1.71 - Home to Roost

71.

When I say ‘next’ I don’t mean the next ten minutes of the match, because they were fairly mediocre. I was concentrating, gathering XP, checking the match ratings and the commentary and all the other things. By the way, I'd reprogrammed the curse to show me the match ratings in my normal vision even if I was looking away from the pitch. So I could seem to be giving a vice president of a biotech company my full attention while also keeping track of what was happening behind me. For now I had that plus the match clock. Next I'd add the commentary, then the match overview. I could make the 'widgets' more opaque or more transparent with barely a thought. It was getting to be a pretty slick user interface.

What I started to notice in those ten minutes was that none of the people in the Directors’ Box wanted to talk to me. It was quite a big change from the first half, when I'd appeared as fresh and exotic.

And in most cases I didn't really care, but I was a bit surprised that Smasho and Nice One were snubbing me. They were over at the back of the box in deep discussion with each other and what looked like Whatsapp. But whatever. I focused on the match.

At a certain point I went to get a refill on wine, then thought better of it. I had to drive home and didn't want to crash on the motorway or crash on MD's sofa. So I grabbed a big bottle of Evian and took it back to the corner.

"Gizzasip," said Nice One, settling into the chair next to me. That's 'give me a sip', in case your English to English translator doesn't know that one. He held out a glass and I filled it with water. "Cheers."

"Cheers," I said, drinking from the bottle.

"Ahem," he said. That is, he made a weird noise that signaled he had something awkward to say.

"Sup?"

"Max. We were saying how you really knew your onions. Really impressed." Oh! My heart jumped a bit. This was good. Smasho and Nice One were Chester FC royalty. Everyone here looked up to them, even the multi-millionaires. But then the overall vibe hit me and my heart sank. "And at half-time we mentioned you to one of the coaches down in the dressing room. We just popped round to have a decko, yeah? Not sticking our noses in or anything. But me and Smasho, we made it to the fifth round so it's not like we're lepers, know what I mean? Anyhoo," he sipped his water. "We mentioned we'd met this smart young man in the box and..."

Smasho arrived with a big glass of wine. Hopefully he wasn't driving. "And they said you're a prick," he said, laughing.

Nice One gave his mate an irritated glance. "They didn't say that. But yeah. They said there was... an incident. At a youth team game. Under 16s, was it? And we'd like to hear your side of the story. Give you a fair hearing and that."

Well, this was a tester. In theory if I handled this right, I could get two legendary players onto Team Best. Handy. But honestly, as soon as he said the word 'incident' I just crumpled. All the energy seeped out of me. I'd have to start again at some other club. Clean slate. Don't stir up a hornet's nest on day one. I half-wanted to lash out and defend myself. It would be futile, but it would be immensely satisfying. Instead, I said, "Whatever they said, they were right."

Nice One wasn't buying it. "Come on, Max."

I shook my head. "I'm not here to rock the boat. In the end, everyone's doing their best and trying their hardest and all I want is for Chester to do well. Do you know what I mean? I'm not... I'm not..." I couldn't really think how to end the sentence. So I just took a breath and said the first thing that came into my head. "What happened is on me."

There was a little raised platform that the big sheet of glass in front of us was set into, and Smasho sat down on it. "I hear you. We're not asking you to dob anyone in." Not asking me to become an informant. "We've heard one side of the story. We just want to hear yours." He jabbed his thumb behind him. "It'll be more interesting than the game at least."

I put the water down and rubbed my temples. "Fine. Quick version. MD let me coach the under 14s. Just getting some practice in. They were doing 3-5-2 and that was great for me because I hadn't done that before. Ten minutes, everything's peachy. Suddenly things are going haywire, four kids out of position, and, let's be honest, anyone with a bit of experience would instantly know what was wrong. But because it was me, I was clueless. So someone explains it's the parents. Midfielders being told to play striker. Shit like that. I mean, I'm not a parent. I can't know what it's like. Maybe I'd be the same. Probably I'd be worse! But I took it personally, which was dumb, and I subbed off the four players and put on my only reserve. Yes, I played with 8. That's pretty much the whole story. I just lost my mind for a minute."

Smasho was grinning like I'd told him how I'd injured one thumb demonstrating how I'd injured the other thumb. "You played with 8? Against 11?"

"Yep."

Nice One rolled his hand in front of me. "Go on."

"That's it."

"That's not it. Surely someone tried to talk some sense into you."

"Well, yeah. Mike Dean. He made me talk to the parents and sort things out. But they weren't really into it. To be honest, I was happier playing with 8. I did a big half-time speech about teamwork and shit."

"I heard," said Nice One, with extreme care, "that you actually had 9 players to choose from."

"Oh, yeah," I said, remembering. "The first kid wasn't being misled by a parent. He'd been sort of displaced and then he sulked a bit."

