16 - Digs [T1] (Patreon)

16.

Football glossary: Digs. Digs are cheap, shared accommodation owned or run by a football club for use by their junior players.

***

At around 6, Henri kicked us out. That is to say, he kicked me out, and then he kicked Emma out. I waited for him to do the same to Gemma, but he must have forgotten she was there.

With a grin, I shook hands with my new client, and took Emma to the train station.

I waited with her until her train came. "You know the way you're a strong, independent woman?" I said.

"I am?"

"I'd still rather you didn't come to the match on your own. Can you, sort of, get one of your football lads to come with you to the match?"

"More testosterone in the area to boost your competitive spirit?"

"I'm thinking of rowdy fans. Hooligans. I don't want to be worried about what's going on off the pitch. Please get some beefy dude to drive you so you don't have to get on the train with thousands of drunken nutjobs."

"I don't think many Darlington fans live in Newcastle, Max."

"Just - "

She put her hands on my chest and looked up at me. "Okay. I hear you. I'll find the strongest, tallest, most handsome knight in shining armour and spend the day with him. Okay?"

"Good," I said. "Good. But yeah. Second strongest is fine. I mean, doesn't even have to be a knight. Maybe a... what are they called? Squire."

"I already have the perfect man in mind," she said. And then she snuggled against me.

She was the absolute queen of mixed messages.

***

Her train pulled away, and as I watched it go I realised something. This was the start of a ten-week chapter in my life called Max Best: Player.

I got back in my car and drove to my temporary new home - The Darlo Digs.

***

It was on a quiet-seeming side street. A detached house - one of those that seemed to have three floors but when you got inside there were actually five. The driveway was full so I parked on the street.

I didn't have a key, so I knocked on the door. No answer. I knocked louder. Nothing. Looking through the bay windows of the front room, I saw four guys in there playing FIFA on console. With a brief spike of anger, I went back to the front door and was about to start pounding when I tried pushing - it opened.

I walked straight upstairs, cleaned out all their valuables from their rooms, went back to my car and drove off a rich man.

Okay, I didn't do that. In fact, I closed and locked the door behind me, and vowed not to leave any valuables in the digs. Not that I had many valuables. I only had one set of clothes - that I'd been forced to wear for three days - my only pair of football boots, shinpads, my phone, my laptop, my wallet. The rest of my stash was back in Manchester, behind a locked door. What to do about my house was a headache for another day.

The FIFA tournament, or whatever they were doing, was loud and punctuated by shouts and banter. The two lads currently playing were young - two of the Scholarship players, as the guys on starter contracts who still did schoolwork were called. I wouldn't know if they were any good until I'd scouted an 18s match. Maybe I'd try to be polite to them until I knew for sure. Didn't want to piss off any potential superstar clients.

Watching and bantering (in sentences of never more than 4 words), were two players who'd been in my trial match - my direct opponent, Chumpy, 19, and Glynn, 18, a crafty midfielder who would probably end up bouncing between the 6th and 7th tiers.

Chumpy spotted me first and raced over, hand extended. "Max! We been waiting for you. Good to see you. You never thanked me, though."

"What for?" I asked, cautiously.

"I made you look good in your trial," he laughed. The guy was totally different off the pitch. Totally different. Here, he was charming, in a rustic kind of way. Not to the point where I'd worry if Emma chose him as her footballing bodyguard, but he was certainly making a potentially difficult introduction go down easy. "Lads, fucking pause. Fuck sake. Max is here." There were brief introductions. There was Barkley, who I'd later find out was a 16 year-old half-Jamaican winger, and Benzo, a 17-year old English right-back. "You watch and learn, Bark," said Chumpy, "this guy's the new Ronaldo."

Bark tsked. "Child, please."

Benzo said, "You play FIFA, Max?"

"No. Gives me a headache. Don't play games much. I've got a PS3. Showing its age these days, I guess."

"Nah, this is only a PS4," said Benzo. "Five's been out for time, yo! Club got to be spending!"

"Are you dissatisfied with the amenities?" I said, like a hotel manager slash serial killer. That freaked him out a bit and he backtracked and said the PS4 was a good machine and the 5 was out of stock anyway.

"Supply chains are hard," I agreed, putting my hand on his shoulder. "Hey, where's my room? I'll dump my stuff then go get some dinner."

"I'll show you," said Glynn. "But you don't need to go out. We've got food here."

"Not in the mood for cooking, mate. It's been a long and weird week."

