1.42 - Mind the Gap

42.

"So, James. Youngster." I felt one side of my mouth lifting up. I didn't have high hopes for this contest, but I wanted to enjoy it, at least. "You have decided to sign the contract and want to discuss which team you'll start at."

James looked a bit panicked. "Ah, no, Mr Best." His mother made a noise inside her throat, and James switched his attention to her. His anxiety became a smile. "Oh. You're teasing me. You're teasing me because..." He peered at me, trying to read my face. He wasn't very good at that sort of thing. He was too serious. His own face barely ever twitched. "Because you already know my decision?"

"Decision?" I said, startled. "I hoped we'd discuss your objections and then you'd decide."

"Oh, certainly," he said.

I didn't like this one little bit. He wasn't lying to me, but he was so close to having made up his mind that it was a foregone conclusion. I glanced across at Kisi's phone. It was the score from the derby. City 3, United 0, and there had only been about half an hour. A vast, uncrossable gap. "Why don't you tell me your concerns? Football is a troubled industry, you said."

He turned over a ream of paper on the table. It'd been there the whole time but I hadn't noticed. They were pages and pages of notes in untidy teenage boy handwriting. I know what boy handwriting looks like because I've never grown out of mine. I instinctively sensed that this had taken him ages. He had high pace and acceleration but at school he was a slowpoke. How did I know? He must have reminded me of someone from my class, though I doubted anyone from my school had enough talent to play in the Premier League. I wondered if I'd ever met anyone as talented as James. "By my reckoning, football players routinely break 8 of the 10 commandments and 5 of the 7 deadly sins. In many cases these sins are hard-wired into the nature of the game itself. It seemed unChristian to list the ones I saw you break on Wednesday, and the ones Kisi told me about from Friday."

"Yeah, that does sound unChristian," I agreed. "Isn't my sin between me and god?"

"It is," said James. "Which is why I stopped making the list."

"Oh, but you started?" I was torn between curiosity and the fear of losing my cool.

"Do not misunderstand me, Mr Best. I think you try to be a good man and you have some Christian virtues. I merely sought to understand my revulsion at the idea of becoming a footballer." Revulsion. Ugh. The gap widened. "I have distilled my thoughts into three thesis statements. They are thus: The football pitch is a sinful, wicked place. The football stadium is a sinful, wicked place. The football industry is sinful and wicked."

I felt like he was cheating, in that sinful and wicked were synonyms. He made it sound twice as bad as it was! Good scam. I made a mental note of the technique. Not wanting to go through every line of his dissertation, I waved some of it through. No defence, your honour. "The last one is probably going to be hard to disagree with. You mean gambling and fake crypto tokens and money laundering and things like that?" He did, and there was a lot more. "Got it. But I'm not asking you to own a club. I'm offering you a job. It's like being a doctor or a nurse. You don't have to share an office with the Minister for Health, you have to give some guy two white pills and one green one. It's a job. It's really that simple. This is so interesting, though. Let's move on to the stadium stuff. Don't tell me. Let me guess. Ah... alcohol and... cocaine in the toilets."

James blinked at me. "I did not know about that. I shall write it down." He did so, while I exchanged exasperated glances with his sister. She was quite stressed for some reason. Even more than me. Was it because Man City were winning? James laid down his pen - perpendicular to the paper. "Racism. Homophobia. Anti-semitism. Disgusting chants. Cruel taunts. Violence, implied and real. May I read you a short passage from the Bible? I suspect you don't like this sort of thing." I nodded at him. Go for it. "The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control. These are Christian virtues, Mr Best. If we live by the Spirit, let us also walk by the Spirit. Let us not become conceited, provoking one another, envying one another. Conceit, provocation, and envy. Can you imagine a football crowd which did not display these feelings?"

"Of course not. They're the best bits." Today, the City fans would be very conceited, very provocative. The United fans would be very envious. What's wrong with that?

To my surprise, he grinned at me. "I understand it, Mr Best. I really do." He had bravery 16 - it wasn't that he was afraid of a hostile crowd, and he had a sense of humour. A microscopic one, but it existed. "But it is not Christian. Love, joy, peace, patience, kindness." He sighed. "Perhaps I have wasted your time. It seems my path is clear."

I thought back to my first meeting with Emma. The structure of that conversation had been similar, but with me painting a breezy, optimistic view of the sport. Funny how two people could look at the same thing and see the exact opposite. "Before you commit to a lifetime of regret, tell me the other section. The football pitch is a wicked and sinful place. What do you mean by that?"

