5.7 - Dragonborn
7.
Thursday, March 16 - Two Days Before Chester Play FC Wrexham.
Extract from the Deva Station podcast
[Epic theme music plays, interspersed with commentary of memorable moments from Boggy and the BBC]
J: Yes! Welcome to Deva Station, I'm your host, J. He's Smakk.
Smakk: What ho!
J: In the blue corner, it's Butch Fudge.
Fudge: Delighted to be invited.
J: Today we're interviewing the man, the myth, the legend himself, Max Best! Max, welcome back to the show! It's been far too long.
Max: Did you say Butch Fudge?
J: It's his nickname.
Max: [Pause.] Wait, I think I understand what's happening. New character in a familiar location means there's new content. Bro, have you got a quest for me?
Fudge: I've got loads of questions, yeah! Can we talk about transfer rumours?
Max: You've got me for about fifteen minutes.
J: We've got an incredibly tight time limit on this one so let's get straight to the questions we chose in the order we decided. Fudge is gonna sit quietly while we talk to you and when you have left, we'll get his instant feedback on what you've said. Pretend he isn't here. Question one. The FA Youth Cup. What the hell happened there?
Max: We went through to the semi-final, where we will travel to Yorkshire to play Leeds United. Our lads will be hoping to do what the first team couldn't do, which is to knock Leeds out of the cup.
Smakk: We beat Leeds in the cup, Max. 4-2.
Max: Oh, really? I guess that'll be easy, then.
J: We had about 4,000 in the Deva to watch the lads against Plymouth. We were there -
Max: Including Fudgey?
J: Yes. It was good he was with us because we were running out of fingers to count the goals on. Thirteen-nil!
Fudge: Mmm, mmm, mmm! Yes, sir!
Max: Wait, is he American? What was that?
J: Talk us through it.
Max: Not much to say, really. That match was like when you're exploring Skyrim and you get a reputation as a brawler but then you sneak into a bandit camp, put on the Shrouded Gloves, and get 30 times damage on one-handed dagger hits.
J: Sorry, what?
Max: What I'm saying is that Plymouth had set up to defend the wings, which made sense based on what we had done in previous rounds, but I thought it would be fun to experiment with a narrow, central formation and that, I'm sorry to say, messed Plymouth all the way up.
Fudge: True dat!
Max: Er... Got to five-nil quickly, they went defensive, we dabbled with some Relationism.
Fudge: Give me that sweet, sweet, Bestball!
Max: Is he all right? Half time, we took a guess that Plymouth would reorganise to strengthen the middle so we reverted to the 3-5-2 variant we'd been doing all season. That led to the eight-nil and the nine-nil, but we slowed it down at that point. Plymouth's manager, Darling, made a mistake in not subbing off these two hotheads who were going round looking for a red card. Guess what? One got a red, we scored soon after. Punishment goal. Ten-nil and we were playing against ten. I made a bunch of subs because I didn't want my dudes getting injured.
One of the lads I sent on was Nine. You know him? He's been with us since he was knee high to a nirnroot. He was one of the teeny tiny kids at Das Tournament, if you remember that story. He's 18 now and he's a striker so against Plymouth he was thinking, hey, I could fill my boots here. He went nuts. All the subs were the same, thinking that might be their best chance to rack up some goals and assists in the Youth Cup. Nine scored the eleventh. The second hothead was sent off.
J: In boxing, the other manager would throw in the towel. End the fight.
Max: I threw in the towel twenty times! What can you do, though? All the lads wanted to make a statement that they should be in the next starting eleven. Twelve-nil, thirteen-nil. You know in Skyrim the way a giant can clobber you literally into space? In the Youth Cup, we're the giant.
Smakk: Thirteen-nil. Bloody hell, I never thought I'd see the day. It could have been even more but you went 4-5-1 and put all the forward players in defence and had Archer Phillips as the lone striker.
Max: I didn't want to, you know, humiliate Darling.
J: It kinda seemed like you did.
Max: Why? I'd never met him before. Look, the first half was just one of those anomalies. It happens. It happened to our first team against Coventry a few days later, didn't it? But the second half was all about character. Darling is a good coach but when his players started running around trying to hurt the opposition, he did nothing about it. So either that's what he told them to do or he didn't know how to stop them. Right?
Maybe that pair are considered the golden boys of Plymouth's youth team and they've never had any pushback the entire time they've been there, I don't know, but they got sent off and piled more pressure on their teammates. Bad characters living in a consequence-free environment. Why would it ever end differently? It's Darling's job to make sure the environment is right and when his lot went round looking for bones to break, that's when he lost any sympathy he might have had from me.
He'll be fine. He's got the right friends to make sure he'll always land on his feet, even after he has been knocked into orbit by a giant.
J: You mentioned the Coventry City match. That was a tough one to take because you have been talking about making the Deva a fortress so to lose 3-0 and barely lay a glove on them was, yeah, a tough pill to swallow.
Max: I know, that was a bad one. It's like in Skyrim when you accidentally bump into a chicken and the guards react like you're attacking their town.
Smakk: Have you been playing Skyrim recently, Max?
Max: Yeah, a bit. After Wrexham, we've got an international break so I'm finally going to collect all the gemstones and marry Aela The Huntress. This coming break is basically my stag party because I don't think I'm gonna have time for a real one.
J: I understand that you wanted to rest players for the Wrexham game. I think I speak for all Chester fans when I say we'd rather lose to Coventry and beat Wrexham than the other way round, but 3-0 was tough, and the lack of attacking threat was alarming. I can't stand Cov's manager, Jimmy Romford, so seeing him dancing around on our pitch was hard to take.
Max: Romford isn't my favourite person, either, but he's actually one of the better managers we faced this season. He predicted our starting eleven and set up accordingly. He managed the game flawlessly. Didn't give us an inch. I wouldn't want to face Cov in the playoffs, which is something our defeat makes more likely.
J: It was another, ah, carefully rotated line up from us.
Max: Obviously I had one eye on Wrexham, but that was a good eleven! 4-1-4-1, my favourite. Owen in goal. Cole, Christian, Magnus, Nasa. That's solid! Vini patrolling to give them extra cover. Joel, Dan, Andrew, Bark. Great mix of skill and energy. Colin up front. Lethal goalscorer. I mean, I expected that side to play well, and mostly they did. Cov scored from a one-in-a-thousand long shot. We shrugged that off, but then they got their second from a player who was clearly offside. I don't like to complain about referees but they're really starting to test my patience. The stakes are too high to give freebies.
Anyway, what happens next is on us. I told the lads to keep playing as they were, but they went rogue. Tried too hard to get a goal back, and left big gaps for Cov to exploit. They're a team with a lot of firepower and you can't do that.
J: They went rogue?
Max: It's like in a well-known video game when you're trying to sneak around and your companion rushes head-first at the nearest enemy and you both end up as dragon food. I had told the full-backs and Vini to be disciplined in their positioning, to stay back. They went chasing a goal, pushed forward, joined our attacks. That kind of thing almost never happens at Chester, but it did on Tuesday night and we got punished.
J: Did the players get punished?
Max: What, for wanting to win?
J: For disobeying you.
Max: No, because I was in a chill mood and anyway, that specific kind of disobedience comes from a good place. They have such determination and will to win, such drive to get back in the match, such self-belief that they can come from two goals down against one of the best teams in the Championship, that they couldn't help but push for a goal. It's easy to forget how young they are. Cole's 21. Nasa's 22 but hasn't played much organised football. Vini's 20. On Tuesday night they learned a valuable lesson, which is that only fools rush in, and that there's a reason I tell them to play a certain way.
Maybe I would have been more upset if they had done it in a different match or in different circumstances, but we started the day 5th and were always going to finish 5th so instead of losing my marbles, why not try to make the most out of the occasion? I was planning to make an appearance for the last 20 minutes but at 3-0 down I decided to save myself for Wrexham and instead we used the second half to try some things. We did a false nine and twenty minutes of straight Relationism.
