Player Manager - A Sports Progression Fantasy

13.

Thursday, April 2

Your boy Max Best woke up after 8 a.m. again like an absolute boss. I had achieved level 20 in 'sleeping like a normal human being'. Bosh, nailed it. Get in.

I had cursemail but it could wait a minute. The lizard brain's need to click on every little bubble as soon as it appeared had been exploited by grifters, sociopaths, and authoritarians all over the world. Old Nick wasn't going to get my soul that easily.

The house was quiet, which meant Ems was already in her little office in Ruth's mansion. With my girlfriend out of the way I did what any hot-blooded, virile man would do in his bedroom - I checked my stats.

I had climbed a couple of places in the 'top managers' ranking. Never again would the manager of Carlisle United be above me. Except, you know, geographically.

I had made a tidy profit in my transfer dealings. The curse said I had earned 1.6 million pounds in fees from selling male players while my current outlay stood at just over a million. That would change over the summer as I had to stump up for Dazza and Foquita, but I would also net another million and a half for selling the latter. It was hard to keep track of all the ins and outs but that’s where MD came into his own - he would let me know if I was overtrading.

I had scored 18 goals in the league, which put me seventh in that particular table. There was a fair chance I would slip out of the top ten by the end of the season but I would stay top of ‘goals per 90’ by a ridiculous margin. I wondered if I would be such a weapon in League One. Matches would be faster and goalies would be better, but I would be a League One player with improved facilities. That had to be worth an instant 20 to 30 ability points, right?

The League Two Manager of the Month awards made interesting reading. With four wins, a draw, and one defeat, I had been really close to winning in January. That one defeat had been to Mansfield, though, and their manager had won the award. Fair enough.

I'd won the accolade in February with three wins and a draw, ten goals for, two against. I had absolutely smashed March, winning six and only having that one, inescapable setback against Crewe. We had scored 25, conceded 7.

April's fixtures were relatively easy. First up were the Easter games against Forest Green and Harrogate, followed a week later by Swindon; all had average CAs under 75. As often happened, the worst teams in League Two were National League quality. Changing the system so that three teams went down instead of two would lead to an increase in standards but why would a struggling club in League Two vote for a change in the format? Maybe when I was in the Premier League I would be able to set up a vote that tied some handout to that particular tweak. You want a million pounds? Unclog that particular drain. Ta very much.

After the three easy ones were two tough away fixtures: Cambridge and MK Dons. Both teams were good, both were hunting playoff spots. If Sandra could get one win and one draw from those, she would almost certainly win Manager of the Month for April. That would bring a smile to my face.

The final game of the season was at home to AFC Wimbledon, but it was in May. Did they give out Manager of the Month awards for months when there was only one fixture? It seemed absurd.

I got out of bed, had a shower, and ambled into the kitchen. I was torn between making myself something on toast or going to BoshCard to have a proper brek, but decided to have something now. Something light so that I could go swimming without worrying that all the food in my stomach would explode when I went underwater, which can happen - a kid told me that in primary school and I've been careful ever since.

You know what's good? Swimming. In the pool I could push myself and not worry about my heel. I had vague plans of becoming super-fit and turning myself into a CA 120-130 Andrew Harrison type by the time I got to Gibraltar. Sing when you're swimming, get to Stamina 20, and only when the heel was all better would I worry about getting my technique back.

Playing for 90 minutes wouldn't be great in terms of experience points but it would save me one sub per match, my flexibility would open up interesting tactical possibilities, and the Sentinel wouldn't give a shit what I did in the third level of European Football against clubs with names like Noah, Go Ahead Eagles, or Grasshoppers. (Yes, I made one of those up.)

While I munched on a slice of toast smothered in honey mustard - breakfast of champions - and as I jiggled my teabag (not a euphemism), I opened my cursemail.

As usual, the imps were trying to hawk some tat to make me spend experience points so that I would want to keep grinding. The joke was on them - I would earn way more while I was 'off work' so they didn't need to tempt me with a special offer.

"Fucking imps," I mumbled as I skimmed it. This was a good one.

New perk available this month: The Twilight Zone

Cost: 500 XP

Effects: Adds two items to the perk shop which can be bought at any time.

Sales patter: You control the horizontal and the vertical! These perks might be marginal but they're also mainstream! Make the pitch small or make the pitch big - either way, it's massive! This perk offers the chance to fine-tune your setups as easily as you would set a margin on your printer.

i. Walking Distance.

Allows you to set your vertical lines with greater precision. Want your defenders to stand on the halfway line like a bunch of chumps? 'It's just who we are, mate!' Want to station your strikers deeper or further forward? Done! Top tip - the perk lets you set different margins in each half. Push your defenders up to halfway, pull your strikers back to halfway. If it works, it's not crazy! Breaks the ice at press conferences.

ii. Come Wander With Me.

Allows you to set your horizontal lines with greater precision. Want your wingers to hug the touchline? Yes, Pep! Want your full backs to step inside? No problemo! Want your wingers infield so your fullbacks can bomb forward on the outside? That sounds fun! Let's do that!

Note 1: Depending on game state, your players may not be able to follow these instructions to the letter.

Note 2: The perk is compatible with the Relationism module.

Note 3: You will be able to purchase the perks separately for 5,000 XP each or together for 7,500 XP.

I munched for a few seconds while re-reading.

First of all, fuck the imps for making me pay just for the right to buy more stuff. Second, fuck the imps for giving me a bulk discount. They knew discounts were absolute catnip to me. Annoying.

I read the description a third time.

You control the horizontal and the vertical. Margins on a printer.

Okay, so if I bought this one, I would be able to reduce or increase the size of the ‘paper’ my formations were ‘printed’ on. I wouldn't be so reliant on the With Ball Without Ball screens to fine-tune the positions of my players. If I wanted a defensive low block I would be able to bring the margins of the pitch inwards and move my defenders and strikers back. I would be able to make the effective playing area tiny, like a true Ian Evans. Not how I wanted to do things but it was undeniably useful.

Oh, and if we were playing a team that only attacked down one side - which happened far more often than it should - I would be able to set my one margin close to that touchline while moving the other margin inwards. The opposition would have no space on their strong side and I would back my players to cope with what came at us down the other side. I got a bit of a grin going while imagining the possibilities.

I munched some more.

Every idea led to more ideas. Lots of elite teams had complicated pass-from-the-back routines that relied on the opposition running into their traps like headless chickens. If I understood the perk right, I would be able to set a line beyond which my forwards wouldn't go. I mean, surely they would still go past that line when we had the ball? It would be a dumb perk that would literally stop my players following their instincts. No, I was sure I understood it - there would be 'margins' on the With Ball screens and margins on the Without Ball screens.

Let's say I was managing Man United against Brighton. One of Brighton's defenders would put his foot on the ball to taunt us into rushing him. With this perk I would be able to tell my players not to do that. If we didn't trigger their trap they would need to find another way of playing. Yes it would be fucking tedious to watch as literally nothing happened, but a very dynamic sport turning absolutely static would make for some incredible memes.

Tons of possibilities with this one. It was very, very appealing, even for a relatively hefty 7,500 XP.

I put milk in my tea, stirred the concoction, and took the cup outside with me. My plan was to go into Ruth's house and bother Emma for a while.

I didn't get that far.

***

I walked along the path that led through my garden - growing nicely, thanks for asking - and caught a flash of blonde hair in the stable. I snuck closer and there it was again! Not Emma. Someone was cleaning up. New stable girl? Gosh.

