3.6 - Marathon Not a Sprint

6.

Tuesday, 3rd January, 2023

"Fanciful ornamentation in art and furniture originating in 18th century France."

"Pretentiousness."

"Six letters."

"Any crossings?"

"Yellow sauce served on desserts... custard... so six letters, third's a C."

"Rococo."

"Fits. And that gives us crypt going down. How do you know words like Rococo?"

"Agatha Christie books? Lil Nas lyrics? I don't know. Just one of those words you hear or read. I don't know what it means. Hang on, I'm getting a call." I pulled my phone out of a pocket and saw it was Mike Dean. I accepted the intrusion and said, so that MD would hear, "One of my employees." Longstaff put down the newspaper and pen and grabbed his laptop. If I knew him, he'd be researching Rococo. He did the crossword both as a challenge and to learn things. "MD!" I said, with a big smile, "What can I do for you?"

"You could come into work," he said.

I laughed. "What? Why would I do that?"

"I don't know. It's just sort of... implied that you would do so."

"That was a mistake on your part, wasn't it? We didn't agree on any metrics. Any key performance indicators. We didn't even agree how many hours a week I'd do. Do you know what Rococo is?"

"Yes. An example would be overly ornate cornicing."

"Great. Now save me a minute and tell me what cornicing is."

"I'll show you. In the office I made for you. Which I am standing in and you are not."

"Well, I was pretty busy yesterday doing a Superman impression down in Yorkshire. And I set my own hours, don't I? I'm having a chill morning. It's called work-life balance. You should try it."

Longstaff looked up from his laptop and shook his head at me. "Max."

Fine. I checked the time. "MD, I'm having breakfast with my mate. In Darlo. I was going to set off early, but what's the point? Most of my work will be in the evenings."

"I understand. You're right. I just thought you'd be excited to start."

"I am. But it's going to be a long day. I'm pacing myself. I'll be scouting till ten or eleven pm, then a long drive home. I need a house in Chester. Big mansion for five hundred quid a month. Know anything like that? My plan is, I'll leave Darlington about quarter past nine, miss the worst of the traffic. I'll be there before training ends."

"All right. Training. But come here first to talk about the budget. Then we'll meet Ian and talk about transfers and contracts. Plan what we can do in the transfer window and what we expect for the rest of the season. A lot of players are out of contract in the summer. We need to start discussing who we want to keep and tie them down."

"Hmm." Keeping players that the next manager - Jackie Reaper - would want, and binning everyone else without crushing morale... could be tricky.

"And I've got reporters who want to come meet the youngest DoF in Europe. What time will I tell them?"

"Eight thirty at Goals."

"Goals?"

"It's a five-a-side place near the stadium. You should come, too. Watch the magic happen."

"I'll tell the reporters. I don't know if they work nights. We'll probably have to slot them in during the day."

"Nope. Eight thirty. They can take it or leave it."

A pause. I counted five seconds. "Let me know when you're arriving."

"Is that a command? Are you trying to boss me around, MD? Are we starting our power struggle already?" Longstaff stiffened. He thought I was being serious and didn't want to hear me bicker.

"Max," said MD. "I'm hanging up. Please let me know when you'll arrive." My screen went black.

"Yeah, that's right," I said, with heat, jabbing my finger at the phone. "You BETTER back down!"

I grinned. Being my own boss was pretty fantastic. I'd woken up at five AM thinking I had to be insanely productive from the word Go. But why? Most of my weekday scouting would be in the evenings. So I went to a bakery and surprised Longstaff with some butties and two pains au chocolat. "Longstaff, why are half the lights still out? I thought you had a bumper Christmas?"

He looked up. "Yeah. We did. Thanks to you." He rummaged behind his counter and came up with an envelope. It was sealed. "This is for you. From a customer, here. I think I know what it says. Don't open it here. So, yeah. The lights are still off. But even being careful the bills are way up. If I kept things as normal, it'd be triple. It's murder."

"I wonder how much electricity a football club uses?" I mused.

"Seems like your job to find out."

"Shit. Yeah. I have to get on top of every little thing. Players first, I think. We've only got January to make changes. I urgently need to see the 18s. See if there's any talent there."

"Rococo is a style without rules," he said, looking at his screen. "What would Rococo football look like?"

"Leeds United under Bielsa. Loads of guys running around, seemingly at random."

Longstaff nodded, continued reading. "It's often asymmetric. The halves of the piece don't match." He showed me a photo of a cabinet with one big, curvy 'horn' and one small one.

"I know what asymmetric means. Stop cornicing me."

"I'm only reading this article. Halves don't match. That's interesting. You told me once you like symmetrical formations. You're a Director of Football, now. You get to choose the formation the club uses. Right? And every age group will play the same one."

"That's one way," I said. "But it's not the Max Best way."

"Oh," he said, with a chuckle. "So what's the Max Best way?"

I pointed my pain au chocolat at him. "You'll see it. Next season. You'll be my guest of honour at any match you choose." I tilted my head. "Except ones my girlfriend wants to go to. Or someone famous or cool."

"Who's an example of someone cool but not famous who would take precedence over me?"

I munched on my pastry. "The one guy who had the same IT problem as me and left a question on a forum, but then he came back three weeks later and said never mind, I fixed it, here's how."

