2.5 - Diamond Geezer [T1] (Patreon)

5.

30 minutes until the end of my trial.

You're caught in a snare. You need something sharp to cut your way out.

Your friends need to show off, but they're looking a bit drab. A bit dowdy. You need to dress them up and there's no time to lose.

You've got to pay your rent and you need to sell something fast.

There's one answer to all these problems.

Diamonds are hard; they cut. Diamonds are beautiful; they pimp. Diamonds are my favourite colour - the colour of money.

Diamonds are a Best's best friend.

***

"Vimsy, mate, How long's the break?"

"Five."

Five minutes to think through what I needed for the second half. Not long.

Still, I was on a high. It was like I'd just been given the all-clear after a terminal diagnosis. I felt euphoric. It must have seemed, to the outside, like mania. Mike Dean gave me a worried look. I wanted to talk to him, to explain that everything would be all right. But there was no time. I gave him a cheerful smile. It was the best I could do.

Shona was built different. She shuffled in front of me so that I'd have to stop and chat. I patted baby Serina on the head. So warm! Why were baby heads so warm?

"Max," said Shona. "I'm stressed, Max. Things don't seem to be going well."

"Stress is the time before you make a decision," I said, because I'm profound like that.

"Stress is the time before I give you a slap." She pinched her nose. She'd always had this conflict when it came to me. I was the only one who believed in her husband, but also, I was a damned fool. And it was clear I'd done something wrong here today. The absolute waves of certainty and belief that were enamating from me seemed to seep into her, though. She sighed. "Do we need to win this match or what? Is it all about personal performance? What are the victory conditions, here, Max?"

I looked at her husband. He was deep in conversation with Henri and the other striker. Possibly talking about his new role as a CAM and what runs he should expect them to make. His CA was green. This session had improved him by two points. I speculated that since he'd been at an academy as a young player, his CA had previously been 10 or 20 or whatever, and that getting back to his previous best would be much quicker for him than for someone like Ziggy who had to do it for the first time. "He's already won. I know I ask a lot of you, but trust me. It's happening. That's a million pound player right there."

Baby Serina gurgled.

"That's right!" I said. "Group hug!" I raised my arms.

Shona wanted to be mad at me, but she relented and stepped into the hug zone. Once it was over, she said, out of nowhere, "Carl is a nice boy."

"He is?" I said. But I didn't have time to think about it.

28 minutes left

I jogged towards the Chester FC club legends. As I went, I heard a strange voice. Physio Dean. I'd completely deleted him from my database of people who existed. A metaphorical one, you understand. Not the one given to me by the curse.

I shrugged at him to show I hadn't heard.

"Max," he repeated. "No headers!"

Well. That meant another quick recalibration. I'd basically decided never to talk to him again, and from his side, I'd shown him up in front of everyone. And here he was, looking out for me. Why can't pricks be consistent in their prickiness? I gave him a tiny nod, but no smile. Fine. No headers.

27 minutes left

And finally, since I was over that side of the pitch anyway, I dished out a couple of tiny hugs for Smasho and Nice One. They seemed taken aback. "Guys, I needed that pep talk. Thanks a billion. One Touch. Keep it simple. I feel much better. Thanks." I tried to move away, but this interaction wasn't over.

Nice One said, "Are you pulling our leg?"

"What?"

"We said play Two Touch. One Touch is much, much harder."

I thought about that. "I'm just boinking the ball in the direction of a teammate. I'm not good enough for Two Touch, I know that for sure. I need a lot - a lot - of training to get up to this level." I glanced at my team. They were drinking, chatting, taking on calories. "Listen. You're right about the player-manager thing. I have to do it because I said I would, but in the second half I'm going to focus on playing and let the team get on with their jobs." Two heads nodding vigorously. Max seeing sense at last! "If you want to shout out some things I'm missing, I'd love that."

"Yes! Finally, my management career can begin!" said Smasho, rubbing his palms together. "Twenty years late, but that's by the by. Against 4-4-2 you play 3-5-2 and overrun the midfield. I learned that from Benny."

"Interesting," I said, with a tiny smile. "But we're doing 4-4-2 diamond and letting them have the centre. All right?"

"Max, that's crazy," said Nice One, as I walked away. "Smasho, tell him that's crazy. Er... isn't it?"

"I don't know," I heard Smasho say. "Everyone always said I'd be a shit manager. Especially you."

***

Tactics Corner

You remember 4-4-2, right? 4 guys at the back, 4 guys in front of them in same spots, 2 strikers. Loads of advantages, not many disadvantages. It's the default formation in England, and presumably the world. And with good reason. It's solid and players know what to do just by looking at the guys around them.

