Chương 39: 9.2 - The Long Way Round (Part One)

2. Saturday, October 12 FA Cup Fourth Round Qualifying: Chester vs Mousehole I was mostly kitted out and ready. It would take me all of ten seconds to put on my boots and slip my shin pads into my socks. I didn't really expect to play. The club had a bizarrely long run of home fixtures, most of which were very winnable, and the less I played the faster I would acquire XP. As I had privately told Emma, I was merely on the bench in case things went to shit.

In the FA Cup teams could name nine subs and use five, which would be very useful when I used Bench Boost. If we won today we would go into the 'First Round Proper' and if we got an easy draw I would use Bench Boost in the Second Round to try to make sure we got into the lucrative Third Round (where the big boys came in).

I could only use the boost once per competition per season, so if we got a hard tie in the First Round I would be forced to use it, we would probably crash out in the Second Round again, and we would be out of pocket to the tune of fifty grand. I needed that money... Under my very nose, my young players were suffering. They didn't have dentists, they didn't have heating. I suspected some weren't eating enough and I'd heard from a social worker that one of the most requested items for donation were mattresses.

Were some of my kids sleeping on the floor? I hadn't known any of this was happening because I hadn't checked on them often enough, which made me feel like shit. There was an easy solution - use the Panopticon perk to add more age groups to my squad lists. For two thousand XP I could add an age group and then I would see very quickly when their attributes turned red. I'd be able to take care of the people I was supposed to be taking care of.

But adding every age group for the boys and girls, plus the reserve team, would set me back twenty-two thousand XP. Or I could buy WibWob and win more football matches and use the extra income to hire a dentist. And expand the kitchen so they produced packed lunches and frozen dinners. Except that a charity worker had told me that they found the microwave and oven meals often went uneaten because some families didn't have a microwave and couldn't afford to run the oven. I needed money and lots of it.

I needed XP and lots of it. I needed to find some shortcuts, and fast.

"Boss?" It was Ryan Jack, my elderly midfielder whose recovery from a severe injury was progressing smoothly. For some reason he was gripping a cheap plastic carrier bag.

"Ryan. How you doing?"

"Great. You okay?"

"Top."

"It's just that you're sort of moping around in the dugout when you should be, like, running a football club." I looked up at him, confused.

"Didn't you hear? Sandra's managing today." He moved the bag into his other hand so he could scratch himself.

"How does that work? You're going to sit still while Sandra tells everyone what to do?"

"Pretty much. What, you don't think I can delegate?" Ryan smiled.

"You can do anything you put your mind to, bosh. One day you could learn to sit still. I believe that. Er, is this a bad time?"

"No, why?"

"You're miles away." I tapped the bench by way of invitation.

"I've got a lot to think about, is all." He sat. Unlike Jackie, who also had shit knees, Ryan didn't wince or let out a groan. That was promising. He looked around - he hadn't been in a dugout for a while.

"It's good you let Sandra do some of the work. You don't want to get burned out again. Did you get my texts?"

"Yes," I said, but I couldn't remember what they said. I took my phone out and skimmed them - Ryan had asked when I might have a minute to talk. I had replied 'before the match' which he had taken as a joke at first. Other managers used the hour before a match to give grandiose speeches and act important. I didn't.

"Okay, ready. Let's talk."

"I was at Everton yesterday and did some jumping. Jumping, Max!" His face split open and I punched him on the top of his arm - I think that's what he wanted. He rubbed the area, still smiling.

"Anyhow, long story short, there was a guy giving financial advice to some of the lads. He asked what I did with my money and he laughed when I said I stuffed it under the mattress."

"But you weren't joking."

"I mean, yes and no. What he was getting at was I should have it invested. Make my money work for me."

"Probably should." Ryan was earning buttons now but in the past he must have been on decent wages. It wouldn't have surprised me if he had a hundred grand in his bank. More, even. Sitting there doing nothing.

"It's just I've never done all that investing stuff. It scares me. All a big casino, isn't it? But if you want to get started, who do you trust and what do you trust them with? I thought you might... Look, bosh, you've got your head screwed on. He gave me some brochures and stuff and I thought I might ask..." He trailed off. The topic made him uncomfortable.

"Ask what?" I said, because I wasn't thinking clearly.

"Ask you to look at his ideas. But, nah. You've got enough on your plate." I inhaled through my nose and breathed out through my mouth. Plus one mindfulness.

"We should do this, shouldn't we? Help players look after their money and make sure they're not being ripped off by sharks. I've heard stories. And I heard a stat about footballers going bankrupt. Can't remember what it was."

"Forty percent," he said.

"Forty percent of footballers go bankrupt? That's crazy. That's bonkers." Players who had earned millions had blown it all. Even if you were bad with money, how did you mess things up to that extent?

"It's something I think about every now and then. This place will be awash with money soon. Right now, no-one's really earning enough to start buying Ferraris and getting scammed into tax evasion schemes. Why would a lad from Moss Side invest in art?"

"Oh."

"What?"

"I bought a partial share in a painting. La Gioconda, the man called it. Said it's quite famous." Ryan kept a straight face while the refereeing crew jogged past doing their warm up.

"Yeah? Well I bought a timeshare in one of the rooms in The Love." Ryan cracked.

"No, but really. This is something I need to handle but I don't think like a capitalist. Henri does, but he's got, what do you call it?"

"An appetite for risk. What's in the bag?" Ryan fished inside and pulled out some papers.

"The stuff he gave me." I shook my head.

"First rule of business is you don't carry your docs around in a Tesco bag." I took the brochure and the printouts and went through them. It was stuff I had heard of - buying bonds and shares. Diversified portfolio. Compound interest.

"Pretty sure this isn't a scam," I said.

"It's nice and boring. When I'm running Chester I'm happy to take a few big swings because I reckon I can balance risk and reward better than anyone else in the game." Ryan didn't laugh or make a Scouse joke.

