14.13 - Inbox Zero
13.
Saturday, September 26
Match 8 of 46: Carlisle United versus Chester
The sport of football, with its webs and lattices of ruling bodies, unruly fans, leagues, cups, trophies, coefficients, five-minute delays to decide if a toenail is beyond the plane of a shoulder forty yards away, in the end boils down to one ball and one question: how good can you kick it?
I volleyed the ball once, twice, thrice. Tekkers three!
For funsies, I flicked the ball behind me and kept going. Tekkers five. Tekkers seven.
Carlisle United's number 9 clattered into me, sending me flying. I ate grass.
Physio Dean scampered towards me while I lay motionless. I tried to show agony on my face but what I felt in my gut was relief and delight.
In the minutes before kick-off I had achieved something I very much doubted any human had ever accomplished before in the history of the world.
I had emptied my inbox.
Since returning from Brazil I had been clearing up my email, my WhatsApps and texts, and replying to the handful of physical letters I got. I replied to the most important ones wherever I was in the world, of course, even if it was just to predict when a longer reply would be coming. People said I needed an assistant but anyone competent would surely find out that I had supernatural powers. Why risk it when I could simply develop a world class approach to message management?
I called it Inbox Zero. Every incoming message fell into one of five categories:
- Archive
- Brooke
- Correspond
- Delay
- Execute
Examples of the latter would be a text from Emma asking me to grab a milk on the way home, or a voicemail from Peter Bauer saying he was nervous as hell about the Carlisle match and would I please not announce his selection beforehand.
By ruthlessly deleting or archiving hundreds of messages, forwarding dozens to MD, Ruth, Brooke, etc., and writing super quick replies along the lines of 'not right now thanks but I appreciate you thinking of me!' I was able to decrease my total message stack from something over two thousand to a mere five hundred.
In the past week I had been blasting through the remnants. Gemma asking for input about the floodlights at West Didsbury’s new stadium; MD sending potential layouts for the dorms at Saltney; Henri suggesting a crest concept for a rebrand of the club his mother would buy in Gibraltar. (He wanted to rename the club Olympique Lyons, and the badge featured a stylised statue in the Greek god mould whose hair looked a lot like Henri's. I decided he was joking and replied as though he was serious.)
I blasted through hundreds of messages. It became a mania. Number goes down!
Progress slowed as I got to messages from agents, out-of-contract players, and out-of-work coaches. Most got personal replies because I might one day need to work with those people.
Progress sped up as I got stuck into a batch of emails from companies looking to offer their services to my football clubs. Most of those got redirected to Brooke - unless that company was Hewlett Packard. They had an absolute hard-on for the idea of delivering their bads (opposite of goods) to Chester. I replied to each and every one of their emails with links to scathing reviews of their products. I delighted in copy-pasting sections of text from dissatisfied customers who were absolutely livid with their printer, their laptop, the bloatware, and the obvious contempt for their fellow citizens that underlay every design decision made by HP.
"Bunch of bastards," I said, out loud. Maybe Carlisle's striker had clattered me harder than I thought.
"Max," said Dean. "Talk to me."
"Guy booted me up the arse."
"I know, I saw it. When you said you would be shutting up the crowd early doors, is this what you meant?"
"Yes. Next time I get the ball I'm going to do this again. The first three minutes of the match will be me rolling in agony."
"Does it actually hurt?"
"Course it hurts. Listen, Dean. I know it's not exactly an email but it's sort of an outstanding item. I've been thinking about the club doctor."
Dean shook his head. "Max, really, come on. This is a football match. We can't have business meetings on the pitch."
"Look, I know you're not comfortable with the idea of reporting to someone new, an outsider, and to be honest I could use the salary for Magnus and Nicole. She's the new physio, yeah?"
"The chiropractor. Magic fingers. I've heard all about her. Can we talk about this after the game, please?"
"Help me up." He did. I stood with my hands on my knees for a five-count. The referee came over and instructed me to leave the pitch. "Hang on," I said. "I get clattered, the prick who did it doesn't get a yellow card, we go down to ten men until you give me permission to come back? They get an advantage for foul play? Are you sure those are the rules? Because they don't make a lot of sense."
"Off," said the ref.
Dean and I went slowly towards the dugout, me hobbling, him looking worried. He was very good at looking worried. "Dean, thing is, if someone cracks my head open again, I don't want anyone there but you."
He shook his head. "I mean, thanks, but - "
"This has been in my inbox for a long time, if you get me. Kept deferring it but it's time to decide. Somehow the whole thing has been bothering me; I can't afford to upset you. You're my bro. My homie. You know what? I'll talk to MD and Brooke today and stop the process. Give me one of those water bottles." I took it and squirted water all over my head. "Don't go too far, mate. I'll need you back in a minute. I only got up to seven that time. Heh. Reckon I could do keepy-uppies from one side of the pitch to the other?"
I waited on the touchline until the referee signalled I was allowed back. I walked slowly to the DM slot and waited. Inbox zero! What an accomplishment. I started buzzing again.
Carlisle's goalkeeper clips the ball to midfield. The 8 takes it neatly on the half-turn and drives forward.
This is an exciting run!
The home fans rise to their feet.
8 slides the ball infield but keeps rushing ahead. The ball is played back into 8. Beautiful one-two.
Crunching tackle from Max Best!
Best leaves 8 in a heap, brings the ball away from his penalty area, and finds himself in a pocket of space.
As he dribbles, he squeezes the ball between his feet and flicks it up over his head! Beautiful.
He is doing kick-ups.
Best is fouled by number 7.
Dean came back and while almost everyone else on the pitch pushed and shoved someone from the opposing team, we concluded our chat.
Dean, no surprise, looked worried. "Max, please stop. You're going to get yourself really hurt."
"Stop what?" I said, innocently.
"Stop being a dick!" He did his routine checks; I was in rude health. Dean closed his eyes as he said the next sentence. "Listen, we need a club doctor. We can't go to the Championship with just me. I'll be honest, it took me a while to get my head around it but it's fine. Honestly. We need him more than we need Nicole, no matter how amazing she is."
Ding ding ding! I wasn't totally shit at managing people! Who woulda thunk it? One less item in my inbox. Instead of celebrating, I gave Dean puppy dog eyes. "It could be a woman, Dean."
"Urgh! I know! We need him or her, are you happy now?"
"Yes," I said, leaping to my feet and testing my legs with a jaunty little skip.
"Can we play some football, please?"
I put my hand on his shoulder. "Wind up the home players, wind up the home fans, make them feel powerful, pass the ball around for a couple of minutes to make them realise they are impotent. Dean," I said, scoffing. "I've done my homework."
***
Carlisle had come up with us from League Two and had spent money in the summer. Their American owners were ambitious, mostly well-meaning, but clueless. There was something shambolic about their recruitment process and I was frankly amazed to see that all their efforts had left them standing still. The stadium was in better shape but the starting eleven were CA 89 and based on that number alone they would be favourites to go down.
