31 - In and Out [T1] (Patreon)

31.

The last twenty minutes went by in a blur of action and shots - entirely aimed at Blyth's goal. We won two-nil. Could have been six.

The players tried to carry Jackie aloft, stool and all, but he persuaded them to get fucked. They settled for jogging to the dressing room so they could celebrate sooner. No beer for them - they had an away game in three days.

But I was thirsty, so I invited the referee and his crew for a pint in the Blues Bar. He said they'd love to, but he tended to want to get out of the stadium safely and drink when he got home. I promised I'd look after them, and we had a couple of pints in there. They were a decent hang, if a bit condescending when I sketched out a loose vision of a referee's academy, but were deliriously happy when Emma and Gemma turned up. Gemma was quite flirty with all three of them, which I found absolutely surreal. Once the match officials had left - I got a few stewards to discreetly escort them through the spooky dark alley to their car - I asked what she was plotting. She denied that she was even flirting with them, and Emma backed her up.

Very odd.

MD came in just as a chant went up. It was based around the famous tune from The Great Escape. It's very jaunty and the football version is 99% based around the sound 'duh' so everyone can remember the lyrics. It's lots of fun, and at the end of the stanza there's a space for a two-syllable word.

Duh de,

De der de duh de,

Duh duh duhh derr de-de d-de-de

(There's a bit more, and at the end, everyone yells:)

Ches-ter!

MD danced across the room towards us, but when he got close, he took ten steps backward so he could continue to enjoy himself. The chant died down and generic upbeat pop music came through the sound system behind the happy murmurs from the fifty or so patrons.

MD put his hands on our high table and closed his eyes, savouring the atmosphere. He showed us his teeth. "I knew it. I fucking knew it! You and Jackie. The dream team. That was really something, Max. I feel.. I feel..."

"Like dancing?" said Gemma.

Panic filled MD's eyes - she was really out of his league - but then he was smiling again. "May I have the honour?" he said, holding his hand out.

"You may," she said.

They started dancing (her) and shuffling side-to-side with a gormless expression (him).

"Okay what the shit is going on?" I said.

Emma's poker face was rock solid, sometimes. "I don't know what you mean. Good win, today. Do you really have to throw yourself to the ground every five minutes? I thought I was dating a big strong rugby guy."

"I'm strong but sensitive," I said, rubbing my side. It’d be sore for a day or so. No biggie.

Emma looked around. She knew the room was supposed to be packed. Bursting at the seams with happy fans. The mood was good, but it was only a quarter full. "Is it all right, now? Are we all right?"

"We will be," I said. "Bradford got a point against Darlo today. That's not ideal. But MD's right. Jackie and I are a good team. We complement each other. Kettering are going to get slapped."

***

On Sunday morning, I had another lie-in. Emma went out to get some fresh breakfast, and came back with food and a paper.

The Mail on Sunday.

On the back page, in a blue box: "I saw yellow... for being DEAF." Teen star's heartbreaking story, pages 94-95.

I exhaled. Beth worked fast. "Did you look already?"

"No," said Emma. "I was scared."

We placed the paper on Henri's kitchen counter, back page facing up, then peeled over the pages in reverse order, like a Japanese couple might. "Oh, fuck," I said.

The first thing that popped out was this ENORMOUS photo of me and Dani. It must have been taken when we leaving the pitch after her yellow card. It was almost black and white, with darkness behind us and mist around. There's an out-of-focus Wrexham player to the side, and what must have been the referee, also blurred, just in the edge of the shot.

I'm striding towards the camera, with the same kind of gritty, determined energy as an action movie star who is walking away from a large explosion.

Dani is holding my hand, looking up at me. She does NOT look like someone whose world is falling apart.

I felt the cold chill of unforeseen consequences. "Is this what it looks like?"

Emma had started reading the article. She was in lawyer mode, and lawyers don't answer questions unless you pay them. "The photo? What does it look like to you?"

"Looks a bit like... she's not into Harry Styles anymore."

"She'll always be into Harry Styles."

"Emma, come on, this is bad."

"Why's it bad?"

"She's got, like, a crush on me or whatevs."

"So?"

"No! That's no good. I can't have that." I wanted a football relationship with Dani. Possibly, once I'd sold her for a record fee to, I don't know, Barcelona, possibly then we could be friends. And nothing else. Ever. One good thing - Emma wasn't bothered by it in the slightest. "How did this even happen?"

Emma laughed. A proper, full-body laugh. Finally, she sighed. "Let's review. You pluck her from obscurity, tell her she's special, film a dance video to woo her - still waiting for mine, by the way - sometimes weeks go by and she doesn't even see you, sometimes you go whoo and you drown her in attention. Oh, and you're hot and talented and you'd burn your career to keep your promises. How did this happen? Babes, don't be a moron."

I scrunched my eyes closed and rubbed my eyebrows. "How do I undo it? How do I stop her from thinking about me like that?"

"That's easy. Every time a rival manager walks up to you, fall to the ground and curl into a ball like a hedgehog."

"Emma! I'm serious."

She shook her head. "She's got a crush on you. It'll pass." She looked from the text to me. "There's another thing you can do to look unattractive: turn every little thing into a crisis." She saw I was struggling and rubbed my arm. Her voice softened. "If it's not your players, it'll be your staff, and if it's not the staff it'll be the fans. You might want to get used to it. Now shush."

Emma skimmed the article, nodded, then went through it again, tracking the lines with her finger. It was all very serious. Big law school energy.

"All right. I've read it. It's fine. She's clever, that reporter friend of yours. There's nothing, like, explosive here. Nothing untrue, although your quotes are a little too perfect. It's the plain, simple story of what happened, plus a bit of an interview with Dani. But it's constructed in a way that makes your blood boil. You come out looking great, as does the club, and they are very, very sympathetic to Dani. I think this will do the trick, and there's no reason other referees will feel attacked. They've got quotes from two other refs who did matches with Dani. They're made to look like heroes."

I read it through, and had to agree with her. It was masterful. They'd even got hold of a photo of the referee leaving an ugly building, glancing at the camera with a guilty look on her face, and juxtaposed that with one of a beaming Dani holding the trophy and medal she'd won in Crewe. On the left, a miserable husk. On the right, the promise and hope of youth.

I sighed and got my phone out. I texted Beth.

Me: Acceptable. Now leave her alone.

***

My phone spent the rest of the day blowing up. Beth's only reply to my text was the word 'TalkSport'. I flew around the kitchen wondering why Henri didn't have a radio. Who didn't have a radio? "Quick! To the car!"

Emma sighed and went over to an oversized rectangular clock. That, apparently, was a digital radio and had all the channels.

They'd already started talking about the story, and half the callers were blowhards banging on about how everyone wanted their own rules and why should the refs have to treat everyone differently and they had their own sports didn't they?

It was bad for my blood pressure, so I turned it off. Emma tried to reassure me that the producers were actively selecting idiot callers to generate engagement. She was probably right, but I stewed for a while anyway.

But more texts came. The overall reaction was hugely positive. Ziggy asked if I would consider adopting him. Youngster said it was the first time the Mail had ever been allowed in his church. Kisi left a three-minute long, weepy voicemail where I only understood one word in ten.

MD and Ruth had a much more gammony, reactionary circle of friends than me, and they reported back that people were stewing at the ref. Spectrum told me that 'Don't Mess with Chesters' was trending in Cheshire and there'd been an upsurge in people watching my tekkers video.