"But when it comes to my own money, I don't want action or adventure."

"The longest way round is the shortest way home."

"What does that mean?"

"The fastest way to do something is to do it right. Like the way you run this club. You say it's risky but it's not really, is it? Get good players, train them up. In the summer we all thought you'd buy Christian Fierce and a couple of big-name players but you turned up with a load of kids. The long way round, isn't it? If I'm going to invest my money I want it like that." Some movement drew his attention and I realised he was tracking some Mousehole players who had gone onto the pitch with a ball.

He was hungry to get back. Itching. And then I saw the moment he compared his injury to the conversation we were having. No shortcuts! He turned to me." You'll get rich. You're going to need to think about this stuff." He nodded to himself.

"When you do it, tell me about it and I'll copy what you do." I laughed.

"Investing doesn't need to be this much of a big deal, does it? We've got some top b-boys. MD would know what to do. So would..."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You were going to say so would Brooke. Are things bad between you? She says you've barely spoken to her in weeks." I clicked my jaw around. I trusted Ryan but he had spent a lot of time with Brooke and it was very possible he would be more Team Brooke than Team Best.

"It's all good. I'm, ah..."

"You're about to lie to me."

"I was, yeah." Allies. Communication. Lessons I'd learned. If I couldn't trust Ryan Jack I was pretty fucked.

"This is a billion percent private."

"Sure."

"I think her dad is trying to get into position to buy the club. A few years ago he wouldn't have stood a chance but now the fans would listen."

"Why now?"

"Because Ryan Reynolds bought the club next door."

"Ah, right. Right. Shit." Our Ryan was no actor - anxiety radiated off him.

"Don't worry about it. I think he'll reconsider before any money changes hands." Ryan frowned and I knew why. It wasn't like me to be so passive, or to indulge in wishful thinking.

"Right. Sure, bosh. But what's Brooke got to do with it?" Now I frowned.

"She's his daughter. She turns up, realises we're one step away from tripling our revenues, tells her dad, boom."

"I don't know much about international finance but I know about family and it didn't happen like that. More like he wants her to go back home and he'll keep interfering in her life until she caves. He's done it before. Her last job was one of those, what are they called? Auditors? Her dad calls the big boss, offers a big contract for the company but Brooke has to be the what do you call it. She'll be the one working the case, so she'd be working for her dad. He doesn't want her independent and travelling the world.

He wants her back home where he can control her."

"She told you all this?"

"Yeah, months ago when you made me spend time with her."

"Hmm."

"You think her telling me about her dad is all part of some big plot?"

"Could be."

"So she goes to work for football clubs for a year at a time and when she finally finds one that's got a good manager she calls her dad and he buys it? I'm not a capitalist but it doesn't sound like a good use of her time. There might be an easier way to make a couple of million. For example, pretty much anything else. And Christ, there are Chester fans who don't think you're a good manager. There are players who have doubts!

How would someone who doesn't know the first thing about the sport be able to tell the good prospects from the bad?" I considered that, then broke into a cheeky grin.

"You might be right."

"I thought you'd be more sympathetic."

"What do you mean?"

"You hate it when people tell you what to do or try to buy you off. And the reason I wasn't at the team meeting was that I was up with Brooke meeting the Chester Chatters that you set up and she's turning into a success." I went internal for a while, remodelling my mental map of the Daddy Star plotline. I would have to go back and check some timings but it seemed likely that Ryan was right and Brooke was innocent.

"So... the dad wants to buy Chester to be Brooke's boss. It's a message that he'll keep following her, even into the dregs of English soccer. There's no-one he can't corrupt, there's nowhere safe, she should give up and go back to Texas." I scratched my eyebrow.

"And along the way he's realised he can make a tidy profit on the deal while he's at it. Yeah, I see it. Okay, so that's... that's actually okay."

"How is it okay?" I shrugged.

"She's only here for a visa. She'll get bored and move on and the dad will leave us alone." Ryan took back the brochures.

"You don't know her very well, do you? She loves the job. She's not quitting."

"She loves it?" Ryan gave me a mocking Scouse glance.

"What do people want from their job? Challenging work, to do something useful, variety. A good team. Yeah, money and benefits. She doesn't get much of that but the work's interesting. She has to learn a whole sport and the culture around it and an entire city is counting on her. You've made it so that people like working here and there's a sense of purpose to everything we do. We're not just winning football matches, we're rescuing academy drop-outs and solving loneliness and now we're fixing the dental crisis!

I'm just a player but I know what it's like working for you. Every match is a different formation, different lineup, you get manias and phases and we never know what's coming next. You push us and you're demanding and you're generally a pain in the arse. From what I hear, you're worse with Brooke. Hey, please sell more season tickets than this club has ever sold. Hey, find me a documentary crew who will work for free. Hey, find out if we're allowed to build a bridge!"

"I've never thought about it like that. I do sound like a fun boss." Ryan tutted.

"She's the only person I know who might call you that. You two have a lot in common."

"What about you two? You spent a lot of time with her. Why didn't you go to her with the money question? Chance to get up close, snuggling up next to a calculator. Excel and chill. Come on, don't leave me hanging! Tell me. Does she interest your compound? Does she get you excited about inflation? What?" I added, laughing at his face. He looked pretty sheepish.

"It's embarrassing, innit? I'd ask you about football and I'd ask Dean about my knee but I wouldn't ask someone about money. It's, like, basic, isn't it? I should know it."

"Erm..." I said.

"I'm not sure I feel the same. I don't tend to get embarrassed by that sort of thing. I need to know and people love explaining things." I nodded. This was something we could do with no real cost to the club. Dentists for the youngs, financial advice for the olds.

"I'll set something up. Let me talk to my b-boys about it and we'll see about doing some sort of basic financial literacy course thing. And what to do with our money. Like you say, I need to learn some things, too."

