Soccer Supremo - A Sports Progression Fantasy

9.

”This is going to be brutal,” says a seasoned 47-year-old beat reporter from Football dot London.

”The kid’s out of his depth,” says a slightly younger, much rounder guy with the same general demeanour. He works for a national paper. ”This will be pure cringe.”

”The stupid prick’s gonna get eaten alive,” says yet another middle-aged white man.

”Bethany,” says a handsome younger gentleman, one of two reporters from The Sportsman. ”You know him better than us. What do you think? Is he ready for this?”

I scratch my eyebrow. Max Best hasn’t replied to any of my texts for weeks, ever since my newspaper launched a vicious and profoundly untrue attack on him. He has barely spoken to the media since he appointed Sandra Lane as his co-manager, but word has spread that he will be doing the pre- and post-match interviews for the foreseeable future. Is it possible he doesn’t know what awaits him?

Any minute now he will come through that door into one of the spacious media rooms at The Emirates Stadium, home of Arsenal, one of the top clubs in the country, one of the best teams in Europe. The press pack are waiting, a series of lone wolves who can hunt in packs. Their teeth are bared, their gums exposed. They scent a kill.

They don’t know what’s about to hit them.

”Boys? You aren’t ready for Max Best.”

Rage Against the Machine

By Bethany Alban

It’s a late presser, held on Friday evening, which is unusual, but we have seen the scenes from Chester city centre, where a huge crowd gathered to cheer the team bus as it departed for their first ever top-tier match. In the gesture, I saw unity and togetherness but my colleagues had different views. ”Tinpot.” ”Laughably small-time.” ”A parade before a ball has been kicked? Even Tottenham wouldn’t stoop so low.”

If they hold Chester in such contempt, why have they waited around for several hours? Because they are desperate for quotes, desperate for content, and they can work in these rooms just as easily as from their offices.

They have listened to the Arsenal manager, Pepe Salazar, who says the usual things, and because it’s the first game of the season he looks calm and relaxed. He’s handsome, with his intense dark eyes; the infrequency of his smiles make them even more precious. Grown men melt as he tells them they have asked a good question.

Pepe Salazar. The Arsenal press corps love him - he has made the club relevant. They reach European semi-finals on a regular basis, and it’s a rare season in which they finish outside the top two, though it is even rarer that they finish in the top one. Salazar’s football machine hisses, strains, and chugs along flattening all before it. It is a fearsome creation, set pieces for pistons, marginal gains for lubricant, systemised cheating for gyroscopes, Salazar’s burning desire for combustion. Salazar is too experienced to fall into the trap of saying his team are far too good for tiny fan-owned Chester, and he mouths some platitudes about what a great achievement it is for the club to rise so high, but everyone knows he has mentally banked three points from the opening weekend. Why wouldn’t he? Chester don’t even have their entire squad in one place. Arsenal will bulldoze them.

Salazar departs - I’m amazed that none of my colleagues swoon - and we have time until the Chester manager arrives.

The writers write. The podcasters make notes and discuss running orders. The fan media sits in the corner, trying to be unobtrusive - they never quite feel that they belong in the same room as the Suns, the Mirrors, the BBCs, the Overlaps.

Phones ping - Max Best has arrived.

The message has come from inside the club. (Max would make a joke about horror movie tropes. The call came from inside the building!) I note which journos get the messages and which don’t. Surprise, surprise, the chosen few are the ones who suck at the teat of the club. The ones who write what they’re told to write. Client journalists. Mouthpieces.

A door is gently pushed open by Arsenal’s media manager, who speaks softly, as though entering a temple. In her hushed, reverential tone, she tells Max where to sit.

Max Best is 28 years old, which is young for a director of football, young for a football club manager, young for a millionaire, but very old for a manbaby. ”Sit here?” he says, and in the quiet it sounds like he’s yelling. ”In front of these microphones? Are you trying to do surveillance capitalism on me? No, thanks! Hey, you know what I need? I need one of those scarves that stops paps taking photos of me. Look at all the paps! I think I’ll sit here.”

He has taken a seat next to the 47-year-old who thinks Arsenal’s media rooms are his personal fiefdom. Max has somehow picked him out as the biggest bully; the bully shrinks. It’s a sensational declaration of intent.

The media person says, ”Could you please sit by the microphones?”

Max stands and acts like a malfunctioning robot. ”Must! Obey!” He thrashes a guitar and barks out a song lyric, ”And now you do what they told ya!” He moves towards the front, but then stops and scratches his head. ”Hang on. I’m footballing royalty; I’m the King of Coefficients. Time to get regal!” He stands tall, stiffly, with one hand behind his back like the King does when he is on tour. Max affects a posh voice as he looks down at one of his new subjects. ”And what do you do?” The guy doesn’t reply. ”Very interesting,” says Max. ”And do you enjoy glazing Arsenal?”

There are a few gasps and more than a few laughs. Glazing is the modern word for ’praising’, but comes with an undercurrent of negativity. Max is saying that the guy is a stooge for the club.

The media manager says, ”Your majesty, would you please take your throne?”

Max tips his head back, laughs, and says, ”Yeah, kay.” He finally takes his place behind the microphones. ”It’s probably easier if I ask the questions myself, don’t you think? Question one. Why does your hair smell so good? Answer, that’s Ganymede, hair products for men who want to look good, smell good, and feel good. I’ve written a unique word on a piece of paper and if any of you say that word, the prize is you get to feel my hair. Question two, what’s the best zoo in the country?”

The media manager says, ”I think we should stick to tradition, if that’s okay with you, and let the reporters ask the questions.”

Max shrugs and leans back. He picks up a plastic bottle of water and gives the cap an experimental twist. The cap doesn’t seem to budge, and he glares at it.

I try to get the first question in. ”I’ll start. How do you think your preparations for the season have gone?”

”What’s your name?” says Max, the dick.

”Bethany Alban.”

”Who do you work for?”

”I have my own Substack and a podcast.”

”Cool, cool, and what’s your accreditation today?”

I sigh. My paper has gone to war with Max, claiming he hates the England national team. I was vehemently against the idea, but I’m in the crosshairs anyway. ”The Daily Mail.”

”Okay,” he says. ”Next.”

I’m absolutely gutted, I have to say, but I try my luck anyway. ”Next question, or...?”

Max goes at the bottle cap a bit harder. The media manager says, ”You won’t answer Bethany?”

”I have been advised not to talk to employees of the company I’m about to sue for defamation. I’m told I could get 20 million out of it. Ka-ching!”

I am 97% sure Max is inventing this potential legal action, but there’s a ripple around the room as the reporters mentally unload that particular line of questioning.

One of the younger Arsenal beat reporters, who is what we would call in Manchester ’a gobshite’, is not afraid of Max. He introduces himself and says, ”Tomorrow’s a big day for your club. Playing in the Premier League for the first time, up against household names, many of whom play for England - ” He pauses for sniggers, and gets them. ”Are you excited to come to the Emirates?”

”That’s a weird angle to take. I know Arsenal fans are insular but surely you have at least checked my Wikipedia page. You must know I’ve managed the biggest club in Europe.”

A guy from the BBC thinks he sees the chance to get a juicy quote. ”Are you saying Bayern Munich are the biggest club in Europe?”

”I was talking about Chester.”

The BBC guy smiles, nods, writes it down. There’s a split in the room between the Arsenal reporters and the generalists, and Max is scoring points with the latter group. The BBC guy says, ”Do you think your experience as Bayern manager will stand you in good stead tomorrow?”

”Well,” says Max, ”we’re talking about Arsenal, so what’s more relevant is my experience of playing non-league football.”

It’s such a good line! He pisses off the home guys while throwing juicy morsels to the neutrals.

