Soccer Supremo - A Sports Progression Fantasy

9.

This article first appeared on Bethany Alban's personal substack.

Sideways and Backwards

The English Football League Championship is heading towards an exciting conclusion.

At the top of the division, Crystal Palace's dismal March has left them scrabbling to get back into the automatic promotion slots, now occupied by Wolves and Ipswich Town. The playoff race - which includes Chester - extends all the way down to 10th position, where Wrexham lie. The relegation battle goes all the way up to 18th, but no-one would really be surprised if Stoke and Watford were dragged into it.

It's tight. It's tense. Clouds of misty dread are descending on football stadiums up and down the land, pitchforks are being sharpened, medals are being cast.

In the kitchen of one Championship manager, a long-suffering woman watches her husband spread butter onto a piece of toast. His movements are mechanical, his eyes haunted. He's thinking of the next match. God, he wishes he wasn't. He bites into the toast and is stunned at how dry it is, how cold. Can't I do anything right?

In the hallway of a house two hundred miles away, another manager is tying his shoelaces before his morning jog. His daughter is getting ready for school. "Dad! Don't forget your beanie!" "Absolutely," he replies, as he tries to give her a smile. It has been so long, he has forgotten how to do it. He leaves the house and jogs. He has forgotten his beanie.

Dread. Fear. In 23 households, the walls are closing in. Half these managers will lose their jobs this summer. For some, a bad end to the season will spell the end of their entire career.

This is the backdrop you need to know, this is the context you need to bear in mind to fully appreciate the next sentence. One Championship manager is so unbothered by the turbulence of his industry that at this pivotal time of year he contacts a hard-working sports journalist not to check how she's doing or to reminisce over old times, but to play a prank.

***

Max Best has led Chester FC to fifth in the Championship. If you don't follow men's football very closely, this is the equivalent of a Shetland pony running fifth in the Grand National as the field turns into the final straight. (The simile works perfectly, for like a Shetland pony, Max is inordinately proud of his hair, is surprisingly strong, and is good with children.)

Max doesn't give a lot of interviews, so I'm amazed to get the following text.

Yo, Beth, what's up? Hmm, that's fascinating but now let's talk about me. Because of reasons, I need to do an interview and I have chosen you as the vessel. I'm sending you the date and place. No holds barred, no questions off the table. One minor issue is that I need to do it early, so you'll have to stay overnight in the hotel and for security reasons I need to keep it secret, so you can't come down for breakfast. It won't be much of a problem; they do room service. I await tidings of your acceptance.

My first thought? This is incredible! Chester are an amazing story. They are within ten games of going to the Premier League. A no-holds barred interview? Max is getting married immediately after the season ends, and with his honeymoon and the European Championships on the horizon, this could be the only time he will voluntarily sit down with a journalist between now and the Premier League!

I check the link in the next message; my heart sinks. He wants me to stay at a five-star golf resort in South Wales. On closer inspection, it's the home of the Welsh national team, so it makes sense that Max would be staying there during the international break. The only problem is that my newspaper will never pay for such a luxurious room, and this newsletter doesn't provide enough income to justify such extravagance.

Sorry, I can't. It's too much.

Too much awesome? Too much of a good thing? Too much of an exclusive?

Too much money. I'm not a footballer and I don't have hair gel sponsors and I don't run a consultancy or a data company and I don't own two blocks of flats that earn me a 5% yield.

It's not hair gel, it's shampoo. Ganymede. If you do the interview I'll bring one that contains an épaississant. Based on the types of weak-haired men you go for, you might put it in your shower - it'll sort them right out. Okay, now back to the topic: I'LL PAY, YOU WEIRDO. Don't take the piss on mileage but by all means have oysters for dinner and lobster for breakfast. Book with the name ABBY DOWNTON and the bill will go straight to me.

I spend ten minutes exploring the website, devouring the various menus.

Am I allowed in the spa area?

Yes as long as you don't talk to anyone.

Because of security?

Exactly. My security is of paramount importance.

It sounds very stressful. Maybe Abby Downton should book a half-day spa treatment after the interview to help her unwind from the horror of being cooped up in her room all night. Abby didn't have a good pandemic, Max.

Outrageous. Okay, tell you what. Get yourself pampered at my expense, but if you get any goss about Henri trying to trick me into a stag party, I want to know about it.

***

The Vale

As I make my way to Glamorgan, I worry that the whole thing is a joke, but Max isn't the sort to make someone waste a day, travel far, and run up a huge credit card debt. It wasn't that long ago that he was struggling to get by and he hasn't forgotten that. I check in to The Vale, admire the lobby, and obediently head to my room.

I'm certain that the incredible food I'm eating will hit the waist but not the wallet. Max will pay, right? I'm 99% certain.

The view from the room is incredible, the service friendly, and the bed a queen-sized cloud.

On the morning of the interview, I get a text asking me to be ready-ish from 9 a.m. and very ready from half past.

By ten a.m., there has been no more communication. Was this the joke? Does Max intend to keep me in my room all morning?

Max being the maniac he is, I half-convince myself that he has assembled a giant team of cleaners, builders, and interior designers and they are presently rampaging through my home in Manchester, renovating it. Knowing Max, he will tell everyone involved that I am a charity case, but in the end the renovation will be tasteful and well done but he will insist on including one feature that will annoy the hell out of me.

I'm drifting around the hotel room wondering what that feature might be (Taps with his face on? A door that opens the other way than you’d expect? Stairs that play piano sounds when you step on them?) when my phone pings.

Come down now please.

Five seconds later there's another one.

What's keeping you?

Max meets me at the elevators on the ground floor. He's wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap and I'm reminded of his concerns about security. He grabs my wrist. "Were you followed?"

"What?"

"Beth! Focus! Were you followed?"

"No!"

"How would you know that? Were you trained as a spy? Have you had spy training, Beth? Are you an assassin?" I open my mouth to complain, but he jerks his head and approaches a set of doors. "I'll go sideways, you go backwards. Cover my six."

He slides along with his back to the wall, movie-style, and looks through a glass window into a room. He ducks, crosses the doorway, then looks inside again, this time peering to the right. "Seriously," I say.

"It's quiet," he mumbles. "Beth! Now you have to say it's too quiet!"

I sigh and look through the little window. To my surprise, it's decked out like a football club's media room - there is a sponsor wall, a desk for the interviewee to sit, and an array of chairs for the world's media. "It's really an interview, then?"

"Oh my God, you're so weird," he says, whipping his sunglasses off and sliding them onto his t-shirt. He's dressed casually and has an air of utter contentment. "Don't embarrass me in there, Beth."

He pushes the doors open and strides in and to the front. I follow and realise the room's packed. Max goes behind the desk and fidgets with the microphones placed in the middle like the little boy he is. On the seats in front of him are a dozen or so athletic types who are wearing red Wales training tops, plus some people who, judging by their dishevelled clothes, tired faces, and the fact that they have cynical voids instead of eyes, are journalists.

It takes me a second, but I realise that this is Max's UEFA Pro course. Those in red are his fellow coaches, and this is some kind of media training day. Perhaps everyone taking the course is required to bring a journalist, and Max making sure I come well-fed and rested is just a weird flex.

"No, Beth, here. You sit here." He wants me to go right at the front of the media section. Pride of place, you might say.

An older man in a black training top says, "Who's this, Max?"

"This is award-winning wotsit Beth Alban. She wins an award every time she writes about me, which to be honest makes a lot of sense. What I was thinking, Dave, was that I'd combine this session with an actual interview. That way, it's more realistic, isn't it? You can't get more realistic than real."

