Football: Maxed Out The Wrong Stat

Mateo walked back to the club as the light was going.

Gelsenkirchen in late September had the particular atmosphere of an industrial city settling into autumn, the sky a specific shade of grey that wasn’t unpleasant, the streets carrying the evening traffic of people finishing work. He walked rather than taking the tram. His phone was in his pocket, switched off. He needed to think without it ringing.

The decision hadn’t been difficult. He’d known it before he sat down with Carl.

He needed Physical Contact above 80. He needed Defence above 70. He needed Shooting to a level where opponents couldn’t simply ignore the threat of him hitting the ball at goal. He needed his Overall to reach 75 before the system would lift the attribute cap. He needed to develop an understanding of what the Bundesliga required of him defensively before moving to a league that demanded more. Going to Old Trafford now, regardless of what Ferguson offered would mean arriving at a place where the training intensity and physical demands were significantly higher, without the base attributes to compete for the starting position Ferguson was describing.

He’d be on the bench in six weeks.

That wasn’t acceptable. Not because of pride, because it was a waste of time, and time was the one resource the system couldn’t manufacture for him. Every week at Schalke was training time. Every match was attribute points and game experience. He wasn’t going to throw that away for a name on a shirt.

He slipped his phone out of his pocket, powering it back up as he stepped through the training ground gates. His screen lit up instantly: eight missed calls from unknown numbers, two from Carl, and one from Ben Kehi. He called Ben back.

”Mate, you’re absolutely blowing up the internet,” Ben answered.

”Yeah, I know.”

”Manchester United, really?”

”Told them no.”

There was a dead silence on the other end of the line. ”You... you turned down Ferguson?”

”Just his scout. At least for this season.”

Ben let out a long, heavy breath. ”Man, you are doing the thing again.”

”Doing what?”

”That stubborn thing where you have your own master plan, completely ignore what everyone else wants you to do, and just put your head down and do it anyway.” Ben’s voice softened, losing its disbelief. ”I respect it. Anyway, how’s the ankle?”

”What ankle?”

”The one Rausch tried to snap in half during the cup match.”

”Ah yes, I’m fine. The compression shorts help.”

”The what?”

”Nothing, don’t worry about it.” He jogged slightly as he approached the front doors. ”Gotta go. I’m walking through the door now. Time to get back to training.”

By the time the photos hit the Monday evening news cycle, Magath’s office had become the specific atmosphere of a room where several bad things have happened simultaneously.

The headline on the first outlet was measured: Manchester United Scout Meets Schalke’s Mateo Silva in Gelsenkirchen — Transfer Speculation Grows. The second outlet was less measured. The third had already found someone from the Schalke board to quote anonymously to the effect that ”no transfer discussions have taken place at the club level,” which was technically accurate and practically useless.

Magath had his jacket off and was standing at the window when Hughes Yves came in.

”Bayern scout confirmed arriving in tomorrow,” Hughes Yves said. ”Private flight, hotel booked near Gelsenkirchen.”

”How do you know?”

”We have a contact at the hotel who flags footballer visits.” He paused. ”Standard protocol.”

Magath rubbed his face and turned from the window. ”What about Reinhardt?”

”He tried again this afternoon and got the same answer.” Hugues set down the folder he was carrying. ”Boss, we need a different approach. Reinhardt can’t reach him, you can’t reach him, and the contract department can’t even get a meeting. We need someone who can actually talk to him.” He paused. ”What about Farfán?”

Magath looked at him.

It was not the first time he’d grasped at this particular lifeline, he’d thought of it the moment the problem became serious, then dismissed it because using a teammate as a retention tool felt like a step he shouldn’t need to take. But he was running out of steps.

”Farfán’s close to him?” Magath said.

”Yes, they are. They’ve been close since before his first-team promotion. Farfán was actually on the pitch tonight — apparently, he stayed back for three hours after the main squad session finished.” Hugues-Yves looked at him steadily. ”If anyone has the standing to talk to him, it’s Farfán.”

Magath was quiet for a moment.

”Okay, I’ll call him,” he said.

Hughes nodded and stepped out. Through the window, Magath could see the floodlights on the far training pitch, still on, which meant Mateo was still out there training.

Farfán was in the middle of eating dinner when his phone started buzzing on the table.

He glanced down at the screen. It was Magath’s number. The manager had never called his personal line before.

He answered.

”Farfán.” Magath didn’t waste time with small talk, but his voice carried a rare, quiet warmth. ”I need a favour. I need you to talk to Mateo. I assume you know about the contract situation?”

”Yeah. I know about it.”

”He’s completely shut down. He won’t talk to the board, he won’t take calls from scouts, nothing. But he listens to you.” Magath paused, letting the weight of the request settle. ”Look, I’m not asking you to do the club’s dirty work or force his hand. Just have a real conversation with him. Teammate to teammate.”

Farfán let the silence stretch over the line.

”You want me to convince him to stay,” Farfán said flatly.

”I want you to figure out what’s actually right for him. Which, in my opinion, is staying here.” Another pause followed, though this one felt heavier, laced with a rare touch of self-doubt. ”At least, I really believe it is.”

Farfán looked down at his half-eaten dinner, then glanced out his own window toward the glow of the distant lights.

”Alright,” Farfán said quietly. ”I’ll talk to him.”

He ended the call and set the phone face-down on the table. For a long moment, he just sat there in the quiet room, staring at the screen and trying to figure out what he was actually going to say to the kid.

He had a few ideas. None of them were easy.

At nine that evening, Mateo came in from the pitch.

He showered, changed, and sat on his bed with the system open, reviewing his attribute panel. Physical Contact at 75, the gap to 80 still required roughly 150 training hours at 30 hours per point. Approximately three weeks at his current pace, less if he had match minutes that added to the bar. Defence at 58, the more urgent long-term problem. Shooting at 65. Overall at 70, five points from the cap lift.

He made a note in his head of the sequence: Physical Contact to 80 first, then Defence, then the Overall would follow the attribute gains. He closed the system.

Farfán dialed Mateo’s number. It barely rang before Mateo picked up.

”You finally finished with training?” Farfán asked.

”Yeah, just freshened up,” Mateo said.

”Long session?”

”Nah, not really. Just standard.”

Farfán snorted. ”Three hours after the main squad session is standard to you?”

Mateo laughed over the line. ”Yeah, I think so.”

Farfán chuckled, but then his smile faded, and his tone turned serious. ”Look, Magath called me.”

The line went quiet on Mateo’s end.

”I know exactly what he wants, and I told him I’d talk to you,” Farfán continued, leaning back against the wall of his room. ”I’m not going to tell you what to do with your career. But I do want to say something to you, if you’re alright with listening.”

Mateo didn’t interrupt. He just waited.

Farfán let out a long, heavy breath, staring at the floor.

”Actually... tomorrow,” he said. ”I’ll tell you tomorrow. Tonight, you just need to get some sleep.”

Mateo scoffed gently. ”That’s it? Come on, you can tell me right now.”

”I’ve been playing it over in my head ever since he hung up, and I haven’t figured out how to say it right yet.” Farfán moved the phone away from his ear. ”Go to sleep. Whatever I have to say, it’ll be better in the morning.”

Before Mateo could argue, Farfán cut the call.

Mateo sat with that for a moment, letting the silence of the room settle around him.

Then, he finally reached over, switched off the light, and went to sleep.

Plz Drop Some Power Stones.

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