21 - The Wizard of Us [T1] (Patreon)

21.

The Wizard of Us

by B. Alban

reprinted with kind permission of aggreg8tr.com, the world's fastest-growing soccer site. Visit aggreg8tr.com for all the latest transfer rumors. Who is your team going to sign?

30 Minute Read

***

Max Best likes movies.

"The Wizard of Oz had eleven writers," he tells me, bouncing on his heels like one of the youths in his charge. "Imagine the chaos! A little idea from here, one from there. You can see in the final edit there are lines that make no sense. They're remnants from one of the scripts that got competed out. It's not perfect, then, but it's still taught in film school. There are books about how well it follows mythic structure and all that. Eleven writers. That's a football team. These kids today, this weekend, they're writing their own script. You've heard of Das Boot. This is Das Tournament."

When I catch up with the normally media-shy Best, 22, widely thought to be Europe's youngest Director of Football, Chester Boys Under 14s have recorded a shock win over D.A.S. Tournament hosts Crewe. Now, he's preparing for a clash against Premier League Wolverhampton Wanderers. There are well over a hundred places between them in the English league pyramid. Wolves regularly play Manchester City, Liverpool, and Tottenham. Chester's upcoming fixtures include matches against Banbury and Leamington. The financial disparity between the club he runs and his rivals could not be more stark. It riles Best, and he brings up a mutual acquaintance from our time in Manchester. "Do you remember that Turkish guy who sold kebabs at Platt Lane? Emre? He loves this chef called Salt Bae. The guy who puts a bit of gold on steaks and charges a thousand pounds. That's Wolves. Gold burgers morning, noon, and night."

"Then it doesn't matter if you lose," I suggest.

"Oh, we're going to win," insists Best, and for a naive moment I'm willing to believe that this story might have a happy ending.

The Munchkins

"Guys," announces Best, as he begins his preparations for the Wolves match. There are twenty minutes to go and Best still has not named the team nor decided on a formation. The boys are unfazed - they have a saying, 'Max Knows Best.' They are a ragtag bunch - a few starlets who catch the eye of rival teams, some functional players who stick to their tasks, and a clutch of two-foot-high cutie pies who look like the mascots for a team of mascots. Other teams have brought eleven and twelve-year-olds for the experience, but only Best dares use them in the white heat of tournament play. "Guys, this is Beth." I have asked him to call me Bethany. "She was my first ever captain and she taught me about women's football when I was a bit ignorant. She wants to know about our project at Chester. Project? I don't think I like that word. How about story? Yeah. Oh."

Best side-eyes me, and demands one of the players hands over his phone. The player is Benny, 14, son of Chester legend Nice One, who scored a famous goal against Leeds in the FA Cup. Benny is in the team on merit, though, scoring both goals in the two-nil win over Crewe. He is reluctant to let go of his phone, but Best makes noises like a chimpanzee until he gets the device. Best types, then points to his face. Every child in the area stares at him. He types some more, and everyone looks at me. It is disconcerting. Best hands the phone back.

At that moment, a small child dressed in the yellow of Wolves enters the inner sanctum of Chester's technical area. The Chester boys bristle, but the child has one simple question. "Are you Max Best?"

It is clear that Best is cycling through many jokey responses, but he settles on "yes."

The intruder flees.

Max points to Adam, one of the youngest players. "Follow the yellow prick chode! Tell me where he goes!" Adam gets to his feet and sprints away. Best tugs at an imaginary beard. "So... it has begun." The boys laugh. Best's humour is exactly their level. "Is anyone telling Dani what's going on?"

"Me," says Tyson, 14. He's the star of Chester's unheralded academy, and is already drawing admiring glances from teams such as Nottingham Forest and Stoke City.

"Thanks, bro," says Best. I ask who Dani is, and his mood turns. "Do not ask about Dani. Do not write about Dani. Do not bother Dani. Do not print this bit. Do not even use the letter D in your article."

Best glares at me until Adam returns. "He went to the Wolves coaches! He said 'yeah he said he was' and one guy said 'okay let's do plan A' and then they noticed me so I looked at the main one and I said 'Are you Max Best?' And he said 'no' and I ran back."

Adam is swarmed by his mates, who praise his daring and his quick-thinking.

"What does it mean, Max?" This is Spectrum, 25, the youth team coach and Best's reluctant assistant for the tournament. If he's annoyed that Best is in Crewe instead of watching the first team, he doesn't say it with anything except his entire being.

Max is smug. "It means I have finally found an opponent worthy of my attention." He pulls his beard, and the kids cheer.

If I Only Had a Brain

About ten minutes before kickoff, Best gets serious. He invites the children to shut the fuck up and goes to a whiteboard. The kids gather round and sit cross-legged. Spectrum licks his lips, apprehension etched into worry lines a man his age shouldn't have. Now that the match against their storied opponents is near, the Chester squad looks young. Callow. A lot of scared little boys.

Best faces the semi-circle. "Boys, put your phones down. I need your undivided attention for this. Not you, Tyson. You see, there are two types of motivation: intrinsic and extrinsic. Write this down, Beth, this is good stuff. Way better than what the Wolves guy is saying and you can quote me on that. Intrinsic is you want to win because you want to win. Extrinsic is because if you win, I give you something. You've already won one game, so now it's time for your reward. I need a volunteer." Almost every hand goes up. Best points to Benny. He goes to stand next to Best, who he clearly idolises. When Best's hand alights on the young man's shoulder and gives him an amiable shake, his smile widens. "Great. Now, some of you are still in what I call the ew, girls phase of life. But many are starting to get just as interested in girls as football. So I'm going to teach you how to flirt. Let's start by seeing how you normally do it. Beth, come over here for a second."

