9.3 - The Long Way Round Part Two [T1] (Patreon)

3.

Monday, October 14

FA Youth Cup Third Qualifying Round: Chester Under Eighteens vs Walsham-le-Willows F.C. Under Eighteens

One artefact of what we might term Historical Gammonism was that while the women didn't get to play at the Deva, the boys did. With considerable investment, the pitch would be able to stand up to more stress, but for now it was the men and a couple of matches for the boys.

Jonny Planter, our groundsman, told me he wasn't too worried about the long run of home matches we were in the midst of, saying the bio stimulants were working wonders. I asked him to look into genetically-engineered superworms but he didn't laugh. He simply said, "I have."

Spectrum would be my assistant manager for the cup run. He had done the warmups and pre-match drills and he was worried. "Max, they're hyper. It's a cup match in our home stadium under the floodlights with hundreds of people in."

"There would have been more but MD went on the socials to specifically say there wouldn't be free beer."

"We still sold about six hundred tickets. Okay, they're cheap, but that's a serious show of interest at this level."

"Brooke did a good job on this one, yeah."

"And the whole first team are here. Loads of the women, too. The board. Boggy is doing Seals Live. It feels like a big game."

I frowned. "It is a big game."

Spectrum squirmed. "I know but Max, we're still very young. Chas is fourteen."

"He's nearly fifteen. But what are you saying?"

"Can you just... ugh. I know you like to do the opposite but please consider not hyping them up. WibRob already looks like he's ready to go to war. Benny looks like he's on crack. If you pump them up more they'll burst."

"Exploding children could be good marketing. He's done what?! He's exploded. Wow. Let's go see the next match. Can't, it's sold out."

Spectrum forced a smile onto his face. "Max knows best." He walked off, waving at some people in the main stand, and gathered the kids. I watched him work. Most of my coaches had fairly static profiles. The Brig's tactical knowledge had increased from 1 to 2. Vimsy's coaching had increased from 7 to 8. But Spectrum had added three points. He was now Coaching Outfield Players 12, Judging Player Potential 3, and Tactical Knowledge 16.

And he had, without anyone ever really formalising it, become the de facto Head of Youth Development. He coordinated the coaching sessions and made sure there were matches to play and a coach and physio for every fixture. He texted and emailed with thoughts on the kids, gaps in the squads I might want to fill, who he was bumping up to a higher level and for how long. He was turning into one of my best f-boys (where F, you remember, stands for football and nothing else).

In the dressing room - the one used by the men! By the stars! - the lads went through their final preparations while waiting for me to get them hyped and reveal my brilliant masterplan. Their excitement got under my skin and I very nearly got mischievous.

In a boring voice, I said, "Walsham-le-Willows is east of Cambridge and has a population of just over a thousand." Benny and Tyson thought this was hilarious and fell into each other. I looked at Spectrum as if to say, what am I supposed to do? He folded his arms and pinched his nose. I changed tack. I walked up and down the benches getting an eyeful of all the teenagers.

When I returned to the tactics board, I said, "Forget dentists. What we need is a club hairdresser." This raised the roof and the lads blasted each other over the state of their trims. It was like opening a steam valve. After the initial burst, the energy levels in the room were more stable. I pushed the tactics board to the side, brought my flipchart forward a little and wrote, The longest way round is the shortest way home. I tapped it. "This phrase means do things right. It's a ninety-minute game. We don't win it in the first ten minutes. We don't win it by taking shortcuts."

I let the lads think about that for well over twenty seconds.

"All right, listen up. It's a big game and you're right to be excited. I'd be pissed if you weren't excited. So you're up for the cup - that's great. One box ticked. We're better than them. That's another boxed ticked. So now the challenge is, how do we play? I want you to approach this game with respect. Just because we're better doesn't mean we can clown around doing skills and madnesses. We're still in the qualifying rounds, for fuck's sake. We don't get to be Billy Big-Bollocks. Do you know what I mean? I expect you to play the same way you've been coached. No shortcuts!

"Most of you are sixteen or seventeen. Walsham's lads are almost all eighteen. They're bigger than you. Stronger. Some are faster. But still, they know that to beat you they have to wind you up, put you off your game. In the upside-down world of football, all the shit-talking they're gonna do is a sign of respect.

"Some of you are pros or close enough and if you let some verbals from amateurs get to you I'll be very disappointed. Anyone getting a red card today can fuck right off. I'm serious about that. There's no need to go in two-footed, to retaliate, to foul someone who's through on goal. They're not going to score and even if they do, we'll go score down the other end.

"So what I most want to see from you today, apart from a new haircut, is a bit of maturity. Win your duels, sure, but your duels exist as part of a bigger picture. This match is a story. What's the story? It's not you getting into a fight with a kid who will never, ever play a serious football match again. It's you connecting with your mates, working for the team, doing your little part of the plan.

"Be calm and be serious. Wear the badge with pride, but wear it with class, too. This is a big game for your opponents and this will be a memory they keep. Do you want to be remembered as a dick?"

That was good. As I'd spoken, I saw them redirect some of their loose energy.

"Last reminder of the lineups and tactics. The tactics are, you don't need tactics holy shit stop going on about them. 4-4-2. Bivvy in goal. Lucas Friend, Captain, Henk, Sevenoaks. Everyone remember that Seven isn't a natural defender and if he gets into trouble I want you digging deep to help him. You with me? Midfield is WibRob, Tyson, Dan, Noah. Loads of silk, not much steel. Be patient out of possession. No need to go flying in.

"I don't think Walsham are going to pass it around for three minutes but if they do, let 'em. Shuffle and slide and be patient. Or even better, get some fucking quality on the ball and make them work to recover it. Pass them to death.

"Up front it's Benny and Chas. I do not want to see aimless high balls played at Chas. Build through the thirds like you do in training. He's tall, but so is my postman and I wouldn't ask him to hold the ball up against someone stronger and more experienced. Pass pass pass, build down the sides, Art of Slapping. Yes? Chester football? Let's have a good first half and we'll use half time to fix any issues that come up. Be positive out there."

I checked if there was anything I'd forgotten to say. At the top of my mind was the long run of home games.

"Right, one more thing," I said. "The pitch. The firsts played on Saturday, you're playing today, firsts are back tomorrow. Three matches in four days. That's already brutal, but our next two games are at home, too. Won't someone please think of the grass? Do not fuck my pitch up. We need a good pitch to play our football and get out of this league and get money for dentists and hairdressers. Benny, when you score, what are you banned from doing?"

He sat up straight. "Er, not allowed to jump on someone's back."

"Why?" I said, like a teacher.