Smakk: Some people thought they saw a bit of 4-2-2-2.
Max: Yeah we played around with that. I know it's disappointing for fans who pay good money to see a big defeat but my theory is, if we take every opportunity to test out theories and learn things, we will get where we want to go even faster.
Fudge: Fast travel to this zone is now unlocked.
Max: All right! This guy gets it. We're all learning on the job, including me. Normally we're able to do that while playing well and winning, but it's a tough league. Mistakes get punished and unless you're a famous former England player, no-one gives you anything for free.
J: Was that a jibe at Jimmy Romford?
Max: Sorry, what?
J: Look at that face.
Smakk: The dictionary definition of innocence.
Fudge: Butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.
J: Our nerdier listeners would probably like to go a bit deeper into the Coventry match, but since time is short, there's only one real topic.
Max: The fact that there are no female giants in Skyrim?
J: No. Wrexham!
Max: Yeah, we can talk about that.
J: I barely slept last night. I'm worried sick.
Smakk: If they beat us and get promoted, we won't even be able to get revenge next season.
Max: Let's not use words like revenge, hey? They're just people, same as us. People who are worse at football, if that helps you get some sleep, J.
J: Please say more cocky Manc stuff like that?
Max: When we played them at the Deva, it was the first match of the season, wasn't it? I did a pre-match chat in the Blues Bar, which was recorded, and I listened back to it. It felt the way it feels to go back to the fort where Skyrim starts. It's familiar but so much time has passed and you're so much more powerful now. You've met some of the major characters. Lydia died protecting you from an ice dragon, by which I mean the Brig is gone. You met a bard, by which I mean I met Diggy Doggy.
J: John Liner made his debut. We bought a zen garden.
Fudge: Sold half the squad. I hope we have time to talk about that.
Max: It was funny listening to that podcast because you can hear how life in the Championship felt new and fresh and exciting and most of all, terrifying. I'm sure a few fans were dreading being rock bottom and getting slapped up twice a week, but here we are, fifth in the league. That's wild. Remember people were complaining about the pre-season results? God, that's one of the craziest things I've experienced in this job. Pre-season friendlies? Who cares? But I got actual complaints about those matches!
Smakk: No-one likes losing, Max. You see all the work on the training ground and the fitness levels and all sorts, but we only see the results. It didn't feel like we were well-prepared.
Max: Okay, but we were, and the stadium was coming along nicely. The away end hadn't opened, but it's open now and it has been a success. Away fans have come in numbers because the tickets are cheap, the grub's good, and we do our best to make it easy for them to get here. Buses from the train station and so on. Not sure if the numbers will dip next season because the novelty will have worn off, but even so, it has been a spectacular win and I love the noise they make.
Smakk: I love it when you shut them up.
Max: That's fun, too. The podcast reminded me that there was some disquiet about hiring the Welsh army lads to patrol the away end. Those worries are behind us, right? That project has been a big hit. They're young men themselves, they're football fans, they know when someone's screaming his head off because his team is shit and they know when he's thinking about crossing the line into something worse.
Another thing I heard that I could barely believe - some fans didn't want Wibbers, Gabby, and Magnus playing in the Champions League. That looks dim, in hindsight. Those lads are cooking, aren't they? I had a plan for the season but we have outperformed it. I seriously thought we would be tenth by now, with an outside chance of sneaking up into sixth on the last day of the season. Something like that. Have you lads enjoyed it?
J: I'm having the time of my life. FA Cup Quarter Finals, our kids thrashing teams, the women scrapping to win their league. Is that going to happen?
Smakk: We need to stick to Wrexham or we'll get proper told off in the comments. Are you going to play, Max? We've got a new chant for you.
Max: I'm going to play.
Smakk: The whole ninety?
Max: Why don't I just write out my entire strategy and mail it to Stefan Sommer?
Fudge: Why did you spend 4 million on Helge Hagen only to play three-at-the-back for most of the season?
Max: J, do you want me to answer that one or do you want me to talk about Wrexham?
Fudge: It's about Wrexham because you left Helge out of the Coventry match as though he would start in the next game, but he won't because you'll do 3-4-3. He's our record signing. Have we just wasted all that money?
Max: I actually spoke to Helge on Monday morning; we had a good chat and not just about which Skyrim character he looks most similar to. There's a perception out there that Helge isn't doing the business, but the truth is he has improved as much as anyone in the whole squad this season. Helge's competitive and wants to be the first name on the team sheet and I've told him I can see a time in the future when he will be.
J: Without telling us the specifics, can you give us an idea of how we will approach Wrexham? Because they have been going well under Stefan Sommer. They've got some of that height and power from the Paul Parker days, but they get the ball on the deck and knock it around. I'm dreading them sneaking into the playoffs, to be honest. It's always good to beat Wrexham but if we can knock them out of contention, too, that'd be amazing.
Max: The Plymouth match was like when you go into a burial chamber and there are thirty armoured mummies shuffling around and you think, hmm, this could go badly, but then you realise the ground's covered in oil and there's a chandelier made of actual flames, for some reason. Shoot the rope, flames fall, mummies nil, Dragonborn thirty. Gooooaaallll!
Coventry is like when you've picked up the treasure and you're on your way out of the dungeon and oops - a coffin opens and out comes the boss. You zap him with all your spells, which does about 3% damage, but now you're out of mana and the door won't open to let you out. Game over, man, game over. From too easy to too hard.
Against Wrexham, we need to be in the middle, we need to be smart, and in Skyrim every smart player ends up playing the same way. Stealth archer. Find cover, take a few long shots, hope you land a critical hit, stay out of harm's way.
Smakk: So... defensive, counter-attacks, long shots.
Max: Wrexham have a poor record away, but their home form is really top. The Racecourse is noisy and those fans will be screaming for every decision on Saturday. They won't be screaming in support of any Welsh players because Wrexham haven't got any, but they're still passionate. If you want to see a Welsh player at The Racecourse, you get yourself to a Saltney Town match. But yeah, Wrex is a club that's rooted in the local community. It's just that the local community it's rooted in is Los Angeles. I'm joking, I'm joking. It's a great club. I love it.
J: Please keep taking the piss out of Wrexham. Please.
Max: I'm not taking the piss! I just feel really sorry for the Wrexham FC fans. They've had to watch five years of excruciatingly shit pub team football and now that they've got a good manager who plays attractive football, the ownership model has changed. What is it, 40% owned by hedge funds now? I don't blame Reynolds and the other one for cashing out - they've earned a stonking great payout.
But we all know what comes next. The ticket price rises for next season have been announced and the jumps have made a lot of people wince. It's that moment in Skyrim when suddenly you notice that there are vampires everywhere. Vampires want to drain your blood; hedge funds want a return on investment. What's the difference? The team's doing well on the pitch but would you be surprised if, five years from now, Wrexham's tickets cost fifty percent more?
Smakk: I wouldn't.
Max: Their fans don't realise it but they're transitioning away from being a football club and into an entertainment product. Look out for dynamic pricing, the end of cheap tickets for pensioners and kids, massive hikes in car park fees, no more free tickets to the club's staff at cup finals, no more free food in the canteen. The pips will be well and truly squeezed. And when the local market can't sustain revenue growth, we'll have Wrexham's home matches played in San Diego, Tampa, New Jersey, Riyadh, Sydney. Ironically, that process will only accelerate if Wrexham are promoted to the Prem, so because I like Wrexham the town and I like the people of Wrexham, I feel it's my duty to beat them on Saturday. Billionaires nil, Dragonborn one.
Fudge: Hang on. You're the Dragonborn? Does that mean you've decided to represent Wales at international level?
Max: The Dragonborn can be any race, any nationality. He or she slays dragons and absorbs their power, which he uses to perform so-called Shouts. Such a Shout might be 'Stay onside, Wibbers, fuck sake!'
