1.66 - Celebrations

[You want a mega double chapter to help you through the weekend? You got it!]

66.

Thursday was fine. My ankle was much better and the black eye was no longer sore when I touched it. I celebrated by eating my last hobnobs. There would be no more treats until I had sent my 500 pounds off to the FA. Strict frugality.

I went to work and in the gaps between calls thought about my options. Earning money via scouting was a useful side hustle, but there were only 24 clubs in Chester's division so, if Inga was clever and optimised my schedule, potentially only 12 matches I'd be paid to attend. 12 tickets could cover every team in the league! Of course, if one of the other team's managers was sacked Chester might want me to go again and see what the new guy's default tactic was. And maybe they'd want me to do it all again next season. But still, this was not life-changing money we were talking about.

Then there was the 'loss' of Jackie. The loss of my career's easy mode. There was always that football jobs website, I supposed, but I was coming round to the idea that my real backup plan was becoming a player. Jackie thought I was good enough to be a pro, so I guessed a lot of other football insiders would, too. When I was healed I could do a trial and maybe get a basic contract like Ziggy's. 350 a week would let me quit my job and give me tons of time off to do scouting and agenting and whatnot. And, of course, once I had my feet in some club's door, I'd be able to sniff out all kinds of opportunities to 'guest manage' a youth team or the reserves or whatever. The problem would be finding a lower division team that didn't play in a defensive style that would bore me to death. The only thing worse than watching a defensive team, for me, would be playing in one. On that note, playing for Chester was out of the question, not only because I'd pissed off half the people I'd met there, but also because Ian Evans was a tactical dinosaur who seemed to think football was frozen in 1988.

And then there was James Yalley. Youngster. The walking lottery ticket. I wasn't sure how to approach him. And that's what I was thinking about when I took my last call of the day. It was from a lovely older guy called Asuquo Uche. Based on the names of footballers, I could guess his background. I fixed his problem in about 8 seconds and then said, "Is your name Nigerian?" It was. "This might sound crazy but are you a Christian?" He was. "What do you think about sportspeople who don't compete on Sundays?"

"Ah!" he said, in that deep, resonant voice a lot of African guys have. "That is a tremendous question! As it happens, I have given the matter a lot of thought. You see, back when I was young..."

***

Then it was off to Platt Lane for some low-level grinding and one more kebab to put on Emre's tab. I warned him there might be a few more before I paid him back, but I theoretically had some new income streams going. He was fascinated to hear about my latest adventures but skeptical that he'd see my money in the timeframes I was suggesting. Then he switched into complaints mode, directing his ire towards some council official who kept asking for the same paperwork again and again. I let it wash over me - it was always nice to have conversations that weren't about football. To hear about the real world. In small doses, anyway.

As for the actual grinding, it only took 45 minutes to get up to 200 XP. I instantly bought 4-3-3 knowing it would likely be the last formation I would buy for a long time. I now had 4-4-2, 4-4-2 diamond, and 4-3-3. Nice! Next in the shop was 4-5-1, retailing for 400 XP.

But it was time, now, to buy God Save the King. I re-read the sales blurb:

Effects: Nominate a 'King' and channel one of his notable attributes into a player of your choosing. One use per season.

Kings: John Charles (STR; HD). Carlos Valderrama (FL; CRE). Michel Platini (PAS; SET). Denis Law (OFF; FIN).

I took a few minutes to think through what I was doing. To be honest, I'd been a bit shocked to see Ziggy still on such a low current ability. With CA 11 he'd be by far the worst player on the pitch this Saturday, and having an extra point in finishing seemed unlikely to make any difference. Giving the same point to a premium player, like, just hypothetically you understand, James Yalley, would be much more impactful. Like, adding a million pounds to his future transfer value kind of impactful.

But I decided to stick to the plan. I bought the God Save the King perk and heard a little celebratory blast of trumpets. The curse had gone multimedia! Nothing seemed to change in my interface. My XP balance was plus 3. If it hadn't been for the sound effect, I would have assumed the purchase had failed. Wrong PIN number! Try again later!

It took me a minute, but I found that something had changed. I opened Ziggy's player profile and there was a little up arrow button there. I went into Cristiano Ronaldo's profile and the button was also there. It seemed I'd be able to give the improvement point to any player I'd ever scouted! Incredible, and sort of useless. I was only ever going to use it on my personal clients. So I went back to Ziggy and clicked the icon and chose FIN from the list. And that was it. His finishing turned green and now read: 17.

