33 - Go For the Corner [T1] (Patreon)

33.

We got into position for the second half. The crowd had visibly diminished. I hoped they were inside somewhere, buying beers, and hadn't fucked off home.

"Best!" Caveman was yelling at me.

I spread my arms. What?

"That's not the plan!"

Instead of being in the central DM slot, I was loitering out on the right wing. I was running one of my famous scams. Kettering’s manager was a few yards away from me. Based on a cursory examination of the pitch, he’d assume we were doing something like 4-4-0. Maybe a little deception would help us out, maybe it wouldn’t. But I hadn't communicated this to my team. There hadn't been time. I gave Caveman a double thumbs up. Trust me. He didn't trust me.

Kettering kicked off and I slowly made my way to DM. To the outside world, it would look like typical Max Best tactical indiscipline. Just another cross to bear.

The match went pretty much as predicted, with Kettering having most of the ball and most of our possessions ending quickly. No big deal. We had to be patient.

With seven people in defensive positions, we were solid as fuck, and Kettering defaulted to getting out wide and hitting crosses in. The kind of soft, slow deliveries you get at this level were meat and drink to Caveman and Shrek, and they dealt with most of the crosses with ease. Of course, one or two led to chances at goal, but that was always going to happen. All we could do was graft and make the chances as low percentage as poss.

We spent 4 or 5 minutes doing just that, when suddenly the ball was rolled into my path when I had forward momentum. I pushed forward and played it to Blondie. His marker tried to wrestle him, but he was stronger and just as I crossed the halfway line the ball was played towards me. A perfect pass! I couldn't believe it. I'd been drifting to the right, assuming any pass that came would be sliced. And even better - the goalie was rushing out to try to clear the ball. He had no idea how fast I was!

It was almost a dilemma. I could try to get the goalie to foul me before I shot. We wouldn't score, but Kettering would go down to 10 men. And then we'd surely crush them. But a goal this early in the half would energise our fans. If things went tits-up from here, at least they'd have this one little moment of magic to talk about.

So I clipped the ball left-footed in a pleasing arc above and around the keeper.

It bounced exactly on the goal line, dead centre. 2-1.

The home fans cheered. It was some way short of a roar. Today, they didn't trust us.

I turned and walked back to halfway. The rest of the team stayed put. Saving energy. Yes! This was going to happen! I checked the tactics and match ratings. All good. While I was internal, Blondie got in my path and lifted his palms. We did a massive, bone-cracking high ten.

"Nice pass," I said.

"Someone's got to teach you how," he said.

I remembered I was pretending to be playing right-mid, and went over there. I stayed for a while, not just to sell the illusion, but because all the grinding in the first half and that big sprint had taken it out of me. I was about fifty times fitter than I should have been - I had the cheat code from the curse - but I was still human. I'd only had a short stint as a professional, and not that long ago I'd taken part in the trial at Chester and been absolutely destroyed by about 20 minutes of hard work. I had to conserve energy.

I took a 30-second break, then drifted back into the middle. Back into the grinder.

So I was close at hand to see the mistake. A cross came in and Caveman jumped with the striker. He didn't get the ball, but neither did the other guy, which I suppose is good defending. But Shrek had just switched off for a second. The ball hit his chest, and he should have booted it away with all his might. Instead, in one of those inexplicable moments that you think about for years, he tried to spin and move the ball towards the other side of the pitch. Of course, being a giant green ogre he lacked the agility, and the ball squirted off one foot and into the path of a Kettering dude.

3-1.

The home fans fell silent, and the stadium echoed with the whoops of eleven jubilant men from wherever the fuck Kettering is.

Shrek slumped to the ground. Paul was on his arse with his legs pointing straight out. Caveman was on his haunches, rubbing his head after that challenge.

I walked over to Shrek and held my hand out.

He shook his head. Leave me alone.

I bent down and grabbed his wrist, then leaned back until he lifted himself to his feet. I wandered around making eye contact with the rest. The goal had knocked some of the stuffing out of them. Well, that was natural. But they hadn't quit, yet. Maybe I could inject a little dose of belief back into their veins.

