Chương 47: 9.10 - Plymouth Argyle

10. Extract from the voluminous first draft sent to the editor of The First Footballer In Space: The Pascal Bochum Story, Volume 3 Chapter Ten Wednesday, January 1, 2025 Max Best has disappeared. It says much about the goings-on at Chester Football Club that we do not notice for over a week.

The new year begins with me smiling at the wake-up light. This will be my year. This will be my year. It will start with a dramatic cup win over Championship strugglers Plymouth, then with our squad newly-strengthened in the January transfer window, we will gatecrash the National League playoffs and storm into the EFL. That is not just my wish. That is the plan. That is the stated plan of our manager, Max Best, but Max Best has disappeared.

This is not immediately apparent to me as I leap out of bed and throw aside the curtains (before closing them again to preserve the illusion that it is daytime). I brush my teeth, standing on one leg to improve my balance. It is Wednesday so I stand on my right and hold the brush in my left. My phone buzzes. I pause in my brushing stroke, which was checked and approved by Dr. Green. The message would stop anyone in their tracks.

OMG what's he done now lol no way this guy holy shit lol It is logical to finish brushing before checking what it means, but I swipe and find there are over a hundred new messages in our group chat. It is going to be one of those days. I place my left foot safely on the floor, finish the tooth I was brushing - I will do the others later - and read through the chat.

Far from strengthening the squad, Max has sent Rainman, our third-choice goalkeeper, Omari Naysmith, a midfielder who is our second-best set piece taker, and Tom Westwood, in my opinion our second-best striker, on loan to a third-division team. That's the third division of Wales. It's a team called Saltney Town. In our squad we have Youngster, WibRob, and others who are just as obsessive about football as myself. Saltney is mere minutes from the Deva. Yet not a single one of us has ever heard of this team.

They are currently sixth in the hard-to-find table and appear to have no stadium and no fans. These loans are staggering in so many ways, but most pertinently because Henri confirms Max is refusing to sign new players until after the Fans Forum. Magnus asked the burning question - surely Max will change his mind now that we are three players lighter? Henri says no. No incomings. The next big topic. Why Saltney? Youngster replies with seven cry-laughing emojis. Isn't it obvious? That's the Welsh club he bought.

I shiver. It's Max's last act of defiance before the takeover. A spectacular demonstration of his disregard for rules or convention. Loaning players to a team he owns? The conflict of interest is without parallel. It's the act of a man who knows he's on the way out. For the first time in a long time I realise how precarious my career is - I remain utterly dependent on Max Best's high opinion of me. If he goes, this will not be my year. He would try to rescue me, I'm sure, but I have six years left on my contract.

I forget to finish my teeth.

We get to BoshCard early and to everyone's surprise, Rainman, Omari, and Tom are present. We hurl questions at them until Glenn gets a grip.

"Everyone shut the fuck up. We'll do it together in the meeting room with the gaffer present. All right?" BoshCard is deserted - normal citizens do not work over Christmas and New Year. We do. Our female players, at least, get a formal winter break which they will spend with great satisfaction at the top of the table, fully recovered after their blip. We men have been on an unexpected and unwanted sabbatical.

A few days before Christmas, the heavens opened and the rain washed away Dagenham and the Rochdale double-header. It is only the superb drainage at Plymouth's Home Park that means we get a match this week. We will have to train on the rudimentary plastic pitches. No matter. It's the Third Round of the FA Cup and for most of us it's the biggest match of our career. We are keen. Sandra comes in. She, as well as some other coaches and the physios are somewhat worse for the wear.

They had a few drinks on New Year's Eve and it is hard to blame them. I check and see no such signs among the other players. The unprofessional were purged last summer. We wait. We wait more.

"Erm," says Sandra. She walks around. She checks her phone.

"I know the Brig's got a few days off. But has anyone seen Max?" We squint as we contemplate the question. We look at Henri. He shrugs.

"I saw him on the morning of Christmas Eve. He dropped off a couple of presents, took some of my best cheese - 'for the road' - and drove to have European Christmas dinner with Emma and her family."

"What's European Christmas dinner?" says Omari. It's like hearing a ghost. He is out on loan. He should be in Wales.

"In most countries, Christmas means the 24th," explains Henri. I nod. Sandra emits a noise.

"Christmas, bah humbug, all right? I don't give two turtle ducks about Christmas. Concentrate. Andrew, were you with him on Christmas Day?"

"Not this year, no." Andrew is dating Emma's best friend.

"Okay. Er... Ryan! When's the last time you saw him?"

"That day we did the special forces training."

"Right," says Sandra.

"I didn't know cars could bend like that. I'll never look at the Brig the same. And who knew Dan Badford was the player you'd pick to help a diplomat flee a hot zone?" Dan got some slaps and pushes.

"So we've sighted Max on the twenty-fourth. Who's seen him since?" I put my hand up.

"Maybe the three Welshmen? When he talked about their loans." Omari shakes his head.

