29 - Let the Devil Wear Black [T1] (Patreon)

29.

Friday 17th March

Chester Women versus Wrexham A.F.C. Women

"Who's there?"

"It's superstar football star Max Best. You're in my toilet."

"Oh." A surprised 'oh'. She hadn't been expecting that. "One minute!"

I pottered down the corridor a polite distance. Fifty-nine seconds later, Wrexham's manager emerged. She was called Eve and had black hair falling past her shoulders, hazel eyes, and eyebrows that swept up and down at the end, like hockey sticks. All in all, pretty fit. "I'm sorry!" she said, tucking some hair behind one ear.

"Don't be. You're welcome to use it. While you're here, though, can we talk about your team? Your lineup."

"Oh." Surprised again, now with a hint of defensiveness. "Maybe?"

I smiled. "You're not in trouble," I said, pretending to be her teacher.

She laughed at the absurdity of my tone. "Okay, go on. What's on your mind?"

"You've got a really strong lineup, there. Too strong for us. Normally, I'd take my beating and move on, but there's loads of fans who've paid to see this. I'd prefer to give them a bit more of a contest." I scratched my jaw. "I suppose I'm thinking long-term. You thrashing us eight-nil in our first match in the stadium isn't going to do women's football in the area much good."

"Won't help your career much, either," she said, challenging me.

"My career's going great," I said, smugging so hard I nearly tweaked a muscle around my lips. "I can take it. My players can take it. I didn't want this match to be here; it's way too early for that sort of thing. But it's marketing, isn't it? And I get it. Sometimes you need to, like, be realistic. Based on all this," I said, swirling a finger around to indicate the stadium, the spectators, the palpable buzz of anticipation, "a close game would be better. If it's three-all going into the last ten minutes, that's a good night out for everyone no matter the final score."

A tiny smile played around the edges of her lips. "I can't tell what's going on here. I feel like I'm being taken for a ride."

"Can you keep a secret?"

"I can keep my secrets. Not sure about yours."

"I'm going to be assistant manager for the men's team tomorrow. I don't need this." This meant: women's football. I sighed. "Did you hear the atmosphere out there? People are excited. Intrigued. I'd love to give them an entertaining match. Do you know what I mean? God knows there hasn't been much of that recently."

Eve had a think about it. "You want me to, what, weaken my team?"

"Yes, please."

"I don't know."

"Show me your team sheet and I'll tell you my proposal."

"I already handed it in."

"To the referee's room, then!" I said, holding out my arm like a gentleman. She was tempted, but with a slight arching of one eyebrow, pushed it back towards my torso and fell into step beside me.

***

The ref wasn't pleased to see us. She was dressed in the traditional referee garb of black shirt, black shorts, black socks, black heart, and had a rectangular face surrounded by frazzled, tinted blonde hair. It was a quality haircut, actually, but still didn't look good on her. It was something about the way it clashed with the lines around her nose and mouth. Too much time spent scowling. Her assistants were younger and had softer faces. They smiled when Eve said she wanted to maybe possibly change her starting eleven.

The negotiations were quick.

"You're going to do 4-3-3," I said, which got another arched eyebrow. How had I worked that out? "Do you know you've got someone in your squad who'd be a killer DM? I'll tell you who after the match. You could put out an amazing 4-1-3-2." I twinkle-blinked at her. "Which I wouldn't want to play against, but since we're never going to be in the same competition... Isn't it crazy that Wrexham’s men's team play in England, and the women in Wales? It's a messed-up sport, sometimes." I mentioned six players. "Those six are different gravy. If you'd be willing to start with three, and replace them with the other three, I think we'd just about be able to stay in the game."

"They aren't like-for-like subs."

"No, but, for example..."

I went through various scenarios and options that Eve would have, scribbling formations and branching plan Bs and Cs. I got a bit carried away, such that the assistant referees came over to watch. The main one didn't like that. She told us to finalise the team sheet and leave.

I grabbed a blank form and filled it in with a starting lineup that would have an average CA of about 17. My strongest team was only 7, but our 4-5-1 formation would let us disrupt midfield and be pretty obdurate. There was still a hint of goal threat with Dani breaking from midfield. She'd kicked on since I’d asked Maddy to join us, and was one of four players on CA 9.

Eve studied the form I'd filled in for her. "Am I going to regret this?"

"If we played ten times, you'd win five. Maybe six. We'd win one. You're giving us a sporting chance. But what you lose in, like, the percentage chance of winning, we all gain in atmosphere and excitement. Anyone who understands sport will think the world of you."

She made a decision and crumpled up the old team sheet. She signed the new one.

"There's one born every minute," said the referee, meaning she thought Eve was a gullible fool.

I frowned. Even if you thought that, it was pretty obnoxious to say it out loud. The timing for what I had to say next was awful, but I tried to keep a cheery look on my face. "On the topic of empathy," I said, which caused one of the assistant refs to cover her mouth and turn away. "We have a deaf player. She can't hear the whistle, but she's good as gold. Won't give you any trouble. I'll point her out to you before kick-off."

"Don't bother," said the ref, doing something on her phone. "Everyone gets treated equal on my pitch. Other sports have rules." She got to her feet and took a step towards me. "Football has laws. And I enforce the laws equally and without discrimination."

"Like Judge Dredd," I said, causing a new wave of secret mirth.

The ref didn't flinch. "Exactly like Judge Dredd."

I smiled at her. "Great! I love judges. My wife's one."

Out in the corridor, Eve and I walked a safe distance away, then fell into each other, giggling.

***

Ruth had laid on a big buffet with free drinks in the Blues Bar. The only thing I really wanted, though, was a chai tea latte, and that wasn't free. I tapped my pockets - I'd left my wallet in the dressing room. I spotted a few lads from the first team.

"Glenn," I said. "Lend us a fiver."

"Neither a borrower nor a lender be," he said, and there was a little pause where I wondered if I should remind him I controlled his contract. But then he laughed. "My niece is doing Hamlet. Apparently the guy who said that is an idiot and we're not supposed to think it's good advice." He took out his wallet and pulled out five pounds.

"Sorted," I said, which is sometimes Manc for 'thanks'.

I went to get my drink and while I waited, closed my eyes. Had I done everything I could for the team? For the event? I thought so. My players were sick with anticipation and big-match anxiety; the only cure was kick-off. Kick-off! When the curtain was raised and all eyes turned to the stage. The play, and the play within the play. Me, at the side, conjuring up new twists and turns in the story. I was Shakespeare with a better haircut. It'd be a fine old performance, all right.

I floated around the room, weightless, not a care in the world, laughing and joking with fans and people I knew. It was expected and understood that I'd say a few things and move on to the next group, so it wasn't too draining.

There was a bunch of Chester Knights. Here a batch of under 14s. There, Pascal and the Yalleys, plus a few Man City toddlers! Meghan was curiously quiet, staring at James. Lovesick!

The crowd parted and there was Emma, dressed up, backlit by the stadium's hard-working floodlights. Our last date was when we'd spent a steamy, sorry, romantic night in a spa hotel. A lot had happened since then, and there was only one way to communicate how seeing her felt. I didn't hesitate. Decision time: nought point nought nought seconds, rounded down.

I strode towards her, put my hand behind her waist, dipped her, and went full smooch. I brought her back up, slowly, and stared into her eyes. Fireworks! Trumpets! Cymbals!

