Player Manager - A Sports Progression Fantasy

15.

Boys 2 Men

by Bethany Alban

Reprinted with kind permission of Lionised magazine, the only women's football magazine dedicated to long-form content and in-depth tactical analysis.

Will Max Best ever grow up?

He is a nuisance and a pest and not for the first time, it falls to me to clean up one of his juvenile messes. I'm a mature, hard-working sports reporter and my only crime is that I think Best is talented. Early in my career I thought it might help him if I wrote an article about the weird and wonderful work he was doing with the Chester FC youth team.

No good deed, as they say, goes unpunished...

Since that day I have been the first journalist Best calls when he has a message he wants to transmit. I usually turn him down - the world doesn't need another article about air-source heat pumps - but today I'm more than happy to be on the scene, for what's happening is the culmination of a four-year journey. Today, for better or for worse, is the end of the road.

It is the FA Youth Cup final, pitting the traditional powerhouse Manchester United against the 5,000 to 1 upstarts, Chester FC. The match is taking place not at a neutral venue but at Old Trafford, and the overwhelming majority of the spectators are here to cheer for a 'home' win. The VIP boxes, which should in theory be equally stocked with special guests from both clubs, are stuffed with famous former Red Devils, the current Manchester United manager, and celebrity fans including Mick Hucknall.

The Bobby Charlton Stand is entirely occupied by fans in red. Well, not entirely... There's an asterisk. One small section holds out, and that is where my participation in the day begins.

The referee, ten minutes before kick off, has spotted something he doesn't like. "Miss," he says. "A word."

It might be worth noting that in order to gain access to my source for this piece, I am wearing head-to-toe Chester FC clobber and my lanyard proclaims that I am a 'senior junior analyst'. Best and his players are in the dressing room, going through their final tactical instructions. Best has made it clear the dressing room is off-limits, which is most vexing. "Yes, ref?"

He nods. "That lot are your analysts, are they?"

He's indicating the seats behind and to the side of the dugouts. They are reserved for coaching staff, physios, and analysts, and the expectation was that since Chester do not have an 'iPad army' these seats would be mostly empty. However, two rows are fully occupied by a series of older, impeccably-dressed gentlemen. "Yes, ref. Think so."

"You think so?"

"I mean, I think they have other jobs but today they're, like, specialists and whatnot."

"I think they have nothing to do with Chester Football Club."

"What makes you say that?" I say, trying to keep a straight face.

"Well for a start that's Dieter Bauer."

"Oh."

"And that looks a lot like Paul Braun, who scored in two World Cup finals. And he's next to Karl Lippstadt. Bloody hell there's a lot of Champions Leagues in that patch. I'm not sure who the next one is but he's too tanned to be sat behind a computer all day."

"That's Nono. Fifty-something caps for Brazil. I think he's qualified to analyse a match, ref."

"He's qualified but he doesn't work for Chester, does he? He shouldn't be there. None of them should. They have to leave."

I pull a face. I'll take Best's harmless silliness over this referee's vindictive pomposity any day of the week and twice on Sundays. "Are you going to tell ten of the most famous people in this stadium they have to move seats?"

"No, you are." He gives me a triumphant look.

"Soz but no. No way. There's no advantage to Chester to them sitting close by. What do you want, loads of empty seats in the shots of Max so that everyone watching at home knows how small Chester are? Does the thought make you feel big? This is the biggest day in these boys' lives. If you want to make it all about you, I can make it all about you. When I'm not working for Chester, I'm writing for the Daily Mail so if you want to be plastered all over the back pages, that can be arranged. Jobsworth Ref Ruins Showpiece Final. I Had the Chance to Meet a Legend, But A Heartless Ref Took It Away. Snatched It Away. Photo of a sad teenager looking at his dad's signed Dieter Bauer kit. Do you want us to go through your bins?"

"Don't - "

"Oh, do grow up!" I snap, and storm down the tunnel. I nearly burst into the away dressing room but I pause. Best defends the sanctity of the environment like a den mother. It's one of his non-negotiables. The dressing room is very strictly invitation-only so I loiter in the corridor and hope I haven't cost the boys the match by turning the ref against them.

***

The match kicks off and I watch from Chester's dugout.

United are playing 3-4-3, the formation favoured by the first-team manager Pedro Porto. To facilitate the switch to that system at youth levels, United have spent heavily. They paid significant sums for the wingbacks Luigi Blanco and Alexander Chodiev, who - as you can probably tell from their names - represent Wales and England respectively. By far the biggest coup was the signing of Ekechi, a Danish prodigy, for a fee thought to be close to ten million pounds.

Ekechi is massive and moves with the pace and purpose of an early-career Romelu Lukaku. He looks like a man playing against boys and it is fair to say Chester have no answer to him. Ekechi scores in the eleventh minute after racing onto a through-ball and leathering it into the net from a relatively tricky angle.

Chester have started with their usual 4-3-3 formation. Unlike at other clubs, there is no link between how the first team play and what the youth teams are expected to do. 4-3-3 is the formation that suits this particular group, therefore that is the default.

But Best has a trick up his sleeve. It is something remarkable, something never before seen on these islands. It is known as Relationism and involves the untethering of players from rigid roles. They are encouraged to drift around the pitch forming unexpected, emergent shapes. Best plays the card and the response from the Old Trafford faithful is immediate. Laughter bursts out of jaded, bald, tattooed Reds, from mothers and grandmothers who have been watching this sport for decades. It is not the usual nasty, bitter laughter one hears at matches but a shocked, surprised, delighted noise. This is new. This is wonderful.

This doesn't work.

Blanco, clearly unsure of how to deal with the sudden appearance of seven Chester players in his part of the pitch, panics. He slides into a tackle. The ball ricochets off the shins of a Chester player and nearly sets up a chance. A United centre back hoiks the ball clear - anywhere will do - and it travels miles, full of awkward spin. A Chester player makes the mistake of letting it bounce - support is storming back, will get there soon - but Ekechi barges through a centre back, takes a touch of the ball, and lashes it into the goal.

Two-nil.

That's the end of the road.

There's no coming back from that.

Best seems resigned to his fate. His party piece has been party pooped so he reverts to 4-3-3. I can't tell in which way it's different, but it looks a lot more defensive. It's damage limitation now. I've seen this before and I strongly suspect the rest of the half will be uneventful. Perhaps he can rally his troops at half time but until then, I have the chance to gauge Best's mood.

"It's men against boys out there," I say, as I sidle up to him.

A surprised smile crosses his face. "Why do you say that?"

"Ekechi!" I say, lifting my palms. "His shots are too powerful for Banksy." Wilfred Banks is a young goalie who Best thinks the world of. Apart from a brief spell in the semi-final, Banksy has kept his talent well hidden. "All the United players seem bigger. Stronger. Older."

"Yeah, well in some cases they are older. We've got Jamie and Chas who are 16." He pauses to watch a passage of play. "We're actually on top. Not quite bossing it but we're gaining the upper hand. I don't know what game you're watching."

"Don't tell me you're going to talk about the underlying metrics in your post-match interviews. We lost, but we won the xG. Is that the kind of manager you want to be when you grow up?"

He gives me another quizzical look. "There it is again. How do you know that's my theme?"

"What's your theme?"

