1.14 - The Half-Turn (Patreon)

14.

Refreshed, I took another look at the text.

Effects: Nominate a 'King' and channel one of his notable attributes (permanent +1) into a player of your choosing. One use per season.

Kings: John Charles (STR; HD). Carlos Valderrama (FL; CRE). Michel Platini (PAS; SET). Denis Law (OFF; FIN).

It seemed to suggest that I'd be able to boost one attribute on one player, once per season. Now, if I was Alex Ferguson in charge of the glorious Man United team of the 90s, this would be pretty trivial. Every player certainly had 15+ in all their key attributes. Sure, taking a player from 19 to 20 might lead to one goal or one save that was decisive in one particular game. So sure, for a top manager it was worth 3,000 XP if you didn’t have anything better to buy. But for me, a sort-of agent with a sort-of client, the upside to owning this perk was immense. A small improvement in a client's skills might be the difference between him impressing in a trial and not. It might be the difference between him getting a pro contract or not. The difference between me working in a call centre forever. Or not.

So the kings, then. I'd heard all the names, of course, but wasn't really familiar with what they'd done in their careers. The first two were on the list because they were called Charles. Like the new King of England. The others? It took me a minute to understand it, but we'll get to that.

John Charles, according to Wikipedia, was a Welsh player who'd gone to play in Italy in an era when British players rarely did that. He could play equally well as a defender or a striker. 'World class in two very different positions.' Impressive. Wish I'd seen him. From his bio I guessed that STR;HD would be strength and heading. If I discovered a 15-year-old Lionel Messi clone - a tiny, frail genius, maybe I'd give him one point in strength every year for 5 years so that he could compete in pro football. Maybe. On most players, though, increasing their strength or heading seemed like a waste. Maybe waste was the wrong word. How about: an indulgence.

Carlos Valderrama was a Colombian midfielder with giant, mesmerising hair. I watched a Youtube compilation of his best moments, but the quality of the video was trash. I guess they didn't have HD back then. Or more than 8 pixels. Still, from the way the camera panned dramatically from left to right, I was able to conclude that he was incredible at passing the ball. FL;CRE had me slightly stumped, though. Flair and creativity, perhaps, but I wouldn't have bet my phone on it. Probably not attributes that would make me rich. In fact, many modern coaches disliked 'flair players'. They wanted automatons to carry out their instructions exactly. Or so it seemed to me.

Michel Platini wasn't called Charles, but his nickname was Le Roi - The King. His Wikipedia page was half barely believable evidence of his sublime talent, half crime novel. The least said about that the better. But PAS;SET was undoubtedly passing and set pieces. Could be handy. Take an outstanding player and make him better at free kicks and penalties? Ka-ching!

But let's be honest, I knew I wanted FIN as soon as I saw it. Denis Law was one of Man United's holy trinity - a pretty blasphemous nickname for the three players who share a statue outside Old Trafford: Denis Law, George Best (no relation), Bobby Charlton. Law was a striker, a pure goalscorer. His nickname, you might have guessed, was 'The King' and by choosing him as my king, I'd be able to increase Ziggy's finishing from 16 to 17. (I had no clue what OFF meant. Offence? Offside avoidance? I spent no more than four seconds thinking about it.)

I spent a few hours daydreaming about Ziggy turning up to his trial with finishing 17. Oh, how different it would be to someone with a mere 16! I pitied the old, feeble 16 FIN Ziggy, who could barely hit a cow with a banjo. The new 17 FIN Ziggy? Well, you could point to any blade of grass behind the goal and he'd kick a ball straight at it.

But of course, all this was a month away, if I followed my plan and had some luck. In the meantime, I needed to grind - when the Football Association permitted me - and grind hard.

The best way to grind was to get to a Premier League match. For that, I needed money. Problem: I had none. Solution: an inventory of my house to see what I could flog.

***

My haul was feeble. I'd put a few things on my kitchen table. Things I could do without. Things that might fetch a few bob.

The first group included a tennis racquet. A decent one - a gift from a relative when I'd played at school. I checked online and it seemed like it might fetch 20 or 30 quid. I had my Playstation 3 and some games. 20 quid. 25 maybe? There was my TI-83 scientific calculator. Some football boots and shinpads. Some odds and ends. All fairly feeble. It was very possible I’d spend so long trying to sell this junk that it’d be more profitable to walk around town picking up dropped coins.

There was a second section - things I wanted to keep but would sell if a bit of cash was the difference between becoming an agent or not. I had a Nutribullet blender. Great for turning cheap fruit and veg into premium-feeling smoothies. A taste of the Californian sunshine in those long, grim northern evenings.

My laptop and phone could both, in theory, be downgraded. Maybe I'd get a hundred quid in the process. It'd be such a hassle, though. Hours of backing up files, of setting things up how I liked them. It would be an ordeal. And the mental anguish from having a computer that booted up in 3 minutes instead of 30 seconds wasn't worth it, was it? If that hundred pounds turned into a million, then yeah, it would be worth it. But man - it was hard to imagine deliberately making my life worse.