"No way!" says Benny, wriggling out from under Best's grip.

There is uproar. Benny tries to flee to the safety of the middle of the pack. The other boys - the ones who aren't rolling around laughing - try to push him back. After a slight delay, the girl called Dani laughs, too, and Tyson rushes next to Best, who is wiping a tear from his eye. The hubbub subsides so everyone can watch Tyson's contribution.

The young striker straightens, points at me, and shouts, "I volunteer!"

The laughs come twice as hard, twice as loud. Benny clambers back to the front and pretends to try to wrestle Tyson out of the way. "She's mine! I'll batter you!" The fight is strangely fascinating.

Best claps a few times, and the boys settle down. It takes a while. "Right. Tyson, ladykiller confirmed. Let's not flirt by shouting at women, though, yeah? Keep it classy. So. There's like a match or whatever." He goes to the whiteboard, swipes the blue magnets away and rearranges the red ones. "Wolves are going to play 3-4-1-2." He pauses. "Where have I seen that before?" He slaps his forehead. "Holy fuck! This guy's going to do the Max Best Challenge on us! What the actual!"

"They wouldn't. That's crazy," says Spectrum, who seems to accept as Gospel that their opponents will use an obscure formation.

"I swear to fuck," says Best, pointing to the red magnets, as though they have told him Wolves's plan.

"What's the Max Best challenge?" says Adam, one of the newer players in the Chester system. So new that he hasn't been fully indoctrinated into the Cult of Max.

His teammates strive to be the first to explain it to him, while Best glares at the whiteboard. The Max Best Challenge, Adam learns, is a coaching method developed by Jackie Reaper at FC United, in which a team with superior technique attempts to drag their opposition horizontally across the pitch and back again, causing enemy defences to be disrupted. The superior team then attacks the large gaps that have opened up.

"How do we stop it?" says Captain. He's one of Chester's two centre-backs, taller and stronger than almost everyone in the tournament.

"The Dutch used this in the World Cup," says Best. "Against the U.S.A. who did 4-3-3. The Dutch won easily. So it would be really stupid of us to do 4-3-3."

Spectrum groans. All the kids groan. After a slight pause, Dani looks away from her phone and puts her hand over her eyes. I realise, stupidly late, that Tyson is texting her what's happening.

Max begins laying out the blue magnets in a narrow 4-3-3 shape. He follows a narrative order instead of a footballing one. "Goalie. Hope at left-back. Seven at right-back. I know it's not your fave but just do your best, put a shift in. For the team, yeah? Strikers, we'll start with Adam, John, and Future."

"What?" snaps Spectrum, and regrets it instantly.

Best narrows his eyes, but decides to leave it. "Yeah. Tinytown FC. Guys, you'll be my flying monkeys. Absolute silence. Tumbleweed. Haven't you seen The Wizard of Oz? How can I set up a team when no-one's seen any movies? Guys, you have to watch all the same movies that I ever watched so I can reference them. Ugh. How to explain flying monkeys? Just imagine some well-dressed monkeys and they've got wings. They might be blue, which sounds really weird now that I say it out loud. They're only in the movie for about a minute, if I remember. We'll come back to that. Where was I? Three tiny attackers. Lol. Wait till Wolves see you lot coming. Oh, man. This is exciting. My heart is pumping right now. Look, I can't hold my hand flat. Beth, is my hand flat?" I step closer. "Oh," says Best, reaching for his pocket. "Reminds me. I've got a new phone. Let's exchange deets." He pulls out his phone and I pull out mine, and we're standing next to each other, arms touching. Before I can open the contacts app, Best gives me a little push away. "And that, boys, is how you get a phone number. Boom! See how smooth that was? Jesus Christ I should be a dating coach."

I wander back to where I started, slightly stunned, and when I come to my senses, Best has named a centre-back and the three players he wants to go into midfield. There is one spot left to announce - the second centre-back. His four best players have not been named: Tyson, Benny, Captain, and Bomber.

Best makes everybody wait. He takes a red marker pen and draws two striped zones either side of midfield. "Do not go here. Do not go here. Here, do go not. Not do go do you. This is the trap, right? So don't go there. Simples." He draws a solid red line around the defence and the midfield. "We've got seven guys here. Seven plus the goalie. All you do is defend. Do not attack. Do not go forward. Do not go into the trap zones. When Wolves come, wait, be patient, then get the ball. Okay? What they won't be expecting is for us to play long ball."

"Long ball?" says Spectrum, surprised.

"Yeah. Welcome to 1985, guys! Ugh. I really want to talk about Back to the Future right now. This player," Best picks up the final blue magnet and places it into the second CB slot, "needs to be a guy who can kick the ball really far. Who's our player who can boot the ball the longest?"

The kids look round at each other, but Tyson has stopped tapping on his phone. He can somehow predict where this is going. "You want me to play centre-back?"

"Yep."

"There are scouts here to watch me play striker and you want me in defence? So I'll play shit, or what?"

Best doesn't reply. He waits.

Dani touches Tyson on the arm and gestures a question. What's going on? Tyson taps into his phone, the sound of thumbs on glass growing louder by the second. Dani's phone vibrates. She devours the text, laughs, and writes back.

Tyson slumps.

"So?" says Best.

