4.
Tuesday, July 11
Champions League First Qualifying Round, Second Leg: Saltney Town versus Pestis
The Champions League anthem blared while the teams lined up either side of the refereeing crew. I was off to the side, refusing to take part, scowling under a big black coat, and I was getting as much attention as any of the other remarkable things in The Legends Stadium. Forget the famous faces in the crowd, ignore the amazing Saltney Town team and the boisterous away fans, focus all your attention on Max Best. What's he wearing under the coat?
With the pageantry finally over, it was time for the main event. The only thing that truly mattered - the football.
I stared down the camera lens and slowly unzipped the coat. When the cameraman saw what I was wearing, he grinned and gave me a thumbs up.
I jogged to the centre circle and summoned my players into a huddle. It was a hell of a team but we had a hell of a job on our hands.
"Lads," I said. "Remember the plan."
"The plan is mint!" said Dan Badford, who was making his Champions League debut. He was trying to look cool but he was shaking with nerves. There was a lot of experience in the team, many had played for megaclubs in megastadiums, but this game felt massive. It was an obscure qualifying match but the world was watching.
It was essential that I said the right thing but the words came easily. I jabbed my finger. "Stick to the plan."
***
Saturday, June 17 - Three Weeks Earlier
Wedding? Tick.
Honeymoon? Tick.
Safely home? Tick.
Still married? Tick.
My wife, Emma, who I had recently married in a ritual known as 'the wedding of the year', nudged me while we waited at baggage claim. "What are you grinning at?"
"I was just thinking that my plan went perfectly."
"What plan?"
"Step one, trick you into liking me. Step two, spend years maintaining the fake persona that resonated with you. Step three, get married. Step four, you are now legally required to keep liking me forever, even as I slowly shed my layers of deception and reveal my true self."
Ems nodded, thoughtfully. "I have to say, it's pretty much foolproof, but the best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry." She poked me. "You are legally required to keep liking me forever, too. You played yourself."
"Oh no!" I said.
She smiled and gripped my arm. "Are you happy to be back home?"
"Why does everyone always think I was born in Manchester Airport?" The bags started coming, which meant a complete and instant descent into chaos, with people jostling for position, ruddy-faced Daily Mail readers shoving old ladies out of the way, pregnant women defending their zones with elbows. "It's like watching Arsenal take a corner. This is the end times, babes. When Brits forget the value of queueing, all is lost. Nostradamus wrote that."
"Did he? Do you know anyone here?"
That made me laugh, because acting surprised that Emma didn't know everyone in Newcastle was a joke I flogged when we were up there. "Yeah. Those kids over there are my second cousins."
Emma faced the other way so she could laugh discreetly. "Oh, God. That girl looks like the one from the Cheeky Maccas video."
"The what?"
"It's a chubby little Manc girl and she's in tears because she wants a Cheeky Maccas."
"To be clear, we're talking about McDonald's, right? That's not the new name for ecstasy?"
"Round my way, we called it Maccy D's. Oh!" Her eyes popped. "Do you think you're more famous than the Cheeky Maccas girl? Are you the most famous Mancunian?"
"Are you seriously asking if a hangry little brat is the most famous Manc? What about Mick Hucknall?"
Emma laughed. "Mick Hucknall is the first name that springs to mind?"
I shrugged. "He sold a billion records, and every one of his songs is a banger."
"Sure." She got a call, and a few seconds later said, "Turn on your phone, babes."
"Honeymoon be over?"
"Honeymoon be over."
"Last smooch?"
"Last smooch."
Lips freshly squeezed, I powered up my phone. People were looking at me, but only because I was with the hottest woman in the world. No-one was going 'that's Max Best!' Truly, no-one is a prophet in their own land, but I was absolutely fine with that. Manchester had great shops, great restaurants, and the anonymity meant it was way nicer being out and about there than in Chester, or, indeed, Wrexham.
Heh.
The phone was still doing things, and it would have to find the network and so on. Five seconds was time enough to do some quick post-honeymoon planning.
XP balance: 1,839
I hadn't earned much recently, what with mostly being stuck on a yacht.
Stuck on a yacht! What a turn of phrase.
I had to clear out the perk shop, so what was I going to get first? There was nothing that would help me in the match against Pestis, so adding more squads to the Panopticon was top priority. Then I would extend the weather forecast to ten days (useful for gardening), add the currency converter to the curse, then get the stats package. Those were perks that would help me with day-to-day life. Yeah, start with them, and leave the Match Archive one till last.
The total cost of everything was 40,000 XP, which would take me 30 top-tier games to earn.
I would be sacked as manager of the men's team in a couple of months, but I was fairly sure they would let me stick around as director of football and the women's co-manager. I would clear the perk shop by the New Year, and probably by Halloween. I wondered if the Perk Construction Kit would offer cost reductions if I tied perks to external events. A lot of the perks the imps had dreamt up were based on Halloween, Christmas, Valentine's Day. Maybe it wasn't only because they were desperately scrabbling around for ideas. Maybe it was also an efficient way to level-up curse users.
The phone burst into life - hundreds of unread emails, texts, group chats.
The most urgent was one from the Brig. I called him. "Max! Are you on the way home?"
"We're waiting for our luggage, then Andrew Harrison is gonna give us a lift to the cottage."
"Hmm. Sorry to disrupt your plans, but could you go straight to Saltney? There has been a break-in."
My blood froze. There was only one thing at Saltney that was irreplaceable. "DOVE?"
"They took the computers. A very professional job."
"When?"
"My guess is Wednesday, when Wales were playing Romania. No-one around." The panic rose when I thought of what could have happened if any of our staff had been present during the robbery. The Brig continued. "The cleaner badged into the office this morning, thought it was strange that all the computers were gone. Pradeep and Spectrum are out of the country?"
"Yeah, they're doing a tour of Europe with Briggy. Oh, wait, hang on. Did you say Wednesday?"
"Yes."
If DOVE had been stolen, Pradeep would have been freaking out within minutes. I opened an email from him. It was a player recommendation; DOVE had flagged a lad in Dublin. The email was sent yesterday, which meant DOVE was still online. "John, I think it's all right. You said it was a professional job? They've done a good heist but all they have stolen is a heavily-modded version of Civilization 4."
"I see. Their best-laid plans crashed into a Best-laid plan."
"Exactly."
"Can you go, anyway? It would put a lot of minds at ease. I would go but, well, I'm in Sardinia." He chuckled, wealthily. "Dylan is at The Legends liaising with the police, taking care of things."
"Of course, yeah. It'll be fun to spend time with Dylan. He has been avoiding me since the playoff final. Barely spoke to me at the wedding even though that was a strictly no-football zone."
"Are you going to wind him up? He rushed into action at short notice."
It struck me that it would be even funnier to do the opposite of what Dylan would expect. "Me? No. I pwomise." I was distracted by the distinctive sound of suitcases being wheeled towards hot, milky cups of tea. I looked around and saw the area was emptying, but there was no sign of our bags. "I think I'm detecting another wrinkle in another plan."
For reasons known only to himself, the Brig put on a Scots accent and said, "The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men gang aft agley."
"Hmm. You okay, bruv?"
***
Red Army is a hard-hitting Wrexham AFC podcast, unique in that club's media ecosystem since criticism of Ryan Reynolds is part of its DNA. The podcast has a Discord server open to its Patreon supporters. One of the channels on the server is called ABOB.
***
ButteryCrumpets has moved this channel out of the archive.
ButteryCrumpets
Channel reopened by request.
Stoop
Wait what?
Saint Derfel
Now ain't this a surprise.
BrokenGround
Hey, lads, it's me. I know we're all pissed off by MB and his mischief but I got called up for duty, so to speak, and there's a lot of interesting stuff going on. We could get an edge in the betting markets again so I asked Crumpets to open the channel to see if there's any interest. Totally understand if the consensus is to keep this a Best-free zone!
SummerhillBill
I was up about two hundred quid last season with my careful little bets, then blew the lot on the final. Got carried away like we all did, but the signs were there. Stefan Sommer walked right into every garden rake that Best laid down for him, didn't he? I'm angry at myself, Sommer, and Best in that order.
Stoop
Did you forget he dribbled the length of the pitch, rounded the goalie, and went laughing to the corner flag?
SummerhillBill
I tried to forget, yeah, which is maybe a reason to keep this channel closed. Bad for my blood pressure, especially after my health scare.
TexanWrexun
I was up 800 bucks last season and I had fifty on Chester to win the final. Emotional hedging, someone called it. I like free money and I like Dylan's storytelling. I think it's a pretty simple fix - if you don't want to read about Max Best and his shenanigans, don't come in this channel. It never should have been closed in the first place. Why let a bunch of hard-of-thinking manbabies ruin it for the rest of us?
ButteryCrumpets
[One comment deleted. Strictly no politics.]
