39 - The Devil Is In the Detail [T1] (Patreon)

Dear Patrons. As you know, I also write operettas. This one is called Ted Sings to His Readers:

- Would you like a double chapter?

- No we deserve much more!

- Would you like a triple chapter?

- No we’ve seen that length before!

- Would you like a quadruple chapter?

- Wow no thanks that's far too long.

What I'm saying is, get a tea. Get some jaffa cakes. And get ready for the longest chapter of all time.

...

39.

Brad rushed over with Emma's coat and helped her into it. "I don't know what's better," he said. "The guy's entrance or his suit."

Emma pulled the coat around her and rewarded Brad with a cute smile. "Who is that guy? Is it the owner?" She'd put him in the uncomfortable situation of admitting there was something about football he didn't know.

On cue, two giant, gleaming, silver Rolls Royces purred into view, coming to a stop by the edge of the grass. A guy in a black suit got out and looked around. Then he nodded and most of the other doors opened. A bunch of guys in more casual suits got out, along with one elderly guy who seemed to be wearing cheap blue pyjamas. "That's the owner," I said.

"How can you tell?" said Emma.

I glared at the helicopter. Fucking obnoxious piece of shit. "No-one who cares about football would land on the pitch."

"The Rolls guy might not care, either. Maybe he just doesn't want to get his tyres dirty."

"That's the owner. I know because I know who the other guy is."

"Oh?" she giggled. "Can you introduce me?" When I didn't laugh, she grabbed the toggles of my hoodie and pulled one. "Can you at least find out who his tailor is?"

I was stupefied. "His tail-er?"

Emma looked at me like I'd grown horns.

I was busy staring at the chopper. Could I stick a banana in the tail pipe? When I thought that, the pilot's head snapped towards me. He, she, or it was still wearing the stupid space helmet. I think I took a couple of steps towards him; his head snapped right back to where it had started. The guy knew who I was and was scared of me. Good to know. Weird to know, but good to know.

Brad's phone pinged. "We need to hurry, Max. We've got a few minutes to talk to Summers, then we have to clear out. Something big's going down."

"We have to go in the tent, do we?" Old Nick and three minions had already gone in. Now the owner and his mob were following. I grimaced. "Of course. Of course I have to go in there."

"I mean, if you want to play for Sheffield Wednesday," said Brad, frowning. I was confounding him again. Like most people, he didn't get me. The feeling slipped off him. And that was the word I'd been looking for: slippery. It wasn't that he was two-faced or deceptive. He just didn't allow himself to get overly emotional or trapped in unwanted conversations. He slipped through. He wriggled out of them. Slippery has a negative connotation but to me, with Brad, it was positive. He was trying hard to be a positive person. "Max. They want you. I'd say they're desperate to sign you before other clubs realise there's an opportunity."

"Why not start a bidding war?" I said.

Brad shook his head. "You and Wednesday are a perfect match right now. You'd fit right into their team; they'd continue your development. We could get more elsewhere if money's the most important thing." He said it with no judgement.

"No, I agree with you. This seems like a good fit."

He smiled. "There will be numbers mentioned in there. But this is just their opening gambit. Try not to react! Do your best poker face. I'll get you a fair shake. Just listen and leave the talking to me. All right?"

"Sure, Brad. I'll go in there and not say a word." I scoffed and shook my head, knowing that I was about to step into some absolute fucking shitshow. Brad gave me another despairing look, then scampered away in that weirdly effeminate way of his.

"You're being weird," said Emma.

"I know."

"It's that guy, isn't it? I was only teasing you. He's hot but I wouldn't swap you for anyone."

I wasn't fully present. I was trying to work out why this confrontation was happening today. Was it because I'd slacked off on the MUNDIAL project? I hadn't made much effort to play the recent games. But I couldn't. Not without offending my teammates and threatening my career.

My career. That was it. Nick had been furious to discover I was a top player all of a sudden. He'd tried to stop me. This was his revenge for my defiance. This was the crisis. I realised I was grinding my teeth.

"Max, who is he?"

"He's nobody. He's a suit with connections."

"Are you in trouble?"

"No. He is."

"What's going on?"

