Chương 35: 8.13 - Winner Is Coming

13. Monday, September 9 There was a fair amount of excitement in the large meeting room at BoshCard, mostly centred around the fact I'd plugged my laptop into the AV equipment. Max Best would speak without the use of flipcharts! What could prompt him to step into the future like this? In addition to the usual staff, I'd also invited MD, Brooke, and Trish and Pete from the kitchen. Livia must have told Jackie that something was up because he had invited himself.

There was no-one from the board but otherwise it was pretty much a full house. The clock struck 8: 40, which is when I'd told everyone I wanted to start. I waited. The players began murmuring. I had many faults as a manager but bad timekeeping wasn't one of them. The lads got louder as they speculated on what I was doing, but their conversations quickly turned to the three-all win against Aldershot. Did you hear that crowd? Wasn't that amazing? Epic. Deadly.

I heard someone say it was like being in Game of Thrones and I winced. Then there were the guys talking about the women's match. What got into them? Seven-nil! Merciless. Unreal. Deadly. Who saw that coming? wondered someone, and I winced again. I did! I told you! The door opened and Emma came in. All eyes turned to her.

"You didn't wait for me, did you?" I smiled and stood up.

"All right we're starting late so let's barrel through this." Brooke had lent me a little clicker thing that allowed me to control the PowerPoint while walking around like a real b-boy. I paused and thought about what I wanted to say; I hadn't rehearsed it.

"Eight points from eight games. From the outside that looks pretty grim, but we're not outside. We're inside. From where I'm standing, I'm satisfied. I know how hard it's been to get going. At the start of the season I outlined my vision. I want to update that vision based on how things have gone so far."

"Rustle rustle crunch crunch crunch," said Emma, louder than the Deva after I'd scored our third goal.

"Come on, babes," I said.

"Wha?" she said, pausing with a crisp hovering one inch away from a mouth that was already full of crisps. She squeezed that one in and put the packet down. I stood blankly as she crunched a few more times.

"I've lost my train." I clicked to the next slide, the first real one of my presentation. It was a picture of seals but each one carried a sword and helmet, a magical staff, or a bow. In huge fantasy book cover lettering were the words A STORM OF SEALS.

"We're doing a Game of Thrones theme this week. You'll see why in a minute. If you haven't read the books or watched the show, don't worry. Oh, and don't bother, either. They, er... Hey, babes. Why don't you shove some more crisps in you?" Her eyebrows shot up and she took the opportunity. I looked around the room.

"If you're thinking of watching it, don't bother. They absolutely trashed it in later seasons. Emma gets weirdly angry when I complain about it, which is maybe because she wanted to do a Game of Thrones tour around Northern Ireland and instead of helping her book the trip I went on an extended, visceral rant about the later seasons once they ran out of book. The quality of dialogue, the patent lack of effort, and you know what? Just don't watch it. The last two seasons are utter dogshit." I clicked.

The next slide was an image of Westeros, the fantasy land the story is set in.

"This is where Game of Thrones happens. It's the British Isles, but Ireland is upside down and Scotland is turned around." I clicked and seven football club logos appeared on the map.

"There are seven kingdoms in Game of Thrones. We've got seven main rivals." Zach said, "Why is the Dallas Cowboys badge on there?"

"Because it's funny," I said.

"And because you're not supposed to pay that much attention. We'll come back to our rivals in a bit. What about us? Are there any similarities between us and the cast of Game of Thrones?" I clicked and there was immediate laughter. I'd put a bald character called Varys next to a picture of Jackie Reaper.

"Settle down. For those of you who don't know, this guy's called Varys. Early in the story he meets a beautiful sorceress who takes pity on him and asks him on a date. It's one of the most unrealistic parts of the story because there's hot guys everywhere and you're always thinking she could do better."

"I don't remember Varys having a girlfriend," said Jackie.

"Oh, she's not in the TV version."

"I've read the books."

"She's not in the books, either. She's in the MBU version."

"MBU?"

"Max Best Universe. That's where I watch content and tell Emma how I would make it better. Next." I clicked.

"Davos Seaworth is the Brig. Very capable, very loyal, and his main character development is that his grammar improves through the story." The Brig gave a tiny shake of the head.

"Sandor Clegane, the warriorest warrior. Obvs Glenn Ryder. Sam Topps is Ned Stark. Killed off way earlier than you expected. Don't know this guy's name. He's so old he's sort of fused with a tree. Got to be Ryan Jack. MD is Jorah Mormont. He's found this hotshot young winger who's got dragons, and he's like, I think this is good? Dragons. Winger. Do you get it? Grey Worm is Youngster. Super fighter, talented, falls in love with a butcher."