Ruth had once told me off for poking my head over the stable walls (she claimed my sudden appearance 'spooked' the horses) so I went all the way around to the entrance.

Brooke Star was dressed up in tight riding gear and high boots. So far so good. She was sweeping horse poop into a big dustpan. I backed away.

"He is risen!"

"What?"

"Happy Easter, Max, and good morning to one and all!"

"Yeah. It’s not Easter yet and what the hell are you doing?"

"Came to see you. Emma told me you were liable to sleep in, offered to let me know when you were up, but it's such a lovely morning and these hosses are so sweet. I said I'd do some mucking out while I waited. Look at this one, Max! The tiny ears and the big eyes. Look at her locks. That's not a braid, that's natural. She's so curious. Aren't you, girl? You're so cute. You're such a sweetie."

I felt like I had entered The Unconsoled, the Kazuo Ishiguro novel that reads like a non-stop dream sequence. "Mucking out? You mean de-pooping? You're not seriously doing that for free, for fun?"

Brooke gave me a big, natural smile. "I am doing this for free, for fun."

"Erm," I said. I took a few sniffs of the air.

Brooke swept another bit of poop up and emptied the dustpan poops into a wheelbarrow. "Max, it's not that complicated. It's nice for the horses to have a clean stable, isn't it? It's good to do some physical work, isn't it? I keep a pair of riding pants in my car and a nice open-air stable like this doesn't smell much. Remember what we told you about smells?"

"Cows smell, horses don't."

"Bingo. Anyway, if I spot anyone wrinkling their nose around me, I have a bottle of Jejune in the boot."

"I don't like the way you say boot like it's hilarious. That's its name." I was about to ask a question when the horse - I think it was called Elsa - went sniffing at Brooke's pocket. "Are you packing treats?"

Brooke smiled. "Sure am!" She pulled out a dry biscuit thing shaped like a bone and offered it to the horse. The horse took it into its mouth, had a good old taste, and spat it out. Brooke looked at the treat and shoved it back into her pocket with a guilty expression. An absolutely bonkers start to the day. "You coming?" she said. I followed her while she pushed the wheelbarrow towards a big container I called 'the poop box'. It was home to a very friendly family of flies and several million of their eggs. Brooke checked the time. "I've got good news and good gossip. What do you want first?"

"Gossip."

"Okay. Daddy wants to sell Bradford when they go up. It's the best time to cash out, he says. Chip wants to stick around and have a run at the Championship. Go from doubling their money to ten-exxing it."

"Huh. And who are they discussing all this with?”

“You’re still thinking there’s a megabrain? I told you, there ain’t. It’s just them.”

“Hmm." I was pretty sure someone at Bradford had some unusual powers, or they knew someone who did. It was the only way to explain their sudden turnaround from no-hopers to title contenders. I let it drop for now and went through the ramifications. When thinking about new owners or the current owners becoming disinterested, it was all too easy to imagine the club going into freefall and potentially into bankruptcy. There had to be a way to spin it so the Stars lost money but the club was not put in danger. "Am I allowed to mess with them?"

"Like how?"

"Like... I could say how great a job Chip is doing and they only need a few more first teamers to challenge us for the title next year."

"The goal being for my daddy to sink a few more million into the club?" She shook her head. "He'd only make more money, wouldn't he? If you're talking up the current squad, daddy could jack up the price."

"Hmm, right. I have to talk up Chip. Call him the executive of the year and that sort of thing. Make him think he's the bee's knees so he fights to keep the club for another season."

"Daddy might be suspicious if you suddenly start sweet-talkin' Chip."

"You're right. I should go on and on about how I'm not even worried about Bradford next season. Reverse psychology."

"I'm not sure there's a real good way for you to get involved in this one. Okay, that was the gossip. Onto the other item on the agenda: the good news. The good news is the transfer ban has been changed to a suspended sentence."

"Bosh," I said. Based on the rules and precedent I had expected that outcome, but in the murky world of football you never knew what was lurking around the corner.

"We still have to pay the fine, which I find darkly amusing. Not long after the news was released, Pedro Porto called wantin' to get in touch. Didn't you give him your phone number?"

I scrunched up my face. "Yes? He probably saved it under Hero Max or Haircut 77 or something. What did he want?"

"No clue. Based on the timing, could be transfer related. Anyhoo, he has your number. Again. Say, you don't think he wants to buy Wibbers?"

I shrugged. "If he does, now's a good time to make an offer."

"Why?"

"Because I'm in a mood with him."

"Oh, boy."

"I'm going to talk to him later, have a little chat about his future. What would you do with eight million quid?"

Brooke's eyes widened. "Is that a serious question?"

"Could be."

She waved away a fly. "A new stand? Say, I thought he was the future of English football."

"Yeah," I said, darkly. "That's what I'm worried about."

***

Brooke went inside to get changed. I ambled around the stable looking at the horses. There were hundreds of thousands of pounds tied up in the buildings and the creatures themselves and I didn't really get it. A couple of hundred years ago I would have understood the attraction. A good horse could make a huge, practical difference to your life. People would think about horses and talk about horses. Everyone probably smelled like the poop box and that was okay. But now we had cars for transport and cats for entertainment. How was horse culture still going strong?

The postman arrived; I hid behind a fence until he left. I saw that someone had carved a heart into the wood. On the left of the heart was the letter A, on the right, J. Underneath they'd carved '2012'. Vandals everywhere, even in the posh postcodes! The postman's awesome electric car hummed away and I emerged from my hidey hole.

Some of my mail went to Ruth's house but if the postman never saw me, he wouldn't know if I actually lived there or if it was just a glorified PO box. It was a security measure from when I had moved in but the number of crazy people in the world didn't seem to be trending downwards; there was no point letting the whole world know where I slept.

Brooke emerged from the house and crunched along the gravel path. She nodded at the mailbox as she threw her kit bag into her boot. "Whatcha get?"

I put my cup on top of the box, reached in, pulled everything out, and shuffled through. Three envelopes had my name. I opened the first one - brown, A4 sized, stiff back, made by the famous Thickman company - and slid the contents out a fraction. "My FAW Referee Award. Licence, basically. I can now referee a match in Wales."

Brooke tilted her head as though she didn't believe me. I handed the envelope over and watched as she slid the certificate out. "I thought you were joking when you said you were doing a refereeing course. From manager to referee. That's... a step down."

"You might think it's the equivalent of a billionaire cleaning up horse poop but I couldn't possibly comment. You know when you’re at an opera and the big boy injures himself and they go um is anyone a trained singer who knows this song and there’s always someone who says yes? That can be me now, but with, you know, football instead of singing. Unless the song is Desperado which I am getting really good at. I think I know what this one is..." The second was in the same kind of envelope and had some of the same branding. I pulled out another certificate. "My UEFA A Licence."

"Congratulations!"

"Thanks. So I’ve done C, B, A. Next is the last step, the UEFA Pro licence. It puts coaching into a broader season-long perspective. Like, can you plan your training sessions around a congested winter fixture list?"

"Isn't that... kinda your thing?"

"Yes. I’m so good at that I genuinely think no-one is qualified to review me." I waited for Brooke to laugh, but she didn't. "I have to go through the motions, though. I won't do it next season because it's good to take breaks between these courses and because I'll be away for July and August anyway. I'll do the Pro in our Championship consolidation season."

"What's the last one?"

