1.22 - Interestingly Uninteresting (Patreon)

22.

Beth wasn't in the mood for my shenanigans. She hadn't played for a while and had a ton of pent-up energy. But she offered a compromise - she told me the team got together to train on Wednesdays, and I could take over the next session and, as she put it, 'get all Max'.

So the Met Heads played, and won. They had a lovely old time, but I was worried. One of my only advantages against City was the Free Hit perk. But I could only use that if we got a free kick in a dangerous position. That happened a few times against St Thomas Aquinas because we were always attacking, but hadn't happened in the first game against City. In fact, almost the entire game had taken place in our half.

How could I get a free kick near the City goal? Or even better, a penalty?

Bella ran past and told me off for biting my nails.

How to get a free kick. Something to think about. Meanwhile, I had other irons in the fire.

I took out my phone and called Ziggy.

***

On Sunday morning I popped down to Hough End to see if there were any matches being played. I doubted it; the Queen's funeral was the following day. To my surprise, there were. It looked like a full schedule.

I drifted around the pitches, picking up XP, scouting some new players and rescouting many more. That latter was interesting for how uninteresting it was - a few players had their stamina in red or green, indicating that they'd changed since I'd last seen them, but it was so... unimportant. Some guy's stamina had dropped from 2 to 1. He was getting old? Another guy's had increased from 6 to 7. Training for a marathon? The other attributes were pretty static. I certainly didn't see any radical changes, but I was only giving the guys quick glances, and I primarily looked at the CA/PA scores. It was possible some interesting data slipped through the cracks. It was also possible I'd one day find myself alone in a lift with Lily James.

What I was really focused on was the touchline. I was looking for a team who didn't have a manager. Manager, in this case, is an extremely grand word to describe the role. In my experience, Sunday League teams more or less ran themselves, with one or two alpha/gobby types picking the team and making the substitutions. The 'manager' was the guy who washed the kit, filled in the forms, and stood on the touchline shouting encouragement or spewing bile, depending on their character.

There was one team who didn't seem to have a formal manager guy. I watched their match for a while and they were pretty good. Organised and confident. They were winning 3-0 approaching half-time and my impulse was to ask if I could manage the second half.

But 1) why would they want me to? and 2) that didn't really fit with the whole 'testing myself' thing I had going on. I glanced over at the other side of the pitch, where the other manager was looking forlorn. Even with the help of the curse, it would be quite a challenge to come back from 3-0 down. Taking a good team and making them better was one thing, but taking a shit team and making them winners, that was epic.

So I walked all the way around the pitch, past a corner flag, behind the goal, past another corner flag, and back up to the halfway line. The manager guy stood there, head down, barely able to watch the action, along with three substitute players. These dudes would sometimes potter off and half-heartedly keep warm. I suppose they knew they wouldn't come on until the second half. It wasn't rolling subs in this league, so once you came off the pitch, you stayed off. The manager's name was above his head, along with a load of question marks, but for once I didn't dive in two-footed.

"Hi there," I said. "I'm Max."

"Oh. John."

"What team is this?"

"We're Moss Side Celtic, and they're Wilmslow Mega Titans."

"Wow. That's quite a name." I tapped at my phone until I dug up the league table. "Ouch. Tough season for you guys."

"We've had worse," he said.

"Is that possible?" I said.

"I've seen you around," he said. "You're quite the Sunday League connoisseur."

"I'm insatiable."

"So you've seen worse teams."

"That's true."

"It's a tough league, this one. Loads of teams folded in the pandemic and the better ones got merged into one division."

We watched the game for a little bit. A Celtic player played a pretty good long pass, but its intended target couldn't quite reach out a leg to control the ball. "Listen," I said. "I've been doing my coaching badges. I'm supposed to do some real-life coaching. You know, it's like for the C badge you need to coach 200 hours, for B it's 500, all that kind of thing. The usual." This was all bullshit that I made up on the spot. I knew there were coaching licenses and they were called A, B, C, etc. but if you asked me which was the highest it would have been a 50:50 guess. Less than 50:50 - maybe Z was the highest!

He looked impressed. "Oh, right?"

"Yeah. I know it's a bit weird, but since you're 3-0 down, maybe you wouldn't mind me getting some practice in."

"Take the second half? This is for your badge, is it?"

"This'd be extra-curricular. You wouldn't have to sign anything," I said, as though that was the thing he'd be worried about.

One of the subs was nearby. "You're a proper coach, then? You got any experience?"

"I was in charge of FC United Reserves the other day, and we won 2-0."

"Against who?"

I gave him my best cute little grin. "Against FC United."

Reserves beating the first team? He loved that. He was sold. John wasn't quite as keen, and said he'd think about it. Over the next 30 seconds he angled his body away from me, half a degree at a time. I was 99% sure he'd turn me down - this was his fiefdom; he was Lord of the Manor. In the past, I'd have scurried away like a crab who'd turned up at a lobster party. But I found I was more and more willing to be humiliated. If you want to learn a skill, embarrassment is the cost of entry.

So I stood there, scanning the players, thinking of what I'd do if I were in charge. Maybe John would let me do the last ten minutes. That'd be all right.

