Soccer Supremo - A Sports Progression Fantasy

10.

Friday, April 7

"Summertime!" I crooned, wonderfully, as I dance-routined my way through the canteen at Bumpers Bank. "And the living is eaaaa-seeeee!"

"Oh-oh," giggled Haley Goodhew, who was one of my top five favourite goalies in the world.

"xG is jumping! And the league position is hiiiiiigh!"

"Does he know it's Spring?" wondered Kit Hodges, who was one of my top four favourite redheads in the world.

"Oh, your Max Best is rich! And your Max is good-looooo-king." I held my hand aloft near Dan Badford, my third-favourite press-resistant midfielder in the world. He took it and allowed me to spin him around. "So hush little squad player, don't youuuuuu cryyyyyy."

My players were a bunch of Philistines and barbarians who wouldn't know a triple threat if they were employed by one, but they dutifully gave me a round of applause.

I went to the team of cooks who were serving breakfast, and said, "Who's the best at making smoothies?"

Patricia, the head cook, strode forward and tried to give me a fierce look. I wondered if it had ever worked on anyone; she was a paper tiger. "I'd thank you not to disrupt the smooth operations of the kitchen staff, Max Best. If you need a smoothie, ask for one and don't turn it into an episode of Survivor."

"Survivor!" I said, amazed. "I had you pegged as a Secret Lives of Mormon Wives kinda gal."

"What smoothie do you want?"

"What's got the most flavanoids?"

Her head tipped back. "I don't know. I'm not a dermatologist."

"Have we got any papaya?"

"Yes, in the papaya freezer next to the magic bean cupboard."

"Papaya, kiwi, strawberry... That's gonna be too acidic, isn't it? Hold the kiwi. Replace with banana. What's that other thing I like? Er, bread. Can you put some bread in there?"

"Shoo!" cried Patricia, waving me away. "Shoo! We're busy!"

I took my phone out and pointed to it. "It says here I'm the front-runner for the Brighton job. Says I'm a generational talent and I would fit seamlessly into their model. Huh. Wonder if their canteen has a supply of exotic fruits?"

Patricia did a thousand-yard stare. "What do you actually want?"

"I would like an egg. Over easy."

"What does that mean?"

"I thought you'd know. It's something they say in movies. I'm guessing it means poached?"

Dan Badford said, "It's got to mean fried, surely! Fried on one side. The bit that doesn't touch the pan is the easy side."

"Oh," I said. "I wonder. One of those, please. Dan, come with me a minute."

I took him to the quiet zone, which was currently empty. (It was busier after defeats.) Dan looked towards the table Haley was sitting at. "Should I get my food and bring it over?"

"No, this'll be quick." I glanced at his table, wondering who it was that Dan liked over there, but despite what I'd learned from skimming Emma's books, not every friendship had to be romantic. "Is Haley still buzzing from her England cap?"

Dan's face lit up. "Yeah! She tries to play it down but she hasn't stopped, like, floating since she got back."

I smiled, but the feeling was bittersweet. As long as the England manager hated me, these moments would be few and far between. "I can only imagine how epic it feels. On that day, in that moment, you're one of the best eleven players your nation has to offer."

I think Dan knew that I would never be selected to play for my country, so he changed the topic. "Why does Patricia have it out for you?"

"She thinks of the squads as her babies, her kids, and she's like a den mother. She's got this canteen purring, hasn't she, but then just as it's all sunshine and roses, I come along and bin off a third of the men's team and the golden child of the women's. I am literally the baddie." I jerked my head towards the sound of an industrial-strength blender. "That's her making my smoothie. She knows I'm doing my best for everyone. Okay, here's the thing. We've had an approach for you."

"A transfer bid?"

"An approach that would lead to a bid if we gave them any encouragement."

Dan eyed me. "Oh."

Dan had started the season on CA 92, had added 25 points, and was now CA 117. Giving him so many minutes in the first quarter of the season had been bad for results but amazing for his development, and it was totally understandable to me that he was highly regarded by some analysts. I gripped his shoulder and shook it. "Don't be so dramatic! I have to tell you, don't I? What if you're 80 years old, on your death bed, and some guy goes, I wish you had signed for my club when we tried to buy you in 2028, and that's the first you've heard of it and you're so angry that you literally just pop your clogs? Do I need that on my conscience?"

He gave me a thin smile. "Maybe you should tell me about it."

"Rennes. It's a club in Brittany, which the internet says is not actually in Britain. They're not a megaclub but they develop young players and you've shown on their data. Some analyst there is like, hmm, Max Best is selling all his players, maybe he doesn't realise this kid is special. Maybe Max actual Best doesn't realise that this kid with a unique skillset, a kid he has been nurturing from the age of 14, is special. Yeah, so, do you want to live in France with 60 million people who are incredibly boring but think they're great conversationalists? Do you want to live in a country where gangs of masked stag parties rampage around pubs, bars, and vineyards, leaving their mates chained to cheese vats, freezing overnight with nothing to wear but a beret, where the local police will give you a marinière but only if you answer questions about who invented the parachute and how many mistresses Charlemagne had?"

Dan waited patiently for me to finish, then said, "I want to play in the Premier League."

"Oh! Saltney Town confirmed. Bosh."

"The English Premier League," he said. He tipped his head. "Though I'd play half a season for Saltney, I think. Vini said it was brilliant and he learned loads."

"It was incredible for Vini. Came just at the right time for him and I think he's improved the most out of anyone across both clubs." Vincent Addo had put on a growth spurt at Saltney Town, thanks to good first-team minutes plus the Champions League qualifiers, and just as that spurt was losing momentum, I had brought him to Chester and given him minutes in the Championship and FA Cup. He had added a club-high 33 points, going from CA 77 to 110. A Championship quality midfielder! And next season he could easily add another 30 points. CA 140 by the age of 22. "Yeah, but look, Dan, I don't want to sell you, I'm happy to reply to the inquiry with a thanks but no thanks sort of thing. The way I see it is, next season you'll be 20 and you'll have a lot of clubs scrambling around going who's this kid? When you're 21 you'll be one of the top transfer targets for every club in the top 5 leagues. When you're 22 you'll get an FA Cup winners medal. When you're 23 you'll win the Premier League. That's the trajectory. And if I'm wrong and if you cap out before then, I'll tell you straight to your face and you can decide what to do."

"I want to stay."

I hadn't expected him to say anything different. "Top. So let's talk minutes. We've got five league games. The next two, QPR and Derby, are easy but I want to put out my strongest eleven because six points would be massive, so that midfield’s gonna be Joel and Youngster. Then it's Ipswich Town. They're a quality side and it'll be hard so I'm planning to rotate heavily; there should be some good minutes for you in that one. An hour, maybe. Then Birmingham, which is another easy-ish one, and the last game of the season is Preston. Medium strength and they might be on the beach, but if they've gone on a run they might just have a chance of getting into the playoffs, so that could be very, very tricky. Again, it seems like a job for Joel and Youngster but I'd love to have you as an option to come off the bench and help us keep the ball. You might not get many minutes but you're a big tactical option for me in these games. Don't wear yourself out in the gym, please, because if I need you for ten minutes in a match, I really need you for ten minutes. Do you know what I'm saying?"

"Totally."

"Finish your brek."

***

I stayed in the quiet zone, enjoying the vibe of the canteen. It had been an amazing season for the men, the women, and the under 18s. The men were fifth and the fixtures meant we would get an easy 9 points out of a possible 15, which would almost certainly guarantee us a playoff spot regardless of how we fared against Ipswich and Preston.

Patricia delivered my smoothie plus a fried egg with a runny yolk. My mouth watered. "Oh my God," I mumbled, probably looking like a psychopath. "Toast?" I said it just as another cook was arriving with a plate containing four slices of perfectly-buttered toast. "Holy shit," I said, in ecstasy.

I devoured the food and sat there with a goofy smile on my face for about six minutes. Then I popped my earbuds in and played Easy Lover by Philip Bailey and Phil Collins, which was my banger du jour.

The Phil twins were amazing. Dan was amazing. Vincent Addo was amazing. Haley, Kit, and all the cooks were amazing.

I turned my mind to the clouds on the horizon and thought deeply about all the things that were troubling me.

That didn't take long!

The plan was to smash QPR tomorrow, Saturday, with our best team. It would be 3-4-2-1 with an average CA of 136.2.

What!

136.2. That was amazing. It was one of my five favourite numbers. Yeah, it was slightly inflated by having Cheb in the team. He had improved slowly across the season but was now CA 151. Not the best player in the division but getting there, and the guys at Bayern Munich were delighted with his progress. I had tentatively suggested they might want to loan me someone else next season. I was hoping to get Parnell Gourlay, the Canadian I had scouted at the World Cup. He was a midfielder who would play in the middle or on the right, he had a ceiling of PA 160, and he was registered to REM. A year in the Championship would raise his profile and he would do a solid job for us.