I strode forward and took a position on the rim of the centre circle, towards the right, but nowhere near the right touchline. I wanted opposition players to come at me, but I wanted space, too. The ref whistled for the kickoff, and Blondie passed to me. I put my right foot behind my left and flicked the pass into the air, knee-height. From this position I did a few TikTok-style kick-ups. When the nearest opponent sprinted at me, I shifted my weight, looped my right leg over the ball, did one more kick-up, then blooped the ball over his head. I ran around him, control-pushed the ball a few yards ahead, and as I ran, pulled off a few stepovers, left and right. The Kettering guys were backtracking, wary, but finally two of them came at me. I did a no-look backheel pass to Blondie that was so obnoxious it even irritated me. I kept going. He hit the return pass first time, which was great, but this time he did slice it. Or since he was left-footed, I should probably say he hooked it. I went over to the right to gather the ball, shielding it from the full-back, and then stayed in place while he booted me up the arse. It was about the sixth time in that sequence where one of them had tried to foul me, and each failed attempt had been winding the home fans up a little more. I hoped it would have the same effect on my teammates.

I rolled around for a bit, pretending to be dying.

To my everlasting relief, the foul triggered a melee. Mega handbags! My guys burning their precious energy. The atmosphere had turned febrile. I clambered to my feet. Someone in one of the stands was banging a drum or slapping some sonorous piece of metal. Jungle fever. I felt my mania rising, and fought to control it. I needed ice in my veins more than fire in my belly. The free kick was too far out and too far wide to do anything with. Deeply frustrating. So I passed it backwards and we had a short period of playing neat, simple passes to each other. A bit of a breather.

We wouldn't get many more.

***

With 25 minutes to go, Doop astonished the world by going on a little dribble on the left-hand-side of the pitch. He played it to Blondie, who struck a highly optimistic shot from 40 yards out. I couldn't tell you if it was on target, I'm guessing not, but it hit a nearby defender and we got a corner out of it.

"Max," called Caveman. He pointed towards the goal. Should I go? I shook my head. Stick to the plan. There was still loads of time in this game.

Blondie and Doop tried to make a nuisance of themselves in the penalty box, while every single Kettering player took up a defensive position. It was a weird sight - five of our guys taking a breather in the centre circle, then twenty yards of empty space, then a jam-packed box.

I positioned the ball where I wanted it, closed my eyes, centred myself, and opened them. Blondie was standing in front of the goalie, bouncing up and down. Being a dick. I put my hands on my hips. What had I said? I waited for him to get the message. Doop pulled him away from the goalie and with a last annoyed shake of the head, I looked down at the ball.

I hit it clean as clean can be, and got a little buzz of anticipation - the swerve on the thing was ideal, and it was dipping. Guaranteed goal, unless the goalie had brought stilts.

So I couldn't believe it when the ball crashed against the underside of the bar, bounced down the wrong side of the goal line, right to the foot of the defender who was at the back post. But the ball had so much spin that it squirted out from under his foot and went sideways, towards the crowded middle of the goal. Three players slid towards it, each trying to tackle the ball in a different direction. Blondie got a good chunk of it, but so did a defender. The ball popped out, bounced once, feebly, and was smashed into the goal by Doop.

3-2, and now the fans really went nuts! We were playing towards the end where there wasn't a proper terrace, so the fans could mill around as they pleased. They zoomed from their spots to the place where Doop celebrated wildly - he didn't score many goals. I walked over to where he and Blondie were showing their biceps and waving at the crowd and all that. "Doop," I said. "Mate. My battery’s on eight percent."

He gave me a look like a naughty schoolboy. "Aight." He turned, gave the crowd one last 'come on!' gesture, then we walked back to work.

***

Kettering's manager had seen enough. He ordered his team to defend. 'Men Behind Ball.' Try to shut the game down. Sew up a famous win against one of the top teams in the division at all costs.