"Max, we invited some of the top journalists in Wales to this session."

"Well, I didn't know you were going to do that, did I? I thought it would just be you reading from a checklist of questions. So I invited Beth and she'll actually turn this into an article. Okay, it'll be on the Daily Mail's website next to one about why foreigners are bad but this way, I get to put my message across to the Chester fans, you lot get to be part of an award-winning article, and these hacks get to learn from a top writer based in London."

The way he says London like that city is made of gold tells me that Max is doing that thing where he annoys the new people he meets and then tries to win them round. Normally I would roll my eyes and let him crack on, but I went a bit crazy with the room service wine last night and even though he can afford it, I did take the piss. So I try to defuse the bomb he has chucked into the group of middle-aged Welsh men. "I'm from Manchester and like Max, I'm very happy to meet you all. I didn't know this is what was happening, by the way. He promised me an exclusive."

Dave, the organiser, says, "We want to create a realistic scenario but this session isn't really intended to be a real-life interview. Knowing their words may be taken down might inhibit - "

"Stuff and nonsense," says Max. "Listen, this is peak. Think of how many levels I'm operating on here. You need to see me do some interview stuff so you can tick a box on your sheet. Top. I need to get a message out to the Chester fans. Top. These Welsh journos get to see a true master at work. Ha! Look at Beth's face. Beth, it's okay, they know I'm joking. We're all friends! The other guys on my course get to see the way I bat away your insipid questions and how I use the media to my own ends. It's going to be a true masterclass, which is what this course is all about.

"What else? I'm probably going to mention Ganymede and Chester Zoo and they'll be delighted for the free publicity. I'm gonna send messages to the board, to individual players, to the governing bodies, to agents.

"Oh! I might tap up a couple of players I want to buy in the next window. And best of all, I'm doing all that not just contemporaneously but at the same time, leaving me free to use the afternoon for other things." He shakes his head, impressed with himself. "I was playing Spider-Man 2 on the PlayStation and you get an attack that lets you hit twenty enemies at once. It's fun but things like that always break my immersion because even if you had magical slime living inside your chest that you could shoot out of yourself, the human brain couldn't lock onto 20 targets at once, so it's all just dumb and irritating. But here I am, hitting 20 targets with one shot." He sighs. "Genuinely feel sorry for people who haven't ascended to the seventh dimension yet."

A very attractive Welsh woman calls out, "Round of applause for the interdimensional being!"

Max laps it up for a while, then he glares at me. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Do the interview, for God's sake!"

"What do you mean? What's the topic?"

"What do you mean what do I mean? Didn't you prepare? You've got one job!"

"Of course I prepared! I've got a whole concept where I do the interview but cut to conversations with fans, staff, and rivals to fact check you and put what you say into context. I'm thinking of calling it The Unreliable Narrator. But you said you had things to say to the Chester fans. I thought maybe you would give me a clue so that I could steer the conversation that way."

"Mate, I don't need your help with that. I'll sneak those lines in so subtly you won't even notice I'm doing it."

I look around. There seems to be a lot of patience for Max's tangents and weirdnesses, but the Welsh journos are giving me familiar looks. I'm the new girl. I'm a girl. I have to kick arse if I want to impress them. "First question," I say. "What's your favourite colour?"

There's a huge laugh from the attractive coach - she understood the subtext of the situation all too well. The man next to me, who I later learn is one of the most senior journalists working in Wales, nudges me and mumbles, "Brilliant."

Max slumps. "Don't start with a hard one!" He stays in that defeated pose for a while, then sits up. "Purple. No, gold!"

"Max, just say the thing you want to say and then I'll make up a question that fits it, okay?"

He threw his hands up. "You're not supposed to tell people you make up half your stories! They'll lose all respect for you!"

"There's no bigger respect in this business than having a top-tier manager trust you the way you trust me."

"Ooh," says Max, looking around. "That landed. All right, here's the thing. I suppose it's two things. Or more. This whole season has been really hard and it all seems contradictory. I'm struggling with the messaging, to be honest, because I just want to let people enjoy the ride, but now they're trying to surround what's happening with their own narratives like the frankly absurd idea that we might go to the Premier League."

Max pulls his lip as he scans the room. He points to his fellow UEFA Pro students.

"It's for them, too. They're some of the top coaching prospects in Wales and they can shape the future of football. So, yeah, this is for them, too."

He rubs under his nose and takes a sip of water.

"Football is moving in a dangerous direction. I don't even mean the regular disgraces of FIFA or the servile cowardice of the English FA. I'm thinking of the product on the pitch. I listen to a lot of podcasts and watch a lot of content. Most of it's fan media because they watch their team week in, week out, they know the players inside out, and their analysis is much more useful to me than someone who sees a team once or twice a year. To be honest, I use what I learn there to wind up those fan bases and to know which players I should scout closely.

"A couple of years ago, I started to notice a couple of trends connected to how boring football has become.

"One was content creators saying things like, 'I wish I had watched the darts instead' or 'I should have watched The Traitors'. These are guys who have carved out a little niche in their own community, right, and they have to watch their team's matches so they can produce the instant reactions and the in-depth analysis. Even those guys don't want to watch their team! Oh, and have you ever seen a TikTok where there's a fan at a match who's watching something else? The first one I saw was a guy watching darts. That wasn't long ago and it's already got so common that we just accept that a percentage of people in a stand will be watching something else. How fucking crazy is that?

"The second trend was fans being driven to distraction by the utter tedium of their team's playing style. There are far too many managers who take the idea that football is chess to an extreme. They move their pieces with utmost care, but if they get into a position they don't like, they tell their players to reset the board. The ball goes to the centre backs and is cycled around the defenders and the goalie until everyone is back in position. Only then do they try again, but they reset when there's the slightest deviation from what they're comfortable with. They take almost no risks in the pursuit of control. It's stupid, which is forgivable, and boring, which is not.

"You know that West Ham chant? West Ham are massive, everywhere they go, everywhere they goooooo. That got turned into West Ham get battered, everywhere they goooooo. And then came this new version.

"Sideways and backwards, everywhere we go! Sideways and backwards, everywhere we goooo.

"There's nothing wrong with moving the ball around. Sometimes you've got to play backwards. Sometimes a sideways pass unlocks an angle for the pass that leads to the winning goal. But when your style of play is so tedious that the only way your own fans can stomach it is to turn it into a joke, you've gone too far.

"This has been a good UEFA Pro course. You've learned good methods and got some good ideas you can take to the training pitch and use right away. It's top for player development and we've had little masterclasses in interviewing for jobs and managing up and understanding football finances but I'm the only person here who ever mentions the fans. It's really easy to understand how courses like these produce coaches who obsess over possession and control and building moves in a completely risk-free environment but if that's how you coach your teams you will one hundred percent be fired as soon as you run into some poor results because you've given the fans nothing."

Max looks from left to right to see who disagrees. He doesn't see anything he doesn't like, so he continues.

"So Beth, this is for you. To Chester fans, from Max Best. Subject, an apology. I try to play attacking football. When we're the better team, we attack. The schedule is crazy and our squad isn't deep so sometimes we need to conserve energy, but generally speaking, we attack as much as poss based on the game state and the context of the season.

"We've got two home games coming up. One's against Crystal Palace, who are owned by billionaires and who have a Premier League team. The other's against Norwich City, who are owned by billionaires and who have a better team than us. We're going to play ultra-defensively in both matches. It's going to be horrible. If I was a fan who attended those matches, I would be disgusted. I'd wish I had gone to the darts. I'd wish I had stayed home and watched The Traitors. The problem is, that's the best we can do. Scrap, fight, make the game horrible, hope to snatch a point. Next season, I want to do it better but I have to be realistic about where we are. I'm sorry about what you're about to go through."

