7.

  Extract from Pyramid Schemers, the original and best podcast dedicated to the 72 teams in tiers 2-4. One of their regular prediction shows is called Good Month, Bad Month.

  Rocky: So that's us predicting an extremely good December for Wrexham. Just a reminder that there's a big, ugly international break in the middle of the month, so in this episode we're only discussing the first two weeks.

  Mike: That's right. We're going up until the Tuesday night fixtures on the 14th. We didn't want to change the name to Good Fortnight, Bad Fortnight, just in case we got sued by a video games company.

  Rocky: Or Mesut ?zil.

  Mike: Oof. There's a blast from the past! Addicted to video games, wasn't he? Same as David James. Up all night playing Tekken 2.

  Rocky: Remember we had that meeting in which you promised not to go off on tangents?

  Mike: Right, right.

  Rocky: The next club I want to talk about is Chester.

  Mike: Down the A483 from Wrexham.

  Rocky: Up the A483, surely?

  Mike: Depends how tall your driver is. If I know you, and by now I think I do, I'm going to predict you think Max Best's Chester will have a good month.

  Rocky: You might want to sit down for this.

  Mike: No!

  Rocky: Chester FC, bad month. That's my prediction.

  Mike: I'm going to surprise you - that's also my hot take for this episode. Now I'm worried my hot take isn't all that hot.

  Rocky: It's a tepid take.

  Mike: Lukewarm logic.

  Rocky: I think many of our listeners will think it's pretty spicy. Who would bet against the Soccer Supremo? No-one sensible. Do you want to go first?

  Mike: No, you take it away, mate.

  Rocky: Here's the state of affairs. Chester are 12th in the league, which is absolutely amazing, but I don't think it's controversial to say mid-table is their ceiling for this season.

  Mike: Their own manager would agree with you, if his interviews are to be believed.

  Rocky: Yes, but he's a wind-up merchant who hates speaking to the media so take everything he says with a grain of salt. 25 points from 19 games will keep a club out of trouble but they had two wins in their last three and those wins have put a big gloss on that points tally. What's the real Chester? The team that has been slogging through the start of the season and collapsed against Norwich, or the one who outplayed Birmingham? They have the worst goal difference in the top half of the table and their underlying metrics are quite poor. They have too many young players, too many inexperienced players, too many who are still learning about English football. The team is confused tactically, they never play the same starting eleven twice, and it's hard to work out what the recruitment strategy is. That said, on the rare occasion it all clicks, they play some great stuff.

  Mike: Very easy on the eye.

  Rocky: Definitely, but the end product isn't always there. Take William Roberts. Max Best talks him up and we see flashes from the lad, but he has three Championship goals this season.

  Mike: Are we not counting the ones he scored in the Champions League qualifiers?

  Rocky: To me, the disparity in his datasets shows how weak some of those early-stage Champions League opponents are. The Championship is tough, hard, physical and if you're William B. Roberts esquire, you're playing for the team with the smallest budget. I don't want to be too down about Chester or Roberts or any of the individuals we might mention today, but I think they have slightly overperformed and it's fair to expect a slight regression to the mean.

  Mike: If they have overperformed, yes, that's fair.

  Rocky: That's my first point.

  Mike: You're basically saying 'what goes up must come down'.

  Rocky: Yeah. My second point is related to the first because some of Chester's better performances have come with Owen Elmham in goal. Recency bias takes me to the 2-0 win against Birmingham, in which he was flawless. We're recording this on Tuesday, November 30th, and Owen Elmham has been arrested or detained or whatever the right term is. We don't have a lot of detail at this point and there's a good chance I'll have egg on my face, but I don't see Owen Elmham ever playing for Chester again.

  Mike: Community club, community standards, is it?

  Rocky: I just think Max Best will bin him off! He isn't known for dealing with difficult situations in a nuanced way, and I'm sure he'll see this incident as an attack on Chester's culture. Which might be fair overall but from the point of view of Chester's league performance, losing Elmham is a very bad thing. Ian Swan started the season decently but he has had a major wobble in recent matches. With Elmham out, Chester's backup goalie is another Owen, Owen Travis, last seen a year ago playing in the Welsh leagues. After that, it's a teenager who has never played a minute of professional football. There will be so much pressure on Ian Swan, and every time he makes a mistake that pressure will intensify. If Ian Swan has a bad month, Chester are sure to have a bad month.

  Mike: You paint a grim picture.

  ***

  Wednesday, December 1

  It was a beautiful picture. The sun gently warming the boulders and stones in Owen Elmham's zen garden, the acers gently swaying in a light breeze. All captured through the massive windows of his first-floor gym, which in some countries would be called his second-floor gym. What a wonderful world!

  Owen had stuck posters on the windows to block the view, but that was so utterly mental that I had taken down the ones in front of the treadmill.

  "Boss," he said, as he came into the spacious room. He seemed massive, his yellow hair flopping around like a lion's mane. He glanced at the clear glass.

  "I'll put them back up," I said, not breaking stride. I was going pretty fast but not crazily so. Just enough to get a decent sweat on while allowing my thoughts to range far and wide. "Hope you don't mind."

  "It's all right," he said, glancing down at the garden. "I came to say I was putting the kettle on. Do you want owt?"

  "Not now, thanks," I said, looking at my heart rate monitor watch. "I'll do another twenty minutes, I reckon. This is a nice gym! I really like this space."

  Owen looked around, nodding. He had a good amount of equipment, but the room didn't feel cluttered. Of course, the whole point of having the gym in this part of the house was to look out onto the garden and be inspired. Covering the windows was mad, even if it was understandable given his troubled relationship with the woman who had designed the outside. "Boss, can I talk to you?"

  "Yep," I said. "I'm buzzing. I've got mad energy, for some reason. I slept like a baby. I love your house, Owen! It smells like baby oil, but in a good way. I don't even want to investigate that!"

  "Do you really want to buy the garden?"

  "Um... yeah. I think so? Transplanting a garden seems absolutely mental but why not? Football's hard. Tranquility's valuable."

  He went to the window in front of a rowing machine and took down the posters. They were from bands I'd never heard of, and each one he removed seemed to let in fifty percent more light. Owen looked outside, his eyes darting around, then he leaned his back against the glass and took a few seconds to work up to what he wanted to say. "After you went to bed, I stayed up talking to John."

  "To who?"

  "John."

  "Who?"

  Annoyed amusement rippled over his face. "I stayed up talking to the Brig."

  I smiled. "You can call him John; I'm not being serious. Did you get blasted?"

  "No, because I'm a professional football player." He checked my reaction, then pressed on. "I'm broke, Max."

  I pressed the 'slow down' button on the control panel, then mentally replayed what he had said. Was this going to turn into therapy? I decided to use one of Alex Short's psychology tricks, just in case, and restated what he had said. "You're broke."

  He waved his hand around. "When you watch the episode of Grand Designs, you'll hear all about it." He ruffled his hair. "I had a great agent. Amazing person, really believed in me. Took me to the Championship, everything was going great. Then I met this other fella." Long pause while Owen ground his teeth. "He was charismatic, had a big house, knew famous managers. Took me to Premier League clubs to watch training and meet goalkeeper coaches. He swept me off my feet. I cut my agent off, switched, and soon after, got my big move to the Prem. You would say I was drenched in cash, or the promise of cash, to be more accurate. I plunged into building this thing. Didn't realise I was about to get my pants pulled down on a popular TV show. Halfway through the build, the police came. My agent had run off to Spain. Turns out he'd stolen two million quid."

  "From his clients?"

  "From me. God knows how much he got from the others. Not really my problem. Two million quid, Max. That was my punishment for my bad karma." He shook his head and looked up at the ceiling. "I got this finished, but ever since, I've been up against it. Loans and mortgages and more loans. You were surprised I dropped a division to play for Chester, but I need the money. You're just about keeping me afloat."

  I turned the treadmill off and eyed him. "This is a big problem for me, Owen, maybe even more than the gun thing. I've made it a point of principle that none of my players will ever go bankrupt."

  He stepped forward and turned the machine back on. My legs fell into step. "I know. I hashed it out with John. He's going to get MD and Brooke to go over my finances, come up with a plan, get on top of it. I'm going to sort it out, I promise."

  I couldn't quite see him because of the fog of dread that had filled the room. "Right," I said, dubiously.

  "Can I ask why you're so, you know, invested in that?"

  I shrugged and increased the speed; my legs were hungry for work. "I grew up poor. I didn't have the latest gear, you know? Not ever. But we got by. The bills got paid. It's obscene for someone earning a hundred grand a week to go bankrupt. It's sick. You put your money into this house. You created something. And a guy robbed you. I'm not saying you lack moral fibre, Owen, but if there's a kid who earns ten million quid in his career but when he's 34 they take away all his cars and watches and he spends the rest of his life living hand-to-mouth... Fuck that. No. Not my players. Win the second half of your life. If you're not willing to put some money aside for the future, I'm not willing to give you money. It's that simple."

  "Win the second half," he said. "That's what I want to do. I slept well, too, Max. After talking to John, I felt a weight lifted from my shoulders. The idea that I could sort my situation out. I think I've still got three or four years as a player." He nibbled one of his knuckles. "That's why I shot mum's phone. It's not only that I like playing for Chester, it's that she was killing me financially."

  "She doesn't know what state you're in?"

  "No." He looked away. "We don't talk about that sort of thing." He smiled, suddenly. "I watched some videos about the Miyawaki Method, Max! I'm into it. I want to do it here."

  I slowed again. "What?" His property's footprint wasn't as massive as you'd expect, given the size of the house. There were some detached houses nearby with much longer, wider gardens. "You want to plant a forest? Here, in your back garden?"

  "Yes! There are people who have done it. A YouTuber in Canada did it in an even smaller area and I watched the before and after. It has only been two years but it's already great! She called it a pocket forest and she was reeling off the names of the birds she had seen. Imagine that space down there. Instead of a dead zone, a hundred trees! I'd love it. I'd love watching it grow. My personality, not hers." He tapped the window. "Freedom." He stared out. "My own private wilderness. If I can afford it."

  "Baby trees aren't expensive," I said, increasing the treadmill's speed again.

  "It's the earthworks, boss. The preparation. Okay, you'd arrange for all this Japanese stuff to go, but then what? I'd have to turn the soil over, add compost, prepare the land. Okay, it's nothing compared to the cost of the house, but... Like I said, I'm broke."

  I ran hard for about ten seconds; it felt like I was about to lift off. "If..." I started. "If we extended your contract by a year, would that help?"

  "Extend? With all this media fuss going on?"

