7.7 - What's a King to a God? [T1] (Patreon)

7.

Harrier

(Noun)

Someone who engages in persistent attacks.

***

Mostly overcast with a high of 7 and a low of 4. No wind. Gloves for the Latin Americans; short sleeves for the Scots.

The stakes? All and nothing. Win and we'd go 14 points clear. We'd have beaten everyone in the league except York, who were good but extremely lucky not to have faced me at my best. Draw and we'd stay 11 points clear. Annoying, but acceptable. Lose and we'd be 8 points ahead, but with no momentum and people would always ask, were they the best team really? 

Some of you are thinking - fuck! That's important. Some of you are thinking - fuck! That's nothing. You're both right, but I was very much in the former camp. I had called this match my thesis defence. I was as far from getting a PhD as the pinkest gammon, so this was the only way I could prove to the world there was something inside me worth a damn. The only way I could prove I deserved to wear the crown.

The stakes, for me, were enormous.

We'd warmed up and handed our team sheets in. Kiddies were in red and white. We were in our blue home kit - the white stripes were thin enough that the powers-that-be decided we didn't clash. The buzz around the stadium added a few bpm to all who heard it - even me. 

The pitch was beautiful and the ground was the platonic ideal of a small football club's home - the Aggborough Stadium had been their home forever and it had four covered stands. The food was considered the best in non-league with the suppliers having done the job for fifty years. It always surprised me when the food was shit at a football match - fans were way more likely to go back if they had a nice pie.

"Max," said Sandra. "It's nearly time. Do you want to say anything?"

I stuck my bottom lip out. What was there to say? We'd all been preparing for this, consciously and subconsciously, since Kiddies had gone to Chester and beat us two-nil with a Max Best-level masterplan and a whole load of luck. But the nervous energy in the dressing room was crackling; taking the edge off was a good idea. "Kay."

I got to my feet and went to the tactics board. The magnets were laid out in a 4-4-2 shape. "Quiet," mumbled the Brig, and everyone shut up almost instantly.

I smiled. Once he'd caught my murderer and Sandra had arrived, his role had become redundant. But he wanted to stay and in the summer his role would change to Director of High Performance. He would continue to make sure we were the fittest team in the league, enforcing our standards while giving the lads a shoulder to cry on - an unbelievably hard needle to thread. I had zero doubts he could do it. 

"Thanks, John," I said, which perhaps was my first small mistake. The lads, correctly, took it for sentimentality, which wasn't what they needed from me at that moment.

What I said next let them know the real Max Best was in the room.

"Guys," I said, looking and sounding sombre. You could have heard someone pick up a pin. "In 1984, Lindsey Buckingham, feeling stifled by his membership of Fleetwood Mac, released a solo song called Go Insane. It's widely believed to be about his troubled relationship with Stevie Nicks. In the lyrics, he mentions losing his power, which, as you know, is a reference to him losing his creative freedom. One of the lines goes: I lost my power in this world, and the rumours are flying." 

I nodded a few times, like a pastor who has just hit upon the key message. 

"The rumours are flying. Now, I'm not a music historian but I know, as at least three of you do, that one of the best-selling albums of all time is Fleetwood Mac's Rumours. Note the British spelling," I said, as I wrote it on the tactics board. I stared at it, then paced up and down the benches. "I thought to myself, huh. Is that just the word rumours being used idiomatically? Or is he talking about Fleetwood Mac? I went to some lyrics sites and they all had it spelled rumors, without a U."

"There's no team without U," said William Roberts, AKA WibRob, who was in our dressing room to soak up the experience.

"What the hell are you talking about?" I said.

"I'm trying to guess where this is going."

I smiled. "It's not going anywhere. What I do is, I talk a load of shit to show the players how confident I am of winning."

"Oh."

"That's good, though. I might pivot to that. There's no team without U. That's... wait. That doesn't fit in any respect. Mate! Just..." I rubbed my face. "I was going to say I found a really old website, from like 1999 or something, and it was American but they copied the lyrics from the album sleeve and it was the British spelling. So my instinct was right and I was pleased with myself because let's face it, even Vimsy wasn't born when that song was released."

All eyes turned to Vimsy. "I prefer Tango in the Night. Rumours was overplayed."

"Whoa!" said Joe Anka. "That's heresy."

"All right, let's go win the league," I said.

***

I walked around the pitch giving every player a little pep talk. Our morale was high but not so high we couldn't use a little extra.

The only vaguely controversial selection was the goalie. I'd plumped for Robbo even though I'd named Ben our number one for the season. Robbo was four points lower in CA (44), but was eight years older and if there was ever a match I wanted experience over youth, this was it.

The deciding factor, strangely, was season two of Welcome to Wrexham. In it, a player gets injured at a certain ground. The player had been injured at that ground against the same opponents the previous two years. Three years' bad luck! I didn't think of myself as very superstitious but mate! Come on. Don't use that player at that ground. Use your nut! I hoped I was using mine; Ben had put in the single worst performance of any of my players, ever, in the first match against Kidderminster and I didn't see a reason to tempt fate.

"Robbo," I said. "You remember the signals?"

"Yes, Max."

Kiddies switched their corner signals every now and then - they had two sets. We would quickly tell which they were using today. "You gonna stay calm?"

"I always thought Stevie Nicks was the man playing guitar and Lindsey Buckingham was the female singer."

My pre-match distraction had worked a little too well. "Not that calm, eh?" I walked off laughing, noting that Robbo's morale had bumped up a notch. It wouldn't last long, but I was happy. 

Next was the defence. Eddie Moore was starting to settle - he was up to CA 46 which was poor in terms of where I saw the team, but 15 points better than Trick Williams had been. Yes, I'd done well there. Plus, it didn't matter if he was taking his time to find his feet - he had one of the easiest jobs in world football - being the left back behind Aff, who loved defending as much as whipping in vicious crosses.

Glenn Ryder and Steve Alton were CA 54 and 49 and had a good partnership going. Two clean sheets in our last two games had lifted their morale so I gave them a slap on the back and moved on.

Carl Carlile, playing at right back, had moved up to CA 58, making him one of our best players. He was better defensively than going forward, and ideally I'd have had him playing centre back to mark one of Kidderminster's impressive strikers. But Steve Alton was a very limited full back so this was the best disposition of our forces. 

