14.16 - Epilogue
16.
I Know What You Did Next Summer
by Bethany Alban
(Embargoed until the facts about [redacted] become public knowledge.)
"Today isn't about me."
Max Best says this so many times through the day I almost start to believe it. It's not true, though. Best has taken a sixth tier team that was in danger of relegation, turned them into serial winners, and out of thin air has conjured a rapidly-improving training ground and the first major renovation to the Deva stadium in 30 years. For the debut of the bold and beautiful Harry McNally stand, Chester FC are hosting Wycombe Wanderers. Wycombe are owned by a Kazakhstani multi-billionaire, but judging by the betting odds you would think Chester were backed by the 600th richest man in the world while the away team were the plucky underdogs.
Best did all this on a shoestring while recovering from a near-fatal attack that left him in a coma.
Today's about him all right.
It's also about the question - how long will he stick around? Surely a big club will make him an offer he simply can't refuse?
My first interview of the day is with Stan Godfrey, a Wycombe fan who like me has traveled to Chester early. I ask if he agrees with the bookies that Chester are strong favourites. "We would have a chance, I reckon," he says, after some thought. "We have a really good squad. The new ownership have made mistakes, especially with how they dealt with our previous manager, but they have invested, no doubt about that. The academy is buzzing and we're paying out big fees. Man for man, I'd back our lads to get a win and spoil the party. The problem for us is our head coach."
Ken Malpas has been in charge of Wycombe for 18 months after their much-loved former boss fell out with the new director of football. The wounds from the departure of 'Mr. Wycombe' have yet to heal.
"Malpas is talented, that's obvious, especially on the coaching side, and he'll make in-game changes and his subs improve the team. There's just something lacking. A lot of us say he's too soft. Your Max Best is a weirdo but no-one ever said he's too soft. You don't get 25 points from 10 away games if you aren't a hard bastard. But even if we match the other ten for talent and tactics, Best will score a free kick and that will be that. It'll be a good day out, though. Dead interested in this new stand they've built and everyone raves about the kebabs in the away end!"
While Emre's kebabs are justly famous, I head towards the new Harry McNally stand, which now towers over the rest of the Deva. Designed in Italy, built in Austria from high-strength laminated wood, and assembled in mere weeks in Wales (Chester's stadium straddles the border), it is one of the most visually striking football stands in England. The facade is a latticework of what from a distance look like matchsticks. When one nears the stand, the eye is drawn through the lattice to chunky, sturdy-looking beams. The overall effect is an unexpected mix of dynamism and tranquility.
"I'm stoked for it," says the handsome Australian striker Darren 'Dazza' Smith, who has returned from international duty, who has been named on the bench for the day's match, but who can be found an hour before kick-off wearing an apron manning a barbecue in a temporary 'fan zone' outside the new building. Dazza is cooking burgers and 'snags', Aussie-style, bunning them up, and offering them to surprised and delighted Chester fans. He smiles at the new McNally. "She's a beaut. I'd take a swag and a stubby and stay the night. It's a little ripper, I reckon. So do the Chester fans I've been chatting up."
"There's no Australian flag up there," I say. There are six poles with enormous flags and it isn't entirely clear why the six on display have been chosen.
"Ah, no wuckas," says Dazza. "Today's not about me. The boss said in a couple of weeks he'd take down the French one and put up a Boxing Kangaroo. That's green with a biffy kanga."
"Why is the French one even up? There are no French players, are there?"
"Boss said none of this would have happened without Henri Lyons." Dazza points from left to right. "British flag. That's obvious, plus the boss says it's a design masterpiece. Wales. Stadium's in Wales. France, Germany. In a couple of weeks we might merge them into the EU flag. Efficient and it'll annoy the gammons, he says. Pride flag to show that all are welcome."
"And to annoy the gammons," I suggest.
"Why would anyone be annoyed by love?" Dazza asks with his soft face tightening around the edges.
"Don't know," I say, because I prefer it when he's smiling at me. "What's that last one?"
The final flag is blue with three yellow wheat sheafs and a yellow sword. "That's Cheshire. Until the stadium's finished we're gonna rotate the flags, says the boss. We've got the Chester FC club crest, Ghana, Aussie, Brazil, Ukraine, and more."
The man of the day arrives. "Heavens to Betsy," says Best, who hasn't noticed me. "An Australian serving food in England? What happened to Brexit?" He leans over to smell the food. "Strewth, that's good. Talk about selling the sizzle. Everything all right? Where's your minion?"
"On a break. She'll be back soon."
"Top. No big rush but you should get in and do your warm up and that."
"I'm allowed on the pitch now, am I?" Dazza turns to me. "No-one has been allowed on it until, like, ten minutes ago."
When Best notices me, he says, "Oh, shit," and tries to flee. One of the thousands of early bird fans stops him and tries to get a handshake. "No handshakes," says the 26-year-old manager, who became somewhat germaphobic during the pandemic. "People either squeeze too hard or they don't let go; I feel like I'm being kidnapped. How about a selfie?"
"You're in good form," I say, as I reluctantly leave Dazzatown.
"It's a good day," says Best, looking around at the bustling fan zone. The capacity of the new stand is four thousand. It is sold out for this match and it seems like most of the ticket holders have come early to join the festivities. Best waves at a family serving food from underneath a black-starred umbrella. It's the Yalleys, parents of James Yalley, known as Youngster, who will start the match.
"I thought you never used players when they came back from international duty."
"You thought wrong," says Best. Pretending to speak harshly is a sign he's in a manic phase. He frowns at me. "What's the story today? What's the angle?"
"I don't have one yet," I confess. "I thought I might follow you around and see what mischief you get up to."
"Bzz," he says. "Wrong answer. Today's not about me. Why don't you talk to some fans?"
"I already did. Guy from Wycombe. He says you're a weirdo."
