36 - Side to Side [T1] (Patreon)

[T1 dudes, no chapter Weds 3rd May! This will help bring balance back to the force. Which is another way of saying I only wrote two chapters this week. Sure, one is the longest chapter in the history of Player Manager, but still.]

36.

I flopped against the back cushion and felt something cold and wet press against my back. For a second, I worried I'd spilled something on Henri's nice sofa, but it was just my sweat spreading around my lower back. "Quick shower," I said, and tried to bound up the stairs. I was still pretty rigid from the previous night's exertions, though, so it took me a while to get to the en-suite.

The good thing about showers is that you can't bring your phone or laptop in there, so you get a break from whatever you're working on. It's a brief moment where your brain activity flatlines in the healthiest possible way - other, deeper processes can begin. But the MUNDIAL interface was in my head, and my head is pretty watertight considering how many holes are in it, so I could only get a break from the interface by consciously pushing it away. That was hard - I kept checking who my substitutes were and dipping into their player profiles. It wasn't a squad with an abundance of dynamism. I was uninspired and knew I needed a clean break.

I got dressed - switching to a less ugly sock colour - went downstairs, and grabbed Emma. "Quick outside time!"

"Where are we going?"

"Choose a direction. We'll walk for five minutes, then come back. No football."

That's what we did. We looked at gardens. We wrote backstories for the people who lived in certain places. The guy with the garden gnomes? Definite bigamist - each gnome represented one wife or child and each flower bed represented one of his families. The ornaments helped him remember everyone’s names. Helped him keep his stories straight. The one house with the bricked-up attic window? An old woman growing weed on a semi industrial scale that she sold at cost in local care homes.

That led to a whimsical chat about our dream houses. I told Emma that I'd like to live in a kind of grass-roofed hobbit hole with most of the living space underground. She accused me of joking, and said she knew I'd want something modern. I said I could imagine a lot of dream houses, but they'd all include a table tennis and snooker room, vintage arcade machines, cinema, and, of course, secret passages and escape routes. She wanted a courtyard surrounded by a U-shaped bungalow, because she hated those big country houses where you had to walk from side to side all day.

Of course, I stopped dead. "Oh, shit."

"What?"

"That's it. van Gaal. He's making the Americans go side to side all the time. And that's how the goals come. Drag them all over to the left, then burst over to the right. The Americans rush over to cover, but they're spread out. Diffuse. Unstructured. The Dutch guy has an easy pass, the goalscorer an easy finish. If you only attack down the right, the defenders are well set. You've got to move them around before you strike. Well, shit." The thrill of discovery had given way to the realisation that there were tools I didn't have in my utility belt.

I looked up at the evening sky. The moon was out. A few stars were early to the party. I went into the tactics screens and checked the options and the suboptions looking for ones that would let me micromanage our possessions - something like 'keep the ball left until the opposition lines are sufficiently disrupted, then move it to the other flank and go wee wee wee all the way home'. Nothing like that had ever been there before, and sure enough, it still wasn't.

"Max," said Emma, rubbing my bicep. "What's wrong?"

"What do you mean?"

"Your mood just changed."

"Oh," I said. I didn't realise I was so obvious. I sighed. "So... I've been thinking I'd be a good manager."

"You will!"

I smiled at her misplaced faith in me. "Yeah, in the lower leagues. I'll bring in better players, have better tactics. It'll be great. I'll save Telford from relegation, and next year probably win the league! Why not? But this World Cup thing... What the Dutch guy is doing, it's way beyond me. It's beyond what I can do now and what I can ever imagine doing." I tried to imagine explaining to players what I wanted and then coaching them in the patterns till they got it. And then repeating it endlessly until they mastered it. Maybe I'd for-real learn how to do that kind of thing when I did my coaching badges, but I just couldn't see myself in that role. Not only was I inept at dealing with footballers, but it seemed incredibly boring. That kind of work didn't float my boat in the slightest.

