15 - A Glimpse of the Beloved [T1] (Patreon)

15.

All I expected from Saturday was a colossal injection of experience points, but the day gave me that and more.

I'd decided to hit the Championship, the division below the Premier League, because I hadn't scouted that level yet, and because with a bit of fast driving I could make two matches in one day. I wouldn't find any players we could buy or loan, but six XP per minute across a hundred and eighty minutes would be like buying a jetpack. Up we go! My problem was that I couldn't really justify going to loads of matches in the higher tiers, because any players likely to come to Chester wouldn't be there. Indeed, when I asked Inga to try to hook me up with tickets to see Rotherham and/or Burnley, she swallowed the obvious question: why?

Me being Chester's Director of Football was enough for Rotherham - they generously put aside a seat for me. Burnley was a much hotter ticket for scouts and media, and I ended up having to pay for that one myself.

I arrived bright and early to the New York Stadium in Rotherham. Rotherham is just outside Sheffield, so it was about 90 minutes of monotonous motorway. Classic FM was doing a bad job of relaxing me, and I was having dark thoughts. Teetering on the edge of catastrophising. The worst of many projects I was botching was finding new players for the first team, but the more I stewed on it, the more I got annoyed by MD and the Board's delay in appointing me. If I'd been given the DoF job right after the World Cup in December I could maybe have been more methodical, or had a plan, or something. I could have hit the ground running. What I was doing now felt like jogging slightly slower than the treadmill I was on - I was slipping backwards, about to fall flat on my face.

All I could do was hope Playdar would be worth it - I was about to place 8,000 eggs in that basket.

That thought frustrated me even further. If I could wait till the end of the month, and if I could win a twenty percent coupon code, that would save me 1,600 XP. That was a lot of XP to waste.

I sighed. There wasn't an option, really. Improving my ability to scout was at emergency levels. I'd have to pay full whack for Playdar and save my coupons for something expensive in the future.

The first thing that cheered me up that day was seeing the New York Stadium from the motorway. It looked like a miniature version of Arsenal's beautiful Ashburton Grove. I was early enough that I had ample time to walk around the whole thing. From the other side, it was weird-looking, like a kid had spent weeks building a football stadium out of lego but had run out of bricks. It sort of tapered down from right to left in the style of terraced houses built on a slope. Bit strange, but once inside I went straight back to loving it. The capacity was 12,000, which is relatively small for the level they were playing at, but it had the vibe of being the right size for the club.

I stopped a few fans and asked what they thought of it. The reaction was universally positive. With some follow-up questions I asked about their owner, who received mostly positive ratings. He'd saved the club from bankruptcy and injected thirty million pounds, wisely, such that the club achieved two promotions, and he had delivered on his promise to build a stadium in the local postcode. The complaints about him were absurdly trivial. Football fans are hard to please!

I was shown to my seat by Rotherham United's hospitality manager. Busy dude, rushing around like a blue-arsed fly, but he lingered to ask me some questions. For example, Director of Football? You? Really? Not in an obnoxious way.

"Yeah, really," I said. "It's weird but it turns out I'm a genius. I'll leave ten, fifteen minutes early. Got to get to Burnley for the three o'clock. You won't think it's rude?"

"No, a lot of scouts and whatnot do similar things. You're all right, cock."

"What are you expecting today?"

"Blackburn are third. Flying high. We're near the bottom. Been a bit of an ordeal, season so far. Most folk'd be made up with a draw, to be honest."

"All right," I said. "Fingers crossed. Hey, I'm fascinated by this stadium. If we ever develop ours, I think this would be a hell of a template. I don't suppose you know how much it cost?"

"Twelve million," he said.

"Twelve million," I repeated. That was a lot of money for a club like Chester. "Thanks." Yeah, twelve mill was a lot of Pascal Bochums.

***

The match was great. Highly enjoyable. Rotherham's average CA was 120, while Blackburn's was 135. Despite that, Rotherham battered them. Four-nil. Big win for the Yorkshire lads over their Lancashire rivals.

Even better, one of the goals was a Max Best-style fuck-this-I'll-do-it-myself cannonball from thirty-five yards out that thundered off the underside of the crossbar and bounced up into the roof of the net. Almost as visually and aurally satisfying as a solo goal can be. And another was hit direct from a corner. Perfect strike. I was jealous, but in a way, relieved. The more other people had moments like me, the less I seemed like a demonic freak. And while I played in the National League North, people would be able to dismiss what I was doing as 'only against Scarborough' or whatever.

Yeah, great goals, great match.

I had been feeling a bit burned out, but my XP was rising so rapidly and Rotherham was such a friendly place and its small club was holding its own so well (in a very, very tough division) that my burnout receded. I wanted more. I spent half-time looking for options to really pack my weekend full of footy.

