11 - The End [T1] (Patreon)

11.

"This is not the end of the season, nor is it the beginning of the end of the season. But perhaps it is the end of the beginning. Of the season."

Winston Churchill

***

Before heading home, we took a detour to Henri's old house. Henri and the Brig were desperate to know what I'd seen at Darlington's training session, but I didn't want to waste energy by explaining it to them and then again to the rest of the squad. In the end, Henri's whingeing became unbearable, so I told them about Folke Wester and the two new signings. I said we all had a lot to think about, that the war would be long and bitter, but that in the end, we would surely triumph. Then I suggested they shut up so I could concentrate on what I was going to say to the new homeowner.

A woman peered from behind the net curtains in the front room - she'd heard the car crunch up the drive.

"It's almost certainly the mother. I should do the talking," said Henri. "She bought the house from me."

"You never met her, did you? It was all done through solicitors. You have no more relationship with her than I do."

"If I may be so bold," said the Brig. "I should do it. I effuse a soothing air of trustworthiness. My popularity with housewives is the stuff of legend."

"Right, but I'm Max Best," I said, and they didn't like that. Henri and the Brig decided they'd knock, then wait to see which one of them the woman spoke to.

The door opened and a woman poked her head out just far enough to check us out. We were hovering a couple of yards away from the door so we'd be slightly less intimidating. Henri gave her a crooked smile that I guessed was supposed to be sexy and mysterious. The Brig was smiling, too, in his own way. I think - pretty sure - he was trying to make his eyes twinkle.

The woman's slight frown of suspicion vanished when she saw... drum roll... me.

"Max Best!" she cried.

I stepped closer - WINNER of the contest, boo-ya! - and offered my hand. "You must be Mrs. Green."

"You used to live here. We found out after we moved in. The neighbours told us."

"Oh?" I said, confused. I looked at the houses around us. "No-one ever spoke to me. I thought they were worried I'd have mad parties all the time."

"No, they wanted to leave you alone," she said. "You wanted to keep yourself to yourself, they said, and that was understandable what with you being a big football star." Henri made a noise like a sigh.

"We couldn't come in, could we?" I asked.

"Oh! It's an awful mess. You didn't leave anything, I don't think. But we've kept your mail."

"I have mail here? I didn't think about that."

"Of course you can come in. But why did you come?"

"I buried something in the back garden. Want to dig it up. I'll need to borrow a big spoon."

She smiled. "You did come for the mail. How about a tea?"

We went through, into the familiar space. They'd put all different furniture in. I preferred how Henri had it.

The mum kept chatting away. "Yeah, they're lovely, the neighbours. And I know you. You're Henri Lyons. The vendor."

He was ludicrously pleased to be recognised. "You're the buyer. Your signature is very charming. Very elegant. I'm something of a graphologist," he added, as though that would make him irresistible.

"And this is John Smith," I said. "Assistant Manager of Chester Football Club. Listen, when I was here, the tree in the garden was all dormant and that. I never saw it with leaves on. Can I go look at him?"

The familiar moment when my weirdness met a normo's expectation of convention. "The tree? Oh, of course. I mean, why not?"

I waited for her to open the patio doors, and we stepped through. The garden looked the same, but there was a small football goal and several balls scattered around. I smiled at them, then went to the tree.

It looked very tree-y. It had started to shed its leaves, and the little fruit things had turned brown. The shade on the grass was dappled - a word I learned three minutes into the first gardening programme I ever watched and had heard in every gardening programme since, but never in the real world. With a bit of wind moving through the leaves that were clinging on, it was very peaceful. Very pleasant.

"Good tree," I said, eventually. "I love how craggy it is."

"Is that the right word, Max?" said Henri.

"I mean... it's like a tree in a fairy tale. Not just with a straight trunk. It's grown the way it had to grow. For example," I said, bending under it to show one twist of a branch. "This is where someone tried to murder it, and it's had to, like, re-learn how to walk but it's coming back stronger and smarter than ever. And this branch is its relationship with its star striker, which is nice and placid now that he's promised not to get sent off for doing dumb shit. And these roots here are the months of work he did turning the team into a winning machine."

"Is this tree your Picture of Dorian Gray?" said Henri.

"Dorian Gray?" I said. "Who does he play for?"

Henri smiled, but the mum wasn't sure to what extent we were joking. The Brig came out with four cups of tea. "I took the liberty of finishing, Mrs. Green."

"Oh, lovely," she said, clearly not used to men helping out around the house.

We sipped tea and I sighed, pretty happy. Yeah, Darlington had massively strengthened their team and were a major, major threat, but I'd been planting trees in the wilderness and they were coming into bloom - Raffi, Youngster, Pascal. My tree of knowledge was growing - soon I'd buy either the Injuries or Morale perk. What else did trees symbolise? Family trees? The guy had said I could have kids. My mum was doing well. What else? The dappled shade was... the atmosphere in the Deva stadium? That was a step too far. The tree theme was done. Close the thread, archive the chat.

"Tree," I said, which was intended to draw a line under our visit. Signal that it was over. Inexplicably, the others didn't understand that.

"How did you recognise Max so quickly?" wondered Henri.

"My son Tommy's a big Darlo fan. He used to be for Newcastle but he's off them, now. He's got posters of you on the wall; he cried when you went to Chester. But he's stuck with Darlo. His dad's made up, takes him to every home game. It's been amazing for their relationship. We're not sure about this Folke Wester. There was a rumour you were coming back to take over as manager. When the old one, I don't know his name, was let go, you turned up that morning. People said you were there to take the job, but you didn't. Wester, I don't feel sorry for him, not really, but he's living in your shadow."

There was one less Newcastle fan in the world because of me. Had I heard that right? Suddenly I was buzzing. In the mood for mischief. Folke Wester wanted people in Darlington to talk shit about me. Think the worst of me. Good luck with that! "Your son. Is he at school?"

"Yeah."

"Which one?"

"Max," said Henri, in a warning tone. "Whatever you're thinking, stop thinking it."

"What?" I said, finishing my tea, face full of innocence. "I'm just politely interested."

***

Five minutes later, I was peering into a school classroom but couldn't see the target. The Brig had a look. "There he is. Right aisle, back. Class is in alphabetical order, no doubt."

"Top," I said, knocking on the door and entering. About half the kids gasped.

"Yes?" said the teacher, who was the only person who didn't enjoy what followed.

What followed was perfectly normal. Football star makes unannounced visit to boring lesson. The usual.

***

Fifteen minutes later, I relaxed back into the Brig's Volvo, sighed happily, and explained what I was thinking. Henri blew air through his cheeks and looked away, but the Brig seemed impressed. He got thoughtful.

I sent Emma some video files and a request. Could she match this footage to a script I'd write?

Emma: Can it wait till weekend? Dad's got me doing extra to make up for staying longer on hols.

Me: I can get Sumo to do it.

Emma: You mean you can ASK Sumo if he has the TIME and INCLINATION to work for free. Again.

Me: That's what I said.

Emma: I would like to do it.

Me: There's no hurry. Before November is all.

Emma: Sigh. Before November 11th?

Me: What a strange thing to say. So specific. Remembrance Day? We're not at war.

Emma: I know that's when you're playing Darlo.

Me: Is it? Anyway, thanks babes!

***

Whizzing back to Chester, I opened the mail the Brig had remembered to take. Half was junk, because half of everything is junk, but there were a few letters from well-wishers. Randos, mostly, but one was on Man City stationary. I skipped to the end, expecting it to say 'from Sandra' or 'Meghan'. But it was from a dude called Patricio. I had a player profile for someone with the same name as him, but it took me ages to remember why.

