8.8 - Castaway [T1] (Patreon)

[Tier one guys! Amazing news! From now on, you'll be able to read the post-chapter threads on Discord. When a new chapter is released, the tier three guys go absolutely crazy with their theories and ideas and until now there has been no way for you guys to know what was said in there. We are trying a new system where you will be able to read what was said. Join the discord here - https://discord.gg/pUnNwZEkUK and if you're already there, read this chapter and then go check out the discussion! The discussion should come up as a 'thread' under 'The Dressing Room'. If it's too complicated at first, don't give up! Message me or anyone and we'll try to help. It's very friendly in there. Also, those links expire so DM me if it doesn't work and you want to join. Also there's a chapter coming up where I gave them the chapter title early and they went absolutely insane speculating about what was going to happen and yeah, that thread is a LOT but I learned my lesson!]

8.

Football glossary - win now vs project manager. A win now manager is one who desires to win, er, at the present time. You know... now. A project manager is one who builds a team, club, and culture so that there will be success in two or three years.

***

Monday August 5

I was in my office at BoshCard with my hands on my lap all elegant and classy like a sophisticated diplomat. Not that anyone else could see how classy they looked - my desk was in the way. All the others could see was my upper body curving forward like a wave washing debris onto shore.

There was a knock at the open door announcing the arrival of Zach Green. "Boss? I, er, you wanned to see me?"

"Yeah, come in. Close the door."

He did so and wondered which chair to take. His instinct was the one closest to Brooke, but MD took a few smooth paces and got there first. The Brig was over on my left and Vimsy was in his favourite position, leaning against the window with a cup of tea perched on a filing cabinet. 

That left two chairs for Sandra and Zach, and he had enough wits about him to let her choose where to go. She sat to my right, facing the Brig, which was a little bit like her saying she was my right-hand man, but also meant that Zach wasn't completely adrift. He was part of a semicircle. Marooned? No way.

Zach stared at the part of my arm he could see, which told him nothing.

"Right," I said, and had to resist the urge to make some sort of big gesture with my hands. Those bad boys needed to stay where they were - hidden under the surface like those awesome crabs that bury themselves. "Zach, normally when I'm attacked by one of my players I like to let it fester and enjoy hating that guy for a while. I like to really bathe in the emotion, do you know what I mean? Makes me feel alive. I'd love to leave you alone and let you think about what you've done but, er, things have sort of got out of control, haven't they?"

"They have," he said, eyes down.

"I've got a fake social media account where I defend myself from criticism," I said, waiting for a laugh that didn't come. "I like to describe Max Best as a project manager. The gammons hate that phrase. Nothing. Guys? I'm joking. I don't post. I just doomscroll sometimes. Like I said, sometimes I want to feel like a piece of shit and that's what social media is for. So I couldn't help notice that while Chester's fan base kind of lost its mind over the weekend, so did Wrexham's, which made our lot even more manic. Have you seen the hashtags?"

Zach swallowed. "Agent Green."

Behind me, Vimsy made a tiny snorting noise. I smiled. "It is funny. Savage but funny, the best kind of banter."

Brooke stirred. "I saw it but don't get it. Can someone explain it to me?"

I looked at Zach. It was his fucking mess. He pulled at his ear. "The Wrexham fans are saying that I've gone from there to here to sorta, take Chester down from the inside. Like a secret agent. Agent Green."

Brooke did that thing where her face showed no reaction whatsoever and it clearly stung Zach.

And that was the reason we were having this meeting. The issue wasn't just some fan banter - the Chester fans would eventually be won over by Zach's on-pitch performances - but when I woke up the day after the match I was startled to find six players had 'dislikes Zach Green' in their player profiles, and when I'd talked to the Brig about 'the way some of the players had looked at Zach on the team bus', the Brig had sniffed and said he couldn't blame them. He disliked Zach, too! They all did!

I understood it. I was at the heart of everything that happened at Chester and my tireless efforts, hard work, and determination had earned me a lot of loyalty from the people at the top of the org chart and the core of the playing squad. If you wanted to become unpopular, hurting me was the way to do it.

"Zach, I was in this room not all that long ago being accused of something and it wasn't very pleasant for me but one thing that helped was having the question asked right away. In my case it was, Did you sign for Sheffield Wednesday?" Zach looked startled. I smiled and had to resist the urge to show my palm. "Yeah, long story. So now I'm going to ask you. Did you hurt me deliberately?"

He shot to his feet. "No! Hell no!"

I did a weird chuckle thing which I think was because I couldn't express myself using body language. "Sit down, you prick. There are people in this room who can't understand why you'd run at me and rugby tackle me like that. Would you like to explain yourself maybe?"

He cradled his head in his hands in a brief display of torment, but then he sagged like all the life had drained out of him. "I called out. I thought you'd turn and bump me. I couldn't believe it when you just kept on walkin'."

Sandra said, "Max is player-manager. When there's a break he's deep in thought. He's so focused he barely even hears the fans. When I started I was pissed at him for ignoring my ideas but I learned that no, he's really just so deep in his head. It happened half a dozen times that I'd shout ideas and he would come over and say 'what about this?' And it was the same thing I'd been saying."

The Brig said, "When he's in that state, he's vulnerable. It's your job to protect him, not..."

I was monitoring Zach's morale all this time, and it was stuck on abysmal. The conversation seemed like a pile-on but I judged it better to get all the worst parts out of the way before trying to build his confidence up at the end. That said, I couldn't let everyone keep digging into him.

I really wanted to scratch my eyebrow or rub my stubble, but I resisted the urge.

"Zach, we've got a thing here called Chesterness. It's not completely defined but it's all the stuff I want from a team and a club. It's togetherness. It's team spirit and a feeling that however bad you fuck up your mates will have your back and lift you up and we'll all go again, but even better. We don't want castaways; we want redemption arcs. The motto is our city, our club, our community. We take care of our own."

Zach half stood again. "I'll go to the hospitals and the schools!"

Brooke exploded at the poor dolt. She turned to fully face him for the first time and gave him both barrels. "Are you really this stupid? He's talking to us."

Brooke in full flight was magnificent and I almost wished Zach had high morale so I could witness its precipitate plunge. He didn't know what to say so for once he kept his flappy gob shut. Progress!

"Brooke," I said, "in defending me just now did you accidentally go against one of the tenets of Chesterness?"

She went through some internal process and turned back and said, "I apologise, Zach."

I don't think he knew what she was apologising for, but he took it with good grace. His morale improved!

"Another tenet," I said, looking at the Brig, "is that we leave no man behind." He sucked in a breath, his upper lip quivered, and he exhaled. Finally, he nodded at me. I glanced at Vimsy over my shoulder, and then Sandra. "Every player plays every game." Sandra went through a similar process to the others and nodded. "That one's pretty allegorical, Zach." I glanced at MD before addressing Zach. "You've made a mess, mate, but it's our mess, now. We're going - we're all going - to help you clean it up."

"I appreciate that, boss, I do."

"You're one of us, now. And either that has meaning or it doesn't. And if it doesn't I might as well quit. You're talented and this is a place for talented people. If we can't train someone who's driven and motivated then what sort of club are we? And what sort of manager am I? No, mate. We're doing this." I leaned back but then remembered why I was hiding my arms and slid forward. "I've been watching that movie Cast Away. You've got to survive on your own but then you need outside help to get off that island. You get me, right?"

"I hope so."

"Top." I took a proper look at him. He was ready to train but was in a pretty sweet hoodie. Way better than the basketball jerk look. "Why did you decide to join us?"

Zach looked out of the window. "The food," he said, gesturing to where our mobile kitchen was parked.

"Good, is it? Today's my first go."

"Oh, it's fine," he said, then realised it wasn't very diplomatic. "I mean, it's swell. Could be hotter. But I don't mean the food. I mean..." He tried to put his thoughts into words and I wondered why it was so hard. "I liked it here and I liked the ambition. But it was when I saw the solar guys beaverin' away and then the kitchen opened and I was the first customer. It was like, this wasn't here yesterday. When that fella says what he says, he means it."

I nodded. The kitchen had opened on the first of July and our facilities score had increased by the 0.1 points needed to make us a realistic destination for Zach. That was interesting - my stairs theory wasn't quite right. If we opened a new training centre in December our reputation would increase in time for the January transfer window. Good to know. "I thought it might be something like that."

"But it was Pete, too."

"Pete? Who's Pete?"

Zach looked astonished. "He was at the team meeting. Oh, you haven't really met him yet, I guess. Pete's the junior chef. He, er..." He glanced around.

"They know," said Brooke.

"Well, he's been to prison like my buddy back home and I know how hard it is to get a job and keep a job. Say, what?"

I must have pulled some weird face. "What? Oh, I was just surprised. That was new information for me."

Brooke squirmed. "I emailed you the details."

"Brooke, you were in charge of hiring those guys. I don't need to know their CVs. Your emails are way too detailed, by the way. Summarise the main bits in a big font at the top. In England we call it 'the Janet and John bit'. So simple even bosses can understand it."

"I just thought it was what you'd do," she said, striving to explain herself. "He's a Chester fan, got in some hot water with the law, did some diplomas in prison. We get grants for hiring him and I'm helping him apply for a level three diploma. We get him cheap and we train him up. That's a Max Best move, ain't it?"

I thought about making a joke about selling him to Tranmere but it made me vaguely sad.

Brooke once again mistook my expression and continued to defend her decision. "I read a lot about hiring ex-offenders and the social impact is massive. But it's... His girlfriend is pregnant." A new look came over her face - one that was even more unreadable than usual. "Some men try to be good fathers."

Something going on, there. Some loser ex? Brooke had a narrow escape? "Zach, you were saying about Pete."

He stirred. He'd been enjoying listening to Brooke's familiar accent. "Er... just felt good y’all were doing that sort of thing. The football's good, the people are friendly, you're on the level, what's stopping me? I just wish I'd decided earlier so I could go to boot camp."

"Yeah, that would have helped. Someone would have punched you in the gob and you've have reined it in a bit."

"Reined what in?"

I sighed. "I think I'd like to go on a little ramble. See, I do feel sorry for you, Zach. You've grown up in American sports and from what I've seen in documentaries, locker rooms are sixty guys literally screaming at each other non-stop. Chest bumps instead of handshakes, guys butting helmets, and if you're not screaming louder than a jet engine you're considered too soft and you get cut.

"So that's what home looks like but your talent is for a sport where the worldwide centre of gravity is England. If you want to play at a high level for good money you have to come here. I've spent a lot of time in the last couple of days wondering if a hyped-up American is more annoying than a very French guy, and I really can't decide.

"Yeah, the culture must be strange to you and especially so in my world of misfits. I'm trying to create a dressing room where anyone can thrive. We don't have the budget to go and get anyone we want so we have to look at types of players and people who don't fit in everywhere else. 

"Mostly I've been thinking about introverts. Someone like Eddie Moore or Dan Badford. Most managers would think of them as too soft but nothing could be further from the truth. They're fighters. I don't need them to shout and scream and butt heads to see that. I see it when they're on the ball and you'll see it when you're looking for someone to pass to. They always show. They never hide. That's courage.