"No, that was before. We sorted it, like, a day or two after the Altrincham game. He said to keep it quiet until the first and, you know, we did. Sorry if you're upset and that."

"We're not upset," says Physio Dean.

"We're just astonished. What the hell is that all about? I mean, Wales?" Omari's in the spotlight. He turns so he's facing more of the group.

"Er, the boss said he's got a mad scheme and he needed three volunteers and he wanted to start with us. He's working with the Welsh FA, he says, and he points to this woman who's next to us. The Brig's next to her being extra Briggy and she likes it. They don't speak much but yeah, seems she's like someone big in Welsh football. The boss says there's this little team and he's sort of in charge of it now and he wants to, like, actually take the actual piss with it.

So he says they need a good goalie and Rainman needs minutes. He says they need a premium midfielder who can slap from free kicks and corners. He says he knows I've been getting minutes but Ryan's back from injury and Andrew Harrison is back from his loan so this is a way to make sure I get loads of action. And it's sort of the same with Tom. The boss is going to keep Ziggy and he's going to use the cup money to bring in a bad hombre to get us over the line this season."

"Did he say bad hombre?" says Sandra.

"Yep."

"Sounds like Max."

"Saltney's just down the road so we'll train here in the morning like normal and eat here like normal and the only difference is that we'll play matches for them. The boss says we get the good training and we get minutes and it's not like, the best best best solution but it's pretty top and we'll get promoted with two clubs at the same time and that's quite cool. I mean, I just said yes right away and so did the others.

And the boss was like don't say yes until you've heard I've got the best coach in Wales to manage you okay now you can say yes. All in one go like that."

"Didn't Max tell you this?" says Henri, to Sandra. Sandra's a little more hungover than she appears.

"Yyyeessss... I think so. He definitely told me about Rainman and Omari. That he was going to ask them. So if he's asking Tom that means he has someone lined up to come in. I don't know who it is, yet."

"What if it's Marcus Wainwright!" shouts Zach. All the drinkers recoil and he holds up a hand to apologise.

"Yes, well," says Sandra.

"If Wainwright were to happen I think I wouldn't be content with finishing second." She glances up, doing the same thing I was doing - working out if we could actually overhaul Grimsby. It would just about be possible, I think, if we had such a massive upgrade on Tom while Grimsby weakened themselves an equal amount. But Max would never let us go for it - it would be a waste of energy. His plan is to cruise into third, if possible, but not break our backs in the process. Be fresh for the playoffs. I nod.

It's completely rational. There's still no Max. Sandra checks the time again.

"Strange. Very strange. So no-one has seen him since... Christmas Eve?" Much fruitless speculation ensues. After all, it's not unusual for Max to go on a scouting trip for two or three days and not tell anyone. With Christmas and New Year it's entirely possible he has been training on his own with Cody Chambers in between marathon sessions where he studied Plymouth. Henri isn't worried. He says, "Any second now, he will burst through those doors with a formation and strategy that will turn Plymouth into Mousehole."

As he finishes speaking, the door flings open and a flustered Secretary Joe bursts into the room. He hands Sandra a sheaf of papers and retreats to a chair where he catches his breath.

"It's from Max," she says, and the room releases some tension. Sandra flicks through. There appear to be four pages. Secretary Joe is not good at using the double-sided print feature. Sandra skims it and frowns.

"I'm supposed to read it out word for word. Joe, have you read this?" Joe gives her a thumbs up.

"And is it true?" Joe gives her a somewhat mournful thumbs up.

"Christ," she says. She goes to get a paper cup of water from the dispenser, downs it, and repeats herself. She wipes some stray liquid from her mouth using the back of her sleeve. She is, to say the least, unpretentious.

"Right. Sandra clears her throat and gets a mystical glint in her eye. That's, er, that's how it starts. I'm supposed to read that." She puffs her cheeks out and continues.

"Hello Sandra and everyone. Max Best here. I would say this is the hardest letter I've ever had to write but I once had to note to self think of something funny to go here before emailing it. What it is, right, basically, is that I'm in a mood." Henri laughs.

"Max," he mumbles, brimming with affection. Henri has his faults - please see Volume 2 chapters 6 to 16 for more detail - but he is a good friend to Max. He accepts his flaws with enviable ease. It makes it easier for the rest of us. It's okay not to be perfect.

"It started with Christmas dinner. Well, it didn't start there. It started when James Pond came into our lives, but this particular wotsit started there. Or, no. It started with the rain and the postponements. You know what a football season's like. It's go go go for months and there's a propulsive quality to it.

At the full-time whistle you think about the next training sessions and who's injured and what formations you might play and you train and then it's time for the next match and to say I keep myself busy is maybe an understatement.