  I tutted. "Not now, obviously. Quietly, sometime later in the season when no-one's looking. Subject to your PR rehabilitation going well, obvs. But yeah, another season. I need a top goalie for our assault on the Championship. Why look around? I've got you." I glanced at him. "If you want to stay, that is. I don't know what sorts of other offers you had last summer."

  "Not many," he said, simply. "Another season at Chester?" He watched as my legs whirred around. "You said next season we would beat Ipswich."

  I grinned. "Not sure I said that. I probably said we would be as good as them. Almost as good as them. They've got the Premier League parachute payments and as good as I am, that's an almost insurmountable advantage. This season I think Palace, Ipswich, and Wolves will go up. The bottom three teams in the Prem right now are Notts Forest, West Ham, and Burnley. Burnley are quite well-run but we'll be able to catch them. The other two are basket cases, which would give us a chance. Our new West stand will come online halfway through the season, and that will make a massive difference to the bottom line and to the overall perception of the club. On TV, we’ll look like a proper Prem outfit."

  Owen was sceptical. "When clubs like Chester get promoted to the Prem, it costs millions getting ready. Even when Leeds United got promoted, it cost them 5 million."

  "Yeah, they had to put in massive cables and the right floodlights and whatnot, but we're ahead of that. There would be some costs, of course, but we've dug all the holes, if you get me. Yeah, halfway through next season the new stand will open and we'll start to look like a very, very serious team. I've been preparing for this for years. Years." I slowed the treadmill down to a walk; my mind was going a mile a minute. "Oh my God."

  "What?"

  "I think I might actually be a genius."

  He was grinning. "What have you done?"

  I pressed stop and wiped my forehead with a towel. The ones in Owen's spare rooms were itchy and so thin they didn't absorb moisture. It was like giving your guest a piece of cardboard, but like the good guy I was, I didn't complain. "Let me think this through." I dabbed my face with the towel-shaped plank, then fell into a slow walk. "One of the things I sometimes daydream about is building my own house. I had no idea you'd done it yourself or I would have pecked your head non-stop with questions. Grand Designs is a good show but I prefer watching real people do sort of normal projects, and they're all on YouTube. There are a few projects I follow. One's a couple in Wales restoring an old cottage. There's a guy in Philadelphia renovating a row home. They post videos once a week showing what they did in the last seven days, what it cost, what problems they ran into. They are pretty open and talk about the things they have learned that they probably should have known before they started their projects. I'm trying to learn the questions I need to ask my architect and my builder."

  "Smart."

  "The theory's sound," I said, "but in reality, this knowledge doesn't stick. I've got too much football in my head. Anyway, progress videos are very satisfying, especially when it's not presented as 'look how great I am!' but more 'wow this was much harder than I thought'. A lot of these people are making bank from YouTube revenue, and they often have a Patreon page, too."

  "What's Patreon?"

  "It's where the world's best and brightest people gather to support their favourite podcasters, artists, and writers. People chip in different amounts but it adds up, so the content creators can keep creating non-stop bangers and masterpieces. Being a supporter on Patreon is the closest equivalent in the modern world to sainthood."

  "I'll have to check it out."

  "Okay so let me lay out the idea I just had. Chester have a production team that creates our documentary. Seal Studios, it's called. I think the documentary is still quite fresh and interesting and it will stay that way for another couple of seasons because the women keep getting promoted and it won't be long until they have European football and the top players are playing in World Cups and all that. But it's my job to think past the early excitement, and I don't want Chesterness to outstay its welcome. I don't want it to turn into All or Nothing."

  "God, no."

  "Check this out, Owen. We're going to come here and dig up your garden, and recreate it in Chester down to the last grain of sand. You're going to grow yourself a forest here. You'll film everything. You'll talk into your phone, talk about the week's struggles. Send the files to Seal Studios and we'll turn it into a slick production with all the music and shit. It'll be good for your PR - dangerous people don't grow forests and chatter excitedly about hawthorns and hedgehogs. It'll be good for your bank balance - you and the club will split the money."

  "Split the money?"

  "Yeah. You think you should get more than half? Trust me, video editing is a fucking pain and you'll drive yourself crazy trying to find the right music to go with a scene. Plus if the club's involved, we'll give your channel loads of bumps. I'll come down and help with the planting. We'll get Angel to come and, I don't know, decide where the ferns should go. Half of a joint effort is worth waaaay more than all of what you could do on your own. It'll look like it's your channel, which will make it authentic, but with our help it will be polished. Not too much, right? You don't want it to look scripted or corporate, but we can leave that to Sophie and Henri - they will know exactly the right vibe to go for. Argh! This is amazing. I need a bigger treadmill. Holy fuck, Owen! We could do this with other players, too. Oh!"

  "What?"

  "We could film you sorting your finances out. It depends how willing you are to share numbers but you could do a playlist that's you clawing your way out of your debts. Here's how fucked I am, here's what I'm doing about it. If you did that, I could see if BoshCard wanted to get involved. First video is you, me, and Brooke sitting down to go through the numbers. First thing we suggest is that you consolidate your credit card debt with BoshCard at their introductory rate. Boom! This personal finance journey was brought to you by BoshCard."

  "So we unfuck my life in weekly instalments and share the ad revenue?"

  "Exactly. That's a mint name, by the way. Owen Elmham: Unfucked."

  "Will BoshCard go for that?"

  "Sadly, no. How about, Owen Elmham: The Long Road to Freedom. Because it's your money and your garden. Soon both will be drenched in freedom!"

  "Project: Freedom."

  "That's good. Snappy."

  Owen's Morale bumped up to Very Good. "I've got it."

  "What?"

  "Owen Elmham's Second Half."

  I increased the speed on the treadmill; I had so much energy to burn off! "Yes! Yes, mate! Go make yourself a coffee because I'm gonna rip off all my clothes. I want to go full Helge screaming at the North Sea! Whoo!"

  "There's just one thing, though," he said, loud enough to be heard over the whirr of the machine and the slaps of my trainers.

  "What?"

  "I really hate Ipswich. Can't we try to beat them next week?"

  "No."

  His Morale slipped to Okay. "You're the boss, boss."

  "Hey," I said, as he turned towards the doorway. "If you want to chip in, you can give our under 18 goalies some extra training. Aston Davidson and Big Sam. I can't give them first-team minutes," I said, enjoying the slight burn in my thighs as I pushed my body towards its limits. "But you can give them first-team wisdom."

  Owen rubbed his hands together. "I'm not much of a coach, but... Should I film it?"

  "Film what?"

  "The sessions I do with the lads. It could be good PR, right? Part of my penance. And we might use the footage on my channel."

  I slowed the machine down so that I could safely eye him. "That is incredibly, incredibly cynical. You'll do great on YouTube."

  He seemed pleased. "I don't feel cynical; I feel optimistic. When you were giving that presentation, talking about winning the second half, I didn't think it included me. I felt I'd already got myself too entrenched in failure. Now... it's looking up. Life after football might not be so bad."

  I glared at him. "Careful, now. If you stay at Chester, that's gonna put life after football all the way on the fucking backburner. I know your levels, mate, and I'm not gonna watch and clap as you play pretty well." I put some sarcastic sauce on the end of that sentence, then jabbed a finger in his direction. "You've got levels you've never reached and if you think I think being old is an excuse to not get there, you're dead wrong. This is a football-first organisation. If you stay, I'll work you harder than you've ever worked and I'll demand more than any other manager has ever demanded. Don't forget," I said, turning away from him, "that your current manager is the best goalkeeper who ever played for this club. Find me another manager in world football who can say that and I'll turn over the soil in your garden with fucking chopsticks."

  I mashed the button to make the treadmill go fast, and as I thundered never-closer towards Owen's zen garden, I checked his Morale.

  Superb.

  Owen wouldn't play a single minute of football in December, but I was going to make sure he had a very, very good month.

  ***

  Pyramid Schemers

  Rocky: My next problem with Chester FC, as we head into December, is the manager. You called it Max Best's Chester, and that's right. The club has been moulded in his image, so when he's down, the whole club is down.

  Mike: But when he's halfway up, the club is neither up nor down.

  Rocky: Have you been reading nursery rhymes to your daughter?

  Mike: Reading nursery rhymes, yes. To my daughter, no.

  Rocky: What I'm saying is that when the Grand Old Duke of Chester himself isn't focused, isn't motivated, what can we really expect?

  Mike: When he does play, he wrecks models. I saw a stat that had him as one of the top five scorers of direct free kicks since Chester got into the EFL, except Best has played a third of the minutes of the guys above him.

  Rocky: That's just it, though. He barely goes on the pitch. Chester don't have a scouting team, they don't have a kit man. They're still set up like a non-league club and at times that shows. Max Best can't do everything so he saves energy by not doing the one thing Chester fans want him to do - play. He's had his recent well-documented personal tragedy. Even before that, when he was fully focused on the match in front of him, he was doing stupid stunts, such as using a pensioner for the first ten seconds of a match.

  Mike: The comedian.

  Rocky: John Liner, yes.

  Mike: I meant Max Best.

  Rocky: This is what I'm saying, I think. Best is like a comedian in the sense that he knows how to set up a punchline but that punchline's coming next season. This year's all about consolidation, bedding in, and then Chester will push again. He's on record as saying that and while I don't believe everything he says, I believe everything he says fifty times.

  Mike: I'm with you, there. You think he's bored and listless, something like that?

  Rocky: Yes.

  ***

  Saturday, December 4

  EFL Championship Match 20 of 46: Sunderland versus Chester

  On a personal level, it was exciting to go up to the Stadium of Light. The first attraction was the hope I might bump into one of the stars of my second-favourite documentary, Sunderland 'Til I Die. Most of the backroom staff and almost all of the players who had featured in that show had moved on, but the fans remained. I always looked out for the well-spoken middle-class teacher type who turned feral as soon as the ref got the action underway, and the utterly lovely guy who had been in the army and had struggled with his mental health.

  The second attraction was that if we got a good result against the Mackems, most of Emma's Newcastle-supporting friends and family would be delighted. My mother lived in a house paid for by two Newcastle fans, and little old Chester beating their local rivals would be a pretty decent Christmas present.

  I can't say I was incredibly motivated, though. My coaching staff had been studying the tape, but we knew what to expect. Sunderland played a fast, slick 4-3-3 with an average CA of 130. They progressed the ball forward in two main ways. One, a guy who had played most of his career in midfield pinged big diags from the back line. Two, a pair of brilliant wide forwards took those passes and dribbled at speed into the oppo's box.

  My tactical options were relatively limited. I could have put Cole Adams against the right winger and Cheb against the guy on the other side, but that would have been an overly negative way of approaching the match. I wanted Sunderland to be just as worried about Cheb as we were about their top players.

