6.14 - Injury Time [T1]

[Quick note: Thanks to the people who express concern when there's a chapter delay! I appreciate it! Basically I'm doing 'just in time' production and like in the real economy, that's great until a ship gets stuck in a canal. I'm all right! Should I change the chapter cadence? Probably but I'm going to stick with it for the foreseeable. We get some delays but on the whole I'm more productive this way. Thanks for your support - on with the show.]

...

14.

Saturday, August 26

Angela, mum's carer, stood entranced as I worked my magic. "People say I have the fingers of a pianist," I said. "But they're more like those of a surgeon. Watch and admire." I picked up the teaspoon and jiggled four cups of tea clockwise, then anti-clockwise. I placed the spoon down on the edge of a strip of kitchen roll. "Jiggling a cup of tea is a lot like repairing a cruciate ligament. You can't start too early, but you must not start too late. Listen to your body, or in this case, the tea bag."

She pointed to the nearest cup. "I think that one is saying, when are you going to add the sugar?"

I tutted. "No sugar. You're one of the best things that has ever happened to me but if I'd known you took sugar in your tea I might not have hired you." I turned and leaned my arse against the kitchen counter. Mum was on the sofa watching daytime TV. All good, as long as she didn't turn to Football Focus. Those insipid fuckwits would be previewing our trip to Manchester City, though if the show even mentioned Chester it would probably be a quick joke about how we wanted to break our transfer record to sign an injured player. Hurr hurr someone explain football to silly old Max Best. If they had time for a second sentence, they would likely use it to mention that Sandra Lane was often touted as a future Man City women's team manager.

Solly was sleeping in the middle of the sofa; the smooth-brained idiot liked to sink into the gap between the cushions. He lay there, dreaming of bones, his side rising and falling. He was ageing with the class and dignity of George Clooney, and like Clooney, his fur looked shinier than ever. Either Gemma and the Triplets were washing him with Newcastle Brown Ale or they were making sure he got omega oils and all the walks his heart desired.

Angela eyed me. "How are you going? How are you in yourself?"

"I'm grand. Deadly."

"Don't give me that."

How was I? Hard to say. I would have been a lot happier if I didn't have to end a crazy week by going to the Death Star to have my pants pulled down by Carmelo Salerno, the Man City manager. "I had the best week of my life, and the worst, both running side by side. It's like, I'm rich beyond the dreams of avarice and I'm..."

I glanced at the sofa and reduced my volume to no more than a whisper.

"I'm thingied to my dream thingy. Emma," I added, just in case I wasn't being clear. Angela was following, so I continued. "And at the same time, I'm a national joke and my star player can't play for a year." I squeezed my eyes closed, as hard as I could, and it felt quite good. I relaxed my face and gave Angela a smile. "When one wave lifts you so high and the next smashes you into the rocks, it's hard to keep a sense of equilibrium. That's why I've come home. Teaching you - again - how to make a proper cup of tea? That's, like, therapy."

"We watched you on Wednesday." She gave me a sharp look. "Not here. At Gemma's. Big watch party, we had. How's young Dan?"

"He's okay. It's painful but every day is better. He keeps sending me photos of identical Swiss lakes, claiming each photo is different. I think he's trolling me."

"And the new fella? Rudy?"

"Ruud. He is effed, but it could have been worse. He will come back strong." His PA hadn't dropped, which I knew because his database entry hadn't changed to question marks.

"You stayed an extra day to look after him, Gemma said."

I turned and swirled the tea some more. "Look after him," I said, dismissively. "I went to see him and said, bro, I'm gonna tell Susan - that's his girlfriend - that I'm staying to make sure you're looked after, but actually I'm looking after her because she'll be freaking out. Then I took Susan aside and said the same thing to her. Well, not the same. The opposite, you know."

"I know. Go on."

"So I just tried to calm them down, tell them that yeah, it's obvs shit and frustrating but it's also routine. The Dutch have great surgeons, Chester literally run a large-scale ACL research project, and we have Nicole, who's a wizard at making sure players don't overcompensate when they're recovering from an injury. I told them that ACLs are so common these days the process is more successful than a root canal treatment. The problem is psychological but they've got each other and if they stay strong, they'll get through this. So I thought that was a pretty good speech but they looked at each other, laughed, and told me they knew about my little scam to cheer them up. They tell each other everything."

"But what about Chester? The money?"

"Yeah, it's a mess. We are in a pickle." I stared into the blackness of the hot tea. "At the end of a half, a referee adds time to the clock because of the stoppages that happened."

"Injury time."

"Yeah. As a football manager, all time is injury time. When a player gets an injury there's a physical cost and an emotional one, too. I'm still getting back to full health after my c-o-m-a so I know what it's like to be out for the long term. Ruud's gonna suffer. I'll suffer today but only for 90 minutes. I'm trying to keep a sense of perspective."

My phone buzzed. I swiped away the timer, removed the teabags with one last squeeze against the inside of the mug, added milk, stirred, and took one cup to my mum. "Thanks, son," she said, which was a Morale boost and a half. A good day for mum was a good day for me.

I went back to the kitchen, where Angela was stirring her tea, looking guilty. She had added sugar to it! Vile. I grabbed the fourth cup and started to carry it to the front door. Angela said, "Want me to hold it open for you?"

I scoffed. This was a transparent excuse for Angela to come outside with me. "Yes, please."

We brought the precious cargo out to the round bit of the cul-de-sac, where a beefy car with tinted windows was lurking. The driver's window rolled down, silently, revealing Brick. Angela, like a certain subset of women, was absolutely fascinated by the enormous dude. The RectAngel, they probably called him. She peered through the open window. "Brought you a tea, pet."

"Lovely," said Brick.

I handed it over, annoyed that Angela was somehow getting the credit even though it was I who had toiled over the hot kettle. Angela said, "Aww, Max, can't you let him in?"

"In the house? No, he's massive. What's mum gonna think? When did the moon move into the spare room?"

"I'm fine, Angela, really. This is the job and I've got my podcasts."

"What do you listen to?"

"Infinite Monkey Cage; My Therapist Ghosted Me; History Hit: Medieval."

"Ooh," said Angela, fifty times more impressed than was warranted. Brick sipped the tea and winced. Angela panicked. "He wouldn't let me put sugar in it! I told him! I said Mr. Brick likes two sugars."

"He doesn't like it," I said, wearily. "You can't like things that objectively taste wrong and are unhealthy. That tea, that one there, is the ultimate. In fifty years, when the robots have taken over, they will be running around Robochester looking for the last stragglers of humanity and one of the droids will go, 'I'm gasping for a cuppa' and they'll pop into this bungalow, which will be a kind of holy site in robot culture because they'll consider it the birthplace of the best cup of tea in the world. They'll use my recipe, my methods. If one of those robots goes, 'Pass the sugar', they will instantly descend into robot civil war."

Brick took another sip. "Maybe that will be how humanity recovers. The robots will take time out from hunting down the last humans to fight each other and in that pause, someone will rally the last people."

"John Connor," I said.

Angela looked at me, surprised. "How do you know John O'Connor?"

"What?"

"He's a family friend back in Dublin."

"Yeah, we're talking about the John Connor who's going to kill all the robots by sending a hot dude back in time to bang his mum." I watched Angela to see how she would react.

"I've seen The Terminator, Max."

Brick said, "Is that your favourite movie, Angela?"

"She likes her movies like she takes her tea - so full of sugar you only think you're enjoying it."

Brick nodded. "Love, Actually."

Angela said, "I like ones with The Rock. He's awfully large."

My phone vibrated. "Got to load up on carbs. I'll be inside for about half an hour, Brick."

He did a tiny nod, then the window rolled up. Angela followed me back towards the bungalow and said, "He's a fine figure of a man. Sure, will I go back out with a bit of sugar for him? Ah, I will, so."

***

I thought she would be out there for ages, thirsting after the cupboard-shaped bodyguard, but she was back inside soon enough, and took up her spot on the armchair to the left. Mum and I were on the sofa. We drank our tea and watched whatever nonsense was on. I watched it much as Solly would - it was just some moving shapes and colours.

Angela said, "How are Man City getting on, Max?"

Mum said, "He supports United."

"Right, so. How are they getting on an' all?"

After Ruud's injury, I had stayed in the stadium to watch the Go Ahead Eagles match. I didn't want to. In fact, I wanted nothing more than to run away. Maybe come here and hang out with mum. But there was nothing I could do to help Ruud, not really, and I wanted the experience points, so I suggested to Emma that it would be better if we waited for news in the stadium. It sounded plausible, but I knew there wouldn't be any news. The medical staff had to wait for the swelling to go down, and it would be at least three weeks before a surgeon would think about performing Ruud's operation.

With that micro-scam, I had blasted past the 3,000 XP needed to buy The Stattoo Parlour, and I used the perk now to bring up some information about the Premier League, mixed in with some facts from my general knowledge. "United have won one, lost one, and have picked up the 13th most yellow cards in the division. Their goalkeeper was Man of the Match in the game they won, which personally I don't think is a good sign.

"City have won both their openers and have three players in the top ten for Most Completed Passes. Those three players are the goalie and two centre backs, because they play dogshit sideways and backwards football.

