4.

  Monday, September 29

  Look at this drawing. Do you see a young woman in a fancy hat or an old hag wearing a plain shawl?

  How about this one? Do you see a rabbit or a duck?

  Listen to this audio clip. Is the voice saying 'yanny' or 'laurel'?

  Is this dress gold or blue?

  Is Chester a football club on the up, or a tinpot little outfit having a disastrous, embarrassing season?

  Congratulations! You got every answer right.

  ***

  While the lads trained, I walked around Bumpers Bank enjoying the crisp morning air.

  The place was really up and running.

  I did a mini tour to stretch my legs. I'd gone bonkers up in Carlisle, trying to get us back into the game with half an hour to go, seeing if I could do my Superman act. I couldn't - a lot of my shots and passes were nearly on the money but not quite - and as a result of my exertions I was unusually fatigued.

  It had been stupid to try to single-handedly turn the tide like that. Carlisle had an average CA of 89 and were one of the best teams in the league. They were well-financed and had stuffed the squad with good players. If that sounds familiar, it's because we kept playing teams like that, and that's why I lost my cool. It didn't bother me too much that we only had 2 points from 8 games and were stranded at the bottom of the table. But losing to the teams who would be near the top of the table at the end of the season was starting to get on my tits. We could overhaul a 15-point gap, but multiple 20 point gaps?

  Ah, well. Maybe the best teams would take points off each other like they had done in the National League.

  My first stop was the changing room. There was some mud on the floor, a few stray kit bags. Up on the wall was a cardboard sign, replicated in the home team's dressing room at the Deva stadium. Prize Money, it read on the left in careful handwriting. On the right, waiting to be overwritten, was the number 22,000. That was the paltry amount of bonus the club had earned for progressing to the Fourth Round of the AOK Cup. Kind of shit, seeing as only half would go to the players, but it was actually close to the most we could have accrued at this stage of the season. (We could have got an extra 8 grand if we had beaten Wigan in the first Trophy group match.)

  No humans were around so I walked on and poked my head into the reception cabin. This had been installed last to stop it from getting too dirty, and it was one of three nice-ish looking units. It looked a bit like a temporary showroom at a trade fair - nice wooden walls, floor-to-ceiling windows, bit of recessed lighting - it gave a good first impression to our visitors. I poked my head in - JoJo wasn't there, so I moved on.

  Next on the tour was the mobile kitchen, where Patricia and Pete were cooking up a storm. They'd served breakfast and were getting lunch ready. We were getting good use out of the facility. All Chester's teams were based at Bumpers these days, so there were lots of mouths to feed. We also had a small menu you could order from in the bar. The Bestburgers (beef, cheddar, my face on a cocktail stick) were outselling Henriburgers (beef, gorgonzola, French flag on a stick) five to one. The Butcher of Burnage Breakfast (full English with a tiny Ghanaian dip) was a smash hit with early-morning tradesmen.

  I went into the bar and noted right away that the door had been fixed. Top! JoJo was wiping the tables. She was someone we'd hired to do odd jobs; she was the receptionist when we were expecting visitors, she cleaned the toilets and showers, she helped in the bar. She was reliable, hard-working, and came with a ready smile.

  That was handy when you were watching your team's Morale slide down to nothingness. Even with Chesterness, great training, and a sense of progress on multiple vectors, seeing the name Chester at the bottom of the league table was getting people down. The average Morale in the squad was 3.9 - just above average. If it got much lower we would start to lose games we should win. Avoiding a doom spiral was one of my top priorities.

  "Hi, Max! How are you?"

  "I'm sound. Came in for a drink. Can you pour me a triple whisky-brandy?"

  "Yes, sure. That's two triples mixed together, is it?"

  "I suppose, but I was joking. That was the last of the expected losses. Carlisle are bloody good; I couldn't dent their defence. It's quite a frustrating sport sometimes."

  "Oh, well," she said. "At least your hair is nice."

  I slapped the bar. "Yes! Thank you!" My barnet had finally completely grown back enough so I could get it how I liked it. "You'd think I'd get 50 compliments a day, but no. Is there anything you need?"

  "More bathroom cleaner. Shower gel."

  "I'm not offering to take you to the shops," I said. "I'm very busy and important."

  "Oh, very much."

  "Also, there isn't space on my scooter." Since the Duchess had died, I had been reliant on others for rides, so I had splashed out the best part of a grand buying an e-scooter. It was fine for getting from my house to work, or for popping from Bumpers to Saltney or Hoole. Best of all, it was amazing for Playdar. I was back on the Playdar grind big time, and loving every minute of it.

  JoJo moved onto the next table. "It was busy yesterday."

  "Was it?"

  "Yes. The pitch was booked out non-stop and the bar was packed."

  That was good money for the club, that. One day I would have a spare half a million and I would have to decide which part of Bumpers to build next. Top of the list at the moment was the showers and changing rooms, but running it increasingly close was a big sports bar with an upstairs function room, maybe even a roof terrace so we could rinse customers in the summer... I snapped out of my daydream. It struck me that JoJo was at Bumpers almost as often as I was. "You're not overworking yourself, are you?"

  "No, Max. I'm grand."

  I rapped my knuckles on the bar and nodded. "Top top top."

  Outside, I strolled past the 3G pitch with its little stands and large electronic advertising boards. The teams that rented the pitch went weak at the knees when they saw the boards. It was just like playing in a real stadium!

  We didn't rent it out in the mornings when the first team might need it, and it was currently being used as intended. A physio was with Eddie Moore putting him through his paces. Eddie's injury was nothing serious, but it had kept him out of a couple of matches. More minutes for Cole and Josh, but we weren't in a position to beat teams like Mansfield and Carlisle without our very best line up.

  I popped into the medical cabin, which I was trying to get people to call 'The Hippocrate'. More people were calling it 'Harley Street' after the place in London where specialists treat rich people. I wasn't sure if the name was a wry comment on how underpaid everyone was or if the lads simply liked pretending to be posh.

  Dean confirmed that apart from guys with the usual knocks and sprains, the only member of the squad who definitely wouldn't be available for Gillingham was Pascal. The physios planned their shifts and their treatments on a big wallchart and the fact that the chart was in Harley Street and not in the better-equipped Deva or at BoshCard was telling.

  "So you prefer it here," I mused.

  Dean nodded. "Closer to the action. It's cramped but so far we've been able to work around it. The overspill can go to the stadium, right?"

  "Just to confirm, if there's an injury before lunchtime..."

  "Here," said Dean. "Or at Bosh if we're training there. After lunch, the Deva. One of us comes back to Harley Street from five till ten, keeps an eye on the randos while doing paperwork or some late treatments."

  "Mint. It's so good, isn't it? It's just great. I almost want to move wholesale from BoshCard. Hey, I notice you've still got Pascal on the long-term part of the board there."

  Dean gave me a funny look. "Yes, Max. Because of the compound fracture in his leg."

  "Hmm," I said. I wasn't sure how to approach this particular conundrum. The curse was telling me Pascal would be healed in two weeks but medical science was saying yeah nah. "Every time I look at this chart I get a sort of chill down my spine. Sort of goosebumps or whatevs. I think the universe is telling me it might not be that long, do you know what I mean?"

  "The universe must have gone to a different university to me."

  "Hurr," I said. "Universe-ity." I picked up a refill for the diffuser and had a sniff. "I think I might send Pascal to get a new X-ray in a couple of weeks, just to quieten the little voices in my head."

  "The voices in your head sound like something you should talk to Alex about."

  "Mmm," I said, picking up a packet of something and putting it down again. "That's settled, then. I can get back to focusing on tomorrow night's match now. Good chat."

  Dean thought about complaining that an X-ray was a pointless waste of time and money, but decided there was no reason not to indulge me. Sometimes it's good to have a reputation as being unreasonable.

  ***

  I took a detour to the far corner of our space to look at the horse chestnut tree we had planted, then popped into my cute little office and replied to a couple of emails - one from Chelli in Brazil and one from Vincent Addo's father - before continuing the tour.

  We had three pitches. The 3G; an under-sixteens-sized grass one; and our full-sized grass training pitch. The small one was used a fair amount more than I expected. For example, Sticky, our superb goalkeeping coach, did most of his sessions on it.

  He was there now doing his mysterious routines.

  Ben Cavanagh had finally hit his cap, CA 67. He had been playing quite well in the cups, though like everyone he had been pretty shocking against Wigan. I had thrown Banksy on for ten minutes at the end, which baffled the journalists covering the match. They'd tried to turn that substitution into a story. Are you punishing Ben for his poor performance?

  Ben wasn't happy at losing his slot as my main goalie but he knew better than the journalists what being subbed off in those situations meant - nothing. I was giving minutes to a young player, the end.

  With daily training, plus experience of playing against Slovakia and a League One team, Banksy had improved to CA 22. Still far far from being useful to the first team, but a lot lot closer to being absolutely amazing for the 18s. I had one eye on November 4 - the date of our first FA Youth Cup match. If I could get Banksy close to CA 30 by then I would be absolutely buzzing. 35 by Christmas, 40 by the time of the final?

