14 - Root and Branch [T1] (Patreon)

14.

I was plagued by dreams of loneliness and turmoil, only remembering flashes when I threw the covers back and put my feet on the floor. An empty fridge when I was supposed to be hosting a party. The unsmiling, unfriendly faces of my guests - nobody I'd ever met. An inexplicably oppressive atmosphere. Confusion. Why had I invited them? Why couldn't I make them leave?

I plodded downstairs and made a tea. I planned to bring it back to bed and get a few more hours' rest. But I glimpsed Henri's tree, the one I'd been getting fixated on, and remembered some more dream.

I was climbing a big tree, but no matter how many times I stepped onto the next branch, I was always at the same height. There was something good above me, something I wanted. But I couldn't get closer.

I took my phone and cup and went outside and stared at the real thing. It was bare, of course - even I understood the seasons. About three metres tall, covered with wonderful knobs and bumps.

I FaceTimed Henri. He was frowning as he picked up. "Max? Is this a bootdial?"

"No. Listen - "

"We have training in a couple of minutes."

"Is Ryder there?"

"Yes."

"Hand over the phone."

He did. "Max?"

"Captain. I need to talk to Henri. Fine him for being late we're going to have a problem. Good?"

"Good."

That reminded me of something I'd learned in Darlington but hadn't participated in. "You collect fines from the players and that? And you use it for nights out and stuff?"

"Yes."

Why was I dipping into my private accounts to pay for the Knights to go to their tournament when those first-team fuckers had a fat, juicy pot? "Can we discuss that sometime, please?"

"Yes, sure."

"Great. Any questions?"

"Are you naked?"

"No. Bye."

The phone was passed back. "Henri. Did you plant this tree?" I held up the camera.

"Yes. The garden as it was was paved. Practical, but conspicuous. Unyielding. Abrasive. Nature bends. Trees are strengthened by the storm. You like my crabapple, Max?"

"I do. Why..." I wasn't sure how to word my question. "Why is it here?"

"There? It is where I chose it to be. There, it will offer shade and privacy, should I ever lose my mind and wander around in God's pyjamas. And of course, it's the sunniest spot."

"Sun, right. You couldn't put it by the house. Not enough sun. They need sun."

Henri laughed. "You talk as though this is all new."

"I saw the pictures in school but I've never really thought about it before. I thought you could plant anything anywhere. Emma's mum tried to tell me some things but it's so complicated." I thought about my dream. The enormous tree that had swallowed me. "But what if the neighbour plants a bigger tree? And this one doesn't get light?"

"It will die. Max, are you okay? Would you like me to go there?"

"No... no. You need to train. But look, how do you... How can I... How do you help the tree? Can I give him some food or something?"

"The best you can do is plant the right tree in the right spot. The crabapple loves where I have chosen. A woman of my acquaintance told me to choose something more ornate, more showy. No, I said. Look around. The crabapple loves the area. As you see, I chose wisely. It is a wonderful specimen. Its beauty is a reflection of my own impeccable taste. When a tree is young, you may stake it. That helps it grow strong enough to survive all but the strongest of winds. You may nurse it through a drought. Mostly you leave it alone. Sometimes it appreciates a prune."

"Pruning. That's where you cut bits off."

"Oui. Branches that grow the wrong way." Spectrum. "Branches that compete with others." Tyson. "Branches you deem unaesthetic." Physio Dean.

"Branches that don't produce enough crabs," I suggested.

"If producing crabs is important to you, yes."

"Can you cut it all back to the start and grow a new tree?"

"No. And you must never prune more than thirty percent of a tree." Huh. Good to know.

"You know a lot about trees. Why?"

"The real question is, why don't you?" Henri smiled. Then he lowered the phone and peered downwards so it was like he was checking out my crotch. "No, the real question is: why are you naked?"

"I'm not," I said. "I'm wearing your crocs."

***

I went back inside and made another tea. The first one had frozen by the time I remembered to drink it.

I called the care home and asked if Anna was around and active. Soon I was asking her about my dream and what it meant. She said she'd call me back, which she did.

"Dreams about climbing trees," she read aloud from some website, "show you are planning and using resources to achieve a goal. The dream reminds you that helping other people won't lead to personal benefit." I heard what sounded like her taking her reading glasses off. "Does that mean anything?"

