11 - Transitions [T1] (Patreon)

11.

Football glossary: transition. The chaotic period where an attacking team loses the ball and the defending team becomes the attacking team.

***

Friday, 11th November

It was a two and a quarter hour drive to Darlington, made worse by the rush hour traffic around Leeds. I'd stuffed my phone full of football podcasts, though, so the trip wasn't entirely dead air. Every now and then I'd pause the podcasts and have a little think. Was I right to wait for the World Cup-themed perk, or should I buy things already? A while ago, I'd convinced myself that a perk in the head was better than two in the shop, but somehow I'd reverted to 'keep your powder dry' mode.

In ad breaks, I thought about my goals. They were simple: get Henri Lyons a move to another club. Preferably Chester. But anywhere, really.

I also reviewed what I'd learned about Darlington and their manager, David Cutter. After meeting with Raffi and Shona I'd wanted nothing more than to go to Platt Lane and grind with a kebab in my hand, but I'd forced myself to go home and study. A little bit more professionalism would go a long way!

Around 10:27, incredibly on-time, I pulled into their training centre's car park. Like with Chester's training ground, Darlington didn't own the Eastbourne Sports Complex. But they seemed a bit more entrenched - there were a lot of signs with the awesome Darlington badge and font.

I announced myself at reception to a teenage girl who, inexplicably, turned bright red when I spoke to her. She made a phone call and I settled into a chair. Half a minute later, David Cutter strode into the area, wearing a tracksuit. He'd just come in from the training pitches.

Cutter was six foot tall, or just under, and had that suspicious nose a lot of former players have. The kind of nose that begs the question - how many times have I been broken? It was easy to imagine him walking into the dressing room after a match and being annoyed that a physio wanted to, you know, do something about all the blood.

But there was more to him than his rugged, hard-man past. He was interested. Curious. He shook my hand and on the way up a flight of stairs asked me several questions. Meeting me must have been a chore for him, but that's not how it came across. It came across like I was the most fascinating person he'd ever met.

"Please, Max," he said, once we were in his office. "Have a seat. Tea? Coffee?"

"Tea, please." It was all eerily similar to being in Ian Evans's domain. Cutter radiated the same kind of authority, and kept glancing out at the training sessions that were going on. But this was the morning instead of the evening, the windows here were much smaller, and the room was much bigger. This room had been personalised to a much greater degree, and most of all, he hadn't kept me waiting.

I didn't sit down. I wandered from ornament to framed photo to signed shirt to weird trophy. At each one I beamed and looked at him. From his position at a little tea station, he told me what they were. "Wedding present from my father-in-law. My first match as a pro. Sideburns were all the rage, then. That Ajax shirt is Michael Laudrup's. Best player I ever played against. Played out of my skin that day. Every one of us wanted his shirt; I got it. Manager of the Month for Lincoln City. My only trophy from the top 4 leagues."

"Mr Cutter," I said, ecstatically happy. "This is top. It's all top. Holy shit, what's this?"

I'd found a couple of cardboard boxes under a desk. They were full of memorabilia. I started taking things out. He put his hand on my arm. When I stopped rummaging, he wandered back to the tea station. "Thing is, Max, life as a manager is transitory. When I started, the life expectancy of a manager was 2 or 3 years. Now, it's six months. So I take out one piece every couple of weeks. No more. It's a constant reminder that I'm four bad results from the sack."

"Fuck that," I said. "You're the best manager in the league."

He smiled, but was adamant as he stirred the contents of two paper cups. "Nothing lasts forever. Top of the league today, unemployed by Christmas. I've seen it a hundred times."

"Jesus Christ," I said. Now that I'd had a good old mosey, the action outside became the most interesting thing. I took my tea with a big thanks and sipped it by a window. The first team were zipping around doing a complicated drill, and on another pitch it looked like the goalkeepers were doing a session. I was surrounded by football. Honestly, no joke, if I'd died right then and there I would have died happy. "I suppose we should talk about Henri. Where is he?" I put my head right to the glass to get a better look.

"He's not here. Called in sick."

I turned and looked at Cutter. Not sure where it all came from, but a lot of information flooded into me. "He's sick on Friday so you can't pick him tomorrow. He's going to start being difficult so he can get a transfer this January."

Cutter snorted into his tea. "Start being difficult?"

I wasn't amused. The vibe Cutter gave off was so overwhelmingly positive I felt more on his side than Henri's. "Mr Cutter," I said.

"Call me Dave."

"Mr Cutter is a bit too formal," I agreed. "But Dave is too informal. How about Mr Dave? No? Dave, listen, I didn't know about that. I didn't tell him to do that. That's... that's pretty shit." I shook my head. "I just learned last night that Darlington is community-owned. New information! Love it. I'm a big fan of fan-owned clubs. So is Henri, to be fair. This is a really unfortunate situation all round, but there's a clean, simple way to end it with minimum acrimony. That's my goal today. Him not turning up for work... is shit. Do you want me to call him and get him here?"

He appraised me. "No, Max. Players do this all the time. This is just the beginning. He'll do it more and more until by January he's practically on strike."