"Quality content, Beth." He pauses and looks around. The space is full of life and colour. Upbeat music comes from a local band on one side, while on the other side, a lone violinist is sawing out football songs. The competing smells of international food are mouth-watering. Pascal Bochum's parents are serving up currywurst and glühwein and are jokingly trying to steal visitors from the Yalleys, whose offerings astonish many but are too exotic for others. Half the Chester women's team are hosting penalty-taking contests while the rest are in the new club shop handing out free Chester gear to the younger fans. "Following one guy," says Best, startling me, "when all this is going on? That's what a weirdo would do." He grins suddenly. "You missed the best story, anyway. I got a job offer. You wouldn't believe me if I told you what it was." He chuckles to himself. "The world is mad, Beth, and you can quote me on that. Come on."
We leave the party - I wonder if Best is right and I should stay out there, at least until Dazza is gone - and we go up into the concourse of the remodelled Harry McNally. One long bar runs along it, and it is doing a brisk trade in beer. "Two pounds a pint?" I say. "That's generous."
"It's just to test the machines and whatnot, but in future we'll probably do a cheap pint until half an hour before the game. If we get people into the stadium early it's much safer and less stressful for everyone."
We walk along the concourse checking on how things are going, but Brooke Star is already there doing the same thing. Star is Chester FC's impressive Chief Businesser and if today isn't Max Best's day, it could be argued it is hers. Best imagined this stand, but she brought it to life. I step closer but Best pulls me back. "Later, Beth. Leave her alone until kick-off at least." He looks down at his hand on my wrist but instead of letting go he pulls me closer. He whispers, "Let's you and I sneak upstairs. I'll show you my box."
"Your box?"
"My private box."
I'd rather Dazza show me his boxing kangaroo, but I follow Best up another set of elegant wooden stairs - everywhere you go there are gaps in the woodwork that give hints of what's around the corner, sometimes a flash of green, green grass - and we go into a so-called Sky Box. There are twelve in this stand and they have been divided into four sections. Three of the four are for the club's main sponsors. We go into the box for Jejune, a new brand from the French perfumier Fragonard.
"Oh!" says Best, laughing. "I didn't expect you to be here, Aurélie."
Aurélie Fragonard, mother of Henri Lyons, is sitting with six guests. Max Best's five most senior footballing staff are beside them. "Why would I not be here?"
"I don't know. Because it's Chester versus Wycombe and you don't like football."
Fragonard is not to be trifled with. "My guests like football. Some of them even like you, 'ard as that will be to believe." She gives a withering look that slides off him. "What are you doing 'ere? You sent your crew into my box."
"I wanted to do a pre-team-talk team talk and my manager room is too small for the blob."
Fragonard's eyes narrow and she mutters to herself in French. Switching back to English, she says, "Well? Go ahead. Give us some entertainment."
Best looks around and smiles. Giving his instructions in front of some complete strangers is exactly the sort of thing he would do. Fragonard's guests can't believe their luck. "This is Sandra Lane," says Best, pointing to her. "She's my assistant manager." For some reason, Best does a big, exaggerated wink as he says that. "Peter Bauer, Pascal Bochum, Colin Beckton. The three B-migos." Best stops explaining for the crowd and switches, almost alarmingly, into football manager mode. We no longer exist. He talks to his employees. It's intense. "This is a big day for the club but it doesn't mean shit if we lose. We need to win today. We've been outside, we've seen how happy everyone is. That's great. That's a reminder of why we do what we do but now it's time to get into the headspace."
Best tours the area. Each sponsor box has been designed according to the needs of the client, and this one has a display case of Fragonard bottles through the ages; it's so cool it briefly distracts Best.
"Wycombe's eleven is a match for us so we'll win or lose on the bench. Ken Malpas is one of the best managers in this league... you'd think. We've already discussed the way he sets up his team to fix the problems they had in their previous fixture. He's doing 4-4-2 because they didn't get a shot on target last time out and because they didn't have enough out wide. It's a crazy way of doing things. We're doing 4-4-2 because that's what’s best for our squad and because I back us to win our duels and because when we change things around, Malpas will respond but we can react to his changes faster and better.
"The Wycombe fans all say that Malpas is too nice. Maybe the reason I'm top of the league and he isn't is that I've got a bit of devil in me. Maybe that's why this whole thing works. I don't need to sell my soul..."
Best points at me. He wants a fellow Mancunian to complete a song lyric by The Stone Roses about making a deal with the devil. "He's already in me."
He clicks his fingers - that's my reward. He glares at his staff. "If you're in the bench blob you need some devil in you. If you want to build teams and build stadiums and put smiles on faces you need to be willing to put yourself on the line." He pauses to unclench his jaw and to crack his neck from side to side. He doesn't want to transform into a werewolf too soon. "Peter, I want you to give the pre-match team talk. Hype up the lads. Raise their hackles. Fire them up so they come out and win their duels in the first half."
Peter isn't sure what to make of this request, but he says, "Very good. Will that be after the presentation?"
"Yes." Best paces around, getting more and more demented, and even the way he's clenching his fingers gets my adrenaline pumping. "I need you to be on your A game. Today will be fucking hard and if we start in party mode the fans will stay in party mode. It's not a fucking picnic, all right? I want the team breathing fire and brimstone from the first fucking seconds, do you get me? The fans will realise what's up and they'll click. We're sold out today, which means seven thousand Chester fans. Thousands of demons and hundreds of imps. I promised Crackers I'd melt his ears off in this stadium and that's what we're going to give him. I want it to sound like he's crashing down through the gates of fucking hell!"
"Come on!" I yell, because I'm weak-minded.
Best is at the window, and knowing him he's thinking of installing a zip-line down to the pitch so he can make a dramatic entrance. He gets a snarl on his face, turns on his heel, storms towards the door and in seconds he's gone.
***
I lose track of Best for a while and decide to hang out near Brooke Star. There was something off about how Best asked me not to bother her. It wasn't just him keeping me out of her wonderful hair. There was an undercurrent.
She appears to be acting normally, however. She talks to a group wearing suits - presumably people from the local council tasked with checking the new stand is as safe as promised.
