29 - Poking the Bear [T1] (Patreon)

29.

The coach pulled over. The rest of the first team craned their necks in baffled amazement as I stepped off and got cozy at a random bus stop on Princess Parkway. I felt a bit odd wearing my Darlo hoodie and clutching my Darlo kit bag not all that far from my house in Moss Side. From the back seats, the cavemen gave me dead, flat looks. I blanked them; I'd already poked that bear enough for one week.

***

I checked the MUNDIAL tab and my accounts.

XP balance: 144

Debt repaid: 194/3000

TINOs: 1227.5

In the last couple of days I’d watched 5 World Cup matches and added fewer than 100 TINOs! The 127 TINO penalty for missing games was really crushing. And the path to 300 XP was covered in treacle - I couldn’t go to watch some amateur game if it meant missing a match from Qatar.

Still, the group stage of the tournament would finish the following Friday, and then there would be a maximum of 2 matches per day. That would free up my time considerably.

***

It wasn't long before Raffi picked me up and drove me to his place.

The plan had changed several times. The first idea was to go to a curry house. That fell through, so next came Chinese, then a sports bar, then somewhere fancy. Finally, Shona offered to host us and that suited everyone. She said that since Max Best was visiting, she would leave Jamaica's favourite dish off the menu, since there would be enough jerk.

See what I have to deal with?

I gave her a hug anyway, and told her the house smelled incredible. "Have you been cooking all day?"

"She always goes overboard," said Raffi. "She's missed this."

Shona stirred a pot of something. "We followed the rules in the pandemic - no parties - and we haven't had guests since I had Serina."

"Is she here? Why aren't we whispering?" I glanced around the kitchen. There was a pile of cardboard boxes in one corner. They were getting ready to move.

"She's with Raffi's mum. His dad is here for the first half, then we'll swap."

"Swap the mum for the dad?"

"Ha ha. No."

"Who else is here?" I said, pottering into the living room. I stopped dead. There was Henri and Gemma. An older, meaner version of Raffi. Mike Dean. Dramatic pause... and Ian Evans.

Obviously, what I did next was smile and go round the room shaking everyone's hand. And then spent the next two hours being charming and witty. Ah, wait, no. That's what I should have done. Instead, I poked the bear.

"Bonjour, Max," said Henri. He shook my hand.

Gemma did a European double cheek-kiss thing. "Hi, Max."

"Er... Are we in Paris?"

"Henri's civilising me," she said.

"Gemma. This is Manchester. It's the height of civilisation."

"Sure, Max. Anyway, when I asked him to teach me French kissing, that wasn't what I had in mind."

I liked this new, relaxed Gemma! There wasn't time to dwell on it, though. "You must be Raffi's dad."

"I'm Moss," he said.

I clicked my fingers. Remembered a nugget of info from the dawn of time. "You're a Chelsea fan."

Raffi came in and handed me a cold bottle of something. He was beaming - delighted that I'd remembered. His dad put his arm around him and both clinked their bottles against mine. "Chelsea had a black winger that I used to like watching when I was working down in London. He took all kinds of abuse and kept going. I looked up to him. Very much."

"Paul Canoville," said Ian Evans from the corner of the room. It wasn't the chair with the best view of the TV - he was too good-mannered to take that from Raffi, who of course would give it up for his dad. But Evans had a view of all the comings and goings.

"That's right," said Moss, impressed.

"I played against him," said Evans.

"You did?"

"What position were you, Mr Evans?" said Gemma.

"Centre-back. Like all good managers." That was a little dig at me, by the way. In case you missed it. The following people didn't miss it: Henri. Mike. Raffi.

I smiled at the soon-to-be-humiliated-by-me manager. Raised my bottle with a little nod. That was a combined hello to Evans and MD. "Alex Ferguson was a striker. Guardiola midfield. Cruyff... Cruyff played a lot like me, from the tapes I've seen."

Comparing myself to one of the best players and most important tactical innovators the game has ever known went down well with everyone... with one exception. Evans had a tiny surge of anger that expressed itself through the vibration of his hair.

MD noticed and looked slightly panicked. "Er... should we get the papers signed before...?" Before violence breaks out. "Before we get sauce on our fingers."

"Great idea!" shouted Shona from the kitchen.

