Soccer Supremo - A Sports Progression Fantasy

15.

Monday, August 28

I woke up in a very Schrödinger kinda state. I was the worst manager in the Premier League but also the one who had made the most money, by far. Over 11 million quid and it wasn’t even September. Only two other managers would make that in the entire season. Those guys didn’t have mangled legs, so maybe it was a wash.

The pain was quite sensational and I worried that when I peeled the sheets off me, the top layer of skin would go with them. I curled into a little ball, nudged the sheets off, but didn’t see any red stains this time. I forced myself to do a sit-up. When I grabbed my knees, I was able to get a decent look at my shins and ankles. Cut, bruised, sore, but not too bad, all things considered. In a couple of days, I would be fine and I could go again.

Yay?

***

I held onto the bannister as I descended one stair at a time, like an elderly cat. At the bottom, I clung to a wall, counted to ten, then hobbled the two metre chasm that took me to the nearest breakfast bar stool.

I should have roared with triumph, but instead I leaned forward, pressing my forehead into the countertop. I stayed there until I was fully healed, which took ten million years, no exaggeration.

”You’re up!”

”Uh.”

Emma had been outside, and from the sound of her voice she was wearing a massive, floppy sun hat. She came around the little kitchen island and grabbed me from behind, squeezed, held the pose until I came within one second of literal death by hugging, pecked me on the cheek, and said, ”I watered the anemones.”

”Did you bless the water?”

”Babes, what kind of question is that?” She took the hat off, filled the kettle, and clicked it on. I sat upright, and just for a second felt nauseous and dizzy. Emma rested her hand on my back. In a soft voice, she said, ”You okay?”

Pain shuddered through me, and I felt a crack of headache. I leaned forward, resting my head on my arms. ”I’m fine,” I croaked. ”Let’s talk about you and your needs.”

She laughed, which did more to heal me than ten tablets. ”You’re in the headlines again.”

”Skip scene.”

”Kay. Do I understand this right, there’s only one game this week? Chester have got, like, six games in two months?”

”It’s the 28th and we have Leeds on October 28th, so strictly speaking it would be seven, plus there’s a Cheshire Cup match in the international break, but you’re basically right. As a shit Premier League team we’ve got almost no matches compared to what we’re used to in the Champ or League One. It’s a totally different cadence. Loads more time on the training pitch, I suppose. Loads more time to stew on our defeats.”

My wife got started on her tea-making process, which barely even counted as a process. She didn’t use a timer! Her method had a lower floor than mine, but a slightly higher ceiling. ”Kay. Fewer matches. Does that mean we’ll have time to look at footballer’s mansions?”

I smiled. ”Don’t forget I’m gonna help out with Wales but yes. Maybe we don’t schedule anything the day after a match.” I felt a dull throb in my shin. ”Make that two days after a match.”

”Kay. So, what’s your day today? You’re not training, are you?”

”No. I wanted to mimic some of the Tottenham players so I could show our lads what to expect on Saturday. They’re not a great team, their decision-making is awful, but they have elite moments and... They’ve got a guy who cost 65 million quid who I don’t think I would sign on a free.”

”No!”

”He’s such a strange player but yeah, I think I’d almost rather have Emiliano than him. Emi’s Teamwork is rising over in Gib. The penny is finally dropping.” Not only were Emi’s Attributes rising, but he was popular with his team mates. There were all sorts of glowing reviews in the curse screens. ’Thinks Emiliano is a talented player’. ’Hopes the club can hold onto Emiliano Ferrari.’ There was even one that said, ’Is proud to be training alongside Emiliano.’ Positive. Good good good. ”Where was I? Me pretending to be Spurs players. Yeah, it would be handy but I need a couple of days off. I’ll go in the counter-current pool and get some fuss from either Dean or Livia. Hmm, let me think. Dean or Livia? Dean... or Livia? That’s a tough one.”

”She was so hot when she was giving it to those City fans. She’s fierce. Fearless.”

”Is she? I hadn’t noticed. I’ll watch training, then I’ve got a meeting, then Sophie and her mate are going to give me a demo of their thing. Gaussian splats? Yeah, that sounded right. I don’t really know what it is but it sounds expensive.”

