Player Manager - A Sports Progression Fantasy

8.

"Why would I think about missing a shot I haven't taken?"

Friday, August 21

I looked out of the window and wondered if I was doing the right thing. It was so easy to lie to myself, and even easier to lie to the people closest to me.

Even in a post-fact world, some things were true. With the element of surprise, some decent tactics, and a massive slice of luck, I had won 6 of my 7 European matches, earning six coefficient points for Gibraltar. That pushed my new allies above Luxembourg in one very specific league table, which meant that next season, 4 of Gibraltar's 11 clubs would qualify for European tournaments.

College 1975 were guaranteed prize money this season of at least 1.45 million Euro. The added costs of travel, transport, and player bonuses would be around 100k. The squad's annual salary was 600k. That left a profit of 750,000. My cut would be fifty percent, although I owed Mateo a hundred grand.

In these seven weeks I had already earned, therefore, 275,000 Euro.

If we won or drew next Thursday, the numbers would rocket. I personally would trouser 1.1 million.

The numbers were getting higher but the plane was getting lower. I peered out again. There was the Thames, winding around, trying to get away from the Londoners.

What was I doing? Something stupid. Not only that, but I had lied to Emma about it. "Got to pop back to England, sign a thing, be right back."

To distract myself, I went through various curse screens.

XP balance: 2,752

I had been steadily increasing the amount of XP I was investing in the Secret Sandra perk. It had started out as a fairly solid 600 a week, made up of 100 a day for five days of Baggers and 50 a day for Peter Bauer. As we had gotten farther in the tournament, I had tested giving Baggers 200 one day and 100 the others, plus I'd smacked a few hundred into Magnus when Baggers had been out of action. It was hard to know how much difference it was making.

That process had drained my stash pretty steadily, but not in a way that caused me any regret. I'd also earned 150 XP by sitting out the first quarter of an hour of the Aberdeen match, while I had been able to pick up some unexpected XP by loitering around the resort in Marbella when other teams were training.

The Maxnificent Seven had a day off, so today's investment had been in Peter Bauer. Over the next few days I would whack in the full 200 a day, rotating between Pascal, Magnus, and Baggers. (The other members of my posse were maxed out.)

"Our height numbers are going down," said the captain of the plane. "Please try not to turn this into a weak metaphor. Thank you for flying with Last Dance Airlines."

***

There was a driver waiting for me at Heathrow and he whizzed me through London pretty fast; it was only about 40 minutes from me closing the car door until I stepped out into Bond Street. The driver had dropped me right outside the building.

"Good luck, lad," he said, which suggested it was pretty fucking obvious why I was there.

The thought filled me with dread. Apprehension. My fingers tested the base of my skull, feeling around the wound. I felt sick, felt everyone was looking at me. Everyone knew.

Better to suffer inside than on the street?

I went to the door and there was a button you were supposed to press to get in. I saw what looked like a butler inside. A butler!

My first instinct was to grow wings and flap my way back to Gibraltar. How many XP would wings cost? Not much, right? They wouldn't give me any in-game advantage. Or would they? I had always been a winger.

"What are you smiling at?"

I looked up and was intensely relieved to see Aurélie Fragonard, Henri's mother. "Are you stalking me?"

Her eyebrows shot up. "Only electronically. Where are the others?"

I waved, vaguely. "North, probably."

"Let us go inside. I do not wish to wait on the street."

My stomach churned. "I can't. I'm sorry, this was a mistake."

"Yes, yes," she said, mashing the button before pressing her hand into my back, exactly where I was imagining my wings would sprout. How did she know? The door opened and a butler dude welcomed us.

I got pushed in.

The door closed behind me.

Trapped. Disaster. Self-inflicted humiliation was waiting for me down a well-lit corridor lined with massive mirrors.

***

Up close, the butler dude was actually dressed as a waiter. He took us to a semi-private room, got us comfortable in our seats, and took a drink order. Very soon after, a saleswoman came in. She was in her twenties and was wearing a cream dress under a cream jacket. She had stuck an enormous rectangular brooch into one lapel. It might have been a nice piece but to me it looked like a radiation detector. If this changes colour, proceed quickly but calmly to the exits. Iodine tablets will be provided to Emerald Class customers.

"Max?" said Aurélie.

I snapped out of it. "Sorry I was just thinking about a nuclear apocalypse and whether I'd feel more at home there than..."

Aurélie shook her head. "What is the issue?"

I waved at the display cases. "Just... Nothing." I sat up straight and tried to get my game face on. Time to man up. Not an apt phrase, was it? Every woman I knew would have relished this challenge. Time to human up. Time to adult. The waiter guy brought two glasses of champagne; I downed mine in two huge gulps. "Steffi?" I said, checking I had heard the name right. "Steffi, I need to choose an engagement ring."

***

Steffi was very patient, even when I babbled that part of the reason I was so nervous was the near-certainty that everyone who worked in this particular shop was an exiled princess.

"Even him?" laughed Aurélie, as a waiter strode by with a little tray. "You are so delightful. Wherever do you get these ideas?"

"I'm a London girl," said Steffi. "My grandfather started this business in the 60s. No secret princesses involved, I don't think, just a lot of good taste and high levels of craftsmanship. Here, let me show you a few rings and you can tell me what you like."

She opened drawers and placed a few pieces onto a display area. Gold, platinum, diamonds, precious gems. I got queasy. "What now?" said Aurélie, who was annoyingly perceptive. "Do you not like them? Speak up! We will not take it personally, will we, Steffi?"

"Of course not," she assured me. She knew I was a football manager so she tried to speak my language. "It's very personal. Two people can see the same ring and have wildly different reactions. It is like with your football players. One fan sees a talented player, another sees a useless hack. It's a question of perception."

I nodded a few times before shaking my head. "No, sorry, there is an objective way to assess a football player."

"What's that?" she said.

"You ask me." She wasn't sure quite how to react so she stopped short of letting out a laugh. I said, "What's your team?"

"Chelsea, of course."

I picked up one of the rings. "This is Chelsea. Too much going on. Loads of bits sticking out everywhere. All very valuable, sure, but it's messy and distracting. The parts get in each other's way."

Aurélie clicked her teeth. "What nonsense. It's a beautiful piece. It's exquisite."

I put Chelsea back on the tray and picked up a ring with a huge, square, monstrosity at the end. "This is Arsenal. Oversized, huge, no subtlety, score from set pieces, who cares about craft?"

Aurélie clicked her teeth again. You might want to imagine her doing that after everything I say. "To be clear, Steffi, it is another masterpiece. I love it."

"You said I could be honest!" I whined.

"You can," said Steffi. "This is helping me to understand what you're looking for. One moment."

She went to a drawer on the far left of a rack - no clue why but it being on the end made me nervous - and came back with a few more rings. "Ah!" I said, instantly picking up something I actually liked. "This. Slim, elegant, understated. Less is more. What's the maximum effect from the minimum input? This is it. This is Max Best football. This is Nicole Gimenez."

"Who's that?" demanded Aurélie.

"She's a physiotherapist. More of a chiropractor, actually. Every time you talk to her you realise she has training in multiple fields. She touches you here, checks something there, then gives you a tiny punch there, and bosh, you're all better. It's magical. Maximum from the minimum. I have fewer resources than everyone else and I have to make it work but I don't want to whine about it. It's hard to keep things simple but simple things are classier, more timeless. Simple goals are the most beautiful. Simple rings are the most attractive. But..." I clicked my head around a few times. "Look," I said, now that Steffi had eased me into the conversation somewhat. "I'm not comfortable in places like this because you don't show the price. Mateo took me to a restaurant that didn't have prices and I was terrified the whole time even though he was paying. I know for a fact that if I went to that restaurant I would be the only guy stupid enough to order the special prawn sandwich. I'd get presented with a bill for a million pounds and the chef would come out, weeping, thanking me for saving his business."

"Why would you order a sandwich at a restaurant?" demanded Aurélie.

Steffi broadly found me amusing, I think. "I understand, I really do. We don't show the prices because numbers are ugly. Reality is ugly, isn't it? We don't sell reality. We sell dreams."

"You sell false promises," said Aurélie. "Same as I do."

Steffi smiled. "The power of the stone should make a woman feel younger; it should have a rejuvenating effect. It's not a false promise if it works." She turned to me. "If you fall in love with a ring before you see the price, you won't worry about the price. The Arsenal ring is one hundred and twenty thousand pounds. The three-stone - the Chelsea - is sixty-three thousand. The one you liked... is nine thousand five hundred pounds."

I waited for the blood to return to my brain. No wonder they didn't show the prices; there would be constant heart attacks. When I recovered, I had a quick think. The one I liked wasn’t all that dear. Amazingly, what in the past would have been gobsmackingly decadent was now just two weeks of wages. "Um, I almost think that's too cheap."

Aurélie groaned. "If you like it, choose it! But this isn't for you to wear. What does your Emma like?"

"I expect she has the exact same taste as me."

"Mon dieu."

"Look, I don't even want something really expensive. I'm a footballer. When we're playing, our houses get burgled. Our wives are there. Our family. They're threatened and bullied and some gang of criminals runs off with a million quid in jewellery and watches. It's moronic to buy this stuff, do you know what I mean? It's asking for trouble. They can't run off with a go-kart track."

Aurélie laughed. "I do not have the mental energy to deal with your neuroses today. What engagement ring would Emma want? Choose the right one in the name of love and by all means do not fill your home with Rolexes and Omegas."

"I'm moderately aware," I declared, grandly, "that I might not be the best person to choose an engagement ring. That is why I invited the world's foremost expert on the subject to come."