"Fair enough. Can't argue with that. That guy's a ledge." He picked the newspaper back up and clicked his pen significantly. "Seriously, though. This is your dream job. Aren't you excited?"

I grinned. "Course I am. But I didn't get here by burning all my stamina in the first ten minutes of a game. Days like these are marathons. not sprints. Next clue. Hit me."

***

In the car on the way to Chester, I thought about what Longstaff had said. His question was good. Which formation did I want to see? Ian Evans would play 4-4-2 until the end of the season, and the next manager would have his own ideas. But I could decide what the rest of the teams played, from the reserves down to the under 12s.

The Copa Mundial thing hadn't seemed like preparation for being a club manager, but I was starting to realise that it was. National teams couldn't buy or sell players. They had to work with what they had. That meant lots of asymmetrical formations. A lot of make do and mend.

Meanwhile, the big 6 teams in England had enough money to buy multiple thirty-million pound players for every position, and when a new manager came in and switched to a new formation, they would simply buy more players for him. It was possible for a manager to have a philosophy. A style of playing that he would force onto his club. Philosophy first, players second.

Not me. At a tiny club with no resources, I'd have to cook with the ingredients that were in my pantry - plus whatever I could forage. If I couldn't find a dynamic left-back before the next season started, I'd probably play a formation that didn't need one. If I found two incredible left-backs, I'd obviously use a formation that leaned into their skills.

I scratched my chin. There I was again, thinking like a manager. It seemed like a curiosity of my role that I'd have to do just that - think like a manager - so that I could give the actual manager what he needed. But if he used the tools I gave him wrong, or we had a difference of opinion about a player's ability, there would be friction. Friction was, frankly, inevitable.

For now, though, I'd focus on bringing players to the club with high potential. Ideally, they wouldn't all play the same position, but there was no chance the first eleven players I found would perfectly fit my dream formation. No, I'd have to make compromises. Get asymmetrical. Break the rules.

Yeah. I'd have to get Rococo.

***

XP Balance: 4767

Debt repaid: 259/3000

Playdar cost: 8000

***

The stadium was on the way to the training ground, so I went there first. I pulled into my parking space (they wanted to paint DoF on the ground but I insisted they write BEST), and went to meet MD. When he saw me, a huge weight was lifted off his shoulders and a gigawatt of nervous energy shot out in every direction. His vibe was weird. Very out of character.

"Max! Finally! Come in here, come on." He dragged me into a supply cupboard. "That was unreal. Scarborough. Five goals in twenty minutes! How did you do it? I can't believe what I saw. There's no-one that good who's ever played this level. Ever. And I've just watched Chester play five of the worst games in our history. We stink. I did a tour of one of our chemical plants, back in my old job, and the pong was beyond belief. What Chester are doing smells worse."

"Hmm," I said. Something was poking into my back.

"Max, let's get you in the team as a priority. If you play the rest of the season, I'll sack Ian Evans. Okay? Play like that, for Chester, get us out of trouble, get the vibes going, get the sponsors hyped, sell season tickets, I'll do anything you want. Holy shit. It was like watching da Vinci invent helicopters with his left hand while whipping up a quick masterpiece with his right. Holy shit. And the Scarborough MD told me you whipped the crowd up into a fervour he'd never seen before. I want it. I want it at the Deva, Max. Why are you looking at me like that?"

I glanced around the room. It was full of those stacks of paper that come wrapped up in other paper, which always feels cannibalistic to me. "First, a fact check. We only scored four when I was on the pitch."

"Oh!" he said, slapping himself on the forehead. "Only four! Only four he says."

"Okayyy... Mate, I don't want you to sack Evans. This season is dead. There's no chance of relegation. Not with Henri here. And no chance of promotion. Why would I play? What's the point? To get a broken leg? When Chester are playing I'll be out scouting. Do you hear me? I'm not available for selection right now. And by the way, the difference between the shit Evans is serving up and what the fans will get next season is so enormous that, narratively speaking, I see every dull moment now as a building block for even greater excitement later."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"So put all thoughts of sackings out of your mind. Our season is over. We've got six months to learn things. You can learn not to snort ALL the coke in one go. Save some for the weekend! Spectrum can learn what vertebrate means and whether he is one. Tyson can learn to count to two. And I," I said, with a slight grimace, "will learn to be kind and gentle and tolerant and will learn how to get on with a 65 million-year-old reptilian whose primary impulse is to keep things tight and score off corners. I've got six months to get good at dealing with people."

"But the money, Max! We need the money. With you causing havoc on the wing we'll have sponsors queuing up to give us money."

"This season?"

"No. We sold the slots for this season. I'm talking about next season."

"So you want me to run around being a dick, one of those dancing horses, risking my leg being snapped in half, to get the sponsors excited for next season? Mate. They'll be excited. Don't worry. They'll be excited by the players I find while Chester are playing football. Now, look. We're about to have a budget meeting and you're going to tell me we have no money, right? So we have to use what we have and not waste anything. Even Ian Evans. Every player I bring to the club needs to learn to shuffle and slide and to win duels. Evans can teach that better than most. Now let's get out of the storeroom and go and be grown-up businessmen."

***

He showed me my office. It was small and bare with no windows. It'd do for now. I didn't expect to be in there much. "I'm going to put up your favourite art," he said. I expected him to make a quip involving the word Rococo. "Lots of mirrors."

