Player Manager - A Sports Progression Fantasy

16.

Mid May, 2026

Emma drove us to south Manchester while I chose the tunes. The first few songs were upbeat bangers that gave a sense of propulsion and fun. Holiday Road and Happy into Highway Star. I planned a controlled descent from there to The Stone Roses, but ended up letting The Black Keys play.

I closed my eyes and reflected.

My 2025-2026 season was over. Had it been a good one? Some things nagged at me but yes. Big progression. Most numbers went up and we'd finished with a sprinkling of awards and a generous dollop of glory.

The morning after the Youth Cup win I got an unexpected piece of cursemail. Since the achievements system had been dissolved, there had been no way for me to unlock certain perks. While the Youth Cup win earned me precisely zero Manager Points, the imps clearly thought that smashing it with a bunch of tier six kids was worthy of several achievements because they were giving me a bonus. The WibWob 'deformations' - the way I was able to fine-tune where players stood in positional play - would be extended. I would still only be able to move one player to a new zone, but I would have a lot more freedom to move players around.

Helpfully, the same message told me I would need to buy two more formations to be able to buy more deformation slots. That made buying formations more urgent, but the next one was 5,000 XP and there was just so much else I needed to buy.

XP balance: 2,313

I was being careful with my XP spending. Very thrifty. I wasn't sure I would earn much while I was in Canada and Gibraltar, so the time I most needed to use Secret Sandra to boost our training speeds would be the time I had the least access to easy XP. When pre-season training started, I would want to get Peter Bauer boosted, and of course in July and August I would be very motivated to get the most out of the players I had brought to Gibraltar. I needed to build something of a stash.

I had bought the monthly perk that added two new items to the perk shop, and I had been using Secret Sandra until we had played our final matches. Since construction had started at Bumpers Bank and training had moved back to BoshCard, CA improvements had been much slower so the training boost was very welcome. Most of the hard work had been done in the previous nine months, though, and the results were spectacular.

We had started the season playing a backs-to-the-wall 5-3-2 against Fleetwood Town. Their average CA was 91, very much at the top of the class. Ours had been 69.8. Not even close to the required standard!

For the last match of the season, against CA 82 Wimbledon, the final game at the Deva stadium in its current form, Sandra had played a flexible 4-4-2.

Swanny (CA 89) was in goal, protected by a back four of Cole (84), Christian (95), Zach (90), and Lee Hudson (91); a formidable defence for the level. Sandra had got the Easter eggs she wanted even if it meant scoring fewer goals than we could have done. She would go into the League One campaign with confidence that we wouldn't get overrun.

The midfield was the beautiful Duggers (94), Youngster (104), Lee C (92), and Pascal (also 92). Duggers was averaging more than one goal involvement per game, meaning he was either scoring or assisting every time he played. Youngster appeared to have absorbed some of Foquita's immunity to the soft caps everyone else was facing, and his latest moronic shot on goal and the public spanking that followed had led to another pop in his Decisions.

The starting strikers were Henri (another 92) and Foquita (113), giving us an average CA of 94.2. When Henri was subbed off and replaced by Dazza (97), our eleven on the pitch hit a new record-high average of 94.6.

Since I had become Chester's director of football, we had won promotion three times and I had tripled our average CA. Boom. In fact, I would go as far as to say bosh.

"What are you thinking?"

"Oh, you know," I said. "How far we've come."

Emma looked out of the window. "We're passing Warrington."

"Babes," I complained, because she knew what I meant.

"Soz not soz," she said. "That was a banger."

I brought up my mental list of the clubs in League One to see who we compared to. The typical range was from CA 90 to 110. Last time I'd seen them, Reading had CA 95 - though of course the team had been asset stripped and relegated. There were a few teams around the CA 110 mark but big-spending Stockport County were only CA 97. "That's so cool," I said.

"What is?"

"Take our starting eleven from the most recent match - I know we've lost Foquita but just go with it - and we're looking good. They all slack off over the summer, of course, but when we get back to Bumpers we'll return to these levels and more. Yeah, even without Foquita we could be as good on day one as we were on day forty-six. We would be something like the 18th best team in League One."

"Oh. That's... not what I was expecting you to say."