There wasn't even another trumpet sound effect.

So it was sort of underwhelming but also sort of... incredibly thrilling? Whether it was a good decision or not, I'd reshaped the universe with the power of a single thought. Roar!

But why wasn't I on minus 2997 XP?

I decided to stay and watch the last half an hour of this game and then go home and rest. But when the final whistle went and I should have had about 30 more XP, I found that I'd only picked up 25. It was always hard to tell exactly how many minutes I'd really paid attention to. To try to get some clarity, I watched the first half of the next match. It was quite good in terms of being end-to-end - lots of shots, some good goals and good saves. At half-time, which meant 40 minutes, I'd earned 36 XP.

So that cleared that up. God Save the King was docking my pay to the tune of 10%. Much better than having to work off the entire debt just to get to zero! It meant I could keep grinding and keep improving myself. A very motivational discovery!

***

XP balance: 64

***

On Friday evening I managed the Met Heads for the last time, picking up 90 XP. The atmosphere was a bit flat. No-one celebrated their goals - the scorers just walked back to our half so the game could continue. We were winning 7-0 until the last minute, when Beth made a mistake. Jackie might say she lost a duel. The other team scored and there was a strange, subdued kind of atmosphere. One you don't normally get after a 7-1 victory that takes you 3 points clear at the top of the table. I couldn't explain it then, and I still can't.

I had stopped getting 'games won in a row' achievements when I was sacked by Mike Dean. I supposed this victory would reset the counter back to one. The achievements side of the curse still didn't motivate me. I was just curious how it worked. There usually seemed to be a methodology behind everything it did, but sometimes I wondered if it didn't simply make things up as it went.

Anyway, the Met Heads went to have their showers and I stayed in the hall watching the next match. It was quite boring and I got distracted, but I picked up 30 XP. It was odd - I'd expected the ladies to come and say goodbye, or stay with me to watch Man City later. The Met Heads still had a chance to win the league, after all. But no. They all left through the other door without saying goodbye. Maybe they thought that because I wasn't in the reception, I'd already gone. Crossed wires. Or maybe they'd all thought Wednesday night's pub had been the end-of-season party.

But it was just... not a very satisfying way for that chapter of my life to end. This is why we have weddings and funerals. People need rituals. Even anti-social people.

But then City arrived and my mood lifted all the way up. (Wow. Never thought I'd say that.) There was Kisi! Decked out in that sickening laser blue. Some of her teammates waved at me, too. I suppose I was a minor celebrity in their world. I was the mad scientist who concocted strategies and bashed his head against the sink while daydreaming about a time-traveling goalkeeper. I stayed on the far side, away from Coach Sandra. I needed to practice shutting my gob. Staying in my lane. Being a well-behaved boy. Keeping my thoughts inside my skull for more than three minutes at a time.

To my surprise, James turned up and came to sit next to me. He wanted to talk about football but every time, I changed the subject. My reasoning is hard to put into words. It was a bit like flirting. One way to build sexual tension is by not talking about sex. Some comedians build tension by not delivering the punchline. Anyway, I had this instinct that if I refused to talk about football with James, he'd only become more interested in it. He'd have to find that release somewhere else. For example, by becoming a player. Far-fetched? Maybe. But going head-on hadn't worked.

We spent most of the match talking about movies until Kisi - the team's worst player by CA - came on for ten minutes at the end. Every player plays every game! I celebrated this milestone by putting two hands on James's arm and shaking him like he was a coconut tree. He seemed to enjoy it.

City won the league on goal difference. Sandra did a little presentation ceremony which was incredibly poorly attended. I counted two spectators. That said, if Jackie was right about me, and I was right about James, then 100% of the people applauding Meghan as she lifted the trophy were fantastic footballers.

Kisi got a little medal for her part in winning the league. She was a bit embarrassed by it, since she'd only played ten minutes of the campaign. If it had been me, I would have played it cool, too, but then secretly looked at it every day.

I noticed that half of the girls didn't collect their medals. Kisi noticed too, and asked Meghan if she'd made a mistake in taking hers. Meghan looked confused, but then said, "Oh, I don't bother taking them, any more. I've got hundreds."

