19 - Jam Tomorrow [T1] (Patreon)

19.

Wednesday, 16th November

I was first onto the training pitch again, getting my day off to a good start by smacking free kicks at goal. 5 right foot, collect the balls, have a think. 5 left foot, collect, think. It was a good rhythm. I could have taken a whole bag of balls but then I would have only been shooting and not reflecting.

That morning I was reflecting on the curse. I'd been gathering bits of XP here and there, and slowly paying down my debt. But where was the monthly perk? Well, the World Cup started in only 4 days so I had to be patient.

Patience. That was my whole life, it seemed. Jam tomorrow, never jam today.

If I looked forward to the day I got my first real job as a manager, I saw that I still had almost the whole road left to travel. But if I turned around, I'd actually come a long way. I had contacts and contracts and was learning every day. Sometimes I was learning what not to do, but that was okay. You can't navigate unknown waters and not expect to scrape against the occasional reef.

I kept reminding myself that I only needed to play 10 league games for Darlington. Just suck it up, Max!

Another thing - It felt like Captain Caveman and his minions had taken their best shot at me. If they pulled the same hospital pass stunt in a cup match in front of 3,000 people, someone would notice. Then again, sports fans often took the wrong lessons from what they were watching. It was 50-50 if they'd blame me for not controlling the passes. Hmm.

Anyway, I had a bit more spring in my step, so when training started I wasn't chatty, and I wasn't cheerful, but I wasn't morose either. And - wonder of wonders - we worked with the ball! A little blob of jam with my breakfast! It was a morning full of the sorts of drills I'd seen the first team doing when I'd come for the first time. Run, pass, run pass shoot. Run, pass, run pass recover. Slalom past poles and sprint to a line faster than someone else. Slalom, sprint, recover, pass. It was easy, and the rest of the guys were forced to pass to me. Sometimes they'd try to show me up by hitting it six inches above ground instead of along the deck, but the curse had given me high technique.

"Max," called Cutter near the end of the sesh. "Want to show us your corners?" The goalies were in the gym again, and it made no sense to practice corners without them. But in the spirit of not being a miserable bastard my whole life, I gave him a Maxy two thumbs. "Which side do you prefer?"

"I'm top from both," I called back.

There was some sniggering.

But get this - over the course of the sesh I'd realised yet another of my countless mistakes. The Darlo first team was far from a unified bloc of cavemen. There were cliques, and there were cliques within cliques. Captain Caveman was the dominant figure, but he wasn't universally liked and wasn't universally respected. As an example of a potential fracture, the reserve centre-backs never seemed to be close to him - in the sessions, in the changing rooms, or during meals. A couple of times it had seemed like they wanted to talk to me, but of course I pretended not to notice them. I could go on, but suffice to say that it occurred to me that I was shooting myself in the foot by treating everyone as enemies.

I needed to be more... political.

As for the corners, I waited for the guys to set up in the penalty area - 4 attackers versus 5 defenders including Caveman - and sent in a bog-standard Max Best cross. No frills. No optional extras. A stripped-back model. Your basic curving thunderbolt aimed at the area between the six-yard line and the penalty spot. Too far for a goalie to come and punch, but close enough that, with the ball traveling at such velocity, any decent attacking header would result in a high chance of a goal.

Bosh! "My ball!" Donk! Swish! Back of the net!

"Fucking hell!" someone shouted.

Caveman had been outjumped and it was his man who'd scored. Still, he turned to give someone else a bollocking.

I tried not to be smug. Blank faced, I rolled another ball onto the little arc by the corner flag.

"Fore!" I shouted, to signal that I was about to take the next one.

I did it again.

I saw the excitement among the coaches. I could practically hear Cutter rubbing his hands with glee, even though he had his arms folded.

Well, I thought. The old Max Best Special is still on the menu. No real need to keep practicing. Time for some anarchy. I pottered away from the corner and waved Cutter over. He met me in between the attackers and defenders.

"Boss," I said. "Can I reposition the attackers?"

"Let's hear it."

I pointed to the edge of the penalty box. 18 yards from goal. I turned to the attackers. "Guys, start over there."

"And run in?" said one. It was virtually the first thing any of the first team had said to me since the incident.

"No," I said, turning away. "Just stay there."