"The referee for City's game today is a tall, army-looking dude called Sam Long, who is fifth in the rankings for Most Yellow Cards shown. He climbed the referee grades fairly fast, but Chester nearly caught up with him because he did his ACL."

"He'll know how the other guy is feeling."

"I doubt Sam Long's partner is as medicinally attractive. Let's check something. Ah, yes. City have won 81.8% of matches that Sam Long has officiated. Well, well, well. What a surprise that is." I got my phone out and scrolled.

Angela said, "Are you checking that stat you just made up?"

I blinked, but then smiled and nodded. "Yes, haha. Actually, no. I'm checking to see if Sam Long has refereed in other countries. Specifically, the country that owns City. It happens, you know. English ref is cough invited cough to ref a game in Abu Dhabi. Twenty thousand quid? Don't mind if I do!"

"That doesn't seem very ethical."

"That's because it's not. It's complete and utter bullshit, same as everything else City do." I scratched my scalp vigorously. "Fuck 'em. They're not worth a single calorie of my mental energy." I downed my tea. "God, I want more."

Mum said, "I'll make you one! It's my turn."

I put my hand on her arm. "No thanks, mum. Can't drink more. I'm playing football in a bit."

"Oh, nice. With your friends?"

"Yeah."

"Who against?"

"Some absolute twats. I really, really hate them. When I'm king of the world, I'm going to make a special bin to put them in. A special bin and a special rocket to blast them into the sun. Or maybe into the moon. Let's all look at them for the rest of human history. They can be, like, a warning." Mum was getting stressed by my tone. I tried to smile. "I'm only messing. It's just not going to be a fun match and I can't even complain about it because my mate Ssssss.... Andy Lane, he's mates with this other team, so if I slag them off too much, Andy's gonna be pissed with me. So not only do I have to be miserable and lose, I have to keep my mouth shut. It's going to be quite the ordeal. But!" I said, going full beam on my smile, "I have good news!"

Mum smiled. "Tell me!"

"I got to the end of a project at work and I'm getting a nice bonus. I'm thinking of getting myself a new car."

"New car?" she said, confused. "From your bonus?"

"Yeah, well, it's an old one. From the 60s, I think. There's a guy who restores old cars."

"John O'Connor," said Angela.

"No, not - What? Stop going on about him! I'm talking about some weirdo from Europe who doesn't know what things should cost. This car, it's sort of not the fashion these days but I think it's timeless. It's got one of those old radios with the ruler along the middle and the knobs you turn. Anyway, it's not that expensive." Only about the same price as this whole bungalow... "Mum, listen, tell me what you think about this."

She turned to me, and the eye contact was strong.

"There's a guy at work. Well, he's at a different company but we were supposed to sign him. Supposed to hire him, I mean. He's a top sales guy, always hits his targets. We offered him a contract and it was all signed and sealed. He just had to work his notice at his old place. So he goes, this Thursday, to a pitch. His last ever pitch to his last ever customer for that company. What happens? He has a fall. He's gonna be out of work for a year."

"Oh, no! A year? That's a bad fall."

"Very bad. So now there's a big crisis. My company could get out of the deal. Could weasel out of the deal, citing the small print."

Angela said, "The small print that says if you can't work for a year, the deal's off."

"Yeah. But I say, we had a deal. We made promises. Do we want to be known as a company that backs out at the slightest gust of ill wind, or do we want people to think we're staunch as fuck? We back our people to the hilt, always, forever, unless they piss us off. I think we should complete the hire. Recruit him, get him on the team right now. Yeah we have to pay him to do nothing for a year but so what? When he does come, we'll be, um..."

How could I say we would be in the Championship and Ruud would fire us to the Prem as sure as night followed day?

"When he does come, we'll be selling better products for cheaper and he'll sell millions. If I was in charge, I would just do it. Get it done because if we don't, some other company will and salesmen that good are very, very rare. Do the right thing, take the financial hit, benefit long term. Plus we can invite him to our barbecues and if he's not feeling up to it, maybe his wife will come. She's fit, by the way."

Mum's attention had wandered, I thought, so I had talked faster, more desperately, but maybe she had got it all because she asked, "Did he seal the deal?"

"With his girlfriend? It would be weird if he hadn't..."

Mum slapped me with a pillow and laughed. "Not like that! Did he seal the deal with his last ever customer?"

"Oh! No, no he didn't. Another company swooped in and took all the money. One from the Czech Republic, if you can believe it."

"That's sad. I think you shouldn't hire him." My jaw dropped. Mum continued, "That's right. Wait till he's poor, then swoop in on his girlfriend. You said she's pretty." Mum cackled.

It's weird when you realise how different you and your parents are wired. "First, I would never. Second, she's only going to be more attracted to him the poorer he gets. Third, I don't date people from work. That's more of a Texas thing. Fourth, I'm not involved in this. The only way it affects me directly is that, like, if this guy hits all his targets, I'd get more bonus."

"Well, there you go then. Give him the job. The richer he gets, the less the pretty girl will be interested in him. That has to be true if the inverse is true. Heh."

"There's a problem with your logic. If the salesman gets richer, so do I, so I'm not more interesting to her. Right? And just for the avoidance of doubt, my goal isn't to seal the deal with the pretty girl."

"Why not?" said mum.

I had to laugh. "Because the salesman is also dreamy. When he shakes hands with the customer, starts his presentation, turns the first page of the flipchart, wow, talk about a frisson. The way he weaves product details and benefits into a customer-driven narrative, my God, it's wonderful. He sells the sizzle better than almost anyone his age. I like to work with people that good. I need to work with people that good."

I stared at the big clock on the wall; time to go. I gave Solly a rub; he squirmed, facing up, his legs extending in all directions to give me more belly to work with.

"The other thing is that if I get sacked soon, this guy will be my parting gift. Long after I'm gone, this guy will be doing the business, bringing home the bacon, paying the bills. Job security for a hundred people, you know?" I gave Solly one last frantic fuss, then stood and stretched.

"Max?"

There was something in mum's tone. Slowly, I turned to face her. "Yes?"

"Where's Anna?"

"She's gone to Poland."

"Oh."

I smiled and pointed to Solly. "Is he being a knob? I can get the Triplets to stop bringing him."

"He's not - Don't say that about him! He's a good boy and a sweet boy. He barks when that awful man comes on the telly."

I looked to Angela, who mouthed the name of a dipshit politician. "Solly, my dude! Did you get your psychic gifts back? High five!"

I bent and touched one of his paws, which seemed to please him no end. He was so happy, so upside down, that I couldn't help myself. I sat back down and rubbed his belly some more. So what if I was late to the match?

It wasn't like anything interesting would happen.

***

On our way north to the Death Star, I asked Brick to tune into talkSHITE, the sports-based radio station that gave a matey, independent vibe but was actually part of the DigiWorld group. In short, it was yet another part of the UK's sporting ecosystem owned by billionaires. I wondered if they would be playing up the Cinderella angle of Chester's story.

One bloke was saying, "What do you reckon, though? Reckon City will hit ten?"

Another bloke replied, "Carmelo Salerno isn't that kind of manager, is he? He'll get two up and play keep-ball for the rest of the match. It's not like when Pep was in charge and they would hit teams for 6 or 7 on the regular."

"What about Lazaar? He hasn't started City's first two games. Will he be in for this one? I tell you what, Lazaar against this Chester team would be tasty. He could get six assists on his own!"

"Salerno doesn't fancy him!"

"Mad."

"Lazaar's too wild. Does his own thing."

"But that's why we love him! He's an old-school entertainer."

"Salerno doesn't want that. He wants his players to follow instructions. Stay in your zone, pass sideways until we get an advantage. And you can't argue with the results!"

"Come on! It's Chester. Let him loose. Release the Lazaar! Chester ain't hurting City, no way. You know what I think about them."

"Don't start this again."

"They shouldn't be in the Prem! They ain't big enough! Can't cope! Kick 'em out, get someone in who can hack it. Palace. Sunderland."

"Tell you what, I want to see this player-manager."

"The superbrat?"

"The player-manager. Long time since we had one of them in the Prem!"

"For a good reason. The game's moved on since the 90s. It's technical. There's data, sports science, tactics. You can't run a team from the pitch. You can't."

"He's a good player. I'm looking forward to it."

"He's a brat and he's getting shown up for what he is. A Championship player, a Championship manager who got lucky. Did you hear he wants to sign that Dutch lad who tore his ACL? Chester have no money and what little they do have, he's spending on guys who might never play again. See if he can walk, see if he can kick a ball, then maybe start to think about buying him. But look, it's all irrelevant. Chester won't win a single game this season, that's my prediction. You couldn't pay me to watch City v Chester. It'll be like a training match."

"What about when Lazaar gets on the pitch?"

"You couldn't keep me away from it! I love him, mate. I love him."

"Stay with us today to hear all the goals as they go in! Plus top analysis from our team of experts. We'll be right back after this break."

Brick turned the radio off, then checked my reaction in the rear-view mirror. "Sorry, sir. It was pissing me off. Want it back on?"

"Nah."

"I must admit, I do like watching Lazaar."

