1.11 - Barrett Graves (Patreon)

11.

It was probably just that I was feeling grumpier than normal, but the Powerleague matches were highly irritating. Sloppy passes, failed 1-2s, shots blooted so high they went over the 20-metre netting that surrounded the tiny pitches.

I wanted to grind. I wanted to get on the football agent gravy train. Why did these guys make it so hard for me?

After half an hour of head-in-hands frustration, I'd earned about 8 XP. I decided to take a break.

In the bar I drank deeply from the hot news of the day - the sacking of Thomas Tuchel.

Tuchel had taken over a shambolic - and expensively assembled - Chelsea team halfway though a season and instantly transformed them. And when I say instantly I mean instantly. Like a fucking wizard. They played, if memory serves, two days after he took over and suddenly they had a totally different tactical plan. For a start, they HAD a plan. And even with my Level 0 Tactical brain I could see that they were set up in such a way that every player always had a triangle of teammates to pass to, they were suddenly level 9000 in press-resistance, and they outplayed Man City, Liverpool, and anyone else who made the mistake of getting in their way.

Fast forward a couple of months and they were the Champions League winners. The best team in Europe. Wow. Astonishing.

Then Chelsea was forcibly sold because... well, because of that whole ‘Are We the Baddies?’ situation. And the new owners spent in the region of three hundred million pounds buying players Tuchel wanted. But all the while they were starting to realise that Tuchel wasn't their dream coach. The rumours were, and this was like reading those Love Island gossip articles, that Tuchel didn't reply to their Whatsapps fast enough and his messy divorce was making him surly and difficult. On the other side of the coin, Tuchel lost faith when the owners suggested they play a 4-4-3 formation. (Certainly within the laws of the game but even hipster teams tended to employ a goalkeeper.) A claim they deny! said every single article on the subject, which meant it definitely happened.

Anyway, it was all very soap opera and I almost couldn't get enough of it. But after reading my 6th article saying the same things, I put my phone away and tried to think about the story from a more strategic viewpoint.

Three hundred million buying specific players for a specific manager, then immediately sacking him and getting someone new. Insanity! The owners were burning money on an industrial scale.

What about the Chelsea players? Some players would win, some would lose. The latter would be sold at a loss, replaced by expensive newcomers.

The fans? Most were stupefied by the sacking and its timing.

But one small group was popping open the champagne - agents. They made money coming and going. Three cheers for irrational owners!

I felt refreshed and went to check out the next round of matches.

One profile stood out like a sober person at a northern wedding, made all the more interesting because it was attached to the least interesting player on that particular pitch.

Barrett Graves

Born 13.1.1999 - (Age 23) - English

• Acceleration 3
• Bravery 4
• Dribbling 2
• Finishing 16
• Heading 6
• Jumping 5
• Pace 3
• Passing 4
• Stamina 3
• Strength 6
• Tackling 3
• Technique 4
• CA 1 PA 58
• Striker

Now this was interesting. Quite a little conundrum. Based on the evidence of my eyes, Barrett Graves here was fairly poor at football, and his attributes weren’t impressive. But, and this was a Jennifer Lopez sized but, he had great finishing and relatively high PA. The value of finishing was obvious. But what was PA, exactly?

I'd been pondering that question obsessively, and finally thought I’d had a eureka moment. The problem was that I'd acquired it at the same time as CA, making them seem like connected attributes. Attacking and defending. Pressing and counter-attacking. Yin and yang. But what if they weren't connected? If I ignored CA and only looked at PA, surely it was obvious what it meant? Something like 'Playing Aptitude'. Basically, a single number that showed how talented a player was. Some kind of fundamental assessment of quality, like the score out of 100 you get on the FIFA video games.

How PA related to attributes like pace, or how it related to a player's match performance, I had no idea. But I knew it was the one number to rule them all.

At least, I thought I knew.

Now, Barrett Graves - thin with brown, curly hair - had a PA of 58, so he wasn't going to be playing in the Premier League any time soon. But surely there was a spot for him lower down the football pyramid? Especially with that finishing. Right? If he turned out to be good enough to earn 500 pounds a week, that was 50 a week for yours truly. Enough to get me into every United and City game to turbocharge my XP growth. Enough to afford onions in my wraps. I started salivating, and had to tell myself to get a grip. Onions were a long way in the distance.

