Soccer Supremo - A Sports Progression Fantasy

15.

Tuesday, May 2

It was incredibly easy to persuade Newport County to come up to Saltney Town for a few days. We had the dorm rooms, we had the pitches and equipment, but most of all, I bribed them with the offer of elite coaching. Llewellyn Kendrick would do a couple of sessions, as would Sandra, Peter, Clive O’Keefe, and Vikki.

The Welsh team trained in the afternoon then were free to either use our facilities or explore Chester, and the only condition was that I needed some players to volunteer to train with our under 18s in the evenings. There were plenty of offers - even Chipper said he would do it - and in the end I had plenty of guys plus a crowd of curious onlookers.

When the Youth Cup team arrived for training, they were wary. They knew I was pissed because I had ended Monday’s session early, and they were much less cocky now that they were being watched by curious players from Chester, Saltney, and Newport County. I told the boys to warm up on their own and to sort out a starting eleven on their own. (They played it safe by going with their best team and the 3-5-1-1 we used in the Youth Cup.)

Then I went to my Newport guys and organised them into a 4-4-2, but apart from Banksy in goal, everyone else was out of position. My centre backs, for example, were Henri Lyons and Chipper. Lee Hudson was left midfield, and Tyler Jansen was a striker. ”Have fun,” was the instruction. ”Don’t hurt anyone, but don’t let them get anywhere near our goal.”

I refereed the match, and called it fairly.

Newport squashed the lads every time they tried to build an attack, and despite everyone being out of position, the National League champions scored quite freely. Jaylyn Cook, normally a defender, was a revelation as a mystery winger, to the point I even wondered if the curse was wrong about where he should play.

Of course, he was up against kids half his age, so it wasn’t exactly a fair fight.

The Newport guys had so much fun that at the end when I said we would do it again tomorrow, every single member of the squad volunteered. So did all the Saltney and Chester players who were watching. ”Gabby, you can’t take part in this! You’ve got a big game on Saturday!”

”It’s fun!” he whined.

”No,” I said. ”Tomzilla, Tockers, you can play.”

Gabby said, ”What about Emi?”

”What about him?”

Gabby grabbed the Italian and pushed him forward. ”He won’t be in the playoff squad. Let him play!”

The aim was to teach my youth squad a lesson and it didn’t really matter who they were up against. Watching a guy that Max Best didn’t rate effortlessly pinging shots into the top corner from 30 yards would show them the kinds of levels they would face in their careers - if they had careers. ”Okay,” I said. ”Emiliano will play... sweeper.”

There was laughter. ”Sweeper?” said Nasa. ”What is sweeper?”

”Libero,” I said. ”Emiliano, you good with that?”

He knew it wasn’t a punishment because everyone else had played out of position, too. He smiled, almost shy. ”Libero. I can do that.”

”Bosh. Same time tomorrow, everyone.”

***

Wednesday, May 3

We had the exact same session, with the youth team managing itself while I messed about with the team of misfits. It was actually great fun and something of a challenge to try new formations while still ensuring players were out of position. I swapped players in and out, but kept Henri on - anywhere but striker - and let Emiliano stay as the sweeper.

He was really pretty good! He anticipated danger, got into position to help his fellow defenders, and because he was so far from goal, there was no question of him shooting. One move where he dismissed Chas Fungrieve’s attempted press with a drop of the shoulder and a first-touch no-look pass drew applause, and a minute later when he played a pass through two sets of lines into a striker’s stride had me flicking my wrist going ’whuuuuut?’ When I switched to calling him ’Peter’ his Morale dropped until Henri explained the joke. ”Only Peter Bauer can do that, ergo, you must be Peter Bauer.” Emi’s Morale soared.

The same could not be said for the youth players.

Good. Fuck ’em.

***

Over dinner, Henri suggested that maybe I was being too harsh.

”Another view, one I find more compelling, is that I’m not being harsh enough.”

”My God. Tell me what truly vexes you about the boys being cocky and confident and bragging.” I told him; he listened. He shrugged. ”Why don’t you speak candidly to the lads?”

”Because once I start, I will continue, and I will continue until I lose my head completely. I know that, so I am being mature, kind of, and I’m giving them the opportunity to learn the lesson indirectly. Like, you know, one of those old Greek lads would have done.”

Henri chewed on my words, and after a while, he said, ”I have an idea.”

***

Thursday, May 4

Before training, I summoned the under 18s to the Sin Bin. A few older guys came in to listen because they were interested and because it was pissing it down outside.

Henri took control of the sitch. He strutted around like a peacock, then declared, ”I have always wanted to be an actor. One of the ways actors train is by doing role plays. Max has kindly agreed to be my scene partner. Max, would you like to propose a scene that we might act out?”

”Naturally,” I said. ”How about I play the famous football manager, Max Best, while you play an eighteen-year-old brat with ideas above his station?”

”Hmm, interesting. If I could tweak the role slightly, I would describe myself as a promising young player who has done everything you’ve ever asked of me, has won every match, and is highly confident of winning the FA Youth Cup final, a tournament which is something that your character has expressed a lot of interest in.”

”Okay but let’s tweak your tweak,” I said, ”because you haven’t done everything I’ve ever asked of you because I asked you to train well and properly and you shat the bed on Monday.”

Henri rubbed his chin. ”These prompts are getting in the direction of too specific, so I think we can start the scene. Let me just do my vocals.” He went ’la la LA la lahhhhhh’, then let his head and arms go floppy. ”What’s my motivation?”

”Your motivation is to put your own needs first at all times but to do it so fucking moronically that you end up hurting yourself and others.”

”Hmm,” said Henri. ”I might save that for a future scene. Thank you for the input. Okay I’m ready.” He mimed knocking on a door.

”What are you doing?”

”Say come in.”

”I thought we would be out on the grass.”

”It’s still polite to knock,” said Henri.

At this point, it might be worth mentioning that the youth players were not enjoying themselves much, but the adults were having a blast. I sighed and said, ”Come in.”

Henri mimed stepping through a door. ”Boss, I’ve got a question if that’s all right. Things seemed to be going well in our season but then you turned all of a sudden and are making us play against lots of much more talented, much more fragrant men and we keep losing and we can’t even dribble past Henri Lyons, the striker, who is a revelation in his new position.”

My eyebrows rose. ”I’ve seen plenty of lads dribble past Henri. He’s rancid.”

”I rather think he’s superb,” said Henri. ”But what is it that we have done to earn your wrath?”

”My what?”

”Your wrath. Your ire. We are demotivated and we’re going to lose the cup final. We can’t understand it.”

”Look,” I said, slipping into my role as Max Best pretty well, I thought. ”I don’t give a fucking shit about the cup final. The way I see it, you’ve already lost.”

”Pardon me?”

”The point of you being here isn’t to win the cup. That’s the cherry on top. That’s the goal because that’s the highest honour you can get, but the real goal, the fundamental goal, is that you have careers. You have the talent to have a long career in this sport, but you need to take it seriously or you’ll be eaten alive. There are ten thousand kids who will take your spot in this team, this squad. You might think you’re so talented there’s no way they could possibly do it but that’s because you’re a moron. I’d take someone slightly less talented but a lot more determined.”

”We are determined.”

”You’re not!” I snapped. ”You’re swaggering around like you’ve won 5 World Cups! It pisses me off. That’s not how we do things round here. You get to the top of the hill, there’s the next hill, and the next hill. You don’t get to take a week off the grind so you can dick about in training. You step off the grind, chances are you won’t be able to get back on. You’re not training this week to beat Man City, you’re training to have a career, you’re training so you can be rich and famous and take care of your family. So you can live in a nice house and buy flash cars. But you only get that if you put the maximum effort in all the time, whatever the scenario, whatever the weather.

”Five years from now, if you’re in a League One relegation battle and you haven’t been picked for three months but you’re still grinding in training, still doing a hundred percent in every drill, still asking the coaches how you can improve, it’s gonna be noticed and you’re gonna be back in the team! Or the coaches will take you to their next club, or one of the other players will become a manager and he’ll say, I need players like you, here’s a contract.”

Henri clenched his fists and held them in front of himself. ”I do that! I train hard every week. Even on Monday!”

”No,” I said, jabbing my finger at him. ”You were dogshit. You were complacent. You acted like you had it all figured out. Well, figure out how to beat a fifth-tier team where everyone’s out of position. Oops, you can’t. This is a lesson for the rest of your career. Next time you feel like bragging, like showing off, like not doing the basics, next time you feel like hitting a Hollywood pass because you can’t be arsed building across and up the pitch like you’ve been told, I want you to remember how crap this week felt.”

Henri sagged. ”I want to win the Youth Cup. Won’t you relent? Losing on a daily basis to Henri Lyons and his friends is not good preparation for the final.”

”Didn’t you hear me? I’m not trying to prepare you for the final. I’m trying to prepare you for the rest of your life.”

”But boooossss!”

I went over and pushed him in the chest. ”You’ve pissed me off so I’m showing you your true levels. Reminding you of how far you’ve got to go. Better to lose the cup final and learn some humility. Better to have that failure, that constant reminder for the next ten years that you had every advantage and fucked it up. Playing against Emiliano and his friends and losing on a daily basis, that’s your medicine. Take your medicine, sort your attitudes out, and stop fucking complaining. End of scene, get on the grass, Max Best has spoken.”