I turned my full attention to her. Nick had obviously set this tent scenario up because I was coming to Sheffield today. But could he have known I'd invite Emma? Probably not. Or maybe he had a direct line into my head through the curse and today was the day because I'd invited Emma. That line of thinking brought up a lot of questions about free will and shit. Absolutely no interest in pondering that. Leave that to the taxi drivers. All that mattered was, would Emma be safe around Nick? Was this going to be a Spider-Man scenario where supervillains tried to get to me via my Mary Jane? What would I want if I were Mary-Jane? To be safe? Or to be given a choice?

"I'm not sure what's going on," I said, truthfully. "But it's bound to be something absurd." I sighed. "Being selfish, I want you to come so I don't make a fool of myself like I normally do. But..."

She held out her hand. "Brad said to hurry."

I took it. She pulled me towards the tent. I pulled and spun her back to face me. I leaned in, ran my fingers through her hair, gripped the back of her head, and kissed her like it was the last time.

Just in case.

***

Inside was a surreal tableau. Underneath everything I'm about to describe was, of course, an artificial football pitch with all its markings and yes, even the goal nets and corner flags still in place. But in one large square area was the stuff that had given me wedding ceremony vibes: on the prosaic side, a lectern, a large screen connected to a laptop, and a couple of rows of chairs. To the left and to the right there were two premium recliner chair things. Obviously one was for Nick and one was for the owner of the football club. Status symbols. Mini thrones.

To one side was a vast, six-star hotel buffet. Dotted around were Greek plinths, and on each was a selection of beverages. In places where there was no practical furniture, there were massive plant pots - huge-leafed things I didn't know the names of; spectacular orchids in white and blue; white and blue roses; those plants that go wooh; and even a small, decrepit tree bearing one solitary lemon.

Behind the computer screen to the left was a free-standing poster proudly displaying a brand I didn't know: GOP, which came with a logo of a mighty frog and some writing in Thai.

The same to the right was a very generic business logo that could have been from any company in any country in the world. It was also based around three letters: O.N.E. Soccer.

Flowing over the screen was a giant wedding arch thing, with blue and white flowers intertwined.

Old Nick was sipping prosecco by one of the plinths, chatting handsomely to a guy who looked Thai. The elderly man in the blue pyjamas - also Thai - was being helped into one of the recliners. Nick's minions - three short guys who seemed to be from a different country every time I looked at them - were fussing around the laptop, checking brochures, saying 'testing' into a Tony Robbins-style wraparound headset. For some reason, those little pricks wound me all the way up. The more I watched them, the more I became convinced they weren't real people. If Nick was a demon, they were imps. Sub-demons. I didn't care what the proper term was. I just wanted to pound their faces or throw holy water on them. Four more Thai guys - actual humans for sure - were milling around the halfway line taking awful shots at the distant goals, while two women were slumped into chairs looked bored to death already. Completing the scene were a dozen waiters and waitresses, plus a manager-type who was only a few uniform iterations away from looking like a Death Star officer.

"Max," said Brad in an urgent whisper. I had, naturally, strode right into the middle of the VIP area. I turned towards the sound of his voice and was surprised to see he was quite far away, standing with Summers and Emma by a shitty little plastic table. I let out an amused chuckle as I walked over there; the first thing I did was grab the table and jiggle it.

"Of course it wobbles," I said, exasperated. The contrast between this little scene and the decadence of the rich people's area was a bit on the nose. A bit overdone, TBH.

"Craig is pressed for time," said Brad.

He was making me aware that I was inadvertently being rude. "Okay," I said, facing the Sheffield Wednesday manager.

"Max," he said, smiling at me. "We've watched your clips. It's a small sample size but sometimes things are clear. Really clear! You could do a job for us, we're sure. I have to be upfront with you, though, I'm not really a fan of the showboating." Ah. The first example of my dickery coming back to haunt me.

"You're a fan of me getting someone sent off. It's not like I'm Antony."

"Who's that?" said Emma.

"Guy who plays for Man United," I said. "His big party piece is to get the ball and spin around in a perfect circle. It's absolutely hilarious and completely pointless. It's like all those zips on your jacket. They're just for people to talk about. Which, you know, has its own value. But it's not a football purist kind of value. Do you know what I mean? It doesn't bring you closer to winning. Whereas everything I do on a football pitch is part of a narrative. At worst it's mathematical. Calculating. At best, it's part of an emotional journey I take the fans on. I don't expect everyone to understand me or my process. The life of a tortured artist is hard."

Summers rubbed his neck for a while, then exploded with laughter. "Fucking hell, Max. You could talk shit for Britain. Fuck me." He laughed some more, and slowly got serious. "Brad says I don't need to sell you on the history of the club."

