13 - Food Chain [T1] (Patreon)

13.

The Premier League. The world's best and best-loved football league. Twenty teams playing each other twice to determine the winner. To win, you need to perform better than Man City, Arsenal, Chelsea, and Liverpool. The American equivalent would be winning the Superbowl.

Each season, the top four in the Premier League automatically qualify for next season's Champions League. That's contested by the top teams from all the leagues in Europe. To win that, you'll have to beat the cream of the English teams, plus Real Madrid, Barcelona, Juventus, Bayern Munich, and many more. The American equivalent would be winning the Superbowl.

Which Superbowl do you want to win? Man City fans desperately want to win the Champions League. Liverpool fans would prefer to win the Premier League. It's a mad sport, innit? For most teams and most fans, winning the Champions League is the pinnacle.

The third most important trophy for English clubs is the FA Cup. That's the one where every team in England (and some from Wales) can take part. It was in the early stages of the FA Cup, when Chester lost on penalties to Oldham, that I decided to try to become a player.

Most European countries have a similar setup - League, Cup, European trophy - but England also has a fourth major cup. It's called the League Cup, and it's only for the 92 teams who play in the top four divisions. Chester aren't in that one. Chester are still non-league. For now.

Many clubs at the top of the food chain don't use their best players in the League Cup. They use League Cup matches as an opportunity to give their young players a runout, or help an injured player get back from injury, and so on. For those fans, the League Cup is not a big deal until they find themselves in a semi-final.

But this season, two big teams have been taking the League Cup very seriously from the start: Manchester United and Newcastle United. The first to show they're serious again after years of mismanagement, and the second because they've got serious new owners.

Serious new owners.

***

St. James' Park was jam-packed. 52,009 fans, almost all supporting the home team. It probably cost Emma's dad a pretty penny, but he got hold of the two seats next to where he and his mate went to every home game. Whatever he paid, it was worth it. He'd tried and failed to get his daughter to go to a Newcastle match since she was old enough to say 'Can I have a pony instead?'

The four of us were positioned thusly: friend, dad, Emma, me. It was probably the best I could have hoped for. Being on the right gave me a bit more space to react how I wanted. I wasn't totally sure how I'd react. There was a lot going on in my head.

There was the wider geopolitical mess. The fact that this club had been bought by Saudi actual Arabia. Keep politics out of sport? Yeah, good luck with that. This stadium had become one of the most political places in the world. If Amnesty International want to highlight human rights abuses in Riyadh, they can best do that in St. James' Park.

There was the Weaver family and my relationship to it. I didn't much like the dad, mostly because he was all-in on the Saudi ownership. He didn't have any reservations about it whatsoever. It's not like anyone gave him a vote. It's not like he could have stopped the deal. But his enthusiasm. His glee. At the Christmas dinner, he'd tried to rub my nose in his team's new position at the top of the food chain. It was depressing. Normally I only encountered people like that online, in comments sections. They can be clicked away. But if I married Emma, this guy would give a speech. He would 'give' her to me. No thanks. And I was supposed to be here charming him so that he'd help with my case with the Football Association. Fuck me, what a mess. Keep politics out of sport? I fucking wish.

And then there was me and what I felt. The politics of the takeover was grim. Sinister, even. But mostly I cared about the sport and how it had changed. Newcastle had gone from being one of the worst teams in the Premier League to being its apex predator. 600 billion dollars in the bank. Whatever I did with Chester, however skilfully I turned nothing into a million pounds, and one million into two, I'd always be six hundred billion behind.

But most of all, it was yet another Premier League club owned by someone with no connection to the sport, the local area, the history of the game. They were already surging ahead with the multi-club model, looking at clubs in Italy, Spain, Belgium, France. Feeder clubs in Ireland and Scotland. They were even talking about 'closer ties' with Gateshead FC, a fifth tier team. Newcastle sending all their best youth prospects to play a season in Gateshead would seriously fuck up my plans to blitz through the divisions, while simultaneously turning that club into a vassal state.

The takeover was a massive step in the direction of the drawbridge being raised. If your primary reason for buying a football club is geopolitical, why the fuck would you want to play against Chester, or Darlington, or even your long-standing rivals, Sunderland? Fuck that. You want to play against Barcelona and Bayern Munich every week.

Yep. There was another massive hand on the drawbridge lever. I could feel it.

52,008 others couldn't.

Or worse, they could, but didn't give a shit. Burn down the pyramid, so long as we're on top. That was the vibe I got. Still, I tried not to let that show on my face. For Emma's sake.

