1.49 - Detours

49.

One does not simply walk into Mordor. And one does not simply drive into Liverpool.

"I need a break," I said.

"What?"

"My leg hurts. I need to potter around a bit. Stretch." The truth: I wanted to mentally prepare for the ordeal. What was the population of Liverpool? 800,000? 8 million? All sounding like Jackie. All with knowing smiles. All bringing every conversation round to The Beatles. "What's your favourite band, Jackie?"

"Arcade Fire."

Okay so they didn't talk about them all the time. Still. I needed to get ready.

"What's yours?" he said.

"Coldplay."

"That's what people say when they want the conversation to be over."

"Yep," I said.

"You started it."

I checked my phone for new messages. "I don't listen to loads of music. I like songs that go wooh."

Jackie scoffed and frowned and after a while, turned into one of those motorway cafe places. We topped up on petrol first, then drove on to the mini mart slash restaurant car park. "Walk around the shop or just stay here?"

"Stay here," I said. He helped me out. It was nice to stretch my legs, but the area was an echoey concrete horror show with cars and trucks whizzing past fifty yards away. What had I been expecting? The Hanging Gardens of Babylon? "Changed my mind. How about a cup of tea?"

Inside, I settled onto a table while he went to grab some drinks. He poured sugar into his tea - of course, the despicable thug - while staring at me. "You're a nervous passenger."

"If you say so. I just hate when people watch films with Al Pacino 'driving' for 8 minutes looking sideways and think they can do the same."

Jackie rubbed his temples. I was exasperating him as much as he was annoying me. "Max, what do you want?"

Big question. "In terms of...?"

He sighed. "Can I ask you a question without you bursting a blood vessel?"

I sipped my tea. I felt quite chill. Not completely centred, because I didn't know what was going on. Maybe we were just going to watch Liverpool or Everton. Whatever the plan was, I wasn't exactly excited, but I wasn't exactly apprehensive, either. I suppose what it boiled down to was that I trusted Jackie. "Ask away. I'll show you a zen master at work."

"Have you really never played Champion Manager?"

My eyes widened. We were back to that! I didn't need to count to ten before answering. "I'd never heard of it." I scratched the back of my neck. "I suppose it made me look a bit of a dick that day. Mum must have mixed me up with some TV show or something. That's what was so stressful. Seeing her have these false memories. That's not good. You get that, right?"

"Oh, yeah. Like I said, I know it must be hard." He looked around the cafe. There were all kinds of people there. All kinds except the rich. "What's your plan right now? Your plan for life. You don't want to stay in that call centre."

"No. You guys are going to give Ziggy a contract. You're going to sign Raffi. Thousand pound a week between them, hundred for me. If I can find 7 players like that by January, get them all signed before the end of the transfer window... I can quit my job."

"What about Kisi?"

"A 14-year-old in the woman's game? There's no money in that. Is there?"

He thought about it. "Not for years, no. So you've quit your job. Then what?"

"Get more clients. Go to games. Do football things full-time until one of my guys gets a big move. Then... see how I feel."

"What about Beth?"

"What?"

He did something with his mouth. Uprooted some expression before it could flower. "What about coaching the Met Heads?"

"There's nowhere to go with that."

"You like it though."

"Yeah. But it's not going to lead anywhere. If I was in charge next season we'd have to beat City twice to win the league. Okay. I don't think they'd let us do that. And it's 2 interesting games out of 10. Last night wasn't really fun. There's nothing for me to do." Just clicking Free Hit and shouting 'Yes, Nobby'. Even Frank Lampard could do that. "I'd like to do 11-a-side."

He looked up, sharply. "Playing?"

"Managing. Like Sunday League or something. But... ideally with less shit players. I really loved doing FC United reserves. If..." I stopped. Felt guilty. But fuck it - he wanted honesty. "If I got rich enough to buy a little team, I'd be the manager. Bring in new players, do the tactics and that. Make money wheeler dealing. That's pretty much my ultimate dream right now."

He stared at some point on the ceiling before fixing his gaze on me once more. "And what about playing, Maxy boy?"

I groaned, but we'd discussed that hideous computer game thing plus my current wildest dream. Why not get this out of the way, too? Maybe there would be a normal, healthy relationship on the other side. "What the fuck is your obsession with me as a player? I am dogshit. I've told you several hundred times."

His face had lost all expression. That thing he did. What did it mean? That he was angry?

