.

Friday, 24 March

I was pleased with the reaction to my first proper training session, but once the adrenaline wore off I started to have doubts. Had I asked for too much, too soon? Was there a risk that by putting an advanced concept into their heads, they'd fixate on that and forget the basics?

On Friday morning, we did lots of small drills with the various coaches I'd corralled, culminating in a big sesh where we focused on overloads. MD came to watch, and joined us for lunch. He caught me being introspective.

"What's wrong?" he said.

Vimsy, Jill, and Jude paused eating. I frowned. "This morning was good, overall, but my grand concept doesn't work. We don't have enough left-footed players. There's Trick, Aff, and Doug, and only one will be on the pitch for the first half. Here's what happens on the right. A right-footed player passes to a right-footed player while a right-footed player zooms to the goal line. Right? If we do it properly, someone like Carl ends up alone with the ball, hitting it on his favoured foot towards Henri. Every pass is pretty easy, actually, in terms of technique. It's all hard when there's thousands of people screaming at you, but the actual skill is easy. Does that make sense?"

"Course, yeah. It's easier to pass from the right-hand side of the pitch with your right foot."

"Invert it. From the other side of the goal, a player needs to use his left foot to achieve the same effect. Look around. Almost everyone's left foot is fucking abysmal."

"Oh," said MD. Panic set in. "Are we going to get relegated because of it?"

I exhaled. "Yep." I held up a finger, turned it upside down and whistled as I crashed it into my plate.

"That's not funny, Max."

"Vimsy, what do you think? Can we go asymmetrical with it?"

"Maybe. Remind me what asymmetrical means."

"Different on both sides."

"Oh. You mean we only do overloads on the right? What about the left?"

"Standard overlaps. Let D-Day do tricks."

"I don't see why not."

"Top. Will we tell them now or let them enjoy their food?"

He hesitated. There were pros and cons. "I'll talk to Sam." That made sense. Sam was the left-sided of the two central midfielders. He'd be the one combining with D-Day and Trick.

I turned my plate into a tactical map while I imagined how the match would play out. "Makes us even more solid if he doesn’t push on as much, and if they’re closer together, Sam can talk Youngster through the match. Fuck, I like a symmetrical team, though."

"Raffi's two-footed," said Jill.

"Yeah. So when we've got Aff, Trick, and Raffi in the team, we can have balance. But we're not going to get that this week. Maybe next Saturday."

MD smiled. "I like that you plan ahead."

I scoffed. "It's a two-match timetable. It's not planning ahead."

"I heard you told Ben he'd play the last match of the season if we were safe. That's planning ahead."

"That's basic," I said. "That's squad building. Anyway, I shouldn't have done that. Jackie will be picking that team."

"I'm sure he'll listen to you about that kind of thing." MD dabbed his lips with his napkin. "Er... couple of things. First, I know you're busy now but it would be great if you could rewrite the manager notes," he looked at his watch, "before two o'clock."

"Why?"

"That's the deadline from the printers. The text you sent yesterday was a bit... unserious."

"Nah it was top. I'm busy today, Mike. Sorry if you're used to something more boring."

Jill was interested. "What does unserious mean, in the context of a match programme?"

MD's eyes widened as he remembered it. There was a sort of horrified quality to the way he stared into nothingness. "I suppose you'll see. But Max, if you could be a little bit more... reverential... the week after, I'd appreciate it."

"I pwomise," I said, as I shoveled some chicken into my mouth.

MD tutted. "And tonight. It would be better for the optics if you didn't manage the women's team."

Jill frowned. Like most outsiders who spent time with MD, she was learning that he wasn’t the cold, hapless penny-pincher he appeared to be from a distance. But she didn't like that. "Why not?"

MD squirmed. "Some people..."

"Gammons," I said, helpfully, though it did result in a bit of spillage from my over-laden mouth.

"Some paying fans, members of all political persuasions, do tend to think we should prioritise the men's team and Max should maybe be resting himself for the big match tomorrow. If we lose against Chorley, they'll blame the women's team. Don't look at me like that, Jill. Don't shoot the messenger."

"Jill, it's all right," I said. "MD's right." I patted him on the back. "I won't go anywhere near the women's team this evening, mate. I pwomise."

***

After lunch, the squad did a firsts versus reserves session on the full pitch. Half-pace, just getting used to the positions, the spacing, watching for Youngster's signals to determine the tempo, our attacking vectors, and, yes, trying the tactic where we dropped really deep to make the other team spread out.

It was pretty rough, in my opinion. Trying this in an important match near the end of a bruising season was folly.

My doubts intensified.

***

There was a slightly unpleasant incident before the women's match. I got out of my car about twenty minutes before kick-off. Jill knew the formation and line-up and was happy to let me arrive late in case MD had spies in the area.

So I was pretty chill, walking without any particular hurry from the car park to the pitches, when a woman sort of emerged from behind a tree and stood in my path. It triggered a fear reaction - I turned round, heart suddenly racing, expecting a blow to land. I kept looking in a wide circle, sure I was about to be attacked, when finally a bit of common sense kicked in - I had a clear view for fifty yards in every direction.

I took a proper look at the woman - girl, really - and it clicked. She was the sixteen-year-old PA 53 striker that Playdar had led me to the day after I found Pippa. In retrospect, she'd have been an amazing signing, but she had a much older hooligan or hooligan-adjacent boyfriend. When he'd challenged me about turning his club into Snowflake FC, I'd wound him up by saying I was just getting started and soon enough the entire club would be vegan.

I hadn't thought about her since.

"Julie?" I said.

"Yeah," she whispered, and again I spun around, looking for danger. "He's not here. I broke up with him."

We were absurdly far apart to have any sort of conversation, so I took a couple of steps closer. "Yeah? Good for you. Listen, I've got a match in a minute."

"I know." She rubbed her arm. "I was waiting to talk to you. I thought maybe you weren't coming."

Quick scan of the area. "Yeah. What do you want to talk about?"

She looked down at her feet. "Just, like, maybe I could try for the team. Like you said."

