S1 2H - 9 - Change [T1] (Patreon)

9.

MD fucked off with good grace.

I stood, picked up the marker pen, and went to the window.

I watched the match for a few moments. I was partly giving MD time to get out of earshot, partly giving myself time to gather my thoughts. Discussing the contract dates would be explosive and would surely end my time in Chester. Before doing that, I decided to try to talk to Ian Evans, to get to know him a bit, to see if there was an alternate path. To get him to change his decision from 'betray' to 'cooperate'.

Outside, a light drizzle had arrived. Most people hated weather like this, but I loved it. The pitch got slick, the ball zipped around, you needed more technique to control the ball. And when the match was over and you had a hot shower and used your fluffy towel and put on your dry socks - mate. What more do you want?

Oh, not much. Just money, status, and respect.

Honestly, though, right then, I would have settled for a good old-fashioned kickabout. Make some runs, make some passes, make some friends.

I sighed, looked back at my foe, and had the strangest feeling that the room had gotten smaller.

Ian Evans. Footballing dinosaur. You always think they're going extinct, but the game keeps producing more of them. I tried to imagine him as a kid, kicking pigskin balls around cobbled streets wearing clogs or whatever they had in those days. Him trying to do mad skillz, yelling 'Stanley Matthews' as he dribbled past two players, the absolute, unbridled joy of winning his first little football trophy. His first pro match, his first goal, his first Brylcreem sponsorship, his first day in the manager's dugout. 65 years of non-stop competition. What would it do to a man?

"Ian, mate," I said, "Do you even like football?"

He snorted, still on the hard-backed chair. "What kind of question is that?"

"Look at these guys," I said, pointing to the office workers. "I can't tell from up here, but they're probably all shit. But there they are, putting their bodies on the line. Tackles, freak injuries, shit, even broken fingers trying to save shots. Why do they do it? For the love of the game and all that. For those little moments of joy. A cheeky nutmeg. A nice pass and only you knew how tight the angles were. Giving the keeper the eyes." Making the goalie dive the wrong way with just a glance. "But you." I shook my head and leaned on the glass. "I've never seen joy from you. I've seen shouting and anger and constipation. But I've never seen fun. I've never seen laughter. I've never seen you attack. You're so defensive. So conservative. So reactionary. You can't possibly enjoy what you're doing."

He didn't move an inch. "I enjoy winning."

I smiled. "Yeah. About that. Your last win was under a different monarch so the question still stands: do you even like football?"

He kind of snarled at me silently. Then he levered himself up and joined me at the window. I say joined. We were actually as far away from each other as it was possible to be. "I like football," he said. "What you like... isn't football. What you like is data science. It's gifs and think pieces and masturbatory podcasts."

This threw me for a loop. I had no idea what he was talking about. I glanced over my shoulder - the door was fully closed. Hadn't MD left it a crack open? "What?"

"I like football," he said. "Football. Or as my old man used to call it, soccer. I don't like xG. Expected goals? We've already got a measure of which team played better. It's called goals. I don't like using fancy new German words to describe things we've been doing for years. Gegenpressing? It's called winning the ball back. Moving into the half-space? That's called moving into space."

"You think I'm a football hipster?"

"I don't care what you call yourself. It's all tactics and formations and weird graphs with you people. You play Champion Manager and think you can set up a team." Nope! Wrong guy! "You think you can look at some numbers and say who's going to make it." Well, actually, yeah, but not in the way you mean.

"Tactics," I said, "yeah. About that." I went to the flipchart and 'reset' it. Back to the cover. Then I quickly flipped through each squad overview. "First game of the season: 4-4-2," I said. I flipped more pages. "4-4-2, 4-4-2. I think I'm getting the pattern. Gosh, there's another one. Wait, 4-4-3? No, that extra striker was just a note to buy toilet paper." I was turning the pages so fast the sheets started to rip. The more I saw 4-4-2 the more annoyed I got. I did sort of try to squash the feeling down. A bit. Honest. I was aware that this wasn't going well but I felt imprisoned. I lashed out at my captor. "Ian, mate, why don't you ever change formation?"