"Oh," said Kisi. "This is my first."

So Meghan made everyone get their medals, and they held them up for a team photo, and something about Kisi's joy infected the others. They were no longer playing it cool, but smiling like it was the first medal they'd ever won, too.

I only said one thing to Coach Sandra that day. "Meghan," I said, "is pure fucking class."

***

On Saturday morning I popped into the care home to see my mum and take Solly for a quick walk. Very quick - with the crutches it was awful, and I didn't want to ruin my recovery by ditching them. I like to think it's the thought that counts, but Solly showed a rare flash of bad temper when I announced we had to turn back before we'd even made it to the park.

Then there were a few hours of absolute torture. Waiting for the big game with no way to influence it. As a manager, even as a player, you have the chance to sort it out. Turn the tide. Sure, be the hero, if that's your bag. As a guy's unofficial agent, you're no more involved than a passing stork looking down on the stadium.

Eventually, I made my way to Broadhurst Park and pottered around outside for a while. I saw a betting shop (known as a 'bookie' in the UK) and called Ziggy. He didn't pick up. I called Jackie. He did.

"Jackie. Is Ziggy starting?"

"You'll find out soon enough, Maxy boy."

"Is Ziggy starting yes or no?"

He sighed. "Yes. Sandro isn't quite fit. We're hoping he can do the second half. The last 30 minutes. So your boy's going to get an hour under his belt. Happy now?"

"Delirious."

There were all sorts of rules for players and managers regarding betting, but I wasn't either. I didn't even have a FAN. I went in and tried to place a bet on Ziggy to score against Marske United. This turned into quite the sitcom moment, as the lady at the counter had to get the manager and I had to explain that Ziggy was Barrett Graves and he was a rando who'd been given a short-term contract and he was shit but still, I wanted to place a bet on him. I also had to explain that Marske United was a real football team and this wasn't a prank.

The manager made me repeat things a million times while he typed, one fingered, on his stupid 1983 Amstrad all-in-one computer-and-greenscreen-monitor. At one point he asked me what squad number Ziggy was, and I was getting annoyed and said 'how should I know?' and then he said, 'oh never mind I've got him'. Because that was the moment the team sheets had been uploaded to his system and Ziggy was there. Barrett 'Ziggy' Graves, it said. Shirt number 33.

Well, that put me in an amazing mood, I can tell you.

The guy offered me odds of 15-1, which I thought was pretty feeble given that Ziggy had CA 11. But I couldn't exactly say that to the dude. So I put 20 quid on, then got a bit carried away and changed it to 30. If Ziggy scored, I'd get 450 pounds in winnings, plus my 30 quid back. Almost enough to pay for my agent licence!

I had to be realistic, though, and assume he wouldn't score. He was, for now, still pretty awful.

***

Betting slip safely tucked away, I announced myself at reception and was ushered into the place behind the dugout - I don't think there's a proper name for it. I mean the dugout overspill where the physios and doctors and some of the injured players hang out.

Some of the FC United players recognised my face, but there were still a lot of odd looks sent my way as they filled the dugout and the spillover. There was an empty seat next to me. I spent a couple of minutes wondering who in the world I'd want to be there. Livia? Emma? Kylie Minogue? I settled on Henri Lyons - he'd be able to analyse Ziggy's performance in minute detail. Then I decided I was happier alone. I could go internal. Let my mind wander around all aspects of the experience. The fans, the coaches, the players, whatever.

Once again, I was on my best behaviour. Maybe Jackie breaking up with me had been a good thing, after all. I felt a lot less powerful without him in my corner. A lot more like a normal person. So although I had a LOT of thoughts when I saw how the two teams were lining up, I kept my gob shut, once again, like a champion.

Marske United were a team of very physical, strong lads, set up in a very central 5-3-2 formation. Neil had FC United playing an expansive 4-3-3 with a short passing mentality. They got bullied up and down the pitch and couldn't get a foothold in the game. Neil didn't change things even after the team's disastrous start; Marske were 2-0 up after 20 minutes. Ziggy had barely had a kick. His match rating was 4 out of 10.

He looked lost, dwarfed by three huge, hulking centre-backs.

