Player Manager - A Sports Progression Fantasy

14.10 - The Wanderers

10.

"All who are bald are not bald frauds, not all those who wander are lost; Skyrim, tell the elves, is for the Nords, a five-man midfield cannot be bossed."

Roy R. R. Tolkeane

***

Tuesday, September 1

Home!

We dropped our luggage in Ruth's ancestral cottage, put the kettle on, and experienced that little burst of warmth you get after a long trip when you find your phone automatically connects to the Wifi and your hands go exactly to the right level of the light switches.

Emma slipped her jacket off and checked the downstairs rooms. The fridge was empty save for a fresh pint of milk and some tartlets. The plants had been watered, and it seemed like Ruth had hoovered that day because the place felt clean.

"Weird to be back, isn't it?" I said.

"It's been ages," she agreed, getting the tea bags and a teaspoon. We would drink from our own mugs for the first time in over two months. We would sleep in our own bed. Same as before, but with new titles: fiancé and fiancée. So much had happened to get us to that point and so much of it had been so, so good. She peered out of the kitchen window. "Where's the sun?"

"It takes an hour to get here, remember. Time zones." I closed my eyes and counted to ten; the world was very slowly spinning around me. "Now that we've stopped moving I realise my head's buzzing. Like, I'm hearing an actual buzz."

Ems pretended to be horrified. "What's the buzz telling you to do?"

"Telling me to have a lovely cup of tea and a long, hot shower." I eyed my fiancée. Just the act of her taking her jacket off had made me frisky. "Maybe we can role play chapter 7."

She twisted her lips. "Again?" She checked the time. "Tell the buzz it will have to wait until after the match."

"Okay," I said, and pretended to go to the living room. Instead, I pounced and lifted her up onto the counter and pulled her into me. She yelped and giggled. I spun her around the kitchen. "The buzz is in control! It's telling me to do things! Unspeakable things! Unpublishable things!"

"Oh, no."

"It's telling me - "

She kissed me. "Tell it to shut up now. Acta non verba." I shut up. She patted my cheek. "Good boy. Now carry me to the shower."

***

One romantic fade to black later we put on clothes we hadn't worn for two months - luxury! - and walked hand-in-hand through our flourishing garden, crunched across the gravel, and knocked on Ruth's door. Being all polite and that, like real people.

It opened and she dished out hugs. "Thanks for the milk," I said.

"It was John," she said. "He remembers things like that."

"He's a ledge," said Emma.

We strolled along the familiar corridor into the open-plan kitchen. The Brig was there, chatting to MD and Gwen, my favourite bigwig from the Welsh FA. Although she was a bigwig, she had all her own hair.

Coventry City versus Chester was showing on the big screen. We had missed the first twenty minutes; Chester were a goal down.

The group made all kinds of small talk but Emma was the star of the show; it was as though her engagement ring contained powerful magnets. After she had told the story of 'Max's winning goal' twice, taking three times as long as the tale really needed, I finally got some attention.

Gwen said, "Who would have thought UEFA's enemy number one would be in line for a ban because he made football fun and romantic?"

"What kind of ban?" said Emma. This was news to her.

"Two matches, most likely, and another fine. Something tells me it will be a drop in the ocean compared to his bonus."

"Kinda," I said. "Mostly because I'm not paying it. Gemma was lukewarm about suing UEFA for the face paint thing but me getting a ban because I proposed to her bestie on the pitch? Gemma's not cool with that. Gemma's on the warpath. As well as the obvious fact it should be Emma getting a two-match ban - "

"Hey!"

"Gemma is looking into me being victimised because who else would get such punishments for so little in such a short space of time? I asked her to wear face paint to the hearing but she said she'd rather win."

MD said, "Is that the plan? Take them to court every time they fine you?"

"I think so, yeah, until Gemma starts charging me ten thousand pounds an hour like Man City's lawyers. At that point, I think I might learn to be stoic."

Ruth and the Brig had laid on a delicious spread and a few bottles of plonk. Gwen scooped some pasta onto her plate and nodded towards the screen. "I know it's not the main event but what are we looking at?"

"Second round of the AOK Cup," I said. "Formerly the Littlewoods Cup, and the Rumbelows Cup. Two businesses that no longer exist. MD, you have to teach me how to short-sell stocks. AOK can't be long for this world."

Gwen smiled. "I know the competition. How about the tactics? What's your plan?"

"Erm, well Coventry are good. They're one of the top ten Championship teams in terms of talent. They do 3-4-2-1, basically 3-4-3, right, so Sandra is doing 3-5-2 to try to dominate midfield and make us hard to pass through."

MD said, "Judging by the team selection, it rather looks like we aren't too worried about losing three in a row."

"What's the team?" said Emma.

Ruth's eyebrows rose. "Max doesn't tell you his plans? I wonder what you two lovebirds get up to all day."

"Sticky," I said, hoping a quick response would stop Emma saying something naughty. Mission accomplished in one way; she was choking on a sausage roll. "Steve Icke is in goal. Cole's playing left centre back next to Zach and Fitzroy. Babes, take some water. Wide we've got Josh Owens and Bark. The middle three are Ryan Jack, Andrew Harrison, and Pascal. Brig, can you turn her upside down or something? She's gone actual purple. You good? Sure? Strikers are Dazza and Gabby." Average CA exactly 89. Coventry's would be something between 130 and 140.

"That's a good team," said Emma, defending me as she thumped herself on the sternum. "What did you mean, MD?"

He cleared his throat. "Yes, well, of course it's a good team. Very good. But Max and Sandra are resting Ian Swan, Christian Fierce, Youngster, Charlie Dugdale, Lee Contreras, and Colin Beckton."

"Max!" said Emma, defending MD. "Why have you done that?"

"Because I'm taking a ten-month view of the season and a five-year view on everyone's careers. Because I'm a floating megabrain. Because I learned a lesson last season."

"But we're going to lose!"

"Tell that to Alfie and Adam," I said.

Emma frowned. "Remind me who they are."

"They're this season's Exit Trial kids, but we didn't get them in the Exit Trials and we got them last season."

"So they're last season's not-Exit-Trial kids. I remember now. They were getting shredded by Man United, you saved them, and this summer they got new Chester contracts. I helped with the agency paperwork but it was standard. I can't quite picture them; they haven't made an impression yet."

"Right," I agreed. "Because they couldn't play for us in the Youth Cup run. They're mint, though. Bags of personality, you'll see. Adam's a left back." Adam was doing well. CA 48 out of his max of 137. "I want to give him minutes in case we get an offer for Josh in January."

"Josh in January," mused Emma. "Good name for a hockey romance."

"Hockey romance?" said Gwen. "What's that?"

"I'll tell you later," said Emma. "And Alfie?"

"He's a midfielder. He's an in-your-face little so-and-so." Alfie was 58/133, so he was 10 CA ahead of Adam but had a very slightly lower ceiling. "We chose not to loan them out; we think we can give them minutes. It won't be easy but if we bite the bullet they will absolutely fly this year. Tonight's a great opportunity for them to see that we're serious about their development." If they grafted, both lads could easily finish the season at League Two standard. There was an ongoing element of Zeno's paradox where young players would strive to catch up with the rest of the squad only to find the squad had moved on, but rapid, widespread improvement was a good problem to have. I pointed to the screen. "We might see five minutes from Jamie Brotherhood, too. Jamie, Chas, and Roddy are the best of the eighteens. We won't win the Youth Cup this year but we'll do our thing as much as possible. Jamie wants to move to a bigger club. I'm not sure we'll get offers in January but maybe in the summer. Whether we sell him or not, it's always handy to have a right back option."

Emma said, "So this Coventry match is one big training session? What about the mood? It's always bad after a defeat. What about the prize money?"

"There isn't much in the AOK," said MD. "You only get a hundred thousand for winning the whole thing. The gate money can be good. Coventry were expecting about 15,000 fans tonight and that would translate to about 140,000 pounds for us."

"That's handy," said Emma.

"Just to be clear," I said. "That starting eleven is probably more talented than Coventry's. We have two top strikers out there; we could score. We could nab a win. Those lads are trying their hearts out."

Coventry played a slick one-two outside the D and fed the striker, who crashed the ball past Sticky.

Two-nil.

"Ooh," I said, looking away from the match. "Pass that cheese plate."

***

The serious stuff happened at half time. We were gathered around the end of the kitchen table along with the remaining food and the red wine. The white was in the fridge. I was hitting the tap water pretty hard. My exploits in Europe had blown a lot of minds and now was the time to take advantage. By Friday I wanted jet packs strapped to every club in the Max Best Universe.

"All right," I said, gathering my thoughts. "First up, thanks to Ruth and the Brig for hosting. Thanks to MD for coming here instead of going to Cov."

"Brooke looks better on TV," he said. Everyone smiled; the camera had already picked her out a couple of times.

"And thanks to Gwen."

"What about me?" said Emma.

"Thanks to Emma for being here tonight. In a very real sense, you made all this possible."

"Fake but I'll take it."

I checked I had everyone's attention. The others knew their parts in the conversation - more or less - so the only surprise would be how their pieces fit into the bigger jigsaw puzzle. MD and his low Ambition score was the key. Ruth would play her part while skewering me as much as she could - a girl has to have some fun. MD and Gwen didn't officially know I was behind Ruth's agency, though they may have suspected. Emma would be Emma. "Okay, you broadly know my plans for Saltney. The business model, if I'm allowed to call it that for a minute - "

"Max," said MD. "You're the only one in the room who wouldn't use that phrase."