I non-verbally asked Brooke to hold the two envelopes while I opened the third. It was small and padded. I pulled out... a lanyard. "Ha. It's my credentials to get into the Recreation Ground. That's Aldershot."

"Oh, is it for 3 R Welsh?"

"Yeah. Semi-final of the Minor Units Cup. There's a note from Aldershot's club secretary. Dear Mr. Best... This badge provides almost complete access to the Rec. If you want to come early, please let me know. I'd be more than happy to show you around."

"That's sweet of him."

"Yeah," I said. "They think I've done some kind of miracle with 3R but I haven't, really. We're not winning those games because of Relationism. We're winning because the opposition are equally shit and every result is 50-50. We've tossed five heads in a row is all."

"Tails never fails," said Brooke.

"I would demolish you at coin-tossing," I said, admiring the various logos on the lanyard. "What does the rest of your day look like?"

"Well, I've just been wading through mounds of crap... and now I'll go and talk to our builders."

I grinned. "Variety is the spice of life. Can you handle them?"

"Yes. If I need someone to put the scares on them, I'll get the Brig. If that doesn't work... Luisa."

"Heh. The Luisa effect. First you fall in love, then you fall in line."

"That reminds me. We will have 12 sky boxes in the new stand, right?" Sky boxes were the name for single-unit hospitality areas. "We're gonna merge three for BoshCard, three for Glendale, three for Fragonard. You said you were dubious about renting out single boxes."

"Yeah." Instead of charging 20 pounds for a ticket, we could charge 40 and give someone a pie and a private place to eat it. Absolutely fine and would drive revenue for the club, but a single box was quite small. When I went to Oldham Athletic and had my VIP pie and got called a vampire by some gammons, the space was cramped and that was a double unit. The single units just seemed really sad. "I just think it's a better experience if we rent the final three together. If we don't have the space sold every match, that's fine."

"What about using it as a space for the players' families? It will be nicer than the current spots in the main stand and we can install a diaper changing station and so on."

"Footballers do have way too many babies," I said. "I was thinking I should fine them every time their wife gets pregnant. I mean, it shows they aren't concentrating on the next match. Unless the conception happens in the summer… June, July, August…” I counted on my fingers. “Okay, you're allowed to have a baby in March. Any other time is unprofessional." Brooke was waiting patiently for me to finish. I said, "I like the idea but check with Christian and some of the other players. They might think the McNally is too noisy."

"Good point."

"Counter-balance. If the women's team keep coming to watch our home matches and we give them a dedicated section along with our injured players and whatever, it's wall-to-wall free babysitters, isn't it? Hey, will you be going into the sponsors' boxes or will you stay in the director's suite? If you're schmoozing BoshCard you can go to the players' lounge to help change the nappies. What? Not a good idea? You'd clean up the poop from a horse but not a cute little human baby? What are the rules?"

"Cows smell. Babies smell. Horses..."

"Smell quite a bit, actually."

She handed over my certificates. "I recently learned that electricity doesn't follow the path of least resistance. I always thought everything tries to make its life easier; I certainly do. Given a choice between continuing this conversation or talking to the builders, I'm off to talk to the builders. Bye, Max."

***

As she walked off I admired her trunk and as she drove off I admired her boot. "I like big boots and I cannot lie," I sang, but not loud enough that anyone would ever be able to hear me. What was that phrase in America? She's got a lot of junk in her trunk? What did that mean?

Junk in the trunk.

Trash in the boot.

I picked up my cup and headed back towards my little house. Too late, I realised I had missed something important. Brooke said she had a bottle of Jejune in her car.

Jejune! I had looked it up. The word sounded exotic but it meant 'dull'.

Henri and his mum, those absolute madmen, had gone with the joke name.

***

After my swim, I checked the League Two news. It was almost entirely about the title race between Bradford and Mansfield. There was a smidgen of chat about the playoff race, but virtually zero about Chester. We had fallen into the crack between two interesting stories.

It didn't bother me.

It didn't bother me in the fucking slightest, mate.

***

From Always Bet on Best

ButteryCrumpets

Look out, lads! Big weekend of action coming up. Good Friday followed by Easter Monday. And God said, let there be a long-shot goalscorer! Does anyone have any juicy gossip?

Saint Derfel

Honestly, I'm looking at getting behind Bradford this weekend. They've got the Double Dragons up top and three Chester lads who know how to finish a league campaign. They're coming to the boil just at the right time.

DubaiGuy

I agree with this take. Raffi Brown anytime goalscorer is quite attractive.

ButteryCrumpets changed the name of the channel to: Always Bet on Bradford.

DubaiGuy

Haha don't let Dylan see that.

BrokenGround

Hahah no it's great. Shouldn't it be Always Bet on Wester? That's closer to the original.

ButteryCrumpets

I prefer to keep it as ABOB.

BrokenGround

Fair enough.

As for me, I'd be looking to get behind Chipper. Yes he's a hothead but he has only had one red card this season. He seems to be trying to control himself. And guess what, lads? He takes penalties. Bradford haven't had many this season but Chipper won a penalty contest when he was at Chester.

DubaiGuy

That is very interesting indeed.

***

I got to BoshCard near the end of lunch and chatted to Sandra about the Easter matches and the lineups she wanted to use. The only real limits were that she couldn't have Dan or Wibbers - the youth team were playing Chelsea on Easter Saturday - but since Sandra was gunning for her first ever wins in the English football league, developing young players was not a big consideration.

"I want half a dozen eggs," she said.

I pointed to our mobile kitchen. "Take some. Tell them it's for a special drill."

"I don't mean eggs eggs," she said. "I want six clean sheets. Six zeroes. Six eggs."

I went through the fixtures in my head. "First three should be easy. Second three a bit harder. Quite possible, though. I don't think there's any real need to do it, though, do you? If you unleash the attack we'll score fives and sixes. Better to win six-two than one-nil, isn't it?"

Sandra looked into the distance. "When you're in Gibraltar, I'm going to have some tough matches."

"Yes."

"And since we're doing the pitch and the stand, our first six or seven matches will be away."

"Yes."

"If we can finish this season defensively solid, we can start next season defensively solid."

"Get some eggs on the board while we, er, cook the bacon and open the beans."

"Right. But we start now with a couple of Easter eggs. What? You're not happy."

I shook my head. "I'm delighted. The UEFA Pro licence tries to get coaches to think across the space of a season. You're thinking across two seasons." I lifted my arms. "You have ascended."

She scoffed. "I haven't ascended. I'm bricking it thinking about trying to play heart attack football against bloody Bristol Rovers or Wycombe. And I don't care what you say, there's no way I'm letting Crawley have easy counter-attacks against us. The thought of Sharky storming into broken lines... Ryan Jack the nearest midfielder... No, thanks."

I scoffed. "Fine but listen. If we get Crawley in the early matches, do a team talk where you tell Ryan you want him to man-mark Sharky. And film it."

"I will not."

"Just for a joke."

"No pranks, Max."

The idea of Ryan chasing Sharky - it would be League One's slowest player against its fastest - brought a big smile to my face. I tapped the dining table. "Okay, keep it tight first ninety. Just make sure Foquita gets some goals."

"Naturellement."

"Where is he? I asked Luisa to pop down."

"They're at Bumpers doing some extra training."

"What the fuck? It's a construction site. You can't hear yourself think."

Sandra shrugged. "It doesn't seem to bother him. Anyway, it's lunchtime. Not too noisy and he can go flat-out because the pitches are better."