"You're not even trying, now," said Emma.

"Who am I?" said Henri.

"You're Hodor," I said. Then I had a better idea.

"You're Tom Bombadil." Henri, of course, understood my reference to a character so bizarre that Peter Jackson erased him from his sixty-hour movie adaption of Lord of the Rings. I thought it was funny to liken Henri to an annoying guy from a completely different universe and Henri agreed - his head rocked back as he laughed.

"Who's Zach?" said Brooke.

"Too easy," I said.

"Zach is Tyrion Lannister. He's rich, he's secretly got good skills - leadership skills, too - but his big mouth gets him into trouble wherever he goes." Zach loved this. I could have gone on for ages and they'd have eaten it up.

"Right, no more comparing people to characters," I said. I clicked and there was a collage of about thirty players and staff with their Game of Thrones equivalents. I let it stay up for about one and a half seconds and then clicked through. There was uproar.

"Guys," I said, trying to get some quiet.

"This is a meeting. We're at work. Stop hollering."

"Who are you?" said MD.

"I'm George Arrrrrrr Martin," I said. Emma stood, wiped crumbs from her, and said, "He's the leader, the hero, a gruff northerner, and he came back from the dead. Who do you think?" MD smiled at her.

"If he's Jon Snow, that makes you..." I stepped forward and pulled Emma into a hug.

"She's muh queen. She's muh queen." That got a good reception from people who didn't know the TV show and a better one from people who had seen it.

"Good. Now, if I'm Jon Snow - which I'm not, as you'll see in a minute - then my family motto is Winter Is Coming." I clicked to the next slide. It was three words in the Game of Thrones font. Winner Is Coming I took a few steps and paused, once again making sure my thoughts were in some sort of order.

"The point of Game of Thrones is that everyone is flawed. Some characters are too noble, too stubborn, some are too arrogant, they drink too much, they fall in love with the wrong hot priestesses. All that fun stuff. We're something like that right now. A very flawed team which needs a lot of luck to get results. We've been making lots of mistakes that cost us goals. Like loads of these characters, we make life hard for ourselves. But there is a team in the Game of Thrones universe that's effective."

I clicked to show a picture of the 'White Walkers'.

"Fucking ice zombies, mate. They go to Hardhome and get an easy three points. They sign a few giants and recruit some Exit Trialists. These pricks are led by this chap." Click.

"The Night King. Rhymes with the right wing. He's the single most powerful character in the story and he makes his team too cold to handle. Some of you aren't getting it. This is me. Think about it. What's humanity's defence against the ice zombies? A big wall. This guy's like me taking a free kick. The wall does nothing!" I clicked - the next slide was the Winner Is Coming one again. I strode around a bit.

"We're going to be an ice zombie army for a while. You plus me is a team that can compete in this league. We need to get to the point where you can win a playoff match without me. That's still the goal. But I'm looking at the league table and I'm thinking... Do I need to change my plan?" I walked around for a bit.

"We were unlucky with Grimsby. Marcus Wainwright wanted a transfer - he didn't ask for one because then he'd have lost loads of bonuses and shit. But he made it very clear he wanted to leave and Grimsby were willing to let him go for the right price. He got injured, though, so he's stuck there. As you've seen, he's gone back in the team and he's taking his frustrations out on goalkeepers. The guy's class and the team looks mint. They're smashing the league up. But everyone else... it's mayhem. It's chaos.

Barnet beat Forest Green and Forest Green beat Solihull and Solihull beat Alty and so on and so on." I shook my head.

"There's a character in Game of Thrones who says chaos is a ladder. And he's right. If we focused totally on the league, I think we'd finish second." The mood in the room had been amused, mild interest, but that last word made people sit up, big time.

"Second?" said MD. I nodded.

"Yeah. Now, everyone knows I haven't been too bothered about the recent defeats because we need to blood the young players and later in the season we'll go on a winning run and we'll finish seventh. The only difference between finishing second and seventh is you play one less playoff game if you're second and you get home advantage. I'm not bothered about playing away - I'm a fucking ice zombie, lads. Scream at me all you want I'll still absolutely dick you.

So it's not worth burning our stamina for eight months to move from seventh to second. It really isn't. We need to be at full strength in the last games. That much is still true. But looking at how all these teams are tearing into each other... I want us to have the option to finish second or third. The option. Let it be our choice. Right now I'd be happy with a cup win and getting minutes into loads of youth team players, like I said at the start.

Do all our secondary goals, finish seventh, win the FA Trophy and the playoff final, both at Wembley. I just can't help shake the feeling that we can do all that and finish higher in the league.

"So I want us to pick up the pace. Five wins from the next seven before our first FA Cup match.

