S1 2H - 22 - No Backsies [T1] (Patreon)

22.

Alfy took the kick off and had a little go at us. Trying to get a quick equaliser. I shuffled and slid and kept the shape. I even sprinted to help Colin, the prick, out of a jam.

All the while, I thought about my ideal next steps. The absolute dream would probably be for me to score the second goal, really whip up the fans, and then... Then what? There would come a point where me shooting all the time would stop being inspirational and start being obnoxious.

I looked around at my teammates. The only guy who liked me was Paul, and he was a goalkeeper. We wouldn't interact too much. Ahead of me, Blondie was on my shit list. Either he was missing on purpose or he was just playing like crap. My instinct was that he'd missed deliberately in Whitby and the first header here, and everything after was incompetence.

Behind me, the defence was pure caveman, and in midfield there was only Tim (useless) and Doop (not much better). I could try to get Cutter to bring on a substitute, but that was a minefield. That kind of thing could easily backfire; it wasn't my place to comment on our lineup.

That left Junior, a young striker trying to make a name for himself. I focused my attention on him for a while. Watched how he ran, where he liked to move, how he controlled the ball and interacted with the guys around him. The curse told me he had high PA - 80 - but I'd like to think his talent would have been obvious to me even before I met Old Nick. Junior moved like a player at a much higher level.

We kept our shape and began pushing Alfy back into their own half. In these phases I was stationed up the pitch, hugging the right touchline, close to the offside line. I imagined what I'd do if I played in a team that wanted me there. The most obvious thing would be to get the ball to feet and whip in a series of David Beckham-style crosses. Beckham didn't even bother with dribbling past his opponent - he could bend the ball around an obstacle and make it land wherever he wanted. They made a film about this talent. I think it was called Snowpiercer. Okay, fine: Bend It Like Beckham. The downside to that plan would be that Junior didn't have the technical qualities of the guys Beckham was passing to; Junior would find it hard to turn such crosses into chances.

So maybe the best thing would be -

All activity in my brain ceased. Glynn had crabbed his way over to the right and passed to me. I controlled the ball and looked at it like it was a time bomb. I glanced up and saw that Junior had made a run to the far post. I returned the ball to Glynn and he crabbed his way back over to the left.

Well, well, well.

***

The game continued. It was a scrappy affair. Both teams would string two passes together, but not three. Glynn passed to me again, and I one-touched it right back to him.

Colin chipped the ball down the line, a pass indistinguishable from a deliberate attempt to get me injured. I cushioned it right back towards him - the defender came close but didn't foul me. In a properly functioning team, my teammate would give me a signal, next time, and play it above my head for me to run onto, knowing I was much faster than the defender.

But I didn't play for such a team. I played in a team where Caveman was captain.

Talking of whom... He got the ball, did a 3-point turn like someone using your driveway to rotate their car, and did his trademark soft, slow, chest-high chip towards me. A handwritten invitation for the defender to launch himself into my back, knee-first!

I stepped away and turned round. The left-back was confused by this and hesitated - it helped that he'd seen me run at the speed of sound earlier. As the ball went out of play past me, around nipple height, I shaded my eyes with my hand, almost like doing a military salute, and peered up into the stand, looking at the metalwork up there. The ball hadn't gone that high, but that's the thing about gaslighting - the facts don't matter. After a bit of fake searching, I raised my arms vertically above my shoulders, then flattened my hands. It's the same signal used in at least two sports, and this was a rugby ground. But for some reason I shouted, "Touchdown!"

A few in the crowd were amused. A few were angry at me for not trying to get the ball. I grinned at the latter.

Then I plastered a huge, charming smile on my face and turned back to Captain. I gave him a little thumbs up and a big clap. That's football code for 'ooh nearly thanks for trying'.

Then I shuffled and sank and did some hard yards, and for the first time, loved every second of it.

***

You can imagine that I was having a lovely old time. I was sailing my little plague ship all around, chucking barrels of poison at people whenever I wanted. But I had a magic mainmast that made anyone on dry land see me as a glimmering hero.