By mentioning regret, I'd put him off his stride, which wasn't exactly my intention. Or maybe it was. He picked up the relevant piece of paper. "Deception. I do not mean your clever false midfield idea. Tricking the opposing coach is perfectly ethical. There are many Biblical precedents. David and Goliath. Joshua's fake retreat. No, I refer to deceiving the referee. Players appeal for every decision - they put their hands up to claim a throw-in even though they know they touched the ball last. They pretend to have been fouled and they simulate injury." He looked at me, wondering how I'd react. "They even kick their feet into an opponent so that the referee will see there was contact between them. Furthermore, when decisions go against them, the players surround and intimidate the referee. The levels of disrespect are appalling." This was true. At the Sunday League level there was a growing crisis because no-one wanted to become a referee anymore. I hadn't seen any outrageous behaviour myself, but some of the stories of players - entire teams - violently attacking referees were absolutely sickening. With fewer and fewer referees, the base of the football pyramid was crumbling.

"If you're on the pitch you can defend the ref. Stop it happening."

He shook his head. "If I am on the pitch it will be my job to join in. I know that."

And that was that. I'd shot myself in the foot. I'd demonstrated how to con the referee and encouraged the Met Heads to threaten violence against their opponents. And I'd done that within 20 minutes, really, of meeting James. A PA 181 cash machine and I'd shown him that my wallet was full of skimmed credit cards. But that had probably merely widened the gap by a few metres - there had never been any way of bridging it. Not really.

I stretched, preparing to leave. "Absolutely fascinating. Thanks, James."

"Ugh," said Kisi. "Aren't you going to tell him he's wrong?"

"He's not wrong."

Mrs Yalley spoke. "Tell us what you really think, please, Mr Best."

I shrugged and pushed my hands forward on the table to stretch my lower back. "I know there are lots of Christian footballers. Good Muslims. Really good people. Pious and all that. I've never heard anyone say 'oh he's a bad player because he doesn't cheat hard enough.' There's a video on YouTube called 'Messi Never Dives' - and it's just Messi being hacked down like he was a rainforest. He always stays on his feet, always tries to keep going. He's probably the best player of all time. I can't think of a single thing he ever did to cheat." That blew my mind as I said it. "Literally can't think of anything. I'd be very interested for you to watch that video and then tell me that cheating is hard-wired into the game. But that's just Messi, you might say. What about the rubbish players? Well, personally I don't see claiming a throw-in as any worse than being a salesman and knowing your product isn't quite the best, or some other job you'd ideally not do. Where there is a difference is in terms of scale. The salesman might make a couple of thousand a month. The rewards for football are unthinkable. Fifty thousand a week buys a lot of cornflakes for the food bank." I picked up the top sheet of paper. A lot of words were underlined. Words like patience and kindness. Bible verses. "But James has thought about it a lot more than I have. I respect his decision. It just seems - "

"What?" said James.

"Nothing," I said. What I was thinking was: why had this happened? If James didn't want to play football, why had the curse set this up? "I think I'll head back to my car. Maybe go via the field and see if anyone's playing."

"Don't you want to watch the rest of the derby?" said James.

"Absolutely not. It's already three nil and it'll only get worse." I tapped his papers. "Cowardice. Add that to your list."

"You are not a coward, Mr Best," said James. "I admire the way you fought against a superior foe."

I rapped the table twice with a knuckle and started to rise. Kisi nearly had a fit. "Mum!"

"One moment please, Mr Best."

Mrs Yalley left and came back with one of my contracts. The Kisi one. Oh! That's right. I had two potential clients here. She passed it over to me. It was signed. "You're sure?" I said.

"I'm sure," said Mrs Yalley.

"You don't think it's sinful?"

"Kisi is free to make her own choices. And, for what it is worth, seeing her accepted by Beth and the others warmed my heart."

"Kisi? Not worried about any of that?" I pointed at James's stack of objections.

"I want to be a Beth Head."

I took a pen out of my inner jacket pocket and clicked the top. I looked at the last, empty line. It just needed my name to be scrawled on. I looked at Kisi. I'd never make money from this. I doubted it would lead to any opportunities. But the curse told me she was a highly talented player, a flair player, a thrill player. PA 143, fast dribbler, could add goals to her game as she matured. I wanted to see her grow and develop and I'd learn a lot from it, too. Best of all, watching her dribble past a couple of defenders and nutmeg the goalie would bring a smile to my face. Having her as a client would lead to a permanent +1 to my joy attribute. An exuberant antidote to this grim, gammony country. What if she got an England cap? That would be a red letter day for me as much as her.