Okay, but if 136.2 was inflated by Cheb, it was being held back by Christian Fierce on CA 120. I could have bumped it up by using Magnus instead, but CA wasn't everything. Christian's Influence would keep us steady and help us overcome adversity. I wasn't expecting many setbacks against QPR, who would be in the region of CA 111, but the Norwich game had shown that anything was possible. Two early red cards was bonkers and had led me to do a complete 180 on the plan.

I looked around the canteen, groaned, and rushed over to the barista zone. Nasa had arrived and gone straight there. "No, no, no," I said. "No more apology tour."

"I must repent," he said. He had thrown a punch in the Norwich match and got himself a three-match ban. Given that he was only CA 110, it didn't hurt the team. Another reason I couldn't be mad at him was that he had indirectly won us three points. I wasn't one to blow my own trumpet but me competing in a ten versus ten match was like Michael Schumacher driving in the rain - it magnified my advantages.

"Yes, you must repent," I agreed, "but not for months. It's over. Finito. I forgive you." I made the sign of the cross.

He grunted in frustration. "I must repent!"

"Haley, Dan, Kit, Bark! Swarm this Brazilian! Right now!"

The group left their table and dragged Nasa over to where they were sitting. Nasa tried to resist but that didn't go well for him, and soon he was there with Haley's arm around his shoulder, and Bark on the other side giving him positive chats.

Bark was fascinating. He had been with us for absolutely ages, just there in the background. He'd had a few good moments on the pitch but always seemed to be behind, catching up. Yet he was CA 126, only four points from his ceiling. 24 points of improvement during the season put him in the upper levels, even though he hadn't played massive amounts. It didn't help that he was behind Cheb in the pecking order, but with the Algerian gone, with Andrew Harrison gone, next season Bark would get more minutes in the Championship. I reckoned he would probably get 5 goals and 10 assists and he would command a decent fee the following summer. His big move would come aged 23. Sounded pretty optimal to me.

"Can I have a macchiato, please?"

Angel had turned up with Emiliano, but he didn't have the coglioni to ask me to make him a coffee. He'd gone to a table where he and his girlfriend could moon at each other and hold hands and barely eat.

I loaded the coffee machine and pressed the relevant buttons. "You trained great yesterday," I said. "Still riding the high from Sunday?" The women had thrashed Blackburn Rovers at the Deva in front of a record crowd. Blackburn had come with an average CA of 78, 23 points lower than our slightly weakened side. Our captain Femi had picked up a minor injury, and I wanted to rest Meredith Ann after her long-haul flight - she didn't like that so I had raised my voice and taught her the word 'husk', as in 'do you want to become a lifeless husk?' - so a starting spot opened up for Angel, and she had made the most of it.

She said, "Yeah, something like that." I wasn't her favourite person, what with me exiling her to Italy and refusing to involve her boyfriend in the men's first team even though he had scored 2 goals in 8 minutes in his last appearance.

If she didn't want to talk, we didn't need to talk. I went through the motions of making the drink while I thought about what was really fascinating about the Blackburn match - I had finally crossed the 15,000 XP barrier. That, you remember, was the cost of the next tactics perk, Inverted Fullbacks.

I hadn't actually bought it yet - there was no point until the next match and I was hoping the imps would offer me some amazing piece of curse technology instead. There was no sign of the monthly perk but with the season drawing to a close, I thought it was a decent time to supercharge our training by means of Secret Sandra. After all, most players were as fit as they were going to get, the prospect of promotion to the top tier was incredibly motivating, and Morale was high. After something of a post-New-Year dip, training speeds generally seemed to be picking up again, so I spent every XP over 15,000 on training. Most went to Roddy Jones, but Saffron Walden also needed some - she was up to CA 81; her improvement felt rapid for a 17-year-old - and over the weekend I would give a few points to my under 18s.

God, it was all so easy! I sipped my coffee, blissing out over how amazing I was at football management. I took my phone out. "Says here I'm the favourite for the Championship Manager of the Year award. But you've also got to consider this article, which claims I've been offered the job of Ghana national team manager. Apparently, I can keep the Chester job and do Ghana part-time. That's fun, isn't it?"

"Christ," mumbled someone, who nudged me out of the way.

I blinked and saw Angel was making herself a macchiato. Typical of her to disobey my rules! While I was shaking my head and going, 'kids these days', I got a text.

Sandra: Don't forget lunch on Monday!

"Why do women love to watch me eat?" I mumbled.

Angel rolled her eyes louder than should have been humanly possible, and pressed more buttons. Making a coffee for Emiliano? That was perfectly within the rules. Did I resent that this amazing machine was getting wear and tear to provide delicious coffee for a shithead? Absolutely not. The thought didn't even occur to me.

As Angel departed to hold hands with the freeloader, Physio Dean came over. "How's the ankle?"

I winced. "It's Schrödinger's ankle, Dean. Sometimes it feels pristine, like a piece of precision-tooled clockwork. Other times..." I pulled a dark face but didn't actually verbalise that I was in any discomfort. It's not a lie if you don't actually say anything. "Season's nearly done and over the summer I'll give it a good, long rest."

"On your honeymoon."

"Yeah. Do you know where it is?"

Dean glanced around, which I knew was him looking for hidden cameras. Why do people look for hidden cameras? They're hidden. "Sorry, Max, are you asking me if I know where your honeymoon is going to be?"

"Yes."

"Oh," he said, surprised but in a positive way. "No, I don't."

"Let's talk about the stag party," I said. "What did Henri tell you to bring, because I forgot."

He looked hurt. "There's a stag party and everyone's invited but me?"

I pointed at him, beaming. "If you're not there, I'm leaving! That's solidarity, isn't it! Unless he's booked a fucking space shuttle and there are only 4 seats, there's no reason not to invite everyone, and if a single person I like isn't there, I'm leaving. It's a point of principle, isn't it, Dean?"

"What?"

"But seriously, I've been really stressed and worried about the end of the season and I can't remember if I'm supposed to buy a snorkel or learn to Tango or what. Can you point me in the right direction, mate?"

Dean was frowning hard. "You've been stressed and worried about the end of the season? When did that manifest? Should I book you in with Alex?"

I filled my cheeks with air and looked away. I was having absolutely no luck trying to get ahead of Henri's plans. That meant the stag party would be tiny, or that a seriously large number of people were seriously committed to the surprise element. "He wouldn't do it before the playoff final," I muttered. "He wants me to create as much football as poss. No, it'll be a surprise attack. Would he abduct me at Wembley itself? You know what, I think he would. I might have to recreate Escape to Victory. Burrow out through the ice baths, but come up twenty yards short of Nando's."

Dean side-eyed me as though worried for my mental state. "Are you going to train this morning or...?"

"I should take it easy, shouldn't I? I might use the zero-grav," I said. "Blast that for an hour. Then I'll work with Magnus doing his conditioning stuff. I don't want to get more buff; my tailor told me off for bulking up. Tailors are so uppity, aren't they?"

Dean tried hard not to sigh. "Yeah. Uppity little creatures, the lot of them. Worse than butlers."

I affected a posh voice. "Let me know if I'm getting out of touch, won't you?"

That made him smile. "Yes, your excellency."

I clicked my fingers. "That would be a great advert, wouldn't it? Me in a stuffy tailor shop, being incredibly demanding and particular about what I want, the materials, colours, stitching. Blah blah blah, the surprise is, I'm wearing the new home kit."

"Oh! That's good."

"Yeah?"

Dean was nodding. "Makes people think it has been designed by a human. Makes it feel premium and fancy."

"I'm gonna text that idea to Brooke right now before I forget." While I was doing that, I brought up the squad lists for Chester men, women, and the under 18s. We were near the end of a long, hard season and while most managers were having to put out half-fit players and were rushing guys back from injury a little too soon, we had no such problems. "Um... do we have a completely clear bill of health?"

Dean looked upwards for a second. "Almost. Femi's sore but she'll be fit for Birmingham."

"The big one," I said, ominously.

"Is it?"

"Of course it is," I said. Now it was my turn to be worried about his sanity.

"All I'm saying is, if we beat them, it's still in their hands. If they win their last game of the season, we can't catch them. So... yeah, let's beat them and ask the question but the answer's pretty simple, no?"

I scratched my cheek. "The psychology of the match is clear. We are the better team and everyone knows that, especially them. They got incredibly lucky in the first league match. If we beat them by 5 or 6 we could send them into a tailspin. Losing your last two games after winning the first twenty would be pure Devon Loch territory. Epic fail. Humiliation. We beat Birmingham, we win the league. Easy." I wagged my finger in his direction. "Make sure my captain's fit, please."

He nodded. "There's an easy way to do that."

"What's that?"

"Take one of the fit players... and make her the captain. Haha. Can I have a flat white, please?"

"No."

"Don't sulk, Max!"

"I'm not sulking. I'm going back to my table. BYE."

When I sat down next to my smoothie, I decided to buy the Inverted Fullbacks perk.

