Player Manager - A Sports Progression Fantasy

11.

Player Profile: Emlyn Hughes. A versatile player who won every club tournament it was possible to win. Played for England across three decades. Despite playing for Liverpool, he was considered likeable and had a career as a captain on the BBC's A Question of Sport - a sort of lockdown Zoom quiz watched by up to 19 million people every week.

***

Tuesday, March 25

Our flight was cancelled. We weren't told the reason, which drove one of us crazy, but ultimately it didn't matter. We were stuck. We flew into action - literally not literally - calling MD, Brooke, Mateo, and Emma's dad. They got plotting and scheming and soon we had options - drive to a big Spanish city and fly from there, or wait till the morning for the next flight out on British Airways.

That one would land at Heathrow at three thirty, and it was an hour's drive from there to Aldershot. The Brig had loads of friends in Aldershot's army base and could easily arrange a pickup, and so I would almost certainly be at The Recreation Ground before Chester's team bus. I knew the wait would be stressful but it was the least worst option, as far as I could tell.

When everything was sorted on the logistics side, I called Sandra and told her the starting lineup and subs I wanted. It was pretty much our strongest eleven except Youngster - I wanted to let him rest - and I asked her to ask Josh and Wibbers to travel just in case.

After all, it would only take one incident to leave me stranded. Or a chain of small delays that added up to me arriving at the stadium two minutes too late to play. Or worse, two minutes too late to manage.

Missing one match out of 46 was no big deal, really, in the scheme of things, but this one was going to be huge. Epic. Aldershot were gunning for the playoffs and I expected their CA to be over 70. Not exactly David versus Goliath, but we would be underdogs for sure. We needed to be switched on to get a win.

If we could win, though, the rewards were going to be considerable. Grimsby were playing Barnet, away. If Grimsby lost and we won, that would put us in pole position. If that match was a draw, we could gain two points on both teams. If Grimsby won, we would leapfrog Barnet and go into second place.

Winning would pile the pressure on those teams. And why shouldn't we win? We had won our last eight league games. We were obdurate in defence and we had weapons. Hard shell, teeth, claws, and in Henri, beautifully extravagant plumage. Our starting eleven would average CA 66. Close enough to give Aldershot a game, and if I came on for the last twenty against tired defenders, we would have a fair chance of snatching a winner.

The thought of not even being in the country on the morning of such a vital game stressed me and my stress stressed Emma. We found a decent place to stay the night - I slept not a wink and ignored an invitation from Sumo to play a 'hot new game' on his Twitch stream some time soon. In my state I couldn't plan. Couldn't think beyond Tuesday night. I had XP burning a hole in my pocket but every time I opened the perk shop, I closed it again.

After breakfast I went straight to the airport and got more and more wound up until I saw a plane in the distance. It made the absurdly hard landing and I watched it roll all the way to the terminal, expecting the front to fall off at any second.

The front stayed on. At the exact right time, we started boarding. As it was the only plane in Gib, there was no queue of planes to delay us. We took off. Still I couldn't relax. What if there were storms around London? What if the Brig's mate wasn't there to meet us? We would have to rent a car and that process always seemed to take at least an hour. Taxi? Can you take us to Aldershot? No, guv, but by the way have you ever heard of trains? Trains! In England! When you needed to be on time!

I spent three hours and three minutes catastrophising, to the point that Emma asked if we could watch The Rock together. I said I was done with Nicolas Cage for a while, and that seemed to worry her.

We landed, I grabbed Emma's case and mine, dashed through the airport, spent an agonising twenty minutes queuing at passport control, but then we were in London, and that city's heavy, sinister air has never smelled sweeter. The Brig's mate was there to meet us, cheekily holding up a sign saying 'Mr. and Mrs. Weaver'. I scowled but Emma dug me in the ribs and said it was her idea and it was funny and I needed to give my head a wobble.

"I just hate travelling," I said. "I hate airports. Waiting lounges. Timetables."

"Brazil is going to be fun," she said. "Be nice to this man. He's gone out of his way to help us."

"I am always nice," I said.

She pulled a face.

***

Match 39 of 46: Aldershot versus Chester

We got to the stadium exactly on schedule, crazily early, and the Brig and Emma chatted to the Brig's mates while I tried to get out of the travel zombie state and into the whoo let's have some fun while playing winning football yeah mentality. I would like to say that I made the transition smoothly.

A text came - the bus had arrived. I went down into the away dressing room and for the millionth time, checked everyone's player profiles. Morale good, no new injuries. Okay. Okay, that was good. I simply had to pretend to be in a good mood for a while and we could get through it like nothing had ever happened.

