Chương 108: 7.4 - Enjoy the Silence

4. Thursday, October 5 Emma came into the treatment room, followed by Sandra and Brooke. I was sitting on the edge of a treatment table in full civvies, as Dylan would have called my clothes. Emma was rocking a light brown tailored knit jumpsuit. It was supposed to be neutral, professional, but it left men speechless. Was this whole mess her fault? Possibly. Sandra was in a club tracksuit, a whistle and a stopwatch away from being ready to work. Brooke was in jeans, blouse, and a fun jacket.

Everyone apart from me looked all kinds of healthy, which, if you think about it, was rude of them. Emma looked from me to Bones, our club doctor.

"What's the sitch, Kelly?" I tried to enforce the nickname I had created, but my throat was on fire. I gave up trying to speak and focused on never swallowing again. Like, ever. Bones was scribbling on a pad.

"Laryngitis. Swelling of the vocal cords. Sore throat." Emma said, "Oh, that's quite serious, isn't it? Looks like I was wrong to make him get out of bed and go to work." She was teasing me. Can you believe it? I tried to say 'babes' in a betrayed tone, but couldn't. I had given my heart to this woman. How could she be so heartless? Emma smiled and came by my side, letting me touch her soft, tailored fabrickyness.

"I don't need to be your nurse this time, do I? You've got a whole medical team to pour the syrup onto your spoon." The UK's second most famous female manager hid a smile, while a highly respected executive openly laughed, but you know what? Syrup sounded pretty good. I feebly pulled at Emma's sleeve, trying to communicate my needs, but the healthy people stomped all over me. Sandra said, "So... he's lost his voice. How long will that last?" Bones eyed my neck, as though the answer was written there.

"Could be anything. Three days, two weeks. He heals fast, so I'd guess at the lower end. But if he goes celebrating goals and shouting at refs he's gonna be back to square one. Max, you need to shut your gob for a while. Can you do that?" I shook my head, earnestly. Brooke said, "How did this happen? Is it a virus?" Emma said, "Fans Forum. Talking loud and fast like the Manc impressive he is, all that singing and chanting with the fans. You left, didn't you? You missed the all-night karaoke."

Brooke leaned against one of the cabinets.

"So sometimes there are consequences for his actions. This is new." I rolled my eyes. Sandra said, "Can he train? Can he play?" Bones nodded.

"He can do everything except tell his shit jokes." I gestured: what the fuck. Bones handed me a little cup of water and an ibuprofen.

"Take this. With normal people, the first three days are the worst. You'll be most miserable exactly when we're playing Brentford."

"Won't we all?" said Sandra, darkly. At some point in the last minute, Magnus Evergreen had snuck into the room. He looked at my chart, then at me. He said, " In Greece he spent a year in silence just to better understand the sound of a whisper." It sounded like a famous quote, and I was sure I had heard it before. Sandra went, "Who said that?" Magnus said, "Chaucer," and left with four women admiring his retreat. I tried to mumble "Jesus Christ" but only ended up swallowing a throatload of pain.

More pain started to gather in the storage unit, ready to make the journey when next I swallowed. I reached for the blister pack of ibuprofen, but Bones slapped my hand away. She gave me some information in bullet point format.

"Painkillers will help; you don't need antibiotics; don't use your voice, not even to whisper; stay hydrated. Tea is fine but remember that caffeine has a dehydrating effect. Some people gargle with salty water and find it helpful. Get what sleep you can." Brooke was enjoying herself.

"So Motormouth Max has lost the ability to speak. It's like a Greek tragedy, although of course the real tragedy is that this happened after he promised the fans transfers, happiness, world peace, and even more impossibly, a new main stand. The CFC Stand; the perfect name for the product of a load of hot air." Bones said, "Hot air?"

"Chlorofluorocarbons," said Brooke.

"Aerosols." I tugged Emma's sleeve. She eyed me and turned to the others.

"Max is trying to say he's not sure CFCs count as hot air, because some particles have a cooling effect, others heat the planet, but surely the particles themselves are neither more nor less hot than the surrounding air?" I nodded. That was exactly what I wanted to say.

"We'll check into that as a matter of urgency," said Brooke. Emma smiled and pushed her hand through my hair.

"I'm going home, babes. Text me when I should come and get you." I tugged her sleeve but she looked away to see who was entering. It was Livia Stranton, followed by Jimmy McNeill. Jimmy had picked up a knock while he was training with Scotland, but it wasn't a big deal and the overall impact of being picked on the subs bench for his country was massive. His Morale was high and he was one new signing who was NOT wondering if he had made a mistake in joining Chester.

Livia saw the big hitters, saw me on the treatment table, and tensed.

"What's happened?" Brooke said, "Max has a throat ouchie." I swallowed; it felt like a feral zombie was trying to claw its way out of my windpipe. Livia relaxed, though you wouldn't know it from how she spoke to me.

"This is a lot of firepower for a sore throat, Max. Stop malingering. Get off the treatment table, get back to work. We need to beat Brentford this Saturday." I tapped on Emma's arm and used my face to say, 'Are you going to let her talk to me like this?' Emma said, "This is the medical room, babes. You're not in charge here." I wanted to say ' I bloody am', but Brooke slapped her hip.

"That's it! We'll do all our meetings in here, with Livia as the chair. Quick meetings, rational decisions, deliverable promises. Why didn't I think of this before?" I tapped Emma. She said, "Max says please can everyone stop rinsing him, but he's saying it in a tone that means don't stop because he loves the attention." I widened my eyes, tapped her, jerked my head, tugged at her sleeve.

"What's he trying to say?" said Jimmy. Brooke said, "He's saying he wants me to arrange a pre-season tour of America which, if properly marketed, could bring in five million pounds." Sandra said, "He's saying he wants to take Bestball out of today's training schedule and do more set piece drills because Brentford are a handful." Bones said, "It looked to me like he was saying we're finally getting our X-ray machine." Jimmy had caught on and was grinning wide.

"He said I'm starting on Saturday!" Emma had the last word. She touched Bones's arm.

"He said: Tell Kelly I said thanks."

I got changed in silence - what else? - while the other players quickly got the message that I couldn't talk. While we warmed up, I started to come to terms with my new state. One thing that was immediately clear was that I wouldn't have an excuse for frequent, rapid in-match tweaks in formation and personnel. While I had a voice, those were explainable. I simply had to yell nonsense from time to time. If I couldn't do that, I couldn't make extravagant in-match changes.

If it cost me a defeat against Brentford, so be it. I couldn't be stupid about revealing my powers. No changes? Only minor tweaks? Saturday was going to be interesting... Being mute certainly changed how I participated in training. At first, I was going at my usual 70% intensity, watching how everyone else got on, staying alert for Attribute pops, noting flaws in players that could be coached out, daydreaming about how we could tweak the drills to stress different skills.

I spotted that Helge messed up two passes to Pascal in quick succession, so my instinct was to look out for beef between the guys. At this point in our Morale cycle - historically low by Chester standards - I didn't want to let our guys butt heads too much. When Morale was higher, some tension could be productive, but for now we needed to preserve at least the illusion of unity.

I had all sorts of responses to interpersonal beeves, but they all involved me speaking, even if it was just to get half an inch away from someone's face and scream, "Do that again and I will fucking bury you!" That wasn't an option, so I parked the analytical side of my brain, and I trained. 75 percent intensity. 80. 90. One hundred was not really on the table, not when it felt like my throat was lined with wire wool, not when I hadn't slept.

But I stopped trying to see everything, stopped trying to tweak everything, and I felt like I was really getting into the groove. Sandra called out, "Max." I looked over and saw that twenty outfielders and all the coaches were staring at me. I opened my mouth to say 'what?', but I got a stab of pain from one of the many daggers I had swallowed. Sandra seemed to be hiding a smile.

"You're in the final. It's you versus Wibbers." I went to say 'okay' but felt another stretch of throat being ripped open. Just keep your mouth shut, you idiot! Why is that so hard? I nodded and took up the starting position. The drill was basic but it was one that most of the lads loved. 20 cones had been placed in a line, spaced out, and we simply had to sprint to the far end while pushing the ball between each pair of cones, like we were doing a slalom.

To win, it helped to be fast, of course, but it also helped to have good Dribbling, and because you were always racing against someone it helped if you could keep your composure under pressure. Even fast guys with the perfect set of skills made mistakes when the rest of the squad was jumping around, yelling. If you made a mistake, the temptation was to try to go faster for the rest of the course, but that was impossible. You needed to aim for smoothness, not speed.

I felt my throat tighten, demonic fingers gripping and squeezing, so I knelt, dreading the moment the pain would come. It would have been normal at a football club to start the drill just then, to teach everyone a lesson about how weakness would not be tolerated. Even though this was Chester, I was half-expecting Sandra to blow the whistle. I might have done. She waited until I was ready.

After a painful swallow, I composed myself, shook off the memory of the pain like a dog shaking off rain, stared at the first cone, stood in my preferred pose, got ready to push the ball forward with my shoelaces. Wibbers was trying something new, which was him taking a two-yard run-up so he could get up to full speed faster. I felt him start moving, then PEEEEP! Sandra's whistle was perfectly timed for the young man. So they were all hoping I would lose!

I silenced the outside world, pushed the ball ahead with my right foot, cut through the first gap by pushing the ball with my left. Now I was on the left of my line, so I pushed off with my right, crossed over the central line, did the opposite, did the opposite. The goal was to stay smooth, to keep the ball in contact with one foot almost all the time. The end came serenely towards me as though I were on a moving walkway. I imagined myself as a speed skater.