Barrett "Ziggy" Graves
Born 13.1.1999 - (Age 23) - English

• Acceleration 4
• Bravery 4
• Dribbling 3
• Finishing 17
• Heading 6
• Jumping 6
• Pace 3
• Passing 5
• Stamina 4
• Strength 6
• Tackling 3
• Technique 6
• CA 11
• PA 58

preferred foot R
Striker

The only positive was that FC United had taken my idea on board. Ziggy was wearing shirt number 33, but the number wasn't in the normal font; it was custom made, based on a sketch I'd sent to the kit man. The lines of the 3s were straight and broken, like zigzags. Ziggy! It was a bit twee, a bit whimsical, but it was unique.

As an agent, I was supposed to do more than put players in the right clubs. I was also supposed to get them boot deals and sponsorships. That was way in the future for Ziggy, but why not get started now? Hashtag building the brand, or whatever.

Of course, if he continued to stink the place up, he wouldn't need a marketing gimmick. He'd need a new club.

I sighed and settled back into my seat. Patience, Max. This was going to happen with every client I found on the street. Raffi was CA 3. James Yalley was CA 2. It'd be months of training merely to get them up to tier 7 standards. There would be a lot of frustrating days like these. A lot.

The ball was booted forwards and Ziggy had the chance to chase it - the defender was much faster, though, and Ziggy was left with his hands behind his head, gasping for air.

Okay, so maybe this was going to be especially frustrating...

***

At half-time I bought a pie with mushy peas, but I wasn't allowed to bring it back into the spillover. So I ate in the concourse, listening to the fans grumble about the performance and the rando playing as striker. Mancunians are pretty creative when it comes to insults, and I heard at least ten I'd never heard before, mostly aimed at Ziggy.

There was one dissenting voice. "He fucking tries, at least, though. Dunee?" (That last word is 'doesn't he', by the way.)

"That's true. Shame he's shit."

***

In the 55th minute, Marske scored again. United were losing 3-0. At home. To a team I'd never heard of before. I thought about the corkboard in my kitchen. It had out-of-date league tables from every division. I must have seen the name Marske hundreds of times. But it had just never clicked. Marske Marske Marske. It just didn't sound like anything, except maybe a Norwegian shipping company. And to think that this unknown team was crushing FC United and my client was taking the brunt of the blame. And I was powerless to do anything about it.

After 60 minutes, I felt eyes on me, and noticed that Neil, Jackie, and the gang were giving me looks. Were they blaming me for this? Ziggy was better than nothing, wasn't he? Jackie had told me that Sandro was going to play for the last half hour. Maybe they'd decided not to rush him back from his injury since the game was already lost.

At 65 minutes, when United still hadn't had a shot or even a meaningful attack, the home fans started to leave. And there was another flurry of Looks in my direction. A reluctant Jackie was sent to talk to me.

Now what the fuck was this all about? I'd been on my best behaviour! I hadn't spoken out loud since the bookies! Except to order a pie. I tensed.

"Max," said Jackie, leaning close.

"Awight?"

"Do you er... do you have any ideas? Of what we could do?"

I blinked. "Tommy Tactics stuff?"

"Yes."

"Well, yeah, sure, but why? I thought Neil didn't - "

"Not now, Max. Just tell me."

I was a bit annoyed, to be honest. Neil had been all 'stick your tactics up your arse' and now he wanted help getting out of this jam. I'd like to say I did it for Ziggy. But I did it for me. I loved showing off. "Play 4-5-1. Attacking full-backs. Get overloads on both flanks. Wingers to the bylines, do cut backs for Ziggy. Anyone attacks down the middle you fine them a week's wages. Except Gribbin. Put him in the centre of the 5, let him do what he wants."

Jackie did a weird thing with his lips. A sort of exaggerated show of patience. "We don't train 4-5-1, Max."

"Fine. 4-4-2 with Gribbin as second striker. But give him a free role. Playmaker."

"That's your plan is it? 4-4-2?" He seemed close to laughing at me.

Which, yeah, wound me up. My neck started to burn. "Yes, mate. It is." He turned. I added, "And maybe some of your lads could try winning some duels. Yeah?"

His grin turned into a snarl and he crashed back into his seat and began gesticulating wildly, telling Neil what a twat I was etc etc.

United kept doing what they were doing. Marske stopped an attack like they were stubbing out a cigarette, then broke through the middle of the pitch and ended up hitting the crossbar. The United fans started booing.