We had our strongest line up, with Ben in goal, our miserly back line of Eddie, Christian, Zach, and Carl being guarded by Magnus. The midfield was Aff, Wisey, Jack, and Pascal. Henri the striker.

For some reason, everyone kept asking me if I was all right. I said yes, but just in case I was accidentally giving off weird vibes, I let Sandra do pre-match duties and while the lads went out to do their first warm ups and to test the pitch - pristine, by the way - I hopped in the shower. The water had a numbing effect. Sort of tethered me to the here and now, washed away some of the stress of the last thirty-six hours. When I pulled my shorts and socks on, I felt twenty percent better, but there was news to undo my gains and more.

Dean came over to my corner of the dressing room with Henri. Sandra followed. The physio spoke first. "Max, Henri's got a tight calf."

His player profile didn't show anything. Had I been fresher, I might have suggested something of the sort. Instead, I said, "Huh."

"I can play if you need me," said Henri. He gave me a worried look. "Of course you need me. I should play. I will play. Yes, I will play."

"We have seven more matches and a cup final," said Sandra.

It wasn't like Henri to malinger. What was going on? Was he just looking for attention? "Dean?" I said.

He exhaled. "In the olden days, we wouldn't have thought twice. Get him out there. But..." He gestured, meaning 'it ain't the olden days'. He shook his head. "If we lose tonight and Grimsby win, that's game over, right? So we could play him and if something tears he's got six weeks before the first playoff match. I mean, I'm just saying. Obviously, I don't think we should do that. I'm just telling you the options."

Making a guy tear a muscle to prove he wasn't lying? Nah. Mega nah. "We don't risk it. We have him on the bench," I said, "we keep an eye on the Grimsby score, make a calculation about the risk reward of bringing him on for the last twenty."

"Boss," said Sandra. "Team sheet's already in. We can replace him in the line up but if we do that, we can't use him."

Everyone was talking to me like I was in a bad mood and/or unable to make good decisions. Completely unjustified, but I rose above it. In football terms, the drop from Henri to Ziggy was alarming. We would effectively be playing with ten men until we got the ball into Aldershot's penalty box, which would be harder without a big, strong target man. In social terms, I knew that if Ziggy was an ineffective starter in a match 'just crying out for Chipper', I would get a ton of shit from the media and from fans.

I would also get stick for not asking Henri to take some painkillers or to 'run his injury off'. Play through the pain, mate. That's what champions do.

And where was Tom Westwood, who had done so well in the previous match against Aldershot? He was in the Welsh third tier, banging in goals for a club owned by Max Best. Is that the optimal use of Chester's resources?

And finally, if it ever got out that the reason I didn't play as striker instead of Henri was that I was in no physical state to do it because I'd skipped a key weekend of the season to go clubbing - literally - in Gibraltar? Hanging out with the owner of a rival team?

The thought of some gammon coming up to me on the street to complain about one or all of these things made my mind up for me, which is maybe not the best way to make key decisions at a critical point in the season. "Henri, I need you against Oldham on Saturday. Rest yourself up until then. You could do me a favour and go and sit with Emma. She's had a miserable last couple of days. Sandra, can you tell the ref Ziggy will start? Who do you want on the bench to replace him?"

"Chipper," she said, but she must have imagined something dark crossing my face because she hurriedly added, "Bad joke. Bad joke. Are you fit?"

"Fighting fit."

"Sharky. Aldershot have some slow players."

"Cool."

***

In our home match against The Shots, we had gone three-nil down. That had been the last hurrah of a no-mark known briefly as The Influencer, because I had orchestrated a stunning second-half comeback and booted his phone onto the roof of the Harry McNally Terrace. He left with his tail between his legs, and so did Aldershot.

That experience, plus the fact that we were on a long winning streak and were above them in the table made the home team start out more cagily than Sandra had expected.

"Playing it safe, aren't they?"

"We are scary," I said. "I'd hate to play against Chester." I checked the match ratings, our Conditions, and the score from the other top-of-the-table clash. "How would you set up against us?"

Sandra raised her eyebrows. "Uh. Three-four-three. It's my new favourite. I'm getting obsessed with it."

That woke me up a little bit. 3-4-3 was the next formation I could buy and I didn't like it. To me it seemed like the latest must-have tactical fad that worked with elite players but not in tier five. Sandra saying it was her new favourite was fascinating, not least because her staff profile still showed her as being a 4-2-3-1 girl.

