42. Max Best Wins It All (Part 1 of 1000) [T1] (Patreon)

42.

"How do you feel?"

"I feel good. I feel concentrated. I feel like I'm driving safely."

The fact that I didn't want to chat while driving was a minor source of friction in my relationship with Emma. Not that we'd driven together all that much. She made an exaggerated show of checking the road in front and behind. "It's 7am on a Sunday morning. The road's quieter than one of your goal celebrations. I think you can spare a little concentration."

"Fine. Let me pull into the slow lane," I said, and indicated. I risked a glance; she was vexed. I flicked the indicator off, stayed in the fast lane, and smirked. She punched me. "Oh, that's safe."

"It's your big day. You've been planning this for weeks. How do you feel?"

I thrust my bottom lip out. "I'm fine. Henri's the one telling you it's a big deal, not me. All I'm doing is managing an under 14s match. It's as banal as football gets."

"In Chester, against the team that rejected you, and one of your players is the kid you've decided to secretly watch over like a guardian angel. Why do I believe Henri and not you?" We drove on for another mile or so. "The important thing is to win the match, right?"

"That's going to be one of many small wins. Yeah. Some small wins and one big one."

"What are they?"

"The small ones? Okay, win the match. Sure. But that's just like passing a minor test. It doesn't help you get the job you want. These kids want to be signed by a club."

"They're at a club."

"A serious club. So one win would be if I could persuade them to stop showboating."

"Which they learned from you."

"Yes. It's another win if the coach I chose turns out to be good. Another win if any scouts show up."

"Scouts?"

"I invited a few scouts. I told you."

"Pretty sure you didn't."

"Well, I did. If one shows up, that's a win. By the way, don't tell anyone."

"Why not?"

"If they know there are scouts, the kids might showboat more. Or they'll freeze. Nah. We'll let them enjoy their game and tell them after." I wasn't completely sure that was the best way to do it, but whatever. "So that's three small wins. Then it depends who shows up for the match and who comes to the cinema. If I can be charming with Shona, that's a win. If I can cheer Henri up, that's a win."

"Okay. And what's the big big win?"

"Oh, that. The absolute best thing that could happen to me today is if I can make it so that I never have to come back to Chester ever again."

***

The bad weather had led to a change in venue. Instead of playing in Broughton, we'd be at Catholic High School in Handbridge, quite near Chester FC's stadium. Talk about losing home advantage! I followed the GPS to the school's car park. Emma and I got out. Her blonde hair flew everywhere in the wind, so she pulled a maroon beanie on.

"What?" she said.

"Why do you look good in everything?"

"I don't."

"How did you know Broughton play in maroon?"

"I didn't. It's just one of life's little wins." She lifted her hands like she'd score a goal. "Oh! One win for me!"

"No. No no no. We're not doing a winning competition. Even though I'd win." I checked the time. "We're early. I hear some matches being played. Let's go wander around." I hadn't picked up any XP from random games for quite a while. Every match I'd been to recently had been scheduled. We walked hand in hand towards the sound of football. "Oh, shit!" I said, letting go so I could surge ahead. "It's the Knights!"

The all-weather pitch had been split in half and the Chester Knights were playing on one side. I walked to the nearest line and found a spot. Big crowd today! I spent thirty seconds watching, fascinated, checking the Knights's player profiles. I was still only seeing three numbers for each attribute, 1, 10, or 20, but that was enough to check the ideas I'd had when I'd reorganised them. On the whole I thought I'd done pretty well, but there was still room for improvement. One of the players I hadn't used would be a good option on the left, for example, to be a counter-weight to Johnny Winger.

I noticed someone waving at me. Mike Dean. He had been standing next to Terry, the Chester Knights coach, and now was doing a sort of walky-run around the pitch. What did he want? I really wasn't in the mood to talk to him.

While I was thinking that, something crashed into me and I very nearly toppled over.

"Mr Best! Mr Best!"

While Emma and some other spectators laughed, I looked down and saw I'd been aggressively koala-ed by Wilson, the striker slash nuisance-maker slash defender magnet. Some of the other players abandoned the game, too, and came to join the scene.