Then there was my car. It made no sense to simply sell it - I needed to be able to drive around to scout players, to watch games, to network. Downgrading? Sure. But to what? A skateboard? Just to cover my bases, I went on some websites to get an idea of what I might be able to sell it for. The consensus was about 900 pounds. And then what? Buy something for 500 that would be so unreliable I'd miss important meetings?

This whole line of thinking was obviously a false economy. I had to be rational. And I had to think about my mental health.

I owned this pile of junk and fifty pounds of Premium Bonds. That, plus what I could spare from my salary, was my budget.

I sighed. I knew it wouldn't be enough.

***

Unknown number: Hi this is Neil. Can u bring ur lad down this Sat. 10:15 Broadhurst. Cheers.

***

I picked Ziggy up and we drove towards FC United's stadium. There had been a couple of matches played during the week, ones where British teams were playing European teams and rescheduling wasn't really an option. But as soon as I'd gotten the text from Neil, all my frustrations about the lack of football had simply evaporated. I was on Cloud 9. I was an agent bringing my client to a trial.

FEAR ME, MORTALS, THE TIME OF MAX IS NIGH

Most of you are smarter than me, or at least have more common sense. But certainly you've worked out that my plan to find a club close to where I lived was flawed. Ziggy lived in Stockport and didn't have a car, so I had to go and pick him up and then drive all the way back to where I started - and then some. It would have been quicker to pick him up and drive to Birmingham!

That's not true, but under normal circumstances my stupidity would have been frustrating. If I wasn't so excited, that is.

Ziggy was nervous. He wanted to know what was going on. But I didn't have much to tell him. FC United's match had been postponed, so they were doing a special training session instead. If that session looked like a match, that was an illusion. It was definitely not a match. It was a training session that bore only the vaguest relationship to a match. Right? Ziggy wanted to know if he was going to play or just watch. I didn't know. I'd told him to bring his boots and gear and to eat as though he was going to play. He told me he hadn't slept because he was so nervous. I laughed - I'd slept great then woke up early like it was Christmas.

Ziggy kept asking stupid questions like ‘but what’s happening’ and ‘am I going to wake up with no kidneys’ and trying to hide behind his eyelids, so I told him to grab my phone and find 'American Girl' by Tom Petty. It came out of the car's stereo. I turned it up and sang the words I knew, which were the first two lines and the chorus. I did a lot of slapping the steering wheel and grinning at female pedestrians. Some colour returned to Ziggy's face. He looked a bit less seasick. Music. It's powerful sometimes. He didn’t even like the song. Note to self: find out what music your clients are into.

"Whoo! Right, let's talk about FC United. Football Club United of Manchester. Remember, it was founded by fans of Man United who didn't like the way the club was going. Seems to be a good vibe, friendly but serious. This is a little training sesh they’ve organised in lieu of their scheduled match. You’re here to make up the numbers. Maybe you’ll have to be a linesman or put out some cones. Which you’ll do with a big friendly smile on your face. I’m Ziggy and I love doing unpaid work! Yeah? But there’s bound to be a little match and I reckon they’ll let you join in for a few minutes because… well, it doesn’t matter why. Whatever happens, just go with it. What else? The manager's called Neil. This isn't Real Madrid but it's a step up from 5-a-side against roofers and bakers. Most of these lads have been in your shoes. If they give you shit, they're just testing you, right? Just seeing if you can hack it. Being slagged off is good news because it means they’re interested in you. Smile through anything that isn't well-meaning advice. Do you know what I mean?"

"Yeah. I’m the new kid. First day at school. Don’t worry."

"When the game starts, just score goals. After your tenth goal you can try some passes if you want."

He laughed - a warm, genuine, head-forced-back laugh. "Tenth goal. You're mental." He shook his head and looked out. We were getting close. He'd never been to this part of the city. "I can't believe this is happening."

"Barrett," I said, with much less manic energy in my voice. "There are 92 teams in the top 4 divisions. There are hundreds of semi-pro ones. Yeah? FC United is just one option. You might be nervous, you might mess it up. You might trip up over your feet and get subbed off after sixty seconds. Who cares? Who gives a shit? Get it out of your system. We'll have a laugh later. You can meet my wingman and we'll go get some phone numbers. No big deal. Next week we'll try Stockport Chavs, or whatever team you've got down there. But if things do go all right, will you do me one favour?"

"What's that?"

"Will you enjoy it?” I dipped into my grab-bag of random football vocabulary. “After today it’s all going to be eating mung beans for breakfast and 88 grams of chicken for lunch. It’s going to be murderball and slideshows about moving into the half-spaces on the half-turn. After today it's all business. Today, though… it’s the last time you get to just be you. Today, it's still an adventure."

He grinned at me. The colour had returned to his face. "You’re really fucking earning your fees, Max Best." He shook his head a few times. “Ten goals. Fun. Adventure. I can do that. There’s one thing you should know, though.”

Worrying. “Oh?”

He turned and gave me his eyes full-beam. Whites all around. “I’m great on the half-turn.”

The sexy beast! It would have been even hotter if I knew what it meant.