"Course you do, he's mint. He plays Champions League semi-finals like he's playing five-a-side with his mates. Flair 20, Creativity 20. But Salerno's one of those guys who's obsessed with control. He doesn't want soloists, he wants an orchestra. Lazaar will get you in trouble by doing something unexpected in the wrong part of the pitch. Salazar, Salerno, Alan Turner, they don't give a flying fuck about the fans so why would they ever want a wild card in their team? If Salerno keeps his job, Lazaar will be gone this season. He'll go back to France, I reckon. Marseille or somewhere like that."

"Shame for the City fans."

"The City customers can get fucked. They are complicit in decades of cheating. One day, a cosmic Sentinel will come and erase all the trophies City won by cheating and there will be nothing left. It's a hollow club with pathetic glory-hunting followers. Except for the ones I know personally, who are fine."

"Are you planning a stunt today?"

"Stunt? Me? That's crazier than anything they said on the radio."

"Everyone is bracing themselves for a big drama."

"City customers don't deserve drama. They are so twisted and sick that if I complained about them, they would take it to mean that I think about them all the time. They would think, he's complaining about us because we're massive. I did think about wearing a training top with CHEATS 115 on the back, which is a reference to just one instance of their cheating. I would have had Climate Crime as the shirt sponsor, Justice for Sudan on one sleeve, Super League Twats on the other, but they have done more disgusting things than I can fit onto one body. So I decided to go to the other extreme. The way to handle malignant narcissists is to starve them of attention. There will be no drama today."

"Someone said you might do something with rainbow armbands because the Man City captain was one of the guys who refused to wear the armband a few years back."

"I have no plans to even mention the word armband."

Brick caught something in my tone but didn't know me well enough to pursue it. "Is there any chance of a good result?"

"Not really. We have a healthy squad now but City, Arsenal, Liverpool, have top teams. Maybe later in the season, when we're better and they've picked up some injuries, we could shock one of the three, but not today." I shifted on my seat. "Ironically, our best chance of getting something out of the game would be if Lazaar played. He would try something cool, not realising that we've got multiple players smarter than him. We could intercept one of his imaginative passes and launch a quick counter with City not in their preferred defensive structure. That's why he won't play. Salerno doesn't trust him and never will."

We were going down Princess Parkway, with Hough End Playing Fields to our left. There were some kids playing. There weren't enough for a match, so they were gathered around one goalpost. Probably playing Sixty Seconds or Wembley Doubles, taking turns to be in goal, unless they were one of those lucky groups that had a weirdo friend who liked being a keeper. Most of the little Manc twats were probably trying to repeat tricks and skills they had seen Lazaar doing in matches.

Well, they wouldn't see any skills today, that was for sure.

***

Flying on the morning of a match wasn't ideal, but it might have been for the best that I didn't arrive too early at the stadium. The place made my skin crawl and if I had done the pre-match interviews I would have gone nuclear. As it was, we parked and I strolled into the ground. In my hoodie, plain baseball cap, and sunglasses, I wasn't recognisable, and I asked Brick to stay five to ten yards behind me so as to not draw attention.

Inside, I made my way to the away dressing room, where our yellow kit and my personal gear were waiting for me. Everything was set up and organised, including the tactics board. The magnets were arranged in a 5-1-3-1 shape, but the formation on the pitch would be much more fluid than that. Our average rating was 145.5. City's was 171.

While I got changed, Sandra reminded everyone of the plan.

"We've got Marek in goal because City will press high and hard and we'll need to play around their press. We're starting with a back five. Lewis, Murray, Edgar, Peter, Cheb. Youngster as the DM, and remember that Edgar will be pushing into the DM slot and back again depending on how City are attacking. The midfield three will be Jimmy, Max, and Magnus. Magnus will also be available to drop into DM. Max is going to support the flanks. It's not going to be easy for City to play through us. Up front, Gabby will hold the ball. Gabby, remember. Don't be offside, and don't use all your energy trying to press on your own. We don't have a good sub for you. Use your head, right?"

The Brazilian striker had a new trim. His hair was short, fuzzy, and white. It was awful. The worst part was that it suited him. "I win headers, yes."

Sandra spluttered, "That's not - Ah, you got me. Very good, Gabby!" Gabby got some high fives and was very pleased with himself. Sandra said, "Okay, let's warm up."

***

We clomped down the tunnel like a river of horses, going through one of the most sinister places in world sports. It was a glass tunnel where rich twats could pay extra to leer at the players as they went by. Half a dozen City customers were literally licking the glass as I strode past.

The stadium itself was quite nice, but that was because Man City had nothing to do with its design. It had been built by the British taxpayer for the Commonwealth Games, though step by step it had been converted into the Heart of Darkness. The touchlines were marked out not with white paint but black oil. There had been a proposal to put blue plaques onto parts of the pitch where famous examples of cheating had taken place, but the groundsman had complained that there wouldn't be any grass left.

The teams were read out. My name was booed.

I grabbed Youngster and called Peter Bauer over. I walked them to the City half, where their players were doing their stretches. The City guys looked at me, confused, although Peter seemed to sense what was coming. "James," I said, with one arm around Youngster's shoulder and the other pointing at City's captain. I was talking to Youngster but I spoke nice and loud so that everyone could hear. "This is Koffi Bamba. Koffi is a homophobic piece of shit. Koffi pretends to be a Christian but he's got hate in his heart. Do not shake his hand. Do not show him respect."

Yeah, well, the first name on City's team sheet, one of the first names on Alan Turner's England team sheet, shot up, got up in my face, pushed me, shoved me. The nearest City players acted as peacekeepers. Youngster and Peter tried to pull me away, but I got loose and stepped towards Bamba. While he shouted at me, I pulled something out from my sleeve. An elasticated headband, like a tennis player might have worn in the old days, but with vivid rainbow stripes. I put it on and immediately felt three hundred percent more fabulous. I snapped my fingers, bobbed my head from side to side, and told Bamba, "You ugly!"

I laughed at his unChristian reaction, but more Chester guys had come to drag me away. When they finally let go, I was surrounded by teammates and Peter spoke with a cold kind of anger. "He is going to spend the rest of the match trying to break you."

"I know." I hadn't planned on giving a team talk, but here we were, deep in enemy territory, and I had just poked the hornet's nest. I made eye contact with Lewis, Murray, Gabby, and jabbed my finger towards the City captain. "Fuck him! He's Christian Fierce with double the talent and none of the character. He's a shit person for a shit club. They're boring, they're cowards, they're nothing. My favourite movie is One Battle After Another, because that's the Chester way.

"That prick might get the points today but he'll spend the next two weeks answering questions about the homophobia he thought he got away with. Yeah? I've already won that battle. This is Manchester. Hough End, Curry Mile, Gay Village. How dare they make this prick the captain of Manchester's third-biggest football club? You don't have to be angry about it; I've got enough fire for all of us."

Edgar Wilde, carried away by my tone, yelled, "Come on!"

Marek and Gabby pushed their foreheads into each other and shouted.

"To the fucking fans!" I demanded. We strode to the away section, where our 3,000 supporters were trickling in, delayed by City's heavy-handed security. Any excuse for a bit of fascism...

Peter came up alongside me and said, "What happened to being a cold technocrat today?"

"When did I say that?"

"About six times. In every meeting and on every call."

"You sure?"

"You promised not to say anything provocative."

"To the media," I clarified. "And I haven't."

"Fuck a duck," he said, which made me laugh pretty hard. He laughed, too. "One battle after another. Yes, that's you, all right." His gaze wandered up, to the headband. "You look good."

I grinned and spread my arms. "I know!"

"The referee won't let you wear it in the match."

"This?" I said, touching the band. "I'm not going to wear this in the match."

"Good," he said.

When we arrived in front of them, the Chester fans roared, then applauded. This was a big day for them. They had hoped to see Ruud for the first time, but six of the players who had been in Wales or Gibraltar had returned and were in the match day squad. Those players wouldn't be able to play for another team for the rest of the season. It wasn't cocky of me to place myself at the top of the list. My name being on the team sheet was almost as good as signing a long-term contract. When it came to Max Best the player, it was Chester or bust and the fans knew it. Max Best, Premier League, Chester. Accept no alternatives.

I allowed myself half a minute to bask in their acclaim, gripping my fists above my head, double-thumbing my name and number, showing my biceps, and then, once they'd taken all their photos, I peeled off the headband and threw it into their midst.

Peter was impressed. "I wasn't sure if you were lying before."

"Nope," I said. "I would never lie to you. Here, feel this." I held out my left arm.

Frowning, he touched the sleeve. There was something underneath the fabric. "Is that a second rainbow headband?" He groaned. "You said you weren't going to wear this, meaning the one you threw into the stand. I suppose I should be grateful for the honesty. Can we get back to the warm-up now?"

"Yes, captain."

***

Extracts from talkSHITE's radio coverage of the Saturday, 3 p.m. kick offs.

"Thanks, Barry. Now let's head to the Etihad where Manchester City are hosting minnows Chester FC. Jim Bigfoot is there."

"Thanks, Stu. The atmosphere is building inside the stadium and there's a strange edge about things. Max Best's name has been roundly booed when it has been read out. He, of course, is one of only three players from Manchester playing in this match. The others are Youngster from Chester, and Clint Fogerty for City.

"Best was involved with an altercation with the City captain, Koffi Bamba, which resulted in Best donning a rainbow headband until he threw it to the Chester fans. There will be plenty of questions about that incident later, but right now the teams are lining up. I say lining up, and that's certainly what City are doing. The Chester players are clustered together, having discussions, but Max Best, who is about to make his Premier League debut as player-manager, has a bag of footballs ten yards outside the penalty area and is cracking free kicks towards goal.