We'd met the day I'd toured the Man City Campus. Patricio had been tickling free kicks into the net, top bins every time, and I'd done some light showing off. I hadn't thought about the guy since, but apparently I'd left more of an impression on him.

"What is it?" said Henri, noticing my shift in mood.

I explained it to him. Said these Man City fucks always made it hard to hate them. "But I don't get why he sent it to Darlington."

"He got your address from Kisi," he said.

"That's it. Amazing. You really would make a good detective. We should do an escape room. Me, you, the Brig, and..." I tried to think who the optimal fourth member of the group would be.

"Emma," said Henri.

"Why? Little hands?"

"No. If we don't escape the room within an hour, at least we spent an hour with Emma."

"Good point."

"That was a smooth line," mused Henri. "Next time we do a dual date, bring up escape rooms so I can say it again. With my date's name, of course."

The Brig spoke. "I have to withdraw from the team, sir. I don't do well locked in confined spaces. There's a high risk the scenario would trigger another lethal psychotic episode."

Bit of a nervous silence. "You're joking," said Henri. "He's joking."

"Very good, sir."

"Henri, I think what he's saying is, he's shit at escape rooms and would be ashamed to flounder and fail in front of us."

"Regretfully, the opposite," sighed the Brig. "Escape rooms are yet another avenue of pleasure I may not drive along. My skills and training mean puzzles designed for the average member of the general public are no more challenging than simply opening the door and walking out."

"Come on," I said. "You're not that good."

Another sigh. "I wish that were true." He pursed his lips. "I'm better suited to designing such puzzles." He tapped the steering wheel a few times, uncharacteristically. "The world of football has been more challenging than I anticipated. There is much to learn. Many variables. Formations, types of players, the impact of pitch and weather, the caprice of the referees and even the game's administrators. And now the meta-game surrounding the game itself. Today I have seen disguise, espionage, and the social media equivalent of dropping propaganda pamphlets on disputed territory. I didn't realise we were engaging in total war."

"We're not," I said. "Darlo is my house. I've popped out for a minute and some prick is in my fridge eating my fruit corner yoghurts. I'm allowed to give him a slap. That's the law."

"It's not," said Henri. "You should be careful, my friend. People might think you're really interested in a return to Darlington. Darlington Football Club," he added, since I'd played for the rugby version, too.

"I wouldn't want anyone to think that, would I?" I laughed. As long as I was massively popular in Darlington, Folke Wester would never feel secure in his job. And insecure people made mistakes. For once, a bit of bear-poking was in Chester's best interests. If playing Mario Kart had taught me anything about football management, it was that the best way to slow the leader down was to throw some banana skins their way. "I like the idea of destabilising my enemies, though. John, tell me more about total war."

***

Back in Chester, after their late start, the guys did a simplistic session - some fitness stuff, couple of rondos, passing drills, then small-sided games. Henri ran to join in, having missed the beginning, but not the end of the beginning. Quick showers all round - Henri was furious that I sent the Brig to get him after a mere ten minutes - and into the war room. I mean, the meeting room.

The team was intrigued - why all the intrigue?

"All right. Let's whizz through this. I've just been to Darlington to spy on our rivals and their two big-money signings. Long story short, they've gone from having the worst left-hand side in the league to the best. Bloody Tranmere giving them a cash injection," I said, shaking my fist at an imaginary cloud. MD had come, and he dropped his forehead into his hand. He knew I was involved - both players had been at Henri's house when MD and I had watched the As It Was video for the first time.

I turned to an invisible flipchart next to me. "Based on what I've seen and the data and all that, I'm moving Darlo from third in the power rankings..." I pretended to slide their name plate up. "To first."

"How good are the new players?" said Pascal.

"Very good. Hurts is the best left back in the league. He is potentially, temporarily, the best player in the league. Dicks is excellent, but Aff will overtake him soon." The left back was CA 65, and the left mid CA 60. They brought Darlo's average CA from 48 to almost 54. "Folke Wester is a good DM. He's got good positioning, passing, all that stuff." Wester had CA 50, PA 101. Decent lower league player, but judging by his career stats, which showed he'd played more than forty games a season for most of his career, he had worked hard to maximise his ability and stay as important as poss for as long as poss.

He was a good manager, too. I'd only seen a few managers since I'd unlocked the Staff Profiles, but he was by far the best. High in Motivating, Tactics, and Judging Player Ability. He didn't seem interested in Judging Player Potential, and his preferred formation was 4-4-2. That was interesting - by copying my idea, he was stepping outside his comfort zone. 4-1-4-1 suited him as a player, but not so much as a manager. I wondered if that would be a factor in the final reckoning. The league could come down to small details like that.

I continued.

"But most of all, they're aggressive. They're going to go in hard, every match, and they're going to get away with it because the refs are shit. So it's a clash of styles. They are an old team. A win now team for a win now manager. In a couple of years, they're going to fall off a cliff and we'll never hear from them again. They're physical, so it's all about duels, and when they've smashed teams up, they'll overpower them in the last twenty. All right? That's them.

"We, Chester, are a team of artists. Of artisans. We are a band of brothers. We - "

"Max," said MD, looking at his watch. "Can you hurry up like you promised?"

"I'm just saying we don't waste our windfalls on guys with no resale value. We trust in youth, believe in youth, and that's why we signed Ryan Jack." A good mix of guffaws and snorts followed that. Pleasing. My cheeky humour was diffusing the bad news. The guys were with me. They were showing me on the training pitches that they were soldiers. Why had Old Nick made me think of traitors? "The season's going to be harder than I thought, but only slightly. We're lucky that September has loads of winnable matches. We can go on a run now. We need to go on a run now.

"Last thing. Football experts will say we've got too many young players and there will be mistakes and we'll drop points. Not sure about that, but whatever. Darlo are going with experienced hot-heads." I glanced at Henri, thought about making a joke, but his pained expression was already funny enough. "They will get red cards, they will miss games, the backups are shit, they'll drop points doing their strategy, too. Glenn, you're unhappy."

Glenn nodded. "No, Max, I was just thinking... But it doesn't change anything, right? We try to win every game and we train hard, that's the plan."

"Absolutely, and let me say that you've all been training like bosses. Trick - I see it; you've stepped up. Well and truly noted. Ben, superb. Raffi, tireless.

"So I thought it'd be interesting for you guys to hear all that, but mostly I wanted this meeting because I realised I could just go and watch Darlo whenever I wanted. If I can scout teams on a random weekday morning, that's huge." I looked at the league table on my phone. "There are still teams in this division I've never seen. Hands up if you ever played for South Shields. No-one? Warrington Town? Gerald, you did? Amazing. Is training there like this one, where you can just walk in?"

"Well, there's no fence or anything," said my overpaid centre back. "But... you're going to spy on them?"

"Spy? Like in a baseball cap and false moustache? Please be serious. I want to watch them for ten minutes. Get a feel for the levels. See what the facilities are like, too."

"You could look at the facilities after we play them," he said. I got the feeling he was upset by my idea.

"What's the problem? This is public land, here, and it is in Darlington, too. What if I wanted to go see my old mate on reception? Diana. Maybe Dana. Dinah, at the outside. What if I want to go see my close friend Dinah? Am I not allowed?"

MD stepped forward. "You remember Spygate, Max. Leeds sent a guy to spy on Derby County. He was caught in a bush, there was a big fuss about it. The EFL made a rule that teams aren't allowed to watch training sessions from other teams within 72 hours of a fixture."

The EFL started with League Two. We were not subject to EFL rules. "Are we in the EFL now? Did I get isekaied into my own body, two years in the future?"

MD wasn't amused. "I don't want that kind of drama around Chester, Max."