***

By leaving early and driving slightly more insanely than I would normally countenance, I arrived at Burnley only ten minutes late. There was five minutes of faffing around peeing and finding my seat, and I was a bit sweaty from sprinting up loads of flights of stairs, but I made it. Massive triumph. Back on the Championship XP train, whoo whoo!

Turf Moor is a great stadium. Two spoonfuls of old, northern pie-and-a-pint tradition mixed with a pinch of modernity, most notably the massive, modern screens showing replays during the game.

But with Burnley, the interesting thing was the team.

For my whole life, Burnley had been synonymous with direct teams playing 4-4-2. Keep it tight, set pieces, flick-ons, long-throws. The whole Ian Evans experience. But what was almost unique is that Burnley were able to make this throwback style work in the Premier League against turbo-charged superhumans coached by highly-paid floating brains. It shouldn't have been possible, but they survived at elite level for six seasons.

When they were finally relegated, their new billionaire owners appointed a former Manchester City player who had done a mediocre job in his only previous stint as manager. Get ready for the lols!

And what he asked from his players was even more unlikely than Burnley's gravity-defying stay at the top. He asked them, these beefy boys, these bruisers, these willing runners, to play fantasy football. Fantasy football!

I watched in something approaching stupefaction as players I'd last seen crashing into late tackles were now zipping the ball to feet, playing it around in triangles, rectangles, rhombuses, before storming into space they'd opened up. They played short and long passes with equal accuracy. They were a menace from all areas of the pitch in aspects of the game. The changes in formation were so fluid I only noticed something had changed when it changed back to what it had been. 4-4-2 without the ball transformed instantaneously into 4-2-3-1 with it, but then the full-backs would move into midfield and DMs would vanish and pop up elsewhere and suddenly it was 2-3-5 and then a truly mental 3-1-6. Six attackers in a horizontal line!

Watching my dreams play out before my very eyes was euphoric; I felt drunk.

You'll notice I haven't even mentioned the opposition. That was Coventry City, who were just about to go on a sensational march up the table. Their CA of 140ish was close to Burnley’s 145. But Burnley swatted them aside. It was a frighteningly dismissive performance for fans of other Championship teams.

But for me, it was wonderful. A rebuilding job that would take a normal manager four years had been done in four minutes. I'd love to play in this team, I'd love to manage this team, this team was nothing short of glorious.

And yet.

Billionaire owners. Happy to get out of the Championship, no doubt, but what would they do to make sure they never went down again? They’d got lucky finding a legit genius, but lightning wouldn’t strike twice.

And the team. There were still some big-name tough guys from the old squad. But when I checked the player history tabs and did some research, I found a huge number of players were at Burnley on loan. These talented players were helping Burnley get promoted, and that was worth almost any price. But there was a price - the opportunity cost of giving game time to Burnley’s own youngsters. What would Burnley do next season when those loan players were back at their parent clubs? They'd have to buy ten new guys. The summer could be quite frantic.

Still, though. There couldn't have been a more effective demonstration of how loan players could help a club achieve its goals.

While the happy home fans drifted out of the stadium, I hung around and drank it all in.

It felt like I’d learned more in an hour than in the entire World Cup. But maybe I needed to watch all that for this to make sense.

There was one thing I knew - if total football could flourish in Burnley, cedars could grow in the wilderness. I wouldn’t accept excuses.

I sent Jackie a text.

Me: We need to go and watch Burnley together. He’s doing total football. I want it.

Jackie: You can't play that style in the National League North.

Me: I know a tiny German who can.

Jackie: Great. Now find ten more. Ones who can win headers.

Me: I want it.

Jackie: I want doesn't get. By the way. Check the scores.

I wondered what he meant. I checked Man United, and they'd beaten Man City 2-1. Quite a turnaround from the last match where City had thrashed us 6-3! United had managed to close the gap after all. City were still way better, but United were now close enough that they could sometimes win. Progress. But Manchester rivals slugging it out wouldn't interest Jackie much. And nor would he want to draw my attention to the fact that Brighton had thrashed Liverpool 3-0. Brighton had a very interesting new manager. I'd have to get to one of their matches and check him out.

I skipped several divisions and checked Chester. We lost. Henri didn't score. That was four games without scoring for him. Not bueno in the slightest. Darlo also lost. They were in something of a mini-slump, to the point that winning the league seemed out of reach. They were still favourites to finish second, but they'd have to fight their way through the playoffs if they wanted promotion. It would be a slog.

And then I found what Jackie had meant.

FC United of Manchester four, Hyde United four. FC United's unbeaten run preserved by an 80th minute equaliser from... drum roll... the Ziggster!

It was there in black and white:

Ziggy 80

So simple. A story in two words. I jumped for joy. Punched the air.

Punching the air was dumb, since I was holding my phone in that hand. It went flying and the screen shattered.

Worth it.

