2.38 - The Attention Game

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38.

It started with Emma ringing my doorbell at 7:30. She'd taken the day off work and didn't seem too worried about the consequences. I guessed that dreamy blondes got away with such things a bit more readily than the rest of us.

At 8, Brad arrived. He was surprised that Emma was coming with us, but delighted. He asked what her surname was because he saw some resemblance to a family he knew. "Weaver? Oh, that's not even close." That came with a chuckle and a look at his watch. "We need to hit the road."

"Any clue as to where we're going?" I said.

He frowned and paused tapping on his phone. When he wasn't driving, he was on Whatsapp or taking a call on his weirdly elongated in-ear headset. "Oh. You don't like surprises. That's fine. And I suppose it's better to do this now, before we get in the car. Do you have any objections to playing under a black manager?" I became very still. He reacted to my reaction by raising his palms in surrender. "Max. It's a working-class sport. Some people are... I've found it's better to ask. I don't mean anything by it."

I processed what he'd said, then nodded. I turned to Emma and grabbed my house keys. "We're going to Sheffield."

She put on her coat. A sensibly cosy beige wool number with two huge wooden fasteners, plus a hood for if it rained. "Can we go to Plantology?"

"What's that?" I said.

"Really cool florist. They kill it on Instagram."

We were at the door and were surprised to see that Brad hadn't moved. Something had unnerved him, I think. "Come on, Brad. Let's see how much traffic we can miss."

***

In Brad's car, Emma asked me how I knew it was Sheffield.

"40% of footballers are black," I said. "But only 4% of managers."

"Damn," she said.

"Off the top of my head, there's one in the Premier League. He's in London so this isn't that. One's in charge of Burnley. Fits geographically but Burnley are crushing the Championship. Crushing it like there's no tomorrow. He seems to be an actual genius. God, I wish it was him. But it isn't. They'll be looking for players for the 23/24 season in the Premier League. Top players from Belgium. Nigerian internationals. That sort of thing. No chance they'd be interested in me. Who else? There's Paul Ince. Former Man United player. Annoyed a lot of people by going to Liverpool, but I still like him. First black England captain, if I remember that right. Not sure where he is."

"Reading," said Brad, who was a good driver so I didn't have to micromanage him like I did with Jackie and Henri.

"How are they doing?"

"Championship mid-table. He's doing a decent job, most people think."

"Who else is there? Just Craig Summers. He's at Sheffield Wednesday. They're top of League One. He's doing a mega job. From what I know, he's a tracksuit manager. His superpower is coaching. He's someone who'll improve his players and bring local kids into the first team. Wednesday have a big stadium and they're getting 20,000 a match. That's enormous in the third tier; there are Premier League clubs who don't get so many. And the number's going up. I love it when numbers go up. So do the fans. It's exciting there. In fact, it's exciting times for football in Sheffield in general. The other team, United, are heading for the Premier League."

"You know your stuff, Max," said Brad.

"Tell me about you, Brad," said Emma, from the back.

"I can do that," I said. I'd been researching him. "I watched old clips of him as a player. He was a midfield schemer in the days when every tackle was like the one that I got last night."

"What?"

Oh, that's right. I hadn't told her. I would have if I needed to use crutches, but I'd woken up with no swelling. Probably best to downplay it. "Just a rough tackle. The guy got a red card. But in Brad's day you'd be lucky to even get a free kick! It's really something watching those clips. Brad wandering around those old turnip fields, socks down, no shinpads that I could see, trying through balls, doing little hip wiggles to try to dribble past Scottish midfielders who ate tarmac for breakfast. What I saw was a guy trying a lot of low-percentage, high-outcome passes, a guy whose head didn't drop when something didn't go right."

Brad was glowing like I'd lit a candle inside him. "Thank you very much, Max. I have to say YouTube has not been kind to my playing career." He laughed like a maestro teasing a piano. "I could play a safe pass, too, but somehow none of those survived the digitisation process."

