22 - Slam Dunk [T1] (Patreon)

22.

Football glossary: To slam shut. Opposite of 'to open'. According to the Sky Sports in-house style guide, the transfer window must always SLAM shut. In the real world, there are many ways to close a window. Slowly and one-handed from a crouching position so your neighbours don't notice that you've been spying on them. Quickly, because you just threw an insect out. Or passive aggressively, because someone on the train has started smoking. But in the world of football, windows can only SLAM shut.

***

Tuesday, 31st January, 2023. Last day of the transfer window.

"And breaking news from Portugal is that Benfica have REJECTED an improved bid from Chelsea for World Cup star Enzo Fernandez, said to be in the region of 80 million pounds. Benfica are ADAMANT they won't negotiate. The player has a one-hundred-million pound buyout clause, but Chelsea insist they won't improve their offer. Brian, what do you make of it?"

"I think he's a good player, but is he an eighty-million-pound player? I'm not so sure."

"Thanks, Brian. More on that story as it develops. Now over to Nottingham Forest, who seem to have forgotten they signed twenty players in the summer because they're linked with about twenty more."

Someone in the break room spoke to me. "Mad, isn't it? All this transfer stuff."

It was the left-back from the credit card company who I'd taken the piss out of after he'd started sledging me. I'd seen him around a few times and we were on friendly terms. "Yeah, bonkers."

"You going to sign anyone else?"

"We're done," I said. "Unless you want to sponsor us."

“Nah. I’m a Palace fan.” He grinned and got on with making his coffee. I took one last look at the TV, muted it, and went on a tour of my domain.

I started by checking out the first team training, where I spent far too long laughing and joking with the world's greatest living human being, professional footballer and professional Scouser Jack Litherland. While I was at Das Tournament, our loanee left-back had made his debut for Chester in a team that also featured a strong start from James Wise. The new signings gelled into the team perfectly, and propelled Chester to a three-nil win. Litherland sent in two delicious crosses that Henri headed home. Three points for the team, two goals for my client, and one big, long text message from a deliriously happy MD.

That had been part of the reason I'd let Spectrum see out the remaining games of Das Tournament. Yes, it was the right thing to do and all that, but also, Ian Evans wasn't going anywhere. Two signings and Chester were back on course for a mid-table finish. So yeah. With my chances of taking over Chester's first team currently at zero, I could relax and get back to some long-term planning.

Vimsy blew his whistle to start the next drill, and Jack was keen to 'get a sweat on', as he put it. So I let him rejoin the main group and popped into the medical room to see what was up. And to check out Livia's latest ponytail variation.

Ah! How nice to be surrounded by bare, white walls while I brushed my hand along those hard, flakey massage tables. I wondered: But this is shit. Why do I like this? That's when I realised what was different.

"Wait, what IS that smell?" I said.

Livia smiled. What a smile it was, too. It really suited her ponytail. Today's version had a little scorpion kick just before the end, after which it plunged earthwards. Very dramatic. "That's the diffuser."

"The what now?"

She was rubbing a guy's leg, and now she switched to the other one. "Dean went with Magnus to a, what was it called? Holistic therapy centre. And they chose an essential oil that conveyed the, er, spirit and tenor of the workplace."

I bent to see who was getting the treatment. It was D-Day, the winger who Evans was using as a striker. He was malingering, but I didn't care. He'd be out of the club in a few months. All the pricks would. "Smells nice."

"Yeah. I think it's orange blossom and honeycomb."

"Huh." I closed my eyes and imagined I was in the Shaolin Temple or somewhere like that. "Really does a lot to make it nicer in here. So he's trying, is he?"

Livia repressed a smile. "Yes."

"That's it? No goss?"

"No. He's trying."

I slapped my hands together. "Good enough! Can't ask for more than that, can I?"

"Not really."

"Well, I'm going to." I waited for her to roll her eyes; she didn't. "But not today. Today is already top. It's the best day, ever."

"No more transfers to do, then?"

"We are skint. The squad's the squad." I caught myself giving D-Day a dirty look, but cut it out right away. Not today! Today was a good day.

"You missed a great match on Saturday. So dynamic! Positive! That's the best they’ve played since..." She stopped rubbing D-Day's obnoxious calf while she thought.

"Since Oldham," I suggested.

"Yeah. Yeah!"

"A lot more of that to come, I reckon. Big finish to the season. New contracts for all the important players." I did a rude gesture behind D-Day's head that Livia found shocking and funny. "Nice solid foundation for the next manager to build on." I waggled my eyebrows; she didn't take the bait. "Be like that. I'm off to say something nice to Ian Evans for the first time ever! Wish me luck!"

***

On my way, I checked my phone. There were tons of messages from unknown numbers and emails from randos. I'd check them out over a hearty brek. I was feeling so good I was even tempted to try a vegan breakfast. Oats in oat milk. A bit cannibalistic, in my opinion, but when you were on top of the world you had to take the chance to see things from a new perspective.