"Ahem," said someone. I didn't want to tear myself away from Emma, but there was something in the voice that was familiar. I hadn't heard it in ages, though. I turned... Gemma. Emma's best friend and sometime Henri squeeze. "Hi, Max."

"No cheek kisses this time?" I said.

"No." And that was that. She might as well have said, 'Henri and I are finished. Like, proper finished.'

"Well, it's nice to see you. I love that dress." She was in a patterned thing with buttons down the middle, and a tight denim jacket over the top. If she was here to pick up a replacement footballer, she was off to a good start.

She smiled. "And I love your... er, hoodie. Is it from C+A?"

"Even cheaper."

"Hmm," she said. She reached out to test the fabric. "Something is rotten in the state of Primark," she said.

"Gems," complained Ems.

"But what's the point having a fit boyfriend if you can't dress him up?" She looked me up and down again, and sighed. "It's a good job you're cute, Max. You almost get away with it."

"There's Max!" said a new voice. Ruth, coming at me from the side, with Dahvide in tow. He was wearing an amazing suit that was obscenely tight around his biceps. She was wearing something classy that was obscenely tight in disappointingly few places. She pulled a face. "Oh, and there's Max's hoodie."

Gemma gasped. "See? We all think it!"

Ruth hadn't met Gemma, but they were instant friends. "Big night like this, you'd think he'd make an effort. But no."

"I think you look splendid," said Dahvide, gallantly.

I didn't reply. I'd just seen someone I hadn't expected to see. "Whhhhhat?" I said, drifting away from the fashion discussion and towards everyone's favourite authoritarian stooge. "Beth. You're here." I leaned closer. She'd done something to her eyebrows, but I couldn't tell what. They seemed... nicer.

Beth frowned and leaned away from me until I stopped peering. "Yes, Max, I'm here. The first big match of your women's football project. Could be a good story." She must have heard it was Fashion Week at the Deva, because her outfit had leveled-up, too. A plain black top, slightly sparkly, under a black designer jacket. She could do an interview then go to a bar and flirt with men who reminded her of me. She did her best to ruin my entire mood. "Is Dani playing tonight?" I stared at her so murderously she did something she rarely ever did - she backed down. "Topic still off limits. Gotcha. Got any juicy quotes for me?"

"Yeah. Don't buy the Daily Mail." Beth's article about me had got some traction and she'd somehow turned that into an actual job at the epicentre of British hate. I'd seen her byline on a couple of articles that I'd been forced to read because of my role as Director of Football.

"Come on. Let's play nice. Hey, have you seen Ziggy?"

"No."

"He's here. Reminded me of the old days. Do you remember the old days, Max? Me, you, Ziggy, Jackie? We're all moving up in the world."

"One of us is moving down. Getting nice and cosy in the gutter."

"What formation are you going to play?"

"4-5-1 don't buy the Mail."

"What do you think of Wrexham's team?"

"Really good don't buy the Mail. Look out for their pacey full-backs don't buy the Mail."

"The old gang back together!" This was Ziggy. I hadn't seen him for ages. He handed Beth a beer, and had a bottle of water for himself. Quite right, too. He was getting regular game time, now, coming on at the ends of matches as FC United pushed for an automatic promotion slot. I wondered what his CA was. Maybe 30? His progress would slow down now that Jackie had left.

I nodded towards Beth. "Watch yourself, Ziggy. Say something she doesn't like, she'll put you on a plane to Rwanda and lock you up."

"What?" he said, laughing. He followed the news even less than me and didn't know what I was talking about. "She's at the Daily Mail, Max. Isn't that great? They've got all the best sports writers. Beth's, like, a top reporter, now. Gone straight to the top team! It's like being scouted by Man City."

"The ultimate accolade in football," I announced, pompously, "is being scouted by Chester Football Club."

Ziggy's laugh burst through his cheeks and vibrated his lips comically. "Right, Max. If you say so." He turned to Beth. "Are they going to start you on women's football? It's dead big, now, innit? I've got to say, I'm looking forward to this tonight. It's a while since I..." He stopped, reacting to my reaction. I'd just seen yet another unexpected face. "Hey, are you all right? You look like..." He didn't finish the sentence. Nobody actually said the 'you've seen a ghost' line in real life, surely?

"Excuse me," I said, well aware that I probably had turned pale enough for him to worry. My heart was suddenly pounding and my feeling of lightness was gone. Old Nick! Like Beth, he was wearing head-to-toe black. He'd drifted between some people - more precisely, they'd moved away to let him pass in a straight line - before going through an exit.

I paced towards the door and stepped through. He wasn't there, of course. Had I imagined it? He'd seemed so real. But someone else was there, someone I was much happier to see.

"Bonnie," I said. The tough defender with high leadership I'd been trying to track down for a while. Joe had finally got hold of her, but she'd flat-out rejected the chance to come and train with us. "Did you see a good-looking older dude come past?"

"Yeah. He smiled at me."

"One can smile and be a villain," I said.

"You're Cliff Daps," she said.

"Yeah."

"AKA Max Best."

I was quite calm again, now. Back to normal. Pulse steady. "And you're Bonnie and you don't want to play for my team."

Loads of muscles around her eyebrows twitched, but I couldn't tell what expression they were trying to form. "No."

I took a spot facing her and leaned back against the wall. The music being played in the Blues Bar gently pulsated through me. She was a mystery, this woman. She loved football; she went to Footy Addicts games. And while she'd said she didn't want to play for Chester, she was here, tonight. The first serious game we'd played. Last time I'd followed Old Nick, I'd found James and Kisi. I already knew Bonnie's ability, but being led to her by Ghost Nick was a big hint that she was worth pursuing. Was I supposed to chase her like I'd done with James and Dani? I didn't have time, really, and if she wouldn't open up, I couldn't know what was holding her back.

I tugged on the strings of my hoodie. "I'm supposed to give you a big speech now, but kick-off's soon and they say brevity is the soul of wit. Here's my pitch. You're a great defender. You've got top leadership. The way you manage hotheads in the Footy Addicts games is unreal. The team really needs someone like you, but I'm not going to push it. If you need some time to think about it, take the whole summer. That said, it'll be a tough match tonight. A lot of the women are feeling the pressure. If I had Man City money I'd pay you five hundred quid to go in there and keep their spirits up. If you want to hang out in the dressing room and get a feel for the vibe, we can do that. You can sit in the dugout, too."

"That wouldn't feel right. Dressing room's for the team."

I mused. Wiggled my nail between two teeth for a while. Bonnie wasn't going to happen. Not tonight, anyway. "All right," I said, pushing myself off the wall and clapping my hands. "But, look. Come inside, get some food and that. I'll introduce you to some cool people. I can't promise they won't talk a lot of shit, but I like them anyway. What do you think?"

The word 'no' started in her gut and made its way up through her throat, but didn't come out. She swallowed it back down. "Okay," she said.

I held the door open for her, followed her in a couple of yards, and paused. Who'd be fun for Bonnie to hang out with? Beth and Ziggy? Ems and Gems? Maybe the first team lads. They'd brought their wives and girlfriends. Would Bonnie like talking to a WAG? I really knew almost nothing about her. There was one safe answer: Beth. She was the ultimate chameleon, and she'd wonder what I was up to and would play along. Yeah, Beth.

