1.69 - The Promised Land

69.

What's the busiest train station in the world? I'm not sure what Trivial Pursuit would say, but the real answer is: my head. Hundreds of trains of thought departing in all directions.

Director of Football! I'd be in charge of most of the football stuff. Contracts. Buying and selling players. Improving the squad. Making sales, reinvesting in better players while improving the facilities. That shitty little gym had to go. How much did a cryotherapy chamber cost? The youth facilities needed millions to get up to par. (Southampton's academy looked like a UFO. Man City's covered about four postcodes.) Tactical unity. Every age group should play the way the first team did. I wouldn't get to choose that, the manager would, but I'd be able to discuss it with him. Maybe there'd be two main formations that could cover most game states. We'd have a Chester style of play and every kid that came through would be taught it. Every new signing would fit the profile. The club would become my personal little progression fantasy - constant, incremental improvement.

Constant? Hmm. There was, presumably, a limit to how far good management could take Chester. Even if we got to the Championship (tier 2), our attendances would be quite low just because of geography and population. We were stuck next to Liverpool and Manchester! So even if I traded well and got the entire club aligned to my way of doing things, there would be a ceiling.

I instantly rejected the notion. Or to put it in other words: fuck that.

We would hit the ceiling... and smash it to bits. No-one had my advantages. As Director of Football I could relentlessly hammer them.

I'd find the hottest talents in the region, we'd develop them and sell them for millions. We'd keep doing it, year after year. Meanwhile I'd bring in a mix of undervalued free transfers (players whose contracts at other clubs had come to an end), veterans who'd take a low wage just to stave off retirement for another year, and whatever ragtag band of misfits I found here, there, and everywhere. And while other teams laughed at us, I'd know that we had the best team in our division.

We'd win, relentlessly, and make money every step of the way.

And yeah... maybe we'd have to sack a manager every now and then. And I'd step into the hotseat. Just for a few games, you understand. Reluctantly, you understand. Except, weirdly, we'd win every game I managed. And Mike Dean would say, "Max, I've just had a crazy idea," and I'd say, "gosh, pray tell."

As my brain drowned in happy chemicals, I heard the voice of the football commentator Clive Tyldesley: "And Max Best has reached the promised land!"

The crowd roared!

Which is to say: the blonde, the brunette, and the ginger laughed at some joke.

Back in a quite-good curry house in Manchester, I looked at Mike Dean. The happy chemicals hopped onto the nearest train, the trains zoomed through portals, and the train station vanished. Mike Dean was... well, frankly, he was sniggering. And not at the joke.

"Sorry," he said, and tried to control himself. "It's just..." and he was away again.

So he didn't want me to be Chester's DoF. Well, duh. Vivid imagination strikes again! "I see." I picked up my fork. Food was getting cold! "Yes, I see. You don't want to work alongside me. You want me to replace you."

That stopped the worst of the sniggering, at least. He let out one last contented sigh, then said, "Max, you haven't been listening."

"I have."

"You haven't. I'll try again. Chester are a community club. For the community, owned by the community. We don't have 50,000 pounds a year to hire a Director of Football, and if we did there would be a big, public process and I can tell you one thing. The role would not go to a 25-year-old with almost no experience in the game."

"I'm 22."

"You are? Shit." He shook his head. "Now if I sent out an email right this minute announcing that I'd hired a nobody to advise me on football matters, I'd be out of a job by kick-off tomorrow. And as I said, my absolute priority is to make sure Chester has enough income to survive. Last Sunday you caused havoc with our youth team, and one of the parents of one of the kids is a sponsor. That's 8,000 pounds a year, Max, that you put at risk. I see from your face that 8,000 doesn't sound like a lot. It's a lot to Chester. That's what I'm trying to say. And by the way, it's not just the money. That boy you took against, he's a Chester lad and a Chester fan. All his mates wear Liverpool tops. Man City tops. He's in our colours and he's proud. Even if you don't rate him, you can't shoot him. Because murdering our fans is suicide. Is that clear? If you want to work with us and live out your football fantasies, you're going to have to be more diplomatic. A lot more diplomatic. Show me and everyone else that you can put the needs of the club before your own brand of football fascism. Do you get what I'm saying?" He'd gotten a bit worked up, and him telling me off got him a bit more attention from the ladies. "You being rough around the edges is fine. It means I get you cheap. Because look, you're right. I need a Director of Football-type person, don't I? Like you say, it should be Ian Evans, but the plan is for him to see out his contract. That's until the summer. Then we'll, you know."

I did know. Spectrum had told me. "Bring in one of the first-team coaches who has more progressive ideas."

He narrowed his eyes. How had I heard that? "Something of the sort. Point is, Ian isn't really a patient man. Doesn't think there's any point explaining things to dullards like me."

"You're his boss," I said.

"Try telling him that," he said. "And the trust agrees with him."

"The trust?"

"City Fans United. They own the club. They. We. I'm in it. Take it from me, if I sell a player that Ian wants to keep, I'm going to have a very bad day. If I suggest he switches to 3-5-2, he's going to laugh in my face. I'm his boss literally twice. Once when I hire him, once when I fire him. In the meantime, he's the captain of the ship. So let's talk about you. I can't hire you in any meaningful role until you've got some experience."

"I can't get experience until someone hires me."

"Yep! It's like that story. A Gordian knot. But I wanted to meet today and tell you what I want. I want you to help me. There has to be a way. Start small. Grow the role over time. Do you see what I mean? And that'll be a kind of trial period, anyway." He tapped his phone. The video of the goal. Both videos of goals. "In case this was dumb luck."

