Chương 63: 10.13 - Gateshead Revisited

13. Part One - Et in Manchester ego Six Days to Gateshead"Right, so in summary, this is a big week for us," I said, not quite knowing how prophetic those words would be. I was at the front of the meeting room at BoshCard and my entire playing squad - no, not him - plus the coaching staff, MD, and a couple of board members were in attendance. Brooke had invited herself and was drinking from a gaudy flask with a large T set inside a star.

A great conversation starter for any Texans in the area who might need an excuse to talk to her. I gave her an amused glance and continued.

"So let me do something I normally hate - repeat myself. It's our first week without a Tuesday night game since the rains of winter. Gateshead are the last difficult match - after that I'm banking three wins. We need to put everything into this week. Sandra and I are leaning towards 3-4-3 but left backs, you fucking know I might need you so keep the standards, please. I'm counting on every one of you to be ready to step up because you know what happens.

This is Chester and there's always batshit crazy stuff going down. The fans are with us big time and we might get close to capacity. This isn't the week for sulking! Unless it's me doing it, right Sandra? Er, what else? Yeah, don't waste energy going through the permutations. We know we're up against two sound teams and they've got a couple of tricky fixtures. Endlessly doing the maths is a fool's errand. We focus on ourselves. Don't get sucked into all the if we beat them and they draw and they this and we that.

It's really draining! Leave that to God or the universe and stay positive. Stay focused on our job and that's Gateshead. They battered us at their place but we're better now and we're at home and we're going to blow their bloody doors off. Good. Youngster, coaches, Wisey, can you stay back for a second?" Most of the lads got up and flip-flopped back to the dressing room to get their boots and head out to the grass pitches, finally in something like good condition.

I was slightly surprised that Sticky and Aff hung back, too. Aff came to me first.

"Quick one, boss. We still on for Wednesday?"

"Yes, absolutely."

"Deadly."

"Is she already over?" Aff's mum, on hearing that he was close to signing for a new club, had put the deal on hold until such time as she could speak to me face to face. This tiny, meaningless delay in the signing of the contract wasn't pivotal by any means, but I do sometimes wonder what might have happened if the Aff and Carl deal had been signed even just a few days earlier.

"She is, yeah. She's already cleaned me flat twice. Maniac, she is. Place reeks of bleach."

"I'll tell her not to clean the day before a match." I expected a laugh, but Aff nodded.

"That'd be grand, boss. She'd listen to you. You walk on water in her eyes." He did a tiny, regretful smile.

"One time I only told her you were mithering me about that yellow I got for kicking the ball away."

"I don't remember that."

"Exactly! Exactly! But it's all she talks about. You said there's no point kicking the ball away because they don't take quick throw-ins and if they do, let them, they merely adopted the darkness, we were born in it."

"Right! I remember it now."

"She's obsessed with it. After every match I get a call. First question, how'd you get on? Second, did you get booked? Did you kick the ball away?" He did some tiny head shakes.

"She'll probably mention it."

"Am I allowed to tease you?"

"Sure I wouldn't mind but she won't laugh. She's deadly serious about my playing."

"Deadly serious. Okay, be off witcha." Sticky also jumped the queue. He took me to the side and murmured.

"Max, there's a club who wants me for next season. Can we talk after training?" Sticky leaving? This was a gut punch but for once I was able to compartmentalise my disappointment.

"Sure. Come see my new megatactic. Tell me what you think." I walked over to the tactics board and waved everyone in. The magnets were laid out in a 3-4-3. I looked around at the raft of coaches we had available: Sandra, Well In, Vimsy, Jude, Spectrum, the Brig, Elin, and - for one of the last times, it seemed - Sticky.

"As I said, Gateshead are a passing team. They're the only team in this league who are as mental about passing, attacking football as we are. Their manager does a 3-4-3 variant with two of the strikers often dropping, so it's 3-4-2-1. I'm thinking if we're getting overrun between defence and midfield, we drop Youngster to DM. But that would leave us with a big ugly hole in the centre so I'd like to have a look at this." I touched the middle magnet of the three centre backs and moved it to DM.

"2-1-4-3?" said Spectrum.

"That's a new one. Please stop inventing new formations." He peered at the board.

"It's like your 2-6-2 but even more attacking."

"It's a question of risk and reward," I said.

"I've been thinking about it pretty hard and I think we need to win. This isn't a slam dunk but it might be our best chance of scoring goals and then it's a question of can we stop enough of their attacks while we're at it? Gateshead want to pass through us and if we put Youngster there he's going to mop up loads of attacks. Aren't you, mate?"

"Yes, Mr. Best," said the man in question.

"Having him in his natural slot is immense. I think the net effect will be that we gain control of midfield, cut out most of the attacks that they muster, and we've still got three strikers." Sandra looked dubiously at the board.

"Your 2-6-2 was against weaker teams, wasn't it? It's objectively crazy but it's Max crazy."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning it makes sense whether we want it to or not." The others laughed.

"I don't think we can do this against a team as good as Gateshead, Max. Not unless we're desperate. You might as well call it Hail Mary. It's throwing the ball high up and hoping someone catches it." We stared at the magnets like we were reading tea leaves, hoping to be told the future.

"I just think the third centre back doesn't get enough work."

"But when he does, it's to cut out a goal." I did an annoyed, amused head shake.

"The situation is maddening. The permutations. How much risk do we take? The three games are kicking off at the same time so we have to guess. What's good is we can do 3-4-3 and switch to a back four with Aff at left back, no subs needed. But this Hail Mary might be our go-to in the last ten minutes. Please try it out in the sessions so we can take a proper look at it. Good? Good." They left, chattering away at a mile a minute. Then it was just me and James Wise.

"Wisey. How you doing?"

"I'm nervous."

"About the game? That's not like you."

"About this chat." I laughed.

"Nothing bad, I promise. Your house, your family, it's down in Eastleigh, isn't it? South coast. Four hours one-way."

"Yeah." I nodded and pushed a finger against my lips.

"I'm thinking ahead. I want to buy a house. But where? I work in Chester - for now. That could change, right? My mum's in Manchester."

"Do you go to see her?" he said.

"Course I do. Et in Manchester ego. That's Latin for 'I am also in Manchester'." He gave me a blank look.

"It's from a book Henri was telling me about called Brideshead Revisited. Do you know it? The main character is called Captain Ryder! Anyway, yes I go to see her. I'm going with Aff this week." This was as incomprehensible as the Latin.

"With Aff?"

"And his mum. She wants to meet my mum and she won't take no for an answer. I decided to let it happen because I need Aff firing against Gateshead more than I need my mum to not meet a rando. But my house. If I can be near Manchester that's great. My girlfriend's family's in Newcastle. If my house is in Chester, it's gonna be a short drive to work. If it's in the Golden Triangle - you know, Alderley Edge and that with all the lads from City and United - it's close to civilisation but it's an hour's drive to work.

I would basically be a commuter as long as I was Chester manager, but I'd be in the middle of the country and I'd save on drives to other places. And if I was Man United manager, that'd be convenient."

"You as Man U manager? The Athletic would melt down. Think of the stories." I smiled and looked around at the shittest meeting room in Britain.

"This is a better story." I got back to my question.

"You travel up and down the country all the time. What would you do if you were me?"

"I'd write James Wise first on the team sheet every week. But, er, yeah. I'd live in Chester. Close to work. Glenn lives between BoshCard and the Deva and when everyone else is in a traffic jam he's in bed or spending time with his kids. It's... yeah. That's what I'd do. If you change jobs later, move house. Easy."

"Mmm," I said, leaving a pause.

"Uh-oh," he said. I gave him a playful punch on the shoulder - feather-light because we weren't superfriends.

"Come on! I said it wasn't bad. Look, you know I'm going away this summer and I want to get as much stuff as possible done beforehand. I've got the Brig, Ryan, and Fleur scouting free agents I might want to sign. You know, background checks and getting references and talking to former teammates and everything so that if I'm out of the country we can get deals done. We don't know what league we're gonna be in, which makes things harder. I mean, I know which league, but I can't say that to some outsider, can I?

Grims and Barnet are definitely gonna drop points so you can sign for us already." Wise's face lit up.

"They are gonna drop points, boss! We worked it out, me and Glenn. Grimsby are cracked, like you said. Their heads have gone and they've got to play Aldershot. That match has Judge Red, the ref who's given the most cards this season, and last time he reffed Grimsby they had men sent off and got stuffed. They'll draw at most this Saturday. Barnet are wrecked from the FA Trophy semi-final and they've got to play Forest Green. They spent big, didn't they, at the end of the transfer window?