They had at least recruited to a plan. The plan was a fast and furious 4-3-3 with three forwards in the mould of Tom Westwood. They would chase every loose ball, never give you a minute's peace, would never give up, never quit. It was very easy to imagine them picking up a lot of goals as they forced goalies into making hurried clearances or as they pounced on poor control from low-technique central defenders.
For me, Carlisle represented an amazing opportunity to test a theory I had been working on for ages. If we had players like Peter Bauer in the defence, surely we would be able to bypass such pressure. I had seen it many times in training: Tom Westwood running hard at Peter, but Peter simply passing the ball either side of the onrushing striker, or turning and giving it safely to the keeper, or chipping a little sand wedge into a free man in midfield. Football changed fast but for now most elite teams were trying to play high-tempo football to force defences into mistakes. Peter was part of a cheat code to beat them. On his worst days he would be able to bypass three players with a single pass; on his best days, six.
And now here we were in a real match against real opposition. Me doing kick-ups had served a purpose but it was time to switch from solo play to working as part of a unit. I was one of two defensive midfielders and we had to work in tandem. Peter Bauer and Max Best, halving the DM duties, half-brothers in arms.
A hopeful ball is fired towards the penalty box. 9 rises but Fierce jumps higher.
Fierce heads clear in the direction of Best. He takes the ball on his chest, lets it drop, rolls it back and forth under his foot.
Now comes the pressure.
Best clips the ball right to Bauer.
Bauer returns the pass.
Best to Bauer.
Bauer to Best.
And just like that, the pitch is wide-open!
Chester forwards are scattering. Best pings a pass diagonally to the right.
Roberts is in acres of space. He hits a first-time cross.
Darren Smith is there!
But his header is off-target.
I jogged to the side of the pitch where Sandra and Colin were in the technical area. "Colin, let me see your folder."
I stood on the white touchline while I flipped through the pages. It was basically a photo album with shots of how Carlisle liked to set up their defence. I flicked between two of the screengrabs.
"They're supposed to look like this," I said, slapping one of them. "They had their men back. How did Wibbers get all that space just now?"
"I'm on it," said Colin.
I wandered back, scanning the pitch. Match ratings, match stats, hot keys, live scores, live tables. I felt like I had everything under control. My plan was to orbit Peter for the first half and get him out of scrapes. This was his first start since he had retired as a player and while he didn't need me to hold his hand - he had an amazing footballing brain even if he was only CA 70 - I could make it easy for him.
Carlisle played a long ball that Fierce won again, but this time the rebound looped up towards Peter. Carlisle's 10 won the header, but Peter didn't panic. He simply got goal side - i.e. between the ball and our goal - to make it hard for his oppo to do anything dangerous. Good decision. The 10 was very athletic, though, and unlike Peter, he was fully match fit. With great agility, he shifted the ball to his right and unleashed a spectacular - oh, wait. I got there first, booped the ball away, and the 10 chopped me down like a tree.
Again, not even a yellow card, and there was some heat in the home fans as they complained about how long I was taking to get up.
Dean rushed to my side and sprayed my leg. "Colin checked the thing you asked about. He said it was just Wibbers's movement. Brought the full back inside, then Wibbers snuck out."
"Clever little shit, isn't he?"
"It's one of Pascal's moves, Sandra said."
I closed my eyes and tried to visualise it. "Yeah, that sounds about right." As we hobbled, yet again, to the touchline, I marvelled again at how the players learned from each other. Especially the young ones, and especially the ones who had the most experience at Relationism. Maybe that last idea was a stretch but the way I taught Relationism involved a lot of trying to understand how other players operated so that the blob could function better. If a smart, humble player who was willing to learn saw something cool, why wouldn't he work to absorb the skill into his own playing style?
Would we use Relationism this season? We could break it out in small doses but I wanted to have a few more months of training it together. Would it make sense to wait until the Brazilians were in the country?
No. We needed to get a move on. Decision made, archive the thread.
I squirted my head again, waited for the ref to give me permission to return to the pitch, and trudged to my slot. The trudge was fake. Everything was going great!
Peter won a header, lost a header, made an interception, lost a duel. His relatively low CA meant he wasn't up to the physical levels of our opponents, he didn't trust himself to time a sliding tackle, and his old technique for winning headers - of nudging strikers just before the ball dropped onto their heads - wasn't working today. His match rating was 6, but what I loved was his intelligence. He was adapting, changing, trying different approaches. He was doing what he could with the tools at his disposal. Perfect!
But today's experiment wasn't about whether Peter could become a top defender in the English leagues - I had no doubt he would, one day - but about using him to draw the opposition onto us and then bypassing them. Once the game settled into its pattern, I set up the test conditions.
We got a goal kick and I shifted our formation to 'Sweeper' with Peter in the eponymous role. I set him as our playmaker; I really wanted Swanny to give him the ball inside the penalty area.
He did and I instantly switched us back to 4-2-3-1. Carlisle's 9 sprinted at Bauer, full-pelt, and I wondered if maybe I was asking too much of Peter too soon. Good as he was, it only needed his reaction times to be slightly off for this situation to gift the 9 a goal.
With the 9 coming from his left and the 11 menacing from the right, Peter passed almost straight ahead, seemingly to no-one. I could imagine some of the older Chester fans in Brunton Park yelling, 'who's that to?'
Goal kick to Chester.
Swan plays it short to Bauer.
The German is under serious pressure. He looks up and plays the ball into midfield space.
Best, on the move, sprints onto it, gathers, and plays a pass to Roberts.
He slips it to Bochum, who lets it run between his legs.
Dugdale shapes to shoot from outside the D but instead clips the ball over the defence, into the path of Roberts.
He has the option of Smith in the middle... but Roberts elects to shoot.
GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!
Roberts shot low and hard just inside the near post. The keeper got a hand to it but couldn't divert it wide.
An excellent team goal. Chester have started so well!
Since Wibbers and the forwards were miles away, Peter celebrated by jumping into me. He set a trend; the rest of the defenders followed, and for once there was a party close enough for Swanny to attend.
"I'd call that proof of concept," I said, after the worst of the hugging was over.
"Most teams won't make it so easy," said Peter, red in the face from the excitement. "Their press is so unsophisticated it is hard to believe."
"You're overrating what forwards can do, I think." As I replayed Peter's part in the goal, I shook my head in amazement. The guy was fucking fearless. Nerveless. And he was so technically solid there was never any doubt he would play whatever pass he wanted. Also! Oh, also! He had fucking played a pass into space that virtually no-one else in this league would be able to do even in a low-key training session! Ten yards ahead of me because he saw me moving that way and he knew I'd get there. Incredible. My giddiness rose to troubling heights but I spoke calmly enough. A Carlisle player was making a big show of putting his boot back on so we had a little bit of time to scheme. "We talked about what we do if the oppo accidentally presses exactly right. If you get into trouble you go long. Hit Dazza's head. Why do we have a big lump up top? So you can lump it up to him. Or you can ping it halfway into their half and let Pascal and Wibbers chase."
"Yes," said Peter, with enthusiasm. Now that we were actually doing it, my words weren't those of a mad scientist but of an explorer. There was a whole wide world out there for us to discover together.