"Nah, mate. It's made. Just heat it up. There's a woman who comes to cook. Mrs Ratliff. She's the landlady. Takes care of us. Does our laundry and that."

"She does your laundry?" I said, stupefied.

Glynn looked embarrassed, so Chumpy helped out. "It's not that we can't do it! I mean, some lads when they come don't really know how to use the machines and the temperatures and all that. The academy does sessions, like. Life skills and that. But it's also, we do training and meetings and sessions and the like. Scholarship lads get homework, even. Having someone like Mrs Ratliff sorts of helps us focus on improving as players, like."

I eyed the already-unpaused FIFA game. "Right." Then my eyes swept the area - the sink was full of dirty dishes and cups. The bin was full. There were sweet wrappers and crisp packets everywhere. Someone really liked Mars bars. Living with four boys was basically my worst nightmare, but I resolved to clamp my mouth shut. This was just temporary. It wasn't my job to get involved in their living arrangements.

My room was small but fine. I dumped my stuff there and tested the bed. Way too soft and I could feel the springs pressing into my back, but I guessed it’d serve its purpose. The walls, though, were far too thin to cope with the noise from the TV. The din or the shitty bed - I could deal with one, but not both. I took a last moment to look around and saw a Neymar poster. The most fouled player in world football. I gave him a little nod.

Down in the kitchen, I ate and chatted to Chumpy and Glynn, who were very agreeable. Chumpy gave me my house key. I pumped them for information. What time did they go to bed? What did they eat before training? What should I expect from a Monday morning session? Where do I park?

One nice convenience was that a sort of shuttle bus would pick us up from the digs and take us to training. The driver would take us home when we wanted, so long as he wasn't doing anything more important. The training ground wasn't far, so we could walk, but it wasn't very scenic.

Plain, simple food and plain, simple company is a good way to start an adventure. I told the lads I was going to have an early night and rest my ankle.

The Scholarship lads grunted and carried on playing. I bent down in their field of vision, turned to look at the screen, then back at them. "I said I'm going to have an early night. And rest. Like a professional footballer."

They looked at each other, trying to parse what I was saying. "You telling us to go to bed?" said Bark.

"No, mate," I chuckled. "I'm not your mum. You do whatever you want. But I'm going to bed now. To rest. Yeah?"

Benzo scratched his temple. "You want us to stop playing?"

"No, mate," I chucked again. "I can't see the screen from my room, can I?"

"Oh!" said Bark. "Turn it down, yeah? Oh. Can do."

I snatched the remote control before he could get it. "Let me," I said, and hit the mute button. "Ahh. Perfect. Now you can play all night and I can sleep. What a great solution!"

"Okay, Max," laughed Benzo. "We get you."

I turned to look at the screen again. "Hey, Bark. Are you the red team?"

"Yes, Max."

"Do you choose the formations in this, er, game or does every team have a default?"

"You can change them. I'm doing 3-4-1-2 because I'm Portugal and my best player's Felix. So he's my CAM."

"Tsch," said Benzo. "That's why I've got a DM. Shut Felix down and they've got nothing. I keep whupping him on counters."

"Holy shit," I said. These brats were 6 years ahead of me in tactical knowledge! "Did you learn all that from the academy or from the game?"

Benzo shrugged. "Both. Game mostly, suppose."

I did a 180 on the whole 'wasting their time playing FIFA' thing - they weren't simply killing time. They were also absorbing tactical thinking. Would that filter into their performance on the pitch? Allow them to learn new formations quickly? Understand why managers were asking them to do X, Y, and Z? I watched the match they were playing for about ten seconds. "I hope I don't have to stay here long, no offence, but maybe you can teach me a few things. You up for that?"

"You're too old to play," said Benzo, now that my air of authority had evaporated.

"What?"

"You've got those old person hands. Sending texts one finger at a time. Playing FIFA being like yo which button is shoot."

The kids fell into each other, laughing. Disrespectful little shits! I would never dig into someone older than me like that. Except Jackie Reaper. And Mike Dean. And Ian Evans.

I went to bed and fired off some texts.

Sleep came before I got any replies.

***

Emma: Good luck!

Henri: By the way. They are called mannequins. Do not be a dummy. Do not say wire men.

Unknown number: HMRC Refund: You have an outstanding Tax refund of £277.32 from 2020 to 2021. Follow instructions to claim your retund at englandgovermet.com/IRS

Raffi: Been good. Training good. Vibe good. You in Darlinton no joke? Weird but good.

Ziggy: Darlingont? That makes no sense. Your turn to buy a round though!