My XP balance was growing and had shot past 11,000, more than enough to buy 3-4-3 plus something else, but I was saving up to buy Relationism. To some extent it was stubborn pride - surely my skills were good enough for the National League? Buying new formations, unlocking Attributes, even buying a monthly perk was repellant. "Three-four-three, wow. I've never seen it used well. Tell me more."

She eyed me. "How about we have this conversation when you're less... tired?"

I eyed her right back. "Is my banter not sparkling enough for you?"

"Your banter is as radiant as always, boss, especially the grunts. Ugh for yes and ugh! for no. Head in hands staring at the floor means 'safe to approach'. Staring at the ceiling while gnashing your teeth means 'ready to hear all your funny stories from the weekend!'"

I simmered for a few seconds, then let out a laugh. "I had a shit time."

"I know."

I checked nothing interesting was happening on the pitch. "Have you got any funny stories from the weekend?"

"Yes," she said. "I'll tell you after we win." She scanned the pitch. "Looks like a stalemate."

I lowered my voice. "We've got the same problem as Grimsby. Very good defence, solid midfield, not much threat up top." Grimsby versus Barnet was still nil-nil. I checked the Live Table and didn't mind the look of it. If both games were draws, our destiny would stay in our hands. Or was I missing something? "Are we happy with a draw?"

Sandra sucked her lips into a hard pout while she considered the question. "Away point against a rival is always decent. How it feels depends on the other result but we can't control that, can we? You're always saying control what we can. You missed your plane, you're in a grump, Henri's got a mysterious injury, Shots have a top-five defence. Unless you go on a rampage like last time, I don't think we're carving them open. We keep the game tight like this, keep the scores close, and you unleash your special brand of sparkling banter near the end."

"I've got great bantz," I said, sulkily. Sandra turned away and covered her mouth.

***

Every few minutes, someone would do something to cheer me up.

On the pitch, Pascal showed why the curse rated him so highly - he found space, passed, and darted away, a perpetual motion machine. Ziggy had finally turned CA 50 - getting that last point had been agonisingly slow. He was completely dominated by the two hulking centre backs he was up against but when Pascal hit a sharp square ball to him, Ziggy first-timed it just wide of the post. If we fed him, he would score! The defence was rock solid - adding Zach and Christian to the mix had been worth every penny of their fees and wages. Meanwhile, Aff and Carl showed why clubs were calling me every week trying to get me to discuss transfers.

Off the pitch, Vimsy came up to me with a weird drawing he'd made. "What do you think?"

I examined it but couldn't make head nor tail of what it was. Lots of shapes and cylinders on two sort of shelves. "Mate, a few hours ago I was practically in Africa. Don't give me blob tests."

"It's the trophy cabinet, look. I've moved the Cheshire Cup to the side, see?"

I held it away from me, like old people who don't have their glasses do. "Oh, okay. Why?"

He'd been waiting for that. He whipped out a pencil and drew a small circle. When he saw that I had no clue, he explained. "It's your Manager of the Month award! For March! Six wins at least."

"Sandra did Maidstone."

"Bah," he said, waving my words away. "You're nailed on." He looked up as a red-shirted player struck a long shot miles over the bar. "Did you find anyone?"

"What?"

"You were off scouting, right? I heard you got a tip about a player."

"Oh. Not for us, I don't think, but it wasn't a wasted trip."

"Good. That's good."

Yeah, I thought. It was good. I was building a web of connections that would help me put good footballers into suitable positions and I would get rich along the way. It was just that this bloody National League was getting to me. One automatic promotion slot! It was crazy. Almost every team in the league was full-time professional and some had budgets bigger than League Two sides. The division needed to be absorbed into the EFL as League Three. The bottleneck was so narrow. If we couldn't slip through...

If we didn't get promoted there would be no dentist, no progress towards a new stadium, we would lose Wibbers, and there would be no Brazilians.

It didn't bear thinking about, but there I was, passively waiting for the second half. Oh, sure, I was mechanically hitting my hotkeys, making tweaks, using the Without Ball screens to tighten up the defence. I would use Seal It Up near the end if we needed to get gung-ho and I would use Cupid's Arrow to connect me and whoever looked the most dangerous. I was doing all the right things. I was being a seriously good football manager. But I wasn't in it. I had no emotional connection to the match. Maybe it was because I was tired, maybe there was a deeper reason.

The one time I left my dugout was on the 40th minute, sensing danger. Carl Carlile won a header and thought it was going to Magnus, so he sprinted forward to create an overload with Pascal. A really good chance to do something with a lot of expected threat! But he had completely misjudged it.