Cutter shooed the attackers to where I had said, then took a few steps away. The defenders milled around, not sure what to do. There are two ways to defend corners - zonal marking or man-to-man. With no men to mark they spread out covering as many zones as possible.

I bent to rest a ball on the very very edge of the white line. I smoothed the grass in front of the ball so that no stray blade could interfere with my contact. I closed my eyes and savoured the moment. I imagined Caveman looking at the attackers with sweat forming on his top lip - what were they doing over there? What was the plan?

Laughing, I opened my eyes and took a few steps back, allowed my weight to centre, and zipped forward like a triple jumper. My leg hit through the line of the ball and I tweaked my foot at the last second to impart spin.

The ball flew like a wizard's wand, like an architect's charcoal, like an air-defence missile. Over Caveman's despairing leap, under the crossbar and into the net.

I picked up the two balls that were still near me and followed the path of my shot. When I got a few yards in front of Caveman, I called out to Cutter. "Boss, if you want me to scout some taller centre-backs, let me know."

There was sniggering again, but this time people were laughing with me. One-nil!

I rolled the balls towards the other corner arc and when I got there, placed one. I got ready to cross. "Guys!" I said, laughing at the attackers. Big smile. Big charisma. "No point standing out there, is there? Get in the box!" I flapped my arms to express good-natured disbelief. From this side, with my right foot, I could only take an out-swinging corner. "It's not like I can score from this side." I'm not sure why I was lying. It felt right to keep the true extent of my two-footedness under wraps for now. Maybe it was because Ian Evans had said I needed to learn a position, and if I was two-footed I'd get moved around filling whatever gaps existed in the team. This way, I might play right-midfield often enough to actually start doing it well.

***

A good morning, then. On the footballing side, I was now hyper-confident in my free-kicks and corners. Even if I was abysmal in open play (the dynamic parts of a match), I was going to be an absolute menace at any set pieces I was allowed to take. And I'd taken the tiniest steps towards integrating into the team.

But the most satisfying part was landing my first little dig on Caveman. The satisfaction of hearing people laugh at him led to me offering myself a side quest.

Quest Offered!

Destroy Captain Caveman, the prick.

Quest rewards: zero XP, zero gold, zero reputation, zero long-term benefit.

You have accepted this quest!

You are a bit of a cretin sometimes lol!

***

I grabbed a shower at the digs then went back to eat lunch with the goalies. They promised to let me humiliate them at penalties before Saturday. Then I hung out with Inga for a bit. Ten minutes of pestering her with questions. Ten minutes of skimming a very dry book on the history of Darlington Football Club. There wasn't enough action there and I got restless.

I asked where the Scholarship kids went to school, so I drove there and wandered around, poking my head into classrooms until I saw them.

They were slouched, bored to death. And that made no sense because their teacher was a stone cold fox. Short hair, slim, pert, tight pencil skirt. Jesus, she even had sexy secretary glasses. Maybe the kids had gotten used to it, but it was hard to imagine. I knocked and went in. Benzo and Bark sat up straight as though jolted by electricity.

"Hi," I said to the teacher. "I'm Max. I just started at Darlington and I came to check on the lads."

The teacher frowned. I expected her to say 'well this is most improper you must leave at once and next time go through the proper channels'. Instead she looked me up and down and said, "I'm Miss Fox."

"Miss Fox?" I said, treating the room to a huge, incredulous smile.

"Miss Faulkes," she said, but her corners of her lips were twitching.

Wow. This was highly enjoyable. "Can I quickly ask the kids when they're playing footy?"

She nodded, gestured at them.

"Er... it'll be a couple of hours, Mr Best," said Benzo.

"Well, shit." That meant hanging around the school for ages or going to the digs and then coming right back. I sighed. "What's this subject?"

"English," said Miss Fox.

"Wait, what?" I said. "I thought this was a football school or something."

"It's a normal school," she said. "With some special lessons." She looked out of the window. "And a crazily overspecced sports complex."

Bark piped up. "We do BTEC Sport. That's the main thing. We can do other A Levels if we want. One kid is doing German because he thinks his pathway will take him to the Bundesliga. But almost everyone does English because of the media training module."