Some of the players were nodding. "What the shit," I said, maturely. I frowned and glared at something. "Fine. I've seen York, I've seen Darlo. Kiddies will be tough but I'll go in blind if it makes you clowns happy. Turn off the radar! Fly straight into the thunderstorm!"

I glared at the flipchart that wasn't there.

"York, Darlo, Kidderminster. Everyone else we can slap." I bit my thumbnail. I wanted to go and watch teams not just to find out their latest CAs and devise tactical plans for our match, but to scout their staff and flesh out my database of players. If I went to watch every team in our league train, I'd get to see all their reserves and maybe some youth team players, not just the first eleven and subs. In the summer, when contracts ended, I could snap up all the talented ones while the rest of the league was on holiday. "What about the National League?" I said.

"What about it?" said MD.

"Is it 'cheating' to go and scout those teams and see how they do training?"

"Of course not. We're not in the same league as them."

"We will be next year."

"Yes, but... But it's not cheating. How can it be?"

"Great. Hands up if you've ever played for a team currently in the National League?" Some hands went up. "Top. Talk to the Brig. Describe in tedious detail how you drive there, what the car park's like, do you turn left or right at the pitches, where do the goalies train, where's the medical room. All right?"

I was about to change the topic completely when Ryan Jack spoke. "What about other teams? Do you want to watch dem?"

"Other teams?"

"Everton."

"I'd love to see Everton training, yeah. That'd be amazing. But I doubt I can just walk in off the street with my baseball cap and fake moustache. I've seen documentaries. They've got those little boxes in the car parks and there's a man and you have to tell him the password and then he raises the barrier. The password when I went to Man City was Hail Hydra, but they've probably changed it by now."

Ryan was shaking his head, which for him was the equivalent of uproarious laughter. "Get yourself invited."

I put my phone to my ear. "Hello, is that Everton? Can I come and watch you train please? Sorry, where should I stick it? How far up?"

More head shaking. "I'll get you an invite."

I pointed at him. "Get me into an Everton training sesh and I'll give you... a joker. That you can use to get out of one session, media duty, or kidnapping."

"All right."

Henri spoke. "Can I have the same if I get you into Reading?"

"Absolutely. Offer is for everyone. Talk to the Brig." The players were buzzing. Most hadn't played at big clubs, but many knew someone who did. They could try to set something up. "I should tell you about tomorrow night's game. Hereford, at home. 4-1-4-1, control the midfield, control the tempo. Second half bring on our young whippersnapper for his home debut. Ryan, I was thinking if you scored a goal you could, like, touch your toes as a celebration."

"I can touch my toes, boss."

"Top. Prove it. Saturday's home to Bradford Park Avenue. They might be the weakest team in the league and we'll have Henri back, so you might as well go full out tomorrow. Run up the score, put some miles in your legs. Final lineup TBC, depending on certain injury updates and whatnot. I'll text you later."

I looked at the notes I'd scribbled in the car. The Brig's Volvo was very smooth, but still. "Erm... trying to read my handwriting. I think this says, who wants to volunteer to spend time with a hot blonde?" Most hands went up. "This session is being livestreamed to your girlfriends." Some hands went down. "Too late now, you dicks! Right. If I can volunteer Ryan, Henri, and... huh. Angles, did you ever get a boot sponsorship?"

"Gloves, yeah," said my goalie coach. He'd been at some biggish clubs in his youth.

"Ah, mint. I'm going to add you, if you don't mind. You're allowed to cry off, but you'll enjoy it. My friend Ruth, former board member. You know her. She's got her first client his first move, and now he's all hyper about getting a boot deal."

Henri exploded. "He hasn't even played a minute of professional football!" There was a lot of laughter for that. Our older players thought the young 'uns were ridiculous.

"She can handle him. But at the same time, she wants to be prepared. So you three handsome gentlemen are going to give her an education in sponsorships and boot deals and glove deals and all that. If you have an old contract you don't mind showing her, that'd be top. Basically, she's going to start schmoozing these companies so she's ready for when she has an actual star on her books. And it's good for us, because maybe a few spare boots will find their way down here."

There was utter delight at these words. Ecstasy. Even fucking Pascal, the most level-headed kid of all time, lost his shit. Free boots! Swoon.

"Jesus Christ," I said. "That was odd. I think I'll be talking about that moment in therapy. More volunteers, please."

"What's it for?" said Aff.

"Just fucking volunteer," I said. Half the hands went up. "Put your hands down. Look, I'm pretty busy. I'm managing three competitive matches this week. Is that sustainable? Of course it is, it's a piece of piss. But the other four days I want to focus on me and my needs. I'm still in recovery mode, even though it doesn't feel like that because I'm absolutely killing all aspects of my life, including flossing, which I remembered this morning. Okay?

"But I haven't been to a Chester Knights game, and I haven't been to an under whatevers match. You know I've been training with the twelves, and next week I'm going to the fourteens. So those little shits have been basking in the sunlight of my attention, but the older groups, not so much. I'm with the women in some godforsaken part of the country on Sunday," I said.

The Brig interrupted. "Nantwich."

"Yeah. Christ knows where that is. Fucking Mexico or somewhere."

"It's in Cheshire. Half an hour."

"Oh! Nice. So, look. If you're going to the zoo with your kids, could you pop by and watch the Knights first? Or go to the sixteens at full time and pretend you were there for the whole thing. If just one of you went, that'd honestly be super relaxing for me."

Glenn said, "Someone will be there, boss."

"Thanks." I rubbed my hands through my hair. "That's it."

"Boss," said Glenn. "Er... we have things to say."

"To me? That's awfully uppity." It wasn't uppity, but I did like saying that word.

Ryan Jack spoke first. "The Bad Boys drill. Some lads said they didn't always know what was a Bad Boy and what was a Sad Boy. We should film training so we can review things like that."

"Totally," I said. "But when I asked Spectrum to cost me a plan for proper cameras around the pitch, he said it'd be like ten grand, minimum. It has to wait."

Ryan nodded. He knew we were poor. "Sometimes a phone on a pole is good enough."

"Sure but I still need to get Spectrum to cut things together. He's already working 110%. But video of the sessions. Got it. Noted. We can talk about spending some of our prize money on some cameras and a work experience kid. Oh, there's more?"

Sam said, "You said we could say if we didn't like the drills and that." I glanced at Vimsy and Jude, and Sam noticed. "No, it's not that we don't like what we do. It's set pieces. We don't train them enough. We should do much more than we're doing."

I looked at Vimsy. He nodded. He and most of the players agreed. "All right."

I scratched the back of my neck. My approach to set pieces was to take them and score. And if we followed my tactical plans to the letter, we'd win every game ten-nil and wouldn't need to worry about set pieces. But in the real world, dead-ball scenarios were a little more important than I wanted them to be. It was undeniable that I'd neglected an important part of our training mix.

"Get together in groups and talk about your favourite set pieces. Talk about how we attack and defend. Let me give you a couple of basic defensive principles - we never have everyone back defending. Ever. If Pascal's playing, I want him on the halfway line ready for a break. I want Ryan just outside the box so he can send long, deadly passes or use his Scouse wiles to get someone sent off. Everything else is up for discussion.

"When your mini-groups are done, get together as a whole group, talk through what you want to practice. Don't make final decisions until you've spoken to Spectrum. He loves a bit of data munching. If you want to have defenders on both posts from corners, he might dig up a stat that says it's pointless. Maybe you still want to do it that way, but I want it discussed and debated. Er... when you've got good routines and everyone's happy, get me little diagrams. I need to know who's up and who's down."

