Chương 31: 8.9 - The Last Word

9.

"Okay, thanks for coming," I said. This was the new Monday morning 8 a. m. ritual - meeting the club's key staff to set goals and discuss problems. A good ritual had memorable phrases. I tried to invent one." Let us bring order to chaos. No, I don't want to end with a negative word. The last word is a place of power. Let's think. From chaos, may we bring order." The Brig was unimpressed.

"Is your blood sugar low, sir? I could bring you a plum."

"It's not plum weather," I said. Brooke thought this was hilarious.

"You don't eat plums when it's raining?"

"No, Brooke. They're for hot days. Delicious chilled plum on a hot day, what could be better than that?"

"Chilled?" exclaimed Sandra.

"Oh, let's not start all that," said MD.

"I have a hard out at half past, Max."

"Hurr," I said, as though he'd said something rude. I took one last look out of my big window. The weather was absolutely foul and Jude was plodding around on pitch 1 putting cones out in a specific order. Looked like a shooting drill. Good! I got the feeling goals were going to be hard to come by, this season. The skin under my cast was all kinds of itchy and I tried to slide a house key in there to give me some relief. The key wasn't long enough.

I sat down, vaguely unhappy, and thought about the seating arrangements. Somehow these guys defaulted to the same places. Behind me to the left was Vimsy, in his customary place leaning on the window. It struck me that this way, he was slightly apart from the others, like he didn't really feel that he was part of the group. In terms of his coaching numbers, he had the potential to be a weak link in our team, but he was doing less and less actual coaching and more man management.

He was also running the reserve team. On Friday nights, he took spare players off to play a match against Rochdale under 23s or someone who also needed a match. It was pretty informal, for now, but Vimsy was perfectly suited to the role. He knew what we were trying to teach the lads and he could see if they were doing it or not. I'd come to value his input and it seemed a shame to think he didn't feel like one of us.

"How's your tea?" I asked him.

"Oh, grand, yeah. Love a cuppa on a morning like this."

"Is that a new cup?"

"No, don't think so." He took a swig. I'd left five mugs on top of the filing cabinet to see if he would think they were all his and learn to stop leaving his blasted cups everywhere. What was it Meghan had said to me? Being subtle doesn't work on men. I turned away but looked back again. Vimsy had stood in that spot in the age of Ian Evans, hadn't he? So it wasn't that he felt left out or excluded. He liked it there. The Brig was to my left, facing the door. That was security stuff.

He would be the first to see a threat. Next to him in the semi-circle was Brooke. She was overachieving to such a degree I wondered if she even had free time to spend with her horse. She had been experimenting with micro-targeted Facebook ads based on the six types of football fan. She'd been getting to know local politicians and charities and even the farmers who owned the land around the stadium. As far as I could tell she wasn't rushing in like a - well, like a Zach.

She was meeting people, listening, and building a relationship. At the right time, she would stop following and start leading. MD was helping, too, of course, but he was a busy man. The kind of man who had a hard out at eight thirty. His pose was interesting. Although we often ended up sitting opposite each other - at a curry house in Manchester, for example - he always angled his body away slightly so that we weren't in a confrontational pose.

That was a good trick that I'd found myself doing in awkward conversations. For example, when I'd recently tried to talk to Henri about training - he insisted on telling me about a book he was reading and I didn't get the chance to bring up my worries. I'd also tried it with Pascal, but I found I had no desire to talk to Bad Boy so I'd faked an incoming call and left the area. The last person in the room was Sandra. As always, she was to my right, opposite the Brig. Giving herself equal status, maybe?

Or maybe she liked being near the flipchart in case an opportunity arose to scribble diagrams and line ups.

"How's your arm?" said MD. I lifted the stupid cast. Emma had signed her name on the part where the itches came.

"We did an X-ray and there was a thing. A smudge on the screen. Dean instantly claimed it was a hairline fracture, right, but Phwoar-ence Nightingale said it was probably just a shadow and I agree with her."

"Who?" said MD.

"You know, that hot doctor at our clinic. I reckon I'm fine but Dean threatened to quit if I even trained. Said something about it getting infected and that was muy muy no bueno and look - I don't want to lose good people. I'm happy with the team. The team off the pitch, anyway."

"We have six points," said MD.

"You're not happy with them on the pitch?"

"That was our best line up, plus me. That's a team that will pick up a lot of points, but I don't want to play every game. Main topic of the week is training." Sandra got up and turned the flipchart to a new page. She wrote TRAINING in capital letters. I continued.

"Something is off in the dressing room but it isn't Dean and Livia, that's for sure." The itch came back and I looked for something to slide under the cast.

"That said, I do think there's nothing wrong with me so I'm going to rest it for two weeks and we'll do another X-ray. If I only miss four matches and I'm back for Dagenham, that'll be awesome."

"Does it hurt?" said Brooke.

"It's itchy." Sandra wrote ITCHY.

"Kinda driving me crazy but my right hurts more than my left. Those Grimsby fuckers did a number on me. Summary, I'm fine but I'm not playing for two weeks and we'll use that time to fix problems. Three main ones, I think. The Henri situation. He's semi-retired at this point. Pascal. His whole Bad Boy thing is getting on my tits. And Zach. Things are slightly better but there are still some, er... There's still some tension around him." Sandra wrote HPZ.

"The thing is, Brig, I know from experience that if you're in training worried about interpersonal conflicts and all that, you're not training hard. So for the kids to flourish, we have to restore harmony." The Brig nodded three times, each smaller than the last.

"I understand, sir."

"Okay, I've got a couple of lesser topics and so does MD. Um... me first?"

"No, Max."

"Jesus. Fine." I opened my drawers looking for something long and flat. MD pulled his phone out.

"Let's talk about your post-match interview. First of all, congratulations on remembering to do your contracted duties." Sandra didn't write anything, but sat down, keeping hold of the marker. I glanced at what she'd written. The first word was training. That was everything. Nothing else worked without it.

"Two things," I said, unbending a paperclip.

"One, it's not in my contract. I do it as a favour to the club. Sandra's way better than me, anyway. You should be glad she does it. Oh, that's the spot. Paperclip for the win! Two, after Grims I had to hang around waiting for the traffic to clear so I thought, fuck it, I'll talk to the world's press. Something to do, right?"

"The devil will find work for idle hands to do," said MD.

"What did he say?" asked the Brig. MD shook his head.

"Had a few pops at Grimsby. Next time he's up to his ears on painkillers could you please keep him contained?"

"I'll be glad to do so once you enrol me on the requisite course, Mike. In the meantime, perhaps you could hire Supernanny. Her skills might be more suitable than mine."

"Max, time out on the naughty step!" The two men smiled at each other.

"I'm right here," I said, but they ignored me. MD had the match report on his phone.

"Let's see. Seals Club Mariners in Stormy Classic. Pretty good headline. Dog bites man and all that. Er... Chester recover from setback... club that sacked Max Best... revenge... an injured Best is still the best player in the division... sensational long-range strike followed by clever free kick... National League beware... statement performance from Sam Topps... hapless Zach Green, toothless Henri Lyons, wayward Wes Hayward. Bumper crowd."

"What was the final attendance?" I asked, to see if MD's version would tally with what the curse told me. It did.

"4, 255. Absolutely incredible, Max, and you gave them a hell of a show. Er, I'm required by the board to officially tell you not to play injured again but I know why you did it and, yeah, the response from the fans was unreal. They're doing memes with you as the Black Knight from Monty Python after his arms and legs have been cut off. It's just a scratch!"

"I like the Summarise Proust Competition," said Vimsy, and I spun my chair towards him so I could offer him a fist bump. MD continued.

"After the match summary is your interview. Question. Max, was that revenge for what happened to you in Grimsby? Answer: No, I met loads of great people in Grimsbyshire and I wish them well, although it's easy to wish them well knowing they won't do well. Question: What do you mean? Answer: They've got fantastic players and the manager's good but they have this fatal flaw of trusting in players who are untrustworthy. Question: Who do you mean? Answer: Oh, you know, just like three or four bad 'uns. Wrong 'uns.

Guys who want to leave the club and are poisoning the atmosphere. I'd like to make it clear that I don't mean Marcus Wainwright who is a class act and a class above. He's the kind of player who scores a hat trick against you and you just have to shrug and go, yeah, that's why I got into football. As fans we pay good money to watch players like that.

I'm sorry to say we couldn't have handled him and while I'm delighted with the three points, it would have been amazing for the Chester fans to see what a hard-working goalscorer with great movement who trains well looks like. Er, Max. Is that a dig at Henri?"

"Yes. I'm really struggling with him."

"Why? He's our top scorer."

"I'm joint top with him and I've played fifteen minutes. He isn't putting it in on the training pitch and that's absolutely unacceptable. Some managers communicate with their players through the media. I thought I'd try it."

"Sir," said the Brig, with a double dose of disapprobation.

"What? How would you handle it?"

"Perhaps, seeing as Henri is your friend, you could talk to him directly?" I shook my head.

"And say what? Your happiness offends me? I don't know. Maybe I'm being cowardly but I don't know what to do. Let's see if this has any effect. It's just..."

"Yes?"

"I've got a goalie coach candidate coming on Wednesday." Sandra got to her feet and wrote GK COACH. I agree with her instinct to leave MD's complaints about my interview off. For a start, that was the past and Sandra, like me, wanted to live in the future.

