1.40 - Oldham Athletic (Patreon)

40.

My seat was a normal plastic fold-up deal, like every other one in the stadium, but there was a nice open space behind it that made it seem more premium. It made me think of those headstones that are set apart in a graveyard. That guy, you think, must have been a big deal. The view was great, too. Just to the right of the half-way line, not so low that my view was blocked, not so high that I had to walk up loads of stairs like a pleb. Bury me here and I promise not to haunt you. Deal?

The match kicked off and I was bombarded with information. First, the attendance. There were still people filing into the stadium and finding their seats, but it was busy! This was non-league football, so I'd expected about 2,000 fans, but there seemed way more than that. Later, I'd find out that the official attendance was around 9,500. Wow! Oldham was a pretty big club. Or was this atypical and there was a bumper crowd to see Wrexham? That made no sense. Wrexham? That little town in Wales? What? Anyway, the place was bursting with movement and energy. Hearty songs, lusty chanting, ear-slapping claps.

Next, the levels of CA among the players. Oldham's average was about 60, while Wrexham's was about 90. That meant Ziggy, if he reached his potential, could play for Oldham. Could survive in the 5th tier. That was very, very nice to know! In the Worst Run Team in the World video, the Youtuber said that one Oldham player had been paid 12,000 pounds a week. That had been when they were in the 4th tier with their previous spendthrift owner, but still. That was only a couple of years ago. Some of football's riches found their way down here.

Imagining Ziggy on 12,000 pounds a week made me hot and bothered - not in a bad curse way, but in a good Emma way. I tried to calm myself down, but just as I was getting frisky a raven-haired girl appeared next to me, bending down solicitously. She was very pale and her breasts were pushing hard against the black buttons of a crisp, white shirt. The effect - pale, innocent beauty keen to be ravaged by a naughty vampire - was ruined by an Oldham-branded nametag. Caroline: Happy to Help. She bent even further and checked a little notepad she was carrying. When she looked at it, her neck was exposed to me. That had to be deliberate. "Are you Max Beth?"

"Yes," I said, smouldering at her quite by accident. Honest.

Weirdly, maximum Max had zero effect. She simply put a tick next to my name. "Welcome to Boundary Park. Not a lot of agents brave enough to come here these days. Have you got any food allergies?"

"Pineapple on pizza."

She wasn't amused. "Sir, I need to tell the kitchen staff if you have allergies."

Right. Health and Safety legislation. And I'd broken one of my personal rules for life - never flirt if they're paid to talk to you. I got it together. "No allergies. But why are you asking?"

"You're getting the two-course meal. Didn't Mr Brown tell you?"

"Jesus, really? That's awesome. Wow." Oldham Athletic! Legendary! I had a sudden dread that at some point, someone would ask me for money. For the ticket and the food. That was why I'd asked Beth to lend me 50 quid - just in case. But I was still in such a good mood that any embarrassment suffered here would have just slid off me. So I ripped the plaster - which, as a reminder, you shouldn't do unless it's a metaphorical plaster. "Do I have to pay something? I might need to find a cash machine or whatever."

Her eyebrows quivered. She hadn’t been expecting that. "No, sir. It's all complimentary. Half-time refreshments are included, and there's a cash bar after the match."

I’d made a necessary mistake, like when a player fouls an attacker and gets a yellow card but buys his team time to regroup. "At Chelsea they gave me a prosecco and then sent me a bill," I lied. “Twenty quid. And my player didn’t even come off the bench.”

She didn’t react in the slightest. "Enjoy the match, Mr Beth."

I intended to, now that I knew everything was free. Free food! Free refreshments! Free experience points! And the best news... drum roll, please... I was getting 3 XP per minute. So the system seemed pretty clear: I got 1 XP per minute for all matches lower than the 7th tier (FC United). It was 3 XP for the 5th tier (Oldham), and it was 7 XP for the Premier League. I mentally sketched out a table that seemed pretty solid.

Tier - XP/Min

1 - 7
2 - 6
3 - 5
4 - 4
5 - 3
6 - 2
7 - 1

Easy enough. Assuming I could get into any stadium for free, it would make sense to focus on Premier League games. I doubted it would be that simple. Anyway, I'd get at least 270 XP today. It slightly changed the calculation on whether I'd buy Shocktober or not. Instead of 18 evenings at Powerleagues, it would cost 10 National League matches.

