Soccer Supremo - A Sports Progression Fantasy

6.

Thursday, July 13

UEFA Conference League First Qualifying Round, Second Leg: Go Ahead Eagles versus BK Häcken

I trained in the morning, hopped on a flight to Amsterdam, and was picked up by Briggy. She drove me to Deventer, a Dutch town about the same size as Chester. The journey was tranquil except for my increasing frustration that I hadn't yet seen a windmill, but after what we might call some lively back-and-forth, the matter was resolved amicably. I saw a windmill.

And then there was one just near the stadium, so we needn't have made the detour. I dipped into the Go Ahead Eagles club shop, buying a black bucket hat with a white eagle crest. Master of disguise, me. We were escorted into the VIB seats (Very Intense Botox), and I was warmly welcomed by the home team's financial director. A very friendly man. Was he so friendly with visitors who didn't have 27 million quid burning a hole in their pocket? There's no way to know!

The away team were Swedish, so naturally their employees spoke great English. It was weird how they saw through my disguise, but they left me alone after I settled into my seat. The only brief distraction was when a gorgeous woman turned up. She was tall with dark hair and would have caught the eye regardless, but she was wearing a scuba outfit. Not with all the straps and canisters and everything, just the wetsuit. It was slightly textured, which made her look like Mystique from the X-Men movies. Which, as you know, is a good thing.

No-one else gave her a second glance, so I assumed this was just a thing that happened in this part of the world.

Briggy elected to spend the first half inside the suite. Imagine wanting to talk to rich Swedes instead of me!

The stadium was pretty cool. It had a capacity of about 8,000 and was said to be one of the only 'English-style' stadiums in the Netherlands. The stand opposite me had pretty much the same dimensions as the Main Stand at the Deva, though the other three were larger. The fans often chanted in English, with the players emerging to 'Putting On a Show'.

The UEFA Conference League was the 'bronze medal' European tournament and gave a base rate of 5 XP per minute. It took me six minutes to hit two thousand XP, and I immediately used it to add West Didsbury to my list of squads.

Next stop, Tempsford, Chester's youth teams, and clearing out the perk shop. The youth teams weren't urgent, since I could get most of the data by being around Bumpers Bank when they were training, but being able to treat an injury early or spot a Morale crisis in its infancy would help to improve some young people's lives. That said, I needed to buy everything in the perk shop this season, so I would have to be judicious with my spending.

Spending.

The word brought me back to the main event, the reason for the trip: Ruud. Or as the Go Ahead Eagles fans called him, Ruuuuuuuuuud!

Seeing his profile made me wonder if Don Pino was the best scout in the world or if he had a curse of his own. How was he spotting these future superstars?

Ruud Berkenbosch

Age 21. Dutch.

Acceleration 19, Off the Ball 16, Finishing 14, Decisions 14, Technique 17. Almost all his non-goalkeeping Attributes were in double digits.

He was CA 133.

This guy was a brilliant footballer and he seemed to be getting better right before my eyes. He had weaknesses. For example, his heading wasn't amazing, and that would need to improve if he was going to thrive in England. For my particular tastes, he was slightly too good at the defensive side of the game. If I could 'edit' his profile I would take away some of his Marking, Positioning, and Tackling points, because in a fully-functioning Max Best superteam, he wouldn't need them.

I tugged at my ear. My teams would need to evolve, wouldn't they? It could be that I would need my forward players to chip in on the defensive side. Push my team high, use the forwards the way I currently used Youngster. Chase the ball, force the oppo into mistakes, turn it over, score.

I was always going to be a traditionalist, though. I would always want my strikers to focus on scoring goals and wouldn't pay extra for a guy who could tackle.

27 million pounds. It was a crazy amount for a guy with CA lower than Dazza. Middlesbrough had bought the Australian for 4.7 million, so why was Ruud going for so much more?

Because he had PA 188 and, somehow, more and more people knew it.

If I didn't have the numbers to go off, he might have seemed unremarkable. Go Ahead Eagles were playing in red and yellow, like Watford. The Swedes normally played in yellow so today they were in their white away kit. The away team had an average CA of 115. Their goalie was their best player, and they had a couple of teenagers in the lineup. One would have a good career, the other wouldn't. Their subs bench was quite weak.