Here and there I spot familiar faces. The Youth Cup-winning team, former first team players, former board members. Smasho and Nice One, until recently the best Chester players in memory. I see a handsome gentleman who was involved in the proposed sale of Manchester United. Perhaps he was the one who made an offer to Max Best?
But mostly I see happy fans.
I talk to a group of young men, who are merrily partaking of the low-cost booze. The table is intended to be a place to sit and eat but the kitchens aren't quite finished, hence the free food available outside. "It's not a problem," says Mark Goodman, 20. "Max always said there would be things missing at first but we should think of the McNally like a - what did he call it?"
"A progression fantasy," says Tom Stevens, 19. "He means it'll get better every time we come."
I ask what they think of the new stand.
"It's amazing," says Mark. "I love it. Never thought we'd get anything like this. It's not mega fancy like Tottenham's stadium but that cost a billion quid. This was five million and I think I prefer it. Why do we need a cheese room? We're a football club."
"You're not allowed to call it Tottenham," says a lad who will only identify himself as 'Stevie Steveo'. "You'll get a fine." The lads burst out laughing and I complain that I've missed the joke. "Here," says Stevie.
The Cestrian, Chester's match day programme, hasn't been printed for a while so there is a lot to catch up on. It's also expected to be a collector's item, so Best and his team have made it a bumper edition. (It says Bumpers Edition LOL on the cover, in reference to the name of their training ground.)
Stevie opens it to a specific page. I vaguely recognise the format of the text. It appears to have been based on an article about one of the fines imposed on Best by UEFA.
***
The Chester director of football Max Best has received a suspended £500 fine, reprimand and caution for making comments with elitist “connotations”.
Best was charged by the Fun Police in August after the 26-year-old mocked Tottenham in a series of social media posts and videos.
The charge, which Best admitted, comprised three allegations, spelled out in the Fun Police's full judgment. The first came after Tottenham sent out a memo asking for the club to be referred to as 'Tottenham Hotspurs', 'Dr. Tottenham', or 'The Actual Most Ridiculous Club Invited to be in the European Super League' but 'never Tottenham because the area of London known as Tottenham is poor and our billionaire owners hate being associated with the poor eww do they even wash?' The Fun Police alleged that instead of acceding to this reasonable request, Best sent out a memo of his own ordering Chester employees to 'do the opposite'.
The second said Best “made comments that, in transfer decisions made in Tottenham, they would pick names out of a hat and why would Wibbers go there at least Chester win things.” This unfairly characterised Tottenham as inept whereas their lawyers argued that they were ept.
The third said that during training sessions Best "used the phrase ‘this isn’t Tottenham!' when he considered that his players were demonstrating a lack of intensity”.
Tim O’Tottenham, the Fun Police's adjudicator, found that Best's conduct “perpetuated stereotypes” and had elitist “connotations”. He reminded the media pack that Tottenham can't help but be who they are and that Best himself has sought to position himself as a champion of diversity. "This must include football clubs led by thin-skinned simpletons who can't get over the line."
In addition to his fine – which is suspended for a year – caution and reprimand, Best is required to watch a VHS tape of the 2008 Football League Cup final.
***
I read it twice, hungrily, because how can this silliness come from the same mind as the speech about turning the stadium into hell? There is no time to discuss it with the lads. At twenty-to-three, Max Best is planning to say a few words to the masses and they don't want to miss it.
Tom finishes his pint and licks his lips. "He's announcing he's quitting, mark my words."
"No chance," says Stevie. "We let him do what he wants. He's cashed up now, isn't he? Why would he go?"
"He turned down a job offer today," I say, more to myself than anyone else.
I'm relieved to find the others have gone, and I follow the shuffling crowd out into the new stand.
It's impressive, and the noise crackles. Between the stand and the pitch, every Chester men's first team player is lined up. The groundsman, Jonny Planter, is just behind them, keeping them off the playing area as much as is humanly possible. The club has spent a million pounds trying to get the best possible surface. It looks okay for now, but I have little doubt it will soon be absolutely perfect.
Brooke Star is with Mike Dean, known as MD, plus the rest of the club's backroom staff. There are five people I don't recognise; this club is growing.
There are the physios, including Dean, who saved Best's life. There are plenty of coaches, including an army veteran known as the Brig, ramrod straight, as tall and proud as the new stand.
Max Best strides forward and waves for the McNally to hush. We obey. Someone hands him a microphone.
He turns it on and when he speaks, it's crystal clear, in this part of the ground at least. Being able to hear what people are saying! Along with superb Wifi and phone signal, this shows the benefit of having a modern stadium. "Hey, Chester. Your boy Max here."
"Best! Best! Best!" chants the terrace, and it gives me goosebumps. This puppy is loud!
"Welcome to the Thunderdome," says Best.
There are cheers from the home fans, but then a noise from the away end. Best tilts his head. "Can't hear you, lads."
The Wycombe fans sing louder. "What the fuck... What the fuck... What the fucking hell is that?!"
Best laughs. "You mean the new stand? It's one-quarter of our new stadium. You won't get to see the rest. Enjoy life in League One, yeah?"
This causes uproar as the Wycombe fans shout their defiance and the home fans respond. I don't think Best has to worry about this turning into a picnic.
"Chair Boys," says Best, using the away club's nickname. "Shush up for a minute, please, or I'll close down the kebab place and double the price of beer." There's some jeering, but not much. "Okay, Chester, I'll try to be quick with this. No-one likes big speeches and today isn't about me." He walks along the space between the goal netting and the big new advertising boards, making eye contact with fans. "This is a big day for this club. A great day. But it's a warning, too. Wycombe used to be a club like Chester. They didn't have the most money but they spent it well and they loved smacking up richer, bigger clubs run by idiots." There is a small roar from the away end. "Now they're just another billionaire's plaything. You go on their forums and half the posters are depressed. They've lost their identity. They sold their soul, but they didn't even sell it to the right devil." There’s dead silence from the away end; Best has struck a nerve.
Someone to my left says, "He's leaving. This is it."
