1.29 - Max Beth

29.

"Youngster!" said the pastor, full of affection.

There was applause and some pleased leg slapping. A couple of 'hallelujahs' maybe, but that might have been my atheist brain running riot.

My job was done, but there was no way I was leaving the limelight just yet. When it was a bit quieter, I said, "So, where is he?"

"Youngster, stand up," said the pastor.

Over on the right, a teenage boy in a huge suit. Think 'three children in an overcoat pretending to be an adult'. More applause. He waved at everyone and sat down again.

"What's the prize? Where is it? I'll give it to him."

"The young fellowship have been helping at the food bank. Collecting donations and serving them." I looked in the box, pulled out a few more slips of paper. There were a lot of young people helping their community. "The prize is a new pair of sneakers from the store. We will tell them his size and they will send the sneakers when they have a suitable pair."

"Right."

He beamed at me. "You do not look impressed."

I must have let my true feelings show - never a good idea. "Look, I don't know. I'm sure it's..." James had written his own name on the slip. The trainers were probably one of those nineteen pound ones from a brand you see on every shelf of the pound shop for a month and then never again. Whatever. James Yalley wanted to be chosen for them. I knew he'd been chosen for something else entirely. But... Chosen by whom? I took a peek at some of the other names on the slips of paper, just to make sure every one didn't say James Yalley. The pastor cleared his throat. I woke up. "Listen, I've just been to a food bank and it was miserable so if James is helping out in those places he's a winner in my book. And this might be weird but I can offer a better prize. And more immediate."

"Oh?"

"A football training masterclass, this Wednesday evening."

***

Fish hooked, I spent a couple of days trying to get my shit together. No grinding, just admin. Admin and trying to get ahead of things, trying to anticipate problems before they arose. In the entire scheme of starting a new career, I was doing okay, all things considered. I wasn't to know 'inside baseball' details like scouts getting free tickets - so there would be many more embarrassments ahead. But, if poss, I wanted to minimise such events. Thinking about some of the mistakes I'd already made caused my neck to heat up.

Still, it was an incredible moment when I looked at my little collage creation. I'd found this cork pinboard thing in a pound shop and I’d pinned up the league tables (culled from newspapers left in break rooms at work) from the top 7 divisions in English football. I wasn't trying to follow the comings and goings of every team - though that wasn't the worst idea. It was more a sort of single place where I could see all the English clubs that might end up giving me cash - an overview of the entire professional and semi-professional pyramid. Handy if, for some reason, you went so long without hearing the words 'Coventry City' that you forgot such a team existed.

Why was this moment incredible? Because Jackie, my fairy godmother, had sprinkled me with his magic dust - Cinderella, you shall go to the match! If Man United and City would let me in for free to every game, that would be, like, over 1200 XP a week! If any professional team would let me in to any game, I could earn, what, 5000 XP a week? For free?

It was too good to be true. There had to be a catch.

Anyway, for now the question was where to start. Tiresomely, yawn, apologies, I first considered United. They were nearby, I cared about the results, and I'd get 7x XP. Liverpool? Wearing their top had been like aversion therapy - now, I didn't close my eyes every time I saw an article about them. And they were near-ish. Everton, too, of course. They were the city of Liverpool's second-biggest team, historically a big club, big stadium, and a full squad of players I'd never scouted. And they had a manager not known for his tactical acumen. Would be interesting to see if I could see what he was doing wrong!

The rest of the Premier League was a bit too much of a drive. Not a problem in terms of the time and distance, but in terms of petrol. They'd have to wait. Maybe the October perk would be a never-ending petrol tank.

But probably I'd go to a Championship match before my next Premier League one. Going to a game in the second tier would help me build my mental map of the CA levels indigenous to each division. And I had a very very sneaky suspicion that I might get 6 XP per minute for those games...

Then there was the complete opposite end - the National League North (6th tier) or the National League (5th tier).

For me personally, it would be better to start at the higher leagues and make my way down the pyramid. More XP, quicker.

But for Ziggy, I needed to get a clearer picture of the lower leagues and where he might fit in. So that's where I started.

***

"Bill Brown."

I was on the back foot already, surprised he hadn't said the name of his company (Oldham Athletic) and department (Hospitality) like I had to in my day job. "Oh hi, Bill. Mr Brown. I'm Max, a Manchester-based scout and agent. I got your number from the website. Hope it's not a bad time. I'm looking to get tickets for the Wrexham game."

"Oh, right?" His tone was casual, friendly disinterest. He was doing something else.