"This way," I said, stepping forward. We didn't get far, though, before Ruth slammed into the side of me like a soft, attractive missile. "Max. Oh, Max, I'm sorry."

"What? What? Are you all right?"

Ruth was looking flustered in a way I'd never seen her before. She was almost always the acme of cool, calm, and collected. She always projected the image of being one step ahead. "The league. The people from the FA who will decide what league you're going in. They're here."

I didn't see the problem. "Okay?"

She shook her head with frustration. "They're going to base their decision on tonight."

"No," I said. "We've got three more games, then the PitchWreck Cup." That was a special event I'd planned to cap the season. A double-header against a team from Man City (probably their under 18s) and the most famous women's team, the Doncaster Belles. Three matches and a final, and it wouldn't matter if we ruined the pitch, because it would be the very last day of the season. And, because I'm a genius, I was pretty sure I'd be able to use Bench Boost and Triple Captain in one of those games, since it wasn't a basic friendly. It was its own tournament. Loophole! I'd even bought a little trophy for the winner. It was a football with a sort of prince's crown. Top!

"Max. Listen to me. They're here. This is it. Win tonight and we'll go into a good league. Lose and we'll start from the bottom. Do you understand, Max? Max!"

I snapped out of it. A cold sweat broke out all over my back. "Ruth," I said. "We're not ready for this. This isn't the right time."

She took in a slow breath, then pushed it out quickly. "It's my fault, Max. I did this. They're here because we're in the stadium. Because we promoted it. We should have followed your plan. I got too excited." She exhaled again. "I'm sorry."

I'll admit, I seethed for a half a second or so, but genuinely only that long and no more. "Hey, without you, we wouldn't be here. We'll cope either way. But you owe me a Get Out of Jail Free card."

"What do you mean?"

"When I piss you off next time, remember how quickly I forgave you."

"I don't know. You're a lot more annoying than me."

I went internal. What could I do differently? I had named our strongest line-up. I had handed in the team sheet so it wasn't like I could sneak Bonnie onto our bench. I would use Triple Captain, of course, but what about Bench Boost? The players who would come on during the match would be CA 1 randos. Getting a few percent more out of them would do almost nothing to impact the game. Could I change the lineup? The ref was already in a foul mood. Was it worth pushing her more?

I shook my head and hit Bench Boost anyway. There was no point saving it. To me, that was it. That was all I could do. I started to push thoughts of the FA assessors aside; dwelling on it was futile.

"Max," said a distant voice. I'd gone so far away, running through hundreds of calculations, plans, schemes, strategies, and when I blinked myself back into the Blues Bar I realised I had been completely motionless for no small amount of time.

"Bonnie," I said. I'd forgotten she was there.

"Do you still want me to help? I'll help."

The smile that spread across my lips could not be contained. It was so rambunctious it leapt off my face right onto Bonnie's.

Ruth reached out to take my half-drunk chai latte, and I escorted Chester's best motivator down into the place she was most needed.

***

Along the way, I asked Bonnie not to mention the thing about this match deciding the team's starting point. "They're under enough pressure as it is. More motivation will tip them over into useless stress."

"Okay."

"So our vibe is relentless positivity. Focusing on their strengths, what they're doing well, all that sort of stuff. Good?"

"Good. But I don't know their strengths."

I grinned. "Ask them."

We went into the dressing room and the chatter and half-hearted banter stopped. I could feel the worry. The air was heavy with it. Dread. Impending doom.

"All right shut the fuck up," I said, into the silence. "This is Bonnie. I don't want to make a big deal out of her being here, but she's the fourth most inspirational person I've ever met."

"Who are the other three?"

"Marcus Rashford, Harry Styles, and Captain Sir Tom Moore. Now shush, I'm doing my team talk." I put my foot up on the edge of one of the benches and accessed my dreamy, introspective voice. "Ages ago," I said, but there came a series of loud slaps and thuds. It was the sound of Dani catching up to what I was saying on the group chat, and doing her now-famous clap-stomp-laugh. The rest of the team loved it; it was rare.

I paused a few extra seconds so she could reply.

"Dani says you never met Harry Styles," said Robyn, who was on text duty.

"Tell her that I didn't say anything back to that."

Robyn frowned. "That's very confusing." But her thumbs were going a mile a minute.

I rubbed my forehead in mock exasperation. All this silliness, of course, was intentional. I made eye contact with a sweep of players. "As you know, my favourite movie is Predator."

There were a few groans. "Last week you said it was Back to the Future. Before that, it was Casablanca."

"I watched Casablanca," said Erin, one of our centre-backs. "I'm obsessed with Ingrid Bergman, now, so thanks for that. Your Emma has a real Bergman quality. No wonder you like her."

"I like Emma because she's a goddess and because when I sleep with her I'm not sure if she's going to murder me overnight. Er... Robyn, don't put that last bit in the chat. Write... I like Emma because she's kind and nice to everyone while working hard to achieve her personal goals through the wider, like, perspective of teamwork and self-sacrifice."

"I already wrote the murder thing."

"Her parents read that, you know. Can you filter out the weird stuff I say, please?" I sighed. "Okay. Wrexham are going to play 4-3-3. They're good, but they've got some weaknesses. We've got Maddy on the right and Dani on the left, and with no wide midfielders helping Wrexham’s full-backs I'm expecting a lot of one-on-ones. We'll see who's getting more joy and feed that side, yeah? If we keep pushing, I'm sure we can break something."

I grinned, then got serious.

"They've got good forwards, though, so we'll have to be on it for ninety minutes. Let the crowd feed you energy - that's what they're there for. Don't expect any relief when they make subs. I've seen their bench. There's no relief. You need to work hard. Talk to each other and all that. The ref is a Daily Mail reader, so you know what that means." I spotted Bonnie's confused look. Instead of going on a tedious, humourless rant, I gave her the five-word explanation: "It means she's a dick." I turned back to the players. "Don't talk to her. Control what you can. There's a big crowd, and that can work for us if we make it. Just remember what all this is about. In this world, it's just us."

Lucy roared. "Come on, girls!" and they all clapped and stomped their way out into the corridor, and onto the pitch, for the biggest game of their lives.

***

Bonnie held herself back so she could talk to me. "That was a pretty strange team talk."

"Though this be madness, there is method in it."

"What?"

"There's method to the madness."

"Oh." She looked around the empty room. "Distract them? Make them laugh? Forget how nervous they are? That sort of thing?"

"That sort of thing," I agreed. "But also... it's fun. They're working hard. Training, morning jogs, yoga, whatever they're doing. Unpaid, so far. Some of them might drop out, some might get, you know, upgraded out. So while they're here, they deserve to enjoy it." I bit my lip. "Not that I need much excuse to clown around."

I went to the door and held it open for her, then locked it behind me.

Kick-off was imminent.

***

The pitch was green and the stand was a sea of royal blue. We'd sold 400 tickets, and it would have been double if the men's team hadn't decided to make half the city sick of the sport. We'd also given away a fair number to players, staff, sponsors, schoolkids, and so on. The curse would tell me at half-time, but I guessed there were a thousand spectators. Not bad!

While Jill led the players through a last warm-up, our main hospitality volunteer rushed over to me.