***

We signed the papers, staged some photos, and Raffi and Shona celebrated. There were no more hurdles - in a few days he'd be a real, actual professional footballer. The couple hugged Moss, which was correct and totally normal, but still, I had a tiny stab of jealousy. I was the guy who had made this happen! Max first, then dad. Jesus.

We took our positions in front of the TV. I could write a thousand word essay on who sat where and why, but suffice to say that Moss was in the best spot, Henri the worst, and I was on the floor, cross-legged as close to the TV as Shona would let me get. Argentina vs Mexico. Let's do this! I grabbed the remote and turned the sound off, which led to a chorus of complaints. I snapped back telling them I had to concentrate for my coaching badges and that we'd discussed all this. They pushed back. I was winning until Moss said he hadn't agreed to any such thing and he wasn't going to watch the noisiest World Cup match in total silence. Shona held her hand out and I was forced to give up the remote. That was almost as annoying as being pushed down the hug queue.

I sulked for a minute, then got my post-it notes and marker pens out of my bag. That reminded me.

"Henri, why are there so many highlighters in your house?"

The slight delay until he replied made me snap my neck round to check out his face. Those few seconds were enough for him to go blank. Hmm. "I have a completely normal amount of highlighters, Max. You really are excessively strange, sometimes. Why don't you tell us what your project is and let us help you?"

I decided to let the highlighter thing go. He was lying, and it was extremely obvious to me. Gemma was giving him a slightly curious look too - she didn't believe him but was puzzled about why he'd be sensitive about stationery. What possible reason could there be? "Actually, Henri, you can help me. Over the course of the match, I'll be getting nine questions and writing them on these post-it notes. I'll have until the end of the match to answer most of them, but some I have to answer fast. Like if there's a penalty I might have to say if Messi will score or not."

"Messi's bad at penalties," said Mike Dean, which was disappointing. Messi was average at penalties, and people lost their minds about it because it was the only aspect of kicking a ball where he wasn't superhuman. MD had clearly been listening to the same radio shows as me, but unlike me, fallen into some narrative traps.

"Nine questions?" said Gemma. "That's an odd number."

"Nine is an odd number, Gemma. Well done." She gave me the middle finger. I smiled at her. "There is a tenth question but it's an essay about my overall impression of one of the managers."

"Managers?" said MD. "Why managers? What kind of coaching course are you doing?"

I smiled. "One that will help me to become a manager. You know that's why I'm playing for Darlington, Mike. So that when a struggling manager" - I accidentally raised my eyebrows in the direction of Ian Evans - "gets sacked, the fans will be excited when they find out I've applied for the job. Max Best, superstar, wants to manage my team? Yes, please! He'll save us from relegation and guess what? He's a tactical genius! He knows two formations!" I laughed a bit too hard and checked what I was drinking. Red Stripe. Jamaican beer. I eyed Raffi while I pointed to the bottle.

"Celebrating," he said, with a shrug.

"So what are the questions?" said Gemma. She didn't know football but she understood something was not right between me and Evans, and was playing peacekeeper.

"I normally get two at kick-off then three more in the first half. I'm pretty sure the goal is to keep me concentrating for the longest possible time."

"Absurd," said Henri.

"How's training?" I asked him.

He shrugged. "Acceptable. But it's a long time until I can play in the first team. And the defenders aren't competing with me in training. I'm losing my edge."

"What? Why aren't they?"

"I think it's because they are afraid of what will happen to them if they hurt me. They think they will get into trouble with... the manager."

Wow, there was a lot of subtext in this conversation. By 'the manager', everyone thought he meant Evans, but of course he meant me. I'd lost my rag when Ryder, an imposing centre-back, had fouled Henri in my trial match. I chose my reply carefully. "They'll probably start kicking you on January 1st, once your move is all officially official."

"Let's hope so," sighed Henri. We had never discussed why he liked get into scraps. That didn't resonate with me at all, and didn't fit his whole football-as-creation vibe.

I turned away and checked the TV. The anthems were winding down and the match would start soon. Moss and Evans were talking about old footballers. MD came out of the kitchen with a plate laden with meat and sauce and rice. He eased into place on the floor next to me. "Go grab some food," he said.

"Can't. Got to watch. I'll wait till half-time."

"Are you serious?"

"Mike," I said.