"Why, Max, I'm flattered."

I grinned. I had been talking to Aurélie about a completely different topic and while chatting, I had discovered that she was in London for the week. I'd invited her for moral support and for help dealing with these fancy pants shops, but she didn't know Emma's preferences. For that I needed...

Rachel Weaver floated into the room and for a half a second I thought it was Emma. A few steps behind came Emma's dad.

"The cavalry!" I said. "And Sebastian," I added, in the interest of completeness.

***

I made the introductions and thought how easy it was for rich and successful people to get along. Here's Sebastian Weaver, founder of Weaver, Weaver, and Weaver. Here's his wife, one of the Weavers. Here's Aurélie Fragonard, perfume heiress. Know me by my works. Bosh, skip a great deal of tentatively asked questions.

Rachel took over the conversation with Steffi, which I was initially glad of. Sebastian couldn't keep his oar out, though. He loved the big, gaudy rings. He picked up the Arsenal one. "You were looking at this one, Max? I'm surprised you have such good taste. What do you think, pet?"

Rachel cooed at it. She removed her own engagement ring and slid on Seb's pick. She held it up from all angles while the words 'one hundred and twenty thousand pounds of absolute tat' rang around my skull.

Finally, she said, "I think it isn't quite right but it's very bold. Very combative!"

Sebastian preened like a peacock, pleased with himself for making such a good contribution. I noticed Aurélie give Rachel a glance with a quarter-smile and I realised that Rachel hated the ring! She was managing her husband.

I was scared to get the same treatment, but I took the plunge. "I'm not sure if it's Emma's style but this is the one I liked most so far. Maybe it's too simple," I added, feebly.

Rachel slipped it on her hand and I got wide eyes. That was it! Pure class. Beautiful. "Oh, Max," she said, as she spotted my excitement. For a second I thought she was going to burst into tears. "We were delayed getting here. I wanted to talk to you before you got your heart set on anything."

"I'm not set," I lied, because I never wanted to see her cry.

Sebastian mumbled, "Also wanted to give you the chance to ask permission to marry my daughter."

"Er, I'll pass on that one," I said. "The only person I'll be asking is Emma."

Rachel played diplomat. "When we were courting, Sebastian had to ask my father. It was a different time and you have to do things your way, the modern way. Some things don't have to change, though." She looked down and got that emotional look about her again. "I wanted to ask if you would consider using this." She held up her own engagement ring. "It was my grandmother's." Aurélie gasped and put her hand over her mouth; a very Henri-like gesture. Rachel continued. "It's very mushy of me, I know. I get very sentimental when I think of my nana. She was a very special woman and when I see this I think of her and the sacrifices she made so that we could have a better life and I recall the way she cared for us and was always there for me. I ran away from home twice, Max, if you can believe it. Ran straight to her. I thought she would turn me right round and send me home but she said oh you're here, perfect, you can help me repot my ficus. Never judgement, only love. That's what this ring symbolises and I've always dreamed of passing it on to Emma." She gulped as she passed it over. "But only if you like it."

I brought it closer to my eye. It was decidedly old-fashioned, of course, not very shiny, but it was slim and the jewel was a similar size to the one I had picked out. In fact, I wondered if I had subconsciously gravitated to the closest ring in the shop to the one I'd always seen Rachel wearing. "Will Emma like it?"

"Yes," said Rachel.

"Okay," I said. I got the start of a cheeky grin. "So, er... That's decided. Why are we all still here?"

Rachel laughed out a couple of tears and hugged me. Sebastian put his hand on her back. "We're short one engagement ring, aren't we? That's why we're here." He picked up the Chelsea ring. "Oh, what about this one?"

"You're shopping… for your wife," I said, slowly.

"Yes."

"Huh." I’d got what I’d come for and my schedule had suddenly opened up. I closed my eyes while I thought about flight times. The next plane back to Gibraltar was in the morning; I would be there for brunch with Emma and the lads. As if I'd never been gone! But what about tonight? There was bound to be a match on somewhere in London. Or what about a quick blast of Playdar? "How far are the Hackney Marshes?" I asked Steffi.

"No, Max," said Sebastian. "You're not running off to scout a reserve goalkeeper, not tonight. We're going to dinner and we're going to talk about weddings and every five minutes Rachel will go to powder her nose so you can belatedly do the right thing."

"Aurélie," I said. "Would you like to be my guest at dinner? I would like to try to persuade you to change your mind about that thing we discussed."

Aurélie's lips tightened, but she glanced at the Weavers. "If I am permitted...?"

"Of course!" said Sebastian.

"Top," I said, reaching for my phone. "I'll find out where the nearest Nando's is."

Aurélie said, "Do not. I know a place and I know the owner. You'll love it, Max. The menus are exceedingly minimalist."

***

The place she chose was surprisingly down-to-earth and the food was great. Alcohol flowed a little too freely. Aurélie was a bon viveur and Sebastian liked a pricey wine. I had a few glasses of red, solemnly informing the table that each one was reducing College's chance of winning by one percent.

"What's the starting point?" said Sebastian.

"Thirty."

"You have a thirty percent chance of winning?"

"Thirty percent chance of going through."

Rachel said, "And if you do, you'll ask Emma to marry you... soon?"

"Yes. Not some huge romantic gesture or anything. That isn't me. I'll probably take her to the top of The Rock and give her two choices. In the right hand, a box from a luxury jeweller, as seen in James Bond movies. In the left hand, a voucher for a spa hotel in Scotland."

Aurélie didn't understand the rules. "You need a certain amount of money before you ask. It makes no sense. Do you have to buy her? One million pounds and two camels?"

"It's about being serious. It's about knowing that I can look after her. If I piss off her dad and piss off the Chester fans and I lose my abilities, we'll be able to get by."

Rachel said, "Why would you lose your abilities?"

"It happens. Lots of players are great and then they fall off a cliff. You hear about legendary scouts and they discovered player A and player B and you think wow, that's a hundred million pounds! But there's a gap in the story. They didn't find anyone since. So was it two lucky punches or were they trying too hard to repeat what they'd done? Managers? They're the worst. Guys who can't stop winning, keep getting success, suddenly it's all over and when you lose the aura you don’t get it back. No, I'm not taking anything for granted. When I think it's over I'm going to pretend I'm still the alpha dog. I'll let things coast for a while - I should have a decent idea of how long I can pull it off - but I'll be selling things piece by piece. Cash out. Early retirement. Emma and I will raise ducks." I smiled broadly, thinking about some storybook life on a farm. "Or we'll travel to all the non-fascist countries of the world. Yeah," I said, scratching my cheek. "That won't take long." I got a haunted look about me. "I just hate lying to her."

"When did you lie?" said Aurélie.

"I couldn't say I was going to London with her mum to pick out an engagement ring, could I?"

"What did you give as the reason for your trip?" said Sebastian.

"Said I had to sign a few things."

He nodded and after a moment's thought, produced a pen. He took a napkin and scribbled. I had a pretty good idea where this was going. I expected something along the lines of:

Dear Mr. Weaver,

Pursuant to the demands of the patriarchy, I, Max Best, do most humbly seek your blessing to transfer your daughter into my ownership, where she will become part of my economic unit.

Instead, I read this:

I, Max Best, promise not to ruin the moment I ask Emma to marry me by trying to inject my trademark 'humour' into the proceedings. I will make the moment as romantic as I feel comfortable with, will not mention Nando's, and will give serious consideration to asking for her hand on bended knee.

Signed...

The alcohol was making me uninhibited but not reckless. I read the document several times, but finally crossed out the part about not mentioning Nando's, and with a romantic flourish, signed it.

"There you go," he said, tucking it away in his jacket. "You told Emma you were signing things, and signing things you have done."

***

"There's no I in team, but there is an I in win."

Saturday, August 22

The next morning I felt very slightly groggy, but I didn't have much in the way of luggage so I slept longer and felt better by the time I got out of my taxi. I checked in and found one of those places that does decent scran and got a light avocado toast, a smoothie, and a nice cup of tea.

I was happily letting the nutrients perk me up when a couple of guys sat on the table next to me. "Fuck me," I said.

It was tactics imp and Gameboy imp. They pretended to ignore me while having a loud, staged conversation.

"I'm worried about our client," said tactics imp. "He's breaking the rules. Our boss agreed it was probably safe for him to play to the level of the main team he manages. If our client isn't careful, he'll get punished."

"Yes," agreed Gameboy imp. "He's our best client and it would be bad if something were to happen to him."

"The boss is very unhappy. He thinks something truly horrible could come of this. Did you hear what he said? Told us to write ten options for punishments."

"Yes, I remember. I was there. It's strange that you're repeating it here, but it's allowed because it's a private conversation between the two of us."

I dipped my head. "What the hell, guys? I'm not breaking any rules. It's the UEFA Conference. It's the same level as League One. 5 XP per minute base. I'm allowed to play at my level. This is my level."

Tactics imp gave me a snarky look. "Private conversation!" he snapped. He clicked his tongue, huffed, and said, "My boss thinks our client is playing at a higher level than League One."

"Oh?" said Gameboy imp. "Why does he think that?"

"He thinks that because the client thinks that. The System is based on his own knowledge. Leagues, competitions, clubs, managers, staff, and players each have a reputation score. The System clearly shows that the Conference League is higher than League One, and it's common sense to know that Aberdeen are higher than Northampton and Mansfield."

"That's right," said Gameboy imp. "It would be very silly to argue it was the same level just because the amount of XP generated was similar."

"Similar?" I said. "It's the same."

"Did you think of your quota of punishments?" said tactics imp.