"That starts with Eastleigh at home this Saturday. This is a must-win match for lots of reasons, so we're going to go hard on the preparations. One of the reasons it's a must-win is that we have a special guest." I pointed to the screen.

"Winner Is Coming. No, I'm not telling you who it is but believe me, you'll want to do your best out on that pitch. I can promise you a fucking Max Best masterclass, that's for sure."

"Max," said MD.

"Right, right. I promised I'd clarify that it isn't Taylor Swift. It's not Taylor Swift, guys. Don't go hyping up the mystery guest on your socials without clarifying that it isn't Taylor Swift. The police can't deal with an incursion of Swifties." MD stepped forward.

"But don't deny it so hard that people start to think we're hiding the truth that it really is her!"

"I like Taylor Swift," I said.

"I watched a four-hour livestream of her that kept getting interrupted by the Super Bowl. Where was I? Special guest. Play good and win." Click.

"Eastleigh play three at the back with Trick Williams on the bench so they can switch things up. Mostly they play 3-5-2." I walked across the front of the screen so I could point to it from the other side.

"They've got a good midfield. At the moment we would struggle to match them. So 3-5-2's out. So what do we do? You guys know I love a DM, and I especially love it against 3-5-2. I'm not too fussed about winning the possession battle in this one. We can let Eastleigh have the ball. So if we're not too bothered about midfield - " I paused because Sandra Lane let out a little whelp. Everyone looked at her but she only had eyes for me.

"Really?" I grinned and clicked to show everyone the formation we would use for the first time.

"4-2-3-1, baby! The Lane-sters send their regards! Whoo!"

"Ems," I said.

"Look how beautiful it is. Flat back four, two DMs, three CAMs, one striker. Absolutely magnificent." Emma frowned.

"I've seen this one before. You said you hated it." I did a cheeky, impish grin.

"No, that was a different one. This one was love at first sight. Even better, it was lust at first sight." Henri said, "No more insights into your inner workings, please Max."

"It's almost a false midfield," I said, mostly to Jackie and Sandra.

"We can let Eastleigh have sterile possession. When they attack, we'll have six back. When we counter it'll be four against three. It's not how Pep uses it, but this is what we'll do on Saturday. Eastleigh won't have a fucking clue what's hit them." I shook my head.

"Sometimes I'm rather brilliant. Yes, well done, Max. But there's one tiny problem - with no-one on the central midfield row we need to play longer passes to get the ball up top. To make this work we need players in the back six who can progress the ball. Hands up if you know a defender who can pass through the lines?" Instead of putting his hand up, Glenn gripped Zach's shoulder and jiggled him.

"Yeah. My top target from the summer opens up new tactical possibilities. It's almost like I know what I'm doing. Brooke, stick that on the socials. The only question, then, is where I should play. My instinct is the left DM. Zach can pass right, I'll do the left. But if I ever accidentally said I maybe hated this formation or whatever it's because it's got no width. To get the most out of the shape, we need the full backs to get forward. That's why I'm thinking about playing right-back.

I could whizz up and down the line and give them an extra headache. Especially if they bring Trick Williams on. Can you imagine me doing my mystery winger shit against him? I probably can't be arsed defending for ninety minutes, though, so I might make this switch for like five minutes before half time to mess up their team talk. That means I'll probably have Magnus as the starting right back so that if I want to switch from DM to RB we can do that seamlessly.

Means a reshuffle in defence but that's the great thing about leading a pack of fearless, selfless ice zombies. An ice zombie doesn't care who drops out of the starting eleven to make this plan work." I looked at Glenn Ryder. He was likely to be the fall guy.

"Do you?" He counted to three before saying, "If I'm not playing on Saturday I'll train even harder." I smiled.

"Top Chesterness. But I genuinely haven't decided. We're going to do our drills and play mini-games while I try things out. Sandra's the expert on this formation so I'll be leaning on her this week. I just wanted to let you know where my mind's at for this particular match and how that fits into this coming stretch of the season."

"Who's playing as the CAMs?" said Pascal.

"Depends who trains well," I said, not looking at the prick.

"But I want to start with WibRob." That got a hell of a reaction from the man in question.

"William, mate, you have a chance at this but I can't have you sprinting around for twenty minutes and being too gassed to even walk for the rest of the half. This week I want you to show me you can conserve energy in the practice matches. You with me? I want you explosive on the ball. If you chase a guy for fifty yards and slide in and win the ball and get a standing ovation, you'll be down the tunnel before the applause has finished. I don't want that. I want your energy on the ball and nowhere else.

Do you understand what I just said?" His face had split. Happy bunny.

"Yes, boss."

