17 - Top Gear [T1] (Patreon)

17.

I demanded the minivan keys from a very, very reluctant Pat.

"I'll drive you, lad. Where are you off ta?"

"Please hand over the keys, Pat."

"You're not insured!"

"The keys if you please." He dropped them into my palm. "My boots and shinpads are in the shower. Please leave them there."

"What?" He seemed dismayed, not by the news, but by my request.

"Leave them, Pat. Whoever cleans in there, let them know."

With that, I zipped out to the car park, looked up my destination, and hit the road.

***

A bell rang as I entered the shop. There was a youth hanging around tidying the shelves. Pretending to work, it looked like.

"Canneelpya?" he said.

I spent a few decades trying to understand what he said, then nodded. "Yes, you can help me. Can you get your manager, please?" It always sounds obnoxious when you ask for the manager, so I did my best to be friendly.

"I'm the manager, like. It's my shop."

"Oh," I said. "You're..." I checked my phone, "David Longstaff?"

"Aye! Everyone calls me Longstaff."

He was only a bit older than me, it seemed. Thin and friendly and a sort of blank face. But that was deceptive - he'd built a small business. He had something about him. "Awesome," I said, holding out a hand. "I'm Max. Just started playing for Darlington. Are you a fan?"

"Yeah! Course!" He looked worried. "I've not heard boot any noo playa!"

That's the end of me trying to recreate the North-East accent, by the way. From now on, I'll leave it to your imagination. Just elongate vowels wherever you want. "Literally just started. Not even started, really. I've had an equipment failure. I need new boots, and shinpads, ideally. And the best thing is, I don't have any money. I've just moved from Manchester and I don't know when I'll be getting paid. That's why I wanted the manager - to beg for help!"

A lot of looks flashed across his face - doubt, interest, suspicion, calculation. It settled on 'helpfulness'. "Right. Right. So you want to open a tab, sort of thing?"

"No," I said. "I want to open a tab and close it as soon as possible. I know times are tough. Um... why is all your stock squashed into half the space?" His racks had been pushed together so that the gap between aisles was virtually nil in some cases.

"Save on leccy," he said. "Electricity," he added. He looked up at the shop lights - about half were turned off.

"Oh, right. Of course."

"Price trebled a few weeks back. It's murder. Can't even have the open sign lit up. Had to cut the hours on me staff."

"Fuck," I said. Maybe this had been a mistake. "Look, er... I just need some boots. Forget the shinpads. Do you have, like, some ex-display models in storage or whatever?"

"What position do you play?" he said, moving over to his rack of boots.

"Right mid."

"So you're fast? Want something light?" He picked up a boot that seemed to be made of tissue paper.

"I get fouled a lot. Those look pretty insubstantial."

"They are, aye. Lot of players like that. Feel the ball better. Improve your touch."

"I wouldn't worry about that," I said, my eyes dancing around the shelves. At first it had seemed like a limited stock, but actually there was a lot of variety. "Shit. I don't even know what I want."

"Anti-clog?"

I looked at him. I had no idea what he was saying, but it seemed stupid to actually let him know that. What sort of professional wouldn't know the basic options? "Just give me the cheapest ones and I'll be back when I've got something in my account."

"Come on, now. Let's get you the right pair. If it's worth doing, it's worth doing right."

"The thing is, I haven't bought a pair in... years. I've been using the same ones since I was..." My throat briefly clogged up.

"Come on," he said. "I'll talk you through it."

So we spent five minutes going through the pros and cons of the various options, then found a boot that had a good balance of what I needed.

"Okay," I said, with my foot in one boot. "This feels good. Let's do this one."

"That's the most expensive pair," he laughed.

"Shit."

"What about those shinpads?"

"They can wait."

"In for a penny, in for a pound. Come on." He helped me choose a pair with ankle protection, but mentioned some kind of super-shinpad that he didn't carry in stock. "I'll order some for you when you get your money coming in. Now, then. I'll just take some details from you, if you don't mind. To set up the tab, like. What's your address?"

There followed a slightly ludicrous couple of minutes where I offered him my address in Manchester (which didn't impress him) or the digs (where I wouldn't be staying for long), which led to him apologising but having to ask for some proof that I was actually a Darlington player.

Which led to a total brainfreeze. It's not like the club had issued me a special passport valid in County Durham. I wasn't on the club’s website, and the guy who ran the club’s Twitter account didn’t know I existed. I didn't have my contract with me and I hadn't taken a photo of it - why would I? There were no photos or videos of me in a Darlington shirt.

I was standing there, staring up at one of the fluorescent ceiling lights, trying to come up with a clever way to prove I was who I said I was. Finally, I laughed and said, "Come outside and I'll take a good corner."

"That wouldn't prove you were a Darlo player," he said. "Just the opposite. We're shit at corners."

