8.

  Thursday, December 16

  Midweek Youth Cup ties kicked off 45 minutes earlier than a normal match, at 7 p.m., which I supposed was to help let the players get a good night's sleep for school the next day. Starting earlier than normal meant some fans wouldn't be able to make it to the stadium in time after work, so we had marketed the match to schoolkids and families. 3 quid entry, 10 quid for a gang of four, and the famous Emre's Scran would be open to all.

  Chester fans knew we were gunning for the cup again this season. I had made no secret of my ambition, and I had spent heavily to make sure we had a squad that would bish bash bosh. Those who bought tickets knew they would be watching something special, and would be seeing Chester's stars of the future. Go to a random Third Round match and you might find you were one of 300 spectators, but I was aiming for ten times that. I wanted 3,000. To that end, I spent some time in the city centre, with the Brig and Briggy keeping me out of trouble as I chatted to randos and gave away tickets.

  "We came to see the old fortress," said a history buff wearing hiking gear.

  "Come see the new fortress," I said. "It's got the same name: the Deva. We've got all the history bits. Defensive walls. A lad who runs like a trebuchet. We used to have lions but I sold him."

  "Have you got long throws hurled low and flat like a javelin?" said the history buff's wife.

  "No, we don't do that," I said, sniffily. "I'd rather ride into the match on an elephant; it'd be more aesthetically pleasing. We have standards."

  "So did the Romans," said the man, in the tone of someone who had just won the conversation.

  It took me a few seconds, but then I laughed. "Oh, that's very good. Here, take the tickets and decide later. If you come, I'll do a Roman formation in your honour."

  The wife said, "5-3-2?"

  "I was thinking more like a phalanx."

  Briggy had closed in. "Max, you promised to stop offering to show women your phalanx."

  "Oh my God," I said.

  She tugged at my elbow. "It's time to go. Destiny awaits."

  "Can you stop saying that, please? People will think that's how I talk."

  ***

  FA Youth Cup Third Round - Chester versus Ipswich Town

  Being drawn to play Ipswich felt like a good omen - not that I believed in omens or curses or demons - because we had beaten them on the way to Youth Cup glory a couple of years back. Ipswich had been a Premier League club then, but I doubted we would see much drop-off in quality in their youth side. In fact, I was expecting them to be better. A couple of clubs - especially Chelsea in the semi-final - had underestimated us, and had allowed some of their brightest talents to miss the match, thinking their development would be best served elsewhere.

  Ipswich still had a category one academy - the highest - and plenty of talent. Last time, their starters had averaged CA 30. This time, they were CA 33.

  Just as I thought - we were being taken more seriously.

  It was a shame for them that my boys would be 20 points higher.

  "All right," I said, as I entered the dressing room. Most of the lads were between 16 and 18, though Stephen Watson and Tadpole, who were both 14, were hanging out to soak up the atmosphere. In a couple of years, they would be the ones nervously bouncing their knees, the ones not sure of how much to smile and how much to snarl. I leaned back a fraction. "This is it. This is the big one. Destiny is calling. Will you pick up the phone? Wow, that was top. Someone remind me to get that on the billboard. Okay, hands up everyone who has butterflies in your stomach."

  Future, who was one of two 16-year-olds starting tonight, put his hand up. He was the only one.

  "That's bad," I said. "Pre-match butterflies help you play well and that's a scientific fact. Can we order some butterflies, please?"

  Owen Elmham was my assistant manager for the night, which was part of the ongoing PR campaign but also something he would have done anyway if it helped us beat Ipswich. "You've got butterflies in your garden, haven't you?"

  I poked my finger in the general direction of his face. "Anyone touching my butterflies is in for a world of pain. And you know who else is in for a world of pain? Ipswich Town."

  "Great link, boss," said Adam B. Roberts, who enjoyed my team talks a lot more than his more serious older brother.

  "Thanks, Adam. So, Norwich play 4-2-3-1," I said.

  "Ipswich," said Owen.

  "Meh," I said. "Same thing." Because he was trying to be less angry-seeming, he had to bite his lip and not respond to my jibe, which the lads in the dressing room found very amusing. I continued. "4-2-3-1. They will often have four forwards, but I'm not massively worried. We will adapt our gameplay slightly, with a couple of CMs being more disciplined. Let's review the starting lineup. We're doing 3-5-1-1, which is the best formation for this group right now. Why aren't I trying to hide our capabilities? Because we're the big dogs now. You have my permission, one time only, to bark like dogs."

  The lads had fun with that.

  I glared at Owen. "Sorry, mate, I didn't see you bark. Are you part of the team or what?"

  Again, he looked down and inhaled, a big show of patience, provoking more laughter, but suddenly he tipped his head back and howled. It was ear-splitting; he got a standing ovation.

  "Full moon, is it?" I took a sip of water. "All right, everyone, serious time. There are people in the world of football who don't understand why I give a shit about the Youth Cup. There's no money in it, so why should we care about winning it? And my answer is, because it's fucking awesome and I want it." I made eye contact with some of the lads. "We won this a couple of years ago. Some of those lads are playing at a good level. Some are semi-pro. Some just do kickabouts with their mates on a Thursday night. But they beat West Ham, Everton, Ipswich, Chelsea, and Man United."

  "In their own stadium," said Adam.

  "Fuck yeah," I said. "With a half-fit Wibbers in the final!"

  "Will said he was fine."

  I tapped Adam on his head. "Five minute mute." He got jeered. I strolled around the gaps between the benches. "I loved that team. You know when you're depressed and Alex says 'go to your happy place'? That Youth Cup run is one of my happy places. It will always be one of my top achievements because, like I said, some of the lads aren't in football any more. We had to use every trick in the book to get them ready for that campaign." I shook my head. "You, though? You're different gravy. You're the best team in this competition on day one." I looked around to see who would swell with pride and who would shrink under the weight of expectation. "Time for a history lesson."

  I took another swig of water.

  "In 1890, William MacGregor, the man who founded the Football League, the man who has created more millionaires than anyone else in this country - I have done zero research to back up that statement but it has to be true - went to watch Sunderland. He was amazed at how good The Black Cats were, because they weren't actually in the EFL at that point. He said, 'fuck me, these pricks had got a talented player in every position'. They became known as The Team Of All The Talents."

  I took a step back and adjusted the position of the tactics board. I touched every magnet.

  "The Team Of All The Talents. There are no weak spots in this eleven, and I've got options on the bench. Christ, I've got 16-year-old squad players who are already better than half the guys who played the cup final. Ipswich have good players, of course they do, but not in every position. Their squad isn't perfectly balanced with no exploits, the way mine is. And how many of the oppo today have played first-team football? None! How many have been on the subs bench in a cup match the manager doesn't care about? One or two. How many have trained with the first team? Tsch. Four, maybe?" I shook my head. "Nah, these guys are three years behind you in terms of development. That's three Ipswich years, by the way." I grinned. "Chester years go faster."

  "Suffolk's the land that time forgot," said Owen.

  Archer Phillips, our captain, tapped the big man. "Five minute mute."

  When the laughter had died down, I said, "I don't really know how it was in the old days, or just how good that Man United team was in 1992. Beckham, Neville, Butt, Giggs. Some of them played for United's first team that season so they must have been pretty advanced. But I think it's just about possible that we are the single most prepared team that has ever entered this competition."

  Again, I checked the reaction of the squad. Morale seemed solid.

  "Good. You're looking at me like you believe it. That's good, because I've given you a gift, which is the gift of being part of this squad. And I want you to give each other the gift of winning. But more than that, you are a gift from me to the world of football. When the guy is etching our name into the trophy - again! - he'll be thinking, but how have they done this with no oil money? No gambling sponsors? No billionaire backers? If Chester can do it, maybe my team can, too. I want you to make people smile. I want you to make people fall back in love with this sport."

  There was a reverential hush as they processed my words.

  "If you beat Ipswich," said Owen, "I'll take you out to Nando's."

  The hush was replaced by a feral roar. Archer Phillips stormed out through the exit and the others followed him.

  "Kin hell," I said. "I've only done about half my speech."

  Livia Stranton was one of our physios for the night. "Owen has given us the gift of brevity."

  ***

  Ipswich kicked off and started knocking the ball around nicely, but while they played some pretty stuff, it was quite powderpuff. When we got the ball, we passed around just as smoothly but we had threat coming from all angles.

  Owen Elmham left me alone for ten minutes, then came to my side. "Couple of good goalies, you've got."