"Hmm," he says. Best looks at the raft of the sport's legends who have come to watch him perform. "Suppose I should put on a show. What do you think?"

"Yeah," I scoff. "It might be nice if you turn up for the final."

Best gives me another strange look before turning to the pitch, throwing his arms around, and barking out a few simple, clean instructions. "Cue amazement," he says.

"What did you do?"

"You got lazy, Beth. You used to grind. Now you want life handed to you on a plate."

I click my teeth but re-focus on the match. "Three-four-three?"

"Yeah."

"But you don't have the players."

Best replies to this with a harsh buzzing tone. I look again. 3-4-3 works best with a goalkeeper who is reliable on the ball. Banksy doesn't fill me with confidence but he is receiving the ball and passing it on very nicely. The back three is now Captain, Henk, and Jamie Brotherhood. The first two are centre backs. Captain is a rock with good physical skills. Henk is smooth and reads the game. They are a good partnership. "Jamie's a right back. He looks awkward."

"He played the first half against Crewe's first team in a three-five-two. And before you ask, Lucas played left wing back in the same match and slapped."

Lucas Friend is one of Best's bigger misfits. He was a goalkeeper who reluctantly moved to left back at his manager's behest. Now he is playing as a defensive left mid, tasked with shutting down United's attacks.

United ping a pass to that side, a header is contested, and after a big ebb and flow of players, the ball comes back to Jamie Brotherhood. It goes nowhere near Lucas Friend at any point. "Yes!" cries Best. "Love that, Lucas! Yes, please!"

I feel I'm being trolled but I move on. Chester's width now comes from the midfield; Friend on the left and Sevenoaks on the right. Sevenoaks is stationed more aggressively - he can dribble and he can cross. In the middle are the versatile Noah Harrison, a player who can do a little bit of everything, and Dan Badford. Badford has played against two Premier League senior teams this season and if Best is to be believed, he should be one of the best players on the pitch. He is struggling. "What's up with Dan?"

"Nothing." Best dares me to gainsay him; I chicken out.

Chester's three forwards are Chas Fungrieve, a lanky, skilful type; Benny, son of Chester legend Nice One; and Tyson, star of the tournament that sparked my interest in this project.

Apart from Banksy and Jamie Brotherhood, the players have been together for years. This story has been building and gathering pace and now the eyes of an entire city are upon eleven boys. A win would cap a remarkable season for the club.

"I heard you at the Fans Forum. You said you weren't sure if this was a good season. This is the last match. How do you feel now?"

Best's eyes dart around before they blaze with fury. A big United centre back has clattered into Fungrieve but no free kick is awarded. The standard of refereeing in this sport is truly abysmal. Fungrieve will have a lifetime of being kicked to bits and his opponents will mostly get away with it because Fungrieve is ungainly with his back to goal. Best snarls, raises his finger to issue an instruction, remembers that I'm there, changes his mind. "Tyson drop," he calls out.

Something about the scene astonishes me. I have a suspicion and risk Best's ire by voicing it. "Were you going to..." I scan the pitch. "Were you going to put Captain on that defender? Rough him up a bit?"

"No," snaps Best. "Course not," he says, softer. He taps his lips. "Was this a good season? Yeah, I suppose it was. The women crushed the league. Played 22, won 20, drew 2. They got to the fifth round of the FA Cup." Best likes something he sees on the pitch. "Yes, Noah! That's the run! Seven, careful if Noah goes, yeah? Remember the rest defence. No, it's you that time, isn't it?" Best spends a minute checking that Sevenoaks understands the role. He seems to, even though it is somewhat unfamiliar. "The women won the Cheshire Cup and took Cardiff City to penalties in the Welsh Cup final. Scrappy game, lots of nerves. Jackie went with Kisi and Maddy instead of Pippa so we had six players under twenty. The average age of the starting eleven was just under twenty-one and it's one of the only matches we've had where being super young was, like, visibly an issue. They had this look about them when they were watching Cardiff prance around with the trophy. It was sort of like they were growing up, do you know what I mean? It's like the ending of that book. They were no longer little girls. They were little women."

"Er, Max, that's not actually - "

Best clicks his fingers. "I've just realised that's where I got the theme for today."

"What's the theme?"

"I need you at half time." An invitation into his dressing room! It's an increasingly exclusive club and I'm just about to comment when Best stiffens and I see that a player has gone down on the far side of the pitch. "It's Chodiev. He needs to sub off. Should I tell them?"

Best thinks he has a sixth sense for when players are injured and when they can run it off. "Think of all the times you have told a team and they haven't reacted. Telling them's pointless. Anyway, it's the cup final and he's got the whole summer to recover."

"I'm going to say something." Best strides off. He tries to inform the United bench that their guy is really injured. Because this is football, they take it badly. Best shrugs and comes back. While the United physios are on, Best shifts his team into a 4-2-4 formation. "I'm gonna attack down that side. Hit them with everything I've got. I tried to warn them."

The Chester players take a few steps each and suddenly they are lined up just as Best has said. Best decides he doesn't want Lucas playing as a true left back so he moves him forward to wing back again. Jamie Brotherhood is back where he belongs and Sevenoaks is in a spot where he can do a lot of damage. Tyson is the only player who doesn't really suit his new position and I experience a frisson of excitement. How is it that Chester, a team with no resources, who don't even have an academy, who until recently were playing in the sixth tier, can not only play any formation without making substitutions but can also slip in and out of a radical new method?

The clue might be in what Best says next. "The men's season was a bit of a downer."

"Max, you're infuriating. Do I need to show you the final league table?" Chester have a tiny fraction of the budget of any club in the top half of League Two. By rights, they should have finished bottom.

"That's an illusion," says Best. "It looks close but it wasn't. With two games to go we beat MK Dons and Mansfield lost, but Bradford won. Okay so they lost their last game of the season but that's because they had the title wrapped up. It was a big party, wasn't it? They could have won it if they'd needed to."

A pair of 2-0 wins to finish the season meant that Chester came third on a staggering 95 points. Mansfield were a point ahead in second, Bradford City a further point ahead. "Hogwash. Bradford were spent. All used up. The data guys were saying their underlying metrics were in terminal decline and if the season were one or two games longer, you'd have won it for sure."

"Yeah, well, that's not how it works." He frowns for a while, but then he breaks into a smile. "You weren't there for the Wimbledon match, were you?"

"No."

"I was in disguise near the away fans. It's really hard to go with Emma because she's quite distinctive but we tried and everyone was too distracted to be wondering what the hell was going on with our wigs. It was a big party of its own, right? Not just that we were going up and pushing Mansfield for second place but it was the last game for the Harry McNally stand and the fans were saying goodbye to Henri, Lee Hudson, and Foquita. Sandra isn't the sentimental type but she let Henri start and we battered Wimbledon but it was all about trying to set Henri up. He got his goal just before half time and Sandra subbed him off right there and then."

"At a normal club that would be weird."

"No, it wouldn't. Henri's not the only player who likes to get his flowers. He might be the only player who has ever got a yellow card for taking too long to leave the pitch because he was enjoying his standing ovation."

"I saw the clips. He wanted to get a selfie with the referee and nearly got a second yellow."

