S1 2H - 18 - Whitby Town [T1] (Patreon)

18.

I had a hearty lunch in the staff canteen - apparently it was the done thing to load up on carbs the day before a match. The goalies were great company but were puzzled that I had chosen not to take a shower after the session. They kept ribbing me about it until I announced that while I didn't mind the joke, we were wasting valuable time where they could be teaching me about football.

After lunch, I walked back to the digs, took a shower, and drove back to the training centre.

Once there, I went into the Darlington FC office. There were four little tables with computers and phones, but only one was occupied. The occupant was Darlo's equivalent of Inga (from Chester, you remember). She was called Margot and was absolutely ancient. At least 50. She had a lively look in her eye, like she'd seen it all before but didn't mind seeing it again. One thing she hadn't seen before was a player asking detailed questions about the admin side of the club. I asked her to talk me through her job and show me some bits of work she did. The software used for most club business was ancient. She said it was called ‘ICMS’ - Integrated Customer Management System.

“Integrated with what?” I wondered, as I used the keyboard to explore the MS-DOS-looking screens. “Zork? Pac-Man? The moon landing?”

She laughed and assured me that while it didn’t have bells and whistles, the software was rock solid. She showed me a couple of neat features it had. I was entranced.

My being there was absolutely insane to Margot, but after half an hour she started to understand that I really was there to learn and it wasn't some prank. I finally, completely won her over by offering to make tea for us both. She opened a drawer and let me have two of her milk chocolate hobnobs. What a woman!

The reason Margot was employed full-time was that the football club and rugby club shared her. They also shared the stadium, an obvious fact that had somehow passed me by. She warned me that the pitch would be cut up sometimes, but that generally the ground staff were excellent. "Very well respected in their field," she said, which seemed to be the setup to some joke, but she never delivered the punchline.

While there I called the FA and got them to link my player profile to my agent application. Easy! Done! I was a licensed agent. Time to smash a bottle of bubbly on the hull of the good ship Max.

I called Mike Dean from the office phone and put on a Darlington accent. Margot tried to look disapproving, but had to laugh at how inept I was.

"Is that Mike Deeeyun?" I said. "I'm calling on bee-alf of the Footy Socia-shun."

Big pause. "Max?"

"I can't believe you saw through that accent!" Margot scoffed and turned to her work. I explained that I had my licence and he could discuss a starting date with Raffi.

When our business was concluded, MD said, "So, how are you doing?"

With the tea and the hobnobs it was easy to pretend. "Doing great. All shipshape and Bristol fashion. This week’s been a banger. Making my home debut for Darlington on Saturday. If you want to come and watch, my best friend Margot will get you a ticket. Won't you, Margot?" She extended her hands - who is it? "Managing Director of Chester." Thumbs up. "Yeah. Call this number if you want to come. I've got to go. Very busy." I moved the phone back to its cradle. As I did, I heard some frantic questions.

"Max, wait. You're at Darlington? Debut? Player or manager? What's going on? Max!"

***

I sat around a while longer, trying to learn what went on inside a 6th tier football club. It wasn't a hive of activity.

"Most of what I'm doing is for the rugby club, Max. The football side is done on match days, mostly," she said. "Ticket sales, media enquiries, vendors, police liaison. It's all hands on deck on a match day. You win that cup match on Saturday, get us through a few rounds. Once people smell a trip to Wembley, things will heat up in here, I can tell you."

I'd be long gone before the FA Trophy final, but she didn’t need to know that. "This was interesting, Margot. Thank you very much. I might pop by again if that's all right. By the way, what did you think of Henri Lyons?"

"He was very handsome," she said, as though he'd died.

"And?"

She took her hands away from her keyboard and her head tilted forward. "Me, now, I liked him. He was always very polite, very friendly. A perfect gentleman, really. And we were very lucky to get him, mind. Player of his quality down here. People forget that. A lot of people turned after the newspaper article, but not me. It's a great shame. It's best he's gone so's we can all move on. But it's a great shame, it is. But that's football, isn't it? It's not rational and never will be."

"Do you watch the games, Margot?"

"All the home games, yes. I sit up on the balcony. Have you seen it?"

"Balcony? No."