He clenched his fist and pressed his knuckles against the glass. His head tilted downwards. "You kids. You've been brought up on slick videos with loads of little circles moving around a pristine pitch. Oh, let's move this circle here and get a double pivot. Oh, move him here, he can be a Trequartista. Fucking pompous tripe. Football's easy. Line up solid. Win your battles, win the game."

I sank back onto the window. I was struggling here. Struggling to identify with him. Surely even he wasn't that ossified. But the room was shrinking. There wasn't enough air. All I could do was fight. "But you were there in the war," I laughed. He bristled; he was born in 1951. "You don't just match up against the enemy. You do feints. Pincers. You probe for opportunities. You think changing formation is a sign of weakness? That makes no sense."

"I change formation, Best. At Barnsley we played 4-3-3. At Cambridge we did 4-5-1. At Swindon I got promoted with 3-5-2 and in them days, no-one did that. But what you learn after a lifetime in the game, is that at this level, simplicity is best. You can get as fancy as you like, but you're always going to end up right back where you started. 4-4-fucking-2."

"Why?"

"These players can't handle owt else, Best. Case in point. One guy we had on trial. Played centre midfield. Couldn't hack it, so he went to DM. But he was playing like a second right-back. Didn't have the tactical brain or the discipline to stay in his slot, yeah? Then - this is the same game, mind - he thinks he'll try his hand as an attacking midfielder. Can't hack it. Keeps fucking bouncing around until he finds somewhere he isn't shit. But guess what? That's not how you learn a position. That's not how real football works. You wander around like a lost little lamb, you're fucking your team."

"That guy," I said, with a fake look of interest. "What happened to him?"

"What do you mean?"

"You said he went to right-mid and sent in two dreamy crosses."

The snarl was back. "I said he went to right-mid and the left-back correctly didn't expect much from him and lost concentration."

"Oh, right," I said. "That was after he scored a free-kick from long range that marked him out as... so incompetent as to be underestimated?"

"The left-back was probably remembering the fact that when things got tough, the guy subbed himself off and had a little cry."

"Yeah, fair point," I said. "But if the left-back was more in touch with his emotions, he'd know that having a little cry can be therapeutic." So this conversation was going great. The more aggressive I was, the closer the walls got. I longed to get out on the pitch. Go and have fun! Why was I stuck in here with this cryptkeeper? I felt the marker in my hand. A chance to change the flow of the conversation! You can't believe what it cost me, but I tried. Say what you like about me, but don't say I didn't try. I went back to the flipchart and flipped to a new page. I smiled away the claustrophobia. "You're playing Banbury next, right? I haven't seen them but I'll bet you a Frenchman they play a defensive 4-4-2. So how about..." I scribbled the names of Chester players in a 3-5-2 formation, mumbling Ryder, Aff, Carlile and so on as I wrote. "Oh, mate. This is making me feel very special. Yeah, here's a winning team. Even better, though." I crossed out Carl Carlile's name - I had placed him as the right-most of the three central defenders - and wrote it again, slightly further forward. "Carl as DM. He looked decent on Sunday. Or put Sam Topps there. That'd suit him." I stepped away and checked out my work. It looked great. "There you go. I call this formation, The 4-4-2 Killer."

Evans stared at the diagram until he started shaking. It took me a while to realise this was a real, genuine laugh. It was almost silent. "You want me to play 2-6-2? In a professional match? Well, there it is. There it is right there." He sat down in his chair and rearranged things on his desk that I'd moved. His hole punch. His ornaments. A framed photo of a younger Ian Evans with some teenager.

I pointed out the window. "Let's go try it out," I said.

His hands stopped fussing over things. "What?"

