30 - This. Isn't. Sparta. [T1] (Patreon)

30.

Saturday, 18th March

Match 40 of 46: Chester versus Blyth Spartans

I woke up at 8 - pretty late, for me. Emma squirmed, sensing something had changed in the room. I traced my fingers along her spine, up to her flowing blonde hair. Helen of Troy could have been no more lovely. Helen of Troy, however, may have been more willing to spend the night on a mattress in my windowless office inside a freezing cold football stadium. Emma had dragged me to a hotel. One with, and I quote, a "bed that meets the dictionary definition of a bed."

I had to admit she was right; I needed a proper sleep. Big day ahead. Even the armies of old knew when to rest.

I pushed the covers off, but stayed there on my side, staring at the one, thin strip of light coming through the heavy curtains.

The unpleasantness of the night before was still there, in my bloodstream, in my soul. But there was no point dwelling on it. There was more good than bad. I'd met Eve, a true sportsman. We'd recruited Bonnie, a fantastic new teammate. We lost 4-2 but the team competed, hard, against an established outfit. Anyway, that was yesterday. Today was all about helping Jackie beat Blyth Spartans.

We went down for breakfast and joined Gemma. She'd decided to stay overnight, too, since Chester FC was a drama sandwich with a shopping trip in the middle. We talked about having a victory dinner in a restaurant called the Sticky Walnut, in a Chester suburb.

"Enjoy your breakfast," I said, in a gruff voice. "For tonight, we dine in Hoole."

Absolutely no reaction. Sometimes I wonder why I bother.

I joined them on a little walk around the old town, pottering around, not even resisting when they made me try on different clothes.

"This looks great on you," said Emma, while Gemma nodded. "You should buy it."

I couldn't tell you what I was wearing. Not a black hoodie is all I know. "I'll dress like a peacock if we stay up. Deal?"

"I'll hold you to that."

What I was doing, apart from killing time until the match, was checking out the atmosphere in the town. It was a big game. A crucial six-pointer, at home. You wouldn't have known it. The town was quiet. Some buskers, some tourists. No sign that the place even had a football club.

Maybe everyone had seen the league table.

Pos Team   P  GD   Pts

19 Blyth Spartans  38   -33 43

20 Bradford   37   -25 41

21 Chester   39  -16   38

22 Leamington   37   -17 37

23 Kettering   39   -32   33

24 AFC Telford   39  -44 25

At the end of the season, the bottom four teams would be relegated - demoted - to the seventh tier, where they would probably not play FC United. Ziggy's team were on a good run and had settled into second place in their league. How crazy it would be if Ziggy was the only one playing sixth tier football next season, while James, Raffi, and myself played in the seventh. Henri, of course, would move to a club more befitting of his talents.

Telford and Kettering were doomed, leaving four teams competing for the last two slots. Leamington were in big trouble, but had played two games fewer than us. Mathematically, they had a fair shot at staying up, but realistically, they were near the bottom for a reason and their games would come thick and fast. Meanwhile, our run of midweek games was coming to an end, and after this coming Tuesday's visit to Kettering, it was Saturday matches all the way. Jackie would have a whole week to prepare for every match - I was sure that would prove crucial.

Our problem was that even if we beat Blyth today, they would survive if they matched our results for the rest of the season, as would Bradford (Park Avenue).

In a way, I was glad of the clarity.

Everyone at the club knew we needed to win, and to keep winning.

***

I left the ladies around lunchtime and walked to the stadium. Jackie and Vimsy were taking care of the on-pitch pre-match preparations, and a small army of volunteers were getting the stadium ready and doing the hundreds of little jobs that needed to be done. There wasn't much for me to do, then, so I took the opportunity to explore some aspects of non-league football I hadn't had time to dive into before. Namely, I went around the little stalls outside the ground, had chats with the vendors, and tried to get more of a sense of the pre-match experience.

One guy was selling replica kits, scarves, and souvenirs. I had a rummage and found he didn't have any Best 77 merch. Annoying. But he did have a Dani 7 car air freshener. He told me people had started asking if he had any women's team stuff and he was dipping his toes in the water. I bought five air fresheners and an I HEART JR mug.

I kept going. The food stands seemed to do decent business, the stewards were friendly, and a few volunteers went past along with some fans in wheelchairs. One of the group pointed at me and shouted, "It's Max! It's Max!" so hard it became a bit of an issue. I went over. I'd assumed the guy would be a relative of a Chester Knight or something like that, but it was a total rando. Really strange, but I spent a few minutes posing for selfies and answering questions and the group eventually continued on inside. They were buzzing, despite the fact only one of them knew who I was.

"You're good with them, anyway." It was another rando. Forty, balding, one of those faces I didn't trust. Could be the loveliest guy, could be total gammon.

"Them?" I said, with a bit of a challenge.

He failed to maintain eye contact. "I don't know the proper words."

"Me neither, to be honest. I just try to be nice. Normally works out."

There was a group of blokes behind him. Lots of beefy boys. Portly construction worker types. Podgy van drivers. Not my natural constituency, TBH, but they normally made good tea. "I just wanted to say. We've had our doubts about you. Still do. Strange stuff we keep hearing about. Thought you were a soft lad. But what you did last night." He swallowed. Had he already started on the beer? What was I thinking? He'd probably had more that morning than I drank in a month. "That was right by me."

Another guy came closer. "You can't walk off the pitch, though. You can't kick the referee out! That's no good. That's over the top."

The first guy didn't agree. "Got to make a stand, Dan. Can't let people take liberties."

I put my hands up; I didn't want to re-legislate the whole drama. "Here's the thing. Maybe I overreacted, maybe I did the right thing, maybe both are true. I don't know. I'm an easy-going guy. All the players at this club are nice. All the age groups. All the Chesters. We're all friendly." I set my jaw. "But don't mess with us. We'll ruin your day."

"Don't mess with Chesters!" yelled one guy, which was an instant hit. Another potentially inebriated chap started a chant that was taken up by everyone within a hundred yards.

We hate Wrexham and we hate Wrexham

We hate Wrexham and we hate Wrexham

We hate Wrexham and we hate Wrexham

We are the Wrexham

Haters

Football fans, Jesus Christ. I pretended to take a phone call so that I could scarper, but one of the fans thrust a blue magazine in front of me and held out a pen. Asking me to sign it! I took a proper look at the mag, and leaned my phone flat on my shoulder.