  Sticky was my goalie for most league matches. He had improved to CA 61. The six-point difference between him and Ben were definitely costing us goals, definitely costing us points. But now that Ben had hit his cap, the psychological pain of my decision was easing. One day soon, Sticky would hit CA 68 - a level Ben could never, ever reach and my choice would be vindicated.

  Sticky blew for a break - I must have been giving the vibe of wanting to talk. Ben and Banksy went off to the side to get a drink. Sticky came over to me, far away from the others we could talk about them freely. "All good, gaffer?"

  "Yes," I said. "Where's Rainman?"

  "Family thing. Nothing to worry about."

  "Okay. Listen..." I thought about how to say what I wanted to say. "What... What percentage of time do you give to training Cavvers versus training yourself?"

  Sticky blinked. Another Max Best masterclass in saying something bizarre. "I don't know. I mean... we do the drills together. I suppose I prioritise Ben."

  "Can you prioritise yourself now? Think of it as... think of it as we're only trying to maintain Ben's levels."

  "Right."

  "Do we need to get a goalie coach for you?"

  "No, gaffer."

  "Good good good." I was about to walk away when I realised Sticky had reacted badly to something I'd said. And this was the frustrating and dangerous thing about being bottom of the league and having a figurehead who had managed 13 games in League Two and won none - comments that would normally have been accepted at face value were being turned over and over. "Steve, what's up?"

  He ground his teeth before saying, "I'm letting you down. You're in the crapper because of me."

  "What?" I scoffed. "Don't talk shit."

  "I've seen it before. Managers go on a bad run, scramble around looking for things to fix. You don't know how to tell me I'm stinking the place up."

  "Okay, first up, who's on a bad run?" Sticky didn't want to answer. I raised my eyebrows. "I don't see it that way. Not in the slightest. When we've gone hard at a match we've done well. Fleetwood twice, Bolton, Bradford, Wimbledon. That tells me the levels are right, you know? We're beating League One and Two teams in the cups; we can do it. We can't do it twice a week every week... yet. Nah, man, come on. We've been through this. We're golden. This isn't me scrambling around, this is me very fractionally optimising a part of the organisation that might benefit from a tiny tweak. I'm serene, Steve. I'm floating around my big beautiful machine with a tiny, er... What's a profession that uses small tools?"

  "Clockmaker."

  "Right, okay, sure. I'm walking around listening to everything tick along very nicely, thank you very much, but hey while I'm here I'll give this cog a little twist with the world's tiniest screwdriver. Things can always get better, right?"

  "They can't get much worse."

  I laughed. Yorkshiremen were so dour. "You'll see. Just to review - you're my number one goalie and I want that to reflect in how you conduct training. That's fair enough, isn't it?"

  "Yeah, course."

  "Not a sign of my imminent mental breakdown? Not a harbinger of my complete loss of faith in you and your processes?"

  Steve smiled and looked abashed. "No. No, gaffer."

  "I don't whistle but I would like you to imagine me walking away whistling, okay?"

  "Yes, gaffer."

  ***

  I got a text from my boss about a presentation I wanted him to give.

  MD: Are you sure about Wednesday?

  Me: 80% sure.

  MD: Okay. I'll cancel 80% of my appointments. Jesus. I'm stressed, Max. Our friends in non-league are sending me memes. Memes, Max!

  Me: You love it. You're gonna be upset when we take six points from six this week.

  MD: Why would that upset me?

  Me: Because that's when you know the season's going well and that's when I start to make more of my famously reasonable requests.

  MD: You know what? Two draws will suit me just fine.

  ***

  I walked over to Sandra, who was in charge of the morning's training. She looked good, but there were some shadows under her eyes that weren't normally there. She was trying to stay upbeat, trying to believe in the plan, telling herself the plan was mint... but the league table went down to the number 24 and that's where we were.

  "Only two teams go down, you know."

  She pulled a face. "I wasn't thinking about that. We're not even close to that."

  I looked around. "Is everyone busy?" Everyone meant the other coaches.

  "Yeah. Got them doing tactical work in small groups like you asked." I had interrupted the normal flow of our training to focus on the Gillingham match, and the sessions from Wednesday to Friday would focus on beating Doncaster. I wouldn't normally do that except for a big cup game but the hit to our Morale from being bottom of the league had to be dealt with. Two quick wins would buy me another month to run the club however I wanted. I spotted Youngster practising his man-marking skills while Christian, Zach, and Lee H drilled as a back three. Sandra said, "Why?"

  "Need someone to whizz JoJo to the shops."

  On hearing the name, Sandra smiled. "She's a breath of fresh air." She checked the time. "We're done soon. I'll take her. What are we getting?"

  "Cleaning stuff. Whatever she needs. Here." I handed over my company credit card. "The code is ohfuckwe'regoingdown." Sandra didn't laugh. I sighed. "It's 442442."

  "Of course it is."

  I let Sandra get on with the sesh while I sat on a bucket and had a good old peer.

  The move to Bumpers Bank seemed to have been a success. Attributes and CA scores were turning green in all our teams at all our age groups at what felt like a very slightly higher rate. I planned to use 3-5-2 against Gillingham the following night and our first eleven would have an average CA of 74.2.

  My research set the normal boundaries for League Two as 75 on the lower end and 90 at the top. We were, therefore, a good week of training away from being League Two quality.

  But tomorrow's line up didn't tell the whole story of where we were at because I was going to use Josh Owens instead of Eddie Moore. If I was willing to take a risk on the older player's fitness, our CA would rise to 75.8. If I could play Pascal on the right instead of Magnus, we would be on 76.2!

  And then there was me. Mansfield and Carlisle had kept me at bay with aggressive man-marking, but I was surely in triple digits for CA. We had enough quality to put out a solid eleven that still had loads of room to grow. Unless something went terribly wrong or our training caps were lower than expected, our best eleven would surely finish the season as the best in the league.

  Other League Two squads had players with injuries, players missing. The real issue for Chester wasn't our best eleven, but the lack of depth. The gap from the Eddies to the Joshes was uncomfortably big, but the more I played my fringe players, the closer they got to the levels.

  So we were on track for a good season, and a couple of good wins would restore belief in a big way. What could I do to make sure that happened?

  One area for improvement was staring me right in the face - Darren 'Dazza' Smith, the hulking Australian striker. He was suffering because he hadn't scored since joining the club even though he had played 11 of our 12 games. After another blank in the frozen wastelands of Cumbria, his Morale had tanked. No goals from 11 games was abysmal.

  I waited until his session was on a break and called him over. "Pull up a bucket, mate."

  "Yes, boss." He looked around, found nothing, and sat in the 90 90 position, lightly flexing his hips as we talked - one of the exercises the Brig was making us do. With his big blonde hair and massive thighs, Dazza looked like an extra from the movie Troy - one of the lads who ran around with Achilles. "What's on your mind?"

  "You didn't think we'd be bottom of the league at this point, did you?"

  "Not really, nah."

  "Me neither. You don't seem to be questioning my abilities or anything like that."

  "You're fucking amazing, boss. If it wasn't for you..."

  "We'd have zero points instead of two." I smiled. "I'm literally worth two points."

  "Yeah nah you know what I mean. But I'm rank. How many wins would we have if I could hit the bloody target? I'm your record transfer and I'm making you look like a proper dongo. I'm as useless as an ashtray on a motorbike."

  "It's true you're making me look like a dongo," I said, "but in Manchester, dongo is positive."

  "Is it?"

  "No. But look, I've worked out why you're not as sharp as normal."

  "You have?"

  "Yeah. You're homesick."

  "I'm not, gaffer. I swear."

  "Ah, but listen. Back in Oz, you're always on high alert. You turn any corner there's liable to be jellyfish, eels, snakes, scorpions, sharknados, all kinds of things that want to kill you then eat you, or vice versa. In Perth you're on your way to training like Huh? Huh? Huh? at every shape, every shadow. You get on the pitch and it's all a piece of piss, isn't it? Your reflexes are razor sharp. Compared to daily life, football's a doddle. You come to Chester and the only excitement is when you go to Tesco and they've got a special offer on TimTams. I don't know what those are, by the way. I did a search for 'garbage that only Australians like'."

  "Boss, no, TimTams are quality."

  "Okay, the real pep talk beginnnnnns... now. Ready? One. If you weren't playing well I would fucking let you know, mate. If you pull on this shirt and laze about not giving it your all, you'll be hauled off the pitch and I'll give you a blast on your way back to the fucking airport, do you know what I mean? I will fucking let you know. We're nowhere near that. Nowhere near that.

  "Two. I'm not that interested in your stats. We get all this data now and it's handy but I wouldn't base my whole fucking personality on it like you seem to want to do. It's flawed. How many times have you forced the goalie into a save that's led to a goal? How many times have you hit the crossbar? We could drive ourselves insane going through the xG of every shot you've had working out if that number is fair or not. I don't care about it. Life can only be lived forwards, so live forwards.

  "Three. Or maybe this is 2b. Your value isn't a number. Your value is how I feel you are contributing to the team and you're doing great on the pitch and off it, at least, when you aren't walking around with a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp."

  "Have you been learning Aussie sayings for this chat?"

  "Yes. Don't interrupt me when I'm on one. We are 24th in the league. Do you think I'm the 24th best manager?"