"There's two teams twenty metres away. They know who you are; they'll let us mess about. They'll love it. You manage one, I'll do the other. I'll..." I was about to say I'd run the 2-6-2 formation, but I couldn't adapt formations yet, and I didn't even have 3-5-2. I needed to go shopping, but was still waiting for the November perk to drop. "I'll play a basic 4-4-2. The absolute anti-hipster. All I'll do is shuffle players around and give them individual instructions. You try this," I tapped the flipchart. "It's just 3-5-2, Ian! The DM can go back if it starts to buckle. But it won't."

He regarded me. "How would I know who to play where?"

I frowned. "By watching them. Actually, you're right. That's not the point of the exercise. I'll tell you who's best for each role."

"You've seen them before?"

"No. Unless they've been touring Manchester. Don't worry, it won't take long."

His eyes narrowed. "This is that thing where you think you're a good scout."

"I am a good scout. I saw Henri Lyons in the warmup when you played Darlington. Sunday was the first time I'd ever seen him actually play."

He scoffed - again. "He's the best striker in the league. You don't get a medal for that one."

"I saw Raffi playing 5-a-side."

"His talent is obvious. And he started in an academy. You're not the first person to think he's got something. You did well to dig him up, though. Fair play."

"My other client is called Ziggy. I saw him at 5-a-side, too, basically playing left-back. And now he's a striker for FC United."

"He's the lad who scored that goal where he celebrated like he'd won the World Cup?"

"Yeah."

I was waiting for the laughter, but Evans was nodding. "Left-back to striker? That's impressive."

This was the first time he'd said anything vaguely complimentary and it infuriated me. I exploded. Flapped my arms around like a teenage brat. "Jesus Christ! You're one of the only people in the country who understands every word of what I just said and what it means. If I tell a hundred people I found a player and he's got a contract at FC United, a hundred will think it's worthless because they've never heard of the club. If I tell them I found a guy playing left-back and knew he'd be a striker, they'll shrug. So what? But you get it. So why are you making this so hard?"

"What am I making hard, Best?"

"Everything." I walked over and flopped into the hard-backed chair that Ian had started in.

He turned around and glanced at the pitch where some of his players were doing small drills. Satisfied, he turned back. I realised he loved control; I could never play for him. He ran a hand through his hair. "What do you want, lad?"

I rubbed my face with both hands and leaned forward. "I want a place where I can bring players. A club that will train up the guys I find. I want to be able to use my skills and I want to build something."

He laughed. More of a big scoff. "What rot!" He scoffed again. "You're all about money."

When he said that, I was reminded of the feeling of reading half a Kafka novel. Page after page of people misunderstanding the main character, of accusing him of things he hadn't done. The atmosphere Kafka created was one of the most upsetting feelings of my life. To be safe, I hadn't read anything from Central Europe since. Not Death in Venice. Not even Heidi.

I was all about money. Holy shit. This was going nowhere. Evans wasn't listening and I was no longer interested in trying to find out what made him tick. On with the mystery of the contract offers.

"Wrong," I said, and moved to the flipchart. "Dead wrong." I turned it towards Evans and flipped to a new page. I wrote a big 1, 2, and 3 on the top half of the sheet. "Let's talk about these dates. January first. Henri Lyons signs for Chester. Yay!" I tapped the number 2. "January second. Raffi Brown is announced. Whoo! January third. Max Best signs. Shrug." I tapped the numbers a few more times. Evans was following my every move. "What if it doesn't go that way? Let's see. January first, Henri Lyons... doesn't sign." I crossed out the number 1. "He's forced to see out his contract. Or he finds a different agent. One who gets him an upward move. Wrexham, maybe! He breaks Paul Mullin's record as the most-hugged-on-camera-by-Ryan-Reynolds player. Good for him. But what next for Chester? Well, maybe they need to find some other striker. Maybe they need a few quid in reserve to afford him. So, sorry, Raffi, mate." I crossed out the number 2. "Sorry, mate. We like you but deal's off. No hard feelings, yeah? January third. Max Best. Who's that? Some football hipster, always blabbing about xG, apparently. Wait, didn't he fucking smash his trial and lead the reserves to victory against the first team? Yeah, but he's a twat." My volume started to rise, and I started to get closer to Evans. "So, January 3rd, 9am, Max Best gets a text. Deal's off. Soz. Ah, but wait a second, Ian. December third I've handed in my notice. So January third rolls around, I'm fucking unemployed. No income, mate, at the height of winter. Can't afford heating. Can't afford rent. I'm out on the street - in Chester, mind you, because I fucking moved here for my new job! - and the question is, what gets me first: starvation or fucking HYPOTHERMIA?"

