1.54 - Bizarre Rants

54.

As we neared half-time, Jackie was suddenly talking into his phone. He'd had it on vibrate instead of being obnoxious. Plus 10 relationship points!

His tone was... hard to read, but he kept glancing at me as he said things like 'oh?' and 'how long?' I knew instantly what was up. Someone at FC United had picked up an injury and now they needed Ziggy!

It wasn't long until he pressed a button on his screen and placed the phone down. He cleared his throat.

"Ahem. Max. You with me? I've got my FC United hat on, now."

"Right."

"Would you and your client be available to come to Broadhurst on Monday evening?"

"Gosh," I said. "Whatever for?"

"You know what for."

"I should like to hear you say it."

He grimaced. "Owing to injuries and suspensions in the forward areas, we would like to offer your client a short-term contract."

My gut went:

Hurrrrrrrrh! Come onnnn! Whoop there it is! Whoop there it is! U-N-I... T-E-D... United are the team for me!

My face went: Politely blank.

"Short-term? Do you mean 18 months?"

Jackie grinned on one side of his face. "Until January, Max."

Basically a two-month deal. My joy absolutely vanished.

My face went: Thunderous.

"I see. You want Ziggy to help you out of a jam until you can sign someone better in the January window." I pointed to his phone. "Call your minion there and tell them they can go fuck themselves." Minus a billion relationship points!

"Max," said Jackie, unusually calm and reasonable. "You're new to this but even you must know there's a thing called negotiation. You can't just fly off the handle at every little thing."

"I fucking can and I fucking will. Ziggy is going to be a club legend for someone. I wanted it to be FC United but if you're going to play silly buggers I'll get motoring in my shitty car and get networking again." I pressed my knuckles into my forehead. Why was everything so hard? "You need him more than he needs you. Offering terms till January is sick. It's a joke. He's supposed to quit his job for the privilege of being shafted by you clowns two months from now?"

"We've been training him. Developing him into an asset you can monetise. You owe us."

"Agreed. So when he scores the goal that relegates you, he won't celebrate. Call me a taxi to Manchester. And pay for it."

"Max!" said Jackie, still absurdly calm given that I was blasting him with both barrels. "Don't you think you should talk to your client before you make these decisions? Maybe he'd be fine with playing till January. It's a foot in the door. Way easier to find a new club. He might even grab a goal or two. Earn an extension."

"Sure," I said. "I'll talk to him." I picked up my phone and pretended to dial Ziggy. Pretended to get huffy waiting for him to pick up. This is what Jackie heard: "Ziggers. Bad news. FCU want to take you on, but only till Jan. Yeah, it's a piss-take. I know. I know! Well, I know this guy at Oldham. We'll get you in there. It's a higher level, yeah, bit less playing time, but I'll tell you one thing - when they see how good you are, they won't offer you a zero-hours contract like some poor shelf-stacker in a trainer shop."

"Max," said Jackie.

"No, yeah," I ranted. "Jackie knows about it. He's here. Yeah, he acts like some sort of high priest of socialism but he's not above a bit of casual exploitation when it suits him. I know. But goalscorers own the means of production, mate. That's you. He's going to wake up tomorrow and realise he's let a 20-goal a season striker slip through his grubby little hands."

"Max," said Ziggy.

I blinked.

My client's voice had come out of Jackie's phone. I thought he'd hung up, but he'd actually put the call on speaker. Ziggy had heard everything. They both burst out laughing. Jackie had completely outplayed me.

***

Good joke.

Funny.

I'd have a permanent plus 1 to my blood pressure, but there are times you have to admit you are beaten.

But while Jackie continued pissing himself laughing, Ziggy clarified that there had been an injury and that there really was going to be a contract discussion.

We agreed to meet on Monday before the negotiation. My temper was still up, and Jackie was still sniggering. But Ziggy would enjoy the rest of his weekend. Potentially his last weekend as an amateur player!

***

At half-time, Mike Dean returned. Now that there was no XP on offer, I could give him my full attention. Realising I'd been a bit rude earlier, I stood and turned the charm up. That was hard with my massive bruise making me look grotesque. But I tried.

After a quick burst of SmoothMax™, a visibly more relaxed Mike returned to his mission. "So, Max. I've been watching the game trying to see what you were talking about. I'm not a tactician but yeah, I started to get it. Very impressive. I talked to the coaching staff and they're in a huddle now trying to counter it. We could use a lot more of that kind of insight around here."

I did a little frown and looked at Jackie. When he wasn't trying to humiliate me, he was trying to help me with my career. Why? "Sorry, Mike. I don't mean to be rude, but... who are you?"

He laughed. "Left you to figure it out for himself, did he? He's like that. Socratic Method or some bollocks. I'm the Managing Director here."

"We call him MD MD," said Jackie.

"Sort of Head of Football. Now, we don't have a lot of money like those kleptoclubs in the Premier League. We're a community outfit. But we still need to win football games. I'd be interested in hiring you as a scouting specialist."

"Excuse me?"