  "Yup. That we have." Aston Davidson was our starting keeper. I had paid ￡55,000 to acquire him, and it looked well worth it to me. He was 39/113, which was pretty similar to Ipswich's goalie. "Goalie's an area that's hard for me to get an advantage at this level. I could have used Aston in the Cheshire Cup, but Rainman needs those minutes in case our first-choice keeper decides to interrupt one of my team talks again."

  Owen smiled. "I'm back as first choice, am I?"

  I bit my lip. "That was stupid of me, wasn't it?" Since he'd destroyed his mum's phone, I had been calling Owen my fourth-choice keeper. "Ah, well. Yeah, Aston's an example of what happens to a young player if you don't involve him in the first team much. Rapid improvement in the weeks after pre-season, probably because of the excitement and hope and being happy to be back in full-time training. But then the realisation that you're years away from the first team, and improvement rates slow down. The Youth Cup should be a catalyst for them. Playing in front of three thousand? That's great, isn't it? I wanted a big crowd because why not, but also to motivate the lads. People are watching this. All that extra work you're doing? It goes into nights like these."

  Owen was paying close attention to the match and my words. "You want them to get a taste of the big time."

  "Right. That's why they train with the first team, get named on the bench. I think nine of those lads out there have been named on the bench this season in the Championship alone and six have had minutes. I try to give them little boosts all the time. The sessions you did with Aston and Big Sam have been great. I've seen a difference."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah." Aston had finally overtaken Big Sam, who had a huge heart but only PA 61. "Big Sam is more limited than Aston but Sam could be our starting goalie in the next two campaigns and I wouldn't worry about picking him. He's had top training for years. I'm pretty sure he's better at his age than any goalie I've ever had. Pretty sure. I don't know what the squad will look like next season but Big Sam could win the Youth Cup twice as a starter. He'll be on the bench for the final this time, so he could well get three medals before he ages out."

  "Youth Cup legend."

  "I mean, he would be, wouldn't he? There's no way anyone has ever done anything like that."

  Owen turned towards the subs bench. "I'll do more sessions if you really think it helps."

  "Come on, man," I said. "Think back to when you were a kid in the youth teams. The number one slash four goalie in the club takes you aside for extra training, gives you tips, builds up your confidence." I scoffed. "Of course it helps. The only thing is, don't teach them anything different to Sticky. If you think your way's better, discuss it with him, do you know what I mean? It might be that his way suits Aston and your way suits Big Sam. I don't mind as long as they're getting, you know, unified coaching."

  He nodded, then retreated, letting me concentrate fully on the match. Not that it was needed, really. We were as dominant as the 20-point difference in CA would suggest. We had 62% possession to the away team's 38. We'd had four shots to their none. Most of the match was being played in their half.

  On the halfway line, our three centre backs were prowling around, waiting for the ball to come so they could win their duels.

  Archer Phillips, the captain, was the left-sided of the three. He had cost ￡25,000. He was currently CA 40, but his ceiling was 76. If it was ever possible to say that your defensive rock was the team's weak link, then this was it. Why had I paid money for a player who had such a low ceiling? Because he had Influence 20, and I always wanted to have an INF 20 guy in my teams, not least because that made Triple Captain even more effective. I hadn't used TC or Bench Boost for this one - I was confident - but if we played Chelsea or Man City there would be long stretches in the game where we would have to suffer, where the lads would look to their captain for inspiration. Ipswich didn't have such a player - their captain had Influence 8.

  In the middle of the three was Future, one of the lads who had featured in my controversial first-ever appearance as manager of one of Chester's teams. MD had relieved me of those unpaid duties during the second half. How times change! But Future had remained in the youth system, playing either as a centre back or DM. He was 16 now, growing up fast, shooting up, and as a result his CA improvements were all over the place. He was currently 43/99. The guys either side of him would overtake him soon, but Future was another one, like Big Sam, who could become a Youth Cup legend.

  To his right was Lennox Francis, an ￡80,000 purchase, currently 40/130. He could play centre back or right back, which could be handy if we switched to a back four. In reality, even if we changed the defensive shape, Lennox would remain in the middle because I didn't want Future to play as one of two CBs. The physical demands were too much for him at this point in his development, whereas in a three he could use his gifts as a ball progressor while the other two lads did any hard physical work that was needed.

  So the goalie and three defenders were CA 39, 40, 43, and 40. Better than what Ipswich had, no weak spots, but it was nothing extraordinary. Lots of room for improvement in the coming months.

  Future competed for a header and lost it, but Archer was well-positioned. He was going to roll the ball back to the keeper. "Shit," I said, because Archer's body shape was all wrong.

  My captain's pass back was weak, and Ipswich's fast striker was their best player. He zoomed onto the pass, knocked it past Aston, and rolled the ball into the empty net.

  The Deva was stunned. Archer held his head in his hands. His Morale plunged to abysmal.

  "Archer! Come here!"

  Future had to push his mate towards me, but then Archer got a grip and ran to the dugout. So that the game couldn't restart, I made him stand in Ipswich's half while I spoke to him. "Chin up, mate! You've turned a drab match into a thrill ride. You've given us the gift of excitement!" He looked up, blew his cheeks, looked back towards his spot. "I'm not letting you go back until you smile."

  That got him. With extreme reluctance, he forced his mouth into a less distressed shape.

  "There we go. Listen, mate. There's two ways this can go. One, you flounder around for the rest of eternity, wondering about that moment. If that's what you want, I can find the sackcloth and ashes and Magnus can teach you how to wail with proper circular breathing. Or you can get back on the train. The train is Chester FC and it's going forward, one pass at a time, one tackle at a time. It's powered by all those things we do on the training pitch. Pass there, move there, all that stuff. It's simple, but it only goes forward. Life can only be lived forward, do you know what I mean? Get on the train. The glory train." He grimaced, and not because of what had happened on the pitch. I tapped my lips. "Yeah, that's shit, isn't it? Look, you go back to work and I'll think of a better name. Good?"

  "Yes, boss."

  His Morale had climbed back to okay. Probably good enough.

  I hit Seal It Up to give the defenders a boost for 15 minutes. We probably didn't need better Positioning, but it seemed like the logical time to use the perk. 15 minutes of solidity right after his nightmare mistake could set Archer up for the rest of the season. For the rest of his career, maybe.

  I watched our defenders win most of their individual battles, watched them combine as a unit to stifle Ipswich's forays forward. It was pretty mint.

  The back three were being supported by two of the three central midfielders. Hamish Andrews had cost ￡112,000 and had got good minutes in the first team last season. It was harder to involve him this time around, but with the spate of midfield injuries he had been training with the firsts more often than not. Hamish was 17 and had natural 20s in Decisions and Determination. He was CA 62 with a PA of 139. A very, very exciting player. I had set his individual instructions to 'make forward runs: no', and had also created two hot keys. One told Hamish to man-mark one of Ipswich's CAMs. The other moved him back to DM. He was a foundation stone in the midfield, but he was trying to take shortcuts in our build-up play.

  "Hamish!" I yelled. "Quit those fucking dinks over the top! You're releasing the pressure!" He gave me the thumbs up.

  The other midfielders were creative, technical types, but I had given the same orders to Dominic Duckham as I had to Hamish. Dominic had cost ￡400,000, was also 17, also had PA 139, though his CA was 'only' 50. I had overpaid for him because of his outstanding Technique, which he combined with top Flair. In the past I would have wanted to play DD as high up the pitch as possible, but these days I liked having flair players playing deep. Dominic could play the Dan Badford role of eluding the opposition's press. He could take the ball with multiple opponents charging towards him and do an outrageous flick or turn that would get him out of trouble and blow the oppo's position wide open.

  Hamish and Dominic were currently bossing the game against players a year older.

  "DD, that's mint! Top! Keep control. This is good. Don't chase it! Let it happen."

  The third central midfielder was Tommy Thompson, another Scottish lad I'd picked up for 70 grand. He was 18, AM RC, 43/123. He didn't look miles better than the Ipswich lot as it stood, but he had been improving fast so far this season and there was something about him that gave me confidence he would keep going.

  "Tommy! You're allowed to push! Your moves are the ones that create space, yeah?"

  Tommy nodded and went from standing on the defensive side of his marker to the attacking side. The midfielder dropped with him, and suddenly there was a nice gap that Hamish or DD could move into.

  "Yep yep yep," I said, chatting to myself. It wasn't a very stressful match - yet - but as the minutes ticked by, the threat of humiliation loomed closer.