"Oh, spare me," he said. "You're not going to die. You'll find some other club to leech off."

That shut me up. Briefly. "What?"

"Leech. Little slug things. Bloodsuckers. You're a con man and Mike Dean is the perfect mark. You know more about footy than him, you've blinded him with science, you've had a couple of lucky punches and now he wants to give you the keys to the kingdom."

It was strange hearing this version of me. Hard to work out how he'd come to this conclusion. "Right." I was rapidly cooling off. I liked Chester, the club, but their budget was so tiny I wondered if they could match my ambitions. I should have been looking for a club that could afford to bring in ten new first team players and twenty youth prospects. This whole mess could be chalked up as a valuable life lesson, a funny story, the equivalent of the music executive who passed on The Beatles.

But Evans wasn't done provoking me. "I took this job because Chester needed me. They needed a steady hand on the tiller. Someone to right the ship. Old-school football wisdom. That's what I offer; that's what I'm here for. MD is a good lad, good Chester stock, but he doesn't know his Arsenal from his elbow. This club has suffered from chancers and grifters before. I well remember when Chester City went bust. You get the wrong sort of people inside a club, it's like a cancer. This country is full of clubs rotting away, hollowed out by bloodsuckers. I won't let that happen under my watch. This community has suffered enough. This community deserves better."

The rain intensified - now we could hear it slamming into the glass. I laughed. It was a bit manic. The laughter of a man who wanted to run around and get soaking wet chasing a ball. The laughter of a man not in complete control of himself. "Community? You're joking, right? On my first day here I volunteered for a session with the Chester Knights and one with the under 14s. From what I hear, that's two more sessions than you, your coaching staff, and your entire first team has ever done! Henri fucking Lyons did the same as me. And neither of us fucking work here! So you can get bent with that. Did you know you had a disabled team? Do you know what's happening in the youth teams? Of course you don't. You're running the oldest squad in the league. There's no pathway for young players. That's your gift to the next manager - absolutely zero development. So let me be the one to tell you - your youth system, yes, your youth system is broken. What's happening under your nose, on your shift, is a fucking debacle. If you gave the slightest shit you'd be there every Sunday morning. But they've never seen you, mate. Community? Half those kids don't know what you look like. They'd recognise me, though, I promise you that."

"Yeah, yeah. I bet they all follow you on Snapchat. My job is to keep the team in this league. And I'll do that."

"Community," I scoffed again. "I've been to three of your matches. One was fucking epic. That was the only one where your tactics made sense. Playing against a better team, an Ian Evans special. The other two were dull as dishwater. Attendances are in decline. Because nobody wants to watch 23 home matches where 20 are nil-nil or one-nil. They don't want to watch Aff tracking back doing his defensive work. They don't want to watch your strikers ten yards ahead of your defenders. If you actually cared about this community, you'd give the fans something to smile about. Take Aff's leash off. Let the attackers attack. You'd at the very least play some kids so the fans could have some fucking hope for next season. Jesus Christ."

"I suppose you think you're the excitement this club needs. Is that it?"

I shook my head. I picked up the Max Best contract and - carefully - placed it in the bin. No more throwing things! I was maturing! "Max Best is no longer available."

"What about the others?"

