S1 2H - 10 - Chat Shit Get Banged [T1] (Patreon)

[Mega double chapter! Put the kettle on!]

10.

Football glossary: Chat Shit Get Banged. In 2011, long before he shot Leicester City to their 5000-1 Premier League victory, non-league striker Jamie Vardy was mocked by fans of a rival team. He tweeted that 'those who say negative things might well expect to face negative consequences', though being Jamie Vardy, he managed to squeeze all this meaning into four commaless words.

***

Beep. "Hi, Max here, how can I help?"

I'd been at work for half an hour, and the time had flown by. I hadn't taken many calls though, which was strange because the rest of the team seemed pretty busy. Didn't really care - I was having an introspective morning. Evaluating the night before. Comparing the stress of the 'little chat' with the fun I had afterwards. The more distant I got from Chester, the more I thought the entire adventure had been positive.

Getting Raffi a deal was extremely reassuring. There were probably thousands of apparently shit players out there like Ziggy where I'd need to find a visionary coach like Jackie Reaper - there, I said it - to take a risk. But there must have been hundreds of easy-on-the-eye players like Raffi that even the most tiny-armed football dinosaur would want to sign. So I was really much closer to financial freedom than I thought - I just needed to get as much scouting done as possible before January. Finish the transfer window with a whole stable of players. A fleet of players? A Louis Vuitton manbag full of players.

I had a chunk of holiday time stored up. Normally I rolled my days over to the next financial year because sometimes the bank bought them and I much preferred cash to time off. But 6 or 7 free days in November and December could be used very wisely indeed.

I finished a call and glanced up at the stats board. I was currently in 6th place. Relegation form!

Max Best near the bottom of the table? Got to do better, I thought. But why? I had an extremely valuable skill and it wasn't one valued by this bank. No, it was a skill prized by football clubs. Even after pissing Ian Evans off, he'd given the go-ahead to sign two of my players. So why hadn't I quit this job yet?

Because there was no need to freeze to death. I could find a few new players and then quit in January. Easy. Done. Conversation over. Ding! Next, please.

My thoughts turned to last night's match. I'd switched the lads (Team 1, as the curse called them) to a 4-4-2 diamond formation to get a bit more practice at that. My guys were all CA 1 and had fairly bad attributes, but several of them did well in the DM position, which made sense because even just standing there was sort of useful to the team. But no-one got more than 5/10 in the central attacking midfielder position. I knew full well how hard it was. It needed a lot of advanced skills: taking the ball under pressure, turning, having the vision to see an opportunity, making good decisions, having the technique to execute your ideas - it was a lot. And if a player lacked one of those abilities they couldn't really play the CAM role. So I ended up switching to a plain 4-4-2.

Ten minutes after I'd taken over, a player got injured. Not badly, but he lost a point in stamina; I knew it wasn't simply a knock. I stopped the game and asked a player from 'Team 2' to help him off the pitch and see if there was a physio on the Chester pitch. He looked a bit shy, so I said 'Tell them Max Best sent you'. Then we played 10 v 10 for a few minutes. The shy guy came back and said there were no physios but the injured guy had managed to get to his car okay.

Now, I didn't mind playing 10 vs 11. As you know, I have previous when it comes to playing against a numerically superior team. But the guys on Team 1 asked if I could make up the numbers. Well, I said, pretending to be reluctant, my boots are right here...

***

"Hello? Hello?"

I struggled to escape my memory and come back into the here and now. The caller's name and account details were on my screen. It showed me how long he'd been on the line - a crazy long time. Ten times the norm. That meant he'd been bouncing from department to department while minimum wage drones played pass the parcel. I hated that. It was enough to get me to focus. "Oh, hello. My name's Max. What can I do for you?"

The customer complained about his treatment while I made noises that showed I agreed with him totally. "How many times have you described your problem to people?"

"Loads!" he said, before telling me all over again.