"Guys! What are you doing? There's a match! You're in a match! You ARE the match!"

"Mr Best! Where've you been?" This was Zoe, the cyberpunk deaf girl who I'd made captain.

"I've been kicking ass and taking names. What do you think? Now get back on the pitch. Holy moly. I didn't drive two hours for a group hug. I came to see you score six goals, each more beautiful than the last."

"We've already scored four," said Johnny Winger.

I scratched my head. "Hmm. What's six minus four?"

"Two," said a new player. The curse said he had good stamina and teamwork. Good midfielder. He was being used in defence.

"So," I said, brushing the kids back onto the pitch. "So give me two wondergoals, please."

Chesterkid, the goalie with the fading eyesight, had been the last to realise what was happening. He made it over and beamed at me. "Mr Best! We saw you play for that club! You were on TikTok! You're a big star now! I wish it was for Chester. I took down my Neymar poster!"

I bent to give him a little hug, which was hard because Wilson was still clinging onto me. "You put that poster right back up, Mister. I love Neymar, now."

"You do?" Big, magnified blinks.

"Yeah. Every time someone kicks me, I like Neymar a little bit more. Now get back in net, please. Goalies are important! Wilson, off you pop." Wilson refused to let go of me, so I picked him up and walked to the wide-left position that I'd put him in last time we'd met.

"He's playing right-midfield," called Zoe.

I carried him to the correct spot. Once he was down, I rotated him to face the other team's goal. "Wilson. Concentrate now. Your team needs you. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Remember what I told you. Eye of the tiger!"

"You never said that."

"Well, remember what I did say. Whatever that was."

"Okay."

I apologised to the referee and the opposition and scampered off the pitch, choosing a point far away from Mike Dean. The match resumed before I'd even crossed the line. That was one thing I loved about pan-disability football - it was relentless.

"More fans," said Emma, when she finally caught up with me.

"They'll grow out of it," I said. "Trust me. Everyone in Chester over the age of 14 thinks I'm a prick."

***

In case I was being a nuisance, I decided not to watch the rest of the Knights match. I noticed Mike Dean was coming towards me again. He was like the Terminator, this guy! I tried to use a few people as a human shield to disguise the fact that I was sneaking away.

"Max," someone said, as I walked around the edge of the playing area. I was passing what I thought was a gaggle of parents but turned out to be a decent chunk of Chester's first team squad. "Centre of attention, as usual."

"Oh! Hi Magnus. Guys. Er... this is Emma. Distant relation of Helen of Troy. Emma, this is Magnus. Player-coach. Sleeps on a bed of crystals. And we've got Aff. He's a left-winger. Imagine a cross between me and someone who likes defending. Carl. He's one of those guys you see in movies. What are they called? Ah, yeah. Americans. Raffi Brown - my client and footballing soulmate. Ben. He's the reserve goalie but I think he's better than the first team guy. And Ryder. He's the defender that Henri likes to fight with. Guys. Very surprised to see you lot here."

"Henri made them come," said Raffi, with a slight laugh.

"Yeah?" said Aff, in his Irish accent. "And who made you?"

"Shona," he said, simply.

"I thought she didn't want any part in this," I said.

Raffi shrugged. "Changed her mind I guess."

"Hey," I said, holding my arms wide. "Everyone who got added to Wikipedia this week, give me a hug." I waited. "Raffi."

"Oh!"

We collided and slapped each other hard on the back. "You did it, mate."

"Yeah," he said, smiling on one half of his mouth.

"Never in doubt," said Ryder, also slapping Raffi on the back. "He's a natural."

"Tell me all about it later. I have to go and prepare something," I said, checking the time.

"Yeah," said Raffi. "Going to stick it to Ian Evans. We know."

Emma spoke up. "And you're okay with that?"

Ryder shook his head. "Of course not. We play for Chester. We want the Chester kids to win."

"Fat chance," said Emma, with a little heat. "Max has been perfecting his strategy for weeks. 4-3-3. Dynamic. Shape-shifting. Total football."

Ryder smiled. "I don't think Max wanted you to tell us his plan. We might tell the youth team manager."

