41 - The Karma Before the Storm [T1] (Patreon)

41.

Revenge Fantasy Minus 8 Days

Henri: Are you still on the bus from Gloucester?

Me: Yeah. Still like 3 hours left. Did everyone you invited turn up?

Henri: Yes! And more! And early! Chester's match was snowed off. Yours is one of the only ones that took place in the whole country. I am trying not to take it personally.

Me: You know I'd be there if I could. England v France. Holy shit. What's the vibe?

Henri: There's a big buzz. I am the centre of attention. I am very happy.

Me: You shouldn't use your phone in a cinema.

Henri: Everyone is. It's Henri's rules today. I booked the screen. I can do what I want. At half-time I'm going to make everyone stay in their seats while I read aloud an inspiring work of narrative fiction.

Me: This is the bit where I'm supposed to ask to what you are referring?

Henri: The match report detailing your latest exploits has arrived. I get anything Bingo writes sent to my inbox; I'm still a subscriber. I will send the link. Oh and Max? Try not to be too smug.

***

From The Northern Echo, dated Saturday 10th December

Gloucester 2 Darlington 6: Best Shows Snow Mercy to Toothless Tigers

Darlington bounced back to the top of the table as Max Best was once again the star of the show in near-blizzard conditions. He scored four goals, including one straight from a corner, as Quakers beat Gloucester City 6-2.

The crushing win was even more comfortable than the scoreline suggested, and Darlington moved level on points with King's Lynn, whose match was postponed.

The 150 traveling fans, who set out despite the dire forecasts and England's World Cup quarter-final, were in good voice from the start and were rewarded with one of the finest team performances of the season.

"That was fantastic," said manager David Cutter, who watched from the stands as he served the second of his three-match suspension. "We had a tough match in midweek and didn't have a lot of recovery time. To do the double over Gloucester - no pun intended - is very satisfying because they're one of the best teams in the division. I have to say the lads done me proud today with their workrate and togetherness."

Blah blah blah. Then the bit about me:

Best set the stage for the rout after an early snow break. He played like a man who wanted the game to be won by half-time so he could slip into an early bath. His first goal came from a defensive mistake - Best latched onto a stray pass and thrashed the ball into the net with seemingly no backlift. His second was very similar, as Gloucester continued to try to play nice football from the defence to the midfield. Best seemed to know exactly where every pass would go, and was more than happy to punish any sloppiness. His third was scored direct from a corner in the 33rd minute, while his fourth involved tackling a defender, rounding the goalkeeper, retaining his balance and somehow slotting home from the tightest of angles.

Quakers will be keen to tie the 22-year-old to a long-term contract, but with rumours swirling of interest from big clubs, it would seem an uphill task.

***

Henri: I said not to be smug. I could hear you grinning from 200 miles away. Are you still doing your online course?

Me: Yes. I couldn't put much effort into Portugal vs Morocco because I was playing. I stuck Portugal in 4-4-2 and let them get on with it. Did the trick.

Henri: Max is using 4-4-2! Is this his blue period? Or is this maturity? Now pay attention. This is vital. Vital. You are currently pitting your wits against France, yes? Since you can't come to my soirée, I insist you allow us to win.

Me: No.

Henri: You know, it's strange. I tried to find such a course as the one you describe. It doesn't seem to exist. Isn't that strange, Max?

Me: Entertain your guests, bro. Don't celebrate too hard if you win. You promised me you'd go and check on Benny tomorrow.

Henri: I remember, Max. Do not distress yourself.

***

Ziggy: I can't stand this. France are going to win, aren't they?

Me: Yes.

Ziggy: Why though? We're just as good. It should be even. Why doesn't it feel even?

Me: We've fallen into France's trap. We should go on the front foot. Attack down their left.

Ziggy: But that's where Mbappe is!!

Me: Yeah. Their strength is their weakness. He doesn't defend. Fucking shove every attack down that side. Saka, Grealish, Bellingham. All the dribblers. Run at the left-back non-stop. See what happens.

Ziggy: I wish you were in charge.

Me: No you don't. I'd go fucking mental. We'd lose big time. I don't know what to do about Mbappe. He terrifies me.

Ziggy: We'd go down punching though. This cautious shit is doing my head in.

***

Henri: Commiserations, Max. I hope you won in your game.

Me: I... did not. I still have a lot to learn. Congratulations, bro. France are in another World Cup final. You going to rent out the cinema again?

