Soccer Supremo - A Sports Progression Fantasy

13.

Thursday, August 24

Dan Badford, 20, English.

MC, CA 127, PA -1.

Form: 9-6-6-8-8

Injuries: Broken Nose (2 weeks)

Morale: Abysmal

I swanned into the hospital room, scanned the equipment like someone who had over 5 hours of medical training, and on my way to the bed, sang softly. ”Oh Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes, are brooooooken. From eye to eye, down to the bits inside.”

”Max,” complained Emma, quietly.

Our little gang surrounded the bed. Ems and her parents, Briggy and Don Pino, MD. There was also Geraint (’Gerry’), the physio, one of the OG guys I had ’borrowed’ from the Welsh FA when Saltney were starting out. He had stayed overnight even though everyone said it was overkill and Dan was basically fine. For going the extra mile, Gerry was gonna get a treat.

The patient looked wretched. Dan was being kept in darkness, his eyes would be black for weeks (’raccoon eyes’, Gerry had called it), and he would have headaches and bouts of rage.

”We won’t stay long,” I told him, speaking softly. ”You don’t have to say anything. Just point to the person you want to give you the last rites.” Dan extended his finger in my direction. ”Up?” I said, confused. ”Why are you pointing up? Is there a priest upstairs?” I chuckled to myself until Emma dug me in the ribs. ”Ow! Quit it. Dan, we just wanted to show our faces and say, like, even though every single one of us has left the country or is about to, you aren’t being abandoned. Clearly that’s exactly what’s happening but this gives the illusion that we care about you. Ow!”

”We do care about you,” said Elbow Girl. ”You were so brave.”

Briggy said, ”Brave but stupid. There are hundreds of ways to deal with a powerful former Yugoslavian who is about to punch you. You chose the worst outcome.”

”No,” I said. ”He had to take the hit - in his mind - for the team. A near miss wouldn’t have done it. He had to let the twat go smashy-smash.” I sat on a chair and grabbed Dan by the hand before he could take it away. I held it tenderly. ”I don’t use the word hero very often... and this doesn’t quite meet the threshold.” I cackled.

”The fuck?” said Emma.

Dan wasn’t smiling, wasn’t moving his face at all, but his Morale had crept up and he had made no attempt to move his hand away. I gave it a little squeeze. ”I’m supposed to not make you smile so I’m gonna be sombre and calm. Oops, task successfully failed... Guess what, bro? We did it.” I wiggled his thumb excitedly, which was to show how stoked I was without the vibrations reaching his head. ”We diiiiiddddd iiiittttt!”

That got a tiny smile, which was followed by his eyelids shutting. That had hurt.

I dialled my energy down by 40%. ”Listen, mate. You’ve given me a gift. My family’s set for life thanks to you. I won’t forget that.” I reached into a pocket and pulled out some fluff. I placed it into his hand and closed his fingers around it. ”This is a Get Out of Jail Free fluff. If you fuck off to the Saudi Pro League without telling anyone, you come back, show the fluff, it’s all good. I’m serious. You ever need anything you can’t tell me about, ask someone in this room and I’ll pay them back, no questions asked.” Dan’s eyes seemed to get shiny, so I changed tone again. ”Please note, my forgiveness does not encompass you moving to the French league. No. Uh-uh.”

”Bout...” he said, squeezing his face up. ”Bout Australia?”

”Sure,” I said. ”Go ahead. Just make sure you get all your injections. And some kind of body armour. Oh, that reminds me!” I let his hand go so that I could get my phone out. The screen seemed overly bright so I toned it down. ”You’re gonna be in pain for a bit, but basically you’ll be all right in a couple of weeks. For the following four months, when you play, you’ll have to wear a protective mask. You know where this is going, right?”

MD said, ”Superheroes?”

”Bingo.” I scrolled down my notes app. ”Okay, first up we lean into bat stuff. We’ve got a new mascot at Saltney: BatDan. No, don’t say anything, I know you’re into it.”

Rachel Weaver said, ”Thumbs up or thumbs down?”

Dan gave BatDan a thumbs down.

”The fuck?” I said. ”Danman. No? Okay think about a chunkier mask with no mouth holes and we go, Dannibal Lecter. The Dan in the Iron Mask. Iron Dan. All right, slight twist on that one, we get more literate and call you Irony Dan. Did that punch knock all the taste out of you? These are gold. Different tack. You’ve got a busted nose so I thought maybe we could go with Nosetta Parks. I refuse to move... out of the way of the punch. No? Noseferatu. Nosetra-Dan-us.”

”Jesus,” said MD.

”Fine fine fine. You have a try if you think my ideas are so bad.”

MD said, ”The Balsa Wood Kid.”

I dropped the phone so I could put both hands on my head. ”What the hell is that?”

”Balsa wood is, you know, thin wood. We used to call players who were injury-prone - ”

Briggy clicked her fingers, ”One Punch Man.”

Dan’s eyes watered again, but this time because he was laughing. He groaned.

Briggy squeezed his hand. ”Sorry, Dan.”

With his free hand, he did a thumbs-up.

I sighed. ”Wow, okay, we finally got a positive reaction. Last thing,” I said, but Rachel Weaver interrupted me.

She said, ”I’ve got one.” We all stared at her. ”Dan got punched in the beak and he’s a big tough guy who rights wrongs, so... The Beakqualiser.”

Dan laughed his headache worse again but gestured with both hands.

I tutted. ”Give the attractive blonde woman two thumbs up. Cool cool cool. I won’t stew about this, not even for a second.” Emma nudged me. We had to go catch a plane. ”Dan, listen. The medics are gonna check you out, then check you out. I’m hearing great things about your septum deviation, hurr hurr, but you know I don’t like injured players getting on a plane, so I’m ordering you to stay in Switzerland for a week. You and Gerry are gonna have a couple of nights in Bern, then hit Lucerne. All the hot girls are from there and I’m told it’s just as picturesque as Bern. Then you’ll do Zurich for a couple of days. Apparently, it’s not as stuffy and uptight as you’d expect. Nightlife, hipster places, all sorts. Gerry’s gonna look after you, all right? Keep your sunglasses on, take your meds, don’t overexert yourself. Do go nuts on expenses; the club’s paying. We’ve got lobster money now... thanks to you.”