  "No."

  "Damn right. I'm fucking these pricks up, it's just not showing on the scoreboard. Yet. And what about me the star player? It's like 7 goals in 200 minutes or something. It's decent, but those goals don’t make me a good player. When I'm really firing, when I'm at my best I’m an assist machine. Right now I’m doing ten times more shots per ninety than I want and it's not because I don’t trust you or Henri but because I don’t trust the midfield to generate more chances. So one number doesn't say anything about how good I am as a manager, the other doesn't say much about how good I am as a player."

  "It sort of does."

  "Yeah fine but not like you think. If I saw someone with my stats I'd want to go and scout him but the numbers don't get him a contract here. It's what he can do, who he is, all that stuff."

  "Would you sign yourself?"

  "I couldn't afford myself."

  He closed his eyes. "This place is battier than a Brisbane belfry."

  "You know what's batty?"

  "What?"

  "I wouldn't mind if you didn't score the whole season, then on the last day we're winning four-nil and you score your first ever goal for the club to make it five-nil."

  "And we get into the playoffs on goal difference?"

  "No. Just a meaningless goal. That'd be funny. You'd finish the season on 30 assists, one goal."

  "Not sure I'd find it as funny."

  "Yeah well you don't pick the team so tough shit. I love how you play and I love what you're doing so that's that. Wait, you distracted me. What number am I up to?"

  "Can't remember."

  "Dazza, listen up. We’ve all got to get better but you’re in the… what’s one eleventh as a percentage?"

  "Don’t know."

  "You’re in the bottom twenty two percent question mark of my problems, do you get me? When I talk to the coaches about you it’s about getting you better. Nothing negative comes up. You can start worrying about your future here when I start talking about how many goals you're scoring."

  "Why?"

  "Because I like my players to go on goalscoring runs before I sell them so I can get bigger fees. I'll be fattening you up to fetch a good price at market. Gorgeous Aussie merino sheep, aren't you, mate! Hey, Max, why is Dazza on penalties? No reason, giggle. Yeah," I said, looking into the mid-distance, "I don't mind you having a bad first season in terms of numbers. It means I get to keep you next season, too." I squinted, content with my daydream. The truth was, I would probably get offers for Dazza I wouldn't be able to refuse. I snapped back into the present. "I envy you."

  "I doubt that."

  "No, I do. You get to have all these doubts, these worries, and experience the whole Chester roller coaster for the first time. This season is your Murder on the Orient Express. We only get one time to read it for the first time. This is your once. You’re so lucky! This is my third time already. I know how it ends."

  "You know who the killer is."

  "I'm the killer. You're my weapon." I shook my head at the unfairness of life. I'd been given an almighty crack to the head, fell into a coma, and when I woke up I remembered whodunnit in all the Agatha Christie books, knew the twists in The Sixth Sense and The Usual Suspects. What would I pay to be able to re-experience those things for the first time? Dazza was waiting for me to finish my reverie. I said, "Well, go and train. Fuck sake, don't just sit there. Hey, what's that?"

  He turned and looked behind him. "What?"

  When he turned back towards me I threw a large plastic spider at him. It hit him in the face before sliding down into his hands. I said, "I'll be throwing that at you when you least expect it. Bit of a taste of home."

  He got to his feet and looked at the huge toy spider. "Thanks, gaffer. She's a beaut."

  He chucked it back to me and jogged off with a spring in his step.

  I'd like to say it was my speech that had improved his Morale, but that would be a lie. His Morale went up when he saw the spider.

  ***

  I got a massage from a spare physio and went home for a few hours, lazing on my sofa while I re-watched footage of Gillingham. They had spent a lot of money but they weren't a good unit. A lot of their moves went through their best player, Ennis, and I thought that if Youngster marked him, Gills would find it hard to score. Not a nailed-on win by any means, but the most even league game of our season so far.

  I snoozed for a while and woke feeling delightfully groggy.

  ***

  Having the club's training centralised in one place was having all kinds of side benefits. Now, I didn't have to whizz from place to place if I wanted to check on the under 12s, the women, the Knights. All I had to do was go to my office and let the players come to me.

  The Knights trained on the small pitch. In the past, their coach, Terry, had sometimes been isolated. Not forgotten, exactly, but not really at the heart of anything. Bumpers wasn't ideal for the disabled team because the toilets and showers had limited accessibility, but Brooke said when we developed that part of the complex we could get all kinds of grants to help us bring things up to the required standards in the amounts we wanted. I wanted Bumpers to be able to host a pan-disability tournament one day, and that would mean having a lot more than one special bathroom.

  The boys under 12s were in high spirits. They trained on half the 3G pitch while the 14s trained on the other half. Spectrum liked to cross-pollinate the age groups so it was always quite random who would be playing alongside who, and doing what.

  With the surge in interest in schools football and me having free time in the evenings, I had been scouting and using Playdar to great effect. There was the not-inconsiderable bonus that I 'owned' three pitches that local teams could hire and these pitches were pretty close together. I knew when matches were being played and it was a simple matter to ride The Green Baron to Saltney or to Hoole and quickly scout the players.

  As such, I'd stocked up on youth prospects. The 12s had five new lads aged as young as 8 ranging from PA 62 to 136 and there were plenty of schools I had never been to which had matches scheduled. I was gathering millions of pounds of future stars!

  I smiled as I noted that five of the 12-year-olds were training with the older boys.

  Simon Black, a lightning fast PA 77 striker, was still the star of his age group - he was scoring ludicrous amounts.

  Tadpole, a PA 130 goalie, was Sticky's favourite. The miserable old sod changed completely when Tadpole was around - he told jokes, he did comedy bits.

  Mark Nelson was PA 70 and could play anywhere along the back line. He was developing very nicely.

  Lawrence 'Larry' Shaw was a hulking centre back, PA 89, who towered above the other kids his age - and the age above. He was going to be as big as Goliath, the striker I had loaned a couple of years back. Larry would score thousands of goals from set pieces and his high PA meant he should turn into a proper good defender, too. I was incredibly interested in watching him develop.

  And finally, the pride of Chester's youth system, Stephen Watson. I had found him on my first ever visit to Liverpool while Jackie Reaper was getting his knees checked out. Watson was PA 146, a defensive midfielder, and he boosted my Morale every time he took a pass in a tight area or deflected the ball into Simon Black's path or lazily held off an opponent before bringing the ball under his control.

  The kid was spectacular and now I got to see him every time he trained.

  About a quarter of the parents watched from the mini stands, though of course they weren't allowed to groan or yell when their kids did anything 'bad'. A quarter watched from the viewing room, which was similar to the reception cabin but not as pretty. The viewing room was warm and there was a tea and coffee station. We had put up some photos and scarves and stuff but it was still pretty bare. The rest of the parents waited in the bar where they got free tea and coffee and could buy food. Spectrum had the great idea to make it possible to send the feed from the 3G pitch's cameras to the bar so that people could watch their kids, friends, or partners while giving us money.

  I found Stephen Watson's dad and had a big old chat with him and two other other dads he had befriended.

  "You're not worried about the league table," said Mr. Watson in his Scouse accent.

  "Not you as well," I laughed. "You've been with us long enough to know better."

  He smiled. "It's a step up, isn't it? It's harder."

  "I expected it to be like this. I'll be honest and say losing Pascal messed us up more than I would have realised. I used him for so many things, you know? He gave us speed, intelligence between the lines, he let us switch to all sorts of formations. Yeah, we are slightly short in creative, flexible forwards."

  "You could have signed a replacement in the window. Got a loan maybe."

  I pointed to one of the kids on the nearest TV. "That lad there. He's a Pascal type. Next in line to the throne."

  "He's nine!"

  I shrugged. "I'm a long-term planner."

  "You're really not worried, then?" said one of the other dads.

  "Not in the slightest. The only thing I have to fear is fear itself. First time I met Mr. Watson I said, what did I say, have a bet on Chester to stay up, and have a bet on us to win seven in a row. And what happened?"

  "I lost me money," he said, with perfect delivery and timing. Got a big laugh.

  "Come on," I said. "We won six out of seven!"

  "It's true," said Mr. Watson, to the others. "Would have been seven, I reckon, but that was when Max got attacked."

  "Oh, shit," said one of the others.

  "Yeah," I said. "But look, I can't place bets myself. Even if I got my girlfriend to do it, it'd come out and there would be hell to pay. I basically don't ever talk about betting, ever. It's easier that way." I looked around me and leaned in closer. "But if you've got a spare tenner that isn't helping you out much, stick that on us to win our two matches this week." I gave them a little nod. "Ah, reminds me. I wanted to talk to them."

  "Who?"

  "All of them. I want to tell them to work harder in school." The parents laughed - typical Max being weird.

  Another benefit of having my youth players under my wing - I could see who was coming to watch them train and play. A guy came in, leaned against the bar, rubbed his hands to warm them up, and asked for a tea. JoJo got right on it.

  "Guys, can you do me a tiny favour, please?"

  "Course we can, Max."

  "Don't look now. I said don't look!" I laughed, as the three turned. "The guy who just came in. Tell me which parent he talks to, would ya?"

  I looked up at the screen. Little Simon Black ran onto a pass and finished into the bottom of the goal as easily as JoJo added milk to the stranger's tea.