"Yes. But I don't think of them as punishments. I think of them as corrective guidelines. Our client can have everything he ever wanted as long as he doesn't take the wee-wee. Our client can be on the cover of System Supremo. He can make everyone in his squad sign up to his agency and he can create a multi-club model even though he was extremely rude when we cleverly suggested it."

"I remember that; it was rude."

"All that kind of thing is absolutely fine. Encouraged, even. But our client can't be getting ten out of ten ratings in Le Monde while being named twice in their Team of the Week, once as a defender and once as a midfielder, along with the suggestion that with players this good, teams didn't need eleven men on the pitch. Our client can't be number one in a major European competition for goal involvements."

"He's joint top," said tactics imp. "Does that make it all right?"

"No, because he's level with two players from his own team, who would have been knocked out in the second round had it not been for our client's performances. He is drawing attention to his unearned skills and getting publicity."

"Perhaps our boss is right and we need to take action."

"Yes, I agree, because otherwise these fun times we are all having will come to an abrupt end."

I tapped the table. "Why are you talking like that? What happened to your grammar? What happened to 'he do opposite?'"

"Private conversation," said Gameboy imp.

I used a napkin to dab my lips. "Tell Nick I don't give a fuck what he thinks. These matches are the same level as Chester are playing at and I have been playing in defence most of the time. I've barely done anything flashy. Okay I had one long shot where I maybe thought I was pushing things but I'm not changing how I'm going to play just because Nick doesn't understand football."

"Le Monde understands football," said tactics imp.

"The Sentinel doesn't speak French." I chuckled.

Gameboy imp's eyes widened. "Next season you want to play in the Champions League. That's much higher than Chester in League One or the Championship. Much higher!"

"Much," agreed tactics imp.

They remembered they weren't supposed to be talking to me directly. "We should correct him now so he knows how serious his position is. Stop his mistakes getting bigger."

"Lads, listen," I said. "Do what you want because I'm going for the win on Thursday. If I can do that playing DM, tidying up loose balls, keeping possession ticking over, incredibly unspectacular, great. If I need to score a free kick, I'm going for it. I've talked myself into a corner with this million pounds thing so it's either win now or wait a whole year. I want to marry that woman and Aberdeen are in the way. Sucks to be them. My advice to you is don't get in my way."

They were quiet for a spell, while their faces went through various changes. Suddenly, they were both beaming. Tactics imp said, "Wedding episode!"

Gameboy imp said, "I'll be the DJ!"

"I can be the priest!"

"Whoa," I said. "Pastor Yaw will do the service."

"Oh! Tell us the plan! Tell us the plan!"

"No," I said. I wanted to add 'you're not invited' but it seemed cruel.

Tactics imp got a sad look about him. "No wedding if you break the rules," he said. He punched himself in the forehead and looked straight across the table at his colleague. "I hope this client has a long and happy life. That would be a nice change."

"The fuck?" I said.

"Yes," said Gameboy imp. "I wish he would listen to his friends.”

I stood up and pushed my chair under the table. "This match is too big for me to worry about Nick's stupidity, okay? I'm going to do what I want. But," I said, pausing. "You make a good point about the Champions League. That's objectively higher than the Championship so, yeah. Either I don't play in that one... Nah. I need to. Getting to the group stage is worth, like, eighteen million pounds. That lets me turn Saltney into the Welsh Marbella. On the other hand, it's only one season, isn't it? No, wait, two. Chester will have two seasons in the Championship. Can I wait that long? Ah, here's what we do. In the first qualifying round, I'll stick to being a manager. That's the Champions League. If we win, great, but if we get knocked down to the Europa League, I can play in that because that's 6 XP per minute, same as the Championship. There we go. It's still loads of money for getting into the Europa League and our chances are probably a lot more realistic, anyway. Good. I think that's a fair compromise. Look how mature I am these days! Tell Nick I've listened and that although he's very stupid, I'm on board." I hauled my backpack over my shoulder. "On board. Get it? Hey. Tell him that whole thing word for word. He loves my jokes."

With that, I sauntered to the correct gate and flew back to Gib, leaving all my troubles far behind me.

***

"I don’t have a gambling problem. I have a competitiveness problem."

League One Match 3 of 46: Stevenage versus Chester

I got to the pub and found that the lads had saved a seat for me in pride of place, with the best view of the biggest screen. What a wonderful world!

"So it's Stevenage," said Baggers, his knee bouncing as he imagined the adrenaline the guys on the screen would be feeling. "What do you know about them, boss?"

"They used to be called Stevenage Borough," I said. "But when they got promoted to the EFL they dropped the second part. They ascended and got a new name, basically. Do you get me, Baggers? Eh? Eh?"

Pascal shook his head. "You walked into that one, William."

"What's your problem with Baggers, anyway?"

"Sarah doesn't like it," he said. "She says it makes her think of baggy pants. She hates baggy pants. The name's all right for Gibbers, she says, but when we go back..."

I sighed. "Yeah. I get it. Time's nearly up, I suppose." No-one wanted to think about how near the end of the story we had come; I'd created an awkward moment which I repaired the optimal way - by talking about football. "Stevenage normally play 4-2-3-1. They're good. Very defensively solid." I estimated them as being in the low hundreds in CA, somewhere between 100 and 105.

"What's our plan?" said Jack. He played for Tranmere, as did Henri and Lee H, sort of, but on this trip when we were watching Chester we were all for Chester.

"Four-four-two," I said. "Yeah, it's interesting. I thought I'd left Sandra a good squad and I did, mostly, but I think she would like a little more choice on the left so she can do different three-at-the-back formations. She used Josh last time and it worked well but Cole's one of our best eleven and Stevenage need to be taken seriously. She might switch to three-four-three in the second half, not sure. It's basically our strongest lineup right now."

After another decent week of training (in which Youngster moved to CA 106, allaying some of my concerns about soft caps), we would take to the pitch with an average CA of 96.5. Being five points behind, playing away from home - nothing about today would be easy.

"I'd be happy with a point, to be honest. She would, too."

"Why is it two strikers, then?" said Jack.

Pascal replied. "The more questions one poses, the more the oppo must be careful. Playing one striker allows your opponent the potential to attack more. Two strikers is a valid defensive strategy."

"Yep. It's all about balance. I really like the balance of Dazza and Colin. Height, power, speed, deadlyliness."

"Is that a word?" said Lee H.

I smiled. "Very few managers at League One level are going to ignore the fact we've got two deadly strikers. And, yeah, there's always the chance we'll get a goal. Three points today would be stellar but whatevs. We only really need to keep our head above water until the stadium's built, because then we'll start winning matches at an unbelievable rate." I thought about the fixtures. "On Tuesday, it's the first Vans Trophy group match against Manchester United's under 21s. That's kind of a free hit because we're still plucky little Chester and the under 21 teams normally outplay the lower-league teams but run out of fitness and get dicked at the end."

Henri said, "The way you talk about the cups this season is quite different to last."

"Yeah," I said. "I don't want to overcorrect but the balance wasn't quite right, maybe. I go back and forth because the cup runs cost us the league but the United match in the FA Cup was worth a million quid. Would you take third in the league and a million quid over first? As a player, as a manager, I want first. As a DoF I want the million quid."

The match kicked off and there was the usual chat. Banter, jokes, observations. Sharky arrived late. Magnus was out in Marbella, watching Nicole work.

"Are you going to try to bring her over?" said Henri.

"I'd love to," I said. "She isn't exactly playing hard to get but it's fair to say she's not keen to bin off her whole life just because I batted my eyelashes at her."

Henri gasped and covered his mouth - so original, mate! - and said, "My friend! Are you quite all right? Should we get Alex Short over to give you some emergency therapy?"

"I get turned down loads, mate, I'm used to it."

"Who turns you down?" frowned Baggers.

"Idiots," I said, accurately. "All sorts. I mean, I ask about transfers all the time, right? I see a player is unhappy and I call the manager and say what's up wit dat. I get a hard no all the time. Then it's, like, some clubs will say 'we'd do business at such and such a level' and I say 'well that's mental but can I see if the player's even interested before I waste time haggling?' Which is the way you're supposed to do it. Most players nope out within minutes."

Henri was aghast, for real this time. "Are you joking with us?"

"No. I mean, look, obviously if I call a National League team, I can get a deal done fast. League Two isn't too hard. League One is increasingly doable. But go higher and it's like hitting a brick wall. We got Duggers and Swanny from a higher level because Reading were hurtling towards oblivion. What I'm going to do this season, I think, when things are on track, is I'm going to do a lot of scouting. Obviously I'll get to see every club in League One - I'll have to catch up on the ones we missed - and what I saw from Aberdeen, we'll be able to offer better wages than most of the Scottish Prem next season. Could we poach Scottish players when we're in the Champ? Yeah, easily. So I need to hit the road and make sure anyone with a high ceiling who's out of contract this summer gets a call from us at 8 a.m. on January 1st."

Sharky grinned. "Always on the up. Always thinking two steps ahead."

"Three," I said, which made everyone laugh because they thought I was being big-headed. I thought it was a mere statement of fact, but I let some other guys talk for a while.

There wasn't a whole lot to discuss. Stevenage versus Chester was a match with lots of commitment, defensive shape, and very few chances.

"Boss," said Sharky, shifting. "If you could go back to the start of the summer... Would you pick the same squad again?"

"For the Maxnificent Seven?" All eyes turned towards me. "Do you want the motivational answer or the real one?"

Sharky's eyelids closed a fraction, but he was smiling. "The real one."