I shook his thumb again and stood up. I got a big grin on my face and jerked my head towards Gerry.

”God, I wish I was the one looking after you. Look at you all smashed up and fragile. You’re like Andrew Garfield’s stunt double after a mishap. You’re such a chick magnet right now! I used to take Solly for walks and joggers would sprint across the park to chat with me. If I was single I would put you in a wheelbarrow and push you around Lucerne. Wow.”

Emma said, ”I wouldn’t mind seeing that. I’ve seen a lot of pick-up artists try a lot of things, but I’ve never seen a guy using an injured friend as a prop.”

”He’s not a prop! He’s a conversation starter and a wingman.”

”Let’s see it.”

”Babes! We have to fly to Holland. Dan will be injured loads in the future; I’ll show you then.”

Dan did a thumbs down... on both hands. He fished out the fluff and croaked, ”Get out of jail.”

”Soz, mate, can’t hear you. All right.” I pointed. ”To the Nether regions!”

Dan Badford

Morale: Very Good

***

We got in a couple of vans and headed to the airport in Bern, where Don Pino had a jet waiting to whisk us to Amsterdam. Sebastian Weaver and Don got on great. Couple of heavyweight operators whose skills were complementary. Don had the upper hand when it came to fat stacks stacked, but Seb was way ahead in terms of marrying a total knockout. The ringside judges were calling this round ten v ten, and the fighters were pulling each others’ gloves off. Turning swords into gossip shares, with a side of oak-aged whisky.

Briggy asked me to go to the back of the plane, where she handed me documents to sign. Two more slices of Temps Perdu shares, one wafer thin, one as fat as Dan Badford’s nose/bonus (choose your own image). The total cost was just under 1.8 million quid, it took my stake in the company to 4.34%, which seemed enormous after a year of looking at a number that started with 1. And best of all, I would still have 2.7 million quid lying around in Gibraltar.

”Thanks, Briggy. Talk about the icing on the cake. Bosssssh!”

She zipped up her briefcase and smiled. ”It’s just a drop in the ocean these days, isn’t it?” She appraised me. ”Don Pino knows how to spend money. I like that you don’t waste yours but I think you’re allowed a treat. Why don’t you buy yourself something nice?”

”Like what? A watch? They get stolen. Jewelry? Not gonna make Emma a target.”

”How about a nice car? I saw this and thought of you.” She got her phone and showed me a beautiful little sporty thing. ”That’s an old-school Alfa Romeo. There’s a guy in Italy, near Venice, who takes them and retrofits them into electric cars.”

”Hybrid?”

”No, pure electric. The best materials, the finest craftsmanship. It’s indulgent but it’s eco. You could treat yourself to this and not feel bad.”

”It does look sexy. How much is one of these?”

”Six hundred thousand Euro.”

”You’re amazing at ending conversations.”

She tutted. ”There’s a waiting list and only 20 will ever be made.” My former bodyguard, who seemed on the verge of a big money transfer to Don Pino, got up in my grille and said, ”Pay the deposit, make more money, drive the kind of car that makes Emma feel like Audrey Hepburn. She deserves it. You deserve it. Don’t fuck with me on this.” With one last aggressive push, she wandered off.

***

I went to sit next to MD. His initial investment had been crucial to everything I had done in Saltney. ”You know,” I told him, as I settled into place. ”I’ve been racking my brains trying to understand how I misjudged Chester so much last season, why we overperformed, and my conclusion is... I blame you.”

”Me?” he said, surprised.

”You slapped a big chunk of your life savings on the table to build The Legends and the training campus. It nudged Chester’s Facilities Score up a point or two. Our guys just kept shooting up long after I expected them to hit some kind of plateau.” I jabbed him. ”It’s your fault, brah.”

”I would apologise,” he said, his upper lip twitching, ”if you hadn’t browbeaten me into doing it.”

I faced the front. ”You have used one or more words I don’t know so instead of asking what they mean I’m going to pretend the conversation so far simply never happened. It’s an old technique I learned in primary school and it has never failed me. Right, listen,” I said, turning to him again. ”The Champions League draw happens in the next hour or so, and Briggy told me that Don Pino has invited loads of agents to have a late lunch with us in Amsterdam. So we need to decide what we want.”

”What we want?”

”What our risk appetite is. Like, I think I will be able to assess the oppo pretty accurately. The question is, how much do we want to strengthen Saltney’s squad? We might only have one winnable match in which case we should just hold onto what we got, but if there are more, we’ll need to spend more to bolster the squad. I have some leads already, but I need to know your risk appetite.”

”My risk... What?” He licked his lips. ”I’m actually really happy with what we have done?”

The way he phrased it as a question made me smile. I showed him my palms. ”I’m happy. I’m set. I’m not greedy. But I think there’s one thing I’m exceptional at, and that’s the risk-reward calculation when it comes to this sport. We could invest one to two million to potentially gain six or eight million, but at the risk of the two million we stump up. I’d like to know where your head is at.”

”I thought I was in line to get a hefty repayment...”

”That’s not in question, Mike.” The plan was that over time, Saltney would pay him 15 million from its UEFA prize money, plus he would get a lifetime 10% cut of every outgoing transfer Saltney made. It was actually a very sweet deal but for now he was still massively in the red. I had promised him 3 million if we made it into the CL this time round. I slid an imaginary 3 million pound note into his shirt pocket and tapped it gently. ”You get paid, I get paid, and the club has 5.7 million to cover all its expenses. I’m saying we should tap into that, push it.”

He rubbed his forehead. ”Quick question. We promised the players 10% as a bonus. That would have been 1.87 million, but one day it turned into 2 million. True or false, that happened because you don’t like adding decimals?”

I rubbed my mouth. ”Fine, you got me. But it’s not just the players, is it? It’s the coaches, the physios, Bonnie, the admin team. We ask a lot of them; they should get rewarded.”