  But the new guy wasn't a complete stranger. I had seen him before at youth tournaments and while I'd never spoken to him directly, he had a big old rectangle hovering over his head.

  Wayne Robins (Liverpool)

  Scout

  Judging Player Ability 14

  ***

  With five minutes to go before the end of the session I walked out onto the pitch and asked the coaches on both halves to wrap things up. They did and the kids came over to me.

  Another benefit of having everyone close to hand was I could give them tiny speeches without needing to plan it.

  "All right, lads?"

  Lots of smiles. A few of them, like Future or Adam Roberts, had spent some time with me and knew I was more or less just another dude, but for many there was a lot of hero worship going on.

  "I thought we agreed that when I said all right lads you guys would yell YES SENSEI."

  "Naw, we didn't agree that," said Stephen Watson.

  "Weird. Maybe it was a dream. Okay, listen. I've just been reading an article about Premier League academies. Okay, we definitely agreed to BOO when we talked about Prem clubs."

  "That was another dream an' all," said Watson.

  "Was it? Shit, my dreams are boring. Note to self, have more exciting dreams. Okay, the article said that kids who join football academies are, like, above average at school. They get good marks. But when they leave the academy, they're below average. What does that tell you?"

  This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

  "That footballers are stupid," said Big Sam, a decent young goalie. He got some laughs.

  "Well, they start out brighter, don't they? It's the football that makes them stupid. I don't want that to happen here. First of all, I don't like stupid players. Second, I do weird team talks. Off the top of my head, I've talked about Babylonian maps, four-hundred-million-year-old sea beasts, and on Wednesday morning the first team are gonna get together and we're all going to talk about money. Investments, interest rates, shares, I don't know what. I'm not gonna lie and say I was good in school but I wasn't a dick, either, and I was proper interested in some of the lessons. I wish I'd paid more attention in Spanish and German, I reckon. That'd help me now, wouldn't it? But you never know when something you learned might pop up.

  "I don't think I want to meet your teachers and check how you're doing but if there's an article about you one day where it says you binned school off I think I'll be pretty disappointed. It's a fucking neckache sometimes, isn't it? Doing homework when you want to play Cards Against Humanity or whatever kids these days get up to. Pogs? But just make sure you keep your levels up, yeah? Power through.

  "Maybe I'll do a competition. Show me a maths test from last week where you got a shit mark, one from next week where you did better. That gets you into the draw. Show me you got three good marks in a row. That gets you in. Winner gets to hang out with the first team or some shit. All right, that's it. Do better at school, you little brats."

  ***

  Next came the 16s (on their special pitch, joined by lots of the 14s), the 18s (on the 3G), and the women (on the big grass pitch).

  The 16s cupboard was fairly bare, though I had found a pair of lads in the PA 50s recently. The lack of talent in one particular age group didn't bother me - next season I could bring in half a dozen lads like Jamie Brotherhood - good talents who would cost me buttons. And Roddy Jones, the Baby Bale, was there. PA 184, a future legend. When I'd picked him up he had been playing as a striker and indeed, if he had stayed there he would still be scoring tons. Why, though? The results of those games didn't matter. I'd moved him to right wing and told his coaches to give him minutes as a right mid. Maybe by the end of the season we would have him in his real position - right back. The challenge was to keep him and his dad interested and engaged and that was a lot easier when Roddy was scoring hat tricks every week.

  The 18s were packed to bursting. We had 23 players, not including Roddy who sometimes trained with them.

  Wibbers, Dan Badford, and Banksy were the stars of the group. Wibbers was on CA 58. It seemed like he had been in the 50s for eons but when he hit 60 I was going to think of him totally differently. CA 58 meant he was flighty, streaky, untrustworthy. CA 60 meant consistency. Logical? No. Dan was CA 49. That was rubbish. Garbage. But when he hit 50 - swoon! Logical? I'm going to say yes.

  After the three stars came the right back Jamie Brotherhood (PA 95), left back Lucas Friend (PA 62), and the young striker Chas Fungrieve (PA 83). Tyson (attacking midfield, PA 58) was the best of the rest, but after Noah Harrison (PA 51) there was a drop to a lot of lads in the 30-40 range.

  It wasn't the best squad that would enter the FA Youth Cup, but it was going to be the squad with the most first team minutes and it wouldn't even be close. Eight of the lads had seen first team action already this season and there was going to be a lot more.

  "What are you thinking?" said Benny. He was the son of a famous former player and a great lad but he only had PA 40. This attempt at the Youth Cup would be his last chance of real glory in the sport. He had sidled up next to me as I watched the others train; he had a foot injury that was keeping him out for a couple of weeks.

  "I'm thinking when I take over this training we will go to the grass pitch where no-one can see us."

  "Why do you let randos in to Bumpers?"

  I shrugged. "It's a community club, isn't it? If people want to watch, I don't mind, as long as they're quiet and don't get in the way. And if they want to drop ten quid on a burger, even better. But the stuff I'm going to teach the 18s is not something I want our oppo knowing about."

  "I can't wait," said Benny. "I'm so hyped for it. Everyone's saying you turned the Welsh army into an unstoppable force."

  I pulled a face. "Let's not go crazy. They still suck, but now they suck in a way that's aesthetically pleasing."

  Training 3 R Welsh and getting them to do Relationism in matches - what they called 'Bestball', urgh, vom - had been incredibly interesting.

  The first unique part of the experience was that I needed to operate without the Match Overview screens. Using those would force me to use positional play and I couldn't get the lads into the blob if they were lined up in 4-4-2. So when the Overview screen had come up, I had been ready to battle to shut it down. In the end, it was easy. I ordered the Overview screen to close. An 'are you sure?' message popped up. I thought 'yes'. A new message appeared. 'You won't be able to get it back during this match. Are you sure you're sure?' I was sure, and it poofed out of existence, though I could still see the player profiles.

  So I had to manage those matches without my screens and without my perks. No match ratings, no instant awareness of what the oppo manager was doing, no using Bench Boost or Free Hit.

  I had been right, I was sure, to focus on simplicity. Short passes, safe passes, lots of passes. I had been lucky that there was one player in the unit who could make everything tick and had the imagination needed to pass out from the blob when opportunities presented themselves. Or maybe it wasn't luck - I had put the players with high Decisions in the key roles.

  I had been unlucky with the pitches, but who knew the army played on Sunday League grounds? I had sorted it out, but it was clear to me after only a few weeks that what I was doing would work, and I gave myself mental permission to go hell-for-leather to buy the Relationism perk.

  The perk was down to a base cost of 29,570. Still crazy, but it was a number I could attack from both sides, first by continuing to manage 3 R Welsh - what better way to spend a Wednesday afternoon than ripping the piss out of them and making them beg for more? - and by grinding for XP in the normal way.

  With all the matches I was managing, plus watching the women, plus some of the evening games played at Bumpers, the XP was flowing very nicely.

  XP balance: 13,033

  Thirteen thousand... Why did that stick out? I looked around and saw Benny had gone.

  I got out my calculator and calculated the current cost of the Relationism perk if I applied my ten percent discount code - 26,613. Just about double what I had in the bank. I was halfway there!

  When I managed a League Two match for 70 minutes and played 20, I got about 580 XP. So that meant I was 23 League Two matches away from being able to afford the perk. If I only managed the League Two games and did nothing else, I would be able to unlock Relationism after playing Doncaster Rovers on February 14th.

  If I took into account cup matches, 3 R Welsh, and all the other footy I was watching... I was closer than I'd realised. Surely I would unlock it this calendar year?

  Oh, baby!

  I rubbed my hands and cut through the rows of cabins to get to the grass pitch. How were the women getting on?

  ***

  Jackie Reaper was busy doing a complicated-looking drill, so I looked for someone else to bother. Lucy, our former left back who was good in the air and had greatly improved the team with her leadership skills, was by the side of the pitch keeping a keen eye on the proceedings.

  "Hi Lucy," I said.

  "Hi boss."

  "What are you doing?"

  Lucy had decided to leave Chester's women's team in order to take up a great opportunity - being the first ever manager of Saltney Town Women. "Reminding myself how it's supposed to be done. Now that I'm in the hot seat I realise I never paid all that much attention, you know? It was just 'am I in the team or not?' You don't mind me coming, do you?"

  "Course I don't mind. Why would I mind?"

  "Jackie's just brilliant. He's so good. He keeps things moving, keeps things fresh. Hard drill followed by easy one. Twists, variants, it's always interesting."

  "Yeah, he's definitely one of the top five managers at Chester FC."

  She put her hand on my arm. "You're very good, too, boss. Wow, I forgot how needy you get. Can I ask a question?"

  "Always."

  "The pre-season fixtures. How did you decide on them? I remember when I joined Chester you were doing a progression concept. Harder matches every week. I thought Chester's pre-season fixtures this year were something like that, or maybe there were players you wanted to look at, but I couldn't get my head around it. The opposition you chose made no sense."

  "Pre-season was a while ago and I was pretty busy. I think I didn't go to the away matches. You know what? I can't remember who it was we played."

  "I do. Stanway Pegasus, Bemerton Heath Harlequins, Coventry Sphinx."