"Because it's someone's fucking spine that they need so that's moronic. And not allowed to, er, to run around waving our shirt."

"Why?"

"Coz it's an automatic yellow card so that's moronic."

"Good. What else? Remembering what I said about the pitch being important?"

"Oh, like, knee slides?"

"No knee slides. I will one trillion percent lose my shit if you tear two fucking... what's the word? What do tractors do?"

Spectrum knew. "Plough."

"Right, plough. Do not use your fucking stupid knees to plough two..."

"Furrows," said Spectrum.

"Two furrows into my beautiful football pitch."

The bell rang. "Go on, then."

Captain yelled captain things and they trotted out. "I've missed this," said Spectrum. "Das Tournament. The wizard. What's, er... What's Bethany up to these days?"

"What's she up to? About a thousand downloads per episode, I reckon." I grinned and gave him a friendly slap on the arm. "Maybe she'd want to interview the Head of Youth Development at the non-league team who won the FA Youth Cup. Hey?"

He blinked. "Is that a job offer?"

"It is if we win the cup."

"Fuck me," he said. The cogs in his head spluttered into life. "Wait," he said, suddenly frowning. "They were good and hyped and you calmed them down. Go and hype them back up!"

"Can't," I said. "They might explode. Health and safety, mate. Bad for the brand. Come on."

***

Walsham had brought a well-coached, organised team whose average CA didn't hit double figures. We had an average CA of 16.7.

My side featured five guys who were getting decent first team exposure: Lucas Friend had received glowing reviews from Jay Cope at West Didsbury; Tyson, Benny, and Dan had done well on their loans. WibRob? Say no more. In addition, Henk had played at a decent youth level for Tranmere until becoming unhappy and returning to Chester. Others had trained with the first team a few times.

But while I'd done quite well in taking the core of the Das Tournament side and adding to it, I spent the first five minutes catastrophising. A CA of 16 was dogshit. How had I worked so hard to achieve so little?

It didn't take long to calm down. We were a high PA group and we had better technique and passing than the average. That would count for a lot. But the most important thing was our age profile.

As with the first team, we were pretty young. Overly young, perhaps. We had no guys who would turn eighteen this year. Only three of our starting eleven would even hit seventeen. The rest were a year younger, except Chas, who was a year younger still.

Age was one of the most important factors for a young player. At Das Tournament, Wolves had put out a team with an average CA of 6. I expected they would improve in an exponential way for a few years. If the Wolves under 17s team was CA 40, their 18s would be CA 60. So if my Chester boys got to CA 20 this year, they could be CA 40 next.

CA 40, plus my tactics, plus all the first-team experience, plus moments of magic from WibRob? We would have a chance. Not a wishful thinking chance - a real chance.

And hey, I still had a year to improve the squad. If I could resolve the Daddy Star situation before the transfer window closed, I could dip into my reserves to bring in some talented youngsters. If only I could persuade MD to loosen the purse strings. Just a little bit...

"Good start," said Spectrum.

"Hmm? Yeah. Is it just me or are we fucking amazing?" We had already had two long passing sequences and in their excitement, Walsham had sprinted around trying to press and harry and found themselves chasing shadows. "Hey, Noah is looking good. What did you do with him?"

"Nothing," confessed Spectrum. "He was settling in and then he saw WibRob and I think he realised what a top player really looks like. And, sort of, all the other kids are in the same boat. It's like, we are us and he is him. So that brought them together."

"Will's mint, isn't he? He's not a dick, though?"

"No, he's hungry. Good team player. Why did you put him left mid?"

"We don't have a good alternative. Hope is the next best. Who else? Kian? Anyway, I don't want Will scoring ten goals and getting noticed. At left mid he plays, he learns, he stays under the radar."

"Er, yeah, good luck with that," scoffed Spectrum, as WibRob barrelled past a midfielder, let a big defender bounce off him, and played a left-footed through ball slightly too far ahead of Benny.

Benny chased the ball, kept it in, and dribbled to the corner waiting for support. He played a clever diagonal into WibRob's path. Will swept the ball out to Noah Harrison who was in acres of space. Noah drove forward, shaped to cross - no, mate! - but when the defender went for a block, Noah pushed forward to the byline and lashed the ball across goal. Benny had worked hard to get back into position and he applied a tidy finish.

One-nil!

A great goal. A Chester goal.

"Oh-oh," said Spectrum.

He was watching with everything clenched as Benny raced towards the corner flag between the Harry McNally and the main stand. Sure enough, the little fuck did a knee slide.

I watched with a David Moyes-style necromancer death glare as two ugly streaks disfigured my pristine - and fragile - playing surface.

"Get Jonny," I said, and my tone invited no debate. Spectrum rushed off to find the head groundsman.

***

It was two-nil at half time and the lads walked towards the tunnel waving at their friends and family in the main stand. Party time. I stopped them on the edge of the pitch. Party's over.

"Benny," I said. Something in my expression or voice made the kid's face turn white. Whiter. "This is Jonny Planter, our groundsman. These are the volunteers who love the club so much they help out for free. These are called pitchforks. If you ever want to play for this team again, you'll volunteer to repair the pitch."

Benny swallowed. "Yeah, sure. Course. Happy to. Sorry," he added, in a mumble.

I waited for him to understand, but there was no sign of that. "Fucking now!" I said, handing him one of the tools. The ground staff strode away to the corner that Benny had vandalised. Soon they would start prodding it and praying to the worms or whatever they did. I stood, hands on hips, until Benny turned and double-timed it after them.

Back in the dressing room, I dropped the angry facade. I was about to give them some instructions when I heard some unexpected noises from the stands. "Adam, go and see what's up."

He ran out and came back a minute later. "Everyone's all gone to that corner and they're chanting for Benny and cheering him when he pokes the pitch. His dad's there filming it saying funny stuff. Benny's turned red but he's enjoying it. I think."

I did a sort of scoff-chuckle thing. "I just don't understand why you players can't keep it in your pants. Scoring a goal's not that big a deal. It's like, your job. And there's hundreds of ways to celebrate. Why do something that might hurt a teammate like jump on his back or make it harder for us to win games like ruin the surface? What if I'm playing right-wing against Ebbsfleet this Saturday and I'm about to whip in a cross but the ball bobbles because fucking Benny just had to show off. What the fuck, man."

Spectrum coughed. "It was a good performance, though. Wasn't it, boss?"

I sighed. "Yes. Very good. I loved everything about that half. Well, almost everything. Dan, are you all right?"

"Yes, boss."

For twenty minutes, Dan had run the show from midfield with lazy passes and languid flicks. He looked like he would rather be on a beach somewhere, but that just added to Walsham's frustration.