The youth players stood and started to file down to the front. I glared at them, but my face softened. Two had popped in Determination during the final part of my speech. Huh. Maybe I didn’t need to go full nuclear after all.

”Wait,” I said. They stopped. I pointed to the rows where the older guys were watching. ”Choose a player-manager from that lot. They’ll join your team and help you out.”

Roddy Jones, Wallace Wells, and Archer Phillips, the captain, looked at each other. Roddy said, ”Emiliano.”

That surprised me, but okay. ”So let it be written, so let it be done. Curtain. Exit stage right.”

”Left,” said Henri.

”Whatever.”

***

Emiliano did a good job, I had to admit. He played CAM instead of Adam Roberts, and he was as fast and strong as his opponents but was playing in the right position. He linked brilliantly with Roddy Jones in particular, but also dropped deep to help the other midfielders, and sometimes went even further back to give the defenders an option.

He talked and motivated and gave advice. The youth team’s levels increased. Morale rose, their ability to keep the ball was transformed, and while they still struggled, it was a far more even contest. They had stopped mentally whining and complaining about the situation they were in and tried to overcome the gap to the senior players through force of will.

Nice try, but this is football, not anime. They still got crushed.

I was enjoying it. The lads were showing character and courage, and then Emiliano had to ruin it all by popping in Teamwork.

”Holy fucking shit!” I cried, turning away in disbelief. ”What the actual fuck am I supposed to do with that?”

I whistled to end the match and told the players to team up in small mixed groups and do skills training for the rest of the session. Henri called out, ”Where are you going?”

”I’m going to punch a brick wall until my hand is a stump.”

”Are you not pleased with the session?”

Everyone was watching, so I had to choose my words carefully. ”It was mint.”

I strode off, but watched the player profiles in my head. It was like in an action movie where the hero walks away from an explosion, but instead of flames and fire it was relief, satisfaction, and Morale pops.

***

Friday, May 5

@TransferHeat

Diggy Doggy’s Tranmere Rovers have made an audacious bid to sign Manchester United starlet Matt Rush! The pacey full back has fallen out of favour at Old Trafford after a string of terrible injuries, but it’s still a surprise that he’s being linked with a permanent move to League One. Diggy Doggy has clearly caught the football bug and is willing to put his money where his mouth is. Watch this space for more updates!

***

Saturday, May 6

EFL Championship Play-Off Semi-Final First Leg: Luton Town versus Chester

In 1977, half the nation walked all the way from their sofas to their distant, tiny TV sets in order to pull the cranks and levers that tuned those bulky, cumbersome devices to BBC 1. Why? To watch the Christmas episode of The Morecambe & Wise Show, which starred Luton Town’s most famous fan, Eric Morecambe. As the show started, the familiar theme tune will have blared out, though I don’t think they had Dolby Surround Sound back then, or even subwoofers.

Bring me sunshine, in your smile!

Bring me sunshine. That was the hope for both sets of fans, both sets of players, but the curse had predicted rain and rain is what the universe had delivered.

A damp pitch could go one of two ways. The ball could be hard to control, making it harder to play through the lines, so the team that got the first goal would be able to turtle up and defend their lead. Or it could be that the most technical players came to the fore and stole the show.

The players had stayed overnight in Luton, so we were close to the stadium all morning. Sandra repeated some of our presentations, showing clips of our previous encounters with the Hatters. Vikki did the same but focused on set pieces. My job was to take a high-level view. How were the players looking? Feeling? It all seemed solid to me. We were well prepared. Amazingly well prepared.

If it was ideal to peak at the end of the season, we had done that once more. With no major injuries and another great week of training under our belt, we would start the match with an average CA of exactly 139. Three points ahead of Luton, though of course they would have home advantage and all the benefits of this being the last ever match in their iconic stadium.

As the meeting broke up, I looked around. ”Dan,” I said, summoning Dan Badford, who was one of five players to hit a landmark round number this week. CA 120 at the age of 19. I felt that I was handling his development superbly, and that by the end of next season he would be one of the most talked-about midfielders in the Championship. Possibly not among the average match-going fans, but opposition managers and analysts would be purring over him. That’s if he kept improving, which I was pretty sure he would.

”Yes, boss?”

”Remember we had a big chat once and you said you didn’t want to play abroad in Milan, Rome, Madrid, and fly straight home and not see anything of the city?”

”Yeah.”

”Come with me to the stadium. It’s a piece of history. A museum of sorts. We’ll be two of the last people to ever see it from the inside before it gets demolished.”

His eyebrows had risen, as had his Morale. We had brought him down in case we picked up any late injuries, but he wasn’t going to be on the bench. He had been professional about it, but he was obviously disappointed not to be involved in the big match. ”Just us two? What about the others?”

I waved, dismissively. ”They’re a bunch of barbarians, mate. They think culture starts and ends with yoghurt.”

Dan laughed. ”That’s not true. But yeah, okay. Are we gonna go and come back here? What about my stuff?”

I thought about it. ”We’ll take our stuff, leave it in the dressing room, go for a wander. If anyone refuses to let us into a section I’ll throw a tantrum and threaten not to play the match.”

”They would win 3-0, boss. They’d love that.”

I pulled at my ear. ”You might be right. I’ll wear a disguise and you’ll do all the talking. Use some of that charm I’ve heard so much about. I’ll see you in the lobby in ten minutes, yeah?”

***

Wearing a disguise - West Didsbury baseball cap, Kettering Town scarf, President Macron sunglasses - I waited for Dan. Yeah, while the youth team’s training had been a bit weird, the men’s had been more or less perfect. It was surely just a statistical quirk that five players moved to a round number, but it had a powerful psychological effect on me. Dan at CA 119 was not really in my thoughts for this match, but Dan at 120 was ten times more compelling.

Similarly, Lewis had moved to CA 140, Peter to 130, Roddy to 100, and Wallace Wells to 80.

There was another good pop, which was Cole Adams moving to CA 135. He had quietly, almost sneakily, moved 15 points ahead of Christian Fierce. Christian wasn’t direct competition for Cole, since they played different positions, but Cole was giving me a selection headache and was even making me doubt the formation I would play next season. How could I play a 3-4-3 variant as the default when I had such a solid left back?

Today, though, we were going with the formation that suited us best, 3-4-2-1, and our default lineup, which now included Magnus ahead of Christian. Some managers went crazy in big matches and created bespoke formations that had never been seen before and never would be again. Not me - I was playing the hits. Bring Me Sunshine, lads.

Dan arrived and we hopped in a taxi. ”The Kenny, please,” I said.

”The Old Girl, right-oh.”

Dan eyed me, worried. Maybe this was a bad idea? I thought about what I’d learned from watching spy movies - never get in the first taxi.

Before I could get seriously anxious, we pulled up at the stadium. We got out and the taxi drove off. Dan nodded to himself. ”The Old Girl’s looking fine today.”

”The Old Girl,” I said, shaking my head. ”It’s a ramshackle old stadium made of bits bolted onto other bits, like Frankenstein. Why’s it a girl?”

”Why are ships girls?”

”Ships are sleek and beautiful and have a swan-like elegance. As you know, all swans are female.”

”There are no male swans?”

”Those are called geese. There’s the door.”

The Luton staff were surprised to see just two of us turn up with our gear, early, but they were extremely welcoming and friendly and when Dan asked if we could go wander around the stadium as a sort of tour, they couldn’t have been more pleased and helpful.

Dan and I left our bags and started by going around the pitch. The grass itself looked pristine, if somewhat soggy, but we were more interested in the stands. ”This section,” I said, stretching my arms like bookmarks, ”is the away end. See that doorway up there? That’s where they come in, but this is not your normal football stadium. As a fan, you rock up at this row of terraced houses, but where there should be number 13 or whatever it is, there’s one house that’s just, like, instead of a bay window there’s a wooden barn door and it says Oak Stand. You go inside and pass through and you’re going through an alley between two actual houses. Then it’s up these concrete and metal stairs, bit like if you’re getting on a plane, and you can see in everyone’s back gardens and in their windows. There’s one video I saw of away fans chanting ’We can see you in the bath!’ Then suddenly you’re in a stadium that has had Premier League football in it. It’s like the total opposite of Tottenham’s stadium.”

”And today’s the last match,” said Dan, looking around as we walked on. ”Won’t it be just as strange for the Deva to be in the Prem? Those Spurs fans will come and laugh at our Main Stand and all that.”

”Ours is small and some of the facilities are basic but nothing like this. You don’t walk through someone’s garden to get in. If you go out there you’ll see how close the houses are to the stadium. We’re talking two yards. It’s old, old, old-school. The Deva was built in 1992, I think. This was 1905. And we can rebuild the Deva on its footprint but here you’d need to buy, like, 200 homes. Entire streets. It’s too complicated, too expensive, that’s why they’re moving to Power Court.”

Dan was eyeing some of the flags that dotted the stands. The biggest one said Luton Town in huge letters, and underneath was the famous phrase: ’Betrayed by the FA 2008’. The wound from their mistreatment festered, as did so many of the wounds the Football Association had inflicted on the sport it was supposed to govern. Dan had other things on his mind. ”They went to the Prem and went straight back down, didn’t they? Like most clubs. How would we get on? Can we survive in the Prem?”