Henri stood up. "Max, are you giving control of the set pieces to the team?"

I shrugged. "I guess? Yes. Power to the people. To be honest, I'm not that interested. One day we'll have a specialist set piece coach. Until then, I can't imagine being that bothered. When I'm playing, I'll just shoot most of the time."

That reminded me that I currently had no objective way of knowing who should take my free kicks and corners. One thing I had always wanted to do but never had time for was a proper set piece trial.

"Ryan's our default set piece taker now, but let's do some data mining. Put a fucking... melon on a stick by the penalty spot and see who can hit it the most. Tell me who's better than Ryan, or who's next best or whatever. Forget what you think. Let the melon decide."

Henri spoke again. "So who is in control, Max? Us or the melon?"

"This is an art slash science slash belief thing, dude. If you can't hit a melon from thirty yards, why are you asking to take my corners? Know what I mean? Just go with it."

Vimsy shuffled forward. "But Max! You want us to do all that today? I don't know how to choose a melon! Is it the same as an avocado?"

I laughed. "No hurry. You can have..." I glanced at Henri, looking for help. He raised two fingers. "Two years?"

"Two weeks, Max."

"Two weeks to give me a ranking of who should take corners, direct free kicks, indirect free kicks. At the same time, you can have one of my skills sessions per week to do set pieces until I get bored and change it back." That was actually perfect - it would let me release Spectrum from first team coaching duties and let him get back to his actual job. "But if we're going to do this, let's do this Chester style. Is everyone willing to donate an afternoon a week to do extra set piece shit?" No complaints. "All right. Vimsy, what do you think? Thursdays?"

"Yep."

"Done. Thursdays for the rest of the month." I hesitated. "I need a catchprase for this. Jean-Luc Picard had 'make it so'. Hmm. 'Get to work, you slags!' No, you're volunteering for extra sessions. Should be nice. Classy. Let's go with an old faithful. So let it be written, so let it be done."

***

As I'd told my players, matches were going to come thick and fast, so I had a choice to make. Did I want to take care of my physical well-being or go nuts on XP growth?

Growing my abilities as a manager would be helpful, of course. But the squad was fixed, probably for the whole season. I had seven formations and I could see match ratings and what my opponents were doing. I was pretty overpowered for the sixth tier.

Any match was a potential banana skin, but there were only a few we'd start as genuine underdogs. Two against Darlington, two against Kidderminster, and one more against York. If I could play in those games, and play well, we'd run away with the league.

I needed to be able to play.

So I didn't go looking for extra matches to watch - there were fewer options because of the international break, anyway. I would use my free Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays to train with the women, and Tuesdays and Thursdays with the under fourteens. I'd re-evaluate in a couple of weeks, because the sooner I could get to the under sixteens, the better. There was a big drama going on between two camps.

The first camp included the Wizard of Us alumni and the other players who bought into the team-first ethos. The other camp was Noah Harrison, who was apparently considered so obnoxious that even Future didn't want to hang out with him. It surprised me - Noah had been sound in Tenerife. But I resisted calls to go and intervene. I couldn't do everything. Spectrum, Tyson, Benny, or someone needed to step up.

On Monday night I trained with the women - staying away from Dani, who was weird and annoying and not improving anywhere near as fast as her talent would have implied.

I was still miles off where I used to be, but the basics were all in place. Long jogs, short sprints, running on a diag, defensive crabbing, hops, accurate short passes, decent medium passes. Still lacking accuracy and power on shots, and Beckhams and cannonballs felt like months away. Headers? Pencil those in for 2030.

After I'd showered, dressed, and had a long chat with Jill about the upcoming cup game, I got in the car and let the Brig drive me home.

"Your next accommodation is nearly habitable," he said.

I laughed. "You make it sound like it was a wreck." He didn't reply. "John. Tell me it wasn't a wreck."

"I already used my amusing misdirect for the week, sir."

"What exactly is this place?"

"It's... secure. It's what estate agents call... spacious and full of potential."

"Where is it?"

"It's secluded."

"Is it full of ghosts?"

"I'm sure the reports of chains rattling and incessant whispering are merely foxes at play."

"Well. Sounds absolutely charming."

***

Match 8 of 46: Chester FC versus Hereford FC

From the Desk of Max Best: A Proclamation

They say James Joyce exhausted the limits of the English language when writing Ulysses. And I, too, having written a few of these programme notes, feel that I have exhausted the limits of the medium.

Welcoming our guests is futile. Yes, we wish Hereford well in a general, non-footballing sense, and hope they have a safe journey home. But they ain't leaving here with no three points, so they might come welcome but they goin' home hopping mad, let me tell ya.

So why even write that they're welcome? For word count? I'm the manager and the manager's boss. I set my own word count. Those uppity typesetters down at the printers can complain all they like about the 'negative space' but I don't care! I'd rather have a big, ugly white gap than pretend to welcome a team, who, while they ARE actually welcome, are also going to leave upset and miserable.

Review of recent matches? Yeah, we beat Farsley and Spennymoor, but you knew that before you bought this programme. Sure, us getting six points from six is new information to the guy from the printer, who I know for a fact is a Derby County fan. He doesn't care about Chester, and why should he? But if he's the only guy who didn't know the scores, why write about them? I'm struggling here, lads.

Oh! How about some news you can't get anywhere else? That'll help shift some programmes. Apparently year-on-year sales are already up twenty percent.

So we signed Ryan Jack from Rochdale. But did you know that the idea for the transfer was actually suggested by Mike Dean, our general manager? He'd seen Ryan in one of those old British Pathé newsreels and showed me a cigarette card with a lithograph of Ryan on the front and a short biography on the back. I didn't know he played in Rhodesia and Siam! Ryan came down to our training ground, impressed us all with his long shorts and ability to play in formations ranging from W-M to 2-2-6.

(Those are all jokes about him being old, by the way. That's how desperate I am for content. It's interesting that the ancient W-M formation is, apparently, back in vogue, being used by none other than Pep Guardiola.)

The women's team are playing their first competitive match on Sunday! It's an FA Cup tie against Nantwich. It's just down the road. Come and watch! And the men's team are playing the FA Cup next week. The magic of the cup! A double dose, please.

I think I'm ready to wrap this up, now, especially as I need to write ANOTHER one for the Saturday game and the printer - who thinks I work for HIM - wants the text today. I'm starting to wonder if this printer is related to another person who doesn't quite understand his role in society - Detective Barton.

Still being assigned new cases, if you can believe it. I got quite a lot of communication from Cheshire Constabulary since my last Proclamation. Funny, that. None of it was about the case. CCTV footage? What's that? Interviewing suspects? Too busy, mate! Threatening to sue because I insinuated that Barton tried to frame an innocent man? Ooh, that gets the old juices flowing! Plenty of capacity for that kind of work.

There's no good segue-way from Cheshire's worst inhabitant (second-worst, I suppose, after the guy who actually smashed me with a metal bar) to Cheshire's shining light. A man who puts the 'ooh' in shellsuit. Who looks better the balder he gets - and believe me, he's very bald. A man who doesn't need a five dollar app to remind him to floss.

Sing it with me, now: J-A-C, K-I-E, Jackie is the man for me! With a knick-knack, paddy whack, give a dog a bone, why don't Jackie come on home?

***

Extract from Deva Victrix, the podcast by people who think they could do a better job than the manager for people who think they could do a better job than the manager.

Huey: "All right, we're on. Recording. We're here in The Warehouse with a whole lotta happy Seals after the Hereford match. I'm on the Staropramen. Dewey's on Erdinger. What's that you've got Louie?"

Louie: "Timmermans."

Huey: "So. Hot takes in five words or less. How are you feeling? Dewey."