Push left, push right, float across the grass with no friction. Glide, glide, glide! Don't fight physics, make gravity your friend. The ball wants to get to the end. The ball is obedient. The ball is your defeated foe. Let it happen. I passed through the last gap and reached the pole at the end of the course. I lifted a cone that was balanced on a pole, put it on my head, then turned to check if I had won. Wibbers was six cones back, arms and legs pumping like pistons.

He was a prototype steam engine, all power, little finesse. He reached the pole but slapped the cone away in frustration. There was applause, quite out of character for this point in a training session. It was just a dribbling drill. What...? I felt my throat, reminded myself not to try to talk. Peter Bauer said, in a tone of low triumph, "I got it!" I walked towards him, realised he was holding his phone. Heads jerked towards the big screen by the training pitch.

It was showing Peter's footage of the race, and it was quite wobbly with people sometimes getting in the way. We had a full camera setup, top equipment, even drones. Why were they filming on a normal phone? Because they hadn't been expecting this, said the part of my brain that was actually clever. You know, the part that was farthest away from my mouth. The footage showed an overall view of the race, but slowly zoomed in on my legs and feet. Edgar Wilde said, "That's beautiful." Dumi said, "The balance."

Lewis Lamarre said, "He's got jam on his boots." Helge said, "If they're both covered in jam, how does he move the ball from one boot to the other?" I couldn't quite tell if they were rinsing me, but Sandra said, "Max, can you tell us - oh, no, you can't. Your voice." I gestured: What do you want to know?

"You don't always run like that, do you?" It was frustrating not being able to ask what the hell they were going on about, but everyone seemed to genuinely think that I had done something different, so I thought about it. I took a ball and did my default dribble, then looked up at Peter's footage. Okay, I knew what was going on. I had changed my style for this particular drill. I held my hand up and clicked my fingers. Watch this. I waved everyone to one side while I grabbed two cones.

One I dropped to the ground; the other I hurled away. I made a chopping gesture that was intended to convey a sense of speed. I set into a sprinter's crouch, then dribbled to the second cone, flat out. That method involved pushing the ball with my right foot and only my right foot. Moving the ball two stride-lengths at a time worked pretty well. You could do bigger distances but you lost control.

If you moved the ball two and half lengths, for example, you were going to have to change your stride pattern, which would cost speed. With two lengths per push, I could put the ball in the right spot almost all the time, maintain a constant stride frequency, and thus stay at high speed. But there were relatively few times in matches when you could actually do that, so in most cases a different style was better. To demonstrate the alternative method, I plucked two players from the crowd.

I moved Roddy Jones into the line between the cones, and did the same with Matt Rush, ten yards in front of Roddy. I did a zig-zaggy hand gesture, placed the ball, and bent my knees a little. I pushed ahead, fast but nowhere near full-speed, and as I approached Rushy I changed gears, moving into the 'speed skater' style of dribbling. This one involved me using my left foot when I wanted to push left, my right when I was moving right, and most importantly, only pushing the ball one stride-length at a time.

To do this at speed, it helped to be two-footed, of course, but this was something I had done as a young man long before I had been cursed. It really wasn't that hard. As I swayed towards Rushy, he wasn't sure how to defend me. From the way I was moving, it seemed to be clear that I was going to push the ball diagonally across him. On autopilot, he stuck out his right foot so he could block me. Mid-stride, I flicked the ball at a new angle, pushing away from his now-planted foot.

This piece of tekkers was a move made famous by Ronaldinho, the Brazilian Flair 9000 player, and it was sometimes called a flip-flap. Flip the ball left about an inch, then suddenly flap it right. How do you defend that? If it's done right, you don't. I burst past Rushy, then settled into a new rhythm of pushing the ball left and right as I approached Roddy. The Welshman was more alert than Rushy, and he correctly guessed which way I was going to do the flip-flap.

He stuck his leg out to block my move, but I was in such a groove I had all the time in the world to change the angle of the 'flap'. Yes, reader, I nutmegged him. That sparked a huge wave of banter, which Roddy took with good grace. I went back to the cone slalom and weaved in and out, showing the guys that if you kicked the ball too short or too hard you could use variations on the flip-flap technique to get back on track.

The 'speed skater' move combined with flip-flaps wasn't a radical new development in the sport by any means, but seeing me use it to crush so many fast, skilful players in the dribbling drill was an eye-opener. I knew that Wibbers would be doing half an hour of flip-flaps every day for the next week, and Roddy and Rushy would be right there with him. Sandra blew her whistle and yelled, "The Maxterclass is over! Take up your positions for transitions!" We dispersed, ready for the next drill.

"Max," she called out. I looked up just in time to see a bottle of water flying towards me. I caught it.

"Stay hydrated, boss."

I kept Relationism in the training rota even though we didn't specifically use it much. It was good skills training, earned us loads of pops in things I cared about, and was going to be our secret weapon at some point in the near future. More importantly, training unstructured football was getting us closer to the moment when my hybrid system would come into play. I just had to invent it, first...

Sandra took me aside and said she wanted to bin off Bestball today and tomorrow because she wanted to be able to match Brentford at corners, free kicks, and long throws. I slowly turned my palm over, which was a gesture that meant, 'Sandra, we've got to think long term. We won't ever be better at set pieces than Brentford, but we will be better at football. IF we stick to the plan.' Sandra eyed the gesture, frowned, and said, "I think that's you agreeing with me.

Of course we don't want to play ugly football, but we also need to get points on the board. Yes, well said, boss. Totes agree with you. Vikki! He said yes!" Well, winning the dribble wars hadn't healed my throat, so I was feeling sorry for myself and didn't have the nerves to complain. So we would do some set piece crap, so what? Sandra showed me a folded-up envelope on which she had sketched a line-up for the match on Saturday. It was big and beefy, with Helge playing at left back. I showed that I approved.

Vikki took over the session, using the big screen to show us set piece routines that Brentford had tried recently. She asked me to replicate the style of delivery - inswinging corner aimed at the keeper, inswinger veering in at the far post, generic outswinger, wickedly dipping cross after a short corner - so that the lads could work on their positioning. Sandra interrupted Sticky's goalkeeper training session in order to borrow Marek and Owen for twenty minutes.

It wasn't ideal for Sticky but he understood the reasoning and we didn't mess him about very often. My role was pretty easy - just slap in a world-class cross once per minute, no biggie - so I had plenty of time to think. Brentford were a fascinating club. Their story was something of a fairy tale, since they had gone from the dregs of the fourth tier to the top half of the Premier League. There were other similarities to Chester in that there was a strong focus on culture.

From an internal perspective, they were a proper team. They had a no dickheads rule; anyone disruptive was binned off. To outsiders, though, they were a right bunch of knobs, and there was no bigger knob than their captain, the horrific Brian Rainbow-Laces. I was sure I would clash with him...

"Ready, Max!" Thumbs up. Cross. Header. Goal. In most respects, I admired Brentford. They had been bought by a local boy who had made billions in gambling, a true megabrain who had invested in football data and had a piece of analytics software that made DOVE look like a calculator you turned upside down to spell BOOBS. The b-boy had invested heavily, built a brand-new stadium, and his recruitment team had made sure Brentford could lose their manager and their best players every year... while getting stronger.

Admirable. Just a shame about the football. They focused on set pieces, taking time off the clock, breaking the sport down into its constituent units and mastering each one. That sounds fine until you have to actually sit in a stadium and watch it. My God. I supposed that you could admire the dedication to ruthless efficiency, to maximising the number of points earned per pound spent, but you couldn't enjoy a Brentford match. It was hideous.

Uglier than Arsenal, more cynical than any Jose Mourinho side, and only Alan Turner and his cronies were more gleeful in their rule-breaking. We're doing this and no-one can stop us, hahaaaa! With a snarl, I twatted a cross at high speed, spinning the ball wickedly towards the penalty spot. Players crashed into each other. Three guys fell to the turf as a result of an opponent grappling them. Vikki had told a handful of the lads not to even look at the ball, just to grab someone by the waist and not let go.

I shook my head. This was no time for me to get evangelical about the sport. I needed to deal with the reality of what was in front of me, meaning my own players and what the oppo were going to serve up. A goal would be nice. A draw would be amazing. A win? That would be phenomenal. I held up an arm and waited for the guys in the middle to set themselves, then cheekily shot towards the near post, where it fizzed across the line and into the back of the net.

It was Owen's turn in goal, and he had been frothing at the mouth to rush out and clear the danger. He briefly turned into a gorilla, bellowing, looking for something to punch, settling for kicking the goal post. Vikki yelled, "Brentford have players who can do that, Owen! Stay alert!" It was Marek's turn. I cracked in another free kick. Marek rushed out to try to punch it, missed, and clobbered Edgar Wilde instead. Four guys were shoved to the floor.

Murray Burnett and Dumi had a pushing contest long after the play was over. Like most training ground fights, it flared up and died down immediately. In this case, I might have preferred the fight to have a little more heat, because competitive people were supposed to get frustrated when things weren't going their way. Our squad Morale was down to 3. 6 (out of 7), which wasn't terminal but the number was only trending one way.

Our CA gains had slowed in recent weeks, and while we had been disrupted by my actions and the international break, it felt like Morale might have been the primary cause. If I wanted max training speed, we needed to fix Morale, which meant getting some positive results. I nodded to myself. We had to match Brentford, whatever it took. I would let Sandra do another set piece session tomorrow and we would pick a team of big, strong beefy boys.