"Hmm? You think it's bad? It's not. It's incredible. We'll bulk up nice and fast. There are three pretty massive clubs going down from the Championship but will they be able to keep all their players? Unlikely." One month into the season it was perfectly possible Chester would have an average CA of 100. Was that too optimistic? We had such a high PA ceiling that the only first-teamer who would hit his ceiling this season was Lee Contreras. He would hit his quite soon, which was not ideal, but it made him a God Save the King candidate. With that perk I could push him to PA 100. Who would hit their limits next? Christian Fierce? He was 95 now and his limit was 120. Him capping out would be absolutely amazing and a sign that the investment in Bumpers was paying off.

Let's say we added 4 points in September and 3 in October. CA 107 plus my tactics and my cameos from the bench and we would win most matches. That is, unless there were some amazing managers in League One who could do what I did. I had seen a few that the curse rated highly, but good numbers didn't do much if a person wasn't willing or able to change. "That United coach had good tactics but he was pretty shit."

"Beth's article made him seem pretty incompetent."

"He wasn't incompetent. No, I wouldn't say that. He made a few sensible changes; he was just cautious, slow to respond, and stubborn. Beth made me sound pretty clever, didn't she? Heh. I shouldn't react so fast to their mistakes, should I? When he took Ekechi off and put that midfielder in an advanced pressing role and I moved Dan Badford back? That was just showing off. I should have waited a minute."

"Why?"

"So I don't get burned as a witch."

Emma's lips twisted. "I got a text from my dad after he read the article. Said it was so frustrating to have all the things you do spelled out when he was there and didn't see it. Maybe you should use that minute for people to see what's happening so that when you respond, it's clear what you're doing. Let everyone know how smart you are."

"If I wanted to let everyone know how smart I was, I'd go on a Bradford City podcast to goad the Star family."

Emma's knuckles whitened on the wheel. "You've been on a podcast?" The tension melted off her as she laughed. "Can't you stay out of trouble for ten minutes?"

"Sure. Startiiiiiiing now."

She laughed some more and said, "Babes," in an affectionate way.

"Do you want to hear?"

She tapped the steering wheel a few times. "Do I want to listen to a Bradford City podcast on a lovely sunny day? Hmm... Bradford City podcast or some banging tunes? That's, wow, that's hard."

"I know you want to. I'm pressing play."

***

The Bantamweight Podcast, Episode 111 - Max Best Interview 2

- Welcome to an emergency episode of the Bantamweight podcast, your home for all things Bradford City. I'm Jimmy Lockwood and I'm joined today by Chester FC's Max Best, who got in touch about returning to the show. Max, hi.

- Awite.

- I really didn't think we'd hear from you again.

- Why's that?

- Last time you came on this pod, you had insider information about the Star takeover and you got us worked up about how damaging that could be. Turns out, the Stars have been good owners. You were wrong and we won the league.

- You're welcome.

- Pardon me?

- Nothing. Listen, Jimmy, I'm sure you've been ripping into me on this podcast this season. Lots of weapons-grade banter.

- Some. Less now than when you were bottom of the league.

- Yeah, that must have been hilarious.

- Very much so. We had a bad start but it all clicked when we went to the Deva. Three-nil down to three-all, team spirit, celebrating with the fans. Huddersfield and Leeds fans were pissing themselves that we were celebrating a point against the worst team in Europe but we had a sense that things had changed.

- You were right about that. Have you got a theory about what happened?

- Just that you subbed yourself off and suddenly Chester were easy to play against. You were a one-man team in those days, weren't you? Putting out fires, scoring all the goals. Yeah, we laughed at you for a long while but then you weren't bottom of the league. You were twentieth, seventeenth, suddenly you're in seventh and it's like ey-up! What's all this?

- Love a Yorkshireman saying ey-up.

- Since then it's been like The Terminator. You're in our rear view mirror getting closer and closer. We're in a car and you're running but you're catching up!

- That's Terminator 2. Shit, I have to go home and watch that now. That's the absolute best. How have I never used that one in a team talk? All right, Jimmy, listen. Bradford City won the league. I'm not very happy about it but congratulations to you and the fans. You deserve it.

- You don't want to congratulate the players? The owners?

- Let's not go overboard. [He laughs.] You fans have been through the mud in recent years, haven't you? You deserve this. Crowds of sixteen thousand a week in League Two? It's just amazing, I love it. I know this is football and you feel obliged to have a pop at me but listen, all I want is that when I'm old there's still a Bradford City. That's why I came on the show last time and that's why I'm back.

