S1 2H - 7 - Betamax [T1] (Patreon)

7.

The changing room, the showers, my first time with professional players, seen, heard, and smelt through a gauzy Instagram filter. Hazy, distant, weak. There was banter, joking, oneupsmanship, but even though I felt disembodied the banter seemed lacking. Forced. This 19-man squad had been divided into winners and losers, and the losers had just beaten the winners. No-one knew how to act.

Some of the reserves tried to chat with me. With most of them, I only had the energy to summon up basic platitudes or to deflect their queries. But when Ben Cavanagh came over I saw the action replay of the long pass he'd hit towards Henri, and I told him it was my personal highlight of the match. He gave me a weird look. I looked for Magnus Evergreen and once again told him to keep training as a player. I didn't understand his negative PA, but I did understand that his CA had increased by one point during the match, and I felt in my bones that he was a useful and flexible instrument that any manager would want in his toolkit. And yeah, if he could give a massage, that was always useful.

When I left on my wobbly legs, Henri was still in the shower. I got the feeling he'd still be in there while we were driving past Manchester airport. I asked someone to tell him I said bye.

I stumbled out into the cold morning air - how was it still morning? - and felt the first proper wave of nausea. I dropped my bag and leant forward.

"What is it, Max?" Physio Dean. Treating everyone, as per his oath. Even me.

"Feel sick."

"Did you eat this morning?"

"A bit." I tried to keep my voice neutral. "I didn't plan to play a whole match."

"Yeah, well," he said, and it was briefly awkward. But he shook it off. "Here," he said, handing me a sachet of something. "Get this in you."

I tried to rip open the packet but was too weak and too malcoordinated. Dean did it for me and I chugged whatever it was. Some weird powder. Tasted of strawberry. He put his hand in the box and took out another sachet. He looked at me and added 2 more. "Take another one in twenty minutes. You're going to drive back to Manchester? If you aren't going to eat within the next hour, get those other two down you."

"What is it?"

"High-glycemic carbs, protein, electrolytes. Marathon runners swear by it. Try to drink a lot, too."

"Have you got any ibuprofen?"

He gave me a sharp look. "What do you need those for? Tell me all your symptoms."

"I'll take three fat ones, thanks."

There was a brief battle of wills which I won by not fighting. With a shake of the head, he found a packet of painkillers and handed it over.

"Thanks."

"Don't play again until you get assessed," he said.

No energy to tell him to get stuffed. "Aight."

Next it was MD MD. I couldn't read his expression, but he wasn't pale any more. His job wasn't at risk. I mumbled that I needed to get home and recover and we could chat later. Then it was Smasho and Nice One. They saw I was in a state and helped me walk to the car park. My calves were going from burning to threatening to turn inside out.

"What are you going to tell Benny?" I said.

Nice One laughed. "If he tidies his room I'll let him watch the video."

"Video?"

"I filmed some of it." He tapped on his phone and then turned it sideways. It was pretty shaky, a finger blocked the screen sometimes, and the luminous bibs made the footage look even more amateur. But it was the first time I'd seen myself on tape since the curse. Nice One tutted. "Ah, not that one. That's from when you played attacking midfield. Room for improvement in that position, Max! I know someone who made it look easy. Didn't I, Smasho? Ah, here we go." He found the right clip. Raffi came up behind me and watched along. We saw Raffi take the ball, glide across the midfield, and play a pass to some guy. The guy did a ludicrous body swerve and then was sprinting away so fast that Nice One couldn't match the movement. By the time he found the player again, a goal had been scored.

"Who's that?" I said.

Everyone laughed. They thought I was joking. Just in time, I laughed too.

But then I took the phone from Nice One and watched the clip again. That was me! Fuck. I looked... amazing. I watched it again.

"Yeah, yeah," said Nice One. "We've seen it, now. Go to the next clip."

I swiped and saw a very similar scene - the events of our fourth goal - but this time with much better camera work. When it had actually happened, the first team's left-back had seemed to be competing hard against me. It felt like if I made the slightest mistake, he would eat my lunch. But on the tape I'd completely left him for dead, and despite striking the ball powerfully across my body, I still looked fluid and symmetrical. The guy in the video could have performed the whole act on a balance beam.

For the first time, I saw the player that Jackie Reaper had lost his shit over.

"Next time," I said, reluctantly handing the phone back, "film Henri, not me. Benny could learn a lot from him."

"Maybe he won't have to watch videos to see him play, eh Max?" said Smasho. He was a former player. He could put 2 and 2 together just as well as anyone.

