3.5 - He Bangs the Drums

5.

In 1989 my home town was known as Madchester. It was a drug-fuelled era of dancing, raves, and great tunes. The fridges full of ecstasy are mostly a thing of the past, but the swagger lives on. And so does the music.

As the ref blows his whistle to resume the match, I take a few steps, scanning left and right for enemy weaknesses, deciding what my first line of attack will be. My mission: destroy Scarborough by making high-percentage decisions as part of a well-balanced, well-drilled unit. As I move, though, my heels spring up from the artificial pitch. It's so bouncy! The terminator persona boings away and I'm reminded of the start of She Bangs the Drums by The Stone Roses. Intriguing snares, playful bass line, then a guitar chord that lets you know you're in for a hell of a ride. The lyrics arrive and you quickly realise it's about a cocky Manc twat who's doing things his way and nothing can stop him.

I've hyped myself up. Fuck scanning, fuck control, fuck shuffling and sliding. I want to play.

I jog towards the ball and get a pass from Glynn. I play it back to him and point where I want it next - over on the right, where I'm supposed to be. He plays it perfectly into my path and I've got the chance to attack my marker. See what he's made of. But I like the guy! I drop him a shoulder, just to keep him on his toes, but dribble sideways, to the left, into traffic. Traffic? I'm a hovercar, mate! I hit a long pass straight onto Tim's feet, way over on the left, and chase it like a rugby player chasing his own kick. I make up half the distance in four seconds and then burst upfield. Tim is shit, but he's smart, so he plays a simple pass forwards, hoping I can do something with it.

I can. I'm in space, running in a place Scarborough don't expect to find me. It's similar to my first goal for the club, when I knocked Glynn off the ball and sprinted 80 yards. This time, though, there are still three defenders I have to deal with.

The first comes roaring towards me. The ball's inbetween us. He throws his shoulder at me - shoulder-barge, it's legal - expecting to knock me, a will-o-the-wisp man-baby winger, flying. Time for him to learn what strength 20 means!

I match his barge and he is lifted off his feet for a second, like when cars crash into each other. There's no time to savour the moment, because now I'm bearing down on goal. The second defender is coming from my right and the goalie is moving towards me. The third defender, the guy who knows about flamingos, is running towards the goal line to try to block any shot I get off. Smart player!

Based on how fast I was going and the angles, the defenders were red herrings. I ignored everyone except the keeper, moved towards him at pace, did a stepover that brought his balance to my right, let the ball drift diagonally forward, then redirected it towards goal with my left foot. Just the faintest of half-touches.

It was such a subtle move that the Darlo fans didn't celebrate for several seconds. When they saw me coming towards them, smirking, that's when they went wild. Two-two, and maybe they could win the league after all!

My needle was hitting the groove all right; it was clearly one of those days when the ball obeyed my every thought. The challenge was twofold - how to celebrate my goals, and how to stop myself doing something I'd later have to coach out of Benny and the other kids.

I jogged closer to the Darlo fans. Their arms were everywhere, they were jumping around like monkeys, they were screaming inchoate noises.

Imagine Old Nick trying to get me to stop doing this. Bringing this joy into the world. Well, as the song puts it rather more poetically, Old Nick could get bent; what I was doing was heaven-sent.

That was it! A Christian celebration would annoy the fuck out of him. I positioned myself in front of the nearest match photographer and made the sign of the cross. Spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch. Then I bowed my head, pushed my palms together with my fingers facing heaven, and smirked.

***

While we finished praying and the team dispersed to their positions, I stayed in Scarborough's half so that they couldn't kick off until I got to the other side of the pitch. I was walking slowly to catch my breath after my big sprints, but also to think about more areas of the curse that had been unlocked. We'd gone from losing to being all-square. How would that affect the league table?

There was a place in the curse that would tell me just that, and it was available in the shop. For 1,000 XP I'd get access to live league tables during matches, plus a table section in the Squad screen. For another 500 I could also unlock Live Scores, which would tell me what was going on in the other games being played.