Henri: I don't think I'd be able to fill it.

Me: Book it! I'll be there! We can bring all the Broughton kids. They'll love it.

Henri: I'll think about it.

***

Revenge Fantasy Minus 7 Days (Sunday, 11th December)

Kisi: Max have you seen the video?

Me: No.

Kisi: Do you want me to send it?

Me: Kisi I am very busy and important. I don't know if you realise this but I am kind of a big deal now. I don't have time to type out my thoughts and feelings at length. From now on, please keep messages to five words or less.

Kisi: Click link it good.

I obeyed and a TikTok popped up. It was the Darlo fans at the Gloucester match debuting their new song. Imagine 150 men of all ages bouncing around, waving their arms, singing to the tune of It's Magic by Scottish pop-rock stars Pilot.

If you don't know it, the original lyrics go like this:

Oh oh oh it's magic
You know
Never believe it's not so.

And the Darlo lot were singing:

Oh oh oh it’s Max Best
You know!
You'd never believe it’s Darlo!!

Me: Thanks! Have you got your own chant yet?

Kisi: No! We don't play in front of fans.

Me: You will. And you will.

Kisi: How does it feel to have your own song?

Me: Totes normal. No biggie.

Kisi: You're lying right?

Me: Yeah. It's top.

***

Revenge Fantasy Minus 6 Days (Monday, 12th December)

Nice One: Hi Max. This is Nice One. The kids loved the coach you found. I know you want to check him for yourself but he's good. Thumbs up from us and I think Henri approved too. One small thing from the match that I thought you might want to see. Attaching a video.

Me: There's no video.

Nice One: Oh oh right. Hang on. There.

Me: Still nothing.

Nice One: bennywhynobennywhy.mp4

It was a short clip. Broughton were playing some other team in their league. Nice One was zoomed in on his son, naturally, so I didn't get to see the formation or who else was in the lineup.

Benny seemed to be playing as a wide forward on the right, and he did a little move to dribble past the defender. He took the ball forward, did a skill to turn around, and went back at the defender again. He tricked his way past him and laughed, loud.

Oh, shit.

Oh shit oh shit oh shit.

Me: I'll talk to him.

***

Revenge Fantasy Minus 5 Days (Tuesday, 13th)

Emma: You didn't do your course because you were playing, right?

Me: No, I did both.

Emma: Oh. How? Were you Messi or the other one?

Me: I was Argentina again, but I only won 1-0. The real guys scored 3.

Emma: Oh no. So it's been the same rules since I was at your place?

Me: They make small changes every round. In the quarters I could choose victory conditions. Like option 1: Do better than the real manager with no restrictions. Option 2: get through to the next round, but you can only make one substitution.

Emma: Complicated.

Me: Yeah. And for the semis I didn't have to use the starting lineup the real manager used. I could pick anyone from the whole squad.

Emma: That's good. I wonder what the change will be for the final?

Me: They'll probably put me in a VR booth and make me stand on the touchline for 90 minutes waving at the players.

Emma: That'd be humiliating.

Me: Why.

Emma: You don't speak Spanish.

Me: Even I can learn how to shout 'pass to Messi.'

***

Shona: Raffi made his debut! 85th minute sub! 5 completed passes and a yellow card!

Me: Oh fuck! I didn't expect that so soon. Wow. Wow. Wowowow. All I can say is wow. And wowowow. A Chester legend is born! Was his dad there?

Shona: No. Too cold for him. He's already talking about getting a transfer down south. Somewhere warm.

Me: Lol. Tell Raffi I'm made up for him. Hope to see you both on Sunday!

Shona: We're not going to your revenge fantasy, Max. Raffi has been told to keep his head down.

Me: By whom?

Shona: By his wife.

Me: Oh. Okay. But tell him I'll be using a thrilling, all-action 4-3-3 formation.

Shona: Sure, Max. I'll do that. (Eye roll emoji.)

***

Revenge Fantasy Minus 4 Days (Wednesday, 14th December)

Ziggy: Am I allowed to bet on football?

Me: No.

Ziggy: Everyone at FC United is convinced Morocco will beat France. Everyone! I want to put twenty quid on.

Me: You're allowed to bet on that one. Don't bet on club matches or which manager will be sacked or things like that.

Ziggy: K. Got you a treat. Say when.

Me: When.

He sent me a link to a video from the official FC United YouTube page. It was entitled: FCUM Take the Max Best Challenge.