Another scan, and then the heart pounding came all the way back. Terror sweat. I realised why I'd gone from nought to sixty so fast - I'd seen the boyfriend in a parked car. Just, like, a fraction of a glimpse, but my brain must have processed it on some level. There was a crack of a twig, and he was emerging from behind a tree, coming towards me, with his equally sinister mate.

"No!" shouted the girl. "Welly, no! Leave me alone!"

The guys kept coming. They were ready to rumble. I saw the flash of something metal. "I knew it!" cried Welly. "Knew it was coz o' him!"

Now, I had the physical ability to jump high, run fast, and yeah, maybe slip in the odd cheeky backheel nutmeg here and there. But fighting? Give me a football and I could knock one guy's head off, but the other would then beat me to a pulp. I'd never been in a fight my entire life.

Nevertheless, aggression 20 kicked in. I could probably land one good shot. One of the two would regret this - forever. I found myself hunched, fists curled, snarling.

"Oi!" came a shout. A mini thunder of footsteps from diagonally behind the ex-boyfriend. I couldn't believe it - Sam, Tony, and Len. The ex made a run for it. His mate was a step behind.

"Best," said Sam, panting, as he sprinted to me. "What the fuck was that?"

I leaned over, hands on knees, as the fear came flooding back. I shook my hands - they were trembling - and put them behind my head while I tried to turn shaky, shallow breaths into deep, calm ones. One side of my mouth lifted of its own accord. "Chester fans. I think they don't want us going to a flat back four." I closed my eyes, swallowed, and felt my throat. It seemed swollen. "You should have let them batter me, Sam."

"Why?"

"Then you'd be player-manager." He didn't think that was funny. I held my hand out. "Thanks, mate."

He shook it and looked around. When he saw there was no danger, he said, "Player-manager? I'm not that stupid. Not many are."

"Fuck," I said, as another surge of fear rippled through me. My imagination was running wild. I looked around. "Where's the girl?"

"She ran off," said Len. "Should we go and get her? Or... or what?"

I blew air out of my lungs. "I don't know. This is all a bit out of my skillset, if you know what I mean." I had enough presence of mind to realise I was still in danger. "Are you lads going to stick around the whole match?"

They looked at each other. Sam put his hand on my shoulder, turned me, and got my feet walking in the direction of the pitches. "We were just going to do the first half then go eat. Wanted to see your Dani in person." My Dani. Unfortunate phrasing given the inappropriate relationship that had caused the scene. "Didn't think you'd be here. But we'll stay. Make sure you get to your car. Right, lads?"

"We'll get a pizza," said Tony.

"What, to the side of the pitch?"

"Why not?"

I laughed. "Can I have one?"

"Course!"

Safety and pizza. Cheered me all the way up. "If someone's going to attack me, they could at least wait till tomorrow night. We need a result against Chorley, but any muppet could beat Southport."

Sam side-eyed me. "Got a lot of enemies, do you, Best?"

I side-eyed him all the way back. "Not as many as I used to."

***

Chester Women versus Accrington Stanley Women

I was in a bit of a state when I got to the side of the pitch. The women immediately gathered round, and saw me all sweaty and manic, flanked by three of the men's team who were monitoring the area like Secret Service agents. So, a standard Friday.

I didn't have time to worry about Dani's crush on me - if she even had one. Which was helpful, because I'd thought about ignoring her until I remembered Emma saying ignoring her made her like me more. Which was tricky, because giving her attention seemed to make her like me more, too. What a world.

I named the team, raced through the formation and tactics - 4-5-1, fast start, hit 'em before they knew what to expect - then stopped dead. I'd finally caught a proper look at the Accrington lot.

We hadn't added much in the way of CA since the Wrexham match. I was starting to get a bit of a feel for how it worked. Growth was steady most of the time, but when there was a big match or big incident, there could either be a big jump... or nothing. We'd come out mostly on the nothing side. That was fine - at some point in the near future, the women would have a double jump, or two great weeks in a row. The gap where nothing happened was the time needed to process the drama, the emotion, the learning.

We'd added Bonnie to the lineup, whose CA had started at 1 and was now 2. So our average CA was under 7. Our average PA, though, was amazing. 56! Some of that was Lucy, who would probably not get anywhere close to hers, but it was still great to see. The team was really starting to take shape. Long-term.

Accrington Stanley were an ambitious tier 6 team. Their average CA was 25.

That was... sobering.

Yes, we were progressing nicely, but not fast enough to realistically compete with tier 6 teams. Not this early in our development. Especially since I hadn't been able to do much scouting recently. A few more high potential players like Dani would have done wonders. But then again, she hadn't improved as quickly as hoped. She was still only CA 9.

"New plan," I said, and the mood changed. Everyone was instantly alert. "These are good. Better than Wrexham."

"Whoa," said Jill. "New plan? When did you decide that?"

Cooking up excuses to explain my sudden acts of caprice was getting easier and easier. "Just now," I said, pointing to the other team's number 7. "I thought she was injured. Apparently not. Now, that number 7 is different gravy. That changes things. Okay? We're lucky she plays on the right and we're strong down that side. Lucy, you'll need your wits about you. Bonnie, you're left centre-back today. Between you, you'll be all right. But guys, you know I hate saying this, we're going to have to defend. Put a shift in. Yeah? Look out for your spacing. Press a few yards, then back to your lines, like we've been telling you. Lines, spacing, work rate, togetherness. You with me?"

"Hold on," said Sam. I'd have said he looked amused, but he almost never smiled. On match days, he was very serious. He put his hand on my forehead. "Who are you and what have you done with Max Best?"

"What?"

"You're gonna keep it tight first half, make the game scrappy, be hard to beat?"

I lip-shrugged. "What else?"

Sam decided he'd said enough, but Len had less to lose. "We thought you was, like, only into attacking. How many shots. How many overloads. Slapping."

Eyes wide with astonishment, I stood tall, made eye contact with many of the women. "Did you hear that, ladies? These guys don't think you can defend. Don't think you've learned to shuffle and slide! You gonna just stand there and let them talk shit about you? Get out there and show them what 'one for all, all for one' actually looks like! Come on!"

The women roared and ran onto the pitch, followed a few seconds later by Dani, once she'd caught up with the reading. As she stepped on the pitch, she turned to scowl at Len.