"She says you made her play as a goalie." He looks up to the sky. There's no help for him, there.

Future says, "He wants me to play striker!"

"Maybe they could swap, Max," says Spectrum. "Play in their natural positions."

"I'd rather win," says Max. And then we're all back to watching Tyson. He glances at the girl. She nods. Tyson copies the gesture. Best claps his hands together. "Fucking yes. Guys. This eleven will go and warm up. No offence, Future, John, and Adam, but you are about as scary as a bowl of ice cream and an afternoon nap. When Wolves see you, they'll relax. They'll switch off. After a minute, all their motivation will be gone. They'll be complacent. And then we're going to sub you off and bring on the hulks."

"Who's coming off?" said Spectrum.

"The three of them."

"And Tyson will go up front?"

Best betrays a moment of exasperation. Why can't everyone understand his plan instantly, without him having to explain it? "Tyson's our playmaker, mate. I need him pumping accurate long balls forward. The whole plan relies on him being there."

"Then who's coming on to be striker?"

"Benny, Captain, and Bomber!"

"Two of those are centre backs!"

"They just need to win headers! They're the best at heading in this whole tournament." Best starts slapping the whiteboard - the magnets shake. "We defend. We turn over the ball. We give it to Tyson. He leathers it. Captain wins it. Benny gets the flick-on. Goal. What the fuck is the problem? It's self-explanatory."

We stare at the whiteboard. I look across the width of the pitch to see the Wolves coaches. They do, indeed, look complacent. I realise I am feeling sorry for them.

"But Max," I say, even though I'm trying to fade into the background. "Why not start with those three up top? Why the theatrics?"

His spat with his coach has made him tense; he loosens his neck. He inhales, and breathes out. His answer finally arrives. "Because it's funny."

The Wicked Witch of the West (Midlands)

The Chester team walks onto the pitch, and it is incredibly tiny. Best has asked them to warm up in their formation, so the three youngest players are the ones nearest to the Wolves boys. The latter are too polite to laugh, but Best is right - they relax. This match will be the equivalent of a small boy throwing punches at a bigger one who simply holds the pipsqueak's head a safe distance away.

"Why aren't they worried?" I say.

"Who?" says Best. He's still surly from having his insane strategy questioned.

"The Wolves bench. They must know you're up to something."

"Why would they think that? We played good, modern, attacking football against Crewe. Now we're going to try the same with younger players. They think I'm happy to lose this one and rest my best lads for Wrexham. They think six points out of nine is beyond our wildest dreams."

"Isn't it?"

"My dreams aren't for publication, Beth." He turns to his substitutes. "You guys know what to do, right?"

Captain shrugs. "Win headers. But then what?"

"Whatever you want, mate. Talk to each other. Maybe you'll come up with some little plan. Think what you'd hate to happen if you were defending..."

"And do that," says Bomber, 14.

"Exactly," says Best. "Just let me be really clear here. I'm not looking for dribbles and backheels and skills. You are battering rams. You're going to trample those defenders, terrify them, drag them out of position."

"Get aggro on us," says Captain.

"It's all about Benny. Getting him some space. Try not to head the ball straight at goal or the keeper will come. Do angles, let his speed do the rest. Know what I mean?"

"Yes, Max."

Best grins, tries to hide his grin, grins wider. The kids reply in kind. Whatever else happens, they've been told they are Best's secret weapon. They've been told they matter. And mattering to Max matters.

The game kicks off. Wolves pass the ball around for a full minute, letting all their players have a touch. Chester’s three forward players run around like whirling dervishes, knowing they might only get a few seconds of game time. Wolves move the ball to the left-hand-side of the pitch, waiting for a Chester boy to press them. Nothing happens. The Wolves player looks confused and passes the ball backwards. Spectrum mumbles, "Holy God." He has just realised that Best's prediction was entirely accurate. The sides of the pitch are traps. They try the right-hand-side, and again, no Chester player moves to stop them, not even the flying monkeys. The Wolves player stands there, turns to his manager, and flaps his arms. What am I supposed to do now?

I have my first belly laugh of the day.

My second comes shortly after - the ball goes out of play, and Best replaces the flying monkeys with Benny and the Hulks. There's just over a minute on the clock. The referee comes over to check if Best knows the rules. "It's not rolling subs. You can't make any more changes if you do this," he says.

"I know," says Best, gathering the three kids round him like a mother duck. "But it's time for their ice cream and afternoon nap."

If I Only Had Courage

The Wolves team become cautious. They know something is up, and they don't like it. They keep the ball for a while, but seeing that Chester have almost no intention of pressing them, they work it forward through to their central attacking midfielder (CAM). He puts his foot on the ball and finds there are seven Chester players between him and the keeper. He tries an ambitious through-ball which is easily cut out. A couple of passes later, the ball is at Tyson's feet. He looks up and pings the ball downfield.

Bomber rises, easily winning the header, and flicks the ball on. It's much straighter than Best would have liked, but the defenders are not alert to the danger. Benny is. He latches onto the ball, takes a touch, and smashes it low into the bottom-left of the net.

Best doesn't react. He's lost in thought. "So who do you work for?"

I'm still buzzing from the goal. "What?"

"You did journalism. Then you got a job."

He's asking about my career. "My course finishes in the summer," I say, trying to bring his attention back to the match. It's like he's forgotten it's happening and somehow it's my job to remind him. "I'll write this, try to get it published somewhere. Manchester Evening News maybe. Hope it helps when I start applying for real jobs."

