32 - Let It Happen [T1] (Patreon)

[18 September 2023 note - probably no T1 chapter on Friday, sorry! I needed a couple of days off.]

32.

Wednesday, March 22

After a run of mornings where I wanted to stay in bed, I leapt out. Quick shower, hoodie, the short drive to the Eastbourne Sports Complex. I burst past the night dude at reception, up the stairs, and into the office used by Darlington FC's manager.

David Cutter was inside, packing things into cardboard boxes.

He'd been fired as I drove home from Kettering. Somewhat took the gloss off my first official win.

Darlington FC announce the departure of manager David Cutter. Darlington will be hoping a new manager can lead them into the playoffs.

"Max!" said Cutter, breaking into a smile. He was worn. Haggard. Looked like shit. "Have you come to apply for the job? You're supposed to wait till I leave. Or do you want a reference?" He laughed.

I didn't know what to say. I looked around. Saw shapes on the walls - there had been photos and paintings hanging there until a few minutes ago. "Stop packing," I demanded, racing over to take a photo out of his hands. "This is mental. They can't sack you." I paced away. "I'll talk to someone. Who do I talk to?"

Cutter forced his lips together and returned to his task. Into the box went his Italia '90 mug. His Michael Laudrup shirt. And something I'd never seen before - a long scarf. Black and white, with a black and white crest circled with red. The crest depicted a bridge with two birds flying over it, but it was packed away before I could read the text.

"Will you stop?" I said. "You can't let this happen."

He smiled and took a break. Rested his hand on the corner of a box. "The board wanted to make a change. Maybe with a new gaffer they can still make the playoffs." His mood darkened. "Too many draws. Too many sloppy mistakes. Too many decisions going against us. Terrible referees at this level. Terrible. No, Max. My time's up."

He held his hand out, and I was forced to give up the photo. He took a good, long look at it. It showed him holding a slender, angular trophy. Black and white ribbons were tied to the handles. Ticker tape was swirling around him.

"Maidenhead," he explained. "Great bunch of lads. Left there to come here." He fell into a memory, and slowly emerged. "It's funny what you said. Don't let it happen. That's childish, isn't it? Childish way of thinking. None of us have any way to stop it. Events." He put the photo into the box, then leaned against his desk and considered me. "You're a weird one. Most players, they try to make things happen. When you were having a good day, it was like you didn't need to make it happen. You let it happen. And the rest of the time, you were holding back." He did a curious little smile. "That's what it looked like, anyway."

He placed another box on his desk and started loading things into it.

I thought about the first time I'd been in this room. I'd come to negotiate a loan move for Henri, and ended up becoming a player. Cutter had let me take shots at the goalies, let me do a couple of drills, indulged me when I asked for them to be made harder. His reward was eleven goals in eight games. But there's no doubt who got the better end of the relationship.

"I feel like I owe you something," I said.

"You don't."

"You gave me my start."

"You'd have got it one way or another. Take that face off you and don't worry so much. I've still got some reputation in this game. I'll take a wee break, get a new job in the summer. Bit lower down the pyramid, maybe. Another Maidenhead. Build a squad, get them promoted. That's what I love. That's what I'm good at. That's the problem, though, see. Expectations rise. The club hits its level, and so do I. But the fans always want more. They're never satisfied. You win two-one, they say 'why not three-one?' 'Why no clean sheet?' The pressure grows and grows. You can't see it from the outside. It's brutal. Can't breathe. Yeah. It's a shit business, sometimes. If I didn't love it, I'd hate it."

He remembered I was there.

"Stop moping. You can help me carry these to my car. I want to be out of here before the players start arriving. Don't do goodbyes. Stopped being sentimental a long time ago."

That was a lie. He was a pretty sentimental person. He'd let me skip training when he thought it was because my mum was in a bad way. He seemed to be more zen than me, though. Sacking the guy who built the squad because the squad hit a bad patch was unfair even by football standards. I scratched my jaw. "You're taking it well."

"What? Oh, no. This part's fine. Busy today. It'll be the morning. Wake up, nothing to do. No structure to the day, to the week. Tomorrow will be bad. Friday worse. Saturday?" He pursed his lips. Oof. No football for a football man on the day of football.

"Come and watch Chester. VIP box. Champagne. Things on sticks. You met my Emma. She'll make a fuss over you."

His eyes darted left and right. Calculating how to let me down gently. "Maybe." He handed me a box. "Let's take these ones down. Then you can get on with your day. Sure you've got lots to do."

***

After being dismissed by Cutter, I crossed the country. Two and half hours to Liverpool. Plenty of time to reflect. Professional sport is a cruel game. Snakes and ladders but it's mostly snakes and some of the ladders are made of snakes.

Cutter didn't deserve the sack. He'd turned Darlo into a top-three team. Sure, recent results had been poor, but he should have been given the chance to turn it round. Who would they hire who could transform results so quickly? Even Jackie needed time to get his ideas across. I checked the curse news feed, half expecting to see Ian Evans' name turn up. Imagine that. Imagine if he actually got them into the playoffs, and then promoted!

Was Cutter a better manager than Evans? I thought so. A cynical voice popped up. The cold, hard part of me that didn't look back on my time in Darlo with unremitting fondness. When he'd seen how good I was, Cutter should have gone out of his way to keep me. He should have built the team around me. Instead, he was petty, didn't adapt his methods, and was even willing to let me leave for free so long as he got a bung.

So yeah. His sacking wasn't black and white.

Cutter's black and white scarf made me think of my antics on the touchline of Kettering, and that gave me my first smile of the day. At the final whistle, I'd got a few cursemails. One told me that I would now be able to see my Manager Points. I found the relevant section, and on the very last page, page 742 out of 742, was my name. I'd earned 42 Manager Points. So you got manager points by getting results in matches.