"Tell him," said Emma, defiant. "Max doesn't care." She looked at me, and her face fell. "Oh, no. Have I made a mess?"

"No," I said, obviously lying. "Don't worry about it. But actually, Ryder, Mike Dean is just over there. Why don't you go and tell him? I think he'd be really interested... Emma, let's scoot."

***

"Did I say it right?" said Emma.

"You were perfect," I said, squeezing her tiny hand.

"What's total football?"

"It's where every player on a team can play any position. Your striker is comfortable at left-back. Left-back slips into right-mid. Fluid. Whatever the team needs at any moment. Formations melt away. All that's left is football. Liquid football."

"Wow! These kids can do that?"

"Nobody can do that. It's ah... it's a destination that's always a few stops away. It's a shoot for the stars, land on the moon kind of concept. It's what Dutch people think about on those long winter nights."

She adjusted her beanie. "Is this what you and Henri sound like when you're alone?"

"Probably. I don't actually listen to him. I just wait for my turn to speak."

***

We were walking towards the far corner of the 3G pitch. Something made me turn and I stopped dead. Chester under 14s had started to arrive and were kicking balls around in an unstructured way. My gaze rested on Tyson, the flappy-armed little gobshite.

"What is it?"

"That kid. His dad is a sponsor."

"Oh. That's how he got in the team? No wonder you don't like the setup here."

"No, he got in the team on merit. He's really good. He just won't make it as a professional."

"Oh. Why not?"

"Not a team player. It's weird, though..." Tyson's player profile had changed. He'd added a point in CA, which wasn't much of a surprise given how much time had elapsed since I'd seen him play. He was now CA 5, which sounds shit, but be fair, he was 14. A couple of attributes were green. But what really caught my attention, what really blew my mind, was that his teamwork was still one. But it was red.

Red!

There was only one explanation. It had climbed to 2 (or more) and then fallen back.

"Max?"

I was pretty sure this was the first time I'd seen anyone's teamwork attribute change. Most of the attributes fluctuated or could be consciously improved, but some seemed fixed. I'd never seen green on bravery or teamwork. And I doubted I'd see any changes in influence, when I eventually unlocked that. That kind of thing seemed baked into someone's character. It seemed completely obvious to me that such attributes would never change. They couldn't change. But Tyson's had.

I tried to puzzle it out.

Chester vs Darlington. Had it been October? Two months ago, I'd come to town, made a big fuss about teamwork, and excluded Tyson. Sure, after I got fired he went back on the pitch and scored two goals. And maybe in front of everyone he'd bragged and he'd basked in his dad's pride. But deep down he'd known I was right. And in the weeks that followed, he'd really tried to be a better teammate. But then he'd backslid. Where had it gone wrong? His dad's negative influence? Lack of someone like me yelling at him to pass? He needed someone who'd yoink him out of the team if he wasn't in the team.

"Snookums?"

The situation infuriated me. I'd thought Tyson was a lost cause, but he wasn't. He was 14. He could change. If he could get to teamwork 7 or 8, he'd have a chance of a career! Fuck the Bulldog Brothers, fuck Spectrum, fuck Chester!

"Squeakbubble?"

Someone's hand was on my cheek, turning my face away from the grotesque spectacle of wasted talent and onto something a lot more desirable. "Your hands are really cold," I said.

"Talk to me," Emma said.

"Nah," I said, wrapping one of her hands in both of mine. "It's fine. Can’t win ‘em all. Let's go do what we can do."

***

Broughton under 14s were doing some drills. Nothing too strenuous; they had a match in about twenty minutes. I'd arranged this little session to check on my new employee.

"That's the guy you chose?"

"Must be," I said. I'd advertised the position on that jobsinfootball website and had quite a lot of responses. Lots of people wanted to coach young players. And young players wanted to be coached! If I couldn't make it as a manager, I'd take a setup like Broughton and turn it into a player farm. It'd just need a little seed money. Maybe Henri would chip in. Be my co-owner. We could grow it into a real football factory! Factory farming at first until I was rich, then a switch to organic when I could afford to have ethics.