The BBC guy refers back to Max’s stunt in Hungary, when he dressed as a rainbow. ”Will you be wearing anything special on the touchline?”

”Probably just a white tee, to be honest. I’m not actually a very political person and don’t like making statements. I would prefer to focus on the football but I do think we need to push society back to a place of decency, you know? How hard is it to just be decent? Oh, wait. Forgot where I was.” He chuckles.

One of the fan media guys, who does not like Max Best one little bit, says, ”What have you got against Arsenal?”

Max says, ”There was a man who was minding his own business, walking along, when a maniac came up behind him and cracked his skull open with a metal bar. The man survived and now he’s doing well, but he hasn’t forgotten that he was cracked in the head with a metal bar.” Max pauses, checking how many people know that part of his back story. It’s surprisingly few. ”That man is the English football pyramid, that metal bar was the European Super League, and that maniac was Arsenal Football Club.”

He grips the water and opens it. All it needed was some latent anger!

”If you had your way, Chester FC would be dead. We would not exist. You tried to kill us; we’re still here. Chester fans ask me, why are you still at our little club? Why haven’t you moved to a megaclub? The answer is today. Today I get to sit in front of you and let you know that I haven’t forgotten you took a metal bar to my head. I haven’t forgotten, bro. Some of you have been paid to forget. Some of you don’t want to think about it. But I think about it every day. I think about the fact that you have never been punished. What do I think about Arsenal? I regard you as the enemy and always will. If it is ever in my power to do to you what you tried to do to the rest of English football, I will do it.”

The BBC guy had been grumbling about having to wait around for Max, but now he’s glad he did. ”There were six teams in the Super League project. Do you have a particular animus for Arsenal, or do you still harbour resentment to the other five?”

”Oh, they’re gonna get it,” says Max, in that way of his that sounds like a call to arms, and for a second my heart beats faster. He takes some of the heat out of his voice as he says, ”That’s the thing I find most annoying about the Daily Mail’s spiteful campaign against me. We don’t need to invent enemies of English football, do we? There are plenty of real ones right here.”

This is incredible stuff but I can see what the beat reporters are thinking - how can we use this? Arsenal’s owners don’t want us to mention the Super League project.

There are two guys from The Sportsman, a tall one with glasses, and a cute one. They are both routinely accused of glazing the club and never asking difficult questions, but I do have some sympathy for them. They need access. If they are good little boys they get injury news, quotes, gossip, and most importantly, transfer exclusives. They need to be part of the machine to be part of the machine. Glasses Sportsman tries to turn away from matters of state. Tries to bring the discussion onto safer ground. ”Could we ask about the lineup for tomorrow? Have you got any injuries of note?”

Max can’t believe his ears. ”Soz what? You want to know about... injuries?”

”Yes.” Glasses Sportsman pushes his glasses up. ”I saw reports that Murray Burnett had picked up a knock in training and that would leave you with very little cover in the centre of defence.”

Max looks around, baffled. It’s only then that I know he’s pretending to be mad. ”You want me to give you the medical history of a 22-year-old human being? Sorry, did I misunderstand the privacy laws of the country we live in? Is he injured? What kind of question - ? Wait, who are you?” Max is obviously working himself up to have a go at the poor man, but all I can think is that maybe there will soon be a job opportunity at The Sportsman. Maybe if I worked there, Max would talk to me again. But he doesn’t wait for an answer. He clicks his fingers. ”I got it. You work for a gambling company. Asian betting syndicates. There’s good money to be had if you can get me to tell you who’s gonna play and who isn’t. Well, Premier League, your interest in the bodies of fit young men is creepy to me and I won’t be telling you whose groin is working and whose isn’t.” He shakes his head like a wet dog, then adds, ”Deeply sinister.”

”Your fans want to know,” says Cute Sportsman, gamely sticking up for his colleague. ”They have a right to know.”

”It’s weird, then,” says Max, ”that they never ask me in person. I’m almost inclined to believe you’re talking out of your Arsenal.”

”Why are you being so belligerent for?”

Max leans into the microphones and launches into a chant that I’m ninety-nine percent sure he invented himself. It is very simple, structured in a call-and-response way. ”You tried to kill us,” goes the call, along with Max pointing at the Arsenal fans. He switches to pointing down, at his own feet, and emits three percussive words: ”We’re/still/here!”

”I didn’t do anything,” says Cute Sportsman. ”I reported on those events and I personally was against the Super League. And that was a long time ago. Long time to hold a grudge.”

Max picks up two unopened water bottles and slaps them together in lieu of a drumkit. ”You tried to kill us; we’re/still/here!” He taps out the rhythm of the chant as he continues talking. ”You say you were against it but it’s the same ownership in charge now. The same guys who hit me on the head with a metal bar. The same manager. You never mention it in your puff pieces. The second paragraph of every article about Arsenal until the end of time should go, by the way, here’s a link to the unspeakable thing they did, now let’s get back to talking about the exciting new corner routines we’re seeing. The next assault on English football will have the same people in charge and they’ll think they can get away with it because you are obsequious. You are complicit.”

Cute Sportsman is the only man in the room who looks like he could throw a punch. He’s pissed off at being attacked in this way, and he’s glaring back at Max. Fair play, he maintains eye contact. Sparks are flying and for a second I wonder if an actual fight might break out. But he stays calm. ”You haven’t read my articles. You don’t know what I write, you can’t pass judgement.”

”Who do you work for?”

”The Sportsman.”

”Oh, brilliant,” says Max, laughing for the first time. ”This is perfect. This is glorious. You’re the guy who’s going to sit in judgement over me? Five gets you ten you’ve written the article already and you just need to slip in the details. Young Pup Gets Handed His Arse by Pep the Master. No mention of the financial disparity or the dogshit football on display, just a snide character assassination embedded in a hagiography. I can’t wait to read it, mate.

”But fair play, The Sportsman is a great little app. Like a lot of football fans, I signed up in lockdown when I was going a bit off the rails. No adverts! That was plastered all over the marketing. No adverts. Brilliant. Let’s open the app now...” Max takes his phone out and pretends to open The Sportsman. ”Holy shit, what’s this? Adverts? When did this happen?” He mimes scrolling. ”Christ, it’s riddled with them!

”Oh, wait, I remember that explanation written by your boss. Here’s why you’re going to love the huge, obtrusive images that we’re going to post after every full stop. Ads are great, he said. You love ads! The crazy thing is that he was right. I used to hate them but now I do genuinely love them. I thought I liked a clean reading experience but it turns out what I really like is being lied to by corporations!

”At least your podcasts don’t have ads in them. Wait, hang on.” Max swipes a few times, and hovers his finger half an inch from the screen. He locks eyes with Cute Sportsman, who is seething. ”Should I press play?” says Max. ”Should I? What do you reckon we’re gonna hear, first thing?” He laughs and swipes a few times. ”Great articles, though. Really long. It’s exactly the same content as what the print guys write, but three times as long. The guy from The Sun could take his articles, ask an AI to put loads of filler in, and he could work for your company.” The print guys are visibly re-assessing their opinion on Max. They fear and envy those who write for The Sportsman, and seeing it get blasted is a very early Christmas present.

And Max is far from done.

He looks at his phone and frowns. ”Hey, what’s this? Predict the score of Arsenal versus Chester? Why’s this in the middle of an article about how football boot shoelace technology has changed in the last twenty years?” Max slaps his forehead. ”I know! It’s so you can learn which of your readers is prone to gambling so you can target them with affiliate offers for betting companies! So clever! You want to turn your readers into gambling addicts so you can make twenty quid. That’s fun!” His smile fades. ”Wait, hang on. That’s not fun. That’s sinister. That’s ghoulish. That’s sick.” He puts his phone away. ”One of my hobbies is thinking of new slogans for businesses. How’s this? The Sportsman: We Glaze the Rich and Feast Upon the Vulnerable. But hey,” he says, eyeing Cute Sportsman. ”I look forward to reading your article about how I’m not competent to manage in the Prem.”