- Have you got information about the owners?

- I wouldn't say information but they are very much looking to sell. Buy for two million, invest three, sell for ten. That's a good bit of business, isn't it? This is their only shot at making a profit, unless...

- Unless what?

- I mean, I have no doubt Daddy Star will sell up. You see, he's not a billionaire yet. When he goes to parties on superyachts with the other rich pricks, they're all saying things like 'hey y'all my soccer club won the Europa League!' and one guy's like 'I won the leagues in Belgium, Brazil, and Belarus!' Daddy Star says, 'Bradford City won League Two' and there's this awkward silence. Absolute cringe and he dies inside. Those rich pricks have heard of the Championship and Star would love to get there - some actual bragging rights and he'd be able to sell for fifty million - but he would have to put in another five million and it'd wipe out his profit. He's rich but he's cheap, right? And he's not so rich he can give his son five million and say 'get us another promotion' because he knows his son's a clown who got lucky. There's just no way they'll go for it. Star's daughter will be running a Championship club a year from now and Bradford will be heading back to League Two under their new hedge fund ownership. Oh, and attendances will plummet because the new lot will think they can jack up ticket prices because that's all they know. Yeah, I'm worried about the direction this club will take. It could be a very hard landing, Jimmy, and I take no pleasure in saying that.

- I feel like you're trying to goad the Stars into sticking around and spending more money but why? You did this before and it blew up in your face.

- I've learned that faces grow back. [He laughs.] All right, you got me. I am worried about the future of Bradford, that's not a joke. Your owners don't care about you and that's a fact. But more than that, they don't care about the sport, or any sport. They go hunting, that's their thing, and they shoot things that can't fight back. Cowards. They aren't the kind of people to rise to a challenge. You beat a club with one-quarter of the wage bill? Good job. Next season Chester will bridge the financial gap to one-third and we are going to make you choke on our dust. If I were Daddy Star I would cluck around my ranch like a chicken and sell up pronto.

- I think that counts as a challenge.

- I think we'll finish 40 points ahead of Bradford City next season.

- 40 points?!

- Yup. No fussin'.

- You know we're going to clip that and play it in our intro?

- Yeah, until we're thirty-nine points clear and you think, this is a bad look. Okay that's that. I should get back to work.

- Oh, of course. Only...

- What?

- I got some questions from our Patreons. I thought I might ask you some of the less offensive ones.

- Haha! Hey, maybe.

- Quick one. We've seen leaked images of your new away kit. Are those real and are you really going to wear that?

- For legal reasons I can't answer that but yes that's the new kit and yes I'll wear it with pride. Oh, I've got one for you. What did you make of Aff and Carl? You happy with them? They're my only players who got three league medals in a row.

- We had a lot of discussions about that pair this season. The fan base is quite split.

- Oh, really? That's fascinating. Tell me everything.

***

I stopped the audio. "After that it's just loads of him talking about the season. Carl was quite solid but some fans wanted more. Aff had his moments and some fans love his will to win and his never-say-die attitude, but against the better defenders he struggled to have an impact. Remember Chip bought another left mid and he had a shocking debut? The guy knuckled down and won his place back. Yeah, we talked about Bradford's season."

"Fair enough, given that it's a Bradford podcast. The host sounded like he couldn't decide if he loved you or hated you."

"That's football, isn't it? Everything's contextual. He hates me when I'm slapping his team pink in their stadium, loves me when I'm beating Man United in the Youth Cup final."

"Loves you when you're on his podcast."

"Ha. Yeah."

"Do you think the Stars will stick around?"

"Um... Don't really give a shit. I think the club is safer with them in charge than, you know, a hedge fund, but if they sign three great players maybe all I've done is push up the wage bill and booted them closer to financial ruin. It's hard to know what's best. Don't spend more than the club earns is the solution, but if they're the only club living within their means, they would fall to the National League."

"These owners are crazy."

***

We pulled into my mum's street and parked behind an unusually long row of cars. The sun was doing great work; 4 out of 5, no notes. Perfect day for some gardening or to dangle your feet in a lake. I started to think about places we could get lunch that had outside seating, places Ems and I could go for a long walk.