"Mike, I don't get what you're saying. What role are you offering me?"

"I don't have anything specific. Imagine a big circle that describes your skills, and a big circle that describes what I need. There's a ton of overlap. We just have to push the circles closer together in a way that the trust can understand. What role? I was hoping we could create one. Work something out, somehow. Salami tactics. I can't appoint you Director of Football, but I can expand your scouting duties. Then I can say you're going to help with youth recruitment. And then. And then. Are you with me?"

"Yes," I said. I did understand what he was saying. I did. And there was a lot of overlap between what he needed and what I could do. More than he knew. "There's a few issues, though."

He stopped me. "I know, Max."

He didn't want to talk about the issues, but I did. "Apart from Terry, how many people read the scouting report I gave you?"

"I don't know."

"How many do you think read it?"

"I don't know, Max. Maybe not that many."

I really, really wanted to work in football. But I'd rather write bland copy for a club website than be ignored by the 'real football people'. I wasn't the best driver in the world but I knew a dead end when I saw one. "Mike, if I say to you that Tyson Bulldog should be cut, what are you going to do about it?"

He sighed. "Nothing. The youth team coaches decide those things. And it's better that way. Otherwise the teams would be full of players with rich dads."

"I need a role where I can make decisions. Where people will take me seriously."

"You're going to have to earn that. Yes, it'll take years. But it's better than being in a call centre, right?"

I shook my head. "No. In the call centre if there's an unhappy customer I'm allowed to upgrade their service for a while. I'm nobody but even the lunatics who run the place trust me to do what's needed. Mike, I could transform the youth setup. Chester could have the most talented bunch of players in the country. Within a year. What you're saying, I think, is that you want me to write more reports that Ian Evans won't read, and have an office and a computer inside a failing setup that I can't change." I was suddenly quite unhappy. "It'd be worse than the call centre. Emotionally. I think I'd rather stick to being an agent."

Mike kind of scowled at me. "So you're saying you aren't willing to work in a team? Discuss your ideas? You're right and that's it?"

Yes. "If I recommend ten teenagers and you sign two, that's tragic. That's huge money you've thrown away. If those two players end up being blocked because Tyson is in their way, that's maddening. If those players end up in the same team as Tyson and they start flapping their arms around, too, then we've killed two more careers. I just..." I patted the table, emphasizing certain words. "If I'm an agent then I get paid. I'm an outsider and things might not go as I'd want, but I get paid. If I worked for Chester I'd want to work for Chester. That means doing what's best for the squad. Minmax. Minimum wages, maximum talent. I can't be an outsider on the inside. That's pointless! Do you... do you get what I'm saying?"

He dabbed his lips with his napkin. "I do. But I'm saying you can start as an insider on the outside." He did a funny cross-eyed gesture and laughed. "Max. Tomorrow night I'd like you to scout a very special game. Chester vs Oldham."

He'd lost his mind. "No, that was Saturday's game."

He smiled again. "So you don't know everything. That's good to know! Max, it's the FA Cup. The last qualifying round for the FA Cup. We drew in Oldham, and tomorrow's the replay."

"I thought there weren't any replays any more because of Covid and the World Cup."

"That's for the big boys. Down here we do things the old way. Extra time and penalties, Max. One team goes through and if they win another couple of games they'll play the third round. You know what the third round is? It's when the big dogs are let loose. Imagine being drawn away to Man United! United's games are always on TV. In the cup, the money gets split. That one match could secure our future for two years! The magic of the FA Cup, Max! Come and watch it with me. We'll pay you. Same conditions, but you won't need a pie. You'll be in the Directors' Box. You can tell me what you see. And we can brainstorm."

A job in football... it was so close. So very close. But just out of reach. "Brainstorm how to be inside and outside at the same time?"

"Yes! Schrödinger's Director of Football!"

***

There was a lot to think about, but I didn't really want to think about it just then. MD MD was paying for the meal and I was proving to be a cheap date. I thought it would be fun to see him flirting - I got the impression he hadn't done much recently. And yeah, pushing him out of his comfort zone might have been a bit of a punishment for him laughing at my daydream. So I turned to the ladies on the table next to us. "We've finished our big, important chat and we're ready to be flirted with. I'm Max. This is Mike."

Mike, to my everlasting astonishment, spoke up. "And we know who you are."

The blonde said, "Who?"

"Charlie's Angels!"

There was a long but not unfriendly silence. I filled it. "Who's that?"

"Er..." Mike had lost confidence. "It's three women who are spies and have adventures."

"Oh!" said the ginger one. "That's a movie with Lucy Liu. Which one of us is her?"

"I didn't see that," said Mike. "I meant the old TV show. I think they had the same hair colour as you three. I only said you were Charlie's Angels because you're... pretty." His voice tapered off again. He was absolutely abysmal! Talk about having a last-minute penalty and hitting it miles over the bar.

So what happened next was, Mike turned red in the silence, and the contrast between him being all top international businessman telling me off and awkward middle-aged man who got tongue-tied around women was like fucking catnip to Charlie's Angels! They loved it! They were willing to give him a chance, anyway.

All right, the universe was saying to me. Look. You don't have to get everything right first time. You're allowed to make mistakes.

After a little bit of semi-playful chat - it would have been easier if more than 20% of the group had ever seen Charlie's Angels - I clapped my hands and rubbed them. "Are we staying here or shall we go somewhere less classy?"

...

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