1.59 - One For The Future

59.

Most football formations are symmetrical. Some are quite pleasant to look at. 3-4-3 is more aesthetic than 5-3-2. Even just visually, 4-2-4 is as thrilling as 4-5-1 is depressing.

3-5-2 is what you'd get if you bought a formation in IKEA. It's a solid, functional classic with instructions that seem clear.

3. Three narrow centre-backs. The other team might get crosses in, but their strikers will always be outnumbered.

5. Five players spread across the midfield. You can reasonably expect to dominate the centre of the pitch.

2. Two strikers. Ideally good at pressing.

Look at it. Isn't it compelling? If it was a chair, wouldn't you want to sit in it? If it was a bed, wouldn't you want to take a nap?

Sigh.

Now look at this shit. This is what I saw when I went to my tactics screen.

Let's go through the problems one-by-one, starting at the base of the team. Henk, one of the three centre backs, was playing between defence and midfield - a defensive midfielder. His match rating had actually gone up, a fact that I squirrelled away in my little box of footballing trivia.

Moving into the midfield, there were two issues. The guy on the left, Sullivan, the guy who kept playing safe passes, was in the right position but his circle was surrounded by a thick line (instead of the usual thin line). I'm not a good enough artist to show that to you, so I've drawn a big exclamation mark over his head. I took it to mean that his role had changed in some way that I couldn't see just from the simplistic formation graphic.

Then Tyson, who should have been playing on the right of the 3 central midfielders, was playing as a striker. And Benny, who I'd set as striker, had dropped into an attacking midfielder slot.

I stood there, biting my fingernails, trying to puzzle it out.

I thought back to my previous experiences with 11-a-side matches. The first had been when I'd taken control of FC United Reserves. And taken control was really the right term! They did whatever I wanted, including smacking the ball miles into the sky for my amusement. Next, I'd been in charge of Moss Side Celtic. Again, there had been no hint whatsoever that it was possible for players to drift out of position. And this wasn't a guy joining an attack and being a bit slow to get back - Tyson was playing as a striker. He had no intention of going back into midfield.

It was so, so strange.

What could explain it? The most obvious solution was that it was happening because I hadn't bought 3-5-2. Maybe the players were sort of torn in some way between the 3-5-2 and the only formation I did own: 4-4-2.

Or perhaps sometimes some players would be drawn towards positions that would suit their skills or the game state. If Broughton weren't attacking then we didn't need three centre-backs. And so Henk would automatically move forward.

If that was true, that was muy muy no bueno. As a manager I wanted players to do what I told them and not deviate from my plan in any way. This was a centrally-planned economy! If I sent you to the bed factory, you'd better make beds. Players could choose if the legs would be square or round, if there would be headboards or not. But beds means beds.

I didn't feel like I was going to get any answers being internal, so I turned to the 12-year old who was my only sub for this game. "Are you warmed up? Can you go on for a couple of minutes?" His eyes widened. "What?” I laughed. “You didn't think you'd play?"

Spectrum coughed. "Er… Max. He's really only here for emergencies. Getting a taste of the atmosphere and that. He's not really meant to come on. He's one for the future."

I smiled at the kid. "Future. How do you like that for a nickname?"

He tilted his head. "I don't mind it!"

"Positive attitude. Love it. Go and run my defence, please." I mentally replaced Benny with Future, and for the benefit of Henri and Spectrum, shouted, "Benny sub!"

The rejigged team had Future in the centre of the back three, with Henk in Tyson's midfield position, and Tyson in Benny's striker slot.

I let that play out for a minute, and things seemed to stabilise. There was still the issue with Sullivan on the left, but at least it looked like a 3-5-2 again. To be honest I got a tiny thrill from solving three problems in one move. After patting myself on the back, I turned to Benny. "Hey. I'm Max. This is Henri Lyons, my assistant. 30 goals in his last 60 games." My tone changed from jocular to questioning. "What happened out there, Benny mate?"

"Nuffin." He looked... depressed? Had he forgotten it was rolling subs? He'd be back on the pitch in two minutes.

I rubbed my chin. I was getting some stubble. "Do you remember I asked you to play striker?"

"Uh," he said. It was just some kind of vaguely positive grunt. Fucking teenagers, man!

"Henri was telling me how impressed he was with your movement," I lied.

That perked him up. "Really?"

"Yeah," I said. "So I don't want you dropping back. When I tell you to be a striker, be a striker. All right? Is that fair enough?"

"But," he said. Some expression crossed his face, but then it was gone. And he simply nodded.

