV and the fact that I had turned the FA Cup into one of the biggest stories of the year had nothing to do with it.

I let Sandra do the pre-match media work and for once, focused completely on the football.

We had to win.

The stakes were enormous and there would be no complacency. We had earned forty thousand pounds in prize money by winning in the First Round. We would get another fifty thousand today. That was a big chunk of change - some would go on player parties, some on dentists, and I would finally buy GPS vests for every player at every age group. The Brig would be able to add modern sports science to his fitness work, and every coach would be able to check their players weren't being overworked. Clearly, it would be a big leap forward.

But the biggest prize was getting to the Third Round. The Premier League teams entered in the Third Round, as did the Championship teams. The boys had been drawn away at Chelsea - that would do nicely. An away tie at a big stadium would allow me to instantly buy four incredible players while simultaneously starting work on the training ground. It would add jet fuel to the story and douse the rising flames of the takeover bid.

We had to win.

Yeovil Town are based in Somerset and if that name makes you think of cider, then great minds think alike. They're called the Glovers and they were top of the National League South with an average CA of 57. Basically, they were as good as we had been a year prior and won most of their matches. Their morale was high.

But our numbers had been going up and we reached a few milestones in the weeks before the Yeovil match. Omari, Wes, and Tom, who had played a lot of football for us, had hit CA 40. There was something about the 4 at the start of the number that relaxed me to the same extent that the 3s had been aggravating. Josh and Cole were a few points behind, but that made sense since they were sharing spare left back minutes and Eddie Moore played most games for us. Magnus had eased to CA 57 and was starting to look like a better centre back option than Glenn Ryder. Glenn's Influence seemed valuable, though, and he had more experience and was a better organiser than Magnus. How long would Glenn remain first choice?

I wanted to start solid with my best lineup. My goalie and defence was Ben (CA 60), Eddie (59), Glenn (54), Zach (58), and Carl (67).

Youngster would be the DM. He had shot up to CA 65 after his brief exposure to international football, and this was going to be his last game for a while. He had been called up to join the Ghana squad for the African Cup of Nations under twenties qualifiers! In a few days he would fly out to Togo and if he impressed the coaches there was a chance he would also return to Africa for the AFCON under twenty tournament which would be held in February and March. If the coaches saw how high his ceiling was, the boy I'd found in a church in Wythenshawe would go to the under twenty World Cup which would be held in Chile in the summer of 2025. It was all quite sudden and disruptive. I told the Brig I was ambivalent about the situation - international experience would make Youngster a better player but he would come back tired and would need a break just when I needed him most.

The midfield four was Aff (66), Wisey (52), Magnus (57), and Pascal (68). Henri was the lone striker on CA 66.

Our overall average was 61.1. Fantastic to see the number creep up, but also, still kinda shit; we were only slightly better than Yeovil.

I handed the team sheet in and the referee sighed.

"What's this?"

"That's our team sheet."

"You know what I mean," he said, pointing to one particular spot on the page.

I shrugged and showed him a supplementary piece of paper. He rolled his eyes. "I'm not paid enough for this."

The assistant referees moved closer to see what was happening and burst out laughing at the same time. They gave me looks of undisguised admiration; this would be a story they could dine out on for the rest of their lives.

***

The Glovers had sold their eight hundred tickets and their fans, thrilled to discover beers were a pound off, were making a fair old noise. They had one of those drummer guys. Someone at Chester had decided that the players should enter the pitch through a tunnel of kids waving big flags. I wanted to dismiss it as pointless but somehow it added to the sense of occasion. Gave the day a suitably epic vibe.

There was more pageantry as the players lined up to shake hands and then gathered around the centre circle. We were holding a minute's applause to mark the death of a superfan who had been a volunteer for decades and was well-known in the Chester fandom. The Yeovil lads obviously had no clue who they were applauding, but they did it anyway.

As kick off neared I realised the sense of expectation was getting to me. It started as a sort of pressure behind the nose and spread towards the temples. You sometimes see players get sent off after five seconds and it had always struck me as absurd and unprofessional but now I understood it. I was hyped for this match beyond any sort of reasonable level.

Give me that glory. Give me that money. Give me another chance to blast the FA.

I had used Bench Boost and Triple Captain in the First Round, but I quickly smashed my WibWob hotkeys and used Seal It Up to make sure the away team didn't get off to a fast start we couldn't recover from. I used Cupid's Arrow to link Pascal to Henri. If we could get off to a fast start...