We would nullify some of Brentford's strengths, and maybe remind them which of the two teams was actually the scrappy underdog with no budget. We would show them that we had fought our way up, tooth and nail. We weren't a bunch of pampered princes to be bullied around the pitch. The guys were set up in the penalty box. I stepped right, eyed the ball, hit a left-footed shot at a million miles an hour.

It screeched, turned the air behind it as red as my throat, and hit the frame of the goal, which shattered into a trillion pieces. Which is to say, my shot hit the crossbar and it was cool.

"Yeah," called out Vikki.

"Brentford don't have anyone who can do that. Can you stick to the plan, boss?" I grinned and showed her a thumbs up.

With the set piece mayhem finished, the goalies went off to do their own thing until the mini matches were played. My throat was getting worse, so I took a break from the drills and after a restless couple of minutes, I decided to go and check on the keepers. Sticky was leading the sesh, with one of his assistants nearby. One end of an elastic band was attached to a goal post, the other was wrapped around 'Mad' Owen Elmham.

He was being peppered with shots, had to strain against the elastic to get into position, had to spring to his feet as quickly as poss. Marek Masarik and Cody Williams (the under eighteens goalie we had on loan from Saltney) were shouting encouragement while waiting their turn. On Saturday, Brentford would fire lots of crosses at us, would try to bully us from set pieces. That played into Owen's skillset, and anyway his CA was 5 points higher than Marek's: 154 against 149.

Owen had improved by 8 points since pre-season, which seemed pretty decent for a 37-year-old. Marek was a year older and had improved by the same amount, but most of that had come quickly; now he was struggling uphill like the Little Slovak That Could. I was torn between optimism and dread. If we could get these guys to CA 160 plus, we would likely be able to keep them there for a while, but if one picked up an injury, would his career last long enough for him to recover?

How much would I pay to sign the male equivalent of Miina Timonen? Probably as much as I would pay to complete the stadium. A new main stand or a world-class goalie, choose one. Impossible. We needed both. As I ambled closer, Sticky paused the drill and called out, "There he is! Sinatra reborn."

"He can't talk," said Owen, in case the Yorkshireman hadn't heard.

"Wrecked his vocal cords."

"Wrecked my eardrums, too," laughed Sticky.

"Perforated. Shredded. Enjoy the Silence? I wish!" Marek said, "Max, are you fine?" I wobbled my hand: so-so. He said, "What about this girl? This Finn. Tell us about her." I raised my hand as high as it could go.

"Shit," said Owen, impressed. Sticky said, "See that, Cody? Standards are going up. Max is out there scouting your replacement. No-one's safe, not even me. Let's get back to work, yeah?"

I went to the medical room to ask Bones for another ibuprofen, and by ask I mean gently tug on her sleeve until she guessed what I wanted. She was terrible at guessing. I pointed to my mouth. She peered inside.

"Have you got toothache?" Livia looked up from the massage she was giving, checked out a large wall clock.

"It's too soon for another tablet, Max. You need to wait another hour at least." I gave that a thumbs down. To my amazement, Dylan walked in, saw me, and walked out. I exchanged a glance with Bones and Livia. What! Dylan came back in.

"Hi, Max."

"Max can't talk," said Livia.

"He's lost his voice."

"It's always in the last place you look," said Dylan, but his heart wasn't in it. He looked pale, and I worried he had recently fainted or something and that's why he was in our medical centre. He looked up, suddenly.

"Wait. Max can't talk."

"That's right."

"He can't say anything."

"Yes." Some colour returned to Dylan's face. He came over to me, put a hand on my shoulder, looked me in the eye, and said, "Bonnie's pregernunt. Beta HCG confirmed." I tried to speak, let out a croak, threw my arms around him, saying 'Yes yes yes' by means of slapping him on the back. When I finally let him go, he was grinning, but I felt there was a certain amount of terror behind his eyes. I mouthed the words, 'Little baby Bob.'

"No whispering," said Bones. An image popped into my head, vivid and warm. Dylan and Bonnie at a playground with a little rascal running wild, splashing in puddles, kicking leaves, asking his dad if he could sleep with Wales's World Cup trophy again. I clenched a fist and tried to make a noise that wouldn't hurt too much.

"Dylan one-nil."

"No hissing," said Bones.

My Morale was sky-high, so I went back to training and joined the first eleven in a match against the rest of the squad. Brentford played 4-2-3-1 and Sandra wanted to do the same. Normally, it didn't matter all that much how we started a match because I could change it to absolutely anything within a minute if I felt we had got it wrong or if the oppo had a surprise for us. But this week, of course, we would have to stick to one thing, more or less.

4-2-3-1 was not my favourite, but if we had to pick one formation to last us the whole game, it was probably the right one. Our back four was going to have Helge at left back (CA 133, chosen mostly for his height), Dumi Demetrescu (153) at right back, and Edgar Wilde (154) as one of the two centre backs. The second centre back would be Murray Burnett, CA 155. Murray was on loan from Everton and after the walkout at Anfield, his profile had included the phrase 'has lost confidence in his manager's ability'.

Meaning he had lost confidence in me. Obviously, these days I was all kinds of mature, wasn't rash, and looooved to talk about problems before making decisions that would have long-term consequences for all involved. I wanted to have a good relationship with Everton and wanted to be seen as a good destination for young players to learn the game and boost their careers.

That said, when I had seen the 'lost confidence' message I had wanted to hurl Murray all the way into the nearest bin, but had got sidetracked by referee conspiracies and quitting my job and all that. Sandra had included Murray against Aston Villa, so it was too late to do anything about him, and anyway, the awful phrase had not reappeared when I retook my job. Yet.

If it did, it was bin o'clock, but ideally we would start to get results, start to have a respectable season, and Murray would focus on doing his job instead of being a whiny little baby. Footballistically, he was quite suited for this fixture, being tall and reasonably fast. Dumi and Edgar weren't very sprightly, so we needed some legs; Murray and Helge balanced the two oldies quite nicely. Peter Bauer was very disappointed to find himself in the reserve eleven, which I found fascinating.

He knew that we were going to play a back four against one of the most physical, bruising, uncompromising teams in the world, and yet he wanted to play as one of two centre backs. I watched him as he barked out orders for the reserves, organising them, trying to show Sandra and I that we had made a mistake with the selection.

The change in Peter from 'I don't want to play football' to 'I only want to play as part of a back three' to 'I'm ready to play anywhere, any time' had crept up on him so slowly I doubted he would even realise his thinking had changed. I bet his grandfather had noticed and I wondered if Bayern Munich would try to steal Peter away from me one day. A triumphant return, with Peter being his own man, his own player, out of his grandfather's long shadow at last.

That would be one of those 'love is the same as hate' moments, wouldn't it? He spotted me smiling at him.

"What?" I opened my arms wide and beckoned him in. Hug. He was in no mood for friendship.

"No. You're in my pocket. Get back in my pocket." I waited for the ball to come to me, approached Peter with my amazing dribbling technique, put him on toast, spread him out nice and thin like a - He tapped the ball away. That simple action fried my brain. Unpossible! But I was already reacting. I spun and wedged myself just ahead of the ball; we scrapped for it. He was strong; I was stronger. He was smart; I was smarter. He could anticipate my next move; I could anticipate his anticipation.

He grabbed my shirt, tugged hard, let go. I just about retained my balance - and the ball - but he barged into my back, holding his hands up to show the ref that he wasn't fouling me. I touched the ball to Magnus, CA 145, one of our DMs, then sprinted away so that I could get the ball back, turn, and drive at Peter more seriously. Peter tracked my move all the way, sticking tight. Super-modern, super-aggressive man-marking. Behind me, I noted that the rest of his back line squeezed together to fill the gap.

Christ, he was a good coach! Well, two could play at the tactics game. I hit a formation hotkey to switch the first team to 4-2-4. That thrust Youngster (CA 149), our second DM, into the second striker slot. He raced past me, and I remembered to throw in some big hand gestures to explain why everyone was moving. Seeing that I was orchestrating something, Peter made the snap decision to drop back. Free from his pressure, I demanded the ball from Magnus and clipped it first time into the right-hand channel.

Cheb was there. A cross came in and was side-footed home by Wibbers. Peter swore in German, then spoke in my general direction.

"At least today you can't banter me." Peter Bauer. An astonishing player, almost unique. He had always been beautiful and now he was applying brute force to his rapier-like intelligence. His on-the-ball skills were beyond question, so he was learning to use his body to stand up to bigger, stronger opponents. Fuck... Was he learning Judo on the side? There was something like that going on. He didn't want me grinning at him, not today, but I was overcome with affection. Layers.

He was adding layers to his game and to those around him. I strode towards him, arms wide. I would allow no refusal this time. I can't do this without you, bro. He took the hug - he had no choice - then pushed me away.

"My positioning was too aggressive." I wanted to say, no. No other fucker in the world can do what I just did. I swept my hand from his spot in the back line to where he had tracked my run. I did a double thumbs up.

"You liked that?" Double thumbs up, way up. He played it cool. Just let out a reluctant, "Oh." But his Morale FLEW up. I clenched my fists and shook them in front of my chest. Come oooonnnn!!!! We weren't restarting from the centre circle, but with goal kicks, so Marek plonked the ball down and waited for Peter to get close. I was playing as one of the CAMs. The other two were Cheb Alloula (a squad-high CA 157) and Wibbers (148).