That said, Sandra and I had twisted ourselves into knots going through all the ramifications. Playing behind me was different to playing behind Aff - I wasn't very interested in defending but the threat I generated was so insanely high that most teams wouldn't attack down the side I was occupying. We'd decided to go with Carl at right back in case I decided to wander around the pitch like I had done in one hundred percent of my previous matches.

I gave him a high ten.

The referee was counting the players on both sides - not long now.

In the centre of midfield, we had Sam Topps (CA 59) and Youngster (51). Lots of graft, not much craft. Last time we'd played Kiddies, our biggest advantage had been our midfield line. Since then, we'd added me, not quite back to my mystery winger peak but still the best player in the league, and Youngster had continued to develop. But we'd lost Ryan Jack to injury, and Raffi Brown to whatever the fuck happened there. Aff and I would need to do most of the creative work.

Up front we had lost thirteen points in CA by moving from Tony to Chris Beaumont (31), but added a metric fuckton of goal threat, menace, nuisance, and holy-shit-look-at-that-guy-ness. Henri was Henri. His CA was steady on 63.

Overall, an average CA of 51.4, not counting whatever I was.

Kidderminster had improved through training and smart recruitment from CA 51 to CA 53, plus they had home advantage.

The real benefit of all the work we'd done was seen on the bench. Kiddies had a fairly big drop-off in quality from their first eleven to their subs, but I had my best goalie (Ben, CA 48), Magnus Evergreen (49), D-Day (41), Pascal (46), and Tony Hetherington (44). Five players who had played a lot this season, were match sharp, and who gave me tons of options for changing the formation and tactics.

Peep!

And they're off!

A real top-of-the-table six pointer begins with Kidderminster launching the ball long for Peabody.

Great header! He knocks it to Craddock.

He's got space for a left-footed shot.

Is this an early chance?

Alton bravely scrambles to block.

The ball spits out to Youngster. He looks up and plays a long pass wide to Best.

Best has to check his run. Cole catches up.

Best calls for a square option. Lyons approaches.

Best nutmegs Cole, sprints, knocks ahead.

Beaumont peels off to the back post.

Best launches a pinpoint cross...

But Fierce is there! He gets something on it - the ball balloons off Beaumont's head and over.

A breathless start!

Well, you could write a decent thinkpiece about the first fifteen seconds of the match, but the upshot was that Bob Horseman, my off-pitch rival, did something unexpected. He had his tactics imp whispering in his ear and the message was clear - you've got to shut that guy down.

That guy being me.

I felt something strange had happened even before I went into the tactics screens. Sure enough, both the left back, Cole, and the left midfielder, Hobson, had been set to man-mark me. Wherever I went, the two would follow.

That... was... fine?

In theory, Carl would be able to surge forward more or less unopposed, since neither Cole nor Hudson would try to attack.

And there would be more space for Youngster and Topps, which should have dragged Kidderminster's right flank across, giving more space to Aff and Eddie Moore.

That was the theory, but it didn't happen.

The minutes ticked past and Carl didn't bomb forward, and Aff didn't get himself in situations where he had time and space to send in a good cross. It took me a while to work out what the second problem was, but it turned out to be simple - Aff was having a stinker.

The biggest game of the season and my most consistent player was on five out of ten.

Meanwhile, I realised that Carl's triggers to start his overlaps were based on me getting the ball from Youngster. Carl wouldn't just run forward for no reason - there had to be a starting point. With me being double-marked, Youngster wasn't passing to me. And that was quite right, too - I had set the team's passing tendency to 'left'.

But now we had no dynamism on the left, nothing being created in the middle, and me being swamped on the right.

At a break in play, I went over to Sandra and told her my thoughts so she could come up with a plan while I focused on contributing what I could.

My big chance to break the deadlock came with a free kick given for a foul on Chris. He almost never got free kicks because refs didn't see how tiny defenders could possibly be impeding him. Moronic, of course, but Chris was used to it. Christian Fierce, though, was six foot five and in his own way was as imposing as Chris. His fouls counted.

The kick was in the perfect position for a right-footed cannonball. I placed the ball exactly in front of the left-hand post, some twenty-five yards out.

After much faffing about from the fussy ref, I centred myself, smashed the Free Hit button, and hit a glorious, unstoppable drive. It exploded off my foot, went over the wall - I had to change where I aimed because of Christian fucking Fierce - and as the goalie launched into a futile dive, I half-turned my head to check where our fans were. Today I would celebrate my goals!

The ball felt like it was past the goalie when suddenly the mad physics of the technique kicked in - the ball deviated to the right, towards the goalie. Astonished, he brought his palms together just in time and the ball crashed away to safety.

Argh!

Small mistakes, small margins.

I realised it was going to be one of those days.

***

Transcript from Seals Live

Boggy: Still nil-nil here at the Aggborough Stadium. After a flurry of chances for either team, things have settled into a stalemate. What's your take on it?

Spectrum: It's interesting. It's much more tactical than most matches at this level. We're bogged down in midfield, no offence, Boggy. Can't get the ball forward.

Boggy: It's quite frustrating. Best looks the best outlet but we can't find him.

Spectrum: There's a little bit of hit-and-hope going on. Pass to Max and see if he can work some magic. He's always got two players with him, though, so that first pass has to be perfect.

Boggy: It's the kind of match where one of two things happens. He comes up with a great plan, or he lashes out.

Spectrum: I don't think it's either, today. He's doing his job and letting Sandra come up with ideas, and he's quite calm.

Boggy: Too calm.

Spectrum: It's quite mature, what he's doing. But I agree. Sometimes you just want him to go full Max.

Boggy: Fierce on the ball, now. Passes square. Through to the midfield. They bypassed Beaumont far too easily there. Has he even had a kick? I wonder if it was a mistake using him in this match. We need more in midfield.

Spectrum: You're right but no-one could have predicted the midfield would generate so little. There's enough talent out there.

Boggy: It's back with Fierce and now he's on the half-way line. All the Chester players are back. Best is quite high. Is he keeping his markers away from goal?

Spectrum: And he's ready for the counter. A decent ball over the top and he's away.