"But the rain comes and then oops! There's nothing to think about except the things I've been avoiding thinking about. So I start to stew. Chester fans would rather have some guy they've never met than me? Oh, okay. That's a bit of a slap in the face, isn't it? They think we're not going fast enough? We're not playing good enough? We're doing things this club hasn't done since the nineties but it's not good enough for some people. It's a fucking betrayal.

James Pond has invited Gerry and Chip to 'improve' on my work and that thought starts to wind me up big time.

"That foul broth is bubbling up in addition to the normal Christmas stress. Christmas isn't a good time for me, for reasons I hope are obvious. I did Christmas Eve dinner with the Weavers and they were super extra nice to me and I realised they were, like, thinking about how I didn't have that kind of relationship with my own family but - oh, shit, swear everyone to secrecy before reading the next bit, Sandra - it kind of made things worse, didn't it?

I preferred it when Sebastian used to bait me about how shit Man United are. I didn't want to be thinking 'oh yeah they're on eggshells because tomorrow I'll go see my mum and it'll be abysmal' so it was like they accidentally gave me a double dose of the misery.

"By Christmas Day I'm not in a good place. I woke up and made the mistake of looking at social media and the first post was a jolly fat man in a red suit and the text was 'What do YOU want from Daddy Star?' With the letters A and N crossed out from Santa. And there were hundreds of comments like 'new goalie!'

'Buy the stadium!'

'Thanks so much for doing this.' The next thing I saw was a countdown.

'23 days until take-off! We're headed for the Stars!' And these aren't even bots. They're from season ticket holders. People who have watched us suffer and sacrifice.

"I go to the care home at two p. m. and the staff there have really tried to make it Christmassy. The people who don't get visitors are all put together but my mum's with her mate in a little room and I go and we eat and it's okay but not really. Not really, Sandra.

She's not good anyway and it's a bad time for her to have a bad time and then when she's lucid she asks about work and while I blab about call centre stuff I think about all this shit on social media about how we've got our dream long-term investor and the combination of mum and the betrayal and the phrase long-term investor is like drinking crates of beer while you're on painkillers.

"I planned to stay an hour but after twenty-five minutes I'm like the dog needs a walk! Anna says 'bro it's raining' and I'm like 'yeah it's like a quarter of a drizzle' and in the end we let Solly decide and he said tell you what, shove me inside your hoodie and I'll pop my head out and we'll be peachy.

Anna says he totes didn't say that actually but she lets me go out with him because he's not been out because it's been raining like forever and I'm like yeah tell me about it we were getting close to a sell-out against Rochdale but that'll be postponed to the end of the season and it'll be midweek and we'll get two thousand or whatevs. So I go for a walk and I'm not getting funny looks, which is weird, but it's because literally no-one is outside because it is tipping it down.

"And I can't explain this next bit but I get the feeling someone's playing football and I go to the park - Solly's happy - and there are two kids playing in ankle-deep puddles. And one of them, holy shit, he's a left-back but he's right-footed! But he's top! And I rush over and I'm like bro do you want to be an inverted full-back in a 4-2-3-1 variant and he's like mister why are you crying?

So I say, the problem with 4-2-3-1 is these huge gaps in the centre of the pitch and you can't move the DMs because they're the double pivot and you can't drop the CAMs because then what are you even doing and you can't move the strikers or centre backs so what's left? The full backs! And he says have you got someone I can call I don't mind honest.

"To which I reply, what you do is when you're in possession you shove the left-back right into the heart of midfield and you think gosh that's risky but it's not because no fucker's going to take the ball off you! The only time they get a touch is when they're picking it out of their net! And you, mate, are going to learn to invert from Jay Cope at West and we'll see how long it takes for you to get spotted because there's a lot of managers who need players like you.

"And the kid says okay let's go to my house and I'll ask my mum if I can sign for your club. But the little fucker was scamming me! He told his mum I was having a meltdown in the park and I needed some tea and warm clothes and I was like pish posh I'm fine I'll take a tea I'm gasping but let's talk about the advantages of being a right-footed left back. And she listens to me and says she doesn't have any clothes my size but is there anyone she can call for me?

I take my phone out to show her there's no need but it's been sort of zapped by getting soaked. So she says oh you poor dear and tries to give me twenty pounds! I say I'm not homeless, I'm Cliff Daps, a scout for West Didsbury I was only out walking the dog when I saw your boy and she says looks like your dog was walking you!" Sandra takes a breath. I can't believe what I'm hearing but I don't even turn my head to check how the others are reacting. It seems disrespectful.

"I realise I'm not getting anywhere so I think I'll come back in a couple of weeks when it's dry and I leave but I really, really can't face going back to see my mum. Not yet. So I find a spot to just sort of sit and think for a minute. And it was lovely. The most peaceful I've been in months. Just the sound of a light drizzle and Solly's breath so warm against me and we were keeping each other company and I drifted off. Next thing I know, I'm hearing Beth's voice. Beth! She's on the phone to Emma.

'He's on a football pitch sitting against the goalpost. No, he's fine. He's fine, Emma! He's freezing.