"What was his name?" said Smasho.

"Benny."

"What do you think about him as a player? As a kid?"

"Yeah, good. Annoyed me at first but turned it round. Got potential." Something occurred to me. "You know, whoever you've been talking to, they've got their own agenda. And obviously I've got mine. If you really want the hot goss on that day you should go to the 14s and talk to Benny."

"Why him?"

"He was one of the ones subbed off, so it'd be fair if he had an axe to grind. But he was the only one I let back on. Who knows what he thinks about it, but he'd be your best bet for an unbiased view of the day. His version would be colourful, at least."

Nice One rubbed his eyebrow. "I still don't get why you played with 8 when you had 9 available. That's cutting off your nose to spite your face, isn't it?"

No, I thought. "Yes," I said.

"Max," said Smasho.

I flapped my arms around. "Look, I'd made a big half-time speech about teamwork and how if they started fucking trying it, they could win with 8! Playing with 9 would have defeated the point! Anyway," I sighed. "With a sub I could keep giving tactical advice. Tips. Praise." I was annoyed that I'd been sucked back into this conversation. It was worthless. My head rocked back and I looked at the ceiling. When I looked back down, Smasho and Nice One were grinning at me. "What?"

Nice One said, "Is your name Max... Best?"

"Yes."

He nodded at Smasho, who pressed a button on the wall. All the sound from the stadium... ceased. The rest of the bigwigs turned to give the perpetrator the evil eye, but when they saw it was their former star, they simply shrugged and got on with their conversations.

Nice One was tapping on his phone. Soon he was doing a video call.

"Hey, Benny." Uh-oh.

"Dad!" Uh-oh! "What's the score?"

"One-nil down," said Nice One.

"Aww."

Well, wasn't this dreamy? One of the kids I'd hauled off the pitch was the son of a former player. At least I hadn't slagged the kid off. But this was not good. How do you say muy muy no bueno in Spanish?

"You remember that game against Broughton? You had that special coach?"

"Yeah. Mr Best."

"We were just talking about him here. I'm trying to remember what happened so I can tell everyone. So you had to play with 8, didn't you? 8 against 11. How did you feel about that?"

"Not good."

I slumped forwards, head in hands. I turned the match ratings off. This evening didn't matter. After today I'd be back to square one. I'd be lucky if Chester paid for my petrol. Chickens were coming home to roost.

"And then after the game, what did you tell me?"

Benny sighed. He was bored of this story. I couldn't blame him. "I said I didn't want to play for Chester any more."

Jesus Fucking Christ. No! No! No, Benny, no!

"Why not?"

"Dad, you know this."

"Just tell me. It's important."

Benny sighed. "Because I want to play for a proper team like Mr Best said."

Stop the presses! Breaking news! I perked up, I can tell you.

Nice One continued. "And there's been a bit of a rumpus, hasn't there? Because some people are sick of some people's attitude. And it's all a bit dramatic. Isn't it?"

"You love the drama. I just want to play football."

"What would you say to Mr Best if he was here?"

"Dunno. Just when's he coming back."

"Well, he's here right now."

Nice One handed me the phone, and in those few seconds, Benny had moved from where he was lying prone on his bed NOT doing his homework to sitting bolt upright on a hard-backed chair. It was that gesture that got me.

"Hello, Benny," I said. Keeping it together. Face and tone bordering on stern.

"Mr Best!"

"Do you really want to leave Chester?"

"No, but... But..."

"How about you stay for now while I try to help sort things out?"

"Okay! Will you be our new coach?"

Careful, Max. "You just focus on what you need to do."

His dad leaned into frame. "Benny's been training like a demon," he said.

"I do a hundred kick-ups a day!" said Benny.

I frowned at him. "Kick-ups?" Kicking the ball so that it doesn't touch the floor. I was always terrible at it.

"Yeah!"

"Why? Do you do kick-ups in games?"

"Er... no."

"So what sport are you training for? Benny, you need to train skills you do in the game. You're in your back garden, yeah? In trainers? You don't play in trainers, you play in boots. When you want to drag the ball back in a game, suddenly you've got studs in your way.” Studs. Cleats. You’re smart. You get it. “Train skills you can use in matches. Roll the ball around in a figure 8. Get used to the feel of the studs on the ball. Shoulder drops. Drop and burst left. Drop and burst right. Can you make the movement look the same?"

He was absolutely rapt. But he snapped out of it. "Dad won't let me wear boots on the lawn."

I gave Nice One a withering look before I knew what I was doing. I shook it off my face. "I'm going to have a little chat with him now about getting a bit of astroturf put down so you can train in your boots. All right?"

"Yes, Mr Best!"

"I'll see you around, Benny."