"Fine. I'll pop there and back. If you see Wibbers, tell him not to go anywhere. Unless it’s to do a medical for his next club."

I whizzed to Bumpers and walked as fast as I could to the far end. If I could get the conversation done without hearing any jackhammers, that would be a minor win.

"Luisa," I said. "Foquita. Komm schnell." They were on our kids' pitch along with a full-sized goal and some cones and mannequins. Shooting practice, looked like.

Foquita was sweaty; he kicked one last ball into the goal and came with his hands laced around the back of his neck. He was really putting the extra work in. Luisa was closer to me and only needed a few steps. "That's German, Max."

"Fuck. How do you switch from language to language so easily? Allora... let me blast through this." When talking through a translator I was supposed to look at the person I was addressing, but at least half the time my gaze lingered on Luisa. It didn't help that she was smoking hot, but I was getting better at leaving gaps so she could speak. "This isn't for everyone to know but Sandra will be the manager for the next two games." Foquita wasn't the sort to go blabbing but there was no need for me to announce that I was done for the season. The earliest anyone else would know that Sandra was in charge over Easter would be when they saw her alone in the technical area. It did feel right to warn Foquita, though. "I had a long season with no breaks. I usually have a break or two. I won't come to training, I don't think. Maybe once or twice if I'm bored but I don’t think it will be very exciting to watch. Sandra wants to work on our defensive shape for the rest of the season to make it easier for the start of next. It's good for you to learn to defend."

This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

At this, Foquita's face lit up and he blabbed in Spanish. Luisa couldn't help but smile as she translated. Foquita's enthusiasm was palpable. "The national team coaches were so impressed with my defensive work! They said who are you and what have you done with Foquita? They liked my attitude in training. Apparently some of the coaches said I was selfish but they liked the new me! I tried to work harder in the practice matches but then I was too tired to score goals. I would like to find the balance."

I nodded. "The balance is now. The player you are now is the player you should stay. You have seen Tom Westwood? He runs around like a crazy person, pressing, pressing, pressing. That's his game, that's not yours. If you are the only one pressing, that's crazy. If the rest of your team is pressing and you are the only one not, that's crazy, too. That's not Guapo Loco, that's Loco Loco."

Foquita laughed. "Loco Loco. Okay."

"You will have managers who want you to work harder for the team. Tell them yes you understand and then play like this." I pointed down to signify 'like now'. "Don't change for a shit manager."

"Who is shit?"

"Almost everyone. Here's what you do. Before the match, your manager says to press the goalie. Really sprint at the goalie when the ball is played back to him, he says. It's thirty degrees and you think fuck that, if I do that I won't have any energy left when I get a chance to shoot. So you do your own thing and at half time you go to your manager and smile. 'I did it, boss! I pressed him great!' He'll be confused like, wait what? But he's got twenty other things to worry about. He won't mention it again and when you score two goals in the second half, he won't give a shit."

Luisa paused before translating. "Is this good advice?"

"I'm trying to say he needs to calibrate his performance so that he always has energy in the tank so that he can score and he knows his limits better than his managers. Except me, obviously. When he's a bit more famous they'll build the team around him but until then, he needs to be smart. For example, he doesn't need to always run to help with the pressing game. He can get right up on the last defender and stay there. That takes one passing option off the table but won't cost a lot of calories. He needs to coordinate with the wide forwards and midfielders so they know what he’s doing and why."

Luisa explained; Foquita seemed to understand.

"Does he know where he'll be going next?"

"Porto or Lisbon, most likely."

I sensed a potential surprise twist. "Porto the club or Pedro Porto the man?"

They both thought I was joking. Luisa laughed. "Porto the club. The blue and whites. He looks good in it, no? It might be them. He will join one of the big three teams in Portugal. Apparently it was your idea. Who knew you had such good taste in countries?"

My phone pinged. "I have to go and shout at someone. Will you tell Foquita that I will be around less in the next weeks but that I am very happy - muy happy - with his progress and his stats? Tell him if he ever gets some shit advice or has a bad manager or he's not sure if he's on the right track or just anything, he can get in touch any time."

She did and my words seemed to touch a nerve. Foquita spoke as he came for a hug.

I grimaced. "Is it rude to postpone this until he's had a shower?"

"Yes," said Luisa.

Foquita wrapped me in his sweaty arms, speaking Spanish that Luisa didn't translate. She was really annoying like that. "What's he saying?"

She made a dismissive wave. "Just that you're his brother and he regrets you had so little time and he hopes you can play together again one day and crap like that. He knows you won't ever be able to afford him. They're so emotional, these people."

"Who, Peruvians?"

"Men."

***

The diggers roared to life and that was my cue to get the fuck out of Dodge.

I drove back to BoshCard and went straight to the large meeting room. We didn't have the manager's office on the second floor anymore. BoshCard were expanding and asked for the space back. We could use the big room whenever we wanted, and its echoey walls and dismal feng shui made me nostalgic for the Sin Bin.

Wibbers was waiting behind a table.

I put my backpack opposite him and sat diagonally. I unzipped the bag and pulled out my laptop. I had some clips ready to go.

"Hi, boss," he said.

"Hi... boss..." I said, scanning his words for subtext. "Hmm."

He shifted on his chair. It was more than obvious something was wrong between us but he wasn't sure exactly what. "Is everything okay?"

"No," I said. "I'm not sure where to start with this. Let's get some facts on the table. Okay, first thing. You played for England under 19s against Bulgaria and scored. Congrats, amazing. Big moment. You went to the physio and said you'd tweaked your calf. So far, you're playing an absolute blinder. Literally 11 out of 10 behaviour and I couldn't be happier. The next I hear, you're playing against the Faroe Islands and your tiny tweak is now a full-blown tear. And you're a doubt for the rest of the season. Wow. Fucking wow. Fuck our title charge, fuck eternal glory in the Youth Cup, because what we've all discovered this week is that in a population of 70 million there's only one man who can possibly play against the Faroe Islands."

"I was asked to play for my country and I said yes, same as anyone would! What - "

"I was so angry. I was fuming. Livid. I wanted to drive down there and grab that half-wit manager by the lapels and slam him into a wall. But after I finally got some sleep, I realised I wasn't angry at him. I mean, I was and I plan to ruin him. But I'm only really angry at you. The first thing we tell you here is don't play injured. The second thing is don't play injured. The third thing is don't play 60 games a season until you burn out in your mid-twenties. I've been giving you enough minutes so that you can improve. I've held you back when I really could have used some of your pace and energy and I've done that because I'm taking a fifteen-year view of your career. As I've told you a hundred times, I don't want you to flame out like most young players do. I've managed you more carefully than those guys who spend an hour a day looking after one tiny little bonsai tree. I am 11 out of 10 in terms of shaping your talent and your career. After two years of me guiding you, managing you, what happens the very first time you're out of my sight for ten minutes? You play injured."

I experienced a surge of anger so strong I could have lifted Wibbers and thrown him in the nearest bin. The feeling passed, replaced by sadness bordering on apathy.

"What do Wayne Rooney, David Beckham, and Harry Kane have in common?"

Wibbers' eyes darted around, hoping to alight on a safe answer. "Played for England?"

"They played for England in major tournaments... injured. They were the star players at the time and a succession of cowardly, stupid managers put them in the squads, put them in the team, and England have not won a tournament in my lifetime. They won't ever win a tournament, I realised this week, because we can spend a lot of money to produce great players, star players, technical and athletic players, but we can't buy what we really fucking need - some common sense, some genuine team spirit, and some people who have the balls to say, 'don't put me in, coach'."