I couldn’t tell him the truth - it could demotivate him and he would tell the rest of the squad what I had said. I wanted to get to the playoff final. Two million quid and a day in the sun. ”We would give it a good go. It’s not easy, though. You saw how Burnley got on this season and they were miles better prepared than we would be.”

When I had seen them last, Burnley were CA 140, but they had signed plenty of young players with talent so it wouldn’t have surprised me if they had finished on 145 or so. Still, our first eleven would be broadly comparable to theirs. The real issue would be squad depth. Guys like Dan, Nasa, and Helge could do a job in the Championship, could hold down their zone for half an hour while the starters got a rest. They would be eaten alive in the Premier League.

”Burnley,” I said, shaking my head. ”They spent an entire season struggling, suffering, burning money, being the butt of every joke, and what did they get out of it? Nothing. They’re relegated, their debts are bigger, and their management team have all been sacked.”

”Your mate works there, doesn’t he?”

”David Bakero from my UEFA Pro course? No. He’s unemployed. Sacked along with all the others.”

Dan looked down at the white line that marked the pitch’s boundary. ”It’s a shit business.”

I paused before replying because John ’Jonno’ Wilkes, former England midfielder and friend of Alan Turner had appeared. He was Luton Town’s manager these days, and while he was a bit shit, he was smart enough to delegate tasks and to let a more experienced coach take training and advise him on tactics and subs. It grated slightly that his coach did all the work while Jonno took the praise, but that’s how it goes sometimes, and Jonno was famous enough to help with player recruitment. ”Yeah, it’s a shit business,” I mumbled, before remembering that the topic was David Bakero. ”I’m gonna wait a while and then I’ll cheer him up by offering him a job.”

”Yeah? Which one?”

”Assistant to Vimsy.”

Dan laughed. ”Imagine him and Vimsy as a double act!”

I clicked my fingers. ”Double acts. Have you heard of Morecambe and Wise?”

”No.”

I went to a steward and asked which side the Eric Morecambe Lounge was. He told me; Dan and I headed that way. We clambered over the advertising boards and went up some stairs. ”Morecambe and Wise were a comedy act in the olden days. They used to be bigger than TikTok, poetry, and telephone psychics combined. Morecambe was a director of Luton Town for a while; they’ve got a function room named after him. It’s got photos and memorabilia. It’s like the Blues Bar but with more star power and the League Cup.”

”Luton won the League Cup?”

”Apparently, yeah. I think it was around the time they banned away fans for five years after Millwall’s hooligans did a massive riot.”

”They banned away fans? Is that allowed?”

”I don’t think so but they did it anyway. Now I’m wondering if maybe that’s why the FA went so hard at them... But nah, that scandal was 20 years later. They won the League Cup around the time they had a plastic pitch.”

”You mean 3G?”

”I’m guessing it was 1G. Apparently, it was like playing on concrete and teams hated coming here, as you can imagine. And at some point they took all the seats out of one entire stand and made it into just executive boxes.”

”What? In the olden days? I thought that was new.”

”I know, it’s mad. I wish I had time to get one of these old boys and buy him a beer while listening to him tell the stories. It sounds like it has been a wild ride.”

We arrived at a set of very old-fashioned wood-and-glass double doors under the words The Eric Morecambe Lounge. I heard someone say, ”That’s Max Best!” to which his mate replied, ”Give over! It can’t be!”

There was a bar and tables had been laid. I was always interested in what other clubs offered as a hospitality menu, and the walls were lined with old photos, but I went straight to a glass case behind which sat three magnificent silver trophies. Dan sidled up to me and smiled. ”Get you a girl who looks at you the way Max Best looks at silverware.”

”What?” I said, distracted.

”You’re like a dragon.”

”I’m not like a dragon,” I said. ”I just want all the treasure.”

***

On our way back to the away dressing room, I stopped suddenly and looked around. There was an old boy who patrolled these corridors during a match to make sure no-one broke in and stole the players’ watches and so on. I couldn’t see him, so I cheekily slipped into the home dressing room.

In such an old stadium there was limited space, so it wasn’t a luxurious affair by any means, but looked a lot better than on a video tour I had watched earlier in the season, which was interesting. It meant Luton had been improving their home right until the last minute. At the Deva, I had essentially frozen any new work on the old stands, because I intended to demolish them soon enough, but then again, it wasn’t quite the same thing. I had more attachment to the new stands than the old, which would be inverted for a Luton fan.

”Dan, do you know after the war, they had to demolish loads of houses? Can’t remember why, but the families who lived in those homes spent their final days there cleaning them, tidying, even though they were gonna get blown up. I’ve never really understood it.”

”That is a bit mad,” said Dan.

I took a few steps.

”Looking for the tactics board?”

I spun and was amazed to see that a guy was sitting on one of the benches. I hadn’t seen him! It was Paul Shaw, the 39-year-old Luton stalwart who was retiring at the end of the season. This would be everyone’s last ever game at this stadium, but for Paul Shaw that thought was much more meaningful. ”Yeah,” I said. ”I’m spying. Your boy Jonno has done 4-2-3-1 every match of his career but I’m bricking it that he might switch it up today.”

Shaw’s lips twitched. ”What are you really doing?”

I shrugged. ”Same as you, I guess.”

Dan said, ”Were you here when there was a plastic pitch?”

Shaw didn’t like that. ”Cheeky little shit! That was the 80s. How old do you think I am?”

Dan looked him up and down. ”Going off your jeans... 60?”

I laughed, grabbed Dan, and pulled him towards the doorway. ”Stop taking the piss. Enjoy today, Paul. I hope you get on the pitch.”

Dan did an amazed face. ”You said not to take the piss!”

Paul eyed me while pointed hard at Dan. ”Is he playing today?”

”No.”

”Lucky for him.”

***

An hour before kick-off, the home sections of the stadium were already nearly full. Luton’s lot were singing lustily.

There was no Bench Boost or Triple Captain option. The playoffs would be decided the old-fashioned way.

***

Briggy told me off for going into enemy territory without a bodyguard. ”I brought Dan!”

Briggy eyed him. ”Dan can’t do a spinning roundhouse kick while making quips.”

”Hey,” I said. ”Dan can do karate.”

”Er...” said Dan.

”He hasn’t even started but he’s got his first dan.”

Dan laughed but said, ”Cut that.”

Briggy sighed. ”There will be a pitch invasion at the end of the match. I want to remind everyone to clear out quickly when that happens.”

”Yeah, good. Good thinking.”

***

Luton went all-out with the pageantry. Fire cannons, massive flags, a parade of beloved former players. Half the crowd were in tears even before kick off. I turned to Sandra and gave her an ’oh, shit’ look. This was going to get all kinds of spicy.

”We have to survive the storm,” she said. ”Make sure we don’t get blown away.”

***

Seals Live

Boggy: Kick off is imminent here at Kenilworth Road. Tim Bennett, the referee, is ready. It looks like we lost the coin toss - let’s hope that isn’t an omen.

Spectrum: How can we lose the coin toss? Heads never fails!

Boggy: The home team are lining up in their usual 4-2-3-1. For those who have joined the broadcast late, remind us who their dangerous players are.

Spectrum: The three attacking midfielders are tricky. That’s Mendy, Greaves, and Selvik. They are quality Championship players and we’ll need to be careful when they’re on the ball. Their main striker, Pollock, used to be lethal but in the past couple of seasons his goalscoring has dropped off a cliff. He’s still a good link man and he will occupy our centre backs but not much else. If he scores, we’re in trouble!

Boggy: And Chester are doing our customary setup. It’s Owen Elmham in goal. A back three of Zach Green, Peter Bauer, and Magnus Evergreen. Lewis Lamarre will play left midfield, with Cheb Alloula on the opposite side. In the middle, Joel Reid and Youngster. Ahead of that pair will be Pascal Bochum and William Roberts. Up front, a striker we hope is rather more in-form than his counterpart, Gabriel. The bench has a variety of options. Ian Swan is the goalie, then there is Helge Hagen, Christian Fierce, Andrew Harrison, Calabash Barkley, Max Best, and Colin Beckton. What should we expect? Has Max got a trick up his sleeve today?

Spectrum: I’m not expecting anything out of the ordinary tactically. Today is all going to be about the crowd. How do we manage the atmosphere? That’s the battle. That’s the test. Cut through the noise - literally - and we’ll take a lead into the second leg and then it’s Wembley, here we come!

***

Minute 1. Decibels: 99.

The action got underway and Luton’s players hit 110% intensity from the off. Sprints, tackles, and every pass was forward. Sometimes in sport, the first thing a team does sets the tone.

The first thing we did on the ball was when Joel Reid was rushed into a pass and hit it straight out for a throw-in. The second thing was Owen Elmham booting the ball all the way to the other goalie. Then Peter Bauer tried to get us calm but overdid it. He played the ball softly towards Youngster. Mendy was alert and got there first. Youngster had to shift his balance to avoid the foul, and Mendy was free to drive forward. He played a brilliant one-two with Selvik, and crashed a shot at goal. Owen got two hands up and batted it away, but the energy in the crowd went to mad new levels.

***

Minute 5. Decibels 105.