One of them gave him a boot up the arse.

Dan didn't like that. He dropped the fake laziness and stormed around the midfield creating overloads and demanding overlaps. He ran the game while Tyson tried to be a good central midfield partner. When Dan ran out of steam, WibRob took over and the balance of the game played out on the left. Noah Harrison didn't want to be outdone and he tried to turn the right into a danger zone, too.

"Okay. Well, it's been a while since I saw a Chester midfield slap from three thirds. Noah, you're doing great. I love the way you're supporting Seven and you're quality on the ball, today. Keep that up because this is good practice. The next round won't be this easy, right? Tyson, very selfless play that half. Dan, you can take a breath and let Tyson be the creative force for a while. You with me?

"William, I'd love for you to dial the individual skills down about five percent and combine more with Lucas and Tyson. Remember the phrase. Longest way round's the shortest way home. A couple of extra passes and you'll find your marker's miles out of position. A little more patience. Last thing, they look good on set pieces so do try to stop giving away those silly fouls. I know the ref is a bit weak but you don't have to try to get the ball every time it comes anywhere near you. Block the crosses, but be patient. I'd honestly be happy if there wasn't a single tackle this half."

"Is Benny staying on?" said Walshy. He was one of the many kids I'd found in the PA 30 to 40 range, and as our next-best striker, the most likely guy to replace Benny.

"Yeah, fifteen minutes at least. I don't want to destroy him because he was excited. I mean, I kinda do. But nah. Or maybe...? Nah. Anyway, you'll get on the pitch, Walshy mate. Hundred percent. Let's just be professional about the second half, all right?"

***

The second half was a ton of fun for the crowd. We weathered a brief storm from the away team, then resumed slapping. Chas scored from a WibRob cross. He celebrated by running to the main stand, turning, and pointing to his shirt number with his thumbs. Max Best approved! Benny scored another close-range finish. He raced to the same corner as before, and as the crowd went 'oooh!' he threatened to launch himself into a knee slide, but instead he tapped at the pitch with his boot. His teammates did the same. Sarcastic running repairs. Max Best approved!

For the last twenty I made a raft of subs, but the new guys were overly keen to impress and gave away stupid free kicks. Walsham were more streetwise than our centre backs and scored a couple of goals.

We won 6-2 and the match showed what the team could and couldn't do. We could play beautiful football, dominate possession and create chances. We could fight for each other and enjoy winning. We couldn't defend set pieces. Not reliably, not against bigger, stronger kids. The draw for the next round would be absolutely fascinating.

***

As I was having a drink with the Walsham lot and Brooke was interviewing our lads on the pitch, the draw for the other cups came out. 

"Swindon at home," I said, reading the text from Secretary Joe.

My opposite number said, "Are you happy with that?"

I was not happy. It was an absolutely horrible draw. Last time I'd seen Swindon, they had an average CA of 76, so even if I used all my boosts we would be miles off the pace. They weren't even an attractive fixture. They were doing poorly in League Two and I didn't associate them with a huge away following. They'd probably sell all 800 tickets we offered them, though, and it was an FA Cup First Round match. I would ask Brooke to fill the stadium and expect it to happen.

Apart from the likelihood that we would get knocked out of the cup in the First Round, I was also worried about the media. The cowardly, spineless Football Association had changed a hundred years of tradition at the behest of the big clubs. For the first time in history, there would be no replays in the FA Cup.

In the past, a little team like Chester with a home tie would have fought hard against a bigger team like Swindon. Winning had obvious benefits but financially, a draw was even better - you went to the bigger club's ground for a replay. A replay against Man United or Tottenham could bring in a million pounds, easy. Those days were gone, though, and I had thoughts.

Angry, angry thoughts. How much fucking money did Man United and Arsenal and the rest fucking need? The FA were supposed to be the guardians of the game. Why were they working for a handful of clubs while sticking two fingers up at eight hundred others?

If interviewed after a narrow defeat to Swindon I would probably go on an epic rant. But it seemed sensible to keep my mouth shut. If I got a reputation - more of a reputation - as a troublemaker, it was conceivable that steps could be taken to exclude me from processes. Better to be seen as something of an idiot so I could get into the 'room where it happens' and make some actual positive change.

"Are you happy with that?" repeated the guy, because I'd gone into a rage trance.

"Not really," I said.

"You've beat them before, though," said a young coach who was still buzzing from having a role at a big stadium.

"We did? When?"

"Not Chester. You." He looked astonished that I didn't immediately remember. "When you were at Tranmere!"

"Oh, right," I said. I had been due to manage against Swindon when I was at Grimsby, so that's where my mind had gone. I mentally rewound another few months. "Tranmere, right. 3-5-1-1, Swindon played. I messed them up, didn't I? Teams shouldn't play weird formations against me. I'm actually pretty good at positional play. What do we do? 4-3-3 with me moving wide? Wish I could do the same on the left. We don't need four defenders, though. Maybe I'll ask Sandra to do her 3-2-3-1 again."

"That's only ten," said the guy.

"Yeah, plus me," I said, deep in thought. "I've kinda evolved beyond showing up on tactics screens."

The manager drained his pint. "Imma look out for that score. Fuck me, you're cocky."

Later I found out that the women would play Rhyl in the second round of the Welsh Cup. Seemed like an easier tie than Llandudno but we had a slight scheduling headache - near the end of November we would have three games in seven days. Not a huge problem so long as Jackie rotated the team but the third fixture was the league match against West Didsbury. With Cheadle Stingers nipping at our heels, we couldn't afford any slip-ups.

***

Tuesday, October 15

Cheshire Senior Cup: Chester vs Alsager Town

As always, there was limited interest in the Cheshire Cup.

To most of the world, it carried no prestige and I got trivial amounts of Manager Points for winning games in that competition. But it was still important to me.

For a start, winning it was the most likely way to keep the 2% attendance bonus we got for winning trophies. If we got to the final, it was five matches Sandra could manage. It was five matches for the Exit Trialists, Sticky, Ziggy, and Steve Alton. And intangibly, winning was a habit and winning seemed to be at least partially linked to CA improvements. Getting promoted was the absolute top priority but there was really no reason we shouldn't go hard at the Cheshire Cup.

A few hundred fans with nothing better to do had bought tickets, but I had no interest in playing in a deserted, rain-soaked stadium. So as always, I had tried to give away free tickets and as always, MD had pushed back. We simply weren't allowed to let people in for free because the Cheshire FA took a cut of the ticket sales and would lose revenue. Okay, makes sense, but when I offered to give them a thousand pounds so that I could let loads of schoolkids in, they didn't even reply to the email.