***

A few minutes before kickoff, Emma was primed. She was willing to be thrilled, to be swept off her feet, to be converted to being a football superfan. She was wearing a Newcastle kit, scarf, and bobble hat. She wanted the full experience.

And what an experience it was.

It was the quarter-final of the League Cup against a woefully out-of-form Leicester City. Smash these guys and Newcastle would get to their second League Cup semi-final... ever. They had a chance to win something for the first time since 1955.

And this was just the start. Newcastle's previous owner had been a frugal, fractious billionaire. The fans hated him with a rare passion. English football teams have been owned by despicable rich men since before the invention of the offside law, but that owner-fan relationship was especially hostile. After years of mutual loathing, the prick had finally sold up. Thanks to their new owners, nights like these would be the rule, not the exception. Going from a relationship state of minus one hundred with the old guy to plus one hundred with the new owner meant that the Newcastle fans were in a state approaching religious ecstasy.

So the noise when the players strode onto the pitch was seismic. More than half of the home fans had brought black and white scarves, many were waving black and white flags, and almost all were wearing the black and white home kit. While Hey Jude blasted around the vast stands, while almost everyone sang along, an enormous banner was passed around. It must have been 20 by 40 metres. In the centre was a blue star, and two cartoon ducks in tuxedos were standing on either side. Where the actual duck does all this stuff come from?

Despite the ducks, the spectacle was about as impressive as displays get in English grounds. A proper assault on the senses; Crackers would have loved it. Emma was definitely caught up in the moment, and she turned to say something to her favourite man about it. Which, yeah, didn't help my mood.

The match kicked off and I found I was getting 7 XP per minute. I wasn't quite sure what I'd expected for a League Cup match - maybe a lower amount because it was only the fourth most important trophy? Or did the curse award XP based on the highest level of the participants? For example, if a Premier League team played Chester, would I still get 7 XP from that? It made a certain kind of sense. I'd still be learning from an elite team, right?

"What are you thinking?" said Emma, who had finally remembered that I existed.

"I was thinking that if a crow was a mafia boss, his underlings would be his cronies."

She didn't laugh. "Right. Who's going to win?"

I checked the tactics screens and the match ratings. Even after two minutes, some of Leicester's players had dropped to five out of ten, while several Newcastle guys were already up to seven. "Depends what you mean by win," I said. It wasn't the right time to blab on about the future of football - Emma merely wanted to know some things to look out for in the match. I pointed to the blue team. "Leicester are a bit of a mess at the moment. Not a very connected team. But see that guy in midfield? Number 8. Tielemans. I love him."

"Why?"

"He's the player I'd want to be if I couldn't be the player I am."

"What does that mean? What player is he?"

"He's a dream-weaver. He sculpts passes out of..." I tried and failed to think of what materials could be found on a football pitch. "Out of ether. He's a conjurer. You know those puzzles with matchsticks and you have to move one matchstick to make it say 88 or whatever?"

"Yeah, I've seen them on Facebook."

"Right. Well, there's one where you have to draw two lines to get the same number of bananas in each section and when you first look at it, you think it's impossible. Tielemans does that with passes. He'll get the ball in the centre circle and there will be four defenders in front of him. And he'll pass the ball and it'll curve past one and then curve the other direction past two, boop!, perfectly into the stride of the striker and I just go 'ahh!'"

She smiled. "You just go 'ahh'?"

"Just 'ahh.' It's the most beautiful thing we can hope to see today."

But no sooner had I finished talking than a Newcastle player got the ball in the Max Best position, as it's known, and ran forward.

"Oh!" said Emma, hands by her mouth. She was taken aback by the speed of the guy. His pace (18) was impressive, but even more so was the tricky pass he played behind a defender - it cut Leicester's defence into slices. The guy on the other end of the pass struck the ball across goal - it landed at the feet of a midfielder. He had a simple chance to score but blazed his shot over the bar.

The stadium went nuts. I thought the volume was at maximum before kick-off, but somehow, they took it up a notch.

And the chances kept coming and the volume kept finding places to go. The match was one-way traffic. There's nothing worse than a one-sided contest. Okay, there's one thing worse: a one-sided contest where the team that's going to win has fans like Sebastian Weaver.

***

Football reveals character.

What do you do when you've got the ball? Are you a selfish prima-donna (Tyson), a scaredy-cat (Sullivan), an optimiser (Pascal), or a guy who'll do a piece of skill that puts a full-back flat on his arse, then help him up (me)?

What do you do when the other team's got the ball? Nothing (Tyson), run around a lot (Sullivan), follow the manager's instructions exactly (Pascal), or whatever you want because you know best (me)?

That's your character.

And the way you support your team says something about you, too. There are lots of types of fan.

