tedsteel

35 - Safety [T1] (Patreon)

Published:

2023-07-28 10:59:53

Edited:

2023-10-02 08:35:37

Imported:

Content

35.

Emma left after breakfast - she needed to help her dad with something. I didn't mind - it left me free to do whatever preparation came into my head. For some reason, I thought it would bring me luck to talk through my plans for the match with Henri's crabapple tree. Its leaves had come and it was starting to grow buds. I was really keen to see what it got up to in the coming weeks.

Then I drove to Chester, and parked on a quiet side street far from the stadium. From there I slowly made my way through the city centre, trying to get a sense of the mood.

The weather was abysmal - cold, overcast, windy - but there were a few people in Chester kits walking around. Nervous. Hopeful.

I didn't see what I wanted to see, which was a parent and kid who were obviously going to the match. I hoped to find a little dude who was being taken to his first match. Ah, well. Can't have everything.

***

Spectrum: I've been invited onto Seals Live to do co-comms and analysis. MD thinks it will be good for fundraising. Is it okay with you?

Me: Go for it, bro! You'd be good at that. You're allowed to slag me off. Give the fans what they want!

...

Ziggy: Good luck, Max!

Me: You, too, fellow United fan.

***

When I got to the stadium, I found a couple of obstacles. First, a large batch of hooligan types were loitering around one part of the car park, as they always did. They were all dressed like 'Welly', the guy who had been about to attack me the previous Friday. Welly wasn't there, as far as I could see, but I just didn't need that kind of aggro. So I gave them a wide berth, only to see a few Southport players and staff hanging around their team bus. One was a left-back I'd humiliated out of the team when Darlo played them in December. I was sure he would have things to say to me - things that should be said with a referee watching.

So I went even further around, wondering how I was going to get inside. It didn't take long: The Blues Bar exit, down the creepy side alley. My stadium master key probably opened that door. I went to check - great success!

I locked the door behind me, did my first tour of the nearly-empty stadium, then went up to my office to have a bit of a lie down. Saving my strength.

***

I pretended to check on the players as they did their first light jogs on the pitch, though of course I had access to their player profiles. In the past week, with lots of coaches chipping in, we'd had some attribute pops and a small amount of CA growth. About the normal amount from the pre-Jackie world. Better than nothing, but it really showed the difference one Scouser could make. Without him, we wouldn't be able to coach our way out of this division.

There were no injuries, no knocks, so I filled in the team sheet and gave it to the ref early. We had six bronze players in the first eleven, with the lowest being Youngster on CA 30. We had two silvers, Carl and Aff. And three golds, Glenn, Sam, and Henri. Our average CA was 41.3.

Southport's average was 39, so even though we had Youngster and Raffi pushing our numbers down, we were slight favourites. Add home advantage and we were looking good. But we also had Wisey and Tony on the bench, so we could take off the inexperienced young guys, stick the old hands on, and bump our average up to 43.6. Southport didn't have any such luxury, though it looked like they had options on the bench so they could switch from 4-4-2 to 3-5-2. Hadn't they got the memo that that particular gimmick no longer worked?

I let Vimsy, Jill, and Angles (back from the flu) lead the players through the pre-match rituals, promising to be back to hype them up ten minutes before kickoff.

Satisfied that all was in order, I went on what I was already thinking of as my farewell tour. I'd fucking grafted for three months injecting some life into this club. Some life, some new blood, a new way of thinking. And it was paying off in hundreds of ways that were invisible to the fans. They'd see it on the pitch today, though, that was for sure.

My victory tour would take me along the main stand, up a short flight of stairs into the Director's Box and Legends Lounge, then down through the inner sanctums and back into the dressing room. But I almost abandoned it after a few strides.

On the last row of seats behind the home team dugout, perhaps fifteen metres behind where I would stand the whole match, were Old Nick's imps. They were dressed as business boys again, and again they looked different every time I laid eyes on them. One was reading the match programme. One was asleep. One was writing on a little notepad. The last one was sending business texts, double-thumbing it, very serious. Or perhaps he was texting Nick.

Nick! What did he want? I hadn't played. I was managing the women's team, and this would be my third go at the men's team, too. And I'd been grinding, so if it was true that he earned XP when I did, he should have been delighted.

Although... I had sort of publicly announced I'd be doing a free kick masterclass at half-time. And in recent times I had been doing loads of tekkers to entertain the fans. Would a bit of harmless showing off get Nick into trouble with the curse police?

I closed my eyes, pointed my eyelids at the ominous clouds above, and exhaled. I couldn't do anything about it.

Or could I?

Nick wasn't around. Maybe I could try talking to the imps instead of spending my whole life guessing. I went through the little gate and up the steps. They didn't spot me coming, so the fact that I was suddenly looming over them came as a shock.

First, though, I was able to get a closer look at what they were doing. The one on his phone wasn't sending texts. He had an old Nokia and was playing Snake. The one reading the match programme was doodling formations in the margins. A real Tommy Tactics! And the one who was writing wasn't writing - he was sketching. His current work-in-progress showed the rough outline of a house, complete with chimney and smoke, and a matchstick family, except there was no mummy, daddy, children, and pet. Instead, there was a clearly identifiable Nick, four imps, and a little dog thing with about twenty legs. The imp was currently adding a few lemon trees to balance out the composition.

I rubbed my forehead. I think I preferred my life the way it was, before I'd seen all that. "What are you doing?" I said.

To say my question startled them would be something of an understatement. They reacted with various forms of panic. The sleeper leapt up and sprinted away.

I sighed. "Why don't you leave me alone?"

The Nokia imp was closest to me, and he was frozen. With terror, maybe. Next was the tactics one. He grabbed his mate's notepad, scribbled on it, and held it up to me with a pen. "Autograph."

"I'm not signing anything from you fucks. Are you fucking mental?"

"Autographhhh," he whined, and I had this unexpected little moment of empathy for the bunch of them. They were victims of Nick, too. So I took the notepad and pen. I brought it closer. In the shaky, uncertain handwriting you'd normally associate with a small boy, he had written GET WIBWOB.

Again I looked up at the dark clouds, pregnant with rain. "Is this to help me or hurt me?"

"Max wins. Everyone wins," said the tactics imp.

"Right. Top. But this wibwob thing isn't in the shop. So either sort that out or stop going on about it. Do you know what I mean?"

"Not in shop?"

"Not in shop."

The three imps who were still there became animated, and had a rapid-fire chat in various languages. They seemed to cycle through about six different ones without even realising it, so I only caught fragments of what they were saying. One phrase was, 'system too old'. Next was, 'post-season update'.

They finished, and the tactics one said, "Get wibwob."

"What is it?" I said, clenching my fist so hard part of the pen broke off. They shrunk in their seats. I looked around to see if Nick was approaching, but no. Clearly, they weren't allowed to get specific. I had one last try. "I need to buy Morale. Staff Search. Contracts."

Tactics Imp shook his head. He was quite annoyed with me for not getting the importance of this amazing thing he was talking about. He reached out to get the notepad and pen back. "Conserve. Wait. Buy wibwob. You go now."

I stood there for a minute, tapping the back of one of the blue plastic chairs, but the scene felt pretty over. Demons, imps, curses. I murmured, "Bloody hell," and got on with the tour.

