34 - The Max Best Manifesto [T1] (Patreon)

34.

By Saturday morning I had turned into a human brick. A few times, I woke up and wanted a sausage butty or to pee but simply couldn't move. My legs were eight times their normal weight. Henri's bedroom had different gravity. I assumed I'd spend the rest of my life there, crushed under the pressure of my own fatigue. I couldn't even move my arms to put a podcast on, so I let myself curve in and out of sleep, before finally going deep, deep under.

A hand brushed my arm.

That was nice, this dream I was having.

A hand brushed my arm.

"Uh," I said.

"Max," someone whispered.

"Uh?" I was asking the person to prise one of my eyes open. They were locked up tight with weariness and that special night glue that eyeballs smother themselves with.

"It's Emma."

That did the trick. The shock let me get both eyes open a quarter. One eye half open would have been better, but I couldn't pick and choose. Sure enough, there was a mass of blonde hair and what looked like a leather jacket with too many zips.

"Uh uh uh?"

"It's our date, remember? A romantic tour of... let me check... Darlington? Starting 20 minutes ago."

"Uh uck."

"Ssh," she said, rubbing my arm. "It's okay. I know you had a big night."

"Ow in?"

"The key was still in the front door. Real horror movie scenario. Popped in to check how much blood there was."

"Orry."

"You're in the news. Want me to read it?"

"O-ay."

She adjusted on the bed. I guess she took her jacket off, too, because I felt an extra pressure on my feet. Not ideal, tbh, but I wasn't going to complain. Also, I literally couldn't. She showed me her phone, which from my point of view meant she shone a fucking lighthouse lamp right into my weak, feeble, gluey retinas.

She double-cleared her throat. "Darlington 4 Kettering 4: Nine-Man Quakers Thrill Blackwell Meadows. Is that the name of the stadium?"

"Eh."

"At first I thought it might be a local DJ or something. Okay, here it is. Darlington's title hopes were dented last night as they were held to a draw by lowly Kettering Town. Lowly," she added. "That's mean. The match started with disaster followed by calamity, as Quakers conceded two goals and were shown three red cards inside the first 15 minutes, including one for their manager David Cutter. Quakers spent the rest of the half... Shouldn't it say The Quakers?"

I didn't reply; the answer would have needed more than a grunt.

"Quakers spent the rest of the half defending, and many fans left at half time, fearing even greater humiliation was to come."

I heard Emma smiling and struggling to tame that smile. "They missed a second half full of passion and rapier-thrust counter attacks the likes of which this old stadium has surely never seen. Inspired by a bombastic, otherworldly performance from mystery winger Max Best, Quakers dragged themselves back into contention, and even held a brief lead near the end. Dreams of an improbable 9-man victory were dashed as the players' legs finally gave way. Those of the 1,441 who had stayed for the second half stayed longer to applaud their team from the pitch. An unforgettable night." 

Emma paused. "Then there's some more details of the red cards and the goals. But you know all that. Then there's the interview with you."

"Uh?"

"Don't you remember? Well, they wrote it all down. So. Will I try to do a Manc accent? Eee, our kid, nice one top one sorted. Needs work? Yeah. Okay, they've done it in question and answer form. Echo. This is in bold. Well played, Max. You're player of the match again. Tell us about the referee. Then obviously it's what you said. Not in bold. If you're looking for a quote complaining about the referee, ask someone else. You won't get one from me. Echo. But did you think the red cards were justified? Max Best. If you print some angry tirade against the referee, you're giving thugs who read it permission to abuse refs in their Sunday League games. Leave me out of it."

Emma was shaking her head. "You get so indignant. Echo. What was said at half-time? Max Best. Our coaches reorganised the team, gave us a new structure to play from. A solid base with scope for counters. We wanted to give the fans something to shout about. Echo. Was it hard without your manager? Max Best. You want your manager there, but he prepares us for different game states. We literally had a session this Monday teaching us how to balance attack and defence. It was the perfect preparation for a game like tonight. Echo. Are you upset that your title charge has been derailed by one bad refereeing performance? Then for your reply it just has an ellipsis."

She looked at me. "God, I can just imagine your face. Echo. Max, you've come out of nowhere and you're becoming a fan favourite. Can you tell us what your last club was? Where have you trained? Max Best. I want to thank everyone at Darlington for the chance to play here. The manager and the other players. People in town have been very friendly. We want to bring that league title here. We didn't win tonight, which is gutting, but I hope we showed that we're here to play and we're here to entertain and we'll always try to represent the badge in a way that the town can be proud of."

Emma blew some air out. "Well."

Well, indeed. It sounded okay to me, but I didn't think I'd really positioned myself as a manager type. I hadn't furthered my narrative. The Scholarship lads were right - I needed to use social media. That didn't help my feelings of fatigue.