Smakk: What about your special relationship with Wales and with Wrexham?
Max: What about it? I work for Chester. I work for you.
J: Goosebumps, man.
Max: The billionaires who have bought a regional soccer club to enrich themselves will keep letting me use their stadium for one simple reason - they get money. No, my personal relationships don't come into it, certainly not this weekend. I know how much this means to you. I know I'm not the easiest person to deal with and there's a very easy way to repay your faith, your support, and your patience and that's to win this weekend. That's the goal and nothing will get in the way. I'll smash Wrexham up as much as I want, no holds barred.
J: So are we going to brawl or are we going to be stealth archers?
Max: Yes.
Smakk: You're not worried about your relationship with Wales?
Max: No, why?
Smakk: Sounds like you're going to be a bit of a prick against the most famous Welsh team.
Max: The most famous Welsh team is Saltney Town. Listen, after Wrexham comes an international break. Ten days to rest and recover before the final push. That break means that there's absolutely no reason for us to hold back. We are going to give it our all. I can't promise a win because we all know that refs are intimidated by Wrexham's owners, but I can promise one hundred percent effort from whoever plays in a blue-and-white shirt. We're better than Wrexham, we're sexier than Wrexham, and we're Welsher than Wrexham. Be excited. Be very, very excited.
J: [Crashes his head against a desk.] Come on! Yes!
Max: All right, I need to rush off. I've got to gather 26 sawn logs to build an apiary and an enchanter's tower.
Smakk: That game sounds really detailed.
Max: What game?
***
Saturday, March 18
EFL Championship Match 39 of 46: Wrexham Dragons FC versus Chester Dragonslayers
"All right," I called out, "settle down." We were in the away dressing room at The Racecourse, which actually felt strange. Last August, when Saltney Town played Poznan and Celtic in the Champions League qualifiers, I had been in the home section. Adding to the sense of strangeness was that the match was kicking off so early. At the request of the police, it was a 12 o'clock kick off, so all our routines and rhythms were out of whack. "Everyone nice and awake?"
I scanned the faces of my squad; they seemed alert enough. I had intended to use Bench Boost in this fixture, but I had triggered it in what I thought would be my final match before becoming the Hearts manager. Hopefully that wouldn't come back to bite me on the arse. The bench was pretty strong, even without a boost. Gabriel was back from injury, and he looked fighting fit, ready to rumble. Roddy Jones was the weakest option but he had the magical power of Welshness, which I had been weaponising all week. He looked somewhat bleary-eyed.
"You'd better be awake because today's one of the biggest games of our season. You should know by now about the rivalry with Wrexham; we need to make sure we play hard and give the fans something to be proud of. Ah, what's this?" I lifted my phone. "Message from MD asking if I know who made a post on the club's social media accounts yesterday. Strange."
Sandra furrowed her brow. "Was that the one that went something like, 'Because it's an early kick-off, Chester will be staying at the Wynnstay Arms Hotel'? Even though we live twenty minutes away and there was no need for a hotel?"
I raised a finger. "The post was very carefully written, apparently by a wordsmith with tons of experience of writing poetry and haiku. It went, 'When Chester stay overnight in Wrexham, we always stay at the Wynnstay Arms Hotel. Recommended.' I wonder who wrote that and why? Hang on, here's a news item. Wrexham Fans Play Loud Music and Set Off Fireworks Outside Historic Hotel to Keep Opponents Awake - But Chester Were Not Inside. Oops! Wrexham nil, Dragonborn one!"
There were cheers. Peter Bauer said, "You are irrepressible. Why did you choose that hotel?"
"There's a chance the referee and his team stayed there, so with any luck, the Wrexham fans have been tormenting them all night and the officials will take it out on them today. Welshmen nil, Dragonborn two. Hoo-yaa!"
Sandra was admiring me. "There was me thinking you had behaved yourself the whole week. What else did you do?"
"I brought up the sore point of the ticket price rises and the change in Wrexham's direction. From Hollywood fairy tale to Supply and Demand FC. Every fan will be looking at the price of burgers and beer going, wait, is that what it cost last week or has it gone up? Realising they are customers not fans might take the edge off how noisy they are. The most important thing I did was to buy a pattern on an arts and crafts website and find someone who can crochet fast. Ah, no, the really important thing was to let it be known that we're going to approach today with a defensive mindset. And I'm sure you all heard the disinformation I spread about Helge. With his knowledge, of course."
All eyes turned to the giant Norwegian. Helge spoke. "You said that one day in the future I would be the first name on the teamsheet. You didn't say how far in the future. They are realising you meant two days into the future." He high-fived Andrew Harrison, who was next to him on the bench.
I felt quite smug about that misdirect. "Right. Basically I wanted to let Stefan Sommer pick his most technical team. If he thought Helge would start, he would probably have picked an extra beefy boy to counter Helge's set piece threat. I've seen Wrexham's starting eleven and it's pretty much ideal for what I want to do. Some big units, some technicians. It's like a mirror of us, but when they look in the mirror, they don't see hair this good, let me tell you."
I adjusted the tactics board and took a second to align the magnets.
"Sommer loves 4-3-3 and that's what he's doing today. No surprises from him, unlike that prick at Coventry." Jimmy Romford had played 4-2-3-1 in the previous 20 matches, but he had sacrificed some CA in order to do a very aggressive 3-4-3. He thought I would rotate, he thought our midfield would be weak, he thought he could isolate Colin, and he was right on all counts. Well, our 'weak' team had an average CA of 123.3, so although it was a disappointing night, we were getting stronger and stronger - my strategy of throwing my squad players into action throughout the season was really paying off in a big way. Next season, could I have a second string with an average of 130?
"Max," said Sandra.
"Hmm?" I said, looking her way.
"You were in one of your video game trances."
Joel Reid called out, "Were you thinking about Aela the Huntress, boss?"
"No," I said. "I binned her off and married a sexy vampire instead."
There was a wall of complaints. "Such a cliché!" "Not again!" "Typical men." "Poor Emma doesn't know what she's in for."
I held up my hand. "Whom I choose to marry and whom I choose to bin off as and when the DLC areas become available is of no concern to the likes of you. I am the Dragonborn and Emma knows that.
"All right, let's remind ourselves about the plan. Wrexham, in terms of talent, are very mid-table." Over the course of the season, Wrexham had improved more than any of our rivals, but only to CA 126 and at quite some expense. Stefan Sommer was honestly doing a phenomenal job to get them into playoff contention. "But don't underestimate them. Under Sommer, they are the closest thing in this league to Chester and they outperform their apparent levels. As usual, they are doing 4-3-3 with wide attackers.
"We're starting with 4-1-4-1. In goal it's Owen." CA 140 - back to his pre-injury levels. "Defenders from left to right: Helge, Peter, Zach, Magnus." 118, 124, 133, 129. "Youngster doing his best Vincent Addo impression." CA 135. "Lewis, Wibbers, Pascal, Cheb." 136, 137, 131, 150. "Up front... the Dragonborn himself! Um, that's me, for everyone who tunes out when video games are mentioned."
Because the dressing rooms were small, the closest I could get to a thoughtful walk was to move a tiny distance to the right and to the left. Our average CA was 133.3, which wasn't as far above Wrexham as I would have liked, although that number didn't include my own CA, which I suspected was high. I felt super fit and the ball had been obeying me in a big way in recent weeks.
I glanced back at the formation. Wibbers and Pascal were not natural central midfielders, but they could hold their position when we were defending and they had a bigger role to play than merely shuffling and sliding. Pascal's CA had been improving at a snail's pace, probably because I was playing him so often. I needed him in the team so we would get a good result as a reward to the fans who had been so patient with me and tolerant of my many weirdnesses, but then he would get a rest. If things went according to plan, Pascal would move from CA 131 to 133 - his maximum - over the international break, and then I would be able to upgrade him with the God Save the King perk. I would boop him from Off the Ball 19 to 20, and at the start of next season he'd go from 20 to 21, though the curse wouldn't show that. His off-the-ball movement was already elite, so I was intrigued to play alongside an even better version of him.