Boggy: Here come Luton again. Crossed. Cleared. They go sideways. Good shape from Chester. Back to the wing. Another cross. Another headed clearance. Did you say something, Speckers? I can barely hear you. I can barely hear my own thoughts. What an atmosphere! It can’t get any louder than this. Sideways. Patience from Greaves. Now he accelerates, with his low centre of gravity. Pollock holds off Zach Green. Mendy pops up in space. He tries - oh, that’s useful! Lovely slipped pass, cut back. Shot! It’s blocked. Shot! It’s blocked! Shot - no, he delays and turns. Alloula tries to close his man down. Greaves jinks to the edge of the penalty area, shoots... and in!

Love this novel? Read it on NovelFire to ensure the author gets credit.

Spectrum: Christ.

Boggy: It’s in! Greaves has scored! It took a wicked deflection but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t care! Kenilworth Road erupts! I thought it had already erupted, but those were just the tremors! Dust is falling from the old bricks. The metal gantries are straining. This iconic old stadium is creaking under the weight of a thousand tons of solid joy. Spectrum, what do you make of it? Spectrum? He can’t hear me. This is unbelievable. We are inches apart! But now Luton and Chester are a goal apart, and what a vital goal that might prove to be!

***

Minute 10. Decibels 110.

Boggy: Chance for Luton! The shot is struck straight into Bauer. The rebound falls to Alloula, but he’s instantly tackled. It looked a foul to me, but the home fans cheer it like it’s a goal and the ref lets it go. Selvik finds Mendy. Will he shoot? He looks for Pollock, but Green steps in front of the ball. He does that so well these days. Youngster tries to drive Chester up the pitch. He looks left, but the pass to Lamarre is behind him. Luton surge forward. This is ceaseless pressure from the home team! Can they get a second? You feel that if they get a second, this will be game over.

Spectrum: Oh no.

Boggy: Bauer slips at a critical moment. The ball is going to reach Greaves. He smashes the ball... And it’s in! Luton have scored a second! What a goal that was. What a goal! The ball was on the right and it was worked well to the byline. The right back wanted to hit a low cross but hit it straight into Evergreen. The ball rebounded to Mendy, who overhit his pass to Selvik. Peter Bauer slipped as he tried to turn to make the interception, and that confused Selvik, but the ball ran all the way across the penalty area until it landed at the feet of Greaves, who hit it superbly, cleanly, into the top right. Owen Elmham threw himself, full-stretch, and got close to it, but it was a sublime goal. Greaves might just have fired Luton into the playoff final. Ten minutes gone, and it’s two-nil!

Spectrum: We look shell-shocked. This could get messy. This could get really messy.

Boggy: What will the response be? We need a response. All Chester eyes turn to Max Best and Sandra Lane.

***

The roar from an English crowd when celebrating a goal normally lasts five seconds before trailing off into more general cheers, applause, and appreciation. This fucking crowd went big for thirty seconds at least. Huge, huge, prolonged noise. I found myself looking towards the VIP boxes, hoping Emma was wearing ear plugs because, no joke, people would be experiencing hearing loss from this match.

Hearing loss for the home fans. Head loss for the away players. ”Peter, Youngster, Pascal. Get over here.” They couldn’t hear me over tremendous, incessant din. ”It’s like playing football inside a jet engine!” While I waved at them, I dragged their player icons all the way off the pitch; they instantly walked towards me, and when they saw what I wanted, they jogged. The old ’icons off the pitch’ trick was one I had developed - I think - on my second day in Chester. It was how I had binned off the bratty under 14s without substituting them.

When Peter, Youngster, and Pascal were close, I brought them into a mini-huddle.

”This is fun, isn’t it? We’re at a rare event, lads. It’s like the death of a star. Two-nil isn’t good but it isn’t terminal. No way can they keep up this intensity. Another ten minutes and they’ll be gassed, so their manager’s gonna tell them to chill out. You do the same. Work the ball around. Stay calm. Right now, we’re still favourites to go through to the final. String five passes together and we’ve got this, okay? Stay together, stay compact, make them work for every single inch. Let’s go.”

I moved their icons back onto the pitch and they automatically popped into their previous locations. I looked at Wibbers and pointed to my temple. Think! I looked at Zach and made a ’calm’ gesture.

I put my arm around Sandra, who looked a bit like she had seen a ghost. ”You know what I find weird?”

”Not now, Max.”

”I’ve only just worked out why I can’t understand any Luton songs.”

”Mate.”

”They don’t say Luton, you see. They sort of say, oo-un. That’s how they say Luton. Come on, oo-un means come on, Luton.”

She patted me on the back. ”I’ve learned something important today. What are we going to do, though?”

”Nothing. We expected something like this. We’re in a hole and we need to dig in and claw our way out.”

”What if we drop Wibbers to CM?”

”No. This is a test of character. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

***

Minute 14. Decibels 114.

”Wem-ber-lee! Wem-ber-lee! We’re the famous Oo-un Town and we’re off to Wem-ber-lee!”

Peter Bauer got himself into trouble, was dribbling towards his own goal with Luton players all around him. In a panic, he started the motion to pass the ball back to Owen. Two opponents sprinted at the keeper, but Peter simply put his foot on the top of the ball, dragged it backwards and turned. So long, suckers!

The noise level dropped for the first time. My neck tingled.

Peter glided forward before rolling the ball across the damp surface to Youngster. He side-footed it to Joel Reid, who sent it to Lewis on the left touchline. He pointed towards Youngster, signalling that he wanted to play that pass, but when the ball arrived at Lewis’s feet he seemed to miscontrol it.

Except now he was galloping down the left wing, with acres of space ahead of him.

The noise level dipped further.

Lewis looked into the middle, didn’t see anything he liked, so checked back. He fed the ball to Joel, who gave it to Youngster, who moved it to Cheb.

Luton were all back behind the ball, but we passed it around for the first time. 10 passes. 20. 30.

The storm had passed.

***

Minute 16. Decibels 103.

”Who are ya? Who are ya?”

We’re Chester FC, mate. Sandra and I were watching intently. It looked like she had learned how to tune out the noise from the home fans, and so had many of our players. We were getting back into this. Our match ratings were climbing; Luton’s were going down. They were still miles ahead, but the direction of travel was clear. We were technically superior and would have the majority of the ball for the rest of the 90.

”This is good. The formation’s right.”

”Yeah,” agreed Sandra.

Our passes sped up. Our movement was dragging Luton players around. Gabby was doing his job as the focal point of our attacks, but he was reacting to the moves Pascal and Wibbers made, too. Where Luton’s striker, Pollock, was a big, static lump who was easy to mark, Gabby was always asking questions of the oppo without straying too far from his duties. ”That’s it, Gabby!” I cried, and I was surprised to realise that he had heard me.

Luton were still in party mode, but we had created a baseline of anxiety.

Then a burst of class from Cheb. He lazily flicked the ball through a defender’s legs, sped up, got to the edge of the penalty area, looked to his left, and dabbed the ball straight ahead. Pascal read his intentions and ran onto the pass. He was about to shoot when a defender slid in and fouled him.

I grabbed Sandra and jumped.

Penalty!

Amazing. Who was going to take it? Wibbers was the default. Was I happy with that? Of course I was. Was this the right time to use Free Hit? Of course it was!

But where is it? Where’s the option?

Don’t tell me I don’t get any perks in the playoffs!

”The fuck is happening?” said Sandra, as if she could read my mind.

My eyes bulged when I realised what I was seeing. The referee was holding a yellow card over Pascal Bochum’s head. I couldn’t believe it, even when I checked the curse commentary. ”He’s booked Pascal for diving!”

I walked away, pushing my thumbs into the hollows of my eye sockets. Magnus had told me about the acupressure points located there, the ones at the top and the ones at the bottom. I massaged them sometimes and it did provide a sense of relief.

I grabbed one of the iPads and rewatched the incident.

Pascal had been about to shoot when a defender slid in. Seeing that the shot was going to be blocked, Pascal had nudged the ball ahead to a new spot. The defender had realised he was about to wipe Pascal out and give away a pen, so he had sort of bent his legs to get out of the way. Pascal, then, had fallen over for seemingly no reason. No reason except to cheat. The Luton players - and crowd - had reacted in a frenzy.

But the defender’s arse had crashed into Pascal’s feet and tripped him up!

I could accept that the ref saw no contact, but I couldn’t accept a yellow card for diving. Had Pascal been able to keep going, he would have been in a sensational position. The ref was, in effect, booking Pascal for being stupid, and that was grossly unfair. Stupid? Never that. Anything but that.

I was pacing around, still trying to massage away the frustration, when the match restarted. Pascal’s Morale had dropped and whenever he got the ball, almost the entire stadium booed. Ten thousand people chanted ’Cheat! Cheat! Cheat!’

A couple of minutes later came the next flashpoint.

Luton did a nice move that we put a stop to, which led to a transition. Our front five surged ahead, but Wibbers was ’accidentally’ clipped by a retreating defender. Pascal played the ball in front of the spot where Wibbers would have been, which forced the ref into making a decision. Good play, most of the time, because the ref would be forced to acknowledge there had been an off-the-ball foul and dish out a yellow card.

That card didn’t come, which infuriated Wibbers. He got into a pushing and shoving contest with the guy who had fouled him. The ref dived into his pocket, pulled out the yellow, and showed it... to Wibbers. And Wibbers alone.

”What the actual fuck is going on?” I said, stomping around my technical area like a mad professor. I stopped suddenly. This was part of the plot. The referee plot. First was Steve Steel literally stealing the Ipswich match. Now Tim Bennett was doing the same. What was the plan? Yellow cards for any Chester player who looked like scoring?

Which matches had Tim Bennett reffed? He had done a few of ours. Home wins against Portsmouth and Birmingham. An away defeat to Hull. What was the pattern? There wasn’t one.

I knew one thing, though. He was going to dick us again and again today, and that would start with showing red cards to Pascal and Wibbers. The FA would have to overturn a straight red that was shown to have been awarded unfairly, but they never overturned a ban caused by a player getting two yellow cards.

Two yellows for either Pascal or Wibbers. Or both. They were pretty much my most irreplaceable players. I rushed to Sandra. ”We need to get Pascal and Wibbers off the pitch, right now.” While she looked at me like I was crazy, I turned to the subs bench. I had picked Helge ahead of Cole because Helge could play either full-back slot and was a decent makeshift striker if we got desperate. Cole might have been better in this situation. I shook the thought away. He wasn’t here! Work with what you have! ”Andrew and Bark. We go 4-5-1 and shut this half down. Grindcore.”

”Max,” said Sandra, her gaze rapidly switching from my left eye to my right. ”What are you doing?”

”Do it fast,” I said, urgently. ”Before he can send them off!”

She looked at me, dumbly, for a few more seconds, but then her eyes went wide as if she had been jolted awake. She rushed around making preparations while I went to Briggy, who was loitering near the tunnel. I covered my mouth and moved as close to her as possible. ”The ref’s bent. He’s one of them. Can you clone his phone and all that?”

Briggy wasn’t as surprised as Sandra had been. She leaned close to my ear, covered her mouth, and said, ”The room for officials is locked. There’s a guy who guards the corridor. Make a distraction so I can pick the lock and get in. Five minutes later, send someone down to our dressing room, making a lot of noise, so that I can slip back out.”

”Done,” I said, but as I stood at the edge of the tunnel, far from home, I wondered if I really could create a distraction. The ref would love nothing more than to give me a red card and recommend a ban for the next match. Even if he couldn’t get me banned from the sideline, he could stop me from taking to the pitch later today.

I took a few steps towards Sandra. My senses felt elevated. The movement in the stands seemed sinister; people were eyeing me with malevolent intent. They were screaming abuse at me, too, but that was preferable to the guys who would sneak up on me with a metal bar.

I couldn’t play.

As soon as I stepped onto that pitch, the ref would be looking to get me. Yellow, yellow, red, miss the second leg. If you wanted to stop Chester winning this tie, you couldn’t just fix the result today, because next time there would be a different ref. They weren’t all in this conspiracy, that was for sure, because otherwise how would we have finished fourth? And I hadn’t noticed anything sinister in the rest of the season. This whole thing was new. Now that we were getting close, the cabal had been activated.

No, I couldn’t play.

So the new plan. Turtle up, make the game stodgy. Two-nil at half time, two-nil at full time. Jonno would take that. The Luton fans would take that.

I would take that.

Get a half-decent ref in the second leg, attack at full power, attack till we drop. If Luton could resist what we threw at them, they would deserve to win.

***

Boggy: Huge boos! Deafening abuse is being hurled down at Pascal Bochum and William Roberts as they leave the pitch. They look confused. We all are!

Spectrum: They’re both on yellows. Max needs them for the second leg.

Boggy: The second leg! We have to play this one, first!

Spectrum: Max is taking the lads off to protect them from the ref. He is utterly useless. Actually, that’s being generous.

Boggy: They both look utterly furious!

Spectrum: They’re bound to take it as a personal affront, thinking they’re being taken off for poor performance, but they will realise what’s happening when they cool off. [Pause.] They need to cool off quickly, though, because Max’s patience has limits. Do not leave the pitch in a huff and do not throw your toys out of the pram. Not at this club!

Boggy: William Roberts seems to be throwing toys left, right, and centre. Oh, and he’s got a faceful of dragonbreath from Max. A close range blast! It’s all kicking off. Things go from bad to worse for Chester. Two-nil down, the crowd is baying for blood, and the referee seems intent to give it to them. This is not good for my blood pressure. Where are all those young bucks I’ve been teaching to do this job? I can’t handle the strain.

Spectrum: I’ve got bad news for you, Boggy. I reckon every time we get a yellow card, Max is gonna sub that player off. Make it really, really clear what he thinks of the referee.

Boggy: Uh, well, we can only make five changes and apart from half time, we only have three so-called windows. We have used one window, so... Speckers, this is a disaster! Our season is crumbling!

Spectrum: Yeah.

Boggy: What do you mean, yeah?

Spectrum: I’m agreeing with you.

Boggy: Well, don’t! Tell me it’s all going to be okay!

Spectrum: It’s all going to be okay.

Boggy: There we go.

Spectrum: On a long-enough time horizon.

Boggy: [Wails.]

***

We played 4-5-1 for a few minutes, but then I asked myself what the shit I was doing and moved to 4-1-4-1 with Youngster in his best position. ”Fucking head loss,” I said.

”What’s that?” said Sandra, who was concentrating hard.

”I’ve got head loss, same as everyone else. I’ve moved Youngster to DM.”

”I saw.”

”We’ll stabilise and then experiment with 3-5-2 variants. Urgh.”

”What?”

”I was thinking that we could do 3-5-2 but drop Youngster to DM.”

”That sounds great.”

”Yeah, no, it’s what Preston did to us, remember? 3-1-4-2. And it was garbage.”

”It was garbage for them but it could work for us. We don’t have two strikers, though, do we? So we would be doing, ah, 3-1-4-1-1. That’s more sophisticated than what Preston were doing and Max, it fits the players we’ve got on the pitch.”

In Sandra’s tweaked formation, the guy behind Gabby would be Cheb. The curse listed him as a wide player but I had seen him thrive as a CAM. Maybe against elite teams he wouldn’t do a good job there, but while I respected Luton, they weren’t elite. ”I don’t like the way one of the centre backs gets stuck behind the DM,” I said. ”It’s like in chess when you get two pawns in front of each other.”

Sandra rolled her eyes. ”You men, always thinking about pawn.”

I laughed, and was just about to roll my sleeves up and really get stuck into the tactical tweaks that would see us to half time when I remembered that Briggy was waiting for me to cause a distraction. ”Shit,” I mumbled. I needed to find out in which specific way this ref was dirty, but I couldn’t be the provocateur. I looked at the physios - I couldn’t ask them because being seen causing aggro could stop them getting a job in the future. I couldn’t ask Wibbers and Pascal because they were still fuming about being subbed off and the whole point of that was to keep them out of the referee’s little black book. Swanny was a decent shout, but if he got in trouble and then something happened to Owen, our season was over. Christian Fierce would have tried his best out of loyalty to the club, but he didn’t have the gift of mischief. The same could be said for Colin Beckton. That only left a giant Norwegian.

”Helge,” I said, flicking my head. He got up and came over to me. ”Wait here a second.” I went to Christian Fierce and asked him to move to sit next to Pascal and Wibbers. I pointed to them. ”When it kicks off, keep them here. Don’t let them leave the bench. I’m deadly serious.”

Christian frowned, but said, ”Aight.”

I went back to Helge’s side and pointed to the left back area. ”I’m pointing over there as cover for what I’m about to say.”

”Okay,” said Helge.

The word cover made me remember there were cameras on me at all times. I covered my mouth. ”I need you to take one for the team.” He eyed me, but nodded, so I continued. ”It’s really shitty. Normally, I would do it but today I can’t. It has to be you.”

He covered his mouth. ”What do you need?”

I pointed at the left back spot and mimed playing a big diagonal pass to right wing. ”I need you to wade into the other dugout and cause a fight.”

He dropped his hand so he could stare at me more completely. ”Are you serious?”

I put my hand on his shoulder, pointed from the right wing to the penalty spot, and said, ”I’m really serious. This is the only way we get in the playoff final. The only thing is,” I said, once again putting my arm on his shoulder, looking deep into his eyes, ”there’s a very small possibility you will get a ban and miss the match. If that happens, I’ll be gutted, but as it stands, we ain’t getting there anyway, so what’s the difference?”

Helge looked at the scoreboard. 2-0 to the home team. He got a determined look about him. ”Put me in, coach.”

I put my other hand on his other shoulder and grinned maniacally, but then remembered I was supposed to be calmly discussing tactics with a player. I went back to pointing while hiding my mouth. ”Right, here’s what we do. Next time there’s any kind of aggro on the pitch and the Luton knobs start running around demanding retribution, you go over there and do some finger jabbing. They will respond and you’ll escalate. Kick a water bottle, grab those notes Jonno is always writing and chuck them in the air. Just provoke them any way you can.”

”I’ll role play as you.”

I had to laugh. ”Sure. But listen, I can’t help. It’s gonna suck arse on TV that the only person who doesn’t rush to help you is me, but I can’t. I just can’t be banned for the second leg. Your dad is gonna think I’m a complete dick so without explaining it to him, please explain it to him. Do you know what I mean?”

”Yes. But he already thinks you’re a complete dick, so I would not worry about it.”

I threw my arms around him. ”Mate, you’re amazing, but can you stop rinsing me for ten seconds? I’m juggling about twenty plates over here.”

”Many of the plates have already crashed to the floor, boss.”

I took half a pace back and stuck my index finger in his face. ”No, mate. No. We’re in control of this. Complete control.” I wagged my finger. ”Believe that. You watch. This is in the bag.”

Helge eyed my finger, then me. He nodded, slowly. Then Andrew Harrison knocked a Luton player off the ball, chased after it, and was hauled down. ”Yellow!” screamed Helge, stepping towards the pitch. ”That’s a blatant yellow!”

I wanted to turn him to face the oppo’s dugout, but that would have been far too obvious. I walked away from him, in the other direction. I felt him staring at me, wondering why I wasn’t apoplectic, but then it must have clicked because while I stared the opposite way, he rushed into the heart of darkness, AKA Luton’s technical area, and caused absolute mayhem. Half my bench rushed to try to pull him away. I slid all my player’s icons off the pitch, and their walks turned to jogs as they rushed to join the pushing or to play peacemaker.

I glanced over my shoulder. Wibbers and Pascal were on their feet, ready for a scrap, but were being held in place by Christian Fierce.

I rubbed my chin, trying not to laugh, and took another few strides away from the action. My eyes darted towards the tunnel. Briggy wasn’t there. The old boy who kept an eye on things popped his head out, saw the fracas, and tried to help in any way he could.

I waited a minute, then slid the player icons back onto the pitch.

It took a while for the situation to clear up. The referee took advice from the linesman on this side and his fourth official - plus a lot of unsolicited advice from Jonno, the former England player who always thought he was the best referee on the pitch - and showed Helge Hagen a yellow card, plus someone from Luton’s bench. A goalkeeping coach or someone. It was justice, sort of, except that it didn’t impede Luton in any way.

We played a few more minutes, then I grabbed one of the iPads and brought up the incident with Helge. I took the iPad to where he was sitting. ”Mate,” I said. ”This behaviour doesn’t fit the values of Chester FC or its sponsors.”

Helge stiffened. ”What?”

I tapped the screen. ”You’d never see aggro like this at Chester Zoo.”

Helge looked like he was about to boil, but Colin Beckton nudged him. ”He’s taking the piss.”

The Norwegian relaxed. ”Ah.”

I jabbed the screen a few more times. ”This! Is! Unbecoming!”

”What does that mean?” said Helge.

Colin looked up. ”Sort of... not polite. Max is channeling Jane Austen.”

I beamed. ”That’s exactly it! Listen, Helge, this is me telling you off. I’m sending you to the dressing room to think about what you’ve done.”

That really pissed him off. ”You are punishing me? But it was your - ”

I reached out to cover his mouth, looking left and right in a panic. ”Shut the fuck up, you knob! It’s part of the scheme. What the fuck.”

Colin nudged him again. ”It’s all right, Double H. Just listen.”

I jabbed the tablet and waved angrily. ”I need you to go down the tunnel. Make some noise. Yell. You know that corner that leads to the dressing rooms?”

”Yes.”

”There’s a dude there who checks everything is okay. Make sure he follows you to the dressing room. Maybe ask him for help. Erm...” I closed my eyes and tried to think what James Bond would do if he needed to distract a guard. Bond would probably start snogging the guy.

Colin said, ”Tell him you’re having a panic attack and can he help you work the taps because you don’t understand English taps.”

”Fuck me,” I said, eyeing Colin. ”That’s brilliant.”

”Is it?” said Helge. ”It sounds incredibly stupid.”

Colin shook his head. ”Older English guys in jobs like that, they’re super lovely most of the time, nothing’s too much trouble, but talk about your mental health and he’ll be a nervous wreck.”

”I see,” said Helge. ”I’m having a panic attack.” He eyed me. ”Are you ever going to explain why I need to do this?”

”Um,” I said. I scratched my head. ”Maybe I’ll get Briggy to explain.”

Helge turned to his left but couldn’t see her. I think the penny dropped, at least partly. He was rescuing Briggy, not doing something specifically for me. That changed the dynamic completely. He got up and watched patiently as I held up the tablet, jabbed it, and gave him a tongue-lashing while covering my mouth.

He locked his jaw, side-eyed me, and strode down the tunnel.

I returned to my default position in the technical area, resumed pacing around. A few minutes later, Briggy reappeared in the tunnel.

”Bosh,” I said, cricking my neck left and right. Briggy was locked onto the referee. I locked onto the football. I watched the patterns of play and decided that Luton were getting too used to our latest approach. ”3-5-2!” I cried. ”Cheb, CAM! Youngster, get ready to drop. Keep that fucking ball, lads! Keep that ball!”

***

At half time, I gave everyone half a minute to cool off, then laid out a few facts. I had subbed Pascal and Wibbers off to protect them for the second leg. I wouldn’t go on for the same reason. We could make three more changes, and the next one would be either Christian or Colin. The one who didn’t go on would be saved until the last sub window, along with Helge. He had heat on him, so he would go on for the last twenty at the most to minimise the risk of him getting a red. Thanks to our recent squad rotation, we were fitter and fresher than Luton.

I told the guys that the primary goal was to keep Luton to two goals. Everything else was secondary.

With that said, I put the group back in ’quiet contemplation’ mode and talked to the physios and Sandra. I very studiously ignored Briggy, who did not look like someone who had recently failed to pick a 123-year-old lock. I did note the moment she walked past Helge and gave him a fist bump. She leaned forward to whisper something in his ear and he flushed with pleasure. I guessed it was, ”My hero,” or similar.

With half the break gone, I gave a short and simple team talk, leaving plenty of time for discussion afterwards, should it be needed. ”Lads, listen, my favourite movie is called Titanic, because it’s about a ship that encounters a storm and survives it with relatively little damage.”

Ian Swan said, ”Boss, have you seen Titanic?”

”Um, yeah? The one with the boats and the cannons and Russell Crowe making dad jokes. Okay, so back to my speech. Luton cooked up a storm and the way you rode it was quality. A lot of teams would have caved. Would have imploded. You stayed solid, with no head loss. The shape is good, the structure is good, the energy is good. It’s Luton’s day, it’s their party. Good for them, but we’re gonna fuck them up back at the Deva. As long as we keep ourselves in the contest, we’ll do them. That’s a promise. So keep doing what you’re doing, okay? You know what we say, Owen?”

”Win the second half, boss.”

”This time, the second half is the second leg. We will win that. We will go fucking apeshit next week, okay, but today we need to dig in. Dig all the way in like fucking scabies. Gabby? We’ve got a sub for you, so you work your arse off. That might be our third sub, so then four and five would be Christian and Helge. Sandra, if there are no injuries, who do you want to take off?”

She looked from the tactics board to a few players and back again. ”Youngster and Joel. If it’s a choice, Youngster first.”

She wanted to age us up. I had made myself slightly dizzy by going through all the combos, but it was quite likely that at one point our average age would be 28.1. For the modern Chester, those were Methuselah levels. ”Youngster, mate, run your arse off for the next twenty minutes. We’ve got a week to recover. Joel, ditto, but less intense because you have to last until the last change is made.”

Peter Bauer said, ”I thought you were taking players off because they had yellows, not because they were tired.”

”The first two were because of yellows, but frankly, everyone else is expendable. Don’t get sent off. Don’t provoke the ref. But if we do go down to ten men, we’re not going to play much different, are we?”

”I suppose not.”

”This is backs to the wall, lads. This is a rearguard action. We take chunks out of that clock, okay? The best way to do that is by passing the ball around. After their initial burst, Luton haven’t troubled us much, have they? They might come out energised again, but they’ll probably play it safe.” I paused while I brought up the tactics screens. Some of Luton’s individual instructions had been tweaked - they were a little more defensive, a little more energy-efficient. ”Yeah, I’m 99% sure they will not come out with all guns blazing.”

Sandra said, ”There’s always the chance that the fans will rile them up and they’ll ignore their instructions! Be ready for anything!”

”It’s a good point,” I conceded. ”But if that happens, we’re laughing, because they will be gassed by the end and we might be able to sneak a goal back. If we get this one to 2-1 I’ll dance all the way home and that’s no joke.” I stood by the tactics board and unconsciously slid the magnets around. ”One last thing from me. Of course if we get the chance to score, we should score. Of course we should.” I slid all the magnets an inch deeper. ”But if we’re sitting back, defending, trying to run the clock down, showing no ambition, I think Jonno Wilkes might just make a big mistake.”

I took an orange magnet from the side and moved it all the way to the middle.

”Paul Shaw. It’s his last game here. He’s been at the club on and off for longer than most of you have been alive. He started at Luton, came up through their youth teams, got sold, came back, was released, came back, and so on. He was here the whole time they went from non-league to the Prem. Imagine five years from now and Magnus has told me this is his last game in front of the home fans. Do you think I’m gonna put him on the pitch? Of course I am! He’s earned that final goodbye. Unless it’s unbelievably tight and the stakes are life or death, I’m gonna give Magnus a couple of minutes.

”So check this out. I think Jonno will be thinking he’ll bring Paul Shaw on around the 88th minute. That’s my guess. But if we dick around, waste time, fake a couple of injuries - nothing too bad, guys, just slow things down - then he’s gonna come on and the fourth official is going to show that there’s five minutes of added time. Right? Are you with me? I really like Paul Shaw, I think he’s class and he’s a warrior and he’s had an amazing career but his legs have gone so if he’s gonna be on for two minutes plus injury time, maybe we go for the jugular in that time because if we get one goal, this stadium is going to wobble.

”It’s going to be head loss, all around us, and that’s gonna transmit to the players. Who knows what might happen?” I was pacing around, and forced myself to stop. I smiled. ”But we’re gonna be smart about it. We don’t actually need that goal - it’s more of a nice-to-have kinda sitch. Yeah? Just be aware that if we aren’t ambitious, there’s a purpose. Every block you make, every interception, every tackle, it has a purpose. It brings us closer to winning. That’s it. Get yourselves ready. It’s gonna be a slog.”

***

It was a slog.

We did a fantastic job of keeping our structure, keeping Luton at bay, and eating up time.

The clock hit 50.

55.

60.

We had more of the ball. Our experienced players tuned out the noise, did what they did in training.

I switched them to Relationism for a minute and we played with a cheeky swagger. The home fans didn’t like that.

***

Minutes 65. Decibels 94.

”Gabby’s blowing,” I said.

”Colin now?”

”Colin now.”

***

Boggy: Gabriel is replaced by Colin Beckton. He’ll be highly motivated to play at Wembley for only the second time in his career.

Spectrum: Last time he wasn’t quite fit so I’m sure he’d love to have another go while he’s in prime condition.

Boggy: The man is ageless! Is it just me or does he keep getting better?

Spectrum: We treat him like a thoroughbred, not a workhorse.

Boggy: My notes are a sweaty mess. I make that three substitutions across two substitution windows. So that means we have two subs left but we have to make them at the same time. Is that right?

Spectrum: Yes. The next change we make will be to bring on two players at once, and that will be the last throw of the dice.

Boggy: I have to say we have done a fairly good job of quelling the crowd but now that they’re tense, I’m even more tense. How can I be more tense, Speckers? I was already full.

***

Minute 70. Decibels 92.

We made our final changes. Christian Fierce and Helge went on. Since we had three centre backs on the pitch but only one striker, Helge didn’t quite fit into any coherent plan, not in the short term, but he had fresh legs and his height was an amazing luxury in this sort of close, tense encounter. The home fans were screaming in triumph when their players won any kind of contest, but Helge won most of his duels most of the time.

We tried 3-5-1-1 with Helge tucked into the left-sided central midfield slot and one of Cheb, Andrew, and Bark playing behind Colin. Taking it turns helped to keep them fresh and sharp.

Luton huffed.

We puffed.

The fans tried to blow the house down.

***

Minute 75. Decibels 92.

Battles were happening all over the pitch. Individual duels. Defence versus attack. Midfield versus midfield. Honestly? We were winning most of them, but the scoreline meant I couldn’t win the match from the technical area. No grand plan, no sweeping tactical statement.

Unless...

I glanced at my counterpart. Would he be stupid?

Of course he would.

The question was: how stupid?

I eyed Helge. He was the key.

When Paul Shaw came onto the pitch Luton would effectively be down to ten men, so I was going to switch to 3-5-2 or 3-4-3 with Helge as one of the strikers. We would hit long passes to him, he would win the headers, and it would be carnage.

Come on, Jonno!

I know you have it in you!

***

Minute 80. Decibels 90.

Nothing much had happened for a while. The game was fizzling out and the fans were starting to think ahead to the last few minutes when they would get properly sentimental. Or would they wait until after the victory cheer on the final whistle?

***

Minute 82. Decibels 88.

There was activity on the Luton bench. I found myself holding Sandra, unable to look, as hopeful and desperate as if it was my first day on the job. Come on! Put Shaw on. Give us Shaw.

Luton made a sub.

It wasn’t Shaw.

I laughed at how much the hope had hurt.

***

Minute 84. Decibels 103.

I was pacing around, gripping my hair, trying to pull it out. Why wasn’t Jonno fucking this up? It was his destiny to fuck this up.

Something made me snap my head around to the seats behind me. Every fan was standing up, their arms raised. Shaw? Could we? No. It was a song. A special one that had got almost every home fan singing at the top of their lungs.

”Fuck the FA! And the Football League! We are the famous Luton Town! They tried to kill us off, but we’re not soft, we are the famous Luton Town.”

I clenched my fist and raised it in salute. ”Fuck the FA,” I agreed, which was probably not that diplomatic, all things considered, but then the volume ramped up again, and the air crackled with excitement.

Paul Shaw was getting ready to come on!

There was another minute of action before the ball left the pitch, and then it happened. I’d feared it would be in the 88th minute, but they were doing it in the 85th! That was fucking demented, but then again, Chester had barely attacked in the second half and we had used all our subs. Jonno and his team clearly hadn’t thought that we would use Helge as an auxiliary striker. We had a little more threat on the pitch than they realised!

I rubbed my hands with glee, but almost immediately stopped. ”What’s this?”

”The fuck are they doing?” said Sandra.

”I asked you!” I said, exasperated. While every Luton fan who could stand was standing, while there was applause louder than any I could remember, half my team were doing a huddle. There was Helge, Peter Bauer, Colin Beckton, Christian, Magnus. Whatever they were talking about, they were very animated. Helge had the last word, and accompanied it with lots of pointing. He pointed at the others, then dug his finger into his temple. Think!

”Helge taking a leadership role,” said Sandra. ”When the team’s almost as old as it gets.”

”Random,” I said, but I didn’t have much time to think about it. I reorganised the team to be ultra-attacking. There was no way we would have a risk-reward balance in our favour this much in the second leg. If we fucked up this phase of play and Luton scored a third, well, sucks to be us. But it was far more likely we would give them serious, serious trouble.

My heart was pumping so loud that the blood rushing through my ears was louder than the home fans and their singing. I wondered if I could still get hearing loss when I couldn’t actually hear anything. Probably. It was all mechanical, wasn’t it? To calm myself, I turned and went to pick up a water bottle. I was squirting some water into my gob when I heard the urgent whistling of the ref. I had taken away his power to hurt us in the second half, or someone had told him that 2-0 was enough, so I couldn’t think what this latest incident would be. I scanned the pitch and didn’t see anything untowards. The match commentary was vague.

It looks like Helge Hagen has a problem.

I squinted, but the curse had Helge’s Condition as one of the highest on the pitch, no Attributes were red, and there was nothing in his injuries tab. Physio Dean would give him some magic spray and we would commence the aerial bombardment.

Chocks away!

One of the physios came to me. She was in communication with Physio Dean via a headset. ”Max, boss. Helge’s got a suspected concussion. He’s got to come off.”

At first, I didn’t react because I knew he definitely didn’t have a concussion. According to the curse, Helge probably didn’t even have an ouchie. ”Tell Dean to check again.”

Livia or Dean might have pushed back, but some of the newer staff found me intimidating for some reason. She stepped away, then turned back, clearly dreading what I might say. ”Seems to be concussion all right.”

”What the fuck!” I said, hands on my head. ”Dean’s test is shit. He goes, who’s the Prime Minister. I mean, what’s Helge gonna reply to that? I don’t know because I’m from Norway. Tell Dean he’s a dick and hang up.”

The physio glanced at Sandra, then swallowed. ”Helge’s coming off. That’s it.”

I turned away in utter despair. Was Helge faking an injury because I had asked him to take one for the team then gave the impression I didn’t have his back? I mean, I could almost understand that but he needed to be on the pitch to stand any sort of chance of playing for Norway in Euro 28. No, it was inconceivable that this was happening.

The world collapsed around me. We had worked so hard and so long to get to this point. Jonno, the twat, had fucked up. We had the tools to punish him. And one of those tools was lying about a head injury.

Head loss.

We would lose because of a head.

Sandra said, ”We need to make a sub.”

”We’ve used all our subs!” I wailed. I was this close to running up the steps, finding Emma, and dragging her to live in the country that had the least amount of football per capita. Would that be China, maybe? India? No, Indians loved football. Think of the curries, though.

”We can make a concussion sub!” said Sandra, shaking me. ”Get on the pitch!”

”What?”

”Get on the fucking pitch!” she yelled, pushing me, then pulling me, then trying to unzip my top. She appeared not to have much practise at removing clothes from grown men. ”Take this off!”

She rushed to the fourth official and went through the protocols of making a concussion sub. The deal was that Luton would also be able to make a sub. Had I had my wits about me, I would have worried that Jonno would have subbed Paul Shaw right back off the pitch, but I was so clearly and genuinely dumfounded by this turn of events that the thought didn’t occur to anyone.

After a mad minute, I found myself walking onto the pitch, dazed. Helge was being helped around the side, holding the back of his head. So he banged it when he fell or something like that? Someone whacked him on the back of the neck? I took Helge’s place as the second striker, but I hadn’t even warmed up!

The Luton fans were loving this twist. They sang ’Who are ya?’ They informed me that I would be getting sacked in the morning. They suggested that I was a wanker.