Useful, obviously, but the prices seemed to reflect a time before smartphones. These days I could get that info on hundreds of websites, making these perks the lowest items on my shopping list. If we were in a relegation or promotion fight near the end of the season, they could become more valuable.

I imagined myself managing a match where I was playing a risky attacking formation because we had to win. But then the Live Scores would tell me that a rival were losing and if things stayed the same, a draw would be enough. I could switch to Men Behind Ball in the blink of an eye. Change the tactics before the score had even been updated on the other stadium's scoreboard.

Yeah, good to have. One day. After I'd bought literally everything else.

I crossed the halfway line and closed my interface.

My feet itched for the ball. The drums were still banging.

***

It looks like Scarborough have adopted a more cautious approach.

Hey, ho! What's this? They were already pretty defensive. It didn't take long to find out what they'd changed - their left-back, the flamingo expert, was no longer allowed to go forwards, and neither was the left-midfielder. The Scarborough manager wanted them to stay back and deal with me.

Hmm. Yeah. Good luck with that.

I turned to Colin, the defender who played behind me. He was in the caveman club, which made him a twat, but we'd developed the beginnings of an understanding, built on mutual trust and - no, wait. The beginnings of an understanding based on him knowing his fucking place. "Colin. Stay flat."

"Flat?"

"Yes. Clear?"

"Yes, Max."

By flat, I was asking him to stick to the defensive line with Caveman and Shrek. In other words, not to go forward. I checked our tactics page and he was showing with a big black circle around him. These circles denoted tactical tweaks to the default formation and were pretty common, especially late in the game when managers threw caution to the wind or tried to shut down a particular opponent.

With him staying back and with our opponents doing the same, my side of the pitch would be virtually stagnant. Why? Because I had no intention of staying there. Instead, I ran around like a toddler chasing the ball. I won headers as a defensive midfielder, played one-touch passes through midfield, and joined Tim on the left before making my way back across to the right. With the match like this, Scarborough couldn't get a kick of the ball and they were starting to buckle under the pressure. Starting to get frazzled and make bad decisions. Like me at a dinner party.

Grinning, I took a pass and burst past a weak tackle. The wind resistance, the bouncy pitch, my speed of movement and thought, even the way the goals were pushed right up against the stand behind them, making the net seem enormous - it all slotted into place like a jigsaw. I blew past another defender - kicks came that I didn't feel, my shirt was tugged but my momentum was undisturbed. I shaped to shoot and the goalie had a small panic attack. I straightened and jabbed the ball to Blondie. He held it up while I ran to his left, behind him, he rolled it backwards - beautiful idea, beautiful execution - and I was one on one with the goalie.

I decided to show off. As the goalie came charging out, with defenders scrambling to catch up to me, I rolled one foot on the top of the ball dragging it halfway towards its destination, pirouetted mid-air, and continued the drag with my other foot. It's sometimes called the 'Zidane Roulette', named after the French technocrat Zinedine Zidane. But Zidane never did it against Scarborough, so I think it should be called 'Max Best's Scarborough Shuffle'.

I suppose the name doesn't matter, because I actually made a mess of it. The second drag turned into more of a kick, and the ball raced away from me. I watched it head harmlessly towards the goal line, briefly annoyed with myself for dicking around with the scores level.

Then suddenly I was on my back, seeing clouds. I knew better than to try to move, and while I waited, the goalie and a defender untangled themselves from me. I thought about getting up, then, but Junior told me to stay down and wait for the physio.

"What happened?" I said.

"Goalie took you out. Ref's given a peno."

That got my blood pumping. A penalty kick to take the lead in my last match! Yes, please. There was only one problem - Blondie was on pens, and he hadn't missed one for a while.

The physio came and checked me out. He helped me to my feet and did the concussion check. They are needed and as a manager I planned to go ballistic at any player who didn't take them seriously, but as a player they were a nuisance. Leave me alone! I’m trying to win a match, here!

"Who's the Prime Minister?" asked the dude.

