5.2 - Swans
2.
Monday, February 14
A little known fact about swans is that while they look serene as they float around a pond, below the water their legs are actually going crazy. That's how it went for football teams, too. While I could swan around - hey, that's gold, keep that - on the touchline, apparently unflustered, apparently in complete control, so much work had gone on behind the scenes to get us to that point.
For once, I was chipping in with that work.
Training started as usual - skills, technique, passing - but ended with a slight twist. We played a full-sided match on our main training pitch, the one with the giant screen. I had our first-choice centre backs on one team and our starting forwards on the other. I was the manager of the 'attacking' team, and was pottering around in the middle of the action. When I blew my whistle, everyone had to stop.
Youngster collects the ball. He rolls it to Reid.
Reid moves it left to Lamarre.
Lamarre is challenged by Nasa but retains possession.
Lamarra works it back to Reid, who evades Badford.
Reid to Roberts.
Great turn by Roberts! He storms forward...
But he's tackled by Fierce.
The ball breaks to Bochum.
Peeeep!
Most players stopped moving, but a few cheated into a better position, thinking I wouldn't notice. The fuck? I stayed calm as, one by one, I moved them back to where they had been. Then I looked at the big screen, which was showing everyone's positions in the form of circles or crosses based on their GPS trackers. Quite primitive compared to what DOVE could do, but good enough for what I needed, and it had the benefit of being reliable. I compared what was on the giant screen to what was in my head.
It seemed to match up pretty well - the players out of position were those who had responded to Wibbers' break. Emiliano was in the 'defensive' eleven and he wasn't where he needed to be, but that was true in more ways than one.
I walked to where Zach was standing and nudged him out of the way so I could see the world from his perspective. I scanned left and right. "What do you think, mate?"
"About 3-4-2-1?"
"Yeah."
He wobbled his head. "It's different. When we were against Gabby and Dazza with Wibbers behind, we got knocked about. It was physical. You knew you had been in a game. This is... I don't know. As a defender I like the scraps."
"I don't want to give you what you want. I want to give you what you don't want. That's interesting, though. When we're playing big, beefy defenders we should have Pascal as the striker. Don't even try to engage them physically, right? And when we play more technical defences, we rough them up. Peter, did you hear that?"
"Yes, Max."
"Let's try Pascal as a false nine sometime this week." A false nine was a player who seemed to be playing in the striker position but wasn't doing the usual striker things.
"Wibbers would be a good false nine," said Peter.
"He loves a scrap," I said. "When he shows he can control himself while being provoked, he can have a go."
"Boss," whined Wibbers. "I'm in control! I'm a ninja!"
I pretended I hadn't heard. "In the meantime, let's try it with Pascal. That's gonna be a sign to the rest of the team that we have to be surgical with our passing and movement. Zach, what are you gonna do when we restart?"
He scanned the pitch. "Pete's gonna shift left to close that gap so Pascal can't dribble into it, so I'll slide left, too." He pointed right. "I'm gonna yell at Nasa to tuck in."
"Yep," I said, walking away. The defenders knew what to do. I went to Pascal's spot and thought about what I would do if I were him. There were tantalising options everywhere, but many were traps. For example, if he drove hard at goal, the combination of Christian Fierce and Peter Bauer would tuck him up. He could get a shot away but it would be a low percentage chance, and this situation deserved better. "Got to be patient," I mumbled.
"Or," said Pascal, who was following my thought process, "I could drive into shooting position and try to slide the ball for Gabby."
I thought about it and shook my head. "That's worse than the shot. Super difficult pass, he'll need to slow his run to get control, his body shape will be horrible, and if he doesn't shoot fast he'll get wrapped up by Zach and Peter." I scanned and finally pointed right. "We need to be patient until Cheb can get to the front line."
"Ja," said Pascal.
I moved away, held my whistle to my lips, counted to two, then blew.
Bochum sprints forward and lines up the shot.
He puts his foot on the ball, rolls it behind him, and reverses.
Bochum to Youngster.
Youngster to Reid.
Reid finds Roberts, who nudges the ball to Bochum and scampers away, looking for the one-two.
Bochum instead dribbles fast, at an angle, and passes to Alloula.
Alloula passes to Bochum and looks for the one-two.
This time, Bochum takes that option.
Alloula is behind the defence. He crosses...
But Ian Swan plucks the ball from the air.
"Time!" called Sandra, from the side of the pitch.
I took one last glance at the big screen, and went over to Cheb. "Good-looking cross, bad decision. Do you know what slapping is?"
Cheb smiled. "It's your word for dribbling into the penalty area from the sides. You think I should have done that? I thought you wanted us to play faster."
"It's hard to know what's right," I said. "Speed's good. Quick decisions are good. If you get that cross on target, Gabby's in space and we've got Wibbers and Lewis steaming into the area to pick up deflections and whatever. But crosses are also what the goalie and defenders are most comfortable with. From where you crossed, if you run another five yards towards the near post, you pin the goalie to the post, right? He doesn't like that. And when you play the ball square even if a defender gets to it first there's a decent chance he's going to deflect it into his own goal."
"You want me to do slapping?"
"Do what feels right in the moment but yeah, I love slaps. These days we're getting more control of midfield in more games so we can park outside the oppo's penalty area, pass them to death, and when they lose position or lose concentration we can play it forward fast, get to the sides of the area, slap, mayhem ensues. Colin," I said, jogging towards the striker, who had barely had a kick of the ball in the training match. "Can we get The Art of Slapping on the drill lists for the rest of the week? Want to remind everyone how it goes, especially now that teams are being more defensive against us."
"Yes, Max."
"What's your take on our new formation?"
"Playing against it in these matches is horrible." He stopped walking and turned to face the screen. "The four midfielders can pass sideways. The third centre back pushes up and whether it's Peter or Magnus, they're good on the ball, so that's an escape route if the oppo do a good press. Ahead, Wibbers and Pascal make two more triangles. Lewis to Wibbers to Joel, Youngster to Pascal to Cheb. So we press there, instead, but the ball comes back to Magnus. It's demotivating to chase the ball and get nowhere near it, you know?"
"It's demotivating? That's good."
Colin shook his head. "Yeah. And I'm watching Gabby and I'm jealous. He's making runs and the CAMs are trying to feed him all the time. He's really involved in the game. I'm basically a mannequin, especially with..." He stopped himself before he complained about being on the same team as Emiliano.
I nodded, deep in thought, and caught up with Wibbers. One of the reasons I was a fan of 3-4-2-1 was that it played to the strengths of my best attacking players. For the men that would soon be Wibbers, and for the women it would soon be Meredith Ann. "Will, mate. You happy with this as our default formation from now on?"
He seemed surprised I would ask him, but his grin was answer enough. "I love it. I feel like I'm in every move. Feel really involved. I like connecting with Lewis and Gabby and Joel and Pascal. I can pass, dribble, take long shots. I can help when we're out of possession. It's mint."
"Top," I said. "I'm intrigued to try it with Pascal as the tip of the spear."