MD rubbed his hand across the premium seat of our jet. He was rich but he didn’t splurge like this. ”This idea of yours. Would you forgo some of your bonus in order to make it happen? If I matched it?”

”Yes,” I said. ”Because I’m only going to press for it if the odds are in our favour.”

”Okay,” he said, eyeing me. He set his jaw, then tried hard to relax it. ”Going for more wins would get me brownie points with Gwen, so...” He looked haunted for a moment, as he always did at the prospect of vast amounts of money leaving one of the bank accounts he was responsible for. ”What have you got lined up so far?”

”We can get two loans from Wrexham. They are stuffed with players, as always. They have a right back and an attacking right mid they don’t need. If those guys come to us, Wrex can sell them in January or the summer. If no-one wants to buy them, we’re taking some wages off Wrexham’s books. Plus it’s more of their guys playing at The Racecourse in European comps, which helps them sell tickets. Remember how good that worked with Dunners and Davey? We can do it again.”

”How does them leaving in January help us?”

”Because it’ll be after our eighth league stage game. That’s, er, Jan 23rd. Guy gets eight CL games, does well, there’s a market for him. Right?”

MD nodded, slowly. ”Right. How close are these deals to completion?”

”Not, but they could happen quickly. It depends on the draw. If it’s shit, we take our money and run. If we’ve got the chance to fuck things up, we invest. The Wrexham boys fill two big holes in the squad, then we can focus on getting some star power. Some matchwinners.” I turned because Rachel and Emma were laughing at a Don Pino joke. I smiled. Life was great! ”Em... what did I want to say? Shit, I can’t remember. But basically, I strongly think we should invest two mill into wages because we only need one win to get it back, and we can let everyone go after the eighth CL game, so we only have to pay 21 weeks of wages.”

”Oh, is that all?”

***

Amsterdam’s airport is a dick. Even though we were big-shot VIPs who flew in on a private fucking jet, we still ended up in what seemed like Denmark. Seriously, if you haven’t flown to Schiphol, it goes like this. You land, you walk five minutes, you walk another hour, then you find yourself in a vast hall, an hour outside Amsterdam. Every time I saw someone in an official-looking uniform, I leaned over the travelator and yelled, ”DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?!”

(A slightly more accurate version of the story is that Emma jumped onto my back and I jogged the 18 kilometres from the plane to baggage reclaim; I counted it as my day’s training.)

***

We rocked up at some weird restaurant that used to be a car repair centre and still had loads of hydraulics and giant cogs and angry Mario Land-style pipes sticking out of the ground. I expected our fries to be served in recycled car tyres, but no, it was nothing so strange. The fries came in reclaimed cup holders.

Don Pino had invited three of his agent friends, and I was on a table with Don, Briggy, and the new guys. Now, the statisticians say that nominative determinism, the idea that someone’s name influences what they will become, is not real. They say that people called Dennis are not more likely to become dentists than the general population, but I’m not so sure. After all, these three agents were called ’Solid’, ’Winsome’, and ’Ratfuck Weasel.’

All were Italian and asked for my thoughts on why the Italian youth teams were doing well but that success didn’t continue through to national team level. ”I’m not a top expert but I’d say there are four main reasons. Obviously, the talent is there, but it’s blocked.

”One, the facilities are generally quite poor. I went to AC Milan and Inter and there are English League One clubs with better training pitches and gear. Christ, I’d prefer to train at Wycombe than at Inter.

”Two, someone once told me that Italian clubs like to trade older players between themselves so that loads of people can get a cut of the action. Agents, backhanders, greasing the wheel. Once you hear that, you can’t fail to notice how old Italian starting elevens are.

”Three, a general lack of trust in young players. Points two and three are connected, obviously, but in short, when you stop having a meritocracy, you’re in trouble. A club manager has a choice. Pick a 30-year-old foreigner or a talented Italian kid. But hang on. If he picks the foreigner, the guy’s agent slips him 500 Euro.

”Four, assuming the national team is still talented, despite everything, then you’ve got to look at the character of the national team managers. Are they the best and brightest? You’ve got Alan Turner syndrome, it seems to me. One guy fucked off to Saudi to get a huge pay packet. One guy is a bigoted asshole who inspires only revulsion.”

Solid said, ”How would you fix it?”

I swirled a tomato soup that wasn’t as good as the first one I’d had in this country. ”I wouldn’t. Having a dysfunctional Italy makes it easier for the teams I care about to win.”

Briggy made an amused noise, and Solid smiled. ”You are an agent yourself. If you represented a talented 15-year-old Italian boy, what would you do with him?”

I leaned back and thought about it. ”Sorry to say it but I’d probably try to get him out. There are, you know, too many points of failure ahead of him.” I resumed what I was calling Operation No Spill.

”Where could they go? Gibraltar?”

I paused with a liquid blob of tomato close to my lips, eyed Solid, and downed the soup. I dabbed at my lips. ”I would consider that, yeah. I’ve set it up as a conveyor belt of talent. Facilities, a decent but not overly-demanding league, European exposure, space to learn and grow far from expectation. If any of the kids were willing to commit to playing for Gibraltar, the ones who would never play for Italy anyway, they would fly up. Gib would work, yes. There’s the problem of work permits and parents and such things.”

”No,” said Don Pino. ”Not if the parents move to the south of Spain. It’s the European Union, Max. We have that freedom.”

”Ha,” I said. ”I’m imagining a little Italian community there in Marbella.”

”Or Cadiz,” said Winsome.

I slowed my soup action and eyed him. ”I see you’ve given this some thought.”

Weasel said, ”What went wrong with you and Emiliano?”

That seemed like quite a pivot, but lots of funny replies came to mind. Since Don Pino was there, I chose diplomacy. ”I think about him a lot. Why did no-one try to correct his failures earlier in life? I’ve got theories. They’re just theories, of course, and they lean heavily on stereotypes. The first thing is that his mum is gorgeous. If I was his coach and I got to see her three or four times a week, I would want her to smile at me. Maybe I wouldn’t scream at her son no matter how shit he was training and playing. What do you think, Don, could there be something in that theory?”