Ten juicy questions suggest themselves to me, and I get excited because Max is, as we say in Manchester, 'on one'. Whatever I ask next I can expect a garrulous, free-wheeling response. Should I ask about his beef with the England manager? Of course I should. Should I ask about transfers? Oh, yeah!

I'm both proud and annoyed to say that I ask the 'right' question.

"Are you saying you don't have a way to beat Crystal Palace? From what I understand, in the last few months you have mostly been focused on tactics. It's not like you to admit to being powerless."

"Palace are too far ahead of us. I don't know how to beat them."

***

"Max knows exactly how to beat Crystal Palace."

So says Pascal Bochum, the EFL Championship's shortest player and perhaps its most intelligent. We're in the Main Stand at the Deva Stadium, where I have volunteered to join the Chester Chatters, a wonderful organisation that drags lonely people out of hiding and brings them to the football, where there is plenty to talk about and it's normal to chat with strangers. Is it a coincidence that I volunteered when I heard that Pascal would be there? Yes. Of course. Just like it's a coincidence that when the Chatter who was sitting next to Pascal finally went to the bathroom, I was in her seat within seconds. "How to beat Palace. Is it this horseshoe shit?"

Sixty minutes have passed in Chester's 40th league match of a very strange season. The score is nil-nil, and so far, third-placed Crystal Palace have had five shots, all off-target. Chester have had none. It's one of the worst games of football I have ever seen. "No," says Pascal. He turns to look me full in the face. He's much more confident these days. "I cannot discuss this if you are going to use it in an article."

"Oh."

"Max knows how to beat Palace but he thinks we will face them in the playoff final. If you promise not to reveal what I say until after that date, I will say what I think."

"That's fair." I consider my options while the bore-fest in front of us continues. The Chester fans are loving every second of it, while the Crystal Palace fans are becoming increasingly furious. "I've got an idea. I'll post my article including this part, but what you say next I'll redact until after the playoffs. If people want to know the secret they'll have to come back, so I'll be keeping your faith while doubling how many clicks I get."

Pascal loves it. "You are so evil! It's easy to see why you get on with Max. Do you mind if I try to tell you the story in a cinematic way?"

"Sure!" I have no idea what he means, but whatever.

"Tiggy, my girlfriend, sometimes reads my diaries - ah, with permission! - and she finds my style dense and complicated. She says I write like a cat's cradle. I would like to try a different approach." He leans forward, staring hard, as if something amazing was happening on the pitch. The most amazing thing was that we could almost hear the grass growing. Pascal leans back. "We had players away because of the international break so we couldn't do a tactical deep dive into the Palace game, but two days ago, we went into the Sin Bin to watch clips of how they play. We watched the 4-0 defeat from earlier in the season and some recent matches. Compare and contrast, you see?"

"You didn't play in that match, did you?"

"I was in Germany. No, it was a strange team that day because Max and the others were still doing European competitions for various clubs. You make an interesting point, though. For all that Crystal Palace have changed, so have Chester. That day the starting goalkeeper was Ian Swan, Tomzilla played in defence, Dazza was the striker. Three under 18s - Chas, Dominic, Adam Roberts - came off the sub's bench, as did Adam Summerhays and Nasa. They did their best but they were outclassed, plain and simple. Things are different now. We are stronger. We are closer to Palace's levels."

I want to ask a question, but I keep quiet so that Pascal can get cinematic.

"We watch the clips that Tyson has selected for us. He's a former - oh, you know him."

"My new readers don't."

"Tyson was an attacking midfielder who played in Chester's first Youth Cup-winning team. Now he plays non-league and studies, and for some pocket money he is trying his hand as an analyst. He watches matches, cuts them up, drops the clips into buckets. Set pieces, transitions, player rotations. When a coach opens the file, they can quickly find all the examples of what they need. Tyson is very smart. I think it's the perfect role for him.

"So we sit there in the Sin Bin and we watch and we talk. Max starts by telling us his favourite movie is called Sideways and it's about keeping your best bottle of wine stored for a special occasion. That got me thinking, yes, and then he goes through the options for how we could approach the Palace game. He takes ideas, too, and he says he loves every suggestion but that we don't have time to train such-and-such an idea by Saturday, by today. That's already fishy to me because that normally wouldn't bother him - he trusts us to follow complicated instructions even if he gives them to us during a match."

"Fishy? Huh."

"Yeah, he's up to something, so even though I have an idea I think would work, I keep my mouth shut."

"Because..."

"Because I don't want to undermine him. I know how he works and it's obvious from how he conducted the meeting that he wants to go ultra-defensive against Palace. At first, I thought it was because he thought it would be funny. You can see today that he has turned it all into a joke."

He's right. The Chester fans have heard the quotes - my quotes - in which he laments that this match will be dour and turgid, but because this is third versus fifth, an unlikely top-of-the-table clash, they are willing to lean into it. On the giant screens, song lyrics appear, complete with a bouncing football that travels along so that everyone can sing along.

Sideways and backwards, everywhere we go...!

Moments later, we get another one:

Boring, boring Chester!

What's making the day more enjoyable for the Chester fans is that the Palace fans are miserable, too, but their manager puts them through this torture every week and doesn't apologise. Andrea Bozzini is a lovely human being but since he lost his star striker at the end of the summer transfer window, his team have become increasingly more dour and turgid. At times they are frankly unwatchable. It's impossible to shake the feeling that Max Best has set up this bore-fest to draw more attention to how angry and frustrated the Crystal Palace fans are.

What, 4D chess? From Max Best? Surely not.

Pascal continues. "My second thought was that Max wanted to go defensive because of the squad rotation. He doesn't like to use players who have been away on international duty in the match that follows their return. We had quite a lot of players away this time so it makes sense that constructing a coherent team from what's left is going to be much harder. Plus he already told me he wanted to give me a rest today."

"This is 5-3-2?"

"Yes. Cole Adams is starting because even though he made his international debut for Ireland, it was only for ten minutes or so and he didn't travel far. Vincent Addo starting even though he flew to Ghana is a surprise to me, but it isn't as though he is anywhere close to the red zone and I think it shows that Max is thinking ahead to the Norwich City game on Tuesday night. Hmm. I'm going on so many tangents."

"I like it this way. So much information! I can't wait to read your memoirs."

"I have a name for them. Pascal Bochum: From Player Manager to Soccer Supremo: My Life In Words: Volume One. Of course, it assumes I take a sporting director role later in my career. I see myself running Bayern Munich."

"How many colons are in that title?"

"Four."

"I'll help with the title if you tell me how to beat Crystal Palace."

"Ah, yes. You see, I became convinced during the team meeting that Max had the same idea as me but that he didn't want to use it until the playoffs."

"Ohhhh!" I nod. "It's a crazy way to think but it's very on-brand for him."

"Is it crazy? The team that finishes third will be the favourites to get to the playoff final. If you have a way to beat them, would it not be prudent to save it?"

"If you beat them today, you're ten times more likely to reach the playoffs. And if it works once, why wouldn't it work again?"

"They could develop counter-measures. Personally, I agree with you and would try the tactic today. It might not work, after all. But Max has his own style and so far it is rather effective. So now you are ready to hear the tactic. It is the one topic Max did not bring up in our team meeting: man-to-man marking." He watches my face. "You are underwhelmed."