Cheb was mostly playing right wing, I was mostly on the left, Wibbers was mostly central, but we had complete flexibility and could mix it up. Our striker was Gabriel, CA 144. His Morale had been trending down, same as everyone else, but more so. The Premier League was not a happy hunting ground for an underpowered striker, and Luisa (Henri's girlfriend, one of our coaches) was having to work hard to keep him positive and optimistic. Overall, we had an average CA of 149. 2.

By my reckoning, that gave us a better starting eleven than Leeds United, and put us level with Ipswich and Wolves. Everton, Leicester, Notts Forest, and West Ham were only a point or three higher. What was even more encouraging was our squad depth. Lewis Lamarre was not in our starting eleven even though he was CA 150. Jimmy McNeill and Leo Los were CA 146 and 147 respectively.

Cole Adams was recovering well from his injury, and I had increased the amount of XP I was sending to Roddy Jones via the Secret Sandra training boost perk. Roddy was up to CA 111, which was nowhere near Premier League levels but soon he would be 120, then he would be 130, and before you knew it, you wouldn't be able to leave him out of the team. Little baby Bob Dylan would start watching football just in time to join in playground discussions like: Who is the best player in the world and why is it Roddy Jones?

I dropped a little deeper to help Youngster out of a jam, moved the ball on, jogged into a new position. We were pulling the second team around the pitch, giving them decisions to make about where to position themselves. When we created a gap, if we didn't attack it immediately and ruthlessly, Peter Bauer called out and closed it. He was playing next to Roddy Jones, coaching him. Roddy's Positioning score turned green and rose by one. His new CA: 112. I jogged to Roddy and gave him a high five.

I jogged to Peter and gave him a high ten. I ran around whirling my right arm, lifting my face to the sky, silently screaming while my teammates laughed, wondering what it was I had seen that had delighted me so.

We showered and changed. Some went home to be with their families. Some went shopping. Some stayed at Bumpers for free food or good company. Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon. I got my phone and laptop and went to the canteen. Someone had told the kitchen staff about my throat; they had made me a couple of smoothies, a rich, creamy omelette, a few hand-made ice creams. Patricia, who was sometimes stern with me, was at peak friendliness.

"There's nothing scratchy, Max. Nothing itchy." Thumbs up. Bosh. In the quiet zone in the canteen, I browsed random websites while spooning easy-to-swallow foods down my gullet. Nothing too hard. Eating like a toddler. There were lots of toddlers in my life, all of a sudden. Jamie Lane-Beeks, Viggo Köngäs, and soon Dylan would have little baby Bob. Dylan, Bonnie, and Bob. They would need a bigger house, wouldn't they? Inspiration struck.

I went to a property listing aggregator and looked for houses in Saltney, Chester, or Deeside, max price 400 thousand. Half of my Man United gamble. Could I find an awesome starter family home perfect for a Welsh clogger, his wife (who was a ten times better centre back than him), and their cute little mini centre-back baby? Dylan and Bonnie wouldn't take charity, but it would be easy to trick them.

I would tell Dylan I had bought some random place on the advice of my accountant to minimise my tax exposure, and I would take him to view it with me. It would be my first time inside, I would claim, and I would get more and more huffy. Dylan would ask what was up with me. I would say that I only had four weeks to find someone to live there, and if I didn't I would be fucked. I was willing to drop the rent to half price but who would want to live in a place like this? It doesn't even have a go-kart track!

No, Max, come on. There would need to be a proper catch.

'There's no way I'll be able to find anyone willing to put up with this corner bath!'

'The layout upstairs is all wrong!'

'The kitchen sink should face the back garden!' If I didn't see the cogs in Dylan's brain turning, I would ask him if he would sleep there to make sure the place wasn't burgled while it was unoccupied. I would then sit back and wait for Dylan and Bonnie to go, hmm, maybe this is actually perfect for us? Charity? Nah, they'd be doing me a favour. Best. Scam. Ever! I found a bungalow with solar panels and a child-friendly garden in a great location near Saltney Town, and for a while that seemed perfect.

Dylan had been blowed up on duty, and it stood to reason that his mobility would start to suffer. One day, he would struggle with stairs. Why not plan ahead? I got up and paced around, trying not to swallow, trying to keep hold of the most optimistic view of the future. Why not plan ahead to the day Dylan's mobility got worse? Because we don't give up. Dylan does his rehab. Dylan does his stretches. Dylan can climb a flight of stairs, Dylan can play football, and Dylan can play with his fucking kid!

I looked through a window onto a football pitch and daydreamed. Dylan teaching his kid to play footy in the garden. Dylan reading a bedtime story, saying no to his former army mates when they invite him out for drinks, taking his turn to wake up in the dead of night to warm up the milk bottle. Dylan Lewis, Father of the Year. Dylan the Dead Good Dad. Someone was nearby, hoping to talk to me. It was Luisa. Something to do with Gabriel? She eyed me and backed away.

"I come again. Later. Much later."

I left my laptop with Jojo in the reception building and stared at the construction that was happening all around me. Phases Two and Three were surging ahead, while there was a constant drone of diggers over at the Deva. It wasn't as bad as the original redevelopment of Bumpers, but it was noisy and dusty. Bad for my nerves, bad for my throat. I took a bottle of water into the zen garden and as always, walking through the gate was like entering another world.

The soundproofing was performing far better than everyone had predicted. Four of our employees were dotted around the place, enjoying a break from their busy, noisy lives. I lay down near one of the sand pits, popped in my earbuds, and listened to random tunes. I had barely slept the night before, what with my head spinning and my throat killing me, so now I was happy even for microsleeps and tiny dozes. Bulldoze the Deva while I doze off. Fragments of songs came and went. Feelings are intense, words are trivial.

Wait wait wait. I sat up and went to YouTube to load a lyrics video. I hadn't been remembering fragments of songs, multiple, but bits of one song. Sticky had even mentioned it. Enjoy the Silence by Depeche Mode. It had come up in the karaoke and somehow I knew exactly how it went and had bellowed it lustily. It was an 80s synth pop tune that appeared to be about a guy experiencing a moment of pure contentment.

A helpful post on a subreddit suggested that there was no hidden meaning to the track and while I was there I read more about the song. I learned that the songwriter initially hated the direction the band took his lyrics. He wanted it serene and peaceful, not uptempo. I lay back, deep in thought. If the lyrics were positional play and the tune was Relationism, then the band had managed to fuse the two to create an all-time banger, a megahit. Fusion. Hybrids. I continued reading.

There was more debate within the band about the music video. One guy had a vision that to him was crystal clear and perfect. The others said no, that's crazy. In the end, they filmed it just to shut him up, then realised they had created something iconic. I loaded the original music video, which featured the band's singer dressed as a king, carrying a deck chair around various landscapes, sitting in front of a lake, a gorgeous tree, amongst the rocks at a cliff edge. Lyrics, tune, video.

Three elements that shouldn't have worked well together but did. Players, formation, style. A dash of positional play, a sprinkle of Relationism... and what? What was the missing piece? I closed my eyes and relaxed. It would come to me. For now, my job was to think about Saturday. I had promised Emma I would play fearless football, but I couldn't, not yet. Vows are spoken to be broken. Soon, though. Soon.

I sat up, pleased with how groggy I felt, because the groggier I was, the more I had slept. My internal clock said I had been out for less than half an hour; good enough. I replayed the song while I checked the curse news and skimmed the job information screens. So many managers were already showing as 'slightly insecure' or 'very insecure'. The season had barely started! Madness. I ran through the various squads to which I had lifetime access. No major dramas, no unreported injuries.

Newport County, which had Henri and Banksy playing for them, were having a tiny wobble, as were West Didsbury, but it was too early to worry about them. I checked my current stash of experience points: XP balance: 5, 934 While in Finland, I had bought the xG perk, which added Expected Goals data to my Match Stats screen. That allowed me to know that, for example, Wales had scored 1. 45 xG against Finland's 0. 98. Yeah, there was a reason that was almost the last perk standing in the shop.

What was I meant to do with that data? About a week later, I had bought Playdar 3, which opened a new token slot in the Playdar section of the curse. For the moment I was more than satisfied with how Playdar worked, and had been steadily adding to our youth teams, but in theory I could add a token that would extend the range of the ping (useful) or filter by Nationality (English only? Er, I think not). Which all meant that there was only one perk left standing, one that had been in the shop for millennia.

It was older than Old Nick himself. It was called Match Archive, and buying it would unlock every match report that had been generated since I had acquired the curse. I mean, in a way that was sensational. If someone mentioned a third-tier match in Albania that happened two years ago, I would be able to bring up the match report and say, 'Yes, I watched that one. The goalie had a nightmare. The ref was card happy.'

Realistically, I would never say any such thing, but the perk probably was very useful in ways I couldn't yet imagine. There was just no chance in hell that it was worth the stated cost. I needed to save up 22, 000 XP to buy it. Then the shop would vanish and would be replaced by a Choose Your Own Perk Construction Kit. That moment was too far away to truly get my juices flowing, but every now and then I got a frisson of excitement. The freedom to design my own perks... Think of the possibilities...

I lay down again, closed my eyes again, swallowed painfully again, played the song again. Pleasures remain, so does the pain.

I awoke confused because the light had shifted so much it seemed like I had been out for hours. Nope - it had barely been twenty minutes. Brooke Star was on a bench nearby, flicking through a magazine called Fashion News.

"Here, a gift from Kelly," she said, tossing a blister pack of tablets towards me. I plucked it from the air - Handling 20 - and saw there was one left in the pack. Brooke leaned towards me, holding out a paper cup. I took the cup, half-filled it from my bottle, popped the pill, drank. Brooke placed the magazine by her side, texted someone - Bones, probably - and smiled.