I changed my plan, and decided to do a complete lap of the stadium. I turned left and walked past the away fans. People from Southport were known as Sandgrounders, which was one of the more colourful demonyms I'd heard, and the town wasn't all that far from Chester. The away fans had come in good numbers. But as I walked past them, I stopped. There was a guy there in a heavy coat, big woolly hat, and dark glasses, and for a second I swore it was Ian Evans in disguise. I looked again and he was gone. Weird.

Then in the Centurion Stand, I saw Vivek with his family. I charmed his mum for a while until I spotted most of the Chester Knights not all that far away. I popped up to shake hands and take some selfies and whatnot. Terry was with them, and he was very happy I'd taken the time. Then another nice surprise - Mr. and Mrs. Yalley, along with Pastor Yaw. I promised him a ninety-minute ‘sermon’ on the theme of pounding your enemy into dust. He laughed and said he would prefer one about forgiveness.

"But where's Kisi?"

Mrs. Yalley answered. "She's coming with her friends from Manchester City. Coach Sandra. Some of her teammates. Meghan."

"Top," I said, smiling. "I always enjoy seeing the Butcher of Burnage. I'll come over at half-time if I can. After the match my head will be wrecked."

Next, I saw Raffi's wife Shona, and her father-in-law, Moss. When he saw I was heading their way, Moss got up and walked down the stairs that led to the toilet. I would have said the timing was a coincidence, but Shona confirmed he was mad at me. First, for the ‘jerk/yellow card’ incident at the World Cup dinner party. And second, because from his point of view I'd 'dropped' Raffi from the team. Bit annoying, especially as I'd put him back in as soon as I could! Some people just wanted to be angry with me whether I deserved it or not.

The next stand was the Harry McNally Terrace with capacity for just over a thousand fans. Having to be on their feet the whole match meant they skewed younger and more boisterous than in the main stand. I didn't expect to see anyone I knew in there, but I was quite wrong. Most of the women's team had taken up residence, along with the Bulldog brothers, Tyson, and Benny. Dani was the glue that bound those groups. Mr. and Mrs. Smith-Smithe looked very out of place, and I suggested I could take them up to the Director's Box instead. Bulldog assured them he'd keep Dani safe.

In the Director's Box, I handed the Smith-Smithes off to Ruth, who was more than delighted to take care of them - she wanted their daughter to join ‘her’ agency. Dahvide was there, looking well-packaged as always. He was deep in conversation with Crackers, who was tapping his walking stick against the floor in an unusual release of nervous energy.

Sumo was chatting excitedly to Barnesy, the board member who used to be in the army. I think Sumo was talking about how realistic the new Call of Duty game was. Inga and Secretary Joe were there with a guy I sort of vaguely recognised. Then a little kid came into view - Steven Watson. The nine-year-old prodigy I'd scouted when I took Jackie to Liverpool. I made a big fuss of him and his dad. I had planned to end the tour there, but I decided to do one last sweep of the main stand to see if Future and his gran were around. I felt like Future and Steven would get on - they were both DMs, after all.

And that's when things got super, super weird.

First, I brushed past someone as I headed back pitchside. I apologised, and realised I was talking to none other than Beth. She was cuddled into some rando. I said hi and all that. I think Beth introduced him as something like 'Mick Bairstow', but I know for a fact that I looked at him funny, because Beth sent me a text complaining about it. Problem was, it was like looking in a mirror, if mirrors could make you, like, 45% less attractive. In the interests of balance, he was in a much nicer hoodie.

So I was weirded out when I bumped into even more unexpected spectators: Bradley Rymarquis and Richard Carling. The agents I was at war with. I moved past them in silence. They had been chatting a mile a minute until they saw me. They shut their gobs, and when I was far enough away, started whispering.

And the hits just kept coming. Next was Sean and Ollie, the board members I despised. For some reason, they weren't with the rest of the board upstairs. Nothing to do with me - last time I'd talked to them, it had all been quite civil. They shot me dirty looks anyway. All I could think was that they thought I was trying to usurp Jackie. Not guilty!

And then a brief respite from the unpleasantness, or so I thought. Eve, the hot manager of Wrexham Women dashed down to the front of the stand to have a flirty little chat with me. But then she said, "And I think you've met Smackface."

Obviously she used the guy's real name as she pointed up the stand to where he was sitting. We managed a fake smile and tiny nod just so Eve wouldn't get suspish, but holy shit it was the Wrexham youth team coach I'd been a dick to at Das Tournament. He was now immortalised as a villain for the ages in Beth's Wizard of Us article. She hadn't used his name, but word had got back to me that he was on very, very thin ice. Damaging the club’s slick new branding. So when Eve turned away from him, he gave me absolute daggers. If looks could kill. All that was going on while Eve playfully suggested I ask Southport to weaken their team.

"They already did," I said, checking to see where the nearest match stewards and police were. Once I looked for them, I saw about fifty in the main stand alone. I relaxed. "I demolished their best left-back in December. The new guy's, like, 37."

"I'm 37," she said.

"But you've still got great legs," I said, but then Smackface gave me one too many dirty looks and I decided to leave before I got aggressive.

So, yeah. It wasn't like everyone I'd ever met was in the stadium, but it did feel like everyone I'd ever upset was there.

My pulse added a couple of beats per minute. Winning wouldn't just guarantee safety. It would piss off a lot of people who I liked pissing off. I jogged back to the dressing room to demand a fast start.

***

Match 43 of 46: Chester versus Southport

The First Half

The whistle went, and my players were straight off the blocks. The usual two minutes of competing, winning duels. Footballers and football fans place a disproportionate value on things like tackling the ball out for a throw-in, winning midfield headers, and blocking defensive clearances. I was much more relaxed about such things - they barely impacted the overall flow of the match. But in the first two minutes, I wanted my teams to do all that caveman shit. Because when the other team's cavemen see that they can't beat you on the basics, they really don't have much else to work with.

And sure enough, over the rest of the first ten minutes, we started to get a grip of the match.

Normally, the home team tries to do a lot of attacking in the early stages of a match, when the crowd is primed for action. Youngster, though, had absorbed my way of thinking - that a match was like a story and it got more exciting, more action-packed towards the end. So he was happy to keep the ball in our defensive third, passing around to the defenders.

This had the side-benefit of wearing out Southport's strikers. They were fine, nothing special, but they'd been brought up to chase defenders, to close down the ball when it came near them, essentially: to waste their energy.

It was risky, of course. If Youngster had hit a stray pass, one of the strikers might have pounced on it and had a relatively easy route to goal. But the passes we were playing were very basic, and the pressure was almost non-existent. So we passed, passed, passed, conserving our energy while Southport burned theirs.

Everything was going to plan.

After quarter of an hour, the crowd started to get restless. They wanted to see us try to make something happen. The change in mood filtered through to Youngster, and he led the team further up the pitch, a few yards at a time.

That's when the match got chaotic. We started to do our overloads and overlaps, with plenty of players in defensive positions in the unlikely event of a good counter-attack. And every time our moves broke down, Southport hit us with a good counter-attack!

I had my hands on my head for a while. On the one hand, I wanted to stop these breaks from happening. On the other, if I went defensive for a while and shut it down, I would lose an opportunity to learn something new about football.