The Eagles were very slightly better all round, and then they had Ruud.

He spent most of his time as high up the pitch as he could be without being offside. From that position he didn't move much, which I found fascinating. He didn't touch the ball for the first ten minutes, which was followed by ten minutes in which the ball hit his head once and bounced off him twice.

I could feel the eyes of the Go Ahead Eagles directors on me as I sat glumly watching the ball cannon around midfield before being swept around by risk-averse defenders. This was the country of total football, sport as an art form, every pass a brush stroke on a lush green canvas. It was weird and cool that the Go Ahead Eagles enjoyed cosplaying as an English team but they were taking it far too literally.

Anyway, I wasn't here to enjoy myself; I was here to make a decision.

***

Briggy stayed inside for the second half - she told me she was happy 'mingling', though it seemed to me she was 'mingling' with just one of the food servers - and I was the first one to return to the VIP seats. Having traveled so far, there was no point throwing away the XP, and it wasn't as though the match was completely boring. The Swedes had a PA 140 defensive midfielder, for example. He was on the old side, but his wages weren't very high. If I waited for his contract to expire, he would be a cost-efficient option for a Championship club.

The more talented of the two teenagers was a PA 136 centre back, and there was a left-footed PA 130 guy who was unusual in that he could play left midfield, left-wing, or striker. Not 'forward, central,' but S for striker. I thought it was interesting that the guy could switch mentality so completely.

Play Wibbers wide left then move him into a striker slot and he would still play like Wibbers.

Start this guy left and he would play like Aff, but move him into the striker slot and he would play like Colin Beckton.

Good? Bad? A meaningless distinction?

All I knew was that this player was unusual, and it was my job to understand everything that happened on a football pitch.

Meanwhile, the Eagles had a 21-year-old left winger with PA 141. That was more than good enough to do well in the English Championship, and the kid didn't have an agent. When Briggy was done chasing one unattached local...

Someone slipped into Briggy's seat. Someone in a skintight wetsuit. She eyed me. "Do you like what you see?"

"Is that a trick question?"

She smiled. "You're Max Best. Here to scout Ruud."

"I'm guessing you're Susan, Ruud's partner. There isn't much on the internet about you. You're a painter, it said."

"Do you believe everything the internet tells you?"

"Of course," I said. "That's how I learned I was in the Illuminati."

Susan smiled. "How else to explain your success?"

I held up a finger in triumph. "Exactly."

"You're not impressed by the standard of the football."

I turned to her and gave her a wry smile. "You think I'm some kind of Premier League snob? That's interesting."

"You can't tell me you have enjoyed this. You keep grimacing and sighing."

"Yeah, this is an objectively shit game, but it's nothing to do with the level. Okay, there is less physicality here, less technique, but if you have two equally-matched teams it's all about the mindset. It's terribly cautious, safety-first stuff. Ruud has barely got a kick."

"Poor Ruud," she said, staring at him. "He heard you were coming and he's desperate to impress. After such a poor half, he will be kicking himself."

"He wants to impress me?"

"Why is that a surprise? You assist three goals in the playoff final, you score four in one half in the Champions League, you make five promotions. Here, we call you a 'comet manager'."

"Oh, I like that. But your boy can relax. I already put in a bid."

Susan turned and searched my expression in a way I found challenging. "After such a half?"

I shrugged. "I would like to pretend to need more time to think about it, but I don't. Stuttgart have placed a bid, now I have, and the player can choose. If I waited, came to more matches, just to make everyone think I was really doing my homework, the Stuttgart deal could be done in minutes and I would lose the chance."

"You don't seem very excited about the prospect of spending a small fortune on a big player."

"Three reasons. The first is that Go Ahead Eagles are insisting that Ruud stays here for this season, so we could buy him but he would only join Chester next year. I don't mind - it could actually be good for him. And I'd like to think I'm very good at delayed gratification but obviously it's less exciting to buy a house that is under construction than one that is ready to move into. The second thing," I said, jabbing my thumb behind me, "is that some prick in there tried to jack up the price, trying to hit me with a Premier League tax. I said, oh? Deal's off, then, thanks for your hospitality and I was halfway out the door when the finance director stepped in and sorted it out.

