14.15 - Bench Boost
15.
Thursday, October 1
The Bluebell Café in Great Barrow was a hidden gem. Great food, well-priced, and the profits went back into the community. The café was set in a vast country manor estate called Barrowmore, a fifteen-minute drive from Bumpers Bank, and when the bluebells were in bloom the grounds were like something from a fairy tale.
I sipped my tea and looked around the conservatory with its cosy woodland views, which were relaxing even on a slightly miserable, damp day like today. Emma had discovered the place and had turned us all into fans. Originally built as a rich dude's stately home - one of the most splendid in the country, apparently - it had become a hospital. The official history said it had been damaged by a landmine in the Second World War, which sent my imagination reeling. How did a building trip a landmine?!
In recent years, Barrowmore had been converted into commercial units and 'supported housing' - residences for men who had fallen on hard times, a refuge where they could get some stability and just a little nudge in the right direction.
Leo, the guy serving me, was in his mid-forties. He didn't have Coaching Outfield Players 20 - so far as I knew - and he couldn't teach strikers how to press against a double pivot. Unlike my fantastic coach Clive O'Keefe, then, I couldn't use Chester FC's resources to directly help him. Leo was a simple fellow who needed routine and stability, and yes, someone to cajole him into washing his clothes and to help him with life's paperwork. His mum had done that until she 'fell asleep' (as Leo put it). Moving to Barrowmore had turned his life around, put him on an upward trajectory.
Had Clive O'Keefe, who had once coached at a high level in Germany, continued on his downward spiral he could have ended up here but his force-of-nature daughter Tiggy had slowed his descent and I had caught him in my net. The Chester FC community were gently bringing him back to the surface; he knew he was wanted. Two hours a week of coaching had become three and then four. Four hours of elite coaching for us, enough money to pay the bills for Clive.
As for me, it wasn't too hard to imagine that I could have landed in supported housing. As a call centre drone I had just barely been scraping by. If I had lost my job, been slapped with a couple of badly-timed bills, had some kind of crisis, who knows? I could have been the one making tea just how the local celebrity liked it.
"Mate," I said, as Leo brought six menus to the table. "You've nailed it again. This cuppa is another masterpiece."
He looked pleased. "It's easy to make tea for you, Max. You like it done right."
Now it was my turn to flush with pleasure. "That's a good point! I'm the one who understands what tea is supposed to be. It's everyone else doing it wrong. Yes, I wholeheartedly agree with you." I picked up one of the menus. "We only need five, thanks."
"Oh," he said, with a worried glance towards the front. "Someone called to change the reservation from five to six. I could... check."
"Leo, it's okay," I said, in a kindly tone, as I placed the menu down. "Let's see who turns up. Maybe it'll be Harry Styles at last."
"It's more likely to be Harry Potter."
"Whoever it is will see some Max Best magic, I can tell you that."
"Oh, lovely."
"I'm going to solve problems that don't even exist."
Leo considered those words. "That sounds like something you'd be good at. The soup of the day is leek and potato."
"Amazing."
Solving problems that don't exist? I reviewed the purpose of this meeting. The primary impulse behind my proposals was to make improvements to our work flows but there was a chance that the changes would help me to hack the Bench Boost perk.
Bench Boost was one of my most overpowered abilities. When I used it, any substitute who went onto the pitch would play ten to twenty percent better. It had helped the Beth Heads beat Man City, allowed the Chester kids to beat Wolves at Das Tournament, and got Grimsby to within one handball goal of beating Wrexham. I was able to use it once per competition per season but the curse sometimes got confused about when I was in charge, when I was merely assisting, and when I was playing. I was hoping to stretch the boundaries of my role in a way that would confuse the curse and make Bench Boost available even when I wasn't technically managing a particular match. If I could achieve that, I would be able to use Bench Boost in the Cheshire Cup and for women's matches without usurping the person who was managing those games. Usurping Pascal Bochum wasn't a big issue because I had told him I planned to do that from time to time, but thinking ahead, it would be amazing if I could trigger manager-only perks when I wasn't strictly speaking the manager.
At two minutes to twelve, three men arrived in a bubble of happy energy. Pascal Bochum, women's team manager, sat opposite me. Peter Bauer, player-coach, took the spot to my right. Colin Beckton, player-coach, sat opposite Peter, to the right of Pascal as I looked. A ball-playing defender, a creative forward, a deadly striker, and that was just me. "What is funny?" said Peter.
"Just thinking we'd be a pretty amazing five-a-side team," I said.
"We need a goalie," said Colin.
"No," said Pascal, as he grabbed a bread roll and sawed it open. "We don't."
The three coaches chatted about what level of opponent we would beat if we only played with four, and Pascal was telling the others that I had once been an unbelievable sticksman when Sandra Lane came in, along with our mystery sixth guest. Sandra's wife, Aiden, was tired. The reason for that wasn't hard to guess - little Jamie Lane-Beeks was ten months old (according to my spreadsheet) and when he wasn't cackling he was crying, which sounds like some authors I know.
Aiden settled in the seat to my left, with Sandra opposite. JLB got a high chair from whence he made noises I won't try to describe.
"Top," I said, when we were settled. "Let's order so I can get my speech out of the way. Big news, eat lunch, digest, I tell you the plan for the match against Bolton, then blow your socks off by telling you why the exact same strategy will work in the cup against Barnsley with just one player change. It's remarkable stuff. I should win an award for this."
Aiden eyed me. "Is the theme of your 'speech' going to be about how some horrible zombie movie is your favourite movie?"
"No."
"I don't want Jamie learning about zombies, Max."
I was incredulous. "When have you ever heard me talking about zombies?"
Aiden was one of those people who remembered things, which made her a dangerous adversary. "Twice that I have learned of, you told the Das Tournament boys that you were part-zombie. Oh, you also told them your brain was full of carrot juice that you dried out by eating plasticine."
I nodded. "Are you having second thoughts about me being Jailbreak's Godfather?"
"Pardon me?"
"Jailbreak," said Peter. "Short for Jamie Lane-Beeks."
"It's his rap gangster name," said Pascal.
"Suits him," said Colin.
"Didn't I tell you?" said Sandra.
Aiden's eyes flashed dangerously but her face softened. "I might be on no sleep but you're not going to wind me up that easily. The next one who uses that name is on nappy duty. There. Problem solved."
While we waited to order, Colin asked Aiden baby questions. Leo came and went. "Okay, let's do this," I said.
Aiden, not being employed by me and being a Man City fan, was not as reverential about me as I deserved. "I thought you were in Wales for the week? Organising dramatic three-two comeback wins and all that."
"I saw enough last night. Sorted out the last thing I needed to sort out and I suddenly urgently wanted to come and have this private and very important planning meeting at the earliest opportunity."
"Oh," said Aiden, fake-impressed. Rinsing me.
"I got up early and drove north. Well In drove south. We met in the middle and I told him what's what."
"What is what?" asked Sandra.
"He's taking over as Wales's assistant manager. The other guy, er, has a bad back. Or a sick fish. That's tbd. I gave Well In detailed analysis of every player in the current Welsh squad. There are a few guys not in the squad who should be, but we're stuck with that lot for this particular camp. Well In's going to go with the lads to Paris and with luck they'll get a result against France. That ambition might be wishful thinking but we're moving in the right direction. France will probably win every match, which actually simplifies the challenge. I think we can finish second in the group ahead of Poland."
"Who's going to manage Saltney?" asked Pascal.
"Well In," I said. "He won't be full-time with Wales. He'll be at the matches offering tactical support and of course if he has time to go and do some coaching, too, he'd fucking love that. Sorry for the language, Jailbreak."
Pascal pointed at me. "You have to do the diapers!"
