Chương 115: 14.6 - FOMO

6. @banterbets: BREAKING! UEFA open disciplinary proceedings against English star! Max Best, 26, faces a charge of bringing the game into disrepute for wearing God of War-themed FACE PAINT in a match against Greek side Aris.

"I didn't bring the game into disrepute," said the Chester wild child.

"It's got great graphics and top voice acting. I love that character who's just a head that you carry around. Not a fan of the boss battles but overall it's the best game ever, better than Pac-man, flawless 4 out of 5." Top bantz from the Manc geezer but there are fears he'll miss out on the next round of qualifying - if his team get there.

Saturday, 8 August League One Match 1 of 46: Northampton Town versus Sandra Lane's Blue-And-White Army In one small corner of Gibraltar not known for its tourist attractions, a surprising number of people were spending a beautiful sunny afternoon indoors. FOMO (fear of missing out) had drawn all sorts to Poncho Villa: the Maxnificent Seven, a few girlfriends (Emma, Luisa, Sarah Greene), Glenn Ryder, half a dozen College players, and two of Henri's temporary neighbours.

Like any great Hollywood movie - Zach Snyder's 300, perhaps - our adventure was being enriched by an ever-changing cast of British minor characters. There was a seemingly endless supply of people who were keen to experience the ride before it was over. Any spare capacity on flights to The Rock got snapped up by anyone even tangentially related to Chester and they were more than welcome to hang out with us.

The current VIPs were Pascal's girlfriend Tiggy, her father-coach Clive O'Keefe, and Zadie, Sharky's absolutely gorgeous girlfriend. Weirdly, that bunch wanted to do tourist things instead of watching a League One match on a soundless stream. No doubt they would be back in time for the movie that followed. I'd hooked up the massive new OLED to my laptop and was all set up to stream my private and exclusive 'director of football' feed while Henri broadcast Seals Live through a smart speaker.

There was still a while to go so we were milling around, mingling, spilling into the kitchen to get some of Henri's typically delicious snacks, taking them out onto the little balcony. That was all top but suddenly I was gasping for a tea.

"Henri," I complained, as I opened the fridge to sniff the milk. It seemed fine.

"One of those randos you invited just asked who I was."

"That's what happens at a party, Max." I got a tea bag, put it in a mug, and added hot water.

"This isn't a party. This is a private function and those who come must pay homage, not ask who I am. I'm literally the God of War. Don't they read the news? UEFA are in total meltdown because of me. Don't ask who I am, do you know what I mean? Fuck sake." Henri lifted a peanut above him and dropped it into his mouth - one of his weirder habits.

"Henri Lyons is renting Poncho Villa and Henri Lyons is friendly with his neighbours. I informed them that I would be hosting a happening and as part of that conversation I extended my hospitality. It is called getting on with people. It is called being agreeable." He let another peanut drop.

"You might try it sometime."

"Do you know what they asked? They asked how do you know Henri? They think you're the star. Isn't that mental?" Baggers and Sarah came in together, holding hands. They were a totes adorbs couple.

"Max," said Henri.

"Have you tried William's crêpes?"

"Pardon me? Have I smelled his what?" Henri slid a small plate closer to me.

"I have been teaching Wibbers to make crêpes. Try."

"Wibbers?" I said, eyes darting around the others very much like in a western. Baggers was trying to communicate something wordlessly. Something to do with Sarah. Could it be that she didn't like his new name? The thought was mind-blowing and staggering, but I didn't want to make a scene when everyone was having fun.

"I'll try a bit, yeah." I sliced a little bit off and pulled it onto my plate.

"Um," I said, looking around.

"Where's the mint sauce?"

"Putain!" said Henri, who stormed out of the kitchen but came right back in, shaking his head.

"How do you do that? I always think I am immune to your nonsenses but you always find new ways to hurt me. Mon actual dieu."

"Mint sauce is quality, mate. You should actually try it one day. It's literally mint." I tasted the crêpe.

"Mmm," I said.

"That's good. Fluffier than it looks. That's mustard, William, mate. You made this? It's top." Baggers and Sarah smiled. I had another bite.

"Tastes like England in some indefinable way. Somehow a bit less, you know, snooty and pompous than your average crêpe. Bit more yeomanlike, isn't it? Tasty treat after a long day in the fields grafting, providing for your family. Not like some crêpes where you feel like you have to sit and listen to a lecture about pointillism before you're allowed to tuck in." Henri nodded." I made the crêpes."

"In that case," I said, as I pulled another one onto my plate, "you have both tricked me and tantalised my taste buds. Well played, sir. Well played." Henri smiled and took one for himself.

"Wibbers made them."

"Wow, this is making me dizzy. It's like in the seminal movie 300 where it isn't clear who are the goodies and who are the baddies."

"That movie is cartoonishly clear, Max."

"Is it? I don't remember. I bought it on Blu-ray; we should watch it later because it's going to be the theme for Thursday's team talk."

"After the match we are all leaving the apartment and I intend to triple-lock the door. I must ask you to take your disc with you; I promised the landlord I wouldn't leave any trash." I shrugged and stirred my tea.

"The posse goes where I say."

"Not on a beautiful Saturday when our girlfriends are here. If you want to watch your mindless comic book movie, go ahead. I will be on a beach discussing art and culture with my artful and cultured partner." I tutted." Whoever made the pancakes, they're dead nice." Across from me, Sarah leaned on the kitchen island. She was looking healthy, relaxed, and had a nice, natural tan. The last part wasn't something I was always able to say about our female players. I pointed.

"You look like a tennis player." She broke out into a big smile.

"Is that a compliment?"

"Yeah, I think so! They always look like they would be fun at parties, those tennis girls."

"That seems problematic so I'm not going to interrogate that," said Sarah.

"I saw you did a few more men's contracts. The rest of the goalies. I thought you wasn't gonna do any yet but you did loads."

"Mmm, yeah, the plan was to wait. But Ruth flew out here and pulled my pants down while everyone watched. Somehow it wasn't as much fun as in my fantasies." Baggers nearly choked on an olive.

"So anyway, I didn't think to tell them not to announce the deals so suddenly there was this whole raft of announcements and I had a problem. Why's Max talking to him but not me? And to be honest I enjoyed talking about contracts as a distraction from thinking about Aris and Greek mythology." Jesse Picardo wandered into the kitchen and was thrilled to hear some real-life squadbuilding.

"And I was waiting for my Blu-ray to arrive so I got on the phone. The first issue to solve was Sticky. He was on a month-to-month, technically, so I called him and asked if he wanted to wait till I was back or if we could hash something out quickly. He said he'd prefer to get a fixed-term deal for the security and he's got it in his head it's better for his credit rating. It wasn't too hard to negotiate that one, surprisingly.

He's happy and I've kept my promises and he knows he'll get loads of minutes this season."

"Oh," said Sarah.

"Isn't Swanny miles better?" Ian Swan was the best goalie at the club and in about twenty minutes would be starting against Northampton with CA 93. Sticky was CA 85.

"He's better, yeah, but I'm not sure about miles. They're totally different keepers. It's very much horses for courses with them."

"Horses for courses?" said Jesse.

"You know horse racing? The state of the ground is really important. The going's firm, they say. What else? Soft. They've got their own jargon for it but there are some horses who like it firm. Ooh, matron! That'd be like Sharky or Pascal. They need solid footing, right, so they can go fast. Your Glenn Ryders don't mind a bit of mud. They're not fast anyway and they've got that different type of stamina. So horses for courses means you pick your horse depending on the conditions." Jesse nodded at Henri.

"When do you pick him?" I smiled.

"He's a man for all seasonings." Henri didn't react facially, but went to a cupboard and came back with a little jar of mint sauce that he pushed next to the plate of crêpes. Everyone laughed except Jesse, who must have thought we were mental. Sticky's new wages were £2, 400 a week, an increase of almost £400. It was League Two wages for a League Two standard player, but there was also his delightful Coaching Goalkeepers 20 to consider. I would have gone a little higher if he had pushed me.

Once Sticky was in the bag, I had called Swanny's agent and offered him the same amount if he extended his contract. The agent was delighted, saying he hadn't expected an increase since his client had only signed in January. I replied that I thought Swanny had a lot of improvement left in him and I hoped his wages would prove a bargain. Swanny's PA was 127, Sticky's was 122. Both could play in the Championship, then, if they fulfilled their potential.

I wondered about that - Sticky was just starting to run out of time to make the grade. He would turn 32 this season which for a goalie wasn't super old but he did need a good season otherwise there was a risk of him becoming increasingly marginalised and never reaching his potential. That left young Rainman. Like the entire squad he had featured in at least two of our pre-season friendlies and he had added 6 points of CA since returning from his break. He was now CA 55, nine points ahead of Banksy.

It seemed strange and wrong to pay Rainman (older, better) less than Banksy, but that's what I was doing. Rainman had moved up to 750 a week, which was probably close to my limit for him. I would want to move him on at some point and didn't want big wages holding him back. His PA was 99, so he could easily play in League One when he peaked. The decision about which goalie to loan to Saltney wasn't hard - Rainman was keen to go. He knew I could only send three to Saltney and he wanted to be one of them.

Someone else could miss out, he said. Bosh.

"Yeah, so," I said, remembering Jesse's question.

"Swanny's good with his feet so we'll use him when we expect to boss possession, and Sticky's taller and meaner so he's great if we're playing against a long-ball team or a set piece team."

"Um, I know," said Jesse. He pointed to Baggers.

"He just explained it to me while you were sort of... staring."

"Oh. Good." Emma popped in.

"Max! We've got about quarter of an hour left. I've got an idea. Come into the living room, everyone!"

Emma led me inside and sat me down on a chair that was placed just in front of the giant TV. Everyone else settled into place, perching on the arms of the sofa, leaning against walls, sitting cross-legged on the floor. I closed my eyes and thought about the eleven players that Sandra had named in today's match, then tried to compare them to teams of the past. Ian Swan, CA 93. The starting goalkeeper when I joined Chester had been Robbie 'Robbo' Robson and I was pretty sure his CA that January had been 39.