"Then in the second half they decided they wanted to get Lee Hudson a goal, too. He was basically playing as a striker and Foquita and Dazza were running around trying to batter defenders out of the way for Lee to score. The whole stadium was into it. It was just electric. When he scored the roof came off."

"Not literally or you could save some money on cranes."

Best laughs. "It was amazing. Then it was the lap of honour. The men only had the Cheshire Cup but the women had a couple of trophies and some of the kids had individual awards and medals and whatnot. I called the EFL to check they would be giving Sandra Lane the Manager of the Month award for April - five wins and a draw, no goals conceded, you'd fucking better - and we gave her one of my spares to carry around. We got Smasho and Nice One and loads of former players to say goodbye to the McNally stand. Lots of tears, lots of singing. Good times. Yeah, it was good. It was top."

"Why were you huddled at the back in a fake moustache and googly-eyed-spectacles instead of being out there leading the event? Going straight up out of non-league, the new stand. It's your achievement."

Best shakes his head. "I've only been at the club ten minutes. It would be fake to pretend to be sentimental about the McNally. I never watched a match from there, did I? Never celebrated a goal, swore at a ref, cried at an unjust defeat. Nah, that's a time for the fans. If we had won the league I'd have been there." He slips back into his brooding scowl. "But we didn't."

"Most managers would be ecstatic to win three straight promotions."

"Gosh," says Best, which is the signal that the conversation has become tedious. He spots that a long ball is about to be played, jerks his head left and thrusts his arms out. As if being controlled by his gestures, his centre backs shift position. Captain goes towards the ball and competes for a header with Ekechi. The Dane wins, but can't make a clean contact. Henk is closest to the ball. He rolls it to Dan Badford who turns neatly. He slips the ball behind Chodiev, who sprints to stop it from getting to Tyson. "Well," I say. "He looks fine."

Chodiev's hamstring explodes and he tumbles to the turf clutching the middle of the back of his thigh. Tyson has the ball and is gloriously unmarked. A United defender suggests Tyson should put the ball out of play. Tyson pushes towards the byline and slaps the ball across goal. Tyson's left foot is not so accurate as his right and the ball goes behind Benny and Chas. Sevenoaks, also incredibly one-footed, finds the ball rolling into his path on his weaker left foot.

Time slows. Thirty thousand people will him to miss.

Sevenoaks gets his feet arranged, dips his head, spreads his arms, and curls the ball left-footed towards goal. The goalie does incredibly well to get across from the far post. He throws his hands out... but can only partially deflect the ball into the net.

I realise there are a deceptive number of Chester fans in the stadium - they erupt.

Also throwing off heat - the Manchester United bench. They think Tyson was wrong to play on and forcibly make their point to the fourth official. When the referee comes over to protect his mate, Best calms the situation down. Is this maturity? Is the manchild growing up?

"You're right, we should have put the ball out of play," he says, as the United bench nod in unison. Best adds, "If you gave a shit about your player, that is." This causes the fires to be relit, and as the aggro dials up, Best is delighted to jump around yelling, "Sub him off when I tell you! Sub him off when I tell you! That's on you, you pricks. Get wrecked! Fucking crybaby little mardarses. Go buy another ten million pound player instead of crying to your mum. Ahhhhhhhh!"

That last sound is one of pure derision. Think of the 'you're shit ahhhhh' chant popular at non-league grounds and you'll be very much on the right track.

Releasing the extraordinary noise seems to be cathartic for Best. He walks back to his preferred spot in the technical area and stays calm until the United bench start the process of making a substitution. Seeing the board go up triggers a fit of laughter in Best that infuriates twenty men in Manchester United training gear. Best picks one in particular out and directs a crying eyes gesture at him.

"What are you doing?" I hiss. It has been a long time since Best has gone in for any of these antics.

"What?" Best says, pretending to be innocent. "Those guys are going home empty handed. The least I can do is give them some memories."

"Oh, you're doing a public service by dancing around like a chimp?"

"Please," says Best, haughtily. "That was a baboon." The match restarts and his Chester boys are inspired. Dan Badford scampers after a midfield rival, wins the ball easily, and plays a stupendously quick series of one-twos with three of his mates.

"The fuck formation is this?" I say. Best's lips curl up; he's not going to tell me. I count three defenders, no four, no five. What? It's like Best has trained his boys to torment me. The idea is not as far-fetched as it should sound. I know for a fact he does things to make his teams hard to analyse. "They're faster," I say. "They've gone up a couple of levels."

"No," says Best, suddenly urgent. He comes close and glares. "No, Beth. Don't put that shit in your article. They were on it from the start. They've fucking nailed this, all right? They've been fucking brilliant from the first whistle."

"All right."

"Don't be remedial. Use your eyes. They're winning all their duels. Fucking United are two teams. Ten guys are trying to make their old ways fit the new formation. One guy's on his own doing his own thing. He's a good player but he's never had to integrate into a team because he's always got wins through sheer force of talent. He's in for a very nasty shock one day soon and he might not recover. The teams are quite well matched. United have slightly better technique overall, and slightly more pace. We've got better determination and work rate, but miles better decision-making. And something else, too," he says, and there's a manic look to him.

"What's that?"

He grins dementedly. "I don't know!" He holds his hands up and contracts his fingers like he's squashing tennis balls. "Energy. Something with energy. I came into the match listless, feeling sorry for myself because the men's team fell short. I was fretting because I've put so many of my hopes and dreams into this match. The lads are the same. Low energy and when we get a burst it dissipates. Becomes pure nerves. It's all feeding the butterflies in our stomach. So where do we get energy?"

I'm lost. "Not from you. Not from the boys. Not from me."

Best's smile is wide but it's nice and calm. He points at the Manchester United dugout. "They did it! They couldn't help themselves. All they had to do was sit there and wait for the win. Oh my God, it's the exact reverse of Die Hard when the FBI turn off the electricity... just as the baddies want! These stupid fucks are charging us up. Is it too late to pivot to a Die Hard theme?"

"Do you need a special pill, Max? It's Manchester. We can get what you need on any street corner."

He twists his lips, very amused, but simply says, "Watch."

Max Best walks down the touchline waving his hand around like he's got a lasso. As he does, the boys on the pitch break out of their formation and form a circle. It's swirling, ever-dancing, a galaxy of players orbiting the ball. No - orbiting Dan Badford. He is suddenly irresistible, all silky half-turns, dabs, feints, flicks, and when Best yells the word 'nutmeg' it's Badford who gets there first.

I want to take it all in. What's happening on the United bench? How are Best's Besties, the legends of the game, responding to this madness? But I can't take my eyes off it. The galaxy is spinning and its gravity is inescapable. Twinkle twinkle little feet; I want to fall from the stars straight into your arms; suddenly the constellation disperses and as Best cackles and shouts incomprehensibly it reforms, bursts, and the ball is on the half-volley and Noah Harrison hits it from long range. A big dipper, mercury in retrograde, the United goalie dancing backwards, desperately throwing up a hand, tipping the ball over the bar.

Max Best clenches his fists and pumps both arms. He doesn't celebrate his own goals and he doesn't celebrate third-place finishes but he does celebrate this as though it is the greatest of all triumphs. His roar is awesome and since I am his nearest ally, I get lifted and spun. He grunts as he sets me down three yards from where he picked me up. "More!" he screams. The wildness is terrifying and exciting and just as he's about to transform into an actual werewolf, the referee blows for half time.