But when the half-time whistle blew, his players came over to the side of the pitch and started fuming at each other. They were getting more and more wound up, pointing, accusing, blaming. Something had gone very wrong with this team, not just today but over weeks or months. The timer on the bomb was ticking down, and there were only seconds left before detonation. And the man holding the blunt pliers was, obviously, John. He wasn't one for confrontation. "Listen up, lads, this here is..."

He was putting me in charge! I tried not to look smug. "Max."

"He's a coach, got his badges and that, and he's going to set you up for the second half."

At that pronouncement, there was something like pandemonium. These guys were not happy with John, with me, with each other, with the laws of physics. One word oft repeated was 'rando', as in 'why are you putting this rando in charge' and 'first fucking rando comes along, gets made King, fucks sake'. I kept opening and closing my screens, but when John slapped me on the arm and took a step back, it happened. The screen was the Match Overview.

I was in charge; the curse had spoken. I rushed to the tactics screen and started dicking around.

All the bickering, mocking, all the chat of every kind stopped in an instant. After a slight pause, every player's face relaxed. They started sipping their energy drinks, adjusting their shinpads, doing little stretches.

The change in mood was eerie.

"Thanks, lads," I said, trying to move on to distract John from the creepy thing he'd just seen. "Second half, 4-4-2 obviously." I was locked into the match screens now, so buying 4-4-2 diamond just to try something different was off the table. As always, I was glad that something was blocking me from mindless splurging. I was planning to spend the following day strategising and whatnot. In the time it had taken me to speak, I'd totally reorganised the team. Still some square pegs in round holes, but it was a decent lineup. At least this time I had two strikers and two lads who could play on the left. "All right. That's it. Have fun out there!"

"What?" said John, stepping forward again. "You're not changing anything?"

Ah. This was a problem. The players - including the substitutes - knew what I wanted. The curse had told them! But this John guy, he wasn't in the loop. As far as the curse was concerned, this guy was now a spectator. So from John's point of view I'd said hi and then expected the players to know what to do. I needed to say my plans out loud, otherwise John - and everyone who watched me in the future - would know I was using witchcraft and burn me like a well-done steak.

I grinned sheepishly. "That's right. I've got it all up here." I tapped my temple. "Pep's always telling me I need to communicate more. Okay, boys, here's the deal." Over the next two minutes, I 'told' the players where they'd play, the overall style I wanted, and mentioned a couple of the individual tactics I wanted them to employ. All for John's benefit, along with tons of hand-slapping, like I was really passionate. How did I keep a straight face? No clue.

Then I said, out loud, as an afterthought, that we wouldn't be playing the offside trap.

"Oh, shit, he's a nutjob," mumbled John, but got zero support from the players. Which in itself was odd. Every single team on Hough End was playing the offside trap. Every. Single. One.

The offside rule is one that causes the most grief to people who don't like football. Instead of trying to explain it, let me describe what the sport would look like if it didn't have this rule. That way, you will at least understand why it's needed.

Imagine a bunch of children playing football on the school playground. Let's say there are 10 toddlers. If the ball is on the left-hand-side of the pitch, how many kids will be on the left? Obvious answer: ten. As the ball bounces around, the kids are magnetically drawn to it, like a flock of baby ducks following their mother. Fast forward a few years. The kids are now 8 years old. Most are still chasing the ball around, but there's one kid with a burgeoning strategic mind. Or he's just a lazy prick. Either way, he doesn't chase the ball; he hangs around the opponent's goal. When the ball comes to him, the little shit thwacks the ball into the empty net and runs around like a hero. This is either 1) low, snide and despicable or 2) hyper-efficient, depending on your point of view. It's called goalhanging and is generally frowned upon. As a comparison, it's like in an RPG when you amble up to a 99% dead boss, stab him in the leg, and take all the credit for the kill. Goalhanging, ladies and gentlemen, is kill stealing.

The solution to goalhanging? The offside rule. Long story oversimplified to the point where it starts to become inaccurate - you can't just hang around waiting to score a goal. You have to let the defenders take a starting position between you and the goal. Which is a big advantage to the defender, but the alternative is chaos.

In the first half, Moss Side Celtic had tried to play this 'Offside Trap'. That meant their defenders would try to stand in a line, and push that line as close to the centre of the pitch as possible. When done correctly, the offside trap forces the other team to drop back so they can't be accused of goalhanging. It's the difference between having attackers close to your goal, or far away. If they are far away, it's much harder to score a goal! That's why every single team on the vast playing fields was using the offside trap.

The risk is that when it fails, the other team is going to get a pretty easy path to goal.

And then the offside trap becomes a noose you place around your own neck.

To be good at the offside trap you needed defenders with good positional awareness and a sense of unity. Moss Side Celtic didn't have that, as far as I could tell. So if it wasn't working, why do it?

John had moved away from me, chuntering under his breath, mumbling about randos.

The referee blew his whistle to start the second half. My knowledge of football was about to be tested in the ultimate crucible of fire - the Cheshire & Manchester Respect Sunday Invitational League.