It took three minutes from realising something strange was happening to working out the cause - a lifetime, given all my advantages.

My first clue was the match ratings. Most Chester players had moved from 6 out of 10 to seven (the notable exceptions being our goalie and Henri, neither of whom had been involved much). Southport were generally stuck on sixes, except their moronic strikers, who were on fives. Their goalie was on seven, which always worried me. No more super keepers, please!

But the outstanding players on the pitch, according to the curse, were Youngster and Southport's elderly left-back, both on eight out of ten. So I focused on the Southport number 3. The guy who had been brought in to replace the guy I’d dribbled to distraction. And yes, this number 3 was old, and his legs had gone. He was so slow even the one-paced D-Day had the edge over him, but he had positioning 14, so we couldn't really take advantage. But most of all, he had passing 20.

Passing 20! On a random left-back in non-league!

And Southport's manager wasn't shy in using it - in fact, he made it his entire game plan.

Diving into parts of the tactics screens I didn't need to check all that often, I found that the left-back had been set as playmaker. A left-back as playmaker! In the sixth tier! My respect for Southport's manager increased five-fold.

What it all meant in practice was a sequence that would go something like this:

Raffi, Aff, and Trick would combine on our left, forming a triangle of players passing to themselves, trying to force a gap in Southport's lines. If we couldn't get it to work, Sam Topps would drift over to be a fourth passing option. And with four men in one relatively small part of the pitch, we had great success in getting the ball behind the offside trap, into a position where one of the left-footed guys could thrash the ball across the face of the goal, where Henri was working hard to get on the end of those moves.

But when it broke down - and it normally did; football is hard - Southport would quickly cycle the ball out to their left-back, and he'd use his outstanding passing to pass through our wide-open midfield, or even ping a long pass out to their right-midfielder. That was deadly, since our left-sided players had all been attacking seconds before, and were unable to help defend.

I'd seen enough. The guy needed to be shut down. I waved my arms like an air dancer, and in our possession, Youngster retreated back to our goal. We had a few minutes to catch our breath, let me reorganise, and yeah, wear out their strikers even more.

"Vimsy," I called. He came over from the naughty corner - I still didn't trust him not to lose his shit when we were inevitably provoked. The players had started teasing him about it, which actually helped because the theme wasn't me excluding him, but me not letting his passion get the better of him. "I would like to use Pascal today. Do you have anything to say on the subject?"

He stuck his tongue in his cheek and inhaled. "If I did, Max, I'd have said before you handed in the team sheet."

"Good to know! Let's warm him up."

"You're going to change it already?"

"I'll see if I can wait till half time. I already know what I want to do, though."

So Pascal got up and jogged around for a bit. On the pitch, the match continued to be uneventful. More accurately: boring. Sam looked over at me. Attack? I gave him a big thumbs down. "This!" I shouted. Then I got Pascal, and asked if he was willing to do the shittest job in the history of jobs.

His eyes lit up, the weirdo. "Yes, Max!"

"Right. See that left-back? He's killing us on counters."

"You want me to press him?"

That would involve Pascal playing a normal right-midfield role and then sprinting towards the left-back every time he got the ball, to give him less time to pick out the right pass. Bit like blitzing the quarterback. "No. I want you to mark him."

"Mark him?" Pascal was surprised. I hadn't asked a Chester player to mark an opponent, ever. My theory was, if we played our game well, what the other team did barely mattered. But I had to be pragmatic today.

"Yeah. Don't join attacks. Don't overlap. I don't want you involved in the game at all. Just stay on him like a barnacle."

"Barnacle?"

"Stay on him like a koala."

"Oh." He pulled a face. "Make null their biggest weapon."

Top football brain, this lad. "I told you it'd be shitty."

He nodded. "I'll do it. I owe you for last week."

I shook my head and told him he'd start the second half. I didn't blame him for his poor performance against Chorley, but he wouldn't believe me.

Anyway, now I had a dilemma. Did I keep things conservative for the first half and make sure Southport didn't get a goal? Or did I slug things out and hope our ten percent chances outperformed their five percent ones?

I thought of Jackie, listening from Livia's living room. If I won this match, he'd be able to come back with three games to play, win at least two, and get his confidence up. If I lost just because I wanted to show off in front of my many enemies, it would make Jackie's life so much harder. And sure, maybe he'd come through and this triumph over adversity would be the thing that kickstarted his management career.

I waved my arms around like an air dancer. Keep things tight!

The crowd's discontent grew. Lots of moans when we played the ball back towards our own goal. Some angry shouts. Some rude gestures. The usual output from a football fan with a few pints in him. But mostly people were simply anxious. Towards the end of the season, fans watch the match and at every break in play check the scores from the other games. The two teams below us, Blyth Spartans and Bradford (Park Avenue) were playing against each other. That made the calculations even more convoluted, but everyone in the stadium knew one thing - despair lurked around every corner.

If Blyth beat Bradford, and on Tuesday night Bradford won their game in hand, both teams would go to 48 points. As it stood, Chester would finish the day on 48 points. It was far, far, too tight.

Tight. We kept things tight. A modern version, involving lots of short, safe passes, but still, not the fearless football I'd promised Emma. Then again, it wasn't the fearful football Ian Evans had punished the city with for so long. This was a pragmatic balance, and in the second half, we'd push. And we'd be able to push even harder knowing that Southport's strikers had run themselves into the ground chasing lost causes.

The fucking idiots.

Talking of idiots... The angst from the crowd made D-Day snap and go against my instructions and the on-pitch vibe set by Youngster. He took a pass from Sam Topps. Youngster had rolled into position for the backwards pass, and was already on the half-turn, clearly intending to move the ball to Carl Carlile. But D-Day decided he needed to make something happen. So instead of passing, he went on a dribble. Seeing that, Carl sprinted forward to support his mate. In any other circumstance, a wonderfully selfless piece of play.

Perhaps D-Day thought the old left-back was there for the taking, but all that happened was he handed the ball to his wily old opponent, and now we had no cover on the right of the pitch. The left-back played a neat, curving pass that one of the strikers ran onto. Suddenly, all Southport's midfielders were streaming forward. The striker drove forward, waited for Gerald May to move out of position to engage him, and then cut back inside onto his right foot. He looked for an option and found he had four targets, with only Glenn and Youngster defending.

The cross was shanked, somewhat - tired legs helping us - but was collected by the other striker. He feinted to shoot, taking Youngster out of the picture. Instead, the number 9 chipped the ball towards the back post, where Glenn heroically rose between two Southport players and headed the ball away.

But it only got as far as another midfielder, and he absolutely pummelled it towards Robbo's goal. Sam Topps appeared out of nowhere and flung himself into the path of the ball. It hit his head, and spun away for a corner.

"Dean!" I screamed, and our physio sprinted onto the pitch. Sam's technique, passing, and stamina had turned red. Not good. "Pascal, you ready?"

"Yes, Max."

Vimsy dashed over. "You're going to put him on instead of D-Day, right? You're not taking Sam off. Max, come on. Please. Please, mate."

I smiled at him. "See that? That was Southport's last shot. If they get another shot today, I'll give you..." I closed my eyes and calculated how much I could afford to commit. I'd promised to buy drinks in the Blues Bar after the match. "A trillion pounds. Er... doesn't include this corner."