"That'll be good. If you're learning it too, I mean. It'll be less embarrassing for the rest of us, like." By the time he finished the sentence, the shape of the course had taken form - I would sit at the front with my laptop open and Brooke or someone would tell me what to do while the others watched and asked questions. There was no immediate hurry, but I needed to get better at looking after my club. Everyone at my club. And that included Brooke.

I stayed in the dugout until ten to three. There was so much to think about and if I'd gone wandering people would have tried to start conversations with me. If I'd gone to the dressing room the lads would have got confused about who was really in charge. Staying away made it easy to understand that - yes - Sandra was the manager and I was simply making up the numbers on the bench. Our hospitality volunteer came over and handed me the microphone.

We had loads of volunteers doing matchday things like reading out the teams or checking the turnstiles. Our stewards were underpaid. We needed to turn volunteers into paid workers and paid workers into well-paid paid workers. One more promotion would do it. A few more player sales would do it. In the meantime, I had to be frugal as fuck. I turned the mic on and stepped onto the pitch.

Excitement was building - the players were getting their last instructions, the linesmen were checking the nets, most people were at their seats or grabbing a late pint. Any stragglers would be able to hear me from the concourses.

"Ladies and gentlemen," I said.

"May I have a quick moment of your time? I am Chester FC's Director of Football, Max Best." Big cheer from the home fans. Some jeering from the away mob. We had sold 205 tickets to Mousehole fans. A quarter of the capacity of the stand, but they only had average attendances of about 200 at the best of times. This was the biggest match of their calendar and the hard core were determined to enjoy it even if it meant a long coach ride.

"We all know away fans are the backbone of this sport. Mousehole have come six and a half hours to see their team lose." Some laughs and some more jeers.

"That's a thirteen-hour round trip to watch their team. Seriously, guys, that's unbelievable. Round of applause for the away fans, Chester. Come on!" The home fans lustily applauded. I would get the real attendance from the curse at half time, but it looked like the total would be in the region of 2, 500. Lower than I'd like, but higher than the equivalent match in recent seasons. Number goes up.

"Now, guys," I continued.

"When I drive more than twenty minutes I start to think that maybe I deserve a drink. And if I went six and a half hours I'd be going absolutely bonkers and I'd want a pint of beer asap." Cheers from all sides of the stadium.

"Mousehole fans, when you came through the turnstiles, someone handed you a Deva Dollar. Take that to one of those bars in there and redeem it for a pint of beer." Some cheers, some confusion.

"No, I'm serious. You deserve a beer, you get a beer. That's how we roll. If you threw your Deva Dollar away you get nothing. Don't litter in my stadium!" I paced around and pretended to look up at the Director's Box.

"Hang on. Someone from my board is yelling at me. They can't drink on an empty stomach, he's saying. Sure they can. Health and safety, he's saying. Well. Gammons don't like health and safety legislation but I do. So, fine. Burgers, pies, chips, mushy peas, everything's a pound. One pound food for everyone! Merry Christmas! Tuck in!" I turned the mic off and walked away.

There was a huge buzz around the stadium and as I looked over at the away end I saw that the fans there were frantically checking their pockets for the slips of green paper that would get them their grog. MD and Brooke rushed down the stairs. MD didn't look to be in a very Christmassy mood, possibly because it was mid-October.

"Max, have you got a minute?"

"Yes, boss. What can I do for you?"

"Did you, er, think about discussing this offer with us before you did it?"

"Yep. I was sure you'd agree with me that it was the right thing to do." MD's brain was whirring. Did this break any laws? Could we get in trouble?

"Do you have any idea what this will cost?"

"Two hundred and five beers will cost us about fifty quid, which we'll get back because they'll drink more. The food will be a couple of thousand. I couldn't let the away fans have that and not extend the offer to the home ones, too." Brooke gave me a blank look.

"Can I post this on our socials? Can I tell the media?"

"What," I said, innocently.

"Do you think there might be nationwide media interest? You think we might get more than two grand in publicity? You think we might get more away fans in future because we might give them free stuff? You know, it hadn't occurred to me." Brooke exchanged a glance with MD, whose annoyance had flipped like a one-pound burger. His eyes were dancing. I said, "Brooke, maybe you could interview some of the Mousehole fans. Get a few clips of them saying Chester's their favourite away trip ever, something like that.

Give them more Deva Dollars if they say something nice about Glendale Logistics. Might be good to do it now before we dismantle their team." Brooke continued to look blankly at me but as I returned to the dugout I looked back and there was a very definite smile forming. I returned to a life of frugality.

Mousehole came with their strongest team, averaging a creditable CA 29. If they played great and we played shit, they would have a chance of scoring a cupset. While Sandra was manager for the day, I'd discussed the lineup with her and sort of guided her into accepting a 4-4-2. The match kicked off and we quickly pushed them back. Sandra stood on the touchline with Vimsy as her assistant. They shared shouting duties. Sticky was making his full debut in goal.

He had improved to CA 35, still far short of Ben's 55, but with enough game time it seemed there could be genuine competition by the end of the season. After all, Sticky was simply returning to levels he had been in the past while Ben was trying to reach new heights. There was no comparison in their base attributes - Sticky was better in every way - and no comparison between their improvement rates. The only question, really, was why I shouldn't put Sticky in goal full time? He radiated confidence and authority.

Because no shortcuts, that's why. Sticky took a goal kick, passing out to the left where Eddie was unmarked. The defence was Eddie, Glenn, Steve, and Magnus. Two 53s and two 54s. No messing about. Carl got a much-needed rest. The defenders passed the ball across the line and back, letting everyone get a touch, before Glenn passed diagonally to the left. Josh Owens was playing left mid to give Aff a break.

He had eased up to CA 30 so this was a perfect match for him to start, but he was the only outfield Exit Triallist who hadn't showed some interesting bonus feature. Cole was tall for a left back, Omari could take set pieces, and Tom was a work rate monster. Maybe Josh's power was simply that he could play left back or left midfield. If that was his only party trick, it was a good one; his flexibility would endear him to any manager in the world.