The Conspiracy Theorist - fans who believe every referee in the world, including ones not yet born, are involved in a plot to deny their team a throw-in on the half-way line in a match they're winning two-nil.

The Transfer Nut - loves gossip and rumours about transfers. Signing a player shows you're high in the food chain. Failing to sign a player shows you're slipping into irrelevance. Loves to talk about 'net spend'.

The Fatalist - believes their team will always find a way to lose, to screw things up. Is usually right.

The Optimist - believes their team will do well. Will come back from a two-goal deficit. Will win the game in hand. Will beat relegation. Is usually wrong.

The Analyst - pores over data looking for patterns that will back up his esoteric theories. Will say things like 'yeah we lost three-nil but we battered them in final third entries'.

And of course...

The Sebastian Weaver - dangle the prospect of a third-place league finish and a cup win and he'll sell you his own grandmother.

***

December 25th. Christmas dinner in the palatial Weaver household. Primarily memorable for being the first time in my life I enjoyed Brussels sprouts. Had my tastebuds changed, or was Emma's mum just a way better cook than mine? I suppose the meal was also memorable, in some circles, for other things.

Quick tour of the space. A double-height, open-plan kitchen diner with big glass doors leading onto a patio, all with views of the garden. Emma's mum, Rachel, assured me it looked amazing in the spring, but I thought it was magnificent in the winter. "The trees have so much character. Henri has a tree. I've never spent so much time looking at one tree, before. I think I like trees. That's new information."

"Max's dream house is a hobbit hole," said Emma. "He wants to live underground."

"Basements flood," said Sebastian, killing the conversation the way dictators kill journalists.

It might have been my imagination, but he seemed to have taken a dislike to me. If I had to guess, I'd say he thought I was flash, brash, and unserious. That I was some kind of international playboy who was banging his daughter and would soon break her heart.

I didn't mind that. It must be shit having a hot daughter and meeting the boyfriends. Or worse, not meeting them and having your imagination run wild. I was inclined to wind him up, just slightly, just for a laugh, by hinting that deep down, I was exactly who he feared I was.

"So what's it like being a footballer?" he asked, while Emma and Rachel were out of the room doing things.

"Oh, it's got its ups and downs. There are perks."

"What like?"

I grinned like we both knew what I was talking about. "Perks," I said, with a slight forward nod. I left it at that. Let his imagination run riot. The women came back in, hauling vegetables. "Do you need help chopping?" I said. Sebastian slinked out of the kitchen.

***

When we sat to eat - stuffed turkey, meat, roast potatoes, mash, veg, gravy - Rachel was amused and horrified to learn that I normally had a frozen pizza for Christmas dinner. "On your own?"

"Yeah. With a few cold beers. It's actually really nice. I like spending time alone with myself. I'm a great conversationalist."

"Well, we're very honoured that you'd break your traditions," she said. Ten out of ten for charm. Did I mention she was gorgeous? She was an amazing advertisement for what Emma would look like twenty years into the future. "No beer today, though, right? You've got a match tomorrow."

"I'll stick to water but I won't be playing," I said. "The manager's mad at me. So I'm taking Emma to Telford."

"Where's that?"

"Buckinghamshire."

"Ooh. Sounds dead posh!"

"Posh is the nickname for Peterborough United," I said, in case that was helpful to her.

"Oh, that's strange. Is it a rich area? I'll have to check out Zoopla." She pushed some mash into her gravy. "Why Telford?"

"Might get a job there. They're bottom of the league but I think I can rescue them. Emma says I'm a football romantic. The story is almost irresistible. Save them from relegation, get them promoted next year."

Sebastian was shaking his head. "Why are you wasting your time? If you're bottom of the food chain you don't go lower. You've proven your talent. You've got to move up. Like me. Like the Toon."

"Mmm," I said. It was pretty strange being told what to do with my life by a guy who was, essentially, a rando. "Like the Toon. Right." The Toon - Newcastle United - hadn't moved up the food chain through its own efforts. It had been picked up and dropped there in murky circumstances.

His one comment, three words, was enough to tell me what Sebastian thought about the Saudi ownership. He thought Newcastle had won the lottery, which in a way, they had. They would be top of the pile until English football ate itself. But the Saudi project was everything I'd complained about that day at Sheffield Wednesday, with added nightmare fuel. If he blindly supported the new owners in everything they did, Sebastian was on Team Nick.

Emma had stopped eating and was looking at me. She didn't care about takeovers and food chains, but she would care if I didn't make an effort with her dad.

"What did you mean, like you?" I asked, inviting him to talk about his favourite subject.

