Player Manager - A Sports Progression Fantasy

12.

Saturday, March 29

It was lunchtime on a sunny day and I was being whisked down the motorway in a white convertible by a sensationally hot blonde. Just the dreamiest, most perfect way to go to Saint-Tropez. Sadly, we weren't going to the French Riviera, but to Oldham.

Brooke had bought or was renting a BMW 4 Series 420i M Sport, which is yet another product name that sounds more like a Wifi password.

"This should be called the BMW Huntsman, or something like that," I said, as I flicked through the manual I'd found while nosily rummaging in the glove compartment.

"Named after the spider?"

"What?"

Brooke inhaled. "So we're allowed to talk now, are we?"

"Yes. We're on the motorway. We stay in this lane for ages. I trust you here."

"But not in the city."

"That's right. You need to concentrate."

She made a noise. "I can talk and navigate the treacherous outskirts of Chester."

"Everyone says that. Science says otherwise."

Brooke decided not to press the issue. "BMW Fox."

"Huh. You'd rather be the fox than the huntsman?"

"I would never buy a car called Huntsman. That's not how I ride. Okay, tell me again who we're going to meet."

"We're going to Oldham Athletic. They are the only club ever to go from the Premier League to non-league. Teams did it before, of course, but it wasn't called the Premier League then. It's much harder to fail so badly these days. You get parachute payments when you drop down, so you've got tons more money than the teams in the lower leagues. Sunderland went from the Prem to the Championship to League One but even they couldn't fail any further down."

"How did Oldham do it?"

"They were in the first year of the Prem and at that time it was a pretty normal league. The progress to being the richest league in world football took years. So Oldham went down before it was awash with cash. At some point they got an owner who was an agent and that was catastrophic. That's why I got a bad reception when I went there the first time."

"Bad reception?"

"Yeah. I was put in a room with some gammons. They heard I was an agent and they all turned purple. The waitress was pretty rude, too. This is the stupidity that's ingrained in football that gives us potential advantages if we can weed it out at our club. Even if you don't like agents you need to have good relationships with them, make them feel welcome. If they have a choice of clubs to send their players to, soft factors could make the difference. That's why I want you to meet Bill Brown. He's Oldham's hospitality chief. He's a lovely guy, made me feel super, super welcome. I think even with the gammon attack, my overall experience of Oldham was positive because of Bill. And because of the pies."

"So am I to learn what to do or what not to do?"

"Both. Worst case scenario, we'll get some ideas, won't we? There are different levels of hospitality experience for different sets of fans. When we rebuild the stadium we're going to have to put loads of corporate boxes in for when we host top-level matches. It's like, you've got to have X number of boxes for the bigwigs. Okay, so maybe we host one such game every now and then. What about the rest of the year? What do we do with the boxes? I was thinking one could be a crèche."

"Crèche?"

"What do you call it? Baby place. Place with babies. Put your babies in there and go shopping."

"Oh!"

"Little bonus for the players, innit? And sponsors can have boxes, obviously, but if we have 20 sky boxes and 6 big suites we're going to need to fill them with normos. Oldham are ahead of us in those terms so let's learn what we can from them. Hospitality for normal fans. A little slice of the VIP lifestyle. Forty-pounds for nicer seats, a half-time pie, and a few anecdotes from a former player like we do in the Legends Lounge. It's not rocket science but we can start thinking about it. And, er..."

"What?"

"When we start rebuilding the stadium we're going to expand fast. We'll go from selling fifty special meals to five hundred. Two boxes to thirty. We'll have disabled access, sensory rooms, all that good stuff. We'll need staff who are as comfortable joking with gammons as they are dealing with floating megabrains. Someone who isn't going to start a fight with a guy with MS because he's bringing crutches into the stadium. Someone who can defuse tension and bring people together."

"Why do I feel like you're trying to describe yourself?"

I tipped my head back and laughed. "No way. I know that's not me. No, I was thinking maybe we can poach Bill."

"Oh, I see."