He eyed Zach. "Those guys won't know what to do. No-one to mark. No-one to grapple. So are you gonna have Gabby as a CAM?"
"Huh," I said. "That wasn't what I was thinking, no, but we should include him in those sessions, shouldn't we? If the front three are completely interchangeable, we can rotate you. We start with Gabby as a traditional bruiser, a Dazza type, knock the defenders around. Swap him and Pascal, the dynamic changes completely."
"And if he's deeper, Gabby will win headers."
"Right, we can do big diags and Pascal can chase the flick-ons. Yeah, I'll tell Luisa to tweak Gabby's training programme. All right," I said, rubbing my hands. "What's next? Goalies."
I veered to the right. Our goalies were bringing their kit bags from the main pitch to one of the small ones. A few of our defenders were going that way, too. I jogged to Owen Elmham, who was officially off the injured list. He was mad at me because I was treating him with kid gloves, forcing him to return to training slower than he wanted.
"Owen!" I said, with exaggerated happiness. "How's my favourite Norfolkian?"
"Great," he growled.
"Wonderful!" I cried. "You've got loads of swans down in Norfolk, right? I've been reading a lot about swans recently. Do you know how many legs swans have? Between 2 and 10, depending on how many swans you're looking at."
He had been scowling slightly, but his face softened. "There could be six. That'd be 12 legs."
"No," I said. "There are never more than five swans. Go and look for yourself. Five's the limit."
His forehead was all creased up, wondering if I was being serious, but then he slipped into a pleading, almost whiny voice. "Boss, you've got to let me do full training! My wrist is fully healed! Everyone says! The surgeon, the specialists, even your own physios. They all say I'm clear for action. Let me train!"
I took him by the arm and led him to the side, away from the path the others were taking. "Bro, listen. You're a valuable asset to this club. I need you for the rest of the season. Am I mollycoddling you? Yes. Do you have to like it? Also yes." The way I delivered that line made me laugh. "Look at the fixtures. Tomorrow's the Cheshire Cup. Rainman will start in that one. Wednesday night's Swansea. You can be on the bench. Blackburn? Bench. Then it's Leeds in the cup and I want you starting. That's the biggest game of our whole season, right? I want you in that one because I think we can win. That's eight days away. You've just come back from a wrist operation. Why would I let Sticky and Kalvin smash shots at you for eight days when there's no benefit and there's so much risk? Nah, fuck that. Goalies have to do other things than catch balls."
"Playing out from the back," he said.
"Right." I pointed to the line of players ahead of us. "Those defenders have volunteered to stay back and do build-up drills with the goalies. It's important to how we want to play and it's something we can do for the next week that doesn't result in you re-injuring your wrist. Because let's face it, if you wreck your wrist again, your career's over." That hit home. I pointed. "Being comfortable on the ball is as much a part of your job as making saves. I need you to be as good as Swanny at collecting passes and circulating the ball. You're going to do this and you're going to do it with a smile on your face and you're going to be appreciative of the lads who have given up their free time to help the team."
He scrunched his face up and when he let it relax, his Morale moved up a level. "Yes."
I gave him a little push. "Leeds United. FA Cup Fifth Round. Glory awaits. Or," I said, pulling an unimpressed face, "you can ask a man to kick footballs at you very hard."
His head dipped, but he smiled. "I just hate being injured. I want to get back into training."
I spoke louder than I intended. "You're in training, you dick!"
"I know, I know."
"Fuck me," I said, as I headed to my office. I remembered I was in my kit and turned to the dressing rooms instead. I would take my boots off and give them a quick clean, then I'd shower and change. Then what? Swansea and Blackburn both played 4-2-3-1 so I didn't need to think overly hard about our tactics, and the Blackburn match was only a few days before the cup tie against Leeds. That meant there wasn't much to think about in terms of selection. We would go hard against Swansea, bin off the Blackburn match, go hard against Leeds. We would have Bench Boost and Owen Elmham would be restored to the lineup. With home advantage and with Leeds's Morale being in the toilet, we would have a chance.
I took my boots off and started to clean them. I lifted my phone from my kit bag and saw that I had a message from Briggy.
Tony Long got in touch. (Yes, that one.) I told him you would return his call right away.
My body went haywire. Face flushed, heart pounding, just like the first time I had ever called a girl.
Tony Long was the founder of Temps Perdu, the company that was working on all sorts of cures and treatments. Old Nick, my personal demon, had told me to buy the company if I wanted to save my mother.
I had picked up a few shares and had the cash ready to buy another couple of percent. Had Tony Long found out about it? Was he calling to put me on blast? But how? I had set up shell companies within shell companies criss-crossing the planet, from Samoa to Panama.
I breathed, counted to ten, and dialled the number.
The guy on the other end was English, educated, but not posh. "Tony Long."
"Hi, this is Max Best."
The voice changed - it flooded with warmth. "Max Best! Oh my God, wow, I'm such a fan. Haha, this is so funny. I haven't been this nervous since I first asked my wife out."
"Did she say yes?"
"She did! Let's hope our relationship lasts as long."
"I think it's only fair to let you know I'm getting married soon. I'm not really on the market."
Tony laughed. "Emma? I've seen her up close. Absolutely stunning. I'd say you're a lucky man but I believe we make our own luck. Listen, I know you're busy..."
"Very," I said, as I brushed the studs on my boots.
"Okay, so obviously I'm calling about Tempsford FC."
"Obviously," I said, relieved even though his tone had put me at ease.
"Why did you buy it?"
"I mean, I didn't. I recommended it to the well-known football investor Mr. Yalley and he took the plunge."
Tony Long laughed. "Right. You're not allowed to own football clubs as long as you are a player."
"Or a manager. Or a director of football. Or an agent."
"Why go with Mr. Yalley? Why not your future wife?"
"She works for a football agency."
"Oh, she does? I thought she was a lawyer. Well, that explains it. Yes, that makes sense. If you don't mind, I have another question. What attracted you to buy, ah, to recommend Tempsford to your friend?"
I stopped brushing because for a second I couldn't remember. Having made the decision, all that mattered now was to push the club forward as fast as it could go. "Um... Feels like ages ago." The memory returned. While I tried to buy enough of Temps Perdu to push my mother to the front of the queue when it came to getting the cure, I had bought Tempsford as a plan B. Owning the local football club would put me in contact with the staff of Temps Perdu, wouldn't it? "Right, it's coming back to me. Basically, I read an article about how the government wanted to build a new town there. Turn it from a village of 600 to a town with hundreds of thousands. I looked at a map and saw how it would connect to Oxford, Cambridge, and London, and I was like well that's amazing. The first thing I thought was, imagine owning the local football club in such a place! It's in tier eleven and I know for a fact I can take it straight to tier five before getting any serious resistance. As the town grows, the club will grow. I don't know, it just felt really obvious to me. It's a land of opportunity."
"That's exactly how I feel about Tempsford! That's why I founded my company there."