We walked closer to the session. The coach, Jude, had an athletic build and a friendly, positive resting face. He was wearing glasses, which gave him an educated vibe. I was hoping he'd have a bit more steel to him than Chester FC's youth coach and my rival for the day, Spectrum. There was more to coaching kids than drills; I wanted someone who would stand up to unruly parents.

Jude's current drill involved six or seven plastic posts: red, yellow, or blue. The kids had to receive a pass then dribble towards the right colour. Or sometimes the wrong colour. I didn't exactly understand the rules, but that didn't matter. The kids did. There was a lot of laughter. Broughton's actual manager, Big Man, the guy with small ears and a beer belly, was watching and laughing, too. He must have been a bit bewildered that I'd chosen to hijack his club, but he seemed to accept that I had the interests of the kids at heart.

I sidled up to him. "Big Man. What do you think of the coach?"

"Max! Very good to see you again. Very good." He introduced himself to Emma, because I'd forgotten. "Jude? He's great. Thumbs up. I hope he passes your test, whatever that is."

My test was simple - if I saw a kid's attribute turn green while he was coaching, that was that. Although now that I was here, I saw that Jude's name was hovering over his head, and underneath was a bunch of question marks. Same as with Jackie. Same as with the Darlo coaches. The curse was treating him like a coach. Even if he had one out of twenty for every coaching attribute, he was still better than me. And the kids were having fun - that was important, too.

This drill seemed like it'd improve skills I couldn't see. So I went over and interrupted. When the kids recognised me, there was subdued giddiness, especially from the ones who had defected from Chester: Benny, Future, Captain, the centre-half, Bomber, the second centre-half, and Sevenoaks, the right-midfielder. Let's be clear - I could walk down any street in England and know that one hundred out of one hundred people would not recognise me. But in some very specific groups, I was the dog's. I was the bee's. I was the cat's.

"Guys," I said, "Calm the eff down. Selfies after the match. We don't have much time. Jude. Can you do a simple passing drill, please? I need to check something."

Jude's mouth went zigzaggy. Like everyone here, he'd watched my highlights on YouTube and TikTok, which were jaw-dropping and awe-inspiring, heavily edited as they were. But in addition, I was offering him regular work as a coach. I was the conduit to his dreams. He pulled himself together and set up a rondo. Two-touch piggy-in-the-middle. Jude kept changing the rules, which as an outsider I found annoying, but the kids reacted to every change with renewed intensity. Great drill, good vibes, but I didn't see anything turn green. It'd been something of a long shot. What was I supposed to do? Keep him on probation for three months until the next time I saw him? Fuck that. The kids loved the sessions. Jude had come with the Henri and Big Man seal of approval. Absolutism hadn't ever done me any favours. This wasn't a hard decision. But there was one more thing I wanted to check.

"Top," I said, to the kids, ending the session. "That's it. Go smash some shots or whatever. Then we'll do a team talk. Then we'll annihilate Chester."

Once the kids had sprinted off, I took Emma and Jude aside. "Jude. Imagine you're managing this team. Emma. Your son Gaz wants to play striker and take the penalties but Jude won't let him. Okay, go."

"Gaz?"

"Okay, go."

Jude was puzzled, but stepped into the part. "Miss Best, how can I help you?"

"That's Mrs Best," said Emma, optimistically. Then she launched herself into the role. Jude stood firm. Gave his reasoning. Shut the conversation down politely. It didn't prove much, but it proved he knew the right thing to do.

"Jude, you're hired," I said.

He clenched his fists and did a tiny goal celebration. "Oh my God! Thank you. Thank you!"

I brought Big Man into the group and explained what I wanted. Jude would take training once a week, arranged and supervised by Big Man, and I'd pay Jude for 2 hours. At 25 pound an hour, that would end up costing me about 200 quid a month. Not much, really. Yeah, it wasn't exactly a great investment, but it'd get me some more data. It'd let me track the progress of a group of young players over time. I could do that if I was the manager of a club, but what if that didn't happen for a few years? I needed data ASAP.

And yeah, okay. Fine. You got me. This was also my penance for ruining Shona's party.

