26 - Holy Moses [T1] (Patreon)

26.

While I was touching a couple of fingers to my neck to see how fast my pulse was going, a couple of young women approached our table. White, thin, fake tan, high-waisted jeans, big hoopy earrings. One's neck was bare, the other wore two different necklaces. Now that I was spending most of my time with tall, powerful footballers, these women seemed hilariously tiny. They made up for it with oversized personalities, though.

"Can we sit 'ere?" said one. We were on one side of a table for four. "We wanna watch the match and not get bovvered."

"Oh," I said. "And you think we won't bother you."

"Nah," said the other one. "You won't."

I would have invited them to sit down, but they already had.

I gave them a double-barrelled blast of attention, then got on with my life. "James," I said. "We need to watch carefully to find the fastest Qatar player. And the guy from Ecuador with the highest stamina."

He didn't respond. I realised he was staring at the women with wide eyes. The horny little scamp! He felt me smirking at him and sorted his face out. "Fastest. Highest stamina. Yes."

"What are you doing?" said the first woman, eyeing my earbud.

Good question! My answer would be for James's benefit too.

"I'm doing a kind of analysis of the match, like for the TV coverage. Have you seen those little graphics that come up to show who ran the fastest or who did the hardest shot? That kind of thing."

"Oh. Like an expert."

"Yes," I said, flicking my gaze away from the screen just long enough to be polite.

"Is the money good?" They'd brought drinks with them from the bar, and this one was stirring her straw in a very suggestive manner. James looked away. Then back.

"It can be. I'm just starting. You could say I'm being paid in experience."

Just then, something insane happened. The camera picked out a stupendously disagreeable face in the crowd and the curse started spamming my vision with buttons. Each one demanded that I SHOUT TINO.

What? Why? It was absurd. But I wanted my XP back. Just in time, I obeyed. "TINO!" I said, for some reason pointing at the screen.

The second woman laughed. "What the hell was that?"

"That was the boss of FIFA," said James, who then tried to pull his neck into his jacket, like a turtle.

I mentally slapped myself. Of fucking course. Infantino. The president of FIFA. When I'd said his name, all the buttons had popped and a green number 1 appeared, then faded away. I went into my MUNDIAL tab and found I'd been awarded one TINO. Huh.

"Yes but why -"

"Wait wait wait!" I said, pointing at the screen, spider-senses tingling. 2 minutes in and Ecuador had a free kick in a good position. The pitch, apparently drenched with 10,000 litres a day, was a frankly gorgeous shade of green that made the all-yellow Ecuador kit look dream-like. Qatar's maroon kit was a phenomenal counterpoint.

The Ecuador player chipped the ball, the Qatar goalie came and tripped over himself, and Ecuador scored. Easy! 2 minutes and the Qataris were being humiliated in their own tournament! But the goal was disallowed for offside. That was shocking to me - in all the replays the Qatari defenders were virtually on the goal line. How could it be offside? The TV guys started to show replays, and finally they gave an angle that proved that the call was, in fact, correct. "Wow. Impressive from the linesman."

"Mr Best," said James. "They are using artificial intelligence to help with the offside decisions."

"Huh. Cool. I guess?"

That's when questions three and four dropped.

QAT-ECU QUESTION 3

Stake: 12.7 TINOs

Which Ecuador player in the starting eleven has the highest transfer value?

Time limit: end of match.

QAT-ECU QUESTION 4

Stake: 12.7 TINOs

Which formation are Qatar using when out of possession?

Time limit: Next 50 seconds.

Whoa! The last one had a tight limit. I repeated the question to James.

"The same one they use when in possession, surely? The graphic said 5-3-2."

"Not necessarily," I said. This was something I'd been coming to realise. What looked like teams splintering and buckling under the weight of an opposition attack was, in fact, often intentional. For example, Darlo were 4-4-2 with the ball and sometimes 4-5-1 without it. "Quick time limit on this one. Forget the other questions."