"I don't want a trillion pounds. I want three points. I want Sam on the pitch."

"Sam's concussed, mate. We don't dick around with head injuries."

He sucked in a breath to stop himself saying something he'd regret. "It's a young team you want to use. Not much power. Know what I mean?"

I did. Replacing Sam with Pascal would bring our average CA down to a pitiful 39. "Power is nothing without control. I learned that from a car commercial." Before I could get Pascal on the pitch, I had to deal with the all-too predictable farce of Sam saying he was fine to keep playing, and Dean enabling him. Fucking Dean. I pointed to Sam’s head. "Concussion. One day, no activity. Get him somewhere nice and quiet. My office has a bed, if that helps. But if you don't get this guy off the pitch in the next five seconds, you'll be the first physio to be fired mid-match since Mourinho fired that one who didn't let him cheat the way he wanted."

"Gaffer, I'm fine," said Sam, calling me by the title he’d used for Ian Evans. What more proof did Dean need?

"This drama is costing the team, mate. Get fucked before I lose my temper."

Dean supported Sam down the tunnel, with the nearby fans applauding them. Pascal zipped onto the pitch, taking up his usual position near the edge of the box, ready for a fast break. But the corner was pretty good, and a caveman defender got his head on it. It went a couple of feet over the bar.

One day, my luck would run out.

As the team reset, with D-Day now playing Sam's central midfield role and Pascal marking the left-back, I gave D-Day a quick blast. A long-distance hairdryer. Then I told Wisey to warm up. The slightest hint that D-Day wasn't doing exactly as he was told would be the end of his Chester career.

But something galvanised him. Either it was the horror of his shitty decision-making leading to his teammate getting his head nearly caved in, or the fact that I'd taken the handbrake off and he was allowed to attack. But he not only did a good job in an unfamiliar position, he gave us an extra attacking option through the centre. That was needed, because I'd abandoned the right-hand side.

I tweaked all the settings - attack down left, lock Carl into place, Raffi playmaker - did my 'attack' dance, and Youngster, Raffi, and D-Day took control of the midfield. We pushed Southport back, and started to do terrible things to them on the left-hand side.

Until...

***

Transcript from Seals Live, 3:39 p.m.

Boggy: If you're just joining us, a reminder that it's still nil-nil here in the Deva. Bit of a circumspect start from Chester, and Southport have had the two best chances. Sam Topps has gone off injured, and young Pascal Bochum is playing on the right. The latest is that Blyth are beating Bradford, so that's the nightmare scenario all set up. With me is Chester coach, Spectrum. Spectrum, what do you make of Bochum’s performance so far? He hasn't been involved much.

Spectrum: Well, it's true he hasn't impacted play very much. I... I can't quite get my head around the change. But Max had Pascal warming up for a long time. It seemed like he wanted to get Pascal on as soon as he could. And since then... we've been much better. But why?

Boggy: If you don't know, then at least I have an excuse! I would have put James Wise on instead of Sam. Like-for-like swap. Keep things simple.

Spectrum: [sigh] I mean, yeah. That's what I'd have done, too.

Boggy: D-Day isn't quite up for the physical side of playing in the centre. I feel safe saying that.

Spectrum: He's not the player you associate with tackles and interceptions, no. But he's moving the ball around nicely. I think as long as we have most of the possession, he'll do all right there.

Boggy: You're nervous, Spectrum.

Spectrum: Look, you've got to be nervous given the situation in the league. It's been a strange start. I know Max intended to be on the front foot today.

Boggy: Southport haven't let us.

Spectrum: No.

Boggy: Well, let's see what happens here. It's Trick Williams with the ball in the left-back slot. He passes to Youngster. Little noise from Spectrum, there.

Spectrum: The way he turned away from danger. That was slick.

Boggy: I didn't notice, to be honest. But it's with D-Day now. He lends it to Pascal. Again, that bounce pass. It's like he can't work out his feet. Oh, what's this? Message on the chat. Here comes the blunderkind? What does that mean? Oh, blunderkind. That's not nice. The ball's back with Youngster. I have to say, Chester look like a team from a few divisions higher. You coaches have done great work.

Fans: [Excitement.]

Boggy: Now Aff's on the run. He dribbles past one. Holds the ball up. Simple for Brown. Brown holds off a challenge. Passes to Trick. Aff. Brown. Trick. Aff. Brown. Trick and Aff both dart forward! Raffi passes, no! He turns inside, feeds D-Day. Now Brown goes wide. Trick and Aff are back onside. Aff lays it off to Brown. 1-2 with Trick. This is wonderful football!

Fans: [Excitement increases.]

Boggy: Back to D-Day again. He chips it first-time, outside of the foot, cheeky. It spins into the path of Aff. In the six-yard box, Lyons checks his run, wants it cut back. Aff - shoots! There's a huge noise. Fans are screaming for handball! So is Aff! The ref’s given it! [High-pitched] Penalty to Chester! Penalty to Chester! Southport are furious.

Spectrum: That's a clear pen. He'll be lucky not to get a red card for that. He stopped a goal!

Boggy: Who's going to take it?

Spectrum: Henri.

Boggy: D-Day has picked the ball up.

Spectrum: Max will kill him.

Boggy: Max will have to get in the queue. We all remember what Donny did last time he took a penalty in a big match. D-Day's got the ball, standing over the penalty spot to stop the Southport players from scuffing it up. The ref needs to get a grip, here. Lots of mind games going on. Ah, now D-Day is handing the ball over. That's a relief.

Spectrum: He was taking the aggro on himself. Letting Henri clear his head.

Boggy: Are you confident?

Spectrum: [squeakily] Yes.

Boggy: Lyons is ready. The keeper is dancing around, trying to put him off. The French hit man is shooting towards the Hipkiss stand where all the away fans are. They're bouncing around, too. Lyons... scores! [High-pitched] He scores!

Spectrum: Great penalty!

Boggy: Struck it low and hard to the keeper's right. Keeper guessed the right way. No problem! Right in the corner. Chester lead! And now the fans come alive.

Spectrum: And there goes Max.

Boggy: There goes Max? What do you mean?

Spectrum: It's on. It's happening. [Mild shriek.] We're going to win, Boggy!

Boggy: Great enthusiasm, there! Er... all I see is Max Best walking up and down the touchline. Seems... normal, to be completely honest.

Spectrum: That's his shark walk. He smells blood. Trust me. Ah, look, he's ordering them back. He does this. Doesn't want managers seeing all of what we can do in the first half because they've got fifteen minutes to try to work it out. Second half he'll do whatever he's got planned, and they won't have any answers.

Boggy: I'd be tempted to say you were kidding yourself but we've already seen it three times. Message from the chat. This from do_what_thou_wilt_666. 'Bin JR. Max Best for manager!' Now, Spectrum, be honest. Since Max Best has been on the touchline, we've won three in a row. If we hold on here, that's twelve points from twelve. He's single-handedly dragging the club out of the muck. Message from Nigel in Cotton Edmunds: ‘Evans good, Jackie better, Max best.’