Mum was getting her regular check-up at the care home so while she was out of the house we were taking the opportunity to get some shit done. Sebastian and Rachel Weaver had come, as had the Brig and - to my great surprise - Dylan from 3 R Welsh. They were talking to Angela, mum's carer, about little things that needed to be done around the house. When I arrived, the Brig had his sleeves rolled up; he'd been doing some minor repairs. Zach and Brooke had come as specialist dog walkers - Zach's three hounds would be Solly's bodyguards for a walk around the park. Gemma and the Triplets had piled along to see if they could help with anything - Rachel had put them to work repainting Angela's bedroom.

And out the back, Aff, Socket Man (Aff's cash-in-hand employee), and Dylan were putting up the cat slash squirrel adventure playground.

Anna was watching from the garden table. She looked well. Healthy, vibrant. Much of the old spirit that had been dwindling away had been replenished. Was it the bungalow? Solly? The cat? Maybe the more premium toiletries. I wondered if she would like the smell of Jejune.

Emma and I sat with her and chatted and we discovered that Angela had made her son do most of the preparations off-site. She didn't want the peace of the garden disturbed by circular saws and sanders and hours of aggressive hammering. The idea was that Aff should be able to come and quickly assemble the finished product and my mum wouldn't hear a thing. It made Aff's life a lot harder but, as his mum told him, 'not as hard as I could make it, sonny boy.'

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Dylan took a break when he saw me. He seemed delighted to be doing what I would consider boring manual work. "He's switched on, that Aff. I always liked him at Chester. Hard worker. Grafter. Bright, isn't he? He'll go far in this game."

"Football?" said Emma.

"Construction," said Dylan. "Met a lot of cowboys in my time."

"You talked to Zach, then?" I said.

Dylan laughed. "Zach's a different sort of cowboy, if you get me. His girl is really something. Wow. Stoop has his rankings all wrong."

"What's Stoop?" said Emma, in a voice that made me turn my head and examine her. I had the absolutely insane feeling she winked at me, but I'm fairly confident she didn't. I mean, why?

"Oh, ah, nothing," said Dylan, scratching the back of his neck. "No-one."

"What have you been up to?" said Emma.

Dylan sat down and reached into his pocket. "Been writing! I'm a published writer now! Big time. It's not out yet but I've got a PDF."

He tapped a couple of times and handed his phone over. We saw a magazine cover. The background image was a generic football match. In the middle of the page was a logo that showed a crown, a lion, and two crossed swords with the words Army Football written beneath. Below the logo, in large lettering, were the words The Soldiers' Game, Annual Review 2026. Below that were three circles containing scenes of triumph.

"It's the magazine for army football. It's got an overview of what's going on, match reports, interviews, women's footy, referee stuff. It's not the most exciting thing but it's a decent read and of course it's amazing to get your name in it. 3 R Welsh is mentioned on page 64."

"Sixty-four?" I said, amazed. "How big's this magazine?"

"Army football's big. We told you. He never listens," he said, quieter.

"I know," said Emma. "What did you write?"

"It's the section after the bit Max is looking at. Just a quick thing about Bestball, like, from my perspective."

"Can I read it?" I said.

Dylan gave me a smile half pleased, half nervous. "I didn't hold back, Max. You might not like it."

I pointed towards the climbing frame. "How about you get back to work?"

He laughed. "Yes, gaffer." He got up, hesitated, and strode across the garden.

Emma jabbed me in the ribs. "Don't hog! I want to read it, too. Especially if he's slagging you off. I haven't threatened to sue anyone in far too long."

While we read, Dylan kept shooting glances our way. Writers aren't supposed to get such instant feedback on their work; it isn't healthy.

***

Bestball

by Corporal Dylan Lewis

At the start of this season, 3 R Welsh were one of the worst teams in army football. Yesterday we played in the Minor Units Cup final. (A gallant defeat, I have heard it called.) The Army FA would like me to answer the question: how is such a turnaround possible? The answer is easy: Bestball.

In July 2025 we were chosen to be part of an experiment. To be more accurate, we were chosen to be experimented on! The mad scientist in this case was Max Best, player-manager of Chester FC. Chester's main rivals are AFC Wrexham. 3R are based in Wrexham. Why did Max want to coach us? One, because we were so bad and two, because he has a very strange sense of humour.

Our own humour was tested past breaking point as we learned what was in store for us. Best wanted to teach us a whole new way of playing football, one that he picked up in South America. In the army we learn that when you pick something up abroad, you treat it with penicillin, not spread it around!