XP balance: 1

Bosh! Accumulating that 15,000 had been pretty easy, truth be told. I half-expected the monthly perk to drop right there and then, so the vibration of my phone startled me.

Brooke: I like it! Grindhog are waiting to see if we get promoted because if we do they want to play up the 'inaugural Premier League campaign' angle. This tailoring idea dovetails with any extra detail they add at the last minute.

Me: Won't it all be a bit last-minute and rushed? With the production and shipping and all that?

Brooke: Yes but it's a special case. We will make it work, don't worry.

Me: Not worried. I'm easy like Sunday morning.

Brooke: I love that song.

Me: Song?

***

Saturday, April 8

EFL Championship Match 42 of 46: Queen's Park Rangers versus Chester

We went down to London on Sealbiscuit on the morning of the match, as we normally did. Next season we would have more revenue and it would start to make sense to go to afternoon away games the night before, stay in a hotel, and give our players a bit more of a premium experience. I wasn't in a rush to do that - slumming it had always served us well.

Sealbiscuit was a ledge but its range didn't include the entire country and this summer we would be so flush with cash we could upgrade to a newer model of electric team bus. Give Sealbiscuit to the women's team, perhaps, or use it on matchdays to ferry people from Chester city centre to the Deva.

Owen 'Rainman' Travis appeared in the aisle. "You wanted to talk to me, boss?"

"Take a seat, bro!"

Rainman always traveled with the team even if I didn't plan to name him as a sub. If Owen Elmham or Ian Swan picked up an injury in the warmup, we would need a goalie. Being dragged all over the country on the off chance something went wrong wasn't his dream life, I felt sure, but that was the job. "Okay," he said, as he settled into the moulded seat.

"I'm happy with how you've progressed since you came to the club. You're doing great." Rainman had been released by his academy and I'd picked him up at an Exit Trial before our National League season. He had grown from about CA 20 to CA 93. The problem was that his cap was 99. "Have you been following Newport County?"

"Banksy? Yeah, course, he never shuts up about it." Rainman changed to a more diplomatic tone. "By which I mean to say that he's very pleased with how he's playing and we're proud of him, too. He's had a few Man of the Matches, hasn't he? Probably gonna be in the Team of the Season and all that."

"Course he is, he's the best by far, although he's not as busy as some of the other ones so he's got fewer chances to show what he can do. I want to talk about next season. Because he's getting regular game time in a tough league, Banksy is improving really fast." He had almost caught up to Rainman, in fact. Banksy was CA 91, though his ceiling was far, far higher at 155. "Here are some of the options of what you can do next season."

I was about to put the choices in reverse order, starting from the lowest, but that would be cruel when I failed to mention Chester as a possible destination. I decided to start from the top.

"I'm probably going to bring Sticky back from Saltney Town. I'll need to replace him there, but you going to Saltney as backup would be great for that club and a big upgrade. Sticky was top but there was a big drop between him and the next guy. You would be the backup to whoever I bring in, but you'd get some minutes in the leagues, cups, and maybe even a bit of Champions League. That's exciting, is it?

"Let me say, I don't think it's the best option for you at this point in your career. I think you should be the first choice goalie somewhere and get a successful season under your belt. Like Banksy, whatever happens now, everyone knows he's too good for the National League, right, so if he ever hits a crappy patch in his career, he will get a contract at that level. He's got that floor to his career. Do you get me?"

"Yes, boss."

"Your second option would be a club like Tranmere - if they stay in League One."

"Are they going to?"

"It's gonna go to the wire, I think, but I'm fairly sure they'll make it. Okay so let's say they do and they sign you next season. My assessment is that after a few months of getting up to speed, you'd be the 12th best goalie in League One, and you'd be a decent upgrade on what Tranmere have right now. So you'd play loads and you'd have a decent chance of establishing yourself. But you know what Diggy Doggy and his crew are like - would you really be surprised if they promised you would be the number one, then a week later they signed another dude? You could end up as a backup again, but without the upside of playing in Europe and training under Sticky."

"I'd fancy myself to beat the new guy."

I smiled. That was the problem with helping guys with their careers - they always backed themselves to overcome challenges. "But you don't pick the team, do you? You know at Chester if you're the best goalie, you'll be number one, but remember that most managers are clueless, or they have their favourites, or they sign players from their agent friend and get a kickback on the other side. You can do everything right, be brilliant, never make a mistake, and still never play. If I were you and I was looking at having a 15-year-long career, I'd want to have a season like Banksy is having now. One where you're so far above the level of the league that you play every minute and the manager wouldn't dare leave you out of the team."

"Do you mean National League?"

"I actually mean League Two. You'd be one of the better goalies there." The best average I had seen this season was from Wigan Athletic, who had CA 95. Rainman would start the season around that level and would grow to CA 99. "League Two would be ideal. Pretty much any team, but you know I have a minor interest in Newport County doing well. With them in League Two, I'd be tempted to loan Banksy to them again so that he can go to the next level. But maybe that could be a role for you. The goal is for Newport to get back-to-back promotions and that's quite plausible because the League Two Legends are already in place and under contract. I'm pretty sure Newport's goalie, whoever it is, will get a League Two winner's medal, and that goalie will thus be set up for life. Do you follow?"

"It's a floor for the rest of our career. Is that what you mean?"

"Yeah. 22-year-old goalie wins the league. Most managers think goalies get better with age, so you're always going to be in demand. You can have ups and downs, right, but there will always be 24 EFL clubs that would take a punt on you. So, Saltney, Tranmere, Newport. Oh, or Gibraltar. I forgot. You'd walk straight into the Magpies starting eleven. The league's getting slightly more competitive and there's European action. Life there isn't for everyone, but it's definitely an option for you for a year. Saltney, Tranmere, Gibraltar, Newport. Take your pick. There are no guarantees you'll get your first choice but..."

"Nice to have options." He smiled. "It's a long way from the Exit Trials." He turned and looked behind him, at his mates. I was dreading that he was about to say something like, can't I stay as Chester's third choice? But it was like Gemma said, everyone thought I was clearing the decks for ascension into the Prem. Rainman faced me. "If I go to Saltney I can be around Bumpers, can't I? And I'll overtake the guy you sign to replace Sticky. I'll make myself the number one."

"Jesus Christ," I laughed. "Don't drive your clown car of confidence into the brick wall of my hyper-accurate player analysis. If I sign a first-choice goalie, he's gonna be the first-choice goalie. What the fuck. All right, last thing. I think all your options are good. As I've said, I'd start at the lowest and get a solid season under my belt, build the foundations of the house that is my career. But if you want to push yourself, no problem, because you can always do the safe version the next season. Why don't you talk to Owen, Sticky, and Swanny? They've been around, haven't they? All right, be off with you."

"Soz, one thing. When do I need to decide?"

"No special hurry. At the end of April, all the relegations will be decided so that seems like a good time to make a final decision." He nodded and moved off. "Wait," I said. "Maybe the deadline should be the stag party. What date's that, again?"

He looked blank. "What?"

I waved him away, then thought about what the end of the season would look like.

Some of my clubs were hurtling towards the season's finish line.

• Tempsford had won 'The Win Race', nailing their league title with six games to spare. Vimsy was pretending not to be too affected, but I knew he was the cat who got the cream.
• In second place were West Didsbury and Chorlton, who had the chance to win their league today, with four games to spare. The main area of interest was whether my mate Ziggy could beat his teammate to the league's Golden Boot award. Ziggy was four goals behind but West created 20 to 30 chances in every match and Ziggy got himself on the end of plenty.
• College and Saltney had wrapped up their titles, while The Conspiracy Clubs were in second and third place in Gibraltar.
• Newport County were well ahead in the National League, but their momentum had slowed slightly because they had rested players before their FA Trophy matches. A good decision - Henri, Banksy, and the other League Two Legends would play in the final at Wembley one week before the playoff final. Those guys would be drenched in glory!

Some seasons were going right down to the wire.

• Chester Men would almost certainly feature in the dreaded playoffs. The path to the playoffs was lined with two of our easiest league games of the season, but what happened in the playoffs was another story. (The phrase ‘another story’ is not me announcing a spin-off. I'm just saying one's easy, one's hard. Can you try to keep up?)
• Chester Women would beat Birmingham and hope the Pesky Blinders slipped up in the final match, but the season could come down to a one-off playoff against Charlton Athletic. We would win but it would be nerve-wracking.
• Chester under 18s had to get through Tuesday night's semi-final against Leeds to appear in the FA Youth Cup Final. Our average CA would be a new record high, though. Probably in the region of 62 or 63 - I had optimised the shit out of that squad, and some of the players were still only 16 and 17!
• Tranmere Rovers were still in the relegation zone in League One, but were hard to score against and young Lucas Cook, now that he wasn't expected to do all the goalscoring on his own, was blossoming into a decent League One weapon. He was CA 97, which made him a mid-table striker.