He had a big crush on Emi’s mum, but it seemed like everyone knew it; he wasn’t even slightly embarrassed. ”Could be. What’s the second idea?”

I put my spoon down so I could gesture. ”Italian football history. You’ve got your sweepers, your cautious football, your defensive, tactical approach. It’s ingrained into the fans, the coaches, the expectations. Who is allowed to deviate from the system? Who is allowed to play with flair and fantasy? The playmaker. The Emiliano. He’s a throwback player. A reminder of the good old days, yes? All his coaches watch him stroll around doing whatever the fuck he wants going, oh, he reminds me of Dino Stronzo or whoever.”

The new Italians chuckled at the name I had invented, but Don appeared interested. ”You might be onto something with that.”

”Of course I’m onto something! How did the little shit go seven, eight years in and around pro football without getting the correction he needed?” I shook my head. ”As soon as he leaves that all-Italian bubble, as soon as he’s playing against multi-national athletes playing modern football, he looks dogshit. He pisses me off but it’s not his fault, really; he should have been coached better. I would have torn strips from him twice a week and his mum would have come to yell at me and I’d have blasted her, too.”

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”Blasted?” said Winsome, his eyebrows wagging.

I laughed at my mistake. ”Not like that.” I shrugged, then as I locked eyes with Don Pino, I added, ”Not at first.”

His face darkened, but only for a split second. He put a meaty hand around my neck and shook me. ”How do you know Max Best is in a good mood? He pokes fun at you. I can take it, my friend! Today, after your triumph, you can tease me about anything!”

I looked down at my top and stretched it out. ”Did I get soup on me?”

Don peered. ”I don’t see any.”

I raised both hands, curled into fists. ”Another triumph!”

Solid said, ”Can you tell us about Bark?”

”Bark?” I said. He wouldn’t have been in my top thousand guesses for the next topic of conversation. ”What do you want to know?”

”You met him at Darlington, tried to help him, finally took him properly under your wing. He plays a little here, a little there, and now he’s in the Premier League. How did you do that?”

”Huh,” I said, standing up so I could slip my right leg under me, like I was at home on my sofa. ”It’s just the training method I’ve been developing. I mean, he’s good enough, obviously, but lots of players don’t fulfil their potential, so...” The space was full of car stuff but I couldn’t think how to turn it into a metaphor. ”Take a month. We’ve got four matches, one on each Saturday. Match one is easy, two is medium, three is hard, four is easy. I tell Bark, you’re gonna play in match three, so in week three, we’re dialling down the intensity of training. Does that make sense so far?”

Weasel said, ”But - ”

Solid slapped him on the arm. ”Yes, it does. Please continue.”

”He’s gonna play week two, as well, but although it won’t be an easy match, that team plays in a very predictable way, so we don’t need to watch much footage or prepare any particular counter-measures. Cool. So week one, the intensity of training - for Bark - is high. Week two it’s high with a slight reduction on Friday. Week three the focus is on the match - and playing real minutes is important for him, too - then week four should be high intensity but we adjust that based on what the physios say. Do you get me? If you can tell your coaches those things at the start of the month, you can optimise for 25 players.”

”For Chester,” said Solid. ”Or Saltney, because it is so close.”

I shrugged. ”For all my teams. I have regular calls with the guys in Gibraltar, for example. It’s not as challenging as it sounds because there aren’t 25 players in those squads we’re pushing hard - most will get where they’re going soon enough anyway - and if I tell my managers what I want and they deviate from it here and there, it’s okay. Like if I say I want Emiliano to play in week three but Alby sees that he’s training shit or he’s depressed because everyone wants to bang his mum, Alby’s free to make that call as long as he mostly follows the plan.”

Winsome said, ”But what do you do in training? You’re doing something better than most clubs. What’s the secret?”

I spread my arms. ”I don’t think we have a secret, really. Maybe the secret is that we prioritise training, how about that? Of course results matter but you get good results if you train the shit out of your guys. But let me give you an example. Shall we stick with Bark? He’s not the most interesting case study, I don’t think.”

”Emiliano,” said Don Pino.

”No, also not interesting. He just needs to pass more in matches. Let me think... Leo Los, the Slovakian Messi. He’s very talented, but he’s got the weight of that nickname dragging him down. He used to dribble past players like Messi, but now he almost never tries to do it. He has been reinventing himself as a through-ball merchant, or someone who plays the pass before the pass. It sounds cruel to say he’s hiding, but that’s what a lot of managers think. They told me after I signed him, that’s why we looked at him but noped out. To me it’s not exactly hiding, though there might be some of that. It’s more he’s trying to reinvent himself because what worked at youth team level worked less and less well until now he doesn’t even want to try it.

”So think of a training session. Monday morning, we do things.”

”We do things,” said Winsome. ”So vivid.”

I laughed. ”Things. You’ve seen things. There are cones. People run. People shout. Who gives a fuck? At the end, we play a match. The players love it! It’s a treat for them. Ah, nope! It’s a trap. We’re seeing if they absorbed the things the coaches were drilling into them all morning. Leo has a coach who keeps a special eye on him. At the moment it’s Clive O’Keefe, great guy. Clive tracks what Leo’s doing and not doing and updates the player pack. That’s, like, got bare statistics and stuff but most importantly it’s got our coaching notes. What are our goals with this player? What do we want? Are we making progress towards those goals?”

”What are Leo’s goals?” said Weasel.

I shook my head. ”Leo doesn’t have goals. I have goals for Leo.”

Weasel smiled. ”Got it. What are your goals for Leo?”

”Yeah, basically, to help him do what he was trying to do. I think he’s a really clever guy, he understands football, he understands his limitations, and the player he was trying to become is the player I want. So we watch him in games to see how well he’s progressing the ball versus how often he loses it. We might start Tuesday morning with a match, then break everyone into small groups to do certain drills. In Leo’s case, he’ll be in a decision-crisis group. They get a short pass option, medium, long. We put, like, six guys ten yards away. One’s gonna run and block one of the mini-goals, and the others just fucking storm towards Leo. We ping a pass to him and he has to assess the sitch and pass slash shoot before he gets got. It’s brutal. Then they go back into the match situation and if he isn’t better, we do it again.