I pressed the opportunity. "Let's try some different moves."
"Such as?"
"Christian," I said. "You like your little cameos as a striker, don't you?"
He beamed. "I played striker in school."
Zach said, "So did I, boss. If you need one of us to go striker, I volunteer."
"This is the thing I don't understand about footballers," I said. "Being a striker is shit. Christian, you're up. Zach, it's me, you, and Peter in a back three. We're going to play spin the bottle with these forwards. They are the bottle."
"Do I have to kiss them?" said Peter.
"At this point I don't think it would be consensual. That prick's got his boot on at last. Let's go."
During the conversation, I had put us in a 5-3-2 shape with Christian trundling forward to add his heft to The Australian's. Duggers, Pascal, and Wibbers dropped back one zone to be CMs. That midfield was as weedy (in relative terms) as the striker duo was powerful. I didn't want physical dominance, though. Today's experiment was about passing, retaining the ball, making the oppo sprint themselves dry, demoralising them and shutting the home fans up.
In 5-3-2, the five defenders are like a wall. That would have been apt given that the most famous thing about Carlisle was a wall, but we were much better than the oppo. I didn't want two pure full backs; I wanted wing backs.
Wing backs, as you remember, are hybrid players, half defender, half midfielder. Having our wide players higher up the pitch would give us slightly less defensive solidity but more attacking thrust. Since they would be on the diagonal away from the centre backs and central midfielders, they would offer us an easy passing option and help us keep control of the ball.
I could only move one by means of the WibWob screens, so I switched us to the Sweeper formation, which used wing backs, and made myself the sweeper.
Peter gave me a strange look, but the match was soon underway and he had to concentrate.
***
Despite the name of the formation, I didn't play as a sweeper. I actually played as a conventional centre back when we were defending. That meant keeping an eye on the lines for the offside trap. If Carlisle played a pass to a player who was closer to the goal than our last defender, he would be offside and we would get a free kick. The offside trap was by far the most efficient way to stop attacks. It was like having a force field on a starship - if it worked properly you didn't even need hull plating.
I didn't always have the concentration to play in central defence for an entire half but a few times per season I slipped into the role easily enough. Today, while I was big brothering Peter, was one of those times.
An interesting thing happened about two minutes after I made the switch. When Christian was in the back line, the other defenders looked to him. If he stepped forward as part of the offside trap, so did the others. When I turned him into a temporary striker, my first instinct was to use Zach as my defensive reference point. But without me being aware of it, I switched to copying Peter. It made sense, I supposed, in that he had better Influence and Positioning scores.
We defended solidly enough. Without Christian's height, aerial prowess, and sheer physical presence, Carlisle had more joy with direct passes, but Peter and I were excellent at anticipating danger and were virtually flawless in deciding when to tackle and when to simply shepherd Carlisle players away from goal. We both knew Zach well enough to anticipate what he would do in any given situation. I would drop five yards behind in case he lost a header, or Peter would move close in anticipation of a transition opportunity as Zach forced his oppo into taking a poor touch.
It was one of the most fun times I'd ever had as a defender, but the real lolz came when we got the ball. I moved up and down between a pure sweeper position and a defensive midfielder - never settling on the same line as Zach and Peter - so we always had triangles to work with.
Swanny was in the team because he was good with the ball at his feet. Zach had been signed for the same reason. Peter took that to incredible new heights, and I was a mystery winger with plus a billion Morale playing against a lot of headless chickens.
We. Took. The. Piss.
Swan takes the goal kick short to Best.
Best to Green.
Green to Best.
Best to Bauer.
Bauer to Green.
Green to Swan.
Swan to Best.
Best lines up a long ball... but clips a short pass to Bauer.
Bauer to Green to Best but he's in trouble now.
9 is closing him down fast!
Best dips his shoulder, nutmegs the striker, plays a one-two with Bauer and Best is away!
He pings a long ball to Fierce.
His flick on is aimed towards Smith. He goes on a dribble.
Smith is as majestic as a kangaroo in full flight.
But he loses the ball.
You had to laugh.
Youngster taking a long shot was an affront. A crime against football. Pascal squaring up to a six foot five centre back was... well, it was a sight to behold, that was for sure. But Dazza trying to embark on a mazy dribble?
You couldn't stay mad at that.
I tried to keep a straight face and switched us to 4-5-1 so I could potter around doing some coaching while everyone else kept things solid. I wasn't too worried about Carlisle scoring while I was out of position; we were miles better than them in every department that mattered.
Soon after Dazza tripped over his own feet, there was a break in play. "Dazza, you're a man of many talents but you can't dribble from the half way line. Cricketers don't score their runs on their own, do they? They have a mate for every one of them. Remember Hirst and Rhodes sticking it to the Aussies in 1902. We'll get 'em in singles, yeah?"
Dazza eyed me in disbelief, but then burst out laughing. "1902, boss? Is that the last time you Poms stuck it to us?"
I pointed to the scene of him trying to dribble. "If England play Oz are you gonna do that?"
He gave his head a gentle shake. "Ah... Better not."
"We'll get 'em in singles means break the task into small bits, right? Instead of one forty-yard dribble, two twenty-yard passes. It's just as much fun when the ball hits the net, isn't it? Hey, by the way, we've got a problem today that everyone up here is making vertical runs. If the other three are going up, maybe you can come down."
"That's still vertical."
"Outrageous comment."
He smiled. "I get you but shouldn't it be one of those guys who drops to the ball?"
I shrugged. "Let's try both."
Thirty seconds later I had moved to left mid. "Duggers, if you had gone wide just before, you would have opened this space for Pascal."
I switched flanks. "Wibbers, that guy's not buying that move any more. What else have you got?"
I wandered towards Josh Owens. "Josh, after this chat we're going back to 4-2-3-1. I picked you today for your energy. I need you to match these guys when they come into your zone. I don't want you to make it look easy. I want you to do it."
Josh nodded. "Can I go to wing back? That felt great there."
He had been one zone higher when we were in the Sweeper formation and that suited his talents and matched what kind of player his profile said he was. I looked around while checking the match ratings. Peter was up to 7. If Peter had 20 more points of CA he would be able to cope with a little more responsibility, but we were a way off that. "Not while Peter's on. We," I said, indicating the wider defensive unit, "have to be solid ay eff to help him through. He's brilliant but think of him today as an Exit Triallist on debut."
Josh grew an inch and got more serious. "Yes, boss."
I fucking loved that. Teamwork bursting out of the lad.
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
I went back to my slot next to Peter and we played a conventional five minutes.
***
Carlisle's three strikers were blowing hard and were dispirited from playing endless piggy-in-the-middle and not getting the ball. Fair play to them, they kept going as well as they could, but they were subdued and the crowd's mood was crashing.
The live scores screen told me what was happening in the other matches. Our main rivals were shaping up to be Portsmouth and Plymouth. Both were drawing. Another dangerous team was Bolton. They had started the season badly but were winning two-nil. We would play them soon and I would go all-in on Bench Boost. If we got the score high enough, we could send the fucks into a tailspin, give ourselves one less rival. That would be well-deserved after what they did to Pascal Bochum when we had played them in the cup. These days, when I thought about his leg, I remembered the fake X-ray I had circulated.