"Dogshit?"

"I am no good. All flash, no cash. I have a couple of party pieces. Decent 5-a-side player. I'm virtually useless on a full-size pitch. Trust me! I've been me for 22 years! I'm flattered you think I'm talented, really, but you're way off." I couldn't see my own player profile, but I was definitely CA 1 and maybe, maybe had a slightly higher PA. Like seven. Ten at the outside. And that was extremely wishful thinking. I'd seen thousands of players and almost all had CA 1 PA 1. Why would I be different?

Jackie smiled, entirely without mirth. "Decent player, are you? Decent." He clicked his neck left and right the way action movie stars do before they start throwing wall-smashing haymakers. "You wanted me to watch Raffi on Thursday. And I agree with you, he's got something. He's decent. More than decent. Would I give him a trial? Absolutely. But he looked like a two-legged dog strapped into a rollerskate compared to you. Before you got injured you looked like peak Messi. Absolute, stripped-down efficiency. Didn't waste a single movement. That's not possible to coach. Believe me, I've tried. Anticipation. Imagination. Execution. Then you get kicked - justifiably so, some might say. And in the second half we get phase 2 of the Max Best Cinematic Universe. The Drunken Master. Nimble. Crafty. Elusive. And you and Raffi. Mate. I've seen some good connections between players in my life. McManaman and Fowler. Salah and Mane. Messi and Alves. And yeah, even your own Cole and Yorke. But I've never seen actual fucking telepathy on a football pitch before!" He was turning red. He seemed genuinely furious. He pushed his palm down onto the table. The gesture helped to calm him. "You might be the best judge of a player in the history of football. That remains to be seen. I'll grant you've got a good eye. But you can't scout yourself. You just can't. And I'm saying: I wouldn't give you a trial. I'd hand you a professional contract right now. Right now!"

His anger had wound me up. "In what position?"

"Striker. Playmaker. Right-midfield; the new Beckham. Except you're not right-footed. You're ambipedal. So you can be Beckham one match, Robertson the next. Who knows? I don't know. And you certainly don't fucking know. We won't know until you try. I don't know why you're so resistant to it. Why you're so belligerent about it."

"Because I know exactly how good I am."

"I don't think you do."

"What you saw on Thursday says more about Raffi than me."

"Fucking endless sales crap. Will you cut it out for one minute? Please? For Christ's sake. I saw it before Thursday. I saw it the first time you came down to Broadhurst. The first time you kicked a ball. I called you a silky smooth playmaker, remember? Why do you think I agreed to train the Met Heads? It wasn't to spend more time with Ziggy. That's when I caught your next performance. Perfect technique; perfect control. And the week after, nutmegging me to prove a point. After you said you wanted to meg me. After you narrowed the space so the only way round me was through me. And you did it anyway." He shook his head with a wry smile. "I used to be a pretty good defender, you know." He unwrapped the little biscuit he'd gotten with his tea. I chucked mine across to his side of the table. He devoured that, too. In a more normal tone of voice, he said, "I'd like to set up a trial for Raffi and you. We'll all learn something about Raffi, and we'll all learn something about Max Best. Unless you want to climb the Empire State Building and thump your chest at the very temerity of the proposal."

I thought about how it would be to turn up for a trial alongside a group of actual professionals. It would be humiliating in a potentially psyche-crushing way. But maybe I could style it out. Yeah, I know I'm shit. I'm an agent. I just wanted to know what my clients have to go through. Trying to become a better agent, you know? Yeah, it is a good idea. "If I go to a trial, will you shut up about it forever?"

"Yes."

I looked down at my ankle. "I'll do my best for 15 or 20 minutes, I promise, just so you can see that I'm abysmal. But I'm done getting crippled one body part at a time. I'm not going into 50-50 challenges. I won't challenge for headers against hardened defenders."

He considered that. He wasn't completely happy about it. "Fine. You can take the corners."