And their signings are settling in! They're making a charge to the playoffs. They're second in the form table!" For the ten thousandth time, the thought of overhauling both clubs got my pulse racing.

"Mate, you're doing what I said not to do. Hommmm. Breathe. Hommm. Where are my relaxation crystals?" He grinned.

"Sorry, boss."

"Here's where I'm at. We're going to League Two. What's your place in the squad then? Centre mid options are Ryan, Andrew, Omari, Youngster. Magnus can drop in. So that's two olds and three youngs. I'll almost certainly want to bring in a top top CM. Someone who can score 15 goals from midfield like Raffi Brown. That's what we're missing now, goals from the centre. Christ, can you imagine if we had him this season? We would be top of the league. Urgh, forget him. I'll buy someone like that, is what I'm saying.

So you'll be a reserve. You'll get starts, sure. Ten maybe? If we've got injuries, fifteen. But I need to give minutes to the young players so they can kick on. Am I happy with you in the squad as a reserve? Billion percent, I am. But are you?"

"I'd fight for my place."

"Course you would." I rubbed my eyebrows. It felt like every player in the world was going to say the same things in this situation.

"You're driving up and down the country and not seeing enough of your family. This season I think, yeah! Put the team first. But in League Two it's going to make me feel like shit to think you're putting the effort in and not getting much back. Listen, I haven't said this to anyone, not even Sandra, okay? This is just to test the water with you. I would let you go back to Eastleigh for a decent price. They would give you a pay bump. You'd be a starter for sure, and you'd be back home.

It's just an idea I had and I couldn't really see an objection so this is me suggesting it to you now."

"You've talked to them?"

"No, I haven't talked to anyone."

"How do you know they'd give me a rise?" I laughed.

"Because you're fucking mint!" Mint was a slight exaggeration. He was CA 56, closing slowly on his maximum of 60.

"We slapped them 8-0 over two games, didn't we? They saw what we can do and they know you're starting most weeks for us. If I call them today I think they'll bite my hand off."

"What if we don't get promoted?"

"Then yeah, stay. You'll get fewer minutes because Omari will be back and I would use Dan Badford but you'd play a lot. Thing is, it might be that now's the best time to get that good contract with Eastleigh. Your stock is high."

"But I can stay?"

"Of course you can. I'm not kicking you out if that's what you think. Nah, you leaving won't be a super deal for the club, all told. It will free up a bit of salary I can use on a kid, and free up some midfield minutes for the lads, and that's obviously a big thing for what we're doing here, but I think you'd be the biggest winner. I'll negotiate your wages if you want. If they don't pony up, deal's off, forget I spoke." James was thoughtful for a minute.

"When you asked me to stay back just now I thought it might be the Gibraltar talk."

"Oh?"

"Glenn told me what you said to him and what did I think and so on. My first thought was you'd lost the plot. Glenn Ryder? Captain Fantastic? Can't play in League Two? You've cracked. But, er... He was out of the team for a spell and he came back in and I thought, ah. I see it. It's plain as the nose on your face." I kept my flappy gob shut for once. He continued.

"You think I can't play League Two?"

"I think you're exactly as good as Sam Topps. He went to League Two and started every week at first, didn't he? Jimmy Mustard loves him. But it started to wobble, didn't it? He played five in five. Four in five. Four in six. Do you get me? Mustard is a stubborn bastard. He can't drop Sam after pushing for him so hard but I think it's fair to say Sam looks decent, you know, with his work rate and energy and commitment but his numbers are underwhelming.

The data guys must be tearing their hair out when Mustard puts him in the starting eleven. For me, it's a success story - Sam got a sweet deal and he can say he played for Tranmere. There isn't a Tranmere out there looking at you, I don't think. What are your options down near your house? Aldershot or Woking. They're not gonna pay more than Eastleigh." I got my phone out and did a search.

"Woking to Eastleigh is an hour and five minutes. That's like Manchester to Chester. We're playing them in the last game of the regular season; I could pimp you to their manager and you'd boss the midfield against them and they'd want you." He wasn't really listening.

"I'd love to play in Gibraltar." My heart went a-flutter.

"Oh! Yes! Yes! That would be mint. You'd be awesome. Let's talk about that!" He gave me a strange look.

"I can't go to Gibraltar, boss. Not where I'm at. But... I wish. 300 days of sunshine, Glenn said."

"Oh. Okay. But you can't. Is it, like, schools and that?"

"Schools and that," he confirmed, in a dark tone. He looked up at the wall clock.

"I'm missing training. Can I think about it?"

"Think about it," I said. We headed towards the door. Wisey paused at the tactics board. He moved the DM back to CB, and pushed it forward again. He frowned and shook his head.

"You don't get this at Eastleigh." I smiled.

"Don't be too impressed. It might blow up in our faces."

"Don't jinx it."

"James," I said.

"We've got a week to prepare! We're one of the form teams in England. What could go wrong?"

As I jogged around, doing the minimum physical output so that if I had spare attribute growth it would go towards technique, I decided I had done a decent job with Wisey. My general, unstated aim with the men's team was to ease out players with less-than-stellar PA. The women's team would be harder. Much harder. The six I needed to cut had been with me from the start and I didn't have anything to offer them. There was no women's team in Gibraltar and they weren't even good enough for West Didsbury.

That was later, though. First, Sticky. We showered and met at Best's Bistro where I munched on chopped-up fruit and nuts until Patricia accused me of 'eating her out of house and home' and ordered me not to ruin my appetite. Sticky marvelled at her chutzpah - he was a plain-talking Yorkshireman but he wouldn't have dared boss me around like that.

"That's you told," he mumbled, when Patricia was noisily making us coffees. I grinned.

"I think she doesn't like me. She thinks she works for Brooke."

"She likes you," said Sticky.

"But you're mean to her boys. She's very protective." I nodded.

"Maternal. Do you think I'm too harsh on them?"

"On the young ones? No." He thought about saying something - it was obviously going to be about Chipper - but he decided against it.

"Okay, Max. I like it here. It's unusual but it's fun and it's good. It's really good. The facilities are no use to man or beast but you're working hard at fixin' 'em up. You've got a passion for coaching and that's made my run here a good 'un. But I've been tapped up, Max." I winced.

"Tapped up? By who? Fuck me, if you say Bristol Rovers I'm gonna bin my Yorkshire Gold and switch to Tetley's."

"What's up with Bristol? Good club, that. No, it's Bradford."

"Park Avenue?"

"Bradford City, Max." I frowned. Highly odd. The same club that was on the verge of buying Aff and Carl.

"Huh. They seem very interested in my staff."

"Don't fret, lad. Why wouldn't they be? This place should be crawling with agents and scouts like it's an ant hill. You've stuffed it with talent. Anyone with half a brain would want to carve off a slice. But I haven't agreed anything yet. It's good money, their first offer, and reckon I can get higher." He grinned.

"Specially if I play you off against each other." I did a frustrated little snort.

"You're not supposed to tell me you're doing that."

"Aye, but I'll do it, all right."

"And don't use sandwich tactics on me again. That's my move." This was pretty much a disaster. Sticky hadn't improved enough as a player to really push Ben for a place in the starting line up, but he had Coaching Goalkeepers 20 and even in League Two I would struggle to replace him. Also, he would soon hit CA 50 and the change of the starting digit would make me feel more comfortable about using him. Ben wasn't going to improve much past his current level, but Sticky had a lot of upside; he was PA 122.

"Bradford. Okay, well, it's a Yorkshire club, isn't it? That's the theme of the week. Going home." I sighed.

"This is... grim." There was more to life than me and my needs, I tried to tell myself. Had I always been such a bad liar?

"Look, I'm happy for you. You're right. Someone there has their head screwed on. That's another good move from them."

"Aren't you going to try to keep me?" I pulled a face.

"I can't get into auctions. I can give you a pay rise but you're a top goalie coach and I need to sign one, maybe two top prospects for you to work with otherwise your talents will be wasted. I need a new midfielder. I need wingers, right backs, strikers, forwards who can play behind strikers. I might need a signing-on fee for the Brazilian superstars I bring over. I've got big plans for the TV money we get. Medical stuff, a sports psychologist, more coaches and physios.

Christ, there are people who have been working for minimum wage for years and while I'm splashing out on capex they're gonna have to wait for theirs. Almost everyone here is underpaid. In the case of the players that's by design so it's easier to move them on but in your case, yeah. I can't compete with the market when there's so much that needs to be done. So... I guess I have to be realistic. I suppose it was naive to think I even had a chance of keeping you."