I turned my laptop around so the screen was facing Wibbers. I pressed the space bar to start a video.

"That's a supercut of Harry Kane playing for England in Euro 24. He can't run, jump, pass, kick, tackle, or anything. He's beyond useless. Check these numbers out. These are his match ratings from that tournament as voted by the football reporters at The Guardian. Yes, he started all seven matches if you can believe it. In the group stage, his ratings were 6, 5, and 5. First knockout round he got another 6. Quarter final, 4. Semis, he got a 7. Wow! In the final he got a 5, which makes me think the 4 button broke on someone's keyboard because I watched that match and he was risible. Kane's average rating for that tournament, then, being generous, was 5.43. Out of ten, in case that wasn't clear." I slammed the laptop closed. "I've been developing you to be your generation's Rooney, Beckham, or Harry Kane. You will score buckets of goals, thrill Wembley stadium, become a world superstar. But England won't win anything because when you're injured you'll demand to play, same as Harry Kane, and your fucking weak-minded manager will be too chickenshit to tell you to get bent."

I slid my laptop back into my bag.

"I don't want to be responsible for England crashing out of major competitions they had the talent to win. This whole thing is part of my curse, I realised. I'm supposed to turn you into the best possible version of you, get the whole country to believe in your talent, only for you to turn around and do a Harry Kane on us. The entire nation, with hundreds of thousands wearing an England kit with your name on the back, will watch you walk around like you've got diving boots on, watch you lose duels, watch you unable to press, pass, or impact the game whatsoever while Spain or France or Argentina pass the ball around, cackling, unable to believe their fucking luck. Yeah and I'll be in my shed watching on an old iPad and I'll turn it off and go back to assembling a ship inside a bottle or whatever my new hobby is because fuck knows I'm not cut out to help my country win a trophy."

"All I did was play a match. I scored a hat trick."

"And you'll play 140 times for England and score 60 goals. We won't win anything but you'll be proud of your Wikipedia page."

"You're saying I should have said no. No, I won't play for England. That's what you're saying?"

"You say hey Fuckface, remember when I told you I was injured? Why the fuck are you asking me to break myself? Oh, I know why. It's because if you win with the under 19s in the summer you'll get a sweet job at a Championship side. That club will think, boy, this Fuckface chap knows all these hot prospects. Maybe we will be able to get some on loan and go to the Premier League!” I shook my head. “You weren't playing for England on Monday, you were playing for him. No-one who gave a fuck about England or your career would have asked you to play."

"If I say no, I don't get picked again."

"Of course you fucking do. For a start, you're the best player! Second, if he makes a big show of dropping you because you 'refused' to play, you score a hat trick in the Youth Cup final, you score ten goals in the first two months in League One, and in every interview you stay calm and say you're working hard on your game because you want to play for England and obviously it won't be for Fuckface because he doesn't believe in you but you'll stay humble and blah blah blah. People will back you over him, won't they? I'll make sure they do. I'll have Wrexham fans begging you to find a Welsh grandmother, I'll get Pedro Porto to talk you up. Dieter Bauer! I'll trash-talk Fuckface at half-time when I'm doing analysis on the World Cup and Dieter Bauer will say 'yes, young William Roberts is the best talent I have seen in many years, let us hope England find a head coach who puts his country above his own career'."

I pinched my nose and took a few calming breaths.

"I can't do this. I can't have constant drama and crises from you going off four times a year and coming back injured and pumped full of bad habits. If I sell you now I can build a stand, buy five players the quality of Charlie Dugdale, and not have to deal with the fucks the FA put in charge."

His eyes widened. "Sell me?"

"I told you. I'm not interested in training the next Harry Kane. England doesn't need that. We need a superstar who is willing to do the work in the qualifying matches to get us to the tournament, a star who always does his best to be fit and ready to play, but if he's not - and they never fucking are - who has the guts and the class to step back and let one of the other players - who are really fucking good, by the way - step up and finish the job. If you want to be a 5.43 player, you can fuck off to Chelsea. If you want to stand on the pitch with a gormless look on your face while you watch Spain go up to the podium and collect their winner's medals, and the next day you go home and look at your Wikipedia page while eating cornflakes, fuck off to Spurs. I'm not willing to put another two years of my life into developing the next fucking loser shithead national failure. It's better for me to have a clean break now. And since you've shown what you actually want out of your career, there's no need for you to stay here being underpaid."

"I don't care about money," he snapped.

"I'm not accusing you of that," I said. "But if you're on track to be one of England's nearly men, there's no difference whether you're here or at a big six club. You might as well get yourself twenty grand a week. Tell your agent I'm willing to do business at eight million."

He stood up and walked around with his palms pushing into his eyebrows. "I can't believe this. All I did was play for my country. This is totally unfair."

"That's not what you did. You did three things. First, you played injured. Second, you got in someone's way. You don't need to play under 19s, mate. You're going to the very top of the sport. The kid who didn't play because you couldn't keep it in your pants? That might have been his last chance to wear the three lions. Did the thought even enter your head? Course it didn't. Third, you showed me who you are. You're the next Harry Kane." I got up and swung my bag over my shoulder. "And that's not good enough."

***

Friday, April 3

Match 41 of 46: Chester versus Forest Green Rovers

I had a lot of options for things to do on Good Friday, but Emma persuaded me to go to the Deva. If we didn't win and I wasn't there, the pressure on Sandra would be enormous.

I decided to mix things up by sitting with the Chester Chatters. It would give visibility to the programme, reassure our fans that I was more or less on the case, but would give me an excuse for being distracted. I mean, Forest Green were terrible. Watching them from the stands was not my idea of fun, although it was better than going to church. Thank Jesus for Easter football!

Emma was in the row behind me. To my left was Magnus Evergreen and to my right, Clive O'Keefe, one of our coaches. There were about twenty senior citizens around, including the indefatigable Overprepared Grandmother. She was wearing a Chester Chatters t-shirt and she was listening to the guy next to her. He was telling her about the first match he ever went to, which sounds like it could be an interesting conversation but it never is. OGM, Patience 20. Emma was patient, too. She spent some time teaching Magnus to use a chat app called Discord and said if he ever got stuck he could ask the Brig for help.

Sandra had picked a 4-1-4-1 with Foquita as the lone striker. It must have disappointed some of the fans that The Australian and Henri were only on the bench, but I knew Sandra was thinking ahead to next season. I wondered if she would stick to a lone striker when she saw the strikers I was bringing in...

Clive was a fairly quiet guy. Pascal was dating his daughter, Tiggy, and he assured me that Clive's mental health was improving. Clive loved coaching but didn't want the pressure of working with the first team. He did the occasional session with us and the women - always well-received - but mostly he spent time with the youth teams and doing one-on-one masterclasses. I liked watching matches with him because he had great insight into what was actually happening.

"This is really good," he said.

"Which part?"

"It's solid. It's not like when you're in charge." He looked worried that he had offended me, but I dazzled him with a smile. He blinked and continued. "You're more virile."

"Yes!" I said. "Finally, someone noticed!"

He chuckled softly. "You're happy to trade blows because our better quality will tell. Sandra has more patience."

"Um..." I said. "Sometimes. I can play a long game, you know."