"Good point. The business model has two parts, Europe and player trading. Europe. We're going to win the Welsh league and we're going to do what I've just done in Gibraltar, but as champions we'll start in the Champions League qualifying process. This part of the business model comes with prize money in a bad year of a million Euro. The real game is trying to get into the league stages in whatever competition. That's three million, four million, or eighteen million. It won't happen every year but it'll be easier in Wales than in Gib."

"Why?" said Ruth.

"Because the best team in Wales is better than the best team in Gib."

"Why's that a plus?" wondered Ruth. "Sounds bad to me."

"Because Saltney need to get to a level that can compete against teams from across Europe. The big dogs in Wales are called TNS. Imagine I could scoop their squad up and drop them into Gibraltar. They would regress to what we might call the soft cap of the league."

"Would they?" said Ruth.

"Yes. To improve you need good facilities, good coaching, good opposition. To put some numbers on it, let's give TNS a score of 33 out of 100. No, let's do it the proper way, since I'm the face of Soccer Supremo. TNS are 65 out of 200. If the soft cap for Wales is 65, obviously Saltney can get to 65, too. But now there are two teams with 65 so it's absurd to think the soft cap would stay the same."

"Absurd," agreed Emma, helpfully.

"Think of Messi and Ronaldo pushing each other to get ever better. The competition between TNS and Saltney will lift us both up. Let's say the new cap is 70. With clever management, top coaching, careful monitoring and cross-pollination between Saltney and Chester, players being called up to the Welsh team, just all the hacks I can come up with, I think I can squeeze it to 80. I'm talking about an entire squad that's better than the teams I was putting out in Gibraltar. Add in the high-level loanees from Chester, plus the League One Legends... We will be able to give it a really good go, every season."

Emma lifted her wine. "I'll drink to that!" She drained it and the Brig went to the fridge to top her up.

I smiled. "This is the part MD is super happy with but my ambition is to get Chester into European competition. Next year we'll be in the Championship, Mike! It's not absurd."

"Not absurd," said Emma.

"If Chester might get into Europe, I can't own Saltney and neither can MD so Mr. Yalley is going to be the official owner. How can MD invest millions and be sure he'll get a return? Easy. He will own and run the stadium and training facility. The facility is the centrepiece of everything I'm doing here because it unlocks the second half of the business plan. While the first team are bagging millions from playing in Europe, hordes of tiny Welshmen will be waiting in the wings, pushing to get into the first team, getting a start, moving on to bigger clubs, often for transfer fees."

"The Northern Powerhouse," said Gwen.

"Yep. I have a tweak to that plan I want to discuss with you later, but basically I need your help finding five to ten more coaches. I need your best and brightest."

"Oh," she said. It was even harder to find good coaches than talented players. Players could be scouted twenty-two at a time. Finding five coaches good enough for my needs was going to be a royal pain in the arse.

"I know," I said. "But I'm in a hurry. That's what tonight is about. The plan was for MD to invest piecemeal, minimum viable product, build things step by step, make sure he can see the plan is working. Sorry but I've proven the model works. With Chester, I'm happy to clip onto the safety hooks and all that, but with Saltney I'm free-climbing. Straight up the enormous pile of cash."

MD held his wrist and said, "Pulse erratic. Palms damp. Diagnosis? Max is back."

"I want to make things easier for you. That's why the others are here. Gwen, College went to train at this place in Marbella that was beautiful. Specifically designed for football training, almost perfect. We will rebuild that facility in Saltney - without the weather, sadly - but with a few tweaks. Some of their equipment is outdated or missing. There's a vibe of 'ah, well, it's good enough'. Which it is but that can't be our ambition. We'll go hard on the details. Oh, and Saltney's dorms need to be designed with teenagers in mind. Oh, and be more able to cope with women's teams. And we'll have one of those bubbles that covers a pitch or two so that we'll be able to train year-round."

"The things that look like UFOs?" said Ruth.

"Exactly. Those are about two million pounds so if we need to be mindful of costs, that's one thing that can wait a year. The rest of the facility will cost ten million. We're going to throw up a category two stadium. That's fifteen hundred seats. Another one point five mill. Call it two."

"Oh do, let's," said MD.

"Twelve million pounds, dive in head first, get it whipped up this season. With you lot on our side, planning permission will be a breeze and when the stadium is up, we'll be able to play league matches and the first rounds UEFA qualifiers in Saltney. The bigger matches will have to be at the Deva. I'm going to negotiate a hell of a deal with myself."

Emma tilted her head. "Won't having your own stadium save you a lot in paying rent to Flint Town?"

"Yes," I said, in an equally fake voice. "Although technically the club would be paying MD."

"Gosh," said Emma. "How else will you make this risk less appalling?" MD laughed at her choice of word; even though he knew it was coming he had turned slightly pale when I suggested I wanted him to splurge twelve million pounds.

"Five ways," I said. "First, we know there's no natural demand in the area for something like this. It will be built for the benefit of Welsh football and Chester FC. I'm hoping we can agree on some kind of long-term minimum use contract. Chester will spend a hundred thousand a year using the facility for ten years. Wales, too. There's two million in guaranteed income, right?"

Gwen frowned. "We have to pay to send the kids there on top of everything else we're giving you?"

I shook my head. "I hope not. These are just ideas, right, but I was thinking we could date that deal so it would start a couple of years from now. If we get eighteen million pounds for getting into the Champions League, I mean, we tear up the paperwork. It would just be some kind of backstop in case I die or go absolutely bonkers. And as for Chester, they will be using the facility. It's going to complement what we have. Just for example, we're a community club and I like that the training sessions are more or less open to the public but if we've got the playoff final coming up and we want to train behind closed doors, we pop down to Saltney. There will be millions of use cases and I reckon if we calculate what Chester is using it will be more than a hundred grand a year. It's not the point, really. Right now I'm only interested in getting it built and that means reassuring MD."

"Why do I get the feeling I'm the second point?" said Ruth.

I smiled. "You have a large and growing agency brimming with hand-picked players with lots of room to grow. I heard that you paid for your players in Brazil to get extra training. Are you still doing that?"

"Yes," she said, not trying very hard to make her reactions authentic.

"You have lots of clients who live nearby. Would you perhaps consider booking a certain number of hours of use at Saltney's facility? Private lessons for your players. Masterclasses. Specially-tailored workouts on world-class equipment."

Ruth eyed me. "I would be... able to be convinced." Of course she would. It would come out of my share of the profits.

"As your top consultant, my advice to you is that young players and guys who need a boost should get that kind of help from the agency but once they hit a certain level they can look after themselves. Again, I only want to reassure MD that a top-class facility will get used enough that he won't find himself in a colossal black hole."

"Just a small one," he said, with a healthy level of amusement.

"Yeah. Let's handwave that between Chester, Wales, and Ruth's agency, you would get three million in guaranteed income over the next ten years, even if everything else turned to shit. The stadium would be built by this company in Canada. It's super cheap, actually, and it's quite cool because it's all modular. You can break it apart and ship it somewhere else. Take a club like West Didsbury, for example. I would buy it from you for a million."

"Would you?" said Emma.

"Um, no actually. West needs a five-thousand capacity stadium. Someone else would buy it, though. I'm just saying it's not like a normal stand where you build it and bosh, the money's gone forever."

"Interesting," said Ruth, and despite the conversation's artificiality, she meant it. "There's four million."

"Point, um... four. I will base Masterplanalytics in the new compound and pay rent."

"That's great, Max," said Ruth. "But what the hell is..."

"Masterplanalytics is the company I recently set up, and when I say recently, I mean tomorrow. I was inspired by the reaction to Brighton's bid for Wibbers. When Chelsea tried to buy him, everyone went yeah that's just Chelsea hoovering up talent at random. When Brighton did it, everyone went oh! So he's really good then?"

"What's special about Brighton?" said Emma.

"It's their owner. He was a poker player, maths wizard. Bit of a genius. He's probably the closest thing in British football to me."

Ruth said, "I see you didn't pick up any bad habits on your trip, such as humility."

"He has a team of megabrains who look at football data. It started out being to help him make money gambling, but their models are so advanced they can reliably tell which players will turn out good. No-one knows exactly what goes on in those rooms but the results are amazing. For example, that company sold its data to Ipswich Town and they flew up the leagues, right into the Premier League. I'm setting up a competitor. Masterplanalytics will use West Didsbury and Saltney to train its advanced AI models - "

MD clapped his hands. "That's how you will justify putting money into those clubs even though you claim not to have an interest?" He was as happy as I'd seen him in private. "Max, that's honestly incredible. I love it. That idea alone balances out you wanting to do everything inexplicably faster."

"It's better than that, MD. I can use it to put money into some clubs while invoicing other clubs for the analytics I'm providing. I send money to West and Saltney, take money from College, R.E.M., and when the flywheel's going, Saltney."

"Brilliant. Extraordinary. What about Chester?"

"Um, not sure," I said. "It could be we funnel my next pay rise into the company instead of paying me more salary, but it seems needlessly murky. Maybe Chester can pay me one pound a year or something so that I can say my clients include Chester." I laughed. "I haven't really thought it through. We're building this plane as we go, right? Anyway, the company has the potential to be a cash machine. Tottenham could pay me a million pounds to evaluate their squad and another million to suggest a couple of new signings and that would be the best money they ever spent. I won't do that but if MD is on the brink of destitution because of me, I will."