"Tiny problem, Max," she said. "We don't have an announcer and we don't know the teams. If you get the team sheets from the ref, I can read out the names."

"Nah," I said. "I'll do it. Where's the microphone?"

"Over here. But you don't have the sheets!"

I picked the mic up and thought about this pre-match ritual. Normally, stadium announcers read the names, leaving a space for the crowd to react. But today I could do whatever I wanted. And what I wanted was to add a little colour to the match. Virtually no-one in the stadium knew anything about these players. I could tell them what to look out for. Some of the plays within the play. Some of the Shakespeare bits.

I flicked the mic on. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Deva stadium. I am Max Best, yes, the guy who completed the periodic table. On behalf of Chester FC, I'd like to thank you all for coming."

This got a round of applause, for some reason. Crowds are weird.

"Introducing your Chester team for the evening! In goal, we've got Robyn. She's a chatterbox, really good shot stopper. Very good against penalties. Back four is Lucy, Erin, Mo, and Mel. Lucy's the captain. Look for her bombing forward the whole match; she's tireless. Watch out for Mo throwing herself in front of shots. She's absolutely crazy; you won't catch me doing that. Our formation today is top secret, but here's a clue: it's four-five-something. Across midfield we've got Dani, Gracie, Pippa, Susan, and Maddy. Watch out for Pippa's through balls and energy. The wide players will be a constant nuisance to Wrexham, and they'll be trying to link up with our striker, Bea Pea."

Bea Pea was the only player to react to my intro. She bowed to the main stand, and blew kisses everywhere.

"And I doubt you're really interested in Wrexham," I said. That provoked a chorus of boos and jeers from one pocket of the main stand. I took a few steps back and shielded my eyes. "What's that? Wrexham fans?" A bunch of people in red tops cheered. I smiled. I hadn't expected that. "Wow! Thanks for coming. Wow, top. Okay. Hands up if you were in the documentary." It seemed like they all were. "Lots of celebrities in, tonight! All right. Here's the team and what I've noticed." I ran through the Wrexham team, too, pointing out a few of their strengths. The Wrexham fans, maybe 50 strong, applauded my analysis.

"Game on!" I said, as the energy in the stadium increased a couple more notches.

I rubbed my hands together as I strode towards the dugout. This was going to be a load of fun.

***

The first five minutes were pretty cagey. Wrexham were quite a lot better than us, and had a lot more experience playing in front of crowds. Still, they were careful. They wanted to see what we were made of before they did anything rash.

My lot were also cautious, but that was the nerves more than anything. Once everyone had a few touches of the ball under their belt, they started to relax and enjoy themselves.

The match hit its stride around the ten minute mark. Wrexham would get the ball and pass it around, before trying some set moves they had worked on. One was a long pass towards their quick forward players - that didn't work too well because we always had a lot of players in defensive positions.

Another was for a central player to dribble wide and try to make something happen that way. The dribbler was good, but again, we always had plenty of players on both sides of the pitch. Wrexham lacked a player who could 'pick the lock', as the phrase goes - play a through ball that would cause panic in the defence. So we weren't comfortable, exactly, but I didn't think we'd get annihilated.

As for us, Dani and Maddy had a lot of joy when dribbling at their full-backs, but we couldn't get numbers into the attacks, Bea Pea was isolated, and while Pippa could play the through balls that Wrexham couldn't, that's not what we needed in this match.

So it was kind of a fascinating stalemate that I found very enjoyable. There wasn't much for me to do, tactically, so I crouched down and stared at Wrexham's defenders, endlessly looping through their profiles, watching how they turned, looking for weaknesses, looking for some personality defect that could get us a goal.

One unexpected thing was that Dani was finding it hard to settle on the left side of the pitch. She'd been playing and training as a right-mid or right-winger. Now I was asking her to do exactly the same things, but on the left. She was two-footed. What's the problem? No problem, in my opinion! But she wouldn't use her left foot! She kept coming back towards the crowded middle of the pitch so she could use her right.

I had a long discussion with Jill about it. She hadn't noticed this tendency during training. Nobody had. Which meant either nobody had thought to look - understandable, not sure I'd have spotted it myself - or Dani had trained using both feet but didn't trust her left enough in match situations.

We were getting into the weeds of how we'd address it, what we'd do short-term, medium-term fixes if the problem recurred, and so on and so forth, when the breakthrough happened.

Dani, again, tried to cut inside onto her right foot, but now her opponent was expecting it and stuck a toe out to poke the ball away. It fell to Gracie, who was enjoying her time playing more centrally. She touched it back to Lucy, who played a quick first time pass to Pippa. That was one area we were better than Wrexham. We moved the ball forward faster, based on my mania for what Spectrum called 'verticality'. Getting the ball forward fast meant it usually came back fast, too, putting more strain on our defence. But as we improved and brought in better players, verticality would pay off with rapid, slick moves that other teams wouldn't be able to defend against.

Dani loses the ball.

It breaks to Gracie. Nice layoff.

Lucy pings it to Pippa. She plays it forward to Bea Pea.

First time control out to Maddy. She bursts past her man.

She's dashing to the byline.

Is there any support? It looks like she'll have to take a shot from a bad angle.

She passes square.

GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

Tucked into the open net by Dani!

Where did she come from?

Dani raced over to Maddy and they hugged and danced around. The crowd loved it. Big cheer, much applause.

But the best moment for me was when the women started walking back towards our half of the pitch. Dani looked over and saw all the people standing, applauding, and it hit her like a ton of bricks. I couldn't really see her face, so I'm only guessing, but I think she was telling herself, 'yes, this is for me, more please.'

Bonnie took a few steps from the dugout towards me. "She's fast," she said.

"Surprisingly so, yeah," I said.

"Good late run into the box. Very one-footed, though."

I laughed. "No, she's very, very two-footed. I have no idea why she's playing like that. Dani," I called, then my head dropped as I realised how stupid that was. But Bea Pea heard, and made Dani look at me. I did the latest sign I'd learned. I held my left hand as though hiding my cards in a poker game. Then I put my right hand directly on top, and tapped it against the bottom one three times. Then I turned the top hand into a thumb and jabbed it upwards. Done good job!

"Are you learning sign language?" asked Bonnie.

"I'm learning one sign a week. The aim is to become fluent by the year 2250."

"I don't get you," she said.

"Yeah," I said, distantly. I was focused on the match ratings. "Listen. Mo, there. The centre-back. She's struggling. She's been really solid for us so far. I'm asking a lot of the defence, asking them to win their duels and keep their shape, and it's hard against the three attackers with runners coming from midfield. Maybe it's just a bad day at the office, maybe it's the occasion. Can you try to help her?"

"How?"

"Watch her. Give her some tip at half-time that might buck her up. I don't know. I'd hate to have to sub her off."

"Because this match determines which league you go in?"

"Er..."

"You forgot, didn't you? How can you forget?"

I shook my head. "It doesn't matter right now, does it? It doesn't change what I do. I try to win every game. Playing 4-5-1 against a better team... it's pretty conventional. Even Captain Gammon would be happy with that. 4-5-1? That's what a serious team does, yeah? If I'd been planning something mad like a false midfield, maybe the news would have changed that."

"False midfield?"

"Long story."

"I'll watch Mo."

Bonnie wandered off.