He scampered forward, scanning for options, before cutting back and passing safely to his right. James Wise (CA 48) was CM, further proof we were taking this match seriously. Next to him was Omari. He'd been given way more minutes than he could have expected and had improved to CA 35. In a month he would break into the forties and by the end of the season, who knew? Wisey knew Omari could play, though, and let him have the ball. To Omari's right was Wes Hayward.

Sharky was also CA 35 but his speed would give Mousehole no end of trouble. Omari tried a pass in behind the left back. Sharky got there first and zoomed ahead before whipping in a cross. Waiting in the box was the dynamic duo of Ziggy (45) and Tom Westwood (34). They would work their socks off and if Ziggy got chances he would tuck them away like a one-pound pie. Sharky's cross was too high and the ball went all the way across for a Mousehole throw-in. Good start, though!

There would be plenty of similar moves in the first half. Our average CA was 43. 2. Our bench was one of the strongest I'd ever had. Ben as the backup goalie, Zach Green (yet another defender on CA 53), Youngster (58), WibRob (32), Pascal (64), and me. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. I also had three kids - Lucas Friend, Tyson, and Dan Badford.

If we were winning comfortably, we would get them ten minutes or so at the end and if needed, I would go on alongside them to make sure we didn't get overrun. The standard wouldn't come as a shock; they had been playing against teams like Mousehole on their loans. The loan system was proving its worth and was going to be essential in developing young players. I eased out of the dugout and scanned the main stand. As always, it was bristling with scouts and agents. I spotted Ryan Jack and waved him down.

"Ryan. You know the way you're dead old?"

"Yeah. The Natural History Museum have been scouting me."

"I reckon you'll be back in the team on schedule and you'll bosh our midfield but let's say it all goes to shit. Would you stick around? I've got work for someone like you." He'd been tracking the match but now looked away from the action.

"What sort of work?"

"Odd jobs. Brooke's my b-girl. You'd be my f-boy." He grinned.

"You want me to be your f-boy?" He shook his head.

"The F is for football, is it?" I smiled back.

"Example. Loan manager. Go visit our players. Make sure they're being looked after. Visit clubs MD and I don't know loads about and see what the vibe is like. Get me character references. I can see if a player's a player but I can't see if he's a dick. The Brig can tell me if he's got a criminal past or anything like that but you could put a few calls out. You've got that lovable Scouse rogue thing going on. People tell you things."

As far as I knew, Brooke had talked about her private life to precisely one person in England.

"You'll help players settle in, be a friendly face they can call when they're feeling shit. You'll keep them busy when they're injured like I did with you. There's infinite possibilities."

"What does it pay?"

"Weirdly, it pays exactly what you get now. You'd still be a player first and foremost but by the time you proper retire there will be enough work to justify a full-time position." His eyes danced around the pitch. An FA Cup match between two teams who had never played each other before. On days like these, football was magic. He missed it and would miss it more when it was gone.

"I've been wondering what to do... after."

"Wonder no more. I need you. Done. Sorted." I paused.

"Shit."

"What?"

"I'm already fretting about you being poached." The chat had stressed him for some reason, but now he relaxed.

"I take back what I said about you being a difficult boss. You know how to motivate us." His eyes shone as he thought about my offer.

"I've been doing some of it anyway. Why not make it more formal? But can it wait to the summer? See what my playing career looks like and talk about it then?" Mention of the summer made me go internal.

"Sure. I won't be here much, though." That brought his attention away from the match.

"Why? Where will you be?"

"Learning how to play football."

The dominant way of organising football teams, everywhere in the world without exception, is called 'positional play'. The origins of positional play probably go back to the Magnificent Magyars or some obscure visionary I've never heard of, but the concept is closely related to the Dutch school of the 70s and Johan Cruyff. As manager of Barcelona, Cruyff had a defensive midfielder who soaked up all his ideas and later became a fairly successful coach in his own right. That bald man's name? Pep Guardiola.

Pep's coaching style involved creating a grid and telling his players exactly where to stand on that grid. There are three main easy-to-understand principles. The first is that teams should try to achieve numerical superiority in certain parts of the pitch. You've seen me do that by swamping midfield or using four attackers against a back three. The second is that teams should try to achieve a qualitative superiority - putting good players against bad ones.

You've seen me do weird things with my players in order to get my best players against the other team's weakest. Finally, positional superiority. Can you put players into spaces where they can do a fuckton of damage? Take our strategy against Mousehole. If you can get Wes Hayward to the byline and let him cut the ball back to Ziggy who is right in front of the goal, you're going to score. It almost doesn't matter how good the players are when the position is so good.

You've seen me use DMs as often as possible because the position is overpowered, and the intriguing thing about Sandra's 4-2-3-1 was the way it gave me two DMs but also three CAMs. Playing between the lines of the enemy should give a player time to control the ball, turn, and do something useful. So far, so good. It's clear that I had been learning 'positional play' ever since I'd been cursed, and from the beginning I was quite good at it.

It obviously helped that the curse made sure the players followed my overall plans, but I had a certain flair for using my players to their best advantage and using the principles of the style to good effect. There were two main problems. One, I knew the end game. In a few years I would master most of the theory and would be able to compete with the top managers in Europe. Great. But unless I decamped to a 'big club' I would never have equal resources.

Even by leveraging Super Scout to generate a rapidly-growing budget, by the time I got to the Premier League I would have - at BEST - ten percent of what the Man City manager had. City, United, Arsenal, Liverpool, Chelsea, Tottenham, and Newcastle all had vast resources and their wage bills were four hundred million pounds a year. Their managers would be just as good as me, although I would retain a few advantages, such as Bench Boost and the ability to make rapid changes.