Stoop
I love this channel but can't see how we're going to get an edge. We know Chester are going down, but the bookies know that, too. What can we bet on? Best to be sacked first? Chester's top scorer being Wibbers on 3?
ButteryCrumpets
There's only one way to find out.
Dylan, take it away.
BrokenGround
Okay! I'm out of practice...
So it started with Saltney Town being drawn against that Hungarian team. Bonnie - for new members, she's my girlfriend and she helps to run Saltney - was suddenly crazy busy. Running around like a blue-arsed fly, she said.
A couple of days after the draw was announced, there were three different legal challenges to UEFA about whether Saltney would have to travel to Budapest. One was from Saltney's legal team, one came from Germany because a few Bayern Munich lads are going to Saltney this season, and one was from Gibraltar. No prizes for guessing who was behind the cases. Bonnie got the impression it was a co-ordinated campaign to put UEFA on the back foot. The lawyers are demanding that Pestis play outside Hungary in a match with no fans, stuff like that, but they know that won't happen and it is just to set things up for the next phase, which is Saltney refusing to play in Hungary and qualifying anyway.
Stoop
What!
SummerhillBill
There's already so much to unpack...
RetiredRed
I just came in here to complain that the channel was open, but I'm loving it again! Go on, Dylan lad!
BrokenGround
The plan, if this can be called a plan, is to not go to Hungary and then smash Pestis up in the second leg. It's an automatic 3-0 defeat if you don't turn up, but Max is putting together a crazy good team.
Stoop
Hang on, hang on. My head is on Mars. He's getting players from Bayern Munich?
BrokenGround
Yes. Not sure who. Plus the usual loan players from Chester, plus some surprises. It has got to be worth betting on Saltney to win, right? When it's announced that they aren't going, the odds will lengthen and we can pile in. Right?
Stoop
That sounds good to me... Do we know if Best is going to Saltney this time?
BrokenGround
I will try to find out. He's flying back today but I already got activated this morning because... I had better save that news for a minute.
Stoop
Our beautiful Welsh champions are going to be 3-0 down in the second leg? So what's the point of all the court cases?
BrokenGround
It's to get attention drawn to the story. I suppose the announcement will come in the next few days and that's why Max needs more bodyguards in rotation. He wants to put UEFA under pressure from the media and sponsors and so on for caving on their principles so quickly. He accepts it has to be a 3-0 defeat, right, because to him that's a football rule, but he doesn't want more than that. Like, if there's a fine, or if UEFA withhold prize money, he's gonna properly kick off and UEFA will know from the reaction to this story that they will just be bringing another storm down on their heads. 3-0 defeat, slap on the wrists, end the court cases and everyone can get on with their lives.
RetiredRed
Doesn't he want to fight UEFA all the way to the mats?
BrokenGround
Maybe he would but Mike Dean has a lot of money tied up in Saltney, Bonnie and loads of other people have jobs, the club just spent 6 or 7 mill buying new players. He needs UEFA prize money or his whole MBU collapses.
Stoop
Another point to consider: He won't want to get Wrexham too entangled in his nonsense because although we're enemies on the pitch, he needs to use our stadium. I can't believe we're gonna see Bayern Munich stars at our ground! You HAVE to find out who they are, mate.
BrokenGround
Don't forget the first two qualifiers can be played in Saltney. It's only the later rounds where they need to use a bigger stadium.
Bonnie is already being asked to prepare 'a spectacle' at Saltney for the second leg.
Max keeps texting her things like, what's the biggest flag in the world? Should we go big on the pride colours or go ironically mega-fascist? Is it legal to dress Welsh army men as riot police? The Chinese do cloud seeding to make it rain. Can they do rainbows on demand? Find out which country is closest to inventing night rainbows and get back to me.
Okay but I need to kick on because I haven't even got to the main bit. There was a break-in at Saltney! That's why I was asked to turn up.
ButteryCrumpets
Shit. Is everyone all right? Your Bonnie?
BrokenGround
Yeah, it was a very slick job. We think they did it during Wales v Romania when they knew no-one would be around the offices. Okay I'm putting my phone away for a bit. I'll come back later to say if this whole thing was a damp squib or if it's going to go somewhere.
DubaiGuy
Ask Best if he thinks Chester can stay up.
BrokenGround
[Thumbs up emoji.]
***
BrokenGround
Okay THAT was weird.
Stoop
Tell me Max Best is back in the country without telling me Max Best is back in the country...
BrokenGround
Exactly!
He rocks up in a Hawaiian shirt, baggy shorts, suede loafers, big sunglasses. Tanned, relaxed, big smiles, big hug. He lifts his sunglasses, peers at me, goes, 'You know what's good? Smoothies. I'm back on smoothies again. I feel revivified.'
'Max, there's been a robbery!'
He smiles. 'All action, all the time! Dylan versus villain. Don't be illin' where D be chillin.' He pats his sides, looking for a pen. 'Someone should write that down, that was mint. All right, let's take a look at the damage.'
We walk to the LIT office (used to be called Masterplanalytics) but it's like a parent with a toddler. I'm trying to go fast, but Max is pausing to look at bushes. 'These bad boys are coming along nicely! Look at the stamens on that!' Or he's staring at a light. 'Is that flickering? Can you remind Bonnie that flickering lights are the world's number one cause of serial killers?'
'It isn't flickering, you melt! Get in here. They stole your stuff!'
'Stuff and nonsense,' he says, which makes him chuckle. He keeps wittering on as we go into the room, which has a big gap where there should be a whole lot of expensive equipment. 'The right stuff. Christmas stuffing. Stuffed crust pizza. Wait, what's the topic?'
I squash my annoyance and gesture. 'They robbed you! Your billion-pound software! It's gone!'
'I see,' he says, cupping his chin. 'I hadn't thought of it like that.'
'Why not?!' I demand. How can he be so calm? I would be punching things.
He's speaking like one of those mystics you see on TV sometimes. Not the almost-normal ones like Magnus Evergreen, but the really woo-woo ones. 'You see, Dylan, what I've learned in my travels is that everything that can happen does happen, simultaneously, everywhere all at once, so there's a dimension in which DOVE is right here and all I need to do is...' He reaches out and cups his fingers around a patch of air, as though he's carrying an injured bird. 'There,' he says, in a quiet voice. 'It's all good.'
I'm fuming, lads. He's doing the same face he did when he chose not to score in the final! 'Max, wake the fuck up! Your business is fucked! I know you refuse to send backups to the cloud, which means in one fell swoop, you've been wiped out!'
'Why send backups to the cloud?' he says, before stretching his fingers out again. 'When you can just...' He lunges to his left, dances around the other side of a desk, laughing, ready to dodge. I suppose I clenched my fist or stepped towards him or something. 'Dylan, it's okay! It's all good. Will you take a breath, please? Take a cleansing breath. Back up your frustration to the cloud.'
Fair's fair, the last thing is so funny it makes me laugh, but I'm still worked up. I hate burglaries and I hate criminals. 'Why are you so calm?'
He picks up a mousemat. 'Has this been dusted? Tested for prints?'
'Jesus.'
He decides he has pushed his luck far enough. 'They've stolen the decoys.'
'What?'
'Someone's always trying to get my computers and laptops, so I defend my stuff the way I defend in a football match. It's all about space. Sun Tzu. Be where your enemy is not. Imagine an important match played between, let's say it's between the Blues and the Reds. The Reds have a lot of wonderful qualities, they are mighty warriors, but perhaps intelligence isn't first and foremost. So the Blues say to them, please don't come here into this trap. And they do! In fact, they're happy to fall into your trap. Then you spring it, move upfield, win a free kick, score, and they're scratching their heads going, whut? But we did it so good!'
'Not today, Max.'
'I'm just saying! If you know where the oppo wants to go, let them go there, whether it's a second-rate football team or a gang of thieves.' He makes a grand, sweeping gesture. 'Whoever stole these computers is in for a world of aggravation. What did they get? They got some PC games that the nerds think are super fun. It's like, bro, just play Skyrim on a loop like the rest of us, do you know what I mean? And they got terabytes of files that look like they might be outputs from DOVE but the data is flawed. Like, in the stolen database, YOU have Pace 14 and I have Set Pieces 8. Lol! There's nothing of value and they will waste a lot of time trying to decipher what we've done.'
'So where's the real thing?'
Max squints. 'Are you an assassin?'
'Why do you always say that?! Look, you're right, it's best if I don't know. The real computers are probably in Bumpers, somewhere, in a closet, and you access them remotely, something like that. Yeah, that's good. Okay. But Max, we need more security around here.'
He shrugs. 'It's a big space and we can't cover all of it, all the time. But yeah, pitch me some ideas for beefing things up if you have any.' He frowns slightly. 'I wonder if it's always the same guy behind this, or if it's different people every time. Right,' he says, clapping once. 'I've got to get home. I want to shower in good, wholesome English water.