"He'll probably have a really bad cold, the fucking idiot. I've got my friend with me. We'll get him somewhere warm. You're on your way? Okay but breathe! Get a paper bag. I promise he's fine. Phone? Check his pockets there, Cam. Get his phone. Oh, it's fucked. That's why, Emma. Bring some rice with you. No, I will joke! No, I won't take him to the care home. Are you serious? If his mum sees him like this he'll never forgive me. Sorry, Emma, but if it's a choice of you being mad at me forever or him, I choose you.

Erm... yeah. Not sure. Everything's closed. Hang on, there's a woman and two kids looking at us. Cam, stay with Max. Call you back, Emma!'" Sandra pauses to scratch her eyebrow, which makes the paper flap around. She's clearly wondering if she should continue. This is not a communication from a glorious, infallible leader. She makes a small hem-hem noise.

"Beth brought me back to the house and took over. Having assured the family I wasn't a homeless rando but in fact, a quite famous football personality especially beloved in Malta, she got me dry and made her boyfriend question mark stay with me while she went up and down the terraced houses begging for clothes. Beth and Cam (CamBeth?) waited with me until Seb and Emma arrived. I snapped into the present long enough to say I wasn't getting in the car until Seb had driven Solly home.

I suppose he did and we drove to Newcastle and I spent a few days feeling miserable until the club doctor from Gateshead FC turned up.

"Emma asked what I had and how long would I be sick. He asked when I was due to play Gateshead next. March 31st, I mumbled. He'll be right as rain on April 1st, said the guy, which I thought was pretty funny. Emma didn't. Guy said, he's got a cold or some mild pneumonia but he's already over the worst. His next match is January 4th, right? Physically, he'd be ready to play. Physically? What do you mean by that? demanded Emma. She gets fierce. It's so hot.

The guy said look I don't want to step out of line but I've been reading about this takeover and it's a fucking disgrace how they're treating Max and if it was me, I wouldn't want to play for that club. Fuck those ungrateful bastards. We'd treat you like a prince up here, bear that in mind when you're looking for your next move. He's getting ready to leave but I grab his wrist like in a horror movie and I croak, Oli Thompson is your best forward! Get him back from loan and give him some minutes.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

"That was actually pretty exhausting so I just flopped onto the pillow and when I woke up next it was like, the future. I saw more matches had been postponed and thought about this whole takeover mess. I am going to bundle my energy and let it out at the right time. It looks to me like the Hartlepool match will be postponed so all that's left before the Forum is that FA Cup match and the Cheshire Cup, which you'd manage anyway.

I looked out the window and it was raining for the hundredth day in a row and when I thought about going back to Chester to work my arse off building a club only to have it all snatched away from me by a ruthless billionaire and his clueless toadie, yeah, I got a liiiittle bit petulant. I had a miniature temper tantrum. I bought a pram, filled it with toys, and then threw all my toys very much out.

All of which is a very circuitous way of saying I took my hot girlfriend to the Canary Islands where I'm giving her the holiday I wanted to give her after my murder. We are being drenched in sunshine and I am being very witty and charming and talking to everyone and not being weird or distressing in the slightest." Sandra pulls a face and it was very much the face that expressed how I was feeling.

"You're in charge for the Plymouth match. You have free rein in all things except you cannot use Youngster. I'm sorry but all these postponements are a chance for him to recover and it would be moronic not to allow him to recharge after his triumph - please say triumph in a bombastic tone. Triumphhhh! You are, of course, in charge of Hartlepool if it happens and the Cheshire Cup quarter final. You might as well go hard, though of course try to spread minutes around.

Please now look sternly in the direction of Ryan Jack. Ryan! You get five minutes in the next match and ten in the one after. If you have a problem with that, come see me in the Gran Meliá Palacio de Isora." We look at Ryan. He is ruefully biting his lip. There's no arguing with Max at the best of times, but it's much harder when he isn't on the same continent. I agree with Max - Ryan must not rush back from such a devastating injury. I know I will not feel the same when it is I who feels fully recovered.

While it is someone else I am able to see wisdom in Max's insistence.

"Most of you will next see me the day of the Fans Forum. Please cancel every appointment; I might need you. Everyone please make sure Secretary Joe is fit and ready to go that day. He is now the most important man at the club. Although now that I type that, I wonder if he hasn't always been?" Secretary Joe doesn't know where to look. Sandra smiles and moves on.

"Plymouth are a good team but don't be deceived - they're more like a top-end League One team than a Championship side. Their goalkeeper is amazing and gets them out of a lot of jams. You will be able to play good football and get shots away. In the penalty box, relax and let it happen. I'm proud of each and every one of you, but especially the one Sandra is winking at right now. Wink." Sandra smiles but doesn't wink. She drops the papers onto a desk. She stares at them. She lets out one happy little laugh.

"Do you want to work for the rich prick who makes his people pee into bottles, or do you want to work for this wonderful weirdo?"