  Probably not many people in the world would think of Chester's boys losing to Ipswich's as a humiliation, but I would. Two years ago I had won the cup with a non-league squad. To lose in the first match after spending 1.5 million pounds assembling the perfect team... yeah, I would feel it. I would feel it in my bones.

  My gaze drifted to the patch of grass ahead of Tommy. Adam B. Roberts was playing in the CAM slot, the hole between our midfield line and our striker. (If I ever pressed the Hamish-to-DM hotkey, Adam would have become the second striker in a 3-5-2, which wasn't a place I would want him to stay for long.) Adam was the second of the 16-year-olds, but he had the same kind of stocky frame as his older brother and he didn't look out of place next to the older boys. His PA of 92 meant that he would be exactly half as good as Wibbers when they both peaked, but at CA 49 he was already miles better than most in his age group. He was young but he had been training at Chester for years, learning my ways, learning from his brother. I trusted him to make good tactical decisions and the current role suited him perfectly.

  I opened my mouth to yell an instruction at him, but Adam had already scanned the pitch and was moving where I wanted him to go. "Adam, go over there," I mumbled, to make myself feel relevant.

  The three CMs, supported by Adam, were controlling the match. I had an accidental Miyawaki Method experiment going on with the central midfielders, because I had two guys on the bench who were almost as good as the ones on the pitch. It would be interesting to see how they pushed each other in the next couple of months.

  Thanks to our midfield superiority, our pass count was flying up, and it was obvious that Ipswich's players weren't used to that sort of treatment. But the real menace came from the final three players in our starting eleven.

  On the left was Wallace Wells, 18, who I had spent 800 grand on. He was a 65/145 wing wizard, labeled as AM FL by the curse, meaning he could play anywhere in the opposition's third - as long as it was hugging the left touchline. He was two-footed, which meant he could dribble either side of a defender, which made him an absolute nightmare to play against. I was childishly pleased with myself for finding him and persuading him to join us.

  "Wallace! Come here!" I cried, when there was a quick break. He rushed across from the other side of the pitch. "Bro. You're cutting inside to get shots away."

  "Yes."

  "Right, but that's all you're doing. I want you to go down the line and get crosses in, too. In fact, I want you to do that most of the time. These academy lads, that's what they're trained to do. You put a right-footed player on the left wing so that he can run into the middle and shoot on his stronger foot. Yeah? So that's what these defenders are up against in training every day. They know how to defend that. So do the opposite."

  "Do the opposite," he said. "Stay outside, run past him, cross."

  "Yeah, but you can do slaps, too."

  A 'slap' was my phrase for when a player got to the side of the penalty box, ran past the line of the defenders, and hit the ball low and hard sideways or backwards. It was very hard to defend against a well-constructed slap. "They have numbers back, boss."

  "If you go fast, they'll be scattered, and if you stop fucking shooting all the time, our midfielders will run into the box, won't they? If you pass it, they will come."

  He stuck his tongue out. "Yeah."

  I tapped him on his chest. "Stop trying to win this on your own and your levels will go way up."

  He walked away slowly at first, then jogged when he saw the match was about to restart.

  "Roddy," I yelled, getting the attention of my star of stars, my talent of all the talents. Roddy Jones, scorer of one goal in one game for the Welsh national team. CA 83, PA 184. He looked at me, waiting for instructions. "Big one-twos!" He gave me a thumbs-up.

  Most of the time, a one-two is played in a relatively small space. I might get the ball on the centre circle dot and pass it five yards to Youngster, then run five yards, beyond an opponent, where I would receive the return pass. When we did Relationism, some of the one-twos were played in tiny areas. What we had found with Roddy was that every opponent knew who he was and had a plan to deal with him. That plan normally involved setting a player to man-mark him - to stick with him everywhere he went - or to double-team him, and very often, both. With less time and space and with two opponents stopping him from dribbling, Roddy's effectiveness was limited. In theory, that opened gaps elsewhere on the pitch for his mates to exploit, but you wanted your best player doing as much damage as poss.

  It was Well In who had conceived the solution, Well In who had created the drills to make it a natural part of our game. Well In was pretty busy with Saltney and the Welsh national team and was doing almost no training for Chester, but he had found some time to help Roddy.

  The 'big one-two' strategy was pretty simple. Roddy would take up his usual position, which for the youth team was the right side of midfield. If he wasn't being double-teamed, he soon would be - no manager could stand by while this force of nature ran wild. When the double-teaming happened, Roddy would get the ball on the halfway line (for example), wait for his markers to come close, then fire the ball to Adam B. Roberts or the striker, then sprint twenty or thirty yards to get the return pass. The big one-two.

  If you did that a couple of times, the double-team became a triple-team, and you only needed a couple of half-decent players to take advantage of all the space.

  Future played a pass to DD, who sensed an opponent charging towards him and did a really interesting piece of skill - nothing. He must have dipped his shoulder or something, because the oppo went flying like a bull through a rag. DD then scoop-flicked the ball to Hamish. A pointlessly complicated pass that drew a ripple of applause from the youthful crowd. Hamish rolled the ball right, to the feet of Roddy. He faced forward and two Ipswich players moved into his path.

  Roddy fired the ball at an unexpected angle - to the away team - and sprinted. Our striker gathered the ball, turned to his left, and rolled the ball towards the touchline.

  Roddy Jones outpaced his opponents by fucking miles, touched the ball forward, looked up, and hit a cross that went past three defenders, all the way into the path of Wallace Wells, who was attacking the box from the other side. He cracked it first-time, left-footed, but it went over the bar.

  The crackle of applause around the stadium made the back of my neck tingle.

  It's happening.

  I held up a thumb. "Yes, Chas! That's the stuff."

  The striker was Chas Fungrieve, of course. He was 18, CA 77. Tall, gangly, but increasingly able to command his body to do his bidding, and increasingly confident. He was one of the only youth team players who joked around with Angel. I was pretty sure he was the player in the entire tournament with the most first-team minutes, and I was pretty sure it wasn't even close.

  Chas rarely picked up injuries, and if he did our average CA would take a big hit, but the main reason I hadn't paid cash for a backup was because we already had one. Marco Burton was one of seven Chesterborns in the squad. (There were also three 'Cheshireborns', Playdar finds from the wider Cheshire area.) Marco was 17, CA 39, PA 88. A worthy squad player, and another example of me keeping my promise to develop the talent I found in the region.

  The backup to the backup striker was Nine, who had been with us at Das Tournament. He was 18 now and had long since been capped at CA 29, but he was an awesome dressing room presence and would infect the newcomers with his Chesterness.

  I turned to see what Nine was doing. As I expected, he was watching the match intently, telling Marco what he was seeing from a tactical point of view. I took a couple of steps towards two of the guys on the bench, Max Murray (16, left back, 42/122) and Ben Wood (16, central midfielder, 40/131), who were laughing and joking. "Soz, guys, are we interrupting your Christmas party?"

  Both lads turned pale. "No boss," said Ben.

  I pointed to Nine and Marco. "The guys who want to get on the pitch are getting ready to come on. Seeing what's happening. Thinking ahead. Which defenders are good. Which side the goalie is weak on. What fouls the ref lets slide. They're watching the fucking match."

  I didn't give them time to reply, but stormed back to the edge of my technical area, pretending to be raging.

  Dominic slipped past an opponent and slipped the ball to Adam Roberts. He ran crab-like, facing his right, waiting for Roddy to thunder into position. When Roddy got there - drawing triple aggro on himself - Chas made a near-post run that drew a defender.

  So when Adam clipped the ball up over the defensive line, there was only one opponent anywhere close to Wallace. The winger's first touch took the ball closer to goal but away from the defender - delicious - and he shaped to smack it left-footed. The goalie rushed towards him, but Wallace rolled the ball diagonally across the six-yard box.

  It was going wide.

  Well wide.

  Until Chas threw out a leg and hooked the clever pass into the empty goal.

  Chas got to his feet and ran to Wallace, who was running to Adam, who wasn't sure where to run.

  The roar of the crowd was more go-kart than Formula One, but a lot of the people in the stadium were learning how to be a football fan, just as the players were learning how to play.

  Life is a lesson, and if you're an 18-year-old playing in your last ever Youth Cup, Chester FC are the final boss.

  We - and we alone - are the true heirs of the Roman -

  All the air was squeezed out of my lungs. While I was in the middle of one of my most satisfying ever pontifications, Owen Elmham bearhugged me and tried to ragdoll me.