Sadly, his problem was not something someone in my department was able to solve. Except that it was. I'd seen it done, about a year previously. One of the older guys had seen it done, and he'd learned it from someone who'd seen it done, and so the knowledge had survived. Been passed on like a super-rare gene, such as the one that lets people work as hard on day one of a project as the day before the deadline. When I left, this arcane knowledge would leave with me.

I fixed the guy's problem. The customer was delighted.

"Oh, yes, it works now. Thank you!"

"No problem. Sorry it took so long. The first guy you talked to... well, for the sake of my career I shouldn't finish that sentence."

"Won't you get in trouble?"

"What for?"

"For doing something another department is supposed to do."

"Nah. I'll probably get a handshake from the CEO. And a big bonus. Right?"

He laughed and we said our goodbyes.

***

I slipped deep into my memories again. It had been a huge evening for me. Life-changing in a low-key way. On the plus side, I'd placed a client at a club, and taken a step towards organising my first transfer. My first loan deal, anyway. On the negative side, Ian Evans didn't like me, and I'd let that bother me. And it bothered me that it bothered me! And then there was my performance as a player in the credit card match. Was that a positive or a negative?

"Max." The voice was coming from a woman standing approximately three caverns behind me. Eventually, I realised it was my boss, standing right next to me. Once she'd caught my attention, she pressed a button on my phone. "Can you come with me, please?"

Huh. So I was going to get into trouble for doing another department's work, after all! I took my headset off and dropped it on the table. I followed my boss, walking much slower, tapping on my smartphone. I wanted it to look like I was playing it cool.

She led me to one of the small rooms that were moronically placed near the lifts so people in meetings were constantly distracted by who was coming and going. There was someone already seated. A guy I didn't know. He had a jumble of folders and papers in front of him. The Max Best Incident, I thought to myself. So this wasn't about what had happened earlier. What could it be?

I put my phone face down on the table and took a seat. My boss sat behind me, sort of blocking my path to the door. That got on my nerves. She was trying to Ian Evans me, but she was no Ian Evans.

They got to the point pretty fast.

"Max," said the guy. "I'm Kieron Dotson from Human Capital." That was the bank's obnoxious name for HR. "It's come to our attention that you may be... let's say going off-script in some of your calls."

He waited for me to react. "Okay," I said. Not going to incriminate myself!

"Maybe I'll play one of the tapes. We have quite a lot of these, sadly."

He pressed a button on a tablet.

My voice, slightly tinny: "Okay that's sorted. Quick question. Are you Ghanaian?" The customer replied, then I continued. "Nigerian? Maybe you can help me anyway. Are you a Christian? Oh, cool. What do you think about sportsmen who don't play on Sunday and that kind of thing?"

The customer took over. "Well, now, that's a great question. I remember when I was young..."

The HR dude pressed the button again. Silence.

He waited for me to reply, but this time I didn't.

"Max, this is a bank. It's a place of business. It's not a pulpit or a place to proselytise."

"Does that mean preach?"

"Yes."

I laughed. "Did you know how to pronounce that or did you practice?"

He grinned. "I practiced. This is a new situation."

"Well, the good news is I didn't preach to anyone. I asked about what they already believe."

His grin faded and he folded his arms. Defending himself against my charm. "Max, this is serious. This is really very serious."

"In what way?"

"We're a bank. We're not political, religious, whatever. We treat all customers the same. And also, it looks like these conversations started at around the same time your work performance started to slip. I've looked at your stats and you were number 1 for a long time. Some weeks ago you slipped to second and third, and this week you've been fifth. You've had verbal warnings and today you'll get a written warning."

I'd had verbal warnings? That was an outright lie. I turned to look at my boss. She returned my eye contact. She would double down on the claim. Things would get messy. I shrugged. Ain't no mess like a Max Best mess.

"Sorry, Kieron, are you saying you're giving me a reprimand because I'm a Christian?"

"No, of course not."

But he was! The opportunity hit me like a revelation. My spine straightened. Attention on deck. Yellow alert! Action stations!

If I played this situation right, I wouldn't need to quit.