He put down his fork, signalling that the topic was of utmost importance. "I started with nothing. No experience, no name. A lot of ambition, a lot of hard work. Started at a small firm, got myself noticed. Moved up in the world. Found myself in one of the biggest companies in Newcastle. Most men are satisfied with that. Not me. I wanted to take it over. Do things my way. There was a fight. Got kicked out, so I bought a small firm, fought tooth and nail, turned it into a giant. Five years ago, we bought the firm that kicked me out. Hostile takeover. The best kind. Those men who took up arms against me, they work for me now."

"That's impressive," I said, mostly because I had to say something. The story was actually horrific. Not that he'd turned himself into a major player, but that he thought I should have a similar career arc, one based on constant conflict. There was a danger my life could go that way. Sebastian was the Ghost of Christmas Future. "I don't want an ownership role, though. I know I'd lose all sense of perspective. I'd do crazy things like end relegation, turn smaller clubs into my servants, and buy hundreds of talented players just so no-one else could have them. I'd vote for Super Leagues and maybe even move my club out of the country altogether!"

Sebastian, correctly, took this statement as an attack on his club's new owners and a rebuke of him, personally, for supporting them. The best part was that Emma and Rachel had no clue anything untoward had happened. He took a swig of wine. "No-one," he said, and I'm sure I saw his eye twitch, "would ever take an English club out of England."

"Not that long ago, there was a very credible proposal to move a club to Dublin. Every year the Premier League tries to introduce a 39th game, one that'll be played abroad. Two NFL matches are played in London. It's not crazy. If I buy a club I have absolutely no connection to, why wouldn't I move it to the middle-east? It's my club. I can do what I want."

"Max," laughed Emma. "You wouldn't even discuss having a holiday in Italy. You said it was too hot there!" She laughed again. "The middle-east. You're so strange, sometimes."

"You know what I used to like?" I said. "The Tyne-Wear Derby. Newcastle versus Sunderland. 150 years of history, that fixture! The big rivalry. Two cities brimming with emotion, ninety minutes later, one's bursting with pride. Stories you pass down. Memories you cherish."

Sebastian squirmed. "We've still got that."

"No, you don't. That died the minute you got 600 billion in the bank. Sunderland is like a worm to you, now. It's conceivable they will never, ever beat you again. Even a draw would be beyond belief. No, that's gone. Poof. It was nice for a hundred and fifty years but nah, bin that."

"I'd rather have the Champions League than beat Sunderland."

"Ah, the famous rivalry between Newcastle and... Napoli. Not something you joke about with the Mackems in the local caff." Mackems are people from Sunderland.

Sebastian was top of the food chain, now. He didn't have to take banter from some kid from the side-streets of Manchester. "You're jealous. We're above Man U and we'll stay there."

There it was. Team Nick confirmed.

"Maybe we shouldn't talk about politics," I said, turning away from him.

"Oh, yes, let's not," said Rachel.

"We weren't," said Sebastian, bristling. "We were talking about football."

I gave Rachel a full blast of attention. "Football's great sometimes. It's all about rivalries and competition but it's a sport, a game, and when you love the game there's so much to love. A while ago, Borussia Dortmund had financial problems and their biggest rivals, Bayern, gave them a few million Euros to keep them going. Because even though they fight tooth and nail most of the time, they never lost sight of the big picture: there's nothing more important than the game itself." I was very pleased with my use of the tooth and nail idiom that Sebastian had used. He actually flinched when I said it. "Now Dortmund are healthy and a role model for other clubs, and every time I get annoyed that Bayern won the league again, I remember that they're a proper football club run by proper football people."

This was going great. I was talking earnestly, with the women eating up my words, while simultaneously throwing little jabs at Sebastian. Great fun. And because he thought he could get under my skin by talking about my boyhood team, I decided to use that. Bear in mind that while everything that comes next could, if we were being generous, be classed as the truth, I knew Sebastian would not see things that way.

"And there's a huge rivalry between Liverpool and Man United. You get in the stadium and it's thunderous. A whirlpool of rage. Crosses the line, big time. And you think, holy shit, this is dark. But come with me next time there's a match and I'll show you all those same nutjobs from both sides of the stadium, laughing and joking, collaborating to raise money for food banks. They go to the stadium to vent, it's escapism, but when there's a need, they get together. Couple of years ago there was this project to do a European Super League. Basically ripping the big clubs away from the rest, letting the small clubs die. It was sick. Liverpool and Man United were both in it, and our fans went nuts. They went mental. They said, you don't use our clubs to destroy the pyramid. No way. We have too much class for that. So they cooperated, along with fans from the other Super League teams. Fought tooth and nail for what was morally right. United fans invaded a match, got it cancelled. That was live on TV, hundreds of millions around the world watching. Boom. Liverpool fans, United fans, people who actually care about football more than their own clubs, they got together and made a difference. Made the world a better place. Yeah, it makes me proud, when I think about it, that most football fans can still tell the difference between right and wrong."