Oxford United, Wycombe, and Barnsley - potential rivals - were winning.
Did I sense danger? I closed the screens and took a few steps to the right, anticipating a potential break through the middle. I thought I heard Peter chuckle - he had moved left to cover the same hole. He deferred to me, taking a few steps back and away so that if the ball came to me I could simply deflect it to him.
Duggers took care of the sitch, though, and when he passed to me I had plenty of time. I rolled it left to Josh to keep him involved.
The top of the Live Table showed Chester in first place followed by a blob of teams. They were the clubs with big budgets, the ones I had expected, plus Bristol Rovers, who we were playing next. Potentially tricky?
We knocked the ball around very neatly. I put my foot on the ball, eyed up the sitch, and passed it back to Swanny. Go again. No rush. There was absolutely no rush and never would be.
Back on the Live Table, I noted that Northampton were struggling under Paul 'Smithy' Smith, who was the bookies' favourite to be sacked first. The Cobblers fans and owners didn't like that he had been beaten by a girl. Crawley Town, with my mate TJ in charge, were finding life hard but had picked up a couple of very handy wins. Sharky was doing the business for them on counters!
Finally, I zoomed in on Bradford. 14th. That seemed higher than expected, although I hadn't seen how good their expensive new signings were. I felt sure they were playing better than their CA. Folke Wester was actually a half-decent manager. Shame he was such a prick.
The ball broke loose in midfield and I scampered after it. Peter did, too, but again he deferred to me. I got to the ball just as the 6 was sliding in. I put my weight on the top of the ball and rolled it behind me into Peter's path before accidentally forming a barrier on top of Carlisle's most defensively-sound midfielder. As he tried to push me off him, I inadvertently lost balance and by the time we had sorted out the whole mess, Pascal was moving into the penalty box. The 6 could only watch as a defender chopped down my first ever signing. Penalty!
"Soz," I said to the enraged midfielder. "I don't think you would have got there, though, if that helps you feel better."
"Get fucked," he said, which was uncalled for.
"What brand's your printer?" I asked, which caused him to come at me. What the fuck is wrong with people?
The ref was busy in the penalty area so I dodged away from trouble and with Zach Green acting as my minder, strolled forward to take the pen.
To get back into the flow state, I reminded myself that I had achieved true Inbox Zero. Hommm.
Gibraltar was done for now. No pending items, nothing clogging up my literal or figurative inbox. The Henrilluminati would acquire one or two new teams, or none. If we got a new team, I had a stock of free agents, cheap signings, and loan players ready to go. From January first the team would start winning, winning, winning. A second new team would be a little more of a challenge, but not much. As long as College or the Red Imps won the cup, finishing fourth in the league would guarantee European football.
Gibraltar was in the archive.
The goalkeeper was trying to get to the penalty spot to scuff it up, to put me off.
I looked at him. "It doesn't really matter if I'm scouting for one club or three. It's the same amount of work, isn't it?"
"You what?"
"Okay there's an element of diminishing returns but it's all baked into the business model."
The ref arrived. "Back on your line, keeper."
Dazza had been protecting the penalty spot, standing astride it, holding the ball. Taking the aggro out of the situation. The time after the ref blew for a penalty kick was often ugly, with goalies and defenders trying to play mind games with the taker. It would be so easy for the authorities to fix it. If a goalie doesn't retreat to his line as soon as the kick is awarded, you give the goal. If a defender runs into the penalty area before the kick is taken, you award the goal. No delays, no ugly shithousery. Problem solved, instantly.
I turned to Carlisle's 6 and said. "They should really put me in charge of this sport." I finished with a cheeky wink.
Dazza handed me the ball and faster than I expected, the ref whistled. He was ready.
I dropped the ball onto the spot but didn't like how it had landed.
I bent and adjusted it. The goalie came off his line, halfway to the ball. More mind games that the spineless ref didn't punish.
West Didsbury? Nothing urgent to do there. They could always use new players in the youth system and the women's teams but they were nailed-on to get promoted and with luck I would get planning permission just in time to throw up a stadium that met the needs of the National League.
I said to the goalie. "I suppose we could groundshare with FC United." The ref was indicating that he should go back. This he did and when he was on his line I added, "Or Maine Road FC, but they're all City fans."
As the goalie threw himself to my right, I dribbled the ball into the left.
Penalty? E for Executed. Two-zip. Game over. This is Max Best requesting permission to have some fun. Permission granted, soldier.
The away fans were on the far side of the stadium and I couldn't be arsed running all the way there to celebrate, so we held the ceremony in the spot where Carlisle's goalie liked to stand. He wasn't best pleased and suggested we scarper.
"Lads," I said, as I turned the celebration into an impromptu huddle which I knew would piss off the goalie even more. "It's two-nil but the crowd will try to lift them and they'll come at us hard for a minute. Pass the ball around. Zip it. Take the sting out of the game. Mental and physical disintegration. Let's go."
***
Sure enough, the Cumbrians, fired by a noisy crowd desperate for success, were reenergised. We dealt with it well but Christian, under pressure, shanked a clearance that went out for a throw. Absolutely fine, safety-first play but I wanted Carlisle's forwards and midfielders to burn themselves out chasing balls they thought they could get, but couldn't. I moved Fierce to striker - out of the way - and switched to Sweeper again.
Peter, Zach, and I played passes around like we were doing training ground rondos. We had Swanny as an extra man, and the wing backs and midfielders, too. They knew the mission was to keep the ball in spaces where losing it would be costly. Yes, you read that right.
The plan was too good - the strikers stopped pressing us. Carlisle settled into a compact shape and simply shuffled and slid when we progressed the ball further up the pitch.
This was bad. I was trying to do an experiment out here!
"Come on, lads," I laughed. "We've still got an hour to play. You can't be out of battery already."
My taunting didn't work. How could I motivate them to come at us? The goal of playing the ball out from the back was to draw the oppo towards you, which would create space in behind that you could exploit with fast attacks. The oppo's incentive was the prospect of turning the ball over close to your goal and getting very high-value opportunities.
Okay, I thought, so let's take that idea to its extreme.
I took the ball deeper and deeper into the penalty box, but it was only when I went past Swanny that Carlisle thought fuck it, let's press again. Our goalie said, "Max, what are you doing?"
"Triggering the press," I said, confused. "What does it look like?"
And here they came. The 11 was coming right at me, while the 9 and 10 were trying to cover as many of my passing options as possible. Behind them was a huge gap to the three midfielders. They were walking ahead into the vacuum left by their mates. Midfielders abhor a vacuum. This was perfect.
11 was on me, and I nudged the ball away a few inches, apparently by accident. I was out of control and the ball was two yards from the goal line! 11's eyes lit up. At the last moment, I dipped my shoulder to the right, feinted a nutmeg and as the 11 tried to cover two-thirds of my options, I scooped the ball up and to the left. I would dribble a few yards before playing it in front of Peter. He would run onto it and -
11 threw out a hand and slapped the ball into the net.