"The weirdo," I say, and I'm not the only one. Sandra sighs and picks up a marker.

"I've got a hangover. Plymouth play 3-4-2-1. Someone tell me what to do against it." One hand shoots up without hesitation. Mine.

I pitch the idea that we need to operate between Plymouth's lines, which is where their system's biggest flaw lies. We need an outstanding forward, I say, whose ability to find and exploit space is without parallel. Sandra jokes that I mean WibRob, but I am too obsessed with my idea to pick up on the undercurrent.

"Me!" I say, earnestly.

"I am the space invader. Don't you read the scouting reports? No, it must be me. But yes, we could also use William." I have gone to the tactics board and I'm moving the magnets around.

"We need a double pivot and double free role forwards."

"We only have one DM," says Sandra.

"Youngster and Magnus," I say, confused. Sandra pulls a face.

"If you think I'm going to use Youngster in a match I've explicitly been told not to, we need to get a psychologist here as a matter of urgency."

"I'm fit to play," says Youngster.

"He's fit to play," I say, nodding. Sandra's face sets and I feel the ice cracking under my feet.

"Okay, single pivot," I say, quickly.

"Plymouth play a lone striker. We can start with three CBs. One DM. Two CAMs. Henri's, er, our only striker. Or did I -?" I look around. Tom's in the room but he's in Wales. I should have remembered Ziggy but he had the day off. I put the key magnets into position and spread the rest across midfield. The result is hideously ugly.

"Three one three two one," I say. I hate what I have done and said.

"You've got four players in a vertical line," Sandra says, which is pretty much the most hurtful thing I've ever experienced.

"Take out the third centre back," suggests Zach Green. I frown. Of course we need three centre backs. We're away from home. But I try it. I slide it up to the DM slot, but we don't have anyone who can play there. I keep going until the spare player is in midfield.

"Two one four two one," I say. It's better but it's insane and it's still ugly as sin.

"You've got two vertical lines of three."

"This is hard," I say.

"I thought I had it clear in my head but there are so many limitations. How do you do it?" She makes a little noise.

"I do this and then I let the boy wonder take the last step. I just want to say that if Max knew we were looking at formations with a back two he would be deeply happy. Here's what we're going to do." She adjusts the magnets line by line.

"Flat back four. DM. Two central midfielders. Henri lone striker. Two right wingers." There's one of those breaks we get a lot at Chester where we don't know if we are being pranked. Someone says something along the lines of "Say what?" Sandra grins - it's the Max grin! She slides the two right wing magnets all the way over to the left.

"And two left wingers." She slides them into the middle.

"And two CAMs. Pascal will drift around and William will follow him like a page boy." The image makes everyone laugh. I say, "Pep would not approve." She shrugs.

"Pep has a fifty-million pound defensive midfielder who doesn't even get on the bench. I've got Pascal Bochum's brain." She taps one of the magnets.

"You're going to find space. You're going to attack the space. That's our advantage." She taps the WibRob magnet.

"And I'm going to double that advantage."

"This is crazy," I say, but I regret it.

"I apologise." Sandra doesn't mind my doubts.

"Is it crazy?" I wave at the board and my mouth flaps open and closed.

"I don't know." She claps her hands - the discussion has sobered her up - and shouts, "Let's go see how crazy it is! Pitch one in five."

"Pitch one's a bog," says Vimsy.

"Pitch three in five," says Sandra. She's giddy with excitement. She's going to put out a wild formation after only three days of preparation in the biggest match of the season. If she's our new manager after the takeover, it's fair to say that Max's spirit will live on.

Saturday, January 4, 2025 It's five hours to Plymouth and we stop twice to stretch our legs and walk around. On the way, I let YouTube choose what I listen to. It picks Fanta Vier and that's fine by me. I genuinely believe that German hip-hop is the best in the world. I check the top comment. It reads: wer ist noch in 2024 hier? Of course I think about Max and his peculiarities. Some are funny, some are not. Noticing that YouTube comments are universally inane is funny.

Leaving us on the eve of an important cup match is not funny. But the more I consider it, the more I find myself on his side. The takeover is a betrayal. Max rescued this club from oblivion. The fans should have more respect. They should rise up against the invaders like white blood cells. Instead, they welcome the virus. It is only human to feel resentment. We get to Home Park and I go through my pre-match ritual. The pitch is 79 strides by 54 strides. The surface looks good but it will cut up very easily.

The stands are a mix of modern and traditional. We will enter the pitch before kick off to the tune of Semper Fidelis. The referee's name is Mark Drysdale. He has given three reds and eighty yellows in twenty-two matches this season, very slightly stricter than average. He does not respond well to my handshake. I blame Max; everyone thinks he will paraglide into the stadium shouting 'replay' on a loudhailer. Perhaps he will. I shut out extraneous noise and focus on my stretches.

Other players look around when they are warming up. I do not. I am laser focused. I am professional. But then I hear it.