"Some twat."

He smiled. "Can you be more specific?"

"Some fucking ghoulish twat. Hey, mate. Come with me."

"What?"

I grabbed his sleeve and pulled him towards Blondie. The physio was deeply confused.

"Blondie!" I said, nodding towards the physio. "Message just came from Cutter. He wants me to take this."

"No way," he said. He hid the ball behind his back.

"Yes way," I said, childishly.

"Player who gets fouled shouldn't take the pen," he said, repeating a commonly-held footballing superstition.

I turned to the physio. "Can you please tell Cutter that Blondie is refusing to give me the ball?" I spoke louder. "No win bonus today, lads. Soz."

Blondie threw the ball at me. "Fucking prick!"

I was grinning from ear to ear when I realised the physio was still hanging around. I waved him off. "Go on. I'm fine. The Prime Minister is Anthony Eden. See? All good." I placed the ball on the penalty spot. The goalie came towards me and kicked the ball a few inches back. Trying to put me off. The ref tried to reason with him. I said, "Ref! That's a yellow card. Get a grip." I checked the match commentary from the previous incident - the ref had booked the keeper for the foul. He didn't want to give two yellows and send the guy off. I thought about giving the keeper a blast of verbals, but he was a nobody.

The songs and chants subsided - Flamingo Land was abuzz with chatter, worry, speculation. Where's he going to hit it? What's he going to try?

Some thought I'd try to backheel the ball into the net - not without reason, because that had been my first impulse.

Some thought I'd try a panenka, a soft, slow lob down the middle of the goal. Very flashy. Very cocky. Yeah, maybe one day.

Today, though, I planned to hit the ball harder than it had ever been hit in a position that no goalkeeper would ever be able to save it. I wanted nothing less than to take the perfect penalty.

The ball was on its spot. The goalie was jiggling around. The ref was off to the side, watching everything. Behind me, fifteen players were lined up on the edge of the box, ready to compete for any rebounds.

The ref blew his whistle.

I smiled. I turned to the Darlington fans and pointed at them with a question on my face. Are you ready? A small eruption of noise said yes.

No more messing. I stepped forward, once, twice, third time faster, put my foot through the ball, intense focus showing on my face, massive follow-through, perfect balance at all times, hold the pose just long enough for the photographers.

Then off towards the screaming fans, off on my own... No! I waited as the other players caught up, picked out Blondie and took him with me. All was forgiven! This time, there was no particular dance or theme. Just us players and subs hugging the fans, letting them bounce and sway and rock around us.

***

This time, as I walked slowly back across the pitch to the number seven slot, I rubbed the back of my head. I had a little bump there from where I'd smacked into the ground.

There was another new section of the curse, in the player profile area: Injuries and Bans. The bans part was simple - it told me if a player was suspended or not, for how long, and why. For example, Glynn was playing because the first-choice CM was banned for one match for picking up five yellow cards.

The curse gave me that section for free. The injuries bit I'd have to unlock, for a whopping 3,000 XP. The description said it would tell me what injury a player had and how long he'd be out for. That was something the medical staff should be able to tell me, but I suspected this perk would be well worth buying. For a start, players sometimes lied about their injury status, either because they wanted to play or, worse, because they didn't.

I was still committed to buying Playdar first, and I'll delve into my shopping options in greater detail in an upcoming chapter. But it seemed to me that as a Director of Football I'd have to give any perks to do with injuries very, very high priority. I would look after my people very seriously.

I rubbed my head again, felt the bump.

Certainly a lot more seriously than I looked after myself.

***

While we celebrated, the Scarborough manager gave new instructions - he was going to take more risks and the flamingo guy and his mate were allowed to attack again.

"Colin! Back to normal."

"All right."

I spent a few minutes putting a defensive shift in. Slipping and sliding and shuffling and sinking along with my teammates. We absorbed the pressure from Scarborough and I watched as a loose ball fell to Colin.

"Go!" he called.