Evans was in his customary position on the side of the pitch, stock still. The hair, as always, quivered in the breeze.

"Ian! Big win. Amazing, congrats. New lads were right at it, I heard."

He smiled. "They were. I knew all about James, course, but Jack? Mmm." Hard to describe that 'mmm'. It seemed like Evans's version of a chef's kiss. For a guy like Evans, hard work and doing the hard yards was nine-tenths of football, but there was still room in his heart for beauty, and the kind of cross that Litherland could hit was as beautiful as it got, especially with a thunderous Henri Lyons header at the end. The Frenchman was the pot of goal at the end of Litherland's rainbow.

I rubbed my hands together, both from cold and excitement. "Ah, well, top all round. Top all round. And you were right."

"Bout what?"

"At Shona's party. My question was: who's the Argie player with the highest transfer value? Your guess was Enzo Fernandez. I couldn't choose him because he wasn't in the first eleven, but I don't think I'd have gone for him, anyway. And now Chelsea have bid 80 million for him. Insane, but you saw it coming. Maybe you know a bit about this game after all!"

It sounds like a dickish thing to say, but I was in such a good mood Evans took it for what it was - a bit of fun. He smiled and almost looked sheepish. "Yeah, well, been doing it long enough."

"And for another five months, fingers crossed!" I was tempted to grip him by the shoulder and give him a friendly shake, but there was the risk of him punching me. That, despite his age, would hurt.

I turned, ready for my world premiere vegan breakfast.

"Best," said Evans.

"Yes," I said, spinning like a soldier on parade.

"We could use a proper right-mid."

I sagged, just a fraction. "Ah. Sorry, mate, really, but the piggy bank's empty. I honestly would if I could."

He shook his head at my stupidity. "I meant you, you twat."

I beamed. The best day ever just got better! "Ah! Two weeks till my hearing. But sure, fuck it, why not? I'll burnish your late-stage CV with a few ten-nil wins. Count me in. Don't expect me to shuffle and slide, though."

He scoffed. "I won't."

I skipped away, feet barely touching the ground. What had made him warm to me? The new signings? Beating Wolves? Turning Tyson into a player? Whatever. We'd have five harmonious months, he'd fuck off to grow vegetable marrows, and once the door finished slamming behind him, I'd be able to run my club exactly as I wanted. In the meantime, playing a game or two sounded like fun. I wanted to tell more stories. A lot more stories.

***

The deluge of texts were mostly from agents about possible players we could sign, but they weren't very interesting. Or timely; we had no money left. I replied to most because it seemed like a good idea to have good relationships with all these guys. I ended up scrolling back all the way to Sunday’s texts.

Spectrum: I fucked up. We lost 5-4. They scored in the last minute because I went men behind ball. Tried to get to penalties. I feel sick.

Me: When you're in charge, you're in charge. I know you went as attacking as you felt comfortable with.

Spectrum: Were you here? I didn't see you.

Me: I'm always there. I'm like the spirit of Baby Yoda watching over you.

Spectrum: I messed up the tournament.

Me: Nope. You scored four goals against Stoke. What would you have said, on Saturday morning, if I said you'd be slugging it out in the semi-final with a Championship team?

Spectrum: But that was our best chance to win it. Probably ever.

Me: Nope. That was our worst chance to win. Every year we'll get stronger. Also: I'm behind you. I'm about to touch you on the shoulder.

Me: Made you look.

So we lost the semi-final, and we lost the third place playoff. The kids were shot, for that last one. They'd put a lot of effort into the matches, and the other teams were generally fitter. It wasn't just physical fitness, it was experience. Most of Chester's matches were easy wins or huge defeats. They weren't used to actual contests. As we improved the squad, we'd have to find new ways to challenge them. Maybe we'd enter them into under 16s tournaments! Fourth place in Das Tournament, though. It wasn't bad.

And Tyson. Wow. He'd really come through. He was a player, now. Teamwork seven and rising. Plus two CA points. On pitch? Tick. Off pitch? Well, he'd warned me that Beth had been asking about Dani, and he'd stolen a lunchbox from Notts Forest. He'd turned into an asset. Someone who was starting to believe in the Chester story. That had been a long, exhausting process that had begun on my second day in Chester, when I'd managed the under fourteens and subbed him off. All that time spent fixing him. Time I could have spent doing hundreds of other things. Yeah. Wouldn't change a second. Worth it.

That penalty? Yes, mate! Beyond the obvious benefits that came from Tyson passing to Benny, it was a moment everyone was talking about. Even Dani asked me about it. Is it true that Tyson passed from a penno? For a young man who wants recognition to be given more of that sweet, sweet sauce for a pass than he could ever get from any shot... Yes. I couldn't have planned a better outcome.

The kids from Hope Farm Juniors? They were staying. Spectrum? He lost his nerve near the end of the semi, but he'd really had a go until then. I was weirdly proud of him.

Das Tournament had been such a win. I loved the (mostly) friendly vibe, the constant stream of matches, the absolute cornucopia of young talent. When I wasn't picking up XP from managing, I was getting it from scouting. And I'd already bolstered our ranks with a new signing.