My notes were slightly confusing because I had another entry putting him at CA 37. How? All at once, it came back to me. Under Ian Evans and Vimsy, our CAs had at times actually trended down. Bad culture, bad results, outdated methods, playing injured players, no rotation. It was a complete mess. I had put a stop to that sort of decline and I'd also binned off slash eased out guys who couldn't improve any further. We had started the next season, the one after my murder, with Ben Cavanagh on a paltry CA 35.

Ben took over from Robbo during that season and started our National League campaign on CA 45, and the League Two season on CA 63. So, discounting Robbo's 39, which was recorded in January, our main goalie's initial CA in our most recent seasons had gone... 35, 45, 63... 93. That was a big jump. The tiny scientist who lived in my head (part-time) told me I wasn't comparing apples with apples - at the very start of pre-season, Swanny had been CA 89.

Still, the point stood; I had prepared for this moment very, very well. So why was I so nervous? The answer was FOMO. Fear Of MOrtification. Emma gave me a little shake. I snapped out of my thoughts; everyone was looking at me.

"Okay," I said.

"What are we doing?"

"We're going back in time," said Emma.

"You probably don't know this because you get your knowledge of history from comic books - ""Graphic novels."

"But in the olden days there was no Insta or TikTok. For entertainment, people used to gather around the radio and listen to things. Together. Can you believe it?" I nodded.

"I can. I wrote my PhD about Princess Diana's wedding. 1982 it was, which by coincidence was the year FM radio got invented. The royal wedding sparked a massive surge in interest in this new technology. Twenty million Brits huddled around brand-new radios, listening to descriptions of it all."

"We had TV then," said one of the neighbours, snarkily.

"What are we to enjoy together?" said Henri, the peacemaker.

"Pyramid Schemers," said Emma.

"It's a podcast where they talk about the football clubs outside the Premier League. Every year they make predictions about what will happen and who will finish where. Max likes them, even though they are usually wrong about everything. Last time they said Chester would finish twentieth - that's out of twenty-four, but of course we came third and would have won if the season had just been a tiny bit longer." I suddenly realised the absurdity of the situation.

"Hang on, bebs. This is actually a great idea. It's some context about the match we're going to watch. That's really thoughtful of you. But why am I sitting here, facing everyone?"

"So we can watch your reactions."

"Oh. That seems very entertaining... for everyone else."

"You can watch our reactions to your reactions, babes." Baggers said, "She's done you there, boss." Pascal checked the time.

"How long is the episode?"

"We're not listening to the whole thing," said Emma.

"I only listen to the parts about us. One day one of these podcast nerds is going to say something actionable and I'm going to..." She trailed off as she entered into a reverie. She shook her head.

"Okay, everyone hush. Wibbers, stop crunching those crisps for a couple of minutes. Here we go!"

Extract from Pyramid Schemers, the original and best podcast dedicated to the 72 teams in tiers 2-4. Rocky: And that's why we're predicting that Blackpool will finish eleventh. Mike: Moving on to the club we have in twelfth place... it's the FA Youth Cup holders. It's Best's Babes. It's Chester. Rocky: Chester... Mike: Third in League Two last season, with decent cup runs. They surprised Manchester United in the FA Cup and fought tooth and nail against an admittedly weakened Newcastle United team.

They also absolutely dismantled Bolton Wanderers, who will not be happy about facing Max Best two more times. He was incandescent with rage after a shocking tackle in that match. Rocky: He doesn't seem the sort to hold grudges. [They both laugh.] I'm joking. He's going to wreck Bolton twice, no doubt about it. Mike: A few basic data points.

First, Chester have won three back-to-back promotions and while they have invested in their training ground and the stadium, they're far from a League One club in terms of infrastructure. Rocky: Or wages. At sixty thousand pounds per week, they have the lowest wage bill in the division. Peterborough are close, then come Crawley Town. A handful of clubs have budgets in five figures, but the vast majority are paying out over a hundred grand a week.

Your beloved Oxford United are shelling out two hundred thousand pounds per week. Can Chester realistically compete with that? Can they escape financial gravity? Again? Mike: Most of their players have never played a minute of League One football. Another issue - their talismanic player-manager will start the season... on loan in Gibraltar. Rocky: Unconventional. Mike: We know he does mad things but last time, when he took a month off to save Tranmere from relegation, his team were flying.

This time last season, also after a jump to a higher standard, Chester were getting battered twice a week and Max Best was the only thing keeping them afloat. He really should be at home, doing his job, making sure his club get off to a decent start. Rocky: I don't think there are many who would disagree with you there. What about their squad, and what about their transfer business? Mike: The squad is very hard to read.

Clearly by the end of the season they were too good for League Two, but how much of that was because of the sensational form of Foquita? They have replaced him with Gabriel from Tranmere Rovers. Rocky: Paying big money for the privilege. Mike: Eight hundred thousand pounds for a striker with a middling goalscoring return. Is that good business? If you look at his record, look at his underlying numbers, no. But would you bet against him coming good? Rocky: Absolutely not.

And if he was a splashy look-at-me-I've-got-a-Brazilian-striker signing, there were some quite astute moves in the free transfer market. In comes Fitzroy Hall for centre-back depth. You know I've always liked him. Mike: You have. Rocky: In comes Colin Beckton. Mike: Wow. I mean, why wasn't there a queue for his services? I think Colin Beckton in League One is actually unfair. Fans of other clubs need to get a petition going to put a stop to it.

Rocky: I wouldn't go that far but he's a player who could still be banging them in at Championship level. Mike: He wants to get into coaching and Chester was his best bet. Rocky: His best bet indeed. But guess who else came on a free? Wearing the number 4 shirt, appearing in pre-season friendlies as a player... It's Peter Bauer. Mike: I don't know what's going on with that one. It feels like Max Best is trolling us. Trolling the entire football community.

Peter Bauer was a promising young player at Bayern Munich until a career-ending injury made him pursue a career in coaching. Chester signing him as a coach is an incredible coup. But the thing about career-ending injuries is that they end careers. So what's going on? Rocky: Absolutely no clue, mate. All we know is Peter Bauer got some serious FOMO when he heard Best was making early moves in the transfer market. He practically begged to join, which is bewildering and inexplicable.

Mike: How have they managed to hold onto Youngster and William Roberts? Rocky: Absolutely no clue, mate. Chester are turning down massive offers for those two. It's bewildering and inexplicable. I see a squad with good goalies. Not great, but good. Looks like it could be a solid defence and Matt Rush on loan from Man U will add some real verve to their team. Skip the midfield for a second. They have a fleet of strikers who bring different things to the table. Useful. Back to the midfield.

Charlie Dugdale loves Max Best football - if his numbers stay like they did since he joined Chester, he'll have an incredible season. I don't see much in central midfield or on the right... until Best returns from his jaunt. At that point, there's the potential for this team to explode. Mike: They go on runs, don't they? Four wins in a row, six, seven. Rocky: Not many draws. They aren't Chester drawers. They're Chester winners. Mike: Badum-tish.

Rocky: All of which brings us to the burning question - why have we got them predicted to finish exactly in mid-table? Mike: It's time for a rare peek behind the curtain here at Pyramid Schemers Towers. Rocky: Hang on, why do we live in a tower? Mike: We should live in a pyramid, you're saying? Wherever it is, join us in our boudoir and watch as we lift our skirts. Bit of ankle, anyone?

How this process normally works is that we make our lists separately and then we come together and discuss our individual rankings and synthesise them. It doesn't ever produce a table we're both happy with, but it's usually an interesting in, a fun way to talk about these great football clubs. We rarely have a situation where I think a team will finish top three and Rocky thinks bottom three. But that's what we've got. Rocky: I can't remember it happening before.

I'm not sure the best solution is to put them in the dead middle but we couldn't agree on anything else. Mike: Let me explain my thoughts first. Max Best isn't in Gibraltar because he's flighty and unserious. I mean, he is to some extent, sure, but mostly he's there because he's happy with his Chester squad. He's happy with his assistant manager. He's on record as saying he expects to smash this league. I don't see much reason to argue with him.

There are five or six big, big clubs with serious money who he'll have to beat, and if two of them get their acts together maybe the most Chester can hope for is to finish third. Rocky: Which would be incredible and the best result in their history. Mike: If you'll just inhale and let me finish. [He breathes loudly as a guide for his friend to follow.] Max Best won the FA Youth Cup last season, beating multiple Premier League teams along the way.

That's him beating Prem opposition and he's currently rampaging around Europe with a ragtag band of mercenaries. There isn't a manager in League One you think has the tactical chops to outfox Best on any particular day. Chester's squad isn't perfect but it contains a lot of solutions to a lot of problems. My position is that any team that finishes above Chester have probably won the league. Okay, done.

Rocky: That's well-argued and I agonised over this because there are moments when I think what you're saying is obviously true but then you look at the Peter Bauer situation. That's a big contract he's on, and that money could have gone to a box-to-box midfielder, something Chester haven't had since Raffi Brown departed. There are lots of small examples of moves which look strange. The Gabriel transfer, for example. Was that the best use of Chester's limited funds?

Is it right to rely on a 38-year-old Ryan Jack to unpick packed defences? What do Andrew Harrison, Lee Contreras, and Magnus Evergreen offer except work rate and endeavour? If Charlie Dugdale is injured do you have enough creativity? Mike: Max Best. Pascal Bochum. William Roberts. Matt Rush. Rocky: But the main issue is Best himself. He is brilliant. You can't shoot a team up three divisions and not be brilliant. You see him take his army unit to their cup final, you hear the way some other managers talk about him.

He's the real deal... probably. The data is at times confusing and contradictory. Okay but why is he in Gibraltar? For listeners who don't know, this summer Chester tore up their pitch, tore down one of the stands, and while the rebuild is underway they will play every fixture... until mid-October... away from home. That's thirteen matches, including cups, and could be as many as fifteen. Fifteen away days, all up and down the country. Buses, hotels, more buses, more hotels.