The funniest thing was that Raffi and Henri swapped personalities for the day. Raffi was normally the one sending brief, emoji-heavy texts, while Henri would sometimes drop me a few paragraphs of his thoughts on a variety of topics, including, memorably, an outline for a book he wanted to write about stealing the secret of silk production from the Chinese.

After he read the article, though, I got this from him. Two words, five emojis:

Henri: Yesterday: heart heart. Today, heart heart heart.

That was followed by one from Raffi. An enormous message that must have taken him twenty minutes to type out. It was very warm, very personal. The most common word was 'fatherhood'. It was all about his relationship to his daughter and how she'd changed him. How she'd saved him, how she was the light in his darkness. He said he already knew I'd be a good father, but seeing that pic had reduced him to bits. He wanted to be as strong, as gentle, as selfless as the man in the photo.

It made me uncomfortable. Made me feel like a fraud. I wasn't a father figure. For a start, there was no way I would have kids until I knew there was nothing wrong with my brain that I might pass down. And when it came to football, I thought of myself as a peer. First among equals, maybe, but still just one of the team. Kids? I was just a kid myself. I could run a football club. That was easy. Being a father? Terrifying.

***

Yeah, so. I knew joining forces with Beth would have consequences, but I'd been thinking along the lines of angry referees. Punitive football administrators. Something tangible I could rage against. I hadn't expected it all to get so personal. So emotional.

I really needed a football match. An excuse to stop thinking about my inner life, please.

For once, the universe delivered.

Big time.

***

Monday, 20th March

I woke up pretty late again, and found I had five messages and two missed calls from MD. The first one said:

MD: Come to Chester asap. Call me on the way. Urgent. (No-one has died.)

The latest one said:

MD: Very much hope you're not replying b.c. you're on your way. I've got a conf call I can't postpone. Watch training. I'll be there at half ten, maybe earlier, explain everything. (No-one has died.)

***

So obviously my mind was racing all the way from Darlo to the training ground. What could be so distressing? Something with Dani. The first proper consequences coming in. I felt sick.

When I got there, my hair was a sweaty, clammy mess. I'd lost weight and my eyelids were yellow. In past times they'd have covered me in leeches or drilled a hole in my skull. When MD jogged out of the credit card building, I couldn't get up. I couldn't move.

MD sat next to me and stared straight ahead. The first thing he said was, "No-one has died. Don't worry. But..."

***

We had an evening game the following day, so the morning's training was fairly easy-going. Vimsy led the guys through their paces. Got their juices flowing. Did a bit of shape work. Bit of set piece stuff. Finished with some non-contact duels. The guys enjoyed it. Training's twice as fun after a win.

He blew his whistle to end the sesh, then I blew mine, with MD's words still ringing in my ears. I waved that everyone should come in, and a circle formed around me. Everyone from the first team squad was there, except Angles, the goalkeeping coach, who was out with flu.

"All right, lads, shut the fuck up." I waited until they settled down, which didn't take long. They sensed something was off. I heard a car start. Probably MD rushing off to his next meeting. "You know Jackie's knee's been giving him gyp."

"Chip?" said Pascal.

"Gyp," said Henri. "Derived from the idiomatic phrase 'to gee up' meaning to strike a horse to make it go faster. The pain in his knee is akin to being whipped to go faster. One cannot relax."

I shook my head. There were times the foreign guys knew English more better than what I did. "His knee's ouchy, Pascal." I checked the time. "Yeah, pretty much now-ish, he's getting that bad boy opened up. The specialist is going to take his knee apart like a Swiss watch, lay out all the pieces, give them a bit of spit and polish, stick them all back in."

"Max," said Tony. "When did you get your medical licence?" Lots of laughs.

"You know me, mate. Max Best, double oh-seven-seven, licence to drill... holes in knees. Anyway, that's why he's not here right now. Getting himself sorted out. He didn't want to make a big deal of it before the Blyth game. Didn't want to distract us all."

Also, Jackie was waiting to see the result. If we'd lost, he would have quit. That's what MD thought, anyway.

I pushed my own knee forward and looked down at it. "He's going to be all right. He'll be in and out. They're just seeing what's up. If there's something wrong, they'll fix it, but, you know, there's probably just a little pair of scissors in there from the first op. No big deal. And no point speculating. All we know for sure is that, tomorrow night, he's not getting on a bus for three hours down to Kettering."

That caused a stir. At first, everyone was thinking of Jackie. Worrying for him. Now their thoughts got more selfish. Sam was the first to realise what the news meant. He tilted his head as he appraised me. Next to understand was D-Day. He had the look of a man who'd been caught photocopying his arse on the company machine.

I spelled it out for the dim ones. "MD has asked me to run the touchline tomorrow." Run the touchline was a euphemism for 'be the manager'. I let everyone deal with that in their own time. After about ten seconds, I looked around from left to right. Ben, Carl, Aff, Glenn and a few more of the good ones. Three more I could trust: my clients. And the ten guys I wanted to replace in the summer. "I know some of us have beef. Which is why I'm trying to turn this into a vegan club."

Pause.

"Absolutely nothing. Tough crowd. Okay, free talk, now. Is there anyone who has a problem with me doing the match tomorrow?" No response. I sighed. "Look, you've got to say it now. It can't, fucking, bubble up tomorrow at half-time. Do you know what I mean? Speak now. Voice your doubts. I won't hold it against you. Let's clear the air." Nothing. Bunch of surly kids. Worse than teenagers. Like any teacher I picked someone out. But instead of picking a yes-man who'd tell me what I wanted to hear, I went to the other extreme. To one of the baddies. "Sam."

Hint of a smile in his eyes. He was about to make a joke. "Am I in your team?"

"I haven't decided on a formation or a lineup," I said. There was no point pretending he wasn't the best midfielder at the club, though. "But yes."

"That's all right, then." Some chuckles. Footballers could get very egocentric. Very protective of their status.

"It's not all right, Sam. I need to know if you're happy with me being the guy."

"Happy? Not happy. But I'd say you know what you're doing." He looked to his left. "Took the piss out of Ian Evans, all right. Didn't you?"

He was talking about my trial. "I prefer to think that I... suggested some alternate ways of approaching the task."

Sam's attitude was helpful. He trusted me enough to take charge of one match. And from a contract point of view, being put in the team by the Director of Football was even better than being picked by the manager. Unless I tried to play with ten strikers or some mad shit, he'd give me a chance. I looked at a spot of grass for a bit, trying to make sure I covered all the essential points.

"Vimsy's going to do training again in the morning. Usual stuff. Just a glorified warm-up, isn't it? I'd ask you to be very slightly more switched on than normal. No need to go nuts. But maybe he forgets a step and instead of nudging each other, grinning, you remind him. Do you know what I mean? No manager leaves a big hole. We all need to chip in. I'm going to ask Jill from the women's team to come with us. If she can't, Spectrum. They're quality. They're also the kinds of people you guys might have joked about, you know, in a past life. But obviously if they're giving up their evenings to come and help out, you're going to be extremely welcoming to them. Charming, even. Any questions about that?"

There weren't. I'd made my point.

Henri spoke. "What will be your tactical plan?"

"I've just heard the news, myself. I need to think about it. I know I won't need a defensive midfielder, so Youngster, you've got the night off. Catch up with your homework."

"I have done all of my school work, Mr. Best."