"Bradford's starting offer was 2, 500 a week. That's eight hundred and eighty a week more than you're giving me. Can you match that?"

"Honestly, I asked MD not to give me the numbers until after Gateshead. I wanted to delay it as long as poss because it's already stressful just thinking about the social aspect. Seeing that our budget in one scenario is 22, 000 a week and 66, 000 in the other... that's just piling on the pressure, isn't it? I can say definitively that if we don't go up, no, I can't afford that. No chance. If we do go up..." I squinted as I thought about it.

"First of all, I need a hot shot goalie for you to train up. Ben's good but he's close to his ceiling. Rainman's gonna need time and minutes. If I find the next Peter Shilton then yeah I'll break the bank for you. If you can wait till next Monday I can give you a better idea but at a guess, I don't think I can do two-five. Two-something, sure. So I know that isn't really compelling but every year we're in the EFL and we're getting the TV money I'm going to have more budget. I can give you step-ups every year.

If you stayed here for ten years you'd make way more than at Bradford."

"If we go up," he said.

"If we go up," I agreed. He was quiet then and I thought he was going to tell me he would see out his contract and wave buh-bye. He went in a different direction. He sort of hunched over, put his elbows on the table, and clamped his palms to his eyebrows. Sometimes he tore them away to gesticulate.

"Four games to go. We've got Gateshead and that's a challenge but if you want to be the best you've got to beat the best. Then it's three easy games, as you said. Ten points from four gives us ninety-four. Ninety-four. Grimsby have two games where I think they might drop points. If they get two wins, two draws, that's eight and that puts them on ninety-three. Three wins, one draw, that's ninety-five.

Aldershot will give them a good game, they've got players who can mark Danny Grant like you did, and the pressure must be getting to them. That Devon Loch stuff you did was brilliant. Harsh but funny and it sticks in the brain. It'll be eating them up inside, won't it?

"They've got to drop points somewhere. Ninety-five points, I think they'll get. So we have to beat Gateshead. Have to, Max. But there's Barnet. They're solid, like you said, but they've got the FA Trophy final looming and they've got Forest Green next. Will their lads want to save their legs for the trip to Wembley? They'll want to win the league but Wembley, Max. It'll be in the backs of their mind, won't it? Forest Green weren't all that when we played them, but they spent the FA Cup money, didn't they?

I wouldn't want to play them as they are.

"If Barnet lose one there will be two teams ahead and they might drop out of the race altogether and save their legs for a double date at Wembley." He stayed still for a moment.

"If we beat Gateshead, I reckon that will be that for Barnet. They'll be out of the running and it'll be us against Grims." He pulled his fingers down his face, leaving little traces that soon vanished. I thought he had finished, but no.

"If we draw and Grimsby win but Barnet lose..." I tapped the table.

"Sticky. It's been a chat for the ages. Don't go to Bradford. Stick with us. I'll make you rich. No hard feelings if you want to go home but if you stay here, don't book any holidays for the summer." He was still going through the same calculations and permutations the entire city was suffering through. He blinked.

"What do you mean?"

"You had time off, didn't you? So you don't need a summer break. I want you training hard. I'll hook you up with Jay-Mo for private sessions. I'll send you to Tranmere. There will be a team from Gibraltar coming over to train - you'll train with them. If you stay I'll hit my contacts as hard as poss to get you more hours at the Welsh FA or whatever I can scrounge up so you can properly compete for the number one jersey next season. Er, unless I sign a superstar goalie.

No, but you need to work hard anyway so I can rotate you in." He closed his eyes while he absorbed what I'd said. I think he was surprised that I had a plan for him beyond being an excellent coach - I hadn't used him as much as I'd wanted in recent months.

"How do you do it? How do you cope with the permutations? My head is spinning. 3 points for them, 1 point for them..."

"Oh, my head is spinning, too. Since the final whistle at Rochdale I've been a mental washing machine. From there, into the spin dryer. Yeah, I'm thinking about it but I know that we have to do what we can. Beat Gateshead and see where the chips land. Attack the week, attack the day, stay positive. If we can take the season to the final day, yeah, I'm happy with that. If we lose to Gateshead, okay, we tap out and save our legs for the playoffs." I shook my head.

"We're in a cup final and no-one talks about it. I'm not so sure people in Barnet are saying they should bin off the league to win the FA Trophy. In fact, I'm sure it's the other way round."

"You can't compare the Cheshire Cup to the FA Trophy; you don't bin off a Wembley final. And listen, they're playing Solihull in the final and they've got beef, those teams, so - Hey, Max! Max, come back!" I gave him an above-head thumbs up as I fled.

I thought cutting the women was going to be hard, and it was, until it wasn't. I started with Robyn, the third choice goalie. She had long since hit her maximum CA of 14 - far below the standards needed for the fourth tier of football. I used the sandwich technique on her and for once it bombed.

"You're letting me go. Is that it?"

"I mean, sorry, but yes. We'll be playing Doncaster Belles. Middlesborough. It's going to be brutal and I have to be ruthless."

"What about my next steps? You always give people a choice. You've got your Gibraltars and your Saltneys and your West Didsburys for everyone else. Why not me?"

"Erm. Would you relocate to Manchester to play football for free?" She rolled her eyes.

"Saltney's right there."

"There isn't a women's team."

"Then start one."

"I don't have time." She tutted.

"Get someone to do it. You can be charming sometimes. You're gonna cut loads of the OGs from Chester, right? We want to keep playing. Let us be Saltney's women's team. Easy. We get to stick together." I shook my head.

"You can be our five-a-side team if you want but I'm not cutting eighteen players. Also I'm on the hook financially and the facilities are going to be shit for a long time. I can't put a lot of resources into it right now." She scoffed.

"This is the problem with you. You want everything you do to be the best of the best. We want to play football, Max. It was nice winning every week but that's not the point, is it? We want to play. Okay we could go and do Sunday league but we've played against Leeds, against Tranmere, against Crewe and Blackpool. We want something slightly more serious than Sunday league. I do, anyway."

"Huh." I thought it through. I scanned my database - there were plenty of names not good enough for Chester who could play in whatever Welsh league a new team started in. And I was far from done scouting the local area. It'd be easy enough to put together a half-decent team. My Chester OGs plus some PA 20s.

"Just for funsies?" Robyn twisted her lips.

"90% funsies. 10% Max Best seriousness."

"Erm, just to be clear, you won't be training with Chester. Jackie doesn't like big sessions. It's a clean break."

"Right."

"And if you get injured I can't pay for a private op. You have to wait like a normo. I mean, I'd try and, you know, help. But I'm, like..."

"You'll do what you can." I got a sort of puzzled look.

"Okay so I'm gonna call the Welsh FA and tell them I've got a new team and what league can they play in? Is that how I'm gonna spend my evening?"

"Yes, Max. Because that's Chesterness."

"Huh."

"Check this out, though. Hang on." She fished in her sports bag and came up with a piece of paper. It was filled with fixtures, scorelines, crossed-out league tables.

"I've been doing some basic probabilities and I think we can draw against Gateshead and - hey! Where are you going?"

"Starting a football team. Big boy stuff. Bye!"

Four Days to Gateshead The original plan was to meet Aff and drive to Manchester together, but Chester was absolutely doing my head in. Permutations! What ifs! The whole city seemed to be experts in Barnet's head-to-head matchups and guys in cafes were telling me they'd heard from a friend who knew a guy that Danny Flash had an ankle sprain and Ed Williams had some bad lasagna and and and and and.

It was undeniably awesome and a sign of how far the club had come under my stewardship, but it was also doing my head in. Thus, I legged it to Manchester where absolutely no-one gave a shit about the National League. I went to the care home and took Solly for a long walk - he was over the moon - only returning when I got a text from Aff.

I met him and his mum - Angela, almost a comical stereotype of the overbearing Irish mother - and had a tea while I promised her Aff to Bradford was the best possible thing for him - she accepted the truth of it like I was a priest - and before we went into the home I explained how I liked new people to handle my mother. Don't make a big fuss. Low energy. Don't ask questions but make statements. Pretend you've been there for ages. Never contradict or point out a mistake.

Bend like the wind, be as nimble as a mountain goat, leave plenty of silences. Most people heard this list and it made them fearful, as though I would bite their head off if they forgot one of the rules. But when we went and joined mum and Anna for a game of cards, Angela showed that she had understood me completely. There was a new mania in the care home for bridge - the place was all bids, rubbers, courts, and somehow everyone knew the difference between the King without a Moustache and the Man with the Axe.