I glared at him. "I already said I'd do my best to get Henri. At least I know he'd play every game here." I looked at the number 2 on the flipchart. "Raffi, though. I know he's your type of player. Big, strong, handles himself. But he's young. What are you going to do when he has a bad run? He really, really needs a long-term contract, but he also really, really needs to play. Some other club. A younger manager."

"Now, then," said Evans. "Are you saying you'll try to get Henri here even without you and Brown?"

"Yes. I only want Raffi here if you'll do right by him. That means signing him right away so he can get started. He doesn't have time to waste."

"What? Put him straight into the team?"

"No, you pr..." I took a breath. "No, Ian. As you know from your many decades in the industry, that would be bad for his development. I want you to do what's best for Raffi because that's also what's best for Chester."

"So someone buys him."

"Yes. Because when someone buys him he can train and compete at a higher level and continue improving."

"And there's some condition to all this, is there? Access to the youth programme?"

"No, Ian." I put the marker pen on the little tray and turned the flipchart back to its original position. "If you don't care about it, why should I?"

Evans picked up the picture of him and the kid, and turned away from me. He had a little think. "All right. We'll sign him as soon as he can get out of his job."

I replied in a flat voice. Sort of defeated, I guess. "He works nights sometimes. Can he come and train in the day while he’s working his notice?"

Evans thought about it. "He can't do contact work until he signs properly. Insurance. But yeah. He can come and get started. Yeah. Fresh face. Mix things up a bit." He turned away from me again. "Someone will be in touch. Let us know about Lyons."

I went to the door and had this weird certainty that it wouldn't open. For a second I didn't see a handle and panicked. I left without another word to anyone.

***

Once back in the car, I hit the steering wheel. If Evans was true to his word, which I suspected he was - to a fault - I'd just bagged myself another 50 pounds a week. If I could get Henri to Chester, I'd be in line for at least 80 pounds a week. Factoring in my Ziggy cash, I was looking at 165 pounds a week from my career as an agent. If I could double that, I'd be able to quit my job.

I hit the steering wheel again. The money meant nothing; the evening had been a disaster, and I couldn't blame Ian Evans for it.

I'd messed up from the start. Maxy No-Thumbs. Befriending MD instead of someone who mattered. Trying to trick Ian Evans. Trying to be a player-manager.

It was all stupendously dumb.

I sat there and bathed in my failure. This, I vowed, would be a lesson. A teachable moment. From now on, I'd be straight with everyone. I’d be honest. I'd take the long and winding road that definitely led to my destination instead of trying to double-jump my way up the sheer face of the mountain.

Becoming a pro player was really a good shortcut. A valid one. I'd improve myself as a player and try again. I looked at myself in the rear mirror. My bruise was gone. There was almost certainly no crack in my skull. I was healed. I could get started right away. But I wouldn't do that player-manager shit again. No chance.

I put my keys in the ignition. This drive home would be the end of the beginning. From now on, I'd do things the old fashioned way. The Max Best way was moronic. It could never work. There were too many people like Ian Evans in the football industry. I had to change. To try to fit in.

The key wouldn't turn. Why not? I looked down at my hand. The key wouldn't turn because I was making absolutely no effort to turn it.

Change? Fit in?

I looked at myself in the mirror again. "Nah," I said, breaking into a cheeky grin. The car door clicked open and slammed shut. The rear door clicked open, my kit bag slid out, and the door slammed shut.

I strode through the building and out the other side. I walked to the side of the pitch where the office workers were aquaplaning. They were all CA 1 PA 1 no-hopers. I dropped my bag, called a few of the red team over and told them I was a new Chester coach just come from Manchester City and if they didn't mind I'd like to practice what I’d learned from Pep on them. They were delighted. A real coach from their local team using tactics from the world’s best manager!

The entire red team came over into a huddle while the whites took on some water and did some stretches.

"All right, guys," I said to my team, pushing the rain out of my hair. I slapped my palms together. When was the last time I’d felt this goddamned free? "Tactics time. What's got four points, is really solid, and cuts through anything?"

...

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