Chương 7: 1.5 - Waiting for God? Oh.

5. It was a typical contradiction: I liked to arrive early but hated waiting. Waiting's simply what you do in a waiting room. Waiting was my mission so I would wait like a champion. After ten motionless seconds, I stood and paced to the far side of the room. It was bland, windowless, almost featureless except for a couple of doors and a row of chairs. It was what people call a liminal space, a place with an eerie, hard-to-define sense of timelessness and wrongness.

Think of an empty classroom at night or an abandoned hotel. These spaces are thresholds, boundaries, places where transitions happen. Places that should be calming but that give you a frisson of dread. A lot of dentists had fish tanks in their waiting rooms, didn't they? A fish tank right about here - I held my arms wide - would give us waiters something to do. Was keeping fish in a little tank cruel? They'd go mental seeing the same things over and over, right? Especially in this room.

And they were so hard to keep. You had to get the water just right, feed them, and when you wanted to put a fancy boy in the tank you would come back and find it had eaten all your other dudes.

"No fish," I proclaimed. I felt my jaw. Had I just experienced a pang of toothache? That would be some sick joke, wouldn't it? I paced up and down but there wasn't enough space to stretch my legs; I picked up the chairs and stacked them on top of one another in a corner.

"Oh, mate," I said, delighted at my interior design skills. I upgraded from walking up and down the room to making a circuit. Doing laps! Pang! That tooth again. No, please. Please don't do that. I paused my latest lap and rubbed my jaw. I had used a fair chunk of the club's money to hire a dentist and to fill a rented commercial unit with dental equipment. Getting our clinic set up had cost about two hundred thousand pounds - about half a Lee Contreras - though it broke even on an ongoing basis.

I had done it because one of my young players had been training like shit and my investigation showed that he was in constant pain. He was in constant pain because he had a cavity and there was no prospect of seeing a dentist. Thanks to my investment I could guarantee basic dental care for my players, our admin staff, and their families. When the dentist had spare capacity he did emergency work for desperate locals. Some so-called fans hated that I had used the club's resources in this way.

Stick to football, they said. I hate it when you get political, they said. Leave your left-wing authoritarianism out of football, said one guy. I didn't see what I did as political. I saw it as basic human decency. The room was closing in on me. I needed human contact so I dialled David, one of the new admin guys.

"David, it's Max."

"Oh!" I heard him fussing with papers or something. We hadn't quite got off to the best start and I was trying to remedy that.

"How are you? I mean, can I help?"

"Yeah, if you get some spare time can you think about the dentist?"

"The... What? The dentist, yes."

"One's not enough, is it? We need to expand and we need to get more equipment because right now we're only set up for the basics. I mean, that's all right for us patients but if you're a highly-trained dentist you don't want to do the same shit over and over. There was a manager - I think he was at Tranmere - who wanted his players to hit long passes when they got the ball and he went nuts if they didn't. The wingers were supposed to kick the ball into the penalty box as soon as they got it.

They had one really good winger who got the ball, dribbled past some defenders, and cracked one past the goalie. The manager subbed him off right away, for disobedience."

"John King."

"No, I'm not joking. Ah, that would have slayed in person. Yes, John King. He did well for Tranmere but I hate the idea of restricting my staff in that way and we're only allowing our dentist to use one little part of his skillset, aren't we? We need to give him more gear. What I'm thinking is that when we hit the Prem we're going to have more money than we know how to spend."

"Brooke has ideas on how we could spend it."

"Yeah but she has great teeth so she doesn't understand how debilitating toothache is." Shit! Was that another pang? No, Max! It's all in your head. That's right, Max. My teeth are in my head. That's the problem.

"I want us to have a really top clinic. Let's say four full-time dentists with all the toys, including that stuff that makes footballer's teeth literally glow. We'll be able to offer that as an inducement to Premier League quality players, right? And we'll have capacity to help locals, too. I'm thinking - " I thought I heard someone's hand on the other side of the door. It was too early, wasn't it? The pressure on the door eased and the thumping of my heart got a bit quieter.

"I'm thinking I don't want 50 randos a day coming to our medical block so we can't put the dentist in there even if that would be convenient. The medical block should be a sanctuary for our players, right? They don't want the general public seeing them injured or upset or struggling to do their rehab or whatevs. At the same time, I want the dentists and their assistants coming to the canteen and feeling like part of the team. Do you get me?"

"Are you asking me to suggest a location for a dental clinic?"

"Yeah, yeah," I said, scanning the wall for some graffiti or something that might be fun to read.

"Help me push my disgraceful left-wing authoritarian agenda."

"Are dentists left-wing? It's hard to keep up with all the trends. What about in the stadium?" I didn't know David very well and didn't know how his mind worked. To me it sounded like he had jumped to a new topic.

"What about in the stadium what?"