  I smiled. "I remember now. Jackie was bothering Inga to set up some fixtures and Inga was bothering me. So I gave Emma a big list of teams and she picked those three because they had funny names."

  "Oh," said Lucy. "Pegasus, Harlequins, Sphinx. Okay. You know, sometimes I worry you might not be a floating megabrain."

  "It's two long away trips, isn't it? The entire squad packed into Sealbiscuit for hours, bonding, singing. It doesn't matter who they play as long as they're ready for the first proper match of the season and guess what? Mission accomplished. They played Chester le Street off the pitch."

  Chester le Street Town were from County Durham and had the nickname The Cestrians, which was like the name of Chester's match day programme. I mean, get your own nicknames, what the fuck. Their women's team had an average CA of 38, which made them better than any divisional rival we had ever faced. Jackie had used his favoured 3-5-2 with an average CA of 48.8.

  We were already ten points better than our opponents in the first game of the season!

  The squad was so strong that Bonnie didn't make the starting eleven. She played in the next game, in the qualifying round of the Welsh Cup. There had been some chat about our participation in the cup last season, so this year we had agreed to play every match away. Jackie had rung the changes, giving starts to three of our Ffamous Five. Our talented but absurdly young squad had struggled to beat Aberaman, but with a couple of older heads appearing from the bench, we had prevailed 5-3.

  Chorley had CA 39 and we had dispatched them with Meghan and Sarah Greene making their home debuts. 'Home' for now was a town in Wales called Flint, but Sarah was inspired and put in a man-of-the-match display in a 5-1 romp.

  Given the levels of the first two opponents, yesterday's match against Huddersfield had been a bit of a shock. They were rocking an average CA of 48 - we were 50.4. Almost neck and neck in terms of overall quality. We had higher technique and youthful exuberance, but they had experience. It was the same old story for us, but we were getting experience every week. Assuming Huddersfield were one of the very best teams in the league, an away draw was a solid result. Bit of an early-season wake-up call, too.

  And a bit of a wake-up slap for me, too. I thought I had given Jackie a killer squad, but there were small, potentially consequential gaps.

  For left midfield we only really had Dani or Kisi, neither of whom you'd trust to put in a 90-minute defensive shift. Fioled, one of the Welsh starlets, was that kind of player, but she was 16 and CA 23. It was something of a risk trusting girls like her so much. Then again, Jackie had a top left back he could use if he felt we were at risk down that side.

  The main problem was the strikers. Angel was a big talent, of course, but Bea Pea had hit her ceiling. CA 36 was good enough as a backup option for the league but she had been our starting striker almost since we'd started the team. Julie McKay, she of the hooligan former boyfriend, was CA 33, PA 53, but she was pretty average in all respects. She didn't have Angel's finishing, Bea Pea's work rate, she wasn't especially fast or good in the air.

  Yeah, if Angel got injured we might have a problem.

  Or - and this was a valid option - we could pass to Sarah Greene and let her go nuts. The girl was fucking amazing. She had raced up to CA 63 and caused a bit of a secondary explosion in CA growth in the players around her. Suddenly, Dani and Charlotte were miles off the levels and it was making them work twice as hard.

  "I love it when you grin like that."

  "What? Who's grinning? I'm scowling, mate. How can you draw against Huddersfield? This is one of the most expensive squads outside the top two divisions, you know. They need to sort themselves out or the next series of the documentary will be called Chesterness 2: The Purge."

  "Sure, boss. Sure."

  "When we get knocked out of the cups I might send you some young players. If you want."

  "If I want? Course I want. But you might be waiting a while."

  "Why's that?"

  "These ladies are in no mood to be knocked out of anything. Don't plan anything for Sundays, boss. These girls are filming Chesterness 2: The Relentlessness. That's not my idea for a name, by the way. That's Angel in cahoots with Henri."

  ***

  Mr. Watson: He was looking at Simon Black.

  ***

  Tuesday, September 30

  Match 9 of 46: Gillingham vs Chester

  If there's one thing my career in football taught me, it's that Gillingham is fucking miles away. It was a four and a half hour journey that would have stretched Sealbiscuit to breaking point and even I wasn't eco-champion enough to take the risk. We'd hired one of our old buses for the journey.

  It was such a step down in quality and comfort I thought it might knock our Morale, but it had the opposite effect. Lads who were maybe looking at their pay packets wondering why the numbers were so small when I was investing in electric buses could feel the difference and could think 'oh right, that's why'.

  I felt a sort of steely determination about the warm ups and the general preparations.

  "All right, shut the fuck up," I said, once everyone was in the dressing room and receptive. "Get your fucking game faces on. For the first time this season, we're favourites." Gillingham were spending a mind-blowing 111,000 pounds a week on their first team squad and the average CA of their starting eleven was a truly shocking 77. "We're favourites. We're going to keep things tight, frustrate them, silence the crowd, and go mental in the last twenty minutes. Piece of piss."

  I slapped the tactics board.

  "3-5-2. Sticky in goal." CA 61. "Christian, Zach, Lee H." 81, 73, 76 respectively. "Youngster dropping to be DM." CA 90, surely the best young midfielder in the whole league. "Josh left, Magnus right." 54, 68, bit of a weak spot. "Ryan and Lee C in the middle." 69 and 78. Ryan was loving life at Bumpers. The sumptuous grass pitch took some of the strain off his joints. I had resolved not to use him on a bad surface until it was the direst possible emergency. "Henri and Dazza." Both strikers were on CA 80.

  That gave me an average of 73.6. Calling us favourites was a bit of a stretch, especially given my lack of options from the bench, but I was incredibly confident.

  "My favourite movie is called Swingers. It's about Iron Man's driver who has a bad break up and the guy from Dodgeball who is his mate who tries to cheer him up." I walked around until I was in front of Dazza. "The most famous quote goes like this. You're money! You're so money and you don't even know it. No, I'm not happy with that. Dazza, what are you doing?"

  "Sorry, gaffer, I don't follow."

  "I'm doing a scene. You're my scene partner. You're giving me nothing. Can you stand up, please?"

  They were cheers and whoops as he pushed himself to his feet. He really didn't want an acting class, but I didn't really care what he wanted. "Ready."

  "When you do an acting, you're supposed to say 'what's my motivation?'"

  "What's my motivation, gaffer?"

  "You've had a bad break up."

  "What's a bad break up?"

  More cheers and whoops. I grinned at his confidence. "That's the spirit! All right, let's do it the other way. I'll be the sad one."

  Dazza had started collecting his hair into a band. He pulled the band off, flicked his hair back, and tucked it all away again. "Are you going to say action?"

  "No."

  He tried to remember his line. "You're so money. You don't even know how money you are."

  "Fuck sake," I said. "I've written the line out for you. Where did I put it? There, Vimsy has it."

  When I said Vimsy, Dazza turned, spotted danger, and recoiled as the man in question hurled a bucketful of giant plastic spiders at him. "Strewth," said Dazza, possibly. I couldn't hear because everyone was pissing themselves.

  I stood with my hands on my hips. "Ah, that's fun. All right, get to fucking work."

  Christian yelled, "Come on, Chester!" and they rushed out, Morale high.

  ***

  The first half was pretty even. We were able to nullify Gills and have the lion's share of possession, but they were equally comfortable in thwarting our attacks. They tried to target the wings but I set my wide guys to 'make forward runs: no' and used the Without Ball screens to drop them back as much as I could. Gills had a very specific way of defending set pieces that was both impressive and stupid - exploiting their reliance on the offside trap would need a little bit of creativity and someone who could cross a ball with pace and accuracy. I didn't have too many of those. Squad-building on 30K a week came with a lot of compromises.

  I didn't say much at half time. Things were going great, and all the goals would come in the very final section of the match.

  Or so I thought - in the 62nd minute, Youngster got sucked into a midfield scrap, the ball went wide, Josh was beaten for one of the only times in the match, the ball was played into Ennis, wide open for the first time, who clipped a quality pass through to the striker who slipped the ball past Sticky pretty easily.

  I clicked my teeth, but instead of having a meltdown I used the Finances perk to look at Gillingham's numbers again. They really were blowing over a hundred grand a week on this lot. Almost four times what I had to work with.

  The perk showed some raw numbers plus a simple balance sheet that told me they were hugely in debt. Most football clubs lost money and had their debt or loans written off by their benefactors. When that money dried up, the club was in deep doo-doo. After a period of relative calm, a few clubs were starting to worry about their future and I was making sure I had scouted their first team, reserves, and youth teams in case the opportunity arose to snap up a few bargains if there was a fire sale.

  Sandra Lane took a break from giving instructions to look at me. "How can you be so relaxed?"

  "Who said I'm relaxed?"

  "You're relaxed and you're smiling. You've got a fucking blissful smile on you."

  "Oh, I suppose. I was thinking about that guy, that accountant fan who looked at our annual reports and decided they showed that MD had squirrelled away... what was it?"

  "One point one million."

  "Right." I hadn't followed the story all that closely because the fan was well-meaning but wrong. I had Chester's Finances screen in my head whenever I wanted to check it - MD was not lying to me. Our balance was very slightly in the red - there was no secret supply of cash. "Christ, can you imagine what I'd do with a million right now? And can you imagine what I'd do to MD if I found out he'd been holding out on me while I'd been under so much stress?"