I placed all my fingertips on the table in front of me and shifted some of my weight onto them. "My reward for connecting with our customers is to be humiliated. I see. Here's the sitch. I coach women's football and half the players are journalism students." That was a lie, though I thought I'd heard one or two of the Met Heads discuss something along those lines. "I'm going to walk out of here and take my recording of this meeting to the Daily Mail." I picked up my phone, tapped the screen to show that I was running the default voice recorder app, and turned the phone so the microphone was aimed right at his face, "Yep - I tape everything. I can already see the headlines. Bank Sacks Employee For Being Too Christian! The photo under the headline: me, looking sad, holding up a Bible." I'd have to buy a Bible, but Kieron didn't need to know that. It was unthinkable to him that I wouldn't actually be religious. "Honestly, I don't even read the Mail but I'd buy it for that story. It'll play great in the shires. Big topic of conversation in your boss's golf club. And think about Mail Online. The comments section! They're rabid at the best of times. Imagine this one. Would they do it if he was a Muslim? They wouldn't dare. I'm closing my account. Kieron, I'm sorry but there's going to be a note about you in the annual report." I shook my head. "I reckon I'll get 20 grand out of this. I should thank you, I suppose. I'll try to keep your name out of it, Kieron Dotson." I said the last words directly into the microphone, which was a bit mean-spirited but I was enjoying myself. I was freestyling and it was going well - Kieron had gone pale and my boss had turned to stone - but I wished I'd known something like this might happen. I could have bought one of those chains with little symbols on that I could have used as a prop. What was it called? A rosemary?

"Now, wait a minute," said Kieron.

"You know," I said, thoughtfully. "Now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure I never got a verbal warning. Because I would have gone to the papers then, wouldn't I? So maybe my boss got confused or something. Unless, wait..." I pulled a concerned face. "You don't think she was... lying? To get rid of me? Because of my faith? Isn't that... against the law?"

Kieron asked her to leave the room. She was more than happy to oblige. As she opened the door I called out her name and said, "I forgive you."

She fucked off and it was just the two of us. Kieron asked me to stop recording, and I refused. "This will be my testimony," I said. "A record of what it's really like to be a Christian in this spiritual wasteland."

The rest of the meeting lasted approximately thirty seconds. We agreed that I would be given a redundancy package. I tried to get three months of salary, but he wouldn't budge from two months even with the threat of the Daily Mail looming over him.

I promised to delete the recording once the money was in my account and wrote down the name of my church. "Hope to see you there!" I said. Then I left the room and headed back to my desk. I stopped after a few strides.

My desk?

I didn't work here anymore. Everything I had brought with me was in my pockets. I went straight to the lift, and every floor I descended lifted my spirits.

***

I was on a street in Manchester City Centre. Just past 10:30 am. People were walking around, going to the shops, coming back from this, on their way to that. Everyone was busy. Everyone had somewhere to be. Their next few days, weeks, months, were planned out. Work, rest, play, work, rest, play.

Me?

I was free. I could do anything. Be anything.

Something strange happened to my face. A sort of tugging sensation that started halfway up my cheeks. My muscles being pulled up, up, and away, like the lifting of a theatre curtain, revealing that a giant smile had been there all along.

An attractive businesswoman was walking towards me just as this happened. She got the full blast and she looked away fast, but with a tiny smile of her own.

I had approximately zero seconds to decide what to do. I decided to leave it. Still, though, I stood there for a second and watched her go. If she turned to look back at me, I'd give her another big smile. Just something to help her get through the day.

***

I pottered around. Women. The city centre was full of women. All kinds of shapes, sizes, ethnicities, all kinds of hopes and dreams and likes and dislikes. I sat on a bench and let them all walk past. Two minutes of doing nothing. Two minutes of daydreaming. When was the last time I'd sat and done nothing in the middle of the day? It was peaceful. Restorative.

Daydreams were always welcome, but women could wait. My double date with Henri, Emma, and one of Emma's friends was this Sunday. I'd asked Emma not to bring Gemma, and that had been our first little fight. "Please bring someone well-read and quick-witted," I said. "My mate is a deep thinker. Imagine me but pompous and attention-seeking."