"You know The Clubhouse? It's got a balcony on the right-hand side. You'll see it next time you're there. It's like at cricket matches where the batters who aren't batting sit and watch from up high and wait their turn. Best view in the house. The directors and VIP guests hang around inside having a few drinks. It's the closest we have to a proper executive box. And they let me in, too. Of course, it's mostly so they can get their expenses processed faster! Still a nice perk, though."

"If the balcony is where I think it is," I mused, "you'll have an incredible view of me scoring direct from a corner. I'll give you a cheeky wink just before I do it."

She rolled her eyes. "I think I'll get back to work now, Mr Best."

***

I didn't know what else to do - most of the players seemed to have left and the place was getting a bit like the Marie Celeste. I didn't have walking-around money, so I went back to the digs and chilled out. The PS4 had Mortal Kombat on it, so I worked out some of my stress by punching people to death. I genuinely think it helped calm me down for the rest of the day. Stopped me doing something I might regret.

***

When the Scholarship kids turned up, they went and slumped right in front of the Playstation. "Whoa whoa whoa," I said, running to block their view of the TV. "Come over here a minute, maties."

With extreme reluctance, they stomped over to the kitchen table that the housekeeper had cleaned while everyone was out. I sat at the head of the table and made them sit side by side. "I wanted to watch you train today but you weren't around. What's that all about?"

"We go to the college and study and train there."

"Oh. You'll have to tell me the times so I can scout you. Right. Check this out." I turned my laptop around and showed them what was on my browser. It was lots of YouTube tabs. "We're playing Whitby Town tomorrow night. If you don't mind helping me out for ten minutes, I'd like to watch some of these clips together and see if we can spot any weaknesses or anything. See what we can see about their left-back in particular."

"Why scout," said Bark.

"Why scout?" I said. "Because I'm a professional. Because I want to play well."

"No, Max," he said. "Wyscout. W-Y-scout. It's a scouting tool. You get proper clips, not this shaky iPhone stuff." He pulled my laptop towards him, opened a new tab, and showed me the website.

"What!" I said, looking at some of the linked pages. "Agents, transfer zone, coaches, scouts. Oh! I saw Mike Dean using this, once." It was instantly clear that I needed access to this, so I clicked on the pricing. It was 300 pounds a year for the basic plan, which seemed reasonable. That only came with 70 minutes a month of videos, though. Me being me, I'd burn through that in half an hour. "Bark! You little wizard!” I gave him a little hug that he pretended to resist. I looked at the website again. “You know what? I'll check this out later. Let's focus on what I've prepared. Are you up for it?"

Benzo frowned. "Why you gonna listen to us?"

"I'll take ideas from anyone."

"Let's wait for the other two, then."

"I'll take ideas from anyone in this room," I said. The lads looked at each other. “Do you want to help me rip this left-back a new one, yes or no?”

They laughed. “Aight, Max. Let’s do it.”

"Okay, clip one."

***

They had an absolute blast. It was a bit like schoolwork, but about football, and to help a mate. Some of the clips led to zero analysis but lots of banter. Once poor piece of play led to Bark accusing Benzo of doing the exact same thing in training and Benzo trying to defend himself in extremely feeble fashion. He was obviously guilty as hell.

There weren't a lot of recent clips of Whitby, but the kids didn't leave the table when we'd exhausted the ones I’d found. They began tapping away on their phones, joining Whitby Facebook groups and looking for fan rants on TikTok. They got distracted a lot, but every now and then they'd find a data point. "Yeah, this guy's complaining they always play 4-4-2." "This one says the left-sided CB is a red card magnet." "They're pretty dirty."

When I thought things were winding down, Bark asked for my laptop. He went through the clips I’d found again.

“Max,” he said, after a while.

“Sup?”

“Your left-back here,” he said, quiet, serious, “I think he likes to tuck in.”

“Show me.”

He showed me one clip, then another. Somehow he’d made the replay very slow. He touched my screen, which normally winds me up. Not this time. “See here? He’s very narrow.” Bark switched to another tab. “Here again.”

The guy most likely to be my direct opponent - if I played - was standing slightly ahead of his centre-backs. From what I’d learned, that was pretty optimal in relation to the offside trap. But most full-backs left a space between themselves and the nearest centre-back. This guy, though, seemed to like to get close to them.