Emma popped a dried mango in her gob and chewed on it. ”What meeting?” I eyed her, getting frisky for some reason. She twisted her lips, slapped me, and said, ”What meeting?”

It took me a few seconds to get back on track, then I sagged, all friskiness leaving my body. ”It’s with the PGMOL.”

”That sounds like something I know. I know that, don’t I?”

”Yes. Professional Game Match Officials Limited. It’s the body that oversees all the professional referees. Basically, PGMOL are the refs. The head of PGMOL, Billy Brinsworth, the biggest, baldest referee in the country, is coming to Chester.”

”What does he want?”

”He’s either going to tell me off or offer an apology.”

Emma stopped chewing. ”Oh.” She thought about it. ”That’s weird.”

”Is it?”

”Yeah. If my train is late I don’t get a personal visit from the Minister for Transport.”

”Maybe you should. Is this weird? I can’t tell. It’s quite standard, to be honest. Ref makes a high-profile mistake, the head of PGMOL turns up, cap in hand, goes soz, mate, won’t do it again, pwomise.”

”So what makes you think this might be a telling-off?”

”Because I wrecked the match, didn’t I, and people missed their trains and shit like that. A problem for which, by the way, there is a simple solution: don’t be a City fan.”

She was motionless for a moment, then started chewing again. ”Apology, telling-off. Which do you think it will be?”

”Don’t give a shit,” I said. ”The way things go, I can take a pretty good guess, so I’m gonna get my retaliation in first. I’ve been writing a speech ever since MD told me I had to turn up. I’m going to blast the guy. I would normally flounce out after dropping my truth bombs, except that if I sit too long I can’t move again. So the plan is, do my diatribe, sink under the desk, and hide there till he leaves of his own accord.”

”Hide there? You don’t think he has object permanence?”

”If you’ve got a smoke bomb going spare, now would be a good time to mention it.”

”Babes,” said Emma. ”If he has come to apologise, will you please just let him do it?”

”No, because if he has come to tell me off, he gets the upper hand by going first. Strike first, strike hard, no mercy, that’s my motto. I’m highly-versed in the art of diplomacy.”

Emma jiggled the tea clockwise, then anti-clockwise, which I will admit melted my heart a little. ”Max, let him talk first, then respond.”

I tutted. ”Fine. Fine fine fine.”

***

Emma drove me to Bumpers, but then I had to get help moving from place to place. I asked a lesser physio to get me a wheelchair so I could whizz around and get some arm reps in. It was from that chair that I watched most of our training session.

My lack of mobility, my pain, and the squad’s plummeting Morale put me in a foul mood for a quarter of an hour. Every time someone made a mistake I reacted by tutting, huffing, and sighing. I pushed myself around Bumpers for a while so I didn’t have to watch, and ended up going to the counter-current pool early. I waded against the current, then asked the physios to help me get into the anti-gravity treadmill. I was able to get the old blood pumping with no strain on my sore bits.

Magic pools and space-age technology. Years of grinding had given us the gear for situations like mine. I had done that. I had achieved that. It felt good. Really good.

I showered, got in the wheelchair, and whizzed around, racing people to the ends of buildings, trying to set a fastest time on the path that stretched along the side of the main training pitch.

Now in a better mood, I saw that standards were high. The lads were trying, were giving their all, and there were positives. Leo was trying to dribble. Lots of players were scanning before they got the ball so that when it arrived at their feet, they would be able to move it on fast. They were learning that at the top of the sport, you couldn’t dick around while you thought about what to do. No-one would give you that much time. We were the worst team in the league and even we wouldn’t afford that luxury to our opponents.

Another good point - Wibbers was back.

He was charging around like a bulldog, all muscle and strength but every now and then he would slow down almost to a crawl and lay the ball off, sideways, to a better-placed player, or he would turn backwards, showing his growing sense of the rhythms of the sport. Thinking, fast and slow. I called him over.

”William,” I said.

He had a light sweat on, was loving the work. ”Yes, boss?”

”I’m not sure if what you’re doing is mint or mustard. It might be both.”