"Done and done," I said, fistbumping both guys. I'd leave the future of these kids in their hands. Check on them in three months, maybe? Like a dentist?

"Interesting," said someone from a couple of feet away. I turned to see Mike Dean. He'd been spying on me! He was wearing a business shirt with the top buttons open. Who was he trying to seduce on a Sunday morning? "Who's financing this extra training?"

I frowned at him. I was still carrying some residual annoyance at the whole Tyson thing. "Darlington," I said.

He looked panicked. Like, genuinely. "Darlington are getting involved with Broughton?" Ha. That'd be megajustice - a rival club coming to Cheshire to pluck all the best talents. Didn’t he know Darlo were too poor to hire a team bus for every away match?

"Darlington pay me. And I pay Jude."

MD relaxed, but not completely. He eyed Emma.

"This is Emma," I said. "You probably saw her in Geordie Shore." That got me an arm slap. "Emma, this is Mike Dean. Chester's Managing Director. We call him MDMD, or MD for short. He was the first guy to fire me as a football manager." MD sagged. I wanted to blast him with both barrels. How can you fire me but not Ian Evans? You're dropping down the table like a stone, mate! Evans out! Best in! But what was the point? Also: not in front of the children. Someone think of the children! "He was also the first person to pay me for my footy skills. Cash money. Yeah. And he dances when he's drunk. We had some good times. Well, it was nice to see you, Mike."

"Max, can I have a minute?"

"Nope. I've got to give a team talk."

"This is more important."

"Ah," I said, raising a finger and slicing the air with it. "Not this time. Nothing's more important than this. But look. I'll be around for a while. Come see me at half-time if you want."

"Won't you have another big team talk then?"

"Nah," I said. "We'll have won the game by then. Won't we, Emma?"

Her head bobbed like she'd just been switched on. "Max wants to try his 4-3-3 fantasy. Total left-backs. Liquid players."

"Riiiiight," said MD, eyeing her in a new way.

"Dammit. Sorry, Max."

"Don't worry," said MD. "I already knew Max was planning 4-3-3. For some reason, Chester FC's Instagram account was tagged by a team called Middleton Rangers. Max was using them to test his new tactical theories. They did one of those short videos about it. Inexplicably, they thought to include us in the post."

"I told them I'd be using it against you," I said. "They must have thought I wanted you to know. Ah, well."

The tiniest grin came to MD's face. "The deception is so obvious," he said. "That it has to be a double-cross. But the double-cross is even MORE obvious. Why would you keep talking about 4-3-3 if you were going to play it? But that's what you'd want us to think. So what that means is..." He made himself go cross-eyed - very useful skill! - and Emma laughed.

"Max. I'm not sure he's buying it."

"He's buying it. He's already bought it. It's in his pocket with a receipt for a line and a sinker."

"I'm too old for this, Max," said MD, walking away with multiple tiny shakes of the head.

"That couldn't have gone better," I said, delighted. "Okay. Time to inspire the next generation."

***

My team. The vehicle for my revenge. Broughton under 14s. Maroon tops, blue shorts. Goalie in green. Mostly CA 1, but with five good players who'd left Chester. Thanks to the outreach of Brother Benny, the entire squad had joined the cult of Max Best the Mystery Winger. Left unchecked, they'd spend their careers trying to nutmeg everyone, doing double dribbles, showing off in the most outlandish ways their talents would allow.

I stood on the edge of the penalty area with the goal behind me. The kids sat down in the D, forming a vague semi-circle two or three deep. Three deep! Amazing. We had six subs! Chester only had two. Big Man, Jude, Emma, and some other people - parents, I guessed - shuffled forward to listen. I tried to tune the parents out. This had nothing to do with them, but I could hardly ask them to get lost while I indoctrinated their kids.

"First question," I said, and all conversation from the kids stopped. "Are we going to play this match on the full-size pitch?"

"Yes," said Big Man. "There's no other way. It's all a bit last minute. Your friend Mike arranged it. Pulled some strings."