I smile. "I might be, yes. But mostly because I don't think I see - "

"Palace are fast and physical. In possession, as you have seen, they are very boring and safe but they have an excellent goals against record because out of possession, they run like a Premier League team, with endless stamina, and it's very hard to play through. They run a lot and win duels, which is a great combination. We can't match them for that, not completely, but we are more technical and far smarter."

"Do you want that quote off the record?"

"No. It is a matter of objective fact. If we go man-to-man against them, I am assigned one player and when the ball is in our half, I follow him wherever he goes. Can you picture it? When Palace attack, we match them player for player. Matching his sprints is tiring but we know that at many points they will reset and play horseshoe passes."

"Sideways and backwards... That's when you rest."

"Just so. But what is very clever about the plan is that we are great in transitions and can break fast, so by matching them, we are directly pitting their strengths against ours. We would be betting that football skills will beat brute force. It is by no means a sure thing but I believe it would bridge the last part of the gap that separates the two teams. You can see from today's action that one part of the plan is already in place."

I point. "You mean the part where Crystal Palace pass sideways and backwards endlessly?"

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

"I do. Now this will be interesting. Do you remember that Palace had that fantastic striker Makiadi? They had to sell him but when he was in the team they had a much more varied playing style. The team could be more direct at times because he was strong and skilful enough to control the ball even when under pressure from two defenders. Without him they don't have that option. But this player who is about to come on, he can do that. Not to the same standard, but we might finally see more variety."

"What will Max and Sandra do in response?"

"I don't know. Probably nothing."

Palace make the change and within seconds, the shape of the game has changed radically, so much so that Pascal shoots to his feet. One of the Chatters behind him calls out, good-naturedly, "Won't you sit down, lad? My knees aren't what they were."

Pascal turns and gives the old boy a dazzling smile. "I am sitting down!" He enjoys the laughter and sits.

Joking about his lack of stature shows his new confidence, but it's not in the top ten most interesting things about the moment. "What did you see?"

He gives me a strange look. "You were a good player. Can't you see it?"

I peer at the pitch and it's like looking at an optical illusion. It's a duck, it's a duck, it's a rabbit! "Holy shit! We're doing man-to-man!"

Pascal gives me the strange look again, but with a side-serving of smirk. "I didn't expect this. I can't understand why he has made this change."

"It must be connected to the substitute," I venture. I try to puzzle it out but my attention is being drawn all over the pitch. Chester players are finally matching Palace sprint for sprint, leaving huge gaps all over the pitch, challenging for duels, creating overloads and overlaps. "Is this 3-4-3?" I wonder. Up front, Gabriel, Colin Beckton, and Andrew Harrison are chasing the ball in a relentless frenzy, but then Harrison is in midfield and Nasa is the highest player on the right. "Wait, what?"

"It is 3-4-3 as a base to go man-for-man but they are rotating the players non-stop. What's the concept? I can't... When did we train this? This is far more dynamic than the idea I had in my head. Urgh! I thought I was smarter than Max for once and he does this!" He swears to himself for a while.

The old boy behind us leans forward. "You all right, Pascal?"

Pascal turns and the dazzling smile comes out. "I'm supposed to check you're all right!"

"Reckon we can look out for each other. Fair's fair."

"Yes!" says Pascal. He points to the action. "I don't understand what I'm seeing. Isn't it great? I'm going to learn something today."

The fan pats the German on his shoulder a few times and leans back. His knees must be killing him.

The new structure of the match changes it from mind-numbing to life-affirming. The teams sprint from end to end, getting shots away, hitting crosses, combining in exciting ways. Owen Elmham makes two saves that draw a mini-ovation from the spectators, while at the other end, Chester play scintillating football in transitions but can't quite find the final pass.

Palace's goalkeeper falls over and needs treatment (in other news: pigs can fly). Andrea Bozzini takes advantage of the not-in-any-way-suspiciously-timed delay to summon his players. He gestures in a very animated way and I'm about to ask Pascal for his thoughts when the original occupant of my seat returns. I am forced to move sideways and backwards, far away from Pascal.

So I'm utterly bewildered, lost at sea, when the action resumes just as tediously as in the first hour. Chester have abandoned their man-to-man marking scheme even though it seemed to be working well. Is Max Best clinging onto a point?

I try to see what he's doing on the touchline. It looks like he's showing Mike Dean, his boss, things that he would like to write on the giant screens. MD doesn't seem too keen on Max's ideas. Truly the prophet is not accepted in his homeland.

Time ticks off the clock but there is no return to man-to-man. Crystal Palace score. Max and Sandra make like-for-like subs but don't change their way of playing.

The clock hits 90. Most of the fans around me look rather glum, but Pascal is grinning from ear to ear. He stands to see where I'm sitting and when we lock eyes, he tries to communicate some idea he has had. I shrug. Can't understand you, mate! He gives me a thumbs up, whips his phone out, and types.

A couple of minutes later, the final whistle blows. 1-0 to the team with 10 times the budget. Despite the monotony of the match, the home crowd applaud their team's efforts. Chester are still fifth in the league but the chasing pack is catching up - if Tuesday night's games go against them, Chester could crash out of the playoff spots completely.

On the big screen comes a new message, one I suspect was not approved by Mike Dean.

The Max Best Apology Tour will begin shortly.

Some in the crowd chuckle, but it turns to full-blown laughter as Max runs around the pitch, waving to everyone, slapping himself on the wrist. The chorus of the song 'Suedehead' plays. Max sings along: 'I'm so sorry'.

The guy is wrong in the head.

My phone pings. It's from Pascal.

You will think I am crazy but hear me out!

The new striker coming on was the catalyst for a change in the game, yes? We expected things to be different and they were.

But they were different not because of the new player but because Max piggy-backed off the substitution to go man-for-man. He disguised a radical change in tactic in that way. Camouflage!

When Bozzini reorganised, we reverted to what we were doing. I wonder how deeply Palace's analysts will look at that period? I bet Sandra says something in the post-match interviews like 'Because of the striker, we had to throw caution to the wind, which is why we looked so unstructured, but then Bozzini's changes took back control'. Something like that to make him feel comfortable, I am sure! But now we have seen it. We have seen what we can do, Bethany! Come the playoff final, we will go toe-to-toe! We will slug it out!

Bethany - this is OFF THE RECORD until after the playoff final, but I think we are going up! We are going up!

Bethany, fuck it. YOU CAN QUOTE ME ON THAT!

I reply:

I think Max is trying to keep things low-key. Lower expectations so that the opponent in the playoff final will get complacent.

Him:

Bethany, my quote is back off the record! Embargoed until we have won the final. Which we will. I'm sure I will score.

Ah! A new name for my book. Pascal Bochum and the Hundred-Million-Pound Hattrick. Haha! I know what you're thinking - needs more colons!

***

The Vale

Back in Max's UEFA Pro course, all eyes turn from Max to me. The senior journalist is very interested in what I will do next. I point my pen towards Max. "You don't know how to beat Crystal Palace? What a crock of shit."

There's a big laugh. Max spreads his hands. "I don't know what else to tell you."

"Tell me about your relationship with the England manager. In the international break, once again, he didn't choose any players from Chester FC."

"Why would he? He didn't take any from Crystal Palace or Norwich and they're better than us."

"Not a single youth player was selected even though Chester are rampaging through the Youth Cup."

"That's not necessarily anything to do with Alan Turner leaning on his brilliant mates to avoid picking our megatalents because of his petty grudges. It could simply be that the people we entrust to do what's best for our national team don't understand football or they are bone idle lazy. How should I know? Ask them why they aren't doing their job right."

"There's a chance England could play Wales in the Euros. Who would you want to win?"

"The best team."

"What's the best team?"