I smiled. "Do you really think Aiden is going to trust me to change a nappy? I'm a man child. Everyone knows that. At most I could put some paste on a spoon and airplane it into J-Lob's gob."
Aiden said, "You don't fool me. You'd be a good dad."
"Does everyone know the saying 'It takes a village to raise a child?' No? It's like, everyone has to chip in. Parents, teachers, elders, randos. There's always something to do. It's like football. It takes a village to raise a club. I do loads but it's a team thing. Well In has one very visible, very important thing to do with the national team but he gets that Saltney is important for the future of Welsh football. For a better TV deal, because this season is already the most exciting one in years, for the Northern Powerhouse, and for making fat stacks of cash for all the right people. Including him. Heh."
"What if there's a fixture clash and Wales play on the same night as Saltney?" said Pascal.
"Then you'll get a phone call," I said. "Or Peter, or Colin. If it's against TNS, I'll do it. This is what I meant about needing a village to raise a club. I prepared a speech. Let me..." I cleared my throat. "Okay, I'm going to start from the beginning." I closed my eyes, got into the zone, and gripped the chest of my hoodie like it was a waistcoat. "Fourscore and seventy-seven years ago..."
"Veto," said Aiden. "Get on with it."
"Right." I spun my finger around. "We're in Barrowmore because it's awesome but also because I wanted to make a point. Sometimes people need a boost and there's no shame in that. I'm waiting for a certain notification from the bank and that got me thinking about the origin of the word bank. Some say it came from the Italian word for bench, which as you know is banco. Guys would lend money from bancos. If you needed a cash boost, you'd go to the bench. Us five here, we're the bench for the Chester first teams, aren't we? It's our job to boost the players.
"But I poked around and it seems the bench story isn't right. The real origin came from a different meaning of banco, which was more like the bank in embankment. An earthen wall. Bank as in river bank. People talked about funds set aside for charity as banks, virtual walls to enclose and protect, something you could climb up. In 2026, if you're at a low point in your life's journey you can come here, to Barrowmore, and get a boost. If you're at a low point in your football journey, you go to Bumpers Bank and we'll give you a leg up.
"I think the synergy between what they do here and what we do at the football club is obvious. Brooke certainly thought so. She came, took one look around, and the next day she had PowerPoint slides. So many slides! It wasn't long before we had a Chester Chatters branch right over there in the main building; they watch games together in the common room. B+B - Brooke and Brig - have been getting the youth teams to come and learn about growing food, which as you can guess is actually a scam to give a boost to the volunteers. It's not just volunteers, there are serious local businesses based here, too, who give opportunities to people who really need them. I'm really happy to support all these kinds of projects. We're going to offer super creamy cheesecakes made here as part of our hospitality packages. There's a woman who does high-end furniture and we used her to kit out the sponsors' boxes and they're looking brilliant. I actually bought a swinging bench for our back garden, too. There's a school for autistic children and because we went there, one of the women's squad said she was autistic and it was such a relief for her to tell us. It's just fascinating to me. Touch one person, you touch everyone. It's not always obvious what's working but we're really making an impact."
"You're going great," said Aiden, giving me a maternal back rub.
I waited for her to follow the praise with some light snark, but she had finished. "Thanks," I said. "Last night was quite emotional for me because I saw some of the impact of what I've been doing and I had no idea that was coming. It lit a fire under my arse and you know the saying, strike while the arse is hot, so I got the people together and said look, this is how we can get the most out of this opportunity. We needed to nail the three parts of the football management, er, triangle. The three Ts. Talent ID, tactics, and motiva-ting."
"Motiva...ting?" said Peter. "Max, that's terrible."
"I know. Need to workshop it, but when my head was spinning and fizzing and exploding and I was literally spawning new universes I thought about what we do at Chester and I thought, shit, I'm so incredibly conventional."
"Oh, fuck," said Pascal. "Sorry for the bad language, Jailbreak."
"Oi," said Aiden.
Colin said, "If you want Chester to pivot into being a professional zorbing club, I'm down for that."
"Is that the one where you run around in a giant plastic ball?"
"Yes."
"Interesting. Someone write that down." I drained my tea. "I want to talk about the future. A project we could call Bench Boost. Before I get into it, just know that I'm happy with your work. We're top of our leagues and we're smashing everything. I love it. Change doesn't mean I'm not happy with how things are going, but I'm convinced we can get a few more percent out of ourselves quite easily and the only reasons not to are little things like personal pride and vanity."
Peter shook his head. "Pride is important to some people, Max."
"Yeah but when we win football matches we give the whole area a boost. When we get promoted we get more broadcast money, more sponsors, and when we spend it we boost our entire community. When Chester's economy is doing well, when we grow the pie, places like this get resources, too." I eyed Leo. "That means that vulnerable men get into homes, they get someone looking out for them, and when they go to the common room to watch their local team on the big telly, they've accidentally walked into a mental health charity. And this is just one of fifty things we're doing. I'm willing to take a tiny hit to my level of fame to improve the lives of thousands of people."
"I am now going to shut my mouth," said Peter, zipping his lips.
"Don't do that," I said, "but everything I say now has the potential to be misunderstood so please bear with me. I'll say it again. I'm happy. Things are going great. But if Brooke leaves I might have to chip in with the business side a bit more. Talk to sponsors and the council and God knows what."
"Brooke's leaving?" said Aiden, suitably horrified.
"It's up in the air," I said. "She doesn't want to talk about it until the Wycombe game. We have a brief pre-match ceremony planned; I'm going to give a little speech, which, ah, which will be legendary. Unless she usurps it, which is the vibe I got. I'm half-convinced she'll announce it then. Then again, maybe not because she's got all her attention focused on getting the new stand as ready as possible and time's running out and she probably wouldn't want to make the day about her. Yeah, look, whenever and wherever she goes, whatever she does is gonna be sick in a good way but I'm operating under the assumption that she will go home to run an expansion team. But in a way it doesn't matter if she goes or stays - "
"It bloody does," said Aiden.
"The goal of every floating megabrain should be for his empires to run without him. That's why I invented a management technique called Inbox Zero." Aiden opened her mouth, but Peter shook his head and she didn't say anything. I continued. "I'm not getting very far very fast, am I? I mentioned the three Ts. Talent ID isn't vital on a match day. What matters most when the whistle blows is tactical knowledge and motivating skills. The five of us have varying strengths and weaknesses but as a group we veer to the tactical. On Sunday, Pascal, I watched you make changes that made tactical sense while fitting into the overall remit of developing our players. Obviously that's mint but you went juuuust a little too far." I smiled, which didn't reassure him much. "Hey, I did it loads at first. Got cocky, threw on pramloads of kids, had some hairy moments. When I got Sandra, she became the voice of reason. Maybe we don't have three Welsh dragons in midfield... at least not until they've hatched." Pascal accepted that was a good line. "Sandra and I dropped a few points last season by putting on too many kids but that was a calculation and at a certain level of football there is no safe number of kids you can use. Losing a few matches to gain a few future stars is worth it. Losing because you got cocky... that stings."
Aiden said, "Is this meeting to rag on Pascal? You should do that in private."
"Do you remember when I said I wasn't ragging on anyone and told them they were all top? Do you remember when I said that two minutes ago?" Our soups and salads started to arrive. I tried to speed up. "I was actually complimenting Pascal's tactical nous and he's got good people skills, too, but what I've been reminded of this week is that this isn't a one-man job. You can really only focus on one part of the management triangle at a time. Even on my best days, when I'm so in control of the sitch I can see the roots of the grass, I miss things. If Pascal had support on Sunday, that person might have seen that Maddy was too upset with herself to keep pushing, or that Kisi was in two minds about joining attacks, or whatever. The women's team might have one shot to get into the big time before the big teams pull up the drawbridge, the cowardly fucks, so from now on, one of us will be Pascal's assistant manager in every match."
