1.62 - Fired Up

62.

Mike, Benny, Henri, Spectrum, and I moved to a sparsely populated area. “Benny,” I said. “I don’t get it. The others are being led astray by their parents. Yours aren’t even here. What the…” Four men surrounding one little kid. Swearing at him would be too much. “What the what?”

He looked… defensive. “Dunno.”

“Do you want to play?”

“Yeah.”

“Then articulate yourself.” He sucked in a breath, but got stuck. He wasn’t someone who spent a lot of time talking about his feelings. In case he didn’t want to talk in front of his coach, I shooed the Chester guys away, keeping Henri as my youth football expert. “Benny, I’m not a counsellor or whatever. I want to get back to the game. So talk fast or get out of Dodge.”

His eyes flashed with anger, briefly, but then he shook his head in a kind of sad way. Speaking quietly, and waving his hands away in tiny but highly expressive gestures, he said, “Tyson always plays striker, wherever you put him. You moved him to midfield, and I knew his dad would tell him to go up top, and he did, and he did. So I tried to go CAM. To get some space. I wasn’t trying to… show you up.”

“All right,” I said. “I get that. But then I talked to you and told you to stay as a striker and you were moping around like a little bitch.”

“Because he moved himself to striker again!”

“But then I got rid of him, didn’t I?”

“I didn’t know you’d do that! No-one’s ever done it before.”

“If you’d played with a bit of fire, you’d still be on the pitch.”

“Max,” said Henri. “That is unfair. Be calm. It’s not his fault. I would do what he did, and so would you. He has been completely rational. You can’t blame him for not playing for the team when you rightly say there is no team.”

I pulled at my earlobe for a bit. “Fuck it, you’re right. Benny, you’ve been hard done by. But I’m still not sure I can trust you on the pitch. You changed your role and sulked around. You get that, right?”

He looked at the ground. “Suppose.”

“You heard the tactics. Are you willing to play left-midfield?”

He looked up at me. “Yeah!”

“It’s a shit job.”

“I’ll do it. Then you can put Boyce back in the centre.”

“No. We’re playing with 8 until I get what I want.”

A tut from beside me. “Fucking hell, Max.”

“Get warmed up, Benny. And stop smiling. You’ve got 30 minutes to give me an hour’s worth of sprints.”

***

I checked the tactics screen and smiled. Future’s nan had pulled through. Before going back to the Rebel Alliance, I went to the side of the pitch and yelled, “Boyce, sub! Future DM PM.” Benny sprinted into the left-midfield spot while Boyce walked off, wondering if he’d done bad.

“Good job, buddy. Take a drink. You’ll be back on in no time.”

In case continuing to play with 8 seems unusually demented, I was actually planning to cycle through the entire outfield team so they’d all count as subs. Bench boost, remember? Once I was happy they were trying to play as a team, they could play with 9.

Or ten, depending on how the next chat went.

***

Sullivan’s dad was Irish, or of Irish stock. He was pretty good looking, in good trim for his age, and was wearing a black puffy coat with a fake fur hood lining that looked good behind his white hair. His son had black hair and similar features.

“Right,” I said, trying to rush through this process. “What’s the deal?”

“What exactly do you mean?” said the dad. His accent was local. He must’ve been born in the area.

I pointed at his kid. “He’s not doing his role. It’s because of you. That’s all I know.”

“Chris,” he said, and it took me a second to realise who he was talking to. “What’s the story?”

“With respect,” I said. “I asked you.”

“Well, now how should I know? All I know is you turn up and suddenly everything goes to hell in a handbasket.” His expression hadn’t changed much, but it had changed. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

I watched as the boys passed the ball in a lovely zig-zag across the pitch: from Sevenoaks on the right, through the CM, back to Future, who played it to the left-sided CB, who sent it out to Benny. Benny checked his options, dribbled into space, and tried to slide a pass to the striker’s feet. He got it all wrong, but there was a fucking BURST of support from half the team. “That’s it, Benny!” “Head up, B!” “Yes, Chester that’s what I like!”

I snorted. “Yeah. Looks like fucking Vietnam out there. Absolute carnage. Your boy was doing the exact opposite of that. I can’t work out why. So why don’t you tell me?”

Strangely, Henri spoke next. “Stay onside. How'd you miss that? Make the run, make the run now. Too far out, get in the box. Stop coming back, go forward.”

My mouth dropped. I pointed at the dad. “Is that him?” Henri nodded.

Spectrum finally got involved. “He considers himself a second manager. Sort of an unofficial coach.”

I stepped towards the dad. “Do you coach the other players, too?”