"I was impressed," I said. "Honestly. You reminded me of Bruno Fernandes. Man United and Portugal," I said, for Emma's benefit. "He's always attacking. Always trying something. Two hundred thousand pound a week. You were born in the wrong decade, mate."

"I liked playing in those days," he said. "It was the time of my life. But clubs always tried to rip me off. That hasn't changed. Clubs take liberties. They know what players are worth down to the penny but their day's not complete if they aren't shoving some garbage contract in someone's face. That's why I became an agent."

That was his cue to launch into a much-practiced spiel about his services. I didn't interrupt - I wanted to hear his pitch and compare it to his actions, and maybe learn a thing or two.

It was, honestly, pretty compelling. He seemed genuinely keen to extract full value for players while making sure their careers progressed. If a club wasn't right for a player, he wouldn't pursue the deal. As such, players liked and trusted him. It sounded an awful lot like the kind of brand I was trying to build for the agent side of my life.

When he finished, I asked what to expect from our time in Sheffield.

"We'll see their training session. They're starting late knowing you're coming." Holy shit! That was impressive. Brad had clout. "You can't do any contact work but I thought you might take some free kicks. Meet Chris. See the facilities. The owner is very ambitious. They're looking for a site to build a new training compound. But even the ones they have are still a huge step up from Darlington. And the stadium, of course, is the jewel in the crown. 40,000 all-seater. One of the best in the country. Famous. Historic. A fitting stage for a player of your talents." He sighed. "The fans there make a hell of a noise, let me tell you. They are going to fucking love you, Max Best."

"To know me is to love me," I said. "But Brad. What about your mate Dave Cutter? He shouldn't be happy about us doing this. But he doesn't seem to mind."

Brad made some calculation. To tell me, or not to tell me; that was the question. "If I arrange a move like this for you," said Brad, "I might take David to dinner. A very big dinner. As a thank you. Do you get me?"

"Yeah," I said. Me moving for free wasn't exactly in Darlington's best interests, but they weren't going to get anything anyway - I had batted away all talk of signing anything long-term. I'd become pretty convinced that Cutter was paid less than all the first team regulars. So why shouldn't he take a bit on the side? I tried to guess how much Brad would slip him. 5,000 pounds? 15,000? A decent chunk of change, that was for sure. One deal like that per year could make a lot of difference. "Yeah," I said again. "I get you."

***

When we got to the outskirts of Sheffield, Brad made a call. Whatever he heard led to us starting our tour at Hillsborough, Wednesday's famous stadium. Someone from the club was there to meet us. An older guy. He didn't introduce himself so I invented a backstory: he gave the stadium tours, remembered repeat visitors, told Dad jokes, and was banned from his grandkid's football matches for threatening referees with petrol bombs. Motto: I know where you live!

"Max Best, I presume?" he said. He brought us into the belly of the beast, stupidly taking a shortcut through some admin section. He couldn't have expected a player to be so incredibly interested in the work that was done there and the software they were using. It created something of a stir when I took a chair next to an older lady and started peppering her with questions about ticketing and customer management. Eventually, Emma dragged me away and we went through well-equipped gyms and medical rooms and out onto the pitch.

Emma was virtually speechless. The size, the sense of history, the sounds. "Max," she said, hugging my arm.

"I know," I said.

The employee gave us the one-minute version of a Sheffield Wednesday history lesson. Named because the founders had a half-day on Wednesdays so that's when they played. 4 times league champions. 3 times FA Cup winners. A proud history of promoting youth players into the first team. Nicknamed The Owls. And, the guy said with a cheeky grin, they were the only football team in the world with a fanzine named War of the Monster Trucks.

"What?" said Emma, laughing.

"In 1991, we beat Man United in the League Cup final. We were in the second tier then, so you can imagine how unlikely that was! It was a big, big deal for the club, and for football if you ask me. But instead of showing our celebrations, Yorkshire Television, which as you know is run by dirty Leeds fans, cut short the programme and broadcast a repeat of War of the Monster Trucks. Right, last stop, the dressing rooms."