"I have to say, I do not like his behaviour, I do not like his irreverence, but he is absolutely smashing these shots and he appears to be aiming for the post because he keeps hitting it. Maybe you can even hear the cracks! That's him striking the ball with the pace and purpose of a sniper. City will know about Best's free-kick prowess but let this serve as a warning to them.

"And now! Peter Bauer has been called for the coin toss. Koffi Bamba is trying to give him a City pennant, as is the custom, but Bauer is saying, 'Keep it'. Here comes Clint Fogerty. Bauer is explaining his position. Fogerty takes the pennant from Bamba and gives it to Bauer. Bauer more than happy to take it and shake his hand, but refuses to do so with Bamba. Amazing. Now the coin toss. Bamba wins it, shakes hands with the referee, and that's all he's getting! Bauer is walking away, clapping his hands, geeing up his team mates.

"And Max Best has produced a rainbow headband! He puts it on, drops and does some push-ups. Now it's a one-handed push-up! I'm glad to see it's somewhat slower. He tries to do a forward roll, fails, styles it out. He's a worm! He's wriggling. Referee Sam Long is asking him to remove the headband. Boos from the Chester fans. Best stands, removes the headband... and puts it on his arm! No, says the ref. Best holds it low, puts one leg through, another - he's going to wear it as a belt. It won't stretch to fit his waist. The ref is having words. Best removes the belt and flings it into the City half. The ref tells him to pick it up. Best says it's in City's court. He walks away. The ref picks up the headband and rushes it to the side of the pitch.

"Extraordinary. We haven't even kicked off yet!"

***

The referee was strangely insistent that I should have a sweaty forehead while doing sports, and our discussion made the game kick off a minute late. Premier League games were supposed to happen like clockwork, to make it a better product for the broadcasters, both domestic and international. With fifty to a hundred million watching, you wanted to standardise it as much as poss. Sport served as a Big Mac, with apologies to John McEnroe. The need for precision timing is why at most matches you can see a club employee on the side of the pitch who is carrying an iPad. This guy knows to within a second when the teams are going to emerge from the tunnel.

Of course, managers who have got 8 million quid in the bank don't give a fuck about the TV company's schedule. This is football, not a space shuttle launch.

After a rendition of Blue Moon, a song that is actually banned by the Geneva Convention, we finally got underway.

The City customers roared, then slumped back into the seats, having done their work for the week. They settled into a bored murmur while the Chester mob chanted and bounced around.

At first, I had us in a basic 5-3-2 with me as a second striker, since Wibbers was in the concussion protocol. The plan was to stay like that for as long as possible to trigger City's analysts. If I was right, after two to three minutes, one of them would rush to tell Salerno what the data was showing, as if he couldn't see it for himself. Once the call had been made, they wouldn't believe the evidence of their own eyes that we had changed it already.

City soon had full control of the ball and were happy to knock it around, feeling their way into the game. I stood between two players, blocking that passing lane, but mostly I was watching. I had seen all these City pricks on tape and in person but there was nothing like being on the same pitch as them. Being so close was like playing poker and seeing everyone's cards. It didn't improve your own cards but you could learn their tells, their habits, their risk appetites.

City were doing 4-2-3-1 as a base, which morphed into 3-5-2 which became 3-2-5. There were brilliant players all over the pitch. Viviani, the goalkeeper, had a decent claim to being the best in the world. He had CA 194, and those points were concentrated in pure, old-fashioned goalkeeping skills. Shot-stopping, penalty saves, claiming crosses. He wasn't the best with his feet, which made me wonder why he was at Man City, and I was watching the way he moved the ball from one foot to another before passing it away. There was definitely a weakness there.

Koffi Bamba was one of the Premier League players I disliked the most but he was a rock solid defender. I had rattled him, made this match personal, so there was a chance he wouldn't play with full concentration. And there were world-class players in every other position, with world-class backups on the bench.

But the tactical battle would be won or lost because of the only Mancunian in City's team. Clint Fogerty had played in midfield since the age of 8, but a certain Pep Guardiola had swooned over Clint's technique, physicality (he was six foot four), and stamina, and recast him as a left back. A left back who not only inverted into central midfield when City were building attacks, but also made late runs into the penalty area. Left back slash box-to-box midfielder slash goal poacher!

He was some fucking player.

3'

Fogerty passes to Bamba.

Bamba strides forwards but sees Max Best ahead of him, shaking his finger.

Bamba turns to the right and finds Luiz.

Luiz has space to move into. Mensah runs past him on the outside.

Luiz plays the pass on the inside of Lewis Lamarre.

Mensah will cross!

Fogerty has made a burst into the box. He started the move. Can he finish it?

No!

He's squeezed out by a combination of Murray Burnett and Youngster.

Youngster tracked Fogerty's run into the box.

Sandra, the coaches, and I had talked about Fogerty at length, and our solution was to have players in our three lines who could drop or move forward into the spaces between the lines. Pretty much what we did against Brighton but because City played in a more rigid way, we didn't need to be as manic about our response. Youngster could be a CM at first but when someone tried to run past him, he would drop to be a DM and keep going, if needed.

I had hot keys that would move Youngster, Edgar, and Magnus into new zones. I had hot keys that would instantly make them man-mark a certain opponent. And I had one that would make Gabby our playmaker. That was a very clumsy way of telling my players to boot the ball to him when we were about to crumble under pressure. Clumsy and often ineffective, but I didn't have an alternative.

One of the perks I wanted to create for myself would be called 'Out Ball' and would formalise the process. Players set as the out ball would use their Strength and Determination to put their body between the ball and a defender, and they would try to hold it there for long enough for support to arrive.

4'

Masarik is under pressure. He boots the ball long.

Gabriel gets there first. He controls the ball on his chest...

But is bundled over by Bamba.

No foul, says referee Sam Long.

6'

Ustinov goes long. El Kass takes it on his chest.

Murray Burnett gives El Kass a shove. The Egyptian striker takes a tumble.

Free kick!

***

I stood with my hands on my head, staring at the afternoon sky. Two identical incidents, two radically different refereeing outcomes. How was that possible? Gosh, I really don't know!

I visualised the big house that I would soon build, with its hedgehog sanctuary and go-kart track. I imagined that I was racing a wheelbarrow of cash around the track while Emma did the same. Maybe instead of wheelbarrows we would have buggies. His and hers toddlers gripping plastic steering wheels, honking their horns, laughing up a storm.

Sam Long was fussily spraying his stupid white paint, bossing our players around, making himself the centre of attention.

Fuck him. Whatever. I didn't need this shit!

***

"Action in the north-west. Jim?"

"First chance at the Etihad! It was a free kick on the right, given away by Murray Burnett, on loan from Everton. It was a soft decision, being honest, but a good ball whipped in by Mensah. There was a queue of City players lining up for it - Fogerty, El Kass, Ustinov - but former England international Edgar Wilde got the faintest of touches. The ball went out for a corner. As Mensah was about to take it, Chester sent four players forward looking for a fast break. As a result, Mensah played the ball short, and it was worked to Luiz, who blazed his shot high over the bar. A bright start from the hosts! Back to Stu in the studio."

***

We hit the ten-minute mark just as City were hitting their stride. They passed the ball faster, ran harder, and while the majority of their play was boring as fuck, when they did get into positions from which they were 'allowed' to attack by their risk-averse manager, they were amazing. Short, clever passes gouged our lines open. Chipped balls to the far side of the pitch forced us to shuffle and slide. When we tried to intercept, the ball was pinballed around in fast triangles, making us look stupid.

I upped my work rate.

***

15'

Great touch from Fogerty! He slips past Evergreen with ease.

Fogerty nudges the ball to El Kass and goes to collect the return.

Max Best gets there slightly ahead of Fogerty. Where did he come from?

Fogerty clips Best's heels.

Free kick to Chester.

Fogerty helps Best to his feet.

17'

Luiz with the ball on the right. He exchanges passes with Mensah.

Fogerty makes a dart into the final third. Youngster follows him.

Mensah rushes into the space left by Youngster and takes the pass.

Wilde is there.

Mensah retreats.

Best and Mensah compete for the ball.

Best has the edge. Mensah is gripping his shirt.

McNeill sprints to give Best a passing option.

Mensah still has a handful of Best's shirt!

Finally, the referee gives a foul.

Chester's players are furious.

They think that should be a yellow card.

Sam Long is not interested.

***

City's former manager Pep Guardiola had perfected the art of the tactical foul. In simple terms, he coached his players to make fouls in parts of the pitch where those fouls wouldn't draw yellow cards. By doing that, he could keep his players high up the pitch, prevent counter attacks, and basically nullify the opposition.

It worked in terms of helping his teams to win football matches, but it had wrecked the sport for decades. Even the refs that weren't thinking about 20,000 pound jollies to the middle-east didn't have the innate footballing sense to realise that top players could launch attacks from anywhere.

The worst part was living in Manchester during the Pep era and having to hear City customers say I was bitter and resentful. They weren't willing to engage in dialogue about this industrialised cheating because the entire City project was industrialised cheating.