"I've got a good feeling about this dude but if I asked Angles to stay as a pure goalie coach and bring in an experienced but cheap backup to Ben, I'd still have loads of budget left. And with that money I could try to get another striker in. Maybe one who's sensible enough to have his mid-life crisis when he's in his forties." I picked up the paperclip and jiggled it inside the cast.

"This thing's going to drive me crazy."

"Stop scratchin' it, you're makin' it worse," said Brooke. I opened a drawer and threw the paper clip inside.

"You know I hate overpaying but Henri's not going to win us the league. No chance. Not like this. And I think he might be setting a bad example to the others." How else to explain the disappointing increases in CA in recent weeks?

"I mean, it could just be that I've brought in too many new players. I've diluted the overall quality and too many drills are weak versus weak and they can't learn from that. Maybe. I'm just guessing because the sessions are great and the facilities are better. We should be racing ahead. Okay, yeah. If it's a problem of bringing in too many new guys, that's on me. But Pascal's kicking on. Pascal's motivated and visibly improving. Why not Henri?"

"Let's come back to the goalkeeping coach in a minute," said MD.

"I'd like to give that my full attention. Back to the interview." Sandra sat down again. She didn't really give a shit about the interview. MD wasn't reading the room very well.

"You've just praised Marcus Wainwright in an attempt to provoke a reaction from a person who probably won't read the article or see the quotes."

"Oh, he gets his little Lu Lu to read match reports out to him. He'll hear it, all right."

"Question: Did you play injured? Answer: Of course not. I had a bruised ego from being on the same pitch as Simon Green. He likes to brag about how much he earns compared to his opponents, not realising that our confusion and dismay is a reflection of how we feel about late-stage capitalism where mediocre people enjoy lavish lifestyles while our health service is crumbling. Caine Spokes speaks but never does. He's Caine but he's not very able.

Grimsby fans reviewing the footage will note that both players spent the last ten minutes of the game trying to land one on me instead of landing one in the danger zone. Talking of the danger zone, there's no danger of Mike Dobson sticking to his zone. He sprinted fifty yards to try to foul me. The only time you'll see him move faster is on transfer deadline day when he drives to QPR to try to force through a move." MD paused as Vimsy and Sandra gave me a tiny round of applause.

I took their acclaim in suitably regal fashion.

"Thank you, thank you." MD tutted.

"Question: Lee Slade told the media he expected a very different result when they played you again and that his team would have the last word. What would you say to that? Answer: The last word for all managers is, you're sacked. He should worry more about that than little old Chester."

"Savage," said Vimsy. MD pointed to his phone.

"Max, I don't understand this. Apart from motivating them for the return match, I mean... I don't understand your thought process. If those players are as disruptive as you say, you should want the manager to pick them."

"If Slade drops them, the fans will think it was because of what I said and if results improve, he won't get the benefit, I will. It's a trap, see. But if he keeps those jokers in the team and they have more bad results, it's going to be pandemonium." I shrugged.

"There's a video game where you can go around killing everyone or you can shoot arrows at wasps nests above enemy camps and let the wasps do the work. In this case, wasps are a metaphor for..." Sandra didn't give me time to think of something.

"Did Max mention Otis King?" MD said, "No." Sandra gave me a strange look.

"Well," I said, "sounds like I did a highly entertaining interview. So well done me. Do you want to hear about the goalie coach?"

"Yes," said MD, putting his phone away.

"So mostly I find new players by scouting or spotting them in our matches like with WibRob, but some of you know that free agents just straight up call and ask if we need a left back or whatever. If I've never seen them play, I ask them to come and join training for a day and that puts most of them off. Like, they're too good to rehearse? I should just give them a contract without seeing them play? It's insane but that's what they seem to think. But a few dudes actually came and some weren't bad!

A couple have been good, haven't they Sandra? But they wanted mad money. Lobster money. I told them to call back after they'd been turned down by Real Madrid and were ready to talk National League salaries. So this guy who's coming on Wednesday, he's called Steve Icke. He was at a Championship club, then League One, and it's pretty mad that no-one's picked him up."

"Why do I feel you're about to describe a misfit?" said Brooke.

"You know," I said, leaning back and steepling my fingers as far as I could manage given the cast.

"That's funny because I don't think he is one. Not really. I mean, he's freakishly tall but you kind of want that in a goalie. I've watched some of his rare appearances and he fills the goal. It must be intimidating at penalties because he can literally reach any shot you might do. Almost any shot, anyway. Prime Max Best would dick him. Where was I? Yeah, he's a good goalkeeper but he's not good with his feet. What that means, Brooke, is that he's a sort of old-school player.

Like, twenty years ago, all goalies played like this guy. Now the game's changed in a way that's bad for him. Does that make him a misfit?"

"Yes," said Sandra. Her boy Pep wouldn't have looked twice at Steve Icke. I laughed.

"We don't ask our goalie to pass from the back. And Steve realises he was born in the wrong generation so he's doing his coaching badges. I'm excited. I think this is the guy. He'll probably want too much money but... I mean, I have spare budget and... It's just the Henri thing. We can't survive with a failing Henri as our frontline striker so it seems like it's going to be goalie or striker, choose one." Sandra got up and wrote GK vs STRIKER. I let out an exasperated noise.

It was one thing for Old Nick to disrupt my season by luring Raffi to Saudi Arabia, but it was way worse that this mess centred around my warrior poet.

"Sir," said the Brig.

"If I may. You told me about the time you and Henri met and bonded by coaching the Chester Knights. And when he was down in the dumps you went to a pan-disability tournament Crewe and discovered Dani. The day resolved many problems, did it not? Perhaps you might consider doing something like that?" I nodded.

"Yeah. Yeah... Get back to basics. That's a good call. I'll think about it. Right, MD. You've been talking to Mateo from Tranmere."

"He wants to meet on Wednesday morning to discuss a fee for Sam. The usual thing to do when a transfer is this advanced would be to, ah, rest Sam on Tuesday night."

"It's Kidderminster!" said Sandra.

"They're hard as nails. We can't do it without our best midfielder." She looked at me for support.

"Project Youth," I said.

"It'll be a debut for Cole Adams at left back. Three Exit Trial kids on the bench. But it'll mostly be the team that beat them last year."

"What about Sam?" My itch came back with a vengeance.

"Wednesday we agree a fee with Tranmere. Thursday we say our goodbyes. I'm already writing a little speech. Friday he trains with his new club for the first time." The words hung in the air. It was strange how solemn everyone got about Sam leaving. He was going to double his money and play on TV and we had all helped him achieve that. The proper response should have been pride. Sandra said, "I believe in Project Youth but I worry about a young team getting smashed up."

"Last season, Sunderland, in the Championship, put out a team with an average age of twenty-one."

"And what happened to them?"

"They went on a six-game losing streak." I grinned.

"But that won't happen here."

"How are you so sure?"

"Because MD will fire me after five." I laughed.

"But, look. We'll play a proper grown-up midfield. James Wise and Magnus, probably. And Omari Naysmith will get ten minutes at the end. It'll be like that to start with. Our title-winning team with one kid as a starter and another coming off the bench. Nothing crazy."

"Can we talk about a couple of practical matters?" said Brooke.

"The big crowd was a ton of fun. Everyone had a good day out, but there were complaints - as MD predicted - about the speed of service." Sandra wrote MARD ARSES, a Mancunian phrase meaning 'people who like to complain'. I waved my right hand.

"Complaints? Talk to the board. Talk to the service providers. What's the hold up? Are they cashless, yet? You know what, I don't care. It's a thing to get better at. You know who you should talk to," I started, but lost confidence in my thought.

"Who?" said Brooke.

"I was just thinking, you should get Emre in. He's a guy who sells wraps and stuff in a sports centre in Manchester. That guy whips off kebabs faster than anyone in history and you can pay how you want it doesn't slow him down." A notepad and pen appeared in her hands.

"Great, I'll talk to him. Have you got a good number?"

"I was joking," I said.

"At least, I think I was joking. But... yeah, why not? Bring him as a consultant to the next Saturday home match. Or let him set up a little kiosk and make those lazy bastards watch him go. Brooke, we'll go to Manchester one day. I have to warn you - bring your A game or he'll wipe you out."

"Sure, Max."

"No, really. I once saw a customer try to negotiate a free topping and it was like watching me versus Christian Fierce. So just for the minutes, that topic was 'we're so popular there are queues at our outlets'. Sounds like a good problem to have." MD leaned back.

"That's true. Apart from the training, Sam's transfer, and these, ah, personal issues, are there any footballing issues to discuss?" I looked up at the large photo of Mr. Yalley; as always, it made me smile.

"Not much to say, really. Kidderminster at home. That'll be tough, especially as we need to rotate. Wealdstone away. It's another team of part-timers and I've heard they have the smallest budget in the league. We need to be winning games like that. We can put out a strong team, since there's a one-week break after that one. There's five matches until the transfer window closes so I suppose that's the next big milestone." MD pressed a finger to his lips and said, "Very good. Now, please keep this under your hats.

I'm about to reveal who I've been talking to for the stadium naming rights."

"Oh!" I said, thrilled.

"I've been trying to guess. I've got a list somewhere." MD seemed very pleased with himself.

"I've been talking to my pharma contacts and have very, very firm interest from Kirschgarten." Sandra wrote KISSGARDEN STADIUM. I gawped at MD.

"Wow. That name isn't on my list. I've never heard of it."

"That's why they want naming rights, Max. To boost brand awareness."

"Yes, yes, fair enough. What are they?"

