1.26 - Bravery

26.

The next drill was back to the simple passing, which I think was a palette cleanser to help the group forget the 'stag rutting'. Then Jackie made it more complicated by changing it from two people passing in a line, to four people in a line. One person would pass and then sprint to the other side and be ready to receive the ball. It was tough to control and pass after the sprint. Good drill.

Looking around, I didn't notice any more increases in the passing attribute. So I went over to Jackie and asked if we could do something with dribbling or finishing.

"You're the boss, boss," he said, changing his plan on the fly.

By the end of the session, Ziggy was still on Finishing 16. But maybe he'd gone from 16.04 to 16.07. Maybe skill increases took longer the higher they got. He had, however, increased his dribbling, from 2 to 3. Not enough to terrorise a defender, but it was still very pleasing.

And every one of the Met Heads had improved in multiple attributes.

It was a hundred pounds that I didn't have, but it was a hundred pounds well spent.

Everyone helped Jackie gather his equipment and put things away, then went off to have a shower. I was just about to complain that I'd have to go home sweaty when Jackie pulled a towel out of his bag. I snatched it from him and strode away, but after a few paces I glanced back and he was grinning at me. My traitorous mouth grinned in return. I didn't tell it to do that!

I came out of the shower feeling very internal. Lots of thoughts going on. Numbers, attributes, greens, drills, passing, short sprints, circles. Wonderful. Improving things like passing and technique was not just possible, it was easy.

What about the other attributes?

Bravery. What drill could you run to increase bravery? What effect did bravery have on a football player? Some obvious things came to mind, like a goalkeeper throwing himself at a striker who was sliding towards a loose ball. But I wasn't sure if I wanted my goalkeeper to do that - he could get seriously injured. If we conceded a goal, fine. Just go and score one at the other end. At least our teammate would still have his skull intact.

Acceleration and pace. Get Usain Bolt to take a session. Show people how to explode. How to do those choppy hand movements.

Flair (if flair was an attribute). Probably just a case of making people repeat show-off moves. No-look backheels. Scooped passes. Stepovers. Easy. But if you had limited training time, would you bother with flair?

All this and more was going through my head when I realised absolutely everyone was hovering around the main entrance, waiting for me. Huh? As I got to the edge of the group, most of them turned towards me. Maybe it was time for my speech.

I grabbed my jacket lapels and took a breath. "There comes a time in every man's life - "

Beth said, "Oh, finally! Come on."

She slipped her arm through mine. The evening was just turning to chilly, a promise of fog, a silver light diffused, for now, with gold; a golden hint of glorious sun with none of its fierce cruel heat - on such an evening, the football results didn't matter. To experience England like this was to live life as a winner. I sighed with extreme contentment, enjoyed the warmth provided by Beth, and let my brain switch off for a few magical, silver-gold seconds.

The entire mass of people moved together. Many people, many legs, one destination.

"You all right?" I said.

"I'm all right," she said.

***

Pub. Disease vector. Lots of close contact between men who don't wash their hands. Music played too loud. Sticky floors. On the other hand, beer.

This was some kind of student place, hidden away on a side-street off Oxford Road. We'd colonised an entire quarter, spread out over two tables and two columns. The talk was of football, politics, the royals. Did you watch the funeral? Who didn't? Did you cry? Me too.

I was at a table with three virtual strangers. I mean, draw my life as a timeline and these guys would appear in the final blob you made as you took away the pencil.

Beth was next to me, leaning in. Garrulous, lots of fast, sharp, hard sentences, lots of jokes, good banter, but doing that thing where she tried to hide how smart she was. Once, she mentioned Paris. Ziggy started talking about the city. Beth said, "No, I meant - " but then stopped herself. She meant Paris, the bro from the story of Troy. Later, she dismissed a new TV show as 'King Lear with tits'. Both times she glanced over at me to see if I'd noticed. Why?

Jackie was a great pub guy - effortlessly charming, effortlessly sharing his thoughts in a melodic wave, rising and falling. Every sentence was a sculpture. But he knew when the jokes needed to stop, and when the time came to say the right thing or make the right noise, he never got it wrong. Some of what he said to me looks harsh written down. You had to be there. You had to hear it.

Ziggy was Ziggy. Quiet, companionable, mostly speaking to help a story progress, to add to a joke, to remind someone what they were saying, or to ask questions.

Me? I was subdued. The company was great. I had lots to say to all of them. But after mindlessly slipping into the situation, I'd woken up with a jolt. I felt like a dog being taken for a drive. Wait a minute... this isn't the way to the park. This is the way to the vet!

Stress. Stress was in my blood stream, sucking energy out of my cells to feed itself, to grow stronger. All I could do was sit and marinate in this negativity, feel more stressed at not having seen it coming, dread the moment when I would have to confess.

In the UK it's the custom to buy a round of drinks, i.e. you buy a drink for everyone in the group. Jackie had bought the first round - three beers and a cheeky gin and tonic (which is the same as a gin and tonic, but adding the word cheeky reduces your hangover). According to the invisible, unwritten laws of Pubbery, I was next in line. (Probably followed by Beth, who seemed to have her shit together more than Ziggy.)

I had forgotten this. I hadn't been in a pub with mates for years. When Jackie asked what I wanted to drink, I thought nothing of it. And at first, everything was okay. People took little sips. But then Jackie locked onto the taste of the beer and took a big ol' gulp, and as he put the half-empty glass back on the table, I felt like I had one hand locked in handcuffs.

And not in a good way.

More jokes, more laughs, more banter, more swigs. It would soon be time for the second round. Erling Haaland, 51 million pounds. Paul Pogba, 89 million pounds. Tottenham's new stadium, one billion pounds. A round of drinks, 20 pounds. One of these things is not like the others. One of these things is unaffordable.

