1.31 - The False 9

31.

Football glossary: 'The False 9'. Shirt number 9 was historically given to a tall, strong striker who was good at headers. As tactics evolved, the need for this kind of striker diminished, and some managers virtually eliminated the striker position altogether. A new position emerged - the False 9. This was normally a midfielder pretending to be a striker, but rarely appearing in attack. Having no direct opponent confuses defenders and leaves them with no specific jobs. These bewildered players end up reverting to a prehistoric mental state, roaming the pitch looking for buffalo, foraging for berries by the corner flag, experimenting with irrigation channels on the edge of the penalty box.

***

Jackie stood in front of me, acting as the sole defender. Either side of him, the crash mats formed a sort of funnel, starting off nice and wide, tapering to a narrower point behind him.

"Guys," I said, "line up. Watch and learn. I'm going to dribble towards Jackie, take the piss out of him, and then score a goal. Any questions?"

"What are the mats for?"

"Just to give him a chance. Otherwise I'd zoom around him before he could turn his wheelchair. At his age, he wouldn't be able to stop me." Along with his name, the curse told me Jackie's age. But it didn't tell me his attributes as a player. Even if he was much better than me - virtually certain! - I was pretty sure I'd be able to do what I wanted.

Jackie scoffed. "I'm only 28 you cheeky little..."

I rolled the ball a couple of inches in his direction and fell into a sort of crouch as though I was going to dribble at him. But I immediately stopped and turned to my audience. "Oh, I forgot. Does everyone know what a nutmeg is?"

Jackie laughed - genuine, big laugh.

Ziggy said, "It's where you kick the ball through your opponent's legs."

"How does it feel to be nutmegged, Ziggy?"

"Not nice. Bit embarrassing."

"How do you think Jackie's going to take it?"

"I reckon now that you've told him what you're planning, he won't let you."

"I don't see how he could possibly stop me," I said, which brought a half-sarcastic oooh from the Met Heads.

I rolled the ball forwards some more. I was running more inelegantly than the most malcoordinated player I'd seen in any Sunday League game, any Powerleague. I was pushing the ball forward a bit with my right foot, then shuffling behind it with the rest of my body. I had my head tilted forwards almost 90 degrees, my eyes looking straight down. I miskicked the ball and ended up going in a slow circle. Everything was right-sided. Right, right, right. Hey, everyone! I'm right-footed! When I was facing Jackie again, I looked up - BIG movement - and then immediately down at the ball. Jackie wasn't buying that this was how I ran, and he settled into a stance with his weight distributed, on his toes, ready to pounce. My only advantage, really, was that I had the choice to attack down his left or his right.

As I approached him, I decided to go on my left. I'm left-footed, sucka! My whole presence changed - elongated, dynamic, limber - and I threw my left foot towards the ball - I was going to knock it past him. I sensed his eyes widen with surprise, even though he'd been expecting something of the sort. His weight instinctively moved to that side, the better to counter me.

But, surprise surprise, I had no intention of going to his left. I'm right-footed, yo! I did a stepover - let my leg travel across the ball in a huge, dramatic motion, planted it on the other side, used it as a pivot to explode to the right. Again, his reaction was automatic. It was virtually impossible not to counter my counter by throwing out a leg. But because his first move had shifted his weight to the other side, this movement was little more than a feeble waft. So far in this particular sequence, I hadn't even touched the ball. But as I pretended to burst past him on the right, I cheekily dabbed it through his legs. I would run around him and tap the ball into the open net.

A humiliating turn of events for the top coach! The ex-professional!

As I passed him, he seemed to flick out a leg and - to put it in appropriate but not quite accurate words - he booted me up the arse.

I tumbled, span, and landed with a sickening thud on one of the mats. I let out a piercing scream and gripped my shin. "Argh!"

Beth dashed towards me, followed by several others. They crowded me. Did I need medical attention? Was anything broken? Don't move! Don't put pressure on it! Beth used a can of magic spray on me like it was a flamethrower; it cooled and numbed my shin.

"Ziggy," I called out. "Ziggy." He rushed across.

"What, what?"

"Ziggy, if you're the ref, is that a free kick?"

"What? Yes! And a red card." I was strangely pleased to see Ziggy take my side, even if Jackie didn't... ah... have a leg to stand on. I'd been wondering what would happen if Ziggy had to make a choice, somehow, between Jackie and me. I'd found Ziggy, I'd been his wingman. But Jackie was the guy making him a better player. Jackie knew the door codes to football's inner sanctums; knew the secret handshakes. So yeah, pleasing. "Jesus, Jackie! Mate! You could have broken his leg!"