Boggy: Patience from Kidderminster. They know how to disrupt a game plan but they can play a bit, too. Now it's direct - Craddock takes the ball on his chest. He'll look for Peabody. He's covered well by Ryder. Craddock lays it back to a midfielder. Will he shoot? He's miles - oh, I say! [roar from crowd] It's gone in! A - A terrible deflection. It was going to the right and Robbo in goal looked to have it well covered. But the shot struck Ryder on the side of the head and it went in on the left. Horrible luck. Ryder didn't know the first thing about it! Lyons has his head in his hands.

Spectrum: [sigh] It's one of those days.

***

I went over to Sandra. She said we should stick to the plan but suggested some tweaks. I made them using the hotkeys and tactics screen while she yelled and waved her arms around.

Kiddies scoring wasn't the end of the world - if they got more defensive our starting positions would be twenty, thirty yards forward and we'd always be in range of a cross that Chris could do something with.

But they didn't change their mentality, and our team didn't function any better than before. Youngster kept overhitting or underhitting passes to me. Carl hit long balls down the line - even if I got to them first, what was I supposed to do with an awkwardly bouncing ball in the corner when I was surrounded? There were limits to my skills.

A couple of times I went roving across to the left but only succeeded in dragging my markers with me. In theory that should have been good for Carl, but he would only push forward to the halfway line. Meanwhile, I was causing the left or the centre to get even more crowded and chaotic, so I returned to the right and switched from player mode to manager mode.

The obvious move was to take Chris Beaumont off. With the game as it was, he was a passenger. But if we took him off, Kiddies could go into their low block with high confidence. And it's not like we could bring him back on. Plus, just by being there he was doing things. Christian Fierce sometimes liked to dribble the ball into midfield but he wasn't doing that today. Chris and Henri were too dangerous to be left unsupervised.

No tweaks or changes came to mind. I was pretty stuck. The only tool in my box I hadn't used yet was Cupid's Arrow. I could draw a line between two players and their connection would improve. If I used it on Eddie and Aff, would that be a waste because Aff was playing crap? If I used it on Chris and Henri would it be a waste because we weren't getting the ball to them?

The only half-decent option was to boost the connection between Youngster and me. If he could somehow manage to pass the fucking ball in a way that I could get it, I could do some damage and maybe get us a couple of goals. If we got ahead, Kiddies would have to stop man-marking me and they'd have to push bodies forward and we could rip them up on counters.

We were only one-nil down so I decided to keep my powder dry. One good cross and Aff's match rating could go from 5 to 7 and we'd be seeing a very different encounter.

***

Boggy: Nice play from Chester. A few quick one-touch passes, moving the ball around. Very nice. Haven't seen enough of that.

Spectrum: You've got to credit Kiddies. They've made it hard.

Boggy: Moore. Quiet game from him. Passes to Aff. back to Moore. Inside to Topps. Topps exchanges passes with Youngster - oh, Best isn't happy with that. There was an option to find him over the top. But we're still building. On the left now. Aff to Moore, and Aff sprints away! How's the pass? It's good! Aff's clear. First time in the game.

Spectrum: Best far post!

Boggy: Aff sets himself, he's got - he's got three to aim for. Beaumont, Lyons, Best. The cross - looks good - Fierce!

Spectrum: What a joke.

Boggy: Christian Fierce gets to it, nods it clear.

Spectrum: The guy's sick. There's three of the best attacking headers of a ball flying at a good cross but you never felt it would come to anything. Fierce is a joke. He's a one-man wall.

Boggy: It might lead to something... for Kidderminster. They're breaking and Chester have a few men out of position. It's - er - inevitably played to Craddock and Peabody. What can they do? One-two. Another one-two! This is - oh! [Huge roar] Goal for Kidderminster!

Spectrum: Saved!

Boggy: Robbo's saved it! I can't believe it. How's he done that? It goes out for... yes, their first corner. As poorly as we've played, restricting the second-best team in the league to one corner in thirty minutes is impressive.

Spectrum: Watch them go and score it now.

Boggy: The taker raises one arm, then the other.

Spectrum: Back post.

Boggy: The penalty box is flooded. Even Best is back for this one. Comes in - near post! [Huge roar] [Boggy deflated] They've scored. Kidderminster have scored. It was chaos in there but there was a flick-on and someone's put the header past Robbo.

Spectrum: Peabody.

Boggy: He's certainly leading the celebrations. Big trouble for Chester, here. Two-nil down and these home fans are starting to believe in miracles. The Chester fans fall silent. Henri Lyons looks shattered.

***

As the debris cleared, I went to Robbo and lifted him up. The goal wasn't his fault. Fast delivery, good movement, some clever blocking and plenty of guys who can score headers. Other teams are allowed to be good, too.

"At least we know which signals they're using today," I said, smiling, trying to lift his spirits.

"Unless they change at half time," he said, darkly.

"Chin up, buddy. We're still in this."

I ambled away. Fifteen minutes left in the half. I used Cupid's Arrow to join Youngster to me, set our passing tendency to right, set myself as playmaker. One goal before half time would change everything.

***

Boggy: Chester look to have upped the tempo. The passes are coming a lot faster and that's opening up lots of space. Now Youngster drives forward. Look at him go!

Spectrum: He's faster than people think.

Boggy: He looks around, chooses Best. Good choice. Best has to cut short his run - again! - and turns back into trouble. He holds off the first challenge. What can he do? His back to goal. Carlile is coming. Best uses him by not using him. Zips it to Youngster and hares off. Youngster finds Carlile in space. Kidderminster are stretched now! Carlile cuts it inside. Best latches onto it and fizzes and pass low across goal. Lyons and a defender get there at the same time and the chance is gone. But great play from Chester!

Spectrum: Max looks in the mood, now, and that was better from Youngster and Carl.

Boggy: Kidderminster taking their time over the goal kick. The referee doesn't look very interested in dealing with this blatant timewasting. How will Kidderminster approach the rest of this? Will they do a low block like they did in the Deva?

Spectrum: No, they can't. Not with Chris up front. Fierce can block him sometimes but not every time, and Max and Aff will pepper the goalmouth with crosses. No, there's no chance they'll do that. That's suicide. They'll think their best bet is to keep playing like they have been and if they can get a third, it's all over bar the shouting.

Boggy: Fingers crossed that doesn't happen.

***

35 minutes.