"When's that?"

"Yeah, soon."

"What's your dream job? The Athletic, something like that?"

"Oh. Maybe the Daily Mail."

Best reacts like he's been slapped. "How to kill a conversation in two words. Fuck me. You can go now."

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah. Interview's over. Spectrum, make sure no-one talks to her."

"Max," complains the coach.

I have no choice but to pick up my bag and start to wander off. I pause as a long pass from Tyson reaches Benny. He lays it off for Captain, who flicks the ball up to knee height and then over his head towards the goal. The defenders are more switched on this time, but Benny is more determined. He gets to the ball, takes a touch, and fires a shot. The goalie gets a hand on it and pushes it wide. It's a corner.

"Everyone," yells Best. "Everyone up."

Once again, Spectrum complains. Chester will be open to counter-attacks, a fact Best should be all too aware of, having made his name as a player with a fast break from a corner. This decision is an emotional outburst, a petulant response to me, nothing more. But Wolves respond by pulling everyone back into their penalty box. Only as Tyson and Sevenoaks, 14, discuss what to do with the corner does the Wolves manager finally decide to leave one striker on the half-way line. If Chester don't score, Wolves probably will. The odds are massively in favour of the latter.

I notice Best touch the air. He's having some mental argument that's expressing itself through body language. He sees that I'm still around and shoos me away.

I walk along the line, towards the corner where Tyson has both hands raised over his head. But instead of firing it into the box himself, he plays a fifteen-yarder to Sevenoaks, who hits the cross with spin and quality. The penalty box is crowded, but somehow it feels inevitable that Bomber should get to the ball first, and for his flick to go directly into Captain's path. He throws his whole body at the ball, almost a diving header, and as it crosses the line he is already clambering to his feet, running away, yelling, demanding his team follow.

They run en masse to their base, their home for the tournament, and bounce around.

Dani and the rest of the squad bounce with them. They are learning that it takes more than eleven to write a script.

If I Only Had a Heart

Chester's crushing 5-2 win over the tournament favourites is the talk of the town. The underdogs are top of Group B. Casual observers are delighted; experts are not.

I speak to an employee from Wolves. They are dismissive. "Anyone can lump the ball up to a big man. If that's the only way you can win, I suppose that's fine. But you ask me, that kind of football has no place here. We're trying to develop young players. He won't win any friends with that kind of win-at-all-costs mentality."

Another observer, a very experienced administrator, agrees. "I've heard about this Max Best. Heard he's got a few tricks up his sleeve. That's all well and good but I've seen all that before. People like that get found out. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. These professional coaches aren't fools. Chester won't win another match, mark my words."

The Chester boys, though, are in dreamland. As they wander around the complex, their kit marks them out as the team to fear. "See them? They're Chester." The boys hear, and their cheeks flush. This is new, and they like it.

I fall into step beside Tyson and Benny. They don't seem aware that they're not allowed to talk to me. "Hi, boys."

Tyson rolls his eyes. "I have a girlfriend," he says, and he and Benny fall into each other.

"Can I walk with you, anyway?"

"Course," says Tyson. He checks with Benny. Benny agrees.

"Where are you going?"

"Oh." Tyson's feet stop moving. Benny takes a couple of strides before he realises. He waits. Tyson scratches the back of his neck, then starts forward again. "I told Max I wanted to stay at Chester."

"That's good. But?"

"Er... he said he was pleased but I shouldn't decide just coz we won. He said I was hyper because he'd Wizard of Ozzed me."

"Whatever that means," says Benny.

"He’d Wizard of Ozzed me into being the best centre-back in the universe, but the spell would wear off."

"He's so weird!" says Benny.

"I know, it's top," agrees Tyson. "Yeah and he told me I should go and check out Notts Forest."

"Oh, wait," I say. "There's a team called Notts County. That's short for Nottinghamshire. Nottingham isn't shortened to Notts."

"It is if you want to mess with their heads," says Benny, and the boys fall into each other again. "Yeah. Max said I should go to Notts, too. He reckons they've got top packed lunches with all, like, nutrition inside. He says we're allowed to eat one but we have to bring the other one back."

"He's doing, like, research, for when the club's got more money."

"Oh," I say, "so he doesn't really want you to talk to Notts. He's using you as spies."

Tyson's face opens. "That's what I said! Didn't I, Benny? That's what I said! And he said, well yeah but no. He said it's going to take years to upgrade the facilities and all that, and if I want to go to Notts for a bit, why not? They'll let me shoot."

"You're not allowed to shoot?"

"Yeah. Max subs me off if I shoot."

"What if he's used all his subs?"

"I go off anyway and we play with ten." Tyson shrugs. He's so used to this extraordinary restriction that he doesn’t know how shocking it is. "But if I go to Notts and do well, great. That's the best thing. But if I go and I get released, I can go back to Chester and I'll have had all that top training and I'll be miles ahead of Benny."

"Fuck you, no you won't. Max Knows Best. I'm staying. I'll learn way faster than you. He fucking scores from corners, you bellend."

"What does Dani think you should do, Tyson?"

I've asked the question with maximum innocence, but the boys both stop dead. Tyson holds up a finger and pulls Benny away. They have a hushed conversation and return. "Why do you want to know about Dani?"

I'm on thin ice, for some reason. One wrong move from losing a source! I try to look unbothered. "Just curious."

The boys look at each other. Tyson comes to a decision. "I think we can walk on our own from here." He waits for me to move away, then taps on his phone. I'm eerily certain he's sending a message in all caps.