"I got in touch with Michael Ning." I nodded, impressed. You work fast!

"We bonded over how annoying you are; I'm going to meet him and discuss sponsorship options. For a minute there I wondered if this whole thing was a play to make contact with me." I nearly broke my own neck in my haste to turn and look at her.

"You're amazed that I'm as cocky as you. It's not cockiness, Max, but caution. One of Michael Ning's companies has dealings with my father's. Two organisations of that size are likely to have some contact, and there doesn't seem any reason to be suspicious, but I'm always wary, as you know." She sipped her drink, got up, took a rake, started to pull at the sand, tidying it in a therapeutic way. I sat up and watched.

They say laughter is the best medicine but watching a beautiful woman raking sand in neat, straight lines is also therapeutic. She said, "I was gobsmacked when you announced the main stand without discussing it with me. First gobsmacked, then peeved." She stared at the sand as she prettified it.

"Started to get ideas. Started to get creative. Hatched a few wicked plots. All the things you've been refusing or putting off. Post-season tours, pre-season tours, betting companies, crypto, prediction markets. Now's the time to put them back on the table, isn't it? You can't refuse now. But..." Her smile widened, and for some reason I felt like a Buddhist monk.

"I was in my office, before Emma came looking for me. I was staring out of my office window at the training ground you built, the stadium you built." I made a circle gesture. We built. We.

"And I thought to myself, he's annoying but he's not stupid. You've got a plan to pay for the new stand, dontcha?" I nodded.

"Player sales?" I shrugged. Some. Maybe.

"Sponsorship won't touch the sides. Staying in the Prem would do it, but we both know that's unlikely. So what's the plan?" I hadn't told anyone the plan because it was such a long shot. How could I explain it without talking? I looked around and my gaze landed on the paper cup I was holding. I grinned, took the cup in both hands, lifted it above my head, shook it, yelled in silent triumph. Brooke's smile was wicked.

"I know that ain't the Cheshire Cup you're talking about... And we're out of the AOK Cup. Oh!" She sat forward.

"The FA Cup! Really?" I nodded, but put a finger to my lips. Willi Tillmann and Foquita would come to England to help us stay in the Premier League, so that had to be the focus, the only thing we talked about as a club.

"But the prize money's only a coupla million, last I checked." I made a rolling motion. Go on. Keep going.

"Win the FA Cup... And then..." She half-gasped.

"Automatic entry into the Europa League! Getting into the league phase is worth about ten million, right?" I shook my head as I lay my hand flat, lifted it up in increments.

"What's that? The prize money is increasing?" Head shake. No. I repeated the gesture. She wasn't getting it, so I raised the cup again, cheered again. Brooke looked sceptical.

"You wanna win the Europa League?" I shot her with a finger gun. She was back to looking at me like I was stupid.

"What are the chances of that?" I couldn't think how to sign '100 percent' so I simply raised my hand as high as I could. Her eyes were darting around.

"Then... Then we would automatically enter the Champions League." She snorted.

"Would we win that, too?" I shrugged. Maybe! She locked eyes with me and looked stern.

"How crazy are you being right now?" I dropped my hand to the ground. Zero percent.

"The new guy, Jari Köngäs. How much is he gonna help?" I thought about it for a few seconds, then placed my left hand on the ground and my right as high as I could get it.

"It's like that, huh? I figured, when I heard how old he was." She pulled at the sand.

"Zach watched a few clips of Jari Köngäs after you announced him. He doesn't see what you see in him." I didn't try to say anything. Brooke dipped her head, smiled, and her eyes got dewy.

"That's why he's stoked. He can't wait to see what you do with Jari. He said, 'We're getting Willi Tillmann and Foquita, but Max spent more time talking about this slow Finnish player. What am I missin'? What am I missin', Brooke?' What's he missing, Max?" I thought about it and tapped my temple.

"A brain? You bein' rude about Zach, Max Best?" I shook my head, smiled, held my palms up. Brooke smiled, too.

"This Jari's got a big old brain on him?" I nodded.

"We have enough of those, don't we?" I got up, went to where she was standing, and took the rake from her. I turned it upside down and poked eleven holes in the sand in a 3-4-3 formation, then scratched lines from one hole to at least two others.

"Kinda looks like a neural net," she said.

"Every player's a brain, and also the whole thing's a brain. The more brains you have, the faster you can adjust to new challenges." Frowning, I stepped left and right, squinting at my drawing. I liked 3-4-3. Sometimes from that setup I pushed a centre back one zone forward, and sometimes I pulled a striker one zone back, which was something I would certainly do with Jari. Flood the midfield, get control, dominate the ball, be the protagonist.

But here on the sand it looked even more flat and lifeless than on a tactics board. I didn't want flat and lifeless. I wanted dynamic, forward-thinking football. Brave, not stupid; simple to learn, hard to stop. Adding good players was only part of the mix; something was missing. Something that would be blindingly obvious when I discovered it. I flipped the rake and offered to undo my act of vandalism.

"I'll do it," said Brooke. I nodded, got my stuff, and decided to go to my office. I had a bed in there, and apart from the low rumble of construction equipment, it was quiet inside. I could lie and suffer without bothering Emma, and I could wait for inspiration to strike.

I bummed around my world for a few hours, wearing my invisible crown, enjoying the silence, firing off the occasional text or email, low-key getting stuff done. When the evening matches started, I toured Bumpers. I scanned everyone in the five o'clocks, then took a Seal Pup to Tekky Taka, the five-a-side centre a stone's throw from the Deva that we had bought with our Premier League windfall. I hit Playdar before getting in sight of a pitch, just in case, but there were slim pickings in terms of talent.

There was a group of tiny kids on pitch 2. They were all 6 or 7 and although they were abysmal, they couldn't have been cuter. They crashed around playing 3-a-side, chasing the ball blindly. A coach I had never seen before was giving them a lesson. He first told the kids not to all run forward at once. They practised that for a while and grasped the concept admirably well. Next he gave them a simple instruction.

"When you pass the ball to someone, then you can run forward. Okay?" I watched, fascinated, as the little brats briefly threatened to grasp the concept, but it soon came crashing down and they were back to chasing the ball as a single, gigantic pack.

'There's still hope for them,' I thought.

'They can play for Leeds.' A mega pang in my throat forced me to go looking for some lukewarm water. When my throat was a little calmer, I went back. The kids had finished. I never saw that coach again.

Friday, October 6 I woke feeling slightly worse than the day before. It had been a strange night with Emma. I couldn't speak to her, so apart from writing a few notes or sending a couple of texts, we had just existed together, sometimes smiling at each other. An unusual experience, but an enjoyable one. Later this afternoon, the team would take Sealbiscuit 2 down to West London, where we would stay in a nice hotel.

Great food, great friends, loads of football chat, then tomorrow afternoon we would play an important match in a full stadium. Idyllic, right? Emma was stirring, and I knew that she would soon get up. I wrapped her in my arms and pulled her tight to me. This was why I had shredded my voice singing that particular song. This moment, right here. All I ever wanted, all I ever needed, is here in my arms.

Saturday, October 7 English Premier League Match 7 of 38: Brentford versus Chester Bones was right - the third day was the worst. My throat felt red raw and I hadn't had enough sleep. Not ideal, but if I budgeted my stamina, I would get through a full ninety minutes. I vowed to power through and get the job done. I only had one serious appointment in the next seven days, which was the women's midweek Nando's Cup game against Brighton.

The stadium would be far from full, so I would be able to sit alone, suffer alone, hit the perks at the right time. I would let Jay Cope put out a strong team so that we could get off to a good start in that competition, then I could go home and rest until Saturday, when we would play Wolves. We went out onto the pitch to warm up. The home fans who had arrived early heard my name being read out; they booed. I paused midway through one of our swinging exercises. Booing me! I genuinely hadn't expected it.

Was this because of Alan Turner or because I had kicked up a storm against Liverpool? Did Brentford think they had a chance of finishing the season above the Scousers, and by handing them a win, my stunt had made Brentford's task slightly harder? I stared at the Brentford players as they came out of the tunnel. The first thing I noted was that there were zero Welsh players, so I didn't have to worry about annoying someone I might rely on later.

The second thing to note was that Brentford had the tallest team in the league and the tallest subs in the league. They would be amazing at volleyball. But this was footy, and in that sport, their average CA was 153. I swallowed, which was agonising, and checked again. 153! That seemed low. I had been expecting something around 160. How was it possible I was so far off?

Mostly because I hated watching Brentford play, even on TV, even on highlights, and I didn't know any of their recent signings, so I had made some assumptions based on their results. Brentford were competitive in most matches and often got results against top teams. They usually finished in the top 10 and were often close to qualifying for European competitions. I went through the team sheet more closely. Jumping 20, Heading 20. Jumping 18, Heading 18. Stamina 20, Tackling 20. One guy had Set Pieces 20.

Another I knew to have a huge long throw. They were optimised for their playing style. There was no fat in the team. They had just enough Technique and Passing to get the ball into the final third, but everything they did was about setting up and winning duels. I crouched. Which Brentford players would get in my team? Slab, their massive Brazilian striker, was a handful, and was a couple of years further along in his development than Gabby, but I wouldn't swap them, not really.

Their Irish goalie was good, but he had a thin beard that made him look like he had a shrunken head. Not a valid reason not to sign a player, but I was happy with Owen and Marek. But which Chester players would get in the Brentford team? Stylistically, Helge, Edgar, and Murray were good fits but weren't up to the levels of their Brentford equivalents.