"They make medical devices. Very important stuff. Life-saving technology. We'll visit their factory as part of the deal. You'll love it, Max." I took the paperclip out of the drawer, looked at Brooke, threw the clip back and slammed it closed.

"So we'll be the Kirschgarten Stadium. It's fine. I thought it'd be worse."

"No, Max. For two seasons we will play at the Kirschgarten Medical Gravity Drip Solutions Ltd. Stadium." The stupefaction I experienced had one benefit - I briefly forgot about my itch.

"Quite a mouthful."

"Whatever fee you get," said Vimsy, "we'll lose on the length of the sign."

"Oh, tosh," said MD, annoyed.

"It's a quality product and we should be proud to be associated with Kirschgarten. They're wonderful people."

"You're right, you're right," I said, soothingly.

"How much are we getting?"

"Forty," he said, happy again.

"Per year?"

"Total."

"And I get more budget?"

"No," he said.

"The coach company called to say they had to put the cost of our trips up since they've had to increase their drivers' pay. Forty will just about let us wash our face over the next two years." Right, so we would get a stupid stadium name and the club wouldn't even see the benefit. Wow. I thought about saying I didn't want to do it, but MD would simply take 20K out of my transfer budget, or slash what I could pay in wages. Brooke said, "That's great, Mike! Well done. I have a coupla questions if you have time."

"Of course I do," he said. It was funny that his hard outs softened when Brooke was around. She said, "I've noticed, Max... How can I say this? I've noticed you're more receptive to hearing business ideas."

"Yes," I said.

"First, you've proven that you're not just a b-girl. You keep the community in mind. But I'm starting to think about next season. Promotion doesn't seem quite as surefire as I thought but let's assume Project Youth clicks into place and we go on a winning streak. Starting in League Two there are financial rules. A club can only spend half its income on player wages." Sandra wrote FINANCIAL FAIR PLAY.

"Okay, it's likely that MD wouldn't let me run amok anyway, but we start to get, like, 800, 000 a year in TV money and there's payments from the Premier League. It could be that I get a healthy budget to work with. But if MD said, I don't know, you can spend three million this year but the league rules said I could only spend two million, I'd be pissed. So we need to be able to generate our own income from match day, sponsorships, and everything.

It's not rinsing the fans if we're doing it to satisfy some accountants. Once they're happy, we can give the money back."

"Back?" said MD, as though I was proposing we have names of celebrities tattooed on our foreheads to make it easier to play 'twenty questions'.

"In the form of community spending and whatnot. Believe me, MD, there will come a point where we're making so much money the size of our bank balance will stress you out. You'll be like, shit, another million? What am I supposed to do with that?" He shook his head and smiled, but had nothing to say. Brooke said, "I know you hate when I talk like a b-girl, but our business is only open 25 days a year. Not many companies would survive that. I've been reading about Tottenham and they use the stadium a lot.

They've got Beyoncé concerts, football matches - real football - some kinda go-kart track, cheese shops. Their goal is to make money every day." A business that was only open 25 days a year. Interesting framing.

"Yeah. I sort of vaguely imagine that as we expand the stadium and put down the 3G pitches we'll have people coming every day and there will be more chances to rinse them. I mean, expertly part them from their cash. I mean, exceed their expectations by providing high-quality goods and services at reasonable prices."

"Okay, that's good. If we're gonna make a sort of sports hub we should think of the commercial aspects as we go. One obstacle is that we don't own the stadium. We can't put on a Taylor Swift concert." Sandra wrote STADIUM OWNERSHIP. Back to that old topic.

"Buying the stadium makes financial sense, totally, yeah. But there's this game called Sim City. I watched a YouTube video where a guy played it and your first task is to provide electricity for your citizens. You put some coal plants down and you get electricity but no-one wants to live near them. Financially, the best thing to do is build a nuclear power plant. It's cheaper per megawatt and it doesn't pollute. Great! Until it explodes.

Bad people buy football clubs to get the stadium so they can turn it into housing and make a fortune. Those people don't buy clubs with no assets because what's the point? Chester is safe for now because what are you buying? A badge and a registration to play in the National League. Chester buying the stadium is like building a nuclear power plant on the edge of town. It's a good investment until it isn't."

"Is it that you wouldn't want to buy the stadium or that you wouldn't even want to have it? Like, what if it was free?" I did a 360 on my swivel chair.

"If you're ambitious you need the stadium. I just worry that it would be owned by the fans. These guys, no offence MD, are various shades of stupid. If they could choose, they'd have Trick instead of Eddie, Gerald instead of Zach, and they'd make Youngster shoot from thirty yards. They think they're smart so everything they do has to be right.

They keep finding morons to be on the board and if you gave them a thousand pounds and asked them to make a profit one guy would come back with three magic beans, one would buy a jpeg of an ape, and one would leave the money in his jeans and come back with a thousand pounds in what used to be banknotes. Give them a million-pound asset to run and they'd be easy prey for some silver-tongued b-boy who would come in and woo them with false promises." Brooke looked down, then up at me.

I could read that pose - she was bursting with excitement!

"I'm sure there are ways to protect them from themselves. What if we could get the stadium for free?" That was the second time she'd used the word free and this time it resounded like a gong.

"Pardon me?" said MD. Brooke smoothed her skirt and tried not to look smug. She was a lot better at it than me.

"I invited a couple of, what does Max call them? Bigwigs. A couple of bigwigs to the Grimsby match. To the Executive Suite. Four thousand fans, big energy, great noise. They were enchanted."

"By the match or by you? Or by Emma? Or by Donnie Wormwood and Don Flash?" She grinned.

"Who can say? But in the boring bits when the Jackass was doing tiny tactics with Youngster, I sorta mentioned the fans would like the stadium back and could the bigwigs imagine...?" Her lips curled up on one side.

"They told me about Northampton Town."

"The Cobblers," said MD, helpfully.

"Apparently the Cobblers did a big deal with their local council. The council lent the new owners ten million pounds to redevelop the stadium. The fans were ecstatic and the council would benefit, long term. Football clubs make a lot of money for local businesses. Only one problem. The money vanished."

"It did what, now?" I said.

"Poof. Gone. I checked it out. It's quite the story. Let's just say the Chester bigwigs aren't keen to repeat the mistake."

"I should hope not," said MD. Even though she was reporting bad news, Brooke's smile widened.

"I said something along the lines of, what if we spend ten million on the stadium ourselves? Would that be commitment enough to convince the council to hand over the freehold?"

"They'd never agree to that," said MD. Brooke's eyebrows went up.

"You'd think. But they understand that to progress we need to own the stadium and they see that we're spending money - the solar, the kitchen, the training pitches - and they are very taken with the idea of having a successful football club. A League One team with all the employment that comes with that. Twenty overpaid young men splashing money all over the county, plus coaches, physios, admin staff. There was a time not so long ago when Manchester United was the biggest private employer in the north of England.

It's not like the council are earning big bucks with the present arrangement. We pay rent and that's it. It's better financially and politically if they support us in our growth and while they might not simply hand over the freehold they might swap it for a stake in the club. Which doesn't matter, does it, because there's no dividends. It's not an investment in the traditional sense." I frowned.

"Swapping the stadium for a stake in the club. Why didn't I think of that?"

"As I'm suggesting all this, they're listenin'. But we're still a National League team. Dreams of having twenty lambos in the parking lot seem awfully far away. That is, until Max Best leads the turnaround with two goals. The councilmen were swept up in the emotion just like everyone else. Today they'll go to their offices with a clear head and they won't just hand over the keys to the kingdom.

I'm sure it would be a long, tedious process with objections and horse trading and grubby backroom deals but in principle, the stadium is available." I went through what I'd just heard.

"Are you saying if I get ten million to do the west stand, I might be able to get the freehold chucked in, too?"

"Yes. Because what they didn't say was that if the club has that kind of money you could buy land somewhere else and build a new stadium and they'd be out of pocket and they'd have a useless stadium lying around."

"We'd rent it for the women."

"At a fraction of what we pay now." I looked around. Everyone's mood had lifted.

"Brooke, you give b-girls a good name. I award you... Employee of the Day."

"Gee, thanks," she said, but she was actually delighted.

"Can I ask something else real quick? It's about season tickets. You wanted me to sell the most possible but I've been looking into it and some clubs limit how many season tickets they offer because a season ticket holder's average spend per game is lower."

"It is?" I said. MD knew this one.

"Anfield," he said.

"Liverpool's stadium," he added, for Brooke.

"60, 000 capacity these days. They could sell fifty thousand season tickets, I'm sure. But they sell, say, thirty. The rest of the tickets they can charge more for because it'll be day trippers and tourists." Sandra wrote DAY TRIPPERS.

"So half the stadium is your lifelong fans. They've already got replica shirts and a bedroom full of tat. He might buy a pie and a beer. But half the stadium's fans are from Norway or Japan. Those guys don't much care if the ticket is fifty pounds or fifty-five. They take the stadium tour before the match and after, go to the club store and fill their suitcases."

"Right, makes sense," I said.

"Brooke, we don't have fans from around the world like that. When we get some I'm happy to rinse them, I suppose, but we need a balance between income and atmosphere. A full stadium is a wonderful thing and it'll help us win football matches and attract new players. If Liverpool have set the dial to, like, fifty-fifty, ours should be ninety-ten."

"Ninety-nine-one," said MD, speaking as a true Chester fan for once. The meeting was over but I wanted to have the last word.