"It's just an idea. Your input is worth more than mine on that one. It's possible I overindex my own experiences. But he's someone who was nice to me when I was just starting and didn't have a clue what I was doing - I mean, he must have smelled how green I was from a mile away - and he navigated the tension between me and the gammons beautifully. It just seems like, yeah, there's an amazing option, ready made, let's put him right at the top of our list. He's an Oldham fan and it might not be easy to persuade him to move. I'd like to create jobs for local people but we need professionals if we're gonna make the transition from tiny fan-owned club to ginormous fan-owned financial juggernaut. Talking of juggernauts, do you see that truck in front of us? The one that seems to be approaching like a cliff edge?"

Brooke sighed and took her foot off the accelerator until the distance between the vehicles was safe. "Happy, now?"

"Yes, actually. Life's good. West Didsbury are up and look like going through the season unbeaten. Saltney are pulling clear of their league and it would be more shocking than Devon Loch if they didn't win. Chester Women need three wins from four; they'll win all their matches. It's done. They did it. The documentary will have a happy ending. Our kids are doing well and none got poached. My friend is buying a club in Gibraltar, which is good for me personally and for some Chester players who can't come with us on our journey."

There was a gap in the traffic and Brooke accelerated. We overtook the lorry and eased back into the slow lane. It was very smooth, very decisive, very controlled. "How do you make decisions about player journeys?"

"You can see when someone stops improving. That's the time to sell."

"It could be a plateau. Not all progress is linear."

"Sure. Maybe I'll get some wrong. But the basic principle of this project is to increase the three standard income streams of a football club - gate money, that's ticket sales, you've heard that phrase, right? Gate money; commercial; broadcast - all clubs have that income. Bigger stadium and more hospitality packages leads to more gate money. Success on the pitch leads to greater sponsorship income and merch sales. Getting to a higher division gets you more broadcast revenue. But we've got a fourth and fifth stream. The fourth is player sales. The fifth is investment income. Pitch rentals. A hotel near the stadium. Buying flats to rent to our players. Anything where we can invest and get a return. The more I think about it, the more I think that's where the big wins are gonna be, and I have to do that stuff anyway because it's the only way to make sure MD increases my budget. He's not as ambitious as me and that's fine if I plan around it. Could even prove to be better, long-term. Certainly better for Chester. Okay but most of the injections of cash will be from player sales. We've had a concrete offer for Aff and Carl and it'll be a wrench to see them go - and to play against them next season - but it's good for us, for them, and it's not inherently bad to refresh the squad. Alex Ferguson used to have a sense of when things were getting stale or when a young player was ready to kick a star out of the team and he was pretty ruthless about it."

"I like those boys."

"Me, too. Carl still has some growth left in him but if we wait another season will we get a lot more money for him? I doubt it. I'm still learning the market but I think the optimal time to sell is just before players hit their limits. In an ideal world, this summer I would sell those two, Ben Cavanagh, James Wise, and Steve Alton. In one of the next two windows it'll be Eddie Moore. It's fine if some stay as backups but we need to sell one or two guys every window and we need to have the next guys more or less ready to step into the team. That's going to be bumpy at times but I think I can do it. We have plenty of players who can cope with League Two, many who can do League One, a few who can come all the way to the Championship."

"Where does Zach fit?"

I gave her a sharp look. "Top end of the Championship. Playoff team." I continued to stare until I thought I saw a very slight reddening of a microscopic area of her cheeks. Surely not? I got slightly bombastic. "Yeah, I can't wait to flog him to some Championship chumps. Get a good few million for that lad, we will. I've got it all planned. December 2026 I aim all my free kicks and corners at him. He scores five goals in seven games just as the transfer window opens. We'll do a photoshoot for him to promote yoghurts or something and we'll hire a make-up artist to make his eyes seem a more natural distance apart. We'll attach electrodes that zap every time he says y'all. Yeah, I'll do a whole My Fair Lady scam on him and clubs will be at the door thrusting cash at me and I'll be like 'oh sorry to see him go he's mint but I suppose we could accept two million quid' and as soon as I hang up I'll call the builder and scream 'get me a hydrotherapy pool, stat!'"

Brooke was leaning forward a smidge. "I know you like him."

"He's just a player. He's a commodity. He's a good to be traded."

"Max."

"What's going on? Why are we talking about the Zachass?"

Brooke winced. She tapped the steering wheel a few times while she considered her next words. "Okay, we're really doing this. Come on, Brooke." She sat up straighter and coughed. "I, er, asked him out."

I tapped the dashboard and the door around my knees. "This car has airbags, right? Crumple zones?"