"I like a quiet dressing room because I want to win games by being better than the opposition. That can mean having better players or a better plan. When it's quiet I can hear what everyone's saying and sometimes they say something interesting about their opponent or what's happening at corners or whatever. Quiet helps me think. If it's just a load of men screaming bullshit at each other, then what's the point of me being there? No, you need to stow that noise. I want a thoughtful dressing room. It's a place to listen.

"But there has to be a place for you in the group. Eleven guys like you would be a nightmare, but eleven Eddie Moores wouldn't work, either. He won't admit it, I'm sure, but when times are tough and someone like you screams "come on fellas!" at the top of your lungs, that's motivational. That's a boost.

"I wanted to let you find your own way and we'd all work through it over time. You heard my big speech. As long as we're good by the end of the season, that's all that matters. But this Agent Green shit is pretty bad so I'm just going to straight up ask you to keep your mouth shut for a week or two. Train hard, play, zip it. What do you think? Is that unreasonable?"

He shook his head. "Given what I did, no. But... I'll play?"

The energetic puppy was back! The guy was irrepressible. His morale rose from very poor to poor. I grinned. "You scored from a corner. The goal was disallowed because you're a maniac and you fouled a guy even though I put the ball right between your eyes." I winced. "Yeah, trying not to dwell on the negatives, Zach mate, but I used to take corners like that all the time and since my coma I've been so inconsistent I've let other guys take them. So to put one on a dime and - Yeah, well. Frustrating. 

"But Vimsy's gonna work with you. If we sort that out we'll go from scoring five corners a season to ten. That's massive for us. It could be decisive. And those passes from defence? Mwah!" I did a chef's kiss motion that no-one saw.

"What are you doing with your hands?" said MD.

"I'm touching myself. It's rude to ask. So Zach, final thoughts. Calm the fuck down. Let this blow over. Our scout was at Grimsby's first match and their best striker didn't play so that's huge for us. They also played the old guard at the back. When we're doing attack versus defence games I want you to play like one of those guys. That means no clever passes to midfield. They don't do that. That said, they have one young lad, Tom Hickman, who plays like you. So Sandra's going to ask you to play your natural game one time so we can get used to that, just in case."

"Yes, boss!" he said, perking up at the thought that he was useful. His morale eased up to okay.

I smiled. I wasn't completely terrible at this! "Okay, go to fucking work, now. Jesus Christ."

"Come on, lad," said Vimsy, pushing himself away from the window.

I rolled my eyes as he left his cup on the cabinet for the millionth time. "No Vimsy. I need you a bit longer. Jude's going to get them started."

"Oh!" My defensive coach went back to his spot.

"Will I close the door?" asked Zach.

"Whatevs, bro. We won't be talking about you in private, if that's what you mean."

"No, I, er... Okay fellas, good talk. Seeyas."

Zach fucked off and with a tremendous sense of relief I pulled my hands out from under the desk and scratched all the bits of my face that had been itchy.

"Oh, I did have one question," said Zach, barreling back into the room.

He took one look at the cast on my left arm and his morale dropped back to abysmal. "Well, shucks," he said, and slumped away.

***

The rest of us took a quick break to get teas and coffees, then got back to business.

"Guys," I said, pointing to the empty chair. "That guy's a million-pound player."

"That guy's a jackass," said Brooke.

Everyone grinned. "I need him. He transforms the team. Dunnee Sandra?"

"He does."

"Done. Vimsy? I think you'll be important. Couple of words in some of the lads' ears at the right time, that sort of thing. I don't want it festering. Okay, next topic."

"Max," said Brooke.

"Yes?"

She pointed at the empty chair. "This Agent Green thing. We could use it."

"How?"

She looked up at the ceiling like she couldn't believe she was able to say what she was about to say. "We dress him up as James Bond and make a joke out of it."

"With you as Vesper Lynd? Flirting on a train in a cocktail dress? I don't know if it would achieve anything but I'd watch it on repeat."

She smiled. "I don't know about flirting with a jackass - I'm no actress and he's no Daniel Craig - but something like that."

I shrugged. "Yeah, cook something up. Why not? Jokes can put out a banter fire. Okay, two quick topics. One's about Grimsby. Their new manager is a 4-4-2 merchant. Old-school. Not quite as dinosaur as Ian Evans, no offence Vimsy, but in that direction. Them grinding out results is pretty unambitious but it might prove to be a smart move by Chris Hale. The fans don't want entertainment; they want to go back to the league. 

"Marcus Wainwright didn't play last Saturday which to me hints at deception and they're saving him for the match against us. But that's how my mind works. These dinosaurs, no offence Vimsy, they don't think like that. They pick their best team week in week out. So if he's injured we'll definitely dick them."

That perked MD up. "Really?"

"Yeah, I think so. This guy, Lee Slade, he's supposed to be a win now manager but he's put all the bad apples back in, eased out some class players, and brought in a couple of guys he likes working with who I happen to know are below the general level of the group. It's hilarious. Forget Agent Green - this Slade guy's the real expert in being the enemy within. 

"I made a mistake. I was thinking we'd be playing against the Grimsby team that I'd set up. You know, the one that was fucking mint. But we're against the team that got itself relegated through stupidity. We have a massive, massive chance to beat them before Slade realises he's fucked up."

"Even without you in the team?"

I locked eyes with Sandra, then got shifty. "We haven't chosen a team yet. We have to see how certain people train. Okay but if we win it'll be in large part because of an epic performance from Sam Topps."

"Oh, no," said Vimsy, showing that he understood the concept of doomshadowing.

I nodded. "Tranmere lost their first match and their manager wants a Topps-type. So we have to decide what we do if we get a good offer."

"What's a good offer?" asked the Brig.

"I mean, no clue. But would you take a hundred K? Eighty?"

"Eighty?" said MD and Sandra at the same time, though with very different intonations. MD would bite my hand off for eighty thousand pounds; Sandra didn't want to go into the season with an even weaker midfield.

"Hmm. I think it might be best not to have this discussion. I'll just tell you what I think. We take anything above sixty." Sandra was about to complain but I held up my cast. "We're a selling club. This is what I wanted. We train players to as high as they can go and sell them for the most we can get. Sam will double his wages, there, and his family will see him on TV and all that stuff. It's a great move for him. 

"And we've spent the summer telling players that we are their pathway. How can we be a pathway if we block great moves? Selling Sam makes us more attractive to players, right? And one thing that stresses me is the idea of Premier League clubs snatching our youth team prospects. We need to be able to say to parents - look! Young players get minutes, get into the team, and get sold. Moving to an academy is a gamble. Staying here is a sure thing. Do you get me? In the long term, keeping our talented kids will pay off a hundred times more than keeping Sam."

Sandra took a frustrated breath. "Yes, Max. I agree. You're right. But we need him."

"We need," I said, carefully, "to anticipate it. Get ahead of it. Can we get his replacement in?"

"Oh," said Vimsy. "Not like last time. Buy first, then sell. Who've you got in mind?"

I'd been spending a lot of time going through my player database looking for Sam replacements. There was a young player with PA 103 who I thought I could get for about a hundred grand. There was a Ryan Jack type making his way down the leagues who would maybe be seventy-five thousand. But whoever I was looking at, my thoughts kept returning to one name.

"James Wise," I said, and Vimsy's face lit up.

"Who's that?" said Sandra.

"He came to us on loan in our relegation season." MD winced at the dreaded word. "He and Sam ran midfields, gave us a platform."

"I'm listening," said Sandra.

"Pure central midfielder. Same kind of profile as Sam. Sam's more intelligent. James is more physical. He'll be thirty this season so he'll be a good counter-balance to all the kids. He's not into vegan hotdogs and that side of what we do but he's very, very professional and I think the lads will learn from him even if he doesn't open up the way Sam did. The fact that he's been here and seen it is a big point in his favour. 

"At the moment we need a bit of togetherness. Bit of cohesion." I waited for more questions, but everyone was thinking about it. Wisey was back at our National League rivals Eastleigh and not playing regularly. "I think we can get him cheap and pay him less than Sam and in six months we'll think that was an incredible deal."

"What's the catch?" said Brooke.

"No catch. Sam's had a year of training with us and playing in a winning team and being pushed and stretched by a couple of megabrains. Wisey can get to the same level but he's not at that level. In a couple of months we might not notice the difference - in a purely tactical sense. But yeah, at first it'll be a noticeable drop. But nothing like the drop to Omari Naysmith. It's a compromise between win now and project."

"Will this be a blockage for the young players?" said the Brig.

"No, it'll help. If Omari is playing every match, none of the others are. We absolutely must recruit an experienced player if there's the slightest chance of losing Sam."

"And if Sam stays?"

"Then we've got another good option. This will help us give the young 'uns minutes. Right, Sandra?"

"Definitely. I'd feel better about using Josh or Tom if we had a proper midfield engine."

We all took another pause. MD spoke next. "Would you like me to start making tentative enquiries?"

"No," I said. "I want him. I want Vimsy to get on the phone to him and have a chat. If Wisey's interested, we'll get stuck in. If we can get him this week he can play against Grimsby."

"Oh, that's hasty," said MD.

"Yeah, but I know him. He's not some rando. I can throw him in; I know exactly what he can do."

MD looked dubious for a second. "How much do you think this will cost?"

I leaned forward, conspiratorial and giddy. "He's not playing much. Eastleigh have midfield options. He's nearly thirty. I reckon we could get him for ten grand!"

MD leaned back with his hands behind his head. "You think we can get 60 for Sam and replace him for 10? And there's little difference in quality?"

"More or less," I said. Leaning back so I could include Vimsy, I said, "We can go up to 700 in wages. I think that's more than he's on now. But let's get moving, right? If we can't get it done, there's other options."

Vimsy pointed to the training pitches. "Should I do it after training, or...?"

I checked the time. "See if you can get hold of him now. He's probably still got his phone on him. Christ, we could get it all wrapped up by lunchtime. All right, Vimsy and MD, you're a team. Go get me a player, please. Sandra, let's talk about training for Grims. Today I want us doing short passes and a 4-1-4-0 low block where the goal is to keep possession. Imagine we have a useless striker who offers nothing."

"I take it you have a plan."

"Yep."

"Why don't you come and tell the lads?"

"Can't be seen in public. There are spies everywhere."

She pointed to my cast. "Hiding that isn't going to change anything."

There was a very important reason why I had to hide the cast and why I'd tried to hide it from Zach. "That reminds me." I held my left arm up and showed it to everyone in the room. "You didn't see this. As far as anyone knows, I'm perfectly healthy. Okay?"

"Max," complained MD.

"I'm serious, mate. There's a reason. A sporting reason. You need to trust me."

He tutted and rolled his eyes but I knew he would do as I wanted.

Sandra said, "If you want Grimsby wasting their time trying to concoct a plan to stop you, they'll do that anyway." I returned her stare. "Whatever you're up to," she added, "it'd be better if you came to training."

"I'll be here," I said, jabbing my right thumb at the window behind me. "Watching. I'll call if I see something I don't like. Can you get that Pete guy to come up here?"