"What did we talk about?" I read from Sandra's list.

"Training. Itchy. Goalie coach or new striker. Mard arses, Kiss Garden, financial fair play, stadium ownership. We did a lot! I feel like a real boy. You know what, though? There's only one word that really matters there, and we should give that word more prominence. Sandra, could you write training again at the bottom?" She did so, and as big as would fit. It felt right.

"MD, let me know about Tranmere. Brooke, I'll let you know next time I'm going to Manchester. You met Solly, didn't you? While I spend some time with my mum you can take the dog for a walk. You'll meet three hot joggers, guaranteed."

Now that I wasn't trying to hide the fact that I was wearing a cast, I went to watch the start of training. I wasn't supposed to get the cast wet, so I wore my big coat and carried an umbrella. Somehow, rain got inside my coat anyway, and I decided it'd be better not to stay out there for too long. I started by checking the mood. Despite the fact we had recently won an epic battle, overall morale had slipped another fraction of a point. That seemed bad and wrong and worrying. The group was smaller, now.

I'd sent a bunch of players out on loan to get some minutes into their legs. Michael, Vivek, and Lucas Friend were at West for a month. That was tier 9, and when they came back I would instantly send them to tier 8. Maybe all to the same club, but probably not. I wanted them to get a taste of life outside the Chester bubble. Then I'd sent a few of the under 18s to tier 8. Tyson was at Nantwich, Benny at Runcorn, and Dan Badford at Witton Albion.

The plan was to let them come back and see if we could get their CA up to tier 7 level by January. Finally, much to the delight of Gemma, Andrew Harrison was on loan to tier 7 FC United until January. It was a step down from playing for Chester, which Gemma wasn't keen on, but Andrew was crashing with a friend in Bolton so she got to spend a lot more time with him, and I think he even stayed with her in Newcastle a couple of nights a week.

With Ryan Jack and myself injured and the goalies off to the side working with Angles, that left nineteen outfield players in the training session. A good number to make sure the numbers went up. The rain was turning my socks damp, so I decided to say what I needed to say and then fuck off. I called WibRob and Tom Westwood over and told them they'd get minutes on Saturday but not tomorrow night, so they could train hard through the week.

They tried to be all serious and manly about it, but I didn't need the morale perk to tell me they were absolutely buzzing. Before I called Henri over, I forced myself to stay and watch for two minutes. I would go to Dean after to ask him to check the cast was dry enough. I wanted to stay because it was a duels drill. WibRob and Tom put everything into it. Pascal went hard but with an extra layer of intelligence - letting an opponent's aggression beat him, or doing taunty little moves to provoke a mistake.

Where did he learn all that? Sam went at things hard until Sandra pulled him aside. Sam went off to do some skills work with Omari Naysmith. Sam hated being pulled out of the firing line but it was about making sure he didn't get injured. Henri lost every duel and I snapped and called him over. He came at a quick jog, which calmed me most of the way down.

"Henri. We haven't talked much recently. How are you doing?" This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"Oh," he said, his superb morale causing his hair to quiver like a freshly-fed octopus. Why wasn't it flattened by the rain like everyone else's? I could barely hear him over the roar of raindrops slamming into my umbrella.

"I am doing splendidly. Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, but to be young was very heaven." It was always strange when older people said they were young. On my spreadsheet he was 29. He was basically 40.

"That's great. Glad to hear it." I was about to complain about his lacklustre efforts when his smile faded.

"I remember, now! One little spot on the horizon. One tiny hair in my otherwise sumptuous soup. Your interview. I checked the YouTube page to make sure you really said it. I couldn't believe my ears!" So he had heard what I'd said about Wainwright. This was great. He quoted what he remembered me saying and - maddeningly - omitted the most important part.

"It's a shame Marcus isn't playing because the fans could have seen a hard-working goalscorer with great movement." The smile came back, this time amused by my silliness.

"You forgot, Max! You have so much on your plate, I know. But you forgot. The fans can see me! Every week!" He sighed and walked off. If there had been a daisy nearby I think he'd have wandered over to pick it and slip it into his hair. I nearly clobbered him with my umbrella. Train harder, you fucking dick! Talking to him through the media was a bust. What next? I dragged myself inside where the warmth did nothing to cheer me up.

Tuesday, August 13 Match 3 of 46: Chester vs Kidderminster Harriers The drainage at the Deva did its job, just about, so we had a playable but heavy surface. Even if I'd been playing it would have been a war of attrition. You've heard of the Rumble in the Jungle. This would be the Slog in the Bog. Fitness became a decisive factor in my team selection. I had asked a lot of my players the previous Saturday, and some of them had quite low Condition. Sharknado - people were starting to call him Sharky - was shot.

He'd put in a lot of repeat sprints against Grims and playing him would have been beyond dumb. Pascal was in similar shape but I simply didn't have an alternative. If I'd known the weather would be so bad I might have changed my plans for the Grimsby match and not played both my right wingers. Sandra was next to me, staring from the pitch to the sky. We were both in raincoats looking bedraggled, but not as much as the ground staff, who were walking around prodding the turf with forks.

"Tell Pascal not to press and for him to be conservative with his forward runs. He needs to last the whole ninety."

"Got it," she said.

"Let's confirm the line up, while we're waiting for the ref to check the pitch. 4-1-4-1?"

"Yep. We'll use Steve Alton instead of Zach. We'll rotate those two for a few months and Zach's passing won't be as effective on this surface, anyway."

"You still want Cole at left back? It'll be tough out there."

"It'll be tough for his opponent, too. This is actually perfect for him. He gets the first half and Josh gets the second. Two debuts. Lift off for Project Youth." Cole Adams was the tall Irish-born left back with CA 25 PA 147. The kid had a great future and that future started now. Josh Owens was CA 24, PA 119, so very much another work in progress.

"Okay, we're a bit weak in that one position but we're giving two youngsters development time. They didn't think they'd be getting full halves of football this early in their Chester careers."

"Do you want to give Youngster a rest?"

"What did he play on Saturday? Half an hour? He's fine. Midfield is Aff, Wisey, Magnus, and Pascal. In these conditions, it's not bad. We need warriors out there. Scrappers. And with the weather like this, Henri's girlfriend might stay home, and that might make him want to get involved more."

"Or it'll make him want to get involved less," she said.

"Why did you have to go and say that?" I complained. But my frustrations were mostly down to the cast, the state of the pitch, and the fact that our starting eleven would have an average CA of 49. 8. That was piss poor, it really was. No-one on the bench would increase that number. We had Rainman, Zach, Josh, Omari Naysmith, and Ziggy. Lots of great haircuts, not much current ability. I went to hide in my manager's office to think about my life choices, but I ended up doing the Brig's crossword for him.

It took my mind off things wonderfully.

Kidderminster arrived slightly late because of traffic, so I only saw them on the pitch after Sandra had already handed the team sheet in. I'm not sure what I could have changed, but I might have changed something. I reached out behind me to touch the dugout, missed, and nearly toppled backwards.

"Max, are you okay?" Sandra had seen me turn pale. She looked from me to the pitch where she spotted a lot of familiar enemies. There was the absolutely magnificent Christian Fierce - Influence 20 - naturally. There were the deadly strike partners Peabody and Craddock. Then a bunch of tier 6 players. Kidderminster's manager, Bob Horseman, had brought in a few new faces. But there was nothing there that should have made me nearly collapse.

"I'm fine, yeah. Just thought I was slipping or something." I squelched into the dugout and sat down. My socks were damp again! I'd have to change them before kick off. Sandra wasn't convinced that I was being honest. She scanned the Kidderminster team to see what had alarmed me.

"Looks like mostly the same team. Two or three new guys."

"Three," I confirmed.

"One defender, one midfielder, one striker. They've got three amazing strikers now and we don't have any."

"Pascal did well as a false nine. We could keep that in our back pocket. You know at City we didn't care much about strikers. You win games in midfield. Pascal could be our link man while we construct moves around him. With you at DM taking set pieces we could win matches from long range."

"That's interesting. This coach at Darlington said something once. It was like, you start from long range and move closer as you get better. Yeah, as the kids improve we will be able to get more creative." I pushed my hood down and ruffled my hair.

"They're way better than I expected, Sandra."

"Kiddies?"

"Yeah. Look at them. They're sharper. Their standards are way higher." Not only were the three new signings in the CA 70 range, but the rest of the team had added six or seven points of CA since we'd played them last. Presumably, they had lost CA over the summer and recovered those points, same as us, but where we'd gone on to add one or two points per player, Kiddies had kept going. And going. A couple of guys had hit their PA limit, but now their average CA was 58.

Still one of the lowest in the league, but we weren't even on CA 50. Project Youth was the dumbest idea in the history of sports.

Kiddies came correct. As always, Bob Horseman's tactics imp had analysed our players, and as always, Bob Horseman had actually listened. It was that simple to be one of the best managers around. The way they set up hinted that they thought I would be playing, but they didn't have much information on Cole Adams. They probed down our left, checking the kid out. Cole won an early header, won an early tackle, and won a race against the right midfielder. I mean, talk about a good start!

But the best thing was that neither Bob Horseman nor his analyst spotted Cole was a weak link, otherwise the match could have become very messy. Kiddies played a cautious 4-4-2 with slow build up. That meant a lot of short passes while they moved soggily up the pitch. As they progressed, they left five or six players behind the ball. They really worked hard to make sure we didn't get overloads anywhere in their half. It worked.