While I was thinking all this, I got the sense that the person in the next seat was glaring at me. I didn't want to look away from the football, but I gave him a quick glance. It was a dude, the type of ruddy-faced older guy known in England as a 'gammon' (yes, named after the deep-pink slices of pork). Gammons go on a TV show in the UK called Question Time and turn puce and clammy as they demand politicians promise to nuke Iran if elected. (I’m not joking. That’s a thing that happened.) This Oldham guy bore all the hallmarks of the species - the complexion, the hunted look they seem to get after a lifetime of baffled privilege, the narrow eyelids, presumably caused by too much staring at long Facebook rants with no paragraph breaks. Long story short, after one second of knowing this guy, I felt pretty sure I knew who he voted for and what he thought about the death penalty and 'brown people'. He looked away. What was his deal? Rival agent? Big Man City Ladies Under 16s fan?

The guy himself didn’t worry me, but the vibe he was giving off most certainly did. It was the same vibe I’d gotten from Caroline, though she at least maintained a professional veneer. Something was amiss.

The match wasn't all that interesting, although there were some things that caught my eye. For example, both teams were playing 4-4-2. Wow! No Premier League team had played 4-4-2 in a decade. It was kind of prehistoric. Seeing two fairly big teams employing it was... Well, I didn't know what it was. Unexpected. Sort of... amateur? I did have just a tiny tiny fleeting thought that I could do better than either of these managers... But that was just some residual smugness talking.

Another thing, the best players on both teams were strikers. Fondop for Oldham (CA 82), and Mullin for Wrexham (CA 114). That was good and bad. Bad because it suggested that clubs were stocked in that position, so they wouldn't need Ziggy (although Ziggy had 4 better finishing than Fondop). But it also gave credence to my theory that clubs were prioritising strikers in their recruitment, so when a club did need need Ziggy, they'd be ready to pay for Ziggy.

I sent my only client a Whatsapp asking what he was up to. He replied that he was at Broadhurst Park watching the game. I had a tiny moment of panic and looked around to see who was stealing him. Then I re-read the text. Broadhurst Park was where FC United played. Boundary Park was Oldham. I asked if he was a United fan, now. He said, no, but he was training with them and it was only right that he went to the games to cheer them on. He said I should go with him once. Absolutely, I should. I asked him to get me a scout ticket and he said he could do better than that. Ooh! Ziggy bringing some mystery.

Oldham played really well in the first half. A Wrexham defender made a mistake and that allowed Fondop to score a thumping goal. The crowd went nuts. Real spine-tingling stuff. A lot of extra emotion in there. They'd had a few bad years. If I was being 'romantic', I would have said that the fans were trying to roar the club back to life.

As half-time approached, I started to get nervous. On the way to the stadium I’d been on a post-win high, and been distracted by Shocktober and Emma. So far inside the stadium, things had gone so smoothly I had just accepted that I was a football insider, now. But I wasn’t. I had one client and he didn’t have a professional contract. I was a chancer. One step above a grifter. Bill Brown said he’d come and ‘check on me’ at half-time. When he’d said it, it had seemed nice. Friendly. Solicitous. Now I wondered. Check on me.

Check on me.

That could mean a lot of things.

***

At half-time, a lot of fans wandered into the bowels of the stadium to refuel. The gammon and everyone on my little row vanished. The waitress came back. "Sir? The meal is inside."

I looked behind me. Along this entire sweep of the Joe Royle Stand were big plates of glass enclosing the VIP boxes, the Executive Suites, the media rooms. I had glanced at it without a second thought - I'd never been inside such a space. Now, I was being invited to cross the threshold.

I know this is weird but I wondered if I should or not. Going through the door seemed like it would make my misdemeanour worse. It was one thing to skip school, but skiving off to go paintballing was ten times as bad.

And now that I was looking, I could see people inside. Like, duh. But I mean a group of people in a small room. An enclosed space. Out here, on this side of the glass, I felt free. I could escape in any direction. Did I want to enter the bad vibes zone? The House of Gammon?

These were fleeting thoughts. If someone was going to tell me off, it would be better to have a full stomach. I followed Caroline through the door and into my first ever VIP box.

Imagine, if you can, a five-metre-long room, white, 6 recessed spots giving light from above, a boardroom-style table shrunk to fit, now accommodating ten chairs, ten sets of cutlery next to ten large square plates under ten large round bowls, two TVs on the walls at either end of the room, plus one wall of glass providing a clear view of the pitch.

If you can't imagine that, just picture a room with a table. That'll do.

It smelled, deliciously, of pie.

On the table were 7 gammons and 2 gammon wives. Most gave me the evil eye when I walked in, but a quick stare made them return to their soup.

For soup was the starter, and it was delish. Cream of mushroom. Couple of husks of white bread, spready butter. Nom nom.

Caroline asked if I wanted a beer or a glass of wine. I did, but I was driving, so I suggested a tea and some mineral water. That brought a scoff from one of the Oldham fans. Or maybe they were Wrexham fans and I'd been put in their box? Maybe that's why they were pissed at me?