We stared at the screen - even the women - in rapt silence. It was a strange way to watch a match. I started to get the feeling that I was taking an exam. Mid-terms.

"Mr Best," said James, cautiously. "It looks like 5-3-2 to me."

"I agree. Let me try it." I pushed my earbud further into my ear and said "5-3-2." Although, of course, actually answering the question was done via the interface.

You have chosen: 5-3-2

Your answer status: CORRECT

"Yes!" I said, punching the air. "James, mate. Yes. Come on! Whoo!" James was almost the perfect companion for this. If I was being arrogant, and nobody has ever tried to stop me being just that, I would say that I was mentally quicker than him. But he was more methodical, more thorough. In school, he probably didn't have moments of brilliance that got teachers buzzing like I did, but he was pretty much a straight B student while my grades were a surrealist scatter graph. On a football pitch, he'd virtually never be out of position, would rarely let the team down, but might not create much, either. He was a born defensive midfielder, while I was a born winger, wild and instinctive. I clamped onto his shoulder and shook him. He grinned happily while I chanted: "James! James! James!"

I checked my screens. I now had 13.7 TINOs. I bit my nails while I calculated. If this mini-game played fair and converted my TINOs back into XP at the end, one to one, and I got about 60% of the questions right, I could end up with something like 5,000 XP.

Which was obviously fantastic, and motivational in its own right.

But something else was happening, too. The questions so far had been pitched near the limit of what I could answer. Guessing a guy's stamina just by looking seemed really hard, like maybe just a bit beyond what I could realistically do without the curse. But the acceleration one and the formation one seemed doable. Very doable. And the other one...

"Now, James. This one might be fun. From those players on the pitch, who has the highest transfer value?"

He frowned. "That's impossible to know."

"No!" I chuckled. "This is one I'm confident about. We can work it out. This is as close to science as football gets. It's pure economics."

"What makes one player more valuable than another?" asked one of the women.

I couldn't keep thinking of them as 'the women'. "What are your names?" I said, half-expecting them to say Emma and Gemma.

"Stacey. Chloe."

"It's a great question, Stacey. The main thing is skill level. If I had to summarise that into one phrase, I'd call it 'Current Ability'."

"His FIFA rating," said Chloe.

I stared at her. That phrase seemed familiar. I looked around my mind to find it, but there was nothing there. Deleted by the curse, maybe, along with the Champion Manager stuff. "Yeah. Something like that. Are they out of 200?"

"I don't know. My brother never shuts up about it. I could text him."

"Nah. Let's say it's out of 200. So there's James, here, and me, and Chloe, and Stacey. We've all got FIFA 150 or however you say it. Which one of us has the highest market value?"

"You," said James.

"Why?"

"You're a winger. You score goals and assist."

"Yeah yeah yeah I'm amazing," I said, waving the evidence into admission. "Goals are valuable, sure. But the main thing is I'm a man. Sorry, ladies, but the market isn't there for women yet."

"It is growing, though," said James.

"It is, mate, it is. I'm keeping a very close eye on it, let me tell you."

"I bet you are," said Chloe, trying to challenge me with strong eye contact. I gave her a steady stare back until she blushed and looked away. Tsk. Too easy.

"I'm 22 and James is 16," I said, eyes back on the TV.

"I am 17," said James.

"What?"

"My birthday was in October."

I checked his player profile. He was right, not that I was seriously expecting him to not remember his own birthday. "Shit. If you hadn't shot me down I would have got you something."

"That is all right."

"Basically, at 22 I'm coming into my peak. Imagine I'm a car. My engine is good, there's no wear and tear. If you buy me today you're going to get 5 or 6 years of awesome service from me. Or, you might sell me to a bigger club in a couple of years and make a big profit. Someone who's 17, if they're already great, that's worth more money because you get 10 years of service AND resale value. But if it's a 17-year-old with potential, he might never reach that potential so buying him is a risk. When I look at Ecuador, their best player is Enner Valencia. He's really top. But he's 33. If you buy him today you might only get a year out him. He's had the engine replaced, his axle is worn down, the tyres are frayed, and someone's stolen his hubcaps. If you're paying a lot of money for him, you're doing something wrong."