"I was too surprised to get properly angry but it left a sour taste in the mouth, do you know what I mean? Why would I pay more for the same product? Do I have to do transfers via a VPN to get the same price as other clubs? These directors of football are fucking moronic if they think they can pull the wool over my eyes. And fuck me, why am I being quoted higher prices? Stuttgart have more money than I do! What the fuck."

I seethed for a minute while I reviewed what had happened so far. There was something very off about it all, something very strange. Paul Braun had told me that Stuttgart's bid was 27 million pounds, but I didn't have to take his word for it - the curse had the same number right there in Ruud's profile. For all his slyness and politicking, Paul had always played straight with me.

The curse also told me that there was a string of big clubs interested in signing Ruud. "The third thing is that I don't think I'll actually get the player. He has plenty of options, and good ones, too. I reckon there will be six or seven similar offers for him to choose from. Speaking generally, I enquire about four or five players for every one who decides to come. I used to get emotionally attached to the idea of specific new guys joining, but that has been beaten out of me. These days I wait until the deal is done and then I get excited. Until then, I'm basically a husk."

"Imagine you had him. Imagine he was in Chester wearing..."

"Blue and white."

"Wearing blue and white. What would excite you about him?"

"He's just mint. I wish that was some kind of unique insight but it is becoming more and more clear, isn't it? We have a phrase, beggars can't be choosers. If I can get a top player, I'll get him and work out how to use him later. But it's true that my financial situation is clearing up and I can start to think ahead. I'm in a lull state. I had to sort of peak in the last match, but the next two weeks will be relatively simple on the pitch. I have done most of my transfers, most of my spending. It's time to think."

"Tell me more."

"I have questions for you, too. Why are you wearing a wetsuit?"

"Everything else was in the wash."

She wasn't joking, so I tried not to laugh too hard. "You're fantastic."

"Another unoriginal thought."

This time I did laugh. "You're a painter so maybe you can understand the way I think about this. There's a dream of football, a philosophy. Every manager can have that dream, can paint a mental picture of what it should look like. Then you run into the constraints. The canvas is a certain size, only two-dimensional, the paints can only form into certain shapes. Maybe you can't put certain colours next to each other or on top or whatever. I can say that I want to play 3-3-4 and in theory that would win every match but in reality when you consider the physical, technical, and tactical abilities of the players, it doesn't work. Not even close.

"So I look at my squad and I think, okay, 3-4-3. It's a compromise between the vision and the reality. But then when I lose a few games I go to 4-3-3. The vision is forgotten and I'm in pure survival mode. 4-4-2, grind it out, hit the channels, score a set piece. This time in the summer, right now, this is the only time I have to come up with a vision, a new way of playing. I know it will be beaten out of me and I know I'll end up like Ian Evans, but if I can get the right players, I could do something like in my imagination." I flopped my hands out. "That's why I will try to buy Ruud. With premium materials I can transcend the mundane. It might not happen, but if you don't buy a ticket, you can't win the lottery."

On the pitch, there was a scrappy phase, with the ball pinging around midfield. There was the chance for a quick break, but one of the white-shirted Swedes dribbled the ball straight out of play. Susan said, "If football is a painting, this one is Jackson Pollock. What would yours be?"

"Oof," I said. "This is where I get uncomfortable. My mate Henri would have a snappy answer to that. I'm honestly quite a barbarian. I barely know anything about anything. I know enough to know that I have no taste."

"Do you have a favourite painter?"

"Um, sort of. The first one that gripped me was Vermeer. Probably so cliched to you. Right now I like Caravaggio." I left a pause and she didn't jump in like most Brits would have done. There was a tiny thrill to that. "I watched a 25-minute presentation about him. Er, on YouTube. This woman from the British Museum talked about three paintings and used them to sort of tell his life story. It was captivating and the paintings are incredible. The guy's a super genius but he's always getting into scraps. He's literally walking around town with a gun daring anyone to tell him to take it home, getting drunk, yelling 'I'm mates with the Pope!' He sounds like a total knob and then he's creating these paintings that just pop off the paper and into your imagination. It's infuriating but is that intensity part of why he's such a good artist? They say it about certain footballers. They keep getting sent off because they can't stop scrapping and the commentators say, but if you took that out of his game, would he be the same player?"