MD said, "Living in the gutter is preferable to Tottenham winning a trophy."

I smiled. "That's the spirit! Point five. With Champions League football on the horizon and their development as players going well, Vincent Addo and Tockers could be convinced to stay at Saltney for another 18 months."

The Brig nodded. "Until your first European adventure is over."

"Basically, yes. And they are assets, right? By then they will easily be worth a million each. That's six million."

MD frowned. "You don't have to keep them locked up on my account."

I smiled. "I won't. I've just been playing European football, right? I've seen the benefits to Wibbers and Pascal up close. As a player it's crazy exciting and you get to fly on private jets and play in random stadiums. It's fun. Like, really fun. I genuinely think staying longer and getting an early taste of that could be good for both players. Now, Emma gets squeamish - quite rightly - when I talk about the teenage players and how much they are worth, but holy shit we've got insane quality already. Welsh Wizards, Double Dragons, Leeky Goalkeepers. No, cut that one. The new compound will help us unlock their potential faster."

Ruth said, "You want MD to build you a wonderland, but you're rich now, so I've heard. Are you willing to chip in some of your winnings?"

"I already did," I said.

Ruth looked surprised, but MD knew what I meant. "Ash Bradley."

"Right."

Ash Bradley was a thirty-one year old attacking midfielder slash left forward, 55/90. He was somewhat injury prone, which is why he had found it hard to get a new club. "He's a win-now player. No resale value. I'm stumping up his wages and there will be no return except for points in the league. He's in his thirties and he's a good pro. He'll be a great example for all the young tearaways there."

"If he stays fit," said MD.

"No, he'll be an example if he's fit or injured. If he plays ten games and scores five goals, he'll have made a big contribution. It's not the kind of signing I'd normally make but it's, yeah, it's me chipping in. Oh, and he's competing with Tockers for a place, right, so Tockers will have to up his game. You could say it's an investment in him, too."

Ruth topped up Gwen's glass. "Each according to his means and all that, but Mike's twelve million compared to your paying the wages of, you know, a journeyman winger... It's not comparable."

"No, I suppose not," I said. I stared ahead. "If Vincent stays, I will use my winnings to repay Henri's syndicate with their interest, too. That'll cost me but it will clarify that whole scenario and free me to make the best decision. I talked with Mateo about going even harder next season and some of my winnings will stay in Gibraltar. I need to reserve some cash for certain legal matters but..." I did some quick maths. I should have a few hundred thousand left over when I'd taken care of all that. "Yeah, I can chip in. I'll buy a car and a few scratchcards but the rest, sure. I'll put my money where my mouth is. I'm willing to go all in if MD is. Um..." I turned to Emma to check she was okay with it.

"Babes!" she whined. "You promised you'd buy us a giant ornamental goose!"

"Ah, I know. Soz."

"And his and hers barrel saunas!"

"It's for a good cause, bebs."

She inhaled and grew regal. "Then let us call the new stadium, The Jilted Bride."

"I think we can all agree to that."

MD and Gwen, strangely, did not agree to that, but there was broad agreement about the direction of travel... and the speed.

***

Chester lost three-nil.

I spoke privately to MD. He said he appreciated that I'd tried to protect him from a crash landing but I shouldn't confuse his personal risk appetite with how he ran Chester FC. Fair point. He would take a few days to make a final decision but in the meantime he would talk to the council's planners to gauge their appetite for a bigger project than the one we had discussed, and he would tap Brooke's expertise regarding grants and whatnot.

After talking business he was back to his other great love: Chester. "Max, this is our third defeat in a row. There is a lot of optimism around town. People are delighted to be in League One and they have watched the new stand go up with a sense of wonder. It's really happening! No-one expects us to be beating Coventry City away. But the natives are getting... restless. Your new salary isn't controversial, exactly, but it has been noted as hefty and once it began dropping into your account, you did a runner." He smiled at his choice of words. "It would be good if you could show your face on Saturday."

"I'll do more than that, MD, don't worry. Hey, I just had an idea. I should write a manager's notes for the match."

"We're away; we won't be printing a programme."

"Leave it with me."

"Oh, God."

I caught up with Ruth and told her that as part of my wandering I was planning to go back to Brazil some time soon. We had Chelli there, earning decent coin despite not having many clients, and we had an increasingly good relationship with Corinthians. The pathway into their squads had been established by Tomzilla and Nasa. I could go, find some more CA 1 guys, and shove them into the pipeline. I would also have two free ESC slots in January. If I could find a couple of little geniuses, I would be able to bring them back to Chester.

Finally, I took Gwen aside and told her why I wanted the Welsh coaches and why I was suddenly in such a hurry to build Saltney. "I want Wales to beat England and I'm willing to do whatever it takes."

Her eyes got wide. "Why didn't you start with that?" she said.

"Not the right audience. Listen, you've got a manager so let's see how he gets on but if he's bombing, I'm willing to step in."

"What?"

"It might not sound like much, but - "

"Oh, Max, no, it sounds like much. You can't be serious, though. You've got ten jobs already."

"I only want to go at England. If I have to take a summer to manage Wales through the Euros, fine. Could be fun. If England and Wales are in the same qualifying group, tell your current guy he's not doing those ones. Not being cocky but that's an upgrade."

"What are the new coaches for?"

"Hmm, right. They're going to work for Saltney Town and I'm going to teach them how to coach Relationism and that's going to be a Welsh USP. If every age group learns it, it'll get more and more powerful. Can we beat England with worse players? It'll help."

"Will it? Bestball? The thing where you hold hands in a circle?"

"Against England managed by Alan Turner, yes. He's all about high-intensity pressing. Gaining control by running hard, running fast, running long. If we get the blob going, we can totally nerf him. He'll tell his guys to run here, do that, cheat there, but they won't get anywhere near the ball carrier. It'll be little Welsh wizards zipping around, flicks, reverses, one-twos, ladders. It'll be fucking hilarious. I'll shove your country's talent all the way down his throat and then back up his arse."

"So this is personal for you."

"Yes. Is that okay?"

"Love it, yes. You're getting more Welsh by the day. Sure you don't have a Welsh grandfather?" She tapped her lips. "Okay I see why you want to speed up. You want your shot at Turner. You want to lock horns with him and you want me to give you an army. Heh. Bonkers. Absolutely bonkers. I love it. I'm going to go back inside... and tell MD I'll promise him double what you suggested."

I stuck my tongue out the side of my mouth. "One last thing."

"Go on."

"I hate when people call it Bestball. I didn't invent it, I didn't perfect it. I'm still learning how to use it."

"You want us to call it Relationism. That's fine."

"No," I said. "You can't tell people what to call things. Tottenham find that out every two years when they remind people they don't like being called Tottenham. We need a new name, one that is so cool that everyone loves saying it."

"Okay," she grinned. "I know you've thought about it. What's the new name?"

I leaned closer, gave her an intense blast of charisma. "Dragonball."

***

Wednesday, September 2

I bounced out of bed, threw on my hoodie, and zoomed to Bumpers Bank to give myself a tour of the new buildings.

The front door of the gym was being propped up by a brick and even at this early hour, builders were in and out, stomping their big boots all over the place. The floors were covered with that white matting used on building sites, and the sound of hammers and saws came from the second floor.

My beautiful gym was still a building site. Surprising and slightly annoying because I had been under the impression that work was a lot farther along than this. Maturity 20 kicked in and I squashed any feelings down for now.

The reception area layout was clear enough. There was a simple desk where our staff would deal with visitors and any randos who turned up. We weren't expecting people in off the streets, but there could be media dudes, potential new signings, parents of young players, and if we needed more cash there was the option to rent two large yoga slash pilates slash crystal healing studios to the general public. Having the great unwashed sweating on our gear and using our showers was not compatible with having an exclusive, elite performance centre, but having the possibility was part of future-proofing the club.

I started my tour with the areas on the right. These included the yoga studios, which seemed fairly close to completion. Giant mirrors were in place along one entire wall, though they had bright tape on so the builders wouldn't mistake them for something that needed to be smashed to bits. The floors seemed finished, though they were still covered. Wires poked out of sockets. One wall was basically a storage cupboard; it would have all kinds of gym balls, little trampoline things, anything that the lads might use in here.

I went to the opposite end of the building and was soon grinning broadly. This part was ready. Through a door requiring badge access - I got a worker to open it - was a high-spec gym. The equipment was gleaming and there were weights, mats, large TVs, mirrors, all the hits. The architect's skills were in evidence everywhere you looked. I sat on a weight machine and had a superb view of our main training pitch. The view from upstairs (cardio-based) was even better. You would burn calories with your goal in sight - the first team pitch, the Deva stadium.

Motivational.

I took a couple of minutes to enjoy the space. I had asked for the building to be overspecced in terms of soundproofing so that some areas could get nice and noisy without disturbing players who were using other zones. On the second floor, for example, was a small sauna, dark room, and there was a chill-out roof terrace. When I was in a soothing space I didn't want to hear someone else's hype music. From this spot I couldn't hear the saws, and the hammering barely registered. Money well spent.

The door opened with a satisfyingly substantial oosh. Brooke Star must have heard that a rando was wandering around her building. "Welcome back, Max."

"Hey, Brooke. You're in early."

"Do you like it?"

"Straight to business? How about some small talk? You haven't seen me for months."

"Love your tan; straight out of Love Island How about this weather, hey? Small talk? Check. Do you like it?"