"Wisey, we'll see how you get on today and tomorrow - I'm not sure there's a natural position for you in this formation but I'll be happy to be proven wrong. Either way, you've come up north to help us out and we're grateful and I know you're not seeing your family as much as you'd like. Why don't you go back down home after training tomorrow and on Saturday, come up with Eastleigh like in the old days? I've spoken to their manager and he's fine with it. Always a spot on the bus for old Wisey, he said.

So you'll travel back with them, too, which will be awkward if we've just smacked them up. But you'll get, like, five or six days with your family. What do you think?" The guy looked around.

"Is this part of the Game of Thrones thing? I get on the Eastleigh bus and realise they're all wearing chainmail?"

"No. Go see your family. That's an order. Unless you don't want to. In which case, no biggie. But it's all arranged. Or at least, it's arranged that the Brig can arrange it. Talk to him after."

"Aren't you worried I'll tell them your plans?"

"Our plans, Wisey. Our plans. No I'm not because as soon as you start talking about ice zombies they'll stop listening. Anyway, what are you going to say? Max Best is going to play DM, right-back, and mystery winger?" I looked up and to the right as I tried to imagine how Eastleigh's manager would respond.

"You know what, tell them. I'd be interested to hear their plan to stop me. I might learn something." Wisey took out his phone, but slipped it into his pocket again. Texting his wife could wait a few more minutes. His morale had increased two levels, so he was unusually bubbly as he said, "If they ask I'll tell them you're planning 4-4-2 keep it tight first ten. That's about their limit when it comes to, you know, story-based footballing." I smiled.

"What else? I'm 95% sure it'll be Eddie Moore starting, Cole Adams on the bench. So Josh, you can do extra sessions. I'll be talking to Sandra through the week and we'll keep you all posted about any adjustments we make. Be prepared for anything. That's it. You can go."

"Hang on," said Emma.

"You made me skip breakfast for this. Why am I here?" I went back into my Jon Snow impression.

"You're muh queen. Mukweeen!" This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. Emma looked at the ceiling and puffed her cheeks.

"You know nothing, Max Best. I'm going to Bosh Bistro." Pete stood up.

"Coming."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," I said, palms out.

"I thought we agreed on Best's Bistro. Second choice, Veganorama."

"That lady from BoshCard paid for naming rights," said Trisha. She was a steely but maternal older woman who didn't talk much except in her own domain.

"How much?"

"New coffee machine," said Pete.

"She didn't like what we were serving." I stood there in mock disbelief as everyone filed out. Everyone... except one.

As I was unplugging my laptop and gathering the cables and all that, Pascal came over. He was in his deeply annoying Bad Boy get up and he spoke with what I thought was deliberate rudeness.

"Who's the special guest?"

"I can only tell you who it isn't," I said, not looking at him.

"I want to play CAM."

"Okay."

"I am perfect for this system." I zipped up my laptop case and looked around. I thought about it and unzipped the case. The clicky thing was Brooke's; I needed to give it back. I took it in hand and blinked with surprise to find Pascal still there.

"I want to play," he repeated.

"I want authors to finish the series they start," I said, "but it ain't gonna happen. Artists gonna art."

"Will I be on the bench?"

"No."

"When will I be allowed back in the team?" I gave him a disgusted look.

"When you grow up." He seethed for a brief moment, then tried to get a grip on his face.

"You, me, and William would be devastating in the CAM role." I nodded.

"Big slaps."

"Then why not use me? Are you so stubborn you would rather be fired?"

"Yep. But tell me. We're the CAMs. Who's the striker?" He looked left and right, sensing there was a right answer and a wrong one.

"Our senior striker, of course."

"Can't even say his name. That... That's poor."

"If I am not to play, why am I still here?" I put the laptop case down.

"That's a good question. I sort of thought you might realise you were being a fucking prick but you've doubled down on it. So, yeah. Why are you still here?"

"You should put me on the transfer list." If I made him available for transfer, that would let him keep certain bonuses and payments. If he asked to leave the club, he would lose them. At his salary level, it didn't amount to much, but it was the principle.

"No, I won't do that. That would put the word Chester next to your name on the transfer record. Like with Raffi. People still come to me and say, if you're so principled why did you take that Saudi money? I tell them I didn't have a choice but the word Chester is there on the page, isn't it? From Chester, to Saudi. It's like a little seal of approval."

"You don't want your name next to mine?"

"Not really, no. You go off to some club, you play five games, everything's going great. Wow, this kid can play! But then - disaster."

"Disaster," he repeated, flat.

"Yeah, one of the lads gets a new girlfriend and you go fucking apeshit. He didn't ask your permission first, did he? How fucking dare he?" Pascal clenched his fists and looked like he might have a pop at me.

