6.

  Half an hour after leaving the podcast studio, almost every member of the first team squad was in the Sin Bin. We were only waiting for Henri, who had been getting his knees waxed, and Magnus, who was out geocaching and wouldn't be able to get back in time.

  A few WAGs - wives and girlfriends - were in the bar, while others (especially the ones with kids) were in the viewing cabin, watching our youth teams train.

  I was in my office sketching out possible formations and line ups. It was blindingly obvious to me that if we tried to do anything approaching normal football we would get squashed flat. We had to get weird, to go off book, and that meant Sandra would be in charge. With the freedom to put players in any position, I started to think about what I'd learned in my time as a manager.

  Yeah, you won more games by having your best players in their best positions. That was the reason I thought so much about squad building, why I was so intense about training.

  But I'd learned that on special occasions you could skip all that. If you had one specific move you wanted to do or there was one thing you needed to shut down at all costs, you could put players in apparently stupid places. You could use Pascal to man-mark a left back. You could put an attacking midfielder in the defence because he was the best at long passes. I hadn't done it much but you could use left backs at right back if you felt you needed a left footed defender on that side.

  Most such changes ended with that out-of-position player getting a poor match rating. The way Newcastle played, every one of my lads would get 4 or 5 out of ten. We were going to get soundly thrashed, that was for sure.

  But that didn't mean we couldn't win.

  Sandra: Ready.

  I got up and walked along Lane Lane in the direction of the Sin Bin. That took me past the grass pitch - currently called ‘Lawn Michaels’ - where the women were training.

  Angel flat out left the drill she was doing - just left the ball right there and ignored the complaints of her teammates - and jogged over. "Max," she said, walking next to me.

  "Mmm," I said, trying to keep in the right mental state for what I was about to say. If I gave off too much energy, the lads wouldn't be able to sleep. If I was too vague about the plan, they wouldn't be able to spend the next 24 hours visualising it. If I was too clear about the plan, there was a risk half a dozen of them would get morale drops because there was no way they would get on the pitch.

  "What are you doing? You're doing something. The lads are all worked up." Some of the men had spilled out of the Sin Bin, had formed into little groups. "Why did you summon them?"

  "Summon? If I had the power to summon I think I'd start with a sexy dark elf. Or a mermaid."

  "If you're doing epic things, you should have the cameras in with you."

  "Bye Angel," I said, and she stopped. I walked backwards while I said, "Well done against Wakefield. Into the second round of the FA Cup! The Relentlessness indeed. I love how the team is playing. Done good job."

  ***

  The buzz of anticipation in the packed cabin got my pulse up. Instant goosebumps.

  It used to be like this all the time, my life, all mad schemes and desperate gambits. Now it was mostly sedate. A calm and rational exploration of the country as we tried to turn 1.1 points per game into something a lot closer to 2.

  We had the first team squad and the coaches who weren't out with the kids or the women. Dean and Alex were there, but not MD or Brooke. This was football stuff. Some of the teacher's pets were sitting at Spectrum's table, including Pascal (still in his brace, good lad), but the vast majority of the group were standing. The ones outside had seen me and had come in. The Sin Bin was cold, full to the brim with clean, fresh air. With so many bodies crammed in, how long would that last?

  "Listen up," I said.

  I was at the front. The TV had been wheeled to my right. To my left I had my trusty old flipchart.

  "Put your arm around someone."

  The reaction to this was electric. Men stood taller. There were a dozen jumps in Morale. Sandra held Vimsy. Zach held Dazza. Fierce held Andrew Harrison.

  Physio Dean and Alex Short were standing awkwardly by the door. They didn't feel like part of the group. I pointed to them, then to the middle of the room. "Get in the blob."

  They shuffled forward, into the mass. Arms lifted like cranes, fell back down around their new cargo.

  I scanned the room from left to right. My employees. My teammates. My warriors. "Look around you."

  They did. They didn't know what they were looking for, so their expressions stayed mostly neutral.

  "Make eye contact with someone until you get uncomfortable... then power through it."

  It was like I'd dialled the intensity from 7 to 9. Sparks flew.

  "Relax," I said, but while the energy levels dipped, I got the feeling the holds were stronger. They were gripping each other tighter.

  I looked down at the floor.

  "I’m going to demand something I’ve never asked for before."

  I looked up, picked out a few faces to engage with.

  "I’m going to ask for courage."

  The grips got tighter. I had to make sure I didn't overdo this or Sandra was going to rip Vimsy's shoulder clean off.

  "I’ve done batshit things in sports halls. I've done mad scientist experiments with army units on distant fields. Christ, I’ve done tactics in the National League which seemed daring, seemed like I was an inch from national humiliation, only to find out no-one was watching."

  I took a couple of steps to the right.