"Your company," I said. "It's on Swann's Way, right?"
"Yes. Why do you know that?"
I resumed brushing my boot. "I was scouring the area looking for plots of land where I might build a stadium. I asked someone about the land at Swann's Way and he said you bought it all. You're going to expand into it one day."
"That's the dream, yes. It's actually the stadium I wanted to talk to you about. These days, I follow the Chester news to see what you're up to and I keep hearing about the PetPride Stand. You haven't even built it yet but the company is getting exposure! And in Manchester you're building that funny stadium with the plants growing all around it. The Daily Mail hates it! A green wall around the stadium, sponsored by a company called The Wall. How do I know all this? That's the power of football. The power of doing something different. I spoke to Vimsy." Vimsy was an old-school football man, now Tempsford's manager.
"You did?"
"I did. He's very approachable, especially after wins, which means he's approachable almost every match. I have to say I was shocked when you fired the previous manager, who had been doing so well, but I'm happy to say I understand it better now. I spoke to Vimsy and he was telling me about your grand plans for the club, including the new stadium. 5,000 capacity within five years. You're going to personally invest five million pounds!"
"I don't know about that," I said. "I will have to ask Mr. Yalley's permission. It'll be six million, by the way. Five for the stadium, one for the pitch. But yeah, there will be regular development so that we can rise through the tiers. It needs to get to 5,000 by the time we get into League Two."
"Will you put a green wall around it?"
I hung up my boots; they were clean enough. "Um... maybe. I don't like repeating myself but by the time I need to make that decision, the stadium in Manchester will be built, so I'll know how awesome it is in reality versus on the renders. The builders are doing some of the preparatory work right now."
"Moving the bats," said Tony.
"Ha. Why is everyone so down on the bats? I don't mind the bats."
"They slow down building work."
"So plan ahead. What's the problem? This country runs on shortcuts - is it any wonder why everything's so shit? Everyone wants everything done right away. Oh, I'm not allowed to demolish my house because there are baby bats living in it? Yeah, mate, that's right, and you would have known that if you'd done your homework, or if you looked outside on an evening instead of being glued to your shitty social media feeds 24/7. All you needed to do was to get a guy to come and check your loft but you didn't want to knuckle down. The idea of reading the fucking manual makes you turn purple in the face. Urgh. Tony, I'm ranting. Don't let me rant."
"I'm enjoying it. But this is good. Long-term planning. I think it's vaguely comical a man can't build an extension if there are bat droppings anywhere on his property, but I more or less agree that we have lost the skill of long-term thinking. So let's think long-term. Would you be interested in selling the naming rights for the stadium to my company?"
"To Temps Perdu?"
"Yes."
Some of my earlier excitement returned. Plan B was working! It was working ahead of schedule, too! "I'd love that. I've got to be completely honest, that's what I always wanted. You'll be the biggest, most prestigious employer in Tempsford New Town, and I'll be the football club that everyone's proud of."
"Mr. Yalley will, you mean."
"Of course. And Mr. Yalley will be as excited about this as I will. I can tell you that he drives a hard bargain. He'll absolutely rinse you on the numbers."
"Will he?"
"Yes. I can just hear him now. First season's free, he says."
"Free?"
"No, you're right, that's crazy. How about ten pounds?"
"Why so low?"
"The relationship is worth more than the money. In my utopian view, we'll grow together. Our success will help you attract staff, and your cachet will rub off on us, too. And, er..." I was happy this was a phone call because I suddenly welled up with tears. I wasn't sure I would be able to speak the next line without my voice cracking. "And we're all rooting for your success. If I had to choose just one of us to achieve his goals, I mean, there's no contest."
He was quiet for a moment. "Can I speak personally?"
"Please."
"I've been reading about you. About your mother. You're saving up to pay for an experimental treatment you have heard about in the States."
He said it as a statement, but paused as though it was a question. "That's the long and short of it, yes."
He went quiet again. "Don't do that."
"What's the alternative?"
"We are. I know what you're going through but please don't do anything rash. If you try those treatments you'll be disappointed. In truth, you'll only be handing over a small fortune to some highly unscrupulous people. Give the real scientists a chance."
"But," I said, and stopped. What could I say?
"I should go. Next time you're in Tempsford, let's have lunch. We can argue about bats versus progress."
"It's a date," I said.
Tony gasped. "Ooh, suddenly I'm nervous. What do you wear on a first date? Jeans? Nice suit? Suit with no tie? Rainbow lederhosen?" He laughed, then hung up.
I sat on a bench, wondering if the buzzing I could hear was from a vent or if it was just in my head.
Don't do that.
He had told me not to blow my money on fake treatments. It wasn't exactly a promise that he would take care of my mum, was it? But it kind of felt like that.
I took my boots off the peg, slipped them on, and threw my coat off.
I went outside, back onto the main training pitch, where Jonny and his team were repairing the damage caused by the morning's session. I threw my head back, let out a roar of triumph, and sprinted up and down the length of the pitch until my thighs caught fire.
I collapsed onto my back, sucking in air, regretting everything, regretting nothing. Jonny and one of his lads came over and lifted me up. I thought they were making sure I was okay, but they were just moving me off the pitch so they could get back to work.
I curled into a ball and laughed hysterically.
***
I got cleaned up and while I watched the women train, I composed a Valentine's Day message for Emma.
Roses are red,
Violets are violet,
My heart is a plane,
And you are the pilot.
She replied with a thumbs-up emoji.
Jay Cope, the manager, and Jude, a coach, were leading the training session. The women had played the day before, so some had the day off and some were only doing light training, depending on what their fitness trackers were telling the medical staff. Half the squad would stay for extra skills training and a six-on-six Relationism free-for-all. When it came to player fitness and injury risk, I was supplementing our mundane methods with the supernatural numbers in my head, but I tried not to intervene too much.
Angel hadn't played against Burnley, so she was in full training. So were the Welsh girls and the youngsters I had promoted to the first team. They were all training hard, working frantically. Legs pumping to make our progress to the top look ever so serene.
I composed a new poem for Emma.
Roses are red,
Swans are white,
Romance isn't dead,
I'll prove it tonight.
This one got a longer response: two thumbs-up emojis.
While I was blissing out, the monthly perk dropped. It had been easy to ignore most of the recent ones, which had been pretty tame and certainly hadn't been tempting enough to distract me from my mission of completing the player profiles. I had thought nothing could distract me from my goal of achieving total tactical mastery, but the imps finally offered me something incredibly juicy.
Special Offer
New perk available to buy until the end of February: God Save the Queen
Cost: 3,000 XP
Effects: Nominate a 'Queen' and channel one of her notable attributes into a player of your choosing. One use per season.
Queens: Hope Solo (HAN;AGI). Wendie Renard (HD;POS). Aitana Bonmatí (PAS;TEC). Marta (FL;CRE;DRI;FIN).
Wow. Absolutely amazing for so many reasons!
First, a quick check of my stash:
Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.