"That's not how it was!"

"It is. I've just realised why you haven't been able to put this behind you. It's because you're King Joffrey. You're spoiled and entitled and if I let you on that pitch you'll tear down everything I've built. So, no. You won't play CAM and you won't get a transfer. I'll release you from your contract and you can find a new club." He turned slightly pale.

"You'll release me?"

"Yep. No need to wait till the transfer window. If we let you go you can find a new club. One where all the other players are eunuchs, maybe, like the Unsullied from Game of Thrones, although they have a no dickheads rule of their own." It was strange, the sense of relief I felt from saying this. Pretty much the worst solution to the problem, but a solution of sorts. We would be able to move ahead, finally. I glanced up and noticed from a great distance that Joffrey's eyes were filmy.

"I've trained so hard," he said.

"When we met I tried to make sure you understood there was more to life than football. Asking a girl out and watching her choose someone else is brutal but it's a chance to learn and grow as a person. You chose not to do that and, yeah. You've wrecked your career at this club. You have to start again. Again."

"Am I fired? Did you just fire me?" He looked like he might have a panic attack; I took pity on him.

"No, mate. You've got a long-term contract and in the eyes of the world, you haven't done anything wrong. Like, legally. You have to agree to the contract termination so don't worry about being penniless. We can wait till you find a new club and then sign the release forms. You can still train as long as you don't do anything against team spirit or you can spend your days working the phones. Whatever you want."

"I want to leave."

"Fine. Done."

"But - " I lifted my case.

"I'll be there that day. The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. But we're done, here. I need to learn this new formation." I looked at him. The kid had proved himself as a footballer; he would be fine. And when he had played for me, he'd played his heart out. He had to die, but it was a good death. I felt magnanimous. I tried to remember what they said in Game of Thrones when one of the good guys was killed off.

"Oh, Pascal?"

"Yes?" I nodded at him.

"Your watch has ended."

Saturday, September 14 Match 9 of 46: Chester vs Eastleigh I sat in the manager's room with Sandra and took stock. XP balance: 4, 642 I'd gathered enough XP to buy the Fantastic Four perk, but decided against it. Being able to closely track four players from other clubs was intriguing and something I'd be interested in buying one day in the future, but I wanted to keep my options open. Another perk had landed.

Special Day Special Offer New perk available for the month of September: Birthday Bonanza Cost: 999 XP Effects: Players with September birthdays will play slightly better in their birthday weeks. This was a strange one. At first, I wasn't interested in it all that much but I did some digging and found that September is the month with the most birthdays. To be accurate, it's third in that list but the two months ahead of it have an extra day.

The top ten most common birthdays are all in September and the single most common birthday is September 9th, the very day the perk dropped. All in all it was tempting, but not quite tempting enough. I suspected that the imps wanted me to buy WibWob but were duty-bound to offer me perks I would find attractive. The word 'slightly' in the description put me off, as did the fact it would affect one or two players in perhaps one or two games per season. Nah, I was happy to keep saving up.

I mentally turned to my tactics screen. We were trying 4-2-3-1. We'd had another good week of training. Morale was up and attributes were green. Ben was in goal with a new personal best CA of 53. Just short of the 54 I thought was the bottom of the National League range. In defence we had Eddie Moore (52), Carl at left centre back (61), Zach (49), and Magnus (52). It was flirting with being a decent defence at this level, but still miles short of where I wanted it to be.

Today it would be supported by two DMs: Youngster (57) and Max Best (a billion). As I'd suspected, neither James Wise nor Omari Naysmith did well in the DM or CAM roles, so the three forward midfielders were Aff (60), Sharky (31), and WibRob (28). Aff wasn't at his best in the centre, while the other two were miles off National League level. Most of our threat with this system was the four-on-three overloads we could generate.

In training, we created a lot of opportunities for Henri, who without being in the top ten trainers at the club had finally got his CA moving in the right direction. He was now CA 59 and would score if we got him enough chances. If we kept attacks quick and simple we would do a lot of damage and when Eastleigh responded we could switch to a more conventional formation. To that end I'd named an experienced bench - Sticky, Glenn, and Wisey. But we had Cole Adams and Tom Westwood, too.

It was a good mix of options and Sandra was happy to sign off on the plan. All that was left now was to get on the pitch and see if I'd picked the right week to try a new formation.

Boggy: Good, early possession from the Spitfires. They're a decent side, aren't they? Spectrum: Yep. Good on the ball. Very interesting we aren't pressing them. I knew we would play this formation but we're quite happy to let them have the ball in midfield. Not competing for it at all. Boggy: Max Best, captain for the day, looks quite content with the state of affairs. None of the wild emotion of last Saturday. Spectrum: Apparently they were doing Game of Thrones stuff all week.