How they make that jump I don't know, but suddenly everyone's feeling it. Four thousand Chester fans in the new stand and the three thousand in the others have just worked out where this is going.
It's the resignation speech they have been dreading.
Today, he will say, I have brought you to the pinnacle. Tomorrow I'm offski.
"We did all this ourselves," says Best, walking around. "This is our money. We didn't need anyone else. We did this." He stops. "When I was floundering about looking for somewhere to use my talents, Jackie Reaper brought me here. MD gave me my first job in football. I was in a lot of pain the day I came here but Livia Stranton looked after me. I was a complete rando with no track record but you gave me a chance and that's why when I say today isn't about me, I mean it. It's about you. It's about a community that was open-minded and took me in. You let me do things like go to Gibraltar but because I did that I've got enough money to..." Best's lip quivers and his voice breaks slightly. "Enough money to take care of my mum." He clears his throat, gestures to the sides of the stand, the roof. "You put up with me and this is your reward."
Best frowns and looks down.
"I have to say something some of you aren't going to like."
All around me, people grip each other.
"Since its formation in 1885, whether we talk about Chester City or Chester FC, your highest ever finish was fourth in the third tier. Today we are first. This is the highest point in the club's 141-year history. This is the best stadium in the club's history. This is the best squad in the club's history." He points down the line of players. "These are the best haircuts in the club's history."
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
There's laughter, but it's nervous. Best is staring at something with a dreamy look on his face.
"One of the Wycombe fans called me a weirdo." There's laughter from the away end. Best smiles. "It has to be true because, okay, this is the highest moment in the club's history but I can't enjoy it." He shakes his head. "Getting to this point has been a goal. It's my job to set the goals for this club. The new goal is this."
He looks from one corner flag to the other, and when he looks back at us, his eyes are blazing.
"This is the highest point in the club's history." He points down. "This is the lowest point in the club's future." He prowls around and practically shouts. "We're going to the Championship and we're never coming back down. We're gonna finish Bumpers and complete the stadium. We're going on cup runs; we're going to Wembley. We're gonna host European football. The women will get to the WSL before the men get to the Prem but that will happen. When I get my hands on that Premier League TV money, all bets are off! We're going for major trophies, Chester. You think I've been a nuisance so far? I haven't even started!"
"Best! Best! Best!" chant seven thousand jubilant Chester fans and one punch-drunk Man United fan. We're eating out of his hands and he in turn, is loving it.
He remembers he promised to be brief, and he remembers a few other things he clearly wanted to mention before he got the crowd hyped up. He grins ruefully. "Quick announcement," he says, in a jaunty, anachronistic tone. "I can't do this alone and don't want to do this alone. Please give a warm round of applause to Chester Football Club's new co-manager, Sandra Lane."
Now that the crowd are hyped, the news is met with a wall of sound. A chant of 'Sandra Lane's blue-and-white army' erupts from within it.
Best checks the time and stares at Brooke Star, biting his bottom lip. I can see the moment he comes to a decision. He waves for the crowd to hush.
"We're a team," says Best, as he waves at the collection of individuals who make Chester FC function. "Okay, I'm the best-looking but everyone has a role to play. MD is the understated hero of this whole journey. Spectrum woke up one day to find I’d put him in charge of our youth system, which thanks to him and a lot of others is now thriving. Boggy continues to delight and entertain; he's the voice of this club. But on a day when we think about the stadium, it is only right to - "
I know that's what Best is saying because I can read it on his lips. No-one hears the end of that speech, though. Someone has turned off his microphone.
Up steps Brooke Star, holding a mic that is switched on. "Howdy, y'all. Sorry to do this but Max Best is about to dump a whole heap of horse dung on us all. He's gonna thank me for my role in getting the freehold to the stadium and being the project manager on the construction of the new stand you're enjoying." There's a hearty round of applause. Brooke does a tiny curtsy. "Why, thank you! But as Roy Keane would say, that's my job." She shows rows of pearly white teeth. "Last Tuesday, I was down in Bristol minding my own business, watching us trouser three points - holy hell but English English is fun sometimes - when Max says he needs to talk to me urgently. I go down at half time and he tells me he knows all about how St. Louis City wants me to take over as general manager. Well, it's good that one of us knew about it, at least!" Brooke has been moving closer to Max and now she puts her hand on his shoulder. She looks at him and says, "I had never spoken to them, Max. It might surprise you that there could be a few Americans who haven't met, but that's how it is. Anyway, after you put the idea in my head, I went online and I was impressed by what I saw. Real impressed. In a way, we could say that you made it happen. It's because of you..."
I walk down the steps to get closer. Max Best has turned as white as a sheet. If I understand the story I'm hearing, Max has driven an irreplaceable employee away with his own paranoia. He has been too clever by half. It could be my imagination, but I think I see his knees buckle.
"It's because of you," repeats Brooke, "that I have a new connection on LinkedIn."
Best almost gasps. What? The hope in his eyes is so far from devilish I nearly laugh.
Brooke looks around and shakes her head. "Max Best has many flaws as a businessman, including that he only has ten fingers." She mimes counting to five, slowly. The admin team laugh hard at this. "But my Lord can he set a mission statement! Let this be the lowest point in our future. That's a helluva challenge for a club that has never reached the second tier. That's an exciting challenge. We need to finish Bumpers. The stadium's a quarter-built. I love it here and this is a lot more exciting than, with all due respect, St. Louis. If you'll have me, Chester, I'm staying." There's applause from the fans, but the real excitement is on the staff side. Many of the players and staff punch the air. There are hugs. "One last thing, Max. If you try to sell Zach overseas, I'm gonna fff - "
With incredible comic timing, she turns her microphone off. There are laughs. Zach Green moseys on over and for a second, threatens to get down on one knee. Brooke gives him a very clear 'no!' gesture, so Zach styles it into a hamstring stretch before lifting her up, spinning her around, and kissing her.
Sandra Lane takes Brooke's microphone and turns it on. "The gang's all here. We're ready to fight for the badge. Chester, are you ready to make some NOISE?"
They are.
