1.58 - Broughton Under 14s

58.

We got there shortly after kick-off. A guy was expecting us. He was in a Chester tracksuit, was very young for a coach (25 years, 39 days, according to the curse, which was back in full operation), and wore glasses, which was quite unusual in the world of professional football.

"Hi," he said, holding out a hand. "You must be Max. And er… aren’t you Henri Lyons? What the...? Er... Anyway, I'm Spectrum."

"That's your nickname, is it?"

"Yes."

"Is it so people can call you Speccy?" Speccy four-eyes. The taunt for kids with glasses.

"A bit. Also because I'm into data analysis."

I didn't quite make the connection but it wasn't what I wanted to talk about. "Is data why you've gone 3-5-2 today?" His mouth dropped open. I'd only been there for a few seconds. How could I have known? There’s a fine line between looking like a genius and looking like a weird freak that needed to be locked up and studied. "Have you got a team sheet?"

"Oh, yes. Here."

It was labelled: Chester under 14s vs Broughton under 14s.

This was a perfect scam. With the team sheet I'd be able to explain how I knew everyone's names. I pretended to study it while I actually did my customary summing up of the situation.

First, the pitch and environment. The weather was still cold and sunny, with no wind. Really superb conditions for football. I cursed my stupid ankle. The pitch itself was not quite full-sized. Some special dimensions for youth-team games. 70%, I reckoned. With the players being 70% the size of Premier League players, the playing area looked big enough. A fast kid would be able to run from half-way to the goal in two seconds flat, though.

The grass was beautifully cut - full marks to the groundsman, and there were only a few worn patches in the penalty areas. The Chester players were rolling passes to each other and it was like watching snooker. Smooth as you like. Gorgeous. Around the sides of the pitch, about three metres back, stood a railing. It didn't seem close enough so that kids would ever crash into it, and it gave the spectators something to lean against. There were quite a few, as well. Maybe a hundred, probably mostly relatives of the players. But I noticed a few people who might have been around to see the Max Best Show. MD and Jackie had made their way from the other pitch, as had the first-team coaches. Magnus Evergreen was loitering near the back. Chester and his parents had come. Chester waved at me with a colossal smile on his face. And, best of all, Livia.

It was good that she was there. Her presence probably helped saved me from having a complete meltdown, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

"Mon dieu," said Henri. "It is 3-5-2! How did you see that in nought point nought seconds, Max?"

But I was too internal to reply. I'd been there about 30 seconds and already picked up 1 XP, so we were back to the usual amount, doubled for being the manager. Great. And one of the players was the kid who'd brought me my tea. Nice to see them being made to do odd jobs. I hoped they had to clean the boots of the first-team, too. Traditions matter.

The next thing to note was that for the first time since being cursed, I was managing the better team. Chester's kids ranged from CA 2 to CA 4. Still very early in their careers! The PA was a wide range. Some had 6 or 7 - they wouldn't make it as professionals and were only there because they were currently bigger, stronger, or faster than their peers. But a few had 25 to 30, meaning they were maybe good enough to play in the 7th tier. A couple were between 30 and 40, giving them a shot at playing for the Chester first team one day. One, Tyson, had PA 58 - the same as Ziggy. And he was skilful! He had great technical attributes and was very direct. He loved storming towards the other team's goal. Exciting. His only problem was his teamwork attribute - it was one. One. One less than two. I supposed that at this level it didn't matter.

The most talented player was our only substitute. He was 12 years old, really tiny, and had the profile of a ball-playing defender. His PA was 99. Could a short defender have a career in the brutal world of professional football? Maybe! Remember that Manchester United had bought a short centre-back for 60 million pounds.

"Spectrum," I said, tapping the dates of birth on the team sheet. "I notice that all the starters are 14. Isn't that a bit weird?"

"It's the under 14s," he said.

"Right. But isn't it normal that the better the youth system, the younger the players?" I looked to Henri for confirmation, and he nodded.