'Oh!' he adds, clicking his fingers. 'I need a bodyguard to come with me to Cardiff tomorrow to watch Portugal play Wales. VIP, best view in the house, slap-up meals, and once I'm done talking to agents and bigwigs, me and my bodyguard will retire to our luxury hotel where we will get wasted. It's my last drink before I get properly stuck into pre-season. Hmm. Maybe a cheeky Nando's, too? Cheeky Nando's, cheeky G+T, fall into a taxi, last night of freedom.' He's getting more animated, bigger gestures. 'Yeah. Watching Wales in a must-win game against one of the best teams, VIP access, non-stop football chat, non-stop access to my puns and jokes, wall-to-wall luxury.' He tilts his head. 'Do you know anyone who would be interested?'
RetiredRed
Haha, go on, Dylan! Good for you, lad!
Saint Derfel
Millennium Stadium! 74,000! What an atmosphere it will be! I'm jealous, Dylan. And best of all, you get to watch up close if someone attacks Best!
SummerhillBill
Come on... We don't want any of that in here. Best is going to Cardiff to help the Welsh national team, isn't he?
And we're going to need all the help we can get because Portugal look very dangerous.
Stoop
I'd prefer a cheeky Macca's to a cheeky Nando's.
RetiredRed
Why? Their food is so shit they're not even allowed to call them burgers! They have to call it 'the product'! Nando's all day long, mate.
DubaiGuy
Not to complain, Dylan, because I know he's difficult, especially when he's happy and relaxed, but we didn't get much data. Questions: Does he think Chester can survive? Who is joining Saltney for their run to the Champions League? Who are Chester signing this window? And so on.
BrokenGround
I'll try, I'll try!
***
Sunday, June 18
BrokenGround
Going to the Prem is harder than it seems.
It starts at the stadium. Max, me, MD, Brooke, Jonny (the head groundsman), and Aff, the Irish winger, are on the pitch while Brooke drops a series of bombshells. The plan to put TV cameras on the main stand has hit a safety snag; some of the pipes for cables were put in the wrong place; the West Stand demolition was more complicated than expected.
Everything is delayed, which means there might not be the video ref at the start of the season. Max goes 'oh no!' in a sarcastic way, but Brooke says if it's not ready we might not get paid by the broadcasters. She also says if we can't put the shell up, we can't put the DOVE cameras up and we'll lose half a season of data.
Max goes, 'Yeah but it could be worse, couldn't it, Dylan? Couldn't it, Dylan?'
Brooke goes, 'It IS worse.'
We cross the road to Bumpers Bank. They are already expanding into the fields on either side, but they've hit snags. More random pipes, the wrong kind of soil, the usual things that go wrong on a building site. Jonny Planter says some of the equipment he wants to buy has doubled in price because of world events. Brooke adds that the fence company disturbed a mouse nest and they have to get specialists in.
Max goes, 'If I disturbed a mouse nest I would probably write a poem about it. Hang on a sec. Roses are red, mouses are brown, spend all the money, what goes up comes down. Bosh! Put that on some merch.'
Jonny goes, 'I hate mice.'
'No you don't,' says Max. 'The official position of Chester FC is that we love wee timorous beasties, okay? They live here; we're the invaders. We're the baddies. We will gently shoo them away to the other side of our fence and we will live in harmony. All mouse-based slander must cease. By order of Max Best!' He nods at me. 'Now say Max Best has spoken.'
'No. I thought you liked bats, not mice.'
'Spoken like a Wrexham defender at an inswinging corner.'
'What?'
Max takes a few beats, has a think. 'Guys, this is a lot of setbacks and I'm sure you're all tempted to do more, to work harder, to ask more of your people so that we can catch up. That sounds awful to me. Stay cool. If we can make up some time later on, fine, if we can't, fine. The stadium, the pitches, the academy, they're all going to be here for a long, long time. A few weeks' delay at the beginning is going to be annoying and awkward, but so what? I made a career out of being annoying and awkward. All good?' It's a simple speech, but effective. The others seem happier. Max points, dramatically. 'Onward to the next mission!'
DubaiGuy
Please tell me you got some information about who will play for Saltney Town.
BrokenGround
It's transfer news, of a sort.
We go on a tour of the Deeside Industrial Estate, which is a shithole on the other side of the river from Bumpers Bank. We look at three units with totally different characteristics. Some are retail, light industrial, all sorts. It's like if you want a striker and you scout Kiefer Moore, Colin Beckton, and Alexis Sanchez. Three radically different players; it shows you've got no strategy.
Stoop
They need more office space. I read that somewhere.
BrokenGround
I'm not so sure.
The first two sites make sense if you want offices but the last one is a monstrosity. 16 buildings laid out all higgledy-piggledy.
We potter around, look inside, and when we go back towards our cars, Max says, 'This is a no-brainer.'
Brooke says, 'I think that might be an all-too-accurate description.'
Max laughs but doesn't defend himself. He doesn't think he has to!
'Which building are you going to buy?' I say, because I skipped the module on the bodyguarding course about being seen but not heard.
'All three,' says Brooke, which makes MD flinch.
'There are 16.'
'I thought you meant which units. We will buy all the units with all the buildings you have just seen.'
'Why?' I say, perplexed. 'Okay, you need more office space, but not THAT much more.'
Max tuts and shakes his head. 'If we own all the buildings in this area we can save money by only having one Wi-Fi router! It's called synergies, bro! We're top international businesspeople and we know about these things.'
I go, 'You've got a few weeks until the Premier League starts. You're supposed to be buying midfielders!'
'I have no plans to buy more midfielders.' Max points south. 'Here's the plan. I'm going to buy plots of land all the way from here to Wrexham.'
'What?'
He nods fast. 'Yep. What is it, 12 miles? In Welsh measurements, that equates to 3.4 valleys. If we get started now, we'll have a patchwork of properties all the way from here to there within seven years or so, and we'll own the airspace above it, too. One day soon, Ryan Reynolds is gonna be on his way to Wrexham in his golden helicopter and air traffic control is gonna tell him no, he can't fly that way, because he's not allowed to cross the Great Ribbon. The controller will tell Mr. Reynolds to get tae fuck. I forgot to mention that he will be a Scotsman.'
I actually grip my hair and start tugging. 'Stop talking shit for one minute! Why are you buying this stuff?'
He puts his hand on my shoulder and gets serious. 'We need space for our trophies, mate.'
'Please! What's the real reason? Why do you want to buy thirty buildings across the river from where they would be useful?'
Max goes, 'Because I'm stooopid, okay?'
Stoop
Haha! What a melt.
I've found those units. That's ten million quid right there. Not the act of someone pumping every last bit of new money into the playing squad.
BrokenGround
As we're about to leave, Brooke comes to me and whispers, 'It's a million a year in income. That's 25 jobs safe.'
So that makes sense, I guess?
We drive to yet another spot. It's a patch of land quite close to the Saltney stadium. Max blabs for a bit and shows some pictures. Turns out, he has bought this plot with his own money, about quarter of a million quid, and he wants to turn it into an eco car park! Shelters, solar panels, batteries. He reckons he'll be able to charge money for people to charge their electric cars, and he announces the name of his new company will be 'Double Charge'.
I ask him if he knows that phrase has a negative connotation and he laughs a lot and hugs me.
I'm exhausted.
***
BrokenGround
Half an hour after saying he had no plans to buy any midfielders, he just signed one! We're on a train to Cardiff.
Wait - he's not buying this guy. It would be a free transfer. He tricked me.
TexanWrexun
Do you have a name?
BrokenGround
I heard Jimmy. Max verbally shook hands on 40, which I'm guessing isn't the new guy's squad number.
Stoop
Good clues! I think I will be able to work this out. Give me a few minutes.
TexanWrexun
It's Jimmy McNeill from West Brom. Scottish central midfielder, turning 24 this season, contract expiring, shows up quite well in the data. Very good Championship player. PL teams have looked at him but never thought to pull the trigger. Best might be looking at WBA players because of their financial woes.
Stoop
Hey!
I was just about to say all that!
BrokenGround
Ha ha ha I love this community. Now that I know what's going on, let's see if I can break another transfer story...
'Max,' I say, innocently. 'Isn't it a shame about West Brom?'
'A shame they live in Birmingham?'
'About their financial woes.' (Thank you, Texan!)
He goes on a rant about shitty owners, but it pivots into talking about McNeill. They played each other last season, of course, and Max was impressed because he was being even more of a dick than normal and smashed into McNeill a few times but McNeill just kept playing. McNeill in return thinks Max is a knob but he took Max's antics as a compliment. Max compares him to Sam Topps. Doesn't mind some weirdness when the football is that good.
'The only major downside with McNeill is that he's at the same general level as our existing squad, so he's not gonna make an immediate impact. He'll get good, no doubt about it, but this is all about next season. I'm building a team to win the title.'
