13.12 - Sing When You're Winning
12.
Welcome to Wrexham is a good show. Some 'proper football men' don't like what they call the Disneyfication of the sport: chopping it into bits and rearranging it to make it palatable to a wider audience, setting it to sappy music, cutting to shots of Ryan Reynolds looking sad and empathetic.
My take was that viewers would come for the fun underdog story, stay for the characters, and a year later find themselves yelling at full backs to 'hit the fucking channels'.
Between series one and two someone at the production company decided to change the intro music. In season 1 they used 'Everyday' by Buddy Holly. In season 2 they went with 'Don't Forget' by Jon Hume. Why? So they could foreground the line 'don't forget to sing when you win'.
I found myself wondering about that change a lot. Like, a disproportionate amount. I couldn't shift the feeling that the producers understood the trajectory of their story all too well. That the plucky underdogs were in fact the eight hundred pound gorillas and that with the club's surging profile and revenues, fans and viewers would quickly grow accustomed to a new level of success and would develop a new level of entitlement.
Don't forget to sing when you win. Enjoy it, lads. Don't take it for granted. Storming up the leagues the way we are doing is not normal. Clubs with just as much money have tried and failed.
I sipped my camomile tea and checked the time. 3 a.m. and sleep showed no sign of coming. In the bedroom, Emma was zonked. I went to the fridge just for something to do, opened it, looked inside, closed it. Ems had stuck a Post-It near the handle. It read: Well done, bebs! xx
Colchester 2, Chester 3. That's a win. Enjoy the win, Max. Sing, lad. Don't forget to sing.
I'd earned three points, fifty-three new bruises, and ninety-three experience points. I had wanted to buy a new Attribute on the way home from Sussex. Instead I'd got sucked into a battle. Win the battle, lose the war. Not very Max Best of me.
I had tried hard not to look completely fucking miserable in the dressing room and on the team bus. We were third in the league! We were going up! Those were achievements that had value, but as moving as it was, Emma's sticky note wasn't going on my Wikipedia page. We wouldn't be able to display it in the club's museum.
For the millionth time I checked my depleted squad. Players away. Players injured. Players fucking fucked.
We didn't have the tools to beat Crewe but we would win the rest of our matches. We could easily finish second. And okay, we would need a ton of luck but we could still win this whole thing. I had to stay positive. Positive, Max! A song popped into my head.
This is how it feels to be City,
This is how it feels to be small,
This is how it feels when your team wins nothing at all.
I tutted, and while I let Welcome to Wrexham play on my laptop, got my iPad out and brought up clips from recent Crewe matches. I would compare the footage with what Fleur had told me in her recent scouting report. I didn't have it in me to sing, but I could at least be professional.
***
Monday, March 30
BoshCard HQ was a ghost town. I was the sheriff but I had no guns; I had given almost everyone who'd played against Colchester the day off. Training was basically the lads from Saltney plus a few of the under eighteens plus the goalies. In keeping with the cowboy theme, I'd ordered shooting drills.
One of the best movie tropes is when our hero - let's call him Max - persuades the townsfolk to prepare for the incoming bandits. They tie blankets together, fill barrels with oil, and work to a plan tailored to their individual talents. When the baddies - let's call them Crewe Alexandra - come to town, they get picked off one by one in a brutal and satisfyingly vengeful version of Home Alone.
Sadly, the key fixture in our entire season would be played away. We would be the ones stumbling into pits, the ones innocently lighting a cigarette next to a red barrel, the ones being tricked into wasting our last bullets shooting at a mirror.
Movement to my left made me turn. I did my best John Wayne impression, which was sensationally good, as you can imagine. "Well, lookee whut we have here."
Zach Green's eyebrows twitched. "Was that... Mr. Beast?"
"You shouldn't be here, Zach. This town ain't big enough for the two of us."
"Richard Simmons?"
I gave up on the voice. "You should be resting. Didn't I order you to buy a sled and train your dogs to pull you around?"
"If they were as keen on that idea as you, I could trade in my car." He settled into the space beside me as we looked out over the drills. "I was thinking maybe I could join in."
My head dropped; I didn't have the energy for this shit.
Words tumbled out of Zach like dogs rushing to be first out of his car. "We have Crewe tomorrow. Everyone knows they're your bunnies. We win that, we've got a real shot at the title. You said it yourself! I know everyone's battered up but we can win it! It ate me up that I couldn't help on Saturday. I couldn't sleep last night, thinking about coming to training, proving my fitness, helping the team. I want to do my part, boss. I'm here; I want a share of the honour." He grinned as he dialled up his accent. "Put me in, coach!"