4-4-2 diamond is almost identical. We're just going to move the two guys in the very centre and make one of them go forward and the other guy stay back.

Note that you'll see some managers use a diamond formation with the left and right midfielders very narrow. The curse gave me this version, with the dudes still nice and wide.

So what do I get?

Two things on a strategic level. 1) The creation of an attacking triangle. 2) The creation of a defensive triangle.

Now, you might not have studied architecture to the same depth as me, but I've watched more than three YouTube videos on the subject. And there's one thing all architects agree on - triangles are strong. In theory triangle 1 would help us create more chances and triangle 2 would make us better defensively. Yes, please!

The downside to the diamond is obvious - you give up the heart of the pitch. But do hearts beat diamonds?

My experience from beating Man City was that if you're playing a better team, they're going to win the midfield battle anyway. So can you create other points of strength? Can you gain more than you lose?

I didn't really think Sam Topps and the other Chester central midfielder had the attributes to do us a lot of damage, but we'd soon find out.

So that's the strategic stuff. What about the personal elements?

Well, I certainly hoped it would be good for Raffi. Playing further forward he was much more likely to get goals and assists. The position wasn't his preference, but he only needed a couple of good moments to seem impressive.

And since Raffi was decent in the air, we'd have the option of sending some direct balls. With three people to aim at, something was bound to come from one or two headers. That was a bit of a Plan B, though. I felt confident we'd be able to play some nice football in this setup. I made sure all the players were set to 'short passing' and that no-one was on 'long shots'. I wanted to pass the ball forwards then have high-quality shots from inside the penalty area. That was plan A.

As for me, playing in the DM slot seemed like it would give me lots of people to play One Touch passes to. And if I did find myself with a bit of time and space, I could play a longer pass to Raffi - it would be just like passing the ball between the wire men. Piece of cake. The kind of long pass I dream about. Literally.

Also, from the DM slot I could shuffle across and help our right-back deal with Aff. I wasn't normally motivated to do defensive work, but with the tactical overviews I understood where the danger was. Stopping Aff was crucial for my team, and I was happy to put a shift in.

So that's the whos and the wheres and the whys.

I checked what Ian Evans was up to. He was still ripping into his team. Motivational half-time team talk! Normally my instinct was to do the opposite of my rival, but today I felt like channeling my inner football dinosaur. I did my customary look-over-the-shoulder to see if Mr Yalley was going to appear. Then, with shining eyes and a beating heart, I told my players what I needed.

***

26 minutes left

"Guys," I said, as they regarded me with curse-inflated respect. "You know what I want tactically. But there's something more than that."

Henri interrupted me, the absolute menace. "Max, I notice you've given a hug to almost everyone in the crowd."

"That's not a crowd. That's just some people who are nearby."

He made a strange, unconscious motion that I later realised was him trying to flick a scarf further round his neck. "Nevertheless. I want a hug."

"Mon amigo. I'm busy. I'm about to give the fucking motivational speech of a lifetime."

"Max, you substituted me for a defender. Do you know how that feels? It feels bad. I am bereft. I am bereft and I need a hug. Okay?"

I gave the prick a microcuddle and was about to launch into the talk when I glanced at him. He seemed genuinely happy, which made me burst out laughing. "Jesus wept. Right, my dudes. Listen." The team were in various states of readiness. Some were lying down, some were on their haunches, some were standing. "You guys saw in the first 10 minutes that I've never played at this level before. I don't have a clue what it means to be a pro. I'd like to learn, but that's neither here nor there. I've seen football documentaries, I've heard interviews. I know in a roundabout way what it means to be a reserve team player. You are unappreciated. Undervalued. You're not in the first team. You train but you don't play. The crowd don't sing your songs. Some of you might break into the first team in the next few weeks. But most of you, it's going to be a long winter. Yeah? So let me give you a gift. It's the gift of vengeance. You come with me, men, and we'll fucking murder that mob in the second half. You give me 25 minutes of sprints and concentration and quality and we'll leave them fucking hung, drawn, and quartered. They all played yesterday; they're shattered. Their confidence is smashed. Their form is shit. You're not in the first team? Why the fuck not? You're miles better. Ben!" I turned to the goalie. "You're fucking quality, mate. These clowns aren't going to get a sniff this half, but if they do, you'll be there. Fucking Octo-man, the 8-armed goalie. Okay?" He smashed his gloves together. "Magnus. I love everything you're doing. This isn't the right time but holy shit if I come back to Chester and find you haven't been taking your footy seriously I'll be pissed. You've got something. Okay? Carl. I don't know what's going on with you but I know you can keep fucking Aff quiet for 25 minutes. I know you can. So let me ask you a simple question." I moved closer to him so that I could get a good read on his face. "Are you an American or an American't?" He frowned and said he was half-English, so I repeated the question, but louder. He finally understood and shouted "AmeriCAN!" I shouted the question again and he shouted American again. I swept my gaze across the others. The guys who didn't have outstanding PAs. The guys I'd cut and replace, given half a chance. I'd never see them again, so I went all-out. "Dudes. It's going to be a long, cold winter. You're going to freeze your arse off at home and then freeze your arse off on the bench. I'm offering you 25 minutes of glory. 25 minutes of sticking it to Ian, sticking it to the guys who are in your spots." I got quiet. "All I'm asking... all I need... is 25 minutes of sprints and concentration and quality. 25 minutes." I pointed at one of them. "Are you with me?" He went 'yeah!' I pointed to another one. Are you with me? He went, yes Max! Then I stood tall and shouted it and they all stood tall and responded.