'The Championship title!' I joke, but Max doesn't blink.
'Yes.'
'You're going down, then?'
'Probably. So what? I've made my peace with it. I'm married, I've got enough projects to keep me busy, and when I'm sacked, I'll get a huge payoff.'
Then he gets a call from West Brom's goalie coach, Oli Marches, who Max says is 'mint and top'. Oli likes what he hears but there's a snag - he doesn't want to move his family. Max says he moved Owen Elmham's zen garden from Norwich to Chester's training ground, surely it's much easier to move a few human beings? He invites Oli to watch Saltney Town play in a few weeks. There will be some big-name stars in attendance and Oli's kids are bound to meet someone cool and if they would prefer someone lame he can arrange a selfie with Ryan Reynolds.
He just can't help needling me!
But he hangs up and in twenty minutes he's basically signed a midfielder and a new goalie coach. He scribbles a formation on some paper. 'What's that? Chester's line up with Jimmy McNeill in the team?'
'No, this is Saltney...' He scratches out the draft, tries again, scratches it out again.
Something's missing. He does not seem confident. I do not intend to place any bets on Saltney Town.
***
Oli Marches, Coaching Goalkeepers 20. If I could charm his family, make it super easy for them to move, I would have an unbeatable goalie setup. Literally impossible to improve upon! 20s all round!
Jimmy McNeill, MC, 138/164. At 40 grand a week, his wages would be crazily high, but another way of looking at it was that he would cost 2 million a year, or half what Chelsea paid for Wallace Wells. Given that Jimmy's ceiling was higher than that of Lewis Lamarre, Gabby, and Leo Los, it would prove to be cheap, long-term.
I spun my pen around my fingers. I had gone to West Brom hoping to plunder them, to pick up some bargains, but it hadn't worked out as planned. There was a lot of that going around! Life in the Prem was already proving complicated.
Dylan had been hacking away at his phone for ages; I worried about his neck. "My mate says McNeill is good. Why has no PL team ever gone for him?"
"Fair question. Basically because he's not Prem-ready and Prem clubs don't need to be patient. They can buy the finished article, right? If Wrexham got promoted - you know, in one of those weird sub-dimensions that only exists for a single pulse of energy - they wouldn't be looking at McNeill. They would go right for the oven-ready dudes who could go hard from day one. You know what's funny? Wrexham would be far better suited to going to the Prem than Chester."
"I know a lot of people who would agree."
I grinned. The miserable bastard was on his way to watch his country play in the tournament they were co-hosting and he had been grumpy the whole day. "Are you mad at me? Is that why you're being truculent?"
"I don't know what that means."
"It means you want to hit me with a truck."
He shook his head, wryly. "No. I'm grateful for the chance to see this match live."
"That's the spirit! Come on! Next stop, Cardiff!" I sang a famous Welsh rallying cry, lustily. "Men of Harlech stop your bitching, the Portuguese will soon be twitching, those Welsh girls are so bewitching! To the battlefield!"
He shook his head in what I assumed was admiration. "We're going to win, are we?"
"Nah, no chance. It'll be fun, though."
***
BrokenGround
All right, my first chance to write in a while. Millennium Stadium! Wales versus Portugal! The hottest ticket in town! We're in the cheap seats - NOT. So many Welsh sporting legends! Gareth Bale is a couple of boxes away. He introduced himself to Max, who went, 'This is Dylan. In his head, he's as fast today as you were in your prime.' So embarrassing but Bale thought it was dead funny and I got a selfie with him!
There are two seats empty next to us. Max said they're so we can spread out like on a plane. 'I need to know if they will be occupied. For security!'
'Bullshit! You're just being nosy. But fine, yeah, I've got guests coming.' Kick off is getting closer and the tension is building and I'm bricking it because Portugal could really mess us up but Max is pointing at all the other bodyguards going, 'Could you take him? What about him?'
'I want to talk about football for a bloody change.'
He looks bored. 'Fine.'
'People are saying we could get through with a draw. What do you think?'
'It's possible,' he says. 'You could be one of the best third-placed teams, yeah, but you probably need a win. If this was Mario Kart, it would be the right time to fire the heat-seeking turtle.' He curls his hands into one big ball, mimes as though he's gathering power, and launches a burst of energy towards the pitch, intoning the word 'booooooost!'
Sometimes I wonder if all the parts in his brain connect to all the other parts of his brain.
Stoop
I have changed my mind about taking gambling advice from this man.
BrokenGround
We're in one of those pre-party parties that rich people love. Champagne and nibbles before the main event, all very fancy. I'm on duty, so when I ask a waiter for an apple juice, Max digs me in the arm. 'I see you lusting after that champagne; I'm right there with you. Both on duty, aren't we? When we get to the hotel bar, we'll start with champers, yeah? That way, we're not really missing out, only delaying the start.' He frowns. 'See that guy? Think you could beat him up?'
'That's the CEO of Tottenham, isn't it?'
'Yeah. That's why I'm asking. He has just signed Diogo, the DM who tried to lead a mutiny against me at Bayern. And the rumour is that he's going to appoint Lee Kennedy as their next head coach. Remember him? The Irish twat who was manager of Pestis?'
'You beat him 8-0. How is he getting a job in the Prem?'
Max shrugs. 'He went to Holland, got a job, did well. Small club gets thrashed by Bayern - you can mentally discount that one result. Rich people don't know much about football but they're amazing at mental gymnastics. Kennedy seems competent and he played for Spurs. I should be really happy about it because it's one less elite manager in the league, but I have a terrible feeling that Spurs will be the seventh team we play and Kennedy will be the guy who gets me sacked.' Max looks bitter for a second. 'That would be hard to take.'
Just as he's getting morose, his guests arrive.
It's two Spanish women, mid-twenties. They're the same height, five-seven, not as tall as Bonnie and Angel but taller than average. They have dark brown eyes and eyebrows to match. For a second I think they are coaches, because Max has this plan to get the best female coaches in Spain working in the MBU, but they're too young and too fit. They're clearly players.
Max decides to introduce me first. 'This is Dylan,' he says. 'He's in the British army. I'm trying to get him to take a better job that pays much more, one where his skills and experience would be properly valued, but he loves his current team and he's reluctant to leave because he thinks he couldn't get such good camaraderie and work fulfilment anywhere else.'
'Dylan!' says the first lady. 'It is not good to be stuck! You have to move when it is better!'
The second lady is watching, very amused, very wry. She clips her friend upside the head and says a lot in her own language.
The first one goes, 'Max Best, you are too funny. You tricked me. I don't like that.'
'Yeah, you do,' says Max.
'Yeah, she does,' says the second one.
Max says, 'Dylan, may I please introduce 'Cheeky' Rabanne. She's Catalan, gets played as a DM by managers who aren't as clever as me, and is a dreamy technician. She can scrap, which is why she played in defence when she was young, but she's silky-smooth on the ball. She has played for Atletico Madrid, Barcelona, and Man City, and not one of those teams knows how good she is, which is where I come in.'
This Cheeky is lapping it up! Her natural hair colour is dark but like so many of the women players she has gone blonde. Not to be horrible but if she walked past me in the street I probably wouldn't look twice, but Max badly wants her on his team. He's showing off a little bit too much, and he knows that but he can't help himself. How good is she?!
But then he bites his lip unconsciously, because he's about to introduce me to the other one. She is less conventionally attractive but he is much more smitten! 'Dyl, this is Macarena Serra.'
'Macarena?' I say, gormlessly, but I'm not the first person to react like that.
'Macca,' she says. 'Call me Macca.'
Max nods. 'Another central midfielder. How do you say genius in Spanish?' The ladies giggle and nudge each other. 'How do you say dream box-to-box midfielder in Spanish? How do you say floating megabrain in Spanish?'
'Yeah, yeah,' says Cheeky. 'She's good. We know.'
'I do not know,' says Macca, elbows on the table, face in her hands, admiring Max. 'Tell me more.'
The ladies fall into each other. I go, 'So you're thinking of playing for Chester?'
'Not thinking,' says Max. 'Dreaming.'
I have to say he is killing this. He's not like any director of football they have met. Macca says, 'Between thinking and dreaming. More in the direction of thinking.'
'They need to be persuaded,' says Max. 'Enticed. Convinced. They need to be shown that their brightest possible future lies in Chester. That all their hopes and dreams may come true in Chester.'
'How are you going to persuade them of that?' I say.
Max holds his arms out. 'I dunno!'
Again, it's very funny. Macca smiles. 'He started with a bribe. That's a good choice.'
'A bribe?'
'Tickets to see Spain versus the Netherlands at Anfield. The only cost is that we listen. So, we are here.'
Max gives me a gentle shove. 'I also promised I would bring a smoking hot Welshman for them to lust over.'
I feel my cheeks turning red. 'Gareth Bale is just there.'
Cheeky laughs; it's really cute. She looks up at me and says, 'Do you play?'