"I gave somebody some money and it was a nice thing to do but realistically it's not going to do them any good. It's just a nice day out. And I'm not exactly loaded. The money could have bribed four kids to bring their mates. Or paid for eight hours of Jude. Or been used to get me a massage after grinding for a few days in a row. Let me get right back at it. Do you know what I mean? There was this kid. He said no good deed goes unpunished. Every time I try to do something nice, it usually bites me on my arse. And when I'm a dick, or selfish, that goes well."

"You have my permission to be a selfish dick," she said.

"Come on," I said, laughing. "That's not what I meant."

"Yes, it was. This nice day out you paid for. Why don't you sneak along and see how nice it is? See what effect your good deeds truly have. Humm?"

"Maybe," I said. "I'm quite busy on Sunday."

"Busy. Too busy to walk Solly, after all he did for you."

"What?"

"I know, young man. I know. Now, tell me. Soccer Supremo. How do I beat Newcastle? They buy the players I want."

"Ask me again in five years."

"I shall hold you to that." She hesitated. Her voice lost its usual strident tone. "Take care of yourself, Max. If you need a massage, get a massage. If you need to stop climbing the tree for a day or two, do so. And," she exhaled, gathering her strength for what she needed to say next. "And if you would like to spend some time with your mother and I, you are always welcome. Especially," she exhaled again, using all the energy she had stored in her roots, "especially if you want to read out articles about FBoy Island."

"FBoy Island!" I laughed. "What the f... Oh. I think I just got the premise. Don't tell me my mother watches a show called FBoy Island?"

"Max, she's obsessed. And Solly loves it. He thinks he can tell the FBoys from the Nice Guys. So you see. Whatever your problems are, they pale in comparison. They really do."

***

Henri didn't have a calendar on the wall. I asked him why, once, and he said, "Because I am not a Mayan."

So I whipped my phone out and went to the app. Noticed how the ends of months loom like cliff edges. It was mid-January. Henri had agreed to let me stay in this house rent-free until the end of January. He'd probably extend that, seeing as how I was working hard to create lots of football, but I needed to find an affordable place in Chester and let Henri get a paying tenant.

My bank balance was okay, and Darlington would be giving me 6,500 pounds soon - reward for my stupendous December. And in February they'd have to pay me two grand for my half hour of work in the Scarborough match. No doubt Darlo would be a lot more careful throwing around goal and assist bonuses in the future! (Thinking about it, if I'd stayed at Darlo, we'd have had to renegotiate my wages or I would have bankrupted them.)

So I had a buffer, but once my goal money was gone, it would be gone. I was on 500 a week at Chester, plus 165 a week from being an agent. The only increase in those numbers likely to come in the near term was if Altrincham wanted to sign James Yalley. I was planning to ask them that evening.

But first, I was off to Broadhurst Park to watch FC United's training session. This was a kill-eight-birds-with-one-stone kinda scenario, and the biggest bird was getting to see Ziggy's updated player profile for the first time in ten weeks.

Ten weeks! It was crazy to think I hadn't seen him play for that long, but so much had happened, and Darlo trained and played at the same time as FCU.

So what did I expect? How much progress?

• On the negative side, FC United were in the seventh tier. Based on what Jackie had told me about player progression plus my own observations and common sense, Youngster's training at tier 5 Altrincham would add more CA per day than Ziggy's, with tier 6 Chester being in the middle.
• There was also the fact that Ziggy had played no games since the little burst he'd had around his debut. Most matches, he didn't even make the bench. Lack of game time would suppress his progress.
• On the positive side, lack of game time meant he could work harder on his fitness. I expected a fair chunk of green in his physical attributes. I knew he'd been hitting the weights because every time I called him he was either coming or going from his local gym.
• Facilities were a point in FCU's favour compared to Chester. FCU had a grass pitch and an all-weather one. Perfectly flat, great for passing drills, and as far as I could tell, they owned it. The stadium was right next to it, with its big FC UNITED OF MANCHESTER sign. It was impressive. Chester trained at a credit card company.
• Finally, the most positive aspect of all - Ziggy was being trained by Jackie Reaper. Even without the curse numbers, I was growing increasingly convinced that Jackie was a top coach who should have been at a big club. Exactly how much CA per day he was worth I wasn't sure, but I knew he was miles ahead of Vimsy and the guys at Darlington.

So when I arrived in North Manchester, I wandered to the side of the pitch and watched. They were doing some transition drill and it was so fast, intense, so serious, that it made me slightly depressed. This seventh tier team was doing training sessions light years ahead of what I was seeing at Chester.