Well, she didn't like the idea that Gemma was dull and stupid, even though that was obviously true. She said something along the lines of 'if you want to get in my bed, don't badmouth my friends.'

In other words: chat shit don't get banged.

***

So this phase of my life had the potential to be very relaxing. Lots of daytime walks. Time to think and recharge. On the other hand, when my redundancy money landed, even when boosted by all the holiday pay I'd built up, I'd only be able to survive until mid-January. Late January if I went back to noodles as my main source of calories.

No, that wasn't right. The date where I'd run out of cash would be pushed back once the money from Raffi and Henri started rolling in. My priority, then, was to make sure both those deals happened.

So I drew up a little action plan. I'd spend the rest of the day focused on Raffi. Then tomorrow I'd drive to Darlington and talk to the manager there. If he was open to the idea of Henri leaving, great. If not, at least I would know. Saturday I was flexible, and Sunday was the double date with Henri. Maybe I'd have some good news for him.

And even when doing all these things, I'd still have a shitload of time to grind: scouting, jogging, reading, watching the ever-expanding amount of content YouTube was suggesting to me. I remembered a book I'd reserved in the local library - one about climbing the corporate ladder.

I'd pop by and cancel the reservation. I was working full-time in the football industry now!

Another gigantic smile.

***

It was 2pm and the Browns were both home. Raffi was eating breakfast, which I took to mean he'd be working the night shift at the casino.

Shona spent a while trying to give me scrambled eggs. "No, thanks," I said. "But I'll rub a baby's head for luck. Where is she?"

"Asleep. No loud noises or I'll kick you out." She tilted her head. "What's bitten you?" she asked. "Did you find a woman?"

"Max Best doesn't find women," I said. "Women find Max Best." Raffi snorted, a gross, eggy sound that I was delighted to hear. "Actually," I continued, stifling a yawn, "I was made redundant today."

"That's it," said Shona, waving a spatula at me. "I knew it was something. You look lighter. Doesn't he, Raff?"

Her husband shrugged. "You okay for money?"

"I will be," I said. "But remember when we met you thought I was a scammer? Well, it's scam o'clock. I need to borrow 500 pounds. Right away. Er... if you have it."

Raffi had just spooned a bunch of egg into his mouth, so I couldn't understand his reply. Shona, though, simply said, "Bank details?"

I whizzed Raffi a text, she took his phone, and shortly after she was typing into her own. "Wait," I said. "Aren't you even going to...?"

"It's done, Max." She turned her phone around and showed me the screen. She'd just sent me the money! From her personal account!

I went into my bank app and saw the deposit. I was overwhelmed. "Jesus, Shona. Holy crap. I mean… That’s a lot of money to lend someone."

Raffi had finished his mouthful. His wife had just sent a week’s wages to a near-stranger and he was totally chill about it. Maybe because he knew where I lived and had a lot of experience dealing with people who didn't like paying debts. But still. It was a big show of faith. He said, "What's this about?"

"Oh. Chester want you. It's happening.” Shona threw her hands up and silently starjumped for joy. Raffi got up, punched the air a few times, and let out a zero decibel roar. They embraced and span around. “What are you - ? Oh, the baby.”

Shona was crying, and waved air into her face to dry her tears. Raffi was clenching and unclenching his fists.

I gave them a little while to process the news. “So, the loan. I need a number from the Football Association for the paperwork. It's 500 quid to register with them. Shouldn't take long. I'll do it when I get home."

"Here," said Shona, pulling me into the living room and sitting me in front of her laptop. "Do it now."

"Okay," I said, laughing. "Why not?" Half a day could make a difference.

So I applied to be an agent and sent the money. Easy as pie.

And all of a sudden another weight was lifted from my shoulders. "I'll have some egg after all," I said.

"So tell us about the meeting," said Shona, dabbing tissues onto her eyelids.

"The true version or the one where I make myself look good?"

Shona smiled. "I guess we're only going to get the second one."