XP balance: 3,769
I could easily afford this perk - which was priced the same as God Save the King had cost all those years ago - but it would set me back in terms of buying the 4-2-2-2. But, well, who cared? This was one of the most desirable perks going. I had tested the men's version as extensively as it was possible to test a once-per-year option; I knew for sure that it had the power to improve someone's PA. Was that worth another week of grinding to pay for it? Of course it was.
I re-read the description, as slowly as I could. It cost the same as the men's perk even though I was in a position to pay more. That was interesting and good, except that it made me believe more in the existence of The Sentinel. If Old Nick and the imps could do dynamic pricing, they would. If there was a referee for their twisted demon game, that ref was likely to insist that the same powers cost broadly the same.
I nodded. That would explain why the Attribute perk had become steadily more expensive but had peaked at 4,000 XP a pop. There was an industry regulator and that was his price cap for that particular product!
The next thing I noted was that this one was only on offer in what was left of February. God Save the King had been listed as available during the entire reign of King Charles the Third. The imps couldn't change the price but they could change the sense of urgency. Buy in the next couple of weeks or you may never have the chance. It motivated me to grind for XP, just as Old Nick wanted. He wins, I win, everyone's happy. Fiendish.
Okay, and then there were the details of the upgrades. The men's version had four Kings, each with two defining characteristics, and that pattern was true for the women's options until we got to the Brazilian star Marta. Was she so good that she deserved to have four Attributes linked to her, or did one of the imps have a football crush on her?
I didn't really care, since it worked to my benefit. More options was good.
In front of me, the women were doing some duels. One-on-one. Attacking player has the ball, has to get past her opponent in a narrow corridor. For the attacking player, the useful Attributes to have were Acceleration, Dribbling and Technique. You could throw in Determination and Creativity, depending on a player's approach to the task. Maybe even Flair or Balance. Actually, it tested a lot of things, which was why Jackie Reaper had been so insistent on making me see the value of the drill, though he came at it more from the defensive side. Positioning and Anticipation.
Which Attributes were listed in God Save the Queen's description? Handling and Agility for the goalie. Heading and Positioning for the defender. Passing and Technique for the midfielder. Marta, the forward, gave me Flair, Creativity, Dribbling, and Finishing.
If I bought this, who would I use it on?
The perk was intended to help me boost up-and-coming players, to get them up to standard a little faster, or to fix a player's weak spots. My first idea with the male version had been to increase Youngster's Finishing by one point per season. If he could chip in with a few goals, he would be an even better player, and more valuable. But now that I knew how it worked, it made zero sense to use the perk on anyone who wasn't maxed out, because increasing a player's PA was impossible by any other means.
So what were my options in the women's team? Who was near her cap?
Only one.
Charlotte.
She was CA 98 with a limit of 101.
Next season there would be more options: Femi, Kit. The Welsh girls.
I rubbed my jaw. Did I really want to invest in a perk that I had to use on Charlotte? When she was maxed out and I boosted her Passing score, I could nudge her PA from 101 to maybe 103. I mean, good for her but did that benefit Chester? Did it benefit me? Very fractionally.
"Hmm," I said. I really wanted to buy the perk just in case it never came back. Increasing someone's PA was too delicious. I gasped so loud that Jay Cope turned to check I was okay. Meredith Ann! What would happen when she hit PA 200 and I increased her Finishing or whatever? Would she go to PA 204? Would I tear the fabric of the universe?
I frowned. There was sort of a way to test it.
Angel.
Her Finishing was 20.
I could use this season's perk to try to push it to 21. Okay, it would be a waste in terms of expanding my squad's pool of PA, but it would expand my personal pool of knowledge.
Interesting.
I nodded a few times, but then started to shake my head.
Nah. I couldn't reward her, and one day she would be on a rival team. Did I want to face a highly-motivated former player, determined to exact revenge, who had supernatural goalscoring prowess?
Nope.
I grabbed my hair and pulled it. Had the imps done this to torment me because I was too happy? They were offering me a perk I really, really wanted but they knew that the only two options for using it were on players I had fallen out with.
"Fucking imps," I mumbled.
I clicked my fingers. Transfers! The perk wasn't limited to players at my clubs - I could boost an Attribute of any player in my database. If I agreed the transfer of a maxed out player, I could use the perk on her before this season was finished. Sure, she would be registered to a different club, but I'd get the benefit next season.
Yeah. Sign someone who was at their cap. That's what I would do.
"Fuck you, imps," I said, as I smashed the perk shop's BUY button. "Can't outwit me."
***
XP balance: 769
***
Tuesday, February 15
Cheshire Cup Quarter Final: Chester versus Hyde United
Hyde were a semi-pro seventh-tier side with an average CA of 35. In theory, my under 18s would have beaten them, but in practice you don't ask a bunch of kids to play a bunch of grown men. That's why I mixed things up enough to guarantee victory while promoting the youth, using my trusty old 4-1-4-1.
Rainman was in goal. He was 9 points short of his cap of 99. What would I do with him in the summer? Let him go somewhere he would get first team minutes, probably.
I picked Helge and Nasa as full backs, and Cole Adams as the left-sided centre back, with the youth team's captain Archer Phillips also captaining tonight. He played it down, but the curse told me how much it meant to him.
Vincent Addo played DM.
Wallace Wells was on the left of midfield with Roddy Jones on the right. Dominic Duckham and Hamish Andrews completed a very 'Youth Cup' midfield.
Chas Fungrieve was our striker.
Average CA, 81.6.
I was managing the game, and I named myself on a very strong bench just in case the unthinkable happened. To the outside world, the Cheshire Cup was a tinpot little thing, but it counted as a trophy when it came to the perk that boosted our attendance. If we won the Cheshire Cup, next season we would get a 10% boost to attendances. I was taking it seriously and I left my players in no doubt that I was taking it seriously.
At half time, with the scores at 0-0, I informed my team that there was a special place in football for players who thought they were too good to work hard, to put a shift in, to put the team first, and that place was called Pescara.
They got the message and the goals started to come. Wallace Wells scored the first, Roddy Jones the second. I relaxed and made a few subs, giving Dan and Colin Beckton a run out and bringing Roddy off because in an ideal world I would give him ten minutes tomorrow night against Swansea.
With ten minutes to go we were winning 3-0, which was my cue to go onto the pitch.
I man-marked a Welsh midfielder, following him everywhere he went. He found it crazy that I was tailing him, but he kept going. "Mate," I said.
"What?"
"I want to tap you up. Are you interested?"
"You want me to sign for you? That's why you're marking me?"
"Not for Chester," I said, scanning the pitch. "My friend has just bought a Welsh team. Connah's Quay Nomads. You know them, right?"
"Course I do. They're just down the road from here."
"Right. You could play for them or for Flint."
"Flint Town United?" he said. "How many teams has your friend bought?"
"One. Flint is being bought by the guy who owns Newport County. He wants to promote Welsh football and I want to help him."