Emma went over to the curtains and opened them. Harsh, cruel light streamed in and assaulted me. It was a barbaric thing to do.

"What do footballers drink in the morning, Max? Green smoothie for recovery? Kale juice? Does Henri have a mixer?"

I summoned all my energy, shaped it into a small ball and pushed it into my throat. "Tea."

"Tea? Right. You wait there. I'll mek yous a mug. Then hows about a little massage to get you going?"

For the first time that morning, my eyes opened fully. You'll have to guess what facial expression I was doing because I don't know myself, but I saw Emma smirk. "I'll take that as a yes."

***

One very superficial but helpful calf rub later, I told her to shoo while I got dressed. A minute later I sent her a text and she came running back upstairs. "What? You okay?"

I grinned. This was not sexy. "I can't do the socks." I just couldn't bend!

She tried to hide a grin. Tried to get into nurse mode. "Right, then. I see you're planning to wear tracksuit bottoms and a plain black hoodie on our second date."

I tried to shrug, but lifting my arms hurt. Why did everything hurt? And what was I supposed to say about the whole date thing? I mean, if she wanted to cheat on her dude, I wouldn't stop her. But it would have to be some day I was more limber. "This is what I wear most of the time now. I'm not really into drips and trims."

She was bending down. "What language was that? You been learning French?"

"Drips is what footballers call clothes, apparently. Trims is haircuts. Drips and trims is 70% of the banter."

"Oh, great. You're making friends."

I scoffed. "No. Far from it. I’m just nearby when some chat happens. I always wondered what players talk about all day. I assumed it would be all, if you could go back and watch any team from history, who would it be? You know, what's your favourite chant kinda stuff. But no. I really wish I still had that mystery. Oh, what the fuck?"

She was putting white socks on me. White! That was criminal. "I'm just completing the look." She thought she was being delightful, but then she looked at me and said, "What?"

I adjusted my weight on the edge of the bed. I'd been in one position for too long. I thought about how to say this. "Emma. You're very stylish. You've got more zips on that tiny jacket than I've got in my whole collection. If fashion and style is important to you..." I wasn't sure how to finish. I could hardly say this relationship wouldn't work, because we didn't have one. "Just. I've got enough on my plate. If I've got spare money I'm going to spend it on a personal trainer or going to watch matches I can't get in for free and things like that. Do you know what I mean? I genuinely don't care what I look like."

"Okay," she said. She fidgeted with the socks some more, but I realised she was putting them more on instead of taking them off. "So you won't mind wearing white socks with black everything else."

"I don't care what I look like past a certain basic level."

"Uh-uh, that's not what you said. Now come on. Get on your feet. This is the worst date I've ever been on. You need to raise your game."

***

It took about 8 minutes to get down the stairs, but then we left the house and began our walk. Moving helped. My vague goal was to finally get to the centre and see the market and the Yards - Darlington's cute little side streets with random shops dotted around. I was willing to be distracted if anything better came up.

While we ambled, Emma asked me questions. "Why is Moby Dick on the counter? Are you reading it?"

"No. It's just a reminder. Trying to be less antagonistic."

"That's good."

"I guess. It's just, when it comes to football, I've become really bolshy."

She laughed. "Bolshy? Is that Mancunian?"

"I dunno. You've never heard it?"

"No. What's it mean?"

"Just... argumentative. Difficult. Even when I try to tamp it down, it just... you know.” I mimed an explosion. “Waah! When I was in my last job, I had a hundred ideas for how to run things better, but I kept my mouth shut, clocked off, and once I was out of the door I was out of the door. Do you know what I mean? But there's something about football that makes it stick with me. Gemma probably told you about my little disagreement with the guy at Chester."

"Yeah. But we don't understand it."

"Which part?"

"Most of it, really. It's some teenage boys playing football. How important can it be?"

I grinned. "Yeah. Good point. Fair. It's just that a club like Chester really should be trying to make sure the youth programme produces players for the first team. For a thousand reasons, really, but I'll give you an example. There's this team, Plymouth Argyle. They're in the third tier."

"League One."

"Holy shit! That was hot. So Plymouth have a young goalkeeper. I've only seen short clips of the guy, but there's a big buzz about him. Everyone agrees he's already Premier League quality."

"So why's he in League One?"

"That's the point! That's it! He came up through the youth teams. So he's probably on a hundred quid a week, he'll stay at the club as long as he can because he loves it, and they can pay him less than an outsider. And if he's as good as they say - which he probably is because he's their man of the match every week and they're top of the league - they'll get millions when they sell him. Millions! Almost all profit. I could find five players like that every year if someone would fucking let me!" I stopped to rub my temples. "Yeah it gets me worked up. That's what Moby Dick is for. I need to stop caring."

