2.6 - And Again

6.

Football Glossary: 'And again!' A shout from one participant to another meaning 'do that one more time, please, would you, good sir?' or 'please complete the action that I have started'. For example, a coach might use this phrase to encourage a player to repeat a certain sprint. Or player 1 may pass the ball to player 2 and shout 'and again!' which is understood to be a request for the ball to be returned to player 1.

***

13 minutes until the end of my trial

Since I'd set myself as the set piece taker, no-one tried to claim the ball. I stood over it, 35 yards from the goal, watching with mild annoyance as half my defenders went into the attacking box, and two midfielders went back into defence. The default idea in football is that a manager sends all his beefy boys up front where they might score a header, and keeps a couple of shorter, faster players in defence in case of counter-attacks. I didn't necessarily want to challenge this orthodoxy, certainly not right now, but I wanted to be in control. I fiddled with the tactics page until I found that my only option for set pieces like this (and corners) was to tell players to go 'forward' or stay 'back'.

I set Raffi to go back, then as he jogged towards our goal, I sent him forwards again. He didn't blink - he simply turned back again and headed for the penalty box.

What I really wanted was to micromanage the guys and put them in very specific places. That didn't seem possible - maybe with a future perk! - but I waved and shouted and told them to overload the far post.

The standard play here was that I would send a fast, curving, high pass into the 'mixer', AKA the danger zone, and one of my dudes would head the ball into the net. And if I kicked the ball well enough, even if no-one touched it, my pass would arc into the goal. The goalkeeper would have little chance to stop it because he needed to position himself to deal with any headers.

Really, the free-kick couldn't have been in a more delicious position. It was hard not to drool on the ball. You know, like the alien in Alien.

The goalie had placed a two-man wall, but it seemed pointless to me. At this distance I had pretty much the whole goal to aim for.

I took three steps back, added another half a step for luck, then approached the ball and struck it with equal parts sweetness and savagery on its bottom right curve. A firm but pleasurable spanking, more than enough to send it on its way to the top-left corner of the net with just a hint of spin to take it even further away from the goalie.

Not that he moved. Almost nobody did.

I couldn't remember ever hitting the ball as perfectly. The thrill of the contact and the blish! as the ball struck the net made me chuckle. I turned away and started to jog back to my own half.

Vimsy blew his whistle several times. He was holding his arm up. I shrugged at him. What?

"Obstruction," he said, with a somewhat unpleasant smile. "It’s an indirect free kick. You'll have to take it again."

I eyed him. I couldn't get a read on his personality. Was he disallowing the goal to wind me up? Was he doing it to please Ian? Glenn Ryder had kicked Henri, and kicking someone resulted in a direct free kick - one where you could shoot directly at goal. It was possible Vimsy had blown his whistle when Henri and Glenn started grappling with each other (before the kick). It was also possible he was just being a dick.

"Fine," I said. "Raffi," I called. My dude came over. I whispered to him and he nodded. When it came to football he always understood me at light speed.

He stood over the ball while I fixed a loose shoelace. Vimsy blew his whistle. He was ready. I wasn't. Raffi rolled the ball under his foot and when I stood up I got mad at him. "Get to the fucking far post!" I yelled.

"But Max," he said.

"Fuck off," I said, pointing to where I wanted him to go.

Hurt, he loped off. Not exactly heading away at top speed. I shook my head at him.

With a big inhalation of breath, I took my three and a bit steps back, and looked at the far post where all my targets were. I approached the ball and struck it with equal parts sweetness and savagery on its bottom right curve. A firm but pleasurable spanking, more than enough to send it on its way to the top-left corner of the net with just a hint of spin to take it even further away from the goalie.

I wheeled away, delighted, while Raffi came sprinting at me with the biggest smile I'd ever seen on him. I gave him a huge hug. "Yes, Max!" he said. "Fucking banger!"

On the touchline, Ian Evans shouted, "Vimsy, what the fuck?"

We turned to look at the coach-turned-referee. He raised his hand as if to signal that the kick was indirect, but then a beatific smile split his face. He pointed to the centre-spot and whistled. Goal! Two-one! Max's Misfits were ahead!

Raffi and I bounced around, laughing. His match rating hit 8, and mine 7. Not bad after such a disastrous start!

I heard Shona yelling and we went over to see what was up. "Raffi. Max. What was that? What is happening?"

Smasho and Nice One had moved closer, as had MD MD, Physio Dean, and even Ian Evans. Everyone wanted an explanation.

"It was an indirect free kick," I said. "So Raffi rolled the ball forward. And I shot. Simple."

"What was all that yelling at him, then?"

"Distraction," I said. "The other team could have taken the ball at any time after Raffi touched it. Instead, that's your husband's second assist of the match."

"Genius!" said Nice One. "I haven't seen that move in years."

"Max," said Smasho, who was taking his 'assistant to the manager' role seriously. "You're winning now, so are you going to stick with 4-4-2 diamond or go more defensive?"