***

The game started out scrappy but after quarter of an hour a few patterns had been set. We had the edge in technical quality and our possession stats were climbing. It was also clear that Youngster and Carl Carlile were having stormers.

I gave us a right-sided tendency and watched Carl rip Yeovil up for a few minutes. I sensed danger, though, and reverted to a more balanced outlook. What had I seen?

"Sandra, see anything on their left?"

She scanned. "Not really. Pretty average winger, isn't he?"

"Yeah," I mused.

Once again, Vimsy's more rustic views proved useful. "They do big diags to the left side, boss."

"Right, right." I mused. Sending Carl forward would help us get a goal, but would create space for Yeovil to pump long balls into. If we kept Carl back we would have less goal threat but would keep more possession. I instructed Carl to stay back. "Vimsy? It's grind o'clock. Fight for every yard. Wear them down."

"Yes, boss." He got into shouting position and barked.

I turned around and saw the ever-increasing numbers of scouts and agents in the main stand. Somewhere, the Welsh FA were watching. Not exactly the best advert for Max Best football, but winning was everything, today, and the performance was secondary. Tertiary, in fact.

The game continued and the next notable event was that Youngster was fouled. He didn't get up fast and I panicked. His big chance to represent his national team and make his family proud! And there he was, mangled and broken. My throat tightened and I had a dizzy spell. The Brig came over and put his hand on my back. "He's fine, sir. He's fine."

I forced myself to look up and sure enough, Youngster's profile was not dripping with red. He had lost seven or eight points of Condition - he probably had a nasty bruise or a twisted ankle or something. "Christ," I said. "Guess I'm not ambivalent after all. I want him on that plane. Get up, you dick!"

Dean sprayed Youngster with the good stuff and after hobbling around for a minute, Youngster found that the pain wasn't that bad.

I checked the match ratings, the morale, the Condition of the players, and found there was no need for me to change anything.

Yeovil had a good defence but we were making them drop deeper. The closer we got to their goal, the greater the distance to ours, the more Magnus and Wisey joined the attacks.

Wise passes to Lyons.

Lyons lays it off to Aff. Aff waits for Eddie Moore.

The pass forces Moore wide and he has to turn back.

Wise rushes across to support the move.

Wise retains possession. He feeds it to Aff.

Aff to Moore. Moore to Wise.

Wise tries the chip.

Aff is behind the defence!

He drives to the touchline and cuts it back.

But that's good defending.

We were well and truly back in the groove, now. It was just like watching us at the end of the last season. We didn't have a huge target man this time, but we had Zach Green keeping the ball moving with speed and purpose, and we had this season's version of Pascal - not so lightweight and smarter than ever.

All that was missing, really, was some proper guile in the middle of the pitch. I contemplated taking Glenn Ryder off and putting WibRob on. Magnus could go to centre back and the kid could do his Dan Badford impression. It was tempting. Too tempting.

"Shall we push?" said Sandra.

"No," I said. "This is fine. Keep it solid for the rest of the half."

***

At half time, the lads went through our decompression routine while I asked Livia to work on Youngster. After a while I went to the tactics board to do my team talk. "All right shut the fuck up. My favourite movie is The Talented Mr. Ripley. It's about two football clubs who go out on a little boat but only one comes back and he gets all the money. See? Thematic. Bosh."

"Is it good?" said Wisey.

"It's half an hour too long, which is why I want us to win in ninety minutes today. Show the director how it's done. But yeah, the acting's great. Pascal, that's not a licence to dive. The point is, that film came out in 1999 but it's only just made it to Somerset." Some laughs. "These guys are good but they're playing last year's football, do you know what I mean? We've evolved since then. We move vertically much faster and we're faster to recover lost balls. It's hard to see but trust me, we're wearing them down. Keep using your speed to hit them before they're set. Youngster? I want you to get forward. Nice and fast, nice and decisive. Get close to Henri and you'll mess up their lines and in the chaos we'll find space to exploit. That's it."

Carl said, "Do you want me to sit?"

"Yeah. The goal is coming - we don't need to force it. You stay and dominate your zone like you're doing. It doesn't look like it but you're winning the match for us."

He nodded, acting all tough and unmoved, but his morale moved up a point.

"William, come here a second." I used my eyebrows to summon Sandra and the three of us fell into a mini huddle. "Will, do you want to play today?"

His eyes lit up. "Yes!"

