Player Manager - A Sports Progression Fantasy

3.

Sporting glossary: Snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. Somehow conspiring to fail when everything seemed to be going well.

***

Thursday, July 9

UEFA Conference League Qualifiers Match 1 of ?: Progres Niederkorn versus College 1975

A day of firsts started with my first ever flight on a chartered plane. Mateo had decided that the extra expense was worth it and it was hard to argue. It would cost twenty thousand Euro to rent the plane and crew - the expense would eat into the club's profits - but we could fly to Luxembourg in the morning and fly back in the night. The alternative involved commercial airlines, long airport waits, tedious hotel stays, and disruption.

It was my first time experiencing firsthand the effect of a midweek flight on a club's preparations. You know the way teams often lose on the Saturday that follows a midweek European match? Yeah. It actually makes total sense.

Paying the extra money to minimise disruption had the added benefit of letting us stay on the training pitch longer. We had trained right up to Wednesday evening.

I had dumped 100XP per day into Baggers, though it hadn't budged him past CA 79. I hoped he would pick up a few points once the season properly started, and surely playing in European competition would be a big boost. On the other hand, College's coach was mediocre and the facilities were remedial. Part of me felt that investing in Secret Sandra in those circumstances was like putting hundred pound notes on a log fire.

Our general fitness levels were fairly poor. Henri and Lee H had kept themselves in shape but asking Pascal and Sharky to sprint for ninety minutes would have been insane. We would build our fitness as we went through the tournament. One match a week, plus the luxury of playing at home one week out of two, meant we could make rapid gains.

As for me, I hadn't been on the grass for ages and it would take me a minute to turn my immense swimming stamina into running power. I reckoned I was something like CA 75 overall. While I was Stamina 20 in swimming I was probably only Stamina 15 in footy, and something like 10 in my technical skills. My Airofit device confirmed that I had more lung capacity than any time since my murder, but my free kicks, penalties, long shots, and long passes were fairly diabolical. I wasn't too bothered - the long rest had let me fully heal and I knew from experience that I could glide to my soft cap much faster than the rest of my players.

Tonight we would play, tomorrow we would rest, and then I would be hitting the pitch twice a day. Max Best barely trains? Watch this.

***

Emma was at the back of the plane with the cool kids. Mateo was in the middle with a bigwig from the FA of Gibraltar. I sat alone at the front, watching and rewatching footage of our opponents. Like us, Niederkorn had sent their squad list to UEFA and it was publicly visible. They wouldn't be able to use anyone who wasn't on that list. Niederkorn had signed a couple of players over the summer so I spent some time watching videos of those guys at their old clubs.

Then I read, for the tenth time, an article about Niederkorn's head coach. He was called François Lyons - no relation - and he liked 4-2-3-1. What I couldn't get a good sense of was how he would react in certain game states. Would he get a goal up and go defensive? Did he make poor decisions under pressure?

These were the sorts of questions that were fairly easy to answer in England. If I was playing a Championship team, I could just phone a friendly manager and ask, or I could go on that club's forums and scan the biggest 'manager X is shit' thread. I couldn't quite do the same for a guy in a small country where everyone spoke French. If I was really worried about it, I would have asked Henri to help.

I wasn't worried. Any fog of war that covered the battlefield would benefit me, like mist over the ocean hiding our fins.

I turned my iPad off.

I was ready.

***

The first person ever to talk to me in Luxembourg was Mateo.

"Max," he said, after we had passed through our special little passport control area. "This is Olivier. He runs the charter flight company."

Olivier had a sharp suit, a friendly face, and a pretty good trim. He was in his thirties, it looked like, and I knew he had a pretty big fleet of aircraft. He was doing well for himself. "Bonjour Max," he said.

"Bonjour la classe," I replied.

Olivier looked puzzled, but Mateo explained. "That's all Max learned in his French lessons at school."

"Oh! Aha-ha! So funny. I love the British 'umour!"

Mateo said, "I told Olivier that you were going to need a lot of chartered flights in the future and he should introduce himself."

"Yes," said Olivier. "Whatever it is you need, we can supply it."

I thought about what I needed most in the world. "Have you seen the deleted scene from Iron Man?"

Olivier's smile thinned out. "Tony Stark on the private jet with the retractable pole and the strippers? Yes, I have seen it. Everyone I meet, it is the first thing they ask."

"Okay," I said, laughing. "Well, look, forget the pole. There could be a time when College, Saltney, and Chester are playing European competitions on the same night. We'll need two planes this size and one bigger."

"Why bigger?" said Mateo.

"I read that the bigger clubs charter big planes and sell spare seats to journalists and fans. That seems like a very Chester thing to do."

"We can satisfy all your requirements," said Olivier. "Unless they are based in science fiction."

"Top," I said. I wanted to end the conversation there, but there were twelve hours until kick off. Might as well do some networking while I was waiting. "What would someone smart ask you first? Should I be asking about your company, your crew, or your planes?"

Olivier smiled. "What a great question! Come, let us talk over coffee."

I looked around at all the players wheeling their suitcases around, wearing massive headphones like neck pillows. "Might invite my lawyer to this one."

Olivier's smile vanished. "It's just a friendly chat. Non-binding!"

Mateo said, "Don't worry if she pretends she doesn't know him; they're getting married."

***

We talked about planes for a while, then I left to eat with the rest of the players. Olivier was intrigued by our 'project' and decided to come and watch the match after work.

We said goodbye and got on our team bus, heading south-west. Niederkorn's stadium didn't meet the minimum standard to hold UEFA matches so we were heading towards the closest alternative - the Ville de Differdange Municipal Stadium.

This one had been intended to be Luxembourg's new national stadium but after one stand had been erected, the plans had changed. There was only one stand, then, but by all accounts it was a great place to play football.

Henri came to sit next to me. "How are you doing?"

"Fine. You?"

"Good for now. I am riding peaks and troughs of nerves. My first European match! It is hard to fathom. When we walked down the steps of the plane I thought, if I fall here and injure myself, I may never again have this opportunity."