Sandra Lane slid into the seat next to me. "Did you remember we're having lunch on Monday?"

"Yes. You remind me every day. What's going on?"

She tried to look innocent. "Jamie's really looking forward to it, is all. If we promise something and don't deliver, he turns into The Incredible Hulk and smashes things up. Okay, final team sheet check."

She handed me her notebook. It showed a 3-4-2-1 formation, our current favourite, which had Owen Elmham (CA 142) in goal.

The back three was Christian (120), Peter (127), and Zach (135).

The midfield was Lewis, Joel, and Youngster (all 138), with Cheb (151) on the right.

Pascal (135) and Wibbers (139) would play behind Gabby (135).

It was just glorious stuff, especially when today's opponents, QPR, had an average of 111. The only team weaker than them was Derby, who we would play on Wednesday night.

"Six points from six, easy," I said, handing the notebook back. The plan was to keep the same lineup against Derby, too, and then rotate against Ipswich.

"Bench options," said Sandra, dragging a tucked-in pen down a list of names. "Magnus to replace any defenders or CMs who pick up a knock. Cole for Lewis. Bark for Cheb. Colin for any of the front three."

"Yup."

"Max Best? What about him?"

"He's shit," I said. "Not a team player."

"I like him," said Sandra. "I think he could do a job for us today."

Why was she so nervous? She got like this sometimes, but all it took to reassure her was some brash cockiness. "No need. This season will go down to the wire, you know, overall, but the league phase is a piece of piss. If we win the three easy games, we're pretty safe in fifth. Preston at home on the last day might be tough but if we win that, we'll almost certainly finish fourth and have the optimal route to the final."

"Away in the first leg, home in the second." She took her voice down to a whisper. "Lose to Palace in the final."

I nodded. "Optimal. The season is on rails, Sandra. Let it happen."

"I'm just worried we're being complacent, maybe?"

"What do you mean?" I jabbed the notebook. "That's our best team against two of the weakest in the division. You could maybe put Magnus in there ahead of CF, but... What?"

"It's just that we were training to use inverted fullbacks this week but we won't actually do that in a match any time soon."

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

"Right, but... But we always look ahead. Long-term planning is what separates us from the clowns, Sandra."

She nodded, trying to convince herself that I was right. "Okay."

"Remember back in that sports hall in Platt Lane, the first time we met, and I said, hey, one day soon we'll be on a coach to London plotting our way to the Championship playoffs?"

"I remember you, Ziggy, and Jackie Reaper standing on the other touchline, singing songs about how amazing Max Best was."

"Er, that never happened. What I'm saying is, where we are today is the result of lots of long-term planning and getting used to inverting our fullbacks is the next evolution of our tactics and we might use it this season or next but we're always evolving, always giving ourselves thicker shells and sharper claws and that's the very opposite of complacency."

She inhaled, and let it out. "Okay."

"Hey," I said, giving her a nudge. "We got this."

"Okay."

She needed yet more encouragement, so I bellowed, "Eeeaaasssyyy!!!"

"Oh, God. Don't jinx it!"

I got louder. "Eeeeaaaassssyyyy!!!!"

"Max," she said, for some reason flushing with embarrassment.

While laughter came from the middle and back of the bus, I leaned closer and whispered. "Remember the top-level goal. Consolidation. The playoff final is for the fans, for two million quid, and for Christian Fierce and everyone else who might never play at Wembley again. I'm with you that we should strive to get there. I'm all-in on getting to the playoff final, which means I'm all-in on finishing fourth in the league. Which is why we are going to pummel QPR and Derby." I made a fist and pushed it gently into her arm. "All right, champ?"

She didn't reply immediately so I sucked in a breath and prepared to bellow the word 'easy'. Sandra quickly said, "All right, all right. I'm confident, look. I'm mad for it."

She went back to her side of the bus. I got up and looked at the faces of the players I could see. Was there more tension in the air than usual? More trepidation? I didn't really want to hype them up or tell them our aim was to get promotion, but I thought I could blast some of that tension out of the air.

***

On-the-whistle match report from News of the Blues, the leading news and views platform for all things Chester FC.

Author: D.Cox

QPR 0 Chester 2 - Easy Peasy, Lennon Squeezy!

After a tricky first hour in which Chester were frustrated time and again by QPR's brilliant goalkeeper, Lennon, we scored two quick goals to wrap up the three points. Pascal Bochum finally squeezed one past Lennon - the goalie couldn't imagine being beatle at his near post, ono! - then Colin Beckton came off the sub's bench to double our lead.

Chester's fairytale season continues, but there are worrying signs. Gabriel hasn't scored since the 12th of February. We looked shaky when defending corners and set pieces. And worst of all, our win barely changed the promotion maths - most of our rivals also won, and in fact, thanks to Luton's thumping win over struggling Stoke, we are in a worse position when it comes to goal difference!

Max Best seemed to sense the anxiety and tension that hung over the Loftus Road pitch like London smog. He was at his most relaxed and most childishly endearing on the touchline, and when he subbed Gabby off he not only gave him a warm hug but tried to give the Brazilian a piggyback ride.

As if to spread his 'don't worry, be happy' mood, Max took the post-match press conference himself.

Max, great win, but some of the players looked nervous. Are you concerned that you've got a youthful team and they might lack the experience to make this final push?

The average age of our goalkeeper was 36. Can you imagine being 36? The things he must have seen in his lifetime! He grew up in a world where milk bottles were delivered straight to your doorstep and window cleaners were the most virile, feared, and respected members of society. Of course, he's still got a home in Norfolk so none of that has changed for him. I'm joking, Norfolk! I'm sure you've got window cleaner robots like the rest of us. I saw a robot hoover with legs the other day. What would they do to one of those if it was walking down Norwich city centre? Hang it from the nearest lamp post, I reckon. Er, what was the question?

The average age of the outfielders was 24.8. Do we lack the experience to push into the playoffs?

I reckon we've got more medals per head than any other team in the league. Is that possible? Someone fact check that, that'd be interesting. I'm not really bothered about experience, tbh, because what I see is that we have cracked this division. We know what's what.

I'm not saying we're a powerhouse, I'm just saying we're a house of immense power.

I'm not saying we're invincible, but no-one can vin against us.

I'm not saying we're the big dogs, but we're not cats and we're not small.

I don't even think we're that young, really. But that said, I had better go. Got to get these lads home before bedtime and change some nappies. Okay, top, see you in Derby.

I'll see you in Leeds on Tuesday night for the Youth Cup semi-final. What's the mood there? Tense? Nervous?

I bet the mood in Leeds is very tense and nervous, yeah, for soon they will face the mighty Chester! Can you write something like, Max Best roared like a mighty lion, but topped it off with a cheeky wink so that he didn't come across as arrogant? Top. Seeyas.

***

Monday, April 10

I spent the morning training with the lads and followed that by using the little wellness area inside our gym. The sun was out, so after hitting the sauna I went up onto the roof and chilled for a bit.

Andrew Harrison emerged from the showers and rushed to the car park. He had hit his peak of CA 121, which was pretty great for him and pleasing for me. I couldn't have timed his sale any better. I was slightly worried that the club he would join, Stoke, were in freefall and would get relegated. Gemma would be pissed at me, would she? Maybe not. Andrew's wages were locked in and he would fucking crush League One. The Stoke fans would love him. Yeah, either way, he would be all right.

He was the 6th first-team player who was capped, and one of the five whose transfer I had arranged. The other one was Pascal, who I planned to keep for another season at least. I would blast him with God Save the King when we returned from the summer break and he would be an amazing squad player and supersub. There was Pascal now, delaying his lunch to discuss the women's team with Jay Cope. Spread the knowledge!

I spotted Zach hanging around, waiting for Brooke to finish whatever she was doing. They went off, arm in arm. Aww.

While I had talked to Brooke about an imaginary, hypothetical Premier League budget for next season, she had also produced a more serious set of numbers for the reality of life in the Championship. Those were the numbers I was working from.

For the current season, the finance team had projected revenue, excluding TV money, of almost 12.5 million pounds, which had led to a budget for the men's first team of just over 120,000 pounds a week, and I was free to use the 10 million in TV money as I saw fit.

Next season, MD and Brooke projected that our turnover would rise to about 18 million. In my head, going from 12 to 18 was a 50% rise, but the maths geeks usually told me off when I tried to do percentages. Six million in one year was a healthy jump and spoke well of the long-term sustainability of the club. This August would mark the 6th anniversary of me being cursed, so if there was a 7-year time limit, I would still be able to establish Chester as a rock-solid mid-table Championship side that had a new stadium and over a hundred million pounds in playing talent.

So, 18 million in income. Because we had to pay the mini-bonds, had to finance the PetPride stand, and had a fast-growing admin staff, MD was still only allowing me to use half that income on the men's first team, which meant my new base budget would be 174,000 a week. Still the lowest in the division, but close enough, I reckoned, to climb the financial cliff.