Spectrum: [pause] Look, Max would say three of those four wins were at home and all were against teams near the bottom of the table. Teams Jackie would have beat on his own. Matches we should be winning. And he’s right. I wouldn't let him hear you talking like that, Boggy. Max has a high opinion of himself, we all know that, so now imagine how high his opinion of Jackie is. If you put it to Max we should sack Jackie, he'd probably quit on the spot to shut you up. He won't have it. He's in absolute awe of Jackie's training and man management. Max wants to find players like Youngster and let Jackie turn them into stars. Max and Jackie - it's the dream team.

Boggy: The referee's blown for half-time. Max is storming towards the tunnel. Vimsy has intercepted him, reminding him of his promise to take free kicks for the Boost the Budget campaign. Young goalkeepers from all around Cheshire have come to try to save them. Spectrum, what are your plans?

Spectrum: I'm going to find out what he's up to with Pascal and if I'm allowed to say it here.

Boggy: Okay. See you in fifteen. [click] Off air.

...

Boggy: [Huge exhale.] [Sound of a man slapping himself on the cheeks with his mouth slightly open.]

...

Boggy: Christ, I can't take this.

***

Half-time

I was in a mental fury, thoughts travelling through my tunnel vision, replaying the match, checking the stats, plotting, anticipating moves and preparing counter-moves. I absent-mindedly put on my football boots and was led out onto the pitch by two men. They had microphones and were talking a lot of shit. They paused, expectant, with me two yards away from a football. Twenty-five yards away, a lanky goalie was slightly bent over, on his toes, ready for action.

"Shoot?" I said.

Vaguely affirmatory noises penetrated the whirlwind. I took all my fears, worries, and stress, turned them into a ball of heat, sent it down through my leg, into my right foot, and then I twatted the ball like it was to blame.

"Holy shit, Max," said someone.

"Steady on," said another.

I snapped out of it. Smasho and Nice One were emceeing the half-time entertainment. The fans behind the goal were either cowering or had scattered. The goalie was exactly where he had started, but now with an added knee-knocking sound effect.

I reached out for the nearest mic. "Soz," I said. "Just needed to vent."

That got some laughs, and so did the rest of the exhibition. It was part thrilling exhibition of pure ball striking, part clowning - they gave me tasks like facing two goalies, having huge, long walls of mannequins, whatever they could think of. The pièce de résistance was the final shot. They'd collected three of those large circus hoops 'filled' with paper - I think dolphins normally jump through them - and famous former players had to hold them up. I was allowed to move the guys around a little bit, but basically, I had to really rip a curved shot through all three hoops and into the net.

I moved the first guy as far right of goal as I thought I could manage, and when I was ready, Nice One stopped. Pretending to be talking to me and not into the microphone, he said, "Max, seriously, this is crazy. Save something for next year."

I pretended to think about it. "You know what, you're right. The paper might take some of the spin off the ball anyway." So I moved the guy a foot to the left. It was still absurd-looking, but a bit more realistic.

I cleared my mind. For a half a second I was back in Moss Side, Manchester, where I'd gained my powers. I counted to five, listening to the murmur of the crowd. It ceased when I rocked back slightly to begin my run-up.

My shot tore through the first hoop, dead centre. It hit the next left of centre. The third was way left. The shot smacked against the left-hand post and rebounded with a loud CLANG.

The away fans let out a snide, mocking 'aaaah!' which made me laugh. But as the ball came to a rest, the first drops of rain fell. I looked up at the dark clouds. "Oh, that's ominous," said Nice One, as he and the other former players scampered off the pitch.

***

I ambled to the dressing room to check on things. Vimsy mumbled that I didn't need to do anything about D-Day. I took it to mean the rest of the team had laid into him and the matter was closed.

"How's Sam?"

Physio Dean had left Sam alone while he checked the other players. Magnus was also going round looking into the small knocks and complaints the players had. That was kind of ludicrous, since he was our left-back, but at a small team you needed to accept some weirdness. Dean came over. "Concussion, like you said. He's fine. Should be all right for next Saturday. The hardest thing was stopping him from trying to get back out to watch."

"No stimuli," I said, starting to get hot.

"I know, Max," said Dean in an unusually soothing way. "I know. I'm doing it your way."

"What way's that?" I said. Little bit snarky.

Dean did a weird little grin. "The right way."

Vimsy put his hand on my arm. "Max. Trust your staff, now. Come on. It's been a bumpy ride, but you know what we all say."

This was such an obvious set up, but I was curious. "What do you all say?"

"Max knows best."

I counted to five as I breathed in, then shoved it all out of me. "Bunch of nutjobs," I said, walking to the tactics board and flipchart. I was still smiling when I put up the nearest marker, which was the signal to everyone to shut up.

Spectrum burst in with a burger, leading to tons of complaints from the hungry players. "Sorry! I need to know why Pascal's playing right-mid and not doing anything. No offence, mate," he added, talking to the German.

"None taken," I said, because he was actually offending me, if anyone. I slapped the board. "Right. Pascal's there to cut that left-back out of the match. You've noticed they've done absolutely nothing since Pascal came on. Now you know why. We're playing great. Keep it up. They don't have much on the bench. They can change to 3-5-2 and switch one of their strikers. We keep making them run. Easy. They're already blowing, did you notice? Yeah. It's just more of the same, please. Any questions?"

Henri stood. "Can we discuss the tactics?"

"Course."

He looked down, inhaled, then spoke. "It's very clever, what you're doing. And we're winning. It might be enough. But it's such an important game for the club. If the scores are still close near the end, I should like to see our experienced players on the pitch with me."

I nodded. "I understand that. But the way things are, Youngster and Pascal are shutting down most of their attacks."

"Perhaps James Wise instead of Donny. A more natural fit in the centre."

"I expect to use Wisey in the second half."

"Their centre-backs are good. They are not giving me much. A second striker would help." He was anxious! Funny. For all his bluster and as much as he tried to act aloof, he cared. He cared about the club.

"Henri," I said, my smile reshaping my cheeks. "You know I love getting ideas. You know I'm not too proud to ask for help." He nodded. "But I got this." I shuffled around the dressing room looking into the eyes of my soldiers. "You know if I was even slightly worried I'd wind Henri up, get him ready for battle. Listen to this: Henri, mate? I like French wine. French cheese is top. French movies are... well, let's just say I like France."

The biggest laugh came from Youngster.

"All right? No extra motivation needed today." I continued my tour. "The Southport manager is all right. For this level. But he's got the same eleven out there who started on Tuesday. You've run them ragged already, and the rain's coming down. Their legs are getting heavier and heavier. We've barely broken sweat! We're playing great and we've got loads in reserve. This war is won, lads. We're already ahead of where I thought we'd be. We've got our hands on their balls and we're going to squeeeeeeze. I've got plans B, C, and D, that we won't ever need. I'm not going to tell you what they are because you'll get too excited. I want you calm, like you've been. Calm. Steady. Let it happen!"

***

The players went back onto the pitch, but Vimsy held me back, with Jill hovering behind him.

"What's the plan? What have you got up your sleeve?"

A worried look crossed my face. "I was lying. I don't know what to do."

"Fuck," said Jill, then as she sometimes did when she swore, added, "Sorry."

Vimsy nodded, trying to look positive, but some blood had drained from his face. "Right. You got them hyped up, though. It's not what I'm used to, but it worked."

I frowned at them. "Guys. I'm fucking with you. I've got so many tricks up my sleeve I can't even feel my hands. Now will you fucking relax? We're at home to Southport. It's a routine win. Jesus."