Saturday's Playdar had come through. After I'd scouted all the kids, I'd got in my car and pinged. But I didn't need to drive; the perk led me to a kid on the touchlines of a Crewe match, playing Heads and Volleys with some subs. He'd only come to watch his mate play, and he didn't have a club. His name was Dan Badford, he was a 14-year-old CM, and he had a PA of minus one.

Minus one! I'd found another Magnus type!

Magnus had PA minus 2. It stood to reason that minus one was better. Right? Or not? Anyway, it was intriguing. I invited him to my demo match and he was happy to play, even if he kept his puffy jacket on the whole time.

I got him to nag his parents to drive him to Chester a few times a month so he could start training. At the end of the season I'd see if he'd caught up to the other kids, and then I'd make a decision on him.

On the Sunday, I'd hit Playdar again after I'd handed the reins to Spectrum. But it took me to a kid playing for Shrewsbury who I somehow hadn't scouted in all my time circling the area. Annoying! He wasn't even that good.

Still, with the transfer window closing, the only real urgency to my scouting was finding enough players to field a women's team in their first match, which was scheduled for February 17th. Three days after the FA hearing that would decide if I was allowed to play football again this season.

Ugh. Why did I have to go and ruin my mood? Positive. Positive. Hadn't something else good happened?

Oh! The demo matches. You know how some video gets, like, a thousand hits and some garbage website says 'This video BROKE THE INTERNET'? Well, I broke the curse. I'd gathered loads of little kids - when I first went round chatting to the other managers they were all a bit, errr nah, but when I started crushing Premier League teams and being all legitimate they changed their tune. I got a 5% discount code for the first match (the code was the word: CHEAT), which had two five-minute halves. And I got a 10% discount code for the second (the word BOOHISS), which I let go on longer so the kids could run up the score.

The curse paid up, but it got mad at me for, like, bending the rules or whatever, just because I sent Benny, Tyson, Captain, and Bomber off on some errand while the randos I'd gathered smashed what was left of the team. And what was left of the team was under strict orders from Spectrum not to tire themselves out.

So yeah, I got the coupon codes, but then I got a message saying the perk was finishing early owing to 'unforeseen use cases'.

I was equal parts annoyed and relieved. One less opportunity to progress; one less thing to manage.

***

After training, I spotted Jack Litherland and his agent walking towards the latter's car.

"Richard," I said, smiling at the guy who'd proposed this deal. "Nice to see you. Everyone's buzzing about Jack."

"I heard!" he said. "I knew this would work out great. Listen, just so you know, we're off to see a specialist. Jack had ankle surgery a while back. We're going to get it looked at."

"Are you in pain?" I said, worried.

"No, Max," said Jack, reassuringly. "It's good as new. Been doing my Pilates and all that. It's a routine check. Personally, I'd rather skip it. Don't like ozzies. I've never felt better."

"Are you available for tonight?" We were at home to Alfreton, the team I'd dumped out of the cup in my first competitive match as a player.

"Course! Wouldn't miss it. I read your scouting report. 4-5-1, hit them on breaks from corners. And that's exactly what you did. Amazing, man. You're absolute bosh."

I loved this guy so much. How had he found my scouting report? He was probably only the fourth person to ever read it. The glow I felt around him was unreal. "Right, that time you said bosh. Admit it."

"No boss, I said bosh. Where are you off to?"

"Vegan cafe, and if that doesn't work out, pub."

***

There were a few people gathered round the outside of the pub, staring at a telly. "What's going on?" I said.

"Just Chelsea being Chelsea," said one dude, as the crowd dispersed. The chevron on the TV read: Chelsea refuse to increase bid for Enzo.

I popped inside and stood under one of the TVs listening to the host explain the story. "And if you've just joined us, breaking news from Cobham where Chelsea have announced they will not, repeat not, increase their bid for Enzo Fernandez."

Someone had come up behind me at the TV, which was odd because there were plenty of others she could have gone to. She made a faintly disgusted noise. "How is that a story?" she said.

"I know, right?" I had a quick look. Generic older woman, and when I say old, I don't mean, like, 31. I mean sixty. She had that haircut that some women of that age have, where they look like goalkeepers from the 80s. Really nice smile, though. Made you think she'd do a proper cup of tea and cut your sandwiches diagonal to make them taste better. I turned back to the screen. What were Chelsea doing? In the summer they'd signed 12 players and if they signed Enzo, that would be another eight in January, for a combined cost in the region of six hundred million pounds. They already had a massive, bloated squad. This might be a good time to remind you that football teams have eleven players.

"Do you know why they're doing it?" said the woman, apparently reading my mind.

"Partly," I said. "They're signing these guys on eight-year contracts so they can spread the cost of the payments across eight years of accounts. But players they sell, they can book all the income in that year. It's a bit of financial wizardry to quickly rebuild the team before UEFA or the Premier League changes the accounting rules."