The Ruby Slippers

As I circle the tournament, looking for stories and sub-plots, gathering background information and colour, I spot Best again and again. He's at pitch 1 watching Derby vs Shrewsbury, then he's by pitch 2 watching Crewe A versus Stoke. Then he's over at Derby's base camp, chatting to their coaches, giving feedback to their players. At one point, he seems to be giving tips to their goalkeeper, and if there's one thing Max Best is not, it's a goalkeeper.

"He's ridiculous," says a Chester FC fan who has come to watch the next generation play and is mortified by Best's antics. "Either he's delusional or he hasn't recovered from that smack on the head. Either way, he shouldn't be here, and he shouldn't be coaching other team's kids. I suppose it's better than having him coach ours. It's a while since we won a game here, so I'll give him that. Credit where credit's due, I never thought I'd see us beat a team like Wolves. Now if he'll leave the rest of the job to the professionals, we'll have had a good day."

Best has no intention, however, of letting the highly-qualified Spectrum take control of Chester versus Wrexham. I watch from the other side of the pitch as Best sends his players out in a banal, conventional 4-4-2. This turns out to be yet another masterstroke, as Wrexham's coaching staff dash around trying to reorganise their team. When they've done that, they are sent into a panic once more. I stifle a laugh as one coach shouts, "Diamond! He's gone diamond!" And while they are responding to that, one coach throws down his water bottle in disgust. "Now it's 4-3-3! He's taking the piss!"

While Best seems to be winning the war of the sidelines, on the pitch the sides are more closely matched. Chester have their strengths, but so do Wrexham. The team from Wales have learned a lesson from the Wolves debacle - Chester are not to be underestimated. There is no complacency from their side. It's a tough battle. Too tough - a savage, two-footed lunge from a Wrexham midfielder on poor Benny sees Best sprint onto the pitch, carrying a medical bag, before the referee has even blown his whistle.

As Best leans over his player, gently tucking his hoodie under the boy's head, I move closer. Best asks a question and discovers that the referee has no intention of sending off the Wrexham player. It's not even a booking. Best is incandescent, briefly loses his mind. The Wrexham gang shout in defence of their player. Best turns away from them, summons Spectrum, summons Captain, then sits on a ball next to Benny. From his new throne, he begins issuing commands. Spectrum covers Benny's leg with several layers of magic spray. He gets on the phone and either speed dials or inputs a very short number. I'm on the pitch now, edging closer to the drama, and I notice that as Spectrum dials, Best reaches into his pocket and does something to his phone. The incident means nothing to me until much later.

"Ambulance!" yells Spectrum into his device. "We need an ambulance!" Shock spreads around the onlookers.

Meanwhile, Captain has gathered the rest of the team and formed them into a protective circle around their fallen comrade. From the sidelines, the subs run on to bolster the wall. Dani rushes on, too. Her parents remain, guardians of Chester's meagre equipment.

The building of the wall is too much for Wrexham's manager. He strides onto the pitch and launches a foul-mouthed attack on Best and the referee. He insists that the match continue. Best stands, checking that his players are in no danger from this man, and notices me. "Beth. I'm DoF. I'm not allowed to say what I think. You be my avatar. Benny's avatar. Ask that twat why he told his players to go in hard. Go on. Hard tackling. Why? Ask him why. Ask if this is going to be in the documentary. Ask if that little hooligan gets a special episode every time he breaks someone's legs. Go on. Ask if that's how you get ahead in life, ordering your kids to go in hard. Ask him why he's such a fucking coward."

Bombs dropped, Best sits back down on the ball. I'm left facing the target of his wrath - a man so angry he's turning purple. There's the slightest delay before he can reconnect his brain and his mouth, and in that time I realise: Best is telling the truth. He knows what formations the other teams will use. And he knows this man has ordered his players to launch into reckless tackles, dangerous tackles. I approach him and give him a piece of my mind. For some reason, his defence is to yell, "You can't prove anything. You can't prove anything." Which, some might say, proves something.

I realise Best has tricked me into fighting his battle for him, into becoming part of his latest dramatic scene. The realisation exasperates me, but it's nothing compared to the injustice Benny has suffered. Seeing him there on the grass, protected by his all-sorts mates, hands over his eyes so we can't see his tears, triggers a part of me I haven't tapped into for some time. I storm over to the yob who made the foul and demand he take off his ruby red football boots.

"What? No. Why?"

"We need them for evidence. For the police. To check if Benny's blood is on them. If there's blood, you're getting done."

I've gone too far. The Wrexham coaches push me away, crowd around their player. As I start to cross the pitch, I'm thrilled to see that he has burst into tears. I'll feel ashamed of myself later, but I'm still exulting at being the vehicle of Benny's revenge when I hear my name.

"Beth." It's Best. He bites his bottom lip. He's trying not to smile. "Interview's back on. We're playing Notts in the morning. See you there."

"What about this?"

"Game's over. Can't move Benny," he says. "Got to wait for the -" He bites his lip again, sticks out his tongue. Soon after, he's back in command of his face. Deadly serious, he says, "Got to wait for the ambulance."

There's a tiny court case involving the tournament administrators. Best wins. The match is called a draw. At the end of the first day, Chester have seven points and are top of Group B. Their best players have played much less than the best players from other teams. The only cloud on the horizon is poor Benny. The last I see of him, he's being carried away by Best. Not quite as injured as it seemed, but still apparently distraught. Best takes small steps forward, letting the left foot catch up to the right. I realise he's carrying Benny like a soldier might carry a coffin. And when I see Tyson on the touchline, laughing and joking with Captain and some others, I'm sure of one thing: Benny is just fine.