Dewey [audibly counting on his fingers]: "I. Fucking. Love. Raffi. Brown."

Huey: "Louie."

Louie: "Good. Win. Now. Go. Again."

Huey: "All right. I'm going with 'no right mid no problem'. We've got a few lads in the chat, there. Some familiar names, always good to see. Go ahead and leave your own Five Words, and any questions you've got. Onto the lineups. Any surprises for you there?"

Louie: "It was 4-1-4-1 again, so that means Hetherington on his own up front. Ben Cavanagh in goal. That's not a surprise any more."

Dewey: "Seems like he's properly number one choice, now."

Louie: "Robson will play the next game. I've worked it out."

Huey: "Go on."

Louie: "Cavanagh plays two, Robson plays one. That's the sequence."

Huey: "Huh."

Louie: "Slight surprise in the defence with Steve Alton replacing Gerald May. Alton's second start. Those two are much of a muchness so whatever."

Dewey: "Midfield, Joe Anka had that hamstring strain, so Donny Dorigo played. The only decision that made me go 'huh' was Ryan Jack on the bench again. Club record signing, not in the eleven. Why do you think he did that?"

Huey: "Jack hasn't played much for Rochdale. He's fit but he's not match fit. Easing him into the team. I'm fine with it. He came on early, anyway."

Louie: "Right, let's get into that. Ten minutes gone, team's looking good, Best is mouthing off to his assistants. Five minutes later, he hooks Donny Dorigo. Thoughts?"

Huey: "Had to be an injury."

Louie: "See, I don't think so. I've been watching Best. Forget the first couple of games. We all know that was too soon for him to come back."

Dewey: "Jesus will you give it a rest?"

Louie: "I didn't mean it like that! I'm just saying forget that sitting in the dugout, white as a sheet. That's not him. I don't blame him for that at all. Club shouldn't have asked him to do that. Let's not go into it again. Look, when you watch him in most games, he's either bored, like he isn't even watching, or psycho. He's almost never... moderately animated. Know what I mean? I promise you something today - Dorigo was getting on his tits. We know they've got previous from when Dorigo took that shit penalty against King's Lynn and Best drove from Darlington to rough him up in training. I think today, Donny wasn't doing what Best wanted, so Best was ready to hook him."

Huey: "After ten minutes?"

Louie: "Absolutely. I think he was ready to do it after ten, but gave him five minutes to turn things round. He didn't, so bam. No messing."

Huey: "Okay. Maybe. But we saw Dorigo with ice packs and he hobbled down the tunnel at half time."

Louie: "That's theatre. Best's not out to humiliate the guy so he does the whole ice pack thing. I bet you anything he says Dorigo got a knock, took him off as a precaution. Then he'll batter him in private."

Huey: "I don't know."

Dewey: "I think it was an injury. Donny's been getting minutes. He's played a part in almost every match. Anyway, he comes off, Bochum goes on. I was all right with that. He played well against Spenny, and his song is class."

Huey: "Spenny was with Ryan Jack feeding him passes, though."

Dewey: "Yeah but Raffi Brown can do that, too. Got to say, I'm really loving the whole Raffi Brown thing. He's as physical as Sam Topps, but he's got more passing range. Apparently he's top mates with Bochum, but we've not seen that on the pitch, have we? Today they combined a few times. It was much better. It's like Ryan's calm has rubbed off on a few lads out there. The whole Bochum thing is starting to make sense to me now. He's fast and you put someone like Ryan Jack in the team, it starts to click. Together they stretch the pitch. Make teams retreat. Don't you think?"

Louie: "He's too small."

Huey: "I never thought we were going to lose, did you?"

Louie: "Not really, but I started to have doubts when Bochum got himself kicked after, what, ten minutes? Halfway through the first half and we've used two subs already."

Huey: "If you weren't at the match, Best took Bochum off, put Trick Williams on, moved Evergreen to right mid. From that point, it was like we only attacked down the left and kept the right solid. Makes sense, but I thought we could have been a bit more ambitious."

Dewey: "Right, well, you've got Joe Anka injured, you've got Dorigo disobeying instructions or injured, you've got Bochum injured. Who've you got to get up the right?"

Louie: "Swap Evergreen and Carlile. Carlile's a much bigger threat going forward."

Huey: "I like that. That's smart."

Dewey: "Can we talk about those guys? Carlile - I was watching him today - he's always been fit and strong and all that. He's still got a mistake in him, but he's really starting to look good now. Don't you think? They've always talked about his quality, how well he trains, all that stuff, but now we're seeing it as fans. Half-English, half-American, all-action. And Evergreen. Is he the only player apart from Brown who's played every game?"

Huey: "Aff."

Louie: "And Ryder. But I know what you're saying. It's like he's first on the team sheet."

Huey: "That's why, though, isn't it? You play him anywhere. Imagine if we didn't have a player who could move from left back to right mid. What would we have done? Gone 4-3-3 or something? No, we don't have enough forwards. Anyway, without Evergreen's flexibility, I don't think we're getting Ryan on the pitch today. We wouldn't have seen that second half."

Dewey: "Right. Second half, let's get into it. It's nil-nil at half time, but we're on top. Hereford look very ordinary."

Huey: "They beat us at the back end of last season!"

Dewey: "That's what I'm saying. We're making good teams look rubbish. They didn't know what to do. So half time, Youngster comes off, on goes Jack Ryan."

Louie: "Ryan Jack."

Dewey: "Ugh! That's the hundredth time today! I wasn't sure about that move. Youngster was doing fine. Forty-five to go, plus injury time, no subs left. It's a big, big risk."

Huey: "Yeah, that got my palms sweaty. Five minutes later, we're in so much control that I forgot. But then Hereford get a break, Cavanagh comes rushing off his line, and it looks like he's taken the player out, red card, penalty."

Dewey: "Who are you putting in net, there?"

Louie: "I've got a feeling Raffi Brown could do it."

Huey: "Got to be Evergreen. Man for all seasons, innee?"

Louie: "Yeah, that's it. Evergreen. But it doesn't come to that, thank fuck. Was the guy offside? Something happened, anyway. Ref didn't even have to make a decision. We can all breathe again! From then, Ryan takes over the game, doesn't he? Man of the match for you?"

Huey: "No question. Tore Hereford a new one. Two assists, then they took the foot off the pedal. Which was a bit disappointing because Hereford really didn't turn up, but it's understandable."

Louie: "Yeah, no complaints from me. We know Best wants to live out his mad Soccer Supremo fantasies with us, but it was professional today. Get the points in the bag. Put pressure on Darlington and York."

Huey: "Darlington left it late, didn't they? Lucky bastards."

Dewey: "Don't sleep on Kidderminster. They're dangerous. I'm worried they'll give us a punch in the nose when we play them. We've got a lot of young players. Things are going well now. How are they going to react when we have a bad spell?"

Huey: "Guys. Listen to us. Talking about who's going to win the league. It's good, isn't it?"

Dewey: "Comment from Splendid_Isolation in the chat. We couldn't, could we? Anyone know what that means?"

Huey: "That's his five words or less."

Louie: [laughter] "He's saying could we win the league. What the fuck."

Huey: "Well, why not? Three points in the bag. Sixteen points from eight games. Fourth in the table. Three points off the leaders. We're playing good football, Henri Lyons is back from suspension, there's three good teams who'll take points off each other. If Max Best comes back into the team, who's going to stop us?"