Carlile with the header towards the DM slot.

Evergreen glances over his shoulder to see what his options will be.

But Baxter appears out of nowhere! He leaps and chests the ball forward.

Fierce leaves the defensive line and slides in.

The ball ricochets kindly for Onions. He plays it forward to his left.

Smith is wide open!

The winger dashes into the penalty box. He has got options.

He elects to shoot...

GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

Finished with aplomb!

Chester were carved open.

Aldershot move up to fourth!

I shook my head, but I wasn't even angry. It was just one of those things. Neither Carl nor Magnus saw that Baxter guy in their blind spots, and that was enough to cause havoc. Christian probably should have stood his man up and kept the shape of the defensive line, but on the other hand, he won the tackle and nine times out of ten that would have been the end of the danger.

Aldershot dropped back to a mid block and invited us to play through them. We did, but struggled to create clear-cut chances. I didn't mind it - we'd had a lot of practice playing against packed defences. Later, I would go on and unleash a barrage of long shots. One would go in and that would be that.

***

Half time was quiet, but not in a bad way. Morale was still exceptionally high - an average of 5.8 (out of 7) across the whole squad. That had been the first goal we'd conceded in the entire month of March. It was nowhere enough to put us off our stride.

"Guys," I said, after the usual decompression phase. My energy was relatively low, but that simply made the players listen harder. "Decent half. They got their break. We'll get ours. It's still nil-nil at Barnet but it really doesn't matter what happens there. Every result is great for us, one way or another. We have to do our jobs, and the absolute priority is to get a goal and get back in this game so I can win Manager of the Month for March."

There was a moment of quiet bafflement. Eddie Moore said, "Say that again, boss?"

"I want to be Manager of the Month for March and then I'll be Player of the Month for April. No-one's ever done that before and no-one's ever gonna do that again." I caught Zach's face - half pumped by the awesomeness of my words and half-sedated by the flatness of my delivery - and had to laugh. It broke what little tension there was in the room. If the boss is relaxed, I can relax! I tapped the tactics board. "The formation is fine. What we're doing is working. This lot are good. They're really good but we've got tricks up our sleeve. So for now we stick at it, hang in there, all that Vimsy stuff. Vimsy, say one of those things."

Vimsy stepped forward. "Keep working your bloody socks off, lads! These guys aren't as fresh as you. They're all carrying knocks, they're gasping, they're running two yards for every one you're doing. Turn that screw, lads!"

I absolutely beamed at him. "Come here," I said, waving him in.

"It's half time, Max."

"Come on."

Reluctantly, he took little steps towards me until I bear-hugged him. I slapped him on the back a few times and on a whim, took him by the hand and raised it above his head. "Employee of the Week!" I yelled. An ear-splitting round of applause followed, supplemented by whistles, and, of course, Texan whoops.

"Max," complained Vimsy, but I hugged him again and made him stand by my side while I draped an arm around his shoulder.

"Lads," I said, when I could be heard again. "I've had a shit day. But I had a great weekend before that and I've come home and I'm your manager and you're my players and I've got Vimsy in my corner. I'm grumpy on the outside but on the inside I'm loving life, all right? I wanted us to evolve this season and what have we done? In the first match against Aldershot they tore through us again and again and it was three-nil at half time. Could have been six. Today? They've got lucky but barely created anything. We've got our hard shell. What about teeth?" I smiled. "Aff's deadly. Ziggy's sharp. Pascal's, er..."

"Relentless," suggested Pascal.

I stared, stupidly, because I couldn't think of what Pascal was. I rubbed my eyes.

"Dynamic," suggested Pascal. "Fearsome. Football intelligence made flesh."

"I think I was going to say an invasive species."

"Space invader!" he complained.

"That's what I said. And we've got a shark on the bench. But the most efficient animal - don't fact check this - is one who lets someone else do all the work and then moves in after the kill. Erm. Can't remember the name. Not a vulture. What's a land-based vulture?"

"Coyote," said Zach. "Could be you fellas call 'em jackals."

"Day of the Zachal," I said. "That could be a match programme theme." The bell rang. One minute. "I'm mentally tired but I can do twenty-five minutes, easy. When I come on, I'll revamp the whole midfield, I reckon. Andrew and Sharky will join me and we'll raise the tempo against their tired legs. Pascal, Ryan, Wisey, you'll be coming off most likely so if you can put a bit more in for twenty minutes that's gonna make it easier for us. Tire them out, give me an easy kill. Got me? Good. Let's go chomp-chomp."