"You're in trouble, now, mate," said Jill.

"What'd I do?" said Len, pointing to himself.

The three men settled into a spot behind halfway. There wasn't much of a turnout for this match. The club had agreed not to promote it. Let the drama settle down. Get back to normal. "Best," called Sam, inviting me over. He nodded. "That? That was good." High praise! "What do you want?"

"Oh. Er..." I faced the pitch. "Competition for goalie. Midfielder. Striker. Oh, and a DM. Yeah, DM would be very nice."

"Pizza."

"Right! Er... ham and mushroom."

"They've got vegan stuff."

"Is ham and mushroom vegan?"

"Don't think so."

"I don't want vegan, then, do I?"

Len coughed. "Max. Can I have a word?" We stepped away, and he told me he'd decided to leave in the summer. He’d thought we were getting relegated, he wasn't getting playing time, and he admitted he thought I was a liability. He knew better, now, but he’d already agreed a contract. I told him he was right to leave, because next season I'd be available to play, so there would be one less attacking spot in the team. Plus I'd be bringing my mate from FC United over and while Len was a better all-round player, Ziggy was more suited to this 4-1-4-1 system. So it was absolutely fine if he left, he deserved to play regular football, and I knew I could count on him for the final matches if I needed him.

So that was easy. One low CA, low PA player out. Nice big space open for a new star striker. With Henri heading to tier three or four, I'd be able to bring in two, maybe even three hot talents. Or put all the wages into one really, really hot prospect…

Still, it was a shame, in a way. Len was a whole-hearted player. I'd gotten used to having him around the club, and ever since he'd saved my life ten minutes before, I'd realised that I really liked him.

We shook hands. Awkward little man-smiles.

The match kicked off and I went back to my technical area.

There was nothing for me to do except look for ways we could try to hurt Accrington in the second half. Nothing really came to mind. Put Bonnie as striker and punt long balls at her? Nah.

"Jill," I said. "Next week there's no match, right? The week after it's Redcar. They're tier five, so probably even better than this lot. Then it's FC United, tier 4. Then the PitchWreck Cup."

"Right."

"Er... we can't just defend non-stop for a month. We've got to give them some fun. And hard as it is, this match is the best chance to do any attacking this season."

Jill sucked air through her teeth. "We can't string passes together. Accrington's press is really good. It's going to be hard to do our moves."

"We've messed up. It was a nice concept, but the progression was much too steep."

"Okay, I agree. But they're learning to be professional players. All this defending, all this shape work, it's good for them. Not everyone's like you; they won't throw a tantrum if they don't score two goals every game. And three years from now when they're in a tough league campaign, they'll remember these nights."

She was right. I had to let it happen, and I hated it. "Ugh. Tell you what. Fine. We’ll take our medicine in matches. But then training needs to be extra fun. Good?"

"Good."

So I stood at the side and shared my pizza with the subs, and watched the match ratings go up and down, and thought about what I could do against Accrington if I had tools I didn't have.

"Best," said Sam, who'd snuck up on me. Bad idea, given my earlier fright.

"Jesus, mate."

"Sorry. That girl there, Pippa."

"Woman."

"Right. Right. Pippa. She's good."

I eyed him. Pippa wasn’t playing well, and didn’t look like a player. Without the curse, I’d never have looked twice at her. But Sam had seen something. "She's got all the raw material, yeah."

Sam nodded a few times, and slunk away. I wondered if I needed to worry about that. But he came back five minutes later. "You’re going to make us help the young players, you said. What if I helped her?"

I sighed. "No-one has to do anything they don't want to. And you signed your contract before I was here. If anyone gets a pass next season, it's you. You and Tony, both, I suppose. You didn't sign up to my way of doing things."

His eyes were locked onto midfield, sliding left and right. "If I'm here, I'm here. Know what I mean? There's agents after me. Telling me I could get a good move. But... But if I'm here, I'm here. So, Pippa."

I lowered my voice. "I have to ask this, mate, but is this a football thing, now?"

Hint of anger. "I'm married, lad. Got a kid."

"All right. What's the first lesson?"

Eyes flicked away from the pitch for a second, checking out my expression. "Her pressing's shit. Pointless, what she's doing."

"She mostly played five-a-side."

"Yeah," he said, slowly. "Yeah. I can fix that."

"They train Monday, Wednesday, and Fridays when there isn't a game. Talk to Jill. Spectrum. They'll help you design a drill."

"Nah, I can just show her."

"I've got five midfielders out there, mate."

"Fair point. All right. You want it a bit more serious. All right."

"Hey, tell you what. Do it at half-time."

"What?" said Sam and Jill, together.

"Yeah. Show her, with the others watching. Jill, you'll take it and turn it into a drill. We'll do the drill on Monday or Wednesday. Sam, you'll be there, and you'll refine it. Add levels. Tailor it to different match situations. All that fun stuff. We'll take what's in your head, we'll make it into something. Sound good?"

"Yeah, but... but Max. This isn't how it's done."

I smiled at him. "I've never had a pizza delivered to the side of a field." I picked up my last slice and let the box fall. "This isn't how it's done. But I'm enjoying it."

***

We lost, as expected. We clung on for 70 minutes, then buckled. Buckled but didn't break, thanks to the defensive solidity and leadership provided by Lucy and Bonnie. Three-nil wasn't fun, but the abiding memory was Sam Topps giving an impromptu on-pitch lesson in how to boss a midfield. He was raw. Not a natural coach, didn't explain most of what he was showing, sometimes spoke the opposite direction from where his audience was facing. But they were rapt.

This wasn't the sterile positional play taught by the real coaches. This wasn't Sun Tzu placing arrows on a map. This was how it really went, down in the trenches. How to block a runner without the referee getting involved. Why he normally jumped for headers sideways (so he could track back faster). How he'd learned to use his first touch to move away from danger and the pros and cons that came with that. And most of all, how to press like Sam Topps.

When the second half kicked off, the three first teamers hung around the technical area. The women had insisted.