Louie: "Okay, hang on. Hang on a second. I'm excited about this season. I am. We are playing great football. Players are improving. The atmosphere gets better every match, not that you'd hear it the way they keep turning the music up. We've got Bradford on Saturday and I've never been more confident about winning a game of football in my whole life. All right? Best is a weird guy. I'm never going to like him, I don't think. But I reckon we'll finish fourth, get into the playoffs, have a proper bash at that. And that's amazing, when you think how we were last season. It really is. But guys. He's never going to be the same player. There's no chance. You slag me off because I'm negative, but you need to wind your neck in, here. Asking him to come and be the player he was for Darlington, that's not fair on the lad."

Huey: "I'm not asking him to. I'm hoping he will. Football's about hope. I think fourth or fifth is about par for this team. But can we get first place and stay there? I reckon, yeah."

Dewey: "Look at the team. Glenn Ryder. Top class. Sam Topps. Topps class. Raffi Brown is miles too good for this level. Dubhlainn is amazing. Henri Lyons is a goal machine. Ryan Jack's amazing. No other team has six players that good. No way."

Louie: "Not you an' all. Right, check this out. We're top of the league in Jan, Feb. Right? Best case scenario, no pun intended. Say Stockport County are having a bad time. Struggling at the bottom of League Two. They get on the phone. Next day, they unveil their new manager. Max Best. He's got history saving teams from the drop. That's what's going to happen. Yeah, enjoy days like today, but winning the league? Even if he's the reason all this is happening, which I doubt, he's off."

Huey: "Come on. That's crazy. He's not leaving till he's played for us. There were those rumours that he did a team meeting, said he wants to win all the cups. He's motivated. He's not leaving in January. Get real."

Louie: "You sure? Then why won't he sign a contract? Why won't he talk about his future? Why won't he commit? Why is Henri Lyons on a short-term contract? We had those lads on from the Darlington podcast. They want him back as manager and as we've seen, they've got deeper pockets than we have. You mark my words. Max Best will not be Chester manager by the end of the season."

Huey: "Splendid_Isolation, in answer to your question... yes, we could."

***

XP Balance: 803

Debt repaid: 1,986/3000

Cost of Morale perk: 2,000

Cost of Injuries perk: 3,000

***

Saturday, September 9

Match 9 of 46: Chester FC versus Bradford (Park Avenue)

We were playing at home to the worst team in the division. The kind of match known in the world of football as a 'banana skin'. You're stomping along, talking about winning the league, and oops! You go flying, land on your back, smack your head on the concrete.

Yeah. I was done smashing my head all over the north of England.

I would send out a strong team. Rotated, but strong, with the most dominant midfield the National League North has ever seen (I assume) and with a hungry Frenchman leading the line. Hungry Lyons? No, cut that. That's terrible.

As I filled in our team sheet, I thought about training.

We'd had another top week of attribute and CA growth, even though we had a Tuesday night game, which meant fewer sessions. I put it down to the addition of Ryan Jack. He'd actually added a point of CA himself, rising to 61. He was so good I had to find a word to describe the 60+ CA band. Something above gold. After many long, sleepless nights, I happened upon a little-known metal called 'platinum', and decided that fit the theme quite well. So bronze remained 30-39 (Trick Williams had finally clawed his way up into this band), silver was 40+, gold 50, and platinum 60. Training with a platinum talent energised the others.

I knew these gains were probably one-offs, and I really needed to add another coach into our mix to keep the improvement going. I hadn't had any luck finding one so far, even though I'd been using my mornings sneaking into training sessions at Altrincham, Rochdale, and York City. There were decent coaches there, but no-one transformational. And if I did find that guy, what would happen? Why would he leave one of those clubs to join us? Everyone in this industry was competitive - they liked to move up the pyramid.

I decided I had to start visiting the league below, too. After all, Jackie Reaper had been in tier 7 with FC United. Surely if I found another Jackie, he'd be willing to make the step up?

I looked at my wall clock. Still half an hour before kick off. Strangely dead time - I'd done everything there was to do to prepare for this fixture. For some reason, I thought back to the Hereford match. As easy as a fixture as you could hope for, yet there was a time when we were nil-nil, had used all our subs, and it looked like our goalie would get sent off. The thought nagged at me, but it had all turned out all right. These simple wins, though, were rarely simple. Things could blow up in your face. All I could do was play the percentages and use my time well.

Time management was everything. From five weekday mornings, I probably needed to spend two in Chester, looming over the squad, keeping them on their toes. One morning spying at a club higher, one spying on a club in our division or lower. If I kept that up for the rest of the season, I'd have a massive database of players, physios, and coaches. The fifth day I would probably take off to avoid burnout.

In the afternoons, I was back on the plan to go watch school sports days or inter-school matches. Anything to do with schools was weirdly hard to arrange, but Inga assured me that 'school scouting' was going to start happening soon. I was sneaking into some Footy Addicts matches, too, with a focus on through balls, dribbling, and general ball control.

Evenings I had my training sessions, followed by spending time with Henri, Raffi and Shona, and even MD. Avoiding football chat. Just being social. Being a real boy. My resolve never lasted - I was starting to fixate on certain dates in the calendar. The November match against Darlington, of course, but also one in October against title rivals Kidderminster that felt almost important enough to make me want to use Triple Captain and Bench Boost.

Many times, someone would be talking to me and I'd space out. I was always thinking the same thing - if I stumbled upon my dream coach now, I could get six weeks of better training before the Kiddies game. Time enough for Carl Carlile to hit gold and for Henri to hit platinum.

But what more could I do than go spying on teams, building my staff database?

I had one idea, but it was weird, even for me.

With a sigh, I opened my laptop, went on the jobsinfootball website and left an advert. This would definitely bite me in the arse, but it had to be done. I showed it to the Brig.

He pulled a face. "Sir. That is not very... dignified."

"I need a coach more than I need dignity."

***

The bell rang, and the Brig and I made our way down the tunnel to the dugout.

Robbo was there, in his big training coat. I'd given him the option of playing this league match or in the cup next week. He chose the cup.

The next decision was moderately complicated; there were three things I wanted.

• I wanted to use Trick, to reward him for training well.
• I wanted to play my three amazing central midfielders in central midfield, which meant 4-5-1 or 3-5-2.
• And I wanted to use both my two strikers; I wanted goals and Bradford wouldn't take risks by pushing bodies forward.

There was no way to get everything I wanted, so Trick lost out. I explained it to him and said I'd almost certainly start him in the cup match. He was disappointed - his last start had been against Scarborough and he'd got eight out of ten.

But with 3-5-2, I was able to field almost my strongest team. Joe wasn't quite fit and D-Day had pissed me off big time with a four out of ten performance that made no sense whatsoever. He was either injured so slightly it didn't show on his attributes - which meant buying the Injuries perk was a priority - or he was in such a bad mood he couldn't concentrate - and I'd need the Morale perk to spot such times. I planned to buy both ASAP, but the dilemma was, which first?

I picked Pascal at right mid. His CA of 31 was by far the lowest in the lineup, but despite that, our average was 46.7.

Poor Bradford's starting eleven had an average of 36.

This would potentially be our last home match for almost a month, so I was happy to run up a big score. Lay down a marker. But ideally, I would have put Trick on for the last twenty - a reward for his improved effort; D-Day - a chance to unshit the bed; and either Steve Alton or Andrew Harrison, depending on how the game was going.

As kick off neared, I pottered around in front of the main stand, in pensive mood. Things were going well. Very well. Too well?

I spotted some scouts and went over to talk to them. They were ones I'd never seen, a little batch of three, representing clubs in higher leagues. One had Judging Player Potential 14, which I found quite sexy.

"Gentlemen," I said, smiling at them. "I didn't spot a lot of scouts at Chester matches last year. What's going on?"

"You've got more talent," said one. Older guy. Big nostril and ear hair, but friendly.

