1.55 - Chester Nights

55.

The game ended Chester 0 Darlington 1.

Darlington had the better players but ensured the match stayed as a boring war of attrition. The one moment of quality in the game came from their CA 50 striker, who bullied a Chester defender and gave himself the chance to dribble forward and smash the ball into the net.

In my opinion, the whole second half was utterly tedious. And, since I'd diagnosed Darlington's plan after 15 minutes, utterly preventable.

I just couldn't understand it. Even within the confines of 4-4-2 I could think of three ways to combat Darlington's strategy. MD had given Ian Evans my report. Plus Ian Evans had the evidence of his own eyes. Yet he hadn't made a single tactical change in the entire match. Why?

But whatever. If Chester's manager didn't care, why should I?

It was in injury time that I finally got the XP needed to buy Attributes 3. The stupid animation did its stupid little animation dance and the attribute it unlocked was...

Teamwork.

Teamwork. Huh.

I would have thought that all professional players scored 20 in that. Otherwise, how had they progressed so far?

But in the last, dying moments of the match after I'd unlocked it, I saw a huge range of scores. Carl Carlile had teamwork 20, which I supposed made him the ultimate team player unless one of his family members was on the pitch. Henri Lyons had 17, which was unexpectedly high for a guy who seemed like a selfish French prick. Aff had 15, which was still quite high. It made sense that a winger wouldn't be maxed in teamwork. They had to be a bit selfish to try to dribble sometimes. (This thought started to mess with my head. The team needed people to be selfish for the benefit of the team. What? So if a winger was selfish did that mean he'd have a high teamwork score? I let it go. I chose to allow my brain to merely absorb the info. Let it marinate. And eventually I'd come to a conclusion I could verbalise.)

Okay, so I'd unlocked Handling and Teamwork. Good! I was getting there. Good good good.

One slightly odd thing was that Attributes 4 was priced at 1567 XP. Such a specific number! There had to be a reason behind that, surely?

But that was a long grind in the future. I had under 10 XP and would soon buy God Save the King, going 3000 XP into debt. Soon? Maybe as soon as Monday evening. If Ziggy got a contract, I’d push him closer to Denis Law’s finishing.

***

After the final whistle, I hobbled as fast as I could down to where the changing rooms were. Through the physio room, through the teeny tiny gym, out into the corridor and into the noisiest room. The Quakers were blasting aggressive 'winning' music which, honestly, I found a bit classless. The vibration of their dressing room wall did at least fit their team's nickname.

"Hey," I said to some rando who tried to stop me from going in. "I need to talk to Henri."

"Why dat?" said this prick.

My blood roiled! Roiling is like boiling but more literary, which means it's scarier. I gave this guy the staredown of a lifetime and said, "Henri Lyons. Get him or get bent."

Henri eased out of the changing room a few moments later. I dragged him away because the insistent bass was giving me a headache. "Henri?" I said. "My name's Max Best."

Henri was pretty much the most French person who ever lived. And I include Napoleon, Emile Zola, and William Gallas in that. He had that big, shaped, fluffy hair that dreamy pop idols have until they rebrand with a hard-edged image. Henri had completed the 5 Pillars of Frenchness: the scarf, the disjointed nose, the accent, the permanent shrug, and the insouciant air. The scarf! Jesus Christ! The match had only finished about 4 minutes ago and he was already wearing highly-textured, perfectly-fitted clothes topped off by a jaunty scarf which had a different but complimentary pattern to his jacket. Sacre bleu! "Oui?"

I showed him the newspaper link on my phone; he rolled his eyes. "I've just read this article about you. You said you think the players should be able to share their insights with the coach?"

"Oh?" he said. "You are the first Englishman to actually read it."

I wasn't going to engage his self-pity. I wasn't sure how long I'd be allowed to roam the corridors. "Is that what you meant or not?"

He considered the question. "It is. Every team is one insight away from utopia. Or dystopia." He grinned, Frenchly. "With a match-day squad of 20, ideas may grow in a cornucopia."

"I thought you said you never rhymed. But god, that's what I want. I've never heard it verbalised like that. I want a team where everyone's thinking about the game the way I do," I said. "Bicker, fight, marketplace of ideas, Darwin. But then once the manager has listened and chosen, full commitment to the plan." I put my hand on his arm. "Holy fuck," I said, suddenly wide-eyed. "I think that might be my ultimate fantasy."

Henri Lyons smiled at me. "Max Best, I like you. What do you want of me?"

Good question. "Well, I'm an agent. I could be an English to English translator for you. If you want to pay someone ten percent of your salary to say you're at the wrong club, I volunteer. But mostly I'm a football fan and I'd like to see you in a team that appreciates your gifts. Watching you rot on the bench today was torture. You'd have electrified this game."

His chin shot up. "Your taste is incredible. Are you sure you are English?"

"English," I said. "French. Eritrean. Who gives a shit? You're meant to play football and if you're not doing that there's an inefficiency. Inefficiency means profit for the guy who fixes that. Me. Someone else. I don't care. But I tell you what. 2,000 people paid good money to come to this game today and the best player wasn't playing. That's abysmal. I can't fix global warming or disinformation or any of that. But I can fix your career."

Henri, chin still high, tried to look down on me. Haughty. Confident. "You have the advantage of me. You can read about me online. Watch clips of my best moments. Yes, there are so many, but it is theoretically possible. Where would I find out more about you?"

I signalled that he should whip out his phone, and started to share contact details with him. "Tomorrow I'll be coaching a youth team here in Chester. Check into a hotel. Come and watch. They never win; tomorrow they will. Football reveals personality. Mine will be on display."