  "People are watching now. We’re going to play Newcastle United. I'm going to pit my wits against Alan Turner, the leading English manager. But that’s not why you need courage. You need courage because maybe I’ve finally lost the plot completely. Maybe I’ve cracked. Maybe my head has actually gone."

  I did a weird snarling laugh but my attempts to get it off my face only made me sharper, more angular, more evil. I started pacing around like a revivalist preacher.

  "There's something in the air, lads. I feel powerful. I'm going to use that power to serve a higher purpose. I’ve got a fucking FERVOUR."

  Youngster said, "Amen."

  "Alan Turner's greatest weakness as a manager is that he’s in this for himself. Look at the person you're holding. Do you see a person who believes in something more than themselves?"

  People turned, asked themselves how much they knew about their neighbours.

  I stepped in front of Andrew Harrison. The table was in the way but it was as close as I could get. I pointed at him. "Is there anything you believe in more than yourself?"

  "My family," he said.

  I nodded and stepped left. "Youngster, is there anything you believe in more than yourself?"

  I thought I knew the answer to that one, but I got a surprise. "My family," he said.

  I pointed up with both index fingers, the way some players do when they've scored a goal. "Anything higher?"

  "I believe in my manager," he said, which brought grins to a few faces and nearly overwhelmed me with the need to be on the pitch beating Newcastle right now. Right now!

  I used sign language to say 'done good job'.

  I spoke quietly, next. "It seems like our opponent has everything, but we have one advantage. It's simple. I believe in things. I’m willing to put my ego on the line for those things. I can afford to be humiliated. I went from having the best haircut in the northern hemisphere to the worst in the south. When I was trying to take corners on a mudbath and kept slipping, I got up and slipped even harder. I'm going to spend the next three months of my life begging for money so we can have a good pitch and bring the women home. If I had a five hundred million pound team and it was getting battered by a League Two minnow, I would go men behind ball and defend for our lives.

  "Alan Turner can't do that. Alan Turner can't afford to be humiliated. He wants to be the England manager. That's a straitjacket. He's a prisoner of his own ambition."

  I had thought about showing some clips at this point, but we could do that in the morning. This evening was all about alignment. Getting everyone in that cabin pulling in the same direction.

  "Newcastle are a brilliant team. Alan Turner's brand of football looks exciting. It’s intense. Attacking. Direct. Some of you are thinking, wow, that sounds like Max Best football. Does it fuck! It’s the opposite. How they play is all about Turner's career. It is hollow, it is empty. It generates xG and xT, all that stuff he can print out and bring to a job interview. It’s the boldest you can be without taking any fucking risk!

  "I'd love to say his style is cowardly but it's not. We're not that lucky. It is fearful. It looks amazing but Turner is risk averse to an extreme that I can and will fucking exploit every time we meet, starting tomorrow.

  "I’ve got a plan. It is all kinds of demented. None of you signed up for guaranteed humiliation live on TV. If you don’t want to be part of it, leave now. I promise it will not affect your career here and that’s a triple lock promise. If you’re not comfortable being a joke on the back page of the Mail, being ripped to bits on every podcast in the world, this is the time to nope out. I’m serious."

  Henri said, "How bad is your plan?"

  "Fucking mental. Any other manager putting out this lineup with these instructions a day after the club asked its fans for five million pounds would be sacked before half time. Sacked before kick off, maybe."

  "Okay," said Henri. "I'm in."

  I pointed at Alex Short. "You've just made a promise in front of a psychologist. That's like swearing on the Bible."

  "It isn't," said Alex and Youngster.

  "Anyone want to leave? Andrew?" The older triplet shook his head. I twisted my neck around to release some of the tension, turned to a new page of the flipchart, and picked up a marker. I flicked it up and caught it as I strolled around. "Right. Turnerball is always 4-3-3, morphing into 3-2-5 or 3-1-6 when they're attacking. Key principles for how Newcastle play.

  "One. They press. Their press is ridiculously intense. We will get no time on the ball. We will have zero percent possession.

  "Two, they are fit. They are much fitter than us, and we are in pretty good shape. It isn't a case of us waiting till the last ten minutes to go hard against tired legs. Nope. They will run insanely hard, insanely fast, for 98 minutes. If they need a break they will flop to the floor and pretend to have a head injury. That's the most despicable form of cheating because it puts us all at risk. One day a ref won't stop a game when there's a genuine issue. By the way: fuck Alan Turner.

  "Three. They attack from all directions. Down the sides they do overloads and overlaps for days. Through the middle they have craft and long shots. They're a menace from set pieces.

  "Four. They do a lot of positional rotation. Their 6 moves to 8, their 8 moves to 10, all that good stuff. It will cause us problems we don't have solutions for.

  "Five. They play a high line. They will be right up on halfway against us. This compresses the pitch and makes their press more effective. The only way out is over the top.