"Where did you get this?"

"Over there."

I signed it, and went to buy something I'd assumed was extinct - a match day programme.

***

It was nearly time for the team to be named, so I went inside the stadium. Into the inner sanctums, through the secret spaces, into the holy of holies - the manager's office next to the dressing room. Jackie was in there with Vimsy. The latter was sitting back, nice and relaxed, having a cuppa. Jackie was leaning forward, filling the team sheet in very, very carefully. While I waited, I took a proper look at the cover of the programme.

At the top it said, The Cestrian, followed by the price (two pounds fifty).

The hero image was a photo of Tony Hetherington, the second-best striker at the club (third if you count me, which you should unless you enjoy telling lies). Tony had no expression on his face, and was mid-clap. Applauding the fans after a defeat, it looked like. Pretty far in the direction of 'dull'.

Then there was the crest of Blyth Spartans, today's date, and the kickoff time: 3pm. At the bottom, the logos of the six main sponsors.

Absolutely nothing wrong with any of it. Just a bit uninspiring.

I had the same feeling when Jackie handed me the team sheet. Unchanged team, 3-5-2. The only difference from the recent disasters was that Aff was on the sub's bench. One of my jobs would be to make sure Jackie didn't panic and throw him on too early.

Not that there should be any need - Blyth's average CA was 38. Ours had climbed to 41.9, and if we changed D-Day to Aff it would be 42.9. Slow, steady progress.

I had started to think in terms of bands. The first band - bronze - was players with CA under 40. We had five bronze in the starting eleven. One was Raffi, who had climbed to CA 30. Starting to get to the point where he wasn't in the team because he looked like a good player, but because he actually was one. I have to admit I was slightly disappointed with his progression given how many first-team minutes he was getting, but that was probably my natural impatience talking.

The silver band included players from CA 40 to 49. We had three in the lineup: Carl Carlile, James Wise (the on-loan midfielder), and Tony, the striker from the cover of the programme. Carl had only just moved from bronze to silver. He still had a lot of upside, but even if we stayed up, I wanted to see some 7 out of 10 match ratings before I offered him a new contract. What was the point having decent skills if you didn't show it on the pitch?

Gold was anyone over CA 50. We had three. Glenn (51), Sam Topps (53), and Henri, who'd bumped himself up to 55. I got very excited when I saw that, but 55 was exactly his level when I'd seen him as an unused sub for Darlington all those months ago. Three months of playing and training just to undo the damage caused by his enforced break and his emotional crisis. He seemed much happier these days. Did happy players improve faster?

"Max."

"Er... yes, Jackie?"

"Happy with that?"

I looked down at the team sheet. "Absolutely. It's our strongest team. I like the formation. You've got options on the bench. Trick lets you go to a flat back 4. Youngster if you want a DM. Aff for a late burst. This," I said, holding the team sheet with great reverence, "is one of the greatest documents in this nation's long history."

Jackie sighed. "Is it going to be one of those days?"

"Are you being sarcastic?" asked Vimsy.

"About the team? No. Why, what would you change?"

He hadn't expected the question. "You know me, I’m old-fashioned. I'd play 4-4-2. And I'd play Aff from the start." He gestured to show he wasn't complaining. "That's just me. I like the team. It feels solid."

"Yes, well," I said. "Maybe this is a good time to clarify something. I'm going to be in the area, but I'm only helping out. Jackie's the boss. When the whistle blows, Jackie's my boss. I'm going to shut my trap so that the players are in no doubt of that. All right? Good? That said," I finished quickly and quietly, "put Aff on too early I'll go apeshit."

Jackie smiled. "Let's get you started on your assistant duties, then. Take that to the ref."

I felt queasy. "You want me to go into the referee's room? After last night?"

"Quit yer whingeing. Get on with it. There's a deadline on those things."

"I see. It's going to be one of those days." I sighed. "Where's the Holy Water in case things kick off?"

Jackie tutted. "Piss off and hand in the team sheet. Nutjob."

***

I knocked on the referee's door. It opened and a guy dressed all in black stood there. Any worries I had about finding some kind of mutated supergammon in there evaporated - he was about 27 and had the friendly, cheerful face of a postman. He reminded me of my mate Longstaff.

"Help you?"

"Got our team sheet," I said. He made no attempt to take it from me. "Chester," I added, stupidly.

"You don't recognise me, Best?"

Oh, shit. Oh shit oh no oh shit. "Er... Your car stalled and I gave you a push because I'm actually a good guy?"

He loved that. "No! I reffed you down in Gloucester." I must have looked pretty blank. "You don't remember? How can you not remember? You scored four goals!"

"Oh, right. Right..." It was starting to come back to me. "It was snowing. You had to decide if we played or not. Not an easy decision."

"You stood nice and warm in my coat while literally everyone else got stuck in clearing the snow. That didn't sit well, if I'm honest. Made you seem like a bit of a dandy." He shrugged. "Didn't take long to change my mind. Happy to make a mistake off the pitch!"

I frowned, hard. "I think I was too stressed to think straight. I really needed that match to go ahead. Can't remember why." I held up the team sheet again. This time, he took it.

"Ah, great. Great! I hate when I have to go looking for them. Let's have a decko, then." He went through the list. "Oh, Sam Topps. He's a handful."

"Not really," I said, without thinking.

"He is. Charges around. Flying tackles. I always keep my eye on him."

I laughed and checked the corridor was empty. "Listen, I've got beef with Sam Topps. I've been waiting for him to do something stupid for weeks so I could take him down a peg or two. Maybe even fine him. Show him who's boss." I checked the corridor again. "But he's smart. Sly. He never actually does anything wrong. Like, ever. He's combative, yeah, but fouls? Dangerous play? Not him. He's very, very controlled. You watch him today. It's his, like, aura winning the ball. He's very Sun Tzu. Wins without fighting."

"Huh," said the ref. He glanced down. "Henri Lyons is trouble. You'll admit that."