Jackie hadn't moved to help me. He was watching the scene with no little amusement. If he'd been embarrassed by the nutmeg, he wasn't showing it. "Nah, Ziggy, lad. I couldn't have broken his leg." He grinned. "I didn't even touch him."

***

On hearing those words, I sprang to my feet. "Feeling much better, now. Thanks, Beth. Did I hear someone say free kick?" I jogged to the ball, brought it back, and stopped it dead. I looked from the ball to the goal and back to the ball, which I then gave the biggest thrashing of its life. It flew as true as an exocet rocket, hitting the underside of the crossbar, and thundering down behind the goal line and up into the roof of the net. Very satisfying!

I slapped my palms up and down. Job well done. Here endeth the lesson.

"Wait wait wait," said Ziggy, looking at Jackie but pointing at the crash mat. "You didn't foul him? That was a dive?"

"No!" said Jane. "That was a foul. He kicked him! I saw it!"

There was more back and forth like that. I would have liked to bask in the confusion for a while, but time was running out and we had to get to my big tactics moment. "Ladies and gentlemen," I said, and paused for the rumblings to die down. "Yes, I dived. I would say that Jackie is innocent, but I don't know that for sure. He certainly didn't kick me. He was too busy being megged."

Tight-faced grimace from the Liverpudlian.

"Max," said Beth. "Do you want us to cheat? Is that what you're saying?"

"Jackie," I said. "You're the professional. Is executing a triple-axel maximum difficulty spin cheating?"

"Yes," he said. "The laws of the game call it simulation. Most people call it diving. It's a yellow card... for you."

I shook my head. Refs were conned by diving all the time. Even when you were caught diving, you wouldn’t always get a yellow card. It was an efficient play. "Is exaggerating contact cheating?"

"No," he said.

"So if Lula has the ball and some little City midget gives her a tap, and she falls to the floor clutching her ankle...?"

"It depends if you want to win at all costs or if you want to be able to sleep at night."

I smiled. "I'm not going to sleep at night if Peter Dinklage has left my ankle black and blue. Listen, everyone. I'm not saying to dive. But I have a feeling if we get a free kick we'll score. Let’s say that a psychic dog told me."

Beth interrupted me. "Free kicks in our league are indirect." Meaning you can't score straight from the free kick. Yet another rule designed to make the sport a low-scoring game, you might think. But I'm pretty sure that rule is to stop someone taking an almighty run-up and blasting the ball at the first defender blocking the shot. A ball to the balls hurts, believe me, and the magic spray does diddly squat to help your squatted diddlies.

"So pass, then shoot. Or just smack it at goal. If the keeper tries to save it, which she will, she’ll touch it and the goal will count. The thing is, everyone, the first goal is huge. It's mega. I don't know a word big enough for this. It's megahuge. If City score the first goal, they can pass us to death. Their chances of winning go to 70%. If we score the first goal, they'll have to take more risks against us, and we'll do them on the counter attack. Score first and our chances of winning are 70%. Get a free kick, score a goal, then you can go back to being bionic commandos ignoring every whack to the shins. If letting the referee know you've been kicked is against your religion, that's cool. I've said my piece."

Jackie piped up. "What would you do, Max? If you were a Met Head? Would you roll around crying for your mam?"

"If I was a Met Head," I said, "I'd be thinking hmm that cute Max boy is taken, Ziggy is into... who he's into. Youngster is too young. Thank God I like older men. I'd also be thinking, I'm ready for my tactics now."

***

I got them to drag the crash mats back to the storage room while I prepared my little presentation. By the time everyone came back, which wasn't long, I'd gotten out my little A5 notebook and handed Kisi a fistful of colourful marker pens.

I took a black pen out of the mass, turned to a blank sheet, and sketched out the little sports hall. A centre circle, two goals. I drew a circle for the goalkeeper, the two defenders, two midfielders, two strikers. Seven players, seven circles. I looked over at Kisi's hand - she'd re-organised all the pens to be tip-down. "Why've you done that?"

"The ink flows to the bottom, so they're ready to use."

"Did you hear that everyone? Details. Details add up. Don't they, Jackie?"

He replied by giving me a double middle finger.

I took a light purple pen and shaded in my players.