I get nervous, because compared to them or Max... you know. 'Not really. Just for fun.'
Max goes into full rant mode. 'Dylan may seem like a wee timorous beastie up here but on the pitch, he is a rebel without a cause. I tried to teach him Relationism and he said, uh-uh, Dylan knows best. Two weeks later, he comes to training and goes, hey lads, I had an idea. What if we don't play with rigid formations and we sort of melt into each other? The fucker stole my idea and passed it off as his own!' This is bullshit but gets me a surprising amount of adoration. Max shakes his head at me. 'He led his men to the final of the cup and got mentioned in the Houses of Parliament.'
'Really?' says Cheeky, who is loving this story, and loves it more when I'm too shy to think what to say. She laughs, takes my arm, and drags me towards the doors. 'Tell me about Max Best and Chester. Tell me the truth!'
'I don't think I should do that,' I say. 'If I do, how will I get home?'
Cheeky thinks that's the funniest thing she has heard all day.
We sit with me on the left, then Cheeky, Macarena, and Max.
The anthem blows their socks off. I want to grab my rifle and charge at the enemy. I look at Max Best. He's pumped. 'Come on, lads! Get stuck in!'
Cheeky pulls my arm. 'I know the Portugal team but not so much the Wales. Will you teach me?'
Stoop
Holy shit, lads! Dylan has pulled!
TexanWrexun
This pair are two of the best midfielders in Europe, y'all. If this is the calibre of signings Chester are going for, we should be looking at Chester's women for betting opportunities. Is there a market for 'team with the most possession'? Because this duo gives you that.
RetiredRed
Loving these updates, Dylan. There's one thing I don't quite get. Best is up there being your wingman. Wasn't he helping to pick the Welsh team and doing tactics and all that sort of thing? Is he texting his mates on the bench giving them pointers?
BrokenGround
No. He's talking with Macca about Portugal's tactics and raving about how their midfielders are 'interpreting their roles'. They're both throwing around a lot of numbers. The 6 does this, the 8 does that. Macca knows her stuff, big time. But no, he's not in contact with anyone, so far. Not that I can tell.
***
Wales were getting battered; so frustrating.
Beyond frustrating, in fact. It was aggravating. It was so bad it was making me re-think whether I wanted Llewellyn 'Well In' Kendrick to stay as the manager of Saltney Town.
Dylan asked if I had helped with the tactics for this match. "No, I would have done it much differently."
He eyed me. "What's up?"
I opened my mouth to vent, but closed it again. Dylan was sometimes a blabbermouth and anyway, I didn't want to make a bad impression on the Barcelona midfielders. The simple fact of the matter was that the Welsh manager, Patrick David, and his assistant, Well In, had stopped taking my advice. "Patrick David is an elite motivator and man-manager. Well In is a tactico. It's a good combination, right?"
All three nodded. Cheeky smiled. "Tactico. Is this Spanglish? I love this."
"I've been trying to give advice from afar. The draw against Slovakia was incredibly lucky. People said Leo Los didn't play well but I thought he was causing a lot of problems. Romania's manager agreed with me and assigned a guy to play the same role in the same way. How Wales won that match I have no idea! I told Well In my thoughts and he didn't agree with me. He couldn't see what I was talking about. From their point of view, everything went according to plan. It's just... It's so strange. Unexpected. Honestly I feel a little bit lost. Like, what on earth is going on? Okay, you got two decent results in those games but how can you not be panicking about the performances?"
Dylan said, "Groupthink."
I squinted. "I know the word but it's not really part of my active vocabulary. What is it?"
"It's where you're in a group, in a bubble, and everyone starts to think the same way. It's what happens in cults. It doesn't surprise me. They're in their hotel, locked away for weeks on end, talking to the same people every day."
"Yes!" said Cheeky. "It is like this in tournaments. It can be very hard." Macca nodded. They would know; they had played in plenty.
Dylan said, "If you ask me, it can go two ways. You can split apart and have a civil war like the French teams and the Dutch, or you can slip into groupthink and everyone gets along at the cost of the strategy. It's something that militaries work hard to avoid."
Cheeky said, "The Devil's Advocate. You must have someone in the group who says the other side."
I nodded while I chewed on a nail. "That's normally me, I suppose, but I wasn't there. It's still maddening. You get one chance to do this every two years. More in the case of Wales because they don't qualify for every tournament. And how often is your country the co-host? If the stakes are so high, you can't start to believe your own hype."
Macca, a 27-year-old MC with CA 161, PA 178, and a football brain the size of a planet, nudged me. "You don't like this formation. What would you do instead?"
"It's not about the formation but about the story. 74,000 in the stadium, ready to turn this place into a dragon's lair. How do you use that? Carefully. Be crazily defensive first half, wait for Portugal to make attacking changes at half time, then switch to something like 4-2-4, counter-attacking, hit them hard and fast. That's totally doable given this crop of players. Given the stakes and the atmosphere, the subs would play out of their skins." That was a reference, of course, to Bench Boost. I had triggered it anyway, because I felt that Wales were about to crash out of the tournament. Use it or lose it. I rubbed my lower jaw. "Groupthink. Huh."
Maybe managers in the Max Best Universe wouldn't succumb to groupthink. They couldn't ignore my phone calls, could they? Not when they knew I was paying their wages, directly or indirectly. But the manager of Wales would always be liable to ignore outsiders when the good times were rolling; they wouldn't want to share the credit.
I had to separate Well In the Saltney manager from the Well In who worked for the national team. Don't bin off a good employee for something that was a natural part of the human condition, yeah? Yeah. It was possible Dylan had just saved a man's job.
Macca said, "Chester finished second in the WSL 2. It's a big step down from Barcelona. Are we to be the only new players?"
"Big step down? In the profile maybe but not on the pitch. The step is rising. The step isn't a step, it's a hoverboard. It's a golden helicopter!" My enthusiasm earned a grin. "The only new players? No. I want six. Five top, top stars but I'm sorry, I don't think it's right to say the names. If I say a name and she chooses not to come, you'll think I lied to you. You know that Barca accepted my bids for you two and another club has accepted an even bigger bid. But it's not just about spending money, it's about assembling the right pieces. Do you know what a celestial watchmaker is?"
"No."
"You're looking at one. I've got the cogs and the springs and now I need the quartz and the diamonds. I'm putting the 'oh no!' into chronometer. Every new part not only connects to its neighbour but improves the smoothness of the mechanism while adding bling. I have a responsibility to the world to deliver and my aim is to deliver dazzling perfection."
Cheeky said, "What about Jay Cope? He is very young."
I pointed to the Wales dugout. "Maybe being young is an advantage; he hasn't learned the wrong things from his career. Jay is humble, he wants to learn, he's open. Jay's a tactico and that's what the women's team needs. I have complete faith in him. Complete."
"And if Chester Men are relegated? What happens to the money?"
"When we're relegated I'm gonna have a queue of big-heads at my door asking for a transfer. I reckon I'll get 200 million in the summer. Being relegated will make us richer. Richer! My plans are so amazing that failure is even better than success!"
Macca smiled. "I go from thinking to dreaming, haha. You are very good, Max."
***
Stoop
Shit! One-nil Portugal.
Disaster. It has been coming, though, hasn't it? We have been dire.
Saint Derfel
Did anyone else see Best in the reaction shot?
RetiredRed
Yeah, with the Spanish lass next to him.
Saint Derfel
He looked gutted. He looked how I felt.
DubaiGuy
No doubt the producers are asking who the lady is. Someone will know her name and people will put two and two together. As soon as the bookmakers get wind of it...
Stoop
The odds for Chester's women's team will change. I'm gonna have a little flutter on them to do well this season before the markets realise they aren't outsiders.
Saint Derfel
I think I'm gonna wait to see if these ladies are likely to join or not. Let's see what Dylan can tell us.
***
BrokenGround
Lads, sorry, I only just saw this. Half time was hectic. Max got spirited away into a gaggle of people from the Welsh FA. Lots of worried faces there.
And I got the Spanish Inquisition!
What's Chester really like? What about the coaching? The facilities? Bestball is a joke, right? They don't actually do it in games, right? Is he really trying to buy other players?
I say that Max wants the women's team to challenge for the title at the first attempt because while the men are struggling, every fan will joke that they prefer the women's team anyway and it's actually an amazing chance to get fans to give women's footy a go.
I can't tell what they think about this, but then they bring up the playoff final, the thing where he didn't score. They go, 'You cannot do like this, it's not serious.'
I'm like, that's serious, trust me. That's gonna hurt a lot longer than the goal would have done. He's serious right enough. It's his worst quality.
They speak Spanish to each other but Macca gets a call. She takes it and what she hears amazes her. When she hangs up, she says, 'My agent. He got many calls in the last minutes. Arsenal. Wolfsburg. London City. But why?'