"That's the kind of thing I think all the time but it's not true. College will win the league and next season this will all happen again. Saltney will come first or second and you can play for them if you want. This is the new normal... until I can get better players than you."

"Are you nervous?"

"Yeah. It's big, isn't it? Plus it comes with a high chance of me being absolutely humiliated by your namesake."

"François Lyons. What a name. What a character this man must be. A huge heart, searing charisma, a man of taste and refinement."

"Keep him away from Luisa," I warned.

Henri smiled. "She's coming next week to the home leg. I invited her to Luxembourg but she said it was more romantic when I asked if she wanted to come to the post office."

I frowned. "It's funny but we don't know, do we? Maybe it's amazing here. This is what Dan Badford was talking about. Today I'll spend a day in Luxembourg without really learning the first thing about it. That's no good, is it? We should go to a museum or something."

"I have been here before. It's fine. Friendly, safe, boring. But I want to encourage all signs of intellectual curiosity in the British whenever they make their fleeting appearances. There's still time to stop somewhere on the way to the stadium. Do you want me to look into it?"

"Well, no. I want to get there so I can relax. I think if we ever do some culture it should be the day after the match, right? Or will I be grumpy because I lost? I don't know. Maybe it's best to get in and out and be a culture vulture some other time."

"Max, can we talk about money?"

"Oh. Sure, I guess."

"With the starvation wages you pay, I have not been breaking even on the digs. This season should be the one where I move into the black but you have not been dishing out new contracts. I know you can't discuss everyone's private affairs but since my residents pay a quarter of their wages in rent, I find out indirectly."

The former bed and breakfast Henri owned had twelve bedrooms and ten bathrooms and was costing him something like six thousand pounds a month on his interest-only mortgage. I had always wondered how he could afford to lose money on it. Knowing he came from a rich family helped to explain a lot about him. "Who have you got in the digs at the moment?"

"Charlotte," he said.

"She's your boss lady, keeping the rest in line. She's there for free, right?"

"Yes. Youngster, Baggers, and Cole Adams are in situ and I am looking forward to their enormous new contracts."

"They will get good bumps but the first two will want to move out with their girlfriends, won't they? For a quarter of their new deals they could get a place where ten teammates won't be listening to their every bang."

"I intend to cap the rent at a thousand per month. It should be enough to keep them for another season."

"I can't imagine paying that three less than a grand a week if that helps you plan. So that's three grand for four rooms. Oh, but the Triplets will drag the average way down."

"After the Youth Cup, the younger Harrisons moved with Andrew to Gemma's mansion."

Someone had told me that but it hadn't stuck and in all likelihood I would need someone to tell me a third time; I was still digesting the number 'one thousand'. If Henri could rent all twelve rooms for a grand a month, he could get double the mortgage payment. It didn't sound half bad. "Should I be getting into property?"

"Focus, Max. The Harrisons."

"Michael and Noah are Saltney players now. Noah's on 250 a week, same as Tyson and Lucas Friend. It's probably more than I should pay but they're three Youth Cup lads who are actually good enough for the Cymru Prem." I glanced behind me. "Better than some of the Gib lot, tbh. That said, there isn't much upside to the younger Triplets in terms of wages; it's probably best for your finances that they've gone to live with Andrew."

"So the Harrison story comes down to him. How will it turn out?"

"Good, I think. He has worked hard since he got his chance but I've told him to take this summer off so he doesn't burn out. Right now, he's as good as Ryan Jack." Both midfielders would start pre-season at CA 75. Not League One standard, but good squad players who could do specific jobs when needed. Ryan was an experiment in seeing how long older players lasted, while Andrew had a fair amount of improvement left to come. "Who else have you got?"

"Omari and Tom."

"Small bumps. Almost certainly loaning them to Saltney again."

"Bark and Adam Summerhays."

"Bark will get something, not sure about Adam." Summerhays was one of the two lads I had taken from Manchester United's youth system. At CA 40 he was quite a long way behind the rest of the squad and I wasn't totally sure what to do with him. His PA of 137 meant he could one day overtake fellow left back Josh Owens. If we kept Adam in the first team squad this season and gave him some minutes, I could maybe sell Josh next summer.

"Vincent Addo and Toquinho."

"No pay rises there," I said. I had been paying them the minimum needed to get a work permit - they were only just beginning to get close to being worth it.

"What is the latest news with Vincent?"

"No news. He's staying with Saltney until January and then I will decide what to do with him." Henri and his syndicate had loaned me the capital needed to buy Addo, and when I sold him - to Chester FC, probably - they would get a sizable return on their investment. "The Yalleys are taking good care of him. He is getting settled in the country and the next six months will give him the chance to make up some ground on the rest of us. Hopefully. He'll certainly improve faster if he's playing regular football. That feels like about fifteen people."

"That is ten so far, Max, which leaves two rooms. Jill asked me to reserve one for Meredith Ann. She will be paid a club-high 600 pounds a week. Are you quite sure that's a good idea? The final room will be taken by Fitzroy. I do not know much about him other than he will pay the maximum while he looks for a house in the area."

Fitzroy Hall was our new centre back. I had signed him on a free transfer before I knew that Peter Bauer wanted to join us but I probably would have taken Fitzroy anyway. He was 25 years old, CA 86, PA 118. He wasn't as good in the air as Christian Fierce and he wasn't as good on the ball as Zach Green, but he was better than other managers could see. Three grand a week was a lot of money but by the end of the season he would be a good Championship player. He could be a solid backup for us in the second tier or I could sell him for a few hundred thousand. "He's a safe, boring signing."

Henri grinned. "Perfect for Luxembourg." He closed his eyes for a second. "Eight thousand six hundred and forty pounds per week with three players yet to receive pay rises." He scratched his cheek. "I suppose it is not too bad." He looked up and away before letting out a small, half-laugh. "No, Max. Do not get into property. It is a nightmare without end. Okay, I will leave you to your thoughts. Bon chance."