“No!” he said.

“He does,” said Henri.

“We’re done here,” I said, and hobbled off to the next dad.

***

The next ‘dad’ was Henk’s mum: a blonde woman with a long ponytail. My first encounter with a soccer mom! Henri found her quite pleasing. She was attractive, but not to me. Not if she was ruining my team. Also she did something weird with eyeliner, but that’s not important.

She was smart as a whip. She’d seen that Benny had been redeemed somehow and that Sullivan hadn’t. So she got straight to the point. “I’ve been telling Henk to play DM.”

I nodded. “Why?”

“There’s more demand for DMs. And today there isn’t enough work for three centre-backs. So I told him to go to DM where he could get involved in the game more and catch the eye.”

She knows all about catching the eye, thought Henri to himself (in my imagination), before adding the French version of hubba hubba.

“Thanks for your honesty. Let me be honest in return - Henk can be a professional centre-back but not a DM. Also, the point of today was to give him practice in a back 3. You’ve denied him that opportunity. And you’ve made a lot of people think he’s not a team player. That’s why Chester asked you to promise not to coach from the touchline. You’re smart but you can’t know more than his coaches.”

“You seem to think you can.”

Just then, Broughton launched a long ball that our captain jumped to head away. It glanced off his head and bounced towards our goal - danger! The other centre-back had anticipated the possibility and got there in a flash. He passed back to our goalie and we started to build another attack. The CBs gave each other a little nod. It’s hard to describe how it made me feel. Just… big. Henri gave me a slap on the back and that doubled the dose.

Mike Dean had sort of tolerated my stance with Sullivan, but now he was impatient. “So, Max, we’ve cleared this up. Some future discussions needed, obviously. Are you going to let Henk back on?”

“There’s still the issue of why they want to develop a DM when no Chester age group uses a DM. I’d say they’re using Chester as a platform to move to another club when the time suits. I’d say you’re investing a lot of time and money trying to develop a player who will leave as soon as the chance arises.” Henk’s mum dropped her pleasant facade and gave me some serious evil eye. But I continued. “But that’s not really my business. This match is, and I’m happy with my back three right now.”

“But that little one is playing as a DM!” she said, to my back as I walked away. “Why don’t you take him off, too?”

She was vindictive, but she was right. She really knew football!

Seeing Henk get a good match rating in the DM slot had been fascinating to me. His profile said he was strictly a CB. A lot of centre-backs could also play as a full-back (i.e. they could play centre-back and right-back; less commonly, centre-back and left-back). Henk? No. He was a one-position guy. Which wasn’t necessarily bad for his career, by the way. But he wasn’t supposed to be good anywhere except centre-back. Certainly not as a DM. So why was he getting a solid 8 out of 10 for this match?

Well, Future’s profile had him as a centre-back who could play defensive midfield, too. I was desperate to put him as a DM and see what happened.

The problem? I, Max Best, couldn’t set him as a DM - I could only use the positions given by the curse, and neither 4-4-2 nor 3-5-2 used a defensive midfielder.

The solution? Begging his gran to stand on the sidelines and yell at him to disobey me.

I was using the ‘shitty parent’ tactic to hack the curse! Our 3-3-1 was now a 2-1-3-1. Ooh! Look at all the numbers!

With Future settling nicely into a strategic position, I’d also set him as our team’s playmaker. Our attacks were supposed to develop through him. Playmakers normally play in attacking positions, but this made sense to me. It felt right.

And it was paying off. Future was on 8 out of 10. In the time he’d played as a centre-back, before his gran had got in his ear, he was getting 6/10. Which you’d expect from a very young kid making his debut against some older boys. Moving him slightly up the pitch had added 2 to his match rating.

Long story short, the DM slot seemed powerful. Even just visually, its advantages were clear. It gave the midfield and defence a safe passing option. He patrolled the space between the two lines making interceptions and tackles. He added his strength to two different units.

I once again had a wistful moment thinking about James Yalley and his wasted gifts.

But here in front of me was a talented kid getting his chance to shine and making it happen. It brought a smile to my face.

That didn’t last long. Next was the Bulldog Brothers.

***

I’d spent an eternity dealing with these parents when all I wanted was to focus on the match. I did spare a few seconds to scan the pitch and absorb the shape of the game. It was going amazingly well - the boys were running hard and playing with real intensity in defence, and being super cool and calm when we had the ball. It was possible Broughton would run out of steam before we did!