'Oh!' I say. 'It's because you were on TV next to Max. Now that everyone knows he wants to sign you, they want to sign you too.'
She swears, I think, and Cheeky grabs her. 'I sit by him in the second half!'
'No way!' They have a play fight.
'You can both sit next to him,' I say. 'Me, Cheeky, Max, Macca. Easy.'
Macca admires me. 'Dylan! Max did not say you are a tactico!'
Cheeky pulls my arm and says, 'That man by the door is giving us the evil eye all the time. Can you beat him in a fight?' She's only talking about the Spurs CEO!
So there you have it. They have some of Max's crazy energy but now that he has worked so hard to get them, all he has done is alert other clubs to the possibility of signing them. I think Max might find it harder to get his players than he expects.
Right. Second half. Max said our substitutes will play well. Let's hope he's right!
***
The rest of the match was depressing. The Welsh players fought hard but impotently, their fat-headed manager ignored my advice to make early subs, and the Spanish ladies got more distant. They spent most of the second half texting.
Wales's subs played well, which validated what I had been saying to Gwen and the FAW, but there was no way to spin the evening as anything other than a total disaster. Final score 3-0, and a 98% chance that Wales would not progress.
I said goodbye to Macca and Cheeky, went the long way around the Tottenham CEO, avoided the Welsh FA, and was soon pacing out of the stadium along with tens of thousands of other disappointed people. "Last night of freedom, Dylan! Time to get wasted. You up for it?"
"My team's just been knocked out of the tournament it's hosting. I'll drink the place dry."
"That's the spirit!"
We checked into our hotel, freshened up, and hit the bar. What to drink? How about: one of everything?
Over the glass of champagne I had promised myself, I wondered out loud why the women had turned at half time. I expected Dylan to confess that he had been bad-mouthing me. And that's exactly what he did confess to, but he said they liked me more because of it and that the change in behaviour came because there had been a sudden flurry of interest in their careers, all because we had been shown on the broadcast a few times.
Dylan asked why I was pursuing the pair so hard. After all, I hadn't invited Jimmy McNeill to the match, or Oli Marches!
I drained the glass. "Macca was right when she said it would be a step down if she moved to Chester. But I am deadly serious about getting five guns. The problem is getting the first one. You know in cricket that phrase, one brings two? If we get one, the next will come. If we don't sign anyone, no-one will come. It's Catch-22."
"That's not what Catch-22 means."
"It is for the duration of this conversation. Anyway, I took a shot, didn't work. We go again. If Macca goes to Chelsea, Chelsea will have a spare midfielder. I just have to keep pushing, right? Have to try to stay positive even when everything feels like one step forward, two steps back." I slapped myself in the cheeks. "Positive! Wales are going to surprise a lot of people in the 2030 World Cup! Chester Women are going to surprise a lot of people this season! And now I can focus all my attention on Saltney. Pestis are coming to Flintshire, mate, and I'm gonna give them the same sort of welcome they gave me."
"Yes, Max! That's what I like to hear!
Just as the alcohol was spreading warmth inside me, Beth called. Instinct told me to pick up. "Max," she said. "Do you know that you were on the broadcast?"
I stood and pottered around. "I heard, yeah."
"Looking devastated when Portugal scored, like a true Welshman?"
"I would make a great Welshman," I said. "I know all the words to Men of Harlech." I raised my glass to Dylan, who didn't raise his. Rude.
Beth continued. "There were some posts on social media about you. People saying this is Max Best, he's coming to the Premier League, don't be fooled when people say he's a bright young English manager: he hates England."
"What?"
"I know, but listen. It got picked up by someone at the Mail and there was a chat about it. Our editor loves the angle. We put it in our pitchbot - "
"Excuse me?"
"It's an AI tool we use to predict if stories will get traction or not. Pitchbot loved it. I tried to shut it down but my editor said if we don't run the story, someone else will. They're furiously sourcing quotes and evidence. There's your relationship with the Welsh FA. We've got your beef with Alan Turner."
"Which started before he became England manager."
"We've got run-ins between you and England youth team coaches. We've got your opposition to the Elite Player Performance Plan, which we're gonna say is because you know it's good for the England team."
"It's horrible for small clubs."
"There's no point applying logic or reason to this. What else? Oh, they're gonna say you told a player to make himself unavailable for selection."
"Sorry, what?"
"Remember when Wibbers got injured playing for England and you told him off? They're gonna spin that. It's a hit piece, Max. I'm really sorry."
"Well," I said, trying to be brave. "This has happened before. Remember the scurrilous article when I left Darlington?"
Beth left a pause, then said, "This is the first thing most football fans will hear about you. Going into the Premier League, it's the first thing they will think about you. It's much, much worse than the scurrilous article."
I stood in the hotel bar imagining that it was all falling into a sinkhole around me. This would cost me Wibbers, Matt Rush, and the chance to sign English players. It would cost me and Chester sponsorship deals. No. This couldn't be happening. "Beth, when I went to Hungary and did my heist, the Mail had a huge photo of me. Remember the headline? The Pride of England. How can you go from that to this?"
She left another pause, and sounded wretched when she said, "I'm really sorry. I'm just... sorry."
It felt like it took ten minutes to cross the three yards of space back to my bar stool. Dylan said, "Bad news?"
I shook my head. "I'm about to have the whole of England as an enemy. You're Welsh; you wouldn't understand how that feels."
He glared at me, but then cracked into a grin. "You enjoy winding me up, don't you?"
"Not as much as I enjoy drinking with you. I know you want to switch to beer but I propose we buy the most expensive bottle of wine, down that, and if we like it we go again. What do you say?"
"I say: who's paying?"
I rubbed my face hard. "When it comes down to it, English football is going to pay."
"I'm in."
***
Monday, June 19
BrokenGround
Oh, God, lads, my head. I'm steaming. I can barely see the letters on my phone. Sorry for typos.
Just thought I would inform you that I got blasted with Max Best last night and at some point I put ALL my spare cash on Saltney Town to get to the Champions League.
Stoop
Why did you do that? What did Best say to you?!?!?!
BrokenGround
That's just it.
I can't remember!
***
Tuesday, June 20
BrokenGround
Lads! Sorry about yesterday but I know what got me so confident!
I'm at The Legends watching Saltney start their pre-season training. Their first match should be two weeks from now but of course they're not going to Hungary so the first will be three weeks from now. Apparently, Max told the squad they were free to start a week later if they wanted, but everyone turned up.
So they're doing some simple drills, ball work, bit of running. Max calls it 'blowing the cobwebs off'.
I'm looking at an all-star cast, lads!
You want Bayern Munich players? We've got four! Dumitru Demetrescu, Edgar Wilde, Peter Bauer, and a goalie with a name that doesn't fit on his shirt!
We've got the Tranmere Rovers Player of the Season, Tony Herbert, the lad from Panama. He's massive in person and he's got the crazy eyes. Lovely off the pitch, mind.
There's the two Wrexham lads. There's Toquinho, the boy from Brazil. There's Charlie Cullen, the wonderkid. There's the two big-money signings from Poland and Belgium, Bertie and Ludo.
There's Magnus Evergreen, Dan Badford, and Max Best.
I've been watching a couple of young Welsh lads and they can't believe who they're training with. Talk about star struck!
And then who comes rushing in but Colin Beckton. He looks around, spots Max, and they have a big, animated conversation. I get close enough to catch the end, which is Colin saying, 'You can't stop me; my contract is up!'
Max glares at him. 'If you quit, you'd better be damned sure you'll get another offer.'
My throat goes dry. Max and Colin beefing? This wasn't on my bingo card! Colin glares at Max. 'I'm sure.' Colin's gaze drifts away, then back to his manager. 'Am I sure?'
Max laughs and puts his arm around Colin. They were doing that thing where you go to a guy you haven't seen for a while, threaten to punch him, but then you wrap him up! Still friends! 'I really do need you for the Prem, but the PFA Pre-Season is coming up and that's like Exit Trials for hardened pros. Let's say I don't find anyone. You could play the qualifiers for Saltney and come back to Chester, same as Peter and Magnus. If I find someone who can do a job as Chester's third striker, you could stay here until January or the end of the season. But mate, honestly, you can still do a job in the Prem. Those defenders are all brawn, no brain. You're still a class above them, if we can put the ball in the right space for you.'
Colin nods, but says, 'It's exciting to go back to the Prem but I did that. I was telling my girls that I barely played any Champions League football even when I was at my peak. They saw me play at Wembley, at last, and this way I can show them something new. And let's be fair, Prem defenders are miles better than the ones in the CL. I'd score loads of goals and along the way I can help you and Peter smash up these bigots. What's not to like?'
I say, 'So you're leaving Chester? Just like that?'
'Nah,' he says. 'I'll still coach. Yes, Max?'