"This job isn't worth it," he said, getting up again. "Take this." He handed me his plate, and went to get another one. Once he'd cloned his last order, he came back and sat next to me. We made small talk, but I hushed him when kick off was about to happen and stuck an earphone in. I shoved some rice into my mouth, popped the lid off a marker pen, and waited for the first two questions to appear.

I scrawled on two post-its, then took the earbud out. I crawled forward and stuck the notes onto the TV, on the left-hand side at the very top. By the end of the match I would have created a whole yellow-brick road.

"What's that say?" said Moss. He didn't have good eyesight, it seemed. One of those older guys too proud to wear glasses in public.

"ARG Jump. Which Argentina player has the best jumping skill? MEX Fin. Which Mexico player has the best finishing?"

"Doubly absurd!" said Henri. "Absurdity ad infinitum! There's no way to objectively know that."

"This is me crossing you out of my list of helpers," I said, miming with the marker pen. I shuffled back to my spot on the floor and ate.

"The answer to every question about Argentina is Messi," said Raffi.

"Normally," I said. "But jumping? No chance. Lisandro Martinez is way better at that."

"He's a flea," said Moss. He meant he was short.

"Yeah. And fleas can jump."

"So is that the right answer?" said Gemma.

"I don't know. But I've seen Martinez in the flesh so that's helpful. I'll answer that one near the end of the match. Gives me more time to see if there's someone else."

"But Max," said Henri. "What does it mean, best jumping? Martinez jumps well for a man of his height, but he doesn't jump higher than Otamendi or the goalkeeper."

"I think it's relative to his size," I said. "So a flea has better jumping than an elephant, even if the elephant gets higher."

"Elephants can't jump," said Gemma.

"There you go, then."

"You're guessing," said Evans, ridicule in his voice, and the mood shifted again.

"It's called an educated guess."

"Mexico won't get a shot the whole game," said Raffi. "How you gonna know how they finish?"

I nodded. "Could be hard. I'll have to use other information."

"Like what?" said Gemma. "Wikipedia?"

"No. I'm not allowed to look things up. The Mexicans might not shoot, but they will try long passes and make clearances. I'll see them striking the ball under pressure. That plus their technique plus their coldness should give me a rough idea of, say, the top three finishers. Then I'll take my best shot, so to speak, from that shortlist."

"Guesswork."

"I'm getting about 40% of those kinds of questions right. If I was purely guessing, it'd be about 15%. It's hard, but possible."

That led to a lull in conversation, and when people started talking again, they cut me out. All except Mike Dean, who had foolishly placed himself right next to me. "How's life as a player?"

"Pretty boring," I said. "Most of the training is very defensive. Lots of repetition. Shape work, they call it. As a kid, I always thought being a professional meant playing games every day like we did in school. We barely do that, and when we do, it's with empty nets because the goalies train separately."

"I noticed on the videos," said MD, with care, "that you don't celebrate goals."

I frowned. "Sure I do."

"You don't. You walk back to your half, or you go to talk to the manager."

"I'm discussing tactics with him," I said. "You know, because I think in terms of tactics."

"I see," he said. "You think it'll help you get a management job." I closed one eye and fired a finger gun at him. He shook his head. "I'd be careful with that. You risk looking ridiculous. Either people will think you’ve got ideas above your station or even worse, that you’re always asking for reminders of what you’re supposed to be doing. Which would explain why you’re always out of position."

I felt my eyes narrowing as an automatic defensive response. Like in a bank where shutters fly down to protect the money from the robbers. He's only trying to help, I told myself. "Okay, I'll bear that in mind. Thanks."

"I had a friend at your match today. Hereford fan. I asked him to keep an eye on you and tell me what he thought. He said you got kicked to bits and didn't react. Not even once. I said he must have been watching the wrong player."

"Why?"

"Because you fly off the handle at every little thing!"

"Oh," I said. I had a little think. "Well, maybe. If it's you blocking my path, that's infuriating. You should listen to me. And those old guys. Holy shit. It's incredibly frustrating to have a talent I can't use. TINO! But this guy who was kicking me today, he's shit. I mean, he was probably by far the best player in his school and all that. You put him in those credit card games at Chester's training ground and he'll dominate. But he's basically a carpet fitter who's got lucky with a full-time contract. I don't mean shit shit. I mean for this level shit. He should be part-time."

"You don't have to explain that to me. I know what you mean."