We might have had more luck if Pascal had been completely fresh and able to zoom around a dry pitch, but winning leagues came down to squad management and being able to play three matches in eight days on a regular basis. Henri tried to get involved but Christian Fierce squashed him. Fierce was the one player who seemed utterly unaffected by the conditions. He seemed to relish them. He ran just as fast and rejoiced in aquaplaning across the surface launching into tackles from twenty yards away.

I wanted Christian Fierce for Christmas. I wanted Old Nick to curse me with Christian Fierce. I wanted the infinity stones so I could snap my fingers and find Christian Fierce had been added to my squad list. It was never going to happen, though.

"Jesus," I mumbled, thinking about how unfair life was. Sandra misunderstood me, though.

"I'm starting to agree with you that we have a problem. The formation's good but Henri's lost all explosiveness and he's disconnected."

"What can we do to change it without moving Youngster? He's keeping them at bay." She got her notebook and flipped it open.

"The only formations we've got with a set DM are 4-4-2 diamond or 4-2-3-1 but we haven't used that in a match before."

"4-2-3-1 doesn't suit Wisey. Diamond with Pascal as the CAM and Aff as the second striker. I don't hate it. Let me think about it." We watched for another five minutes as our players huffed and puffed. The gap in match ratings was climbing slowly but surely. I went to the touchline and waved my good hand around and yelled, and switched us to 4-4-2 diamond. There followed seven glorious minutes where we managed to rise above the mud and play something like Max Best football.

It came with big risks - the match flowed like basketball. We attacked, Kiddies attacked, then it was our turn. Bochum turns smoothly. He passes to Aff. Aff has the strength to hold the ball up. He turns to his left and eases the ball forwards. Bochum has some space in the penalty box! He hits it square, hard, and low. Lyons is there! But he puts it wide. He really should have done better with that chance. Bochum is furious. I hated Bad Boy's attitude but his performance was great.

His match rating went up and up, but then Horseman's analyst guy worked out what we were doing and Kiddies switched to three at the back with Christian Fierce pushing forward one slot. He was marking Pascal Bochum! Great compliment for the brat, but I didn't need to wait too long to see that our tactic had been nerfed. Pascal was improving rapidly but Fierce was far too good. By the end of the season that'd be a fascinating matchup but for now? No thanks.

I switched us back to 4-1-4-1 and a minute later, Kiddies reverted back to what they had been doing. The golden chance Pascal had created gave us five minutes of playing in the ascendency, but slowly, surely, the tide turned, and we were lucky to get to half time with the score still nil-nil.

Near the start of the break I told Cole and Josh we were going to make the change as planned, and I sat next to Cole and asked him how he thought he'd done. Not that good was his answer. Pretty well, was mine. His match rating had flitted from 5 to 6, but had spent most of the half on 6. Near the end it sank to 5 as his stamina ran out, but I was happy. He'd done himself proud and I told him that. When I went off to the tactics board, the Brig slipped into my spot and did Brig things.

"Boss," said Sandra, and I realised I'd been leaning with my head on the board for a while. When I peeled myself off it made a noise like when you get a strip of Sellotape.

"Any more changes?"

"I'm thinking of giving Ziggy a go."

"Hmm," she said. She liked Ziggy but was highly sceptical he could score against a quality defence. As an option for a desperate last fifteen minutes, yes. As the main man leading the line for an entire half on a muddy pitch, not so much. She came closer and spoke so softly I had to strain to hear it.

"If you think it's more important to send a message about the importance of training than it is to get something from this game, then go for it."

"What would you do if you were the manager here?"

"I'd keep Henri on because I'm a win now manager and because you've got me stressed about doing well in front of our home fans. Looks like there's over three thousand today. But I don't think we can continue like this. The Maxterplan is based on training well and if Henri's costing us a few percent in motivation we need to fix it."

"Motivation? Has anyone said anything to you?"

"I had a quiet word with Sam before and told him what we were worried about. He knows what you're like but some of the new guys hear you talk about how important training is but you don't train and you let Henri dog it." I checked the tactics screens and saw that Bob Horseman had taken off his new striker and put Craddock on in his place. A proven winner replacing a proven winner. The contrast between that and what I was thinking about doing was scary.

"All right," I said, turning to the group.

"As planned, Cole's off and Josh is coming on. Kiddies don't know anything about him so let's see how they react. Also, I'd like some energy up top, so we'll give Ziggy a go."

"Ziggy!" called a few guys. My first ever client was a guy who got popular quickly wherever he went.

"Max," said a heavily-accented voice.

"Will we play 4-4-2?"

"No, he's coming on for you, mate." Henri got to his feet and took a step closer.

"For the second match in a row you replace me at half time?"

"Yep. If you want more minutes we've got a match on Friday."

"Friday? You don't mean the reserves."

"Yep. Ziggy will start on Saturday and Tom will get a go from the bench."

"Tom?"

"Yes, Tom." Henri turned his lips up like he'd just found an ant colony living in his toaster. This caused a huge, obnoxious laugh from my right that made my blood boil.

"One last change today. Omari, you'll come on for Pascal." Sandra flinched and took half a step towards me, but went back again. Whatever she had to say, she would say it in private. Magnus felt the tension and he stepped between me and Bad Boy.

"I'll play right mid, will I? Omari centre?"

"That's right. Now, everybody out. I'll talk to the players who are coming off." The first team clip-clopped out, staring from me to Henri to Pascal. Zach Green had enough sense to leave with the rest. Cole Adams, as one of the players coming off, stuck around until the Brig tugged as his arm. Soon it was just Henri, Pascal, me, Sandra, and Vimsy. I eyed Sandra and she used her eyes to show me that I should take the cases separately. I nodded from Vimsy to Pascal and he led the young man outside.

When the door was closed, I left a little pause.

"Henri," I said, quietly.

"If you don't train, you don't play. That's it." He seemed confused.

"I train."

"You train seventy percent."

"Seventy percent of Henri - ""No, I'm not interested in that. You've got better things to do than play football and that's good. Good for you. But you're now my third-choice striker."

"Third?" It was as though he couldn't understand the words I was using.

"But you will lose."

"I'll lose giving it a hundred percent with kids who give it a hundred percent. I'll lose like a winner. Bye." I headed towards the door but Henri just loved to have the last word.

"Sandra, do not despair. He does not mean it." She didn't reply, but followed me outside. We left him to his long, long shower.

"How did I do?"

"Good, Max. It's good." I had a brief wobble.

"I knew this job would cost me friendships."

"No, come on. You're allowed to do your job. You have to or you'll get sacked and you'll end up resenting him."

"Yeah. That's true." She glanced down the corridor, where Bad Boy Bochum was sulking with his arms crossed.

"He's training great, though. Why are we doing this?"

"He hates Henri."

"You noticed?" I scoffed, but Sandra wasn't joking.

"No, I'm impressed. Most people wouldn't."

"It's not subtle."

"It's subtle enough. Even Henri hasn't realised." I shook my head.

"The first thing I did in Chester was bench a bunch of guys whose ego got in the way of the team. The stakes were lower, then. I could just about - just about - tolerate Pascal's snide laughs and all the stuff he does in the dressing room. But he's openly doing it on the pitch, now, and that's my fault for not having the guts to sort it out. So yes, he's been training great and he's irreplaceable, but I can't let that go on. Henri doesn't actually deserve this." Sandra took a deep breath.

I think she was mentally deleting Pascal's pace, movement, goals and assists from her mental spreadsheet and, correctly, judged the results to be catastrophic for our season.

"Okay." I moved along the corridor until I was directly facing Pascal. Highly confrontational.

"This is a team. The team comes first. Any part of the team that acts against another part of the team has to be removed. You will not be in the match squad on Saturday and you won't be in the match squad until you resolve whatever issues you have with other members of the team."

"What do you mean, resolve?" he said, far too loud and far too aggressively. I felt like I did enough for Chester Football Club that I didn't have to step into the psychology of Pascal Bochum and look for breaks.

"You know what I mean." He sneered at me.

"I'm your best player," he said.

"It's hilarious you think I give a shit. I want a united team. You don't currently fit the bill. If you behave against the well-being of any team member in training you will also be excluded from training. I haven't sent anyone to the bomb squad yet. I would prefer my first not be you." The bomb squad is football's term for 'bombing' a senior player out of the group and making him train alone or with the kids.

"The bomb squad?" he said, astonished. He had started out cocky and arrogant. He had taken a look at my attacking options and felt he held all the cards. Now I was threatening to make him rot in the reserves for the next six years and he realised his long-term contract could work both ways. Wisely, he kept his mouth shut. Not the time to try to get the last word.

"Vimsy," I said, when I was far enough away from Bad Boy.

"Hang out in the dressing room to make sure these fucks don't murder each other."

"Yes, boss."

Sandra followed me out to the dugout and let me fume for a while. A light drizzle had started and it was beautiful in the floodlights. I couldn't enjoy it, though, because of my stupid cast. Kidderminster's team came walking out for the second half. They seemed massive. Huge men. Beefy boys, all. My team had a few big guys, a few tough guys. But Josh was shorter than Cole, the big kid he had replaced. Omari was tall but slight. Physically, not ready for a match like this. And Ziggy.

Neither tall nor strong nor fast. A pure finisher and nothing else. I readied myself for the coming onslaught, feeling despondent. Henri and Pascal, man. What the fuck? One addled by love, one blinded by hate. I knew that no other manager would kick out two key players like I'd done. TJ wouldn't. Sandra wouldn't. Jackie wouldn't. But I had Super Scout. I knew that when the culture was poor, players would improve slowly or not at all. And when the culture was good, improvement would be rapid.