"Of course you have," I said, and there were some laughs. "Rest up, though. Jackie might need you again on Saturday. Good?"

He looked pretty disappointed, but I only had one formation that used a DM and I definitely wouldn't use it with this squad. "Yes, Mr. Best."

"Pascal, are you fit?"

His eyes lit up. "Yes, Max! I mean, Mr. Best."

"I can imagine wanting a lot of attacking options on the bench. Don't go exploring any abandoned houses tonight."

Ben, maybe hoping I'd put him in the first team ahead of our normal goalie if he got himself noticed, had a cheeky look on his face. "Are you going to get the Kettering manager sent off an' all?" Many laughs.

I looked around the circle. "Maybe we should get this straight. I'm not excited about tomorrow. You know I like a bit of drama. Any excuse to tell a story. But I've played Kettering this season. We were down to 9 and our manager got sent off. Blew his lid."

I looked at Vimsy. I wasn't sure if he was still upset with me from sidelining him on Saturday. Probably. He was a grown man, though. I could rely on him, at least until kick-off.

"We still scored four goals in the second half. I want to be respectful... ish. Kettering are good pros. They try. If we're stupid, they'll punish us. If we don't graft, they'll beat us." I thrust my bottom lip out. "But the gulf in quality, lads. They don't have a single player who'd get in this team. Not one. As long as you match them for sprints and energy, I'm going to be bored off my tits while you pepper their net with shots. There's no story. Nothing for me to do. It's going to be a clinical performance. Surgical. 25 shots, 70% possession." I sighed. "Routine win."

There was a confused silence. Finally, Henri threw his arms around Glenn Ryder and Raffi. "Poor Max. So young, so talented, and his first management job is with us! No wonder he is unhappy."

I smiled back at him. "Here's what's going to happen. We're going to pop down to Kettering tomorrow night, take care of bizniz. Wednesday morning I'm going to go and see Jackie in the hospital or wherever he is. I'm going to bring him a bunch of grapes, some clean undies, and three freshly minted points, all nice and wrapped up, signed by you lot. Yeah? Everyone happy with that?"

"Yes, Max."

I shook my head. "Business as usual, then. One last thing. I'd strongly prefer if this news didn't get out, and I bet Jackie would as well. Don't tell your wives, your girlfriends, your kids. You know I was in the papers over the weekend. News gets out I'm doing this, it's going to be a circus, and Jackie will get sucked in when he should be resting. No circus, please. In and out. The match reports are all about you. Your goals, your assists. Yeah? We go, we win, everyone in the stadium assumes Jackie's on the bench where they can't see him." Tiny smile. Tiny frown. "Hey! That’s an idea. Why don't we do that? Aff. Have you still got your crutches?"

"Yes, Max."

Leaning some crutches against the dugout to make it seem like Jackie was in there? Pretty simple. But I hadn’t got to where I was by doing simple things.

"Max," warned Henri. "Don't say what you're about to say."

I couldn't help it. Huge grin. "Has anyone got a bald mate, about Jackie's height?"

***

So... I was going to manage a professional football match.

What?

Seriously, though. What?

A massive game, too. Chester needed to win. Really, really needed to win.

Technically, it was a relegation six-pointer. If they beat us, Kettering would have hopes of a late burst of points that would see them survive.

And it was away. Statistics said that home teams won 50% of all matches, while away teams won only a quarter.

Okay, then!

I had a day and a half to prepare.

I'd spoken to the players. Vimsy would take care of the basic admin stuff, like getting the players on the team bus and setting off at the right time. Jill or Spectrum would join him and help out. The kit man would bring the kits. Physio Dean would bring his stock of medical supplies, magic sponges, and magic sprays. MD would travel down, too, like he usually did, but I'd asked him not to spread the news. I had the sense that we could sneak down south, grab a nice, quiet win, and go home. We didn't need drama. We didn't need energy.

MD didn't need much persuading. We'd do it on the quiet. Less embarrassing for him if I lost seven-nil again.

I should have had millions of extra tasks. But I didn't. My only real responsibilities were getting to Kettering on time, filling in the team sheet, and giving a pre-match team talk.

So... I had the evening free. I could go watch a match. Maybe even get enough XP to hit the 2,000 I needed to unlock 4-1-4-1. James would forgive me for changing my mind about his night off!

But I was astonished to see that there were no fixtures. No fixtures from any league! Not even Scotland. It made me crazy. I checked every website on earth. But no, it seemed to be the case that the closest professional football match was in Norway!

I didn't fight it. I'd go home, watch some videos of Kettering, and think about my options.

***

I went into Henri's office and raided his vast stationery collection. I wanted post-it notes, pens, and inspiration.

Kettering normally played 4-4-2, but the manager had proved unusually flexible. I needed to plan for his default option while considering what I'd do if I were him.

I knew five formations. I had the bog-standard 4-4-2 and its simplest variant, 4-4-2 diamond. The latter needed a central attacking midfielder. I could play that role, at this level anyway. Pascal would be able to do it one day. But there was no way I was going to use it in Kettering. The default 4-4-2 was strangely compelling. The two teams would match up man-for-man, but I'd have better players in every position. Er... end of discussion, surely?

4-3-3 was a more daring option. I had three good central midfielders, and this formation would suit them. It didn't use wide midfielders, which was fine because my wide midfielders were dicks or had just come back from injury. I only had three proper strikers in my squad, and one hadn't played for a while. The idea of having three strikers on the pitch for, say, twenty minutes, made me feel all special inside. I knew that as we got more attacking, it would scare Kettering into becoming more defensive.

Huh... I could start with 4-4-2, let that play out, then sub off the right-mid and put on a third striker. Kettering would throw on another defender. Then I'd make two more subs and go to 3-5-2.

I slapped myself in the face. I didn't have 3-5-2! The formation the team had been using the most and I didn't have it. Jesus, Max!

I spent a couple of minutes beating myself up about the fact, but I knew it was unfair. How could I know I'd be thrust into the spotlight like this?

Why had I been thinking I had 3-5-2? Because I did, sort of. Every time I'd used that formation, Spectrum had set it up for me. That wasn't an option for the Kettering match.

I had two more formations.

For a more defensive, obdurate choice I had the 4-5-1 I'd been using with the women's team. That would be the closest to the system that Jackie had been using. It could work with the men’s team, but I had a lot more faith in Dani than D-Day. He was a very flighty guy. If he played well, we'd win. If he didn't, where were the chances going to come from?

Finally, I had 4-2-4. Very, very attacking. An option, perhaps, for the last ten minutes. Aff as the left-winger. Pascal on the right?

I took a break and went for a walk. I was overthinking this. Kettering were shit. 4-4-2, keep it tight first ten.

I smiled and went to a caff for some builder's tea and something covered in cheese.

Newly refreshed, I had a breakthrough. Normally, the formation was the starting point for the rest of the decisions.

But I'd be using Triple Captain and Bench Boost. And that meant the players I brought on would overperform.

Now, professional players didn't like being subbed off in the first half. It was minus a hundred relationship points to do that to a guy who wasn't injured. I'd do it if it would be the difference between life and death, but I had to plan for Bench Boost to kick in from the second half.

Okay, so which three players did I want to bring on with a performance boost?

Obviously my gold guys: Glenn, Sam Topps, and Henri.

And that was not going to happen. Glenn needed to play the whole match. Sam too. Henri... Henri was an option. He'd fucking hate it, but if he came on with the boost and scored a goal or two, that could be decisive in getting the three points. It made a lot of sense to use Bench Boost with attacking players.

