1.60 - Bros Before Pros

60.

In the seconds after I hauled off the 4 rebel players, a lot of thoughts went through my head:

• The Bench Boost perk would be nerfed in this match, since the only substitute on the pitch was Future.
• I didn't know who the captain was so I didn’t know if Triple Captain was helping.
• While Tyson was clearly an awful human being, he was 14 years old. When I was that age, I was making fun of disabled kids. So I needed to be extra careful in laying the blame for this debacle at his door. The other kids even less so. The parents were to blame.
• But then again, Henri had told me this pushy, overbearing parenting was normal. And even Terry, the coach of the Knights, had said something about parents living through their kids. Obviously they should do that by driving them to training and buying them new boots and so on - not by screaming at them and/or giving them extra in-match coaching. Although what I'd witnessed was over the top, it was just parents being parents.
• So, in fact, the blame lay with Spectrum. I liked the guy, but he really should have put a stop to this garbage a long time ago.
• And THEN! Spectrum was just one guy. I knew two things about him. One, he loved coaching. Two, he shied away from confrontation. The positions were contradictory, in my opinion, because 2 was stopping him from doing 1. But that's why he should have gone to his superiors to get help. If he didn't feel comfortable doing that, it raised suspicions about the culture of the club. Maybe MD MD wasn't the chill guy he seemed.

While those thoughts were germinating, I was tinkering with my tactics. I had 8 players.

One goalkeeper.

Three centre-backs.

Two central midfielders.

One right-midfielder/winger.

One striker.

The more I looked at it, the more nightmarish it became. We had literally nobody who could play on the left-hand side of the pitch! The only left-midfielder was Sullivan, and he was sitting behind me looking shell-shocked.

My solution was pretty lame: micromanagement. At dead balls - goal kicks, throw-ins, etc - I had the striker drop into midfield and one of the CMs take a position on the left. Then as soon as the ball was in play, I let them move to their more natural positions. I hoped the other team wouldn't notice the lack of a permanent left-sided player! It helped that the Broughton coach was on the far side of the pitch from our weak point. Another advantage of the tactics screen - I saw the entire pitch, wherever my body was.

In a hushed whisper, Henri and I discussed my 'false entire left-side of the pitch' problem/solution. We discussed the strengths and weaknesses of various players, did a lot of pointing, and generally looked very much like a war council. Henri wanted me to station a permanent left-sided player, but I worried that would stop us from ever scoring. Tricky.

For all the chaos in our formation, Broughton weren't able to string too many passes together, and our two 14-year-old centre-backs were seriously dominant. Future scampered about between them, cleaning things up and playing short, simple passes to the midfielders.

We entered a new phase in play - a sort of stasis. Broughton lacked the ability to hurt us, and we lacked the numbers to hurt them. I still had the free hit perk, if we could get a free kick near the other team's goal. Winning 1-0 sounded like a wonderful dream. 0-0 seemed the most likely outcome. A defeat would have been a real punch to the gut.

"Henri. Plan. Get to half-time and cook up some wheeze?" I said.

Henri adjusted his scarf. "I don't know what those words mean, but yes. My worry is that we can't keep up this intensity. I foresee some exhausted players in the second half of the second half." He glanced behind us at the rebels. "What of those?"

"Who gives a shit?" I said. Within a minute of them leaving the pitch, the rest of the team's match rating had started to creep up. The two centre-backs were on 7 out of 10 and heading to 8s. Future was on a solid 7. Sevenoaks on the right of midfield was back up to 7.

"Max," whined Spectrum. He'd inched closer to hear what we were saying. I'd mentally discarded him as an ally since realising he was more to blame than the kids. "They got the message. Let them play."

"Fuck 'em," I said. "Don't want, don't need."

"Max." From behind the railing came a new voice. Henri responded to it like Pavlov's dog, which was absurd because he couldn't have heard it before.

"Hi, Livia," I said. "Enjoying your Sunday?"

"Sure," she smiled. She turned to look at the sub's bench and her ponytail swished around. I think I heard Henri make a tiny little noise. "We're just worried about the kids. You've taken... four?... off. Do they need medical attention?"

"No," I said. "They're grand."

She looked confused. "So... er... why?"

I looked at Spectrum. "What's the right word? Disciplinary?" The young coach shook his head. Hard disagreement. "That's right," I said. "A disciplinary issue. No big deal."

"No big deal," she repeated, eyeing the four boys, who were undergoing emotions ranging from 'teenage angst' to 'intense teenage angst'.

"Has Jackie spoken to you today?"

That flummoxed her. "Jackie? No. Why?"

"Just wondering. Talk to you later!"

It had the tone of a dismissal, and Livia pottered off.

Henri gave me a vicious thwack in the upper arm. "Why did you do that?"

"What?" I said, rubbing the area.

"You made her leave. Leave. Leave-ia. That's her name, right? Keep subbing players off until she returns."