Boggy: Is that because of today's special visitor? No, that doesn't make sense. I have to say, if the rumours are true about who it is - interception from Youngster! He touches the ball to Best. Quick pass for Hayward to chase. He eats up the pitch! The crowd on their feet. Pauses. The momentum's gone? Pass to WibRob, simple pass back in front of Hayward! He squares it! [Roar from the crowd. Happy profanities from Spectrum.] Goal! Wow! Goal for Chester. It was so simple! Spectrum: Not simple!

Aff and Henri took positions in front of two of the centre backs. Max played it wide so Sharky would draw the third CB away. WibRob was free. He got the ball and waited a second so that Henri's marker would be forced across. His pass took out two defenders, Sharky squared it, and Henri was free. Boggy: I don't know. Sounds pretty simple to me.

While their players screamed at the dugout begging their manager to make a change, we tore Eastleigh apart every time we got the ball. They resorted to fouling our attackers whenever we got near goal. One of the free kicks was in a perfect position for me to use Free Hit. Thirty-five yards from goal, a few yards to the right of the right-hand-side post. I thought about using Cupid's Arrow to join me and Zach, but I decided against it.

I placed the ball, waited for the referee to stop fussing around, and gave serious consideration to shooting. I had Eddie and Youngster as defensive cover on the halfway line, but I used Masterpiece Theatre to ask Youngster to move about five yards in front of me. He obeyed. I raised one arm. I raised the other. I turned around so I was facing Ben. I waved at him. I backheeled the ball to Youngster, turned the right way, and sprinted forward.

Youngster rolled the ball to the side and I chipped it over the defence with a fuckton of back and side spin. The goalie thought about coming, the defenders grabbed onto our guys like they were lifejackets, the fans rose to their feet. Zach outmuscled his marker, leaped, and got a great head to the ball... He nodded it perfectly sideways. Sideways? Right into the path of the Sharknado. Wes lashed the ball into the unguarded goal and zoomed away in jubilation. His first goal for the club!

While my team went nuts, I strolled off to the dugout. I glanced up at the executive box, blowing a little kiss. Then I fixed Sandra with a smile.

"This formation isn't for me."

"Get back to work," she said.

"And stop flirting with your guest. It's not Taylor Swift, you know." I walked back to the DM slot. I'd found a sense of wonder I thought I'd lost. False midfields, putting your armies where your enemy had none. Being proactive, taking the high ground, taking the piss. All in front of thousands of fans. Eastleigh hadn't brought many so the attendance figure would look bad, but a lot of home tickets had been sold since Aldershot. Word was out: Chester were back. Eastleigh's manager sensed it.

He went to a low block to limit the damage. He wanted to get to half time only two down. Maybe he could work out what we were doing and why. I switched us to 4-2-4 with WibRob as the second striker, and we camped out in front of Eastleigh's goal. We probed and tested and dribbled and passed. It was so easy our standards started to slip. A defender headed the ball away and Youngster gleefully latched onto it and tried his luck from long range. I went mental.

I grabbed him by the shirt and pushed him towards the dugout, screaming that if he did that again I'd bin him off and if he ever did it in an England shirt I'd lock him up for treason. Wes tried to dribble a defender, failed, and the guy came running at us, looking for options. WibRob stormed after him at high speed, slid in, and won the ball.

The crowd went nuts but when I got the ball I blasted it out of the stadium and went at WibRob, red, neck veins bulging as I told him I was cross and maybe he would like to maybe not do that again, pretty please with a cherry on top. The standards went back up. Shortly before half time, I won a header, dinked the ball over another player, fizzed a quick triangle with Youngster and WibRob, shaped to do another chip over the defence, but instead hit a thirty-yard screamer into the top-right corner.

The keeper should have saved it but he lost his footing just as I struck the ball. I gathered my naughty ducklings and took them over to the main stand to wave at the mystery guest. Three-nil at the break. The perfect time for the big reveal.

"Whoo!" Zached Zach.

"That's what I'm talking about, fellas!"

"Shut your loud fucking mouth, you prick," suggested Carl.

"Yeah," said Eddie.

"Scream quietly. Fuck sake."

"Hold the door," said Henri, from out in the corridor. Zach shut his mouth for all of six seconds.

"I got an assist!" he said, at what he thought was a normal volume.

"Everyone quiet for a bit," I said.

"I want to enjoy this feeling."

"What feeling?" said Zach, but I chewed on my marathon paste and thought about the match. Sandra's formation was flawed but the twin DMs created a vortex that was pretty hard to play through. Youngster was an interceptions genius and my anticipation was supernaturally enhanced. Eastleigh's passing had become more and more desperate.