"Skill. Age. Gender," said James. "Is there anything else?"

"Yeah. The Premier League has the most money these days. Premier League teams have to include a certain number of English players in their squads, so there's a bit of a premium paid for English players. Marketability is another factor. James, you're cute in your own goofy way, but my fee would be higher because I'm unbelievably attractive and I'm into disabled football and I'm good with kids. I'm fucking dreamy. And I've got my own branding, already. Max Best 77. A club that buys me can sell more replica kits. What else? Yeah just the fact that the Premier League is hard. Some really good foreign players can't fit in. Can't hack it. No shade on them, it's just how it is. So someone who has already played in the Premier League should command a higher price than someone who hasn't. Oh, and of course, the position on the pitch. There are loads of centre-backs and centre-midfielders. There are fewer left-sided players. There aren't many elite DMs, which is why I'm excited about your future, James. Ladies, this guy's a hundred million pound player. No joke. And strikers who score loads of goals, of course they are the rarest thing of all." I turned back to the screen. "But like I said, the best striker in this match is old."

There was a brief break in the conversation. A lull. Stacey and Chloe were giving me a look that I can't describe. Sceptical hope? Is that a thing?

"Moisés Caicedo," said James.

"Explain."

"He is 21. He plays for Brighton in the Premier League. He is a midfielder or defensive midfielder. I am no expert but he looks to be a cut above the others."

"Amazing," I said. I'd seen the player in question, but I would have sworn he was a 30-year-old veteran. If he was playing like that at 21, he was clearly destined for bigger things. It seemed clear that this was the answer. No-one else came close.

"Why don't you check his FIFA rating before you decide?" said Chloe.

"Hmm," I said, and brought my phone closer.

The curse hijacked my vision.

THE REFEREE IS REACHING INTO HIS POCKET

It would know if I cheated. The punishment, I was sure, would be disproportionate. What card would come out of the pocket? Straight red? "No, thanks," I said. "I have to do it just by watching."

"They won't know," said Chloe.

"I'll know. It's not just about the answer. It's about how I get there. James, I think you've nailed it. I didn't notice he played for Brighton."

"It was shown just before the match when you were distracted."

This mini game was starting to feel like a two-man job. It was strange that the curse allowed me to get help. Maybe it wanted me to have these kinds of discussions. "Moses Caicedo," I said. "I'm going in."

"Moises. Not Moses."

You have chosen: Moisés Caicedo

Your answer status: CORRECT

"Yes!" I loved this mini-game! It was like my own personal pub quiz. "I'm on a roll. Let's do the player with the highest stamina. Who do you think?"

"From Ecuador? It makes sense to choose a Premier League player. I hear it is the most intense league in the world. Caicedo has to run around a lot. Estupiñán, the left-back, also plays for Brighton."

"I'm going to double up on Caicedo. He looks pretty fit to me."

You have chosen: Moisés Caicedo

Your answer status: INCORRECT

"Well, shit," I said. There were only three people there, but it felt like the eyes of the world were on me. Watching me fail. I supposed if I wanted to be a football manager I'd have to get used to this feeling.

"What was the right answer?" said Chloe. Or Stacey. I wasn't really paying attention.

"I don't know," I said. "They didn't tell me. Maybe they'll re-use the question in the next match." I sighed. That had smacked my accuracy from 100% to 66.

I went internal, and the women sensed that. I watched the match while the women talked to each other and - increasingly - James. I was aware that they were asking him about his football career, and he said he hadn't really started yet but Mr Best had been pursuing him for weeks.

"I wonder what that feels like," said Chloe, and there was some sniggering. "He's a player, though, right?"