I was pretty emotional. Sam had all this knowledge, all these tricks, and I'd somehow been able to convince him to share. I felt proud. Excited. But also, burning with curiosity. Why? Why now? Me going all-out with my Let It Happen drill? The Daily Mail story, maybe? The abysmal contract terms the FA had emailed? I wanted to bottle it up, pretend it didn’t affect me, but I had to ask.

"Sam... why did you do that? I mean, why did you offer? You've never done anything like this before."

He gave me a strange look. "No-one's ever asked me before."

I sighed. He wasn't telling the truth. There was more to it. I guessed I'd never know. "Will you do it again? With the boys?"

"Do I get paid extra?"

"No."

"Not much of an incentive."

"It's worse than that. You'll be teaching the kid who'll take your place in the team."

"Oh, will I? Why would I do that?"

I locked eyes with him. Got more and more animated as I replied. "Because that's the standard. Because it's obvious that it's a requirement. And because if you're scared of some sixteen-year-old taking your place, maybe it's time to move to a veterans league. In Italy. Where you can still hack it."

He looked away.

And just for a second, the edges of his lips twitched.

***

Match 42 of 46: Chester versus Chorley

Chester's match day programme, The Cestrian. Page 5, the manager notes, AKA In the Dugout.

Hi everyone!

Max Best here, filling in for your boy JR, the J-Man (Jackie Reaper), who is dangling upside down on a custom-made inversion table, quote, waiting for the next full moon to manifest and awaken my full power end quote. I'm helping out for this Saturday’s match, and Southport next week, too. Then for Farsley we'll all be singing Return of the Jack.

How do these manager notes usually go? I'm supposed to welcome our visitors. Well, I won't do that. I don't like London and never have. (Chorley's in Lancashire - Ed.) And they come here, swanning around with their two Champions League wins (What? - Ed.) and spending 600 million pounds in a year (Oh, God. He thinks it's Chelsea. Someone get Max on the phone! - Ed.) and they want me to roll out the red carpet? No, mate. We'll see you on the pitch. On the pitch!

What else? Managers normally talk about recent results. I asked Jackie what he thought about our 2-0 win over Blyth and he said, and I quote, and he won't mind me repeating this, "Whoo, baby! That's how you do it! That's how you do it! You feel me dawg?" I asked him who he thought our man of the match was, and he swung his arm around like a lasso singing Ride on Time by Black Box, except with new lyrics. "Cos it's Ryder time. Ryder time!" I think that was his way of praising yet another dominant defensive performance from Glenn Ryder, but he refused to answer any clarifying questions. He also praised Joe Anka's gorgeous cross that Henri Lyon nodded home. "Max, pick up that plate. Yeah? Now put that apple on it. You've put that apple on a plate. And that's what Joe did for Henri. Do you get me, Max? Do you get me?"

I said yes but he kept explaining it.

Later, he texted me saying the apple was a metaphor for the power the full moon could give mankind if only we knew how to harness it. (Can we fact check all this, please? Doesn't really sound like Jackie. - Ed.)

Then we popped down to Kettering for a routine win. 25 shots, 70% possession, no big deal, barely worth mentioning.

I will mention, though, our recent debutants. Youngster came on against Blyth in his favoured defensive midfield slot, and did quite well. We did, however, get some complaints from both OFCOM and air traffic control - apparently Youngster's goofy smile was bouncing off the ionosphere and causing interference with their instruments. In the Kettering game, I was delighted to hand a debut to Pascal Bochum, whose speed was a constant nuisance and gave Kettering a lot of problems.

Together, they represent the tip of the iceberg. A lot of talent is coming up through the ranks at this club. I'm deliriously happy with the progress we've made on that front, and so is Jackie. In fact, he said, and he won't mind me repeating this, "The universal ego is the individual unfettered by limitations and boundaries. Young minds are cosmic droplets of individual universality." Which I think we can all agree with. But then he added, "And their youthful essence can be harvested to power dark rituals." (I'm not printing this. Rewrite! - Ed.)

All right, let's land this plane. Whatever happens today, get yourself back to the Deva next Saturday against Southport. I'm not the sort of person to make rash promises, but I promise to win at least nine-nil. If I'm wrong, I'll be in the Blues Bar, buying drinks for... (checks wallet)... up to twenty people.

To close, I'll leave you with Jackie's famous rallying cry, the one he screams into the faces of the players before every match: "Seals do have ears. Seals DO have ears! Remember that today, boys!"

Come on you Seals.

Max.

***

One hour before kickoff.

I handed in the team sheet, had a nice chat with the referee and his assistants, then went out onto the pitch to watch the players do their first jogs.

Chorley's average CA was 43, and the curse told me they'd start with 4-4-2. They were decent. Solid outfit, with their strengths being a good goalkeeper, their two central midfielders, one of the strikers, and a very fast left-back. Their main weakness was their right-back. He was old and slow. Surely D-Day would destroy him? Or would the guy's experience allow him to play better than his attributes suggested?

The players went back inside, and I stayed out for a minute to soak up the atmosphere. I wasn't the centre of attention - I was merely filling in for Jackie. But holy shit... I was into it. I turned full circle and the stands filled before my eyes, the noise dialing up by tiny, tiny fractions. A struggling team in a small city, yeah, but I was the ringleader, and soon enough I'd bring out my elephants, trapeze artists, sword swallowers, and in the case of Trick Williams, deeply unfunny clowns.

I'd worked hard to get here. Very, very hard. I could have made it a lot easier for myself by going with a basic 4-4-2 or even 4-1-4-1 without the whole insane 'here's how I think about football' nonsense. But there was the easy way. And there was the right way.

I found myself striding past the early-bird fans, glaring, scaring kids with my intensity. I burst into the dressing room and asked for everybody's attention.

"I know I already told you the lineup on Thursday, but I made a late change. I had to. It was only logical." All eyes wide open. Some from panic, some from hope. "I spent the morning with Spectrum. He's got one of those AI computers. We were thinking... if Henri scores one goal when he only plays 45 minutes... would he score two goals if he only played half an hour?" I smiled, broadly, and stretched out my arms. "Computer says yes."

"But Max," said Joe Anka, "wouldn't that mean if he only played 15 minutes, he'd score three goals?"