Top of page one was Pep Guardiola on 214,000 points, followed by the Man United manager. It wasn't only based on league matches, then, otherwise Arsenal's manager would have been first or second. United were fourth in the league, got quite far in the Europa League, had won the league cup, and were headed to another cup final. Ian Evans had accumulated 630.

Of course, there was no explanation of what Manager Points were for.

Another mail told me about a few achievements I'd unlocked. The most interesting one was Movin' On Up 3, for which I got three XP. That achievement was awarded when I managed at a new high level. I got the first one when I took charge of FC United's reserves. The second when I controlled Chester reserves in my trial. And the third for managing Chester's first team. Another achievement was called Hou(dini) Are Ya? One XP for bringing a team out of the relegation zone. I also got Free Spirit 4, for my continued use of playmakers.

And since I'd been managing a tier six team, I'd earned 4 XP per minute! Around 360 XP, which took me, including the handful I got for achievements, past 2,000 XP. Just very slightly over the amount I needed to buy the next formation. Ooh, baby. Now I have a defensive midfielder. Ho Ho Ho.

***

Jackie was lying on his hospital bed with one leg mummified. Livia was beside him, looking pretty relaxed and pretty damned pretty. Her hair was back in a pony tail. MD had been there for a while. If he was annoyed I'd postponed my arrival so I could go and see Cutter, he never mentioned it.

"Maxy three-points," said Jackie, by way of welcome.

"Jackie, er... three ops?"

"I wish," he said, with a grimace. "That's number five, I think. Had an ankle. Dislocated wrist." He looked himself up and down, trying to remember what else he had wrong with him.

"Don't forget your total charisma bypass," I said.

He grinned. He was in such a good mood I could have said almost anything. "Sure, Max."

"Did they find anything?" I said, because I felt I had to feign interest.

I think I pulled a face that showed I didn't want to hear any grisly details, because he skipped to the end. "Yeah, it's all good. Good as new. Rest it up and I'll be out and about in no time." He reached out and squeezed Livia's hand. She leaned closer to him. Sweet. "We listened to Seals Live. Have you heard it yet? No? Boggy did his best but there were stretches where all he could do was squeak."

"The last five minutes was only audible to bats," said Livia. "It was exciting, though."

MD grinned. "The Kettering directors were fuming. They were telling me I was about to witness match one of The Great Escape but we played them off the park from start to finish. Most took their thumping with good grace, but there's one guy, very unpleasant chap, who was quite aggressive." MD sighed, smile gone. "He was threatening to send a formal report to the FA for the whole... fake Jackie business."

A wet laugh escaped through the sides of my throat.

"Max, it's not funny. It was disrespectful."

I wasn't in the mood for the football world's sanctimonious claptrap, and doubted I ever would be. Fake Jackie was funny. End of. "No, it was fucking hee-larious. I woke up twice, last night, just laughing."

MD shook his head. "I need to formally instruct you not to do it again."

"Okay, bro," I said. I held two fingers up and said, "I pwomise." I chuckled. It wasn't likely to come up again, anyway. I looked up at the ceiling - cheap, square tiles, one with a yellow corner. Why did I sometimes swear on two fingers, and sometimes on three? It made no sense. I became aware that no-one was talking. Back down at face level, the mood had changed. "What?"

MD sighed. "The specialist would like Jackie to stay another night, and then rest at home for as long as possible. We've looked at the schedule. If you take charge of the next two matches, Jackie will get two whole weeks off."

I scratched my head. "You want me to manage the next two matches?" I closed my eyes while I made a bunch of calculations. "Chorley this Saturday. Southport the Saturday after."

I found myself rubbing my forehead with both hands. MD misunderstood the impulse behind it. "Two home matches," he said, as though I was a fucking idiot.

"MD, mate. I played Southport in December. Unless they signed the Moroccan national team defence in January, we'll smash them. Chorley I don't know, but looking at the league table I'd say they're about as good as us."

"They're tenth, Max."

"Exactly. Just let me think this through." I strung out data points. "Vimsy's doing first-team training now. Thursday, Friday. Match on Saturday. Rest Sunday. Next week, five full days to work on the team. Another five the week after. Just as the shit hits the fan, I get twelve days of Vimsy." I shook my head and pointed at Jackie. "Guys, I need to talk to my subordinate for a while. Could you excuse us?"

I really thought they'd leave, but they had no intention of budging.

Jackie, I think, had an inkling of where I was going, but he didn't seem to mind having an audience. "Go on, Max. Let me have it."

Livia's eyes flashed. Back into protective mode. I thought about putting my foot down, but since Jackie couldn't do that, it seemed cruel. If she ended up hating me, so be it. I had a job to do.

"Fine. You might have noticed that I've been pretty chill about the whole relegation thing. That's because I see the improvement in the team. It is startling. Chorley will be hard, but we've got home advantage. We'll beat Southport unless there's a disaster. Then it's Farsley - should beat them. Scarborough - tough game. Finally, Peterborough Sports. They're about our level, too. So five games left. I reckon we're a shoe-in for two wins, so that's six points. Maybe draws in two of the other three games. That's two points. Finish the season on 52 points, very unlikely to go down with that. Am I right, MD?"

"I'll check but I'm pretty sure no team has ever gone down with 52 points from a 46-match season."

"Great. But we lose one of the easy matches, we're screwed. So why am I so confident? Because we don't play Peterborough tomorrow. We play them in four and a half weeks. Last game of the season. They'll finish twelfth or thirteenth or whatever. Those players will have checked out. They'll be on the beach. But we'll have been getting better and better. More intense. More focused. We'll be flying around scoring goals left and right, and Peterborough will just let it happen. Why would they give a shit? And even if they're mega up for it, we'll be so lit we'll brush them aside." I paused. There was another patient in the room who had turned to enjoy my rant. Or possibly to complain about it. "Am I being too loud?"