So if learning how to be top coach was one of the steps of being a top manager, then I wasn't going to arrive. It was the first time since meeting Old Nick that I thought there was a genuine limit to what I could achieve. I felt like I'd just discovered that I had CA and PA as a manager, and that my PA wasn't maxed. It was, truth be told, a bit of a punch in the gut.

We plodded along, a bit slower now. Emma was content for us to walk in silence, or she was giving me some space.

If I was right, how bad was it?

Let's say my curse-enhanced level was as a League One manager. Third tier. If so, I could bring Telford to three promotions and keep them in that league for a couple of seasons. That would be seriously impressive to a lot of decision-makers. So five years from now, I'd hit my ceiling. But my reputation would surely be high enough by then for some Championship club to give me a million-pound, three-year contract. They'd fire me after six months. And then what? I'd spend a year or two on the beach with Emma.

"Emma. Jamaica or Ibiza?"

"Jamaica."

Couple of years recharging in the Caribbean. Maybe I'd give walking tours of Tortuga dressed as a pirate. "Yarr," I said.

"What?"

"Just planning our pre-retirement. Where can we buy a nice house for 500k?"

"Newcastle." She squeezed my arm and smiled. "Why did that cheer you up?"

"Newcastle! It's so far! You might as well have said, I don't know, Wyoming."

"Max," she said, with a mood change.

"Oui?"

"Your football problem seems to be something you can't discuss with your assistant manager."

"Yeah. Soz."

"That's okay. But you know hundreds of football people. Why don't you ask one?"

"Most of them hate me."

"They don't hate you. I bet there's six, tops, who actually hate you." There was a bit of a silence. Then: "Are you one of those boys who won't ask for directions even when you're lost?"

I did a kind of tut-sigh combo, mostly because she had nailed it, and because she'd used the word boy. Top class manipulation. I added it to my mental toolkit, grabbed my phone, thought about all the people I'd met recently, and filtered out everyone who wouldn't understand what the eff I was talking about. That process left exactly one person. I sighed, and dialled.

***

"Max Best, as I live and breathe."

"Hi. Have you got a minute?"

"For you, Max, no. But go on. I'm curious."

I pointed to a low wall and went to sit on it. Emma copied me. "Have you been watching the Holland game?"

"Yeah. It's half-time."

"I know it's half-time, Jackie. That's why I'm calling. The Dutch are playing 3-4-1-2. The US are 4-3-3. I've been trying to understand why the Dutch are doing that. It's a weird system. What do you make of it?"

"You know I hate to interrupt your flights of fancy, Max, but we both know you've cracked the case. Let's get to the part where you need me."

I grinned. "Yeah. Kay. So I think if I took some mushrooms or got locked in a sauna, I could come up with a plan like the Dutch are trying. But it's one thing having the plan. Let's say I'm the manager of, I don't know, Chelsea. And we're playing West Ham on Saturday. I come up with this kind of plan and on Monday morning I explain it to my coaches. Do they... Can they, sort of, make it happen?"

Jackie made some crunching noises. It sounded like he was nibbling on a carrot. "Maybe you'd better tell me what the Dutch are doing. I've been pretty bored by the game, to be totally truthful. Haven't noticed anything worth breaking a vow of silence over."

I quickly ran through the setup and my findings, then finished by excitedly saying, "I've never seen anyone attack horizontally! It's like in Wrath of Khan where Spock tells Kirk to think 3D. It's fucking top, Jackie! I'm delirious! Well, I want to be delirious but that magnificent bastard Louis has just revealed my limitations. I can't do it. I can set up the team, but I can't coach this. I can think it, but I can't implement it."

More nibbling. "What's your question?"

"How do I do it if I can't do it?"

"You get someone to do it for you. Your example. You're the Chelsea manager. God help us all if you end up there, by the way. You've got an assistant and five first team coaches. You come in on Monday, tell them the plan, they work out how to implement it. These Dutch lads, they're elite players. They soak up all this tactical stuff from an early age. You tell them your plan is to pass it sideways, they're going to find it pretty rudimentary. No offence, lad."

"None taken. But watch those goals again. It's quite specific."