With bits of glass threatening to pierce my skin, I typed carefully.

Me: Zigggggy! Please tell me this one wasn't an own-goal!

Ziggy: Through ball. First time shot. Lob. Hugo Boss, like you said.

Me: Hugo Sanchez. Oh, man. I can't wait to see the video. How did you celebrate?

Ziggy: No clue. Ball hit the net then I was back ready to play. Whatever went down in the meantime, shrug emoji

Oh-kay. Pretty sure I knew what that meant. He’d gone Full Tardelli.

The day was thundering along at breakneck speed, but then turned... strange. My friend slash underperforming employee slash landlord called me. He must have just stepped out of the shower after the defeat.

"Henri, what's up?"

“Did you see that?”

“No.”

"Where are you?"

"Burnley."

"Ah. You wanted to see the unlikeliest total football."

"Henri, it was amazing. I'm buzzing. I feel like a kid who’s seen footy for the first time. Ah!" I gasped. "I think I'm in love."

"For the lovesick, the only cure is a glimpse of the beloved."

"Oh, totally," I agreed, because Henri didn't like when I asked him to repeat himself.

"I must ask for a favour." Rare moment of hesitation from the guy. Maybe he was choosing which scarf to wear.

"Go on."

He sighed. He left a noisy room and was now in a silent, echoey one. "It is well you were not here. I played like merde today, Max. It must have been my worst match since I was learning the game as an adolescent."

Not what a DoF wants to hear. "Oh."

"I must glimpse my beloved. I need you to come. I must fall back in love."

"You've got it, mon ami. What do you need?"

"In the morning, come to me. There is a rumour you sleep in the stadium. Haunt the stadium, as one person put it. Plan to stay there tomorrow night. Yes, that will do. Come as early as you can, Max."

***

So it didn't seem like I'd be getting more XP tomorrow. Was he taking me on a quick jaunt to France? Sort his homesickness out by eating bits of animals not intended for English mouths? I texted him that I didn't have a passport, in case that was relevant.

His reply was a link to the UK's passport office. I swiped it away. More paperwork and admin was the last thing I needed.

Instead, I checked my stash.

XP Balance: 7263

Debt repaid: 503/3000

All right! Playdar was one big push away! If I got no XP on Sunday, I could go to Stoke-on-Trent to watch Port Vale on Monday night. That would earn me something like 450 XP, plus give me my first taste of League One action. That would leave me about 300 short. If I juggled my schedule I’d have Playdar by close of business on Tuesday.

What was Henri planning?

Knowing him, we'd end up in a jazz bar or naked swimming in a reservoir or geocaching or just generally the last thing you'd expect. Which, thinking about it, ruled out the jazz bar and the nudity.

***

Later, I had a big ‘oh, shit’ moment when I remembered I’d kicked out the guy who managed the youth teams on Sundays. If I couldn’t get someone to volunteer, we’d have to forfeit the games.

“Hi, Max.”

“Hi, Raffi. You well?”

“Not really.”

“Good, good. Is Shona there?”

“Yeah.”

“Put her on speaker.”

“Hi, Max!”

“Hi! Raffi, listen. I need a favour…”

***

Sunday 15 January, 2023

"Okay," I admitted. "I knew to expect the unexpected. But wow. This wouldn't have been in my top thousand guesses."

"What do you mean: this?" demanded Henri. "Why do you say this with such a supercilious expression?"

I lifted my phone a few inches from my mouth, taking care not to grate my face off with the cracked screen. "Computer: tell me what supercilious means. Later. Not in front of Henri." I put the phone away and waved at an object that came up to my waist. "This. I didn't expect this flavour of mid-life crisis."

"Mid-life?" he said. "Henri Lyons, dead at 54." He shoved his bottom lip out. "Could be."

"Same as Alain Delon."

"He isn't dead. But seriously, Max, are you not delighted?"

I sighed and took a step back. Walked around it.

It wasn't a motorbike. It wasn't a skateboard. It was something in between.

"Is it a Vespa?"

"No, Max. This is a scooter. 400cc. It is made by the same company as Vespa. Look," he said, suddenly as happy as a child showing off his new toy. He tapped the place where the driver rested his feet. "Plenty of space for a passenger. Total comfort."

I eyed the machine with extreme scepticism. "Comfort?" I pushed the seat. It was pretty hard. "Mate, ten minutes on that and I'll never have kids."

"Do you want kids?"

"Not until I know if my brain is full of holes."

"Perfect. Please note the USB charging port. All the modern conveniences! Now look," he said, with another boyish grin. He summoned a helmet. It seemed pretty standard, except it had a pair of those old-fashioned flying goggles built-in. "Do you like it? I always wanted one of these. When I really have my mid-life crisis, I want to buy a biplane. No! I want to build one. I wonder if there are kits. I shall check later. Perhaps I should buy the kit already for when I need it, in case production stops."