Youngster was miles better than Brian Rainbow-Laces, but BRL was a former England captain who was in the team for his leadership, a word which here means 'his ability to do as many fouls as he wants without being booked because he used to be good'. Maybe Brentford's manager would like Cheb, because even a team of bruisers needed someone who could dribble and pass, and Cheb could cross. And me? I would take the corners. But yeah, overall, neither team would want the players from the opposition.

This had the potential to be a true clash of styles... I stood, jaw set, and took in a breath, intending to get the guys in a huddle, to hype them up. Throat said no. We finished the warm up and as we walked towards the tunnel, I was booed again.

The curse surfaced an unfamiliar button. When I investigated, I found that it was labeled 'Frankenstein Is The Doctor Not the Monster'. It took me a minute, but then I checked the date. October. We were playing a team with a higher reputation than ours in October, which meant the Shocktober perk was kicking in. All the effects were passive except for this Frankenstein one, which was optional. I read the text again. If I pressed the button, the referee would carry out his duties in a fussy, pedantic manner.

That meant he would be unbiased, surely, but I still didn't want to click it, because there was a major risk that such a ref would help Brentford, not hinder them. Anyway, I felt the match would be miserable enough without messing with the match officials. I reminded myself of some of the other effects of Shocktober. We would play slightly better, the home fans would be slightly quieter, and so on. Lots of tiny, tiny gains.

Shocktober offered a fractional advantage, and was the result of long-term planning from years ago, when I had suffered and sacrificed to buy perks that would only trigger in certain scenarios. Around me were the fruits of more long-term thinking. Wibbers. Peter. Pascal. Add to that list my co-manager. Whatever happened today, we were on the right track. We had to be.

Sandra gave the pre-match team talk. I listened and sunk into my role as a player. I would trigger the once-per-match perks, I would rotate the front players as much as I wanted, since that was so normal it wouldn't stand out, and I would watch out for injuries. But mostly I would stick to one role. When Sandra was wrapping up, I went to her and interrupted. I held a finger up to show that I was about to do something very important. The lads were agog. I took my phone, touched the screen, pressed an icon...

Murder on the Dance Floor by Sophie Ellis-Bextor fired out of our bluetooth speaker. Recent signings looked at each other, amused and amazed. Why? Why was this happening? Why now? As if there was ever a need to explain why you would blast a bit of Sophie! But it was a Shocktober thing. Playing that song gave us a team-wide Morale boost. I wasn't sure if I could even see a player's Morale when I bought the perk, but I could now. Everyone gained at least one level. Team-wide Morale boost indeed.

One of the refereeing team pressed the buzzer to signal we should go to the tunnel. With Peter not starting, I had made Magnus Evergreen the captain, so he got us up and led us into position. The Brentford players came to line up beside cute little mascot kids. Brian Rainbow-Laces, the captain, had once been an ally to the gay community but then had fucked off to Saudi Arabia to earn piles of cash. You might be thinking, Max, you were in the same position, remember? Right, but there's a difference: I didn't go.

It turned out that Brian hated living in the Middle East and returned to Europe after a couple of months, which meant he lost his tax-free status. In other words, he shredded his reputation as a decent person for nothing. On his return, he gave the single worst interview in the history of sport, defending his actions by saying he hoped to be a force for good and that he hadn't gone there for money. It was beyond cringe.

Like most football fans, I despised the guy and on a footballing level I couldn't believe he kept being picked in England squads. Now he was at the front of the line of Brentford players, clapping his hands and yelling motivational shit, unconcerned that the little mascot kids could hear everything he was saying.

"Come on, the Bees! Three-nil today. Three-nil win when the bedwetter walks off. Max Best? More like Max Quits. Be on it from the off! First kick, lads! Every header, every tackle. We win every battle until this prick quits." It seemed like he was gonna continue in that vein, so I left the line and walked to the front, feeling all eyes on me from the home side. What's the maniac gonna do? Get sent off before we get out of the tunnel?! I tugged Magnus on the sleeve and pointed to the pitch.

He said, "We're going on?" I nodded. He strode ahead, ignoring the request of the referee to wait until the designated time. Owen followed, and I slipped into third position. Ahead of us was the usual setup to make this seem like a big event. Flame cannons, an arch with sponsor logos, a plinth with the match ball, three camera operators. I pointed to the corner where 2, 000 of our fans were standing and cheering, but Magnus was already heading that way.

We lined up in front of them and had our own party while the rest of the stadium sang Hey Jude. I thought the idea would be to sing 'Na na na-na Brent-ford', but no, they sang Hey Jude. Why? Football's traditions are pretty unfathomable sometimes. After all the faffing about, we were finally ready to play football. Brentford had the kickoff, and one thing they did brilliantly well was turn kickoffs into a new kind of set piece.

They were pioneers, always trying new things, and they had some genuine megabrains in their staff. It was hard to defend against something you had never seen before, and I strongly suspected they would have something up their sleeve against us. I stood to the left of the centre circle, more or less where you would expect from the left-sided CAM in a 4-2-3-1, but when the ref was about to blow, I sprinted into the back line.

Brentford moved the ball back, played it wide, and hit an unexpected pass to our right, targeting Dumi. They had stationed their massive striker there, and he won the header. Slab aimed the flick-on towards our penalty area, and he did it beautifully. One player was streaming to the ball, while another was making a similar run towards the penalty spot. One quick pass and we would be toast. The home fans were on their feet. An early goal to kill the game? Nah, bruv.

I intercepted the ball, taking it on my chest, doing some tekkers before making out that I would pump the ball miles down the pitch. The massive striker trundled towards me, his foot high to block the pass. His boot was enormous, I noted, as I daintily flicked the ball over his head, rounded him, and strode forward. The Bees shuffled and slid closer together, a well-drilled machine. I slowed, leaned back, and cracked the ball diagonally across the pitch, to the zone I should have been occupying.

Thanks to a cheeky hotkey press, Wibbers was there, and he controlled the ball with one deft touch, then thought about what to do. We didn't have a lot of numbers high, so he did the right thing and rolled it back to Helge. I glared at Brentford's dugout. Fuck your stupid trick plays, that's our ball. Our ball! I turned to the nearest stand, locked eyes with the ugliest guy there - so many options - and made a shushing gesture.

While that particular explosion detonated, I jogged into the middle of the pitch to be a third DM, demanding the ball, moving it on quickly, making endless triangles so we could pass it around, racking up the passing stats. Brentford fouled us to slow things down. We shot to our feet and got the ball moving again. Football, bitch! Learn it.

Brentford's manager didn't like how the first ten minutes went, mostly because we had about 80% possession while playing in our own half. He ordered his guys to move forward, trying to suffocate our midfield. He got his team so squashed that it reminded me of how Stuttgart played, creating a roaming defensive black hole into which the ball could not travel. Nice try. I made some huge hand gestures and placed Wibbers and Cheb on the extreme left of the pitch, in the same zone.

Then I moved the ball to the right, exchanged a few short passes with Magnus and Dumi, then cracked another big diag. Wibbers touched it to Cheb and they drove towards the penalty area. Gabby made a dummy run, Wibbers cut inside and let fly. The ball whistled a couple of yards over the bar. The home fans jeered. Their manager was bright, though. He made the defensive box bigger, and shifted his back four towards the flank where Wibbers and Cheb were stationed.

I gestured and they jogged all the way to the right wing. One of Brentford's analysts spotted the move instantly, and there was an almost instant response. Hmm. I reset everything and moved myself ten yards forward, between our DMs and the CAMs, to see how much I could impact the game without overexerting myself in the first half. Brentford moved the ball around, knocked it forward, and Slab won his duel with Murray.

The huge Brazilian lump then threw himself to the turf and got his team a free kick in a very dangerous position. What the fuck, man. I walked past the referee, giving him a disappointed look, then went to harass Slab. The last person I had hugged and squeezed tight was Emma, so that might have made me overestimate my strength. This guy was an absolute unit; I could barely shift him. It just made it all the more ludicrous that the ref had bought his dive, but whatever.

As long as Gabby got a free kick in the same scenario, I wouldn't go bananas. Rainbow-Laces took the free kick, which was insane because his Set Piece rating was only 10, but he was the kind of 'star' player who wanted to be on TV all the time. He put in a half-decent cross, and while I stopped Slab from running past me (at the cost of a sly dig to the ribs), a huge Dutch centre back got to the ball ahead of Edgar Wilde. The Dutchman put his header over the bar.

That was how the rest of the half went. We tried to control the game by controlling the ball, tried to keep it in play as much as possible, tried to make the home team work harder than usual. I hoped we could drain their Condition and make them dip into their pool of subs earlier than they wanted, but because Brentford fouled us at an astonishing rate, our Condition actually dropped faster, and in the first half they only picked up one booking. Our pretty football led to quarter chances.

Their direct bullying led to half chances. I had to hand it to them - their way of playing was more efficient than mine. It was football by numbers. The data says don't shoot from distance. The data says hit the channels. The data says that long throws don't work, but they do sneakily drain the clock and when they do land a goal, it's demoralising. The ref blew his whistle to end the half, which was met by a smattering of applause from the home fans.

Their team had definitely edged it, and the bulldozer was very slowly picking up speed. In the second half, they would run all over us, right? That had to be the expectation. They were probably right, too. We had to change something. I looked at my guys. Everyone had worked hard, had been committed, but there were too many 6 out of 10s in our Match Ratings. Brentford weren't much better, but there was one clear difference between the teams. Slab was on 9 out of 10. Gabby was on 5.