I squeezed a noise through my teeth and did a couple of head shakes. Before I spoke, I wondered what I was doing. I think I was so relieved that the ref was treating me like a human being that I was overly happy to chat to him. Maybe he was relieved I was treating him like a human being. It was probably naive, but I couldn’t see any harm in being honest with the guy. "In the Premier League he'd get booked every match. He loves a scrap. There's nothing in it, though. It's like a pillow fight. It's all for show, with him. If he starts to piss you off, give him a warning and he'll cut it out."

The ref seemed entranced. I briefly worried he was going to use this against me, somehow, but he seemed to be loving the gossip. "I've heard this Raffi Brown was a boxer. Comes from a rough area, that kind of thing."

"He'll be the one calming things down. He's ice cold. Mis-times the odd tackle, same as everyone else, but I've never seen him out of control. Not a malicious bone in his body. Big family man. His daughter’s as cute as a button. He's going up up up, that guy. Top player."

"What about Blyth?"

I shrugged. "Never seen 'em. Don't know what to expect, really."

He scanned the team sheet, and gave it a little flick. "Very interested to see if you're right, or if you were having me on! Enjoy the match. Pity you aren't playing. I still think about that fourth goal. How on earth did you score from that angle?"

***

I went into the dressing room and listened as Jackie announced the team - the players already knew it - and reminded them of some things they'd been working on in training. "Fast transitions between lines, yeah? When we go back, we go back. No harm done. But when we go forward, we go hard. When we're fast, no team can live with us. Okay? Henri, Tony, watch your spacing. Like we worked on. When to split, when to go tandem. D-Day, Joe, it's that balance. When to go, when to stay. Keep a clear head. Robbo. That long ball to Henri in the channel, that's our joker, yeah? Don't waste it. Okay, now Aff's been to watch them. What did you see?"

That was surprising. I didn't think anyone ever listened to me. Injured players as scouts? Yes, please!

Aff stirred. He wasn't used to talking in such an environment. "They, er... they fire loads of long balls to their strikers."

"Say the line," insisted Carl Carlile, one of Aff's best mates.

Aff rolled his eyes. "They fire so many long balls it'll blot out the sun."

"Then we'll defend in the shade!" said Carl, rising off the bench, miming that he was thrusting a sword at an enemy. It got a decent response.

I had tried to wedge myself into a corner and not be part of any of it. If I popped down to watch training the players would always have that doubt: should they be looking to impress Jackie, or me? But here in the stadium I really wanted them to know Jackie was top dog.

So it was a surprise when Jackie singled me out. "Now, lads. Me specialist says not to stand up too much, so I've asked Max to come and help us out today." All eyes turned to me. "Yeah. I know. Scraping the bottom of the barrel, or what? But seriously. If you know anything about football, you know he sees things everyone else misses. An extra pair of eyes. Two heads are better than one. All that stuff. We're leaving nothing to chance, today. Big win and we're back in business. Go get yourselves warm, go through your routines. Hop to it."

***

Again there was nothing for me to do. I wanted to go up to the Director's Box and talk to Emma, or Ruth, or MD. Or even go and gatecrash Seals Live. None of the above seemed like a good idea, so I hung out with Jackie and Vimsy. Talked shit for a while. They were full of the usual football bravado, but not very far under the surface, they were terrified. A draw would be a disaster. A defeat? A defeat and Jackie's management career could very well be over.

***

The Gary Talbot Stand is the main terrace at Chester, named after a club legend. The teams emerge from the very centre, go down two tiny steps, and the players keep going straight onto the pitch. The home team's manager, assistant, coaches, and physios turn right. The away team turn left. There are two fairly large rectangles marked on the grass around the dugouts. These are the so-called 'technical areas' where the managers are allowed to patrol. They're certainly much bigger than they seem from match footage, which is filmed from a low-hanging camera on the opposite stand.

Jackie, like most managers, liked to stand as centrally as possible, so that he might better berate the referee and yell obscenities at the other manager. He'd got a little camping stool so that he could sit down when nothing was happening, and he'd placed it with two legs slightly outside of the technical area. He thought, correctly, that it would annoy the Blyth lot. Good gamesmanship, but if I was him, I wouldn't want the match to get too emotional - we were the better team.

As mentioned, our first eleven had an average CA of 42. Blyth's was 38. Compete, win your duels, let your higher quality show. Absolutely no need for drama of any kind. But it was Jackie’s show. I had to leave him to it.

The dugouts at the Deva are slightly unusual in that they're split into two mini shelters. Jackie liked to have the physios over on the far one, and the coaches and subs in the one closest to halfway. So Livia and Dean were in one little hut, and Vimsy, me, and Jackie were theoretically stationed in the bigger one, though in practice we preferred to stand up. The five substitutes did sit down: Ben (the goalie), Magnus (multi-purpose defensive cover), Trick Williams (a left-back if we wanted to change formation), Youngster (defensive midfield, unlikely to be given a debut unless we were so far ahead that Jackie could truly relax), and Aff, the left-midfielder who we were easing back into the team after his painful and totally avoidable hamstring injury.

The worst case scenario, I mused, would be if one of our strikers got injured. We'd talked about it, and the solution would be to push D-Day up as a second striker. I didn't like it much, but he'd played there for most of the season. Or we could do 4-5-1. It wasn't totally bonkers not to have a striker on the bench, is what I'm saying.

The match kicked off, and the first five minutes, as always, were very careful. No-one wanted to make a mistake. No-one wanted to take any undue risks.

The crowd were in decent voice, considering the general assumption that we were already relegated. Blyth had brought a few fans, but it was a long trip from their coastal town located - impossibly - north of Newcastle. They’d been on the road for four hours, at least. Understandable that they didn't travel in huge numbers.

Even more understandable when I saw the way they played. It was so defensive even Ian Evans would have blanched. Their manager, Lee Martin, was on the young side to be a dinosaur type. Middle-aged, very stocky, wearing a grey suit. On seeing him, I imagined a deep, gravelly voice, and as soon as the match kicked off I didn't have to imagine. The guy never shut up. He played a straight 4-4-2 with enormous, hulking centre-backs, and, unusually, two enormous, hulking full-backs. The plan? Keep it tight and score from set pieces.