I looked up, left, right, and stretched my arms. "Will the whole thing be this good?"

"Yes."

"It's amazing. I'm enchanted." I took another long look around. "Hard to process, to be honest." I stood and we slowly made our way back outside and across to the new utility block. It was also not quite finished, also something of a hive of activity.

Brooke badged us into the men's boot room, where rows and rows of football boots lined the walls. One strip of pegs was bare. I read its label. "Best 77. Who's that prick?"

"Not sure," said Brooke. "He's been wandering around Europe while we've been hard at it."

"Hard at it, eh? How is Zach?"

She inhaled and tried not to smile. "I have some paperwork for you regarding an inter-office relationship."

"Yeah," I said, looking around at the fucking amazing space. "I'll take it in the form of a 60,000 word hockey romance. Title... Getting Some Zach-tion. So we decided to split the rooms, in the end?" There had been discussions about having one huge boot room that would encompass the men's, women's, and kid's teams. Players would meet each other all the time, have chats, and it would be good for solidarity.

She got professional again. "The safeguarding people said it would be better not to have lots of chance encounters like that, plus if anything ever goes missing, God forbid, this way will be less of a nightmare. I know you wanted a place to bump into everyone, but long-term that will be the canteen."

Unlawfully taken from novelhall, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

"Okay," I said. I trusted that Brooke had talked to everyone and come up with a good solution. "To the showers!"

The changing rooms, showers, and locker spaces were unremarkable but extremely welcome. Some smelled strongly of adhesive, suggesting they had only recently been tiled. Most walkways were covered in white matting and some ceiling tiles had been pushed up so workers could do things with wires. I became aware of more hammering, banging, and music. Brooke answered my question. "The studs upstairs."

"Is he? He should be getting ready to train."

She took a breath. "Stud walls. Upstairs. I'm taking some of the space for the Chester Foundation."

"Okay," I said. "Save one for a physio slash chiropractor slash miracle worker I met in Marbella. Magnus is trying to convince her to come here. We can give her a room until the medical block is done."

Brooke's eyebrow rose a tiny fraction. "Does she need a lot of equipment?"

"I've only seen her use a massage table, some foam wedges, and a sort of... I don't even know what it is. Looks a bit like an ice-cream scoop. She bashes you with it, but scientifically."

"I love how you pick up these strays and we're the ones who end up feeding them and taking them to the vet."

"When it comes to talent, this club goes like this." I lifted my hand. "Me." I kept it almost in the same place. "You." The tiniest dip. "Nicole." Huge drop. "Wibbers. Youngster."

Brooke got a tiny smile. "Where was I again?" I lifted my hand. "Hmm. And you?" I brought it a hair's breadth higher. "And Nicole is almost as good as us? Can't wait to meet her."

"Let's hope that happens. All right, gym's bosh. This thing is bosh." I licked my lips. "How's the Deva?"

"It's so bosh."

"Let's go have a wander."

***

Before getting to the stadium, we walked around my office - now ten yards away from where it had been - to peer at a huge hole in the ground.

This would be home to our latest pitches, the ones the Soccer Supremo nerds had assured me would be the best use of our resources. The pitches were costing 900 grand but would give us another full-size 3G and two 7x7 ones, also artificial, that were 60 by 40 yards, the recommended size for 'mini-soccer', the approved format for under 9s and under 10s.

The big one could add a fraction to our wage budget, but we probably wouldn't make too much from the small pitches. In bad weather, though, they would see major use for individual player training. Those would most likely be the last artificial pitches at Bumpers; this expansion would give us space to allow the men's and women's team to train simultaneously while injured players had a place to continue their recovery.

For now, the hole was yet another eyesore, but next to it, the lonely horse chestnut tree was not so lonely. I'd found a few thousand quid lying down a sofa and Johnny Planter had given me the beginnings of a wood. As the trees matured they would give us a fraction more privacy, shade, cute little birds, and they would define the boundary of our little world. I was looking forward to expanding the tree line, just as I was expanding the Deva.

We were heading towards the stadium now and even from a distance it was clear that we were looking at something special. The new stand was quite a lot higher than the other three, and the wooden slats on the facade made the whole thing seem like it had been built from matchsticks.

As we got closer, more wood revealed itself. The structure came from huge beams made of glued laminate. Super strong, fire resistant, environmental, elegant - just like the photos and renderings. What you couldn't fully appreciate from static images was the sense of calm that emanated from the structure. Maybe this calming effect explained why all the builders were moving so slowly.

"It's so interesting," I said. "It's gorgeous. Peaceful. Puts you in a good mood, doesn't it? I hope the fans will get riled up when the game starts."

"I think they will," she said. "From the terrace itself it's a pretty standard experience. Come on."

We went through a turnstile - propped open with a brick - and up a few flights of steps. There were a dozen workers doing all sorts of jobs but the whole thing looked pretty close to ready. Some of the seats had already been screwed in, and some of the safe standing, too. I stood in one of the sections where a guy was spraying row and seat numbers with neat little stencils. I grabbed him and made him stand next to me. I nodded as I looked around. Brooke was right; it almost could have been any stadium in the UK. "There's nothing to worry about, is there? It'll be noisy as hell, won't it?"

"Yes, Max," said the worker. "The roof's high, but..."

I waved my fist towards the goal. "Stop trying to walk it in, you stupid pricks! Fucking shoot!"

The worker laughed hard, but Brooke wasn't overly happy with my choice of language. "Max. This is a momentous occasion."

"Okay. You want the more romantic version. Um..." I looked at the worker while I thought about what else to say. It didn't take long to think of something. Despite having a straight man, I played both roles in our little scene. I tugged the worker by the sleeve. "Daddy? How come we're losing? Well, son, that's because the other team's clever accountants were able to argue that their amortisation figures were in line with the new fiduciary rules and that their sale of the women's team to themselves should count towards Financial Fair Play. That's why they're able to spend one hundred and sixty percent of their income on player wages alone. Yay, daddy! I love football!" I found myself cackling and the worker gave me some back. "Let's try a seat," I said, pulling him to the side of the stand where the bold blue seats were. Brooke was shaking her head, but I chose to believe she was amused. I plopped into one. "Ooh! Spacious. That's cool."

"They're generous, yeah," agreed the man. "It's like going from RyanAir to, I don't know, Carbon Crime Airlines."

I shot to my feet as though we'd nearly scored a goal. "Good seat slapping noise, that. Brooke, did we pay extra for a good slap?"

"You'll get one for free," she murmured.

I sat and gestured angrily towards the pitch. "These pricks," I complained. "Oi!" I bellowed, causing a few guys to stop working. I shot to my feet and waved my fist again. "Hey, Green! Stop playing him onside, you dozy American twat!"

Brooke put her hands on her waist.

Time for a quick course correction. I applauded and got the builder to join in. "Well in, Green! Tremendous speed!" I turned to the builder while still clapping the pitch. "Fast him, innee? Great player. I heard he's great as part of a two... or a three."

"All right," said Brooke. "Back to work, please."

"No way," I said. "I'm still on holiday."

"I meant him." The builder grinned and went back to his task. I couldn't see it, of course, but I assumed his Morale was high. He'd have a story to tell down the pub later. Brooke eyed me. "You havin' fun?"

"Big time." I craned my neck. At the back of the stand were the sky boxes where the sponsors would go. When we rebuilt more stands, we would have more skyboxes than sponsors. Some of the units would be turned into hospitality for regular fans who wanted a more premium experience. A disproportionate chunk of the noise in the stadium would come from this stand, though. The McNally would be the cheapest place, the spot for young fans, the ones with the energy to stand and sing for 90 minutes. I wasn't sure if the sponsors would want to move somewhere more genteel or if they would prefer the raucous vibes. I supposed we would find out in about five years. To the sides, on walls that weren't strictly needed for structural soundness but kept the noise inside, were enormous rectangular frames you wouldn't spot unless you were looking for them. "Those are for the giant screens?"

"Exactly. If we sell enough beer, we might be able to buy them next season. Wanna see the bar?"

"Wow, that was a smooth transition. I'm guessing there's nothing to see in the sky boxes?"

"Only the view."

"Ooh, cool. Yeah, I can spare a minute for that. First the pitch, though." I skipped down the steps and was about to hurdle the advert hoardings when I remembered they were different. My eyes widened as I recalculated a leap I had done many times before. With some extra effort, I hopped over in one elegant bound. I tapped the hoarding. "You're a chunky chap, aren't you? These bad boys are beefy." The Harry McNally now came with huge, modern electronic advert boards. Extra revenue, and extra scope for mischief.

That was all in the future, though. Now was the time to enjoy another amazing moment. I took a couple of careful, dainty steps, got on my hands and knees, and brushed my palm across the white byline... and touched the new pitch.

Our million-pound pitch, with mega drainage, undersoil heating, and hybrid stitching. The grass was short and didn't look quite ready to play. I would need to talk to Jonny Planter to find out its true state of readiness but it looked and felt pretty fucking close, plus we had five weeks until the first match was scheduled to be played. I tried to tell which blades were real grass and which were the artificial stabilisers. I lowered my head and looked at the camber of the pitch. It very gently sloped with its highest point running along the middle - imagine a line going from penalty spot to penalty spot - dipping on the wings. It was just enough to help with drainage, but not enough to make it so you couldn't see the ball from the other side as happened at some football grounds.