***

Pete knocked and stepped in. He was slim with black hair and a short, wispy beard. On his right arm he had loads of tats, but he had the air of being the guy in your pub quiz team who bought one round more than he had to and knew loads about, like, three arcane topics. He was in a crisp white chef's jacket that stopped at the elbow. It had five sets of ring studs rising up the centre.

"You look smart!" I said. "Did we get you that?"

He patted himself around the midriff. "This? Yes. We're going to get more but with the Chester badge embroidered in."

"Top," I said. "Very top. I'm Max." I offered a first bump.

"I know. I'm Pete."

"Who's your favourite player?"

"You."

"Who's your favourite player?"

He smiled. "It is you. But second... Sam Topps."

Ouch. "Good choice. All right, let's get weird. What were you in for?"

He met the question with no change in his soft, warm demeanour. "Cultivation of cannabis."

I laughed. "Is that it? I thought it'd be kidnapping grandmothers or something."

I was not the first idiot he'd had this conversation with. "I think it doesn't matter what I did, really, as long as I'm trying to set things right."

"Yeah, well, if you want to grow weeds, come to my garden. The bastards love it." I thought about prison. Being locked up. Cast away from the rest of society and left to rot. At least Pete's place had let him learn a trade so he could try for a better life. Some places didn't even let them have books. I wanted to clap my hands to signal that part of the talk was over. "Er... see this?" I waved my cast around. "This is secret. You can't tell anyone about this. Even your girlfriend."

"Oh. Right."

"If you see mad things at training, keep them to yourself."

"What sort of mad things?"

"Like if I play weird music and start dancing around while Sam Topps claps, or if I punch Henri Lyons in the face."

"Isn't he your mate?"

"Yeah. So I wouldn't let anyone else do it, would I?"

He finally broke into a smile. "I'll put what I see in the vault."

"Erm, good. I forgot why I asked you to come up." He didn't know either, so I stared at him for about three seconds. "I need some food. That's it. But I can't go down. I'm in hiding. Can you bring me something up? This isn't your job, by the way. This is a favour."

"No problem! Why are you in hiding, though?"

"I don't want Grimsby to know there's anything wrong with me. As far as they know, I'll play on Saturday."

"They'll know when you're not in the team."

"What if I'm on the bench?"

He looked dubious but looked around and saw my Manager of the Season trophy. "It's a waste of a spot. You've only got five subs."

"The deception could be worth it," I said.

His eyes lingered on my League Two Player of the Month award for January. "I heard you like vegan hotdogs."

"Who doesn't?"

He looked me up and down. "Scrambled egg, avocado on rye bread toast, yoghurt with blueberries and chia seeds. They're good for your recovery."

"Holy shit, is that what we're serving?"

My smile made him smile. "We had a nutritionist tell us what to offer. Brooke organised it all and Trisha's gone all in. She's sending me links to all kinds of research into superfoods. I think we'll get all the joggers and health nuts coming to us when word spreads." I winced at the word joggers, but he didn't notice. "And the office guys love it. Eat like a footballer and all that. They've invited me to their games."

I looked him up and down. "Silky smooth playmaker."

"Talentless hack," he said. "They're dead nice, though. Nice bunch, made us feel welcome. We're buzzing, me and Trisha."

"Any players giving you shit?"

"Some banter."

I went internal so long wondering if I wanted my guys bantering with civilians that I was only dimly aware that Pete was leaving. I called after him. "Do you do tea?"

***

I spent the next hour watching training through the window. A couple of times I called Sandra. Once to ask her to move Sharknado to the left wing for ten minutes, and once to ask her to punch Henri in the face. The French prick was dogging it again.

When training was done, Sandra came back up and we went through Fleur's scouting report. Fleur had watched Grims use a narrow 4-4-2. Pretty cautious and if they were doing that at home, they could go even more defensive away. Fleur commented on how old the team seemed.

"This narrow formation solves some problems but creates others," I told Sandra. "Their left back is fast and dynamic. He's a perfect player, really, but like this he'll find it hard to hurt us going forward. This guy, Otis King, I'll be amazed if he plays against us. I reckon he'll have a mysterious back problem that will keep him out of exactly one match."

"You guys got beef?"

"Something like that," I said. King had a gambling problem and he knew that I knew. He wouldn't want to piss me off. Some other players would, though. "I can't believe he used this guy Caine at right back. He's a gobshite. Simon Green in midfield, Dobson in defence. They're all awful. They'll try to wind me up but they can't hurt us. They're abysmal." 

It didn't sound true as I said it - they would all walk into my team if CA was the only consideration. 

"They'll probably be motivated against us, though. They might actually come ready to play. Alex Evans in midfield is class but his legs have gone. It's a week between matches so he's had some rest but that's a weakness we can target. Windmill is old, too, and so's Williams and Quinn. If they play, I want them running around loads so we can dick them in the last twenty. Marcus Wainwright didn't play in the first game so that's interesting. Without him they're just okay up front. We should be able to absorb pressure if we don't let them get too many set pieces."

Sandra finished making notes. "Got it. We watched some of your Grimsby games last season. You had them set up much different. So what do we do? We're short on craft to break this down."

"Yeah, I don't think they'll lose many matches this season and if they keep Wainwright, they'll win the league like this." I tutted and felt a pang of annoyance. "My principles are we get them where they don't want to go." I showed Sandra a drawing I'd made.

She read out the picture's title with great amusement. "Tiki-taka sharky smasher?"

"There's two components. Grims want to stay narrow so we draw them wide. I'm thinking Pascal right, Sharknado left. That's the kind of pace you can't ignore. They'll have to send their full backs out. Even if Wes is hit and miss with his crosses and shots, they have to react to him otherwise he'll land a couple of lucky punches."

"Yeah."

"And more than that, those guys will tire out the oldsters. Wes has issues but he can sprint again and again. Half this Grimsby team can't. That's a problem for them."

"Okay. What's the tiki-taka?"

Tiki-taka is a Spanish phrase meaning 'to play mind-numbingly tedious short passes'. It has been scientifically proven to be the most boring kind of football imaginable. "This is Zach passing to Youngster about three hundred times through the match. There's no chance Danny Flash is going to sit back and watch. He'll run around like a headless chicken, especially because his family will have made the trip up north."

"How do you know they will?"

I grinned. "Because I'm taking them out to dinner at the Grosvenor."

"Did you set that up deliberately?"

"Course not," I lied. "I happen to like them."

"I heard you've got a spare spot at dinner."

My jaw dropped. Emma had invited her mum and dad to join us. We'd booked the table but her mum couldn't come. We had one spare place, then. Dinner with a sporting legend. And Donnie Wormwood. How on earth had Sandra heard about that? "I plan to invite one of my misfits."

"I'm a woman in a man's world, Max."

"You're the most successful female manager ever."

"So a legendary boxer would want to meet me."

I smiled. "He would. But at the end of the month we're playing Dagenham away and you can meet him then."

"Fair enough!"

"Danny's a good lad but he's very predictable. We can get him running 7 or 8 K in the first half if we're savage enough."

"Oh, we're savage enough," she said, with complete sincerity. "You want us to hammer this in training?"

"Yes. Don't overwork Sharknado, Pascal, or Aff. They'll be doing extra on Saturday."

"Will we play 4-2-4?"

"No. 4-1-4-1."

"How will we score? This is great for a draw but unless Pascal hits a perfect cross to Henri, I don't see us scoring."

"Would you take a draw?"

She hesitated. "Honestly, yes."

I spread my arms, but misjudged the move because of the stupid cast and nearly knocked over a glass of water. "There we go then," I said. "Dull nil-nil. Four points from six, season's off to a flyer."

"Why do I get the feeling there's something you're not telling me?"

Innocence radiated off me. "I really couldn't say. Maybe you should see Dean about that before it gets worse. But you see why I need to hide this injury, right? We want them to be defensive. That's our best chance. Our only chance, maybe."

"I suppose."

"Top bins! I'm glad we agree. Now, I was thinking we could watch Grimsby's first match from start to finish while we eat lunch."

"I've had worse dates."

"Let's get that Pete guy up here, see what's on the menu. Oh, shit. My mouth's watering already!"

***

Wednesday, August 7

Chester are delighted to announce the purchase of James Wise from Eastleigh FC for a fee of £14,000. James, who will turn 30 this season, played a key role in our battle against relegation. He has signed a two-year deal and will wear shirt number 8. Manager Max Best says, "Wisey's professionalism will be a model for our young players to copy and his consistency is a dream for any manager. I think we've nabbed a bargain and expect to see him play the best football of his career."

***

Thursday, August 8

Brooke: I tried to film the Agent Green TikTok with the jackass. The jackass ruined it. Please do not ask me to work with the jackass again.

Me: It was your idea!

Brooke: That's not what the minutes of the meeting will say. When I write them.

Me: What did he do, anyway?

Brooke: Apart from explaining marketing to me and ruining a time lapse by saying 'gee let's get that cloud in the shot!' and moving the camera? Apart from being a jackass?

Me: Send him to a school with 50 tickets to the Grims match. That'll keep him busy.

Brooke: He'd turn them all into Liverpool fans. When it comes to his reputation, he's on his own.

Me: Chesterness?

Brooke: Chesterness has its limits.

***

Friday, August 9

The following article appeared online below a wide, animated advert featuring a smirking Max Best and the slogan 'He's Done WHAT?!'

BUMPER CROWD FOR BUMPERS LANE

A huge crowd is expected for Chester FC's first home match of the season. With 2,200 season tickets having been sold, the visitors, Grimsby Town, selling their entire allocation of 800 tickets, plus individual ticket sales, expectations were for an attendance in the region of 3,500. 

Healthy enough, but that number will be bolstered by the distribution of some 300 tickets to schools. This announcement was made in a rare newsletter sent to Chester FC members. Manager Max Best's hints that he wants young people to come and 'get hooked on football' led to a further surge in ticket applications. It seems Best has one of his madcap schemes up his sleeve and no-one wants to miss out on the action.

Chester staff are working around the clock to satisfy demand.

***

Match 2 of 46: Chester vs Grimsboo Town

I'd prepared as well as I possibly could, and hid my cast from almost the entire world. As far as I could tell, only a few people had seen it and I went to a virtually deserted BoshCard on Saturday morning to have it cut off.

Dean barely spoke to me. He didn't like the deception in the slightest. For once, I didn't mind that he grumbled and scowled and made the room feel unpleasant. He was probably right that I shouldn't have been messing about with my arm just to get three points against the team that sacked me.

He grunted something about getting to the stadium early and left, followed by a little black cloud. I sat on the medical table for a minute, looking at my arm. A week without sun had left it looking weird and pasty. It wouldn't help my deception if it was so obvious. With a smile, I went hunting through Dean's drawers and supply cabinets. I was looking for something I knew we had because I'd signed off the purchase order.

In a drawer marked 'bandages etc' I found what I was looking for. A sturdy Chester-blue arm support thing. It would protect me from some minor bumps and it would stop people noticing that my arms were different colours.