"The Rijksmuseum has several Vermeers and a Carravagio. I think you would like the sculptures of Bernini, too."

"You think? That's in Amsterdam, right? I could come early next time and have a look around. Maybe I'll bring Dan so he can explain everything to me."

"You would come to Deventer again? I thought you had seen enough."

I shrugged. "It's like I said, it's good for me to pretend to be normal. People will see that I scouted Ruud three times and think wow, what a hard-working and diligent young man is this Max Best! They won't go, hey, why did he go once, make a bid, then go two more times? It wouldn't even occur to them. Erm..." I paused while the home team went through one of their pre-coached moves. Ruud was static, static, then he was in a pocket of space, sprinting towards goal. The pass never came. "Yeah," I said, annoyed. "That's why I don't really agree with you that he had a bad first half. He was doing his thing but he's operating on a higher level than his teammates. They can't see the runs he's making, or they don't have the confidence in their own ability to make those passes."

"Is it hard?"

"Yeah, but not that hard. If he was in one of my teams we would try it five times as often as is happening now. You don't want to overdo it because you can get one-dimensional, the oppo can react, and your players get lazy. I had a huge striker once, we called him Goliath, and my guys kept chucking high balls to him. I was like nah, do that again you're in the bin. Play normal and use him when it's the right time. That's the thing here with Ruud - he's becoming elite right before my eyes. Oh, shit, look!"

"What?"

Ruud's CA had just increased. "Fuck me, this guy has the X-factor. I had a guy for half a season when our training ground was just mud. While everyone else was struggling, he improved on a straight line. From what people are saying, Ruud has clicked into this state just recently." I leaned forward, drinking it all in, then tried to calm myself. He wasn't going to come to Chester. I pointed. "What he likes to do is what we call 'playing on the shoulder of the last defender'. He has a natural sense of space and how to manipulate it but he interprets that space in a tiny, tiny part of the pitch. I've got a guy called Pascal who will find space and rush into it, which causes a decision crisis for the oppo. You've got to react or he can hurt you, but if you react he'll move into more space and more space and your carefully-constructed structure wobbles. Ruud's got a completely different idea. He's in a one-to-one duel with that centre back, the guy who is bullying him and shoving him around. Ruud is, like, toying with him, I think. The more aggressive the guy gets, the more often Ruud slips away."

Susan's gaze rolled across the pitch. "He works hard on these duels. He will watch the video of himself again and again. He spends hours with the coaches, asking questions. He is very dedicated to his craft."

"It shows. But he should work on his combinations more. It's not a solo game."

"You said the midfielders don't pass to him."

"Right. If he were my player he would do sessions with them to get the timing of the pass down. He might think that when he's with better teammates he'll get more opportunities, but the oppo's defenders will be better, too. The offside trap, the pressing, the positioning. He needs to collaborate more in training if he's going to get more goals." I scanned the pitch quickly before resting my eyes on Ruud. "One thing I love about him is that he's patient. He has barely been involved in the action but he sticks to his task."

"What else would he do?"

"Take my guy Wibbers. If he's playing striker and he doesn't touch the ball for five minutes, he'll go crazy. He'll run around until he gets a touch. He'll go and take a goal kick if he has to! Ruud isn't like that. He plays the same."

"Is that good?"

"For his role, yeah. That's what I would want. He actually has the skill to come into midfield and help out, but I haven't seen him do it."

"So you know what you want from him. You have the finished painting in your imagination."

"My grand tactical plan? Not quite, no, but this is a very interesting match. See this left winger? I like him. He starts on the flank and moves inside. His general movement is towards the ball. That defender there, the number 4, he wants to be a midfielder. His tendency is to move towards the ball. That one, number 31, he's the opposite. He moves away. He wants to defend, to reduce the risk. Ruud plays on the shoulder and tries to get towards goal as quickly as he can. He stretches the play, right? All these players are moving up, down, in, out, and that's causing space to appear, to disappear. As the manager, I can manipulate that process by picking players who will make the space appear where I want. Ruud pushes the defenders back, towards their own goal, and if they don't retreat..."