Guess what we saw?

Two kits hanging up. Vertical blue and white stripes.

One: Best 77.

The other, and this is where Brad was waaaay more suited to being an agent than me: Weaver 77.

I smiled at him. The smooth prick! That's why he'd asked her family name. Amazing. This was next-level agenting. I had to take my hat off to him. And yeah. Seeing my name on the shirt. It was like a promise. If I signed some tiny little piece of paper I could play here. In this vast stadium. For one of the oldest football clubs in the world.

Brad tried to hurry us back out, but Emma had other ideas. "Wait there," she said, taking her shirt into the showers. There was a lot of rustling and unzipping and whatnot, all noises which I'd heard before. But Brad and the guy from the club were barely able to contain their excitement - she was taking her clothes off! Emma finally came back from around the corner... looking exactly the same as she had.

That only inflamed their imaginations even further. The poor guys. They thought they knew what they were missing. But they didn't.

***

We drove across town and caught the last ten minutes of the Sheffield Wednesday first team training session. It was 11 vs 11 but with frequent interventions from Craig Summers. The session looked absolutely top, but I'd been tricked once before, so I was cautious.

The training area itself, Middlewood Road, was two grass pitches and a 3G (third generation) artificial one. The 3G was inside a big circus tent thing. It looked like the underside of a memory foam pillow. In other words, amazing. There was some activity over there. It looked, weirdly, like people were preparing a wedding inside it. There were caterers in posh uniforms and that kind of thing. I shrugged. Nothing to do with me.

I turned my attention to the players. The average CA of the first team was 120 - way higher than the Darlo guys or anyone in my division. The reserves were much more variable, which made sense. Sheffield had invested heavily in the starting eleven and there was a big dropoff to the rest. That explained why they'd be interested in someone like me. I'd be free, except for some wages.

After the session, Summers brought his whole gang to a spot between the centre circle and the penalty box, and waved me, Brad, and Emma over.

"Brad," said Emma, as we approached the Sheffield Wednesday first team squad. "Is it bad that I'm here? I'm going to distract attention from Max."

"I think on balance it's a net positive," said Brad, which was unusually understated of him.

"Babes," I said, because for some reason I'd started calling her babes and she was doing the same to me. "They're footballers. They've seen women. They've never seen anything like me. Five minutes from now they'll have forgotten you exist."

"Want to bet?" she said.

"Absolutely. The Attention Game. Rules are self-explanatory. Loser pays a forfeit."

We walked to where the manager was - the squad fanned out a little bit to give us space. Emma was, inevitably, into an early lead in the battle for eyeballs.

Chris Summers was holding a clipboard and sort of indicated me with it. "Guys," he said, in what I thought was a London accent but could have been from anywhere south of the midlands. "This is Max Best and his, er..."

"Dream girl," I said, while Emma flushed.

Summers got a little sparkle in his eye. "I bet. So we've seen the clips, Max. A true number 7 if ever there was one, and I hear you're a free-kick freak. We haven't scored a direct free kick this whole season. Want to show us your stuff?"

A few minutes earlier, Brad had told me to put my boots on, either from instinct or from some pre-arranged signal that I didn't notice. I was in my now-customary tracksuit bottoms, so there was nothing stopping me from taking a proper free kick. I probably should have warmed up a bit, but whatevs. Set pieces 20, blah blah blah.

I looked around at the squad. Some were interested in me. Most weren't. They were standing there because they had been told to stand there. These guys were top of the league. A great team, working as a unit. Did they want new blood to help them reach their targets? Or would they try to exclude me like the Darlo mob had done? As it stood, they were a whole lot more interested in Emma than me.

I mentally shrugged. Nothing would matter unless I scored from the free kick.

There was a ball there, and an empty goal in front of me.

I rolled the ball around under my studs, then bent to place it properly. "Who takes the dead balls in this gaff?" I said, pretending not to know every single thing about these players.

Summers pointed. "That'd be Kevvo. Young Damien there is starting to push him, though."