"You want me to come to a youth team game... in Chester?" His tone suggested he had dismissed the idea, like, ten years ago.

"A great deal of football will be created," I said. "If you are happy to stay on the bench, then it was great meeting you. If you want to see something you've never seen before... The Max Best Show has come to town. One morning only."

And I strode off like an absolute boss.

Except... I was still on the crutches so it took me approx. 6 minutes to clunk along the corridor.

Still. Good speech.

***

Jackie dropped me off at a grey-brick terraced house. It belonged to a family of die-hard Chester FC fans that MD MD knew well. Dad was out having some pints with his mates. Mum was perfectly pleasant. A bit flustered that I'd been foisted on her, but she soon settled into the mother hen role and got me fed and watered. They had a kid. I was to sleep in his room. Jackie had suggested I should keep up the pretence of being a possible future signing for Chester. The kid was all over the idea of being the first to meet Chester's new player - big bragging rights at school, I reckoned, He showed me around his room: his posters (Messi, Neymar, Marcus Rashford, the Chester squad), his football books, his copy of Champion Manager 2023. I put my hands in my pockets so I wouldn't slap the box out of his hands.

"Are you in the game?" he asked me.

"I can't talk about it until I sign for a club," I said. "Top secret."

"But what would your stats be? Are you fast?"

I sat on the bed and tested the mattress. All I really cared about was the bed. It had a head board but, thank god, no leg board. Otherwise I would have had to sleep scrunched up like a prawn. "Fast asleep," I said. "Soon enough."

***

Mum and kid (named Chester, seriously wtf is wrong with people?) watched me eat a bland curry and peppered me with questions about football. I told them about my recent adventures. Chesterkid listened with eyes bulging. He had a strange way of looking at me but not quite at me. There was something off about him but whatever it was, he was enthralled by me, which I found gratifying. Mum was not so gullible. Most of what I told them seemed to her to be obvious bullshit. She was in for a shock if she ever fact checked my tales - they were all true.

When I told them I was going to be managing the Chester Knights in the morning they were both equally astonished.

"But that's Terry's job."

Right. I'd have to manage their normal coach. That would probably be harder than managing the kids. "I'm not taking Terry's job. I'm just doing one game. I'm sure Terry is a prince among men. I hope there's enough players. Apparently, there's low turnout."

"Some people get dispirited because we lose every week."

"The more kids who turn up, the better the chance of winning. But what was it King Henry said? The fewer men, the greater share of honour! Give me a midfield pivot and a fox-in-the-box and I shall move the world! Oh, and a goalkeeper, I suppose. Personally I'd be happy to just put a Henry Hoover in goal and have done with it. But it's against the rules. Bloody FIFA!"

That went down like a lead statue of Neymar in a slight gust of wind, so I announced that I'd had a long day and would go to bed soon and would like to put my leg up so could I have a couple of extra pillows maybe? And also, could we take the Neymar poster down, just for tonight, so I wouldn't have nightmares?

The mum told me that Neymar was misunderstood and did a lot of charity work, especially with disabled kids. Great, I said. But I don't like him. Yes, she said, but he's great with disabled kids. Clearly, the conversation had the potential to subsume the rest of my days on earth. Its circularity could compete with the CERN collider. So as a compromise I suggested we leave the poster up but cover Neymar's face with post-it notes. I was joking. But actually not. There was a stack of post-it notes that I put in my pocket. Cue nervous laughter. Surely I was joking... Right? Right?

"Oh," I said, as an afterthought, pointing to their TV and Playstation 3 combo. "I don't suppose you have Disney Plus?"

***

They did.

So I popped a bunch of extra-strength painkillers and lay in bed with my foot raised, watching The Proposal on the family's insanely slow Android tablet. I made notes but fell asleep halfway through.

***

I woke, wiped away quite a lot of drool, and grabbed my phone, which was vibrating like a dressing room full of twats. It was my soulmate.

"Raffi?"

"How's my agent doing?"

"Ugh... mixed. What year is it?"

He laughed. I heard him knocking on a door. "Come and open your door, man."

"What?"

"We're here! Open your door."

"No, wait, what? No, I'm in Chester. I'm not there, I'm in Chester."

"He's in Chester!" said Raffi. Presumably to his wife. "Why you in Chester?" I heard his wife say something like 'he got on the wrong train', which they both thought was hilarious.

"Getting you a trial."

"You serious?"

"Yeah. Details tbc. Chester is the National League North. 6th tier. Ideal starting block. It's happening."

There was a lot of shouting and hugging and that. Finally, it subsided and Raffi returned to the call. "Man! You're not fracking with me now?"

"No. I would never frack you. Not without a lengthy consultation process. Wait wait wait. Why are you at my house?"

"We came to pick you up and we'd all take your dog for a walk." His wife shouted something that I couldn't catch. Raffi passed it on. "Like you promised! Yeah. Well, never mind. How about we go and do it anyway?"

"Why would you do that?"

"Someone has to, right? I'll talk to you." And he hung up.

***

I woke up again. Someone was knocking on my door.

"Raffi?" I said.

The door opened. Chester came in. "Max? We have to go now or we'll be late." His eyes drifted to the Neymar poster. He couldn't believe I'd actually put the post-it notes up.

"Why didn't you wake me up earlier?"

"Jackie Reaper said you needed your beauty sleep." The eyes again. "What does that mean?"

"Give me two minutes, bro."

He scarpered and I got dressed and slapped myself in the face a few times.

As I put my hand on the doorknob, I froze. Had I been dreaming, or had Raffi Brown, the world's most beautiful man, called me his agent?

When had he decided that?

I shook it off. Next stop: Chester Knights.

...

Thanks again for your support! It continues to blow my mind.