"Yes, and I've seen you do it. But only on special occasions, eh?" He moved his head left and right as he scanned the setups. "She is being very patient indeed. Too much for Youngster, perhaps?"

"Hmm?" I frowned. Youngster was playing further forward than I would have expected. I brought up the curse screens for the first time in ten minutes and was shocked to see that Youngster had a thick white line around his icon. That meant that his positioning had been tweaked quite heavily, but Sandra would have told me if she had something interesting planned. The kid had gone rogue! I stood, realised where I was, and sat again. Quite a lot of eyeballs turned to watch me.

I got more and more stressed watching Youngster play. His match rating was 6. Normally when he played DM his lowest score was 7. The fuck was up with him?

Just as I was getting worked up, we created our first good opening of the match. It had taken over fifteen minutes but I understood why. What I didn't understand was why Youngster was storming forward to join the attack. Duggers was about to fizz the ball through to Foquita but seeing the DM pop up in so much space made him change his mind. He clipped the ball to Youngster, who took a touch thirty yards from goal... and struck the ball into orbit.

"The shit is happening?" I said, back on my feet.

I felt Emma tugging my sleeve. She coaxed me into sitting down. "Come on, babes. Let them deal with it. Come on, you're scaring Magnus."

"He is, a bit."

Clive said, "Wow. It's like watching Max Best."

I tutted. "Come on, man. I would have slipped it from there to the penalty spot. Foquita was cutting back after his first run."

"Yes," said Clive, with that worryingly glazed look he got sometimes. He blinked it away and pointed to the dugout. "But I meant Sandra. Look."

"Get in!" I said, punching the air so hard I shot all the way to my feet again.

Sandra was going to take Youngster off after only a quarter of an hour! Dazza was going to replace him. "Four-four-two," said Clive.

"So much for the plan," said Magnus.

"What's she going to do?" I wondered. "Scream in his face as he leaves the pitch or completely blank him?"

The three of us leaned forward and watched, agog, until the ball next went out of play. The assistant referee signalled the change and a confused and increasingly worried Youngster trudged off to a smattering of polite applause from the home fans.

Sandra... blanked him.

"Ouch," I laughed. I leaned back, all my cares melting away. The club was in good hands all right. "When the cat's away, the mice will play shit. Sadly for them, there's another cat and she's got claws for days. Seriously, though, what is it with these kids? They're all pissing me off."

Emma leaned forward. "It's like the last day of school. Feels like the season is over so it's all just a big party, isn't it?"

Overprepared Grandmother said, in her loud, clear voice, "The human brain is not fully developed until the mid-twenties. Teenagers are risk-seeking. They know the risks, they know not to do it, but they do it anyway. They lack inhibition."

Clive had a different theory. "It's the full moon."

"Heh," I said, because I thought he was joking. I would later learn that he wasn't. "Whatever it is, it's unacceptable. Sandra's trying to become the first woman to win a football league match and that's how you behave? Leave your position and do the one thing you've been told not to do? I'm going to go down there and shout at him until one of us is struck by lightning."

"Leave it, babes. You put Sandra in charge; you should let her handle it."

"I agree," said Magnus. "If she needs extra volume, she has Vimsy." He dipped his head and smiled. "She won't need him. She has that teacher voice."

***

The 4-4-2 was less solid but more fluent. Dazza's trip back had taken just over 24 hours so we had only asked him to do some light training for the rest of the week. He was raring to go, though. Determined to prove that he was committed to Chester. He launched himself into headers, worked the channels, held the ball up. He even wrestled himself a bit of space and laid on a nice pass that allowed Foquita to score the opener.

One-nil!

After the celebrations, I talked to Magnus about something I had seen in some clip from a superclub. One of the physios or coaches was giving a super detailed rehab session to a player who was recovering from injury. We did that kind of thing on a small scale but I asked if he would be interested in going somewhere for a few weeks to watch how big clubs managed that type of session. We had the opportunity to make a difference in recovery speeds now that the quality of our equipment and technology was improving. Since Magnus was injured, it would be a good time to work on his skills.

He gave me his usual inscrutable look, but instead of nodding and walking away - which was his default response - this time he burst into a big grin. "That sounds amazing. Which club did you have in mind?"

I shrugged. "Man United or Bayern Munich. Whichever calls me first." I had said it completely seriously, but all of a sudden it struck me as utterly absurd. I couldn't keep the grin off my face. United or Bayern! Talk about moving up in the world.

***

At half-time I said my goodbyes to the Chatters and went to the director's box to talk to some sponsors. There was inordinate relief that we wouldn't have a transfer ban. I tried to explain that I wouldn't mind one because it meant I wouldn't have to deal with any fucking agents for a while, but all I got were blank faces. Then the roles were reversed as they gushed about how exciting the title race was. Would it be Bradford or Mansfield? Such drama! Chipper had scored a penalty to put Bradford ahead, while Mansfield were struggling in their match. Wasn’t it exciting? I behaved beautifully, and for once that statement is true.

When we finally returned to the small matter of Chester FC, one guy asked me for a prediction for the final score and because my attempts at being charming had hit a brick wall I broke the habit of a lifetime by indulging him.

"Three-nil," I said. "One goal each for our strikers."

I was wrong, though. When we went two-nil up (a Christian Fierce header from a wicked Duggers corner), Sandra shuffled things around and went defensive again. It was a 4-5-1 but with two midfielders dropping to be DMs. We didn't have any DMs but we had Josh Owens and Andrew Harrison and they were told to shuffle back when we lost possession. They did the job with a lot of discipline. Left foot, right foot. Really interesting stuff. I daydreamed about what I would do if I could change the ‘margins’ of the pitch.

The sponsor guy came up to me at the end. I thought he was going to say something about my shit prediction but he had something more present on his mind. "Your Sandra Lane, there? She's smashing. Absolutely smashing."

I nodded. "She's smashing the glass ceiling. That's the first time a woman has ever won a match in the top four divisions."

"Is it?" he said. He was slightly drunk.

"Yeah. Next stop, League One."

"Not so fast, young man. Next stop's the Fans Forum. Heh heh. Don't try and weasel your way out of it like you do with the newspapers. Heh."

***

Saturday, April 4

FA Youth Cup Semi-Final: Chelsea versus Chester

I was in my usual spot at the front of Sealbiscuit for the journey down to London. Unusually, Pascal was across the aisle from me. I had asked him to be my assistant manager for the day and he had accepted in a flash before remembering he had promised to spend the day with Tiggy.

Tiggy wasn't my biggest fan but she understood what this match meant to the club and what an honour it was for Pascal to be part of it; she had sent him on his way with her blessing. He was on his iPad watching clips of us, clips of Chelsea, clips of us versus Chelsea. He had been to a lot of our Relationism training sessions and he knew the players pretty well. He knew Dan best, of course, and Banksy.

William B. Roberts was not in the match day squad.

That was, as I had explained with extreme fucking patience to twenty brats, because William B. Roberts had played while injured and made himself more injured.

A delegation of his teammates including Captain, Noah Harrison, and Dan had begged me to let him travel down with them. I had told them that it was Easter and sins had to be punished. Noah told me I'd got it flat backwards and Easter was a time for forgiveness.

"So what's Christmas?" I said.

"A time to glimpse inside Henri's imagination whether we want to or not."

That made me laugh so hard I actually bent and said Wibbers could come as long as he somehow managed to avoid getting even more knackered. Noah rolled his eyes and was about to give me some sass but Dan nudged him and said it would be all right.