It started with Jackie holding a phone in selfie pose with some men running around behind him.

"Y'all right? Jackie Reaper here taking training with FC United. Matches keep getting postponed so I'm on the 3G pitch trying to think of ways to keep the lads engaged. I've split the group into two. First eleven's been drilling with me, doing the Max Best Challenge. If you don't know who that is, don't worry: you will. Challenge is to drag the other team to one side of the pitch, switch the play, switch the play back again, and exploit the space. The other group is off over there practising 4-3-3. They don't know they're about to be famous." Jackie grinned, happily. "Famous last words. This could blow up in my face! Ah, sack it; I'm gonna post this whatever happens. It's not a challenge if it's easy."

There was a messy transition where we saw Jackie reach to end the recording, then we were watching mid-match from an elevated position.

Jackie turned the camera around to face himself, his breath visible, then pointed the lens at the pitch. "We've kicked off. See the shapes? It's just like Holland v USA in the World Cup. My lot are Holland. God I hope this works. It's bloody freezing up here! I can't feel my b - "

That snippet cut out, and then we were watching the training match again. The orange bibs had the ball and were passing left and right. They were spread out across the whole width of the pitch. The black bibs were way more narrow. They were shuffling and sliding all over, keeping their structure pretty easily.

Then there was a little period where the oranges zipped the ball around on the right-hand side - two sets of neat little triangles that drew their opponents into challenges and failed attempts to intercept. The oranges passed into midfield, and suddenly the game was wide open. One more pass to the left and the black bibs were sprinting back to try to recover their shape. The winger ran forward, looked up, and pulled the ball square.

It came to a striker, and he took a touch and rolled it even further to the right. The right-winger who had started the move controlled the ball and passed it into the goal.

It was almost a mirror-image of the first Dutch goal in the game I'd watched!

"Get in!" yelled Jackie. After a couple of seconds, he started laughing. "Yes!" Selfie mode. "There you go, Maxy boy!" He laughed some more. He was flushed with pride. He leaned back and scratched his head vigorously. "Ah, yes. Come on. Come on. That was mint. Good lads. Good lads."

***

Revenge Fantasy Minus 3 Days

From The Northern Echo, dated Thursday December 15th

WORLD EXCLUSIVE: INTERVIEW WITH MYSTERY WINGER MAX BEST

by Bingo Williams

Nothing is conventional in the world of Max Best, Manchester's smoothest export since Boddingtons. After weeks of me pleading for an interview, he suddenly appears in the offices of the Echo, where his swagger and good looks cause quite a stir. He announces he'll consent to an interview under a set of conditions so specific that any hot-blooded reporter would immediately refuse. Yet I find myself agreeing and looking forward to the event more than any Christmas of my youth.

For once, I am the envy of everyone in the office. I preen for days.

The time is set for Wednesday, just after lunch. The venue, adding to the strangeness, is not Blackwell Meadows, nor is it Darlington FC's training centre, nor is it a coffee shop. I have been instructed to meet Best in room 216 at Darlington College. Turning up on time, I am astonished to find the classroom has been emptied save for three desks - one alone under the blackboard, where I am instructed to sit. Two more are on the far side of the room. The layout is strangely confrontational, or perhaps it feels so because 10 sullen youths are glaring at me.

This turns out to be a Media Studies class consisting entirely of young players from the Darlington FC Academy. Players, it seems, that Max Best has taken under his wing. Once he enters, the mood transforms. The young men come alive. It might be an exaggeration to say they hang on his every word, but then again, it might not.

"Bingo," says Best, who luxuriates in the mouthfeel of my name. "Have you met the kids?"

"Uh, no," I stammer. If his intention is to put me on the back foot, it is working.

But it seems nothing of the sort was on his mind. Quite the opposite, in fact. He lambasts the students for not taking the opportunity to do some networking, reminding them that as footballers they need to use the media before it uses them. He finishes with the moving (for me) observation that I go to every match, home and away, and write clear and mostly accurate match reports in all kinds of weather - a wonderful and vital service for those who can't make the game. He finishes by proclaiming that I deserve to be considered an S-tier fan and treated as such. I don't know what this means and I'm too afraid to ask. But it seems to be positive - the young men are looking at me in a new way.

"Here's their teacher," says Best. "Miss Fox. That's F-O-X."

"Actually, it's Faulkes," she says. “Mr Pest does like his little jokes.”