I tried to keep a poker face, but there's a reason people don't play poker immediately after running a marathon. "Henri Lyons is under contract at Darlington," I said. With that came the first pang of headache, so I said it was time to leave.

***

Shona drove. I was in the passenger seat. Raffi was in the back with Serina.

Raffi, normally taciturn and watchful, chatted away the whole time, full of vim and vigour. He re-enacted our goals, described interesting things he'd seen, and asked me why I'd made the changes I had. I told him the truth, more or less, and that got him chatting even more.

After half an hour I asked Shona to pull in somewhere so I could walk around a bit. The pain in my legs was more urgent than the need to get home. We ended up in the same services where I'd had it out with Jackie Reaper, and since we were there we decided to get lunch. Raffi ate tons. I tried to force a burger down my throat. The headache and nausea were in a fight for my attention. At one point, Raffi took Serina to the toilet and when they were gone, Shona patted me on the hand.

It was such an odd gesture that for a while all I could do was stare at her wedding ring. So young, so serious.

"Max," she said. "I've never seen Raffi this happy. I want to thank you for that." The hand vanished. "I've got a confession to make." She looked left and right and lowered her head, forcing me to do the same. "I've been looking for other agents."

She stared at me, waiting for a response. "Okay," I said.

"You're not mad?"

I shrugged. "You're just doing the best for your family." Plus I had a 6-month break clause.

"Yeah," she said. "It's just that, to be honest, you're so obviously an amateur. And it was taking so long." Fair and fair. "And I told Raffi, it's not enough that he likes playing with you. But er..." That was interesting. I'm pretty sure that was the first time I ever heard her use a filler word. "But I think after this morning, there's no going back. If you need to bring him to other clubs, go ahead." She took a deep breath. "I'll be patient." She grinned. That had cost her. "Raffi told me you'd started him on a training plan. Can we get into that a bit more? More detail? More serious?"

"Wait wait wait," I said. "Why tell me this? You could have just... not."

"I think it's good to be honest, Max. For both our sakes. I don't want that weighing on me, and your next clients might just leave without telling you why."

"Huh. Okay. Hit me."

"What?"

"Tell me everything I did wrong."

"We don't have that much time, Max."

I laughed. "Top five, then."

The hand reappeared as she counted points on her fingers. "You're abrasive, sometimes. You rile people up. Sometimes good, sometimes bad. You don't explain yourself. You think you know best. You don't communicate well enough or often enough. And the whole Max Best thing," she said, waving her hand as though she was throwing confetti over me. "It's unpolished. Sloppy, sometimes. I wrote to a real agent and got a letter back. On headed notepaper, Max. The personal touch is fine to a point but when it comes to, you know, my family's future, a slick logo is reassuring. Do you know what I mean?"

I shook my head because I was agreeing. "Absolutely. You know I'm learning as I go?" She did. "And I can't afford all that sort of stuff. So I'm grateful for your trust. I know I'm a bit... unprofessional sometimes. But there's one thing you'll get from me you won't get from Mister Glossy Envelope Man. And that's an unshakeable belief in Raffi. I will get him where he needs to go."

Shona leaned back and finished her coffee. "I know, Max. I know. But you need a logo. A website. Business cards."

I pushed my plate away. I was done with chewing. I'd chug the last two sachets of NASA powder in the car. "Who was the agent?"

"Excuse me?"

"Who wrote to you?"

She took her phone out and tapped it. "Bradley Rymarquis," she said, incorrectly pronouncing the name with a French twist. "I saw him on TV. Do you know him?"

"Never heard of him."

And reader, I wish it had stayed that way.

***

On the way back to Manchester, I got a text.

Jackie: Fucking hell, Max.

I wondered who had talked to him, which version of the morning's events he was responding to. I didn't reply.

***

It was a tough night, a long night, but the next morning I felt fine. I went to work and didn't feel like pursuing conversations about religion. So I cycled through other topics: logos, brands, trust. Basically treating the bank's customers like my own personal focus group. My brand colours would be red, white, and black, like Manchester United. Or blue and white, like Chester. And the logo would be a head with an angel on one side and a devil on the other. Or just the letters M and B. I finished the day in third place in the stats, and apart from a few mind-numbing moments I quite enjoyed myself.

After work, I went to Ardwick Powerleagues to grind.

But I also had a new mission - learning to play football.