It was perfect. Dreamlike.

And that's the problem. Dreams end.

Now that Glynn had started to pass to me - in moderation - the midfield was feeling more of a unit. Glynn hit me a nice, fast pass that I controlled in a way that gave my body a bit of kinetic energy - an invitation to myself to go on a dribble. It didn't feel right, though, so I shaped to pass to Glynn. Since that's what I'd been doing a lot recently, Alfy's midfielders moved to intercept. So I played a longer pass, sideways, across the crowded pitch, which can be risky. But the pass found its target, Doop, and he played a 1-2 with Tim. Doop was pushing towards the penalty box when he was fouled. As always, I scanned his player profile to see if anything was red. All clear. But something about the challenge infuriated Doop, and he was up on his feet pushing his opponent. That triggered a melee. First the hotheads ran in to vent their testosterone, then the peacemakers piled on to make things worse.

Now, football melees are often described in phrases that use the word handbag. Commentators say 'oh, we've got a bit of handbags here'. Think of a group of older women getting rowdy and swinging their handbags at each other. (I wonder if this has traveled to America but with the word purse?) Now personally I wouldn't like to be hit by a 30-litre handbag full of phones, metal canisters, and tiny blades, so I don't know where the phrase comes from. I suppose it's better than a cricket bat or a .44 Remington. In these melees, football players almost never punch, or kick, or do anything other than bounce into each other like baby rams, so it's really a pointless endeavour.

I wandered over in the direction of the melee, but only because I was going to take the free kick. I stayed ten yards away and took the opportunity to look around the stadium a bit. Until that moment, I'd been almost wholly consumed by the game, by achieving my goals. Emma and her date were probably in the stand where I'd pretended Caveman's pass had been absurdly high. That was on the far side from me, now. Who else had I invited? Well, almost everyone I knew. I doubted anyone would actually come. But maybe, just maybe, Mike Dean would be here. I guessed he'd be up on the balcony. So I walked a bit closer. I glanced back at the contretemps; it seemed to be disbanding, but there was still time to have a look around.

The balcony, then. It was packed. People were two or three deep along the whole length. It made sense, I suppose - those guys had a great view and could pop inside for a beer. I started on the right-hand side because I had the idea that Inga would be there. That was absurd - I was the one who had imagined her being there to watch me score direct from a corner. Anyway, I didn't see her and I didn't see Mike Dean.

At the closest point to where I was, there stood an extremely handsome old man. I was briefly impressed by his clothes - it was all soft fabrics, a hint of a tweed jacket underneath a really superb coat, and what looked like two scarves. I smiled. It was like seeing a future version of Henri Lyons. I scanned the rest of the balcony, saw no-one I recognised, then turned to pick up the ball. I placed it with the nozzle facing me. Then I hesitated. Maybe it'd be a good time to let someone else score? A cross to the far post, then? Financially, it was the same if I scored or assisted. Nah. I should score again. Two goals on debut and the rest of the match trying to create chances for Junior. That was the story.

The goalie was shouting at his players to form a two-man wall. I was so far out that there was almost no chance of a direct shot. I tried not to smirk. This would be the last time anyone underestimated me.

Cannonball, then.

The exact moment I made my final choice was the exact moment I felt a wave of hostility assault me. It felt like the blast of air you get when you open a sauna door. I turned, bewildered, but knew exactly where to look.

The distinguished older man, the guy wearing clothes that cost more than the stadium, the silver fox with those prominent shoulder muscles you only get from chucking weights around a gym for an hour a day, was glaring at me. Calling it the evil eye would be way too on the nose.

It was Old Nick.

I hadn't recognised him at first because when I'd met him he was pretending - yes, pretending, I'm sure of it - to be a thin, old, doddering fool. This was more like the real Nick. Strong, powerful, serious. His hair was all silver now. His haircut was as modern as any Premier League footballer's, but it suited him to perfection. His beard could have been sculpted by Guillaume Geefs.