Everyone was waiting for me to continue talking. "I'm setting up as the striker. Cool. What I'm actually going to do most of the time is drift back to be another DM, next to Youngster. The pair of us will sweep up in front of the defence and when we get the ball, we'll have a ladder from Zach to me to Wibbers or Pascal that will be pretty reliable. When we're knocking the ball around, someone will rotate into the striker slot, just to make it look like we're doing a shitty, inept version of a false nine."
Sandra said, "Which you have been hinting at in your interviews."
"Right," I agreed. "It's why we tried it against Coventry and even though it failed, I'm famously stubborn and will try again. Heh." I touched some of the magnets. "Helge, Zach, Peter, Magnus, me. That's going to be decent for attacking and defending set pieces. We've got some of Vikki's tricks up our sleeve but most of the time, I'll be aiming for Helge or Zach. No need to complicate things."
"Ha!" said Sandra. "Says the man who came up with today's plan."
"What?" I said, mock confused. "Today's plan is simplicity itself!"
"Remind us what it is," she said. "In no more than 40 words."
I smiled as I adjusted the tactics board, then began moving the magnets around. "Quite simply," I started.
"That's two words you've wasted," said Peter.
I tutted. "Quite simply," I repeated, glaring at him. When he didn't say anything, I continued. "Our 4-1-4-1 is actually a 4-2-4-0, which will make Stefan Sommer think we lack ambition. He will urge his players to push forward. When that happens, I will drift to the right while Helge and Lewis swap places. That's Lewis left back, Helge left midfield. When I give the signal, we will completely switch to 3-4-3. Helge will keep moving forward until he's the left-sided of the three strikers. Wibbers and Pascal will be next to him, obviously."
"Obviously," agreed Sandra.
"The back three will be Zach, P.B., and Magnus. I'll either swap places with Magnus or simply drop towards him with the intention of getting the ball in a deep position while Wrexham try to press me. I will then hit a beautiful long pass - "
"You'll hoof it," said Peter.
"I will hit a long pass as if 'twere an arrow shot from a Daedric Bow, shot so straight and true it would win the Gold Ribbon of Merit, shot right onto the ready, waiting, and eager forehead of Helge Hagen, first on the team sheet, first in our hearts. Steady Hand, Slow Time, Eagle Eye, loose!" I ended that speech by miming I was holding a bow and arrow. I then made a dismissive gesture and my voice took on a snooty tone. "Then Wibbers and Pascal will chase Helge's flick-ons and they'll score goals. All very brutish and nasty. Fortunately, I shall be on the far side of the pitch and shan't have to bear witness to it up close."
Sandra said, "So to recap, Max is going to boot the ball high for Helge to knock down and we'll hope to win some second balls. It's more Ian Evans than poetry, isn't it?"
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"Ian Evans didn't have plans within plans, plays within plays, entire sides of the pitch that rotated like clockwork!"
Sandra pointed at me. "Behold, the Dinosaurborn! He carries the blood of the dinosaur inside him."
I put my hands on my hips. Getting absolutely rinsed by my co-manager! "If your aim is to frustrate me so that I take out my frustrations on Wrexham... it's working. All right, equipment check before going into the scary Welsh cave. Boots of Slapping?" I looked down. "Equipped! Underwear of Endless Seduction?" I peeked down my shorts. "Equipped! Armband of Leadership?" I adjusted the captain's armband I was wearing. "Equipped! This thing gives me plus five charisma." I pushed my hand through my hair. "Don't even need it."
Youngster said, "In Skyrim, if you pray, you get a temporary blessing."
"Nice try," I said. "All right, lads. For too long have I renounced my heritage, but now, at last, I accept my destiny. I am the Dinosaurborn. Hear my Shout. Four-Four-TWO!"
Most of the lads smiled because my relaxed silliness conveyed how extremely confident I was. Wibbers, though. "Wait, I thought we were doing 4-1-4-1 as a false nine morphing into 3-4-3."
"We are!" I said. "Jesus!" The buzzer sounded and I pulled on a Skyrim-inspired crocheted helmet complete with Viking-style horns. "Why does everyone make everything so complicated?"
***
I wore the helmet while doing my captain's duties, then strode towards the Chester fans who were stuffed into a few blocks of the stand that faced the billionaire owners. Our fans cheered as we approached; they took that as an ideal time to unleash their new chant, which was ironically based on a banger from a Welsh band called The Automatic. The original song was called Monster and went:
What's that coming over the hill, is it a monster? Is it a monsterrrrr?
The Chester fans had reimagined it as:
What's that coming over the hill, is it a Max Best? Is it a Max Bessst?
I laughed at how stupid and how perfect the new chant was. I felt like a monster, in the best possible sense. I felt powerful in my own body but I also had a deadly team of allies around me. In terms of CA, Helge was the weak link, but I had based my entire tactical plan around him. Some weak link.
The Wrexham fans were going nuts, by the way. Singing their hearts out, singing songs of Welsh defiance, Welsh perseverance. I went around their players going, "Are you Welsh? Are you Welsh?" I walked to the nearest TV camera, ripped my helmet off, threw it at the lens, and screamed, "There's one Welsh guy here and he plays for us!"
That brought a visceral response from the nearby fans and the guys in the home dugout. I set my jaw, ground my teeth, and found myself in Wrexham's half glaring at my opponents. Up in the main stand, the billionaires box was crowded. Was it Rob, Ryan, or one of their hedge fund chums? It didn't matter; I was going to ruin their whole day. I jabbed my finger towards the box and yelled, "Football is for the fans!"
Then Pascal's hand was on my back, pushing me into our half so the match could start. "Remember," he said. "You're the false nine."
"Nine," I said, but the word barely meant anything. There were only shapes. Heroes and villains, locals and foreigners, Nords and Imperials. I was fighting for the Nords. Wrexham had surrendered to the Imperials.
The match had started. Red shirts knocking the ball around. Around me. In Skyrim, the Civil War happens around you sometimes, before you have properly picked a side. You can walk through massive battles, just watching, not helping, not hurting.
Here, though? I had picked my side.
I sprinted towards Magnus, who was about to get overloaded in our right back slot. I crashed into a midfielder, knocked him flying, had the ball at my feet. I pushed it to Peter an instant before I got wiped out myself. The difference was that my challenge had been fair. Wrexham's dude had hit me with a total cheap shot and the referee agreed.
The stadium howled with displeasure.
I wanted to shoot straight up to my feet but forced myself to wait for the physios. Dean hurried with his medical bag. "You all right, boss?"
I glared at him. He sighed and unzipped his kit bag. He brought out a clear, round, plastic flask filled with a red liquid. It was water with red food dye, but it looked like a healing potion from Skyrim. I unpopped the lid, drank deeply, and shot to my feet.
What's that coming over the hill...?
I strode toward the guy who had clobbered me, who was being pushed and shoved by my mates. "Cheap Shot," I said, using his new nickname. "You're gonna fucking regret that."
Is it a Max Best?
Peter called out to the ref. "Can we take it?"
"Yes," said the man in black.
Peter knocked the ball to me and I sped off. The Wrexham guys were busy with the melee and they panicked. I was just about to activate top speed - Whirlwind Sprint - when a desperate midfielder fouled me again. Two bad ones in the first minute.
I jumped straight up, got in the guy's face, and whooped as though I had really enjoyed being fouled, which in a crazy way, I had. "What's that coming over the hill? It's not a fucking Welshman, that's for fucking sure!"
The ref separated us and tried to calm things down by showing the Wrexham dude a yellow card.
Tried to calm things down.
So funny.