He didn't even let Chester take the corner! "Come on," I moan.

"Fuck!" screams Best. He walks away to the nearest football, kicks it onto the pitch, and smashes it with extreme prejudice from inside his half. A dozen players scatter. There's a distant pop as the ball lands before stretching the net. Best heads towards the tunnel punching himself in the head.

Just in time, my journalistic skills kick in and I look to the one place I needed to look at that exact moment. Not to the referee, the United head coach, or the legendary former players but to Chester's substitutes.

There I see the boy who would be king, William B. Roberts. The forward hasn't played since injuring himself while scoring a hat trick for England under nineteens. He is by far the greatest goalscorer in the history of the FA Youth Cup (established 1952) and this final is his last chance to add to his tally and make his record one that may never be broken.

I wonder what he is thinking.

'Wibbers' is breathing heavily, his chest is heaving, his nostrils are smoking. What he's thinking boils down to four words:

Put me in, coach!

***

Max Best likes his teams to be quiet at the start of half time breaks. He believes his players need to calm down before they will be receptive to any discussion of the challenges they’re facing or to absorb the tactical changes he wants to make. The regularity with which his teams play better in the second half suggests he might be onto something.

Today, though, it's Best himself who needs to cool off, so as his boys take up their positions in the expansive Old Trafford dressing room, Best throws a cold towel over his head. After all, despite that late surge of adrenaline, his team are two-one down, his superstar forward is not fit, and not even Best's much-vaunted new way of playing can contain Ekechi, who looks like scoring from every attack.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

Time passes. Minutes go by. The boys glance nervously at their role model. Their role model is wearing a towel for a wig. Someone knocks at the door. Vimsy opens it and tells whoever's there that no, they can't come in. The person complains that they're supposed to have access. Vimsy suggests they take it up with someone who gives a shit. Livia gives him a high five and there's a quick chant of 'Vimsy!' from the nearby players. It isn't long until attention turns back to Best.

"Max," I mumble. "Are you conscious?"

He whips the towel off. "That sounds like a trick question."

"You went a bit psycho there."

"No, I didn't. Just hamming it up, aren't I? For the memes. We've got new sponsors next season and I need to get back into the sales pitch grindset. Jejune. Mmm, smells nice."

"Do you have, maybe, a half-time team talk or something?"

"Yeah, good one."

"Do you want to... You know. Do it."

"Waiting for Spectrum. It's his team. He's in the media place chatting shit."

"Oh." I've forgotten all about Spectrum. He's the de facto head of Chester's youth system and is the manager for the under eighteens for most of the season.

As we're talking about him, he enters, looking flustered. "This place is a maze!"

"No," says Best. "It's falling down."

"This place is a labyrinth," says Spectrum, half rolling his eyes.

Chas Fungrieve is near me and sees my confusion. "Amaze," he whispers. "This place is amaze. Short for amazing."

"Thanks," I say.

Best claps his hands and ambles around the middle of the room. The space is disconcertingly luxurious but the routines are familiar.

Chester's physios are leaning against one wall. Vimsy, one of Chester's old guard but soon to move onto new pastures, is around for moral support and to help with the kits. Some of the extended members of Chester's squad are dressed in Chester-branded tracksuits. I recognise some players from my Wizard of Us article, the one in which I introduced the world to this motley crew. The youngest is called Future and he has shot up. He must be 14 now. A year older is Roddy Jones, but unlike Future he is on the bench. There is no way he will play - the stakes are too high.

"Got a speech," mumbles Best, fumbling in his pockets. "Where did I put it?" He grabs a backpack and unzips a few comportments. "Mint," he says, pulling out a piece of thin card. "Here we go." The towel absorbed most of Best's wild energy but he kept just enough to glare. He locks eyes with one boy, then another, then another. "I’m very disappointed in you all. You made a lot of very poor decisions today. It’s like you don’t know anything about football."

The words, as you might expect, have a profound effect on the mood. The physios, Spectrum, and Vimsy, are absolutely stunned. The boys are frozen solid. I can hear Chas Fungrieve's mouth dry.

Best continues to glare for another half a second, but suddenly he brightens up. "Hang on, that was what I wanted to say at the Fan Awards." He turns the card over. "Yes, this is from the Fan Awards. What the fuck were they thinking? Foquita Player of the Season? He only played four months! What about Christian Fierce?" Vimsy and Spectrum have relaxed. Livia Stranton, the second most senior physio, looks like she would greatly enjoy smashing a vase over Best's head. He's still blabbing away. "Match of the Season, Sutton 7-0? That’s mental! We beat Bolton 6-1 away. Recency bias is a crime, guys."

Best takes the card, scrunches it up, and throws it towards a big black bag.

"Bin that," he says. He pulls out another, identical piece of card. "Okay, here’s the real speech… I’m very disappointed in you all. You made a lot of very poor decisions today. It’s like you don’t know anything about football." There's a lot less horror this time. A twinkle has come to Best's eye. He says, "Sorry, hang on. That was my speech to the builders when they tried to reduce the number of mirrors we’re installing at the gym. Don’t they know we need to check our trims?" He crunches the card up, chucks it, says, "Bin that. Okay, here's the real speech."

There are groans as he takes out yet another identical piece of card. Best is creative enough to keep this 'bit' going for the rest of eternity. "Boss, have you got a real speech?" asks Noah Harrison.

"Yes! Be patient! Jesus!" says Best, but he does it so immaturely that a few of the younger lads start giggling. They find it hard to stop. Best has achieved his goal, whatever it was. He screws up the next piece of card without looking at it, and chucks it binwards. "Okay," he says, as he walks around the room again. "You might be wondering why Beth's here."

"Not really," says Tyson.

"She's here because she's part of this story," says Best.

"We know," says Tyson. "We get it. And she's welcome."

There are nods. Best is off on one, though, and when he's off on one, he's not a very good listener. "Beth was with us at the beginning, wasn't she? She was there when you beat Wolves at Das Tournament. I remember thinking, shit, if we can beat Wolves, we can beat anyone. Right? And this tiny little idea hatched and got bigger and it became a mania for a while, and today's the end of it. The end of the road."

The phrase startles me because I've been thinking in exactly the same way.

Best is speaking wistfully. "You were just little tiny babies in those days. Tyson had just learned his first words - my ball! Benny couldn't even dink. Chas was only six foot tall."

Take it as read that the boys are eating out of Best's hands. When he says something funny, they laugh. He is in complete control of the room; it's really something. My eyes are drawn to the timer counting down to signal the end of the half. When are we going to get to the tactics?

"But now we've come," says Best, "to the end of the road." He puts a little melody into the last word. Song lyrics! "And it's time to let go. You see," he says, as his strides speed up. "For most of human history we had rituals to mark important events in life. Not just births, marriages, and deaths, yeah, but all kinds of things. Rights of passage, and I don't mean who gets to drive first on a country road. One of the big rites of passage was the male initiation. We don't do those things anymore and I think that's a shame. You are boys. How do you know when you have become men? You don't." Best stops. "I've spent three years worrying about this match not because I care whether we win or lose but because of what it means for the rest of your life. What comes next after today? Lads, honestly, I've worried about what becomes of you more than I've worried about Chester being relegated or Grimsby pipping us to the title or how we were going to get something out of the Crewe match. You are my boys and you're my responsibility. Best’s Babes to Max’s Men. It's too much. Too big a burden. But I finally found some peace with it. Two things. One, whatever happens in the rest of your career, I'm always a phone call away. That's a double-thumbs, triple-lock promise. And two, I can help you become men."

