S1 2H - 21 - A New Light [T1] (Patreon)

[Triple length chapter! Grab TWO coffees!]

21.

Guys slapped each other as I walked through the changing room. Get a load of this!

Dudes got out of my way as I slammed open the doors to the outside world. Oh my God, what happened to him?

I walked across the pitch towards David Cutter, manager of Darlington Football Club.

I say walked, but what I really mean is hobbled. Actually, I mean wobbled. The crutches sank into the dewy turf, slowing me down.

He saw me and, once over the shock, dashed over.

"Max, what the fuck?"

"Boss," I croaked. "I'm on crutches."

"I can see that! Why? How?"

I looked down. Forlorn. "Pretending to be injured, boss."

"What - Oh, for fucks' sake."

"Apparently it's all pranks around here. I'm trying to integrate. I'm thinking that when you name the team tomorrow, I burst in to the dressing room. Surprise! He was fit all along! They'll absolutely lose their minds. I can't wait to see their faces."

"Don't be daft, lad. We're a professional football team. You missed training Monday. You can't miss today an' all."

I eyed him. "Dave, this is just to make the best of a bad situation."

"What do you mean?"

"Er... it's private." A couple of players and coaches were coming to get the goss. Cutter shooed them away. "Boss, er... Thing is, with your permission, I'd like to go and see my mum. In the home, you know."

"The home?"

"The care home. In Manchester. I told you," I lied. The next bit was true. Sort of. "Anyway, the specialist said if it was possible, I should go and see her. I mean, if it's going to cost me my place tomorrow then I'll stay and train. But, you know. If I can be there, I'd like to be there. There's a park near the home. I can do however much running you want. But I'll still be close by, you know? With her. Just in case."

"Oh." He seemed to replay the entire conversation in his head. His posture changed, and he put his hand on my shoulder. "Listen. If you need time off..."

I shook my head. "She always wanted me to become a footballer. Tomorrow I'll play so well I'll be in the papers. And I'll bring them to show her. That's her generation - newspaper clippings."

Cutter took his hand away and smiled. "My ma kept my cuttings in photo albums."

I sighed. "I don't have any. This is my first chance. It might be my last. I want my time at Darlo to be a success. I want my mum to be proud of me. Missing training isn't in my interest, but some things are more important."

He pursed his lips. "You better believe it. Took me far too long to realise that." He looked away at some tree or something. "Fuck it. Your natural fitness is off the scale. Go see your ma." He checked his watch. "Kick off's at 3 tomorrow. We hand in the team sheets at 2. If you want to do a dramatic entrance, 2pm." He surveyed my crutches with a sparkle in his eye. "This is my sort of caper. At the end, everyone's laughing. Go on, lad. Waddle away."

***

I drove back to the clinic that had lent me the crutches and dropped them off. Cost: one cheeky smile for a bored receptionist.

Then it was 2 hours to Manchester. Spending some time with mum, Anna, and Solly. It was actually fun until I discovered that mum's bedside table lamp needed a new bulb. I asked how long it had been out and she wouldn't tell me. Trying to protect the nurses. It wasn't the nurses that I blamed. It was me. I had this fantastic talent and couldn't even provide basic things for my own mother. And she'd rather sit in the darkness than tell me, because she knew I couldn't do anything about it.

I bought a new bulb, changed it, and went to work my anger off with some sprints around the endless, empty pitches at Hough End.

Back at my house, I took a long shower and packed all my clothes and possessions. I left them in the entrance corridor.

I lay on my bed for a while and looked at the ceiling. I decided to stay home the whole evening, other than a quick pop to get some food. The plan was to completely, utterly rest so that I was daisy fresh for the match tomorrow. There was a lot riding on it.

The boredom, though, was crushing. So I went to Platt Lane and watched some garbage footy. I pumped 90 XP into my veins, grabbed my last 'free' kebab from Emre, and demanded his phone number.

"I won't be back here," I explained. "But I'm going to clear my tab. Maybe I'll get your bank details or something."

"Nah," he said, which sounded very Mancunian. "We say in Turkey: You always meet twice. You'll be back. Pay me then."

"You always meet twice. Could be the name of a Turkish James Bond movie."

"The Spy Who Loved Meat," he said, attacking his giant kebab skewer with his carving knife.

"The Ottoman with the Golden Gun," I said. "Die Another Salt Bae."

He pointed the blade at me. "I told you to stop talking about him! He doesn't know meat! He's a hack!"