"I feel like there's something I'd say to that if I knew more about America."
"If you knew the song you'd say you'll put me in centerfield. You'd say you need a brown-eyed handsome man rounding third."
I scoffed. "Sure, I'd say that if I'd ever seen you get past second base."
He shook his head, amused. He gestured towards the pitch. "Put me in, coach."
Something struck me. "Hang on, if you've come here wanting to train, why are you late? I should report you to Christian. Twenty quid for the party pot."
He nodded. "I told you I couldn't sleep. I was going over and over the things I'd say, the speech I'd give. The reasons I had to play. I drove to Bumpers, rushed out of the car, stormed to your office... Found myself looking at an empty space. Real horror movie vibes. Twilight Zone. Parallel universe. Looks like Bumpers but it's not."
Work on the gym and shower block had begun in earnest; many other cabins, including my office, had been moved out of the way. Judging by the abundance of machinery, the builders would absolutely blast through the projects. That was something positive, at least. Hard to believe as it was right now, it was possible I would look back on this part of my career with fondness.
Zach continued, "One of the workers asked if I wanted a job as a hod carrier because I wasn't cut out for defending. His mate calls out: hodding would suit him; he's built like a brick shithouse. First one says, he's got a brick in him but he's got a rick in him, too. They laugh their heads off. What was that all about?"
I smiled. "Rick means mistake, sometimes. He's got a rick in him means he's prone to stuffing things up."
Zach shifted. "Are they right?"
"No," I said. "No. Your positioning is improving and I love the way you've taken on the challenge I set you. You've redirected your aggression and most of these forwards can't handle you now. When you attack the ball and don't get it, the striker seems to be in a good position, right? To someone watching from the stands or on TV it looks like you're recklessly flying in. Seeing you and a striker go for a duel and suddenly it looks like the guy is through on goal, that's quite visceral, isn't it? Randos will remember that even if the data guys are purring over what you're doing."
"No-one's purring over my data."
"Sure they are," I said. "Senior people at the club drool over your 'abs per ninety', plus there's your xD - Expected Dimples. She's not happy at all with your pass completion rate."
"Pass completion rate?" Zach's brain went whirring. "Oh. I should make a pass. Got it. When did - never mind."
The initial annoyance that Zach wanted to train and play was gone. It was good he wanted to play, of course it was. I thought I knew how to handle it. "Let's go over our options. One, you train now - " He nodded hard and it brought the word 'labradoodle' dangerously close to spilling out of my flappy gob. "One, you train now and play tomorrow. That involves everyone really going for it, right? So we dig Josh Owens out of the morgue and strap a football boot to the huge balloon thing that's coming out of his hip. You'd say it was his leg but I've seen legs and that isn't one. But okay, we need him. We're fine for goalies and Christian and Lee H can power through. Duggers, Lee C, Andrew Harrison, they can play but won't be dynamic. Ryan Jack can play and we'll keep our fingers crossed his ACL doesn't explode again. It's only excruciating pain for the rest of his life, isn't it? What's that compared to three points against Crewe? Henri and Pascal are in the red zone but let's fling them in. I can barely move and if you run too fast your tiny tear will turn into a massive rip. Yeah, let's absolutely go for it and hope Crewe don't cotton on to the fact that Bark is our only player who can actually sprint."
Zach's enthusiasm had dipped appropriately.
I continued. "We win somehow. We win the rest of our games. Amazingly, that doesn't guarantee us the title. It would be incredible if it didn't move us from third to second but I suspect there's more than a fifty percent chance we would finish behind Mansfield even if we take twenty-one points from our remaining games. It's mad but even if we win every match we could still finish third."
"We'd win the league with seven wins."
"Are you willing to bet Ryan's knee on that? I'm not sure that I am. I think we see what happens against Crewe and then make fucking sure we win the last six. With you in the team, with Ryan in the team, with our internationals back, we get eighteen points from our remaining fixtures and a better goal difference than Bradford and Mansfield. We could finish with 97 points. If anyone's ahead of us on the final day, hats off, they deserve it."
Zach shook his head. "97 points might not win the league?"