***

Second Half

Southport came out fired up, competing hard, snapping into tackles, sprinting for their lives. The sense was that if they could find a quick equaliser, I'd panic and start making mistakes.

I asked for a ball from the nearest ball boy and did some kick ups. Nothing fancy. It was just to send the message - I got this.

A few minutes in and Youngster took a pass and retreated back towards Carl. I burst into a laugh - the absolute perfect move! I felt Southport's hard-working strikers get demoralised. And after ten minutes of calm, controlled play, I was feeling good. If it had been the fifth game of the season or something relatively unimportant like that, I wouldn't have thought twice about it. The only jeopardy came from our position in the league and the series of events that could mean we went into the final three games level on points with Blyth and Bradford.

I rolled the ball towards the dugout and stretched.

Physio Dean came out of the tunnel. "Sam's good. His wife's with him. She won't let him do anything daft. We'll keep him here for a while, then take him home later when it's dark."

I looked up. "Pretty dark now, Dean."

"When it's even darker," he said, pulling his coat around his neck.

"Top stuff. Get in the shelter, mate."

"What about you?"

I pulled my hood over my head. "Comes with in-built protection."

"Right. But you're not using it."

I laughed and pushed the hood off me. I leaned back and let the rain smash into my face. It felt awesome.

He shuffled away, trying to move in a way that stopped water getting inside his clothes. But he came straight back. "MD said to look at the box." Then he rushed off.

So I turned and shielded my eyes from the rain and the floodlights. The Director's Box wasn't all that far away, but the light reflecting on the glass meant I couldn't see anything from my angle. I did an exaggerated shrug to show I couldn't see. In my peripheral vision, I saw movement. A flash of blonde hair. But I couldn't move my eyes. I'd just seen - and locked on to - the menacing, smug visage of Old Nick. The waves of power emanating from him suddenly crashed into me.

I'd felt this before, almost exactly like this, when he'd tried to stop me taking the free kick against Alfreton.

But that time, it was hostile. A warning. A threat. This wave crashing into me was... pleasant.

I scowled at him for some time, then turned away. Started pacing up and down.

What was his plan?

I took another quick glance. He was in the middle of his little patch, with two imps either side of him. Nokia and the tactics imp were wearing earphones and tapping away on laptops.

What did he want?

He wanted me to manage football matches. The imp had said when I won a match, everyone won. Everyone meaning Nick. So he didn't only want me to manage, he wanted me to manage well. So why would he distract me? Make me doubt my plan?

I bit my lip and stared at the pitch. Everything was going great... wasn't it?

***

Selected match ratings:

Robbo 6 (not much work for our goalie to do)

Glenn 6 (the curse didn't reward him for organising the back line, only for his individual contributions like blocks and tackles)

Youngster 8 (mopping up all the second balls and loose passes; with this rain he'd need a bigger mop)

Raffi 6 (doing fine)

Pascal 4 (he had touched the ball maybe four times since he'd come on)

Henri 7 (barely any involvement, but everything he'd done had been neat and tidy and he’d scored the pen)

***

70 minutes

The rain eased off. For some reason, I turned to Nick and when he saw me looking, his head tipped backwards and he did the most cartoonish evil laugh I'd ever seen on a real face. What the...

All the hairs on my neck stood up, which was some achievement given how soggy I was.

***

Transcript from Seals Live, 4:26 p.m.

Boggy: So just over half of the second half gone. It's still Chester having the lion's share of possession, and Southport still not really threatening. I'm very happy to report the rain has eased off. I can finally hear myself think again!

Spectrum: I'm fascinated that neither manager has made a change yet.

Boggy: What would you normally expect in this situation?

Spectrum: Well, the older managers like to pressure inexperienced managers with sudden formations shifts or dramatic substitutions. Southport do probably need to do something like that, to be honest. At one-nil, they're still in the game, and they could get a goal from a corner or set piece, but they aren't creating much.

Boggy: Why doesn't he change it, then?

Spectrum: Maybe he's heard that stuff doesn't work on Max Best.

Boggy: Don't mess with Chesters!

Spectrum: Right. But I'm sure Max isn't happy with one-nil. He's got great options on the bench. I wonder what he's thinking.

Boggy: He's thinking 'it if isn't broke, don't fix it'.

Spectrum: Extremely sure he never thinks that. Ah, here we go.

Boggy: What?

Spectrum: Overload coming on the left.

Boggy: Chester sticking to their 4-1-4-1 formation, playing from left to right, attacking the Harry McNally Terrace. Hasn't been much goalmouth action this half. But now here's Raffi Brown. He's been at the heart of things for Chester. Exchanges a few passes with D-Day. Oh, they don't like that! Nichols tries to barge Brown off the ball, but Brown resists. He plays it away to Youngster, who encourages Trick forward. Trick pushes it to Aff, who takes a touch and waits. The defender isn't sure if he should dive in - nothing's really worked for him today. Aff plays the ball inside to Brown. Yes, the overload is happening now. I can see it! Three players moving to the edge of the penalty box, the left side, calm as you like.

Spectrum: Four. Watch D-Day get closer.

Boggy: Spectrum calls it! There he goes now. He's on the ball. Shapes to pass to Trick, but no!

Fans: [Roar of approval.]

Boggy: D-Day's forward pass, long one, Aff's burst forward! Aff to cross! Lyons in the middle. Cross doesn't come. We go again. Trick. Aff. Trick. Brown. Trick. D-Day.

Fans: [Loud roar of approval.]

Boggy: Southport player slips. Aff takes full advantage. He's in miles of space. Here comes the cross. Lyons! [shriek]

Fans: [Explosive cheer.] [Microphone rattles.]

Boggy: [Shrieking continues.] It's there! Lyons has [inaudible]. Ches [unintelligible]

Spectrum: Aaaaaargh!

Boggy: My word! It's deafening, here. The Deva stadium is bouncing. The atmosphere is UNREAL. Haha! I can't believe this. Two-nil! What a goal! Lyons can't stop scoring!

Spectrum: This formation and way of playing is a dream for a player like him.

Boggy: It's a dream for me, too. It's like watching Brazil! Never thought I'd be able to say that and mean it. Now, what's this?

Spectrum: What?

Boggy: Unless my eyes deceive me, Max Best is angry.

Spectrum: Oh, shit.

Boggy: He's incanDESCENT with rage. One of the fans has really wound him up. Spectrum, can you work out what's going on?

Spectrum: Uh.

Boggy: Southport kick off. They've got a mountain to climb, now. They try to work it to number 3, but Bochum is right in his face! All he can do is pass back to his goalie. Well, you were right, Spectrum. That tactic was unconventional, and Bochum hasn't contributed much with the ball, but he's completely shut down that line of attack. Oh! Oh my word! What's happening now? Max Best is storming off. Where's he going? I - oh! I thought he was going to complain to the assistant referee but he's gone right past him. Where's he going? The corner flag?

Spectrum: Hear the fans?

Main Stand Fans (some): [Max Best's Blue and White Army!]

Spectrum: That was started there. There's five guys there, they've got Max Best scarves.

Boggy: I've never seen one of those.

Spectrum: Me neither. I would have said they didn't exist. Anyway, there's five guys there, and they've stood and started chanting Max Best's Blue and White Army, and loads of people have joined in.