I signalled to Caveman and the rest. Four fingers. Four attackers. As all-out as my plan allowed. Caveman took over the organisation. He told Doop to stay back while the other DM and Colin from right-back joined me. On the tactics screen, three of us had dotted lines emanating from our icons going up to the half-way line.

And the next phase of the match was pretty comfortable. We spent the next ten minutes in their half, like a little holiday. If they'd kept attacking us, we'd have been dead on our legs. As it was, only half our team needed to put any effort in, and Caveman was good at rotating the runners. After another five minutes, he called for subs. Glynn came on. Fresh legs, and a breath of fresh air. He and I passed to each other, brought in the third man, and tried to send chips over the massed defences for Blondie to run onto.

With quarter of an hour to go, all our probing paid off. A series of passes almost exactly like in our Monday training drill led to me having a bit of time and space 35 yards from goal. I didn't think about it - I fucking wellied it. Cannonball-style. The ball exploded off my boot - the keeper's eyes widened - then after ten yards there was a kind of second explosion and it veered away to the right. The keeper threw out a hand, and very nearly deflected the shot wide. Close, but as a blind man says in a Ford showroom, no see car.

3-3. I turned to walk back to our half, but this time there was no stopping the lads from celebrating. For the first time in my career, the whole team enveloped me. No holdouts.

When they were done, I took a step and called out, flopping to the turf in agony. Blondie came and gripped my boot and lifted my right leg up. Pushed it. Said, in a singsong voice, "Cramp, cramp, go away, come back another day."

I laughed, almost hysterically. I hadn't expected that! "What the fuck."

"Shut up, Best. It works."

Sure enough, when he pulled me to my feet, my calf felt invigorated. I had maybe two more long sprints in me. I switched roles with Glynn for a while. He got the job of marauding upfield while I stood just in front of Caveman, recovering, watching for counters. Kettering's manager was happy to stay defensive - a point against the mighty Darlo was good enough. He'd take it.

Glynn, Blondie, and our left-back combined to win a corner.

Caveman and I looked at each other. "What do you want to do?" I said.

"There's only one thing left to do," he said. "Win the whole fucking thing."

We walked forward together. He ordered Glynn and Doop to stay back, while the rest of the team piled into the penalty area. It was now a target-rich environment. I placed the ball, took a breath, and hit it head-height towards Caveman. The goalie, burned by my recent shot, stayed on his line. So it was a mystery to me why I didn't see the ball power into the net. I didn't even see Caveman. I was mentally scratching my head when the ref blew his whistle and was surrounded by Kettering players.

I checked the commentary.

Best sends in the corner.

Caveman misses the header - he seemed to be pushed!

The referee blows his whistle...

... he's given the penalty!

The Kettering players are furious!

Two yellow cards were shown. I walked away and checked the match ratings. I was on 9. Glynn was having a stormer: 8. Blondie was also on 9. His hold-up play and movement was just as important as my dribbles and skills.

And now he'd get on the scoresheet, too.

"Best," called Caveman. "Take the pen."

"Blondie's on pens," I said. Cutter had told us the order. Blondie was second. Captain's choice was third.

"Fuck sake, Best. Get on with it. He's missed 3 of his last 5."

Dilemma. If I took the pen, we'd win, but that would basically be me disobeying Cutter in the most direct way ever. But if Blondie took it and missed, all the team's hard work would be for nothing. How to balance everything?

I shook my head. I was fatigued and would make bad decisions. "Cutter said Blondie's on pens. Blondie," I called out. "Go for the corner."

Blondie had the ball in his hands - he knew the order! - and the Kettering players were milling around him, bumping into him, trying to put him off. The fans behind the goal were going feral - if the ref didn't get a grip on the shithousery soon, there could be carnage. A couple more yellow cards came out, and the Kettering mob finally retreated. Now the whole match came down to Blondie and the keeper.

He stepped up and hit a tame shot towards the bottom-right of the goal. Awful. But the goalie was too excited by the shitness of the pen, and the ball deflected off his wrist, down, and trickled into the goal. Dogshit, but we were winning! 4-3!