"Oh," said Pascal, for whom the conversation had taken a dramatic turn. Any thoughts of being demoted were abolished. He was getting a minion! The minion, though, would be more senior to him. He looked from Sandra to Colin to Peter. "One of..."
"One of us," I said. "I'll do Leeds away this Sunday."
"You?" said Pascal, eyes as wide as plates.
"Yeah, it's like I was saying. My ego is big but it won't stop me doing my best for the club and the community. You absolutely need someone there to point out things you're missing. It isn't much, mate. You're doing great but the men's team can lose loads of matches and still get promoted. The women can't. So I'll take the first shift."
Part of the reason was to try an experiment. If I was Pascal's assistant manager while technically being his manager, would that weirdness trick the curse into letting me use Bench Boost? Leeds away seemed like it would be one of the hardest matches all season, even if Leeds had struggled in their early games. If my hack didn't work, the principle of what I was saying was sound. Managing a Chester first team was no longer a one-man job.
"Now, it maybe isn't ideal to have me in the dressing room because if I say something and you say the opposite, that's going to cause mayhem. The solution to that is we both understand that you're the manager and what you say on a match day goes. And we're going to do it again and again until it becomes normal. The assistant's role isn't to intervene, necessarily, but to tell you things we're seeing that you can act on. When you want to make a sub, you'll bring the assistant off to the side and you'll explain your thinking and if it makes sense, away we go. If your plan is risky, we'll point out the risk just in case you haven't considered it. I've found that just having Sandra there makes me ninety-nine percent less likely to make a change just to show off."
Aiden said, "Why didn't you give him an assistant before?"
"I did. He's got Elin, and Jill is on hand. But I didn't want to put a big name on the bench next to him because of how the world will perceive that. It's like, oh there's Peter Bauer holding his younger brother's hand as he learns to ride a bike." I shook my head. "That perception crap is no longer welcome in my decision-making process. It can't be, not if I want the absolute best for the club and the community. And this might sound harsh but Pascal's personal development as a manager isn't a priority. With someone next to you, mate, you might learn a little bit slower but I've got good news. In ten years, you'll still be the youngest manager in the Bundesliga."
He was looking down, but he smiled slightly, and I thought I saw a tiny nod. "The team must come first."
"That's the spirit. If it makes you feel better, I'm very smug that I put you in your role and I wasn't joking about you taking the odd Saltney match if you are interested. You know what the issue is - the women's leagues are absolutely brutal and small and that means there's no room for mistakes."
"Two heads are better than one."
"Yeah but it's one and a half heads. One big Pascal head, complete with megabrain, plus a glorified swimming pool attendant."
Peter pointed at Jamie. "No kissing in the pool!"
Jamie gurgled.
Colin said, "You want me to do this some weeks? I'm willing, boss, but it's a lot of work. I can't do full analysis on the men's and women's teams."
"I do want you, yes, because you're mint and you've got unique skills and experience and you're better on the personal side than most of us. But I'm maybe not explaining what I want." I paused. "Pascal's doing the analysis. It's good stuff that we don't need done twice. When you're the assistant, I want you to rock up on a Sunday morning, nice and chill, and let Pascal tell you the plan. He'll tell you the key things he's trying to achieve and all you need to do is be a second set of eyes. If he's focused on the tactical battle, you can check for morale, players boiling over, players trying to hide injuries. At half-time you can comment on how the ref is punishing certain fouls - or not. That kind of thing. You might not need to say anything at all."
Aiden said, "Are you asking your staff to work seven days a week?"
"I'm getting absolutely smoked from this corner. Colin, will you swap places with me? No? Aiden, as you know I'm incredibly reasonable and I study British employment law for fun. Anyone who does a Sunday assignment... gets a weekday off. There, bosh. Pascal only needs one assistant, doesn't he? And there are four of us."
Aiden looked from me to Peter to Colin. She counted three. She looked at Sandra. "Ah."
Sandra said, "Ah."
Pascal said, "Oh."
I nodded. "Sandra, it takes a village to raise a club. You're a village elder. I think I've been thinking too much about your Wikipedia page. Trying to give you matches that you'll bosh so you'll have a great win percentage. Trying to keep my promise to develop your career. Part of that meant keeping you away from the women's team, just really keeping a wall between you and them. Anyone who ever said why don't you put the woman in charge of the women, well, they've long since shut up. You've got wins in League Two, wins in League One, your brand is growing and while I don't think your reputation will be hurt if club owners see you helping Pascal on a Sunday morning, we have to be realistic and say that it might. But if your presence on the touchline turns one draw into a win, that could be worth millions to this club, and by extension, tens of millions to the community."
She was quiet and thoughtful while she chewed on some lettuce. She took a swig of water, swallowed, and jabbed her fork at me. "Asking a female football coach to help with the women's team. Now that's unconventional."
I didn't smile. "I want us to think of ourselves as one coaching unit. We go where we're needed in whatever order and we leave our ego at the door. We're all good at this but we all need help. I'm going to think slightly less about how you appear to future employers, your win percentages, and things like that, and think slightly more about us as a collective. We're not individuals. We're part of a blob."
Aiden said, "Can you please refrain from talking about my wife that way?"
"Sorry, no. In blob we trust." I stirred my soup. "I need to specifically ask. Sandra, are you comfortable chipping in with the women's team? And are you okay with technically being the assistant to someone you would expect to manage?" I said that while gesturing that while I meant Pascal this time, it could one day be Peter or Colin.
"Yes," she said, as she forked a cucumber and drowned it in dip. "Do I get a pay rise?"
"No."
"Worth a try."
"Colin? Peter? You cool with this?"
"Of course," said Peter.
"Actually sounds fun," said Colin. "I'm learning a lot. I'll need that day off, though, Max. I need to see my kids."
"Top," I said. I hadn't really expected any resistance, but it was good to see that play out. "I'm going to hire another outfielders coach and that will take some of the load off. I've actually got a stack of CVs with me."
I reached into my backpack and took out approximately eighty manila folders. I got up and brought a bin closer to where we were sitting, then eyed the stack, cut it approximately in the middle, and threw half of the files into the bin.
"The fuck?" said Aiden.
"I don't hire unlucky people," I said.
Her shock was immense and Colin's wasn't far behind, but the others couldn't keep their poker face. "Oh what the fuck," said Aiden, laughing.
Colin reached into the bin and sure enough, the folders were empty. "How long have you been carrying those around?"
"I stopped at the stadium on the way here," I said. "Secretary Joe has millions."
"Fucking hell, Max," said Aiden, still laughing hard. It was obvious she needed a good release. "That's demented. Sandra, is this what he's like all the time?"
"Yeah."
"I'm actually a joy to work for. Okay I'm not looking at CVs for this position because I've already got someone. She's called Luisa and while she's not a top skills coach like you lot, she's elite at motivating. And she speaks Spanish and Portuguese, which is helpful."
"Luisa full-time?" said Pascal.
"Yep. That okay?"
"Yes," he said. I had to assume he was over his near-fatal crush on her. He had a long-term girlfriend and a super cute Spanish teacher. How many women could the guy be in love with?
"Yeah Luisa will be interesting because she doesn't like football." I nearly laughed at Aiden's shocked expression. "You know the way they say the way to get the right answer online is to post the wrong one? Luisa doesn't like watching football but even more than that, she hates watching it done wrong." I turned to Colin and Peter. "You'll explain your drills to her and she'll pick them up quick. You can leave her in charge of half the group and she'll let them know when they're slipping." I cackled slightly, but then caught myself. "I'm still looking for another megacoach but people like you don't grow on trees."
I started on my soup and spooned up a few lip-smacking mouthfuls.