"No, you're all right, lad. It's dead interesting. Better than Netflix, dis."

"Look, Jackie. I'll do Chorley. And I'll do Farsley. But you need to take training on Monday. I'll round up every coach I know. Vimsy, Terry, Jill, Spectrum, Jude. We'll wheel you out on this bed. We'll build you a golden throne. Whatever it takes. You lie there watching the drills, you look serene, thumbs up for good job, thumbs down for dogshit drop and give me twenty. But you need to be there."

He tried to squirm but his leg was pretty fixed in place. "Max, I've seen you coach. I've heard about you from Terry and Spectrum and even Vimsy. They all say you're class. You've got your badge. You can do it for a few days."

"No. You'll do it. The whole city is counting on you."

"I can't. Max, you've got to listen. You can do it."

I was getting a bit steamed up. "I fucking can't, you twat. And it's not just the coaching. It's the man-management. I risked months of friendship with Henri, I dropped him, I did a whole drama, just to get him hyped to Jackie levels. The same effect you get with a furrowed brow. But okay, this game coming up, I'll be all like, ooh, Jackie's taken a turn for the worse. He might not pull through. We have to do it for Jackie. All that shit. The lads will play their hearts out, course they will. Week after, we'll slap, no need for tricks. Four points. Six, maybe. But it's not enough. The coaching, mate. The improvement in the players. We need it. I'm not joking, now. I'll dangle you from four cranes like you're in a baby walker. But you're going to be there with a whistle in your mouth."

"Like a baby with his dummy," said the other patient, and I rewarded him with a full-beam smile. It's good to have allies.

"Max. You're the one who tells players to stand up for themselves when they're injured."

"Yeah, and I'm telling you to stand up for yourself. Next to pitch one on Monday morning."

"It's not just that, Max." He licked his lips. "It's the other thing."

He was trying to communicate non-verbally, but I wasn't quite on his wavelength. Also, he was the one who insisted everyone else stay in the area. We wouldn't have communication problems if we were alone. Jesus, why does no-one ever skip to the part where they do it my way? It's much easier. "What?"

"My vaccination."

"Your what?" said Livia, who hadn't heard anything about vaccinations. It made no sense to talk about that with regards to a knee injury.

"Oh," I said. On our trip to Liverpool I'd used a vaccine simile. Jackie was saying he wanted to use the opportunity afforded by his injury to mentally get to grips with his new position. I had to agree that was smart. I approved completely, except it made us 70% more likely to be relegated. I rubbed my temples. This had to be private. "Mike. Livia. I need you to go."

Much reluctance. But with Jackie helping to push, they went.

As soon as Livia left the room, Jackie's entire demeanour changed. He sank into the bed. His eyes closed halfway and the edges of his mouth turned downwards.

"Jackie," I said, leaning forward so the other patient couldn't hear. "I'm not asking you to do something you're struggling with. I'm asking you to coach. You're top tier at that. I'll run the touchline for as many games as you want, I don't give a shit. I'm telling you, now, as a handsome maverick genius, that your coaching guarantees survival for this club. Give me two hard weeks, you can take two months off. I'll take care of everything in the summer. But we need this. One big push. From you. You're our superpower."

He rolled his eyes. "I'm not Superman. A few days doesn't make that much difference."

I grabbed his wrist. "It does, Jackie. I wouldn't make a fuss otherwise. Come on, you know me. I want to manage a football club. If I thought I was the best person to do it, I'd do it. I'd dropkick you out of here so hard you'd need another five operations. But mate." I smiled at how absurd it was that I had to beg him to realise how fucking mint he was. "Jackie." I shook my head. "It's Wednesday. You've got till Sunday to chill. Monday, I need an hour. One hour! We'll get hundreds of little drone coaches to put out the cones. You'll tell Vimsy and Spectrum what you want and they'll get on with it. All you need to do is say 'go'. And maybe punch Henri in the balls." I trailed off. "You just need to be there."

I trailed off because something weird had happened while I was talking. Jackie covered his eyes with his arms. All I could think was: he was crying.

I gave him some space.

Finally, he took his arms away.

"Max," he whispered. I tried not to look at the tracks of his tears. Mirror neurons, you know?

"Yeah?" I whispered back from a short distance.

He looked at his entombed leg. "It still hurts. I don't think they fixed it. It wrecks. I think this is my life, now."

I swallowed. "Mate. Don't." My eyes were instantly damp. I had to stop myself blinking else I'd drown him. I eased away so he wouldn't be in my splash zone. I inhaled, shakily. "Listen. You're off your tits on meds. Of course it hurts. They cut you open, you daft lad. What... what's it supposed to feel like? I cut myself shaving, I blub like a toddler with a scuffed knee. You're not a wimp like me. You're a soldier. A few days you'll be all good. Like you said."

"I'm going to be in pain... for the rest of my life."

"You're not. Don't be a dick."

"I am. Max," he whimpered. He was like a dog at the vet. I started blubbing. He grabbed my chest, took a feeble hold of my toggles. "Don't tell Livia. I can keep it together for a while. Ease out of coaching. I'll get a desk job." He cry-laughed. "Write match reports! You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Shut the fuck up."

"Get a desk job," he said. "Work from home. An hour on the computer. Five minutes stretching. Leg up ten mins. Ice on hand. Build up the muscle. Back on the PC. Take it easy. Be smart about it. I can do it. I love football, Max, you know I do. But I love her more. I need to give it up. I'll give it all up for her."

"What the fuck are you saying? You sound demented."