I decided it was time for me to learn more about stewarding. Stewards are the guys you see in football stadiums who help people find their seats and stop trouble from escalating. The steward is part usher, part bouncer, and unlike at some grounds, the ones at Chester are all great guys. In an act of astonishing fat-fingered stupidity, I booked four hundred volunteer stewards for the match and forgot to check their references.

My accidental army arrived in high-visibility jackets and I sent them to guard the Harry McNally terrace. The stand became a visually arresting Borussia Dortmund-style 'yellow wall' as the stewards checked each other for signs of trouble. The hi-vis jackets provided an extra layer of protection from the rain.

Another of my stupid mistakes resulted in the beers in that section being half-price, and I accidentally left my wallet lying around and some scamp used it to buy three hundred pounds of drinks for whoever turned up first. Just shocking. Really makes you despair of human nature.

These boozed-up reprobates - I mean, these conscientious match stewards - made a tremendous racket. They sang, they cheered, they chose an opposition player to be the pantomime villain and gave him pelters.

I knew MD would give me shit but I didn't care. The stadium was rocking and the players - both sets - were energised. It was a fast game played in a good spirit. If the purpose of the Cheshire Cup was to promote football in the area, I was the only one doing it right.

And what about the lineup? The plan?

I left it to Sandra. In theory, anyway. In practice, I had given her some limitations. Some were expected - no Carl, no Henri. Sticky in goal. Use the Exit Trialists. Use Steve Alton. But there was an extra-strange one I added late on Monday - she needed to reserve one centre back slot for my Youth Cup squad. We would give Captain half an hour, Henk half an hour, and Bomber the last thirty.

One match, one position, three first-team debuts. I was just an astonishing football manager, tbh.

To balance the youthfulness of the side, I told Sandra I would play DM with strict positional discipline, only leaving my zone to take free kicks and - if she wanted - corners.

"I was telling my partner about your version of letting me manage," she said, when I'd finished explaining. "She said it was like playing video games for achievements. Kill all the baddies without taking damage. Complete the level without using guns. Win a cup tie while using three teenagers where there should be rugged thirty-year-olds."

"Yeah. That's the job. But did you ever think that maybe I'm not doing it for the kids? Maybe I'm doing it for you? Calibrating the challenge like an absolute boss."

"Sure, Max. It's for me." She sighed and, thirty seconds later, pushed a potential line up towards me.

I reached into my desk and pushed a piece of paper towards her. "Great minds think alike."

We had both sketched out a 4-1-4-1 and filled it with the same players.

"I love free will," she said.

***

Alsager came with 4-4-2 and a CA of 15. Midway through the second half we were three-nil up and I pottered over to Sandra.

"Can I break my promise? I want to maraud around and get Tom Westwood his first goal."

She looked down. She looked up. She said, "exasperating," which I took as permission.

I went on a fruitless ten-minute rampage that resulted in me realising that Tom was rarely to be found in the danger zone when I was dribbling. He was too busy working hard to create space for others and being selfless. I yelled at him until he agreed to stay put, and on our next possession I combined with Cole Adams, got to the byline, and cut the ball back for Tom.

Four-nil! He celebrated Ziggy style, and deserved it. I wondered about him. Strikers needed to score goals to avoid becoming a laughing stock. How could Tom balance his off-the-scale selflessness with getting at least ten goals a season? Something to ponder.

Job done, I retreated to DM. I won headers, made interceptions, and played one-touch. I even let Omari take the set pieces while I protected the team against counters.

Sandra got another win for her Wikipedia page and we got another home draw in the next round.

***

The next morning I had a quick planning session with the senior staff.

There were two more matches in our long run of home fixtures. On Saturday the 19th we were due to play Ebbsfleet, who I expected to be in the low CA 60s, followed on Tuesday the 22nd by Oldham, who would be around CA 70.

Given that our best team would struggle against Oldham, Sandra and I reluctantly decided to go strong against Ebbsfleet, hoping that home advantage would get us over the line, and we would rest players in the mid-week game. Three points from six wasn't quite good enough, but it was the best we could manage at present. Resting our key players would make them less prone to injury, allow them to train harder, and allow the Brig to build up their fitness. The plan was to finish the season strong, remember. I could take the flak from a few poor results if it meant sticking to the plan. The plan was sensible and logical.

Since the start of the season, we had been picking up 1.4 points per game. That pace would leave us, after 46 matches, on 64 points. My target was 70 points, a number which would likely see us in the playoffs. There were 31 league games remaining and some quick maths told me we needed 1.6 points per game. Some acceleration was inevitable if we kept improving, so there was no point losing our minds about every fixture - I had to keep an eye on the bigger picture.

The meeting ended with lots of positive vibes. We agreed to stick to the plan. The plan was fucking mint.

***

Friday, October 18

I went to training and did all the skills work and none of the physical stuff. I had a certain amount of CA and every time I lost a point in stamina I wanted it to go right into set pieces or technique. In video games the process of subtracting from one attribute to boost another is called min-maxing. You minimise one thing (e.g. strength) so that you can maximise another (magic). I didn't need strength to take a free kick. I was Max-maxing.

And it was working. As my physical stats declined, my skills got better. It was only fractional, but now when I took shots at Sticky he got angry and frustrated after two minutes instead of after three.

Max-maxing myself was pretty easy but the interesting thing was trying to min-max other players. WibRob was still a junior who was keen to impress and keen to play, so he mostly did what I told him. Once, his tackling attribute went green - I think when he was fidgety he snuck into other training sessions than the ones assigned - but generally he understood what I wanted from him and he was more or less on board with it.

But take Carl Carlile, who I mostly played as a right back. He would hit his PA limit near the end of the season or the start of the next, but he had dribbling 5 and finishing 7. If a match went exactly according to my design, he wouldn't ever need to dribble and wouldn't ever need to shoot. If I could force him to pass in every situation, even in training, presumably those unwanted attributes would decay. When they did, he would be able to add more positioning, more passing.

It was interesting in a theoretical sense but not very practical. There was a human element, too. Human beings liked running with a football. They liked kicking a football. It would be cruel to put them in even more of a straightjacket than I was already doing. Plus Carl sometimes popped up in the right place to take a shot and he had quite a good strike rate for a defender.

"What are you thinking?" Livia had come out of the medical room to get some fresh air.

I tried to come out of my thoughts. "I was thinking about a sort of player editor where I could reassign skills. Take one point from Carl's shooting and give him another point in passing. It's weird, though. I think even if I had the power I wouldn't use it."

"It'd make your life a lot easier."