I was in the zone. The ball was obeying me and the ball was coming to me. Youngster's passes were never quite where I wanted them, but if just one came where I could get myself against one defender instead of two, I'd be laughing.

Neat play from Chester. A flurry of passes leaves Best with room to sprint.

He's clear!

But he's fouled!

Yellow card for Cole.

37 minutes.

Best drops deep to collect. He feints to hit a long pass...

But goes on a dribble.

He slaloms past Cole - the defender needs to be careful.

But Hudson clatters into Best.

Yellow card for Hudson.

The free kick comes to nothing.

Lyons kicks the goalpost in disgust.

39 minutes.

Carlile plays a hopeful ball down the line.

It's difficult for Best, but he controls before it goes out of play.

He nutmegs Hudson, but he's forced back towards his own goal.

He shapes to hit a left-footed cross, but Cole is there.

Best points and slaloms between the duo.

One more touch sends him towards the byline.

But he's clattered!

A yellow card for Gray.

Best stays down and receives treatment.

Boggy: It's brutal but it's effective. I mean, how else do you stop him?

Spectrum: Look, they're switching the wide players. The right back is going to left back. He'll foul Max, get a yellow, and they'll switch. We were wondering why they had three full-backs on the bench. This is why. Each one gets two fouls on Max, stops two attacks.

Boggy: Did they know he would play right midfield, then?

Spectrum: It was a good guess. It's where I would use him. If he's in the centre you do the same thing but to stop him taking long shots. [angry groan]

Boggy: He might punish them from this free kick. It's in a fantastic position and we've got Beaumont, Lyons, Ryder. That's as dangerous as Kidderminster, surely?

Spectrum: Absolutely. Or Max could shoot.

Boggy: He's ready, now. Interesting that Christian Fierce isn't in this wall. Here we go. [hush] Best clips it into the centre - oh, Lyons has hit the post! Henri Lyons has hit the post.

Spectrum: [angry grunt]

Boggy: He looks ready to tear his hair out. These are the fine margins. Kidderminster score, we hit the post. And Kidderminster will take another minute out of the game as they dawdle over this goal kick.

***

I used the hotkeys to switch everything. Attack down the left, Aff playmaker. He was up against a left back on a yellow card, now. Meanwhile my shins were sore from all the hacks. It felt like I could feel the blood pumping through the bruises. I needed a breather before having one last go.

Aff got the ball and went on a dribble. He surged on the outside, knowing it was his marker's weaker foot, but out of the corner of my eye I saw Christian Fierce pushing his centre back partner across before waving at one of the midfielders to drop.

The guy was reorganising the defence in real time!

Aff's low cross was blocked by the centre back - Aff hadn't been expecting him to be in that position - but the Irishman got another chance and this time curled a dreamy ball to the far post, where, you guessed it, Fierce had just placed himself.

The guy was really starting to piss me off.

***

Boggy: Last chance of the half, perhaps. It has been a strange one.

Spectrum: You can say that again.

Boggy: A lot of Chester players have played well, but the unit hasn't gelled. It's so unexpected. But here's Topps, now, scampering over to the right. He touches it to Youngster, who plays the ball behind Best yet again. Best clips the ball back to Carlile and there's a shake of the head.

Spectrum: That's exasperating but the more he makes a meal out of it, the more his team mates will be stressed when passing and that's not what he wants. He's trying not to let the frustration show.

Boggy: How hard is it to play a ten-yard pass in front of a player instead of behind him?

Spectrum: On the training pitch, very easy. Look, he's not supposed to be there. That's supposed to be Raffi Brown. Or Ryan Jack.

Boggy: I see what you're saying. [sigh] Okay, the ball's going around the Chester defence. Kidderminster are loving this. Sterile possession going nowhere. Oh, Chester. Now it's in midfield. Topps. Youngster. Try again. It's a better pass but not what Best wanted. He's static with two defenders in front of him. Dead end. A dead end like so many attacks this half. Why don't they try some long balls to Chris Beaumont?

Spectrum: Because Max will sub them off immediately. That's just giving the ball away.

Boggy: It'd be something different, at least.

Spectrum: The faster you send the ball, the faster it comes back. Our centre backs aren't the quickest and we don't have a defensive midfield to cover them.

Boggy: [sigh] Some more aimless passing. Here we go. The last seconds of injury time in a hellish first half. Best - [annoyed grunt] - Best once more finds himself on the ball with no momentum, no movement ahead of him, nothing to aim for. He turns, defeated, and looks square. The defender sees his chance, oh! Nutmeg! Best's away. Foul comes in - Best scrambles to his feet, pushes forward, chops inside - a defender went flying - Best, now! The crowd are on their feet, even the home fans. He's flying! He drops a shoulder to the left, drives right. He's powering forward. A chance out of nothing. And here comes the cross... [thunderous applause] [Boggy deflated] Cleared by Fierce. He reached out one of his telescopic legs and played it behind. It could have gone anywhere but it went behind and there's no time to take the corner.

Spectrum: And no yellow card for that foul because Max tried to stay on his feet. This referee is awful.

Boggy: And an awful half for Chester. My nephew plays a video game called God of War. Here in pretty Worcestershire, Chester's pretty football is once again smashing into the God of Walls, Christian Fierce. We'll be back in fifteen minutes for the second half where we'll see if Chester's prayers will be answered or if it's sackcloth and ashes for our title hopes.

***

I walked off the pitch, into the brick tunnel, and to the farthest corner of the dressing room where Livia brought me some marathon paste and a drink. I ate and sipped and closed my eyes. What could I do? My head was spinning - formations, substitutes, mobs, kings, Gods - and I needed a couple of minutes of blank nothingness.

I got half of my wish - a minute of quiet - but then I overheard Sandra and the Brig urgently whispering by the doorway. Weird how you can lock onto one conversation out of so many.

"It's not working," said the Brig.

"It is," insisted Sandra.

Those guys had been at polite loggerheads ever since I'd hired Sandra and given her the same job title as the Brig. The Brig would have a new title next season but maybe it'd be good to sit with the pair, plus Brooke and MD, and work out proper duties. I didn't mind a bit of overlap - they needed to work together.

"Talk to him," urged the Brig.

"In a minute, John."