I smiled. "I mean... You want me to say something nice about you but I think the real credit goes to me. I nailed it. We've won six out of seven, we've got someone at the top of the goals chart, the assists chart, and we're a goal up going into the final match. Right now, I'd say Max Knows Best. I’d say why change?"

Pascal, who loved being reviewed, said, "If you had to change, though."

"I'm not trying to use reverse psychology, Pascal. At some points I have wondered if I should have brought centre backs instead of full backs but I think it turned out well. Jack and Lee give us a lot of stability on the flanks and if we're weaker in the middle we've got Magnus and myself who can drop in and help out. Could we have gotten a centre back instead of you, Baggers, or Sharky? Maybe but the way I see it is if we've got three speedsters, one of you is going to get through. It's hard to mark all three, right? And it's easier for me to concentrate on my defensive work if there's a chance for a counter. The most boring thing for me is shuffling and sliding but if I'm in a spot where I might get the ball and can ping a long pass for you to chase, it really helps me switch on."

Lee said, "You've been really good, boss. Much better than in training."

"In training I’m basically in ten places at once. These oppo strikers are too good for me to lose concentration," I said. "They're making me rethink how useful I'll be as a defender at higher levels. It's so much about concentration and the mental side of the game, isn't it? Look, I'm super happy with you lot. If I could change anything I think I'd have kidnapped Jesse Picardo and brought him to Chester as soon as it was clear College were going to finish second last season. He could have trained with us, trained at Tranmere. Private sessions."

"What about Marbella?" said Henri.

"Yep, that would have worked, too. We could have gotten the local lads ten percent more ready, for sure. It would have been expensive, though. It's easier to think about that now because we've got the cash."

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"Until UEFA fines you," said Pascal.

"Mate," I said, falling into a doom spiral but immediately emerging from it. After all, I got a free engagement ring!

"Have you heard anything about the disciplinary proceedings?" said Henri.

"No," I said. "I'm expecting to get the news shortly before the match. It'll be timed to cause maximum damage, right? But I think if they leave it late it can't be a suspension. Hmm. Or is that wishful thinking?" Would Old Nick use his clout to get UEFA to ban me against Aberdeen? Why wouldn't he? If I were him, it's what I would do, and he had used a similar trick before. The imps had said they'd each thought of five 'corrections'. "I think I'll prepare the team as normal, but I'll have a backup plan just in case."

Jack said, "What are you thinking? Tactically? If you're not banned, I mean."

"Erm..." As ever in this situation, I felt a pang of uncertainty. When I was briefly the manager of Grimsby, there had been a mole who had passed on team news to shady gambling syndicates. I was naturally secretive anyway, and the incident had not done me any favours. "I've been thinking about what I'd do if I were the Aberdeen manager. I always do that and it's almost always a waste of time. They never do the right thing! It's amazing. I'm thinking... Yes. I'm expecting to be man-marked."

I'm not sure why, but I half-expected the others to laugh. They didn't. Pascal said, "I'm surprised you aren't man-marked more."

I shrugged. "I think a lot of managers have worked out that my response is to wander around, taking the marker into a zone where he's counter-productive while ordering the lads to attack on the other side of the pitch where there should be more space. So yeah, I'm quite happy for them to take me out of the game because that comes at a cost to the oppo."

Pascal got thoughtful. "Marking you is not like marking Sarah Greene where she has a defined zone she likes to stay in. You cause havoc because you're allowed to make radical positional changes."

"That might be something you train with Sarah. Maybe Dani and Kisi, too. Meredith Ann, certainly. But what will it look like if you try to man-mark someone who's doing Relationism? It would be a nonsense, right? At best, it would look the same. At worst, someone smart like Sarah would be able to kite her markers one way while the blob moved the other."

Pascal got a slow grin. "I love it, boss. I fucking love it!"

I smiled and pointed to the screen. "We need some of it for Chester, too. There will be a lot of matches like this one against well-organised defences who work hard and have a bit of talent. We'll blow most of them away through force of will and force of ability. In the Championship, though, we won't be number one for talent so we'll need a plan B. You'll help me teach Relationism to the first team because we need to get those connections built so they can deepen. Me, you, and Baggers will be the core. Oh, and Dan. Not every player will suit it, or it won't suit every player, but we'll work that out as we go." I rubbed my chin; I had a bit of stubble. "Thinking ahead. Scouting. Doing at least one Relationism session per week. The next Transfer Room is in Paris."

"What's that?" said Jack.

"It's a poor man's Manchester," I said. "See? Henri doesn't even pout anymore. We've spent too much time together."

"Disagree," said Henri.

"The Transfer Room is where a load of directors of football get together and try to make deals happen. Speed dating for transfers. Last time I found it by chance in Rio. Or was it Sampa?"

Henri remembered better than me. "Sao Paolo, Max. It's where he signed your girlfriend, Baggers."

"What? You signed Sarah in Sao Paolo? That's crazy. She never told me that."

I frowned, then laughed. "Is it possible I never told her? Sarah and Meghan, yeah, that was done in a Transfer Room. A couple of the guys you met at the Youth Cup final, Baggers, they were from that event. It's good. I should go."

"What will you be looking for?" said Lee.

"The usual," I said. "Guys I can flip in a season or guys who can survive in one league and come with us to the next. I don't have much money so the chats with my counterparts might be more exploratory but there are always loads of agents who hang around the lobbies, too. They saw what I did for Foquita so that could be another avenue to explore." I turned and looked behind me.

Lee Hudson's hand froze as it was delivering a peanut to his mouth. "What is it?"

I was surprised by his reaction. "Oh, nothing. Just checking if I was in a mad hot beam of light."

"Kay," said Lee, and I realised he had gone into bodyguard mode, ready to defend me against an attacker.

I got up and squeezed behind the others until I could wrap my arms around him. "Thanks, man."

"Gerroff," he said.

I stayed there with one hand resting on his shoulder. "I just felt really warm all of a sudden. Me here with my mates, watching the footy, talking about work, which is also footy. It's all right, isn't it?" I got a whole bunch of smiles pointing back at me. "You know, Wes, it was the wrong question. It's not about whether I'd invite you on this mission again. Of course I would! It's about next year. You said it yourself, I'm always on the move, always trying to optimise. Could I get a better left back than Jack? Yeah, maybe, but if you win your matches it's eight weeks out here, isn't it? Eight weeks with nothing to do but to hang out. If you've got to spend loads of time together, character matters. If I’m doing this next year I need to split the players into two groups. The way I'm thinking is, talented arseholes go to Saltney, the cool, fun guys come to Gibbers."

Baggers looked from Henri to Pascal to me. "But you said you wanted me in Saltney next time."

"Oh shit," I said. "Awkward. Right, no-one tell him."

Baggers looked hurt. "Am I an arsehole?"

"No," said Henri. "You are a talented arsehole."

"Hey," said Baggers. He struck a haughty pose. "Sarah thinks I'm rather sweet, as a point of fact."

"Mate," I said, leaning forward, palms on the table. "If you could choose to spend two months with me in Saltney, or two months out here with Jack and Henri, what would you choose?"

"Out here," he said.

He was about to explain himself when I cut him off. "Oh? Well, Baggers can't be choosers."

There was absolute pandemonium. Henri nearly broke his leg in his rush to give me a high five. Jack huddled in a corner, clutching his knees, shaking. Sharky laughed himself outside. Baggers turned red but then he began to splutter. "Have you been calling me that all this time... just to lead up to that joke?"

"Of course not," I said, wiping happy tears from my eyes. "Haaaah. Of course not."

***

The match finished nil-nil. Another one of those in a few days would make me rich.

As it was, Chester had seven points after three away games, putting us fourth in the league. We still hadn't conceded a goal, though the attack was looking somewhat stodgy.

Tuesday's Van Trophy match wasn't important enough to distract me from the second leg against Aberdeen, so I took another look at our squad through the lens of contracts. Tom Westwood had signed a new deal for 900 pounds a week and he had now played for Saltney, which because he could only play for two clubs in one season meant he couldn't jump ship. Good result all round.

I called Ryan Jack, our loans manager, and asked him to talk to Omari Naysmith. Omari was back out at Saltney and had improved to CA 67. Quite tasty, actually, all things considered, but his PA of 103 would limit what he could achieve. I was thinking Omari could get an extra 150 a week, taking him to 700. He would be a strong candidate for a sale next summer, at which point he would double his wages. Which League One or Two club wouldn't want a tidy midfielder who could take dead balls?

I asked Ryan to talk to Sunday Sowunmi (PA 111) about a new deal and a loan out. Like Omari, he still had two years on his contract so I wasn't worried about not getting a transfer fee, but Sunday was going to struggle for minutes. I had thought about sending him to Saltney but we had sent them the usual three. Ryan would have to find Sunday a different club. He was CA 56 so the only guarantee of minutes was in the National League North. He could go to the National League but after one bad match he wouldn't play. Might as well not play in Chester as in Rochdale.

I would trust Ryan to make good decisions on that. For now, I made the offer and waited for a response.

***

"Whenever they speak Max Best, they should speak Henri Lyons."

Wednesday, August 26

I strolled around Marbella, my brain fizzing with visions of Emma in a flowing white dress as I stalked her around a castle. And there was the wedding to think about.

What would I do if I found myself with a million pounds lying around? It wouldn't be quite a million, of course, because of tax and being dicked by exchange rates, but by tomorrow night I could be properly minted. I was tempted to prune juice it at Saltney, and I spent way too long calculating how much CA I could buy with a million quid. It wasn't time poorly spent - there were still more than a few decent players available as free agents. If I got a cash bonanza, I was ready to swoop.