"Absurd," I said. These 14-year-olds would play on the same size pitch as me, a bona fide physical freak slash footballing genius. "But that just makes it easier to win. Second question. Dudes. Hombres. Amigos. Is it more important to you to be cool and top like me? Or to become a professional footballer?" I let that hang. No-one seemed prepared to get so heavy so soon. "Guys, you can choose one thing. Play like me. Or become a pro. Choose. Choose one."

No-one wanted to speak, so I pointed at one kid. The answer burped out from him. "Pro. I mean, you're top, but..."

Another one. "Yeah, pro."

Now that the ice was broken, they all agreed. "Benny?" I said.

"Yeah," he said. "I want to become a professional."

"Top. That's what I want for you, too. That's a healthy goal. Now, you all saw a clip of me taking the piss out of some chump. And you thought it was hilarious. You thought it was the single greatest moment in sporting history." The kids looked glum. They knew I was here to tell them not to play like that. "And you know what? Apart from Michael Smith versus Michael van Gerwen in the darts, you're right. What I did needs the balance and grace of a ballet dancer, the technical assurance of Johann Cruyff, and the fuck-you-this-is-my-pitch attitude of George Best. Er... no relation." The kids were agog. Even Emma was stunned. Plot twist! "Your parents probably want me to tell you not to do what I did. And guess what? I'm not going to do that. If you can play like me, you must be fucking incredible. Showing off is cool and awesome. That's my opinion."

There was a ball nearby. I flicked it up, bounced it on my head a few times, blindfolded myself with one hand, and turned and volleyed the ball into the goal behind me. The kids gasped.

"But listen. There are two moments that clip didn't show, one before; one after. There was the time before when the left-back was kicking me, elbowing me, even pinching me, which was really fucking weird." The kids laughed. "I haven't been pinched - by a boy - since primary school." I stared into space, then shook the thought away. "Fucking bizarre. And he was saying things to wind me up. It didn't work - I was calm, but I felt he deserved to be shown up. Do you know what I mean?"

Lots of nods.

"But I saw this clip of Benny doing the same thing. And I'm not having a go, Benny mate. My first reaction was wow! Look at his technique! But then I felt a bit bad. It's just my opinion, but I don't think that kid deserved to be done like that. The little clip I saw, when you dribbled him the second time, he ignored it and got back into position. I don't know if he was upset later, but right there and then he had one thought - do my job for the team. Sound about right? And I fucking love players like that! I wouldn't go full Max Best on a player like that. No way. I'd nutmeg him. I'd beat him. That's my job, yeah? But nothing more. Not rubbing his nose in it. Not him."

I rubbed the bottom of my nose. It was starting to freeze up. Why don't they make gloves for noses?

"That was the before thing. The after thing was the guy I double dribbled tried to snap my leg in half. He nearly did as well. The physio said I was millimetres away from spending the rest of my life with this guy's boot sticking out of my shin. He told me to buy a lottery ticket - that's how lucky I was. If that thug had made a proper connection, I wouldn't be here. I'd be in a hospital today with one of those oxygen masks on. I'm not saying that to scare you, but one thing about being a professional is being available to play. If there's a fifty-fifty tackle and you get hurt, that's bad luck. If you're like me," I grinned, "dribbling around the pitch in a big circle saying nah nah nah NAH nah! then you're going to get injured and what kind of teammate are you then? And yeah! Teammate! What I did just shows what my team is like. We don't get on. We're not friends. If my best mate Henri Lyons was running to the penalty spot, do you think I'd turn around and run back to my own half? No chance! I'd cross and he'd score and we'd both be happy. I think if you're in a good team you want to pass to your mates because that feels good. I wouldn't know. I've never been in an eleven-a-side team with ten people who liked me. That's why I always played five-a-side," I said, laughing at the horrible truth of the statement.

I took a step back and moved forward again. Just wanted to keep moving so my blood didn't turn to ice. "Oh! Another thing. I went to Sheffield Wednesday. Someone there wanted to sign me. Guess what the first thing their manager said to me was?"

I really wanted another voice to come in, but no-one wanted to break my flow. Emma sensed this and called out, "Who's the blonde and is she single?"

Lots of smiles.