She tutted, sighed, and let out one laugh. "What are you doing?"

I waved my hands around. "It's the end times! It's a sign of the apocalypse! The Zachass. Remember? He broke my arm and you called him the Zachass. It's wild that I need to remind you of how you feel about him."

"That was unlucky and it was just a smudge on an X-ray, you said it yourself, and frankly it was your fault for spacing out on a football pitch."

I recoiled. "Is that what he told you?"

"No," she said, with heat. "No," she repeated, normal. "But since then when you're near a goal celebration he checks you're safe before joining the others. And since I gave him an earful after he messed up my photoshoot he has been unfailingly polite and kept his distance. He tries so hard to..." She swallowed, did a little cough, and did another single laugh. "Oh, boy."

I shook my head. Brooke and Zach? The idea was surreal, but in the end it wasn't really my business. Brooke needed to tell me they were dating, and that was the end of my involvement. "Right, well, no problem. I, er..." I had been about to say I thought it was a mismatch but first of all, why would I say that out loud? And second, Zach was young, fit, soon to be successful in his field, and most of all had an absolutely five-star father. There was more than enough there to interest any woman, but especially someone whose family life was lacking. "You'll have to fill in a form. I'd email it to you right now but I have to write it first. This one's going to be bespoke." I chuckled. "It's good you can see past his physical flaws. Inspiring, really."

She smiled and once again zoomed past a lorry. "He turned me down."

"No!" I slapped myself in the face a few times. "No! Wake up, Max! It's a dream sequence, Max! Wake up from the simulation! Leave the Matrix! The dream is collapsing!"

"I read about a big renovation at the Natural History Museum. Since we went, they added a garden that's also a display. They've got rocks you walk past that show the history of our geology. Every metre is five million years. Zach would love it." She cleared her throat again. "I said we'd had a blast last time and wouldn't it be swell to go and see this new space? And he was, ah, he was unfailingly polite." She laughed and tapped the steering wheel some more. "I thought I should let you know in case he behaves oddly."

I turned again; she was making no sense. "Why would he? Why do I need to know any of this? Nothing happened. There's nothing between you."

"There's gonna be."

I laughed. "Does he get a say?"

"He gets to say 'yes, Brooke'. I'm letting you know that I'll be pursuing him hard."

"BMW Huntsman." She narrowed her eyes - an admission that I had won the conversation - and her lips tensed in an attempt not to smile. It was clear to me that if she ever got Zach alone in, for example, a ski lodge, things would get all kinds of torrid. The poor guy would barely make it out alive. I said, "Could you at least wait until after the season?"

"No."

"Fine." I leaned back against the headrest. "You don't seem to be very good at flirting. Would you like some tips?" A smile burst out, but she didn't say anything. "I use a method I call intermittent reward. I've often thought about writing a monograph on the subject." She wasn't biting. "This conversation was confounding. Can we get back to the real world? Where's Chip at?"

"Dallas says takeover talk has fizzled out. Nothing doing, as far as she can tell. Chip has been in his office a lot."

"Any strange happenings around Biccy?"

"No," said Brooke. "Actually, one thing."

I sat up straight, alert. "What?"

"The other day, I called him Biccy."

I relaxed back into my chair. "I'm the best at naming things. Just go with it."

"No. He's Biscotti. I've been careful, though. I spend more time with other horses. Never mention Biccy on my socials, never talk about him with strangers."

I looked into the wing mirror to my left. Were we being followed? It wasn't completely stupid to think we were. "I'm sorry I even put the thought into your head."

"I'm not. You were right. I'm grateful."

"Er, quick business things. Where are we with Grindhog?" Grindhog were a sportswear supplier Brooke wanted us to get into bed with. It was fast-growing and had good marketing. The founder was a former Tranmere player but I wasn't feeling any love from the company. The owner talked a good game on podcasts but under the surface it looked like another soulless corporation to me. I preferred a cheap-and-cheerful option from a factory based in Manchester. After all, my requirements were pretty simplistic. I wanted the kits the players wore to look good, I wanted our fans to be able to buy them - including the women's goalkeeper shirt - and I wanted the clobber to be affordable and decent quality. Brooke wanted to 'leverage' Grindhog's sophisticated data mining expertise that led to fans buying more merch. I didn't give much of a shit about the potential profits - WibRob's left toe would bring as much money to the club as a billion replica kits, but I had to consider all avenues when it came to getting more income.