"Sandra Lane's blue and white army!" There are thirteen hundred Chester fans behind the goal in the Barn Park End. They have been starved of football and they are ready to make some noise. It is the wrong noise. It's another betrayal. I regret to inform you that I lose some of my equilibrium. I stride closer to the mob, while Glenn and Vimsy panic and shout and come after me. Every stride closer to the betrayers makes me more furious. I cross the gap between the grass and the boards and leap over.

The fans are right there. They are happy to see me but the feeling is not mutual. I am spluttering and can't make myself clear. I can't articulate what their betrayal means to me. If they reject Max, they reject me. It's not Sandra's army, I want to explain. This is Max's team. Don't sing about Sandra in the last match before the takeover is decided. Whose side are you on? Choose now and choose wisely.

Instead, while the nearest fans ask if I'm okay and Glenn tries to pull me away, I reach deep inside and come up holding a bright, gleaming banner. I scream, "Max Best's blue and white army!" Glenn's hand leaves my arm and returns clasped around my shoulder. We're an instant band of brothers and he's screaming with me!

"Max Best's blue and white army!" The fans turn on a pfennig. They scream it back at me. At us - the whole team is with me. Behind me. Behind Max. The fans are with us. In front of us. Around us. There's a surge. We're united. We are one seething mass. Across the stadium, the home fans are laughing but the ones closest take a few steps away. They sense the tear in the fabric of normality. Chester are here.

For twenty minutes we dismantle Plymouth Argyle in their stadium in front of their fans. The away fans start at a ten for volume. They are what Max likes to call feral. On the pitch it's all crunching tackles and slick passing moves that end with the ball coming to me, me combining with William to get behind the defence or to keep the ball - William lets me make the call - with Plymouth frantically filling in gaps, closing stables after the horses have bolted. Henri is playing the best I've ever seen him.

There was the Farsley match when Max was in a coma and Henri took his worries and frustrations out on our opponents, but that was in tier six. Today he's playing to the same level but against a Championship defence. He is strong, fast, and his decision-making is on point. There's a move where I drift into space and combine with William. Defenders come to intercept and I slip the ball forward. Henri holds the ball up, returns the pass, and I touch it to William. He blasts the ball just over from outside the box.

He put a little too much on it, but against this goalkeeper you have to. The applause from our fans is ear-splitting. There's a move where Henri wins a header, chases after it, bullies a defender, keeps the ball long enough for me to get up in support. I sprint down the line, ready for the pass, but Henri retreats and clips it square to WibRob. It's chin height - William jumps, chests it forward, and takes two defenders out of the equation. I scramble to get back onside.

Will lays the ball off to me and surges into the box. I hit the return pass first time. He lifts it over the keeper... But the goalie gets a thumb to it and it goes for a corner. Max has been raving about this goalkeeper ever since I met him and now we know why. Plymouth's bench are losing their minds. They can't believe what we are doing to them. They are trying to change their formation but the players aren't taking on board the information. We are frazzling them.

The incident that decides the game happens after twenty-one minutes. It's another slick passing move. Wisey and Andrew Harrison are the CMs and they know their limitations. They don't try to do things they can't do. What they can do is play a five-yard pass. The ball never stops. It circulates from the CMs to Magnus at DM. Of the back four, Glenn is the least comfortable on the ball but Plymouth don't try to exploit the fact.

Eddie, Zach, and Carl are perfectly capable of retaining possession and our formation means we always have an option. Sometimes I sense danger and make a run that distracts a midfielder who might join the press. We keep the ball, I run to the left, we keep the ball, I run to the right. WibRob follows me, and suddenly I see it!

"Go left," I scream, and he puts his head down and sprints. He looks like our main goal threat and Plymouth's men shuffle across.

"Zach!" I shout, as I point. Zach plays the ball exactly where I want it. I could let it run through to Henri but Max hates those moves. He wants me to take responsibility on the ball. So I do. I work an angle and pass to Henri. William senses my intention and he makes another head-down sprint straight across the defensive line. Every defender he passes is drawn to his wake. I sneak left, then cut forward diagonally. Henri has read my mind. I'm clean through on goal!

The keeper comes rushing out and this is it - my chance to get him sent off. If Plymouth lose their best player and have to play seventy minutes with ten men, they are done and we are into the Fourth Round of the cup. Max can use the money to strengthen the team. We can prove we don't need an investor. I knock the ball past the goalie and fling myself over his outstretched arms. Our fans go beyond feral. They are barely restrained id-filled skeletons.

But the goalkeeper has made a split-second decision of such perfection that it outfoxes even me. At the last second - surely beyond the last second - he took his arms away and let me go. Had I stayed on my feet, I would have had an empty net. As I roll around, pretending to be hurt, I make a mental note - this keeper is exceptional in every respect. There's the usual huffing and puffing while both sets of players argue their cause. Henri points out that I had to jump for self-preservation. He's convincing.