I'd got under Sebastian's skin, all right, and he spent most of my speech turning red. But then he did something surprising - he realised how easily he was being played and he got a grip. A steely glint came into his eye. Here was the lawyer who had built an empire. "I wonder how principled you'll feel when someone offers you a lot of money to forget your principles."

"Dad!" complained Emma, partly because his statement didn't appear to be connected to anything I'd said. "He turned down silly money at Sheffield Wednesday because he didn't like what they were planning. I told you."

"You told me he went for a trial and decided to stay where he was. I took it to mean he hadn't done well."

"Er... no. He slapped. Didn't you, Max?"

"I slapped," I confirmed. "Yeah, turns out, you can rent me, but I can't be bought." I gave Rachel my best twinkly-eyed smile. "Who would have thought it?"

"Me," she said. "That doesn't surprise me at all, from what Emma has said." She offered me more sprouts. "Who's your favourite player?"

I was done poking the dad, now, so I answered honestly. "There's this guy at Leicester City. Tielemans. I love him. Looks like a schoolboy, has perfect technique. So when I was a kid, must have been about thirteen, I had my best ever minute as a player. There was a corner from over on the left. I was loitering near the edge of the box because I don't like getting involved in all that headers stuff. That's a bit, you know, agricultural. So the ball comes and it misses everyone. I step forward, bop! No, it wasn't even a bop. It's the time when you hit the ball and it doesn't even make a noise. It happens once a year. Ball flies," I demonstrated with a Brussels sprout. "Top-left corner. Perfect. Glorious. Round of applause for tiny Max. Thirty seconds later there's another corner. Guy hits the ball exactly the same. I'm in the same place. It's all the same. Bop! That once a year moment, twice in a minute. Top-left corner. No applause, because everyone's freaking out. Are we in a time loop? That was me against my mates in a park in Manchester. This guy at Leicester. He does it! He does what I did. In a top match! It felt so strange, like I was watching myself. Boop, top corner. Minute later, boop, top corner. It was unreal. Started to blur in my memory as soon as it happened. What was me, what was him? It was disconcerting, but beautiful. I don't want to think about human rights when I think about football. I just want to be happy. I want to be a boy again. A boy kicks a ball good and creates a memory. I wonder, sometimes, if any of the others even remember it. They all had their own little moments of glory. No, though, because I remember some of theirs. Ste K scored a scissor kick with his first touch for the school team after he'd just told me he didn't feel ready to play. Reece was so agile we used to have to think up different names for his saves. It was simple. It was pure. Tielemans is the closest I get to feeling that." I sighed and realised I'd forgotten where I was. I was surprised to see two hot blondes gawping at me.

Emma slapped her mother's arm. "See? I told you."

"I never thought I'd say this," said Rachel. "But can we talk more about football?"

"Let's talk about Christmas," I said. "I used to be so insane about the presents my mum would let me open one the night before. Just to shut me up. How do you guys do it?"

***

Back in the present day, Newcastle didn't let Tielemans have a kick, and they battered Leicester. A combination of snatching at chances and great goalkeeping kept the score to nil-nil at half-time. I rushed off to the toilet so that I wouldn't have to speak to anyone.

While queueing to pee, I sighed.

It was perfectly natural for fans to be excited that their team would get the best players, have the best facilities. It would be weird if they didn't. Fans are tribal - they want their club to do well. But this takeover had scrambled the brains of these guys. The Newcastle fans had embraced the entire Kingdom of Saudi Arabia as part of their tribe, and that was next-level bonkers.

I'd never understand that mentality. But for the sake of Emma, I'd be willing to take a step towards her dad.

All he had to do was say something like, "Being a Newcastle fan has been shit for a long time; it's a dream to have an ambitious owner; I wish it wasn't an authoritarian state; there are no good billionaires and these guys are no exception; all things considered I've been a Toon fan all my life and will be until the day I die; I'll support the team but not the owner."

If he said that I'd cross the bridge. No problem.

But he didn't.

***

Just before the second half kicked off, I slunk back into my seat, eyes hooded, expression fixed. I was thinking about three things.

First, Emma. I didn't need to like her dad, or ever see him again, except that I was supposed to ask for his help with my case. But what can I say? Being around him was a drag. How could I let Emma know without hurting her feelings?