But today they weren't all that fussed about scoring - a draw against us would suit them just fine. So they were doing lots of tiny fouls. Taking their time on throw-ins and goal kicks. Slowing the game down, making it bitty, stop-start, annoying, aggravating. And from Martin and his cronies, non-stop aggression. Complaints to the referee, shouts at our players, huge verbals aimed at Jackie and Vimsy.

Who, of course, swallowed the bait hook, line, and plonker.

To be fair, Jackie started by focusing on his team. Calling out a few tiny tweaks. Giving individual instructions. Requesting a step to the right from Carl. Asking Raffi to pass left. Warning Glenn about his offside line. Good stuff. Valuable stuff. Which stopped happening because Jackie got involved with Martin, big time.

The more Jackie responded, the more distracted he and Vimsy got, the worse Chester played.

My non-intervention pact didn't survive ten minutes. I rose from the dugout, ambled over to Vimsy and told him to sit down. He was fuming - not at me - but he obeyed. I think he was experienced enough to know he wasn't helping anyone. Maybe he even liked being told to drop it, since that gave him a face-saving out. I picked up Jackie's camping chair and placed it on the other side of the dugout. Then I walked to his side.

"Jackie, you knob."

"Not now, Max. Kin hell." His face was red. His knuckles were white on his crutches.

"Do you want to go and play with your dinky cars? You're being disruptive."

He ground his teeth, but he made eye contact with me, just for a second, and I think there was the tiniest nod. He understood I was telling him to cool it. "Yeah. Oh, where's my - Max! Why's it over there?"

"I don't want you bickering with nobodies, mate. First you fight with your head. Then you fight with your heart. Go over there and sit down. Manage your team. I'll ask one of the physios to give you a shoulder massage to calm you down, yeah?" I waggled my eyebrows, suggestively.

He tutted. "You mean Dean, don't you?" He blew through his lips, but swung himself away from the Blyth dugout and fell into his chair. He grimaced. His knee was worse than he was letting on.

I turned to Lee Martin and beamed at him. Gave him a Maxy two-thumbs. The temperature on the away bench rose five degrees. They did not like me smiling at them. I laughed, and mumbled 'bunch of twats'. Footballers are pretty good lipreaders, for a certain subsection of words.

I grinned as I went back to Jackie. From his new position, he could still talk to Vimsy and the subs. I decided that I'd stand between Jackie and the Blyth mob. You know, to help him focus. In fact, the best thing I could do in the first half would be to distract him and Vimsy. Take their mind off the game, to some extent. The big challenge, I knew, would come at half-time, when Lee Martin would unleash some dinosaur power move that would make the inexperienced Jackie cower.

First things first, though. "Livia," I called.

She came jogging with her kit bag. "Everything okay?"

"This prick's knee hurts more than he's letting on. Will you try and keep him still or whatever?"

Jackie gave me a furious look. "I'm fine."

"Is D-Day in position?" I said.

He glared across to the far side of the pitch. "Yes!"

"If you can see that, then you can manage from there. Magnus, will you go and keep Dean company in the other box, please?"

"Yes, Max."

“Physios are social animals,” I explained to James. “You’re not supposed to leave them alone.”

Livia had taken the opportunity to whip out an ice pack that she held against her boyfriend's knee. Tenderly. It was such a sweet moment.

"What are you doing?" demanded Jackie.

"Nothing."

"Stop smiling. It's maddening. Argh." Livia flinched and whipped the ice pack away. "It's not you, Livs. That was the perfect moment for Henri to go wide. He was too busy grappling with the defender."

I did my talking-to-a-child voice. "Player was fighting? Was it maybe coz you was losing your tiny mind doing verbals? Jackie? Was it coz you was shouting at the bad man? Maybe the players think they have to shout at the bad man, too? Jackie? Was it? Is it? Maybe? Jackie?"

"OKAY!" he yelled. It burst out of him. Many weeks of frustration summed up in one noise. He squirmed and dipped his head, but when he came up he was biting his lip and a bit of the old twinkle was back in his eye. "You're right, Max. Point taken. Will you remind Henri what we talked about?"

"Nope. Shouting is beneath me. A perfectly calm, professional football coach like Vimsy is your man for giving crisp, clear technical instructions." I raised my eyebrows in Vimsy's direction. It was a challenge: are you ready to work?

His answer was to push himself out of the dugout. He took a position on the other side of Jackie. They had a quick chat, then Vimsy stepped forward and barked first at Henri, then at Robbo, who seemed to have forgotten his part of the move, too.

"Good spot, mate," I told him. Vimsy nodded, but then glanced over my shoulder. I took a tiny step to the right to block his view, and did a very clear expression that meant: are you fucking kidding? He blinked, exhaled, and concentrated on the pitch.

I stayed where I was, keeping one eye on Jackie, and one on the match overview screens. When we stopped getting sucked into Blyth's drama trap, our match ratings started to increase. Things were looking good, mostly. "D-Day is playing shit," I announced.

Jackie frowned, but switched his attention to the far side. "Get him up the pitch for five minutes."

Vimsy went to the touchline and barked orders and waved and pointed. It took a while, but D-Day's rating went from 5 to 6. "That's done it," I announced. "Keep him there or move him back into his slot?"

"Back to the slot," Jackie said, and Vimsy made it happen.

"You know," I said, pleased, "this is all very civilised, isn't it? Very professional."

"You're such a hypocrite," said Jackie. "You use emotion more than anyone I've ever met."

"Nah," I said. "Not when we're the better team. Fire when you're the underdog. Ice when you're superior." I got very, very smug. "That's why when I play, I play cold. Ben," I said, startling the young goalie. I say young - he was three years older than me. "Which post do they attack from crosses?"

"Not really sure," he admitted.

"Oh," I said. "Sort of thought maybe it was your job to look out for that sort of thing. In case we need you to go on the pitch, like."

"Er... yes, Max."

"The answer is the far post, by the way. Youngster, which Blyth midfielder is more likely to go forward for attacks?"

"Their number 8, Mr. Best. He has gone forward two times so far. He is truly one-footed, always cuts onto his right foot. If I am on the pitch, I will be sure to shepherd him onto his weaker left foot."

"What about headers?"

"His runs are very predictable. I believe I can cover him successfully."

"Ben. Hear that?"

"Yes, Max."

"That's the standard."