"Just remembered something important," I said. "Match days are when everyone's at the stadium, yeah? Sponsors, scouts, agents, our directors, our staff, potential signings, it's just a really important time and that's time I don't want to spend being asked what I thought of the referee. Jesus Christ, I'll happily go the rest of my life without talking to anyone from the media ever again." My phone pinged. "Fucking hell! It's Beth. Talk about timing." I took my phone off the table. "I don't want to talk to the media and I believe that the five of us becoming more blob-like, sharing duties, sharing expertise and so on, is going to be good and healthy and I'm willing to put my money where my mouth is."
I slurped up some soup, got to my feet, and picked up my Godson. "Gah?" he said.
While cradling him in my left arm, I puffed out my cheeks and made a distinctive gesture with my right hand. I brought it close to my cheek and sort of flicked the fingers out as I spoke. In a muffled voice, I said, "I'm gonna make your mother an offer she can't refuse."
"Wah?" said little baby Jamie.
I went even deeper into my Marlon Brando The Godfather impersonation. "Offer aunt fuse," I mumbled.
"Is that from Casablanca?" said Pascal. "I wouldn't know."
I said, "I'm gonna take you next year, you little whingehead." Jamie liked the word, so I said, "Pascal's a little whingehead, isn't he? He's got a tinge of whinge under his fringe."
"Cringe," said Aiden. "What's the offer?"
"Hold this," I said, handing her baby over like he was a thermos.
I got down on one knee and romantically whipped out a business card. It was one of Sandra's - yes, we sometimes used business cards - but I had crossed out the words 'assistant manager'. "Sandra Lane, I'd like to formally offer you the position of Chester FC co-manager."
Everyone at our table stopped eating. Little Jamie looked at his mother with a derpy expression. Sandra said, "Co-manager?"
"Yeah. You basically do this already. I'll still do the director of football side of things, scouting and squadbuilding and all that but if you're the co-manager, we don't have to think about who is in charge of a particular match because we always both will be." At a minimum, I expected to be able to use Bench Boost in a match where Sandra was in charge, such as the one we had just played against Bristol Rovers. "And as co-manager, you'll be able to do the media stuff even when we get to the Prem and Europe. There's no way there's a rule that says one co-manager has to do half the media stuff. If you're the same level as me, they have to talk to you!"
"Max," said Aiden, who was smiling. "Two things. One, get up off your knee; I don’t want Emma beefing with us. Two, don't suggest talking to Sandra is a punishment for the media."
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I got up and held my arms out. Aiden gave me Jamie back. "I can't stand it. I can spend ten minutes shouting at Dazza and telling him openly and honestly what's wrong with him and his country but if the TV guy even says 'Dazza struggled today' I want to rip his head off. Sandra's temperament is impeccable." I lifted Jamie up and locked eyes with him. "Maxy wanna rip a head off!"
"Yahhh!" agreed Jamie. I tucked him back into my left arm and gently bounced him. He liked that.
"Everyone, this is an idea of astonishing genius. Jamie, consider yourself lucky to have witnessed this moment. Sandra, I actually thought about flat out making you the full manager but then I'd lose my streak. Technically, I've been Chester manager for 1,255 days and I'm flying up the table of longest-serving managers. I'm nearly in the top 15 for longevity, which is so so mad if you think about it."
Pascal was thinking hard. "What will this change?"
"Nothing, really. Division of labour will stay the same. I'll still have the final word and all that, but Sandra's Wikipedia page will look a lot better."
Peter said, "I thought we didn't care about that?"
"We don't base our decisions around such fripperies but if you're an integral part of an epic tear up the divisions, your CV is gonna look good anyway. And as co-manager, not that we care about appearances, it will make more sense that Sandra is chipping in with the women's team. Yeah, it's a step down, the gammons will say, but that's what good managers do. They chip in. There aren't many self-made men in charge of football clubs these days. Not the kind who started a business and did odd jobs, mopped the floors when they were short-staffed, all that kind of thing. But if there are, they will see Sandra rolling her sleeves up and making sure the entire business is doing well and they'll think ah yes, she reminds me of me."
Aiden tutted. "Hang on. It's like Peter said, you've gone right back into thinking what this looks like from the outside. Two minutes ago you were saying we weren't going to do all that."
"I had to explain the steps in the process so you'd understand where I was coming from."
"Bullshit," said Aiden. She laughed hard. "What bullshit! You make decisions then find ways to justify them. And what was this whole charade about banks and villages and making Sandra agree to do menial jobs - no offence, Pascal - but this whole time you wanted to give her a promotion? You could have started with that!"
Peter gave me a dry look. "He wanted to test Sandra."
Everyone looked at me. "What?" I said, looking every bit as innocent as little baby Jamie. I frowned, suddenly, because in the manic aftermath of my offer, Sandra hadn't spoken.
She was holding the business card. Staring at the place where I had written her new job title. She glanced up. "Do I get a pay rise?"
"No. You get new business cards and the chance to get more bodies."
"Bodies? What?" said Aiden, but the boys knew what I was saying.
Colin shook his head. "Paul Smith at Northampton. Max thinks he lost his job the minute Sandra beat him and he has been dead man walking ever since."
That was true. Smithy's job status had shown as 'very insecure' since the first match of the season. "By the way, Pascal, as part of this bench blob thing we're doing, you get a couple of Sundays off."
"Oh," he said, as his shoulders sagged.
"Northampton didn't want to outright sack Paul Smith so they moved him across into the women's team." I switched to a baby voice and twinkled at Jamie. "Guess who's in our league? Guess who's in our league? Guess who's managing a team in the same league as Sarah Greene and Kit Hodges? He's back from the dead, isn't he? Isn't he, Jamie? He's a zombie manager, isn't he? Who wants mommy to be the first manager to get a man sacked twice in one season?" I took Jamie's arm and held it up. Pascal, now sitting up straight and grinning, raised his hand, too. Peter, delighted with his own daring, half-raised his hand. I gasped with delight. "Mommy gonna kill a zombie!"
"Max," complained Aiden.
I laughed. "It was your idea! You put it in my head. It wasn't my fault. It was the furniture!" Sandra hadn't accepted the job yet. I crouched down and used Jamie's teeny tiny little hand to pat her on the shoulder. "Mommy gonna take job? Mommy gonna be ledge?"
Sandra licked her lips and suddenly Aiden was there. Like me the night before, Sandra was trying not to cry. She had decided to leave her cushy but probably dead-end job working at Manchester City in pursuit of one of the biggest challenges in sport - being a woman people listened to. She had slogged, she had put in the hours, and why? With the goal of one day being properly in the hot seat.
The slog was over; she had arrived. Pascal, Peter, and Colin offered handshakes and congratulations. So did Leo, though he didn't know the actual reason.
I handed Jamie to his mothers and went back to my soup while it was still at least vaguely warm.
"One thing," I said, as Sandra wiped her eyes and showed her business card to Jamie. "Two things. One, I want to announce this when we welcome the fans to the new stand. Please keep it under your hats till then. Especially you, Jamie, you little blabbermouth! Yes, you. Two, player co-manager...? Nah. I'm still going to call myself player-manager, if that's all right."
"That's all right, Max," said Sandra. She breathed in, held the air, and slowly released it. "Wow."
Leo had hung around, and now his gaze went from Sandra to Jamie to Aiden and back again. I saw Aiden tense up; she knew exactly what Leo was going to say. She thought she did, anyway. For once, I knew better. Leo patted the baby on the head. He said, "I wish I had two mums."
***
After our mains, Aiden said she was going to take Jamie for a little walk. "One second," I said. "Did you watch Welcome to Wrexham?"
"Yes, we love it. It's interesting to see how a normal football club operates."
"Yeah. We can learn what not to do, which takes me to my question. Do you remember they had that one goalkeeper? Rob? And he got bad injuries three years running in the same fixture against the same team? I can't remember if it was the exact same date every time, too. It was really, like, hey! Don't use that goalie in that match, you know?"