Second, Tielemans. The entire Leicester team was playing like shit, and he was no exception. The tactics, 4-2-3-1 against Newcastle's 4-3-3, seemed right, based on the players they had. So why were they dogshit? Morale? Form? I had to unlock those perks. I'd get about 650 XP from this match. An enormous amount.

Finally, Chester. Whatever I did, however smart I was, Newcastle would always have 600 billion dollars more. How could you compete with that?

I could start by being ruthless. Being there in the giant stadium had smashed home the point:

There. Was. No. Time.

Newcastle weren't spending money wildly. They weren't making mistakes. They'd picked a manager who would improve players. They were improving the first team and everything around it carefully and thoughtfully. It seemed like everyone at the club had bought into the new demand for excellence.

Getting people on board wasn't as easy as it seemed.

Physio Dean's bedside manner was abysmal. Tyson had cost me a coach and five good players. Sullivan was a dead end. Spectrum was lucky he'd already quit. Vimsy wasn't taking care of the players. Some of whom were money pits, while Carl Carlile was giving the team six out of ten. Henri was supposed to be the best striker in the league and hadn't even looked like scoring in his first two games. And Ian Evans?

I'd made a promise to Mike Dean and a promise to myself that I would stop agitating for Evans to be fired. There was still half the season left. Plenty of time for him to turn things round. Everyone else? Everyone else needed to get with the programme. Yes, even Henri.

And there was more. I was being too nice to the other teams in Cheshire. The small outfits like Broughton and Ellesmere. I'd hoped to find players at five-a-side and in random matches. But most likely, the best amateur players would be at some small club already. I'd been too social, too wishy-washy, hoping to avoid doing what I knew I needed to do.

I needed to go and teach these minnows about the food chain. I'd gobble up every ounce of muscle they had grown. Strip them bare. Turn their work into my profit. I had to fight tooth and nail for my club.

"Max," whispered Emma, leaning over me with her hand in my hair. "Are you all right?"

I stood, put my hand on her back, and admired her. How could a moral vacuum produce a daughter so beautiful? "Yeah, great, why?"

"You look... unhappy."

"No. Just got to make some hard decisions."

"Oh. Gotcha." She looked around the stadium and smiled. "Is this a good atmosphere?"

"Yeah. They'll blow the roof off when they score. Are you glad you came?"

"With my two favourite men? Absolutely. I'd even think about coming again."

My lips twitched. "That'll be you and your dad, then. Next time I come here, I'll be on the pitch."

She gave me an amused lip curl. She didn't know loads about football, but she knew Chester were many, many years from playing in this stadium. "Oh? And I suppose you'll score two identical goals and make us all swoon."

I grinned. She always managed to cheer me up. "You remember that story?"

"I didn't realise the guy from that story is the same number 8 who's playing now. Dad reminded me when you ran off. When are you going to ask him about your case?"

"Maybe in the pub after you've won and he's happy."

"Okay!"

***

Newcastle scored twice and progressed into the semi-finals, where Man United and Newcastle would play teams from further down the food chain, meaning the most likely final would be between the two predators.

Sebastian was gloating already. He was drunk, on victory and on beer. "Man U are shit," he proclaimed. "You've got no strikers. You've got no midfield, no defence." He laughed. "First trophy since 1955. First of many. Way aye the lads!"

I remained impassive. Then I looked at Emma and asked if she wanted to come with me so the guys could stay out drinking. Emma was ecstatic that I was being so considerate to her dad, which was funny because I had just ruined his mood in a big way.

"I'll just powder me nose," she said, leaning in for a tiny lipsmack. She went to do girl things.

Sebastian tried to poke me in the chest, but missed. "This'll interest you, Max. Just heard from a friend that the Qataris are in pole position to buy your team."

"I don't think Chester's for sale, mate."

He managed a fake chuckle. "You're a Man U fan, Max. You've got shit owners, like we had. You've suffered, like we did. Now you'll get ones who'll put money in, instead of taking it out. They want to help United get back on its feet. You must be thrilled."

"No, it sounds like a waking nightmare."

"Oh, does it? Winning the league again, finally? Winning the Champions League?"

I shrugged. "Best if I don't talk politics with my girlfriend's dad."

He didn't like that. "It's not politics, you..." He got a grip again. A slight smile acknowledged that I'd landed a jab. Good shot, young man! "This takeover is going to happen. What are you going to do? Stop supporting your team? Sit with your hands under your arse while they're scoring goals?"