His being attracted to Livia was totally normal and natural, but it triggered something in me. A reaction even stronger than seeing the parents mess up my tactics screen. For a moment, the football was totally forgotten and I was back in secondary school. "Don't get any ideas. My friend has first dibs on her."

"Excuse me? Do I understand you correctly? You want me, your possible future client, to wait for another man to make his move? Wait to make beautiful memories with a rare beauty? Wait my turn like a pensioner in one of your cheese shops?"

I felt my neck get hot and got ready to drop my crutches. "Yes, Henri. That's right. I'm going to give him a deadline to make a move. And if he doesn't, it's every man for himself. You, me, and all comers. And may the Best man win."

"Ho, ho. I see what you did, there. Well, at least you also place yourself in the queue." After his initial flare-up, he had calmed a little. "It irks me that you place a friend over a possible client. I do not feel seduced, Max."

"Bros before pros, Henri. Bros before pros."

He sort of snarled at me, showing his gums, but the rictus grin turned into a real laugh. "Max! You are extraordinary. I was lying just now. I do feel seduced. Bros before pros... friends first, football second? Is that one of your principles?"

While I reacquired a firm grip on my crutches, I thought about it. "I don't have principles. I'm not a deep thinker like you. But sometimes I see something wrong and I act. Like with these kids and their shitty parents. The principle was there all along and it just bubbled out of me. It happens sometimes; I can't do anything about it."

"Yes! Yes, Max! This is how I feel! You think I came to England ignorant? No. I knew it would be culture shock. Hard professionally. I am willing to knuckle down, as you say. Sacrifice for the collective. But yes. Sometimes the inner truth bubbles out. Oh, Max. Let us go for the same woman. It will be a romance for the ages."

"Sure. But not that one. Not yet."

"And if I refuse? If I jump the gun?" He arched an eyebrow at me. Very dashing.

I gave him a pleasant smile, and in the tone of one passing over a cucumber sandwich said, "Then I will punch you so hard in the dick you'll spend the rest of your life pissing out of your tail."

His eyebrow dropped and his face hardened. "Fine." He let out a stream of invective in his native tongue. "Fine. Max, I don't want you as my agent. Les dés sont jetés."

"Livia is a physio for Chester FC and if I get you a move here, you'll see her every day."

A pause. "Max, you may consider yourself engaged. My preference is for a move to the north-west. Preferably a scenic town. The more castles, the better." He was joking. Mostly.

"Consider it done," I said. "Subject to conditions."

"No, Max. I hold the power. I set the conditions."

I rolled my neck. "Nope. There's only one person in this entire country who has ever tried to understand you. Good luck finding another version of me outside the changing rooms in Hereford or Kidderminster."

"Mon dieu. You're actually crazy." He laughed. "Very well. Win this match and I will give you a trial period as my agent."

I narrowed my eyes at him. For all his bluster and talking like a poet and all that, he was unhappy at Darlington and wanted a move. If I had a good relationship with Chester, such a move could happen quickly. We could theoretically have things in place so that he could sign at 8am on January 1st. If I went full 'Will Smith at the Oscars' then Chester would be out of the question. Telling me to win was a subtle way of giving me 'permission' to douse the fire I'd lit.

Or maybe he was just testing me. Seeing how deep my so-called principles ran. Maybe the only way to get him as a client was to push back against these bad parents no matter the personal cost.

Either way, there was a clear next step. I went to the bench and talked to the rebels.

"Sullivan. I'm Max. I subbed you off because I noticed you not doing what you were told on the pitch. Obviously, we expect you to carry out your instructions to the best of your ability."

He looked scared. Hunted. "But I did! I did!"

"Nope. Anyway, just thought I'd let you know why you won't be playing the rest of the game." Spectrum let out a kind of hiss, and Henri sort of stiffened. I moved on to the next one. "Henk, we already talked about this and you did it again. Two strikes, bro! Not sure the rules of baseball but in this game it's two strikes and you're outta here!" I swung a crutch like a baseball bat. Henk sagged. What was happening was not what had been promised. "Tyson. You've got some nice moves. I'm sure you'll have a great career..." I left the teeniest-tiniest pause, just for my own satisfaction, "in the junior leagues. I prefer players who can follow instructions, though." I didn't add about 8 minutes of complaints about his playing style, character, and haircut, which I felt was a sign of tremendous personal growth. "So I won't be using you again. Thanks for coming. Benny. What can I say? I guess you're not feeling it today. It's probably my inexperience that's demotivating you. Consider yourself unburdened. No need for any of you to hang around. Spectrum can unlock the changing rooms if that's what's keeping you here."

"Wait," said Tyson. He had a surprisingly middle-class voice. "You're sending us home? Are you saying you'd rather play with 8 than with me? That's mental. I'm your best player. And the captain!"