"We're going to rebuild more stands, aren't we? If we do the West stand next there will be all kinds of space. We could easily fit four dentists inside."

"That's really interesting. Would people go to a dentist inside a football stadium?"

"Why not?"

"Don't know. It's weird, isn't it?" One thing it would achieve would be to ensure the curse counted the dentist when it came to our facilities score. Right now I wasn't totally sure it did; the clinic was in a shopping centre a few minutes away from the stadium. One way to make dead certain an amenity counted was to stick it inside the stadium.

"Maybe it isn't weird. Maybe it's genius. Can you do some market research on it? Would people go to the stadium for healthcare? Have a think about what else we could stick inside, while you're at it. Anything that might help the players and their families."

"A barbers."

"Yes!"

"Tattoo artist."

"Urgh. You're losing me."

"You don't like tats but the players are going to get them anyway, aren't they? We can check the needles are clean."

"You know what? That's a very valid point. Will you do some brainstorming for me? It's not urgent because we won't have the money for the West stand for ages but then again, things happen fast around Chester. Okay, good call. Oh, before I go. Let's make our waiting rooms a bit nicer, eh? Bosh."

"Bosh, Max." I hung up and resumed pacing. Putting a tattoo artist on the payroll would be absolutely mental but it would be something cool to offer players. Yeah we'll pay you half what you could get at another club but we'll cover your entire back with a sketch of a lion. Oh! The tat guy could open his parlour on Saturday morning before the match and ink the Chester badge into fans. Kids could get their faces painted while their dads were getting IN MAX WE TRUST carved into their skin.

Again I thought I heard someone at the door and felt a cold shiver go down my spine. I actually shuddered and let out a tiny yelp when my phone vibrated. Emma: Are you nervous? Me: Yeah, a bit. Emma: Be brave. Me: I'll try. I just don't like them. Emma: I know. It'll be reet. That meant, 'it will be all right'. Me: What's for dinner tonight? Emma: Bit of fish. Me: The house will stink. Emma: Yep. I did a few laps of the space before stopping and leaning against a wall.

The word 'waiting' strongly collocated in my head with 'for Godot'. I knew that Waiting for Godot was a play but I'd never seen it and knew nothing about it. I did a quick search and read the synopsis. Two dudes are waiting for someone named Godot. The play ends.

"Does what it says on the tin," I said, as I resumed my pacing, but I soon stopped. That wasn't the whole play, surely? I looked up what it was supposed to mean. No-one knew for sure but a common interpretation was that if you were waiting for God, you'd always be waiting. My best friend was a French striker called Henri Lyons. He was a man of wealth and taste so I fired off a quick text. Me: Mate I'm in a waiting room going so crazy even a trip to the theatre would be preferable. Would I like Waiting for Godot?

Henri: You would love it, Max. Me: No, be serious. Henri: I am always serious about Beckett, especially since he debuted his masterpiece in French. What class! What sophistication! You must permit me to take you to see it. You must. I insist. It is now my life's work to find the perfect production to which to accompany you. There, I have said it. My happiness rests on your answer. You must reply in the affirmative. To do otherwise would be cruel. Me: Yeah but Wikipedia makes it sound dull. Henri: Wikipedia? No! No!

A thousand times no! I will not stand for this. Wikipedia has spoken. Henri Lyons has spoken. Now you must choose which voice you hear. Choose, Max. Choose carefully. Me: Oh my God can you calm down? I just don't want to be dragged to see a play that you think is great and I hate every second of it. Remember you tried to make me watch Fellini's Casanova and we didn't speak for a month? Henri: I admit (for the tenth time - you must learn to let things go) that not allowing you subtitles was a mistake.

Godot is fun, my friend. It is silly and funny and clever. If it had more jokes about Tottenham I would wonder if you wrote it. Me: That's high praise. Okay, fine. Henri: You are in a waiting room? Say this out loud: 'That passed the time.'

'It would have passed in any case.'

'Yes, but not so rapidly.' I scratched under my chin. So the play was actually good? That surprised me, but I hadn't expected Henri to reply so fast. I had been thinking about all the people who waited for God and never found him. Some people did, though, didn't they? Including some football fans. Liverpool fans used to call their striker Robbie Fowler 'God'. Aston Villa fans called their elegant centre back Paul McGrath 'God'.

Off the top of my head I could remember Messi and Glenn Hoddle being called 'God' at various times. Diego Maradona had scored with 'the hand of God.' Zlatan Ibrahimovic was an exception in that he didn't wait for the fans to label him; he called himself'God'. How long would I be waiting to manage a player at that level? I already had one - Meredith Ann. I had named her in the starting eleven when I managed the women's team against Durham, the only team keeping pace with us at the top of the league.