"Ha ha. Let's get numbering." I walked out of my office, then walked back in again. "We could fit a bed in here."

"You're not serious."

"There's a toilet right there. Showers downstairs. A gym. Didn't you always want to live in a football stadium?"

"No. No-one has ever wanted that. Anyway, you're not allowed." He checked my expression. "Shit. You've already decided. Just... don't get caught."

"Hmm," I said. The only evidence I was inside would be my car. I'd have to find somewhere to park it. Any night I slept in my office I'd have to wake up, go outside, and repark my car in my official slot. And in the evening, drive it away and sneak back in. Like a bad sitcom!

Pretty funny, but MD soon drained my good humour.

We went through the budget for Chester Football Club. It was grim reading. The club spent about a hundred thousand pounds a month. I asked MD to give me numbers in per week amounts, since that's how we thought about player contracts. "It's about 23,000 a week, with more than half going to player wages." He paused for effect. "This is after the cutbacks."

"What cutbacks?"

"Hundreds of small things. We've stopped heating the dressing rooms. Cold showers all the way. That doesn't make much of a dent but we have to turn off every tap, switch off every light. We canceled a tournament trip for the Knights to save 400 pounds. Every expense is questioned. Despite my best efforts, the club runs at a loss and every year we do a fundraiser to make up the shortfall. Last year we needed, and got, 85K. This year worries me. Have you seen what eggs cost? Who has spare cash? That's why I don't want you to rule out playing a few home games. Boost the mood. A little excitement would go a long way."

I nodded. The situation was much worse than I could have imagined. "I'll think about it. How's our credit?"

"Our credit? Um... yeah, it's okay. We undid a lot of damage from the collapse of Chester City. Mended a lot of fences. I don't want to add to the debt, Max. I told you that."

"I know. Can I bring in four first team squad players this window?"

"Four?" MD looked unhappy. "I don't know."

"If I find four Messis we can sign for 500 pounds a week, mate. Do you know what I mean? Two grand of extra pain. Can we push the boat?" His face showed the absolute agony that was taking place in his mind. Eldritch spreadsheets attacking him from all sides, cells turning blood red. I smiled. "I won't let the club go bust. Worst case scenario, we sell me to Liverpool for a million quid."

"Liverpool?"

"Yeah. First match I score ten own goals, they release me from my contract, I come back. Easy money."

He chuckled, half-heartedly, wrung his hands. "I don't know."

"All right, don't fuss. Let's see what I find out there. Now," I said, looking at the stream of numbers one last time, "What I'm seeing here is a club that can't afford a women's team."

"You'll need to fundraise for that. Not from the general fans, please. We'll need those donations to keep the club going. You'll need to, ah, persuade a rich person to part with her money."

"Her?"

"Slip of the tongue. I can put you in some rooms with some high net worth individuals. I've asked Inga to look into what's required for getting into a league next season. The quick answer is you need to play some matches and show you can compete. Show it's a serious project."

That sounded doable. Arrange friendlies against increasingly hard teams. Win the last one in front of a bumper crowd, get invited to join a real league. "In-built narrative. Cool. All right, I think I get the theme of the morning. Money's too tight to mention."

"What about Youngster?"

"Yeah. I need to go and see him at Alty, see how he's progressing. Ziggy, too. That'll be good info about how fast these guys off the street can progress once they're in the right environment. Ziggy's at a low-level club but he's got a top coach. Youngster is at a higher level club. His coaches might be worse, but he's got a much higher ceiling. There are so many variables. I really need to keep a close eye on them both. How they develop will teach me a lot."

MD smiled. I'd gone off on a big tangent. "I meant as a signing. You seem to think the world of him."

"He's going to be amazing. But he lives almost on Alty's doorstep. The only reasons to take him from there are if the setup there is bad, which I doubt, or if there's a chance he could get some first team minutes here. What are the chances of Evans putting a 17-year-old on the pitch?" I sighed. Evans was such a disaster. "We're not doing this again. The next manager will have to seriously commit to developing young players. At the start of the season we'll agree on targets for the hot prospects. Player X makes his debut by Christmas, is a regular sub by Feb, plays two halves in May. Something like that."

"Players don't progress in such a predictable way."

"Don't they?" I said. I'd know their exact rate of progression from tracking everyone's CA on a daily basis. "We need a system where what we want is in writing and if the managers are too chickenshit to put the kids on the pitch, they know they're getting fired. They might not get fired for losing, but they'll definitely get fired for blocking potential. If it's really Jackie Reaper you've got lined up, tell him I said that. Talking about blocking potential and not getting fired for losing... let's go see the big man."

***

We left the stadium and MD drove us to the business park where Chester FC's first team trained. Buying some land to build our own facility seemed a long way in the distance. Most players and fans would settle for having the hot water turned back on. I had to rein my dreams in. For now.

The normal workers were on holiday - there were a few cars in the car park, presumably employees of the credit card company who needed to be around to help international customers. We went through the building to the pitches around the back.

There I watched the end of the training session while Henri and Raffi grinned at me. I didn't grin back - I saw a lot of red in the squad’s player profiles. That was highly disturbing.