"Playing for a club like this is beyond my wildest dreams," I said, surprised by my own authenticity.

"Well," said Summers, trying to subdue a proud little smile. "It doesn't have to be a dream. We understand you have an... unconventional contract. Which makes things easy. It's just a question of wages."

"No," I said.

"Excuse me?"

"You have to give Darlington something."

"Something? What kind of something?"

I shrugged, and took a mental photo of Brad's appalled face to laugh at later. "I don't really care what. Just something more than nothing. How much is a team bus? I don't know. 50,000 pounds would go a long way down there."

Summers smiled. "I think we can stretch to that, Max."

"I'm sure such a trivial amount won't affect Max's wages," said Brad, who tried to take control of the haggling.

Summers looked at his watch. He had somewhere to be. "Three thousand."

Emma spluttered. "Three thousand a month? To kick a ball around?"

Brad loved that. It gave him the chance to say, "Three thousand a week." Emma's jaw dropped. I frowned. Hadn't I discussed Henri's salary in front of her? "Of course," Brad added, "that's actually not very much for a player of Max's talents."

"It isn't?" said Summers, grinning hugely.

"Inflation. The cost of living crisis. Energy bills. Three thousand would barely heat Max's bedroom." Like my hypothetical property, Brad was just getting warmed up. It was clear he lived for these negotiations.

"Guys," I said. "Don't waste too much energy on the discussion. I'd like to know my worth, but it might soon be moot."

"Moot?" said Brad.

"Yeah. Moot." I was being called to the VIP area. By my own personal demons, maybe. Think what you want.

Emma snapped to attention. "Max! What are you thinking?"

"Emma," I said. "That's my secret." I winked at her. "I never think."

It was an epic line.

World class posturing.

I left a dramatic pause.

There was absolutely no reaction of any kind. I was flabbergasted.

"None of you have seen The Avengers? It's literally the number one movie of all time. What is happening?" I sighed. "I'm just going over there for a minute. See if that guy is who I think he is. No big deal."

***

I sauntered over to the nearest plinth and picked up a prosecco. I smelled it, then took a massive swig. It hit nice. Real nice. I took the rest and a spare with me over to the laptop. The minions tried to intercept me.

"Aggression 20," I said, eyes red and fiery, teeth gnashing. They chirped like fucking mad birds, then scattered to the winds. Their powerpoint was on the laptop but not being transmitted onto the big screen just yet. I quickly flicked through the 25 slides, then went back and started again, this time slightly slower. When I finished, I looked over at Nick. He made eye contact with me for the first time. He smiled.

"It's time," he said, and the VIPs made their way to their seats. One of the four guys who'd been taking shots dribbled a ball to the VIP zone and threatened to blast it at one woman's face. His wife? His sister? He laughed as she flinched, then reacted to my glare with surprise and hostility; I found myself clenching my fists.

Slippery, Max. Be slippery.

It was one thing fighting Old Nick in whatever format this would take, but outright rage and actual physical violence was not going to help me achieve any of my goals. Also, Emma was watching.

Instead of pounding the guy to death, I collected the ball and made little circles with it under my right foot. Having something physical to do was calming.

The prick was the last to take his seat, at which point all the lights in the place dimmed, and new ones came on. Spotlights. Half pointed at me. Half at Nick. At least one light stayed on Nick at all times, which based on the lighting setup I'd seen was literally impossible. As the scene unfolded, I sensed Emma, Brad, and Summers edge closer to the VIP section. "Ladies and Gentlemen," Nick said. "Distinguished members of the Gop family. ONE Soccer thanks you in the warmest possible terms for your tremendous hospitality." He gave a tiny bow. "Before we begin, let me introduce an old friend. You might say, an old sparring partner. Something of a prodigy." I wasn't sure if he said prodigy or protégé. Either would fit, I supposed, but I would have liked to know. "Introducing Max Best." We were there, standing before the wedding arch, like bride and groom. "Don't tell anyone I said this," he said in a stage whisper, "but you're looking at the future of football."

He was delighted by this line. And quite right, too. Everyone thought he was complimenting me. I decided to piss in his boots. "Am I?" I said, staring at him.

There was the tiniest moment of volcanic anger. Blink and you'd miss it. He composed himself. "Max Best. Football manager extraordinaire. How is your career in football management going, Max?"