Half the team marched back to their positions doing that clenched fist thing Benny had done in the under 14s match. Ready to fight. Ready to scrap. Ready to prove their worth.

You want to make this a test of motivation, Ian? I'll give you more motivation than you can fucking handle.

***

25 minutes left

The second half kicked off, and once again I was confused as to why the teams hadn't swapped sides at half-time. (Later, I asked Nice One and he told me it was because Ian wanted to micromanage Aff. Huh. Made sense. I dropped that into my bag of tricks.)

There were two minutes of huffing and puffing before I touched the ball. I played a simple pass to Carl, who played a simple pass forward. One more pass inside and Raffi was on the ball in a dangerous area. Nothing came of it, but I liked what I'd seen. "Yes, men!"

Now, perhaps I should mention one slight trick I was playing on Ian Evans. Like with the Man City false midfield strategy, during breaks in play I was resetting the formation to a basic 4-4-2, and only when the game got going did I switch it to the diamond version. Evans didn't spot what we were up to. To be fair, I'd proven myself to be an idiot, so he wouldn't have been on the lookout for any clever moves.

Apart from that, I let the game happen and focused on my own performance. One touch pass, one touch pass, cover the right-back, hit a long clearance. I barely looked at the management screens. The less I looked at them, the better I played. But the less I looked at them, the more the half-time motivation seemed to ebb away. I got the feeling being a player-manager would always come with this kind of trade-off. Sigh.

Still, with me in the DM role, we were stopping loads of attacks and I was collecting a lot of loose balls that normally Sam Topps would have competed for. So the first team virtually stopped putting pressure on us, and we slowly started to turn the screw. That said, Raffi was not a natural fit in his new position, and his match rating dipped to 5. I thought about swapping places with him - he'd be as good as me in the DM slot and I'd probably be much more suited to the CAM role. I had a bit more imagination when it came to forward play. I'd definitely give Henri some chances to score. But if I moved forward and made the job look easy, that'd be bad for Raffi.

So I kept things as they were and in a break, called out, "Raff! Two Touch! Use the width!" Basically, keep things simple, like I was doing, and instead of trying to play difficult passes to the strikers, he should look to pass out wide.

He nodded.

20 minutes left

So my suggestion worked... great. In the next five minutes, Raffi became the fulcrum of the team. Me or one of the full backs would pass to him. He'd take a touch and pass it to the side of the pitch where a midfielder had made a run. The wide players started to put crosses in, and suddenly Henri came alive. He shoved his opponent to get a little head start. He did a spin move which bought him a yard of space. He repeated the move but then instantly doubled-back. And once we started to feed him, he became more aggressive with his running. He was a whirlwind of dynamic forward play. Sprint, stop, recover, sprint, stop, recover. His combination of physicality, intelligence, and hard work made him a fucking nightmare at this level.

It didn't take him long to score.

Raffi played a pass to the left, and the left midfielder chose to pass to Henri's feet. He held the ball up and rolled it back to Raffi. Raffi shaped to pass it out wide like he had been doing, and even my eyes were drawn to the right wing. But Raffi rolled the ball vertically, towards the penalty spot, two yards in front of Henri's unorthodox sideways sprint. The finish was clinical and my sort-of-clients gave each other a big smile and a sloppy high-five.

I called them over to me. "Guys, that was embarrassing," I said. They gave me a blank look. They'd just combined to score a nice goal! "Jesus. The goal was quality. I'm talking about this." I mimed a shitty high five. "Raffi, you held your hand up like this, sort of twisted away. Henri, you didn't look where you were slapping so you just caught the sides of his little finger. Next time, I want to hear the slap from fucking Scotland, yeah? Put some fucking effort into it. Some technique."