"I'm saying... it's all on you, now. I was... I was beating myself up when I came out of the operating room. My knee was on fire. Hurt worse than ever. Christ knows what he did in there, the bastard." He paused. "I don't mean that. He's a great man. He's not to blame for my shitty knees. I was all gutted, thinking, I'm letting the lads down. They need me bad. Me and Max, we can save this club. You were the missing link. Missing piece. Fucking psycho lightning rod to attract all the drama, let me get on with the job. But last night, Max. Listening to the radio. You know what it sounded like?" He went full blub, triggering the same in me.

"What?"

"Sounded like watching the Beth Heads." That sent him off the edge. I got to my feet and went to sit where Livia had been. She had all the tissues and stuff. We wiped our eyes for a bit. Jackie went, 'aaah'. Cathartic release. "Match day? You're the real deal. The complete package. You're a gobby Manc twat and I love it. You don't need me there. Okay, you need a proper coach. Course you do. I'll get on my contacts. Might be hard to sell someone on the project. No promises. But I swear, Max, same as when I saw you play. You can coach. You take training tomorrow and Friday. Tell me if I'm wrong."

"I can't improve players like you."

"Okay. Fine. Let's say that's true. What you did to those kids. What was it called? Das Tournament?" He laughed, messily. "That was a wild read. Beth's really something. But you can do that with the first team. Why not? Men need honesty. Direction. Someone who gives a shit about them. They'll go into battle for you, Max. I know they will." His face crumpled as it turned away from me. "Because I would."

I'd stopped wiping my cheeks; there was no point trying to stem this tide. "So if you're not coming back what was all that shit about me taking the next two games?"

He inhaled, accidentally ingesting at least three kinds of body fluids. I gave him more tissues. "Gives me time to work out my next steps. How to leave the scene with a bit of dignity. Know what I mean?"

I can't explain the next part. I found myself leaning closer to him, really peering into his face. There was a cartoonish quality to his expressions. Unexpectedly powerful tremors in certain muscles. Maybe he was born with it, or maybe it was AniMaybelline.

"What?" he said, shocked out of his weepiness by my scrutiny.

"You're catastrophising," I said, dispassionately interested.

"Not," he said.

I stood violently sending the chair flying, laughed, and slapped my hands together. "Oh! You really had me going." I picked Livia's chair up and put it back in place. I went to the other patient and gave his hand a little squeeze. "Soz, mate. I know you need your rest. It's just my shitty employee over there is winding me up."

"I'm not winding you up," said Jackie, annoyed.

"You're all right, lad," said the second patient. He was having a great time.

I went back to Livia's chair and went back to my soft-spoken voice. "You're off your tits on meds. Your knee hurts because you've just had a knee operation. You dick. Fucking getting me emotional over nothing. You know I'm allergic to emotion. So you just relax and keep your mouth shut for two weeks. If you do have a mate who can come and coach for a week, I'll bite his hand off. Seriously, get on that. You know I don't have any contacts. Some guy from Everton, yeah? I'm not joking when I say next week is the most important five training sessions in the club's history. I've changed my mind, though. I don't want to see you there. You're banned. Jesus," I said, with a chuckle.

I wagged my finger at him.

"You had me going. All right, so... Rest. Recover. I'm prescribing you ninety minutes of excitement a week. That's to be spent listening to your team that you trained go absolutely mental on some chumps. All right? Actually, ninety minutes isn't enough. You've got Livia. Let's make it... ninety-three minutes of excitement a week? Good? Deal?"

"Deal, Max."

***

I decided to hang around Chester to watch the youth teams and women train in the evening. While I waited, I had a big old think. It was obvious I'd spend my XP buying the next formation. 4-1-4-1. Finally, a serious formation with a defensive midfielder! I was going to build my hopes and dreams around Youngster. He wasn't quite up to scratch in terms of CA, but he was top quality from head to toe. Every neuron, every synapse told me I could trust him. Told me I could put my faith in him.

So I would be in charge for two matches. I was sure Jackie's pain would have diminished enough by the start of the Farsley match that he'd want to sit in the dugout. Who managed which matches when didn't matter a whole lot because I'd already used Bench Boost and Triple Captain.

But I'd have to lead the training sessions, too.

I could do some basic passing and technique drills. I could do my famous Art of Slapping drill. I could copy paste from fifty drills I'd seen and notated during my time as a footballer. Yeah, I could take training. That wasn't the problem. The problem was no player had ever had an attribute turn green when I was leading a session. No-one had ever improved their CA.

One option was to double-down on a good resource that we did have available - Vimsy. He could do shuffle and slide drills as well as anyone. It'd help with Carl Carlile's shitty positioning, anyway. Another was Spectrum, but using him in the mornings would mean gaps in the evenings. Slower growth for the youth teams. Not ideal, but I think even the kids would understand we had to prioritise the first team in such a dire situation.

I didn't know what to do. Every option was sub-optimal. I needed to make something happen, and fast. But if I bought the Staff Search perk I wouldn't be able to afford 4-1-4-1. No, the curse wasn't going to help me find a genius coach who could start work immediately.

After activating Playdar - a bust - I spent dinner in a busy restaurant, on a table by myself, then went to my office slash bedroom and texted Emma. Among other things I told her what Cutter had said about how when I was on song, I didn't try to make things happen.

She sent me a link to a song I'd never heard of by an artist I'd never heard of.

I listened to it, hated it, listened again, hated it more. By 2 am I was jogging around the edge of the pitch, listening to it on a loop in the pitch darkness.

***

Thursday, March 23

As everyone arrived for training, I redirected them into the big meeting room. Soon enough, everyone was there. All the first team squad, plus Vimsy, Jill, Spectrum, and Jude, the coach I was still paying to coach Broughton under 14s. Getting involved with Chester's first team was a massive opportunity for him; he looked nervous. And he wasn't the only one. Any break from the routine made players anxious.