I slapped my hips. "Henri, what's the plan? You've bought a scooter thing. And then?"

"What size is your head?"

"I don't know."

"Try this," he said, producing another helmet. It was totally boring.

"Yeah, fits well. Comfy. Good foamage."

"I estimated your head size as 'big'. Eh bien. Let us prepare ourselves for our journey."

"If you've got a lamb and an altar in your back garden, I'm not getting involved."

He shook his head, sadly. "Go to the water closet. Once we are in motion, nothing can stop us." He pulled his goggles over his eyes. "Our flying time will be approximately one hour." He held the pose, grinned, then took off the goggles. "Can't see anything in them. Ah, well."

***

I had one decision to make - to hold on to the little handle behind me, or to hug Henri. I started with the first and switched to the latter. And then we rode off and there was nothing for me to do but enjoy the scenery and think. And then I relaxed. I expected him to go into the countryside, but we stayed in Chester and pulled into a garden centre.

I don't think I'd ever been to a garden centre before. Why would I? It was surprisingly busy considering it was winter.

“This is on our way,” he explained. “It is galling to be in a friendship with a tree-hugger who knows so little about trees.” He glanced around. “Also there was an attractive woman working here the first time I came…”

Henri took me to the section with the trees and spent a few minutes telling me about the ones in stock and what he liked about them. Most people would have overdone it - bombarded me with info. But Henri pointed out a few botanical things (they grew to different heights, were interesting at different times of year) and some aesthetic ones (shapes, colours, what he called 'texture') and left it at that.

Back out in the car park, I realised he’d pitched his lesson perfectly, and told him so.

He shrugged. “Less is more. I had many coaches as a youth. Most were knowledgeable and enthusiastic, and I learned a lot from them. But often they went overboard. One day, an old guy came, former player, and we did our session and he took me aside and said, ‘You move too much.’ And that was what I needed to hear at that time. Voila. You know something about trees now. When you are ready to learn more, the teacher will appear. Or you will go on YouTube.”

Then it was back on the scooter, and again I expected we would hit the countryside and again we didn't. We went on the motorway, which alarmed me. Henri sensed my reaction and gave me a thumbs up. It's okay! I tried to relax, and when we didn't die or get arrested I decided he probably knew what he was doing.

Instead of obsessing about where we were going and trying to work it out based on the road signs, I let my mind wander. Daydreamed about buying a house big enough where I'd have to think about which trees to plant. Walking around a garden centre with my girlfriend, pointing at, I don't know, ferns? And... ponds?

I tensed. Henri reacted. I gave him a double tap to signal I was okay.

But why had my daydream been about me and my girlfriend? Why not me and Emma?

The relaxation benefits of the short ride were already gone. My subconscious had dredged something up, and now I had to decide what to do with it.

***

An hour and two very crushed testicles later, Henri pulled into some generic car park. I glanced around at the buildings - probably a swimming pool. Henri had probably taken me to a water park and we'd spend an hour sliding and pushing in front of children in the queues. The idea cheered me up, actually.

"Good trip?" he asked.

"Mostly," I said, adjusting my junk in the least obscene way I could manage. "My unborn children will remain unborn."

"It's a myth. Studies from Rome suggest Vespa riders have the most children. Perhaps because riding one is the ultimate in masculinity." He looked around. "This way," he said.

We carried our helmets with us and went inside. Past a reception area, through some double doors, down a corridor, and into a large sports hall. On one side of the hall were long benches rising in a terrace. They overlooked one large pitch, suitable for a roomy seven-a-side match, or two smallish ones. That's what the setup was today.

Dozens of player profiles popped up above the players. There were lots of ones, lots of tens, lots of twenties.

Henri was scanning my face. When I smiled, he did too. "Mate," I said. "Did you go through all that drama to take me to Crewe?"

He put his hand on my shoulder and came close to me. Somehow he felt closer than on the scooter. "Max. I told you about an old guy who came to coach our team. He was a former French national team player who had become an administrator. Like you, he spent his days ankle-deep in bullshit. You can imagine the politics of a French football club. The jealousies, rivalries, backstabbing, the affairs - and that’s just the ticket office. When it got too much for him, he walked down to the training grounds and watched the youth teams. Wherever there was joy, he would seek it out. To remind him what he was fighting for. Do you follow? We must watch the Chester Knights compete. It will make us happy. It will be a glimpse of what we love." He let go and looked over his shoulder at the pan-disability football that was taking place. "This is where it all started for us, Max. Page one."

"I hope you're not expecting me to lose my mind again. I don't do that anymore."

He twitched his head towards the other end of the hall. "No expectations. Just being around uninhibited joy for a few hours. Does that sound good?"