They clattered out. Sandra, Vimsy, and I were the last to leave, apart from the physios. Sandra said, "I'm not Employee of the Week? I beat Maidstone while you were off gallivanting."

"Vimsy said a thing."

She shook her head. "I can say things. Better things than let's go chomp-chomp."

I smiled. "Either I'm absolutely shattered or the evolution theme has run its course. What do you reckon?"

"I reckon sometimes two things can be true."

I cocked my head back and to the side. "See, that was top. Why didn't you say that at half time?"

I tried to jauntily skip past her but she put her hand on my chest, forcefully. "Shinpads, boss."

"Yes! Right." I went back to my kit bag, which the Brig had brought for me. Over time I'd tried different types of shinnies, but had settled on oversized ones with ankle protection. I picked them up and slapped them into my palm. "Sandra Lane. Employee of the Second Half! See? We've got everything we need. Don't need to buy anything else."

***

Gambling adverts say 'when the fun stops, stop.' But I couldn't stop the match; I was forced to sit through twenty minutes of so-called action that were every bit as dispiriting and stressful as waiting at Gibraltar airport trying to will a plane into existence.

Aldershot must have been chastened by the second-half spanking we'd given them at the Deva because now that they had a lead to defend they were super organised, super hard to break down, super risk-averse. It didn't help that our focal point was Ziggy, but I could hardly get mad at him, could I? If he had stayed at FC United, he would probably be on 15 goals. The lesson of our season - and Grimsby's - was that you needed a good striker if you wanted to be successful. Which is easier said than done, guys.

I wondered what had happened to Henri. Had he faked it? The curse said there was nothing wrong with him in the slightest. Worrying. If Henri had checked out of the season, we would achieve precisely nothing. I rubbed my head. That wasn't right. I would try to re-skill as a striker as fast as I could. Stop practising set pieces and technique, do more headers, more strength work. I didn't like playing with my back to goal and didn't enjoy the physical contest, but I would do a passable job.

Was there a perk that could help me if we didn't have a striker? The shop - closed during the match, of course - was uninspiring. Nothing screamed that it would help me beat Oldham or Gateshead. One option was Form for 500 XP. What it did wasn't well explained but maybe buying it would satisfy my lizard brain's need to consume. Some retail therapy. Just enough progress to make me feel like I wasn't finishing the season too passively, to shut down the nagging thought that I shouldn't be saving up, not now, not now.

The minutes drifted past. There were headers, tackles, sprints, throw-ins. It was football straight from 1988. Not quite garbage, but it was close.

We tried our best to put moves together. We never dipped below sixty percent possession and we achieved one aim - we made Aldershot run and run. The match ratings were very slightly in their favour, but we were draining their Condition. As the minutes ticked by, more of their players dropped below 80%, then 75%, and even past 70%, which was when fatigue was visible to the naked eye. More Aldershot players got messages in their player profiles.

Suspected ankle injury.

Suspected foot injury.

Suspected knee injury.

We got some, too - we always did. But I'd learned - or I thought I had - that if someone had a suspected foot injury but his Condition was still high, you might as well keep him on the pitch. His injury wasn't going to get worse, most likely. If someone got a knee injury and his Condition dropped to 44%, you took him off the pitch right away. Alarm! Danger!

I got the feeling that Aldershot's manager was waiting for me to make my move before changing anything, which given he had better players overall was probably smart. But it did make me wonder what would happen if I simply didn't change anything. His guys would be absolutely wrecked in the last ten minutes. I could switch to 4-4-2, push Magnus to right mid, Pascal up front.

While I was ruminating, Grimsby Town scored. Barnet 0, Town 1. Danny Flash.

Okay, so that meant I had to get proactive. The clock hit 70 and I thought, fuck it. We had nothing to lose.

Triple change for Chester.

Off go Ryan Jack, James Wise, and Pascal Bochum.

They have worked hard.

On come Max Best, Andrew Harrison, and Wes Hayward.

Christian Fierce offers Best the captain's armband.

Best waves it away.

I took thirty seconds to finish my warm up - when I was doing manager stuff I found it hard to concentrate on my needs as a player - and then did a big sprint at the ball. A defender cleared it and I had a tiny out-of-body-experience.

I was fucking wrecked. I felt like a ship whose sails were full of cannonball holes. Clearly it was going to be one of those days when mind and body weren't in total sync. It happened to me a few times a season, same as with any player, but the timing, man. The timing. Maybe if I had stayed in England instead of - No! Try to stay positive.