I raised one eyebrow. "Well, I'm more of a player these days," I said, flicking the football up and doing some simple kick ups. The Thai guys - brothers, I supposed - immediately became more interested, so I started bouncing the ball on my head. Like a genius. Like a performing seal. I'll let you choose. "By the way, I'm guessing you don't go by the same name anymore. What should I call you this time?"

His eyes were bouncing up and down, waiting for the ball to fall. His face contorted when he realised the ball would not fall. He tried to let the expression slip off his face, but was only partly successful.

"Max! You've always called me Nick..." he added, so quiet only I could hear, "or some variant." Louder again. "Nick will do for an old friend. But as you know, amongst this circle I'm known as Zakan Nicolini." Za-kan, as in, za-can you believe it? "COULD YOU," he started, then laughed. "Could you please stop bouncing the ball?"

"Oh, sure." I headed the ball slightly sideways, then turned and wellied it towards one of the goals. The ball whizzed sixty yards and bounced up into the roof of the net. I glanced around - sure, it was dark over there, but everyone had seen it. The Thai guys, even the prick, were smitten. I smirked. "I forgot you're not interested in football, Nick."

His eyes flickered towards the Gops. That was a very definite point to me, even though I didn't know what the game was. He stepped to the left of me and put his right arm around my shoulders. He smelled of lemons. "I'm surprised, though, Max. You were always much more interested in becoming a football manager."

"My management career is on hold," I said. "As you know, I need to build a reputation in order to get a job. Hence my becoming a player."

He grinned. His teeth were huge. "Max! Why make things so complicated? All you need do is apply for a job. Who would turn you down?" His words sent shivers down my spine. Was he fucking with me? It didn't sound like it. It sounded like the truth. I'd gone so far around the houses in my quest to become a manager I'd forgotten to try the single most simple thing. Seeing that his words had hit home, Nick continued. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm about to deliver a very important presentation." He tried to ease me away.

"Oh," I said, not budging. "I've got a better idea. Why don't we do it together?"

"Together?"

"Yes," I said. "You told me I needed to work on my public speaking skills. Remember?" He could hardly say no, so I pressed on. "And I did a very good sermon in that church you go to. You weren't there that day, more's the pity. I was rather hoping to impress you. I'm not very good at public speaking," I said, in the vague direction of the Thai group. "But I'm succinct. I'll whizz through this presentation - there's only one slide that's important, anyway. And Nick can fill in the gaps."

"You are not familiar with the material," said one of the imps, in heavily accented English that modulated every time I heard it.

"Wait," said Nick, his smile enormous. And dangerous. "This could be quite entertaining. Go ahead, Max. Let's do it your way." He took a couple of steps away and folded his arms. While I talked, he looked from me to the Thais.

I looked at the Thai contingent. "You guys are the owners?" Some nods. "Do I need to simplify my English or does everyone understand everything?"

"We understand everything except who you are and why you're talking," said the one I'd taken a dislike to. Probably the oldest son. If I had to create a backstory for him, I'd say he was the guy who started all the aggro in his neighbourhood knowing that he had two bodyguards within shouting distance at all times.

Slippery, Max.

I pointed at the nearest imp. "Would you please send the signal from the laptop to the screen?"

He didn't want to move closer to me. "Press F12," he said.

I did; it worked. "Thanks, bro. Help yourself to some piri piri chicken." The guy nodded happily, and started towards the buffet. A glance from Nick made him sit back down. We started on slide 1. "Generic crap." I pressed the right arrow. "Crap. Crap." On the third crap, Nick let out a big laugh. Slide 4 came up. I looked at the Thai guys. "This should be the most obvious slide, but it's not. These twats are trying to buy Sheffield Wednesday. Is that right?"

Nick answered. "We're humble facilitators, Max. We match buyers and sellers. And the Gop family want to retain a significant holding. They love this club." He smiled in a way that set all my nerves jangling. "And so do we."

"Amazing," I said. "Since you don't know the first thing about football." The imps bristled, but once again a stern look was enough to quell them. "In fact, I'd say I've forgotten more about football than you know. Does that sound about right, Nick?"

He put his hands behind his back and took a kind of military stance. I wondered if he knew he was doing it. "I might have conceded the point, Max, until recently. But you know, since I watched you play that time I've become passionate about the sport. You might say you inflamed me."