"Get ready to go back on." I turned away, ready to call out the change I wanted to make. But when I dipped into the tactics screen, fucking Henk had dropped into the DM slot again! "Jesus wept!" I said. So I subbed him off, moved Tyson back into the midfield where he should have been the whole match, and put Benny back up front. "This is like a Whitehall farce," I complained. "Henk," I said, as he drank his Powerade. "I'm Max. This is the legendary striker Henri Lyons. We can't help but notice you keep trying to play as a DM. Is there any particular reason for that?"

He looked left and right, then shrugged. "Just where the ball was and that."

Well, that was a blatant lie. But I couldn't think why he'd lie about it. He could have just said it was his best position or something. I spoke flatly; I didn't want to be too harsh on the kid because I wasn't sure why he was always out of position. The first time something like this had happened, when Ziggy started as a left-back, it had been my fault. Quite possibly this was, too. "When you're a CB, you're a CB. When you're a CM, you're a CM. Is that clear?"

He nodded, but I knew his look. He was assessing me like I was a substitute teacher. Could he take the piss or was I one of the scary ones?

I jerked my thumb toward the pitch. "Sub for Future."

He knew who I meant. They swapped. Now, everything was set up in a perfect 3-5-2 (except for the thick line around Sullivan). I watched for a few more minutes. And sure enough, it happened again. Henk became a DM. Tyson became a third striker. Benny stayed where he was on the formation screen, but on the pitch he simply walked around, standing near a defender so it looked like he was doing something. In fact, he was moping. Sulking.

You know that expression: 'I was tearing my hair out?'

Mate.

The worst thing was that while most of the team was quietly imploding, the only players with good ratings were Tyson and Henk. Two of the out-of-position ones. Tyson was really pissing me off. He never passed to anyone - he'd dribble and shoot no matter the situation. If someone didn't pass to him, he'd throw his arms up in a theatrical show of annoyance. If someone tried to pass to him but the pass didn't arrive, he'd throw his arms up. If someone passed to him and he tried to dribble and fell over, he'd throw his arms up at the referee.

He was a prick and a half.

But mostly I was annoyed at myself for failing to diagnose the problem. "Can someone tell me what is going on, please?" Beside me, Henri laughed. "What's funny?"

He adjusted his scarf in a very self-satisfied way. "I worried you were a footballing savant. I'm delighted to discover you are mortal after all."

I pinched my nose. It was that or violence. After counting to 5, I said, "Have you ever been in a team where players actively disobeyed their manager's instructions? Because I've seen a lot of conflict at clubs with players asked to do things they didn't want to. And they did it. They might have whinged to the papers, asked for a transfer, or faked injury to get out of it. But when they got on the pitch, they did what they were told."

"Are you sure? Maybe they disobeyed and the manager pretended that had been his plan."

"Really? Is that how it goes?"

"No. Never." He grinned at me, which was a bad idea seeing as I had two long bashing sticks attached to my arms.

"Mate," I said, with the patience of several saints. "Do you know why they're out of position or do you not know?"

"But Max," he said, suddenly realising that I was genuinely asking for help. "Didn't you go to an academy yourself?"

"Me? No. What's that got to do with it?"

Henri shook his head at me. "Stop looking at the problem." He placed his hands on my shoulders and gave me a little twist. Away from the pitch. "And start listening."

At first, I didn't understand. I was too busy gritting my teeth and thinking things that included phrases like 'pseudo-intellectual claptrap' and 'skull crushed like a boiled egg'. Then as I closed my eyes and opened my ears, I suddenly heard it. But it was insane. It couldn't be real.

I hobbled down the line, double-quick, and parked a few metres away from an enormous man whose wrists were thicker than my calves. He was covered in tats, had a squashed face, and had somehow managed to clone himself, almost to scale. Bulldog 1, Bulldog 2. The Bulldog Brothers. Something told me the bigger one was Tyson's father.

"Pass to Tyson! Tyson's open! Good lad! Man on, T! Set up on your left. On your left! Fucking hell, T! Hit with your left for once in your fucking life!"

He paused his tirade because I was staring at him. He wasn't quite sure how to react, so he just gripped the railing, showing that he had huge rings on almost every finger.

From behind me, like a ghost’s whisper, came a soft voice. "Can I help you?"

It was Broughton's coach. I'd wandered right into his technical area. "Oh. I'm Max. Hi. Am I in your way? I was just wondering why my team weren't following instructions. I guess I just found out."

The guy laughed. He had small ears and a big belly. "Notice we've got 5 subs and you've got one? The kids prefer playing away, and so do I." He turned towards the spectators, who were, presumably, overwhelmingly parents of the Chester kids.

I nodded. Things were - thank fuck - starting to make sense. "Most parents don't travel to the away games?"

"We get a van and squash all the kids in the back. Sensible parents take the chance to have a lie-in. Your guy here. He's not one of them. Goes to every match. You've got a bunch of hard cases." He shook his head. "I do hate playing Chester. Sorry to say."