I smiled. They were worried about me. What a nice feeling! The truth was that I felt all right. We were losing but it could easily have been two-nil to us. A few players were having poor matches, but it wasn't for lack of effort and they weren't trying to do their own things. No-one was hitting hopeful balls to Chris and if there was a lack of quality at times, maybe that was because it was the National League North.

I would get some magic spray on my shins and maybe take a painkiller if Dean would let me. Then we'd attack until we dropped and what happened, happened. Que sera sera.

"Close the door." An unexpected voice. Henri Lyons was at the 'front' of the dressing room, by the tactics board. "May I have your attention, please?"

The smile came back. What was this going to be? Something about taps? Or the unrequested encore for SILK!? Henri had been getting more and more steamed up during the first half but it wasn't like him to stand in front of the team and demand they play better. My smile faded; this could go badly wrong. I took my eyes off him for long enough to check what else was happening - nothing. He had everyone's undivided attention - just how he liked it.

With utter sincerity, he curled his hands into fists and turned to me. "Forgive me, Max, for I have sinned!"

I shook my head. How did he always find ways to surprise? "What."

He tugged at his magnificent, floppy French hair. "I have strayed from the path of righteousness!"

I stood so I could get a better view of Youngster. "Is this blasphemous?"

"Not yet," he said.

"Henri, are you talking about God or football?"

"Football."

"How about now?" I asked Youngster.

He nodded. "Now it is blasphemy."

"Are we all going to get struck down if we listen?"

He shrugged. "I am not." His toothy grin emerged. I leaned back against the far wall and indicated that Henri could continue his performance.

"The day we took over the Chester Knights I knew you were a man of boundless creativity and imagination. And now, like Fleetwood Mac, I have become the stifler. I heard you wanted to play the Sweeper formation and betrayed you! Now we are in the biggest match of the season playing the wrong formation because I lost faith. I am bereft."

"You didn't want to try it," I said.

He misunderstood me. "I was wrong."

I dismissed the idea with a gesture. "The first day we met I read your scandalous interview where the big revelation was that you want to be a in team where the manager listens to you. This is it, mate. I'm listening. I don't want you to do things you don't want to do. Dead easy! 

"Now, look. We've been doing loads of 4-4-2 and it's been working. We've been unlucky, today, but that's football. It doesn't matter what formation we use if a few players are off the pace and everything we try doesn't quite work and everything they try works better than it should. It's just one of those days."

Aff stood. "I'm sorry, Max. It's my fault."

I frowned. "Okay you can sit right back down." I paced towards him and ended up jabbing my finger in his face. "You don't get to apologise to this group. How many times have you carried this team on your back this year?" 

I relaxed my posture, if not my scowl. 

"You've got us out of the shit time and time again. It's nice getting the third goal, the fourth, and padding your stats. But who gets us the first goal when everyone else is playing like shit? You. You're worth fifteen points on your own, mate. If you're having an off day, some other fucker needs to step up. We should fucking apologise to you that we can't do it." I walked back to Henri and tried to move him out of the way. "Now go and sit back down."

"I refuse."

"What?"

"I didn't come here to play 4-4-2! I didn't come here to get my own way!" It was the most like a toddler I'd ever seen him. "I came to help you create football. Sandra, please."

Sandra appeared to my left and gently pushed me away from Henri. "Max, when you talk about me you always talk about me managing games to build my reputation and that's obviously a big reason I dropped levels to come here. But I also came to learn from you. If you really think we should play Sweeper, I'm intrigued. But you didn't push it. I thought the whole Coalition of the Unwilling thing was a joke."

"It is a joke. The formation is dead."

Henri tsked. "I know you. Tell us honestly, did you want to use the Sweeper system against Kidderminster?"

"Maybe. No. Not really."

"Max."

"Okay, a bit. But it's mad. That's fine. I hired Sandra and filled the team with intelligent players to get this kind of pushback so I don't end up vanishing up my own arse."

"A breakthrough. Wonderful. Now, tell us the plan for the second half and we shall create some football."

I shook my head. "No! We're sticking to the plan. The plan is sound. I'll break free enough times to create chances or they'll run out of full backs and one will get sent off."

"That's not a plan."

"That is a plan. Or if Aff and I don't get any joy, we'll switch Aff and Eddie, and the same with me and Carl."

"Max Best at right back?" scoffed Henri.

"That could work pretty well," said Sandra, thoughtfully.

"They can't double-mark me if I'm at right back and if they do, Carl will have the freedom of Worcesterchestershire."

Henri grimaced. "Fussing around the edges! Shading the background of the sketch. I hate it! I tell you, this is not the time for tweaks and optimisations." He grabbed my jersey and looked like he wanted to punch me. "If we had not filled your heart, poisoned your mind with doubts, what formation would you use?"

I filled my cheeks and let the air out noisily. "Sweeper," I said, aggressively, but followed it with a cheeky grin.

"And would it work?"

"It could be a disaster." Cheeky lip bite. "Or it could slap pretty hard."

"Mais oui! We do not have much time. Explain it to us." He went back to his part of the bench and ingested some paste.

I took a few breaths while I considered my options. I really wanted to beat Kidderminster playing my low block-busting formation, but they weren't using a low block so where had that impulse come from and why was it sitting in pride of place in the centre of my thought process? The principles of Chesterness weren't wedded to one particular formation. I had listened to my staff and their worries were valid but they'd led us to approach this match in a stale, unexciting way.

"All right," I said. "Fearless football. I'll tell you one advantage this has - no-one in this stadium has seen this for thirty years." I laughed as I started adjusting the magnets.

WibRob had thoughts. "But don't you need to practise it before you do it in a match?"

"Nope. It's basically 3-5-2 and the only person playing an unfamiliar role just so happens to be a floating megabrain." 

I changed what I was doing and set the magnets up in a 3-5-2. I stood aside. 

"You know this one, William. Three defenders, nice and solid. Five in midfield to get a grip on possession. You've done some of our slapping drills so you know how we attack. How do we get from 3-5-2 to Sweeper? So, so simple. What we do first is we move the wide players back one notch. But! We draw a dotted line..." 

I used the marker. 

"To show that they're ready to bomb forward. Eddie, this'll be you. Aff you'll go as the left-most CM and we'll swap you round every now and then. On the right I want Pascal, so Steve, thank you for your service today. Carl, you'll move inside. And as for me..."

I touched the central of the three CBs and pulled it down so that it was just in front of the goalie.