Pulling it on wasn't something I wanted to do myself so I pottered around BoshCard until I found someone working at the weekend. He thought it was funny that I had a big medical team yet was asking a chargeback analyst for help.

I thanked him, flexed my fingers, and went back to the medical room. With the brace on I felt a lot less fragile, and I hopped on the table and closed my eyes. I had one last decision to make.

XP balance: 4,666

The Friendzone perk had done what it said - turned 2 XP a minute from managing friendlies into 3. The six friendlies had been pretty lucrative, then, giving me over fifteen hundred XP. Without the perk I might have binned a couple of them off and gone scouting, probably for 1 XP a minute. The imps were earning their corn, the brats.

Now that I was managing in the fifth tier, a basic 90 minute game would be worth 540 XP. The problem was that if I stepped onto the pitch that number would be drastically reduced. This injury was a reminder that not only couldn't I do everything myself, I didn't want to do everything myself.

When it came to quality, I was on a desert island. Pascal and Youngster were swimming towards me as fast as they could. Henri was on an air mattress holding a shiny metal sheet under his face. Sharknado was going super fast in a huge zigzag that brought him little closer. Zach was on a fast dinghy but had decided to replace the engine with sticks of dynamite that he was tossing into the water behind him to make himself go 'real fast'. Then loads of Exit Trials kids were in water wings splashing around having a lovely old time.

Yeah, I was going to have to carry the team for a while.

So the decision now was about whether to buy Finances or not. It would show me how much other teams were spending on players. In a way it was essential information, but then again, knowing Grimsby's numbers wouldn't help me. It wouldn't make my numbers go up. It'd probably just depress me.

If I was going to buy it, I needed to buy it before 3 p.m. so I would see Grimsby's data. If I bought it, I'd be set back even more in my quest to buy WibWob, and there hadn't been a monthly perk so far in August. I imagined it would drop soon after I bought Finances. Keep me grinding, that was the plan.

Finances would cost four matches of pure managing. If I stuck to the dugout for four matches, Dean would be happy and whatever damage had been done to my arm would have healed. Yeah, four matches. Two weeks. I did want the perk.

I checked the perk shop again. WibWob was top of my list but it was so expensive I would need a good month of grinding to save up for it. That would be easier when the season had settled down. Finances was 2,000 XP. Contracts 3 was 1,300 but I could live without it until January. Attributes 6 caught my eye. It was 2,050 XP.

With my current stash I could afford Finances and Attributes 6. If I bought them I'd be nearly broke, but wouldn't that mean the imps would price the monthly perk lower? It had to be affordable otherwise I wouldn't even try to get it.

What was more useful, WibWob or Attributes? It seemed that WibWob would give me greater control over the tactics screen. The possibilities were simply delicious. But Lee Slade, Grimsby's new manager, was using a narrow 4-4-2. I wasn't exactly competing with Pep Guardiola, was I?

Meanwhile, the player profiles were terribly incomplete. I was like a castaway on a beach full of boxes. Why hadn't I opened the boxes yet? They could contain things I needed!

I sat up and bought Finances. Boom. Then I bought Attributes 6.

The curse began its special animation. A player profile screen popped up and a yellow rectangle bounced around the thirteen empty cells. It went fast, fast, and slowed, seeming to come to a stop near the top of the middle column, but just like on a good Wheel of Fortune it clicked through one last time to the next one, the one between Heading and Jumping. I could have guessed what that would be, and I would have been right.

Influence.

I hungrily skipped through every player in the Chester squads. Glenn Ryder had Influence 18. Sam Topps was 15. Eddie Moore was 3. Yes, yes, yes. William Roberts surprised me by having 13. That seemed high. So did Zach's score. At 12 he had higher Influence than Steve Alton and Aff. What it all told me was that I didn't have a really great backup option to Glenn when it came to the captaincy. Not until Ryan Jack returned from injury, anyway. 

It didn't surprise me too much - the squad was full of misfits. If they were dominant personalities they would have still been at their previous clubs.

I longed to see Christian Fierce's score, and with a smile realised I wouldn't have long to wait. I'd see him on Tuesday night!

On the women's side I saw that two of the new signings, Femi (18) and Scottie Love (17), had a higher Influence score than Charlotte (14), but that Bonnie led the way on 19. Having two centre backs and a goalie who could all easily be the captain seemed awesome to me. It felt like that trio would drag the team through some sticky times.

Or did the curse only care about the captain's Influence? Did it even matter for anyone else? I'd have to keep an eye out to see if teams with multiple captain types did better than teams with only one leader.

I flopped off the table onto my feet and remembered to check the cost of the next Attributes perk. Attributes 7 was available for 2,950.

Inflation, man. The silent killer.

***

I eased the Duchess into the parking spot labelled BEST and hustled through into the bowels of the Deva avoiding eye contact and - importantly - handshakes. I filled in the team sheet - naming myself as a sub - got changed to sell the illusion that I might take part, then went out to haunt the dugout until kick off.

With plenty of time before the match got underway, I let my mind wander.

Our average morale had dipped even though we'd signed James Wise. Normally, signing a player gave a little boost to morale, but that boost was more than offset by the Zach incident and a general weakening in morale that was hard to pinpoint.

Our week of training had been pretty shit. I wanted to believe it was because I'd set up sessions aimed at beating Grimsby instead of the usual mix of skills work, but I wasn't completely convinced. A handful of guys had increased by a single point of CA and Sharknado had added two points. But, yeah, overall it was pretty grim. Was it possible the facilities weren't as good as I thought? Was our tier 6 soft cap still in place? It didn't bear thinking about, so I tried not to.

In order to do my Tiki Taka Sharky Smasher concept, I had named a CA 48.8 starting eleven. Absolutely shocking, to be fair, but I was hoping that I'd be using my CA way more efficiently than Lee Slade.

What could be more efficient than my favourite 4-1-4-1? The goalie and defence was all right - Ben, Eddie, Glenn, Zach, and Carl. Zach was needed to play tiki taka with Youngster and as a show of faith. A message to the fans - I like him, he's one of us, back off. Then on the wings we had Sharknado and Pascal - surely the fastest combination in the National League (except me and Wes). 

In the centre of midfield we had James Wise (CA 41, PA 60, morale superb) who was a lot more willing to hear my jokes about vegan hotdogs this time around. He couldn't believe I wanted him back and he was desperate to impress. That wasn't wishful thinking on my behalf - the curse straight up told me. 'Keen to impress his new manager' it said on his profile, alongside 'happy to be at a successful club' and 'thinks Youngster is a talented player'. I'd partnered him not with Sam Topps but with Magnus. Henri was on his own up front.

The stands were filling in nicely, now. There were normally big patches of empty space around the stadium but if everyone who bought a ticket turned up, it'd look pretty full, and we had gifted several hundred tickets to schoolkids. My dream was that parts of the stadium would get really cramped. MD had complained about letting in so many for free, citing stewarding costs and delays in serving half time beers and pies but I put my foot down. Any first-timers in today were going to see an epic. Football crowds were getting older. We needed to attract the younger generation. Get them addicted.

On the bench I had Rainman, Sam, Aff, myself, and Ziggy. No defenders, but that's what Magnus was for. He was a tactical Swiss army knife.

Grimsby's team was locked in and it was almost what I'd expected. Seeing the squad used so inexpertly was kind of crazy. His 4-4-2 was decent but Slade had quite a few talented players he was underrating, like Windmill and Quinn, and there was still no place, even on the bench, for poor Tom Hickman. Instead of learning the game he would spend yet another season rotting away.

Lee Slade had brought in a new centre back and a striker, both of whom were decent National League players, so he'd done okay there. The striker, Youngs, was CA 68 and would partner Danny Flash, 62.

The elderly Alex Evans was in the heart of midfield, so we would look to wear him out, and he would get limited but motivated support from Simon Green, the guy I'd dumped out of the team bus at a petrol station in London.

The right back would be Caine, CA 62, who was the second guy I'd humiliated in my time on the east coast. Mike Dobson was the captain, astonishingly. His Influence, I could now see, was 14, so it was not bonkers that you'd think of him as being captain material. But you couldn't have a captain who wasn't loyal! His profile now read, 'thinks he is too good for the club' followed by 'wants to leave the club as soon as possible'. Dobson was the kind of captain who provokes a mutiny and gets dumped on a desert island. Why was I the only one who could see that?

Meanwhile, everywhere you looked there was civil war. Multiple players disliked Caine, Si Green, and Mike Dobson. A couple disliked Danny Flash, which might have been my fault for the incident where I'd dragged him off the pitch. Two guys even disliked Conor Quinn, who was a great human being.

Their average morale was 3.3, but their average CA was 72.9. Scary, but it could have been over 80; Marcus Wainwright was injured. Like, actually injured. It was not a scam and his would be one of the most consequential injuries of the entire season.

There was, as I'd predicted, no Otis King.

I got out of the dugout to check the main stand for agents and scouts. I didn't see any sign of Chris Hale or Candy but Tranmere had sent a guy. You know what I wanted? A perk that told me which players the scouts were watching. That would be all kinds of useful. Get on it, imps!

***

Because I'd been hiding in the dugout in my shades and baseball cap, no-one bothered me until shortly before the match when Danny Flash came to check if the rando was me. I didn't acknowledge him - I'd see him at dinner - and the Brig shepherded him away.

"We good?" I asked Sandra. She had basically been running the team the whole week. Maybe I should have invited her to the slap-up dinner with the famous old boxers. I hadn't come across anyone more deserving but something was making me keep my options open.

"Peachy," she said. She paused before adding, "God, I'm nervous."

"Why?"

"Just, I don't know. Got a bad feeling about it." She bit her nails for a while.

"Grimsby are shit and we're about to send them into a tailspin," I said.

"Yeah," she said, with zero belief. "Yeah!" she said, pumping herself up. The effect lasted about five seconds, and then she got to nibbling on herself again. The Grimsby fans launched into a chorus of Oh When the Town Go Steaming In which was met by a rip-roaring rendition of Chester, Chester from the sizable home contingent. The away fans had brought a drummer so some home guys slapped on the metal sides of the stands to beat out their own tunes. The hairs on my neck rose. Sandra felt it, too. "Oh, listen to that! It's mint, this is. Is it gonna be like this all season?"

"Not sure every team will bring 800 but there'll be plenty of good days. We just need to make sure they've got something to sing about, right?"

With that I got to my feet, took off my disguise, and paraded around my technical area. The main stand went nuts and launched into Max Best's Blue and White Army. I stuck my tongue out, almost literally lapping it up, and closed my eyes and imagined I was Crackers. I'd promised the blind former board member that the atmosphere would blow his socks off, and here it was.

The anticipation was off the scale. After what we'd done last season the fans thought we could play anyone, beat anyone, and now, outsing anyone.

***

Extract from Seals Live

Boggy: Kick off is imminent here at the Deva Stadium. Soon to be renamed if the rumours are true.

Spectrum: What's that? Renamed?

Boggy: It's what I've heard.

Spectrum: Oh. Well, a rose by any other name would sound as sweet.