I pencilled Henri in alongside Aff. Aff would only play 20 to 25 minutes, but he was so good. He'd wrecked Blyth in the last match. The third guy... assuming there were no injuries. If everything went according to plan... Pascal?

I felt like I was getting somewhere. At the end of the match, I'd be relying on Aff, Pascal, and Henri. Which suggested the last twenty minutes, at least, would be 4-2-4. All-out-attack. Flying wingers.

I took a clean sheet of paper and wrote out two main options for how we’d start and finish the match.

Option 1 - Surprise, Motherfunner!

I could start the match with 4-4-2 and at half-time push the wide midfielders forward, making a 4-2-4. This would have the benefit of initially making me seem like a normal, cautious manager. The Kettering guy would not expect the second-half surge, and even with Pascal coming on, we’d start the match with CA 40 and end it with CA 42.

Option 2 - In and Out

The second choice was to start with 4-4-2, switching to a very central 4-3-3 and ending with 4-2-4 where we'd attack down the sides. That could even be done without even using any subs if I picked D-Day to start as the third striker (he'd slip onto the wing after the change), and picked the lesser-spotted Chad Flintoff as the third starting midfielder (he could later move out wide). Flintoff was only CA 32, but he'd be fine for a half. Against Kettering.

This idea had the advantage of being quite flashy. Big, noticeable changes in style that would get the Kettering manager thinking.

The price for easy formation changes was a slightly reduced average CA. We’d start with 39.7, but that would rise to 42 by the end.

I scrunched up some notes and paced around; something was off. This was all useful analysis. Thinking through all these options was necessary. Useful. Professional. But I felt I was missing the point. I'd gone from the tactical to the strategic. That was right, surely?

I took a cup of tea out to the crabapple tree and told him my plans. My voice was pretty flat. I was still being very mathematical. Why did that feel wrong?

It wasn't a struggle to work out why. I had to make an even more basic decision than the formation or which players to Bench Boost. There was a more fundamental question:

Did I want to manage like Jackie? Imitate his style, since that's what the players were used to?

Or should I go full Max?

I'd had success doing things my way. But it was one thing with teenage boys and a brand-new women's team.

This was the men's team and if I messed it up and we lost, most of the players and plenty of backroom staff would lose their jobs.

This was serious.

***

Tuesday, 21st March

Match 41 of 46: Kettering Town versus Chester

I drove to Kettering early - three hours early, just in case - and when our team bus arrived I was there and waved at the driver to let me on.

"Guys, stay there a minute," I said, and a busload of confused players settled back into their seats. I looked around. "Pascal, need you over here." I handed him some cash. "No-one knows what you look like. I need you to buy something for me then go wait by the main entrance. Jill, will you go with him? Take that Chester coat off for a minute."

"Max," she said. "What are you up to?"

"Nothing," I said, rubbing my hands together like I often did when I had absolutely zero schemes up my sleeve.

A few minutes later, Pascal was at the door to the stadium with a plastic bag. "All right, lads," I called out, circling my finger to show they could start rolling. "Remember what we said. In and out."

***

I filled out the team sheet, handed it in, and went for a potter. Kettering's stadium, Latimer Park, was very small. A couple of covered stands, lots of low hut things. Nothing matched, nothing made sense. One section had bright red seats, but over there was another new-ish stand that was bright blue. To the side there was a big hill, which reminded me of my childhood playing footy anywhere and everywhere.

The absolute best part of the stadium was a cute little pie shop that was by the pitch. It was on the wrong side to the dugouts, otherwise I would have added pie eating to my mind games repertoire.

With an hour to go before kick-off, it was time to tell the team my plans. I went to the dressing room and all chat ceased. Vimsy turned the pre-match hype music off and there was silence.

"All right shut the fuck up," I said. I went to our tactics board and moved the red magnets into a familiar shape. "Kettering play 4-4-2. Today's no exception. They're not an impressive team, but they're decent at home." Watching them in the warm-up made me recalibrate my expectations. When I'd played against them, their average CA was about 30. Today it was 35. Some of the improvement was from training, but they had three guys in the starting line-up who hadn't been around last time. January signings or guys who'd been injured last time. Whatever. "They've got one of those long-throw guys." Some players were able to throw the ball into the penalty box from anywhere in the top third of the pitch. It often caused havoc. "Jackie, how am I doing so far?"

Everyone looked at our new manager. He stared blankly at me. Gerald May slapped him on the arm. "That's you, you dozy twat!"

'Jackie' blinked. "Oh, right, yeah."

Much laughter.

I shook my head and got back to business. "Yeah, so. I want a solid start, build a base, and we'll start increasing the pressure through the half. Second half we turn on the afterburners. The strategy is, last twenty minutes, we're attacking non-stop. Good?"

"Yeah, lads, keep it tight first half," said our Jackie impersonator, punching his palm. The squad laughed again. I later learned that at least three players had a mate who could pass as Jackie from a distance, and there had been bitter disputes as to who should get the gig. We told the referee he was a trainee physio because one of our medical staff was in hospital, but to everyone else we pretended he was actually Jackie.

"Lineups," I said, moving the blue magnets into position. "We'll start with 4-4-2 and match them up. Almost the first thing Jackie ever told me was that for pros, the most important thing is winning duels. So the formation is to make sure you don't get complacent. Make sure you start serious. If you're not up for this, some joker's gonna steal your pocket money in minute one. You need to come out of the traps running. Start winning duels, start pushing them back. The starting eleven will be able to switch to 4-3-3 if I want to get funky."

The players looked around at each other as they tried to calculate who would work in a narrow formation.

I put them out of their misery. "Robbo in goal, back four is Magnus, Glenn, May, Carl." Trick's face fell. It was a toss-up between him and Magnus for the left-back slot. They had almost identical CA, but I think the single data point that tipped the decision in Magnus's favour was that Trick was a grotesque, sub-human wanker. "Midfield: Wisey, Sam, Chad. D-Day on the left when we're four, pushing on when we're three. You all get that, right?" I moved two of the magnets in and out to show how easy it would be to transition between the formations with those players.

Everyone got it, though Raffi was disappointed not to start. "And up front, last two lads, Tony and Len."

That changed the mood. For the first time there was doubt in the room, and I wondered if I'd got a bit too smart.

Lots of eyes turned to Henri. The guys either side of him stopped breathing.

Vimsy came a bit closer, mumbled, "Max, can we talk?"

"I've handed the team sheet in." I slapped the tactics board. "In and out, no drama. Subs: Ben. Trick. Aff. Henri. Pascal. Right. Get on with it." Henri didn't move. He seemed a bit stunned. At least he was on the bench, though. I was leaving Raffi out completely. He was staring at his boots; he wouldn't need them today except to jog around before and after the match. I went to him and tapped his shoulder. "Mate," I said.

He followed me out to the corridor. We found a quiet spot.

"It's only five subs," I said. "I need Trick in case there's an injury. It's the only position I can't work around."

"I'm aight, Max. You got to make decisions. That's football. I'm aight."

"Yeah," I said, with a sigh. "It's not fun, leaving you out." We stood there for ten, fifteen seconds. "Listen. I wanted to thank you in person for the message you sent. I didn't know what to say. Thought it'd come to me when I saw you. But... still blank. I just... Just thanks. How... how are you all doing?"