It wasn't for me, but Aff knew how to play and so did his mum, so that became a four-ball. They put down cards and yelled 'snap' or whatever the rules were while I sat back from the table with Solly at my feet. Time passed and I realised Angela wasn't going to break my mother. I relaxed. Anna, mum's best friend, a spiritual woman who worried I was in hot water with demonic entities, said, "Oh, fiddlesticks," and picked up all the cards, or whatever the rules were.

"Max, my boy. How is work?" Mum looked at me with a pleased smile. Pleased that I had a job, I suppose. Pleased that I had brought my Irish friend from work; mum often used to talk absolute shit about our Irish roots. She was very much like Noel Gallagher in that respect. I chose my words carefully, noting the social intelligence in Angela's eyes as I spoke.

"It's going great, actually. Really good. There are three teams having a good year and mine's one of them. Our stats are a bit behind the others but I think we can overtake them. There's a big prize at the end. A holiday."

"Oh, I hope you win," said mum.

"Course he will, Mary," said Angela.

"He's your son!" She did a rakish smile.

"He's probably got a few aces up his sleeve. Haven't you, Max?" She was accusing my mum of cheating - correctly, as far as I could tell, though I'd never caught her in the act - but mum had an almost angelic expression on her face. I said, "It's not about the winning. It's the taking part that counts. Although I did transfer to one of the other teams for a while and they weren't very friendly." Mum frowned.

"I mean," I added, "some of them. Some were lovely." This wasn't a good topic. I decided to change.

"Aff got a promotion."

"Oh, well done!" said Anna.

"Max helped a lot," said Angela.

"No," I demurred.

"Aff is top boy. Top banana. He'd have done it on his own. Everyone knows how mint he is."

"They do now," said Angela.

"Because Max keeps tellin' 'em. I'm ever so grateful, I am. He's a wonderful man. I think he doesn't know - he can't know - what it means to have a true friend in this day and age." I was getting uncomfortable.

"Well, with Aff's new position we won't exactly be friends. We will be chasing the same customers. We'll sort of be rivals, in a way."

"Don't talk rot," said Angela.

"You can fight over customers all you want but my son will never forget who lifted him up when he was down in the muck. Tell him, Aff." That got my attention! Angela had called her son 'Diarmuid' without exception, and I had hesitantly asked her to call him by his nickname so mum didn't get confused by the multiple names. The look on Aff's face suggested he had never heard the nickname out of his mum's mouth, either, and I felt an overwhelming surge of affection for them both that I couldn't show there in the home.

Aff cleared his throat.

"Ah, that's right, buh... Max." He'd nearly called me boss.

"I was thinking though."

"Yes?"

"Your team, right. They've got to, er... have good stats on Saturday. But, ah... Team G, they've got the, um, army customers to sell to. And Team B have to go to the um, vegan convention and from what I hear, there are more vegans than expected. So I'm thinking our team, that is, Team C might get a big lead on Saturday." If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

"How about," I said, smiling with my mouth and only my mouth, "we don't speculate about such things and simply do our best to delight our customers and satisfy their needs while upholding the good image of the large, multinational bank we all work for which has never committed any crimes and has not received two billion-pound plus fines in the past five years." Aff tried to follow what I was saying, but I had switched metaphors half-way through.

"Okay, but if you think about it, ten points might be enough because - ""Aff, love, shush up there. Max, I was wondering." Angela eyed me significantly and I lasered in on her.

"When you win this prize and you go on your holiday, who'll look after," she darted her eyes around, "your flat? Who'll water your plants and defrost your fridge?"

"How long will this holiday be?" wondered my mum, astonished. I wasn't sure if she was joking.

"Well," I said.

"I've got people who can do a day here or there. Someone to take the bins out," I said, looking down at Solly. He looked up at me, doleful. Me? A bin?

"But I don't want to take the pee, if you know what I mean. I try to spread it around."

"I'll help," said Aff.

"I normally take the bins out when there are joggers," I said.

"It's surprising the conversations you can have." Aff's eyes widened.

"I'll help twice a week." Angela went, "Hem hem. Sure now that's very interesting but I think we have to be going now. Max, you're coming our way, right? Will we give you a lift?"

"Oh, great. Perfect. Mum, I'll head off." I did the goodbyes, floating on air. Angela had spotted, to the second, the moment my mum had run out of gas. Outside, Angela was beaming.

"Aw, sure she's lovely. So's Anna. So's the dog. It's put me mind at rest. I'm glad I came." Aff was counting on his fingers.

"Barnet get seven points," he mumbled.

"Puts them on 92..." I hesitated, then hugged Angela.

"You were perfect. Absolutely perfect. Thank you so much."

"It's no trouble. You want what's best for your ma. Who am I to do it different? After what you've done for my Diarmuid."

"Ninety-two, ninety-three, ninety-four. No good. Got to beat Gateshead."

"Yeah but everyone tries their best and they overdo it or underdo it. You were spot on. You're a natural. You know, it's okay in there, the home, but the staff turnover rate is mad. I want stability. If I had the money I'd send mum and Anna to live with someone like you." I was just thinking out loud but the Dubhlainns froze, looked at me, looked at each other.

"What? Did I say something ignorant? Sorry." Aff put his hand on my arm.

"Ma's here because she's got time because she's been made redundant. She used to be a carer before this last job. The money was bad but she was happy. I was only saying she should go back into it, now I've got a decent wedge coming in." I was suddenly incredibly unhappy. It was like I'd found the perfect person to look after my mum if only I could afford it. But the riches I needed were still just out of reach. So near, so far. I spun my finger around.

"We'd need a house nearby, close to professional care. I'd need to pay you. Anna needs to come, too. She's huge for mum. So's Solly. That's two plus dog plus house plus decorating it in the 80s style. I'm not quite there. Another year, yeah. Um..." Suddenly Aff had his arms around me.

"Come on, boss. Come on. Let's go for a walk. You show me those joggers, yeah? Ma's gonna wait here. Find out what the options are. Aren't you, ma?"

"Yes, Aff. I'll have a poke around. Aww. Don't, son. You'll set me off, too."

Part Two - Deva Deserted One Day to Gateshead The evening air was crisp and I was walking around the side of the pitch with Emma. It was just the two of us in the entire Deva. Technically speaking we weren't allowed to have the floodlights on; I didn't give a shit. Tomorrow's match meant the world. If we won and other results went our way, I would triple my salary - don't tell Sticky - and if I started taking money from the ever-growing R. E. M.

agency, I would perhaps be able to move Angela over from Ireland and hugely increase the level of care my mum got. I mean, talk about motivation. But it was too much. Mum, dentists, the ability to sign hordes of Exit Triallists and retain the talent I had, it was all too much. I hadn't cut a swathe through two divisions by worrying and fretting about every point, every bit of goal difference. Our rise had been fun, at times silly, and we had played some extraordinary, extraordinarily fearless football.

When we had been in danger of relegation I had asked players like Glenn, Sam, and Aff to transform how they thought and to play with their cojones all the way out - not literally, that would be illegal - and the results spoke for themselves.

"Seventy thousand people are thinking in threes and ones," I said, as we walked hand in hand around the touchline.

"I haven't had a conversation all week that didn't end with people asking what the criteria were for deciding tiebreakers." Emma got shifty.

"Remind me what they are." I started to sigh but it came out more as a smile. I squeezed her hand. It was soft and cold and delicate.

"Points. Goal difference. Goals scored. Number of matches won - not many people know that one. Head to head. If all that's equal somehow, it's a playoff."

"Max," she complained.

"It's so confusing. Why are there so many things?"

"It's mostly simple. Who's got the most points? Not us. Not yet. Goal difference. We're behind but in any scenario where we catch up on points, we catch up on goal difference, too. It's all very, very close. What's not close is goals scored. We are miles ahead. Marcus Wainwright did his best but we've scored 82 goals in a supposedly bad season. We are magnificent."

"Ahem."

"Right so we'd win on that unless Grimsby went on a goal spree while we got a couple of one-nils. Number of matches won applies if you've got the same points but one team won 2 games and the other team drew 6, if you see what I mean."

"I do. They want teams to score goals and go for the win."

"Right. We would have the edge there because we didn't draw many games. We lost a lot, but we won loads."

"Boom or bust."

"Exactly. Head to head is the most confounding one. We beat Grimsby twice but lost to Barnet twice."

"So we'd rather be tied with Grimsby than Barnet."

"Well, yes, but Barnet didn't sack me and cost me fifty grand, did they? With fifty grand I could do something really nice for my mum. A place with a big garden. We could make a little adventure playground for Solly. A mini Crufts." I bent and swept my palm across the top of the grass.