Now that I'd made my big move, Aldershot's manager made some changes of his own. That gave me some time to catastrophise while I walked to Sandra.

"Sandra, he's taking his wingers off; they're doing 5-3-2. Is that keep it tight, look for breaks?"

"Sounds about right. Any signs of them marking you?"

I checked the screens. "No."

"So business as usual."

She was fresher; she could think straight. I should do less managing and focus on getting on the ball. Keep it simple, Seals. Listen to the boss lady. "Okay. Erm... 5-3-2. The full backs won't attack, so there's nothing coming down our flanks. What about moving a full back to wing back?"

"Why not both?"

"Too much," I lied. It was only the constraints of the curse that stopped me pushing all my wide players one zone further. As it was, I could shift one and nudge the others.

Sandra considered it. "Eddie."

"Aight."

I slid Eddie's icon one step forward and used the With Ball screens to push Carl, Aff, and Sharky as far forward as I could.

I walked back to central midfield and looked around at the familiar faces. We'd been contacted about selling Aff and Carl to a League Two club - I had asked to delay negotiations until after the Oldham game - but it seemed we had eight games left with the current crew. Ten including the playoffs. That was an eternity.

Aff held off a challenge and looked for a pass. It was supposed to be me supporting him! I raced across and pointed - Aff used his weaker right to put the ball where I wanted. I nudged it first time out to the left where Eddie was bombing forward. He was in space but he wouldn't have an easy cross; Aff and I hurried to give him more options.

Eddie got to the edge of the box and cut the ball back to Aff. Aff had to use his right again, but flicked the ball into my path. It bounced up a fraction too high for a half-volley so I checked where the goalie was and sort of lashed down at the ball, imparting vicious spin and power...

Which was a real menace to whichever vehicle it hit in the stadium's car park.

"Fuck me," I said, hands on knees while the home fans pissed themselves. Soon they were chanting, "EFL? You're having a laugh!"

Ziggy ambled over. "Was that Manager of the Month material?"

"They don't count what I do on the pitch."

Ziggy looked up and shielded his eyes from the floodlights. "They might if they see that."

"The cameras are in Barnet," I said. "No-one's watching this except on highlights."

"If I was the director, I'd put that shot on the highlights. It went higher than the lights."

"If I do that again, can you punch me in the dick, please?"

"Yes, boss," he said.

The goalie took the goal kick - he booted it long - and the new patterns of play emerged. Our back line was higher, our wide players would get more joy, but there was little danger from crosses when it was Ziggy against three centre backs. The image of him alone in the penalty area, alone in a sea of defenders, was startling. How are we supposed to score from that?

For the millionth time, my traitorous mind wished I had brought Chipper instead of Sharky. The latter could get to the byline, but then what? It was one-in-a-million that anything he did would lead to a goal when the penalty box was awash with defenders. Chipper would win headers and draw aggro onto himself while others exploited the space he made. Okay, but Chipper was a dick. I couldn't let him spread his Chipperness no matter what it cost on a game by game basis.

What could I do with what I had?

Maybe we could draw Aldershot onto us with some Let It Happen.

I swapped places with Magnus and put my foot on the ball in the DM slot. Shot's strikers came to press me but the midfielders stayed put. Let It Happen was not on today's menu. I passed to Andrew and rethought. I was too fried to come up with anything really clever, so I tried to keep things simple and went back to basics.

"Zach," I said, keeping an eye on the action in front of me.

"Yes, boss."

"You're a science boy. Let me check some science on you."

"Ready when you are."

"Positional play is underpinned by having numerical superiority."

"Yes, boss."

"Aldershot have two strikers so we should have three defenders."

"Yes, boss."

We paused as it seemed Shot might turn the ball over, but nothing came of it. "They've got three in midfield, so we should have four."

"Sounds right to me."

"That means... Do I want 3-4-3?"

"We've never trained 3-4-3, boss."

I nodded and jogged forward. A ball was played into midfield and Shot's most creative CM, Onions, ran onto it. When he touched the ball, hoping to break through the lines, he ran straight into my shoulder while the ball found itself trapped under my studs. Onions slid three yards away; I rolled the ball to Magnus.

Christian had been listening. "Qualitative superiority, boss. Don't forget that." He meant I was better than Onions. Okay, true, but unlike against Grimsby, me marking someone out of the game wasn't going to help us get a result.