A couple of moves later, Wrexham went hard with a fast attack down the middle. The ball popped up and Mo decided to head it back to the goalkeeper. She got it all wrong, and Wrexham very nearly scored the easiest goal of all time. Fortunately, Lucy had sprinted back to cover and cleared the ball out for a corner.

Bonnie scampered towards me. "That was the midfield!"

"What?"

"The midfield let two players run past and didn't track them. Yeah, Mo's header was shit, but that's what happens when CMs don't track back."

I jumped into the tactics screen and made it so that Gracie, Pippa, and Susan, the three central midfielders, couldn't go forward. Maybe that'd make them more likely to do their defensive duties. Were they tiring already? For the hundredth time, I wished I had a fitness monitor. And again, I wished I had more free-form control over the formation. Dropping someone into the defensive midfielder slot would have solved a lot of problems.

"4-1-4-1," I said.

"What?" said Bonnie.

"Jill," I said, turning round. My coach was leaning forward, trying and utterly failing to look calm and relaxed. She was far too competitive for that. I smiled. "Jill."

"Yes, Max?"

"We need to start practising 4-1-4-1."

"Instead of what?"

"We never drop formations, Jill. We only add to what we know."

"That's... unrealistic, Max."

"Nope. I want total tactically flexibility. I'd literally sell my soul for 4-1-4-1 right now." I said that with a cheeky grin, looking up at the stands to see if Old Nick heard it from wherever he was spying on me.

Behind me, the referee's whistle blew.

"Oh, no," said Jill.

I turned so fast I nearly lost balance - quite unusual in my new body. And I saw the end of the incident. The referee was walking towards Dani. I couldn't see the ball anywhere. The ref reached into her pocket, and the movement of the black sleeve made me remember some old line from a book or poem or something: she whose sable arms, black as her purpose, did the night resemble...

On this black night, from her sable pocket, the referee produced a yellow card. Showed it to Dani. Dani looked up at it in disbelief. Then she looked down at her feet.

I shook myself out of some stupor, some spell that had been cast, and checked the match commentary.

Mo plays a loose pass. Erin gets her out of trouble.

But all she can do is kick it long.

Gracie challenges for the header, and wins it. Good leap!

The ball breaks forward and Dani rushes onto it.

A very promising break! She has acres to run into!

But she was marginally offside.

And now she has taken a shot!

The referee isn't too happy with her.

Dani is booked for timewasting!

In the first half!

I... I just couldn't believe it. Even the curse couldn't believe it! I stumbled onto the pitch like a wounded man. I felt a genuine ache in my side, a stab wound, perhaps, and gripped myself to stop the bleeding. I checked my hands - they didn't look like mine - but there was no red stain. My hair was suddenly clammy with sweat, though it felt like blood. I trudged past a Wrexham player, past Pippa, who held her hands out as though she feared I would topple.

But by the time I got to Dani, the initial shock had worn off.

Leaving only sadness.

Dani and I exchanged a look. There was no disappointment in her face. She knew I'd tried my best. But she'd tried to tell me this would happen. My charisma, my manic energy, my relentless positivity and certainty that we could change the world... she'd wanted so much to believe.

I held out my hand; she took it.

We walked towards the dugout. I waved my finger around, and just in case anyone didn't get the message, I dragged all the icons off the tactics screen leaving an empty green pitch.

The ref stormed towards me. "What on earth are you doing? You can't come on the pitch. Where's your team off to, eh?"

I stopped walking, and Dani did, too. I turned to see some random woman wearing black, small, angry and bitter. Reacting would only give her power. She thought she had some power of her own. But I had a greater one. "Get out of my stadium," I said.

As we got closer to the side of the pitch, more players came to join us. First Bea Pea, bitterly crying. Then Pippa, furious. Then Lucy, who took Dani's hand from mine. "Dressing room?"

"Yes, please."

I watched them go. This team I'd started creating. This wonderful collection of bone and sinew. What a piece of work it was. Smart, capable, brave, and when they all moved as one, they moved like angels. Never more so than now, as they came together, gathered in a united mass, turning their back on injustice.

As I followed, people tried to ask me what had happened. What was going on? The hospitality woman blocked my path, shoved the microphone in my hand. I stared at it, blankly, then decided that, yes, these good people deserved to be kept in the loop. Some had come specifically to see Dani. Others would support anyone in a blue and white shirt. And even the Wrexham fans would seethe when they learned what had just transpired.

I turned the mic on. "There has been an incident," I said, and for some reason, that's when it all hit me. I felt my lip wobble. I bit it and summoned up a blob of cold fury. "Please give me a short time to..." I couldn’t finish the thought. I handed the mic to someone and walked away in the wrong direction. Eve caught me and guided me towards the dressing rooms.

I needed a short time to what? To decide what to do next? There was nothing to do next. Chester Women were finished.

***

In the dressing room, a few women were clustered around Dani, who was hugging Bea Pea. Others were slumped on their parts of the bench, borrowed from the men's team. Pippa was in Henri's spot. Maddy was in Raffi's. It's weird what you think about.

"Max, what do we do?" said Lucy.

For once, I didn't have an answer. "I don't know." I sat down and put my head in my hands. We were all quiet for a minute. I reached for my phone.

Me: Dani. I'm sorry. You knew this would happen. I was arrogant to think I could do it any better than anyone else. I don't know what to say. I'm gutted.

The rest of the players checked their phones, but they all knew it had to be Dani next. Her reply came way quicker than I expected.

Dani: You didn't promise to change the world. You promised it would be a team. A real team and I'd be in it. And that's what it is. I love it here. It's the best thing I ever did.

Jill: There's hundreds of people out there. What do we do? Is the match abandoned?

Me: I told the referee to get lost. I hope we can all agree that we will never play under her ever again.

This message got multiple hearts and thumbs ups instantly.

Lucy: What about the linos? One of them could be ref.

Me: Anyone who trusts them to referee this game differently, I have some magic beans I would like to sell you. Those three are a crew. They travel together, do matches together. They're all tainted.

"Max," said Susan, startling me with unexpected noise. It was quite peaceful, doing the text chats. "There are people who want to come in."

"Who?"

"The hot blonde."

"That weirdly doesn't narrow it down as much as it used to. Go on, then."

In came Ruth, Emma, MD, and Eve. MD spoke first. "Max, did that ref book Dani for kicking the ball away? Is that what happened?"

"Yep."

The first three reacted as socially normal, empathetic people would do. By getting furious. Eve was more puzzled than anything. "But you told her the player was deaf."

Ruth gave her a savage look that meant 'how can you be so naive?' But she had enough about her to get practical. "We have to finish this match."

"No."

"Do not be a manchild about this, Max. There are many hundreds of paying customers, here. I am one hundred percent behind you on this issue. You know I love Dani. We all do. We will kick up a stink, get to the bottom of things, all that jazz. Tomorrow. Tonight we have to finish this game."

"Why?"

She spluttered. "To fix our position in the league!"

"What?" said Jill, Lucy, and several others.

But Ruth was mid-flow. "To boost women's football. To promote our team. To delight our fans. And to pay the bloody bills!"

Emma put a hand on Ruth's arm. "Max. If you don't finish the match, the ref has won."