Sure, I suddenly had the body of a footballer. I could run, dribble, pass, take a free kick, and backheel-nutmeg a goalkeeper. Great. But playing football against pros meant being in a lot of situations I'd never experienced before. Opponents grappling me. People running into my back while I was trying to control a pass. I didn't know how to be part of an offside trap. I didn't know where to stand on throw-ins. Dozens and dozens of small details.

So many new problems.

So few solutions.

Even someone like Benny, a 14-year-old academy kid, would have had hundreds of hours more training than me. He was explicitly being taught about half-turns and using his body and what to do in situation X, and he was implicitly learning much more simply from playing with and against good players. Me? I'd only ever played with and against CA 1 guys. I'd never had a minute of coaching, except what Jackie Reaper had told me.

So while I picked up 90 XP (and paid 10 towards my debt) I was also looking for situations like the ones I'd struggled with, to see how other players dealt with them. But it became clear that I wasn't going to find answers at a Powerleague. The situations didn't occur in 5-a-side matches, and even if they did, both players in the situation would be shit.

It was like fucking Jackie Reaper was Yoda talking to me from beyond the grave: win the duels you must!

Fine, mate. I get it. Stop literally haunting my thoughts.

With a sigh I drained my thermos and went back to my car.

I needed to watch players who were better than me.

***

A good way to do that would have been to go and scout a 6th tier match. One of Chester's rivals. But Inga didn't call me, and MD brushed me off when I texted him. 'Talk soon' was all he wrote.

So that seemed like that, when it came to Chester. The thought of having to start again at a new club used to exhaust me, but now I didn't care. I'd make some calls, Raffi and I would turn up for a trial, boss the game, and I wouldn't piss anyone off. Easy!

And as for Henri, now that I'd seen him up close I was sure there'd be dozens of clubs who would want to sign him, even with his bad boy reputation. Now, technically, Henri wasn't my client. He kept verbally hiring and firing me, but the one thing I knew was that I'd be his agent if I could engineer a move for him. Which was possible, probable even, but not certain.

The only certainty in my footballing life, really, was that Ziggy was paying me to be his agent. So I looked at the Tuesday night fixtures and saw that FC United were playing at home. I drove there, bought a ticket, and enjoyed the match from the terraces.

I could have asked for someone to let me in for free, but who knew what that would lead to? I wanted to drop in unannounced, be anonymous, and see how things were going.

What I saw was that Ziggy wasn't in the matchday squad, but he did go through the warm ups before the game and I saw his latest profile.

Barrett Graves

Born 13.1.1999 - (Age 23) - English

• Acceleration 4
• Bravery 4
• Dribbling 3
• Finishing 17
• Handling 1
• Heading 6
• Jumping 7
• Pace 4
• Passing 6
• Stamina 5
• Strength 6
• Tackling 3
• Teamwork 16
• Technique 6
• CA 16
• PA 58

preferred foot R - Striker

Hey, now!

His CA had improved by five points! That was fascinating. Because of injuries and suspensions, he'd played one whole match, and then he'd played the first half of the next one. Long before he was ready. It made sense that this baptism of fire had led to a big jump in his Current Ability. He'd learned how far short of the required level he was, and like me he'd found himself in situations he didn't have solutions for. He probably spent the next few days replaying those moments, wondering what he could have done differently. And since he was training more or less full-time, he could ask Jackie and the other coaches for help. Try out his solutions in practice matches.

Yes, training was essential. But a few minutes on the pitch would go a very long way in a player's development. It's like they say with muscles - you have to give them a shock so they will grow.

The question for Ziggy now was, could he ride that match and a half all the way to CA 30, where he'd start to really compete for regular game time? Or would his progress stall at a certain point?

And would attributes like passing and stamina keep improving if his CA stayed flat? I read through the profile again and smiled at his jumping score. Wasn't that his second improvement there? Had that happened because I'd told him to focus on that, or would it have happened anyway?

Ziggy was the closest thing I had to a guinea pig. A test subject. I'd have to keep a much closer eye on him.

***

XP Balance: 1126

Debt Repaid: 126/3000

***

After the match, I surprised Ziggy by meeting him outside the dressing room. (A steward let me in. My natural charm helped, but mostly it was the photo of us signing the FC United contract.) Ziggy was very happy to see me and we went to the pub. Both drinking alcohol-free drinks. Model pros.

While a table of women very studiously didn't look at us (except when we weren't looking at them), I told him all about Chester and he told me about FC United. Two old veterans exchanging war stories.

While I described Ian Evans, Ziggy picked up his phone and tapped at it.