  "Can you warm up, please?"

  That was unlike Sandra. She was normally chill about letting me ease my way into the match. "Do you need a hug?"

  "I need you to warm up and score eight quick goals, please."

  I laughed at looked at my bench options. Wibbers was there but there was something about him recently that made me hesitate before putting him on the pitch. I had been using him a lot but like Dazza he hadn't scored. Maybe there was a slight doubt in his mind about whether he was good enough. The team would get two quick wins, Wibbers would hit CA 60, and when he got on the pitch next he'd be right back to being a phenomenon. "Cole and Sharky, I reckon."

  "Kay," said Sandra, and got them warming up. After staring at the pitch pretty hard for a couple of minutes, I joined them.

  ***

  70'

  Triple change for Chester.

  Off comes Josh Owens, Ryan Jack, and Lee Hudson.

  On comes Cole Adams, Wes Hayward, and Max Best.

  It looks like the player-manager will play as a centre back.

  ***

  2-6-2. Ian Evans had laughed at me. The world wasn't ready for it.

  Cole for Josh was a like-for-like change, spreading the minutes around.

  Sharky for Ryan Jack (with Magnus switching into the centre) gave us lightning speed on the right and, more importantly, something for me to aim at.

  I moved Youngster up into the CM slot next to Lee C and Magnus.

  I moved myself from centre back to DM.

  The genius of the plan was that teams in League Two didn't man-mark the other team's defensive midfielders, so unlike against Mansfield and Carlisle I would be able to dominate the game. Okay, I'd be too far away to have ten shots and would be too central to get into crossing positions, but I felt like Sharky's speed would cause havoc and would at least generate some free kicks. And I could use Cupid's Arrows to combine with either Henri or Dazza and make it more likely that my passes would reach them.

  ***

  71'

  It's hooked long.

  Fierce wins the header.

  Best controls on his chest and dabs the ball to Green.

  Green plays a simple return pass.

  Best launches the ball towards the right wing. Hayward hares after it.

  He gets there! Hayward continues his run.

  He gets to the byline and fizzes the ball across the face of goal.

  But it's too far ahead of Lyons and Smith. They had a ten-yard head start and couldn't keep up with their teammate!

  ***

  74'

  Neat turn by Ennis. He runs at Chester.

  He shapes to spread the ball wide but instead goes on a dribble.

  Ennis crashes into Best.

  Best comes away with the ball.

  He launches it to the right wing.

  Hayward gets there!

  Hayward is fouled!

  Will this be a yellow card? The defender gets away with a warning.

  Best has words for the referee about that decision, then he places the ball.

  Best to take the free kick from the right of the pitch, close to the touchline, thirty yards out. No chance to shoot from there.

  He has options in the box. Fierce, Green, Lyons, and Smith will be licking their lips.

  Best... moves away from the action. Evergreen plays the ball a yard ahead. Best takes it forward.

  The defence had rushed out to trigger the offside trap. They have to get back now!

  Best whips in a cross from the new angle.

  GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

  It's Lyons. The cross was right onto his head, as though drawn by magic.

  Chester are level.

  ***

  Gillingham's manager was shit at squad building but rather better as a tactician. He saw that I'd blown a hole in his 4-2-3-1 formation and reorganised into a 3-5-2. His plan was to match us up and let his better quality tell.

  I swapped us into 3-4-3 with Magnus joining the defensive line and me as the third striker. I would spend most of my time in the DM slot, and would only cross the halfway line when I was sure it would lead to something.

  My thought was that if I mostly stayed near my defenders I might get a few chances to menace the Gills penalty box without being man-marked, and when I did attack we would have three against three. It would be low-level carnage for as long as it took my opposite number to realise what I was doing.

  It was a huge risk, but as Pascal often said, no risk no fun.

  ***

  77'

  Icke takes the goal kick. He clips it to Evergreen.

  Evergreen controls and finds Green.

  Best drops to the DM slot to receive the ball. He gestures and his team drops ten yards.

  Perhaps he is happy to hold onto what would be a valuable point.

  Best exchanges passes with Contreras.

  Chester are in no hurry to get forward.

  Gillingham press hard.

  Best chips the ball over midfield to Smith.

  The Australian striker holds the ball up well.

  He has Lyons in support.

  But Smith turns his man. That's good strength. He spots Hayward in space on the right.

  But Best is charging forward!

  Best takes the ball from Smith's toes. Best slaloms past the last defender.

  Best must score! Only the keeper to beat.

  The goalie closes the angle...

  Best... backheels the ball sideways.

  Lyons has an open goal.

  GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

  Chester are ahead!

  ***

  In the celebrations, Dazza was ecstatic. "You're so money! You're so money!"

  "You're money," I said, hugging someone. "Everyone's money!"

  ***

  I quite liked the 3-4-3-with-a-DM tactic, so I moved Youngster there and took his position in the centre of the pitch, creating a 3-1-4-2 formation.

  With me playing like a true box-to-box midfielder, we looked great. I was a Rolls Royce of a DM, if I say so myself, and when I moved to CAM I got double marked. In my brief stints as a true central midfielder, when I sprayed passes to Sharky Gills dropped back ten yards in a panic. I was creating tactical challenges all over the pitch and I was frazzling them.

  Gills wanted to attack, to build a head of steam, but in this setup and this mood we were far too good on counters.

  They kept at least six in the rest defence and that didn't leave enough forward players to hurt us.

  It was only near the end when they sent bodies forward in huge numbers that they looked threatening, but we had two incredible counters. One when I pinged the ball for Henri to chase and he took a heavy touch that allowed Gills to get back, and one where I, fatigued, tried to ping a long one to Sharky that I got completely wrong. In a rare stroke of luck, the ball went exactly into Lee C's path and he went marauding but his pass to Sharky was overhit.

  We were making mistakes all over the pitch, starting to cramp, our Condition scores were plummeting, so I changed to 4-5-1, shoved square pegs in round holes, and went Men Behind Ball for the three minutes of injury time.

  Not how I wanted to live my life but I couldn't ask my guys to do more.

  The final whistle was such a relief.

  Two points became five. We were still bottom of the table but win the next game and we'd leapfrog three other teams.

  We were on the move.

  ***

  Wednesday, October 1

  I told the lads we were going to start the day at BoshCard. The cabins at Bumpers were fine for very quick 'here's the plan for the week' meetings, but this was a big one. An important one. One where I didn't want everyone squashed together getting distracted.

  It was the money talk we had been planning ever since Ryan Jack had confessed he didn't know how to invest. The plan had been to do it at the start of the season but I'd fallen out with Andrew Harrison over his shit wages and didn't want to then have a big presentation about how to invest surplus income. Then we'd struggled so hard in the league people were talking about relegation. I mean, ludicrous, but it wasn't the right time to talk about the future millions we would all be making.

  Now that they were working for a manager who had WON A LEAGUE TWO MATCH WHOO, now that everyone could see and feel and believe we were in a good place, it was time.

  MD did the first part while Brooke watched, nodding, as though she agreed with everything he was saying, which she did. The social proof the rich people gave each other was enormous.

  It was quite a slow, methodical presentation but I think every single person in the room was absolutely rapt - perhaps excluding Henri - and the high levels of attention were caused by a slide MD had shown very near the beginning of his talk. It was a slide that showed how much money MD had made following the advice he was now giving us. The chart didn't have any numbers on but fuck me, it got our attention anyway.

  The theme of the presentation, boiled down, was that his father had given him the advice to take ten percent of every wage he ever got and save it for a rainy day. A young MD agreed with the general principle but did some maths and realised inflation would eat his savings and he'd be no better off. He learned about the stock market - MD briefly explained what shares were and answered a comment from Wibbers that no, buying shares wasn't the same as gambling - and when he got his first job, started buying shares.

  MD had a spreadsheet with every trade he had ever made. They were all buys, he said. No sales. This was him paying his future self but once that was done he felt free to spend the rest of his money and not feel bad about it. Then came the chart before the chart.

  Small grey bars emerged from the X axis like the silhouette of a city centre skyline. These bars represented the amount of money MD had spent buying shares every year. The first bars, from when MD was a noob in the pharma industry, were tiny, but there was a steady increase in the height across 25 years. Sometimes there were huge spikes, sometimes slight dips. MD explained that when his company had done well he had earned bonuses that he dumped completely into shares, while in fallow years he couldn't commit the full ten percent.

  He clicked from that chart to show the mind-blowing one. It had the same grey bars at the bottom but there was also a line that showed the total, cumulative value of his portfolio.

  The line went up and down but let's be honest, mostly up. Up up and away.

  There were a few dotted lines crossing the screen to give it a sense of structure. As I said, MD had removed the actual values but I couldn't help but think each dotted line represented a million and I don't think I was alone in that thought. The guy's portfolio was worth somewhere between ten and twenty million pounds.

  No wonder he could afford to work for Chester for free. No wonder he'd quit the daily grind to do a lucrative little consulting business. He didn't need the money. He could pick and choose projects that suited him while buying nice watches and driving sweet motors.