"What, ah, what are we doing, Max?" I dare to ask.

"Interview." He glances at his phone. "I've got to get to my friend Longstaff's shop soon. I owe him money. I buy all my football equipment there. And most of my clothes. See this hoodie? Looks good on me, yes? Say yes."

"Yes."

"That's right. Guess how much it cost?"

"A hundred pounds," I say.

He makes a buzzer noise. "No! It was 19 pounds. Can you believe that? It'd be 50 in Manchester. A hundred in London." He pulls a face. "Leave that in. That's good colour. All right. First question."

"Well," I say, startled. I am sitting down behind a desk and everyone else is standing around, waiting. "You beat Southport 2-0 on Tuesday. How do you feel about that?"

This question triggers an exodus - the cast of characters move to the distant desks and have a lively, but short, whispered discussion. They return and Best speaks. He seems to count items off on his fingers. "Good to get the win. Last match of manager's ban."

"Suspension," says Miss Faulkes.

"Yes! Better. Thanks. Er... good win. Suspension ends. Er..." The third finger. "Still in title race. Pleased for fans. Regret not dynamic. Feel free to expand all that."

"Regret not dynamic?" I say.

The gathering starts to move away, but Best makes a noise and they halt. "Just, you know. We'd like to attack and score goals but we had a long trip on the weekend and that takes it out of you, and we've got a game this Saturday. We want to give our all but we need to be a bit more mathematical about it. Long-term thinking. Spread our energy out to maximise our points haul." Best is dragged away into a huddle, then pushed back into place. "All that's according to Cutter's instructions, of course. He's the brains of this operation."

"Right." A question I've thrown out as a simple ice-breaker has turned into something weighty. The answer feels exceedingly curious, but I don't want to spend too long asking about football. I want to get to know the man himself. But where to even start? I check my notes. Every question seems deathly dull against this vibrant backdrop of energy and youth. Perhaps some of their spirit has rubbed off on me, because I find myself throwing my arms wide. "Where've you been?"

Best laughs. The group retreats, and this time I don't take it personally. He's letting the Media Studies students refine his responses. Why? Perhaps a future interviewer will dare to ask. When the group returns, Best does not count on his fingers. He becomes wistful. He transports himself somewhere, and I go part of the way with him. "It was the pandemic. All that time alone. Locked up. There was football on TV, thank God, but with no fans in the stadiums, what's the point? Better than nothing, yeah. I know the players hated it. Empty stadiums. Soulless, wasn't it? Did you go to Darlo games then?" I nod. "Must have been awful. The strange thing is, seeing it like that made me fall in love with football again. It's probably going to sound like your typical Manc arrogance but I always thought I had something to offer."

"As a player?"

"No, as a manager. Or a Director of Football. Something like that. I've got a good brain on me. But I was always put off because clubs just want to squeeze more and more out of fans. Here's a new away kit. You bought that? Great. Here's the new home kit. Oh, and your season ticket's more expensive and we've charged your debit card for this cup match and if you complain you're never getting in again. Everyone reading this knows exactly what I mean. Clubs think fans have endless patience. Fans are inelastic. Nothing you can do will stop them coming. Then the pandemic hits and boom - empty stadiums. Directors are terrified. Vision of the future. So they start re-engaging. Actually trying. And there's a point where I think, yeah, I want to get involved. I want to be part of this. But I don't know anyone. Who'd let me manage a team? Arrigo Sacchi joked that to be a jockey you have to be a horse first. So I dust off the old boots and go for a trial. The first one doesn't go well, but the second does. And here I am."

"Will you tell us about the first trial? Which club was it?"

"Ah. I'm saving that little snippet. There might be a perfect time to let it slip."

One of the young men is excited. He flicks his wrist, producing an explosive cracking sound. "I know when! Before you play that team!"

"Mr Best, no!" cry the others, but they too are excited. "You gonna get the man sacked or what?"

"I have no ambitions in that direction," says Best, winking at the teacher. She pretends not to be amused.

"It seems impossible the manager in question didn't spot your talent," I suggest.

"Ah, but don't forget my bad attitude," says Best, apparently in earnest.

"The thing most readers want to know," I say, "is whether you will be staying at Darlington long-term."

This time the discussion on the far side of the room takes minutes. The entire group returns at funerial pace. Best pulls at the toggles of his hoodie. "It's like I say to my friend Longstaff - the one who owns the sports shop on Coniscliffe Road - if you love someone, you've got to let them go to Barnsley."