"Is that right? Go on, put me out of my misery. Who are you looking at?"

The guy in the middle glanced at the scout to his left, then to his right. "Raffi Brown."

"Oh," I said. I should have been expecting that. If I'd been more switched on, I would have asked who had recommended Raffi. That might have saved me a lot of grief down the line. "Huh. Well, he's amazing." I thought about the club that scout was working for. "Not going to let him go cheap. You might want to tell your bosses to look elsewhere."

"There's Youngster, too."

"Henri Lyons," said Scout 2.

"Carl Carlile," said Scout 3.

I shook my head, resting my weight on my right thigh. "You've got good taste, I'll give you that. Look, we've got the whole season to talk about my players. Let's talk about you. You're out there, driving all day and all night, watching teams, watching players, writing reports that get ignored." I knew all this from my brief time as a scout. "Imagine there was someone really interested in your work. Some young guy who's been overpromoted and he's scrabbling to catch up. And say he wanted to send you, for example, fifty quid a week to see your reports. How would that conversation go, do you think?"

"Not very well," said Scout 1. "If one team is paying for the report, they probably don't want any other teams reading them."

"What if they weren't in the same division? I mean, none of you work for clubs way, way down here. But I'd love to know what's going on at a higher level. Love to know what I'm supposed to be paying attention to. Might make me a better manager and all that."

The scouts looked at each other. I knew what they were thinking: we couldn't... could we? Scout 1 shook his head. "Count me out. It's not worth it. If I got caught doing something like that, I'd be sacked. Forget it. But seeing as you're here, I was hoping to leave a business card with someone. My wife is doing a sponsored swim. Raising money for the local library. Maybe we could talk about that?"

"Yeah, one sponsored swim as a test," I said. I didn't want to commit to buying every report the guy ever wrote. "I'm mostly interested in young players I could get cheap, train up, sell on. Find me someone as good as Youngster and I'll sponsor a lot of swims."

Suddenly two more cards were being held out. These scouts were not well paid. No reason to turn down free money. It wasn't that unethical to let me see reports about teams in higher leagues. It was about on a par with food companies who call sugar 'crystalised fructicle' or 'languid galactose' or some shit.

"By the way, I wasn't planning to use Youngster, today. He needs a break." Scout 1 nodded. He didn't mind - it meant more petrol allowance for when he came again. "Raffi and Youngster are going to the top. Henri needs a club with a story. Everyone else is available, but not for cheap. We're gunning for the league this year, so I can't imagine wanting to sell in January. Needs to be a good offer, ideally in summer. Tell your bosses, yeah? That said, I do want to upgrade the facilities so I'm not going to be a dick about it if they want to throw in a cheeky offer. Just don't wait till the last day of the transfer window. Nice talking to you."

"Wait," said Scout 1. He was highest in the food chain. "What about you?"

"Your club wants to buy me?" I laughed. "My girlfriend listens to this Chester podcast run by twats. They reckon I'll be off at the end of the season to save some club from relegation. Doesn't really appeal to me. I'd rather win the league."

I turned my head. Based on something Emma had heard, I'd told the hospitality manager to stop blasting music before kick-off. We weren't a disco; we were a football club. Fans would sing, or not, as they wanted. Today, they wanted to sing.

"Hear that? That's the sound of hope." I grinned and leaned closer. "I'm telling a story, here. If I'm going to leave, the story needs to be just as good. And my next club needs deep pockets; I'll be doing a lot of sponsored swims." I laughed again. "Keep your eyes on Carl Carlile. He's got the X-factor. Equally comfortable in a three or four. Physical, smart, brave." And easy to replace.

I walked back towards the dugout, smiling to myself. Sometimes being a footballer manager was even better than advertised.

***

The match was so one-sided it was unbelievable. I'd expected a red card in the first minute, or three injuries, or something mad to level things up. But no. We were on top from the first minute, and all the luck went our way.

The first half was a monumental battle... between Ryan and Henri to lay down an unanswerable case to be considered man of the match. Henri was lithe, fast, dynamic. Being out of the team for three matches had sated his thirst for violence. Instead of trying to hurt his direct marker, he was entirely focused on kill shots. He scored twice and barely celebrated. He was in a sort of trance.

But I would have pinned my rosette onto Ryan Jack. The guy didn't put a foot wrong, dominated the midfield, sprayed passes to Aff and Pascal, and when Bradford had the nerve to attack, launched into savage tackles or poked the ball away with timely interventions. Plus, his delivery from set pieces was fantastic. I hadn't bought him for that because I didn't know his Set Pieces score, but he was really a step above everyone else in the squad. Except me, obvs.

Yeah, the first half verged on perfection. Four-nil, and I had a strange dilemma. Should I change things, put some fresh legs on, let others in on the fun? Or keep things the same and let the first eleven run up the score?

I decided to keep things as they were, and was fairly horrified to realise that the first eleven were content with what they'd done. You'd hope they would be equally motivated in the second half as the first, but no.

It wasn't like I could be mad at them. They were crushing the match. After sixty minutes, I swapped Pascal for D-Day. Donny put in a seven out of ten performance, meaning I could select him in future matches after his abysmal four out of ten showing last time out. But he didn't push us towards a more emphatic scoreline.

So with twenty minutes left, I switched to 4-4-2 with Trick coming on for Ryan. Trick didn't seem motivated to bomb forward, though, so that didn't help.

I couldn't explain it. My guys were happy with four-nil and there was nothing I could do to change it. Bit annoying.

With five minutes to go in normal time, I took Raffi off and put Andrew Harrison on. This was all about letting Raffi get a round of applause from the fans, and absolutely nothing to do with football.

He finished with a match rating of eight, bringing his average rating for the season to exactly seven. His CA was 41, his attributes were improving, he was becoming the player I had always seen.

Now the Chester fans were seeing it, too. They rose as one and applauded him off the pitch. He waved at them, gave me a high ten, and went to the dugout. I turned and smiled at him. He had put in the fucking work and it fucking showed. He gave me a shy, lopsided grin, and looked away. He knew.

I wondered if I should tell him there were scouts watching him, but then there was a rough tackle and I forgot all about it.

The match closed with Andrew Harrison trying to do an impression of Ryan Jack and failing by about 54 Current Ability points. Still, it was his second appearance as a full professional. I wanted more goals - goal difference could be a factor - but in terms of giving minutes to players who needed them, the match could not have gone better.

***

The players didn't celebrate too hard, which I took as a good sign. We were supposed to beat Bradford, and we did. No big deal. Routine win. Take it seriously, yes. Win your duels, yes. But we were Chester. We don't lose our minds over these wins.

Not any more.

I went to talk to Gary, the newspaper guy. I felt we'd had a breakthrough the week before, when I'd had an agenda. I wished I still had Miss Fox in my life to check my workings, but basically, if I ignored the questions Gary asked and gave him a fully-formed story, he'd go with it. He was incredibly lazy.

Last week, I'd gone overboard about Tony Hetherington being a top dude, great teammate and all that. That had been a message to my players. Now, what did I want to say, and to whom? How did this battle fit into the overall campaign?

I decided to continue undermining my main rival, Folke Wester. It probably wouldn't lead to an implosion in Darlo, but it'd be entertaining. And who knew? Maybe he was one of those tough guys who lost his mind at the slightest pushback. There was only one way to find out.

Good win today, Max.

Thanks. Good belt today, Gary. Very chunky. Masculine. And it matches your shoes. Go get 'em!

Chester really dominated. I don't have the stats -

We had 66% possession and eighteen shots to Bradford's three.