"Oi," I said. The prick had ruined the beautiful end-to-end goal I had dreamed up. I watched, bemused, as he got to his feet and ran off celebrating. What?
The referee blew his whistle and pointed to the centre circle. He had given the goal!
My players went nuts, and my first job was to stop them from doing anything we would regret. I got Christian, Zach, and Peter to get a grip on the sitch. I tried to talk to the ref but he was one of those holier-than-thou types who couldn't admit he had mightily stuffed up. A born ref, in fact. I walked over to the linesman who had been nearest. "In the media," I said, "I'm not going after the ref. If he didn't see it, fine, shit happens. But you saw it and you didn't tell him. He's gonna be dragged over hot coals all week, people will be laughing at him for years, all because you didn't have the guts to speak up. I'm gonna make sure people talk about you, mate. You."
"Sour grapes," he said. "It's your fault for messing about."
"Wow," I said.
By the time I got back to the middle, I was laughing. You want to get bitten on the arse by your hubris? Taking the ball to your goal line and having the oppo score was a pretty good way. Were we going to lose this match because I was not taking it seriously?
I put us in 4-2-3-1 and vowed to be serious for a few minutes. The Peter Experiment could go on a ten-minute delay. Archive everything that had come before. Execute some flawless positional play.
I clapped my hands. Let's do this!
Great play by Owens; he cut out the danger.
He plays it simply to Best. Best feeds Bauer and seeks out the return pass.
Best is in a pocket of space. He... lowers his hand towards the ball.
Best is looking at the referee... Best's hand approaches the surface of the ball.
His fingers are so close.
The tension is staggering.
11 challenges; Best stabs the ball to Peter Bauer.
The ball is moved around the defence and back to the goalkeeper.
Swan to Fierce. Best has sprinted to make himself available. Fierce has an easy option.
Best runs onto the ball and points to his left.
Owens sprints to get into position and draws two home players towards him.
Best stops on a sixpence, bends, and brings both hands towards the ball.
Is he going to pick it up?
He is challenged; Best stabs the ball infield towards Bauer.
Bauer finds Dugdale with a sublime first-time pass.
Dugdale cuts inside and whips a vicious, swerving shot that goes just wide.
"Max Best!" chanted the Carlisle fans, "is a wanker! Is a wanker! Is a wanker!"
I lapped it up, but there was one way to genuinely get revenge on the ref, the cheating striker, and the home fans, and that was to play properly for a while. I upped the tempo, mixed up our approaches. One time I would pick out a pass to the forwards, another I would make line-breaking dribbles, yet another we would play wide. We forced Carlisle into their own half. Our creative forwards made chance after chance, and our fans taunted the Cumbrians with cries of "Going down, going down, going down!"
Good fun. Nice day out at the football.
A home player tried to stop our momentum by taking ages over an injury - for shame! - so I took the chance to skim through my responsibilities.
Gibraltar and West were good for now. Saltney were flying and MD was going hard at getting the stadium and facilities built.
Mateo had put me on edge by talking about selling Tranmere. I trusted him to sell to someone decent but I didn't trust them not to sell to the next Chip Star. I was moving away from the idea of stocking up Tranmere with talented players and couldn't count on them being a long-term ally. Disappointing, to say the least. In the short term, all I needed to worry about was Dan Badford. He hadn't featured much so far because they had been on a tough run, but I could see his CA rising - it was up to 77. Good enough for League Two, which had a range of CA 75 to 90. He would have ups and downs but that was the whole point of going out on loan. You had to learn a bit of resilience.
The way I had laughed off the handball goal had gone down well with my lads. They weren't so keen on me clowning around - Christian hated it, and Peter didn't need the stress - but now that we were on the front foot, everyone was zipping the ball around with tons of confidence, and even some swagger. Wibbers was playing like he was in a Youth Cup match. A bit too much so, in fact. In the next phase of play he pissed me off.
"Mate!" I said, striding towards him. He had made a run behind the defender but Pascal had chosen not to make the pass. The ball had come to me and I had touched it for Peter, pointing to where Wibbers should have been. The lazy prick was still walking back from an offside position, though, and Peter had been caught in possession. "If you want to go for a nice stroll that can be fucking arranged!"
"What?" said Wibbers.
"Get onside, you lazy twat!"
"He should have played the first pass!"
"Get fucked. This isn't Chelsea. Get onside!"
He fumed, like he always did, but he channeled his anger internally and used it as fuel, as he almost always did.
The next time I got the ball, he made a run and I made a big show of turning to the left and offering a short pass to Josh. At the last second, I whipped my left foot around the ball, sending it in a delicious curve over the defence. It spun and bounced and rolled into the path of Wibbers. He smashed it first time into the top-left corner, an absolute peach of a finish, and he ran off celebrating. The linesman had his flag up. Offside.
Wibbers looked onside to me and the curse commentary agreed.
Wibbers was screaming in the linesman's stupid, dumb face. I sprinted over and got between him and the official. "I was on, boss! I swear!"
"I know," I said, pulling him away from the touchline.
The referee was there, looking like the cat who had got the cream. This was his big moment; an entire stadium was looking at him. He reached into his pocket... (If we went down to ten men we would switch to 4-1-4-1 with me rampaging around midfield.) He pulled a card a couple of centimetres out and I saw that it was, indeed, the red one. (My referee's report would be one for the ages, full of words like 'inept', 'jobsworth', 'feeble-minded attention-seeker'.) He pushed that one back and drew out a yellow, which he waved in Wibbers's face.
"What's the crime?" I snapped. "Handball?"
"Control your players, Best."
"You are the ref equivalent of the guy in the office who always replies to all and writes in Comic Sans."
Incredibly, this astute observation got me a yellow card, too.
I took Wibbers away. "Nice run, top finish, head up, chin up, come on. Don't give them the satisfaction of a red, yeah? Refs like these are like spam email. Straight in the bin."
Wibbers nodded. He was calm. The shock of seeing the red card had done the trick, snide as the trick was. "Yes, boss. Just one question. What's email?"
I laughed. "Don't talk to me the way I talk to Jackie Reaper."
I wandered back to DM. We'd had a handball goal given against us, had a good goal of our own disallowed, and we had picked up two yellow cards. This whole thing could easily spiral out of control, but I couldn't quite bring myself to feel much jeopardy.
Maybe that was because our fans were having a top-of-the-league party in their section. They had been bouncing from twenty minutes before kick-off and they were going through all the hits, plus trying out a few new tunes I wasn't familiar with. Our match ratings were high and we were dominating every stat.
I wasn't going to let the ref ruin my mood and I wasn't going to stop playing fearless football.
"Peter," I said, as I took my spot next to him. "I've created a new management technique called Inbox Zero. Do you want to hear about it?"
"No, I want to concentrate on the match."
"Urgh. If we score another goal can I tell you about it?"
I thought he was ignoring me but he said, "Yes."
I slapped my hands together. "Boom! That's what I like!"
Green to Fierce. The captain helps it on to Owens.
The young left back passes to his manager.
Best dribbles ahead, waving his central attacking midfielders away.