"Yeah. It does." But also, dude. Watching football but earning no XP was the last thing I wanted. I wanted to spend the day either full throttle powering towards 8,000, or totally chill. A ride in the countryside! Show me some trees in the wilderness! This was half one, half the other, adding up to a whole load of nothing.

***

We found where the Chester parents were and to say they were happy to see us would be an understatement. Now that I was Chester's Director of Football, me showing my face was even more meaningful.

Terry was also happy, but not surprised. I got the feeling he'd been manipulating Henri into manipulating me. "Do you want to manage one of the matches?" he asked.

"I'm good, thanks. Quite happy to sit and watch and not get into the weeds. I've been going at it pretty hard. No, this is a day off for me. You go right ahead."

"Well, you're welcome to step in if you change your mind. I'm going to go get them. The first game's coming up."

"Where are they?"

"Changing rooms. They're pretty giddy. Nervous. Excited. You know how it goes."

"Not really. I've never been in a tournament like this."

He thought I was joking until he checked my face. "You're a professional player. You've played in cups. Don't you get nervous?"

My playing career seemed like a long time ago. I scratched the back of my neck. How did I feel standing on the touchline, waiting to be subbed on? Pretty calm. Butterflies in the stomach? Yeah when I was waiting for Emma. At the football? Nah. "I played one cup match for Darlo. The stress was knowing I had to fight my own team. Maybe," I said, dreamily, "if I was in a real team, one that was really united, I'd be nervous. Because it wouldn't only be about me. I'd be worried for everyone else. But I've never had that, only glimpses, only a taste."

That damned silence again. Terry looked embarrassed, which I think I preferred to what Henri was doing. He was nodding along. I told myself he was translating what I'd said into a more poetic version, one he could use on a date. First date? Probably second date material.

"I'll get the kids," said Terry, and he scuttled off.

Henri slapped me on the arm. "You want to glimpse your beloved, and your beloved is teamwork. Team spirit. Community ethos. Then why did you pay for this tournament and then abandon the children?"

The stress was back, big time. Left-backs on loan. FA hearings. Scenario B. Spectrum, Tyson, Pascal, James. New coaches, new staff, new ways of working, new ways of playing. "I don't have time. I'm swamped. If I don't use every waking minute from now till the end of January, it could be a disaster."

"Come, Max. Talk to me. Let us really talk, no?"

***

We sat at the back, on the top bench, and watched the Knights. Wilson, Zoe, Chester the goalie, and Johnny Winger, now Johnny the box-to-box midfielder.

I told Henri about the coaches, the lack of talent in the youth teams, the contrast between what Evans and Vimsy were doing and what Jackie Reaper was doing, what I'd seen at Burnley, Rotherham's delightful stadium, and every other little thing that popped into my head. I talked pretty much non-stop for the whole first half.

The half-time whistle came as a surprise. I absently noted that the ref had a linesman's flag that she was carrying around. It made her seem like she was on her way to another match. She waved the flag around. Pretty weird. "Sorry," I said. "Been very egocentric. I didn't mean to monopolise. What about you, bro? How are you doing?" I wondered if my outpouring would lead to him fessing up about his ennui.

"No, Max. We are not done with you. When you spend time in France you will learn that we will devote hours to a single topic, examining it in detail from all angles. You will find it beyond tedious. Mon dieu, I have to put you in a room with some pseudo-intellectuals from la Sorbonne." He began cackling. "But seriously. You have spoken of many things, but you have not told me what is really troubling you."

I sighed. "Emma."

"Things are bad. You are on the verge of breaking up."

"No. Things are perfect. But... I don't like her dad."

Henri dipped his head in a big show of empathy. He rubbed his mouth. Yes, my words had really moved him.

I tilted my head, suddenly suspicious. "Are you laughing?"

"No, of course not."

"What the fuck, man?"

He gave up his pretence of empathy and openly mocked me. "You don't like your girlfriend's father. Oh, woe is me! I am undone!" He sniggered. "I am very disappointed in you. I thought you had a real problem."

I grabbed his arm. "I do. It's a real problem."

"Why?"

"He thinks if I were in his shoes, I'd act and react the same as him. He thinks he's acting rational, but he's not. He's been radicalised. He's extended his support of a football team to include another country. This guy supports a country, now. Like, cheers it on at the Olympics and stuff."

"He doesn't. Be serious."

"He probably does. There are Newcastle fans defending Saudi foreign policy in reply to Tweets about what's the best tea. Loads of Man City fans are the same. A lot of Man United fans are excited about the possible Qatari takeover. Journalists who report on it from a human rights angle get jostled in the street, have to change hotels, mad shit. Actually mad shit is happening. People are losing their minds, Henri."

"What those people have is not a mind."