“It’s only two little moments,” said Bark. I think he gave me a worried look, but I can’t be sure because I was locked on to the tiny, pixelated man on my screen. Why you so far across, bro?

“Interesting,” I said. “What would you do against this guy?”

“Stay wide,” said Bark.

“Why?”

“Make him do what he doesn’t want to do,” he said.

I closed my eyes. Imagined wandering around the pitch, dragging the guy all over Whitby. I grinned, viciously. I opened my eyes. “It’s too good to be true. No-one would give me that much space. I’ll whizz past him once and force him to stay back. Probably drag the midfielder back, too. Are you guys going to the match?”

“No. No away trips on school nights.”

“Shame. Well, thanks for your help. It was fun.”

The front door opened. Chumpy and Glynn came in, dumped their bags against the nearest wall, and said hi to the kids. They walked over to the dining table and Chumpy said, "Hi, Max."

My reply was a death stare for the ages. It was so intense that he did a sort of Mr Bean-retracing-his-steps walk, picked up his bag, and escaped to his bedroom. Glynn copied him.

"What the fuck?" said Bark.

"What happened?" said Benzo.

"They chose war," I said. I closed my laptop and gave them each a friendly pat on the shoulder. "If you're still allowed to talk to me on Friday, let's do this again, yeah? We're playing..." I'd forgotten who we were playing. My big debut!

"Alfreton," said Bark.

"Oh, right," I said. "I've seen them. They play 4-5-1. Defensive as fuck. Aim their set pieces central and they left this slow player as the last man at corners. Osgood, his name is. I will fucking tear them a new one if they try that against me. So I suppose I won't need your help for that one."

"Can we do it anyway?" said Benzo. He seemed to have enjoyed the little scouting session.

"Yeah! They might have changed their default formation. I might have missed something. If I remember, I was off my head on painkillers for a lot of that time. If you want, we can have dinner on Friday and talk about it?" Just then, Chumpy walked past to get to the kettle. So he heard my next question. "So tomorrow night there's this match. What about Wednesday and Thursday? I want to go watch some footy. Where's the best place?"

"Middleton Rangers," said Chumpy, and the kids laughed.

I glared at the twat, then said to Bark, "Is that a real thing?"

He nodded, so I typed it into a search engine and scanned the Middleton Rangers website. "Inclusive football in Darlington for all ages and abilities. Absolutely fucking perfect.” There was a team photo. “Look at this guy! It's a goalie with a metal hand or something. He looks fucking badass!"

"I think it's just black gloves, Max," said Benzo, leaning over.

"One way to find out. I'll give you twenty quid if the tall guy in the middle isn't a striker. And this guy here, he looks like he can only achieve an erection if he's had a yellow card in the last 48 hours. Look at his eyes! I love this. I'm excited. When do they play? Adult men, Wednesdays at 7. The airport? There's an airport here? I thought it was all shipyards over here."

"You’re thinking of Sunderland. This is Teesside Airport, Max. It's not that far. But Middleton, Max, they're, you know..."

"What?"

"Disabled and that."

I scoffed. "It's still football, isn't it? You think I'm going to go clubbing and meet women and bring them back here? Dream on, mate. Now that's Wednesday sorted, what else have we got?" I clicked around. "Most of the age groups play on Wednesday, too. Ah! Pan-disability all ages, Thursday. Sponsored by a pie shop. This just gets better and better. Fuck. I want a pie, now."

"Are you seriously going to watch disabled football on your nights off?"

"Yep. Want to come?"

They didn't.

***

Tuesday morning I drove to Eastbourne early and parked right in front of reception. If anyone wanted to vandalise my car, the receptionist would see it. I'd stowed my laptop and other valuables in the safest place I could think of - the landlady's house. She hadn't been very pleased to see me at that time of day, but I'd turned on the charm and she'd melted.

So I got changed, grabbed five balls from storage, and went out onto pitch 2.

I did some dribbles as a light warmup, then did a few Beckhams and then a few cannonballs. The latter was extremely addictive. The feeling as the ball left my foot was like nothing else. Imagine you could cast a fireball, punch through bricks, or bend bullets around corners - it was like that. Boom! The raw power of the shot, then the vicious, evil dip. Even though I was the one doing it, I felt the shock and awe every time. I could only guess what it looked like from the outside.