"It's mad, isn't it? In 22-23, the top three teams in League One had 101, 98, and 96 points." I smiled as Sunday Sowunmi got a good block on a Tom Westwood shot. "I'd have bitten your hand off for 97 points at the start of the season. Now I'm gutted about it. It's hard to take a step back and realise how well we've done."
"We'd win the league with 97, surely. Come on, boss. 97?"
"I've gamed it out. Anything can happen but I think we'll fall short. And 97 includes beating Cambridge, which won't be easy at all. Look, we do what we can but we don't break Ryan, we don't break you, and most importantly, we don't break me."
Zach laughed. "Priorities."
"Here's what I see. You sit out Crewe. We can beat Forest Green without you but maybe you're on the bench just in case. You're fit for the Easter games. You're fit in the summer. You rest, recover, rejuvenate, turn up at pre-season firing. We survive the first few weeks of the season, find our feet, go on a nine-month rampage. We hit the Championship just as Wrexham have realised playing Parky football won't cut it. They're trying to transition from the world's most expensive pub team to playing something a bit more refined. We're in our consolidation season but we know if we beat Wrexham twice the fans will forgive all our other missteps. I surprise Parky's replacement with a mad tactic - " and a healthy dose of Bench Boost - "for the first match and by the second we're just better anyway. Bosh. Our fans are happy, and our cultured, aggressive, healthy Texan centerfielder proves a lot of people wrong."
"I like the sound of that."
"And in the delirium of the win, you finally get to third base."
He scoffed. "Boss."
"Or," I said, pointing to the pitch, "you can join in today and fuck up the rest of our season and maybe your whole career."
He followed the ball as Tyson pinged a pass to Omari, who took a touch and hit a weak shot into Banksy's palms. "I just feel that if we can win tomorrow, we blow things wide open. Bradford crack under the pressure. I know it's... We don't have the bodies. I just don't wanna look back on Crewe and think that was the day we blew it."
"I know," I sighed. I closed my eyes. "I've made a lot of mistakes this season. Tomorrow won't be one of them, though, I can promise you that. No, the day that looms over everything is the three-all against Bradford. I was this close to getting Folke Wester sacked. This close." Sandra changed the drill; the lads picked up some cones and moved them into new shapes. Morale was high. If I could bottle our vibe I'd make more money than Henri's mum. "Listen, Zach, you've worked hard. You've remodelled your game while adapting to the level and now you're one of the best defenders in the league. You're going to get five or six matches of dunking on these chumps. That's your short-term reward, right? Medium-term, a League One winner's medal. Long-term, revenge on Wrexham and a big-money move."
"Okay, boss."
He had accepted my reasoning; my head dropped a fraction. "There aren't many movies where the hero tells the town he can't save them but he can save the next six." I tested my heel. It hurt. "Fuck it. Why don't you go to Dean and see what he thinks about you being a sub tomorrow night? Me, you, and Ryan on the bench. If Crewe get a man sent off in the first minute..."
"We'll be ready."
"Right." I didn't expect Crewe to do anything other than pass the ball around while we fell into a low block, but mad things happened all the time. "And at the least, if anyone tries to hurt one of my lads, we can fuck them up. How does being an Avenger appeal to you?"
Zach's smile was genuine. "I don't need Dean's permission to live out my fantasies, boss."
"Get it anyway." He nodded and walked towards the main building. "Oh, Zach," I said. He turned. "You need a special harness for your dogs. I'll shoot you a link."
He scrunched his face up in a bizarre way and growled, "Get off your horse and drink your milk."
"Right..." I said. "Maybe see if Alex has time for a session."
"That was John Wayne, boss. Flawless impersonation."
"Oh. I thought you were doing Richard Simmons."
***
Tuesday, March 31
Match 40 of 46: Crewe Alexandra versus Chester
We hopped on Sealbiscuit for the short journey to one of our local rivals. Something I had forgotten amidst Chester's rise up the table was that we had overhauled Crewe - permanently. We were the big dogs in Cheshire and everyone knew it. Crewe would be motivated to take us down a peg or two, and they weren't completely out of the playoff picture themselves.
That said, if you want to bring an overly youthful team anywhere, it's Crewe. They had a lot of young players themselves and were rarely a dirty team.
Their pitch looked all right and they were doing their usual 3-5-2. There would be a lot of sterile passing between defence and midfield from both teams. Fine by me.
I had been tempted to go with four at the back to really give some of my players a break but I decided to match Crewe's formation and start with an eleven that would have the best possible chance of sneaking a win.
