1.33 - The Beautiful Game

33.

"I dedicate this book to all the people who have made this great game the Beautiful Game." The autobiography of Pele (who won the World Cup a record 3 times with Brazil).

The next morning, I felt a little calmer. It was no good catastrophising about Youngster. Maybe my mistakes would mean I'd have to do twice as much work to get him signed. Or maybe there had never been a chance of him becoming a footballer. Either way, I'd do my best to make it happen. Full grind, no shortcuts, no awkward squirming when he mentioned his beliefs.

To that end, I downloaded some Christian podcasts to listen to through the day. They used the word 'wretch' a lot. And 'sinner'. I was picking up vocabulary but not really learning what it was all about. There was a Christian bookshop in town so I popped in after work looking for 'Christianity for Dummies' or something of the ilk. I didn't find anything that hit the spot, but they had custom bookmarks for free and I helped myself to a couple of those.

***

Later, I went to Platt Fields and had a quick chat with Emre. I asked if he was a Muslim and he said yes, of course. I asked if he went to the Mosque and he said yes, of course, every now and then. I asked if he drank beer, and he said, yes, of course, religiously.

I laughed and told him I'd signed a client and would be able to pay him back the money I owed him as early as January. He rolled his eyes and offered me another wrap. "I'm ready for my onions," I said, and he was very solemn about how he inserted them. This was a big moment.

"You owe me 9 pounds," he said.

"Nasilsin," I said, which was the only Turkish phrase I'd learned.

I pottered off to watch some football. It had been a while since I'd got any new XP. Life had been eventful - too eventful maybe - so this was a nice change of pace. Nice, simple, rubbish game of football, one XP per minute.

I munched away quite happily.

Emma: Hey, Mister Romance. I need someone to explain football to me. Give me a call if you want to be that man.

This wasn't as out of the blue as it might seem. We'd exchanged a few texts here and there since we'd met. Just simple stuff. Poking the fire. Keeping it on a low heat, ready to drop some, er... wood... into it. Onto it.

Me: I'm just eating a wrap. Give me ten. But you'll have to call me. I have no minutes.

Emma: Okay.

"Max Best speaking. How may I assist you today?"

"Oh, hello Max Best. This is Emma Weaver. I'm calling in reference to our previous conversation dated the 11th of September."

"Whoa!" I said, ending that little role play. "Was it that long ago?"

"Two and a half weeks. 18 days, in fact," she said. She'd been counting! That cheered me up. "How was your wrap?"

"Too many onions," I said.

"Aw," she said. "At least I know you won't be kissing other girls, then."

"Unless they've got Covid. What are you up to?"

She sat down on something soft. In my imagination it was her bed. "Just cleaning. Tidying. Listening to a football podcast."

Oh! Maybe she was doing her homework to talk to me the same way I was listening to Christian ones to talk to Youngster! "Why?"

"Well, that's the thing. Me and the girls are going out with some lads on Saturday. Pub lunch. Pub lunch with the football on. Arsenal against Tottenham Spurs."

With some lads. A tiny pang of jealousy. Just for a microsecond. So brief you would hardly notice it, if you were the type of person not to notice the sudden, fraying hole in your gut. "Right."

"The podcasts are so boring. I was thinking you could give me a few pointers."

"On how to flirt with the lads?"

"I think I've got that covered. Pointers on what to look for in the game." She wanted things to say to the boy she liked. Things that would separate her from the pack of clueless lasses. Ah, well. We'd always have Didsbury.

I had a sudden inspiration. I could use this phone call as practice for my chat with Youngster. Our next conversation was going to be the sales pitch of a lifetime. It'd need charm, enthusiasm, positivity. I needed to pitch with a big smile on my face without worrying about the millions of pounds I'd lose if I said the wrong thing. Not all that different from flirting with a gorgeous blonde. I changed my whole stance. I sort of turned sideways and started using my free arm to make big gestures, and put some warmth into my voice. Not too much. Just a little bit more flow, and I'd turn the tap a little more every half a minute or so. "It's gonna be a fascinating game. You're lucky in that respect. What level of complexity do you want?"