"Whoa whoa whoa," I said, turning to Miss Fox. "Stop the presses. Are you trying to trick them into learning English by making it relevant to their needs?"

She smiled. "Yes. Trying."

I rubbed my lips. "Huh."

"What?"

"Can I sit in?"

"You can't be serious."

"I've never had any media training. I played last night. I was absolutely abysmal. If some newspaper dude comes up to me, what am I supposed to say?"

She looked from me to the class. When she looked at me again she had a glint in her eye. "Who wants to interview Max?"

***

This was an amazing and useful time killer. The lesson went on for another hour and my enthusiasm slowly brought more of the kids into the mix. They delighted in taking different roles - the bland interviewer, the hipster podcaster, the gotcha journalist. They especially loved being vicious. 'Max, our post-match poll named you the worst player on the pitch. How do you feel about that?' 'Max, the fans booed when you were substituted. What do you say to the people who want you out of the club?' 'Max, you're shit. Thoughts?'

Apparently, I was supposed to smile and nod and talk in cliches. Once the kids got the idea that I really actually wanted to hear all their thoughts and opinions, they repeated a lot of the things they'd learned in that course. So they had been paying attention! And Miss Fox got them to role play scenarios which were followed by a class-wide feedback session.

The bell rang and the kids collected their bags and started to dribble out.

"Well," said Miss Fox, smoothing down her skirt. "That wasn't the lesson I had planned but I'm actually very happy with it. They haven't been that engaged in a while."

"They like real scenarios, I think," I said. Spoken like a true expert!

I checked my phone. Still ages to get through until the football started. The last kid trudged off and I was alone with Miss Fox. I closed the door, looked at the floor, then up at her with a provocative little smile. "Any ideas what I can do for an hour?"

She looked at me. She looked away. She thought about it. Sadly, she decided to be sensible. "I'll bring you to the school library and you can watch videos of post-match interviews."

I nodded. That was a good idea. "Aren't the computers, like, locked or whatever?"

"I'll give you my number," she said.

She was teasing me. Otherwise she would have said 'I'll give you my password'. I shook my head, laughed, and opened the door nice and wide.

As she walked past, I touched her on the elbow. Not aggressive - just enough to stop her. "My full debut is this Saturday. If I do a shit interview can you turn it into a lesson?"

"Of course. We did a whole week on Henri Lyons."

I let her go. Flirting was over. "That wasn't a shit interview."

She tilted her head. Considered me. "It didn't achieve his aims, did it? It backfired."

Hmm. That was actually a helpful framing. Most footballers being interviewed had the aim of not looking like an idiot. My aims were quite different. The media could help me get the reputation I needed. "I need to get good at this. Really good, really fast. What do you suggest?"

"Oh. I don't know... I mean, no offence but you play non-league football. What sort of media challenges are you expecting to face?"

I closed my eyes and tried to think of a way to explain what I wanted without telling her anything of substance. I realised I could be pretty truthful "I get fouled a lot. Any tackle could be my last. I want to stay in football. Be a coach or a manager or something like that when my playing career is over. Do you know what I mean? So I'm thinking... what can I do now... for then? So that when there's a press release that... I don't know... Chester have appointed 31-year old Max Best as their manager, everyone nods and says yeah that makes sense, he'll do well there." She frowned. I'd gone from light and flirty to brooding and intense and the switch had been jarring. I shuffled back a few inches. "I'm making you uncomfortable."

"No, not at all. It's just... You don't talk like a footballer. You sound like a... like a politician."

"Ouch," I laughed.

She looked me up and down again. "The people who achieve unlikely goals that rely on the support or approval of others... People like Steve Jobs. Oprah. Zelensky. They all have one thing in common."

"Oh, I know this! Cold showers."

"They're storytellers."

***

I thought about what she'd said while watching videos in a deserted school library. People loved stories. Telling the story of why I liked football was what piqued Emma's interest in me. Teasing Henri Lyons that a cool story was happening was what made him come to watch me manage the Chester Knights. One time I hadn't told a story was with James Yalley, and look how that turned out.

Were football managers storytellers?