"Sweeper. Obvious first thing, we can't play the offside trap. But we won't need to. Glenn and Carl will man-mark Craddock and Peabody. Guys, you don't need to do anything else. Just attach yourselves to them, the end. I'll sweep up anything that gets through."

Youngster raised his hand a little. "A sweeper is like a defensive midfielder but behind the defenders?"

"Yes."

"I could play there and you could play in the centre of midfield."

"Sorry, bro. The sweeper starts all the attacks. He needs top passing accuracy and range. No, you'll be in the middle of the pitch making sure they can't get a grip."

"I am sorry to question the idea but why do you not play as a DM? You were very good there."

"Thank you for the compliment, Youngster. I'll put that on my CV next to Manager of the Year. When we use a DM we listen to Let It Happen, right? We control the tempo of the game, we go backwards. That's to invite the other team to come to us so we can exploit the gaps. 

"If this goes to plan, they'll see me with the ball right next to our goal and if they can turn it over, they'll score. Easy. They've got to come forward. And there's no offside. Why wouldn't you take some mad risks sending bodies up? But we'll play through them or intercept and hit them on counters. We can get counter-attacks even though we're behind in the game! 

"And can they man-mark me? Tsch. Maybe. I doubt it. Craddock and Peabody can mark me if they want. I don't think I'll notice."

"Why does no-one use this system?" said WibRob.

I flashed a smile as I widened my eyes. "No clue. I can't see a single flaw in it."

Glenn Ryder stepped forward. "Elite teams have a sweeper, but it's the goalie. Most teams play with a single striker so using a sweeper against them makes no sense. And if you've got VAR checking every goal then the offside trap becomes even more important. None of that applies today. And most of all, not many teams have a player with the mix of defensive skill, athleticism, and passing. We do." He pulled his captain's armband off and put it on my left arm. "This is going to work."

"All right," I said. "Let's go."

"Hold on!" called Henri. "Let us pray!"

"Yeah. Let us spray passes all over the fucking pitch. Come on, men! It's time for church."

***

Kidderminster hadn't changed anything during the break - why would they? But Cole and Hudson were back in their starting slots. Bob Horseman probably felt, with some justification, that the referee would allow them to smash into me one last time before he started to think about showing red cards.

So I ambled over to the right, just in front of Pascal. "How you doing?"

"Ready to slap, Max."

"Good."

"Joe Anka said Lindsey Buckingham can play the guitar and make it sound like two guitars. Is that why you talked about him? Because you can play defence and make it look like attack?"

"Nope. It was random gibberish."

I thought the conversation was over, but no. "We're shooting to our fans."

I looked around. "That's right."

"In the home match, we were attacking the Kidderminster end in the second half. It was a disadvantage. Today, we will score in front of our fans."

"True. Good point."

He pointed to the place I should have been standing. "Did we give up on the sweeper thing?"

"No. I'm just picking up my markers. Those idiots are going to follow me all the way back to the defence and you'll have the entire right-hand side of the pitch to yourself. Go fast, do a cut back. Boom. You properly warmed up?"

"Of course."

The ref blew his whistle and we began passing the ball around. I strolled away from right midfield towards my new slot. I didn't want to go too fast or my markers might get suspicious.

***

Boggy: A rather soporific start to the half from Chester. Slow passes. The players seem uncertain about their positions. Not exactly the barnstorming start to the half we were talking about in the break, Spectrum.

Spectrum: I was sure they would come out all guns blazing. But... what is this? I don't understand the formation. Is it 3-5-2?

Boggy: Topps to Aff. Aff seems more central. He passes back to Eddie Moore. Best making his way to the DM slot as the game goes on around him. That would fit the 3-5-2 theory - this is what we did last time against Kidderminster.

Spectrum: Is it?

Boggy: Don't you remember? Best turned it into a 2-6-2. The ball's over with Bochum. He sends it back across the pitch again. Hmm. Definitely no full-backs but the wide players are sitting deeper. Best dropping to third centre back, is he?

Spectrum: Holy shit!

Boggy: Please.

Spectrum: I'm sorry but he's going... he's going behind the defenders. What's going on? His markers don't know what to do.

Boggy: Moore takes a touch, looks up, er... What? What? Chester are away! There's no-one on that side of the pitch! Bochum's wide open! He keeps going. Going, going, GONE! [Distant roar] Goal! Goal for Chester! Astonishing! With four Kidderminster players around Best, Eddie Moore passed to him and Best swept a left-footed pass first time into the path of Bochum! Kidd... Kidderminster haven't touched the ball this half! That was... that was fifty seconds of Chester possession. How many passes? Then the explosive pass from Best, the explosive speed from Bochum, and Henri Lyons was sharpest at the near post. That was scintillating. Kidderminster are stunned. Three-quarters of the stadium is silent. Half... half the team are with the Chester fans behind the goal. Half are surrounding Max Best. Spectrum, in his joy, has unplugged himself. There. This hole. That attack was devastating. Don't ask me how, but Chester blew a hole in Kidderminster's defence and Pascal Bochum raced through. Oh! I think Best is in tears. He's worked so hard for this and finally, finally, in the fourth half of trying, his team have scored against Kidderminster. Spectrum?

Spectrum: What a goal. I don't know what to say. [weird laugh] They're a fantastic team but whatever we just did, they had no answer for it.

Boggy: What did we do?

Spectrum: [Normal laugh] No clue.

Boggy: The chat's busy, all of a sudden! What's this? Clive OK says it sounds like we've set up in the sweeper system.

[pause]

Spectrum: Come on. Be serious. Look, Best's going off to right mid again.

***

A teacher once told me that I had the tendency to describe everything as 'the best' or 'the most' or whatever, and she was right and I tried to do less of that. But I'm pretty sure the start of the second half was the most fun I had had playing for Chester FC.

After a brief and wholly unexpected burst of emotion, I strode, panther-like, to the right midfield slot where my two markers were waiting to greet me. But instead of kiting them across the pitch, I burst off in the DM slot where I launched into a crunching tackle on a midfielder who had made the mistake of venturing forward. I laid the ball off to Eddie and he ran away in his energy-efficient style. I waited like a cat over a mouse hole, patient and ready to spring, as the plan kicked gloriously into place.