Colin said, "Are you superstitious, Max?"
"Not very, but sometimes the universe is just telling you things, you know? I just think there are times you look at your player and look at the upcoming fixtures and say, yeah, you're not coming on this one."
"Yeah, I agree," said Aiden. "Why risk it? You've got other players."
"Bosh," I said. "Case closed."
Aiden gave me a strange look, because what had been the purpose of me delaying her walk? Surely not for something so inane?
Suddenly, Pascal's chair shot back and he was on his feet. "No! I want to play!"
"Aiden says no," I said.
Aiden was lost and slightly alarmed. "What does he mean?"
I gestured that Pascal should pick his chair up and calm the eff down. "Do you remember some guy broke Pascal's leg into a thousand pieces?"
"Oh," said Aiden. "That's Bolton. That's your next opponent."
"Exactly."
Pascal put his head on the table and covered himself with his arms.
"Mate," I said. "Remember when I was in a coma? You, Henri, Jackie, all the lads, you took it out on the oppo, didn't you? Smashed the league up. What was it, six wins out of seven? When Bolton put your leg in a coma, we fucked them up and we'll fuck them up again this Saturday. That's what teamwork is. On Tuesday you'll be key to beating Barnsley and keeping us in the Vans Trophy. Win that and we're well on our way to Wembley. You can be disappointed if you want but there's no fucking way you're playing against Bolton, so..." Jamie was getting cranky. "Do you want to go outside and splash in puddles with Jamie or do you want to discuss my tactical plan for the next two matches?"
Aiden pointed at Pascal. "Mate. I like you. Don't make me take Max's side on this."
Peter chuckled quietly, while Colin clapped Pascal on the back. Pascal sat up, ran his hands through his black hair, and stared upwards. "I can splash in puddles later when no-one is looking."
I laughed. Colin gave a nod of approval. Sandra said, "This is my favourite blob."
***
"Let's talk about Bolton," I said. "We'll still be missing Youngster, Dazza, and Cole, but thanks to Alan Turner we've got Rushy and Wibbers available. Bolton are strong." I reckoned they would be around CA 110, very much the top end of the League One range. "Their manager loves a bit of three at the back. At home it's 3-4-1-2, away they are 3-5-2 merchants. It wouldn't surprise me if they do 3-5-2 against us because we're so dangerous. Colin, you wanted to say something?"
"I was just gonna say, that was my read, too."
"The difference between their formations is fractional," I said, "but it shows the guy's mentality. He veers towards the cautious. What we know is that they'll try to build up through the lines, play out from the back. We're going to start with a 4-5-1, very defensive."
"Four-five-one?" said Peter.
"Yeah, we'll soak up their pressure and give minutes to Adam and Alfie." They were the kids I had rescued from Man United. "Let me tell you the line up I want. This all goes for Barnsley on Tuesday night, too. We'll need Swanny in goal for both games. These are must must wins. Adam Summerhays will start at left back. Rushy on the right. Christian and Zach in the middle."
"Swanny, Christian, and Zach," said Peter. "I like that defensive triangle." From him, it was a great compliment. "That is tiptop."
"Is it the hammer?" I said, because I loved when Germans called things 'der hammer'.
"Das ist der hammer," sighed Peter, but he was grinning. For him and Pascal, the phrase was commonplace and they couldn't understand why I found it so delightful.
"Midfield from left to right. Josh Throw-Ins, Ryan Jack, Alfie Clitheroe, Andrew Harrison, Bark."
"Oh my God," said Pascal. "Sorry," he added.
"What's the problem?" I said.
He gave me a fixed smile because he had landed himself in hot water. "Nothing. It is wonderfully unconventional."
"Yeah, it's not our strongest," I said. "But remember Bolton aren't going to be going hell-for-leather, right? They will be starting cautious and we will basically be low-blocking for twenty minutes. Ryan knows where to stand and the others have loads of energy."
"Ryan knows where to stand," said Peter, shaking his head. "That's savage."
"I didn't mean it in a harsh way," I laughed. "We couldn't have five Ryans because it would be like training against the mannequins but one old, wise head in there will go a long way. Ideally we'll get to half time with that set up and maybe we'll even be a couple of goals up already."
"How's that going to happen?" said Peter.
"I'm going to play striker," I said.
Colin sat a little straighter. "Oh, I can't wait to see this."
I smiled. "I'm not going to give a masterclass in how to play the role you've been boshing for twenty years. I'm going to jog around, take it easy, and when they fuck up passing the ball around, which they will, I'm going to latch onto it and score. No big d. From twenty minutes or so, we'll start to make our changes. We'll lose the toddlers - "
"That's Adam and Alfie?" said Sandra.
"Yes."
"Just checking."
"When Adam leaves, Josh will slide to left back. Alfie, Ryan, Andrew, and Bark will come off. We will finish the match with Lee C, Duggers, Wibbers, Colin, and Gabriel. Four-two-four with Duggers one zone deeper than Wibbers. I'll bosh the centre and Lee will tidy up." Our average CA would start at a lowly 84.7, but we would finish at 98.5. Five players with CAs of 94, 96, 100, 103, and 105 would be Bench Boosted. My stamina was dropping but if I was careful in the early stages, I would be able to last the whole game. "On Tuesday we'll do the same - that will really mess with the analysts! But instead of Duggers, we'll use Pascal." The players had identical CAs so it didn't change our numbers.
Peter was nodding. "Good, but why not start with our strongest eleven?"
"Yeah most of the time that's what you want to do but a couple of times a season I like to throw one of these curveballs into the mix. If nothing else it makes life impossible for enemy analysts. You can scout us but you can't prepare for us. And imagine what it feels like if you're a Bolton player. You know when you're playing a match and everything's going great but something happens - a red card maybe - and you're under the cosh? The switch in state makes it harder than if you're suffering from the first minute. When we start weak and get stronger and stronger, it fucks with people's heads. It's ultra-high risk because Bolton could score twice in the first twenty minutes and then low block us. Right?
"Quick aside, I don't want the women's team doing this stuff. Not in the league anyway. Maybe against big teams in the cup. Talk to me before you cook up anything like this.
"Okay, back to Bolton. If it seems like it's going to complete shit or the younglings are imploding, I'll drop and support whoever's struggling until they get their heads in the game. We make sure we don't lose it in the first twenty, we bring on fresh legs, we get more ambitious, and in the last twenty we see what's up. This," I said, pausing to dampen a fire that was threatening to ignite within my chest. It was far too early to get hyped. Let the adrenaline come in the hour before kick-off and not before. "This will take pieces of everything I've learned in the sport. How to shuffle and slide, how to suffer, how to tune out all the shithousery that comes from the oppo and their fans. How to kill the clock. Making the first subs, hearing the roar from our fans because they know what those changes mean. Upping the tempo, winning our duels, earning the right to play, turning that into dominance. Being patient, drawing them onto us, countering. Pushing them back, crushing them under the weight of their own expectations, attacking from all angles. And when we slam the door open, running riot."
"What about Relationism?" said Pascal.
The flames inside me burst alive. "You think we're ready?"
Pascal shrugged. "If we're winning comfortably, I think it would be funny."
I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing until I felt calm. "No promises."
***
After we talked through my plan, I paid, left a bigger tip than usual, and went for a walk around the grounds. It was a peaceful place, perfect for thinking. Who knows where my thoughts might have taken me, but two things happened in close succession.
First, I remembered that Beth had texted.
Beth: I'm hearing the TV companies are pushing back on the WSL plans to end relegation. If the vote passes, the TV companies are going to slash the payouts. No relegation means no jeopardy, no interest, no drama, no product. You have been vocal about this issue. Can I have a quote?