"A lot of teams play like this, whether they realise they're doing it or not. 2-2-2. Last time, City started as 2-3-1, and during the game, we copied them. Eventually, they pushed their third midfielder into attack, caused us all kinds of problems. But anyway, they're a very midfield-based team. What we did well was to let them pass it. If you run into their traps, you're toast. If you don't do anything stupid, they're actually quite insipid. I went to see the men's team against Crystal Palace and in the first half they didn't have a single shot."

"We won in the end, though," said Ziggy, showing a hitherto undiscovered death wish.

"Yes, Ziggy, because they are brilliant. I'm just saying their biggest strength can be a weakness. Mindless passing. Robotic football. So, check this out. Kisi, red please."

She handed me what I needed.

I drew two arrows.

"My plan is basically... this midfielder attacks, this one defends."

I ripped out the page and handed it to Kisi, who held it up. I turned a new leaf and began drawing a new one. "So what happens if our midfielders don't play in midfield? Beth?"

"Hmm. Not sure. I'm guessing the answer is we lose ten-nil."

"Five points for Hufflepuff! Jackie?"

He peered at my sketch. "You're going to give them the midfield? Completely? They'll overrun you."

"Maybe." I added the final flourishes to my latest drawing. It was, frankly, an instant masterpiece. Destined for the Football Hall of Fame. "You've heard of a false 9. Presenting, the world's newest tactical innovation: the false midfield."

"3 attackers. 3 defenders. From 2-2-2 to 3-0-3. What do you think? Anyone? Anyone? Beth, help me out." The mood was relatively sceptical.

"No. You know I'd be in Gryffindor."

Ideally we'd have had a big ol' chat about all this, but there wasn't enough time. Quicker if I just explained it. They'd have 48 hours to digest it before kickoff. Maybe it'd be enough. "We know they love passing sideways. At the start of the match, they'll definitely have one striker. Million percent. We'll have three defenders, so there's no forward passes available. Yes? So they'll just pass from one side to the other for about 25 minutes! It'll be awful. I can't wait. Eventually they'll push a midfielder forward, and then it'll be our 3 against their 2. Okay. We can handle that. Even if they go nuts and push another player forward, that's 3 on 3. All you have to do is track them. Stand between your man and the goal. They'll get a few shots away but they'll be low quality ones."

I took a sip of water. I saw some players staring at my drawing, getting intrigued.

"Right. They miss a shot, they play a loose pass, we get the ball somehow. What do we do? Blast it upfield. To one of our three attackers. It will be mayhem. We won't get many attacks in the game, but every time we'll have an overload. We will score goals. If we get the first goal..." I said, pointing to where I’d been ‘fouled’. "If we get the first goal, that'll just make all these counters even more lethal."

I left a pause for someone to point out the obvious, blatant, fatal flaw in the plan. No-one did, so Jackie helped out.

"If you leave the midfield free, City will abandon it too and match you up and you're back to where you started."

I pointed at him, delighted. "Yes! But look," I said, tapping my first sketch. "We're playing with 2 midfielders. We're playing 2-2-2!"

Beth threw a water bottle at the floor. "Max! Jesus fuck! You just said we weren't playing midfielders!"

I found her little tantrum quite sexy. Is that weird? "False midfield, Beth. We have to do everything to make it look like we have two in midfield. Every goal kick, kick-in, free kick, every break in play, the midfielders are standing in midfield. Yes? But as the play develops, oops! Where did they go?"

Youngster spoke. "It is Master and Commander."

"What?"

"It is a maritime movie set in the Napoleonic Wars. The sailors disguise their ship so they can get close to the enemy." He grinned, viciously. It was quite odd coming from that innocent, placid face. "Then they strike!"

I pointed at him. "Master and Commander. I'll have to watch that."

"The sound design - " he started, but I gave him permission to shut up.

"Yep, thanks."

Jackie nodded. "It might work for a while. You said she's a good coach. She will notice soon enough."

"Or she might not. And so what if she does?" I said. "If we get 30 minutes out of it, we're laughing. Leaves us 20 minutes to hold on. Better than holding on for the entire game!"

Beth picked up her water bottle and checked nothing had spilled. She eyed me with the tiniest hint of approval. "All right. False midfield. It sounds mental. I'm in. Let's set it up."

---

Housekeeping - I'm going on a mini-break tomorrow. Recharging my batteries! I'm back on Sunday. Next chapter on Monday, probably. Thanks as always for your support!

Don't forget to vote on the weird AI art page. Which image should I use to show what Max sees in chapter 27?