That had been a few hours ago. I lifted myself up and peered towards the back of the bus. There was a suspicious diminishing of the general noise levels. The kids were plotting. They were always plotting.

Pascal was reading something. "Did you invite Bethany Alban to this?"

"No. You don't invite Beth. She's just there in the area. Like a lamppost or something."

"I mean," he said, adjusting his bum and holding his phone up, "in the quarter final against Ipswich you invited her because you worried it would be the end of the journey for the boys. Today is Chelsea and they will be the strongest team in the entire competition."

"Nope. We are the strongest team. We fucking rock. I didn't invite Beth but if she's there we'll talk to her beforehand just in case."

"I get the feeling you are confident."

I jabbed my thumb backwards. "These fucks could beat the Chelsea first team."

Pascal grinned. "Be serious. I want to know the odds."

"Based on talent... No, based on current ability it will be fifty-fifty.” Our CA after about twenty minutes, when I made my first Bench Boost changes, would be 43. I expected Chelsea’s to be about the same or slightly lower. “Last season Chelsea had a few of their better players in higher age groups and that kind of thing. We nearly beat them, plus this is the semi-final so I'm expecting their best squad. But our lads are battle hardened. We've got Lucas and Jamie who played recently and almost every kid on this bus has had first-team minutes this season. Do you know how many Chelsea players will be able to say that?"

"Zero."

"Genau," I said. I didn't know what it meant but German people liked when I said it. "To restate, on current ability it's fifty-fifty. With Wibbers it wouldn't even be close, but, you know."

"I do not know. All I know is that you are doing to Wibbers what you did to me."

"Nah. You were much worse than him. I was going to cancel your contract. I'm going to sell him. Current ability, fifty-fifty. When you factor in character and team work, it goes to sixty-forty in our favour. When you factor in our tactical advantages, it's seventy-five twenty-five. When you factor in my secret weapon, it's one hundred and ten to minus ten."

"I am not sure that's how it works. What's the secret weapon?"

"It's a secret."

"Is it Wibbers?"

"Why would it be him? I didn't even want him on the bus."

Pascal tutted and rubbed his face. "When I am a manager, do you think I should show patience and understanding or do you think I should have a volcanic temper and walk around with a roll of black bags so I can bin people off all the faster?"

I smiled and pointed at him. "That's a pretty good idea."

"Max," he said.

"You should be patient and understanding but when the time is right to be decisive, you should be decisive. Letting a bad situation linger is no good for anyone. Do not think you need to feel sorry for Wibbers. He will be on twenty or thirty thousand pounds a week by the end of June." I scoffed as Pascal did an O face. "Yeah. He'll be just fine. He'll play in cup finals before us. He'll play at Wembley before us. He'll play in Europe... before you." I grinned. I would be the first to play in Europe. My debut would be in about four months! "He'll play for England and have exactly the career he has always dreamed of. Okay? I'm not hurting him. Really. Now I don't want to hear anything else about it. I'm trying to prepare for the most important match in this club's history."

Pascal pushed himself higher to try to get a look at my phone. "Are you watching cat videos?"

I was quiet for eight seconds. "No."

He tutted. "Can I talk to him, please?"

"Talk to him about what?"

"To get his perspective. I do understand yours. You want him to achieve his potential. That is why I cannot understand the story. He always struck me as having the same target. Are you on the same page but one of you is reading it upside down? I will talk to him," he said, and in that moment he sounded exactly like Henri. "Yes, good."

***

Every now and then I sat up and turned to see what was going on. Pascal and Wibbers were in a crevice over on the far side of the bus. The rest of the lads were vacillating between hyperactivity and slumber.

The drive to London, sadly, is four hours. Plenty of time for Pascal to get ideas above his station. The way he acted you'd think he was some sort of player-manager.

He went to the seat in front of me and knelt on it facing backwards, the way Wee Bonnie had done. He made Wibbers sit across the aisle from me.

"Boss," said Pascal. "We have talked it through. William thinks you are being harsh but he understands that it comes from a place of complete and utter faith in his abilities and a will to win that borders on insane. He doesn't want to turn into the player you think he will become and he thinks Chester is the best - the only - place for him at this stage of his development. He wants to know if you want to sell him to get the money or if it's because you are in a mood."

"The second one."

"He wants to know how he can prove himself to you."

"Easy. He needs to get a time machine and go back to the moment some rando asked him to do ninety minutes of pointless sprinting, and film himself kicking the twat in the balls and giving him a wedgie."

Despite being utterly miserable, Wibbers laughed. The sound died in his throat, but his Morale climbed a level and stayed there.

Pascal was rubbing his temples. "Can we put him on the bench?"

I very nearly lashed out and punched the hard plastic tray in front of me again. I managed to keep from shouting - just about. "Are you fucking serious right now? The way to get in my good books after playing injured is to play injured? Is this a fucking clown car? What the fuck is happening?" I couldn't restrain myself but as a compromise and to show my world-class character growth, I punched the soft bit.

Pascal waited for the explosion to fade and the oxygen to come back. "You hated what Wibbers did because it was a game England were always going to win, right? But you and Zach were on the bench against Crewe and you would have risked playing if something might have come from it. Yes? So there are times you can play injured. Near the end of the season, for example. Or when one player is far, far better than the rest of the team, for example."

Wibbers shot me a look of undiluted hope, but then looked down at his hands. He was wringing them pretty good.

"I want to win the Youth Cup," I said. "But if Wibbers tears his calf up and needs surgery and he's never the same player again..." I sat up straight. "Look, William, I know I'm an absolute maniac. I think you can be the most important England player since Bobby Charlton and that's why I'm psychotic and that's why I'm holding you to a different standard. But I'm never, ever, going to risk your career over one game. Okay? I've worked for three years to get to this moment. So what? I enjoyed it, didn't I? The lads enjoyed it, didn't they? We all know we're the best fucking team whatever happens. I know you'll spend the next five years absolutely demolishing my teams when we play you and that's going to be really quite frustrating." I smiled. "But there's nothing you can say or do that will make me risk your career today. When you dump me out of cups and score the goals that relegate my teams, I won't ever think, shit, I wish I'd let him wreck himself. I'll think, there he is. Do you get me? Let's just be sensible about this."

"No," he said.

"What?"

"I've got two years left on my contract. You can't sell me if I don't want to go. I don't want money. I want to score the winning goal in the World Cup final. I don't know how to prove that I'll tell the England manager not to play me if I'm not fit. I think it will be really hard. I don't think it's fair to ask anyone to do that. If you want to win the World Cup, you need to be the England manager."

"They'll never hire me."

"Then it's your fault, not mine. If it's like today and I'm a little bit injured but I can still play - a little bit injured," he repeated, because I was about to say something. "Maybe I'd ask to be on the bench so I could come on at the end if it was desperate. And today's the same thing. It's not just me, it's the lads. They've worked so hard for this and I just want them to win today but maybe they need a bit of magic. Maybe it goes to pennos. I can take a pen, boss." He had landed a few good points and sensed his advantage. "We played Chelsea last season; they're horseshit. The lads will beat them. But I'm the best player and everyone knows it. Put me on the bench, boss, and they'll be worried about me the whole game." He got a sly grin. "I scored a hat trick for England. They don't know I'm injured."

Pascal had a sly grin of his own. "Imagine beating Chelsea in the semi-final... without bringing Wibbers off the bench. What kind of message would that send?"