"Are you making that up?"

I laughed. "I do make things up, sometimes. But my flights of fancy aren't normally about amortisation. No, the eight-year contracts are a massive risk, but they have a bit of logic behind them. And they're signing 22-year-olds. So that's good. I like young players. Give them a good coach, let them get on with it."

"But?"

"But you're paying prime Ronaldo money for baby Ronaldo. Do you know what I mean? Enzo Fernandez is really good, but he's not worth a hundred million. They're assuming he will reach his potential but it's not a guarantee he'll continue to improve. And the first rule of football is: don't buy a player who had a good World Cup. People always overrate World Cup performances. For a hundred million, you might as well buy the 26-year-old who IS the best in his position. Twenty new players. I heard rumours that they're spilling out of the changing rooms into the corridors. You've got an eleven v eleven training game on pitch one, and a nine v nine game on pitch two. And everyone is in the first team! Yeah, it's bonkers. It's fun to watch. Fun to learn what not to do." I grinned. "What if it works, though? What if the secret to football management is being absolutely ridiculous and really committing to it? Wouldn't that be fun? I know a guy who'd be fucking incredible if those were the rules."

She smiled. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"None of my nine girlfriends would like that."

"I know you only have one, Max Best."

Huh. "Why do I feel like I'm about to get told off?"

The nice, warm smile faded for a moment. "I'm dead nervous. I need a drink. If you won't have one, will you promise not to run off while I get one for meself?"

I smirked. "I don't make promises I can't keep."

Different parts of her face did a different expression. I don't think she met many people like me. "Ha," she said. Then she turned tail and almost literally ran off. I looked at the TV again, then followed the weirdo to the bar.

***

The weirdo, eventually, told me her name was Jill Stocks. When I decided she wasn't a maniac, I ordered a pie with extra gravy and listened to her story.

She had played football for Chester City's women's team, back in the old days. Of course, when the men's team went bust, so did hers.

"It was awful, sickening, a real gut punch, but for me the timing wasn't too bad. I was at the end of me playing career, and I was just starting out doing some coaching. Just helping the young girls out with sessions, a few drills, teaching them some things I learned. It wasn't much, but they said they liked it. My husband pushed me to do more, and that was surprising."

"Why?"

"He was never much into the women's football. Didn't have an awful lot of respect for it."

"He sounds charming."

"Well," she said. She obviously didn't want to say anything bad about him. "He'll always admit when he's wrong. He said he was wrong about you."

"Oh, shit. Where's this going? Who is he? Your name is Stocks? Stocks... Stocks..."

"Never mind that. That's my name, not his. No, he wasn't very supportive, but when I told him the girls liked my sessions, he got frustrated with me. Then do it more! Don't you realise you have a talent? Do you know how often players go up to a coach and say wow, that was good? Never! If you're getting that, you must have something. Come on, Jill, wake up. Put yourself forward. Well, coming from my husband, you can imagine. Really made me think. But then came the crash, and that was that."

"More wasted talent," I mumbled, though I was mostly trying to work out who she was married to.

"Maybe. I thought I'd never know. But you're here, now. And you've made a women's team. And you don't have a coach, yet."

Oh! I laughed. "Lucky for you I popped into this pub. Have you been here since the start of January, waiting for me to come in?"

She looked down. "I was too much a coward to write or call. I've been tormenting myself. Trying to pluck up the courage, And then - then you just walk in off the street while I'm waiting for my mate." News of a transfer came through on the curse news feed. I frowned. Jill took it wrong. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have bothered you. I know you're busy, especially on a day like today. It's your busiest day, right?"

I jerked a thumb at the TV behind me. "Did you hear that just now? Joao Cancelo from Man City to Bayern on loan. What the shit? He's been one of their best players for, like, three years. He's incredible. And they let him go?"

"Problems with the manager," said Jill.

"Problems with the manager," I repeated, slowly. "Listen. Everyone says I'm a prick. There's no smoke without fire. I'm probably awful. I strongly advise you not to want to work with me. You think you can do some good sessions? Fine. Come and do them. If that's all you've got, I'll kick you to the curb. I'm not interested in having a tier seven women's team. I want to go to the top. The actual top. I'm out there, scouting, bringing in top talent. I need top coaches. I don't have a coach right now, so you'd be an upgrade. But if I find a better one and I can afford her, you're out. I can't afford to be sentimental. I literally don't have the money for it." I stared at her and couldn't read her face, so I ploughed ahead. "The new Chester is no place for gammons. I don't care if a player is gay, fat, weird, or even, yes, even French. All that matters is talent and team spirit. Our best player is deaf. How are you going to coach a deaf player? We have a little bit of money for year one. What are you going to spend it on? Entering a tournament, or buying equipment? Why? Answer in 800 words, ask the invigilator for more paper if you so require. Should I go on?"

"Yes."