"The one that wins. Beth, are you okay? You're losing the room. These guys on the right, here, they're tuning out."

He's trying to turn this into a Stewart Lee stand-up routine. I ignore it. "Why did you let your players run up the score against Plymouth? 13-nil seemed to be sending a message. Was it a message to the England selectors?"

"Plymouth had two players sent off and there was so much space. We're incredible at attacking and exploiting space. I can't ask my space invaders to stop invading space, Beth. I can't ask my attacking players to stop attacking."

"You just said you're going to be ultra-defensive against Palace and Norwich."

He looks like a child caught with his hand in the biscuit tin. "I don't know," he says.

"Was it a message, Max?"

"Message?" he says, trying to look innocent and failing.

I've nailed him on that one and I've got the blood pumping. I'm on the hunt! "What's the exact nature of your involvement with Tempsford FC?"

"Tempsford? The one in Florida or the one in New Hampshire?"

"The one in Tempsford, Max."

"Right, yeah. My mate Vimsy's about to win the league there with six games to spare. Impressive stuff."

"You have no stake in the club yet you send it money. Why would you do that?"

Max leans back and stretches. "The game of football has been very good to me and I like to give back at a grassroots level. Football is a sport that, at its best, is a great force for good in a community. Vimsy's a great guy, he's one of the good ones, and I like to support the good ones when I meet them. That's why, when I was on my UEFA Pro course and there was a talented coach working with teenage girls, I said to her why don't you come and work for Chester? Stretch yourself. Work with really elite prospects and bag yourself a tasty pay rise while you're at it?"

The coaches all look at the woman who teased Max earlier. Is he using my hard-hitting questions to offer jobs? I suppose that makes the score one-all. "Max, you started to make payments to Tempsford long before Vimsy was installed - by you - as the manager. Your story doesn't make sense and it doesn't hold up."

"Payments? They're donations. You're looking for something that isn't there. If the club had some tasty land that an unscrupulous person would lust after, it would be pretty obvious why an investor would want to buy the club, but Tempsford FC doesn't own anything. Yet. Maybe you should direct your questions to the actual owner."

"Mr. Yalley, who despite owning three football clubs, still works as a baggage handler in Manchester Airport. How does a baggage handler afford three football clubs, Max?"

He shrugs. "I don't really understand takeovers and leveraged buyouts and all that. I watched Trading Places and I thought I understood the movie but then Eddie Murphy yelled sell when I was expecting him to yell buy and my brains started to leak out of my ears. As for Mr. Yalley's job, which you are so contemptuous of, from what I understand he loves it and he loves his team and he loves to imagine the holidays that he's helping to make possible. Newlywed couples going off on their honeymoon, footballers moving to Italy, Brazilian parents crossing the Atlantic to reunite with their children. Mr. Yalley makes it all possible. I must say it's very on-brand for the Daily Mail to sneer at the people who make this country function."

I'm losing! I reach into my sleeve and pull out an ace. "There's a lot of consternation in Chester today at the news that another of your key players is moving to Middlesbrough."

He's surprised. He hasn't heard. "What?"

"Zach Green's move was leaked and Middlesbrough confirmed it. It's strange, Max, that a fan-owned club is run with so little transparency that the fans - the owners - have to find out important news via leaks."

Max rubs one cheek. "That's disappointing. We wanted to keep that one under wraps."

"Why are you hiding important information from your fans?"

He looks tired, suddenly. "Because with the media attention and scrutiny this leak could make it harder for Zach to get married this summer."

"Oh."

"As a Chester player, he could slip off to anywhere in the world and have a quiet wedding and we could have let the deal go through after his honeymoon. How does it go now? He signs for Boro and immediately flies off to get married and have a break paid for by his new fans? I could imagine some Boro fans wondering what sort of character they were signing, which would be totally unfair but that's how people think.

"Chester is a fan-owned club and we need to be transparent but not at all costs. Players have a right to some privacy. Fans probably need to know my salary but not individual players. Fans don't have a right to medical updates. Transfers are more of a grey area but there's sometimes a legitimate need to keep things quiet.

"It's also bad strategy to let other clubs know we've got money in the bank - they'll try to rinse us when we try to sign players. Fortunately, everyone knows we need to pay for the new stand and even with our playing budget rising next season, we'll be struggling to pay our players the wages they expect." He frowns. "I wonder how it leaked."

"Oh, that's easy," I say. "Zach followed Middlesbrough on Instagram and it snowballed from there."

"Zach, you clown!" cries Max, but he seems relieved. "Ah, well. I don't think the wedding would have been this summer anyway. All's well that ends well."

"Will there be more player sales?"

"There will be more player sales."

"What would you say to fans who worry that you've taken the club as far as it can go and it's all backwards from here?"

Max prods the desk. "Sometimes you need to take one step backwards."

I'm not the only one frowning. "To take two steps forward?"

"What?"

"You need to take one step back to take two steps forward."

"No. Don't put words in my mouth! I'm saying sometimes you need to take one step back." He glowers at me. "Hang on." He pushes a finger into his temple, then relaxes. "Yes! Your version is way better. One step back, two steps forward."

***

Deva Stadium, Chester versus Norwich

"Max knows best," says Nice One, a former Chester player who can be found at every home match in Chester's Legends Lounge. I'm speaking to him before the crucial Norwich City match and in true modern Chester fashion, I've been press-ganged into interviewing him in front of an audience. I only wanted a quick chat! I've asked him about transfers and the bombshell news that up to 10 of Chester's first-team squad won't return next season. "You can't look at his past dealings and point to many he got wrong. The squad's so good right now but the question is, how do you make it even better next season?"

There's a chap in the front row who looks unhappy, and while this event is supposed to be about talking to a famous former player, I haven't been given a rulebook. "What do you think about it?" I hold the microphone in front of him and he reaches for it. I wasn't born yesterday. "I'll hold the mic."

"Well," says the guy. "What I don't like is the drip drip drip of the news. It starts with Christian Fierce, doesn't it? Our captain. Our warrior. Fitzroy Hall. Okay, we got him on a free so to get a fee for him is good business. You can say it's all good business but it's one after the other, isn't it? Joel Reid's our best midfielder and if you ask me, Zach Green is our best defender." His friend nudges him. "And Darren Smith was our best striker, too! Are we just a feeder club for Middlesbrough?"

Nice One nods. "I understand the sentiment. As a fan you think selling means you're a small club. It reminds you of your place in the pecking order. But I come at it slightly different. When Max Best came to Chester and I saw the things he'd do in training I thought, bloody hell, how long will I be able to say I'm the best player in Chester's modern history? But I'd definitely get in the team, right? I'd be the second name on the team sheet.

"Time goes by and I'm thinking, yeah, I'd still boss this midfield but I reckon I'd start to get rotated. By League Two, League One, I was thinking, my word, I'd have to find a few extra gears to get in this eleven! And now? If I'm being totally honest with myself, I'm not getting anywhere near this Chester team. I'd be with Sam Topps playing for Saltney Town. Youngster, Vincent Addo, Dan Badford. Oldest is 22 and what a trio that is! Sure, Joel Reid's ahead of them for now and he's rightly getting the minutes and he's been a brilliant player but do we really think Joel's going to be Chester's best midfielder next season? The kids are coming through. Get out the way!" He laughs, and the audience joins in. "I don't know Max's plans but he's got to replace Cheb and I think he'll be looking at a young centre back and maybe another forward player."

"And a goalkeeper," I blurt out.

Nice One is interested. "What makes you say that, Bethany?"

"Um..."

***

The Vale

The senior journalist next to me chimes in with a question. "If selling Zach Green is taking one step back, what kind of signing would represent going two steps forward?"