The rush of adrenaline from the shoulder barge brought me some clarity. "We haven't trained 3-4-3 exactly, but we've got something close." I switched us to 3-5-2 and slid my players around. The back three was Christian, Zach, and Carl. Left mid was Eddie, right mid Sharky (both set to be as narrow as the screens would allow). Centre mids were Andrew and Magnus. Up front, Aff and Ziggy. In theory I was the third CM, but was free to join the strikers, turning 3-5-2 into 3-4-3.

The effect of this change was almost instant - our possession stats leapt and we forced Shots all the way back. When they tried to break they got smashed in duels. We had the numbers in defence, and it was child's play to move the ball through their feeble press!

I found myself loitering near Ziggy - I simply wasn't needed elsewhere. Then...

Evergreen passes to Hayward. He drives towards the left back, who retreats.

Hayward puts his foot on the ball and looks inside. He finds Best.

Best points to the far post and prepares to chip a curling cross.

Best controls the ball through two defenders! He spotted a gap.

Tremendous burst of speed.

Has he taken the ball too wide?

He's going to have a crack...

Off the post!

Did the goalie have it covered?

The Chester fans have their heads in their hands.

Much better from Best.

It was happening! The momentum changed so completely it was just as disorientating as seeing there was no plane waiting to whizz me home. I ran with more purpose. The ball obeyed me.

We pushed forward and got openings. Sharky menaced his man but then cut back to roll passes for me to thrash at goal. The first one went just over. The second had much more dip and bend and the goalie got a hand to it. The third exploded off me and was heading for the inside side-netting - perfection - but the goalie found another inch of arm from somewhere and tipped my shot onto the crossbar. It shot up and gravity took an age to kick in. Ziggy and Aff were waiting for it to drop but it hit the wrong edge of the bar and bounced back behind the goal.

But Aldershot weren't stupid and they weren't going to let me keep taking potshots. They didn't exactly mark me but when I broke from midfield they tracked me, and their smarter players tried to close the passing lanes between Sharky and me.

With fifteen minutes left I used Seal It Up so we could get even more attack-minded. But who to link with Cupid's Arrow? Me to Christian Fierce, perhaps? I could target him from corners and free kicks. Or Aff? No, my passes to him were fraught with danger. Shot had too many bodies back. I gambled on connecting with Andrew Harrison, then put him to make forward runs and allowed him to dribble. Perhaps he could make a difference with some penalty box entries. Another body in there, causing havoc, disrupting the defence. 3-5-2 turning into 3-3-4.

Andrew and I passed to each other a few times. I drifted wide right looking for Sharky, but his marker did a good job. I did a Cody Chambers chop-turn and pinged a ball to the left. Eddie took it forward and fizzed it back to my feet. Instinct told me to let it run through my legs with just a feathery redirection.

The ball ran perfectly into Andrew's stride and he took it past a defender.

The defender, though, hadn't expected such quality and he had slid in to where he thought the ball would go. He crunched into Andrew, leaving him in a heap. Andrew's Stamina and Strength turned red. We had used our three subs. Yet another reason we needed to get promoted this season - in serious leagues you were allowed to make five changes. More minutes for young players, more grandiose tactical reorganisations, more more more.

That, though, was an increasingly unlikely future. In the here and now, I watched through a kind of fog while Dean checked Andrew and the ref booked his assailant. Zach had words with the guy. Aldershot's captain had words with Zach. Christian had words with their captain. The match was spiralling. My Cupid's Arrow partner would play no further part in the game. Barnet had equalised. I was too drained for any of it to get to me on an emotional basis. I looked at where the foul had happened. Twenty-five yards out, right of centre. Dreamy. It's like a dream. After this shot we would play the match ten against eleven. Backs to the wall defending. Would we get another chance? Very possibly not. This was one shot to save our season.

I stayed still while Dean helped Andrew hobble off the pitch, while the ref tried and failed to restore order, while the noise from the stands died down until there was only a light hum.

Eventually, when it was time to take the free kick, all I could hear was the ref's whistle. I used Masterpiece Theatre to drag Aff to my side. If the angle was great for a right-footer, it was even better for a leftie. The goalie had set his wall for me, not for Aff, and it was too late for him to readjust.

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"Aff," I said. "Hit it side foot over the wall, top right." He gave me the blank look I always got if I gave verbal instructions that contradicted what I was asking for via the curse. I was set as the team's free kick and corner taker, so Aff couldn't take that kick even if I told him I would give him twenty thousand in cash if he did. It was hard to know if he had heard me or if the curse had sort of filtered out my instruction.

Next, I waved at Zach to go more towards the far post, while bringing him closer to me on the Masterpiece Theatre screen.

Then I did three things almost simultaneously.

I smashed the Free Hit button.