  Of course, he couldn't choose his football club and I was ruining his semi-retirement by dragging his beloved club kicking and screaming up the football league. To paraphrase a Wrexham fan, his misery brought me some comfort.

  Dan Badford put his hand up. "MD, do you want to marry my mum?"

  Big laugh, and the first time that morning MD didn't look like a master of the universe.

  "Any questions about what I've said?" said MD. There were lots of questions that he and Brooke answered. I wondered what her portfolio looked like.

  Then it was time for the interactive portion of the event. I had volunteered to be a guinea pig for the others. I'd set up an account at the place MD used - not the cheapest, but it had been around for a hundred years - and I had sent a bit of money into it. My laptop was connected to the screen and MD told me how to buy a share.

  Somehow there was one share I could buy that replicated all the shares in the world and it was the simplest, easiest thing for the people in this room - again, except Henri - to get their heads around.

  I bought some shares.

  "Great!" beamed MD. "Welcome to the executive lounge, Max."

  "I do own a football club, you know," I complained.

  "Only one?" said MD, and there were some laughs from people who knew that story.

  "What do I do now?"

  "Nothing. Put your ten percent in every month and buy more of that share. It's that simple. Everyone, if you want to do this, Brooke and myself will sit with you and guide you through the process, just like we did with Max."

  Ryan said, "Oh, me. Me first. Yes, please."

  "Oh, just one little moment." That was Henri. He was what banking insiders like me called a sophisticated investor. He had properties and was the sort of person who would invest in art and fine wine. "If I may hijack this meeting, please."

  I frowned. "You don't think this investment plan is a good idea?"

  "I think it is an exceptional idea pitched exactly at the right level for the young men in this room. And Ryan."

  "Et tu, Henri," said Ryan, miming that he had been stabbed.

  "No, I mean it. This is wonderful. Simplicity meets compound interest meets low-cost ETFs. It is truly a masterpiece. MD, Brooke, thank you so much. I wish someone had sat me down when I was earning my first paycheques. Alas, I had to fend for myself and thus my tastes became rather exotic. To everyone in this room I say, do this."

  He pointed to the screen where I was watching my share lose a tiny amount of value every time I looked at it. MD had told us not to look at the current value but to keep buying, but that was four thousand pounds I could have put towards a car, or to my debts, or to buying my mum a house. I mean, it used to be four thousand pounds. These days it seemed to be worth three thousand nine-hundred and ninety-nine.

  Henri said, "Do this indeed, but I would like to propose another investment opportunity. One that I think will be profitable and will reduce the strain on our magnificent Max."

  "What?" I said, confused.

  "You have signed Vincent Addo to your Welsh team. He will join in January, I believe, after he turns 18. He is a Ghanaian under 21 player who you scouted in Chile and Youngster here has given me character references for him. In the summer you must pay his club one hundred thousand pounds but alas, Max, you do not have such money. Which is why you are rushing around on a child's toy instead of buying a replacement car."

  "RIP The Duchess," said Ben, who made the sign of the cross.

  "Here is my suggestion." Henri walked to the front of the room. "I will create a syndicate based mostly on the players in this room. We will each chip in a small amount, or a large amount, according to our means and our risk appetite. We will raise one hundred thousand pounds. We will loan it to you or to Saltney - I will check the tax implications if there is enough interest in getting the syndicate up and running - and you will sleep well at night. You will look after Vincent Addo's career, as you do, and you will sell him to Chester for three hundred thousand pounds. Is that not so?"

  "That's the plan, yeah. Something like that."

  "Something like that. MD, this number, this three hundred thousand, you would indulge Max in this amount?"

  MD squirmed as though he hadn't just shown us a chart showing us that he, not I, was the biggest swinger in the Willy Wonga contest. "These aren't numbers I'm comfortable with, you understand, but we have received offers for players that Max has brought to the club far in excess of that. If Vincent Addo is half as good..."

  "He means Youngster," I said, and spoke in a way that I can only attribute to being on a high from the night before. "Vincent is only half as good as Youngster, it's true. Which means we'll only get fifty million for him."

  Cheers, whoops, cries of 'Young-ster! Young-ster!'

  Henri smiled. "So there you go, Max. One hundred out, three hundred in. You will slice off some costs, retain some profit, and give us a one hundred percent return on our investment. Two hundred thousand for the syndicate. Not bad for six months' work."

  There had been too many numbers in the meeting already. "You what?" I said.

  Brooke was giving Henri a very interested look. "That's clever."

  "Isn't it?" said the smug bastard.

  I looked to MD for an ally. "There are some ethical considerations," he mused. "Chester players and staff financing their manager's club with the intention of trading a player back to Chester. It's murky."

  "Perhaps," said Henri. "But Max already plans to do the Addo trade. If this is the only deal we do, I say why not make some money as we go? You have seen how this debt is preying on his mind. I for one am willing to get rich from Max's genius. Personally, I should like to roll my profit over and go again."

  "Go again?" I said.

  "Reinvest in another player or two. Chester will pay ten thousand for Jamie Brotherhood, yes? We saw him - he looks a talent to me. If you think you can sell him for fifty, a hundred thousand in a couple of years, I believe you. Why not invest in five more just like him? You told me once about an idea to create a football factory. Okay, let's do it. If money is the only object, I have some. All I need is an obscene return on investment."

  I was stunned. "MD, tell me this is bonkers, please."

  "It isn't bonkers. It's a good idea and apart from a thousand financial and legal questions the only issue will be how much Chester FC gets involved. If we're going to buy the players, as in the case of Vincent, who sets the price? That's ripe for abuse. If a player will be sold to a third-party club there are very few ethical concerns, but what does Chester get from having that player train here with us as you plan to do with Vincent?"

  Henri had thought about that. "Chester gets its underpaid players to make some easy money. Perhaps enough money to persuade some of them to stay longer because they're making more from Max's football factory than from their own careers."

  "That might be one degree of wish fulfilment too far," said MD.

  Henri nodded. "We can start with Vincent, though. It's the easiest win-win in the history of commerce. MD, why don't we have lunch and work things through?"

  "I'm in," said Brooke.

  "Of course!" said Henri. "We get the best tables when you join us."

  "I mean I'm in for the investment. Lunch, too."

  "Wait," said Ryan Jack. "Leave space for the little guys."

  They were all rushing to invest in Vincent Addo! "Hang on, hang on," I said, raising my voice over the hubbub. "You can't invest in a football player like that. It's against FIFA's rules and it's one I agree with."

  Henri gave me a sad look. "Max, we wouldn't be investing in Vincent, or Chester, or even Saltney. It would be a loan with terms favourable to us, but risk, too. We do not seek to control Vincent's economic interests or to take a stake in your club. If the deal bombs, we lose money. If it goes well, we make bank. Yes," he said, lifting his chin up, "I have thought of everything. Sleep well, tonight, Max. And look at buying a new car tomorrow. Your money problems are over."

  Youngster stood and pointed. "Until he buys another football club!"

  With a lot of laughs and chatter, everyone got up and left. Sealbiscuit was waiting outside waiting to take them to Bumpers where their attributes would turn green while they talked about making their money make money.

  I was left alone. I closed my eyes. What the fuck just happened?

  On the screen to my right, my investment was now worth four thousand and twelve pence.

  The number was coloured green.

  ***

  Monday, October 6

  After the Doncaster Rovers match, I texted Spectrum asking him to come in for an emergency meeting, first thing Monday morning.

  I settled into one side of my tiny office at Bumpers Bank, while he sat in the opposite corner, about twenty inches away, on the visitors' bean bag.

  "Spectrum," I said, all serious.

  I realised I had made a mistake and he had spent half of Saturday and all of Sunday worrying about what the meeting would encompass. Dumb, but I couldn't change the past. Duly noted, do better next time. "You won us three points this weekend."

  He sagged with relief - why had he thought the meeting would be anything bad? "Oh, God. Thank you. Thank you, Max."

  "Your analysis was mint. It would have been even better if you had told me how shit Doncaster were at playing the ball out from the back. If I'd been up in a forward position I would have caused pandemonium. Seriously, why are these teams trying to get their goalies to play like peak Iniesta? We need to talk seriously though. Deep shit. Are you ready?"

  "Yes. Of course."

  "You've got a job. You're in charge of youth development and you run the youth teams. But you want a more analytical role. Is that a fair summary?"

  He nudged his glasses up, then down. "Yes. Er... yes."

  "Let's start with the youth teams. Because everyone's here all the time I can sort of just walk round of an evening and enjoy all the football. It's glorious. Do you know what I saw last week?"

  "Yes. No."

  "I saw all the age groups mixed together to the point where I couldn't tell who was the 12s and who was the 14s. And I thought, gosh, Spectrum is on the cutting edge of bio-bands. But then I remembered - that's me. That's what I wanted. I asked you to push the younger kids up to get a challenge, move them back down so they could absorb it, move them up to stress them again. During the first half against Donny I was thinking about the sessions I saw last week and they were, objectively, crazy bonkers. It was next level insanity such that there wasn't a player on any pitch who wasn't learning or relaxing or having fun or meeting their future teammates. It's like you took what I said, turned it up to eleven, then turned it up to fifty. And I've been walking around going yeah this is normal. But there are maybe two people out of seventy million in this whole country who would do it like that, react to it like that."