But I didn't dwell on it - if Jackie Reaper was truly the Chosen One, then we'd have this kind of session at Chester from the summer. And then I wouldn't feel like I was walking around with a ball and chain around my ankles.

Ziggy was zipping around, working hard, totally focused.

Barrett Graves "Ziggy"

Born 13.1.1999 (Age 24) English

• Acceleration 6
• Bravery 4
• Dribbling 5
• Finishing 17
• Handling 1
• Heading 8
• Jumping 7
• Pace 6
• Passing 8
• Stamina 7
• Strength 8
• Tackling 4
• Teamwork 16
• Technique 8
• preferred foot R
• CA 24 PA 58
• Striker

Constantly doing running drills had improved his acceleration and pace, although he was starting from such a low point that it would have been hard not to improve. He was still slow, but if you were asking him to chase long punts, you'd set your team up wrong.

His jumping had stopped improving, so maybe he'd hit a hard limit on that one. His heading was better, though. If I sent a perfect cross onto his head and he tried to redirect it into the goal, would the curse use his heading or his finishing? I still didn't know!

Because of the way he played, his improvements in his dribbling and tackling wouldn't be seen much in matches. But all green was good green. There would be one or two times a match when he'd try to tackle someone.

His passing and technique were still below average, but again, as a striker he wouldn't need to hit fifty-yard diagonals. He wasn't a dream-weaver.

Stamina and strength were important for a player in the Northern Premier League Premier. Those defenders tried to grapple you, grab your shirt, wrestle you. It didn't happen much to me because I was usually running at my opponent. Ziggy would spend most of the match facing the same way as the defender and referees allowed a bit of inter-team hugging. If he didn't want to be the little spoon, he needed to fight back.

And finally, his CA. Twenty-four! I vaguely remembered hoping he'd hit 20 by January, and now he had. He needed to get to 30 to become a viable option for the first team, but he wasn't far off. At 40 he'd be ready for Chester. I'd planted him in the right place. Pleasing. The raw numbers didn't tell the tale, though. He'd been given a chance and he was jumping at it with rare enthusiasm. I knew he'd had the odd beer, but adding more than 20 CA points in ten weeks struck me as proof of tremendous sacrifice and diligence.

But the best thing was seeing him score! Finally! These little drills ended with shots being struck towards half-sized goalposts. There weren't any goalkeepers, and in the drill it wasn't the shot that mattered, it was the build-up. After a goal, the drill simply restarted and they did it again. But Ziggy scored! He scored a few times! Putting the ball in the net was as easy for him as putting on a Kappa tracksuit was for Jackie.

That said, my dude could have scored twice as many. If Ziggy had time to think, he'd control the ball and try to hit a good shot. He was most effective when he acted on instinct. His one-touch finishing seemed excellent. It reminded me of someone... Some old video I'd seen.

My plan was to hang around until the end of training and take my dudes to lunch, but my dudes had other ideas. Ziggy left the session and ran over to me. "Max, did you bring your boots?"

"Hi, Ziggy."

"Yeah, hi. Boots?"

"I always have a pair in the car."

"Mint. Hurry up, will you? We need you for the next bit. Ta."

Jackie Reaper up to mischief, no doubt. Well, there wasn't enough mischief in my life. I went to get my kit bag.

***

"All right, lads," said the baldest of FCU's many bald coaches. Jackie, head both gleaming and steaming in the freezing cold air, seemed to be in charge of the session - there was no sign of Neil, the actual manager. "Everyone remembers Secret Agent? He's made quite a name for himself since I taught him the half-turn. Haven't you, Max?"

"Yeah, I'm massive."

The FC United lads liked that. They'd always liked my cocky attitude. Why hadn't Jackie got me involved here? Taking a fan-owned team based on the principles of Man United and making them more successful than the real Man United? That'd be a hell of a story.

"Let's just check you really learned it, though, yeah?"

"Yeah. Let me do your little drill. It's not like I have a whole fucking football club to run."

Jackie smiled and got everyone in position. It was the exact same scenario as the day I'd brought Ziggy to the club. I had to take the ball on the half-turn and pass between two defenders into the path of a fast attacker called Sandro.

I got into position, while Jackie grabbed a chunk of my tracksuit top. He'd try to stop me. "You're not going to kick me up the arse, are you?"

"Me? Never," he grinned.