And he was furious.

I knew. I knew what had happened as lucidly as if he'd sent me a readme.txt file explaining our entire interaction, step by step in words of no more than two syllables. When he'd given me the curse he hadn't intended for me to be a player. He just hadn't. He'd given me the management skills. Seeing me dominate this match as a player was shocking to him. So shocking he'd emerged from the shadows to...

To...

To... what?

To make me stop.

His head tilted forward - almost a nod.

Someone bumped me. With extreme reluctance, I broke eye contact with Nick. "What?" I snapped.

It was the referee. "It's a bit early in the game to be timewasting." A tiny joke to get me to hurry up and take the free kick. But he saw something in my expression. "Er... Are you all right?"

"Ref," I said. "Look up on the balcony. Do you see a tall man with silver hair? Looks like he just stepped out of a fashion magazine."

"Best," he said, shaking his head.

"Please," I whispered.

He sighed and looked. "Oh!" he said, a bit shocked. "Yeah he's there. You weren't joking about the hair. Is this... er... Is he your...? Do you want me to get a policeman or something? I'll be discreet."

"No, thanks," I said. "I got this." I touched the sides of the ball. The ref jogged off into his position.

I took a few steps back, then a few more. I sank into my body, then, face distorted with fury, smashed the ball towards goal. It was halfway there almost as soon as I finished my follow-through - so far above the goal that the keeper didn't even take a step towards the ball. At that point, with the ball flying a full two yards above the crossbar, I turned towards Nick and locked eyes with him. The moment the ball began its wicked dip, his eyes flickered towards it. I wanted to roar, to scream, to yell defiance. And I did. Silently.

The silence lasted no more than half a second. The Tin Shed did my roaring for me as the ball smacked into the net.

I stared at Nick until we were both enveloped - him by rampant Darlington fans - cheering, jumping, spilling their beers, but never actually seeming to touch him - me by teammates. Junior, Tim, Doop. Even Glynn. Most of the subs and coaches had run on to the pitch, too.

I let it wash over me, and when they finally fucked off, I checked the balcony. He’d gone, leaving only ripples of menace in his wake. I made a beeline for Junior. I grabbed him by a fistful of shirt. "Junior, mate. I need someone to score from my passes."

He tried to free himself, but I was too strong. "I've been making runs!"

"Keep making 'em," I grunted. In trying to release my grip I accidentally pushed him away. Then I paced towards the centre circle. Alfy kicked off and I stormed towards the ball. They passed it and I changed direction, sprinting at full speed. Another pass, another sprint. Another pass, another sprint. I was zooming around like a man possessed. An unfortunate turn of phrase, perhaps, but vivid.

I ran, ran, ran, and all the while the fans went nuts. Normally, a player who lost his head like I had would make 3 sprints then get tired. 4, maybe. I was on 8, 9, and Alfy were buckling. Every time I turned I got a little closer to the ball. Finally, a guy played a pass back to the goalie and when he saw me bearing down on him he tried to kick the ball long, first-time. The ball bobbled up just before he made contact and he sliced it over to the right-hand side of the pitch. The zone where I should have been anyway. I sprinted and collected it. Blondie was unmarked at the near post. Junior was making his usual far post attack but with two defenders near him. I curled it high enough to evade the backtracking goalie and hard enough so that Junior wouldn't have to add any extra energy to score.

Bop. Boof. Swish. Come on!

Three nil!

I collapsed to the ground, breathing hard, sweating freely. At some point in my manic sprinting, my legs had turned to jelly. I put my hands under my head and spent a couple of seconds enjoying the absolute delirium coming from the stadium.

Junior had been celebrating over on the far side, near where he'd scored, but now he was standing over me. He pulled me up and hugged me. "Thought you was being a one-man team."

I held out my hand and we did a manly, grasping handshake. "We're a two-man team, now."

"Guy, you're fucking crazy," he said. But he was smiling.