I kept Swanny in goal, behind Christian, Lee H, and Jamie Brotherhood. The young right-back would struggle at times, but anyone watching would put it down to him being out of position. I'd chosen him ahead of Lucas Friend or Henk simply because Jamie had more of a future in the industry. This match would be a great lesson for him one way or another. He was currently CA 40. Henk was CA 37 and a natural centre back, but he had hit his ceiling. Brotherhood had PA 95 and it was easy to imagine selling him for a hundred grand or so in a couple of years. Henk and Lucas Friend (a CA 46, PA 62 left back) were on the bench, but I hoped Jamie would play well enough to survive the first half, at least.
In midfield I had Duggers, Lee C, Dan Badford, Andrew Harrison, and Bark. An absolutely respectable League Two midfield, but three of the five would start the game with a Condition score below 80. I wouldn't allow them to press, make forward runs, or dribble - it was the only way to minimise their risk of injury. Once they went under 75 their chances of breaking down increased massively. To help with that danger, I had Tyson on the bench. He was a very healthy CA 51 but just as importantly, Condition 100. I could imagine giving him the second half, replacing the midfielder dropping fastest into the red zone.
Up front I had Henri and Pascal but again, their Condition scores were worrying. One of them would be replaced by Benny, CA 40. To squeeze the most CA into my lineup I could have used the CA 44, PA 83 Chas Fungrieve but that might have caused friction in the youth team. As far as everyone knew, Benny was ahead of Chas in the pecking order. I didn't want to disturb that before the Youth Cup semi-final against Chelsea.
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Ryan Jack's Condition had risen far slower than everyone else's, and everyone else's rise had been slow enough. I told him to stay home and order a curry and chips from his local.
Zach and I took up the last slots on the bench but we would only go on if we got off to a spectacular start and had something to cling onto. Our starting eleven had a CA of 80.1, which was much better than I'd feared. We were almost identical to Crewe and our Morale was much higher, too. If only we'd had another couple of players! Or at least another couple of days of rest.
The match kicked off and immediately the difference in fitness levels was clear. Crewe zipped the ball around while we tried to conserve energy. When we got the ball we passed it around pretty well and ran the clock down. Jamie didn't try to do anything extravagant, trusted in the team's shape, and made a couple of good clearances to keep his match rating at 6 out of 10. It would be pretty interesting to get to half time at nil-nil...
I checked the Live Scores page. Mansfield were still nil-nil. Bradford weren't playing, but England under 19s were. They were playing the Faroe Islands and I was alarmed to see that England were already leading 1-0 through a W. Roberts goal.
Wibbers had complained to the England physios of a pain in his calf after the match against Bulgaria. Why the fuck was he starting a match a few days later? It was against one of the weakest teams in the entire sport. Any fucker could have played instead! If I went through all this trouble to assemble a team that could win the Youth Cup only for my star player to get injured against the Faroe Islands... Could we beat Chelsea without him? If I used Bench Boost well, it was quite possible. The final, though, was going to be Man United or Arsenal. Man United at Old Trafford without Wibbers and Bench Boost?
"Sandra," I said, before realising how stupid it would be to let her know I knew the score from a match on the other side of the country. I should have made a big show of looking at the line ups from the international matches before the match but I didn't allow distractions. No phones, no watching the live matches while getting your socks on. It honestly hadn't occurred to me that the England manager would pick an injured player in a meaningless match. But even if I found a way to suddenly 'discover' that Wibbers was playing, what could anyone do? Sandra should call the FA and yell at someone? And that would fix what, exactly? "Never mind."
I hobbled down the touchline and rubbed my head with both hands.
I felt sick. I really thought I would throw up on the side of the pitch. If I did, maybe I could fake a medical emergency and get the match called off.
Crewe put together a nice move and finished it with a low drive into the bottom corner. One-nil. Jamie Brotherhood looked devastated, as though it was his fault. It wasn't.
The away fans fell quiet for a lot longer than normal, to the extent that the Crewe lot taunted them. "You only sing when you're winning!" Ours recovered. I think they knew we were shattered, knew we'd put too much into the Colchester game. They responded with a lusty chant of "You've only come to see Foquita!" It made no sense but it made me laugh.
***
Condition Scores:
Duggers 75%
Lee Contreras 73%
Andrew Harrison 72%
***
We made it to half time. Our match ratings were okay but our stats were bad. Crewe had us on toast. My lads ate marathon paste and recovered a few points in Condition. I shook my head thinking about the April Fuels perk - if the match were played tomorrow we would all get a couple more points of fitness. Enough to avoid injury. Enough to launch a devastating ten-minute spell of all-out attack?