We paused - the ball was on its way to our side of the pitch, head height. I got into position, jumped, and nodded the ball backwards. It looped high and travelled about two metres. I caught it on my chest, bounced it on my thigh, motioned to thrash the ball to the other side of the pitch, and when the Welshman stuck out a leg, I booped the ball over it, sprinted away, and slid a dreamy left-footed pass into the stride of Colin Beckton. He took the shot first time and it went about six inches wide.
"You know the Northern Powerhouse?" I said, as though nothing had happened.
The Welsh guy clambered to his feet, wide eyed. "Course I do."
"Most of the players will have good careers but some will be late bloomers and some will get injured and have other setbacks. Saltney will keep the cream of the crop for as long as that's feasible, and some of the other lads will move to the EFL. We want to keep as much talent in Wales as we can, though, and that means some of the lads we train will end up at Connah's Quay and Flint Town United, right? Do that for a couple of years and soon they'll be the second and third best teams in Wales, full to the brim of Welsh talent. They'll play in Europe and they'll get far enough for the owners to break even. Maybe they'll make a small loss but every now and then I'll send them a lad they can sell for a profit."
"Do you mean me?"
"Ah, soz, no. You're decent. Your ceiling is higher than tier seven, that's for sure. What I like about you is that you've got good mental skills and you'd be a good example to the young lads who join those teams. You know Sam Topps?"
"Played for Chester and he's at Saltney. Playing in the Europa League but he's your academy chief."
"That's him. I see you doing that sort of role for Connah's Quay. Not the academy thing, the gruff, hard-to-please midfield general thing. You don't have to scream and shout and thump your chest to be an example. You train right, eat right, play right. The lads will look up to you."
The goalkeeper took the goal kick, and for some reason, fired it towards us. My opponent knew he had no chance, and when I jumped for the header, he didn't even try to win it, but kept alert for the rebound. I let the ball sail over my head. We got a throw-in; the guy shook his head, ruefully. I was destroying him without breaking a sweat. "Do you want me to... What do you want me to do?"
"Best thing might be for you to meet the Brig. He liked Sam Topps and I think he'll like you. If you get on, he'll take it from there."
"I can meet him, yeah. Actually, you know what? I'll do it on one condition."
"What's that?"
"Let me have a touch of the ball."
"Deal," I said, offering him a handshake. He took it. "Yes, Helge!" I cried, sprinting away suddenly. Helge threw the ball to me and I again threatened to smack it to the other side of the pitch, causing chaos. At the last second, I cancelled that motion and dragged the ball onto my left foot, before sprinting towards the Welshman. I shimmied, did a stepover, cheeky little nutmeg, and when I was beyond him, I backheeled the ball into his shin. The ball ricocheted in my favour and I clipped it into the middle, leaving it to Dan Badford to start the next attack. Turning to the Welsh guy, I said, "You got a touch. Promise kept. See you in the Europa League, bro."
***
Wednesday, February 16
I had left two notes on the fridge. The first read:
Roses are red,
Swans mate for life,
In 101 days,
You'll be my wife.
The second one was just as good:
Roses are red,
Neptune is blue,
I'm going early to Swansea,
Please come too.
That was romantic enough for Emma to pack a bag and be ready by the time I got up. Having her in the car made a three-and-a-half hour trip whizz by.
"Remind me what we're doing," she said.
"We're going to South Wales. First, we'll check up on Henri, Banksy, and the League Two Legends."
"Who you sent to the level below League Two so you could make half a million quid."
"Yep," I said, unabashed. "They're crushing the National League and they'll be in League Two next season. And they're in good shape to play at Wembley in May, in the FA Trophy final."
The air in the car became heavy. "Will that clash with our wedding?"
"No, babes," I said, in a soothing voice. "Nothing clashes with our wedding. It's ironclad. Henri will be there. He told me he spends an hour a day on his best man speech. It's all going to be amazing. Perfect. Roses are red, weddings are white, the dates are mint, everything is all right. All right?"
"All right," she said, as she bit her nails and stared out of the window.
"After meeting Henri and that lot," I said, trying to take her mind off it, "we'll go to the Liberty Stadium where we will meet an English lad who's on Swansea's books. Him and his parents, who are his agents. That's right! We're finally going to meet Toby Baxter, my dream box-to-box midfielder!"
"How many dream midfielders do you need?"
"Always at least one more. Okay, thing is, this guy's breaking into Swansea's first team and there's a lot of hype about him. His older brother is in the England team and that's always a good sign. Usually, the younger brother isn't quite as good as the older one, and that's true in this case but it doesn't really matter. Toby's got the chops to play for Chester for years." He was PA 160, so he wasn't a top top top player but he was a top player. He had the engine of Andrew Harrison, the passing of Joel Reid, and the determination of Hamish Andrews. Really, really good. "Swansea aren't stupid. They know they have a prime asset on their hands and they will rinse whoever buys him. Add in the English tax and we're looking at 8 million or so."
"What's the English tax?"
"Ah... It's... Basically, you need some players in your squad who are English and if you're a Premier League team there aren't all that many who are good enough, to be honest. So if you can buy Toby Baxter or, um... Alfonzo Baxtero, you'd pay a little bit more to get the English one because that ticks a box in your squad lists. The more the Prem clubs scour the world for talent, the more they need some homegrown players, and that pushes the price up, ironically, which leads to this English tax."
"Is this a problem for us?"
"We're not anywhere close to having those sorts of problems. If anything, we'll benefit because when we sell Wibbers and Youngster we'll be able to add twenty percent."
"Youngster plays for Ghana."
"He's English and he counts as English for these quotas. So does Roddy Jones and Lewis Lamarre. It's a bit weird, now that I say it out loud. Don't worry about it all, babes, I've got it under control. All you need to know is that I would have to overpay for someone like Toby Baxter, but I'd get it back when I sold him."
"Eight million pounds? Isn't that almost your whole budget?"
"Yeah. I'm not saying I want to buy him. Swansea are letting me meet him so we can feel each other out, and also because I'm doing good things for Welsh football, but mainly because if I'm bidding 8 million for the lad there's a good chance a Prem club will come along and gazump me. Here's 12 million, boyos, take it or leave it."
"Okay, so it's a win-win for Swansea."
"Absolutely. So if I buy him for 8 million and sell him for 16 million in a year, that's not bad. It's an all-my-eggs-in-one-basket scenario, but I'm going to have a pretty beefy squad so I'm thinking we need quality signings, not quantity. Christian's gone, Fitzroy's gone, Cheb's gone, but we've got players coming in and players coming back from loan. I will start the season with 27 first teamers but I won't have a coherent lineup, which is mental."
"That seems like terrible planning. Sack the director of football."
"Totes agree. If we use Magnus as a right back in a 4-1-4-1 out of possession, 4-3-3 in possession, we will be a few points stronger at the start of next season than we are right now. But," I said, slapping the steering wheel, "with crazy amounts of potential. Tony Herbert instead of Fitzroy. Lucas Cook instead of Dazza. It's all up up up. The only issue will be the gaps between the starters and the reserves. We'll have a lot of players just getting to Championship level when the best guys like Wibbers are approaching Premier League quality. That's just how it has to be, though, unless I take a chainsaw to the squad and I don't see a need for that. Slow and steady wins the race. But I do think it's valid to buy one deluxe player and central midfield seems like the best place."