***

The day dragged, but time accelerated when we got to the stadium. We dumped our gear in the dressing room and I gave a brief pre-match team talk.

I arranged the tactics board's magnets into a 4-2-3-1.

"Our plan is simple," I said. "Get to half-time with the score nil-nil. No fireworks, no drama. It's hot out there, though it's not as bad as Gib. Sardena, go short as much as you can."

Sardena was our CA 50 goalie, a Gibraltar native. This would be his debut for College. "Yes, Max."

"There will be about fifteen hundred in today. There's only one stand so even if they're dead noisy, the sound is going to float away. It can't be very intimidating, can it? If the ref is fussy and annoying, that's fine by me. I don't want us sprinting non-stop. Physically, the best thing is to treat this like a pre-season friendly, do you get me? We're using it to build fitness. Nil-nil so that we get to half time with no drama."

"There it is again," said Henri.

"What?"

"Max Best asking for no drama."

"Mate," I said, annoyed. "We played about seventy matches last season and there were maybe four with what I would call drama. So zip it. Get changed. I'm going to hand in the team sheet. In about five minutes we'll see what Niederkorn have in store for us."

***

I got the home team's team sheet and clutched it on the side of the pitch while I watched the warm ups.

It's fair to say I couldn't believe my eyes, though I was only pretending to be looking at the sheet; I had their tactics and player profiles in my head.

Niederkorn were shit. I had pegged them as being the equivalent of a lower League Two outfit, and perhaps they were most of the time, but not today. Their average CA was 71, about the same as Oldham. Moreover, their bench was crazily weak. They had two 16-year-olds!

I wondered if half their squad was on holiday or something but that didn't make much sense. This game was just as big for Niederkorn as it was for us. The prize money was just as important.

I spotted my opposite number, François Lyons, looking at our team sheet and cross-examining it with the players on the pitch. It's fair to say we were experiencing equal levels of surprise in opposite directions.

The worst team in Europe's worst league had come to mighty Luxembourg... and been massively underestimated.

Lol.

***

I pulled on my green-and-white top - the badge showed an anchor and a dolphin - and went through my usual pre-match rituals.

In my final speech, I didn't tell the lads that Niederkorn were weaker than expected and I didn't change my instructions. Keep it tight first half. No runs from full backs. We would play it neatly and carefully through the centre in front of our fully-stocked rest defence. When the occasion arose, Henri would hold the ball up and our three CAMs would support. We would increase the tempo in the second half as the day's heat flew off to France or wherever. We would control the match from start to finish without risking a hamstring injury. I didn't want anything popping in the first game of the fucking season!

My former players understood me exactly, and the only College natives - Sardena the goalie and Tavares the centre back - weren't likely to do so many repeated sprints that they pulled a hammy. I had a large subs bench with most positions covered.

"Lads," I said, as I wrapped things up. "My favourite movie is Jaws. It's about one little predator that you can't see from the beach. All the oppo players playing tonight are on the beach. Mentally, they're still on holiday, right? Like Jaws, we want to go unnoticed. Under the radar. Let these teams stay on the beach, right? We only kill as much as we need, not more. Does everyone understand what I'm saying? I'm happy with a draw today and a one-nil next week. I want all these clubs to look at us and say that's not a shark, that's a guy with a joke shop fin on his back." I made eye contact with five players in rapid succession. "Under the water! Under the radar! This is only Jaws 1 and there are three sequels. Save some bloodshed for Jaws 4, you get me? Let's go."

We went out for our final runs. The curse was offering me the chance to use Bench Boost and Triple Captain but that would have been a waste. The dream scenario was that I would be able to save those once-per-competition perks until the final round. That said, if we lost today, I would definitely use it in the second leg. Getting through the first round of this competition was essential for the money it would generate.

We needed that money to justify Mateo's faith in me.

We needed that money to convince him to spend a little more. A slight increase in the club's budget would virtually guarantee us winning the league every year.

We needed that money.

I got a weird, queasy feeling in my stomach as I settled into the DM slot and stared at the turf. My insides were being churned like butter. Not delicious artisanal butter, either, but some kind of sludge. Grim slop you'd mix with dead fish and throw in the sea to attract sharks.

"This way, boss," said Pascal. He put his hand on my elbow and guided me out of position. "It's Europe. Got to do the pomp and circumstance."

"Shit, yeah," I said, as my heart began pounding.

Progres Niederkorn stood side by side and so did we with the refereeing team in the middle. As a cameraman walked down the line pointing his lens in our faces, the UEFA Conference League theme music blasted from the stand.

The worst team in Gibraltar, the third best team in Luxembourg, the fifth best referee in wherever the fuck. A stadium only one-quarter built. Eight-elevenths of a serviceable League Two side. It was all pretty small-time.

So why was I getting full-body goosebumps?

Our lads filed past the refs and the Luxemburgers, shaking hands as we went. The oppo looked scared. Had François Lyons told them that some ringers had turned up?

By the time I got back to my DM slot, I wasn't thinking of the money. I wasn't thinking of the future. I was thinking of my next meal. My next meal was staring back at me, wearing yellow and black.

"Come on, you dolphins!" cried Glenn Ryder from behind me.

I glared at him.

I'm not a dolphin.

I'm a shark.

***

My first involvement was to win a header. My second was to miscontrol a loose pass - I booted the ball into touch and yelled "Have it!"

"Class play, gaffer," yelled Glenn. I turned to check if he was taking the piss - he was.

I grinned. Nice to see him so relaxed. Mateo had given him a two-year contract and he and his wife liked the pace of life and the relatively low standard of the domestic league.

Niederkorn took the throw-in. Their right back let the ball bounce off his shin and he copied me by hoofing the ball away from danger.

Our goal kick. Sardena took it short to Lee Hudson, who rolled it to Glenn. He passed it to Magnus who took another poor touch. One of the oppo CAMs, the 10, latched onto it - Magnus thought about flicking out a leg to bring him down.