So there it was. He was blaming me for his sloppiness. "You're welcome. But I must confess, this presentation is impressive." I laughed. "Wickedly impressive. You've learned a lot in a short time."

He grinned. "I didn't come up with this proposal. This is the brainchild of someone very much like yourself."

Oh-kay. That felt like confirmation that there were more people who'd been cursed with the Champion Manager interface. No bueno. I let it slip off me. Problem for another day. "It's strange, though. I heard the owners wanted to improve the facilities. I got the impression they were good owners. Committed. Long-term." I scratched my head. "It must be a fucking good proposal to make them want to give up control. So let's continue." I clicked through the next couple of slides. "Lies. Bullshit. This whole slide is pure fluff. The writer is clearly paid by the slide."

"It's thematic, Max," said Nick. "It pays off later."

I made a scoffing noise. With one more key press, I was looking at the Rosetta Stone to understanding this mystery. A diagram showing a connection between several football clubs. At the top of the page was the heading 'Multi-Club Model'. In pride of place just underneath that was a big stadium. Below it, joined by a dotted line, was a medium-sized stadium. And below that were five tiny baby stadiums. It was all very cute. Very Goldilocks. "Slide 7. You might call it an organisation chart. We'll come back to this. I wonder how long Nick would have spent on it. Probably not long because it's the key to the whole scam. Slide 8, guff. 9, bullshit. 10, lies. It goes on like this till the end. How am I doing so far, Nick?"

"Not well. But you're right about being succinct." That line got a laugh. Fair enough.

"All right, let's zoom out a little bit." I clumsily made my way through the tables and wires to the big screen and pushed the off button. I clicked my head left and right like in a kung fu movie. I was getting riled up by the contents of slide 7. That was no good. Visible anger wasn't the right vibe, here. Slip, slip, slip, slip awaaay.

I moved back onto the 'stage' and spent a little bit of time squeezing a flap of neck skin between my thumb and my index finger. Thinking about the right tone. The right words. They came no closer. My mind was empty. All I had was what was in my heart.

I cleared my throat.

"I'm from Manchester. I've never even been to Sheffield before. When I think about Sheffield Wednesday I only have romantic thoughts. There, Emma, I confess. I'm romantic; you got me." Some of the audience turned to see who I was talking to. "Sheffield Wednesday, though. Jesus Christ, it's ancient. What does it say on the stadium roof? 1867, isn't it? How many things are that old and still thriving? It's impossible to imagine all the fans who've been through those turnstiles. It's almost impossible to think of all the players. Nick told you one true thing, at least. I would like to be a manager. How many managers have there been since 1867? I can just imagine them in a line, with their changing fashions, their hats, their moustaches. They'd look at me with my hoodie and my trainers and my liberal philosophies and think I was the weirdest man they'd ever seen. Probably half would complain about the very label 'man'! But one chat about football and all that would evaporate. We'd disagree on the specifics. Which formation, how attacking, how many matches can you play in a week, how many bags of crisps before a match is too many? Yeah, we'd disagree. But we'd disagree over a pint. As friends. Because at heart, we'd all be on the same page. We'd all see football the same way, I'm sure of it."

I strolled up and down while I considered the next bit.

"What I mean is, the essentials. The fundamentals. Some philosophical things, maybe. Like: you've got to try to win but there's more important things than winning. So what's more important than winning? The health of the sport. If you love football, then football's more important than your club.

"What is football? In England, it's the pyramid. These pricks, these consultants, these investors, these fucking, what are they called? Hedge funds. You say the word pyramid and people like that think of the ancient times. Cities buried under dust. But English football is vibrant. It's bouncing. It's in a state of constant renewal." I went and touched one of the orchids. "This pyramid, our pyramid, is green and alive. The strong rise to the top and the weak are cast aside. And when a club wastes its resources, its nutrients, it withers, and when it's been fallow for long enough, the sun shines on it once more and it comes roaring back to life. Sheffield Wednesday has had a bad time, and now it's in rude health again. I love to see it. Storing energy in its roots, husbanding its water, ready to fucking bloom, mate."

I directed this last comment at Nick, who was regarding me with a princely smile. He was pressing his fingertips together. "I think we've gone far enough off topic, Max. How about you go back to Sunderland and let us continue with our day?"

He came at me.

I pointed to his throne. "How about you sit down and listen to what I have to say, mate?" He reacted like he'd walked into an invisible wall. His nostrils flared. "By the way," I added. "And this is really off-topic, where's your bicycle?"