"Yes," said James. "And he is a footballer, too." I shook my head. His jokes were getting worse. How was that possible?

"Found him," said Stacey. "I typed Max Best 77. There's one video."

"One?" said Chloe, dubiously. My sex appeal had just fallen 97%!

While I tried to focus on the World Cup, the women started making little gasping noises as they watched some TikTok. I checked James. He was back to being wide-eyed. I tried to remember what it was like being 17. All I could remember was being kind of desperate the whole time. The noise from the video was annoying - the women kept repeating the same part again and again. "Let me see that," I said, holding out my hand.

Instead of passing the phone over, Stacey came right next to me and held it in front of us, more or less as though she wanted to take a selfie. Chloe, not to be outdone, came and pushed into me from the other side. It was all a bit obvious, a bit cheap, but strangely, I didn't mind.

I reached out and gently prised the phone from Stacey's hand. While the women squashed into me, I homed in on the screen and watched myself barge Glynn off the ball and burst past Osgood, the Alfreton player. The noise from the people around the cameraman was thrilling - I got goosebumps. Then when I accelerated past the goalie, the excitement increased in pitch and volume. While I dallied in front of the open goal, one guy shouted 'What's he doing?' The same guy then made an orgasmic 'ooaaaaaoowwww!' noise as my feint took the two defenders out of the game, and then as I scored the camera and mic was swallowed by fans. One shitty transition later, I was blasting the free kick into the goal. The camera guy must have been stood near Old Nick, because I turned to glare almost down the lens. It was pretty fucking weird-looking, especially because either side of me in the present day, the women sank into me like my defiance was the hottest thing they'd seen in their brief lives. The video continued with a rapid-fire selection of me trying to assist Blondie and Junior, and some of my one-touch passes. It was only seeing it on camera that made me realise how balanced and composed I looked compared to all the other players. I was different gravy.

I stopped the video and checked the title.

MAX BEST DARLO PLAYER OF SEASON AFTER 45 MINS LOL

"Do you want me to send it to you?" asked Stacey. Trying to get my phone number.

"I don't need to see it," I said, with a PG13 smile. "I did it."

I returned her phone, gently pushed them both away from me, and gave James another glance. I was worried all this female attention would be off-putting for him. If he became a star player, he'd have to deal with it, too. Would that make his change his mind about his new career, maybe?

The look on his face said: no, please.

***

With help from James and the two randos, I answered more questions. The last one in the first half popped up when Ecuador got a penalty. Enner Valencia got ready to take it, and a button appeared: Will he score yes/no? Everyone on the table was confident. I hit yes, and we all high-fived each other when the ball rolled in. James was sweating with pleasure.

The first four questions in the second half were about attributes, formations, and things you could try to work out based on the information given by the broadcast. Having a helper was definitely a bonus, but I'd probably want to watch most of the games alone so I could focus on them absolutely to the exclusion of everything else.

Near the end I finally answered question 1. We thought that Qatar's fastest player was either Ahmed Alaaeldin or Akram Afif. I chose Afif because it was FIFA backwards, and that turned out to be right.

By far the most interesting question was the very last one. It was basically a mini essay. I filled it in by thought-to-type, which took about 4 seconds, and then fiddled around adding and removing commas and semi-colons for what seemed like 4 hours.

Rate the Qatar manager's performance, then justify your opinion.

I gave him a 9, and wrote that he didn't have a lot of quality to call on, that his normally reliable goalkeeper had performed like shit, and that his team had actually created two golden opportunities that could have got a very impressive draw.

The curse liked my analysis, and awarded me the TINOs. Great, but I'd have loved some feedback.

At the end of the match, I had got 6 out of 10 right and earned 76.2 TINOs, with a bonus of 1 for shouting TINO.