First, most obviously, Pascal's pace and intelligence on the right made Kidderminster's tactics imp recommend one of my markers be reassigned. The other shadowed me in the DM slot, which was my base when we were in possession.

Second, using Aff more infield gave me two left-footers on the left of midfield. They got their combinations going, we got into slapping range, and Christian Fierce found himself torn between two equally troublesome wings.

Third, Glenn and Carl, uninhibited by other duties, tracked Craddock and Peabody, winning headers and roughing them up. When balls were fired long, I dropped five or ten yards ready to clean up the mess.

And when it became clear that we had taken the match by the throat, Kidderminster retreated, bringing Chris Beaumont into the match.

Long ball hit from defence. Ryder jumps.

Craddock wins it. Best is first to the loose ball.

He rolls the ball to Robson, who touches it and retreats to his goal line.

Best waits for a challenge.

Peabody shows. Best drifts away.

Hudson is next in line. Best performs a stepover. And another.

And another.

Craddock comes to help.

Best nudges the ball between the two opponents and hurdles them.

He chips the ball over a midfielder and Moore has space.

He exchanges a pass with Aff and finds himself free.

He lines up a cross.

Fierce nods it away before Beaumont can get there.

The ball goes through to Bochum. He drops a shoulder and gets to the byline.

Fierce rushes to the near post to intercept.

The ball is stood up to the far post.

GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

Beaumont with an easy header!

Chester's 100th goal of the season levels the scores!

Boggy: Pandemonium in Kidderminster! Almost every Chester player has rushed to the stands. The away fans are delirious! I'm delirious!

Spectrum: Look at the limbs!

Boggy: Chester have turned this match around in style. And what style! Max Best the sweeper. Max Beckenbauer! The sweeper awakens. One twist of a screw, one dollop of oil and the mechanism runs smooth as silk once more. Max Best the celestial watchmaker! Chester Football Club are dominant in every area of the pitch. For the first time, Kidderminster's outstanding centre back Christian Fierce looks human.

Spectrum: He can't be everywhere. We have threat from all sides, now.

Boggy: I don't know much about football, but I know momentum when I see it. Stick a fork in this one; it's done!

Spectrum: Kiddies are making a change. They're bringing off Peabody - that's a surprise. Looks like they'll try to hold on. For half an hour? That's optimistic. do you know who this new guy is?

Boggy: Er... yes, he's a centre back. He's going... to the heart of the defence.

Spectrum: What? So where's Fierce going?

***

I'd gone to Sandra to get her thoughts. With typical Mancunian dry wit she had declared my performance 'not bad' but suggested I get the ball forward faster instead of doing elaborate dribbles around hapless centre forwards. I said I was enjoying doing exactly that but that I would try to mix it up.

As I was walking back, I paused. Kiddies had finally worked out our plan and had responded. I stared at the tactics screen with confused delight.

"Sandra!" I called, beaming.

"What?"

"Have you ever seen Rocky 4?"

"Of course I've seen Rocky fucking 4. What do you think I am?"

I pointed to the pitch. "Check this out." I took a few excited jogs away, then returned. "Someone get me a fucking gladiator playlist ready!"

Livia smiled and got her phone out.

I realised my heart was booming. My neck was fucking throbbing.

***

Boggy: Kidderminster kick off, now with one striker. This will play into our hands, surely?

Spectrum: They're not stupid, but... Look. Christian Fierce!

Boggy: Fierce is out of the defence and he's... is he going to play as a second striker?

Spectrum: I mean... We should ask Clive OK in the chat. He called the sweeper thing and he can't even see the pitch. This is... [laugh] This is so Max Best right now. He's got in their heads and they're trying to out-Best him. What the shit is going on?

Boggy: Fierce is hovering between Sam Topps and Glenn Ryder.

Spectrum: He's playing as a CAM! But... yes, look. When Max goes forward, Fierce will track him. He's man-marking Max Best!

Boggy: Clash of the Titans stuff right here. It's crazy. Crazy!

Spectrum: Max should go back to right mid until Kidderminster bring another striker on. We don't need three defenders against one striker.

Boggy: Will he?

Spectrum: Absolutely no chance. He'll see it as the league's best attacker against the league's best defender. He won't back down.

Boggy: But the defender's playing as a forward and the forward's a sweeper!

Spectrum: I fucking love Max Best!

Boggy: So do the Chester fans! Listen!

***

I waited in the sweeper slot to encourage Kidderminster forward. Look, ma! No offside! They were wary, though. Our fast breaks were terrifying and it seemed like their plan now was to hope for a corner or free kick they could do something with. But more likely, they would try to hold out for a draw.

A couple of uneventful minutes passed as our midfield re-established dominance. Freed from the burden of having to be creative, Youngster's match rating had increased. Sam was solid, and Aff was enjoying himself in his new role. I switched him and Eddie, just for fun.

Kidderminster's new tactic was playing long balls onto Fierce's head and hoping Craddock could get on the end. But Craddock wasn't getting on the end of shit. Those scraps were mine. I was too fast, too alert, too motivated to be beaten to the ball by anyone in this league, and when I got possession I sprinted joyously forward knowing Fierce would come and compete with me.

The first time, as he approached me from my left, I made eyes straight ahead and booped the ball through his legs before moving off. He chased me, and while Sandra screamed at me to pass I kept dribbling in a leftwards circle until Craddock came to help and I had no choice but to boop the ball through to Ryder. He passed to Carl, who pushed it out to Pascal, but the rest of the Kiddies team was set.

Sandra was right, I needed to pass the ball faster so we could attack against disrupted and disorganised lines. But if we scored, Kidderminster would give up on this tactical solution and I wouldn't be able to take the piss out of Fierce.

And take the piss I would, for there was no comparison between him chasing me around the vast plains of midfield versus the tight, confined penalty-box arena in which he normally did battle. Bob Horseman's tactics imp had come up with a partial solution to my system but it was very much like putting your heavy infantry up against a cavalry unit. I would harry the shit out of him before giving him the coup de grace.

My players sensed I was in an unproductive mood and tried to keep the ball away from me. But then the point was moot as two Kidderminster midfielders tried to launch an attack. A couple of smart passes and they were past Youngster and it was four on three. Carl stayed with Craddock, Ryder went to the left, and I closed in on the ball carrier. 