I nodded. I'm not sure when it had happened but I had done a complete U-turn and instead of hiding him away from the cameras and the scouts I would show him off. Maybe it was the realisation that if I kept him from the limelight he was actually more likely to leave. Maybe it was the thought that preventing him from playing against good teams on big occasions was the opposite of what his development needed. Or maybe I had decided to stop being a big baby. If someone tried to steal him, I'd fight back.

"All right. With twenty to go, I'm going to central midfield. Fifteen to go, you'll join me. I don't want tackles and I don't want you getting involved in physical battles of any kind. The two of us are going to dick them on counters, all right?"

"No tackles."

"Yeah, there's no need. We're going to score and they're going to push forward for an equaliser and there will be space for days. We'll combine with Henri. Two-nil, game's over."

"Or they equalise," said Sandra.

"If they equalise we get extra time and we'll win four-one. It's no biggie. What do you think, mate?"

WibRob looked from Sandra to me and back again. Finally, he said, "Tyson said to remind you you owe us a Nando's."

"Max Best owes you a Nando's," I said, and while Sandra shook her head, WibRob frowned. What did I mean by that?

***

Good patch of pressure from Yeovil. The National League South leaders are knocking on the door.

Huge header from Ryder to clear the danger!

Aff competes for it.

Moore sweeps the ball first time to Lyons.

Lyons takes the ball on the half-turn and plays it forward.

Bochum scampers after it. Chester have a big chance here!

The left back tries to foul Bochum but he keeps his footing.

And he's away!

Chester players are streaming forward. It's a four-on-two break!

Bochum with options...

He chooses the short diagonal pass to Lyons.

The goalie is out. A defender slides to block.

But Lyons runs over the ball!

It's through to Youngster.

The Ghanaian youth international rolls the ball into the empty net.

The Deva stadium erupts!

Henri's dummy was amazing, but so was Youngster's run. He had started in our penalty box and when the ball was cleared, sprinted the entire length of the pitch. Pascal's choice had been a good one, and Aff had also run forward, occupying the second defender.

I hadn't expected to score a counter-attack until I was on the pitch, but Yeovil had taken control of midfield for a five-minute spell after half time. I had wanted to get stuck into the Without Ball screen to see if I couldn't organise some kind of fightback, but with the prospect of extra time I didn't want to overdo the tweaks and make myself tired. To some extent I had to live with the fact that good teams would always have purple patches against us.

I kept things as they were for another ten minutes, then started my warmup.

Yeovil got a grip on midfield again, and James Wise's match rating was slipping. With twenty-six minutes of the half to play, I decided it was time for the big moment.

***

Transcript of the BBC coverage

Robyn (main commentary): Looks like we're going to see our first change.

Chris (co-comms): It's the manager.

Robyn: A buzz of anticipation as player-manager Max Best gets ready to join the action. He's had some choice words for the Football Association in recent times. Somehow I don't think he'll have mellowed in the meantime.

Chris: Wise is off. The eight.

Robyn: That's right. Best takes his tracksuit top off. He's wearing his iconic number 77 shirt.

Chris: [laughs] What the hell?

Robyn: Um...

[We hear the stadium announcer. 'Replacing number eight, James Wise, number seventy-seven, Max Replay.']

Chris: He's changed his name! [Laughs]

Robyn: [Nervous chuckle.] Sorry, what? What's happening? [Pause.] Chester's player-manager is wearing the word replay on his shirt.

Chris: He said there would be a replay in the FA Cup! [laughs more]

Robyn: But he's not allowed. Somehow I don't think this is an FA-approved nickname!

Chris: I don't know. Haha. Normally I'd think his manager wouldn't be very pleased but he's the manager!

Robyn: We will try to bring clarity on this. The team sheet we were given had him listed as Max Best. If he has given the referee the same one, he could land himself and his team in hot water.

Chris: Loads of hot water around here. They've got solar panels!

***

I smirked all the way to the centre circle, and nearly had a fit when the curse commentary picked me up.

A substitution from Chester. It's Max Replay coming on.

That pushed aside any thought that my name change wasn't somehow 'legal', even though I had checked the rules a hundred times. Changing one's name didn't even cost money, these days. You just had to fill in a form! I was, officially, by the laws of the land, Max Replay. And Max Replay wanted to have a stunning debut.

The goalie kicks long. Replay wins the header.

It's recovered by a Yeovil player. He looks to play the ball off but Replay is there with a shoulder-barge.

Replay comes away with the ball.

He twists and prepares a long pass.

No! He dribbles past one defender. And another!