As crazy as it sounds, these last few words make me relax. Best is going to tell them how to win the match and if they win, they can consider themselves men. It's a very boy way of thinking, but I doubt there is anyone in the room who would say Best had it wrong.

Of course, I'm deluding myself if I think this team talk will follow recognisable lines. Best and I do not think alike.

"I have taken four initiation rituals from around the world," says Best, grandly. "You will undergo the challenges and become men!"

"What, now?" I say, to much laughter. The vibes are bubbling up because the boys have been here before and they know what's coming is going to be legendary.

"Vimsy!" calls Best as he pulls out a small, clear plastic bag. He opens it and pours the contents into a bowl. It's impossible to say from where I'm standing, but it looks like two small objects. "Choose a goalkeeper! The goalkeeper chosen will ascend into manhood on behalf of all goalkeepers!"

Vimsy shakes his head but rummages in the bowl. He picks out an object and unfurls it. Of course, it's a piece of paper with a name on. "Banksy," he says.

"Banksy!" intones Best, for he is now a shaman. "In Ethopia, the way to become a man is to jump over a cow."

"What?" says Banksy.

Best drops character for a second. "Don't be problematic, mate! They've been doing it for ages and it obviously works, okay? Now shut your gob and get ready to level up." Back in shaman mode, Best reaches into a bag and pulls out a large - but not that large - soft toy. "You must leap the cow!" Best places it with extreme care. "Don't get it muddy so I can give it to Emma as a present. Okay... the goalkeepers become men in three, two, one..."

Banksy frowns and looks around the benches but there's a sudden explosion of noise and encouragement. Banksy flexes his knees, shifts his weight, and throws himself over the toy cow. His teammates go wild!

The next part is one of the maddest. Music blasts out of the team's boombox, but it's the chicken dance song. The song has a gap of four syllables which Best fills by chanting 'wah wah wah wah!' The music ends abruptly.

"Livia! Please choose a defender."

The process is repeated but there are more names in the bowl. Livia picks one and opens it. She holds it up in a very professional way. "Henk."

"Henk! Are you ready to become a man?"

It surprises me that the cool-as-a-cucumber youngster is so ready to partake of this foolishness, but he steps forward eagerly. "Yes, boss." He crunches his biceps and goes hurrrr.

Best pulls out a flask and pours some of its contents into a plastic cup. Henk's face drops but the excitement around the room builds. Best says, "Boy plus elixir equals man. No explanation needed. Henk. Elixir. If you get chosen to give a drugs sample, we'll give you a crash course in fake bladders."

"Smells minging. That's rank. What's in it?" says Henk.

"Would a man ask that?" booms Best.

"Drink!" shouts someone, which leads to a thousand copycats. I wonder what the people in the corridor outside make of it, but I spot Livia laughing hysterically and start to enjoy the scene myself. Maybe Best is right. Maybe this is what these boys need.

Henk gets the cup, smells the concoction, gags, and tries to back out. Wrong move. Pandemonium ensues until he finally accepts that he has to drink it. He throws it down his throat, braces himself, but then looks up, puzzled. "It was all right!"

Best's got his arms raised. "The defenders are men! Congratulations to the new men!"

The midfielder chosen is Dan Badford. He goes to the front and for once he looks less than completely zen. It doesn't help that his mates are shouting out their predictions for what the ritual will be.

Best calls for quiet and intones his latest nonsense. "I believe it was the famous footballer-poet Max Best who once declared, the child is the father of the man. It means that your childhood and upbringing shape who you are as an adult. To that end, we must teach our children well, for isn't fatherhood the ultimate, perhaps the only, true expression of masculinity? To become a man, then, one must become a father to the child that is within oneself."

"You what?" says Vimsy.

Best pulls out a doll. It is wearing a blue-and-white Chester top. Best rotates it to reveal that it is wearing the number 11 with the name Badford - the reaction to that is as though watching the world's greatest magician. "Dan! Raise this child!" He throws the doll. Dan catches it. Best says, "Well?"

Dan isn't sure what to do but eventually he tickles the doll's belly and says, "Who's a good Dan?"

Best breaks, and so does almost everyone else. A lot of very heavy but very quiet laughter is going on. I spot the timer. We're down to the last two minutes of the interval. What about the fucking tactics?

Best empties the bowl and pours in the names of the strikers, though I rather suspect the choice may not be scrupulously random. I'm not surprised in the slightest when Tyson is chosen to represent the forwards, but I am surprised when Best brings me to the front and asks me to hold something. He pulls out a gong - yes, a thick bronze disc - and asks me to dangle it like a conker. He gives Tyson a mallet-like drumstick and my brain starts firing warning signals. I'm not going to like this. Inexplicably, my eyes are drawn to the timer. One minute to go. The boys should be leaving the changing room. There's no time.

"Okay, we've done some rituals from around the world. Now it's time for one from my home, where you are now, Manchester. Here, in the most advanced civilisation yet known, in order to become a man, you must bang a woman."

"Wait," I say, but Tyson strikes the gong and all hell breaks loose. The boys jump around, celebrating, hugging each other. It's loud, it's crass, it's something I'm going to make Max Best pay for one day but if his goal was to get them hyped - mission accomplished.

Best bundles himself up and hisses, clear as crystal, "Second to the right and straight on till morning!" He stands tall, mysterious light bouncing off him, and screams, "Let's fucking go!" before rushing through the door. The lads risk injury in their hurry to catch up.

The room suddenly feels very empty. Vimsy scratches his eyebrow and steps forward. He addresses the empty benches. "Four-four-two, lads. Keep it tight first five. Win the second half because this lot? They don't even want it." He grins and looks from Spectrum to me. "Who did it better? Him or me?"

I feel a headache coming on. "Depends if they win, doesn't it?" I shake my head. "Is he ever going to grow up?"

"Why do you want that?" said Livia, zipping up a medical bag. "Do you want Peter Pan to give PowerPoints and get a mortgage?"

"Peter Pan," I say, slowly. "That's interesting. Max as Peter Pan? That's very interesting." Not least because it makes Livia his Tiger Lily. It fits!

Livia shakes her head. "Save it for the next one. This one's got to be about the boys."

"About the men," I say, and for the first time in my life, Livia Stranton smiles at me.

"The end of the road," says Spectrum, as he slaps himself on the forehead. "Boyz II Men. I get it now!" He turns on his heels and says, "Boggy's gonna love this."

***

The start of the second half is a study in fire and brimstone. Best is the calmest man in the stadium as tackles fly in, shoulders are barged, the home team's bench empties again and again, and yellow cards are handed out... but only to Chester.

"Maybe you should calm them down," I say, after the latest flare-up.

"I would if I was the United manager. They're bad for the brand."

"Who are you talking about?"

"Who are you talking about?"

"The boys!" I say.

That annoys him. "I don't see any boys."