I flopped onto my back and looked up. The front of the McNally's roof had translucent strips to allow light to come through, but we had also invested in some ultra-fancy new machines for the groundstaff. These would traverse the pitch, blasting the grass with special light.

I lay there for a while. A million pounds beneath me. Five million pounds looming over me. This is where much of the magic had happened and would continue to happen. This was base camp. This was home to Project Max, where my phone would always connect to the Wifi, where my key fit every lock and my badge - when I got it - would open every door. We would go months without losing matches here. The original Deva was a fortress built by the Romans. This was a fortress built by me - with a little help from my friends.

"Hey, Brooke," I said, as I flapped my limbs doing a grass angel.

She leaned over the fancy new boards, smiling down at me, pleased at how thrilled I was. "Yes, Max?"

"We should put some white seats in amongst the blue ones and spell out three letters."

"Hold up," she said. "Let me give it a go. Three letters, you say? Y-E-S, the old Yoko Ono thing. I know you love your Beatles. Oh, I got it! I'm embarrassed it took so long. M-A-X."

"I was thinking L-O-L but I like your idea better."

She turned and perched her arse on the boards. "Ain't it pretty?"

I think she meant the new stand. "It sure is," I said, in a flawless American accent. "It sure is."

***

We followed the half-time path of a hypothetical fan whose ticket was behind the goal. We went up, then down and into the belly of the wooden beast - the concourse. It was actually massive. Plenty of toilets, plenty of places to buy food and drink. A long counter was being installed. On match days this space would be one of the busiest restaurants in the county. When you'd bought your pie and pint you could sit, stand, or lean as you liked, and there were spots for people with reduced mobility. It was designed to extract as much money as poss as fast as poss. Half time was fifteen minutes. Queues cost money.

Brooke said it would be tight getting everything ready for the first match and she knew I would hate it but she planned to prioritise getting the sponsor's boxes ready first. "I don't hate it," I said. "We'll just give out loads of free beer down here."

We went up to the sky boxes. They were currently empty and it wasn't immediately clear why work hadn't started on the final fit but I didn't want to micromanage every little thing. The views were fantastic, currently the best in the new Deva. The sponsors might not want to move even when the main stand was rebuilt. From here, they would get perfect views of all our last-minute winners.

It was also possible to see the top of the main stand's roof. "Ah, the solar's gone." We had moved the old array onto the new roof. When we built new stands, we'd cover them with more panels and the latest battery systems.

We went back outside. All around there was a sense of finalisation, frantic last-minute rushing. The final whistle on this project would blow in five weeks. Five weeks seemed like a long time and everyone seemed so close to finishing, but Brooke was already thinking about priorities. The sponsors over the normal fans. The signage and electrics over the club shop.

"Huh," I said, as we watched a huge pane of glass get inched into place with a small crane. "Why that?"

"For the safety certificate. No certificate, no match. We get that then see how much time is left."

"Hey," I said. "If the shop isn't ready, we'll put some tables and a card reader out here and I'll sell kits until an hour before kickoff."

She gave me a genuine smile. "I hope it doesn't come to that."

I pottered around, looking at the stand from different angles. "Why? It'd be fun. Everyone chipping in, rolling with the punches. We're moving in the right direction, that's what matters. The mood will be incredibly positive."

She clenched her teeth. "About that. I know that when you're on your travels you're still working but for most people it's awful confusin' that you're not here. It would be a shame to let the positive sentiment dwindle away."

"Noted," I said.

She dug her thumbnail into her eyebrows. "Sales are down, Max."

"Sales of what?"

"Everything. We have software that tracks fan sentiment on social media platforms and it is startin' to turn."

"How would me rocking up to Rotherham and bagging three points help with those things?"

"It would help a whole lot."

"Consider the situation well and truly boshed. Hey, where will the flagpoles go?"

"There," she said, coming to my side and pointing. I followed her finger. "Those things there? See them? There are six... Across..."

"Ah, I see them! Mint." I was getting more used to the outline of the world hidden behind the matchsticks. "What are those box things?" I asked.

"Those are the butts. No, don't. You're better than that."

"I'm not." We would collect rainwater in giant tanks. The pitch didn't need any because of the new irrigation system so the water would be used for flushing toilets and so on.

"Did we get the big size I asked for?"

She sighed. "Yes, we got the big butts. We got the big butts that you like."

I frowned. "Strange way of putting it." The morning had already been jam-packed. After weeks of doing almost nothing and seeing the same things every day, I was overstimulated. I yawned. "Soz. That's coz I'm overwhelmed. It's just like in my dreams, Brooke. You must have been busting your arse on all this."

"It has been... challenging."

"Will you take a break when it's done?"

"Sure," she lied.

"I'm gonna make you. I need you recharged and ready."

"For what?"

"For the away end! And the canteen. And the medical department. And and and."

She smiled and looked up. She didn't seem haggard but she wasn't sparkling. "A break never did anyone any harm. Got any tips?"

"If you don't mind slumming it on a twenty-metre little shrimp of a thing, I could probably wangle you a little yacht to take you around the coast of Spain and Morocco. Look at all the green water there. Green water. Zach Green. Green in green. Hang on. No, it's gone."

"Have you been in the sun too long?"

"Why does everyone keep asking that?"

The pane of glass fit perfectly. Brooke sagged as some tension left her. "It's good to have you back."

I nodded and gestured to the new world Brooke had created. "It's good to be back. Didn't expect to say that, but it is. Just one thing, though. Tell your dude not to ask you to marry him in the middle of a match. One, it's unprofessional. Two, it'll cost him a week's wages and his future at this club. Three, that's my move."

"Your move is asking to marry me?"

I smiled. "That's called The Stoke Timeline."

Brooke pressed her palm against my forehead and shook her head. "Absolutely fried. What a shame."

***

I strolled back to Bumpers and watched training. The lads tried to use my arrival as an excuse to stop doing their work. I had a pang of regret that we didn't have Vimsy around to shout at them.

"Hey, gaffer," yelled Dazza, as the lads crowded around me. "Are you back?"

"I'm back."

"But are you back back?"

"Trying to tie me down, Dazza? If you want it, better put a ring on it." I wiggled my right hand to show how awfully bare it was, which got a big laugh. "Right, get back to work so I can slip off to Venice for a long weekend." They milled off and I noticed Gabby smiling but it was the kind of smile you do when you're happy that everyone's happy but you don't know why they're happy. Where were my Spanish speakers? I called Pascal, Zach, and Peter over and reminded them that Gabby's English wasn't amazing. They assured me they had been keeping him in the loop but reminded me that their Spanish wasn't up to much and it was Henri who had done a lot of the heavy lifting with Foquita. Hmm. Never thought I'd miss Henri. Shame he was out of the story forever.

When training was done, I had a quick word with Christian and Youngster - we would discuss new contracts very soon - and had a slightly longer chat with Colin Beckton.

Colin was our aging 103/187 player-coach and he had shown he was just as lethal as ever. I suspected he wondered what the hell he had gotten himself into, but this particular strangeness wasn't comparable with Chipper's introduction to Chester. Colin had seen competent training, well-run matches, plus the emergence of two stunning new buildings, ground being broken on new pitches, and a new stand flying up. The only thing missing was me. I would get to know him over the next ten months.

"Sandra," I said, when I had shown my face to everyone at Bumpers. "What formation do Rotherham play?"

"Four-three-three," she said.

"Ah, that's right. Super narrow, aren't they? Do you want to take Saturday off?"

"No, why?"

I tried to make my tone reassuring. "You've been doing great but we've been trying to give players days off, haven't we? Because of all the away games. The travelling. It's hard being a wanderer. Takes its toll."

"Not on me, boss."

I pointed. "Are you being a macho tough-guy who isn't in touch with her feelings?"

She didn't like that; her face went blank. She came back with a tiny smile. "Okay, yeah, maybe. But I don't want to miss your triumphant return. You're going to do something mad, aren't you?"

"I'm honestly not. In and out and hand you the keys to the car again. You'll do Shrewsbury, I'll do Blackpool. You'll do Carlisle. Probably you can do Bristol, too. I'll do Bolton Wanderers."

"Grudge match," she said.

"Currently my least favourite Wanderers," I said.

"Who are your faves?"

I smiled. "You'll be able to read all about it soon enough. Yeah, I'll do the tricky ones and the Vans Trophy and then it's the opening of the Deva. No reason for you to get more burned out than is necessary, though. You should stay home for Blackpool. Take Jamie to the zoo."

She sighed like a little boy who's been told he has to eat his vegetables to grow up strong. "I suppose I can do that."

"Not long until things are back to normal."

"Ha," she said, but instead of stating the obvious, she wandered off.

***

I spent a few hours writing my programme notes for a programme that would never be printed, then popped back to Bumpers to check on the women's team. They were training Relationism with Pascal.

The ladies were still running off their summer bloat, but overall the levels were on track and they seemed to be enjoying the drills. There wouldn't be many surprises with the group, but there were two newcomers worth keeping an eye on.

Young Amy Shone was one of many talented teenagers I'd found in Cheshire but I had fast-tracked her into the first team squad because she was a defender with the ability to progress the ball. She could pass or dribble and would absolutely wreck all but the very best presses. Her PA was on the low side at 105 so it would be interesting to see just how far this incredible skillset would take her.

Then there was Meredith Ann and there was little to say about her that couldn't be summed up in one simple number.