Training finished, and while the players went for a shower, the decision-makers went to the second floor. Evans had an office there overlooking the football pitches. I hadn't seen him since the Yellow Card party at Shona's. I expected a rough ride with lots of goading and provocation, but when we entered his office, I saw a man diminished. Where once he had been hewn from concrete, now he seemed dusty and cracked. A copy from a failed mould. The hair was as defiant as ever, the eyes as blue and sharp, but the snarl was timid. It carried as much threat to me as a charging hedgehog.

"Ian, you've met Max," said MD. "And Max, you know Vimsy." Vimsy was Evans's right-hand man. His assistant manager. Bit of a dick, but the kind of dick I could get on with.

"Yeah, yeah," said Evans. "Let's get on with it. We've got an appointment."

Thinking about various wisecracks I could make brought a twinkle to my eye, but it would be a long six months if I fell back into old habits on the first morning. I went to the flipchart and took a marker. I went to my awesome new Chester Squad screen. It showed me the first team squad and which positions they could play. It was basically a portal to lots of other cool stuff. I wrote the first three names. "Goalies. Robbo, Ben, Angles."

Combining data from the player profiles and what MD had told me about their wages, the goalie options looked like this:

Name - Position - Age - Wage - CA - PA

Robbie 'Robbo' Robson- GK - 33 - 500 - 39 - 45

Ben Cavanagh - GK - 25 - 425 - 31 - 67

Steve 'Angles' English - GK - 35 - 500 - 26 - 80

Angles had a PA of 80, meaning he might have been a decent player at his peak. The fact he was a player/coach at his age suggested he'd had a bad injury that had stopped him achieving his potential. Ben's CA was red. He needed first team action to keep improving. I put the marker lid back on and tapped the names. "Robbo and Angles are over thirty. Robbo's good. Solid. Ben hasn't played for ages so he's rusty but he's got a higher ceiling. I'd want him in the team next year."

Evans scoffed and folded his arms. In his view, ceiling was a word used by wanky podcasters. "Ben lacks concentration. Keepers mature in their late twenties. Ben's still a babe in arms. Robbo's in his prime. He's got years left in him."

I mentally clicked on Robbo's profile. He was CA 39, PA 45. No injuries or suspensions. There was another new tab called Contract, which would tell me his basic wage, his bonuses, and any clauses he'd negotiated. As Director of Football I'd have access to all that on my computer, so unlocking that screen would be a quality of life upgrade. I was keen to buy it soon, though, because if the curse gave me that info for players from other teams, that would be yet another hilariously unfair advantage. Seeing the contracts other teams were giving out? Knowing who might become available at the end of the season? The possibilities were mouth-watering. For now I was able to memorise most of the important numbers, and MD said that Evans and Vimsy knew everyone's wages so there was no need to be coy about discussing those.

MD was even more of a walking database than me. "They're all out of contract this summer."

I looked at Evans. He shrugged. "Keep them all. It's a good group. Robbo's solid and Ben will take over in a season or two."

"Angles?" said MD.

"He's the goalie coach as well as being third choice," I said. "We'll see how he takes to the new regime before deciding on his future."

"The new regime?" scoffed Evans. "What's that?"

"That's where I go round Cheshire in my creepy car, scooping up hot talents, and dumping them into training sessions."

"The Child Catcher," said Vimsy.

"Don't know what that is, but yes. We don't have much here, but we have professional, experienced coaches. I'll bring rough diamonds and you guys will turn them into gleaming emeralds."

Vimsy eyed Evans. The latter said, "We discuss that later. Get this over with."

"You're happy with the keeper options for the rest of the season, though?" I said.

"Yes."

"Do you mind if I train with them?"

Evans's hair grew an inch. "Excuse me?"

"I'll train with the keepers every now and then, unless you object." Baffled, angry silence. "No objections. Okay, defenders."

"Wait. I don't get it. What's the angle? You got what you wanted. What are you playing at now?"

I kept my face as neutral as poss. "No angle, Ian. I want to understand what all of my employees do. I think we can all agree that I've mastered most positions on the football pitch, so it makes sense to spend more time with the goalies. And while I'm indulging my curiosity, it'll keep me out of your hair. That's the kind of win-win scenario the new Chester is all about." My smugness was rubbing up against his suspicion, causing sparks. The flame could ignite at any moment. I wrote the names of the defenders.

Name - Position - Age - Wage - CA - PA

Glenn Ryder - DC - 29 - 750 - 47 - 54

Carl Carlile - DCR - 24 - 400 - 37 - 77

Magnus Evergreen - D,DM,M - 25 - 500 - 23 - minus 2

Gerald May - DC - 28 - 700 - 34 - 38

Doug Walker - DCL - 33 - 450 - 35 - 38

Trick Williams - DL - 32 - 500 - 29 - 31

"All out of contract this summer," said MD. That was something, at least. I'd only have to look at this mess for six more months.

"MD, do you think I can give Ian a compliment without Human Resources getting involved?"

"Proceed with caution."

"Mate," I said, shaking my head at the names on the flipchart. "You're doing well to stop us getting mullered every match. Ryder is exceptional, and a good guy. I'd love to keep him another year, even on those wages. If he'll take little pay cuts as he ages, he can stay, what, four years?" I shook my head again. "May is..." I didn't want to slag players off in front of people I didn't trust. "May is less good."

"He wins headers," said Vimsy.