"No!" I cried.

Magnus let the guy go. I was shit and out of practice but I could run. I caught up with the 10 and hounded the hell out of him until he turned backwards. I suppose in the Luxembourg leagues that would have been the end of it but the retreat only made me up my work rate. I battled, forcing myself between him and the ball. He barged into me; I fell onto it.

Refs always give a free kick when you fall on the ball.

While down there, I checked how I felt. The standard of the match was shocking and my swimming fitness wasn't quite translating. I was panting hard even after two minutes. I moved the Game Speed slider down to the bottom. Normally I would have hesitated to do that because it hugely reduced the game's entertainment value. This time, though, there was no-one watching I cared about entertaining.

I sat up and looked at the stand. Emma was in there, somewhere. She was planning to follow me around Europe, bashing work out from the hotel. Emma. My little mermaid. In a way, this was all for her.

I moved the slider back to the middle.

Then again, I thought, she was probably busy chatting to Mateo, Rachel, and the jet guy and would only look at the pitch one second after a goal had been scored.

I slid it all the way to the bottom again.

***

Twenty-five minutes of appalling football followed. "Magnus," I said, during one of the many lulls. "This is crazy, isn't it? How can we play an important match with no pre-season? I can barely remember how to kick."

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"Why are you letting Baggers take the free kicks and corners?"

"Because I suck," I said.

"I believe in you, boss."

"Ha."

The ball came through the middle. Magnus pressed from the front. Sharky dropped to reduce the ball carrier's options. The guy turned backwards only to find Baggers moving towards him. One final turn brought the ball into my zone. I nudged it to the left and dribbled. Henri and Pascal broke in familiar patterns.

My movements were sluggish, a fraction of a second behind what I wanted. I tried to clip a ball over the top for Pascal to run onto but I shanked it horribly - it started on target but then veered right, right, right, and suddenly Sharky was there. Nothing sluggish about him. He burst through the defensive line. The goalie came out to help; like so many keepers he grossly overestimated his own speed compared to a real athlete. Sharky pushed the ball ahead, taking the dolt out of the game completely, and rolled the ball into the empty net.

The first goal one of my teams had ever scored in European competition!

My first assist in European competition!

The first European goal ever scored by College 1975!

While Sharky sprinted off to celebrate - watch your hamstrings, you prick! - I closed my eyes and went through all my screens. Possession, fouls, shots on target, match ratings. Which perks to activate? Just leave it?

Yeah, just leave it. Get to half-time a goal ahead, see how François Lyons responded. Maybe I would learn something that would prove decisive in the second leg.

Glenn Ryder came up behind me. "Amazing pass, boss. Absolute class."

I couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic.

***

36'

It looks as though Niederkorn have adopted a more attacking approach.

Good play from the number 8. He glides past Roberts.

Neat interchange with number 6.

Evergreen holds him up. The 10 drops.

The 10 is smashed by Best.

Best plays it simply for Bochum.

The player-manager calls for calm.

Bochum speeds up.

Bochum past one.

Past two.

Bochum to Lyons.

Lyons lets the ball run across his body and uses his strength to hold off the defender.

He lays it off to Roberts.

Roberts clips the ball forward with backspin.

Bochum continued his run and collects the ball. He has Hayward storming to his left, drawing a defender away.

Bochum smashes the ball towards goal...

It's there!

That was a devastating counter-attack by College!

A first assist in European football for William B. Roberts, and a first goal for Pascal Bochum!

Their manager has his hands on his hips.

***

"Guys, what the fuck!" I said.

I was surrounded by smiling faces. Pascal was in the throes of some kind of religious ecstasy. "Max, I scored! I scored in Europe!"

It was hard to stay grumpy when he was so high. I found myself smiling. "Okay but look, lads, seriously. Shut the fuck up and listen for a second. I don't want more goals, okay? Do not score more until half time. I'll explain it in the break. Keep it tight! End of speech."

"Yes, boss," said Glenn. "You heard the boss, College! Keep it tight!"

There was something about the way their eyes were shining that made me doubt their intentions.

I set us to Men Behind Ball with no-one allowed to dribble or make forward runs. Just to really make sure we didn't break, I set counter-attacks to 'no'. We would fall into a low block and practice our defensive shape for ten uneventful minutes.

***

38'

Cross comes in. Towering header from Ryder.

The ball is picked up by Best.

He sends it left to Gladfelter - he has been quietly impressive this evening.

Gladfelter looks for Bochum but the pass is intercepted.

Best is there to regain possession.

He rolls it back to Tavares with instructions to boot it long.

Tavares gets rid. The ball is launched over half way.

College look very comfortable in defence.

Niederkorn's centre back lets it bounce over his head. He turns...

But Wes Hayward is there! Incredible speed from the Englishman.

He's already into the penalty area. The goalie doesn't know what to do.

He decides to throw himself at the ball.

Hayward chips the keeper...

GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

A second goal for Wes Hayward!

This is a very impressive debut!

***

Dicks!

I switched us into an ultra-defensive 4-5-1 with me as the lone striker. I used the Without Ball screens to move everyone as far away from me as possible. The extra deformation range I'd earned for winning the Youth Cup was useful for that. When someone launched a ball towards me, I watched it go by and allowed Niederkorn to build one of their powderpuff attacks.

With the risk of us scoring another goal practically zero, I spent seven minutes rubbing my temples.

How could we stay under the radar if we scored every time we attacked?

Dicks!

***

The half time whistle was a relief.

I wanted to trudge into the dressing room but that's quite hard at three-nil up. Also, while I wasn't living in my best footballer body, I was bursting with energy. I felt like I had hundreds of sprints left in me. Bring on the second half, injury time, extra time. Play the second leg today!

"All right, shut the fuck up," I said, striding into the changing rooms. "The fuck did I say? I said I wanted a draw. One-nil win, maybe."

Pascal thought I was joking. He did an exaggerated bow. "Sorry, boss."