He grinned and his Morale rose, but he looked over his shoulder. ”Can I - ?”

”Yep,” I said.

He ran off, threw his hands up, calling for the ball. CA 144. Not long until he was true Premier League quality. To think that people thought I was crazy to ’overpay’ for him. It would be the same with Ruud. When would people learn?

***

”Gaffer,” said the physio. I think Dean had told him to keep an eye on me. ”Your guests are here.”

While training had switched into a full-sized match interrupted by feedback from Sandra and the top coaches, I had fallen into a database trance, so hadn’t realised that a group of five randos had gathered five yards away. I say randos, but one of them was tall, powerful, and bald. The unmistakable bonce of Billy Brinsworth. He had officiated a World Cup Final, but was most famous for traveling around the Premier League apologising for the shitness of English refs. There was a tall, muscular blonde woman with him, and she had the kind of charisma that Bonnie had. I felt that I knew her, and would have stared, trying to remember who she was, but my attention was drawn to the other people. There was another guy who looked like an army drill sergeant - a referee from the past - there was an unremarkable dude who looked posh, and then there was a mousy sort of woman. A secretary type, dressed in a way that screamed ’don’t look at me!’

I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

It’s hard to explain but at first I was absolutely convinced it was one of the imps. Had I ever seen them in disguise as a woman? The impette glanced at me, then brought her phone to her ear and wandered off, going behind the changing room building, out of sight.

I very nearly asked the physio to run after her and see if that was a real phone call, but I was no longer being warmed by the morning sun. I looked up and saw the blockage - the blonde woman.

”Herr Best,” she said, with more than a hint of a German accent. ”Mr. One Hundred Prozent. May I speak with you?”

”Er, maybe. Remind me who you are?”

She didn’t take it personally. ”Vivi Weigel. Maybe you know me as Vivi Weigel-Brinsworth.”

The words meant nothing to me. ”I definitely don’t know you as that.”

”I was the first female referee in German men’s football.”

I stared at her longer than was polite, but then her face started to come into proper focus. Her hair used to be shorter, didn’t it? ”Right right right, it’s coming to me. You were a Bundesliga star! Pep Guardiola pushed you, and you told him off. That was you, right? Oh, and the national broadcaster of Iran refused to show you on the match feed. When you were showing yellow cards they cut to random shit in the stands. Hey, I’m Max.”

I held up a hand that she shook. She seemed relieved, weirdly. ”I just wanted to make sure that it was okay that we watched training. I didn’t want to make assumptions.”

”Watch training?” I said, confused. Why wouldn’t we let her? She was a legend. ”Can you help me up?” She was tall with broad shoulders. Either she still worked out or she had a high natural Strength score. She used her beefy arms to pull me to my feet, I took a couple of steps towards the on-pitch action, and blew my whistle. The game stopped; the lads looked at me. ”All in,” I said, waving.

As they came, I scanned their profiles. It was interesting how different people had reacted to Saturday’s defeat. Lewis Lamarre had been given a torrid time, but his Morale hadn’t dipped. He thought he had done all right against one of the league’s top wingers, and I generally agreed with him. Murray Burnett’s Morale had plummeted, but seemed to be nudging upwards again. Leo’s had dropped a couple of levels, because he hadn’t come off the subs bench. Roddy Jones and Matt Rush had smashed to the max. They loved a big occasion.

”Guys,” I called out. ”We’ve got a celebrity visitor.” Half the dudes looked towards Billy Brinsworth, who was a well-known face in our industry, the way Sauron was well-known in Middle-earth. ”Not him, you clowns! Jesus fuck! This is Vivi Weigel.”

Peter Bauer said, ”First woman to referee in the Bundesliga.”

Pascal said, ”She had a fight with Pep Guardiola - and won.”

Vivi’s expression tightened. ”I did not fight him.” She grinned, suddenly. ”But I did win.”

”Enough small talk,” I barked. ”Lads, we’ve got a legendary ref in the area. Can I watch you train, she asks. I say, fuck that.” I turned to her. ”Take the whistle and show us if you’ve still got it.”