He turns away, dismissing me, but I'm not letting it drop. "Max, they're running hot. Cool them down or they'll get sent off!"

Best tuts and shakes his head. "You're not watching - again. Cover your ears. Ignore the other bench. God." He wanders away but comes back. "You know what? The men deserve better. I'll talk you through it." He glances up at the famous scoreboard. It still reads Manchester United 2 Chester 1 but it also shows the time. "Six minutes gone this half. United got pumped up, were told to come out kicking. It's brutal, hard-tackling, bruising stuff. Trying to kick us off our game. And you think we've responded as intended? Bunch of brats kicking out, retaliating?"

"Yes."

He's disappointed. "No. They're playing just how they started. Total self-control." He shakes his head. "You've bought the narrative. The ref's bought it. The lads... wouldn't know what the hell you were talking about. This isn't intense for us. You should see our training sessions!"

I point. "Captain got a yellow card for a late tackle."

"Nope. The winger dived."

"Seven was booked for grabbing Blanco's shirt."

"Blanco had Seven's shirt, too. How's it a card for us?"

I get a sinking feeling. "Oh, shit."

"What?"

United are passing the ball around with Chester players taking up disciplined positions in front of them. The referee is watching like a hawk, ready to intervene. Ready to put his odious finger on the scales. "I pissed the ref off."

I explain what happened before kick off. "I see," says Best. "Ruin the kids' lives, make me look like a dick in front of the celebrities. What next? Find some toddler and tell them Santa isn't real?"

"Max," I say.

"Hey," he says, softly. He rubs my back. "I'm only joking. I was teasing you. I think it's hilarious."

"What?"

"You versus the ref. Legendary. I wish I'd seen it. Come on, Beth. Seriously, it's okay. The ref's bad but he's not biased, not like you think. He thinks we're some non-league thugs so he's got a trigger finger. We've seen all this before." He jabs his finger towards the pitch. "That's what being a man is. That's what being an adult is. Shit happens, you have your feelings, but you control what you can control and you do your job."

"What's your job?"

He smiles. "Not much. I've taught them well, I reckon. Too well. I should have left something for half time today, shouldn't I?" He thinks this is funny. "Four seasons, I've had them. 4 Seasons of Loneliness."

"What?"

"It's a Boyz II Men song. I tried to research them for my team talk but got distracted looking at photos of Mariah Carey."

"Typical."

"You know that thing where she thinks she has a bad side so you only ever see her from her right?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

But Best is miles away. "Bad side. Only see her from the right." He turns suddenly. "Wibbers!"

The prodigy rushes to Best's side. "Yes, boss?"

"How are you feeling?"

"Good. Fit. Ready."

"You know the way I was going to make you sit out the whole match as a punishment?"

Wibbers takes a breath. "Yeah."

"Turns out this halfwit has been demonstrating her particular brand of charm to the ref and that's why he's running around booking everyone in blue and white."

"Fucking hell, Beth!"

"I know. So it's different now. Us losing because you were selfish is one thing. That's educational. Us losing because Beth was selfish? That doesn't help anyone. So I want you to go on and fix this, okay? Part of being a man is cleaning up other people's mess. Sevenoaks got the first yellow card of his life thanks to Beth so that's his final done. You'll replace him and mess them up down the left until they rearrange. Do not, I repeat, do not get sucked into the referee's game, okay? He wants to make this about him. I want you to make it about you. You have my permission to slap, okay?"

"Unleashed?"

"Unleashed. I want you on the ball in space, causing havoc, nothing else. Do you understand?"

"Yes. No lip."

"Bosh. Get warmed up."

Wibbers trots away, radiating pleasure. I can't say I'm not annoyed. "Max, did you have to drag me?"

"Oh, did you hear all that? That was off the record."

"You always planned to bring him on; you were waiting for an excuse. You could have used the ref without bringing me into it."

"I don't understand anything you're saying right now. I'm managing a football match, in case you haven't noticed. Maybe you could step away for a minute."

"Fucking make me."

Best's head tips backwards and he laughs hard. He claps his hands together. "You want a close-up view, okay. Emil Zátopek said that it's at the borders of pain and suffering that the men are separated from the boys. You asked what my job was. My job's to push the border of pain and suffering that way." He points towards the Man United goal.

"How are you going to do that?"

Best doesn't reply. One hundred percent of his focus is on Sevenoaks, the right winger, who is leaving the pitch in what will most likely be his final appearance for the club. Best envelops him. Seven comes up for air and is swallowed by Vimsy, then Livia, then the subs. Seven is soon covering his head with a jacket, bawling.

It's so emotional and I'm such an outsider I get uncomfortable. It's a thought I don't often have as a reporter - I shouldn't be seeing this. I focus on the match but that, too, seems transgressive. Now that Wibbers is on the pitch, I finally see what Best has been trying to tell me - his boys are all grown up. The thirty thousand home fans don't touch them, the magnitude of the occasion is water off a duck's back, the referee is a minor irritant. The combinations between Dan Badford, Tyson, and Wibbers are fast, slick, and purposeful. They're playing like they are six-nil up.

Manchester United are on the rack. Chester are turning the screw.

Once every thirty seconds, Best gestures and there's a small tweak on the pitch. It starts as 4-3-3 but morphs into 3-4-3. Lucas Friend inches forward until he's playing as a pure left midfielder. William Roberts is ahead of him, rusty but far from blunt. His first shot is scuffed weakly into the keeper's arms. The second whizzes miles to the left. His third clips the top of the crossbar and a shiver of fear rolls around the stands like a Mexican Wave.

"Attack!" screams Best, suddenly. He slams his arm towards United's goal. "Attack! Attack attack attack!"

The next few minutes are wild. Tyson pops up all over the pitch - right, left, forward, back. In fact, none of Chester's players have fixed positions except for Wibbers, who has to stay as high and wide on the left as possible, and Captain, who tries his hand at being a battering ram. United have clocked that Wibbers is quite good so they double up at right back. Noah Harrison storms down the right and whips in cross after cross. Fungrieve heads at the keeper. Captain has one well saved. A hasty clearance goes to Tyson who slams his foot through a dipping volley - I still don't understand how it missed.

United's head coach has seen enough. There are only twenty minutes to play and he has something to cling onto. He's not allowed to change formation, it seems, but there's one obvious thing to do. He replaces the now-anonymous Ekechi with a tenacious midfielder. It's quite clever, I think. The midfielder will press Chester's technically poor defenders and if he doesn't intercept the ball, he'll stop it from being so easy to build attacks.

Four seconds after I have that thought, Dan Badford moves to centre back and the slaughter accelerates.

Banksy to Badford to Tyson becomes the most common passing sequence. The next most common sight is Tyson running at wide-eyed defenders with Chester players scattering to the winds. Suddenly, Wibbers sprints horizontally across the pitch with United players unsure if they should pick him up or not. Tyson pings a pass into his path and Wibbers makes a big show of turning back onto his left foot with the goal in range. A defender buys the fake so completely he slides in front of a shot that will never come. Wibbers has let the ball run into the path of Noah, who slides it first time along the six-yard box. Benny is there! Benny must score!

Benny lets the ball run through his legs. Chas Fungrieve applies the finish. Two-all. A goal out of a trigonometry textbook. A goal of absurd imagination and quality. Two fizzed passes, two stepovers, two-all.