"Jonny worked his arse off. I need to get him a raise. Equipment. Staff." I dug knuckles into my temples.

"The past and future press on me so hard there's little space for the present." I was starting to spiral when Emma pulled me up and turned me to face her. She put her hands on my cheeks and looked from my left eye to my right like they teach in some acting schools.

"Max. If he knew you were stressed because of him, he'd be mortified. He works for you. He's behind you. He does this so you'll be able to strut around like a peacock winding people up. You're the only manager in non-league who would ever make their star prospects grab a fork at half time and undo the damage they did celebrating goals. You're almost as much of a pitch maniac as he is. He's in absolute awe of you, same as the young players.

You're always worried they'll leave but you don't see how they hero worship you." She pushed her lips together, deliciously. I forgot most of my worries.

"You promised me fearless football."

"I did."

"Tell me what you're going to do tomorrow."

"Spoiler alert," I said.

"Tell me," she said. It wasn't a pout but it was provocative.

"Well," I said, and I found my lips were twitching like hers. I turned her to face the pitch and put my arms around her. I whispered in her ear the way she liked.

"They're expecting me to start. But I've got a little surprise for them..."

Part Three - A Twitch Upon the Thread One Minute to Kick Off The attendance was over 5, 000, the atmosphere febrile. The TV companies had chosen the matches to broadcast before this title race had developed, so they were showing precisely zero games on the day that surely had the highest density of quality, the highest stakes, the highest chance for drama. Leaders Grimsby against sixth-placed Aldershot. Second-placed Barnet against eighth-placed Forest Green Rovers.

Third-placed Chester against fifth-placed Gateshead. The potential ramifications were mind-boggling, as everyone in Chester knew all too well. I put out a 3-4-3 that would more or less match Gateshead's formation. In goal, Ben Cavanagh. CA 65. Reliable, agile, half-decent with the ball at his feet. Three centre backs. Christian Fierce, tall with telescopic legs, CA 74. Carl Carlile, CA 72. No longer in demand, but sold. Zach Green. Not for sale, but very much in demand. CA 64. Midfield.

Aff (72); Ryan Jack (62); Youngster (76); Andrew Harrison (54). Lots of legs. Lots of stamina. Lots of running. Strikers: Henri, CA 72. So completely obsessed with the title race his dream woman had slipped to second place in his list of desires. Did she resent the change? Ah, no. If you thought Brooke was thirsty... Pascal, also 72. The Magnus Carlsen of the title race permutations.

Unlike most of the squad, he had calculated the odds to scientific perfection and then got back to watching tape of Gateshead's defenders. Not just calculating the odds, then, but tilting them in his favour. This was the absolute best version of Pascal, and I had him at the absolute perfect time. Finally, the theoretical weak link of the team, Wes Hayward. Wayward Hayward, CA 47. Improving him had been beyond a slog.

When my coaches had despaired of him learning the lessons, of him ever taking a tiny pause in his dribbles to make decisions, of him getting his head up to look around him, I had listened in stony silence and taken the next session myself, lavishing Wes with attention and praise. The message: never give up. Leave no man behind. What did you say? Except Chipper? Yeah, good joke.

But seriously, we had invested hundreds of man-hours and Sandra-hours into Wes Hayward and while it hadn't exactly paid off, I tried to convince myself it didn't matter. His pace caused conniptions. I had never seen a defence that wasn't bolstered in some way by a midfielder once Sharky had gone from halfway to the byline in three seconds flat. The guy's speed was its own reality distortion field. The curse rated Gateshead as CA 72. We were CA 66. 4.

Our absolute peak, if I had selected Eddie Moore instead of Sharky, was just shy of 68. That is to say, our best eleven, excluding myself, was the eighth best in the National League. Make of that what you will. My bench was Sticky (48), Glenn (54), Wisey (56), Wibbers (47), and myself. Sandra wanted to put Magnus on the bench instead of Wisey, and that made sense because he was a little better and much more versatile, but I had a gut feeling that excluding Wisey completely after my talk would do lasting damage.

I couldn't find a way to get a left back on the bench, so if Aff got injured I would be the only guy who could do a defensive job on the left. The starting line up was a risk. The subs bench was a risk. The kind of risk I had been taking since the day I was cursed. One thing I was fairly sure about: This was the strongest squad since the death of Chester City. It felt good. It felt right. What could go wrong?

45' Extract from Seals Live Boggy: The ref blows his whistle. Half time at the Deva Stadium! That was a stupendously exciting forty-five minutes, but one which did not go the way of the hosts. A neat move from Gateshead was tucked away by the dynamic forward Oli Thompson, thought to be admired by Chester manager Max Best. Christian Fierce equalised with a savage header from an Aff corner, and carnage ensued. It was entertaining, perhaps to an extreme.

Watching Gateshead was like watching Chester from the end of last season when teams melted under the heat of their passing brilliance, but today's Chester are doing to Gateshead what Gateshead are doing to Chester. It was all very bewildering and at times took on the form of a basketball game. Shot followed shot followed shot. A bumper crowd certainly got their money's worth.

But with results going against us, it is perhaps telling that Gateshead's second goal was met not with sorrow but with knowing nods from those fans who have not been to a Chester match in years. Hundreds have been drawn back to the Deva as EFL fever has swept the city. Those old hands were thinking: This isn't new. We've been here before. We've seen this before.

Many of these old heads last saw football of this quality in the days of Smasho and Nice One, and we can only hope they will come back, because the recent run has been truly special. Truly special. The state of affairs at half time is thus: Chester 1, Gateshead 2. Grimsby 1, Aldershot 0. Forest Green Rovers 1, Barnet 1. As it stands, Chester would finish the day on 84 points. Barnet 86. Grimsby Town 88. It has been an incredible run. An unbelievable phase in Chester's history.

The playoffs beckon, but formidable as Gateshead are, all is not lost. On Chester's bench sit Captain Ryder, James Wise, and Steve Icke, three wily old campaigners. Does the game need an old head? Take your pick! Or does it, perhaps, need an injection of chaos? Of pace, purpose, and playfulness? Please come to the stage, William B. Roberts and Max Best himself. I promise neither goals nor the result we all so fervently desire, but I feel safe in guaranteeing the second half will be compelling, one way or another.

Join us in fifteen minutes.

In the dressing room, we went through our usual routine. The walking wounded got treatment while the centre backs murmured to each other about the issues they were having. The squad's Condition rose through the break, as it always did, with very perceptible little boosts provided by the April Fuels perk. The mood was calm and quiet, but more in the direction of sombre than confident. First, the lads had heard the scores from the other matches. Second, we were close to our best but we had still been outplayed.

There were times The Tynesiders cut through us like a hot knife through melted butter. We carried some goal threat of our own, but I think everyone in the room, deep down, knew we weren't going to win. The risk-reward of our playing styles was weighted very much in Gateshead's favour. I let the quiet stretch out enough to let some of the more highly strung lads get receptive to the discussion I wanted to have with them.

"All right, lads, listen up." I started near the tactics board and walked at turtle pace around the middle bench.

"We've got to tweak something but I just want to make sure everyone hears this right now because at full time we're all gonna be high or low because of the result. That was absolutely mint, guys. No-one's playing badly, we're crisp with our passes, and there's spirit and togetherness.

"Henri gave me some notes the other day," I said, rummaging in my backpack for some pieces of white card.

"He wants me to use Brideshead Revisited as a theme for a team talk. I looked into it and it's even more obscure and weird than talking about evolving rocks and megashrimp. But you know what? Fuck it. Let's talk about a book only one of us has read."

"I've read it, too, boss," said Pascal.

"You've read that but not The Da Vinci Code. Incredible." I looked at the first card.

"Part One of the story is called Et In Arcadia Ego which is Latin for 'sorry I am unable to translate this right now.'" Henri laughed.

"Arcadia is a beautiful slice of nature. In a painting by Poussin we see a tomb in Arcadia. Even here, in the idyllic countryside, there is death."

"Jesus Christ," I said.

"Keep it light."

"Mon dieu. You're so Victorian sometimes. Death is part of life."

"Great. Fine. What's dying today? Our season? No. We're still in this and there's the playoffs. Season very much alive. Okay so that doesn't work. Next. Part Two is called Brideshead Deserted. Everyone fucks off and leaves the big house empty. Yeah, no. That's not us. There are over five thousand people in today. That's the regulars, anyone who's been to a match this season, plus a thousand more.