May played the Caveman/Shrek role, so winning headers was very important for the team. "For 700 quid a week he should be winning the headers and designing the kits AND serving frothy coffees before and after training."

MD and Evans bristled. They'd both signed off on May's contract. Both thought he was worth it. The former spoke. "He's an important player."

He was, but he shouldn't have been. Still, there was no point bickering about every little thing. "So you're happy with the cavemen?" Blank faces. "The centre-backs." Nods. "At right back there's two options. Both are unconventional players but I'd like us to try to get more out of them. Have you any idea why Carlile is playing shit?"

Evans shrugged. "He's a wholehearted player. Never hides. Gets stuck in. Follows the plan. He's got the attributes but when something goes wrong it gets to him. He lacks concentration. We've talked to him. He says he's fine. We got in touch - didn't we Vimsy? - with his old coach. Said he was like a rock. Same with the scout who recommended him. That was before my time here, but I called the lad, he's retired now, and he said he was sure Carl was a triple-lock."

"Triple lock?" I said.

"A sure thing," said MD.

"Yeah," I said. "He's got that high ceiling Ian keeps going on about." I looked out the window, then back at Evans. "Can I talk to him? Try something, maybe."

"Here we go," said Evans, shuffling in his chair.

I kept my cool like a champ-i-on. "Thing is, Ian mate, if he doesn't improve a lot, and fast, his time at Chester is over. I vote we do whatever it takes to help him out. If you can't get through to him, maybe I can. Or maybe it'll be MD. Or Henri, or Emma, or the girl who sells highlighter pens. I don't care where the solution comes from, but I can't take all these 6 out of 10 performances from him. If you want to try again, great! Amazing. But time's running out. If I find a replacement before he gets his act together, he's out. I don't have the skills or experience to give him a kick up the arse. But I have the time. You have the skills but not the time. Better to try something, right? Because otherwise he's donezo. And that's a waste."

Vimsy spoke. "We'll have another go."

"Amazing. Now, bearing in mind our respective roles that we all understand clearly, it would be beneficial for the club if you gave Magnus Evergreen minutes."

Evans narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

"He can play anywhere across the defence or midfield. You can slot him in somewhere for five or ten minutes at the end of some matches."

"But why?"

I walked around a bit. Any info the curse gave me was hard to explain, but even more so in the case of Magnus. "I just think he has something." I pointed to the list of defenders. "I would crush all these guys, including Ryder, but Magnus is the one who'd give me pause." Evans and Vimsy gave each other that look again - it was starting to boil my piss. I sent my spirit into the stratosphere and looked down on the scene with a healthy dose of perspective. Magnus was a curiosity. He'd never have transfer value, so he wasn't worth spending my political capital on. "Whatever. Do what you want. What about left-back?"

"What about it?"

"Would you like a new one?"

Evans laughed. "Aye, go on. Roberto Carlos, please. The 1998 model."

"I'll get right on that," I said, not bothering to smile. "I was thinking that if we could upgrade our left-back, that would release Aff to do play a more attacking role."

"Funny you should say that," said Evans. "I've been telling MD about a lad I could get in on loan. He's at Swindon Town but he's not getting in the first team. He'd do a job for us here."

"We've got two left-backs," said MD. "We can survive without a third."

"What's he on?" I asked.

"More than we could afford," said Evans. "But the manager's a mate. He'll give us a deal so the lad can get gametime. We'll pay what we can pay."

"I'll go and scout him," I said.

Evans didn't know what to make of that. "I told you. He'd do us a job."

There was no way I was going to defend my role. I had decision-making powers. Not him. I focused on the loan aspect. "I don't want players on loan. We do that, we're developing guys from other teams. But I'll take a look at him and if he's good we'll talk turkey."

Evans's grimace hardened and I felt trouble brewing. Vimsy's phone beeped. "Boss, it's time."

Evans stood up. "We have to go."

"Club business?" I said.

"Mind your own business business," said Evans.

***

"How was I?"

"You behaved beautifully," MD said.

"You see how he jabs at me all the time. Wasting all my energy on anger management. I never understood why dictators surround themselves with yes men. Until now."

"Have you got lunch plans?"

"No. I need to talk to Inga. Ask her to arrange trips for me. Including Swindon reserves, apparently."

"We'll take her with us. She loves eating on expenses. Don't overdo it with her. She's not your personal assistant. So, Max. Where does a Director of Football slash trainee goalkeeper eat?"

I shrugged. I didn't really know the options. "Nando's?"

MD rocked his head back. "You can take the man out of Manchester, but you can't take Manchester out of the man."

I Tysonned my arms. "What do you suggest?"

"I'll choose. Somewhere with a wine list."

"I'd rather get a new centre-back than have a fancy meal."

"Shit defenders are a lot more expensive than nice steaks. Come on, relax. You get one treat, then it's back to nickel and diming everything."

***

The restaurant was fine. A bit too stuffy to really enjoy it. It was a place for old people. MD and Inga kept going on about how nice the food was, how attentive the service.

After our main courses, I peppered Inga with requests. Mostly for tickets to games, but also discussing the strategy for the women's team. I wanted to reserve January for scouting, so we could start playing friendlies against shit teams in Feb, building up to playing some big names in May or June. "I need to go to Swindon reserves, FC United, Altrincham. I get big boy tickets for our away games, right? I'll take them this week against Brackley."