"Go to scout our opponents." He tapped my piece of paper. "Give us this kind of tactical insight. And tell us which players to look out for. Who are their dangermen? Are they strong on set pieces? That sort of thing."

My mind was completely blown. Was I being offered a real job in the football industry? "And which to sign. That's my superpower."

Mike's eyebrows rose. "You're pretty confident in your abilities."

Jackie stepped in. "Max, who'd get into a combined team?"

He was asking me to pick players from Chester and Darlington and make a sort of all-star team. "Ben Cavanagh, Carl Carlile, Aff, Henri Lyons. The rest would be the Darlington team that's on the pitch."

Jackie was nodding. He liked what I'd said. Agreed with me.

Mike was perplexed, but shrugged it off. "What we can do is, you make recommendations on players and we'll track them over time and we'll see how often you're right."

"There's an easier way," said Jackie. "He's found a player. Free agent. Top midfield prospect. I've scouted him, briefly. Ian and the coaches will lose their minds when they see him." Now here was Jackie doing my pitching for me. I wasn't sure how I felt about that. It felt like part of his wider plot. "Let him come and train. Get his fitness up. Max found him playing five-a-side. We're about to sign a striker he found. He found a girl who's been signed by Man City. If the midfielder makes it, that's three for three. You'd be mad not to take whoever else he recommends."

Mike scratched his face. "There's no harm in looking at the guy."

"What about Henri Lyons?" I said.

Jackie was exasperated. "Max! He isn't even your client!"

"If you can get him, you should! If I'm going to recommend players I'd like to think someone is listening."

"He's difficult," said Mike. "There's more to football than talent."

"That's fair," I said. "Yeah. That's fair." That was one weakness I had. The CA/PA numbers didn't tell me anything about someone's character. Although in some cases I could get a reference from Solly the dog.

Mike sort of blew a raspberry. "Well. Looks like I just offered you a trial as a scout and your... client?... a trial as a player."

"How much do I get paid? For the scouting."

Mike calculated. "Fifty quid."

50 quid to travel the country watching 6th tier games in the cold and the rain? I kept my shit together. "Jackie. Is this one of your wind-ups?"

Mike grinned. He was no stranger to the world of negotiation. He didn't mind a bit of pushback.

Jackie acted as my agent. "A hundred a match, plus you pay his expenses. Petrol, parking. Tenner for a pie and a program. The office sorts out his tickets."

Mike picked up the scouting report. Looked at the formations I'd drawn. He was thinking, is this worth a hundred quid? I wished I'd had more colours. He looked at Jackie in a slightly strange way. "Deal. Tuesdays and Saturdays till the end of the year. Sound good?"

I grinned. Free XP! Free money! "Deal. One more thing. Have you got any teams I can manage? Just for one-off games or whatever. Just for the practice."

Mike laughed. "You can coach the Knights!"

I sort of did that tiny head wiggle you do when you want to say 'okay sure what's the problem?' "Fine. Love to. When do they play?"

His face dropped. "I wasn't serious. They're... Well, they’re sweet kids but they never win."

"They'll be happy I turned up, then."

Mike's demeanour radically changed. He did something like the thing that Jackie did - sort of went internal and blank-faced. But coming from an older guy, a more mature guy, a managing director guy, it was even more impressive. He turned his new face on Jackie, but the scouser was unmoved. "Don't underestimate him. I watched him turn some no-hopers into a team that thrashed Man City."

"Jackie loves to exaggerate that story," I said. "But if they always lose, what have you got to... ah... lose?"

He shrugged. "Nothing, I suppose."

"It's a youth team is it? Is it 11-a-side?"

"They're 9 to 15 years old. 7-a-side is the ideal. Sometimes they play 5 or 6 depending on how many turn up."

Confusing. "Aren't they affiliated with Chester FC?"

"Yes. But..."

Obviously whatever this was, it wasn't my dream team. But I'd pretty much take anything on offer. "Ah, well. I've said I'll do it and I'll do it with a smile. But I really wanted to do some 11-a-side matches. I've done a lot of small-sided games recently. I need something more serious."

Mike appraised me. "Tell you what. You win with the Knights, I'll put you in charge of the boys under 14s for a game."

"Top," I said, rubbing my hands. "When's the next Knights fixture?"

"Tomorrow morning," he said. "You aren't thinking..."

"Yeah. Let's get on with it. I'll drive back here in the morning. Just tell me what time."

"Max, you prick," said Jackie. "You're crippled. You aren't driving like that. I'll call the police and dob you in myself if you try."

I glared at him. "Fine. Buy me a sleeping bag and I'll kip in a bus stop. I'll pay you back with my scouting money. Then after the match I'll find her and see if she'll give me a lift home." I didn't explain who 'she' was. Jackie's reaction showed he knew exactly who I meant.

Mike put a hand on my arm. "Are you seriously going to stay the night in Chester just so you can manage the Knights in the morning?"

I stared at him like he was the stupidest man in the world. Which, to be fair, he might have been, though there was no evidence to suggest that. "Yes. Managing a team from a proper club is a big step up for me. Honestly, I've had a lot of good news today, but if you tell me that's definitely going to happen I'll be proper buzzing."