Raffi snorted and turned away, taking the congratulations of some teammates. Henri nodded so hard he risked straining his neck. "Yes, Max! I love a manager who cares about the important details. The angle of the slap in the celebration. Yes, Max!"

I laughed. "Your movement off the ball is incredible. The finish was perfection. What's left for you to improve?"

He stopped nodding. "You make a good point. So you will send me to slap school?"

"You betcha."

"And what about you? Is this good for your career if Raffi and I steal the show?"

"Absolutely."

"Then I will score again. And I will put my heart and soul into the handslap, Max. I will make you proud."

Now, this was such a minor (and silly) moment that it barely warrants inclusion in this story. But I can't help but think that something I said was what caused Henri to do what he did next.

15 minutes left

The game was running along the lines I'd established. The first team would hoik the ball towards us and one of the defenders would head it away. I'd pick it up and play a first time pass to someone, and then we'd be attacking. Sam Topps had actually given up on trying to get close to me, and he was sort of looking a bit lost in the centre of the pitch. So I did something I had told the under 14s to do, and passed the ball back to the goalie to keep him involved.

Now, I didn't know it at the time but Ben Cavanagh was a smart cookie. And when I passed it to him, he saw an opportunity upfield. He absolutely leathered the ball - it almost looked like a miskick except it zipped about 70 yards to where Henri could chase it.

And there was a coming-together, a tussle, and suddenly the centre-back was booting Henri up the arse.

I wish I didn't have to say this so often, but reader, I lost my shit.

I sprinted forward and even though I'd started further away than most players, I was one of the first on the scene.

The centre-back was called Glenn Ryder. He was 6 foot 3 and formidable. I gripped his shirt with each hand and pushed him backwards. Away from my client. The one who wasn’t supposed to be there. "No," I said. "No. No. No!"

I'd pushed him back about five metres when people started grabbing me. I vaguely heard some shouts from Physio Dean, but almost all of my attention was focused on this Ryder guy. Tunnel vision. Focus like the tip of an arrowhead. In that tiny diamond of awareness, his confused expression peeped back at me.

And then Henri's voice. Calming. "Max," he said. "Max."

"What?" I demanded.

"Max," he said, as he coaxed my fingers away from Ryder's jersey.

"What?" I said with slightly less heat. But then, enraged again, I said, "He kicked you!"

"Oui," said Henri, and by now he had separated me from the defender. But strangely, he was pulling the three of us away in the same direction. "Oui, Max. But you see, I kicked him first."

That stopped all my aggression. "You... what?"

Henri stood beside Ryder with his arm around him. He grinned at me. "I've been kicking him the whole match." He turned. "Haven't I?"

"Yeah, you dick," said Ryder, delighted.

What the devil was going on? I put my hands on my head, ran them through my hair. "The fuck?" I said, eloquently.

Henri took his arm from his opponent's shoulder and curled both hands into fists. Held them out, theatrically, towards me. "Max. We're competing. We're professionals. We're trying to get the upper hand. This isn't the Chester Knights, now. It's two no-good sons of bitches trying to heke out an advantage. This is football."

I stared in dismay at Glenn Ryder. "And you like this?"

"Yeah," he said. "It's not often you get to compete against someone of his level."

Clearly, I wasn't about to understand the psychology of these dudes. I pinched my nose, and sighed. I moved a bit closer to the pair of nutjobs. "Listen here, you twats. Cut this neanderthal shit out. You can explain it to me later. There's like, 13 minutes left. Can you give me 13 minutes of fucking Tellytubbies football? Please?"

Ryder's eyebrows shot up. "Henri, lad. Who is this guy to you?"

"He's my agent."

"Oh. Oh!" Ryder checked me out. "No shit? Why is your agent better than you?"

"Max!" complained Henri. "He is winding me up! I will boot him up the harse!"

I pointed at them, sternly. "No more kicking. I swear to god. Cut it out."

Both men held up their palms in surrender. No more kicking.

Vimsy had given us a free kick. Like me, he hadn't seen Henri's provocation and had only seen Ryder's retaliation.

I'm not sure what made Ian Evans lock back onto me as his primary target. It might have been me pushing his strongest defender away like he was a helium balloon. Or it might have been what I did with the free kick.

Either way, the next 13 minutes had a clear dynamic. It was Max Best vs Ian Evans, all in, all out, and we both had aces up our sleeves.

...

Thanks for your support!

I might have found the perfect guy to read the audiobooks. Which is weird because I wasn't even looking. I actually found him at 2am while trying to check how 'Champion Manager' handled the default version of 442 diamond. [In the end I had to go turn on my old PC otherwise I wasn't going to get to sleep.] More on this story as it develops!