The guys catcalled and jeered while I held up the holy instrument. Vivi glared at me, looked around, and accepted the challenge, eyes shining. She took the whistle, and a small smile played around her lips as she pointed at Dumi. ”I’m watching you.”

He couldn’t believe it. ”Me? What did I do?”

”I should have sent you off in the DFB-Pokal. You punched the ball away when Pulvermacher was about to shoot. Don’t tell me you don’t remember because I know you do.”

Dumi had a sad, Droopy face going on. ”You were right not to card me; he wouldn’t have scored anyway.”

Vivi scoffed, felt the weight of the whistle in her hand, and blew it. She half closed her eyes as she took a long breath, slow and satisfied. ”Let’s play!”

***

The presence of an outsider kicked the levels up a notch, and there were plenty of laughs as Peter and Pascal praised Vivi when they gave decisions their way, or complained loudly in German when she didn’t.

It was good. A circuit breaker after a difficult weekend. If I had planned this, I would have been smug about it for days.

At the end, I asked Vivi if she planned to be in the meeting. ”No, I will explore Chester for a few hours. I have never been before and I hear it is splendid.”

”Yeah, well, that’s true, but let’s get you a tour guide. Volunteers?” Hands shot up. Sandra, the German players, even Dumi. ”Bosh. Take your pick. Whoever wants to go, take a Seal Pup. Don’t forget, she’s a referee, so don’t get her wet and don’t feed her after midnight.”

Vivi laughed. ”That’s Gremlins.”

”Same difference,” I said, and made a perfectly-timed exit that dragged on ten times too long because I had to push the wheelchair across some grass and onto the walkway.

***

The meeting was being held in the boardroom at the Deva Stadium. We had a great view of the construction work that was taking place at the PetPride end. It was still mostly a huge hole, but one day the frame would arrive and it would go up within a couple of weeks. It would be amazing.

MD found me staring. ”Ah, Max, good. Quick word before we get started. Please, and I repeat please let Billy Brinsworth start. Hear him out.”

”Have you been talking to Emma?”

”No, why?”

Brooke came in, with the other four behind her. She led them to the drinks station and slipped away. She whispered, ”Let them speak first!” With that, she hurried back to the coffee machine, pausing to look at the two large screens that had mysteriously appeared to the side of the magnificent old wooden table.

”One second,” I said, hobbling towards the second doorway. ”Forgot something.” I opened the door, went down a couple of rooms, and waved at the person inside. He was a gammony Englishman in his early sixties. He hurried over to me and followed me back into the boardroom. I pointed to the machine. ”Grab a coffee, if you want. It’s top stuff.”

MD stared, amazed. ”Max, what’s this?”

”What? What do you mean, what’s this? This is Ollie.”

Brooke said, ”Ollie?” She looked from Ollie to our four guests, then to me. I didn’t have a Morale tracker for Brooke, but I had a pretty good idea of how she was feeling. ”Why is Ollie here, Max?”

I took him by the shoulders like he was an old friend. ”Ollie owns this football club, Brooke. If this meeting was being held at Old Trafford, no-one would ask: why is Tommy Toxic here? If this meeting was being held on a superyacht off the coast of Florida, or in a blood-soaked palace in the Middle East, no-one would ask - ”

”Yeah, right,” she said, working hard to keep her expression neutral. There was a tightness around the lips, a setting of the jaw. ”Got it.”

Billy Brinsworth stepped around the table, extending the hand of friendship to Ollie. ”I’m more than happy to meet one of the owners of this fine football club. Ollie! Great to see you.” Brinsworth had a Yorkshire accent and a very positive vibe. I wouldn’t say he was charismatic, but he was in that direction. He had a sense of solidity that made me feel flakey. He had an assuredness that almost made me doubt myself - almost. He was blasting Ollie with eye contact. ”I’m Billy, head of PGMOL. I’m not sure if Max filled you in but we’re going to be discussing the refereeing performances in your matches so far this season. With me is Kelvin Pallister, Select Group Two manager.”

Pallister, whose severe trim really made him look like he had been shouting at army cadets all morning, moved towards Ollie and gave him another warm handshake. ”My friends call me Pally. I love what you’ve done with the place, Ollie.”