See: Chester last season. See: Kidderminster this season. Give me culture or give me the sack. Max Best has spoken. I went into the rain and scowled as the match resumed. Harriers quickly got the upper hand but continued to attack cautiously, never committing too many men forward. We'd lost Pascal's pace and they didn't know what to expect from our two young guns - but they knew all about Aff. For ten minutes, the game was fairly even.

Harriers cranked up the pressure but then Youngster made an interception, played the ball to Magnus, and he swept it diagonally for Ziggy. Ziggy showed as if he would touch the ball back to Wisey, but instead Ziggy spun round, bringing the ball with him. The crowd rose in anticipation, but Ziggy was immediately hauled down. Yellow card for the defender and we had a free kick in a good spot.

"Ziggy!" I cried, with a genuine smile.

"Where's he learned that?" The Free Hit option appeared and I hit it. While there, I used Seal It Up and Cupid's Arrow, linking Aff to Ziggy. With a start, I realised - too late - that Aff wasn't going to take the free kick. I had left the options blank because Aff would take the set pieces and Henri the penalties. But somehow I knew Omari wasn't standing next to Aff to be a distraction. He wanted to hit it!

Omari didn't take much of a run up, but simply approached the ball and hit a lovely, curling cross into the penalty box where Steve Alton rose and headed just the wrong side of the post.

"Wow!" I said.

"What just happened? Did anyone know he could do that?"

"Omari? Yes." Sandra exchanged a look with Vimsy.

"We thought that's why you signed him."

"No, I thought he was a tidy midfielder we could get for cheap. Is he better than me?" Another strange look passed between my coaches.

"Do you want him to be?"

"Fuck yes! We need every edge we can get."

"He's not as good as you, no. He's very good, though." Another weird look. I think they weren't used to knowing something about a player that I didn't. Maybe they thought I was losing my edge.

"Do you want us to give him training time to work on them?"

"Yes!" I said, practically bouncing around. I'd needed some good news. Cole Adams was a tall left back. Omari Naysmith was a central midfielder with great set piece delivery. Amazing! What about Josh Owens and Tom Westwood? What were they good at? The possibilities kept me upbeat for a while. This little burst of happiness didn't last long. Fierce with a crisp pass to midfield. Wise challenges but loses out. The ball is played to the right. Owens slips. His marker dribbles past him.

Owens reaches out to pull him down, but fails. A cross comes in... Peabody with a header! Great save by Cavanagh! Craddock with the rebound... GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!! He couldn't miss! And a belated yellow card for Owens. Peabody and Craddock combining for yet another goal. They were such a handful. Three minutes later, Omari tried a chip to Ziggy - insane - and Kiddies piled forward. As ever, Peabody and Craddock proved too hot to handle.

The latter scored to make it two-nil and I worried about this turning into a real shitshow. Six or seven-nil was easily on the cards. But with a good lead under his belt, Bob Horseman ordered his guys to fall into a low block. We spent the rest of the match passing the ball around the defence and midfield trying to carve out some openings, but we didn't have anywhere near enough pace, power, or guile and the match petered out.

I told Sandra I would do the media stuff and as I plodded along to the section of a corridor we called 'the media room', I thought about what I would say. I had a choice - I could blast Henri and Pascal by saying something like 'the experienced players didn't support the young guys enough' or I could take the blame on myself. I went with the latter.

Duties performed, I went to find Bob Horseman and invited him for a drink in the Blues Bar. He was surprised but more than happy to accept. There were two main things I wanted to know.

"Why did you do a low block today? If you kept at us, you could have scored ten." He laughed.

"Right. And then you'd have scored fifteen in the return match. No, don't poke the bear. We're not in the business of riling up Max Best. Two-nil and a glass of red is more than enough for me." I clinked my glass against his.

"You guys are great. Tell me though. I've seen your training facilities and they're fine but I don't think they're better than ours. But you've come flying out of the blocks and we're fucking dogging it. We are absolute rank. What do you think we could be doing wrong?"

"How's the mood?"

"Generally good. Worse now that you've dicked us."

"You're happy with your staff?"

"Big time." Bob had a drink and had a think.

"Could be bad apples but not with your lot, I don't think. Glenn Ryder, Sam Topps, James Wise. Good professionals. Can't be that." He took another big swig.

"Bit of stage fright. Coming up to a new league. Your new American broke your arm, right? That sort of thing doesn't help. You want to get off to a good start. What else? You've taken on a lot of new lads, haven't you? Love that, by the way. Five Exit Trial kids? Very, er... holistic." He meant very charitable, like I was doing them a favour.

"They're mint."

"Your Ryders and your Toppses might not think so. They want to play with proper men so they can keep winning. I don't really know, Max. Sometimes you can't always explain everything." I let out a breath while I stared at a worn patch of carpet.

"Yeah, all right. Thanks." A bit of a cheeky grin appeared.

"I'll go easy on you next time we play."

"Oh, thanks, Max. I appreciate that."

Wednesday, August 14 Steve Icke was waiting for me when I got to BoshCard - keen - and I tried to stay upbeat as I guided him to the dressing room. He'd agreed to coach a session so I could get an idea about how he worked, but I was having second thoughts about the whole GK vs STRIKER thing. No matter how good he was, the goalkeeping coach position was not my top priority. Henri's morale had plummeted overnight - as had Pascal's - and I was going to need a top, top forward otherwise this would a long, long season.

If Sam left, I would have 2, 500 a week in spare budget and some cash for a transfer fee. I could dip into my reserves but even scrounging up every last penny would get me... well, not very much, in fact. I could certainly get someone in on loan - that old chestnut. Develop someone else's player.

"Boss?" Steve was ready.

"Sorry, Steve, I was miles away."

"Sticky."

"What?"

"Everyone calls me Sticky."

"Wow."

"I hate losing, too. I'm a total misery guts after a match like that."

"Are you from Yorkshire?"

"Wetherby." He finished typing something on his phone, put it in his kit bag, and stood. With me low on a bench, he seemed enormous and I realised he'd been bending his neck to avoid bumping into door frames and lights.

"How tall are you?"

"Six seven. Two metres in new money."

"Wow. Bet everyone asks what's the weather like up there and all that? Okay, let's go." I led the way and he followed, carrying his kit bag. Good call since he didn't have a locker. If I'd been more switched on I'd have lent him mine, but my head was in several places.

"We've got the first team goalies for you but I'll be keeping an eye on the outfielders, too. Bastards are really pissing me off. I will be watching. But just do your usual thing."

"It's Ben and Owen, right?"

"Ben and Rainman. To the left, there."

"Got it."

"Want me to introduce you?"

"I'll be reet." Sticky went off to do goalkeeper things - out on the grass he was incredibly tall. Thin, too. I pottered over to Sandra. The guys who had played the whole match had the morning off, so it was a smaller session.

"How are they today?"

"Better!"

"Oh, thank fuck," I said. I'd been despairing of getting any good news. Zach, Eddie Moore, Tom, Wes, and the others were zipping around purposefully tapping balls to each other and running off to different coloured cones before shooting. It looked fast and intense and good quality.

"Yes! Where has this been? Good, William! Quality, that!"

"I'm sorry to say... I think you were right about Henri." I scuffed a piece of turf.

"Doesn't make me feel better." Zach, Sam, and Eddie played a few rapid-fire passes to each other, playing the ball perfectly into Sharky's path. He arrived at the ball at great speed... and sent it into orbit. If training was good, now, then taking action against Henri and Pascal would have been worth it. Attributes turning green would buy land and build stadiums. If Henri and Pascal wanted to be part of it, they knew what to do. Fuck those guys!

I looked at the mobile kitchen, physical proof of what happened when you made training the basis for your entire football club.

"Yeah. Did you know Pete did drama when he was inside? Could be good for the women's team documentary. Could be a breakout star."

"Breakout and prison aren't words you want to go together. How's the new guy?"

"Don't know. I'm letting him - " I stopped dead. I'd just seen his numbers.

"Er... bye." I did an unattractive walk-jog in the direction of the beautiful, beautiful numbers. The first thing that stood out was Sticky's coaching profile. There was only one number I cared about for my goalkeeping coach. Of course, it'd be better if he had full marks in everything but Determination? Judging Player Ability? Tactical Knowledge? I wasn't paying my coaches for any of that stuff. Coaching Goalkeepers: 20 Wow. Yes! Angles only had a score of 12. Talk about an upgrade.

I already felt vindicated in easing the old guy out. But there was more. Sticky was only thirty - young for a goalie - and while his CA of 25 was relatively low, not having played in a long, long time, he had good PA. 122! His Handling was three points higher than Ben's. Literally the only problem with this guy was his low passing and technique scores - he had 2 for both. I paced around, nervous and excited, waiting for enough time to pass so that I could end the session and try to hire the guy.

Just as I was about to burst from impatience, Ben popped to CA 50. Green! Green for 'hire this man'.

"Sticky! Let's have a chat."

We got food from the kitchen and took it up to my office and ate at the back, where I sometimes played chess against Henri. As we ate, Sticky told me his footballing life story. It was as I'd thought - he was considered a great shotstopper, had good command of his penalty box (coming to collect crosses before an attacker could get to them) and was liked in the dressing room. But he couldn't play modern pass-out-from-the-back football.