"No," she said.

"No, I do. I can start caring when I've got a job where I can do something about it."

***

We ended up in the Yards, popping into the funny little shops. Round every corner was something completely random, so it was AAA date fodder. Funky hairdressers, tattoo places, bakeries, tea houses, all brightly painted, all trying to be social media friendly. With so many talking points, we had smooth, easy conversations even though I’d banned one topic. I had asked Emma not to bring football up - I didn't want to say something indiscreet that might be overheard in those ancient alleyways.

After the Yards, we checked out the big indoor market. It was the kind of thing you'd always want in your neighbourhood. A charming food court, plus all kinds of shops. Mostly friendly stallholders, with a few grumpytits thrown in for variety. Emma was impressed by the selection of cheeses and meats and the prices. "I could cook for us tonight," she said, examining an onion while a stall assistant tried to get an eyeful of her without anyone noticing. Fail!

I thought about her offer. There were pros and cons. Pros included spending the evening with my dream woman. Cons kind of stopped existing when I’d put the pro into concrete words. There was only one thing, really. "You know I'm doing this online course? I have to watch the matches. Answer questions. I can stick to the easy ones and skip the headscratchers, but I'll still be a bit distracted. As evenings go, it's on the other extreme from clubbing."

"We'll eat. You'll do your thing. I'll read Moby Dick." She could see that I was undecided. "Max! I'm not going to harass you during the match. I promise. Hey, look at this turnip."

"I'd like to be harassed. But not tonight. And it’s not just that. I’ll feel guilty."

"Max?" New voice. Vaguely familiar. I turned and saw Glynn standing next to a woman. She was quite stocky with long, frizzy hair. The kind of face that breaks into a smile a lot.

"Oh. Hi," I said. A bit wary. I hadn't bumped into anyone from the club in the real world. But then again, I'd been at home almost non-stop. I looked around to see if anyone else was there, as though Glynn would only go shopping with Caveman or Chumpy.

"We saw you from over there. Soph wanted to meet you."

"Hi, Soph," I said, offering a fist bump. "Er... this is Emma."

They said hi, then there was an awkward pause because I didn't know what they wanted and yet everyone was waiting for me to take the lead. Glynn seemed nervous. His girlfriend had wanted to meet me and he’d been too ashamed to admit we were enemies. Him deciding to lose face with me instead of her was the most relatable thing he’d ever done. I noticed his eyes lock onto the number of zips on Emma’s jacket. He got this look I can only describe as aroused confusion. A new contender for the most relatable thing... He finally got a grip. "Er... Soph was at the match last night. Watching me. Watching us."

"Oh, sorry," I said, joking.

"No!" she said, suddenly animated. "It was incredible. You were amazing. I've never seen anything like it. You were stunning. Absolutely stunning. Oh, I'm gushing. Sorry, Emma." Why was she saying sorry to Emma?

"No, keep going," said Emma. "He loves it. Made me read the newspaper to him this morning. Skip the parts that aren't about me, he said." Soph was nodding slowly, drinking in every word. Emma realised she'd made a mistake. "Soph, I'm joking. He’s not like that." Nervous release of tension from the weirdo.

I couldn't get a read on Soph's personality and now I wanted this whole thing to be over. "Well, Glynn was good, too. That was the best I've ever seen him play. When he came on I was ecstatic I had another technical player on the pitch. It just relieved the pressure. Spread the load a bit, you know? We'd have lost 6-3 if he hadn't come on when he did."

"Oh!" said Soph. It took her a while, but my words finally seemed to land somewhere useful. "I'll keep him then!" Big, weird laugh while she grabbed him.

I smiled with about two percent of the energy she was giving off. "Do you mind if we wander away? I kind of used all my energy last night. Quiet night in. Emma's cooking."

"We should all go for a drink sometime!" said Soph. The words tumbled out, getting in each other's way.

"Sure," I said, glancing at Glynn, who was pretending to study a box of leeks. "I'm doing a World Cup project, then I'm starting my coaching badges. But maybe in, like, February?"

They fucked off and all that.

"That was mean," said Emma.

"What?"

"February. You'll have left by then."

"Shh," I said, looking around.

"Right, sorry. Sorry. Damn. But you have to be nicer to your fans."

"My what?"

"Didn't you see her face? We should google 'Max Best fan club' when we get home. We just met the founder."

"You're not worried? About the competition?"

"Max. I'm Premier League. You're in the National League North." She slapped my cheek a few times, then bought some vegetables from a beet-faced stallholder. Emma had fans of her own.