Our first exposure to Bestball was to strip away everything that is fun about the sport. We practised short passes. Endless short passes, back and forth. The relief when we were allowed to work in groups of three was greater than the relief when you realise the penicillin has worked.

At that time, Chester's season was going just about as badly as it's possible to go and some in the unit (i.e. me) lost faith in his abilities. Best never lost faith in us, though, and kept at it. Like a tanker turning, progress was imperceptible. As we tried to play the new way in real matches while clinging onto our old habits, results got worse. And worse.

Best rewarded our doubt and suspicion by moving our base to Colliers Park, home of AFC Wrexham. With Paul Parker and curious Wrexham players watching, we gave our best in training. Things got better. Best announced that he was delighted with us and was ready to teach Bestball to his youth team. But what was Bestball? We still didn't know.

The young players showed us. From the building blocks of short passes and continual movement came beautiful patterns, unexpected angles, players in alignments we had never seen. It was like going from trench warfare to fighting with drones.

We were convinced. We worked harder. The training could be dull but our matches were exciting. (The reverse of the old ways, when training was exciting but our matches were dull!) Results improved. Opponents, even those we lost to, said they hated to play us. We couldn't be pinned down, we were ever-changing, we made them feel slow and stupid.

Along the way we had to battle our demons. We found unexpected heroes with unexpected talents. We won together and when we lost we knew the cure was more togetherness.

Towards the end of the cup final, when Combat Manoeuvre Centre were pressing as hard as we have been pressed, as I felt myself start to crack, the ball came to me. At the start of the season I would have booted it far up the pitch. The ball would have come straight back at us. Inviting more pressure is no way to deal with pressure! Instead I turned towards danger and passed the ball to our player of the season, Private 'Chubby' Charlie Thomas. He, in turn, moved into a part of the pitch littered with opponents. Two, three, four slick passes later and we had a shot on goal.

It could have made it two-one but the keeper saved well. CMC came back up our end of the pitch and scored the winner.

Gutting. Heart-breaking.

But not for Max Best. He was jumping around, celebrating, lifting people up.

He joked later that this was probably going to be the only cup final he ever lost, but seeing him celebrate that sequence was the first time I understood what Bestball really is. It isn't some fancy new way of playing. It is a famous football star taking a year of his life to teach a big, slow-witted Welshman that he doesn't have to kick the ball to the ends of the earth every time it comes near him. Bestball is teamwork, togetherness, trusting your mates, being brave, being clever, and doing the right thing whether you get your reward or not. All the values of a good soldier.

And if it looks amazing while all that's going on, so much the better. That's why it's called Bestball, not Dylanball!

***

I got to the end and had to wipe away a buildup of liquid. "Fucking hell, Dylan. How does he get me so worked up with a few paragraphs?"

Emma nuzzled my neck. "He's a good writer," she said. Her energy changed in an unexpected way and she added, "Based on this, I mean."

"Er, yeah. Paints a picture with a few broad strokes. Oh."

I realised Aff was waiting by the table. He said, "Hi, boss."

"Sup."

"We're done. Would you like to check it?"

I pointed to Anna. "There's your client."

Anna smiled. "The cat is the client. Come! Let us see what we have got."

I gave Dylan his phone, slapped him on the back, and the group pottered towards the end of the garden where the climbing frame ran along the boundary for about ten metres. The cat would approach from the right and Anna would place chunks of boiled chicken at strategic intervals. The cat would have to do some minor agility challenges to get to the next scran.

Aff had put down some of that soft flooring you get in children's playgrounds, either to cushion the blow if the cat fell or to make it nicer for Anna to walk along. He explained all the little shelves and ladders, the zigzag beams, the purpose of a mysterious clear plastic tube (bonus section for squirrels), and how he had put a bird feeder in a strategic position so that the cat would be able to get close enough to give the birds the evil eye but not close enough to murder them.

"Good," I said. "No more end of season murders, please."

Anna was ecstatic and demanded we shoo so that she could try it out without delay. Aff was more than happy. He wiped his brow. "It's nearly lunch. I think I've earned a beer."

"Come with us," I said. "We're going to some hipster place in Chorlton village. Vegan hotdogs on me."

Aff grinned. "That'd be deadly!"