Max dips his head and covers his mouth; he’s trying not to laugh. In the pause that follows, it occurs to me that transferring to The Sportsman will not fix my relationship with him. Duly noted.

He sits up and claps his hands. ”Okay, I need to go. How about I do one last quote for the half of the room that is interested in football? Let’s think... Okay, here we go. I’m gonna go out there tomorrow and do my best with the limited resources I have, because my bosses are the fans. My club is owned by the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker. We aren’t expecting to win the league or get into Europe, but we will give every match everything we have and we will try to play quick passes, front-foot attacking football when it’s possible. You will see during the course of this season who feels threatened by us. You’ll see who wants a fan-owned club at the top and who doesn’t. And for the Arsenal reporters in the room, one last quote for you: Enjoy the buffet. Keep your noses in the trough. Gobble up whatever the club feeds you. And when you find yourself doing down a fan-owned club, don’t stop to ask why. Just obey.”

Max gets up and heads towards the door. The BBC guy calls out, ”Are you going to rant like this against Brighton next week?”

Max gives him a warm smile. ”Brighton didn’t hit me on the head with a metal bar, did they?” His smile gets bigger, sweeter. ”They even play good football. I like Brighton!”

With that, he departs, leaving a feeling of emptiness. Some in the room have been singed, some have been burned, but everyone has been paying complete and full attention.

The 47-year-old bully, who didn’t speak from the moment Max sat next to him, puffs himself up... now that the coast is clear. ”Who does he think he is?”

I lean back and breathe, sad that I was one of the ones who got chomped, ecstatic to have witnessed this first-hand. In a way, the entire episode was extremely Max Best, holding grudges, creating new enemies, refusing to be put in his place. But he’s not usually so scatter-gunned. When he stood up against homophobia in football, that’s all he did. He was very careful not to dilute that message by being controversial about anything else. This time, he tilted at a dozen different windmills. That’s not like him. That’s really not like him...

Realisation dawns.

Who does he think he is?

He thinks he’s got seven matches in the Premier League before he will be sacked - eight, tops - so he’s going to blast absolutely everyone, non-stop, until he is kicked out. He will rage against every machine - the content-industrial complex, the Super League clubs, football’s addiction to gambling money, all of it.

Oh. My. God.

This is going to be brutal, it’s going to be pure cringe, and he’s going to be eaten alive.

I can’t wait.

***

Evil Empire

Pepe Salazar is an intense character, one of those people who lives, breathes, and eats football. He will do anything to gain an edge.

When some of his players broke convention by entering Chelsea’s half during the pre-match warmups, it led to complaints from Chelsea’s manager. Salazar made this encroachment a permanent feature.

When Newcastle complained that Arsenal were late to the tunnel, forcing them to wait, Salazar institutionalised it.

Salazar will spend the entire match standing in the gap between his technical area - where he is supposed to stay - and the touchline. Why? Because for some reason, referees don’t tell him to stop, but they instantly clamp down on this behaviour when another manager does it. The unfairness rankles, makes people angry, and angry people make mistakes.

When one of his players was accused of hurting multiple women, Salazar judged the player too important to the team to leave out of the starting eleven. He will do anything to gain an edge, no matter how troubling. The silence on this matter from Arsenal’s press pack was deafening.

The warm-ups, the lateness, the boundary-pushing, the lack of morality. Which will Max choose to target?

An hour before kick-off, three thousand Chester fans are packed into the away end, singing, chanting. They have banners, flags, and later, they unleash flares. I’m in the media section, and the disdain of my Arsenal-supporting peers is evident. Why are this tiny tinpot outfit acting like a big club? One guy sneers, ”This is their cup final, isn’t it?”

I’m the only one paying special attention to the warm up.

Max Best and Sandra Lane have picked what has to be one of the weakest opening day squads of all time. It’s the kind of squad you would expect late in the calendar when injuries and suspensions have forced a manager to stuff his bench with academy kids. There are only three ’senior’ players amongst the substitutes, and one of those is the very talented but very callow Roddy Jones. Surely he won’t play serious minutes in this game?

Owen Elmham starts in goal ahead of Marek Masarik. That makes sense - Owen is more physical and dominates his area better than Masarik, who is a modern sweeper-keeper. Elmham is better suited to the barrage of corners and free kicks that is coming.

Then it seems to be a back four. Lewis Lamarre on the left, Helge Hagen on the right, Cole Adams and Murray Burnett as centre backs. Burnett seems not to be injured, despite the rumours, but that’s still a centre back pairing of a left back and a guy making his debut. Against one of the top teams in the country. Not to mention Hagen’s short pre-season. Is he even fit?

This ramshackle defence will get some protection from Youngster, who will probably take up his favoured role as a defensive midfielder.

Jimmy McNeill, the Scottish midfielder signed on a free transfer from West Brom, will certainly play as a central midfielder, but after that, your guess is as good as mine.

Leo Los can play right or centre midfield. Cheb Alloula can play on either wing but is also used by Max as a central attacking midfielder. Pascal Bochum has been deployed everywhere in midfield or on the wings, ditto William B. Roberts, who can also play as a striker.

It could be 4-1-4-1, 4-2-3-1, or 4-3-3. Hell, it could be pure Bestball. What better way to close the gap on an opponent than using a system they have never seen before?

The warmups don’t give many clues to Chester’s formation, but they say everything about Arsenal. The formation is predictable - 4-2-3-1 - and so is what happens next. Just as Chester are settling into their work, a group of Arsenal wind-up merchants cross the halfway line and begin doing drills near the Chester guys. As classless and petty as this ’tactic’ is, it usually works amazingly well. Footballers, like cats, are territorial, and many an opposition manager has got themselves into a lather about it. The unfairness, the injustice. How do Arsenal keep getting away with it?

Angry people make mistakes.

Max spots the incursion and yells ”Ninety-nine!” His players sprint into Arsenal’s half, grab the nearest footballs, and boot them into the stands. Max himself, wearing shorts and boots even though he isn’t in the match day squad, runs to Gonzalo Aliago, Arsenal’s goalkeeper, who is saving shots off to the side of the penalty area. Max stands in front of Aliago, and falls into a goalkeeping stance as though he wants to save the next shot.

Much discussion follows, and soon Max is surrounded by Arsenal employees. Chester’s subs bench, which is full of 18-year-olds who idolise Max Best, are running around being brats. They keep kicking Arsenal’s balls into the stands, they mess up the layouts of their cones, and Dominic Duckham, a midfield flair player, has the genius idea to open all the water bottles and pour out their contents.

On Arsenal’s side of the pitch, it’s pure chaos.

On Chester’s side, the starting eleven is warming up, undisturbed, unbothered, though they sometimes glance over at the mayhem and laugh.

Someone reasonable gets in Max Best’s ear and makes him see sense.

Max Best holds his hands up. Peace, friend, peace. He strolls back towards his own half, then turns, sprints towards the goalkeeping coach, and knocks a football out of his hand. Max flicks the ball up, does a gravity-defying piece of tekkers, and boots it high into the stands.

The Arsenal players are livid. Their coaches are spitting feathers.

Angry players make mistakes.

Someone pushes Max. Max laughs and calls him a knob.

We’re only in the warm-up.

***

Voice of the Voiceless

The next item in Salazar’s playbook is being late to the tunnel.