I rapped the long, central table a few times and looked around. On the left, a little pocket of allies: Henri, Raffi, Youngster, Pascal. On the right, some baddies: Sam, Trick, D-Day. They all fell silent.

I closed my eyes for a couple of seconds. Trying to get into the right headspace. Find the right tone. The problem was, no right tone existed. I would be mocked relentlessly for this until the day I died. But I didn't know any other way to do it. I had to be fearless. Embarrassment is the cost of entry.

"All right. I went to see Jackie yesterday. Handed over the three points you won for him, as promised. He was made up. His specialist told me he's confident the op went well." He also told me phantom pain was common after such procedures. Turning the dial all the way to emotion 20 was pretty common. "He doesn't want Jackie moving around for a couple of weeks."

That got a buzz. Couple of weeks! I tapped the table.

"I'm going to run the touchline on Saturday against Chorley, and next week against Southport. The aim is to have Jackie back by Farsley. All right? What that means is that I'm in charge for a while." I looked around. "The main topic this morning is training and what we're going to be working on. But I think it's a decent time to do some admin stuff. Most of you are waiting to hear about extending your contract. We can't have that conversation until we know which division we'll be playing in next season. And maybe Ian and Jackie do this all the time, but I don't think anyone from the club has ever given you a performance review."

Oops! Corporate buzzwords didn't sit well with footballers. Except with Pascal - he was leaning forward. Review me! Review me!

"As a group, I'm satisfied with your professionalism. I don't hear about people being late or rude to the drivers or any of that shit. You know how I feel about self-reporting injuries, but I've got no complaints about your effort on the training pitch or on match days. Your heads don't go down, you don't give up. I don't think as a group you do enough to help young players come through, and you're not as community-minded as I'd like. But you're not a negative, either. Next season, we'll work on being better at community things."

I scratched an itch on the back of my head.

"Goalies. Good lads. Ben, I'd like to give you some game time by the end of the season. You need a match. I know that. If we're safe by Peterborough, you'll play that one. Robbo, you keep doing what you're doing.

"Defence. Glenn, what can I say? Proper rock back there. Leadership. You bring the best out of everyone. Gerald, you're a good fit with Glenn. Carl, you've been playing better recently. Keep that up - we need it. Trick and Magnus. I'm planning to use one of you against Chorley and the other against Southport. Trick, you give us more going forward so I might need you to help break Chorley down.

"Midfield. Raffi, great progress this season. Sam and Wisey, you two are dynamite in the middle. I think you've won the midfield battle in every match since Wisey came. Can't ask for more than that. All those tracking runs you make? Those times you chose to stay on your feet instead of recklessly tackling? When you sprint to cover a full-back? I see it all. It's dynamite.

"Wide players. Good mix of attacking threat and defensive solidity. You guys graft, that's for sure. And I love that I can call Chad up, throw him in the team, and get a performance. Doug, Joe, Len, that goes for you, too, and that's what I call professional. I'm not sure I'd be as diligent if I were in your shoes.

"Henri, Tony. Always a goal threat. Always leave the centre-backs knowing they've been in a game. Henri, you've been tearing it up in training recently.

"Actually, you all have. Yeah, Jackie's a genius, yeah the drills are top. But you've still got to put the work in. You've still got to want to learn. You're all at a certain level." I held my left hand up. "And some of you have room for improvement." I lifted my hand. "If you've got some growth in you as a player, Jackie'll squeeze it out of you. If you've been showing you've got more gears, showing we can get more out of you, you don't need to worry about a new contract. Because, subject to certain behavioural standards," I said, eyeing the group of dicks to my right, "what we want here are good players who can get better. Sam. You've got another year on your deal. A few more months under Jackie and you'll be the best midfielder in this division. Until Raffi catches you up, anyway."

That had gone... okay. I felt it was important that someone in the club say something along those lines. If the team were relegated, it wasn't because the players hadn't tried. It was because the managers hadn't used them right. I couldn't say that, especially in front of Vimsy, but I could say the positive part.

"Right. Let's talk about training. Unless we get a Premier League coach on loan for a week, you're stuck with me. I can't do what Jackie does. I only know how to do things one way. My way. So we're doing that. It might get weird. I don't expect all of you to understand what the fuck I'm talking about, but I do expect you to try.

"You'll notice all the coaches. The new guy is called Jude - Hey, Jude! - and you know Jill and Spectrum. Include me and I'm replacing Jackie with four coaches." I chuckled to myself; it still wouldn't be enough. "Half the sessions will be small groups. Skill work. Technique. We'll keep you sharp. These guys have good ideas. It'll be fun.

"And the other half," I said, sticking my tongue out the side of my mouth, "will be special sessions. Designed by me."

I put my hands behind my back and looked up. There was a lot to say, here, and I hadn't found a single idea that would combine everything.

"There's a lot of things I want to communicate to you. I haven't found, like, a single image or phrase that combines everything into one little package. But... I have found a song that does."

Joe Anka, MR, CA 36, was the squad's biggest music buff. "What song?"

I smiled at him. He'd have to wait. No spoilers. "I'll just say it isn't Friday by Rebecca Black. And it isn't We Didn't Start the Fire. Now shush.

"Against Kettering, I changed the formation a bunch of times. 4-4-2 for a solid start. 4-3-3 to play through the centre, give them something to think about. 4-2-4 to attack down the wings. I'm sure we can all agree I was very clever and very sexy. But that way of constructing a team comes at a cost - having to pick players who can flex like that. And we could get even more funky. Switch to 4-5-1 and let them smash against our lines. Etcetera. But there's a cost to that, too. Big shape changes normally cost a sub. We were lucky against Kettering, that we could stick to the plan from start to finish. It isn't always like that. So that's one thing. How do we get to change our vibe, change our focus, change our style... without being locked in to picking certain players, and without costing subs?"