"If it's easy, it's no fun. Talking of the easiest gig in the history of the world, how's Jackie?"

"He's good. He's enjoying it. You've given him a good group. They're really talented."

"I've got five more incoming in January. Fingers crossed."

"Five?" said Livia. She decided I was joking. "Why aren't you doing the running work? Dean and I can't work it out."

"I'm only gonna play twenty minutes most games. Come on at the end against tired teams. I can be a low block killer or grab us an equaliser."

"You played ninety the other day."

"That was just strolling around. I barely broke into a sweat. How are things from your point of view?"

I meant in a medical sense but she decided to give me an overview of how the team was being perceived in the city. "Something's changed. There's a new atmosphere. I'm not sure if it was the dentist thing or the beer or the yellow jackets or if it's been building but people are..." She searched for the word. "Ready."

Her phone pinged and she scooted back inside leaving me to wonder what she meant. It felt like doomshadowing, but I shook it off and went to stand next to Sandra for the end of the sesh.

With another good week under our belts, Chester's best non-Best starting eleven (Pascal right mid, Magnus Evergreen as the second CM) now had an average CA of 57.5. We had finally crossed the threshold into National League standard! It had taken a third of the season and there had been some dark times but I expected us to start picking up points more regularly from now on. Certainly enough to keep us in the top half of the table even if I got an injury or a ban.

And looking at the squad, we were nowhere near our limits. Glenn and Steve had hit their maximum PA. Aff would be next - he was seven points away. Then it would probably be Ben or James Wise. Both were eleven points from their peak. Next was Eddie, then Carl, but I doubted they would max out this season. No, most of the squad had massive amounts of headroom and if someone hit a plateau I had two solutions.

First I could try to loan them to a higher level team. I'd joked with TJ about sending a player to train with Crawley but he said he was into it. It was an option.

Second, I could expose players to a variety of coaches. Cole Adams's mental block had been cleared with one session from Clive OK. There was Clive, Cody Chambers, and if I begged I was sure Jackie would do a couple of sessions to help a young player.

Clive, man. I had to get him more involved, somehow, without scaring him away. He was an even more fragile version of Jackie.

Clive O'Keefe 

Adaptability 15
Coaching Goalkeepers 3
Coaching Outfield Players 20
Determination 4
Judging Player Ability 5
Judging Player Potential 5
Level of Discipline 3
Man Management 16
Motivating 11
Tactical Knowledge 20
Working with Youngsters 18
Coaching Style: Technique-based
Preferred Formation: 3-4-1-2
Preferred Style: Prefers an attacking style of play
Other: Likes his players to close down the opposition

It was crazy to think I had been going up and down the country looking for a coach like Clive and he had been living close to my home. Within running distance, in fact. What a world. In theory I would have paid him five hundred pounds a week to do just three hours; the value he would add to my players would be staggering. That wouldn't be fair on the other underpaid, overworked coaches, though. But, I thought, flip-flopping like a politician, using Clive as a 'finishing school' would bring more money into the club faster, and then I could pay the others more. But in the short-term, morale would dip. I could see the value of his work, but no-one else would be able to.

Hard choices.

There wasn't an urgency to hiring him, though. Sandra and my current setup was giving me the improvement I expected and there was no sign of us hitting any caps. Pascal seemed to be drawing Clive into the fold in an organic way, and that was absolutely fine by me. Slowly, slowly, catchee Clivey.

I scanned my squad list again. I had the option to use God Save the King to improve one attribute on one player by one. I really wanted to limit its use to players who had maxed out their PA to see if that worked as a way to hack the system, but Henri and Youngster were nowhere near those limits. In the past I had given Ziggy a point in Finishing and could imagine doing that again - if he stayed with us the whole season he would get to his limit of CA 58.

But did I want to use my amazing perk on a low-level player? Just to get information? It would be like putting lipstick on a pig but what was the alternative? I had to use the perk sometime this season or it would go to waste. I could give Glenn Ryder a point in heading or strength. Aff could get a point in passing when he hit CA 70. Giving those guys a boost wouldn't benefit me personally but Aff had been a good servant to the club. Something to think about. Lots to think about.

The long way round had one major flaw - it was bloody long. If only someone would give me a million quid or two...

I sighed so hard Sandra gave me a worried look.

***

Saturday, October 19

Match 16 of 46: Chester vs Ebbsfleet United

Before kickoff I presented Steve 'Angles' English to the crowd. He had found a new job and I asked for, and got, a nice ovation for him. A fitting end to his time at Chester. He walked around like the cat who got the cheese.

We had sold a fair amount of tickets - the attendance would be over 3,000 - even though Ebbsfleet weren't a big draw. Most Chester fans probably knew more about the club than me. Ebbsfleet had quite an interesting recent history.

They were from Kent - far but not free-beer-for-away-fans far - and for a period they had been 'managed' by randos who paid a fee to take part in the decision-making process. 35,000 people from all over the world had paid a fee to participate in the first year, though in the second and third years the numbers dwindled alarmingly and the project was abandoned.

In the past I might have found such an idea intriguing - the wisdom of the crowd and all that - but now I recoiled from it. Imagine polling the Chester fans - should we rotate our goalkeepers? No. Should we sell Raffi for half price? Yes. Should we set up the Chester Chatters, Chester Chompers, should we hire an American who knows nothing about the sport, should we let a twenty-two year old change the culture and sign a moody Frenchman and a tiny German?

The whole thing had been an interesting experiment in democracy, but that's a no from me, dog. I am the state and if I want ten goalkeepers I'll get ten goalkeepers.

These days, The Fleet were funded by investors from Kuwait. The Finances perk told me that they were spending lavishly on the team but there seemed to be little correlation between a Fleet player's current ability and his wages. They had come with an average CA of 63.

While their scouting was patently shit, the manager had a high Tactics score and we duked it out. He started with a surprise 3-5-2 that gave his team a big bite of possession but didn't lead to many chances. He switched to 4-2-3-1 like so many modern managers, but he didn't have players suitable for that so I made a few small tweaks and we went on an expected threat rampage. He tried to match our 4-1-4-1 and I switched to 4-2-4 to attack down the wings. Finally, he went to a cautious 4-4-2 which I took as a small victory.

My starting eleven looked so, so solid. For the first time this season there was none of this tinpot CA 30 shit. Our weakest player was James Wise at CA 49. Basically seven silvers, four golds. We struggled in a few areas, but so did Ebbsfleet. This was a proper contest and the fans seemed to respond to what we were doing, especially in defence. Tackles were roared, headers were applauded, and for the first time there was no grumbling when Zach Green got the ball.