"Football. No offence, but it's changed since you played. Long ball is dead. Unless I'm doing it," I added with attractive smugness. "Now, the game's all about letting pressure come onto your goalkeeper and passing through the lines. Pressing. Gegenpressing. Can you coach it? When do we use an underlapping full-back? I want a double pivot. Can you give it to me? Oops, I've changed my mind. Now I want a single pivot as part of a 2-6-2."

"2-6-2!" she exclaimed. "That's mad."

"Is it, now?" I nodded a few times, then pointed at her. "Ian Evans."

"What?"

"Your husband."

"Please," she said. "As if I'd marry a defender." Huh. That narrowed it down, slightly. Jackie Reaper was out! Jill sipped on her Bailey's. "Just so you know, I watched your video. It made me cry. That's another reason I was scared to talk to you. You've got the guts to do what I always wanted. We had some girls who didn't quite fit in, back in those days. They needed someone strong to take their side, and I didn't. I regret that so much." She lost about ten decibels. "I just wanted to say that."

"Yeah yeah yeah I'm fantastic," I said, though acknowledging a weakness was a point in her favour. She'd be motivated to do better, next time. "What about coaching?"

"I can't do all those things you said," she admitted. "I can do some of it. And I can learn some of it. And the rest, you don't need the rest. Not yet. I can help you get going, I think."

"Can you now?" I said, with a hint of a challenge.

"Yes," she said, but she wasn't responding on an emotional level. It was a simple statement of fact. I think she was wondering where her limit was. Underlapping full-backs was my guess.

And she was right about one thing - I didn't need the full package right away. Jill was a former Chester player who'd had good feedback and was willing to learn. This was a slam dunk. "The women train Mondays and Fridays right now, and we'll expand that as we get the numbers in. There's like, seven players so far. If you can come to those sessions and help out for a couple of weeks, I'll take a look at you. Then we'll take it from there. Minimum wage, by the way. What do you say?"

"I say yes."

I reached out and shook her hand. "Welcome to The Thunderdome."

***

Richard Carling: Max, specialist is worried about a shadow on the X-ray. Advises to rest a couple of days, rescan. Jack could play tonight if you insist.

Me: No. Tell him to rest up.

There were loads of messages coming in from increasingly desperate agents. I wondered what it would be like once we were in a higher league and had some money in the bank. There was a rumour that Man United, who had about as much left in the transfer budget as I did, had tried to sign a fairly mediocre player just to get an extra body in. And when people heard about it, every agent in Europe got on the phone. If he can play for United, so can my client! I imagined whoever was on the end of those calls turning his phone off for an hour, lying down in a darkened room.

It was a crazy sport run by idiots.

In my quest to do better, I checked how much I had in the bank.

XP Balance: 509

Debt repaid: 610/3000

Had my priorities changed since I'd last thought about it? Next on my wish list was Morale, costing 2,000 XP. Injuries was after that at 3,000.

Maybe learning more about injuries needed to be a higher priority - it could have told me that something was wrong with Jack. I had enough cash to instantly unlock 4-5-1, but formations had to wait, sadly. I'd try to have a couple more before the next tournament. There were a few youth tournaments scheduled for the Easter weekend - about nine weeks away. Plenty of time.

I was fairly sure my XP growth would accelerate once the transfer window had slammed shut. There was a trade-off between using Playdar and attending matches that I would probably shift in favour of matches. If I found one new player a week, that would be fifty a year. Plenty. Especially if I kept poaching talent from rival teams.

My brain detected that something interesting was happening and tuned into the Sky TV coverage that I was streaming. "And we have... breaking news. We are hearing reports that CHELSEA have made a NEW BID for Enzo Fernandez. The new bid is thought to be..." The host touched his ear as if to say, can you repeat that, mate? "Ninety-four MILLION pounds. That's Chelsea's FINAL bid, take it or leave it."

"Jesus Christ," I said, laughing. They'd end up paying the release clause, I was sure of it. Why embarrass yourself with all this final offer shit? I put my laptop away, popped out my earphones, and went for a walk.

***

I saw a bunch of kids playing in the park. It was just after school, so there probably wasn't much footy going on. I felt sure Playdar would direct me to those kids and reveal their profiles. I hit the ping, but the column of light appeared way off in the distance. Ah, well.

A delivery driver whizzed past me on a scooter. Scooter! That's what I needed if I hit Playdar in the city. Whizz to my destination just as fast as a car, and sometimes even faster. On a scooter I could take shortcuts and get closer to the pitch without worrying so much about parking.

Yeah. Maybe I could use this idea to spend some time with Henri. He didn't like watching shitty matches with me, but he liked riding around. Yeah, we could try that, after I'd had a day or two off. I'd overexerted myself since becoming DoF. I needed a break. I needed to do something absolutely bonkers like go to watch rugby. Or go see my mum and watch Fboy Island for a few mindless hours.

I took one last look at the column of light and watched it fade away.

A gust of wind blew just then, and it was an unusually cold one. The back of my neck responded like I'd just seen a body.