"Yeah." Before dialling, I'd had a choice between 'charming noob' and 'slick super-agent' and, because I'm vain, decided to try the latter. So I said, "I'm not sure how you guys do it." I'm not sure how you guys do it, but I know how everyone else does it. Because I'm a pro.

"Just pop down to the main reception half an hour before kick off. I'll see you right." I heard him shuffle around - I guessed he was putting the phone under his chin and getting a pen. I heard him tapping it against his face rapidly. "You know what? This is actually perfect timing. I've just had a call about someone who can't make the game, so you can have his seat. Saves me some work! What's your name again?"

"Max Best."

"Macbeth?" he spluttered.

"No, first name Max. Last name Best. Like George."

"Oh!" He laughed. "Don't be bringing none of your Scottish curses with you, Max Beth. What's the line? 'By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.' Are you what's wicked, Max?"

I was a bit unnerved by the mention of Scottish curses, and him calling me Beth of all things, so my comeback was twice-fried lame. "The only thing that's wicked is the wicked opportunities I'm going to bring your club."

"You're not quite at the level of Shakespeare, Max. More second-hand car salesman. I won't hold it against you. Fair is foul, and foul is fair." Jesus Christ. Was I going to have to read Macbeth in order to become a football agent? Give me a break!

"Does that phrase mean it's okay to do whatever it takes to win?"

He paused. "Very revealing you'd come to that conclusion, Max. Very suspicious." He laughed. "I'll have to keep my eye on you. By the way, who are you interested in?"

"Excuse me?"

"Why do you want to watch us? Or are you checking out someone at Wrexham?"

"Oh. No-one in particular. Just getting an idea of the standard. I have a striker who might suit a club like Oldham. I just want to take a look. Um... if that's all right?"

"Sure, sure." He was back to not really listening. "See you on Saturday, Max Beth."

***

So, no new XP, but another new name in my football contacts list. And free tickets! Or... seemingly free. He hadn't actually said, and I'd been too chickenshit to bring it up. Bravery, minus one!

Which takes us to Wednesday and the second training session with Jackie and the Met Heads. Ziggy was there again, as was the guest of honour.

Problem was, I wasn't there.

I was late.

I would enjoy whingeing about it, but long story short, if you don't own a printer you're going to end up with a USB stick at a public library which has five employees but only one can remember the printer password and she's just popped out and my advice is: instead of smashing your head against the nearest wall, just bring a little cosh and batter yourself with it.

Anyway, with some bizarrely expensive printouts in my premium businessman suitcase (i.e. a hiker's backpack I got on sale), I dashed into the sports hall and was pleased to see the sesh had already started without me. I'd asked Jackie to do anything he could that related to tactical improvements - anything to turn the ladies from individuals into units. Some coaches tie their defenders together with long bits of string so that when one of them moves, they all have to move. Jackie had invented something even simpler than string - there were two attackers with a football, passing to each other, getting closer to a group of three ladies who were holding hands. The goal of the attackers was to pass the ball to each other while going from one side of the hall to the other, while the three blockers tried to get in the way of the passes. Like in netball, the attackers couldn't dribble, so in theory the blockers had a chance. In practice, they didn't seem able to coordinate a single line without one person leaving the handhold. It was ludicrous, but they were having a ton of fun and I suppose they were getting the concept of thinking and moving together as a unit.

I only had time to glance at the drill before I was assaulted by all the player profiles. There wasn't a lot of green going on - but there was one red number. Bella's passing had dropped to its previous level. News which didn't stress me at all - my working theory was that the attribute numbers were rounded down, so Bella's passing had naturally decayed from 6.0 to 5.99. Thus it showed as 5. This drop was actually incredibly helpful to me. I wanted to act on the info right away but there was so so so much going on and our 60 mins in the hall was wasting away!

Next, I turned to examine Ziggy. HIs technique had improved from 5 to 6 and his CA had bumped up two points. He was now CA 8. Still bad but... starting to get interesting.

But even that wasn't the most important thing.

While Jackie mimed pointing to his wrist and Beth called out some bit of banter about how I’d be late to my own funeral, I jogged to the side of the room where two teenagers were sitting.

"James," I said. "Sorry I'm late. Why aren't you training?"

James shrugged. He was not very tall, fairly thin, generally had the build of a middle distance runner. Long distance, maybe. I didn't know - I didn't watch those events in the Olympics. He was quite a slow talker, very thoughtful and careful. Quite pedantic. "We were not instructed to do anything." He'd had to take a bus from Wythenshawe because there was no way for me to make it from work to his house to the sports hall in time. Not even close. "We were not sure if perhaps we had arrived at the wrong hall. For the masterclass," he said. His delivery was deadpan, but his eye flicked around the hall. It was like he was saying, 'This is a masterclass? Mate.'