As It Stood

Place. Team, Played, Goal Difference, Points

1. Chester 3, 5, 7 

2. Wolves 2, 0, 3 

3. Notts 2 ,-1, 3 

4. Crewe 3, -3, 3 

5. Wrexham 2, -1, 1

Escape in a Hot Air Balloon

I go to the canteen to get a coffee and a quick sandwich. I make some calls to get out of my plans for the following day. I eat half the sandwich and take the rest with me. I'm heading towards my car when I stop, mouth open, cheese dangling from my lips, as I watch a scene unfold on the closest pitch to the cafe.

Chester, sans their four best players, are playing an impromptu friendly match. Spectrum is in charge of Chester, it seems, while Best is managing a team built from underused players from other squads, plus one boy who is wearing a puffer jacket and trainers. Best is running around, animated, yelling instructions and cackling to himself.

The Chester boys are happy that their Max is happy. The misfit team play with immense concentration and desire. They zip around scoring goals and using this unexpected opportunity to impress their coaches. Best suddenly blows his whistle and the match is over. He pauses, then suddenly punches the air. He runs around high-fiving the children, then ushers them off the pitch and welcomes a new group. He rapidly organises them into a 4-3-3 formation - presumably it isn't worth the time it would take to ask each stranger what their favoured position is - and once again they score freely while Chester's boys make half-hearted attempts to stop them. Best ends the match, pauses, and punches the air again. He finishes the day with more high-fives, profusely thanking the managers who had lent him players, and by gathering his flock and leading them back towards their team bus for the journey home.

I ask people with hundreds of years of combined footballing experience. No purpose for these micro-matches can be divined.

Return to Oz

Owing to a plumbing emergency and traffic, I arrive late, twenty minutes into Chester's crucial match against Forest.

Spectrum fills me in. "So this morning, Notts smashed Wrexham and Wolves whupped Crewe. Wolves are third, but they're in pole position, really. They're playing Wrexham now and Wrexham are toast. Their morale is shot and they're a shambles. Forest need to beat us. If we get a point, we'll finish second. If we win, we win the group."

"What about Benny?"

"He's okay. He's bruised. Max says we can use him for the last fifteen or twenty. Nine is playing instead. He's doing okay."

He shows me the league table as it stood before kick off.

Place. Team, Played, Goal Difference Points

1. Chester 3, 5, 7

2. Notts 3, 4, 6

3. Wolves 3, 3, 6

4. Crewe 4, -6, 3

5. Wrexham 3, -6, 1

"Okay," I say. "And what's the score?"

"It's two-one. We were two-nil up but Notts have this midfielder who's a little genius. He's running the game."

"Didn't Max have some insane plan?"

"No, it was pretty conventional. We're just slugging it out. Taking turns to throw big punches."

"You don't like it."

"It's stressful. But the real drama is Tyson." He looks worried and turns to Best. "Can I tell her?"

"Sure, whatever," comes the reply. Best looks subdued. His attention seems to be fixed on a short player in Forest red. He's two-footed with a low centre of gravity and Chester don't have a midfielder who can compete with him.

Spectrum is in a gossipy mood. "So you know Notts are interested in Tyson, and last night they called his dad and made some extravagant offer."

"The moon on a stick," says Best, who refuses to clarify the comment.

"So Tyson showed up all tormented at the meeting point and he said that his dad said that Max had to cut the shit or they were leaving."

"Cut the shit?"

"Oh, right, you don't know. Tyson isn't allowed to shoot." He frowns again. "Max, are you sure about this?"

"Yeah, let it all out. Whatever. Who cares?"

"And Max gets all pissy like he does and says the rules have changed and now Tyson can only play if Tyson gets a tattoo saying 'I won't shoot' and I complain and Max backs down and says fine, no tattoo, and Nottsss can poach my players all they want but if you're one of us you're one of us and if you're one of us you get on the bus. So Tyson snaps back and they have a fight, but then he hops on and sits at the back, hiding under a hoodie all the way here. He's out there now playing CAM, but he's playing shit. His head's a mess. Max reckons near the end of the match he'll shoot and then run over to the Forest bench and ask for amnesty."

"What do you think?" I ask.

Spectrum shakes his head. "For once I think Max is right. It'll go something like that, anyway. We're all just kind of waiting for it to happen."

They lapse into silence to the extent that I consider working my way round to the Forest side of the pitch to be there when Tyson defects. I'm struck by the atmosphere - it feels like being in a Cold War spy thriller, not a sports tournament for boys.

Every now and then, Best spits out instructions and the boys on the pitch reposition themselves. It's far smoother than what other teams can manage. The Best-Spectrum axis, for all its obvious disunity, has produced a team that acts as one. I point this out to Spectrum. His eyes drop. He whispers, "That's Max. That's his mania. Teamwork FC. That's why Tyson can't shoot. It's about making him a team player." He shakes his head. Still inaudible to his boss, he continues, "Tyson should stay. His improvement recently has been... startling. But he won't. He'll see the Premier League badge. He'll think he might get turned into a FIFA character. He won't get that at Chester. Max is acting like we're a big club, which is inspirational when it isn't annoying, but we're not. We've got nothing to make him want to stay. Not really."

"What if you win the tournament?"