"Teams should be owned by the fans. United's big enough to stand without help." I remembered I was supposed to be asking him for help. Now was a shit moment, but it was the best I was ever going to get. Sebastian knew it was coming; he tensed - I realised that Emma had done all the work. I just needed to ask. If I asked, he'd agree. But he wouldn't offer. And, I realised, I wouldn't ask. I wouldn't ask him.

But.

It wasn't just about me. There was Emma - she'd like it if I acknowledged that her dad was like, useful or whatever. She put up with so much weirdness from me. It would be a nice thing for me to do. Good for my relationship. Lose a little to gain a little. And it would be good for Chester. One tiny question could end this registration farce. And yes, it'd be a poke in the eye for Old Nick.

There. Three reasons. Fine.

Sebastian saw the moment I decided to ask, and now it was time for him to score a tiny victory. There was more than a slight twinkle in his eye as he said, "Everyone needs help, Max. Even Manchester United. That's why they've gone cap in hand to Qatar. They'll be good owners. They'll clear the debt, rebuild the stadium. It's nothing to be ashamed of, asking for help."

"While we're on the topic of help," I said, looking a bit downcast. "And since you're one of the biggest experts around here..." His eyes lit up. "Which way's the nearest exit? I'll wait outside."

***

On Wednesday morning, I watched training. Carlile was distracted. Henri was dogging it. Evans and Vimsy were standing next to each other on the touchline, doing almost nothing. The scene was so set up to provoke me that I looked around to check if Emma's dad was there, masterminding it.

We don't have time for this!

I called Vimsy and he came over. "Have you talked to Carlile?" I asked.

"No, not yet."

"Got it," I said, nodding. "You're planning to leave when Evans does, then."

He took a half-step back. "No! What? Why would you say that?"

I inhaled. Gave myself time to get past my first impulse, which was a lot of shouting. The thought came to me that the team's CA was in recession because the pair had checked out. They didn't care. No, they cared, but not enough to put in the extra work. Every second that they were idle, a hundred other teams pushed themselves a little bit further into the distance. "Got it," I said again. "Yeah. I see." I swallowed a lot of things I wanted to say, then strode over to Evans. "Ian, mate. Went down to look at the left-back the other night. Didn't see anything of him, so obviously I'd need to go again. Six-hour round trip. Pretty unpleasant stuff."

"I'm in the middle of training, Best. What do you want?"

"The manager there said he'd give us the 50% discount that you talked him into. Great work. But, er, this is embarrassing. I was so tired from the endless drive that I can't remember the wage he said. Do you know what Thickes is on?"

"No," he said, suddenly shifty.

"Oh," I said, looking unhappy. I brightened up with a click of my fingers. "Just remembered! I asked Joe to get Swindon to send over the loan details. It'll be on there, won't it?"

"I imagine so."

"Yeah," I said, not pretending to be anything other than his boss looking sternly at him. "It'll all be there in black and white."

Evans's normal expression - hostility - didn't change. Except at the edges, inside the creases, where most people wouldn't notice. I saw it. He was guilty as fuck and he knew I knew. How would he get out of this mess?

***

On Thursday afternoon, the fourteens had training with Spectrum. I'd missed the Tuesday session because I was in Darlington.

When the kids started warming up, I saw Tyson's profile. His teamwork had dropped a point. With me constantly monitoring and badgering him, it'd risen to 4. Now after just one unsupervised session, it had fallen to 3. Unacceptable. It didn't matter if his hidden coaching numbers were high, Spectrum was having a negative impact on the only kid with a high enough PA to become an asset. It was time to clean house.

"Mate," I said, drawing Spectrum away from the kids. "On Tuesday, did you let Tyson do whatever the fuck he wanted?"

"What? No."

"Some sort of cool uncle thing? Max isn't here. When the cat's away, the mice will play. Something like that?"

"No."

"I believe you. Millions wouldn't. I think, to be on the safe side, we'll leave it there."

"Get on with the session, you mean?"

"No. That's not what I mean."

"Are you..." he scoffed. "Are you sacking me?"

"Can't sack you, mate. You already quit! No, why don't you take this time to go work on your job applications? That'll be a better use of your time than being somewhere you don't want to be."

"But - "

"Thanks for your service." I walked away and signalled that Tyson should join me. "Tyson. Let me ask you a question. Were you dicking around in the last training session?" He looked towards Spectrum. "Don't worry about him. He's out."

"What?"

"Were you dicking around, yes or no?"

"No."

"Okay. Why don't you gather your stuff and go home?"

"What about training?"

"You're not in it. That's what I'm trying to say."

"Not in it?"

"That's right. We should probably have a sit down with your dad where I can explain my decision. Won't take long. We all know the score."

"Can I finish the session?"

"No. This will be preparation for the match on Sunday. If there is one. We might have to forfeit."