Best rolls the ball to Darren Smith. He holds it up well as Best runs across him.
The Australian ignores the run, turns to his right and plays it left.
Dugdale hits it first-time, a wonderful, probing low cross.
Best is onto it ahead of Roberts.
Best side-foots the ball...
Just wide!
He can't believe it!
Neither can the away fans.
The Carlisle fans call out Best's name.
Annoying.
The worst part wasn't missing, but the thought that if I hadn't been in that position, Wibbers would have had a better angle. While I was there, though, I had to take the shot.
"Wibbers," I said, rubbing my head. "I really want a two-goal lead for half time. Put a nail in this one, do you know what I mean?"
"We should attack, boss. I know you're doing your Peter thing but we'll regret it if we don't go home with three points. You could, you know, use the right back."
He was right. I crouched, thought, and created a hot key that would put us into 4-2-4 with Duggers left wing, Dazza and Wibbers as strikers, and the right back as our right winger.
Carlisle were emboldened by their outrageous good luck and the way the ref seemed to literally be a lifelong Carlisle fan. The home players started to believe they might snatch a draw or even a win. They kept five in their rest defence and attacked with five. Brave... or foolish.
I held position near Peter, and the next time we got the ball I played one-twos with him until a midfielder literally slid between us and tackled the space so that we couldn't. I took that as my cue to throw a stepover and launch into high gear. I smashed the 4-2-4 hot key and my players ran all over the place. Pascal was dropping to central midfield so I lent him the ball before demanding it back. He obliged, and that simple exchange took Carlisle's defensive midfielder out of the equation. I surged forward and found Duggers. He sensed I was on a mission and touched the ball back to me. Dazza and Wibbers made runs that scattered the defence. I clipped the ball through the mess...
And our right back, assigned to right wing by the 4-2-4 hot key, smashed the ball into the net.
***
FLASHBACK!
I was in the gym, doing some strength work so that I could defend myself against Australians, when someone came to my station.
Lee Contreras had been one of the bigger characters when I had gone to play for Tranmere Rovers. He had been trying to make it as an influencer, which to me was strange because the rewards from putting all his effort into football were going to be magnitudes greater than the ad revenue from his channels.
I had tried not to get on his case too much but I had pushed him in the month that I was there and by the time he was a free agent, he had virtually mothballed his channels. My role in that decision had probably been pretty minor. His age was probably more pertinent - he was 26 on my spreadsheet and could start to see the end of his career approaching. That would focus the mind, wouldn’t it? Or maybe he'd found the right partner. Maybe he had read the right book. Maybe he had been told he would never get on Love Island and he should stop trying. Whatever it was, he had put his football first and was reaping the rewards.
"Boss," he said. "Can we have a quick chat?"
"Yes," I said, as I squatted sixty percent of my body weight with ridiculous ease.
"You okay?" he said, alarmed.
"Yes," I said, in a squeaky voice. I put the weight down and tapped the floor. "Is this level?" I stayed in the squatting pose as though my back was wrecked; Lee looked a little bit horrified, which made me laugh. "I'm joking, Lee. I can chuck a couple of weights around." I stood straight. "What's up?"
"It was really interesting the other day with the, er, when Pascal was checking his charts in the dressing room."
"Checking charts and breaking hearts: the red-trousered boy."
Lee didn't know if I was referencing something in particular so he lost confidence. "What formation will we play against Carlisle?"
"4-2-3-1," I said. "You'll get a break."
"Oh. Er... thanks. And can I ask who's playing right back?"
"Andrew Harrison."
"Ah. Right. Yeah." He rubbed his face a while. "And if Matt hadn't pissed you off, would he be starting?"
"Yes."
Lee was biting his lip. "I like Matt. I was starting to kind of take him under my wing. I know he's miles better than me but, I don't know, I just like him and think I could give him some advice and that. I thought maybe I could help him get out of your bad books."
Talking about Matt had made me wonder if I wanted to get my boxing gloves on and repeatedly punch something, but I got my water bottle and had a drink while looking out onto the main training pitch. Lee helping Matt Rush reminded me of Sam Topps with Dan Badford. My mood lifted. "Go on."
"Oh, I was just thinking we could clear the air because he's a good lad and he didn't mean nothing by it. Just some banter, you know. You haven't been around so he hadn't quite got the vibe and no-one else is really so, ah..."
"Mental."
"So attuned to how comments reflect mindset. Oh, boss, it's dead interesting! I'm thinking of doing sports psychology. Do you reckon I could do it like Alex when I hang up my boots?"
"If you want to do a course, the club will pay." Unless we sell you in January, I thought. No, that wasn't right. We'd pay anyway. Something shifted behind the entrance. "Is Matt here?"
"Yeah but we'll wait till you're done. We thought we'd hang out in the Sin Bin. Watch videos, you know. Oppo analysis."
I smiled. Suddenly Matt Rush was a model student hanging out in the shitty cabin to do extra homework? "Nah, just get him in. This won't take long."
Matt slunk in and stood near Lee, not totally sure where to look. "Hi, gaffer."
Lee's face was interesting. He had involved himself in this but now he wasn't sure if that was a good idea. "Hi. Listen, Matt, you got on my tits. I'm not perfect and maybe I overreacted a tiny bit but I can't have you getting in the way of anyone else's development. That's a big trigger for me. That's a no-no-never. The fact that you find someone working hard funny makes me think you won't ever achieve your potential and that's a shame but in the end it's not my problem. Pascal and the women's team is very much my problem and I will go apeshit to make sure they get what they need. You? You could be England's right back for a long, long time but you need to hit the gym, hit the books..." Something moved outside and it caught my eye. It was probably a stray ball - the netting around the pitch wasn't up yet.
Lee finished the thread for me. "Hit the boss?"
I nodded at Matt. "Do you box? We could spar in the big gloves. Work things out the old-fashioned way."
"I can throw a punch," said Matt.
Lee said, "The gaffer got trained by Donnie Wormwood."
"Man United won't let me," said Matt, quick as a flash, which made Lee and I grin. "But what were you gonna say?"
I blinked. "When?"
"Hit the gym, hit the books... What was the third one gonna be?"
"Um... Oh yeah. Hit the target."
***
GOAL! Matt Rush scores his first goal for Chester!
He struck the ball ever so sweetly!
His manager looks pleased.
Chester have regained their two-goal advantage!
***
We went in at half time and I took a couple of minutes to decompress. Water, paste, damp towel on head to tell people to leave me the eff alone.
Lee stepping up into a mentoring role was awesome, incredible, and his intervention removed one tricky item from my mental to-do list. I had filed Matt Rush under 'delay' but that whole mess seemed to have solved itself. Lee adding more complexity to his character certainly added more complexity to the plan to sell him in January.
I munched on paste. Brain fuel. Now that I had high stamina, I was much more able to play while managing, but it was always going to be taxing.
Our match ratings were fine, Carlisle United's fitness levels were in the toilet, and I had amazing options on the bench. If the results in the other games stayed as they were, we would have a three-point cushion at the top of the league. We were pulling clear already!