"An account manager will come to one of our home games before the end of the season. It would be tight but they promise us the new kits would be ready for the start of next season."

"Account manager?" I said. "Forget it."

"Why?" she said, with some heat. She had put a lot of work into setting this up.

"Because we're not some non-league no-marks. We're fucking Chester! We're the story of the century and some account manager is going to say 'I need to talk to my boss' every eight seconds because if we have a meeting with Grindhog, Nike, or Adidas I will have demands. I will want a kind of deal these companies have never seen before, something unlike anything that any other club in the world wants and unlike what any sportswear company would be willing to do. I would want to put the fans first and the money second and that means a lot of b-boys have to dance to my tune and that means I don't want to talk to an account manager. If Grindhog want to get in on the ground floor with us, they need to chase us like we're a beautiful Texan defender."

There was definitely some red on the cheeks. "What is it specifically you want from such a deal?"

"I can't think about it today. Today isn't kit day. Today is use 3-4-3 to get a result at Oldham day. One more b-question. If I sell Aff and Carl I will get something like 150k. Bradford City said they would pay up front, which MD thought was very strange but very welcome. We think it must be some kind of amortisation thing. Some accounting trick because normally you pay transfer fees in instalments. 150, though. If you can still get grants, that could buy us another 3G pitch."

"At Bumpers Bank?"

"I was thinking at one of the other sites you've been looking at. Eventually we'll have several 3G pitches at Bumpers but the second would cannibalise the rental income of the first, wouldn't it? And I've got a new one coming at Saltney, just down the road. So let's go further afield to really maximise the revenue. If we can get the grants, Aff and Carl could generate a hundred grand a year."

"We might not be able to get all the same grants, but I'll do some research. The council were enthusiastic about Ryan's idea to do something in Hoole so I'd expect it would be a smooth process. Won't you need the money to replace the players?"

"No. There are loads of free agents. Right backs are ten a penny. Left mids are harder, sure, but there will be options. If we're in League Two, it's easy."

"And if we don't go up?"

"We're going up."

***

Bill Brown, the former actor, was in sparkling form. He showed us around for a while and asked if it was true that I sometimes went walkies after handing in my team sheet. I said it was true. He said he had a great idea to show us the hospitality experience, if perhaps I slipped away out of the dressing room half an hour before kick off.

I said I was in his hands. Bill also said that if Brooke so desired he would let her see some numbers - profit per customer, break even points, catering rates, all kinds of things.

"Why would you do that?" I asked. He was going to share confidential information.

He looked around, checking for gammons. "I've been following your career since you popped up in Darlington. I hope we beat you today and again in the playoffs but I've seen what you've done. The deaf girl, the dentists, the loneliness project, the boys from the Exit Trials."

Oh! What's the opposite of my actions biting me on the arse? I gripped Brooke by the shoulder and shook her for a couple of seconds. "We also took a... let's say 'differently-abled' boy down to London to look at some dinosaurs. Didn't we, Brooke?" She scrunched her face up. "Brooke doesn't like to talk about our extensive charity work. I just... When I think about boys like that I get all hot. Just sort of fiery and passionate and I want to scoop them all up and carry them home and take care of them, do you know what I mean?"

"You've got a good heart," said Bill.

"Brooke's always saying I've got a good heart. Aren't you, Brooke?" Not at that moment she wasn't, no. I thrust my head a few inches forward. "Do you need a drink? Are you thirsty?"

"Pardon me?"

"Are you thirsty?" I repeated.

She went through a range of expressions - amused, annoyed, regretful - before getting some measure of composure. "I'm fine. I might fix myself a green smoothie later." She checked her watch. "Don't be late, Max. We're all counting on you."

***

I went down to the dressing room, did a quick team talk, warmed up with the lads, changed into trainers and a big training jacket, and went to find Bill and Brooke.

He told us to follow him. "Here's my idea. We'll go outside and I'll take you on the same journey our hospitality guests go through. Don't worry, it won't take more than ten minutes, but I wanted to do it now while there's fans and noise and you get a sense of the atmosphere."

"Ever the actor," I said. "The full theatrical experience. I love it."