"It's been hard, moving. And the stress. You know. Like, do we have to move back? Is it already over? Relegation and that."

I smiled at him. "Let me worry about that."

"You don't look worried."

"Yeah," I said. "That's exactly my point."

***

1′

The dugouts were on the base of the hill. Some fans were gathered around the sides, but they were real hard-core nutjobs. Most sought solace from the bouts of drizzle under the various mish-mashed shelters on the other side. It wouldn’t be a match where the crowd played a big part.

Jackie led us across the pitch, then flopped down into the dugout. Vimsy rolled his eyes at me - he wasn't a fan of the joke. It was working, though - the fifty away fans who'd come down from Chester were serenading him. News of Jackie's operation slash my big debut hadn't leaked.

The subs settled down into their slots. Henri's face was completely blank. I guessed he was going to pretend I didn't exist, for, maybe, three weeks. That would be my punishment. Pascal was excited - the fact I'd put him on the team sheet instead of Raffi was a massive hint that I intended to actually, really use him. His professional debut! Raffi was next to him, being all paternal and that. I fucking loved Raffi.

"Vimsy," I said.

"Sup?"

"Jackie's all right, is he? I couldn't get much of a straight answer out of anyone."

"Me neither," he said. "I heard the op went well. No drama. Surgeon was in and out."

I scratched my head. "Something's up, though. Don't you think?"

"I'm not paid to think," he said. "It's like you said: it's private. That's one thing I agreed with - keep it all between us. I thought one of the lads would blab, but seems like they didn't. Far as the world's concerned, this idiot is actually Jackie. And if Jackie doesn't want to go into the grizzly details of what they found when they cut him open, I'm fine with that."

"Yeah," I said, glancing at the Kettering dugout. "So... you're going to stay calm, right?"

The referee blew his whistle. And just like that, I was a professional football manager!

Almost immediately, the Kettering coaches and subs were racing forward, demanding a free kick. It was going to be one of those nights... Vimsy closed his mouth tight and I watched his chest contract. "I'll try," he said.

"No, you'll do it. Or you'll wait on the bus."

"Right." He sighed. Tried to steel himself. “Right.”

I waved Jill over. "You two stand down there and watch the match. Go as far away from the home dugout as you can. Tell me anything that you think's going wrong. Anything that could be better. Leave these pricks to me. Is that all clear?"

"Yes, Max."

One last quick look at the bench - Henri was somehow watching the match without ever pointing his eyes in my direction - and then it was down to the serious, serious business of looking serious.

2′

Glenn Ryder, our captain, our Triple Captain, yelled, jumped for a header and won it. It might have been my imagination, but I thought I saw a look of absolute astonishment ripple across Magnus Evergreen's face.

3′

Kettering moved the ball down the right. Magnus tracked his opponent, who was a fast guy with no end product. Magnus waited, waited, then threw himself at the ball. Good tackle! It started to roll out for a throw-in, and I groaned. Kettering had that long-throw expert.

But Magnus clambered to his feet, sprinted after it, and kept it in play. He passed it safely to Sam Topps, and a burst of applause came from all round the pitch.

My heart started pounding. It's happening.

5′

D-Day collected a pass on the left. He pushed the ball to the side and strolled towards the right-back. He dropped his shoulder - the defender moved - and D-Day smugly turned back around and kept the ball moving through our midfield.

It was a whole load of nothing, but I'd been watching D-Day closely ever since his pathetic missed penalty. The one that had made me lose my rag with him. He had a bit of the Henri about him. He wanted to be a showman. The centre of attention. I'd given him a key role in the team because he was tactically flexible, but here was a nice side-effect. He was up for it. He was in the mood.

8′

Chad Flintoff on the right was a limited player. CA 32 and no particular strengths. But being put back in the team had lit a fire under his arse. He'd been given one game to show Jackie what he could do. One game to prove the gaffer wrong, prove that he should start every week. He very quickly got up to 7 out of 10 in the ratings and stayed there for a while.

Now, he collected a ball and fired it long towards Len. Len was another out-of-favour player delighted to be back in the starting eleven. He was CA 36, and like Chad, the wrong side of thirty years old. He had a chance to show teams what he could do. A chance to get himself a contract for next season, ideally somewhere he'd get more minutes than at Chester.

He was good in the air, and won the header. His flick-on went to Tony, who took a first-time shot that went straight into the goalie's torso.

14′

We were competing. My main worry with this match had been that the players would think all they needed to do was turn up. It's what had happened with Darlington when we saw we were playing a team at the bottom of the league. This Chester team, though, were fighting for their lives. Playing for their futures. And were inspired by Glenn Ryder.

Sam Topps won a crunching tackle. The ball spun to James Wise. He fizzed it left to D-Day. He feinted right, burst left, and whipped in a cross that Len headed over.

18′

We'd started to dominate. Possession was going up. Shots For was going up. Shots Against stayed on zero.

Most players were on 7s and 8s. I asked Vimsy and Jill to keep an eye on two guys with 6. They fell into a discussion and would sometimes yell things.

The Kettering manager was growing frustrated. His on-pitch tactics weren't working so he tried to provoke us. Tried to goad us. I put on my best poker face, and while I walked over to the guy, I switched to 4-3-3.

"Sorry, what?" I said.

He came close enough to start jabbing his finger at me. "Yous lot are fucking cheats. Yous a bunch of pricks. That was an elbow, that! Fucking red card. You're lucky the referee didn't see it."

"An elbow?" I said, looking down at the grass between us while reading the match commentary. The switch in formation was working well. "That's very serious," I mused. "Would you like to enter into arbitration?"

"You what?"

"Pascal, come here a second." The tiny German jogged across, a study in polite interest. "Mate," I said. "What's the name of that thing that handles disputes in sport? Man City are always trying to scam their way out of trouble with them."

"Oh, CAS."

"CAS? What's that stand for?"

"It's the Court of Arbitration for Sport."

"This guy here," I said, pointing to the manager, who was now flanked by a couple of enormous helpers, "if he wants to, like, start the process, what does he do?"

"I should imagine there is a form to be filled in," said Pascal.

I nodded and looked at the manager. "Have you got a printer?"

One of the beefy dudes took an aggressive step towards me. From the corner of my eye, I saw Raffi stand up. He'd let the guy punch me, but he'd go mental if anyone did anything to Pascal. I thought I saw Henri lean forward, too. Not quite as detached as he wanted to be. That made me grin, which of course made the guy even angrier.

"You're fucking dead, mate!"

His colleagues gripped him and pulled him away. "Pascal, get the bag."

He ran off and came back. I took out the thing I'd asked him to buy, gave Pascal the empty bag, and shooed him away. Things were about to get very, very messy.

While Sam Topps put his foot on the ball, looking for a forward pass, I draped a red and white scarf around me.

I'm 98% sure Vimsy was the first to realise what I was doing, because there was a loud "Oh, fuck me," from my left.

Just as D-Day dropped into the CAM slot to collect Sam's pass on the half-turn, just as he got booted up the arse and the ref blew his whistle, I heard the angriest Kettering guy yell, "Oh, no fucking way!" And seconds later I was surrounded by guys who were grappling me, pulling at me, scratching, clawing like wild beasts.

The ref blew and blew and sprinted across.

"What the fuck?" he said.

I knelt, checking myself for wounds. "They attacked me."

He turned to the home team’s experienced backroom staff. "Why?"

"He was wearing a Kettering scarf!" yelled the guy who'd started it. He was holding the scarf now. Caught red-and-white-handed.