There was a long silence.

"Max?"

"Sorry, Dave. I'm... a bit depressed. I drove three hours from Manchester to get ten minutes with you and it's already a disaster. It... I really thought it would go well. There's a solution that's good for everyone."

"It's not a disaster yet,” he smiled. “Tell me your proposal."

I pushed my lips together. I had a premonition of how the rest of the meeting would go: badly.

I looked out the window again. "Can we do it out there?"

His eyes popped out. "Out there?"

"Yeah. Then at least if you boot me out of the city I'll have learned something."

Cutter laughed. "You want to see the training session? I thought you were an agent."

I shrugged. "I'm all things to all men. Except Ian Evans. Look, this might sound absolutely bonkers, but it looks to me like you've got four goalkeepers in that session."

"Yeah. One is a trialist. We're just having a look at him."

"Right, but only three are doing anything." The trialist was in full kit, it seemed, but just watching.

"So?"

"So there's a spare goalie. Have you ever seen an agent score a free kick?"

***

He came with me to the car park, asking me questions about myself and my life. I grabbed my little kit bag. I'd started carrying my boots, shinpads, and four different colour tops with me. Then we went to the pitches.

We walked past the first team. They were doing a new drill. I couldn't quite work out the point. Three players would pass to each other in a certain routine, moving from right to left. Then another three would do the exact same from left to right. And so on, and so on. Sometimes they'd celebrate, sometimes they wouldn't. Baffling.

But then we were at the goalie training session. I pulled my boots on while Cutter stopped whatever they were doing. "All right, lads? We've got a top agent here. Max Best. You know and hate at least one of his clients." There was some chuckling and slapping of arms amongst the goalies and the goalkeeping coach. Somehow they all knew who he meant. "He was telling me he took two free kicks against Chester's first choice keeper. Scored them both. He's wondering if he's the new Juninho Paulista or if that keeper is just shit." I nodded. That was exactly what I was wondering, except I'd never heard of Juninho Paulista. "So line up and show him what proper goalies can do. Yeah? Free kicks from increasing distance."

I got to my feet and rolled a ball under my studs. "Wait a second," I said. The goalies were close enough to hear me speak at normal volume. "This ball..."

"Those are the official match balls for this league," said Cutter. "Pretty good quality. Pretty true movement."

"The balls at Chester were, I don't know, heavier."

"Yeah," said one of the goalies. Not the one who'd played for the first team when I'd watched Chester vs Darlington. "Teams like Chester train with cheaper balls. Cuts makes us train with the proper match balls."

Cutter nodded. "Little details, Max. It's more expensive, but if you aren't practicing with the balls you use in the games, what are you really practicing?" I think I sort of stood there, gormlessly admiring him like I'd just fallen in love, because he regarded me like I was a plumber who'd put the taps on backwards. "You wanted to take some shots?"

I shook off my tiny moment of affection, and lined up a shot while the goalie got ready. First up was Darlington's first choice keeper. Handling 14. I checked his player history and he’d played hundreds of professional games. But I was right on the edge of the penalty area with no barriers and the whole goal to aim for. This would be too easy, and this wasn't really why I was here. I thought about what I wanted to say to Cutter.

I took a couple of steps back, then moved forward and hit the ball hard into the top-right corner of the goal.

"Dave," I said, "Henri wants to leave in January."

The first goalie trudged off looking a bit confused. I took another ball and rolled it until it was a few feet behind where the first one had been. The second goalie (handling 12) took a starting position a little more to the right. I stepped up and curled the ball into the top-left of the goal.

"I think there was a big misunderstanding about the interview he did. I think he was trying to pay you a compliment."

Again, I placed the next ball a little bit further away. The third goalie (handling 9 but high jumping) stepped a bit closer to me. I hit it low to his right. The net swished, and he punched the grass.

"I suppose it doesn't matter, really. Things went sour and he was too stubborn to explain himself. I just hope there's a way to get through this without everyone burning bridges."

I placed the next ball even further away. The first goalie was back. They'd ignored the trialist, which annoyed me. What was the harm in letting him have a go?

"I'd like to get him a loan deal with Chester."

I thumped the ball into the top-right again.

"Wait wait wait," said Cutter, before I could continue my spiel. He gave some instructions and soon enough a three-man wire wall was brought out, blocking a section of the goal.

The second goalie signalled that he was ready.

"As you might expect, they can't pay a fee, or even his whole salary."

Swish! Over the wall. Top left.

"But Chester are near the bottom of the league and if he's on loan, he can't play against Darlington. And if he's at Chester, he's going to play against King's Lynn and the other teams at the top of the table. So it's a huge advantage to you. Imagine if you beat Chester one week, and then Chester beat King's Lynn the next. That practically hands you the title! That's worth a tiny bit of money, isn't it?"

The third goalie had moved the wall further to the right and stood slightly closer to the middle of the goal. Why? Well, if there was a timeline where I would need to understand goalies, it wasn't this one.

Dish! Over the wall. The ball clanged against the crossbar close to the left post. Huh. Slight miscalibration there.