"What a question." She sighed and mumbled a few words. If you put a gun to my head and forced me to say what I think I heard, then you'd better know that I don't negotiate with terrorists. But I think I heard 'imagine' and I think I heard 'Manchester'. She returned to an audible volume. "Give me the chicken korma version." Mild. Simple.

"Let me think. Small to big. Players. Managers. Fans. Yep, that's good. Good structure."

"You like to structure things?"

I thought about Youngster. Me just crashing forwards without a plan. "If it's important, it's worth planning it."

"You explaining Arsenal to me is important?"

I opened my screens and checked I was getting XP even though I was on the phone. I was. "Nothing is more important to me. You ready?" She was. So. Arsenal versus Tottenham. "I think I'll start with the fans. Normally I'd start small and get bigger."

"Oh," she said. "Did we start the phone sex already?" Flirting again! What about her Saturday boy?

"You don't want phone sex from me - last time I tried, her phone melted. So the fans. Both teams are in North London. When the teams are in the same city, the game is called a derby. So this is the North London derby. They'll say it a hundred times on the TV."

"North London derby. Got it. What about in Derby? The city called Derby."

"You're asking if there is a Derby derby? There isn't, but god I wish there was. Let's say that 80% of the people in North London support Arsenal or Spurs. By the way, you don't say Tottenham Spurs. It's one or the other."

"Bullet dodged. Thanks."

"So if your side loses, you get mocked for months. At work, in the pub, wherever you go."

"Really?"

"Well, there's only one team in Newcastle so you might not have seen much of it. If you're in a city with two big teams, it's awful when you lose. Man U are playing City on Sunday and we'll probably lose and Ziggy is going to be insufferable about it. I might turn my phone off."

"Oh. I see."

She didn't see. She couldn't. Supporting a team isn't logical. I could only begin to hint at the insanity of it all. "It's hard to explain how big a deal the North London derby is. It's really important to them. Let's just say that the night before the game, loads of those fans won't be able to sleep. If you're an Arsenal fan on the Titanic and you've just beaten Tottenham, you're probably pretty chill about dying. Could be worse, you'd say. Could be a Spurs fan."

She laughed. "Jesus."

"Yeah. So historically, Arsenal have been better than Spurs and usually finish above them in the league. The Arsenal fans created a new and unique way to mock their rivals. The day when it's mathematically impossible for Spurs to finish above Arsenal in the league, the Arsenal fans celebrate and call it Saint Totteringham's Day."

"I can't tell if you're joking."

Over on the right side of the pitch, the goalkeeper for the red team took a big goal kick, but hurt himself in the process. Looked like he had tweaked a hamstring. Painful. I thought of what I wanted to say to Youngster. He'd said something about football being a troubled industry. "Footy is problematic sometimes. It's simultaneously violent and a sort of physical manifestation of the male id. I'm not into that side of it. But it's also a kind of childish playground with mean, stupid, and funny taunts. I'm afraid I kind of love it. Sorry not sorry. Manchester United is shortened to Man U which becomes manure. Manchester Shitty. Chelsea were Chelski when they had a Russian owner. Stuff like that. Saint Totteringham's Day. I'll text it to you so you can slip it into the conversation on Saturday."

"Okay."

The red team didn't have any subs, and the goalkeeper could still jog. But he couldn't jump, so his team decided to put someone more currently agile in goal - the two players began swapping shirts.

"So then the managers. This is really interesting. A real clash of styles. Arsenal have a Spanish manager."

"Uh-huh."

"He's very handsome. You'll like him. Very passionate, well-dressed Spanish guy. Perfect for you. Unless you prefer a very passionate well-dressed Italian guy. He's the other manager. He's older, though. I'm not sure what your type is."

"You know exactly what my type is."