I watched the rest of his game, picking up full XP now that I was concentrating properly, then when his team were picking their bags up from behind the goal, I moved towards the gate.

"Barrett, right? Can I have a quick word?"

I’d done the ‘showing I knew someone’s name’ thing again. Again! The suit helped. Obviously if I was intelligent enough to know how to buy a suit, I was intelligent enough to find out his name. "Everyone calls me Ziggy."

"Does that mean I have to as well?" This got a laugh, but as I tried to memorise his nickname a strange thing happened - his player profile opened and the name section changed to say Ziggy. Mentally tapping on it flipped the cell around so I could see his real name. Cool.

"What can I do for you? I was just going to have a shower."

"Yeah, of course. I have a shower once a week, even if I don’t really need it. How can I say this? Um… I'm a scout. An agent. Have you got representation?"

"Representation? You mean...? No. Is this a wind-up?"

"No. Look, I'm going to hang around the bar for a bit. I'd love to talk to you. No pressure." I could afford to be chill with Ziggy. It was a lot like flirting with a woman you weren’t that into - there was no real consequence to messing it up. I doubted I'd be this zen when it came to seducing Raffi Brown.

Ziggy looked around at his teammates - had they set up this prank? But they weren't laughing. I knew what their expressions meant - why would anyone be interested in Ziggy instead of them? Ziggy was shit. "Er... maybe some other time. Have you got a card?"

Ooh. Problem. Of course a proper agent would have a business card. "Nope. Waste of paper. I also don't have a 4x4 or a private jet. I also don't smother baby seagulls in crude oil."

One of his mates chipped in. "You've got an iPhone."

"This one is made of recycled blood diamonds, all right? Look, Ziggy, it's like this. I want to talk to you about you. About you playing football. As a career. It'll take, like, one minute. I'll wait in the bar."

He nodded, confusion playing all over his face, then trudged off like he'd heard bad news.

The guy who had accused me of owning an iPhone came up to me. "What's the scam, mate?"

I wasn't worried about this guy's opinion of me. "You don't think Ziggers can make it as a pro?"

"No chance. He's bang average at this level. Stockport 5-a-sides. Professional? Do me a favour. So what's the play? Nigerian 404? Catfish? Tech support?"

I laughed. "Tell you what. Let's make a bet. When Ziggo scores his first professional goal, you give me a hundred quid. And if he doesn't..." I looked around the pitches. Referees whistling to signal the start of the next round of matches; the warm air starting to cool so that some players wore t-shirts under their tops; floodlights coming on though they weren't needed yet; men shouting: Pass it! To feet! One two! Get back!

"Yeah, what?"

I’d lost my train of thought. "What? Oh. Well, if he doesn't, it's not too bad here, is it? This is my level. Bang average, like you said. But he's not. He's got something. If I were him, I'd want to give it a go." I lost confidence in what I was saying after I'd finished saying it. Would I want to give it a go? Would I want to be a mediocre player? A top, top player, sure, no doubt. Fame, fortune, world travel. Meeting actresses and models. Playing in front of 50,000 adoring fans every week. But a player at the level Barrett might reach? A lot of hard graft, a lot of hard men trying to take my place in the team or trying to kick me off the pitch. A handful of fans jeering when I hit a corner straight behind for a goal kick. Every witticism echoing around half-empty concrete stands, every complaint from my manager audible to everyone in the stadium, every opposition boot containing the potential kinetic impact that would shatter my shin into ten thousand pieces. A good match, one where I wasn’t crippled for life, ending with a muddy trudge inside for a cold shower and cleaning my own boots. For 500 pounds a week?

Not sure that was for me.

Not sure at all.

Whether the guy had tried talking to me since I'd gone into my reverie, I would never know. He'd vanished. I went into the bar and waited.

***

"Ziggy, I'm glad you came."

"Hugh told me to hear you out."

"Hugh is a scholar and a gentleman. Why are you called Ziggy?"