A flurry of activity from the United bench and I dipped into the tactics screen. They'd switched to 4-4-2 (with attacking full-backs) and Gribbin was set to playmaker. Finally!

The pattern of the match changed so quickly it was almost hilarious. United began storming up both sides of the pitch, and had overloads on every attack. Instead of booting high balls for Ziggy to compete for, they started getting to the goal line and cutting the ball back for him to try to redirect into the net. The first time this happened, Ziggy couldn't get a shot away, so he turned back and laid it off for the oncoming Gribbin. His shot smacked into the post.

United! United!

Finally, something for the fans to respond to.

Marske's manager was pretty bright. He tweaked his tactics, switching from 5-3-2 to 5-4-1. Very defensive! I called out to Jackie, who came over. A bit faster, this time. Strange. I wonder why? (Lol.) "They've switched to 5-4-1. Just trying to hold out. No risks. He got lucky his plan paid off so well but he knows you've got the better players."

Jackie checked what I was saying. It was pretty obvious - there was only one Marske guy within a billion miles of the United half. "So we don't need 4 at the back. What do you suggest?"

I shrugged. "You don't practice 4-5-1. Do you practice 1-4-5?" I was telling him to throw men forward. Go for it. Kamikaze.

"That one didn't come up when I did my coaching badges, no, Max." He went back to the dugout.

Over the next ten minutes, Neil tweaked his formation one player at a time. It was like he couldn't believe the evidence of his own eyes and that Marske really had turtled up. By the end of the match, United were attacking non-stop, and what remained of the crowd were appreciative of their effort. But there were only a few minutes left. Even if United scored a goal, it would be too late to launch a recovery. And once Marske launched a counter-attack, Neil's conservatism kicked in. Losing 3-0 was better than losing 4-0. He dragged a couple of players back to more defensive positions, and the match slowly petered out.

By the 92nd minute, about 70% of the home fans had left. So they missed the big moment.

Gribbin was still set as playmaker, and his match rating had increased by two points. He was now United's outstanding player on the day with 7 out of 10. With nothing to lose, and with plenty of defenders behind him, he went on a mazy dribble that caused chaos in Marske's back lines.

Gribbin passes it out to Wooley.

Wooley takes a touch and looks up. He fires a low cross towards the near post.

The goalkeeper throws himself at the ball.

It rebounds into the path of Ziggy.

And it's in!

GOOOOOOAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLL!!!!!

I couldn't believe what I'd just seen. Ziggy, mate! He'd done it! There was some applause from the dugout and a half-hearted cheer from the few hundred United fans who were left. The overall mood in the stadium can be summed up by the ironic, taunting 'aaaah!' noise made by the away fans. Their team conceding a goal somehow added to their joy because the home fans couldn't celebrate it without seeming like even bigger losers.

Then came the most cringeworthy thing I've ever seen.

Ziggy went nuts.

There's a famous goal celebration from the 1982 World Cup. Marco Tardelli scored for Italy and I'll let sports writer Doug McIntyre describe what happened next:

With tears of joy rolling down his cheeks, Tardelli ran across the field shaking his head from side to side in disbelief, repeatedly yelling "goal" as if to convince himself that the feat he had just accomplished actually happened. The raw emotion of the moment was visceral, and it resonated with fans across the globe - which is why it remains the most unforgettable World Cup goal celebration of all time.

Ziggy did pretty much the same, but instead of scoring the winner in the World Cup Final, he had scored a meaningless consolation goal in a crushing defeat. Also, instead of tears streaming down his face, he did a sort of tumbling roll as his legs gave way underneath him. Part of the celebration involved him pushing himself forwards on his knees for five yards until he remembered how to walk, and he ended the celebration by showing his bicep to the main stand and shouting 'come on!' on repeat.

The guy who did the PA announcements said, in a flat voice, "FC United's goal scored by number 33, Ziggy."

There were peals of laughter from the away end.

Before Marske could restart the match, the referee blew the whistle for full-time. Ziggy had scored with the last kick of the game. I prayed to god that no-one had filmed his celebration. He left the pitch happier than any player from the winning team. Possibly happier than Marco Tardelli.

Oh, Ziggy. Mate. You're not Italian. You can't act like that.

I wondered what would hurt his career more - his 4/10 performance or his celebration.

...

Thanks for your support! Continues to blow my mind on a daily basis.