Saltney's first eleven was CA 53 and most of its players had substantial room for improvement, but if I stumped up for the wages, two or three quality players could come in and make sure Well In had the tools he needed to smash TNS and win the Welsh league. TNS were around CA 65 so we needed to get closer, but the best thing was that TNS were currently playing their European qualification matches and in most cases had been allowed to reschedule their league matches to give them the best shot of success. It was in the Welsh FA's interest to see Welsh teams do well, after all. But if Saltney kept winning, TNS would find themselves ten, twelve, fourteen points behind. With games in hand, yes, but they weren't used to that sort of pressure. If Saltney kept winning, TNS would probably crack.

"Hello, Mister Max."

It was one of the staff at Marbella. They knew exactly when to interrupt my thoughts and get me thinking about something more immediately useful. "Hola, Carmen. How's Carmen?"

"Which one?"

"You're such a tease."

I walked on and turned my attention to Chester. After the drab nil-nil in the league, the men's team had surprisingly lost 1-0 to Manchester United's under 21s in the Vans Trophy. Sandra had rotated pretty heavily, leaving a bunch of important players at home. That had been my idea as a way to stop them being burned out by the constant travelling.

It wasn't catastrophic because by the time of the hardest group match, the next one, I would be back in the harness and so would Baggers, Magnus, and Pascal. I was currently pretty ambivalent about the cups this season. An early exit here or there wouldn't do us any harm. On the other hand, the Vans Trophy was a route to Wembley.

My phone pinged.

Ryan Jack: Sunday says yes to 700 a week and he'll take a NLN club to make sure he gets first-team minutes.

Me: Probably his safest bet right now. Okay, 700. That's good. Done. Tell him he needs to keep grafting.

Ryan: Warrington Town is close, less upheaval, and Sunday would 100% play. York City would be more of a challenge, more wins, but he'll have to find a place to live.

Me: York, please. It's okay if he's not a starter at first but he should back himself to break into the team. He's got the chops.

Ryan: Okie dokie. Omari is keen not to piss you off but wonders if perhaps...

Me: 750.

Ryan: He'll take it. Who's left?

Me: Josh Owens, Christian Fierce, Magnus, Youngster, Lee C, Andrew Harrison.

Ryan: I'm guessing someone's going to be extremely unhappy with their lot.

Me: Yeah. Or I could have six players mildly unhappy.

Ryan: Decisions like these are why you pay yourself the big bucks!

I had 4,400 in the budget left to allocate. That was 730 pounds per person if I split it right down the middle. That might have suited Andrew and Lee, but would have been awful for Youngster. I had the feeling one of those six was going to wind up with low Morale.

Henri was pottering around the compound, too. He fell into stride beside me. "Max, are you happy with me?"

"A billion percent."

"You're not just saying that?"

"I'm not just saying that. Hey," I said, slapping him in the chest. "You're the leading goalscorer in all European competition! Did you know that?"

"I did."

"Why didn't you mention it?"

He shook his head. "Have I said it so many times?"

"Not as many as me, mate. I would have been happy if you'd scored once and we'd gone home in the second round. Right now it feels like we have something to lose because we're so close, but we don't. This club doesn't even own its stadium, do you know what I mean? I'm trying to take everything as a bonus. We will do better if it's just a laugh tomorrow night."

He sighed. "It's not just a laugh tomorrow night."

"No," I agreed. We walked on, passing through the gym where a very attractive woman was working out. We did some gentlemanly perving as we pretended to talk about some of the equipment, and once we were back outside, we raised eyebrows at each other. "You always wanted to go for the same woman," I said. "Your ultimate romantic fantasy."

"I was wrong."

"No," I said.

"I mean to say, it wasn't my ultimate romantic fantasy. It's this, now, in Gibraltar. It's the margins of football. It's the very fabric of UEFA's bylaws and prize distribution turned into exquisite farce. It's the rapprochement between Pascal and I. It's me and Baggers, the wise old head born to impart wisdom into the brash young upstart, only to find he's not so brash and he is already better than I will ever be." I wanted to interrupt and say that Henri was currently better than Baggers (by three CA), but he barely paused for breath. "It is the Maxnificent Seven. How does the movie go? The gunslingers gather and try to save the village from bandits. I believe they succeed. How are we doing, Max?"

"We've already won. We've done what we came to do. Now it's just a question of if the hero gets to go home with the girl."

He clicked his tongue and looked away. "That's your own rule; it makes no sense. You can marry her today if you like."

"No," I said. "That's not how it works. If you say something you have to follow through. It's a promise to yourself and it's important. If you lie to yourself too many times you can't get where you want to go."

"So you really mean it. If we lose tomorrow night, Emma must live in sin for another year? It is a lot of pressure. A lot of responsibility on the shoulders of this good Catholic boy."

I gave him a squeeze. "Never forget, we're only here because of you. Everything I ever achieve starts with Jackie Reaper and continues with you. If I hadn't met you, I wouldn't be the manager of Chester and I wouldn't be the manager of College. Would I?"

"No. You'd be the manager of Manchester United and England. How is that going, by the way?"

"How is what going?"

"You said if you applied for the job, you would get it. Have you applied?"

"Of course not," I said. "I've been busy and the FA wants everything in black pen and I've only got blue ones. These national manager searches always take ages, anyway. What I understand is that when there's a vacancy, journalists invite the guys from the FA to dinner. Seven-course meals for weeks, isn't it, while they prise out the hot goss? I'll think about applying when I get back to Chester. It'll still be available. Hang on. Got a text."

Mateo: UEFA punishment confirmed. Eight thousand Euro fine. One-match ban, suspended. Warning about your future conduct.

"Hmm," I said.

"What?" said Henri. I showed him the text. His eyes raced left to right a few times as he checked the wording. "It's not bad. It's a slap on the wrist."

"That's what worries me," I said.

***

Thursday, August 27

UEFA Conference League Qualifiers Match 8 of 8: College 1975 versus Aberdeen

I tapped the tactics board. "All right, shut the fuck up."

The dressing room was full; there were a few more people than I really wanted. Fringe squad players, coaches and physios I hadn't used, my friend from the Gibraltarian FA. I had decided to let them stay because this was a huge moment in their careers even if they didn't actively participate.

Them being there made me put things into slightly more context than I usually would have bothered with.

"Me and my mates came here to try to get this club into the league phase of this competition. Once there, it's over to you. I said this at the start and I think there was some healthy scepticism - " There was a decent amount of knowing laughter. "But when I say I'm going for the group stage, I mean it. When I say we'll all fuck off home and let you strut your stuff in the real contest, I mean it. Anyway, when it comes to what you've offered when you've been called on, you've been mint. You've been mint in training. I'm happy."

I wandered away from the board, something I liked to do to make the scene slightly more visually interesting.

"We beat Niederkorn. Remember them? Seems like ages ago. We beat Larnaca. We beat Aris. Luxembourg, Cyprus, Greece. Now it's Scotland and we beat them in their hoos. I promise you it won't be that easy today. Those players have been well and truly scolded by their manager, their coaches, the fans, media, friends and family. They can't face coming here and being knocked out." I tried to hide a smile. "Which will work to our advantage, but let's not skip to the end."

I wandered around again.

"How good are Aberdeen? Their first eleven is somewhere around the level of Aris, who I think are the best team we've played. Aberdeen are fitter and there isn't such a dropoff to their bench. It isn't hopeless. We have speed and a lot more tactical flexibility. We will pose questions their manager can't deal with. Their players might cope, but he won't. Will it be enough? Who knows?"

I went back to the board and, in a small space near the top, slid some red magnets into a 4-2-3-1 formation.

"We know how they'll play. A wrinkle is that I think one of their players, probably one of the three CAMs, will try to man-mark me."

I wandered to the far end of the room and pulled a ball out of a bag. Unlike good balls, it was orange, had a weird texture, and if you tried to head it you'd live the rest of your life with your neck at a 45 degree angle.

"My favourite sport is basketball," I said, as I spun the ball perfectly around my middle finger.

"Max, do you need help with that?"

"No, I'm doing it flawlessly," I said. "Look." I slapped the spinning ball, keeping it rotating. It probably had its own magnetic field, I was doing it so perfectly.

"Have you even held a basketball before?"

"Evidently, yes. This level of skill requires thousands of hours of patient practice." The ball didn't go flying and didn't crash into a table leg that collapsed, causing chaos. That didn't happen. "As I was saying," I said, retrieving the ball but holding it firmly between my palms. "My favourite sports documentary is The Last Dance. It tells the story of Michael Jordan and the, ah, I want to say the New York Knicks - "

"No!" cried about fifteen people.

"Michael Jordan!" I screamed, shutting everyone up. "Look, he was good and that was a winning team and they got one last chance to win the league together. One of my lads mentioned it recently. He was saying that this was our Last Dance, you know? With the implication being I'm Michael Jordan. So I rewatched it and you know what? I don't think I'm Michael Jordan. We're not completely different but I'm nowhere near as competitive. There is a character in that documentary I identified with: Jerry. He's their director of football and he looked at his aging team and thought 'yeah we could squeeze some more juice out of these lads but really we should do a rebuild while we still have some leverage'. It's pretty ballsy, you know? I don't know the first thing about basketball but the theory was sound. Made sense to me, anyway, but the whole documentary was shot to make Jordan the hero and how could you be so stupid as to disagree with him?"

I bounced the ball - it was crazily loud in that little room.

"Henri, Lee, Sharky. In my role as Jerry, I had to make some tough decisions with you. I had to let you move on. Pascal, Baggers, everyone else in this room - everyone has their price and everyone has their time. I don't do it because I like it; I do it because it's my job. But that doesn't mean you aren't all fucking amazing at this sport. It doesn't mean you haven't won championship rings, which we call medals, and it doesn't mean you didn't do a three-peat, which we call scoring a hat-trick."