Me: Max Best sighed and plucked a blade of grass that he rested between his soft, sensual lips. Who would have thought, he mused, as he stared into the distance like a prince of old, that the broadcasters would care more about our sport than the people who ran it?
Beth: Thanks, I guess.
Me: That was off the record.
Beth: Christ.
Me: Nah, go for it. Sock it to 'em!
As I stared at the turf around me, wondering why I would ever put a blade of grass in my mouth - dogs peed on them! - the monthly perk dropped.
For months, the imps had been offering me hot garbage that I had been deleting with unseemly glee.
This one, though.
This was a banger.
New perk available this month: Bench Boost Deluxe (plus Half-Assed)
Cost: 9,000 XP
Effects: Nominate an ally and boost their bench! Once chosen, the ally cannot be changed during the season, but you may choose one match per competition in which your ally's bench is boosted. The effect can be triggered remotely. Example! Make the manager of West Didsbury your ally and boost his subs bench in one league, one FA Trophy, one FA Cup, one Lancashire Challenge Trophy, and one friendly fixture.
Buying this perk also unlocks Half-Assed. If your ally acts as an assistant manager, you may boost his or her bench to half the usual Bench Boost effect.
Effects do not stack. Perks may not be used against teams you have a stake in.
This was one of the stranger perks I could remember. There were two things that amazed me. First, the entire point of the curse seemed to be that I should generate XP for Old Nick, preferably as a manager. The monthly perks were designed to keep me grinding and they were almost always about scouting or tactics or making my life as a manager easier. The idea that I would get a perk that boosted a completely different manager was really surprising. Second, the perk was an in-match boost that could be triggered remotely. From our awesome new swinging bench in our increasingly pretty back garden. From a boat on the Mediterranean! Me making millions while reapplying Emma's sunscreen was absolutely not what Old Nick wanted.
The more I thought about it, the more it made sense to allow me to trigger it from anywhere. In the example of West Didsbury, I would often be managing at the same time as they were playing so if I couldn't trigger it from elsewhere, the perk would have been almost useless.
The perk description's example of West Didsbury was a red herring, wasn't it? The timing of its release, just after I'd promoted Sandra, made me suspect I wasn't supposed to set her as my ally. If she wasn't my Ass, she couldn't Half-Ass it. Right?
No, this one was very much designed for me to use on Well In. I needed Saltney to win the league and this perk would help Well In beat our rivals TNS. The domestic cups were not my priority and we were already one of the better teams in Wales but Bench Boost could get us through tricky ties, or even just help us to rotate the squad. It was when we got into European competitions that it would come into its own. If I took control of Saltney for the first few games as I had done in Gibraltar, and I used my Bench Boosts to get us as far as possible, then Well In slipped back into the hot seat, we might even score some results in the league phase itself. Wins in the Champions League itself were worth a fortune.
Or wait. It didn't need to be me followed by him, did it? We could blob it up. If I was the manager and he was my assistant, we would have one full Bench Boost and one half boost per competition. Oh! Oh! What if we had a tricky tie and I were the manager for the first leg and Well In was manager for the second leg? We could use two full boosts that way. Fucking A!
The Half-Assed thing had clearly been crafted to be used by Well In when he was on Welsh duty. A well-timed half-boost might be enough to get Wales to the finals. And in the finals themselves... Two-nil down to an increasingly complacent England...
Heh.
The imps had done well with this one.
Max Best was back on the gains train.
***
Red Army is a hard-hitting Wrexham AFC podcast, unique in that club's media ecosystem since criticism of Ryan Reynolds is mandatory. The podcast has a Discord server open to its Patreon supporters. One of the channels on the server is called Always Bet on Best.
Saturday, Oct 3
ButteryCrumpets
All right, lads. Big game this afternoon. Best versus Bolton the Bochum Breakers. We know Best is going all-out on this one. It's not just revenge for breaking his player's leg and being fucking snide bastards, but Dylan's heard him talking about how he could knock Bolton out of the title race already if he smashes them up today. And he wants to be top of the league when Chester play their first match in their new-look stadium. I think mathematically they are already guaranteed that, but it's a question of style. Max Best doesn't crow about being top of the league if he's three points ahead having played two games more. No, this is a rare one where we know he's not holding anything back.
I've kept my slate pretty simple. Max Best to score at any time. More than two point five goals in the match. Chester to win.
What's everyone else doing?
DubaiGuy
I have Chester to win. Since Best came back from Gibraltar they have won five in a row and as we have said many times in the last week, this is one he really wants. I expect to see the strongest team take to the field, disregarding the players away on international duty.
I also think Bolton are better than they have been playing and if Best is whirling around in a revenge frenzy, they will give up chances. I placed a modest amount on both teams to score.
Stoop
You don't have Best to score?
DubaiGuy
It is impossible to know where he will play. He seems to think he is most effective as a defensive midfielder. He might take free kicks but he likes to do the opposite of what he did in the last match. If the keeper is expecting direct shots, Best will cross. I would not be surprised in the slightest if Best scores but I have been burned one too many times by his unexpected defensive stints.
Saint Derfel
I've got the same as Crumpets but I've also bet there will be loads of cards. It will kick off, won't it?
DubaiGuy
Ah, a most interesting proposition but I fear you might not get your payout on that one. Best's temper is greatly exaggerated and when he has spent time plotting, his teams play with ice in their veins. There was a famous match against Darlington after the publication of a scandalous article that was meant to destabilise Chester. They responded with one of the coldest and strangest but most disciplined performances of recent years.
Stoop
Yeah. Best told his players not to speak during the whole time they were in Darlington and they all went along with it. He gets yellow cards for proposing to his girl and whirling his shirt around and sometimes for telling the referee the mistakes he's making.
Saint Derfel
It just seems like if one match is going to explode it's going to be this one, right?
DubaiGuy
I worry we have veered into guessing. I do not wish to tell other people what to do but the aim of this room has always been to leverage particular insights we might have that a bookmaker does not. I apologise if I am overstepping.
ButteryCrumpets
Good to be reminded, DG. Any bet that puts money into the hands of the bookies is a bad bet.
BrokenGround
Oh no! What's this? Have you seen the team sheets? This isn't what we expected!
Stoop
Looking now.
Oh, shit. We're all cooked.
Who the hell is... Alfie Cockleton?
BrokenGround
Alfie Clitheroe. He's a crafty midfielder. Paul Scholes vibes.
Stoop
Oh! I like the sound of that.
BrokenGround
Yeah, no. Maybe in five years.
This isn't a team sent out to win. Best must have decided he can't beat Bolton and he's going for the Vans Trophy instead. This is a disaster. I've been careful recently but I thought this one was a nailed-on win. I went big.
DubaiGuy
I fear we have all been led up the proverbial garden path. Perhaps Best has been playing a long con with us. Perhaps he used his Gibraltar money to buy shares in the bookmakers.
BrokenGround
I sort of promised I wouldn't go poking around into that but last word on the subject, he definitely doesn't have the money. He's not worried yet. Not really. But it would stress you out, wouldn't it? Stands to reason.
DubaiGuy
I have had another look at that line up. Ryan Jack, two tadpoles, the young winger Barkley. This is not a very good team, I must say. I think I will go for a walk and contemplate my existence.
***
ButteryCrumpets
Is anyone watching this crap?
This has to be the worst game of football I've seen since Wrex were in the National League.
Stoop
I see Max Best strolling around while his team is under constant pressure. If he were my out ball I would go and murder him.
I mean, not murder, you know. Where's the edit button?
ButteryCrumpets
Yeah, we know you aren't actually threatening him, Stoop.
I don't get this. This is the big grudge match?
RetiredRed
I've just caught up. Looks like no-one had nil-nil on their predictions. Got to say, Chester are well-drilled defensively. You've got the two tadpoles as DubaiGuy put it, and yes they're bending but they don’t look like breaking, do they?