I hit the red button on the phone and stared at the silent pitch.

Oldham attacked, lost the ball, and Chester broke quickly. On the left, Aff burst forward at great speed. Smasho pressed the button that let the sound back in. Everyone in the box who wasn't paying attention turned, shocked by the sudden increase in decibels. Aff got to the edge of the penalty area, far on the left, and crossed the ball. A Chester striker had made a great run, and headed the ball downwards. It bounced where the goalie had no chance to get it, then up into the roof of the net.

The stadium went wild. Wild. It was pandemonium.

The noise hit me and deflected away. I was in a kind of trance, like my brain was trying to protect me from an overwhelming surge. Benny, mate.

Benny. Mate.

After hugging Smasho and jumping round a bit, Nice One went 'whoo!' and turned to get his phone. He saw me in a bit of a state, and gave me a hug too. He kept one arm round my shoulder and he punched me in the ribs with the other. "Max," he said, as I tried to clean my face up. "Everyone knows who Benny is. It's hard being a famous kid in the youth teams. People don't want to tell him off because he's got a famous dad. Yeah? You've come in, bull in a china shop, this is shit, that's shit, and everything you've said is everything the kids already know but they've never heard from anyone. Are you with me? Maybe it was stupid, maybe it was fearless. I couldn't give two flying figs. You got through to my son and oh my days, many have tried and failed." He gave me one last dig. "I'm going to have to get a quote for astroturf now, aren't I? No wonder everyone says you're a prick." He grinned. "Next time, tell him to tidy his room."

You know that thing in movies where people are crying and they do one single ugly laugh? It's so unrealistic. I hate that I did it.

***

I was in a bit of emotional turmoil. The doubts and the fears passing through and competing with the hopes and the pride. So what I needed was a nice, calm end to the match. Oldham to score, Chester's subdued fans to leave the stadium. All nice and soothing.

The universe said: nah.

Chester’s equaliser provoked a fucking maelstrom, on and off the pitch.

Whatever Ian Evans had said to his players at half time, he'd transformed them. Where the left-midfielder, Aff, had been manic in the first half, now he was playing with a kind of controlled fury. Sam Topps, an aggressive pitbull guy whose usual job was fouling opponents, was suddenly playing like Roy Keane, moving the ball around, dictating the tempo of the game, tackling with such purity fouls didn't come into it. A velvet fist in an iron glove.

But Oldham reacted, and all their match ratings went up, too. So these 22 guys were just smashing each other, again and again. Attack, chance! Attack, chance! Like basketball. End to end. Utterly unbelievable passages of play, and with every near-miss the noise increased by one decibel.

In extra time, Chester scored, and the crowd were in an absolute frenzy. The Deva Stadium was as deafening as any Turkish cauldron. Nice One and Smasho hugged each other, and in delirium I threw myself into the mix, and bounced around with these local superstars.

Ian Evans Blue and White Army!

Ian Evans Blue and White Army!

Mate. I was along for the ride. Yeah, I joined in the chant. Why the fuck not? The man was a titan. A legend.

And then.

One minute of extra time left. Oldham's dangerman, Fondop, scored. Holy shit, I've never been more unhappy to be proven right.

Fucking no, mate! Fondop my dude. Not now!

The match went to penalties. The VIPs weren't chatting about fucking trade deals or pharma conferences or whatever. They'd gone feral. Me too. Mike Dean looked like a caricature of a villain - massive, bulging eyes, throbbing veins. We were all holding each other, jumping around, a riotous mass, reacting with ecstasy to every scored penalty, wailing and gnashing our teeth at every missed one.

It played out so that Oldham had two chances to win. They missed the first one - pandemonium, and Chester's next penalty went in. Still in the game! Still in with a shot! But the away team scored the second. For the home fans, motionless despair.

The Oldham players ran around, hugging, falling into little groups. They were going into the FA Cup. Chester's lads fell to the floor, head in hands, spent.

I nearly joined them. I was shattered.

Football. Bloody hell.

***

I waited in the Directors’ Box. There was no point trying to leave until the traffic cleared. The bigwigs whizzed away in their private monorails or whatever, and in the end it was just me and Mike Dean.

"Mike," I said. "I've made a decision."

"Yeah?"

"There's an easy way to become an insider. A job where people will listen to what I say. Where I can turn up to youth matches and no-one will bat an eyelid. You won't even have to change the org chart."

He frowned. "Max, I'm on no sleep. It's been a long day. We're out of the Cup. Can you just..."

I pointed to one of the framed Chester FC shirts that was hanging on a wall, signed by two former players. Legends. Allies. "I want my own parking space. I want a goal bonus. And I want shirt number 7."

...

And on the 5th day of Christmas Ted Steel gave to me

Five chapters consequentially...

Merry Christmas to one and all!

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