There was a little space in the conversation while I calculated. Mostly I was calculating how hard they were working. How motivated Wibbers was to be involved. It counted. Still, I wasn't done pushing him. I pointed at him. "A cynic might think you want to be on the bench in case I get desperate and put you on. A cynic might think you've scored in every round and you're the sort of person who would care about that. What would you say to those cynics?"

He spread his arms as wide as the seats would allow, palms facing up. "Scored in every round? Me? I didn't even know."

***

Sensation as Chelsea Humbled by League Two Side

Best's Babes Gatecrash FA Youth Cup Final

by Bethany Alban

Chester FC have done it again. After steamrolling three Premier League sides - West Ham, Everton, and Ipswich - en route to the semi-final, their adventure was expected to end abruptly at Kingsmeadow, home to moneybags Chelsea's much-vaunted, expensively-assembled youth team. And sure enough, the early stages were as one-sided as most pundits predicted.

Two years ago, Chester languished in the sixth tier of English football. Today, they initially played like a side five levels below their opponents. Chelsea strutted like nine-time winners of the competition, the second-best youth side in history. Best's Babes (as they are known) were saved from ignominy time and again by the reflexes of Wilfred Banks, playing what manager Max Best called 'the game of his life'. (Best added that Banks was ‘eggscellent’.)

Best realised he had got his tactics wrong and after twenty minutes made sweeping changes. On went Dan Badford, Tyson, and Benny, and suddenly the tide - and the tie - turned. Chelsea couldn't get the ball and were forced back. Badford played like peak Pirlo, Tyson was impish and imperious, Benny simply deadly. Three local boys signed for free; what good’s your money now?

Benny killed the contest when he audaciously dinked the ball over Chelsea's goalie after good work from Noah Harrison. That should have been the cue for an onslaught from Chelsea but it simply never materialised. When Chelsea tried to counter with forceful attacks, Chester showed off their fancy new trick - the so-called Relationism tactic. This is a way of playing football that boggles the mind and confuses the senses. Almost all of the Chester players come together and play close-range passes to one another. When an opponent gets too close, they are bypassed with a clever flick. When the ball is lost, a mad scramble ensues resulting in either a harmless throw-in or what some might call a cynical foul. But how can a referee give a yellow card for a foul committed on a distant touchline when there are six other Chester players nearby? It is hardly a goalscoring opportunity, is it?

While reporters and Chelsea staff alike were grappling with the implications of Best's new system, he suddenly switched it off. Back to good old 4-3-3 and with Chelsea players ludicrously seeded into one half of the pitch, Chester scored a second through a Tyson cannonball. Has he been watching footage of his manager's early days?

At half time, Best made a further change, bringing on the left back Lucas Friend. Star striker (and England international) William B. Roberts warmed up aggressively as if to remind his manager that he was available. Roberts has four goals in two games in the white shirt of England, and has scouts up and down the country purring over his qualities. His presence clearly unnerved the Chelsea bench, but the players on the pitch were too good for Chelsea. Too determined, too gutsy, too together.

Chelsea's squad was full of quality. Some of their players had been acquired for millions of pounds. Some had been signed amidst competition from the greatest teams in Europe. Yet after their initial flurry, they were a complete irrelevance and it was astonishing to realise that every reporter in the media room was waiting, hoping, for a glimpse of William Roberts. With twenty minutes to go, Best made his final substitution. Roberts made his way to the touchline... to take the jacket from Chas Fungrieve, a Chester native soon to be the youngest player on the pitch. The sixteen-year-old striker would take the minutes that the eighteen-year-old Roberts might have thought were his by right.

If Best was worried he was pushing his luck too far, he didn't show it. He spent almost the entirety of the second half talking his assistant, the talented young German Pascal Bochum, through every kick, every move. Then, with the sort of dramatically clenched fist Freddy Mercury would have been proud of, Best called for some more Relationism. His players converged around the ball, with he and Bochum hopping around like drunk grasshoppers at every one-two, every feint or trick, before suddenly it was Benny to Tyson to Badford, the latter in acres of space. Badford's cross to Fungrieve left the lanky striker with all kinds of work to do. Two international-class defenders converged on him. The sensible thing to do would have been to take a touch and play a pass to one of his onrushing teammates.

Chester don't do sensible.

Fungrieve chested the ball and before it had dropped even a third of the way, he volleyed it into the right-hand side of the goal.

William Roberts stormed onto the pitch to lead the celebrations. Max Best ran down the touchline trying to find a ball boy who would throw a ball to him. Best took the resulting throw on his chest and tried to replicate Fungrieve's finish, kicking the ball into the almost-deserted stands. He was delighted to find he couldn't do it. 'Again!' he cried, and he had another go. When was the last time one of his players did something Max Best couldn't himself do? I would wager the experience was exactly as novel as it seemed. Best was bursting with pride; he simply couldn't contain it.

But this wasn't a day for the curmudgeonly Mancunian; it was a day for his young players. Banksy kept them in the early stages. Lucas Friend, Jamie Brotherhood, Captain, and Henk provided the foundation for what was to come. The skill and class of Sevenoaks, Harrison, Badford, Tyson, Fungrieve, and Benny were too much for their storied opponents.

Chester FC will have a team in the Youth Cup final for the very first time. They will face the eleven-time winners Manchester United at Old Trafford, the home of Manchester United. The result seems like a foregone conclusion but I have some advice: If you bet on the home team to win, it is my opinion that you are likely to end up with egg on your face.

***

Sunday, April 5

Match 20 of 22: Chester Women versus Barnsley Women

I watched, bored off my arse, as Jackie Reaper conducted what in his mind was a masterful nil-nil against one of the most dangerous teams in the division.

The result meant the women had mathematically won the league, and Femi, Sarah Green, Angel and the rest paraded the trophy around a virtually empty stadium in Flint.

Next season we would do the same but in a packed Deva stadium and the manager wouldn’t take his foot off the gas.

As the players danced around the touchline and Jackie grinned into any camera that was pointed at him, I kicked my heels, getting more and more frustrated, until he deigned to give me a minute of his time. He complained that now wasn't the best time to have this chat. I said I wanted to go to my spa in Scotland and have a proper fucking break.

"What do you want to know?" he asked, with a sigh.

"What are your planned lineups for the cup finals?"

At the end of April and the start of May he had two finals, the Cheshire Cup and the Welsh Cup. If we could win both it would be a pretty staggering - and unrepeatable - treble. Jackie rolled his eyes but told me what he was thinking. He followed it with the very Jackie question, "What do you think?"

I thought about it for a few seconds. "I love it. But if this was your last season as a manager, would you really put Queenie in goal for the Cheshire Cup final?"

He sank and rubbed his bald spot - i.e. his entire head - pretty hard. "I only said that because I thought that's what you'd want to hear. Develop the young players. We'll win that easy."

I nodded. He was proposing a very Max Best line up, but Scottie was 20 CA ahead of Queenie. "I agree, but this is The Relentlessness. Don’t give our oppo the slightest whiff of a chance; play Scottie Love in both finals. Give Queenie the last league game if you want, but her time will come. She's only 18. Make sure you win both those cup finals. I want the trophies for my next BoshCard advert. All right?"

"Yes, boss. Can I go back to the party now?"

***

Monday, April 6

Harrogate Town 0 Chester 1

Mansfield 1 Notts County 3

Could we?

Barrow 0 Bradford City 2

No.

The League Two table with four games to go: