Soccer Supremo - A Sports Progression Fantasy

3.

SIX DAYS LATER

Friday, October 29

I placed down the graphic novel and did a quick search on my phone.

Sophie, the dark-haired, enigmatic co-producer of Chesterness, was pointing a camera at me. From behind it, she said, ”What are you doing?”

”I’m finding out what this comic’s about.”

”It’s a comic book. You know what it’s about. Boys punching things.”

”No,” I said, sarcastically. ”Sometimes it’s girls punching things.”

”So what does it say?”

I skimmed the Wiki and read out the salient parts. ”Task-force of super-humans... Chronicles their progress as they bond and slowly learn to work together, despite their differing natures and personalities.”

”That could be the tagline of this documentary. Why don’t you make a Chester comic?”

”Because we’re not superhuman. We’re 17th in the Championship with a minus ten goal difference.”

”You’ve got superhuman senses. X-ray vision. You saw that guy’s heart had stopped beating.”

I glared at her. ”Are you recording?”

”Yes.”

”Then I don’t want to talk about it.”

”Sorry.”

I tutted, but I was annoyed at myself. Clamming up was only going to make people more interested. I scrunched my eyes closed for a couple of seconds and rubbed my face. ”I don’t have X-ray vision. An elite athlete collapses with the ball nowhere near him. That’s the kind of thing that draws my eye, right? If I was fully invested in the match I would have been looking at the ball, same as everyone else.”

”That guy is lucky that Stuttgart’s shitty players pissed you off, then.”

I pointed at her. ”Don’t put that in the edit or you’re gonna be one episode short.” I picked up the comic again and flicked through it. ”Toddy and his boys are doing it their way. That’s fine. There’s more than one way to run a football team. My reaction was absurd and pathetic.” I closed the comic and looked at the cover. ”I’m not really into superhero things. What can I learn about the human condition from a Norse god, a woman who dresses as a wasp, and a man made of iron?”

”I don’t think he’s made of iron.”

”Maybe a Chester comic would be fun. Real people doing real things. The emotion at the end of an 18-book arc when they finally get their first boot deal. Or maybe some of them would have superpowers. Mild ones. One can do great lip-reading. One can survive scorpion attacks and snake bites long enough to escape his homeland. One can let jokes completely fly over her head.”

”Oof,” said Sophie.

I put the comic back on the shelf and looked at the others. Plastic Man. Superman. Green Lantern. I was sure they were all great and well-crafted but I wasn’t in the mood. Maybe some music would hit the spot.

I turned around and went to the opposite side of the shop, where there were two small baskets containing olden-days albums. I lifted the first one, which had a young couple dancing energetically on the cover. ”The Swing Era: The Music of 1944 and 1945. That’s so specific.” To the right, the Rock and Roll section. The one at the front of that rack was by Johnny Kidd and the Pirates. ”Or is that the name of the album?” On a book cover you’d have the name of the book bigger than the name of the author. Perhaps in the times of distributing music in the form of pressed vinyl, band names were brand names. Okay, so that would mean this album was called Shakin’ All Over. ”This looks terrible. I feel sorry for the people of the old world.”

On the album cover, Johnny Kidd was wearing an eye patch.

In recent times, a handful of football coaches had made their players train wearing eye patches. It was supposed to increase concentration and help players develop their spatial awareness. On the face of it, the idea was demented - how could you improve spatial awareness by taking away someone’s depth perception? - but I kind of understood why a coach would experiment with physical restrictions. I could imagine giving it a go the next time I felt that training had got stale.

As it was, all of Chester’s players were getting along quite nicely. Smooth, steady, unspectacular progress. Because I wasn’t sure how much XP I would get on my trip, I had stopped investing in the Secret Sandra training boosts, but in the last three weeks most players had added 2 or 3 points to their CA. That was great. I wasn’t sure if our progress would slow down in the second half of the season or if, because we had so much ground to make up and so much spare capacity, we would keep on improving well into next season.

The women’s starting eleven had risen from 87.8 in our final pre-season friendly to a stupendous 92.1 in our recent win against Leicester. 92.1 had to put us around the same level as the league leaders Birmingham City. The league winners would go straight to the top tier, while the second-placed club would play the worst WSL team in a one-off match. Winner takes all. By the time of that match, we would be CA 100, wouldn’t we? I doubted that Charlton or London City were close to triple digits, and I doubted their manager was as good as Jay Cope.

Jay had navigated the fixture list beautifully, playing defensively against Burnley, taking the handbrake off against Hashtag United in the Nando’s Cup, going cautious against Crystal Palace, then attacking Hashtag United (again) in the league. He used the kids in the Cheshire Cup, and back in the league the 5-1 home win against Leicester was all kinds of impressive. Six wins in a row with the minutes being spread around.

The walls in my corner of the shop were decorated with unsheathed singles, colourful album covers, and some records that had been heated into the shape of flowers. Give Jay Cope his flowers. The women were going great. They didn’t need me.

To the left of the racks were some bookshelves. Religion, then Geography. I’d had far too much of both in recent times.

I looked up. Vinyl records had been stuck to the ceiling, like tiles. Those were the first thing entering customers saw. The second was a ceiling drop, painted green, on which the owner had painted a quote.

”Read it out,” said Sophie.

”His old life lay behind in the mists, dark adventure lay in front.”

”Great. Say it again but with more foreshadowing, then look into the distance as though dreading what misfortunes will surely befall you.”

I nodded and tried to get a dreamy look going. I spoke in a lower tone, as though I had recently been through a life-changing event and had become about 24% more mature. ”Her old life as a documentary producer lay behind in the mists, dark unemployment lay in front. She regretted how bossy she had become.”

Sophie bursting out laughing was rare, which made it incredibly rewarding. ”Okay, okay. Pretend I’m not here. Keep looking at books and albums. We can use it to fill out the episode.”

There was a wooden shelf with albums under the heading Jazz and Blue’s. As someone with a spotless record of 100% perfect grammar, spelling, and punctuation, the randomly inserted apostrophe offended me.

I bent and grabbed The Benny Carter Collection, which featured songs from 1929 to 1947. For some reason I looked Benny Carter up on Wikipedia and found that he recorded music across eight decades. ”Eight!” I told Sophie. ”And it seems like he kept getting better. He won Grammys in the 1980s and 90s. Imagine peaking when you’re, like, 77 years old.”

”That would be fitting for you.”

I rubbed my eyebrow. ”I won’t be a football manager for long. No way.”

Benny went back on the shelf, then I looked at more comics. They didn’t appeal, so I retraced my steps. What was so compelling about Benny’s album cover? The simple black and white aesthetic, the art deco font, Benny’s enigmatic expression?

I had seen such photos taken of me while managing games. I’d be standing there, would glance at the camera as though trying to communicate something, but there would be nothing for the viewer to hold onto. Was I happy? Sad? Depressed? Was the match panning out as expected? Sometimes it was hard to tell.

Other managers wore their hearts on their sleeve almost all the time. Toddy Braun bobbed on waves generated by the game state. Vimsy was an open book. Jay Cope was good at radiating calm and looking in control, which was what our youthful team most needed. Sandra Lane had a good balance between looking like a technocrat and being ready to give a guy a kick up the arse.

She had dished out a few arse-kickings in my absence, but not as many as the results might have suggested. Defeats to Luton and Wolves (2-0 and 5-1) were followed by draws against Hull and Bristol City (2-2, 0-0). Two points from a possible twelve, but those were four tough games. Luton had a great starting eleven, Wolves were basically a Premier League team, and the other two were about our level.

That run left us 17th in the table, comfortably ahead of the relegation zone, and only 8 points behind Wrexham, who were 6th. If we caught them up and overtook them, the Chester fans would be beyond delighted. We wouldn’t be able to overtake enough teams to get into the playoffs, and there were plenty of defeats on the horizon, but with the way the squad had been training, we would be well set for a major push next time around.

Tomorrow’s home match was against Plymouth, who would be rocking their usual 3-4-2-1 with an average CA in the region of 111. I had used Bench Boost in the Championship already so I was planning to stay in the dugout, claim double XP, and let Sandra do everything. After Plymouth there would be a two-week international break, during which I would sort my life out. I didn’t really need to be around for a home game against the worst team in the division but I wanted the XP, I was back in the country anyway because of today’s meeting, and if I was in the dugout the Shocktober perk would trigger. That would give the team a few bonuses.

We had Andrew Harrison out injured, which reduced our midfield options, but we had a healthy-looking squad.

I wanted Swanny in goal, because Sandra had played Owen Elmham in every league match while I was away, and Peter Bauer had used Rainman in the Cheshire Cup. Swanny needed minutes and was more than good enough to play against Plymouth and the following match against Stoke.

Sandra and I had agreed to do a 3-4-3 to more or less match Plymouth’s setup.

Our average CA would be 125.1.

We would smash them.

I opened the Chester Men’s squad page and scanned for new injuries. Apart from Andrew being out for 3 weeks, we were fine. Average Morale had slipped from 4.7 to 4.4.

A dip in their collective mood was understandable. Their glorious leader was having his yearly meltdown, but even worse, they had slipped from 13th to 17th. Number go up, but bad!

The rest of the year would go better, though. If I was right about the strength of our next six opponents, we could get three wins and two draws, then we would get thrashed by Ipswich Town. After that mauling, we would finish 2027 with three good results. I reckoned we would start the new year in the top half of the second tier for the first time in the club’s history.

Chester’s Men were in a good place, then. So were the women. And the under 18s. I had been keeping my mind’s eye on all of them, as I always did.

I had 8 squads in my head now. Three from Chester, two from Gibraltar, Saltney Town from Wales, and Bayern from Munich. During my trip, during my very brief spell as their co-manager, I had added another German club - VfB Stuttgart.

It had cost 2,000 experience points but when was I ever going to get the chance again? Never. I didn’t really need to know what was going on in Baden-Württemberg, but it was amazing data. It was another group of players I could track over the course of a season to see if Chester’s training was below par or better than normal. It was another group of players signing new contracts - I knew their old wages, their new wages, their bonuses, their expiry dates and release clauses. It was extra data about which clubs were looking at which players. If Torino were looking at a Stuttgart midfielder with the same profile as Joel Reid, I could give the Italians a call and say, hey, do you want to send me the money instead? Or I could call Stuttgart and offer them a ready-made replacement. Useful? Er, yeah.

But most of all, it was another daily dose of hot gossip.

Players who had fallen out with each other. Players who wanted to move to bigger clubs. Players who disliked their manager. If one of my teams ever played against Stuttgart or Bayern, I would know almost everything about the state of the squad.

The 2,000 XP was cheap, really.

XP balance: 2,252

”Smile,” said Sophie.

”What?”

She pointed. ”The sign. That’s you.”

The shop was great. An analogue oasis in a toxic digital wasteland. It had a reputation in the city for having extremely friendly and knowledgeable staff, but in between the Jazz albums and the next bookshelf was a bright yellow sign with an acid-house smiley face.

SMILE!

YOU’RE ON CAMERA!

I sighed. ”Why do shops do this? It’s so unfriendly. Passive-aggressive. You’d never catch me being passive-aggressive.”

”No,” agreed Sophie.

”It just leaves a sour taste, right? Every customer reads this sign and thinks, huh, is the guy behind the counter watching me funny? It puts you on edge, makes you feel less welcome. Meanwhile, actual shoplifters won’t give a shit. So it’s costing you business while not reducing crime.”

”Citation needed,” said Sophie.

”I wrote a monograph about the subject.”

”I’d love to read it.”

”I left it in a hotel room near the Polish border.”

”Reliable narrator.” She took her head away from the camera and peered through the windows that looked onto the street. ”I think that’s him.”

A burly black guy got out of the front of a very nice car, and opened its rear door.

Diggy Doggy stepped out, dusted himself down, and read the double name of the shop he was about to enter. Like everyone who read it, he smiled. It was two shops in one: Bookingham Palace and Vinyl Richie.

Diggy made sure his bodyguard saw the puns. Sophie said, ”I wonder if Diggy Doggy’s the first person to step foot in this shop who has actually met Lionel Richie.”

”That’s an interesting point,” I said. ”Right, time to get my game face on.” I smashed my fist into my palm. ”I’m gonna fuck this guy up.”

Sophie made a pained little noise. ”I wasn’t filming that.”

I gave her a wicked smile. ”I know.”

***

Diggy Doggy was surprisingly tall. His hair was pulled back into long braids, exposing a lot of forehead. My first thought was that he’d be a nuisance at corners, but the forehead sloped too much. He wouldn’t be good at heading the ball downwards. Up and away, though. Yeah. Defender. He wore glasses and looked much older than his Wikipedia page said he was - fifty-five. He had loads of charisma, though. Even Sophie responded to it.

”Max,” he said, offering me a hug.

”Big dog,” I said, taking the offer. Diggy reacted strangely to his impromptu nickname, but didn’t mention it. I noted that his guard slash driver stayed outside. Probably for the best - the shop wasn’t that big.

”You back from your thang?”

”Yeah. I might be a bit subdued. Might need a break from filming to have a quiet little weep over in a corner.”

”It wasn’t easy for ya.”

I looked away. ”No. Might be good timing, though. I’m not feeling very belligerent.”

”I wan’t expectin’ this,” he said, taking in the books, the comics, the albums, the Tolkien quote on the ceiling.

”My idea,” I said, slowly, trying not to go too hard too quickly, ”was that we could start in a music shop. That way, you’d be the big dog and I’d be the hopeless noob.”

He gave me his trademark lopsided grin. ”Then later we go somewhere you’re the big dog and I’m the noob.”

”The hopeless noob,” I said, smiling. ”If we’ve got beef it’s not personal. You’re amazing at what you do. You’ve got a song with 1.5 billion views on YouTube. You’ve got Lionel Richie on speed dial.” I waved my hand around. ”This is home turf for you. I thought this might be respectful.”

”I preciate you, cuz.” He went straight for the graphic novels and picked one up.

”What I thought I’d do,” I said, ”is set out the stakes for the viewers so they know what this is all about.” Diggy put the comic down and gave me his full attention. I decided to launch straight into it. ”You’re the public face of a consortium of investors who bought Tranmere Rovers, a third-tier club. Your dudes spent 20 million pounds buying something none of you understand. You’ve seen Welcome to Wrexham and you’ve thought, hey, that’s fun, let’s do that. The problem is, it’s not fun. It’s brutally hard.

”Rob and Ryan did what they did by literally throwing money at Wrexham’s starting eleven until they found combinations that worked. It was incredibly inefficient right from the start but they were getting the documentary money and by lending their own profiles to the club, they could rinse sponsors. You can’t do that because it’s already been done. Failure for every new investor is almost guaranteed and I would be quite happy to see your consortium in particular fail because you’re well-known as a savvy businessman.

”My initial hope was that you’d crash and burn so bad that of the one hundred rich pricks who are out there thinking about buying an English soccer club, thirty would think, hey, if Diggy Doggy can’t get it to work, maybe it’s not for me. We could start to push back the absolute flood of morons invading our sport.”

Diggy eyed me quietly. There was a hint of danger in his look, but he was quite calm when he spoke to the camera. ”This meetin’s well-timed, for sho. No belligerence today. Uh-uh.”

I shrugged and laughed. ”What? I’m just telling it how it is so we can get that out of the way.”

”Your initial hope was that I’d crash and burn.”

”Yeah.”

”What changed?”

”Well, I had a pop at you on social media. Um... Sophie’s gonna cut to a visual explainer of all that stuff, maybe. But you took it well and when I got in touch it was easy to talk to you. You seemed genuinely interested in meeting and working together and I thought, holy crap. Imagine if Diggy Doggy was involved for real? Wasn’t just a frontman? The problem with your group is that you’ve got however many investors and they all think they’re the next Alex Ferguson because they’ve been playing Soccer Supremo for a few weeks. Soccer Supremo Mobile,” I added, dismissively, before remembering I was the face of that game. ”Which, you know, has 80% of the features of the full version while retaining 100% of the fun.

”I was thinking about the dream version of Tranmere Rovers. Get those investors as far away from the day-to-day running of the club as possible, let people who know what they’re doing make the key decisions, and lean into your profile and contacts to make Tranmere a story that people want to hear about.” I shut my gob for a few seconds and looked down. ”The thing is, when I was recovering from my coma, Tranmere Rovers were good to me, so it’s not really easy for me to see them suffer, even if that suffering would put them in a healthier position five or six years down the line.

”Chester isn’t the richest place in the world but we’ve got cool old stuff, which brings tourists. There are pharmaceutical companies. Airbus has a big plant down the road, Chester Zoo’s the best in the country, Liverpool and Manchester airports aren’t that far. Between here and Manchester is one of the most affluent areas in the north, where all the footballers live. Chester has a lot going for it. Birkenhead - that’s where the football club you own is - doesn’t have much at all. The unemployment rate there is double the national average. No-one gives a shit about Birkenhead, mate. No-one. They’ve got one thing they can all get behind. They’ve got one thing that ties the whole community together and gives them hope.”

”The Rovers.”

”Yeah. So while it would be good for the wider health of the game for your venture to fail, and while I would help Tranmere fans set up a phoenix club that would overtake the original and eventually take over its assets, I’m hoping there’s a different way. One where I make sure they’re successful on the pitch while you build them a new profile off it. I want to use this time we’ve got together to show you just how important football clubs are in their local communities. I want to show you that what you bought is not an investment vehicle, it’s not a toy for bored tech bros. It’s the glue that keeps our society from crumbling to dust.”

”I’m here for it, Max. I’m ready to soak it all up. You didn’t tell the viewers what your plan is to save Tranmere from relegation. There are some who say it can’t be done.”

”Free agents to stabilise the club, the right signings in January.”

”We’re talking to players but they ain’t wanna come.”

”They’ll come when Max Best makes the call.”

Diggy shook his head. ”Thought you wasn’t gonna big dog me in the music shop.”

I had to laugh. ”I’m not good at this humility stuff. I can save Tranmere Rovers from relegation but I need to know that I’m doing the right thing. I need to know that we’re on the same page.”

Sophie said, ”Is that why we came to a bookshop?”

”Cut that, Sophie,” I said. ”That’s terrible. No, I actually forgot they sold books here. I came for the music.” I jerked my head to the right. ”Diggy, I need your help choosing a gift for my mate.” I led him towards the back of the shop, where the biggest selection of albums was. We stood across from each other, flicking through the selection. Diggy would sometimes pull one out and smile. I said, ”When we rebuilt our latest stand, I wanted to put in a little music venue.”

”Inside the stand? Under the bleachers?”

”Basically, yeah. It’s not massive but we can get a hundred in there.”

”Why do that?”

”I’m from Manchester and I grew up hearing about this club called The Haçienda. The Smiths played there. Madonna did her first gig in England there. But it’s most famous for giving birth to New Order, the Happy Mondays, the Stone Roses. If you were a band trying to get going in Manchester, you’d play at The Haçienda. Okay, so one day when I was a kid I was in town and I thought, hey, that’s not that far, I’ll go do a pilgrimage. And it was all apartments. My first thought was, must be cool to live there. But then I was, like, where are the new bands gonna play?”

”Places be closing, Max. World changed.”

”Yeah, but I’m proud of being from Manchester because we make the best music.”

From behind the camera, Sophie said, ”Citation needed.”

Diggy smiled at her, but being an expert in the field he obviously agreed with me. ”You wanna make sure the young ’uns got somewhere to play.”

”Right,” I said. ”And it’s the away end in a football stadium. You wouldn’t put your club museum in there, right, so what else are we gonna do with it that’s good for our community? I want all the shit local bands to play there until they get good. I know when I look back on my career I’ll have launched the careers of plenty of legendary footballers. How cool would it be if my venue helped the next Diggy Doggy get going?”

”You do hip-hop there?”

I shook my head. ”Everything and anything. We spent a pretty penny getting the acoustics good; we could do classical in there, Joe says. Monday night’s comedy and that’s helping people get used to the idea of the Deva as a venue for something other than footy. But we’ve had guitar bands, rappers, trance DJs. We had a Björk impersonator who was so good there was a rumour it was actually Björk. The guy running it is called Joe Anka and I’ve kind of made it his job to find local talent and give it a platform. He used to play right midfield for us and he always loved his music. What I love about him is that he meets you on your level. If you say, I like Coldplay and Oasis he doesn’t say, ’Gosh, that’s original’.”

”Like you would.”

”Like I would, yeah. I’m a horrible snob. Even worse, I’m a horrible snob who likes Coldplay and Oasis.”

Sophie called out, ”And Diggy Doggy.”

”Dig Dug,” I said, nodding enthusiastically. ”Love his work. I put Joe in charge of the music in the stadium and he does it great. It’s a few bangers that everyone likes then something a bit more out there. Put up the details on the big screen, fans get their phones out and listen to it again later. Musical education by stealth. We turn the music off ten minutes before kick off because I want the atmosphere to build but having cool music gets fans to come early. That takes the pressure off the entrances and we sell more food and drink. Oh, and we do themes. Like, one day all the music is by artists under five foot five, stuff like that. If you get the theme you text a number and you can win a prize.”

”That’s lit. So this Joe, you want to give him an album he’s never heard before? Sounds like he’s on top of that and the ones here are mainstream. Main stream, dog.”

I shrugged. ”I don’t know. Whatever we pick out, he’s just gonna hang on his wall, right? That’s the album Diggy Doggy chose for me. He’s not gonna play it and scratch it up, I reckon. I’m just interested in your thought process. When you look at an album, what do you think? What makes you go, yeah, this is music I want to share?”

He let his hand wander in front of him. ”Bee Gees. Jennifer Rush. Neil Diamond. Paul Young. It all goes hard when that’s what you need. You know what I’m saying? This is pop. Is he a pop guy?”

”Rock’s on this side. They’ve got a little blues shelf. Er... just realising I haven’t seen any gangster stuff. Maybe this wasn’t a good spot after all.”

Sophie called out, ”Diggy, see if Max can work a record player.”

Diggy’s face lit up. ”Yeah! Ha. Here, let’s use this one.”

He handed me The Best of Sade. ”Huh. I wouldn’t have expected you to like this in a million years.”

”Nah, dog, Sade’s a queen. I’d love to work with her. There’s a turntable there. Play Paradise.”

”Paradise,” I said, flipping the album over. ”Track nine on the first disc. Easy.”

Diggy waggled his eyebrows at the camera, which didn’t annoy me in the slightest. I went to the record player. ”Shit. It’s already playing something. Er...” Sophie barged past Diggy so she could get a close-up of my boggling eyes. I looked at the player and at the lens. ”Where are all the buttons? Where are the controls? There isn’t a pause, a stop. What’s the interface? The fuck?”

I crouched over the contraption. There was a black vinyl disc spinning round and somehow that was causing music to happen. But how? There was only one control, a toggle in the corner. I went to flip that over. Diggy said, ”Cuz, no.”

”No?”

”That’s the speed. You change that when you play your LPs, that’s your long plays, or your singles.”

”It’s the only button. It must be it!”

”It ain’t, dog. Keep looking.”

”What about all this stuff down here?”

”That’s a CD player. You just pay attention to the top right here.”

I felt like I was going crazy. ”Okay, calm down, Max. You’ve seen this in movies. We’ve got the arm thingy poking into the record. That’s the needle. Needle goes into the groove.” I watched it spin around. ”How does it know what notes to play?” That got a good laugh and I was slightly hamming up my incompetence for the benefit of the documentary, but the actual way you controlled the player was flummoxing me. ”Please tell me there’s a way to stop this before it gets to the end.”

Diggy laughed. ”There is, dog.”

”The button’s in the arm. I have to push it into the record and it’ll click off.”

”You’ll scratch it. Be gentle.”

”Gentle.” If I wasn’t allowed to touch the arm and there were no buttons, the only other thing was the album itself. I moved my finger closer and gently touched it.

”What you doing, man?”

”I’ll kinda… slow it down until it stops.”

”Dog, lift the arm.”

”What?” I said. Diggy raised his eyebrows at me. I looked at the arm while I put my finger under it. Ever so gently, I lifted it off. The album kept spinning but no sound came out of the device. ”Why’s it still going?”

Diggy flicked a switch on the front. The disc stopped rotating. ”Bruh,” he said.

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”Bruh!” I complained. ”You said there were no controls!”

He flicked it back on. ”Play my song.”

I lifted the record out of the machine and handed it to Diggy. I slipped the one by Sade through the hole. ”We have docked!” I said. ”Now for track selection. Where’s the screen?”

”No screen, cuz.”

”This is such an ordeal!” I knew I had to move the arm back into position and gently lower it until the needle was in contact with the vinyl, but where should I put it? ”Which side is the start?”

Diggy stifled a laugh and I gave the camera a guilty look. ”What? Track one is on the inside, right? That makes sense.”

”The outside is the start, Max. Look which way the disc be spinning.”

”Kay,” I said. I lowered the needle and was amazed to hear a light crackle, then the start of Your Love is King. ”Whoa! Instant saxophone hit. I think I know this one. Banger.”

”It’s a vibe for sho,” said Diggy. ”Cept I asked for Paradise.”

I squished my face up. ”How’m I supposed to do that? It’s somewhere in the middle.”

”Give it a go.”

I lifted the arm, pushed it a couple of inches to the left, and eased it down. A different song came on. ”Bosh!”

Diggy smiled. ”Is It a Crime? Yes. Is it the song I requested? No.” He nudged me. I stood, moved aside and Diggy deftly pushed the needle. ”There we go.”

There was a cracky silence, then a funky bass line came on.

”Is that it?”

Diggy got grooving, and sang along until he got to the title of the song. Sophie said, ”Getting the rights to put this on TV is gonna cost a fortune.”

”Good point,” I said. ”Let’s do all this again but with a free song, like Happy Birthday.”

Diggy looked at the camera and went, ”Uhhhhh.” He cracked into a big smile. ”What you think about my generation’s tech?”

I crouched again and put my hand on the side of the turntable. ”It’s weird. There’s so much friction involved. You want to listen to track 4 on this album, then track 6 on another one? Then go back and do it again? Such a hassle.” I released Sade from the device’s clutches and felt the weight of the thing, the texture. ”It’s interesting, though. You’ve got the music in your hand. You’re touching it.”

”There it is,” said Diggy, as I stood again. ”That’s it right there. When you touch it, it got more worth. And the way you’re scared to break it. That’s what we call reverence. It ain’t a stream that you consume, it’s an experience you earn after you complete a ritual. You have to work for it. It’s like with your team. You don’t just click your fingers and it’s all good. You got to go through the steps but that’s aight coz you get more out of it. You earned it.”

I nodded. ”I’m just thinking about coming home from training, putting on an album, crashing on the sofa. First two tracks? Bangers. Then comes the one I don’t like but I’m trapped. I’m too lazy to get up and even if I did get up, it’s a hassle finding the next track. I mean, not for you, you seem to be a wizard at that. But do you know what I mean?”

”I do. It ain’t like that, though. First, in them days, there wan’t nuthin’ better so you wasn’t missing out. And you didn’t have every song ever recorded in your pocket. You had, like, fifteen, sixteen albums, dog, you feel me? You kicking back, you ain’t skipping songs. You listen to that track a few times, you might start to preciate it. Tsk, not always, no, but you’re gonna end up giving it a fair hearing. A lot of the tracks I hit up from them days, I didn’t take to at first.”

I flipped the album over and traced my fingers across the edge and the flat surface. ”I’ve just had a thought.”

”Uh-oh,” said Sophie.

”These albums are all from before AI. Before Autotune. These are real performances. There’s a guy on YouTube who shows how every new song, every live performance, is Autotuned to within an inch of its life. If you want something real, get an album. Right?”

”Vinyl’s making a comeback. You want Taylor Swift? You got it. My new stuff’s on there.”

”You have new stuff?”

He gave the camera a doleful look. ”Bruh.”

I took a little time out to feel the space. So much creativity packed into actual physical products. I thought about Anna coming to a shop like this, being delighted every time the clerk slipped her purchase into a crisp, thin, plastic bag. The image made me smile. ”There’s something magical about this shop. I read books on my e-reader and I listen to most of my music on YouTube because I’m working on my laptop anyway. It’s a kind of fantasy to get one of these record players in a sunny room with some plants, a lounger, and just lie down and spend an hour with an album and a good book. It’s like that’s the ultimate billionaire experience I could possibly imagine. I can afford it, so why does that feel so out of reach?”

”Coz you on your grindset, cuz. You hustlin’.”

”I’m hustling everyday,” I said, setting him up.

Diggy started to jiggle but when he opened his mouth, Sophie cried out, ”No! We can’t afford the rights to more songs!”

I slipped the disc into its folder and took it to the counter. ”One olden-days record, please.”

After I paid, we ambled to the front of the shop. There I saw another hand-painted piece of text.

”Max,” said Sophie.

I tried to teleport Sophie and her camera far away with the power of my mind but when that didn’t work, I took a second to compose myself and did what she wanted. It was hard to argue that the quote wasn’t relevant to my situation. ”We must try not to sink beneath our anguish, Harry, but battle on.”

Diggy Doggy clapped me on the back and held his hand there for a few seconds. ”Come on, cuz.”

***

We exited the book-and-record shop, turned left, and walked down the street towards our next destination. Our cars were nearby so we could make a quick exit if we got too much attention. Getting too much attention was inevitable if we were in the wild for too long; I was the most famous man in Chester, Diggy was one of the most recognisable faces in the world, and Sophie’s camera was like a giant ’look over here’ arrow. ”All right,” I said. ”Soapbox time.”

”This is Chester?”

”This is Chester. Cathedral’s on your left. That’s heaven. Just over there’s hell.” I was pointing to a building that was coming into view. ”That’s the Liverpool FC club shop. You’ve heard of them, right?”

”Yeah.”

”You might be wondering why Liverpool have a club shop in my city. I wonder that, too.” I swept my hand around. ”Every day there’s a kid around here who turns 6 or 7 and picks his football team. Some go for the same club as their dad or their brothers but there’s always one little dipshit who picks whoever’s won the most recent trophy. Who’s the best team? That’s my favourite team. Over here, it’s not like in America. I’ve seen you wearing the shirts of every sports team that ever existed. Here, you pick your team and that’s it, forever. If too many kids pick teams that aren’t their local team, that club’s dead. Do you get me? Let’s stop here. This is as close as I want to get.”

”You don’t wanna go near it?” laughed Diggy.

”That entity tried to destroy English football, twice. See that advertising board just outside?” I pointed to one of those electronic things that had replaced paper posters in some cities.

”I see it.”

”I rented that for the year. We got five of them around the city centre, telling people when the next women’s match is, what’s on at the music venue, stuff like that. But this one’s to inform people that Liverpool FC tried to kill Chester FC. One side describes Project Big Picture. The other’s about the European Super League. It’s hard to decide which of those is the more shameful. Yeah, go in there if you want, buy some overpriced shit if you want, but know that you’re financing the future murder of the local team.”

”What does Liverpool think about that billboard?”

”Don’t know,” I said. ”They’re banned from all Chester property. It’s one of the reasons we don’t have a proper youth academy. If you have an academy, you have to let scouts from other clubs come and look at your players. We already lost one talented kid to Liverpool. Now if I see anyone from a big club, I chase them off. They can get fucked.”

”Why you want me to see this?”

”This is the enemy. They’ve got a club shop here, they’re trying to steal our fans and our future. We’re 30 miles away from their stadium. Your football club’s a two-minute drive. Liverpool are stealing your fans. They’re drinking your milkshake and one day they’ll come up with their latest grand plan to, ah, evolve English football. Which will look identical to a plan to kill English football. Right? So you and I can bicker and argue about how to run your club, but while we’re doing that, these twats are laughing themselves to death because we’re making it easy for them.”

”We on the same side.”

”That’s it. We should fight when we play each other. We should compete for attention and new fans and if we’re going for the same sponsors, may the best man win, right?”

”The Best man.” He snorted. ”You bigdogging me for real.”

”But at the end of the day, we need to stick together. This shop is a warning.”

”Yeah, I feel you.”

I was becoming aware that crowds were starting to gather. We couldn’t stay long. ”Here’s the thing. When I was just starting out in football, when I was still working in a call centre, I had no clue that I was a good player but I was starting to think that maybe I could be a good manager. I wanted to test my ideas out on a group of young women who were due to play Manchester City. We had three weeks to get ready and I needed to get the women up to speed as fast as humanly possible. There was only one guy to call. Jackie Reaper.”

”Oh.”

”He’s a Liverpool fan and he knows how much I despise that club so he said he’d help me out on one condition.”

Diggy tried to guess. ”You had to go to a match with him.”

”Close. He made me wear the kit. It was like asking me to smear myself with radioactive slime but I did it because I wanted to win and for that, I needed Jackie Reaper. He turned my ideas into actual coaching, got the women playing the way I wanted. And we won. We did it. I quit my job and went into football full-time. Meanwhile, Jackie kept trying to get me to become a player because he saw I was good. I’ve played football all my life but no-one ever thought I was anything special. Jackie saw it in minutes. If you sack him, you’ll spend the next four or five years trying to find someone as good as him. Spoiler alert: you won’t. I always thought he was a good coach but I was wrong. He’s an elite coach. If you sack him I’m gonna hire him and Chester are gonna go to the moon.” I sighed. ”But he can do more good for more people where he is.”

”You know why I’m here?” Diggy took a lighter out of his pocket and spun it around. ”Folks I meet in soccer talk about you the way you talk about Jackie.”

My awareness had drifted. I was back in a sports hall in Manchester, training with a group of students for a match we couldn’t possibly win. ”The team that beat Man City was called the Beth Heads. Named after Beth, their best player, the one who organised everything. She was my first ever captain.” I looked down. ”She came with me to Poland. Came all the way. Helped me look after Anna right until the end.” I stared at nothing as I rubbed my bottom lip. ”She’s gonna write an article about it and she’ll probably say I was crying all the time even though I was staunch as fuck. Stiff upper lip, stiff lower lip. Boys don’t cry.”

Most of the shops on Northgate Street were struggling, with fading signs, desperate offers of sales. The Liverpool store was dolled up to the max. They had money to burn on the fixtures and fittings, had hired consultants to make it look awesome. It pissed me off.

”If you fire Jackie, I can’t help you. It’s not just loyalty. You need a top coach to get out of the mess you made. This season’s all about survival but when that’s done you’ll have a chance to build the club. Get talented players in, develop them, sell for a profit, rinse and repeat until you’ve got a base that lets you push on to the next level. I’ll help your tech twats make a profit but I can only do it if there’s a top coach running the club; I’ve wasted enough time sending players to managers who don’t know what to do with them. We have to go together, you and me, and tell the fans what’s going on. Admit you made a mess but you want to fix it. They’ll get behind that. If we stand side by side, they’ll get behind it and soon there will be so much positivity that every six-year-old in Birkenhead will say, hey, that Tranmere? That’s for me.”

Some cretin ruined the moment by shouting, ”Max, are you staying?”

”That’s our cue,” I said.

***

We drove a short distance to a square with some shops around. Mostly chains, with gambling and charity shops filling up the spaces. ”The more bookies and second-hand shops,” I said to Diggy, ”the shitter the local economy.”

”This is a lot,” he said.

”You should see what it’s like around Prenton Park,” I said. I paused before walking on. ”That’s the stadium you own.”

He scoffed, mumbled something about me bigdogging him, and fell into step.

We went through a door and up some stairs. A sign on a door read ’Chester Chompers’. I pushed it open and smelled disinfectant and some other chemical. Fluoride?

The receptionist slash dental assistant came out of the little treatment room. She eyed me and said, ”Shit!” Then came Diggy Doggy and she got really excited. Then Sophie’s camera tipped her over the edge. She did a little dance.

I smiled. ”Is Doc Hussein busy?”

”Yes, Max. Ah, I can’t believe it. I knew I should have did me nails.”

”Your nails are mint. Who’s in there? One of my players?”

”Er... yeah. Tadpole.”

”Ah, top,” I said, easing past the assistant and into the clinic, where Doc Hussein was fiddling around inside a young man’s mouth.

The dentist smiled - he was a great advert for his own services - and the young man’s eyes expanded like a frog’s throat. ”Ax!” said Tadpole.

I loomed over him. ”Hey, dude. Don’t make any sudden movements when you’ve got loads of knives stuck in your mouth. Wasn’t that the first thing we told you when you started training with us?”

”Or back!”

”I’m back, yeah. But in a way, I never left.”

”Ooh did!”

I tutted. ”Yeah, look, can you just lie there and be passive, please? I’m doing a thing. Doc, can we film a quick scene in here?”

He shrugged. ”If Tadpole doesn’t mind. I suppose you should get consent from his parents.”

”Tadpole, you’re 18, right? Sign this imaginary waiver.” He mimed signing. I shook his arm. ”Bosh! Okay, Sophie, we’re cool.”

When Diggy Doggy came in, the usually unflappable Doc Hussein shot to his feet, laughing crazily. ”Oh my God oh my God.”

”Jesus,” I said. ”Why does no-one react like that when I come in the room? Doc, you’re standing there with loads of weapons in your hands. It’s quite sinister. How long’s it gonna take to finish Tadpole?”

”Not long,” he said, still grinning crazily.

”Top. Bosh that out and we’ll all do selfies. I’m gonna talk to this guy over here. I think he’s called Dig Dug?”

”Hurr,” said Tadpole.

Doc Hussein sat back in his little chair but got his phone out and while Sophie was arranging us in a way that would look good on TV, the dentist got his favourite Diggy Doggy track playing over the speakers. Tadpole was into it; Sophie wasn’t. ”Sorry, can you not? We have to pay a fortune every time we play a song.” She looked at Diggy. ”Unless you can arrange for us to use it for free?”

The former dope dealer clicked one side of his mouth. ”Dig Dug gotta get paid.”

”Right,” I said, clapping my hands together. ”This is our dentist.”

”Chester FC has a dentist?”

”Yeah. We had a kid go to training one day. Played shit. Turned out he had toothache and couldn’t get an appointment. I was like, no problem, I’ll throw my weight around, sort you right out. I quickly learned there are no fucking dentists anywhere. It’s called a dental desert and there are loads of them. The Scandinavian countries have about 10 dentists per 10,000 people. The UK has fewer than 5.”

”Shit.”

”Yeah, it’s a big mess. Now Tadpole there, he’s 14 - ”

”Ur-een,” he called out.

”Doc, have you got that gas that knocks people out? Knock him out while I’m filming, yeah?” To the player, I said, ”Mate, you’re 14 on my spreadsheet. I told you.”

”Hurrr,” said the kid.

”He’s a top goalie. Like, really top. Goalies develop a little bit slower than outfielders but if we’re smart, when this guy’s 25 I’ll be able to sell him for 5 million quid. Maybe 10.”

Doc Hussein stopped what he was doing and exchanged astonished looks with his assistant. She said, ”Tadpole, are you single? Do you want to meet my little sister?”

The dentist said, ”He doesn’t want to meet your sister, he wants to meet my niece. She’s lovely, Tadpole. When’s your next match? She loves goalkeepers. I’m sure I’ve heard her say that.”

I shook my head. ”Guys, he’s still in the ’ew, girls’ stage of his life. Aren’t you, mate?”

”Well, actually...”

”Okay,” I said, louder. ”Obviously I can’t have my future assets going round in so much pain they can’t even control a simple ten-yard pass. As soon as I got some spare cash, I set up this clinic. This summer just gone I upgraded the equipment. You happy with your swag, Doc?”

”Yes, Max. It’s all top-notch. I’m very happy.”

”We take care of the players and their families and when we’ve got spare capacity we do what we can for the wider community. It might only be five people a week or whatever, but for those five people it’s amazing, right? And we’re not taking up appointments at other clinics, so maybe more people are being treated elsewhere. It’s hard to measure but I don’t care. People come up to me all the time and say Max, my mum’s so happy she got her crown fixed, or my dad was so relieved he got that filling sorted.” I stretched my fingers out. ”This is just the start. Next summer we’re building a new stand and we’re gonna move the clinic inside, but way, way bigger. I don’t want to chip away at the problem, I want to smash it.”

Tadpole said, ”Oos dat mean you’re ay-ing?”

”Stop talking, bro, it’s bad content.” I put my back to the window and folded my arms. ”I’ve set this clinic up with the intention of breaking even. We have the initial cost of the equipment but then we don’t run at a loss. I don’t want someone in ten years going, hey, we can’t afford to run this. Sometimes I wonder what the limit of this project is. If Chester has 100,000 people there needs to be at least 50 dentists. What if we had 20 just at our stadium? Why not 30? Exactly how much of the problem can we solve?”

Diggy Doggy fiddled with his lighter again. ”Why’s this for the soccer club to do?”

”Because who else is gonna do it? But it’s a fair question. What we should be talking about are projects where clubs are uniquely positioned to make a difference. If someone from the Council knocks on a guy’s door and says, hey, there’s such-and-such a support group happening at 7 o’clock tonight, why don’t you pop in, they’ll get the door slammed in their face. If we post the same thing on our social media, the same guy might decide to go. If we put our logo on a leaflet that promotes a local food bank or we actually host an activity in our stadium, all kinds of people will respond.”

”Community glue,” said Diggy. ”We have this at Tranmere. In The Community, it’s called. We do outreach for disabilities, schools, homeless.”

”I know. It’s good. It was much better than ours but our charity has overtaken it because it has had more funding and when we hit the Premier League it’s gonna get even better.” I shook my head. ”I’m getting competitive. My charity’s better than yours! It’s not a competition. All I wanted to say was that if the team does well the club’s charity naturally gets more funding and it can do more.”

There was a slight shift in the vibe and I realised it was coming from Doc Hussein. ”I’m done, Max. Do you want us to, you know, pretend to be doing something while you finish?”

I gave him a warm smile. ”That’s considerate. Nah, we’re done here, I reckon. I’m just trying to say that it’s not all about the result on a Saturday. Nothing good happens if you lose, that’s for sure, but whether you’re winning or losing, things are happening that are affecting the community. It’s not just what we organise, it’s what is organised around the club. There’s a bunch of lads who met on the McNally and decided to start one of those YouTube channels where they go round to old peoples’ houses and sort out their gardens for free. They get some ad revenue and if the channel grows they might get some Patreon supporters and all that, but basically they’re doing it because it’s really satisfying to just pile into a messy garden and sort it out in a couple of days. And then the look on the face of the old biddy when she sees her garden as it was meant to be! Where would those lads meet if it wasn’t for the local football team?”

Tadpole’s mouth was finally clear of obstructions. ”Invite them to a match, Max! In one of the fancy boxes!”

”Ah, that’s tricky,” I said, with a wry smile. ”I love the guys, everyone does, but our legal team asked Brooke to ask me to ask the guys to change their name, so until that’s resolved we need to keep some distance.”

”Why do they need to change the name?” said Doc Hussein.

”The lads called themselves the Chester Choppers, because most of what they do is chopping down brambles and ivy.”

”Good name,” said Diggy.

”Yeah, but look.” I pointed to a sign. ”This is the Chester Chompers. One of our first projects was the Chester Chatters. Those are officially connected to the club so it’s natural you’d assume the Chester Choppers is, too. What if they disturb a bird’s nest or uncover a dead body or some crap? It just needs to be clear that they aren’t officially linked to the football club. Then we can make a fuss over them.”

”Makes sense,” said Diggy.

”Yeah, it’ll go fine. I just need to talk to them face-to-face. We’ll brainstorm some new names. The Chop Squad. The Hedgehog Heroes. I’ll pop down one day and help them sort out a garden. I’m an absolute wizard at pulling up weeds.” My mind drifted to a garden in Manchester.

”You okay, Max?” said Sophie.

I snapped out of it. ”I was just thinking about my mum’s garden. I built this elaborate climbing frame slash feeding station for a cheeky cat that Anna was friends with. The cat had to run and jump to get to the next snack. The frame’s amazing but, ah... not gonna get used any more. I should look for someone who would enjoy it.” I was bumming everyone out; I tried to get back to being bubbly. ”Tadders, you’ll come and help me do some gardening for someone who needs it, right?”

”Yes, Max! So does that mean you’re back?”

I closed my eyes. ”Time’s up. Next stop!”

***

We drove towards the busy roundabout where Chester owned a billboard. ”I don’t like social media,” I told Diggy, ”but the club needs to communicate with its fans. What you’re about to see is a Max Bestian compromise. We do some of our messaging through giant posters, and then people take photos and upload it to the socials anyway. We bought the space outright so it’s like free advertising forever, except for the cost of the printing and the guy who puts up the posters. I’m not sure what’s up there right now.”

We pulled onto a side road, got out, and had a quick look at our marketing team’s latest creation.

It was fairly simple. On the top was the slogan adopted by Chester FC when it was reformed out of the ashes of the old Chester City.

Then came three photos taken at the Stuttgart match, organised like a movie poster, but with me playing every role. Sidekick, villain, hero.

The first pic had me facing the left, doing a cheeky grin. It looked like it had been taken in the first half, when my tactical plan was just starting to work.

The second was merged into the first but had me facing right. In this one, I was leaning forward, urgently pointing. Telling one of the shithead players to sort out his fucking act.

The third was me racing towards the lens, carrying a medical bag. The shadows behind me had been styled into a sort of explosion.

My gaze went to the top of the image again:

Our City. Our Community. Our Club.

Then to the bottom:

Our Kid.

Sophie was explaining it to Diggy. ”Our kid is what people in Manchester call their brother. This is the people of Chester saying that Max is one of our own and we’re proud of him.”

I turned around and counted to ten. When I faced the others again, I looked at Sophie. ”Are you trying to make me cry?”

”No, but if you do, I’ll film it.”

I leaned against the car. People beeped at Diggy Doggy and he smiled and showed them the peace sign. ”We should clear off before we cause a crash.”

”Where to next?” said Sophie.

”I wanna talk more about kingdom building.”

”How to answer a question without answering it - a monograph by Max Best.”

”It’s just round the corner.”

***

The two cars pulled up in the car park of an unremarkable block of flats. I took a step closer to Diggy, who took a step closer to me. ”This is the Best Chestern Hotel,” I said. ”I bought this.”

”This is yours?” said Diggy.

”Yeah.”

”Diversifying your portfolio. That’s smart. Want me to sign a brick? 500 dollars.”

I snorted. ”Let me save up for a few years and you can sign them all. So, the reason I bought this is that housing is yet another part of our economy that is fucked beyond belief, and my players weren’t finding places to live. So I thought, fine, I’ll buy some flats. So far there are three rented out to players and when the civilians leave, I’ll put more in. Or if not players, employees of the club. The problem is it’s so expensive to build new stuff that a home builder is only gonna do luxury houses, so all the places normal people can afford are getting old and they have no insulation and they cost a bomb to run.”

”Let me guess,” said Diggy. ”You gonna get into homebuilding.”

”Yep. If we can stay in the Premier League for a few years, we’ll be rolling in cash. I want to demolish all the shitty car showrooms between the stadium and the city and put houses there. Efficient, cheap to run, cheap to rent. We’ll slap down hundreds of flats. British people are obsessed with buying their own homes but on the continent, everyone rents. The area around the stadium will be a renter’s paradise. It’ll be so good you’ll never want to leave.”

”And if I ask why the soccer club should do that, you’ll say because who else will.”

”That’s it.” I shifted my weight and looked up. ”When I bought this, I wanted to get it all energy efficient, put in some air-source heat pumps, solar panels. Basically make it affordable housing by stealth. Yeah, you pay the same rent but now your bills are a fraction of what they were.” I thought about my financial situation. I still wanted to build a stake in Temps Perdu, the company that was the closest to developing a treatment for my mother, but I was less gung-ho about it. I could spare a hundred grand to make my flats a much nicer place to live, right?

”What they like?”

”The flats? They’re just normal. Kind of small but they don’t feel as small as they are.”

”Can I see one?”

I tilted my head. ”You want to see one of my flats? I mean... Hang on.” I got my phone out and called Meghan. She picked up pretty fast. ”Megs,” I said.

”Max! Are you calling from Poland? How much is this call costing me?”

”Are you at home?”

”Yeah, just getting ready to leave for gym group.”

I pointed towards the door and our group hurried towards it. ”Amazing. I’m outside and I really need to pee. Can you buzz me in?”

”Wait, what?”

”Buzz the door, Meghan! I’m bursting! I’m going to burst!”

”You have to press the button before I can open it.”

Ten seconds later, Me, Diggy Doggy, Sophie plus camera, and Diggy’s bodyguard squeezed into the little lift. Sophie said, ”What are you grinning at?”

”I’ve never seen Meghan flustered, I don’t think.” I rubbed my hands together. ”This is gonna be fun.”

***

Ten minutes later, I was in my car going the tiny distance to Bumpers Bank. I pointed to the car in front. ”Meghan could get more wages elsewhere,” I told Sophie, who was recording me just in case I said something cool. ”But how many players at Spurs or Man City can say they got driven to work by Diggy Doggy?”

”Less than six,” ventured Sophie.

”New slogan idea. Chester: We Give You More.”

”Chester,” said Sophie. ”Your Boss Invades Your Flat Just As You’re About to Leave.”

”Chester,” I said. ”Your Boss Doesn’t Keep His Celebrity Friends To Himself Like Sophie Would.”

She laughed hard. Very satisfying.

When we had parked, Meghan reluctantly went to the gym, then I took Diggy to the last part of our little tour - watching our youth teams train.

”Okay,” I said, passing by the topiary T-Rex without comment. ”We are approaching the under 12s. I reckon 8 of those lads will make it to Championship level. On the other side, that’s the under 14s. Tadpole should be somewhere.”

Diggy’s driver pointed. ”There he is.”

I gave him a friendly punch. ”Amazing eyes, cuz! You see there are parents dotted around everywhere? Some like to stay in the little stands by the pitch, some go in those viewing boxes where it’s a bit warmer.” I jerked my thumb behind me. ”Some go in the restaurant. We’ve got cameras set up so they can follow the action on the screens. They’re not allowed to shout at their kids anyway.”

”Oh, that’s a thang here, too?”

”Big time. It’s a big problem. You have to go zero-tolerance on it. We know how to train your kids, you don’t, so shut your mouth and leave it to the experts.”

Diggy snickered. ”You always be big doggin’.”

I pointed from Diggy to his driver to Sophie. ”I don’t tell you how to drop a phat groove, I don’t tell you how to bust a cap in someone’s ass, and I don’t tell you how to produce your documentary.”

”Yeah, you do,” said Sophie.

I spotted one parent and waved him over. Like everyone, he was staring at Diggy with utter disbelief. Why is he here? Shouldn’t he be at a party with other super famous people? ”Diggy, this is Mr. Watson. He’s one of those Liverpool fans I was telling you about, but in his case it’s okay because he’s from Liverpool.”

”Pleasure, dog,” said the lanky superstar.

”Ha ha,” said Mr. Watson, starstruck.

I stood behind the Scouser and placed my hands on his shoulders. ”This guy’s son is an unbelievable talent. He’s been the best in our youth system for ages and even though I keep finding more gems, Steven is still the big dog. Mr. Watson, I’m trying to tell Diggy that owning a football club’s a big responsibility. It’s not just about inviting David Beckham to watch matches in your corporate box. One of the things an owner needs to do is defend his youth system from predators. I do it my way. First, I go to insane lengths to make sure my young stars develop fast here while making sure they have a childhood. Second, I keep scouts from other clubs away.”

”How do you know who they is?” said Diggy, looking around. There were plenty of randos.

The real answer was that near football pitches, a scout’s profile magically appeared over his head. ”Everyone who comes in has to answer a simple question: What do you think about the Elite Player Performance Plan? That’s a method by which big clubs like Liverpool can turn up at any other club in the country and pillage its youth system, consequence-free.”

”I gotchu,” said Diggy. ”If they like the scheme, they scouts.”

”No,” I said. ”If they’ve even heard of the thing, I offer them a choice between leaving immediately or going home via the hospital.”

Diggy laughed. ”You a gangster for sho.”

”Thing is,” I said, standing close to Mr. Watson, ”every scout in the north knows about Steven Watson. Steven and his dad are happy here, but it helps that Steven thinks I’m a good player.”

Mr. Watson beamed. ”Max is always doing madnesses!”

”That means special moves,” I explained. ”Yeah, I’m a role model, yes, I do madnesses, but I’m also mad about developing young players. I give them chances way earlier than most managers. Next season, Steven will be 15 and he’ll train with the first team a few times, and we’ll have him on the bench in some games to get him used to the vibe. He might even play.”

”Really?” said Mr. Watson.

”Yeah, really. God, I’m looking forward to that. I feel like we’ve been training him for years. Putting him on the pitch will be like Christmas morning. I might save it until a day that I’m really depressed. Is that wrong? But what I was saying, Diggy, is that I’ve got my way, but what I love about you is that you could bring your own skills to the table. Imagine you’ve got a hot prospect 16-year-old and Liverpool want to steal him away and throw some fucking loose change at your feet. That might work with most players at most clubs but this kid gets a phone call. It’s Diggy Doggy! Cuz, you say, I’m here in L.A. hanging out with a homey named Top Cat. I hear you’re finna move on. Don’t do that, yo! We the worldwide West Coast, you feel me? And then bosh, he decides to stay.”

Mr. Watson was giggling nervously. ”What?”

Diggy shook his head and looked at his bodyguard. ”This guy.”

”Don’t know, boss. He had the patter down good.” He chuckled in a bass tone. ”Worldwide West Coast. Heh. Gangster.”

”Look,” I said, and I put my arm around Mr. Watson. ”This man’s son is gonna be an amazing footballer. I want him to stay here until he’s 22, at least, so I can make sure he hits his levels. When he goes, he’ll go for ten million quid. Twenty. Maybe more. All that money will stay in this community. Dentists, houses, who knows? I sometimes have minor panic attacks thinking about Steven refusing to sign a pro contract with us because we’ll be offering three grand a week when Liverpool will be offering ten times that.”

Diggy said, ”That’s a big difference, homey.”

”Yeah but you can’t give a 17-year-old thirty grand a week. It’ll kill him.”

Diggy shrugged. ”He ain’t gonna take three when the other guy fixin’a give him thirdy.”

”He will,” I said, ”because if he sticks with me, his total career earnings will be higher because I’ll make sure he becomes the best he can possibly be. That’s my promise to these kids and their parents. But I always said one thing to Mr. Watson, and I’ll say it again. If he does leave Chester, there’s only one person he can fully, one million percent trust.”

I looked at Mr. Watson. He looked from me to Diggy and comprehension dawned. ”Jackie Reaper! Yes! The first day, when Max scouted my Steven, he brought Jackie Reaper to help persuade me to join Chester. I really liked Jackie. Trusted him a lot. An awful lot. In the meantime, yes, Max is brilliant and he has built all this.” He waved his arms around.

Diggy’s eyes widened. ”You built all this, Max?”

Mr. Watson answered. ”It was all fields! Then cabins. And step by step, this. I love the people and Steven loves the football, but if we had to move, I’d go wherever Jackie Reaper was.”

I left a few beats for that to sink in. ”That little guy over there... Hang on, he’s not so little now, is he?”

”No,” laughed Mr. Watson.

I got on my tiptoes and peered, comedically. ”Did that happen in the last month? What the eff?”

”He’s shooting up, Max. That’s one of the things I love about Chester. At other clubs, parents are worried their lads will get cut when they have their growth spurts. The lad gets injured or loses some coordination and they get cut for that?” He expressed his disbelief to the reformed drug dealer. ”They get cut for that! Not here, though. It’s great here.”

I smiled. ”Thanks, cuz. Where I was going with that is that I reckon Chester will be able to transfer Steven for 20 million quid. Do you know how much those guys paid for Tranmere?”

”20 million?”

”Spot on. I’ve told them I’ll help them. They could make their whole money back with one big score. I’ll stabilise them this season and then we’ll start bringing in players they can develop. It’s great here but we can only have 25 in the first-team squad. There are loads of good lads out there with talent who can keep improving. I’d love Tranmere to have them. I don’t mind if Diggy and his mates take a cut of the profit as long as some of the money’s going into the community, some’s reinvested in the youth team, the stadium, all that jazz. But they need a great coach.”

Mr. Watson frowned. ”But they’ve got one.” He sagged, realising his stupidity. ”Oh.”

Diggy played with his lighter more aggressively. ”Don’t fire Jackie Reaper. I got the message, Max.”

”Are you sure? I don’t think you understand that the man’s a cash machine. He’s the golden goose.” I let my voice get dreamy. ”All he needs is the right raw material to work with...”

Diggy did his trademark lop-sided smile. ”And that’s where you come in.”

I took Mr. Watson’s arm and shook it. ”I’m gonna pimp out my services now. It’s gonna be grotesque and messy.”

”Right,” he said, wondering what exactly I meant. ”You need money for your mum. So does that mean you didn’t get the job offers you told us about?”

”No, they want me.” I listened for a while as whistles blew and kids ran and passed in pre-determined patterns. How awesome would it be to have a life coach telling you exactly where to run and pass at any given moment? ”I’m feeling a bit confused, to be honest. Haven’t quite got a grip on anything. The way things panned out, I don’t see how I can leave Chester, but I wish it was more my choice. I don’t know. I think I got bigdogged by a shrinking Polish woman and that’s not what I expected, you know?” I let my hand relax into a kind of ball and pushed my lips into my knuckles. It wasn’t the time to be introspective. I gave his arm another shake. ”Steven’s in the right place.” On that side of the pitch, the structured drill the kids were doing briefly dissolved into a mist. Relationism. Bestball. My secret weapon. When I perfected it, a PA 146 defensive midfielder would look much, much better than his real level. I’d sell him for a higher fee, he would get mad wages, and along the way, we would win a fuckton of matches that should have been too hard. ”Steven’s in the right place,” I repeated. ”Jackie’s in the right place. And so am I.”

Mr. Watson nodded, thought about asking Diggy for a selfie, decided against it. He scuttled off; I would make sure he and his son got a photo with Diggy before he left.

I signalled to Sophie to stop recording. She obeyed instantly; she was great like that. I unclipped my mic and handed it to her. Diggy did the same. We walked off to the side of the medical building. No-one could hear us, but I spoke lower anyway. ”Your 20 million investment will be worth 10 mill if you get relegated, but I like you so I’ll only charge half a million to keep you in League One.”

”We can shake on that, dog.”

He didn’t even hesitate. What number had his investor buddies authorised him to go to? A million? Slightly annoying, but I couldn’t dwell on it. While we shook hands, my thinking sped up. Half a million from Tranmere to keep them up plus half a million from Newport County to get them promoted would be a cool million in easy consulting. Newport were already available in the Panopticon, and when I signed the deal with Tranmere, I would be able to add yet another squad to my list. A million quid plus two more juicy sets of data. I felt a slight breeze push me from behind. Progress. Forward momentum. ”I’ll want more for future seasons, but whatever I charge, it’ll be worth it. You’ve got two ESC slots. Do you know what that means?”

”I do not.”

”They’re valuable and you’re not using them.” I rubbed my mouth. I could get paid by Tranmere while bringing R.E.M. clients across to England. The Polish lad would be a priority. The idea of Jackie Reaper training him up was mouth-watering. ”The deal has to be that if you sack Jackie, I get paid anyway.” It was clear that Diggy didn’t like that idea. I continued, ”If he’s ever screwing up, I’ll be the one to tell you, but if you bin him off, you’re binning off all my work, too.”

We didn’t get the chance to finish that conversation because Physio Dean was hurrying to his office. ”Max!” he said, delighted. ”I didn’t know you were back.”

”I never left.”

”Yeah, but you did, though. You managed a match in the Bundesliga when you were supposed to be taking a sick woman home.”

”I did take her home.”

Sadness took over his face. ”I know.” He brightened. ”You saved that man’s life, Max! We were buzzing for days. That was amazing. We’re so proud of you.” Dean finally turned his head, saw Diggy Doggy, and nodded curtly. ”Hello.”

He didn’t know who Diggy was! Amazing. That was an instant plus one to my Morale. ”Dean, mate, I fell to pieces. Give me a last-minute penalty in a cup final and I’ll be the calmest man in the stadium. Give me a medical emergency, I’m useless. This guy,” I said, giving Dean a push, ”saved my life. A guy smacked my head open. Dean sees blood, he turns to ice. Calm as fuck. He’s my hero.”

Dean pushed me back. ”You did great. You did what you could and it was enough.”

”Maybe you can give me some refreshers in what to do.”

”I’d be happy to. That offer’s open to all, er, employees of Chester Football Club.”

I let out a noise. ”Jesus. Check the website. My name’s at the top.”

”Hmm,” he said, starting to move away. ”Nice to meet you,” he said to Diggy, before going inside to get whatever he had come for.

”Um...” I said, taking a few steps back towards Sophie and retrieving my microphone. ”There’s one thing I wanna do, then I think that’s the episode done and we can start thinking about going to Nando’s or wherever.”

”Nando’s?” said the bodyguard, who clearly knew the sound of food.

I was putting my mic back on but paused. ”It’s a restaurant chain. They refuse to sponsor me because, and I quote, I talk about them all the time anyway. I was joking about that. Emma wants to take you and your boss to the Sticky Walnut. It’s the best restaurant around. Pretty much Emma’s favourite. I love taking her there.” My eyes drifted up and away.

”This your home away from home,” said Diggy.

”Hmm,” I said, wondering if that was true. ”Just home, I think. Just home.”

***

I found my co-manager, Sandra Lane, in the Sin Bin, going over some footage of Plymouth’s recent matches. Beside her were our senior coaches, Peter Bauer and Colin Beckton. They were surprised and happy to see me, I guess. It was hard to tell once Diggy Doggy came into view.

I threw my arms up. ”Right, he’s sold 40 million albums worldwide, but can he do it on a cold Tuesday night in Stoke? Can he fuck.”

Sandra gave me a hug and said, ”How are you doing?”

”Yeah, fine. Weird. Life’s really weird. I’m actually mad at you for not telling me that.”

”Soz.”

”Um, yeah.”

”Jamie missed you.”

”Jamie doesn’t have object permanence yet.” Sandra didn’t react. I relented. ”I missed Jamie, too. Ask him if he wants to do brunch one day. Have you got the starting eleven for tomorrow?”

”Here,” she said.

I looked at it with interest, for the benefit of the documentary. The lineup was my idea. ”I like that. What about the subs?”

”Here,” she said.

I studied the list for a few seconds, looked around, grabbed a pen, crossed a name out, wrote another one. I showed it to her. ”This okay with you?”

Her face crumpled, just for a second. She stuck her chin out. ”It’s okay with me, boss.”

Peter and Colin fist-bumped each other; both their Morales went up a level.

”Let’s keep it a surprise, yeah?”

”Sure.”

I thought about how the Deva Stadium sounded on a Saturday at 3 p.m. ”It’ll be a full house. Record attendance. The away end’s all done. Another step forward. Diggy, do you want to come and watch?”

”I own Tranmere, cuz.”

”Nah, they’ll lose tomorrow; you don’t wanna be there getting that stink on you. Chester’s where it’s at. Monday morning I’ll go watch your boys train, talk to Jackie, start getting your new players in. Next time you come, your team will be rock solid, competing hard against all comers.” I nodded to myself a few times. Being back in the Sin Bin was getting me hyped. I tried to calm myself. ”For tomorrow, I was thinking maybe we could get a pre-match motivational speech from an American. Someone who doesn’t talk much but when he does, it’s on point. Someone who commands instant respect from his very presence. Someone with charisma radiating from every pore.” Diggy, while trying to play it cool, was loving this speech, which is why it was so funny when I put my hands on the shoulders of his bodyguard. ”Sorry, bro. I didn’t catch your name.”

He grinned so wide and it was so cute I knew this would make an amazing end to the episode. He looked right at Sophie. ”They call me Bigg Dogg.”