Diamond. The cat was out of the bag. I glanced at Ian Evans - all the recent weirdness, all the times Raffi and I popped up in odd positions, it all clicked into place for him. My deception had worked incredibly well. His scowl deepened and he stormed away, shouting instructions to his team.

I called out something non-committal to Smasho while Raffi and I jogged back into position. As I went, I tried to listen in on Ian's instructions. No such luck. Fortunately, the curse was whispering in my ear.

***

11 minutes left

Now that Ian knew, I didn't bother trying to hide our diamond shape. The match restarted and I strolled around the DM slot. I allowed myself the luxury of checking out the tactics screens mid-match.

He'd matched our diamond shape! I was astonished - this was the first tactical change I'd ever seen him make.

That had me worried for a moment. We were back to having the same formations but my team had worse players. Not a good recipe. While I mentally bit my nails, I realised that Sam Topps had been set as the first team's CAM. That made absolutely no sense. Of the four players playing in central midfield he was the least suited to the attacking role. Huh. I continued wandering around, not trying to get involved in the game, just thinking. Trying to strategise while being in the trenches was the biggest problem of being a player-manager. Generals haven't fought on the frontlines for thousands of years. (I guess. I watch more architecture videos than history ones.)

But as I strolled towards the right-back position in case I needed to help our current defender (I was rotating Magnus and Carl) I realised that Topps wasn't really playing as the CAM. He was marking me! I checked the tactics screens, and sure enough, he was listed as marking Max Best.

I laughed.

This gave me the chance to use one of my earliest tactical innovations - one I'd never actually tried. Perhaps you remember when I was controlling the FC United reserve team and had Gribbin as the playmaker? Neil, the FCU first team manager had set a dude to mark Gribbin and my first impulse had been to move Gribbin to the wing and have two opposition players in one slot. I hadn't done it because I didn't want to annoy Neil. Today I had no such qualms.

In fact, I went one step further - I switched Magnus to the DM position and went to right-back myself. I even assigned myself to mark Aff. So now Topps was marking me, and I was marking Aff. I was basically forcing Chester to play with 10 men! So I just kind of stood there, trying not to mess up the offside trap.

To hammer this advantage home, I set the team to play down the left and even switched Henri to be the left-sided of the two strikers.

This delightful situation went on for about 90 seconds before Ian started raging at Topps. Topps gave his boss an earful back, and Ian threw his hands up and canceled the 'mark Max Best' plot. I instantly went back to DM.

Smirking.

***

8 minutes left

During a break, Ian called Glenn Ryder over and gave him some instructions. Ryder passed it on, and suddenly the next phase of the match began.

Chester's first team began booting the ball high into the air in my general direction. An artillery bombardment! With me defenceless. No headers!

On the tactics screen I saw that Evans had set the tactics to 'long ball' and 'play through centre'.

Fine. As soon as I spotted it, I swapped with Raffi, who won most of his headers, killing the plan dead.

As always, my response to Ian's changes was almost instantaneous, but he took time to react. And when he did react, it took even more time to get his new message through to his players. The curse was definitely a blessing in that regard.

So now I was in the CAM slot and in theory I should have been having the time of my life. But the first time the ball came to me, I got stuck in traffic. Too late, I realised I'd forgotten to do the half-turn thing. So annoying!

"And again!" I shouted not long after, and got the ball in the identical position. This time I was on the half-turn and it did feel much better. But when I tried to slide a pass through to a striker, I hit it tamely to the first defender. The angles were all wrong! I punched my palm. "Fuck!"

Finally, a long pass towards Henri was partially cleared by a defender. The first team's DM and I competed for the ball. I held him off with my newfound strength, but as I tried to turn with the ball he held onto my shirt and leaned into me. Not enough to pull me down, but enough to stop me doing anything constructive. It's not how I'd ever played football, but Vimsy didn't call a foul and I wasn't sure what to do except judo throw the guy to the ground.

Someone ran off with the ball.

I glared at the guy. "Were you told to do that?"

He looked confused. "Do what?" But then his game face was back on. Watching the action unfold, checking he was in the right position. To him, what he'd done was as natural as breathing. To me, it had been stressful to the point I was starting to get angry. I don't like fighting. I didn't tell Old Nick I wanted to star in Wrestlemania.

Interesting. Lots to think about.

But with me having a stinker in the CAM role, I had to change something. My match rating had dropped to 6. Magnus was struggling against Aff. Carl was talking to Shona - apparently besotted by the baby. One option was to finish the match with my other new formation, 4-3-3, but I didn't want to deal with that level of pain. So I switched back to 4-4-2 and swapped places with the right midfielder. I'd be stood right in front of Ian Evans and I'd be able to hear his instructions and maybe counter them. Also, if I got the ball and did something dramatic, he might tell Aff to stop making forward runs and help the full-back deal with me. And if Aff stopped attacking, the first team would lose their main threat.

It was an idle thought, really. There were only about 5 minutes left and I was happy for the team to keep attacking down the other side of the pitch. I was starting to feel fatigued. I felt like I had maybe one more sprint in my legs. One more clear-headed decision.