"Yeah. It's just context. I'm miles better than him. Miles faster. Great technique. How's he supposed to stop me? He can kick me or try to make me self-destruct."

"So you can rise above it?"

"No. No, it's like I don't even see him as a person. He's basically a mannequin on wheels."

"Jesus Christ."

I shrugged. "I'm just saying that when I play at this level, it isn't emotional, it's mathematical. So far. Off the pitch I mostly think about my shitty teammates and how they're going to try to make my life miserable next. And I spend most of my time on the pitch working out how many goals I can create without costing the club so much money they have to leave me out of the next game."

"What?"

"I'm pay-as-you-play, with a big goal and assist bonus. Flexible contract so's I can take that manager job whenever it comes up. Keep that under your hat, please. I don't want Darlo to know that's my intention. Anyway, yeah, how can I help the team win without bankrupting them? Check this out: I've had an idea for a new free kick. I'm going to hit it straight at the keeper so that he'll definitely block it, but it will dip viciously just before it gets to him. It should bounce right off him. And it's 50/50 if it lands in front of a defender or one of our strikers. I'll let you know if I can get it working in training. Then you can check it out on Wyscout next week."

"If you cause the goal, you get the assist, no?"

"No. That's a missed shot and a rebound. No assist."

MD moved closer and got quieter. "Why didn't you do this superstar act at your trial? Why did we do all that hide and seek stuff?"

I matched his volume and tone. "Because I didn't know. I told you. I hadn't played for years." I leaned back. I couldn't leave it at that. My meteoric rise in ability needed to be explained. "I think it's because I'm playing with better players. In Sunday League they used to just pump the ball forward as far as they could. No-one ever played a short, sideways pass. And the pitches were like turnip fields. How could a player like me do anything?"

"You could have taken the free kicks."

"When I was 16 or 17? Ahead of some senior player who thought he was God's Gift to dead balls? Nah." I finished my exotic beer. "Anyway. At least we tried, you and me. I wish it had worked at Chester, but it didn't. I've moved on. I've got my eye on Telford United."

"Telford? They're bottom of the league. Ten points from the nearest team, fifteen points from safety. They're going down, Max."

"Not with me in charge," I said, stating it as the undeniable historical fact that it was. MD wanted to reply, but I raised a finger to forestall him, put my earphone in and scribbled out two more post-its. I slapped the first one on the TV. "Which Mexican player is out of position most often? That's a new question type. Can't say I've noticed or would know what to look for." Next one. "Which Argentina player has the highest transfer value?"

"Messi," said at least four people.

"No," I said. "He's 35."

"And his contract is incredible," said MD. "If you've got 50 million to spend on Messi, that's just his wages. You've got nothing left for a transfer fee." I felt a pang of regret. Squadbuilding with MD would have been fun.

"Alvarez," suggested Raffi. That was a striker that Man City had bought. I'd seen him when I went to watch them that one time, and he was slightly overrated.

"Maybe," I said. "Maybe if he has a great World Cup, but I doubt it. Lisandro Martinez moved to United at the same time and he was much more expensive."

"Martinez is too small to play centre-back," said Evans, which was incredibly stupid because the guy was literally playing centre-back for Argentina in the World Cup! He had a better answer. "Enzo Fernandez," he said, referring to a young player who had impressed in the first match.

"He seems top," I agreed. "And he's young and all that. But it's starting eleven only, for this question."

"Mac Allister," said Evans.

"Are Scotland playing?" said Gemma. I'm not sure if that one was a joke or not.

I wasn't sure if Evans was trying to help me or just prove he knew more about football than me. I gave him the benefit of the doubt and turned towards him to show I was interested. "Mac Allister is a solid midfielder and he's at a Premier League club, but I think Lisandro Martinez would cost more. This kind of hyper-modern defender that can progress the ball up the pitch, that's the future. That's why I was so excited about Future from your under 12s. He's the kind of player every big team will need ten years from now."

He stared at me like I was offering to pickle his hair in formaldehyde for future generations to study. He had no idea who Future was! Maybe the most talented kid in the entire youth system and the manager didn't know about him. Wilful ignorance. He bypassed the whole Future topic. "You need someone in midfield to receive the ball from the defender. One isn't good without the other."

"True," I said. "But there are plenty of players like Mac Allister. There aren't many like Martinez. You can say United paid a premium for him, but that's the point. If you need that type of player for your system, he's one of the only ones."