I currently had 12.25 million in my war chest. We would get 2 million for losing the playoff final. Player sales would be in the region of 10 million quid. When the TV money dropped in June, that would be another 10 mill.

I would have 34 million quid to spend on new players. Winning the league would be too easy. Maybe I would sign the players and go off on a sort of gap year. Leave Sandra in charge while my new wife and I traveled the world. One country per month so we could really get to know a place before moving on. And at the end, I would have a team of Dragonballs.

Smiling, I pulled down my sunglasses, sighed happily, and adjusted the recliner's little pillow.

***

Briggy kicked me awake. "The fuck?" I complained.

"Sandra asked me to make sure you meet her for lunch."

"Shit," I said, checking the time on my phone. "I'm gonna be late."

"You're not. I kicked you a full sixty seconds before I needed to. That's a whole extra minute for you to change your nappy face."

"The phrase you are looking for is nap face," I said.

"Agree to disagree. Come on."

***

Briggy dumped me outside Sandra's house and drove off.

I ambled along the garden path towards the front door, wondering what could be so important that Sandra would ask Briggy to keep track of me.

Was Sandra finally tempted by a job offer? Surely not - those were still all coming from the women's game. The Championship was fast, the quality of play was top, most rival managers had a trick or two up their sleeves, and the stadiums were usually full and bouncing. Why would you leave that to play in front of 2,000 people at Everton or 3,000 at West Ham? You wouldn't.

Maybe she wanted a pay rise? She would get one anyway. A small one considering her position, but her new wages would be way more than she would get anywhere else, at least until she started to get job offers from men's teams.

I froze and bent my knees, ready to sprint away. Was this... Was this the stag party? Six weeks before the wedding, a lunchtime kidnapping. It was insane. It had Henri written all over it. I brought up the squad list for Newport County. Henri's Condition was 98%, same as almost everyone else in the first team, which meant that he had been in training, which meant he was almost certainly in South Wales. I relaxed a fraction.

Then I spotted an upturned tricycle wedged under a bush. Jamie! Sandra had lured me to lunch, but it would turn out to be babysitting duty. She would drop a tuna butty into my hands then fuck off to the hairdresser or something like that. Well, why not? There was nothing urgent I needed to do. The end of the season was on rails, after all. No twists, no turns. Just delightful progress towards my many goals. By the end of the week I would even be close to unlocking the next perk in the tactics tree.

I knocked on the front door. Aiden, Sandra's wife, met me; I treated her to a couple of air kisses and dipped into my box of small talk topics - if you were a salad, what salad would you be? - but that chat was cut short as soon as I entered the kitchen.

Sandra was there, of course, but there were two men. Jamie was clambering all over one of them. "Matt Rush," I said, amazed. Rushy was a right back who had played for us for the first half of last season. The loan had its ups and downs but things were going quite well when Manchester United recalled him, only to loan him to our rivals for the title and the Vans Trophy, Portsmouth. In the final, he had wrecked his hamstring. "Outstanding haircut. Holy shit, that's a quality trim."

"Gaffer," he said. "You've met my dad."

"Billy," said the dad. He was in good shape, dressed smartly. I opened Rushy's player profile and saw that the dad had been installed as his agent.

I shook hands with everyone, ending with Jamie, who clambered off Rushy and into my arms. "Jamie!" I cried, as though he had scored a goal. "Jamie one-nil!"

"Jamie one-nil!" said Jamie, sort of.

I turned to Billy. "His first words were teddy in the bin. Teddy in the bin! He's savage, like his mum. Zero tolerance for shitheads."

"Max," complained Sandra. "Language."

"His first word was turtle," said Aiden.

Sandra cried, "It was bubble!"

Billy, smiling, said, "You've been having a great season. Fifth in the Championship! I was sure you'd struggle."

"Struggle? Us? Why? It's easy." I lifted Jamie as high as I could and bellowed, "Eeeeaaaassssyyyy!!!!" Jamie loved it, so I did it again. Then I did a quick 'what's that coming over the hill, is it promotion?' This also went down a treat.

Aiden smiled but said, "Could you maybe take the energy levels down just a smidge?"

"Smidge activated!" I said, with tons of energy, but then I sat and let Jamie stand on my thighs. "Ski knees!"

Rushy said, "So you think you'll go up?"

"Up? Um, not sure. Left turn!" I held Jamie to the left. "I'm doing my planning based on being in the Championship next season. Right turn! In a lot of ways that's what the club needs, and I'm actually quite excited about the summer. Straight ahead! Construction on the third stand will start and I'll be able to pick up some amazing free agents and out-of-favour players. Some more misfits! You know my type, Rushy. Heh. And Jamie wins the race! Jamie one-nil!"

"Jamie one-nil!"

Aiden reached out for her son, saying, "Come and eat, darling." Jamie snubbed her pretty brutally. "Jamie." More snubbage.

I shook him gently. "Scran o'clock!"

Jamie reached out and let his mum pick him up. She pulled him to her, sighed, and said, "Scran o'clock. Yes."

Sandra said, "Thanks for giving us yet another new phrase, Max. That's great. Who wants a socially normal child anyway?"

I shrugged. "Dunno. People with no imagination?" There was a pause as Aiden installed Jamie on his throne and served him something that looked pretty vile. I did my godfatherly duty by giving him an encouraging nod, but then found myself wondering what the fuck was going on. Why were Matt Rush and his agent father here in Sandra Lane's house? I lifted a finger, then pointed it at him. "Why's an elite right back prospect having lunch with Chester FC's co-manager?"

Rushy looked around the room and decided to tell me the story himself. "So, er... I've had a ship season."

"What?"

"Ship. S-H-I-T ship." Frustrated that I didn't understand him, he pointed to Jamie. "Language!"

"Oh! Swear all you want. Jamie doesn't mind."

"Jamie does mind," said both Sandra and Aiden.

"I've had a ship season," said Rushy. "I'm 21 and my career should be taking off, but I did my hammy in the cup final, as you know, and went back to Man United. They told me I needed surgery so I done that. I was in rehab, doing it right, trying to get fit so I could play again."

Billy said, "We were targeting a January loan, Max. We wanted to get him back on the pitch, in the Championship this time. After such a successful pair of loans in League One, we thought there would be a queue of clubs willing to give us a chance."

"But I did my hammy again," said Rushy. "Missed the deadline so I was stuck at United. I'm not even getting minutes in PL 2."

Aiden looked startled. "I've never heard of that. What's that?"

"Premier League 2. It's, er, Premier League for the under 21s. Category One academies. I should be in the team and bossing it but I'm nothing. There's no plan for me. I'm damaged goods. I want to leave United this summer."

I nodded. "You should get out, totally. It's a total mess of a club." I brought my right ankle up onto my left leg and massaged it. "Where could you go?" I asked, rhetorically. An entire season had been wasted, so what would his CA be now? It could be as low as 115. The highest level I could imagine was 125. His PA was 180, so if he got his career back on track, this frustration would just be a blip. "You need somewhere where you'll play but with a manager who won't flog you until you break again. I hate to say it but Wrexham would be a good next step. Stefan Sommer has his head screwed on."

"Max," complained Sandra. "We've set up a clandestine meeting that not even you knew about! Rushy wants to come to Chester!"

"Oh," I said. Then I got excited. PA 180. "Oh!"

I had a vision of Rushy once more donning the blue-and-white, storming down the right wing, thrillingly fast, balanced, beautiful. He had always combined amazingly well with Wibbers. Talent loves talent. Was he still fast, though? I checked his player profile and didn't see a degradation in his Pace or Acceleration, as sometimes happened with bad hamstring injuries, but I would need to scout him again to be sure.

I shook my head. "No, come on. Be serious, guys. First, United hate me and they won't sell to us. Something to do with comments I made about their billionaire owner. I might have compared him to a circus attraction."

"You called him a toxic clown who spread pestilence and stupidity wherever he trod," said Rushy, helpfully.

"Exactly. That's why you got recalled and sent to our main rivals. Quite by accident, that was also a good move for you. Okay so there's that. Then I couldn't afford the fee or the wages. Then there's the fact that I already have seventeen world-class right backs."

"Seventeen?" said Billy.

Sandra tutted. "He's exaggerating. In fact, we have none."

"Cheb!" I said.

"Keb!" said Jamie.

"He's going back to Bayern," said Sandra, patiently.

"Nasa. Roddy Jones."

"Undercooked, barely in the oven."

"Magnus Evergreen."

Sandra nodded. "Yes, I'll give you that, and he can play the inverted fullback role better than almost anyone."

Aiden said, "Remind me what that is."

Sandra went, "He's a right back but when we're developing a move he drifts into central midfield so we've got an extra body, more control, more possession. Someone like Rushy could do that but he's not the most comfortable in the middle. Okay, but Max, you almost never pick Magnus at right back."

"We've also got Andrew and Bark."

"You sold Andrew and Bark's not a right back!"