Meredith AnnBorn 3.6.2009(Age 17)Colombian/WelshAcceleration 14Handling 1Stamina 6Heading 9Strength 6Influence 7Tackling 5Jumping 4Teamwork 8Bravery 11Long Shots 15Technique 19Creativity 19Off The Ball 17Decisions 14Pace 14preferred foot LDetermination 19Passing 17Form 6-8-6-5-6Dribbling 17Positioning 8MoraleFinishing 16Condition 100%CA 30PA 200F RC

Potential ability 200. She would be the best player in the world. It was absolutely wild to see her jogging around, trying to get the ball, trying to do the drills, as though she was just a normal human being, as though she were mortal.

I shook my head at the craziness. The Stoke Timeline, as I was calling a world where I started my career at Stoke City instead of Chester, a universe in which I was in charge of one of the world's biggest pots of cash and would only need to get one promotion and have one consolidation season in the Prem before unleashing absolute mayhem - yeah, it sounded like a whole lot of fun. But in that dimension I wouldn't have become interested in the women's team, wouldn't have gone to find Relationism, wouldn't have followed Youngster out to Chile.

I would have incrementally improved Stoke's squad, making numbers go up, mastered positional play, done what everyone else did but with more certainty. No chance that path would have got me close to signing the best male player in the world, even if I made Stoke stupidly successful.

Here, though. Here was the best female player. Registered to Chester Football Club! Wearing our gear.

Jill, our general manager, came over. "Can you stop smiling at the girls, Max? Some of them find it distracting."

"Heh. What do you think of the new players?"

"Amy is raw. I think I see what you like about her, though. There's something there. Meredith Ann is... I can't tell. Is she better than Kisi or Dani? She doesn't look it." Poor Jill, with her low scouting numbers. "Technically, she's amazing. Lightweight. I think the pace of our league will come as a shock. Can she do it on a wet Tuesday night in Stoke? Heh. She picked up this Bestball stuff right away, though. She's got all the flicks and tricks. If you brought her to make this thing work, yeah, I can see that."

"It is properly called Relationism," I declared. "Just like Tottenham are properly called Tottenham. Club names are fun, aren't they? Albion. Stanley. Wednesday. Wanderers. It's mad that we're playing Bolton Wanderers soon and the opening of the new stand will be against Wycombe Wanderers. Who's your favourite team called Wanderers?" I asked.

She hadn't expected that one. "Um... Wolverhampton. I like the colour. Old gold."

"Decent answer. I'm going for a walk. I promise not to smile at anyone."

***

Thursday, September 3

Selected Minutes of West Didsbury and Chorlton FC's Emergency Fans Forum

Those present included: Mr. Yalley (club owner); Max Best (CEO of Masterplanalytics); Our Jean (world-class tea lady); Jay Cope (trainee football manager).

Max: Hey, everyone, thanks for coming.

Mr. Yalley: Be welcome!

Max: Yes, that's what I said.

Mr. Yalley: Two men in a burning house must not stop to argue.

Max: Wow. Okay, good turnout. I thought there would be maybe twenty guys.

Fan: We love you, Max!

Max: Aww, thanks. I'm not doing anything, though. It's 90% Jay.

Some Fans: Jay! Jay! Jay!

Max: 90% Jay, 10% Masterplanaltyics.

Fans: [Silence.]

Max: When I, ah, persuaded Mr. Yalley to buy West, you were in the ninth tier and attendances were rising. Even before I got here they went from 700 a game to 750 and that was entirely down to the vibe. It was an amazing place to come. First time at the Rec I was absolutely mad for it. My, ah, fiancée had a bad experience at a football match and West was the cure. So much fun, such good vibes, I loved everything about it and so did she. Okay so with the help of Masterplanalytics we went from tier 9 to 8 and now we're in 7.

Fan: Sorry, what's this thing you keep saying?

Max: That's the name of my company. How can I say this knowing we're being recorded? It isn't me investing in West, it's the company. It would be weird if I, Max Best, was bunging loads of my salary into West Didsbury and Chorlton Football Club, right? But it's not strange for Masterplanalytics to pay West for access to player training data and whatnot.

Fan: Why would you pay for that?

Max: [Laughs.] To train the advanced AI model that all my success is based around.

Fan: Some of us are uncomfortable around AI, Max.

Max: Yeah but it's not - Hang on. Can we turn that camera off for a minute?

[Break]

Max: Okay, as I was saying, Masterplanalytics is training its advanced AI model with data from West.

Fans: [Much laughter.]

Jay: You should say that it's two AIs. Two heads are better than one.

Max: Oh, I like that. That's the kind of bullshit that venture capitalists go weak at the knees for. Two AIs called... Bonnie and Clyde. No, that's shit. Cut that. Back to business if that's all right, everyone. We've flown up the tiers and attendances are at the Recreation Ground's capacity. Fifteen hundred every match, isn't it? Not being funny but we're going up again.

Fans: West! West! West!

Max: I kinda thought I'd be happy to bring West to tier six and just have it as a fun community asset. Retain everything you bring - the atmosphere and chants, the community projects - and I would just, you know, improve the football itself, make it a viable place for binned-off academy lads to go and restart their careers and that sort of thing. But I've got to be honest, Alan Turner getting the England job has made me rethink. I'm fuming, lads. I'm steaming. What are we doing as a country? Where are the standards?

Fans: Fuck the Tories! Fuck the Tories!

Max: Here in leafy south Manchester we've got an organisation that has a sense of identity. You guys can't be bought by oil money, you can't be tricked into hating immigrants, you can't be turned into fascists by an algorithm. You're amazing but your voice is not heard. I want to bring you up the ladder where you can do more good and be the voice of the underdog like those German football clubs. The EFL is a member's club. 72 clubs, 72 votes. I've got one with Chester. I thought I had one at Tranmere but that's uncertain. So let's get you guys into that club and while we're doing it we'll knock some fucking hedge fund out of the EFL. One less vote for rampant capitalism, one more vote for social change.

Fan: Fuck yeah!

Max: I can get you up into the EFL. I'm talking straight up, full speed ahead, no messing. If Jay sticks around a couple more years it'll be easy. But we can't go up into the EFL with this stadium. It's dubious if we'd even be allowed into the National League. So we're going to have to do something soon, right, if we want to progress. There are two options. We could drop one stand along one side, capacity fifteen hundred or so, suitable for the National League. Or we wrap the pitch, go five thousand, do it right so we can get into the EFL. At least 2,000 of that five thousand has to be seats, but the rest can be safe standing.

Fan: [inaudible]

Max: Did he say planning permission? I know that getting it will be awful. That's why I haven't been too fussed about it until now but sometimes as a citizen you've got to stop holding people back, right? You want jobs and a good economy but you won't let a major local employer expand? Come on, there's a balance. I respect the neighbours but we're already here, you know what I mean? If they complain about the bats I'll go crazy. No-one's going to touch those bats, I love the little shits. I've done more for bats than Bob Kane.

Jay: They'd be worried about concerts and all that stuff.

Max: I'd be happy to commit to no concerts. I'm not doing it to get Beyoncé in Chorlton.

Fan: You're losing me, Max! She's my queen!

Max: Heh. Okay in the planning permission I'll write no concerts unless we can get Beyoncé.

Fans: [Cheers.]

Max: We're sponsored by The Wall, the sports law company, and they're intrigued by the idea of helping me get planning permission. It's not what they normally do but ground expansions are a major topic for football clubs, aren't they? Think how much was spent on consultations at Man U, Chelsea, Newcastle. There's no harm in your law firm getting some competency in that field, right? So yeah, I do think we could get permission for a small stadium. The stadium supplier is very eco-friendly, we'd wrap it in a beautiful skin so it wouldn't be an eyesore but would be something cool to see from your bedroom window, and we'd be super considerate about the floodlights and the music and all that sort of stuff. Getting planning permission would take time, I'm sure, and getting the finances won't be easy but that's my problem.

Mr. Yalley: How much would it cost?

Max: Five million.

Mr. Yalley: Goodbye, everybody.

Max: Sit down, you big goof. Look at that grin! Yeah, look, I hope I'll be able to pay a deposit and cover it myself but there is always mini-bonds and all kinds of options. The question isn't can we pay for it, but do we want it? It would be criminal to lose the vibe we've got here. In a proper stadium, even with rail standing, you won't be able to move around as much. You'll be on TV and it'll all get a bit more serious. No more beers by the side of the pitch, for a start.

Fan: What do you want from us?

Max: I need to know if you want this! It's your club. If you say you'd prefer to stay in tier seven, I'm cool with that. We need to do something to get to tier six, so there needs to be some kind of discussion anyway. Basically what I want is a vote. Not today, no, but soon. A vote or some research at the next home game. Talk to every fan. I suppose the question is, what level would you like to get to? The answers would be EFL, National League, stay where we are. Right? Tell me what you want so I can put in the right planning application.

Fan: So we pick a level and you get us there? That simple?

Max: That simple.

Fan: And if you had a vote, you'd put us in the EFL so we can have a say in the governance of the sport and because we would be a political club like those ones in Germany?

Max: Yes, please.

Fan: If I could say something. Max, it's amazing you love the vibe here and top that you want to make sure that stays but I think you misunderstood one thing about us. Yeah, there are some who come along because it's a cracking atmosphere and the beers are cheap but essentially everyone who comes is a football fan. We're not just around for the vibes. We like winning, too. You should take us as far as you can take us and let us worry about the atmosphere.

Fans: [General agreement.]

Max: Oooh, be careful what you wish for. You might not like playing in the Champions League.