I briefly considered murdering him on the grounds of insolence, but my defence probably wouldn't stand up in court. So I looked at the girl he was with. Girlfriend? Too young. "Who are you and why are you in my masterclass?"

She smiled at me. "I'm Kisi, Mr Best. We met on Sunday. I'm James's sister."

"We met?"

"I was wearing a lemon and lime kaba."

"Wasn't everyone? Well, it's nice to meet you. James, let's get you in the session."

"Kisi is a good player, Mr Best. There are not too many players. Perhaps she could be included? In fact, given the makeup of the session, perhaps she should play instead of me."

"The makeup of the session," said Kisi, rolling her eyes. "They aren't wearing make up."

"Whatever," I said, "Fine. You can play, too. Changing rooms are through there."

"Mr Best," she said. They all called me Mr Best - all the Ghanaians regardless of age - despite me saying 'you can call me Max' several hundred times. "This is all I have."

I gave her a quick appraisal. She was wearing denim shorts and a loose t-shirt. One of those pound shop ones that had loads of random English words on that sort of looked like meaningful text but wasn't. In this case, hers read: TRY MY DELICIOUS SALT BEEF NEW YORK BOSTON 1995.

Her trainers were an appalling pink and grey mess, but they looked like they'd do the job.

"Er..." I said.

I turned to James. He was a bit more suitably dressed. He was wearing a sports jacket and some long tracksuit bottoms. Black bottoms, black trainers, white socks. "Jesus Christ," I said.

"Please, Mr Best," he said, giving me a look that should have come from an 80-year old who had lived through ALL the things and had no time for that sort of language.

"Right, come on, then, I guess." If their clothes wouldn't let them do certain drills, we wouldn't do those drills. No biggie.

"Jackie," I said, and gestured I'd like him to pause the sesh. He blew his whistle. The Met Heads+1 pottered over. "All right? This is James and Kisi Yalley." A noise from the siblings made me turn. "What now?"

"It is pronounced Yalley," James said, such that I couldn't hear a difference. "But that is okay. Most people in this country call me Youngster."

"Right," I said, trying to power through. "Youngster and Youngsterer. They're going to help us make up the numbers for the drills I want to do later. In the meantime, Jackie, could we please do a very quick passing sesh?"

He was torn between amusement and confusement (also known as confusion), but started giving instructions. He split the siblings up, which I found interesting. Most people would have made them train together since they were the newbies, the outsiders, the unknowns.

Beth came up to me. "Max. A word." She tried to pull me away to a corner, but nothing was going to move me away from James Yalley. As soon as the drill started, I'd see his profile, and it was either going to be ones all the way down, a big cosmic joke, or - "Max."

"What, Beth?"

She hissed at me. "This is our session. You're not in charge here. Bringing a proper coach is one thing, bringing some randos is bizarre and rude."

I was listening, but not on any kind of emotional level. I did see her point, though. I had been rude. It was bizarre. "If it goes wrong, I'll make it up to you."

"Max!" she hissed again.

There wasn't time for a University Public Speaking Club debate. I cut to the heart of the matter, as it stood there and then. "Are you going to make me send these kids home, Beth?"

"No, of course not. But - "

"Punch me in the face later, but don’t take it out on the kids. They’re good kids." I stepped forward. It was about to happen. "Oh, but Beth."

"What?" she said, her cheeks red, back tense.

"I need to borrow fifty quid."

"You little - "

But that was when the rest of the players started kicking the ball to each other. And I made a little noise.

"What?" said Beth, anger briefly forgotten. Jackie's head whipped round and his eyes bored into me.

"What? Nothing," I lied. But I couldn't contain myself. I couldn't stay internal.

Beth moved close to me and whispered. "I've heard you make that noise before, Max, but never in the daytime."

I looked at her and grinned. I looked at the kids and beamed. I looked at Jackie and felt a sudden need to dance. Singing in the Rain! Uptown Funk! Play what you like. I've got the moves! I did a little shuffle and a little wiggle. "Beth, have you read Macbeth? Watch this footwork! Is this a Jagger I see before me?" I did another little flourish and pointed one hand at the ceiling.

My pulse was racing, I felt light-headed, I was ready to make some rash decisions. I reached out, took Beth's waist into my arms, and kissed her full on the lips.

---

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Quick housekeeping - I'm on a mini break this weekend, where I will be talking a lot of shit about football. Good material for the book and those of you who want me to unhook myself from the laptop - done!

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