"That," I said, shooting her with a finger gun, "is a very good point. Yeah. Okay. We'll finish the match. But there's no point worrying about the league and all that. There's no team. There can't be a team. Or you do it without me."

"Don't say anything rash," warned MD.

"I'm quite calm, MD. But think about it. If a player was shown a yellow card for being black, we'd walk off the pitch. For being gay? We'd walk off the pitch. And I wouldn't go back on until the ref was locked up and the FA changed the laws so it could never happen again. That's how I feel about it. No Dani, no me. The rest of you can do what you want, I guess." Suddenly, I was so very, very tired.

"Maybe I can help," said someone who'd been using the newcomers as a shield. She popped out from the side and squeezed towards me. "Er... Hi everyone. I'm Bethany. I work for a big newspaper. On probation, anyway. I wrote the article about Max that some of you liked. Look. What's happened is awful. It's total garbage. But this woman is right - you can't let this referee win. I'll write it up. With your help, we can make this into a big deal. A really big deal. Back page spread, maybe. 4 million daily readers and millions more online. People will talk about nothing else for days. Where we lead, others follow. TalkSport. Podcasts. YouTubers. Ref books girl for being deaf. There will be outrage."

"Hold on," I said. I spoke into my phone so Dani wouldn't be left out. "For context, Beth works for the newspaper that made the ref into what she is. The Mail can't go two days without stirring up hate against someone. Yeah, it's mostly foreigners, doesn't affect me. Right? Wrong. We had an Indonesian nurse at my mum's care home. She quit and went back home to her own country because she read the Mail and decided it wasn't safe for her here. My mum was devastated. She was a lovely woman; one of the best.

"And there's a foreign chap playing for Chester right now who was at Reading at the time of the Brexit vote. One of his neighbours pushed the Mail's front page through his door with a handwritten note: TIME TO GO." I paused. There were a lot of shocked faces. Henri didn't tell that story to a lot of people. "And don't think they're not after you, too. Beth's newspaper hates everyone in this room. It hates you for being women, it hates you for being gay, it hates you for being brown, it hates you for being a single parent. If it doesn't hate you yet, it's working on it."

Emma sighed. "Max, you're being ridiculous. Loads of perfectly fine, perfectly normal people read the Mail. This woman is trying to help."

Beth came further forward into the room. She - correctly - assumed that she'd have to persuade me in order to get access to Dani for the quotes and photos that would really make it a killer story. But she also knew how to press some of my buttons.

"I obviously don't agree with anything Max is saying about my employer. My boss is a woman. More than half the staff are women. We don't hate women. I'm not going to say I like every story we run but overall we do a lot of good. No, Max, we do. If we had run a story about how the FA were stopping you from playing football this season, they'd have magically found the right forms ten minutes after the first papers had landed on the streets. No-one wants to get on our bad side, not even the government. And check this out." She held up her phone. It was open on a Mail Online article.

I read out the headline. "Tofu Eaters Must Be Shot."

She rolled her eyes and took her phone away. "It's a story about a ref who demanded a player remove his hearing aid, and the whole team walked off in protest. Just like you. And just like then, the Mail was on the right side of the debate. But this time, it'll be bigger. I hate to say this out loud, but you're not bad-looking, Max. People will click on the thumbnail. And Dani's the perfect girl-next-door. We will enrage people. Give me some quotes and we can make it so that no referee in the world would ever, ever, dare to do this again."

The room stirred. That was very smart of Beth. Too smart.

"So we're going to savage a referee. Drag her over hot coals? Make her life shit? Have it so that even fewer people become referees? You know how I feel about that, Beth! Go through the footage of me playing. You'll find me being a dick. Taking the piss out of other players, winding the crowd up. But there isn't a single second of me yelling at the ref. Post-match interviews? I've got a spotless record. We need referees. Young referees. Otherwise it's just a matter of time before the whole fucking game dies. Yes, I want Dani to be able to play. But play what? No referee, no game."

"There's enough knocking around for the next ten years. Enough for Dani's career. And the fact you're literally the most pro-referee person in the entire sport makes it an even better story."

"She's right, Max," said MD.

"It's not your job to make sure there are more referees," said Ruth. "It's your job to do your utmost for Dani."

I stood up. "You're asking me to do something abysmal. Someone hurt me so I should hurt them back? I'm trying to be better than that. What you don't realise is that every time I lash out, I get it back tenfold. Example: I annoyed an agent and he did his level best to ruin our entire season. Going after a referee? No-one can think of any possible ways that might bite us on the arse? Other refs will hate it. They might band together against us. Have you ever read Shakespeare? What happens when you start looking to hurt people, start looking for revenge?"

I paused. "Everyone dies." I looked up at the ceiling. It was grimy. Those awful white square panels. Somehow there's always one in the room that's stained yellow on one diagonal. I checked on Dani and Bea Pea. They seemed all right. A lot of people were mad at the ref. Something would happen, and that was enough for Bea Pea at least.

"Dani, what do you think?"

Dani: I never understood Shakespeare. Harry Styles lyrics is more my level.

She stamped one foot, laughing at her own joke. Talk about lifting the mood; everyone in the group chat was soon smiling.

I stretched. We'd all been still for too long. "I'll think about it. Let's get this game restarted."

Eve blinked. She'd been watching the conversation with wide eyes, drinking it all in. "Who's going to be the ref?"

"The only person in the world I trust to do it fairly," I said. "Me."

***

I got my whistle from my kit bag, left Jill in charge, said "Thanks for your patience" into the stadium mic, and strode onto the pitch.

"You can't be the ref," said one of the Wrexham players when she saw the whistle.

A few players gathered round. I checked out their faces - they didn't know what had happened otherwise they would have gone back to their dressing room. "I can't be the ref? Why not? My mum said if I believe in myself, I can achieve anything."

"I mean, you can't be the ref if you're managing the other team!"

"I quit. This is my career now. Who's the bastard in the black? It's me. Me or we all go home. Now, listen. I'm not like a normal referee. I don't only give yellow and red cards. If you really piss me off, I'll turn the hot water off in your showers. All right? Best get warmed up again. Break's over."

My lot came back on, looking a bit dazzled by the bright lights. A bit uncertain. Dani didn't reappear, and I felt sick. She'd taken the initial blow well, but a delayed reaction was obviously inevitable. But no. There she was. Coming last. Looking tinier than ever.

I got the match going again, and experienced a brief, crippling headache. I hadn't had one of those for a while, even on nights I'd used new formations for the first time. Fortunately, there wasn't much action at first. While the players readjusted to the fact that 1) the match was back on and 2) there was a new sheriff in town, I was able to take stock of some unique changes. The match overview screen now listed me as the ref. But this wasn't a fresh match with a shortened duration. This was a continuation of the previous one, just like if a ref had injured himself and someone else had taken over. Dani's yellow card was still there, and less importantly, the score was still one-nil.

I realised everyone was looking at me. Something had happened while I was spaced out and I needed to adjudicate it. Er...

I dipped into the match commentary, and was interested to note that it was giving me much more detailed information with less colour.

Red 6 passes forward.

Red 8 receives on the half-turn, turning clockwise away from Blue 8.

Red 8 progresses five yards, then cuts between Blue 7 and Blue 10.

Blue 10 clips her heels.

Unintentional, but a foul.

I blew and pointed in the direction Wrexham were attacking. The players got on with the game.