***

We were in the Director's Box at the Deva Stadium. Me, MD, Smasho and Nice One, Ruth, a few bigwigs. The number of VIPs interested in attending Chester matches had been dwindling. The dour football, the bad results, the lack of atmosphere in the stadium. It wasn't the place to be.

But I was still in a pretty good mood. The kind of mood that Steam, the online store where you buy PC games like Jade Empire 2, Half Life 3, and Paradroid Infinity, calls 'overwhelmingly positive.'

My friends and I joked about the transfer window and the bad deals that were going on. Everyone was very interested in my take on Das Tournament - they'd heard something amazing had happened. I regaled them with stories and got quite a lot of laughs as I told the tales. I kept an eye on MD - he was impressed, but I knew the real work would be done when he confirmed the details with Spectrum. I could just see his face: Oh, wait, he really did that? He wasn't joking? And Spectrum would be forced to admit that: No, he wasn't joking. He really did sub off his entire forward line after a minute. He really did use a semi-final to turn Tyson into a legend.

Nice One kept asking me to repeat the bits about Benny, but Ruth was only interested in one aspect of the story.

"So we got Dani?"

"We did!" I beamed.

"I hope that means what you think it means." I think after meeting Emma, Ruth had got a bit light-headed about working with me, but now that her 200K had flown away from her bank account, her enthusiasm had come right back down to earth and she was back to wondering if I was just a handsome idiot.

I tried to reassure her. "It does. She's our Michael Jordan. The one from Space Jam, not the baseball one."

"Tell us about the women's coach you hired," said Smasho.

"Yeah, well, she's experienced, she's got good qualities, and - wait. I haven't told anyone." I realised what it meant. "You! You're the husband."

Smasho was a happy bunny. "She bumped into Max in the pub, and now she's got the job! That simple."

Ruth crossed her arms. "Do I want Smasho's wife coaching our team, Max?"

She asked me, but she was staring at the former striker. Poor guy. I said, "I think you do, yeah. It's just a feeling. You can't tell until you're on the pitch."

Ruth was still eyeing Smasho, who was looking more like a naughty schoolboy by the second. "Is she here?"

"Course, yeah." He was third in Chester's all-time top scorers list, but that didn't impress Ruth and he knew it. "Comes to every game."

"In the cheap seats, while you're up here drinking champers. What a charmer."

Smasho flushed. "She knows I'm working. This is work. Legends Night. I'm a legend?" The question mark on his statement very nearly made me spit out my drink.

Ruth took a step forward and jabbed him on the chest. "Go and get her. I want to meet my latest investment."

For some reason, he looked at me for help. I flicked my head towards the stands. Better hurry! He put his beer down and did a walky-run towards the nearest exit.

"Fun," I said.

But I was next in line. "When I signed off on this loan, I didn't expect you to pick up our first team coach in a pub!"

"In a pub at lunchtime," said MD, who was an annoyingly good listener sometimes.

"They have good pies," I said. "And it's all tourists so I don't get recognised. Except today."

"Max," said Ruth, "I expected you to follow your nose when it comes to finding players. You're the expert, there. But when it comes to hiring staff, I expect you to follow best practice. That means open applications. Interviews. Following up references. Not just tucking into a pie and offering a job to the nearest blonde. Who happens to be married to a man who is, famously, a bloke."

MD winced at the word bloke. I assumed it was bad, but to me it just meant a man.

"We had no coach. Now we do. That's progress. I'll be able to see if she's doing a good job."

Ruth glanced at MD. Obviously they shared certain, highly specific doubts about me. The same kind of doubts Shona had. That I was amateur. Immature. Flighty and capricious. The fact that they were right did slightly sour my mood. I could afford to be slightly sloppy because I'd see how good a coach was via the greens and reds on the player profiles. Yes, I didn't know how to conduct an interview. But I could see, better than anyone in human history, how effective a coach was. And my skills would only improve. Maybe the Staff Search perk should be my new priority? It had been seventh on my list until I'd bought Playdar. But getting good employees was incredibly important. More important than knowing what was bothering Henri? Surely not; he was my friend and he needed me. Argh! Why was this so hard? I hadn't needed to think this hard to crush Das Tournament.

Jill came in, and over the next ten minutes was very politely grilled by Ruth. So politely that Jill didn't even realise it was happening. Smasho understood that Ruth was giving the job interview that Ruth felt I should have done, and he was a nervous wreck while it was going on.

He needn't have worried. Jill's good nature and work ethic was obvious, as was her passion for the sport and for developing young talent.

MD intervened; in his time he'd interviewed thousands of potential new employees and had seen enough. "We're very pleased to have you on board, Jill. I think a lot of people still remember your name. It'll give Max's team a bit of cachet, if you ask me." That last comment was aimed at Ruth.

Ruth said, "Well, it was great meeting you. Why don't you get another drink while MD and I talk shop with Max?" A very relieved Smasho boinged over to the bar. "Okay, Max. I approve. But can we please be more normal from now on?"

"In situations where I don't know best, yes."

"Impossible boy," she said, but she was being very provocative with her drink's straw.