  "Six. Their goalie plays high. He'll be almost to the edge of the centre circle at times. If we chip a ball over the defensive line, he'll get to it ninety-odd times per hundred and the ball will come right back at us."

  I smiled as I picked the flipchart up and moved it into the centre. There hadn't been a whole load of good news in that speech.

  "On the plus side, it won't be their best team. They're being ground to dust, as per usual, and there are these international breaks where they're flying around the world getting fatigued. No chance their top five players will even be on the private jet for the ten-minute flight from Newcastle. Climate Crime FC, lads, if you want a nice hashtag. I think we'll get their squad players plus a hot prospect or two. Still terrific but, you know, human. Here's the plan, in basic form. We'll get more specific in the morning and do some game scenarios out on the grass. Walking pace, saving energy for the match." I drew a circle. "Release that breath you were holding. Yes, we will have a goalkeeper." I jerked my eyebrows up playfully. "Got a feeling we might need one." I drew two centre backs. "Defenders. Low block. No space in behind. You're not going up for corners. There will be no counter-attack goals scored on us because we aren't moving. You'll be here the whole match, defending, defending, defending. It will be agony. No ecstasy. The amount of suffering will be unprecedented; this will be the worst 98 minutes of your lives."

  Those words filled Christian Fierce with a holy zeal. Zach's eyes were shining.

  "We will have a left back and a right back. Behold the megabrain! Now, then. We know they love slapping down the sides so we will do one of two things. Either we will play a second full back on both flanks, so two left backs and two right backs, or we will have Josh and Magnus as wing backs. That would give us the illusion of not being ultra-defensive and could in theory give us an out ball when we're in trouble. I'll let Vimsy and Sandra think about it overnight."

  "A back six?" said Henri.

  "No, a back seven," I said. In addition to the wide defenders I drew a third centre back just slightly ahead of the other two. "DM. He'll block long shots and drop into the box when there are overlaps. When the cutback comes in, the nearest centre back heads to the front post, the DM goes to the edge of the six-yard box to intercept balls played back at an angle. I've drawn him as a DM but the way the game will go, he'll be in line with the centre backs more than not. Back seven. Backs to the wall. Clinging on for dear life."

  I paused to think about what I'd said so far.

  "Okay this is damage limitation. They can still hurt us, course they can, but with this we'll make it hard. If we abandon the idea of trying to ever pass the football, the task becomes a lot clearer, right? They can't counter-press us when we try to break because we're not trying to break. And if we flood the backline, their pretty rotations won't affect us as much. We're marking the space, yeah? Not the players. They will be able to take long shots - our goal is to make them do it from 30 yards instead of 25. One might sail in. One might deflect in. Or they might have 50 and they all go miles over. Right, Youngster?"

  He did the closest thing in his repertoire to a patient sigh. "Yes, boss."

  "Okay last three players. Again, I'm going to let Sandra chew on this overnight, but it will be something very much along the lines of this..."

  I drew three circles in the striker positions, as if we were playing 4-3-3 with narrow forwards.

  Sandra said, "Seven-oh-three, boss?"

  "Three fast attackers stationed on the halfway line. We defend for our lives, punt, hope a ball bounces our way. It's next level tactics. It's scary how good I am." I wandered around in a loop, returning to tap the chart. "I have no idea how twatface will respond to this but if he does nothing and we get a lucky goal, all bets are off and I can rinse him in the post-match. If he drops the defence back ten yards, if he stops his DM pushing on, almost any reaction from him is good for us if it interrupts their patterns."

  I did another restless lap of my circuit.

  "If we get a couple of good breaks... Christ, if we get an early goal... We could get under their skin. They could start to worry. There's no upside for Turner in beating us. It does nothing for his career. It does nothing for the careers of the squad players he picks. You scored against Chester? So what? For those players it's only downsides. We could end five Newcastle careers tomorrow night and they know it." I nodded rapidly. "They're always going to be five bad minutes away from a meltdown. We’ve got the courage to lose big. Do they have the courage to lose small?"

  ***

  Tuesday, October 28

  The morning's training was pretty strange. It was more like a series of negotiations than a real session, and there was strictly no running. We didn't have a calorie to spare.

  First things first. I took the goalies aside and explained my thinking, which was simply that Ben would start the match because he had better long distribution and that was basically our entire plan. I would be able to name nine subs and use five, so there was an outside chance I would be able to bring Sticky on in the event of penalties. Not much chance, though, because the only way to survive the 90 minutes was to use every single sub. Sticky knew he probably wouldn't get on the pitch.

  We'd decided to do the wingbacks thing, which meant we would start with our usual back four of Eddie, Fierce, Zach, and Lee H. I explained to Eddie, Lee, and Vimsy that I wanted the wide guys to play narrower, close to the centre backs. Newcastle would try to slip balls between the gaps in our lines. If the gaps weren't there, that would obviously be harder. As the pressure came on us, Josh (left wing-back) and Magnus (right wing-back) would slide back, as would the DM.