"Fuck," I said, pacing around. "I think so!"

Henri got to his feet, clomped towards the door, and paused with his fingers on the handle. He turned back. "I do not respond," he said, and seconds later Glenn was grabbing him by the shoulders, Joe was pulling him back to his part of the bench, and we were all laughing. Henri glowed - my joke had made him the centre of attention, as he deserved.

Ten minutes before kickoff.

After pretending to be doing important things in the manager’s room for a while, I crashed back into the dressing room and the general hubbub died down. Everyone turned to look at me. I'd say the mood was one of cautious excitement. We were going to use our new formation, with a teenager in the key role. We were going to try to dance our way to victory. Do things the Max Best way. It could be amazing. Or, more likely, it would blow up in our faces and we'd all be humiliated. I didn't let those doubts show on my face.

The lads knew the team - I'd told them on Thursday. Robbo in goal. Back four: Trick, Glenn, Gerald May, Carl. Youngster as DM. Midfield: D-Day, Sam, Wisey, Joe Anka. Henri as the lone striker. Average CA: 40.8. Ben as the reserve goalie, plus Aff, who was up to CA 48, close to gold standard, Magnus, Tony, and Pascal. Decent coverage for different parts of the pitch, there, but still no place for Raffi. I hoped I wasn't wrecking his confidence.

This time, shortly before kick-off, was the part where most managers yelled and shouted and tried to get the guys hyped up.

Not me.

"Lads, people are mad at me. My programme notes, they say, are not sufficiently reverential. Training has been strange. Things just aren't serious around here. If we lose today, I'll be hauled over the coals. So, let's get serious. Fuck it, let's get sombre. Eyes looking sadly at the floor, please. Youngster, I'm serious. Eyes down. Look vaguely sad." I took a breath. "Now, what people on the outside can't see is how fucking hard you've all been working. It's not just with Jackie. With Ian, too." A few heads snapped up, not least Sam's. "We weren't soulmates or anything, but I know you were putting it all in for him, for the team, for the club. I know that. I saw it." I let out a long breath. "It's different with Jackie. It's a joy to come to work. You all know how to shuffle and slide, how to defend a corner, how to get stuck in when you need. All teams need that as a base. My women's team, I've maybe neglected some of that. I've been all giddy about the fun stuff. The combos, the overlaps, the slapping. But with you fucks, I can do it. You know the levels. You've never let anybody down with your workrate and effort. And Jackie's taken all that and honed it. So when I come in and say, let's get fucking weird with it, I know I can do it because the foundation is rock solid. I know you all know that. And I know you've indulged me in my mad football fantasy these past couple of days because no matter how messy it gets, we're not going to get dicked, because you look around and you see grown men who know their business." I looked up, then down again. Nodded a few times. "I'm deadly serious, what I say next." I pushed my lips into and away from each other so hard it made a clicking noise. "We're going to slap today."

"Yeah!" said someone. I was being so solemn I didn't register who.

"Yeah," I agreed. "But I've got one, like, bit of bad news." That really lowered the energy. I think people started worrying about Jackie. Like, they'd half-expected me to save some bad Jackie news for just this moment so I could manipulate them into playing their hearts out. Let's just say it had occurred to me. "So... you probably know I got into trouble for the whole fake Jackie thing, even though it was legendary." At this point I was so solemn I could have presented a royal funeral. "And I've been formally reprimanded and instructed, in no uncertain terms, not to bring a fake Jackie to the touchline again." I sighed. "But they didn't say anything about... TWO FAKE JACKIES!"

Two bald men in Chester FC coats burst into the room and started dicking about, slapping guys on the tops of their heads, doing moronic Ibiza dances. Both had the letters JR next to the club badge.

The room erupted. Even Henri, who thought these pranks were a bit too British, was up and laughing.

I launched myself onto the nearest bench and started a chant:

Jackie One!

Jackie Two!

We've got more Jackies than you!

Jackie One!

Jackie Two!

We've got more Jackies than you!

The bell rang to signal one minute until kick-off, and we all rushed out, a joyous mass, seeping past the Chorley players like a pressurised liquid. The shock alone was worth a goal.

You think I can't get serious?

Sit the fuck down.

***

Thirty seconds until kickoff.

I placed everyone in the split dugouts. I had Physio Dean, Magnus, and Pascal in the shelter nearest the halfway line. I didn't expect them to respond to any provocation. The hotheads got pushed further away - Vimsy, Jill, and the rest of the subs. They did not like it. Fuck 'em.

Jackie One and Jackie Two stood on the touchline next to me. Their secondary job was to help me communicate with the players through the medium of dance. Their primary job was to be funny.

The referee counted the players and was getting very close to blowing his whistle. I did the Fast Start dance. This was based on the first thirty seconds of Let It Happen. When I heard it, my body wanted to do a kind of speed-walking dance, which according to an infographic called 'White Man Dance Moves' is my very remedial version of something called The Running Man.

The Jackies (one was our temporary medical assistant, as in Kettering; the other our kit man for the day) were being paid a hundred pounds each (by me) to copy my moves (subject to not speaking to the referee, ever), and they did so now. There was much derision from the Chorley bench, but I didn't give a shit. Sam saw me, and did his own version. Youngster nodded. Trick clapped his hands together. Glenn roared.

The ball started moving. Instantly, my players thundered around. Tackles, headers, clearances. We matched Chorley stride for stride, effort for effort. After thirty seconds, the ball broke into midfield. Youngster hared after it and kicked it high into the stands.

I jumped and clapped. Game on!

"I thought he was like, a Rolls Royce player," said Jackie Two, the prick. He was - you'd never guess - a Liverpool fan.

"Give it a couple of years," I said, "and he'll turn those rushed clearances into calm passes to someone who's in space. But is it all right with you, J2, if he fucking learns his trade maybe in the meantime?"

J2 grinned. "All right by me, yeah. I didn't mean nuthin' by it."

J1 piped up. "This is why I won the Jackie vote first time round, Max. J2's a dick. He doesn't even look like Jackie."

"I do an' all. My head tapers. Yours is like St. Paul's."

"I've got an empathetic face."

"I've got the right accent."