"Vincent Addo," I said, which only made Sandra slap her hips. "Oh! Helge! He's going to be an elite full back. He can play either side."

Sandra thought she had me. "He's going to be, but he isn't. Look, you always raved about Matt. Just answer one question. If we could sign him right now for free, would you want him?"

"Of course! He's fucking mint."

Sandra eyed Rushy. "Tell him everything you told me. Everything."

Weirdly, Rushy took that to mean he should embark upon a monologue even though I was far more suited to the monologue role. "I've kept in touch with Wibbers and when he went back to Chester after playing in Wales he was getting frustrated that he wasn't playing every match. He was, like, fourth choice. He wasn't complaining or nothing, he was just frustrated. He thought he was ready. He played a bit here and there and then you sold Dazza and he got more minutes and recently he hasn't even mentioned it. I asked how it was going and he'd forgotten he had ever complained. So one day I went to the data guys at United and I was like, what do you guys think of Wibbers?

"Dude presses a few buttons and he goes, yeah he's good. Numbers going up. So I go, can you show his minutes in a graph? Chart comes but it's loads of bars that I can't make head nor tail of so the data guy says, hang on. Clicks a few times and now it's an X and Y axis with a line I can understand. Pretty smooth progression. More and more minutes. The data guy's getting interested. He gets the improvement numbers and overlays them against minutes played and he's like, oh that's beautiful. Textbook management of a young player, he says.

"He's still buzzing about that when I say, have you got data about injuries in the Championship? He goes sure. Not sure he's supposed to be showing me all this but there's no harm in it, is there? He's bored, I'm a player, it's not often he gets to show off. He clicks a bit and goes oh that's odd. What is? Here, look. Total number of days lost to injuries this season. Chester are at the bottom, half as long as the next best team. The guy's like, I'm glad you asked about this because this has to be wrong. We need to look into this."

Billy said, "But Matthew has been on the inside, hasn't he? He knows what it's like and he can believe the numbers. So where should we go next? A club where young players are carefully managed and where injuries are kept to a minimum."

"Hold up," I said, raising my hand. "We've been amazingly lucky this year in that everything has been quite minor. Yeah, I rotate and I am quite good at seeing when someone's at risk, and there's no loss of status in the squad for a player who says he's not feeling right. Yes, that's all good, but we also don't sign a lot of players with long injury records. You've had two horrible hamstring tears. Yeah, you'd do the prevention work and we've got Nicole who'd help to make sure you're not overcompensating on other muscle groups and whatnot, but even with the absolute best preparation and everything going well, that hammy could pop again."

Billy said, "You're saying you wouldn't sign a player with a history of injuries."

"No, I'm not saying that. I want to get to common ground about what's realistic because I wouldn't want to be blamed for this happening again. At this point, it's something you're going to have to deal with for the rest of your career. I've seen other players with this and the best thing seems to be, yeah, you play once a week, rarely twice, never three times. It can be managed but I'm not a wizard. I don't have a secret formula to fixing muscles."

Rushy said, "I know, boss, but I need to get playing again. I was a bit of a prick first time round but this last year has been hard. It's made me realise how easy I had it. I played for Man United and Pedro Porto took a special interest in me. I got loaned to the best club for developing young players - 13-nil in the Youth Cup! - and I was lazy. I didn't get why you were yelling at me when I was playing well and all that. Now I'm, like, gutted that I didn't kick on as much as I could of done because in the meantime loads of lads have overtaken me. So..." He looked from his dad to Sandra and to his knuckles. "I want to come here, to play football, to get my career back on track."

I nodded. "Brilliant. That's... mature."

Billy took umbrage. "Is it so shocking my Matthew could be mature?"

"Yes."

Billy huffed and folded his arms, but didn't say anything.

Rushy said, "I'd take a wage cut."

That sentence perked me up. "Er, sorry, I didn't quite catch that."

He looked from his knuckles to me. He grinned. "Wage cut. To make the deal happen. I need to play."

"If I had to guess your current wages," I said, "my guess would be something with five digits and a 2 on the front." I knew he was on 20,000 a week, obviously. I also knew that he had two years left on his contract and that the curse valued him at 14 million pounds. "Our wage cap is ten grand a week."

Billy said, "This season."

"Pardon me?"

"That's this season. What about in the Premier League?"

I shook my head. "We should talk about a Championship wage because if we are promoted, we'll come straight back down. To a wage cap of ten thousand."

"You're building a new stand, right? And you've already upgraded much of your training ground. My reckoning is that you'll have a few more quid sloshing around for wages."

Rushy got cheeky. "To attract those juicy free agents you were telling us about."

"Touché," I said. "You win this round, Rushy. Ah, but hold on. Those are free agents. If I buy you from Man United, I'll have to pay double the fee. Because of that whole toxic clown billionaire thing, remember? Double the fee, halve the wages. In all respects, you are literally unavailable."

Billy cleared his throat. "I have a bit of a plan. I hear you like plans."

"Go on."

"United won't want to deal with you, sure. But they would deal with Wrexham, or Diggy Doggy."

"Oh!" I said, perking up. I liked where this was going.

"If you can get Diggy Doggy or your friend Reynolds or someone to make a bid for my son, I think United will be glad of the cash. To them, he's an injury-prone drain on their resources and that's all. They don't have the patience to let him regain fitness and form. If Diggy Doggy's Tranmere make a bid that's accepted, you can match the bid and we'll inform United that our preference is to join the Championship team instead of the League One team. If they refuse, we'll consider legal action. Not that it will come to that. Once they accept a bid, they'll be mentally spending the money already, won't they? And they might even think they're getting one over on you."

I steepled my fingers. "Selling me a guy who can't stay fit? Yeah, I can see how they might laugh at me for wanting to sign the old Matt Rush, who doesn't exist any more." They were right about that. The old Matt Rush wouldn't have wanted to take a backwards step in his career, and he certainly wouldn't have volunteered to take a pay cut! One step back to take five steps forward. My objections to signing him were melting away. "Do you have any idea what United would want?"

Billy shrugged. "Five million? Plus five in add-ons? It's hard to say. They lurch from extreme to extreme and they replace their staff every year. I just want my son out of there while there's still a chance for him to have the career his talent deserves."

I got up and went to the window that looked out onto the back garden. The garden was mostly lawn, just as my squad felt like it was mostly right backs.

There was a large, colourful plastic car - upturned, of course - blocking the path to the garden shed. Would buying Matt Rush block Roddy's pathway? To some extent, maybe, but for the next season or two I was most likely to use Roddy as a right midfielder with someone more stable behind him. Could that be Rushy? In some matches, sure. What a combination that would be! But if Rushy could only play once a week, there would still be loads of minutes for Nasa, Magnus, and Helge.

If we said that Helge was my future left back, the situation cleared up. Top teams needed two elite players in every position, and Roddy plus Rushy would be the one of the top 5 pairings in the world. Helge, a player of similar potential, had cost 4 million, but I couldn't rely on finding insane bargains like that on a regular basis. Rushy was English, so I'd have to pay the English tax. 5 million rising to a maximum of 10 would look crazily cheap one day, and if Rushy actually stayed fit, actually fulfilled his potential, then it was an absolute bargain. The main downside was that it wouldn't help me next season and wouldn't address a part of the squad I'd call weak.

"Are you fit, Rushy? I'd love to take you to Bumpers and see you run around a bit. Kick a ball and whatnot." And rescan him for my database to check the latest data. Would I still want him if his PA had dropped to 175? Sure, but I wouldn't pay 5 million.

Sandra said, "Go to Bumpers? We're supposed to be doing this clandestine! He's under contract at another club. He can't just rock up somewhere everyone would recognise him and train!"

"Saltney, then," I said. "Or one of the fifty football pitches we own! I just need to get a vibe!"

"I'll do it," said Rushy. "Whatever you need."

"There's only one thing," said Billy. "Matthew wants to play for England. We think you're the right manager for this stage in his career, but if there comes a time when he's the best right back in the country and he's not getting international call-ups, we'd like to move on to a club where, you know, he'll get what he deserves."

I think he was half-expecting me to blow up, but I stayed completely calm. "Fair. I won't stand in your way but I won't let a 50-million-pound player go for 20 million. If there's a bid, easy. But it's gonna take 3 years at least to get you to those levels and let's be honest, Alan Turner will be long gone by then."

Aiden said, "What if you've got beef with the next England manager, an' all?"

I scoffed. "Come on, what are the odds on that?"

"High," said four people.

Only Jamie believed in my character - he said, "Hi!"

***

We ate - Sandra was annoyed that I expressed surprise that there was really food at this lunch - then Wibbers and Sarah Greene joined us for a game of two v two in Sandra's back garden. Rushy had sustained no permanent damage to his player profile. He was still PA 180, and his CA was on the top end of my guesstimate: 124. He wouldn't replace Cheb, but he was substantially ahead of Nasa and Roddy.