"Emre," I said, pushing my luck. "It's going to be ages before I see you again. Are you going to let Turkey's most famous chef come between us?"

He took a minute to calm down, but then came out of his little booth thing and gave me a hug. "Take care, Max."

"Nasilsin, bro."

He shook his head and for a moment I thought he might grab the blade again. But he smiled, launched himself back into the hug, and mumbled, "Güle güle."

"Right back at you."

***

XP balance: 1565

Debt repaid: 174/3000

***

Saturday

I stuffed my car. I still had a few bits of furniture in the house, but it would probably cheaper to buy new pieces than move what I had.

I threw the crutches Jackie had found for me onto the passenger seat and locked my front door. I'd probably be back one last time, but this felt like an ending.

Of course, if I didn't play well, if I had some kind of Maxy meltdown, then I'd be back. Back with my tail between my legs. Which is why I hadn't called my landlord, yet.

Some impulse made me hesitate before starting my car. I walked round the corner to the little park where this whole adventure had started. I walked to the spot where I'd met Old Nick. Then to the place I'd fallen over the first time I'd seen the player profiles.

It was a park. Just that. Some trees, some paths. A couple of plaques set into slightly raised concrete memorials. One for a shooting, one for a stabbing. The names of those killed were well known in the area. Why had I been drawn there?

Someone had placed a flower in a little vase, but it had blown away. I put it back.

***

It was a very stop-start drive to Darlington, which gave me a little more time to think. I put the radio on just in time to hear the start of a very smooth song with a playful karaoke hook. My stereo said it was New Light by John Mayer. I wasn't familiar with his work, but there was one bit that went woooh, so I paid extra attention.

Oh you don't think twice 'bout me

And maybe you're right to doubt me but

But if you give me just one night

You're gonna see me in a new light

I let the song finish then turned off the radio. See me in a new light. It was a song about a guy hoping to change a woman's opinion of him.

But almost nobody on the planet knew who I was. I certainly had zero reputation in the world of football. That wasn't helpful in terms of achieving my goals, but it also meant I had no baggage. No previous. When I stepped onto that pitch I would be reborn. Load up a new RPG and choose your character. In a video game you had the same quests whether you were a warrior, a mage, or a monk. I was starting the game hoping to get a certain quest line - help the townsfolk and become the new mayor! - and was reverse engineering my character based on that.

Not see me in a new light, then, but see me in the right light.

• How could I play football like someone on the fast-track to management while generating hype?
• How could I ensure I was picked for every match?

I mentally sketched out a few possibilities.

Option 1. Some kind of superstar diva. The curse had given me physical gifts that took me way past what the average 6th tier player could cope with. I was much faster, had better technique, better finishing. I could flap my arms around like a goose every time my teammates didn't pass to me - really make sure the crowd saw it. It didn't seem very mature, though. Not very managerial.

Option 2. Some kind of team-first fundamentalist. Lots of recovery sprints, helping my full back, short passes to bring my comrades into the match, winning headers, thundering into tackles. Yeah, I could be the kind of inspirational player that got management jobs easily. And Cutter would love it. On the other hand, most of that would be indistinguishable from what any other player on the pitch was doing, and all the tracking and shape work would be invisible to the fans.

The fans. It was all about the fans, wasn't it? I had to make a connection with them. Once they were on my side, they'd howl when the cavemen didn't pass. They'd rage at the strikers who didn't turn my passes into goals. They chant my name when I wasn't named in the starting eleven.

Yep. Fans first. Had to be.

So option 3. A tricky winger. Fans love wingers. Run fast, do skills, beat defenders, hit crosses. Don't bother with that all defensive stuff. But if I didn't do my defensive work, Cutter wouldn't pick me, no matter how popular I was. And the winger-to-manager career path was not a common one. Wingers kept their brains in their feet and never lived up to their talent.

I tapped the steering wheel.

It seemed like I could play mostly in the confines of Cutter's system and occasionally break out to enthral the fans. Or I could be an entertainer first and foremost and risk being dropped.

Tricky.

I didn't need to settle on a character right away. It wasn't like wrestling where you needed to pick a name and an outfit before you even got in the ring. I didn't even have an outfit yet. Pat the kit guy had said the kit printing machine was broken and he needed a certain spare part. He'd hinted that I'd be playing in a blank kit again.