"Sandra," I mumbled.

"Yes, my king in the north."

"What?"

"Game of Thrones."

"Oh, right. They'll have to buff up the centre. I reckon they'll do 4-5-1 or something like that and try to hit us from set pieces. What do you think?"

"They might do 4-4-2 maybe."

"Yeah, good call. Think about what we do if we take WibRob and Sharky off. WibRob first."

"Yes, boss." The squad sat in relative harmony for a while. I looked around. Henri was talking to WibRob about the spaces he was taking up. Youngster was in discussion with Eddie Moore about something. Sticky was chiding Ben because Ben had lost concentration and a bouncing ball had nearly looped over his head. I closed my eyes. We were miles off the required level but on our day we had the weapons to hurt teams. If we could play like this at the start of the season, we could play like this at the end.

It would have been better if we had forward players really suited to the CAM role, but we didn't. On cue, the door opened and Pascal Bochum came in. He was dressed in his usual obnoxious Bad Boy outfit, but he had lost the non-stop arrogance he had been carrying around with him since Luisa had chosen someone else. His face, in fact, seemed cherubic. Youthful and innocent.

"Mr. Best," he said.

"The special guest is here." Obviously, someone had thought that since he wasn't playing and wasn't on the bench, Pascal would be the perfect person to show our VIP around. It was hard to argue the point, especially as I hadn't told anyone I intended to let him go for free.

"Show him in," I said. All noise stopped. Pascal stepped in and stood aside. A man with salt and pepper hair followed. Henri gasped. Vimsy's jaw dropped. I got to my feet and went to shake the newcomer's hand. He accepted, looked around, said, "Now this is real football."

"Everyone," I said.

"Winner is here. This is Dieter Bauer. World Cup winner as a player and manager. European Cup winner as player and manager. He's the best player who has ever stepped foot in this stadium, and the best manager who ever came into this dressing room."

"Oh, Max," he said, twinkling.

"I thought that was you."

"I'm proud to be number two on that list," I said.

"You've set a high bar and I'll try to catch up. But I won't do it alone; let me introduce you to the key people. Sandra Lane."

"Miss Lane," he said.

"I know all about you. The winningest female manager of all time!"

"Winningest?" I said, absolutely aghast. Zach stood.

"Mr. Bauer played in Major League Soccer, boss. Sounds like he picked up some Americanisms."

"Yeah, well. She is the winning... the winning... no, I can't do it. Sorry. She's fucking mint, I know that." Dieter smiled.

"You are in a good place, I think, Miss Lane. You can learn a lot, here. But where will you go next? I am fascinated to learn this." Sandra flushed on the tops of her cheeks.

"That's Vimsy," I said.

"Defensive coach. He does all the boring shit I'm not interested in."

"Oh!" said Dieter, leaving my side to give Vimsy a big hug. He stayed by his side with his arm around him.

"I had a few Vimsys in my time. Absolutely indispensable." Vimsy was close to tears. I gave him an affectionate smile before moving on.

"That guy's John Smith. He's our head of performance. Tries to make sure everyone's growing and improving."

"Sports science," nodded Dieter.

"No, it's mostly haunted houses. Those guys are the physios. That guy Dean? I wanted to sack him about ten times but I'm starting to like him." Dieter's head rocked back.

"I knew you would be a wonderful man-manager when I saw how you dealt with Uli."

"And the other one is Livia. You'll meet her boyfriend tomorrow. He's the man with the easiest job in football."

"Oh? Isn't that the goalkeeper for Chester FC?" He left Vimsy's side and tapped the tactics board.

"Very modern." He meant the formation, not the magnets.

"We're not quite ready for it," I said.

"But I think as a shock tactic we do for ten minutes it's really interesting."

"It seems to me you're ready for it!" said Dieter.

"That was one of the most dominant halves of football I've ever seen." I snapped my head around. Our morale had shot to virtually the maximum. Dieter had influence 50, at least. He continued.

"What is it you think you lack?"

"Two of the CAMs aren't really comfortable there," I said, tapping the board.

"They're doing a great job today but generally I don't like square pegs in round holes." Henri ran his hand through his hair.

"Herr Bauer, Max has the perfect CAM in the squad but refuses to play him." Anyone who could peel their gaze away from Bauer turned to the Frenchman. Most people knew that I was keeping Pascal out of the team because of his attitude towards Henri. Somehow, after everything, Henri still didn't know. Dieter said, "Who do you mean?"

"Why, your tour guide!" said Henri.