Evans shook his head, said "He's too small," and returned to watching the match. There was something about the way he dismissed my reasoning and kept repeating an obvious untruth that wound me up.

I glowered at MD MD, who pretended to be very interested in the match even though nothing was happening.

***

Half-time should have been the point where normalcy resumed and my feud with Evans took a back seat. If you'd asked us, I'm sure we'd both have agreed that everyone having a nice time was more desirable than continuing our fruitless bickering.

We were all in the kitchen, enjoying being on our feet, having some snacks, when all hope of normalcy died.

The trigger was when Moss started getting ready to go. He put his big coat on and had one last joke with Evans. They had really hit it off. Two old, fierce men completely convinced they knew what was wrong with the world and how to fix it. There was mutual respect there.

Raffi picked up his car keys. The plan was for Raffi to drive his dad home and pick up Serina.

Moss said, "Ian, maybe by the time she's growed up you'll have a girl's team there at Chester."

"Aye, the way things are going, I'm sure they will." They? They? It's your team, you prick! "They'll try anyway. Max Best will probably tear it down."

All eyes turned to me. "What?"

"Oh, didn't you hear? Half the team left."

"Half what team?"

"The youth team, Best. The one you broke."

"Is that right?" I said, popping a crisp into my mouth, not showing how fucking aggravating his words were. I turned to MD. "Benny?"

He nodded. "And four others. The one you called Future."

"Where did they go? Where's the nearest academy?"

"There isn't one. They've gone to Broughton."

Broughton! The team we'd played against during the whole Benny incident. A slow smile spread over my face.

"Max," said Henri. A warning. I'd heard that from him before, and like before, I ignored it.

Raffi and Moss were both standing, half-turned, ready to leave. But they stayed to watch. It was crazy. Everyone in the room just stood and watched as I got my phone out, tapped a few times, and tried to stop smiling long enough to talk.

"Nice One!" I said. "It's Maxy Two Thumbs. How you doing?"

I let my eyes sweep the room, enjoyed the looks on everyone's faces.

"Great. We're watching it too. Bit drab so far, isn't it? Listen, I won't keep you long. I just this second heard that Benny left Chester." I let Nice One quickly tell me what I already knew. "From bad to worse, you say?" He spoke some more. "Yeah, probably the best move. If some rando from Manchester cares more about their careers than their own manager, that's a bad sign."

Henri stepped forward to make me stop, but I pointed at him and looked so furious that even he backed down.

I smoothed out my face and continued. "Thing is, I told Benny I'd try to sort things out there and I didn't get the chance to do that, sad to say. I want to make it up to the kids. Help them out somehow. They always play on Sundays, right? I don't suppose you've got the next fixtures, have you? Oh, on the fridge! Yeah, I'm at Raffi's house now. The fridge seems to be where they organise things, too. Is that a parent thing?"

Nice One told me the upcoming fixtures. When I heard what I wanted to hear, I punched the air. Who says I don't celebrate? "They're playing Chester on the 18th of December? Oh, that's fun. That's my one Sunday off. Listen, how about... Do you think the kids would like it if I went and managed that match? Yeah? You'll talk to that manager guy? What's that? 4-4-2 diamond?" I laughed. "Maybe. I've got some new moves, Nice One. They're going to love it. Henri as assistant? Er... I don't think so. He's a Chester player now. He might think it's disloyal or whatever. He might come and watch, though..."

I was grinning like a crazy person, now. This was better than beating Hereford - it wasn't even close. I was going to get another chance to manage a game, and I was going to humiliate Chester, Spectrum, Tyson and the rest.

I ended the call, placed my phone down on the kitchen counter, and showed my two thumbs to Ian Evans.

"Dad, let's go," said Raffi. They shuffled towards the front door.

Henri grabbed me by the arm, quite hard. "Max," he said, pleasantly. "I need to gather some clothes from my house. Then I will take Gemma home. Would you like to join us in the car?"

Not really, no. I wanted to stay and find more ways to throw haymakers at Ian Evans.

Shona said, "I'll put some food in a tupperware for you, Max." She was pushing me out. Seconds later, Henri was by the front door holding my kit bag and Shona pressed a container full of home cooking into my hand. She looked up at me before taking her hands away. With a tiny, sad shake of her head, she simply said, "Jerk."

...

As always, thanks for your support!