We went through the hospitality entrance and traced the path a real fan would take. Bill pointed out a few small things they had done to make it feel more premium without being stuffy. I knew Brooke would be paying attention so I didn't get too far into the weeds - I had a match to manage!

The final stage was a large dining room with eight tables of five people. Forty people, forty quid, sixteen hundred pounds income. Not bad at all. The punters had been given some snacks and would get a full meal at half time. A former Oldham player had a microphone and was telling some old stories from his playing days. I supposed the tales would be from the era when Oldham had a plastic pitch - one of the ones that felt like concrete - and the great cup runs they'd had. Bill was missing a trick - these customers would pay double to hear an insider's perspective of the dark days when an agent had bought the club and given it to his brother to play with like a toy. Maybe better to keep things light.

"Bill!" said the player, into the mic, causing everyone to look over at us. "You've brought them to the wrong room!" He was being friendly, even if it doesn't sound like it.

Bill twinkled back. "Max is an old friend. He wants to know how a real football club does things."

"Max? That's... that's never Max Best?" He walked over to the big glass windows that had a view of the pitch. Some Chester lads were out there, passing a ball around, but none were so handsome as me. "Bloody Nora! I think it is."

People were taking photos and filming me and whatnot, so I thought I would go to the front and shake hands with the former player. You never knew, he could have been a top coach or his son could have been the next Dixie Dean.

He seized the chance to elevate the experience by doing a humorous interview. "Max Best! Tell us your plan for today. Spill your secrets!"

This got hearty laughs, but I simply held my hand out for the mic. The guy hesitated, but decided to go for it. He knew enough about me to guess there could be a cool story out of this. "Thanks, bro. Hello, Oldham. My name is Max Best. We're enemies today but I'm from Manchester and I always liked Oldham. It's that bloody Chadderton I can't stand." This made about five people laugh, which was good going for such a nonsensical comment. "You want to know today's tactics? Sure, I'll tell you. Why the devil not? Just don't tell your manager, okay? Promise?" I was up to seven laughs. "Right. Have we got a tactics board? What, no? What kind of dining room doesn't have a whiteboard and magnets?"

"We've got white bread and Magners!" cried one of the waiters.

"Brooke, sign him up!" Everyone was loving this, but they didn't believe I would really lay out my tactical plan. A couple of people were filming, just in case. "I was playing Fifa against one of those Twitch streamers - er, ask your grandkids - and he taught me all about 3-4-3. We've never used it, never practised it, not done so much of a minute's training with it." I paused. "So it would be pretty stupid to use it for the first time, away, against one of the best teams in the league." My smile got wider when I saw one guy turn to his mate and say 'no way'. "I'm doing 3-4-3 and that's the truth. If I don't, I'll give each of you one billion pounds unless I find out you live in Chaddy.

"So what do we get with 3-4-3? The first thing you get is a headache when people try to tell you all the fractional, hyper-specific ways you can use it. I prefer to think in broad strokes. Keep things simple. So there are three defenders. They are centre backs. Three big, hurling, brutish men. We give you the chance to get crosses in but we're going to head those crosses away with our big slab heads.

"Yeah, we've got this one guy. I won't say his name for privacy reasons but he's the key to the whole thing. He's the guy who can play passes to midfield and when he's not around I find myself all flustered like where is he I need him I miss him. He's the kind of man who makes you realise that the songs on the radio are about you. It's like, yes, I am out of my head when you're not around. You do make me feel brand new. Why does expected threat appear, every time you are near?"

I bit my lip and tried hard not to look at Brooke. She was standing with one arm on her hip. I had to make sure I didn't go too far.

"I pursued him for so long!" I cried. "He ran from me and I chased him - literally. In the end to get what I wanted I had to physically subdue, to dominate. I doused his fire and tamed him. No longer a wild mustang, but a mild-mannered, obedient cog in my machine.

"So that's the defence. Midfield we've got four guys spread across just like in a 4-4-2. I will start by asking the wide players to tuck in a fraction to make the centre of midfield a quagmire. A swamp.