Overall, though, if I stuck to the path I was on it seemed like the best I would be able to do without years of grinding would be something like tenth in the Premier League. The second main problem with positional play was... I hated it. Yes, it could be great fun, especially when I got unconventional with it. And watching Sandra Lane run my team with my players was interesting and exciting because we were so flawed. We played a lot more passes than most opponents, but with low CA players, passes went astray.

There was a huge element of risk to what we did and as Emma always said, no risk no fun. But positional play was a straightjacket that got tighter the more you used it. By the time I got to the top level, it would get boring as fuck. Brighton played intricate twenty-pass sequences solely designed to progress the ball from the defence to the defensive midfielders. Elaborate passing sequences to move one zone! It was logical - as Ryan had said, the longest way round is the shortest route home.

But still, seeing the same patterns again and again was like watching paint dry. Matches between the elite teams, which should have been thrill rides, were often the most tedious encounters in all of sport. Pep's teams were all-conquering but I never watched them unless I was forced to. Ninety minutes of pure positional play was ninety minutes of my brain trying to think of synonyms for antiseptic and sterile. That's because Pep's teams followed the rules to near-perfection.

Maximum two players in a vertical, maximum three in a horizontal. Strict positional discipline to ensure smooth progression up the pitch while guarding against counter-attacks. Immediately stifle opposition attacks by tactical fouling. These fouls took place so high up the pitch that idiot referees didn't give yellow cards, thus ensuring that the fouling could continue and the dominant team could continue to dominate. Boring, boring, boring. Repetitive, cynical, attritional, utterly lacking in spontaneity.

If I wanted to make loads of money and lift up my community, I had no choice but to learn to do the same. Shave my head and become yet another disciple. Join someone else's cult. As we climbed the leagues, Chester would be the greatest underdog story in a hundred years. We would be everyone's second team, especially with stunts like giving away beer and a few more I had lined up.

But then I would get the eighth best squad in the Prem and we would finish eighth playing the same tedious rules-based football that everyone else did and the love-in would come to a shuddering halt. No choice because there was no alternative. But as soon as Henri's friend had said the word 'relationism' a new perk had become available. New module available: Relationism Cost: 30, 000 XP Effects: Unlocks the Relationism module.

I'd raced home and whipped out my laptop to start learning, but then Emma arrived at the train station and I had to rush out and get her. Then she wanted to be fed! And before we were allowed to tick that box, I had to finish shaving. So demanding! We'd booked a table at a restaurant and it was by far the worst date we'd ever been on.

I tried, but I couldn't concentrate in the slightest; I was itching to learn about this new thing and when I did have coherent thoughts they were about using my ten percent discount voucher on this 'module' instead of on WibWob. Would I still buy WibWob? Probably, because it would take me at least six months to save for the new module. WibWob would help me maximise my results in the meantime, but without the discount it'd take an extra week or two before I could afford it.

But how could I plan if I didn't know what the new thing even was? Finally, Emma had said she didn't want dessert - a big clue that I had fucked up - and we got home and instead of trying to be a good boyfriend I flipped my laptop open and started to gorge on new knowledge. I watched an explainer video. What I saw blew my mind. I kept gasping and laughing and Emma finally relented and came next to me and I tried to explain what I was seeing.

"What the shiiiit?"

"What?" Emma was next to me on the sofa and I was rewatching my first ever taste of relationism. A match from Brazil, naturally. I pointed.

"The entire team's over there on the left! At Man City, there would be one guy in that whole area. Look! They're all jammed up. It looks more like rugby than footy."

"There's one guy on this side."

"Yeah," I said. I rewound the video fifteen seconds and watched the sequence again. Somehow, the team in possession had got themselves all squashed up on the left. They passed the ball around but it was so congested it hurt my brain to even think about it. Here was the playground football I had asked for! Everyone following the ball around but... intentionally? They couldn't want this to happen, could they?

The ball was played back to a defender who had time to think and an easy pass to the one guy who was in space. Every instinct in my body called out for him to play that pass. Instead, he turned back into the congested area.

"What the fuuuuck..." I was rubbing my temples so hard they were at risk of coming out in a bruise.

"What's the formation?" said Emma.

"That's just it. There isn't one. It's like... nine left, one right. We need a whole different vocabulary for this! But it's crazy. The clips are all like this. There's a bunch of players like a swarm of bees and they pass the ball around their hive and..."

"And what?"

"And it doesn't make sense! It breaks every rule of football. Think of the counter attacks! There's a reason you spread your team out."

"But both teams are over there."

"Yeah," I said. The team with the ball had gathered their players and their opponents had been forced to do the same. Any counter attack could be bad, but if you dragged all your opponents to the same side as you, your players would automatically be in position to defend. Huh. I fell into a silence as I watched bewildering clip after bewildering clip. I couldn't make sense out of any of it.

There would be absolute chaos, mayhem, playground football, then suddenly the shapes would resolve and a player would get a shot on goal.

"They're using the sideline as an extra defender," said Emma. I gawped at her.

"Excuse me what?" She smiled. She understood something about football that I didn't.

"Go back to that second clip." I obeyed; she pointed.

"The players are all on the left of the pitch, right? They're trying to attack up there. You're worried about the counter attack. By the way, doesn't sound like fearless football the way you keep worrying. But if they do lose the ball, they force the other team towards the side so that they can't do any harm. Keep them penned in." I made a confused noise in the style of Scooby Doo and skimmed the video.

"Let me see if I can find that."

"Don't bother," she said, showing me her phone. There was a gif running.

"It's all here in this article." I watched as a team tried to progress up the left, lost the ball, and immediately swarmed around the new ball carrier, forcing their opponents away from the centre of the pitch. It reminded me of the cover shadow method - block some lanes, reduce options, finally cut those options to zero. They recovered the ball in seconds. The moment struck me like a thunderbolt.

"Argh!" I said, shooting to my feet.