”Of course, I would like some of the old dribbling skill to come back, because if he’s got that in his locker, the defence has to be on their toes. He has been failing in the past couple of years because he got one-dimensional and he’s easy to stop. We’re bringing back a second threat, improving his all-round game. He is going to be a serious player by the end of this season and if he gets the right move, next season he’ll go up another level.”

There was a pause. An impressed silence, I thought, but I was still euphoric from the night before so I could have been misreading it. Weasel said, ”If he’s going to go up a level, why let him move? Is that pre-agreed?”

Don Pino said, ”Max is assuming Chester will be relegated. Is that still what you think? Really? I thought Chester competed rather well against Brighton.”

I scoffed. ”It doesn’t matter how well we play; we can’t beat these referees. Arsenal were handed two goals. Brighton were handed two goals, though being Brighton they only scored one of them.” Winsome laughed hard at that one, which made me like him more. I stood and sat down in a more conventional way. ”To be honest, I’ve been distracted by the whole ’do six impossible things before breakfast’ of taking Saltney into the CL, but now that the Chester squad is bulking up...”

Solid said, ”I saw the notices that five names were added to the squad.”

”Yep. Magnus, Dumi, Peter, Edgar.” Magnus had graciously accepted an offer to ’join’ Chester for 18,000 pounds a week. He wasn’t the most materialistic guy in the country, but now that he had to withdraw his wages in a wheelbarrow, I was much less worried about him quitting football.

Solid was incredibly interested in my squad-building methods. ”And yourself. But not Colin Beckton?”

”No. He’s actually signing a proper deal with Saltney Town to stay this season. Eight Champions League games! He’s really excited. He says it’s for his daughters but I think he thought his career was winding down and he’s getting a reminder of how it was when he was young. An Indian Summer, someone called it. A burst of summer when you think summer’s over.”

”And you don’t need him because you will sign Ruud Berkenbosch tomorrow.”

”Exactly. But look, when one of your players really wants to do something, you try to make it happen. When I was a kid, Ronaldo wanted to go to Madrid, so Alex Ferguson said, sure, okay, but give us one more year. We can prepare and by the way, think how big your transfer fee will be if you keep improving! Ronaldo was into it. Win-win, right? With Colin, it’s easy to do the right thing. Plus he’s our coach, and having a coach who’s literally playing in the Champions League right now is amazing. Our head of youth development, Sam Topps, was in the Europa League last season and the kids loved it.

”Oh! I was quite down on the Italian system earlier but there’s one thing they do well. In England, if you’re a top coach doing the under 16s, you’re looking to move up as fast as poss. When I’m managing against coaches in the Youth Cup, they’re guys who want to fuck off to manage a Championship or League One club as soon as poss. How’s that good for the kids? It ain’t. What I’ve seen in Italy - and remember, I am very far from an expert - is that you have 50-year-old former players doing the under 16s, long-term. The vibe is, we want our best coaches in the key positions. That’s right. That’s how it should be. By the way, that shows there’s a contradiction between the guys at the top using the club as a personal cash machine and the mid-level guys who are doing their best.

”When it comes to coaches, I don’t mind a few mercenary types who use one of my clubs as a stepping stone. That can go well, right? But broadly speaking, those characters are nowhere near the youth teams. You don’t use my kids as rungs on your ladder. You lift the kids up, right? That’s the job.”

MD came over, excited. ”They’re doing the draw! The first match is against... I don’t know how to say this.”

He showed me his phone. The text read: Crvena Zvezda. ”That’s Red Star Belgrade,” I said. ”At home! Mike, we could win that!”

”Haha,” he said, more excited but also terribly, terribly afraid. He pulled at his collar like he was too hot. ”Why do I feel my bank balance shrinking?”

I was up on my feet, lightly bouncing, but I paused to put my arm around his shoulder. ”That’s just your age, MD. Everything shrinks.”

Don Pino slapped his belly with both hands. ”Not everything! I wasn’t born with a drum kit. Come! Let us find a screen and watch the draw. The damned things take ages to start, but then they fairly whizz along.”

***

The group from the other table joined us at the side of the restaurant, where Briggy beamed the draw from her phone to a screen. The other customers didn’t seem to mind, especially when it was Emma asking if they minded.

Briggy whispered, ”Max, explain this to me quickly.”

”We’re going to get eight games,” I said. ”Four home, four away. It’s not a normal league where every club plays every club twice. This is called the Swiss model. It’s chaotic and random but at the end, everyone has played eight times and those eight games give you the final league table. To balance it out, there are seedings and pots and restrictions, like we can play a max of two teams from one country. And so on. We’re bottom of the rankings so we won’t get a very easy ride. I’m just looking - ”

Our second opponents were drawn. Rennes away. ”French,” said Briggy. ”Your nemesis.”

”My defeated foes, is what you mean. We can beat Rennes!” By my reckoning, they would be around CA 135. Hard, sure, but how about that for a Bench Boost option? ”I was saying that I’m looking for matches we have a shot at winning. We will be underdogs in every game, of course, but every win is worth two million quid. It’s seven hundred grand for a draw! If there’s one more weak-ish team, I’m gonna ask MD to really go for it. Spend money to make money.”

”Spend money to make money to buy a car.”

I stepped back slightly so I could eye her. ”What is it with you wanting me to buy a flash car? Are you on commission?”

She grinned. ”I just feel sad every time I see you in that Mini. You don’t want me to feel sad, do you, Max?”

”This is weird. Oh my God! Home to Copenhagen. MD! MD!”

”I’m seeing it, Max. I’m seeing it.” For once, instead of panicking, his eyes showed a flash of greed. Copenhagen would be slightly weaker than Rennes. Three games we could win, back to back!

Don Pino said, ”What are you thinking?”