"Forfeit?"

"Don't worry about it. Off you pop. Sullivan. Quick word, please."

***

While what was left of the under fourteens processed the shock of seeing me ask people to leave, I made some phone calls.

My first was to Jude, the guy I was paying to coach Broughton. Now I'd pay him to coach Chester. Part-time, trial basis. He was beyond keen.

My second was to Nice One. He didn't pick up, so I left him a voice message. "It's time to bring Benny home," I said.

Finally, I called Terry, the guy who coached the Knights. "Can you help me out tomorrow? Take a couple of sessions?"

"I'll do it if you come on Sunday," he said.

"What's on Sunday?"

"Our tournament! In Crewe."

I pinched my nose, trying to remember. It clicked. "Ah, right. Wait, I thought that was off. Club didn't have the money to send you or something."

"Someone donated the four hundred quid," he said. "Anonymously."

"Huh," I said.

Terry laughed. "Max. I know it was you. You're the only person MD told. We don't go round announcing our poverty. Not when it makes us look heartless."

"Oh."

"Why did you do it?"

Why had I? Leaving the cash on Inga's desk with a printed note seemed like weeks ago. "You told me they need to compete. Need to compete to progress. You're the only part of the club that's competing and progressing."

"Yeah, but... Well, anyway. Thanks. It'd mean a lot if you came. There will be some frame football. Remember I told you about that?"

"I do." The Chester Knights, frame football, it was all great. But it wasn't going to help me shape the future of football. Wasn't going to help me cross the drawbridge while it was still there. "I don't think I'll have time," I said.

"Oh. I understand." He paused. "Still, the kids are buzzing about it. This Crewe tournament is like their Champions League final. It's a big deal."

"Awesome," I said, though I wasn't really listening. "Talk soon."

I looked around at the under fourteens. There wasn't a lot of talent there. I could send them home or use them to do experiments. The smart thing would have been to send them home. Save my energy. When the five rebels were back, we'd have a team with pockets of potential. Future? Now there was a kid who could take me places. There was a kid worth spending time on.

"Guys..." I said, looking at their little faces. Their fearful, apprehensive faces. I'd just cut two of their teammates and their coach. I was on one. For some reason, I thought of Sebastian Weaver. The Ghost of Christmas Future. He'd send them home, no doubt about it. Gloat about his decisiveness, too.

But this lot were good as gold. They didn't have the talent, but they had the attitude. They wanted to learn. Wanted to give me what I asked for. No, they didn't get cut-throat Max. They got romantic Max, the guy who wanted to be a dream-weaver. "Guys. Who are you playing on Sunday?"

"Newton Athletic Eagles," said someone.

"What formation do they play?"

"4-4-2, normally."

"They got any good players?"

"Couple."

Huh. Might be worth checking out. I nodded. "All right, listen up. I went to a match the other day to see one of my favourite players and he barely got a kick. So I want you dudes to show me what he didn't. Four volunteers? Great. Line up here. In a line. Couple of yards between each of you. When I say 'go', run from side to side like you're doing widths. Not all the same speed, not all the same direction. Joey, go the other side of those four. When they're running, I'm going to try to pass the ball through the mayhem, to you. Yeah? Is it clear? Ah, it'll be clear once it starts."

I whistled and the four kids started running from side to side. I hesitated - this was an insanely dumb drill - then cleared my mind. I rolled the ball through the forest of legs. I stuck my tongue out. Dumb, but satisfying!

"Let me have another go," I said. While the kids formed a video-game style obstacle, I jinked my shoulders around, shifting my weight, then suddenly I wrapped one foot around the other and span the ball to the other side.

The kids went 'wroar!'

"Right," I said, smugly. "When you pass, you become the first obstacle. And everyone else moves down one slot." I did the same, becoming the first side to side obstacle. "Dan, your turn. Feed the ball through to the other side."

Dan tried, failed, and we all moved one slot along. The guy who at the back ran around to join the massive queue of players waiting to pass.

"Form another set!" I said, and half of them ran off to do that. The drill contained its own kinetic energy. Perpetual motion.

I blew my whistle. "Drill tweak! Add a pass at the start. Dan, pass to me here."

He passed to me and I had to turn, check the moving obstacles, and then play the long through-pass.

The drill got more and more elaborate. We did it for fifteen minutes, then took a break.

"That was class, guys, well done. Fifty quatloos to anyone who plays a pass like that on Sunday."

"Mr. Best!"

"What?"

"That drill was top! I've never seen it before. What's it called?"

I bit my bottom lip before smiling. "I just invented it. It's called The Dream-Weaver."