I had to force myself not to endlessly repeat the skill. This wasn’t something to be practised and refined. This was something best left raw. Untamed.

So I mixed it up by doing some slow dribbles, some little skills, some stretches. Eventually, the first team appeared. I got some dirty looks, a bit of evil eye. There was sniggering. The captain puffed out his chest when he saw me looking. Puffed himself up like a scared cat. Little groups of players formed. Groups of three or four. Chatting away. Helping each other stretch. They left me on the outside. Turned their backs to me until the session started.

Cutter got us doing 'shape work'. That involved a lot of highly tedious standing and moving in the formation we'd use in the game. It was very much like a gun crew going through the motions of loading and firing a cannon, but without the gunpowder and certainly without the ammunition.

I wasn't in the first 11 for this one, so I mostly stood on the sideline and tried to absorb what Cutter wanted. But every now and then he'd take Webby out and put me in the right-mid slot.

What Cutter wanted was for us to be very compact when we didn't have the ball. If Whitby attacked down our right, where I'd be playing, the entire team would squash over to that side.

If the ball went to the other side, I was supposed to race across into the middle of the pitch. Turn one small rectangle into a minefield.

Cutter used the verb 'shuffle' a lot. Ditto slide. "Shuffle! Right right right! Okay, they've switched it! Slide back. Slide back!"

Then if our imaginary opponents got forward, we'd also squash vertically - the verbs were 'sink' and 'lock down'. The strikers had to sink - come back to help the midfield. The defence had to stick to a zone equivalent to a second six-yard box. The idea was to make sure there were always two or three defenders just in front of the goalkeeper. That was, apparently, where most goals were scored from. The 'position of maximum opportunity', Cutter called it. It made sense that most goals were scored from such close distance. And it made sense to reinforce the message that there always needed to be defenders there.

But it was all very negative. Don't make this mistake. Don't be out of shape in this situation. Don't let them do this. Be aware when they do that.

The entire session was without gunpowder. We didn't practise attacks. We didn't talk about being creative. We talked about running, about doing the 'hard yards' (meaning the boring work of shuffling and sliding and squashing and sinking), and about being compact. Did I mention the word compact yet? I heard it at least 3 million times that morning, and if you think that's an exaggeration, you're right.

Still, it was a session with the team. I didn't speak to anyone, but I was there. I was in it.

Tiny, tiny, progress.

"Class dismissed," said Cutter. The first team started to disperse. I wandered over to him.

"Dave," I said, because although there were loads of people in the area the conversation was just the two of us. "Are we all driving to Whitby separately?"

"No, Max. Meet back here at 3. We'll have a last chat about the game and then get on the coach together. Leave at 4, get there at half 6, game's at half 7. Good?" I nodded. "Max,” he said. “About yesterday. First day can be hard, I know that. But you can’t wander off and do what you want. We run a tight ship, here.” Tight ship, I thought. I’d watched James Yalley’s favourite film, Master and Commander. A tight ship meant public flogging, endless back-breaking labour, and above all, the centralisation of decision-making to a single point.

“I suppose it’s good my contract is so flexible, then,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean if I can’t fit in, you can easily get rid of me.”

I kept my face neutral, bordering on pleasant, but Cutter heard the opposite of what I’d actually said. He’d heard me say that if I didn’t like it here, I could leave.

"Max," he said, but one of his lieutenants came with some question. I wandered off. I had some time to kill.

***

The coach ride to Whitby was very tedious. I should have been excited to make my debut, but it seemed like I would only play for five or ten minutes (with a 2 hour drive before and after!).

Since this was a friendly, I wasn’t being paid full whack. Because of employment laws I was at least getting minimum wage. That meant I had no incentive to score and assist, except to make sure I got in the team for Saturday.

And crazily, I hadn't done any ball work with my teammates. Not a single pass or a single conversation about what was expected from me from a creative point of view. It wasn’t completely unheard of - a lot of new signings got thrown straight into a team.

But my lack of verve was also a function of the fact that most of my teammates were pricks and I not only hated being in an enclosed space with them, but also hated the idea of being on a pitch with them. In public, I'd have to pretend to like them.