Ollie was a Chester fan who had been on the board when I applied for the job of director of football. He had voted for me even though I had basically accused him of being a mad racist, and in the years that followed, Ollie had been one of my most outspoken critics. It’s fair to say I had lied to him about why I needed him there that morning, and now he was flummoxed. He said, ”Thanks?”

Billy Brinsworth held out a meaty palm in the direction of the posh guy. ”We’ve been joined by Scott Conrad, Non-Executive Director of the Premier League.”

”Delighted,” said Conrad, who I knew to be a senior barrister. He was a Sebastian Weaver type, but much less pugnacious, much more of a diplomat. ”Contrary to what Max thinks, I don’t get to meet many football club owners, Ollie. It’s a real pleasure!”

He gave the impression that he meant it, the sly fox. Faking interest in other people was a skill I had yet to master, and probably never would. I wandered around the table approaching the secretary-type woman. ”And who might you be?” I wondered, because the closer I got, the more I was convinced she was one of the imps.

”Jenny,” she said.

”Jenny!” I repeated, with a soft laugh. I can’t explain why, but it seemed like the fakest name ’she’ could have picked. ”What school did you go to, Jenny?”

”What?” she said, eyes bulging. She had picked a fake name but hadn’t bothered to create a back story. ”It’s on LinkedIn.”

That made me cackle. ”Who was your favourite teacher?” Another flash of alarm. ”All human beings have a favourite teacher, Jenny. Who was yours?”

Brooke said, ”What the heck is wrong with you this mornin’? Quit being weird.”

MD said, ”Good luck with that.”

I leaned closer to ’Jenny’, but when I looked deep into her eyes I saw not only the usual impish fear but also a detached amusement, like she was experiencing this encounter from a higher plane than me. ”Yeahhhhh,” I said, because this was not one of the imps I knew. Was it possible she was a demon? Someone on the level of Old Nick? ”Nahhhhh,” I said. Impette was right. Trust your gut, Max.

”Do I need make-up?”

This extraordinary comment made me turn to face Ollie. ”What?”

”You said you needed me for a scene. Is it hidden cameras? Do I get lines?”

”This isn’t one of your cocaine parties, Ollie.” I shuffled back towards the other end of the table, holding onto the backs of chairs for a little extra support.

”But... But why am I here?”

I clapped him on the back, and eased him into one of the chairs. The other people started to sit, too. ”Ollie, you are here in the role...” I looked at Jenny. ”...of Devil’s Advocate.”

Jenny didn’t flinch. Ollie said, ”That’s your job, isn’t it? Being a mad little devil going round stabbing everyone with your trident? You’re an imp.”

Jenny definitely smiled at that one, but so did everyone else. I sighed and took my seat next to him. ”Ollie, the Devil’s Advocate is the guy who says the opposite of whatever the group is thinking.” I poked him. ”You’re a Chester fan but you don’t like me, so when I blow up in this meeting, if you tell me I’m out of line I’ll actually listen.”

”That,” he said. ”That doesn’t make any sense.”

”It actually does. MD and Brooke, and I mean very little disrespect with this, are corporate. They think we live in a world of rules and laws and we can talk and bargain and act like adults. I have no intention of pretending we live in a fair world, Ollie, and I think you will agree with me on that. But because you instinctively don’t like me, if I go too far, you’ll tell me. And I’ll listen!”

”You will?”

”A billion percent. I promise.”

”Okay, but... I do like you.”

I stared. ”When did that happen?”

He shrugged. ”When we beat Wrexham 3-0 in the playoff final.”

Everyone laughed. ”Fucking hell, Ollie,” I said, leaning back, shaking my head. ”The best-laid plans of mice and men...”

”Are we going to sign that Ruud fella?”

I smashed the table in mock exasperation. ”We’re not doing transfer talk! Look, Ollie! We’ve got two guys from PGMOL, one from the PL, and one from, soz, what school did you say you went to?”

Ollie smashed the table in mock exasperation. ”I’m the owner! I demand to know!”

More laughs. Ollie was slaying the room. I groaned. ”Look, we’re going to buy him.”