The teams are supposed to stand side-by-side behind the referee, then at the time designated by the broadcasters, both teams walk onto the pitch to a combined roar from the crowd. It’s a little piece of theatre, something to give the match a sense of occasion, but there is nothing Salazar won’t gamify. Making your counterpart wait is an age-old trick to get the upper hand.

As you can guess, Max is expecting it. He’s in the tunnel with his players, staring at the time on his phone. When it hits five to three, he says, ”Time. On we go, boys.” The referee, surprised, tries to stop him. Max looks confused. ”You don’t want us to be late, do you?”

So Chester take to the pitch and the Arsenal fans roar until they realise their players aren’t there. What’s going on?

The Chester squad and coaching staff jog to the left-hand side of one goal, where the away fans are enjoying their first of 38 cup finals. Players and fans applaud each other. Max makes his staff stand in a line, then pulls Helge Hagen forward. The Chester fans sing ’Hagen again, olé, olé!’ Max sends the giant Norwegian back and summons Pascal Bochum, who is on the other end of the height spectrum. The fans chant, ’Bad boy, bad boy! What you gonna do? What you gonna do when he’s running through?’ Max sends him back and thinks about who should come next. A few hands push Youngster forward. Max seems surprised. Youngster has a chant?

He does. It’s based on Y.M.C.A. by The Village People and goes, ’Youngster! There’s no need to feel down. Youngster! Pick yourself off the ground. Youngster! You’re in a new town but there’s no need to be unhappy... Dum dum dum it’s fun to play at the Deva Stadium! It’s fun to play at the Deva Stadiu-ummmm!’

Youngster cackles, goofily, Max Best dances, everyone laughs to see such fun.

On the other side of North London, the Arsenal players are stood in a line next to a plinth. Compared to the joyous, bouncing Chester players they look like a bunch of mannequins. Dare I say it, they look like a bunch of dummies. Who’s winning the mind games now?

Someone jogs towards Max and points frantically. ’You have to go over there. You’re supposed to be over there.’

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Max shakes his head. ”No.”

The Chester fans cheer. The guy slinks off, jeered by three thousand strangers.

Chester stay in their corner, jumping around, singing, engaging with the fans, until the world’s worst song belts out. It’s called North London Forever and it is mawkish and weird and worst of all, boring. Max Best visibly cringes on hearing it, and is seen saying, ”What the fuck is this? Did someone die?”

He’s not going to win any popularity contests around these parts, and that’s very much in evidence as the team sheets are read out. When Max’s name is spoken, there are boos. It’s not a majority, but it’s multiple tens of thousands of people booing. As he hears it, he glances towards the media centre.

Towards me.

I sit a little lower.

One person who is happy to see Max is Pepe Salazar, who has missed most of the pre-match nonsense. He strides towards the young gun, the new kid, with a big, friendly, welcoming smile on his face. How much is real and how much is gamesmanship? It doesn’t matter. Max snubs the offer of a handshake and peels his jacket off, revealing a plain white t-shirt with two words on the front and back in chunky black lettering.

PROTECT WOMEN.

Salazar reacts like he has been attacked - by one of his former players, perhaps - and turns away, snarling.

Max is far from finished with this bit. He barks out commands to his staff and they fly into action. They quickly assemble something like the side of a tent, a two-metre high barrier that stretches from Chester’s dugout to the manager’s technical area. I know how Max thinks; he’ll believe this barrier will stop his employees from getting aggravated by the wind-up merchants in the Arsenal dugout. If you can’t see them, you can’t get worked up. But there’s another element - the barrier is all white with two massive black words on it. PROTECT WOMEN. The Arsenal staff will see the words every time they look to the side.

There is bedlam in the Arsenal dugout, and the press box is little different. One prick calls out, ”Anyone know what this is about?”

I reply with the name of a former Arsenal player, a loathsome individual who is currently locked up, serving what is regarded as a supremely lenient prison sentence for his crimes, a player who was cheered to the rafters on a weekly basis in this stadium when it was an open secret that he was as guilty as sin.

The prick can’t believe it. ”But that was ages ago!”

”Tell that to the victims,” I say, and when he laughs, I’m on my feet, fists in a ball, but suddenly very aware that I’m one of very few women in a sea of men. The guy I always thought of as a bully steps to my side, gently putting himself between me and the prick. ”Why don’t you go for a walk, mate?”

I gulp and nod, but I’m stunned to discover he’s not talking to me. The prick goes, ”Fucking make me! It’s innocent until proven guilty, isn’t it? You can’t drop a footballer based on a rumour. I’m not in the wrong here!”

Cute Sportsman grabs the prick’s laptop, lifts it high, and smashes it down on the concrete. There’s a round of applause. I blink. I’m not alone in a sea of men - the prick’s alone. He’s so angry he’s shaking, and his voice comes out weird as he goes, ”You’re gonna pay for that!” He fucks off, jeered as he goes.

Cute Sportsman looks up in disbelief. ”I don’t know why I did that. I can’t afford to be acting like that.” He shakes his head. ”I should send Max Best the bill.”

I look down at the impromptu barrier that caused the whole flare-up and say, ”He’d pay it.”

”Really? I’m not his favourite person.”

”You will be when he hears what you did.” My throat tightens. The bully - new nickname pending - asks me if I’m all right. Do I want to take a minute? He’ll share his notes with me. ”Thanks,” I say, seriously moved. ”But I don’t want to miss a second of this.”

Down by the side of the pitch, Max lifts one of the posts and moves it about an inch. The referee, Tom England, wants more. Max moves the pole another two feet. England is satisfied. Max goes to his technical area, then two physios move the barrier forward by two feet and two inches. The Arsenal dugout doesn’t like that. It’s against the rules! It’s not fair! How are they getting away with this?

***

Fistful of Steel

We arrive at the match itself, which seems like something of an afterthought, but within ten seconds, Max is once more winding up the home fans, or as he has been calling them, the home customers.

The hallmark of a good team is that they move the ball along the ground. The hallmark of a non-league side is the long ball. If you don’t have the skill to move the ball forward with quick, precise passes, why not just kick it long and hope for the best? Max Best is not alone in detesting long ball teams. As the legendary manager Brian Clough once said, if God had wanted us to play football in the clouds, he’d have put grass up there.

It would be unfair to characterise Arsenal as a purely long ball team, but they have the kickoff and Max has something in his hand.

Dougal Boyle kicks the ball all the way from the centre spot to Gonzalo Aliago, who waits a second for his teammates to rush forward. The goalie then smashes the ball high, rugby-style, like a non-league team would.

Max once called Wrexham the world’s most expensive pub team. I wonder if he will change his mind after seeing this.

He might have that thought later, but for now he’s busy. He’s tracking the flight of the ball with a pair of binoculars and laughing hysterically. ”What the fuck was that?” he says. ”Four billion quid for that?”

***

Know Your Enemy

Chester survive their first sixty seconds in elite football. Then they survive another sixty. And another.

Something very strange is happening. First, Chester’s formation is changing not just minute by minute, as I have seen before, but seemingly pass by pass. It’s 4-5-1 then 4-6-0, then 4 question mark question mark. Blue-and-white shirts appear in clusters, in clumps, surrounding some players but never going more than halfway into Arsenal’s half. It’s like there is an invisible line preventing any blue shirt from going beyond that point.

That means there is no pressure on Aliago, and there is no pressure on Arsenal’s centre backs. There isn’t even any pressure on the full backs, so long as they stay behind the invisible line.