Spectrum pushed his glasses up his nose and moved closer to us. He spoke quietly. "Normally, there's a pathway from the under 18s into the first-team squad. And so some under 16s get moved up to the 18s. And some 14s get moved up to the 16s. See what I mean?"

"Yeah. The best kids get moved up. Play against older boys. Get pushed to be better. Totally."

Henri spoke, his voice uncomfortably loud given the topic. "The Chester squad is one of the oldest in the division."

Ian Evans doesn't trust young players.

I exchanged a look with Spectrum. "Got it."

Well, I'd pretended to study the situation for long enough. I started reorganising the team on the tactics screen. Every time I did so, I called out some near-gibberish that made me sound like a Wall Street trader in the 80s. "Boyce go C! Nuge, Clive, give me a swap please. Benny! I'll take striker, thank you."

My changes swung the pendulum even further in our favour. We were camped in Broughton's half, putting pressure on. They didn't have the technique to pass their way out, so they hoofed long balls towards the centre circle, where our tall midfielders and centre backs headed the ball to one of their teammates, and we swept forwards again. Relentless.

Once my changes were in place, I kept an eye on the match ratings.

Oh, the match ratings. Going from managing the Knights with just the dubious evidence of my eyes, to this game where I had the full powers of the curse behind me was like jumping off an e-scooter into an Aston Martin DB5. Seeing the match ratings was like finding out the Aston had an ejector seat and twin machine guns.

Broughton, a team of CA1 PA1 no-hopers, were playing 4-4-2 and even this early in the match were all getting 5s and 6s. Chester's kids were getting 6s, 7s, and 8s. And one of the 6s was the goalkeeper, who had nothing to do. If he wasn't involved in the game, he couldn't improve his score! Seemed a bit unfair, but as a wise man once told me, lots of things are unfair.

I grinned. This was going to be nice and easy. The only issue would be getting the boys to stop scoring after 6 or 7 goals. I didn't want to humiliate the other team. They didn't deserve that, and winning 12-0 would probably make me look a bit of a dick.

Something struck me. "Spectrum, what's this league called?"

"Chester and District Junior Football League."

Ah. That might explain why I'd been able to use Triple Captain and Bench Boost. It was a different league, which meant a different season! In theory, if I kept managing one game per team in random leagues all around the world, I'd be able to use my once-per-season perks hundreds of times a year.

Looooophole!

I sighed. I was pretty happy with life, and it wasn't just the ongoing buzz from winning with the Knights. It was everything about Chester. There was the 200 pounds a week boost to my income. There was Raffi's trial. There was the fact that they stretched their tiny budget to include a disabled team. And, perhaps above all, there was the opportunity MD MD had given me to waggle my enormous... er... talent in front of the delightful Livia.

Relaxed as a cat in a beam of sunshine, I had a lovely old chat with my assistants. I asked Spectrum why he'd chosen 3-5-2 for the game, since Ian Evans played a bog-standard 4-4-2. "I thought the youth teams were supposed to play the same way as the first-team."

He looked a bit shifty. "Er... we're encouraged to play a midfield-based system. Progressive but possession-based. And to mix it up so the kids learn to be tactically flexible. We've been doing a lot of 4-3-3 variations."

"You're encouraged to be tactically flexible?" I said. "That doesn't sound like the Ian Evans I've come to..." I nearly said despise. "Come to know."

"Yeah, well. He's only going to be here for this season. Just so we're not in another dogfight at the bottom of the table. But next season we're hoping to, you know."

"Play some actual football."

"It's not that bad," he lied.

I looked over at the first-team coaches. One of those guys was in line to take over from Ian Evans. And one of them had asked Spectrum to prepare tactically-flexible youth team players. Interesting. So the best thing I could do now would be to use several different formations over the course of the match. Show my stuff. But I didn't have stuff. I had 4-4-2. The only reason I could use 3-5-2 today was that Spectrum had set it up. If I changed the formation, I wouldn't be able to change it back.