But when you set a team to attack down the left, that was just a tendency, and soon enough the ball was passed to Raffi. He fizzed the ball towards me and kept running after it. This extra sprint cost him a good chunk of his remaining energy - he was blowing, too - but it gave me so many options. He was such a generous player!

I shaped to pass back to him and shouted, "And again!" The signal that I'd pass back to him and then run down the line.

Of course, if you're the defender in that situation you have to suspect that I'm going to do the opposite of what I say. Especially after my free kick trickery.

But when someone shouts 'and again' and starts the passing motion, it's like creating a black hole. 99% of defenders will get sucked in, 99% of the time.

Instead of passing it back to Raffi with my right foot, I use my left to nutmeg the defender, and now I'm away. I'm sprinting down the line, one touch to push the ball about four yards ahead of me, giving me enough time to check where the strikers are. Henri is still the left-sided striker, which means he's going to attack the far post. Perfect.

I whip the ball towards him, head-height, and he soars and powers it down past the goalie.

For a second, he's frozen up there at the top of his leap. That's the poster. That's the cover. That's the statue.

And he lands, gathers his feet, and runs towards me. He stops and concentrates on the high five. It's still pretty bad. He looks at me. I shake my head. "Putain," he says.

***

3 minutes left

It was nearly over. I was right - as soon as I'd appeared in front of Ian, he'd told Aff to stop making forward runs. The tactics screen had Aff with a backwards arrow on him. Pointing towards me. Unbelievably defensive. Using your sharpest sword as a shield. Bonkers.

I was happy to let the rest of the game play out, but my team weren't done with me. A few neat passes and Raffi had time and space to drive forward. I knew what he wanted, and I had no choice but to give it to him. I strolled, I strolled, I sprinted, and I got onto the end of Raffi's pass a yard ahead of my opponent. He launched himself in a heroic attempt to make a block, but I'd already crossed the ball. I sensed the goalkeeper would try to get to the ball before Henri could head it, so this time I had hit it low and hard. Henri adjusted his feet - he needed to slow down a little - and side-footed the ball into the empty goal.

A hat-trick for the Frenchman, and his shithousery had won the free kick that led to our other goal. His match rating hit 10. Hair flowing like a prancing deer, he looked around to see where I was.

I was where I'd ended up after hitting the cross. I was finished, physically and mentally. Match rating 8. One goal and two assists, yes, but a shockingly bad start. 8 seemed fair. Henri bounded over and I put my palms out flat so he could strike them from above. He messed that up, too, but he didn't care. He threw his arms around me, and opened them to let Raffi in. Raffi was on 8 out of 10, too. It seemed a fraction low, but again, he'd had several bad patches.

"What do you think, Max?" said Henri, speaking fast, breathing heavily. "Have we time for another?"

"No," I said. I left the hug so I could turn properly. Ian Evans had gone, and the first team were either on their way to the dressing rooms or were gathering the corner flags. "He's ended the game early."

"Thank shit for that," said Raffi. "My legs are jelly." He slumped to the ground and put his hands on his head.

Henri laughed and knelt down next to him - he started massaging Raffi's calves. "Too much upper body work, Raffi Brown. Don't forget your cardio."

"Ah, that's the spot. Oh, shit. Yes." Raffi groaned. I was starting to get jealous. My legs were screaming, too. Who was going to massage me? Livia? Could I work out her phone number from her Disney Plus password? Some of the first team players walked past and gave us pats on the shoulder and things like that. Some of the reserves were wandering around in a kind of trance, unable to believe what they'd just accomplished. They'd banged the first team 4-1. But the doubt in Raffi's voice brought me all the way back down to planet Earth. "Max," he said. "Why do I get the feeling that winning wasn't the right thing to do?"

"Henri," I said. "What do you think of Raffi here? Think he can make it as a pro?"

"Is that a joke? Of course."

"If I die, will you help him find a club?"

Henri flopped on the ground next to Raffi, hands pressed into the grass. Massage time was over. "Oui. But what are you planning of dying from?"

I joined them on the ground. I desperately needed a shower but the building was so far away. I just wanted to sleep. "My next header could be my last," I said.

And for some reason, that was really funny.

When the last chuckle faded, I sat up. "Raffi, mate. It's pro football. If they didn't want us to win, they shouldn't have challenged us. Maybe I messed things up doing it the way I did it. Got their backs up. That's on me. So the question is, are you going to give me another chance? Find another club. Get you another trial. Do all this again?"

"This?" said Raffi. "Again? Yes, Max. We just beat a proper team. Yes, I want to do this again."

"And again," said Henri.

He helped us up and we leaned on him all the way back to the changing rooms.

...

Thanks for your support!

While writing this one, I slipped into the present tense. [The bit after Max talks about black holes and 99% of the time.] I did it naturally because I was so deep in the moment that it felt 'live'. I started to edit it to be past tense but it lost a lot of its immediacy. I'd be interested to know if you found it jarring, exciting, didn't notice, whatever! I suppose in an ideal world I'd be able to drop bits of present tense in for key action scenes but if it comes across as weird I won't do it.