"Max, transfer window is about to close," said MD, oblivious to the fact that his dream woman was mooning at me.

"Slam shut," I said.

He ignored me. "Are we sure we've done everything we can?"

"Have we got any more money?"

"No."

"Then what? What? Sorry, I don't understand the topic."

Ruth leaned forward. "You know there's the big fan's forum coming up? We want to review the transfer window with you so we know what you'll say. Has it been a success?"

"Oh. Sure." I took ten seconds or so to think through the players I’d signed since I started. "So Jack is a massive win."

Ruth turned to look at the pitch behind her. The match was still nil-nil, and it was garbage. I was keeping an eye on it for the XP, but I wished I didn't have to. "Is he playing? I didn't hear his name."

"He's got a minor ankle prob. No biggie. He's obviously a good player, balances the team, hits great crosses which is fucking electric when you've got Henri on the end of them, but it's his whole vibe. He's lifted the place. I sometimes think I'm a bit dead inside or whatever because I don't seem to process the world like normal people but holy shit, Jack is really something. Makes you laugh, makes you think, is interesting, is interested. He's just the best thing ever. Don't tell Emma I said that. Our other big signing, James Wise, not so much. He is good though." Wise was on 7 out of 10 for the match, along with Sam Topps. "Him and Sam are a very decent combination. That's one of the best pairings in the division, now. I think that was money well spent."

"We committed a lot of resource to Pascal Bochum," said MD.

I shrugged. "He's cheap for what he is. Unique opportunity. We'll make good money from him."

"As long as we don't get relegated," said Ruth, using another word that made MD wince.

"If we'd used that 500 a week to bring in another first teamer on loan, it could have made a difference. Maybe. But then we'd still have no assets. We'd be locked into this cycle. We have to break out of poverty!"

"Okay, fine," said MD. "It makes me nervous, but okay. Then there's Youngster."

"Yeah. He’s basically free, though. For now. He's doing okay, from what the coaches have told me. And he's going to be massive. Sometimes I forget how epic he is because he's all like, Max can I put Bible quotes in the toilets and Max, God told me you'll be unhappy soon and I must be there for you. Mad shit like that. The 18s don't look much stronger yet but those two are really the only good players in the squad. Add a couple more talents and Pascal and James will really stand out. Who else? Vivek, Dan Badford, Mark Nelson. Very happy with those. We signed a few others who've raised the average level but probably won't get through to the first team. On the women's side, Dani, obvs, she's huge, and Pippa."

MD frowned. "Pippa, Max. She's fairly old to be just starting."

"She's an experiment. She's got bags of talent. If it's too late for her, fine. Didn't cost us anything. If she can only reach half her potential, that's still a really, really good player for us. If she can still get to the hilltop or whatever the phrase is, that opens up a whole nother line of scouting."

MD smiled. "I love the ambition. Not sure we're at the stage where we can afford to be doing experiments, though."

"I don't think we can afford not to." I pointed to the pitch, where Alfreton had just scored.

Apart from the CMs, almost every Chester player was on six out of ten. It wasn't a bad performance, really, it was just lifeless. Morale had dropped. All the energy Jack had brought, he'd taken with him to the specialist's clinic. We'd have him for sixteen more matches, though. Look on the bright side, Max!

So Morale, then. That was the priority. Trying to find ways to get inside the players's heads, to get more out of them for the rest of the season.

"This is bad," said MD. He was on his phone. He showed me the current scores from the other games. Two of our rivals at the bottom of the league were winning. We wouldn't drop into the relegation zone, but we'd be using the bottom four teams as a pillow. The Princess and the Scenario B, by Hans Christian Andersen.

MD and Ruth went back to mingling with the guests, while I sat alone, as far from everyone else as I could get. There was some strange draft in the room that was blowing around and landing on my neck wherever I went. That sensation I'd had when I hadn't pursued the Playdar target. Was I being reprimanded for not chasing the opportunity? It felt like it. Well, fuck you, Nick. I've been busy. I'm tired. All right?

We equalised - a half-decent finish from D-Day after some good work from Henri. But then Alfreton were right back on top of us, and it seemed inevitable we'd lose.

The goal came late, so the team didn't have time to respond. All things considered, it was a pretty joyless performance. The sense of acceleration was gone. Losing Jack had slammed on the brakes.

As the VIPs started leaving, MD and I went down into the Blues Bar. It was usually pretty busy with home and away fans, players and their families, and sometimes even Ian Evans. I thought that was one of the ways he kept the crowd onside - a guy he bought a pint for once was much less likely to call for his head. With its cheerful blue paint and cheap booze, it was normally a jolly sort of place, even after a defeat. This time, I felt that same ill wind blowing, to the point that I went round checking all the windows were shut.

MD and I had done all we could to safeguard the future of the club; we watched the rest of the transfer window play out on Sky Sports.

A transfer was announced. I'd never heard of the player. How was someone paying 24 million pounds for him? "This would have been me," I told MD, as I drank mineral water.

He was on something a lot harder. "What d'you mean?"