I did a mental checklist, going through my entire world, starting with items I had archived or sorted.
- Gibraltar: No action items.
- West, Saltney, Tranmere: Nothing to do right now.
- Chester Women: Pascal's start had been more than encouraging. He wasn't just winning but was winning in style and was even getting the players used to Relationism; I could let him get on with the job.
- Chester's youth teams: They could always use more talent but since we weren't pushing for a Youth Cup win this season, it was going to be relatively sedate.
- Mum, Anna, and Solly: Were as happy as was possible.
- REM and REMSA: Both agencies had grown fast in recent months. It wouldn't do them any harm to spend some time consolidating.
- Once-per-season perks: I had used God Save the King on Lee and would use Bench Boost soon against Bolton. There was a case to be made that I needed to use it in the next Vans Trophy game against Barnsley, but I would make a late decision on that one. If I could save it to the semi-final, that would be optimal. Ditto the FA Cup. The goal had to be to get beyond the Third Round.
- My wedding: My fiancée and her best friend Gemma were dreaming up how the wedding would go. I only needed to say when it would happen. It had to be in the post-season, since I was a footballer and almost everyone who attended would be a footballer. This coming summer wasn't all that far away and we would be preparing for life in the Championship. I would have ten million pounds in TV money to spend and there was every chance my life would be frantic. The best time would be the summer after our consolidation season. That would be perfect. Bosh. Sorted. Tell the planners, archive the thread.
- National teams: The Welsh teams were full of my players. Jesse Picardo was in the Gibraltan squad. National team managers were increasingly believing me when I said my players were mint. But in the latest round of call-ups, we hadn't had a single player called up to any England age group, men or women. Not one.
- Training caps: Youngster hadn't gained a point in CA this week. Even with an extra day because we had binned off the AOK Cup and even though he was in dreamland thanks to his huge pay rise, Youngster hadn't popped. He was 'stuck' on CA 106. I felt that other players were slowing as they approached CA 105. I was proud of our new gym, the showers, and the quality of our pitches but look at the canteen. Look at the analysis room and the medical department. Huge sections of the club were still of non-league standard.
Long-term, ignoring the best players would get everyone involved in the England set up fired, and short-term, not going to the international camps would let my players focus on Chester. Hell, Meghan and Sarah Greene had been training liked demons since the squads were announced.
At this point, any soft caps related to our facilities were almost out of my hands. Okay, you could argue I could have built a proper reception building instead of putting up the solar panels and so on, but not long ago I had literally asked Soccer Supremo where best to spend money to improve my facilities score. If everyone hit a brick wall at around the same CA number, we would act. My current transfer budget would pay for a reception building and a media centre. If I saved up I could get a super nice restaurant and hospitality area or do the medical building.
I couldn't commit to any particular course of action just yet.
Youngster was one data point, and not all that long ago we had seen Foquita rampage up into the CA 110s. He really seemed to be an outlier, operating under his own rules, but I didn't know that for sure. What I did know was that soon Colin, Duggers, Dazza, Pascal and more would be around CA 105. Give it another month and I would have a crystal clear picture of whether there really was a soft cap. If I had to sell Lee Contreras and Duggers just to pay for training ground upgrades, I would. Nothing would weaken the club's potential as much as a limit on our CA.
I opened the Live Tables. As it stood, we were three points clear of three clubs and the rest of our so-called rivals were even further behind. We had played every game so far away from home! When we caught up on our home fixtures those clubs would eat our dust.
I pulled the towel off my head. When it came to training, if we couldn't go deep, we could go wide. Bring the whole squad up into triple figures. I could focus on bringing more players into triple digits through careful management of their minutes and judicious use of Secret Sandra.
Peter Bauer would get the most attention, of course. His performance in the first half had been dreamy. One of Europe's most press-resistant defenders was playing in League One!
Who else? Cole Adams could coast to triple digits under his own steam. Did Josh need a boost or could I afford to let him grow naturally? He was CA 84 and I had to assume he would close in on 100 by the end of the season, if not earlier. Andrew and Bark were in a similar boat - the training cap wouldn't touch them. The Manchester United pair and the boys from Brazil would improve fast if encouraged.
Encouraged. An idea formed. I could use our weaker players in the first team if I took the slot next to them. Nasa wouldn't struggle at right back if I was playing as a diligent right mid, right? We could play a half together. Then I could swap to the left and nurse Adam Summerhays through the second half. The variety would help me keep my concentration.
Sandra and Colin came over. Peter joined them.
"What are you thinking?" said Sandra.
"About the first half? Scrappy, wasn't it? Bit ragged." Sandra and Colin exchanged a look. "What?" I said.
"Colin didn't believe me when I said you'd say that."
The man himself smiled. "I thought it was awesome."
"There were good bits," I admitted. "We need to tighten some of the screws. Loosen some, too," I said. "I hate to let the ref win but I think I should come off. Wibbers, too."
"What did you say to him?" said Colin.
"Compared him to a font."
Sandra snorted and put her hand on Colin's chest. "No, don't ask. Trust me."
I said, "Imagine if I'd compared him to a brand of printer. Straight red and that would have been deserved."
Sandra tutted. "Boss, you were maddening out there but you were productive, too. If you can behave I'd prefer you to stay on."
I thought about it. "I want to stay on but a red card is Carlisle's best hope. I've had my fun; let's get serious." It was possible, depending on what happened in the January transfer window, that for the first time in my reign we could have a weaker team in the second half of the season than in the first. We needed to hoover up every available point, didn't we? "Sweeper formation but with three centre backs, just as we did for parts of the half. So we'll take off me, Peter, Wibbers, and Pascal, and put on Fitzroy, Lee C, Andrew, and Colin. It will be solid ay eff but have enough goal threat to pin Carlisle back in their half."
Peter said, "I'm fit, Max. I'm enjoying the contest. I could play five matches!"
I smiled; his Condition score said different. "I'm bringing you off. Amazing full debut, I'm going to be thinking about that for a good long time. Sandra, I'm going to chat to a couple of the lads and then can you do the team talk? I'll take a shower. Freshen up for the bench."
"You smell great, boss," said Sandra, with fake loyalty.
I smiled as I went to the on-loan player who I had spotted doing finishing practice with Lee Contreras. "Matt, good half, good goal. I asked you to stay back for most of that half but now I'm unleashing you as a proper wing back. We're not judging you on your running stats, passing stats, any shit like that. Don't need to look busy. We're judging you on your decision-making. If you think it's best to stay in your slot, that's fine. If you think it's on for you to bomb forward, go for it. I'm going to let you off the leash in the second half. Keep the energy bubbly, get good balance, trust your talent. Yes?"
"Yes, gaffer."
"Dazza," I said, moving on. "I really fucking liked that move where the others disperse and you drop for the slow pass to feet."
He got excited. "Yes! The defenders get on their heels for the ball over the top and they aren't ready for the more basic angle."