Slab was holding the ball up, impacting the game; Gabby wasn't.

In the dressing room, I took Sandra to the side. We faced the tactics board. I touched the Gabby magnet. Sandra whispered, "Sub?" I nodded. She paused while she thought about the implications.

"Pascal. Leo. Whoever we choose, we're replacing a strong man with someone lightweight. We're already being ground down. I think losing Gabby would hurt us." I made eye contact with Peter Bauer and waved him over. He said, "Yes, boss?" I stood behind him with my hands on his shoulder, presenting him to Sandra. She was puzzled.

"You want Peter to play striker?" I tipped my head back and did Youngster's goofy laugh, but silently. I touched the left back magnet. Sandra's mind boggled. Did I want Peter to play left back? Peter understood where I was going.

"Helge will move to striker. Magnus left back, I go to CB, Edgar to DM. We still have Helge's height for set pieces. He has been great, hasn't he? It's a shame we have had so few attacks." I tapped the board a few times and nodded, intensely. This. This is what I want.

When Sandra started to give the half time speech, I jumped up and went to the front. I took a marker pen and wrote on the flipchart: OK STFU Pascal pointed and said, "Okay, shut the fuck up!" MFMI"My favourite movie is..." SOTL This stumped them for a moment. Helge said, "Straight Out of Luck?" Youngster said, "Southampton Lose." Marek said, "Somewhere Over the Rainbow... No, can't be." Wibbers said, "Silence of the Lambs." I pushed my nose while I pointed at him; he got cheers.

For some reason, I didn't want to write out full words. That felt like cheating, so I wrote the letter Y. Sandra said, "Y?" I gave her a thumbs up. Good question! I gestured towards the exit and the pitch beyond, sweeping my hand in a circle to indicate the home fans, then made a shushing gesture.

"It's your favourite movie because we're gonna silence those lambs?" suggested Peter. I pointed at him. You're goddamn right. Edgar Wilde whispered, "I thought they were the Bees." Dumi shushed him.

The shock tactic of having Helge as our striker worked brilliantly. I didn't need him to score, just to be a great big lump we could use as a target man. He dominated the Dutch centre back so much that I pushed myself all the way to the CAM slot and tried to trust my defence and DMs to keep Brentford somewhat at bay. To that end, I positioned Edgar Wilde in front of Peter, and made a hotkey that would drop Edgar back onto the exact same slot as the German.

To the outside world, it would simply look like Edgar was lending his physicality to a team mate, which is exactly what Edgar loved to do. All I was doing was making him do it three or four seconds earlier than he would have done on his own. We had a five-minute spell where we looked like worldbeaters. 46' Bauer evades Slab and plays a pass through two Brentford players. Glorious! Youngster takes the ball on the half turn and moves across the halfway line. Youngster is fouled. No yellow card for Rainbow-Laces.

The Chester bench are furious! 48' Hagen jumps for the header and wins it. He gathers his own knock-down and is bundled over. Free kick! Best places the ball thirty-five yards from goal. Even at that distance, Brentford create a five-man wall! Best considers his options and takes eight massive strides backwards. He's going to smack it! Here it comes... Best... with a delicate chip over the wall. Alloula with the first-time volley. He connects sweetly, the shot is well-angled... But it's saved!

49' Chester with the pressure once more. Alloula to Roberts. Roberts returns the favour. Alloula looks for Best. Best's first touch is sensational! It takes him past Rainbow-Laces. Best lines up a long-range shot, but there's a defender in the way. Best adjusts his feet and slips the ball through the lines for Alloula. The Algerian uses Roberts as a dummy and takes a shot. Saved! The rebound falls to Hagen... Blocked! The ball rolls loose. Who will get there first? Best! He slams the ball into the roof of the net.

GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!! Chester are ahead! I always thought my favourite sound was a massed crowd cheering a goal, but maybe it was actually the split-second when both sets of fans asked themselves, where will this ball go? I had gambled on the rebound breaking into the space to the left of the penalty spot, and I arrived at exactly the right moment to put my foot through the lower half of the ball. As I made contact, many Brentford fans were holding their heads, praying the ball would fly wide.

The Chester fans were off to the side, behind the corner flag. They didn't have the greatest view of the ball's trajectory so they were looking for context clues, coiled, ready to jump. Here was a clue about where the ball went: I sprinted towards them. While the fans leaped and screamed, I launched myself onto an advertising board, raising my arms aloft. Chester went nuts. West London was silenced. A golden memory.

We played with more swagger. Peter Bauer was imperious. Wibbers was enjoying himself, Cheb was looking like a 20-million-pound bargain, and Youngster had worked out how to be as effective as possible given that the ball was flying over his head a lot. Not many interceptions from him today, but he still created lots of turnovers by applying pressure where Brentford wanted it the least.

We were playing so well that the home team's tiny-faced goalie went down with an injury ten minutes earlier than their normal scheduled fake injury. The goalie's teammates were jogging to the touchline before the ref had even signalled to the physio to check him out. They didn't even bother to hide the fact that they were cheating! I brought my guys to Brentford's technical area. They knew what to do: make a lot of noise, draw a lot of aggro. Not many tactical instructions got through.

The manager gave up on his attempts to talk to the team as a whole and simply took his captain off to the side. Slab stood on my foot, the snide fuck, and gave me a volley of abuse in Portuguese. Fury briefly threatened to overwhelm me, but we were winning. Wouldn't Brentford just love for me to get sent off? I hobbled away, hoping to draw attention to what Slab had just done. If he had been caught doing that, there was an outside chance the spineless FA would be forced to give him a retrospective punishment.

I got Livia to use magic spray on my boot - probably futile but whatevs - and checked our Condition scores. How much vibrant attacking play did we have left in the tank? My guess was ten minutes. As Brentford's goalie kindly gave us permission to restart the game, I smashed the Seal It Up button. That perk gave our back line a fifteen-minute boost in Positioning, and with a little more defensive solidity behind us, we could take more risks in going for the second goal.

I moved Wibbers to the right, Cheb left, and left myself a lot of space to range around in. But Brentford had tweaked their plan. When I moved into the oppo's half, Rainbow-Laces man-marked me. That had been the one tweak Brentford had managed to get done. When I saw the change in the tactics screens, my jaw dropped. Brian Rainbow-Laces thought he could keep up with me? That was ludicrous. He was 36! He had Pace 7! It was actually offensive.

63' Best takes a pass in midfield, and is instantly clattered by Rainbow-Laces. The England player made no attempt to get the ball! The referee decides to be lenient. Rainbow-Laces gives Best a piece of his mind. Best looks at the England international but holds his tongue.

64' Evergreen with a good tackle. He hooks the ball to Wilde. Wilde pokes it to Youngster. The Ghanaian international midfielder drives forward and slips a pass into the path of Best. Best takes the ball in his stride, as serene as a swan. He crosses the halfway line and speeds up. His acceleration leaves Rainbow-Laces literally clutching at air! Best touches the ball to Hagen, who controls it and moves out of the way. Best arrives and fires left-footed. The shot starts a yard wide of the post. It swerves, dips...

Has it got enough bend? No! Brentford breathe a sigh of relief. Best passes Rainbow-Laces and cups his ear. That sparks a shoving match! The referee takes the pair aside and gives them a talking-to.

67' This is a nice spell of possession from Chester. Burnett plays it back to Elmham, who involves Demetrescu. His first-time pass is picked up by Youngster. Slab thinks he has a chance to make a tackle but Youngster slips away with a drop of the shoulder. Warm applause from the away fans. Youngster fires the ball at Best, who is once again clattered by Rainbow-Laces! But the referee plays the advantage. Best ran over the ball and it went into the path of Roberts.

Roberts skips past one challenge, accelerates, lines up a shot... But feeds it wide to Alloula. The Algerian winger crosses first time. Hagen wins the header. He fires down, it bounces up... And over! Unlucky. He did the right thing. Now the referee is going back to Rainbow-Laces. Yellow card. Max Best holds his head. He cannot believe his eyes. He jumps around, celebrating. The referee is not impressed. Best needs to be careful.

Peter strode up to me and poked me in the chest.

"If you get sent off for celebrating the sending-off of this nobody, I shall be rather miffed." My eyes widened. Miffed! I've never heard you use that word before. He poked me again.

"We're twenty minutes away from a win. Imagine what a win would do, Max. Come on. Stop the nonsense." I flung my hands to my head again. Nonsense? Me!

Brentford's manager made a tweak - the man-marking experiment was over, and Brentford were going back to basics, but without the timewasting and the antics. They got the ball wide, fired it into the box. Peter and Murray were focused on Slab, so if a runner came into our box from midfield, Edgar or Youngster had to track him. In the 71st minute, Edgar switched off for a second - it happens - and a runner found himself on the end of a cross three yards from goal.

He stabbed it towards the net, but Owen flung out a leg and made an improbable save. The reaction time was as close to zero as you're ever going to get. Wow. I didn't normally like it when defenders ran to their goalie to give him high-fives or slap him on the head, but this was an exception. Seriously, wow. Two minutes later, Slab bullied Peter out of the way and got a header six yards from goal. Like Helge, he aimed his header downwards and it bounced up under the level of the crossbar, but he had angled it wide.

Too close. I wished I had a striker who occupied two centre backs and still got the better of them at key moments. Jesus Christ, what a luxury! The home fans were getting noisy, getting behind their team. Brentford's left winger had been staying wide and spamming crosses, but in the 75th minute he cut inside, drove into position for a shot. The shot was on target, but Owen would have claimed it easily, had it not deflected against Peter.