"We used to talk about the footballification of politics, when people started supporting their guy or their party no matter what, but now politics has gone so extreme football's got to catch up, and fuck me, it's trying. But I don't have to talk to those nutjobs. I've avoided almost all political conversations for years and I'm not on social media. I'm as insulated as I can possibly be, I think. But Emma's dad is one of them! I spent Christmas dinner with him, thought I was being dramatic maybe - "

"Surely not," mumbled Henri.

"And now what? He's the personification of everything that's wrong with this country. I don't want that guy in my life. I don't, Henri." I put my head in my hands. "So how do I tell Emma I don't like her dad? I... I've realised..." I looked down at the bench in front of me. "The other day she asked if I wanted her to come over. I said I'd be in Chester that night. Lied to her, Henri. I've never lied to her before. I hate it. I hate everything about this. I just want to be happy."

He nodded. Genuine empathy this time. "Max. You need to tell her soon. How about... Wednesday?"

"What?"

"Call her on Wednesday. About... five thirty."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

He nodded and gave me a soothing one-handed back rub. "Tell her after she finishes work. If it goes well, great. Good for you. If it goes badly," he said, whipping out his phone and going to the maps app. He typed fast. "Yes...I could be there by half past eight."

"Where?"

"Newcastle. To comfort her."

I stared at him. "Are you seriously telling me you'll make a move on my dream woman three hours after we break up?"

"I'd wait longer out of respect for you, but I can't take that kind of risk. She is tantalising." He made a strange face that made my fists curl into balls. "And I will be very charming with her father. Yes. His lack of moral fibre is not going to stand in the way of me getting what I want from his daughter. Mmmm." He made a noise like a cook in a commercial tasting his soup. That's when I knew he was winding me up.

"Jesus Christ, what are you doing to me?"

"You are being preposterous. The fathers of my lovers are of no consequence. If you wish to avoid him, avoid him. Mon dieu. You are such a waste." He stood and clapped. "Yes, Wilson! Very good! Go again, Chester!"

I exhaled. When he sat down again, I said, "So are you saying I shouldn't talk to Emma about it?"

"I am not saying anything. I do not give relationship advice to idiots." I must have continued to look miserable, for he finally relented. His energy levels rose. "Yes! Tell her, Jesus Christ. Be mature and talk through your emotions. She is a woman. She is much more used to processing her feelings with a friend or partner. Perhaps, Max, you might avoid saying her father is the personification of all that is wrong with the world! Perhaps you might have enough diplomatic skill to avoid that! Humm?" He went from an eight to a five. "But talk to her. It might be difficult for you, but the chances of this triviality ending your relationship, I'm sorry to say, are slim to none. Yes," he mused. "This might be good for you. Talk to her. Hold on to what is important and discard everything else. Go step by step. Hmm. This could be good practice. Good. That is decided."

I wanted his words to make me feel better, and they sort of did. Yes. I'd talk to her. Easy. No biggie. "Should I tell her I lied about sleeping in the stadium that night?"

He went all the way back to an eight. "Are you fucking stupid? Of what benefit could there be?"

"Right. God, you're right. But look. Would you really make a move on Emma? If I, if we, you know."

His energy dipped all the way back to the lowest setting. His eyes flickered around before centring. He rubbed his upper lip. "Of course I wouldn't."

***

The only possible benefit to me and the club from my being in Crewe was me schmoozing some parents, so I did that while Henri stood next to Terry and helped coach the team.

I was basically showing my face, taking selfies, asking questions. Getting to know what was going wrong in this part of Chester Football Club. But generally they were very happy. Terry was great and my dedication to the disabled program was energising the parents and the kids. The first team, on the other hand...

"I know," I said, once per parent. Actually, more than once per parent. A good season for their child that ended with relegation for the first team was, unequivocally, a bad season.

I finally had a proper chat with Chesterkid's mum and dad, and the night I slept in their son's bedroom was, in retrospect, the stuff of legend.

"We thought we were hosting a lad who'd play for the team, but now you're running the whole club!"

"We can't wait till you make your debut. Are you going to play soon? We could do with a few goals."

They were trying to be nice, but they spoke a bit too loud. I noticed Henri's shoulders slump, and when I looked exasperated, Chesterkid's mum looked aghast. She mouthed the word 'sorry' and I stood there, helpless. What could I do to cheer him up? I'd tried nothing and was all out of ideas.

***

The Knights won, or lost, or drew. It didn't matter. All that mattered was that they were a team, they were competing, they were progressing along their individual pathways.

There were about twelve teams in this tournament, sponsored by a company called So Solid. There were two teams from Crewe, one from Wrexham, one from Stoke, one from Manchester, and so on. I glanced around but wasn't getting XP, and as the minutes ticked by I realised I had been sitting on a bench staring at my trainers for at least one half of a match.