So this was interesting. Last time, I was sure he wouldn't foul me. I was a rando in a suit. This time I was one of the best players in non-league football. He definitely would try something to stop me. Something he planned to teach to his players.

"Ready, Secret Agent?"

I yawned. "Mmm," I said, looking bored.

A coach passed the ball to me, and suddenly Jackie had two hands on my top, grabbing and pushing me as hard as he could. I twisted myself towards him as though resisting, but unseen by Jackie I was flicking the ball up once, twice, three times, then backwards over his head. At the exact right moment, I span the other way, out of his grasp, dashed onto the ball, and finished the move with a disgustingly pretty rabona flick - one foot behind the the other - sending the ball neatly through the defenders in front of Sandro.

You can imagine the reaction from the players.

I yawned again. "Wait. Were we supposed to be practicing half-turns?"

Jackie was glaring at me. Nutmegging him in front of some university students was one thing. Doing whatever the fuck that was in front of all his players was... maybe too much. No - the smile arrived late, but it arrived. "I asked for it..." He turned to his players and jabbed a thumb at me. "I spent weeks trying to persuade this prick to go for a trial. He said he was dogshit." He shook his head and checked how interested the guys were. Very, it seemed. "Max, you're crushing the National League North. What is it, ten goals in five games?"

"Mate," I said, dismissively. "I don't count my stats like some weirdo. But if I did, I'd say five starts, three subs, eleven goals, four assists."

It was easy to tell the guys who didn't know who I was - they were the ones whose heads were literally exploding. My stats were up there.

"All right, all right," said Jackie with a smile. "You've come a long way in a short time. What's one thing you've learned that might help our lads?"

"Jesus," I said, bravado gone. That question had done me in. Jackie was a great coach and a guy who was interested in learning more and being better. Who else did I know who would ask a question like that? Jackie's way of thinking was completely missing at Chester. Being thoughtful wasn't quite the right vibe in front of all these guys. I tried to step back into cocky confidence. "Do you want me to spout some guff about winning duels or keeping shape?"

Slightly exasperated smile. "No, Max. Be honest."

I thought about it. "I don't know if this is helpful, lads, but the first thing I did at my trial in Darlington was shoot. Goalie was coming off his line, stopping us playing through balls. He was getting everything. Suffocating us. So I got the ball, shot from forty, forty-five yards. I scored, but that wasn't the point, really. It was about stopping him coming off his line. He didn't try that again. We dominated. Bosch. I've been doing that ever since. My first one-on-one with any left-back. I normally just blow past him. Surprise him with my speed. Bosch. They don't go forward after that. They've got to stay with me as much as they can otherwise I'm through on goal whenever I get the ball. Another thing's corners. First one in a game I normally shoot. And free kicks. First one's a shot. Keeps goalies pinned back the rest of the match. Know what I mean? Rest of the match I'm flexible. Do what's best in the situation. But the first thing is, I show you my best move. If you can deal with it, good for you. But if you're dealing with me, you're not doing anything else."

"The Max Best Way, ladies and gentlemen. But Max. What if you aren't fast, skillful, or have a shot like a mule's kick?"

"Do you mean: what if I'm Ziggy?"

"Ooh," said everyone. The guys nearest him gave him digs.

A grinning Ziggy gave me pair of Vs. I smiled at him; the memory I'd been searching for finally dropped from the recesses of my mental vending machine into the flap where I could reach in and grab it. My brain had just needed a good shake. "I told Jackie you could turn into the Manc Chicharito. But there's another Mexican you could play like: Hugo Sanchez." His reaction told me he'd never heard of the dude. Nobody else had, either, including Jackie. I bet Raffi Brown would have known him. "Top player," I explained. "Striker. Real Madrid. There's a video that did the rounds a while back. Quality's shit, but the title says it all. Hugo Sanchez, 38 Goals from One Touch."

"What?" said one guy.

I nodded quickly, amused. "Yeah! That's what I thought. 38 from one touch, what does that mean? Here's what it means: 38 goals in one season. And every goal was a first-touch finish. A few pens, a few free kicks, but mostly, ball comes into the box and he hits it first time. Bosch! Bosch! Bosch! Think about it. Goalie has no time to set himself. It's lethal."

"You think I can do that?" said Ziggy.

I gave him my best warm-wash voice and looked at him like we were alone on FBoy Island. "I know you can."

In fact, I didn't know that. I was pretty incredibly certain he couldn't. But from the look in his eye, I knew Ziggy would try.

After a tiny and rare moment of confusion, Jackie checked his watch. "All right. Go and warm down. Big game tomorrow."

I wanted to complain. He'd made me get my boots on, and all this talk of pinning goalies back and one-touch finishes had made me itch to get a game going. But I kept my mouth shut.

***

I went into town with Jackie and Ziggy. We wandered around for a bit, then chose a spot to have lunch. Food was the last thing on my mind. I think I ordered something brown.

"Oh, God," I said. "Manchester is quality. It feels good to be home."

"I met a player," said Jackie. "He was at a club out in Malaysia. Seemed like a nice gig, nice people, all that. But he told me he used to fly home four times a year."

"Four?" I thought about that. It seemed excessive.

"Yeah. He said he'd worked it out. If he went home any less than four times a year, he'd start cracking up. He's got a few half-friends, no family. No roots. Uproot a tree, it dies. He used to go home, soak up all the nutrients. Bake Off. Corra. Night at the bingo with his mum and a curry. Sort his head out."

"Interesting," I said. I wasn't sure it applied to me, but it was worth thinking about. "Ziggy, let's get straight down to business."

"Yes, Max." He'd been eyeing a waitress, but was now all ears.

"What do you want for your birthday?"

"Oh!" he smiled. "You remembered."

"Your birthday is carved into my brain, mate. So. There's a ticket to see Altrincham versus Wrexham tonight in the FA Trophy."

"Will Ryan Reynolds be there?"

"I hope not. I want to be the hottest dude."

"You're going anyway? Without me?"

"Have to. Work stuff. You're not into it?"

"Not really."

"Fine. What about going out after? I'll be your wingman. Like in the old days."

He smirked. "I have plans for tonight."

Jackie said, "Didn't you know, Max? Ziggy is a legendary swordsman. He's got a girl in every port. Southport... Ellesmere Port..."

"Portmeirion," I suggested, naming a famous village in Wales.

"I don't have a girl in every port," said Ziggy. "But I appreciate the offer, Max. You can buy me lunch. How about that for a present?"

"Cool," I said.

"You can buy mine, too. Interest on the money you owe me."

"Deal. I can pay you, now, Jackie. Send me your deets."

After some more chitchat, I brought up the mess that was Chester. It wasn't just for the rare opportunity to use Jackie as a sounding board, but because if he was going to be the next manager, then he had a stake in what I was doing. And, as I explained to him, he had helped to get the club on its feet. If he thought I was endangering it, that would mean a lot more than if Spectrum did.

"What exactly have you done?"

I told him about my initial attempts at pruning, and why I'd started there. "And Physio Dean is next unless he bucks up his act. Even fucking Vimsy is getting on my nerves, and I like him! He's fine. But that's the problem. Fine doesn't cut it. I'm pretty sure they do the same sessions in the same order every week. Your sessions are to Vimsy's what Manchester is to Liverpool."

Jackie chewed some more. He had paid careful attention to everything I'd said. "You weren't hired for your tact, Max. MD wants you to improve things. You're allowed to do that. But tell me," he said, dipping some food into some other food. "Do you rate him as a coach?"

"Spectrum? Yeah. I do. And he's smart. And he can set teams up in loads of formations. He's a loss. I want to spend Sunday watching League One matches or whatever, but I can't think who can do the under fourteens. I thought Jude would do it, but the rebels want to play one last match for Broughton, so he's decided to stick with them. Apparently they were inspired by my 'one last game for Darlo' thing. So that's another good deed that's come back to bite me on the arse. I'll have to do it myself."

"Is the situation terminal? Would you mind if I talked to him?"

"Huh." I took a bite of whatever it was I was eating. "Sure. Yeah, go for it. No, actually, no. Fucker lied to me."

"You don't actually know that."

"I do. I promise you, they had a fucking hairbrush karaoke session. Let's all sing Grease songs while Tyson prances around taking shots. Oh, shit. My blood's boiling again. No. I don't want him around. It's bad for my health."

Jackie tutted and laughed. "I'm going to talk to him. You can't expect him to know you're a scout as well as everything else. He hasn't seen Ziggy turn from a five-a-side left-back into Hugo Chavez."

"Why are you always comparing me to Mexicans?" wondered Ziggy.

"Hugo Sanchez. I don't need him to believe in me, Jackie. I'm not starting a cult. I gave him two instructions. Encourage Sully to play forward. Don't let Tyson shoot. It's not much to ask."

"Just checking: You don't blame him for Sully?"

"I don't. But he undid a lot of hard work I'd done on Tyson."

"Kay. I'll talk to him."

I shook my head. "Fine. But listen. If he doesn't admit that he let Tyson let his hair down, then that's that. No, Jackie, I'm serious. I was livid."

"All right."

"Another thing. I want to sign a tiny German on a long-term contract. The next manager will have to give him minutes to help his development."

"Will he?"

"Yes, he will."

"Why are you talking like that?" said Ziggy.

"Good, is he?" said Jackie.

"There's a long list of things he can't do but he's the best player we're likely to get this year. For what it's worth, I played with him for twenty minutes and we slapped."

"You slapped?"

"Yeah. He's the right tree in the wrong place. So we'll give him extra sunlight. Put a coat around him in winter. That's a thing, right? It's a coaching challenge, Jackie. A big one. An ambitious coach would drool over the degree of difficulty. And I'll take the blame if it goes to shit." Jackie looked up at something, stared for a while, then gave me a little nod. That was it. The last chance for anyone to talk me out of going for Pascal. Back to the pruning. "What does Livia say about Dean?"

"Lots of things."

"Dean makes women's skin crawl, yes or no?"

"No."

"Dean needs to go to charm school, yes or no?"

"I think he went to the same one as you, la."

"It's easy to replace a physio, yes or no?"

"With a generalist, yes. Dean's got football experience. Football's not tennis. It's not rugby."

I sighed. "It's just legs. It can't be that hard. A vet could do it."

"He was fantastic during the pandemic. Talk to the players who were at the club, then. I think you'll hear about a side of him you haven't seen."

The pandemic was a massive head-fuck and lots of people didn't come out with any credit. If Dean did, that was a massive point in his favour. "Fine. I'll ponder it. New topic. If you were manager of a team next season, what would your default formation be?"

"I don't know, Maxy boy. I'd probably do whatever my Director of Football told me to do. I hear they're all rageaholics."

He was saying that to wind me up, and it was working. I rubbed my temples. I wasn't sure why we were talking in code. Maybe because it's bad luck to assume you've got a job before you've got it. Or just bad form - the sale of the house hasn't completed but you're talking about ripping up the whole garden. "Let's imagine the guy has two weeks to bring in players that would be useful this season as well as next. See what I mean? He needs to fucking know."

Jackie thought about adding fuel to the flames, but put the lid back on the canister. "3-5-2."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Sorry."

"What are you sorry for?" said Ziggy. I thought he knew that Jackie was in line for the Chester job. Probably he'd been told and had forgotten.

"Max needs a left-back for the rest of this season, but there's a chance the guy wouldn't fit the next manager's formation. And knowing Max, he'd want to bring in a talented kid. Who Ian Evans wouldn't use."

Ziggy wasn't really following, but he had a solution. "Get an experienced guy on loan till the end of the season. Problem solved."

He was right, but I didn't like it. "Loans are dead money. We're developing someone else's player. Using wages that should be going to talents we can sell. That's buying liabilities not assets. That's short-termism. Short-term thinking is why we're in this mess."

Jackie eyed me. "You'll have to compromise, la. It's not a dirty word."

"I agree. I compromise loads. One day we'll work together, Jackie, and you'll see I'm top of the league for compromises."

He grinned. "I bet you're always in compromising positions." That got Ziggy - he laughed so hard he had to cover his nose. Jackie was very pleased with himself. He basked in his triumph. "Can't help notice, Max, that you're not in the Chester team. Is that... your choice, or Ian's?"

"Admin issue. No biggie."

"Hmm." He gave me his best 'man stares into abyss; doesn't like what he sees' look. "And you're happy with Ian in charge, are you?"

"That's MD's call," I said.

"You're the DoF," said Ziggy. "You don't like the manager and you have the power to sack him. Er... what am I missing?"

"I need to learn to work with dicks," I said. "In case the next guy is an even bigger dick."

***

A few hours later, I went to South Manchester to watch the Altrincham under eighteens train. James Yalley would be there. I tried to think back to the last time I'd seen his live player profile. I'd seen it the very first time at Jackie's masterclass with the Beth Heads and the shithousery. Then he'd refused to play for a while, and when he caved, I got him the gig at Alty. Yeah, I'd literally only seen him play once.

Once!

Bonkers.

What I'd seen was a CA 2 defensive midfielder with lots of potential. Since then, he'd been training on a casual basis, a couple of times a week, for about six weeks. He hadn't played any matches, but Alty were tier 5 and it seemed like a good setup. I expected him to have improved in a few areas.

James, of course, exceeded expectations.

James Yalley "Youngster"

Born 19.10.2005 (Age 17) Ghanaian/English

• Acceleration 8
• Bravery 16
• Dribbling 6
• Finishing 6
• Heading 4
• Handling 1
• Jumping 4
• Pace 9
• Passing 5
• Stamina 9
• Strength 4
• Tackling 10
• Teamwork 20
• Technique 5
• preferred foot R
• CA 20 PA 181
• Defensive Midfielder, Midfielder (Centre)

Like Ziggy, lots of running was enough to improve his running numbers. Passing, technique, and finishing had improved, but were still low. The passing was a worry, long-term. If I saw the future correctly, James would make a lot of tackles and interceptions, which was awesome. But then he'd need to do something productive with the ball.

But he was only 17. If he added one point in passing a year, he'd eventually get good enough that people didn't mention it as a weakness.

His teamwork was outstanding. Literally perfect. And his CA? Chef's kiss! It was plausible that with a couple of sub appearances, and maybe a start in the last match of the season, that he'd get to CA 40.

Well, that sold me. Of course I wanted him at Chester, but our facilities and coaches were shit. If he signed a deal with Altrincham, they'd play him in under eighteen matches and then fast-track him into the first team. Chester would miss out on a future transfer fee, but letting him stay at Alty was clearly best for James's career, and they would get a nice transfer fee to justify their faith in him.

Almost a win-win-win. Close enough.

While the kids were being put through their paces, I sidled up to Gavvo. "Mate. This is impressive. Love the intensity, love the drills, love the facilities. I assume you guys are interested in signing Youngster to a proper deal?"

Gavvo gave me a weird look. "Why don't you talk to your client before we have this chat, Max?"

"Oh. Is he not happy?"

Gavvo shook his head. "Talk to him. But listen, when I agreed to let your boy come and train, you promised me a free kick masterclass."

"Oh! You want it now?"

"That okay? I notice you haven't been playing. You injured? It can wait."

"Even if I was injured it wouldn't stop me showing off. I'll get my boots."

***

That evening, I went with the Yalleys to watch the FA Trophy game. Mr. Yalley had to work at the airport, but Mrs. Yalley came. When the match kicked off, she whipped out a little book and started reading.

Wrexham made lots of changes to their team, generally a sign the manager doesn't care too much about the competition. They started poorly and went a goal down. Alty were quite impressive. Sharp and hungry. They were taking the competition seriously. But then Wrexham's greater quality started to tell. Even their reserve players had higher CA than Alty's 55. Wrexham took a two-one lead and looked comfortable. But a mad, last-minute scramble led to an equaliser and a penalty shoot-out.

Altrincham won. Great news for James! Having extra matches in the schedule would make it slightly more likely that he'd get game time. It remained a long shot that he'd feature for the first team this season, but sport's all about hope.

With six minutes of injury time and the curse crediting me with XP for watching the penalties (as if I'd look away - even Mrs. Yalley watched them), I picked up 281 XP with 31 going towards my debt.

We walked home to their house - super convenient! - and chatted.

Kisi told me all about her training with Man City and asked how I was getting on with the women's team.

"I need to unlock a perk from this curse I got from a demon," I didn't say, "to get this thing called Playdar which may or may not be useful. But don't worry," I didn't add, "tomorrow I'm going to break my record for most XP in a day. Boom."

"Max?" she said.

"Er, I haven't started yet," I said. "Had to get the money in place. Right. James talk. Everyone ready? James. I've decided you'll get a contract with Altrincham. I'm delighted with what I've seen there. It's the best place for you. When you're signed up you'll train every day, have full medical access, and get game time. This season, break into the first team squad. Next season, first team regular. So I'm thinking two and half year contract so they can sell you in the last year and make some money. That's fair for the club, Mrs. Yalley. And yeah, we'll see who the next team is. Wrexham, maybe, if they move up the divisions like we all expect."

I clapped my hands together to end the speech. Job done. James was one step closer to being a hundred-million pound player.

"No," said James.

"Er... you what?"

"I have decided to move to Chester."

"Well, that's dumb. So, veto."

"God has spoken to me."

My heart sank. I thought I was done with that guy. "What did he say?" I asked, carefully.

"He told me to follow you, Mr. Best. He said you needed me."

"Right. Follow me on Instagram or what?"

"To Chester."

"Well, call him back and tell him he knows fuck all about football."

Kisi laughed - big laugh, but James cringed. "Please, Mr. Best."

"Oh, fine. Sorry." He accepted my apology. I stood and wandered around their living room. A few bare trees were visible in the next garden. I retook my seat. Like most people, James responded to stories. "James, listen. You... You are a tiny baby tree. I have gathered you in my arms like that Bible kid. Who'm I thinking of? Little Egyptian kid. Kisi?"

"Moses?"

"That's the one. Thanks. And I've wandered around looking for the right spot to plant you, mate. And I've chosen Altrincham. Because you're a native tree. You grow best in South Manchester, see? And you get sunlight. That's coaching. And the soil's good. That's the facilities. And... there are nice birds here. Aren't there, James?" His eyes flickered. Was I going to tell his mum about the girls who'd turned his head in the pub? "Birds are your teammates. The better the birds, the faster you grow. I'm sure that's how trees work. And they need worms, too, right? Worms are the opposition. The better the opposition, the faster you develop. See? The analogy is flawless. Altrincham, great soil, lots of sun. Chester? Ugh. We're renting soil from a credit card company. There's a massive dinosaur blocking the light. The worms are lazy and don't do as they're told. And the birds are... what did I say the birds were again? Look, do you get what I'm saying?"

James did his best Pastor Yaw impression, speaking as though to a great multitude. "I will plant the cedar in the wilderness." I'm not sure where it came from, but suddenly he had a Bible in his hand that he clutched to his Chester. I mean, to his chest. "Where I go, God will provide light and water." He rolled his eyes slightly. "And worms."

"Mrs. Yalley, can you help me, please? We can't mess around here. Alty have better facilities, better coaches, and play in a higher league. That means better players around James and better opponents. His development demands that he stay in Alty. He can walk there from his house! Chester have no money!" She gave me nothing. I turned back to James for one last attempt. "We literally can't pay you. Where would you live? No, mate. Come on. You must have misheard. God wants what's best for you, I hope we can both agree on that." He pursed his lips. Telling him there was no money strengthened his resolve. I literally couldn't have said anything less likely to persuade him. "What is happening? Kisi. Tell him."

She smiled. "Max, you're wasting your breath. He's decided. And you know what? I agree with him. Alty isn't the best place for his development. You are."

"I'm not a place, mate. I don't keep a 3G pitch in my back pocket. Ugh. Clients are supposed to listen to their agents. That's kinda the point. This," I announced, "is a disaster." I inhaled to stop myself from going on a rant.

"Would you like another cup of tea?" said Mrs. Yalley.

I stared forwards, blank and unblinking. James's decision had stupefied me. I'd need time to fully process it. Exhaling was like waking up from a cosy daydream. "Did you say... plant cedar in the wilderness?"

"Yes. It's from Isaiah."

"I will plant cedar in the wilderness. That's actually beautiful." James leaned forward, the book in his hand gliding towards me. "Hey," I said. "Easy now." James blinked with defeat and leaned back. A small smile played on his lips. "Planting trees in the wilderness," I murmured, pinching my top lip. That was my task. Plant players where it was hard to grow them. James's phrase was already haunting me; it would bug me if I couldn't remember the words right. "Show me the bit," I said, pointing to the Bible. James nearly had a spasm in his haste to launch himself forward.

Out of nowhere, Kisi's hand slammed onto it. "No." We looked at her in astonishment. She smirked. "I reckon Max is a KJV kinda boy."

James grinned his goofiest grin, while Mrs. Yalley complained, "Kisiiii."

"I think Mr. Best would prefer the King James version," said Kisi, all prim and proper. She came back to the table with an older, more frayed Bible. It had those golden edges on the page that I guess was supposed to make it seem more holy and less full of talking donkeys.

James opened it to the section and held his breath until I finished lining up a photo of the passage about the trees. Me liking the wording of one passage had made his day.

Weird kid.

I was glad to know him, though. I was glad to know them all. They were the kinds of people who'd help me grow my trees.

And I needed all the help I could get, because that very weekend I went out into the wilderness, found a tiny, fragile, delicate sapling in the only environment where it could reliably flourish, and made it my life's mission to uproot it.

...

Thanks for your support! You are either the sunlight or the soil or the birds or the worms that makes this story possible!