  Vimsy was coaching a flat back seven. He was so much in his element there were times I thought he might actually be afloat.

  He was pretty surprised when I announced I would be the starting DM, mostly because everyone was expecting me to be one of the fast strikers. We had Sharky and Wibbers... who was the third?

  "I'll play the first twenty, twenty-five, then it'll be Youngster. It's a key role and this way we can match Newcastle's energy levels, yeah, in one part of the pitch at least."

  "Are you going to do the shuffle and slide walkthroughs this morning?"

  "No, use Youngster."

  The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  I wandered up to halfway, where Sandra had Sharky and Wibbers in discussion. Henri, Dazza, and Tom Westwood were there because while they weren't fast, if I wanted to keep three up top for the whole match I was going to have to use at least one of the real strikers. Pascal was in the circle, apparently in his role as a trainee coach, but Sandra knew the German would start. He might not be able to run at his full pace, but if we did get a break he would make a dummy run that would create space for Wibbers, or would run into the goalie and give the ref a decision to make, or something.

  "We've decided," said Sandra, "that the front three should stick close together. Really close together. If we're going to get weird, let's get Max weird. Sharky, you're the main man. We need you to conserve your energy and then get the fuck onto one of these long balls. Wibbers, you too."

  I said, "Yeah, William. You're gonna see your mates suffering and you're going to want to drop back to help. That isn't helping. I need you to have the courage to stand here like a selfish twat while the crowd scream at you to do something. Do you get me?"

  He seemed startled by this new definition of courage. "I'll do what the team needs."

  "I'll tell you what your team needs," I said, putting my hands on his shoulders. I turned him sideways, so that he was facing where a dugout would be. I twisted his head to face the goal he was defending. "If the ball comes - big if - you need to be right on it. No delay, no time wasted twisting your body the right way. This is your starting position, yeah? You're in your half so you're onside. When the ball goes, you go."

  Pascal said, "If you spend too long facing this direction, the defender will find it easy to stand in your path. Turn sometimes so he has to move. Also, sometimes move behind Sharky so the defender cannot stop you getting momentum. Treat every moment of the match like we have a corner and you're in the penalty area looking for space."

  "That's good," I said. "Love that."

  I walked away, watching as the three groups - goalies, defenders, strikers - got to grips with their roles for the day. The tactical plan was simple and my only real job was to decide who would come on as a sub. I had a gaggle of midfielders off to the side not doing anything. One of them would be a key man. "Andrew," I said, and the prick jogged over.

  "Yes, boss?"

  "Do you want the worst job in the world?"

  "I thought I had that," he said, then his face fell. He had gone too far. "I mean, yes."

  "I'm going to make two early subs. I want you to be one of them."

  He would play most of the match! "Right. Yes. What? Great." Suspicion and doubt crept in. "This is part of my punishment, is it?"

  "You are top of our running stats. Turner won't let us dick around the entire match, he'll do something. I might ask you to play proper central midfield and do as much pressing as you can. Shuttle runs left and right, get in their passing lanes, disrupt them like they're doing to us. Or you'll mark their DM but be ready to join attacks. Something like that, but basically you will run like crazy and touch the ball a maximum of three times. It will be - "

  "I'll do it. Whatever you need."

  "Top. Get those guys to stop moping around. I need everyone to understand all parts of the plan and be ready to rumble. It's going to be chaos."

  "Yes, boss."

  I went to the side of the pitch and watched as our almost-accurate starting eleven, one that featured Andrew instead of Pascal and Youngster instead of me, walked around 'defending' while Dan Badford and Ryan Jack rolled the ball to each other. We added more attackers until the oppo had a full eleven. I had to beg Sticky to come further and further out of his box to replicate what Newcastle's guy would do. Even in a walking match designed to get the lads comfortable in their roles, he hated it.

  The 'Newcastle' team passed the ball around at Ryan Jack's top speed - the slowest a ball can go - while Vimsy yelled at the defenders to watch their spacing and Sandra suggested how the front three could maximise the effectiveness of their starting position. I was happy; the setup was as good as we were going to get at such short notice.

  In a break, I talked to Sandra. "What do you think?"

  She shrugged. "I have the courage to do this, but not the courage to tell you what I think about it."

  I laughed and told her to cut short the session. We needed to go home and save energy. It was going to be a long night.

  ***

  AOK Cup Fourth Round: Chester versus Newcastle United

  I got to the stadium early and went to hide in the manager's office. It wasn't a time for me to burn energy talking to fans or sponsors. I didn't want to talk to the refs or anyone. I only wanted to get on the pitch and see how many blows I could land against Alan Turner.

  Turner was swanning around my stadium, my home, like he owned the place. Better if I avoided him until after the match, for lots of reasons.