Max Best goes feral. The roar shreds his vocal cords. When Livia runs at him he lifts and twirls her in a glorious spiral, something out of a fairytale. When Vimsy does the same, Best twirls him, too. It's less aesthetic but just as pleasing.

Best needs a minute. He wanders off, crouches, seems to be pushing back tears. He misses a huge tactical tweak from his opposite number. United's head coach has broken ranks, left the orthodoxy behind. It looks like 4-2-3-1. Six to defend, four to attack. Again my initial reaction is that it's very clever. Best stands, his mouth slack. The change in formation has absolutely flummoxed him. Indeed, for the next couple of minutes, United regain the upper hand. They are roared on by the home faithful, who sense their boys need help.

Chester drop deeper and deeper, retreating into a tight 4-3-3. Best looks shaken - he doesn't know how to respond. I glance at Best's Besties and they are talking to each other while covering their mouths - never a sign that anything positive is being said.

I remember I'm not making a nature documentary, not filming some poor beetle who's unable to get off its back. I rush to my friend's side. "Max! Snap out of it! It's 4-2-3-1. How do we counter it? Come on, think!"

He covers his face with his hands and pulls them down slowly. "I don't know," he whimpers. "I'm shit. I'm a bald fraud."

"You've got great hair," I say, and will probably regret doing so for the rest of my life because Best's energy transforms in a second. The twinkle is back in his eye.

"Against 4-2-3-1 you do counter-attacks, Beth."

"Well then - " I start, but his confidence makes me reassess what's happening. Chester aren't being pushed back. They're setting a trap. He spots the exact moment I work it out and hides his mouth. He can't hide the smug look in his eyes; I want to hit him. "You cocky fucking - "

Lucas Friend is in trouble on the left. A United player stops him from passing down the line and Friend is forced to turn all the way round, on his weaker right foot, facing his own goal.

He passes it to Banksy. The pass is underhit and Banksy has to scramble to get it. Banksy takes his sweet time moving the ball onto his right foot and lines up a booming clearance. A United player throws himself towards the path of the ball. Any contact and he'll score! Banksy eschews the booming clearance and plays a simple pass between yet more eager United pressers. It goes to Dan Badford, who is making my comment that he was struggling look ever more stupid by the second. He doesn't even bother doing one of his delicate half-turns, but simply angles a pass to Tyson. Tyson clips it over the defence and Wibbers is onto it.

Half the United team are stranded in Chester's penalty area and this attack is suddenly three against two.

Wibbers is fast and direct. He surges towards the left edge of United's box. He has Benny in the centre and Chas - not as slow as he seems! - bursting a gut to get to the far post. I'm sure Wibbers will pass to Benny - a goal from one of Max's first apostles is the most poetic way to win. Or is it Chas? He's from Chester, too, and he's the youngest. Best's Babes win with a goal from the youngest? Yes, of course it will be Chas.

The keeper comes out to make things hard for Wibbers. The England forward gives him the eyes - the keeper's weight shifts to his right - before Roberts turns his torso to make the pass easier. Here it comes! No it doesn't! Roberts clips the ball to the left of the goalie, above his flailing leg but below his glove, and watches it bounce once, twice. As the ball crosses the line, Roberts is already well on his way to the corner flag.

There's more celebratory chaos, but this time Best isn't part of it. His only reaction is to cackle, smile at Roberts - now buried under a pile of other men - and to croak, "Pass, you little shit. Heh."

I'm on a magical island watching Peter Pan sweep his gaze across his domain and I think - does this make me Tinker Bell?

Whatever - the match is finished. All Best has to do is shut up shop. Low block, hoof the ball away for five minutes plus injury time, and eternal glory -

"Roddy!" he calls. Roddy Jones is a fifteen-year old Welsh prodigy. Fifteen going on twelve by the looks of him. Best can tell me that Jones is the next big thing until he's blue-and-white in the face but he's never going to convince me he's a man. "You warmed up? You're going on."

"Max!" I say. "You're only up by one. If United score, it's extra time and if you've got a tadpole playing right back, you're in deep shit."

"Oh, okay," he croaks, reasonably. "Tell him he's not playing."

"Well, no," I say.

Best furrows his brow. "What do you do if you lose your voice? Ginger and honey, is it? When I'm doing media can you try and get me some?"

"Focus, Max! It's not over!"

He gestures his annoyance and walks up and down the touchline. Far too soon, in more ways than one, Roddy Jones takes to the pitch. Best high tens Noah Harrison, but I feel sick. Jones is so young. He's just a baby. What if he makes a mistake that lets United back into the match? I retreat to the dugout so I can cover my face, but I get straight back to my feet.

United don't seem to have realised it was their tactics that made it easy for Chester to score; they're still in their 4-2-3-1 shape, playing short passes with commendable skill and urgency, working the ball forward.

A few waves crash against Chester's structure and with time running out, Badford passes to Tyson, who touches it to Wibbers, playing deep, and he sprays it wide to Jones. The young man freezes, a deer in the headlights. The worst moment of my year is half a second away. Luigi Blanco, the multi-million pound teenager, is haring towards the ball. He'll get it and that simple action will demolish Chester's structure. Max Best's house of cards will tumble.

I stare in astonishment as I see Roddy Jones sprinting down the touchline. What the hell just happened? There are two people in the stadium who don't know - me and Luigi Blanco.

Jones runs, feels a second opponent coming, uses his Welsh rugby genes to drop a shoulder, turns the defender into a loose pile of limbs, keeps running. He's in the penalty box and he's going to shoot. What an impact this would be! Another defender slides in. Jones turns back and feeds Benny. I gasp. This is the moment! Benny was the beginning, Benny's the end.

The striker hits his shot high and hard. United's goalie has not had the best game but he flings out a hand and deflects the ball behind for a corner.

This is good, I think. They can waste some time. Get closer to victory.

Or they can take a short corner and drive at goal! Jones ends up with the best angle - he fires it left-footed. United's keeper parries. It's half-cleared to Wibbers, who touches the ball and shoots from 35 yards. The keeper gets two hands to it and it rebounds. Next up is Tyson. He has a crack that goes just over.

It's cruel. In boxing such a bout would be stopped early. The referee feels the same; he blows the final whistle. Amidst the running and leaping and screaming of the Chester staff, players, and subs, I look up at the famous scoreboard. I have to blink a few times to understand what I'm seeing.

It says:

Boys 2 Men 3.

***

The celebrations go as usual - ticker tape, medals, lifting the trophy. Captain goes first, as is right, but they all get a turn. From Wibbers and Dan to the players who came on with minutes left to the unused subs. They each get a moment in the sun.

Player of the Match goes to Tyson. At the front of the emptying stands, his father is in bits. Like the players, the parents have been on a journey, too. The United stewards play a blinder, letting players get close to their loved ones. It's a family affair.

As the players frolic and gambol, there is no sadness, no sense that this is a bittersweet moment, because this day is far from done. This party is just getting started.

Best himself sticks to the edges and I stick close to Best. I have a sense he's thinking about going out on a high. Tiny Chester FC have won the FA Youth Cup. It's crazy. There's nowhere to go from here, surely? It would be just like him to slap his hands together and say, job done, next.