Kisi: Yes, Mr Best. All is well. Thank you for asking. Sometimes the training is too hard, but the girls are helping me through. James is well. He brings a notepad to the sessions and gives me feedback on the way home. I let him do this for you, Mr Best. You owe me.

Kisi: No, really. You owe me. He is very boring.

***

Monday, 14th November.

My first day as a professional footballer. Woke up bright and early, ankle already better. It was still bruised and sore to the touch, but it seemed perfectly flexible. No swelling. Ready for training. Ready to start learning the ropes. Get to know my team properly. Get to see what's involved in running a football club - from the inside.

A minivan beeped from outside. I grabbed my boots and slung them over my shoulder. I carried my shinpads by hand. The other guys had bulky kit bags.

A bleary-eyed Bark and Benzo got into the van first and sat at the back. Glynn got in the middle row, and I was about to follow when I realised that Chumpy was hesitating. I took in the situation and realised that he was hoping to get in the passenger seat. Presumably that was either more comfortable or came with higher status. Either way, I had this kind of pathetic impulse to stake my claim to it. "I'd better go in the front," I said. "Because of my injury."

"Oh, right," he said. He tried to think of some comeback, but I was already halfway round the front of the van.

I regretted it immediately - the driver, Pat, was incredibly chatty and after asking me who I was, what position I played, and where I was from, he proceeded to tell me about his life as a Darlington fan. He remembered the date, score, and scorers of every match he'd ever been to, it seemed. It was as though someone turned Wikipedia into an audiobook but forgot to program a pause button. These are the worst kinds of people because they get upset if you ask them to shut up.

Still, he was a good driver. Not trying to show off, not taking crazy risks, and the Darlington logo on the van meant other drivers let us turn onto roads and that sort of thing. So that was one positive. There wouldn't be many more that morning.

***

Chumpy and Glynn came with me into the dressing room. They left their kit bags and I left my boots and shinpads on a section of bench labeled 'NEW PLAYER', as instructed. Then it was off through a few corridors to a function room with a bar off to the side. There was a metal shutter there, the boundary between a bunch of professional footballers and many thousands of units of alcohol. It didn't seem ideal.

The first team ranged in age from my late-teenage housemates to battle-scarred 33-year olds. We had a reserve goalie who was 37, and a player-coach who was 40. An experienced group, but unlike Ian Evans, Dave Cutter didn’t mind throwing a young player onto the pitch if he was doing well in training.

The main man strode through us all, resplendent in his club tracksuit. He and his two main assistants took a position at the front of the room, and the hubbub of chat died down.

"All right, lads. Good win at the weekend. We've got to build on that this week. Tuesday there's no league game so we've got a friendly against Whitby Town. You all know full well how friendly they are." Knowing chuckles from all quarters. "If you don't match their physicality and workrate, they'll tear you a new one. All right? It's not a league game but I expect you to put a shift in. We graft, we win our battles, we put them on the back foot, and we earn the right to fucking play the way we want to fucking play. All right? Saturday it's the FA Trophy against Alfreton at Blackwell. The office tells me it could be a big crowd, so it's an important game. It's a home game. We're better than them; we want to win. We have to win. But the priority this season is winning this league and getting out of this division. So we'll rotate where we can. Which brings us to our new addition. Max Best. You met him the other day. He's come in to give us an extra body. Max, we'll see how you go in training but I'd love to get you some minutes tomorrow night and if your fitness can handle it, start on Saturday. You good with that?"

I wasn’t sure how people addressed him in these kinds of settings, so I guessed. "Yes, boss."

"Right. Any questions?"

One hand went up. It was the team's best centre-back and captain. "Yeah. If he's here, does that mean the Frenchman will be back?"

"No. He's out. For good." That unleashed another hubbub of chat. "Right. Get changed. On pitch 2 in ten. Hop to it."

All the guys stood and filed out back towards the dressing room. All except for the goalies. They went past Cutter and through a different door. So the keepers didn’t train with the rest of the squad? Weird.

One of said squad, a midfielder who was a rare example of Cutter over-rating a player, came up to me and blocked my path. "So, Max, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

He didn't introduce himself, a fact that I didn't notice at the time because thanks to the curse, I already knew who he was. "I'm Darlo's union rep."

"Union?"

"For the PFA." The Professional Footballers Association. I'd heard mixed things about them. "Just want to check that you'll be joining."

"I'll have to read up on it," I said, and tried to sidestep him.

He blocked me again. "What? Are you against unions or something? Are you a fascist?"