  "I never doubted you!" he lied. "Fucking get in! The northfolk shall inherit! The northfolk shall inherit!"

  I think that's what he said, anyway. It was hard to hear over the sound of my ribs cracking.

  ***

  Once we had that first goal, everything clicked. Wallace and Roddy tormented down the flanks, while our creative options in the middle overwhelmed the away team's resistance. Chas zipped around winning headers, holding the ball up, linking play, and busting a gut to be in position to finish moves.

  At set pieces, our defenders trundled forward, giving us another avenue of attack.

  This isn't a gift to football, I thought, as we smashed home our third goal of the first half. This is a gift to myself.

  One competition where I'm not the underdog. One competition where I get to play on easy mode.

  With five minutes to go in the first half, I pulled a lever I hadn't pulled in a while.

  Relationism.

  The curse interface changed. Instead of being modelled on an old version of Soccer Supremo, this was a new thing, inspired by addictive mobile games designed to absorb all your attention. I ignored all the pop-ups and bonuses on offer; I didn't want to get frazzled by the dopamine that was released when I played the 'game' the way the imps had designed it.

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  My players drifted out of their formation, moved closer to each other, and finally formed a blob on the right-hand side of the pitch. The blob often drifted to the right for the simple reason that teams always had more right-footed players. But Hamish yelled something and seconds later, the blob disintegrated. We were back to our modified 3-5-2. A moment later, the blob took shape again, but on the left.

  "Huh," I said, wondering what that was all about. "Ah!" My eyes danced around the pitch. "Well, fuck me."

  Hamish had spotted something in real-time that I had been too busy (imagining myself as a Roman general) to notice. With Ipswich keeping three guys in Roddy's vicinity, attacking up the left in a Relationist blob while keeping Roddy pinned to the right touchline would mean playing against three fewer defenders.

  So simple.

  So clever.

  We scored a fourth - Adam Roberts making a surprise surge into the box and scoring a header. The whistle blew shortly after, and as the lads went past me towards the dressing room, I called out to one of them. "Hamish."

  He slowed. "Yes, boss?"

  I pointed. "I want you to take a coaching badge."

  He considered the idea. "Sure, won't tek long. Can I finish this match fust?"

  I jabbed my thumb behind me and spoke to him in flawless Scots. "Get tae fuck, ya cheeky wee scamp."

  ***

  In the second half, we pounded Ipswich, driving the score to 7-1. That was my cue to start making subs.

  Finn Burton, 17, centre back, 26/100, got some good minutes. He got dicked by Ipswich's striker for the away team's second goal, but I didn't mind - it was good experience.

  Rocco Andrews, 16, defensive midfielder, 24/117, got good minutes. Like Finn, Rocco had been found relatively recently, which meant I got bonus experience points as he hit certain achievements. Playing in the Youth Cup seemed to be worth 50 XP each. Better than a kick in the teeth, and who didn't want more DMs in their squad?

  Max Murray, Ben Wood, and Marco Burton got minutes, too.

  The saplings grow. The forest thrives.

  In the final ten minutes, then, we were substantially weaker, which is how Ipswich were able to make the score more respectable. 8-3 final, but getting five players onto the pitch would be a billion times more beneficial than making the scoreline look pretty. I quite liked 8-3 anyway. It was a score that made you go, Huh? What happened there?

  When the final whistle blew, I wandered onto the pitch towards Ipswich's striker. He was being consoled by the nearest defenders, but that was just good sportsmanship. I had a better sense, I think, that the lad was realising he had just played his last ever Youth Cup match. He would have dreamed about going all the way to the final. If Chester could win it, why couldn't Ipswich? In a way, I had added to his pain.

  "Mate," I said, bringing him in for a sideways hug. "Are you gutted?"

  "It's hard to take."

  "Yeah," I said. "I get it." I let a moment pass. "Look, you're mint. You're going to be all right, but if Ipswich are stupid enough not to give you a contract, I want to be your first call." He looked up at me, surprised. I tapped him on the shoulder. "If you get cut, don't call your mum, your dad, your gran, your girlfriend, your wife. Call me." He had smiled a little at the idea that I thought he might have a wife already. "I'm serious," I said. "Ipswich is a good place for you to learn, so if they believe in you, stay there. If they don't, get in touch right away."

  "All right."

  "Hey," I said, beaming. "That first goal was mint. Knock it past the goalie with your right, stay on that plane, slot it home with your left, perfect balance. Mwah! It literally cannot be done better."

  "Thanks."

  "No," I said, suddenly flushed with the joy of sport, "thank you. God, it was delicious. I'm gonna show it to all my players and say, hey, learn this."

  "What about my image rights? You've got to pay me."

  I laughed. "I can use AI to replace your head with a big orange, if you want." I laughed again. "Christ! Image rights. What a scoundrel you are. I'm tempted to put a bid in for you right now. What do you reckon? Three hundred thousand?"

  All my praise was finally getting through. His Morale was rising, and he was standing taller. "That'll buy one of my toes. What about the rest?"

  "Oooooh!" I said, giving him a push. "Three million?" I shrugged. "Worth it."

  With that, I went towards Max Murray, my nearest player, and started to dish out big hugs.

  The mighty Chester were on the march.

  ***

  Later that evening, the draw for the Fourth Round was made. We could have got an 8th-tier team. We could have got Exeter or Cardiff City. We were drawn at home... to Chelsea.

  Probably the two best teams in the competition. That should have been the final, but that's not how knockout football works. It was a draw that excited the lads and got my blood pumping; I was already thinking of the Bench Boost scams I would run. Already picturing the Main Stand. How many scouts from around Europe would be at that match? 200? 300?

  Chester versus Chelsea was the new glamour tie of youth football.

  ***

  Saturday, December 18

  EFL Championship Match 24 of 46: Preston North End versus Chester

  The winter schedule was a strange one. After this match there would be an international break, meaning there would be no games before Christmas, and none on Boxing Day, which was always one of the matches with the highest attendance. It meant two things.

  First, that the people who decided the football schedule had absolutely zero fucking interest in history, tradition, or the fan experience.

  Second, that a third of my squad would be going away on international duty in the morning. And that meant two things.

  First, if we wanted to have a Christmas party, it had to be tonight.

  Second, if we wanted to enjoy it, we needed to win.

  Preston were flying high in the league because even though they only had an average CA of 127, they played to win. It's three points for a win, right? Why not fucking go for three points, every single match?

  Watching the tape of Preston just hurling bodies into the oppo's penalty area, digging for goals like lilywhite truffle pigs, made me wonder if I had become too cautious. Balance was good. Sometimes a draw was a good result. But what if we just threw caution to the wind and went all-out attack every match? Where would we be in the league if the old Max Best was in charge? The cocky little shit who threw tantrums when his players played sideways passes instead of going for the jugular? What happened to that guy?

  Preston played 3-5-2, but I had basically ignored their formation and picked a 4-4-2 because it would be fairly solid, because I wanted to give minutes to our full backs, and because it allowed me to use two strikers. Zach Green got a rest, as did Dan, Bark, and Wibbers.

  The starting eleven was Swanny, Cole, Christian, Fitz, Helge, Lewis, Joel, Youngster, Cheb, Colin, and Gabby. Average CA: 126.6. Almost identical to Preston. They would have home advantage. We had similar Morales. Ours was 5.0 (out of 7) - our highest of the season.

  My team talk was pretty brief.

  "Okay, lads. It's Christmas. There are loads of Chester boys in the away end tonight. Let's give them a Christmas present, yeah? Three points, all wrapped up. I have got some presents for some of you, and I'll hand them out at the party tonight." Amazingly, a ripple of pleasure went around the room. "Er, yeah," I said, surprised. It took me a second to remember what I wanted to say. "Okay, but as you'll hear later, there are some people it's hard to buy gifts for. I'm sure you know what I'm talking about." Nods aplenty. "So what I was thinking was, because he has been so diligent and disciplined, because he has been the perfect teammate, because he has cleaned up all our crap for so very, very long, we should do something for Youngster. Mate, come here. No, come on. I'm serious."

  Youngster got to his feet - it's hard not to when people are pushing you so hard - and stumbled to the front. I put my arm around him.

  "James Youngster Yalley," I said, in the voice of someone about to hand out an award. "You are an inspiration. You are the perfect teammate. You embody Chesterness in your willingness to humble yourself for the greater good, to inhibit your sinful tendencies, to stick to your lane but in a way that's fucking awesome."