I'll have to check those, but -

Yes, sounds like a great use of your time and your company's scarce resources. Write this down, you ready? The attendance was 2,372, which shows a nice upward trend. Man of the match was Ryan Jack, but Henri ran him close. We've 'scored' three own goals this year. So our opponents are our third highest goalscorers! Alongside Aff. Tony has four, Henri five. Today was Aff's fifth assist.

Chester are fourth in the table. What should fans think about that? What can be achieved this season?

You know those questions make me Churchillian. Can you stop getting me hyped up? Thing is, we don't have hundreds of thousands of pounds to spend on new players. We bought a player late in the window and someone said he was our most expensive signing since the club was re-formed, and I was like nah be serious. And he said no bro that's right! And I said yeah but that's like cheaper than a Volvo S90. Our most expensive player is cheaper than a second-hand car, so if you're out there spending hundreds of thousands, you're definitely going to win the league. I mean, that's Wrexham money. That's Ryan Reynolds money. [Laughter.] If you're dropping a hundred K in the National League North, anything less than winning the league by twenty points has to be considered an abject failure.

But what about Chester?

We're just trying to get to fifty points, because that's when you start to feel safe from relegation. We've got great fans, the groundsman is well-respected in his field - wow, you need to tell me why that's funny - but we're not at the level of other teams who can smash sixth tier transfer records for a left back. Teams like us have to improve players through coaching and, you know, nurturing and supportive comments. We can't just buy the finished article and let them get on with it. It's all hugs, here, all the time. We finished fourteenth last season, so I'd be delighted with thirteenth, especially considering my limitations as a manager. Did you know I'm only twenty-three?

Max! Last week you were getting the away fans to sing 'We're going to win the league!' You can admit you have ambitions.

Oh, I'm very ambitious. I'd like to see Chester get into the top four leagues in the next, say, thirty years. Is that crazy? That's crazy, isn't it? I shouldn't have said that. Look, we can't compete with teams who spend seventy thousand pounds on a defender. The other day, I thought to myself, gosh, maybe I could try 4-3-3 in a game. And someone said, Max! You've got two strikers and one's suspended! Suspended for nothing, I might add. The top clubs in this league don't get red cards even when their players really aim to maim, as a certain manager's got tattooed on his knuckles. I've seen footage of certain players in this league and it's more like thingy. MMA. Two-footed challenges, leg breaks, wrecked knees. If you play for certain teams in this division, you can do whatever you want.

Are you saying teams get preferential treatment?

Of course not! That would be actionable. No, I'm just saying, I said to the specialist who's overseeing my recovery, maybe I could play against 'Team D'. And he said, whoa! I've seen them. Nary a minute goes by without them separating someone's bone from the soft tissue surrounding it. He showed me hours of footage, all taken from this month, of cruel and unusual tackles that went unpunished by referees. Long story short, he said I could think about playing a few minutes against teams with decent, honest, fair-minded managers like the ones at Tamworth and Buxton. But not against... others.

I'm confused. You're talking about referees? What did you think of the referee today?

All I'm saying, Gary mate, is that with great expenditure comes great responsibility.

But what does that mean?

There's one elite referee in this league. You'd better not try and turn his matches into a warzone. I wonder how the rest of them will react to the sudden, grotesque increase in aggression? I just want to feel safe getting back on the pitch. I hope the referees in this league get together and, like, realise what's happening.

Fans are worried you won't sign a long-term contract. Do you have any news about that?

Darlington? Why do people keep linking me with the Darlington job? They have a manager. From what I hear, he's even better than his dad was. What was the question? Oh, long-term. What's more long-term than a tree? Thing is, Gary, if you care for a tree, it'll keep growing long after you've left. Where will Chester finish this season? I don't know. It might be one place above second, or two places above third. But will Chester be bigger, more splendid, more dapply next year, and the year after? Absolutely. And that vivid imagery is worth much more than any piece of paper.

Thanks, Max.

Yep.

***

Pos / Team / Played / Pts

1 Darlington   9 22

2 Kidderminster   9 20

3 York   9 20

4 Chester  9 19

***

I was feeling pretty good. Six points from six in the last week, great progress on all fronts.

My tree was growing fast. Fans were starting to really believe in us. Scouts were taking notice of our talent. Numbers were going up.

And now that beating most of the teams in our league was becoming normal, I was thinking more strategically. Sure, this league was all about winning 46 battles. But there were other ways to fight a war than just fighting.

I was sure my interview would be read by Folke Wester, and it would make him livid. The reference to his father, especially. That hadn't been planned, but I couldn't help myself.

And now, Emma had sent me another weapon to add to my arsenal. The Brig had called it the social media equivalent of dropping propaganda leaflets, but it was simply a video. A video aping the vapid social media 'news story' style - short clips or photos with chunky, short text appearing at the top or bottom. They were so, so annoying, yet so compelling. The people of Darlington would lap it up, there was no doubt about that.

I clicked the file, waited for it to download, then watched it more closely than I'd watched our last two league games.

First, I saw me and Henri walking along a nondescript road. When we turned, the camera turned a little further, and zoomed in on a school sign. The beginning of the name was blurred out, but everyone at the school would recognise it, and it would spread around Darlington social media, no problem.

As we walked, sombre music played, White text on a green background said, 'Max and Henri used to play for Darlington FC.'

Then there was footage of me scoring a couple of goals, but Emma had found some good Henri moments, too. It was only a few seconds, but it was clear we were amazing players and the fans loved us. 'They played their hearts out.'

The music changed. Got discordant. The images were of me in the hospital, face bandaged, tubes in my mouth and shit. I got upset, and paused the video. But then I thought... impossible. Who had taken that footage? And, slightly calmer, I rewound. It wasn't me! I think it was from an American TV show. 'Max was attacked at his new job.'

That was good. Emma had changed 'new club' to 'new job'. Yes, Henri and I had been motivated. Yes, we had cared. But guys - it was just a job. We were allowed to leave. Same as anyone.

The music got more upbeat.

Henri and I walked into a classroom, and the kids went nuts. 'When Henri sold his house in Darlo, he couldn't have imagined...'

Cut to Thomas Green, the little kid who had a poster of me on his bedroom wall. 'That Max's biggest fan would be moving in.'

Cut to me signing a black and white shirt. 'Max found out, and had to bring Thomas a signed Darlo shirt.'

Cut to me helping some slow kid with her maths equations. 'And a message. Work hard in school, kids!'

Cut to me staring wistfully at the Darlo badge, as I finally handed the shirt over to Thomas. 'Darlo will always be in their hearts.'

The scene ends with me, Henri, and Thomas, posing for a photo with the kid holding a signed Best 77 Darlington top. 'They didn't leave. They just moved away.'

Close up on Thomas's goofy smile. 'And a new generation wonders what the future will bring.'

The images faded to black, and a chunky font appeared, white on black. '#AlwaysBelieveItsDarlo.'

I watched again, laughed, and put my phone down.

Folke Wester could spread snide rumours, but I could spread joy. The people of Darlington would lose their minds over this video. Max Best, the conquering hero, had returned to Darlo to sign a kit for a fan? What a legend! While Wester went low, I'd go high.

What if... what if Wester lost a few games in a row, and someone from Darlo contacted me. Sounded me out just to see if I'd be interested? Would I hint that maybe, just maybe...? Then they'd sack him, I'd decide to stay, they'd reach out to Ian Evans.

I rewatched the video and laughed even more. It had come out perfect, almost exactly how I had imagined it. Everyone in Darlington would think it was lovely, sweet, unplanned, unstaged, and uncynical.

Everyone except Folke Wester.

My beginning had ended. But his end... was just beginning.

...

Thanks for your support!