  When Nasa was more developed, he would be perfect for situations like these. He was a pure defender, a guy who would take his oppo and pocket him for the whole 90 minutes.

  Nasa was a while away from those sorts of levels, though, so Sandra and I had decided to be a little braver. A little more front-foot. We had picked a 3-5-2 with our best ball-playing line-up, and while it only had an average CA of 123.5, it would let us defend by denying Sunderland the ball for long spells.

  We had Swanny in goal, of course. (The Owen Elmham situation was not bleak; Brooke's PR game was very much on point. But Owen had gone in for his wrist operation and would be out for ten weeks. I expected him back around Valentine's Day, which meant he would miss our FA Cup Third and Fourth Round matches.)

  Then a back three of Zach, Fitzroy, and Peter Bauer. (An unwanted day off for Christian Fierce.)

  The midfield five was Lewis, Youngster, Dan, Bark, and Cheb.

  Up front was Colin Beckton and Wibbers. I had chosen Colin because he always played 'on the shoulder' of the last defender, which forced them to drop deeper than if they were playing against Dazza. That would open up space for Dan and Bark to turn into and drive the ball forward.

  I set up a hot key to make Wibbers man-mark the midfielder that Sunderland used as a centre back. Without him being able to ping long passes, the home team's build-up play would need to change. Sunderland had quality players, but it was always worth denying a team their main avenues of attack.

  Picking the team, setting it up, and reminding them of their duties was basically all I needed to do for the day, so I was sitting in the dugout, checking on the match ratings, scanning everyone's Condition - with some trepidation, as the incident in Dortmund had freaked me all the way out - and just generally being a little boy, kicking my legs, daydreaming about the next Attribute I would unlock. Co-managing in the second tier was worth about 1,100 XP per match, and I planned to sit behind Jay Cope in the morning while his team knocked Cheltenham Town Ladies out of the Women's FA Cup. That would be another 1,100 XP, and that would put me reasonably close to being able to afford the next unlock. If I was close enough, I might go and watch another match in the afternoon, or scout the local five-a-side centres.

  Sunderland moved the ball through the thirds, and their striker was able to turn and get a shot away. It went miles wide.

  Sandra turned, satisfied. "The shape's holding up well," she said.

  "Yep," I said. "And the fans are starting to get on the home team's back. The longer we keep them out, the more frustrated everyone will get. We're smashing this."

  Sandra looked like she wanted to say something, but she simply turned back around.

  ***

  The key moment came in the 33rd minute.

  Sunderland built up a head of steam and while the home fans were willing the ball to go into the net, I was yelling at Colin and Wibbers to stay high so they could dick Sunderland on a counter-attack.

  One of Sunderland's talented wide forwards dribbled into the box past the Northern Ireland legend Lewis Lamarre, then clipped the ball waist-height into the middle. The ball hit Fitzroy Hall, who wasn't really looking at it. Zach hacked it clear, Bark collected, turned, and slipped the ball fifteen yards into Sunderland's half, where Wibbers burst onto it.

  The ref was furiously blowing his whistle.

  "How can he be offside?" I said, aghast, as I went close to Sandra. "He was in his own half when the ball was played!"

  "It's not that," she said. She pointed to the home team's dugout, who were jumping around, celebrating. "The ref's given a handball."

  I couldn't believe it. "What?" I checked the match commentary. While the winger had kicked the ball into Fitzroy's arm, the defender didn't know anything about it, hadn't moved his hand towards the ball, and didn't have his arm in an 'unnatural position'. Despite that, the ref was adamant it was a pen.

  Yorkie, a good coach I had poached from York City, said, "What are the rules? I don't even know any more."

  Vikki, our set pieces coach, was the only person I allowed to look at replays on an iPad. I didn't want my coaches staring at screens the whole match but given her role it made sense, and it was what she was used to. She held the tablet up in front of me. I skipped the handball incident and watched the replay of Sunderland's manager, four coaches, and five substitutes running out of the dugout towards the touchline, slapping their arms. 'Handball! Handball!' It was a grotesque display.

  My blood boiled. Nought to one hundred in two seconds flat. I clicked my neck. "That's how you want to play it, eh?"

  Sandra sensed danger; she turned and saw me taking my hoodie off. "What are you doing?"

  She turned back just as Sunderland scored the penalty. The stadium roared its approval. The home bench ran and jumped around, spilling over into our technical area.

  Sandra pushed one prick, and he was about to get aggro until he realised it was a woman. The classless nobody took his time retreating to his crevice. Sandra, eyes blazing, looked at me again. "What are you doing?" she repeated.

  "Going rogue."

  ***

  I ordered Colin off and replaced him. He didn't seem very happy about it, but I didn't give a shit. I had a mission.

  I jogged around, getting warmed up, getting the pace of the game. I knew I was going to play well, but as long as I didn't score, it would be okay. That was fine because I wasn't really planning on scoring.

  The expected patterns of play emerged, with both sides knocking the ball around pretty well. We didn't press, so when we lost the ball we tended to be without it for a minute or two. On the other side, Sunderland did press but most of the time, either Peter or Dan were able to evade it and then it was our turn to play keep-ball.

  I created a teamwide 'pressing: yes' hot key that I used to trigger the occasional all-out blitz. Pretty much any time I thought I was going to get an interception, I smashed that button, knowing that the rest of my team would up the intensity. It added to the potential risk - players would leave their positions - but increased the potential reward.

  Apart from the score, things were looking pretty good, but I didn't like how compressed the action was. I did an air-dancer arm wave at Youngster. This was one of Chester's classic signals and it meant that I wanted us to drop deeper. Youngster scampered around, gathered the ball, retreated five yards. The midfield slid into place. I yelled at Wibbers to get to the halfway line. That looked better.

  Sunderland attacked and were repulsed by Fitzroy. He jabbed the ball to Lewis, who played it to my feet. I let a Sunderland guy crash into my back, nudged the ball past his foot, pushed it to Bark. He played it back into my path. Into my warpath. I knocked it to Wibbers, who moved to his right and cut the ball back.

  My first touch knocked the ball twenty yards into space, behind the defence, and the Chester fans roared. I glanced around. Wibbers was streaking to the right. The goalie was coming to get the ball. Idiot! That was perfect.

  I slowed down to let the goalie think he had a chance. All I needed was for him to come closer...

  When he was crossing the boundary of the penalty area - the only space in which he was allowed to touch the ball with his hands - I sped up to get level with the ball, then suddenly put the brakes on. As the keeper rushed towards me, I flicked the ball waist-height, just to the side of him. Just where his instinct would be to flick his hand out. His hand twitched but he didn't touch the ball.

  Shit!

  Now I was through on goal - the last place I wanted to be! - and defenders were storming back. I could have rolled the ball into the net, but I moved diagonally, making sure my angles were perfect.

  (Wibbers, by the way, was screaming at me. He had an open goal if I played the pass.)

  One of the centre backs had put himself between me and the goal line, while another was coming from the side. That second guy forced me to act fast, so I checked the trigonometry and shot at a height halfway up the first guy's arm, about ten inches from his body. He would have to throw his arm out to block the shot. There was no way he would be able to resist the urge, because it was either that or letting the ball hit the back of the net. He would save the shot. It was only natural!

  And guess what? That's exactly what he did.

  I ran towards the referee, slapping one hand onto my other arm in the fashion of the home team's dugout. "Handball!" I cried. "Handball!" Wibbers hugged me, soon joined by Lewis, Cheb, and Bark. "Get off, you pricks!"

  Cheb laughed. "Max, what are you doing? You scored!"

  "Fucking hell," I said, fuming, because I was so worked up that I didn't even check the curse. Sure enough, it was reporting that the score was 1-1 and that I had wasted one of my precious 8 goals for the season on this piece-of-shit meaningless match! The defender had thrown his arm out to stop the shot from going in. That should have been a penalty and a red card but the useless twat had only deflected the ball and it had crossed the line. "Christ," I said, wondering how scoring this unimportant goal would come back to bite me on the arse.

  For the next few minutes, I sulked around, one-touching the ball when it came to me, but then I saw an opening and rushed down the pitch on our left. Dan Badford got on the ball, leaned back, and punched a pass through the defensive lines.

  I surged onto it, took it at light speed in the direction of the near post, scanned to make sure I had my attack lines right, and adjusted my body shape. I slowed a fraction as I straightened my run, taking myself away from the ideal angle. Even as I did so, I saw the look of shock on Wibbers's face.

  As I made to shoot left-footed, a defender slid in a vain attempt to block the shot. I flick-scooped the ball about two feet off the grass, aiming it over the defender's head. When you slide like that, one of your arms naturally pops up.

  The ball hit his hand.

  I sprinted towards the referee doing the trusty old 'handball' gesture.

  He didn't really have a choice but to give us a penalty kick, though the defender didn't get a card in that situation. I celebrated the award of the penno by running behind the goal, informing thousands of home fans that the ball had, indeed, hit their player's hand. "Handball!" I yelled. "Handball, you stupid fucking twats!"

  Lewis was the closest player to me, and he pulled me away. I went to get the ball and stood over the penalty spot until the ref had cleared the area. When the sitch was calm, I summoned Wibbers.

  He placed the ball down, went through his routine, and slapped the ball into the net.

  2-1. I raced towards the home dugout, slid as though I was doing a tackle, then waded right in there, doing the handball gesture the whole time. It's weird but the manager, his coaches, and his players didn't like it. Sometimes it's hard to know what it's in fashion and what's not.

  The ref gave me a yellow card, which was just typical.

  Youngster led me away, trying to soothe me. "Come, Mr. Best. Win using your skill. They cannot handle your skill. Do not give the referee a reason to send you off."

  "He'd love it, wouldn't he?" I said, still fuming, but calming by the second. I tutted and shook my head. "Some people want to make everything about themself."

  ***

  At half-time, as I thundered towards the tunnel, one of the TV people yelled out, "Max, can we talk?"

  Most of the time this happened, I brushed right past the TV crew, mostly because no sportsman had ever said anything even slightly interesting at half time, but today I thought, fuck it. I got into place and while lots of worried Chester employees filed past, I did my best not to scowl. Everyone's second-favourite club. The interviewer smelled of cinnamon. "Hit me."

  "You seem upset. What's going on?"

  "Not upset, no. I'm trying to be a good guest, you know. The manager of Sunderland wants to play a sport in which the slightest, non-intentional contact between ball and hand is instantly punished by a penalty kick, which is scored 80% of the time. The defender's not looking when the ball hits him? Doesn't matter. That's worth an 80% chance of a goal. Forget good play and teamwork, let's just see who does a handball first and say that team loses. That's the sport the manager of Sunderland wants to play, so that's the sport we're going to play."

