1.67 - Next Stop Vegas

67.

I wasn't allowed into the changing rooms after the match, and wouldn't have wanted to be there. So I texted Ziggy a string of ball emojis followed by a string of goal! emojis.

Then I went to the bookies to collect my winnings.

While I was in the queue, I saw that Chester had drawn 1-1. Against Oldham, weirdly. The club with the agent-hating gammons. Small world! Chester hadn't won in a while. It seemed that hiring the safe, experienced manager wasn't really working for them. Part of me was happy they were doing badly. Fuck 'em.

I showed the lady my betting slip - Ziggy to score, 15-1. She instantly called for the manager who told me I wasn't going to get my moneh. While I grew increasingly apoplectic, he explained that the goal had initially been awarded to Ziggy but had since been reviewed and changed to an own goal.

I was about to launch into a rant about the betting industry being corrupt and evil and predatory and that I would make sure the world knew they were ripping me off, but the guy was clearly just a harmless dude doing his job to the best of his ability. With a monumental effort, I bottled my fury and calmly explained that I had SEEN the goal with my very eyes.

As the manager repeated everything he'd already said with equal patience (I could learn a few lessons from this guy, the rational part of my brain said), I reviewed my own words. I'd SEEN the goal with my eyes... But that was the whole point of the curse, wasn't it? It wasn't about what I saw and what I thought I saw. It was about what was REAL. What was TRUE.

So I opened Ziggy's player profile and, of course, I had the data from his previous years (blank, in his case), but not this year. I'd have to buy a perk for that. I also didn't seem to have a way to see the match stats and read the commentaries once a game was over. Again, I was sure that would be available to buy eventually.

I hadn't checked the match overview screen in the seconds between the goal and the final whistle. It would have said 'Ziggy 90+3' or 'OG 90+3'. But I had seen the match commentary. What had it said? Something like: Ziggy shoots. And it's in. That seemed conclusive. But... and it's in could mean a lot of things. There was a potential gap there. Ziggy shoots, it hits the defender, and it bounces in. If Ziggy's shot was going wide and only went in because of the deflection, that would count as an own goal.

Going through that thought process calmed me.

I said, "Who decides if it's Ziggy's goal or an own goal?"

"An independent panel," said the bookie. "Not connected to any betting firm, mind you. Clubs use the same data source. Otherwise every club would have its own records and it would be chaos. No, sir, I assure you. The experts are quite fastidious. You'll see when you see the replays."

"Can I have the slip back, please?" He gave it to me. "If I find a clip that proves my dude scored that goal, can I come back and discuss it with you?"

"Of course, sir!"

I was totally chill now. The thought that the guy was trying to rip me off was gone. He was just following a process. I smiled at him. "I'm going to find it was an own goal, aren't I?"

He nodded. Pleased that I'd calmed so quickly. "The panel don't make mistakes. I understand that it's frustrating, but..." He spread his arms as if to say, 'what can you do?'

Well, shit. I really thought I'd be walking out of there with 480 pounds, cash.

Instead, I was down 30.

Next stop: Vegas.

Not.

***

By the time I got home, I had reframed my loss. If I considered that I'd gotten a free ticket to watch the game and picked up 82 XP, then the bet had been made with house money. Hadn't really cost me anything. Not really. But I wouldn't gamble again until I had money to spare, by which time gambling would be pointless.

I drank a cup of tea while going through all the other 3pm results. Darlington had won. Henri was an unused sub. Alfreton, who I'd just scouted for Chester, lost 2-1 at home. I checked the Premier League scores and found I couldn't give two shits about any of it. There were a couple of interesting top-flight games scheduled for the following day (Man United vs Newcastle; Liverpool vs Man City), but again, I wasn't really too bothered about the megaclubs. I was in the world of Chester, FC United, Oldham, and Darlington these days.

While I waited for someone to upload the video mocking Ziggy's celebration - which hopefully would include footage of his goal - I caught up on some of the football documentaries and Youtube videos I'd started.

As far as I could tell, by the time I fell asleep no-one had posted the Ziggy incident to Reddit or Twitter. Maybe it wasn't as cringeworthy as I'd thought.

***

On Sunday morning I felt nostalgic for the Hough End playing fields, and went to watch some games. I picked up 60 XP and then went to take Solly for a walk. If I went slowly, I could manage without the crutches.

I took a picture of me keeping my promise and sent it to Raffi. "Promise kept, green tick emoji. Next: your trial. Working on it!"

His reply was a thumbs up. Not big on typing complete sentences, that guy.

***

While Solly scampered around the park, I thought about my next steps. How to get replacement income so I could quit my job. I told myself that whichever aspect of football got me out of the call centre first would become my focus, whether that meant scouting, being an agent, playing, or managing.

So what could I do to accelerate that program?

Scouting

I could show my scouting reports to my contact at Oldham and ask if they'd hire me to do the same. Then keep trying other clubs until I found a taker. If I found another tier 6 club, I could sell them the reports I made for Chester. Double dip! In theory I could sell all my reports to every team in that division, but that seemed unrealistic, to say the least.