***

At one minute to two, I swung myself into the dressing room. The hubbub decreased in volume briefly, but then came back slightly louder. I tried to look blank, and found it pretty easy. Most of the guys were fully ready to play, except a few with mad superstitions - they would put one sock on now and the other just before the match, things like that. Absolutely bonkers. I noticed that Webby was fully ready to play - he was the first choice right-mid. I wondered if Cutter had double-pranked me and I wasn't going to play after all. A light sheen of sweat formed on the back of my neck. I needed this!

Cutter stood where we could all see him. "Lads. Big cup tie. Big crowd out there. Do you hear them?" We all looked towards the door that led to the corridor that led to the pitch. What we mostly heard was crazy loud pop music being blasted out, drowning the atmosphere the fans were trying to create. "So. We're starting pretty strong, get a few goals to the good so we can give more lads a chance off the bench. Right? Solid start! They're physical this lot so win your battles! Get up their arses! Then fucking play! Right, we're doing our squashed 4-4-2. Here's the team. In goal, Larkin." That was Paul, the talented backup goalie. An immediate sign that Cutter was resting some of his big guns for this match. Perfect. But when he ran through the back four, Caveman and Colin were both in the team. The only change in defence was that Chumpy got a start at left-back. Fuck. The defence was more caveman than ever! "Midfield: Tim, Doop, Glynn..." Glynn! That weasel-faced fuck. He'd be the midfielder closest to me. I'd be surrounded by cavemen! I briefly hoped I wouldn't be named in the team, after all. "Strikers: Blondie, Junior." There was a bit of restless movement - Cutter wasn't the type to forget to name a player. He grinned. "Oh. Right-mid, Max."

Pat, the driver and kit man, stepped forward with my shirt on a hangar. I glimpsed the back and he'd printed something on there after all. He'd pranked me! He put it on the hook behind me, even though I was standing in his way. But it made sense. It was something of a rite of passage. Seeing your name on the shirt for the first time. Proof that you'd made it. All your hard work had led to this moment. Well, I hadn't worked hard in the slightest but seeing the shirt there still hit me in the feels.

BEST 77.

Yes, mate.

While I stared at the shirt, I was aware that something had changed in the dressing room. Cutter had played his part in the prank beautifully, but the punchline had played to zero reception. From his point of view there should have been an explosion of laughs, banter, handshakes. He looked puzzled, but shook it off and launched into his pre-match motivational speech.

I put the crutches down, pulled off my hoodie and t-shirt, and held the Darlington top up in front of me.

The back was all-white, except for my name and number. The front had chunky horizontal black and white stripes, with the sponsor and half the club badge in red. Good football kit!

The badge featured a Quaker hat and an old steam train. Big parts of the city's history. The football club was 135 years old and no-one had ever worn shirt number 77. Whatever happened today, I would be a small part of that history.

I didn't listen to the motivational speech; I didn't need it.

***

The warmup was the last chance for a caveman to kick me, so I went over and helped Taff get Paul ready. I hit soft shots at him, then some slow, lobbed crosses for him to catch. Trying to make him feel good before kick-off.

Then with the last obstacle safely navigated, we went back inside for the last hype session, and back out. Ready to play.

***

The stadium announcer read out the teams, leaving pauses for the crowd to react.

"Number 9, Owen Thorpe." Big cheer from the home fans!

"Number 34, Junior Howland." Warm applause for the young striker.

"Er... number 77... Max Bent." Half-hearted cheer.

The match kicked off and I spent my usual few minutes wandering around my zone, checking out the sitch.

The sitch was that Alfreton were playing a weakened team, as well. I don't know what their fans call them, but let's go with Alfy. They were in a 4-5-1 formation. The goalie had CA 35. The back 4 averaged 33. The midfield was 33, too, and their striker was CA 43. So their team average was about 34.

Paul had CA 39. Chumpy dragged the average of our defence down to 43. Our midfield, excluding me obviously, was 35. Pretty weak because Tim (The Invisible Man) was really a non-entity and Glynn, while he had some positive footballing attributes, wasn't getting regular game time. The strikers were decent. Blondie had CA 50, and the other, Junior, was a fairly promising youngster. Although he only had CA 37, his PA meant he'd probably end up at a decent level.

So Alfy averaged 34, Darlo 40.

My direct opponent was way below average, even for this level. I wondered why the Alfy manager had rotated his team so much. Alfreton had an outside chance of getting to the playoffs, so the league was obviously their priority. But if they lost, say, their next 4 league games their season would effectively be over. Have a go at the cup, man! Maybe he thought Darlington were just too strong.