A fading photo of some people you vaguely remember. Turns out it's your family. There are precedents for this sort of thing and most are very, very bad. Max Best needs to be there and the fact that he isn't says to me that he is getting bored of Chester FC. He has done all he can do, he has set them up and improved their youth teams, given them a platform to build on, but he's restless and he needs a new challenge.

If I were Hull or Bristol City, clubs in the Championship who are probably going to need a new manager sooner rather than later, I'd be putting Max Best on speed dial. My prediction for the season is that College 1975 is not the only other team Max Best will manage. And when he leaves, the spiral for Chester could be rapid and unpleasant. Mike: Or they'll finish top three. Next we've got Salford City...

Emma pressed pause. The room fell silent. Noises from the outside world seeped inside Poncho Villa. A car. A seagull. An oil tanker deftly avoiding a tax bill. I broke the ice.

"Round of applause for my face?" There was a crackle of claps. At first I had been trying to keep my expression neutral, to not give anything away, but the podcast was super fascinating. Being analysed to that level by someone honest, by someone with skills who's making a genuine attempt to get inside the club, inside your mind, it's actually thrilling. Addictive. I loved listening to these prediction episodes and it was actually a super useful way to quickly learn about my opponents.

Annoyingly, I slipped right into teacher mode and picked someone from the class.

"Glenn, what did you think?"

"That's what I want to know from you. When you get intense like that, you're impossible to read." I thought about it.

"Those lads are really good. They see more than most fans and they get close to the truth but they fixate on the wrong things. What was it they said? Most of our players have never played in League One? That's quite an interesting detail to pick out, isn't it? But then they skip over it. I actually think it's incredibly pertinent to today's game. Swanny, Duggers, and Colin have played League One before. Having eight guys who never played this level could be an issue, right?

Matt Rush, Youngster, and Dazza have played at a higher level, you could argue, but that might not prepare you for this particular combination of speed and skill. It's not just skill levels, it's how the referees are, how much media attention you get, how many avenues there are to be told you're shit. Now when we play in cups we're not always the plucky underdog. To League Two teams we're a scalp, aren't we? It'll be hard to get used to being favourites in more and more matches!

I'm not worried about physicality; we came from non-league and we can handle ourselves. I'm not worried about the speed of the game but would it be a huge surprise if it took us a few matches to work out how to approach this division?" One of the neighbours said, " Do you hold grudges?"

"Big time." I couldn't see a reason not to use Bench Boost in our first fixture against Bolton Wanderers. After what they did to Pascal, when it came to Bolton my motto was pretend to forgive, never forget. Pascal said, "What are the chances you would move to Hull or Bristol City?"

"If I was going to go anywhere in the Championship, it would be Stoke City."

"What?" laughed Emma.

"Is this an inside joke you never told me about?"

"The family that owns Stoke own a massive gambling company. They're richer than God but they can't put their money into the club because they don't know how to get around the financial rules. Brooke and I would turn them into the biggest sporting organisation in the world within five years. Our reign of terror would be absolute, and close to eternal. The best thing is, Stoke itself is within go-kart distance of Manchester. If I was gonna do the billionaire thing, that's how I'd do it. Hmm.

Henri, put a pin in this moment. If you ever discover time travel, come back and show me what happens in the Chester path and convince me to enter the Stoke dimension." Luisa was in a tiny, contented bundle by the end of the sofa, leaning against Henri's legs. She said, "They said one thing right. So many matches away from your home. My father always said home advantage is worth half a goal. You are good to Sandra Lane but is it fair to, how you say, dump her right in it?"

I smiled at her phrasing before getting serious. I rose from the chair and moved it out of the way; Baggers bagged it and put it in a place where Sarah could sit. The cuteness briefly distracted me.

"Did I dump her in it? I can answer that. You see..." I took a few paces to the right before turning back to the left. This was going to be a big speech.

"My favourite movie is 300, in which three hundred Spartan warriors do battle against a million Persians."

"No no no," said Emma.

"We're not talking about your stupid comic book movie."

"They throw their babies into the woods and they either learn to fight or they don't come back! It's pertinent!"

"I don't give a fuck," said Emma.

"That movie is boy garbage. Save it for when it's just boys."

"Or not," said Henri.

"Okay," said Pascal, as he eased me aside and turned the TV on.

"Much as I'd like to hear the Godfather's take on parenting, I don't want to miss out on the action. It is bad enough not being there. Come on you Seals!"

"Wait wait wait!" I called out. I held up the Blu-ray box for the greatest movie of all time.

"Anyone who wants to stay later and do a watch party..." My suggestion was drowned out, and I was amazed to find I was even being heckled by one of the neighbours. Like they had anything better to do.

I sat in my premium spot on the side of the sofa and briefly fretted. Was Luisa right? Had I dropped Sandra right in it? Pre-season had gone fairly well, I reckoned. Bumpers Bank was still something of a building site and there were days when the electricity failed or the water was out, but most of the time the lads could train, use the gym, and shower. There were top coaches doing interesting sessions and something close to the optimal balance between old and new faces.

The numbers suggested I had got things right. Most players had added between 3 and 6 CA points. Perhaps I should say 'recovered', since in most cases they were merely getting back to the levels of last season, but the younger, less seasoned players got better rapidly. One slight concern was that Youngster only added one point, but that took him to a monumental CA 105; he would start the season as one of the best midfielders in the league. He was gold, approaching platinum, in my new metal rankings.

0-79 Tin 80-89 Bronze 90-99 Silver 100-109 Gold 110+ Platinum Two other players beat Pascal in the race to break the gold barrier: Colin and Dazza. For that reason, I asked Sandra if she would consider doing 4-4-2 against Northampton. The Cobblers manager, Paul 'Smithy' Smith seemed like a decent sort, but he'd been a talented rugby player in his youth and maybe he should have stuck to that.

I had no doubt he was expecting us to come out with a 3-4-3 or something funky; I couldn't wait to see the look on his face when he saw we were doing old-school tactics. Sharky came and squatted near me.

"Boss, what's the lineup? I didn't see a graphic."

"Oh," I said, thumping myself in the forehead. This stream didn't come with all the trimmings - it was a raw feed. I got up and stood next to the screen.

"The starting eleven, in a 4-4-2, is Swanny in goal. Ian Swan, two hundred thousand pound signing from Reading. Back four, Cole Adams, Christian Fierce, Zach Green, Matt Rush. Three guys who have played together loads and one exciting new addition. Midfield from left to right, Duggers, Youngster, Lee C, Bark. Bit of a left-sided bias but that's okay. Bark will be quality this season. Up top, Colin and Dazza. Good mix of attributes. That's a cracking team, that." It was. The average CA was over 95.

Bark still counted as tin and him playing was the price of me, Wibbers, and Pascal being in Gibraltar. He was a neat and tidy player, though. I wasn't worried about him. The other slightly weak spot was left back. Cole Adams was high bronze. So one tin, one bronze, six silvers, three gold. FOMO. Full Of Metal Overdogs. (Cut that.) I couldn't be sure from fifteen hundred miles away, but based on what I'd seen when I'd scouted them previously, I estimated Northampton were between CA 95 and 100.

"We have a strong bench," I added.

"We might see minutes for the new boys, Fitzroy and Gabbygol, but I've suggested to Sandra it might be better to give them a full start for their debut. Younger players, sure, you can stick them on for six minutes and they lap it up but if you're a bit more experienced you want to start and really sink your teeth into a full ninety. I know Gabby will want a goal on debut; all strikers do. We've got Crewe in the AOK Cup on Tuesday so that's a nice way for him to ease into things.

He's on the bench if Sandra really needs him, though, and she also has options like Josh Owens, Andrew Harrison, Ryan Jack. It's a killer squad. Someone did a kick-ass job, in my opinion."

"And the best player isn't even there," called out Glenn Ryder.

"Yeah!" I said.

"Where is Magnus, anyway?"

"He's in Marbella," said Jack the Lad, popping in from the balcony. He didn't want to miss out on the party but he wasn't too bothered how Chester got on.

"He's got a girl on the go. That's why he's always vanishing after training, boss. Mystery solved."

"What do you mean, mystery solved? I've got fucking hundreds more questions than a minute ago!"

It was super strange watching our season begin from another country, but it was even stranger because twenty of us were watching the raw feed I had access to. It was always the same camera and it showed the pitch, the pitch, and nothing but the pitch. That's what you want as a scouting tool, as a decision-maker, but it was terrible in terms of creating a narrative. From time to time we saw (and Boggy told us) that things were getting spicy on the touchline.

The TV companies would have been all over it, showing the finger-jabbing of Sandra and Paul Smith, getting as close to the aggro as they could. We had none of that and it was freaking out the others. Why would I watch games like this? They had got so used to a certain way of consuming the sport that what I was doing - a more objective, more pure form - was alien. They were missing out on all the good bits! At least they had Boggy's enthusiasm to keep them invested.

He had eaten a book of stats for lunch and was burping them all back out. How many years since Chester last played in England's third tier. The last time we had played against Northampton and our historic head-to-head records. Mention of how we'd crushed them in the Youth Cup a couple of seasons before. Sandra's record as a manager. Colin Beckton's outstanding CV and the fact that he had scored on debut for all but two of the many clubs he had played at. For the first ten minutes I didn't speak.

The possibility of us conceding four or five goals loomed in my thoughts. If that happened, would I have to abandon Gibraltar and go back home? Probably. Tail very much between my legs. Someone said, "I love that kit. Is that the away kit? It's gorgeous." Someone said, "Yeah. At first I thought it was too pink but they're flying off the shelves. Everyone in Chester knows the club got a certain amount and when it's gone, it's gone." Someone said, "FOMO doesn't work on me."

With fifteen minutes gone and a total disaster seemingly off the cards, I very slightly untensed. It was a scrappy game, closely contested, but the patterns had emerged. Our weak spot was Bark. He wasn't taking on his opponent, wasn't dribbling past his man or doing madnesses. He was receiving the ball, turning, and passing back to Matt Rush or inside to Lee C. Not creating goal threat, then, but not hurting the team. Northampton's weak link, their right back, was already struggling against Duggers.