With seventy minutes gone the score was one-all, and I brought myself on and found Zach from a free kick to take the lead. He ran to the Harry McNally and was swallowed up like a grizzle stick. While the rest of the players piled in, I jogged to Sandra.

"I don't know what it is but something's telling me to defend. Scrap and get the points."

"Yes!" she cried. The other dugout had been trying to wind her up. "Fucking defend the lead, you maniac!"

I used Seal It Up, switched us to a defensive playing style, and locked down my side of the pitch. Youngster did the middle, Aff the left. Henri did a Tom Westwood impression.

The crowd responded every time we did something that ran the clock down. Eddie Moore crunched into a tackle. Applause. Henri held the ball up, turned, fell over, and got a free kick. Applause. Youngster tracked a runner into the penalty box and blocked a cross. He ran after the ricochet, slid, and turned a corner into a throw-in. Standing O.

When the ball broke loose in front of Carl, I scrapped for it, holding off a midfielder who was about as strong as me. I feinted to pass centrally, eased down the line a few yards, and hit a seemingly aimless eighty-yard diagonal that crept out of play just by the corner flag. The goalie ran to get the ball but had to wait for a teammate to get close before restarting play. I'd burned ten seconds. The roar of approval was more than for some goals.

The fans wanted those three points and demanded we hold firm. The last sixty seconds were a rare kind of agony. Why wouldn't the referee blow the fucking whistle? Finally, he did, and my mental state reset.

Bosh, three points, job done.

***

Tuesday, October 22

Match 17 of 46: Chester vs Oldham Athletic

The price of victory against The Fleet was certain defeat against the Latics.

I liked Oldham and their hospitality guy had been incredibly friendly to me when I was taking baby steps in the world of football, but I'd also been put in a room full of gammons. It had been one of the most unpleasant experiences of my new life. I knew it was unfair to link that with Oldham Athletic in particular when every club had that kind of fan, but I couldn't help it. Even the attractive waitress had been unpleasant.

Oldham had sold their entire allocation and I imagined it as being full of gammons and proto-gammons. 800 of them crowing and preening for ninety minutes and spending the next few months strutting around saying 'ah that lad's not all he thinks he is'. But I had to be professional and rational and that meant picking my battles and this was one I'd picked to lose. So be it.

I rested Carl, Eddie, Pascal, and Henri and started with three tin players (Cole, Wes, and Tom) and a pathetic 49.7 average CA. Oldham's was 72. Yet another team with a budget more than double ours. They had spent it pretty well, to be fair.

Sandra and Vimsy yelled and cajoled our defence and midfield as we battled to keep Oldham at bay. Tom Westwood, as the lone striker, needed no such encouragement. His pressing plus Youngster's interceptions plus a monumental display from Ben in goal kept the score respectable.

Ben was interesting. He never dazzled me with his improvements, but in my first visit to Chester his CA had been under 30 and he was a distant, never-used, backup. With some encouragement and game time he had started to go green, and now he was CA 56. He had doubled his skill!

And it seemed like he had recently reintensified his efforts. Sticky had played two matches, kept two clean sheets, and looked imperious. Competition for places!

Oldham with a corner.

It's another inswinger - they are really targeting the goalkeeper!

Cavanagh punches away. It falls to an orange shirt.

Swung back into the danger zone. There's some pinball...

Chance for the striker!

Blocked! Steve Alton threw his body in front of the ball!

Chester have been putting their bodies on the line since the first whistle.

A tremendously committed performance.

The curse commentator (me, I guess, in a weird way) was right - I'd put out a weakened team but it was still full of champions and winners. Six of the eleven had won the National League North and the Cheshire Cup just a few months ago. They weren't going to roll over, especially not with the crowd backing them.

We were one-nil down at half time and I briefly thought about throwing on some of my star players to try to turn all that effort into something tangible. The constraints I was working under made it impossible, though. I just had to think ahead, even in a sport that rewarded today's home run over tomorrow's World Series.

The lads went out for the second half, the fans tried to lift them, but after ten minutes, Oldham scored again. Immediately after the restart, they stormed forward and we got crushed by their press. We couldn't get time or space and none of my tweaks made the slightest difference.

Something strange happened, then. The thing Livia had hinted at, I think. The home fans kept singing. They kept singing and chanting in a non-stop, rolling wave. I looked at Sandra and she felt it, too. For the first time in the match I went to the edge of my technical area and thought about how I could hurt Oldham if I went on.

The fans kept singing and given that the Oldham lot never shut up, the stadium was rocking. Two-nil down but no loss in support. Full backing all the way. What does that do to a man? Depends on the man, but I know how Cole Adams responded - under immense pressure, he took a pass from Glenn and with his first touch took his marker out of the game. He played a one-two with Aff and we made a rare foray into enemy territory. The tide turned! Oldham regrouped and tried to squash us again, but from a couple of yards further back. Next Youngster dribbled and combined with Magnus. Oldham took more steps back. Sharky beat his man first with skill and then with pace.

Roared on by the biggest crowd since Grimsby, we enjoyed a golden spell. Five minutes of non-stop pressure against a much better team. My resolve to do the right thing cracked and I told Henri to warm up. But someone else cracked, too. An Oldham player lost his fucking mind and threw a punch at James Wise. Wisey wasn't the sort of person to back down from a fight and responded. Most on-pitch melees get described as handbags but this was a little more serious. The ref certainly thought so. Red card for the Oldham guy, and he was sure to do the same to Wisey. But no! My guy only got yellow.

"Max!" yelled Sandra, but I was way ahead of her. It looked like I'd frozen but that was only because I was going through so many calculations and permutations. Playing against ten men changed everything.

"Wisey off," I said. "Sharky off. Henri and Pascal on. 4-3-3."

Sandra took a second to calculate. "And you'll go on for Steve?"

"Yep." I'd do my Trent slash David Beckham impression, switching play with pinpoint accuracy and hitting deadly crosses from the right with three bodies in the box to aim for. Her lips curled into a snarl and she made it happen. When the crowd realised our top forwards were coming on, they got louder. I looked at the away fans. Not so cocky now. "Gammon on toast," I said, prowling around like a caged panther.

Cavanagh collects the pass. He rolls it out to Adams.

Square to Ryder. On to Green.

The American slides it to Evergreen. Touched back to Alton.

Alton returns the pass and sprints. Evergreen plays it into his path.

Alton tries to play yet another one-two with Bochum, but the ball is lost.

Tremendous pressing from Chester! Oldham can't get control of the ball.

It's hoofed away but only as far as Alton. He finds Aff in space.

Aff waits. Adams on the overlap.

First time cross!

But that's brave goalkeeping!

He got there just ahead of Lyons.

