28 - All Out Attack [T1] (Patreon)

28.

"Well played, Webby, lad," Cutter called out, and gave the guy a pat on the back as he left the pitch.

That was my answer, then. Cutter needed me more than I needed him.

I strolled over to the far side of the pitch and waited for someone to pass to me.

***

Hereford were well up for the game. There were a lot of 7s in their match ratings, and a couple of 8s. Darlington had a lot of 7s and a couple of 6s. The left-back smashed into me the first chance he got. Trying to bully me out of the game. Bottom feeder mentality. I ignored him; I was seeing the bigger picture.

If I went on a rampage now, we could turn things around, win, and take home 3 points. If I waited, we might get a draw (one point) or end up losing (for no points).

It might seem obvious that the best move was to win the match. Me playing ten games would only lead to a medal if Darlington actually won the league. If they were going to finish 5th, for example, then it didn't matter how many games I played. So getting at least a draw from this match was pretty important.

But I couldn't mope around Darlington on my own for two months. I mean, I could, but I didn't want to. I wanted to use the word teammate without mentally rolling my eyes. I wanted someone to score from my passes and I wanted someone to talk to on the long coach rides home. And the man I had chosen for that task was Junior. He was on the bench. Could I play in a way that would make Cutter send him onto the pitch?

Or should I just score a couple of quick goals and follow my January 31st masterplan?

Watching so many World Cup matches alone had started to remind me of life in the pandemic, and the need for human contact outweighed my other considerations. So for the next ten minutes, I got into defensive shape, I played sideways one touch passes, and I learned about the opposing players. The left-back was delighted - he felt like he'd kicked me out of the game. The more I played my role exactly as Cutter had designed it, the more animated he got on the touchline. Go, Max! Attack! I didn't go. I didn't attack.

When we got corners and free kicks, I played them short to a teammate. Not my fault if that guy did bugger all with the chance.

With ten minutes to go and the team still losing, Cutter cracked. Junior came on, but to my dismay, he didn't replace Blondie. Blondie remained on the pitch, and as the senior striker, he would take all the best positions. Junior would have to play around him.

Hmm. That increased the degree of difficulty, but I was suddenly energised. There was an outside chance I could have my cake and eat it.

9 minutes to go and I got the ball in an awkward position. I played it square to our nearest CM and ran down the line - my first serious sprint of the day. The ball came back, but slightly too far towards the touchline. I had to adjust to get it and lost all momentum.

I turned back, saw Blondie make a good run to the near post. I could easily have clipped the ball with my left foot, and Blondie knew that. I played the ball safely backwards. Blondie shook his head but got back into position. There wasn't time for histrionics.

7 minutes to go and we got a corner. Blondie was jostling with an opponent at the near post, and Junior was in a mass of guys over by the far post. I swung it a bit higher and a bit longer towards Junior. A low percentage kind of play, but it led to another corner. I raced across to the other side of the pitch to take it. Again, Blondie was at the near post, but this time, Junior joined him there. I waved at him to go away, then hit it to the back post. It came to nothing, but Blondie was scowling at me.

I jogged past Junior and told him to stay away from Blondie at dead balls. 'To give me more options,' I said. He said 'aight'.

6 minutes to go, we got another corner. Blondie was at the far post, but even from distance I could see he had a strange, calculating look in his eye. I repressed a grin and fired the cross... to the far post. Blondie had charged towards the front. Nothing came of the chance, and I trudged back to my slot shaking my head. It had been funny at the time, but my teammates and I were using game theory against each other. We couldn't go on like this.

4 minutes to go. In my right-mid slot I got a pass and threatened to launch a high, hopeful ball into the box. Really, the left-back should have just let me do that. The chances of it leading to anything were very low, but footballers try to block crosses. It's in their DNA. Naturally, I knocked the ball round the defender and chased after it. I got to the byline and was about to smash the ball square when I saw, out of the corner of my eye, that Blondie was sliding in to convert my cross.

Nah.

I stopped the ball dead, then chipped it diagonally back to where Junior was racing forward. He got to the ball first, but his shot was wild. Maybe in the first minute of the game he'd have been calmer, but the pressure of the match situation was telling.

Hmm. I decided I might have to try to do this on my own. Meanwhile, the left-back was trying to kick me every time I got anywhere near him. When the ref wasn't looking, he'd grab my shirt, pull at my arm, stand on my toes. Well, there was an easy solution to that. I man-marked the referee.