Replay lends the ball to Bochum and powers around the outside.

Bochum with the through ball.

Replay hits it first time with power and spin...

Lyons with a good connection...

But it goes just wide!

The crowd are on their feet. That was sensational football!

I subbed Glenn off, took the armband as I gave him a hug, moved Magnus to centre back, and put WibRob next to me in midfield. I gave him a high ten and reminded him what I wanted. He was in the FA Cup live on TV and wasn't keen to make a fool of himself. He nodded, cheeks flushed with giddy nerves.

It felt cruel, really. Yeovil had to attack because they were going out of the cup anyway. The only slight risk was that Magnus would play shit at centre back.

Evergreen slips. Chance for Yeovil!

But Zach Green is there to help. He stays on his feet and holds up the striker.

Evergreen slides in with a perfect tackle. The ball is cleared.

Chest bumps from the new pairing!

Chester reset. The ball comes back to Cavanagh. He finds Green.

Green has the chance to find Roberts, but chooses Evergreen.

Evergreen passes back to Green.

Yes! Yes, mate! That's it. That's how you fucking defend. That's how you get your mate out of the shit and give him a touch of the ball to help him shake off the drama. I said all this to Zach, calm as you like, and I was surprised when I watched the match back later and it showed me ranting and punching the air.

I was far too pumped just then and it was a shame that I picked up a loose ball shortly after.

Replay surges forward. He plays the ball to Roberts.

Roberts stops it dead, waits, leaves the ball where it is and sprints away.

Replay takes the ball in his stride, chipping it up to ankle height.

He's doing full-sprint kick-ups.

Now he dabs the ball to Roberts and demands the ball back.

Roberts clips it wide to Bochum.

Bochum's first time cross.

Replay is there...

GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

He volleyed it left-footed with extreme violence. It nearly took the goalkeeper's head off!

Replay has surely won this game for the home team.

We celebrated in the Harry McNally end. I lost my mind for a while, so noisy and intense was the atmosphere. Just in time I remembered the cameras were around. I went to find one, turned to show them my name and number and jabbed two thumbs at myself.

I grabbed the sides of the camera, looked down the lens, and said 'Don't mess with the replays!'

Job done, crowd happy, money in the bank, I made our remaining subs (to let everyone get five to ten minutes on TV) and went to the DM slot to shut things down.

***

I sent Sandra to do the post-match interview. My name-changing stunt was enough poking the FA bear for one day.

Back in the dressing room I was in full b-boy mode.

"Guys, shut up a minute." Someone turned the victory music down. "Right. Ninety thousand in prize money. What the actual. Well done." We gave ourselves a round of applause. "Thirty of that's going for our dentist stuff. Zach. Where the fuck's Zach? Right, when's your dad coming?"

"Christmas, boss. Turkey, dinosaurs, the gift of fillings."

"That's all organised, is it? Who's first in line and everything?"

"Yes, boss. Miss Star is all over it."

"Amazing. That's going to be awesome. Loads of happy little smiling faces. Brilliant. Okay, next thing, parties. The party budget got wayyy too high all of a sudden. Holy shit that worries me. Then with the last third of the money we're going to buy loads of GPS vests. The Brig's been working with those university boffins and now we'll be able to actually start giving them data. You'll wear the vests when you train and when you play. Like real boys!" There was something childlike about their reaction to this. The club was going to provide them a pretty basic piece of kit, but they were made up. It was like telling them they'd finally get a smartphone. No longer would they be the only kids in the playground without one! "Last thing. Youngster's off to AFCON. Can you believe it? Youngster, let's hear the speech you've prepared."

He got to his feet. "Sorry, Mr. Best, I did not write one. I was not expecting..."

"That's Mr. Replay to you. Oh, well, never mind. Okay, last last thing."

"I could think of something to say, Mr. Replay."

"Yeah, no, that's fine. Send us a TikTok from Togo. All right, last last thing. The women are home to Darwen tomorrow. They come to support you dudes most home matches and it'd be good to do the same. After, we'll get together in the bar there and watch the draw for the Third Round of the cup. Let's see who we get, yeah?"

"Chelsea away," said WibRob.

"I'd take it," I said. "Okay, see you tomorrow. Now turn that music up! I have to go change my name back."

***

Sunday, December 8

Match 9 of 22: Chester Women vs AFC Darwen Ladies

After the disaster against West, the women had got together to have some kind of off-camera discussion. Words were exchanged. I'm not sure what was said but I assume it was 'ladies, we need to sort this shit out'. Results since had been solid - three-nil, three-one, and we watched another three-nil against Darwen.