I let that hang in the air. Everyone was interested, now. Yeah, it was kind of abstract, but it seemed like it was leading to a concrete payoff. They had to wait, though, for my answer.

"I don't know about France and Germany, but it seems to me that most English boys grow up in a football culture where they're asked to make things happen. Big tackle to get the crowd going. Clever pass to set up an attacker. Try a long shot to test the keeper. You're losing? Make something happen. Your career isn't going well and you've got ten minutes to get yourself noticed? Make something happen.

"Watch Man City. How many games do you watch when you think someone needs to make something happen here? Almost none. They've already won most matches before they get on the pitch. They win by buying great players. By training them to work in a system that's impossible to stop. What they do looks effortless because all the effort... already happened.

"What I'm saying is that when we've trained and we've got a plan and we're fit and we're ready, we don't need to make things happen. We just need... to let it happen.

"Example. Don't get involved in melees. Don't let the other manager wind you up. You miss a pass? Who gives a shit? Get the next one. The only thing stopping it from happening is you.

"All right. Another thing I want to tell you is the power of storytelling. When I go on the pitch, I'm always thinking, what's the story, here? There's loads of story types. Team gets beaten up in the first half, learns kung fu at half time, kicks arse. There's your player who scores an own goal from the first corner and an equaliser from the last corner. There's fucking super goalies where the more you shoot, the better they play!

"And the last thing for now. I've got a great idea for a play. It's about a French spy who goes to China to steal the secret of how they make silk. It's set in the year 4,000. I know most of you didn't care much for English Literature in school. But I know you all listen to music. And a lot of music is about storytelling. It's about taking you on a journey. So instead of teaching through dramatic readings of Silkbot 4,000 (first draft), I'm going to teach you how to play football with an eight-minute song."

"What's the song?" called Joe Anka. It was maddening to him that I wouldn't name it. I put him out of his misery.

"It's called Let It Happen." He'd never heard of it. No-one had.

***

We went out into the centre circle. I had brought out the portable speakers we used to get hyped before matches. I got everyone to sit around in a semi-circle.

"Music should be enjoyed," I said. "So first time, I'm just going to play it. If you hate it, great, so did I. This song is a journey. It's an adventure. Close your eyes. See where it takes you. All right. Everyone ready? Eyes closed."

If you guessed that I pressed play on 'Best Will Tear You Apart', good job.

"Yeah, okay, okay. That was a joke. I'm allowed to make jokes. Okay, serious now. Let It Happen by Tame Impala in three, two, one."

I played the song in its entirety.

Wikipedia calls it psychedelic pop-rock. One review I read praised its ability to 'physically command'. And that tracked - even the players who didn't like it bopped their head, tapped their feet, wanted to get moving. It's a song that demands a physical reaction.

After seven minutes, forty-seven seconds, it ended, and I gave people space to process it.

"Out of interest, thumbs up for good song, thumbs down for barmy craziness. One person, one thumb. Come on." The players voted. "Huh. Pretty much fifty-fifty. I thought more people would like it. It reached number 29 in the charts in Belgium."

"Max, that was epic," said Joe. "I didn't know you had such good taste."

"I don't. Emma listens to that stuff."

His eyebrows shot up. She'd just become his dream woman on two scales. I waved at Spectrum, and he brought the flipchart closer. "Thanks, bro. Before we listen again, here's how we're going to play against Chorley. 4-1-4-1. Youngster is our DM. D-Day on the left for the first half. Trick left-back. Joe right-mid." I sketched the formation on the blank paper.

"From here, we can do all sorts of things. We can attack with numbers, with confidence. Even if both CMs bomb forward and we get caught out, Youngster will snuff out a lot of breaks. Get past him, there's Glenn. Get past him, there's a goalie. So it's solid. And we can shuffle and slide and all that shit - if we want. But I see it as unlocking our attacking potential. Yeah, there's only one striker, but we're going to play up the sides like Man City. Full backs? Lots of forward runs. Combination play. Sam supporting the left triangle. Wisey the right. Pass it around, break into the sides of the penalty box, defence is all over the place, striker, goal. Piece of piss."

I dropped the marker into the holder.

"We're going to listen to the song again. I want you to think about which instrument, which sound, represents which player on the pitch. Notice as they come in and go out. That's because we're attacking. Or we're defending. But we're not defending because we're being forced back. We're doing it for a breather. We're doing it to take some sting out of the game. We're doing it to draw the other team forward to give us more space to hit in their half. Right? It's all on our terms. We're the musicians. Specifically, Youngster is."

"Me?" he said, quite alarmed.

"Yeah."

"Do I have to sing?" he said, to much mirth.

"No. It's all in your head." I stretched to my full height, and pretended to talk into a microphone I was holding in my right hand. "For forty years, the football world has trembled at the sound of my cannonballs. Now, it will tremble at the sound of your silence." I paused. "Nothing?" Sigh. "Anyone who wants to play for Chester next season needs to watch The Hunt for Red October. Youngster, don't stress. I'll help you. Glenn and Sam will help you. Together, we'll set the tempo. Listen to the music - it rises and falls. We attack, we defend. We press, we relax, we go wide, we play central. We do whatever the fuck we want! With no formation change. No substitutions. Right, I made some notes about the song."

I turned to the next page, where I'd made some bullet points.

• First 30 secs, pump. Up up up!
• Vocals = thought
• Transitions - slows it down; brings it up (masterful)
• Church organ!
• 1:45 - so chill
• Skips, but it's intentional (cojones!!), transition out so satisfying
• 2:40 - builds. We're on one.
• 5:05 - got 'em by the throat!
• 6:14 - D-Day
• 7:02 - all in

Seeing the name D-Day on there really intrigued everyone. They really wanted to know what that meant. Especially him. I think it made a few people pay a lot more attention.