"Cool," I said. "Sorry about this, guys."

The one called Kevvo tilted his head. "Sorry about what?"

"About showing you how we do it in Manchester." I gave him a Maxy two-thumbs while his mates grabbed him by the shoulders going 'oooh'. Kevvo laughed. Good vibes here. Really good. I decided to treat them to some of my best material.

I went through a hilariously senseless pre-kick routine that was juuust on the verge of perhaps being real - three big steps to the left and four small ones to the right; two big paces back, one tiny one forwards. All eyes were on me. With a ball at my feet, Emma had no chance in a battle for attention. I walked slowly towards the ball, and gently toepoked it goalwards. It bounced approximately 600 times, drooled over the the goal line, and came to a rest two feet away from the net.

"Whoo!" I said, arms aloft.

Big laughs from the Wednesday players. Some anti-Manchester jokes.

Brad giggled nervously. "Max," he said. "We were hoping for something more... dramatic."

"Emma, sweetness," I said. "Did I score?"

"Yes?"

"So what's the problem?" Some of the Wednesday guys thought this was funny. Summers was frowning. He didn't get me; from his point of view this was my big break. A chance to skip a few divisions and play for a serious team. Why wasn't I taking it seriously? I helped him out by pointing at the empty goal. "Max Best thrives in the crucible of competition. Max Best needs a keeper."

"You told me I was a keeper," said Emma, deliciously. Half the nearby players went googly-eyed.

Summers got his phone out and called, I presumed, the goalkeeping coach. He chatted away, then turned to me. "Couple of minutes. Is that okay for Max Best?"

"Sure thing, gaffer."

"What's a number 7?" said Emma. At least 7 guys sucked in some breath so they could explain.

"Cool your jets, boys," I said. "Leave the maxsplaining to me. The numbers. It's simple, but complicated."

"Oh, boy," she said.

"In the old days... Well, I suppose in the old days there weren't any numbers. But when there were, they were from one to eleven. The goalkeeper was number one. Then the rest of the positions got their own numbers. What's the most basic formation?"

"4-4-2," she said, causing another swathe of men to fall in love with her.

"Hands up everyone who found that sexy? That's too many hands. Don't be creepy, Sheffield. Sorry, babes. So the back four. You've got a right-back and a left-back. You notice I started with the right back?"

"So he's number 2."

"Christ, you're so hot sometimes."

"Sometimes?"

"The left-back is number 3. The centre-backs are 4 and 5."

"Any particular order?"

"Who cares? They're just defenders. They're not important." That led to a lot of laughs in the ranks of the Wednesday squad. My sense of humour would go down well here. "Ah, here's our goalyshitlookatthisguy."

Along came a terrifying dude. Dean Casson. Six foot six. That's almost 2 metres tall. Then add his arms. They were, conservatively, another four metres. And he had good attributes: handling 16, jumping 16, and his CA was 125. This was a very, very serious goalkeeper. I briefly wondered if I'd bitten off more than I could chew. I mean, if I'd just hit some Beckhams into the top corner of the empty net, would Wednesday have offered me a juicy contract? Would I have taken it? Sure, if the amount was high enough. What would it cost to make me postpone my dream of becoming a manager? 100,000 a week would do it, that was for sure. There was some number between 500 a week and 50,000 a week where I would have no choice but to accept. I didn't want to leave Darlington yet, and I didn't even want to be a player, but I liked the idea that I might get an offer I couldn’t refuse.

"Huh," I said.

"What about the midfield?" said Emma.

"One second," I said. I closed my eyes, took a few deep breaths, and tuned out Brad, Summers, and Sheffield. The universe was me, the ball, and the goalie, with a little bit of Emma. I placed a ball with the nozzle facing me, and wondered if I should start with a Beckham or a Cannonball. Probably a Beckham, since that was the most beautiful and couldn't be replicated by accident. The football people watching would accept it as proof of my exceptional technique. "Two guys in central midfield. 6 and 8. If you've got a defensive guy, he's the 6. More attacking, he's the 8. Brad would have been an 8. James is a 6. You'll meet him soon."