  "Are you intentionally trying to kick the ball into peoples' hands?"

  "Of course not. That would be crazy and frankly, impossible. Look, I need to take on some fluids but if you see the manager of Sunderland, ask him from me if he's enjoying this. Oh, and another thing, when they scored, their players and staff 'accidentally' came over into our technical area but when I did that, I got a yellow card. It's almost as though they're allowed to intimidate my staff, but we're not allowed to go over to their side and have a nice old chat about things." I gave the camera a toothy smile. "That doesn't really seem fair, does it?"

  ***

  In the dressing room, my guys made me pwomise to stop trying to get handballs all the time, and when we went out for the second half, I made a somewhat genuine effort to stop dicking around. I dropped deep to overload the midfield and played high numbers of low-risk, short passes.

  The interplay between Peter, Dan, and myself was all angles. One-twos for days. When we drifted forward, Cheb and Wibbers came closer and the five of us did some unplanned experiments with hybrid Relationism. I mostly stuck to one-touch passes (and okay, a few nutmegs and okay, one flip-flap) because the home team were trying to clobber me, to get me angry so I would be sent off, but the others unleashed their full range of skills in a thrilling way. As fun as some of their advanced skills were, the most effective move was a simple 'flick around the corner'.

  Dan or Peter would fizz the ball to my feet and I would take a touch to stun the ball, then flick it sort of diagonally behind me to Wibbers or Cheb. Then I'd turn, sprint forward, and be in position to rejoin the move.

  It was incredibly simple, but it was working miles better in this match than when we did our Relationism training matches.

  During a break in play, I asked Peter why.

  He thought about it, leaning over, catching his breath. He stood up. "We're the only team that really knows how to defend against Relationism," he said. "We know that we're going to do these tricks and skills so we can anticipate them. Sunderland can't."

  "Huh," I said. "Do you think we should...?"

  "Go full Bestball?" He shook his head. "We're in complete control of the game. Why change?"

  "Because," I said, slowly, "if we do Relationism, get together in a bunch, suck more oppos into a smaller space, I'll be able to draw handballs more easily."

  "Fucking hell, Max," he said.

  "Okay, okay," I said, showing him my palms. "Jesus." I scuffed the pitch. "You used to be fun."

  ***

  As Sunderland got their composure back and grew into the game more, I tweaked our 3-5-2 formation. I moved Youngster into the DM slot to give the back line a little more protection. With Wibbers as the main striker and me as a CAM, we were doing 3-1-4-1-1, with players with high Anticipation in the key spots for interceptions.

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  That felt really right. Normally when I wanted to give us more defensive solidity, I played as a DM. I was as good at that as Youngster, plus I was taller and stronger. Sunderland's best players weren't massive, though. Their wide forwards were fast, mobile, and clever, not physically dominant. The perfect opponents, in fact, for Youngster.

  Meanwhile, with their ball-playing CB blocked by Wibbers, the rest of the home team were seeing more of the ball than usual, and I was picking off any loose passes they hit. In this situation, I was contributing just as much to our defensive efforts as when I played as a DM, but from a position higher up the pitch, meaning I was closer to the oppo’s goal when there was a transition.

  I slid into one such loose pass, scrambled part-way to my feet, and flicked the ball forward as I fell backwards onto my arse. Some of the home fans on that side of the stadium jeered, but the flick sent Lewis Lamarre away.

  He stormed ahead, looked up to see where Wibbers was, did an awesome hip-swivel - Elvis would have been proud - and then smacked the ball low and hard into the bottom left corner.

  3-1.

  For that simple, short pass, the stats screen awarded me an assist. A goal and an assist in a match I wasn't bothered about!

  Lewis wheeled away to his left, and Wibbers jogged towards him. Wibbers was smiling, but it wasn't quite the excited beam he normally did after goals - the poor guy had been making amazing runs the whole match but no-one had been passing to him. I ran over, put my arm around him, and told him he was playing mint and he was causing mayhem and deserved more than one goal.

  The acknowledgement that he'd been working hard was enough - he broke into a shy grin. Lewis peeled himself away from the main celebration. "Sorry, Will. It just sat up dead nice and I saw the goalie moving to cover you and I thought, hello!"

  "It's fine, Lewis. It's my job to make those runs."

  Peter Bauer ruffled his hair. "Yes, it is. Is the pity party over yet?"

  "Come on, Peter," I complained. "You don't know what it's like being unmarked at the far post ten times and not getting a single pass. You know what? I think we need another penalty."

  "No!" cried Peter and Wibbers at the same time.

  ***

  We were into the last twenty minutes, but I didn't want to make any substitutions. We were bossing the match whether we had the ball or not.

  Out of possession, we could fall into a mid-block and let Sunderland pass the ball around. When we got the ball, we would push them back into their penalty area and do some horseshoe passing. Either way was pretty energy-efficient. If we had decent midfield options on the bench, I might have used them, but we'd had a spate of injuries in that part of the squad.

  I was thinking about how to get Adam and Helge on when one of our hybrid Relationism moments clicked into a higher gear and I found myself surging into the half-space between Sunderland's centre back and right back. Cheb slipped the ball into my path and then I had options. The optimal choice was to fire the ball low and square into the path of Wibbers. The fun option would have been to wait for a defender to get close and then fire the ball waist-high to try to draw a handball.

  How fucking funny would that be?

  I decided to be sensible and fired the ball across the goal, but I had delayed just a fraction too long. A defender slid to block the cross. It landed at the feet of Peter Bauer - why was he so far up the pitch? - and he took a snapshot. The left side of the goal was the spot to aim for, but Peter hit the ball almost straight ahead. It actually seemed like it would go wide. Get back into the defence, you bumbling buffoon! If God wanted you to be a striker, he would have given you a colossal forehead!

  Peter, Wibbers, and Cheb raced towards the referee, making the handball gesture.

  Peep!

  He gave a penalty!

  My mouth dropped open and I sprinted fifty yards to Vikki. "Show me," I said, panting. She turned her iPad to face me.

  What happened was clear as crystal. Instead of taking the high-percentage option, which Peter would have done almost any other time, he had aimed his shot low, targeting the arms of the defender who had blocked my shot!

  I laughed and stepped towards the home team's dugout, only to find my entire backroom staff blocking my path.

  "Leave it, boss," said Colin. "You're on a yellow."

  "Yeah," I said. "But if I get sent off, I get a break for Christmas."

  He looked pained. "For two yellows? It's a one-match ban. Not much of a break." He shook his head. "These guys can't defend. I would have scored a brace at least. You owe me, boss. I want two goals against Derby and I want you to set them up. No red card today, boss."

  Wibbers sent the penalty to the exact same spot as his first one.

  4-1.

  Colin pushed me away, then danced to the home dugout. "Have some of that, you twats! Sunderland ‘Til I Cry!"

  ***

  Chester's record: Played 20, Won 8, Drawn 4, Lost 8, Points 28.

  League position: 11th

  Points behind Wrexham: 6

  XP balance: 2,185

  ***

  Pyramid Schemers

  Mike: So there's the problem that Max Best isn't fired up. What else?

  Rocky: Do you want to chime in?

  Mike: I think Chester have a tough schedule, one that's even trickier than it looks on paper. You're away to an improving Sunderland side followed by Derby a few days later. Derby's form has also been trending upwards, and there's something else to consider. If you've only got two days to properly study your next opponent, you might not want to spend one of them running your women's team.

  Rocky: Have you been eating a lot of gammon this week?

  Mike: Haha, no. It's great that Best is fully behind his women's team. I'm just saying the Championship isn't League Two. You can't just rock up, pluck a killer tactic from the sky, and hope to win.

  ***

  Tuesday, December 7

  EFL Championship Match 21 of 46: Chester versus Derby County

  "All right, lads," I said, "I've got a killer tactic for today."

  Sandra looked at her watch. "There's ten minutes till kick-off. When did you come up with this?"

  "Sunday," I said, "watching the women. I was thinking, you know what, Jay Cope spends fucking ages coming up with tactics and plans but then Meredith Ann dribbles near the box, gets fouled, and Sarah Greene clips the free kicks into the space between the defenders and the goalie and someone scores. I mean, it's a piece of piss, right?"

  "Right," said Sandra, with a little smile. Sarah Greene had been one of her players - in a past life.

  "So, change of plan." I shuffled magnets around on the tactics board. Derby's average CA was 110 - they were one of the worst teams in the division and would probably go down. My lads would average 121.1, excluding me. I wanted to start the match, rack up a lead, then retreat to the bench. "We're gonna do 4-3-3 and load the team up with beefy boys."

  "Boss," said Helge. "That was already the plan."

  "Was it? That doesn't sound right. I never say the same thing twice." I tapped the lowest magnet. "So it's Swanny in goal, obvs. Back four is Cole, Christian, Thomazella, Helge. Midfield three is me, Cheb, Bark. You two, I want you to dribble anytime you get halfway inside Derby's half. Dribble, dribble, draw a foul. Good? Strikers are Dazza, Gabby, and Colin. Colin seems to think he's due two goals for some insane reason. I'm telling you now, mate, when it comes to free kicks, I'm gonna be hitting targets in this order: Helge, Dazza, Christian, Gabby, Cole, Tomz. You know what? I might let Cheb take some set pieces because then I'll be a top target and that'll push Colin down to our eighth biggest weapon! Imagine being one of the outstanding goalscorers of your generation but you're in a team with seven bigger threats from crosses!"

  "This is quality," said Colin. "I feel very motivated, boss."

  ***

  3'

  Long pass from Swan.

  Gabriel is fouled ten yards outside Derby's penalty area.

  Chester's defenders rumble forward.

  They aren't keeping many players back in case of a counter-attack!

  Chester's players split into two groups. The big strikers go to the near post. The defenders move towards the back.

  Max Best will take the kick.

  He smashes it with power and pace onto the head of Beckton.

  Beckton diverts the ball towards goal.

  GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

  Beckton made it look simple!

  He rushes towards his manager and jumps into his arms.

  Early delight for the home team!

  8'

  Neat interplay between Alloula and Barkley. The Jamaican international breaks free.

  He moves towards Derby's penalty area. He slips the ball to Gabriel, who lays it off.

  Barkley turns away from goal. That's good shape from Derby's defenders.

  But there's a clear shirt-tug on Barkley. A needless foul!

  Chester players line up.

  Max Best assesses his options.

  He clips the ball towards the far post. Hagen rises and heads the ball across goal.