"Argh! It's meant. It's all meant! They're playing a different sport on the same pitch with the same rules! Christ, I need this. I need it. Give me your phone." Hers made a whooshing noise and mine pinged.

"I sent you the article."" What Is Relationism by Jamie Hamilton. Twenty-two minute read. Okay, see you in twenty minutes." I sat on the floor with my back to the sofa and read the article. Then I read it twice more. Finally, I closed my eyes and thought about spending thirty thousand experience points on this perk. If I got it - who was I kidding, I would get it - who would I turn to with questions? Jackie and Sandra were positional disciples.

Even experts like Cody Chambers, Clive OK, or Dieter Bauer would think I was crazy for trying to go against football normalcy.

"Babes?" I said. I suspected what I said next would make up for the bad dinner. She detected something in my tone and gave me one of her sultry looks.

"Yes, honey?"

"Do you want to spend the summer in Brazil?"

We had better players than Mousehole and a better understanding of positional play, space, risk and reward, but we were only leading one-nil at half time. A goal from Ziggy, who celebrated with cool, calm professionalism. Ah... not. Still, a very dominant performance, overall. Credit to our coaches for getting the players to those levels. I went into the dressing room, still very much a spectator, and noted that Sandra felt confident enough to make the first change I'd proposed - to replace Omari with Dan Badford.

Dan was only CA 18 but was so smooth he looked better than that. He would get twenty-five minutes and then be subbed off himself. Idiots would think it was a punishment, but it was simply a low-risk way to spread minutes over more players. Sandra pointed out a few things she had noticed, and while the lads quietly digested the info, she came over to me.

"Max," she said, dropping the formality because she was the boss for the day.

"What do you think about giving us twenty at the end?"

"Oh," I said, and switched to a soft mumble.

"Are you worried?"

"No," she mumbled back.

"Bit of a treat for the fans. The home fans and your new admirers from pirate country."

"Hmm," I said. A twenty minute runout was pretty tempting - I'd been going over the same thoughts again and again and I was starting to feel drained. Good run around, smash a couple of free kicks. Sounded pretty ideal. I thought about who I would replace - Dan was an obvious choice. Or...

"Do you want to get funky?"

"In the cup match you said we have to win? No."

"I'm thinking 4-2-3-1..."

"Keep going," she said, smiling.

"With me as a centre back."

"Okay, then. Veto."

"Marauding centre back."

"Even worse."

"Marauding right back." She looked around at the other players and the tactics board.

"Tell me more."

"Eddie, Glenn, and Steve can deal with Mousehole, especially with Youngster and Magnus patrolling in front. Tom can drop back to be a CAM." Sandra pulled a face. Tom didn't have the technical qualities to play CAM but he'd be better than Ziggy and there weren't enough subs to bring on someone more suited.

"He'll press," I explained.

"Next to him, WibRob and Tyson. I'll have a free role but I'll be on the right enough to make it seem like that side is occupied."

"Tyson? Not Pascal? I don't know. That sounds a bit too..." She would have said weak if we'd had the conversation in private. She changed tack.

"A man who chases two rabbits catches none." I nodded. She was saying if I wanted to progress in the FA Cup I needed to prioritise that and developing our young players could wait.

"A Max who chases six rabbits catches six. Tyson's ready for a game like this. So's WibRob. I'll look after them. Mousehole will be in a low block within five minutes, guaranteed."

"Am I still in charge?"

"Huh?" I looked up at her. Letting Sandra manage this match was costing me 3 XP a minute, but was invaluable in terms of her development and her personal motivation to stay at Chester. She would also be managing the Tuesday night match in the Cheshire Cup but it was possible her next taste of the hot seat would be at the end of November. Of all my competing priorities, giving Sandra proper responsibility was very, very high.

"You're the boss. Put me anywhere and give me a straightjacket. I'll be good."

"Will you?" I nodded. Nothing I was planning would work without her.

"Yes."

"Huh." She bit her nail for a while.

"The idea of you drifting around pretending to be a right back doesn't sit well with me. I don't like that sort of thing." She wandered off. That was that, then. She tapped the tactics board.

"All right, shut the fuck up," she said.

"My favourite movie is The Matrix because there's cool action and good coats. Am I doing this right?" She got more than a few laughs.

"Twenty-five minutes of 4-4-2 with Dan pulling the strings. Then we're going to do a modified 4-2-3-1 for the last twenty but we don't need four at the back against this lot. So a back three of Eddie, Glenn, and Steve. When there's an attack on the left, Eddie will slide across and you two will be the centre backs. Same on the other side with Steve moving across. Vimsy and I will yell, er, what's it called?"

"Encouragement," said Vimsy, to more laughs.

"Right," said Sandra. Watching her adapt an existing formation on the fly made me jealous. To do the same, I needed the WibWob perk.

"It's really not that complicated and we should be solid enough with Youngster and Magnus as DMs. Five in the rest defence. Then Tom, Tyson, and William playing behind Ziggy."

"That's ten," said Zach, showing he had just about enough fingers to keep up. I joke. He was asking who the last player would be, obviously hoping it would be him.

"Max," said Sandra.

"Max will be doing Max things. Max knows how to do Max things. The structure is for everyone else." She looked to the side of the dressing room with the most defenders.

"Back five, you stay sharp. You need to learn as you play. Front four, look for combinations and overloads. Any questions?" I put up my hand.

"Do you think this will work?"

"Of course," she said, slightly confused. If she didn't, she wouldn't have changed her plan. I paced over and did a dramatic turn back to the rest of the players.

"She's beginning to believe!" I relaxed from 'actor pose' and gave her a soft punch on the arm.

"You've got to pay off the movie thing. End on an appropriate quote."

"You can not spell matrix without Max," suggested Youngster. I pointed at him while looking at Sandra.

"Or something like that, but better."

"Got it," said Sandra. She mock rolled her eyes.

"All right. 4-4-2 for twenty-five minutes... and then we take the red pill." I pulled at an imaginary kung fu beard.