Jackie turned and gave Youngster a big smile. "Ice-cold."

Youngster beamed. I was surprised his CA didn't pop there and then.

Ice cold. I'd chucked some cold water onto this fiery first half. What if I could do more of that while winding up Blyth even more? "Trick, would you hand me that thing, please?"

"This?" he said, holding up the match programme.

I took it from him. "Exactly. Thanks."

I wandered over to the edge of the technical area closest to Blyth, did a big stretch and a yawn, and started reading.

If you've ever wondered if opposition managers like you reading a match day programme while your team is dominating theirs... turns out, they don't.

***

I was hitting my stride, mate, let me tell you. I'd found my role in the world. Forget Hamlet - I was born to play the part of 'Max Actual Best'. Jackie was the leading man; I was a supporting character. Not seen in every episode. A guy who did a lot with very few lines. In this very special episode, Jackie would take care of the football while I took care of the technical areas.

Jackie's problem in the previous games was getting outfoxed by dinosaurs who'd learned a trick or two over their long careers. Those old hands had been winding him up something rotten.

From the VIP boxes, I'd been focused on tactics, formations, substitutions. But now that I was in the mixer, as footballers call the area where the action is, I understood it better.

Jackie was getting sucked into blind rage. Mind games. Losing his focus on the one area where he was miles, miles better than anyone at this level, including me: the pitch.

But now he was free to focus on his players. Free to make the dozens of tiny adjustments that uncursed managers had to make to squeeze an extra one percent out of their team.

And in the line of fire, soaking up all the opposition ire, was little old me. Maxy Best.

A premium wind-up merchant. A gobby Manc twat. A guy you really, really want to slap.

Reading the match programme, mid-match, while Lee Martin and his crew were hopping around, hopping mad, was like a red rag to a bull.

"What the fuck?" one of them yelled. "Are you taking the piss?"

I looked up at him, a paragon of innocence. "Sorry, is this your copy?"

"You know what I mean, you prick." He came thundering forward, jabbing his finger at me.

I held the magazine close to him and turned the page. (I don't know how I kept a straight face. His rage was incredibly funny to me.) "Says here we've got a club chaplain. Didn't know that. Don't you think we should be a secular institution?"

He absolutely lost his mind. I'm 100% sure Lee Martin had told his guys to pretend to be all animated and stuff in order to mess with our heads. But if you play with fire, you’re gonna get burned, and this guy - a coach I guess - blew his top. He slapped the programme out of my hands and gave me a push. It took me a few seconds to realise the best thing I could do would be to topple backwards, and the delay in throwing myself to the ground only succeeded in infuriating him even more. From my position on the bare soil of the technical area, I giggled almost uncontrollably.

James dashed forward to help me up, but I spotted Vimsy being held back by Trick and Aff. I mentally sighed. Gamesmanship was much easier with the kids and the women. These idiot men, beating their chests, were ruining my schemes. "James, cool Vimsy."

The kid obeyed instantly, leaving me there on the floor. Yes! Someone with a brain. I couldn't see what he did next because the referee had come over. From my position - curled up like a shrimp - all I could see were his black socks. He bent and offered me a hand.

He lifted me to my feet. "Best! What on earth is going on over here?"

"Well, sir," I started, like he was my headmaster. Again, straight face, give me my BAFTA. "I was reading the match programme, minding my own business, and this chap assaulted me."

The assistant referee, also known as linesman, also known as lino, was in the area. "That's right! That's what happened! I couldn't believe my eyes. Look, there's the programme."

We all turned to see where the mistreated publication was splayed on the ground.

"You, off," said the ref. The coach, after a long delay, made his way up the tunnel and into the away team's dressing room. Bye, bye! Blyth protested way too much - what was the benefit of winding up a referee? It would only come out in some harsh decision late in the game. God hates an idiot, as I think it says in the Bible. And if it doesn't, it should.

I went over to Livia and pretended every part of my body hurt. She got it; she made a big fuss, did a concussion check on me, and pretended to talk into collar microphones the club didn’t even own. Perfect!

Once the scene had settled down and the match got back underway - yes, a match was happening - I put Livia back on knee duty, collected the programme, winked at the only guy on the Blyth dugout who was looking at me, and went over to Vimsy.

"Mate. Go keep Dean company."

I was banishing him. He pulled all sorts of faces. "You're not serious?"

"We don't need uncontrolled anger right now, thanks. You can sit over there, or you can go up in the stands." I looked at the bench. "Aff, you don't mind if someone punches me in the face, do you?"

"Not much, no." Last time we'd spoken, I'd gone into a long rant about him playing injured which he’d had to suck up.

"Perfect. Come and shout what Jackie tells you to shout."

Trick spoke up. "I don't mind if you get punched in the face, either."

"Yeah," I said. "If Aff can't keep it in his pants, you're next up. Please God there's one person here who wants us to win today."

Vimsy hovered around for a bit, but Jackie gave him some sort of signal and then he wandered off, kicking a water bottle as he went.

Our match ratings fluctuated with a downward tendency. Too much drama on the sidelines!

I stood in front of Jackie and held my hands out. I lifted him up. "What?" he said.

"Calm them down."

Jackie stood on the touchline for a while, looking serene. He gave someone a thumbs up. He pushed his palms downward at the defence. He patted Joe Anka on the back as the right-midfielder prepared to take a throw-in.

The match ratings climbed back up; I helped him sit back down.

I shook my head. "Fuck me, you lot are hard work."

Aff's eyebrows shot up. "You're not so easy, yourself."

"Wrong," I said. "Youngster, tell Aff he's wrong."

"Diarmuid," he said, because he wasn't all that keen on nicknames, "Mr. Best is attempting to keep us focused on the task while distracting the opposition from theirs. Napoleon said, never interrupt an enemy when he is making a mistake. Mr. Vimsy, much as I respect him, did just that."

I slapped the match programme against my thigh. "I love this kid.” I smiled. “Let's all calm down for a while. We'll win this match if we stop being fucking moronic. All right?"

I'd only been pretending to read the programme before, but now I had a proper look. Page 2 was a big advert. Page 3 was a list of all the main Chester employees. My name was there, above Jackie's. The Board were listed, and I learned Sumo's real name. There were loads of people I’d never met. Something to fix in the months ahead! Page 4 was another ad, and then came the most important text: Jackie's manager notes.