  "Hurr," said Youngster, goofily worried about what was coming next.

  "I want to give you a gift. Something you have never got from me before and never will again. This is a once-in-a-lifetime thing."

  His eyes were darting left and right, not sure where to look. "I do not like this."

  "The fuck do you mean?" I demanded. "This is a fucking Christmas present! It's fucking Christmas!"

  "Er..." he said.

  "God put us both here, didn't he? God helped me choose what to get you, didn't he?"

  Youngster was shaking with giggles and nerves. "For the first time, I am not sure."

  "Here it is," I said, placing a Monopoly-style card in his hand. "It's a joint gift from me and the man upstairs and it's valid for today only. Use it or lose it. Tell everyone what it says."

  Youngster glanced at me, then at the card. He groaned and his body seemed to turn to jelly. "No."

  "Hey!" I said, acting mock-angry so well I actually was angry for a half a second. "I fucking broke my back making that! Look at the font! Look at the tasteful thickness of the paper! It's even got a watermark, for fuck's sake!"

  Dazza yelled out, "What does it say, James?"

  "Tell us, bro!" yelled someone.

  Youngster gave me a nervous glance again, then tutted and sighed. He looked at Dazza. "It is a permit to shoot."

  Some of the squad cheered; some laughed. It was pretty clear which players had joined the club since Youngster's last shot.

  Helge stood up. "Licence to Kill!"

  Livia said, "Licence to kill ten minutes while we get a ladder long enough to reach the stadium roof."

  "Ahhhh!" jeered the squad, while I squeezed Youngster into a sideways hug. Someone started a chant of "Liv! Liv! Liv!"

  "Miss Strantonnn," complained Youngster.

  "Hey," I snapped. "That's Mrs. Reaper to you."

  "Oooohhhh!" went the squad.

  Something occurred to me and I pointed at Livia. "Do not ask Jackie to marry you at my wedding."

  The edges of her lips turned up. "What if he asks me?"

  I spread my arms wide. "That's why we're getting married in a castle. Castles have dungeons!"

  ***

  The match was next-level bonkers. Right from the start I realised my setup gave us no control, but it also gave us an advantage in the risk-reward calculation. Deepdale was noisy, both sets of fans were primed to enjoy themselves, and I thought, fuck it, let's have some fun.

  The ball went end-to-end like a basketball match and the crowd loved it. Action! Excitement! Shots! Skills! This game had it all.

  We scored.

  Preston equalised.

  Preston scored.

  We equalised.

  Two-all at half time.

  "Max," said Sandra, pulling me away from everyone for a serious chat. "If you're in a gift-giving mood, please give me the gift of control. Look, I'm a disciple of Pep. I need control. Please, Max. Please let's tweak the formation. We've got so many options. So many options!"

  "Soz, Sandra, but I was talking to my godson, Jamie Lane-Beeks, and it turns out he's a big fan of Jez Bentham. The greatest good for the greatest number, yeah?" I waved my finger around. "There are 19,000 people enjoying the shit out of this." I gave her a hug. "You have to suffer."

  "Max," she wailed.

  Seeing a Christmas tree as part of an advertisement made me remember that one of my perks made a certain formation more effective in the month of December. "Tell you what," I said, thinking that since I had bought the perk I should try to use it, "if you can get us into a coherent 4-3-2-1, I'll let you have ten, twenty minutes of pure control."

  She shook her head. "The Christmas Tree formation? Lame."

  I shrugged and pointed to the pitch. "It's Christmas Tree or what we're doing. Those are your options."

  Sandra blinked. "Sub Colin for you. Bosh, done."

  "How does that go?" I said, intrigued, because I hadn't given it any thought until then.

  "Lewis, Joel, Youngster, as CMs. You and Cheb behind Gabby."

  "Huh," I said, even more intrigued. Normally, if I wanted a personal boost, it only happened in matches when I was Bench Boosted. Had I ever played in a game where I'd have any other kind of boost? I couldn't think of one. "It's weirdly tempting."

  Sandra looked to her right and got quiet. "I spent too much money drunkenly buying sofas, Max. There won't be many Christmas presents in the Lane-Beeks household this year." She looked down and stuck her bottom lip out.

  I shook my head. "You're a terrible actress. That was honestly abysmal." I closed one eye to try to help me think better. "In a Christmas Tree formation, I'd want marauding full backs. Lewis and Cheb would be perfect. Cole and Helge are more defensively-minded, so we'd lose half the benefit of the formation."

  "No," said Sandra, "that's an advantage. We'd always have numbers back, and with you and Cheb running riot, Preston wouldn't be able to commit so many bodies forward."

  I tutted. "Control."

  "Control," she said, torn between pouting and looking excited. "And a win. A win for Christmas, Max."

  "I don't want a win. I want an eight-all draw."

  Sandra's eyes widened a fraction, then narrowed. She poked me in the chest, hard. "I'm telling Colin he's done. Get warmed up."

  With that, she paced away towards the dressing room.

  One of Preston's subs had been doing some stretches nearby, and had snuck closer to listen to our conversation. "Ooh, you're in trouble now!" he said.

  "No," I said, clicking my head left and right. "You are."

  ***

  On-the-whistle match report from News of the Blues, the leading news and views platform for all things Chester FC.

  Chester FC: The Gift That Keeps On Giving

  Everyone knows that Christmas is a time for giving, but Max Best seems to have misheard the aphorism as 'Christmas is a time for giving teams a thrashing.' After a carefree, madcap, and thoroughly enjoyable first half that had all four corners of Deepdale purring, Best shuffled his pack, brought himself onto the pitch, and as far as the home team were concerned, turned into the Grinch.

  For his Chester teammates, though, it was: You get a goal! You get a goal!

  First things first. Colin Beckton, as he has done so many times in his career, opened the scoring. Preston are a fantastic team, great to watch, who attack in concerted waves. They scored twice and took the lead, but instead of turtling up like most teams in the Championship, they continued to play front-foot, attacking football. Foolish? It's hard to imagine it would have made a difference in the end. Gabriel scored to make it 2-2 at the break but it could have been 5-3 to either team.

  Glorious, wonderful stuff.

  In the second half, Chester played what I think was a 4-3-2-1 system, though it's always hard to tell when Best is on the pitch. He goes everywhere! It's even worse slash better now that he has seemingly endless stamina. You look up from your laptop and he's supporting Helge Hagen in the right back slot. Five seconds later he's bursting past Cheb Alloula, taking the ball in his stride, and striking an actual bolt of lightning at the top-right corner, drawing a simply unreal save from Preston's goalie.

  Chester's corner routines were interesting, as every single one was played short. Why not use Best's otherworldly gift of being able to land the ball on any player's head? Vikki, our set piece coach, knows her business, and knowing Chester, this entire match was a double bluff for something or other!

  Best and Alloula combined with Gabriel to give Best an almost open goal... He backheeled the ball into Cheb's path. Three-two, and a round of applause from the Preston fans. Their history is all in the past but the club that gave the world Tom Finney knows a superstar when it sees it.

  (As an aside, Tom Finney is the subject of one of my favourite ever anecdotes, in which the legendary Liverpool manager Bill Shankly was asked how a current star compared to Finney. Shankly said, 'Aye, he's as good as Tommy, but then Tommy's nearly 60 now.' Imagine being that good. Well, I know one man who doesn't have to imagine, and he goes to work wearing a wolf on his chest.)

  Despite the setback of going behind again, Preston kept attacking, so Best sapped their energy by smashing a corner kick onto Helge Hagen's head - what a combination that is! (By the way, I need to rewatch the clips, but were Preston anticipating another short corner at that moment? Is that how Helge got so much space in the box?)

  In the final ten minutes, Chester tried to play keep-ball, but the away fans were having too much fun for the scoreline to stay as it was. They started a chant and wouldn't let it drop.

  

  Max Best! Give us a goal!

  Max Best Max Best give us a goal!

  We know that when Best is in his full majesty he literally doesn't hear what's going on in the stands - but his teammates do. Youngster tugged Best's sleeve and told his manager what was being sung. Max Best beamed from ear to ear. He kept looking towards the dugout with a mischievous look on his face.

  Suddenly, the game was wide open again!

  Chester's control was gone, and it was end-to-end playground football once more.

  Chester attacked. Preston attacked. Chester. Preston. Chester.