"You think it's a training ground move? Well, maybe it is, la. I'll watch out for the replays. But don't worry your little head about this kind of thing. By the time you're dealing with players who can do this, you'll know how to get them to do it. All right?"

"Yes. Thanks. One more thing. Are you available next Sunday to do some coaching?"

"No."

"Hundred quid."

"No."

"Livia will be there."

Pause. Big pause. No munching this time! "No. The session's in Chester? Who is it?"

"Some kids. Good lads."

"What's the catch?"

"No catch. Never mind. Thanks for your help."

I sprung to my feet. Energised? You betcha. I paced off home, then paced back to take Emma by the hand.

"Who was that?" said Emma, smiling.

"Coach. Jackie."

"Who's Livia?"

"Woman he fancies."

"You didn't ask how he was."

"Yeah. He hates when I do that."

"Max."

"Next time I have a coaching emergency, I'll do some small talk first. Promise."

"Why did you choose him?"

We stopped. I turned and faced her. There was some subtext to the question that I couldn't work out. "Because he's top. Because he gets it."

"What does he get?"

"The way it could be."

***

Back in the house, Emma went to the cozy space and alternated between some mobile game and reading. She was letting me focus on the match. Of course, the more she did that, the more I wanted to give it all up for her.

For the second half I did small experiments with the Dutch team. Mostly ones that involved Depay. He was the one player I thought I wasn't using right. I moved him to the right to create overloads there. I tried him as a CAM and as a second striker. I tried dropping him into the centre of midfield with a big forward arrow. Finally, I put him back where I'd started him.

Then it was a case of throwing on some substitutes.

It was pretty scary. Most of the matches I'd managed had been with rolling subs. I could take players off and bring them back on. This was permanent. Mistakes would and could be punished.

The story goes that in the 1970 World Cup, with England beating West Germany 2-0, the manager took Bobby Charlton off. Charlton, a goalscoring midfielder of worldwide renown, had been keeping the Germans at bay. With him gone, they surged forward and went on to win. England were knocked out. The manager lost his job.

(The story, by the way, isn't quite accurate. But as is often the case, the story's better than the truth.)

Still, I had to do something. There's a reason that when a manager doesn’t make any substitutions he gets asked a billion questions about it. In the 70th minute, I took three guys off and replaced them with guys who could do the same job. Fresh legs. More energy.

My breakthrough came in the 75th minute when a few chances fell our way in quick succession - Depay finally stuck one in the onion bag.

"Get in you slag!" I said, jumping to my feet. I did a tiny - and slow - victory lap around the coffee table, then returned to work.

While Emma glared at me from behind a lowered book, I shuffled things into a more defensive shape. When my opponent noticed, he went more attacking, and I instantly changed back to my most attacking setup. I was confident I'd dick him on counters. But the dude was cautious, and even though he was losing and his team weren't creating many chances, he pulled more men back to keep things tight.

Tight. I was starting to really fucking hate that word.

On the TV, the USA scored the jammiest goal in the history of jammy goals to make it 2-1. For five minutes my excitement ramped up to fever pitch again - one more goal in either game could see me meeting my objective! One goal to keep me in the World Cup!

But the real-life Dutch scored again and shut the game down. In my virtual match, my players kept attacking but couldn't carve out a good opening.

I won 1-0, but van Gaal won 3-1.

When it was all over, I stared at the TV for a couple of minutes. The curse had awarded me zero TINOs for my performance. But I felt good. I'd won a World Cup knockout game! The only fly in the ointment was the late match. Argentina vs Australia. Would I be allowed to take part?

Or was my World Cup already over?

***

Once it was clear there wouldn't be extra time in the match, Emma started cooking. It didn't take long - some nice cuts of beef. Veggies. Sip of wine to help it on its way. Focusing on my table manners was a welcome distraction. Talking about life as a lawyer was a suitable calmative for my free-wheeling mind.

***

GET READY

"Yes! I'm back in."

"Great!" said Emma, which seemed genuine. Though I'm sure she wouldn't have minded having me to herself for the rest of the evening. "Who are you?"