***

We bought more stuff, including a bottle of organic red wine. Emma expressed surprise that I'd have a drink, now that I was a big-shot player. I assured her two glasses was my limit, and anyway, no-one had ever told me what to eat. I said that even though everyone hates induction days, especially me, I really should have had one. And that was my cue to start talking about my theories on a better way to run a non-league football club. I think all this stuff had been building up inside me since I'd started seeing clubs from the inside. And Emma uncorked me like a Pulltap.

Everything that had been happening recently poured out of me. Fermented. Ready to drink.

"There was a time I thought the guy at Chester was going to offer me a Director of Football job. He wasn't - I'm much too young and inexperienced. But ever since, I've been thinking about it. Writing a kind of manifesto. What if I was offered the job now? What's important? Where do you start?

"The start is, you've got to win games. That's the main thing. The mood in the dressing room depends almost entirely on the last game. The mood in the town, you can feel it if the team's done well. On the streets there's like, 5% more people who are smiling after a win. Winning's infectious. And if you don't win, you get fired. But why not win with style? Attack. Play attractive football. Try something new."

"And people don't?"

"Almost never. The other manager did something last night, something wild. I'm not sure if I imagined it because my brain was burning itself for fuel."

"What did he do?"

"Spread his players and pushed them forward. Threw caution to the wind. All-out attack. I've watched as much football as anyone in the last few months and I haven't seen a manager do anything like it."

"Why not, though?"

"Fear. They're all afraid."

"You're not?"

"Yeah, I am. Fear of humiliation. You're trying to be clever and there's people watching and it all blows up in your face. But you've got to try. You've got to play fearless football."

"Fearless football. I like that. What does it look like?"

"I'm still working on it, but some things seem burned into my DNA. No timewasting. No running into corners. Always have a plan to win. Always attack if you're the better team. Things like that. So that's tactics and stuff. My online course has been helping me with that kind of thing.

"Training. I think most of the training I've seen has been good, actually. Players improve. I'd want to change the focus to be more about technique, but you could persuade me not to. Half the pitches at this level are like turnip fields. Some slope like you wouldn't believe. Or does that mean technique is even more important? Yeah, anyway, training's not the main issue.

"Squadbuilding. That's where you look at your team and try to get better players on the market. Can you do that and keep the same wage bill? Do you spend your cash on your defence - they say defence wins titles - or your strikers? Goals win games. Youth versus experience. A genius who is always injured. Worth it? Maybe. It’s a fun challenge. I'd be good at that. Really good. Plus just for funsies I'd bring in a handful of stars that we'd train up and sell for millions. Easy. Ka-ching!

"Youth team. Important. Serious. Manager's got to be informed, got to be interested, and there has to be a pathway from the bottom to the top. If there isn't, manager's fired. Develop young players or you're fired. People say oh but young players make mistakes, cost you games. Like old guys never do anything wrong. It’s pathetic. That's part of the fearless thing. Arsenal are winning the Premier League and they've got the youngest squad. Don't tell me it can't work.

"Culture. Enough caveman shit. It's moronic that someone like me should find it hard to integrate. If I can't fit in, neither can 90% of the population. And we're back to wasted talent. It's got to be more collaborative. More diverse. More grown up. And I know that's ironic coming from me."

"Why is it?"

"It just is."

I went internal. Processed everything I'd just said. It felt right. Really right. It burned within me. I was going to get my hands on one of these shitty football clubs and turn it into a shining beacon. Number goes up. Money goes up. Attendance goes up. Talent flourishes. Stars are lifted to their next step. Memories linger. Everyone's happy to come to work. A virtuous cycle of achievement and improvement that will last long after I'm gone.

"Max?"

Eyes blazing, I looked down at Emma. She looked up at me. Lips parted. The stars aligned, everything was perfect. Be fearless. Still, I hesitated. Suddenly it did matter that she was seeing someone else. Trust is the basis for everything. "I don't know what your situation is."

"My situation is that you owe me a kiss."

I carefully placed the shopping bags on the path - we were in a park, suddenly, and every tree was a cherry blossom in bloom - and took one zip in each hand. I pulled her towards me, and as we kissed, seven flying cupids played 'Zadok the Priest' on their little trumpets.

***

Eventually, after my mental stock of romantic cliches had been exhausted and a bulldog started giving my meat-filled carrier bag admiring glances, we walked on.

"This fearless football of yours," she said. "Is that why you organised the match in Chester? So you could practice?"

"It's one benefit," I said. "It's the only manager gig on my horizon. I keep having tactical ideas, I keep trying to innovate, but it's not meaningful if it's just in my head. Do you know what I mean? It's going to be ages and ages until I get a place to try out my theories."

Ha.

How wrong I was.