***
3'
Alloula takes the ball from Evergreen.4'The Algerian touches it to Bochum, then turns and sprints down the line.
The return pass is well-weighted, but Alloula can't get there.
He is being held back!
A foul is given.
The Chester players are furious!
They think that should have been a yellow card.
Green wins the header.5'Youngster tidies up and touches the ball to Hagen.
He finds Lamarre, who is quickly put under pressure.
Lamarre opts to give the ball back to Hagen.
He fizzes it to Roberts, who is instantly clattered.
The Chester players rush to push Wrexham players away from their team mate.
This is a very bad-tempered match already, but the away team are refusing to back down.
Elmham claims the cross.***He throws it to Bochum.
Bochum clips the ball to Roberts, who helps it left towards Lamarre.
He lays the ball back to Best.
The captain shapes to hit it first time, but then stands on the ball.
He folds his arms.
The home fans don't like that!
Best is under pressure, but he simply rolls the ball to Youngster.
Best is sprinting into a new position. Youngster passes to him.
Best to Bochum.
The German is moving into Wrexham's half. Best overlaps on the right.
Bochum finds Roberts.
Roberts sends the ball into Best's path.
Best chops the ball back onto his left foot but is wiped out by Wrexham's left back!
That was an ugly challenge.
The referee shows a yellow card!
Two Wrexham players have to be careful now.
Oof, that one hurt. The guy had hurled himself to block the direction he thought I was going but because of my sudden change of direction he only caught my ankle.
Hurt like hell.
Proper in-game debuff, that one. 10% less movement speed until you slept in a bed you owned, something like that. In the real world, even with my fast healing, it'd be sore for a week.
I slapped the turf in frustration, then got up and paced towards the dugouts. Stefan Sommer was yelling instructions to his players. "Hey, fuckface," I said. The guy couldn't believe I had gone over to talk to him. "Yeah, you. I'm gonna fuck you up now. So sorry. Consider this a 90-minute apology tour." Magnus had his arms around me and was bodying me away from the outraged Wrexham employees. I strained to get one more word in, and turned the volume up to 11 as I yelled, "Prick!"
I hobbled back towards the ball. My guys were still arguing with Wrexham. I used Masterpiece Theatre to send them all to the far post. Most of them obeyed instantly, rushing away as though this entire routine had been scripted by Vikki. Seeing the panic on the face of the red shirts made me laugh and dulled the pain in my ankle.
"Magnus, touch the ball."
He did so, and I walked it forward. Wrexham's striker hadn't rushed to get back into position with the others, and he did his best to stop my progress. His defensive scores weren't bad, in fact. He had good Positioning, Anticipation, and Tackling. That just made it more satisfying when I threw my shoulders two inches to the left, sent him for a hotdog, and moved around him on the right.
The booked left back was the next closest. He was slightly too far away to stop me crossing, though. I raised my right foot almost a yard off the ground, a weird amount of backlift that gave him just the ghost of a chance of getting to me in time. As he threw himself in front of the cross, I used my standing foot to jab the ball two yards further forward, bypassing him completely, then sprinted.
It was pure chaos now because I was zooming towards the near post and we had a numerical advantage on the far post. The defenders had mere seconds to decide what to do.
I straightened up my run, advanced, waited for the keeper to come closer to me, then thrashed the ball along the six-yard box.
Wibbers had the simplest task of diverting the ball into the empty net.
One-nil!
Wibbers ran at me and jumped waist high, forcing me to fucking brace and hold him. All the pain - and more - came back into my ankle.
Joyous shouts surrounded me. "Fucking yeah!" "Come on!" "Let's fucking go!"
I suffered until the guys got off me, then sent them to the fans, who were over to the right. While they raced towards the cheering mob, I looked for my prey. I veered ten yards so I could confront the first guy who had fouled me. "That one's for you, Cheap Shot."
"Fuck you."
The Chester fans were screaming their new song. What's that coming over the hill?
Pascal rushed beside me as I hobbled back towards halfway. "Stick to the plan."
"The plan is mint," I said. Pascal moved away, punched the air in the direction of the away fans, and waved his arms asking for more volume. Three feet away from the centre circle, I bent to feel my ankle. It hurt like hell, but it was an injury I'd had many times before. As long as I 'locked' the ankle when kicking, I would be able to play.
"Fuck off out the way!" cried some guy. I straightened and saw that two Vampire Thralls were waiting to kick off.
Thralls were regular people who served their vampire masters hoping to one day be turned into vampires themselves. Maybe it made sense in Skyrim, but not in the real world. Why would a billionaire want to create more billionaires? That went against everything they stood for. I tapped the nearest guy on the chest. "They don't even know who you are."
"What? Who?"
The ref called out, "Get out of the way, Best."
I eyed him, pinching my index finger and thumb together in a show of excessive patience. "Is it against the laws of the game to be kicked to fucking ribbons?"
He rolled his eyes. "Get out of the way."
I hobbled away as though every step was agony, gave serious consideration to falling to the floor and getting medical treatment to wind everyone up even more, but finally cleared the centre circle. The match resumed at a higher tempo than before, but in the patterns everyone had expected.
I played as a straight nine, a pure striker, so pure I barely moved more than a few inches. The wind-up merchant part of my brain wanted TV viewers all over the world to know that I had been savaged and that the game's most interesting player had been kicked out of action, while the analytical part of my brain wanted to get a sense of how well my team could cope with Wrexham's attacks without my assistance.
The answer?
With consummate ease.
***
13'
Wrexham probe down their left.17'Alloula stands firm.
The ball is moved into the centre but goes left again.
Evergreen heads.
Alloula gathers, beats one man, and wins a throw-in.
A big, booming pass is headed clear by Green.22'The ball is chipped back into the danger zone, but Green had already recovered his position.
Youngster competes for the loose ball.
He loses out, and there's a cross to the far post.
Bauer heads the ball to his goalkeeper.
That was nerveless play from the German defender!
No way through for Wrexham.***They probe left, move the ball right. Nothing is on.
Chipped ball over the top - cleared easily.
Through-ball... well cut out.
Wrexham try a long shot...
But it goes miles over the bar.
We were brilliant. Owen, Helge, Peter, Magnus, and Youngster would be Premier League quality one day soon, and Zach was playing his heart out against the team that had tried its best to fuck up his career.
The throbbing in my ankle had mostly subsided; I took a few steps towards the midfield line.
***
Extracts taken from Seals Live
Boggy: Still one-nil to Chester, but a worrying spell of pressure from the home team. Their crude tactics look to have paid off - Max Best is still hobbling around. How long will he be able to stay on the pitch? Who will replace him?
Spectrum: It would be Gabby, but I think Max is all right. He's on the move now, look.
Boggy: Where's he going? Still pressure from the home team. They win a throw-in. There goes the right back all the way to left midfield to launch it into our box. Paul Parker may have left but his spirit lives on. The ball is dried on a special towel. The home team's centre backs are up. Pascal Bochum is on the halfway line, and William Roberts isn't too far away. Chester plotting a counter-attack. Here comes the throw. It's a big one!
Green wins the first header. Where will it bounce? Alloula is there. He jinks past a player - opportunity for Chester to break... But he's fouled! Another cynical, cynical foul from the home team.
Spectrum: That should be a yellow card - Pascal and Wibbers would have been away had Cheb been able to make that pass.
Boggy: To be fair to the referee, he handed out two early yellows that have taken the edge off the home team's thuggery to some extent. Chester taking their time to regroup. Best still looks uncomfortable. He's by the spot where the free kick will be taken, walking gingerly. Magnus Evergreen gives it to Alloula. He's pressured, so he goes back to Evergreen. All the way back to Elmham. He looks left and finds Hagen. The Norwegian moves it quickly to Lamarre. [Pause.] The ball is moving back to the right. Best has moved five yards forward but he is shaking his head and looking towards Sandra Lane in the dugout. She looks worried.