"Impressive. Truly, the student has become the master." The bell rang.

"Come on, Chester!" yelled Glenn. The lads clomped out. I took a second to appreciate Sandra. Yeah, she was a positional play disciple - at Man City she had put straightjackets around her talented dribblers - but she was creative and fun. Maybe she would like relationism. I would definitely broach the topic... sometime in the next three years.

James Wise, Dan Badford, Josh Owens, and Sharky all knew they would be coming off halfway through the half, so they put extra effort in. Dan struggled at times but was bailed out by his mates. The home fans were appreciative of their efforts, and roared them onto a second goal. It was turning out to be a perfect kind of day, and when we made a mass substitution in the seventieth minute the home faithful gave the departing players a standing ovation.

My name was the last to be read out - bit of showmanship from our hospitality volunteer - and I got some applause from the away fans, too. Giving away two hundred and five pints of beer is surprisingly good for one's reputation. I noticed how different the match felt as a mere player - I could see the tactics but couldn't influence them and I didn't have hotkeys or perks. But I could hear the fans! It was refreshing. They sounded different, somehow. There was something under the surface.

I couldn't put my finger on it. Sandra concentrated her attention on the defensive half. I wandered around for a minute checking the sitch. We seemed solid enough, and Sticky in goal absolutely radiated confidence. Ahead of me, Tyson looked like a toddler compared to his hulking opponents, but if I stepped back and squinted... he had grown taller. He had bulked up. Just a fraction.

Just enough to make me wonder if he wasn't one of my better options for the CAM role if we were going to play this formation on the regular. I got my first touch of the ball and played a one-two with WibRob. One-twos were one of the building blocks of relationism. Instead of obsessing over positions, the concept was to build relationships between players. To move together like dance partners. I paused. We were spread out according to Sandra's plan, and Mousehole were spread out in their 4-4-2.

They would struggle if we went right at them but they would more or less know what to do. They played against teams like us every week. If I could send virtually my whole team over to the left, though... How could you defend against that if you had never seen it before? If your opponents moved around like blobs in a lava lamp? All you could do was fill the space with defenders. What if we suddenly switched to a completely different football philosophy after twenty minutes? Surely it would fuck teams up. It had to!

I played a one-two with Youngster, then another with WibRob. I was pretty much back where I started and as I hesitated, Mousehole's players shuffled back into position. This wasn't it. Youngster was too static. He and I should have been trying to move up the pitch together and when we attracted too many defenders we would bring in WibRob, then a fourth, fifth, sixth partner. Youngster, though - correctly, in the circumstances - would stick to his zone.

If I wanted to approximate this new style of football, I would need to be the manager and as we were working our way up the pitch, manually move players from zone to zone. I put my foot on the ball. Even that idea wouldn't work. Using the curse, I couldn't put two players in one zone, never mind six or seven. I sighed and looked down at the ball. The only way to try relationistic football would be to buy the new module or go somewhere the other players weren't bound by European conventions. Clue - not Europe.

In the meantime, I would have to suffer in this dreadful purgatory. A Mousehole player came storming towards me. I decided I would dribble him to the left and dropped my shoulder that way. His weight shifted and when I shifted the other way, he threw out a foot. I flicked the ball a couple of inches to the side and in the same motion, dabbed it through his legs. The crowd roared, and I was thirty-five yards from goal, at a full sprint, with four players ahead of me to combine with. Okay, fine. Life wasn't so bad.

I zipped the ball to Tyson who laid it off first-time to WibRob. He feinted to turn to his right, took a touch back to his left, and chipped the ball over the defence. It wasn't perfectly in my path but I adjusted, touched the ball forward, and had to hit top speed to stand a chance of getting it. The goalie came rushing out and as he slid towards the ball, so did I. I got there first, hooking the ball sideways and making sure my foot didn't get anywhere near the keeper's head. Ziggy had a tap-in.

He celebrated by holding his hands up as if to say 'I had very little to do with that, don't praise me.' Let me try that again. He celebrated by running to the corner flag and kung fu kicking it and punching it and giving it another kick while screaming with joy. The rest of us did what we normally did - various levels of joining in or hanging back while Ziggy went nuts. But then, a few steps back towards our half, Ziggy burst into tears. I put my daydreams of new footballing paradigms to one side. Manager time.

I went and hugged him and asked him what was up. He sobbed for a while, getting my mirror neurons all primed, before coming out with the devastating line that he 'really, really wanted to win the match for them kids'. Well, the bastard set me off, didn't he? As I finished wiping my eyes, I decided perks and modules and conceptual frameworks for playing the game could wait. Today was all about them kids. And there was one thing them kids liked even more than going to the dentist - goals.

Sunday, October 13 Welsh Cup First Round: Chester Women vs Llandudno Ladies Four hundred curious fans made the trip to Flint to watch our women play in the Welsh Cup. That number was bolstered by some residents of Flint and the away fans - Llandudno was a straight shot down the A55 so there was no excuse not to attend. Llandudno had CA 35 - they were something of a yo-yo team bouncing from the top tier in Wales to the second, but they seemed likely to settle in tier one sooner or later.

It looked like a well-run club from the outside even if no-one there was attempting to fuse two totally different styles of football in order to build the slappingest team that ever slapped. Far from it - they played a rigid 4-4-2. Jackie decided to put out a 4-4-2 of our own, since our left back option Ridley T had made such a good start to her Chester career. Our best eleven now had a CA of just over 38.

The match started out pretty scrappy and Emma soon got bored and whipped out an iPad so she could scout holiday destinations in South America. Note I didn't say Brazil.

"What are you looking at Argentina for?" I said, glancing away from the pitch to see what she was up to.

"They play that new thingy there, too. It's not just Brazil. The writer says the lack of adherence to strict organisational principles is embedded into South American culture and can be seen in football at all levels. He says we could go on holiday anywhere." I laughed.