  Gabriel launches at the ball head-first.

  Brave play, but the goalkeeper saves it!

  The rebound lands at the feet of Beckton. He must score!

  GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

  Beckton nudged the ball to the left, where Cole Adams was in a better position to shoot.

  The Chester fans are making all the noise!

  18'

  It's a corner to Chester from the left.

  Alloula will fire in a right-footed inswinger.

  No - he rolls it to Best, who clips it first time into the penalty area.

  Gabriel leaps, but heads it across goal.

  Can Adams get there?

  Thomazella tries to tee up Beckton. His snapshot is blocked and the danger is cleared.

  Best is telling his players not to be quite so team-minded.

  23'

  Darren Smith wins the header. Beckton chases the ball.

  Derby's goalkeeper clears. Thomazella controls the ball and touches it to Hagen.

  Hagen has support from Best. Best shapes to pass but pushes the ball into space.

  Best is away!

  He drives until he's 30 yards from goal, then stops. He turns sideways.

  Where's he going?

  Best is doing stepovers.

  Best is fouled.

  24'

  Best fires the free kick towards the back post.

  Darren Smith is there...

  Hits the crossbar!

  Gabriel is first to react. He scrambles the ball across the line.

  It's 3-0 and Chester are rampant!

  That's the end of Max Best's evening. He is replaced by Dan Badford.

  ***

  Final score: 4-0 (Colin Beckton; Cole Adams; Gabriel; Cheb Alloula).

  Chester's record: Played 21, Won 9, Drawn 4, Lost 8, Points 31.

  League position: 10th

  Points behind Wrexham: 3

  XP balance: 4,101

  ***

  While in the shower, I checked the usual stuff. The attendance was 11,222 - very healthy. Another win and another tiny step up the table pushed our squad's average Morale to 4.9 out of 7. In past seasons that would have been low, but it just showed how much of a grind the Championship was.

  Or, to be more precise, how much of a grind it had been. We had well and truly found our feet. Comfortably winning a match while starting Thomazella? That was a step forward. Being able to rest multiple key players at a time? That was a step forward. Being able to go from slick, dreamy football on Saturday to brutal meat-grinder stuff on Tuesday, and win using both? Big. Step. Forward.

  While I was in a good mood, I decided to buy the next Attribute. There were only six left...

  I paid the XP and the curse did its stupid animation. A yellow cell danced around the six empty slots, slowed, and landed in the second one.

  Balance.

  Huh. That was... underwhelming. In the early days of having the curse, any discussion of Soccer Supremo attributes was heavily redacted, sounding to me like weird, alien static. As I had unlocked more and more of the curse, those incidents had diminished until they were basically non-existent. As long as I didn't aggressively seek out forbidden knowledge, I avoided all kinds of 'static' and 'white space'.

  That said, I felt pretty sure that in well over four years of being in the football industry, I had never heard anyone talk about a player's balance apart from in isolated incidents. Formations were balanced. Squads were balanced. But players?

  I scanned through the (ten!) squads in my head, looking for a pattern. The best I could do was to say that players with good Dribbling tended to have high Balance. But if good Balance was needed to be better at Dribbling, why weren't the two things merged into one single data point?

  Which players at Chester had the best Balance? I sorted by the new Attribute and read the men's squad from the top.

  Roddy Jones.

  Wibbers.

  Thomazella.

  Wallace Wells.

  Youngster.

  Peter Bauer.

  Dan Badford.

  Yeah... That looked an awful lot like a list of my best players. Wallace had a PA of 145, but he was a two-footed winger who could dribble left and right with equal ease. It made sense that he had sky-high Balance.

  I went to the women and did the same sorting.

  Meredith Ann.

  Sarah Greene.

  Dani Smith-Smithe.

  Victoria Rose.

  Kisi Yalley.

  My best players again!

  I let the shower water blast into my head while I checked my thought processes. Those were mostly a list of my best attacking players. It was harder to attack than to defend. A player who could move either left or right with equal alacrity was a big big problem for an opponent.

  I did one last check. Players with relatively low Balance: Joel Reid, Andrew Harrison, Dazza.

  Players who were capped at Championship level.

  Was this a hack? Buy players with high Balance, spend the rest of the year on the beach?

  Two things were clear. One, I had initially underestimated this new Attribute's usefulness. Two, I needed to do more research to understand exactly what it meant before I started to add values to Pradeep's AI model.

  ***

  Pyramid Schemers

  Mike: I've got another point. Again, it might be a small one, but at this level we're looking at marginal gains. Those little one percents of detail that add up to wins instead of losses.

  Rocky: You've intrigued me.

  Mike: We know that Best has fingers in pies. I'm gonna go out on a limb and say that at this point, there are more pies than fingers. I mean, if you're gonna be sticking your nose in that many pies, you need more fingers!

  Rocky: I suspect you've lost control of your similes, there.

  Mike: Very, very possibly. But if you're a Chester fan and you see Max Best on the phone, you've got to be wondering who he's calling. Is it Tony Bloom and the topic is Hearts? Is it Diggy Doggy to talk about Tranmere? Is it his partner to talk about their wedding?

  ***

  Wednesday, December 8

  Nando's Cup Group Stage: Burnley Women versus Chester Women

  Burnley's women's team played at the County Ground in Lancashire. While the Ribble Valley was moderately close to Chester and Manchester, I knew almost nothing about the area. I knew that Burnley's strongest team had an average CA of 69, and I suspected they wouldn't use their strongest line up for this league cup match - they were struggling at the bottom of WSL 2 alongside Hashtag United. They would almost certainly rest some key players in a bid to preserve their league status.

  Jay had agreed to rotate, too, though he wanted his big hitters on the bench, just in case.

  The bench was, therefore, crazily stacked. There was Haley Goodhew, CA 124, the third-best goalkeeper in England. There were two players who had caused me to do quiet fist-bumps in the past week. Sarah Greene had been the first to smash into a triple-digit CA through training alone. She had been joined on CA 100 by Kit Hodges, the gorgeous ginger-haired striker who put the 'oh!' into 'goal!' and the 'ay!' into 'male gaze'. The club captain, Femi, was closing in on triple digits. She was 95/121, while Charlotte (central midfielder) was a point higher, but also horribly close to her ceiling of 101.

  As for the women who were actually on the pitch, the ones I was keeping a close eye on were the ones with high Balance. That meant Amy Shone, playing in the centre of the back three, Victoria Rose, playing in central midfield for once, Kisi, and Meredith Ann.

  It didn't take me all that long to realise the true value of Balance. It wasn't just about being able to shift the ball in either direction. It was a kind of intangible feeling of security that a player wasn't going to find herself 'trapped' against a sideline. When Kisi was put under heavy pressure from one direction and got 'squeezed', where other players would panic, she simply turned away, moved backwards, and passed the ball. That feeling of security was hard to describe, hard to be sure if I was seeing something that was actually there or not.

  But one thing was rock solid - when Meredith Ann was tackled, she almost always stayed on her feet. She found her balance, gathered the ball, kept going. When Victoria Rose was shoulder-barged or pushed when going for a header, she recovered fast and got back in the game.

  Balance. You needed it.

  Even though our starting eleven was short of six starters, our average CA was a very decent 78.9 - ten points clear of the best eleven Burnley could possibly have picked. As it turned out, they did rotate a little and the match quickly turned into an attack versus defence training session.

  I didn't mind that the game was not exciting - we were a tier 2 side and this was a competition for the WSL 1 and 2 clubs so I was getting 12 XP per minute just for admiring Jay's work and sometimes triggering a perk.

  After our third goal went in, I got my phone out and made some calls.

  First, our loans manager Ryan Jack told me that the lads out on loan were doing okay. They were getting enough minutes to make the loans worthwhile from Chester's point of view, and while it wasn't always a bed of roses for the players, they were coping. He asked if I wanted him to look for temporary homes for players such as Wallace Wells. I didn't. While it was very slightly possible Wallace would end the season with higher CA if he went to a suitable club, he would also learn a lot from training with Chester's first team, getting some minutes here and there, and winning the Youth Cup.

  Next I called Henri to ask him how it was going down at Newport. Great, was the answer. They were five points clear of the team in second, and looked a safe bet to continue as they were going. He told me that the atmosphere was good and that the lads had rallied around Banksy who was rapidly gaining in confidence. "He reminds me of Peter Shilton," said Henri. "Which is unexpected, for I never saw Peter Shilton play."

  My next call was to Pascal. I had told him that Bochum were receptive to selling him, though I made sure it was clear that they were by no means pimping him out. I had told him his future was up to him. Now it was time to hear his decision. "I have thought about it, Max."

  "Go on," I said.

  His end of the line was silent for a while, but I didn't jump in. Finally, he said, "They don't understand me here. I'm worried you're the only manager who will ever use me properly."

  I nodded. "I am mint."

  "Yes, but... You asked if I thought that leaving the Bundesliga would be a failure. How can it be, when I barely get the chance to prove myself? I think that when I was given minutes, I did well. I showed qualities. But the head coach doesn't trust me like you trusted me. It... It has become hard to motivate myself. I never thought I would say that." He was quiet; I kept my gob shut. "I have found myself looking at the fixtures wondering when he will be sacked. And then the new manager? Will he like me? Or will it be more of the same? You ask if I think I would consider this move a failure. I ask if I can afford to waste a whole year. If they had let me go to Saltney Town, or to Gibraltar, I would have those memories to fall back on."

  "If I bring you back, it'll be as a player, but I'd like your help with tactics and coaching. Would you be willing to chip in with the under 18s? I want to do the Youth Cup games but they have plenty of other fixtures. I've got them playing training matches against the Welsh 18s and some men's teams and whatnot."

  "I'll do it!"

  "And how do you feel about coming to the women's games and offering your input? I don't think Jay's the jealous type. I'm watching them right now, but I'm just sitting back and letting it happen. The big big game's this coming Sunday."

  "Home to Birmingham City," said Pascal.

  "Genau." That's German, in case you didn't know. My German was phenomenal. "Most of the other fixtures are straightforward and there will be days I'll want to go scouting. I need to see London City Lionesses, for example, in case we get them in the playoff. Jay can manage on his own but I do like having quality people around for him to bounce ideas off."

  "I would be happy to do it!"

  "You don't think people are gonna look at you and think, huh, he used to be the manager but now he's just an iPad bro?"

  "Er, I think that now." He laughed. "I don't care. If it helps the team, I'll be there."

  I did a slow blink while I watched Meredith Ann, Fioled, and Mari Hughes exchange passes in midfield. All three were eligible to play for Wales, but to advance their careers they had to play in England. Same as Pascal. "Mate, I'm ready to make this happen. He's coming home, he's coming home, he's coming, Pascal's coming home. Yes or no?"