I exhaled and eyed one patch of air about a yard above and to the right of the goal. That would be the spot the ball would head towards until the spin kicked in. Sure enough, my shot curled and dipped as though magnetically drawn to the actual target I'd chosen - one ball width below and inside the frame. The farthest point you could place a ball without it touching the post or crossbar. The most similar thing I can think of would be in basketball where someone shouts 'nothing but net!' My shot sighed into the goal, microns away from metal. Perfection.

Well, that tipped the Attention Game in my favour. There was a low buzz of admiration from the squad. I glanced at Brad - he was practically purring. Spending his agent fees already. What would I buy him? This year, a nice holiday. Next year, a nice island. Summers was wide-eyed. It was one thing seeing it on tape. It was another thing watching me from two yards away.

Casson, meanwhile, had been smiling and slapping his gloves and doinging the crossbar to try to put me off. The manager had asked him to come and save some free kicks. And when I'd seemingly hit my first try miles over the bar, he'd relaxed. The moment the ball fizzed against the back of the net, he transformed. He became, frankly, insane. Insanely competitive. Okay, I'd scored against him, but he hadn't been trying. Try now, you smug prick!

Even from thirty yards away, I could sense the increased testosterone levels. I realised I was sort of snarling. I relaxed my jaw and gave some attention back to Emma. Firstly, because she deserved it. Second, because I knew that it would wind Casson up even more to see me casually chatting.

I got another ball and rolled it further away from goal. The semi-circle of players shuffled away obediently. "I'm a 7," I said to Emma. "You know where I play."

"Right midfield slash mystery winger," she said.

More swooning. I showed her my dimples, then it was concentrate o'clock. Casson wouldn't fall for the same trick again. But he didn't know what other tricks I had. Hmm.

I took an extra step back and positioned myself so that I was exactly in line with the ball. None of this curve shit. I ran up and wellied a Cannonball with a theoretical endpoint a yard above the crossbar. It dipped at the last second. Casson had moved into position, just in case, but his last-second reflex save lacked the wrist strength to keep my shot out of the net.

BIG buzz from the players. A 'holy shit' from Brad, and something even stronger from Summers.

The goalie, though, was not happy.

"The ball dips," I called out, helpfully. "Imagine the shot's like a rainbow," I said, miming a curve. I didn't think he could get more intense, but he did. He started prowling around slapping his gloves and slapping himself on the head. "Wow. You try to help people. Where was I? I'm a 7. The me on the left is a number 11."

Emma was frowning. "But wait. You missed something. You're not number 7. You're number 77."

"That's my squad number. There isn't always a correlation between the squad number and the role you play. Most number 7s wouldn't want to wear 77 because lower numbers are better."

"Why?"

"If your squad number is 11 or under, the manager thinks you're first choice. Number 12 is better than number 24. Kevvo, the guy who used to take the free kicks here, is squad number 18. So just from that you know he's one of the top boys. If he was 38 you'd be surprised to see him in the team. If he was 58, you'd assume he was shit."

"Wow."

"No offence to anyone who's wearing a high number here," I said to the watchers. "Where should I shoot this time?"

"Left?"

Left was tricky. If I did a Beckham, the ball would start in the middle of the goal and veer off. The goalie would be able to follow it. Or would he?

I ran at the ball at an angle, leaned, twisted my foot, and gave the ball more spin than I ever had before.

Casson watched it the whole way, sidestepped, sidestepped again, then at the last second he leaped, extended an arm, and diverted the ball over the crossbar.

"Holy shit!" I said.

"What?" said Emma.

"He fucking saved it. He's not supposed to save it." Casson got to his feet. He was snarling at me. "Do you mind?" I said. "I'm trying to be cocky over here."

He flipped me the bird, which drew some ooohs from the crowd.

But now that Casson was warmed up and hyper-focused, all eyes were on our battle. I'd smashed the Attention Game.