"Then up top it's three strikers. Strikers? Yes, strikers." The curse version of 3-4-3 was completely symmetrical - our three forwards opposite our three centre backs. Sandra would have liked the front three to be spread out, but that's not what I had. I had the Emlyn Hughes version that loaded the penalty box although if I wanted, I could use WibWob to move one player wider. The next formation was 5-3-2, by the way, and cost 4,532 XP. I couldn't imagine using five at the back but then again, I hadn't wanted 3-4-3, either. Until I did. With it and with all the rotation, my team would be a tad under CA 60, excluding me. Oldham were CA 71, down from the 72 the last time we played. "Yeah I'm glad I'm entertaining you now because the match is going to be pretty boring. We're going to be very, very defensive. We might get lucky and one of these strikers might do something but they're all babies, really.

"Ah! The line ups. We've got Ben in goal. The back three is Christian, Dreamboat, and club captain Glenn Ryder. We're resting Carl and Eddie. Then it's Josh Owens - watch out for long throws into the box! - Ryan Jack, Andrew Harrison, and Max Best. Oh, that's me! Nothing much to say about that bunch. Pretty workmanlike and uninspiring, but it gives us a chance to rest Magnus and Youngster. Up front it's Henri Lyons - he's a good player but I stand by the baby comment - Pascal - too short for this league - and William Roberts. He's all right, I suppose, but he's just turned 17. Can't expect too much from him in a big game like this. He'll run around a lot, I reckon, but your defenders will gobble him up. Don't bet on him to score - that would be a real long shot."

That last comment was met with a baffled silence. But 3-4-3 wasn't the only upgrade I bought from the perk shop. While watching Sumo play Fifa I decided the best use of my XP, the one that might conceivably have an effect in the rest of the season, was to unlock another attribute. The only question was whether to try to target a specific attribute like Flair by locking down one of the columns. In the end, I decided to let nature take its course - targeting Flair when I was so far from being able to buy Relationism seemed pointless.

I bought Attributes 7 and lo and behold, it landed in the middle column anyway. That was extremely pleasing, since it would make it easier to get Flair when the time was right, but also because the attribute it unlocked would help me, specifically and tangibly, in the coming games.

Long Shots!

There was an option in the in-match controls to encourage or discourage players from taking long shots, and now I didn't have to go off my gut feeling.

Youngster was Long Shots 1, a stat that made me yelp when I saw it. I fucking knew it!

The general level of the squad was low. It was possible I had an unconscious bias against guys taking shots from distance because it was a low-probability move at the best of times. The men's squad wasn't completely barren: Henri could have a crack - 12 - Aff was pretty good - 13. In the interests of completion, Chipper was higher than Aff. Sarcastic thumbs-up emoji. On the women's team, Dani, Kisi, and Angel were decent, but the only one I would want taking regular pops from distance was Charlotte.

The stand-out, the tastiest treat, the one that nearly made me do a little dance right there on Sumo's stream, was William B. Roberts. He had Long Shots 16. Ooh, baby! If he kept improving, would he max it out?

The pre-match team talk I had given downstairs in the away dressing room had been the same as always, but with two differences. One, I told the CBs and CMs that if Oldham's number 19 got the time and space to hit a long shot I would line them up and punch them in the dick. Two, I told Wibbers to have a crack whenever he wanted.

Brooke pretended to cough and I snapped back into the moment. For some reason, I had decided to tell a bunch of strangers my plan. "Yeah, so that's your Chester FC line up today. One untried formation, two team-of-the-season shoo-ins rested, three teenagers in the first eleven. I love that you're here going above and beyond to support your club and I want to apologise for what you're about to see. It's going to be a dour, defensive grind. We're doing this formation to try to block your passing lanes and make you go more direct, so, yeah, it's not exactly gonna be France Portugal 1984. It's gonna be as much fun as a night out in Chaddy. You'll be back next week, though, won't you? You're good fans. Oh when the blues, yeah? Latics for life. Mic drop."

I grabbed Brooke and took her out of the room while the vibes were still positive. Once we were behind a pair of double doors, I let go. She said, "What have you got against Chadderton?"

"Nothing. I've never been there. It's just next door to here on the map. Old comedian's trick."

"Oh. So it's going to be a boring match?"

"Terribly, terribly dull. Sorry."