The keeper boots the ball long. Ryder wins the header. Youngster brings the ball forward.

He finds Bochum. Clever pass through to Lyons!

Great tackle from the defender. The ball is loose.

Bochum gets there first... and falls over!

Is that a penalty?

The referee... books Bochum for simulation!

That seemed harsh.

Chester will make their final substitution.

Best replaces Alton.

As soon as I stepped onto the pitch, two Oldham players were set to man-mark me. I had the left back and left midfielder on my case. I experimented with where to stand and found that if I stepped into a certain area, both guys would literally come and stand next to me. Ludicrous. Their team was down to ten men and I took a further two out of the game.

With so much space, my clever players ran riot.

Youngster with the ball. He dribbles ahead. There is no-one close to him.

He keeps going. And going!

Finally, an opponent closes him. Youngster gives the ball to Bochum.

Bochum dribbles ahead to the right. Lots of space there. A centre back moves across.

Bochum chips the ball to Westwood.

His cushioned header falls into the path of Lyons.

The Frenchman is completely unmarked! He can pick his spot...

GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

The defence melted away. Oldham are imploding!

Now we were only two-one down. Now the fans were getting their reward. They'd lifted us, given us energy, and we were striving to repay them. Oldham's manager finally saw the folly of marking me and went back to that classic standby - men behind ball, low block, defend for your lives.

I didn't have a Goliath but I had twelve minutes. Twelve minutes to attack attack attack.

And attack we did. It was relentless. Breathless. I realised our fitness was better than Oldham's, regardless of the extra man. The home fans screamed their lungs out. I hit dreamy crosses for Henri. I combined with Pascal to create gaps. When Oldham cleared the ball someone gave it to Zach and he sent the ball accurately upfield. We didn't waste a second. We didn't let them off the hook.

Pressure, pressure, pressure.

But the clock was ticking down. Six minutes. I got to the byline and thrashed a ball into the danger area. Somehow it went clean through a forest of legs and out for a throw.

Five minutes. Aff sent in a cross that went over the strikers but with a head-down sprint I slid, kept it in play, and brought it back onto my left foot for an inswinger. The defence set itself for the high cross, but instead I clipped the ball along the surface to Pascal, whose move cut out five defenders. He cut it square, Tom applied the finish... and it was saved! A stupendous save by one of the best goalies in the league.

Four minutes - pressure.

Three minutes - pressure!

Two minutes. I had a free kick. Not the best angle, but I had a lot of heads to aim for. We flooded the penalty box. Load the bases; we need a grand slam. I used Free Hit and chipped it with spin and curl to the left of goal.

Zach and Glenn rose. Zach nodded the ball to the right. Now it was Henri's turn to jump. He competed and bonked it left. Youngster was there! He prodded the ball into the - no! Another crazy save. Tom was on hand to - no! Blocked on the line. The ball was partly cleared, but only to Aff. He set himself and wound up for a left-footed thunderbolt. Not so hard, I thought. Get it on target! As if he'd heard me, Aff took an extra beat to calm himself. He didn't try to slug it - it was more like a bunt. Get the shot on goal and let the mass of bodies work for us.

Aff's shot hit a defender's knee. This wrong-footed the keeper, who nevertheless got one of his big flappy hands to it. He pushed it away, but only as far as someone's arse. The deflection bounced once, twice, creeping ever closer to the goal line. Five players threw themselves at the ball... but Magnus got the last touch!

Two-all and the stadium was filled by a single, ear-splitting sound. A literal wall of noise. Magnus, normally so reserved and thoughtful, did a knee slide in exactly the same furrow as Benny, then whipped his shirt off and sprinted in front of the stands, spinning his top around like a lasso.

Trailing behind was every other Chester player, including me. I screamed at Zach to demand a chest bump. I jumped onto Henri's back and raised my fist like in the famous photo of Pelé. I went to Cole Adams, grabbed his head, and gave him the crazy eyes. "You did this!" I shouted. "You did this!" His morale maxed out. We hit almost perfect sevens across the board.

Two-all was a fair result, but I wasn't in the mood to be a football romantic. For the next three minutes I sprinted virtually non-stop trying to create a winner, but we ran out of time. The standing ovation was spine-tingling. If we could do this to Oldham, I thought, we could do it to Swindon. Bring it on. Bring them all on!

***

Thursday, October 24

There was one last home match. The Chester Knights were hosting Ellesmere Port in a six-a-side match. It was preparation for an upcoming tournament that both teams would enter, so the intensity was higher than for a normal friendly.

I was in disguise, hidden under a baseball cap, sunglasses, and medical mask. It was possible I would reveal myself at half time and say hi to Terry, the long-serving manager of our disability team, and some of the parents who were there, but mostly I just wanted to be left alone.

It made sense that I spent my time doing high-level things. The most important, probably, was recruiting Sandra and Jackie. If either left, replacing them would be top priority, no doubts. Finding and keeping coaches like Clive, Jude, Spectrum, and even Vimsy, was another important task. They were the guys who made numbers go up.

The next best use of my time was scouting. Finding a WibRob or a Youngster was like finding a winning scratch card. But I needed Sandra to scratch the silver off to reveal the winning numbers. And that process took, bizarrely, five to ten years.

The list of calls on my time went on and on - man management, dealing with the board, talking to sponsors, media shit, and going to matches to get the XP to improve my own skills.

At the very, very bottom of the list was the Chester Knights.

But good things always happened when I went to see them and I had resolved to watch them at least once per month. And there they were, running around, crashing into each other, taking shots, passing, running some more. It was a whirlwind of energy and positivity and like with all Chester teams, we were younger and more talented and had to find a way to match our opponent's physicality so we could - 

"What are you doing?"

Through the dark glasses, I saw MD. He looked as relaxed as I felt, and was wearing a premium tracksuit and a fancy heart rate monitor watch. I put on a gruff Batman voice. "Watching my boy."

"Which one's yours?"

"That one," I said.

"That's Jack Sutton. His parents are over there."

"One next to him."

"Max, why are you covered up like a mummy? You're scaring the children."

"Name's Cliff Daps."

"Okay, Cliff. Is Max in there, too? I'd like to talk to him."

"He says he'll only come out if you're nice."

MD laughed. A free, uninhibited laugh. "I still think about when we met. At the Darlington match, remember? I was trying to give you a job based on Jackie's recommendation and you only wanted to talk about Henri Lyons, who didn't even play for us. I gave you some scouting work and you said okay what about coaching, too? The very definition of 'give him an inch he'll ask for a mile'. But what a mile it's been. Winning the league, the young players coming through, connecting with the fans. It's a wild ride and sometimes it's scary, I must admit, but every now and then I feel what it's like from the outside. You've brought some of your cocky Mancunian swagger into this city."