Spectrum: Not as worried as you.
Boggy: Ha. Very probably. It looks to me like, uh, we're reorganising temporarily until the substitution can be made. This is a disaster, I have to say. Best looked in scintillating form. [Pause] Speckers?
Spectrum: It does look like we're reorganising temporarily, yes.
Boggy: Illuminating insight from our expert analyst. Here's, er... What has happened? Lewis Lamarre and Helge Hagen have switched positions. That doesn't make a lot of sense in terms of protecting Max. I must say, Chester are doing an incredible job of controlling the ball until the sub can get ready. Wait - where's the sub? No-one's warming up. And now! And now!
Chester increase the tempo! The horseshoe passing becomes quick one-touch play. Green, Youngster, Bauer, Best, Evergreen. Yes, Max Best moving freely, it seems. Where's - ? Best touches the ball to Alloula, who plays it to Evergreen. Magnus seems to be in midfield. How does that - ?
The home team fighting hard to get the ball. Their pressure forces Bauer into a mistake. Chester drop five yards. Ten! The energy has gone. Out, out, brief flame! The home team are swarming all over us! Red shirts in our defensive third. Four of them. Five!
Elmham plays a pass to Best, not so stricken as we thought, but isolated in a right-side centre back position. He pushes the ball away but he has no support. He slows, stares at the ball, and whacks it! Cracks it! Where's it going? Helge Hagen! Why's he up there? He holds off his marker and nods the ball down. Roberts collects! Bochum! The young men combine. They're moving towards goal at speed.
It's utter chaos in the home team's final third. Roberts can't get clear for a shot. He tries to find Bochum with a pass. Heroic defending from the home team! Now Bochum sends Roberts into the box... The goalie slides out... and makes the block! The ball rebounds. Youngster collects! Will he shoot from distance?
Spectrum: He's not allowed!
Boggy: But it's an open goal! The keeper is stranded if Youngster shoots first-time! What's he doing? He hangs onto it and rolls it diagonally ahead... Cheb Alloula is there. He can hit them! The goalie is scrabbling back. Alloula takes a pop... GOAL! Goal for Chester! The keeper got part of the way back but Alloula's shot was so well-placed he couldn't reach it. Two-nil Chester! Two-nil Chester!
[They enjoy the frabjous joy coming from the away fans.]
Spectrum: Boggy, you remember that temporary reorganisation that happened organically?
Boggy: Yes.
Spectrum: We've been training that all week.
***
30'
We reverted to 4-1-4-1 with me strolling around in the striker slot while Stefan Sommer's iPad boys tried to work out what the fuck our tactics were. Sommer had made his guys get more defensive in the meantime, and I was happy for some time to pass.
Our shape was so solid and we were so comfortable that despite the magnitude of the match, my mind wandered. A win today would cement us in 5th position. We were currently six points behind Luton, who were the only team above us that we could catch. After this, we had seven league games, of which two were against Crystal Palace and Ipswich - chalk up two defeats - one evenly-matched home tie against Norwich City - call it a draw - and probably four wins from the other four. That would put us on 77 points on the final day of the season, which if current trends held true, would put us in 5th.
No, hang on. I wasn't including this win. If we held out, we would finish the season on 80 points, which was what Luton were on track to get. Our goal difference would be better, wouldn't it?
Maybe not. As it stood, Luton were on plus 15 and we were on plus 17.
Far too close.
Did it matter?
Yes. If we finished below Luton in the league, we would play our two-legged playoff semi-final starting at the Deva and then going to Kenilworth Road. Playing the second leg on your home patch was always way better - everyone told me - because you knew what was required, your fans could roar you to victory, and if there was any extra time or penalties they would be played where you had the advantage.
There was an extra ingredient when it came to Luton Town this season - their playoff home match would be the final ever fixture at their historic, beloved (to them) stadium. No sane manager would want to face that tidal wave of emotion in the second leg.
My shuffling turned into a prowl.
In Skyrim, you can turn into a werewolf. Just ask my first wife.
***
35'
Going full Monster Max got put on hold. Wrexham, roared on by their fans, had a purple patch.
Sometimes you can equip two weapons and win fights simply by mashing the attack buttons, but sometimes you need to strap on a shield, block some attacks, soak up some damage, and wait for your chance to strike.
I fell into place next to Youngster and together we cleared the roads of bandits and brigands. I kept calling out the location of Cheap Shot, trying to wind the guy up so much that he would get himself sent off.
***
Half Time
Dean made me go straight onto a treatment table so he could check on my ankle. I let him work his magic while I reviewed the half.
I had earned a whopping 47 experience points.
XP balance: 7,699Today wasn't for me, though, it was for the fans. They would be buzzing right now and the icing on the cake was that I had only added one assist to my tally for the season. So far, I had scored 6 goals and created 12. The Sentinel could have no complaints about those numbers, surely? Those numbers were borderline shit.
Sandra appeared over me. "How are we doing over here?"
"Top," I said. "Dean's gonna strap me up good and I'm gonna get up and give my presentation about Skyrim."
Sandra thought she saw an opportunity to stop me droning on about my weekly mania. "Maybe you should lie down and rest."
"You were right about the goal difference," I said.
"I was?"
"Yeah. We need to take it as a consideration for the rest of the season. It could get really close between us and Luton. We can't really afford to sit back and take a two-nil win today. We should push for more without being stupid about it."
"How's our risk versus reward?"
I closed my eyes while I reviewed the match stats, the match ratings, and my personal perception of how much danger both teams were creating. "Wrex are getting more shots but lower quality. We're not doing much in their final third but when we get there the defenders look like they're about to buckle. I wouldn't want to change much."
"I agree. Let Sommer blink first. If he wants anything out of this match, he'll have to take risks, and then we can take advantage."
I held out my hand. She gripped it and pulled me upright. Dean and Livia started to bandage my ankle while it was dangling off the side of the treatment table. "Listen up, guys. That was a good half but we have to do it again. Goal difference is becoming a topic so if you want to get to the playoff final at Wembley, don't let these fuckers score. We're gonna try to get more goals but the absolute top priority is to give these pricks fucking nothing, okay?"
I asked Livia for my phone, and opened the photos app, where I had taken a screenshot of my notes.
"My favourite video game is Skyrim. It's about a heroic person called Max who does whatever the fuck he wants at all times. Not very hard to work out the appeal of that one, is it?
"Characters in that game don't have Pace, Heading, Tackling, Stamina. Wait, they do have stamina. I thought it would be fun to think about you guys in terms of the skills from Skyrim.
"Restoration deals with healing, so I'm giving Dean and Livia Restoration 20. My ankle? Can't even feel it."
Livia said, "That's because this bandage is so tight we've cut off the blood supply."
"Don't worry about it," I said. "If my foot falls off, that's good marketing for Jive. Pascal has Illusion 20. He seems to be in two places at once. Confuses the opposition. Wibbers is Destruction 20. Left foot fireball, right foot fireball. Dual Casting for the win!
"Enchanting. That's Emma."
"So romantic," said Peter.
"Smithing," I said. "That's Dani, obviously. Youngster is Pickpocket 20, as he demonstrated with three interceptions in the first half. Block 20 is for Zach and Christian. Lockpicking 20 sounds like me with my forward passes. Could be Peter? Christian Fierce would have a high Speech score. Give us a taste, captain."
Christian stood and said, "Win the second half, lads."
Zach went, "Yeah!"
I pulled an impressed face. "Speech 20, no doubt." I shrugged. "I can't top that. Win the second half." I held up a finger and turned towards the home dressing room. Stefan Sommer had finalised his tactics for the second half and they were quite defensive. "Last bit of tactical chat."
"Finally!" complained Wibbers.