My question is badly timed. Forest's midfield maestro gets the ball, skips past a weak challenge, body swerves around little Future, and threads a pass between Captain and Bomber. A rapid striker is first to the ball and applies a cool finish. Two-two, and Chester are starting to look like the small team they are.

Best swivels his finger, and his player revert to 4-4-2. He's barely present. It's hard to believe this is the cocksure wizard the boys have come to love. The curtain has parted, and Best is just another hollow man in a cheap hoodie. A man with a talent for kicking a ball who believes this makes him talented in all areas of life.

His shoulders slump even further as Forest score again. Chester are going to finish third in their group. It's actually a remarkable achievement, but after the glory of yesterday, it feels like winning the wooden spoon.

The match starts to peter out. Best summons Benny. At the next break, he'll replace Nine. Benny only has a few minutes to impact the game, and he's moving gingerly. As Nine comes off the pitch, Best reaches out an arm and turns Benny towards him. He brings his face close to the young man's. "Look at that," he says, pointing. "See that? They're fucking terrified of you. Top scorer. They can't live with you and they know it." He releases the striker, who, instead of sprinting to position, walks. Every Forest player turns to track him. As Benny passes the midfield schemer, Benny stops, stares him out, then continues up the pitch.

Suddenly, I'm reinvested. Best is striding up and down like a panther. His jaw is set, his stance is wide. He radiates confidence.

"Attack!" he yells, startling me. "Attack! Attack attack attack!" He repeats the chant, and it seems to me that most Chester players move forward ten yards. Spectrum quivers with horror - there are massive gaps in the defensive lines. But this Chester won't lie down and die - they'll fight to the end.

The next passage of play is a high-wire act, with Chester controlling the ball, using Future as a conduit from left to right, from north to south. Sevenoaks is suddenly the dominant player on the pitch - everything goes through him. He dribbles and dribbles and his opponent starts to make mistakes. The ball comes to Forest's star man, and Benny appears out of nowhere, barging him off the ball. The referee gives a free kick - ludicrous, grossly unfair - and Forest's captain claps his hands furiously, trying to revivify his team.

"United!" yells Captain, bizarrely, but the effect is incredible. I swear the Chester players grow an inch. The next few minutes are mayhem. It's carnage. It's all-out attack from Chester. They're potent down the right. They conjure a few nice moments down the left. But the middle is a wasteland. The chances there should come from Tyson, but he's still not in the game. He's still torn between two possible versions of the future.

It seems that will be the difference between the teams. That Max Best's philosophy breaks down if one player isn't fully invested.

But then comes the highest moment in the entire tournament. Impossible drama. Sevenoaks skins his man, surges towards the byline, then Ronaldo-chops the ball into the penalty area. He drags the ball back and his standing foot is swept away.

Even before the referee has decided, Best is screaming for Tyson to come. Chester's Director of Football rushes down the touchline, and Spectrum and I follow. The ref awards the penalty. Tyson jogs across towards the side of the pitch. Forest complain. If Chester score this penalty, Forest are out of the running. By complaining, they are only giving Max Best time for one last madcap intervention.

"Tyson!" he yells.

"What? What?"

"Take the pen."

"Oh! Sure. Wait. What?"

There's an awful moment as we all realise what Best is planning. "No!" says Spectrum. He is furious.

Tyson will have to take the penalty. But as per Best's rules, he won't be able to shoot.

Everything that has gone before is vaguely understandable. The rules, while bizarre, have a noble goal - to improve Tyson as a player.

This, though. This is pure cruelty. This is sadistic. A grown man hurting a young player before he can hurt him back.

"Max," I say. "Do not fucking do this. I swear to God."

"Seriously," says Spectrum. He bursts out into a fierce laugh. "I will fight you. I will actually fight you."

Best isn't listening. Tyson is his whole world. "Take the penalty. Don't shoot."

"Fuck me," says the boy. He grinds his fists into his temples. The referee is blowing his whistle. Hurry up! "You don't want people to see how good I am."

As he does in situations where someone doesn't believe in him, Best stands to his full height, becomes distant. "You're so good, you don't need to shoot."

Tyson trudges off. He looks more like a boy who has been sent off in an important match than one who has been trusted to take a decisive penalty. There are between fifty and a hundred spectators - Chester are box office, now - and they believe they are about to witness a fateful moment in the tournament. They believe this is a fair contest between penalty taker and goalkeeper, albeit one tilted 75:25 in favour of the striker.

I am mildly in shock. I've seen horrible things on a football pitch, not least the tackle on Benny. But I've never seen a manager go in two-footed on his own player like this. Later, I wonder why I didn't rush onto the pitch and stop it.

Benny rushes up to Tyson and asks what is going on. Tyson whispers into his mate's ear, and Benny gives him a big hug. It's a sweet moment.

But then Tyson is putting the ball on the spot. It will be almost the last kick of the match. Almost. The weight of the world is on his shoulders. He wipes something away from his cheeks. My heart breaks. I steal a glance at Best. He is as impassive as the bust of a Roman Emperor who butchered his own population. I have never hated anyone more.

The referee blows his whistle. Tyson is too busy wiping tears from his eyes to strike the ball. I wonder if his plan is to delay taking the penalty so long that the ref will simply end the match. But no - the young striker steps forward.

Time slows.

The tournament flashes before my eyes.