Just then, a postman came in. What kind of place had postmen delivering mail to the counter of a shop? Had I gone through a portal to 1955? "Morning, Longstaff. Who've you got from Darlo in here?"

Longstaff glanced at me, then turned back to his mate. "What do you mean?"

"Club van's parked on your spot."

I clicked my fingers. "Club van!" I said. I went and shook the postman's hand. He'd gotten me out of a jam. "Max Best," I said. "I'm picking up some gear. Come to the match on Saturday. I'll score a goal in your honour."

"Oh!" he said, and actually got a bit flustered.

"So," I said when I was back at the till. "That's sorted. I'll tell you what, though. I'll score you a goal too if you let me take a couple of those black hoodies. I've been wearing this one since I got here."

"When was that?"

"Feels like a lifetime," I said.

***

I strode out onto the training area and headed to pitch 2. The first team squad were doing some running drills. I grabbed as many balls as I could carry (four) and dribbled another one over to the empty pitch 1. I scattered them on the ground about 35 yards from goal. Just far out enough that most goalies wouldn't expect me to shoot.

To start with, I tried hitting the ball in a conventional way. My default method was pretty textbook really. Very loose and natural. I didn't have any footage of me taking a free kick, but I imagined I looked something like David Beckham. Relax your posture, approach the ball, weight on the off foot, fast follow-through, lots of side spin, big curve, big dip. Hit the near post or the far post with the same action. Very difficult for a goalkeeper to read your intentions. Nice.

I aimed for the join of the crossbar and post and had pretty good accuracy.

While I gathered the balls, I thought about what else I wanted to try.

Some different techniques. More power. Some free kick takers placed the ball on the grass very carefully so that the air nozzle was facing them, then they struck the ball on that exact spot. I'm not sure Ronaldo was the first, but he made it famous. The idea was that the ball would travel in a very weird and unpredictable manner. At first it moved exactly like a cannonball shot, but sometimes it would veer wildly just as a goalie was closing in on it. Sometimes the ball would dip at the last second in a way that defied physics. Normally when Ronaldo tried it, the ball ended up high in the stands, but still, when it worked, it was spectacular. Perfect for someone who needed to get reputation, fast.

I tried it a few times with no luck, but after the 5th try, I got a massive pang of headache.

Great! Exciting! Something had changed.

I retrieved the balls and was about to do another wave of shots when one of the coaches came over to me. "Max. What are you doing?"

"Training," I said.

"Training's over here," he said, pointing to pitch 2.

"Huh," I said, "Must have missed that. Where are the goalies?"

That question interrupted his subroutine. "Uh, they're inside. In the gym doing goalkeeper things."

"Thanks," I said, and started that way. With a quick click of my fingers I remembered my Longstaff Sports carrier bag and jogged to get it. All my possessions were inside.

"Leave that in the dressing room!" called the coach. He was actually annoyed by my stupidity, which meant he wasn't in on the plot. Or he was a good actor. Or he wanted me to leave more stuff in there to be destroyed. No point in taking a chance. I'd engage with the coaches if they were teaching me about football or telling me about the logistics of where I needed to be at a certain time. For everything else, they would get the same treatment as the first team.

***

I went inside and found the goalkeepers. The trialist had vanished - some trial - so there were the three I'd humiliated a few days before, plus the goalkeeping coach. I watched them for thirty seconds and what they were doing was as incomprehensible to me as Champion Manager. Something with elastic leashes, weights, and rhythmic dancing.

"Max," said Taff. He was the goalkeeping coach. I wasn't sure if I should treat him as part of the general coaching staff - the goalies seemed to always be off to the side doing their own thing. And now that everyone had turned to stare at me, I wasn't sure how welcome I was. These guys had more to dislike about me than the first team. Well, only one way to find out.

I pushed forward and shook hands with everyone, starting with the coach. "Taff! Smokes. Paul. Sky. You're all looking well. Thanks for your time last Friday. Highlight of my year, that."

"Was it now?" asked Taff. He checked his watch. "Training finished?"

"Not for me. I asked for three nutjobs to help me with a few drills I want to try and they sent me in here."

"Nutjobs?"

"I said, boss, I need to leather a football so hard at someone it could make their eyes pop out. And I want to do strange, weird experiments that push the art of free-kick taking to dizzying new heights. And I want to - "

"All right," said Taff. "You want to take more shots on us?"

Us. That was interesting. I hadn't taken a shot on him but he was so much a part of the group it came out in his language. "5 free kicks each. 5 corners each. 5 pens each. Then I want to brainstorm some scenarios."