"No!" cried about twenty people.

"Mateo and I had the idea that I would come and cosplay as Michael Jordan for a couple of months. I had plenty of choice for who I could bring, but I chose these guys." I swept my hand around the Maxnificent Seven, but then focused on Henri and Magnus. "These are my Scottie Pippens." I pointed to Pascal. "My Steve Kerrs." I pointed to Baggers. "Whichever player let his girlfriend boss him around."

"Oh my God," mumbled Baggers, as he watched his teammates fall into each other. This being the bizarre world of English sports teams, his Morale went up, possibly because he had something to think about other than his nerves.

I slid green magnets into place and checked Aberdeen's tactics board. One of the guys was set to mark me.

"I'm expecting something weird to start off." I shook my head. "These guys are amateurs when it comes to weirdness. I want to start with 5-4-1. Most of that setup is obvious, but I want Baggers left, Sharky right. Pascal will start as a CM. Pascal, you and Zafari can press or hold as you want. Zafari, follow his lead. Henri, try to hold the ball up - we've got three rapid guys who can get to you. If you're struggling, don't sweat it. Save some juice for later. Jack the Lad, you're left back. Lee H, you're tucking in with Magnus and Glenn as centre backs." Putting all our guns on the pitch from the start would give us an average CA of 78.6. Aberdeen had their best striker back and were rocking CA 114. "I'm going to play right back."

"Haa!" cried Pascal. "They'll never expect it. You'll drag the CAM across with you and if he doesn't go, you and Wes will own the right!"

"As a certified liberal," I said, "I love owning the right. Nobody? No? Henri, come on. World's most reluctant high five, everyone. Jesus. Um, that's it. We've got loads of players who can play different positions so expect to see and do some weird shit during the next ninety." I checked a little piece of notepaper. "Oh! Oh! If we need some goals, we might put three up top. You know, the famous triangle offense."

"What?" said Henri.

"We'll run the triangle offense. You know what? That was clever. Never fucking mind. Urgh!" I took a breath and fell into my dreamy voice. "This is our Last Dance. Tomorrow we pack up and fly home. Back to the daily grind. Our lives are good lives but this is the high life. I don't know about you but I'm going to put everything into this match and I'm going to fucking enjoy every minute. Does anyone have any questions? Jack."

Jack the Lad had raised his hand a little. "Can I be Dennis Rodman?"

***

"Wester was a threat, I’m not saying he wasn’t a threat. But being compared to him? I took offence to that."

As we lined up in the tunnel, me hiding in the middle of the subs, face covered by my hoodie, I got really nervous.

Really, really nervous.

CA 78.6 versus CA 114. That was an enormous mismatch. Aberdeen's goalie was a bit of a weak link but so was ours. We could expect to lose every duel... except one. I was going to wrap up my marker and store him away until the winter. The away team would get absolutely nothing down my side of the pitch. Would it be enough to turn the tide?

We didn't need to turn the tide. We were a goal up. Aberdeen needed to outscore us and if we made it hard for them there was no telling what would happen inside those thick skulls of theirs.

I felt much better.

An eight thousand Euro fine. Very much a slap on the wrist but UEFA had fined clubs with racist fans less than that. My blood heated up as we walked out onto the pitch amidst the usual fanfare. The referees were wearing kit with the word 'respect' on them. Straight after the match I was going to call Gemma and see what it would cost me to - you know what? Fuck it. I got my phone from the designated phone pocketer.

Me: Gemma, I don't want to give UEFA any of my cash. They don't own my face, I do, and I can smear whatever I want on there. Can we sue them to ensure I retain the rights to my own face? God made me an arsehole. Anyone trying to stop me being an arsehole is against God. That's a great argument, Gemma. I would be an amazing lawyer.

When I'd hit send, I looked around and saw the first of the imps' punishments. It caught me off guard and after the initial moment of horror and panic - blood draining from face, wobbly knees - I laughed.

"What the actual eff?" I said, amazed, as I took a few steps towards the away bench.

In addition to Aberdeen's usual management crew, they had brought in a ringer. If this was the imps' idea of punishment, Old Nick really needed to put them back in the pain box for a few thousand years.

Folke Wester's father, Poul Wester, appeared to have signed on to be Aberdeen's interim assistant manager for one match. Poul, you might remember, had been the oppo manager in my last ever match for Darlington and my antics had led directly to his sacking. I hadn't even realised that was a story until Folke turned up with hate in his heart. Poul, apparently, was another who kept grudges.

While the UEFA anthem was going on, I shuffled over to Aberdeen's manager. "You know this guy's crap, right?"

The manager's face scrunched up. "Get on wit yersel'." I think that meant go away.

"Listen to his advice all you want but he'll get you sacked. What you should do is 3-5-2 and patiently control the midfield."

"Het off with yer dullickin’."

I laughed again and flicked the nearest football up, did some tekkers. If this was what the imps had in store for me, bring it on. Punish me more, please!

The referees gave me evils for not respecting the pre-match rituals but what were they gonna do - give me a yellow card for playing with a football at a football match? While I was doing a move I called 'The Dance of the Seven Sisters', my phone vibrated.

Gemma: You're probably joking but there's a good market opportunity for a firm that specialises in taking on UEFA. I’ll do it but maybe right now you can concentrate on the match so that Emma and I can have our dream castle wedding.

Me: You're going to marry Emma in a castle?

Gemma: I will if you don't hurry up.

Me: Does she expect a proposal today? Is she up in the stands daydreaming about nothing else?

Gemma: Andrew says that Aberdeen don't have much flair and if you keep your shape they'll find it hard to play through you.

Did I notice that she didn't answer my question? My stomach noticed. It did a few flip flops. Tossed itself like a pancake.

"Fuck," I mumbled.

***

The match kicked off and Aberdeen showed that they were up for it. They ran hard, kicked direct, chased everything.

There were two players I personally had to watch out for. Their left back, wearing shirt number 3 as was right and proper, liked to get forward. He was CA 115 and he had a good cross on him. Sharky would track the 3 if he made a run forward and would stay tight to him if I was watching the left 8, basically the Scottish version of Pascal. He liked to move into space, take the ball, and keep it moving. He was a lot more dribbly than Pascal, and his low Decisions score was reflected in the fact that for his first dribble, he tried to take me on.

There was a pretty decent crowd in the Victoria Stadium, four thousand maybe, including loads of away fans. A batch of Scotsmen (properly known as a Bladder of Scots) had a wonderful view of me patiently waiting for the 8's technique to fail him before I glided away with the ball.

That was crazily easy. If Poul Wester's input was to get me confident I could lock down my part of the pitch, his plan worked.

After just three minutes, I changed Sharky's instructions so that he would stay high, and I shuffled the rest of the back five away from me and closer together, forming an almost totally different defensive unit. The right third of the pitch was my territory. I nearly shouted "My house!" but instinct told me that I could get under the 8's skin better if I was more indirect, and also that the last thing I needed was to give the 3 extra motivation.

Our match ratings were fine and while Aberdeen were dominating the ball, they weren't getting much done with it.

I nodded. Good start.

***

Minutes 8 to 18 must have been some of the worst in the Aberdeen CAM's career. He was supposed to be marking me when I got on the ball but he didn't have the defensive chops to do anything except cut off some passing angles. I dribbled past him like he wasn't there, threatened to pump long balls but instead booped the ball through his legs, and when he learned to stop diving at me I simply pinged one-touch passes.

His mates got on his case so he started kicking me.

Every kick was a murder. Every murder lasted a minute.

One of the Scandi lads burst his top. "Stop making life easy for him! Do your job!"

"Hey," I said, in peacemaker mode. "He's doing his best."

"Fuck you!" said the 8.

"Why are they so mean to you? Don't they like you?"

He walked off, fuming, and when I got to my feet - so painful! - I hobbled towards the away bench. "Do you want to sub this guy off? It's like he's trying to get you sacked!"

When I felt ready to continue, Lee Hudson dabbed the free kick a couple of feet and I turned around as though I was going to dribble back to my own corner flag to waste some time. The 8, incandescent, sprinted to do something and when I faked to move down the line, he did a crunching slide tackle. Those blades of grass really got it!

I had the ball under my foot. I looked up into the stands, amused. The 8 scrambled back to his feet and came at me again. I kicked the ball against his shins and got a throw-in just in front of the Aberdeen bench. I stood in position as one of their coaches kicked the ball towards me. He didn't put it exactly into my hands, though, so that was another few seconds lost while I worked out where the ball had gone.

"You," I said, pointing to one of the Aberdeen subs. "Are you warmed up? We're gonna need you soon."

They didn't like that, even the sub. I found that strange. I was paying him a compliment!

The ref was getting annoyed. "Hurry up."

I picked the ball up and did a quick throw down the line for Sharky to chase. Stupidly, I threw it the wrong side of the touchline. If the ball doesn't go onto the pitch, you retake the throw-in. Another ten seconds lost.

I gave Aberdeen's manager a little wink and just as the pandemonium kicked off, I switched College to 4-3-3 with a frontline of Pascal, Baggers, and Sharky. Henri had to play midfield but my plan didn't involve him.

I threw the ball backwards to Lee and demanded it back. He rolled it to me and I absolutely biffed it left-footed. It went miles, curled, and suddenly we had three against two! Sharky, Baggers, and Pascal were too fast and I'd drawn Aberdeen's defenders towards my aggro.