"We won't ever give them away," said MD, "just in case you decide to turn up at short notice. You'll always be able to make a late decision. If I know the fans, and I do, they'll like it when you show your face. When you're visible."

I took a spoonful of my banana split and stared at it. I'd gain experience points by watching Chester, same as any other team in the division. In theory, my role was quite political. It would be good for me to be seen at most Chester matches. But being seen to do the right thing was less of a priority than actually doing the right thing. "I want to see every team in the league ASAP. Inga, I'll give you a list of the teams I've seen and played against. Try to get me to see the rest as fast as poss." MD coughed. "Er... please," I added.

Inga had an ability to flit between mental states and back again. She put her dessert spoon down, got serious, and said. "If you share your calendar with me I'll fill it with matches and organise your tickets. Go ahead and block dates when you don't want to go anywhere." She picked her spoon up and went back to indulging herself.

"Will do. Consider January wide open," I said. "I'll grind like a metalworker. Inga, me scouting is pretty important for the club, but feel free to say no if I ask you to do too much."

She smiled and waved her spoon in assent.

"Should we keep going through the squad?" said MD.

"Without Ian?"

"Yeah. He wasn't very committed to the process."

I was about to ask a waiter for a pen, but no sooner did I think it than Inga produced one. I gave her an impressed smile, which she took with a tiny moment of smugness. A kindred spirit! "The midfielders," I said, writing out their names and ages.

Name - Position - Age - Wage - CA - PA

Sam Topps - MC - 27 - 750 - 50 - 60

Aff - ML - 26 - 500 - 50 - 70

Raffi Brown - MC - 21 - 500 - 18 - 139

Max Best - Omni - 22 - 500

Joe Anka - MR - 27 - 600 - 35 - 40

Chad Flintoff - MCR - 31 - 450 - 32 - 41

Donny 'D-Day' Dorigo - AMLR - 32 - 500 - 36 - 55

"Some more absolute tosh here," I said. "MD, can I slag the players off in front of Inga?"

"Oh, yes. You should see her at the matches. Filthy mouth, she has."

"Don't believe a word," said Inga. "But go ahead. I love gossip and don't get nearly enough of it."

"It's not really gossip," I said. "It's nothing about them as people. It's a question of value for money. Topps and Aff are essential."

"Topps has another year left on his deal," said MD.

"Oh. One less decision to make. His wages are high but he's good and he puts it in on the pitch. No worries there. We need to keep Aff. I expect we'll have to increase his pay. But he's got room to improve as a player. It'll be worth it. Raffi is obviously a star in the making but shouldn't be used too much just yet. He's got a nice long contract."

"With pay increases every year," said MD, as though I hadn't negotiated the bloody thing.

"This Max Best guy seems like a bit of a superstar. Let's talk about him for, conservatively, twenty minutes. We'll do our best to keep him, right MD?"

"If you're going to be like this I want more wine."

"Joe, Chad, and D-Day are pretty pointless and some are on good money."

"They're all out of contract in summer."

"Can we move them on already? If someone will take them off our hands that's budget I can use to bring in some hot prospects."

MD pushed a blob of ice cream against a wall of honeycomb. Trying to organise his plate. "But Raffi's not ready, right? You said it's going to take time before he's a real first teamer. If we replace these three midfielders with new Raffis, just hypothetically, we'd have four guys who aren't up to speed. And you don't want to play. So the midfield would be desperately weak."

"We can't do it all in one go, sure. But if we can ship out one or two, we should. It might cost us a few points but it'll pay off next season."

"A few points?" said MD, abandoning his meal. "We're already close to the drop zone. Relegation would be catastrophic."

I shrugged. "We have to take some risks to catch up to where we should be. Have you seen the ages of these players? They're so old. There should already be young guys breaking into the team to replace the oldsters. No offence, MD."

"Offence? I'm 42, you little shit. Wait till you're 42 and see how you like being called old."

"How long can we leave the players with expiring contracts in the dark about next season? When will they start looking for other clubs?"

"They've probably already started. They'll take the first serious offer they get. They need stability. But in my experience almost all of them will still be here on May 31st. You can wait till then, if you're dead inside and have no consideration for their emotional well-being."

"We'll sign the key guys. The rest will depend on if I can replace them without losing too much starting eleven CA."

"CA?"

Oops. "Just a stupid phrase I use. Coach's assessment. Don't worry, MD. I know what I'm doing. We can't have a team of jam tomorrows. We need enough jam on our toast to win matches. It's good so many players are coming to the end of their contract, though. I should be able to replace some with better players for the same money. As long as we keep a good spine, we'll always have a chance of winning."

"The spine?" said Inga. "You mean Ryder, Topps, and Henri."

"I do. One strong, talented player with good leadership skills in each part of the pitch. Robbo in goal, too, though he's not as outstanding as the others. It's a good spine."

"We're talking about next season, though," said MD, who was back to nibbling his dessert. "Will Henri stay?"

"We can't afford him. We have to look for someone else."

"What about the ones that were already here?" said Inga.