Huh.

I looked out of the window where there was a low, early moon.

I'd have to pretend to like them.

Or would I?

***

We got to Whitby - some kind of fishing village - went into the away dressing room, started getting ready. Warmup on the pitch, back to the dressing room, blast some music, sweary pre-match hype session, and back onto the pitch to line up and shake hands with the opponents.

The match kicked off on time and on a pitch that was just turning from decent to muddy. There were about 400 people in the stadium, which seemed like a decent turnout. Darlington was a pretty big draw. The stadium was tiny, of course, but looked more like a football venue than Darlington's. There were terraces in the middle of the pitch and not much at the corners or behind the goals. The sea felt very close and the air was salty.

My role was to sit patiently on the bench and wait my turn. Naturally, I picked up some XP and checked out the tactics of both teams. Whitby played a basic 4-4-2, of course. Cutter modified our 4-4-2 so that the full-backs were pushing into midfield and one striker was 'sinking' so that he was basically a CAM. It rang a bell, and I realised that this was the exact same tweak he'd used against Chester, the first time I’d lain eyes on Henri Lyons.

I shook my head. Although it was innovative, it remained a throwback way of playing. How had I got the impression Cutter was modern?

He'd charmed me, found that I liked when he talked about modern ideas and played up the side of his personality that resonated with me. But barely a millimetre under the surface he was just as much of a dinosaur as Ian Evans. Incredible. I'd fallen for it hook, line, and sinker.

I took in a deep breath and let it out. I’d told myself I’d be bored to death playing for a defensive team, yet somehow I’d ended up in one. While I'd learned a lot and was learning quickly, I was still very callow. No point crying over spilt milk, but I'd have to be a lot more careful in future. A lot more switched on.

***

The coaches asked me to warm up a few times, but there was no chance of me getting on in the first half so I didn't put much effort in. Half time came and went. The half-time team talk was big on shape and work rate and winning battles, and light on tactics, flair, and creativity. I would have sold my soul to have Mr Yalley pop in and talk about taps.

But this complaining borders on unfair. At half-time, Darlo were winning 2-0, and scored another soon after the break. Cutter's methods worked. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that superficially, our tactical ideas weren't so different. His modified 4-4-2 was not a million miles from the 2-6-2 I'd proposed to Ian Evans, while appearing to most onlookers to be a straight 4-4-2. If my ideas are sometimes clever, then credit where it's due - Cutter's was clever too. And extremely pragmatic.

I stewed at the back of the dugout with no-one on the seat next to me, for 70 minutes. But then he signaled it was my time to get on the pitch and my heart finally started beating. I finally noticed the floodlights and heard the fans. My match was about to start. My career was about to start.

I'd get 20 minutes to run around in the red-and-white kit. It was a blank shirt; there was no name or number on the back, and the stadium announcer actually said, “Sorry, I don’t know who this is,” when I walked onto the pitch. The Whitby fans soon began chanting "Who are ya? Who are ya?"

Which was pretty funny. I blew them a kiss.

Whitby were wearing an unusual blue kit with three stripes - black, red, and white. It reminded me of a team in Italy. That was the last interesting thing about them. I certainly had nothing to fear from their left-back.

***

While I was strolling around, getting my bearings, feeling the pace of the game from the inside, the ball came to me. It was at shoulder height and wasn't coming very fast. So I got into position to control it on my chest. The plan was to let it drop and play a simple pass into the midfield.

Duff!

I was rolling around on the turf, arching my back, holding the base of my spine with both hands. It was a dull pain. No doubt I'd have a huge bruise there. I suppose I should be grateful I wasn't paralysed.

While the match went on around me - not even a free kick! - I tried to work out what had happened. I checked the match commentary and sure enough the answer was right there. My opposing left-back was a nobody called Andrews.

It's a high, looping pass hit out towards the right.

Best is there, ready to collect.

He controls the ball beautifully.

But he's fouled!

Andrews came through the back of him, knee-first.

The referee lets the play go on.

Andrews is lucky not to be booked.

I stayed on the ground for a while. At the next stop in play, the referee finally blew his whistle to allow a physio to come and check me out. He gave me some magic spray and basically confirmed that I was not going to be in a wheelchair for the rest of my life.