  The curse offered me the chance to use the 'Frankenstein Is The Monster' perk and I decided yes, sure, why the devil not. It would make the referee fussy and pedantic - the bonus being that we would know before kick off but Newcastle would have to work it out during the match. It could blow up in my face but generally speaking my players didn't do most of the moronic things other teams did. We didn't kick the ball away when a free kick had been awarded, nor did we stand over the ball to stop the other team taking a quick free kick. We didn't waste time, we didn't whip our shirts off and spin them around when we scored (except in cases of mad euphoria), and we didn't get yellow cards for dissent.

  Alan Turner had picked almost the weakest starting eleven it was possible to imagine. It was absurdly strong.

  Masarik, their goalie, was playing at the Deva for the second time this season. He was the Slovakian national team keeper and had CA 155. He was a phenomenal shot-stopper, though that particular skill wouldn't be in much use today. He was incredible at penalties, in the unlikely event we got that far. And he was quite decent at sweeping up.

  That said, he was also the most likely player on either team to get sent off. If we got a good pass over the top and Sharky reached it first, any contact from Masarik that sent our player to the floor was going to put the keeper in big, big trouble. That scenario was one of the main reasons I had decided to use the fussy referee perk.

  The centre back pairing was a little-used CA 120 29-year-old and Charlton, a CA 88 youth prodigy. The full backs were both under 23, too, with CA 114 on the left and 81 on the right.

  The three guys expecting a tough midfield battle were between CA 108 and 120.

  The left forward was a first-team regular returning from injury. He was fast, tricky, and a lethal finisher. Having a CA 140 guy as your main threat was quite appealing, to be fair. In the middle was a 19-year-old striker with CA 96, and to the right was a CA 93 academy product a year older.

  That gave them an average CA of 111, which was far, far lower than I was expecting. Clearly, they were building the profiles of some of these players in order to sell them. Academy players were counted as 'pure profit' in the league's financial rules. I even toyed with the idea of reshuffling my men into something of a more conventional shape. I mean, this Newcastle team was only about twenty percent better than Carlisle United or Mansfield.

  The real danger came from the subs bench. If they were winning comfortably, Turner had three other talented kids who could also get some experience. If things turned sour, there were five proper first-teamers who could pound us into submission. Guys with CA 160. 164. 171. Yeah. Intimidating.

  After I'd activated the fussiness perk, I stepped down from managing the match, mentally assigning it to Sandra. She would do the first half, at least, but probably the second, too. I would be missing out on stupendous amounts of XP - perhaps 14 a minute. But it had to be done.

  14 XP per minute. CA 155 goalies. 70 versus 111.

  I tried to stop all the numbers spinning. Tried to calm the nerves, the anxieties, tried to make my legs feel less heavy.

  I wished there was a way to go and spend a quiet minute with Emma, alone. I missed the smell of her hair and the way her lips danced when I was talking shit. My fingers twitched as I thought about calling her.

  I thought about an embassy and a journalist who went in one door and never came out. My fingers twisted into a clenched fist.

  Alan Turner thought he could turn a blind eye to anything so long as they paid him enough.

  I would show him something he couldn't turn a blind eye to.

  The numbers stopped spinning.

  ***

  BrokenGround

  Anyone watching Chester tonight?

  Stoop

  Might keep an eye on it, yeah.

  SummerhillBill

  You've already missed the best bit. BG's best buddy did his pre-match interview. Not sure why he's got the hump with Alan Turner but he got a few sly digs in. Absolutely hilarious. Got to say even I'm starting to warm to Best. Turns out he's my kind of prick. Who knew?

  Stoop

  What did he say?

  SummerhillBill

  Nothing, that's what's so funny about it. Most people watching, it would go over their heads. It's only because we know what he's like that I knew he was being funny, if you get me. Let me try to think how it went.

  So there was a question about what a big game it was for Jester, you know, Newcastle United coming to town. Best, the prick, answered it like Jester were the biggest club in the world. He was politely confused the reporter had got it so wrong, if you follow me. 'We often host national teams', he said. 'We had Slovakia, now Saudi Arabia, and it's a great honour for them.'

  He slipped the 'for them' in so subtle I nearly spat out my drink. I'm glad I read BG's story here because now I can enjoy it for what it is.

  The next good bit was when he was asked about managing against Alan Turner.

  Best went, 'Oh, yeah, I read somewhere he's considered one of the best English managers. It was on his blog, I think.'

  Again, absolutely savage but he kept such a straight face I don't even think the reporter knew what had happened.

  I hope Jester lose 10-0, of course I do, but mind what goes on with the Geordie bench because something is up there.

  Stoop

  BG, did Best ever say anything about Alan Turner to you?

  BrokenGround

  No. The only manager he's ever mentioned, I think, apart from Parky, was Dieter Bauer. Best got a call, pretended to be annoyed, Pascal said 'what?', Best goes, 'it was that bloody Dieter Bauer again'. Pascal laughed so I think it was a private joke.