The most famous post-match interview is probably Kevin Keegan's in 1996. He was the manager of a thrilling Newcastle team who were competing with Man United for the title. United's manager, Alex Ferguson, had been winding Keegan up, putting pressure on him by suggesting other teams wanted Newcastle to win the league so wouldn't play as hard against them as they did against United. Keegan snapped live on camera, jabbing his finger and saying 'I will love it if we beat them! Love it!' The interview is said to have killed Newcastle's title chances. It certainly killed the phrase 'I will love it if...'

Ferguson had told an extremely basic story - Newcastle had it easy and United didn't. And that proved to be explosive.

Could I really use post-match interviews to position myself as a future football club manager? Given enough time, yes. But in a couple of months?

Stories weren't that powerful, were they?

Such thoughts were swept aside when the clock struck three. I paced out of the dim library into some harshly lit corridors and then out into the dim Darlington afternoon sun. How can the sun be grey?

It was bright enough to watch the training session and to scout the Scholarship kids. The guy who wanted to move to Germany wasn't there, and a couple were out injured. But I saw 20 lads. Half were impressive physical specimens who had been noticed because they were fast and strong, but who, according to the curse, had no future in the game. No jam today, no jam tomorrow.

Tough break.

Even tougher was Benzo. I'd hoped he would be close in standard to the starting right-back, the abysmal Colin. If he was, I'd work to get him in the team and then try to make him look good. I had multiple elaborate theories about how to do that. Sadly, Benzo was CA 6, PA 6, which meant he could improve no further. If the coaching staff were easily misled or over-indexed his winning personality, he might get a pro contract, and he could even play in a match or two. But he'd never be a starter. If I had the power to make him quit the game right there and then, I would have used it. As it was, there was no way to tell him. Would it hurt more to be cut at 20 than at 17? I could only speculate.

But there was no guesswork involved with Bark. He was a special talent.

Calabash 'Bark' Barkley

Born 16.7.2007 (Age 16) English/Jamaican

• Acceleration 13         
• Bravery 5
• Dribbling 9
• Finishing 9
• Handling 1
• Heading 4
• Jumping 4
• Pace 11
• Passing 7
• Stamina 5      
• Strength 5       
• Tackling 4      
• Teamwork 9      
• Technique 7             
• preferred foot R                        
• CA 11 PA 130

Attacking Midfielder (Centre; Right)

Definitely worth taking the time to come and scout him! PA 130 was very juicy; only a bit short of Raffi Brown. If I could insert myself as Bark's agent, I would. What was the best way to go about it? Charm his parents, probably. Tell them a story. At the very least, I'd make sure they didn't sign any long-term contracts. The most sensible first step would be to gauge what the Darlington coaches thought about him. That shouldn't be too hard.

***

That evening I went to Teesside Airport to watch Middleton Rangers. They played 11-a-side on grass. I supposed I'd been expecting a sports hall or something, but it was a bit more like Sunday League. The pitches reminded me of Hough End in Manchester, but with four pitches instead of 40.

And I was a bit surprised that the players were... well, they weren't very disabled. There was a guy with a prosthetic arm, but the curse didn't give a shit about that and treated him like everyone else.

I watched the first half - for a CA 1 team they played some really, really nice football - got 45 XP - and at half-time wandered over to chat to their coach. After introductions and small talk, I got to the heart of the matter.

"Listen. I heard that you guys were a disabled team. Why would someone think that?"

"Oh," he said. "We've got loads of teams. We're actually a big club! If your mates have seen a disabled team in the area, it's probably us. They might have thought that's all we did. Oh, and we do walking football, too."

"What's that?"

"Over 50s. You're not allowed to run, so it's good for when you've got no hips or knees. It's the football equivalent of that walking thing at the Olympics where you do ten miles then get disqualified for going too fast."

"Huh." Walking football. I'd have to check that out. It sounded absolutely terrible, but I wanted to know if the curse counted it or not. "Where can I see one of your disabled teams?"

"Tomorrow night. Same time."

Jam tomorrow! "Here?"

"Yep."

"Does that goalie there have a metal hand?"

"Er... no. It's a shiny glove. Why are you so interested in Para football?"

"I'm about to start my coaching badges. Ideally, I'd have a team I could do little sessions with. Not looking to take over," I lied. "The course organisers will send people to watch me do some live coaching. If I can do a few sessions here and there beforehand, that'd be ideal."

"Okay but why Para?"