Arsenal’s game plan involves baiting the opposition into pressing them. What they want is for Wibbers to rush the goalie, who passes to one of his defenders. This defender would then be rushed by Pascal, and so on, and so on. Chester would end up stretched from one end of the pitch to the other. Arsenal would fizz the ball through the huge gaps, up to the other attacking third, where Arsenal’s elite forwards could destroy whoever was left in the defensive lines. But if nobody presses, if they flat-out refuse to go towards the ball, what should you do?

Arsenal’s players try to taunt Chester’s forwards by standing on the ball, motionless, but nothing happens. They are totally nonplussed by Chester’s tactics, but there’s an easy solution - boot the ball long.

They try this a few times, but run into a problem.

Arsenal’s right-winger is Moses, a brilliant player who is slightly less brilliant these days after being run into the ground, match after match, month after month, by Salazar and a succession of England managers. When the ball is hit in the direction of Moses, Cole Adams drifts from centre back to be a second left back alongside Lewis Lamarre, and Moses is suddenly double-marked.

That leaves Murray Burnett on his own against Arsenal’s expensive striker, while the home team aren’t even thinking about spamming long balls to the other wing. What would be the point? Helge Hagen is the tallest player on the pitch.

”Fuck me,” I mutter.

”What?” says the guy next to me.

”I was just thinking, even if you had loads of centre backs, wouldn’t you want a left back there in the middle? So you could double up on Moses?”

”Oh, is that what they’re doing?”

I point. ”Mate! It’s obvious. Cole Adams wins headers like a CB but he’s comfortable out wide. Moses always has to turn back. And Murray versus the striker is much closer as a contest than I would have expected.”

Shrug. ”So? We’re all over them. It’s just a matter of time.”

I pull at my lip. Is it, though? I watch as Aliago has the ball at his feet. He’s under no pressure. He has trained for years to hold onto the ball until the last possible second because the higher up an opposition player is, the more space is left behind him. There is no press. There is no space. Aliago is an intelligent guy but it looks like his brain has short-circuited. You can almost hear him say, ’Duuuhhhhhh?’

He rolls the ball to Sulk, a Brazilian centre back. When I was preparing for this game, trying to think like Max Best, I imagined that Chester would target Sulk for extra pressure when he was on the ball. He’s a great defender, a brilliant header of the ball in either box, but he’s no technician. I was sure he would be targeted.

Sulk puts his foot on the ball again, even though the act did nothing in the previous ten minutes. He pushes it forward, looks for a long pass, remembers that every one so far has failed. He looks for an option in midfield but there are six Chester players ambling around, cutting out passing lanes, doubling up on Arsenal’s playmakers.

Sulk takes another stride. And another.

Chester players part like the sea.

On the sideline, standing far outside his technical area, waving frantically, is Pepe Salazar. Sulk glances over, sees the instruction to retreat, turns around, passes back to his goalie.

Max Best and Sandra Lane exchange a rueful grin. The trap was nearly sprung!

***

Year of Tha Boomerang

Pre-written articles are hastily re-drafted.

Plucky underdogs Chester lasted all of ten minutes before Arsenal’s mighty machine...

Plucky underdogs Chester lasted all of fifteen minutes...

Stubborn underdogs Chester lasted twenty minutes...

In Salazar’s technical area - more accurately, one yard outside the boundary of the area - frustration grows. Every time he tweaks his team, there is a fresh brick wall in front of them. Chester players flood the wide areas. Salazar adapts. Chester players flood the middle.

Then a sudden burst of pressing!

Pascal, Wibbers, and Leo Los sprint at the goalie and centre backs. Despite the surprise, Arsenal play the ball around them easily and the ball is played forward quickly.

The home fans rise from their seats. Action at last!

But the linesman’s flag goes up. Offside! How did that happen? Chester’s back line moved five yards higher in the blink of an eye. But that wasn’t the trap! This is the trap!

While Arsenal’s players are still trying to understand how they got caught offside in the way they did, Chester’s players are sprinting. Helge Hagen takes the kick, playing it to Youngster, who moves it to Alloula. He finds Leo Los, who ambles ahead, far too slowly for the Premier League. Just as he’s clattered by Arsenal’s Spanish DM, he releases the ball, sending it between Sulk and the left back. Pascal Bochum has made a diagonal run behind the defenders.

He picks up the ball and he has the best chance of the game so far!

Aliago rushes out, closing down the space, but Pascal touches the ball two yards ahead to improve the angle before sliding it towards goal.

This has all happened in the blink of an eye. Chester’s first goal in the Premier League...

Will have to wait.

Pascal’s shot hits the post!

The ball rebounds into the danger area but Arsenal’s right back was switched on - he hacks the ball clear.

Relief for 57,000 fans. A delicious, bitter-sweet moment for three thousand in the away end. Like Pascal, we are small, but we can play this game. Patronise us at your peril.

Pepe Salazar is way past underestimating Chester. He signals frantically and Gonzalo Aliago falls to the grass, holding his hand up, begging for medical attention. He has hurt himself just as his manager wants to make tactical changes. What are the odds?

Salazar, the home fans, and my colleagues in the press area seem surprised by what happens next. Chester players run and surround Salazar, forming a barrier between him and his players. When Salazar tries to shout new instructions anyway, Chester voices shout back. They try to drown out his words. A few yards away, Max Best is making a huge din by swinging an old-school wooden rattle while yelling into a megaphone, ”Cheat! Cheat! Cheat!”

Regardless of these unedifying (a word which in this context means hilarious) scenes, Salazar gets his message across.

When starting their build-up phase, Arsenal send both their DMs into the centre back slots, since they are better at playing medium-range passes than the centre backs. The problem for Salazar is that Max reacts before the players have even jogged back into position. Pascal, Wibbers, and Leo Los press high, with Cheb Alloula and Youngster taking up very aggressive positions behind them. Chester’s back four push right to the halfway line, with Jimmy McNeill acting as a third centre back.

There is no space for short passes.

Go long, then?

Arsenal’s hulking striker is not fast enough to be a danger from long passes over the top. Their wingers are, but they have two defenders with them at all times. Arsenal need to take a risk and let more players from midfield join the attacks, but Salazar doesn’t like taking risks. He hates risk. Max Best has already taken more risk in this match than Salazar will in a month.

It’s not the only difference between them. Salazar rants, screams, makes enormous gestures, is constantly in motion. Max is often still, contemplative, tranquil.

Arsenal start to win more and more duels. They’re slightly faster to the loose balls, a few percent better in almost every facet of the game. They grind their way up the pitch, slowly gaining territory, slowly gaining the upper hand. Their physicality is impressive and they use their extra muscle mass to crash into the more lightweight Chester players - Pascal, Leo Los, Youngster - and the referee lets them. Five Arsenal fouls go unpunished, but the first time Jimmy McNeill clatters into someone, the yellow card comes out. Max Best ventures out of his technical area to remonstrate with the ref. Tom England lopes over and shows Max Best the yellow card. The cause? Leaving the technical area. England has the nerve to do it while Salazar is a few yards away in exactly the same spot as Max.

I feel my blood boiling.

One of the Chester physios erects another pole, this one holding a large screen that faces the front so that the DigiWorld cameras can get a good look at it. The screen shows a heat map, not of a player, but of Pepe Salazar. The hot zones are outside the technical area. I glance around the media centre. The Arsenal guys wince as they see the heat map. They know it will go viral; they know they will be teased by their mates. They shake their heads. Below us, the fourth official sees the heat map and asks Salazar to step back. The Spaniard is rattled. Rattled and angry.

Max Best and Sandra Lane giggle behind their hands. Mischief managed!