I stepped away from the ball, screaming at Zach. "What the fuck are you doing?"

I set Aff as our free kick taker.

Zach's surprise was real, and every defender turned to see what was happening. The goalie, too, looked away from the ball and relaxed, and by the time he realised he'd been scammed, it was too late.

Best to take the free kick. He motions to Green.

Green comes closer. He doesn't seem to be sure what his manager wants.

Best berates his defender.

Aff swishes the ball into the top-right!

GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

Struck so sweetly! The goalie barely moved!

The Aldershot captain is complaining to the referee.

Best embraces Green! Aff runs to the joyous away end!

Chester are level! Their destiny is still in their hands!

***

The last ten minutes or so were wild. Aldershot, seeing that we were playing with ten, reorganised to 3-5-2. I dropped to the DM slot and sprinted for all my life. This draw, this point was suddenly the most valuable substance in the known universe. I thundered into tackles, shoulder-barged Shotters into touch while stealing their lunch, and dribbled past their frantic, disorganised press. Once clear of danger we reset and passed the ball around. After a couple of minutes of chasing our shadows, Aldershot were so far in the red zone it was like we had the extra man.

In moments where there was an injury or the ref was lecturing a player, I heard the thousand Chester fans in the away end singing their hearts out. During the action itself, I only heard the hum. But one time, the volume got so loud it shattered my bubble of awareness.

I got the ball, did a shake n' bake where I sent a defender's body weight left then burst past him on the right, and suddenly there was absolute delirium. I looked around, confused, and chipped the ball towards the far corner flag. Max Best goes for the corner!

The Chester fans had gone wild because Barnet had scored again. Barnet were beating Grimsby. If that match stayed the same score, Barnet would go level on points with Grimsby, and the goal difference would be close. But more importantly, Chester would be five points behind both... with two games in hand! Win those and we would be one point clear at the top of the league.

I lifted my arms in waves, trying to fill our wings with air. This flight would not be cancelled. The Aldershot fans had long since quit mocking us, and their attempts to gee up their players were weak. The spirit was with the blues.

Carl went up for, and won, a header, but Onions won the rebound. He did a little shake n' bake move of his own and he was shaping to shoot. Could have been dangerous, but I made up the ground and slid in, hooking the ball away. Christian Fierce tackled at the same time, while Magnus had arrived from the other side and Zach Green had hurled himself in front of the shot.

There was only one logical response to such a display of teamwork, determination, and self-sacrifice: I clenched my hands into balls and roared, the kind of full-on guttural scream where you're surprised your abs don't pop out.

I prowled around, waiting for someone to break clear of his marker so I could fucking smash into him, but we didn't lose another duel. The ref blew for full-time and I joined my players over at the away end. Our winning streak was over. Nobody gave a shit.

The fans thought they knew where we stood and for those brief minutes, at least, I had zero doubts they were right.

"We're gonna win the league! We're gonna win the league! And now you're gonna believe us, and now you're gonna believe us... we're gonna win the league!"

***

I got showered, dressed, and went straight to the team bus. I thought I would fall asleep instantly, but I was far too wired. I put my MaxPods Max on and played some brown noise. I think I was just starting to do some microsleeps when something touched me. Emma was gently drawing her hand across my face. Sweet, but her hand was bloody freezing. "Babes," she said. "We're not going home on the bus. Did you forget?"

"Uh?"

"Come on."

I got up and followed her off the coach. The Brig was waiting. He led us to his car. Wait, that wasn't right. "No, John. You stay and hang out with your mates."

He smiled. "These particular friends are better in small doses, sir. If you don't mind, let's crack on. I'll drop you off and bring Emma home."

I was compos mentis enough to make one good decision. "Er, no. Emma first. Ladies first."

"Very good, sir."

***

On the drive, I woke up a few times, and each time there was a growing sense of unease located somewhere around the middle of my stomach.

In the minds of the players, the media, the fans, of everyone, we were one point clear at the top of the table.

But we weren't. We were five points behind, Oldham was going to be even harder than Aldershot, and Gateshead would be even harder than that.

I wanted to put out a tweet saying 'everyone calm down and get real' but I also wanted everyone to enjoy the moment. Let them dream.

Oldham were likely to stop us in our tracks, and the brevity of our 'lead' at the top of the table would be crushing. The more the fans rejoiced now, the harder a setback would hit them.

The queasiness grew. What could I do, though? I couldn't get higher Morale or new players. I couldn't get more motivation. Inwardly groaning at my weakness, I went to the perk shop.

XP balance: 11,642