I shook it off. This was still March. Time waits for no man.
"Jamie," I said. "That goal wasn't your fault."
"It was. I should of closed him down faster."
"No, one of the midfielders should have been there. I'm not mad at them because, you know, but I can't let you sulk for the next three hours. You did mint. I'm serious."
Zach was nearby. "You did, buddy. I heard one of the Crewe guys say you're gonna look like a shithouse one day."
Jamie and I eyed him. I remembered our conversation and laughed. I gave Jamie a little slap on the arm. "Built like a brick shithouse."
"Oh!" He smiled with relief.
"I don't think I want that," I said. "You need mobility as a full back. Don't get too hench."
"Um, I wasn't really planning to."
"Top man," I said. "I'm subbing you off now. It's just to give Henk a half and not a comment on your performance. All right?" He seemed to take it well and I would keep an eye on his Morale. I went over to the Brig and asked to see the running data. Sandra came to join me. I rapped the tablet. "Duggers should be able to stay on, playing like this. Do we take Contreras or Andrew off?"
"Andrew's done a lot of sprints," she said.
"He can have a week off after today," I said. "I need Lee available in the next couple."
"There you go, then. Just saying, you could put Pascal to left mid and use Tyson as a CAM."
I went to the tactics board and slid magnets around for a while. "I like the idea but Lee's most at risk right now. I'll leave Duggers on as long as poss and replace him with Lucas. Duggers can sit out the next game." Even as I said it I knew I was pushing my luck. An injury to Duggers could let Fleetwood back in with a shout of catching us. I found myself biting my nails.
Sandra pulled me aside. "Have you slept? Have you been eating?"
"I got eight hours."
"What, across the last eight days?"
The pang of annoyance didn't last long. After all, we were practically raising a child together. "I bet I sleep more than little baby J."
She wasn’t satisfied with that answer, but got everyone's attention to tell them about the half-time changes.
***
Our average CA was down to 76 but our average freshness was up.
Henk and Tyson rediscovered what Jamie Brotherhood had - that this world was fast and furious, that they didn't have much time to make decisions, that they had to strip their games down to the minimum. Tyson's swagger vanished, but in a good way. He did his job, which meant trusting the technically superior Dan Badford to run the midfield. Tyson and Andrew Harrison became Dan's water carriers. Henk competed for headers, made clearances, and managed to look better than Jamie while getting a lower match rating.
Overall, we competed well without creating much in the way of threat. Henri, starved of service, finally got the ball in Crewe's half. He hit a shot so bad Youngster would have been embarrassed by it.
Condition Scores:
Pascal Bochum 73%
Duggers 72%
Andrew Harrison 68%
I took Pascal off and let Benny have a run. It would almost certainly be his last appearance in the football league but he didn't know that. Was this cruel or kind? I rationalised it the way I always did - if he won the Youth Cup he would be a legend. Anything that helped us get there was kind. That meant that if we lost against Chelsea, everything I'd done this season was cruel.
I could almost feel my ulcers growing but then Henri won a header and Benny chased off after it. He got a shot away but a defender slid in and blocked it before it got more than two feet. I checked the away fans - all with their heads in their hands. Was Benny's dad there? Those were moments you couldn't buy, right?
Anyway, Benny was the best striker I had available. I had to use him. Fact.
Crewe scored a second but, mercifully, they took their foot off the accelerator. Mansfield were leading three-one so when I wasn't biting my nails looking at our Condition scores I was thinking about the England match. Wibbers bagged a first-half hat trick but I didn't see his name in the second half. That didn't mean he wasn't on the pitch. Had he already been carried off? I messed with my interface to force William's player profile onto the match overview screen.
His stamina had turned red and decreased by one point.
Fear turned to anger. I was going to go fucking tonto on the England manager. I'd rip him a new one.
My righteous fury was well-timed. It helped me realise I didn't actually give a shit about the score in this game. Goal difference was irrelevant and the away fans had seen us put a shift in. Now all that mattered was that my key players survived. I whipped Duggers off and threw Lucas Friend on. Left-mid was not his best position so I slid his icon back one slot to left wing back.
He surprised me by performing the best out of all the kids - even Dan. Lucas got a match rating of 7. Interesting!