  No hesitation. "Yes."

  "Bosh," I said, and clicked off. I licked my lips; I was suddenly really in the mood for some Glühwein. I suddenly felt more Christmassy.

  I texted Secretary Joe.

  Please bid 700,000 pounds for Pascal Bochum.

  That was the magic number that would seal the deal. His wages would stay as they were in Germany - ￡4,200 a week.

  The cost of Pascal for this season would be ￡800,000 - a hefty dent in my war chest, but one that was absolutely worth it, especially when Pascal started dropping improbable numbers of goals and assists. Yeah, the deal was a no-brainer, tbh, but I knew I was very slightly storing up future problems. I needed to pay for the new stand. I needed to give pay rises next summer. I needed to finance the deals for the two lads from Tranmere, plus - potentially - Emiliano.

  I couldn't rely on a lucrative FA Cup tie to save the day. Who could I sell to raise some cash?

  The best players to sell were ones who had hit their CA limits. Christian and Fitzroy Hall would spend the rest of the season showing other clubs that they were Championship standard players. If Andrew could stop getting injured for five minutes, he should generate interest. If Swanny got back to playing how he had earlier in the season, he would attract a fee. Dazza was getting more and more suitors, but he was so far from his cap I wanted to keep him around next season, too.

  Was that it? Four players ready to bring to auction?

  I nibbled my phone. Maybe Joel Reid, too, even if he was very slightly short of his cap. But then I would need a new midfielder. Sell a guy for a million, buy his replacement for half a mill. It was good business but it didn't feel like it would massively move the needle.

  I shook it off. Problems for future Max!

  I sent a text to someone listed in my contacts as 'Homeboy'.

  Josh Owens (Wrexham) - bid 400,000. It's what they paid us for him so they will be able to save face.

  Tom Hickman (Bradford City) - bid 10,000, tell them it's for squad depth and to shut me up.

  Stefan Clown (Bayern Munich) - this is a long shot but bid 500k. He's ambitious, wants to play, and might be swayed by your star power. Throw in a relegation clause so he can’t possibly get trapped in League Two. It's worth a punt. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, and if you can somehow snap him up, January will be a very good month for Tranmere Rovers!

  I looked up because the curse was offering me a Free Hit on a set piece. Meredith Ann was looming over the ball just outside the penalty box. For most players, including me, that was a little bit too close to the goal, but it was very much Meredith Ann Territory.

  I smashed Free Hit to give her an extra 10% chance of scoring, watched as she spun the ball over the wall and into the top corner, snorted at how easy she made it look, then texted the WhatsApp group for Chester's coaches (currently named, against my wishes, Coachy McCoachface).

  I wish to bring Balance to the force.

  (Balance training. What equipment do we have/do we need? What's out there that's good? Can we go to a gymnastics centre to get some masterclasses? Pitch me your ideas in Monday's meeting. Best one wins a hamper.)

  ***

  Pyramid Schemers

  Rocky: After Sunderland away and Derby at home, it's another gruelling away trip for Chester, and by the way, those miles spent on the team bus will be adding up.

  Mike: Wear miles.

  Rocky: Pardon me?

  Mike: It's not air miles because they're not flying, but it's draining. Wear and tear miles.

  Rocky: We need to workshop that one. Chester will be going to Ipswich to play one of the favourites for the title. They'll probably be without Owen Elmham, who as a loyal son of the Norfolk soil always plays great against the Tractor Boys. Add it all up... and I think we might just be in for a Max Best tactical masterclass.

  Mike: Plot twist!

  Rocky: I just think if you're bored in general, here's a game against - let's face it - a Premier League team. People like Best raise their levels in that sort of encounter, right? He'll have been studying the footage, finding tactical flaws in Ipswich's play, getting himself and his team ready. This is the biggest match of their entire winter, probably. I think they'll be well up for it.

  ***

  Saturday, December 11

  EFL Championship Match 22 of 46: Ipswich Town versus Chester

  Sandra and I went to look at the home team in the warm up. Ipswich Town had Premier League players in every position. They had 20-million-pound players on the bench. Their average CA would be 152. If we went absolutely crazily flat out, we might have been able to get something from the game, but in the context of our December workload, it just didn't make sense to over-exert ourselves.

  "What do you think?" said Sandra.

  "Stick to the plan," I said. "The plan is..." We looked at each other. "Together on three. One, two, the plan is - "

  Sandra said, "Cowardly."

  I said, "Strategic."

  She gave the pitch a rueful shake of the head, then clicked into professional mode. We were going ultra-defensive but that in itself was a test of her coaching skills. She would get stuck in to the task, that was for sure.

  I wanted to rotate the side pretty heavily, but I didn't have enough midfield options to do that. The main thing I knew I wanted was to start Nasa at right back, partly to celebrate that he had hit triple digits. CA 100! I had found him in the summer of 2025, so it had taken two and a half years of care, attention, and coaching at two of the world's best football clubs to get him to this point. Worth it, but any future CA 1 prospects I found would have to start at Saltney or West Didsbury - the levels at Chester were too high. A bittersweet thought. No more Youngsters at Chester? No, but that's why I was building a pipeline. To make sure the next Youngster could make it to Premier League Chester.

  The plan today was to go 5-4-1, put men behind the ball, and try to frustrate the home team.

  Swanny in goal.

  A back five of Cole, Christian, Zach, Fitzroy, and Nasa.

  A midfield screen of Lewis, Dan, Youngster, and Bark. Not the fiercest group, but they would hold their positions well enough. The structure would do much of our defending.

  Then it was Dazza as the lone striker. Ideally, he would be able to hold the ball up.

  I clicked my tongue. Our average CA was 119.6, and now that we were in an actual football stadium, the names I had scribbled on paper all felt pretty shit and incoherent. The plan wasn't even letting me rest my players properly - Peter Bauer had refused to stay in Chester, saying that if we were going to go all-out defensive he wanted to help co-ordinate it.

  Colin Beckton had jumped at the chance to spend a Saturday with his family. Wibbers had kicked up a fuss about not traveling with the team, so I did the powerful, masculine thing and called his girlfriend to say I had given him the day off and she could make plans for them. Problem solved.

  Cheb, Helge, and Gabby also got days off. "Actually," I said, thinking about it, "that's not bad."

  ***

  On-the-whistle match report from News of the Blues, the leading news and views platform for all things Chester FC.

  Author: D.Cox

  Ipswich 2 Chester 0 - Tractor Reactor Is the Deciding Factor; Blues Have Never Been Compacter

  This was a grim football match, a truly gruesome spectacle. Max Best doesn't often park the bus, but when he orders his players to get behind the ball, to slow the game down, to suck joy from the atmosphere, boy is it painful. There was a little patch of moss where I was sitting in Portman Road, and I spent much of the first half wondering how it had got there and whether removing it would weaken the structural integrity of the stadium.

  Best had the good grace to take the post-match interviews for once, and he was apologetic, saying that he didn't like to play in this manner but fatigue and injury had forced his hand. Best answered a question about Owen Elmham from an Ipswich-based journalist by going on a long, strange tangent: if we have Norfolk and Suffolk, why isn't there an Eastfolk and a Westfolk?

  When the journalist repeated his question, Best dived deeper into his world-building. He raised the prospect that the Westfolk would be the strongest of all the folk, and would have the best haircuts. He sketched out a possible Romantasy plot involving a handsome chieftain from the Westfolk who was smitten by a princess from the Noreastfolk, and whose father he had to fight in a cave. The father's health was restored by four great stalactites or stalagmites - Best urged us to check which one he meant ('you know, the dangly ones') but the hero soon realised that he had to smash the stalactites and then he would be able to batter the rival chieftain. 'This is actually mint. This writes itself.'

  There were no more questions about Owen Elmham.

  The home fans will, perhaps, forgive Max Best for ruining the game as a spectacle, since the win took their boys back into the top two. Ipswich look set to return to the Premier League without having to enter the dark, damp cave that is the playoffs, but they struggled to break Chester down in the first half. At half time there was much grumbling from the stands, but a goalmouth scramble at the start of the second half decided the match, as Diang, Ipswich's 25-million-pound Senegalese striker, was sharpest to react in the penalty box. Once the ball nestled into the back of the net, the result was never in doubt. Both teams seemed content to play out the rest of the match at the intensity of a training match.

  Not a fun drive home for the Chester faithful, but as was pointed out on my bus, at least Wrexham lost!

  Full report to follow...

  ***

  Chester's record: Played 22, Won 9, Drawn 4, Lost 9, Points 31.

  League position: 11th

  Points behind Wrexham: 3

  XP balance: 2,357

  ***

  Pyramid Schemers

  Rocky: I still can't get over what you said earlier. Max Best should take less interest in his women's team?

  Mike: No, of course that's not my position. But the day after the men play Ipswich, the women are playing their biggest league game of the year. They really, really need to beat Birmingham City. If they don't, the title might be out of reach already. What I'd say is that while Max Best has done an amazing job to get the team that far, it should be run more professionally, meaning it should have people involved in it for whom that's their entire life. Sole focus on the women's team - as that team deserves.

  Rocky: Nice save.

  Mike: Thanks.

  ***

  Sunday, December 12

  WSL2 Match 10 of 22: Chester Women versus Birmingham City WFC

  It turned out to be low block weekend. Birmingham (average CA 92) had won all nine of their previous matches and were four points clear of us. A draw suited them perfectly, since it meant that even if we beat them later in the season, their destiny would be in their own hands.

  They played 5-3-2, and their forwards were dangerous enough to make Jay wary of sending Victoria Rose into the DM slot. Our default 3-4-3 had an average CA of 96.4, but while the attendance was decent, the fans weren't noisy enough to really give us home advantage. It was the pivotal match in our season, so I hit Bench Boost and Triple Captain, but didn't ask Jay to do anything weird with his line up that might have got more juice out of the boost.

  The ladies played well, caused loads of problems for Birmingham, got shots and half-chances, but couldn't find the goal that would blow the league wide open. It ended 0-0, and the Birmingham players celebrated like they had won the league.

  Which they very possibly had.

  Jay and our squad were distraught. I gathered them and gave them a tiny pep talk. "You bossed the game. You created chances. Sometimes the ball doesn't go in - that's football. The title's not in our hands - that happens. We beat Wolves next week, then we win the second half of the season. Birmingham will slip up. They will. We keep the pressure up on them, good chance they'll crack. One slip and we're back to being favourites. This isn't a done deal, okay?" That worked pretty well. The women strode towards the dressing rooms with more purpose and determination. Jill was next to me. "This season's over," I said. "Playoff arc looming."