"Pascal Bochum. He plays like Thomas Müller. Of course I wouldn't wish for Aff or Sharky to be dropped," he added, glancing around. He didn't mention WibRob, meaning he would be unhappy if he were dropped. The kid had barely played ninety minutes of professional football!

"Max has frozen him out, alas." Henri finished with a string of poetic-sounding German, the massive show-off. Dieter looked at me but was too much of a gentleman to ask the question.

"Pascal and I have beef," I said.

"Beef?"

"Yes."

"Beef is bad?"

"Roast beef is good. With mint sauce. Medium rare beef is good. This beef is bad. But," I said, since I was in a good mood, "he's essentially a good young man. He's top in the community. It's not all tactics and formations around here. There's a man I go to check on and last time I went, Pascal was already there checking on him." Pascal exploded with enthusiasm.

"Clive O'Keefe, Herr Bauer! He coached at Stuttgart! Coached the Magic Triangle!"

"Did he, indeed?" said Dieter. He looked from me to Sandra to Vimsy to the Brig.

"It seems you are well-served with coaches at Chester Football Club."

"Listen up," I said, switching to business mode. I'd been watching for the moment Eastleigh's tactics changed. I gently eased the winningest German aside and moved the magnets around.

"Eastleigh have switched to 4-3-3! They want to flood the centre!" Dieter's genial facade melted away. He took on a hungry expression.

"Have you got wingers?"

"Wingers? We've got the best wingers in the league! We've got a fucking Sharknado!" His eyes shone.

"Four-four-two!"

"No!" I said, half-joking in my dismay.

"The best ever non-Scottish manager doesn't tell me to use four-four-two! Come on!"

"I watched you with care, Max. You and..."

"Youngster."

"Youngster can hold the fort. Allow your wingers to run amok." We glared at each other, a pair of absolute savages. All kinds of sparks flew. The room filled with eldritch energy. Finally, I turned to look at Aff and Wes.

"Guys. The best player you've ever met and the best manager you've ever met - they're both him, by the way - wants you to run amok." I stepped closer.

"He wants some fucking pandemonium!" I got in Aff's face.

"He wants you to fucking rip a hole in the space-time continuum!"

"Yes!" said Aff, even though I hadn't asked him a question. He was having some kind of out-of-body experience.

"YEEESSSS!"

"Get the fuck to work!" I screamed, and everyone just ran to the door. One second they were sitting, eating paste, the next they were sprinting through the door and onto the pitch, leaving a few stunned physios, shocked coaches, and one lonely space invader.

"God, I have missed this," said Dieter.

"I hate being an elder statesman."

"Will you join us in the dugout?"

"Aren't there rules against it?"

"The only rule around here is don't kick a fan's phone onto the roof and don't tell people Taylor Swift is coming. Two rules. Oh, and don't go to the corner. Ever." Dieter looked down, then up at me like a schoolboy.

"I want to." I gripped him by the shoulders and looked around his head. There was no way we could pass him off as Jackie Reaper.

"If anyone asks," I said, with total sincerity, "you're my nutritionist."

Sunday, September 15 Sensational Seals Roll Double Sixes It was a weekend to remember for Chester FC as both senior teams hit their opponents for six. On Saturday, the men's team demolished a good Eastleigh side as German World Cup legend Dieter Bauer watched from the dugout. A dominant first half was only the prelude to a second half full of bombast and swagger. The Spitfires couldn't get off the runway as Max Best and Youngster snuffed out attacks and turned them into lightning fast counters.

Counting Chester's breaks needed a lot more fingers and toes than a humble reporter is born with. Breaks turned to shots and shots turned to goals as reliably as a German town hall clock. Best even played a ten-minute spell as right back, where his Trent Alexander-Arnold impression drew looks of disbelief from one of the sport's truest legends. Three goals in the first half, three in the second, with more minutes on the pitch for newcomers Cole Adams and Tom Westwood.

It's scarcely believable that Chester's young prospects are playing in front of World Cup winners, but that's where the club is at. There was even time for a five-minute debut and clean sheet for Chester's new goalkeeping coach, Steve 'Sticky' Icke. And Bauer was present again today in Flint, where he witnessed more goals and another utterly dominant performance from the women's team. They continued their awesome start to the season by putting six past Bury.

Chester were ferocious in the tackle, smothered Bury's attacks, and played with vim and vigour when in possession. Their season so far is thirteen goals scored (from two matches), none conceded, and some true fantasy football is being played. An ice-cold performance from the men followed by a fiery one from the women. It was, in fact, a story of ice and fire. Chester fans will be hoping Dieter Bauer, known in his homeland as 'Oathkeeper' after delivering on his promise to win the World Cup, visits every week.