”Third match is going to be the 17th or 18th of October. So far we have got three games we could win, right? If I could loan a couple of really, really good players and send them back on the 19th, after the third match, we could seriously optimise our income versus expenditure.” I shook my head. ”No club would agree to that. But that’s what I was thinking.”

Don Pino nodded. ”What sort of players does your squad need?”

”We need a left back and a forward or an attacking midfielder. Not a poacher like Colin. Someone like...”

”Emiliano?”

I smiled. ”Exactly like him, but a year or two more developed.” The fourth tie came out. Real Sociedad at home. ”Shit.”

”What?” said Emma. ”Are they too good?”

”Yes, probably, but the game’s at home. Apparently San Sebastian is gorgeous. People say it’s one of the best away ties to get. Ah, well, maybe next year.”

The fifth game was Arsenal, away. That made everyone go ’oooh!’ MD looked at me. ”How much would it cost us to beat them? Four billion?”

I tsked. ”Half a bill would do it.”

MD copied my tone and said, ”Ah, well, maybe next year.” Sebastian gave him a high five.

Game six was Inter Milan in Milan, which provoked a noise just like the Arsenal one. ”December 5th,” I said. ”That’ll be a good time to check on Angel.”

”And visit a car showroom,” said Briggy.

Game seven was Union Berlin at home. MD turned to me. ”Max?”

”They’re stronger than Rennes, slightly, so on paper it will be hard, but, ah... How can I say this modestly?” I couldn’t think of a way, so I spread my palms and hunched my shoulders. ”German teams are kinda terrified of me? They will not go all guns blazing. No chance. When’s that one? January 17th.” I went to the curse’s fixtures screen. ”That’s the date of the AOK Cup semi-final. Good news! Chester are out of the AOK Cup! I can stand on the touchline for that one. The last one’s coming. Who could it be? Man United? Napoli? Shhh! Here it comes...”

The final fixture was against the Portuguese giants Porto, in Portugal. I winced. They would have an average CA around 145, would be very technical, and would slap us up on their home turf.

I pulled at my bottom lip. Four wins to target. Four windmills to tilt at. Three wins and three draws would put us into the knockout rounds. Could we? I found myself doing a cheeky grin. ”Miiiiiiike.” MD checked his watch, looked at the ceiling, but his feet were shuffling out of the mass of bodies. He suddenly legged it. ”Stop that businessman!” I yelled.

***

I got the go-ahead from MD to spend up to two million quid in wages and fees. We had the funds but if we lost every match we would both need to return some of our payouts. Half a million each, MD suggested. I was okay with that. As Peter Bauer always said, ’no risk, no fun.’

Without reinforcements, Saltney’s average CA would be 110. With the two guys we could loan from Wrexham, we could push that to 117. Adding two CA 140 dudes would take us to CA 126 on average - about the same as Red Star Belgrade, plus close enough to give us a shot against Rennes, Union Berlin, and Copenhagen.

Back at our lunch tables, which were suddenly very noisy, very boisterous, the agents fired proposals at me like a tennis ball machine.

Solid and Winsome pitched a few guys I had never scouted but who sounded good. I liked the way those agents thought - they had listened to my needs and got creative. One option was a left back whose club were in financial peril - he would drop down a level but I baulked at the wage demands. 40 grand a week? That was a stretch. Another option was from a club who were 2-0 down going into the night’s Conference League games. If his team lost, the player would be keen on a move to a club that was still in Europe.

”I wish I had scouted him before,” I mused. ”He sounds mint. Time’s running out to get eyes on him before the transfer deadline.”

Weasel had a solution - a player I had seen. He told me about him, said the deal could be done quickly and easily, and he could even promise that the director of football would let me have the player for exactly 21 weeks. I would send the player back right after the final Champions League match. Incredibly cost-efficient!

I was sceptical about that particular promise because it was very much weighted in my favour, but whatevs. If Weasel could make it happen, cool beans. He saw something on my face that made him want to explain. ”It is like you say. We send you the player, he wins you money, you make him better. He plays CL, he gets more market value. It is not so strange.”

”True,” I said, but I was wary.

”There wouldn’t even be an issue with the salary demands,” said Weasel. ”Ah, but you think in weekly numbers. Let me check it.” He typed on his phone. ”Per week, it is 20,000 Euro. For 21 weeks,” he said, tapping more, ”it’s 420. Very affordable for our latest European superclub.”

I cut a piece of meat, popped it into my gob, and opened my own calculator app. For some reason, Briggy put down her cutlery and became alert. I think everyone sensed a shift in the vibe except for Weasel. I pressed ’equals’ and nodded. ”Okay. That player you are pitching is on 14,000 Euro a week.” The guy hadn’t signed a new deal since I scouted him, otherwise the curse would have changed his contract details to question marks. Side note: the Forex for Dummies perk was proving its worth! ”14,000 times 21,” I said, munching, ”minus the number you said...” I showed him the number on my calculator. ”You just tried to steal 126,000 Euro from me.” All conversation on the other table ceased. Everyone was watching this. Weasel looked furious, as though I had wronged him. I sliced a potato and dabbed it in sauce. ”What I suggest is that you lift your plate there, turn around, go find another table, and never speak to me again.” I put the potato in my mouth, feeling like The Godfather.

”No,” said Don Pino. I glanced at him, mildly surprised that he was going to take Weasel’s side. The superagent was staring at Weasel, unblinking. ”Leave the plate.” Score! Don continued, ”I told you not to piss him off. You make us all look bad.”

”Don,” said Weasel, in a pleading, weasely voice.

”Go.”

Well, the guy left, but not without kicking his chair away and being a dick and chuntering in Italian. ”That’s a shame,” I said, in a flat, unbothered tone.

Winsome clicked his fingers. ”Seinfeld!”

”Was it? Yeah, you’re probably right. That’s what he says, isn’t it? I watched a load of it during lockdown. So, listen, we can do business but not like that.”

Briggy said, ”He was probably going to use the extra to pay off the people he needed to pay off.”