I knew which weak link I would prefer. Another point in our favour - our shape. Sandra had finished the previous season trying to collect 'Easter eggs' - big fat zeroes in the goals against column. All that work was preparation for this very moment and it was paying off. We looked tight and I could see the effect of Peter Bauer's sessions. When Northampton stroked the ball around midfield, our lads moved in and out like the sides of an accordion, increasing the pressure on certain points, relaxing on others.

Northampton were able to keep the ball but not to progress it into dangerous areas. It was masterful. When the roles were reversed and the home team were defending, we had much more menace. Duggers on the left played like the ball was tied to his boots. Matt Rush loved bombing up the right wing - as per his instructions, he didn't do it often, but it was a warning to the home team that they couldn't stack just one side.

Meanwhile Dazza looked up for the challenge and Colin had an aura around him that was clearly putting his opponents under stress. The goal didn't come from any great play, though. Swanny, under pressure, sensibly booted the ball long. Ten yards inside the oppo half, Dazza bodied his marker and nodded the ball diagonally ahead.

Colin had made a diagonal run expecting a straight flick on, but when the ball bounced up into his body, he either got incredibly lucky with the physics or he was somehow able to shape his ribs to push the ball where he wanted it. However it happened, he found himself clear and running into the box with only the keeper to beat. He fired it low and hard, left-footed, into the bottom right. Finishing 19. Another goal on debut.

"What are you thinking?" said Jesse, whose Future section of his player profile said 'Is proud to be playing for Max Best'.

"What would you do if you were there?" I was skimming Chester's player profile screens to see if there was anything new I could learn about Morale or injuries. Nothing of interest.

"When a goal goes in, there are three responses. Attack more, change nothing, defend more. This is the kind of match where I'd be tempted to go defensive for a few minutes. Paul Smith will think you're going to turtle up because that's what he would do. He pushes his men forward, you release the elastic, oops!"

"Isn't that high risk?" said Gosling, one of the local midfielders.

"You're inviting pressure onto yourself."

"High risk?" I mused.

"Not really. You want the other team spread out, right? It's much easier to play against a team like that."

"What if they push to the halfway line so you're still squashed?"

"Then you chip a ball over the top to Pascal. Or Sharky. Or Baggers." Sarah bristled but didn't say anything.

"What if you don't have any speed merchants?" If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

"Then you sack your director of football and get someone with a brain." Jesse said, "Do you ever use those high lines? Push your defenders all the way up?"

"Not often, no. I had Glenn and now I've got Christian and they're mint but they're not lightning fast. Spoiler alert for Thursday night."

"Dick," smiled Glenn.

"And you saw when Tottenham did it, their defenders were always injured. You're making them sprint way more than they're used to, especially in the Premier League when the linesmen don't put their flags up right away so it's not just extra sprinting, it's pointless sprinting. If I was a hamstring, I'd want to say fuck this shit. A high line is good when it works but if your guys get injured it stops working.

It's something I would do for ten minutes in one match to mess with the oppo but I don't think I would ever base my whole identity on it."

"What are we going to do on Thursday?"

"We're going to watch a movie. You know, to get in the mood." Henri said, "No, Max, we're not. You're in enough trouble as it is. UEFA have opened disciplinary hearings against you, have they not? You will not get into more trouble this week by oiling yourself up on the side of the pitch or wearing a golden helmet or whatever you have planned. We will not enable you this time. Let the storm blow over."

"I've already dealt with the storm," I said. Henri narrowed his eyes.

"In what way?"

"The problem will be before and after the match, right, when the media are talking to me and I'll want to run my mouth off. So I've come up with a genius plan. We're getting Siggers back."

"What is Siggers?" I groaned.

"Siegmund! The actual manager of College 1975. He's back from his holiday, or at least that's what we're saying, and he's the manager. If he's the manager, he's the one talking to the media. They can't demand to talk to me, can they? Because I'm not the manager!" The curse would know. The players would know. Fuck, the entire world would know. They just wouldn't be able to do anything about it. Heh.

"Even better, we're framing it as Mateo punishing me. Bringing an adult back into the room because the kids were running wild. There we go, I've had a slap on the wrist, the people complaining about stunts and guerrilla marketing and people having too much fun will be mollified and we can get on with the serious business of preparing for the second leg which - no joke - involves us watching the movie 300! It literally contains our tactical plan!"

"I detest that movie; it is grotesque. I shall not be watching it." Sarah Greene said, "What was Siegmund's nickname when you met him?"

"What?" I said, confused. Sarah pushed Baggers and mouthed something like 'tell him'. Baggers smiled like a simpleton. Jack the Lad said, "Boss, don't you think Mateo should have, like, supported you more? You didn't do nowt wrong, really. It was just fun like you said. It wasn't guerrilla marketing because we didn't get paid. Or... did we?" I laughed.

"No-one got paid. What, Sony are going to pay me to promote a ten-year old game that everyone already owns? The punishment thing was my idea, by the way. Mateo is like MD. He suffers in silence. He's stoic."

"He dries his tears with hundred dollar bills," said Pascal.

"UEFA are paper tigers. They will hand out an eight thousand Euro fine, something of that magnitude." He glanced down at his phone.

"Lads, I have analysed the synopsis of the movie and I believe the gaffer is planning to play 5-4-1, men behind ball, low block. We will defend wave after wave of attack. That fits in with the theme of the movie, which is, ah, a relentless but ultimately unsuccessful rearguard action."

"No," I said, annoyed.

"If you actually take the time to watch it you'll realise that 5-3-2 is far more apt."

"Voilà," said Henri.

"Now we know." Pascal was deep in thought.

"Yes, 5-3-2 makes more sense because they will attack through the centre. But where will Sharky play?"

"He won't. Depending on the game state, he'll come on for the final ten or twenty and run riot. In the movie - God, it's so cool - there's a bit where a big storm smashes up loads of enemy ships and the heroes stand on the shore with their abs hanging out just going bonkers. Every lightning hit is a goal. Every ship that smacks into some rocks is a red card for the oppo. Those men joyously screaming with their abs hanging out, their guns greased up, that will be us. The storm will be Sharky.

We have to summon it at just the right time."

"That does sound cool," suggested Luisa, with a tiny twitch of the lips. Henri shook his head. On this, he would be resolute. Sharky frowned.

"I'm getting dropped because of a movie?" I said, "Jack Nicholson was in A Few Good Men for twenty minutes. Jack Nicholson was in Batman for twenty minutes. You... are my Jack Nicholson." Henri said, "If we watch One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, we could play 4-4-2 diamond."

"That's it," I said.

"No-one talk to me until half time. I'm actually working."

At half time, the score was still one-nil and everything seemed pretty serene. Northampton had boofed some direct balls into the box, had tried to get funky at corners and set pieces, but didn't trouble us from open play. Boggy summed up our half by saying it was quietly assured, quietly professional. I talked to Glenn Ryder out on the balcony. He mostly asked about his former comrades and how the back office staff were getting on, but I was most excited to tell him about Bumpers and the stadium.

"The capacity will rise from 5, 400 to 8, 200. For most matches we'll have 7, 000 home fans, twelve hundred away."

"So they get the south stand plus that last section of the west?"

"Exactly. There are plenty of clubs like Bolton, Barnsley, Stockport, Wigan, Carlisle who will bring twelve hundred fans with them, easy. I'm not sure about Crawley and Wycombe or the ones all the way on the south coast but the basic principle is to get loads of away fans in and when they get noisy, our lot have to respond. Tickets in the new Harry McNally are cheap and we're trying to fill it with lads. Lads who'll sing and chant and get rowdy."

"Aren't football clubs supposed to get more middle-class? Attract the prawn sandwich brigade?" That was football code for people with disposable income.

"That's for established clubs, right, ones with a huge fanbase. You're adding the prawn sandwich guys to the beer and pie guys. We need to get all the beer and pie guys we lost through being shit. This season, I think we'll have it busy, have it noisy. It'll be fun." Glenn smiled.

"That's why it's good you're in charge. You want what the players want. Big crowds, noise, drama, excitement. That thrill of scoring a big goal. Your Man Uniteds are losing that connection with the fans but you're gunning for it." He took a drink of an alcohol-free beer.

"Everyone I know was buzzing about the God of War face paint. Lads on holiday having a laugh, innit? It helps that we won. Don't let the bastards grind you down, boss." He raised his little bottle and clinked it against mine.

"That reminds me. I'm trying to get a splash zone in the concourse."

"What's that?"

"You know lads like to throw their beer around after a win? Makes no sense to me but fine, let's have fun. What's not fun is some lovely tourists who have come to see the mighty Chester get themselves drenched in beer when they least expect it, so I'm saying here's a place you can go and sing and chuck beer around while you film it for your socials. But it's in one place and if you don't want to get drenched it's easy to avoid and there's a, like, defined amount of space to clean up.

Brooke is not keen on the idea."

"I bet. I like a party but don't mess with beer. What a waste!" I looked around as though worried about being overheard.

"I think," I said, quieter, "that if we sort of condone it, give it a special location, we sort of sanitise it. Right? It's not transgressive any more." Glenn nodded.

"Takes all the fun out of it."

"Right. If UEFA don't want players doing fun stuff in their matches, all they need to do is designate one round where you're allowed to write political messages on your shirts or whatever. Everyone would do it which would mean no one story would stick out and it would get boring very quickly and players would stop doing it."

"It would all be 'Hi, mum!'""Exactly. The sport is run by idiots. You can't repress people. On a long enough timeline, they break free. One day someone will create an alternative to UEFA and FIFA and there will be so many grudges, so much resentment that clubs and countries will flock to the new organisations and the whole world order will get ripped up." Glenn eyed me.

"You should do that."

"Me? Start a revolution? I can't even get my players to watch one of the most historically accurate and most entertaining movies of all time." I tutted.

"I'm a bald fraud, Glenn."

"A bald fraud with a great head of hair."