  Then Best went on a mazy dribble, seemingly veering towards opponents instead of hitting space. He dabbed the ball to Alloula, intending to pick up a one-two, but a defender wiped Best out.

  Foul! Free kick! In Max Best territory, registered trade mark!

  And because it's Christmas, and because Max Best is a contrarian by nature, he demanded that Youngster take the free kick.

  The wail that came from the Chester fans knocked out at least three Chester players. I mean that literally - they knelt or doubled over, crying with laughter. Youngster tried to wriggle out of his duty, but Best was insistent. Chester's players - and manager - took so long in trying to force the young man to take the kick that Youngster was shown a yellow card for time-wasting.

  Shaking his head, grinning from ear to ear, Max Best respotted the ball, took a ten-yard run up, and cracked the ball at high velocity into the top-right of the net.

  5-2, but Youngster got surrounded as though he had scored the goal.

  Who knows what goes on in Chester's dressing room, in training, in their video analysis sessions, but I would be willing to bet good money there isn't a more fun, more vibrant workplace in this entire country.

  And for the second match in a row, the full-time whistle was the cue for Max Best to rush towards a respected opponent, in this case Fletcher, Preston's ageing centre back, who had done all he could to hold back the tide. What can you do to stop a man who has the ball on a string? Enough, apparently, to warrant a big chat, multiple pats on the back, and that rarest of accolades - Max Best asking if you will swap shirts with him.

  Just as an aside - barely worth mentioning - that win takes Chester to 7th in the table. Level on points with the team in 6th, behind them only on goal difference, which is rapidly turning in Chester's favour.

  I'm not going to mention it in the press conference in case Max Best bites my head off. He can deny that we will finish this season in the playoffs, but he can't deny the beauty of that number.

  7.

  We are seventh.

  Savour it. Enjoy it. Roll it around your tongue, and take a leaf out of this football team's book - wear your wolf badge with pride.

  Chester's goalscorers: Beckton, Gabby, Cheb, Helge, Best.

  Max Best assists: 2.

  Points ahead of Wrexham: 2.

  Wrexham fan social media meltdowns: 200 (and rising).

  Happy Christmas!

  ***

  XP balance: 1,887

  ***

  The Chester FC First Team Christmas Party

  Venue: The Get Fed and Wed Shed

  We held the Christmas ‘do’ in the upstairs restaurant at Bumpers Bank for the first time, and it was perfect. In the middle were more than a dozen large round tables, nicely done up with Christmas decorations and crackers. On one side of the room was a bar, serving mostly non-alcoholic drinks since the women had their final match of the year the following morning and many of the men were heading off to represent their countries. The ones who weren't had no intention of getting blasted, but a couple of beers was allowed, since our next match was in 11 days.

  On the other side of the room to the bar was a stage with a big screen at the back. About sixty chairs were laid out in front of the stage, which was enough for the first team squads and backroom staff but not the WAGs. This was strictly an internal event, though Emiliano was allowed in. (Pascal was spending the winter break with his family.)

  The voice of John Liner, the comedian who had played ten seconds of football at the start of the season, came out over the very crisp and clear speaker system. "Please take your seats, ladies and gentlemen. The festivities must commence!"

  I pottered forward with a low-alcohol beer, wondering what was in store. Henri Lyons had left the club and Newport County's event was being held on the same night as ours, so it couldn't get too weird.

  Surely?

  I took a seat, closed my eyes, and realised I was still absolutely buzzing from the day's win. How had we got so good? Yeah, value for money in the transfer market, good use of free agents and loans, putting players in the right position, not asking them to do things they couldn't do, checking their Morale, subbing off guys with injuries. Do the process well enough, stick to your guns, don't fret about individual matches, and the fruits will come.

  There was something else, though. We had a bit more X-factor than most teams. Was it the training? We put our players under lots of stress. Almost every drill involved decision-making. From what I could tell, we did unusual amounts of game-state training. We would make boring drills fresh simply by telling one team that they were two-nil down. It transformed the dynamic of the drill completely - the team ahead slowed things down, turtled, looked for counter-attacks. The team behind had to push as hard as they could without being stupid. We worked their minds as hard as we worked their bodies. When was the last week that someone in the first team squad didn't pop in Decisions?

  I shook my head. It was all mint. It was all golden.

  "Max." I opened my eyes and realised everyone was looking at me. When I frowned, they laughed in a good-natured way. John Liner was looking at my side of the room. "Max, can you stand up, please?"

  I stood - earning a round of applause - and found Charlotte was easing me to the right. She tapped me on the back, which I took to mean 'wait there'.

  John Liner peered out as though there were millions of floodlights facing the stage. I mean, there were some, but he was a terrible ham. "That's Max Best, is it? I heard he's got a secret Swiss bank account. Reminds me of a story I heard. Max Best goes into a bank in Geneva - " John Liner paused and pointed at a gaggle of female defenders - a very giggly gaggle. "That's not the joke! What's funny about Geneva?" He tutted and turned to another part of the audience. "They're inventing their own punchlines. It's like doing a gig to ChatGPT." He tutted again and tried to continue. "So Max Best goes into a bank in Zurich - "

  The ladies had gone again, and I wasn't sure if John Liner had known that changing the location would be funnier than restating it. I had to assume he had Comedy Anticipation 20.

  "So Max Best goes into a bank in St. Moritz... and he goes to the bank clerk and whispers, 'I would like to deposit three million francs.' The bank clerk looks around, lowers her voice, and replies, 'Sir, you don't have to whisper. It's no disgrace to be poor in Switzerland'. Ooh, big laugh from the handsome German! You know, I said to Peter, can you teach me to do the splits? He said, how flexible are you? I said, well, I can't do Tuesdays.' Ah, that's getting a huge laugh and it isn't even one of my jokes. That's the worst. Look, Peter's salivating. I said worst, not wurst. How do you make a sausage roll? Push him down a hill. What do you call a girl with sausages on her head? Dazza?"

  "Barbie."

  "Hey, now! Um, why am I doing sausage jokes? Oh, that's right - because they're all bangers. The Brazilians aren't laughing. Bangers and mash, lads. Sausages. Holy shit, the staff of Chester FC love meaty humour! Ah, here's salivation - I mean, salvation. Max Best's chair has arrived."

  John Liner's jokes had been washing over me in a seemingly endless wave, and I had just been standing there in the middle of the rows of people. I looked behind me. "Jesus wept," I said, which caused a laugh so big I worried John Liner would get jealous.

  Approaching from the far side of the room was the throne that Henri had made me sit in while enduring SILK!, the insane play he had written. These Christmas dinners were all about roasting the boss and the senior players because the rest of the year you had to respect the chain of command. The one time you could let your hair down and rip the piss out of your boss was tonight. Charlotte and Kisi nudged me backwards until I plopped down into the stupid throne, and then Mari Hughes appeared with a lush, gold-leafed footrest.

  There was a cheer and more laughter, and I had to turn all the way around to see why. A second throne was being brought forward, this time for Sandra. Not being alone on the stupid look-at-me chairs filled me with relief.

  John Liner briefly thanked everyone for coming, told us that we would have to endure some sketches and a word from the boss before dinner would be served, but that later there would be a talent show. He dropped the joke-a-minute persona and raised his eyebrows. "They're genuinely gifted, some of these players. It's really impressive. Okay, on with the show!"

  The lights on the stage went out, then came back on. Monty Holmes, one of the under 18 players who I hoped would play a big part in the latter stages of the Youth Cup, came out in a large wig, blonde with a perm. Nine, the backup striker, was in a similar wig, but his was black.

  They sat in two comfy armchairs. Monty spoke in a woman's falsetto. "What's on TV, love?"

  Nine was the 'husband' of the scenario, it seemed. "Let's have a look." He picked up a copy of the Radio Times, which had the schedules printed inside. "Oh, there's that Chesterness thing. Heard a lot about that."

  "What is it?"

  "It's about the women's team at Chester FC."

  "Ooh, you like football and I like to see women proving that we can do anything men can do, so we're the perfect demographic, it would seem. What's today's episode of the show about women's football about?"

  Nine scratched his face. "Here's the description. Max Best goes for a lovely walk with his new American friend. Max buys a gift."

  "Oh," said Monty, with distaste. "What's that got to do with the women's team?"