  ***

  After doing my media duties, I went out to warm up with the rest of the starting lineup - the other players were so stupefied that Pascal was playing that Morale collapsed. Interesting effect! Write that down.

  Back in the dressing room, Sandra restated the plan, explained that Pascal would get ten minutes before being replaced by Andrew, that Youngster would replace me. We would likely make another change at half-time, but then we would have to make our final two changes together. For example, if there was an injury in the 46th minute, we would be forced to make two subs otherwise we wouldn't be able to use our fifth guy, and we absolutely needed to use every option available to us.

  Having to make a double sub even if we only really wanted to do one could lead to strange outcomes and - in a normal squad - unhappy players. Sandra asked everyone to understand that we were cooking with unknown ingredients, building the plane as we went. When she was done, she nodded in my direction.

  "Guys," I said, sombrely. I got to my feet and stood next to our manager. "Quick note about the ref. One of my mates texted that this guy's wife's left him or something and he's in a sulk. He's going to call every little thing today, okay? Make sure any stupid yellow cards go to Newcastle, not us." There wasn't much more I could say about that, so I moved on. "With the gaffer's permission, I would like to unveil a breakthrough I've made in football therapy. It's a more holistic approach to pre-match hype. Gets the delta brainwaves going. Please lower your heads and close your eyes. Good lads. The next nearly four minutes are going to be a seminal moment in your career and I want you to savour every second of this experience."

  With that, I pressed play on my phone and Murder on the Dancefloor by Sophie Ellis-Bextor blasted out of our big speaker.

  The Morale of every Chester player shot to the maximum.

  With that out of the way, it was time to face the music.

  ***

  BrokenGround

  Team sheet is wrong. I've never seen that.

  Stoop

  What's up with it?

  BrokenGround

  The TV graphic got Pascal Bochum starting. I wonder what happened there. DigiWorld can be pretty shit sometimes.

  Teulu

  I wouldn't know. I only use dodgy streams. He was out for ten months, right?

  BrokenGround

  Ten, yeah. I'm on the socials and they've all got the same eleven. It can't be. Was he...

  Was he lying to me?

  SummerhillBill

  Don't think so, lad. Best said it on the interview. Supposed to be five to ten months, but they did a scan after eight weeks, routine, the bone had all healed! The doctors were dumbfounded. Best said something like 'he's a miracle man'. If you have DigiWorld+ you should be able to scroll back to the warm ups. You can see the Jester players are looking at the kid like he's a ghost. You're surprised? Look at their faces.

  BrokenGround

  That makes me feel better. Thanks.

  ***

  1'

  The roar from the home fans as Newcastle kicked off was shattering. It had been supernaturally boosted by the Shocktober perk. I wondered what Crackers, the former board member, was thinking. The referee awarded a free kick, Newcastle took it quickly, and he made them go back and take it from the exact place the foul had happened. Heh.

  3'

  Newcastle were playing exactly as expected. They passed, sprinted down the channels, passed, recovered, sprinted again, remorselessly, endlessly, while we shuffled and slid, desperately trying to plug the gaps they were creating. I had to be careful not to wear myself out because I needed to be able to put some quality on the ball if I ever got near it. That said, I was in a vital defensive role. I had to get out of the back line to block shots, had to stop midfielders clipping passes through or over the top, yet also had to get back into the six-yard area if Newcastle slapped down the sides.

  It was more than a full-time job, and I wondered if I had made a mistake thinking I could do it for any length of time. I had no appetite for launching myself in front of shots. Youngster did, and he had the energy and mindset to keep going back and forth between the same two or three spots contributing nothing with the ball.

  My three fast forwards stood where the left of the centre circle met the halfway line. Not one had touched the ball.

  4'

  I love cricket. I'm a massive cricket fan.

  If you are 'with bat' in your local village test match and a leftwise bowl-boy flings the big cherry at your stump-and-crossbones, you have about 0.7 seconds to react.

  If you are doing the same against a good professional throw-dog, you have just over 0.5 seconds to nurdle the off long.

  Against one of the brutish Australian national team hurl-daddies, you have 0.4 seconds.

  Elite sport is far harder than the hardest thing you have ever attempted.

  A Newcastle midfielder, seeing there wasn't a lot of space for his forwards to work in, drove forward and took a shot. It hit Zach and deflected in my direction. The first 0.4 seconds of my reaction were to smash the hotkey linking me and Sharky with Cupid's Arrow, but I wasn't the manager so the hotkeys weren't there. That was fine - it was an easy pass anyway. All I had to do was get the ball under my control and -

  A sliding green shirt appeared on the edge of my awareness radar and almost as quickly, wiped me out.