'Of course!' Max puts his fingers to his temples, presses, yelps '4-1-4-1!' then starts clapping and dancing. 'Dylan, do you know what this is? This is my happy dance! This is my holy shit Saltney have a top striker dance! This is my - ' He stops and his eyes move around like he's having a seizure before staring straight ahead at nothing. 'It has to be asymmetrical. I'll play left mid and cover the whole flank. That'll be, like, 128.'
'128 what?' I say.
He doesn't reply. 'That's quality,' he says, nodding to himself. 'No weak spots. This is amazing, Colin. Oh, and hey!'
'What?'
'Guess who's coming to watch us against Pestis? Which stars of Euro 28?'
'I don't know. Which?'
Max gets crazy eyes. 'All of them.'
Stoop
Oooohhhhh shit that's a great team! Colin was the missing piece in the puzzle. That's a top team now. Why didn't I pile in when Dylan did?
RetiredRed
Because it was the ravings of a drunk Welshman!
That said, I did pile in and I feel richer already. Come on, the Bordermen!
***
Wednesday, June 21
The universe didn't seem able to make up its mind about whether it loved me or hated me.
Saltney's squad was looking amazing, UEFA were making back-channel noises that they wouldn't punish us more than they absolutely had to, and I scouted a few great young players at a youth tournament. If I couldn't buy superstar players, I could always make them.
But then in the evening, while I was watching the broadcast of Spain versus Ukraine at the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium, the cameras cut to Macarena Serra, who was next to Tottenham's director of football and their CEO.
Big clubs stealing my players, mediocre men stealing my ideas. I grabbed a bottle of wine, put a corkscrew on the top... and put both items back where I had found them.
In many ways, the biggest match of my season would be the first. Beat Pestis and Saltney would probably cruise through the rest of the qualifiers. The prize money would wrap its arms around me and keep me safe for the rest of my life.
How do you come back from 3-0 down? It wouldn't be easy, but I had a squad, I had a formation, I had a plan.
I poured myself a glass of water and as an afterthought, dropped a leaf into it. "Babes?" I called out.
"Yes?"
"The plan is mint. Do you get it? Because I've made mint water."
She looked over. "That's not mint. That's basil, babes. That will taste weird."
I sniffed it; she was right. Another crushing defeat for the boy Best.
All my little plans and schemes, lost like some forgotten dreams.
***
Saturday, June 24
Sebastian wrangled four tickets to see England against Norway at St. James' Park, Newcastle. More experience points and a chance to see if Helge Hagen would make his debut. What a time to do it! The Round of 16 in the European Championships. I watched his Morale soar and crash over and over again throughout the day. Nerves. Amazing to think he had thanked me for this!
The game was stodgy, cautious bullshit and the England lineup was a joke. All the big names, the big egos, had been shoehorned into the starting eleven whether they deserved it or not. Alan Turner was confirming everything I had ever thought about him. He was weak, cautious, and his first impulse in any situation was to cheat. Watching England players roll 20 times after a tackle was pure cringe, and the way we turned corners and set pieces into rugby scrums was diabolical.
"This is hard to watch," I grumbled. "We've got the players to play fantasy football. How did we end up like this?"
My frustration grew, but then something happened that stunned me into silence.
In breaks in play, the big screens were alternating between showing randos from the crowd and famous people. Ant and Dec, rando, Alan Shearer, rando, me.
When I came on, boos rang out. I was being booed at an England match. Jeered by my countrymen.
I was a field mouse and my nest had been destroyed by a careless ploughman. Instant panic and the urge to run. What fresh hell is this?
They cut away, cut back to me. The booing intensified.
My cheeks flushed, my throat tightened, all my futures darkened and dimmed.
At the lowest moment, Emma leaned into me, covered her mouth, and said, "Do you think it's because of the Daily Mail hit piece... or because they've read your poems?"
Laughter is the best medicine and Emma is the world's greatest nurse.
***
While my stomach turned inside out, while hot flushes were displaced by cold sweats, the match continued.
England passed sideways and backwards, lumped it long, chased second balls.
Norway, inexplicably, did the same.
The clocked ticked down and in his desperation, Norway's manager summoned the tallest player he could find.
Enter Helge Hagen, playing as an auxiliary striker.
Balls were lumped. Duels were fought. Passing moves were declared extinct.
Then a corner to Norway. Rugby in the six-yard box. Scrums, mauls, the referee picking out one player and wagging his finger. Pathetic, rubbish, ugly, and then the cross, a giant leap, and Helge's first touch in international football, a header... clipped the post and went out for a goal kick.
Soon after, the final whistle was blown. England 1, Norway 0, and Alan Turner pranced around slapping the three lions on his shirt while the Geordies - and the nation - lapped it up.
The Weavers tried to talk to me. Emma tried to grab my attention. I stared at the England manager with my neck tingling. He had planted the first social media posts, hadn't he? He had planted the idea that Max Best hated his country.
I would lose players. I would lose cash. It had cost him nothing.
It was a pretty good plot, I had to admit.
My eyes narrowed and my suspicions deepened. Had Alan Turner orchestrated the break-in at Saltney? Did he want my computers for DOVE, or to get dirt on me?
Emma prised my fist open and slipped her fingers into mine. I brought her hand to my lips and kissed it. My blood pressure dipped back into its normal range.
***
Sunday, June 25
I went to watch Switzerland v Spain at the Tottenham Stadium. I had arranged to get the tickets before the Mail's hit piece - the Shit Piece, lol - and I didn't really want to go, but didn't want to let the gammons tell me where I could and couldn't travel in my own country. So I wore a disguise, didn't talk to anyone, and quietly gathered the experience points.
I banked another 630 or so while I lusted over the Spanish midfielders. That was what the curse was all about, wasn't it? I knew enough to want Spanish midfielders but would only be able to afford Swiss full backs (with all due respect to the great nation of Switzerland, of course).
In an attempt to cheer myself up, I did some retail therapy.
I spent 2,000 XP adding the Gibraltar Lions to my squad list. The Lions had a Conference League qualifier coming soon, and this would help me optimise their performance.
The match ended with a comfortable win for Spain and with my stash ticking closer to another threshold.
XP balance: 1,881
Next I would add West Didsbury, at last, then Tempsford. Then I could start clearing the perk shop.
Sad party horn gif.
Yay.
***
Monday, June 26
I stayed overnight in London, left early, but was always likely to be late for training. I caught the end of Saltney's session, which was led by a very timorous Llewellyn Kendrick. I got the feeling that word had reached him that the Welsh FA were NOT pleased with how Well In and Patrick David had approached the Portugal game, but whatever. For the Saltney qualifiers, I was in charge and my word was law, but after that I would do my best to let Well In run the team his way and show me that he had learned from his mistakes.
The plan to make sure I stayed in shape was that while the rest of Saltney's squad was having lunch, I would do an intense private training session led by Clive O'Keefe, with Magnus giving me a quarter of an hour of his special fitness regimen. Quick shower, then into the Sin Bin to look at the most recent footage of Pestis, and I would finish by telling the guys my strategy.
I went to Bumpers and got stuck in, doing the same drill again and again, trying to maintain the quality even as I tired.
It was fantastic. Clive had a way of nudging me into the flow mindset, of keeping me a state of pure concentration. Me, the ball, my muscles and tendons, all working in harmony. Left foot, right foot, chip. Left foot, right foot, chip. Touch, set, thunderbastard. Touch, set, thunderbastard.
The sweat was dripping off me and I could almost feel my CA rising to post-coma highs. What was I now, CA 155?
I couldn't control the Daily Mail, the residents of Newcastle, or the decisions of other footballers. I could control the ball, though. I would control the ball.
"Take a break," said Clive.
I went to the side and grabbed a towel, threw it around my neck. I couldn't dwell on the Shit Piece. Pestis was imminent; I had to focus. Time to let go of some of my demons. "Farewell and adieu," I bellowed, "to my Spanish ladies! Farewell and adieu to my ladies of Spain!" I rubbed my hair, felt a thousand thoughts encroaching into my mental penalty area, and breathed them all away. "Clive, how's my technique on that second push?"
"It looks solid to me. Does it not feel like that?"
"It's the least stable moment in the sequence, I reckon, but that might be me looking to fix something that isn't broken."
"Let's see it again."
I got up, took on water, mentally rehearsed the drill, then did it once, twice, three times. When I came out of the flow state for a second, I noted that four more people had arrived and were watching: Dylan, Patricio (a Man City player), Macca, and Cheeky. "Er..."
Dylan said, "Sorry, Max, but I thought you wouldn't mind me letting this lot come and watch."
"Not at all," I said, stopping just short of adding, 'have they come to throw stones at the leper?' I nodded to Clive. "This is Patricio. He's in Man City's squad." That was the most diplomatic way I could think of putting it. I had once had a free kick duel with him, but while he was brilliant, he had been loaned out again and again, had done his ACL, and would probably be loaned out every season until the sun devoured itself. "And that's Cheeky Rabanne of Barcelona, and Macarena Serra, who I believe is a target for Tottenham."