Name - Position - Age - Wage - CA - PA

Len Kearns - S - 33 - 500 - 38 - 39

Henri Lyons - S - 27 - 800 - 47 - 90

Tony Hetherington - S - 25 - 600 - 40 - 44

Henri's CA had been 55 when I'd met him. He'd lost 8 points! That was shocking, but I hoped that now he was back playing regular first team football, he'd reverse the decline. If not - well, it didn't bear thinking about.

"Henri's a cut above but we can't include him in our long-term plans. Len and Tony, MD? Contracts?"

"Len's finishes this summer. Tony next."

I sighed. It wasn't as bad as the defence, but it wasn't great either. "Why do we only have three strikers? What about injuries? Suspensions?"

"Tony's never injured. That's one reason he got a long-term contract. But Ian uses D-Day as a second striker. I was wondering why you had him in the midfielders section."

I rubbed my head. "That's the squad, then, MD. It could be worse, but there's lots of inefficiency there and not much in future transfer fees. We've got a few reserve team players. Part-timers, right? On about 90 quid a week? Just in case there's a big injury crisis. I'll check them out. Tomorrow I'll watch the 18s and see if there's any talent there." I rubbed my face. "Oh, God."

"What?"

"This is a big job."

"Running a football club with the hopes and dreams of an entire community resting on your shoulders. Ya think?" He chugged his wine. "Remember, it's a marathon, not a sprint. Pace yersel."

"Right back at you, buddy," I said.

***

That afternoon, I went to watch the under 12s train. There were a couple of okay kids. One had PA 25, another was PA 22. I told Spectrum to move them to the 14s next week. I would need to find some talented toddlers, and fast, or the current crop of under 12s would stink up the gaff for years to come.

After telling Spectrum the session was going well, I went to a cafe for a tea and to read the papers until the clock hit the top of the hour. I snuck back to watch Spectrum coach the 14s. I hid behind a newspaper like a bad spy. The first ten minutes was infuriating, so I came out of hiding - i.e. rolled up my paper - and went over to remind Spectrum of what I wanted. Sullivan was not allowed to play it safe, and Tyson was not allowed to shoot. Furthermore, Tyson was not allowed to flap his arms around. Any time he shot or flapped he had to take a five minute timeout.

It was annoying to have to micromanage Spectrum in this way, but I clearly couldn't trust him to follow my instructions, and if he didn't follow my instructions these kids had no chance of a future. Spectrum wanted to be seen as the cool coach who made training fun. Mirthlessly hammering bad behaviour out of some brat didn't come naturally to him.

Incredibly, even while I was right there, he didn't punish Tyson for flapping. I told the kids to do a million pushups and pulled Spectrum far, far away to the other side of the training pitch. "Mate," I said. "I can't understand what you're doing. That pair have a short window to turn themselves around. If you don't help them, they're out. You're not helping them by letting them play like shit."

He swallowed the first thing he wanted to say. I was his boss now. "They aren't playing like shit. We're developing technical skills. They'll learn teamwork and the rest later."

"No. They'll learn it now. Or they're out. And if you don't give me what I want, you'll be out, too."

He nodded. "So it was all fake. All that stuff about me in the IT room working with the goalkeepers."

It took me a second to remember I'd namechecked him on my Seals Live appearance. "No. But that assumes you want to be part of this project. This youth system has zero output. Nobody is making it to the first team. The pipeline is blocked, and it isn't only blocked at the top. There's a huge fatberg right here in the 14s. Things will change. Fuck that. Things have changed. You just don't realise it yet. This is me, for the last time, demanding change. You will stand up to parents, and I will support you. You will fast-track players into higher groups, and I will support you. You will fix character defects that stop players progressing, and I will support you."

I clicked my neck. Confrontation on my first day. I should have expected it. The simple fact was Spectrum had had it cosy for far too long. No-one monitored him. Vimsy maybe knew a couple of the young players's names. I knew everything about the players, and even though I was the DoF and a star in my own right, here I was spending my afternoon making sure the training was up to scratch. I'm sure it came as a shock.

"I want Sullivan to play with freedom. Which means giving him permission to take risks and make mistakes. And I want Tyson to learn that it's a team game. Right now. I don't think I can make myself any clearer. This isn't me saying you need to be cruel to be kind. This is me saying give me what I want or get fucked. This is me saying this isn't a marathon, it's a sprint." I looked around. The kids were waiting for us to finish talking so the session could continue. "If I have to stand here and watch you do the session, I might as well do it myself."

I went back to the kids and blew the whistle. They went back to the drill. Two defenders. Two attackers - one trying to get the ball through the defenders into the path of his onrushing teammate. I hesitated - hadn't I done something like this back at FC United? The thought drifted away. The first kid started with a dribble and a trick to move the defenders apart. Nice. Tyson was next. He tried to do an elaborate shuffle pass, kicking the ball from one foot onto his other as part of the move. Moronic. And the little pleb looked at me for approval. He didn't get any. I wrinkled my nose like there was a bad smell. "Or you could keep it simple," I said. Simple was almost always best.

Then came Sullivan. He tried a forward pass. Weak. Easy for the defenders. I blew the whistle and went next to him. "See the defenders moved close together? It's because you telegraphed the pass. Made it too obvious. Can you practice this kind of thing?" I demonstrated a disguised pass - head angled away from the line the ball would travel. That kind of thing was pretty effective, especially in the hurly burly of a game where defenders didn't have time to think and sometimes reacted to small changes in body shape. "Or this." I did it again, but added a finger point. "You're literally saying, I'm passing that way! Lol! Psych!”