Most of the players and staff rush to their positions. The picnic is over. Sandra summons Zach. The American jogs away, turns to admire Brooke, nearly falls as he goes. So strong are Chester's options these days that Green can start a big game like this on the bench.
Brooke watches with a smile, but then feels Best's eyes on her. 'The hell was that?' he says by flapping his arms.
She leans closer and says something that could have been 'Just a prank' or 'That was payback.'
Best exhales, laughs, and takes Brooke by the hand. He lifts it as though she has won a boxing match, but then I realise he is accepting the joint praise of the crowd. He applauds Brooke before taking one last, lingering look at all corners of the new stand. He likes what he sees.
I have been invited to watch from the player's area, the Sky Boxes where a rotating cast of player's families will be able to watch in greater comfort and safety than in the rest of the stadium. I'm expecting Dieter Bauer to be there, but I'm told he's in the dressing room.
That's why Max chose Peter to give the fire and brimstone speech to the players. I later learn that Peter talks about making your family proud and fighting for your found families, the people who might not be related to you but are the ones who have your back, who are there for you when you're down, who love you for who you are. Making the speech in front of his grandfather makes it incredibly raw. There are tears from tough guy defenders and pacey wingers alike. The picnic is over. When Chester take to the pitch and the referee blows his whistle, the home team do their best to unleash hell.
Best leans against the side of the dugout while his co-manager and Peter Bauer run the sideline. Wycombe are formidable opponents in this league and nothing comes easily. Chester take one step forward but are driven two steps back.
Ken Malpas changes something and Best is electrified. He rushes to the touchline to make his counter-changes, but he pauses and tells Sandra and Peter what he's doing and why. Soon, the three are waving, pointing, moving people around.
Charlie Dugdale, whose fragrant wife is in the player's box with me, moves into the middle, behind the strikers and almost immediately creates a chance for Gabriel. He gets the ball caught in his feet. The chance is gone. But is it? Gabby uses his strength to hold off a defender and he flicks the ball at a strange angle. Colin Beckton takes a snapshot - goal!
The first goal in the new-look Deva stadium.
Everyone goes mad.
The noise shakes you to the bone, leaves you dizzy. The Chester bench is a mass of hugs.
Only one man in the stadium is unmoved. Best has walked away, fallen into a crouch, plotting the next move.
The chief of hospitality, a wonderful man named Bill who Chester poached from Oldham Athletic, rushes in to find out what happened and is surprised to see that the sky hasn't caved in.
This isn't a picnic.
The match restarts and both Best and Ken Malpas are waving their arms like birds trying to attract a mate.
Malpas has decided he needs a high defensive line - Gabriel isn't the swiftest and Colin Beckton doesn't have a lot of forty-yard sprints left in his legs. Wycombe’s defenders move all the way to the halfway line.
Chester's goalie, Ian Swan, takes a back pass from Josh Owens and punts the ball long. It's the first long ball from Chester in twenty-five minutes. It's also a nonsensical strategy because... what's this? Gabriel and Beckton are in midfield. The strikers are Pascal Bochum and the on-loan right back, Matt Rush.
It's stupid and absurd but like many stupid and absurd things Max Best tries, it works. Bochum and Rush are much faster than the defenders who are chasing this hopeful punt. Rush gets to the ball first, surges to the right so that the goalie is forced to move to the side, and one simple pass later, Bochum nets, runs past the away fans and into the front of the main stand.
Again Best doesn't celebrate. He's too in the zone. He's living up to his promise to turn the stadium into hell, but it's a personal hell designed specifically for poor Ken Malpas. The next trap Best sets is a four-four-two defensive low block. Wycombe have no choice but to attack, but the only real question is when Best will let his team break on a devastating counter.
The answer is the 44th minute.
Fitzroy Hall holds up an attack and clears. The ball comes back. Youngster, not showing the effects of his various recent long-haul flights, is sprightly and in the right place to make an interception. He plays it simply to his partner, the much-improved Lee Contreras. Bochum is back in his starting spot, the right wing, and he makes a break over half way. Bochum squares to Beckton, who uses Gabriel as a decoy and passes left. Dugdale's first touch bamboozles a defender, he gets into the box, and crosses low to the back post.
Bochum taps it into the net for his second of the game. He once again looks towards the McNally, but it's too far to sprint all the way there. He goes back to the same spot as before, like a salmon returning to its spawning ground.
The feeling at half-time is euphoria. Chester fans stumble around the new terrace in a smiling state of pure bliss. If the other scores stay as they are, Chester will be six points clear of the team in second place.
Max Best has failed in his attempt to create hell. In typical contrarian fashion, he has turned this patch of land into football heaven.
***
I decide I don't want to write an award-winning article about this day, but instead choose to enjoy copious amounts of the almost-free beer and the leftover scran being served in the concourse.
I wonder where Dieter Bauer is but I probably could have guessed. Emma Weaver, Max Best's fiancée, posts a tipsy selfie with Dieter in the VIP box of Glendale Logistics, a few doors away. There's quite the cast in there, judging by Emma's feed. Legendary German player Paul Braun is partaking of local microbreweries and very much enjoying the company of Emma's best friend Gemma, who heads a fast-growing sports law firm. Sebastian and Rachel Weaver, Emma's parents, co-founded a famous law firm but these days they seem to be expanding into Max Best's world. Inspired by his exploits in the UEFA Conference League, they have bought a small club in Gibraltar.
In fact, the Glendale party is more fun than the Fragonard one, so the entrepreneur embarks upon a hostile merger. Do her clients mind having to share a room with the rich, the famous, and the beautiful?
They do not.
Chester come out in the second half and play with control. There are minutes for William B. Roberts and Zach Green. On 70, Chester reshuffle into a 4-2-3-1 with Youngster taking care of Peter Bauer. Youngster the senior defensive midfielder. The role suits him, and the million-pound pitch suits Bauer. He rolls the ball from pocket to pocket like a pool hustler. You gotta have two things to win. You gotta have brains and you gotta have balls. Bauer is elegance personified, absolutely unflappable, and with some regret, I decide that Dazza isn't the sexiest Chester player after all.