Ziggy cracked first. "Max, what's wrong?"

"Huh? What? Nothing. What?"

Beth gave me a little squeeze.

Jackie drained his beer, placed the empty glass on the table, and stared at me with a little smirk. "Your round, Secret Agent."

He knew. Somehow the fucker knew.

I had a choice to make. Get all pissy and defensive - maybe make a scene so that I could storm out with bridges burned but my secret intact.

Or just spit it out. I really, really, didn't want to. But at least it would be out in the open, and they wouldn't put me in this situation again.

How do you increase bravery? Practice.

"Thing is, guys," I said, mostly talking to a beer mat that I was methodically destroying, "I don't have any money." I glanced up at them. Not much reaction. Jackie, in particular, was giving nothing away. "Not to give you my sob story, but I haven't been out since before the pandemic hit. I have just enough income to live alone, eat alone, and be alone. I was miles away after the training, thinking of how to beat City. If I'd realised we were going to the pub, I'd have come up with some excuse."

There was a bit of a silence. Beth looked worried. Ziggy had started destroying a beer mat.

Then Jackie burst out laughing.

I glared at him.

"Mate," he said. "You think you're the only lad short on cash. In this country? With this government? Wind your neck in!" He waved at a barmaid and signalled 'same again'. "Sorted. Now lighten up, you miserable bastard."

"Max," said Beth. "You're not saying you've got no money? Like, none? But you've still got your job because you said you'd quit if we beat City."

"I've been spending it going to matches and stuff. Driving Ziggy around and that." I regretted saying that as soon as I said it. Not to protect my image as a top agent or anything - Ziggy knew I wasn't rolling in dough. More because it was unfair to make him feel responsible in any way. He briefly stopped ripping up the beer mat. Jesus, Max.

"Mate!" said Jackie. "I thought you were an agent."

"Well, I am. Sort of. I've got a client, as you know."

He exchanged a significant look with Ziggy, which did not improve my mood. They were hiding something. But then he levelled his attention all the way onto me. "Agents. Scouts. They don't pay to get into games. Jesus, you're not telling me you can't buy me a fucking three pound student beer because you've been paying full whack going to games?"

Um. "What."

He pinched his nose. "Call the club. Tell them you want to come and watch a certain player. They'll leave you tickets at the turnstile or whatever. Fucking hell."

"Why?" said Beth.

Jackie shrugged. "Clubs want to sell their players, don't they? They want good contacts with agents. I dunno, maybe if the ground's full you'll struggle, but how many stadiums are proper sold out every week? Almost none." He laughed again. "Oh, this is delightful. I'm made up about this."

"Will you calm down?" said Beth, hot, defending me.

Jackie leaned forward with a good-natured smile. "I'm just saying that this is the first time I've seen him somewhere he doesn't look like he owns the place." He laughed again. "He came to our training - at FC United, that's where I work - and he's poncing about, doing our drills, showing off - "

"What?" said Beth, having totally forgotten the mother lion persona. Jackie had her eating out of his hand. "What?"

"Tell her, Ziggy." Jackie leaned back to enjoy the show.

Ziggy's big brown eyes shone. "Well, Jackie was explaining about something and Max comes along and goes 'oh yeah?' and Jackie goes 'yeah' and Max goes 'seriously? and Jackie goes 'show us how it's done, then' so Max does the drill and then goes 'piece of piss!'" He burst into hysterics.

Jackie, highly amused, clarified. "It was even better. He said piece of piss and then he did it." He took a swig. "And then he made himself reserve team coach."

Beth nearly spit out her G+T. She had to grab a napkin and try to push some of the booze back inside her. "What!"

"He did well, an' all. That's what's annoying. So Max, you've cheered up a bit?" I had. "Nice of you to join us in the room, yeah?" He took a swig. "Are you happy with the training this evening? Was it what you wanted?"

"Yes," I said. "Delighted." I was delighted, but obviously my voice didn't convey that. Jackie shook his head a little. I continued. "Can you come again next week? Er... if that's okay with you, Beth."

"Yeah! It was mint. I loved that. We all did." She looked around at her teammates on the nearby tables.

"Maybe," said Jackie. He tapped his beer a few times. "On consideration, my fee has gone up," he said. "What we agreed before, plus you have to wear full Liverpool kit. Top, shorts, socks, Kenny Dalglish shinpads. I'll bring a laminated This is Anfield sign that you have to kiss before the warm up."

I groaned.

"And you have to help me with a project."

"Oh? What?"

"You'll find out. In due course. In the fullness of time." He took a swig and changed his mind about the secrecy. "I want help scouting a team. Right up your alley, innit? And one last thing. I want to know what this mania is all about. You want to beat City? Manchester City?"

"We're playing them next Friday. He's fucking crazy," said Beth. "He's off his head."

"You really think you can win, Max?" said Jackie.

"After today, our chances are 20%. If you take next week's training, 30%. If Beth can convince Eva and Anna to play, too..." I drained the rest of my first beer and felt the fresh coolness of the second one. I was starting to feel the effect. Less strained. More at ease. Warm - physically, mentally, conversationally. "If everything's in place and Beth lets me try out some tactics this Friday night... Thirty. Eight. Percent." I gave these last three words maximum articulation, maximum earnestness, and punctuated them with nods like I was pumping up my own self-belief. Thirty. Eight. Percent - yes, yes, yes!

There was a pause while they wondered if I had finally disappeared up my own arse or not.

Ziggy was the first to laugh, but not the last.

I'd intended it to be funny. But I was also utterly, completely not joking.

***

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