"Brainstorm?" said Smokes. He was the first team goalie. Maybe the best in the division, but I hadn't seen every team. His backup, Paul, was much younger and had a much higher PA, but I guessed it would be a year or two before he overtook Smokes. Sky was the 37-year old backup goalie. He had a good PA, but his peak was obviously far in his past. His profile said he hadn't played a single game last season. Was his an easy life? Train in the morning, have loads of free time, most of the benefits of being a footballer with none of the pressure of actually playing? Or was it a personal hellscape?

"Look," I said, "I have no experience. I don't know what I'm doing. I've got some ideas. I want to test them on you."

"Like what?" said Taff.

"Like... example. I'm running down the wing. I get to the edge of the penalty box. There's a striker running along with me. At what point do I square the ball to maximise his chance of scoring?"

"Early," said Paul.

"As late as possible," said Sky.

"Different every time," said Smokes.

"Whoa whoa whoa!" I said. "This is what I'm talking about. Everyone's got an opinion. I've got an opinion. But let's go test it."

"Why are you asking us?" said Taff.

I frowned at him. Was he joking? "My job is to terrify the other team. Be as dangerous as possible. Who knows danger better than a goalie? Same with penalties. Teach me where you don't want me to hit it. Corners. What do you hate?"

This animated the crew like nothing else I could have said. I'd unleashed a torrent of thoughts, theories, ideas. Taff held up his hands to shut it all down. "I've been coaching a long time," he said. "No-one's ever asked the goalies to coach the forwards before."

"Well, that's dumb." I glanced up at a big digital clock on the wall. "Lads, I might play tomorrow night and I'm clueless. Are you going to help me or what?"

***

Taff brought out a huge bag of balls. Smokes and Sky carried a two-headed wire man - I mean, mannequin - while Paul and I lugged a three-headed one.

Once the goalies had positioned the defences, I started by whipping my basic Beckham free kicks at them. They fucking hated it.

"Okay," I said. "I think that's working pretty well. Can I try something I've been working on?"

I began firing Ronaldo cannonballs at them. At first, they squirted off my foot at strange, impossible angles. But then it clicked. My arms were all wrong. I had to commit to the style. From that moment, the gentle teasing that accompanied my first attempts was replaced by genuine terror.

"Guys," I said, waving everyone towards me. "Let me tell you if this sounds right to you. If I'm close to the goal I should do the Beckham technique. It's got more predictable whip and as long as I've got an angle on either post, the goalie's in trouble. Does that sound right?" Nods. Assent. "If I'm further out, I'll do the Ronaldo one. It seems to mess with your head, that one."

"Say that again," said Smokes, and the others laughed. This was fun! This was collaboration! This was teamwork!

"Taff. Any thoughts?" I said.

He shook his head. He'd been subdued ever since I'd got to grips with the Ronaldo method. "Honestly, I'm shocked by how many the lads saved. You're like a ball launcher. But more accurate." He moved between Smokes and Paul, put his arms around them, and added, "I'm proud of 'em. What do you think, Sky? We doing a good job?"

"Looks like," he beamed.

"Oh," I said. "So what you're saying is I can stop going easy on them?"

Big laughs all round.

I clapped my hands together. "Quick penalty contest?"

Taff shook his head. "You won't be taking the pens tomorrow, Max. Postpone that." He checked his watch. "Lunch soon. One more quickie, as the bishop said to the bishop."

"Okay," I said, scratching the back of my neck. "Okay. I'll go right-wing." I pointed. "One goalie. Obvs. Start on your line or thereabouts. The rest of us in a row. So from left to right, one striker running towards the far post. One defender trying to block the pass. Then me over here on the right." I scratched my neck again. "What I want to know is, when I'm running to the by-line, can I sort of trigger the goalie to try to intercept the pass I’m about to play? Because he won’t, and then my dude has an open goal." Despite my obvious brilliance, there was still some scepticism. I guessed they were the types who learned by doing. "You'll see what I mean. Let's do it once then discuss it."

I took my place on the right and immediately saw a flaw in the plan. These were goalkeepers. They were slow. Paul was no sloth, but still. He was a goalie. If God wanted him to run fast, he wouldn't have made his legs so spindly. "Paul, Sky, push forward about ten yards."

"Ten?" said Sky, disbelieving.

"Fifteen if you want. Taff, got a whistle?"

He paused, then when I looked away from the ball to see what he was doing, he peeped. Trying to give his lads an advantage. It made no difference - I hit top gear in no time. Sky's 10-yard head start evaporated in about 2 seconds and I was once more feeling the joy of air resistance trying and failing to slow me down. I glanced to check where Paul was - some distance behind, but I could work with that. I cut towards Smokes's goal so that he'd be forced to come towards me. He twitched and I pulled the ball back, diagonally, right into Paul's path. Smokes reacted brilliantly, scampered across goal, and easily saved Paul's feeble shot.

I summoned the group. "Great demo. Perfect. Thanks. So you see what I'm saying? I know there's a point where Smokes will have to come and close me down. When he does, I can pass to Paul with no chance of recovery. Open goal. Yeah?"