"Argentina. Oh my God! They're doing 4-3-3. Australia are 4-4-2. This is hilarious."

"Why?"

"I've been mocking these 6th tier guys for using the most basic formations. Guess I've got egg on my face."

"Are you going to drop Messi?"

"Lol. He's in the team already. I don't get to choose. But imagine subbing him off in the first minute. I could spark riots in Buenos Aires. All right, I'm going in."

***

I didn't sub Messi off. In fact, most of my changes involved moving him around the pitch, trying to get a feel for the position he'd be most useful. He was possibly the best player of all time, but he was ageing. I needed to set things up so that he wouldn't have to do much running but could still hurt the Socceroos.

In the end I shuffled one of my central midfielders into the DM slot, and put Messi in the centre. Let the kids do all the grunt work for him, give him the ball, and let him spray passes around.

With this 4-1-3-2 I was winning 1-0 at half time, and in the second half brought on three superstar players and really went for it with a 4-1-2-3. I ended up winning 4-0, whereas the real team only beat an obdurate Aussie team 2-1.

I was awarded 127 TINOs. All or nothing!

So I was buzzing when I turned the TV off and clicked my laptop shut. I stretched massively and poured myself a bit more wine.

Emma was eyeing me. You know. With her eyes.

"All right," I said. "I'm all yours."

***

On Sunday morning all my aches and pains had melted away. In fact, I'd say that I had never felt more energetic than when I woke up. I'm sorry to say I had wasted a lot of that energy by the time Emma left.

She had to go home to watch the England match with family and friends. I walked her to the train station - it didn’t even occur to me to drive her there - and while we waited we talked a load of shit about house-hunting and pirate tours and maybe finally doing a real date like real people. Real people. That became one of our phrases. Let’s do X like real people.

We were both giddy, detached from the rest, anchored only to each other. The train was delayed by thirty minutes and it felt like three.

***

The first of Sunday's matches was France vs Poland. I was Poland, and knew that if I wasn't careful, France's superstar Kylian Mbappe would tear me a new one. Against a player with top speed, power, and perfect technique, you couldn't try funky formations. There absolutely had to be a right-back. And there pretty much had to be a right-mid. The real-life Polish coach went for 4-1-4-1, which made a lot of sense defensively, but generated nothing offensively. Loosening up might have given me 5% more in attack, but would have made France 15% more dangerous. It felt like trying to manage my way out of a boa constrictor. I hated being so defensive. Hated it.

I struggled with it until half-time. Then I called Henri.

"You have reached World Champion Henri Lyons."

"What are you the World Champion of?"

"Football."

"You didn't play in the last World Cup." I had a tiny panic. I knew that he didn't, but he had that way of talking that was so imperious I wondered if I'd somehow missed that he played for his national team. "Did you?"

"I am a native of France. That is the whole point of winning the tournament. We are all champions."

"Quick question for my online course. No big deal. Just tell me how to stop Mbappe without sacrificing offensive output."

"Why?"

"I am playing a simulated match where I'm managing against France."

"You have my sympathies."

"Great. Tell me how to win."

I could hear him sweep his hair back, even though the gesture was totally silent. "Max. You cannot stop Mbappe, no more than you can stop the heat death of the universe. You cannot catch him, no more than you can catch the last dance of the last moth."

"The last what?"

"Moth."

"I'm playing 4-1-4-1 but I'm one-nil down and I'm out of options."

"So? Losing by only one goal to this France team is like being killed by mistake in an outbreak of revolutionary fervour. Yes, it's far from ideal for you, but for the wider world, it's a step in the right direction."

"I would like to win."

He sighed. "You have thought about football so much that you can no longer think about football. Defeat is inevitable. Accept it." He drank from some glass - ice cubes rattled around. "It will be France versus England in the next round."

"If England win."

"You will. I should like to watch the match with you, Max."

"Ugh. That will be incredibly stressful for me, Henri. I don't think I can take it."

He sloshed his drink around. "Please, Max."