Henri grabbed his shirt and pulled him down to the bench. Sharky stood. "Max, sorry, but it just opened up, you know? When the ball bounces like that..."

I rubbed my face. "You've got to hit it. I know." I clicked my neck left and right. "Guys, listen up. We're not playing a match. We're playing... Henri, what did you call it?"

"A tournament arc."

I clicked my fingers. "That's it. We can't win the whole thing today, right? These guys didn't see us coming but if we win ten-nil, the next mob will get all their video analysts back from holiday. Imagine we play Glasgow Rangers in the next round. Imagine they've got some dickhead striker who wants to move to the Premier League and he sees Rangers are up against some chumps from Gibraltar. Imagine being that close to a move to Aston Villa but you have to play in the Conference against a team you've never heard of! I want him sulking his arse off when we play, right? I don't want them watching videos of our twenty-nil aggregate win. That might fucking wake him up, do you know what I mean?"

Pascal had sobered up. "Yes, boss. I got carried away."

I laughed. "I don't want to be a killjoy. I really don't. But we can have our fun at Henri's big apartment in Spain."

"Poncho Villa," said Jack the Lad.

"What?"

"That's what we're calling it. Poncho Villa. Because we've all got ponchos. And it's a villa."

"Amazing," I said.

Sardena, our goalie, said, "I don't have a poncho."

"I'll buy you a fucking poncho if you stop kicking it long, you dick!" I rubbed my face again. "Let's pick a score we're all happy with but then we'll stick to it, okay?"

Tavares, Glenn's centre back partner, frowned. "What do you mean, pick a score?"

"I mean pick a score. It's three-nil now. Clearly you're all giddy but think ahead. Imagine we're FC Rando from Herzoslovakia, yeah, and we're drawn against College 1975. First thing you say Gibraltar, great, they're obviously shit. Then you look at the scores from the first round and they beat a half-decent team four-nil away and five-nil at home. That gets you worried and, like I said, you cancel everyone's holidays. Another scenario. You see they won three-nil away and lost two-nil at home. What do you think?"

Henri said, "You think the away result was a freak and the home score was more realistic. It's the story you want to believe so you don't look into it too much."

Lee Hudson was nodding. "You don't want the teams we face to cancel the holidays, boss. I get you."

Tavares was failing to understand us. "But what do you mean, you'll pick the score?"

I ignored him. "Look, you've all done me a favour by coming on this caper and College lads, your attitude has been great so far. I appreciate it, right, but this is a big deal. Beating Niederkorn and crashing out in the next round doesn't get me closer to a wedding in a castle." I bit my lip and pointed to where I thought Emma was sitting. "I'm crazy about that woman, lads. I'm absolutely mad on her. I need you to do things my way and when I say don't score, it means don't score. I want everyone to think we're shit, okay? You don't want to look shit but you neeeeed to look shit because why are we making the next round harder than it has to be?" I steepled my fingers and let my lips rest on the tips. "We could win three-nil and lose one-nil next week. Don't really feel like letting them have a sniff, though. Okay, got it. We win four-nil today. Henri or Baggers, you can have a goal, get it out of your system. Next week we lose two-nil. Once we get the fourth goal I want us doing all those miscontrols and stray passes we did in the first fifteen minutes. Make our stats look absolute dogshit. Second half completed passes eight, you know what I mean? Let's see if we can break a record."

Henri eyed Baggers, then me. "Win four-nil today, lose two-nil next week. That's the plan."

"Yes."

"Play shitter than we are."

"Much shitter than we are. Glasgow Rangers don't know you've all been hand-picked, do they? They think you're the dregs of European football."

Henri shot to his feet. "I'll show them who is the dregs!"

"No you won't!" I said, jabbing my finger into his chest.

"No, I won't!" he cried. He slumped to the bench. "Baggers, I will take the next goal. This might be my last chance to score in Europe. You have a long career ahead of you. I'm sure you won't mind."

"Hang on," said Baggers. "I'm shit. I got four out of ten for the under nineteens against Spain."

Henri scoffed. "That was in Le Monde and that paper is notoriously mean-spirited. I watched the match and would have given you a six at least. As for me?" Henri sighed. "My career is winding down. Max has punted me into the long grass. I must play with... what was it called? Tranmoor? No more nights under the Deva's floodlights for little old me. Never again will I darken the doorstep of a Premier League team."

"Blab all you want," said Baggers. "If the ball bounces right, I'm smashing it."

Henri rose to his feet and tried to loom over his teammate, who in turn tried to loom over the Frenchman. "We shall see where the ball bounces, my friend. We shall see."

They glared at each other before returning to the bench. Sharky said, "I'm on a hat trick."

Pascal had a mischievous streak that came out at strange times. He said, "I quite fancy a second, tbh."

I said, "Everyone shut up."

All my former players understood the tone, but Tavares was still utterly lost. "What do you mean, you'll pick the score?"

***

45'

It looks like Niederkorn have adopted a more attacking approach.

Number 3 bombs forward on the left. He exchanges passes with the 8.

3 gets past Lee Hudson and crosses. It's too close to the keeper.

Sardena catches and throws the ball to Gladfelter. He plays it to Bochum.

Bochum shapes to play it to Best - two midfielders buy the fake.

Bochum surges to the left wing slot, draws the opposition, and switches play.

Niederkorn's left back is out of position - he won't catch Hayward.

The winger has scored two goals. Will he shoot?

He has Lyons and Roberts making clever runs in the middle.

Hayward pauses... pushes the ball ahead, thrashes it into the centre.

The goalie throws himself at the ball and deflects it.

It falls slightly behind Lyons. He takes a touch and plays it back to Roberts.

Roberts...

GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

Unselfish play from Lyons!

He has an assist. Roberts has a goal!

College 1975 are winning four-nil away from home in their first ever match in UEFA competition!

Roberts and Lyons fall on each other.

And...

That will be their last involvement in the match.

Their manager is preparing a few substitutions.