Manager notes were a tradition as old as time. Managers wrote what they thought about the season so far, about their last result, about the coming fixture. In the days before social media and wall-to-wall coverage, it was one of the only ways a fan would ever hear anything from their club's main man.

I had a vague memory of reading a manager's note from Sir Alex Ferguson when I was a kid, and being, like, super amazed at how close it brought me to him. Was Jackie on Instagram, posting pictures of his breakfast every morning? Probably. This section of the programme didn't hit as hard as it used to. How could it? But for ten seconds, I was rapt. I was reading the actual thoughts of Chester's manager! What could be more thrilling in the whole world?

Good afternoon everybody and welcome to the Deva Stadium for our National League North tie against Blyth Spartans.

Wow! That's... generic.

Since I took the manager's position, we have felt that we are moving in the right direction but results on the pitch have not reflected this.

Mate.

We have had the lion's share of possession in our last six games and we have fought back from behind to salvage a draw against tricky opposition in Leamington.

I'm also convinced that the least we would have got in the game against Banbury is a point, if we had been able to stick to our plan.

A pained moan escaped from my lips. Everyone turned to look at me.

"Jackie, soz, but your manager notes are really boring."

"Can you concentrate on the match, please?"

"No. We're on course. Everything's fine. This In The Dugout bit. Did you write this yourself?"

He replied through gritted teeth. "Yes."

"It reads like someone was holding a gun to your head and you'd been told not to say anything interesting or else."

"Haha." He unclenched his jaw. Glanced at the pitch. Nothing was amiss. We had some kind of chemistry, the two of us. If I was virtually ignoring the match, there was probably a reason. He went with it. "I was never that good in school. Not that interested in English. I'm just happy if there are no spelling mistakes."

"Hmm," I said. I quickly scanned the pitch. We had started the match with 65% possession, and now it was up to 70. Our constant probing was taking its toll on Blyth's defence. Raffi was having an 8 out of 10 match, spraying the ball left and right. The Blyth defenders would cope well, cope well, then at some point in the second half, fall off a cliff. Put a fresh, raring-to-go Aff on for the last twenty minutes and it would be carnage. Jackie and I made eye contact, then both instantly looked away. He knew. I saw him relax. He looked back at me, encouraging me to keep distracting him. Save him from himself.

Livia wasn't quite on the same wavelength. From her point of view, I was having a go at Jackie at a time of great stress for him. "I suppose you think you could do better?" she spat. Fierce. Mother tiger. Jackie squeezed her hand, communicating, and she turned to check if she’d got the right message. I felt a pang of jealousy, which was preposterous.

I stole another quick look at the pitch. Raffi was on the ball again, superb balance, threatening a pass to the right. Blyth's entire defence shuffled across, as they'd been trained. But he turned like a ballet dancer and fired it out to the left. To a man, Blyth did that head dip that tired marathon runners do. Eleven players wasting calories based on a simple feint.

Everyone was waiting for me to talk, but my smile was in the way. I tapped the photo of Jackie that accompanied his manager's notes. "Writing's not that hard. You sketch out what you want to say, then try and find a theme."

"A theme?"

"Yeah like if the chapter's about indecision, or fear of what dreams may come, you do Hamlet. If it's about, I don't know, a trip to Liverpool, there's obvious connective tissue. Now, let's all think really hard about this. We're playing Blyth Spartans. Come on, now. What've you got? Spartans? Hmm? Anything? Trick? Aff? Ben?"

Jackie was grinning. "You said you'd write it and then come up with the theme."

I shrugged. "You can work either way. I'm thinking, front cover, THIS IS CHESTER. Who's got the best abs at the club?"

Livia didn't hesitate. "Raffi."

Jackie's reaction to that instant answer amused me, but I was on a roll. "Picture of Raffi with his abs falling out. We Photoshop some golden armour on him. Golden hat thing. THIS IS CHESTER in that blood font. Roar! Your notes are all about warriors and battles and glory."

"Very violent imagery," complained James, like the Bible wasn't non-stop massacres.

"Mate," I said. "They aren't the Blyth Guide Dogs, are they? Give me a break." I paused to watch as Henri competed for a header. He didn't win it, but raced off after the ball and won a foul. The ref gave the free kick against us. I couldn't help but blame Vimsy, unfair though that impulse almost certainly was.

I think Jackie sensed a change in my posture or whatever, because suddenly he was keen to distract me. "So I write a war-themed piece. You know, I agree with James. We have enough crowd trouble here. I don't want to put ideas in the heads of those hooligans."

"Good. Fine." I had a tiny think, then gasped. Big eyes pointing at everyone around. "Got it! What year were the Spartans?"

"Lots of years, I think," said James.

I gesticulated. "What year was the movie?"

"2005, or thereabouts."

"Oh my shitting God are you trying to wind me up, James? What year was the battle? Thermopylae?"

Nobody knew. "Someone look it up. Christ."

I took a few steps to the touchline and looked around. Jackie used the opportunity to send Aff out with some microtweaks. One involved D-Day dropping into a fractionally more defensive posture. Another resulted in Sam Topps having a 'back' arrow on the match tactics screen. Not quite a defensive midfielder, but interesting that Jackie's mind was leaning that way.

I checked the stats and match ratings. We hadn't had many shots, but things were still going to plan. Blyth were frazzled, their bench was a mess, and now their manager was the one trying to calm everyone down. He had his head screwed on, that guy. Good opponent. I decided not to provoke him more... in the first half. He could easily sort everything out at half-time. The second half was fair game, though. I already had a few ideas of things I could do...

"The Battle of Thermopylae was 480 BC," said Livia, who might have been the only person in our dugout with a phone on her.

"Great!" I said, showing the cover of the programme to everyone. I was asking them to imagine the match programme that I was visualising. "Now, get this. Raffi's on the front cover. His face, but especially his torso. THIS IS CHESTER, abs, golden armour. Amazing.” I turned a few pages. “In the manager notes section, Jackie's photo looks really aggressive and scary." I tapped his photo. "Which saves a bit of money because we can use this same one."