I eyed him. He was acting very strangely. "You've convinced me," I said. "I'll join."

I moved again, and again he blocked me. "Thing is," he said, but I faked a step and moved past him on the other side.

It had finally clicked - he was trying to delay me from getting to the dressing room. Trying to make me late so that the captain could levy a fine on me. Cutter had warned me about all the little fines there were for everything. Presumably, this was how the captain established dominance over the dressing room. Kept himself as top dog. I couldn't really give a shit about that, but the idea of being out of pocket within twenty minutes of starting my career was maddening.

I raced to the dressing room and there was a palpable mood of merriment. Driver Pat was also the kit man, and he was laying out fresh tops, shorts, and socks for all the guys. In the middle of the room were two large, portable bins, and after training we were supposed to chuck our dirty kit in there to get washed. I picked up the gear he'd left me and swapped it with another player. The level of merriment wobbled.

Something's up, I thought, but it’s not the kit. While I was undressing, I scanned the room as the rest of the lads pulled on shirts or applied unguents to different parts of their bodies. All pretty normal. I folded my jeans up and placed them next to my hoodie. One guy was doing something weird to his boots - sort of using an Allen key on them like they were flat pack furniture. I glanced down. My boots were gone. My shinpads, too. The levels of excitement in the room trebled.

Instant, deafening fury. Then a snort through the nostril.

The plan, Max. Stick to the plan. Got to play ten league games. Got to. Games first, revenge second.

But fuck. They were my only boots and my only shinpads. They were a gift from my mother when I was about 17 and still playing regularly. Before she'd started to get sick. Her happiness seeping into me. "Do you really like them?" she'd said, and she'd been so, so happy that she'd picked the right ones.

Someone had installed a massive, industrial pump somewhere in my chest and it was forcing gallons of angry hormones into my brain. I clenched my fists, then with a tremendous effort, unclenched them.

Games first, revenge second.

"Pat," I said, so that the whole room could hear. That was the point of this, wasn't it? I should be humiliated to entertain a room full of pricks? So then let's do it out loud.

He paused with some socks in his hands. "Did you say something, Max?"

"Yes, Pat. Did you see a pair of football boots here?"

"There? No, Max. There was nothing there when I came in."

He looked worried for a second, but then he looked around the room and sort of sagged a bit. "I'll let you get your own kit," he said to no-one in particular, and left with a shake of the head.

That was the cue for the captain to walk over to me. He was fully ready to play - I was only in underpants. The fact that he was wearing boots and I wasn't seemed like a huge disadvantage - like he had a sword and shield and I was unarmed.

He held out a piece of A4 paper. A printout. At the top it said Darlo Player Fines. "So, Maxy boy. Looks like you'll need to find your boots. Looks like you'll be late for training. That's a fine." Laughter from all corners of the room. He smiled and tapped the paper.

I appraised him. He was a tall guy, strong, not very fast, pretty good in the air. Slightly above average technical skills for his position at this level. "Where are my boots?" I said, and that triggered another bout of sniggering.

"The fuck should I know?" he said. "They're your boots." More laughter. Some guys slapping each other's hands they were enjoying the show so much.

I looked through his eyeballs right into his tiny little soul. I took the paper in both hands and tore it in two. Still watching his appalled face, I squashed one half of the paper into a ball, then repeated it for the other half. Then I tucked them into my underpants and grabbed my newly-swollen junk. Merriment had turned to horror. There was no sniggering now. The guy's face briefly contorted, and that triggered a massive reaction in my own body. If he'd so much as twitched I would have gone for him. He saw that in me.

"Fucking nutjob," he said, backing away.

Once he'd gone, I stepped around the U-shaped space staring at my so-called teammates. When I got to Chumpy, he wouldn't meet my eye, so I got closer until he looked at me. That lasted less than half a second. "Shower," he mumbled.

I stood tall and went into the showers. At the very back, in the darkest corner, two of my very, very few possessions in this world were soaked. Maybe with water, maybe not. I thought about my poor mum. Her happy smile. One of the connections between us cut forever. The boots lying on their sides like they'd been mugged and left for dead. The laces reaching out for help that never came. The shinpads ruined; no longer able to protect me.

I left them there. I walked the few yards to the place where the dressing room met the showers. Some of the team were looking at me, waiting for my reaction. Hoping I'd say something they could laugh about later. Did you hear what he said? they'd snigger. What a prick!

So I said nothing. There's no point talking to a dead man, and they were all dead to me.

With no particular urgency, I pulled on my jeans, hoodie, and trainers and left.

...

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