I drummed the steering wheel.
"Toby Baxter isn't quite that player right now but he's got the rest of the season with Swansea so he could get to decent levels." I got quieter because I didn't really believe what I was saying. Toby was 'only' CA 101, which put him far below Dan Badford, who was the same age. "I might be deluding myself but I think Toby will develop fast in the next 18 months. I went back and studied the publicly available data for his brother and there was an acceleration around this time in his career. Assume Toby whizzes past Dan and keeps going. He'll be a good Championship player next season."
I gripped the wheel and adjusted my position on the seat. I tutted.
"Wow, I really sound delusional. Okay, he might not upgrade the first team right away but he's a very solid double-your-money-in-one-year investment and if we kept him another year, he would really blossom. I'm fairly sure about it. Fairly. And yeah, think ahead. He's a two-way player, he's English, his transfer value will only go up. He's actually a classic Chester signing. You're right that we could do better by various metrics but I doubt anyone ticks as many boxes as Toby."
"I knew I was right," said Emma.
"There's no harm in talking to him," I told myself. "If he's just using us to get a better contract elsewhere, that's fine. At least I'll be able to cross him off the list of options."
Emma frowned for a while, then said, "Roses are red, Toby's expensive, the pressure in my bladder is really intensive."
I laughed almost all the way to the next services.
***
We met Henri, Banksy, and the others, and had a great time. I had to cut it short because while everyone was chatting and laughing I was working myself up into a frenzy about signing Toby Baxter and developed a phobia of being late. Okay, he was 10 PA lower than Emiliano, but he had a good spread of Attributes and he was far more likely to max out - having a top-level relative greatly increased those odds. Emiliano would have cost 8 million spread over a period of time. Toby was 8 million up front, which wasn't ideal but call it the English tax.
As I whizzed Emma from Henri's favourite bistro in Swansea - WHY did he have one of those? - I imagined what difference Toby Baxter would make to our title push next season. At first, not so much, but when his CA got close to 120 I would use him more, and that would free up Joel Reid to play on the left sometimes, would free up Youngster to play more often as a DM, and would allow me to use Magnus in defence more often, as I wanted.
And one day, I would field an all-English midfield two of Dan Badford - silky smooth playmaker - and Toby Baxter - indefatigable, classy, reliable. If I was right about that pair, a lot of Premier League teams would be jealous.
"Right," I said, as Swansea's stadium came into view. "Be cool."
"I am cool, babes," said Emma.
"Yeah but next level cool. I've decided Toby's the only man for me. I want to marry Toby..." I waited a few beats to see how annoyed Emma would get. "...to Dan Badford."
"This is why you wouldn't let me buy a scone?"
"You can have a scone tomorrow. Today's about transfers."
"Why does it seem like every day's about transfers?"
***
Swansea had graciously given us a small room to have our meeting in. Toby was just as I remembered from the last time I had scouted him - tall, growing into his body, short hair, expression halfway between steely-eyed and shy, generally giving off the aura of someone who would be touted as second-favourite to be the next James Bond about twenty years from now - but Emma was seeing him for the first time and gave him the full 'let me feel your biceps' treatment, which he met with gruff English awkwardness while his dad looked on with some jealousy and his mum - well, I have absolutely no idea if she was as pleased as she looked.
The Baxters were a lovely couple, very easy going. I had read an article about how the dad had made his sons train crazily hard and had pushed them every step of their career, but it was hard to imagine based on the first few minutes. Maybe he had mellowed with age, or maybe the minute Roman Baxter had stepped onto the pitch as a full England international was the minute his dad said, 'My work here is done' and retired to grow watermelons.
The small talk went well; Emma was incredibly charming and interested in everything they said. She reacted with amazement at all the details of Toby's footballing journey. It helped that she was hearing them for the first time, but Emma had the knack of reacting to things she already knew as if hearing them for the first time. It made people feel special.
The first vaguely difficult part came when Mr. Baxter asked what I thought of Roman and how I would use Toby. I was honest in my appraisal of the older brother - "He's fucking mint, not sorry for swearing," and gave a detailed account of Toby's first season at Chester. His training regime, areas to work on, which matches he would play in, which he wouldn't, which formations would suit him, which wouldn't.
When I was done, the dad scrunched his face up and said, "We would expect Toby to be first choice and to play in most games."
"Okay," I said. "Well, I can promise that he won't get that at Chester. Not aged 20. He might play half the games but not much more than that. My aim would be for him to get the maximum improvement while we smashed the Championship."
"Swansea have been getting indications of interest from the Premier League. Why should we send Toby to another Championship team?"
"Because he'll play and what he needs most next season is to play... the right amount. What's a Prem club gonna do? Loan him back down to a club like Swansea. Unless they offer you a fortune in wages, better to stay here."
The dad appeared to be unimpressed. "You'd advise him to stay here instead of going to a Premier League team?"
"Absolutely, and I know you agree with me because it's exactly what you did with Roman. You managed his career perfectly. I think Chester's a step above Swansea in terms of playing style, culture, and coaching, but if Toby stayed here another season I would probably nod my head and go, yeah, that tracks. If he ends up in the reserves at a Prem club I'd be like, what? Why? I love that you're pretending to grill me because I know you'll do the right thing and Toby will be playing in the Champ next season."
I was absolutely smashing this! The dad was trying to challenge me but he was loving my answers! Toby and Dan, in a tree, P-A-S-S-I-N-G!
Toby himself seemed to look up to me. He had mentioned Soccer Supremo, Bayern Munich, and my rainbow flick goal at Wembley. But he had a few reservations about joining Chester. I encouraged him to speak his mind. "So, I'm into AI stuff, I think it's dead cool and it's the future but I'm confused about what you do with it. First, you told everyone you used it but when someone tried to mug you to get your laptop you said nah only joking I use Soccer Supremo's database. Which, like, fine, if you've got a good way of doing that, why not? But now there are rumours you’re saying you've actually got an AI and it's amazing and you're trying to sell it to clubs saying you can show things in matches that would have happened if decisions were different. But that's crazy. It's impossible unless you've got a ten billion pound company behind you."
"Is it?"
"Yeah! Think of the hardware. The electricity costs. If you could do that, it would mean you'd solved all kinds of technical problems and your developers would be publishing their findings every week and they'd be the most famous developers in the world and you'd be getting billions in funding and it would be amazing and crazy!"
"Uh, what?" said Emma. She took my arm. "Babes, are you going to be a billionaire? Let's move up the wedding, shall we?"
I laughed but I was frowning. "Toby, I'm not sure I get you. What are you saying?"
"I'm saying you didn't have an AI tool in the past and you still don't have one now so it's weird that you're saying you do."