Agenting

I hadn't discovered any new players recently, but I hadn't really been going to new places. If I 'seduced' Henri Lyons and got Raffi a contract - after getting my licence, of course - I could replace maybe half of my current income. (I assumed Henri was on good money. Maybe 1000 a week?) So a big push to find some new talent, while also grinding for XP? Sure. That'd work. James Yalley? I didn't want to think about it. If anything ever happened with him, that would be a bonus. I would never again let him become the basis for any planning.

Ziggy's debut was a shot in the arm for my career as an agent - both for convincing players to trust me and for clubs hoping to get free players that could end up in their first team. His wild celebration... probably helped me out here. Yes, it was funny, but which guy playing amateur five-a-side wouldn't go weak at the knees at the thought that it could be him in the next video?

Playing

Becoming a player would mean networking. Introducing myself to some clubs other than Chester and FC United. Somehow it felt harder to pick up the phone and get a trial for myself than for a client. Probably because I didn't really believe in Max Best the player the way I did with Ziggy or Raffi. Still, it was an option. A club could sign me right away, whereas for most players they'd have to wait till January, so if I found a team like FC United who had a lot of injuries I could get going pretty fast. I'd just have to work my notice period at the call centre. Was it one month or two? I'd have to check. There were ways to get fired fast, if it came to it.

There was just this nagging doubt. Did I want to be a player? With my unique way of Pissing Everyone Off I felt like I'd spend most of my playing career being kicked to bits. Did I really want to spend the rest of my life taking cortisone injections just to be able to limp to my car? Was it that unbearable to work in a call centre for a few more months? The phrase if you can't beat them, join them sprung to mind. I could be the flair player for a thug team. Be their set piece taker. Having ten beefy boys as my bouncers would insulate me from the real rough stuff. You kick me in the shin, my mate will knock two of your teeth out. Yeah, not bad. But I tried to imagine myself playing in midfield for Marske United. It didn't really resonate my crystals, if you know what I mean.

Managing

Er... no. For money? No. Your reputation in the entire universe: unknown. I'd have to do one of the other things for a while, first. Reputation first, manager second. How could it be different?

***

So that was my outlook and it was sort of... not bleak, exactly, but not fun and exciting either. The next few months would be a slog. What I wanted was a sort of catalyst - a way to roll a double 6 and skip half the steps. I only needed 350 pounds a week, for Christ's sake! I wasn't asking for the moon on a stick.

Back in the real world, the leash was being yanked pretty hard. Solly was straining at it so he could go and sniff some other dog. A little white one with black patches and pointy ears. I wandered in that direction and glanced at the other dog's owner. Surprise surprise, it was a foxy woman who was absolutely delighted that her dog had brought me into her life. We had eye sex, made small talk, and the contrast between spending time with this woman and thinking about the upcoming months of grinding was so extreme that I felt about 75% of my brain being activated. The part that dealt with flirting.

Just as I was getting cheeky, my phone rang, which was probably fortunate because Chester's head physio had told me not to have sex for a month. The call stopped me feeling downbeat, that's for sure.

***

It was Mike Dean. He wanted to meet as soon as poss. Could I get to Chester right away?

I couldn't believe my ears. Meet? Why? Stupidly, I didn't even think to ask. "I'm still on crutches," I lied. "You'll have to come here."

"I can't today," he said, and I wondered if maybe I should have been a bit more eager. But he continued. "Tomorrow? What time?"

"You're going to come to Manchester?" I said, dumbstruck.

"It's not that far, Max!" he laughed. He was in a great mood for someone whose team was dropping into the relegation zone.

"I have to work in the day," I said. "Any time after 5. We can meet in town."

"What's town? Town? What's town?"

"Manchester city centre. We can have a meal. Or we can go and watch some five-a-side. It depends what you want."

"A meal? Oh. Yes, let's do that. Curry! What's that place with the famous curries?"

"The curry mile? Yeah if you want a curry that's the spot. So then I'll go home and get changed. How about 7pm? I'll text you a place with good parking."

"Great. Bye."

***

Weird. I took the foxy woman's number because why not, though I never called her. I sat with my mum and Anna in the care home - just the three of us (plus a psychic dog) in one room doing different things. Anna said I should turn up the sound on my laptop because it was something different, and they listened to me watch Liverpool beat Man City 1-0. It was a game of incredibly high quality and fine margins, but I felt totally disembodied. The Liverpool fans have a slightly undeserved reputation for being noisy and intense, but fuck, they were noisy and intense. It just didn't press any of my buttons.

Instead, I thought about Mike Dean. Chester Zoo. Future, Sevenoaks, teamwork. The 14-year-old whose player profile I had renamed 'Flappy Bird'. The Bulldog Brothers, Soccer Milf, Spectrum, and the Chester Knights. Johnny Winger! Oh, Johnny Winger. Thinking about him made me annoyed at myself for being glad Chester's first team were struggling. And yeah, I thought about Livia a bit. So sue me. Okay, I thought about Livia more than a bit, and only stopped when Solly looked up at me and went 'huh?' Stay out of my daydreams, you psychic mutt!

Mike Dean, then.

What could he want?

...

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