Mr. Yalley: It is a child who has never traveled who says that only his mother cooks tasty meals.

Max: Agenda item two. Find and hide Mr. Yalley's book of Ghanaian proverbs.

Mr. Yalley: Hah hah hah!

Fan: I understand what you want, Max. We'll get on it.

Jay: I'll help.

Fans: Oh, at the Copa! Copacabana!

[Singing and cheering continues.]

***

Friday, September 4

The Kennington Oval in London has been the scene of some of cricket's greatest moments. Devon Malcolm telling South Africa 'You guys are history'. Kevin Pietersen's astonishing 158 against Australia. Don Bradman, supposedly a good player, scoring zero runs in his final innings. (Aussies, relax, I'm joking, he's the GOAT, jeeeez.)

What's less well known these days is that The Oval was the scene of much of football's early history. For one thing, it was the venue for the first ever international football match, England versus Scotland, and hosted the first ever FA Cup final, Wanderers versus the Royal Engineers.

It felt like the most suitable place to carve up some delicious meat while carving up something else entirely. Also, it was in London and one of the people I wanted to invite refused to eat anywhere in England outside London. Et la.

I'd bagged the Committee Room for us to dine in, which was absolutely dreamy as a sports fan. Wooden opulence, paintings of famous cricketers, hundreds of years of men in blazers saying 'pass the port'. It could host 28 guests, but we were only eight. Emma and I, her parents, Mateo and Rachel, Aurélie and Henri.

The food was great and the drinks even better.

A waitress asked if we wanted more wine. Sebastian Weaver picked up the bottle in front of him, saw it was empty, and looked at me. "Are we going to be here a while longer, Max?"

"Yeahhhh," I said, apologetically.

"Fill 'er up," said Sebastian. He was pleasantly sozzled.

"Okay, let's do this," I said. "I think you all know the basics of what we did in Gibraltar. Mateo bought a team and set a budget of six hundred thousand Euro. I picked him a new squad to fit the budget, and in its first full season it finished second. The top three teams in Gibraltar entered UEFA competitions. The Red Imps didn't get very far, the Magpies - named after your beloved Newcastle United, Seb - crashed out in their first match, and you watched agog, open-mouthed, as I dragged College single-handedly" - Henri coughed - "into the league phase, guaranteeing a three million Euro payout. We could easily do this again and again. Some years we would fall short, some years we would hit our stretch goals."

"My stretch goal is to touch my toes," said Sebastian.

"Don't interrupt Max with your dad jokes," said his wife.

"He does it to me! He's not even a dad."

"Go on, Max."

"Um... Yeah we could keep doing it but I just got a whole lot more ambitious. On the upside, there's plenty of money to go round, and on the downside, there's a risk that our continued success would actually kill the golden goose. As College dominate we'll hoover up all the local talent. The gap between us and the other teams will grow bigger and that gap will eventually erode our ability in comparison to clubs from competitive leagues. We will win the Gibraltan league every year but barely progress in Europe. Okay, so we need competition. That's where you come in."

"Me?" said Aurélie.

"Yes, you strike me as a natural oligarch." Henri sniggered and his mum looked pleased. I continued. "I want you and the Weavers to buy a team in Gibraltar each." This perfectly reasonable suggestion was met with some disbelief. Maybe I could have prepared the ground a little more. "Because of my single-handed exploits - Henri, nothing? - Gibraltar now get four spots in European competition. College will get one, of course, and for a few years at least, Lincoln Red Imps will get the second. If you buy a team before January, I will be able to flood it with talent for the second half of the season. Do that twice and we can surely get those teams into third and fourth place. Then we get three goes at the different European competitions."

Henri said, "You're buying more lottery tickets."

"Yes, but it won't be me and Mateo, me and your mum, like that. We'll be one big syndicate, right? Illuminati shit. This is a conspiracy you're listening to right now. What I'm proposing is that we have three clubs that exist separately. They compete, they fight, those players and coaches don't know that their owners are friends. But in important ways we work together. Mateo is going to build a Marbella-style training centre as close to Gibraltar as he can and we'll all use it. The three clubs will split most of the national team. Most importantly, we'll pool the prize money. If one team gets to the league stage and one crashes out in the first qualifier, it doesn't matter. We spread the risk, spread the profits. I'll probably divert the best players to one team, College probably, because the big prize is getting into the Champions League. The hope is to get things going so well that in some years, two of the teams make the group stage. That might be a stretch but realistically, why can't we get one every year? I'm imagining costs of something like 1.2 million for College, eight hundred thousand for team B, six hundred for team C."

Henri said, "Two point six million for three lottery tickets, each with a chance of returning four million. I like it, Max. You forget one thing. There are only eleven clubs in Gibraltar and thanks to you and you alone, four will get access to UEFA's riches. In such a closed shop, the purchase price of the clubs will be exorbitant."

"I agree it would have been better to do it before but I'm willing to get my hands dirty if you are."

"I'm listening."

"Okay, so you're right that the current owners might not be too keen to sell because an opportunity opened up for them, but think about it. College are clearly the new force. The previous monopoly, the Red Imps, are only second now. If you own one of the other clubs, you're not winning this league in the next ten years and you don't have a Max Best - or an Henri - smashing you into the league stage. You might get a couple of hundred grand in prize money but you're still not breaking even. You don't have a lottery ticket."

"Interesting," said Henri. "That could apply a downward pressure on the price, yes."

"Right? Now here's the bit I'm not totally proud of. If you agree to this plan, our friends at the GFA are going to release a statement saying they plan to change the league structure. Instead of eleven teams playing each other twice there will be ten teams who will play each other four times."

Henri laughed. "Max, you are diabolical."

Sebastian was nodding. "That would drop the price all right. You're buying something that can be kicked out of the league."

Rachel Weaver said, "There's no risk they would actually do that? Drop a team?"

"No," I said. "It's just hot air. We float the story, buy the clubs from panicked owners - hopefully - and swoop in."

Sebastian said, "How does all this track with your noble aspirations of improving the sport?"

"I mean, it doesn't. This is about money. Loads and loads of money that I can use to finance other things. I did have an 'Am I the baddies?' moment but if it goes well, Gib will have one very good team, two good teams, and we'll see if the Imps can keep up. The national team will improve and there will be an amazing training facility on their doorstep. It will be good for football there. If we judge a country on its UEFA coefficient, which is a grim way to think but also a fair one, you'll see them fly up the table. I will supercharge the place in terms of its ability to field winning football teams. And I'll be minted for decades."

"Maman," pleaded Henri. "Please will you buy me a football club?"

"You can't own it, mate," I said. "Not until you retire."

"Aww," he whined.

Sebastian said, "Max, I understand why Aurélie is here. She's wealthy, this sounds like a very attractive investment - "

"And I can sponsor the team," said Aurélie.

"Quite so," said Seb. "But why am I here? I'm not sure I'm quite as affluent as you think..."

Mateo said, "Character is more important than cash. We need people who are smart enough to get this started and more importantly, smart enough to keep it going."

"Yeah, we'll sort it out," I said. "The main reason you're here is, well, I know you can't afford to buy Newcastle United but maybe just maybe you can afford to buy the Magpies."

***

Saturday, September 5

In the morning, the Chester FC official accounts released a match programme in the form of a short PDF.

The cover showed Youngster with a goofy smile and told readers what was inside: Puzzles and inspirational quotes on page two, 'Max Best Wedding Photos' on page 5.

The four-page PDF featured a word search where every word was either 'Max', 'Best', or 'Ornamental', a (fake) gossip section with player names redacted, and it included the first manager's notes Max had written in a very long time.

***

From the desk of Max Best: A Proclamation

Greetings and salutations, people of Chester! Or since this will find readers in Slovakia, Texas, and elsewhere, perhaps I should change the intro. We aren't bound by geography, are we? I poke fun at Henri, Pascal, and Jackie Reaper but in truth I admire them for leaving their homelands, pursuing excellence, and learning a new language.

I have been thinking about nomads, people who wander, those who are rootless, and why football fans distrust them. I once read a sentence that stuck with me. When humans began to live in cities, that was the first time we didn't immediately assume a stranger was an enemy. Football, as ever, is different. When a Geordie tourist visits Chester on a Monday you smile, point him in the right direction, and as a bonus tell him where the best pies are. When he visits on a Saturday wearing a replica kit, you shout insults and request he go home.

Of course, Chester temporarily do not have a home. We are nomads, we are always on the move. It would be easier if I wasn't away doing side quests. Some fans ask: Where is our north star? Where is our shepherd, our Mancunian, our anchor? (This is not the first time I have been called a shepherd Manc anchor.)

The first winners of the FA Cup were a team called Wanderers. It was a club with no fixed address so the name makes sense. (Now tell me how Bolton Wanderers got the name. Are you from Bolton or do you wander? Choose one!) Wanderers won the FA Cup five times but disbanded a short time after their last triumph.

The message? You can have success as a wanderer, but without a home you'll wither. Very soon you will see Chester's spectacular new house but it's true that I personally am in a wandering phase. I did my European fantasy over in Gibraltar, I had my pre-wedding honeymoon (what do you mean it doesn't exist? I just did it). And I'm not finished.