My first involvement was when Alfy's goalie launched a booming goal kick towards my side of the pitch. My opponent had 10 in jumping, but I leapt much higher and nodded the ball sideways to Glynn, the prick.

Glynn, the prick, turned away and scurried off like a crab to the other side of the pitch.

The pitch was a bit sticky. A bit bobbly. Most of the guys were having trouble controlling and passing the ball, and even I had problems in the warmup. You could have perfect technique but if the ball bounced up before you struck it, you were going to look shit. Glynn passed and it bobbled right over the foot of Tim. Out for a throw-in.

The fans were in good voice. A cup run would have been a nice distraction, but it wasn't the be-all-and-end-all of Darlo's season. Great if we win, not so bad if we lose. Also, there didn't seem to be any particular rivalry between the clubs.

We got a throw-in on my side of the pitch. It was Colin's job to take them. He almost always threw it backwards to Captain Caveman's mate, who I'd started to call Shrek. But once, when I wasn't paying close enough attention, he threw it to me, knowing that I had no chance to do anything with it, surrounded as I was. Damn! It looked like he was trying to link with me, without actually doing it. Maddening. From that moment, I made sure I was further away when we got throw-ins.

I spent the first five minutes shuffling and sliding like a good boy. Cutter said he wanted to keep things tight at the start - don't let Alfy have a sniff. Don't give them any encouragement! So I did the hard yards. Actually, hard yards sort of implies a lot of virtuous running. I mostly just walked from spot to spot. A couple of times Alfy got too close to me and I nicked the ball off someone's feet and played a one-touch pass.

So after 5 minutes I had a match rating of 7. I was a good and diligent boy!

After a bombastic start from Alfy, we got a stranglehold on the game and started to push them back. When we had the ball, I was allowed to take up a position on the right-wing. Very attacking. Ready to drop some hand grenades!

But 7 minutes in, I hadn't received a single intentional pass from a teammate.

So. It was going to be like that.

I spent another few minutes analysing the tactics and the strengths and weaknesses of the Alfy guys. The left-back had a habit of taking a heavy touch when the ball came to him and then turning to the touchline (my right) and whacking the ball down the line. It was his get out of jail card. I tucked the knowledge away. For now, I was content to let him do that and put pressure on Colin, the prick. My dream was for Alfy to get a corner, because they had their slow midfielder, Osgood, playing. He was the one vulnerable to fast counter attacks. And, mate, having spent zero calories in the match so far, I felt fast.

Ten minutes in and I hadn't had a meaningful touch of the ball. Time to step up!

I waited until the ball was passed to the left-back, then sprinted at him, aiming my run for his left. He turned towards the right side of the pitch, as I knew he would, and I nicked the ball off him, dabbed it ten yards down the line and chased it. The guy, surprised, tried to grab my shirt to stop me. Mate, I'm strength 20. I collected the ball, ran on, ran on, then cut diagonally into the penalty area. Junior was trying to get to the far post, but the highest percentage chance was our number 9, Blondie. He'd sent my last assist into the sea at Whitby. Surely today he wouldn't dare do that shit? There were a few defenders near him, so to make it easier I chipped the ball up to his head. He only had to redirect it towards the left of the goal.

He met it and booped it almost vertically. It stayed up in the air so long that the goalie had time to get close, jump, and catch the ball.

I stood there, honestly kind of stunned, simply staring at Blondie. It seemed definitive proof that he was a closet caveman. We were attacking the Tin Shed, the noisiest set of fans, and they shouted their encouragement at me. I started walking back to our half of the pitch. Big demonstrations of my unhappiness wouldn't go down well. This was supposed to be a team game, after all.

But Blondie had given me the first hint of an idea about how to play this match...

***

We got a throw-in. As I said, it was Colin's job to take them, and because he always threw the ball backwards to his mates, Alfy tended to switch off in these situations. A bit of a mental breather.

I picked the ball up and held it, ready to give to Colin. Normally, then, I'd sprint down the line so he couldn't try to involve me in a situation that could only be bad for me. But this time I had other plans.

"What did he say?" I said, nodding towards Shrek. The first thing I'd said to Colin since my trial the previous Friday.

Colin turned to look at his buddy. While he was looking away, I threw the ball at his back, which made it live, then I dashed to gather it and started dribbling. I burst past two Alfy players before they even knew what was happening, and powered towards the byline. I glanced up to see where the strikers were. Junior, annoyingly, was in a glorious position. But that didn't fit the story I was writing. I lashed the ball shin-height at Blondie. It bounced off his leg at a mad angle.