The Wizard of Us. It's just a man behind a curtain. Smoke and mirrors. Max Best is weak and scared and no more talented than the rest of us, but he tricks us into believing that maybe... maybe. Yes, there have been accomplishments. He swats the hosts aside. He masterminds a one-in-a-billion thrashing of a team that eats golden burgers. For one glorious evening, his team prance around like cocks of the walk. It's a memory this defeat can't take away.

Tyson's right foot arrives at the ball. It seems like he has decided to smash it into the net, leave his boyhood club, and decamp to a bigger, better team where he will be treated like the young star he so clearly is.

Max Best has courage. Max Best has a brain. But Max Best has no heart.

Tyson, face contorted, strikes the ball. The goalkeeper dives to his left, Tyson's right.

The ball...

I can't believe my eyes.

The ball trickles a few inches forward and left. Tyson steps back and to his right.

What the ffffff.......

And then I understand!

The hug wasn’t a hug - it was a planning session! Benny has timed his entry into the penalty box perfectly. He's far ahead of all the other players. Tyson has taken the penalty. The ball is live. The ball is live!

From his position a yard away from Tyson, Benny passes the ball into the left-hand side of the net.

It's there! Chester have done it!

The players lose their minds. The crowd erupts. I'm hugging Spectrum. It's unbelievable. It's the greatest moment of my life. Best has turned football into a thrill ride. A rollercoaster built on the hopes and dreams of young men. He wrapped Tyson so tightly in a cocoon of restriction that the only way to escape was to grow wings. Eleven boys plus subs are streaming around, flapping their arms, trying to take flight, believing they might.

I pull away from Spectrum and click my pen. I have to write this down.

When you first see him, Max Best is a powerful mage, warping the very fabric of reality around him.

But pull back the curtain and you'll find Max Best is a small, weak nobody.

But pull back another curtain and you'll see: Max Best is actually a wizard.

Back in Kansas

I need to apologise to Best for doubting him, but when I finally look up from my notebook, he is nowhere to be seen.

The kids have a break before their semi-final against the winners of Group A. They eat, drink, and little by little, calm down.

Best reappears as if by magic. "Guys," he says. "Shut the fuck up, you're giving me a headache." 

The players smile and edge closer. 

"Listen. I'm really proud of you. You've got everything. Brains, courage, heart. You're such a good team, holy shit. Now, this is really important. Not like calling Nottingham Notts important. This one's real." 

I swear I see him swallow. 

"I've had a ton of fun bossing you around, this weekend. Giving you weird missions, putting you in the wrong positions, messing with the millionaires. It's great fun. I'm going to do it again. But we've got a bit of a saying, me and the coaches: everyone plays every game. It's from when I managed an obscure team called the Beth Heads. They had brains, courage, and heart, just like you. And some of you haven't played much, so we haven't done the best we could in that respect. We'll make it up to you in the next league game, yeah?" 

He looks at Spectrum, who nods. 

"When we first came to Chester, we were all shit. I mean, not me, I was mint. I was the white Ronaldo." 

The kids laugh. Ronaldo is white. "But you were all fucking garbage and Spectrum turned you into this." Best points at the last pitch they played on. 

"You're an absolute nuisance, now. You're a menace. Every team who ever plays you is going to have a sleepless night. Chester are coming. Are you with me? This is almost all because of Spectrum. So he's going to manage you for the rest of the day. Because that's his job that I'm paying him for," Best says with a sly smile, "But also because he fucking deserves it. He turned you into one of the four best teams in Das Tournament and he stood up to me when he thought I was doing something wrong. All right?"

The kids agree. They love Best, but they've lived with Spectrum for years. He's as popular as any coach I've ever met.

"There's just one last thing." Best's face hardens. "Tyson. Have you made a decision?"

The young man returns his gaze in a way few can. "I want to stay. I want to play for Chester."

"Give me your phone."

Tyson thinks about refusing. God knows what's in his chat history, and I hope I never find out. But Best merely sets up a FaceTime with Tyson's dad.

A large head sees Tyson and breaks into a warm smile. "Hi, son! How did you get on?"

Best swings the phone around onto his own face. "They drew. Tyson missed a penalty." The joke provokes uproar. Best silences the gang with a gesture. "Listen. I just wanted to tell you that you won't be able to not watch Tyson in the under 14s any more."

"Oh," says the dad. "Is that right?" He is pissed, in a restrained way, but I'm still trying to parse all the negatives. Not... watch? Has Best banned Tyson’s father from attending matches?

"That's right. From now on, you'll have to not watch Tyson play for the under sixteens."

The roar is deafening. Tyson is swarmed by his mates. Best holds the camera up for the dad to see the melee, waits ten seconds, then swings it back round. I want to slap the smirk off Best's face, and so does the dad. But we’re happy, too. Tyson’s been promoted!

"Bye," says Best, and hangs up. He stretches, massively. "Tyson," he calls out, throwing the boy’s phone back. The tumult dies down. "One more thing. You can shoot."

"Yesss," hisses Benny, shaking his mate by the shoulders.

"Of course," says Best, his voice rising above the new clamour. "If there's ever a match where you shoot more than you pass, I'll fucking knock you all the way down to the 12s. Are we fucking clear?"

"Yes, Max!"

"Right. Spectrum. You've got Stoke. Expect 4-4-2, but I'll text you if I see them change it. All right? Seeyas."

Best strides away. I look from him to Spectrum and the kids. Should I follow the Wizard, or stay with the Us? But I soon realise that it doesn't matter what happens next. The story is complete. Max Best has a heart. Spectrum has courage. Tyson has a brain. And more boys have realised something that Benny already knew: there's no place like home.