”Let’s do a role play. Briggy, you be Max Best. I’ll be an agent. Hey, Max, I’ve got a player for you.”

”Before we get into it, have I got soup all over myself, like a vagrant?”

Solid sniggered, but I ploughed on. ”He’s on 14 grand a week but I’ll need to charge you 20 to pay off loads of degenerates and obviously my fee will be included in that. It’s best if you don’t know too much about the details but obviously I hope it’s clear I’m not trying to rip you off and I’m not going to add anything else at the last second because I like getting tens of thousands of pounds for making a couple of phone calls and I wouldn’t want to risk that by being a greedy fucking weasel.”

”I’m charmed,” said Briggy, as me. ”I’m literally swooning over your transparency.”

I clicked my fingers. ”That’s exactly what I would do. I would swoon.”

Winsome said, ”But how did you know the player’s real wage?”

I said, ”I banged Weasel’s wife; she told me.”

Solid said, ”He’s not married.”

I dropped my cutlery and imagined a Hollywood push-pull effect was happening to my face. ”So who the hell did I bang?”

That got a good laugh, and it washed away the unpleasantness of the Weasel scene. Don Pino said, ”Brigitte, do you know how Max knows these things?”

”I don’t. I know he has random contacts in various football clubs, but no way does his network cover all of Europe. My guess is that he’s very, very good at guesswork.”

I tutted. ”Are we going to talk shit or are you going to find me some players?”

Don Pino said, ”Since the others have wasted their shots, I have a proposal for you.”

”Bosh. Let’s go.”

”Nikos Iliades.”

I dropped my cutlery again. ”What.”

”Who’s that?” said Briggy.

”He’s a midfielder who plays for Aris Thessaloniki. He butted heads with Max a few years back.”

”We didn’t butt heads,” I said. ”I kicked his butt. Then he blasted me in an interview.”

”Oh,” said Don Pino, sagging slightly. ”That disqualifies him, does it?”

”Not at all. He was spot on with what he said.”

”What did he say?” asked Briggy.

”He said I was a complete player and a complete dick.” I lifted some food into my mouth and muttered. ”Can’t argue with that.”

Don said, ”He has outgrown Aris. I advised his agent to delay Iliades’ return from a minor injury. A loan to Saltney and then a permanent move to a mid-rank European club, that is what is needed. Do you want him, Max?”

I leaned back and chewed. When I was finished, I said, ”We can loan six players. Dan doesn’t count against that number because he’s young and British. Tony Herbert, two guys from Wrexham, a left back, a forward... that’s five. Room for one more. The squad would be better with a spare centre back but the starting eleven would be better with Iliades.” I got a sudden surge of excitement. Iliades was 25, had to be at least CA 140 by now, had PA 155, and was a real midfield boss. Instead of having a soft centre, Saltney would be able to challenge in that part of the pitch. ”I might be interested,” I said, slowly, trying to play it cool.

Don Pino grinned. ”Good. So we can begin the process. Let me see if I get this right. He is earning 14,000 Euros a week. He will cost 20,000 because I have to pay a bunch of degenerates, myself included.” Don Pino, the respected and feared superagent, cackled and gave Briggy a high-ten.

”The fuck?” I said. ”What are the real numbers?”

Solid had been double-thumbing his phone. ”My left back can be in Chester on Monday morning. You can take a look at him, see if he fits.”

”Whoa!” said Winsome. ”Don’t spend your money on boring players! You need goals. You need fantasy. Talk to me, first. My client can also be there on Monday. Attacking midfield, forward, second striker, wide left cutting inside. On Monday, you will see, but today we can pencil in some numbers, yes?”

I bit my nail as a smile slowly took hold of my face. Briggy said, ”What? What are you plotting?”

”Nothing,” I said. ”No, really. The agents get some cash, I get some glory, but do you know who the real winner is?”

Briggy nodded. ”Football.” She turned to Winsome. ”He’s going to say football. That’s how he talks.”

I tutted. ”No. The real winner is MD. When he gets home from our matches and yells, honey, I bagged Wales another couple of coefficients...” I shook my head. ”It’s gonna get steamy, let me tell ya.”

***

After dinner, the new agents rushed off to hit the phones and see what deals they could do themselves or create while taking a slice of the action. I needed good players for Saltney, decent ones for College; that would keep them busy enough.

Don Pino was planning to leave, but when he heard my plan, he pivoted. ”You’re going to meet Susan? She is in Amsterdam?”

”Yep. Introduce her to MD, Emma, and the others, of course. Feel free to come, if you want.”

”I will do that, yes. It’s good to keep in touch with one’s clients... and their friends.”

”Hmm,” I said, because in that moment he reminded me of Jabba the Hut from Star Wars. A big, powerful blob with his slimy mitts all over Princess Leia, i.e. Dutch Susan. I shook the image off. ”This way!” I said.

***

Our group met Dutch Susan across the street from the Rijksmuseum.

Don Pino helped with the introductions - very smooth - then frowned as he looked at the building. ”A museum, Max? I didn’t have you pegged as the artistic type.”

”We have time to take a look at The Night Watch. That’s by Rembrandt, Don. I’ve been a huge admirer of the piece since I was a child and I have always wanted to come and see it in the flesh.”

Most of the group looked impressed, but Emma frowned slightly - because she knew I was talking shit - while Susan looked amused.

As we walked towards the museum, Sebastian slipped next to Susan and said, ”I’ve heard a lot about your partner. A Dutch striker called Ruud. Quite the footsteps to follow! What do you think, though? How good is he, really? Has he ever mentioned wanting to play for Newcastle, perhaps?”

***

We stood in front of the painting. I gave an impromptu lecture in an awestruck tone, explaining that the composition looked slightly askew because some of the edges had been cut off so it could fit through the doors when it was moved. A rando tourist turned and eyed me, impressed.

I pointed out the vibrancy of the work, which was the result of the amount of movement in the characters. The dog is barking, the musketeers are cleaning, reloading, or firing. I drew Emma’s eye to some of the hidden details, the way a certain shadow pointed to the seal of Amsterdam. ”It’s what some people call ’Da Vinci Code shit’,” I said, with a soft, wise chuckle. The rando nearly swooned.