Durham were CA 70 and we were playing on their home patch up in the North East. I started with our ladies in a solid 4-1-4-1, which gave us an average of 59. 5. In the first half we struggled and were one-nil down by the break, but I was delighted and so were the other coaches - all four of them. News of the Blues, a website run by a weirdo who was, to his credit, improving his output at about the same rate as the club was climbing the leagues, joked that I was playing 'five-a-side'.

Five coaches by the side of the pitch. We were delighted because I had kept five of our best players out of the starting lineup. I had explained it by saying we needed to practise being under pressure against a good team so that we could go far in the FA Cup, but in reality it was so that I could make the most out of Bench Boost. By the time I had finished bringing Charlotte, Sarah Greene, Dani, Angel, and Kit Hodges into the action, our average CA had shot up to 70. 9.

That was on a par with Durham but my best players were fresh and had jet fuel in their heels. We blitzed the home team in what News of the Blues called 'a heartfelt spell of groovy pass-and-movey that felled a gelled defence into a helpless smoothie'. We scored three goals from three angles. One from Dani's dribbling skills on the left, one created by Sarah Greene hitting space on the right and curving a delicious pass for Kit to divert home. The third came straight down the middle.

A punt from Meghan was flicked on by Kit. A defender got there first but Angel pounced on her poor touch and slammed the ball into the net before the defender even knew she was in trouble. We had some trouble of our own. Charlotte and Sarah combined in midfield, the former slipped a pass into space for Kit to chase, and she shot into a defender when Angel was free to her left. Kit felt her mistake a lot harder than the rest of the team and her head dropped.

Durham sensed their chance and took risks by sending defenders into midfield. They forced a second goal. Three-two! I called Kit over and told her it was all right.

"Shake it off, look ahead, go again. I'm not going to give you shit every time you take a shot that doesn't go in! Relax! Keep the defenders busy and we'll win this." She didn't look completely sold so I swept my hand along the line of coaches. Pascal Bochum, my assistant manager for the day. Sandra Lane, co-manager of the men's team. Peter Bauer and Colin Beckton, established men's first-team players.

"Would you prefer a different flavour of pep talk?" Kit laughed, shook her head, said "No, boss," and jogged back into position. Half a minute later the ball broke and Kit slapped a shot that went about six microns wide. Despite taking almost no backlift she hit the ball so hard the goalie didn't even have time to flinch. That scared Durham's manager and she grew more cautious. No more defenders dribbling through the lines! I almost felt bad that she had shut down the tactic; it had been great to watch.

"That defender bringing the ball forward?" I said.

"That's what I want you to do, Peter. Pascal? That's what Amy Shone got promoted to the first-team squad for. Elite teams are great at blocking passing lanes, making it hard to pass our way up the pitch. That leaves big juicy gaps to dribble through." Colin Beckton loved a bit of American Football.

"You can block the pass or the rush but not both."

"Flag on the play!" I agreed, showing that I knew loads about the NFL.

"Peter, Pascal, can you review the tape of that phase with Amy? Seeing it used to mess us up will help her understand how it'll mess other teams up when she does it."

"Yes, boss." We had held on for the win but the last ten minutes were hairy. They made me realise we weren't as dominant in the league as I had thought, but I hadn't expected a 22-point difference between the best and worst teams. I looked up while I scanned the women's squad. If Durham had an average CA of 70, I wanted my entire starting eleven to have at least CA 70 by the next time we played them. That was four months away. Six of my squad were already over 70. The right back, Luxury Bell, was close.

The left back, Ridley T, was on 63, as was Kisi Yalley. Angel was a point ahead. I expected them to hit 70 in two months. Yeah, everyone would get to the levels except for the goalie. Scottie Love was the bottleneck, having hit her ceiling of CA 63. Queenie was seven years younger at 19 and would catch up in terms of CA... yeah, maybe around the time of the next Durham match. That would be an interesting selection dilemma for Pascal.

Queenie's PA was 94 which, by my reckoning, would make her a good second-tier goalie when she reached her peak. That said, the women's game was slowly but steadily improving so perhaps Queenie was lucky to be playing in this era. Ten years from now, 94 would be third-tier.

"I need a goalie," I said, scanning the player database and finding no-one that tempted me. I fantasised about finding a PA 200 keeper. With her at the back and Meredith Ann at the front, we would destroy absolutely everyone.

"I'd settle for 199," I told the universe. My pacing resumed. Henri: I'm sending you my second communication of the day. The second is never so sweet as the first. But it's sweet just the same. I was pretty sure I knew what Henri was quoting from: Waiting for Godot. Waiting for God. That was the train of thought that had led me to thinking about the women's team. Would Chester ever get a male player with PA over 190?

"I've got the basis of a good Premier League squad," I mused to myself.