"Guys, shut up," I said. "I'm trying to slap."

Another thirty seconds, another clearance from Youngster. I didn't mind the scrappy start. It just proved my team were up for it. They were proving that they would match Chorley for intensity, and that would probably be enough to get us a point. Sure, Chorley had slightly higher CA, but they were wasting it on futile efforts. Blasting the ball long towards their striker? Glenn ate it all up. Trying to overrun midfield? Sam and Wisey were too good, plus Youngster would get in there and help out.

Five minutes in, and according to the match ratings we were already slightly on top. Henri had barely touched the ball, so he was stuck on 6 out of 10. D-Day and Joe were on 6, too. But the guys in the centre - Glenn, May, Sam, Wisey, and Youngster, had all eased to 7. From the centre, we would slowly start to dominate the sides.

Right?

I felt the tempo slipping. We had defaulted to the standard sixth-tier patterns of play. No!

"Air dancers!" I demanded.

"Back or forward?" asked J1.

"They're always back," I said.

We reached up and swayed, allowing our bodies and arms to flow back towards Robbo in the goal. Wisey called it out. Sam and Youngster caught on. "What's going on?" yelled Glenn. "Fall back," yelled Sam. "What?" he couldn't hear with all the noise. So Sam did the dance himself. Glenn's fist clenched. He'd need to be on his toes for the next few minutes.

Youngster took a pass, feinted to play it out to D-Day, then turned and rolled it to Trick. He bounced it back to Youngster. He bounced it to Glenn, and scampered more or less sideways, starting his epic journey across the width of the pitch. Youngster, May, Youngster, Carl. All the time, Glenn sank, and the others in the back four followed him.

Chorley couldn't believe their luck. They pressed forward, chasing after the inexperienced idiot who was passing the wrong way, hoping to recover the ball close to our goal. Instead, Youngster waited, waited, then passed to May. He pushed it to Glenn. The idea from there was that Youngster would zoom into space for the return pass, but Chorley's lines had become so disrupted that Glenn had a better idea. He struck a long pass to left-mid. D-Day played it square and burst forward. Sam played it square and burst forward. Wisey touched it to Joe, checked who was behind him, and burst forward.

Joe got the ball and tried to dribble past the left-back. The defender missed his first swipe, but was fast enough to recover and desperately bundle the ball out of play. The slightest mistake and we would have had five attackers against three defenders.

During this entire sequence, I was jockey-jumping, increasingly excited as my brain predicted the next moves. At the point the defender got lucky - very lucky - we had five in attack and five in defence. Four midfielders surging forward to create something for Henri to finish, safe in the knowledge that five outfield players were behind them.

All we got for our efforts was a harmless throw-in.

So it must have been pretty weird for the fans to see me celebrate like we'd scored. I punched the air. I jogged inelegantly down the touchline. I pumped both fists. And if you think that was just me losing my mind, get this: Vimsy burst out of his prison and leapt onto me. Leapt! At his age! We bounced around, joined by Jill, who understood what had just happened, and the Jackies, who didn't.

"Fucking get in!" I screamed.

The Chorley manager reacted with nothing short of panic - they went Men Behind Ball. After eight minutes!

When I calmed down enough for rational thought to kick back in, I sent the Jackies to the nearest shelter, and the coaches back to the farthest one.

And I spent the rest of the half grinding my teeth, furiously calculating. Every move, every pass, every mistake, it was all fodder for what would surely be a legendary half-time team talk.

In the meantime, though, I had to let the players get on with it. I had to let Youngster feel the music in him, if it was there. I wasn't sure that it was - the most exciting music he listened to, as far as I could tell, was by '90s Christian temptress Amy Grant.

He had support, though. When he started to look lost, Sam or Glenn would put an arm around him and give him a pep talk. Once, and I almost snapped out of my brooding intensity because it was so funny - both Glenn and Sam tried to give advice at the same time. Sam was doing an ocean wave gesture to indicate that Youngster should increase the tempo, push the team up the pitch. Meanwhile, Glenn was doing an ocean wave gesture, inverted, to suggest Youngster should slow the game down, give the defence a breather.

Our attacks down the left focused on D-Day's battle with his full-back, which was weighted slightly in favour of the wily old defender. Trick hadn't been able to get forward to create overlaps enough, owing to a general lack of security in knowing how his role intersected with those of others. Understandable; a lot of people like Trick struggled to understand intersectionality.

On the right, we were getting the overloads I wanted, but there would always be one pass too hard, one run that was made just too early, causing Carl or Joe to be caught offside, or something. Just a tiny miscalibration. Tiny, but persistent.

I nearly burst from the effort of not intervening, but I restrained myself. These were teething problems, nothing more. The frustration was part of the learning process. Just like when the Darlo players and I had been frustrated with each other. Just like when I'd banned Tyson from shooting and he'd had to relearn how to play.

***

At half-time, the Chorley lot tried to get in my face, tried to start some aggro. "What's all this acid house shit? Are you taking the piss?" And so on. I think one of them had read my manager notes and felt disrespected. Poor bunnies. I let it wash over me, but idly noted that my players all zipped past the scene, straight to the dressing room.

Exactly as I wanted.

I gave my rival manager one last, utterly blank look, then went in to give the Raft of the Medusa of half-time speeches. My magnum opus. Everything I'd ever learned packed into one tiny bundle of vowels, consonants, and, if the spirit moved me, animalistic grunts.

"Guys," I said. "That was mint. You're winning your duels. We're in total control of all parts of the pitch. But listen. The song was called Let It Happen. I know it's a mindfuck, but do everything you're doing, and right at the end, switch your brain off. What needs to happen, let it happen. Seeya."

Exit, stage left.

***

I signed match programmes. I posed for selfies. I peered up towards the Director's Box to see if I could spot Emma. As far as I knew, David Cutter hadn't accepted my invitation. I checked the time. Still 8 minutes of half-time left. Eight minutes! I popped my AirPods in, pressed play on the song of the moment, got Kian to send me a ball, and did tekkers on a slow circuit of the ground.