I was vaguely aware that more people were watching than at the start. I pushed such thoughts away. I had a mission.

I'd forgotten to push the ball back, so Cutter did it. I was pretty far from goal, now. I turned to stare at Henri's manager.

"I know he's annoying. He's too French for his own good. But he's 27. He needs to play. Even if you hate him it's cruel to make him stay. So that's my pitch. Let me take him to Chester. We could get the paperwork done this weekend and you'd never have to think about him ever again. Chester can pay 800 a week. That's about 16,000 in extra revenue for Darlington this season. And he might just get you the title, by accident." I started my motion to hit the free kick, but stopped. "And I was thinking. I'd take out a full-page ad in the local paper. Sort of a fond farewell from Henri to the fans. We had some good times. Let's remember those, and not my mistakes at the end. Darlington will always be in my heart. Something like that. Poignant. Classy. Good vibes all round." I shaped to shoot, but paused again. "Maybe plain text above a picture of a pipe. French people go weak at the knees for that." Since I was so far away from goal, I took an extra pace back, approached the ball and absolutely leathered it.

The goalie threw himself towards the shot and got about 0.1% of the way there. Either I had 'Set Pieces 20' or these guys were letting me score. I wasn't sure which option I hated most.

I looked down. "I don't know, Dave. It's obviously in my interest for a move to happen. But I can't think how you getting some money for him is worse than him being here and getting more stroppy and disruptive. And Chester's our preference because it's another fan-owned club. If money's the issue, let me know and I'll see about finding a bigger team with deeper pockets."

Someone whistled three times and the entire training area - between 50 and 100 people - suddenly stopped. Just froze, like a flash mob prank. Like a horror movie. I looked around, bewildered, and turned to ask Cutter what the eff was going on. He put his fingers to his lips. Not frozen in place by some curse then.

Everyone was looking solemn. Ah. I got it. 11 o’clock on the 11th of November. Remembrance Day. A one minute silence to honour those who died in the First World War. I started to look around, really analysing the profiles of the players. But then I mentally slapped myself in the face and looked at the ground. I could fucking stand still for one minute, couldn’t I?

I could stand still, but I couldn’t let myself think about the War. I always remembered the last scene from Blackadder and it always made me weepy.

In the end the silence lasted two minutes, and the atmosphere was somewhat subdued after that.

The goalies were keen to continue our little drill, but I’d lost all appetite for taking free kicks. I waved at them, sort of a vague thank you, and walked away. Cutter followed.

After about twenty paces, I stopped and watched the first team doing their drills. I thought about apologising for forgetting Remembrance Day, but even in my head it sounded absurd. Better to stick to the football.

"Dave, what is this?"

He caught up with me and I realised he was giving me a long, hard stare. "What do you think?" he asked.

I flapped my arms like a prize goose. No clue. I watched the moves a while longer. Left... right. Right... left. Cutter was obviously a forward-thinking manager. There had to be a point to this. I checked the time on my phone and realised that 24 hours ago I'd been released from the call centre. This strange new drill was part of my strange, new world. And I loved it. I turned to Cutter and slapped myself on the forehead. "Transitions!"

He released a small smile. He’d been quite affected by the two minute silence. "Got it."

"But how does it work?"

"Group A attacks, group B counter-attacks. You're a Man City fan, right?"

"Please," I said.

"United? Ugh. Hate United. But okay, United are getting quite good at this. Some team has the ball. They're in their attacking formation. All spread out, looking for gaps. Casemiro intercepts, passes to Eriksen, and he hits it long to Rashford. Hit pause. What do you see? Chaos. No-one is in a predictable slot. So how do you defend that? How do you increase your chances of scoring?" He pointed to the drill.

"This is all about the mentality of switching from attack to defence and back again?" He nodded. We watched the players run left and right a bit more. "But mate," I said. "Sorry. Dave... isn't this pretty advanced? This is, like, Premier League stuff. You're in the sixth tier."

He shook his head. "Transitions. The better your opponents are coached, the more it's your only area of opportunity. Coaches in these leagues are defensive. This is how we gain an advantage." He shook his head again and looked around at his players. "But honestly, it's more than that. Some of these guys are electricians. Carpet fitters. This year, the next, might be their only stint as a full-time pro. How do you go from playing footy every day to twice a week? What about when they retire? These guys won't have media jobs at the end. It isn’t easy transitioning from playing the game you love every day to... that sort of bleak emptiness when it's all over. Or just take status. This year we're top dogs. Most teams we play think we'll win the league. Treat us accordingly. That feeling is addictive. If we get promoted we'll lose almost every week. How do the lads cope with that change? Maybe it's fanciful but I hope these drills do more than prepare them for matches."

I stuck out my bottom lip and breathed in through my nose. The way he was talking was intoxicating to me. I wondered if this was how Emma felt when I told her why I liked football. To downplay what I assumed were my flushed cheeks, I sort of snorted out a laugh. "Dave. Do you have any interest in a right midfielder who can score a free kick but can't do any of the basics?" I laughed some more.

When I looked at him, though, he wasn't laughing.