I reckon five hundred are totally new and five hundred used to write Chester City in the 'what's your religion' section on forms but haven't been in years. They've lapsed. They've backslidden. So what have they seen?" I stopped moving.

"That was the highest quality match in this league this entire season. You know I get bombastic with this stuff but is this the best non-league game in history? It might be. The quality is unreal on both sides. You can't like football and not love what you've just seen. We just added a permanent five hundred to our attendances." I slapped the card.

"This doesn't work, Henri!"

"It's working for me." I looked around. Okay, it was working. It didn't matter that no-one had read the book or watched the adaptation or even heard of it. It was just a platform for me to tell them how I felt.

"Okay. Part Three. A Twitch Upon the Thread. I looked up what it meant and it's from a quote. Here, guys, let me read it to you and see if it motivates you to work harder in the second half. A detective has caught a thief and he's bragging. The detective says, 'I caught him with an unseen hook and an invisible line long enough to let him wander to the ends of the world and still to bring him back with a twitch upon the thread.' Right. So the detective is the referee and the thread is his whistle.

Something like that?" Pascal said, "The detective is you, boss. The thread is our strategy. You pull on the thread and we change formation."

"Huh." I was at the whiteboard and I unconsciously slid the third centre back magnet forward into the DM slot.

"Pardon me, Pascal," said Henri.

"But the theme of Brideshead is religion. God is a fisherman and he may pull us back to him at any time he likes." Youngster perked up.

"Mr. Lyons, may I borrow your copy of the book?"

"Of course."

"You won't like it," I said.

"It's all old. There isn't a single explosion and almost no time travel." Youngster smiled.

"Do you believe in God, Mr. Best?" I checked the time. Still ages to go in the break. I needed to talk to Sandra about the second half, but I felt a distraction from the stress and pressure of the game could be welcome.

"I believe in the devil. Not sure if that means there's a God or not."

"It does."

"I think I generally live my life like there's some sort of cosmic referee. If I break the rules I might get squashed flat, that sort of thing. I don't think the guy from the book you read is what's out there, no."

"In Togo we prayed at half time. I would be happy to lead us in prayer." I did a small scoff.

"Okay I watch NFL games and both teams get into a huddle to pray and here's one thing I know for an absolute fact: God does not give a shit about the final score between the Green Bay Packers and the Cleveland Browns. How could he? Both teams have players praying for a win. If it was Christians versus heathens, yeah, that would make sense." Zach said, "Not even God loves the Browns." I think he would have liked a high five.

"God is watching you, Mr. Best" said Youngster.

"He's watching over you. He has a higher purpose for your life."

"Great, well he can start by undoing what he did to my mother."

"Mr. Best," complained Youngster. He got frustrated, but tried again.

"You can take better care of your mother by winning this game. Let us pray for victory together."

"No," I said.

"No chance. My teams will never do that. We will have Christians and Muslims and Sikhs and atheists and crystal people and things that haven't been invented yet. We're not doing eight different pre-match prayers and we're certainly not only doing one. It's all or nothing, and I think it's obvious what the best alternative is. We don't pray to win, we train to win. So you pray before you train. Lord, help me be the very best I can be in this fast feet drill. Do you get me?" He gave a sad little nod.

I looked down at my card.

"What was the phrase again? A twitch upon the thread. It's a beautiful image, by the way. Okay, so if I'm on God's fishing line, he needs to give it a little twitch, because - " The DM magnet jumped off the tactics board. I stared at it, stupefied. I examined the back of the frame and peered down at the floor to see if someone had thrown something. Sandra said, "I don't think God likes your new formation." I bent to pick up the magnet and placed it on the board. It stuck. I pulled it from side to side.

It was solidly on there.

"Er..." Henri also came to check the back of the tactics board. He frowned and after a moment, slid all the magnets off to the side.

"I agree with God. We're not ready for this." I started to slide the magnets back.

"3-4-3 is our best chance for a win. We all did the maths, God knows we did. A draw today's as bad as a defeat. We have to go for it."

"A draw isn't as bad as a defeat, Max. Perhaps my wonderful theme can help you decide." He reached out and took my cards. He skimmed through and handed them back.

"You only read the Wikipedia article. One of the other key themes is that of home. Captain Ryder gains and loses a home. A sick man returns home to die." I stopped fussing with the magnets and spoke in a low, dreamy voice.

"Footballers go home. I build a home for my OGs. I buy a home for my mum. Chester go home - to the football league." I stared at the magnets and the white space around them. What was home when it came to formations? 4-4-2? Please. No, I knew straight away what the universe wanted me to do. It didn't make sense, though. If I made this change the entertainment value would be cut by 80% and our odds of winning would fall by a similar amount. We could win the second half one-nil and get a draw. A draw was useless.

White space. White for angels. Angela. An Irish angel. If we scored one, we could score two. Maybe. Not very likely. The change I was contemplating meant we would get a draw at best. A draw! It wasn't me. But our title charge was on its last legs and it was time for a deathbed conversion. One point was better than none. I took a leap of faith. I stood in front of the whiteboard, blocking the view from most of the players. I grabbed two magnets and swept them across, then two more, two more.

"Home," I said, stepping away.

"We don't even need to make any subs. That's how good we are."

"4-1-4-1," said Vimsy, as though smiling at an old friend.

"Aff goes to left back. Pascal left mid, Sharky right. Easy. We will get a grip on midfield, cut down the number of attacks from both sides. We'll slow things down, build attacks, take the sting out of the game."

"Control," said Sandra.

"Control, that's it. Okay so the full backs are going to have to stay back so it'll be hard to slap. Without the full backs bombing forward, Henri will be isolated. We're not going to have twenty shots in the second half." I closed my eyes. Was this right?

"Gateshead might get two shots. We'll get four. That's..." It wasn't just a question of mentality. We could go hell for leather and probably lose. Attacking a team who were better at attacking wasn't smart. It wouldn't pay the bills.

"That's the best we can do. Forget the other scores, like I said. We need to do what we can do. This is us for the second half." I nodded, getting more confident.

"Ryan and Andrew, put a shift in. Can we tire their CMs out? I'll put Wisey on when you get tired. I'll replace the other one myself. I'll do a Raffi Brown impression." Sandra shook her head.

"Max Best, box to box midfielder?"

"Yep. I need to think if I can do twenty-five minutes or half an hour. Lads, we control the game, yeah? Youngster, don't be afraid of the scoreboard. That's our ball. Go backwards if you need to. Absolutely fine with that. We'll take a bit more risk when I bomb forward, yeah? I'll support Henri in the box, we slap down one wing, the other winger backs up on the other side. Full backs stay back. We will get three, four, five big chances, but the most important thing at all times is to keep a solid rest defence.

Youngster, I don't want you crossing halfway, okay? They don't get another break this game. That's the foundation and we see what we can build. Everyone happy with that?" I picked up the notes I'd made about Brideshead Revisited and smiled.

"Here's a quote that's actually useful! No one is ever holy without suffering. No one ever won three points without suffering. Let's fucking go." Glenn and Christian Fierce clapped and yelled and the lads followed them out. Youngster pulled Zach to the side.

"God loves the Cleveland Browns." Zach didn't blink.

"I know he does, y'all. Hey, I'll pray with you." Youngster turned to look at me. I said, "You don't need my permission, dude. Not in here, though." They left. The Brig and I were the last ones in the dressing room. I asked him to step out for a second. When I was alone I slid my hand around the back of the tactics board, finding nothing out of the ordinary. I compared the DM magnet with the others. They were identical. If I was ever going to pray, it was then.

I settled on taking the DM magnet, the one that had jumped. The Brig bodyguarded me along the corridor and I emerged into the Deva where thousands of people were hoping to have a religious experience of their own. I tried to stick the magnet onto the side of the dugout but it wasn't magnetic.

"I'll hold it for you," said Vimsy. My staff and I stood almost shoulder to shoulder in the technical area as the second half got underway. One by one we retreated into the dugouts. It was going to be a long forty-five minutes.

50' Boggy: Fascinating start to the second half, this. Chaos has been replaced by order. Chester's formation allows them to dominate the sides. Gateshead have three forwards who like to drop and find spaces between the lines but Youngster has been stationed there and Oli Thompson is finding it much harder to get involved. I would go as far as to say Chester are on top, although that comes at a cost. They haven't produced much in an attacking sense, though it is early days. Harrison with a good tackle.

He gets up and there's a second collision. Hayward pounces on the stray ball. He's in acres of space on the right! The crowd rise. Hayward, er... Lyons slips. Hayward, head down, five yards from the byline. He crosses! There's no-one there! He didn't even look. The crowd groan. Lyons shrugs at Hayward. What are you doing? Thousands more have the same question. Hayward's head drops. Lyons spots it. He jogs across, arm around the winger. Lyons gestures to the crowd. They're on their feet! Goosebumps.