I called Diggy Doggy and explained that I might ask him to bid for a player and that when his bid was accepted, I would swoop in.

"That's a good nickname for you," he drawled.

"What is?"

"Swoop Dog." He cackled.

"Will you do it? I'll owe you a favour."

"What kinda favour?"

"A player you'll be able to sell for seven figures."

"Sheeeeeeet," he said. "You on, dawg. I'dda done it for three fiddy." He cackled some more, coughed hard, and hung up.

"That was easy," I mused. Pretty much everyone had gathered round to listen to the call. All seemed star-struck. I pointed at Billy Rush. "Is all this a scam to meet Diggy Doggy?"

"Busted!" he said.

***

Tuesday, April 11

FA Youth Cup Semi-Final: Leeds United versus Chester

On-the-whistle match report from News of the Blues, the leading news and views platform for all things Chester FC.

Author: D.Cox

To Elland Back! Medals Await Our Greatest Generation

Chester's boys put in a seriously grown-up shift in Yorkshire tonight, edging a close, fiery battle, and earning the right to play in another Youth Cup final.

The first twenty minutes was all Chester, as the usual combination of Roddy Jones, Wallace Wells, and Chas Fungrieve proved too hot to handle. Fungrieve scored, which briefly deflated the passionate Elland Road crowd.

The home team showed why they're one of the best youth sides in the country, though, and grew into the game. Twice they stung the palms of Aston Davidson, Chester's goalie, but with Max Best going ballistic on the touchline, the Seals came back to life. With Wallace and Roddy Jones too hot to handle on the wings, Leeds doubled up, which allowed our creative midfielders to come to the fore. The second goal was crashed into the net by Tommy Thompson, and that seemed to be that.

But Leeds never dropped their heads, and they deservedly clawed a goal back. Their colossal striker got himself isolated against 16-year-old defender Future, turned him all too easily, and slid a shot into the corner.

Chester came out for the second half with all guns blazing, and with Max Best showing off his toolbox of tricks. There was some 4-2-2-2, some Relationism, and even an inverted fullback, which I can't remember happening too often in modern Chester teams. Roddy Jones crashed a free kick past the goalie, then Wallace Wells went on a mazy dribble, beating four defenders before cutting the ball back to give Fungrieve a tap-in.

A slick move allowed Leeds to score a second, and a mix-up between Aston Davidson and Lennox Francis let The Whites bring the score back to 4-3. The sight of Max Best tearing his hair out is a fascinating one, since he never shuts up about it.

His next changes restored order, and with Leeds recklessly pursuing an equaliser, Chester scored a clinical breakaway goal to make it 5-3.

Chester's relief at the final whistle was evident, and Max Best spent an unusually long time talking to his rival manager. No wonder! Leeds gave us our sternest test of the competition so far, though the final will likely be a close-run affair. Chester will face Manchester City at the Deva Stadium in the week of May 8th. Hosting the final for the first time is quite an honour for our club, and quite the opportunity for us to win a second Youth Cup in three years, a second in our entire history.

I recommend you book tickets early, because they will sell out very fast.

Well done to the lads. Well done to Max Best. Well done to Leeds United under-18s, because that was a highly enjoyable game of football. And yes, well done to their coach. What’s that coming over the hill, is it promotion? One wonders if he will end up as a coach at Chester or managing one of Max Best’s other teams.

***

Wednesday, April 12

I spent the morning spreading joy and cheer. I recorded a quick clip for the marketing team that they could use to promote the Youth Cup Final, told Pradeep and Spectrum that I'd decided to give them a big bonus (35k for Pradeep, 15 for Spectrum), and popped into a school to tell the kids how much I loved reading. (I pivoted the session into a series of role plays in which I told volunteer kids why I was cancelling their contract. The twist was that the 'player' was actually a character from fiction, like Batman. 'Mate, instead of training you were seen sitting on the edge of a skyscraper, looming over the city, and you only speak in grunts.' I enjoyed it, the kids enjoyed it, and it doesn't really matter if the teachers enjoyed it.)

As we were boarding Sealbiscuit to travel down to Derby, the monthly perk dropped.

Special Offer

New perk available to buy until the end of April: Take It Easy

Cost: 1,500 XP

Effects: Once per match, you may order your players to 'take it easy'. For 15 minutes, this will limit their Aggression to a maximum of 10.

Hmm. Strange. The first thing I did was check my stash.

XP balance: 1,119

Okay, so I would be able to afford this one after tonight's match. It would set back my aim of unlocking the rest of the tactics tree, which I really wanted to do by the end of the season in case it proved useful in the European Championships. You know, if I was installed as the Wales manager, for instance.

Aggression wasn't necessarily bad. Sometimes you needed to show the oppo that you would stand up for yourself and your mates. Sometimes you could crash into a tackle and intimidate a player, subdue him for the rest of the game. A crunching tackle got the crowd going, too. Jardel, the Brazilian lad that DOVE had spotted, wouldn't be the same player if he didn't carry an air of menace about him. There would be many midfield battles he won with a sneering look in the tunnel.

So why limit Aggression? My players would be less likely to fly into tackles and to get involved in pushing and shoving. I could see a use case for that. If a match was getting bad-tempered and the ref was getting pissed off, I could trigger this perk so that my guys would be less likely to accrue red and yellow cards. Not getting a red spoke for itself, but if I had a couple of key players one game away from a suspension for picking up too many yellows, this perk could help with that.

It would only be a small difference, and only for a limited time, but it was only 1,500 XP. I was tempted to buy it just for those games, twice a year, when a little extra on-pitch discipline would pay off.

I thought back to the Saltney Town match against Celtic, where my idiot left-back had got himself sent off in a show of pointless machismo. If I had triggered this perk, would he have done it? Had he not been sent off, Saltney would have played in the Champions League and the club would have earned an instant 18 million quid. Instant empire, club-building on easy mode.

The perk was intriguing; I had time to think it over.

***

EFL Championship Match 43 of 46: Derby County versus Chester

Pride Park, 35,000 capacity, home to one of England's most historic clubs. Founder members of the Football League, FA Cup winners, league winners under Brian Clough and Peter Taylor. When we arrived, Sandra and I went to look at the statue of the famous double act.

"That'll be us one day," I said.

Sandra eyed the statue of the outspoken Cloughie and his long-suffering assistant. "You mean, you'll run your mouth off so much we’ll get run out of every club we work at?"

"That's not how it went," I said. "Was it? Okay he fell out with the board at Derby. And Leeds. And he didn't get the England job. But, er... But our statue will be bigger and it'll have, like, self-learning liquid metal so that it can make different gestures and it'll be, you know, sentient. It won't break loose and kill everyone."

"Let's go inside, shall we?"

***

I was feeling amazing. Squad Morale had dipped a fraction but was back up to 5.5 (out of 7). We had picked an unchanged eleven except for putting Ian Swan in goal, as promised. That took our average CA down a fraction, to a mere 134.8.

Derby's was 110. That's why they were at the bottom of the league, though they were fighting hard to get out of the relegation spots.

Emma had come to watch this one, so I let Sandra do the pre-match preparations while I hung out in the Director's Box for ten minutes.

"I'm a nervous wreck," she said.

"What?" I said, amazed. "Why? Oh, the W-word."

"No! This match."

"But that makes no sense. We're mint."

"Everyone's been dreading it all the way here. MD can't eat. He's sick with worry."

I laughed. "That's crazy. What's going on?"

"He saw the pitch and let out this noise I never want to hear again."

I frowned and went to look at the turf. "It's a bit cut up from the heavy rain they had but the forecast was that it would be dry today and it is. We've played on worse."

"Babes, don't you need to warm up?"

I gave her a cheeky grin. "Have we got time?"

She laughed. "Max, go and get ready!"

"I'm ready!" I cried, laughing. "We're ready! We got this! Fine, I'll go and jog around for a minute if that makes everyone relax, but I won't be playing today. You watch! We're gonna control this game from start to finish. Hashtag trust men."

I went down to the dressing room and checked the vibe. It was all very serious, very professional. We only had a couple of days to prepare for this match, but that was true for almost all our midweek games. Tyson had cut up clips, Peter and Colin had put on special sessions, Vikki had got us prepared for Derby's set piece style.

Like, we were confident but not complacent.

Just to hammer the point home, I went out with the others for the final warm up and did some extra stretches near the Director's Box. Not all of the stretches were physio-approved, but I knew Emma would be up there giggling her head off and that only encouraged me to get even more bendy.

***

The first half went as everyone would have expected. The team in 5th battered the team in 24th. The team in 5th created chance after chance, while the team in 24th dug deep, threw themselves in front of shots, sat back, and offered almost nothing going forward.

Our levels of control were top. We did an outstanding job of pinning Derby back and not getting frustrated as they timewasted and shithoused, trying to run the clock down while hoping one of our lads would lash out and get sent off.