I obeyed, sprinting full-pelt down the line. He smacked a ball over the top, like I'd suggested at half-time. Good lad! I was on it in a flash and hit it square. Blondie and Junior were there, along with one centre-back. Blondie got to the ball first and tried another rolled backheel pass, but this time he got it all wrong and the chance was lost.

I enjoyed the move, though. It played to our strengths and was aimed at our opponent's weakness. I wasn't the manager but the team had listened when I spoke. Why had Henri Lyons left Darlington? Because he had such ideas all the time and no-one ever asked him to share. There was no chance I'd make the same mistake as Cutter - I'd take ideas from absolutely anyone.

"Colin! Yes, mate. Do that again."

I stayed up by the half-way line so that I couldn't be offside, and waited. And waited. Cutter was throwing his arms around like a lunatic. Who cared? The next time there was a loose ball, it wasn't Colin but Shrek who booted it towards me. I spread my arms to stop the defender getting in front of me, and pushed him backwards as though I would let the ball hit my chest. But suddenly I stopped competing and ran around the player. He had a moment of excitement where he moved towards the ball - it was right there! - but that was replaced by cringe as he remembered how high the ball bounced. It flew over the guy's head, skipping off the artificial turf, right into my path. Timing? Almost as good as an ecstasy-fuelled drummer wearing a bucket hat.

This time I surged towards goal myself. The goalie moved to his near post. The defenders ignored Junior and focused on me and Blondie. I cocked my right leg - time stopped - they'd all seen my cannonballs and the power of my penalty. In slow motion, while they all made despairing dives, I moved the ball onto my left foot and played a slow pass square. Junior tapped the ball into an open goal.

It was virtually the first thing I'd practised as a professional player. Darlo's goalies helped me get the timing down. This celebration was for them - I ran to the bench and hugged the GK coach Taff, and backup goalies Paul Larkin and Sky. Smokes understood what was happening and he joined us instead of the rest of the team. We bounced around in a private little bubble. I have to say it made me emotional. We'd come full circle and this was the start of the goodbye.

I needed to squash those feelings down. There were ten minutes left of showing the good people of Darlington what Max Best football looked like. Ten more minutes of gobby Manc swagger.

The Darlo fans, loving that I had the Midas touch - everything I did turned to goals - sang my song on a loop, relentlessly.

It's Max Best, you know. Never believe it's Darlo!

***

While I ambled over to the right-mid slot, I tried to remember how I'd ended up there. I'd hacked Champion Manager to let 'Max Best' play anywhere, hadn't I? I'd tried different positions in my trial at Chester and right-mid had been the easiest. I'd done okay in midfield and very well as a DM. But I'd failed miserably as a central attacking midfielder. It needed a speed of thought I couldn't offer and at the time I'd doubted I had the wide range of skills the position demanded. Now that I was up to speed, confident, and didn't have a crack in my skull, could I do it?

I lined up on the right because my threat there had forced Scarborough back again. They were four-two down and keen to stop it getting embarrassing. Once play got underway I drifted centrally, lining up behind the two strikers.

On the side of the pitch, Cutter was going tonto, waving his arms at me. One of the other coaches pulled him away. I laughed. I don't work for you anymore!

In the centre of the pitch, there was way more chance of getting involved in the game. Passes came more frequently. Long balls went over my head. Any deflection or miscontrol could result in the ball popping right into my path.

I kinda liked it.

Once, my legs started pumping before I'd even spotted an opportunity. A pass bounced off a defender's shin, right into my path. I smacked the ball hard without thinking and it dipped and swerved. The goalie brought his hands together just in time and the ball burst off his gloves and away like a misfiring rocket.

That got Scarborough's attention. I got their aggro on me.

There's a famous photo of Diego Maradona against Belgium. It's misleading, but who cares? In the pic, Maradona has the ball and six Belgians are in a narrow cone in front of him. It looks exactly like their manager had tried marking Maradona with increasing numbers of players and settled on six. Six players needed to stop one! Wonderful photo. Check it out.