Chester controlled the second half pretty well. They got more and more control to the point that the last twenty minutes were played in Northampton's half. Sandra made three changes. Ryan Jack and Andrew Harrison replaced Lee C and Bark - a combined CA 157 replacing a combined 174. Bit of a downgrade but it was the only way to develop our squad players. Ryan had actually improved a few points in pre-season; there was life in the gnarly old chicken yet!

Five minutes later, she brought off the goalscorer, Colin Beckton. He got a nice round of applause from the away fans. Tom Westwood got the last twenty minutes, which surprised Boggy and a lot of other people. That move was at my request. Tom was a hard-running striker who put defences under constant pressure - perfect for a situation like the one we were in now where we were a goal up and simply had to frustrate the oppo until the full-time whistle.

He was a twenty-year old PA 92 former Exit Triallist and he had grown pretty nicely. He had played a lot for Saltney in the Welsh leagues, and had got some first-team experience with Chester. After a sensational six-point pre-season he was now CA 71. The plan was to send him to Saltney in time for their first match and these twenty minutes, plus another twenty on Tuesday night, would be the equivalent of hitting a boost pad in Mario Kart. At the rate he was improving, he could easily be CA 80 in January.

He would come back to Chester and get some more minutes before going back to Wales to finish the campaign. It was perfectly possible that he would hit his maximum PA this season - not bad going from the gobby twat. He could have been a candidate for a January sale, but you can't play for more than two clubs in a season. Him playing for Saltney would make sure he stayed in the Max Best Universe till the summer, when I could maximise his value.

It was very slightly cynical of me to set things up that way but he would leave Saltney (and Chester) with his third league winner's medal. Not bad for a striker who didn't often score! And by hitting his maximum PA at the age of 20, he would maximise his income across his whole career. Yeah, I didn't feel sorry for him at all. Imagine if I'd been given Sharky aged 16. The guy would have been a millionaire by now.

At the end of the match, as I was in the kitchen alternately rubbing my face and smiling up at the ceiling, Pascal came in.

"So we're eleventh in the table. Those podcasters are amazing! That win's good for me, I suppose."

"Is it?" I said.

"Bark made a good case to be our starting right mid." Pascal couldn't hide a disdainful look, but he slipped into diplomat mode, something he had been practising ever since I gave him the women's team to manage.

"Yes, he played very well." Just for a second, he looked very pleased with himself.

"I was thinking that since Sandra was able to do what you said she would do, perhaps I will be able to do what you say I am able to do."

"Mate," I said.

"You can achieve anything I set my mind to."

Tuesday, 11 August AOK Cup First Round: Crewe Alexandra versus Chester FC The cup draw had thrown up a pretty lame fixture. We had actually played Crewe as our final friendly of pre-season, and had played them twice near the end of last season. The media had tried to position this as a grudge match, one in which we would extract 'revenge' for them putting an end to our slim hopes of the League Two title. Sandra handled the line of questioning a lot more graciously than I would have done.

Revenge for being beaten fair and square? That ain't Chesterness. Get fucked with that line of thinking. We convinced a local barman to show the match and timed our return from Marbella accordingly. As he had done a lot recently, Magnus stayed behind. Well, well, well... Having the normal broadcast meant we would get the angles, cuts, and added narrative tension that normal people expected and enjoyed.

The latest batch of weekend warriors had flown back home but there was a decent amount of interest in a night out at the pub. The College guys weren't fully integrated into the Maxnificent Seven, but we were a pretty coherent group. Winning five matches you were expected to lose is good for team spirit.

"What are we predicting, gaffer?" said Zafari, the midfielder who was playing at a higher level than he had ever imagined.

"Crewe play 3-5-2. It's a young team, good technical quality, lots of energy. Sandra's gonna rotate. It'll be debuts for Fitzroy and Gabby. Probably Josh Owens and Andrew Harrison will start but I'm not sure."

"You're not sure?"

"I'm trying to leave her alone. Here are the tools, finish the job. Sometimes I have specific requests she has to work around but if I interfere too much she won't enjoy it and won't learn from it so what's the point? It's Mansfield in the league next. They came up with us from League Two but we're pulling clear of them already in terms of talent. Doesn't mean we'll definitely win but there's no particular need to save our best players for that one or anything like that. She can focus on tonight and tonight alone.

It's quite a luxury."

"I'd love a beer," said Zafari.

"Beautiful evening watching footy in a bar with mates. I'm just missing that one thing!"

"I know," I said, shaking my head.

"Tell you what, though. If we beat Aris then whatever happens in the playoffs we'll have a party. A tame one, right? We've both got jobs to do! But let's go to the beach and have a couple of proper beers. En-fucking-joy ourselves for five minutes." As it was, that night I enjoyed myself for 90 minutes.

There was no pressure on us to win in the cups, no fear of missing out on prize money, and while having more fixtures was good in terms of spreading minutes around our bloated squad, I would have been fine with an early exit from one or two of the cups. Concentrate on the league. Really blast it this time. Sandra matched Crewe's 3-5-2 which resulted in a game with lots of possession and not many chances. Josh Owens played left midfield, and Matt Rush got a day off.

That was good; there was a danger of us overplaying the talented right back. Sticky got a start, and Fitzroy clicked into place like he had been at the club for years. The forwards were sloppy - Gabby struggled on his debut - and Tom Westwood's cameo showed why he had been cut from his academy. He wasted several decent positions, snatched at shots, fouled players who were clearing the ball instead of letting them kick it right back to us. He was trying too hard.

Duggers slapped home after a goalmouth scramble to make it one-nil and that's how it stayed. We were through to the next round. Another satisfactory outing. Nothing special but job done, and proof that the club could do without me for a little while longer.

"Boss," said Baggers, as the gathering started to break up.

"I'm gutted to be missing out on those Chester matches but this is the adventure of a lifetime, isn't it? We need to get through to the next round. I'm not ready to go home."

"Me neither," said Jack the Lad. I pulled at my lip.

"We need to go to Greece and get a better result than King Xerxes did. That's a reference Henri won't get, sadly." Henri gave me a sad look.

"I have studied Leonidas at Thermopylae, my friend. It hangs in a little place called the Louvre. Ever heard of it?" He tutted.

"Outperforming King Xerxes will not be hard. Stick to the plan. The plan is mint sauce. If it results in a heroic defeat, a complete blow-out, or a Pyrrhic victory, do not worry. At least you'll be home in time to play against Mansfield."

"Ouch," I laughed, leaving some cash on the table, setting off back towards the ship hotel.

Henri's comment was intended as a joke but as I walked through the side streets of Gibraltar I realised he was right and a strange sense of dread appeared inside me. The more I contemplated the situation, the bigger the dread and the slower I walked. On Thursday morning we would fly to Greece and if we lost that was it. We were out. Pack your things and go home. No more banter-filled breakfasts. No more walks around town with one of the Maxnificent Seven or the College lads.

No more would I go back to the hotel room and find Emma in the middle of a call or reading through a contract. Emma. She was loving this trip. Sun, sea, and solicitation. No, that sounds wrong. Loungers, lizards, and lawyering. Big floppy hats, big fabricy handbags, big black sunglasses. Being just as productive as always while managing to meet more people and have more interesting interactions than the rest of us put together. Me. I was loving this trip. It was new and interesting and colourful.

Every win meant actual cash in my pocket. Every win defied the odds and burnished my reputation. Every day of training brought the gang closer together. The alternative seemed grey and cold and boring. Sandra could do almost the whole season without me. How many matches would be interesting? A few in the cups, a few in the league. Maybe that podcast nerd was right - maybe I would get bored and chase a higher level of challenge. If we got a draw in Greece we would go into the final round, the playoff.

One last intense, dramatic, two-legged match against a famous club from Turkey. It would be Turkey, wouldn't it? Cyprus, Greece, Turkey. That was progression, right? Where did Luxembourg fit? It didn't. Okay so maybe it would be against a team from Poland or Denmark. In recent years the playoffs had featured clubs like Chelsea, Brighton, Real Betis, and Fiorentina. Mansfield or Florence. Mansfield or a million Euros. FOMO. Fear Of Mansfielding Out. An old man was sitting on a bench in the fading light.

I had come to a stop not far from him. He said, "You all right, son?"

"I don't want to go to Mansfield," I told him. He looked at the direction I was going.

"Not much danger of that, I'd say."

Thursday, August 13 Something I learned: Just because Gibraltar and Greece are close together in alphabetical lists does not mean they're close geographically. Thessaloniki is fucking miles away! Olivier, our private jet guy, told us that we'd be going 2, 500 kilometres and it would take three and a half hours. We needed a large aircraft so we could make the whole trip in one hop without refuelling, but it wasn't large enough to bring loads of randos. Emma stayed back in Gib, which was fine with me.

The squad, the fake manager, plus the real physios came to about thirty. The population of Thessaloniki was exactly the same as the size of the Persian army in the famous story. We were going to have to fight literally ten times harder than the actors in 300. Three and a half hours. So much time to get stressed, to bite my nails. I tried to bribe the cabin crew to play the movie but Henri had already bribed them not to. I hoped that defeat wasn't an omen for the match to come.

I got Henri to come and talk to me for a bit so that I wouldn't go crazy. I started with tedious stuff like checking on his mood, how much he was enjoying this adventure, how he felt when Jack the Lad flirted with Luisa. Then we got to the good stuff.

"Mate," I said, lowering my voice.

"I'm starting to cane it in." He scratched his nose while he tried to decipher my meaning.

"Um... sudden onset cocaine addiction?"

"What? No. I don't touch that stuff. Long story. No, I mean my income's rising fast."

"To cane it in. Is that a real phrase or are you teasing me?"

"I'm not teasing you. I'm trying to get advice. I think it's a real phrase. Maybe it's just Manchester?" Henri sighed.

"Never mind. What advice do you want?" I organised my thoughts. I couldn't tell him all the details but now that all of Ruth's clients had accepted their new deals I had a solid idea of how much the agency would generate this year. There were 21 individual clients, plus four League Two Legends. Youngster was also technically on the books, though REM only represented him in sponsorship deals. REM's slice of everyone's weekly wages was a smidge over 5, 500 a week.