So convincing I nearly believe it myself. In the end, the referee gives me a yellow card for simulation and a free kick to Plymouth. I must tread on eggshells so long as I'm on the pitch. My perceived cheating awakens the Plymouth fans. They go from two to eight. Not as vocal as ours, but there are ten thousand of them. Plymouth's manager sets someone to mark WibRob - rather annoying, since I'm the real danger - but it proves to be a good move. Henri tells Will to drag his marker to the left while I work the right.

This I do and do exceptionally well, but now it's only Henri and I in our moves and our attacks fizzle out. Plymouth score and it seems our chance has come and gone. Max would park his emotions until after the game. He's good at that. Too good, perhaps, given his Christmas meltdown. As we leave the pitch, I allow myself thirty seconds of self-recrimination. By the time I reach the dressing room, I am in neutral.

We are one-nil down against a superior foe. The dressing room is quiet, subdued, and thoughtful. Sandra is looking at the tactics board, sometimes moving a magnet, sometimes moving it back. Zach and Glenn are quietly bickering about how high our line should be. Henri is munching on paste and soon he will get a much-deserved thigh and calf massage from one of the physios. He is our key player. He gets the first massage. Nobody questions decisions that are so clearly right.

It is a far cry from the first time I stepped into a Chester dressing room. In those days, half time was a chaotic, noisy mess. If you weren't shouting your head off or showing how angry you were, you weren't staying in the team. You've got a knock? Run it off! Keep it tight first five. Work until you drop. Tactics? What is tactics? From that to this. The quiet time goes on and on and in that quiet, the mood changes. We wait for Sandra to come up with a new plan. We will wait until the very last second if need be.

Whatever she conjures, we will turn into reality. The fifteen-minute timer ticks down, down, down, but there's no drama. No tension. We are Chester and we live life to our own rules. Sandra is starting to smile and nod as she comes close to a decision. Will she lead us to triumph or disaster? Will I get subbed off? I'll probably get subbed off. It matters a lot, but some things matter more. I feel the spirit within me, as Youngster would say. I tip my head back and say, "I love it!"

There are some confused looks, some chuckles. Sandra seems happy for the distraction.

"What do you love, Pascal?" I stand up and look around. Most people think my head's gone but Henri's eyes are twinkling, Zach is nodding hard, and Ryan is seeing me in a new light. Those three get it. They really get it. I find I'm so excited and so tongue-tied that some words come out in German.

"We slapped them all over their home stadion for twenty minutes! We were one scheisse call away from watching their best player get a rote card! This is the best we've ever played and I love it! I love thinking about the match I love talking about it I love being professional!" Sandra looks down.

"I love it, too." She lifts her head and looks into the future, but the future is for another day.

"We got some joy with our double denim," she starts.

"Double dragons," I say.

"Double trouble," says Henri. Sandra says, "Max is good at those names, isn't he? We can describe it to him and see what he comes up with. They're onto us, though. I've got some ideas but honestly nothing that really gets the heart rate up, do you know what I mean? I'm open to suggestions." I look around the room. It's not just the starters but the subs. What can we do? What would Max do?

"Miss!" I cry.

"Yes?"

"Four one four one! Max's favourite! We don't need to blow them away. We can stay compact when they're on top and slap when we're having our moments. Taking potshots on this goalie is futile anyway. We need to get to the byline and do cutbacks. He can't save a tap-in on the goal line."

"Four one four one," says Sandra, quite happy.

"You know what? I love it. If we go out, we go out playing Max Best football. Everyone okay with that?" We were. Very.

"Need to sub someone off to get Aff on. Pascal. That little dive of yours. Would you do it again?" I shake my head.

"The percentages have changed. It's a bad play, now." She gets pensive. I'm not quite sure what she's thinking or why, because she says, "Max bet his whole career on you." I'm absolutely crushed. She's disappointed in me. She thinks I've let Max down. I bottle the feeling up and I will open that bottle precisely never.

"Are you going to sub me off?"

"What?" she says, as though coming back from a long distance.

"What?" she says again. She thinks about what I said.

"Fuck that! I want to win." I return to the pitch so pumped and so ready to impress Sandra Lane that I think about going to the fans to change the song back. But I go to the right of midfield. Aff has replaced WibRob and while the young man is talented, Aff is currently a superior player in every respect. I look around the pitch at my teammates and my confidence swells to absurd levels. We can do this.

Plymouth have been told to come out flying and kill us off. Most of their attacks crash against us. There are some hairy moments. Ben is out of position and his handling is spotty. Glenn tries hard but he is outmatched. Eddie is steady but his opponent is a livewire. We lose duels, we lose the ball, but we never lose our shape and slowly, we get back into it. Zach feeds me balls so I can dart behind the defence. I decide to retreat with the ball, eschewing Henri's runs.