Boggy: There's a lot of interest in the Chester lineup. It's very familiar but with three faces that will be unknown to most Chester fans. Wes Hayward, the lightning fast winger.

Spectrum: Sharknado.

Boggy: I'm not calling him that. There's the surprising return to the club of James Wise, last seen on these shores two years ago. He's straight back in the lineup. And, er, Zach Green, the, er, exuberant American defender signed from, er, Wrexham. Lots of memes and gifs doing the rounds this week. I'm frankly staggered he's starting today.

Spectrum: He's a League Two player and Grimsby are a League Two team. I think Max was expecting Marcus Wainwright to play. He talks about Wainwright quite a lot. We're lucky he's injured.

Boggy: And we're off! The first home game and it's a cracker. Competing drumbeats from both sets of fans. Early possession for Chester. They're knocking the ball around very confidently. Youngster linking defence to midfield. If Chester are a band, he's the drummer. It's a very familiar 4-1-4-1, although now that I say that, we played half of last season as 4-4-2. Why have we gone back to this one, Spectrum?

Spectrum: The switch to 4-4-2 was to accommodate Chris Beaumont and to smash through low blocks. Grimsby are set up cautiously here but it's by no means a low block. Max has told me he doesn't expect to face many low blocks this season.

Boggy: And why would that be?

Spectrum: The teams are better and there are more teams with ambition.

Boggy: Grimsby have formed themselves into a sort of Roman tortoise that slides left and right depending on where the ball is. They're leaving big gaps on the sides of the pitch. Is that normal?

Spectrum: The idea is that they can slide across in the time it takes us to work the ball that way. But it's interesting that Max is starting with Sharknado. He's so fast I'd have used him as an impact sub for late in the game when Grimsby are tired. I heard a lot of discussion this week about how old the Grimsby team is. Our starting lineup has an average age of 25, and that's one of the older Chester teams you'll see this season, I think.

Boggy: Did you work out Grimsby's?

Spectrum: It's more like 29.

Boggy: That's fascinating. More fascinating than the match, if I'm being honest. Lots of short passes happening.

Spectrum: It's a ploy. We don't do this, normally. It must be planned.

Boggy: Question from the chat. Where's Max? Well, he's in the dugout. He's on the bench wearing one of those arm brace things. Any news about that?

Spectrum: No. Er, I haven't seen him this week.

Boggy: Is that unusual?

Spectrum: No. Especially now. The kids are still on summer holidays.

Boggy: Hmm. Oh, the chat's humming like a wasp's nest. Lots of people saying Zach Green injured Max and he's pretending nothing happened because he's given a big contract to this quote oaf unquote and if we lose this game because we didn't have the right subs it's another win for Agent Green.

Spectrum: Come on.

Boggy: Oh, here we go! Eddie Moore breaks the cycle of passes and goes on a little run. He knocks it to James Wise. He finds Evergreen. He goes right to Bochum. The ball's fizzed back and Grimsby slide along with it. There's some space for Hayward, now. Wes Hayward... oh, I say! [The fans roar.] He's gone. He's bolted down the line. The Sharknado in full flight! He's to the byline already. Turns back onto his right foot but the cross is blocked. [Huge applause.] That was something else.

Spectrum: Wow. Listen to it.

Boggy: It's almost a standing ovation! The fans loved that. I tell you who didn't love it. Grimsby's right back, Caine Amadi-Spokes. He's getting an earful from his captain. Hayward left him for dead!

Spectrum: I think that's the tactic. Lots of passes, wearing down the opposition, then these rapier thrusts. Drum drum drum smash!

Boggy: Grimsby, it seems to me, have been preparing for a totally different match.

Spectrum: This is Chester. You can bring a drummer but Max calls the tune.

***

A quarter of an hour in and we were bossing the game. Grimsby's flying turtle - good name for a comedy show - was trundling around, reacting to what we were doing. Once a minute either Wes and Pascal would surge down the side of the pitch dragging two or three Mariners with them. Then we would scrap to recover the ball and pass it around for a while. It was working exactly as intended.

I felt sorry for Wes. His first explosion of pace had rocked the stadium. Thousands of people gasped and shot to their feet. But he'd gone four times and produced zero crosses. The fans were already losing faith in him. I hadn't intended to give him a start so soon, but he had to suffer today. For the team.

Pascal, though, was dangerous and linking well with Carl behind him, Magnus in the centre, and Henri up front. He wasn't really threatening Grimsby but was giving them a lot to think about. They were having to track and stick to their shape and concentrate and I had little doubt they would tire in the second half.

"A lot of money on that pitch producing a whole load of nothing," said Sandra. She was referring to Grimsby, of course, since despite our limited budget we were actually doing something when we had the ball.

I found myself shaking my head again, thinking about what I'd seen in Grimsby's Finances screen. It wasn't available mid-match, since I couldn't leave the match screens until it was over. But the numbers were clear. I had a budget, you remember, of 22,000 a week for the men's first team squad, and I'd only actually committed us to slightly over 20. Our highest paid player was the Zachass - I mean, Zach - on two gees. Today's starting eleven had a total wage of just under 9,000.

Grimsby's numbers were startling. Some players had taken pay cuts because of their relegation but the first eleven were on just under 20,000 a week. The wages for the entire football staff were 71,000 a week. This club was paying its failing players and coaches 3.7 million a year in salaries! They were numbers I could only dream of.

And here we were, dictating play. "We need a gun," I said.

"Sir?" said the Brig, turning to check the stands behind me.

"A gun player. If we had..." I didn't want to finish the sentence. If we had WibRob... "Henri's so isolated when it's like this. He's stinking the place out but we're not supporting him much."

"Our full backs can't attack. Grimsby are too dangerous. If we can't do slaps the formation looks toothless."

"I wonder how your 4-2-3-1 would go."

"It would rock your world."

"It'd stop Henri doing his Tom Hanks on a desert island impression."

Sandra pointed. "That's more like Tom Hanks in The Polar Express. It looks like Henri and sounds like Henri. But it ain't Henri."

I glared at my star striker. Thousand quid a week I was paying him. "Tom Hanks did a movie called The Money Pit."

Sandra chuckled. "Okay. You win."

***

Over the course of the first twenty-five minutes, Grimsby's drummer got less and less audible. We'd shut the away fans up almost completely, but we weren't exactly peppering Grimsby's goal with shots and our own fans, while enjoying the spectacle, had become quieter, too.

There were good moments. Zach outmuscled Danny Flash in a challenge and dashed away with the ball, which earned a round of applause - his morale jumped two levels. Carl Carlile burst forward, exchanged passes with Pascal, and fired low in the direction of Henri. Henri was slow to react so the chance came to nothing, but Carl got applause all the way back to his zone. And James Wise won plaudits for a two-tackles-in-five-seconds sequence.

Yeah, things were going very smoothly until the Grimsby dugout suddenly became very animated. I leaned forward and watched Neo, their data analyst who had survived whatever job cull had taken place, show something to Lee Slade. Slade looked around the pitch and nodded. He walked off, came back, and started making changes.

The hairs on my neck rose.

I had the absolute certainty that Neo had shown Slade an expected threat chart that showed that for all our pretty passing and lightning thrusts, there was very little chance of us scoring. Slade reacted by abandoning the narrow 4-4-2 concept. His players spread out. I pointed it out to Sandra and we watched as my plans unravelled.

Jayden Ward was suddenly slaughtering us on our right. Sandra agreed that Pascal should take a more defensive role for the time being while we worked it out. But the same was happening on our left, where Danny Grant was getting on the ball with regularity - and with acres of space. Defending deep on both wings was stupid, but it was all we could do.

We got pushed back and the drums grew louder. And louder. And suddenly we were being trounced.

***

Boggy: Cross from Grant - Danny Flash so close! He nearly got his head on that. But the danger's not clear. The ball's rolled all the way out to the side. Fasanmade collects. He probes. Nothing doing. He cuts it back. First time in from Ward. It's Youngs! Saved by Cavanagh! He tipped it over the bar. Corner to Grimsby. Their big defenders are coming up. We know Mike Dobson would love to score against a Max Best team. He trundles forward. Er... Bochum and Hayward have gone to the centre circle.

Spectrum: Counters.

Boggy: The two fastest players on the pitch will be against one defender if we can get this ball! No, Grimsby send two players back. Three. It's confused. The corner comes in - cleared by Zach Green! [Big applause.] Big header from Green. But that was all down to Best - we haven't seen that move from him for a while and Grimsby panicked. But that'll only work once, won't it?

Spectrum: Their coaches will be telling the players what to do next time.

Boggy: Eddie Moore won a throw-in after the clearance and he's taking his time over the restart. Chester hoping to catch their breath, here. We didn't see a lot of that sort of thing last season.

Spectrum: I'm afraid it will be like this. The standard's higher. Teams are better. And we've seen a tactical change that has knocked us off our stride. It won't be a one-way street.

Boggy: You know, considering last season was a one-way street, as you put it, it was bloody stressful! I can't imagine what a two-way street is going to be like.

Spectrum: In Max we trust. What's he doing now?

Boggy: An unusually animated Max is on the touchline waving at someone. Who, I wonder?

***

I flipped Youngster and Magnus around. First, because Magnus would win more headers, and second, because I wanted to try something to disrupt Grimsby's flow. Ideally I would have got Youngster to man-mark Alex Evans, but there was a gulf in class between them and anyway, it was in my interest for Evans to be more involved in the match. The point was to tire him out, right?

So I asked Youngster to get tight to Simon Green and stay there. Green was a combustible, self-important idiot and I thought that suffocating him in this way could lead to interesting effects - and I was right.

We stemmed the tide of attacks to an extent. Green had been taking some passes from his defenders and now that option was more or less off the table. It wasn't catastrophic by any means but it gave them something to think about. The easiest option for a defender was to hit a hit pass towards Youngs, but we had three big guys back who could win headers. We still had a big problem with Alex Evans combining with Danny Grant - eventually they would make something happen.

But first...

***

Boggy: Things have settled down, I'm pleased to report. Not that we look comfortable, exactly, but we're looking more solid. Lyons is something of a passenger right now. The Grimsby drummer is back and those fans are singing their hearts out. They like what they're seeing from their team.

Spectrum: I'm sorry to say that if they had an elite striker they'd be out of sight by now.

Boggy: I tend to agree but we're competing, at least. We're fighting. I'm a simple man, Spectrum. I like to see a bit of fight.

Spectrum: Green is playing well.

Boggy: I recently learned there's such a thing as too much fight. But yes, he's playing well. Now, there's some argy-bargy in the midfield. It seems to be Simon Green, the hothead - huh! Is he perhaps some relation to Zach? Simon Green in a running battle against Youngster. And there they go again! Oh! [Outraged howls from the home fans.] Green - It looked like Green lashed out at Youngster! [Off! Off! Off!] 

The home fans are baying for blood. The ones closest are on their feet, furious, gesticulating. Waving imaginary red cards at the referee. The man in question is busy calming down the players. Emotions running high out there. Here comes a card... [Boo!] It's yellow. Yellow card for Simon Green. [Absolute fury.] And one for Youngster! The home fans are not happy. What did he do? The referee is making it up.