"If the baseline is 150." If I managed to keep hold of all my players with CA 150 for the next three seasons (Chester would need two goes at the second tier), I would be able to include in my first Premier League squad the following players: Goalie: Banksy (155). Centre backs: Peter Bauer (166); Tomzilla (178). Right backs: Nasa (150); Roddy Jones (184). Defensive Midfield: Youngster (181). Forwards: Wibbers (185); Gabriel (161) Tomzilla and Nasa were in Brazil and would join us in January.

Throw in two players currently learning the game (and getting used to the English weather) in Saltney and I had another DM (Vincent Addo, 169) and a wide midfielder (Toquinho, 154). That was ten players who absolutely had Premier League chops. This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. At left back I would almost certainly keep Cole Adams around.

He was 'only' PA 147 but he would be able to cope with the physicality of the league and would be a good squad option. Players like Zach Green in the high 130s might not be quite able to make the step up from the Championship. Charlie Dugdale was PA 143. I had seen players like him wither and die in the Prem but if it came to it and I had to name Zach and Duggers in my first squads, I didn't think I would lose too much sleep over it.

Then there was the mystery of Magnus Evergreen (utility player) and Dan Badford (silky-smooth playmaker). They had minus 2 and minus 1 PA, respectively. I felt sure those numbers meant they could improve to a high level but I couldn't be sure how high. Certainly I had four mega talents (Tomzilla, Roddy Jones, Youngster, and Wibbers), plus Peter Bauer's unique skill set made him a cheat code, far more powerful than his CA/PA suggested. I would need a 'God' player somewhere, though, wouldn't I?

One guy in the team with PA 195. Not just world class but elite. I made a scoffing noise. That was the joke. Waiting for Godot? Spoiler alert - he doesn't arrive. Speaking of which... I dialed.

"Hi, Max."

"Hi, Gemma." Gems was Emma's best friend, Andrew Harrison's girlfriend, and a rising star in the legal community. Emma's dad had created a spinoff company to deal with football law - partly to keep his future son-in-law (me) out of trouble. Gemma was helping me to get planning permission for a little stadium I wanted to build for my club in South Manchester.

"How's it going?"

"Faster than expected."

"Oh!"

"Yeah. The planners are impressed that you have tried to get ahead of all the objections. It's strange to see this side of you, Max."

"Which side of me?"

"The reasonable side."

"I'm reasonable. I just agreed to watch an absurdist play to make a friend happy! Gems, come on, tell me you think I'm reasonable or I'll make your boyfriend train on his own."

"You're very reasonable. I have to go but leave it with me. We'll make it happen."

"Okay, bosh, thanks." I did a few more laps but had a similar call to make. Mike Dean (MD) would have a planning meeting of his own in the next few days. We didn't expect too much resistance. If you go to a skint local council in Wales and tell them you want to invest ten million pounds in their region, they tend to get enthusiastic.

"MD," I said, after he picked up.

"Max. Are you where I think you are?" I looked at the door.

"Yeah."

"You sound gloomy."

"This call is to take my mind off it."

"I see."

"I'm so keen to distract myself I even agreed to see a play with Henri and now I'm waiting for Waiting for Godot."

"Oh, that's great."

"Do you think I'll like it?"

"Not as much as you like Die Hard, but yes."

"What's happening with the planning meeting? Are we all good, do you think? Is there anything else we can do?"

"I don't think so. I'm going as Saltney's rep. Brooke is representing Chester FC. She will explain the plan is for Chester's players to use the facilities at Saltney. Gwen from the Welsh FA is coming to show their support for the project. So is Patrick David." That perked me up. Patrick David was the manager of the Welsh national team and while he wasn't a tactical genius he was incredibly charismatic.

"Wow, really? That's amazing. That's actually amazing. He'll charm the shit out of them!"

"He doesn't use phrases like charm the shit out of them so yes, he's a net positive."" Net positive. Come on, MD. You can't be Welsh and not be delirious that the national team manager is turning up. Wow. That will seal the deal, all right. Wow. I'll have to buy him a beer."

"He understands the value of training young players for the health of the national team. He also understands that you are the Rasputin to Gwen's Tsarina. Max, it's all going to be fine. We'll get planning permission signed off and then it's a race against time to be ready for next summer. I'm confident. You leave it with me and focus on, you know, managing."

"You've cheered me all the way up, MD. Thanks." I strolled around with a smile on my face. With planning permission in place we could throw up a tiny modular stadium at Saltney in literally weeks. That would easily be ready for the start of next season and with luck, so would enough of the rest of the compound. We would be able to really go hell-for-leather in training up the best and brightest young players Wales had to offer.

I got pumped up and wanted to blast Men of Harlech on my phone, but thought better of it. While I was in a good mood, I crouched down and brought up a text message from my friend in Brazil. Chelli ran the Brazilian wing of my agency and helped me scout players when I went over to South America. On our last mission in Sao Paulo I had discovered a little brat called Breno.