The ball bounced more or less into Sharky's path. He nodded it in front of him, and without looking played it left to Pascal. Pascal was getting towards the penalty box - the goalie raced out to cut down Pascal's angles.

Pascal played it back to Sharky, first time. Sharky directed the ball into the goal.

One-nil on the night!

Five-three on aggregate!

I sprinted past the celebrations and into the back of the net. My players stopped hugging - did I want the game to restart fast? Did I have a plan?

It was a strong yes for the second question. The plan was to do a jig along the touchline with the ball nestled into the crook of my arm and to mime playing it like a bagpipe.

Aberdeen's 3 came up to me. He hit me with the full blast of his personality. "That's the last time you'll ever dance."

I backed off, cowering, trembling before his mighty Influence 11. I dropped the ball and put my fingers between two imaginary trouser braces and stretched them out. I did a slow jig as I sang from My Fair Lady. "I'm getting married in the morning! Ding dong, the bells are gonna chime!"

"You're dead."

I smiled. "Get me to the church on time!"

***

We got to half time easily enough. The 3 tried to get at me but I simply backed away and pinged the ball over his head. His manager went crazy every time Sharky was left in space. Meanwhile the 8 got his pocket picked by me so many times he thought it was better to explore the other side of the pitch.

Aberdeen's defensive line, terrified at our sudden explosion of speed, was playing ten yards further back than before the goal. When we got the ball we were able to play through the away team's press with few alarms.

When we defended, our shape and togetherness did its job, and Pascal bagged himself a couple of interceptions and forced mistakes with his pressing.

Our Morale was crazy high. Aberdeen's was trending down.

Nothing could go wrong.

***

In the break, I let the lads enjoy life for a few minutes, but then I had an important message for them.

"Lads, eyes front." I clicked our 83-inch OLED TV into life. "Got a message for you from Michael Jordan." I thought Morale had a maximum; I was wrong. "For those of you who haven't seen The Last Dance, what you're about to see is amazing. Quiet, please."

The recording was vertical, meaning most of the space on the immense screen was wasted, but the whole thing had been put together pretty quickly. What my players saw was me on a sofa holding a massive cigar. Emma had drawn old-person frown lines on my forehead in blue pen. A few people laughed.

"College 1975?" I croaked in a crackly pensioner's voice. "Yersh, I remember it well. We played against the Scottish lads, as I recall. One of them shaid he had shomething to show me under his kilt and I took exscheption to that."

"It was a long time ago. Do you remember your teammates?" said Emma, asking questions from behind the camera.

"Oh very much sho. There was our French striker. Lovely chap, not pretentious in the least. Timothée Chalamet, his name was. Pascal. Clever little bashtard. He was the first footballer in shpace, you know? There was a chap with a cool name but he changed it. He didn't lasht long. Who elshe? Sharky. We teshted him and he was 97% shark. That's schience, that. Well, it wash all fun and gamesh until they banned him from the local schwimming pools."

"You've slipped out of your old man voice and now you're just being racist against the Dutch."

"Well, I just want to say to my former teammates, I'm very proud of you and I remember those days very fondly. Unless we lost, in which case fuck you."

The words 'The Lasht Dansh' appeared on the screen and there was a smattering of applause. Henri had his eyes closed; he was smiling.

I stretched my arms wide. "Lads, there's nothing to say. We know what's coming and what we have to do. Let's fucking do it."

"Come on, you dancers!" cried Glenn.

***

Aberdeen got a grip of themselves at half time and came back out in a solid, sensible 4-4-2 with nobody marking anyone, which is probably what they should have done from the start. You're the better team, don't make it easy for the oppo.

In the interests of not making things easy for the Dons, I switched us to 4-2-3-1 with Zafari as the second DM. I could have swapped the midfielder out and brought on Taveres, the defender, to get Magnus next to me. I didn't think we would stay in this formation for long so it wasn't worth burning a sub.

Sure enough, when he saw what I was doing, Aberdeen's manager reverted to 4-2-3-1 but I instantly put us back into 5-4-1. Now, though, there was no-one trying to mark me and I terrorised the right-hand side for a couple of minutes.

My crossing was a little awry otherwise I would have served Henri a goal on a plate.

I was on the wrong side of the pitch to see the dugouts, but I thought I saw the Aberdunce pulling his hair out. Lol. I also thought I saw Poul Wester talking to him while thumping his fist.

Hmm.

Soon after, Aberdeen reverted to 4-4-2. Normal tackling, no marking.

It was hard for us to play through them, but the reverse was also true. A stalemate suited me just fine. No-one at my wedding would be complaining about the quality of the match that had paid for the castle.

More advice came from Poul and I realised we were being opened more regularly. The 8, now playing as a conventional left mid, would get the ball, wait for me to pressure him, and play it away simply. The ball would quickly be moved to the right and crossed into the box. I would have to sprint back to cover the far post. It would have been a bust if the purpose was simply to tire me out - stamina 20, bruh - but it was messing up our spacing.

There wasn't a good solution so I chose what I saw as the lesser of two evils. I reverted to a more normal distribution of defenders and allowed the 8 to have the ball - so long as he stayed in front of me.

***

70'

Aberdeen are enjoying their longest spell of pressure in the game so far.

The 2 has it. He passes to the 6.

Neat turn. Spread wide to the 8.

8 hugs the touchline, draws the tackle from Best, passes back to the 3.

He pings it to the 6, acting as a deep-lying playmaker.

He surges past Bochum, evades Zafari, lines up a shot...

No! He takes another stride and dinks the ball between Ryder and Hudson.

The 9 is on it. Great movement. He shoots...

GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

Lovely move from the away team. They're right back in this tie!

It's five-four to College on aggregate.

***

74'

For the first time, I started to get really, properly worried. Aberdeen were playing sensible football, moving us around, making us work hard. Yeah our shape was hard to play through but we didn't have much quality on the bench and our Condition scores were dropping faster than Aberdeen's.

If they scored again, the match would go to extra time. They could bring on five fresh bodies almost as good as their starters.

We would get massacred.

Pascal took a whack as he played a pass. "Fucking snide piece of shit!" I shouted, rushing to the crime scene. I got myself in front of the defender who'd done the foul. "Pick on someone your own size, you fucking coward."

The guy reacted with typical caveman belligerence but before I could get him seeing red - in both senses - his captain dragged him away, talking into his ear while covering his mouth. The caveman nodded and jogged back to position.

Mind games were off the menu.

I went into my screens and activated Seal It Up and used Cupid's Arrow to link Pascal with Henri. The idea was I could ping a pass to one and hopefully he would combine with the other.

As soon as I'd done it, I got a weird feeling. I felt sure I'd just made a mistake.

***

76'

Neat football from Aberdeen in the midfield.

The 11 has ventured inside and he combines with the 6.

Zafari puts pressure on. The ball breaks to Best.

He has Sharky making a run to his right. He tries to find Lyons.

Lyons is outnumbered. He competes but loses the ball.

The ball goes to the 11, back on the right wing. He launches a speculative ball into the box.

Sardena comes to claim but then retreats to his goal line!

The defenders had stopped! They scramble to pick up their men.

The 10 heads the ball square. It's awkward for the 9...

GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

The scores are level! Extra time is on the cards.

Some of the Aberdeen players are dancing near Max Best.

The underdogs are in big trouble now.

***

Condition plummeting. Mind games not working. Oppo not making mistakes. Me chasing perk bonuses instead of playing obvious passes. Sharky was unmarked!

I beat myself up for a while until I realised everyone was doing the same.

"Sorry, boss," said Pascal. "I could have stopped that in the midfield."

Henri was next. "Max, my God, what have I done? Your pass was perfect. I couldn't sort my feet out, and now look! Mon dieu. I am a wretch."

"Gaffer," said Glenn. "It's my fault. It's on me. I should have - I don't know."

I held my hands up. "Poul Wester has won! Poul Wester has extracted his revenge!"

That shut them up. "What?" said Baggers.

We didn't have long before the ref would demand we restart the match. "Lads, listen. We're going for it. Going for the win, okay? I don't want to play extra time. We score another... or they do. Whatever. We're going for it. Attack till we drop. Let's go."

We all clapped like a basketball team after a little... I want to say cuddle?

I stayed with 5-4-1 for another minute while Tavares got ready.

***

78'

College are making their first change. Off is going Zafari, on comes Tavares.

A centre back for a midfielder. Are the home team playing for penalties?

It looks like College have adopted a more attacking approach.

***

79'

We would play the last ten minutes in 4-2-3-1, the formation I had decided on many months ago. Jack the Lad and Lee doing their best on the wings, Magnus and I supporting the centre. Pascal, Baggers, and Sharky supporting Henri.

80'

Aberdeen had their tails up, though, and they kept pushing us back. We found it hard to play the ball out from the back, found it hard to move through the thirds, found it hard to get the ball to stick to Henri long enough for his support to get there.

CA 78.6 versus CA 114. This is what it's supposed to look like.

81'

While there was a break for a couple of Aberdeen subs, I thought about Emma up in the stands, watching this play out. Would she really want to marry the dipshit in the middle of the pitch, the one whose main contribution to the game was being a knob?

I thought about Old Nick. How could anyone possibly think I was playing above my level?

I thought about my mum. She wouldn't be able to come to my wedding anyway. What was the hurry?

My screens called to me. Go defensive. Men behind ball. Trying to defend for another 40 minutes was not as dumb as it sounded. Me, Henri, Pascal, and Baggers would score our pennos. No way did Aberdeen have four guys as reliable as us. Their goalie was miles better, though. Nah, but we'd never get to pens. We were fading fast. The strain of player-managing was taking its toll on me. I was making bad decisions, becoming indecisive. My concentration was wavering.