Spectrum: That's poor. Green threw an arm at Youngster. Clear red card, the ref bottles it.

***

I let Sandra and Vimsy scream at the ref for a while, then told them to take a timeout. Youngster being carded was pretty pathetic, but there was no point antagonising the ref. How did that help us win? The home fans were back up, though. It was a good time to take advantage.

An early change from Chester. Youngster will leave the pitch, to be replaced by Sam Topps.

"Max, are you sure about this?"

"Yeah."

Sandra looked up and counted to five. "Could you explain it for us mere mortals?"

I smiled, got up, and put my arm around her shoulder. "I was going to take Wisey off at half time, but that yellow card changed my mind. The ref might accidentally send our dude off for no reason and cost us the match. Magnus is a good DM and gives us height. Sam can play CM with his old mate. It's, like, romantic."

"Is it?"

"It's Sweepers in Seattle. You've Got Male Bonding. Anyway, Sam's much better at winding players up than Youngster. Let's see Simon Green throw a punch at Sam." I laughed for a while. "He won't, though. He's a coward. Shame. I'd love to escort him off the pitch."

"Don't go on the pitch, Max."

"Okay."

"It's an automatic yellow card these days."

"Okay." After a while, I said, "I'm starting to like the idea of Magnus and Youngster as twin DMs. One for interceptions, one for physicality and headers. Your 4-2-3-1 is looking better all the time."

Sandra beamed.

***

After a bright start, Sharknado's match rating dropped. After forty minutes he was on 5 out of 10, and we had a few on 6. Sam was already on 8 and looking a class above Simon Green.

Grimsby had started poorly and got better, and now had multiple guys on 8: Jayden Ward, Alex Evans, Danny Grant, and the new centre back, who wasn't giving Henri a kick. Since Lee Slade's change, we had been riding our luck.

Our luck threw us off its back.

***

Boggy: Jayden Ward jinks past Bochum and drives on. Fasanmade is running in support. He - did he run into Carl Carlile? Ref says play on! Ward is free! He's in acres of space. Zach Green sprints to cover. Ryder marking two men. Evergreen needs to drop! Ward cocks his leg, low cross, oh! [Roar.] 

Disaster! Absolute disaster. Zach Green has slid to intercept the cross but turned the ball into his own net. Cavanagh was completely wrong-footed; he had no chance. Green looks up in disbelief and slaps the turf. He looks like he wants the earth to swallow him and - well. Grimsby ahead and, to be fair, it's deserved. Their fans are absolutely bouncing. Three-quarters of the stadium falls silent.

Spectrum: Green had to go for the ball. Grimsby suddenly had numbers in the box. If Green cuts that cross out, he's saved a goal. It was huge danger from the moment Ward beat Pascal. And I need to see a replay but I think their left midfielder deliberately ran into Carl to take him out of the game.

Boggy: Chester with no shots on target in the first half. Now losing to an own goal. There have been patches of good play but...

Spectrum: Yeah.

Boggy: And I'll say it because many in the chat are saying it. Max giving himself a spot on the bench to confuse Grimsby hasn't worked and now any red card or defensive injury leaves us with a big problem. Only Ziggy or Aff are left available. Aff can play left back, I suppose.

Spectrum: I think Wes Hayward won't survive half time.

Boggy: Ah. We're not calling him the other thing any more. I think I understand how it goes.

***

I went down the tunnel early, with the Brig protecting me from anyone who might dare assault me or worse - shake my hand.

The whistle blew thirty seconds later - my early exit had cost me three XP! - and soon enough my players came stomping in. The mood was pretty flat. That happens when you've been outplayed.

I let them decompress, as always, and kept an eye on Grimsby's tactics. Lee Slade seemed pretty content with them, rightly so, and left them as they were.

What about me, though? I was getting seriously pissed with Henri. Seeing him happy was not working for me. This wasn't the kind of happiness I imagined for him. I hadn't pegged him as the type of guy who gets a girlfriend and vanishes and gives up his former life. Was he seriously losing interest in football? Would Luisa want that for him?

I stared at a spot on the floor. He'd trained poorly for what, a month? Was that enough time to bin him off? How could I bin him off when he was by far my best striker? I could take his wages, add them to my reserves, and get someone good in on loan. And what sort of manager would I be then? A win now manager disguised as a project manager?

Grimsby's squad was in a state of civil war. You had to imagine things would get worse there, or simply fail to improve. They would win a lot of matches but a CA 75 team with four traitors and five players who hated six others was going to drop points. My shitty CA 55 squad, unified, motivated, would not only improve faster but could even pick up points. To get there, I'd have to resolve Henri's situation, do something about Pascal, and stop people hating on Zach.

The thought that I would have to work harder than ever seemed unfair and dispiriting and, yeah, irritated me. I got to my feet. "Shut up," I said. I scanned the room. Our CA wasn't higher than last season but our PA was, massively. Seemed like the higher the PA, the more these pricks wanted to be treated like dainty racehorses. Ooh the ground is too squishy I can't run. 

"Listen up. This is the National League. You're here to suffer. Every team fights like the devil for every throw-in, header, tackle, and corner. Every single incident is a matter of life and death." Sam Topps' back was suddenly straight. He loved it when I talked like this. His attention gave me pause, but I saw Henri was on his phone - no doubt carefully counting out how many heart emojis he wanted to send - and the feeling came back. "No phones in the dressing room." 

One by one, people turned to stare at Henri until he finally blinked, looked around, pressed send, and slipped his phone into his bag. It pinged immediately and he reached in to grab it. He just about had the sense to let it wait. No dinner invite for him! 

"My favourite movie is Cast Away with Tom Hanks."

"Oh, excellent," said Youngster, apparently unaffected by being subbed off early.

"It's about a man whose only friend is a ball. He loves the ball. He wants to keep the ball. He doesn't want to let Grimsby get the ball."

"Is that the Director's Cut?" asked Sam.

"No, the normal one. It's got Owen Wilson in. Put your hand down, Youngster. Guys, seriously, you need to get that ball and play those short passes. You've got to work harder to show for each other. No man is an island. The dream is to have two options every time you've got the ball but there are times we don't even have one. You're not supporting each other enough. Right, one change for the second half; we'll bring Aff on for Henri."

"Excuse me?" said Henri.

"Aff now?" said Sandra. We'd talked about making this switch but later in the game. The truth was I was so pissed I didn't want Henri to get a round of applause as he left the pitch. This way there would be a quick announcement we'd made the sub. No applause. No time in the limelight.

"Who will go up front?" asked Vimsy, who couldn't understand a system that didn't include at least one striker.

"Aff left, Sharkado right, Pascal up top. Bosh."

"Pardon me, Max," said Henri. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You want to win this game, no? I believe you mentioned that."

"Yeah but you've obviously put so much into training you don't have the energy to get around the pitch."

There were some laughs in the room - mostly good humoured, but one that was bitter and nasty. Henri stood, trying to be magnificent, but I turned away. You can't be magnificent if you're dogging it in training. That's a rule.

"I want a left bias," I said, indicating the tactics board. 

I slid three midfield magnets slightly to the left. I couldn't really enforce these tweaks using the curse interface - not yet - but sometimes telling guys what I wanted paid off during the fluid, unpredictable chaos of a match. 

"All roads lead to Aff. We'll build on the left and try to slap. If we can't get through, keep switching to the right and Wes - you keep going. I know it's tough out there but every time you sprint you're making six of their guys sprint, too. It's going to pay off, I promise. When we turn it around in the last fifteen, it'll be because you softened them up. Keep going, all right?"

"Come on, Wes," shouted Glenn Ryder, and Wes reacted. Morale boost and a straighter spine.

I got the first little goosebump.

"Zach. It hasn't gone to plan because they came at us more than I expected. That's on me. But I want you to keep going. I love what you're doing, mate, and keep hitting those passes to Magnus. Tiki Taka isn't dead. Magnus is in space all the time and Alex Evans isn't going to start fucking gegenpressing. Magnus, if you can move to Alex's side and try to force him to cover you, you get a TINO."

"A what?"

"Do you understand what I just said, yes or no?"

"Yes, boss. Tire him out."

"And Tiki Taka with Zach."

"Tiki Zacha," said Youngster.

"That's terrible," I said. "I love it. Tiki Zacha."

"Yes, lads!" cried Sam, and Zach's morale got a little uplift.

"Carl," I said. "They dicked you on that move. I kind of love it, actually. Vimsy, you saw it, right? I don't mind us adding that one to our repertoire. But Carl, Jayden Ward is maybe the best player you've ever been up against. If Ward's coming, try to hand thingy off to Wes and you make sure you get on him. You get me? Don't dive in, keep on your toes, if you have to take a risk and let thingy go, let him go. Ward is twenty times more dangerous."

"I'll try, boss."

"All right, that's mostly it. We're not far off. And listen, they will fucking implode at the first chance and their fans will turn on them. Remember that and use that."

"Pascal?" said Sandra.

"Right. Mate. Forget trying to score."

"Unorthodox advice," said Sandra, but I think she was starting to feel some of the goosebumps, too. Project managers like to win.

"I mean, score if it's like, easy, I suppose. But it won't be. Not yet. I want twenty minutes of you driving them absolutely mad popping up all over the forward lines. Connect with Aff for the slaps, cause havoc, then work the ball back to midfield and let Magnus tire Evans out. Yeah? Get Wes involved on the right because he's making guys work. Don't let anyone get a breather. Work the ball all round the pitch. Think of it like you're targeting one of their weak spots then move onto the next, then go back. Evans will be gassed soon enough, then Danny Flash. We do that, they've got virtually zero goal threat and we can go all-out attack. The last fifteen minutes will be mayhem. Chaos. Do you follow?"

His eyes were shining. There had been a time in his life where everyone told him he wouldn't make it. And now here he was playing a pivotal role against the best team in the division and thinking he could do it and do it well. "Yes."

That was all he said.

"One thing, guys," I said, before I let Glenn hype them up. "I'm, er, feeling a bit fragile. Got a bad bruise or something. When we score, when we win, leave me alone. Okay?"

"Yes, boss!" said Zach, only about 500% too loud. A tremendous improvement!

"Yeah. Okay, go and unfriend some fishermen. Wow, that was terrible. Cut that. Just go slap."

Glenn yelled some things and the lads clomped out, morale high, ready to carry out my instructions. All the staff were up, too, excited to see how the half would turn out.

There was only one person who wasn't smiling - except Henri, the dick, who would soon take a long, hot shower. As I followed the Brig to the door, Physio Dean gave me a cold, blank stare.

***

The drummer came out for the second half with a couple of pints in him that he worked off with lusty if sometimes inaccurate whomps. Grimsby chanted and sang and as the referee got us underway one guy stood and started the 'we hate Wrexham' song that I'm afraid to say swept the stadium and brought both factions together.