Our defenders need a break from the constant work. We are fit but nowhere near as fit as a Championship team. Wisey has not played with Andrew Harrison much, or ever, even in training, but he has already found he can trust him. While Andrew covers, Wisey pushes forward to create overloads on the left. Aff, Wisey, and Eddie Moore put together a few slick passing moves that open Plymouth up. Fifteen minutes have gone and the National League team is still right in this.

Plymouth are struggling in the Championship and their fans don't trust the team. The players don't trust each other. The more we attack, the more we change the mood in the stadium. I decide I have misread the game state and Max would want me to attack relentlessly to press home this potential advantage. The next time I get the ball, I turn back towards Carl and shape to pass to him. The defender closest to me relaxes. I backheel the ball to myself and sprint down the line. There's no-one near me!

I cut into the penalty box. That defender is going to slide in and I could easily run into his boot. Easily! I've been given one yellow card for exaggeration already. I switch plans. I push one more yard forward and fake to cut the ball back. The keeper falls for this one. He's human after all! I roll it square. Henri is there. He needs to kick the ball with approximately one joule of force. He smashes it like a nuclear bomb.

The net bulges and he runs off doing the celebration he does when he is totally out of his mind. He hops and skips and flaps his hands around. He runs to the away fans. The British call this scene simply 'limbs'. Not, there were limbs everywhere. Just one word: limbs. I could sue the club for making me work in an ultra-loud environment. Our belief is sky-high. Plymouth are rocking. We do battle for the rest of the half but neither side can land the decisive blow. At full-time, it's one-all. We will have extra time.

Thirty more minutes and potentially penalties. In these situations we do not go back to the dressing room but stay out on the pitch. Sandra gets us into a circle and says she loves the shape and the quality. She wants to use three subs - Steve for Glenn, Cole for Eddie, Sharky for me. I don't like it but they are logical changes. She wants to save her last sub for Ryan. No-one can argue with that. He has been out of the team for almost a year.

Every player dreads such an injury and every player is happy to see him back. We are riding high, raring to get back to it, when the fatal words are spoken. It's Zach, of course, but it's the most innocuous mistake. He's merely saying something they were probably saying on Seals Live. Probably every fan was saying it. But as a team, it hadn't entered our thoughts. Now it does.

"Heh. We should be going to a replay, now!" That was all he said. A simple, bare statement of fact. After ninety minutes, the score was one-all. Under the new rules we had to keep playing until a winner was found, but under the old rules, the ancient rules, we would have taken Plymouth back to the Deva for a rematch. More money for the club. More glory for us, since if we played like this again we would have been favourites.

Max's campaign against the Football Association had seemed childish to me, but now it truly hit home what he was fighting for. We had been denied the chance to achieve a sporting miracle so that a handful of greedy football clubs could put their arms around more of the coins in the vault. The FA had betrayed their duty to clubs like Chester. No wonder Max exploded when we doubted him.

He's trying to pick a team that can beat Ebbsfleet while creating a career path for a right-footed left back while fighting a battle against the dark forces that threaten to squeeze the beauty out of the beautiful game. And we whinged about it. Another betrayal. The match resumes and the lads mechanically go up for headers and try to create overlaps and overloads. They shuffle and slide dutifully but I can see from how the boys play - the air has spilled from our sails.

Against a team three divisions higher you need to be perfect. You can't be distracted. You need to be completely in the moment and not thinking about the meta. We're thinking about the meta. Plymouth score and pay us the considerable compliment of retreating behind the ball. We would normally have a real go at them, but today we don't. We take long shots that the keeper catches or watches sail over the bar. Our final shot count is impressive but our xG is not. We don't play good football in extra time.

With five minutes to go, Sandra sends Ryan Jack to the touchline for his first minutes since his injury. Thirteen hundred Cestrians, plus the eleven on the pitch, plus all of us in the dugout, plus, I like to think, two English tourists in Tenerife, stand and applaud. Ryan doesn't show any emotion. He'll bottle it up for the next five minutes at least. He scampers around the midfield looking every inch a thirty-six year old man who has had a cruciate injury.

"My God," says a physio on the Plymouth dugout. I'm stood nearby because it's closer to the away end.

"He's only been on for five seconds and he looks in pain already. I hope he's all right."

"Don't worry," I say.

"That's just his face." The final whistle goes and there's relief from the home fans and players. I follow my comrades to the away end and applaud them for their support, but I'm wary. In a couple of weeks they will have the choice to do the right thing or to betray us. I have no idea what they will decide. How is such a thought even possible? We go to the dressing room and Sandra tells us that the next home match has officially been postponed. We will play again on the 14th. An easy match in the Cheshire Cup.

Get showered, get some food in you, it's a long road home. On the bus I am feeling low. We are out of the cup. Ryan is back in our team but life is on hold. Will this be my year? I am tormented by doubts. I open YouTube and go to the next video in the German hip-hop playlist. The top comment reads: wer ist noch in 2025 hier? Who is still here in 2025? That's what I want to know.