***

We went to a pub and ate in the beer garden. Sebastian and Rachel talked to Emma and Gemma, finding out the latest from REM and The Wall. Brooke and Zach sat at the end so that the four dogs could lie out of the way of the waiters. They were extremely well-behaved. The waiters, I mean. The Triplets sat with the Texans, competing to make Brooke laugh the hardest. Dylan, the Brig, and Socket Man chatted away like old mates. The Brig took Anna home when she got tired, and Angela went with her.

Finally free of his mother, Aff relaxed and got himself a beer, explaining that he wasn't driving.

I got one too. Why the eff not? Cold beer on a sunny day after a job of work. That's the stuff that dreams are made of.

The amber nectar hit the spot a little too well and my flappy Manc gob started flapping around. "Aff, mate," I said, "I've been trying not to put you in an awkward position and feel free to shut me down but I have to ask. What the hell happened?"

He gave me a wary look. "What exactly do you mean?

I scoffed. "You know what I mean. I fucking dicked you in that match and at half time it all changed. You went in a shambles and came out an organised team. One minute Folke Wester is sacked and he's out of the sport for good, the next he's got a League Two winner's medal and he'll be around forever, like a fucking stain. Someone went in the dressing room and fixed it. I can't work out who? Chip? Please tell me it wasn't Chip."

Aff considered while he reduced the volume of his beer by ten percent. He looked around at the happy scene. "It wasn't Chip," he said, finally.

I nodded. He didn't want to talk about it, but at least it wasn't the worst possible outcome. The idea of Chip with a curse was just... yuck. "Okay," I said, and I cast my mind around for a new topic.

"You dicked us all right," said Aff, and the hairs on my neck stood up. He was going to fess up! "We were a shambles an' all. Half time we go in and the boss is raging at us." Hearing Aff call Folke Wester 'the boss' was like seeing Emma with another man. Aff shook his head. "He was losing his shit big time, only we all knew he was a dead man walking. He started to get personal about us, which didn't bother me, but then he got personal about you."

"And that's where you drew the line," I said, grinning. Typical Aff.

"Yeah. He was saying how he wanted us to get out there and kick you out of the game. I stood up and gave him a piece of my mind."

"That was you shouting?"

"Some of it, right enough. I let rip. You're a dead man walking, I told him, if you think you can win this game being snide and low. We're the better team and we ought to be winning fair and square and I'm sick of this tuggish crap."

"Tuggish?" I said.

"Like a tug," he explained. "Wester had a go back at me but then Carl gets up and he's got a volley. Never heard him like that. How many times have you come up with the genius plan to kick Max Best out of a match and how many times has he eaten your lunch? We can't beat him like that. If that's your level, how about you quit right here and now so we can get something out of this match?"

"Carl stood up to Wester?"

"He would have knocked him flat out, gaffer. I've never seen him so riled up. Wester's eyes are popping out but then it's Raffi. He goes, they're right. We'll never win like this. Wester's getting shit from all angles but it's only the Chester lads, isn't it? Course they don't want to go round kicking their former boss. The boss looks for help from some of the Bradford old guard. The captain says 'all I know is what I hear and what I hear is that Max Best is the real deal. We're three-nil down doing it your way. Maybe we try something different.'"

I was straining hard to listen closely while my head kept spinning. When was Bradford's floating megabrain going to enter the dressing room?

Aff continued. "The boss is in a tough spot. On the one hand, he's forty-five minutes from the sack. On the other hand, if he backs down, what's the point him staying anyway? He's not the boss if there's gonna be a mutiny every week. He takes a drink of water, looks around. I think about telling him how you do it - you listen to advice from people. If Henri or Pascal's got an idea you think about it but it's your call in the end. It's not weak to listen to advice. Then I think, if I need to tell him that, he's dead meat anyway. I'll just keep my head down until the next one comes in.

"He goes, all right, what should we do? His assistant goes, you're not gonna listen to them? Wester's mad at him. Course I am! Who knows how to beat Best better than his own players? I should have asked them a week ago. So now I'm thinking, hello. That's not bad. That's a start. I say that you're amazing but you won't play much longer. We need to play dead. Let you think we had given up. He didn't like that, nor did the rest. Raffi says do you want to win or not? It's a tough sell and I'm not trying too hard to sell it, if you get me. The boss says go on.

"I say we play dead and when you go off, we move Raffi to CAM where he should be anyway and we fucking go for it, hell for leather. No snide shit, just proper football, and we'll see if Max Best is right that Bradford are one of the best teams in the league. Carl pipes up. We should target the new right back. He's good but I've been watching him and he doesn't know his role yet. We'll get slaps and crosses and Raffi will get on the end of a few."