"Does he?"

"Yes. I wrote to him. He said he'll send me a list of interesting coaches we can visit." I shook my head. It hadn't even occurred to me to write to the guy. In her way, Emma was much more fearless than me. If I could fully harness her skills I could turn Chester into an unstoppable entity, but she was only learning about this new concept because it meant a more interesting holiday.

"Well, maybe we can tour around. We have to start at the start, though. The Maracanã. Fuck, I just got shivers from saying that." On the pitch, our better technique started to count. The possession stat swung in our favour and big gaps appeared in Llandudno's lines. At women's matches, our fans came in two flavours - the family-friendly, wholesome majority, plus a hard core of intimidating nutjobs who couldn't get enough of the new Chester.

One area of overlap was the new song they were singing now: We've got super Jackie Reaper He knows exactly what we need Femi at the back Dani in attack Chester on the way to Super League Brooke, MD, and Ryan appeared.

"Hello," said MD. They did some small talk; I tuned out until I heard my name.

"Emma, did you ask Max what happened yesterday?"

"No," she said.

"We went for an apology dinner and it didn't come up."

"What are you talking about?" I said. MD raised one eyebrow.

"Yesterday was a fairly normal match - the new normal where we beat teams that are worse than us - but suddenly you and Ziggy were in tears by the corner flag and then you went... Brooke, what did you call it?"

"Max took them to Pound Town." They were exaggerating how impressive it was. All that happened was I stopped messing about trying to explore the new footballing paradigm and scored a rapid hat trick before retreating to be a third DM so the youngsters could take over.

"Just a routine six-nil win and tens of thousands of pounds in free media coverage. My first FA Cup hat trick. Four crates of beer for the Mousehole team bus. For them, the day Max Best graced their fixture was the most important day of their life. For me, it was Tuesday." Emma said, "It was Saturday, you monster!" We exchanged high fives. MD was patient while we did whatever we were doing.

"Well, the response was incredible. Word's out about the dentist thing and most fans are right behind it. Ziggy's a huge hit. The way he celebrates! And Mr. Roberts and Bulldog were in bits when their lads took to the pitch together. We've had good results in the past but now it means more."

'This means more' is an obnoxious phrase used by Liverpool FC to codify their sense of entitlement.

"Let's try to avoid sounding like the team that twice in the last five years tried to obliterate English football. Hey, Ryan. Do you want a new contract?" He looked surprised.

"What?"

"I was thinking about it overnight. I'm going to be giving out new contracts to a few players and why not start with you? It'll be exactly the same, almost, but with a plus one and a slight pay rise."

"Why the plus one?"

"Because I want to keep you around. I told you. If you don't want to stay I won't trigger the extension. That's a verbal contract and everyone heard it. So the question is, do you want an extra twenty quid a week yes or no?" Twenty quid wasn't much, but it was better than a metal bar to the head.

"Sure. Er, thanks?" MD's face did some contortions but he forced himself to smile.

"Well deserved, Ryan, with all the extra work you've been doing." MD's poker face was improving; he almost sounded like he meant it.

"And obviously," I said, "the more we're paying in wages the less attractive we'll be to any potential new buyer." Everyone, including Emma, looked at me like I was off my trolley. Was I really planning to defend the club by giving out infinitesimal pay rises? Just then, Bea Pea played a one-two with Angel, exactly as we'd practised in Grimsby, and we took the lead. Everything was going swimmingly.

"If you don't mind, I'm actually trying to reinvent football."

"You're so funny," said Brooke. Emma frowned.

"No, he is. Or he thinks he is. We're going to the Macarena." I'm not sure if the conversation continued, because I was staring at the pitch too hard. In the relationism clips I'd seen, there weren't many actions that were overly difficult. It was a lot of short passing and being cool under pressure. Sure, thriving in a tiny sliver of pitch would need good technique, but so did what the women were doing now. Charlotte would have no problem.

The hardest thing to coach would be the little flicks and dummies and the one-twos that happened at strange angles. What sort of player would thrive in that system? They would need imagination. Flair. Yes, flair! One of the attributes I could upgrade using God Save the King was labelled FL. It had to be flair. Charlotte playing the initial pass. A gaggle of flair players - Kisi, Dani, and Maddy - combining in unpredictable ways. On the men's team, Ryan Jack, WibRob, Dan, and me.

We already had players who could do it, I was sure! I was fucking sure! My vision started to narrow; I was getting too hyped. I calmed myself and thought of the cost. If flair really was important, I needed to unlock it. Knowing the curse, it would take me four or five tries to get the attribute I wanted and that meant thousands more in XP spending. Pencil in another twenty thousand XP just to be able to find players to make my new system work.

On the pitch, Dani, nominally the left mid but allowed to roam to a certain extent, passed to Charlotte and raced into a CAM slot. Charlotte fed Kisi, who hit a first-time diagonal at Dani. Dani ran over the ball, bringing confused defenders with her. The ball raced through to Bea Pea who took a leaf out of WibRob's manual and chipped the ball behind the defence. Angel was lining up a shot but Dani had more momentum and didn't hear Angel's call of 'my ball!'

Dani got there first, knocking the ball away from goal and hammering it diagonally back past the wrong-footed keeper. Michael Owen versus Argentina! Two-nil! Game over, and what a goal to win it. The fans were in ecstasy and I wasn't far off. Femi at the back! Dani in attack! Chester on the way to Super League! I gritted my teeth. My jaw was so set it was painful. If I could have what I'd just seen twenty times a game, whatever the price was, I'd pay it.

Chester are pleased to announce that Ryan Jack has signed a new contract! Manager Max Best says, "This is bad news for fans of average age stats but great news for any squad members who want to learn about the olden days. Ryan grew up in the era of tamagotchis, Tori Amos, and slow-moving zombies. Seriously, though, Ryan is fantastic on and off the pitch and with him around, our future looks much brighter."