"Brad," said Emma. "I'm a bit warm. Can you hold my coat?" She unwrapped herself, taking her time, and peeled off her top to reveal she was wearing her Sheffield Wednesday jersey. It was tight. You know in cartoons when someone's mouth opens and his tongue rolls out?

Emma gave me a kind of blank, innocent look. "Oh, Max? Who's winning?"

To the outside world it seemed she was talking about me versus the keeper. I knew better.

"I'm winning, babes. I always win." I tried to give this statement some arrogant heat, but it made no dent in the crowd. Emma had soundly thrashed me. I shrugged. Sometimes losing felt good. At least I could win my other contest. "Right. No more making it easy for him. If he saves this, I'm off to live in a monastery."

I got a ball, positioned it with extreme care, and went through my little Cannonball ritual. I fucking leathered it on a diagonal so that it would dip and he wouldn't be able to get a hand to it. But somehow he did. He diverted it onto the post, and it spun into the back of the net.

I felt no sense of triumph; the rebound could have gone anywhere. This guy was almost as good as me. He was CA 125. What did that make me? CA 140 maybe?

How did I feel about that?

Mostly: fine. It felt good to know. Know that I had a limit. Know that I was right to pursue the manager thing. Being accidentally turned into a good player had never really sat right with me.

But yeah. There was some disappointment there. I wasn't completely against the idea of being a superstar. Of playing for a top club in the Champions League. Of scoring a hat-trick for England at Wembley.

Well. This session wasn't exactly scientific. It wasn't conclusive. How about one more data point? I'd been working on that third free-kick type. The one that would bounce in front of the keeper and spit up. The one that would let my team score goals without Darlo having to pay me an assist bonus.

It might work here. Casson was tall and agile. He'd seen many players try Beckhams on him. He'd seen many try Cannonballs. But he'd definitely not seen what I had tentatively named The Ace. I felt sure if I connected right, he'd dive along the ground but the ball would spin way over his head.

The only problem was, I was far from mastering the technique. I was getting about 2 shots in 20 to obey me.

There was something in the air, though. Something that made me think that this time, it'd work.

With a slight grin, I got everything ready. I turned to Emma. "Last numbers. 9 is Henri. 10 can be a second striker or a more creative type who connects the midfield to the striker. Now, Emma. Watch carefully. This is new. No-one's ever seen this before. Are you ready?"

I was grinning at her, but my grin faded. She was looking way up in the air. Now that I'd shut my gob, I heard that there was some thrumming noise. I followed her gaze. The noise came closer.

A helicopter was arriving. It wasn't a cute little civilian one, but a beefy, angular military-style attack chopper. The pilot was wearing one of those shiny wraparound jet fighter helmets. The windows were tinted black. The frame was matte black with a few markings painted in white. The downward pressure from the rotors was sending anything that wasn't nailed down flying. Emma let out a little squeak and grabbed onto me.

It became clear that the copter wanted to land on our pitch - right between me and Casson. If you wanted to get fanciful, you'd say it had been timed to put an end to our little competition. The rest of the players and coaches fled in something of a panic. I wanted to stay and so did Casson. But the flapping of Emma's hair made me sensible. I waved at Casson and pointed right. He nodded. We moved away on diagonals so that we converged. I offered him a handshake and tried to tell him he was top, but he couldn't hear what I was saying.

The blades of the rotor slowed, and Casson asked me to repeat myself.

I never did.

Stepping down from the helicopter was an old, distinguished-looking businessman with silver hair and a powerful body tucked into a killer suit. He strode forward with a smug look on his outrageously handsome face. Walking like he owned the place.

Someone slipped their hand under my arm. I glanced down. Emma was staring at the newcomer with wide eyes. She was looking at the older guy the way the Sheffield Wednesday players had been looking at her. "Oh, my," she said. "I guess we both lost the Attention Game. Looks like you've got some competition, Max. I wonder if we'll get to meet him?"

Yeah. Like there was any doubt about that.