Time ticks by and I feel like I have spent 15 of the first 30 minutes watching a close-up of Dougal Boyle’s face as he prepares to take a long throw or a free kick or a corner. He clips a long ball to the far post for Sulk to head back across goal. There’s some chaos, the ball goes over the crossbar, and it’s given as a corner. Max Best falls to his haunches, digging his thumbs into his eye sockets. The replays prove it should not have been a corner.

Max gets up and waves his arms around.

Dougal Boyle stands over the ball for a full minute. When did elite sports become so excruciating to watch? Boyle raises his hand, which is the trigger...

For five Chester players to rush towards the halfway line.

I have seen this trick with two. Sometimes three.

But five?

Boyle has already started his kicking motion but he spots what’s happening. Perhaps that’s why his kick is less accurate than usual. Owen Elmham, captain for the day, surrounded by Arsenal players but no Chester ones, fights his way through the mass of bodies, plucks the ball from the air, barges past two players who are trying to block him, and throws the ball to Wibbers.

Wibbers controls the ball. All he has to do is turn and clip the ball forward. Anywhere will do! Lewis, Pascal, Cheb, and Leo are about to cross the halfway line. This break is an incredible feat of ingenuity, daring, and timing.

The Spanish DM grabs Wibbers by the waist and throws him to the floor, as you might see in the sport of wrestling.

The Chester players lose their cool. Most of the Chester bench are apoplectic. The away fans howl and scream.

There is no yellow card.

It’s one of the most egregious decisions I have ever seen. When my newspaper said Max hated England, perhaps Tom England took it personally. One of the local reporters says, ”We got away with one there.”

He’s delighted about it. I give him a furious look; he quickly looks down at his keyboard.

Shortly after, DigiWorld show Max Best’s reaction to the incident. He’s annoyed, obviously, but he doesn’t jump around. He turns his head towards Sandra Lane and when she moves closer he says, ”It’s gonna be a long season.”

***

Tire Me

With the match mostly being played in Chester’s half, the plucky underdogs are finding it hard to move the ball around. They don’t quite have the speed and the skill. Their storied opponents have both, plus experience, plus more help from the referee than is seemly.

It’s Arsenal who are pushing their defenders to the halfway line. It’s Arsenal swarming around Chester’s playmakers. Leo Los loses the ball several times. Wibbers tries to hold the ball up, is fouled from behind, finds the referee deeply unsympathetic. Pascal, who had the game’s clearest chance so far, vanishes.

It’s only a matter of time...

Time is the only thing working in Chester’s favour. Whatever fitness advantage the home team have, they are frittering away by taking so long to take their set pieces, but the flow of the game is further interrupted by the many VAR checks. After every incident, no matter how minor it seems, the ref signals for the players to delay the restart while he waits for the video assistant referee at Stockley Park to examine the last ten seconds in microscopic detail. Chester’s players can catch their breath, their co-managers can freely discuss changes.

After one such chat, there’s another step change in how the match is played.

Chester survive another corner. Owen Elmham takes his time over the restart, which annoys the Arsenal fans, who don’t seem to find any irony in their protests. As they boo and hurl abuse, a cluster of Chester players forms on the right of the pitch. Elmham boots the ball into the middle of the cluster, where the Chester boys block enough red shirts to allow Helge an extra second to control the ball. He takes it on his chest, clips the ball forward, wins a throw-in. Just like that, Chester are back in Arsenal’s half.

Chester are in no hurry to take the throw. They mill around, scattering absent-mindedly as if they were being sent to the far reaches of the pitch, but then rush together into another blob, with Helge once again in the middle, the nucleus to the cell. He takes the ball on his chest and there’s a brief moment of Bestball. Arsenal’s response is to stab the ball out for another throw-in.

Most Premier League teams would hurl the ball into the box, especially with a weapon like Helge Hagen to aim at. Not Chester. They scatter, reverse course, form a blob by the touchline, and go again. It’s fascinating because it is winding up the home fans while irritating the shit out of the home players, and because it’s a masterclass in using what resources you have to achieve your aims. Can’t pass through the lines? Pass over them. One player can’t hold the ball up? Use five. What about the risk of counter-attacks? It’s nothing compared to the risk of giving the ball away near your own goal.

And with this tactic, Chester aren’t exclusively running the clock down; they’re also trying to work a position from which to attack. A few times, they try to slip Pascal Bochum behind the lines as they did early on. Arsenal are more alert to that danger now, which means they keep a back line of defenders and let the midfield try to disrupt Chester’s mini-scrum. In this close-quarters fight, Chester’s players get closer to the levels of their opponents. Max’s tactic is not full Bestball. It might not be anything except for a low-risk way for Chester to probe.

When they eventually lose the ball, Chester sprint back into position, taking up a 4-4-2 shape that requires little thought, but when they are settled, their defensive shape morphs into whatever the home team least want.

It. Is. Amazing.

The half time whistle blows with the score Arsenal nil, Chester nil. Max Best, the kid who’s out of his depth, who is pure cringe, who is going to get eaten alive, is dishing out high-fives to his players as they walk past, chests puffed out. Max bear hugs Owen Elmham, who has been magisterial between the sticks, then he looks at the Chester fans, who have been magnificent, and pumps his fist. Their response is so loud they can be heard over the half-time music.

Max looks around the rest of the beautiful stadium, sets his jaw, and I don’t need my lip-reading app to tell me that he’s calling the home fans a ’bunch of twats.’

He glares at everyone in his way as he strides down the tunnel. I’m sure it’s all in my head but when he disappears from view, it feels like the stadium itself breathes a sigh of relief.

If I worked for The Sportsman, I would pitch my boss an article idea.

Was that the best first half by any newly-promoted side in the past ten years?

Judging by the vibe in the press box, which is mostly Arsenal fans, such an article would be tremendous rage bait.

***

Roll Right

At the buffet, opinion is divided between those who think Chester have set up incredibly negatively and have shown zero ambition on the one side, and on the other, the people who understand football. A guy who works for a data collection agency says, ”I think Best has just shown teams how to set up against Arsenal.” A former Gunner says, ”He’s a brat, isn’t he? I haven’t followed him much but I tell you what, he’s box office. Absolute dynamite.”

***

Revolver

The second half starts with some Arsenal tweaks and subs. Off goes an 80-million-pound forward, replaced by an 80-million pound forward. Off goes a 50-million-pound defender, replaced by a 50-million-pound defender. Salazar’s giant cannon is redirected. Moses is shifted into the middle so he can operate as a CAM. Dougal Boyle is nudged forward so he can use his endless stamina to open up gaps in Chester’s creaking backline. The new frontman is weaker but more mobile.

Chester have forced Arsenal to try something radical. The home team are going to play some football.

Chester make no personnel changes, but they have made a minor tweak or two. By which I mean they have somehow anticipated Arsenal’s new plan and have responded by flipping their lineup almost upside down! Youngster man-marks Moses. Cheb Alloula and Pascal Bochum play as defensive midfielders. Leo Los marks Dougal Boyle!

On paper, it’s insane. It cannot possibly work.

So why does it work?

Chester FC swat away five minutes.

They sweep the next five to the boundary rope.

They smash the next five out of the stadium. When Sulk, the centre back, gets frustrated at how impotent his team is, he goes on what he hopes will be a marauding run. Youngster zips across, nips the ball from his toes, and Sulk is out of position as Pascal and Leo Los combine to chip the ball into space for William Roberts.

Wibbers surprises Arsenal’s last defender with his pace, shocks him with his strength, and bamboozles him with a piece of skill. Just as the defender thinks the situation might be under control, Wibbers sneaks the ball onto his left foot and chips the goalie.

The ball loops high, comes down, and Aliago sensationally recovers, tipping the ball over the bar. He lies on his back, panting. The Chester faithful praise Saint Wibbers.

Corner to Chester.