The other manager took the handbrake off, and a look at the tactics screen showed them in a hugely attacking formation. It was something like 3-1-3-3. It was so far beyond all the 4-4-2s I'd experienced I closed and opened the page several times to see if it was just a glitch.

"Guys," I shouted. "They're coming. Men behind ball!"

So the tone changed again. Back to the grind. At first, it was easier, physically, for me. I didn't have to do any of those punishing long sprints. All I had to do was shuffle around, get between some guy and the goal. Stop him from shooting. Let him turn and pass the ball back or sideways. Didn't take much energy. It was only when they started taking me on with dribbles that I got into trouble. If I didn't stab the ball away first time, I was toast. They started to target me. I'd turned into the weak link. I looked to the dugout and made the football gesture for 'sub me off, boss' - two hands circling each other like a rolling wheel.

Blondie grabbed me and pushed me up the pitch. "No subs, Best."

"What?"

"We used all our subs. Get up top. I'll do this."

We used all our subs? When? Shit. I was more tired than I thought - I'd never missed a substitution before. Sure enough, Chumpy had come on at left-back. I went to the halfway line and stood, basically helpless, watching our striker try to play DM. He was awful, but admittedly an improvement on my last few minutes.

The pressure mounted. Kettering got closer and closer. Paul Larkin saved a shot and immediately ran forward and got ready to launch the ball. What was he doing? But I suddenly realised that there was only one defender near me. I had the chance to wrap up the game!

I forced my legs to pump, chased after Paul's dropkicked punt, and was on track to get there! I'd be one-on-one with the keeper! It seemed too good to be true. But as I tracked the ball, it held up a fraction. Some tiny gust of wind. Argh! I had to slow and turn, and gathered the ball. That tiny delay was enough for the defender to get in front of me. The clock said 88 minutes had been played. Cutter would want me to take the ball into the corner of the pitch and try to keep it there for as long as possible. Me? I wanted to beat this defender and score. At 5-3, we'd be home and hosed. I started my dribble, and very nearly got space for the shot. The defender didn't slide in to block it like these clowns normally did, so I was forced a little wider. Since I was heading that direction anyway, I took the ball towards the corner flag and put my body between the ball and the defender. Ideally, he'd foul me and we could spend 30 seconds organising our team. But this guy was too wily for that. He simply waited until a teammate arrived, and between them they easily took the ball off me and launched an attack.

They moved the ball across the pitch, got an overload on the right, crossed, and a striker went up for a header. Paul Larkin insists the ball came off the guy's shoulder, which just about sums up our day. The header had been aimed at Paul's left. The goal was scored to his right. 4-4. Every single one of us slumped to the ground.

***

I don't remember much of the rest. We survived the last couple of minutes. I dragged myself off the pitch and into the showers because I knew if I stopped moving I wouldn't be able to walk again. Maybe someone offered me a massage. Maybe someone tried to talk to me. I don't know.

I do know that I couldn't drive, so Pat drove me home in the team's minivan, and he held the front door open while Junior lugged me inside.

I fell on the bed, face first. I didn't know what the consequences of my half-time intervention would be, but I knew that a draw at home to Kettering was a disaster. The fate of the league was no longer in our hands.

Footballers often talk about not being able to sleep after matches because of the adrenaline, but I didn't have that. Nor did I feel especially happy or sad or anything much at all. Mostly, the thought that kept coming to mind was a three-second phase of play. That moment where I could have attacked the goal but chose to do the so-called right thing and play safe.

Taking the ball into the corner?

I supposed I'd do it again if I was ordered to. But as a manager I would never, ever tell my players to do it.

If you weren't attacking, you were just waiting to lose.

Next chapter: "The Max Best Manifesto"

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Thanks for your support! Thanks in particular to Logan, who like a player who waits till the end of the season to get his knee done, timed his laser eye surgery so that he wouldn't miss today's chapter.