While I thought about how to use that knowledge against Chelsea, the ref blew his whistle. Some of my guys looked shattered, but they didn't look broken. I scanned their profiles but there was no red, and only a few notes in the Injuries section.
Relieved, I got out of the weeds and stared at the biggest numbers. Crewe 2, Chester 0. We'd had four shots - possibly our lowest of the entire season, though I'd have to check that.
Sandra rubbed my back. "The fans have been singing almost non-stop. They get it."
"If they had given us shit today I might have walked out."
She nodded. "Give people more credit. They're with you, Max. You've got a lot of credit in the bank."
"Mansfield are 8 points clear. We need them to lose three out of six games."
"How likely's that?"
"Close to zero."
"It's done, then."
Despite the loss, my young players were riding an adrenaline high, chatting away with the guys from Crewe, who in many cases were only a few years older. They knew how it felt to be in a youthful team that got battered. I'd done some of the battering. "Get the lads over to the fans," I said. "I'll be there in a minute."
"What are you going to do?"
I smiled. "I'm going to class it up!"
She gave me a dubious look but summoned Vimsy and the Brig and soon she was shepherding the players over to the Chester fans. I marvelled at the scene. Six members of our Youth Cup team had played serious minutes in a must-win match. As our League Two dream died, our Youth Cup chances got even better.
I grabbed the nearest Crewe player and offered him a hand-slap. He looked surprised but went for it. "Well played, mate. That puts you in with a shout for the playoffs, right?"
"Oh, er, yes Max."
"I'll be rooting for you."
He got a cheeky air. "We might play you."
"Us? In the playoffs? Nah. We'll be second or third, one hundred percent." I frowned. "This season's done. I might go on holiday."
He laughed. "You're so funny. You're an absolute ledge! Go on holiday. Haha!"
***
Wednesday, April 1
The weirdest thing happened to me.
I was lying there, minding my own business, when the universe blasted me with a colossal space laser. Some kind of heat ray.
"The fuuuu?" I mumbled, using my hand to stop the beam.
"Oh!" said Emma, who went to her side of the bed to unplug her phone. "You're up!" She came to my side of the bed and sat on it. She was in her lawyer outfit. Not as hot as the mermaid one, but pretty close.
"Can you close the curtain?"
"No. You had a good sleep." She shook me with great excitement. "You had a good sleep! I can't believe it."
"Time is it?" I reached for my phone.
Emma got there first. "Don't freak out. I've already called Sandra. Everyone agrees it's best if you sleep. You don't need to go to BoshCard. You can have a lazy morning, okay? I think you deserve it."
I had the time in my curse menu; I had moved it away from the main screen because checking the time on my phone made me feel more like a normo. "It's five past nine! I have to go - " I trailed off. I didn't have to go. I untensed, partially. "Why do I feel like I got hit by a truck?"
"Don't know. I don't know what you get up to these days. How do you always know the time? It's really uncanny."
"Position of the North Star,” I said. “I'm thinking of letting Sandra do the rest of the season."
Emma smiled. "I don't know loads about footy but I know that's going to go down really well."
"I need to let my foot heal; I came back too soon last time. The team doesn’t need me so why not start now? We'll win four of our matches for sure; Fleetwood won't be able to catch us. I'll focus on the youth team. The semi against Chelsea, then the final. I can do some scouting for Saltney and West."
"Did you decide this or are you just thinking about it?"
"I decided last night but I thought I'd sleep on it."
"Good. Do it."
"Oh. I was expecting some pushback."
She traced her fingers around my torso, making random shapes. Or maybe she was writing spells on me, enchanting me, trapping me. If so, it was working. "If that's what finally got you to sleep, it's obviously good. Bumpers is a building site, isn't it? Training is just a case of trying to keep the levels, you said. You don't need to be there. If you think Sandra will win four matches, she'll win four matches. She'll have Youngster and Foquita and that lot, won't she?"
"Yes. It's an easy gig and I'll be helping pick the squads. There are things I want, like Sticky in goal against Forest Green but Swanny against Cambridge. Stuff like that. She'll get some League Two wins on her CV. That'll be good. Not as good as a league winner's medal but, yeah, something positive. End on a high. Ish."
"This is good, babes. You're relaxed, it's nice. Good to have you back."
I adjusted the pillow under my head. Now that Emma was smiling, the sun's death rays were smashing into me in the most delightful way. "I might go swimming. Do you want to come?"