"Wrexham are gonna turtle up to start the half. We'll be cautious, too, because that's in our interest. At some point, Sommer is going to get more expansive and he's gonna reassess and he's gonna really go for it. If they get the next goal, the home fans will blow the roof off. If we do, it's game over. Let's... Yeah. Helge will play striker for now. That will make it look like we're going hard for a third goal - that will play into Sommer's fears."
My boot was back on, so I slid off the table and stood tall. I saw the next 45 minutes play out before me and liked what I saw.
"Helge up front is a shock tactic so let's try to make it work without getting carried away. Maintain the rest defence and keep scrapping for every header, every loose ball.
"We give Wrexham nothing. We make them work hard for every inch, for every forward pass. Sommer thinks he's got some elemental magic up his sleeve, but he doesn't know who he's dealing with. When the storm comes I want you to rise to the challenge so fucking hard the storm blows back in their own fucking faces! You hear me? We are the storm! We! Are the storm!"
Christian screamed, "Come on, Chester!" and there was an ear-splitting roar.
***
50'
Boggy: What a strange phase of play this is! The home team are trying to play sensibly and to keep bodies back, but Chester simply aren't sending anyone past their last line of defence. So there are all those red shirts doing very little and we're passing the ball around quite comfortably. Three times, Chester players have stumbled or played loose passes that in the early stages of this match would have led to intense pressure, but it has only attracted a half-hearted press.
Spectrum: The general plan is to bait Wrexham into committing too many bodies forward but it looks like that won't happen yet. Personally, I'd take a two-nil win from here but it looks like Max has different ideas. He has moved Helge to striker to act as a hold-up man, with Lewis playing as a left back, Pascal left mid, and Max is playing as a true central midfielder next to Wibbers.
Boggy: So it's still 4-1-4-1?
Spectrum: Yes. Ah, that's interesting. The back line is higher than it was. Do you see it?
Boggy: From us or them?
Spectrum: From us. We're pushing them back. Taking control. Max is reorganising on the fly and giving the lads new instructions as he's drifting around the pitch. Stefan Sommer is good, we know that, but he can't do what Max is doing. He's turning the screw in tiny increments.
Boggy: Best, Bauer, Green, and Evergreen are pinging the ball to each other while Best and Bauer have what appears to be a discussion about tactics. There's a lot of arm-waving going on. I can't remember seeing anything like this before.
Spectrum: Peter is telling Max we don't need him as a DM. I think that's what he's saying, anyway. Yes! Max is telling Wibbers to support Helge. And... there's no DM. We've gone 4-4-1-1. That's interesting. We didn't train that at all this week.
Boggy: Should I be worried?
Spectrum: No. You should be excited.
***
55'
Great first touch from Lamarre. He takes out his opponent and makes five yards with one touch.59'He looks for Hagen.
Good hold-up play from Hagen. He gives it to Roberts.
Roberts evades one tackle and involves Bochum.
Bochum waits for Lamarre to catch up but finds Roberts again.
He plays a first-time angled pass with the toe of his boot and Lamarre goes haring down the left.
Great cross!
Who will get on the end of it?
It's Hagen!
He jumps...
But he sends his header too close to the goalkeeper.
Neat play from Wrexham. They have an overload on their right.***Lamarre blocks one cross, but can do nothing about the rebound.
A second cross comes in...
The striker rises. The home fans hold their breath...
But Green does just enough to stop the striker making a clean contact.
Youngster is back to help out. He chips the ball wide to the right.
Alloula with an extravagant volley into midfield. It rockets towards Best.
Best deflects it through two defenders to Roberts, who is suddenly through on goal.
He strokes the ball past the keeper...
And it's in!
He wheels away to celebrate.
But the linesman has his flag up!
Roberts strayed offside.
His manager can't believe the talented forward was so careless.
I strode towards Wibbers fully intending to melt his face off using the power of my mightiest Shout, known as The Hairdryer. But when I got there, I simply put my hand on his shoulder. "Can you concentrate, please? For the fans. For our goal difference."
"Yeah, I just... I switched off for a second because it looked like getting into position for that pass really hurt."
"It did hurt, but it didn't hurt as much as you being offside." I held my index fingers up in front of his face. "Your job isn't to worry about my health. Your job is to laugh at my jokes and play football. Do your job. Destruction 20."
He stood tall and grinned. "Yes, boss. Dragonboss."
***
65'
Sommer turned up the intensity. He was making his move, so I moved around the pitch talking to everyone. Some, like Cheb, only needed a light sprinkling of praise. Guys like Owen and Zach were playing great so only needed to be nudged to stay in their current mindset. Aggressive but not destructive. With Youngster I got technical, talking about zones, spacing, and which way the oppo liked to turn. I reminded Cheap Shot that he was a dick.
"Mr. Best," said Youngster, pointing to the dugout. "Miss Lane wants to change something."
Cheb took a message and passed it to Peter, who called out, "She says Helge has lost his shock value."
Hmm.
Helge's match rating had briefly touched 8 but had dropped to 7. He had served his purpose as a striker, so I shifted us back to our starting formation with me as the number nine. But since Wrexham were going to come at us harder and more recklessly, maybe there was an opportunity to try something that had utterly failed against Coventry City.
The match had seen a lot of close combat and lots of bruising duels. It was the dream of every RPG fan to master different playing styles. Maybe I could bring a different playing style to this one?
"Pascal," I called out. "Use your illusion."
He pulled an impressed face. "Great album," he said. "But why do you mention it?"
***
70'
Boggy: Oh, it's this again.
Spectrum: What has upset you now?
Boggy: Pascal Bochum, the smallest player on the pitch, is playing as Chester's striker. He's up against two Zach Green-sized centre backs and every time he gets near the ball, it bounces off him or he gets shoved aside. We have seen that he doesn't win free kicks in those positions because the referees expect strikers in this league to be tougher, and I have to confess, I agree with them. Oh, there it goes again! The ball was played to his feet but he was instantly tackled and now Wrexham are breaking!
Spectrum: But look, Boggy. Stefan Sommer is loving this. He's taking the handbrake off. Ten minutes of pressure, get a goal, get the crowd going, and the final stages of the match will be wild.
Boggy: He's taking the handbrake off because we can't progress the ball!
Spectrum: We can't progress the ball because Max doesn't want us to progress the ball while there are two banks of five defenders! We need to draw them out and that's what we're doing!
Boggy: How many times do I have to tell Max my blood pressure can't handle this?
Spectrum: Breathe, Boggy.
76'
Boggy: Agonising minute follows agonising minute. Ceaseless attacks from the home team! The pressure is unrelenting, and that's just the grip that terror has on the ventricles of my heart. The home team are camped in our half and are spreading the ball around with gay abandon.
Spectrum: Gay abandon?
Boggy: It's a phrase.
Spectrum: Sounds like one of the bands who gets remixed for our workout music. Oh! Oh!
Boggy: Youngster snatches the ball and we're breaking! Chester are breaking! Look at them surge! Lewis on the left, Cheb on the right, everyone else in the middle. Youngster lets Roberts take over. The youngster - I mean, well, you know who I mean - drives. Pascal Bochum is strangely passive ahead of him. Has he been clobbered one too many times? Roberts with so many options, but his time's running out; red shirted players are catching up. Roberts chooses Best. Sensational first-time pass into space, and who's in that space?
Spectrum: Go on, Pascal!
Boggy: He's fouled! Bochum is fouled! The free kick will be in Max Best territory. Or is it too close to count as that? It's just outside the penalty area. The usual fracas ensues, but there's the yellow card. Six players from the home team are now in the referee's book compared to only three from Chester. Wow. Time to take a breath. What a break that was! So much to unpick, but first, how did Pascal do that?
Spectrum: He stayed between the two centre backs so that each one would be tempted to think the other one would deal with him. Then just before Max was going to play the pass, Pascal moved to his left. That made the right-sided defender switch off, but Pascal attacked the space behind him and caught him unawares. All it needed was for the weight on the pass to be good, and of course it was. The defender had to foul Pascal, and to be honest I've seen those given as red. Okay, the other defender wasn't all that far away but we know Pascal's much faster than him. He would have been clear through and had a shot on goal.