"No, it wasn't that." I looked back at the Broughton kids. "He said: I don't like the showboating." I shrugged. Left a pause. "Guess who doesn't play for Sheffield Wednesday now?"

"You," said Benny. He'd been through a lot of emotions during my talk. I think he'd felt attacked at some points, but now he didn't. Now he felt sorry for me.

"Yeah. I'm good enough. But he's trying to build a proper team there. Passing team. Guys who care about teamwork. Do you get me? I'd love to play in that team. I'd fit in! That's what I want, too! But because I was dicking around, it might never happen."

I looked up at the sky, pretending to be regretful. "Yeah. Anyway. It's up to you. But I know you guys are into teamwork and work rate and passing. That's why we've got six subs and Toxic FC over there have only got two. That's why I reckon you'll win today. Nice big artificial pitch, perfect for passing, against a team whose best player only ever dribbles. I mean, all I can say is: lol. Next week you'll be back with Big Man and Jude and they'll take good care of you. So because I only get to see you now and then, I get to be preachy. Talk about the big picture. So here it goes. Don't make the mistakes that I've made. Respect yourself - don't sabotage your career. Respect your teammates - look for the pass, keep everyone involved, be positive. Respect your opponent - until they lose that respect." Cheeky grin. "Respect the referee, even if you really don't want to." Eye roll. "Because no ref, no game. And last but not least, respect the sport."

"What does that mean?" said the captain.

I smiled. "Good question. I have no idea. I just like the sound of my own voice." I checked my phone. Nearly time. The Knights had finished and cleared off, and the referee was over on the far side, checking the goal nets and corner flags. He'd come over here and do the same and then the match would start. It seemed all the spectators from that match were staying to watch this one, and more were arriving. I idly wondered if the curse would give me an attendance stat. "Right. Tactics. I've told those chumps we're playing 4-3-3." I went into our tactics screen and set Broughton to 4-3-3.

Sevenoaks groaned. That was one formation he couldn't shine in. He didn't do well centrally.

I checked Chester's setup: 4-4-2 diamond. A good choice against 4-3-3! But one that played into my hands. I grinned. "So at every goal kick, every throw-in, as much as you can, stand in a 4-3-3 formation, okay? So here's the back four." I named them, but to everyone's surprise, I had the twelve-year-old Future as one of the two centre-backs and one of the older CBs, Bomber, at right-back. "Future's our passing outlet, okay? So I want him in the middle. He's going to pass to midfield. Captain, you'll have to win the headers for the both of you. Got it?"

"Yes, boss."

I named the midfield. Seven put his hand up. "You've got four midfielders, there."

"Yeah," I said, with a dollop of sarcasm, suitable for talking to teenagers. "Because we're playing 4-4-2. Duh. Pass pass pass. Let the ball do the work. Make Chester run around."

As I said that, I switched the formation. Of my five key players I had three in defence, plus Seven at right-midfield, and Benny as a striker. He put his hand up. "You want us to pretend to be playing 4-3-3. Okay. I'll do it. We'll do it. But will you tell us why?"

"Sure," I said. "One. Because it will help you win. Two. Because it's funny."

***

As Emma and I walked to our technical area, I slowed to a near-crawl. I had cursemail! An achievement. These had almost totally dried up since I’d become a player, to the point that I often forgot they existed.

New achievement: All Pacino

Increase the morale of one or more players on more than one occasion.

Reward: 1 XP

Morale! That was one of those hidden things I’d seen during the MUNDIAL matches. Based on what I’d seen in the World Cup, it didn’t seem to make a massive difference, but higher morale was obviously better than lower. If I could use my pre-match and half-time speeches to boost morale, that was yet another tiny advantage.

I turned to see if the players looked visibly more motivated or whatever, and felt that there was more green in the player profiles. It took me a few seconds of scanning, but there it was! No fewer than three new green numbers. Benny and two of the Broughton originals had increased their teamwork attributes. My speech had increased morale AND improved an unimprovable attribute!

Wow. This opened up a lot of possibilities. If I scouted a 14-year-old with good attributes but a bad attitude. I could fix him! I could turn Tysons into Bennys!

I'd only been in town a few minutes and I'd already had several big wins.