The Tin Shed lost their minds. From their point of view I'd served him a goal on a plate again, and he'd made a mess again.

I let myself end up just in front of the fans. I stared at one guy. He must have been 25. Some boring job and this was his weekly release from it. I glanced in the direction of Blondie then stared at the fan again. I did the tiniest little shrug - hopefully it wouldn't show on camera. It worked on this guy, though. I think. He got a manic look in his eye and yelled, "Come on! Come on!"

I walked back to our half of the pitch again and checked the match ratings. I was on 8. Colin and Glynn 6. Blondie was on 5. I smiled. This was tremendous. One more miss from Blondie...

***

Although some guys weren't playing well, we were still the better team. And so it came to pass that we finally got a corner. Cutter had been very, very clear that I was 'on' corners and free kicks. Even the cavemen knew better than to defy him when it came to set pieces.

The timing was annoying. If we scored, my narrative would be stillborn. There wasn't really a way to take a corner in such a way that would make me look good but would lead to a lower-than-average-quality chance for a teammate. As I strolled to the far corner, something caught my eye up on The Clubhouse. The balcony where Inga, presumably, was sitting. I thought I'd seen someone I recognised, but apparently not. Someone had draped a couple of banners there. One had some text and a big Darlington FC badge. The one I was wearing over my heart. Emma once accused me of being romantic, and I suppose when it comes to the traditions of the game, I am. Taking a shit corner on purpose seemed... disrespectful... in a way that giving a prick a difficult pass wasn't. Maybe it was because from the corner I would be aiming at an area, and any of 5 or 6 different people could score.

I prepared to whip in a Max Best Special. I put both hands up because I was a professional football player now and that's what we did. I stepped back and ran on the spot briefly.

Then...

The cross was delicious. Mm mm mmm! Spicy and flavourful; I leaned back and savoured it.

Someone headed it straight onto a defender - unlucky! - and the ball bobbled around the penalty area. A Darlo guy swished his boot at it and missed. An Alfy bro tried to clear and only nudged the ball a yard sideways.

Straight to the feet of Blondie! One of the best strikers in the division!

Best takes the corner.

A perfect delivery! Onto the head of the captain!

It's blocked. There's a desperate scramble.

The ball breaks to Blondie.

An amazing chance to put his side ahead.

But he puts it wide!

The fans can't believe it.

And neither can he.

I let out a single laugh. This was incredible. He had a fucking open net! Why had he tried to hit it so hard?

I knew why - because he'd missed the previous chances. The narrative in his own head, working against him. Footballers weren't supposed to think like that. Sports people are supposed to forget what's happened before and focus on their process. Not this guy, though.

Lol.

For the first time I didn't walk back to my zone. I jogged. Practically skipped!

And I was bouncing on my heels as the goalie kicked off. I needed to get the ball. He thumped it into the centre of the pitch. I left my zone and raced towards where the ball was likely to go next - it was a piece of piss to intercept a weak pass, and now I was dribbling towards the left of the pitch. I eased past a player, then touched the ball towards Tim and sprinted down the line. All the fucker had to do was pass it anywhere! Anywhere in the northern hemisphere!

But when I realised the ball wasn't coming, I turned back and saw that Alfy had a throw-in. What the fuck had Tim done?

I put my head in my hands, absolutely stupefied, and it wasn't even an act. I genuinely couldn't believe it.

I trudged back towards my side of the pitch, but some noise from the crowd was getting through to me. They were roaring me on, and they were getting on the backs of my so-called comrades. My narrative was working.

The story of this match was one man (Max Bent, apparently) trying to drag his team single-handed across the finish line. Let down at every turn by his inept teammates. I rubbed my temples. It was a way of conveying my annoyance that didn't come with football-related baggage. I certainly knew better than to flap my arms!

Tim's match rating dropped to 5. Most of our midfielders and forwards were officially having stinkers, so even though we were better, Alfy got a foothold in the game. Our defence was pretty solid, so I wasn't worried about conceding so many goals that we'd actually lose. I was delighted, though, when Chumpy gave away a corner.

I walked to the edge of the penalty area - I hadn't actually been given a specific role by Cutter. Caveman spoke to me for the first time since Monday. "Best! Get back here! Mark 14. Best! 14 is your man!"

I ignored the shit out of him - as I'd seen when I scouted Alfreton all those weeks ago, they left this guy Osgood back as their cover. It had cost them one goal already this season, and if the ball bounced right, it'd cost them another.