  "Two? That number might be on the money."

  "Okay so then we come to your data skills." I shuffled some papers around. After the win against Gillingham, Spectrum had spent Wednesday in his man cave and had re-emerged into society on the Thursday with a vengeance. "You won us three points."

  "No," said Spectrum, modestly.

  "You did. Hang on, let me check the message you sent." I got my phone out and scrolled around. "Max don't pick team been up all night on the cheese got an idea. I mean, I called Sandra and she was like, yeah, bin off our training plans, Spectrum's got the scent in his nostrils."

  "She didn't."

  "She did. We both did. We all think you're fucking money, mate. So what did you say?" I picked up one of the papers. "I've worked out what the oppo are doing. Stop Max, Stop Chester. That's the cry of the age. I mean, yeah, no big insight there to be fair. But you wondered what Donny's analysts would be thinking. You came up with our average positions chart. Against Gills I played as DM, I played CAM. The average position shows me as CM. Okay, it helps that I did play in central midfield for a spell but let's be honest, I was as close to playing CM as you were."

  "Tiny bit more, maybe."

  "Yeah but this is genius, bro. You thought Donny would flood midfield so they could man-mark me. And guess what?"

  "They did."

  "They fucking did you beautiful bastard. So what did I do?"

  "You played right back and fucked them up, boss."

  "Right. Went bonkers, didn't I? What did I text you right after the match?"

  He panicked and got his phone out. "Er... clip my madnesses and send the video to Roddy Jones. Tell him that's his final form."

  "Shit," I said, slapping my knee in frustration. "I thought I'd thanked you. I meant to thank you."

  "S'okay, boss. We all know you're wrecked after matches."

  I nodded a few times, getting slower with every nod. "Thing is, you understand me. Emma and Henri understand me as a person, I think. Brooke gets where I'm coming from as a sort of eco-capitalist. Pascal gets me as a floating megabrain. But you get me when it comes to youth development and data. The youth or the data - two big topics. So the question is, which is to be master?"

  Spectrum sank into the bean bag. It was an expensive one, a premium one, but an expensive bean bag is still a fraction of the cost of a chair. He dipped his head. "I love the data, boss. It's the latest frontier. The wild west. Chance for a man like me to stake his claim."

  I did something weird with my lips and tapped the glass by my head. "I know. But that's not what I want. What you're doing with the kids is priceless. It makes me proud the way it is. Happy kids, happy parents, jealous scouts. I don't want to make you do something you're not passionate about but I think you are just as into it as me. And I don't want a massive data team. There's no point. I want you, five times a year, up all night on the cheese because you've seen something odd and you can't shake it off. I want 4 a.m. texts from you saying you've worked out how to beat Doncaster, or Derby, or Watford, or Wolves."

  "Sorry, boss, it's not clear. I don't follow."

  "Your priority is the youth system. You're my youth development puppet master. I'm going to bring in two, three, four elite coaches and they're going to work under you because you know what I want. You know my priorities, you know that what's best for the kids is what's best for the club. But overseeing them isn't as much work as it seems, so you've got time to dip into the data. So when you get a brainwave you follow it. Every year that goes by I'll buy you more and more data. I don't need the charts and graphs, I need someone with a brain who I fucking respect who can give me ideas that will make a difference in matches. Do you get me? I need imagination and flair. I need something deeper and I'll even hire you a minion to help you get there."

  "A minion?"

  "One of the nerds from the university. You can watch some footage and think, 'huh, do they leave the far post open or is it just me?' and the boffin can do the hard yards."

  "The priority is the kids, though?"

  "Of course. What do you think? What's more important to this club than Stephen Watson and Simon Black?"

  He thought for a while. "Kids... with a dip of data."

  "Yep."

  "Elite coaches and a data minion."

  "Yep."

  He shoved his thumbnail between his teeth. "The parents are in heaven, you know."

  "Why?"

  "You don't seem to realise it but you are a big deal. You go to these dads and you're so invested in their kids and their development... They want what's best for their children."

  "I do. That's why I want you."

  "Kids and data. It sounds like the best of both worlds. It... It makes me suspicious, somehow. Not suspicious, but..."

  "I think I know what you're saying. But Spectrum, be real. I don't need you looking at the data 40 games a season, do I? I'm pretty good and I know how to win. I only need your best ideas. If you go a whole season without spotting anything interesting, no problem. It'll still be good to have you to bounce ideas off of. But if my kids aren't all right I'm going to go off on a doom loop, aren't I? I need you, mate. Seriously. You're money. You're so money and you don't even know it."

  He flushed, swallowed, and said, "Okay."

  "Bosh!" I punched the air. "It might take two years but I'm going to put you on silly money. Lobster money. MD money."

  "MD money?"

  "I take that back. Lobster money."

  "What's that?"

  "Don't think about the numbers, yeah? The numbers will take care of themselves. Just know that I know. I know what you've done and what you're doing. Okay? Start thinking about what pose you want for your statue."

  "Statue?"

  "Conversation's over. I've got to go see my b-boys."

  ***

  I grabbed my scooter and zipped the short distance down Bumpers Lane to the Deva. While I waited for MD and Brooke in the boardroom, I checked the league table and read some articles.

  Super Seals Sink Dismal Donny

  Max Best's resurgent Chester overwhelmed Doncaster Rovers at a noisy Deva stadium earlier today. Doncaster played like a team of strangers, but the only strange thing about Chester was that Best's usual 20-minute cameo came at right back, a position from which he caused conniptions.

  The rest of the article was a bunch of guff about a nervous first half and Youngster marking star signing Danny Grant out of the game, followed by descriptions of our goals. The first was a free kick that I had got completely wrong and hit into the wall - something I rarely did. But the rebound fell nicely and I struck it with pace and swerve and the goalie got nowhere near it. The second was a simple Zach Green header from a corner.

  Bosh, 2-0, easy. Okay not easy but straightforward.

  We had risen to 21st, but more importantly we weren't a complete laughing stock. MD wouldn't be getting any more memes from his stupid mates. The fear factor was back - everything I had been saying in private and in public was coming true.

  It was happening.

  Brooke arrived first and I was able to get a very quick reassurance that she was on my side. She assured me that demand for tickets was firm even despite our poor start to the season, said the sponsors were happy, and the bookings for our all-weather pitches were meeting expectations.

  MD came in soon after, made himself a coffee, looked out onto the Deva's pristine pitch, and said, "Six points from six, just like you said. And it makes me nervous, just like you said." He smiled, turned, and took his seat. He composed himself and looked at me. "You seem more relaxed, but you weren't worried about the football, were you? You were worried about Vincent Addo. Are you going to go with Henri's syndicate?"

  "It's profit I could be keeping for myself but yeah, I think I will. It's peace of mind, isn't it? And it incentivises the investors to make sure Addo gets a good education here."

  MD sipped his coffee. "What's this meeting all about, Max?"

  I waited, hoping the perfect form of words would come to me. They didn't. I cleared my throat. "Quick chat about the Newcastle match. You want to put up the prices."

  "Of course I do. If we use dynamic pricing we can really cash in."

  I looked at Brooke and she nodded back to me. On her own, she probably would have used dynamic pricing, same as MD, but she was happy to think long-term, too. I said, "Thing is, MD, you're treating this like a one-off. The mighty Saudi Arabia touring little old Chester. A once-in-a-lifetime experience. Let's jack up the prices for our lot and their lot. But this isn't a special occasion. It's totally, utterly normal. We're in the fourth round of the AOK Cup not by chance but by design. We will get there again. We'll go deeper into the cups every year. We will play Newcastle and Arsenal and Crystal Palace again and again. Do you get me?"

  "Not really."

  "The EFL takes ten percent of our gate receipts and we split the rest. If the tickets cost 60 quid or 20, it doesn't make all that much difference to us."

  "It does."

  "It doesn't. I'm going to fucking piss off a lot of Newcastle fans next time we play them but this time it's all smiles. Come to Chester and remember we didn't rip you off. Buy a kebab. Okay? If you put the prices up you'll need to find a new manager for that match. I don't like their owners or how they were received by the fans but those Geordies are working class. Charging them 60 quid would be disgraceful. Count me out. Do it my way and you get two things."

  MD was looking up, controlling his temper. "What are those two things?"

  "One, you get it again in the FA Cup and again next year in all the cups. I love cups, mate. It's only a matter of time before we get our big away day. Do you want an instant half a million in ticket sales, yes or no? Second, selling out the stadium yet again makes a certain topic more urgent."

  "What topic is that?"

  "I need five million pounds, Mike. I need five million pounds pretty darn quick."

  MD reorganised himself, all kinds of annoyed. "Why do you need five million pounds, Max?"

  I licked my lips and looked at Brooke. She gave me yet another nod. She was behind me. "I need five million to demolish the Harry McNally terrace, dig up the whole pitch, relay it, and have one-quarter of our new stadium in place by the start of next season. We'll earn an extra million a year in ticket sales and we'll be able to bring the women home."

  MD glared at me. "And how, pray, do you think you'll get this five million pounds?"

  I smiled. Grinned. Chuckled. All the Max Best hits. "I have no fucking idea."