  Her expression darkened. "The only thing I hate more than playoffs are low blocks," she growled. "People who do low blocks instead of trying to compete are the absolute dregs of humanity." She looked at me. "No offence."

  ***

  Chester Women's record: Played 10, Won 7, Drawn 3, Lost 0, Points 24.

  League position: 2nd

  Points behind Birmingham: 4

  XP balance: 3,510

  ***

  Pyramid Schemers

  Rocky: I think it's a very interesting point you make about having a sole focus on one thing. I already mentioned that Chester don't have a scouting team. As far as I know they have one scout who files opposition reports for the coaching team to use, while most of the actual looking for new players is done by Max Best alone. He's always seen at other stadiums -

  Mike: Sometimes in the manager's dugout!

  Rocky: Exactly. But what's his focus when he's there? Chester? Their recruitment strategy makes little to no sense, which perhaps explains why they don't have a coherent playing style. And he has a growing number of business interests. Property, data analytics, his private sponsorship deals. He's more than welcome to earn some cash on the side, of course he is, but that won't help Chester pick up points this December, will it?

  ***

  Monday, December 13

  Training was pretty fantastic. We had an hour led by Sandra, plus 20 minutes of Relationism work led by me. Guess who took to it like a fish to water? Emiliano.

  Most of my Relationism drills had rules like 'you get a point every time you create a 'ladder' of three players and pass from the bottom to the top of the ladder without the guy in the middle touching the ball'. Or it might be that you got a point for a nutmegged pass. This morning I tried a new variant - you got two points for a round-the-corner flick, since that had been so effective in actual match play.

  As long as those were the rules, Emiliano was a model teammate. But when the big goalposts were in front of him, it was like he got snowblind. Teammates? What's that? No passing, only goals.

  Absolutely fascinating.

  But I had already made inroads in his personality - some of his mental stats were rising. I would get all the low-hanging fruit, then hammer him with months of specially-designed drills. It was going to be pretty brutal. January and February were going to be very, very bad months for Emiliano.

  Heh. The little shit.

  I went to my office before hitting the canteen and spotted a session that was about to start on one of the mini-pitches. Owen Elmham, Ian Swan, and the youth team goalies, plus about twenty cameras on tripods. Sophie was adjusting Owen's lapel mic and telling him off for bumping into it too much. Ian was teasing him. That whole project was going to be amazing.

  After lunch, I went with the Brazilians, Luisa, Emma, Aff, plus Gemma and her dad, to see the Big Mama House for the second time. Luisa didn't like the blocky look of the outside. Emma didn't really like the wallpaper that I found so amazing. The builders told me it was sound and had been renovated to a good standard. The Brazilians were giddy about bringing their families over and had them on video chat the whole time, showing them the details, assuring them there was only one tap per sink.

  Emma took me aside and suggested we could stay in one of the flats for a week as a sort of holiday. Actually, she called it 'honeymoon practice'.

  I tried not to show a reaction, stepped away from her, and turned to the estate agent. I held up an imaginary wad of cash and yelled. "I'll take it!"

  ***

  That evening, I returned to the old grind - trudging around the country watching high-level matches as often as humanly possible. I wanted XP and I needed to make sure I was on top of all the craziness that might happen in the January transfer window. That meant scouting at a variety of levels, from the Prem to the National League. It was an irony that the more Attributes I unlocked, the more incomplete my database became.

  All the more reason to get the next five done.

  Burnley versus Sheffield United in the Premier League was a great place to start. 7 XP per minute, the chance to see two teams who were very likely to drop into the Championship next season, plus I would get to hang out with David Bakero (from my UEFA Pro course) afterwards.

  The match was interesting primarily because Sheffield United were not currently in the Premier League relegation zone, and 'only' had an average CA of 147. It gave me the confidence to know that I was doing the right thing when it came to this consolidation season. By the time we got to the Prem, Chester could easily have an average of 147 and with some fancy tactics and some grit and togetherness, we could match the levels I was seeing.

  Near the end, I crossed 4,000 XP, and instantly bought the next Attribute.

  Work Rate.

  My shoulders slumped. What the fuck did that mean? Wasn't that the same as Teamwork? Or Determination?

  I calmed myself and sorted Chester's men by this new Attribute.

  Andrew Harrison.

  Youngster.

  Wibbers.

  Nasa.

  The men's squad overall had high levels of Work Rate, certainly much higher on average than I saw in the Stuttgart squad.

  For the women's team, the leaders were Charlotte, Mari Hughes, Fioled, plus Jenni and Taz, the two midfield tearaways I had recently discovered.

  Quite a midfield kinda focus on that Attribute, then. It seemed to be a measure of how willing a player was to run around, chasing the ball, going on overlapping runs, sacrificing himself for the team.

  Guess who had the lowest out of anyone at Chester?

  Yeah.

  Emiliano's two bad months just turned into three.

  Fuck it. I would ride him all the way until the summer and if he still wanted to stay, that would say a lot about his character. While I was thinking that, I got a message from Don Pino.

  You are on TV! Burnley vs Sheffield. Which star of the future are you watching?

  There are good players here but no megastars. I was thinking about Emiliano, in fact. Thinking that he would light this match up, excite the fans. Seems like it's my mission to turn him into a European star. There's a paradox, though. If I push him as hard as he needs to be pushed, he'll hate me and he won't stay at Chester. If I don't push him hard, he won't get to this level.

  I heard you have already been pushing him.

  What, a few little shouts? Come on. That was a gentle tickle compared to what I've got planned for him.

  No replies came, so I turned my thoughts back to the Work Rate question. The French player Ousmane Dembélé had been a prodigy, and was signed by Barcelona to replace Neymar. The move was widely regarded as a failure, and Dembélé seemed destined to join a long line of megatalents who never fulfilled their potential.

  I all but forgot he existed until one day I watched a random European match involving Paris Saint-Germain. Dembélé had transformed. When it came to his technique, he was as good as ever. When it came to leadership, though, it was as though he had played a Triple Captain perk. His decision-making was miles better than ever. But most of all, his Work Rate had doubled. Trebled. Quadrupled. He ran around like a maniac, pressing, harrying, chasing everything. The performance was stupendous, real 11 out of 10 stuff, but knowing that this was the same man I had dismissed as lazy was mind-blowing.

  What had happened to effect this change? His new club? His new manager? Maybe he had become a parent. I didn't know, and since French people famously never liked to talk about themselves, I would probably never know. It gave me hope, though. If Dembélé could be named the best player in Europe and be highly regarded for his selfless team play... anything was possible.

  Don Pino: I told Emiliano what you said. He said 'bring it on'.

  I waited for my eyebrows to fall to their normal height, then texted Brooke.

  Please postpone the next billboard graphic if that's possible. I want this up asap: On the left, the words team work, work rate, decision-making, each followed by a big green tick. Main image, Emiliano giving it a big double thumbs up. Underneath, in quote marks, BRING IT ON.

  ***

  Pyramid Schemers

  Mike: We should probably move on from Chester soon, but I'll just quickly add my two pence. This episode is only looking at the first two weeks of December, but on the 14th Chester have Portsmouth away. It's hard to imagine three away trips that would cover more miles than Sunderland away, Ipswich away, Portsmouth away.

  Rocky: Despair miles.

  Mike: Then we've got the opposition analysis. You've already said that Sunderland and Derby have been improving and guess what? So have Portsmouth. Since losing 2-0 to Chester in September, they tried switching formations but they have gone back to their tried-and-tested 4-2-3-1 and their underlying metrics are trending up, up, up.

  Rocky: Play up, Pompey.

  Mike: Assuming Chester have had the stuffing knocked out of them in the past three fixtures, this is one that could prove to be a knockout blow.

  Rocky: Ding, ding.

  Mike: And guess what? That match is only a couple of days before Chester's Youth Cup campaign starts, and we know Best is a lot more motivated by that competition than this year's Championship campaign.

  Rocky: You think his mind will be elsewhere against Pompey?

  Mike: His mind? How about his body? I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't even travel down!

  ***

  Tuesday, December 14

  EFL Championship Match 23 of 46: Portsmouth versus Chester

  I stood at the front of the dressing room and spread my arms wide. The guys settled down. "I feel the need," I said. "The need... for speed!"

  Peter Bauer slapped Dazza on the arm. "Boss, is your favourite movie today Top Gun?"

  "Top Gun?" I said. "What's that?"

  Peter smiled. "Never mind."

  I bit my lip, but couldn't keep up the pretence for long. I took a few big steps towards him. "Peter," I said, in a gruff, masculine voice. "You can be my wingman anytime."

  "Bullshit," he said, "you can be mine."

  "Great," I said, moving back towards the tactics board. "When I said you can be my wingman any time... that excludes today, obviously."

  "Obviously," sighed Peter. Dazza slapped him on the arm.

  "Portsmouth are going to do their shitty 4-2-3-1 as always," I said, "and we're going to copy them. But we're going to rip them a new one. And then another new one." I paused and looked up at the ceiling. "I don't want to give them new things. Can I rip them an old one?"

  Youngster said, "No, Mr. Best. The old one was ripped by God himself."

  "This is getting weird," I said. "Okay, here's the team news. Swanny's in goal. Swanny, mate, I think we're gonna rip them a new old one today and if we're way, way in the lead, I'd love to give Rainman ten minutes near the end. Are you cool with that?"

  Swanny had been through the wringer in recent times, but his long run in the team plus tons and tons of support from the greatest living northman, Owen Elmham, had sorted him right out. Swanny's CA had crept up to 124, and he was very close to his limit of 127. "Yes, boss. You want to give him a taste of the big time, just in case."

  "That's right."

  "Centre backs are Christian and Zach." CA 120 and 125. Zach was pulling away from Christian and Fitz, these days. Bittersweet, but I was enjoying Zach stepping into the role of our most senior CB.

  "DMs are Youngster and Maverick Best. You make a mess? We'll clean it up. Last one to 5 interceptions is a rotten egg." Youngster had been quietly improving, as always, with no fuss, no drama. He was CA 129, catching up to Joel Reid, who had returned from his injury.

  "Our three CAMs are Cheb, Wibbers, and Bark! Whut whut whut!" Cheb was 147, William 130, Bark 117. I would use my one tactical deformation to move Bark more to the right, sometimes, where he was a more natural fit.

  "Today's goalsman is Gabriel!"

  "Noo," groaned Sandra. "What have we told you about the word 'goalsman'? It's not a word. Stop listening to that stupid Pyramid podcast!"