Then it was back to Chester versus Grimsby and my tweaks took them by surprise. Sam and Wisey bit into challenges in the middle, while Aff played with tremendous pace and purpose on the left. Poor Wes on the right was enthusiastic but ineffective. The home fans didn't turn on him, exactly, but as the half wore on, they expressed frustration with his decision-making and the quality of his final pass. 

Once, he beat Jayden Ward - outstanding! - and whipped in a frankly delicious cross. The problem was that Pascal had drifted over to offer a short pass, meaning we had no-one in the centre. Meaning crossing was absurd. And why was he whipping in crosses towards the miniature German?

"Hell of a cross," said Vimsy, who was negative by nature but had a lot of patience for fast wide players.

"It was," I said. "I don't want to get all preachy, but he's got the raw materials. You can all see that, right?" This question included Sandra. "I think he's going to drive us fucking crazy this year but he's just ripped the league's best left back and put in a cross as good as anything I can do."

"It's not my doubts you need to worry about," said Sandra. "It's his."

That felt right. "Brig, what do you think? Relentless positivity?"

"From us? Yes, sir."

"Well, get on with it, then."

The Brig blinked and realised Wes was jogging back past us. "Excellent move, Wesley!"

Vimsy took a few strides forward, clapped, and nearly scored himself a dinner invite by the way he yelled, "Love it, Sharky!"

Sandra walked down the line with a smile on her face. "Police! I'd like to report a murder!"

Wes Hayward didn't smile, but his morale went up two levels.

***

Boggy: Time's running out here at the Deva. Quarter of an hour gone in this second half. Still Grimsby lead one-nil, but they haven't looked too threatening since the restart.

Spectrum: No, they're... They can't get a grip on the game. Since Sharknado beat Ward, Ward's been reluctant to attack. And they don't quite know what to do with Bochum. He's drifting around popping up in all sorts of places.

Boggy: I have to say it's all very interesting in the way some Premier League matches are interesting without anything actually happening. No shots for Chester so far. None. An hour gone.

Spectrum: Max looks happy.

Boggy: He's got one substitution left. Ziggy. What do we know of him?

Spectrum: He's a goal poacher. If we get the ball to him in the box, he'll tuck it away. So... I'd guess he'll replace Sharknado and Pascal and Aff will try to get to the byline and do slaps.

Boggy: Sorry?

Spectrum: I mean, do cut backs so Ziggy has an easy finish.

Boggy: Ah, right. Well, for now, it's more of those tiny passes between Green and Evergreen.

***

66 Minutes Gone

Possession

Chester 66% Grimsby 34%

Shots

Chester 0 Grimsby 6

***

Sam was killing it. 9 out of 10 and looking turbocharged. Aff was on fire. 8 out of 10 and he just needed someone in the box to combine with. Pascal was 8 out of 10 and he'd combined with the four midfielders just as I'd hoped.

Alex Evans had the lowest Condition score on the pitch. He was struggling on 70%. Danny Flash had run like a crazy person chasing our Tiki Taka passes, and while he was young and very fit, he was down to 81%.

72 minutes gone. It was nearly time.

"Ziggy, you nice and warmed up? Go do a couple more jogs, please."

Sandra glanced over. "Want me to tell the lino?" The linesman would hold up an electronic board indicating the change we wanted to make. Ziggy had squad number 7 this season. Wes was 15. So first the board would say 15, then 7.

"I'll do it," I said. "I haven't done that for ages. Could you talk to Carl? He's getting too rambunctious down there. Tell him to calm the eff down and remember what happened with their first goal."

"On it."

***

Boggy: Here comes Chester's final change. Best is on the touchline holding onto Ziggy. He seems to be giving him some last-minute tactical instructions. Ziggy, please score a goal.

Spectrum: It could be that simple! But he's probably pointing out which defender has a weak left side or something like that.

Boggy: Number 15 goes up. Wes Hayward jogs to the touchline. Generous round of applause from the home fans. It's fair to say that was a mixed home debut for the pacey winger. And the number 7 is shown. Ziggy, er, Ziggy goes back to the bench. Best takes his training top off.

Spectrum: 77.

Boggy: It's Max Best going on! He races onto the pitch. Er... Sandra Lane, John Smith, the physios, they're all rushing forward trying to stop him. But he's done it! Is he injured or not? I'm confused. He's got one of those support braces on his right arm. You don't think he's - ?

Spectrum: Pascal's gone right. Still 4-1-4-1 but with Max as the striker.

***

I jogged around getting warmed up, since I hadn't been able to beforehand or Sandra would have made the Brig restrain me or something. I didn't plan to get too involved in the match - I only needed to be loose enough to run and maybe smash a football harder than it's ever been smashed before.

Caine eyed my arm brace. I used Seal It Up to give us a fifteen minute defensive boost. Caine ran to Mike Dobson and covered his mouth as he spoke. I used Cupid's Arrow to link Pascal and myself. Dobson waved for Si Green to come and he covered his mouth. They were looking at my arm. I gave most of my players attacking instructions. Fearless football, ready set go.

The Grimsby drum was loud and now the Chester fans resumed slapping the metalwork. My heart went thump thump thump and I felt it in my arm. Felt the blood thundering past the bruise. This had the potential to end very, very badly.

The match restarted and I was immediately drawn to a contest on the right - I ate twenty yards in seconds and snapped out of it, moved away from the situation. I had to avoid getting involved. I was the tip of the spear and nothing else. First time finish, stay out of trouble. That was the plan.

Maybe it was my imagination but it seemed like the match had gone up a notch in intensity. My players were infused with a new sense of belief and weren't going to shirk a single challenge. Weren't going to let a guy dribble past them. Grimsby, though, had gone up a few levels of motivation, too. Especially the three who hated me.

Fortunately, they were dogshit.

***

Boggy: Eddie Moore with a huge tackle on Danny Grant! That was an essential intervention.

Spectrum: I'm going to have nightmares about that overlap he just cut out.

Boggy: Glenn Ryder takes a touch and passes to Cavanagh. The goalie finds Green. Green shapes to find Carlile but cuts it diagonally to Evergreen - a pass we've seen more than any other, I think.

Spectrum: Best's gone wide right.

Boggy: Evergreen. Wise. Topps. Evergreen. Pass played slightly behind Best. He retreats to get it. Arms wide. Where's my option, he's asking. Bochum runs... away from the ball. Someone tell him that's not what his manager needs!

Spectrum: It's coming!

Boggy: Spectrum's grabbing my arm. I'm stressed. Si Green sees the chance to land one on his former manager. He steams in... nutmeg! Best's away. [Crowd roars.] Ward comes to compete but the ball's gone! Best touched it to Bochum but I didn't even see his feet move. Now he's sprinting. Bochum to Best. Best - stands on the ball? Kills it dead. He speeds left. Bochum catches up to the ball and feeds it to Best. He turns onto his left foot - piledriver! [Roar.] Goal! Goal Chester! Goal Best! He shot so early the goalie never saw it coming. And listen to that! [Jubilation continues.]

Spectrum: He's down. He clattered into Dobson after taking the shot.

Boggy: Or Dobson clattered into him. Best is refusing help. He gets up slowly. He's holding his right arm across his body. Doesn't look good. Doesn't look good at all. I tell you what does look good - the score. One-all!

***

I missed most of the celebrations but Sandra, Vimsy, and the Brig seemed a lot less mad at me. I stuck my tongue out the corner of my mouth as the outfield players formed an impromptu huddle in the centre circle. Glenn Ryder spoke up. "Boss, what the fuck is happening?"

"Nothing. I'm fine. Let's get these points. I want attacks. I want free kicks near their box, yeah? Get me a free kick and I'll fuck them up. Pascal? Aff?"

"Understood," said Pascal.

"Come on!" yelled Glenn Ryder, Influence 54.

This might be a good time to mention that I'd used Triple Captain and Bench Boost. I was all in; a sore arm wasn't going to stop me winning this one. Grimsby in a tailspin would transform this entire season. Instead of one team running away with it, everyone else would have a chance. It would be chaos. Well worth a bit of short-term pain and a perfect use case for my most powerful perks.

As Grims kicked off, I wandered up the pitch, but realised just in time that Si Green was aiming an elbow at my bandaged arm. What the actual fuck? I expected that sort of thing if we were competing for the ball, but not at a random moment. I hopped back and he hit fresh air. Sam Topps went mental.

"Do that again you're dead!" Sam snarled, and I slipped away as a little melee formed. A fracas. Bit more than the usual handbags this time because once Ryder got involved, Triple Captain kicked in and his fury spread. Grimsby had some hard, tough players, but they also had three cowards. I'd fancy our chances in some kind of battle royale.

On the tactics page, I slipped Sam's icon off the pitch and he blinked and started walking towards the dugout. I put his icon back and now that I had his attention, had a chat with him. "Mate. Not you. Not today."

He didn't understand in the slightest. "What? Why not me?"

I scrunched my little face up, but decided to be honest. I jerked my chin towards the main stand. "You're being scouted. Now don't fuck up your career on that fucking nobody."

"My career's here, boss."

"Has he been cashing you off?" Si Green loved to tell other players how much he was earning.

Sam's eyes narrowed. "Yeah, he has."

"How about next time you play, you cash him off?"

"Not my style."

"You'll be able to afford someone to do it for you. Just don't get sent off. Anyway, I want my three points so cut it out."

"Yes, boss."

The ref got a grip and I wandered off to the right, but on reflection, decided I wanted to attack from the left. From there I could shoot first time with my right foot. And from there, Caine would be in the firing line. He was a weak link, anyway. I simply had to ensure he didn't get a shot at my arm. It was starting to throb in a way most limbs don't.

***

Boggy: Another Grimsby break peters out. It's all Chester, now! There are outstanding performances all over the pitch! Eddie Moore impressive. Ryder inspirational. Green secure in his passing and winning duels. Evergreen everywhere. But Sam Topps, Aff, and Pascal are playing some amazing football while Max Best lurks. He's over on the left of the pitch, now, not making the slightest effort to get involved. If it was any other player I'd be fuming and so would the fans, but because it's Best the anticipation is building. The Grimsby drum has fallen silent. We're too tense to sing. This is a real nail-biter. What's coming next?

Spectrum: Free kick!

Boggy: The ref's given a free kick! Strachan is furious. It did look like - well, it looked like Pascal went down quite easily.

Spectrum: Great angle.

Boggy: Best hasn't moved. He's got one inch of his boot on the left touchline but the rest of him is off the pitch. He's - I think he's trying to make it impossible for a Grimsby player to take a swing at his arm. And now the wall's in place, here comes Best. Three-quarters of the stadium rise to their feet - the ones who were sitting do, anyway - and - oh, Spectrum! The nerves. I'm shredded. Will he shoot?

Spectrum: Maybe but he could aim for the far post via the six-yard box and if anyone gets a head on it, that's a goal. And if everyone misses it, the keeper has to react fast to get across. The pace Max hits these set pieces, it's all kinds of dangerous.