"My plan was to play ten games for Darlo so I'd get a winner's medal if they won the league. Then come to Chester."

"Really?" he said, cheeks flushed. Couldn't hold his drink, despite how much he practised. "That was really your plan? Get Ian sacked and come here? I don't know if I should slap you or kiss you."

"Yeah. Either. Both. Henri loved it, but he was mad at me, too. Said you can't play a match for Darlo and make the phone call to leave just before you hop in the shower."

"He's right! That's awful! You're such a brat. You can't do that!"

I stuck my bottom lip out. "I probably could. It was better this way, though. I'm glad I didn't have to burn all those bridges."

"You went out on a high!" he said, very nearly spilling his drink on me as he thrust it forward. "Top of league! Darlo are fucked, though. I think they only won one match since you left."

"Yeah," I said, rubbing my chin. "It's pretty weird."

"Not weird," he said. "They had a taste of caviar and now they've gone back to... what do they eat there?"

"Same as here. Nando's and Weetabix. Oh, what the shit?"

Up on the screen, the chevron had changed, and the general hubbub in the room quietened enough so we could hear the presenter.

"Breaking news! Chelsea have signed World Cup winner Enzo Fernandez for a British record fee of 106.8 MILLION pounds."

The hubbub was back with a vengeance. British record! For a guy who had played half a season in European football.

"Fuck me," I said. "It's so chaotic. Imagine being that bad at transfer windows. All those agents have been taking the absolute piss out of them and they don’t even know it."

"Hundred million," said MD, almost tearful. "I'd love some of that, Max. Do you really think we can get some of that with Pascal? And Youngster?"

"Deffo. Youngster's a slam dunk. Pascal's in off the backboard. Got to stick with them. Got to get them chances in the first team. But yes, I'm sure of it."

Random voice: "Are you Max Best?"

I was getting used to that. "Yes."

It was a pretty drunk guy. Friendly, but I wouldn't like to meet him in a dark alley. There was one just outside the Blues Bar that always made me feel weird. "Can I get a selfie?"

"Quick one."

He snapped. "Oh, mint! Ace. Hey, is it true about Jack Liverpool?"

"Litherland. What about him?"

That was the moment the Chester guy went prehistoric. I barely understood a word. "I seed on Twitter he wore on Southend. Ye can't let him garn to Southend, thick, we needs him. He's sound. Cranny lad; he's in good buckle."

"Southend?" I said, focusing on one of the two words I was sure I'd heard. The guy fumbled with his phone for a bit and showed me a tweet. It was a photo of Jack and Richard Carling going into Southend's Roots Hall stadium. Didn't prove anything - could have been taken any time. But the tweet was from some local journalist, timestamped an hour ago. The text read, 'New signing? Anyone know who this guy is?'

I grabbed MD and we raced up into the boardroom. He texted our club secretary, Joe, and our admin lady, Inga, and soon the four of us were there, hitting the phones, checking the news. I was pacing around, trying to get in touch with Carling, or Jack, or anyone from Jack's club.

"Fuck!" I said. "What the shit is going on?"

I bit my nails for a while. "MD, see if you can do a deal for that guy Ian Evans liked. Thickes."

"We don't have the budget!"

"We do if Jack's gone."

"He can't," whined MD. "He's already played for two teams. It's the same situation as you. He can't play for a third. What are Southend going to do, sign him and not use him?"

"He could play," said Joe. "It's not the same situation. This loan doesn't count if he's sold in the window."

"It makes no sense," I said. "We're a good club for him. He'll play. He likes it here. He must be the best liar of all time if he was faking it. What the shit?"

Three things happened at the same time.

First, my phone rang. It was Richard Carling. I waved at everyone to shush. I accepted the call.

Second, MD came over and thrust his phone in my face. I read a text from a guy at Swindon. Thickes was back in the first team squad. Not available for loan.

"Maxy boy!" said Richard. He was the cat who'd got the cream, all right.

"Richard," I said. "How's Jack's ankle?"

"Ooh," he said, voice dripping with something, "bit sore." He laughed, long and loud.

The third thing: the latest curse news.

Southend United have signed Jack Litherland from Solihull Moors for £10,000. The 26-year-old was thought to be on Chester's wish list.

"Ten thousand pounds?" I said. An unbelievably small amount of money. That's what Chelsea spent on essential oils. Per week.

Richard's laughter died. "How could you possibly know that? Who've you been talking to?"

"Why have you done this? Jack would have been happy here."

"In tier six? The bottom of tier six? Give me a break. And you know why I did it."

"I have no fucking clue, mate."

"I've been asked to pass on a message. One you'll understand. Hang on, I wrote it down." Sounds of him putting on glasses and unfolding some paper. "Here we go. Are you sitting comfortably?" Another awful laugh.

"Go on."

Carling cleared his throat, laughed at his own joke, then cleared his throat again. Finally, he got to the fucking point. His big, dramatic message was five tiny words. "Bradley Rymarquis sends his regards."