Ooh, that was good! Wouldn't it be typical if the only person who learned anything from Max Best's media training was me?

Max says, "Chester will never be rich but I've got a little more flex in the war chest these days. It looks like Plymouth are going down and I like some of their players. I also like England under-21's third-choice keeper."

"The one who plays for Plymouth? Are you drawing us a Venn diagram?"

"His name's Venn, is it? I thought it was Ben." He deserves the laugh he gets.

I get my phone out and type 'Ben Wilson'. He has played 7 Championship matches this season in a struggling team, but he's well-regarded. He's also a player who is under contract. "Max, you can't tap players up like this! You'll get into trouble. I don't want that... until you've paid my hotel bill like you promised." I don't deserve the laugh that line gets.

"Fine. Can you embargo this part until, I don't know... Yeah, after the playoff final? If we lose that, I'll make an official approach for him right away, probably."

The senior journo is taking a more senior role in the interview. "What sort of player is he?"

"Good, modern keeper. Quality with his feet, superior shotstopper. He's getting knocked around at corners and all that kind of thing but the experience will be doing him good. If Plymouth go down, a couple of sales will help cushion the blow so I would have a little nibble, I think. The main thing for me is that I've got a top, top goalie coach and I need to make sure he's always got talent to work with. Ben Wilson might turn into another Ian Swan and that's cool, but he might kick on and be an Owen Elmham. With young players, you don't know, but I know we've got a pretty great setup for goalies."

I say, "Would you still buy him if you find yourself in the Premier League?"

Max tuts and mumbles, "The actual state of this." He considers my question, at least. "One option would be to sign him and loan him back to Plymouth for a season. It could be that a year in League One would be the best thing for his development. We'd bring him up once a month to do masterclasses and whatnot. I haven't really thought about it and I won't be thinking about it because if we lose to Palace on Saturday and we don't beat Norwich on Tuesday, we're highly likely to fall out of the playoff spots altogether. At least that'll stop these stupid questions." While he talks, I scribble notes, nodding to myself. He goes, "What are you so pleased about?"

"The title is locked in. The Unreliable Narrator."

He tuts and shakes his head and laughs. "You'll see who's unreliable in the next two games, won't you? Two defensive bore-fests, nil-nil or one-nil, 80% chance Chester finish Tuesday night in seventh place. All right?"

"All right, Max."

***

Deva Stadium, Chester versus Norwich, the away end

"I'm buzzing for this! The mighty Yellows are gonna smash up some Seals and we're gonna leapfrog them in the table. Playoffs, Wembley, Premier League, here we go!"

So proclaims Luke, a Norwich City content creator who looks like he's about 12 years old, a few minutes before kick-off. I've left the Legends Lounge, spoken to my old friend Emre, who is coining in money selling his amazing kebabs in the away end, and now I'm in a new section designed specially for fan media channels. There are USB ports, ethernet connections, power sockets, specially-rigged lights, and even tripods and spare microphones on request. It's similar to, but better than, what the mainstream media gets in the Main Stand.

I have to say I'm jealous. Luke gets to scream and shout and support his team, then make notes or even record live reactions through the match. It will be easy for him to clip it all together right here in the stand and be one of the first content creators to post a review. "This is good, isn't it?"

He nods and runs his fingers over the the side of his seat-booth."Oh, it's quality. Fair play to Chester, they've made it easy for us to come and set up here. From afar you think that Max Best is full of shit but then you see things like this and you know that when he says football's for the fans, he means it. I hope he has a shocker today but this is honestly amazing. Happy days."

"He told me he's gonna go all-out defensive today. Do you believe him?"

Luke scrunches up his face. "Not sure. I don't know their team very well but it looks quite strong? What's your take?"

I got the team sheet in the Legends Lounge and have been trying to work out how it will play. "Owen Elmham in goal. He's a Norwich lad, isn't he?"

"Mad Owen, yeah. He's mustard. He'll chuck a couple in for us today, you watch."

"I can't tell if it's a back three or a back five. I think it must be a five, same as he did against Palace. So it's Lewis Lamarre, Christian Fierce, Peter Bauer, Zach Green, and Nasa. Yeah, it has to be five because Nasa's his most defensive full back."

"Best is terrified of Dugdale, isn't he? Former player comes back to haunt his old club. Duggers is hitting form for us just at the right time and he'll mangle Chester's right-hand side. So yeah, this Nasa lad had better be on his game."

"Midfield must be a four, I think? Youngster, Cheb, Joel Reid, Pascal. Probably Pascal on the left, Cheb on the right, doubling up on Duggers. Then it's Wibbers on his own as the striker."

"That's timid, isn't it? You're in fifth, you're going for the playoffs, you're at home. You can't be so defensive. Although we slapped Chester 4-2 at Carrow Road so he's probably got trauma from that."

"Haven't Norwich fans been complaining about the horseshoe passing of the team? You've been chanting to get rid of the manager, no?"

Luke looks abashed. "Yeah, but that's died down recently. The team's clicking and you can see how the plan's supposed to work, right? It's a slow build-up and it's maddening if that's all they do, but the wide players have started to dribble past their markers and open space and we've played good football at times. Okay, the manager's obsessed with control but right now it's working. He doesn't have tons of credit in the bank but the board were patient and they tuned out the noise and it's paying off now. I reckon a big win today against the so-called generational talent and that'll be us gone out of this league, back up to where we belong. Yellows! Yellows!"

***

The contrast between Luke's tumescent excitement and the turgid tedium of the first twenty-two minutes couldn't have been any more stark. Chester's formation morphs between 5-3-2 out of possession and 3-4-2-1 when they have the ball. That's fascinating and impressive, but this is a stupendously awful game of football, so much so that I go into the concourse to have another chat with Emre, one in which he might do more than grunt about being too busy to talk.

No sooner have I got him chatting away than there is a series of immense roars, far too loud to be a goal. These roars are coming from the entire stadium. I fly up the stairs and see that there's complete pandemonium. Ten thousand fans are waving their arms and screaming, and on the pitch it's no different. Players from both sides are pushing and shoving and the dugouts have spilled onto the pitch, too.

"The fuck happened?" I say.

Luke is bouncing. "Fight! There's been a fight!"

I hate how much he's enjoying it - the incident has taken him back to the school playground (has he even left?) where aggression would spawn randomly and every kid in school would rush to watch the fight before it was over. Every kid including me, because to my shame I love watching a good scrap. "Who? Who?"

"Our 7 and that Nasa guy. Our lad got in his face, you know the way they do, sort of pushing his forehead into the other guy's, and this Nasa lad has thrown a punch."

"Oh, shit." Nasa throwing a punch seems way out of character, but sometimes even placid players lose their shit. That's why it's called a 'moment of madness'. "No chance they'll show a replay on the big screen? Max got in trouble last time."

"What's the ref up to here?"

The referee and his team have managed to restore some semblance of order, and he whips out a card. It's red. "No," I mumble. Nasa will get a three-match ban for the punch. Just after his mother has landed in England! My heart breaks for him.

"What the fuck, no!" Luke is outraged, as are thousands of his fellow Canaries. Their player has been sent off!

The referee shows red to Nasa. The Chester fans take their turn to complain!

"Both teams down to ten men," I say. "I wonder what Max will do."

"That's a disgraceful decision," says Luke. "He barely touched that Brazilian lad. You can't even clash foreheads any more. The game's gone. And Paterson's been one of our best players this season. Fuck! He's gonna miss three games." Luke opens his laptop and types frantically.