Boggy: And Max does NOT like that. He's halfway round the McNally, now. Harry was another manager who did crazy things, sometimes, as older listeners will remember. He's approaching halfway - there's nothing happening in the game, by the way, the Chester players seem stunned by what's happening, as are we all. Okay he's stopped. He's at the Community Stand opposite us, near the halfway line. He's waving for them to be quiet. They... seem to be obeying him. And now he seems to be chanting something. Oh!

Community Stand: [Jackie Reaper's Blue and White Army! Jackie Reaper's Blue and White Army!]

Boggy: That's lifted the players! Here they come again! Aff's powering forward. Will he cross? He SHOOTS! It's just over. Oh, it's kicking off, here. Max Best is back at the McNally Terrace. He turns to the Community Stand. What's he doing?

Spectrum: Telling them to shush!

Boggy: He is! He's going to conduct the fans! Conduct the stadium! This is wild. [cackles]. This is WILD.

Harry McNally Terrace fans: [Jackie Reaper's Blue and White Army! Jackie Reaper's Blue and White Army!]

Boggy: It's ear-splitting! Now he's sprinting back to the main stand. He's at the first section. He's demanding they chant and they're responding! He's still absolutely incensed. Have you ever seen him like this?

Spectrum: Once when I put sugar in his tea.

Boggy: Er... Brown heads. D-Day cushions it to [inaudible]

All home fans: [Jackie Reaper's Blue and White Army! Jackie Reaper's Blue and White Army!] [We. Are. Staying Up! Said we are staying up!]

Boggy: Pandemonium here at the Deva. It's bedlam. The very soil is shaking.

Spectrum: Southport subs.

Boggy: Okay. Let's look.

Spectrum: They'll go 3-5-2 now.

Boggy: How do you know?

Spectrum: Max said that was the only explanation for who they had on the bench.

Boggy: Wait. Is he a wizard? Is he actually a wizard, though? Ah, that left-back is going off. That's a relief.

Spectrum: Chester subs, now.

Boggy: Ah! Southport blinked first. Who's coming on?

Spectrum: Er... James Wise and Tony Hetherington.

Boggy: And it looks like he's bringing off... Youngster - that's a surprise - and, oh! Pascal Bochum. That's harsh.

Spectrum: He's done his job.

Boggy: That's a hell of a shift he's put in. Talk about thankless tasks. I hope he gets a nice reception. So... I'm trying to work out how this changes the shape. There's two strikers, now. And, er... wow. I have no clue.

Spectrum: [nervous laugh]. 4-2-4.

Boggy: You're joking.

Spectrum: [sigh] The midfield is Raffi and Wisey. Aff left, D-Day right. Henri and Tony up top. He's going for it. Death or glory. [deep sigh]

Boggy: What about Southport? They've got five in midfield. They'll dominate possession.

Spectrum: I know what Max will say. He’ll say: So what?

Boggy: Spectrum, mate, I can't take it. My heart…

Spectrum: This is Chester, now.

Boggy: Southport's manager did one thing well, there. He calmed the crowd down.

Spectrum: Yeah. Good luck with that.

***

I paced up and down the touchline, still raging about Nick's ham-fisted attempt to get Jackie sacked and me put in his place.

Fuck that.

I glared at the pitch. Southport were enjoying a rare spell of possession, and they had a striker who was fresh, hungry, keen to impress. I set Glenn Ryder to mark him and that was the last I ever thought about him.

Aff and D-Day were loitering on the wings, completely unmarked. The Southport manager was staring at the pitch in horror. They'd practised this move to 3-5-2. Probably been very diligent about it, very professional. But they hadn't worked on what to do if someone used 4-2-4 against it.

Because they still didn't know I was a floating megabrain. Did no-one in this league ever do their homework? Well, bad students get punished.

The keeper punts the ball forward.

Ryder steps in front of his man and uses his strength to hold him off.

He plays a simple pass wide to Carlile.

Carlile has licence to run forward for the first time in the second half.

He knocks it forward to D-Day and surges after it.

Carlile overlaps. D-Day hits a long pass across the pitch and runs forward.

Aff controls the pass. He's in acres of space!

He drives forward and looks up.

He's got four targets to aim at!

He fires it low.

The ball skids across the wet turf.

Bodies fly everywhere! The keeper gets nowhere near it.

Carlile is at the back post.

GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

He couldn't miss!

I continued to prowl up and down. I tuned everything and everybody out, and when my players came over to celebrate, I pushed them away, shouting, "We're not done! We're not done!"

When the match resumed, Southport dragged their wide players back, so they were in a 5-3-2 formation. Which they hadn't practised. I set Trick and Carl to 'make forward runs'. I switched Aff to playmaker. I wanted the rest of the match to be non-stop attacks while the fans chanted for Jackie.

And that's what I got.

The ball is played out to Aff.

He has so many options!

He shapes to cross, but checks and plays a simple square ball to Brown.

Brown looks to pass wide, but unleashes a surprise shot.

It goes through the massed defence, splashes off the surface, and nestles into the corner of the net.

GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

His first for the club!

Now, I let the tension leave me. Four-nil, and Chester were safe. The fans were orgasmic. The rain came pouring down again. I turned, and saw five empty seats behind me, and the end of a blue and white scarf, abandoned by its former owner.

As Southport retreated even more, I switched to a defensive 4-4-2. We would let the clock run down, and I'd hand the team back to Jackie, virtually injury-free, morale high, even more of a united, functional team than the one he’d given me.

At the final whistle, I shook hands with the Southport guy, then sprinted down the tunnel to get changed into some dry clothes.

***

I did my media duties for the last time in a long time. I'm pretty sure I said nothing of interest.

I went into the dressing room and bathed in the noise of our celebrations. But after a couple of minutes, I got the lads to quiet down. My last speech to them.

"Guys, we've had ups and downs. Like in a good book, we're ending on a high. I'll take a little wedge of the credit, but more goes to Jackie, and yeah, some to Ian Evans. But you guys, bloody hell. The crowd were going nuts today, I lost my head a couple of times, but you kept cool. Kept playing. The teamwork's great. The togetherness is good. The football has been absolutely sensational. Some of the passing, some of the movement, hiss!" I mimed touching a hot stove. "So enjoy yourselves. Jackie's back next week. Finish strong, because next season we're going to fuck some shit up." A cheer. "Contract talks begin Monday." An even bigger cheer.

Henri grabbed my shoulders and stared into my eyes, then pulled me close and hugged me. "Thank you, Max Best."

"Thank you, bro."

"I will be outside your office at 9 a.m.," he said. His jokes were so weird, sometimes.

"Hey, Max." Raffi.

"Sup?"

"That was amazing. I'm glad I know you."

"The feeling's mutual. Maybe you can get your dad off my case? I don't need more enemies."

"It's not serious. He really liked Ian Evans, is all."

I rubbed the back of my head. I'd expended so much psychic energy I was starting to get dizzy. "I'm allowed to make a few mistakes, right? That's... that's part of learning, isn't it? Part of growing up?"

He gave me a trademark lopsided grin. "You don't make that many. That's why they stand out."