Jackie laughed hard enough it gave permission to everyone else to join in. Even the loyal Livia bit her lip.

I continued. "It says, Saturday, 18th March, 480 BC. 3 pm."

"Oh!" said James, causing me to twist my neck towards the pitch. "No, Mr. Best. Nothing is wrong. It is your idea. So wonderful! How are you so fecund?"

"Watch your mouth," I warned. "Yeah. 480 BC. We write the whole thing like it's, you know, the olden days. We've walked for six days back from Leamington, very excited about today’s match."

"Marched!" said James.

"Yes, mate!" I agreed, rushing to the dugout to mash his head. "Marched! That's what I'm talking about. Do you get me? Once you sink into the vibe, it's easy. It writes itself. We're playing football in those times. What have they got? Oracles and stuff? The oracles make Blyth favourites to win, but if we keep it tight first ten, we've got a chance, especially with the home crowd cheering us on."

"In the Deva amphitheatre," said Trick.

"Mate!" I yelled, demanding he raise his hand for a high five. "Come on!" I walked around in a big, fast circle. "Jackie! Jackie, mate. What do you think?"

He smiled. "I think I'd like Henri to drop five yards deeper until half time."

I gave him a Maxy two-thumbs while Aff did the necessary.

Our technical area? Our little patch of Chester? Smiles all round.

***

At half-time, we fell into the dressing room. I suggested (via body language and a tiny push) that Vimsy should maybe stick to the back of the room, away from Jackie and the tactics board. The naughty corner. I tucked myself into a crevice again, but this time I was in front of the players. Visible. Checking the scores from other games on my phone.

Jackie looked young and fresh. Light in his eyes. Fierce. Daddy tiger protecting his young.

"Lads!" he cried. "Top half. I'm made up. That was a boss performance. No-one could ask for more. Second half, they'll tire. They can't keep up with us for 90 minutes. No fucking chance. All they've got is snide shit. Slowing the game down. Taking time off the clock. This half, every time they slow it down, we speed it up. Glenn, Sam, Henri: you set the pace. Yeah? We're calm. We're in control. This is our patch. They've got no business being on the same turf as us. We're toying with them. We lift it, step by step. I don't care if it's nil-nil with ten to go. We don't panic. I don't care if they scrag a goal. Last ten minutes we're going ballistic out there. They'll be on their last legs. It'll be like punching through paper. Er... Max, what is it?"

I'd shot to my feet and taken a step forward before I even knew what I was doing. "They're switching to 3-5-2," I said, which kinda sorta verged on moronic, but what could I do? We had to win. I had enough sense to look at my phone, as though I'd got a tip.

"You sure?"

"Million percent."

Jackie narrowed his eyes, turned, and adjusted the red magnets on his board. He rolled his neck. Stared. He turned to me with the Scousest grin of all time. "Am I crazy... or are we going to dick them anyway?"

There were a lot of laughs from the lads.

I grinned, too. "Yeah, we play our formation better than they do. But..."

"But what?"

"Nothing."

"Come on, lad. Out with it."

I stuck my tongue out the side of my mouth and looked around the room. I wasn't universally popular, but they all knew something about me. Mostly, they knew I was a total prick. "Just... there's winning... and there's winning."

Jackie laughed. "Come on! Tell me."

I got serious. "These manager fucks have been taking liberties. Using every trick in the book to put you on the back foot. It winds me up." I looked around the dressing room, right into the eyes of Henri, Sam, Trick, and the rest. "You're the power in these waters, Jackie. You're switched on and training is fucking mint. Am I right, guys?"

"Yeah!"

"Fucking Premier League quality training, fluid tactics, it's amazing. I want to be part of it. I love everything you're doing. So I don't just want you to win today. I want you to fucking smash the whole idea these 4-4-2 fuckwits can get one over on you." My chin fell to my throat, lest I get too emotional. I got a grip, looked round at the players. "Lads, you guys focus on the match. Focus on the ball, your mates, your jobs. Leave the shithousery to me. Whatever’s going on around me, ignore it. I’ve got these idiots on toast, believe me. But Jackie.” I looked down at the grimy dressing room floor, then up at him. Pleading. “Let's do to them what they've been doing to you. Let’s take the piss."

Jackie didn't blink for, approximately, three hours. "What are you thinking?"

"They've gone 3-5-2, so let's go 4-4-2. Every time they change, we change instantly. We don't have to - we'll fucking win anyway. This is about sending a message." I glanced around. Not everyone knew what I was talking about, which was unbelievable to me. The message was crying out from every cell in my body, every seat in the stadium. The message was nonsensical, ungrammatical, but powerful. Someone had planted it in my brain and it had taken hold of me. I gripped Jackie's shoulder; maybe it would take hold of him, too. I felt my mouth twisting into a snarl. "Don't mess with Chesters."

Jackie felt it. He got the same half-snarl. The same madness in his look. "You want some 4-4-2, Max? You want some back-to-basics football? I'm game. Let’s shove it up their arse!"

That was all I needed to hear. Everything was going to be all right. Don't ask me where my next line came from. It just burst out of me. There was no thought behind it. No strategy. No game. Just waah! Football stuff.

I started yelling:

"Jackie Reaper’s blue and white army!"

Instantly, the whole dressing room was up. On their feet. Screaming. Bouncing. I've only ever seen it from teams after they’ve won a cup. We did it at half-time. Nil-nil in a relegation six-pointer.

Jackie Reaper’s blue and white army!

Jackie Reaper’s blue and white army!

***

Trick replaced Raffi. At the same time, a hulking Blyth-boy was replaced by a mediocre midfielder. Bad move. The CA gap widened.

The first ten minutes of the half were a blitzkrieg. D-Day was inspired, causing havoc down the left. In the centre, Sam picked up Raffi's role and passed them them to death. But it was Joe Anka on the right who stepped up with a gorgeous cross for Henri to head home. Your defenders can be as tall as you want, but if the cross is right, Henri's going to put it away. He wheeled away in a frenzy of delight, whipping up the fans.

We kept piling on the pressure. Chance after chance. It was pulsating stuff.

The crowd sensed something was afoot. They were adding two decibels per minute. I ran and jumped and perched on an advertising board. I screamed at them. Waved my arms around. Demanded more. More noise, more passion, more energy.