"Uh, we're not trying to feed our tool every book and image the world has ever created in order to get it to think. We've got a football pitch with set dimensions and a series of player attributes like you get in Soccer Supremo. The scope is really limited, if you think about it. It's not crazy that we've got a custom player evaluation tool, is it?"
"No. It's the generative stuff that's impossible."
"You mean the predictive things?" I tried to stop frowning but couldn't. "Soccer Supremo does that. Every football video game does that. It can predict what players will do and show it on a screen. It's not that hard. Yeah, we need to get more hardware to take it to the next level but it's not that hard to generate six seconds of video. My phone can do that!"
"Six seconds?" he said. "Oh. I didn't know it was short like that."
I relaxed. "We want to make it more epic, to go beyond diagnostics and into something more fun, but it's not going to cost billions. Nothing close to that. Next time you're in Chester, I'll show you what we've done so far, if you're interested. My guys are in Brazil right now showing the tech to real football clubs who don't have cash to waste, and they are buzzing from it so far. It's top stuff." I found myself frowning again because I wasn't going around blabbing about DOVE. Where had a squad player from Swansea City heard about it?
"I'd like that," he said. "I'd like that a lot. If I wasn't good at football I'd be doing something in AI now. It's an amazing thing and it's going to change the world. I'm mad on it."
"Pradeep would love you," said Emma, sweetly.
Toby's mum nudged him and he said, "Er... Another question. You're always going on about William Roberts and how he should be in the England squad, but he's got 9 goals in the Championship."
I waited a few beats. "Was that the question? You think he's no good?"
"I didn't say that. I just think it's odd you think he should play for England."
The frown was all the way back. "He should have been in the under 18s when he was the best under 18. Right now he's about to turn 20. Do I think he's the most talented player of his age? Yes. Do I think he's better than the England starters who are 28 years old and in their prime? No. Should he be in the current England squad? No." I wasn't getting pissed, but I wasn't blissed out, either. "By the way, he scored 5 goals in the Champions League, so that makes 14 goals for the season so far. In the Championship and the Champions League. Aged 19."
Toby glanced at his dad, who glanced at his mum. She said, "It's just that some people think you're delusional, Max. They think you're quite talented but you're not as good as you think and you'll flame out soon enough. I don't know about football so I don't know what to think about that. Before we think about putting our son's future in your hands, we would like to know if there's any substance to what you're saying."
Emma opened her mouth, and from her expression I knew she was going to defend me, and with some heat behind her; I reached out and took her wrist. I gave her my full attention until she looked into my eyes. I smiled until she smiled. I squeezed her. In this world, it's just us.
She nodded. I'm calm. I'm fine.
I rubbed my mouth to try to hide how utterly besotted I was with Emma - people sometimes reacted badly to how crazy I was about her. I tried to take on a serious tone but failed, so I ended up asking the next questions in an inappropriately jaunty tone. "What's with the character assassination? My club's 6th in the league and we're going to smash Swansea tonight. What's delusional about that?"
Toby looked away and reverted to being shy. Because he was so tall, powerful, and athletic it was far too easy to forget he was just a kid. "Nothing."
I spread my arms, spraying charisma everywhere. "What's going on?"
"Yeah, look, it's just that my brother's been hearing things."
I thought back so hard that one eye closed of its own accord. If I had the Match Archive perk I would have been able to search it in a matter of seconds, but it was 22,000 XP. "I don't think I've ever played against your brother, or managed against him. I would have remembered, I think, because he would have been the outstanding player on the pitch. No, I'm pretty sure I never came up against him."
Toby was staring down at the table. "He heard it at England camp."
"Oh," I said. And after a few more seconds, I said it again. "Oh."
The England manager, Alan Turner, was using his England camps to slag me off. Max Best is delusional. He's not as good as he thinks he is. He's cocky and he's going to flame out. He's lying about his new software. Don't go to Chester, he'll wreck your career.
I pinched my nose. I couldn't sign Toby Baxter. The minute anything went wrong, the minute there was any adversity, he'd hear a little voice in his head that sounded just like the England manager, a renowned apologist for a brutal, murderous regime. 'I told you Best was shit but you didn't listen.'
I groaned. I wouldn't be able to sign any England players. Alan Turner would have infected them all. Even if they didn't totally believe him, there would always be that seed of doubt. If I wanted an England international in my squad, I needed to get to them young and insulate them from outside noise. Wibbers could go to an England camp and not come back with doubts about me. Who else had the potential to play for England? Long term, maybe Banksy. He wouldn't listen to shitty gossip. Dan Badford had minus 1 PA, so who knew when he would cap? If he turned into a world class player and heard someone at St. George's Park talking shit about me, he'd probably throw a punch.
The players I already had were solid, and there was a whole world of talent out there. Polish strikers, Belgian playmakers. I didn't exactly need to sign English guys. Foreign lads were cheaper, anyway, both in transfer fees and wages.
But Christ, I didn't want to be one of those clubs who had an entirely non-English starting eleven more often than not. An old memory of my Soccer Supremo-playing days resurfaced. Sometimes, when I was bored of taking Carlisle United to the Champions League final by means of acquiring Swedish wonderkids, I would embark on a save game where I would try to have the entire England team at my club. I never got there and I usually ended up binging on Swedish wonderkids anyway, but I had tried to do it. I had seen value in trying to do it.
Max Best, the England national team superfan.
What had happened?
Alan Turner had happened.
I stood and held out my arm, shaking hands with a stunned mum, dad, and a top young English talent. "Thanks for taking the time to meet me, I appreciate it. If you want to tell other clubs I'm interested to drive up the wages they offer you, go for it. I don't mind. For what it's worth, I really think you should stay in the Champ next season, Tobes."
"Er, you too," he said, automatically, trying to be polite.
At last, someone who agreed with me!
***
I escaped the area and found the Brig and Ruth. Ruth was financing the Brig's foray into football club ownership, and the pair were getting to know the millionaire Welsh patriot who was buying Flint Town United. The point of the clubs wasn't to make money like the conspiracy in Gibraltar, but to raise standards in the Welsh leagues (the rich guy), to take care of young men who needed some extra help (the Brig), and to punch Chip Star in the dick (me). Ruth and the rich dude wouldn't lose much money, I would make sure of that.
I asked them to take care of Emma and rushed out so I could be alone with my frustrations. The best escape, I found, was to think about beating Swansea. It helped that Sandra and I had already decided to field almost our strongest team in my new favourite 3-4-2-1 shape.
Swanny would start in goal behind Christian, Peter, and Zach.
The left midfielder would be Lewis. More than ever, I loved Lewis. He had deeply hurt Alan Turner simply by banging his daughter. That made Lewis a candidate to get the God Save the King boost when he peaked. To me, Lewis was a prince. The Prince of Pork.
Then we'd go Joel, Magnus, and Cheb. Nothing much wrong with any of that. In fact, looking at their CAs made me wonder why I was ever interested in Toby Baxter.