He looked down. "I look like someone from The Wire."

I nodded. I hadn't seen it, but some people talked about it like it was the TV equivalent of a sauna with Charlize Theron. "I'm Max. People call me Max because I don’t look like someone from The Wire. Ziggy. I’ll cut to the chase. I've seen something in the way you play. I’ve watched countless matches and scouted almost a thousand players in the last few months. Not many have what it takes to be a pro. I really think you could make it. I’m not saying it would be easy. It would be a lot of work for both of us. It might not lead anywhere. Are you interested? Should I pursue it?"

He did that thing where he looked sad with his soft, brown eyes. I wondered how he got on with women - I bet there were plenty who lapped up this ‘limpid pools of dreamy introspection’ thing. "Interested in what, exactly? Like... what team? What level?"

I pursed my lips. What level was exactly the right question. I had a choice - to keep bullshitting like I was a top agent or to be honest. "Ziggy, let's be real. I'm spending Wednesday evening checking out players in Powerleague. I'm not expecting to find the next Neymar."

"Right."

"And honestly, I mostly watch the Premier League. So I need to do some research, have a look at the lower leagues and see where you might fit in." He didn't seem happy that I didn't think he was the next world football superstar, but his posture didn't change. It didn't seem like he was about to leave. So I pressed on. "Have you heard about Preston?"

"No, what?"

"Their last five games were nil-nil, nil-nil, nil-nil, one-nil, and nil-nil. Seems to me they might be interested in a striker."

He gave me a blank look. "I'm not a striker."

"Jesus Christ, Ziggy. Of course you are." It hadn't occurred to me that he wouldn't know his own skills!

"I didn't score any goals today. What makes you think -? Look, this is weird." He started to get up.

"All right, look. Don't throw the baby out with the bathwater. I don’t need to see you dribble past 20 players and score an overhead kick, do I? If I’m wrong, I’m wrong, but guess what? I’m not wrong. No way. You’re a goalscorer. I’m willing to bet my time and money on it. Here's my plan. I'm going to watch Preston. And Altrincham. And whoever else. And when I find the right club for you, I'm going to get you a trial. As a striker. We might have to go a division or two lower just to get you started, because you're pretty old to be getting your first gig. But whoever it is, you're going to play well and score goals. And they're going to sell you to Preston. And you're going to score 15 goals a season and live happily ever after." I was getting hyper as my flight of fancy took off - more so because I was imagining ten percent of Ziggy’s joy being sliced off and deposited into my personal bank account.

He stared down at the sticky floor. Finally, he said, "I doubt it."

I extended my arms. "I just need your phone number. If I get you a trial, you sign a contract making me your agent. If the trial goes nowhere, you don't pay a penny. If I can't find you a club, I'll let you know. And then you'll know."

"Then I'll know?"

"Haven't you always wondered if you were secretly good enough? That maybe you could make it?"

He glanced up at me, looked away, then locked his eyes onto mine again. Almost inaudibly, he whispered, "Yeah." Intensity. Secret reserves of self-belief. The little shit! He was a ladykiller, all right. Note to self: don’t leave Ziggy alone in a room with a girl you are serious about.

I unlocked my phone, opened the contacts app, and pushed it towards him. "Put your number in.” He started typing. Slowly. I think he was feeling the weight of the phone to see if he could detect if he was being scammed. But I was already thinking of the future. “Try and get fitter. High intensity thingies. You know what I mean. Shuttles. And do some pilates or whatever. Can you practice jumping? That’s weird, isn’t it? I shouldn’t have said that. Fuck it, practice jumping. I need people to think you might be a threat from set pieces. And tell these five-a-side fucks you need to play up front from now on. Your agent said."

He handed me my phone back. I felt him checking out my vibe - my confidence (unearned), my suit (not really that good but in the land of leisurewear the off-the-peg suit is king), and my smile (genuine). His mirror neurons fired, and there was a brief moment where he let his guard down. A tiny smile colonised his face. "My agent," he said.

"My client," I said, raising my fist in his direction.

We bumped.

My client, I thought to myself on the drive home. The traffic was no better. Every light was against me. Who gave a shit? Not me.

I had a client.