  "I'm sure it's linked," said Nine. "We could skip that episode. What's the next one?" He turned a few pages. "Ah, here we go. Owen Elmham decides he wants a new garden." Nine turned to the next page as if looking for the rest of the information, but he needn't have added that little flourish - everyone was giggling, and there were actual cackles. "Oh! Maybe episode three is what we need. Sandra Lane tries to juggle her responsibilities as a modern professional and as a mother."

  "Perfect," said Monty. "Let's watch that."

  I hadn't expected them to use the big screen, but they had gone all-out on this production. The footage that appeared even had our official documentary font for the words CHESTERNESS SERIES 77, EPISODE 3.

  Hamish was the narrator. "As kick-off draws near, the women complete their final warm-ups."

  The scene cut to the boys of the under 18s in normal Chester kit, wearing wigs, jogging across the pitch at the Deva. It got a big laugh, but when the stocky Adam B. Roberts caught up to the other 'girls' while dressed as a golden perfume bottle, the reaction was huge.

  Hamish: "Max Best has decided to give the pre-match team talk."

  Cut to the dressing room, with the 'girls' arrayed around the benches. Every single one of them had a hairdryer aimed at their wig, which caused another big laugh. When the camera panned to the right slightly, revealing that 'Angel' was wearing a completely different, equally gaudy outfit, I genuinely feared for the health of some of the ladies to my right.

  Another cut showed the front of the dressing room, where Chas Fungrieve was striding left and right while wearing a shit black hoodie. He was wearing a Noel Gallagher wig. "Ee arrr," he said, in what I had to assume was Chas's attempt at a Manchester accent. "All right, our kids? I'm just ere for a minute to give yers a team talk, like." Chas ran his fingers through his hair, left hand then right, which for some reason had everyone in stitches. "What it is, Saltney, is, hang on." Chas took out a stack of flashcards and threw them away one at a time. "Not Saltney. Not Bayern. Not West Didsbury. Where the fookin' 'ell am I? Ah, right, yeah... Chester." He beat his fist against his chest. "Home is where the 'art is."

  Again: stitches.

  Chas did his version of my dreamy, introspective voice. "Lads - laddesseses - I've never asked you for owt. Never asked you for one lickle fing. All I've ever asked is that you work hard. Train hard. Be part of our culture. Play through pain. Throw yourself in front of point-blank shots. Eat well. Sleep well. Laugh at my jokes. Do what I say, not what I do. Rememboh the fans. Rememboh your family. Give to the communiteh. Do all that while earning less than you could get any-fookin'-where-else." Chas shook his head, sadly. "I mean, it’s not much to ask, is it? Uh... I think I lost my train of thought. 'Ave you seen Ghostbusters?"

  Whoops and cheers.

  The scene cut to Aston Davidson, the youth team goalie, again in a wig. He was washing a cup in a sink in a normal English kitchen. Text on the screen read: SANDRA LANE.

  Hamish: "Meanwhile, Sandra Lane, Chester's record-breaking co-manager, is preparing for a tough day of raising a child."

  Aston wiped his hands on a tea towel and turned around. The camera shifted to the doorway of the kitchen, revealing that there were seven sofas rammed inside the space. 'Sandra' had to clamber over them to get to the door.

  To my right, Sandra was struggling to breathe.

  In what looked like a living room, 'Sandra' had his hands on his hips and was looking down at a much smaller person. In a speaking-to-a-toddler voice, 'Sandra' said, "What have I told you about leaving sticky things all over the place? And look at this - you promised you'd clean up your messes. Hey! Have you been buying toys again? Why have you bought one of these? You've already got three of these!"

  The camera cut to Chas, in his Max Best hoodie, lying on the floor writing on Post-It notes in crayon. The note he was working on had the words 'League Finish' on the top, beneath which '12th' was crossed out, '11th' was crossed out, and so on, all the way to '3rd.' Chas looked up. This version of Max Best spoke in a bratty teenager voice. "What new toy?"

  'Sandra' pointed to the corner. The camera cut to Emiliano in full Chester kit.

  Amazing cheer from the audience.

  ChasMax said, "He's not mine. I'm just borrowing him so I can do tests."

  The camera cut to a photo of a torture dungeon - big laugh - then back to 'Sandra', who pointed to a spot on the floor and said, "Will you tidy these up, please? I don't want to trip over."

  Cut to: loads of Manager of the Month and similar trophies carelessly lying around. ChasMax rolled over and wailed, "Aww, do I have to?"

  The screen faded to black, and on the stage, Nine turned to Monty. "Good this, isn't it? Authentic."

  They stood, bowed, and were replaced on stage by Briggy. I had been watching the whole thing in jaw-dropped stupefaction, and that feeling intensified when I saw my personal assistant slash bodyguard up there. Was she going to rinse me? If Briggy rinsed me in public I'd never be dirty again.

  "Max," she said, jerking her head. "Come on."

  "What?" I said, then snapped into action. "Oh!" I floated up to the stage and took a mic. I pointed to the screen. "I have thoughts about this." I waited for the nervous giggling to die down, then continued. "But I'm hungry and want to get to the meal. All right, this is a new regular feature of our Christmas parties that I call 'Drench The Players In Gifts'. Now, that's a great concept and everything, but it's not easy choosing presents for people. Where's Owen? Owen, can you come up here?"

  The big goalie lumbered forward, to much applause.

  "Top, top," I said. Briggy had a kit bag full of stuff, and she dipped her hand in. I said, "Owen, I was thinking about what to buy you and I came up with a baby elm tree, and a glazed ham. Can't remember why."

  Owen put his hands on his hips. "You bought me an elm and a ham?"

  "Er, yeah. Is that okay? I know you've got a new garden project coming up in the spring. Must have been something to do with that. You're disappointed. Yeah, it's just a photo of an elm tree, isn't it? I'm not gonna buy you a sapling in December, am I? What are you gonna do, put it in a vase in your kitchen? You'll get it in March or whatever. Okay round of applause for Owen and his elm and his ham."

  Briggy pretended to rummage around and picked out the next item.

  "What's this? It's a ticket to a Harry Styles concert for Dan... Hold up, there's some dust here." I blew on the ticket. "It's for Dani! Ah, that makes more sense. Oh, but the concert was last weekend! Wait, there's more dust." I blew again. "No, it's coming up. Wait, why is there always a little more dust on this bloody thing?" I blew. "Ahhh! It's a Harry Styles tribute act that we can book whenever we want! I watched his reel and literally couldn't tell the difference between this guy and the real thing. So, yeah, anyone who wants to go to that concert, talk to Femi because she's in charge. Er, the more the better, really. I promised the guy's agent we wouldn't leave Dani alone with him."

  I turned to Briggy for the next stuff, but then there was an odd yelping noise as the voice-to-text technology caught up with what I had said. Dani had to go and pace around, fanning her face with her hands.

  "Yeah," I said. "Maybe we'll get the Harry Styles impersonator to keep his shirt on at that gig. All right, can I get Cole, Youngster, Dazza, and Zach up here?"

  They came up to the stage and lined up. I handed Cole a little jar with what looked like two egg whites inside, gave Zach a cupcake, Dazza some sandpaper, and Youngster a photo of a Hollywood actor. There was much bewilderment.

  I regripped the mic and walked around. "As I said, it's hard to think of gifts. Owen gets an elm for his garden and a ham to make it funny. Dani likes Harry Styles. I mean, duh. But what do you get people like this? Sorry to say, Zach, but the technology doesn't exist to straighten your abs. There's no cure for Australians telling the rest of the world to wear sunscreen even on cloudy days, mate. And you could buy James a cool toy but he would give it to the first sad chimney sweep urchin he saw on Christmas morning." I looked from them to the audience. "But I'm not just a pretty face. I have a teeny tiny amount of clout in this little industry of ours, and I have been throwing my weight around. Zach, please show the room your gift."

  He held it aloft, grinning weirdly.

  "That, my friend, is a cupcake." I waited to see if he would catch on. There was no sign of that happening, so I went to the reveal. "You're going to Camp Cupcake."

  Zach's eyes popped with surprise, and he didn't quite know what to do with himself. "For real, boss?"

  "For real." He leapt from the stage and ran towards Brooke. "Ah, Zach's gone to celebrate with a female member of staff. Hugely inappropriate. Some of you are wondering what Camp Cupcake is. It's a training camp for the US men's national team, held in January, and it's a chance for the coaches to get a look at players they maybe don't know very well. Mostly it's for guys playing in the MLS, but I called them and said I would hold my breath and stamp my feet until they picked Zach, and they said they were looking at him anyway. So, bosh."