Up on my feet, I bent with my hands on my knees and gradually eased myself into a fully upright position. I stared at Andrews. Obviously, my first impulse was to rip out his spine and use it as a whip against the rest of his team. My second impulse was to wonder what was wrong with my first impulse.

I began to potter around again. We had the majority of possession, but the ball wasn't coming over to the right. The other guys didn't want to pass to me. They hadn't in my trial, either, but that felt totally different. That had been based on sound footballing reasons. This now was pure spite.

Finally, a pass came. Colin, the right-back, the guy who played behind me, the guy I was supposed to develop a fruitful working relationship with, chipped the ball towards me.

Alarm bells rang all over my body. I slid to the side - not exactly the way Cutter had intended - and Andrews attacked the spot where I'd just been, knee-first. Fucker trying to cripple me! And best of all, Colin had set me up for it.

I scoffed. So. They'd decided to escalate.

Oh, boy.

I went back to walking around. So far, I hadn't broken into a sprint, and I'd been on the pitch for 5 minutes. I'd been fouled once - nothing given - and touched the ball once. Some debut.

Not a problem. I only had to do enough to get picked for the cup match on Saturday.

A couple more minutes went by before the next pass came. This time it was the captain, hitting - you guessed it - a slow, chest-high chip that would give Andrews plenty of time to commit Actual Bodily Harm on me.

"Maxy ball!" I screamed, and spread myself wide like a Sumo wrestler. I literally heard Andrews's eyes bulge with delight. Nice, big, juicy target! He launched himself towards me. I sank, slid and shuffled, and after Andrews dashed past like a tricked bull, I threw a foot up to stop the ball going out for a throw-in. Now, finally, I had control, and although I was deep in my own half there was no one in front of me. I was Johnny Winger - free to run.

So I ran.

The Whitby centre-backs had an enormous head start on me and turned and ran back towards their goal - but it didn't matter. I caught up to them around the edge of the penalty area, 18 yards from goal. I surged forward, like I'd practised with our goalies. I shaped to shoot. Calculated. Bottom left, 60% chance to score. Top right, 50% but extra points for drama.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw our CA 50 striker making a lung-bursting run. The pass to him was a 99% chance of a goal. 100%, really, if the pass wasn’t blocked.

I faked the goalie - he almost bought it. He shifted his balance, but then readjusted. I faked again. One of the defenders launched himself between me and the goal - I was out of time - I played the ball slightly backwards, nice and soft, no alarms, no surprises, right into the path of the striker. He had an open goal. Zero percent chance to miss.

He hit it so far over the bar I waited - unironically - to see if I could hear it splash in the sea.

He called out to me, but I turned away and walked back to my zone. Andrews was staring at me like he'd seen a ghost. I thought about warning him about his conduct. Perhaps something with homes and ambulances.

But I decided to remain impassive. I hadn’t quite worked out what persona would suit my purposes best, and didn’t want to get into mischief before Saturday.

While I watched the match unfold, I started to doubt myself. If the team weren’t going to pass to me and if they were going to blast my assists into orbit, I was in trouble.

Whitby had worked out that Darlo weren’t trying to attack down my side, so they shuffled over to the other side and made that space compact. I watched with a huge grin as Andrews went weirdly close to the nearest centre-back. I had about 20 yards of pitch all to myself!

While the rest of the team shuffled left, I drifted further right. Oceans of space, and smooth seas ahead. Get the ball and pass to me, you mangy dogs! I’m wide open! I’ll murder them!

The ball, of course, never came. And Cutter was turning red from screaming at me to get into position. So I did.

I spent the rest of the match shuffling and sliding. Squashing and sinking and locking things down. My match rating dropped to 5 out of 10. Almost a shipwreck. When I trudged off the pitch, Cutter told me I’d done a good job.

I kept my thoughts to myself. I’d done it to book my passage into the cup team, but I wouldn’t do it again. Swabbing the deck with all the other sailors wasn’t going to get me noticed. No, come Saturday at 3pm, at the first opportunity, I’d climb the mainmast and raise my flag.

And if Cutter didn’t like it… that’s what mutinies are for.