For some reason I had decided to show off to this 14-year-old and his mates by 'surfing' over a football, not a million miles from the way a circus performer walks on a barrel. I'd thrown in some surfing arm movements to sell the illusion that the ball was a surfboard. I don't know why I did it; I hadn't done it before or since. But Breno had obsessed over it and decided to make it his signature move. After countless hours of practice, he had finally mastered it.

I pressed play on a video that showed him wearing a red, white, and black football kit with Breno 77 on the back - he had even copied my squad number. He was there in a youth team game surfing over the ball, which triggered a brawl. The move had become known as 'the Breno'. Not being credited with its invention? Didn't bother me in the slightest. Absolutely fine. Heh. Especially as Breno was signed up to my agency.

The kid had started late in the world of elite football so he still played like he was just having a laugh with his mates. Most of his teammates at Sao Paulo had started earlier, and much of their natural flair had been drilled out of them. Breno's style was more raw, more show-off, more bratty. It made him electric to watch. He was going to fill stadiums; he was going to fill my wallet.

"Absolutely drenched in cash," I said. I checked the time and my pulse quickened. A rush of blood smashed through my gums and I felt another little stab of pain. It was nearly time. They wouldn't be late, would they? Emma had asked if I was nervous. Who, me? I wiped my palms on my bum, calmed down, and thought about what was about to happen. There was always a big light that shone right in your face, wasn't there? Little sips of water. I was really thirsty.

I put my phone in my pocket so I could rub my forehead vigorously with two hands. Why was I nervous? I was Max actual Best. My achievements were legendary. Emma had sent me a video on November 7, the Saturday after I had dumped Sutton United out of the FA Cup. One week after my talk with Pedro Porto we had played Stockport County at home. They were a serious, well-financed club and rocked a decent average CA of 97.

Emma had shot her video in one of the three sponsors' boxes - Jejune's, I thought - and showed (from above) a wildly throbbing mass of Cestrians (people from Chester). The celebrations resolved into a chant: Gabbygol, Gabbygol, Gabbygolgolgol! I smiled. That day I had been so in the zone I had barely heard anything.

I'd been busy practising my repertoire of moves with an eye on keeping our defensive shape, while using and refining the hotkeys that allowed me to make changes ranging from teeny tiny positional tweaks to big, dramatic switches in formations. We battered Stockport. I was young and inexperienced but I knew one thing - when you got the Man United manager to go into the dressing room to hype up one of your players, you played him the next match. Gabbygol, Gabbygol, Gabbygolgolgol!

A hat trick for our record signing and a new chant in his honour. We'd won three-one but just as significantly, the attendance was over eight thousand for the first time in decades. It helped that Stockport sold out the away end, but it also helped that we were fucking amazing. The next week saw the visit of Charlton Athletic, a big London club who should really have been in a higher tier and again the away end was full and again the atmosphere was electric. I called Crackers, a blind fan.

"Max, is that really you?"

"I know, we haven't spoken much. Sorry, Crackers, I'm dead busy."

"Of course! Don't mention it. Oh, I'm flustered. The great Max Best. The Soccer Supremo himself!"

"Stop that. Listen, I wouldn't be here if not for you." I looked around at my charmless prison. Maybe I shouldn't have been thanking him.

"You believed in me when I was nothing." Crackers had been on the board that voted me into the position of Chester's director of football.

"Haha, let's not get too deep into that. We decided that even if you were shockingly bad as a director of football, we had just signed the best player in the league. Is there anything you need?"

"Now? No. I'm in a waiting room going bonkers and I was thinking about the Charlton match. Noisy, wasn't it? When I think of the noise and the mayhem I think of you. I get, you know, a little thrill from it because I promised an atmosphere that would knock your socks off and you know what? Sometimes I think I've overdelivered."

"Haha, yes, I'll say. There are times I wish I had a volume control. I found an easy solution to the problem."

"What's that?"

"I don't wear socks."

"Mate. So was that a fun one? Charlton?"

"What I love now is when the away end is full and they are raucous like Charlton's lot, but now we've got the McNally end full of young lads who want to sing and shout and they do battle and I'm caught in the middle. I tell my wife it's like I'm on my chair being sucked up into a tornado. Believe it or not she suggests that maybe that's not a positive thing."

"So tell me how it was. Talk me through it."

"You first. Start on Monday. Your preparations started on Monday, I suspect?" It felt like months ago.

"Ah... Yeah, because there was no midweek game. I was hyped up for a few reasons - ""The third-tier winning streak record."

"I'm really not too bothered about those specific records but sure, it's something. What was it? Reading won 13 games in a row in 1985. Stockport was our 11th in a row. Beat Charlton and we're really close. I knew Charlton would come at us with a 4-2-3-1 that would make them very solid down the middle. You know what I'm going to do in that case."

"Go wide."