In his old club's analytics he was ranked first for agility and last for being a sweeper-keeper. For most teams, he was a non-starter. Literally.

"Okay, so you were at Barnsley. That seems like a good fit for you. They're pretty, uh, direct, right?"

"You mean they play long-ball. Football changes fast, though. Even with Barnsley you need to be good with your feet. Watch their highlights and you'll see a lot of long passes from the keeper setting up moves and with every new manager they add in more short passing moves."

"So when did you start doing your badges?"

"Last season. I thought, I'm not getting a new contract, not getting games. I felt I might make a good coach, though. I tell it how it is and goalies like that." This lucky bastard had rolled the dice and thrown a natural twenty. Once I got my hands on him, he would never be out of work again.

"What about if I want a sweeper-keeper. Can you coach that?"

"Reckon we'll get you for those sessions, boss. I saw you against Darlington. That were reet cheeky, that. Took the piss, you done." He stuck a long finger into the back of his mouth to dislodge something.

"Aye, I can coach it. Just can't do it." All right so this was the magic moment. How much did I want an elite goalkeeping coach? Ben and Rainman weren't going to make millions for the club.

"Let's talk about what my business girl would call your salary expectations." He nodded.

"At Barnsley I was on four thousand a week."

"Great. Bring that down two divisions and think what a fan-owned club can pay."

"I can relocate on a short-term contract for two thousand."

"Why short-term?"

"I want to get in the shop window. Play some matches, get my coaching career going. No offence but reckon I ought to be at a high level, like."

"Why did you call suddenly? You had all summer."

"There's a goalkeeper's grapevine. We had it that you, meaning you, boss, were up and coming and you wanted a new coach who could play or be first sub. You took a look at Jubb Hill." The name was familiar. I went into my mental database and found an entry for a goalie. He had pretty average stats considering he wanted four grand a week. I didn't want to slag the guy off, though. Especially not if all these goalies were in the same WhatsApp group.

"Er, yeah. Not what I was looking for."

"He was at Huddersfield with me. Tried to keep me down. Talked a load of shit. Did a lot of damage to my career. Never could understand why people thought he was all that. People say you're a good judge of a player and when you turned him down, you went up in my estimation. I looked into you and asked around. Heard different things. Thought I'd come and see for myself." I tapped the little table.

"I like you as a player and I like you as a coach. Ben's my first choice but I don't need a sweeper-keeper. I might in a few years but I don't now. All you need to do is pass to Zach or one of my full backs and we're away. Having you in the team I'm much less worried about corners and long throws and shit. You need time to get up to speed - story of my life - but you'll get games with us.

I want Rainman to get two or three games this season but other than that it's a straight fight between you and Ben for the number one position. I don't want squabbles. When you're the coach you're the boss and Ben does what you say but on match day I'm the boss and I don't want whining and complaining. You get along or you get fucked. Sort of a new rule around here."

"No dickheads."

"Is that a quote?"

"The All Blacks." He felt the need to explain that.

"Rugby."

"I know all about rugby. I used to be one of the country's best players. Explain the dickheads thing."

"That's a rule they've got. It doesn't matter how good you are. If you're a dick, you're out. The Australian rugby team has no such rule." I laughed. He was bone dry, like Ryan Jack, but he was funny.

"No dickheads. Right. You need to come here, Sticky. It's perfect for you and I plan to grow the club so you won't want to move onto bigger and better things. Things'll get bigger and better around you. You'll coach the women and the kids, too. We've got some good players. There's community work and that sort of thing but it's fun, mostly, and you'll find the admin guys turning up, too. It's not something we fob off onto players we don't like. Okay, so the thing is, two thousand a week would absolutely ruin me.

I will give you a contract today for fifteen hundred a week and a bump when we get promoted. Hang on, I'm getting a text." MD: Your friend Mr. Tranmere Rovers is trying to rinse us on the Sam Topps deal. Me: One second. I fired a text to Mateo. Don't be a dick. And then another to MD. Sorted.

"Sorry, bit rude. We're negotiating with Tranmere. Where were we?"

"Fifteen until the end of the season."

"Yeah."

"You're selling a player. So you'll have spare budget."

"I'll need to replace him."

"You already did. James Wise for Sam Topps." Cheeky Yorkshireman did his homework.

"Sixteen hundred but if you negotiate more I'm going to say thanks for coming and good luck." If he accepted, I would have 900 pounds a week left in my budget. Not much, but it could possibly stretch to... to something.

"Can I think about it?" I clicked my neck around. I knew I wouldn't find a better goalie coach, and my plan B was a series of very similar guys who could come in as an experienced backup for Ben. They would all be fine and would all still be available late in the transfer window.

"It's August 14th and the window closes on September 2nd. I can sign a free agent like yourself whenever, but I don't want to leave this indefinitely. If one of my goalies is injured or suspended I'll be signing someone right then and there. So... you can have until the 26th."

"In that case, let's do it today." The question had been some sort of test.

"Really?" The relief surprised me.

"Er... one thing. Maybe I should ask how you got your nickname."

"Sticky? The origins are lost in the mists of time. Some say it's because as a young man I produced a lot of bodily fluids. Some say I look like a stick insect. Some say it's because in Yorkshire, goalposts are called sticks and I play between the sticks. Some say it's because my name's Ste Icke and that looks like Sticky. But no-one really knows, Max. No-one really knows."

Thursday, August 15 Chester FC are delighted to reveal the identity of our new goalkeeping coach! Steve 'Sticky' Icke has joined on a free transfer until June 2025. Manager Max Best says the 30-year-old, 6'7" player also adds competition for places.

Friday, August 16 We regret to announce the departure of popular midfielder Sam Topps. Sam has joined Tranmere Rovers for a fee in the region of 75, 000. He said his goodbyes yesterday in scenes which are said to have been 'emotional'. Manager Max Best adds, 'Sam is top bins and while we're gutted to lose a player and character of his quality, he's getting lobster money over there and he'll be able to support his family. I'm sure I speak for everyone when I say he'll be welcome back any time.'

Saturday, August 17 Match 4 of 46: Wealdstone versus Chester It was said that Wealdstone had the lowest budget in the National League, and since the Finances perk said they had even less budget to play with than me, I fully believed it. The club was based on the outskirts of London near Wembley and they had a solid history. They played in the first televised match and were the first team to do the non-league double (winning the National League and FA Trophy).

I felt some of the week's annoyance and sense of foreboding swirl around me as I filled in the team sheet. A common phrase in football is that player X will be 'the first name on the team sheet'. I had a couple of guys who got close to that honour. Glenn Ryder was one. Carl Carlile was another. And Sam Topps had been close. Now Sam was gone forever. I'd seen on documentaries that a player leaving a club could have a shitty experience.

They would walk around looking for people to say goodbye to and the people they did meet would be too busy. Not on my watch. I'd learned from David Cutter that having a proper farewell went a long way. So we made a fuss over Sam. Bought him a goodbye gift, gave him a framed Topps 6 shirt that we'd all signed, and a couple of people had given little speeches.

I told the lads that this was a happy moment, a triumph, a validation of everything we were trying to do at Chester and then it was the Brig's turn and he made everyone cry. Mate. Then, right, then Sam went to Tranmere and met everyone and on Friday had his first day of training. But he came back in the evening to say goodbye to the women's team, too. That was when I really started to feel a sense of loss. Looking at the team sheet and realising I'd never write his name again - yeah, it messed me up for a minute.

But it had to go like that. I would have to go and scout him to see the exact details of his new contract, but it was probably double what we were paying him. His wife would be happy. His girl would have a better life. It was a big win for them, and that was more important than getting three points against Wealdstone. That's what I told myself. If you're going to have a loss, you need to get yourself a win, so the first name I wrote on the team sheet was... William B. Roberts.

I wrote it as one of the substitutes, but even that cheered me up. PA 185! I was happy with the team until I got to the last two names. We had Ben behind Eddie, Glenn, Zach, and Carl. Youngster as DM. Aff, Wisey, and Magnus. So far, so solid. But Henri wasn't going to play until he trained like a professional footballer and I would freeze Pascal out until that awful 'dislikes Henri Lyons' thing was off his profile.

I knew it wasn't totally fair, because five players still had 'dislikes Zach Green' in their profiles and I wasn't thinking of binning them. That came from a sense that their dislike wouldn't last long, and now that I'd taken steps to address the Henri and Pascal thing, I would be bold in addressing the Zach thing, too. I had one or two ideas... With two of my best players out, I had few options. Sharky was playing right wing and and Ziggy was my striker. That gave me a 47. 3 average CA lineup.

One that would struggle to get to the playoffs... in tier 6. Wealdstone, despite their meagre budget, had plenty of experience at this level and had an average of 58. Yikes. The bench was what stopped me from catastrophising. As well as Sticky - beautiful, beautiful Sticky - I had Steve Alton, a wise old head, Josh Owens for a left-footer in case of injury, William Roberts, the best prospect in the entire country, and Tom Westwood, a football player who existed.

The match started well. Wealdstone were surprised by how quickly we fizzed the ball around, and when they tried to press us we chipped the ball behind the defenders to let Aff and Sharky chase. We caused a lot of mayhem in the early stages until they regrouped. Their manager stopped them pressing, switched them to short passes, and left more players back. Once those changes were made, both teams lacked the quality to break the other down and the match became a bitty, frustrating experience. For me, anyway.