Max Best instructs Owen Elmham to go up for it.

There are gasps in the media centre. Someone yells, ”What’s happening?! What IS happening?”

But it’s not serious. Elmham is sent back and Chester set up to take a short corner. Max cackles and tries to evade the rain of slaps coming from Sandra Lane. He defends himself by hugging her. She laughs; Salazar scowls.

Instead of firing the ball into the penalty area, Chester mess about by the side of the pitch, which allows Arsenal’s imperious defenders to do what proper defenders should do - get out. They rush ahead in a beautifully co-ordinated line. Salazar is many things, but he is also an outstanding coach. Outstanding and predictable.

Cheb Alloula - for the time being Chester’s record signing - clips a cheeky left-footed pass into the space the defenders are vacating, and the space invader himself, Pascal Bochum, runs onto it. It’s the most anti-Arsenal move imaginable, turning their strength into a weakness. It’s so perfectly imagined that one wonders who dreamt it up, and the amazing thing is how many candidates there are at this tiny underdog club. Max, Sandra, Vikki, Colin Beckton, Peter Bauer, Pascal himself. There’s no offside flag. Aliago sees the danger, closes the gap, and hurls himself forwards, starfish-fashion. Pascal slams the ball towards goal. It hits Aliago’s knee and rebounds to safety.

Chester’s Expected Goals number climbs above Arsenal’s.

The away fans are in dreamland.

Fifty-seven thousand and one people think it’s a nightmare and want it to end.

Make that fifty-seven thousand and two.

Tom England decides he wants to become the game’s most prominent figure. He punishes Jimmy McNeill for a nothing challenge, a pure 50:50 in the midfield. One more indiscretion and McNeill will be sent off. Max is forced to replace his new signing.

Gabriel, the Brazilian striker, takes to the pitch. It’s fresh legs and a focal point, but Chester had been doing just fine without one.

Then there’s a corner kick that Dougal Boyle wastes 55 seconds of everyone’s lives staring at. Max Best has decided this is to be one of his ’five up front’ kicks, and his fastest players sprint out of the area just as Boyle is making contact with the ball. Owen Elmham gets a solid punch in and propels it in the direction of Cheb Alloula. Chester have a five-against-two break.

But Tom England is frantically blowing his whistle. He orders that the corner be retaken. Why? Here’s one option - because he doesn’t want Chester to win. The fury from the Chester fans is scary. Sandra Lane gives the fourth official the bollocking of a lifetime. Max Best would normally pull her away, but he clearly thinks that this one is deserved.

And guess what?

The corner is retaken, and Arsenal score. When the ball hits the net, there are bodies everywhere, like in a war zone.

The stadium erupts. The media zone is jubilant. One of the Arsenal boys jostles me as he jumps around. When John Major envisaged ’the classless society’, I doubt he was thinking about Arsenal, but if the description fits, wear it.

***

Down on the Street

We are treated to five minutes of Arsenal swaggering around. Now that the ref has given them the win, they are the alpha dogs once more. Pepe Salazar ploughs a furrow outside his technical area, sometimes straying onto the pitch. There are no human laws that apply to this man.

Dougal Boyle sprays passes left and right like prime Steven Gerrard. Sulk outmuscles Gabriel. Moses returns to the right wing, where he throws himself to the floor demanding free kicks. Does he get them? Tom England wouldn’t want to ruin his 100% hit rate, would he?

From one of those free kicks, Arsenal score a second. The Chester players are visibly tiring and there is not much help on the bench. Both those failings can be laid at the feet of Max Best.

Calm Like a Bomb

The football returns to a state of grinding tedium, so I find myself watching Max Best more than the on-pitch action.

He has been booed, patronised, and ridiculed. To my eyes, he has completely and utterly outwitted his opposite number, but he’s 2-0 down and there is no doubt he will continue to be savaged in the media. You might say that he has done himself no favours in that regard, and you would be right.

But there he stands, idly flicking a ball from foot to foot as he watches. With the ball still bouncing, bouncing, left and right, he says something to Sandra Lane. She replies. The match continues.

He flicks the ball up and lets it rest on his crown. The world’s most famous players scurry around, hitting passes slightly too short or slightly behind their intended targets. Max lets the ball crawl down his face and onto his neck. He chats to his co-manager.

Somehow, he reverses the path of the ball so that it goes upwards, onto the other side of his face.

He lets the ball drop as he claps his hands. He stands in front of Sandra Lane, puts one hand on either shoulder, and blasts her with energy. I have the footage and I have a lip-reading app.

Max: Sandra! I’ve just had a revelation! God spoke to me!

Sandra: Oh, shit. What did he say?

Max: He said these clowns are fucking shit and if this is the level, we can stay up.

Sandra: Oh. Like... Okay.

Max: But we have to do it our way. We have to keep doing what we do. Are you with me?

Sandra: I was 100% behind you at kickoff, and I’m 200% behind you now.

Max: Only 200%?

[He wraps her in a hug, lifts and spins her.]

Sandra: All right, all right! What do you want?

Max: Kids.

Sandra: You should talk to Emma, not me.

Shortly after, Chester make two changes, sending on Calabash ’Bark’ Barkley and the Welsh phenomenon, Roddy Jones. They have energy. Chester briefly match the home team stride for stride, but then Arsenal score again.

The goal is another scandal. A free kick leads to chaos which leads to a shot that goes into the bottom corner. So far so good, but there are two Arsenal players in an offside position blocking Owen Elmham’s view of the goal. They are offside and they are interfering with play, therefore the goal cannot stand. The VAR decides the referee was right to allow the goal. What in the name of all that is holy is going on?

Chester prepare to send on a pair of 18-year-olds, Dominic Duckham and Hamish Andrews. They have something that no Arsenal player has - an FA Youth Cup winners medal. In fact, Chester will soon have four winners on the pitch. There are rumours that Max is trying to sign a couple of very hot prospects to fill out this year’s Youth Cup squad, and days like this can do him no harm. 13 Premier League debuts in one game, and almost every outfield player has been under the age of 23.

Max spends a long time talking to Hamish Andrews, hyping him up. The final changes are made.

Arsenal score again, this time unaided by the ref. Their dugout clears, celebrating as though they have scored against arch-rivals Tottenham or have won the Champions League. It is bizarre.

Wake Up

In the final few minutes of Chester’s first ever game in the big time, with the score 4-0, Hamish Andrews zooms around trying to kick Dougal Boyle. Boyle is a one-hundred-million-pound player, a star of the England team, first name on the team sheet at The Emirates. Hamish doesn’t give a shit. In three separate incidents, he clatters into Boyle, clips him late, stands on his toes. Boyle is rattled, and when the final whistle blows, Boyle rushes to Hamish to continue their feud.

Max rushes onto the pitch to protect his boy, but his older players have got their first, with Owen Elmham showing remarkable speed for a goalie to suggest to Boyle that he might want to pick on someone his own size. There’s unseemly pushing and shoving, handbags, then Max’s eyes pop out of his head. He storms off in the direction of the referee, but he has no intention of speaking to him. Youngster is there, shaking hands with the ref, the match officials, and everyone from Arsenal. The following conversation takes place well within earshot of the officials.

Max: What the actual fuck are you doing?

Youngster: Shaking hands.

Max: Why the shit would you do that?

Youngster: It is respectful.

Max: It’s not respectful, it’s moronic! This fucker and those fuckers spent two hours cheating us. Taking the piss out of our fans, out of me, out of you. You’re over here being super friends with all these cheating twats while Hamish is getting bullied. What the fuck?

Youngster: I did not see that.