That absolutely floored him. He stared at me, almost blankly, but there was just the tiniest movement in the direction of the tent entrance.

Ah! The helicopter. He hadn't just chained his bike up at some train station and hopped into his chopper. He'd upgraded! I had a sudden burst of insight - when I used the curse, when I gained XP, when I acquired TINOs, Nick was growing stronger to an equal degree. Symbiotic. I needed him if I wanted to get to the top. But he needed me, too. Without me, he was little better than an imp.

He'd done well to bestow his gift on me. I would grind. I'd stand in the cold and the rain in dogged pursuit of progression. I could survive with less human contact than most, even going as far as to ask the sexiest woman alive to take second place to Holland vs the USA.

But his choice was fraught with danger. I don't mean him accidentally turning me into a good player. I mean the fact that I was exactly the type of person who would cut off my nose to spite my face.

I must have started grinning like a maniac or something because Nick became visibly less confident. I went into my screens and hovered my attention above the Retire button.

Would I really click it? Presumably, I'd revert to being average at all aspects of football. But I'd still have Emma. For a while. She wouldn't understand why I suddenly quit, so that was a risk. I just needed to throw myself into some new hobby. Announce my intention to become a World Champion bonsai tree sculptor. Or maybe I'd focus on disabled football! The pay was shit but I'd be above average as a manager in that world. I'd already proven that without the curse helping! Emma was going to be a hotshot lawyer, right? She could be the breadwinner while I turned strikers into defenders and defenders into flying wingers and all that.

Yes. I could do it. I could trigger the bomb and survive.

I didn't want to hit retire. But it'd hurt Nick a lot more than it'd hurt me. I'd do it if I had to.

My grin widened. I must have looked like Joker - the cartoon version. "I had a long trip," said Nick. "Maybe I will sit down after all. Thanks for suggesting it, Max."

Slippery Nick.

I could be slippery, too. I went all the way from burn-it-all-down to diligent youth in half a heartbeat. "You're very welcome, Mister Nicolini. Please do look after yourself. If anything happened to you, I'd be devastated."

He grimaced and looked away.

"Where was I?" I said. "Ah, yes. The pyramid. A team on an upward trajectory. Two teams, in fact. Yes, it's exciting times in Sheffield.

"Sheffield," I said, looking around as though I could see through the thick walls of whatever the tent was made from onto the streets around us. "Sheffield. Everyone knows Wednesday, and United have been in the Premier League recently, and should be again soon. But there's also Sheffield FC. The oldest club in the world! The actual oldest! No-one says football was born in Sheffield. That honour probably goes to Manchester. I'll have to check that. But holy shit! What have we got here? Three of the five oldest football teams? Three of the ten? It's historic! Football is woven into the threads of this city like a tapestry. Hundreds of years of success and failure, carved into the buildings, subsumed into the music. Go find an old cobbled street and you'll find two tracks - one that looks like a cross country skiing competition, straight and true from fans shuffling their feet after a disappointing FA Cup exit. Another where the worn patches are a yard apart because the local team won on Saturday and everyone hopped home.

"Now," I said, turning the screen back on. "Slide 7 of this proposal. Oh, boy. Let's take a good, hard look at this. On the top here, you have a football club. Below it, you have another club. Below that one, you have five, six, seven feeder clubs." I peered closer at some text I hadn't quite seen before. I seethed even harder. "It doesn't matter which club is yours, because this model kills everyone. But let's start from the bottom. This feeder here, Waffle FC, is in Belgium. They play in the Belgian league, division 2 or whatever, and recruit in their local area. They also get sent players from the... what do we call this? Multi-club HQ? They get sent players from the mothership. Then every year, Waffle FC send five players here." I moved my hand from the third level to the second. "Let's call this club, oh, I don't know, Sheffield Wednesday. But actually, that's a bit unwieldy. We're talking about the future of football, here, aren't we Nick? It isn't very 2045, if you know what I mean. So let's streamline it to Wednesday. Change the badge from an owl to a big W."

"Wednesday also get sent five players from a club in..." I leaned forward - the font was very faint - and couldn't believe my eyes. "Nigeria." I tried to glance at Emma, but with the spotlights I only saw her silhouette. Belgium. Nigeria. Those were exactly what I'd said in the car on the way here! Was Brad part of this? "Five players from here, from there, from there. Great. These guys play reserve matches. They do well. They play first team matches. And the best ones get moved up to the top club. The only one that actually matters. The first level. Manchester City. Chelsea. Paris. Choose a city, choose a colour, they'll all be the same."