Wealdstone's manager wouldn't care about the performance if his team ground out a one-nil win. The week had been such a struggle, but it hadn't all been bad. It only felt bad because I'd lost Henri, Pascal, and Sam. But I still had Youngster. As I thought that, I felt a tingling on the back of my neck. I turned and in the stand behind me I saw the usual gaggle of agents and scouts. One guy stood out - apart from the fact that he was absolutely massive, his profile didn't say he was a scout for a club.

It said he was a scout for Ghana. Like, the country. I sat back down and smiled to myself. Imagine Mr. Yalley's face when he found out his son had been called up to play for Ghana! I slammed my cast into the side of the dugout, but it was an expression of joy. Train hard, play hard, get your rewards. Easy. Come on! At half time, I had a tactical discussion with Sandra.

"Take Wes off, put Tom on, switch to 4-4-2," she suggested. Wes had been his usual misfiring self.

"Maybe Tom and Ziggy will be the dream team."

"I like it except I don't want to move Youngster out of DM. It's our only real source of advantage right now."

"I think we have to. We don't have the players to do anything else." I leaned in.

"Okay but he's being scouted right now. There's a guy from the national team in tonight and Youngster's the only guy who qualifies." Sandra winced.

"Fucking hell, Max! We've got a match on!"

"You're right, you're right." I sighed.

"Ian Evans laughed at me, once. Said managers always ended up going back to 4-4-2. I can't believe I'm doing this." Wealdstone couldn't believe it, either. Couldn't believe their luck. When they realised Youngster was out of position, they went bonkers attacking through the middle and it was only their lack of quality and composure that stopped them winning.

"Ziggy's blowing," said Vimsy. My dude's Condition had dropped below 75%. He'd worked hard and selflessly but the curse rated him at 5 out of 10. He was trying to make up for his lack of quality by working harder, but it was just making him run out of steam faster. For many reasons, I wanted to get back to 4-1-4-1 and turtle up. Would I take a draw? I'd have bitten your hand off for a nil-nil. Without Henri and Pascal, I couldn't see where Chester's next goal was coming from.

"Let's get Steve on at right back and put Carl in midfield. Just go full dogs of war. Shut this down." Sandra wasn't happy but she couldn't think of anything better. Wealdstone ended the discussion by scoring. It was a soft goal with no-one really to blame. They'd simply had too much of the ball in dangerous positions for things to continue to go our way.

"Christ," I said.

"Steve, come back, sorry." I couldn't turtle up when we were losing.

"Fuck it. William. You're up." WibRob for his Chester debut! It would be a somewhat inauspicious beginning. Twenty-five minutes in an away defeat to the second-worst team in the league in front of 1, 300 mostly bored people.

"4-1-4-1, WibRob right," I said. Eighteen-year-old CA 28 Tom Westwood would have to lead the line. He couldn't do it any worse than Henri or Ziggy, that was for sure. We were about to lose our second match in a row. The next three fixtures flashed across my mind. The teams would all be around the CA 70 level. The average CAs I was putting out were decreasing! This... this could easily be the five-game losing streak that would end my Chester career. And who could blame them for sacking me?

I'd put my resources in the wrong places. I'd spent most of my remaining budget hiring a backup goalie when I needed a striker! I had actually fucked it up, big time. For five minutes, there was a lot of huffing and puffing and not much else. Tom ran around a lot achieving nothing. WibRob was swallowed up by the match, sinking to a 5 out of 10 rating. Utterly anonymous. At least he wasn't kicking people. I was on the edge of sinking into proper despair, but the next five minutes were strange.

Something was happening. Something I couldn't see with my eyes or with the curse. I could feel it, though.

"Sandra, what do you think?"

"I think... we're pushing them back." Vimsy took a couple of steps closer. His cheeks were flushed like he was drunk.

"He's some player, that kid! Some player!"

"WibRob?"

"No. Tom. Tom Westwood," he explained, seeing my blank face. With rising excitement, Sandra and I exchanged glances. The curse had Tom on 5 out of 10. He wasn't winning headers or making passes.

"What are you seeing, Vimsy?"

"Oh, he's marvellous. Look at him go!" James Wise played a hopeful ball in the vague direction of WibRob, but sliced it so badly it went to the corner flag. Five seconds from now it would dribble out of play for a goal kick. It was the very definition of a lost cause. But Tom fucking Westwood got his head down and chased it and I realised I was seeing the world through Vimsy's eyes. I was a football dinosaur, a Real Football Man and Tom Westwood was a player's player.

Arms pumping, chest high, he wasn't going to let that ball go gentle into the night.

"Go on, lad!" I cried, even though I knew it barely mattered if he got there or not. Who cared if he got to that ball? The best he could do would be to knock it out for a throw-in instead of a goal kick. Who cared? Who even fucking cared? Suddenly, urgently, me. I cared about this chase and nothing more. Tom wanted that ball and I wanted him to get it. The left back had other ideas. He ran towards the ball, too, trying to get in Tom's way. He wanted to use his body to shepherd the ball out.

He would let Tom collide with him and that would be that. But Tom, still running at his top speed, still a look of pure determination on his face, zigzagged left, right, left again - but no! That last move was a fake, the defender bought it, and now Tom was favourite. He slid - the defender slid - Tom hooked the ball left - it hit the defender. The linesman signalled for a corner kick. I went nuts. I went fucking bananas. I ran up and down the touchline, hugging Vimsy, twirling Sandra around.

The highest moment of my life, if we apply certain filters, was a meaningless corner kick awarded in the arse end of London.

"Holy shit," I whooped.

"Wow! What the shit. I can't believe that. He's... What is he?"

"He's a trier," said Vimsy, eyes shining.

"A grafter."

"A grafter!" Tom Westwood was a guy who would run all day and annoy defenders. He would chase lost causes and go 'into the channels' - the space between defenders. He would make them work for every little thing. They'd hate to see his name on the team sheet because they knew it would mean they'd have to work work work. I'd accidentally signed an Ian Evans player! And I couldn't stop smiling about it. Aff jogged over to take the corner.

He set himself, signalled, and lashed an inswinger into the six-yard box where Zach Green rose, won the header, and hit the crossbar! I sank to my knees.

"Oh! That was it. That was the moment." I checked the time - fifteen minutes left. Plenty of time for someone to work some magic. I sent Josh Owens on to get some minutes at left back and used my fifteen-minute perks to make his life a little easier. I linked Owens to Aff and set my team to have a left-hand-side tendency. The more we attacked, the more Wealdstone retreated. This would be a great win for them - they were expecting a long, hard battle against relegation and wins were precious.

The fact that we couldn't get a shot on target against what should have been the worst team briefly disheartened me, but then Tom Westwood went to pressure the left back, followed the ball all the way to the goalie, and followed it right back out to the left back. They couldn't shake him loose!

"Come on!" I screamed.

"Fucking love that, Tom, mate. Yeerrrrsssss!" I had the feeling that if we had infinite time, we would definitely get the next goal. But the clock kept ticking down. Six minutes left. Five minutes left. Aff was fantastic. Linking with Josh Owens and James Wise, he was able to find space for himself and get crosses in. We simply couldn't get enough players into the box to make it count. Wherever we attacked, we were outnumbered. Wealdstone weren't parking the bus, but it wasn't too far away from that.

"Oh my God," I mumbled, dragging my fingers down my face.

"No. Don't do this to me." I realised my decisions would be under greater scrutiny than ever, and all anyone would talk about was me dropping Henri and Pascal. Two of my main goalscoring threats. How did I expect to win matches without goalscorers? Was I fucking stupid? Two minutes to go. One minute to go. We wouldn't get promoted. We wouldn't sell players for millions. We wouldn't buy and rebuild the stadium.

Nothing we had talked about on Monday morning mattered because I had constructed a football team that couldn't score goals. Shit - what if my arm really was broken? What if I would miss five more weeks? Would we go more than a month without scoring a goal? Aff collected the ball and took a breath. Took a beat to let Wisey and Magnus get forward. An exhausted Youngster tried to get up the pitch. Tom Westwood came short but Aff waved him away - someone needed to be in the box. Josh overlapped and Aff passed to him.

They tried to work into slapping position but Wealdstone had too many players back. The clock struck 90. Aff said fuck it and whipped in a tired cross that a defender headed up and away. Time slowed and the hairs on the back of my head pulled in every direction. The ball, in super slow motion, was falling to the right foot of the onrushing WibRob. I saw what happened before it happened. As it happened I doubted the evidence of my eyes.

Leaning back slightly so as to coax the ball into an arc, he struck the ball firmly but sweetly in the lower middle. Specks of moisture and fragments of grass exploded from the contact point. The trajectory of the ball took it past two wide-eyed defenders, past Tom Westwood, hands already raising in celebration, and past an agile and experienced goalkeeper. The net bulged, but not as massively as my eyes. The silence ended and all the sounds of a football match came rushing back.

The referee's whistle signalling the goal. The Chester fans erupting. My bench emptying, with the subs rushing to join the celebrations. When I opened my eyes, I found I was on my knees again, slumped forward, and two massive hands were picking me up.

"Was wonderin' why you were playing the kids," said Sticky.

"Seeing as you could have had any old fool from this level." He jutted his chin towards the pitch.

"Reckon I know, now. I'm reet glad to be here, Max. Reet glad."

"It's called Project Youth," I said.

"It's why I'm so insane about getting training right. That's why I hired you, mate. The club might lose faith in me, the fans, too. But I'll tell you something."

"What's that, boss?"

"You've just seen the future of English football."