Just talk to her. So easy. So hard. Henri didn't know how much I needed Emma. Her lips, her laugh, her playfulness. If I married her, I wouldn't need to hear the name Weaver ever again. That was something. Unless she kept her name. Emma Best-Weaver. Weaverbest? No way. Come on. She wouldn't. Would she?

Someone snuck up and slipped his arms around me. I only saw a head and a kit, but because the curse was in tournament mode, the player profiles were displayed even when the kids were off the pitch. I wondered if the profiles would vanish as teams were mathematically eliminated. I doubted I'd stay to the end to find out, but I guessed not. The profiles would show until the last kick of the tournament. That's how I'd do it, so that's how the curse would do it.

"Wilson," I said. "What are you doing?"

"You need a hug," he said.

"Yeah maybe. I also need twelve or thirteen million pounds. Help me out?"

"I don't get pocket money because I swallowed a pound coin."

"Dude."

"I had to go to hospital."

"Have you scored any goals today?"

"No. It's hard. The other teams are better."

"Better than you or better than usual?"

"Better than us and better than usual."

"Are you doing your best?"

He nodded lots and fast. "Yes!"

"Then I'm proud of you. One more hug then go to your teammates."

"Yes, Max!"

I really wanted to know what happened to that pound coin, but also, I didn't want to know. I stood and stretched. I'd been moping around for too long. Yeah, I had some problems, but I'd solve them. One by one, I'd solve them.

Henri was waiting for me pitchside, one foot on the lowest step. He looked so cool all the time. It was pretty annoying how effortless he made everything seem. "Max, are you hungry?"

"Yeah, pretty hungry. Didn't have breakfast."

"Let's go see what we can get. My treat."

"Absol..." I froze.

"Max?"

I pointed to the second pitch. There was a match going on. "What the shit is that?" Henri scanned the pitch. He saw nothing out of the ordinary and indicated as much with a gigantic shrug. How could he not see it? An enormous sporting fraud was going on. A shameful deception.

"No way," I said. "Not on my watch."

I took a huge, angry stride towards the pitch.

Henri grabbed me and pushed me back. "Max," he said, "are you quite calm? Remember who you are."

I am the Sword of Justice, mate! "I'm Chester's Director of Football," I said.

"Yes."

I nodded. Counted to three. "So you want me to start calm?"

"How about we make it a rule to always start calm? Think of this as practice for talking to Emma. And if you get it wrong, if you let your tantrums do the talking, you'll meet Emma’s father again... at my wedding."

I let a fair amount of rage escape through my nostrils, but then took his advice. I stretched my neck so that I was looking all the way up, then all the way down. "Calm. I'm calmly going to humiliate some cheats. Henri, are you in?"

He smiled. "Emma and I will make a great couple, don't you think?"

"Right." I thought about what I'd said and reworded it. "I'm calmly going to calmly investigate a potential source of... misaligned… alignments."

"Oh, Max! You learn so fast. We are proud of you."

Somehow I knew his 'we' included Emma. The bastard was helping me in a way that was infuriating. I walked towards the pitch, and checked out the sitch up close.

***

The sitch didn't change. The team in black had seven players of varying disabilities. So far, so good.

The other team, playing in red with vertical white stripes under the sleeves, had six players of varying disabilities. All very proper and correct so far.

But then they also had a non-disabled girl. Her name was Dani. She was thin, with light-brown hair tucked into a long pony-tail. Her face didn't react much, making her seem shy. Or like she was hiding something. She had a totally normal player profile. I mean, it was extraordinary in its own way, but I thought I was seeing a comparative profile. Like, the curse was inflating her attributes relative to the disabled players, and if I took her outside to a non-disabled match, I'd see her real profile. Something like that, anyway. The specifics didn't matter to me at first. What mattered was that she was in the wrong sport. It wasn't a million miles different from if I had joined the Chester Knights pretending to be partially sighted.

I began to fume at the injustice of it all, but Henri's warning made me pause. As Director of Football for a well-known club, I couldn't go around having tantrums at disabled matches. I put two fingers against my neck to check my pulse, but I didn't know how to interpret the results. Maybe I'd ask Dean to teach me. Weird thing to think. Maybe I'd ask Livia to teach me.

"What is the matter, Max?" whispered Henri.

I glanced at him, really quite amazed. "Can't you see?"

"No. What? Stop being coy."

"That girl. She's..." I kept having to check my language. "She's not disabled. She's cheating."

"Are you sure?"

"Can't you see? She's millions of times better than the rest. It's absurdly unfair. It's a joke. I can't believe they think they can get away with this."

Again Henri grabbed me. "No. Stop. I am very serious, now. The girl is in no way better. For once, you are wrong. Do not make a scene. I forbid it. I want a nice day. Do not bring your manias here, Max. No. No."

I coaxed his hands away from me. "Henri? I'm calm. Look at me. But I'm not wrong. Let us go and investigate. Okay? If my temperature starts to rise, take over. But it won't." I started to move away. "But mate." I gave him a sad look. "The girl is playing a different sport than the rest. It's crazy you can't see that."