Max: You didn’t see it because you were too busy making friends. If you want to play for Arsenal, that can be arranged, believe me, but when you wear that shirt you represent Chester and when Chester get cheated non-stop for two hours you don’t go round going oh good job, well played, jolly good show. Not when your team mate is being bullied. What the FUCK! You need to decide what sport you’re playing, mate. This isn’t the friendship games, this is us against the world.

Here’s something. We’ll watch the footage back and if you can find one fucking time this ref gave us a 50:50 decision, I’ll give you a million quid and an apology. Yeah? Guess what? You won’t find anything, but you will find he gave them two goals for free. You want to shake his hand? I seem to remember Jesus stormed a temple when it was full of sinners. He didn’t go in and show them respect, did he? Respect can be lost, mate. Me, Hamish, Owen, and the others are going over to the fans now. Why don’t you go inside and talk to your new friends?

Youngster: Mr. Best, please.

Max: Don’t give me that shit. As soon as they get in that dressing room, they’re gonna laugh at you. Oh, we took the piss and they were so happy to meet us. Did you see that kid from Ghana? Couldn’t wait to ask for my shirt. What a knob! They’re all laughing at you, mate. They cheated, they won, you validated them. Can you just fuck off, please? I can’t look at you right now.

Max gets his players and leads them towards the away end. Not a single one has left. All are singing. They rejoice in the arrival of the men who carry their badge into battle. The last flares are lit, which is incongruous in an emptying stadium.

Max Best produces his megaphone, jumps up onto an advertising hoarding, points to the executive suites and his electronically-augmented voice cries, ”You tried to kill us!”

The reaction from the fans is immediate and it’s so loud it’s dizzying. ”We’re still here!”

”You tried to kill us!”

”We’re still here!”

Max does two more verses, then switches to ”Chester! Chester!”

Two rows behind me in the press box, someone laughs. ”Doesn’t he know he lost?”

I snap. I turn and yell, ”Don’t you know you’re boring?”

I feel my cheeks heating up. I have embarrassed myself, so I grab my laptop and pack my stuff away. As I swing my backpack up, I take one last look at the pitch. Max Best thinks he has six or seven more games like this. How many do I have?

Should I rage against the dying of the light, or accept my fate? I hear there’s plenty of demand for landscape architects. Maybe I’m not too old for a career change.

***

Microphone Fiend

My day is finished, but Max Best’s is not.

He has to do the post-match interview with DigiWorld. I watch it in one of the mostly-deserted concourses, and when I see who the interviewer is, I fear the worst. Paddy Baker is the lowest of the low. He’s someone who scents weakness, someone who sees an open wound, sticks his finger in, and wiggles. Even in my profession, he is despised.

Paddy: Max Best, welcome to life in the Premier League. That was a shameful exhibition, wasn’t it?

Max: Yeah, but they do it every week.

Paddy: I was talking about what you did.

Max: [Helpfully.] No, I’m Chester.

Paddy: Interfering with the warmups, refusing to line up, refusing to shake hands with a respected Premier League manager.

Max: Just so you know, I’m not gonna shake your hand, either. Here, look. [He extends his hand.] Try to shake that. Go on. Watch what happens.

Paddy: Why didn’t you shake Pepe Salazar’s hand?

Max: [Laughing.] What are you, the handshake police? I didn’t want to.

Paddy: Why didn’t you want to?

Max: Because I don’t like him.

Paddy: Why don’t you like him?

Max: Are you okay, mate? You seem a bit frantic.

Paddy: Why don’t you like Pepe Salazar?

Max: Not sure. Can’t remember.

Paddy: A lot of people will think you got what you deserved. A four-nil battering after a shameful exhibition of gamesmanship.

Max: Those people will be happy it was only four-nil because if it goes higher than five, they run out of fingers.

Paddy: What do you mean by that?

Max: There’s a saying in my family: Max, go to bed, you’ve got school in the morning. I think about that a lot. [He laughs.] Okay, I’m ready to go live.

Paddy: This is live!

Max: Really? Then why are you being so reductive? Don’t you respect your audience?

Paddy: You were on the end of some marginal decisions. What did you think about the referee?

Max: Which one? Pepe Salazar or Dougal Boyle?

Paddy: Tom England.

Max: Oh. All I can say about him is that he’s an elite referee.

Paddy: Did you agree with his decision to allow the third goal to stand?

Max: He’s an elite referee.

Paddy: What about the third goal? Should it have stood?

Max: [Chuckling to himself.] It’s funny, this. People warned me about you. They said, Max, be careful, Paddy Baker is a world-class troll. But you’re not, are you? You’re shit at this. You want me to say something provocative so you can get two percent more engagement on the socials. I mean, I get it, what we’ve just seen doesn’t count as entertainment but why worry about what happens on the pitch if you can manufacture some bullshit off it? You win coming or going.

Paddy: Please don’t swear.

Max: Why the fuck not? You know, this reminds me of a video I watched about the decline of ESPN. It used to be a great resource, a great companion to the sports it covered. In recent years it turned into a shithole full of people shouting at each other. Nuanced coverage? Intelligence? What’s that? Let’s just have idiots screaming at the screen all day long because one of those screams might go viral. The billionaire you serve with such diligence must have watched the same video as me and thought, hey that’s awesome, I’ll ruin DigiWorld the way my b-bro ruined ESPN. That’s where you come in, Paddy. You are the mouth that screams. It’s funny, isn’t it? In the past, trolls lived under bridges. Now they live front and centre of our daily lives.

Paddy: Arsenal scored when you sent five players up for a corner that you were defending. Our experts in the studio agree it’s crazy, schoolboy stuff, and if I was a Chester fan I would have serious concerns about your leadership style, your decision-making, your tactics, your formation, your squad-building, and your behaviour!

Max: Yeah but you’re not a Chester fan, are you? So I don’t give a shit.

Max Best looks at the camera and radiates happiness.

I punch the air and yell, ”Come on! Get in!”

I am completely mortified to realise that someone else is watching behind me. The feeling gets five times worse when I realise that it’s Cute Sportsman. ”Bethany Alban, right?”

It’s almost certainly better if I don’t tell him my name. I should move to Italy and live out the rest of my days in a convent. ”Yes, that’s right.”

”Look, I might be speaking out of turn here, but some of us are putting together a sort of all-star reporter podcast slash YouTube channel thing. We want the good people, the ones who get it. Would you, sort of, want me to drop your name as someone we might want to...?” He blushes slightly, which my gut tells me is because he was about to say ’get into bed with’. Hello!

”Would I have to promote gambling companies?”

He laughs. ”No.”

”Do I have to hate Max Best for clicks?”

”No. We want to, sort of like, be better. We think there’s a market for good analysis and honest opinion, simply delivered. I read some of your work and listened to some of your pod. I liked it a lot.”

I nod towards the screen. ”What do you think of Paddy Baker?”

Cutey looks to the side. ”He’s part of the ecosystem.”

”What, like a worm?”

Another big laugh. ”I love your passion. I didn’t like what I saw from Chester today, from Max Best, but it was a bog-standard league game that by the end felt like a big cup semi-final. That’s what passion does. Some of us are going to get a drink. Want to come?”

”Hang on,” I say, because I think I know what this article is going to be called. ”What’s your favourite band? Bearing in mind it would really help my next article if you said Rage Against the Machine.”

He laughs again, cuter than ever. ”It’s Craig David.”

”What the fuck? That’s not a band.”

”Okay, fine. Audioslave. Does that work?”

I turn back to the screen, where a panel of idiots are ripping into Max Best for his antics, his tactics, his failure. Was there really a world in which top journos were collaborating to offer good, honest analysis? It seemed too good to be true, but what did I have to lose by going for a beer? ”Audioslave is an all-time great answer. Yes, it works.”