Sullivan was perplexed. "But how are you doing it? Your foot's the wrong way."

"Oh." I went through the motion again. "Ah. See, I'm making contact a bit further down the side of my foot. Helps me get that disguise and boop - the angle's right."

"I'll mess it up," said Sullivan.

"I don't give a shiiit," I sang. "Your technique is fine. You'll get it. It's not that hard. Another thing you can do is..." I got the defenders back in their positions and shaped to play a pass between them. Both stepped towards the expected line of the ball. I chipped the ball past them, hip-height. "Most people do big chips over the heads of defenders. Ball takes ages to come down, defenders have ages to get back into position, strikers have to do hard volleys. Low chips leading to half-volleys, that's the future. Sully, try that."

He did. And he messed it up. "Yesss," I said, even though it was the worst piece of garbage I'd ever seen. "But you can do it harder. That chip comes with backspin for free. You can put more heat on. All right, everyone try that. Low chips with a fuckton of spin."

Tyson, the prick, picked up the technique instantly. "Guys, if you're stuck, look at Hermione Granger over here." Tyson flushed red, but kept doing the skill. "Tyson, five stars, five times out of five. Imagine being an elite passer and never doing it in games. What the fuck." I kept walking. "Sully, that's it. Gassy, it's a football, not a zombie. You don't need to smash its brains out."

And so on. Quite fun, and at the end the kids were buzzing, but no attributes turned green. Spectrum had slunk off.

While the kids gathered their stuff, I texted MD.

Me: Let me know if Spectrum whinges to you. I've got 200 coaches lined up to replace him. Thanks.

MD: Why would he whinge?

Me: Shrug emoji. Doesn't think he's doing anything wrong. Doesn't want to change. Thinks his job is safe. He's complacent. He might have to go. Please check his contract to see how easy that will be.

MD: I'm not sure if firing someone on your first day makes you look strong or weak.

Me: I don't give a shit. The pipes are blocked. I want them unblocked. I want pipes so wide and smooth that Mario can pop in and out.

MD: Pipes. WTF. Explain it to me later.

***

From 6pm I was at Goals, the five-a-side place. Picking up XP now that there were matches to watch, but also looking for talent. Christ, we needed talent. There were tons of things I wanted to buy in the curse shop, and some were pretty urgent. But nothing came close to Playdar. Anything to help me get some high PA players into our system.

At the rate of one XP per minute, getting to 8000 XP would take 54 hours. A couple of Premier League games would make a big dent in those numbers. I wondered if Newcastle would let me into the scouting section at St James’ Park now that I was kind of a big deal? I decided that if the journalists turned up I would try to be charming. Getting my name in the newspaper might help get me into big games which would let me progress my skills faster.

At half past eight, MD arrived with a couple of dudes who were fascinated by the appointment of such a young Director of Football. They followed me from pitch to pitch while I pointed out interesting things that were happening in the matches.

I remembered one thing I'd learned in Miss Fox's lessons - if you want attention, give them a good pull quote.

"There are two ways to play football," I said, with a smirk so they'd know this was the good stuff. "The Max Best way. And that's the only way."

They liked it and wrote it down in their alien squiggle language. But ten minutes later, the story seemed a lot less interesting to them. They were more confused than anything, and when I told them that turning the club around would be a marathon not a sprint, full of lots of tiny one percent improvements, they decided there wasn't much of a story here, after all. Just a talented player who knew a thing or two and was helping out behind the scenes and was maybe a bit of a blowhard.

I could feel them mentally check out, and so could MD. He invited them for a pint in the bar, and I joined for an orange juice. With no story to report on - "maybe a few inches under your photo, my editor likes a bit of eye candy" - we started shooting the breeze and swapping anecdotes.

MD excused himself to take a phone call, and when he came back to the table, he looked like he'd just heard about a death in the family. The journos were instantly alert.

"What is it?"

"That was Joe," he said. "The club secretary," he added, for the benefit of the journos. "He's been on the phone to the FA for hours. They're refusing to register you."

"Register me?"

"As a player."

"Refusing?" My mind was treacle. Thoughts moving slowly. There was nothing solid about this conversation. "What?" I tried to work out what was happening. The process should have been simple. I was registered at Darlington. Joe would fax in a form and voila! I'd be registered at Chester. My Darlo contract was so flexible there was no way to stop me leaving whenever I wanted. There was one major restriction on player transfers - you couldn't register for more than 2 clubs a season. Even that didn't seem to apply to non-league, as far as I could tell. Without a fixed contract, I was free to do whatever I wanted.

"We tried to register you but we couldn't. We can't use you in matches. If we do, we'll get a points deduction for fielding an ineligible player."

"Ineligible? No way. I'm eligible. Get a dictionary and look up eligible bachelor. There's a photo of me." I glanced at the journos. They were all ears. They'd stumbled into an even better story than the one they'd come for. "But Mike," I said, voice rising in a slight panic. "What are you talking about? Why can't you use me?"

"Because," he said, giving me a stern look, "your registration was transferred last night."

A chill ran up my spine. "What?"

"Max. According to the Football Association, last night, you signed for Sheffield Wednesday."

...