Fierce made an overlapping run, which was pretty comical to me, but since he was the captain he got the ball and I had the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to smash him with a tackle. The ball popped loose but although a couple of players were closer, we got up and sprinted after it. We both slid in, moving the ball further across the pitch. 

I was slightly faster to recover and got to it just before him. He tried to crash into me with a shoulder barge but I knew it was coming and gave as good as I got. We stumbled again, arms and legs flying, and once again I was just a fraction quicker to the ball. 

I dragged it away from him, booped it up, and flicked it back over his knee. He turned and sprinted back towards the centre of the pitch but I'd snuck back into the space he had just vacated. He turned again and so did I. 

I dicked about one second too long and he was up and facing me, ready for anything. I jabbed my foot down onto the ball to send it between his legs, but as he closed the gap I simply pushed the ball down into the ground and, with him off-balance, rolled towards the centre of the pitch, straight into a sliding tackle from a deeply unimpressed Kidderminster midfielder. He got enough of the ball to avoid a yellow card, we got a throw in, and I got to enjoy the look on Christian Fierce's face.

That little passage made my guys even more reluctant to pass to me, though, even when I set myself as playmaker.

In the minute that followed, my bloodlust cooled enough for me to take in the atmosphere in the stadium. The Kidderminster fans were nervous - you could hear individual shouts more than unified songs or chants. But the Chester lot were of one voice. I couldn't believe it.

Max Best's Blue and White Army!

Max Best's Blue and White Army!

They hadn't sung that in a while, certainly not since I'd decamped to Tranmere. So the mob was once again my mob. Pride surged through me like white hot fury. It was time to finish this.

***

Boggy: Twenty minutes to go. More patient play from Chester. Kidderminster are sat back in their half. Aff's the left wing back. He passes to Ryder, who sends it on to Carlile. Up to Bochum. All very safe. Kidderminster content to watch. Oh, no! Oh, no! Best is being silly. He's got crazy eyes. He sprinted and slid to intercept a pass between his own players. What's he doing?

Spectrum: [laughing] I'm going to go out on a limb and say this qualifies as unprofessional. Sorry, boss.

Boggy: [whining] He's dribbling back towards our own corner flag! He told me once he'd never go for the corner. Kidderminster, at least, have no intention of indulging him. They're sat back. Will he do kick ups, do you think?

Spectrum: That or he'll sit on the ball.

Boggy: Boos from the home fans as Best leaves the ball and leaves the pitch. Is he offering to sign autographs? [reluctant laugh] This... ugh. Well, now, that's done it. Craddock and Fierce are on their way. Best does approximately twenty stepovers in three seconds - he's such a child sometimes - but the opponents are in range. If that's what he wanted, mission accomplished. What next?

Spectrum: Jesus Christ!

Boggy: Enormous, booming strike from Max Best! He's hit the ball seventy yards to the left onto the toes of Aff. No-one was expecting that!

Spectrum: I'm not sure Max was.

Boggy: Kiddies are all spread out. Aff's surging ahead. He cuts inside. There's movement from Lyons. Aff clips it behind the defence - no Fierce in there any more - sits up nice for the striker - Lyons shapes to shoot - delays. The keeper's down. The defenders are throwing themselves into blocks. Lyons facing goal... backheels! Bochum is there. He hits it across the penalty box. Aff with an open GOALLLLL! Chester are ahead! Three-two Chester! Three-two Chester and surely the three points are in the bag. And now, at last, Best is jogging to join the celebrations. What's he doing? Pulling his players away. Oh, Max, don't. Don't, Max.

Spectrum: Wait, Boggy.

Boggy: But he's, now what? He's shushing the Chester fans over there. And he's up on the boards and he's yelling. He's grabbed one fan and he's shaking him.

Spectrum: Champions!

Boggy: He's telling them what to chant! Champions! Champions! The chant of Chester. Chester FC, National League North Champions 2023-2024. Max Best leads the chant, now they're all joining in. It's pure elation over there. Pure elation in here. Devastation for Kidderminster. A few of their fans are leaving. That's madness. You've never seen a better football match than this. Two titanic teams but one is truly unsinkable. Oh, incredible. Incredible. Is there another twist in the tale, though?

Spectrum: I don't think so. Fierce is going back. Kiddies will see out the match in a 5-4-1 shape. Try not to lose too badly. Goal difference could be a topic for them in the playoff race.

***

Boggy: Into the last minute, here, with Chester leading 3-2. The last ten minutes have been an endless series of passes, many set to cries of olé! Kidderminster have barely been in our half, but anything's possible in this game.

Spectrum: [humming Max Best's Blue and White army]

Boggy: Best with the ball. He chips it out to Bochum and the Kidderminster defence retreats. Bochum comes back. Good lad! So it seems that Chester, Max Best's Chester, are going fourteen points clear. That's... we have seen Chester's one hundred and first goal of a remarkable league campaign. Kidderminster have been good rivals but they've been dismantled in this truly astounding second half. Chester are the best team in the National League North, of that there is no doubt.

Spectrum: I don't think the Team of the Year will have a sweeper, but if it does...

Boggy: [loud exhale] Twenty seconds left. Can Kidderminster summon one last burst of energy?

Spectrum: Can you give him Manager of the Year if he goes on holiday for a third of the season?

Boggy: Best is strolling around the penalty box. Three Kidderminster players are rushing towards him. This could be disaster!

Spectrum: Nope.

Boggy: A long pass from Best to Chris Beaumont! The one pass we haven't tried the whole match and it catches the defence unawares! Beaumont bounces the ball to Lyons! Oh! It's one last fling of the leg from Christian Fierce. The referee ends the game and bodies collapse to the pitch, none more so than the Kidderminster captain. Max Best, looking fresh and happy, jogs over to the Kidderminster fans near the corner flag. He was winding them up before but now we're all friends. He offers a selfie and they accept! A fitting end to a thrilling contest.

Spectrum: For us, the Sandra Lane era continues. For Max, his little trip to Grimsby. And for the players - well, I think they might treat themselves to a couple of beers after this one.

Boggy: I think I might have one or two myself.

Spectrum: Make it three and I'll join you.

Boggy: There goes my weekend, ladies and gentlemen! See you at the Deva on Tuesday night. Come on you Seals! Get in!

...

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