Who are the worst fans in sport? The definition of sport is an activity needing physical effort or skill played according to rules. Manchester City, therefore, are not an organisation connected to sport.

***

With twenty minutes gone, we were just about holding City at bay. In some ways, it was easier than against Brighton, who had been far more willing to rotate their player positions. Brighton were something of a whirlwind of movement, somewhat in the direction of a Relationist team but stretched out across the width of the pitch. City kept their structure much more, which made them predictable.

The problem was City were 10 points better than Brighton on average, so having a slightly less interesting way of playing actually made sense. Salerno's system was dull, sure, but eventually it would tug enough of our players out of position so that City's star players would get the chance to duel one v one. Their talent advantage was stark. We had a lot of CA 140 to 150 guys defending against dudes with CA 160 to 185.

Sweat was already streaming down my head in a way it hadn't in the Champions League qualifiers. I felt fit and fresh but when City turned on the afterburners, we struggled to respond. Our shape did a lot of the work. My hot key tweaks chipped in. But we were ever so slowly being pushed back, being made to rely on moments of individual grit or inspiration.

***

23'

Mensah skips past Lamarre!

Mensah to the byline. He cuts it back. Fogerty has made a trademark late run into the box.

Fogerty shoots...

Great block by Wilde!

But the ball pops up. Masarik is stranded...

Peter Bauer clears off the line.

So close for the home team!

25'

Ustinov outpaces Gabriel and plays the ball back to Viviani.

The Italian national team captain fires the ball left, to Fogerty.

He gives it to Bamba.

Bamba waits for Fogerty to move centrally.

Fogerty to Mensah.

His first-time pass is struck towards goal by El Kass!

El Kass from distance. It has the pace. Does it have the accuracy?

Yes!

But Masarik gets a hand to it!

And he scrambles to recover the rebound.

That was some strike by El Kass!

***

29'

"We go now to the Etihad where there has been a goal! Tell us about it, Jim."

"Yes, and it has gone to Manchester City. They have been knocking on the door for the past ten minutes and now they have got their reward. It was that man Mensah on the right, who has been giving Lewis Lamarre a torrid time all game. Mensah skipped past him and floated a cross towards Fogerty. Chester covered Fogerty and El Kass, and Masarik in goal got a good punch to the ball. It fell for Bamba, who hit a wild shot that hit El Kass. Fogerty was the quickest to react and he stabbed it into the net.

"They're checking the goal for offside but I think it will stand. Yes, you can hear the cheer. One-nil to City and they deserve it. Chester have been desperately poor and Max Best, their player-manager, has been almost anonymous."

***

31'

"Back to the Etihad!"

"It's two goals at the double! Two goals in two minutes for Manchester City. This time a wonderful, flowing move, the ball travelling at speed from midfield to the penalty area, left to right. Fogerty involved again, with the ball ending up with Mensah on the right. He swept it into the middle and El Kass was sharp, he was quick, and he was deadly! He slotted his shot under Masarik. Could the goalie have done better? The City fans don't care. Blue Moon rings out around the Etihad. It's two-nil and that already seems to be that!"

***

Murray Burnett and Edgar Wilde were bickering about who was to blame for the goal. Like most defenders, they believed that if everyone did their jobs, no goals would ever be scored. That was patent nonsense. My theory was that if attackers did what they should, no goal would ever be prevented.

I grabbed Murray by the arm, and pulled Edgar close. "Guys, can you quit it? That's a good goal."

"Max!" complained Murray. "He's wide open. We're doing five at the back. How can he be wide open?"

I tutted. "One, we didn't have five then, we had four. Edgar was in the DM. Two, he wasn't wide open, he just shot first time. If he took a touch to control the ball like most strikers, you'd have blocked the shot. This guy's elite, though, isn't he? This is what they do. They don't make it easy. Now just keep doing what you're doing and don't fucking turn on each other. The fuck's that supposed to achieve? It's two-nil. What did we say?"

Edgar went, "Salerno will turtle up."

I patted him on the back. "I didn't say turtle up, I said he'll get even more cautious. Fewer bodies going forward, which means we'll get to play a bit ourselves. If we stay cool, we might be able to do something. All right?"

I sighed and walked towards the centre spot. Our Match Ratings were trash, City's were all 8s and 9s, and the referee was a clown. I glanced over at City's dugout. Salerno was there looking as stern as he was bald. A few seats away, one of the world's dreamiest dreamweavers was sitting, waiting for his chance to shine. Would Salerno give Lazaar ten minutes at the end just to shut the media up? It was very possible, and in that ten minutes we could... I sighed again. There wasn't even any point finishing the thought.

***

Gabby passed to me and I rolled the ball to Peter, for my fourth completed pass in half an hour of play. The good thing about a 4 out of 10 match rating is that you don't get squashed by The Sentinel at full time.

City blitzed us. Peter waited until the last moment and fed the ball to Cheb, who touched it first time to Magnus, who gave it to me. I rolled it left to Jimmy McNeill, and that was enough for City to settle into a mid block.

We got our first spell of sustained possession. We knocked it around, sideways, improving some passing stats, turning some 4s into 5s and 5s into 6s.

I glanced at Salerno again. He was so busy worrying about how one loose pass could lead to a goal that he wasn't thinking about the match as a story. Why not keep the pressure on us? We were far more likely to score if the home team let us have the ball for five minutes. Jimmy McNeill, for example, had never played in the Prem until a couple of weeks ago. If City kept the pressure up, he would have felt like an imposter. As it was, he was visibly growing in confidence. It's just grass, it's just a ball, it's just like every other match I've played.

The ball came to me and I pinged it back to Peter, who pinged it back to me. Our pass completion stats went up another percent.

My legs started to move. I dropped to get the ball, pinged it to whoever was in space, ran to give them an option for the return pass. It was good and it was solid but it was all taking place around the halfway line.

There was no threat to City.

Salerno was loving it.

***

37'

"To the Etihad, where last we heard, it was 2-0 to City. Jim, what's the latest?"

"Still 2-0 on the scoreboard but there has been a change on the pitch. The home team have dropped back and they're quite content to let Chester pass the ball around aimlessly. This is what the City fans were afraid of when Salerno replaced Pep Guardiola. After years of seeing exciting, front-footed football, they worried Salerno's cautious approach would give them whiplash and so it is proving! There have been some grumbles, some groans.

"A stat has just come up on our screen. In the last five minutes, Chester have had 55% possession. They went under 20% at times in the first half an hour!

"Of course, it's sterile possession that isn't leading anywhere but - what's this? Max Best has his foot on the ball in the back line. He's pointing left and right. Chester are reorganising. 3-5-2, maybe? That doesn't seem wise against a team with City's wingers. But now here goes Best! He launches into a full sprint. He gives the ball to Youngster, tells him where to pass. McNeill, the new signing from West Brom. He goes left to Lamarre. Nice pass inside, back to Youngster. Best is still on the move, but Youngster goes right, to Alloula, who has been on man-marking duties until now. His first chance to really get involved.

"Alloula to Best. Best holds off Ustinov, who raced out of position. Salerno won't be happy with that! The ball's with Peter Bauer, crossing the halfway line. Best darts across the pitch, demanding the pass. He gets it! Best steps over the ball, lets it go through him, tricks two City players, and it speeds to Alloula. Alloula takes a touch, but he's clattered into by Bamba! Poor challenge from the England man. No yellow card. What a great move by Chester! And now they have a free kick in a dangerous position. It's perfect for a left-footer, but Max Best might float this one to the far post with his right."

"We'll stay with you for the free kick, Jim. This could be Chester's first-ever goal in the Premier League!"

"Lewis Lamarre asks about taking it. Best sends him fifteen yards to the left. Best could pass to Lamarre, who could chip the ball into the box from an unexpected angle. Chester's tall players are stocking up in front of the far post, the left-hand post. Best can aim for Evergreen, Wilde, Burnett, Gabriel. Helge Hagen is on the bench; the camera cuts to him now, watching the scene with a real sense of excitement.

"Referee Sam Long is happy with how the wall is lining up. He goes to talk to Bamba, who is engaged in some light wrestling with Peter Bauer. Now the ref moves away and we might get the kick. But it's Best who goes wandering! He steps to his right and gestures. He wants his players to attack from a different angle. In City's goal, Viviani slaps his hands together and takes a tiny step to his right.

"The ref is behind the ball. Best moves back into position but what's he done? He's scored! He's scored, Stu! Max Best has scored! He clipped it over the wall, left-footed, into the top-right corner. He scored with his left! Against the best goalkeeper in the world!

"Best jogs away, laughing out loud. He tricked us all! Scenes of utter delirium in the away end. Chester's first ever goal in the - hang on, what's this? What. Is. This? The referee... has disallowed the goal! He has cancelled the goal! And... he shows Max Best the yellow card!

"I can't believe this. I cannot believe my eyes. I think... I think he's saying Best took the kick before he blew his whistle. Sam Long is saying he wasn't ready! But the ref was behind the ball in his final position. It is, to say the least, a harsh decision. The Chester fans are silenced. The City fans are jubilant. This is as loud as they have been for the entire match so far. The referee is trying to talk to Max Best, who is blanking him. He only has eyes for the City fans. And now he's talking to one of them! A ball boy."