"But if you wait too long," said Paul, "Smokes will be able to dive and intercept the pass."

"Exactly," I said. "It's all about timing. Normally, I'd have learned that by having a hundred such situations in matches at the academy and for the age groups. But I don't. So you guys need to teach me."

"I get what you're saying, now, Max,” said Taff. “Get back in position and I'll shout when I think's right. But you have to give yourself the option to shoot."

"Shoot?"

"If you're going to shoot, he'll come to narrow the angle. That's primal instinct for goalies. Look like you're going to pull the trigger, that'll trigger him. One thing, though."

"Yeah?"

"Just for today, can you slow yourself down? Go as fast as Sky."

"As fast as Sky?" I said. "I haven't run that slow since the last mile of the Great Northern Run. When I was in fancy dress. Wearing a snorkel and flippers." It must have been the last word that made Sky flip me the bird. In return, I gave him a breezy Maxy two-thumbs.

Peep!

I went again, this time with my brakes on. I kept slightly ahead of Sky, and it felt really sarcastic. But within seconds I was moving into the penalty box from the right-hand side. I glanced at Paul and faked a shot that Smokes knew was a fake. Still, he twitched, and his balance shifted towards me. A shout came from Taff. Instead of passing, I turned perpendicular to the goal line and gave my entire attention to a possible shot. I could sweep it low to the goalie's left, or smash it high towards the near post. Either way, I liked my odds. I went through the motion of smashing the ball, and Smokes jiggled to my right to close the angle.

I backheeled the ball square - in front of Sky, perfectly into the path of Paul. This time his feeble shot dribbled in. Open net.

The group meandered towards me. Sky had his hands behind his head. He was 37. Those two little sprints had exhausted him. Never get old, Max!

Taff shook his head. "I think your instinct for the timing is better than mine, Max. Just go with your gut, I'd say."

"Hmm. Well, look. If you ever see me make a bad decision or take a wrong choice or whatever. Something I can obviously, easily improve on... Will you tell me?"

"Sure," said Taff. "Can do. Can do. Now, that was a fun little session, if you ask me. Lads, you like that?" They did. "Satisfied, Max?"

"It's not completely what I was looking for," I said, which sounds a lot more dickish now than when I said it. They all knew what I meant. "But yeah. I think that was helpful. You've basically got to make the goalie commit. I've noticed that when you guys decide to do something, no matter how daft, you go at it a hundred percent."

"It's the only way to be a goalie," said Taff.

"No matter how dumb," I said. "No matter how moronic. No matter how ill-advised."

"Right," said Taff. "Max can get all the balls himself, I reckon."

"Noo!" I said, with a chuckle. "I deserve that. But seriously, you get your lunch. I'll bring all the stuff back."

I walked off to the furthest ball, and when I turned around, two of the lads were carrying a mannequin away, and the other two were collecting balls. Whoa. It did something to me. I can't explain it. Just sort of broke through the dam I'd constructed between me and this squad. I turned away in case I started blubbing, but I swallowed the emotion. Let the feeling make my heart even harder to some, while still being the full me for others. It wasn't Max versus the universe. I had allies. Or at least, some teammates I wouldn't mind sitting next to on a long coach ride.

I fucking zoomed towards the next nearest ball, chipped it towards the bag, and slalomed to the next one. If there was a world record for collecting balls after a training session, I broke it. Smashed it. Then I sprinted to catch up to Taff, and took the bag out of his hand. Then I groaned, put the bag down, raced off to collect my plastic carrier bag, and rejoined him.

"Didn't they give you a space?" he said, eyeing my bag.

"Never mind that," I said. "I've got questions, if you don't mind me picking your brain."

"Picking my brain?" he said, with a lopsided grin. A bit nervous, I think. "Not many people are interested in the contents of my brain, lad."

"Course they are. Listen. First question. Why do the goalies train separately? No, wait. First question. Should goalies punch crosses or try to catch them? No, hold up. What's more important - handling or jumping? Do keepers need stamina? Take two goalies. One's worth a million pounds. Another one's exactly the same, but he's as fast as me. How much is he worth?"

Taff laughed and slapped me on the back. "Not sure what's worse - being on the end of your free kicks or being on the end of your questions." He laughed again. "Let's put this gear away. We'll show you where. Then I'll answer a few. Are you staying for lunch?"

It seemed like an invitation to eat with him. "Absolutely."

"And by the way," he said. "I can carry a wee sack of balls."

"I know," I said. "But today, you don't have to."

...

Thanks to all the Patrons!

Thanks to Magnus the other day who pointed out that Macbooks don't have touchscreens. You know what's moronic about me including that detail in the story? I write Player Manager on a Macbook! Jesus Christ I frustrate myself sometimes.