Aff took another big swig. His throat must have dried up after doing a year's worth of talking in one go.

"We worked on the details but it was all about whether we would stick to the plan. I said to the boss, I said boss you need to act like it's all over, too. If you sit there looking miserable like you're waiting for the hangman, Best will sub himself off earlier and we'll have more time to attack. If looks could kill! But fair play to him, he did it. We rode our luck, I'd say, but we earned that draw. After that, it got easier. We told the boss how you did certain things. We got just that little bit smarter with injuries. Bit more streetwise with in-game management. Every match is a chapter in a story."

I toyed with a little bit of condensation on the side of my glass; helped it along its path. "I thought there must have been some kind of big brain who went into that dressing room and hatched that plan."

"There was," said Aff. He drained his beer and rubbed his lips happily. "He goes by the name Max Best."

***

Chesterness 2: The Relentlessness

Episode 8: Little Women

Text on screen: EPILOGUE

[Meredith Ann emerges from one of the cabins. It's the last time that cabin will appear on the show; the next day it will be moved to Saltney.]

[There's a close-up on Max's face as Meredith dribbles. She's taller than the last time he saw her, but she's still one of the smallest players. The camera moves closer. Max's restless eyes do not budge; they simply get wider.]

[The cameraman moves into Max's peripheral vision; the manager seems to wake up. He calls Henri and Sophie over.]

MAX

I want you to film me saying something but I want you to save it for the epilogue, okay?

HENRI

Whatever you wish.

[Max glances at Meredith and opens his mouth.]

MAX

I've got the title of season three, okay?

HENRI

Oh, really?

MAX

Yes. Is it too late to get a wind machine so I look epic? Never mind. Maybe do a dramatic zoom in on my face for this? Oh, or maybe we should cut to Meredith Ann when I'm talking? Is that too on the nose? You guys can decide. Okay. Ahem-hem. Henri, mate! I've got the title of season three of the documentary. It's going to be called... Chesterness 3, colon... The Best Player in the World.

...

Appendix

Trophies and Final Placings

Men's Team: Third in League Two

P46 - W29 - D8 - L9 - Goals For 94 - Goals Against 45 - Goal Difference 49 - Points 95

Top Scorers (League):

Best 18

Foquita 17

Lyons 17

Dazza 12

Green 5

Bochum 4

Fierce 4

Dugdale 4

Contreras 3

Own Goal 3

Including FA Cup, Vans Trophy, AOK Cup:

Best 26

Lyons 22

Foquita 19

Dazza 14

Cup run prize pot: £158,000

Distributed to players: £79,000

Women's Team: First in Division One North

P22 - W20 - D2 - L0 - Goals For 80 - Goals Against 15 - Goal Difference 65 - Points 62

Under 18s: FA Youth Cup Winners (whut lol seriously shiiiiiit)

Top Scorer: Wibbers. Just Wibbers. Seriously. Pick a number. Double it.

Notable Awards

League Two Manager of the Month (February; March): Max Best

League Two Manager of the Month (April): Sandra Lane

League Two Player of the Month (August; October): Max Best

League Two Player of the Month (November): Dazza

League Two Player of the Month (March; April): Foquita

League Two Team of the Season: Christian Fierce; Lee Hudson; Youngster

D1 North Manager of the Month (November;December;February;March): Jackie Reaper

D1 North Manager of the Season: Jackie Reaper

D1 North Player of the Month (September:November;December;February): Sarah Greene

D1 North Player of the Month (March): Kit Hodges

D1 North Golden Gloves Award (Most Clean Sheets): Scottie Love

Manager Stats (Won/Drew/Lost-Win Percentage}

Max

League Two: 24/7/8 - 62%

Vans Trophy: 1/1/1 - 33%

AOK Trophy: 3/1/0 - 75%

FA Cup: 1/0/1 - 50%

Total: 29/9/10 - 60%

Sandra Lane

League Two: 5/2/1 - 63%

Cheshire Cup: 3/0/0 - 100%

Vans Trophy: 1/0/0 - 100%

FA Cup: 1/0/0 - 100%

Total: 10/2/1 - 77%

Peter Bauer

Cheshire Cup: 1/0/0 - 100%

Men's Team Average Attendances