1.9 - A Promise to Myself (Patreon)

9.

Becoming an agent... it made so much sense. Agents were everywhere these days. They had more power than some managers. Casual fans knew some of them by their first name: Mino, Kia, Jorge. Imagine being a middle-man in modern football. 10% of a few transfers here and there and I'd be spending my evenings on an inflatable unicorn in my personal swimming pool.

The daydreams came thick and fast...

I'd been so distracted by the whole 'finally a potential use for this curse' thing that I didn't notice I'd passed 2,000 XP. My balance was 2,081.

But I didn't buy the Fantasy Football perk right away. I wanted to think things through.

Fantasy Football, along with most of the other perks and screens, were aimed at, as far as I could tell, football managers. Think about half the screens and perks: contracts, transfers, formations. But I was never going to be a manager. So why should I buy a perk that gave me ways to boost my team's in-game performance? I would never have a team.

Literally the only reason to buy it was because it was on special offer. Actually, it was slightly more than that. Super Scout had been on special offer, discounted from 10,000 to 1,000 XP. But Fantasy Football was listed as 2,000 XP and had no normal price. So it wasn't merely on discount - it was something that might never be available again.

What else would I spend my XP on?

Probably the Attributes 1 perk, and then Attributes 2, and so on. Why? Because knowing more about individual players would give me a genuine edge, be it in terms of betting... or scouting. Did I have what it takes to be an agent? Why not? Find a player, get him a club, take 10%. How hard could it be?

Probably very hard...

But Attributes 1, 2, etc, would always be available to buy, right? That's how it seemed. And if they suddenly stopped being available, if the curse stopped playing by its own rules, then fuck it. I wouldn't have to waste my time and money on this whole ‘live football’ thing any more. It wasn't totally rational, but I was leaning towards buying the Fantasy Football perk, then grinding to unlock more Attributes.

All with a view to rescouting Raffi Brown.

I decided to sleep on it.

***

Everything rational inside me told me not to buy Fantasy Football. But I did. Why? Simply because that's what I'd been saving up for. I felt like I had to follow through with my 'promise', even if it was a promise to myself. You can't change the goalposts halfway through a game. Right? Maybe there would be a time to use it in the next 40 years of my life. If I lived that long, and if future scientists found a way to play football on a desert world where grass was extinct. I could be the manager of Atreides Town, or Stillsuit City.

Was the heat getting to me? You decide.

Now, though, with Fantasy Football in the bag, I had a new target: unlocking the Attributes perks to learn more about players I saw. I only needed 219 XP to get the first one - I could do that in two evenings at Powerleagues. But I didn't want to be hanging around those pitches 24/7 in case they decided I was a weirdo and kicked me out. I needed to mix things up a bit.

Going to another Premier League match was out of the question for a couple of months - I was flat broke after the two I'd attended, and that included the help of the Scottish money. So if, as I expected, the next special offer cost 3,000 XP, then it could go jump off a cliff.

Anyway, I realised that I had one place where I could use my shiny new perk while gaining XP: The North Manchester Women's Indoor Limited Invitational League. Also known as 'the league Beth played in'. (Also, if you ask me, it didn't take place in North Manchester, but whatever. Technicalities.)

The only catch was it meant reconnecting with Beth. Potentially tricky. Could I get Solly to do some of the work for me? I decided to man up for once.

With a sigh, I dialled Beth, made small talk, and invited myself to be their team's coach again. There was a long silence - too long to be believable - but then Beth said she'd think about it. I tried to pretend to be worried, like I understood her predicament. But I knew her quite well. If she didn't say no right away, she'd eventually cave. She liked winning and she liked me.

So those were my Friday nights sorted. I planned to save Bench Boost and Triple Captain for the next game against Man City under 16s. But the Free Hit I could try every game. That actually sounded fun. The only problem was there weren't a lot of free kicks or penalties in those games. Something to worry about later, though.

So Friday was women's night. Sunday was Hough End and maybe some police. Mondays I'd probably take off. Tuesdays were Powerleague and perving over Raffi Brown. Wednesdays, whatever. Thursdays, probably Platt Lane. Saturdays I'd probably take it easy, but I did want to find some place with regular games just in case I needed XP fast. Maybe I could try one of the lower division teams like Altrincham. I doubted I'd get 7 XP per minute, but you never knew. Failing that, there were other Powerleagues in Manchester - I'd just have to drive a bit further.

All in all, I was in a good location to grind for XP - if that's what I needed to do.

***

XP balance: 181

***

I spent Monday evening at the Powerleague in Ardwick. I know, I know. I said I wouldn't go there all the time but I'd come up with a good plan - I went in full kit. I had the black United kit from the 90s, and wore full shin pads and everything. Proper John Terry stuff. (Context: John Terry didn't play in a final but wore his full kit anyway for the trophy presentation, earning him the eternal nickname 'Full-Kit Wanker'.)

Being in a full kit made it seem like I was simply early for my team's game, and helped me blend in. Plus, and I'm getting proper Agatha Christie here, being in a kit made people look at the kit and not at me. I still didn't want to push my luck, but going two nights in a row was doable as long as I changed my 'costume'.

The great thing about these Powerleague places, apart from the really nice artificial pitches, was the bar. I didn't drink more than a half a pint when I was driving, but I enjoyed being in the bar area with loads of people around me chatting about footy. It was a pretty good-natured vibe, lots of banter and lols, which was kind of hilarious when you had seen the people raging like fucking orcs on the pitch not twenty minutes before.