"It's not a Kettering scarf," I said. "I'm a Man United fan. It's a United scarf."

"It says fucking Kettering on it!" screamed the main hoodlum, causing my entire subs bench to burst out laughing. It got a few chuckles from Vimsy. And even Henri was not unaffected.

I pulled a sad face. "Ref, that guy was really mean to me." More fits of laughter from my subs. Physio Dean was waiting to come and dab me with iodine or whatever, but even he was in fits.

The ref didn’t like my antics, but he didn't have much choice about what came next. He gave the bully dude a stern look. "I think you'd better go up to the stands." Another sending off! The prick stormed off, stealing my scarf in the process. Next, the ref got close to the manager, but I heard what he said. "Control yourself and control your bench." I was still kneeling as though everything hurt. "Max, how about you don't put on any more Kettering clobber for the rest of the game?"

I jumped to my feet. "Just to check: I'm allowed to wear a Kettering scarf in Kettering after the game?" The ref sighed and jogged back to the pitch, where D-Day was ready to take the free kick. I pottered to the edge of the home team’s technical area and spoke to the manager. "How about you go over to your little hovel and sit down? Lose with dignity. Good lad."

I watched as D-Day struck the shot just wide - so close! Then I fell to my knee again, feeling my jaw, all kinds of wobbly. Dean gave me some treatment, right there, slightly inside the home team’s area.

And there was fuck all they could do about it.

I allowed Dean to take me back to base.

The Kettering lot spent the next five minutes raging. Seething. Kicking things.

While I whistled 'The Great Escape'.

24′

Someone in red finally calmed down enough to realise that we'd switched from our starting formation. They dashed up and down the touchline for a second. I almost laughed as I saw the Kettering manager look at his bench. Was he really thinking of making a substitution so early? That would have been incredible. But he came up with another solution, and tried to match our formation with a real hodgepodge of square pegs in round holes.

The second he was finished, I switched back to 4-4-2.

27′

Kettering turned one of their ugly long-throws into a corner.

"Pascal!" I yelled. He ran to my side. "Outswinging corner. If it gets through everyone, where's the ball going?"

He gestured to an area. "So you start there," I said. "If you get it, zoom." I chopped my hand along the length of the pitch. "If someone else will get there first, zoom," I repeated the motion.

"I understand."

30′

Chester possession: 65%

Shots for: 6

Shots against: 0

Selected match ratings:

Robbo 6 (nothing to do)

Glenn Ryder 8 (utterly dominant)

Sam Topps 8 (loving life)

Chad Flintoff 7 (trending downwards; not match fit)

D-Day 8 (flashes of quality)

Len Kearns 6 (old and not match sharp)

The match had settled down. We were cruising, really, but although we were getting shots, I wasn't totally confident we'd get a goal this half. I switched to 4-3-3 to freshen things up, but this time the Kettering guy was able to change things round a bit quicker. I sensed the guy was counting on half-time, when he’d try to T-Rex power slam me.

I checked his subs again, and grew even more convinced that they had come today expecting us to play 3-5-2. The plan had been to switch to 3-5-2 at half-time. After all, it had worked for a lot of other teams, recently.

Would they still do it? The guy saw me looking and his lips twisted into a snarl. Yeah, they'd do it. He'd persuade himself it was the right thing to do.

33′

Another free-kick for Chester. It'll be taken from the right.

Swung in by Flintoff.

Headed away. It bounces loose.

A Kettering player is first to the ball. He hacks it clear.

Anywhere will do!

The defence pushes up.

"Pascal!" I called, spinning. "Did you see that?"

"Yes, Max."

"Good."

37′

"Vimsy."

"Yes, mate?"

"Let Len know he's got 8 minutes left. Big effort, yeah?"

"Right."

42′

Topps picks up the ball and drives forward.

No-one is coming to pressure him.

Is he going to have a crack? He is, you know!

He cocks his leg, and blasts the ball...

...high, wide, and not very handsome.

45′

The referee blows for half-time.

Kettering will be glad of the break. Chester have been well on top.

In the dressing room, there was a buzz of chat. The first eleven discussed certain opponents. Moves they were making. Glenn wanted Carl to come closer to him. Flintoff wanted Carl closer to him. Sam and Wisey plotted with D-Day.

When the first flush of debriefing was over, the subs got involved, with Trick telling the cavemen how I'd been winding up the Kettering lot. He told the story at least twice, because twice he yelled, "It’s fucking got Kettering on it!" Lots of laughs.

I stood at the front, relaxing against the wall, scrolling through cat photos. I was waiting for the other manager to make his move, and sure enough, five minutes into the fifteen minute break, his tactics screen changed to 3-5-2. I adjusted the red magnets.

I put my phone away, held my arms out, and conducted myself - Beethoven's 5th - as I sang in a deep voice, "Shut the fuck uppppp."

Didn't need to do more. I had everyone's attention. Could have heard a pin drop out of the real Jackie's knee. I went straight into my dreamy, golden-future voice.

"70 percent possession. 8 shots for. None against." I spread my arms. "How does it feel? Feels good, I bet?"

Quite a few nods. It did feel good, but there was still doubt. Uncertainty. Mostly centred around one giant pocket of unused talent. I jabbed a thumb behind me.

"Kettering will play 3-5-2 in the second half. They've got some whole drama planned." I broke character to do a child's voice while sticking my bottom lip out. "To mess with our lickle heads." Right back into dream-voice. I made sure the blue magnets were lined up properly. "We're doing 4-4-2 again. You might be thinking, oh, but Max, what about the dinosaur? How do we stop him? What's the counter to his counter?"

I rolled my head around my neck. There was some legit stress there. Not from the football, but from lack of confidence in my man-management skills. This could go very, very wrong.

"I've got a one-word answer to every question you might have. A one-word rebuttal to anything Tyrannosaurus Wrecked out there wants to fish out of his big bag of stone-age tools. Pascal, put your hand down; no fact-checking when I’m on one."

I scanned the room, this tiny, squashed space that wasn't big enough for every player to sit at once. I looked into every pair of eyes except one.

"One word. You ask: what is the word? What's the word, Max?” I stood to my full height. “The word is: Henri."

There it was. The electricity. I hoped it'd come when I summoned it. It crackled around me, spread from body to body, down through our bones, through the benches, into the floor, into the very air we were breathing.

He couldn't resist. Henri stepped forward. He was wearing a long Chester coat, his shorts and socks unblemished, his hair pristine. But there was no fire in his eyes. "You want me to play?"

I locked onto him. The electricity made me grasp his coat with both hands. I ranted from kissing distance. "No, mate. I don't want you to play. I need you to play. I need you to get in that penalty box and save our season. I need you to save Jackie Reaper's career. I need you to save my career. If we go down, we're fucked. Everyone in this room is fucked. The Chester Knights are fucked. No more Johnny Winger. No more Wilson. I need you. We all need you."

I released him, hyper now, and pushed the left and right midfielder magnets far up the tactics board.

"We're doing 4-4-2 again. As the half goes on, we'll turn it into 4-2-4. Last twenty minutes we'll have Aff and Pascal on the wings. They're too fast for this lot. Too smart. It'll be non-stop pressure. Balls in the box, bedlam, mayhem. Chance after chance. Every minute Kettering get weaker. We get stronger. Pressure, pressure, more pressure.” Back to Henri. “Len's opened the door. Now you smash it down."