The response was incredible. It filled up my senses.

Belief. Wall to wall belief.

A chant emerged. Unscripted, unimaginable, undeniable:

We. Are. Staying up!

Said we are staying up!

We. Are. Staying up!

Said we are staying up!

I imagined Crackers there, in the main stand, suddenly having his earpiece blown off. I imagined a young boy in the stadium for the first time, scared but excited, watching his dad lose his shit. MD and Ruth, up in their fancy box, turning feral, ignoring the sponsors and screaming obscenities at the pitch.

I fucking loved it.

I'd almost forgotten about Lee Martin. In the words of one podcast I used to keep up with, 'other teams can do tactics, too'. Martin's idea was to drop a midfielder into the DM slot. 3-1-4-2.

I went over to Jackie, who was deeply frustrated that he was chair-bound, with multiple people pushing him down every time he tried to get up. I told him what was happening. He turned and looked at his bench. A beatific smile appeared. "Youngster?"

All I could do was smile.

"You do it," ordered Jackie.

"You sure?" Giving a debut to a top talent was a point of pride for most managers. Letting me be seen in the photos was incredibly generous of him.

"I'm sure!" he yelled at me.

I stood to my full height, magnificent AF, and summoned James. I put my hands on his shoulders. "It's happening," I told him.

His eyes shone, his teeth sparkled. "Any advice?" he said.

"No," I said. "This lot are fucking dogshit, mate."

He thought about what I'd said, then closed his eyes ever so slowly. "Mr. Best," he said, as his expression softened. "You have such a way with words."

I kept hold of him, one way or another, until the substitution could be made. Tony, the striker, came off. James ran on. The moment he slipped out from my grasp must be the way parents feel when their kids leave home. Fucking abysmal, mate. Not a fan.

We were playing 4-1-4-1. The key position was held by Youngster, 17 years old, who'd made me jump through hoops to get him to this point. He would protect our defence in our most important game of the season. As he scampered away, the only thing I wanted in this whole world was to burst into tears.

But I kept it together. One thought, and one thought alone, stopped me from expressing how I truly felt.

I wasn't finished with Lee Martin and his Band of Botherers.

***

The formations were massively in our favour. We were one-nil up, and we'd reduced the match to something resembling an armistice. Minutes passed with neither team looking like having a shot. The newfound calmness suited us right down to the ground.

Blyth had come hoping to drop some emotion bombs. Hoping to mess Jackie up. But the closest target to their lines was me.

I wandered over and, leaving the very tip of my heel inside the white paint (so that I was technically 'in' the area), stood in the no-man’s land between the technical areas. Waited for my chance.

My first intervention was easy. Two players competed for the ball and it bounced towards our bigger shelter. I jogged to get it, flicked it up, and started doing kick-ups. A Blyth player came to get the ball so he could take the throw-in. I politely handed the ball to him so he could set up an attack. Er... wait. That doesn't sound right. Let me try that again.

A Blyth player came towards me to get the ball so he could take the throw-in. I increased the speed and complexity of the tekkers I was doing until my feet were a blur. The guy actually put his hands on his hips and sighed. I smiled. Okay, here’s the ball, mate. I balanced it on the tips of my toes and raised it slowly towards his torso so all he needed to do was clasp his hands around it and get on with the match. Of course, as soon as his hands moved towards the ball, I flicked it away from him and continued doing tekkers with my back to him. That wound the Blyth bench up something rotten. The referee came over to plead with me to cut it out. I held three fingers up and swore to behave.

That was awesome, but the effects started to die down, so I looked around for more potential dickery. Ideally, something a lot more incendiary.

There was a ball boy behind the advertising hoardings. I signalled that he should send me a ball. He obliged, and it landed just to my right. Ignoring the ball for a moment, I leaned forward. The ball boy seemed familiar. It was Kian! The under 16s player I'd found at Footy Addicts. I liked it when people got involved. I gave him a little thumbs up and returned to my task. But when I bent to pick up the ball, I accidentally kicked it forward a couple of feet.

Weird.

I tried again.

Frowning, I bent down, slowly sent two hands towards the ball, and - oops! The ball nudged forwards off my toes. I scratched my head, then tried again. I couldn't believe it! My stupid foot kicked the ball away before my hands could reach down! I kept trying, and kept getting six inches closer to the away team's dugout.

Now, what happened next is completely inexplicable to me.

One of the Blyth substitutes ran towards me and threw an actual fucking punch!

I dodged it, falling onto my back in the process. Half the main stand rose, appalled, outraged, demanding vengeance. The noise was cacophonous.

I turned and saw our subs bench had the appropriate response - mock outrage. Performative pointing, but not moving more than a metre from their seats. They'd read the sitch perfectly. I relaxed.

The linesman waved his flag so hard the referee whistled and sprinted over to find out what had happened. He listened to his assistant, then showed a red card to the guy who'd attacked me. Big trouble with the FA for that little prick! I put my hands behind my head, rather as though I was on the beach, and began juggling the ball I'd been trying to catch. I bounced it from foot to foot. Great little display of tekkers. It was all very jaunty until yet another substitute ran over to me and leathered me in the ribs.

NOW there was true pandemonium. Aff, Trick, Tony, Ben, and Raffi were first on the scene, then the nearest guys from the pitch - D-Day, Sam, Gerald May - arrived to join the scrap. Livia and Dean were by my side soon enough, but they couldn't stop me laughing long enough to check if I'd sustained any real damage.

Livia leaned close to my ear. "You're flipping crazy." When I looked at her next, her eyes were all-white. Shining. Well worth a bruise. And if one rib was broken, so what? The gods had given me plenty of spares.

I turned and caught the exact moment the ref sent Lee Martin off, probably for failing to control his bench. Blyth would play the rest of the match with no manager, and, the curse assured me, with two of their unused subs sent off. To all intents and purposes, it was game over.

I looked at Livia. "How's Jackie look?"

She glanced up. The tiniest fraction of a glimpse, but she had seen enough. "He's happy," she said, and her eyes filled with liquid.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

My face hardened. "Well, tell him it's not a picnic. He's here to work. Tell him to get Aff on. Go for the jugular."

My reward was a savage smile. "Yes, Max."

...

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