***

The plan had been to bring Pascal on at half-time, but I decided to hold off for ten minutes. I wanted to give Joe Anka time to have a go, now that he'd seen our defence was holding up and he could take more risks. Now that he'd had a little break to understand that yes, this was really happening. And yes, this was really how we were going to play.

I made my way back to the technical area, and just when I was wondering if I needed to do the Fast Start dance, Henri and D-Day, the players who everyone was looking at, did it for me.

My snarl was back.

I'd created something. Created a beast that would devour all in its path. Blood pumped and my lips pulled back into a savage grin. I prowled the touchline like a panther, hyper aware of every detail from the pitch, and nothing off it.

Time passed. I found I was much less interested in the raw stats, the possession, the shots on goal, and was trying to interpret the mood of it all. The vibe. Who was feeling funky? Who was ready to slap? The short answer? They all were.

I didn't make any subs. I was in absolute football heaven. Yeah, it was raw. Yeah, there were a lot of fucking rough edges. But holy shit, I hadn't seen anything like this... ever? We were smashing a team slightly above our level, and it wasn't because of Bench Boosts or Triple Captains. It was because I'd empowered the players to take the skills they had and combine them in the construction of a single narrative. A team of Max Bests! Taking the fans on a journey. On an adventure.

The last remaining brain cell that hadn't been sucked into my own narrative was screaming, "Push! Push! Tell them to push!"

At that point, a guy from Chorley was inches away from me, jostling me, shouting, I don't know what, but it barely registered. He felt emboldened to do that because the referee was over by an injured player. I decided I had to step forward - much as I wanted to let the players find their own ways through this adventure, we also really, really needed the three points if we could get them. So I brushed past my aggressor and inhaled, but then slowly let the air out.

To my astonishment and delight, Youngster started doing a kind of skipping dance - when Sam saw it he went crazy, yelling at D-Day and Wisey. I had this absolute certainty that Youngster was in the 'Got 'Em By the Throat' section of the song, the bit where we started applying more and more pressure, taking more and more risks, the part that preceded the awesome D-Day solo.

"Yes, mate!" I shouted, nodding, laughing, spinning, doing a funky little shuffle. The little maestro got it. He really got it! "YeeeeEEESSSSSS."

Five minutes of high pressure followed. I scanned and scanned and knew I'd need a massage and a sauna if I ever wanted my muscles to untense. The overloads kept coming on the right - Chorley had no clue how to defend with four players in one small attacking zone. And the quality rose. The passes were more relaxed. Wisey, Joe, and Carl started letting the ball do the work. We finally, finally, started getting to the byline and hitting low balls toward Henri. The first, cleared. The second, blocked. The third, agonisingly ahead of Henri's outstretched foot.

Time for a change. I replaced Joe with Pascal.

More pace. More directness. Pascal was an intelligent player. He knew what I wanted, and this kind of intricate combination work would be meat and drink for him. I cackled.

But... it bombed.

The left-back was fast, negating one of Pascal's big strengths. Against Kettering, Pascal had usually found himself in acres of space, able to run at the opposition, or able to play long passes to Henri or Wisey. But here, with Chorley sitting deep, crowding the space, Pascal seemed tiny, weak, and feeble. Our attacks on the right instantly became insipid. They fizzled out.

Chorley's manager sensed blood, and unlocked the Men Behind Ball instruction. Suddenly, they were pushing us back. Youngster was called into defensive duties, making interceptions, slowing down breaks, picking up second balls. It wasn't serious pressure, then, but my entire strategy had come to naught.

"Vimsy," I called. He raced forward. "The fuck is this?"

"What?"

"Pascal. Four out of ten. He was so good against Kettering."

"Can I speak freely?"

I grabbed the old coot by the coat. Two clumps. "We're fighting relegation, mate! Get the fuck on with it!"

"He's just a kid!" yelled Vimsy, back, trying and failing to push me off. "He's just a kid! You can't have two teenagers on in this kind of game."

"Course I can," I hissed. "That's not it." I released him. "Cut that dinosaur shit out. What is it?"

Vimsy gave me the stink eye. All the tension building up since an hour before kick-off, all the tension I wouldn't let him release by beefing with his opposite number, came out. "It's fucking you! While you were showing off in training, that poor bastard was trying to mark you. You didn't let him get a touch. Made him think he was rubbish. Broke his spirit. Now you want him to play in the most important match of the season?"

I lost my shit. "And you're only telling me this now?"

"Oh, Mr. Perfect, Mr. Know It All is human, is he?"

"Fucking hell, mate! We can't go down because you're too chickenshit to tell me when I'm making a mistake!"

"Fine!" he yelled. "You're making a mistake! You're making a mistake!"

We snarled and hissed at each other like, I don't know, alligators. I walked away, head in hands. This had the potential to be the biggest disaster since my mate 'invested' a thousand pounds buying digital 'art' from a guy whose Twitter bio read 'Here's three reasons why this is NOT a ponzi scheme'. Maybe if I'd been able to afford the Morale perk, I'd have known that Pascal's head had gone. I really needed that perk - football squads were just too big to notice every player's mood swings.

I paced back towards him. "We sub him for Aff, put D-Day on the right."

Vimsy's rage died instantly, and he thought it through. "Bad for the kid." Subbing off a substitute was generally considered to be humiliating.

"The kid'll get over it. With your help. Right?"

Vimsy glanced at the pitch. He wasn't a big fan of the Pascal signing. Didn't see what I saw in him. Didn't see the point. He sighed, but some steel came into his look. "Right."

"Aff," I called, and made the change.

Pascal slunk from the pitch, his seven-minute cameo an object lesson in failure.

I thought about giving him a hug or whatever, but Vimsy was there first. He wrapped his arms around the German, then Jill was there to help him into a big coat - or in Pascal's case, a medium coat. The other subs made a big show of getting off the bench to give him high-fives or hugs, or slaps on the butt or whatever.

I couldn't worry too much about it, now. With Aff on the left, and D-Day on the right, our average CA had shot up to 41.9. Virtually neck and neck with Chorley.

They had a few chances in this period. Some of their attacks were snuffed out by Youngster. Some crashed into the rock that was Glenn Ryder. But those channelled through Gerald May were more productive: shot off target, shot on target, shot... hit the post!