I paused because the crowd were shooting to their feet. BK Häcken's defenders had tried to trigger the offside trap, but one of the home team's midfielders had played an early pass. Ruud chased it, got there easily, drew the goalkeeper towards him and as the goalie dived, Ruud lifted the ball over him, but not with the foot I was expecting. That deception was fucking deadly! The ball bounced twice on its way into the net and the crowd blew its top.

When Susan retook her seat, I said, "That's why I'm willing to pay what he's going to be worth next year, this year. I'd like to get a sense of him as a person, though. Can I meet him?"

"You are going to come and watch the next match. Is that so?"

"If the score stays the same, they'll go through to the next round and play a team from Portugal. I was planning to go to that one, but I could come back to Holland again. We could meet in the afternoon before the second leg. Or the day after. Whatever's easiest for Ruud."

"I will talk to him and get back to you."

"Cool."

***

Friday, July 14

I spent Friday morning walking around Deventer town centre. It was quiet and picturesque, with tall, thin, pastel-coloured buildings. Many of the houses had Go Ahead Eagles flags dangling outside, and there was a trend of plastering your front door with stickers to show which team you supported - as long as it was the Eagles.

Very cool place, very friendly people. I smashed Playdar and followed the ping but the best player in the area at the time was only PA 44.

We were close to concluding the Cheb deal. His agent had come down from his more absurd demands and we had agreed wages of 48,000 a week, a one-million-pound bonus if we stayed in the Premier League, and a 30-million-pound release clause that would kick in next summer. 'Priced to sell' as the saying goes. 10 million quid in profit for Chester and a long and glorious career for Cheb.

Chester's total wage budget was 700,000 a week. Dumi and Edgar Wilde would join us at the end of Saltney's qualifiers, adding another 85 grand to the weekly bill. (40 for Dumi, 45 for Edgar.) Jimmy McNeill was another 40 grand. Add 48 for Cheb...

And I still had a surplus of 189,000 a week.

Helge, Magnus, and Colin needed pay bumps, but holy shit. So much money, but I had to use it wisely. I texted MD.

Yes you let me buy an Algerian winger. Yes you signed off on a mind-blowing bid for an undercooked striker. But now I think it's important that we hire an artist. I'm thinking she could paint us while we train; it would certainly motivate the players. She's Dutch so she can definitely do portraits. Get mine done first, I reckon.

MD: Can you stop lusting after artists long enough to hire a new head of performance?

Me: I'm working on it! I've got a shortlist of three!

MD: Also, this is the first time you have used the word undercooked to describe Berkenbosch. For 27 million I would rather expect the finished article. I'm going to need you to come to my next doctor's appointment because he doesn't believe me when I say I have a stressful job. God, imagine the meds he would prescribe if he met you face-to-face!

***

Saturday, July 15

Pre-Season Friendly 4 of 6: Huddersfield versus Chester Men

I was in the dugout at a Chester match for the first time since the playoff final, co-managing our fourth pre-season friendly. In reality, Sandra was in charge and I wasn't doing anything other than keeping an eye on our Condition scores.

We were playing League One Huddersfield (CA 107) at their stadium, and they were taking it more seriously than us because the EFL season was due to kick off in two weeks. We had almost a month before our first match in the Premier League. Almost a month to stew. To bite our nails. To dread.

The fixture list was out, and it was not pretty.

Physio Dean nudged me and showed me his phone, like I hadn't seen the schedule. "Arsenal! At the Emirates! Tough start that, isn't it?"

"Mmm," I said, because I didn't want to think about it just yet.

He scrolled down. "Brighton at home. We won't see the ball, but they don't have a natural goalscorer. Then Man City away, Spurs at the Deva. That's followed by Liverpool away, Aston Villa at home. People are saying it's statistically the hardest first six fixtures any team has ever had! In the history of the Premier League!"

"It's a historically brutal run," I agreed. "It's almost as though someone wants me to get sacked as soon as possible."

Dean nodded. "Lose those six and it's the international break and that's when clubs sack their manager. Convenient timing, yes."

"Thanks, Dean."

He laughed. "You won't get sacked!" He thought about it. "Not after six games. You'll get more than six! Then it's Brentford away. That's not an easy place to go to, is it? You'd need to do set pieces training the whole week before and you'll refuse, so we'll get tanked. Good to have principles, isn't it, boss? Here we go! Game eight, Wolves at home. There's our first point of the season."