  I stayed down on the turf for ten seconds, not because I was hurt, but because I was absolutely stunned by the pace Newcastle were playing at. It wasn't possible to compete on such a level. I could boss League Two. League One, probably. With practice I would be a decent Championship player, for sure. This, though, this was mad. This was many levels above what I could ever do. The Newcastle boys in their disgusting green tops were like protons in a particle accelerator and when they collided with you, you stayed hit.

  I realised then the folly of my plan. Defend and play out for a fast break made conceptual sense but not one of our back eight had the reaction time or the fast-twitch muscles to control the ball and fire a pass before a green shirt would be right up in our grills. Even though we had removed one step from the process - looking up to see where our strikers were - we were as helpless as an English middle-order batsman in the 1990s.

  I got up and was immediately compelled to hurry to cover a potential cut-back. The cross didn't come and I was suddenly five yards away from where I needed to be. The ball was played back. Josh Owens went to compete but his oppo went past like he wasn't there. A cross came in from an unexpected angle. Zach rose but the Toon striker got there first and headed just over.

  I puffed air from my cheeks. The fuck was I even doing? This was over. I had to suffer but why was Pascal still on the pitch? He'd started the day on 66% Condition. The fans would love his return, as would Beth. What would her headline be? It had to be something with 'Miracle Man'. I'd tried to put it on a plate for her. I hoped Beth would run with the story and Brooke would turn it into cash.

  I jogged up towards Pascal. "Mate," I called out, gasping for breath already.

  He knew what I was thinking. "Fuck you, boss, I'm not going."

  "Come on," I said, with a pleading note in my voice.

  "You promised me ten minutes. Do you know how hard I worked for these ten minutes?” He was panting, too. “Come and win this header. Flick it on to the left for Sharky. I'll go right. Wibbers middle."

  I tutted, but turned to look at Ben. I waved at myself. Ben cracked a high, fairly accurate ball, but I got stonked by the CA 120 centre back and had to rush back to help out.

  ***

  BrokenGround

  Get it launched! Get it to Pascal! Why don't they pass?

  He's fast, lads. He just needs one chance. You watch.

  Teulu

  I hope he doesn't get injured again. You know what? Tell me when he gets subbed off. I can't watch this. I keep thinking his leg can't have healed and one little tap and...

  ***

  7'

  It was all Newcastle. They were bouncing the ball around like it was a video game, holding their triggers down to run fast, apparently at no cost. Chester were shit, every single one of us. Ben's match rating was 5. Everyone else was on 4, apart from me. I was on 3.

  I thought about subbing myself off. Up in the executive box, Sebastian Weaver would be preening himself, smirking, borderline insufferable. Okay, Seb wouldn't be as crass as Chip Star, especially not with his wife and daughter there, but he would still be loving every second of this nightmare. The longer I crabbed around like a lost boy at an outdoor market, like a piece of a shipwreck bobbing between eleven deadly rocks, the more he would fucking exult.

  I gritted my teeth.

  I had told my men that I was willing to humiliate myself.

  The ball was passed in front of me. I rushed out to make a tackle but by the time I got there, the ball was long since gone. A Newcastle player gave me a weird look, like, bro, whatchu doing?

  I was willing to humiliate myself.

  I locked onto the next target. Got nowhere close.

  Sebastian would laugh. Emma wouldn't. I wish I'd gone to talk with her before the match, even if it meant having to put up with Sebastian. I needed her. I couldn't do this without her.

  The ball zipped back across yet again, faster than ever.

  What do you believe in, Max?

  I believed I had asked for courage from my men. I believed we had survived seven minutes. I believed we could survive seven more.

  It was played out wide and I got myself to the edge of the six-yard box, ready to intercept any pull-backs.

  9'

  Still nil-nil. Still all one-way traffic but where there's life there's hope.

  Hope dies last.

  It's the hope that kills you.

  10'

  We hadn't had a single break, hadn't spent more than ten seconds in Newcastle's half, and it was getting harder to keep Wibbers up the pitch. He couldn't bear to see us suffer. We were about to crack. The ref wasn’t helping because there were so few stoppages in play. It was like a training match with one team walking, one team at full speed.

  At the next break, Andrew would come on. I decided he could join me as a second DM, could help me patrol zone 14, where most of Newcastle's long shots would come from. After all, it didn't really matter if we had two strikers or three if we couldn't even get a long pass going.

  That wasn't true, though, was it? It did matter. Three strikers was a statement. None of Newcastle's back line had joined their attacks, except at corners. They were wary. Masarik was creeping forward, as he did, but when Turner and his coaching staff spotted what their goalie was doing, they forced him to move back ten yards. There was just the slightest lack of clarity in their setup, probably made worse because Masarik almost never played and was keen to impress. He was better at the sweeper-keeper role than the first-choice goalie. He was willing to take an eye-catching risk, even if his manager wasn't.

  11'

  Pascal left the pitch to a spine-tingling standing ovation. He applauded all sides of the ground, got a big hug from everyone in the dugout, and sat on the bench, dripping with sweat.