"Tall. Muscle-bound. Tats. As little neck as possible. Likes to say 'it is what it is'. So the Arsenal guy, he's been building this team for 3 or 4 years and now it's ready. They want to control the ball and attack, try to score goals. The Beautiful Game. Lots of very attractive passing. Lots of shots. The foreign managers use the word protagonist. He wants his team to be the protagonists. If he was a general, he'd be ordering his troops forward. Charge! But orderly. Controlled. Does that make sense?"

"Sort of. Will I see that on the TV?"

Great question. "I think so. It's hard to imagine watching a game if... if you don't really watch many games. Do you know what I mean?"

"I do. To be honest, normally it all looks like loads of men running around like headless chickens. And the other manager. He's the opposite, is he?"

I hesitated. First, because the correct answer was probably needlessly complex. But also because the goalkeeper who was now playing in midfield was wincing every time he touched the ball. He should really have left the pitch - he was likely to make his injury much worse. "Well, it's hard to say what's his choice and what isn't. But they have three superstar attackers. The rest of the team is fairly... mediocre. That's not the right word... Uninspiring, maybe. Uncreative. Is that a word? Dour. Drab. Spurs are playing with the goalkeeper and 7 defensive players, and when they get the ball they kick it up the pitch and hope their superstars can do something." I realised what I was describing was not a million miles away from playing a false midfield. Maybe I hadn't invented the concept, after all. "If he was a general, he'd be luring the other army into an ambush - then he'd unleash the cannons."

"And will I see that on the telly?"

"Hmm. If you are fluttering your eyes at some beefcake and you glance up at the screen, you might see Spurs with the ball in Arsenal's half a lot. But they won't score from those positions. Maybe you should focus on the goals. Watch the replays and you'll see that the Spurs goals come when they are defending and they quickly kick the ball up the pitch. There will be, like, two or three white shirts near Arsenal's goal. And when Arsenal score there will be loads of red shirts up there."

"Okay! That's helpful. I think I'm following you. And Arsenal play in red and Spurs play in white. That's good."

Huh. I should have started with that. Red and white. Just like the game I was watching now. "Last thing, and this might be the most interesting one for you." The wounded goalkeeper-turned-midfielder was moving a little more easily now. Maybe he hadn't damaged his hamstring after all.

"Go on."

"The World Cup is soon. You know Brazil is football mad? And to them the World Cup is like... the Olympics plus carnival plus Christmas times a thousand? Well, Brazil have lots of great strikers. Great forward players. And three will be playing in this match. There's a lot of intrigue around that. Of those three, probably only one will be chosen for the Brazil squad. So those three are going to be playing to the max from now till November. And scoring a goal doesn't just mean helping your team win the North London derby. It means you go on the plane to the World Cup, and that other prick doesn't."

"This is the Shakespeare bit."

"Football Shakespeare doesn't always go the way it should, but that's what's been set up in Act I, yes."

"Fun. So Saint Totteringham's Day, sexy Italian, clash of styles, Brazilians. Yes, I think that's perfect. Just the right amount of spice in my korma! I'm excited to watch football! I can't believe it. So listen..."

As she spoke, I watched as the not-wounded goalkeeper and an opposing player dashed towards each other, competing for the same ball. The guy in white slid towards it. The goalkeeper-guy lifted his foot to try to block it, but his hamstring popped and he sort of collapsed into the tackle. Fell right onto the other guy's outstretched lower leg, with both guys going at more or less their top speeds.

It was a sickening collision, but nobody reacted. The goalie clambered to his feet, rubbed the back of his leg with a big grimace, and the game continued as normal. But I could see their player profiles. The goalkeeper's acceleration and pace dropped one point. I'd seen this in other matches - small injuries didn't seem to affect attributes, but something like a 6-week layoff (e.g. a torn hamstring) would drop a stat by one point. I felt pretty sure the numbers would go back up in most cases. Once the injury cleared up.

This, though.