We were paying Chelli 400 a week but we had little in the way of overheads. For example, we had no offices - Emma sometimes worked from a superyacht - and a very basic website. I had told Ruth to channel the 'finders fee' due to me from Bayern Munich into the agency. There was also 20 grand from Angel's perfume deal. In short, we had some cash and didn't need to hold our regular income back any longer. My share of the profits stood at 2, 500 a week. That was tasty. Spicy, even. But what to do with it?

"I've got a decent new contract from Chester but I've got some side hustle money coming in, too. BoshCard, Soccer Supremo, this College thing, and my consulting work. It's like another fifty percent on top of my basic salary." His eyebrows rose a little.

"That's good, Max. That's superb."

"I know! I want to get smug about it but then I remember you let me live rent-free in your house for ages and Ruth's doing the same now. I should give you something." He clicked his teeth and looked away.

"Please, no. Please do not do that. Our relationship is not so transactional, is it? You give me this so I give you that of equal value?"

"I hope not."

"Exactly. You brought me on this journey. I'll play in a cauldron in Greece. I have always dreamed of nights like these! You owe me nothing. So what do you want to know?"

"Erm, so... In one way it's loads of money." I hesitated about giving Henri numbers because it would be, as he put it, 'gauche', and also because it could help him to work out that I had an ownership stake in REM. Him caring enough to make the connection seemed far-fetched but plausible enough to give me pause. On the other hand, he must have suspected it would take fat stacks to get me to spend two months in the Mediterranean in the height of summer.

"Like... half a million and that's if we lose tonight." He made a whistling mouth, but no noise came out.

"That escalated quickly."

"Yeah," I said.

"I'm an overnight success four years in the making. Tax will dick me, obvs, but some of it can go through my image rights company. As a normal human being half a mill is unbelievable but as a guy who owns a football club, it doesn't buy me much. Not even one quarter of the stadium I don't even want to build. I'm not sure what I should do with this dosh. Buy shares? You said not to buy property and I don't get the slightest sense of FOMO from crypto stuff. Should I put it all into Saltney?

My numbers have escalated quickly, actually. I need time for my brain to catch up with my bank balance. Not that I've got any of these riches yet. It could all collapse, I suppose." He tutted.

"Again with the poverty mentality. You're doing better but, ah, you can't change so quickly. I will try not to nag. Let us think. You have very few costs, n'est-ce pas?"

"Well, I send money to West Didsbury and Saltney. Every five hundred a week I send is another player they can sign."

"My God, are you sending your income to those hippies in Manchester?"

"Yeah, some. If I send another thousand a week they can get two serious players, right? That will take them into the National League North. Tier six, mate, where we started. I can do a lot more with a tier six club than a tier seven one, do you know what I mean? And again, everything in Saltney is on a shoestring so a grand to bring in two older Ryan Jack types for a season could make all the difference. It's a young squad, right?

It just seems like the points I could earn by sending a grand a week could pay off more than buying shares. But do I want all my eggs in one basket?"

"I would say yes? Probably? In this case. I feel there's something you're leaving out that might help me understand how you are thinking."

"It's what we said to the lads when MD gave them the talk. Take ten percent of your income and put it into shares. Don't think about it, just do it, automate it, check it once every fifty years. I feel like I said that was good advice and it did seem that way and you agreed but I kinda don't want to do it and can't explain why. I've got my chips on the table and I'm winning so why would I cash out? But I have to set an example, too. I have to walk the walk, don't I?" Henri closed his eyes for a few seconds.

"My family got rich making perfume and used the money to buy property. We became a property business with a curious artefact attached. The property was disposed of piece by piece and suddenly we were nothing. Perfume is making us rich again. Well, my mother, anyhow. You get the point, perhaps. Stick to your core strengths. Yours is football. Hmm, I have an idea. The aim is to take Saltney into European competitions, no?"

"Yes."

"But with Saltney you keep all the money instead of splitting it in whatever ratio with Mateo. Good. That's smart." I would be sharing with MD but Henri's point stood.

"If I pour money into the squad now we'll win the league and we'll start in the Champions League draw; it's even more lucrative than what College are doing."

"Good. Your investment buys you a yearly lottery ticket. In a way," he added.

"I get the analogy. Let's go with it."

"Bon. You take your wages and turn them into lottery tickets in the guise of football teams. When you play and manage, it's like knowing one of the winning numbers in advance."

"Yes! Nice way of putting it."

"Your tickets win prize money. Sometimes a little, sometimes a lot. I suggest you take ten percent of the prize money and, as you say, cash out. That would be your version of what MD advised the lads to do."

"Yes yes yes, I like it. That's mint on all levels." I wouldn't need to think about cashing out or planning for the future more than once per year. I could mentally assign my income to different projects and spend what was in my bank knowing I was still providing for my future and building generational wealth.

"Yes. Wow, I feel like a weight's been lifted. That's really clever, Henri. It's simple and elegant and I can remember the rules easily. You're better at therapy than Alex Short."

"Good," he said, as he got up to return to his assigned seat. He hesitated.

"Ah... You know that if you manage Saltney, Chester FC will never be able to play in European football? You cannot be involved in the management of two clubs in the same competition. If you both enter the Conference, as would seem likely, one club would have to miss out and my reading is that it would be Chester. I'm sure you have a plan for that but just in case..."

"Of course I have a plan for that," I said, annoyed. He nodded and strolled off. I checked he was gone, then punched myself in the palm.

"Fuck!"

I'll say one thing for Henri's intervention - researching the rules and thinking about workarounds took my mind off the stress and worry of the match we were due to play. I couldn't sell my shares to MD because he was in the same mess as me. By the time Chester got into Europe, he would have to be taken off all the paperwork for Saltney. I would have to move my shares. The answer seemed obvious - the Mr. Yalley Universe was going to get bigger. The Multi-Yalley Model.

We went through the airport and yet again the air changed. Here in Greece it was its own thing, living and breathing. Breathing itself? Maybe it was breathing me. There were about fifty Aris fans waiting at the airport to greet us. They weren't in a frenzy or anything, but they were trying to intimidate us. One guy was holding a sign that read: WELCOME TO HELL. Another made eye contact with Pascal and made a throat-slitting gesture. It unnerved some of our lads; I saw it in the Morale screens.

"No autographs!" I said, prancing over, doing a pompous walk.

"No autographs of the mighty Max Best." I pointed at one guy.

"What did you say? Okay, ten Euro. Come on, ten Euro. Fifty for a selfie." The welcome committee suddenly looked a lot less threatening. There was one kid amongst what I supposed were the famous Super 3 ultras.

"Ten Euro selfie," he said.

"Good," I said. He got his phone out and tried to come close to me.

"No," I said.

"It's a selfie. Watch." I got my phone out, struck a fun pose, and took a picture of myself. I put my phone away and held my hand out.

"Ten Euro, mate. Pay up."

"Crazy," mumbled the kid's dad, leading him away. One of the ugliest Ultras stepped closer - a security guard got nervous. Not as nervous as the potential hooligan felt when I moved to within six inches of his face, standing in front of him like a rival boxer.

"Kisses are free," I said, smacking my lips. Henri and Glenn pulled me away. I yelled, "The Max Best show has come to town and tickets are selling fast. Act now to avoid disappointment!"

"What the fuck," said Baggers, as we moved into a more controlled area. His chest was heaving; it was clear he'd been ready for the scene to kick off.

"Don't start beef with the local hooligans, boss!"

"Why not?" I said, flexing my shoulder muscles.

"We outnumber them thirty to a million. I'm ready to run through brick walls, mate! I'm ready for war. Let's fucking go!" I pushed my little suitcase faster, decided it wasn't fast enough and swung it up and onto my back. We all had pretty much the same luggage - backpacks with wheels.

"Let's fucking go, Chester! Warm ups start now. Hut hut hut!" Pascal threw his hands up and turned to Henri.

"This is your fault! We should have let him watch his movie! Get it out of his system! Oh, what are you doing?" Henri was rigging his own case so he could wear it on his back. He grinned at Pascal.

"You want to be the only one not marching? Last one to the stadium is a rotten egg."

"But - " said Pascal.

"Fuck!" He realised he was going to be the only one not running through the airport. He picked up his case and ran. Intimidation tactics? Low morale? Not on my watch. FOMO. Full-On Mental, Onwards!

The stadium was almost empty and totally quiet when we got there. We didn't have anywhere else to go so we arrived hours early - that actually helped us avoid the usual next stage of intimidation - the bus journey into the car park while being barracked by aggressive figures in masks, hoods, and gloves. Does that actually work on people? Mate, I'm from Moss Side. Solving one problem created another, though. We had to hang around for hours, burning nervous energy, getting ourselves wound up.

Far from ideal preparation. Eventually we got close to the match. I handed in our team sheet - 5-3-2 with Sharky and Baggers on the bench. The idea was to have eight back plus the goalie and defend like we were defending our homeland from the invaders. Magnus had added another couple of points of CA, which took him to 89. He would play in the very centre of the defence, adding some heft to it. Three of the back five were my ringers. Would the line hold? It had to. The midfield three was me, Zafari, and Gosling.

My role would be to seek and destroy, while doing my best to counter the qualities of the home team's maestro, Nikos Iliades. I hoped that having two forwards would stop the match from becoming 90 minutes of attack versus defence. Fittingly for someone who was the hub of our social life, Henri would be the focal point. When desperate, we would hoof high balls towards him. If he could hold the ball up and maybe win a few fouls, we would be able to relieve the pressure, run down the clock.

This was definitely going to be a Game Speed zero kind of affair. Finally, Pascal was tasked with helping in whatever way he could. One thing would be to get into position for flick ons in case Henri won headers. I'd told him to always be in position for these opportunities when Henri was up against the young centre back. I'd also told Pascal that I would ask him to drop to CAM sometimes. From there he could harass and annoy Nikos Iliades and whoever else was seeing too much of the ball.

"Disruption," I said, tapping the tactics board for the last time while the whole squad watched.