The alternative was that Alfy would score and Caveman would tell Cutter that I'd disobeyed him. It wasn't much of a dilemma - I had to feed my narrative.

The corner came in, and Caveman was first to the ball. He headed it away and to the left. Glynn was fastest to respond. I pointed to where I wanted the ball. "Glynn! Line!"

If he passed, I'd have an almost clear path to goal. Of course, the twat crabbed even further to the left.

I lost my shit. Absolutely lost it. I was already running at half-speed, and I changed direction without losing a joule of momentum. With a little extra burst I caught up to him, and shoulder-barged him. He. Went. Flying.

I sensed the referee bring his whistle to his lips, but there wasn't really any reason to stop a player fouling his teammate. He let play go on. The delay had brought a bunch of Alfy guys level with me, and I was way over on the left side of the pitch, not that far from my own penalty box. So I straightened and increased my speed. 80%. Osgood came over and I knew he had decided to try to foul me. He'd probably only get a yellow card because I was so far from goal. So I kicked the ball forward 30 yards and accelerated. I sensed the crowd around me straining for a better view. Everyone on the Darlo dugout took three steps forward to see what I'd do next.

I wasn't the only guy who had lost his mind. The Alfy keeper had reacted to my ball down the line by racing out of his goal to try to get there first. His problem was that I was much, much faster than he'd anticipated.

Now if he fouled me, that would be a definite red card. What was better for me? Obviously to go past him and score. It'd be the thrilling climax to the little story I'd been writing. But for the team it was definitely best if the other lot were down to 10 men so early in the game. It would make the rest of the 90 minutes a cakewalk, and our best players would be able to get a rest. If I were Cutter, I'd have wanted the red card. So I slowed down enough that the guy would smash into me. When he was close enough, I knocked the ball a little further away.

"Oh, shit," he said. He wasn't the first-choice keeper. This was his first start of the season. Getting sent off was not good for his career. So he threw himself to the side to try to avoid me. He actually clipped me, but I decided to take pity on him and got to my feet as fast as I could.

Again, the ref brought his whistle to his mouth, and again he decided to let play continue.

So now I was bearing down on an empty goal from the left-hand side of the pitch. I angled my run towards the near post. The thousand people in the Tin Shed were going bonkers, screaming at me to shoot. It was an open goal! What was I waiting for?

But all the delays had allowed two of Alfy's faster players to scream back, and they were on an intercept course, both running with all their might towards the post that I was moving towards.

I was ten yards away and they were twelve.

I was eight and they were nine.

The Tin Shed were bouncing up and down like a mosh pit at the last leg of a horse race. Why was I slowing down? Why wouldn't I shoot? Some of them would have shot me if they could.

Six yards from goal and I finally - finally! - cocked my right leg. The two Alfy guys hurled themselves forward, legs first, trying desperately to block my shot. The furthest one even raised his leg in case I tried a chip, a wall between me and glory.

But it was a wall that was very quickly sliding away. A wall on wheels.

With my foot on the ball and a quizzical look on my face, I watched them go by. Then I rolled the ball into the empty net. The Tin Shed went even more bonkers. I looked at them and gave a little shrug. What were you worried about?

***

While the fans cheered and hugged, the celebrations of the players were pretty muted considering it was a cup tie. Junior and a few nearby guys came to embrace me, but only because not doing so would have raised more questions than it was worth. The cavemen mostly huddled around Glynn, who was sitting up on the grass, looking a bit groggy.

None of his attributes had turned red, so I wasn't worried about it.

So it was time for the next stage of Project: Project, in which I tried to project an air of maturity and tactical awareness. I went over to Cutter and pointed to spaces around the pitch, almost at random, while I asked him if I was allowed to push forward a bit more. The idea was that, seen on a TV camera, it would look like we were discussing tactics. As an afterthought, I covered my mouth in case of lip-readers.

A slightly bemused Cutter congratulated me on my goal but asked me to keep the shape until half-time.

As I made my way back to my side of the pitch, I made eye contact with Glynn. He looked sullen, but wary. Now that I'd bitten back, he was seeing me in a new light.

"Glynn, mate," I said. "You want to play in my midfield? Pass or get off the pot."

Caveman heard and shouted back. "It's not your midfield!"

I waved at the fans to cheer louder. They responded. My heart beat harder. I turned back to Caveman and pointed around the stadium. "It is now."