  "Hang on," said Dazza, eyeing his sandpaper, the totem of Australian national teams. "Does this mean - ?"

  "Darren Smith, " I said, "you are no longer in the under 23s. You have ascended."

  He hopped around like a kangaroo, which felt right in some ineffable way.

  I pointed. "Cole, what have you got?"

  He was grinning, expecting something great to happen, but somehow not quite following the pattern. He held up the jar. "I have no fucking clue what this is."

  "Those are a pair of eyes from the cadaver of a resident of Cork."

  "What?" said Cole.

  Dazza went behind him, gripped him by the waist, and lifted him a couple of inches. "Irish eyes, Cole!"

  "Fucking hell!" said Cole, dropping the jar. Fortunately, it was plastic - the whole thing was from a joke shop.

  Dazza shook him around. "Irish eyes are smiling. You're going to the full Irish national team, cobber!"

  "No way," said Cole.

  "Yes way," I said. "From now on, you order the full Irish breakfast and you tell people, it's my way or the Galway. Er, terrible, cut that. You're gonna be training with the Irish for Christmas. You'll be alongside such modern greats as, er... Well, just because I can't think of their name doesn't mean they aren't there." I checked my wrist - I wasn't wearing a watch - and said, "That gives you about 12 hours to develop an Irish accent. Repeat after me: We nabbed tree points from dem Prestonians, sure we did. How did ye get on?"

  Youngster looked like he was about to burst into tears, but he was waiting his turn as patiently as he could. "Mr. Best, what is this?"

  "That's the star of The Great Escape and the TV show Maverick."

  "Oh," said Youngster. "I see."

  Kisi yelled out, "What's his name?"

  "Who, this?" I said, pointing. "James Yalley."

  Kisi yelped with frustration. "What's the name of the man in the photo?"

  "That's James Garner," I said.

  There was a moment of quiet, broken by Brooke Star yelling out, "Ghana!"

  Kisi screamed again, and ran to the stage. She threw herself into her brother's arms and they bounced around, chanting a song I wasn't familiar with in one of the few world languages I didn't speak.

  I watched for a while, then walked to the front of the stage and gave everyone a self-satisfied smile. "Yeah, as I was saying." I pushed my left hand through my hair, switched the mic, repeated the move with my right. "I don't know how to do gifts."

  ***

  Saturday, December 25

  I spent Christmas Eve in Newcastle with Emma and her parents, then drove to Manchester. The plan was to spend Christmas Day with my mum, to give Angela the day off so she could have a nice dinner with Aff and the rest of her family.

  It was very quiet in the bungalow, very peaceful. Mum was having an okay day. I made her walk around the garden with me a few times so she would get some exercise. Twice an hour I brewed up, made sure she had her favourite biscuits handy, and switched my brain off while we watched Cash In the Attic and Bargain Hunt.

  As the light started to fade, there was a knock on the door. It was one of the carers who came to make sure mum had a shower and got clean properly. She was about thirty and had a terrible haircut, but she bristled with energy and spoke to my mum nicely without being condescending. While they got on with that, I went for a walk in the back garden.

  The cat assault course was still there. I topped up the bird feeder, dropped some nuts into the squirrel section, and put a couple of cat kibbles along the beams. The wind would probably blow them off, or the squirrels would get there first, but if Anna was watching, she'd see that I'd tried.

  I reflected on a good December for Chester FC. If we beat Watford on the 29th, that would make it five wins out of six for the men's team, which would probably be enough to get Sandra and I the Manager of the Month award. The men would slide down the table as the fixtures got harder, injuries kicked in, and I rotated the team more and more, but it was still amazing to see us so high in the table.

  The women had beaten Wolves - thrashed them, really. 8-0, a remorseless release of all the tension that had built up in the match against Birmingham. To win the league, they needed Brum to slip up, but teams slipped up all the time.

  My XP was creeping closer to the 4,000 needed to buy the next Attribute.

  XP balance: 2,902

  I was the only person in the neighbourhood who was out in the garden; it was too cold, dark, and miserable even for the hardy Mancunians. I stayed out for another five minutes out of pure stubbornness, and the carer was just finishing up.

  "Have you got any more to do?" I said.

  "Mrs. Best was my last one. Home now. Late Christmas dinner for me!"

  "Do you want a cuppa?" I had just started a couple of mugs for me and mum.

  "No, thanks. I'll have one at home."

  "How many families did you help today?"

  "Five, in total."

  I thought about it. "On Christmas Day. It's good of you."

  "It's my job," she said, sounding a lot like the tough Irish midfielder Roy Keane.

  "Do you get extra pay for working on Christmas?"

  "Time and a half, yeah. It's handy."

  She picked her coat up from the back of the sofa. Mum was pretending to watch the TV but I felt that she was listening in. I jerked my head towards the front porch; the carer moved with me. When we were there, I said, "I had a very good year at work and I'd like to give you a little bonus. I thought about bringing cash but then I'd be worried in case someone knocked you on the head for it. Can you give me your bank details, please?"

  She smiled. "That's lovely of you but there's really no need."

  I felt tears coming behind my eyeballs. "There is. It's not just from me. I want to give you a gift from the five families you helped today. I'm sure they don't have a lot of spare money and if they did they'd want to give you a little something as a thank-you."

  It took a few more seconds but since I wasn't going to let it go, she took her phone out. "I don't know my numbers, to be honest. They'll be in the bank app, will they?"

  "They will," I said.

  She logged in and said, "Hmm. Where - ?"

  "Do you mind?" I said, gently taking the phone out of her hand. I tapped a couple of times to bring up her details, then got mine out and soon after, sent her five thousand pounds. Probably about three months of wages. I returned her device. I felt like she was worried I was running a scam of some sort and felt an urge to convince her I wasn't a baddie. I squashed that down, knowing that I'd only make it worse. "It'll take a day or two to go through, probably."

  She checked to see what awful things I had done to her account, then bent over, eyes bulging. "Five thousand!" she gasped. I stepped back and checked on mum; she hadn't heard. I put my finger over my lips. The carer said, "Sorry! I'm shocked. Oh my God!" She was smiling, but it faded. "Are you a drug dealer?"

  I looked up while I considered the question. "I deal in euphoria."

  "I can't accept this."

  I smiled. "If you send it back, I'll double it. Huh. That would be a good plan, wouldn't it? In a few weeks, you'd have enough to buy a house." I tapped my phone a couple of times, and showed her the photo of mum and Anna wearing the BEST 77 kits. "I'm Best 77," I said. "I could buy a flash watch, if you'd prefer."

  "Or a Ferrari," she said.

  My smile got wider. "I've already got one of those. Takes corners great, looks good next to a model, terrible value for money." I pulled the net curtain back a little as I asked, "How are you getting - "

  Outside, I saw two things. One, a little car with the branding of the company that sent the carers. Two, another car pulling up. The door opened, and Briggy got out. She skipped to the front door. "Hello," she said, as I opened it.

  "Hi," said the carer.

  "Briggy, can you tell this woman I'm not a drug dealer?"

  "He's not a drug dealer but he is friends with one."

  "What!" My shock wasn't fake. "Who?"

  "Diggy Doggy."

  "Oh. I can't argue with that."

  The carer gave me a strange look, then said, "I'd better go. Thank you so much for this, and merry Christmas!"

  I looked into the living room again to check on mum, then went back to the front door. "How come you're here?"

  She gave me one of the biggest grins I'd ever seen her do. "I got you a present."

  "Okay," I said, intrigued. "I thought we agreed I was already gifted enough."

  She continued to smile. "What do you get for the man who has everything... except a box-to-box midfielder?"

  I laughed. "If you bought me a midfielder..."

  She dipped into her coat and took out an envelope. "It's very scary legal stuff, but if you sign in triplicate and pay the escrow, one of your shell companies will be able to buy 40,000 pounds in Temps Perdu shares. It's not much..."

  I held the envelope with the deepest reverence. "But it's a start. Briggy, this is incredible. This is the best gift ever. This will keep me going for weeks. Thank you. Thank you so much. But..." I shook my head. "I didn't get you anything."

  "Yeah you did." She gave me a friendly punch on the upper chest and turned towards her car. I could see the shadow of someone in the passenger seat, but it could have been absolutely anyone. Briggy paused a few steps away. "Are you sleeping in Anna's room?"

  "Yeah."

  She grinned again. "If you see her, tell her I said hi." She walked to her car and just before she got inside, she called out, "Merry Christmas, Mr. Best."