"Nope," I said. "There isn't a version where I look good. Long story short, they want Henri, but that was always a given. He guarantees they won't get relegated. He's worth any amount of hassle. And they want you. You can start training before you officially sign. I'll give you the details later. So the outcome was good. But then, after the meeting - "

"Wait," said Shona. "What about you?"

"Me? Player? Nah," I said. "Not in Chester."

Raffi made a sort of cluck-hiss sound. Shona drummed her fingers on the kitchen table. "Did you run your mouth, Max?"

"A bit," I said. "Only after Raffi was in the bag, though."

Shona poured me some orange juice. "Relax, Max. We're not going to be mad about every little temper tantrum you throw." The Browns smiled at each other. Some inside joke where I was another toddler in their life. Shona sighed and leaned back, clutching a coffee mug in both hands. "I did say, Max. If you wind people up, it'll come back to haunt you."

"Chat shit get banged," said Raffi.

I laughed. "Funny you should say that," I said. "After the meeting, I went out to the pitches where you did your trial and took over one of the teams."

"How did you do that?"

"I told them I'd just moved from Man City to work for Chester."

Raffi nearly drowned in his glass of orange. "Fucking hell, Max! You’re shameless."

"Yeah, but that's not even the good bit. Listen..."

***

So I was player-manager again. I stuck to 4-4-2 and went to right-mid. It was like Ian Evans - the prick - said. I needed to learn a position. I was strolling around, mostly doing the manager side of the gig, when someone finally passed to me. I played a one-touch pass diagonally backwards. Kept the ball cycling around.

At that point, and I presume this decision is the sole topic of conversation at all sports psychology conferences worldwide, the left-back started trash talking me. You afraid of me, yo? Pep didn't teach you how to take me on?

Well.

His words have electrified me.

I dip into my screens, set myself as playmaker and align the team's passing to 'right'. The ball starts moving in my direction. I wait, wait, then move into space. The pass comes to feet. No pressure on me. I turn easily and start driving at the left-back. I barely even bother with a feint - I approach him, knock the ball past, and motor. This guy has acceleration 4, pace 6. Somehow with one burst I'm not only past him but everyone else, too. I’m already through on goal. Pushing into the penalty area from the right. Every instinct is screaming at me to smash the ball as hard as I can. But the goalie isn't the trash-talker or Ian Evans - he's some guy who never did me wrong. He isn't even a proper goalkeeper; he's a midfielder. So I look around to see who I can pass to. There's no-one for miles! I tense like I'm going to hit a thunderbolt, but as the goalie cringes I stand on the ball, flick it up, and hold it in my hands. "That was a goal," I declare, and gently toss the ball to the keeper.

He grins at me.

I grin back.

I get a few handslaps on the way back.

***

I stroll back to the right-mid slot. The left-back isn't chirping away at me now. His sledging days are over. But he hasn't fully learned his lesson. Not yet.

I get the ball again and glide in his direction. He backs off, and I decide to have a little fun. I sprint one inch, slow down for one foot, then sprint another inch. My shoulders are swaying left and right, signalling where I might attack, where I might attack, and the dude is desperately trying to balance and rebalance. I do one last burst, serious this time, no jokes, I'm going a million miles an hour and his weight is on the wrong side. The guy makes a genuinely heroic effort to stop me. Back he goes, back, dozens of tiny backwards steps, but then it happens - he keels over and lands on his arse.

I've long since stopped moving. I'm literally just standing there, stock still, the ball under my feet, two yards in front of him.

There's raucous laughter from the rest of the players. I flick the ball up into my left hand, and offer my right to my defeated foe. He grasps it and I lift him to his feet. He gives me a rueful grin.

"I had to do it," I said. "You know how it goes. Chat shit..."

"I know how it goes," he said. He put his hands on his hips. "Every time there’s a new player, I do this. I don’t know why. Never ends well! I never learn my lesson."

"Yeah, well," I said, glancing over at the only brightly lit window on the second floor of the office building. "I wouldn't know anything about that."