***

I didn't do anything crazy for the rest of the half. I had what Cutter had called natural fitness, but I was nowhere near the Premier League norm of firing off 100 sprints a game. I needed to conserve energy and explode at the right moments.

Twice I got a pass from Glynn that I instantly sent forwards to Junior. His movement was great, but the first time he lost control of the ball and a defender knocked it away. The second time he gathered the ball but hit a weak shot. He was delighted, though, to be playing with someone who could find his runs. And part of me was delighted that he was missing. If I scored and assisted too many times it would cost the club too much money. There was a chance Cutter would get told not to pick me in every game!

One more assist would be fine. I planned to get through to half-time, dose myself with those energy sachets, do ten or twenty minutes of the second half, then suggest to Cutter that he sub me.

At half-time, in the dressing room, I rushed to my kit bag. I grabbed my phone and typed 'Champion Manager'. The results were gibberish. I clicked 'images' and they were as insane and baffling as always. I went back to the first results and clicked on one. I got a pang of headache. I nodded a few times and slipped my phone back into my bag.

I was deep in thought when Cutter announced his plans. "Max, well played! That free kick, holy shit. Let's save your legs for the next match, though, yeah? So, second half, Webby you're on..."

"Whoa whoa whoa," I said, standing up from the U-shaped bench all the players were on.

"Max," he said, annoyed. "I've made up my mind. The priority is the league."

I showed him my palms. "I don't mean that. I mean, can I go?"

"What?"

"Can I go? To Manchester. To the care home."

He relaxed, microscopically. "Oh. Normally, I'd say no. You saw what happened with Ronaldo." Ronaldo, when he realised he wouldn't be getting onto the pitch, had left a Man United match early and caused a big media storm. It's disrespectful. Shows you aren't a team player.

This, though. I'd already played and done my part for the team. Preventing me from leaving early served no purpose other than to show who was in charge. My head dropped a fraction and I went back to my part of the bench.

"Maaxxx," he said. "You're going to be man of the match! You have to do media." Yeah, that was something. If I stayed, I'd get 90 more XP for watching the second half (I’d only got 45 for playing), and I'd get to tell my story to whichever journalist had the misfortune of reporting on Darlo's games.

"Don't worry," I said. "I'll be man of the match next time, too."

"Jesus prick," said someone. Almost certainly Caveman.

"Are you going to keep sulking unless I say you can go?" said Cutter.

"I'm not sulking," I said, and everyone burst out laughing. That brought a proper smile to my face. I shook my head. "All right, I won't mention it again."

"Great. I'll finish my half-time team talk now, will I?" I gave him a thumbs up. "Oh, thank you very much, Best."

He went through the changes he was making and told the guys what he expected from the second half. It was interesting because from what I'd seen on documentaries the half-time talks were very sweary, very much about getting up people's arses. This one was calm, rational. Trying to get the players to save energy by letting the system do the work for them.

"All right, get back out there and get up their arses!" Ah, there it was!

The lads filed out, clomp clomp clomp, and I stayed back. I'd have an early shower, at least.

"Best!" snapped Cutter as I was taking my shorts off. "Are you planning to sneak off?"

I looked around the almost-empty changing room. There was Pat and a coach. No cavemen. "No, I just wanted a shower."

Cutter came closer and folded his arms. "Best. Have a shower. Get a massage if you want. Get dressed. Then go see your ma."

"Oh," I said. I looked towards where he'd given his team talk from. "You wanted to stamp your authority but don't actually mind me going."

"No, Max. I don't want the lads distracted for the second half. We don't invite extra drama." He slapped me on the upper arm. "Well played. Bright and early for training Monday morning, yeah?"

"Absolutely." Cutter left. "Pat!" The driver turned kit man looked at me, surprised. "Pat. Can I borrow your cap?"