"One rigid defensive wall. None shall pass. In front of that, a line of skirmishers. We'll move around like we practiced, lads. Two go to the ball, one drops into the danger zone. One presses from the left, one from the right. Remember the cover shadow drills. Force them to turn back." I looked up. That was the main stuff, right? It was a pretty simple plan.

"Important. They aren't as fit as us. Not even close. They will tire. They will bring on subs who aren't as good. While they're getting worse, we'll get better. Sharky Stormbringer and The Bagsman against tired defenders? Please. Don't forget that they've already weakened themselves from the first leg - their reserve goalie is starting. I suppose there was a lot of flak for their goalie and the manager got FOMO. Fear of more own-goals. Oh, two more quick things.

One, there will be flares and drums and people climbing the floodlights and that sort of thing. Those idiot fans you see on TV? This is them. We're in it." I smiled broadly.

"We're in it!"

"What's the second thing?" said Glenn Ryder.

"What? Oh, yeah. Remember what we talked about when we all got together as a team and watched that movie. Remember that vitally important, incredibly motivational thing." A look of horror crossed Jack the Lad's face.

"Whoa! I missed a party? When was that?" Henri stood and shook his head.

"There was no such event. Max is being petulant." He pulled his jersey on.

"This is our sixth match together. We haven't let each other down yet. I do not plan to start today." Glenn shot up.

"Come on, you Dolphins!" Morale hit maximum.

We went out onto the pitch and our ear drums were bashed by a wave of noise, our nostrils were lined with sulphur, and our retinas had post-apocalyptic scenes burned into them. Red flares had been lit all around the stadium and in one of the stands there were so many so close together that they burned yellow. It looked like a riot in progress. Smelled like the gates of hell. As if sensing that we were wavering, the Aris fans launched into a chant. Something something clap clap clap, something something clap clap.

It was fucking deafening. Morale plummeted. Glenn Ryder's fell by less than the others, but it fell. More than ever, we needed togetherness, team spirit, a never-say-die attitude. That was melting away under the raw force of the passion these fans had for their players, their club, their city. I gritted my teeth. A bunch of Greek hooligans were going to stop me marrying Emma? Fuck that! Brexit means Brexit. I'd show them what passion fucking meant.

Yeah, we'd had a friendly encounter in the first leg but if we didn't match fire with fire we'd get burned. If my antics offended the pricks at UEFA, boo hoo. I'd come to win. I had just enough sense to wait a few beats. These were the moments you lived for as a footballer. These were the stories you'd tell, the examinations you learned from. You get dumped in the forest and you learn to survive. Baggers, Pascal, Henri, Lee, Jack, Sharky, Magnus, Glenn, the lot of them. This is what they had grown up dreaming of.

I had to let them enjoy the ride. Glenn and the lads lined up to do the anthems and all that garbage. I sat on the bench with my hoodie pulled over my face. UEFA wouldn't want me accidentally endorsing their competition, would they? That would be guerrilla marketing. When that was done and the pennants had been exchanged, with about thirty seconds until kick off, I took my hoodie off and went over to Glenn.

"Mate," I said.

"I'm thinking of putting in a captain's performance." No-one could come between me and my dreams. Not even my own team. He frowned, but after a few seconds he looked at his arm.

"You want the armband?"

"Yeah." He didn't hesitate. He slid it off his arm and put it on mine. I noted, idly, that he didn't have to change the width. I had guns these days.

"There you go, boss." When the armband was on me I did something I'd never done before. I smashed the Triple Captain button without activating Bench Boost. I put my hands on his shoulders and brought my face close to his.

"United!" His Morale went to very good. The referee counted the players on both sides; the home fans shrieked. Glenn's Morale dropped to ok.

"To me!" Aris kicked off and I hared after the ball. It went in the direction of one of their CAMs and I wiped him out in the process of tackling the ball thirty yards for a throw in. The home fans reacted like I'd broken the guy in half. The home players came at me, pushing and shoving. I loomed over the guy on the turf and thumped myself twice on the chest. When he looked up at me I screamed, "Welcome to hell!"

The next five minutes were mayhem. Roared on by their frenzied crowd, Aris came at us from all angles. My guys were shaken and couldn't concentrate, couldn't do the basics. Aris had a long shot. A decent cross zipped through a mass of bodies and a deflection could have gone anywhere. A clever move was ended by Lee Hudson - who didn't know a thing about it. My crunching tackle had put Aris on alert and when I raced at their ball carriers, they saw in my eyes I was giving serious consideration to breaking something.

It was the old Sam Topps trick - bite once and then all you need to do is bark. I won a header and shepherded a lofted pass out for a goal kick but it was when I started to make interceptions that my players finally started to settle. I raced onto a loose pass, dropped a shoulder, dribbled, and played a one-two with Henri. When Nikos Iliades clipped me from behind, I rolled four times and lay prone for about a minute. I then took another minute getting treatment.

The home fans showed their displeasure by filling the air with ear-splitting whistles. I allowed myself to be pulled to my feet but then fell back to the turf. The whistling got louder. I laughed. The ref made me leave the pitch even though I was the one who got fouled - I stood on the side waiting for his permission to return. While there, I cupped my ear at the nearest fans. They said things; it was all Greek to me.

I called for more volume and laughed, mumbling, "Fucking pricks," before walking back onto the pitch.

I divided my time between charging around threatening to smash into people, being a press-resistant outlet when we got the ball, geeing up my players, winding up the home fans, and drawing fouls so I could roll around. Nikos Iliades was one of the fifteen thousand Greeks who didn't like what I was doing.

"You are supposed to be God of War," he said.

"Not eat grass like a cow."

"Have you tried not kicking me, you stupid fucking prick?" He walked off, seething, but my words had an effect. Soon after, I took down a high pass with Iliades as the nearest oppo. I killed the ball dead and lifted my hands.

"Wow!" I cried.

"Did you see that?" Nikos stabbed a foot towards the ball but I'd started my dribble. Instead of leaving his foot in, he took it away and suddenly I was in full flight, slaloming left and right, exchanging passes with Pascal. I got into the penalty box, drew the keeper out, turned away from goal and backheeled it towards the middle of the goal. I was wheeling away to celebrate when the young defender appeared out of nowhere and hacked the ball up over the bar. Shit!

Next time I got the ball in midfield, Nikos Iliades threw out a leg when I was moving past him. I fell to the turf, choosing a new part of my leg to hold. It was already getting hard to track which parts had been savaged so far. Ninety seconds later, I gingerly got to my feet and stood, hunched over, as Jack the Lad clipped a free kick into the box. It came to nothing but the clock kept ticking. Ticking ticking ticking.

The aim was to take the sting out of the game and shut the home fans up. In any other stadium I'd played at, it's what would have happened. This mob were built different. They kept going, kept singing, kept banging that fucking drum. I'd lifted the lads enough, though. We were competing. Despite our low CA we were disciplined, we had a plan, and we were incredibly hard to play through. Aris didn't seem to want to change their approach.

When their full backs did venture into the front ranks, I moved Pascal into the free space and pinged long passes towards him. The full backs stopped going forward. The tension built. Nikos Iliades repurposed himself as the guy to stop me going on fast breaks. When I got the ball he ran with me as best he could without fouling me. All he had to do was stay with me until support arrived.

I would burst thirty yards, draw everyone up the pitch, wink at Iliades, and College would knock the ball around our defensive line for a while. We were able to do this often enough to get our possession stats into the forties. We got to half time unscathed. Close. We were so close.

"Done good job, lads," I said, after a few minutes of quiet. Despite me triple captaining myself and leading by example, a lot of nerves were still frayed.

"What we did there, in this stadium, in this din, has got to be the best forty-five minutes of football ever played by a team from Gibraltar. Anyone disagree?" Sardena, the goalie, said, "That was the best individual performance I've ever seen, bar none."

"Yeah yeah I'm great," I said.

"I can only play like that because everyone else is fucking rock solid, yeah? You're all doing your jobs, being where you should be. I do the last little bit."

"And then dribble past four players in five seconds and waste sixty seconds." Sardena shook his head.

"It's unreal." I tried to look humble.

"I'd rate myself seven out of ten." I couldn't keep a straight face.

"Okay, eight. Eight and a half. Lads, listen, we're nearly there. One last big push. Hands up if you think we can grind this out and go home with a draw?" Every hand went up. I nodded for a few seconds before exploding.

"Fuck that! We don't play for draws. We're here to win! We haven't even put Baggers and Sharky on yet! We're gonna win this. I like our 5-3-2 but we can freshen things up, I reckon. Baggers on for Gosling. Pascal, you'll drop to midfield so we can get more control of the ball. Baggers, you'll be CAM. The three of us can do a bit of Relationism - that'll really wind this crowd up." Lee Hudson said, "Is that really what you want, boss?"

"Yes," I said, flatly.

"I was promised an intimidating atmosphere but all I see is a few crappy flares and a guy with a drum. I want them louder so that when we fucking shut them all the way up, the contrast will be spectacular." I clicked my head around.

"Jack, you hate missing parties, right?"

"Yes, boss. Stresses me out to think about how much fun everyone else is having." I nodded.

"Stick around, then. This party's just getting started."

Replacing Gosling with Baggers (CA 87) took us from CA 68 to 72. 5. Still miles behind Aris, but getting closer, and the numbers didn't include me. I wasn't sure what my CA was but I was playing as well as I had in a long time and my fitness was amazing. I put the work in for the first ten minutes of the half, snuffing out the home team's moves, making them give up territory, and yes, drawing a few pointless fouls. Every time someone fouled me, his manager and fellow players got more and more frustrated.

Why the fuck are you doing that when you know he'll stay down for ages! Things couldn't have gone much better. Then it all turned to shit. The home crowd was just starting to turn when their boys got a goal out of nowhere. While I was tracking Nikos Iliades, one of the lesser midfielders found himself with a little bit of time and space. He shaped to pass behind Jack the Lad, who was alert to the danger. Jack dropped a few yards, but inadvertently played the central striker onside.