***

I set Viviani up and did him with the old 'shoot with your supposedly-weaker foot while returning to your mark' trick. It was funny that such lame and obvious scams worked against the very, very best the sport had to offer, but then I realised what I'd done. I had written my name into history, into folklore. But more than that, I had given Chester fans a treat. A very early Christmas present! They tolerated me swanning off to feather my own nest, and in return I had given them one of the highest moments of their lives.

Chester. Premier League. Goals For: one. Limbs: many.

Yes, mate! I'll have what he's having!

I had been heading towards our fans, even though they were on the far side of the pitch, but when the ref not only chalked off my goal but booked me, I veered towards the touchline, towards Sandra. I was in a daze, but I think I was thinking about walking off the pitch, leaving her in charge, and going to a go-kart track. I'd heard of one in Liverpool that gave you a free lap if you bought eight pints of beer.

The City customers were exultant. Owing to the malicious code in their DNA that made them like Man City, they were unable to experience joy, and the only time they felt anything resembling pleasure was when an opponent failed.

A ball boy was flicking Vs at me while laughing. I said, "You're happy with that? I get a yellow card for scoring and that's okay with you?"

"Fuck off, you twat. You're shit."

The kid was in City's youth academy but he hated football. Fifty thousand other people paid to watch this crap even though they hated football. What a strange bunch they were.

And the irony of it all was that when I was sacked, Sandra Lane, a City fan, would take over, and if she was still in charge the next time we played City, she would be treated just the same as me.

Nihilism is the belief that nothing has value or meaning.

The ref was blowing his whistle hard. He wanted someone to hurry up and take the free kick (because according to him, the ball had never been put into play after he awarded the kick). I was still listed in the curse as the free kick taker, so none of the others would step up. The ref was going to punish whoever was standing nearest, so as I walked back towards Marek in our goal, I set Youngster as the taker.

He stepped up, set himself, and smashed the ball into the wall.

Lewis did really well to recover the ball. He passed to me, I took careful aim, and fired it high into the stands, almost over the hateful roof.

The City customers booed and jeered but it gave me time to plan my next move. I adjusted us into a 5-4-1 formation, defensive, with Magnus on the left, helping Lewis against Mensah. Youngster as a CM, and me playing just in front of the defence.

"Try to enjoy this, you twats."

***

39'

"Bit of a delay here at the Etihad, where Max Best is down injured. He reorganised his team and invited City to come at them. Mensah was crowded out on the flank so Luiz tried a cross. Edgar Wilde got his head to it and Best was first to the rebound. He flicked the ball between the legs of a City player and had his shirt pulled as he tried to break. Free kick, no yellow card, but it looks like Best has tweaked something. He has been feeling his hamstring and the physios are on the pitch. Manchester City 2, Chester 0."

44'

"Jim, there's still no action in Manchester. What's the latest?"

"The injury break is ongoing, Clive. Max Best had his shirt pulled, went down, and has only just sat up. He is being helped to his feet, which is good to see, but it looks like he won't be able to continue. Er... he's limping to the side of the pitch but I don't see any subs ready. Will he wait until half time to make the switch? No, he's going to try to run it off. Best waits on the touchline, ready to go back on. Meanwhile, the match resumes."

46'

"The half-time whistles are starting to blow in the 3 p.m. kick offs up and down the country. We've got goals galore in League One, a four-goal thriller between Middlesbrough and Sunderland in the Championship, but another delay at the Etihad. Jim Bigfoot is there to tell us about it."

"Bizarre scenes here in sunny Manchester, Stu! The fourth official signalled that there would be five minutes of injury time, mostly because of that injury scare for Max Best. He got back on the pitch, City attacked, the ball broke to the edge of the Chester box, Best got there first. He motioned as though he would boot the ball long, but instead he flicked the ball knee high over an attempted block, got caught, and he's down again. He looks to be in some discomfort, and we've got another delay."

"We'll round up the latest scores and get back to you."

50'

"And Newport County, a club with links to Max Best, are two goals to the good. Chipper and Henri Lyons with first-half strikes. But have there been any more strikes in Manchester? Jim Bigfoot is there."

"Thanks, Stu. You won't believe this but there is another stoppage. Max Best was down for about three minutes, receiving treatment, gingerly walked off the pitch, signalled that he was ready to return. We had thirty seconds of Chester passing the ball around, Best came on, got the ball, and when El Kass ran at him, Best clutched his hamstring. El Kass made a dart for the ball, only for Best to push it between his legs and run around him. El Kass, one of the goalscorers, reached out to grab Best, who went down. You know the drill! Free kick, no yellow card, and the physios are trundling towards Chester's player-manager.

"We could get ten minutes of injury time this half! The City players are encouraging Best to get up. Best has said something to Peter Bauer, and the Chester players are forming a line, jogging from side to side, keeping warm. The Manchester City fans are making their displeasure known, it is fair to say, while the Chester fans who have traveled here are perplexed. Back to the studio."

53'

I bravely got up and leaned into Physio Dean on my way to the touchline. Once there, I felt much better and signalled that I was ready to return to the pitch. The rule was that I had to wait thirty seconds, which Physio Dean timed on an iPad. Sam Long showed his hand by not letting me back onto the pitch until the timer showed 45. He saw that there was a massive clock next to me, and all the cameras would be showing it; he would think twice about cheating me so blatantly.

In the time I was forced to be off the pitch for the crime of being fouled, we lost the ball. City were building a promising attack, so when I was allowed across the touchline there was no point sprinting back to help; all I could do was watch what unfolded.

54'

Fogerty dashes forward. There's confusion in the Chester ranks - two players go to close him down.

Fogerty slips the ball into space. Mensah is one on one with Lamarre - that hasn't worked well for Chester so far!

Mensah...

Is tackled!

Evergreen hooks the ball square.

Youngster looks up and sees Max Best unmarked on the right wing. Fogerty is out of position!

The pass is hit high, wide, and ugly, but Best will gather it.

Bamba is the nearest defender. He thunders towards Best.

Best points to Alloula, indicating that he will lay the ball off.

Best... with an outrageous piece of skill!

He rabona-flicks the ball as it lands, sending it spinning around and over Bamba.

Best sprints past Bamba. The Chester manager is much faster. Danger for the home team!

Bamba hacks at Best's legs, sending him tumbling!

The ref rushes across. Yellow card!

Bamba will have to be careful now.

Best calls for the physio.

57'

"Over to the Etihad!"

"Stu, we have a breakthrough! The first half has ended, at last. It's almost four o'clock, the time when the second half should be starting! The broadcasters will be furious. The City fans, the ones who aren't in the concourses drinking beer, are screaming abuse at Chester's player-manager. It has been a half that defies belief, defies explanation. City are leading, but City are unhappy!"

"Jim, can you explain what's going on?"

"One of my colleagues here in the press box knows Best well. She says he's sulking."

"This is from the incident where his goal was disallowed?"

"It seems so. She pointed out that he was fouled three times before the goal and got up straight away, but since then he has been fouled four times and has stayed on the deck every time. It's petulant, it's childish, it's unprofessional, but Stu, make sure you see the piece of skill he did to get past Koffi Bamba. The pass to him was awful, far too high, spinning in a way most players wouldn't even try to control, but Best hit a half-volley rabona pass, against the spin, to himself, and in doing so made one of England's starting centre backs look like a non-league player."

"I will be sure to take a look. Thanks, Jim."

***

The City players said things. Their coaches said things. I heard Salerno ask one of the assistant refs to do something about me. The guy replied, "You could stop fouling him. Is that an option?"

It made me feel less alone. Made me feel that at least a few people would understand what I was doing. The ones who didn't understand could go fuck themselves.

In our dressing room, I hopped onto a treatment table and let Dean and Livia fuss over me with ice packs and stuff. I closed my eyes and decompressed, overwhelmed by the flood of images trying to gain prominence in my mind. So much had happened - more than I had planned. I thought today would be about how I had blasted Koffi Bamba, but it was turning into a battle against Man City, the refs, the Premier League, the broadcasters, the sheep in the stands. Too many targets. Not enough precision.

So what? This would be three defeats in a row, four if we included the AOK Cup. The next three games were Tottenham, Liverpool, and Villa, and it was hard to see us even getting a draw. My time was running out. Precision was not an option. I was a hammer; every problem was a nail. I had one weapon - the skill to make sure I was tactically fouled. City's players had been trained to do it for so long it was part of their core being. They couldn't help but do it, and I was going to use that to ruin everyone's day.

I monitored Salerno's tactics screen, and was pleased to see that it was shifting around. He was uncertain! Off balance! What should he do? Throw bodies forward? That was just more people who could foul me. Man-marking me was right out! Drop deep and I had shown that I could legit hurt them.

Peter and Sandra were in a corner, whispering furiously. Neither of them liked what I was doing, but for once I wasn't interested in anyone else's opinions. Sandra cleared her throat. "Boss," she said, which made everyone in the dressing room stop and listen. "What's the plan for the second half?"

I sat up and eyed my troops. They had acquitted themselves very well, all told. In a few months, with Wibbers in the side, they would be better able to defend against top teams and when they built phases or countered they would be a joy to watch. A side six years in the making, they would finish the season with six sensational weeks. I envied them. Before we arrived at those sunlit uplands, there was the winding road of toil and tribulation. "Call your babysitters," I said, looking from the starters to the subs via the physios. "You're gonna be home late."