***

Disguised as a 65-year-old man, I wandered around The Clubhouse looking for Nick. Then I paced my way all around the ground until I got to the terrace where Emma was most likely to be. I saw her blonde hair peeking out from under a stylish grey hat. There was an older guy next to her. He was very good-looking. Some kind of sugar daddy? Emma didn't seem the type. But maybe this guy had helped pay her way through law school and while she didn't see him that way, it was possible that, eventually, she would. I paused. Maybe I should let that scenario play out?

Well, it would have been rude to leave without telling her. So I snuck up the steps and sort of loomed next to her with my finger on my lips. She looked at me and nearly blurted out my name. Just in time, she saw my shush gesture. I bent down and whispered. "Emma. I'm not playing the second half."

"I know," she whispered back. "They said. They got your name right this time!"

I grinned. It faded. "I have to go to Manchester," I said.

"Oh," she said, disappointment writ large. She gave me a look not dissimilar to the one Old Nick had given me. "You promised me a K-I-S-S."

"I'm in a state," I said. "You wouldn't enjoy it."

"I fucking would," she said. I took a moment to admire her. Beautiful, smart, soft, fierce. Her lips twitched. "What?" she said.

"I have to go." She did an angry little shake of her head. This wasn’t the first time I’d ruined a date. “I’ll make it up to you.”

She went through some kind of internal process, then spoke in a flat voice. "Did you talk to Henri?"

"When? No."

"Talk to him first."

"Er..."

"He's down there somewhere." She pointed. I nodded and got up to go. "Max," she said. It was clear she wanted to say something important, but changed her mind. "Nice hat."

"Nice knight in shining armour," I said, nodding to her companion.

"The best," she said, hugging his arm.

What?

***

I spotted Henri. He was in amongst a bunch of Darlo fans, leaning against one of the railings. They were blocking the view of people in the terrace behind, but it seemed to be the done thing. Weird. I forced my way through until I was next to him.

"The rain in Spain," I said, looking at the pitch and not at him, "stays mainly in the plain."

He glanced at me and took in my preposterous old-man cap. "My eyes despise this guy's disguise. Why are you here?"

"I'm sneaking off. Got to go to the care home."

"Is everything all right? I'll come with you."

"Everything's fine. I just... have to go."

"Bien entendu."

"Emma said you wanted to talk."

"Not to talk, no. I have a gift for you. I was going to surprise you after the match." He reached into his pocket and pulled out his keyring. He removed one key. "You know the address," he said, handing it over. "And the code is the number of women I have slept with." He grinned at my blank face. "One two three four."

I stared at the key. "I can't afford the rent on a place like that," I said.

"You can," he said. "It's free. I always wanted to be a patron of the arts. A modern-day Medici. And now I am. You are an artist, mon amie. Plus it's only a couple of months until you flounce out of the north-east forever."

"But - "

"Just take the key and go! We can discuss it some other time." He gave me a strange look. "Or perhaps you would prefer to stay in the digs?"

Over at left-back, Chumpy was running around like a puppy dog, wagging his tail with delight because he got to play alongside his master. His CA had improved by one point. If I moved into Henri’s place, I’d never have to talk to Chumpy again.

“No backsies,” I said to Henri.

“What does that mean?”

“You can’t change your mind. Can’t take it back.”

“Ah! I’ve heard the phrase. No backsies, no. If you decide to stay beyond…” He looked around. “Beyond you-know-when, then we’ll have to talk.”

I nodded and slipped the key into my pocket. "Am I allowed to have orgies?"

"I would be disappointed if you didn't. It is your home, now. There is only one rule. There is a door. You will know it when you see it. You must not open that door. Also, no smoking. Now go."

***

I drove to Manchester, faster than I'd normally go. At times my speed was reckless and I'd force myself to calm down, but then I'd see I was way above the limit again.

With a tremendous effort, I got a grip, and pushed my mission to the back of my mind. When I got into Manchester, I hit a red traffic light. While I was waiting for it to change, the thought bubbled up again.

This whole curse thing had something to do with Champion Manager. That so-called game was the locked chest that held all the answers. And I couldn't open it on my own.

I needed help, and there was only one person in the world I could trust.