Emma had been doing a lot of frowning. When I was finished, she tugged at my sleeve and said, ”Babes, when did you get interested in this?”

”Babes!” I complained. ”You know I like big art.”

Susan laughed hard and took me by the arm. As we walked away, she said, ”I think I am going to enjoy my time in Chester. You are quite the performance artist.”

”I’m not as good as Pepe Salazar. We played Arsenal, right, and sixty thousand people were walking around the stadium, looking at the pitch going, ’Where’s the football? Where’s the football?’ It was only when I looked at the confused, lost people that I realised: this was the art.”

Susan cracked up. She leaned into my arm, squeezed, and said, ”It is a big thing to move to a new country. You make me feel that it will be all right.” She stopped and turned towards Emma, who was a few inches shorter. ”Max told me you have been helping him to choose a big house suitable for a footballer and his wife with no taste.”

Emma flushed slightly. ”Yes but we didn’t mean you! God, no!”

Susan smiled. ”Taste, no taste, it is all a question of taste. But would you help me? I tried to look for places and I find it confusing. The number of rooms, sinks with two taps, square feet, the locations, the currency conversion. Some of the prices seem absurd. Some are strangely cheap. Chester have a team we can contact, but I would prefer your help, if it is available.”

”Course it is! But why me?”

Susan eyed me. ”You have great taste in men.” She gave Emma an updown. ”Great taste in clothes.”

I said, ”Smell her hair!”

Susan actually did it, the madwoman. ”Mmm, I love that.”

”That’s Newcastle Brown Ale,” I said. ”She drenches herself in it every morning.”

Emma said, ”Max bathes in the tears of his defeated foes.”

I tsked. ”Babes, if I bathed in the tears of my defeated foes...” I left a pause while a smug smile spread over my lips. ”I would drown.”

Susan clapped, once. ”I don’t know about Ruud, but I am going to enjoy this ride!”

***

We travelled to Deventer, home of the Go Ahead Eagles, where the atmosphere was building. They were due to play the second leg of their Conference League playoff, against Mladá Boleslav from the Czech Republic. The first leg had ended 1-1, with a goal from Ruud. It would be an even contest, with Ruud the standout player. The smart money was on the home team, in more ways than one.

”Twenty-seven million pounds,” said MD, as we settled into the VIP seats. ”Plus seven and a half million in guaranteed wages.”

”I know,” I said, ”cheap, isn’t it?”

He inhaled and rubbed his hands. ”This is the biggest transfer in the history of our club. It is a monumental gamble.”

”Tsch,” I said. ”No it isn’t. He’s a top ten striker. Oh, hang on, they’re coming out for the first warmups.”

The first time I had seen Ruud, he had been CA 133. Now he was CA 138, a couple of points behind Gabby, level with Pascal. He would fly to England tomorrow to sign the last pieces of paperwork, we would get his player registration, and he would be in the stands at Man City’s Death Star on Saturday. Start training on Monday, and I had no doubt there would be a couple of quick pops.

By the New Year, he would be closing in on CA 150, true Premier League level, and with the general standard of the team rising fast, we could start to pick up points in a serious way. People said you needed 40 points to guarantee safety, but I reckoned it would be more like 37 this time. Ten wins, seven draws. Piece of piss.

MD said, ”What are you smiling at?”

”We’re doomed, Mike, but Ruud gives us a sniff of a chance. If we can avoid relegation, that’s a hundred million in broadcast revenue instead of 40 mill in parachute payments. And what else are we going to spend the money on? 27 million doesn’t even buy a five-goal-a-season striker in the Prem. Nah, this is it. If you sack me in the next few weeks, this is my final gift to Chester. Look at him. He’s beautiful.”

Guys were on the flanks, sending in crosses for strikers to attack. One was whipped onto Ruud’s head, and the way he twisted his neck, imparting more power, controlling the direction, bottom-left, keeper no chance... it was art. Big art.

Chester had a great squad, a talented squad, with players of all types, but almost all with high Technique and Decisions. We would have to fight and scrap every minute of every game but slowly, step by step, our ability to play football would give us the edge on all the athletes, the beefy boys, the bullies. We might not get enough points to stay up, but in the last ten matches of the season we would show England’s so-called elite how football was supposed to be played.

I got up and went inside to mingle and do small talk with the Go Ahead people. I told their CFO a joke. I gave Don Pino a random bear hug. I asked Susan what other big art I might like. I lifted Emma high and kissed her hard.

There was a cry from behind me. I turned and rushed through the door, where MD looked like he had seen a ghost. Ruud Berkenbosch was down. His mates were rushing towards him. MD was holding his phone with WhatsApp open. ”I looked away for a second. Heard a scream...”

My brain reconstructed the scene like in a futuristic crime movie. A cross had come in from the right. Ruud had jumped. No-one within five yards of him. He had landed badly.

How badly?

Ruud Berkenbosch, 21, Dutch.

S, CA 138, PA 188.

Form: 8-7-9-7-8

Injuries: Suspected knee injury

Morale: Abysmal

His Attributes had tanked. The curse wouldn’t give me the whole story until tomorrow, but I had seen this before.

”What is it?” said Susan, who had followed me outside.

I put my hand on her arm. ”I think it’s his ACL.”

”What? But...”

”Nine months out. Rehab, reconditioning. His next match will be this time next year.” I shook my head. ”You should get down to the medical room. Bro, can you take her?”

That was directed at one of the bigshots at Go Ahead. He nodded, his face ashen. A few other guys rushed away, too, leaving me with MD, Emma, Don Pino, and the CFO.

I closed my eyes and felt sick and dizzy. I bent over as bile threatened to rise. A year out? That was worse than my coma. ”Fuck,” I said. ”God, no. Fuck.”

Don Pino was stunned. The CFO’s world had collapsed. Emma held her arm, looking around our little rectangle of despair. In a soft, worried voice, she asked the most pertinent question.

”So... is the transfer going to go ahead?”