The crowd applaud and appreciate the show, but they become restless. Where's Max Best?
They chant for him.
He ignores them.
They chant louder.
He looks around, puzzled.
It might not be an act; when he's in the zone he tunes out everything that isn't relevant. Sandra Lane can hear it, though. She tells him to get on the pitch. He says no. They bicker.
Dazza tries to wrestle Best towards the fourth official but Best has been working out and puts up good resistance. Their tussle puts me back on Team Dazza.
Best says 'FINE but I won't enjoy it.'
He replaces Gabriel and joins Bochum and Roberts as the CAMs behind Colin Beckton.
It's three-nil, though. Why risk injury to add a meaningless fourth? He strolls around, sometimes gazing fondly at the new stand.
The stand that Chester are shooting towards, at last.
Ken Malpas once more makes a clever tactical change that suggests he still hasn't learned how to take the emotional temperature of a match. With Chester essentially down to ten men, Wycombe attack. They run hard, press hard, and Christian Fierce and Zach Green have to be on their toes. The ball goes out for a throw-in. Josh Owens picks it up and hurls it incredibly far, low and flat down the line.
Max Best is there. He hares away from the halfway line. He pushes the ball forward. The last defender, in desperation, flings himself at the ball, at Best, at anything that's moving. Best somehow dinks the ball over him, and a split-second later, hurdles. He nears the keeper, shapes to absolutely thrash the ball, sits the goalie down, and one stride later rolls the ball into the empty net.
Best's face starts to form his usual smug, slappable grin, but the wave of sound wipes it away. There's confusion, wonder, and dawning realisation - he made that sound happen. That incredible din was for him.
I nod, happily. Yes, Max! It's all about you.
Max Best goes apeshit. He sprints to full speed and launches himself what feels like halfway up the huge new stand. He's swallowed whole. We've lost him.
He has found something.
When we finally kick off again, Best sprints, dribbles, and fires cannonballs at Wycombe's goal from mad angles, left-footed and right. He doesn't smile or grin, but snarls and snaps and bites. He has become a hell-creature because he wants that feeling back. Wants to hear that noise again. When the final whistle goes, it takes three Chester players to calm him down, to tell him that no really, the war is over.
Charlie Dugdale's wife pulls a supercilious face. "I guess he's staying then."
When was it ever so simple?
***
At full time, I sneak into the Glendale Logistics box and find I have two fans. Dieter Bauer and Paul Braun remember me as the organiser of a party in Manchester after Chester's boys won the Youth Cup.
We talk about Peter Bauer and his performance, but Paul Braun says he's going to look for more currywurst. On the way out, he leans close and asks me to steer the topic away from Peter because Dieter is so overwhelmingly proud of his grandson he has been joyously draining any vessel put in front of him for the past two hours. It's true that Dieter is sozzled and he becomes wonderfully indiscreet.
"Well," I say, referencing the latest episode of Player Manager: The Live Action Extravaganza.
"Well," agrees Dieter Bauer.
"That was something. Max has this way of making everything more... vivid. I mean, it's a routine home win against a good team led by a pretty mediocre manager. It's a five-million-pound stand, not even a whole stadium, but we're all treating it like we've walked into St. Peter's Basilica."
"He's very talented," sighs Bauer. He smiles, thinly. "Can you agree to withhold publication on something until a future date?"
"Of course. I've got about twenty things under embargo just from Max alone. He does tend to spam that particular button."
"I offered him a job."
I nod a few times, trying to work out which role at Bayern Munich Max could do at this stage of his career. "Like... head of British recruitment?"
"Bigger."
"Head of recruitment full stop?" I say, unable to believe it.
"We wanted him to be the next manager of Bayern Munich."
"Oh, come on," I say. "Don't tease me. Do you know how many beers I've had in the last couple of hours? No, really. I'd like to know; I lost count."
"I'm perfectly serious," says Bauer, with a smile. He looks around and checks we're not being overheard. "We are content with our current manager, but Basti... No, really, Bethany, you must not repeat this until I give permission."
"I promise."
"At a routine checkup, the doctors found Basti had an irregular heartbeat. He should get a pacemaker. That would require Basti to take at least four weeks off, yes? But he refuses. He believes that if he is out of action and his replacement does well, the board may, ah, persuade him to take a less onerous position. You understand his point of view, I think. It is a ruthless business. Now, Bayern is a special club because it is run by former players and we are not so cold-hearted as we may appear. Of course, we must have, ah, how can I put it?"
"You need some devil in you."
"Yes!" He is delighted by the image. "But we have angels in us, too. Really all we want in this case is for our colleague to be healthy. The team could be performing better but if we wanted to dismiss him, we would! We do not. It is hard to persuade him of that truth. Managers get paranoid, have you noticed? It is a common sickness with no cure. Needless to say, Basti will not step aside if it means one of his subordinates steps up. He is concerned they will outperform him. Okay, so what of a former manager? Paul Braun, for instance. No, no good."
"It's the same problem," I say.
"Or worse. German fans love to yearn for the past."
"Wait," I say, because I think I'm finally starting to understand the situation. "Max Best isn't a threat to Bastian. You couldn't have a 26-year-old as the manager of a megaclub."
"No."
"But he could do it for a month."
"Yes. All he would need to do is select some teams from our rich stock of players and make timely substitutions. We proposed a stretch of matches that would be relatively straightforward. Barely harder than the ones Max won with College 1975. What a performance that was. So many exhibitions!"
I slap my hand on my thigh. "Exhibitions. That's it. You want him to go on tour next summer. Max would be in charge of your exhibition matches in Korea or Vietnam or wherever you're going."
"You don't think he could manage in the Bundesliga?"
"I mean, he could, but you wouldn't seriously offer him that." I run my hand through my hair. "Right, he would be in control for a month or two in the summer, that would make sense. He's never in Chester for transfer windows anyway."