I sighed. By taking this gig, I'd walked into a quagmire and it would take some delicate manoeuvring to get out. "Thanks."

I hobbled back to my spot and fumed.

Parents! Messing up my tactics!

My thoughts looped around in a cycle.

Just let it go, Max, I'd think. Look at the bigger picture.

But then I'd look at the tactics screen.

I'd look at Tyson swanning around, flapping his arms like Icarus.

One word kept bouncing around my head. Unacceptable.

200 quid a week. Just let it go.

And the loop would repeat.

Henri heard me muttering under my breath and tried to talk me down from the ledge. "Max. A quick primer on football academies. It is like McKinsey. You know McKinsey?"

"The consultants?"

"The same. Their motto is 'up or out'. If you don't get promoted, they fire you. Up or out. It's the same with football. These 14s. Half are promoted to the next age group. The rest are kicked, and that's the end of their careers. It's understandable that parents push their kids. It's a brutal business. Darwin didn't need to go to Galapagos to see survival of the fittest. He could have observed it at his local football club. Had one existed."

"Henri," I said. "They're sabotaging the team. This should have been a cakewalk. Nice little session learning a new formation. Instead, half the players are ruining their careers by being dicks. The other half are demotivated. I can't do nothing."

"Indeed? But you can, though."

"Can I?"

"Oui. Easily. Tyson will score eventually, Chester will win, and your career can continue. These issues are not your problem. You don't even work for Chester. You have no responsibility to the kids."

Was that true? I tried to believe it. I mean, it was obviously true in a wider sense. I didn’t work for Chester. I wasn’t a parent. But the curse had given me the tools to see, objectively, what these parents were doing to the team. If I didn’t do anything, would Spectrum? No chance. He knew what was up. That’s why he was acting so shifty.

I heard the bark of the Bulldog Brothers, and my heart hardened. I could do something about this situation without ruining my reputation. I just had to be smart. Cool, calm, and collected. "P.G.Wodehouse used to drop letters onto the street and see if people picked them up to post them. When they arrived at their destination, he knew society was functioning well."

"Max Best," said Henri. "Wherever there is unjustice, there he'll be."

"Injustice."

"Oh? But situations are unjust. What a language."

I turned to the only Chester employee in the area. "Spectrum. Don't parents have to agree not to scream at their kids?"

He squirmed. He'd been listening to our conversation, vacillating between fear and hope depending on what we were saying. Now, the fear was back. "Er... you mean the code of conduct."

"I'd like to read it."

"I'll drop a copy and someone will post it to you." I suppose it was a jokey reference to P.G. Wodehouse, but it made me start seething again. And I’d been doing so well keeping my temper under wraps!

"I'd like to read it now."

He sort of giggled, but me stepping towards him put an end to that. He gulped and tapped at his phone. He quickly found a PDF. I skimmed it, and sure enough, the parents had agreed not to give tactical instruction during games, not to harangue referees, and not to criticise their children.

"I'll keep this for a few minutes, if you don't mind." I slipped his phone into my pocket. The subtitles on this scene will read: Max’s seething intensifies. I knew there was a slight chance I was about to steer my career straight towards the iceberg of ‘doing the right thing’. No-one else needed to go down with the ship. "Henri, this is your captain speaking. Mayday. Mayday. We’re going down. I suggest you head towards the emergency exits."

"I could walk away," he said, gesturing away from the technical area. "And cross the railing. A rat leaving the sinking ship, yes?"

Good idea. "Go on, then."

He didn’t move. "Max, I take it you mean to blow yourself up with some gesture... aimed at what? Stopping overbearing parents from shouting at their children? Stopping parents from living out their dreams through their kids? Putting an end to a tradition as old as football itself?"

"No. Nothing so extreme. I'll do everything you said, but only with 4 parents. And I don't intend to blow myself up." Not with Livia watching. "I will be calmness personified."

"Merde," he said. He sat on the bench next to Future and crossed his leg over his knee. "I never wanted to play for Chester anyway." He sighed. "God, I need a cigarette."

"Spectrum. You ready for this?"

"Please don't."

"It's already done. Future, your debut continues." I turned to the pitch and shouted, "Sullivan, Henk, Benny, Tyson - sub!"

At the next break, the four players trudged off. Future went on. We would finish the half with 8 players on the pitch.

There was subdued pandemonium. The spectators couldn't believe what they'd just seen. My rival coach gave me a long, hard look. The referee started to walk towards me, his face a question: Did I really want to play three players short? I gave him a nod and a double thumbs up; he shrugged and blew his whistle.

The last word fell to Henri.

"Magnifique, Max." He pretended to exhale from an imaginary cigarette. "Fucking magnifique."

...

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