I didn't like his tone. He suddenly sounded lonely. "Okay, let's do it. Think about where and whatnot. Maybe we can do a tiny party with Shona and Raffi and some friends."

I heard him stand up. "Yes! Great idea. I will begin planning immediately. Oh, and Max?"

"Yes?"

"Let France win. There's a good chap."

He hung up.

***

I didn't let France win, but I couldn't stop them. My final tactic involved trying to flood the right-hand side of the pitch. It didn't really achieve anything except to fatally weaken my left. My opponent didn't even change his formation to take advantage. As far as I could tell, the guy didn't do anything except copy the substitutions of the real-life French manager. It was like I was beneath him.

The whole match had been an exercise in futility. It went against my manifesto promise of always having a plan to win.

So what had I learned? Not much, and I got zero TINOs. But I thought it was significant that I'd managed Messi one day and tried to stop his heir apparent the next.

I moped around the house in a bit of a funk. If I was going out of the MUNDIAL game, I wanted to go down in a blaze of glory, a mad cavalry charge, cutting the red wire just as the timer hit 001. Not shuffling pawns around.

So imagine my relief when England vs Senegal neared kick-off and the words flashed up in my vision:

GET READY

I was England. It's hard to communicate how much fun I had. The first half I played it pretty straight. You might say professional. I flooded the midfield and stopped Senegal from progressing the ball. Easy. We raced to a 2-0 lead and at half time I decided to spice things up a bit.

Off went some defensively-minded players and on came Grealish, Maddison, and Trent, the best attacking right-back in the world. I rubbed my hands together. This was going to be a slaughter!

While the real England team cruised to a 3-0 win, I spent the last 10 minutes doing that terror sweat that comes with having made a terrible mistake. It was 2-2 and Senegal were taking the piss. Absolutely mullering us. I was almost frozen by the horror of what I'd done, and frankly was lucky to get to full-time. I splashed some water on my face, returned to a more balanced formation with fewer attacking players, and was relieved to get an extra time winner.

No TINOs, but maybe a valuable lesson: Don't get cocky, kid.

***

When I'd calmed down, I took stock.

I'd managed four knockout matches. I'd won 3 (including one in extra time) and lost one. I'd been awarded 127 TINOs, and earned four by shouting TINO when prompted. That, by the way, was a joke that was really fucking getting on my tits.

The rule that I had to do better than the real manager was harsh. Personally, I'd have been happy to match their efforts. Maybe the curse considered my job to be easier, since I wouldn't have to face the press after, and the hopes and dreams of a nation weren't riding on my shoulders.

The TINOs were going to be useful, but they weren't my main motivation any more. The main thing was to make sure I was allowed to keep playing the game - I had the feeling it would kick me out if it felt I wasn’t trying my best. Then there was the treasure trove of lessons I was learning. When would they be useful? I wasn't sure. Maybe never. Maybe soon.

I needed a break. A complete break. I turned the big TV on and found Henri's Netflix was already logged in. He was watching episode 4 of season 2 of Emily in Paris. No wonder he was depressed. Or maybe he was just that homesick.

I turned the TV off and went to his bookcase. It was about 50% French, 49% English, and 1% German. I ran my fingers across the spines of the English ones. This was a good excuse to call him. “Hey, Henri,” I said. “You’ve got a book here called Catch-22, but you don’t have any of the earlier ones.”

“What earlier ones?”

“For example, Catch-21.”

Big pause. Stifling a smile? “I am busy watching Lars von Trier’s masterwork, Dogville. If you are looking for a book recommendation, yes, you will love Catch-22. Goodbye, Max.”

I took it out to his back garden and read until it got too cold out there. It didn’t take long to understand what Catch-22 meant.

You can’t get a football management job without experience, and without being a football manager you can’t get experience.

Great book, but nah. I would keep attacking even if it meant moving side to side for a while. Side to side - disrupt enemy lines - then strike!

I found myself prowling around the ground floor, full of anticipation. My bones told me that my time was fast approaching. Something would happen at the end of the World Cup. I knew it. And I’d be ready.

***

TINOs: 2960

Matches remaining: 12