Ems twisted her lips as she took my hand and placed it gently on my chest. She patted it. "Let's get one thing clear, Max Best. Just because you're redirecting your energy into a mad new scheme doesn't mean you can drag me along with you. I'm very busy and very important. I'm a top b-girl in the worlds of law and talent management."
"That’s true. I read that somewhere."
"I'm going to go and do the day I had planned, okay? Why don't you go swimming and on the way home get some veggies, nice bit of meat, cook lunch?"
"Erm... yes. That sounds good. Yes!"
She was in lawyer mode but she reacted to something I was doing. "What are you thinking?"
"I'm going to sing for you while I serve your food."
She laughed and got off the bed. "Yeah, that's okay. I've got Spotify."
"While I'm swimming," I said, "I shall be deciding what to cook and what to sing. The two things may or may not be related."
Emma took a couple of tiny steps to the curtain. "Do you still want it closed?"
"No, thanks."
She gave me an affectionate look. Or at least, I think she did. With the sun streaming in through her hair, she looked like an angel. "I'll call Sandra and let her know you're not doing anything with football today. Do you want me to tell her she's the boss?"
"No. It can wait till tomorrow.” I squinted. “You're right. I should take the whole day off."
That made my girlfriend happy. "I'll put the kettle on for you." She leaned over and gave me a tiny kiss. "Seeya." She swayed to the doorway but stopped. "What about the Fans Forum? That's in a couple of weeks, isn't it? And 3 R Welsh? They have that tournament coming up and they're really looking forward to it."
"Yeah," I said, squirming around the bed, stretching. "I'll do that. All I do is turn up and make fun of Welshmen. Doesn't count as work, does it? More of a hobby." I stretched in a few different directions. "And the Forum, yeah." I stopped squirming. I would have to take accountability for all my mistakes and failures before I dropped a few all-time bombshells. Some of my aches and pains returned.
Emma was totally deadpan as she said, "How about I book a room in the hotel and after you finish charming the fans and you finish telling them what you did with their football club in the past year, you go up to the room and there's a knock and... guess who?"
"Emmermaid?"
"Could be."
"Wonder Lass?"
"Not after last time."
"The Sand Dancer?"
She smiled. "Depends how well you behave yourself. Don't think about football today. All right?" She departed with one last smouldering look. I waited ten seconds before jumping into the bathroom.
I sang Desperado. It's a great shower tune.
***
Not thinking about football lasted about as long as Jackie Reaper's hairline.
On my fifth lap of the pool, after the initial explosion of enthusiasm had dampened - exercise is sixty times more fun when there's a ball - I remembered I had accumulated enough points to buy a new perk.
I held onto the side of the pool and scanned the perk shop. I'd been through it enough times to know what I wanted, but there was always the dread of buying the wrong thing. I needed to invest in the Panopticon. What if one of my young players was super depressed or had an undiagnosed injury?
I shook my head. I couldn't think like that. I needed to be good at my job. I would buy an Attribute and then add a few more youth teams. And Saltney. And West. And West Women, and so on and so on.
Attributes 10 was priced at 4,000 XP. I bought it and watched the stupid animation. A yellow rectangle bounced around the empty cells of a sample player profile before landing in the sixth slot of the first column.
A new Attribute was revealed:
Determination
Huh.
It seemed pretty self-explanatory. It probably covered how much a player was willing to suffer and sacrifice, but did it mean within a match or across their career?
I did a length and went back.
I had decided that it was something that was really good to know. Like, really good. Possibly the best of the remaining Attributes. I mean, would I ever buy a player knowing he had low Determination? I wasn't Ian Evans and I wasn't Vimsy. There was a place for an introvert or five in my team - so long as they were willing to fucking work, to fucking grind.
I scanned the squads in my head. My immediate impression was that Chester Men had high Determination scores and I wondered if I was naturally attracted to such players or if my outbursts, tantrums, and stirring speeches had been improving the scores over time.
There was no surprise in seeing that Christian Fierce had Determination 20, but it was pretty shocking to see that Dan Badford had a score of 19. I rested my cheek on my bicep while memories bubbled and frothed around me along with the chlorinated water. It made sense, didn't it? Sam Topps had always loved Dan. I didn't need to scout Sam again to know he had high Determination. He had somehow known Dan was harder than he looked, had found a kindred spirit in the fashion-conscious young slouch.