”But not at full price.”

”Of course at full price,” I said. ”If we don’t, Stuttgart will.”

MD said, ”They won’t. Nobody will.”

I said, ”I’m not taking the risk.”

Ollie said, ”You got him on lower wages, though.”

”I think so,” I said, vaguely.

MD said, ”No. Max did not want that. Ruud’s agent suggested cutting the wages by a thousand pounds so Max could claim a negotiating victory. Max said no.”

Ollie said, ”Max, what the fuck?!”

I jabbed him. ”Shut your mouth, Ollie! Ruud is mint and you’ll fucking weep tears of dismay when we sell him to Bayern Munich. Anyway, I did change the terms of the deal. We’re getting 60 million as a release clause instead of 50. That’s a fair compromise, right?”

”It’s an extra ten mill,” said Ollie.

”Sure but more importantly, we get Ruud for another season.”

”How - Er, sorry, I don’t follow.”

I tutted. Why were we talking about this? ”He’s injured now. Next season, we’re in the Championship, Ruud’s in. He scores 40 goals, we go straight back to the Prem. What’s he worth at that point? 50 million. But we don’t have to sell him for 50, do we? So the following season, he’s still with us, and we finish sixth or something. We get into Europe. At that point, we might even be able to afford to keep him. All right?” I became more conciliatory. ”People will misunderstand this. The ones who understand it will twist it and make fun of us. I’ll take the abuse, Ollie, mate, because I know this is what’s right for Chester Football Club. When your Wrexham-supporting mates are going, ahhhh, Best’s done it again, what a joke he is, you just smile and say, ’wait and see’. Act like you know something they don’t know, which is true. You know that I’m right.”

Ollie swallowed. ”Good, is he?”

”Mate,” I said, with a slow smile.

Ollie gripped the edge of the table with both hands and tried to shake it. ”Argh, I’m so hyped! Have you got something I can smash?”

Brooke’s annoyance at me had dissipated. She had a slight twinkle in her eye as she said, ”We’ve got potatoes in the kitchen, Ollie. You can help out during the lunch rush. In the meantime, perhaps we could start the meeting? Billy?”

”Yeah, one sec,” I said. ”Ollie, do you think I should start?” I nodded my head to show him the answer I wanted. I felt MD and Brooke shaking their heads, waving their arms.

Ollie, high on transfer news, was all aboard the Max Train. ”You should start, Max.”

I leaned back, faced my palms away from me, intertwined my fingers, and pushed until I heard cracks.

***

”On Tuesday, April the 18th,” I told Billy Brinsworth, ”I wrote to you about a very troubling display by Steve Steel, one of your referees, and his crew, which included Liza Mason. The night before, we played Ipswich Town. At first, the match was normal. Players from both teams made mistakes, the ref made mistakes, all absolutely fine. In the second half, things got weird. Really fucking weird. A red card wasn’t given. A free kick goal was bizarrely not allowed to stand. Sound familiar? Another goal was disallowed for no reason. Then Ipswich were awarded a penalty for a handball that never happened.

”I’ve been a manager for six years and I have never written to you because what is the point? You have zero interest in improving standards. But this was such an obvious example of match-fixing that everyone begged me to write to you. Ollie, do you remember that match?”

”Max, you shouldn’t bring it up, it’s bad for my blood pressure.”

I eyed Brinsworth while jabbed a thumb to my left. ”You’re causing pain and misery with this stuff, not that you give a shit. I wrote to you asking you to look into it. Ollie, take one of your pills, then listen to this, this is the reply I got. While we understand that it is frustrating when decisions go against your team...”

”Argh!” said Ollie, trying to lift the table up so he could smash it.

”Blatant match-fixing and what do we get? A copy paste email. That told me everything there is to know about what to expect from Billy Brinsworth and his team.” My laptop was on the table in front of me. I opened it and clicked the trackpad. The two screens next to us fired up, and played almost identical scenes from the Man City match. On the left, Gabriel being bundled over by a defender who ran into the back of him. On the right, a City player being bundled over by a defender who ran into the back of him.

Ollie went, ”Argh!”