The pass went to him - it could have been a mishit - and that was the danger as you progressed up the levels. Your opponents were able to punish mistakes. One chance, one goal. The noise was immense; being in a collapsing building couldn't be more fearsome. A hundred yellow flares burst to life, while hundreds of toilet rolls were strewn onto the sides of the pitch. This time, our Morale only dipped one level, but that wasn't what I was afraid of. The tie was one-all on aggregate. One more goal and we would go out.

Go home. Go to Mansfield. When we kicked off again, my legs felt weak. The energy was gone - all of it. I chased Iliades but for once got nowhere near him. He slipped a pass behind Lee Hudson. A forward ran onto it and clipped a left-footed cross first time onto the goalscorer's head. He nodded it past the goalie... and onto the crossbar. Glenn hacked the ball away and Baggers sank to the turf. I blinked in disbelief. He was injured! His stamina was red. Suspected calf injury. Not very serious, it didn't seem.

Could I risk it? I fell to my haunches. Even if we got through this tie, without Baggers in the playoff there would be no victory and no victory meant no wedding. I had major FOMO. Fear of matrimonial offputtage. I inhaled and walked over to him.

"I'm subbing you off," I said.

"Boss, no! It's just a tweak." He was going to fight me.

"We didn't even do any Bestball. Two more minutes!" I shook my head.

"Off you go... Wibbers." On hearing his proper name, the fight left him. He knew what it meant - the adventure was over. The Maxnificent Seven had come to the part of the story where they started dying one by one.

"But - ""But nothing. Hurry up." The physio helped him up and Baggers hopped away, quickly. I called out, "What are you doing?"

"I'm going. You said hurry up."

"Well, yeah," I said, some of my humour returning.

"Hurry up and obey me, I meant, not hurry up off the pitch. Game management, mate. Come on."

"I thought we were going for the win." I tutted.

"You know what? You can hurry the fuck off." I brought Jesse Picardo on in his place. He was only CA 38 but most of the match was being played down the middle and I wasn't ready for Sharky.

Five minutes passed. Ten. I got to the usual moment where I thought in terms of how much time was left rather than how much had gone. Twenty-five. Twenty. Fifteen. We recovered after our little wobble. Getting to the playoff would still be amazing and if we kept things tight we would at least get to penalties. So what if we had no chance of getting through to the league stage? Another two weeks together would be a laugh. There was no laughter to be heard in Thessaloniki; the tension kept ratcheting up.

It was getting to the point where one goal would win it. One mistake would lose it. The fans got quieter because you can't scream when you're biting your nails. Ten minutes to go. I loved our shape and how we were defending, but I had to do something with Sharky. If Aris scored, that would be the end of the trip. Why should Sharky be the only guy with five appearances when everyone else had six? I subbed Zarafi off and put Sharky on.

I used my deformation to push him to left midfield, and every couple of minutes swapped him to the other flank. Something for the Greek manager to think about. Seven minutes to go. Four. Two. The fourth referee held up a board. Six minutes of injury time! What the fuck? Pissed, I ran hard at the ball, tackled Iliades, fizzed a pass into Sharky's path and ran left to support him. He passed to me and I let the ball go through my legs. A weary Henri did his best to gather and cut the ball into my path.

I slapped it first time, left-footed, towards the far post. The stadium fell silent and I heard the clang as the ball smacked into something metallic. What the hell just happened? Why hadn't that gone in? It felt so in. I walked from the edge of the penalty area all the way to the goalpost and checked that there wasn't a hole in the net. It must have been millimetres away from clipping the upright and going in. I leaned against the goalpost, forehead first. Fear of missed opportunities.

Full time, and we gathered in a circle in front of the dugout while Siggers pretended to give us a pep talk. I loaded up on marathon paste. It was telling that no-one tried to talk to me; we were all shattered. Aris were in an even worse state, and they made a raft of subs. I sat up.

"Hello," I said.

"What?" said Magnus.

"It's happening. Four starters off, four reserves on."

"Fresh legs," said Magnus, slumping onto his back.

"Fresh meat," I growled. I felt the blood pumping freely again. Felt a prickling sensation on the back of my neck. Five of the team that had started the first match were off. Iliades was staying on even though he was wrecked.

"Yeah!" I called out.

"This is it, lads! It's on!"

I switched us to 4-4-2. Henri and Picardo as the strikers. Pascal and Sharky alternating on the wings. Magnus and I in the middle. It left us weak at centre back and seeing the formation graphic gave me pause. I slid Magnus back into the DM slot - I would be the midfield on my own. Nah, that was dumb. I jiggled things round so that Pascal and I were the CMs. We would go to whichever side Sharky was on and build attacks together.

It wasn't ideal but it would probably be enough, while we would have enough bodies back to deal with the home team's moves. The game restarted and I had mad energy. The force was with me. We got the ball and zipped it around. Mad triangles between the Maxnificent Seven. My enthusiasm, tripled, lifted Henri. He made a great run. I chipped the ball into his path and he struck a fierce shot too high over the bar. Next I shaped to take a long shot before playing a one-two with Pascal.

Someone tried to haul me down but I stayed on my feet, nutmegged the next defender, and was finally rugby tackled. Yellow card. Free kick. I cracked it just wide. A thought occurred to me and I switched us to a defensive mindset. Men behind ball, no forward runs. Aris could have the ball as much as they wanted but when they passed it to Nikos Iliades I swarmed all over him. I was careful not to draw a foul, but simply leaned into him, jostled him, used my weight to make him respond in kind.

That kind of thing is draining, and his Condition score fell by five points in five minutes. He was blowing hard. Why was he still on the pitch? They were thinking about a penalty shoot-out; Iliades would take one.

"Attack!" I called out, switching us to 4-2-4. No DMs, no funky tactics. Just a little dose of fearless football. Sharky skinned his marker and thrashed the ball across goal. Picardo nearly got his first European goal as he slid in but the keeper did well. The ball came out to Pascal, who crossed towards Henri. The young centre-back, who was having a great match, headed away. I cracked a first-time volley left-footed and yet again it missed the far post by the tiniest kitten's whisker. Half-time in extra time.

Fifteen minutes until penalties.

"Should we talk about who will take our kicks?" said Siggers.

"No," I said. That was all we said. Drinks, paste, turn around, go again.

Fourteen minutes to go. Thirteen. Aris were building an attack, carefully shunting the ball to the left wing so they could work space for a cross. The intended recipient let the ball slip under his foot and it went for a throw-in.

"They're fucking shot," I said.

"Head's gone!"

"Head's gone!" cried Glenn.

"Head's gone!" cried Lee, Jack, and, improbably, Siggers. I knew we were going to score. I knew we were going to win. Who should get the goal? Who should get the glory?

"Jesse," I said. I pointed.

"Get on the far post, yeah? Hit that far post when I go."

"Yes, boss." Jesse was my boy. He'd earned a goal with his loyalty and willingness to follow the rules. I'd show him what being Max Blessed really meant, what rewards would come. I stayed patient in the midfield for now. Ten minutes to go. Nine. The home fans chanted and drummed and tried to lift their players. It was all magnificent. Their players responded. The only problem was, so did I. A tired pass from Nikolopoulos, intended for Iliades, is intercepted by Best inside his own half.

Best pushes ahead, dribbling left-footed. He moves twenty yards before the first challenge comes in. Best evades it without breaking stride. With a sway of the hips, Best sends Dasigenis off on a side quest. Best has Bochum to his left. Lyons to his right. He's confronted by two defenders. Best jinks between them! A delicious piece of skill and he's through. He's a yard away from the six-yard box. He looks up. Picardo is completely unmarked at the far post. Best...

smashes the ball past the goalkeeper's face into the top-left corner of the goal! Best scores! So late in the game! Soz not soz, Jesse. The ball just sat up so perfectly and I saw everything with complete clarity. It was a 100% chance of a goal. A completely rational decision. What followed was less rational. I continued my run, arcing towards the corner flag and down the touchline. I was running so fast that it took me until the corner flag to whip my shirt off.

I whirled it around my head until Jack the Lad intercepted me, and then I was in the middle of a huge bundle of joy. Baggers was there. Siggers, Sharky, the physios. I barely remember anything of the last minutes of the action, but I remember two things. First, I remember swapping shirts with Nikos Iliades and telling him there was an amazing Greek restaurant in Chester...

Second, as I was suffering on a bench in the dressing room, mentally and physically spent, Siggers came over, bent down, and gently shook my knee.

"Someone to see you," he said. I didn't want to go but it could have been the drug testers; I didn't want to get into that sort of trouble. I hobbled towards the doorway and was amazed to see one of the Aris players in the corridor. We hadn't interacted much - apart from me smashing into him once and nutmegging him twice - and he didn't speak much English. I got the message, though. He had brought his son and his son was wearing God of War face paint and holding a toy axe.

"Kratos!" I said. I offered my hand.

"Very pleased to meet you." The kid hadn't expected that. Fierce warriors don't shake hands, do they? The dad wanted a photo.

"Hang on," I said. I went back into the dressing room and turned the music off and did some light shouting. I fetched the kid and he and his dad came into our dressing room. One of them looked awkward and out of place.

"We're doing a legendary group photo," I declared.

"I just met the real, actual God of War. Look at his little face!" The kid liked being the centre of attention. Bad character trait, that.

"He'll go right at the front. Should we all snarl or smile? Smiles, isn't it? Anyone know how to say smile in Greek?" Pascal said, "Boss, maybe you should avoid this one. UEFA might not like it. Might increase your punishment because you were being provocative."

"He's painted his face, mate! He's got a cute little axe. It's going to be a legendary photo," I said.

"Everyone together! You're not gonna want to miss out on this."

There was one last detail to consider - the identity of our final opponent. Mateo met us at the airport to give us the news.

"Lads," he said.

"Amazing. Incredible. Monumental. You've earned a reward, I'd say." He grinned.

"And you've got one. I hope you like salmon."

"Yes!" cried Magnus.

"We're going to Norway!"

"What?" said Mateo.

"No! We'll fly five hundred miles, and we'll fly five hundred more... We're going to Scotland."