My case wasn't so extreme, but it wasn't a million miles off. The tactics screens showed that no-one had been assigned to mark me, but wherever I went, so did the nearest three Scarborough guys. The aim was to stop me firing cannonballs at will, but it twisted their formation into a big pretzel. Or a doughnut, maybe, inviting me to fill that space with the cream of through balls, the jam of cheeky lobs, and the hot, melted cheese of no-look backheel nutmegs.

It was carnage.

I would wait for them to press me. I'd flirt with the edges of their zones and draw them towards me like a Wilson magnet. And then - the magic. I'd conjure an impossible pass. A mathematically precise piece of triangulation. And when they started to back off me and keep their shape, I'd take another shot.

There's a word for people like me: Unplayable.

During this phase a fan tried a new song and it caught on. All English football fans are familiar with it. They sang, to the tune of Love Will Tear Us Apart Again by Joy Division:

Best! Best will tear you apart again.

Best! Best will tear you apart again.

More emotions. More energy needed this time, to squash them down.

But my favourite moment in the entire match, maybe in my entire playing career thus far, happened in the second minute of injury time. Glynn, Tim, and Chumpy were passing the ball to each other on the left. I moved for a short ball, but Glynn turned away from me. So I turned and sprinted forward and right. Three opponents tracked me, opening a big gap for Colin to move forward into. He took a pass and played it forward to Blondie. I sprinted even harder, square across the pitch, causing mayhem as different opponents tracked and stopped tracking me. Blondie passed to Junior, who paused and played it short down the line for the overlapping Chumpy. He squared it across goal for Blondie to have a tap-in.

Five-two. The best goal of the season, I hadn't touched the ball, and I couldn't have been happier. I followed Blondie and the rest and for the first time I felt like I was in a truly functioning team.

***

At the final whistle I spent time signing autographs and being in selfies. One little Darlo kid was crying, begging me not to leave the club.

"I'm not leaving," I said. "I'm just going somewhere else."

I stayed until one of the coaches told me I had to get a shower so we could get going.

***

The mood on the bus was jubilant. We were three points behind King's Lynn, having played a game more. There was still loads of the season left. Still a good chance of winning the league. If they did, I wouldn't get a medal. It wouldn't say National League North Winner on my Wikipedia page.

But maybe the fans who'd seen me would remember that I'd contributed.

Junior bumped me and showed me his Twitter timeline. Posts from the away fans ranging from rapturous to ecstatic. One had got hold of the photo of me praying and added the text: BIGGER THAN JESUS.

"That's going to bite me on the arse, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Never mind."

I looked out of the window and grinned. Everyone was happy because of me. Ten out of ten match rating. Two goals, one assist. 2000 pounds in 25 minutes.

Yeah, I could play CAM. Which meant I could play anywhere. Good to know... for next season.

***

There was one last thing to do.

The team bus pulled into the Eastbourne training complex where I'd spent most mornings since I'd arrived at the club. While Pat and the coaches started unloading the equipment, Cutter called us into the meeting room.

Unusual, and made even stranger when Bradley Rymarquis slinked into the room. He sat at the back and gave me a wave when I spotted him. I waved back.

It soon became clear this was a tiny little leaving do. Cutter didn't want me to simply leave with no mention of it. He encouraged everyone to grab a paper cup from a trestle table and fill it with a non-alcoholic drink of our choice.

"Max," he said, once he'd got the pumped-up players to shut up and sit down. I had to sit facing everyone. "You're a weird guy, but you're not a bad guy. We're sorry to see you go, and even more sorry to see you go lower down the pyramid." That earned him lots of confused looks. The squad had assumed I'd be going to League One. "Max is going to be Chester's Director of Football," Cutter explained. He struggled to regain control of the room. The explosion of laughter was bigger than at any comedy show. Cutter stuck the tip of his tongue out the side of his mouth and wheezed. "Yeah. Funny, ain’t it? Lads, listen. Lads! It's not a joke. Max, do you want to say anything?"