"Have you got an offer from Barnsley?"

"No, it was just an example. The truth is I'm happy here. I love the club and the fans and love making them happy and on Saturday we're going to Spennymoor and I'm going to put on a show." There is another huddle. Best returns to add: "If I'm selected."

I smile. "I suspect you will be. But there's very little chance the match will go ahead."

Best's demeanour changes in an alarming way. Now I see the assassin who spends the start of every match watching, calculating, triangulating. The bullfighter who puts scoring on hold to taunt his opponent a second time. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, the pitch has been under a tent for a week to protect it from the cold. The ground is still hard as rock." I find myself losing the will to speak. "There's basically no chance..."

Best puts his hands on the desk and leans on them. His knuckles whiten. I fear he will flip the thing onto me. He bites his lip. This innocuous news - a postponed non-league match in the deep of winter - has come as a hammer blow. "We're done, Bingo. Print it all or print nothing. Miss Fox. Guys. Thanks."

And he strides out, taking all the air in the room with him.

***

Revenge Fantasy Minus 1 Day (Saturday, December 17)

It was not a good few days. The match was postponed. Most of the players were ecstatic - they could shop for Christmas presents and spend some festive time with their kids or girlfriends.

As for me, I wasn't sure how long I'd be staying in Darlington. My plan needed a lot of things to align perfectly, but now one tyre had a puncture and that was that. My race was over. What next? Wait for a manager to be sacked and see if Nick was true to his word that I only needed to apply for a job to get it. If so, there didn't seem to be much point playing more games. The money was good, but there was an ever-increasing risk of injury. I had earned a reputation as a piss-taker, and my opponents didn't like that.

Hold that thought - it was too early to end my playing career just yet. I’d tell Cutter that I’d play the home matches, but I’d skip training most days. And that if I didn’t play the 90 minutes against Chester in mid-January he’d never see me again.

I decided I'd close some threads, just in case. I repaid Longstaff - he tried to refuse the money saying the interview had led to a mini boom in business. "Just before Crimbo, too," he said, all smiles. "I rehired one of me assistants!"

"Yeah, yeah," I said. "I didn't do it deliberately. Your name slipped out."

"You're such a bad liar! My name AND address? I don't know how to thank you."

"If you want to thank me, tell me how much I owe you. And put those special shinpads on order for me." Just in case I felt like playing the odd match here and there.

Then, as far as I could think, there was one last thing. The stationers. The highlighter mystery.

***

The assistant looked up at me. "Help you?"

"I'm superstar football star Max Best. Have you got any merch with my face on? Mugs? Calendars? Lenticular pens?"

"I don't think so."

"Okay. Weird. Look, do you know this guy?" I showed her a pic of Henri.

"Yes, he used to come in."

"This will be weird but... do you know why?"

She rolled her eyes. "I do. He had a thing for Kate. Never asked her out though."

I perked up. I hadn't expected such an easy ride. "Oh, top! Is she here?"

"No. She moved away. London, I think."

I had a think. I looked up the date of Henri's explosive interview. The one that had led to him being driven out of town. "Was it around September when she left?"

"Oh. Huh. That's a thinker." She nodded slowly. "About then, yes."

"Did she speak French?"

"Don't think so."

"Like football?"

"She never mentioned it."

"Hey," I said. "That was helpful. Thanks."

So Henri's crush moved away and to get her attention he spoke in riddles about a sport she didn't like to an obscure magazine in a language she didn't speak. A tale as old as time.

Nothing more to see here. Just Henri being Henri. Case closed. Move along.

***

The World Cup third place playoff happened.

And was then instantly forgotten.

XP balance: 610

Debt repaid: 245/3000

TINOs: 3601

Matches remaining: 1

***

So I went to bed that Saturday night feeling like a phase in my life was starting to wind down. I wasn’t sure I’d done a very good job of being Max Best during my time in Darlington. But I certainly felt I’d done everything I could to prepare for the Broughton vs Chester match and the World Cup final that would follow it.

As you might have guessed, the next chapter is important. Stuff happened that Sunday. Big stuff.

The hardest part will probably be naming the chapter.

I’ll probably call it Chapter 42: Max Learns Humility.

Yeah. Let's go with that.

...

Coming next: Chapter 42: Max Wins It All

...

Thanks as always for your amazing support!