"Max!" called someone from the bench. It sounded like the plaintive cry of a lost whale cub. "Maaxxx!"

But the next time I got the ball, I was in the dead centre of the pitch, 35 yards out. Ideally the other team would have known about my dangerous long shots and stood between me and goal, giving me an easy way to dribble to the right. But these idiots kept launching themselves into tackles! Which made things simultaneously much harder and much easier.

Best shapes to shoot. Venable slides in.

Best knocks the ball sideways and pushes forward.

West makes a challenge. Best is forced further wide.

Best plays a pass between two defenders - but there's no-one from Darlington there!

Best chases his own pass.

Suddenly, he's through! He's one-on-one with the keeper! He's got Blondie haring up beside him.

Best chips the ball above Blondie's outstretched leg. A poor pass. The ball lands in the path of a defender.

But Howland slides in and tackles the ball into the net!

GOOOOOAAAAAALLLLLL!

Darlington are level!

So late in the game!

I laughed as Junior dashed into the net and retrieved the ball. Passing to the defender wasn't exactly what I'd intended. The ball had bobbled up off the shitty pitch and made me look awful.

There was activity from the Hereford bench. It seemed familiar; I checked the match commentary.

Hereford have adopted a more defensive stance.

They look like they will be happy to survive with a point.

I ran around the pitch yelling at everyone. Yeah, even the cavemen. "They're turtling. Full attack! All out! Come on!" Not many of them seemed motivated by my words, but they all paid attention. And it didn't take long to confirm that Hereford had dropped back. They were basically playing 5-5-0. Two long banks of defenders. Making it hard for us to get through. Which, yeah, against a normal team might have worked. But you don’t give Max Best time and space to get crosses in. I was camped on the right touchline, whipping in crosses with pinpoint accuracy.

Now that Junior had scored and increased his reputation, I didn’t care who got the winning goal. I wanted that win now, even if it meant picking out Blondie. The more crosses I sent into dangerous areas, the more our players pushed up the pitch, until even Caveman himself went up as an auxiliary striker. And that was the combination that did it.

Best gets another chance to cross. He whips it towards the penalty spot. Caveman rises highest.

A thumping header!

Oh! It's a tremendous save from the goalkeeper! Fantastic agility.

The ball rebounds to Junior. He shapes to shoot...

...but passes to Blondie. The keeper is stranded. Blondie has to score!

GOOOOOAAAAAALLLLLL!

As most of the players raced to the away section, where fifty to a hundred Darlo fans were going tonto, I walked back to talk to Cutter. On the way, I realised that although I'd made both goals, I almost certainly wouldn't be credited with an assist for either. No bonus! I'd told myself I didn't want to cost the club too much money too soon, but after another penniless week, I wasn't quite so resolute. Ah, well.

I waited for Cutter and the coaching staff to stop hugging. My inspirational manager glared at me. "What do you want, Best?"

"Is there anything we can do to make sure they don't score in the last seconds?"

"Yeah. Keep your shape."

"I could pressure them from the kickoff like I did the other day."

"Keep your shape."

"Yes, boss," I said.

As ever, this was just theatre to make it look like to observers like I was manager material. That said, it was an interesting enough question to ask. I think if I was the manager I'd want me to stick to my role, but as a player in that situation, I felt like a bit of headless chickening could have paid off.

Anyway, the match lasted about a minute more, and that was that. Job done.

***

Junior, high on being the catalyst for our win, was very chatty. He talked my ear off all through the showers and onto the coach. I sat by a window, and he sat next to me.

Starved of human contact as I was, I loved every second of it, and was looking forward to the drive back. That's when things got spicy.

Most of the cavemen got on and went to the back, which was their spot. Because they were man-children. Cutter and the coaches were still either in the stadium or loading the gear into the storage tucked away underneath the coach. So when Blondie got on, there were only players around.

He glared at me as he stood in the aisle, trying to loom over me. He said, nice and loud, "Why don't you fucking pass the fucking ball, Best?"

I blinked. What was he doing? I accidentally let out a squashed, repressed sort of laugh. I don't know what the proper name for it is. You know the sort - it starts in your throat and tries to escape through your cheeks.