Instead of laughing in his face (my first impulse), I checked the match ratings. They were looking good! I got the strangest feeling. An absolute conviction that I was doing the right thing. And it wasn't just that these rebels and their parents needed to be taught a lesson or get shown up or whatever. It was that the kids on the pitch were playing so much better without them. I'd cut off some dead branches and now the tree could bloom (or whatever trees did). I forgot about Tyson, scampered over to the side of the pitch, and started shouting out nonsense phrases while tweaking the individual instructions on the tactics screen. I yelled to one of the centre-backs that he was the captain, and a C appeared next to his name on the tactics screen. I adjusted the roles of the two central midfielders so that they could 'make forward runs' and 'run with the ball'. This would give us the chance to get three guys in the other team's penalty box - those two plus the striker. Once I'd done that, I remembered Henri's warning that if I asked too much of the players, they'd run out of steam. So I switched the 'go forward' option off every time they made a lung-bursting run forward. Gave them a chance to recover. Maybe later in the game I could give them one minute 'on' and two or three minutes 'off'. I wished I had a way to monitor an individual player's current stamina reserves.

I was really getting into the weeds of the options, really getting sucked into the game, and I felt like the players and the match were starting to bend to my will. The only real cloud on the horizon was that...

"Max," said Henri. I got the impression he'd been calling me for a while.

"What?"

"This gentleman would like to talk to you."

It was Mike Dean. I swung myself closer to the railing. "Hi!" I said, in a cheerful tone.

"Hi, Max," he said, with little warmth. "Everything okay?"

"Yep!" I said. "The boys are battling hard, showing their quality. Very pleased with them. You've got a good bunch, there."

He hadn't been expecting praise. "Ah... I thought you wanted to practice your eleven-a-side skills." His line of sight moved from me to the subs bench.

I ignored the implicit question. Why are you doing this? "I know. Ironic isn't it? I also wanted to try different tactics, but it looks like I might end up playing 4-4-2 again!" That was true. I was doing everything in my power to stick with 3-5-2.

"Do you mean 4-3-0?"

I laughed as though he was making a funny joke. "No, I'd go 3-3-1, I think. One guy at left-back, one right-mid." I nodded a few times. "Yep. That would do it, I think."

He very nearly exploded, but too many years in boardrooms had smoothed his edges. "Livia said you removed these boys because of disciplinary reasons. Would you please enlighten me as to what they are?"

"Sure," I said, projecting a sort of breezy helpfulness. "The code of conduct was breached."

"The code... was breached. Breached by the players?"

"No."

"Max, I'm not enjoying this conversation."

"Okay," I said. I noticed Henri amble closer to me. I presumed he wanted to be on hand to unplug me if I got too hot. "The main breach is that these players are receiving instructions from parents and or guardians. Those instructions contradict the team's tactics and along with the streams of verbals are having knock-on effects on the rest of the team. For example, team morale is shot. I'm hoping a barn-storming half-time team talk will perk the other lads up a bit!"

Mike gave me a long, displeased look, then glanced up and down the line of parents. "Max," he said, carefully. "These families are part of the community. We're a community club. You understand that, right? We can't just... bench players like this. We have to sit down and talk it through."

"Oh, I agree," I said. "Quite a lot of sitting down and talking on the horizon for somebody."

"So will you let them go back on?"

"Mike," I said, no longer bothering to be jovial. "It's your code of conduct. There have to be sanctions. Putting them back on wouldn't be fair on the kids and parents who haven't broken the rules. I want to win, and trust me, there's a better chance without these guys. And I never thought I'd say this, but it's not all about me. Every one of these kids is learning a lesson about teamwork. I thought I'd roll up and practise my tactics, but it's all got a bit serious. Some of those kids can make the first team, and I have a chance to be part of that. But maybe letting parents rage against their kids is more community-minded."

He slammed his palms into the railing. Then he took a deep breath. "You know what? You're right. About the sanctions. But don't take it out on the kids!"

We turned to look at the little brats.

Henri mumbled, "Max." Was it a warning? Until the second half kicked off, Mike had the power to unseat me. He could still do it during the second half, but that would be as humiliating for him as for me. I was worried about losing my prospects here, but I had 100 other clubs I could deal with. He was worried about losing face. If he was sacked, that could be the end of his career in football.

Looking at Mike, I said, "What do you propose?"

"Let me bring the parents over. We'll have a little chat at half-time. Try to sort things out." He held his hands up. "We'll still have the sit-downs. I promise. But right now, let's compromise. For the sake of the kids."

I thought about it. Being the vehicle the universe uses to put some shitty parents in their place? Er, yes please. "Love to," I said. "But first I've got a speech to give. And it's going to be a belter."

...

Awight?

The next (bumper) chapter is 99% done, but I just had an incredible idea for a theme that will make it twice as good so I HAVE to spend a bit more time on it. I might finish it tonight/tomorrow, but I might not. And then I'm off on my mini break. Bear with me! It's my first in 3 years!