Finally, I said goodbye to Pascal and Youngster. "You guys were fantastic," I said. "I'm really proud of you. Two teenagers helped bring us to safety. And next year, you'll help us win the league."

"And the cup," said Youngster. "I read your match programme."

"Let's just win every match we ever play. What do you think?"

"Yes, Max," said Pascal. Most of the outside world wouldn't know what he'd done today. They'd call him names, laugh at him, call him a waste of money. But everyone in this dressing room knew what he'd done. What he'd sacrificed, how he'd contributed. Vimsy was looking at him with new eyes. The dinosaur had finally seen the space invader for what he was - the ultimate team player. Fast, diligent, a man you could trust.

"Dean," I said, before I headed to the bar. "I'd like to say bye to Sam. Should I leave it?"

"If you can leave it, leave it."

I nodded. Smiled. "I'll see him Monday morning."

Dean hesitated. "Max, er... I went past your office to check it out. For Sam, like. Er... I think you deserve a bigger space."

"Ha. I hadn't thought about it. Maybe I'll get them to give me the boardroom."

"If you asked now, I think they'd say yes."

I grinned. He was probably right. I stepped into the manager's office to take a minute. I closed my eyes and concentrated on my breathing until my head stopped spinning, until the ringing in my ears quietened.

I had kept a lot of promises. Now I needed to keep one more.

I headed towards the Blues Bar, where I would buy drinks until my cash ran out.

***

The room was as noisy and chaotic as the last twenty minutes of the match. I ploughed into the mass of bodies, through the limbs and the dancing men and the singing women. I got to the bar, elevated myself and held up a twenty pound note.

"Drinks on me!" I yelled.

To a stony, frosty silence. One massive, hulking brute jabbed a sausagey finger at me. "Your money's no good here, Max Best. You don't buy drinks in this city. This city buys drinks for you."

"Come on," I said. "I promised."

"BEST!" yelled one of the guy's mates. "Best will tear you apart! Again!"

And then they were off. No reasoning with them. Someone handed me a beer. I took a sip. And then I saw the one thing that had been missing. The last piece in the puzzle. I scrambled across the room, through the ecstatic fans, in the direction of a young boy with large, open eyes.

But on the way there was even more shit to deal with. First, I saw Sullivan, the only boy I'd cut from the youth system. Or, more accurately, the only boy I'd cut who I hadn't let back in. He should have been there with us at Das Tournament. His name should have been in Beth's article, alongside Tyson's and Benny's. His dad was there, too. Of course - they were Chester fans. But no. Not 'of course'. In their shoes, I'd never have set foot in the stadium again. Had they come to scowl at me? Because that's what they were doing.

And, even more crazily, when a certain group of dancers moved left, and another few people moved right, I spotted, in the far corner of the bar, a surly, grumpy-faced couple. I'd never seen the man before, but he'd been cast in the same mould as the guy who wouldn't let me pay for drinks: oversized, massive neck folds, huge hands. Such men were ten a penny.

But in the seat next to him was the referee. Not the cheerful, almost-competent ref from tonight's game. No, the one who had yellow carded Dani for being deaf. Who had been humiliated in the Daily Mail. My cheeks blazed with righteous indignation.

I had a choice - talk to the boy, or berate the woman and make her leave?

The woman had suffered enough - possibly. But the boy. I made my way over to him, and he tugged at a man's jacket. The guy turned, saw me, and beamed. For once I had no hesitation in shaking a stranger’s hand. "Max Best! What on earth are you doing in here?"

"Promised to buy drinks," I said, having to all but shout because we were so close to a speaker. "Who's this little guy?"

"He's called Max! Would you believe it?"

"Not really."

"He is! It's his first match. What a first match to come to!"

First match! It had really happened! I felt my knees go weak, but I managed to keep things together. Just. "Do you think you'll come back, Max?"

He nodded. "Dad likes Chester, but mum likes United. I saw you do free kicks. Are you a player and a manager?"

"Sort of," I confessed. "I'll play next season. But... only if you come and watch. Otherwise there's no point."

He looked up at his dad with that 'is he joking now?' face kids are so good at. "Okay!"

I bent down. "Hey Max. Can I have a selfie with you?"

"You with me? Ye-ah!"

We took two. One with my phone, one with Max's dad's.

And that was it. I'd done it. Brought Chester to safety AND started on my stretch goal of making this club the place local kids wanted to come.

I floated away, but then reality hit once more, as it does. MD was rushing around the Blues Bar, trying to find me. I watched from above as he put his hands on my shoulders. "Max," he said, from a stretchy distance away. I snapped back into my body. "Max," he repeated.

"What?"

"Er... first of all, I want to thank you for the most amazing evening of my life. It was better than Les Miserables, and I mean that. You're... you're incredible. God, I just want to get hammered and flirt with women you think are out of my league. Thing is, Jackie just called. He wants you to be first team manager."

"What?"

"He thinks you should take over. He wants me to announce it, like, now."

The dizzy, spinning sensation returned with a vengeance. This was Old Nick's doing! Somehow he'd planted this insane idea in Jackie's head, and the madman had gone with it. "No."

MD was confused. "Max, he's going to quit. He's going to force us."

"No-one tells me what to do," I said, getting steamed up. "We need him. If you let him go, I'll never forgive you. You know what? Fuck that. I'm going to talk to him right now. Right now. You hear me? Get back on the phone, and you tell him I'm coming. And if he quits, I quit. Are we a hundred percent clear about that?"

"Max, no. It's... he's..."

But I was already storming out. Out of the stadium into the alley. Into the torrential rain. All I could hear was rain. I took three purposeful steps towards the car park, then hesitated. At the end of the alley was a guy wearing a black balaclava. I suddenly remembered that I'd entered the stadium by this door to bypass some potential threats. And the stadium had been full of people who hated me. They were packed in like sardines.

Terror coursed through me like a bolt of lightning, but then I relaxed. Idiot, Max! It wasn't a guy in a balaclava. It was someone I knew. Someone wonderful. I stepped forward again, foot splashing in a hidden puddle, and the man was suddenly running towards me, hand raised.

What?

Under the sound of the rain and the streams of water running along the sides of the alley, I heard something else. Steps. Movement. The hand waved harder, trying to signal - trying to warn. Too late, I tried to throw myself forward, or sideways, or something.

I didn't feel the blow. Everything went black. It was like falling asleep.

A well-earned rest after a long, hard season.

***

[Take two minutes here to simulate the awesome cliffhanger experience that I am NOT making you go through because you're my favourite reader. Yes, you.]

***

Epilogue

April 1

Soccer star, 22, in A&E after brutal attack

Chester FC's Director of Football, Max Best, has been rushed to Countess of Chester Hospital with massive head injuries after being attacked outside the Deva Stadium. Best, who had just led the team to its fourth win in a row, was struck with a blunt object, apparently on his way to the car park. His injuries are described as 'very serious', though his condition is not thought to be immediately life-threatening.

A Ghanaian man has been detained in connection with the incident. Police are not looking for other suspects.

THE END

(of book 3, relax)

***

[max playing stats]

same as book 2

[max manager stats]

Chester Mens

National League North

Played 3, Won 3 (Goals For 7, Goals Against 0)

Manager Points: 135

Chester Women

Friendlies

Played 5, Won 2 (Goals For 11, Goals Against 17)

Manager Points: n/a