It became clear from the murmur of conversation that they were Oldham fans and that beating Wrexham would be a very big deal. One guy called them 'moneybags Wrexham'. What? I'd missed some important piece of information, here.

The second course arrived. It was, and this delighted me no end, a pie. Non-league football and pies go together like Halloween and bad puns. Caroline deposited the crusted delight on my plate and was about to leave without telling me what it was. I didn't need Michelin-star service here, but I like to know what I'm putting in my gob.

"Miss," I said. "What is it?"

"It's a pie."

That got a laugh from my new-found enemies. I gave her a patient smile. "May I ask what is contained within?" I did a fluttery hand gesture on the word 'within'. Like a magician's misdirect.

"Steak," she said, and was about to scoot off when she saw my expression. "Are you vegetarian?"

That wasn't what I was worried about. "Will there be gravy?" Pie looked a bit dry. Gravy essential.

"It's steak and gravy," she said. "The gravy is... within." Yep, she did the gesture. Raucous laughter followed. Strangely, I didn't mind. Whatever their problem was, it was their problem. These guys had paid extra for their VIP experience, and they were subsidising my XP growth. If they wanted to detest me unprovoked, let 'em.

I sliced into the pie, and lordy, it was good. All fears of dryness, ironically, evaporated. Moist, juicy bits of meat. Lovely, thick, viscous gravy. Meat stewing in a meaty bath. I think Caroline was worried she'd crossed a line into actual disrespect because she reappeared with a jar of mineral water, a tea, and a couple of tiny chocolates.

"That good?" she said.

"I think it's the best pie I've ever eaten," I said. That got me some reputation points. Presumably nudging me up from minus a thousand. The aggressive stares from my fellow diners diminished. Clearly I had ascended to the relationship level where they aggressively ignored me. In other words, the perfect level.

I polished off the pie and sat drinking my tea and digesting. It was warm in the room, I was stuffed and content, and I really, really, wanted a nap. Bill Brown came, as promised, to check on me.

"One-nil!" he beamed. No hint of menace, there. "Good start, isn't it? So what do you think?"

"Oh, it was very tender," I said. "Slow cooked? Lovely crust. Amazing gravy. Ten out of ten pie, no notes."

"I meant the game. The players. Who would you want to sign?"

"Oh! Great question. I mean, obviously Paul Mullin." As I spoke, I realised this wasn't the most diplomatic answer. I should have chosen an Oldham player.

"Oh, him," said Bill. "He's considered a bit of a mercenary. Not too popular around here."

"Why not?"

"He was at Cambridge. League Two. Scored a lot of goals for them. A lot. They got promoted to League One." So his team went from the 4th tier to the 3rd. That explained why his CA was so high. "But he didn't sign a new contract with them. Instead, he vanishes, and turns up at Wrexham. God knows how much they're paying him. But it's all Monopoly money to them."

"Wait," I said. "Wrexham? They're rich?"

Some half-remembered fact-fractions were swimming around me, refusing to coalesce into one coherent piece.

Bill gave me a quizzical look. "You know who their owners are."

Owners. Wrexham. No. Why would I? Why would anyone have heard of the local businessman who owned Wrexham? Obviously because it wasn't a local businessman. It must have been someone more famous, like when Elton John owned Watford. Some celebrity born in Wales? “Tom Jones? David Lloyd George? I give up," I said.

"That Ryan Reynolds. And the other one."

"Oh!" I said. It all came together. "Rob thingy. From the TV show." Of course I'd known that a pair of Hollywood A-listers (or an A and a B) had bought a team. I'd probably heard it was Wrexham, but it hadn't stuck as useful information.

“Rob McElhenney.”

"That's why they've got such a good team," I mused.

"They aren't that good," said one of the gammons. "We're playing them off the park." All his mates went 'hear hear', like in the House of Commons.

Well, in the House of Commons everyone gets a say, I guess, I don't really know, but in my world, conversations are invitation-only and this guy was gatecrashing. I focused my attention on Bill and asked him about one of Oldham's subs. "I like the look of that kid Benny Couto. Why isn't he in the first team?"

"It's the new manager's first home game. He probably wants experience on the pitch. You've seen him before, have you, Couto?"

"No, he just stood out in the warm ups. Some players have it, don't they? The X factor." Which was another way of saying he was young with a relatively high PA.

"I've never really seen it in him, myself. Caught your eye, did he? That's interesting."

"Mr Brown," I started, but he asked to be called by his first name. "Bill," I said, "I was listening to your podcast and they were having a bit of an argument about whether you should consolidate this season after being relegated last time. They were getting pretty heated about it. What's your take?"

"We have a podcast, do we? I don't know how to do that."

"Hand me your phone," I said.