"Our first point?" I said. "You don't think we can get a win there?"

"Oh, sure, sure. We might. It's just that they've already spent 70 million on new players and we have... checks notes... invested heavily in the zen garden."

"Take the zen garden's name out of your mouth, bro. That's a title-winning zen garden, you mark my words. Okay, shush a minute. I need to concentrate."

I didn't need to concentrate. I needed to show my face in a Chester context while wearing Saltney Town underpants. Thanks to a perk I had bought long ago, I was earning 1.5 times the usual rate for this match. 270 XP instead of a mere 180. It all added up! I was the master of marginal gains.

My players were making gains, too. I had seen a fair few Attributes turn green, counted half a dozen CA pops.

I had left Sandra with a pretty threadbare squad, giving extra time off to the lads who had appeared in Euro 28, so today we had a pretty strange lineup. Owen was in goal, protected by a back four of Lewis, Cole Adams (at centre back), Murray Burnett (the lad from Everton), and Roddy Jones.

In midfield was Youngster, Jimmy McNeill, and Bark.

Up front: Pascal, Wibbers, and Gabriel.

Average CA: 136.7.

It really wasn't bad! The only senior player on the subs bench was Sticky, but we planned to throw on loads of the under 18s anyway. Why not? I didn't care about the result.

I hadn't spent a lot of time thinking about the under 18s until recently, but now that my schedule was less hectic I was asking myself one major question. If young English players (save those born in Cheshire) were hesitant to join us, what should I do? Answer: go big on Scotland, Ireland, and Wales. I was giving serious consideration to moving some of the better Welsh under 18s from Saltney to Chester for a season. Charlie Cullen, FA Youth Cup winner? Why not? I would bribe him with some minutes in the Champions League qualifiers if he agreed to make the switch.

Huddersfield, who were further ahead in their pre-season fitness plan, beat us 3-1, but we avoided injuries and the minutes given to our eighteens would pay off in the Youth Cup. So in a way, we actually did win. Right?

Not everyone was as sanguine about pre-season defeats as I was. I went to Murray Burnett and put my arm around his shoulder. "You looked different class, mate. Absolutely mint."

Murray was a big lad, a proper unit. One of the entries in his Future tab read: Hopes to use this loan spell to force his way into Everton's first team. I didn't mind that kind of ambition; we were going to need characters like Murray. He had a Cumbrian accent, which was something like a cross between Lancashire and Yorkshire. "We signing a striker, Max? I saw it on the aggregators."

"You mean one of those dipshits who steals content from everyone else without attribution and takes quotes out of context? Why are you following aggregators, Murray?"

He shrugged. "It's easier than following 20 accounts, isn't it?"

I tapped him on the arm. "That's what I like to hear. My players taking shortcuts. That's how you get to the top, yeah."

"I thought you liked efficiency."

"Mmm," I said. "Okay, good point. But those aggregators are rancid, mate. They're poison. It's bad for you. They want you raging so you engage because that's how they get cash. They make zilch if you're happy. Zip. So they're actively working to make you unhappy." He seemed to be receptive to that, though I doubted he would change his behaviour in the slightest. "As for buying another striker, we might. It's not like popping to Tesco for a meal deal. There are, like, stages. Stage one is I learn everything about Dutch art in two weeks."

"Aye, right." He glanced around at the toddlers he had shared the pitch with towards the end. "Would be good, though!"

"Mate," I said, as we headed towards the tunnel. "You don't think it's gonna be all these teenagers the whole season? I've got proper players coming. Slovakians, a German, whatever Magnus is. And a Viking! I've got a fucking Viking, bro! He's taller than you. So don't worry. The season's gonna be tough, yeah, no doubt, and you've seen the fixtures."

The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

"Bloody hell, Max! What a start that is!"

"I know. But that's what I'm saying. We just have to graft and suffer but when it's all going shit you'll look around and see a room full of men. We don't have much but in our dressing room you'll find we lead the league in one thing."

"What's that?" he said, grinning, ready for my joke.

I didn't smile, but stopped him walking, got in front of him, held his eye contact, pressed my finger into his midriff. "Stomach for the fight." I waited until those words sunk in, then tapped him on the heart, "Every other team is at their strongest on day one, but they get injuries and fatigue while we only get stronger. Have you heard the phrase lions in the winter, lambs in the spring?"