You love transfers, but the pool of players I can sign is limited to those I have seen (and have run through my cutting-edge software powered by twin AIs called BERT and ERNIE). I will be taking every opportunity this season to scout new players. Of course that starts in Cheshire and north Wales - and Caledonia is calling - but we have two ESC slots, which means I can sign virtually anyone from anywhere in the world. I plan to visit Brazil again, and I'm sure you'll agree it would make sense to go before their season ends in November. There is a player in Scandinavia I need to meet, and I will visit Paris for The Transfer Room, a meeting of directors of football. They call it 'speed dating for transfers'. I can do more for Chester in that room than I can on the touchline at Peterborough.

Wanderers had a player called the Reverend Robert Walpole Sealy Vidal and I'm obsessed with him. He was one of those Victorian guys who played every sport to a high level, but he's interesting to me as probably the only schoolboy to win the FA Cup and for his nickname - the King of Dribblers. The Rev was so good at dribbling they had to change the laws of the game! That's because in those days the team who scored got to take the kick-off. The Rev scored a goal, picked the ball out of the net, put it on the centre spot, dribbled through the oppo, scored, and then did it again. Three goals without anyone else touching the ball. Beat that, Wibbers.

I would like to leave a contribution to the sport like the Rev and his teammates. They shaped this game and their names are in the history books forever. I don't think I can do that by chaining myself to the Deva stadium and being 'visible'. Being visible isn't worth much. Here's a fact. Before I took my gang to Gibraltar, we had an 8 million pound bid for one of the players. I won't say who for privacy reasons, but after he scored a decisive last-minute scissors kick, we had 12 million pound bids. Wandering added four million pounds to his value.

Playing European football sharpened our skills and made us hungry to repeat the experience. If we want to keep Wibbers, Pascal, Magnus, and all the other talents I find on my travels, we eventually need to offer them European football. I can do that on a small scale thanks to my relationship with College 1975 and Saltney Town, but I'm talking about taking Chester FC into Europe.

It's ambitious, no doubt, but we will get there, and we will warmly welcome the noise and passion and colour of fans from Greece, Cyprus, and to a lesser extent, Luxembourg. We will exchange pennants all around Europe. We will be the wanderers, sharing, learning, growing, leaving our mark.

We will always return home.

***

League One Match 5 of 46: Rotherham United versus Chester

The week's training had been a mixed bag. The weaker players continued their steady improvement, while Peter Bauer, assisted by a few doses of Secret Sandra, moved to 67/166. He wasn't quite at the levels where I would use him in an important match, but it was getting time to dripfeed him minutes.

Pascal joined the triple digit club, but Ryan Jack's CA slipped to 77. I wasn't used to seeing red numbers in that field and I didn't care for it. What could I do, though? He was nearly old enough to be sold as an antique.

Rotherham played a narrow formation and in the warmup I'd confirmed their CA. An average of 102 was actually top ten for the division but it didn't hold a lot of fear.

"All right, shut the fuck up." I took a few steps around the dressing room. The situation was weird because I'd been away for the entire start of the season. For the new players it was a case of 'Who's this guy?' My solution was to be myself as much as possible. "Rotherham play four-three-three and they're pretty good. I mean, they're fine. They create these swamps in the middle of the pitch." I demonstrated with the red magnets at the top of our tactics board. "The three midfielders and three forwards form a geometric shape and surround the oppo midfield. They make it hard to play through, pick up loose passes, and generate threat close to our goal. That's the plan, anyway."

I moved our magnets into a 4-4-2 and used a marker to draw lines down the sides.

"We're going to be incredibly patient with the ball. Horseshoe passing along the defence, move them around. When the time's right, we're going to work the ball up the wings. Don't be afraid to come back and start again. We can have the ball for minutes at a time doing this. It's extremely safe and you'll see it's extremely effective. I expect they will get tighter when shuffling and sliding - they will tilt to the side we're attacking and leave massive gaps on the other side. Ping the ball back to Zach, who will get it to that wing. Slow, slow, slow, fast fast. You get me?"

Colin Beckton was one of the more interested observers. "Are we playing for a draw?"

"No. This will generate good threat, but the interesting thing will be half time. We can dominate the first half so completely he'll be forced to pivot and then whatever he does, we'll respond. If he sticks to his guns, we'll grind them down and the crowd will get on their back. Away advantage, lads. That's pretty much it. Over to Sandra."

***

I sat in the dugout, thinking through what was about to happen. If I had complete tactical flexibility, my formation would have been totally unorthodox. Three players on the far left of the pitch, three on the right. A centre back and a DM for the rare times we gave the ball away. A couple of strikers, forcing Rotherham to keep some bodies back and to get on the end of our slaps. I would fine any player who went into the centre of midfield while we were in possession.

The mad thing is that it would probably work if I had good enough players.

Today's bunch were pretty good. Swanny in goal. Our first-choice back four of Cole, Christian, Zach, and Matt Rush. Midfield of Duggers, Youngster, Andrew Harrison, and Pascal. Dazza and Colin up top.

That gave us an average of 97.4, which could have been higher if I used Lee Contreras instead of Andrew. Today's midfield wasn't supposed to do anything except run around, though. I didn't actually want passes to go into the centre of the pitch, so Andrew's cross-country running skills were more valuable than Lee's ability on the ball.

The bench was spectacular. Sticky (87/122) was bronze, close to silver. Josh Owens and Fitzroy Hall (93/118) were fantastic cover. Lee C and Alfie were midfield options. I'd wanted to include Bark but since I was on the bench and could play Bark's RM slot rather well, I went with the creative central option. If I could get him some minutes, that would be ace. Wibbers and Gabriel completed the bench. Much bigger clubs had much worse options.

For all that the match could be pivotal, could convince MD to splash the cash, could convince fans that my wandering wasn't harming the club, it didn't motivate me much. The real action this week had been off the pitch. I thought I had done well but I wouldn't know for a while. I pulled my hood over my eyes and listened to a podcast.

***

Sometimes plans work, sometimes they don't.

Today, they did. Big time. Rotherham couldn't quite get a handle on what we were doing. They packed the centre of midfield, we passed the ball along the sides of the pitch.

The three most important players were Zach, Duggers, and Pascal.

Zach's ability to pass from defence was key, but my tactics were giving him the easiest passes he would ever get in League One. The question was if he would have the patience to play twenty boring sideways passes before a progressive one, and if he would be able to resist the allure of the gorgeous, between-the-lines balls he loved to fizz to the midfielders. Twice he lost concentration but he got absolute verbals from Christian, Youngster, and Pascal. Zach clicked into the right mindset and the curse gave him a good rating.

Duggers and Pascal were just as pivotal - literally. When the ball came to them, they had to decide if the situation warranted progressing into the final third of the pitch. The answer, most of the time, is no, which is incredibly frustrating for most players. Nine out of ten guys would treat themselves to a dribble, a big diag, something showy. These two had high Decisions. They stuck to the plan.

The plan was mint.

One of the rare times Pascal decided the odds were in our favour, he played a one-two with Dazza, surged away from the left back, and pulled a ball back into Colin's stride. One-nil. Easy, peasy, lemon-squeezy.

The other best chances of the half were created by Duggers. He crafted an opening for a Dazza header that brushed the top of the crossbar, and another that went miles wide.

Rotherham resorted to long punts to their central striker, who was bullied by Christian Fierce. Youngster and Andrew cleaned up the mess.

At half time, Rotherham's manager made a change, which was to get his full-backs to man-mark Duggers and Pascal. In response, I swapped my wide players. Pascal went to right back while Matt Rush played right mid. Cole went to left mid with Duggers at left back. I changed our mentality from 'normal' to 'attacking', dropped Youngster into the DM slot to stop counters, and told the lads to attack attack attack.

You don't give players the quality of Matt Rush the freedom of South Yorkshire to operate in. In the time before the home manager undid his mistake, Matty absolutely ruined Rotherham in the course of five thrilling minutes that got me on the touchline, purring. He bagged two assists: Colin for his second goal, and Dazza for his first, our third.

To celebrate, Dazza ran over to me, got down on one knee, and held up an imaginary ring. I used my hands to cool my face, then mimed yes before we hugged, each trying to spin the other around. Dazza got the better of that contest; I would have to get into our new gym.

Dazza got a yellow card for his celebration, but when the ref wasn't looking the Aussie blew me a kiss that I caught and pressed against my chest. I was mostly tuning out the away fans to concentrate on the job at hand, but I think they liked it.

With the points virtually in the bag, I reverted to a standard 4-4-2 defensive with the players in the right slots. Didn't want to give enemy analysts anything to work with.

On 70 minutes I made subs. Gabby got a run-out, as did Josh. On 80, I brought Colin off and put Alfie into the middle of a 4-5-1, told Zach he was allowed to play as normal. He found Alfie a couple of times but the kid got swamped by the oppo. That was fine; it was all part of his education.

Three-nil final score, a rest for Wibbers, 970 experience points accrued at the very sexy rate of 10 per minute, back up to fourth in the league.

I wandered over to the away fans, who were noisy as fuck. As I approached, they went nuts.

I lapped up the adulation for a while, then brought the players into the limelight. It was hard to choose a Player of the Match of my own. The curse gave it to Duggers and that was a solid pick. The fans had their own favourites.

Then I got the coaching staff - Sandra, Peter Bauer, Colin Beckton - into a line and applauded them. The fans knew what I meant. These were the guys keeping things ticking over. These were the guys stepping up when I was away. These were the guys with their feet on the accelerator. Faster, faster, faster!

As we got ready to leave the scene, one lad yelled out, "Max! Where are you off to next?"

I replied simply and honestly. "Up. Fast. You coming?"