Nice!

I rearranged my vision so that I had the match clock semi-transparent in the top-left corner, the match stats next to it, and the commentary scrolling along the top-right.

There was another clash, and the Chester Fouls number increased by one. I blew the whistle and pointed.

"Max! I didn't touch her!" complained Mo.

I strode forward and gave her a stern look. "Excuse me?"

"That was a dive," she said, with much less conviction.

I leaned my head back. "I'm just checking here. You think I don't know what a dive looks like?"

"No, of course not. I mean, yes. I mean..."

"Can we play some fucking football now? What do you think?"

"Yes, Max."

"And you," I said, turning to the Wrexham player who'd been fouled. "You don't need to add those roly polies. Not with me. It's cringe."

She didn't respond. The game continued.

Slowly, it gathered momentum again. The players got into it. The fans started to find their voices again.

My job was incredibly simple - let the curse tell me what had happened, and sometimes explain my decision to the players. A few times I ignored a foul so that the game could flow. A few times I got in a gobby player's face and let her know who was running the game. There was plenty of backchat from the Wrexham players, but Bea Pea was the worst. She was so hotheaded she'd go on rants even when the guy she was ranting at was me. Incredible.

The match ratings started to turn in Wrexham's favour, and close to half-time, they equalised. I wondered what Jill would tell them. I wondered if Bonnie would help. What must she be making of all this? The match clock hit 45. Just before I blew the whistle, I tried swapping Dani and Maddy on the tactics board, just to see if I could. No chance. The curse knew full well I wasn't the manager. I couldn't exit the match overview, though, so I couldn't check how much XP I was getting. Probably one per minute, right?

I blew for half-time. There was a bit of applause from the fans and the players jogged off to the dressing rooms.

I couldn't follow them; Jill was the manager, for now. I needed to give her space to run the team, and to be seen to remain impartial. The match official's room was full of dog whistles. Where could I go? I was the referee - the man in the middle. So I took the match ball, placed it on the centre circle, and sat on it while the groundstaff pottered around poking at the pitch with big forks.

Time to think through my dilemma, then. I could be a total dick and use Beth to attack this referee and make it unimaginable that any ref in the world would ever dare book Dani for kicking the ball away. Maybe if the media storm was big enough, IFAB would write something into the laws of the game to guarantee accessibility. Problem solved, we all get on with our lives. But we do our part in killing the sport. And I ally with an institution so vile that even Old Nick would give it a wide berth. And I set myself up for massive retribution. As per.

I eased myself off the ball, sat on the grass, and held the ball up in front of me.

To be a dick, or not to be a dick. That was the question.

I could suffer some slings and arrows. What's a few more? But Dani deserved better. Was letting a scorpion onto my back the right way to achieve change? Scorpions had a habit of killing their ride.

What could I do on my own, without Beth?

I stared at the ball. Nothing came to mind.

"Alas, poor Max!"

I dropped my hand and switched my focus. "Henri! You're here."

He settled onto the grass in front of me, cross-legged. "I try to attend as many of your events as possible, my friend. Note I say events, not football matches." He laughed at his little joke. "They have a delightful tendency towards the... theatrical. This one." He did a chef's kiss. "Formidable. New heights of drama."

"It's not my fault."

"There has been an incident. Mon dieu! What does it mean, though? The mind propels itself. Tumbles. What on earth could have happened to make you look and talk like a spectre? Theories sweep the terraces, growing more outlandish, colliding with others, evolving, forming super-theories. I announce the truth of the matter, but few listen."

"What did you say?"

"I said, 'there is a man so frugal he refuses to pay a thirty pound fine'."

I snorted. "You got me. Wait. Holy shit, if they send us that bill I will go nuclear. Argh! Fuck this world."

"I've been talking to Emma, MD, and the financier."

"Ruth."

"Précisément. They say you have a solution. One interview. A few photographs. Voila. The day is saved. So why do you linger in the centre circle like a puddle of sadness?"

"It's not that easy. The solution will have some disproportionately massive cost. And I have a responsibility. To the game. We need referees. You get that, right? I could be a manager for forty years. Year one, I cut the number of people wanting to do the job by five percent? No, thanks."

He pushed his legs out and leaned on his palms. "Do you think I'd be a good referee?"

"More ex-players should do it. That'd raise the standard."

"That was not my question."

Henri as ref? It was hard to imagine. He'd read the game well, but would he give more decisions to the underdog? Would he run the game based on personal narratives he constructed? "Mostly no."

"I agree. But you are very good. I look for bias and find none. As a spectator, I trust you. Did you know there are hundreds of schoolchildren here?"

"Yeah."

"For many, it's their first ever time in a stadium. They've seen a wicked referee, a villain. And along comes a hero. The uncorruptible. The untouchable." He laughed. "Max Best. When he refs, he's a better player than the players. When he plays, he's a better ref than the refs. How many children, here for the first time, will want to be a goalkeeper? Some. A striker? Lots. A referee? No small number, I think. Not with such a role model."

"That's crazy." He was so fanciful, sometimes. I discounted most of what he said when he got overly Rococo - he was just enjoying the sound of his own voice. "I don't know what to do, Henri. There's a good outcome that's pretty clear. But the cost? It could be anything. It could be absolutely enormous. I'm... indecisive."

Henri gave me a blank look. "That doesn't sound like you. Perhaps you should pretend to descend into madness to buy yourself the time you need to gather the information required to make up your mind."

"What. On earth. Are you talking about?"

But he wasn't listening to me. "I have done it, I think. Yes, I have helped my friend sufficiently. Superb, Henri, superb." He got to his feet. "Will you now stop moping around, perhaps? You are making everybody sad."

"Sure." He reached out a hand, and pulled me upright. I hesitated. "There's five minutes to go. I can't go in the dressing rooms, and I'm not going in the ref's room. What do you want me to do?"

"You have a ball. You have a crowd. There is one thing you can do where the only consequence... is joy."

***

I spent a few minutes doing tekkers in front of the main stand. Henri was right - it was pretty fun. Therapeutic. Encouraged by the cheers and gasps of the schoolkids, I did some run-of-the-mill dog walks, flytraps, and washing machines, before unleashing a new move I'd dreamed up but rarely practised. I called it I Know Kung Fu and it involved keeping the ball aloft with a series of martial arts-style upper kicks.

They were a HUGE hit, so I started jazzing the technique up by switching legs and adding Streetfighteresque sound effects. Hai! Hai! Hai!

Finally, with a screamed Haduuuuken!, I kicked the ball high, high in the air, set myself, and then made a big show of trapping the ball underfoot and grinding it into the dirt. I pretended it was the head of my enemy and I did a convincing Bruce Lee 'crushing my foe while twitching slightly with the effort' face. I was pretty pleased with it. A few people filmed the routine, but I doubted their phones caught the awesome sound effect I added at the end.

The diversion was all too brief. The teams came back out and as the match resumed, so did my torment.

I once read that referees make four decisions a minute, but I was making many more. I was also the linesmen, and many decisions were about not making decisions. Should I stop the game here? Was that handball really? There were the rules laid down by IFAB, and there was practical common sense. I disobeyed the curse a few times in order to foster the kind of match I'd want to play in. I made all kinds of decisions, instantly, smoothly, fearlessly. All kinds of decisions except the big one - what price would I pay to save Dani's career?