"He might not be there for long," said Ziggy. "Chester lost again tonight." He showed me the phone. 2-0.

I was briefly interested in the fact that I hadn't even thought to look. Chester was a dead battery. "Oh?" I said.

"Darlington are top of the league. That's good for you, right?"

"Yeah," I said. If they didn't need Henri Lyons, I could become his agent. If they needed him, he didn’t need me.

"Chester are 16th."

"Okay," I said, not giving a shit. "FCU are near the top, right?"

"We're 8th," he said. "We would be fifth but we had a three point deduction because we had too many loan players in one game. You're only allowed 5 but somehow there were 6."

"Loans," I said, wagging my finger. "That's what Henri needs. We find a club who'll pay his wages from January to the end of the season. Darlington won't get a transfer fee, but they won't have to pay his wages."

"That'll work," said Ziggy, with the confidence of an industry insider. I wasn't so sure. There was a chance Henri had pissed people in Darlington off so much that they would keep him around just out of spite.

I sat back and took a proper look at Ziggy. He was becoming more solid-looking every time I saw him. "Ziggy, mate. Are you having fun?"

"Now?"

"Being a footballer."

Shy grin. The old Ziggy. "A bit. I want to play, but..."

"But it's still fucking top, yeah?" I thought about what it meant to be a footballer. A lot of attention from women. The ones on the next table were glancing at us a lot, now. Permission to approach. "How's Lula?"

"That's over."

"Oh. What happened?"

"How's Beth?" he said.

I smiled. That was his way of saying: next, please.

***

We were just debating whether to stay and have another alc-free beer when my phone rang. Mike Dean. Managing Director of a club tumbling down the league table. Bizarrely, when Ziggy saw who it was he started filming me. The phone's camera lens was right in my face.

"Max," said MD. "Hope you're well. Ian Evans and I would like to meet you tomorrow evening. Have a chat. Do some business, maybe."

"Will I book us a table in that curry place?"

"The meeting would take place in Chester, Max."

He was being strange. Distant. Professional. I guessed the moment when Ian Evans had sprung his trap had made MD realise how precarious his position was. Possibly he'd decided to stick to counting money and stay away from the football side of things. "So I'll work the whole day, drive to Chester, chat with you guys, then drive home again?"

"Yes, Max."

"And that will be worth my while, will it?"

"Yes, Max."

"Fine. See you tomorrow." I ended the call, then looked up at Ziggy. "Huh."

Ziggy turned the camera back on himself, and said in a dramatic voice, "You're done with Chester. But they're not done with you."

I nodded a few times. "Early night, then.” I gripped the phone and talked right into the phone. “By the way, Ziggy."

"Yeah?"

"Keep bouncing on your bed."

He blushed and jabbed at the phone. It wouldn't respond. "How did you know?"

"I saw you jumping in the warm up. You're like a flea. Boing! Gravity barely applies to you any more."

"Max," he said. He stopped the video and smashed the delete button. But he was delighted I'd noticed his hard work. "It's not the bed. It's my niece's trampoline." He glanced at the table with the women, then back at me. "Do you think I just deleted a historically important clip? The call to set up the meeting where they offer you... what?"

"One of three things. They want Henri, they want Raffi, they want me."

"Or all three!"

I laughed. "I wouldn't bet on it." I clicked my fingers. "That reminds me!" I dug out my wallet and took out the betting slip where I'd bet on Ziggy to score. "Nearly won 500 quid on you."

Ziggy held the paper like it was the Magna Carta. "Max," he said. "You really believe in me."

"Of course I do, mate."

"Can I keep this?"

I laughed again. "The fuckers are never going to pay up. So sure. You keep it."

"You should film the meeting tomorrow. You versus Ian Evans, round two. I'd love to see it."

I pressed the tip of my finger down into the table. "If there's one thing I can guarantee you, it's that this meeting will not be confrontational."

Ziggy gave me a blank stare. "Right. The kind of not-confrontational people stay up till 2am to watch. Live from Madison Square Gardens."

"Mate," I said.

"Mate," he said. And I saw him glance at the betting slip and then at the ladies. It was the perfect prop to get a conversation going. But he folded it up and slipped it with infinite care into his wallet. It was not an ice-breaker. It was something more.

"Right, I'm off," I said.

"Me too," he said. "Let me know how it goes. Can you at least send round-by-round scores?"

"It's not going to be like thaaat," I said with a hint of a whine.

And, true to my word, the following evening I behaved beautifully. For almost five minutes.