I'm in the area, therefore, when Pedro Porto comes to the touchline. He's with a young man who is a hot prospect in United's youth system. I should pay more attention - I don’t even get his name - but I'm distracted by the revelation that in person, Porto is a dashing, sexy pirate. "Captain Hook!" I gasp. Best realises I'm there and shoots me an amused look. Porto, annoyingly, only has eyes for Best.

Porto seems to be trying to persuade Best to take the player on loan for next season. In what world are Chester in a position to pick and choose which elite players join them?

Best is distracted by the sight of William Roberts giving an interview but then blasts Porto's player with attention. "Mate," he says. "Come to Chester, yeah? I know it's a big step up but... I think you'll be able to handle it."

That's it. The player loves the brash confidence and after seeing what he has just seen, he is in. "Yeah, all right. Love to."

Best gets quiet before looking at Porto. "Can we get an option to buy?"

"I regret not."

Best grunts but a rueful smile emerges. "Fine." To his new player he says, "We'll be in touch, okay?"

Just like that, a new journey begins.

***

There's one last moment. I'm in the corridor wondering what to do. Best and the boys are in the dressing room and music is blasting. The party is very much in full swing but I don't feel I have a good ending for the piece. I need to see the boys one last time, surely?

While I'm plotting, Best's Besties turn up. Dieter Bauer and eleven of his fellow legends want to congratulate the winners. I wince. "He won't let you in. It's his Neverland."

That statement is the end of the road for Paul Braun's good mood. "Pardon me?"

"Max doesn't let anyone in his dressing room unless he needs them to hold a gong or something mental. It's a point of principle. He told me once the only reason he would work for a billionaire would be to kick them out of his dressing room and then quit because they don't understand the sport. I'm sorry but we have to wait for them to come out."

"Wait for them to come out?" Paul Braun is not used to the idea he has to wait for anything.

"Now, Paul," says Dieter. "It's Max's choice, is it not? We cannot think badly of him for putting his players first."

Paul is ready to fume, but he didn't get to be an important figure for Bayern Munich by being stupid. "Perhaps we could let him know we are here. Once he knows, he will of course want his players to meet us."

I have a pretty strong suspicion Max Best will not get along with Paul Braun, but the basic point is sound. Nono, who I now know is the director of football at Corinthians, has a question. "Who will go in?"

I step to the door and knock. Nothing happens. "I don't think they can hear me," I say, stupidly. Nono smiles but when he steps closer, I sense danger. If Best gets mad at anyone, it should be me. He'll forgive me sooner or later. Would he do the same with one of these men? "I'll do it."

I slip inside and find Best. He's surprised. "Where the hell have you been? We can't start the party without you." The party is very much underway. Think twenty sweaty boys dancing around, singing, chanting, filming everything. I tell Max who is outside. "Oh, right," he says. "I forgot about them."

"Don't lose your boys," I say.

"Lost boys?" says Best, trying to remember something.

We go into the corridor and Best is assaulted with praise. Literally assaulted. He actually takes a half-step back. What else was he expecting?

Dieter Bauer is the elder statesman in a group of elder statesmen. "Max! Incredible! The birth of a genius."

"That's funny," says Best.

"What is funny?"

Best beams. "I can't tell if you're talking about Dan, Wibbers, or Roddy Jones!"

The elders laugh merrily, grip each other by the arm, exchange knowing looks.

I explain that the legends have come to congratulate the players, and want to enter Neverland. As I predicted, Best pulls a face. Never. "It might be good for the lads," I say.

"Why?"

"Because they're famous."

"Attila the Hun is famous but he can't come in my dressing room."

Paul Braun is absolutely scandalised, but Dieter Bauer is smooth as butter. "We understand, Max, that a bunch of old men are not so interesting to your young players. We selfishly want to recapture some of our youth." He slaps Paul on the back of the shoulder. "We miss it, I think, more than we care to admit."

"Oh," says Best. I see that he has already changed his mind. Perhaps he's thinking about what it will be like when he is old and the young people have forgotten his name.

Nono doesn't know Best as well as I do; he sells past the close. "Perhaps our visit will not be so much fun for the young men, but rather for their fathers."

"Good point," says Best. "Um... You just want to pop in, yeah?"

"Actually," says Dieter, "we would like the opportunity to ask your wonderful squad if they would join us for dinner. Our invitation."

Best is confused by the last phrase, which I later discover is Dieter's way of offering to pay for the meal. "Give me one second," he says. He goes into the dressing room and soon after, the music stops. The door opens and Best waves us in.

We line up fairly awkwardly, while the boys - the men - smile at us. Half are recording what's happening.

"Lads," croaks Best. "These guys want to give you your flowers. Take it from me, this is big news, okay?" Best looks up and down the line. "In today's money, this lot would cost one point seven billion, easy." There are lots of impressed faces amongst the players, and Paul Braun's opinion of Max Best has flipped all the way to the maximum. "And if you think that's epic, check this out. We've got a bit of a dark horse in here. Forget your Champions Leagues and your Bundesligas and your Copa Libertadores. We've got something ten times more impressive. We've got the last person to successfully tackle Sarah Greene. Take a bow, Bethany Alban." I feel myself turn red. It's stupid to be compared to the superstars, but I love it. Nono smiles at me. Dieter Bauer smiles at me. William B. Roberts folds his arms and scowls. Best's voice is scratchy, but he can put out enough volume. "They want to come with us to dinner and I think that'll be fun. Don't worry, lads, you can still go mental. These guys won everything there is to win and drank everything there is to drink." This gets laughs from both sides of the discussion. "So the decision is this. Do we go with them to their favourite restaurant? It's one of those where they bring ice-cream sized blobs of something and they explain what it is and you know all the words but somehow you're more confused than before. Or they can come with us... to the place we go when we win."

Tyson rushes forward and screams, "Nando's!"

The roar from the players is ear-splitting and when Best plays the chicken dance song over the speaker, the lads hop and shout 'wah wah wah wah!'

Best guides the legends back into the corridor with the music still blasting. One point seven billion pounds of talent is smiling, laughing. A minute in Neverland has taken decades off them and they seem genuinely keen to slum it for the night. "Everyone, listen up." There is an incredible density of icons, respected pundits, captains, managers, and even a few World Cup winners but there’s no doubt that Max is in charge. "Beth is in charge," he says, putting his hands on my shoulders. "She's going to organise everything. Do what she says and everything will go smooth as silk. One last thing. If anyone can find out what she said to Sarah Greene to stop her from dribbling..." He jabs his thumb behind him. "You can have one of my players."

That gets a huge laugh and I realise I'm going to be interrogated all night. Worse things have happened.

Before he goes back inside, I grab Best's arm. "Are you sponsored by Nando's?"

"I fucking should be."

"Hey, listen... Well done. That's... It's unreal. It's crazy. Boys to men for real."

"Thanks. I'm gonna look after them. They'll be all right."

It's an unexpected turn in the conversation, but it's interesting all the same. "Max," I say. I know this will be the last thing I ask him before we're swallowed up by the party. This is the end of the road. The boys are men and I’ll never again get this kind of access. "Was this a good season?"

He thinks about it. "Definitely in my top three." He breaks out his most youthful, Peter Pannish grin... and vanishes.