Henri stared at the pitch again, trying to see what I saw. But then he noticed a Max-sized hole where I should have been, and scampered towards me before I did anything stupid.

I went to the red team's coach. His profile was over his head, and for once I used this knowledge to obtain an advantage. "Hi, Alex. Budge up." I was asking him to move along his bench. He did. Henri sat on his other side. "Alex, I'm Max. This is Henri. We were just having a lovely old chat about your player, there. Have you got a team sheet?"

"Oh, er..." He fussed around with his stuff, but clearly wanted to keep an eye on his team. He had only sat down to make a few notes for his half-time speech.

I helped him by calmly ripping the item I wanted from his grasp. "Thanks, bro."

"Er... welcome," he said, not looking at me. Henri was giving me daggers.

I ploughed forward. This was happening now. I scanned the document. Now it would be realistic that I knew everyone's names. I leaned back, crossed my right over my left leg, all nice and casual. "Alex, mate. Your girl Dani there. She's pretty good, isn't she?"

His smile went full beam. It would have lit a motorway for three hundred yards. "Yes! Very good player. Very popular. Very easy to coach."

"Oh, I bet she is." Henri didn't like that. I toned the passive aggressive shit down. "Listen, I... I can't help but think that she's maybe too good for this tournament."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that she's too good. She's so much better than everyone else. Maybe there's like... a tournament for less disabled people or something like that?"

Massive confusion nearly leading to something worse. Alex gulped a few times, then said, "I don't think I understand. Is there a problem? Are you one of the organisers?"

"No," I said, in a soothing voice. "It's all good. I just think she's a really good player."

"What Max is puzzled by," said Henri, keen for this to be over, "is that... Dani... is so much better than the typical player with her disability."

"Oh!" said Alex. "Oh! I see." He turned to me and beamed at me again, while Henri mouthed aggressively at me from over Alex's shoulder. When Alex turned back, Henri was smiling, too.

"Yeah, I haven't seen many CP players like her," I said, fishing for the answer. CP was cerebral palsy. If I was going to enter a pan-disability tournament under false pretences, I'd say I had a mild form of CP. But Alex had such a wholesome vibe. He didn't strike me as the cheating type. Which meant Dani was the liar. And again, she didn't seem the type.

"She's not CP," said Alex. "She's deaf."

Deaf? Absurd. I stood and paced up and down. How could she be deaf and have a complete profile? If she had a complete profile that would make her...

All at once, everything changed. This wasn't a scam. No-one was cheating. And that meant...

I rushed back to the bench. "A little bit deaf? Like, she lost one percent hearing in one ear?"

"She's totally deaf. Completely deaf."

"What!" I spluttered. So many questions. I couldn't contain myself; I had to move. I went pacing again, up and down. I put my fingers on my neck. Pulse much faster, much stronger - I didn't need expertise to feel that! "Oh my God," I said, running my hands through my hair. "Oh my God."

"Max!" said Henri, jostling me. "What the fuck are you doing? Explain yourself. This is unattractive."

I grabbed his chest, two-handed. "Henri! Can you really not see how good she is?"

He tutted. "Max."

I turned him towards the pitch. "Look! Look, man! She's not just the best player here..." The enormity of what I was seeing finally hit me. "She's going to be one of the best players in England! We've found our first star, Henri. Our first superstar!"

He put his hand to his head. It seemed like he counted to ten but it didn't calm him, so he kept going. Finally, he said, "You're crazy. She has to be the worst player on the pitch. She is swamped. No passes, no tackles, no impact on the game. Can we please drop this? I am hungry." I put my arm around his shoulder and grinned. "Oh, no," he said. "Not that smile."

I nodded. "I know what you need."

"I need a pizzaburger."

I spread my left palm across the pitch, transforming it from a drab, grey corner of Crewe to an Alice in Wonderland feast for the senses. "You need a demonstration."

"Max, no," he whined. "Don't."

My mind was fizzing. I was mentally optimising the red team. Move that guy over there? No, because this guy couldn't cover the left. That guy was fast, but if he played centrally he wouldn't get to use his pace... I snapped out of it. Henri was eye-begging me. Eye-pleading with me. Like a hungry puppy, he rolled his head towards the exit. The food is that way, he said, non-verbally.

Non-verbally! Communicating without words would be a challenge.

But I knew the right thing to say to put an end to Henri's whining.

"Mate. You brought me here because you wanted to fall back in love with football. Right?" He couldn't disagree. "So," I said, letting go of him, spreading my arms wide. "Watch as I miraculously turn that tiny deaf girl who can't pass, can't tackle, can't impact the game... into England's future number seven. Are you watching closely? I'm about to turn her into Max fucking Best."

...

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