Dieter was eyeing me strangely. "It could be that the Bundesliga would be too severe a test for him this early in his career, but of the top ten highest-paid players in Germany, ten play for us."
"Oh my God," I say, smiling widely. "Imagine Max in charge of your superplayers, dealing with their superagents."
Dieter accepts the point with a smile and a drop of the head. "We would keep him away from the agents," he says. "All we need is someone credible enough that the players will accept - I believe we can convince them of our reasons for choosing Max - to watch training, listen to our analysts, and pick a coherent side."
I scoff. "Apart from sixteen other reasons this would be a disaster, I'm pretty sure he would happily see Bayern lose every match they play. He doesn't like megaclubs. He doesn't like monopolies."
"He does not. But do you really think he would want to lose a match which he was overseeing?"
"No chance. He might tell himself he's okay losing but when the whistle blows, he'll go hell for leather until the win's off the table."
"Agreed. He might want us to lose when he watches on television, but..." Dieter sighs and tips up a bottle of beer. "It matters little. He turned us down. Maybe we must dismiss Basti, wait until he is recovered, and re-hire him to show we were serious all along."
I smile. "That's a very Max Best way of thinking."
"It should be," said Dieter, getting up and heading to the doorway. "It was his idea."
It's a great way to finish this absolutely bonkers little scene, but we're not done. Dieter is in the doorway when Best appears. He doesn't appear to me, exactly, since I'm on a really quite beautiful chair and there's a wall between Max and I. He can't see me, but I can hear him.
"Dieter," he says. "I've changed my mind."
"What? Really?"
"Yeah, fuck it. Big stadiums, elite players, a few weeks of smashing up some good but flawed managers. Let's do it. It'll be my one chance to manage a megaclub. I won't just be a player manager any more. I'll be a soccer supremo."
"Max, I'm delighted. I'm truly delighted."
"Whoa, steady on, Dieter. I have conditions."
"Of course! Where shall we discuss them? In here? Oh, but..."
Dieter remembers that I'm there, and he gets shifty and nervous. Best reads his body language and sticks his head over Dieter's shoulder. He spots me.
"Oh, shit," he says, and I hear him run away. I hear him run back. He puts his head over Dieter's shoulder again. "That was off the record!"
***
POST-CREDITS SEQUENCE 1
Monday, October 12
I stood in my little office cabin at Bumpers Bank, admiring the lineup I saw on my tactics board.
Swanny.
Josh Owens, Christian Fierce, Fitzroy Hall, Matt Rush.
Duggers, Youngster, Lee C, Pascal.
Colin Beckton, Gabriel.
Average CA 100.6!
And I could have gone higher but I wanted to rest Cole Adams and Dazza after international duty. Youngster had to play so that I could bash through the 100 barrier with a starting eleven for the first time, but even then we weren't exactly straining for talent. Zach Green got a bit of a rest! Wibbers came off the bench!
If I played my best eleven, with Cole, Zach, and Dazza, we would be at 102.5. It was absolute madness. Unprecedented to be this strong this early in the season.
Something terrible was going to happen, wasn't it?
Some cosmic punishment was going to drop. Set me back ages.
My phone beeped. I gave it a double middle finger. Fuck you, universe!
Brooke: If you're not busy, could you meet me in my office?
Ooooooominous.
I dragged myself across the soggy earth of Bumpers Bank and badged myself into the new shower block. The lower floor, the important one, was mostly finished. Upstairs were the bare bones of some offices, one physio room for Nicole and Magnus to do their amazing chiropracty, and one giant, cavernous space that we could use to create something. One day soon, when we had that sweet sweet Premier League money.
I knocked on Brooke's door.
"Come in, Max."
I kicked my trainers off and put on some slippers. That system was cheaper than doing all the paths just how I wanted them, all bendy and feng shui-like. The slippers system worked well enough. It was Chesterness, in a way; thrifty but companionable as long as everyone left their ego at the door. "Sup?"
Brooke gave me a look, then reached to her left. She heave-hoed a huge bean bag and deposited it to her right. "Take a seat," she said.
With a smiley frown, I obeyed. I sank down into the thing. "Good heft," I said. "Comfy. What's it made of? The ghosts of all the Max Bests in all the universes where I literally died of fright while you did your St. Louis prank?"
"Have you finished?"
"Yes," I said, quietly, like a little boy.
She laughed - she was doing more of that these days. She turned her computer screen more towards me, clicked her mouse a few times, and two words popped up.
Soccer Supremo.
"I was thinking about what you said. Maybe one day I would like to create an expansion team." She showed me her teeth. "Maybe I'll buy a soccer club instead of a superyacht." That was a dig at how I'd treated her the day we'd met. She'd had her revenge; we were even. "Really, though, I'd like to learn more about football if you've got the patience to teach me."
I tried to sit up straighter to show I approved. The problem was, I was on a bean bag. Sitting up straight was hard so I settled for a smile instead. "I think it's a great idea. Why don't you ask Zach?"
She clicked her mouse. I appeared on the game's title screen, looking brooding and intense and handsome. "That's why. You're a soccer supremo. I've got Zach for other things."
"Other things?"
She went so expressionless it was like she'd taken injections of botox. "Fossils, Max. Natural history. Dog walks."
I nodded, sagely. "Let's fire it up, then."
Brooke went through the starting process. The first step was to choose a name. "Should I be Brooke Star? Cliff Daps? Max Best?"
"Don't put Max Best," I muttered.
"Why not?"
"You get undeserved bonuses. Hey, don't look at me like that! I asked them not to put that feature in."
"Did you?"
I scratched my chin. "Can't remember the exact sequence..."
"Are there any other names I should avoid?"
"Yeah," I confessed. "Don't have the surname Wester. Avoid calling yourself Chip. Some other ones. Never mind all that. Just be yourself."
She chose the name 'Brooke Star'. "Okay. Select a team. I'll be Chester, right?"
"Be whoever you want to be, Brooke." I was already enjoying this and had settled into a state of advanced relaxation. I sat up suddenly. "Hey!"
Brooke's hand flew off the mouse. "What? What did I do?"