He didn't like that. "The fuck is funny?"

I got to my feet and eased past Junior. Blondie probably should have tried to stop me getting into the aisle, because once I was there I stretched out and made sure everyone was watching. I'm not sure how much personal responsibility I should take for what happened next. I'd probably given myself aggression 20 in Champion Manager. So if you think about it, this outburst and almost all the others, are Nick's fault. Yeah. Nick's fault.

TRIGGER WARNING FOR A MAX BEST MOMENT

"Are you seriously asking why I don't pass to you?" I beamed at him. The question was absolutely delightful to me. I turned my head left and right to bathe the rest of the squad in my radiance. "What an interesting question! Here's four answers, buddy." On my right hand, I stretched out my index finger to indicate my first point. "You pissed in my football boots. The last gift I ever got from my mother, and the last I ever will get." I stretched my middle finger. "To keep me out of the team, you blasted my assist at Whitby into the North Sea. And you know I hate pollution." On my left hand, I stretched my index finger. "You and the rest of the cavemen plotted to cripple me in training so I'd miss my debut." I stretched my middle finger. "You deliberately missed an open goal against Alfy. There's four reasons."

Now, visual learners will have a clear mental image of what my hands looked like at this point. A V-sign on my right, a V-sign on my left. I waved my hands around in front of his face. You know, to emphasise the four incidents. It was entirely accidental that I'd formed a gesture considered rude in my culture.

He slapped my hands away. "I didn't piss in your boots!" he yelled, and for some reason I found it funny.

"Gotcha," I said. "So it's Whitby, cripple Max, Alfreton." Now I was showing him a V-sign on my left hand and just the middle finger on my right. A very transatlantic way of expressing oneself.

He turned and punched the side of a headrest. It looked soft, but the padding didn't go very deep. It hurt. It hurt him so much he did it again, twice.

"All right, Blondie? We all clear now? I came to this club with good intentions. Win this league and have a blast doing it. But you chose to be a dick. I'm a fucking assist machine. You could have had 10 goals in these three games. But you chose to be a dick. I'd fucking set you up for a hattrick in every game. But you chose to be a dick. If I met a demon who offered me a choice - pass to you or let Putin conquer the world, I wouldn't hesitate. I'd start learning Russian. Aight? That's why I don't pass to you. Because you're a dick. Now go fuck yourself."

"Max?"

Ooh. Not good. Cutter had come on board mid-rant. I turned and smiled at him. "Good win today, boss!"

"Shut the fuck up. What's this? We've won and you're at each other's throats? Are you tugging my todger?"

"No, boss. We're top friends. It's just banter."

"Banter? It didn't sound like banter. I could hear it from inside the stadium."

That wasn't true, but I didn't have time to think through his motives and the various dialogue trees that could spring from this moment. I had to act on instinct and the assumption that he hadn't heard any specifics. "We're just letting off steam. Blondie was pissed I missed up my pass near the end, there. The one Junior turned into a goal. And I got a bit defensive. But he's right. It was a shit pass."

Cutter got close to me, very close and very aggressive. It was a hundred times more intimidating than Blondie's weaksauce attempt. I wondered how many times in his life he'd headbutted someone. More than five, less than ten. "I've got half a mind to take you to Manchester and leave you there... permanently."

I returned his eye contact. I think I was supposed to look away. Let him win, you know? But nah.

Eventually, he eased up, shrugged boxer-style, and went to the front.

I squeezed past Junior and retook my seat. He was looking pale.

"Still want to sit next to me?" I said, with a cheeky grin. But underneath the grin was a desperation I didn't know was in me. Are we still friends? Pathetic.

He gave me a weird look, then bent to grab his bag from under the seat.

My heart broke. I was so toxic that in trying to make a friend, I'd pushed him as far away as possible.

He zipped the bag back up and with a jolt I realised he was handing me something. An iPad.

"What?"

"Hold that a sec."

He bent, fiddled in a side pocket and came back up with a dongle thing. He took the tablet back and plugged the dongle in.

"So we can watch France v Denmark," he said. Then he looked worried. "If that's all right? I can put my headphones on if you don’t want."

"Junior," I said, feeling the kinds of emotions I'd only ever felt when a crush had texted me back. "France v Denmark? I'd fucking love that."

...

Thanks for your support! It continues to blow my mind.