"I mean, yeah. The problem with that - well, it's not a problem really but I was a teeny weeny bit unhappy with one of the wide players."

"Matt Rush."

"How do you know that?"

"I was on the board, Max. When you're done being a dictator I'll nominate myself again." I had asked the board to dissolve themselves for a while so I could concentrate on winning matches instead of explaining what I was doing.

"I loved being part of it."

"Okay, well, tell MD to shut his mouth."

"Who said it was MD?"

"You, just now."

"That doesn't work, Max. So you wanted to use Matt Rush but you were mad at him?"

"He and Peter were in Manchester on Monday so I actually did it all on Tuesday. I took Matt Rush aside after I gave my rabble-rousing speech and asked how he was feeling. Good, he lied. We can beat Charlton by slapping them down the flanks, I said. You and Pascal are my best right-sided combination. Do you want your name in the history books? Yes, please. I'm going to plan around you, mate, but if you're not feeling it on Saturday morning, you tell me.

I won't be mad if you're not up for it but if you say you are and you're not, that will be terminal. No, boss, I'm up for it. Well, I didn't ask him again on Saturday and he didn't say anything, so I went 4-4-2 with almost my best team. Rush at right back; Colin back in for Gabby; Andrew Harrison instead of Lee Contreras, who was still on the naughty step."

"Do you have to fall out with so many players?"

"Apparently."

"How did Gabby take being dropped after a hat trick?"

"Not well so I got Luisa to explain it to him and after that he was fine. By the way, let's get you in earshot of Luisa while she's, uh, motivating the players. Holy shit, mate. Forget twelve hundred Londoners. Get yourself a tiny Portuguese waitress."

"Sign me up."

"So it's game day - ""Oh, slow down please. What was this rabble-rousing speech?"

"Yeah just sort of, you know, there's a record on the line. Be part of something. I said that Charlton had got off to a dodgy start and we could knock them all the way out of contention for the title. I said Charlton's nickname was The Addicks because they were all dicks and they would spend the match doing snide fouls and calling our mums. I said we were going to fucking battle and since we had a week to prepare for it I expected ninety minutes of all-out action.

We would go for the win streak with one of the best performances the third tier had ever fucking seen. Ah, mate, I can't do it down the phone. I need to see the lads and feed off their energy. It was fine, you know? You don't want to reach too high a level on the Tuesday before a Saturday game because you need to be able to work that week. Need to be able to slack off and chill out as well as focus. It was just to set the tone."

"Tone set, tactics decided. That early?"

"I admit I miscalculated, but we can come back to that. It's your turn."

"So," said Crackers, settling back on a chair that squeaked at certain angles.

"I settled into place and it was good and noisy. Charlton have a good variety of chants and we were singing the new Gabbygol song. It kicks off and there's very quickly the most remarkable change in the feeling of the noise."

"Can you describe it?"

"It went from us lot feeling nervous, worried, apprehensive at facing such a big club... to... party time. The fans around me kept making the same noises. There's a kind of surprised oh that means we're being consistently excellent. There is a special kind of gasp when we attack faster than expected. What else? Oh, the very distinctive slapping of seats as people stand up, which they do as we approach the penalty area. There's a new sound in the McNally. I don't know what it is yet but it means we're on the move.

And of course, the goal. The cheers, the people describing it to me in person while Boggy does the same in my ear. Still describing it, the beauty, the clarity of the movement, when the second goes in. It makes me feel emotional, Max, that our little club can do this. For most of my life it would have been extraordinary to see us even draw with Charlton Athletic but from what I hear you weren't even very animated, as though you expected it. The calmest man in the stadium, Boggy said."

"I mean, not sure about that. I have the GPS vest on, right, when I'm on the subs bench and if you could see how my heart rate spikes you'd tell me to quit the sport for my health. It would be interesting to compare my spikes to a normal fan's - I bet we get stressed and excited by quite different things." That could be good content, that. I'd have to pitch it to our media team.

"So, this is the miscalculation. Like you I think of Charlton and think of a team that was recently in the Prem. But, like, Stockport County were actually a little better and they were in the National League not long ago. Their budgets are similar, a little more than twice ours, so it makes sense that the players are similar. But after the match I did some more research and found out Charlton are losing two hundred thousand pounds a week. A week, Crackers!

How is that even possible when the players are only getting a hundred and thirty grand? If it's not going on the players, where's it going? If I had known about the mismanagement I would have been a lot more relaxed."

"Maybe it's good you weren't."

"No, it's better to be relaxed if it's possible. Relaxed doesn't mean complacent. If you ask your players to step up one week, they have less in the tank the week after, right? There are limits to how hard you can squeeze. Anyway, yeah, I was surprised we were so much better than them." Charlton's CA was 96. Ours was 103. 3 - seven points higher.