Anyway, one team must have been from Christie's Hospital or something because there was this gaggle of nurses on a table drinking girly drinks while a related group of doctors/male nurses/cancer patients were on the next table drinking big beers.

Seeing the nurses made me realise that I hadn't done any searches on my condition recently. Had I just accepted that I saw numbers every time I was at a football match? Was I really okay with that?

Although I was hoping to become an agent and make shitloads of money, I did want to know if I was cracking up or not. It didn't help that my mum had a brain illness. Know what I mean? So I saw this as a rare opportunity to get some advice, face to face, from healthcare professionals I would never see again.

I approached the table. There were four nurses - god I hoped they were nurses otherwise I was about to humiliate myself! - of varying levels of hotness. There was a quiet one on the left that I thought was a megababe. The others were much plainer, and one in particular was a gobby B. Almost as soon as I spoke, I knew I'd made a mistake. But I tried to plough through. If they had an answer for me, it'd be worth whatever sticks and stones they threw.

"Hello, ladies," I said.

"Here we go," said the gobby one. Even though I made eye contact with anyone but her, she did all the talking. "Can't even drink in peace."

"Right. Sorry to disturb you. I'm trying to remember the name of this book."

"You need a librarian, mate."

"It's a medical thing. I've heard about it in TV shows or podcasts. It's like... a dictionary of medical problems. It's like, if a problem isn't in that book then it's not considered a real problem. Do you know what I'm talking about?"

"Talking a lot of shite if you ask me."

Okay. Total bomb. "Right, thanks for your time anyway."

I retreated to my little table and scratched my head. I knew that such a book existed, but typing things like 'medical dictionary' led, obviously, to medical dictionaries. What I wanted was something a bit higher level. The thing proper doctors used. Would it be helpful for me? I didn't know, because I couldn't remember its name. Even if I had a copy in front of me, what would I do? Skim from start to finish looking for keywords like 'Polish cyclist', 'identity theft enabler', or 'what's the difference between pace and acceleration'?

I was staring at a TV screen, not really paying attention, while sipping my drink. A dude was suddenly in front of me. He didn't look scary.

"Mate," he said, placing his beer on my table. My table!

"Yeah?"

"You were asking about medical books."

I glanced over at the table of nurses. The cute one quickly looked away. "Oh, yeah."

"Why?"

"I've got a medical problem and I want to look it up."

"That's what the internet is for."

This guy was starting to piss me off. The scene was over. Why couldn't he leave me alone? I said, "There's a book that has a list of every disease and if it's not in that book it's not a real disease. I saw the nurses and they'd thought they'd know the name. Is that all right? Are you going to fucking glass me for asking a question?"

The guy picked up his beer and backed away. Too fucking right. My fists were clenched into tiny ping pong balls with gigantic knuckles.

As he settled back onto his table and started talking quickly to his mates, I unclenched and wondered how much shit I was in. A quick knifing out in the car park? Fuck. What if they knew my car and firebombed it? Even worse, this was where Raffi Brown, my one true love, played. What if I got banned from coming?

And more importantly, why had I lost my shit so suddenly? If anyone had wound me up, it was the gobby woman. Why had I taken it out on the dude? I shook my head a few times, pissed at myself. I drained my little beer and half my lukewarm coke. I wanted to be out of there asap. Ideally with all the blood still in my skin. I stared at the wall, wondering about all this while pondering the best way to leave. Pick up my stuff in one quick, violent motion like I was a proper lunatic, not to be messed with? Or leave sheepishly, like I knew I'd been a dick?

I was suddenly aware that the guy who'd spoken to me was back, and he was right next to me. Holy fuck!

"Is it this?" he said.

He was indicating something in his hand, but I couldn't understand what I was seeing, because by context and by the curious leaps of my imagination, what was in his hand should have been a switchblade, or maybe a machete. At least a steak knife from the kitchen. But actually, it was his phone. I tried hard to focus on it. Then it clicked, and I grabbed it from him.

The DSM-5: The Encyclopedia of Mental Disorders

The DSM-5, the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, Fifth Edition is a tome on mental illness published by the American Psychiatric Association (APA). It has almost unanimous acceptance as the authority on mental health disorders. The DSM-5 contains broad categories of mental illness and, within those categories, all known mental disorders and their symptoms (List of Mental Illnesses). Mental health doctors and other professionals use the DSM-5 to help people pinpoint and understand their mental health problems so that they may overcome them. The information contained in the publication is so thorough and extensive that the DSM-5 is sometimes thought of as the encyclopedia of mental disorders.

"Holy shit," I said. "This is it! Yes!"

"It's American," he said. "That's why you couldn't find it."

"I listen to loads of American podcasts," I said. "I must have heard about it on one of those. Oh god, this is great. Let me just email myself that name. Oh, man. Thanks!"

"No worries."

"And listen, I was out of order before. I'm really sorry."

"Don't mention it."

"No, I will mention it. I don't know why but I'm wound up tighter than a Jack-in-a-box."

"I did kind of notice. But you United fans are all like that." My jaw dropped. How the hell did he know which team I supported? He pointed to my top. "Um... the kit?"

"Oh," I said, cringing at my stupidity.

"I shouldn't say this," he said, "But you should buy that book. Find out which one you've got." He laughed - not unfriendly; good banter - and walked off, returning in triumph to his table. I watched him bask as he retold the story, then I got busy looking up this mental disorders book. It sounded like exactly what I needed.