I played the first thirty seconds. There was a brief sort of blare, then right into pumping action music. I paused it. "Whoo!" I said. "Up! Fast start. Every team we play starts fast and furious, and so do we, because if we don't, we can lose in the first five minutes. If we play like this sounds, we're winning our duels, mate. We're pushing them back."

The next section. "The vocals. Forget the lyrics, apart from the title! There's two kinds of vocals in this song. The first, this one now, you can think whatever you want. Maybe you think of it as me, reminding you to let it happen. The second is like a stream of consciousness. To me, that's the sound of us scanning, thinking, calculating. It's never very intense, never very loud or quiet. It's us calmly thinking things through. Where are they trying to hurt us? Do I need to shuffle across for a minute? That voice is the sound of our brains at work. Yeah?"

The next section. "Kind of weird distorted stuff. That's us going against what the crowd wants. They want non-stop action. This kind of extreme control is boring. But five minutes of control buys us five minutes of non-stop attack later on. We're telling a story. Some bits are boring so the end is exciting. Right?"

Next. "Now he brings the mood up again. Step by step. Gradually increasing the pressure. Come on! And did that sound like a church organ to you, Youngster? This song was written for you."

Next. "Here it gets so chill. It's such a vibe. We're controlling the match and we know it."

Then came a part that sounded like an old CD was skipping back and back and back. The first time I heard it, it was extremely aggravating. "This is where Youngster drops deep and plays short passes to Glenn and Gerald. Pass pass pass pass... The other team has to come and do something. They have to move up the pitch, because this is so annoying. And when they come, the transition is so smooth. It's glorious. Look at all the space we've created. Can you feel it, lads? This isn't a song. It's a football match. Come on!"

I let a few minutes go past without pausing. I felt like a lot of people were on the verge of understanding my basic concept, now. If I'd had more time, we could have done interesting things with it. Broken the mass into small groups. Let them come up with their own ways to extend the concept. Maybe even let them find their own songs to turn into match commentary.

At the 5 minute mark, the song entered yet another new phase. I paused where I could. "Synths, full drums, awesome, uplifting. I see the part before this as us inviting pressure at the start of the second half. They've been hyped up, come out blazing. We've weathered it - piece of piss - and now we're pushing them back up the pitch, easy as you like. Taking the match by the fucking throat, lads. Our ball. Our tempo. Our decisions."

At 6:10, I paused. "Guys? Are you ready for the greatest transition in musical history? You'd better be. Because this is the sound of D-Day busting out moves on the left-wing. Nutmegs. Feints. Dragbacks. Trick overlapping. Low cross, happy slapping. Bum bu BOM bowow!" I mimed slapping a bass guitar as I mimicked the funky notes. I let the funky bass do its thing, then paused. "Talk about the Art of Slapping! It's fucking sick, that bit. Now, shut up. You thought that bit was top? It gets better. How does it keep getting better?"

From the seven-minute mark, every element previously heard comes back. I talked over it. "How fucking satisfying is this? We're slapping left, right, and centre. We've taken such control of the pitch we can do whatever we want, wherever we want. There's D-Day! The up-voice, the down-voice. Our brain, still ticking over. There's the synths, the drums! Let's fucking gooooo!"

The song finished. I was still biting my bottom lip, bopping my shoulders, hand claps to the left, jabbed fingers to the right. "Three points. They don't know what hit them. Fans want to rewind and press play. Yeah, you can, next Saturday. For ten pounds. Buy a pie while you're at it." I burst into a smile. Full set of teeth. "Welcome to Chester."

Everyone had a different look on his or her face. Some bewilderment, some excitement.

Aff was more in the former camp. "Is that how you think about football?" If I had to choose a word that described his mood, I'd probably plump for: dismayed.

"Yep," I said, still shaking my head to the beat.

Henri had stood. He came towards me, and offered me a handshake. I accepted, and he burst into a grin. He wandered away, admiring his hand the way he normally admired mirrors.

From where he was sitting, Sam raised his hand just over his head. "Max." He licked his lips. For once, he was uncertain. "I... I sort of get what you're saying here. Sort of. The speed of play. When to press. Being relaxed. Letting the ball do the work. Don't get me wrong, the idea's great. But... it's not really something we can actually do. Like, on the pitch. Right?"

I smiled. "What, you think I'm just going to talk a load of shit and send you home to write an essay about it?" I pulled off my hoodie. Underneath I was wearing a Chester FC home kit. I turned around so they could see Best 77 on the back. I stuck my tongue out. "This lesson has a practical component."

...

Dear Jackie,

Vimsy here. I know what hozzies are like. Dead boring. When I was in with me ticker a mate wrote me couple times a week and it cheered me right up. Proper letters, like. On paper. We used to do that. So's I thought I'd drop you a little note, cheer you up. And maybe this is for me, too, because I can't get my head round what I've just seen.

It's that bloody Max Best again, like I'm sure you've guessed.

Try and picture the scene.

Instead of proper training, he gets us all in the meeting room and does a speech. First part, big fan. Tells the players what he likes about them. Pretty basic, but they were eating it up. He's right. Not been anywhere near enough of that. Then it turns south. He says he's got a song to teach us football from. A song! I'm dreading it. Jill's dreading it. Speccy's excited.

We go on the pitch (at last!) but he's got more talking to do, first. And then he plays the song. The magic song what'll turn us into champions! And it's dire. Zero stars. Most of it's just noise. Max says the song takes you on a journey. What's wrong with a tune you can hum? Jill was on my side. Speccy hated it, too, I think, but was too loyal to let it show. Half the players are curling their toes. How did I end up at this club with this madman running it? To be fair, Joe likes it, and he's a DJ at them clubs.

Then Max goes through the song again, yelling, 'this bit's the offside trap!' and 'this bit is D-Day doing megs!' and madness like that. Trust me, it's all just noise! At this point, I'm wondering if I can stick two weeks of this.