"Say you need me one more time."

"I need you one more time."

"Not funny," he said, with peak haughtiness. But he turned and somehow, without him seeming to unzip his coat, it fell from his shoulders. He exhaled, and the shirt sponsor on his chest rose and fell. "Very well. I will save the club. Yes..." He turned back towards me. "You lied to me, Max."

"Oh?"

"You said there was no story to tell."

"No, mate. I said I had no story to tell. You," I twirled my finger around to include the entire dressing room. "You're writing this one."

46′

Henri replaced Len, and Pascal replaced Chad. The fear factor we got when the Kettering defence saw Henri was offset by their amusement at seeing Pascal.

Raffi and Aff joined me on the touchline. Then there was a big gap to Vimsy and Jill.

The guys I'd taken off were on the bench next to Ben and Trick. Trick knew he wasn't coming on, but every now and then he got up and went for a jog and a stretch. Just in case. Decent professional.

49′

As soon as the match restarted I could see that Henri was up for it. Whether he was feeding off the drama of being 'dropped', or my little pep talk, or if it was just the effects of Bench Boost, I couldn't tell you. But he looked light on his feet, fast, powerful. He forewent his usual scraps so that he could concentrate on his movement. He darted around, opening up gaps, making defenders get in each other's way. Once, he made space by standing utterly still.

It was wonderful.

And before long...

Chester combine well in the centre of the pitch.

It's fed out to D-Day. He beats his marker and fires in a low cross.

Henri pounces. Flicks it up...

GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

Into the roof of the net!

The keeper had no chance!

Henri ran over to where our traveling fans were and put his hand to his ear. Then he sprinted across the pitch towards me, gesticulating madly. I didn't see. I was checking my nails. You think one goal’s gonna impress me? Work harder, mate.

Aff and Raffi fell into each other, bouncing around. Vimsy went tonto. The Kettering manager - ah, who cares? It was my show, now.

53′

Kettering got a corner. Pascal jogged back into the penalty box to help his mates.

"What the fuck?" I screamed at him.

He shook his head, as though he'd been sleepwalking - which he kind of had; the intensity of the match was frazzling him - and pushed twenty yards forward into the space we'd talked about. It was over on the far side of the pitch from the corner, about halfway inside our half. If the ball went too long, which it often did, Pascal would get it in loads of space and have a counter-attack against two slow players.

The corner was fired in - not a bad delivery, to be fair - but Gerald May got his head in the way and flicked it out of danger.

Towards Pascal!

He took a half-step towards the ball, hesitated - had he frozen? - then sprinted away, leaving the ball where it was. I very nearly spontaneously combust with frustration, but then the patterns and movements clicked for me. Sam Topps chased the ball out, lined up Pascal’s run, and played a long pass over the halfway line.

The defender seemed favourite to get there, but Pascal was lightning - he touched the ball first, the defender realised he was in big trouble, and had a split-second decision to make. He could let Pascal go, and the kid would have a one-on-one chance with the goalie. High chance of going two-nil down. Or he could take him out. Foul him, get a red card, but only be one-nil down.

He chose violence.

He rugby tackled Pascal, and for once I wasn't mad when my players and staff lost their minds. It was a really ugly piece of play and Pascal could have been hurt.

The ref tried to defuse the situation by whipping out a card nice and early so we could all see the guy was being punished. But that made it worse.

"Yellow?" screamed Raffi.

"That's a red card, mate!" screamed Vimsy.

"You're not fit to referee!" screamed Jackie. 'Jackie' got himself a red card. The guy hobbled all the way across the pitch, taking breaks, struggling with his crutches. It was such an annoying performance that a Kettering player ran over to remonstrate with him. Shouted something along the lines of 'Would you mind awfully hurrying up off the pitch, old chap?' To which Jackie thrust his crutches out to the side, waving them in the physical manifestation of the phrase 'come and have a go if you think you're hard enough'. When challenged, he then picked the crutches up and sprinted off the pitch.

Which increased the tension in the Kettering technical area quite a lot.

Anyway, apart from a scene we'd probably spend the entire summer laughing about, one good thing came out of the incident. Kettering were no longer underestimating Pascal. His speed was absolutely terrifying.

57′

For the hundredth time in the match, Sam won his duel. Wisey passed the ball to Pascal, who one-touched it back and raced down the line dragging a defender with him. Wisey turned inside, back to Sam. Out to D-Day. Back to Magnus. Across the defensive line, all the way to Carl. He passed to Pascal and now Carl was the one bursting forward. Pascal threatened to chip the ball down the line, causing three Kettering players to dart towards the danger zone.

Pascal instead played a medium-length ball to Sam, who touched it to D-Day, who was in loads of space thanks to Carl's selfless run.

D-Day touched the ball forward so he could really get some power behind it. He slashed it with extreme prejudice into the area between the defenders and the goalkeeper. Henri darted forward, hurled himself at the ball, and deflected it up into the - no! The goalie somehow threw out a hand and pushed the ball away. A defender was first to the scene and he tried to clear it, but Pascal had anticipated where the ball would go. He played it square to Wisey, who chipped the ball back into the mixer. Tony won his header, Henri volleyed. What a great - no! The goalie threw himself to the far corner and somehow got a part of his body behind the shot.

The ball deflected back into the melee of players, and there were hacks, lunges, hopeful swings, brave blocks, and finally Henri was there again. Where most players would have hit the ball as hard as possible and hoped for the best, he had the coolness, the imagination, the arrogance, to do a little chip. A little bunker shot. The ball moved in slow motion above the head of a defender who was on the ground - probably shouting 'nooo' at 0.25 speed like in a movie - over the waist-high foot of a defender who'd thrown himself towards where he thought Henri's shot would go - over the shoulder of yet another Kettering guy, who tried, preposterously but admirably, to block the shot with his nose.

But then finally, gloriously, the ball was past everyone. Sailing towards the welcoming embrace of the net.

GOOOAAAA - wait, what? No! No! The goalie's hand - just his hand! What? - appeared out of nowhere - the ball thunked into his glove - I saw it wobble and shake, there was no strength to the save - and the ball deflected, diverted, just enough to...

To...

To land on top of the crossbar, from where it rolled onto the top of the net.

Corner kick.

D-Day fired it in. A defender cleared it, but as we’d talked about, Pascal was in the right spot to collect, and he sent it back towards the penalty spot. Henri rose, headed, just wide.

Pressure. Pressure. More pressure.

60′

But the more we attacked without scoring, the more something strange happened:

It began to get to me.

For the first time, the enormity of it all. A win would be such a huge moment in our season. It would propel us towards safety. Maybe even out of the relegation zone completely!

But what if Kettering somehow got lucky and equalised?

A little bit of sweat broke out on my spine.

I checked the match ratings. Henri was on 9.

But Kettering's goalie was on 10.

A gust of wind went past. Didn't touch me at all. But I shivered.

63′

Chester possession: 71%

Shots for: 17

Shots against: 0

Sam laid the ball off for Wisey. He took a crack - it flew towards the bottom-left.

Annnd the goalie saved it.

Holy shit.

There's a thing that happens in sport, sometimes. It mostly happens when you watch on TV. The commentator tells you a story about how one team are doing a lot of fouls, or are wasting time, or whatever, and you notice it and it gets to you. You watch from the point of view of fouls, or timewasting. But on the pitch the players are doing their jobs, unaware of the statistically insignificant change in the number of fouls from a usual match. They're often surprised when asked about a certain aspect of the match that everyone else got worked up about.