Boggy: I see what you mean. Best taps the air - some kind of signal? He inhales. Who's there to aim for? Ryder, Green, Carlile? Sam Topps is ten yards away from Best. Pascal is back on the halfway line ready to cover a break. Best, now. He strikes the - no! Short pass to Sam Topps. Grimsby retreated expecting the cross. Topps touches the ball back to Best - now the shot. [Roar.] Yes! Sensational! What a goal! The Deva is rocking! [Noise of all sorts.] Two-one Chester! Sam Topps leads the celebrations in front of the Harry McNally stand! Limbs everywhere! Spectrum, tell us what just happened.

Spectrum: Grimsby had a three-man wall trying to block the shot to the left of the goal, but they expected the cross-cum-shot to the right-side post as I described. Instead, Max passed to Sam and he rolled it back to Max. That took the wall out of the equation and allowed Max to have a free shot from twenty-five yards with absolute chaos in front of the goalie. Max hit it sweetly in the top-left corner, but honestly it didn't need to be that good. The keeper didn't even move.

Boggy: Amazing from Best, well supported by Sam Topps. But special mention to Pascal Bochum who, er, earned the free kick.

Spectrum: Special mention to Chris Hale who sacked Max. This is what you get! This is what you get!

***

A crushing blow. A real sickener. One-nil up to two-one down and a superstar floating around making the ball do tricks.

In the National League North, that would have been that. Spirits broken, keep it tight, try not to get beat too bad. But Lee Slade had a bit more about him and the tools to react. He subbed off the gassed Alex Evans and the ineffective Danny Flash, moved Danny Grant into the centre, and put Conor Quinn on the right of midfield. He set his team to an attacking tendency and right away, sparks flew.

Aff versus Quinn was titanic. I switched Sam and Wisey so my Bench Boosted midfield general could put pressure on Grant and that was a hell of a battle. Grimsby's new strike team started to get in behind our defenders instead of doing what we wanted them to do.

With Magnus acting like a fifth defender, we were just about keeping our heads above water.

The problem was me. I wanted to keep out of the hurly burly of the match, but it was like we were playing with ten men. Against Maidenhead that'd be all right, but Grimsby were several notches above our level. If we weren't getting shots, what could I do that wouldn't risk me getting hurt?

***

Boggy: Dreadful pressure from Grimsby, now. They've been pushing us back and back and now they're camped in our half. I can't stand ten minutes of this. And the drummer's back! Grimsby believe again. Topps challenges but Grant retains the ball. He finds Quinn - he looks a good player to me. Better than they had starting the match, for sure. He swings in a cross. Header from Ryder, but it's a tired one. 

We look very weary. Ward collects. He passes square to Simon Green. What - oh! Best popped up behind him and jabbed the ball away before scarpering. Carlile to Wise. Wise to Best. Best plays it behind Amadi-Spokes and Aff chases! The Grimsby player gets there first but that's a hint at the danger we pose on the break. And now Grimsby must reset. 

Ryder urges his defence forward. Er... Best is by Magnus in the DM slot. Simon Green heads in that direction. Best moves away. Green follows. What's...? Best taunts Green! And skips away. Green's livid but he has to be careful. He's on a yellow card!

Spectrum: He's too busy trying to kick Max instead of playing.

Boggy: Nine minutes to go. Still Chester lead. Still Grimsby attack. Tremendous move by Grant! He waltzed through Topps and Wise! Magnus cleans up, but he's under pressure straight away. Best is there to support. Simon Green charges at Best... nutmeg! And a little olé! Best dribbles away, laughing. 

But Green's back on the scent. Dobson has pushed forward, too. Neither man's a big Best fan, as we know. Where's - ? Best hesitates - Evergreen is out of position! Bochum is out of position! Aff is out of position! Best still dallying on the ball. Now he gets rid. Backheel pass! Bisects the Grimsby duo. Wise collects. Topps supports. It's, er... Evergreen left mid, Bochum in attack. Aff right? Very fluid play. We haven't seen anything like this today. Topps drives forward. He shapes to shoot -

Spectrum: No, don't!

Boggy: But he clips it to Evergreen. He plays it down the channel for Bochum. The German looks up and cuts it back to Aff! The Grimsby captain is in no man's land! Aff with time and space! Aff to finish the match! [Roar - cut short.] Saved! Fantastic save from Crichlow. Oh, Spectrum, I can't take this. The Chester players traipse back to their positions. That seemed like a last throw of the dice from Chester. Have they got anything left?

***

We held out for a couple more minutes, but then my fifteen-minute bonuses ran out. My attempt to reorganise the team while running away from Green and Dobson had worked great - with Dobson so far out of position moving my players around had forced my guys to attack the space he'd left.

Dobson was getting an earful from Lee Slade now, so he probably wouldn't go wandering again. That was both good and bad. One fewer guy trying to hurt me, one fewer guy marauding into midfield, but to be honest, I didn't mind the big, juicy gap he'd left.

Grimsby came again and for the umpteenth time it was Ward getting forward from left back and whipping in a cross. I had to do something. We were so close to the finish line, now.

The Chester metaldrummer pounded out three dots, three dashes, and three dots.

Oh, for a perk that would make the ref blow the final whistle.

Lacking such an option, I dropped into the DM slot full time and thought about doing 3-5-2 or something with Pascal as one of the strikers so that I could find him with a long pass and relieve the pressure that way. The kid was exhausted, though. He had worked crazy hard and his Condition had dropped below 70. If I asked him to keep sprinting, he'd tear something.

So all we could do was defend for our lives.

SOS!

***

Boggy: Grant. He's been pulling the strings. Tries a chip over the defence. Ryder misses it. Youngs to shoot! Zach Green throws his body in the way. Appeals for handball from the Grimsby fans! Ludicrous. Moore hacks clear but not very far. Quinn drives. Moore looks shattered. Quinn jinks around him but who's there to slide in and knock the ball out for a throw-in? Max Best!

Spectrum: That looked like it hurt.

Boggy: Best is doubled up holding his arm. No time for sentiment. Quinn throws the ball to Caine. He dribbles at Best. Oh, dear. Caine nutmegs Best! But then crashes into him. Best wheels away trying to keep his balance. He doesn't want to put weight on his arms. Finally, he collapses onto his back, holding his arms up. Well, it looked ungainly but it's clear he's in enormous discomfort. You don't think... he's playing with a broken arm? Confusion abounds here as Grimsby try to take a quick free kick. [Fast, intense whistling.] The ref... gives the free kick to Chester!

Spectrum: That guy's just cost his team a draw. We're knackered. We're out on our feet but he wants to hurt Max more than he wants to do his job. No wonder Max binned him off. Awful. Awful human being.

Boggy: Chester's physio has come on to check on Best. Some intense conversation going on. He pulls Best up by his injured arm - very strange. And Best... is going to leave the pitch. That's it. His race is done. Chester will have to survive three minutes of injury time without their leader.

Spectrum: Ryder's the captain. Sam's a leader.

Boggy: Without their talisman, then. Best cradles both arms as the main stand rises to a man. Standing ovation for the player-manager. Sandra Lane gives him a kiss on the cheek - all is forgiven! Best heads down the tunnel.

***

I winked at Danny Flash then kissed and made up with my assistant manager - Sandra, not the Brig. "You were wrong," I said.

"Oh?" she said, torn between being mad at me and delighted I'd won us the match.

"You said if I went on the pitch it'd be an automatic yellow card."

She shook her head, reluctantly smiling, and pecked me on the cheek. "That was fantastic. Don't do it again."

I nodded and walked off, pausing as Livia passed on a message from Emma.

"She says you're going to dinner even if she has to cut up your food and shove it down your stupid reckless gob."

I laughed. "I'll text her back in a bit." Livia handed my phone to the Brig and he fell into step beside me as I followed Physio Dean down the tunnel and into the dressing room.

Dean was seething. I'd misled him about my intentions. The Brig picked up on the atmosphere. "Sir?"

"Dean just told me he would quit if I didn't get off the pitch."

"I see. Why did you say that, Dean?"

Dean had wordlessly made me rest my left arm - the one without the strapping - on a treatment table and was doing things to it. "Last week, he complained his arm was broken but refused to let me take an X-ray."

"That's not like you, sir."

Dean scoffed, bitterly. "Insurance. If he had a break he wouldn't be allowed to play. No X-ray, no break."

"Max," complained the Brig, which was his version of 'fucking hell, Max.'

A huge oooh came from the stadium, quickly followed by another, then some applause. The curse told me it was still two-one and we were into garbage time. Any second now... Dean continued. "This is no good, John. We can't work like this. First, what if I've misaligned the bone and it heals badly? Second, what if he'd fallen on it again? We pack the stadium with schoolkids only for them to see his arm get pulled off! Blood everywhere! Daddy, why has that man got a fountain of ketchup coming out of him?"

"Come on," I laughed. "You said it yourself - there was nothing wrong with me. Bad bruise or something. It's all good."

"It's not all good - " he started. We all turned to look at the door - a huge cheer had erupted. The biggest heard in this stadium for many a year. The final whistle had blown.

I let out a small, relieved groan and closed my eyes. Two-one, two wins to start the season, six points on the board, 300 new fans for life. Grimsby sent into a tailspin.

"Why is your strapping on the wrong arm, sir?"

"I knew these fucks would try to get me. Let them hit the wrong arm. Simples."

Dean closed his eyes and put his hands on the table. "I can't do this. I haven't slept for a week. We're going to get this X-rayed and checked out and if there's a break you're going to take six weeks off and that's not negotiable."

I thought about it. "Three."

"Max, I'm serious. I'm pissed. You asked me to do something I should never have agreed to. And you should never have asked me." He inhaled. Steeled himself. "Let me treat you the way you make me treat the other players or I'll quit. I'll quit.. and I'll tell Emma what you did!"

Physio Dean, always in search of his Doctor Voice. The man from underground who bossed the pandemic and gave me the first aid that saved my life. Irreplaceable. I regarded him. He himself was a long-term castaway. His private island was slowly drifting closer to the mainland, but there was some way to go before he truly joined our archipelago. "You're right. I'm in your hands. And I'm sorry if I put you in a difficult position. I thought it was worth it. But Dean..."

"What?" he snapped, as he started to bandage my arm to keep it stable until we got to the clinic.

I had been about to negotiate the six weeks thing, but I decided to wait until we had the X-rays. Maybe it wasn't even broken. I changed tack. "After the clinic, do you want to have dinner with us and Donnie Wormwood at the Grosvenor? Five-star, six courses, seven rounds of Donnie's favourite plonk."

He paused. "Are you trying to bribe me?"

"Yes. And you can order anything from the menu except lobster. I don't have lobster money." A castaway wouldn't want lobster, would he? Anything but seafood, please.

The door opened and the team came in, yelling and joking. They were singing, "We. Are. Top of the League!"

In fact, Barnet had won again and we were one of several teams on six points, but it didn't matter. This project team had scored two wins, we'd entertained our fans, and when the lads spotted Dean taking care of me they pointed and chanted, "Deano! Deano!"

His eyes flickered around. He loved being part of the group more than he hated me for being a massive hypocrite. "Okay," he said. "I'm in. I'll go. Just one thing, though."

"Yeah?"

"Who's Donnie Wormwood?"

...

Thanks for your support!