"Take the corners," I muttered, "Jesus. And my 'trial' will have to wait till I can move more freely. Raffi can't wait. He's got a glittering career ahead. If he's not at the casino, can you take Met Head training again next Wednesday? We can get him working on his skills, get him thinking like a pro. If I can book you for private sessions with him, let's talk about that. Actually, let's bring Ziggy and Kisi, too." This was an exciting idea. If it cost me a hundred pounds to improve all my clients' CA by one, once per week, that would quickly prove to be a bargain. By January, that alone would bring Ziggy to about CA 20 and Raffi and Kisi to CA 10, quite apart from whatever other training they were getting. And maybe I could get the same results even cheaper! I was paying Jackie a premium because I was desperate. "Actually, do you know any other good coaches I could try? You know I'd prefer you but you're not available Tuesdays and Saturdays." A thought occurred to me for the first time - FC United had a match today. Why wasn't Jackie there? I expected the answer would present itself. "Maybe I can use someone cheaper until my boat comes in. What's the minimum number you need for a training session? I reckon I could convince some Beth Heads to make up the numbers. Or Ziggy's mates." But maybe my clients would improve faster if there weren't rubbish players in the way... I bit my nails. I'd have to do some tests. This theoretical second coach might be cheaper but they'd want the cash up front. Maybe it'd be better to keep using Jackie, since he was curiously laid back about working today for payment tomorrow. "I wonder if Beth's lot have that sports hall the whole year or just during their season... I'll have to ask."

Jackie rubbed his shiny head, two-handed. Then he flopped his arm on the table and looked to the left. It was a gesture halfway between relaxed and defeated. He groaned and sat back. "I try to talk about you and you always bring it back to your clients. I mean," he scoffed, "fair play. I've met a lot of agents and a lot are parasites who don't give a shit about their clients, but you really fucking put the work in." He rubbed his head some more, then slapped himself on the cheeks. He held his hands there for a second. "I could do a session with four," he mused. He went internal for a minute - obviously thinking of some drills and challenges suitable for a small group. With an annoyed shake of his head, he finished his tea and stood up. "How's your ankle?"

"Mashed."

"Did you get it checked out?"

"I didn't have a 36-hour gap in my schedule to wait in ER."

He tutted and wandered off. I saw him dial someone, but then I had to focus on trying to stand up. The process was like assembling an IKEA bed, but with even more swearing.

***

Back in the car there was a bit of residual temper in the air. Jackie seemed to be deep in thought. Infinite monkeys with infinite typewriters wouldn't have produced his next question. "Who'd win: a team of Messis or a team of Ronaldos?"

I blinked. "Are we done with the heavy stuff?"

Jackie laughed. "For now, yeah."

***

As we approached an enormous motorway sign saying 'Next exit: Liverpool', Jackie moved into the closest lane and slowed down. Exit: 400 yards. 300. 100. And then we were past it. In disbelief, I turned my head as far as I could. We really had missed the turn! Jackie accelerated and moved back into the fast lane.

I glanced at him; he was grinning.

He'd been fucking with me this whole time.

So where were we going? For the first time I was curious.

I took my phone out and went to the maps app. On this road, the only destination that made sense was Wrexham. Unless he wanted to drive to the coast and fling us both off a cliff, Thelma and Louise style.

Fishing for clues as to our destination, I said, "So what do you think about Wrexham being bought by Ryan Reynolds and Rob Macinally?"

"Mac-ul-henny," he said. "Rhymes with penny. Like the song. Haven't you seen the documentary?"

He meant Welcome to Wrexham. "I've started but I've got lots to get through. All or Nothing. The Sunderland one. There's even one about Southampton's academy."

"Huh. I've never heard of that."

"It's on CBBC." The children's wing of the BBC. No surprise Jackie hadn't come across it.

"Why you watching that?"

"I feel a lot of this football stuff is sanitised. Clubs don't want their secrets getting out; they don't want you to know what football really looks like from the inside. But there's so much content now. If you keep your eyes peeled, you might be able to piece it all together. From the fragments."

"You make it sound like a murder mystery."

"You've got the right name for a Scandi noir," I said. "Jackie Reaper. You could be the killer or the detective."

"It's just a name," he said. He didn't like talking about his surname. Didn't think the jokes were funny. "So you want to see football from the inside? How about we take a little detour to one of my old clubs? I'll show you around the dressing rooms and stuff."

I stared at him for a while. He was doing to me what I should have done with James Yalley - slowly get him interested in the idea of playing football. Take him to the inner sanctums. Meet a few pro players. Smell the changing rooms. "This detour," I said. "Are we going to get into the dressing room and find there's a shirt hanging up with my name on the back?"

He went blank-faced again. "Why would we see that, Maxy boy?" He scoffed. "I work for FC United, remember? Christ. You should write detective books. Your imagination is vivid as fuck."