"No."

"French dude said that about the English teams and how they play in Europe. They're amazing when they're fit and fresh but the season is long and it wears them down. Think of PL teams and their schedule. Long pre-season tours taking them from Australia to Miami. You'll notice we're in Huddersfield. That's because I don't want to burn you out before the season even fucking starts, and because unlike certain other countries, Huddersfield isn't riddled with killer jellyfish."

"Is Huddersfield a country?"

"They wish they were. Arsenal, Man City. Long pre-season tour, the Prem starts, AOK Cup, Champions League, FA Cup, knockout stages, league run-in, post-season tour, Euros, World Cups, one day off, new season begins. That's the life of a top player, and that's why come the spring, we're gonna clean up. Okay?"

"We're gonna beat the top players because we're not top players. Got it."

I laughed. "Christ, you're gonna be hard work, aren't you?"

"Not me, Max. I'm a good lad. Me granny always says so."

I nodded and let him walk on. As I watched the back of his shirt, sporting the words BURNETT 29, I considered the other two phrases that had appeared in his player profile since joining the club.

Thinks he can learn a lot from Peter Bauer.

Hopes that playing for Max Best doesn't hurt his chances of breaking into the England team.

***

Tuesday, July 18

Champions League Second Qualifying Round, First Leg: FK RFS versus Saltney Town

I joined the lads and we flew to Riga in Latvia. We were still travelling lean, so most guys carried an extra bag with some gear, some spare kit. They didn't mind, especially when we told them that the savings went into their bonus pool.

I was getting really good at guesstimating the CAs of European teams based on their recent results and I had hit the bullseye with RFS. As I predicted, they were CA 95, which made them one of the weaker teams in the tournament.

I made one change to the starting eleven, dropping myself and putting Tockers in. The plan was to keep the 3-2 defensive setup, then have Davey Barnes on the left, Tockers on the right. A little bit of craft, a little bit of guile, a fuckton of towering beefy boys.

Our new average CA was 126.5, but I would have fancied us to keep a clean sheet against much better teams than the Latvians.

The match was stodgy, grinding, and predictable. We snuffed out their attacks, trundled up towards their box, won free kicks. Davey Barnes hit the ones that needed a left-footer, Edgar Wilde took some of the right-footed ones, and we scored two goals from defenders: Dunners and Tony Herbert.

2-0 wasn't enough for me to feel good about the result, though, so I took Tony off, slid Peter into his natural CB slot, moved Magnus back, and I went to CM.

71'

Saltney are making their first change. On comes the player-manager.

RFS are dropping deeper. Best hasn't even touched the ball yet!

Demetrescu takes the kick. He plays it short to Wilde.

Wilde dabs it back to Bauer.

Bauer to Badford.

Badford to Best.

Best jinks past his marker and he's away!

Devastating speed! Colin Beckton makes a run. He points to where he wants the ball to be played.

Best...

Scores!

He shot from long range, a ferocious strike that dipped late. The goalkeeper had absolutely no chance!

Some of the home fans are applauding.

74'

Saltney dominating possession in Riga.

The 19th pass of this move goes to Badford. He plays it short to Best, who gives it back to his midfield partner.

Best scurries away. Badford turns backwards and gives the ball to Evergreen.

Evergreen to Bauer.

Bauer fizzes a pass to Toquinho, who has Best on the overlap. The ball pops up, but the Brazilian hooks it over his head.

Poor first touch, but great invention!

Best moves forward and looks up.

He crosses for Barnes - but his header goes just over!

So close to a fourth goal for the Welsh champions.

75'

Schnakenberg collects the high, bouncing ball.

He rolls it quickly to Dunston.

Dunston to Bauer.

Bauer clips a 30-yard pass to Best, who deflects it into the path of Toquinho.

Toquinho centres the ball.

Beckton will get there ahead of the defenders...

And it's in!

A wonderful goal!

From back to front in the blink of an eye!

4-0 was solid. If we went 2-0 up in the second leg in Wales, I could even throw on some of the really young kids, like Luke Evans, a PA 131 left winger, or Jake Williams, a centre back who had the same ceiling.