  "It's not stupid," I said. "It's hilarious, but it's not stupid. Where was I?" Ah yes, I was about to reveal Gabby's latest CA. 128! "Gabriel is rising like a well-yeasted plum pudding."

  "What the fuck," said Physio Dean.

  "I hope Max won't be cooking our Christmas dinner," said Livia.

  "No," said Christian. "He has scoured the north of England for Nando's staff who will be off work that day. We're getting the full Nando's menu right in our canteen."

  Livia eyed him and wagged her finger. "I feel like you're joking but I can't be sure. Remind me never to play poker with you."

  "I'm terrible at poker," said Christian, convincingly.

  "Soz," I said. "Can I get back to my thing? This is like my only job."

  "You also have to boss midfield," said Dazza.

  "My only hard job!" I snapped. "As the more perceptive of you will have noticed, I left the full backs till last. Here we go... It's Adam Summerhays and Roddy Jones. Whaaaaaat?" I nudged their magnets into place. Adam was 93/137; Roddy 83/184. Putting them in the starting line-up took our average CA a smidge below 120, but Portsmouth were only 110, and how else were the youngsters going to learn the sport? "You guys just need to run forward and be fast. I'll cover you when you go. If you get here..." I pushed their magnets all the way forward until they were level with the CAMs. "And I drop into the defensive line..." I moved one of the DMs back to CB. "We'll basically be doing 3-1-5-1, which I personally find extremely sexy. Remember when that prick at Sunderland was pinging long diagonals from the defence? I fancy a bit of that, tbh. I'm gonna ping more than a submarine. I'm gonna ping more than an internet router. I'm gonna ping more than Pingu."

  "Hey, Maverick," said Sandra, pushing me away from the tactics board. "Your ego's writing cheques your passing range can't handle."

  "Can't handle?" I said, stunned.

  "You can't handle the truth!" yelled Helge, before being drowned in a sea of jeers for mixing up his Tom Cruise movies.

  My hands were still on my head from Sandra's earlier comment. "I've got the best passing range in Europe!"

  Sandra scoffed. "Prove it."

  ***

  On-the-whistle match report from News of the Blues, the leading news and views platform for all things Chester FC.

  Author: D.Cox

  Portsmouth 0 Chester 4: Pass-Master Max Stacks Centre-Back Attacks; Rowdy Roddy Hyper

  Chester moved to an all-time high position of 9th in the second tier after one of the most perfect, exuberant, and extraordinary displays in the club's long history. They have moved level on points with Moneybags Wrexham, lower in the table only because of goal difference. This after the team from down the A483 spent in the region of 100 million pounds to become known worldwide as the most expensive pub team in history. No amount of expense could get that lot playing the way Chester played tonight.

  First, a word for the back line, which is sure to be overlooked in most analyses of this match. Ian Swan has recovered after his jittery spell, and is looking ever more dependable. Will Best learn from this that goalkeepers are the one position that should not be rotated? No, because to further take the piss out of Portsmouth, Best replaced Swanny with Owen Travis for the final ten minutes. A Championship debut for the lad, good for him, but one of these days one of these gambles is going to backfire in spectacular fashion!

  Christian Fierce and Zach Green were solid as a rock, backed ably by Youngster and Max Best, who played the entire 90 minutes for Chester for the first time this season. The home team simply couldn't lay a glove on us.

  Best sat in the defensive pocket and sprayed passes up the pitch in the style of an NFL quarterback. Many footballers have tried to do this, but few have succeeded. When Portsmouth thought they had worked him out, moving defenders wide to stop bombs landing on their flanks with pinpoint accuracy, Best simply fizzed daisycutter passes forty, sometimes fifty yards, totally straight, to the feet of Gabby or Wibbers.

  Gabby was dominant, winning the majority of his duels. Wibbers flittered around, causing panic with long shots and clever passing.

  Cheb Alloula continued to make the case that he should be named the Championship Player of the Season. Bark was quieter, but scored the decisive first goal.

  And then the full backs! Adam Summerhays was a willing outlet on the left, firing early crosses, getting to the byline and crossing, and once even taking a long shot that looked to be quite close from my spot in the stands.

  Incredibly, given the overall standard on the night, Chester's away fans were most excited by the performance of the Welsh prodigy Roddy Jones. Best has been incredibly sparing with Jones's minutes this season, but he got a good hour today and showed just what a talent he is. Overlapping runs, underlapping runs, passes, dribbles, tricks, and above all, searing pace.

  As Jones dribbled past a solid Championship defender for the fourth time, I yelped. Not everything came off. In that instance, Jones's cross was too high and Gabby couldn't reach it, but the applause in the away end was frantic and desperate, like in black-and-white clips of olde-time football. "What a player," I gasped, as Jones jogged back to his starting position. "What a fucking player!"

  A man behind me took my shoulder and turned me towards him. With a knowing grin, he bellowed, "Who, him? Chester's fourth-choice right back?"

  What a player. What a squad. What a future.

  ***

  Final score: 4-0 (Bark; Cheb; Zach; Colin (sub)).

  Chester's record: Played 23, Won 10, Drawn 4, Lost 9, Points 34.

  League position: 9th

  Points behind Wrexham: 0.

  XP balance: 1,020

  ***

  It was approaching 3 a.m. when I got home to Ruth's cottage. Emma was long in bed, of course, so I tried to make as little noise as possible. The downstairs smelled like a ravishing blonde's perfume plus her favourite meal, known in England as spag bol. It put a massive smile on my face even before I had set my bags down. I closed my eyes and breathed in through my nose; I wanted the rest of my life to smell like this. Perfection.

  As always after a match, I was buzzing far too much to sleep, so I sat on the sofa and went to my favourite podcast app. I brought up an episode of Pyramid Schemers that I had been saving.

  While they blabbed about how Wrexham were going to have a great first half of the month - wrong, lol! - I got itchy. Portsmouth hadn't tested me very much, so I had billions of calories that I needed to burn off. I got on the floor and did sit-ups and stomach crunches.

  "Babes?" came a shaky voice.

  "Ems?" I said, surprised. My future wife was at the bottom of the stairs. "What's... Are you okay?"

  "I heard your phone."

  "What?" I realised that one of my earbuds had popped out and instead of ceasing the playback, my phone had decided to blare the audio through its speakers. I hadn’t noticed, somehow. "Oh, fuck. Fuck, I'm sorry."

  She blinked. Pure nap face. She pottered towards me. "I know that podcast. Wait. I know that episode. That's the predictions one! Why are you listening to it now?"

  "I like to listen to their predictions after the matches have happened; it's far funnier that way."

  "They said..." She tried to load up some of her memories. "They said you'd have a bad month."

  I shrugged. "They take big swings, those guys. I don't mind it."

  "I heard you weren't happy with Adam tonight. What was he doing wrong?"

  "Adam?" I said, confused. "Adam Summerhays? He was fine." Emma had probably listened to the match on Seals Live; I realised that from Boggy's perspective it probably looked like I was giving the lad a hard time. "I was shouting at him more than usual, yeah, but only to see if I could make his Work Rate pop."

  "Oh. Of course." Ems sat on the sofa, pulled me backwards, and gave me what she thought was a shoulder massage but was actually closer to Reiki. "So was it a good month or a bad month? In your opinion?"

  "Hmm," I said, leaning back, finally hearing the quiet of the little cottage and letting it seep into my spirit. "The men got 9 points from 12 and caught up with Wrexham."

  "That's good."

  "No, that's bad."

  "How is that bad?"

  I laughed. "What's our goal for the season supposed to be now?"

  "Well..." started Emma. "Henri texted saying we're only one point off the playoffs, so..."

  "Block Henri, please. Block the P word, while you're at it. I don't want anything to do with the P word." I squinted. "Unless that P word is performance. December's performances have been top. Dreamy next-level footy against Sunderland, the perfection of industrial football against Derby, and just rampant speed and energy tonight. Three totally different performances, equally effective. I actually really liked how we played against Ipswich. We're gonna need to suffer like that sometimes. When we have more quality, we can turn those low-block suffer-fests into counter-attacking smash-and-grabs. Don't you just love a smash-and-grab undeserved victory? I know you do, babes, no need to speak. Tonight, Joel Reid got on the pitch again after his muscle tweak. Adam and Roddy got minutes. Wallace got minutes last time out. Nasa has played. Tomzilla has played. We're good enough that we can have one weak spot in some games, which means I can blood the Youth Cup squad in Jan and Feb."

  "If you beat Ipswich on Thursday."

  "Babes, please. Those are my boys. Hand-picked. Max blessed. I say jump, they say why not hover? We'll score however many goals we want; Ipswich will be lucky to get nil."

  "Okay," she said, resting her chin next to my neck. I took my volume right down.

  "Yeah, the men's team is going great. Owen's in. Emiliano's flawed in a way that I think I can fix. Pascal's coming home." I nuzzled into Ems a little - that was another 10% calmness boost. I got even quieter. "The women's team had a tough bounce against Birmingham, but they got through the Nando's Cup group stage with no issues. We're at home to Manchester City in the quarter-final. That's tough but everyone's looking forward to it. And they won in the FA Cup, too. Fourth round's against West Ham. Another draw that's maybe a touch too hard, but more excitement, and I'll be able to use Bench Boost in both cup games, not that it helped much against Birmingham."

  I stopped, realising my mistake. Emma mumbled, "More cups than a bra shop."

  "What else? I bought a zen garden for the club and arranged for Aff to transport it. I came up with a scam to squeeze more revenue out of Seal Studios. Um... Oh, yeah! I bought myself a new block of flats. CH1 for the win."

  "Property magnet," mumbled Emma.

  I tried to turn my head to see just how knackered she was, but decided it was time to bring her back to bed in any case. "And the best thing of all, the thing that means it's absolutely one billion percent a great month... Actually, hang on. Let's finish this."

  I pressed play on my phone.

  The voice of Rocky filled the silence. "Of course, the most predictable thing about Chester is their unpredictability. They could do the exact opposite of everything we've just said!"

  I pressed pause and said, "Attaboy, Rocky, mate. Attaboy."

  "What's the thing that means it's a great month?" wondered the fraction of Emma that was awake.

  I eased myself out of her delicious clutches, stood, and walked backwards towards the wall. "It's past midnight. That means it’s Wednesday. December 15th," I added.

  "Oh," said Emma, impressed.

  I tried to keep a reverential look on my face but failed. I turned and ripped a piece of paper off the countdown clock that Ruth had bought for us. The old number said: 165. The new number read: 164. I looked at my sleepy, sleepy angel. "Every month's a good month that takes us closer to our wedding."