Mike looked from me to Jackie. Out of the corner of my eye, I felt like Jackie gave him a tiny little nod, but I can't be sure that actually happened. "All right," Mike said. "I'll get that arranged. And I'll find you somewhere to stay tonight. Not sure about how you'll get home tomorrow."

"I'll take him," said Jackie. So he had a place to stay in Chester? With Livia, maybe? I hoped so. "Make sure he doesn't get up to any more mischief."

***

MD left to do MD things.

As I caught myself in the reflection of the door as it closed, I reflected on how strange life is. After months of grinding, everything was falling into place.

In the last hour, Ziggy had moved within touching distance of becoming a pro. Raffi was about to get a second chance at a first impression. I had - and this was bizarre - gotten a job. At a professional football club! For good money! Wasn't that... 2 games a week, a hundred pounds a pop... 800 pounds a month for Tuesday evenings and Saturdays? I was going to say that coaching the Knights in the morning was the most exciting thing of all, but 800 pounds a month blew it out of the water.

Life was... amazing.

But also... lacking.

"Jackie. Thanks for everything. I mean it. But I'm desperate for a tea. My mouth is the most arid surface on earth."

"I'll get you one. And I'll get someone to bring you another during the second half. You read this article I'm about to send you about Henri Lyons. And then I'll go and sort some personal stuff out and I'll come and find you after the game. All right?"

"All right. Jackie?"

"Yeah?"

"Were we ever going to Wrexham?"

He grinned at me and left.

***

The link Jackie sent me took me to an article in The Durham Evening News. That was the moment I learned that Darlington was in Durham. I would have guessed Yorkshire.

Frenchman DROPPED by Quakers After Bizarre Rant

[The Quakers are the nickname for Darlington FC. All British clubs have nicknames like that. Man United are The Red Devils, which is cool. Liverpool are The Reds, which is abysmal. Man City are The Cthulhu Anthropoids. Chester are The Seals, named after their old stadium. You might be thinking that seals aren't especially intimidating. It's rare but not unknown for teams to change their nicknames. Benin used to be 'The Squirrels' but they decided it wasn't fierce enough and are now 'The Cheetahs'. Which, you know, is sort of a poor choice of name for a sports team.

All right, on with the article.]

Quaker fans are reeling after star striker Henri Lyons blasted the club and its manager in a surreal interview last week in the French magazine Scrogneugneu. In the interview, Lyons appeared to BLAST experienced Quakers manager David Evanlees, his fellow players, and the club and CITY itself. The 27-year-old French import, signed with great fanfare from Corsican outfit FC Borgo, has scored 30 goals in 60 first-team appearances. But now, with his contract in its last season, there are questions as to whether he will ever make the starting line-up again.

"It's horrible," said Quaker Supporter's Trust spokesman Roy Macateer. "He's gone in two-footed. He's bitten the hand that feeds him. I'm happy to see the club taking action against him." Other fans on social media shared the sentiments:

[Here there were a few embedded tweets, but my browser blocks all that shit. We don't need a sentiment tracker to guess what they said.]

The club declined to comment, citing British employment laws, but leaks from the dressing room indicate Lyons has been told he will not be considered available for the first-team until further notice.

What Was Said?

On playing in England:

"Football is not played. Football is created. Therefore, if you are merely playing, it is not football. In England, effort is rewarded. By the manager, by the fans. Creation is not. That is why Banksy remains anonymous."

On his relationship with his manager:

"The constraints of some coaches are liberating; the liberations of others are a straitjacket."

On his teammates:

"In France a dressing room is full of sound and fury. Players argue bitterly with their coaches. Thesis. Antithesis. And in the winning teams, synthesis.

In England you have authoritarianism. Dissent is stifled. Diversity of opinion exists on your phone. Not in the dressing room. Not in the town. Am I a philosopher? Of course not. I work in England. If I were a philosopher I would postulate that there could be the green shoots of valid ideas forming within the minds of the players, who have trained from a young age to find solutions; if we find one solution we might consider that other solutions could exist. I would postulate that debate is not terrible, to be feared, but is the fertiliser that solutions consume to grow."

On his future:

"The act of touching a ball is the act of adding to a poem. One day I am ee cummins. The next perhaps I am T.S. Eliot. There is only one constant; I never rhyme."

***

The referee blew his whistle and the second half kicked off. I watched the game as best I could, but it was pretty drab. My eye kept rolling towards the dugouts. In the away section sat a guy so French that everything he said was like nails on a chalkboard to the average Englishman.

I felt slightly light-headed, and it wasn't just that I had barely eaten anything all day. The air was heavy with the smell of opportunity.

I checked the text again - yep, there it was. Contract running out.

Henri Lyons. A poet-philosopher with great heading and finishing. I had to meet him.

But first I had to grind for XP and unlock another attribute.

With a sigh, I shifted my attention back to the game.

With an even bigger sigh, I checked the tactics screens and both were the same. Chester's manager had been told what was happening and had done fuck all about it. It was going to be a long 45 minutes.