This other guy's stats imploded. Acceleration 1, Pace 1, Stamina 1, Jumping 1. Basically, all stats relating to his physical well-being nosedived. I panicked - had he died? "Holy fuck!" I shouted. I ran onto the pitch, ignored various perplexed and angry cries, sped to where the guy was. His name was Simon, and the nutjob was trying to stand up. I should have been relieved that he was alive but I was furious he was wriggling around. Like a fucking worm! "Stay still you prick!"

"Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm House M.D., mate. I'm Doctor fucking Doolittle. Who gives a shit? Your leg is wrecked!"

"Fuck off. It's fine."

I looked around and didn't see any friendly faces. I'd run onto their pitch and ruined their game. "Who's captain on this team? Tell him to lie down. Jesus fuck." Blood was pounding in my ears. My hands were shaking. I must have hit the screen when I was running over here because my phone had dialled someone. I hit red and typed 999.

"What's your emergency?"

"Ambulance! Need an ambulance. Platt Fields. The sport centre by Platt Lane."

"What happened?"

"Ah... playing football. Guy's broken his leg."

"Are you sure?"

Was I sure? I was the only one who seemed bothered. Even the guy himself didn't think he was hurt. I was - literally - out on a limb. The numbers, though. The curse. "I saw it," I lied. "The bottom of his leg just flopped backwards. It was horrible."

"God," said the dispatcher, under his breath. There was a lot of typing.

I hedged my bets in case I was about to make a complete fool of myself. "The guy is saying he's fine."

"That's the shock. The adrenaline."

"Can we move him?" If we could get him off the pitch, the rest of these pricks could keep playing. The very thought was repulsive. Why was continuing the game even a consideration? This guy would be on crutches for months. Maybe he'd lose his leg. Football? Who cared?

"Better not. We won't be long."

"We'll give him some painkiller or something?"

"Please don't. We'll be there soon. You can cover him with a jacket. Keep him warm."

"Get a jacket!" I yelled. "Keep him warm."

"Can you stay on the line until we get there?"

"Yeah. Sure. Yeah."

"Max? What's happening?"

It was Emre. He'd seen the commotion and come running. "This guy. Broken leg."

"Shit," he said. He ripped off his jacket, knelt, and gently pushed it under the guy's ankle.

"Wait, is this real?" said some guy.

"He's fine," said someone else. "Piss off the pitch." He moved as though he wanted to haul Simon off the ground.

"Back the fuck away!" said Emre. He wasn't a big guy, but you'd think twice about starting a fight with him. The guy retreated, sullen-faced, bitter. Simon's so-called teammates were staring at me, full of resentment. Some team. This is what I had to sell to James Yalley? This was 'The Beautiful Game?'

Emre seemed to know what he was about. He'd said something once about doing military service. I was glad to have him on the case. "I called an ambo. Can we do anything?"

"This is it. Just wait."

The next ten minutes were awful. There was a lot of muttering from most of the other players. Simon, the injured guy, had started off protesting that he was fine, but had gone quiet. His face was looking clammy. The ambulance turned up, drove all the way onto the pitch. The paramedic bros assessed him and got his leg into a brace. As they lifted him up and into the ambulance, the screams started. His teammates - finally - looked like they gave a shit. A couple tried to talk to me. I brushed past them.

"Emre," I said. "Buy me a beer?"

"Got to get back to work," he said. "Got to keep grinding." He patted me on the back a few times. "Well done," he said, and he jogged back to his stall.

I wandered off in a daze, directionless. I found myself at a chain-link fence, had to retrace my steps. Wherever I turned, there was football. I found a bench and sat, head in hands. I stared at the goalkeeper furthest from the ball. I got XP for that. Whenever the ball came in my direction, I looked away. I didn't want to see any more player profiles turn red.

***

XP Balance: 812

***

Emma: Max. Are you okay? What happened? I heard you shouting.
Emma: Max?
Me: I’m fine. Let's talk tomorrow. I’ve just seen something really ugly.

---

Beefy chapter! It wouldn't make sense to cut it in half.

Thanks for all your support! I got into the top 7 of Royal Road's Rising Stars.

Do you want to chat footy on Discord? I'm starting to set that up. I'll keep you posted.