"It could be Sheffield at the top," said Nick, with an unattractive amount of petulance. He turned to the old man. "If they act fast."

I shook my head. "It's better to be at the top, but it's still shit. I don't see Wednesday making up the ground in time. No, they'll definitely end up in the middle." I picked up my prosecco and flung the rest down my throat. "You know what's been going through my head ever since I saw this slide? Sausage factory." I shook my head. "But this isn't a sausage factory. It's not even that dignified. This turns Sheffield Wednesday, formed 1867, into a sausage assembly plant. The meat comes from this club." I slapped one of the low-level clubs. "The outside thing. The sausage condom thing. What is it? Gelatin? The gelatin comes from here." I slapped another one. "The packaging comes from here. They all get sent to Sheffield. Some coaches here put the whole thing together and call it a football player. The ones that smell the best get sent to Man City. The manager of City looks at them and cooks one in fifty on his grill. The rest, the other 49, get binned.

"It's like I said. It's a sausage assembly plant. A misery factory. 49 out of 50 human beings binned before they ever even play a meaningful game of football."

"Max!" said Nick, with heat. "That's a step too far. Stop heading down this fantastical path." He stood and paced around. "We've had our differences, but you're one of the most talented young men I've ever met. Look at this slide. Really look at it! Any one of these clubs would be perfect for someone with your skills. A Director of Football." He pointed at the dotted lines, which I knew represented the flow of players. "Talent ID. Checking the coaches are improving the players. Monitoring the managers. Once you've got things rolling, you could even manage one of the teams yourself. I know you'd like that."

"How much?"

That threw him. "Excuse me?"

"If you're offering me a job, what's the salary?"

"This isn't the forum for such a discussion, Max," he said, all smiles again. He nodded towards Summers and Brad. "But take what they're offering and double it."

"They're already going to double it."

His smile doubled. "Then double that!"

That would be something like half a million a year. To do what? Scout players and manage a team? Almost my dream job. Almost.

"I'll think about it," I said. "I'll get my people to call your people. I have to say I'm not all that inclined to accept. You see, the most fun I've had recently was managing a disabled team. And after that it's probably managing 7 talented kids against 11 average ones. Fair contests. Meaningful matches. Oh, not meaningful in a global sense. But absolutely the most important hour of those kids' weeks. There were stakes. For them, and because of that, for me.

"And that's the problem with this model. Problem for me. A wonderful dream for rich morons who buy a team and only then find out about this thing called the pyramid. Let me walk you through it. In this model, in this brave new world, Sheffield We - sorry, Wednesday - are owned by Manchester City. So they can't play in the same division. That would be ludicrous, even for these guys. Look at Nick here. You think he could own two teams in the same league? You think he'd hesitate before ordering one team to lose to the other? No way. Be serious! So even in this dystopian nightmare where City own Wednesday and United own United and Chelsea own fucking Birmingham, the owned and the ownees wouldn't be allowed in the same league. But guess what? The top 20 teams own the next best 20. So say goodbye to promotion and relegation! Say goodbye to the pyramid! To the very concept of competition! And if you think that's not important, then fuck you. You shouldn't be in this room."

I'd gone very very slightly feral and forced myself to calm down. Slippery! Emma watching! I told myself to count to ten and got to, I don't know, three?

"So Wednesday now exist to collect players from down here and train them a bit before delivering them to their new masters up here. Every year, 49 out of 50 don't make it. Don't progress. It takes years, but eventually in this part of Belgium and this part of Nigeria, Sheffield becomes synonymous with heartbreak and misery.

"And of the first 10 players who are deemed good enough, who do make it to the top, still only one gets to play. So 90% of the good players are chewed up and spat out. No, that doesn't fit my metaphor. They aren't even chewed. They're just binned. Misery, misery, misery. This chart, this process, almost seems designed to inflict misery, doesn't it? Why would someone do that? Good question."

I won a brief staring contest with Nick.

"Now I want everyone here to take a look at this organisation chart and tell me which word is missing. Go on. Shout out. There's a word missing from this chart. I'll give you a clue. I've said it about 50 times."