The front three was Pascal, Wibbers, and Gabby.
Overall average CA: 130.9. That was ace. Swansea had an average of 125. The problem for the Swans wasn't that we were stronger, but we were also a horrible stylistic opponent for them. While they played 4-2-3-1, the intention was to get the ball and keep it for long periods. They often had high possession stats, even against the top teams in the league. We could do that, too, though. We could defend, scrap, and counter, but most of all we could pass the ball. The match would be very easy on the eye, and we would win.
***
In tight matches and when playing teams who can keep the ball, the first goal is crucial. The last thing I wanted was to let Swansea go ahead, so I sent my lads out with broadly cautious instructions.
That was a mistake - the Swans manager had decided to take a risk and they came at us fast and furious. The first 15 minutes were non-stop Swansea attacks. Our defence coped fairly well but we still gave up three big chances; Ian Swan made three big saves.
Having repulsed the initial waves, we turned the tide. We got more of the ball, moved higher up the pitch, and spent the last ten minutes of the half battering Swansea's goal.
Wibbers, Pascal, and Gabby combined to create a chance for Cheb to score on the back post, where the left back had dozed off. One-nil!
"Roddy," I said, when our subs had finished hugging each other.
"Yes, boss?"
"Did you see that?"
"The goal?"
"The late run to the far post. That defender gets into the right spot and then his brain switches off. It's remarkable."
"I didn't notice."
"Ask Vikki to show you on the tablet."
"Yes, boss."
"And pay attention, for fuck's sake."
"Yes, boss."
***
The home crowd grew restless as we knocked the ball around and I felt pretty good about things, mostly because Swanny was having a great game.
I was happy for him, because this was going to be his last serious match as our starting goalie. He would play in the match against Blackburn and any others that I was happy to bin off. And I would give him a run in games against the league's worst teams, just to keep his eye in, but from the Leeds match, Owen Elmham would be Chester's starting goalie.
Nobody knew it, but today was Swanny's swan song.
***
At half time, Owen Elmham sidled up to me. “Do you know the attendance?”
“What? It’s about 20,000.”
He nodded. “20,000 Swans. You said there was never more than five.”
He retreated to his part of the bench, pleased as punch. "All right, shut the fuck up," I declared, loud enough for everyone to hear. "My favourite movie is called Black Swan, because it's about rare events such as people going to the ballet."
Magnus Evergreen said, "Ballet is great, Max. The power, the control they have over their bodies. It's really inspirational."
"Is it?"
"Yeah."
"Huh. Okay, field trip!"
Wibbers was the guy most likely to get annoyed by me going off on tangents. He said, "Can we talk about our tactics, maybe? We didn't have it all our own way in the first half."
I bent and got in his face. "Score a goal! There's a tactic for you!"
"Bite me."
I pointed to the door. "There are guys out there who think you're overrated. I won't say who but they were slagging you off. I said, nah, Wibbers does loads of great work for the team under the surface. The guy goes, what, is he a fucking swan? If he's so good, why's he only got single figures in goals? I said, yeah, I can't really argue with that."
Wibbers glared at me and stormed out as soon as the buzzer sounded.
Gabby came over. "Wibbers is fuming. Swans gonna get it in the neck."
"Yeah," I said. "Try to keep him focused, yeah? Kick a goal not kick a Swan."
"Yes yes yes, I help him. I kick the Swan instead."
“No, wait, Gabby. Hey! What the shit.”
***
Wibbers raced around the pitch with literal steam coming out of him. When he got the ball he went straight at goal, which wasn't great strategy but his determination to prove his doubters wrong was so immense he made it work. His match rating went from 6 out of 10 to 7, then 8, and when he scored a long-range thunderbastard he hit 9. That was his tenth league goal of the season which he reminded me by running to the dugout and showing his fingers and thumbs.
I waved him closer and even though he was mad at me, he obeyed.
"Ten goals for you, three points for the team. Job done. If you get sent off now you'll miss the FA Cup. Do I need to sub you off or can you switch modes?"
"Modes?"
I held my hand up, flat. "Fuming ball of outrage made flesh." I lowered my hand. "Calm, controlled, hyper-efficient assassin."
He nodded. "Ninja mode."
"What the fuck? Fine, yeah. Go be a ninja."
I watched him carefully for a few minutes, but he had made the switch. Before he had been playing on the edge, now he was centred. His decision-making went up a few notches. He thought less vertically and more about the match as a piece of narrative. We're winning two-nil, let's keep the ball. Every minute we had the ball, another few home fans left the stadium. His match rating stayed on 9 because it only really measured a player's output, but in my opinion he was doing a pure 10.
I had successfully unleashed Wibbers and put him back in his packaging, which was clever of me, but it left me with very little to do except think about Alan Turner.
In a desperate attempt to get back into the game, Swansea put Toby Baxter into the game.
Steam came off me.
***
79'
Double change for Chester. Off go Bochum and Alloula. On go Best and Jones.
Jones is playing right midfield. It looks like Best is playing as the left-sided CAM.
81'
Gabriel wins a header. Best chases it and keeps it in play.
Best strokes the ball down the line. Lamarre plays it all the way back to Swan.
Chester seem content to keep possession.
If the score remains like this, they will move to 5th in the league.
83'
Baxter receives a pass in midfield, but his touch is a little loose. Best intercepts and is fouled in the process.
84'
Chester are keeping the ball well. There are more empty seats visible.
85'
Best knocks Baxter off the ball and turns sharply.
Best drives forward. He rolls the ball to Gabriel.
The Brazilian striker dabs it to Roberts.
Roberts fizzes a brilliant pass through the defensive line to Best, who is onside.
Best is one-on-one with the goalkeeper!
He motions to shoot - the keeper falls into a star shape to fill as much of the goal as possible.
But Best lets the ball run across his body, onto his left foot.
He's around the keeper with the goal at his mercy!
Best is delaying the shot and now a centre back is sliding in to make the block...
Best chips the ball...
Sideways?
Roddy Jones appears at the far post!
Roddy Jones slams the ball into the net!
What a great goal for Chester!
It's three-nil, and it's no more than they deserve. After a rough start, they have been much the better team.
Swansea's fans are streaming out in numbers now.
***
A goal for Roddy Jones, and in Wales, too.
Maximum Morale for the lad.
If I kept his Morale at maximum by feeding him goals like this, and if I blasted him with Secret Sandra, could I get his CA high enough to hurt England in the summer's European Championships?
Probably not, but it was worth a try. People in England thought Alan Turner was a beautiful little baby swan.
As I made my way back to our half after celebrating the goal I clicked my neck left and right, barely noticing Toby Baxter hunched over, hands on his knees. Swans are supposed to sing before they die, but here in South Wales, the Swans weren't singing but were fleeing the stadium.
Sorry, boyos.
You're unhappy now, but you'll thank me later, when I use your national team to prove to the world that Alan Turner is nothing but an ugly fuckling.
“Roddy?”
“Yes, boss?”
“Let’s do that again.”