***

XP balance: 0

Debt repaid: 178/3000

TINOs: 77.2

***

James walked with me back to the church, where one of the volunteers was waiting to unlock the gate for me. Apparently, James and the Yalleys had organised some kind of CIA mission with SMS relays and walkie talkies and whatnot to ensure that I'd be able to pick up my car whenever I wanted. Too good for this world.

"Did you have a nice time?" I asked.

"Yes, Mr Best," said James. He seemed to want to say something. I only needed to give him the right prompt.

"Is there something you want to tell me?"

He looked away. "Only that I am very motivated to become a player. To learn. I will watch all the World Cup matches and study them. If you would like to send me questions to think about, I would greatly enjoy it."

"You'll hold your nose, will you?"

"I do not know," he said. "I get the feeling I was overly critical of Qatar. Perhaps I should study the issues more."

"Or," I said, slapping his upper arm. "Study them less. Or not at all. Because no-one gives a shit."

"Mr Best," he said.

"Just learn your trade. When you've got a few mill in the bank, you can get religion." I smiled. "So to speak."

He smiled back at me. I was wrong to suggest he was less marketable than me. That smile could open a lot of hearts. "Yes, Mr Best."

I gave him a final handshake and drove back to Darlington.

I went to the digs first, and loaded my car with my stuff. Everyone was out, so I sat and ate some of the food that the landlady had prepared. I drove to Henri's house and brought all my boxes in. After sitting on his comfy chair for about 6 minutes, I plugged my phone in and then wandered around the house looking for the room that I wasn't supposed to enter. Finally, I laughed. He'd been joking. I mean, I knew it was a joke, but with Henri you never really knew. It was perfectly possible he had converted one room into a sex dungeon or whatever.

Since I'd signed a hundred-million pound client, I treated myself to a large glass of wine and took it back to the comfy armchair. I sent texts out to Henri, Ziggy, Raffi, and Kisi. I thought about what to say to Emma, and agonised over the wording for so long I got sick of the process. So I tried to write a kind of honest summary and if I chose the wrong phrasing, so be it. 'Everything turned out great at the care home and the Christians loved my sermon. Signed a client! The biggest fish! Making progress. Hope your knight took good care of you.'

Social interaction done, I listened to the hymn James had recommended. It started pretty boring, pretty generic. The guy had a good voice, sure, but so did loads of people. But after three minutes I touched my face to check the guy wasn't literally melting the skin off my skull. He had Rolls Royce jet engines for lungs. It was fucking awesome. I played it three times and realised the singer was telling a story with his performance. You had to see the majesty of the end to appreciate the subtlety of the beginning. 10 out of 10 choice, Jamesy boy.

By then, I'd received a few replies.

Raffi: thumbs up emoji

Henri: Yes, eat anything in the fridge. But there's one thing in the freezer you shouldn't touch. You'll know it when you see it.

Ziggy: I can't believe I had to sit in the stands watching FC United draw 0-0 and miss your debut. I watched the video though. Holy shit. I can't believe you're my agent.

Kisi: I know he isn't boring, Max. I was joking. Come on. Did he tell you we went to the match? It's sooo far away lol. James cried when you were subbed off. Don't tell him I said that. Do you really think he can make it as a pro? He's so... nice. Meghan is nice, but, you know. Different nice. Bad nice. Max nice. I don't see it from James. God, I'm stressed now. Please tell me he'll make it.

And the big one:

Emma: I'm glad to hear that. My knight doesn't want me to see you again. But he wouldn't mind if you signed for Newcastle United.

Well. I didn't know how to reply to that. So I didn't.

***

So. Finally, a little time to plan. A little time to myself. I checked the World Cup schedule.

The games were going to come thick and fast, sometimes 4 a day. I'd train at Darlo in the morning and then watch TV all day. A new, weird kind of grind. 29 days of virtually non-stop football with pop quizzes the whole time. Would I get sick of it? Would I be able to hone my skills? Would it pay off, or would Nick turn my thousands of TINOs into, like, 6 experience points?

There was only one way to find out.