"I'm from Hatton Heath. I'm Cliff Daps."

"I just want to say, because I don't say it enough, that you're doing great. There are times you make it look easy and times I think you might be suffering but you have this aura of knowing what you're doing and it's normal that things go our way. But it's not normal. It's not just a subjective feeling. I get more and more calls from clubs interested in our players. I get approached by sponsors. You're doing great."

Not sure why but I started to choke up. It was hard. I did suffer. "Max says can he have more budget?"

"Tell him no. He'll only use it on giving more money to players who just signed new deals."

"Those clubs calling you. Who are they most interested in right now?"

"Right now there's a lot of clubs looking at Carl."

"Carl? Huh." The decision to sell him would be another Sam Topps situation. Pros and cons stretching down both sides of the page. I took the mask off. "If I promise not to do more stunts can I have more budget?"

"I forbid you," said MD, "from stopping the stunts."

I took my baseball cap off. "What?"

He grinned from ear to ear. "I had the biggest response from the Mousehole game. People stopping me to shake my hand or clap me on the back. Free beer for the away fans? Cheap food? It was a party atmosphere. Everyone loved it. And the fake stewards thing was a huge hit. You know what I thought? I thought fuck that brat." He laughed. "Then I thought, hey, I've got a hi-vis jacket in my car. And I went to the Harry McNally and joined in. You bought me a beer! Thanks!" He laughed again. "We can't do it again only because someone in distress needs to be able to identify someone who can help them."

"Ah. Right."

"But seeing all the fans wearing the same colour like in Europe was impressive and the superfans are trying to organise something similar. Brooke wants us to rush out next season's away kit and make it all yellow. Lean into it. Offer cheap pies to people who wear yellow in the Harry McNally. We can market around things like that."

"Don't rush into that; I have thoughts about the kit."

"Of course you do. But it's just enjoyable these days. Magnus scores a goal that rocks the stadium and at full time he's got a pitchfork and he's repairing the grass. Charlotte's doing a goal of the week competition, interviewing fans after the game showing them three almost identical goals and asking which is best. It's funny. It's charming. Look, you're at your best when you're positive and driving us forward and if you break some things along the way, that's where I come in. It's one of the reasons I was so happy to see you become less belligerent with the board. We are all on the same team and should be working together."

"Hmm," I said, putting my cap back on.

MD tutted, but fell back into his relaxed smile. "I don't particularly want an investor, Max, not after what happened last time. But many of the fans do."

"Because of Ryan Reynolds."

"Yes, exactly. If they had taken over Grimsby that story would have been a mild curiosity. But they didn't. They took over Wrexham. You know what they did? In their initial pitch to the Wrexham fans, four times they promised that Wrexham would beat Chester. Imagine! Deadpool and Mac from Paddy's Pub talking about beating Chester. And with a few million invested, away they went into the distance. If it wasn't for you, we wouldn't even be in the same time zone. But there's a lot of Chester fans who would cut off their right arms to get rich owners like Wrexham, and the idea of you managing a budget of millions is really something."

"We'll get there on our own. Shortcuts take longer."

"I know, Max. I'm patient and I'm enjoying the ride. Tenth in the National League depresses you, I can see it sometimes. But it's paradise for me. I'm very, very happy and don't need more. But you keep saying, it's your club, it's your club. If the fans want to have this conversation about letting in a rich owner, can't we at least have that discussion?"

I took my cap off. "There isn't a version where there's a rich owner and I'm still the manager. So... I don't really want to have that conversation, no."

MD nodded and grew thoughtful. "I see the risk. Have the conversation and suddenly you're leaving the European Union and the economy is in tatters. But you still believe in democracy. Self-determination."

"Yeah, I suppose. Less so now that I've had a taste of power and I've seen how stupid most people are." I took my sunglasses off. "What do you want?"

He laughed, back to being fully relaxed. "I don't want anything. I'm on your side, Max! I'd be happy to stand on the terraces and watch you play. Or manage. I don't have the dread any more, when going to games. I mean, I did a few weeks ago but now it's just excitement. The team's competitive and this whole city loves how hard they work. If you say we're going to the playoffs, I believe you. But maybe James is right and there's a way to make sure."

"James. James Pond?"

"Yes."

"Do you know who's behind him?"

"No-one is behind him, Max. James is a Chester fan who thinks you're talented and wants to leverage your skills while we still have you. Give you ten thousand and watch you turn it into fifty or give you a million and watch you turn it into five. Plus," he added, "there's the stadium. You still don't understand how emotional we get about it. As a club we will always have a hole in our heart until we own our home again."

"But what do you want from me?"

"I suppose the ideal thing would be for you to meet any potential investors and see if we can't hash out an agreement that suits everyone. You're creative. You could think of a way to take investment in a way you found ethical. Or not. I don't know! But it would be good to try. Yes, I'd like you to try. That's what I want."

"Okay."

"What?"

"Okay. I'll meet the investor."

"Oh." MD frowned, but resumed smiling almost immediately. "I'll tell James. I have to say, I'm delighted. This is one of the best weeks of my life! Got so much energy!" He lifted his wrist and pressed buttons on his phone.

"You going for a jog?"

"Yeah, come here, jog home. Show my face plus get healthy. Two birds with one stone. I didn't expect to meet the great Cliff Daps to boot!"

I was just about to warn him about my plans for January when there was a cry of "Max Best!" Wilson, one of the O.G. Knights, had seen me without my disguise and there was instant chaos. Most of the home players and subs came rushing over and surrounded me. One tree, ten koalas.

MD took a few steps away. "Have fun."

"Oi!" I said. "Don't just leave me like this."

"Sorry," he said, pressing start on his watch. He was about to depart when yet another massive smile cut his face open. "The draw for the next round of the Youth Cup came in."

"Let me guess. Another home match."

"Bingo. Northampton Town from League One. That'll be the end of our little run. Shame! I just hope the pitch holds up."

I tried to prise some of the little hands off me. With the men's team going deep into cups, the women's doing the same, plus the youth team having regular showpiece events, one pitch wasn't going to suffice. "We're going to need a second stadium."

"Ha! What do they say in that movie? If you build it, they will come." He ran away, laughing.

I picked Wilson up and carried him back onto the pitch. "Why do people always think I'm joking?"

***

We are delighted to announce that Steve Alton has signed an improved contract. Manager Max Best said, "Steve was a great signing and his recent performances have endeared him to the fans. He gives everything in every match and is a great trainer. He deserves this."

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