I tried my best to jog around and do a few quick stretches, but no sooner had I got my legs moving than the ball came to me. I pranced forward like a newborn deer, trying to work out how many legs I had and what the secret to mobility was, when suddenly I thought to myself, gosh, that football is in a lovely old spot, isn’t it?

I couldn’t hit it too hard because I risked twanging my hamstrings, so I gave it the good old four-iron treatment, which because I didn’t play golf was the same as the nine-iron treatment or the three-wood treatment. Basically, with Luton players closing in on me, about 40 yards from goal, I did my best Tiger Woods impression and struck the ball at the base, in the middle, with a gentle swing that wouldn’t make any of my innards complain.

The ball reacted like I had hit it with a warhammer. It sped away, high, dipping, dipping more. The goalie was taken by surprise and had to scramble. He probably could have caught the ball but that came with big risks, plus he hadn’t had much to do during the match so he was barely more warmed up than I was.

He tipped the ball over the bar.

Some of the life left the stadium, replaced by dread.

I jogged fast to get the ball, and dribbled it towards the corner flag, but decided I didn’t want to take a corner for the same reason I didn’t want to shoot too hard. I reassigned the job to Lewis and ran at three-quarters speed to the halfway line, curved, and sprinted ten yards to see how I felt.

I felt pretty good, surprisingly, though I was in no state to play professional football at these stakes. I decided my role would have to be as a nuisance, as a distraction, as the guy who unlocked space for the others. Colin had a goal in him. Cheb and Lewis could score. Maybe later I would move Peter into midfield.

Later? I thought, as I jogged towards the penalty area while Lewis took the corner.

What later? This game had mere minutes left.

It was so frustrating that Helge was off the pitch! That had been a phenomenal plan, a real surprise tactic and I didn’t get the chance to do those anymore.

***

Minute 88. Decibels 88.

Boggy: Here comes Lewis with the corner kick. Who’s in there? Peter, Christian, Zach, Colin. They’re attracting a lot of attention. Max Best is staying back.

Spectrum: He isn’t warmed up. If he was, he would go in the box and maybe even back himself to sprint all the way back if there was a counter.

Boggy: The cross comes in...! But it’s cleared easily. What a disappointment after such a build-up. All the anticipation built into the moment, and Lewis hits the first defender.

Spectrum: Hang on, it’s not fully clear.

***

Lewis hit an abysmal corner, but the clearance didn’t go out of play and Lewis was able to get the ball. He passed to Magnus, who returned it so that Lewis had a better angle. The N’irish international crossed again, and this time Christian and a defender jumped at the same time. The Luton defender won it, but under pressure he couldn’t get much distance on his header.

He sent it away at a bad angle, from his point of view.

A good one from mine.

The ball was dropping right into my path, seemingly perfect for me to hit a thunderbastard of a volley. I moved towards the ball and my eyes must have lit up or there must have been a groan from the entire stadium because the Luton players reacted to the danger instantly.

I took the ball on my thigh, moving straight ahead. Tekkers 1.

One stride later, I bounced it a second time on my thigh. Tekkers 2.

A third stride, a third keepy-up, but this time the contact was lower, towards the knee, so that I could lift the ball between two defenders and pass through them, like a car whizzing between two trucks in an action movie.

The next touch was a low kick-up, just a holding action while I waited for the next wave of defenders to commit. One was coming from the left but he wasn’t a risk - his body shape was all wrong. The guy on the right was a different matter - he would definitely tackle me, and probably cleanly, too, which was a big factor this deep in the penalty area.

This deep? Yeah. I’d gone about ten yards with four touches in one second. The ball hadn’t hit the ground.

I let it bounce this time, though, so that when it rose a couple of inches, I could flick it up and over the guy coming from the right. I veered around him while he crashed past me, but now the ball was going away from goal and the angles were working against me. The only option was to do one more kick-up, which took me to within a yard of the goal line, and to smash the ball as it landed.

Not a beautiful golf shot, this one, but a thuggish blast, hard enough to get it past the goalie, who was right there on the near post. He was right there, perfectly positioned.

Perfectly positioned to throw out a hand after the ball had gone past him and up into the roof of the net.

Decibels 0.

It all hit me then. The corrupt ref taking away our players and our ability to compete. The taunts of the fans, the knife-edge tension of the playoffs, the need to give Christian Fierce his Wembley sendoff. Even all of the stress I had bottled up around the attitude of the youth team, the uncertainty around the wedding, even that prick who kept making videos saying I was a Marxist.

I jogged away from the goal towards the corner flag, waiting until the curse updated with the goal because I half expected the ref to say I was offside or had handballed it or some fucking bullshit, but when the scores moved to 2-1, my arms stiffened and I hunched before letting out a howl of frustration and anger. I turned into a fucking werewolf, mate.

Then I was being mobbed by my team mates, all whooping and yelling things like ’that takes the piss!’, and after letting out one more angry grunt, I turned and saw the last thing I would have expected to see.

Half the Luton fans were on their feet, applauding.

Applauding the goal.

Their generosity of spirit washed away much of the negativity that had been building up. Sportsmanship. Fair play. I moved a little closer and gave them a salute.

One guy yelled, ”Eat shit and die, Best!”

”The fuck?” said Andrew Harrison.

Bark said, ”You don’t die if you eat shit.”

”How do you know?” said Cheb.

Bark shrugged. ”I just know.”

Colin Beckton put his arm around me as we walked back to our half. ”What now, boss?”

The others stopped to check my reply.

”There’s a couple of minutes left. All-out attack.”

***

Boggy: This is incredible. This is unbelievable. After being under the cosh for much of this match, suddenly it’s all Chester, and it’s the Hatters who are losing their heads.

Spectrum: Total head loss. You love to see it.

Boggy: What was a cauldron of noise has been largely silenced, but can Chester get the second goal? I’m not totally sure they deserve one.

Spectrum: Heresy! But you’re right. I think Max would agree, but he doesn’t mind a smash-and-grab win, or an undeserved draw.

Boggy: Lamarre. Good cross! Can Colin Beckton get on the end of it? It was just too high. Andrew Harrison speeds across to keep it in play. He finds Alloula. First-time inside to Best, who drifts past Paul Shaw like he isn’t there!

Spectrum: Oof. That was cringe.

Boggy: Best with the through-ball. It’s Beckton! Beckton to square things up! Saved!

Spectrum: Wow. That was... wow. That was a big moment.

Boggy: Luton are countering. The home fans off their seats, cheering on their team one last time. The referee looks at his watch. This one feels like it’s only just getting started! Greaves, looking weary, but a contender for Man of the Match, plays it to Pollock, who has worked hard for his team. Selvik. Back to Pollock. [Huge roar, then a groan.] Oh, unlucky! So close. Pollock tried to catch Owen Elmham out with a spin and a snapshot and it so nearly worked! That will be that, I think. No! The ref is letting us have one more move. Elmham rolls it to Bauer. Bauer looks up and pings a long pass! That’s beautifully directed to Beckton on the halfway line. He jumps... but misses it completely. Well, I think -

Spectrum: [Shrieks.] Go on, Max!

Boggy: Max Best sprinting to get the ball! He’s the only outfield player for miles! The goalie is coming too, but hesitates. What... Best gets there first! He knocks the ball past the goalie, but he is forced wide of goal. He couldn’t possibly score from that angle... could he? No chance - Best has to slide to keep the ball in play. Water flies up from the surface - I can’t wait to see that photo! Max gets up but he’s ten, fifteen yards wide of the post, facing away from goal. The keeper has caught up and is behind Best, stopping him from turning and shooting. Best backheels the ball! He’s... he has put spin on it! It’s going to curve around and into the net! Chester are going to head home with the scores all level. Best is moving away, ready to celebrate for real this time. The ball is slowing. Rainwater is spraying from it like a Mohican haircut.

Spectrum: [Shrieks.] No!

Boggy: Out of nowhere, Paul Shaw slides and tackles the ball off the goal line! The veteran! In his last ever match! The referee checks the Goal Decision System. No goal! He blows his whistle. The Luton fans, for the twentieth time today, erupt! It’s volcanic! People are on the pitch. They’re running towards their hero, the man of the moment, Paul Shaw! Chester players are beating a hasty retreat - let’s hope there isn’t any nonsense. My word! What a finish! Max Best, having scored potentially the best solo goal in the history of this stadium very nearly scored an even better one. He crunched his heel down onto the ball like a snooker player bending the cue ball around a tricky blue. It was am-A-zing. But Shaw was the quickest to react, the first to get back.

Spectrum: Some of the other Luton players gave up.

Boggy: Max Best seems to be smiling. That’s good to see.

Spectrum: You know what? He’ll be thinking he can use that clip to teach the young players what he expects from them.

Boggy: The ability to propel a football anywhere you want regardless of the laws of physics?

Spectrum: Haha. Never give up. Never lose your head. Keep going until the end because you never know what might happen.

Boggy: The pitch has filled up with Luton fans. They have won the first leg in dramatic circumstances, their players have brought sunshine on a grey day, but now comes the farewell. Goodbye to the Kenny, adieu to The Old Girl. There will never, ever be another stadium quite like this one. We will end our broadcast there, because this isn’t our day, this isn’t our party, but Seals Live will return tomorrow morning for the playoff to determine if our women will play in the top tier next season!