Back to the squad. Pascal, Henri, Andrew Harrison, Wibbers, Youngster, and Zach scored over 15.
The lowest were Bark, Magnus, and Josh Owens, who scored 8. I tried not to have an emotional response to that number until I knew more - maybe 8 was just fine, and maybe in a year or two those 8s would be 12s. Magnus had been a world champion in one field before pivoting to football. Did he have Determination 20 in weight lifting?
The women's squad had more of a spread.
Bea Pea had a straight 20 - what a pity she had reached her potential already.
I stopped - that was interesting. Where had that thought come from? Some old Soccer Supremo knowledge leaking into my consciousness? Did Determination affect training speeds? There was one data point that suggested it didn't - Dani's rating was 18 - very high - but she was an average trainer.
Kisi's score was low - only 6 - which maybe explained why her brother had been so surprised to hear I thought she was a good player. She seemed competitive enough. Another strange one was Kit Hodges, our superstar striker. Her score was only 5 - the lowest across the two squads. Did that partly explain why she had been willing to drop two divisions?
I did another couple of laps.
No. She had dropped divisions because I was willing to pay her 500 pounds a week and she wasn't going to get a deal that sweet anywhere else.
Another lap and I brought up the College 1975 squad. Glenn Ryder had Determination 18. That made sense. Other players in the squad had more talent but lower average ratings. The squad in general was more than a few points lower than Chester Men. Maybe that's why, although they were similar in talent to the Lincoln Red Imps, they were an increasingly distant second in the table.
I smiled and blasted out a few more laps. When I got to the end, I slapped the water happily. Talent plus Determination gives you Chesterness. There were six players at College we would bin off this summer. Replace them with similar but more determined guys and bosh! You win the league.
The pool attendant came over. "Is everything okay, Max?"
I smiled back. "Yes. Everything's great."
"I'm supposed to tell you not to splash."
"Oh. Can I sing?"
He glanced over to the little place from where he watched over the patrons. There was one of those poster guides to everything that was forbidden. "Not sure. I'm guessing it's not encouraged." He looked around. "Our boss told us to leave you alone when you're here but I've never seen you this happy. Did you break your lap record or...?"
"No," I said. "I think I'm going to win... hang on." I held onto the edge of the pool with my left hand and counted on the fingers of my right. Chester Men, Chester Women, College, Saltney, West. That made five. What was I forgetting? "Tranmere!" I said, laughing. I had no doubt their current crop of underachievers included a bunch of guys with low Determination. I would help Mateo shift them out and the League Two Legends would go some way to fixing that particular complaint. "That's six," I said, happily. Six leagues I would win next season. With the help of some friends, of course. Friends like Jackie. The pool guy didn't have a clue what I was talking about but he was smiling. "Jackie Reaper," I said, astonished. "It was one of the first things he ever said to me. I mean, one of the first important things. He wanted me to learn about duels. I want everything to be beautiful. Pretty patterns, clever, intricate play. Connections, mists. I love all that, but he told me. He said Max, duels are the heart of the sport. You need more than talent. You need guts. Can you measure guts?"
"No," said the guy.
This rando saw one of the biggest smiles I'd shown anyone in 2026 so far. "I think I can. I think it might be one of the most overpowered skills I could possibly get. Are you a betting man?"
"No."
"Good," I laughed. "Stay that way." I was about to go when the guy's lips quivered and danced. Clearly, he wanted to say something but didn't think he was allowed. "What's on your mind?"
He looked over his shoulder, gave a worried glance towards a security camera, and clenched his fists. He bent his knees, got a gormless smile going, pushed his left fist up, then his right, then his left. He whisper-shouted, "We. Are. Going up! Said we are going up!"
I grinned. "Yeah we are." I pushed myself off - no pain from my heel - and did a backstroke. The new perspective got my brain fizzing and when I got to the shallow end, I stood and stared at a spot on the wall. In fact, I was staring at the perk shop.
For the first time ever - as far as I could remember - the price hadn't gone up. Attributes 11 was priced at 4,000 XP. I triple punched the water - Yes! Yes! Yes! - and threw my arms wide. To the tune of 'Flash' by Queen I sang "Best! Aha! He'll buy every attribute!"
The pool guy was still grinning but he looked around nervously. I didn't want him to get in trouble so I gave him a salute and got back to my swim. No more splashing, no more singing.
I did forget a couple of times, but I didn't get loud. I mostly just hummed the chorus.
Don't forget to sing when you swim.