I waited. The Thai guys leaned closer and tried to puzzle it out. The imps looked around, nervously. Nick had been amused by this interlude at first, but was growing increasingly angry. He was smouldering, now. I wondered if Emma thought it was hot.

Finally, someone called out. "Sheffield!"

I shielded my eyes and saw that it was one of the waiters.

"That's right, mate. Sheffield." I let that word echo. As I'd been ranting, I'd started to realise who my true audience was. It should have been obvious, but it's easy in hindsight and when everything's laid out for you. I moved closer to the old man in the blue pyjamas. "Sheffield," I said, wistfully. "It's not on there. For 150 years, getting on for 200, there has been a pathway from the streets outside this building to these pitches here. From Leppings Lane and... look, I don't know the names of the areas. But from all these places, these estates, these blocks of flats, there's always been the dream of playing for Wednesday. Dads taking their kids to the games, you've seen it! The kids dream of running out onto the pitch wearing the kit, making their dads proud. The dads dream of their kids playing. You don't own a football club. You own a dream factory. It's an endless loop, and all it takes is one talented little shit every few years to make it into the blue and white. You've heard them when some local kid runs onto the pitch as an 88th minute sub. They fucking love it."

I moved away and slapped my hand onto the screen.

"Turns out the endless loop has an end! What excuse would you give if anyone noticed, Nick? Not cost effective to train local kids? Cheaper to ship randos in from Belgium? The truth is, Mr Gop, he's only interested in misery. He has zero interest in football. The idea of severing the link between a hundred thousand people and the one thing they have in common, that excites him. That's catnip to him. And anyway, what would it matter if the team was made of local kids or international talents? The league will basically be a series of pre-season friendlies. No promotion. No relegation. No stakes. No drama. No excitement. You're getting 25, 30,000 a match now because what you're doing means something. It has value. It's exciting. Even when it isn't exciting, it's real. It's honest." I tapped the screen. "This isn't football. This isn't sport. This is a hedge fund manager's wet dream. Extract the most blood even as you kill the patient.

"So..." I said, rubbing my chin. "What do you do? You take the money, obviously. Why listen to some arrogant no-mark from Manchester when the other guy's so slick? But I looked you up. You're loaded. What difference is a bit more cash? The whole point of owning a club is to be part of something magical and mystical and honest and real. That's why you bought this club, right?

"I'm nearly at the end now. So let's be completely clear about something. Twenty years from now, when Wednesday home matches are watched by 2,000 people, and a group of former fans gets together and one of them asks, 'hey, why did you stop going?', not a single one of them will point the blame at you, Mister Gop. They'll all think you were a good owner. They'll blame whoever these pricks have lined up to replace you. I think it's very important that you know that not a single Sheffield Wednesday fan will put two and two together. This meeting's here instead of at the stadium to keep it secret, right? So don't worry about your name. Don't worry about your legacy." I moved close to the old guy. He returned my eye contact stronger than anyone I'd met since I got cursed. Our staring contest was epic. Sizzling. "But I'll know," I said. I jabbed my finger towards his nose. "And you'll know."

I stood back up and the lights went on. Nick glanced around, irritated. That hadn't been part of his plan.

"And you, you prick," I said, taking a few steps towards him. "You've learned enough about football to be dangerous. Hats off to you. You've proven you aren't as lazy and incompetent as you seem." I spread my arms wide. "But you still know fuck all! Yeah, you could take this model and piss people off. Make hundreds of thousands of people unhappy. But you don't get it. It won't be that long, 20, 25 years, and this multi-club abomination will fold. No-one wants this. No fans, no club. And at some point, sooner than you think, there'll be a phoenix club. Sheffield Thursday. Fan owned. They'll start with 200 members. One by one, the faithful will leave Hillsborough and go and see what all the fuss is about. They'll hear their songs sung with gusto. They'll see people like them roaring on players like them. They'll think, hey, my son could play here. And that'll be that. You'll be fucked. Your creation will implode, and one day the fans will get the rights to the name and the badge. Wednesday will be reborn, an owl on the chest, fan-owned, safe from the likes of you forever, with the main word back in place: Sheffield."

I thought about giving him a double middle finger, but decided he wasn't worth it. I was about to leave when there was a burst of applause. It took me a second to locate its source, because like the rich twats I'd almost totally ignored the workers. But they were the only people from Sheffield who were present, and six or seven of them were clapping. I raised my fist in solidarity, gave Nick one final fuck-you glare, then strode towards the exit.