"Chester! Chester!"

I looked up into the stand and saw about fifty people in blue-and-white Chester kits. I waved at them and they did the tiniest, cutest little kitten roar.

It wasn't just me - the others saw it, too. Henri smiled, looked at me, and nodded.

I nodded back. Pascal copied him. Baggers stuck his chin up. Sharky did an impression of a Maxy Two-Thumbs, along with an annoying smirk. I laughed. My legs felt springy and the noise and colour of the crowd faded. My world shrunk to the size of a football pitch.

The menus in my restaurant were properly labelled: One order of fearless football coming right up.

***

82'

Best goes on a dribble. He beats one. Beats two. He slips a ball into space on the right.

But it's intercepted!

Number 3 read it. He motors forward and slides the ball to the feet of the 10.

He turns and clips the ball over the top.

The right midfielder gets there. He crosses.

Great header!

GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

Aberdeen take the lead in the tie!

That was a classy counter-attack.

***

83'

Well, that was that. I really thought something amazing was going to happen, but the world doesn't work like that. If we wanted to beat Aberdeen, we needed to improve by 30 points in CA. We needed to put the work in over years.

Okay, this was a good trial run. It showed us what was possible and that we weren't a million miles away. We would set up the processes, the procedures, the conveyor belt of talent.

The match restarted and I idly thought about Chester's squad. Sunday Sowunmi and Banksy were a bit of a problem. How were they going to improve fast enough?

The ball came to me and I idly drifted to the left.

If we signed another Exit Triallist now, it seemed like he could improve to CA 60 or so pretty fast just from training. Maybe next season I would be able to train kids up just by having them around?

A red shirt darted towards me. I snuck the ball between his legs.

The problem was I couldn't just have 80 kids lying around Bumpers Bank. There was a limit to how many you could have in a squad before training turned to shit, and we needed a full squad just to cope with all the matches we had.

I passed the ball to Pascal and got it straight back. I pinged it to Baggers who gave it straight back. I lazily wafted my leg through the ball, putting insane levels of side-spin on it. It bent around the 3 into the path of Sharky.

He raced to the byline, cut the ball back, and there was Henri Lyons, wheeling away, arm aloft.

Er, what? Hang on. I checked the commentary.

GOAL!

GOLGOLGOL.

GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

GOOOOOL de College!

It's all-square. Six-all on aggregate!

I sprinted, grabbed Henri, and brought him away from the corner flag. "Celebrate over here!" I said. "So Emma can see!"

***

84'

Everything went nuts.

Aberdeen's discipline vanished and they were back to flying into tackles, running around like headless chickens, but nearly scoring from every attack.

We got more threatening too, crazily enough, as our star players pinged the ball between ourselves. It opened the kind of space we loved to operate in. Baggers took a long shot that went just wide. Pascal played a one-two with Henri that got him into the penalty box, but a defender stretched out a Christian Fierce-style go-go-gadget leg and poked the ball away.

It was end-to-end stuff.

If Aberdeen had a single brain cell, or a player like Nikos Iliades, they would have gone for extra time. Their fans might have complained, but they would 100% have won.

***

85'

We did another slick move, pinballing passes all over The Rock, tearing huge holes in the away team's shape.

One of these moves ended with another brilliant one-two between Henri and Pascal and again it took a last-ditch intervention to stop the German being through on goal.

We got a corner, though, and I felt the magic in my legs. I had been practising corners for weeks but only in the last few days had I felt good about them. This was it! The almost-last-minute goal we needed.

Up came Glenn Ryder, Tavares, and Lee Hudson.

I positioned Jack the Lad at the corner of the penalty box closest to me. A couple of Dons were forced to move closer to him, just in case. That meant there was more space in the middle.

Where was Henri? He was hovering around the penalty spot, being wrestled by a big centre back. Pascal was on the far side of the box. He would be able to catch anyone in case of a counter.

There wouldn't be a counter. I'd always been good at corners, even before being cursed. This was my destiny.

I eyed the ball, pumped my feet, and exploded.

***

Best to take the corner.

Oh it's sensational! Hit hard, with all kinds of whip...

He's hit the crossbar!

The ball rebounds all the way to Bochum. There are too many bodies in the way for him to shoot.

He tries to bring it forward but he's tackled.

And...

Aberdeen are away!

The counter-attack is on. They have one, two, three, four men streaming forward.

It's four against one! Wes Hayward can't mark them all.

Aberdeen's number 11 has to make a choice now. He brings the ball over the halfway line, looks up...

And he's fouled! He's on the turf. Hayward kicks the ball out of the stadium!

Henri Lyons sprinted back and rugby tackled the 11.

He's on his back, breathing hard.

His manager offers him a hand.

The referee offers him a red card.

College are down to ten men!

***

Henri stuck his chin up and was going to be haughty all the way to the dressing room. I caught up with him and put my arm around his shoulder.

"Mate," I said. "That was incredible. That's the fastest I've ever seen you run."

Doubt crossed his face. "I thought I had to stop the goal because you said you didn't want extra time."

"That was one hundred percent the right thing to do. I'd call it selfless but I note that you being sent off just before the end is quite dramatic and the camera could linger on you as you left the pitch."

"What a suggestion! I am offended."

"Sure you are." I grabbed his arm and turned him to face me. "Henri, you're an amazing person and an amazing teammate. I don't know if we'll ever play on the same team again. This is our last dance. I don't know if this is going to be the best thing I did or the worst, but..."

He read my face. "Max! What have you done?"

I inhaled, but turned him to face a particular part of the stand. "I convinced your mum to bring your dad. She agreed to a 90-minute rapprochement. You parents are here to see you play, just like when you were a kid. I wanted them to see you go out on a high." I smiled. "Goal and a red card, taking one for the team. Mission accomplished."

"My father is here?" he said, so quietly I barely heard it. "He watched me play?"

The ref whistled frantically. "I have to go. Just... Did I do it wrong?"

Henri hugged me and I felt his breath on my neck and some of his tears spread onto my cheek. "Thank you, Max Best. I have loved this story. Thank you for everything."

I swallowed pretty hard but I had to get back and defend this free kick.

***

88'

I put us in 4-4-1 with Baggers as the lone striker, and for thirty seconds stood near Pascal to get his opinion on how to approach this.

"How fucked are we with fitness?" he said.

"Extremely fucked."

He shook his head. "You go to be a wide forward. Baggers stays in the middle. Everyone else, men behind ball. We'll punt it to you... if we get it."

"Okay, good plan," I lied.

It was a terrible plan. I did it anyway.

***

89'

Aberdeen piled on the pressure.

The referee indicated there would be a minimum of 6 minutes of injury time. What the fuck? Where had that come from?

90'

A shot whistled past Sardena's post.

A header went straight into his arms.

I stood on the halfway line, all the way at the touchline. I might get one chance. One go.

91'

I was so passive that half my own team forgot I was playing. We were, in effect, down to 9 men.

Aberdeen had a cross blocked, another cross blocked, and the next cross was overhit.

93'

Glenn Ryder headed away.

Lee Hudson cleared and went down with cramp. The nearest Aberdeen guys had a pop at him for time-wasting, but I knew better. We were all in the red zone.

All except me. I had one mega sprint in me.

One one one come on!

95'

Glenn Ryder headed away, but only as far as the 3. He could have crossed first time but he tried to improve the angle by pushing the ball past Lee H. Lee had been watching my battle with the guy, though, and he had learned his moves. Lee slid in to block the ball, got to his feet, and pushed it away before the next challenge came in.

Sharky was closest and he used his strength to block another challenge. He laid it to Pascal...

Who smashed it first time high and broadly my way.

Time slowed; the ball sailed in the direction of the right back. I waited and waited and then sprinted. I leaped highest and headed the ball in the direction of the corner flag. I chased it and found that for some reason the young idiot in Aberdeen's goal had come out to contest the ball. I turned away from him as though I was happy to keep the ball in the corner.

Emboldened, he came closer, doing that crab-like pose goalies do, which I guess is supposed to make it hard to kick the ball through their legs.

I backheel nutmegged him and doubled-back. He tried to grab me and pull me back but it was outside the box so I wouldn't have gotten a penalty. He had delayed me just enough to let a couple of defenders get between me and the goal.

I saw Baggers moving forward from the penalty spot; I hit a left-footed cross.

My head dropped; I'd fucking mangled it! Too high, too far behind him.

Baggers leaped, twisted, and scissor-kicked the ball into the goal.

I stood there, stock still, unable to believe it. He'd scored a last-minute scissor-kick winner! What a show-off little shit!

"Max!" he cried, appearing a few feet away. "Do it!"

"Wha?"

"Do it! Hurry up! I’ll distract the ref!"

I snapped out of it, put my head down, and sprinted towards the dugouts. To the side, a gaggle of people were creeping over the advertising boards. Behind me, I knew that Baggers was running around, twirling his shirt above his head, annoying the referee. In front of me, the throng of otherwise highly respectable members of society who had led a mini pitch invasion suddenly melted away, leaving only Emma. As I got to within a couple of yards, her dad threw me a little box. I caught it and got down on one knee.

"Babes," I said, flicking the top of the box open. "Will you marry me?"

She covered her mouth with both hands, burst into tears, and said, "Yes!" There was another wave of tears as she recognised the ring. "Oh!" she said. “Nana’s ring. But that means…”

I slipped it onto her finger, picked her up, twirled her around, and we smooched.

The referee was first on the scene to give me his congratulations... and a yellow card.

Worth it, mate. Worth it.