There was less showboating, fewer dribbles, and faster passing. It was a bit less Max Best and a lot more Jackie Reaper.

In the bar afterwards I told Dani and Kisi that if they kept playing like that they would win the league.

But watching the women beat one of the weakest teams in the league wasn't my focus. Most of the men's team had turned up because we were hyped by the cup draw. We watched the main televised cup tie of the weekend - Queen's Park Rangers versus Blackpool - and then the moment came.

All the balls were in a velveteen bag. The balls were numbered and the first numbers represented teams in alphabetical order. Thus AFC Bournemouth were number one, Arsenal were number two, and ZZ Top weren't in it but would have been number 64. We didn't follow the numbering convention - too small, maybe. We were thrown in at random near the bottom - number fifty.

The balls were poured through a flap into a sort of bucket. Former England stars David Batty and Les Ferdinand pulled the balls out one at a time and the fixtures started to fill up. The team drawn first would play at home. We wanted, desperately, to be drawn second.

"Number sixteen."

"That's Huddersfield Town. Will play..."

"Number twenty-two."

"Luton Town."

It was unbelievably exciting. There were gasps of relief when our number wasn't called against smaller, less glamorous teams. And then...

"Number twenty-three."

"Manchester City. Will play..."

Time stood still. I had an out-of-body experience. Henri grabbed Glenn Ryder's arm. Sandra turned white.

"Number forty-eight."

"Shrewsbury Town."

We sagged with relief or disappointment - some guys wanted an easy draw so we could progress even further. Financially, that wasn't bad. The bonus for winning in the Third Round was just over one hundred thousand. Others understood that the real prize was the chance to play in a big stadium.

"Number sixty-two."

"Wigan Athletic. Will play..."

No no no! That's not glamorous. That's not enough money.

"Number six."

"Brentford."

"Number eleven."

"Chelsea. Will play..."

Yes yes yes come on!

"Number fifty...one."

"Forest Green Rovers."

Fuck! One of our rivals just got a million pounds. The room was giddy from the crashing, rising hopes and dreams. Who needs alcohol when you've got two men fishing for balls from a plastic bucket?

My head was throbbing. I smiled as Emma gave me a neck massage. I tried to relax but...

"Number forty."

"Tottenham Hotspur."

The noise got huge and my neck muscles turned to solid stone. I'd said it many times - this was the big one. Spurs had one of the biggest, most modern stadiums and charged London prices. This was the juiciest tie. Emma's massage turned into something more like a strangle as she waited for Les Ferdinand to pick a ball. I felt sure his fingers slipped over one that started with a five.

"Number fif...teen."

The groan shook the TV.

"Fulham."

That was doubly bad news. Spurs vs Fulham would be one of the televised matches, for sure. If Chester couldn't get our dream fixture, it would have been good to be shown on TV again.

The balls clicked around as more fixtures were announced. Brighton versus Crystal Palace. Big grudge match. Televised for sure! Manchester United versus Leeds. Titanic!

"Number thirty."

"Plymouth Argyle. Will play..."

"Number fifty."

We cheered, but it wasn't very convincing. Plymouth were a Championship team and they would beat us pretty comfortably nineteen times out of twenty. Their home attendances were around 16,000 a match and there was no way we would be live on TV. Financially, it wasn't stellar. MD had his calculator app going a mile a minute. He estimated we would get 70,000 pounds from the match and when I asked if I could have it for wages he sighed and said yes. I got my own calculator out and reckoned I could pay two and a half thousand pounds a week in wages for my dream loanee. Tasty!

I dived into my mental database, only snapping out of it when I realised Emma was talking to me.

"You pleased with that?" said Emma. "Plymouth?"

"It's a five out of ten draw. Doesn’t help with the Daddy Star sitch."

"It's all teams from the same region. Mousehole, Yeovil, Plymouth. Why can't you have some matches in the north east?" She was about to head back to Newcastle. Our routine was being cut short by the Youth Cup. "You're going down to London tomorrow?"

"Yeah. Chelsea. Probably one of the top three teams in that age group in the world. I'll have to unleash William. Could get messy," I said, feeling my face flush from the stress and excitement.

Emma smiled. She understood how hard it was for me to watch my babies grow up. "What then? What's coming up this week?"

"Not much.” My jaw tightened. “Just a quick chat with a billionaire."