  He had touched the ball three times.

  ***

  BrokenGround

  Teulu, you can watch now. He's off. Not injured. He's grinning from ear to ear.

  Teulu

  Thank Christ. What was the point of all that, I wonder?

  ***

  12'

  Andrew sprinted onto the pitch. I yelled, "DM with me."

  "Sandra wants me further forward."

  "In a bit," I said.

  13'

  I thought I saw a chance to get on a loose ball and make something happen, but one of Newcastle's busy midfielders got there first. He had seen the option and instead of calculating, he had simply assumed he would win the ball.

  Fucking fast, man. Crazy.

  Depressing.

  15'

  I wondered what I could do to shave a few hundredths of a second off my reaction time. The answer? Play in the Premier League for a couple of months. How was that going to happen?

  Maybe Alan Turner would sign me.

  As a ball boy.

  17'

  Still nil-nil, and still Newcastle spent almost all their time in a 3-2-5 formation.

  But while I continued to stink the place out, the rest of the defence were doing better. Ben had made a few saves from tepid long shots and his rating was up to 6. Christian and Zach had worked out that Newcastle’s young striker wasn't quite the unstoppable force he had seemed in the first few minutes, and they were getting on top of that battle. Crowding the spaces out wide had worked to limit the number of chances we conceded, but Josh and Magnus had been involved in a lot of action, a lot of scraps. They had lost more than they had won, but their opponents were starting to lose the fear factor. The CA 140 winger wasn't at his sharpest and Magnus was learning his preferred moves.

  Meanwhile, Andrew Harrison was loving his role. Run around a lot! This was his destiny. That was what I'd imagined for him when I'd spotted him on a beach in Tenerife. His Chester career was over but he would impress watching managers with his work rate and stamina and he would get a contract offer in January. He was playing for his future in the sport and he was relishing it.

  That was all well and good but I had always hoped he would add a bit of quality to his game.

  We were desperate for some quality.

  ***

  19'

  BrokenGround

  Oh my fucking God!

  Stoop

  What the shit was that?

  Teulu

  What happened? What happened? My stream is about a minute behind.

  BrokenGround

  WATCH

  ***

  18'

  I was really starting to think about pulling myself off, a phrase I wouldn't normally have used but I was too tired to worry about double entendres.

  Since the first whistle, our defensive line had been dropping deeper and deeper, given relief only by the referee awarding us cheap free kicks for collisions that would normally have passed by without comment. Back we went, deeper, ever deeper, but in the last few minutes that trend had reversed and we were getting higher.

  That was good. That meant we were in the match, competing, not losing every duel, playing some of the moments on our own terms.

  It was with this fractional lightening of the mood, this very slight release of the suffocation, that I darted forward to snap into a tackle and actually got a piece of the ball.

  Surprised, my oppo fell and pushed the ball to his mate. That guy was about to get a nasty surprise - Andrew Harrison was coming at him on his blind side.

  I forgot I was playing DM. I edged a few yards away from our back line and the closer I got to halfway, the lighter my legs felt.

  Andrew stabbed his foot at the ball - and got it! The bloody thing was about to come to me in a pocket of space just short of the centre circle.

  Time went haywire. Slowed to nothingness as though I had paused The Matrix to get a full 360 scan of my surroundings.

  It would return to normal all too soon and anyway, there was only one thing to do: quickly boop the ball on a leftwards diagonal and see if Sharky could get there.

  Sharky set off on his run. Wibbers was a fraction slower - his instinct was to come to the ball to get a touch. Not today, bro. With some mental effort, he spun to his left so he could hare after Sharky and offer him an option.

  Masarik, Slovakia's national team goalie, sensed the danger from the fast winger. He took a couple of steps to his right. If he intercepted the pass it wouldn't matter what Sharky did or where Wibbers ran.

  Even with time seemingly paused, the ball was trickling away from Andrew's toe diagonally into my path, into my very stride. I was already deep in my quick-pass motion. Not the beautiful, Beckhamesque visual poetry I normally went for, but a stunted, ugly clip. That was all I had time for. An ugly hoik was all I could offer this crowd, the nationwide TV audience, the footballing gods. It was all I could offer Emma.

  Fuck that.

  I demanded and got one extra one hundredth of a second and pushed through the ball. My laces hit dead centre. I didn't feel it.

  Masarik was moving sideways but when he saw what I'd done his eyes popped and he tried to retreat. He stumbled slightly as his sudden change in direction tested his balance.

  Stupidly, bravely, desperately, he jumped in an attempt to head the ball away but there has never been a more futile act.

  I'd hit it perfectly. It went so straight, so true, that its first bounce landed exactly on the penalty spot, and the ball zoomed across the plane of the goal line exactly halfway between the posts.

  I had scored from 60 yards.