Boggy: I tell you who's going to have a shot on goal... Max Best!
Spectrum: Or is he?
Boggy: What do you mean? Surely he'll take this one? It's so important. It could kill the game. He should want to kill the game; he came out dressed like a warrior!
Spectrum: In a knitted helmet. But he's not sure about the angle, look. It's too close, as you said. He can't hit it right-footed around the wall. If he hits it hard over the top, it'll go straight at the keeper. If he chips it into the empty space where the goalie isn't standing, the ball will go so slowly the keeper will skip across and could catch it with one hand behind his back. No, Max will chip it up to the edge of the six-yard-box and see if Helge or Zach can get something on it.
Boggy: That's how it's looking, indeed. Lewis Lamarre, who might have fancied this with his left foot, has been sent back fifteen yards to cover a break. Cheb Alloula, who is decent on dead balls, is away to the right, trying to stop the home team from having a long wall. That seems to be working; one man departs from the wall but they still have five bodies blocking the shot. Could Best hit the ball underneath?
The referee blows his whistle. Time for action. Best has his body twisted for a right-footed clip to the far post, as Spectrum predicted. Best approaches the ball... but he wants to adjust how it's sitting. He needs to be careful or the referee will - oh my word, he has scored! Best has scored!
Spectrum: YESSSSS!
Boggy: Best is running towards the away fans, head back, laughing. He's as happy as a mudcrab! What on earth just happened? It was too fast for me to see. One second he was fussing over the ball, the next he was sprinting away from the stunned home team players. The goalkeeper is as perplexed as me. What happened?
Spectrum: I don't know. Here's the replay now.
Boggy: Our monitors to the rescue... Let's take a look.
Spectrum: Hahaha! No! What? Impossible! Hahaha!
Boggy: Unbelievable from Max Best. One for the archives! With a five-man wall blocking his right-footed shot, he bent to re-lay the ball, and while still crouching, he chipped the ball left-footed, straight up and over the wall. The action forced Best onto his back. He rolled over and up onto his feet just in time to see the ball nestle into the back of the net.
Spectrum: The goalie would have saved it if he had seen Max make the kick, so Max hid! How did he get enough power while crouched like that?
Boggy: Best goes to the away fans and, huh, that's a new celebration. He mimes shooting a bow and arrow. He's still laughing his head off! Do you know what that's all about?
Spectrum: Ha, I think I do. He has been playing an old video game this week because it's all about slaying dragons. He joked that every time he goes back to that game he tells himself he'll be a wizard or a warrior, but he always ends up playing as a stealth archer. And guess what, Boggy? That's exactly what he has done here! He hit the target with a sneaky shot!
Boggy: I don't understand what you're talking about but I love it! Get me a stealth archer t-shirt. Get me a knitted Viking helmet. And get me some new heart pills because these ones aren't working. But you know what is working? Chester FC. It's three-nil!
***
79'
Boggy: Chester are preparing a few changes. I see Cole Adams, Christian Fierce, Andrew Harrison, and Gabriel. The plan is to keep everyone fresh?
Spectrum: Yes, straight swaps. Cole for Helge, Christian for Peter, Andrew for Youngster or Max, Gabby for Pascal. We will make those changes in two goes to annoy the home fans and to wind the clock down. You missed one, though.
Boggy: Ah, I see. There's Roddy Jones ready to come on. I'm guessing for Magnus Evergreen? And I'm guessing Max will make a big deal about Roddy being the only Welshman in the two squads?
Spectrum: Of course. Ah, that's interesting. Cheb is going to right back. Long-term, Max sees Roddy as a right back but he is mostly giving him minutes as an attacking player with a senior player behind him.
Boggy: That would seem logical.
Spectrum: Max is extremely logical.
Boggy: What's he doing now?
Spectrum: I think he's inviting the Wrexham fans to sing their Welsh songs now.
Boggy: [Cackles, realises it's unprofessional, and tries to disguise it as a coughing fit.]
***
85'
Our flurry of subs took all the momentum out of the game, and having five fresh players on the pitch meant we could press more. Andrew Harrison sprinted everywhere so that I wouldn't have to. Cole was currently a better defender than Helge. Gabby put himself about until I told him not to get the home fans energised. "Manage the game," I said.
The clock ticked down. I thought about pushing for a fourth to boost our goal difference, but there was too great a risk we would concede. Three was fine. Three-nil would repair the damage caused by the Coventry debacle and would send our fans into a year-long rapture.
Parts of The Racecourse were looking empty and the routes to the exits looked busy.
Our guys were lustily singing, "Where's your famous atmosphere?"
87'
Wrexham saw a weakness in Roddy and pressed him hard. He coughed up the ball but Andrew rushed over to cover the right back slot while Cheb went hunting for the ball. Cheb stuck a foot in and the ball came towards me.
I turned away, facing the left, and shaped to send a long pass towards Lewis. Instead, I clipped it to my right, an obnoxiously beautiful no-look through-ball that Roddy chased with glee. He zoomed along the line, looked up, and played a great ball between the defenders and the goalie, nicely weighted for Gabby.
Gabby's first touch was heavy, though, and he gave the goalie a chance to hack the ball clear. The striker looked absolutely dismayed.
For a second, I wondered if that would be important at the end of the season. Would we miss out on 4th place by one goal? That goal?
90'
We saw the match out with an endless stream of short passes set to the sound of our fans shouting olé!
The stadium was more than half empty.
The billionaire's box looked deserted.
The ball was rolling towards me and the nearest player was Cheap Shot. I grinned, flicked the ball up, and did some tekkers in his face. He didn't lash out, sadly. That would have been the perfect end to an almost perfect morning.
I flicked the ball to Cole Adams.
"Olé!"
***
Full Time
As we walked from the pitch towards the tunnel, I reflected on the win. My tactics had been great, the team had showed up big-time, and our fans were singing their heads off. Wrexham's version of Joe Anka tried to drown them out by blaring shitty pop music at The Racecourse's loudest setting, which was pretty classless of him.
Our guys couldn't be shut up, though, and their mighty shouts cut through the artificial din and landed right in my eardrums.
They were once more serenading me with the sweet, sweet sound of their new song. I put my arm around Peter Bauer. I fist bumped Owen Elmham. I grinned at Pascal.
Then I stopped dead and stared towards the away end.
The crazy bastards had changed the lyrics.
"No, no, no," I mumbled. "Don't do that. I can beat Wrexham for you, but I can't give you that." I closed my eyes so I could better tune out the music and focus on the chant. "Oh, shit."
What I heard sounded an awful lot like:
What's that coming over the hill, is it promotion? Is it promotion?
It was followed by a feral roar and they yelled, Ches-ter! Ches-ter!
Their job done, they went to fill themselves with ale, meat, and wheels of cheese.
I almost felt sorry for them and wanted to protect them from the inevitable disappointment. Promotion would not happen, not this season, but they were allowed to dream, right? Let them enjoy the day, the weekend, and the rest of the season. A heartbreaking defeat in the playoff final would be an amazing story in its own right. They would come to cherish that memory. Eventually. I didn't have the heart to tell them that Santa wasn't real.
Briggy made sure I got past the Wrexham players and staff, and I pushed open the door to the dressing room.
I stopped dead. Most of the lads were up on the benches, half-dressed, raising one arm then the other in time to a beat. Pascal had latched onto Helge's back like a limpet and was screaming at the top of his lungs. Sandra Lane was up on a table, bellowing.
They were singing, "What's that coming over the hill, is it promotion? Is it promotion?"
Briggy clapped me on the back and grinned. Even though she was right next to me, she had to speak loud to be heard. "Looks like you got a new main quest, Dragonboy."