But here the story was plain for everyone to see, in the stands and on the pitch.

The goalie was having a worldie.

Ten out of ten. Saving almost everything. Playing out of his skin.

I started to pace the touchline. The guy was CA 35. He was bang average. Why was he doing this to me?

The ball was played to the left-back, who thumped it up the pitch. Gerald May missed his header, and the ball bounced up. Glenn Ryder was bursting a gut to cover, so the Kettering striker lashed the ball vaguely at the net. It went miles over the bar, but it was a warning: if we didn't score a second, Kettering would make us pay.

Chester possession: 71%

Shots for: 18

Shots against: 1

68′

D-Day came off. I gave him a big high five and he slumped onto the bench. He'd worked his socks off. Aff sprinted on.

I switched to 4-2-4.

We had three players who were bench boosted. Three of our four attackers. If we could keep the pressure on, surely we'd get the second goal that would, conceivably, save our season.

The minutes flew past. Time mashed into itself. I saw fragments of moves from future minutes while replaying past ones.

68. Aff gets to the byline, sends a cross to the back post. Henri's there! He leaps!
69. Pascal scampers to the ball, gets there first, he feints to shoot, but goes for a neat one-two with Tony.
70. The ball hits the side-netting! He should have scored!
71. Ryder wins a towering header and Chester are back in possession.
70. Magnus intercepts and fires a long diagonal for Pascal to chase.
69. He shoots! Oh, what a fantastic block!
68. His header is just too high.

Seventy-something.

I'm tearing my hair out. I can't believe this. Once per minute, something happens to make me fall to my knees in despair.

Seventy-something-plus one.

There's no-one on the bench anymore. This is all-hands-on-deck. We’re all holding each other. I'm in the middle of the line, but it’s not a can-can. It’s a can’t-can’t.

Seventy-more.

From the edge of the penalty area, Tony shoots - it seems to be spinning into the bottom-right hand corner, but it doesn't! It goes wide.

Our wall collapses.

80′

The narrative has sucked me in. I’ve gone full Jackie. We all have.

I snap out of it.

Time to lead. Time to be professional. One by one, I take the players and staff back to the dugout, and I make them sit. They whine. They complain. I am hard, but firm.

The hardest is Jill. She doesn't want to calm down. "Vimsy, help me out, here," I say.

He grabs her wrist and eases her away. They’re all safely tucked in, now. Nighty, night, children! I swish my finger across the line and command, “Stay!”

There's a shared emotional release, a knowing chuckle, that spreads across the bench. They know they've been tricked. Tricked into thinking there might be some drama here. I've calmed them. They’ll sleep soon. I stand on the touchline, hands behind my back, utterly serene.

The Kettering manager is screaming. It washes over me. We're cruising. Routine victory. Look at my face. Look how calm I am.

Injury Time.

The strain of pretending to be calm... has wiped me out. I'm a husk. But the smell of pies wafts across the pitch and I realise that I have nothing to worry about. I find serenity in the smell of beef and gravy.

We've spent the entire half peppering shots at goal, and we've got that precious goal. We are winning. We are dominating. The clock hits 90. Any second now. Three points and a pie. No drama.

As soon as I relax, the match turns on a sixpence. Suddenly, Kettering are all over us. They attack, they attack, they attack. Vimsy is next to me. Pleading. Begging me to go defensive. No. We're better. We’re attacking. 4-2-4 until the end.

We are Chester.

Kettering's right midfielder fizzes a cross across the face of goal. A touch from anyone would spell disaster! I stop breathing. But it rolls safely, all the way across to Carl Carlile. He pauses - we've got four players in attack, but there are only two defenders. How did that happen? He passes to Pascal, who lays it off to Henri. The German puts his head down and sprints with all his might. Henri passes left-footed for Pascal to run onto. His speed is awesome. He bursts clear. Aff is haring away - I worry for his hamstring - and Pascal waits, waits, takes out the last defender with a perfectly-timed, perfectly-weighted pass, and I'm dancing. I'm hopping up and down like the happiest ever bunny. This is it!

Aff lets the ball come across his body, onto his sweet left foot, and he strikes it true and hard. I'm jumping all the way to my knees, like a jockey.

And then I fall to the grass, head in hands. He's only gone and saved it again! I can't believe my eyes. I just can't. For the first time, I'm aware of the noise from the fans. It's pandemonium. The supernatural goalie gets up, dives onto the ball just as Aff is sliding in. The goalie picks himself up, breathes, boots the ball high downfield. Someone wins a header, someone loses a header, the ball's on the right, the fast winger pushes past a very tired Magnus, for once hits a lovely cross - I could do no better - and a Kettering striker leaps like a salmon, bonk, right on the forehead, lovely angles, it's a gorgeous goal, really, you have to credit them for not giving up, fighting to the end, and there's an absolutely deafening KLANG and instead of celebrating the players run around some more, and then the final whistle goes and I'm on the floor in bits. I pull myself up to my knees and look around. Vimsy is like me, head in hands. Len is on his back, hands over his face, almost like he's crying. D-Day and Dean are on their haunches.

But Jill?

She's running around like a crazy person. Her arms are out, she's waving them, her face is contorted. She's yelling, she's running in random directions. And then she's leapt onto Aff, and she's punching the air. And I realise - they’re celebrating.

What?

I clamber to my feet, but it's exhausting up there, so I hunch over, hands on thighs. And I read.

Great play from Samways. He leaves Magnus for dead.

Can he deliver a good cross?

Oh, he can! It's pinpoint! Curving round Ryder all the way onto Montague's head!

He redirects it towards goal.

Robbo leaps but can't get anywhere near it.

But it hits the crossbar!

The ball is hacked clear. Relief for Chester.

The crossbar is still shaking!

And then, still filled with disbelief, I go to the match overview screen.

Kettering Town 0 Chester FC 1 (Lyons 49)

Full Time

Full time! It was really over.

***

Next thing I knew, I was in the dressing room, standing in front of the lads. Vimsy was on the end of the bench, gazing up at me just like Dani from the photo. Raffi was listening to Pascal, who was unloading his own private commentary feed into the ether, drunk on dreams. Henri, head back, eyes closed, blissed out. Sam, Trick, Chad, D-Day, huddled together, buzzing, laughing. Aff lying on the one massage table, getting a rub from Dean, who was trying to keep a straight face, but kept laughing.

Victory music was pumping. I switched it off.

"All right. Up the fuck shut," I said. Heads turned. Some lads sat down. Some formed a mini wall, arms round each other, where it was standing room only. "What did I say? Clinical. Surgical. Routine." I shrugged. "In and out, never in doubt."

I lifted a new pad of flipchart paper and attached it to our tactics board. I flipped it open to a clean page and wrote on the bottom left:

24.

Just above it, I wrote 23. And above that, 22.

The players got it. I was writing the bottom of the league table.

21, 20.

Before the match, we’d been in 21st spot. The first of the relegation places.

Next to the number 21, I wrote: Bradford.

There was a buzz from the room.

I moved my marker pen a little higher. As I prepared to write ‘Chester’ next to position 20, a cheer went up. I didn’t write anything. Instead, I fixed the players with a quizzical frown.

Then I wrote another number.

19.

And there I wrote Chester.

And that’s when the party really started.

"We! Are! Staying Up! Said we are staying up!"

...

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