As for the match, well, the players had reset themselves at half-time, and the second-half started with lots of energy and urgency. Wrexham scored, but then Chester equalised with a long-range Pippa shot. Two-all and the crowd was up for it.

Then came a big moment. From a Wrexham corner, the ball bounced around and Lucy was about to smash it clear. But a cheeky Wrexham scamp planted her foot down in the path of Lucy's swing, and Lucy kicked her.

I blew for a penalty.

The Chester players complained. It was, like, totes unfair.

"Yeah, it's harsh to concede a 75% chance of a goal for that accidental kick," I agreed. "But that's smart play. It's a pen. Bea Pea, good news is it works both ways. You're allowed to do that, too."

A weird whispering came from the main stand. Confusion. They couldn't understand why it was a pen, and there were no replays.

In my intro, I'd said that Robyn was good at saving penalties, and here she was standing tall, smashing her hands into the crossbar to try to intimidate the Wrexham striker. The latter, their number 9, stepped up, struck the ball hard, and it crashed into the post. It rebounded straight to the penalty taker. She passed it into the far corner of the net, away from Robyn. Tidy finish under the circumstances.

The Wrexham players ran off, celebrating.

I blew my whistle six or seven times until the Wrexham players realised something was amiss.

I raised my hand and blew again. "Indirect free kick for Chester," I said.

The Wrexham players went nuts. The crowd were deeply confused. I sighed and jogged over to the space between the dugouts. I took the microphone and turned it on. "I gave the penalty for a foul in the penalty area. Clever play from Wrexham's number 12. The pen isn't a goal because the penalty taker struck the ball twice. Think about it. If you were allowed to do that, you could just dribble the ball into the goal. It looks like the goal should stand because it comes back off the post. But it's an indirect free kick. She should have let someone else shoot."

There were a lot of 'oh' faces in the crowd, especially from the kids. A lot of older guys were nodding, smugly. Presumably they'd been telling everyone near them the same thing. Overall, the effect of explaining my decision seemed hugely positive, and the Wrexham players accepted it.

I took the microphone with me onto the pitch and used it to explain some of my decisions.

The game went smoothly for a while, with Wrexham getting more and more possession. Jill made some frantic gestures, and the tactics screen told me she'd switched to 4-3-3 and the mentality was 'counter-attacking'. Sure enough, every failed Wrexham attack led to a fast break with Dani, Maddy, and Bea Pea trying to combine.

After one tackle, a Wrexham player's pace attribute turned red, and I blew my whistle several times and dashed across, summoning the physio. The injury wasn't that bad, which was a relief.

During that break in play, our forwards got together and talked about what moves they might try. It was hard to get nuanced with Dani mid-match, so Bea Pea moved her around and demonstrated a scheme she'd cooked up. I couldn't tell if Dani got it, but I think she enjoyed Bea Pea's energy, anyway.

"Ref, Eve wants a word."

"Aight."

I wandered over to the side. Wrexham's manager pushed her hair back. "Referee."

"Miss."

"We need to sub that player off. Your girls are giving us real problems. Normally, I'd bring one of our... what did you say?... different gravy players on, but then we'd have four on the pitch."

"Are you asking my permission?"

"I did sort of promise I'd only have three at any one time."

I looked around, made some calculations. "I like the balance of the match. You're dominating but we might land a lucky punch." I scanned the pitch again. "Ah, fuck it. Go for it. We had a good 70 minutes, yeah? I'm happy with that."

Eve was torn, but she had her own career to think of. She sent on one of her good players, and that really tipped the tide in Wrexham's favour. I noticed Bonnie was right on the touchline, alongside Jill, yelling things. She'd got caught up in it all. She'd made a decision.

Ten minutes of strong Wrexham pressure went by before they finally scored to go three-two ahead. Our players were on their last legs. We'd have to build more fitness before the first league games next season. Which, presumably, would be in the lowest league the FA would dare place us. The pricks. Would I be there for that match? I kept thinking about all the things that could go wrong if I took up arms against referees. If I got into bed with the Daily Mail. Ugh.

In my peripheral vision, I saw Jill shouting some stuff, trying to change the shape, but Bea Pea calling back No! Five more minutes of this!

She was a smart cookie, that striker - the three teenage tearaways were still a menace.

I followed the ball around the pitch, but when it went to Dani next, I ran much faster. I didn't want to miss this.

Blue 7 receives the ball in space.

Red 2 moves to challenge

Blue 7 jinks past. She plays a low diagonal pass towards Blue 9.

Blue 9 prepares to receive, but at the last moment, lets the ball progress through her legs. She sprints forward.

Blue 11 is stationed in the path of the ball. She lays it square to Blue 9.

Another first-time pass sends Blue 11 through on goal.

But Red 1 is quick off her line and gathers cleanly.

Beautiful! So that's what they'd been plotting. The old Dwight Yorke and Andy Cole dummy one-two. Degree of difficulty: maximum. Yorke and Cole did it several times in rapid succession to score an all-time classic in a pulsating match against Barcelona.

Where had these teenagers seen it? Yorke and Cole happened before they were born. It was a low percentage move that I wouldn't really want my players to try. Certainly not when their highest CA was nine! But what if my players could surprise me with their own inventiveness and creativity? Where could this team go, given the chance?

I really, really wanted to know.

The goalie rolled the ball short and the defenders passed it round. I jogged over to the right, towards the main stand, where the next action was going to be. There was a quick bit of pinball, the ball went off the pitch, and I noticed a kid in the crowd stick her arm out to the left. She was calling the decision for Wrexham! She was all kinds of wrong, but I loved it. Henri was right! I was inspiring kids to be refs. Holy shit.

I had visions of special referee camps hosted by Chester. We'd invite a top ref, some first-team players, loads of schoolkids, and we'd teach them to be referees. Whip up a fun schedule. Have a laugh. Make wearing the black cool.

And what about all the players I had to release from the youth teams? What if being a ref was the best way for them to stay in the game? We'd offer them training at wherever real refs started. We'd support them. Make a fuss over them.

Yeah, man. That was it. We don't hate refs; we create them!

I gave the decision to Wrexham - Bea Pea almost stomped her feet, she was so furious I'd got it wrong. I gave a big Maxy two-thumbs to my assistant in the stands - she was overwhelmed that I was giving her attention - and walked off the pitch. I hopped the advertising boards and went to where Beth, Ruth, and a bunch of others were congregated. One was the match photographer - he was showing Beth and Ruth something on his camera screen.

"Beth," I said. "Call your boss. Get started. Clean kill. Don't miss. Be nice to Dani; she's going to play for England. Make up whatever quotes you need from me. But don't ask me to look sad in photos."

"Don't worry," she said, eyes shining. The thrill of the hunt. "I've already got the perfect pics."

"Yeah? Weird. Well, don't just stand there. Get busy!"

Decision made, I woke up. Slipped back into my body. Felt whole again. Alive. The buzz from the crowd made me realise I'd interrupted the match, yet again. I flicked the mic on. "Soz about that," I said. "Why not pop back tomorrow to watch the first team beat Blyth Spartans? Okay, we're on for a proper last ten minutes, now. No more commentary from me. Things are about to get pretty epic around here. The rest is silence."