Stoop
Bolton weren't expecting this. They're not sure how many bodies to commit to their attacks. That's why it's so turgid. They're absolutely swamped by Chester defenders.
DubaiGuy
Stoop, I read your comment and practically skipped home. I feel young! I asked a chatbot to write a poem.
"The game is scrappy, home fans unhappy. Watch now as Max Best gets slappy."
Gentlemen, my head is clear and my scalp is tingling.
Stoop
Insert see a doctor joke here.
DubaiGuy
Why is Best walking around? To save energy. That means he plans to use all five subs but keep himself on.
Why is the match turgid? Because Best wants it that way. For now.
I am thinking of doubling down on my bets. Should I? No. That way madness lies.
RetiredRed
So you're thinking it'll stay dull for a while but there will be some kind of twist in the second half?
DubaiGuy
I am virtually certain of it.
RetiredRed
Okay I think I'll take the dog for a walk. Back in twenty minutes.
DubaiGuy
Oh, no. Retired Red, please tell me you saw that.
Stoop
Oops. He's gonna be so mad when he gets back.
You're in trou-ble!
DubaiGuy
He will forgive me.
And there goes the half-time whistle.
RetiredRed
Oh, what the hell?!
Stoop
lol
RetiredRed
Argh. Tell me what happened.
Stoop
Yeah so it was a whole bunch of nothing, same as the rest of the first half. Chester were knocking the ball around, all pretty pointless, Max Best looking at clouds or counting blades of grass.
Suddenly Ryan Jack accelerates - who knew he could do that?! - and clips a ball straight at a Bolton defender. Their left-sided one. He gets ready to head it away but Best appears and jumps in front of him. He does this insane... I don't know what you'd call it. He angled his head and flicked it past the defender. God, that makes it sound so simple.
ButteryCrumpets
He had to twist his head and he basically did a scoop pass to himself with his ear.
RetiredRed
With his ear?
ButteryCrumpets
Not his actual ear. That part of his head.
Stoop
What's mad is that you're probably trying to imagine what we're talking about... but it was the other ear.
RetiredRed
I'm lost. You're teasing me, right? This is a wind-up.
Stoop
Best sprints straight ahead. The ball's coming at a right angle from the right. He jumps, turns sideways so he's facing the ball, tilts his head back the way he came, uses the side of the head to scoop the ball over the defender.
RetiredRed
I think I can just about picture it.
Stoop
The goalie comes out to get it but you know how fast Best is. He goes to the ball and the keeper's thinking oh shit. He doesn't know if he should go back to his line, try to block the shot, or wipe Best out. While he's thinking about it, Best knocks the ball past him. Goal.
RetiredRed
Was it a lob?
Stoop
No, he side-footed it low. Probably harder than it looks but the real magic was the ear flick thing.
ButteryCrumpets
The commentators were saying it was lucky. The main guy said, 'Do you think he meant that?' The other clown said Best couldn't do that again if he tried it a hundred times.
RetiredRed
You think it was deliberate?
ButteryCrumpets
Hundred percent.
Stoop
We forgot to mention the yellow card.
After he scored, he whipped off his Chester top and spun it around his head. He ran to the nearest TV camera and stretched out his t-shirt so they could see what was on it. It was a huge X-ray of Bochum's broken leg.
He showed it to the Bolton bench, too, and that caused some aggro. Words, it is fair to say, were exchanged.
So now Bolton have to attack in the second half. It could get really messy for them.
lol
DubaiGuy
Three Chester changes at half time.
By the way, I agree the flick to himself was deliberate and that it was exquisite.
Saint Derfel
Different game now, isn't it? Without those young guns. Chester are inviting Bolton to come at them and they've got serious firepower on the break. That Roberts is storming around. Best has been keeping the kid chained up, underfeeding him, and now he has thrown Bolton into his pit.
ButteryCrumpets
Tense, isn't it? Lot of grafting on both teams but lacking the end product. I'm biting my nails. I need two more goals and don't see that happening.
RetiredRed
Want me to take the dog out? That normally works.
ButteryCrumpets
If you wouldn't mind, that'd be great.
RetiredRed
On it.
ButteryCrumpets
Haha, I was joking.
Oh.
I think he has actually gone.
Here come two more subs. Best loves to use all his subs early, doesn't he? If Parky did that, Wrexham would get a player injured and we'd have to play with ten.
Stoop
And there's your goal, lol. RetiredRed misses another banger.
ButteryCrumpets
My God, are we sure this kid isn't Welsh?
DubaiGuy
Best's goal came just before the 45th minute.
Roberts's goal came just before the 75th minute.
To restate the facts:
Goal 1 took 45 minutes.
Goal 2 took 30 minutes.
Goal 3 will therefore take 15 minutes.
Goal 4 will take 8.
Conclusion: This match will finish 3-0 but if you see the referee indicate there will be 8 minutes of stoppage time...
RetiredRed
Ah, that's better. I went to the pub to get a good spot to watch us play France later. They've got the Bolton game on the big screen.
Just seen the replay of that Roberts goal. He can hit a ball, that kid, can't he? Are we sure he's not got a Welsh grandparent?
ButteryCrumpets
I just said that, lol
Stoop
Where my tactics guys at? Am I looking at 4-2-4 away from home with threat from all corners of the pitch?
RetiredRed
The left back wouldn't get you a goal.
Stoop
He's got that long throw!
RetiredRed
No, good point.
Stoop
The right back on loan from United is bombing up the right, the centre backs score from corners, Roberts and Dugdale are far too good for League One, Colin Beckton's movement is world class, the Brazilian lump gets better every time I see him. Normally they're weak in central midfield but Best is there now so...
I don't want to play this Chester team next season!
RetiredRed
Parky will be gone by then and we'll have a manager who can hack it in the Championship.
ButteryCrumpets
Take it to the other discussion channels, guys.
Stoop
Soz, Crumpets.
DubaiGuy
There is your third goal, Mr. Butter!
ButteryCrumpets
Stoop, how did you know they were gonna let the kid do a long throw? I had forgotten he could do that. You mention it and bam! Chester load the box and he hurls it in. Bedlam, scramble, goal. Have you got a contact on the inside?
Stoop
No. I'm controlling Max Best like I'm playing EA Sports 26.
RetiredRed
Wouldn't it make more sense to control him via Soccer Supremo?
Stoop
Haha yes.
So two goals for Roberts-the-not-Welsh. Bit scrappy that one but you want a striker who scores all sorts of goals, right?
RetiredRed
You've got to be in the right place for those rebounds and he reacted faster than the defenders.
ToddlySatisfying
Just dipping into this channel because I'm also in a pub waiting for the big match in Paris tonight and all the rumours are that Best has set up the Welsh team and it's his mate helping out because the usual assistant manager got burned on a sunbed.
So what are we looking at here? It's three-nil to Chester, he's on a yellow card, this is his big revenge match. That's all I know.
Has he been running around like a hyperactive toddler the way he normally does?
ButteryCrumpets
No. He has done enough to get a comprehensive win but...
Ha. Only seven minutes of injury time. No fourth goal, says DubaiGuy!
OMG. Eureka moment, guys.
You ready?
He's saving some energy for Tuesday night!!!
Stoop
Fuck, you're right. I think you're right. Let's start getting the odds. Should we place bets before this one ends? Beating Bolton this comfortably is going to be a huge wake-up call for the bookies, right? We won't get decent odds for the rest of the season even if we get special info.
RetiredRed
But three-nil's not all that much of a piss take, is it? You don't look at three-nil and think 'wow they got battered'. He'll go for a fourth, surely?
Wait...
Hahaha!
Shows what I know.
Stoop
Nothing says fuck you I'm in charge of this match like a good old bit of Dylanball.