”On the left, no foul. On the right, foul. What’s the difference in these scenes in football terms?” The action was on an infinite loop, and it was causing Ollie to breathe harder and harder. ”There’s no difference, obviously. In a moment, Billy Brinsworth will explain to us why the referee was right to award one foul but not the other. We could get top analysts from DigiWorld, from the Daily Mail, from talkSHITE, and they would find ways to defend the referee. But I could show this to any neutral football fan in the world and they would agree that either both of these are a foul or neither.”

Ollie was nodding angrily but he was turning gammon pink so I stopped the images.

”This unfairness is a mental health crisis in the making. Depression, anxiety, road rage, acts of violence, self-harm. Why would a referee knowingly do this, and why would the entire industry rally behind him? Because the results of matches are pre-determined. If you want to know what’s going to happen in England at 3 p.m. on a Saturday, all you have to do is be on a superyacht off the coast of Florida, or in a blood-soaked palace in the Middle East. They pay the piper, they call the tune. The billionaires have won.

”But there’s a fly in the ointment. Chester FC, owned by the fans, run by a madman who will never, ever, fucking agree to take part in this scam. They have to be dealt with. But we will, at best, get 20 points this season and be relegated anyway. So why give Arsenal two goals? Why give Brighton two goals? Why not let the City match take its natural course?

”Because you’ve been ordered to deliver a punishment beating. This entire season is a warning to every fan-owned club. Don’t come here. Don’t bother. Don’t even think about it! Because you will be destroyed, blatantly, and our friends in the media will cover for us.

”I didn’t know the Premier League would be here today but I know you’re in on this, too. Why did Chester get the hardest starting fixtures of all time? Because it was ordered from on high. Not only can we get rid of Max Best, but we can propose to change the playoff system. Instead of winning promotion outright, the team in the playoff spot will have to play a Premier League team in a special bonus playoff. If the billionaires don’t want that team going up from the Championship, they simply rig the refereeing crew. Ollie, you think this is fanciful? I’ve seen it proposed in The Times, The Telegraph. The Premier League’s go-to sources for pre-announcing future votes. They make it seem like it’s an organic idea that has sprouted in the minds of the Great British public. It’s the will of the people that nothing like the Chester debacle could ever happen again!”

I wagged my finger at Billy Brinsworth and Scott Conrad.

”But you’ve made a mistake, taking on a team with nothing to lose. I know we’re going down so threats of punishments do nothing. What are you going to do, deduct points every time I ruin your little show? So we finish with minus twenty points instead of plus 20? We finish 20th instead of 20th? That’s not a threat. And me personally, I don’t need this. I could make ten million quid a year consulting for Bayern Munich. I’d work one day a month, live in the Bahamas, do whatever. You think I need to work in the Premier League? Why? It’s shit.

”In the meantime, every time Chester are dicked by referees, I’m going to go nuclear. Ollie, that means every single match until you fire me.”

”Me?” he said, worried that he had missed that particular memo.

”You’re the owner. You tell me when I’ve gone too far. That’s why you’re here, mate. Do you think I’ve gone too far with this speech?”

”I think you haven’t gone far enough! It’s outrageous, what they’ve done. It’s criminal! But after the first one, you were saying he was an elite referee.”

Pallister said, ”He meant the match was refereed in favour of the elites, meaning the owners of Arsenal.”

”Ohhhhh!” said Ollie.

”Mate, come on,” I complained. ”Did you really not get that? I have to pay a fine every time I blast referees in public. It can get up to a hundred grand. They’ll take my money and give it to a worthy cause, which is a fancy way of saying they’ll give it to a top six club. No way is my cash subsidising fucking Arsenal.”

Ollie was frowning. ”What was it you said after Brighton?”

Pally said, ”The referee did his job.”

Ollie’s frown deepened. ”Did his job...”

Brinsworth said, ”Did his job of ensuring that Brighton won.”

Ollie’s jaw dropped. ”So you admit it!”

Brinsworth smiled. ”I do not. I’m explaining to you what your manager was implying.”