So Sam says 'I don't get it' (speak for England!) and Max is happy because he was hoping someone would say just that. You know how he is. And he strips off and he's in full Chester kit. Players run inside to get changed, run back to the pitch. First team lines up in 4-1-4-1, Max as DM. No opposition.

Spectrum's on the side holding up the speaker, hits play, Max moves around like it's a match. He shouts that Wisey should jump for a header. They shuffle right. Slide left. Max is calling out things that are happening in the match. But get this, Jack, there's no ball. He's making it all up!

At this point, I'm worried. Proper worried. Jill looks a bit sick, like, do we have to section our boss or what?! I'm thinking yes for the good of society, but then I'll have to run the line on Saturday and so society can look after itself, if it's all the same to society.

The song's about seven minutes and Max is dancing almost the whole time, slapping his hands and doing air guitar and all that. While pretending to pass the ball, demanding the team squash up, fan out, move left, whatever craziness he hears when he listens to that song. When it gets to the slappy bass bit (which is good in fairness), he rushes over and says "Bagsy D-Day!" and gets a ball and does skills. He really lets rip. He whizzes down the left doing something, no clue what, feet are moving too fast. Actually, you know what it was? That thing roller bladers do where they cross their legs really fast. Max is doing it with a ball, left right left, and at the byline he yells "defend that, bitches!" Then he runs back to DM. He pushes the team up. "Up up up!" And for the last minute of the song, it's two centre-backs on the half-way line, Max in front, and the rest of the team up around the penalty box. All-out attack.

Jackie, you should have seen it. You know little girls having a tea party, pouring imaginary tea for their imaginary friends? He's doing that with pros on a full-sized pitch.

So then we start again, with a ball, and with an opposition. Max stays as DM. Spectrum plays the song again. It's a normal match, normal rules, but with one player dancing around, spinning, clapping, shouting "I love this bit", and all the while doing a flawless impression of a defensive midfielder! The other team chose Pascal to mark him, and you know how fast that little guy is. How relentless. He couldn't lay a glove on Max. He's not doing his skills, either. It's no-frills, clean, simple passes. He's doing what Youngster can do, and not more.

Max slows things down, speeds them up. When the music gets faster he sprints forward ten yards and the rest of the team match him. When it slows, he dribbles backwards and demands the team fall back with him. When he does air guitar it means Sam and Trick should push on and join up with D-Day, and when it breaks down and the ball is cleared, Max recovers it in seconds and puts it back into the zone so they can have another go. Fuck, but he's a good player.

And the last push, the big finish, the all-out attack. It's not so funny now. It works! The reserves try to absorb it, try to keep bodies up the pitch for counters. They're working so hard to resist. But Max intercepts or clears every single bloody break and gets the ball forward and it's like he keeps saying: pressure, pressure, more pressure.

All the coaches are standing around, thinking, what the hell is going on here?

Song ends, Max swaps himself out with Youngster. Max wants him to play DM against Chorley. Youngster tries, struggles. Max skips to a certain part of the song and does a little dance. Spectrum joins in. One of the two looks like a fucking idiot. The music and the dancing helps the kid. He tackles, he intercepts, he zips around connecting the play according to the tempo Max is dancing at. Youngster's moving the team up and down. Up makes sense to everyone. Everyone's fine with that. But Max wants the team to retreat. Glenn and the defenders are not happy about it. But the more we drop back, the more space opens up. Henri's got six players near him. A few passes later, there's only two! Youngster passes to D-Day, who lays it off to Sam, and that's how simple it is. There's gaps everywhere.

Max wants to swap some players around, give more players a try. But Sam doesn't want to leave! He's into it! So's D-Day. They hate Best. But they love this.

The ball's zipping around. Triangles, zigzags. It's getting faster and faster. Even when Youngster's slowing things down, the passes are fast. The reserves start to give up. They've lost a bit of spirit. They can't get near the ball!

Aff gets a go on the left. Talk about duck to water. I didn't have him down as the poetic type. The Max type. I can't remember seeing him play with swagger. He plays with swagger. He bursts into space like Angel di Maria. He doesn't wait for Trick to come and help - he plays long 1-2s with Henri. It's so good, Jackie.

Just as I'm starting to get into it, starting to understand it, Max calls everyone in. He's away with the fairies, I think, but he sighs and says, "yeah, not bad. We can work on it." Not bad! We've practiced a new formation, new philosophy, in one session, the lads pick it up pretty good, and he's not happy. "Tomorrow we'll work on components. Final third entries, AKA the Art of Slapping. Overloads. I want crazy, four-man overloads. I want whirlwinds. Spectrum, Jude, you'll do those. I didn't like the defensive spacing. Vimsy, have a think about that, please. The rest defence was pretty sloppy. If Trick goes and Carl goes, then one of Sam or Wisey needs to stay. What are the triggers for that? Jill, can you come up with a few ideas?" He's gone from wild man of the woods to mild-mannered egghead. He reels off lists of drills and how many minutes they'll take, runs the numbers, and then comes the strangest part of all. He says, "Double session tomorrow," and instead of groaning, like always follows those words, there's more than a few guys who look pleased. That's when I realise - I'm on the wrong side of all this. Yeah, I don't get it. Yeah, it's borderline unprofessional. But if Sam's into it, and so's Aff, maybe I need to lighten up.

Yeah. I'll do that. Try to be more positive. I'll let it happen.

I just wish he'd picked a better song. Has he never heard of John Denver?

Thinking of you buddy,

Vimsy

...

Thanks for your support!

Let It Happen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NMRhx71bGo4 (wear headphones - there's a lot going on, like, sonically. Also, if you don't like it the first 49 times, you will on the 50th)