RetiredRed
Olé! Olé! Olé!
Stoop
Holy shit it’s absolutely hilarious. The balls to play like this against a title rival!
Look at them trying to get close enough to Best to hack at his legs.
Haa! He faked to kick it but let it run straight under his foot. Shocked Pikachu face to top it off. He’s taking the piss all right, but he’s gonna have some bruises.
DubaiGuy
I do not think we will get our fourth goal but I believe most of our bets landed. Best to score, three goals, Chester win.
If only we could bet on Best doing something slappable in every match!
ToddlySatisfying
This thing where they dance around the May pole or whatever it's supposed to be, I don't like this.
This is disrespectful.
Stoop
How would you feel if Wales were three-nil up against England and we spent the last ten minutes doing this?
Because if Best gets his way, that's what's going to happen.
ToddlySatisfying
I've changed my mind. I like what I'm seeing. Olé!
Hey, random thought. This Roberts kid. Has anyone checked if he's got a Welsh grandparent?
***
Later that evening, the following article appeared, tucked into a corner of the BBC's sports website.
France 3 Wales 2: Welsh Wonders Down But Not Out
A pulsating encounter at the Stade de France resulted in heartbreak for a gallant Welsh side. France surged into an early lead and bossed the first period, but half-time tweaks from the Welsh boss Patrick David saw the away side roar into an unlikely lead. The home crowd were stunned into silence. Not many teams come to Paris and bully the home team.
It didn't last long. Kylian Mbappé equalised and France spent twenty minutes battering the Welsh goal. The away team's heroic defence lasted until the 86th minute when the much-vaunted home side pulled decisively ahead.
Full report to follow...
***
Sunday, Oct 4
The latest blog post from News of the Blues, the leading news and views platform for all things Chester FC.
Bad Boy Enjoys New Toy As Minion Max Packs Stacks of Wisecracks
Think you've seen everything at Chester? Think again. You've never seen Max Best on assistant manager duty underneath Pascal Bochum. After last week's scare against Liverpool Feds, many assumed Best's appearance in the dugout today was a rebuke to Bochum for letting a two-goal lead nearly slip.
Not so. The German Bad Boy ruled the roost while Best spent the first half joking with our coterie of Welsh teenagers. At one point he appeared to be teaching them how to do Sudoku.
With Chester two-nil up, Best spent the half time break signing autographs and posing for selfies. Leeds had a good spell in the second half, during which Best could be seen on the touchline, cajoling his players, calling out jokes. Usual service was soon resumed, and Chester regained control against a surprisingly weak Leeds team.
With the score at three-nil going into the final ten minutes, Bochum handed a debut to the highly-rated Meredith Ann. The Colombian forward, playing at the tip of a 4-4-2 diamond, went on a couple of mazy dribbles and combined well with Angel. The debutant's smile at the final whistle was something to behold.
This was a much more controlled performance from the women and ensures that, just as with the men's team, they will be top of the league when they play their first home match of the season in the newly revamped Deva stadium.
***
Tuesday, October 6
From Cheshire Live.
Back to His Barnsley-Storming Best!
Chester are still in the Vans Trophy after a 3-1 win away to Barnsley. After a poor defeat in the first group match, the feeling was that Chester were not taking this competition seriously. Nothing could be further from the truth, although the early signs were not promising. Best once again named a weakened team.
We should have guessed his intentions when we realised it was the same starting eleven he had picked at the weekend.
This time it was Barnsley who scored the opening goal, but four half-time changes turned the match around. When Colin Beckton arrived on the hour mark, the game was practically one-way traffic with Max Best and Lee Contreras taking so complete a grip of midfield one wondered if Ian Swan would go into standby mode after such a long period of inactivity.
William Roberts continued his goal streak, scoring his third in two games. Pascal Bochum put Chester into the lead, and Gabriel thumped a near-post header through the hands of Barnsley's goalie.
League Two Doncaster Rovers will hold no fear for this team and Chester have to be favourites to progress into the round of 32. With the team flying this high, you wouldn't bet against them making their first ever appearance at Wembley.
***
Wednesday, October 7
Everything was going great. We. Are. Top of the league. Said we are top of the league! Que sera sera, whatever will be, will be, we're going to Wem-ber-ley!
In three days we would play our first game in the new stadium, on our new million-pound pitch. One way or another, it would be memorable. Dieter Bauer was coming and he had something to say that he couldn't say on the phone. Ominous? Who said that? You! Go to the back of the class!
I had my international players back. Youngster had added a point in CA, taking him to 107. International football suited him. Wycombe Wanderers would almost certainly smack up against Chester's first ever triple-digit average CA. Three and a half years of grinding, that took. What would we look like in another three and a half? CA 200, right? That was only logical. A training cap might slow us down but not in any meaningful way. I would make sure of that, and Youngster's latest pop had reminded me of one of my earlier ideas.
With my inbox at zero and my coaching blob coalescing beautifully, I spent the morning fussing over Emma. I cooked her a 'Full Geordie' breakfast, which was sausage on toast with lashings of tomato ketchup. While she merrily devoured that, I looked at matches I could attend in the next couple of weeks. The plan was to calculate a schedule that would get me to 9,000 XP in plenty of time without having to cut down on my Secret Sandra investments.
Emma didn't talk much when she was having brek, but she suddenly stopped munching and she turned to me. "I'm really proud of you, bebs."
I smiled. "Thanks, bebs."
I waited for more, but that was it. She went back to chewing. I fussed with the back of her neck for a while.
My phone pinged. I frowned because I didn't recognise the notification type. Tapping the link opened an app I had only ever used eighteen times. Once to set it up, once to check it worked, then five times on Monday, eleven times on Tuesday.
"Oh my God," I said.
"Uh?" said Emma.
I showed her the screen.
Generic Bank
Account name: Masterplanalytics UK
Balance: £1,000,077
Emma cleared some space in her mouth. "Bosh," she said, carefully.
I smiled, frowned, moved to a different section of the app, went back again, closed it, opened it. Whatever I did, the money remained. I was a millionaire. Maxy Two-Thumbs was a millionaire. Max Actual Best was a millionaire. The word seemed to lose all meaning. All words lost meaning. I babbled some absolute shit while I processed the top-to-tails numbness I was experiencing. "Bank comes from the Italian word banco meaning bench," I said. "When a banker lost his money, the local population ripped up his bench so he couldn't trade there any more. Hence the word bankripped."
Emma spluttered as she laughed. "You're so full of shit. You already told me the real meaning. It's about creating a wall to help the less fortunate climb out of poverty. That's what you're going to do, right? You're gonna be one of the good rich?"
"Of course," I said, wokely. You had to say that in front of other people. At least, you used to. In 2026...? "But on the other hand... I'm a millionaire now. I think I finally understand trickle-down economics. And yeah! Tax is theft. I don't have kids in the local schools. Why should I pay for someone else's kid to go to school? What a rip!" I scowled at the inherent unfairness of life. "Why can't everyone else just work harder if they want things? I'm an oppressed minority, if you think about it. Why do we even live here? Let's move to a proper country."
"Keep talking," said Emma, as she squirted more ketchup into her breakfast. "Where?"
"Monaco. Fuck everyone who isn't me. I'm going to take this money, hoard it, and live happily ever after."
"There's no Nando's in Monaco, babes. You'd actually hate it." Emma's phone pinged. "I've got a call with Gems in ten minutes. Babes, why don't you go and buy yourself a Mini? And on the way home, grab a pint of milk."
"Do millionaires buy their own milk?"
"They do if they want a nice cuppa in the garden on a swinging bench snuggled up to their fiancée."
"It's a date."
"Oh, Max?"
"Yes?"
"I'm in the mood for some crunchy biscuit and caramel. Get me a Cadbury's Boost as well."