***

As soon as the fourth goal went in I signalled I wanted to remove Pascal, Baggers, Henri, and Sharky. If I hadn't got them off the pitch, the pricks would have scored six hundred goals. Truly, hell is other people.

Their replacements were four decent Gibbish lads. Two were old hands in the CA 50 range, one was a CA 40 guy with a decent ceiling.

The one I was most worried about was Jesse Picardo, a 17-year-old CA 30 PA 100 striker I had told Mateo to nab from a rival team. We'd signed him as a long-term project but in any sane world he would play for Gibraltar's national team for the next ten years and, with my guidance, he could be one of the rare high-PA prospects that actually hit their ceiling while staying in their home league.

Apart from me, he was the only College player on the pitch liable to score.

"Jesse," I said.

Seeing me bin off my mates had opened his eyes to the sort of person he was dealing with. "Four-nil, boss. I got it."

"Right," I said, dubiously. "Run around. Do things. But do them shit. We're shit. You got that?"

"I mean, yeah," he said. "It's just that we're four-nil up." He smiled the kind of crazy smile you'd expect in an asylum.

"Right," I said, pushing him towards the front of the pitch. "So imagine how bad the oppo is. That's the narrative. Don't make it harder to spin." I shook my head and wandered back to the DM slot. "Magnus," I called out. "No completed passes. Annihilate our stats."

"Befuddle the analysts," he said.

I pointed at him. "Befuddle! I like that."

He shook his head. "I'll do it but what's going to happen when they spot you've broken the Conference League record for interceptions?"

I laughed. "One assist, no shots, four tackles, six headers, twelve interceptions, twenty percent pass completion rate. Who’s going to make sense of that? I reckon they'll close that tab before their computers melt down. Talking of computers," I said to myself.

I ran through my greatest formation hits, cycling through 4-4-2, 3-5-2, 4-2-4 and the rest before doing it again while moving players out of their zone almost at random. Anyone analysing us would think we were utterly incompetent.

Lol.

***

We got through the next half an hour with no alarms. François Lyons made some sensible changes that I made instant counter-moves to but then I decided it was in my interest to appear to be under the cosh somewhat. I undid my tweaks one by one. Lyons urged his men forward.

When Niederkorn finally built up a head of steam I found myself enjoying the defensive side of the game. I was a mobile destroyer in the mould of Youngster, but with a lot more bulk and a lot more capacity to win headers. Better haircut, too.

Exertion still got me sweating furiously but if we took long enough on throw-ins and other stoppages, I got my breath back. Since I only got 1 XP per minute while I was playing, it wasn't in my long-term interest to play every minute of every game. Being super-fit was enjoyable, though. Fun had a value of its own.

I had a few once-per-match perks burning a hole in my pocket so I switched to 5-3-2 and used Seal It Up to give us five defenders with +1 Positioning. I used Cupid's Arrow to link myself to Jack the Lad so we could pass to each other more easily. I used the one-two perk to link myself and Magnus. It didn't have a huge effect but allowed us to improve our possession in a phase where Niederkorn were threatening to get their act together.

The truth was the third goal had knocked the wind out of their sails and the fourth had knocked them out. The tie was over and they knew it.

The last meaningful moment came when Lee Hudson tackled his opponent and saw Jesse Picardo in all kinds of space. Lee did what Chester had trained him to do - play a quick long pass into his stride. Picardo gathered it and like Sharky, pushed the ball past the goalie.

He was through. It was a certain goal.

I saw a strange quivering as Picardo went through his options. He could score his first ever goal in European competition... but if he did he would piss me off.

It must have been a hell of a dilemma.

He threw himself to the ground, clutching the back of his thigh. His hamstring had popped with the goal at his mercy! The poor kid would need to be subbed off. There was angst and pity all over, including from the referee.

Not from me, though. Picardo's Condition score was a healthy 96%, none of his Attributes were red, and his Morale was maxed out.

Jess Picardo had clutched defeat from the jaws of victory in spectacular style.

A new line had appeared in the Future section of his player profile in the last hour. It said, 'Wants to impress his new manager.'

Mission accomplished, mate.

Mission accomplished.

***

I shook the hands I needed to shake and headed to the shower. That had been a good workout and I was sure it had lifted my soft cap by at least 20 CA. In the next week I would go hard at my technique - balls flying off my shins were pure cringe - and I would very slightly increase my running stats in next Thursday's beautiful backs-to-the-wall rearguard action.

What about the forwards, though? I probably needed to give them at least twenty minutes in the second leg just to help them get match sharp, just to boost their underlying fitness. The fuckers would probably score three goals in that time, though.

I stood there with water smacking into me for so long that I got an idea. I would give them twenty minutes each... but not together. Henri could start and would come off for Baggers, who would be replaced by Sharky, who would be replaced by Pascal.

As I towelled myself off, I grinned. Sometimes it was nice, being a megabrain.

XP balance: 4,888

***

As I did my media duties, I had another amazing idea. I would get College's actual manager to come back from holiday and sit in the dugout. The curse would know I was the manager and would give me the credit for the results, but the other guy would have to do the media shit. Lol.

Some guy clipped a tiny microphone onto my hoodie. While he did so, I spotted Tavares gesticulating wildly to the guy from the Gibraltish FA, the one who had come to Luxembourg on our plane. That seemed ominous.

The TV company seemed ready to ask me questions. The guy had a strange accent. A hint of German, maybe?

Max Best, well done!

Thanks.

I'm told there are watch parties happening back in Chester. Will you be returning to that team?

Yes.

You seem to have usurped the management of College 1975 and your players have displaced many from the starting eleven. What do you say to people who say these actions are disrespectful to the players you've replaced?

The ownership is ambitious. If players want to play for a club with no ambition, they can go to Tottenham.

Does the same answer apply to the previous manager?