Lyons is revving them up and they're responding. He gives the winger one last piece of encouragement and jogs back to the centre. Hayward walks alone down his wing. Not alone! He's getting a standing ovation. Standing O as Zach Green calls it. What a day.

55' Sustained spell of pressure from Gateshead. They are passing it around with ease. Oli Thompson drops short and gathers on the half turn. He glides away from Youngster. Thompson checks for movement in the box. Youngster is blocking the angle. Thompson continues his dribble. He fakes to retreat but bursts forward. Youngster is next to him. Thompson brings the ball into the box. Youngster must be careful now! Thompson can't find a cross. He tries to nutmeg the defensive midfielder.

Youngster brings the ball away and passes left. The home fans love it. 60' Boggy: Aff feeds Bochum. The German touches back and sprints. Aff chips down the line. Bochum dabs the ball forward and skips a sliding tackle. He's in space! Lyons comes to give an option - no! He darts to the far post. Bochum looks isolated. Ryan Jack is closest but he doesn't have the legs to get there. Aff would normally support but he has been told to stay back, it looks like. Bochum assesses, touches the ball left, left again.

He has turned all the way around! Passes to Jack. Harrison. Youngster. The young man checks his options. He waves. Settle down! He rolls the ball to Carlile and Chester build again. There's a murmur of discontent from the crowd, but applause from the Harry McNally! The women's squad is there; they understand better than most. The applause spreads. Fans: Chester! Chester! Boggy: Patience from the home fans! Trust the process! And with that they have summoned the High Priest of Chesterness! Max Best goes to warm up.

He should jog past me in a moment. Let's check his expression. Hmm. Unreadable. Is that tension? He turns to the main stand. Hands pressed together in prayer. He kisses his fingertips and sends the kisses into the stand! Big smile from the manager! Yes, that's definitely... one way to address the tension. 61'"Replacing number 19, Ryan Jack, number 8, James Wise." 62' Chester 1 Gateshead 2. Grimsby 1 Aldershot 0. Forest Green Rovers 1 Barnet 1. 65' I gave Andrew Harrison a high ten as I replaced him.

"Get that ankle checked out," I said. I jogged next to Wisey and asked him for his assessment of Gateshead.

"They're amazing," he said.

"Top outfit. Why aren't they top of the league?" I smiled.

"I'll show you." 66' While I was getting up to speed in the match I was also experimenting with our left-hand side. I had two main options for how to use my deformation. One was to push Aff from left back to left wing back. The other was to move Pascal one zone further forward to be more of a true winger. I decided pretty quickly that I preferred the latter. Gateshead had tricky forward players and it wasn't smart to give them more room to exploit. Pascal would be our out ball.

I set up the WibWob screens and created hotkeys so that when we were out of possession, Pascal would play a normal role, but as soon as we got the ball I would switch him to go further forward. I created a hotkey for Sharky, too, so I could mix things up. Since his wasteful cross, he had been playing safe. He was still useful to the team because Gateshead were afraid of his pace, but I didn't hold out much hope of Sharky creating anything. If Gateshead scored again I would replace him with Wibbers.

The young man was equally erratic at this stage of his career, was worse defensively, and was inconsistent. He could win the game for us, or lose it. Zach competed for a header and it blooped up. He was onto the second ball quickly, taking it on his chest as he ran forward past the line of Youngster. The kid automatically moved into the space Zach had left. Who taught him that? Zach sent the ball to Wisey.

"Left," I called, just before Wisey gathered. He obediently turned and weighed up his options. He played it safe to Aff. One good thing about having a winger type in the back line was Aff's willingness to play harder passes. He smacked a diagonal to my feet. I first-timed it to Pascal out on the touchline. We had carved Gateshead open and now all but Gateshead's back three seemed madly out of position. I sprinted to give Pascal an option. He played it to me slightly behind square.

I sensed a midfielder sprinting to get back to my right, so I dropped a shoulder, let the ball run through my legs, and ran in the direction of the far touchline. The guy must have got a slight touch on the ball, which was annoying because it wasn't where I needed it to be for a pass to Henri. I dabbed it left footed into my path and it rolled onto the nice patch of grass that had the injection of stitching. Boggy: Aff. Best - that's brilliant! Bochum. Square ball. Best dips, what? He's... what a dummy!

Ball sits up nice. Will he have a crack? He will, you know! Best! Ohhhh! Home Fans: [Roar.] Boggy: Just over! Away Fans: [Jeer.] Boggy: Just over the bar from distance! That was fearsome. I thought he had struck it too high - I mean, he had - but it dipped wickedly. Too late; it went over by a few feet, but he hit it from 35 yards out! The keeper was totally stranded. That's given the crowd a lift. The hope is back! The scores in the other matches are not pretty reading but there's time left.

Best is strutting around. The confidence of youth. Why didn't I have any of that when I was young? 70' Gateshead kept playing the way they played. 3-4-3 for life, though we could quibble about whether it was 3-4-2-1. Their orthodoxy was the pass. They had phases where they kept the ball for long stretches, but when they went to our left I supported Pascal in his pressing and we caused turnovers. When they got near Youngster it was an almost guaranteed interception. The ball was attracted to him like a...

Like a magnet! We had less joy on our right. Wes wasn't a natural defender or presser and Carl was being extremely disciplined. If he went hunting the ball he would leave space behind him. I was generally happy with how we were dealing with Gateshead's possessions, even if they were running the clock down in what was a very mildly slightly terrifying way. I reacted by getting even more cocky when I was on the ball. Even more annoying and cartoonish but there was a purpose to it.

I wanted to project a feeling that we had this. We were on top and we didn't need to panic. If my players knew how I was really feeling, how my insides were being torn apart, we wouldn't have stood a chance. 71' Boggy: Gateshead with plenty of men behind the ball; they've been forced back. Best walks with the ball, puts his foot on it. A despairing cry comes from the stand. Best gives the shouter a thumbs up. Double thumbs up! He gestures towards the name and number on his back! It's too much for Collington.

He flies into a tackle. Best's away. He rolls the ball to Wise. Wise to Lyons. He's being manhandled - falls over! Nothing given! Lyons jabs a foot at the ball, sends it to Best, shooting chance! He takes a touch instead, checks for options. Lyons is up. He makes a run to the right. Best will pass - no! He moves left. Cuts between two defenders. Wants to hit it on his left - good defending there. Best pauses... clips the ball left to Bochum. There's no Aff overlap. Best, head down, makes up the ground instead.

Bochum touches the ball, Best first time, Bochum into the penalty area - foul! He's fouled! It must be a penalty! It must be a penalty! Fans: [Shout unholy things.] Boggy: He's given a free kick! I can't believe it. It's near the corner of the penalty area. Fantastic angle for Best. I would like to order one Max Best special, if I may. Aff comes to offer an alternate angle. The visitors are lining up a wall. Is that a five-man wall? That's excessive. And now they've realised their mistake.

Menacing the back post Chester have Fierce, Green, Carlile, Lyons. Almost everyone, in fact. Youngster and Bochum are on the halfway line to defend against breaks. Best and Aff in deep conversation. Best using his hand to show the possible angles of a cross. I think he'll shoot. He'll shoot. Christian Fierce will fancy himself to bag his second of the game on a cross, though. Fans: [Hushed prayers.] Boggy: Will it be Best? No, he runs over the ball. Aff to curl an awayswinger... Aff passes straight ahead!

There's no defender picking up the short routine! Best is at the byline. He smashes the ball left-footed square - turned in! Turned into the net by Lyons! Chester are level. Fans: [Ecstasy.] Boggy: Chester are level! It's all square! Gateshead wanted a big wall to stop Best shooting but that left them short. No one short for a short one. This is Gateshead's problem - concentrating! So many basic lapses driving their fans crazy. But now what? What's next?

First we need to get the Chester players back - they're in the Harry McNally! 72-82' The best way to describe the next ten minutes is that I disconnected from reality. There wasn't a title race and a million pounds on the line, there was simply a whole load of Gateshead players trying to smash into me every time I got the ball, and smash into me they did. I should have rolled around and dragged the time out.

It might not have changed the result, but the other two matches would have finished before ours and I would have known what was needed. I didn't think of that until much later, because I was busy. I got smashed late in midfield, got up to ask my assailant if that was all he had - handbags ensued while the stadium went absolutely bonkers - then I tried to solo dribble the entire world before being smashed again. No free kick on the second one, which Gateshead took as the signal that it was open season on my ankles.