I leapt to my feet. I hadn't expected anything like this, so I hadn't prepared a speech. But sure. I knew what to say. "It's true. It'll be announced tomorrow. When people mock Chester on social media I expect you to leap to their defence. Just remember Chester are playing you in a couple of weeks. Defy me and I'll do to you what I did to Scarborough." This brought some jeers and people threw empty paper cups at me and stuff. Good natured, but it reminded me of my first day. Something dark inside me bubbled. I rose above it. Mostly.

"So," I said, adjusting my posture to be more like a schoolteacher. "I've promised the boss I won't tap up any of his players," meaning I wouldn't talk to them about a transfer while they were under contract. "But if Darlo let any of you go this summer, don't be surprised if you get a call from me. Now, I know what you're thinking. Do I have to wait until June to get in touch? No. Chester are always looking for articles for the matchday programme. I know that some of you are able to read and write, so maybe you'd like to submit an article for consideration? Topic ideas. How to become a footballer. My top ten memories of Max Best. Why do footballers cut holes in their socks? Payment. I'll replace the paper you used and buy you a new crayon, and of course, send a copy of the programme your article appears in." I retook my seat.

The mood was so positive that my suggestion some of them couldn't read bounced off, and my speech was met with giggles and amusement. Cutter shook his head. "Aye, well. Nice to be young and carefree."

I bounced back up again. "If you want serious, I can do that." I put my hand on his shoulder and looked at him for a few seconds. "You gave me a chance to play and believed in me and I'll always be grateful for that. You've put together a good squad and you get the best out of them. A pretty good model for me in my new job, right? And for the coaches, I appreciate the time you spent with me. The little tips and tricks. All the times you were a bit more patient than maybe I deserved. And look, this might sound sarcastic based on how I just played, but I really did enjoy learning how to shuffle and slide. I'd like to thank you all very much."

"Aye, well," said Cutter, startled by my change in tone. "We'd like to thank you an' all. Pat?"

Pat the driver, Pat the kit man, Pat the bearer of gifts. He had a little gift wrapped box in his hands. About the size of a shoebox. He handed it to me. "Should I open it now?"

"Yes," said Pat. "No time like the present."

"What, do you want to wait for your birthday?" laughed Cutter. "Get it open. I don't know what it is, myself. Pat said he knew the perfect gift. I am agog." He looked around. "We all are."

The wrapping was held in place by one piece of sellotape. When I removed it, the paper gently fell apart. Quite satisfying.

The box was, indeed, a shoebox. I smiled with a frown. I could just imagine Pat thinking I needed a proper pair of shoes - I almost always wore trainers and no doubt for the older generation it was a bit strange. Maybe now that I had a managerial position, I'd need to -

I froze. The shock was total. I think I started to sway because both Pat and Cutter took a half-step towards me. I swallowed.

I reached into the box and pulled out one of the football boots my mother had bought for me. The last gift. The piss boots. I'd told Pat to leave them in the showers as a message to the other players. At some point, they'd vanished. Now, here they were again. Symbolising... what?

Pat was talking. "They've been deep cleaned. There's a place in Glasgow that does it. They're the best in the business. Now you trust me, Max Best, they're good as new. Your old boots. Good as new. You put them on when you play for Chester and you score your goals in them. Tell your mum. Make her proud."

That was it. Waterworks. I blubbed like a baby while various grown men tried to talk me down. I don't remember anything else that happened. At some point, somehow, I got in my car and drove to Henri's place, which would remain my base until I found somewhere cheap to stay in Cheshire.

My career at Darlington was over. Tomorrow I'd be unveiled as a Chester employee. There was no point getting emotional about it. Pat, Margot from admin, the cooks, the cleaners, Junior, Bark, Benzo, Miss Fox, Longstaff. They'd still be there. I'd send them a Christmas card for a few years, and one day I'd forget about them completely.

Simple, right? You leave one job and start another. Simple.

Actually, not quite so simple.

Bradley Rymarquis had other ideas.

...

Hey! You! Thanks for your support! You're my favourite one!