Still, though. It would increase my workload. Could I afford to invest my precious time in a girl who would probably have to train and play for four years before signing a contract so slim that ten percent wouldn't even buy me a new biro?

I brought the pen away from the page. Kisi's eyes tracked it. I moved it back towards the contract; her eyes widened. I moved it away; they narrowed. Kisi wanted to play football! She was the opposite of her brother; she wanted to get started right away, no hesitation, just eagerness.

Fuck it. This would be fun.

I put the pen on the line and - and paused. I leaned back. "You know," I said. "Maybe I should talk to Pastor Yaw about this."

Kisi looked distraught. Her mother cleared her throat and said, "Mr Best."

When Kisi realised I was teasing her, all the latent excitement burst out of her. She gave my arm a feeble double-slap. "Max!" she said.

I laughed. "No violence, remember! Now, normally I'd take potential clients to be inspected by a psychic dog. But I'll take your word for this." I thought about how to explain what I wanted. "You know I'm not against a bit of light skullduggery. But James is right about one thing. The abuse of match officials is out of control. I want you to promise to respect the referees." I thought about all the times I'd lost my shit at some grotesque miscarriage of justice. "As much as possible."

"Okay," she said. It came out weird; I think she was holding her breath.

"And you won't be a Beth Head."

She deflated. "Oh."

"Sorry but you're much too good for that." I signed the last page. "You are going to play in blue."

She grimaced and looked at her phone. She held it up. The score was City 4, United 0. "You don't mean...?"

"I do."

"But you hate them."

"Nah," I said, standing up, clutching my unexpected windfall. "Someone needs to knock them off their perch. Me, if it comes to it," I added, with a laugh. "But when it comes to being an agent," I smiled at Kisi, my second ever client, "my prejudices don't matter. City are the best and you'll fit right in." I thought back to Friday's game. "And you're already best buds with that Meghan girl." Kisi blushed. I got serious. "One more thing. You know how they operate. Pass, pass, control the ball. All that stuff. You'll learn how to do it. You'll have to fit in with the team, please your coaches. Now I'm just talking as a football fan. Don't lose your flair and your dribbling. Keep improving your flicks and tricks even if you can’t use them in every game. Fit in, be a team player, but stay true to yourself and your talent."

"She is a flair player?" said James.

"Haven't you seen her?" I said. If he wasn't going to join my illustrious client pool, he could at least support his sister's journey. "How about you watch her play one time, and I'll watch that boat movie you mentioned. Deal?"

"Deal," he said, after mumbling the word 'ship'. It was the only deal I was ever likely to get from him. As I shook his hand, I considered his player profile. Such a waste. But I had to respect his decision. Chapter closed.

I realised I'd missed something. "Oh! We need to do the contract signing photo. Kisi, come and pretend to sign this and I'll stand here. Mrs Yalley, do you want to be in the picture?"

She didn't; it was her daughter's special moment. So James took the photo. Kisi, absurdly happy, pretending to sign a document she wasn't old enough to have a say in. Me, pretending to be cooly professional. But actually Kisi's enthusiasm was overwhelming. In the picture, you can see me burning with excitement. Client and agent very much on the same page. Overlapping wavelengths. No gap.

***

I wanted to say goodbye to Mr Yalley, but he was in his shed and that meant he wasn't to be disturbed. For someone bemused by British habits, he'd certainly picked up one of the main ones - the man of the house retreating to his little man cave in the garden.

I was smiling to myself as I arrived in the park. There weren't any games going on. I sighed and wondered what to do with the rest of the day.

I had an incoming call from Ziggy. Before answering, I checked the latest score. City were winning 6-1. He was calling to gloat. I declined the call and turned my phone off. The day had started badly but gotten better, and even though James had turned me down, it had been interesting getting to know him. Spending time with the Yalleys hadn't taken energy. So I didn't want Ziggy spoiling the mood.

That... that was a mistake. I'm sure he would have gloated at least a little bit. But in fact, he was calling with good news. Exciting news. News that would bring me three months closer to being a football insider.

...

Thanks to all the new and continuing Patrons! I'm writing pretty hard this week, but I will try to set up the Discord this weekend and we can have some chats over there. I find it a bit bewildering. Update! It's happening!! discord.gg/xqsce9N6

Here's the Messi Never Dives video - there are newer ones but this is the one I saw in the olden days (when it was called Messi Never Dive) and it's really crazy how he takes that punishment and keeps going: https://youtu.be/I0gS5CshUDE