Ah, well.

"Henri, do you like playing in a 3-5-2?"

"Sometimes it's wonderful. We control the midfield, control the ball. If you have goalscoring midfielders, it's superb." I loved the way he said 'superb'. It was like 'sup-herb'. "There are always lots of passing options. Players need to be adept at multiple skills. Which is why Spectrum is correct to keep changing the formation. Keep the kids learning. Of course, you create points of weakness elsewhere. The sides of the pitch. I don't want to play 3-5-2 against Liverpool. And you need athletic centre-backs and at least two need to be able to pass."

Spectrum was falling in love with Henri. "Are you doing your coaching badges?" he mooned.

"No, I am not doing my coaching badges. I am a professional football player. It is my job to understand the game I play. No?"

Spectrum nodded, but it was obvious that it was rare to find a player who thought like a coach. Why?

The conversation turned to me. Henri wanted to know more about why I was being allowed to manage these games. I told them I was a scout and an agent but what I loved most was being a manager so I'd offered my services slash begged for a chance.

"And this game is a reward for winning with the Knights? And what do you get if you win this one?"

I shrugged. "It's just an honour to participate in the development of these kids," I said.

And Henri Lyons - correctly - laughed.

***

That was the last moment of levity. The last upbeat moment of the match.

About 15 minutes through the 35-minute half, it was still 0-0 and I was getting a weird vibe.

I checked the match ratings and while Broughton's were still low, ours had dropped by one point more or less across the board. My changes had initially given a boost to the performance, which made sense because more players were now in their best positions. But it seemed that after the initial improvement, things had turned sour.

"What the..." I said, holding up the team-sheet again. That was a snapshot of where the players had started. My solution was definitely, objectively better!

So how had I made things worse?

I dipped into Broughton's tactics page to see if they'd tweaked anything. No. Identical to the start.

Huh.

"What troubles you, Max?" said Henri.

"Why are we suddenly dogshit?" I said.

"We are?" Henri hadn't been closely tracking the game. He'd been enjoying the conversation more. His eyes swept the field.

Just then, Tyson, the 58 PA kid, got the ball on the edge of the penalty area and went on a dribble. I switched to the match commentary:

Tyson moves past one player. The angle is too tight for a shot.

He switches the ball to his left foot, moves inside, and shapes to shoot. A defender throws himself at the ball.

Tyson pushes the ball back onto his right. He has defenders all around him.

Mitchell is calling for the ball on the left. He's unmarked!

Tyson slaps the ball towards the goal. It's blocked, and Broughton clear the danger.

"It seems all right to me," said Henri.

"It's not," I said. "But I can't quite..." For some reason, I glanced at Spectrum. He saw me looking, blushed, and turned away. If I had more confidence in my ability to read faces, I would have said he was scared.

Thirty seconds later, we were attacking again. The ball was played to the left-midfielder. He had a fairly easy option to get the ball forward, but he turned back and played it safe. Back to the nearest centre-back. His match rating dropped to 5 out of 10. After a successful pass!

The ball was recycled out to the right. We had a good prospect there, a lad called Sevenoaks, who everyone called Seven. (Nominative determinism? He played in position number 7.) He was one whose rating had dropped, but now he went on a nice dribble. Parents were screaming and shouting as he swept by them. He played a gorgeous ball to the near post - a really nice attacking opportunity. One of our strikers was there - perfect movement! But so was Tyson. They got in each other's way and the ball went straight through them both.

Tyson wheeled away, throwing his arms into the air in disgust.

"Ugh," said Henri.

I had my hands on my head, the crutches dangling stupidly. This match was spiralling out of control and I couldn't work out why. But I could start by instructing Tyson to stop making forward runs for now.

I opened our tactics screen and nearly fell backwards.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" I said. I couldn't believe my eyes.

"What? What happened?" said Henri.

"That's what I want to know!"