He's still the manager. I'm a temp. Do you know what a temp is? I'm just some rando coming in off the street so he can enjoy his well-earned holiday. He works hard, that guy. I'm the interim caretaker assistant manager. I'm nothing. I shouldn't even be talking to the media. I'm pretty sure someone else will be doing it next week. I don't even know how this works. I mean, you're not writing anything down. I can get you a pen if you want.

That is quite all right, thank you. This was a tremendous result. Do you expect something similar next week?

[Max laughs.] Er, no. The ball bounced kindly for us this evening but that kind of dumb luck can't be repeated. Niederkorn will come at us hard next Thursday night and you'll see the true standards of the teams. I'm no expert but I reckon if you played this match a hundred times the most common scoreline would be 2-0 to them. We're upwardly mobile, of course, but from such a low starting point. Someone said we're the worst team in the worst league in Europe and it's hard to argue with that. Yeah, a 2-0 loss is on the cards, I reckon, and whoever gets us in the next round will be licking their lips. Lambs to the slaughter! I don't mind, really. This is just me building up some fitness. Sort of a more interesting pre-season, if you get me.

Max Best, thank you very much.

You are welcome.

***

Before we got on the coach to head back to the airport, I had one last chat with the players.

I told them that we were going to lose two-nil next Thursday and anyone who got in the way of that could fuck off home. I explained my plan to give the star forwards twenty minutes consecutively and said it was a shame I had to resort to such creativity because I thought I'd brought people who were team players. I urged them to look to the example of Jesse Picardo, who had not only obeyed me but had guaranteed no analyst would look at him because he was clearly out for six weeks! I told Jesse that he was my boy, my homie, my mensch, and that he could consider himself Max Blessed and that he should get himself in shape for the second round because he would get hella minutes.

"Right," I said, finishing. "No forward except Jesse talk to me until next Thursday. I'm mad at you all. Inviting Emma to Poncho Villa while I'm mad at you is a sackable offence. Bye."

We got on the coach. The Poncho Villains went to the back and started cavorting. Enjoying themselves, the absolute bastards!

I sat at the front, putting my legs up across the aisle so I could snuggle into Emma's lap. If the past was any indication, I wouldn't be able to sleep for hours, but her gently massaging my hands or playing with my hair would help.

"Well done, babes," she whispered. "Mateo was on cloud nine. He couldn't believe his eyes. He said if you get to the league phase he'll pay for the wedding."

I smiled. "He'll have to fight your dad."

"Yeah."

"Who'd win that?" I closed my eyes. "Your dad, I think. He'd cheat."

Emma tutted. "My dad wouldn't cheat. You'd cheat. What was all that timewasting crap?"

I tried to squirm so I could look up at her. "You saw that?"

She scoffed. "I know you. You hate it when someone takes ages on a goal kick."

"It was too hot to play hot and heavy. Heavy metal football is for when the heavy metal is falling. Mercury in the thermometer, that means. It's clever. Mmm, don't stop."

Was it the relief? The pleasure? Being one step closer to my goal? Emma's magical fingers? The relaxation crashed over me in waves. I went down deeper, faster.

"Max," came a man's voice from the seats behind ours. Mateo. Emma must have made a shushing gesture because he said, "Sorry. Max, this is Alvaro from the GFA. Can we talk to you?"

Alvaro was another silver fox. "Sure," I mumbled. "Might stay like this, though. S'nice."

"Of course," said Mateo. It seemed like he and Alvaro were kneeling on their seats, looking down at me like a pair of seven-year-olds. They weren't but the thought made me smile. Mateo went on, "One of the players was saying how you picked a final score at half time."

"Four-nil," I mumbled. "Optimal."

"Well, that's... mental, but fine. You told everyone what you wanted and then you made it happen."

"Let it happen, doo doo do."

"Apparently, you've decided we need to lose the second leg."

"Two-nil. Boo hoo."

"Why's that, Mr. Best?" said Alvaro, softly.

"Call me Max, bro. We're all friends here, right?" I closed my eyes. "Um... is he a friend?"

"Yes," said Mateo. "I told him what you've been doing for Wales and he knows you're doing the same on a smaller scale here."

"Small ones are more juicy," I mumbled.

Alvaro said, "Max, could you beat Progres Niederkorn next week?"

"Piece of piss. But I don't want to."

"Why's that?"

"Job's done and I want to be underestimated. I'm incorrigible."

Alvaro shifted position in a way that was totally compatible with an old man's knees filling with fluid. The idea that he was kneeling like a child woke me up by about thirty percent. Annoying! He said, "Can we talk about UEFA's coefficients?"

That word made me about twenty percent more sleepy. "Oh, yeah, that's the stuff. Say more things like that."

"Go on, Alv," mumbled Mateo.

"Based on the coefficients, the number one association is England. Their coefficient means that they have seven clubs in UEFA competitions. So do Italy, Spain, and so on. Then comes a raft of countries with six, then five. Gibraltar is awarded three slots because we are ranked 54th. The only association beneath us is San Marino. Luxembourg are 48th. They have four teams in UEFA competition, Max. Do you know what it would mean to exchange places with Luxembourg?"

I did. "33% more UEFA income for your clubs and another club that can earn you points. Virtuous circle."

"Precisely. Moving from three clubs to four would be a big deal for us. Hundreds of thousands of Euros in extra income which could be invested in players, in training, in facilities."

Emma said, "How does the coefficient work?"

Alvaro was warming up. "In these qualifying matches, you get one point for a win, half a point for a draw. The points are added up over the last five years. Today a club from Gibraltar beat one from Luxembourg. That alone puts us close to them! If you can win again next week, that would probably be enough to overtake them. Enough to get an extra club into Europe!"

I was quite awake now. "Yes, Alvaro. I understand your position. It's in your interest for us to win again. But it's not in my interest. I want our next opponent to underestimate us so I can do my shark attack again. We can beat almost anyone if they half-arse it. A decent team who takes us seriously will blow us out of the water. As a shark, I don't want that."

"Sharks and mermaids don't mix," mumbled Emma.

"You're the shark mommy," I said.

Mateo said, "Max, it's quite strange that you're planning to lose. It almost seems unethical."