"We also had a way better bench. Way better. It's mad how good our bench is these days." We had the in-form, triple-digit CA striker Gabby, a triple-digit defender (Fitzo), a triple-digit midfielder (Lee), and someone who was sneaking up to that same threshold. Wibbers was suddenly CA 98 and making a strong case to be starting more games than not.

"But the first half wasn't finished, was it?"

"When you go two-up early on, as a football fan you stress. You think things like oh no, that was too early. Do you think like that?"

"Not when we're the better team, no. Maybe if we played Newcastle again in a cup. Better to keep a team that's much better than you complacent. Let them go a goal up, even, then hit them right at the end so they can't come back at you. I doubt I'm thinking the same as you during a match. I tune most noise out and focus on the mechanics of the game. Who's playing well, who's struggling, who looks like they've picked up a knock.

It's easier when I don't play and it's easier when the oppo stick to their crappy plans but it's still draining. Oh!"

"What?"

"I'll tell you what I was doing. Watching the shot counter go up."

"You have a shot counter? On an iPad?" No, in the curse screens in my head. Oops.

"Um... something like that. More of a virtual one. I don't keep count like I'm at a casino, but... Okay, I sort of do. Fine, you got me. I'm a weirdo who counts shots." Crackers laughed.

"I would have lost count. I was punch drunk near the end. I kept asking if they had put up a giant screen in the McNally and people were oohing and aahing at the replays of shots because what else could explain the frequency?"

"Yeah we slowed down at the start of the second half, which I sometimes ask the players to do to save their legs but not this time. I wanted more, so I threw on Gabby and Wibbers because they were the most goal-hungry. You probably heard they charged around like wild dogs and they're the type that when the crowd eggs them on, they find it hard to snap back into efficiency mode.

I was enjoying it even though the game got a bit chaotic and shapeless but as long as we were the ones having chance after chance, why change? Of course, even in a match where we absolutely dismantled a good team, we got slapped in the face for no reason."

"People said Charlton's goal was good."

"Yeah, really good. Slick counter-attack. Sometimes you just have to say well done. We watched the tape back and it's not really that we did anything wrong. They just hit space hard and fast and when you're that decisive, good things happen. My centre backs aren't as phlegmatic but if they wanted to be happy, they shouldn't have been born as defenders. Know what I mean?"

"The nerves, though, Max. You don't seem to feel the nerves like we do. It's torture. You're singing and dancing for an hour and if the team screws it up, throws away a comfortable lead, the away fans luxuriate in your failure."

"What you do is, instead of worrying, you smile and think, Max knows best."

"Perfect, yes, I'll do that. Thanks for the tip."

"See, if we're kind of in the mindset of three-nil is just fine, thanks, and the oppo score a goal, we don't necessarily crumble and wilt under the pressure. Most of the time we go oh, that's how you want to play it? And that's when the onslaught really began."

"I got goosebumps when you said onslaught. That's what it was. The echoes of one attack still reverberating when the next one came. Another goal. So many shots! I didn't think to ask. Is that a number I should care about more than xG?" xG stood for Expected Goals and I planned to explain it to Briggy one day.

"Ideally you use a mix but if I had to choose one I'd choose shots. I'm just more used to it." The old version of Soccer Supremo that the curse was based on didn't use xG or any of the modern metrics, so the stats I had ready access to were the possession percentage and the number of shots taken. In tandem, those stats normally told the story of the match.

"Four-one, more than sixty percent possession, and thirty shots against Charlton Athletic. It was so cool."

"Max, why didn't you play? Are you carrying a secret injury again?"

"No. I'm focusing on my management skills for now." And grabbing experience points by the fistful. There was so, so much I needed to buy, and why risk injury in a match we were boshing?

"With ten minutes to go, Sandra jabs me in the ribs. She goes, 'Are you going on?' I go, 'no'. Fine, she says, I want Lee. Lee? I say, like you might say 'chronic fatigue'. He's on the naughty step. He's a problem child. Sandra says, I want Lee."

"Why? Why so insistent?"

"Ah, she wanted to freshen midfield up. And she doesn't like freezing players out for what she incorrectly perceives to be easily remedied problems, but that particular push was just to bring forward his redemption arc, if you get me. Sandra and I had workshopped it and decided that her being the one to push for his return would trigger some kind of sense of relief and gratitude that would make him even more likely to stick to the straight and narrow path.

Sandra Lane had returned from her illness and almost her first act was to redeem Lee Contreras. It's a little bit of storytelling."

"Is your man management style always this manipulative?"

"Not much; we rarely get the chance. If you know your players that well you can get a bit mathematical with them. It can blow up in your face so normally we just try to give them authentic feedback. Lee scampered around for ten minutes trying to play like the old Lee. I reckon he'll be okay now and if he isn't, fuck him. Matt Rush got an assist, a solid 7 out of 10 match rating, and walked off with a big goofy smile on his face. Charlie Dugdale continued to absolutely ruin teams from left midfield.