It diverted at a mad angle, went waist-high across the goal, and a Brentford guy hurled himself at it, scoring with a diving header just as Magnus was lining up to volley the ball clear. It was a brave finish from the Bee; I wouldn't have thrown my skull anywhere near that flying boot. 1-1. I walked to the touchline to see what Sandra was thinking. She waved at me to come faster, which I did. When I was in range, she spoke rapidly.

"We're flagging. I want to get Lewis and Leo on. Bark, too, maybe. Jimmy. Fresh legs. Okay, so we'll lose height, but you've built a squad to play technical football. We have to do that. We have to lean into it. What do you think?" I couldn't have said it better myself.

"Good. Are you all right to stay on?" Affirmative.

"So I'm thinking 3-5-2. Magnus, Peter, Murray at the back. Midfield of Youngster patrolling behind Lewis, Leo, Jimmy, and Bark. You and Wibbers up top." That would drop our average CA to 146. 7, which didn't sound half bad considering Bark was at his cap of 130. We would have an entirely new midfield with Wibbers and I dropping short to offer them passing options. We would play keep-ball, but in Brentford's final third.

Using a back three would release Peter to focus on progressive passing instead of grappling with a guy twice his size. It sounded an awful lot like an olden days Max Best scheme. On the other hand, we would lose a lot of height. Helge, Edgar, and Dumi had been serving an important role in resisting the aerial bombardment and the nonsense at corners. If Brentford scored from a set piece after we made those changes, the media would slate us.

You can't have a small team against Brentford, and certainly not in their own stadium! Thumbs up.

"You sure?" No, not really, but Sandra had been paying a lot more attention to the overall ebbs and flows of the game than I had. In my new role as a sand-raking zen master, I had to trust the process. Two thumbs up. While I walked back to the middle of the action, Sandra got the subs ready.

I underestimated my co-manager. After the changes, it was easier for Brentford to get into our final third, but Sandra might have calculated that this was going to happen anyway. What she had also calculated was that it would be easier for us to get into their final third. Instead of pinging long passes to Gabby, Owen played short to Peter, who waited, waited, then chipped a pass to Leo, who was in acres of space somehow. This kept happening, and it kept happening because Sandra had designed it to happen.

We got that sequence to work three times in a row. The first time, Leo controlled with one touch, sent the ball to me with his next. He was learning to play faster! I got some aggro on me, then dinked a pass behind and between the two centre backs. Wibbers got on the end of it and took an early shot which beat the goalie but slid just wide. The second time, I did the exact same thing but the goalie read my intention and raced out of his penalty area, got to the ball first, and hammered it out of play.

The third time, I took a touch and glanced up to see what the goalie was doing. He was already close to the edge of his penalty area, the clown! Had he never seen me score from long range? It seemed like he hadn't, or he judged that the risk of Wibbers scoring was higher than the chance I would chip him from distance. Not long after being pleased for Leo that he was learning to play quickly in this league, I was guilty of dwelling on the ball. I got tackled, and amazingly, it was a clean one.

Who says Brentford are one-dimensional?

That little spell of chances was the end of our golden age. Brentford adjusted, sent on another massive forward so they would have two targets to aim for, and the tide turned. They got corner after corner. Owen punched one clear. Owen was fouled - free kick given. Owen was fouled - no free kick but the ball was cleared off the line.

Then - it had started to seem inevitable - a corner was headed against the post, there was a scramble, bodies were strewn everywhere, and a midfielder bundled the ball across the line from close range. 2-1. Disaster. Noise. Losing to an ugly goal at the end of an ugly match was hard to take. I tried to comfort myself by saying that when we played Brentford next, it would be different. It didn't help. I told my brain to shut the fuck up. Words are very unnecessary; they can only do harm.

Brentford went right back to their timewasting, to their antics, to their shenanigans. I would never stoop so low. The referee indicated that there would be four minutes of injury time. A Brentford player collapsed to the turf complaining of cramp. Brentford's manager smirked. I crouched and stared at the blades of grass by my feet. Defeated. Another loss imminent. That was the vibe I very much wanted to give, because I'd had an idea. To pull it off, I couldn't let the home team drop too deep.

I used the curse to make my back three drop deeper, and did the same for the forwards. If I had left it that way for five minutes, it would have been obvious to an analyst that someone had ordered such a change, but over a short period of time we would look just like a tired team who had given up. Sometimes it wasn't bad to have a reputation as a quitter... The match restarted and we played passive football for a minute. This was cutting it fine, I knew, but we would only get one shot at this.

The ball came to me and I did what I had been doing - looked to see if I could pick out Wibbers. He made a run, and so did the goalie. I turned away and passed the ball back to Murray Burnett, but I made a right mess of it and it ended up back with Owen Elmham. Oops, lol! We were forced to reset, to drop deeper, and Brentford rushed up the pitch. If they could nab the ball, they would get a third goal. Some of them were already thinking about the goal difference at the end of the season.

Owen passed to Murray, who laid it off to Peter. I walked towards Rainbow-Laces, who informed me that I was a loser, a bedwetter, and a Welsh prick. By the time that sentence had finished, the ball was at the feet of Leo. He moved ahead, didn't see any options, and turned back. That made Brentford work even harder to get the ball. One last push! I sprinted madly over halfway, veering right. Peter Bauer slapped the ball thirty yards into my path. I had space but not for long; the Bees were buzzing towards me.

My first touch was clean as a whistle, but the swarm of Bees would arrive in seconds. I didn't even have time to look up and check the sitch. This was a leap of faith. I was betting that Wibbers would be making yet another lung-busting run behind the Dutch centre back, that the goalie would be sprinting out to stop the ball from reaching its target. I slowed my forward momentum to let the ball move away from my boot, leaned back like I was taking off on a plane, swung my right leg, middled the bastard.

Middled it, mate. I knew as soon as I made contact. In a flash, I saw that Wibbers had made the run and the keeper had rushed out to stop it. Wibbers raised his arms - he knew. The keeper frantically sprinted backwards - he knew. That's an albatross. Nobody else was sure. They watched from the dugouts, from the stands, on worldwide TV, as the ball rose and sped towards the goal. The away fans drew in air. The home fans stopped breathing. I lifted my arms, exultant, and closed my eyes. Enjoy the silence...

One Mississippi, two Mississippi... Then the roar of the Chester mob, and the sound of a thousand plastic seats slapping upright as Brentford fans got up and made for the exits. I whirled my arm around and ran in circles like I was a drunken helicopter. My flightplan had a small mistake in that it took me past Rainbow-Laces, but it ended with me joining the rest of the lads in front of the away fans, so all's well that ends well. Wibbers grabbed me and practically hurled me to the front.

The noise was insane, with competing chants and songs vying for supremacy.

"Max! Max! Max!"

"Chester! Chester! Chester!"

"He scores when he wants! He scores when he wa-a-ants. Max Best, he scores when he wants!" Peter ruffled my hair. Magnus bearhugged me. I kept silent.

There was time for one last incident before the final whistle. Brentford, so dangerous and clever from kick-offs, passed the ball back to their goalie, who paused while eight of the ten outfield players loaded into our penalty area. He then hoofed it as far as he could. Best league in the world, this. There was the usual scramble, made worse by the fact we had become a small team, but Mad Owen spotted his moment, took a risk, and grabbed the ball.

Slab did what his manager would have wanted, which was to grab Owen to stop him releasing the ball quickly, but Owen knew what I wanted, which was to get the fucking ball to my feet so I could score the fucking winner. He threw it like he was taking a throw-in, over Slab's head. He couldn't get huge distance, so he went via Bark, who was in space on the right. Bark took control of the ball and crabbed back towards his own corner flag. Retreating! And towards the flag. Breaking two rules in one go.

I couldn't believe it! But then I realised what his plan was and sprinted as hard as I could down the line, arriving ten yards ahead of Bark just as his left-footed pass rolled passed an opponent, and I found myself in another pocket of space with time to decide how to approach the scenario. It would have been an amazing time for Wibbers to make one of his probing runs, but he was still in our half and he was shattered.

He had run himself into the ground, to the point I would potentially have to rest him against Wolves next week. So there was no Wibbers to aim for, but hang on. There was only one opponent between me and goal on this side of the pitch... And that man was Brian Rainbow-Laces. I was shattered, wasn't sure I had another long sprint in me. But he didn't know that... I surged towards him, doing my speed skater dribble. I jinked left, and he moved accordingly. I veered right; he reacted.

Yeah so he was a prick, but he was experienced. He had played against a lot better players than me. But he had never played against them in the 95th minute of a draining match when he was aged 36 and however the fuck many days. No-one, with his body in its current age, had ever done a Brazilian-style flip-flap against him. I moved the ball to the right then instantly to the left, leaving him off-balance just as I moved past him. He grabbed me.

Had it been the first minute, had I not been unwell, I might have tried to shake him off, but I didn't have it in me. I crashed to the grass and rolled around. Laid it on just a little bit too thick, to be honest. I'm not proud of it. I'm a little bit proud of it. The referee came over, showed Laces a second yellow card, then a red. Bark pulled me to my feet, but when I surged towards the side of the pitch, towards Rainbow-Laces, Bark - my own teammate! - grappled me like he was a Brentford player.

Peter Bauer joined in, too. Together, they kept me away from the England international. It was all way over the top... I wasn't going to say anything!