I got smashed on the left and after some pinball and bad rebounds, Youngster was isolated against this guy Collington. Youngster did well but then came an overlap and a simple pass and - and nothing. Because I had got to my feet, gingerly at first, seen the danger, and sprinted fifty yards. I took the ball clean as a whistle, but left a bit on the guy just for laughs, causing him to go flying.

Thompson, normally a mild sort, saw red and came to equalise, but I dabbed the ball through his legs and sent it ahead to Zach, who tried to ping one to Sharky on the right. I got smashed competing for a header - a stray elbow on the back of my head. That time I did stay down - he'd got me right on the old wound. Bones are supposed to heal stronger than before, but the impact still sent my poor little brain bouncing around like a kid in a bouncy castle.

I stayed still while I checked if I could still calculate pi to two hundred million decimal places - piece of piss. The two Jameses, Wise and Yalley, pulled me to my feet. Again, I was in no hurry to do anything before Dean came to examine me, so it was very strange to me when, about six seconds after I stood up, a small cheer went up in the West stand. A similar one erupted in the McNally. Me being me I assumed it was because they were happy to see me on my feet, but the noise kept spreading.

Then it clicked and I went into the Live Scores screen. Forest Green Rovers 2 Barnet 1.

"Oh!" I said.

"What?" said Wisey, worried about my yelp.

"What?"

"Forest Green scored, I think. That was the cheer. Erm, what do we do?"

"Go for the win," said Youngster.

"No, a point's great," said Wisey.

"Hold the point! That's us level with Barnet but we've got better goal difference. We go second and hope Grimsby drop points somewhere."

"Erm," I said. I had been sprinting around a lot more than in most games, fighting like a tiger when Gateshead broke our midfield line and then turning around to try to get to be a second striker.

"I don't know."

"Ask Miss Lane," said Youngster.

"Yeah, good call. Hey!" I said, being way too loud. They flinched.

"Go to the sideline and eat some marathon paste. Make sure everyone does. That's an order." While Dean palpated my head - it was my ankles he should have been worried about - and my players got their second Condition boost, I asked Sandra what she wanted.

"Fucking keep this point, Max. Keep this point. Barnet aren't going to outscore us in the last games, no way. So that's them out. One down, one to go!"

"She's right," said Vimsy.

"That's right." I looked at the Live Table. As It Stands P GD Pts 1 Grimsby 43 40 88 2 Chester 43 37 85 3 Barnet 43 35 85"But Grimsby are three points ahead." Sandra gripped my chest.

"It doesn't matter. We need them to lose one. Today we knock Barnet out, but only if we keep this point! Break with Pascal and Sharky but don't you fucking dare let Gateshead score another!"

"But if Grimsby draw their next one they'll still be ahead of us."

"But if we press too hard now we will LOSE, Max! Remember the first half! Keep what we've got. Please." I moved my jaw around - it made little clicking noises. I gently pushed Dean away.

"Fine. Eight in the rest defence. But I'm not going to the corner!" 83' I played a sort of false midfield role, lining up next to Wisey but then dropping to DM. I was sure Gateshead thought we were still in 4-1-4-1 but in fact Wisey was working overtime harrying and hurrying while Youngster and I mopped up. The Expected Threat from both teams was close to zero. 84' A cheer rose and spread. I checked the scores - nothing had changed. False alarm.

85' The away fans were starting fake cheers - an hilarious jape, I'm sure you'll agree. To be fair, it unnerved us. We were tentative on the ball. We produced zero quality. Gateshead were doing all the passing moves and were starting to build a head of steam. 86' A fake roar was followed by a derisive jeer that was followed by another half-hearted cheer. But something had changed! Something had changed! Grimsby 1 Aldershot 1.

As It Stands P GD Pts 1 Grimsby 43 39 86 2 Chester 43 37 85 3 Barnet 43 35 85 Gateshead had the ball but I didn't care. I ran to Sandra.

"We go for it now, right?"

"No! Fucking get back out there!" 87' The noise was mad, echoing off the walls like in a cathedral. A cathedral full of sinners, boozed up after a week spent calculating the odds. Many gambling apps were open while their owners hovered a finger over the 'cash out' button. More sin to the left as fans swore and took the Lord's name in vain. I dropped into the back line for a moment, anticipating a cross that might come in. Brooke coveted my neighbour's ass. Emma murdered a bag of crisps.

And right there on the pitch, not ten yards away from me, the most saintly amongst us stole the ball and broke clear. I knew this was the moment. I fell to my haunches and thought about my mother. Boggy: Collington dawdles on the ball. Youngster nicks it off his toes! Chester look fitter, that's for sure. The Ghanaian youth international bursts forward. Sharky stays wide right. Youngster goes left to Bochum. The German cuts diagonally across the pitch. Look at the speed! He's got options - not Youngster.

He has retreated to halfway. Max Best is just outside his own penalty area. The wrong end, Max! Lyons demands the ball, Bochum sends it wide. Sharky with a great first touch! He skinned his man. He's lightning, he's absolute lightning. He cuts left into the penalty box. He slows down. Looks up! He picks out Lyons... It's in! Is it? No! Incredible tackle from the defender. Incredible. He's pulled a hamstring doing it. He's in agony. Lyons is on the ground next to him - he can't believe what he's just seen.

The defender swept the ball away half a second before Lyons could smash it into the net. But it all came from great play by Wes Hayward. That was perfect wing play. Perfect! His teammates know it! Pascal and James Wise are jogging across to congratulate him. Sandra Lane, Vimsy, John Smith, they are lined up, clapping above their heads. That could have taken Chester to the top of the table. It's agony to think about it! The fans are up once more. And so is Max. He's hugging Christian Fierce.

He's high fiving Zach Green. What more could he have done? This second half has been managed to perfection and Chester were inches away from winning it. Inches! 92' It was full-time at Forest Green and Barnet had lost. Unreal. We would go above them in the table if we concentrated. We concentrated. 93' Fake cheers. Fans demanding the final whistle. Saints and sinners. The referee looked at his watch and I felt sick. We should have gone for the win. I should trust my staff. We should have risked it all.

We could have lost it all. Stay in the fight. Keep up the pressure. Sandra was right. That's what I paid her for. 94' Full time. Two-all. We moved to second in the league. Next stop the Cheshire Cup against Crewe. The agony in my ankles reminded me of that mad period where I'd been used as target practice.

When I took my boots off I knew I would see that my skin there was bruised like old bananas so I didn't much feel like shaking hands with anyone, but it seemed it was Christian's turn to push me in front of people. I shook hands while plotting ways I could ruin their lives. Especially Oli Thompson, the ungrateful prick. He was only back in the team because I had raved about him. Christian pushed me towards the refs. I did them and waved vaguely to the home fans, and found myself in front of Gateshead's manager.

He was a grade A prick but fuck his team played some beautiful football. I was mid-shake when another of those irritating fake roars went up. I rolled my eyes and wondered if I should let Sandra do the post-game interview. I had started to do them again recently but I was all kinds of wrecked. The roar came back. The roar spread. I checked the curse and my knees buckled. Grimsby 1 Aldershot 2. I ran onto the pitch holding my head like I was in The Scream. What the hell was happening?

Before I could process my thoughts, there was another roar and the curse updated. Grimsby 1 Aldershot 2 (FT). Full time! It was over. What the shit had happened there? The As It Stands league table was now simply the league table. This is what I would wake up to in the morning. As It Stands P GD Pts 1 Grimsby 43 38 85 2 Chester 43 37 85 3 Barnet 43 35 85 We only had to out-score Grimsby in the next three matches to win the title! An absolute piece of piss. They had bottled it! They had choked!

Devon Loch eat your heart out! I started doing a kind of awkward run interspersed with happy little hops. A million pounds in TV money. Dentists, pitches, jobs. I picked up speed. I would triple my salary and look at houses in Manchester where my mum could live. I did a forward roll. I hadn't done a forward roll since I was six years old. I picked up speed. I went full Ziggy. I screamed so loud I lost my voice for two days.

Just as I was coming to my senses, Henri was with me, and Pascal, and Youngster, and Sandra and Wibbers and everyone. We danced on the pitch. Some of the women's team clambered over the advert hoardings to join us and that triggered copycats all around. Soon the pitch was flooded with joyous Chester fans. My ankles didn't hurt. Not in the slightest. I had hooked an invisible thread onto the brightest possible future - I twitched it now to let the universe know I was coming. Et in dreamland ego, baby!