Sam screamed and went over to demand something of Youngster.

And... that was the last we saw of Chorley's attackers.

I mean, spoiler alert, but we just took complete control. Youngster didn't do a dance, but slipped back into the pass-and-move groove that most closely matched the 'Got 'Em by the Throat' part of the song. A few minutes of that, with Chorley retreating and retreating - not because they'd been set to Men Behind Ball, but because that's all they could do - and then, the single greatest moment of my life (possible slight exaggeration) - James Yalley, Youngster, putting his foot on the ball at the edge of the centre circle, and miming a slappy bass guitar.

I jumped for joy. Punched the air. Paced up and down. By now I was sweating from the mental exertion. From the hopes and fears. Wait, fears? Not much of that, to be fair. Almost as soon as the match had kicked off, fear, doubt, uncertainty had gone. This was fearless football - of a sort.

And now there was Youngster, this goofy little Manc, putting his foot on the ball. On the ball! In a professional football match. So that he could air bass. Air bass! In a professional football match! To signal to his colleagues that it was time to get FUNKY.

My pulse went bonkers. Scattergun heartbeats. Dizzy spells. Neck sweats. Spine rivers. Don't ask about my armpits.

But on the pitch, it was serene. Serene as the day is long.

Youngster intercepts. His sixth of the match - a new high in the National League North this season.

He pauses.

He plays it forward to Wisey.

He lays it off square to Topps.

Topps touches it to Aff, who feints to dribble.

He waits for the overlap from Trick.

The pass is nicely into Trick's path.

He plays a 1-2 with Sam. Chester are in a great position!

There's a defender blocking the cross.

Trick turns and feeds the ball back to Aff.

He needs no second invitation to cross.

Lyons and Brown compete at the far post.

GOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

Brown was no match for Lyons.

He rose like a salmon and powered the ball down and in!

I was so woozy, in such a dreamlike state, that I collapsed to one knee.

I literally couldn't believe what I'd seen. We'd created almost nothing for Henri, and he'd made so many runs to the near post that had come to nothing that I thought he would get angry and stop trying. I suspect that's what I would have done. But the Frenchman had kept going, kept making the runs, and had started to do the same when Trick had shaped to cross. But Henri, that magnificent bastard, had realised, somehow, that Trick's cross would never come, so he ran in a loop, and when the ball was passed to Aff in such a delicious position, Henri's eyes must have lit up.

It was all, just... just so beautiful.

I realised I was crying.

Someone lifted me to my feet, made me stand up before crushing me with a hug.

"You did it, mate, you did it, lad! Argh! Haha! HAA!"

Vimsy, euphoric. Then the Jackies. And Jill, and the subs.

I started to get a grip until, wiping the last tear away, I saw that most of the players on the pitch hadn't run to celebrate with Henri, but with Youngster.

And then it was waterworks, all over again.

***

I hid in the shelter for a while. Sat next to Pascal. When I was finally back in control, I slapped him on the knee. "You all right?"

"Yes, Max. I was shit. You took me off. You were right to." He was disconsolate, to say the least.

Again, I was struck by the thought that this was good for him. He needed moments like this to reach his full potential. "Yeah. You were shit." I laughed. "But that's my fault. This wasn't the right game for you. All right? It's on me. I'll take the blame."

"No!" he said, as angry as I'd ever seen him, I think. "You will not! I am responsible for my performance."

"Fuck that. I know what I did. Now, listen. Learn from today, beat yourself up if you want. But I need half an hour of fast, progressive forward play from you next Saturday. Think you can do that for me?"

His face went on a journey, I can tell you. By the end, he couldn't even speak. He nodded.

"Talk it through with Vimsy. Good?"

I got back to my feet and resumed my prowling.

***

With ten minutes to go, Chorley's manager decided he had to do something. Take a bit of a swing at us. He switched to 3-5-2. Bear in mind most of these guys hadn't played 3-5-2 for years, if ever, and had only started practising it in training because word on the street was that's how you messed Jackie Reaper up.

I went fucking feral. I didn't dance. I didn't shout. I was so angry I couldn't form words.

Sam Topps saw my rage, jogged next to Youngster. Glenn went over to add his tuppence. Youngster was suddenly pointing - he'd seen the formation switch. All that World Cup studying had paid off. Sam spat an expletive. Glenn was nodding furiously. The huddle lasted no more than ten seconds, but Sam looked over at me and did a Maxy Two-Thumbs.

When play resumed, Sam sprinted like a maniac to get the ball, passed it to Youngster, and Sam, Youngster, and Glenn did the dance that meant: all-out attack. A shuffle step, a head bob, and a handclap.

The rest of the team reacted like they'd been given a mild electric shock.

I put my hands behind my head.

My heart was pounding so hard it was alarming, but I realised - I'd wound this toy up as far as it could go.

If I let it loose, it would zoom off in wild, unpredictable ways.

Almost all of which would be extremely entertaining.

All I needed to do... was let it happen.

***

D-Day feints to drive forward.

He sweeps his leg over the ball.

The left-back isn't amused. He swipes out!

Surely a foul?

But D-Day, from his prone position, manages to clip the ball to Wisey.

Carl has made a lung-busting run forward.

A simple 1-2.

Now Carl is by the corner flag. He shapes to cross...

But he passes sideways.

To himself! He's free in the box.

He slows down... zips the ball low and hard.

GOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

Lyons was completely unmarked.

He couldn't miss!

I fell to my haunches. This was staggering. Four of the twenty best moves I'd seen in National League North matches had happened today. Carried out by Chester. By my team.

I punched the turf in triumphant fury, and realised, with a helluva shock, that Sam Topps was thundering towards me. I stood, braced, and let him collide into me. But he wasn't the only one. Soon I was being crushed at the bottom of a pile. The fifteen-second celebration was more painful than my entire rugby career.

The players got up, did stupid Ibiza dances with the Jackies, and ran back onto the pitch with a series of whoops and 'get ins', leaving me about three centimetres buried. I flapped my arms and legs like a snow angel, partly out of joy, and partly to check my limbs still worked.

Vimsy loomed over me. “You all right? Anything hurt?”

“Nothing serious.”