The honest answer to that was that there was less interest in Para football so it seemed like an easier way to get gigs. "Oh. I suppose it doesn't have to be." He wasn't sure what to make of me. I realised this was a good time to try some storytelling. I gave him a bit more of my energy. "It's more rewarding, though, isn't it? I've managed men, boys, women, and the Chester Knights. That's Chester FC's disabled outfit. The men and boys were pretty easy, truth be told. 11-a-side. That's kind of what I've been training for all my life. Do you know what I mean? The women's team was cool because it was 7-a-side and I had to come up with some mad tactics. But the disabled games were really hard. Really hard! I didn't have much time to work with them and I have like, zero experience with disabilities. I was really thrown in at the deep end. And I loved it! I know it won't be the same the next time, but if I could choose, that's where I'd start." I was looking up at a floodlight because one of the videos I'd watched said that if your pupils expand when you look at someone, they like you more. So I stared until I guessed my pupils were nice and small, then looked at him. "Sorry for rambling!" I said, pupils presumably exploding. "Is it all right if I watch the rest of the match? You play some lovely football, here."

"Yeah, sure," he said. He seemed a bit confused.

I really needed some media training!

***

Thursday morning's training was good. It was more shape work, but with a ball this time. We also did some rondos. You've seen those in the warmups before big games. At school we used to call it Piggy in the Middle. A few players form a square or circle and pass to each other. There are one or two people inside who chase the ball and if they touch it, the guy who made the mistake becomes the Piggy.

My rondo included Caveman and Colin, and at first they delighted in tormenting me. At least, they thought that's what they were doing. But I'd quickly seen the folly of chasing the ball wherever it went, and I slowed down and got a bit more cerebral. As they taunted me - 'He's given up!' 'He's cracked.' "Head's gone' - I was learning. Caveman had two moves - one, a quick, high-energy pass to his left. Two, bouncing the ball the exact way it came. Colin also had two main go-tos. One, pass to Caveman. Two, a sand wedge kinda hit that got him out of trouble but put the guy he was passing to firmly in the shit. I'd seen that before.

Once I'd cracked the case, I felt I could anticipate what the pricks would do in 9 out of 10 scenarios. The time for thinking was over, and the time to throw myself into the drill had arrived. The first time I intercepted a Caveman pass there was dead silence. He stepped forward into the middle as per the rules of the game, but I had a better idea. "You can stay out there, Captain. I quite like it where I am."

He shook his head and mumbled something, but the drill continued. Except that I made no effort to intercept the ball from anyone other than him. And the more I got the ball, the more frustrated he became. I was getting pretty excited - he was on the verge of a volcanic eruption. I was toying with the idea of saying things like, "ooh, nearly!" as I intercepted his passes. But a whistle blew, most of the tension evaporated, and we walked to pitch 1 for the next drill.

One of my fellow rondo-ers overtook me and gave me a friendly pat on the back.

It was happening.

I did the next drills with a massive, shit-eating grin plastered on my face.

***

A strange thing happened that evening. I finally got some jam. And then some more.

My bank app pinged to say that my salary from the call centre came through. Not my redundancy money, just my normal wages. Most of it would go to rent and bills from my house in Manchester, but I had a bit of disposable income for the first time in a while. A hundred pounds. I wasn't sure how long it would have to last and I'd probably need it for petrol. But I allowed myself to go to the nearest shops and have a potter around. Start to properly explore Darlington.

So at half five I was in a cafe drinking a builder's tea and reading their tabloid newspapers when I got a message.

Unknown number: Yo Max this is Bark. You should come back to the digs. Yeah, like right away maybe?

Bark: Yeah like right away.

Bark: Max jeez hurry up.

I hopped back in the car and was at the digs in two minutes. All kinds of scenarios were running through my mind, and they all involved Caveman and his crew. They'd trashed my room, they'd put my new boots in the dishwasher, they'd filled my pillow with anthrax.

It's just a prank, bro! Where's your sense of humour?

I stormed into the house, into the kitchen, fists clenched, face thunderous.

And what I saw was Benzo and Bark on one side of the dining table, just like when we'd done the Whitby scouting together. But sitting across from them, having a cup of tea and spreading jam onto a piece of toast, was the last person in the world I would have expected.