While I subscribed him to The Boundary Park Alert System, he continued. "You have to understand, Max, that Oldham were founder members of the Premier League. That's where we were in 1992 and this is where we are now. We're the only team to go from the Premier League to non-league. We haven't finished in the top half of a table in 14 years. We've had... let's say thrifty owners. Stability. We all wanted a bit more excitement. Be careful what you wish for. We got excitement, and we didn't much care for it. The last owner, he was an agent."

All sound in the room stopped. Every head turned towards me. "Your owner was an agent?"

"That’s right. You know all those older stars who go to play in the Middle East? He did a lot of those deals. Good money in that. Thought he'd spread his wings. Buy an English club, bring over some young talents, let them develop, get them a big move."

"Sounds like a win-win all round," I suggested, knowing from the vibe in the room that no-one would agree with me. The players were starting to come out for the second half, but no-one in this room was moving. This scene was like Love Island for them. Or Murder on the Orient Express if I said the wrong things.

"I see why you'd say that," Bill said. "But that's only going to work if you have the fust clue about football." It took me a second to understand him; Oldham people said 'fust' instead of first. It was quite distracting. "And the former guy... didn't. It was a disaster from start to finish and when fans took to complaining, he banned them from the stadium. Which, by the way, he didn't own. So the team's been decaying, the stadium's been decaying. Now, it's better. We're back on our feet. Got a proper, local businessman owning the whole bundle. He's a bit mad, but he's one of ours. Consolidation? Yes, please. But not too long - we're too big for this division. We need to get back into the Football League where we belong. And Hollywood fly-by-nights throwing money around isn't making it any easier."

I half expected the gammons to thump the table, but they just nodded along.

"So," I said, slowly, eyeing Caroline as I pieced together all the things that had happened since my arrival. "Would I be right in thinking that agents aren't too popular around here right now?"

One gammon let out an incredulous 'kah!' kind of noise. Bill glanced at him with a slight forehead crease. Then he looked towards Caroline with an even deeper frown. "Well, Max, as you know I used to tread the boards. Back in my salad days, my thespian days, my days of waiting for Godot. And the dream of every young actor was to get an agent. Someone to do your running for you, in footballing parlance. Someone to sniff out opportunities. Someone to shake the hands you'd never want to touch yourself, to shamelessly put your name forward for every part, to bear the burden of rejection on your behalf. I never got one, more's the pity. I didn't have what it took. Maybe I was too handsome for the 90s... Anyway, I'm sure most people see agents as grease in the wheel. Blood for the soil. Part of the ecosystem. But when a simple agent gets too big for his boots, wants to own a hundred-year-old club, wants to start picking the team..."

Bill had done a good job of contrasting the role of agents in general with the role of this one individual who had overreached. As he spoke, I could see the distaste fading away from the faces of the gammons - they started to look like normal people. Decent people. Caroline looked a bit pale. I mean, even paler. She probably thought, and she was probably correct, that Bill's speech had been a bit of a telling-off aimed at her.

But while he'd masterfully dissolved the tension in this particular room, he'd also given me something to think about. My trajectory of becoming an agent and using that as a springboard into the manager's dugout might come with a great deal of resistance from agent-hating fans. Sure, Oldham was an extreme example where an agent had trashed the club, but agents weren't popular anywhere. We were seen as leeches, sucking the blood out of clubs.

It was tricky. There were many pathways into the football industry, but every door was locked and barred - all except one. And taking the door marked 'agent' was like accepting a brand onto my forehead. One that read 'vampire'. Tricky, tricky, tricky.

Bill said he had to rush off, and the Oldham VIPs started shuffling back through the glass door and into the terraces. I called out to Bill. "Tell him I said thanks."

"Who?" he called back at me.

"Whoever gave up this ticket," I said.

He looked a bit confused and just sort of vanished with a big wave/thumbs up hybrid.

I was alone in the room with the gammon who'd given me the first evil eye, and Caroline, who was loading our empty plates onto a trolley.

The gammon got into my face. "He didn't give up his ticket," he hissed at me. His cheeks flushed a darker shade of pink. Guys like this spent their whole lives angry. I wished I could get XP for every ulcer this guy developed - a few questions about Brexit and I'd be able to buy everything in the curse shop.

"Gosh," I said, absolutely emotionless.

"He didn't give up his ticket," repeated Peptic Guardiola. The guy was both angry and delighted. "He died. You just ate a dead man's meal. You're a parasite. You're a vampire."

"No, no, no," I said, in a soothing voice. "I might be a parasite but I'm not a vampire." I looked over at Caroline. "Vampires get the girl."

And with a stomach-perforating grin, I slapped the guy on the shoulder and went to leech maximum XP from the second half.

...

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Bit of a bumper episode today. Sort of double length but it didn't make sense to cut it.