I scan the stadium. Before kick-off, this end was lit up in yellow, with the opposite end blue and white. At the time, given Max's stated intention to ruin everyone's evening, it seemed far too epic. Now, though, under the floodlights, with temperatures high, will he be able to stick to his defensive guns? Will he even want to? He's got his best space invader on the pitch and there's going to be so much space.

I glance at Luke. Norwich have lost their best player, have they? And Chester have lost their worst.

I grab Luke by the shoulder and squeal, "He's going to attack! He's going to attack!" Some of the fans turn and scowl at me.

One says, "Oi, Luke, tell your bird to shut her mouth."

My pulse races even faster; my stupid gob has landed me in a hot spot, yet again. I reach for the 'off' switch but I'm too late. My mouth goes, "I'll shut your mouth if you speak to me like that again."

Before the situation can escalate, there's a rush of movement to my left and half a dozen massive Welshmen are there. One of them looks from me to the fan and says, "Is everything all right, Bethany?"

He knows my name but I can't remember his. "I'm just telling shit-for-brains here that Max Best is about to unleash fire and fucking brimstone on his little team." Why the fuck am I saying this?

The Welsh guy moves a fraction closer. Behind him, another off-duty soldier speaks softly into a walkie-talkie. The first one goes, "Perhaps you'd like to come with us, miss. This section is for people who think Max Best is a prick."

"I think he's a prick!"

"Course you do; you've met him. Come on."

I'm led down the stairs, round a corner, and into a room I've never noticed before. For a moment I tell myself it's a jail cell and I'm being locked up, but inside there are about 50 TV screens. It looks like a TV production studio, but one of the Welsh army guys is there, along with two other people. "Dylan!" I say. "Wait, is this a security room?"

Dylan nods. "Just for this stand. It'll all be centralised when the whole stadium's finished." He points to the two men, in turn. "Sean, stadium security, Rory, police liaison."

"Oh my God," I say. "I'm so embarrassed."

Dylan smiles. "Don't fret. It's just not the right time to have a walking matchstick walking around this big wooden tinderbox. I'd suggest you sit here and watch the game with us."

I take a seat but soon realise that almost every screen is showing a part of the away end. Two are aimed at the dugouts, which strikes me as odd. "How can I watch, Dylan? There are no windows." He points to the side. There's a TV showing the DigiWorld feed. "Oh," I say. "You're not watching it?"

"We're working, Bethany. We keep an eye on it because the game state affects how well people behave." He taps the screens showing the dugouts. "We asked for these two to be put in because that's where most of the trouble gets stirred up."

"Max," I say.

"You might think that," says the police guy, "but I couldn't possibly comment."

"I've never watched football in a prison before. Hey, can I bring a kebab in here?"

Dylan replies by pointing upwards. Above the wall of screens is a sign that simply says, NO KEBABS.

***

Max attacks.

Sideways and backwards turns into sideways and forwards. Chester's players congregate at the side of the pitch and move the ball closer to the opponent's goal.

"Bestball!" cries Dylan. He knows all about Bestball (or Relationism) because he was in the army team that served as guinea pigs for Max. "I always wonder why he doesn't use it more. He does five minutes here or there just as a shock but he doesn't seem to trust it."

"Why do you think that is?" I wonder.

He turns back to his screens. "Maybe because the guy who plays it better than anyone in this country is banged up in here instead of being out on the pitch."

"Aw, thanks, Dylan," I say. "I'm glad my fame precedes me."

Dylan smiles but presses a button and redirects his troops towards block E. On the pitch, Peter Bauer does the same thing. Wibbers and Cheb combine with quick passes and audacious pieces of skill. Pascal looks at the vast expanses all around him and licks his lips. Chester's talent pool doesn't look very drained from where I'm sitting.

***

The security room is quiet, but I can feel the reverberations of every cheer and groan. The game is all-action. Chester ease the ball down the side, break into the penalty area, and create a chance. Norwich counter at speed and the home team sprint hard to get back into position. Shots are struck from all angles. It looks to me as though Chester are dominating - they have more solutions to more problems.

Wibbers and Cheb play a one-two and give the ball to Pascal. He surges into space, draws defenders towards him, then turns on a sixpence to lay the ball off to Joel Reid, who has time and space to hit a crisp left-footed shot.

One-nil!

Will Max live up to his word and shut up shop? Hang on to his lead?

No.

The rest of the first half continues in the same frantic fashion.

At half-time, Dylan politely suggests I stay where I am. So I'm a prisoner after all! Fuck you, Dylan! He does the rounds on the concourse and comes back as the second half starts holding a pint of beer which he places into my hands. Love you, Dylan!

The second half makes me want to grab Max's stupid little keyboard and emblazon the Deva Stadium with the words 'unreliable narrator'.

Norwich have spent the break reorganising. They make a sub and come out for the second half with greater control, which leads to them equalising. It's a good piece of play that's ended by a foul. Ex-Chester man Charlie Dugdale whips in the free kick and it's headed home by a beefy boy defender.

I watch the dugout cameras as much as the main feed because whenever Dugdale gets free, Max grips his hair and tries to yank it out. He has clearly spent the last 48 hours warning people about 'Duggers'. Why won't they listen?

Duggers goes on a mazy dribble, crosses, and Owen Elmham punches clear. The ball's chipped into the box, Zach Green heads clear, but there's a snap shot from the edge of the box that dribbles into the net at one mile per hour. What the hell happened? Owen Elmham handing out treats to his former club? The replays show a cruel deflection that moved the shot from one corner to the other - Elmham had no chance.

Two-one!

Dylan hums "Chester get battered, everywhere they go..."

"Oi," says Sean, the security volunteer, and one of the only Chester fans in the away end.

"Sorry, sorry," says Dylan. "Not trying to banter you. What's this, now? Wrexham are winning, are they? That'll put the cat among the pigeons, won't it? Wrexham to finish in the playoffs after all. Who would have thought it?"

I get my phone out and check the Live Tables. It's crazily fluid at the top of the table. Wrexham aren't in the top six, but neither are Chester. As it stands, they're seventh. They've been fifth for so long, but the slide has started. Sideways and backwards, indeed.

"Go on!" says Sean.

For a mad second I think he's watching some Norwich fans fight each other, but he's eyeing the DigiWorld feed, where Pascal Bochum is sprinting into the left-half of the pitch with no-one within twenty yards of him. How has that happened?

He runs, cuts back onto his right, and plays it into Cheb's path. Cheb runs over the ball. Wibbers plays it first-time in front of the Algerian. Cheb plays it back first-time. The passes are too quick and too precise for Norwich to block. And there's no blocking the explosive shot from Wibbers!

It was hit like a golf shot!

Two-two.

The room vibrates.

The replay shows that a defender who slid in to block the shot deflected it slightly, which took it away from his goalie and made it look more explosive.

Wibbers doesn't care. It's his goal, and his team are level. The Live Table has Chester in sixth.

More importantly, the noise in the stadium is increasing. The three security staff are watching their screens more intently - the brief exchange of banter is over. That's a shame for me because I was enjoying it.

The next five minutes are wild. On my screen, the ball goes all the way to the left and then all the way to the right. Where are the midfields? Where are the structures? Order has melted away. Chaos abounds. I want to go and get another beer but I can't draw my eyes from the action.

My mind returns to something Max said back in Wales. So many people go to matches and end up watching something else on their phones. I look at the CCTV footage of the Norwich fans. Not a single one dares to look away. They are entranced.

Max makes some subs. Christian Fierce and Zach Green are replaced by Fitzroy Hall and Magnus Evergreen. It seems to be a like-for-like change. Fitz has had a medium-term injury and is getting some minutes at centre back, but Magnus goes into midfield. An attacking change, camouflaged!