***

On-the-whistle match report from The Mail Online

Oldham Athletic 3 Chester 3 - Swashbuckling Best Stumbles and Enthralls

Author: B. Alban

Meta tags: non-league; ChesterFC; MaxBest; RyanReynolds

24-hour page views: 7,563

A coruscating clash between title favourites Chester and playoff hopefuls Oldham ended with a standing ovation from all four sides of a breathless Boundary Park this evening. Chester's destiny was taken out of their hands and a point was not much use to the home side, but fans of both clubs were enraptured. This was football as it was meant to be played - whole-hearted, chaotic, and thunderous.

Like any classic, it was a clash of styles. Oldham played 4-4-2 and attempted to stay disciplined. Their aim was to minimise mistakes and to pounce on those of their opponents. Eking out advantages at the margins. Playing the percentages. As the Chester manager's friend Donnie Wormwood would call it, Oldham were inside fighters.

Chester FC had been drifting in that direction in recent weeks, to the disappointment of many, but player-manager Max Best appears to have shaken off the angsts and worries that come with heavy responsibility. On the evidence of this ninety minutes he has rediscovered the swagger that allowed him to swat league leaders Grimsby Town aside with a nonchalant backheel wondergoal. He went with a 3-4-3 formation he - it is possible this was an elaborate prank - learned from watching someone play a video game. At one-nil down he was cocky. At two-one down he danced. At three-two down he mocked the fans who were mocking him. This was a performance of unflinching belief and certainty and if he was faking, I'll have what he's having.

Chester's team sheet came as a shock. After weeks of the team getting older, Best's Babes were back - three teenagers in the starting eleven and one on the bench. Another teen, Youngster, perhaps the best player in the division, was rested. Best pushes his players to the limit - except when he doesn't. Where is Chipper, the on-loan striker scoring a goal a game? Banished, it seems, with no explanation. The kids are back.

And the kids are all right. The left midfielder, Josh Owens, is known in the north-west as Josh Throw-Ins. In the early minutes, he hurled one into Oldham's penalty box that caused havoc. He then took every throw-in in Oldham's half, left or right, and every time Owens had the ball in hand, the Latics brought their entire team back to defend. But that first long throw was the only one. The rest went short, which is as funny to Max Best as Rick and Morty was to my ex-boyfriend. All went short... save one. From the left of midfield, Owens went through the endless rigamarole of drying his hands, drying the ball on one of his custom towels, and threw it all of thirty-five yards - horizontally, which I've never seen before - to Max Best, on the far side of the centre circle. Best dribbled forward and let loose a wicked cross that his record signing Christian Fierce nodded wide. Owens struggled at times, but earned a pat on the back and a smile from his manager.

Another young player, Pascal Bochum, ran riot. His movement was thrilling to behold. He is as fast and agile as a fox and he stupefied Oldham's defenders. In the post-match interviews, Best noted that the two yellow cards handed out to defenders trying to stop Bochum in the first half were critical in the latter stages of the match.

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But the most eye-catching performance was from William B. Roberts, a prodigious talent who is said to be attracting the attention of Premier League clubs. He showed movement equal to Bochum, strength equal to journeyman French striker Henri Lyons, and the ice-cold ruthlessness in front of goal of Best himself. He scored Chester's second equaliser with a long-range blast that left Oldham's goalkeeper with Wile E. Coyote gunpowder smoke all over his face. Best and Roberts joked about the strike afterwards, and for the next ten minutes the football match was put on hold as the pair tried to out-do each other with long range efforts. Oldham's attempts to block these shots led to Chester's third goal, the equaliser, as Best and Roberts combined to set up Lyons for his second of the game.

Oldham were a force. Their attacks were purposeful and they overwhelmed Chester's experimental defence at times. The home fans raised the roof for their goals, were never outsung, and were generous in their appreciation for their team and their opponents when the final whistle went. The away end was a non-stop party. Their team is unbeaten in eleven, their young players are flourishing, and their manager is a maddening contradiction in egocentricity and altruism.

An away point is a good point, but with Grimsby Town winning, Chester have stumbled in the title race. They are seven points behind with two games in hand, and time is running out. Grimsby may be out of reach, but Best's ambition for the season has always been a playoff victory. If Chester versus Oldham is repeated in the National League playoffs, make sure you put the date in your diary. This is the football you long to see: thrill-a-minute fare served up by players chasing their dreams. If the bland monotony of the Premier League is the disease, this National League promotion race is the cure. Do yourself a kindness - tune in.