I grabbed her by the arm. "Let's do the Stoke Timeline!"
"Great," she said. "Remind me what that is."
I made an urgent noise. "It's where we run Stoke City! They've got billions behind them but they don't have a floating megabrain and a top business girl!" Brooke clicked to Stoke City. "You know what you could do," I said.
"What?"
"You could write out your experiences of playing this as though it were real-life adventures. About fifteen chapters at a time, maybe? You'd cover one season in three books. Championship, Premier League, Europe, consolidation, winners. Let's handwave, call it fourteen books. Yes! Amazing."
Brooke gave me a pitying look. "No-one would read that. Not even Zach. Max?"
"Yes?"
"I want to do transfers, okay? Tell me where to click so I can do transfers. I want to do the most transfers. And I want to play four-four-three. Every billionaire knows it's the best tactic."
I smiled; she wasn't being serious. "Brooke, click that button there. It's going to tell you what the board's expectations are for the season. Guess what we're going to do with that?"
"Ignore it?" she said, twinkling.
"You betcha." I found that I was as relaxed as if I were on the Mediterranean with Emma. This was an unbelievably satisfying way to spend a few hours a week. I put my hands behind my head. I would be Old Nick to Brooke's floating megabrain. "Soccer Supremo: The Stoke Timeline," I said.
"Yeah yeah yeah. I want to buy Max Best. How do I do that?"
I scoffed. "Why do you want that fraud?"
Brooke didn't answer; she was busy navigating through the menus. "I'm confused. I'm on the search screen and there are two Max Bests."
"The game isn't set up for player-managers, right, so there's a manager called Max Best and a player with the same name. They're going to fix it in the next version, they say, but for now there are two different guys. Just like when I used to play," I added.
"Do you want to know your Anticipation score?"
"Anticipation!" I said, excited. That was one of the Attributes I hadn't unlocked yet. Knowing where the ball would go. It was one of my on-pitch superpowers. Youngster, too. I wouldn't be surprised if Wibbers and Peter had high scores. Probably all the guys who would come to the Prem with me... "We need a team with high Anticipation, Decisions, and Team Work. And Technique."
"Pace?"
"Need loads of that."
"Passing, Stamina, Strength, Jumping."
"Yes. Only buy players with full 20s in everything, please."
Brooke shook her head. "Okay. I'm getting a feel for how hard this is. Let's see how much you're being paid. Oh, look!" Brooke burst out laughing.
I leaned forward and saw what she was looking at. She was on the Future tab for Max Best the player. One sentence stood out.
Dislikes his manager.
"Wow," I said, shaking my head. "What a prick."
***
POST-CREDITS SEQUENCE 2
The new Harry McNally stand has its merits but is in many ways a simple building. There are few of the bells and whistles of the state-of-the-art money traps seen at Tottenham, Everton, or in the NFL. It does have Premier League-quality floodlights, cabling for ultra-high-definition camera feeds, and a crisp, clear sound system. Thanks to Brooke's ability to apply for and receive grants, it also has very, very good CCTV cameras and powerful microphones so that ‘fans’ who start problematic chants can be identified.
A few days after the Wycombe match, Chester's in-house producers Henri Lyons and Sophie were reviewing the feeds from these cameras to see if the footage was something they could use in the Chesterness documentary and other content. On review, they decided that there could be some rare opportunities but that the angles of the cameras made scenes look creepy.
They picked out one eye-catching interaction between two fans and saved it to disc as an example of the strengths and weaknesses of this type of footage. The disc was left on a tray and almost immediately forgotten.
INTERIOR: Harry McNally Terrace as seen from roof-mounted cameras.
[It's half-time. Chester are winning and everyone is happy. A young man is in one of the standing areas. Beside him is an old man with an angular face and great hair.]
[The young man spots something fall to the ground and picks it up. Even from this angle, we see his eyes widen and he instinctively shoves the item into his jacket. He looks again and clearly can't believe his eyes. He looks backwards, towards the exit, but he decides to tap the old man on the arm.]
YOUNG MAN
Oh, mate, you dropped this.
OLD MAN
Did I? How careless of me.
[The man has a cut-glass English accent with a hint of something else. Polish, perhaps.]
YOUNG MAN
How are you gonna carry cash like that to the footie? That's mental. Don't do that.
OLD MAN
I shall heed your advice, young man. What is your name?
YOUNG MAN
Benny.
OLD MAN
Call me Nick. I believe when one performs an act of kindness, one should get something in return.
BENNY
Ah, nah, that's cool. I'm all right. Just be careful, will you? What is it, twenty grand? That's bonkers that you've got that on you.
NICK
Perhaps you know the old stories where after performing an act of kindness, one is granted a wish. What would you wish for, Benny?
[Benny is weirded out by the phrasing but shrugs it off.]
BENNY
Probably to see football like a top manager. I mean, I actually played for Max but I still don't understand half of what he does. Wycombe are better than us, actually. I mean, we've got more talent but it's talent for the future. Not for today. So how are we battering them? I'd love to understand it.
[Nick's grin seems to be amazing but we only see part of it, which makes the footage incredibly frustrating and hints at why it would be hard to use.]
NICK
Would you sell your soul to be a top football manager? Would you wish to see football the way those people see it?
BENNY
No, I want to see football the way Max Best sees it. The other guys are hacks compared to him.
NICK
You would ask the devil to create another Max Best. I think perhaps he might baulk at the idea.
BENNY
He doesn't get my soul then, does he?
[Nick exhales and looks around, disappointed. He laughs suddenly and hands over the bundle of cash.]
NICK
No, he doesn't. Here, take this. You've earned it.
BENNY
Wait, no. I can't. It's too much. Hey, where are you going? You'll miss the second half.
NICK
That's quite all right, Benny. One thing I have learned in the last three and a half years is that I really don't like football.
[Nick heads down the stairs, smiling.]
[Benny looks left and right, pats his jacket a few times.]
BENNY
Fuck me. What am I supposed... And why are the notes Scottish?