Chester push, push, push like they're in a maternity ward, and they give birth to a messy, ugly goal. This time it's Lewis Lamarre, who is played through on goal, tries to chip the goalie, makes a complete mess of it, but finds the ball pops right into his path and he sweeps it home. Even then, he conspired to hit the post and watched in agony as the ball slowly, slowly trickled just over the line enough to alert the Goal Decision System.

Three-two!

Chester are cock-a-hoop. The stadium's bouncing! There are glum faces in the away end, but still no-one is watching the darts. They start a chant and it catches on. I can't make out the words but their team responds. The ball is worked around the pitch - still so much space everywhere, still no reversion to the defensive football I was promised - and finds its way to Duggers, who gets himself one-on-one against Fitzroy Hall, who hasn't played in months. Duggers shimmies, pushes the ball past his opponent, and rolls it past Owen Elmham.

Three-all!

There are scenes in the away end. Limbs. It's like a mural that has been cut into 50 pieces.

Dylan glances at Sean. The latter sighs and says, "Go on. Say it."

Dylan leans forward and grunts, "GET IN!" Then he gets back to work.

"Five minute warning," says the police guy.

Sean goes, "Max Best warning."

I snap my head to look at the dugout cams. Sure enough, Max is there, stripped down, twisting his hips left and right, running on the spot. He doesn't look like he's in the mood to hold out for a draw.

Chester are still doing Bestball - this has been the most sustained period of Relationism seen in a senior match in England, I believe - but with Max there the 'blob' moves even faster. The players gather on the side of the pitch and shoot up like they're on a trampoline. It's honestly amazing.

Max lines up a long-range shot but tries to play the ball through the Cheb. That's blocked, but a moment later there's another attempt at a clever pass. Why won't he shoot? The ball comes to him a third time and he passes to nowhere. What's he playing at? Out of nowhere - almost literally - Pascal Bochum appears and gets on the end of Max's unbelievable pass. Norwich are being pulled apart - their left back is rushing to intercept Pascal while the right back is marking Cheb in the left back slot. Pascal surges ahead but he doesn't see an option he likes. He goes backwards. Wibbers goes sideways. Sideways and backwards, but Dylan isn't singing his ironic chants now - like the Norwich fans, he's a nervous wreck. Chester are knocking on the door.

Time's running out. Still they are patient. Sideways, push! No good. Backwards, sideways, sideways, try there! Norwich's tackles and blocks are getting more desperate. Duggers is barely seeing the ball. It's being hogged by Cheb, by Wibbers, by Pascal, and most of all by Max Best. It's only Max's strange reluctance to shoot that's giving the away team a sniff of a chance.

Why won't he shoot?

The answer comes to me in a flash. His ankle must hurt more than he's letting on. He can run and pass but shooting hurts too much. Perhaps he has been told not to kick the ball hard by the medical team.

The clock hits 91 minutes. 92. Late goals are going in all over the country; the Live Tables are going crazy. Chester are sixth, they're seventh, they're fifth.

Any second now, this humdinger will be over. Max touches the ball to Cheb and runs away. Cheb gives it to Youngster, who overlaps on the left. He touches it to Pascal, who has found an empty pocket in the penalty area. He's clattered. Penalty! Ref says no. Pascal hooks the ball to Wibbers, who wants to shoot. Three Norwich players get into position for the block. Wibbers has no choice but to push the ball to Cheb, who plays it first-time to Max. He's alone in the penalty area! He's onside! He can win this!

I don't know when it happened, but I'm gripping Sean's arm and he's gripping mine. When Max scores, we're going to scream our heads off. Max... doesn't shoot.

"Argh!" screams Sean.

"Fucking shoot!" I scream.

Not the screams I was expecting.

Max is dribbling sideways with the goalie scrabbling like a crab, trying to keep between Max and a clean sight of goal. Max has about one second before he'll be swarmed by defenders. He wastes half that time shaping to do a rabona, a skill where he flicks one foot around the other. Why? Just fucking score!

To my horror, Max keeps going sideways, and backwards, and I suddenly understand what he's doing. He's trying to draw a penalty kick! But why? The chance he had a moment before was a virtually certain goal whereas a penalty now would be taken under intense pressure. And it's the last seconds of the game. Getting the keeper sent off won't achieve anything. Is he trying to destabilise Norwich for the rest of the season by getting their goalie suspended? But that makes no sense - the keeper wouldn't even get a yellow card for fouling Max in that position.

Just when ten thousand people are about to burst with frustration, Max backheels the ball, sending it back the way he came.

The idea is borderline genius, but the execution is lacking. He hits the ball not towards goal or into the path of the onrushing attackers, but between them, and he hits it too hard.

The chance has gone.

Wasted.

It's crazy.

Sean grips me tighter. The Chester forwards haven't given up on the wayward pass. Pascal is hurtling towards the ball. He slides and hooks it backwards. Lewis Lamarre hits it almost sideways. Wibbers only has to deflect the ball into the net...

Sean squeezes me. The goalie and a defender have made up the ground and are flying towards the near post.

Wibbers angles his foot... and traps the ball, stone dead!

The goalie and defender keep sliding. A gap opens up.

Wibbers pokes the ball into the net a microsecond before he's clattered by a defender.

It's frantic, it's chaotic, but Sean and I are in each other's arms, dancing around, screaming.

"Get a room," complains Dylan.

I go behind him and shake him violently by the shoulders. "I fucking love defensive football!"

***

The Vale

Max opens the interview up to questions from anyone. He talks and appears to believe what comes out of his mouth but doesn't seem to realise that much of what he says is contradictory. It's okay to play for a draw if you're a weaker team but it's never okay to take the ball into the corners. You need a stable squad but squads need to be refreshed. Positional play is all about the glory of the manager and treats players like robots and we should allow players to express their own personalities on the pitch. No, Emiliano isn't allowed to shoot on sight. Youngster, too.

When it's over, he thanks me for coming and takes me to reception where he makes me fess up to what I ordered on room service. When he sees the list he splutters, astonished, but then he laughs. "Fucking hell. Sophie, can you add a massage and a day spa to that? Lunch, too. Tell you what, can you just make sure she's pampered and I'll sort out the bill later? If it's possible, she'd like a male massager with thin hair."

"I'll see who's available, Max." Of course he's on first-name terms with the receptionists. "Is this your betrothed?"

"No, she's my mortal enemy."

"Can I be your mortal enemy?"

"Haha, I wish." He stops flirting long enough to remember that I'm there. "Did you bring your swimming stuff?"

"I might have packed it, just in case, yeah."

"Great. Massage, lunch, swim, fuck it, have another massage. Why the shit not?" He thinks for a moment, then decides this scene is over. "Okay, cool. Have fun."

He's about to wander off to talk shit with his fellow coaches. I would almost prefer to be in that room than get myself pampered. "Wait. Are you really going to play defensively in the next two games?"

"Of course I am, Beth. This is a consolidation season." He gives me a pitying look and strolls away, hands in his pockets, jaunty. I watch him long enough to see him pause. He bends to feel his ankle and goes more slowly the rest of the way. Typical Max - trying to disguise the extent of his injury.

***

Not long after that, I'm on a massage table where a therapist I chose works her hands sideways and backwards until I'm almost comatose.

Not long after that, I'm in the pool doing widths and practicing my backstroke. I climb out, lie on a recliner, and sip a mocktail. It occurs to me that of all my mortal enemies, Max is by far my favourite.

But there's no way in hell I'm going to tell him what Henri has planned for his stag party.