There was just a hint of worry in the air as half-time approached. A draw tonight was not on the cards. For the first time, I doubted my selection. Putting Swanny in goal didn't matter because Derby hadn't had a shot, but should I have picked Magnus instead of Christian Fierce, to squeeze every last drop of CA out of the squad? Magnus had opened an 11-point gap over Christian.

I shook my head. Christian's leadership mattered, and he was better at headers than Magnus. It was perfectly legitimate to have him in the starting eleven.

My doubts were resolved when Cheb dribbled past Derby's left back, crossed, Gabby rose, the ball hit his shoulder and looped perfectly for Wibbers, who sliced it left-footed into the net. The contact he made was almost amateurish, but it went in. They all count, as the saying goes.

One-nil!

Sandra took half-time, though I chimed in with a couple of minor things I'd noticed about Derby's players. Mostly I tried to stay professional by thinking about the permutations of how the current scores would affect the final standings.

There was a tremendous scrap going on for 6th place, the final playoff spot, and even Wrexham in 10th still weren't out of it. Despite how close it all was, I still rated us as likely to finish 4th, though Luton were being much more resilient than I had expected and we hadn't been able to add to our goal difference the way I had hoped. Although we had beaten Norwich, so had Luton won a match I was sure they would lose.

My experience of these end-of-season run-ins was that you couldn't tell your players to run up the score because it only added to the pressure and made the oppo more likely to hit you on the break. Five one-nils to finish the season would do just fine, and if you lost on goal difference, that was because of your early season form. No, I had learned not to push too hard in the closing stages of a season. Win your games and those around you would slip up.

Sandra said, "Max, is there anything you'd like to add?"

I pushed myself off the wall and moved close to my co-manager. "Honestly, that first half was great. Really great. I'm not even going to make fun of Wibbers for his scuffed finish."

"Come on!" said Wibbers, throwing his hands up.

"You aim top right and it slices bottom left? I mean, good finish, in a way. You fooled the goalie, didn't you?" I left a space for the lads to tease Wibbers, like we would have done in the first game of the season, or the tenth. "Seriously, that goal came because we were patient, we moved Derby around, Cheb did his moment of magic, and we had numbers in the box and we had players in the box who are hungry for goals. I'd love for us to go again, do that again, just like Sandra said. Keep your heads, keep the ball moving. Bosh."

"You heard the gaffers!" cried Christian. "Let's go! Win the second half!"

***

After the restart, Derby had a quick flurry of attacks. Swanny made one save, rushed out of his area to clear a through-ball, caught one cross, and then it was business as usual. We passed Derby to death, always probing. We made the defenders turn to face their own goal, we confused them by swapping players around, and generally gave them an examination. They responded well but I was sure they would run out of gas, run out of mental energy, and we would obliterate them in the final ten minutes.

While my XP counter ticked up, I thought about the new perk. Were it available, I wouldn't have triggered it in today's match, because the pitch was making things bitty and scrappy and I needed my players to get stuck in. I would use Deformation 2 in almost every match, though. If I had it right now, I would do some funky experiments with Wibbers and Pascal playing as wide forwards in front of Lewis and Cheb. Overload both wings for ten minutes and see if Derby could cope.

Imagine having Matt Rush and Roddy Jones in those positions! Right mid, right forward. Or to be a little more serious, one as a wing back, one as a winger. That would be defensively sound while showing our attacking intent. PA 180 allied with PA 184. Do that in an FA Cup final, let them tear shit up. Then replace Rushy with Nasa, who shuts down a tricky winger while his adoring mother is put on the giant screens at Wembley.

I blissed out and hummed Summertime.

Sandra came to me and said, "We're completely dominant, Max. We don't need three centre backs. Can we swap Christian for Magnus, put him as a DM?"

"Ooh, I like that," I said. 3-4-2-1 was one of my default formations, so it was possible for me to make the tweak Sandra wanted. "Make it so!"

A couple of minutes later, we made the change.

A couple of minutes after that, Magnus pulled up with a strain. I didn't want to take any risks, so I replaced him with Bark and moved Youngster to the DM slot. Easy.

Bark had a shocking couple of minutes and his match rating dropped to 5. Whoa! Where had that come from? I switched him and Cheb, but that didn't make Bark play better and made Cheb play worse. "Um..." I said, decisively. I wasn't worried yet - things like this happened sometimes.

I told Sandra what I was seeing, and we decided to switch to 4-4-1-1 with Lewis at left back and Cheb at right back. And - sound the trumpets - we inverted one of them!

I started with Lewis, since he was playing well. When Derby had the ball - and they were getting slightly more of it - we formed into a solid 4-4-2 defensive shape. Hard to play through. None shall pass! When we took possession, Peter, Zach, and Cheb nudged closer to form a back three, while Lewis joined Joel Reid and Youngster in central midfield.

Over the next five minutes, that kicked arse, and I flicked the inversion from Lewis to Cheb and back again so that Derby would be completely bamboozled. The game started to look like the first half, with us being just as dominant, although if you want to be picky, we were bossing the game about fifteen yards further away from Derby's goal than we had been and our shot counter wasn't ticking up anywhere near as steadily. But Bark's match rating hit 6 and the clock surged towards the magical 90 minutes.

All was well.

Sandra said, "Should we change Gabby for Colin?"

I shook my head. "The pitch is getting worse so we need Gabby's strength for when we go direct."

Sandra nodded. "Makes sense."

***

85'

Lamarre passes to Bochum.

Bochum with the first-time layoff to Youngster.

He tries to play a pass behind the defender for Bochum to chase, but he makes a mess of it!

The ball bobbled just as Youngster went to kick it.

Derby hoof it forward. They have gone more direct because of the pitch.

Green with a towering header.

Reid competes on halfway. The ball comes loose.

Alloula, playing in central midfield, is drawn to the ball.

Derby's rapid number 8 gets there first and pings a pass into Chester's vacant right-back area.

Peter Bauer moves to close down Derby's 11.

The winger brings the ball to the edge of the area. There is movement at the back post but Lamarre is back in position, covering the striker.

The 11 decides to try the cross anyway.

He cuts back onto his right foot and hits it.

Bauer sticks out a leg to block the cross.

The ball loops up crazily.

Where will it go?

Ian Swan is backpedalling. He doesn't like the look of this!

GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

Derby have equalised!

Swan had no chance. It was a cruel deflection but they all count!

Pride Park is rocking. The home fans are delirious! A point today would give them a chance of survival.

Chester's players look stunned.

Max Best is getting ready to bring himself on.

***

"Fuck," I said, as I sprinted onto the pitch.

All my end-of-season calculations had been based around getting three points against the league's worst team.

"Fuck," I said, as I sprinted to get a pass from Zach, before turning and dropping the ball 40 yards behind the defence for Pascal to run onto. He won a throw in. I rushed to support the move, but Derby's tails were up and they were winning their duels. The ball was smashed all the way back to Swanny.

He threw it to Joel, who rolled it to me. I wanted to hit it first-time to Cheb, who had made a great run, but the ball was about to hit a divot so I was forced to take a touch. The chance to open Derby up was gone. I grimaced. If all the scores stayed as they were, Luton would move another two points ahead of us. Middlesbrough were losing, so that was them out of the race, but West Brom, Coventry, Norwich, and Wrexham were winning. They would move two points closer. Our next game was against one of the top two clubs in the division, and we would expect zero points from that one. Four teams could overtake us in the next round of fixtures. All my plotting, scheming, and optimising would mean nothing - we wouldn't even reach the playoffs. "Fuck!"

We spent the remaining few minutes frantically chasing the ball, moving it forward with as much quality as we could, carving whatever openings we could. Wibbers took a long shot. I cracked one that looked like it would go top bins, but it drifted wide. Still we pressed. Wibbers slipped Pascal behind a defender. He cut the ball back, but Gabby hit it approximately ten miles over the crossbar. All I could think was, 'Colin would have scored that'.

The ref blew his whistle. One-all.

"Fuck!"

***

Derby's lads had played their hearts out, so I made a special effort to go round and congratulate them all, even though I wasn't really in the mood. I went to the captain and clapped him on the back. "With performances like that, I see why they call it Pride Park."

His face lit up. "Thanks. Wait, everyone told me you're a knob."

"A hard-working knob - I know what it cost to do what you did today. Well done. I hope you stay up."

On my way back to the dressing room, I glanced towards the Director's Box, and wondered how MD and Emma were feeling. Worse than me, for sure.

In the dressing room, Sandra took me aside. "How fucked are we? We've got Ipswich next; it feels like we're pretty fucked."

I dug my palms into my forehead and rubbed. "Er... yeah, it's not great. We were coasting, now we're not. But it's so complicated, so many teams, so many permutations. Some of them are playing each other in the final games so they can't all get maximum points." I reached for an energy gel because all of a sudden I was exhausted. "We need to get together with Pradeep and get percentages on all the scenarios but I know one thing." I squirted some gel into my mouth and said, "It's gonna go right down to the wire."

...

Next chapter: The Wire