***

4:19

"To Manchester with Jim Bigfoot."

"It's nearly twenty past four, and while the other 3 p.m. kickoffs are entering their closing stages, we're just about to get the second half underway. We've had Max Best and his injuries, so-called, then Chester were late returning to the pitch after the break. Then, as the icing on the cake, there was a problem with the comms equipment the referee and his team are using. Out came the spare battery pack. Another delay!

"But we're nearly there at last. A great number of the spectators have not returned from their half-time refreshments. No rush to retake their seats for this one! Gabriel, Chester's striker, has had most of his touches of the ball from taking kick-offs. Chester have half a dozen players lined up on the right. Best is in a quarterback slot, and he will no doubt boot the ball high and long for those players to chase.

"Here we go. Gabriel rolls the ball thirty yards to Best. The Chester players... don't rush forward. El Kass races at Best. The Chester fans are going ooooo! Best flicks the ball up, does a dainty little shuffle, knocks it over the head of El Kass, collects it on the other side, but is pulled backwards, onto the turf! Best curls up into a ball; cue outrage. Blind fury at the Etihad Stadium! Joy in the away end! I think I heard an olé as Best tricked his way past El Kass. Best is sitting up, staring at the away fans. I think he's smiling! No! Don't encourage him!

"On go the Chester physios, and they're in no hurry. Now they're getting pelters from the home fans! The one with the ponytail turns to the nearest stand and makes a cry-your-eyes gesture. The City fans don't like that! This is shaping up to be another excruciating half. But the away end is bouncing! What's the chant? Best will tear you apart!"

***

4:30 (Second half, 10 minutes played)

I had taken control of the narrative.

The match had fractured into single sentences, even into clauses. I chose whether we got a comma or a full stop. The City customers tried to get worked up, but I was battering them into submission with all the stoppages. The Chester fans had got fuelled up at half time, had talked about what I was doing and decided they would get behind me. After all, if the home fans hated it, it had to be good for the away fans. Right?

When I got the ball, they went ooooo, a single-note anticipatory noise. If I did a piece of skill they went 'olé!' If I played a simple pass they fell quiet until the ball came back to me, which triggered another ooooo. If City got the ball or the ref didn't award a foul, they booed in fake disappointment.

Also, they taunted the home team's customers about the lack of atmosphere, chanting, 'Is this a library?' 'Shall we sing a song for you?' and 'Your support is fucking shit!'

City's players kept trying to lift me up after fouling me, which led to my guys steaming in to defend me, which meant every stoppage got longer and more fractious. The ref kept barking at me to get up, threatening to book me for unsportsmanlike conduct, which was a hilarious thing to say. I was betting he didn't have the balls to give me a second yellow for the crime of being fouled, and if he did, what difference would it make? We were literally not allowed to score.

I knew he would give me a second yellow as soon as humanly possible, so I wasn't going in for tackles and wasn't even competing for headers. I was just running around taking hits, but as the more intelligent City players grew more circumspect, I had to get more and more creative.

***

4:35 (Second half, 15 minutes played)

"Something's happening in Manchester. Jim, is it a goal?"

"No, Stu, it's Bestball. We're seeing full-scale Bestball in the Premier League for the first time. It is an absolutely extraordinary sight, with most of Chester's players bundled together on one side of the pitch. There, they are flicking the ball to each other, playing short passes, and it's remarkable. It looks like an AI image gone wrong! They are moving up the pitch quite freely, but they are just as often going backwards.

"How are they keeping the ball so well? In this setup, they are outnumbering their opponents, who are so far refusing to break their shape. Outside the web of players is Murray Burnett, who we assume has not had much training in this style. He's acting as a kind of sweeper. And over on the left is Lewis Lamarre, who is threatening to dart into the penalty area, which would occupy a couple of defenders.

"In the middle of it all is the spider in his web, Max Best, who is treating us to his full repertoire of tricks. He's trying to get fouled so that he can ruin the game, but when he isn't ruining the game, he is lighting it up. There was one shuffle of his feet that Mick Jagger would have been proud of. There was a pass he played mid-yawn, which I have never seen before.

"And most striking of all was when he broke clear of his web and threatened to play a long pass to Lamarre. Fogerty was the nearest player and he fell for it hook, line, and sinker. As the England left back threw himself at the ball, Best somehow scooped it up and suspended it on his foot, waist high, while Fogerty crashed into Best's standing leg. That was the first hit in a long time that looked genuinely painful. Yellow card for Fogerty, and that time the physios did hurry onto the pitch.

"The Chester fans watching on TV must be as bored and frustrated as the rest of us but the ones in the stadium are in a state of manic euphoria. At first, their support for Best felt ironic - resigned, even - but the longer he has stuck to his plan, the more they have got behind him. Love him or hate him, Max Best is sticking it to Man City, sticking it to the referee, and yes, sticking it to all of us in the media who have to watch this. To quote Bethany Alban from the Daily Mail, Best doesn't start fights, but he does escalate them. This, she says, is full-spectrum Bestball. Back to the studio."

4:40 (Second half, 18 minutes played)

"Jim Bigfoot has news for us!"

"Carmelo Salerno is making a change, Stu. He's preparing Lazaar! We're going to see the French maestro after all. Maybe it's a response to the City fans who have been making their way to the exits in increasing numbers. The match should be ending soon but we have twenty-five minutes still to play and God knows how long that's going to take. Lazaar could be the spark that gets City going again. Chester have denied them the ball and have made the game bitty, to say the least. And... yes, it looks like Chester are reverting to a more conventional set up."

"Is that a sign that Chester are wary of Lazaar?"

"Possibly, though Bethany Alban from the Daily Mail, who has followed Max Best for a long time, just stood up and shouted, 'He's going for it! Max is going for it!' So we might get some football after all!"

***

Lazaar went to the wide left slot. I swapped myself in at right back and pushed Cheb all the way forward.

I couldn't understand why Salerno had done this - it seemed out of character. Maybe his bosses had told him that his football was a fraction too dull for Abu Dhabi's sportswashing project. (Sportswashing, you remember, is the process of trying to break the association people have between the words 'Abu Dhabi' and 'atrocity'.) Or maybe Salerno wanted to put Lazaar on the pitch in order to sell him in the last few days of the transfer window. If he played shit against the league's worst team, Salerno could bomb him out. If Lazaar played well, it would be great advertising.

Okay, maybe I could understand it.

Lazaar was considered to be a maverick, a chaos agent, but compared to me he was an amateur in that regard; I felt confident I knew what he would do at any point in time.

Sure enough, the first time the ball came to him, he flicked it up and did kick ups with his back to me. I pressed into his spine to tell him that I was there, but not enough to make him move so much as an inch. As expected, he spun suddenly and the ball was flying over my head, but then I was the one holding him off. I was the one doing kick ups, to cries of olé!

I dropped my shoulder to turn right, towards the main area of the pitch, flicked the ball over his ankle, and rushed down the touchline.

Lazaar's defensive skills were poor, and dribbling past him was like taking treats from a small child, if such a phrase exists. Salerno, I knew, would be fuming. Tearing his hair out, so to speak.

"Max!" cried Magnus, who had run to give me an option.

I passed to him and continued to sprint. He waited until a midfielder came and pushed the ball in front of me. I flicked it up and hurdled a reckless challenge. The prick caught me but I kept my balance - just - and as Fogerty moved towards me I chipped him.

Cheb didn't have to break stride to collect the pass. He looked left and saw Gabby in the gap between Ustinov and Bamba. Cheb hit a wicked cross. Gabby threw himself at it, made perfect contact with his forehead, watched as the ball flew low and bounced awkwardly for the goalie, but Viviani was huge and agile and he somehow flicked his leg out, got the slightest of touches, and the ball went behind for a corner.

I walked from the right of the pitch to the left corner, slowing to applaud our fans, who gave me one of the biggest ovations of my life. I slapped my chest and kissed the badge. They grabbed their shirts in response as if in a ritualistic frenzy, eyes bulging, veins throbbing.

My original plan had been to play a short corner and draw a few fouls in that part of the pitch, since our fans seemed to like it when I took the piss out of City dudes, but being close to my people for the first time in the second half got my juices flowing.

Vikki was in our dugout, waving her arms around, and the rest of the lads took up positions, moved, pushed, shoved, were pushed and shoved, but I didn't take much notice - I was planning to fucking score.

***

4:45 (Second half, 23 minutes played)

Best places the ball with the utmost care. It appears to be outside the quadrant. The home fans certainly think so!

The linesman checks. It's okay! The edge of the ball is hanging over the edge of the line.

Best mocks the Man City fans, then readies himself.

Viviani is surrounded by Chester players. He's pushing them away to give himself space.

Best with the cross...

It's hit hard with a lot of swerve. Viviani is blockaded by one of his own players. He jumps anyway, but can't reach.

The ball swerves and dips. It's going to go in!

Clint Fogerty heads it off the line!

He leaped and just about made contact.

Wilde is first to the rebound but Bamba blocks the shot.

Max Best so nearly scored direct from a corner, and now he will get another chance, from the other side.