One last tweak - I released the CM and RM to ‘make forward runs’, and I allowed Future to ‘play through balls’. The idea was that the midfielders - sadly not the guy on the left - would run forward to join attacks, and Future would try to pass the ball to someone in a dangerous position behind the defence’s offside trap. His passing skill seemed good enough for the task. My only worry was that he literally wouldn’t be able to kick the ball hard enough… He was so tiny!

“Hi guys,” I said to the Bulldogs. “I’m Max. You know why I took Tyson off. Choosing his own position, not passing to anyone, flapping his arms around like a goose. You shouting at him, giving him instructions, is bad for Tyson, bad for the team. You know that. Any questions?”

“Yeah,” said Bulldog 2, the lesser clone. “Who the fuck are you?”

A week before, he might have intimidated me just through his massive bulk. His size plus his tats, rings, and air of menace… had no effect on me. I took in his appearance and his tone, then half-turned back to the match. “I’m Max Best.”

“But who are you?”

I watched as the lads passed the ball around - probing, looking for a chance to move forward. “What’s that got to do with you breaking the code of conduct? That you signed? I’m the guy picking the team, is all you need to know. What you do is you apologise and say you won’t do it again. What you do is set up a meeting with Spectrum or Mike or whoever and explain the steps you’re going to take to change your behaviour. What you do is work with Tyson to stop him flapping his arms around. All right? See you.” I took a step away.

Bulldog 1 turned puce. “Do you know who I am?” I had a LOT of jokes to choose from, and it was hard to bite my tongue. Frustrated, he continued. “I’m going to find out what happened here today and make sure whoever’s responsible pays. No-one talks to me like that, specially not some rando. Mike, put a stop to this. Right now.”

I hobbled away, finally in my rightful place. Finally able to concentrate on the game. We got a free kick on the right - perfect for Seven to whip in a cross. Send up the tall centre-backs to attack the ball. The free hit perk came up - I chose not to hit it. As far as possible, I wanted the kids to work for their win. To suffer for it. At some point it had become vital to me that these kids learned the lesson I wanted them to learn. Nothing else mattered.

“Max,” said Mike.

The cross came in and Broughton headed it away. They attacked on our left, our weak side. Boyce was back in that slot - he had the choice between trying to win the ball in a tackle or slowing down the attack and waiting for support. He chose the latter.

“Yes, Boycey!” I roared. His teammates were storming over to help him. “Nuge, stay! Future, no thanks! Keep the structure. Wait for it. That’s it, boys! Love it.”

“Max,” said Mike.

I’d forgotten he was there. The match was sucking me in, but I needed to spare some mental energy for this man. He held the keys to one of the doors I could escape through. “Mike.”

“This isn’t working out,” he said. He was about to fire me. Sacking managers was something of a hobby for guys like him. Maybe I should have gone for the free hit.

“Just one second, Mike. Sorry. One second.”

The ball had been cycled around to Future, and now he was in a pretty nice position. He strolled forward - he really had a lot of style, that kid - and shaped to play a pass to Seven. Too early!

“No,” said Henri. It was almost a cry of despair.

“Wait,” I said, eyes wide. “It’s happening.”

Future went through his passing motion, and three defenders moved accordingly. But the pass never came. He’d faked it! Seven sprinted forwards, Future passed the ball in front of him, Seven ran onto it, took a touch, and while our striker burst to the front post, taking the goalkeeper and two defenders with him, our central midfielder appeared out of nowhere at the edge of the box. Seven cut the ball back towards him, he ran onto it and passed it into the unguarded left-hand side of the goal.

One-nil!

“Bloody hell,” said Mike, stunned by the goal’s beautiful simplicity.

“Max,” said Henri, “you’re a wizard. Formidable. Mwah!” He did a chef’s kiss.

A delirious Benny had run a few yards onto the pitch to celebrate. Some of the players ran towards him.

Then I realised - they weren’t running towards him. They were running towards me.

Future was first. He threw himself at me, tried to wrap me in a hug. His arms weren’t long enough; I hugged him instead.

The others joined in, too. Group hug! Team hug. It was a throbbing maelstrom of joy, pride, disbelief, relief. I wondered if they’d remember the moment for as long as I would. If they did, they might reach their potential.

I stood tall and looked down at the kids. There was such a fire burning inside me. They gawped at me, expectant.

“What are you standing there for?” I said, with a fierce scowl. I felt my face soften and I grinned on one side of my mouth. “Go and do it again.”

With a lot of smiles and shouts of ‘come on!’, they jogged back to their positions.

I went to the tactics screen to stop the midfield running forward - they needed a rest. There was no such screen.

Mike had already fired me.

...

Thanks for your patience and your support!

Trying to do rapid fire chapters in the next few days.