Pascal had a quiet game by his standards and still created two big chances. Youngster continued his one-man mission to make interception stats meaningless. Wibbers grabbed a goal from the bench - a valuable skill indeed."

"And little old Chester are top of League One, eight points clear of second-placed Oxford United. It's like a dream, Max."

"So you're enjoying it?" Crackers made a weird noise.

"This is as good as it gets."

"No it isn't. Heh. I want to turn the volume up to 11. Blow your toes off."

"Oh, God," laughed Crackers.

"Not sure I can handle that." Something pinged on his end of the call.

"I have to get back to work, I'm afraid."

"Yeah, sure, of course. Maybe I'll read the script of Waiting for Godot while I'm waiting."

"Oh, I have a good review of that if you want."

"Yeah, send it to me."

"I can deliver it in person. Are you ready? Here goes: Nothing happens, nobody comes, nobody goes, it's awful!" Crackers laughed for a while and hung up. What a great distraction that call had been! Crackers, yeah. He had been there at the start of the Chester adventure. A lot of other memories from that era had been stirred up recently, when Briggy sent me the link to a Soccer Supremo forum thread entitled Who Is Max Best? (renamed from Who's This Prick?).

I noted with wry amusement that the longer Chester's winning run went on, the fewer posts sniped at me. I felt my jaw. I hadn't felt any of those pangs of fake toothache for a while. I resumed my laps of the room. The thread had been really interesting. First it reminded me of some incidents I had forgotten. Second, it was fun to see which parts of my CV stood out to strangers as proof that I was worthy of being on the cover of the game and which parts were evidence that I was a bald fraud.

An early comment pointed out that I had been picked to appear as an expert analyst for a few matches in Euro 24, which is when I had met Dieter Bauer. If he's being picked to do that gig, suggested the forumite, the powers-that-be are obviously seeing something in him. Ah, went the next comment, but he has an irrational hatred of the England manager. Yes, but he won the FA Youth Cup with a League Two club. That's god-like. Okay sure but he got sacked by Grimsby.

No-one who has been sacked by Grimsby should be the face of Soccer Supremo. And he shoved a hot dog into a TV camera. He's an idiot. He dumped one of his players at a petrol station and told him to walk home. Is that good or bad? Don't know but it's funny. He should be on the cover of Rugby Realm. What do you mean? He played rugby one time and apparently he was amazing. That was before he was in a coma. I think we should remember that almost everything he has achieved as a manager has come since then.

It's doubly impressive, in my view. He's got chops as a scout, too. He found three lads doing five-a-side in Manchester and now they're professional. One of them plays for Ghana! And there's the Dani Smith-Smithe thing. What's that? I missed that. Here's an article about it. Long story short, he was at a pan-disability tournament and saw a deaf girl. He shouts, 'She's going to play for England!' and hijacks the match so that he can start coaching her right away.

She hasn't played for England yet but she's impressive. Dribbles, passes, shoots, and you can't trash talk her without learning sign language. If Best is so good, why hasn't he been poached by a big club? His man management skills vary wildly, he's too political, he's too emotional, he doesn't have a set style of play or a footballing philosophy. He's nowhere near ready to manage a proper big club. Okay, said the poster with the most upvotes.

There's good and bad but in the end he has taken a National League North club to the top of League One and he has done it with no money. He's literally doing a Soccer Supremo speed run. Love him or hate him, that's why he's on the cover. My phone buzzed. My eyes were drawn to the date: Monday, November 16, 2026. On this date in history, Chester were eight points clear at the top of the table. The women's team were three points ahead of their nearest rivals. Our under eighteens were the FA Youth Cup holders.

The stadium was magnificent and we owned our own dental clinic. Emma: It will be painless. You might even enjoy it! I didn't have time to reply. The door opened; my wait was over. Leaving the liminal space was disorientating. I shuffled through the doorway into a new world, brightly lit, feeling open and vulnerable. Eyes on me, strange whispers. I went to the special chair in the middle and sat down next to a kindly old man. He gave me a friendly little nod, a soft but firm handshake.

His entire personality seemed to be built around putting people at ease. All he wanted was for you to leave with a radiant smile.

"How are you?" he said.

"Incredibly confident," I replied. He gave me a reassuring smile but he knew I was a wreck. He knew I was a trembling mess. He had been in this situation a hell of a lot more often than I had. He gave me a friendly squeeze of the wrist.

"You'll do great." I nodded and spotted the water to my left. Was I allowed to drink some already? It might help to replace some of the fluids I was losing through my palms. The kindly old man faced the front. Faced the lights.

"Ladies and gentleman," he told the jam-packed media room.

"May I please introduce the next manager of Bayern Munich, Max Best."