4:46 (Second half, 26 minutes played)

I strolled across the pitch, behind the goal, hyping up the Chester fans, then blowing kisses at my fellow Mancunians. They were leaving in dribs and drabs, and more and more seats were becoming visible. There was a reason people called it the Emptihad.

Once in place, I rolled my neck, rotated the ball towards me, took a deep breath, and eyed the frame of the goal. The intention was to crack it left-footed, hard, aiming about a foot over the height of the crossbar and about five feet away, because that's how much the ball would dip and curve.

I sneered as I struck the ball, and caught it perfect.

Perfect.

Viviani bumped into Magnus but was agile enough to reach out one of his long arms and slap the ball over the bar.

Another corner!

I strolled back the way I had come. I pointed to one empty seat and said, "Was he not having fun?"

About thirty people told me where to go, literally. They didn't like it when I laughed. The Chester fans took their volume to another level. "Best! Best! Best!"

I lined up the next corner, this one right-footed, and raised both arms. I sensed the ref was about to make a name for himself by showing me a second yellow, so I stabbed the ball five yards to the right. Cheb had come to give me a short option, and he took control of the ball. I rushed to his right, and Luiz, the right back, shifted his position to try to cover my inevitable shot, somehow thinking I had Main Character Syndrome.

Please.

Cheb cut back onto his left foot, surged into the free space my move had created, looked up, and chipped the ball into the penalty area. It was a good cross. Jimmy McNeill beat Ustinov to the header. It clipped the very top of the crossbar as it went behind.

So close!

But then I noticed that Viviani was scrambling to get a ball, any ball, and I fell into a sprint, storming back towards our goal. Viviani slapped the ball wide left, where Lazaar controlled it. Youngster was one of the two players back. He saw me striving to help and backed away, glancing to his left to see what other dangers were coming. He pointed to El Kass, asking Lewis to mark him. Youngster would sweep.

Lazaar had Pace 14, Acceleration 14; I would catch up with him in seconds. He knew that, so when I got close he kicked the ball sideways, towards the middle of the pitch, into my path. He kicked himself on the back of the shin and fell over, as if I had tapped his ankle.

Predictably, the ref bought it. He could barely contain his glee as he rushed towards me, brandishing a yellow card. Enjoying every second, he reached into his pocket and produced the red card, which he held high.

City's customers let out a feral noise, a release of frustration. City's guys jostled me and helpfully told me where the tunnel was.

I walked towards it, then a yard away from the edge of the pitch, stopped. The stadium was noisy for once, so Sandra had to shout. "We haven't seen the replay. It looked like a dive."

"Course it was a dive. If it isn't overturned on VAR, there's zero doubt. They are fixing the games."

Sandra's brows nudged upwards, but Vikki called her over. They watched the replay on an iPad - and our entire bench went mental. Vikki rushed to the fourth official and gave him the hairdryer. Sandra told Salerno what she thought of him, then said something to the referee that, to be fair, probably warranted the yellow card she got.

The home customers groaned as text went up on the big screens: VAR Review, checking red card.

4:54 (Second half, 33 minutes played)

For once, a long delay would have suited me just fine, so it was predictable that the video ref made his mind up almost instantly. He recommended that Sam Long go to the monitor to see a replay, which in England almost always meant 'you have fucked up, reverse your decision'. That's why the Chester fans cheered like a goal when the ref signalled that he was going to the monitor. Limbs in the away end!

The referee tried hard to find evidence I had touched Lazaar, he really did. But he had no choice but to come at me, show the red card and cross his hands. I was not sent off!

Yay.

"The fuck?" said Vikki. "Where's the yellow card for Lazaar's blatant dive? What the hell is happening with this referee?"

"His head's gone," yelled Owen Elmham, so that the fourth official could hear it. "Total implosion. Awful."

We were approaching five o'clock. Almost everyone watching this crap from their homes would have turned off the TV or at least switched to the intro to the 5:30 match. A few hundred thousand people would think twice about watching a Chester game in future, but the same was true for Man City. I had damaged their brand and probably the Premier League's, too. If I allowed myself some wishful thinking, I could imagine that DigiWorld and all the rest of the broadcasters would be less willing to pay top dollar in the next auction. A few more days like today and I could wipe tens of millions from the future income of the top clubs!

A worthy goal, to be sure, but I had done enough for one day and all the kicking I had got was starting to hurt. "Subs," I said.

"Who do you want?" said Sandra.

"Helge, Dumi, Rushy, Roddy. Then near the end, we'll give Chris a go." Chris Ross was an 18-year-old central midfielder with CA 40, PA 114. He would be the fifth member of our Youth Cup team to get Premier League minutes, and two others had played in the Champions League qualifiers for Saltney. If I kept throwing kids on in the big leagues, we would win the Youth Cup and in Chris's case I would also get bonus XP. "Sandra?"

"Yes?"

"Make the first round of subs, then come and sit next to me. We can't have you getting sent off, can we? We're the managers of Chester FC. We're role models. We've got to set an example."

She eyed me, flat, and said, "You are joking?"

I laughed and when the fourth official held up the subs board with the first numbers, I went to the dugout, crashed into my spot, extracted my shinpads from my yellow socks, pulled my boots off, and stared at the blood. Why was there so much blood? Livia said, "Holy shit!"

I held up a hand. "Get away. Let the cameras see it."

"Max! Don't be a fucking clown!"

"Liv? Don't make me put my foot down."

"How can you put your foot down? You'll lose a pint of blood!"

I leaned back with a contented look on my face. Our reshaped team was a mess, of course it was, but it was packed with potential. Chester FC would feel the benefits of this one long after these wounds had healed. The fans would get to watch Rushy and Roddy tear teams up for years to come.

And there was something else.

My match rating had hit 8 out of 10.

8 out of 10 against one of the best teams in the world.

I was good.

I was good at football.

Yeah, I had the curse but I had spent six years learning to play the game. From quick deflected passes to big diags, from nutmegs and rabonas to shuffles and slides. And as far as I was concerned, I had scored a free kick against the best goalkeeper in the world and beat him again from a corner. A fucking corner!

While I bled all over Manchester, I gathered XP at the rate of 14 per minute and my players zoomed around, fighting for the ball, trying to string passes together, trying to hold their own against world superstars. They did all right, but in injury time, El Kass blasted the ball at goal, Marek parried it, and it fell nicely into the path of Lazaar. He side-footed the ball downwards, bounced it up over the goalie. Genius.

The cheer from the home customers was subdued because at least half the twats had fucked off already. The sound of 25,000 empty seats was music to my ears, and I wasn't alone. For the rest of the match, the Chester fans cheered ironically whenever City did anything. Short pass? Yeah! Throw in taken? Yeah! I closed my eyes for a full half a minute, burning 7 XP to luxuriate in the sound of my other family.

"Sandra?"

She sighed. "Yes?"

"Fuck Manchester City."

"Oh."

"I'm gonna do the post-match interview."

She shot out of her seat, full of energy. "No, you're not." For some reason, she burst out laughing. "No, you're fucking not. You're gonna go with Liv and get stitches. You're not going to talk to the ref, to Bamba, to Salerno, to anyone. And Max..." She leaned down, got right in my face. "You can pay me the extra fifty quid my babysitter extorted from us."

"Oh!"

She spun and eyed the pitch. "What? What?"

I held up a hand. "Nothing. I was just thinking that could be a nice little payday for me when I get sacked. I'll babysit Jamie for you when you're the Chester manager. Fifty quid an hour. Fifty-five and I won't swear in front of him. Sixty and I'll feed him."

"Sixty quid an hour? You think I'm on Saltney Town money?"

I leaned forward, which made Sandra spin and watch. Dumi won a header, Roddy skipped past a tackle and played it out to Rushy on the right wing. He got his shirt pulled by a City sub. Rushy crashed to the grass and held his hand up, begging the physios to come.

The Chester fans took their volume to eleven as they bellowed, "There's only one Matt Rush! One Matt Ru-ush! There's only one Matt Rush!"

The ref was sick of us, and blew the final whistle early, if that could possibly be the right word.

Man City had beaten us 3-0. They were top of the league, we were bottom. So why were their customers booing? And why were ours dancing?

***

I hobbled across the pitch in my yellow-and-red socks, bypassing the City players and the referee's cabal, pitching up in front of the Chester fans. They had been singing and chanting non-stop, just as if this had gone past injury time into extra time.

As they chanted my name, I slapped the badge on my chest, then held up my phone. After a few seconds, I started typing. What I wrote was instantly sent to Chester's social media accounts; the fans could read it while the words were still on my body.

My name is Max Best. Chester FC is in my blood and I bleed for the club. I have always done what I thought was right for you, the fans, and have always tried to use your resources in the right way. It is hard to understand, I know, but the right thing to do is to break our transfer record to buy an injured player. You can be injured and still go full-throttle for Chester. Trust me, I should know.

Cough coma cough.

I also want to spend five million pounds on two youngsters you have never heard of. This is an industry where cheaters always prosper, and the players I want to sign are pure cheat codes, the closest it's possible to get to a sure thing.

I have six days to finalise those deals. I ask for you to trust my judgement. I ask for something which feels both earned and unearned - your blind support on these transfers.

Injuries heal, talent blooms, individuals wither, communities thrive. In this world, it's just us. Everything I have done, I would do again.

Thank you for what you have given me.

COYS, Max.

Chester 'til I die.