Macca laughed. "Max! Are you jealous?"
I shrugged. "Yes."
She didn't seem apologetic at all. "He offered me tickets to the match! It was a sell-out! How else to get in? But please. To leave Barcelona for Tottenham? What is that? Ridiculous." She looked behind me. "This is the extension?"
I followed her gaze. "That's Phase Three. It will be the academy. Schools on the left there, two big pitches, another one with a dome. You know those domes? They look like UFOs."
"For the rain, yes. That is good. I do not like to play in the rain."
I made a sour face. "Are you sure you don't want to play for Tottenham?"
Cheeky laughed and pushed Macca, speaking rapidly in Spanish, or perhaps Catalan. Turning to me, Cheeky said, "So? Are you going to give us the tour?"
I took a few moments to myself while I tried to work out what was happening. It clicked. The quarter final! Austria versus Spain. "I don't have any contacts in Dublin, sorry. Now, if you want to watch Germany against Belgium in Cardiff, I can get you in, no problem."
Cheeky tutted. "I don't want tickets. I want a tour."
Macca said, "You have a problem. You think you are the only person who is rational. Listen. I did not want to leave Barcelona. They want me to leave. Chester will give us a lot of money! Please think about it! So I do, and I think, no. Why? I am content where I am, in every regard.
"Then I am seen with you - only seen! - and that's so a big story. I am seen with the sporting director of Tottingham, my phone is más muerto que el latín. I am with Max Best, my battery feels it is Chernobyl. How can it be that everybody with a brain in this sport looks to you to see what you are doing but me, with my big brain as you say, I cannot think this is an opportunity? So I ask the people. Cheeky knows Patricio and Patricio knows you. One day you make him look like a big shit in front of the other players, you walk away, years later he does his, how you say?"
"ACL," I said.
"Yes. And who goes to the hospital to visit?"
I shrugged. "Every girl in Manchester?"
Patricio laughed hard, and so did Cheeky. Macca smiled, but fixed me with a stern look. "I like this. I am more interested. Now, take the next step. Sell me the dream."
There were twenty ways I could have responded, but one stood out. I moved closer, not breaking eye contact for a second, and when I felt that she was responding, I said, "July 11th. Saltney Town versus Pestis. We must win by three goals. I think you call that kind of match a remontada. This will be more than that. It will be a taste of what's coming. Top players, crazy tactics, flair, invention, absolute control of the narrative, and if I can do it with a bunch of misfits, imagine what I can do with a team of superelite superstars."
I was giving off all kinds of heat, but Macca absorbed it and fired back. "Which other stars will you sign?"
"Take a leap of faith. Join me and find out."
Macca's lips curled at the edges. "Elsa Lund."
That took the wind out of my sails. "What?"
"She saw me next to you and she understood that you wanted to put us together." Macca smiled fully. "That is a very serious proposal, Max. Me, Cheeky, Elsa Lund. That is very serious."
I shook my head. "No. That's just the start. You have no idea how good this team will be. Come to watch Saltney and then magnify that by a factor of a hundred!" I backed down. "I shouldn't exaggerate. Multiply it by a factor of ninety-nine."
Cheeky spoke Spanish, something like 'this guy is fucking crazy and I love it'.
"Hey," I said. "Have you eaten?"
"Yes."
"Come to the mission briefing. We're going to watch some clips from Pestis and I'm going to outline the plan."
Macca's eyes widened. "Yes! Great."
I worried that I had oversold how interesting the meeting was going to be. After all, compared to what she got at Barcelona she would probably find it quite primitive. I backtracked. "Erm... It's quite simple, really. Slightly odd tactical setup but with round pegs in round holes, and the main concept is that we control the narrative."
Patricio said, "What do you mean by that?"
"Yeah, it's simple," I said. "The media in Europe and in Hungary are making a big deal of this match because of what I did last time, but Pestis have a 3-0 lead so all they have to do is hold onto it, right? I'm gonna let them keep that lead until half-time. In fact, I'd be happy not to score until, like, the 70th minute."
"Jesus," said Dylan, and it might have been my imagination but I thought he turned pale even though I had already explained this plan to him after the Wales match.
"What happens when we get the first goal? The mental disintegration starts. One-nil, two-nil, three-nil. You're going to see one of the most shocking and dramatic collapses of any football team in the history of the game. I don't want to beat them, I want them beaten. I want to pulverise them. I want to atomise them. And that happens at the end. Seconds after they start to look at the clock thinking, we've done it, that's when we turn on the collider."
"Max," said Dylan, and his voice sounded strangely ragged. "What if you don't score when you want to score?"
"Mate," I said, flicking a ball up with crazy spin and doing some tekkers. "Haven't you heard the song? I'm Max Best; I score when I want." I did a bigger kick-up, flicked the ball over my head, spun, and smacked it... miles wide of the goal. I wagged my finger towards the distant sphere. "That ball is flat."
***
England and Spain won their quarter finals, setting up a mouth-watering semi-final showdown on the same night as the first legs of the Champions League qualifiers.
On July 3rd, I gatecrashed the PFA Pre-Season event and found talented, motivated players to round out the squads of the MBU. That was particularly helpful for the teams in Gibraltar who had their first leg matches that very week.
On the 4th, almost the entire nation was glued to their screens to watch England versus Spain. I watched College 1975 instead. They were playing a team called Zrinjski, from Bosnia, in Bosnia. It looked like my dudes would grind out a 0-0 draw, which wasn't a terrible result, but then Tomzilla played a pass to Matt Rush, who was in tons of space, and he drove forward and pulled the ball back into the path of Emiliano, who slapped the ball wide of the goalie and into the net. 1-0 win! Joyous scenes from my lads, and a delicious start to the qualifiers.
I opened my laptop and read a report from the other match. England had scored first, early, and as they retreated into a mid block, Spain's technicians and tacticos took over, going 2-1 ahead and making England chase shadows for the rest of the match. It sounded like a typical Alan Turner disasterclass, but the reporter believed that in getting to the semi-finals and losing to the favourites, Turner had done enough to keep his job until the 2030 World Cup.
I closed my laptop and thought hard about opening the bottle of red wine.
The next morning, I got my Saltney dudes together and reminded them of the plan. Keep it tight first 70! I showed them the scenes of their mates jumping around at the end of the match in Bosnia.
"This is what hard work gets you. This is why we suffer. This is why we put in the effort. We've got one week, lads, to put in the effort. Let's go."
***
Tuesday, July 11
Champions League First Qualifying Round, Second Leg: Saltney Town versus Pestis
The match kicked off under the floodlights. Red and black smoke poured out of the stand behind the away team's goal. The Hungarians would have been perfectly happy with a 0-0. In fact, I was counting on them being happy with a 0-0. The deeper we got into the match, the more they would cling onto that scoreline. And when I ripped it out of their grasp, their worlds would unravel.
I tried to concentrate on the here and now because my role in the team was quite specific and quite demanding. I couldn't lose focus, couldn't go wandering.
The ball moved into zone 9, so I moved five yards backwards. It moved up into zone 15, so I moved into zone 10. I was discipline itself. The plan was everything. All hail the plan!
Then there was a midfield tussle. The ball popped out and Peter Bauer rolled it through a sea of legs, where Dan Badford took it on the half turn.
I was already sprinting, flat out, and didn't have to break stride when the ball was played into my path. My first touch took me in front of a centre back, who had to slow sharply because if he clipped me he would have been sent off and his mates would have had to play 87 minutes with ten men. The second CB had been drawn out of position by a dart from Colin.
Seeing the danger, the goalie rushed out, which he probably had to do. I veered to the right as though I would dribble around him. He threw himself sideways, stretching out his long arms, hoping to catch the ball before he caught me.
But I had already chipped him.
It was the exact move I had been practising with Clive O'Keefe, but in the training scenario I had chipped the ball high over the imaginary keeper. This time I just barely lifted it, just enough to clear his hip as he threw himself flat. The lowest chip possible to demonstrate my technical superiority; the brilliance would demoralise the entire team.
His arms crashed into my legs and although I was expecting the collision, I tumbled to the artificial surface anyway. I rolled to my feet and headed towards the dugouts, where wild celebrations were underway. I sped up to be part of them. For some reason, Dylan was jumping around like he was a lifelong Saltney fan.
"Get in, come on!" he yelled.
"What a goal!" screamed someone.
Limbs enveloped me, crushed me. When the pressure relented, I put my hands on my head. Dylan stepped closer, checking for injuries, ready for action. "Max! What's up? Are you okay?"
"What have I done? I've fucked up the plan! In three minutes!"
Dylan laughed. "It was a shit plan anyway. New plan: score lots of goals as fast as possible." He grinned. "It's foolproof. Trust me, I'm a tactico."
***
Thanks for your support! And your patience!