I tutted. "Yeah, well, it's not. I'm the only person on this bus who understands what winning really means. Winning means walking down the aisle to a Welsh army choir singing Here Comes The Hotstepper. Winning means sitting next to this absolute babe while her dad gives a cringeworthy, slurred speech in his actual accent, not the one he puts on for the outside world. Winning... winning means losing so that we can do more winning."

Alvaro thought he had an ace up his sleeve. "Max, Mateo, if we have four UEFA slots the first thing it means is a massively greater chance for College to appear in European competitions every season."

I could almost hear Mateo's eyes widen. "That's a good point, Max."

"No, it's not. If you do what I say you'll win the league every year. Third would be a catastrophic failure. There's no way a team I'm involved in will ever finish fourth in an eleven-team Gibralto league. Give me a fucking break."

Mateo sighed. "He's right, you know. He wore sackcloth and ashes for a month because he finished third in League Two. That was with a quarter of the budget of his rivals. Give him the highest budget and there's no way he'll come lower than third."

Alvaro rapped his fingers on the head rest, paused, and rested his forehead against it. "Your job's to do what's right for you. My job's to do what's right for football in Gibraltar. I thought we could find common ground, but perhaps not. I suppose we'll get some coefficient points if you achieve your goal. Two or three points from one club in one season would be most impressive."

"Hang on," said Emma. "Don't give up. If Max is anything, he's easily bribed."

"Hey!" I said.

"You're going to build a stadium, right? Max wants to buy a flat inside it but he doesn't have the money yet. There's your bargaining chip." Above me, I saw her lips twisting. "Alvaro, do you need time to go and work it out?"

Alvaro smiled. His mind was clearly racing but Emma had made it easy for him. "What if I incentivise you to gain points for our coefficient?"

"Go on," I said.

He licked his lips. "One point... one year of half-priced rent in the flat you want. Garner eight points, the flat's yours for eight years. At any time, you can buy it at the initial market rate plus inflation. If it rises in value faster than inflation, the profit is yours. If the value drops, you're under no obligation to buy."

I lifted myself up. His proposal was very, very interesting. The curse would potentially run out in a few years and if it did there wouldn't be much benefit to me flying to Gibraltar. I wasn't motivated by the potential income of a flat in the national stadium but by the ease of flying there and having a place to crash, no questions asked, no money changing hands, no need to talk to anyone. If the curse didn't run out, all I needed to do to keep College at the top of the tree was to fly to The Rock once or twice a year and re-scout everyone. Sure, I could rent a hotel, but what was the fun in that?

No, if there was a flat in a football stadium, I wanted to own it and they wouldn’t come on the market very often.

"Mateo," I said. "That's attractive to me. It's good for Alvaro. But it's bad for you. You should want me to stick to my path."

He shook his head. "I'm a long-term investor, Max, always have been. I've never sold a business, though I've often thought I've brought Tranmere as far as I can. I have great relations with the people in my industries and that's where the real return on investment comes. We could crash out in the next round anyway, right?"

"Easily."

"What we know right now is that we can get two wins against Niederkorn. Two points for Gibraltar's coefficient. Two years with your name on the lease. And who knows? Maybe one of my construction companies will be a subcontractor on the stadium project."

"Ah," I said, narrowing my eyes.

Mateo gave me a soft slap on the crown. "Not like that! We do good work!"

I twinkled at him but then thought about what was being asked of me. Trying to win every game was awfully conventional. It didn't sit well with my natural approach to the task, which was to be opaque and mysterious, to hide our strength, to only use our special moves once and strictly when needed.

If we drew a semi-competent club in the third or fourth rounds, they would watch the tape and realise our only real play was a fast counter-attack. They would set up accordingly and we would crash out. I couldn't sneak under the radar while running up the score. Could I?

"Babes, what do you think?"

"Attack," she said. "Attack. Attack attack attack."

I made a scoffing noise. "Do you want a wedding or a flat in a football stadium?"

She leaned forward and gave me a tiny little smooch. "I want both."

"A shark who chases two swimmers catches none."

"Hmm," she said. "Interesting. Have you tried being a charismatic winner? You might find it suits you."

I shook my head and looked up at Mateo. "Are you sure about this? You're sure you want this?"

He had a cheeky smile going on. "You can catch two swimmers. Always bet on Best."

I sighed, tutted, and got to my feet. I went to the front of the coach where the microphone was. I turned it on. "Ladies and gentlemen," I said. Not much happened. "Oi!" I said.

The noise died down. The lads, who had been merrily laughing and joking, turned to face the front.

"I regret to announce," I said, "that victory has been snatched from the jaws of defeat. We will not be doing an edge-of-your-seat, next-level plan full of subtlety and nuance. We won't be losing to Niederkorn next week. We will not, in fact, be losing to anyone." I dropped my head and sighed. "We're just gonna go hard at every team we play." I made a noise as though I was close to tears. "Like a bunch of plebs."

What sounded like five people cheered. Henri shouted, "What score are we allowed to win by next week?"

I shook my head and shrugged. "Whatever you want."

The lads turned to each other, excited and happy, presumably bragging about how many goals they were going to score. That seemed to be that, so I put the microphone back in its holder and slumped next to Emma.

From the seat behind, Mateo patted me on the collarbone. "Cheer up, Max! It's not certain we'll win, is it?"

"Mmm," I said. "No. Maybe we'll play our best and lose two-nil. Maybe we won't build our fitness through the week. Maybe I'll forget to practice even though there's nothing else to do in Gib. And yeah, maybe Niederkorn signed prime Messi but I didn't notice his name on their squad list."

Emma smiled. "I think he's being sarcastic. I know when he's being sarcastic because I stop fussing with his hair."

"Ah!" I said, settling back into position. "I'll be good! What was the question?"

"It's not certain we'll win."

I rolled my eyes. "It could be close, yeah. Could be tight. Sure."

***

Next chapter: To Shreds, You Say?