"Right. We need to mix it up but it's a solid option. I know you kind of have to plant your feet to battle the CB but having that bit of agility to change your stance really adds something to your game and to the team's options. I want us to develop that a little bit. It's simple but effective. My favourite. Have you ever done Judo? Think about it. Josh? Wing back this half. Show Rushy how it's done. Lee? How you doing? You're coming on. You'll go as the right CM and look after Rushy." I realised that everyone was listening as though I was doing the team talk, so I increased my volume. "We’re shutting this contest down. Anyone got any questions?"
There was a silence that in the past Henri would have filled. I got that tiny pang of guilt and regret again. Inbox zero. Henri zero.
"No? Okay, mint. Let's wrap this up. Win your duels and we get the win. Bosh."
Christian yelled, "Come on, you Seals!"
***
It was a low energy second half. Carlisle's manager made changes to replace tired legs but they didn't have a whole new front three to bring on so Christian and Fitzroy dominated their opponents.
Zach went back to being our main way of progressing the ball from centre back. He was a mint defender, but the difference in how his passing looked compared to Peter was a little bit like playing a game on your friend's PlayStation 5 and then going home to your PlayStation 3.
Lee and Andrew Harrison scampered around the midfield, mostly giving Duggers the ball. He picked out a few of Colin's sharp runs. We had chances but didn't tuck one away.
I didn't care. Being the manager for this half was earning me 450 XP to go with the 45 I got in the first half. The women were playing in Liverpool in the morning and that match would tip me over the 6,000 XP I needed to unlock the next perk.
While the match petered out - not literally, he was behind me - I thought back to day one of my Chester career and how far we had come. We were easily beating a decent team with twice our budget. We had outplayed them from start to finish, really, while resting our best player in terms of CA.
Our starting line-up's average age had been 23.6. That was young. That was really young but we didn't seem like a callow team.
Our starting CA had been 95 but assuming my PA was 200, our average potential ability was 150. One hundred and fifty! That seemed extraordinary.
A training cap would be frustrating, but the timing could have been worse. It wouldn't stop us winning League One.
We were going to make it.
Everything I had planned was going to happen.
Nothing could go wrong.
***
No goals in the second half meant we had scored three in each of our last four league matches. The three-one win put us three points ahead at the top of the table with a better goal difference.
Sandra got some of the lads to distract me with tactical questions while she did the post-match interviews. Saving me from myself, as she later called it.
That kind of spirit was why Sealbiscuit was rocking on the way home. It was so much fun on there I forgot to turn my phone on for half an hour. When I did, I had texts from Emma. Those never got deleted or archived. I replied with heart emojis and bicep emojis.
I was annoyed to see I had six new emails. The number 6 on the email icon was even more annoying than conceding a goal to an actual slap. I got up and spotted my DM buddy. "Peter! I'm going to do my new email system now. Want to watch?"
He shook his head. Not really! But he came and sat next to me.
"It's as easy as A, B, C, D, E," I told him. "Archive, Brooke, Correspond, Delay, Execute."
He laughed, still high from his debut, from the win, from the Chesterness of it all. I explained the system to him and then demonstrated it.
From: Hewlett Packard
Subject: Are you looking for a reliable and trusted business partner that can help you fill gaps in your business?
"Hmm," I said. "I wish there was a nuke icon. I'll settle for delete on this one."
"If I understand your system," he said, "Delete comes under A for Archive."
"Yes," I said, snarkily. "Don't sit there all high and mighty like you've ever invented something this cool."
From: Grindhog
Subject: Congratulations! Your site is experiencing a spike in BEST 77 shirt sales!
"Okay," I said, "We get these automated messages and I keep going back and forth on whether to opt out. It would be one less message type coming through, but I can imagine this having a motivational effect. I could tell Josh his performance in the big cup match led to a huge increase in sales of his towel."
Peter nodded. "Yes, it's good to know. I suppose you will use A for archive so you can refer to it if you ever need it."
"Yes but I'm also using D for delay because I'm delaying whether to opt out or not."
He sniggered again. "That isn't how you described the meaning of delay earlier. You are doing whatever you want and calling it a system, just like you do on the pitch."
I tried to give him daggers but it's not easy when you're smiling.
The next email was similar to the Grindhog one.
From: Brooke
Subject: Big spike in season ticket sales today!
"Let me skim this. Okay, apparently my name on the starting line up today reassured a lot of people. Because of the Gibraltar and Saltney loans, fans have learned that players can only appear for two teams in one season, so playing today means I'm locked in to Chester for the whole of 26/27. It makes sense that some fans have been waiting to see me on the pitch to make their decision. Oh! Brooke thinks there were a few extra who signed up because of you."
"I'm flattered," he said. "So you will archive this?"
"No, I always reply to Brooke because she's pretty much the most important person at the club. If she has taken the time to send me something it means she thinks it's important and I think she's important so she gets C for Correspond. Let me type something real quick. Cool, thanks! You can count me in if you want me for a marketing push."
"To get more season ticket sales before the first home game? If I'm a draw, count me in, too."
"Top top top," I mumbled, as I typed. "And... bosh! We're getting closer to inbox zero. How much fun is this, mate?"
"It's memorable, for sure. What's next?"
From: National Women's Soccer League
Subject: Bids Welcome for Franchise Extension
I skimmed the mail. The women's league in America was going to add a couple of clubs. Interesting but nothing that directly affected me - the price to set up a new franchise would be hundreds of millions of dollars. I told Peter what it was and he said "Archive. Unsubscribe?"
"I don't mind being abreast of those changes. New franchises in America will mean a little spike in demand for players, right? Someone has to go and fill those squads. Could be useful to me." Especially when I got the Interested Parties perk!
I archived the email and just as I did, I got a text from what sounded like a very drunk German. I asked Peter to give me a moment - he slipped across the aisle and talked to Sandra.
Dieter Bauer: Max incredible I am highly emotional. What a gift you have given me to see Peter play once more! I am in your debt forever! If you wrote this message you would add TERMS AND CONDITIONS APPLY haha. But really I must talk to you soon, in person. May I visit?
Max: Any time.
Dieter: Can we say incognito?
Max: If you want but I was going to invite you to our stadium's grand opening.
Dieter: Yes! Excellent. Will Peter play?
Max: He won't start.
Dieter: It matters not. Feel free to announce my visit. The opening will give us good cover for our conversation.
Max: The best place to hide a footballer is at a football stadium.
Dieter: Haha! Will you take advice from an old man? Do not dribble along your own goal line. As a viewer I was reminded of why we love this sport but your defensive players will not thank you for it!
I smiled. The cute old guy was sozzled. Why would we need 'cover' for a conversation? While I was in the app I scrolled down and marvelled at how clean it was.
The email app wasn't quite as clean, but when I looked at what was polluting it, I decided not to bother showing the final email to Peter.
From: Unknown
Subject: I know about the [System] you are using, Max Best
I yawned massively. Gambling enticements had gotten weird since AI had taken over basic writing tasks. Spam filters were struggling to distinguish what was real and what was garbage. I long-pressed the delete icon and mimed an explosion with my off hand.
Inbox zero. Yes, mate. Yes.
I shoved my phone in my pocket and went to the row in front of Peter and Sandra. I kneeled on the seat and dangled my arms over the headrest. "Whatcha talking about?"