For today, Bertie and Ludo got minutes, as did Tom Westwood, Omari Naysmith, and with 8 minutes to go, Charlie Cullen, my dream box-to-box midfielder. He purred around the pitch, playing simple passes, controlling the ball well under pressure and in tight spaces. For a second, I even thought one of his penalty-box runs might result in him getting a free header.

To think I had ever thought anyone else was my dream B2B!

We showered, changed, and played bangers on our private jet. We were cruising at 40,000 feet, sailing towards the Champions League league phase. I sent MD a message.

Your doctor is right. You've got the easiest job in the world.

***

Wednesday, July 19

@TheRumourRoom

Chester FC transfer coup! Cheb Alloula from Bayern to Chester CONFIRMED. Chester's summer business is looking half decent, you know! Masarik is a Prem-proven goalie, if anyone can revive the career of the Slovakian Messi Leo Los, it's Max Best, Matt Rush is quality, Jimmy McNeill can play, Demetrescu and Wilde are experienced, Alloula is flexible and knows English football. Decent, mate! I'm telling ya! Will they go down? Million percent they will! Will they pick up more points than you think? They might surprise a few teams!

***

Thursday, July 20

UEFA Conference League Second Qualifying Round, First Leg: C.D. Santa Clara versus Go Ahead Eagles

Santa Clara were an interesting team. They played in the Azores, some islands in the Atlantic. They were to Portugal what the Canary Islands were to Spain, and since Emma loved Tenerife I had tried to get her to come. She wanted to go to watch the Magpies with her dad, though.

So I had invited Chelli, the guy who ran the South American branch of our agency. Santa Clara's squad was 80% Brazilian. Maybe we could send them a couple more!

"It makes sense," said Chelli, as we watched the first half of another dreadful game. "We send players here."

"Breno," I said, filling a space that Chelli hadn't left. "Sorry, I interrupted."

He smiled. He was a chill guy, even after a gruelling series of flights. "We send players here, like Breno. They compete in la Liga Portugal, they become the permits."

"They get the permits."

"They get the permits to stay in Europe," said Chelli. "It is the, how you say, the pathway. And it's beautiful! Like Brazil."

I nodded. We had been for a tourist trip, the first stop of which was an abandoned hotel that seemed like a location from Fallout 4. After that came a volcanic crater that looked exactly like the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium. It was beautiful, though. Lush green, dramatic rock faces, and the water was heated by the local volcano, so it was therapeutic right until the moment the bastard decided to kill you. The Brazilian players on show had appallingly low PAs. They were a competent team, sure, but where was the upside? Who were the club going to rinse? "We can find them better players than this lot. What a waste of an opportunity this is!"

"Max," said Chelli, disapproving. He didn't like to hear me disparage his countrymen. "You said you liked the left-sided boy."

"Mate," I complained. "He's called Gabriel. No more Gabriels, okay?"

"Breno's real name is Gabriel."

My jaw dropped. "What?"

"Joking."

I hugged him and shook. "Chelli, you villain! You monster! Haha, you got me." The half-time whistle blew. "Right. Let's go and find some decision-makers and tell them how to run their club."

***

In the second half, a desperate clearance from the Eagles flew fifty yards, and two Santa Clara defenders collided as they tried to head it away.

Ruud Berkenbosch pounced. Fast, direct, clipped finish past the goalie. The goal was never in doubt from the moment the chance fell into Ruud's lap.

Chelli's eyes widened as he turned to me. "You buy him?!"

I felt my face harden. "If he doesn't come to Chester, I'm gonna steal his girl." Chelli made the sign of the cross and babbled religiously. I squeezed him again, laughing. "Como placed a bid. We're third out of three. Ruud can go where he wants, no hard feelings." A pass was hit laughably far in front of its intended target. "Jesus wept. Right, Chelli, new topic. Tell me an obscure fact about Brazilian art that only someone sophisticated would know."

***

Midway through the half, my XP counter ticked up to 2,000.

I added Tempsford FC to my squad list, which led me to discover that one of the lads was hiding a potentially major injury. He was PA 10, so it didn't matter much in a football sense, but I resolved to get there as soon as poss, make him fess up, and if needed, pay for his treatment. It's not like I was short of cash these days.

And that was it! The squad list was as complete as it was likely to get this season.