”Right,” said Ollie. He looked around, then at me. ”Sorry, Max, I think I’m not clever enough to be here. Maybe you should get someone else. I’ve never really understood you.”

”If you leave, I’ll quit.” I was only joking, obviously, but something mad happened. Jenny, the impette, reacted like she had been given an electric shock. The craziest thing was that no-one else noticed. I pointed at her. ”What just happened?”

She looked placid. Brinsworth looked at her, very slightly puzzled, then turned to me. He clasped his hands together and leaned on his lower arms. ”Well, thanks for the warm welcome, Max. I came here today to apologise for the poor standard of refereeing in the matches so far, and to tell you that Sam Long has been, ah, rested, for the next game week. He should not have disallowed your goal and it was inappropriate for him to caution you in that instance. While he got the vast majority of decisions correct, he didn’t create a collaborative environment and quite frankly, didn’t handle you very well.”

”Who does?” said MD, looking up.

”Most of our referees, actually.” Brinsworth nodded at Pallister.

Pally picked up his phone. ”We have WhatsApp groups where we discuss managers and that includes Max Best. I won’t lie and say there aren’t refs who dread him, but overall I’d say most referees like doing Chester games. There’s no aggro from the Chester bench, the players are hard but fair. I saw one comment from a lower league ref who said, ’Explain your decision to Best and he’ll tell you why you’re wrong but he’ll get on with it.’ Another said, ’The worst thing you can do is get his back up. If you accept he knows the game better than you, you’ll have the easiest afternoon of your career’. And we get things like this on what we might call Referee Twitter. Can I play it on the screen?”

Brooke did tech support, and soon a video was being beamed onto one of the screens. It was from a young guy who I had seen before, but I couldn’t have told you his name in a million years.

He was walking around somewhere, so there was a lot of crackle when the wind blew over the mic. ”Oh, what’s going on in the Premier League? Refs are getting on Max Best’s case like he’s the big bad wolf but he’s not! I’m only level 6 but I’ve been to Bumpers Bank and reffed youth team games there. I was intimidated because I’d heard he’s a madman and what I experienced the first time did have me reeling… at first!

”So I’m doing an under 12s match, with parents all around the pitch, as you will be well familiar with! One guy’s screaming at me the whole time, giving me dog’s abuse. Nothing out of the ordinary there, you might think, but I’d heard it doesn’t happen with Chester families. So then the kids just stop playing and it’s because Max Best is striding across the pitch, smoke coming out of his ears, and he tears strips off of the parent. Gives him hell, goes into the middle of the pitch, points at a player, tells him he’s off the team.

”I mean, oh my days, what! I felt horrible for the kid. He’s in tears. The dad begs Best for a second chance. Best tells him to get lost or he’ll get five Welsh army lads to help him find the exit. Father and son leave, and there’s a weird atmosphere, as you can imagine! I finish the game, have a shower, and I see Best walking around, texting.

”I go, Max, sorry, can I have a word? It’s just I thought you went a bit hard on the dad and the kid was gutted. Maybe there could have been a better way to handle that? He goes, yeah, nah, that was fine. I go, Max, come on! The kid was in bits.

”He looks at me properly, smiles, and goes, you’re really worried about this kid you don’t know? I go, course I am! So Max puts away his phone, takes me by the arm, leads me into a new building. We badge up, take a lift, and we go through a doorway. ’You’re one of about ten people who have ever come in here,’ he says. It’s his office on the top floor, and who do I find there? The dad and the kid playing on a PlayStation. ’There, look, they’re fine. You can relax.’

”It’s such a bizarre feeling to see them there looking happy, having fun. ’What the hell is this?’ Max goes, ’Look, it’s simple. At the start of every season, I get Matthew to join a side. His dad mouths off, I go feral, I cut Matthew from the team. I did it in Saltney last year, though that scene was more about Matthew breaking the curfew and stuff. Anyway, the kids fucking behaved themselves for months. Every time they were getting too rowdy, one would say, remember that kid who got cut on his first day? Now I’ve done it here. The kids will behave, the parents will shut their flappy gobs. We can all get on with the football.’ He slaps me on the back. ’Including the refs.’ He looks at Matthew and shakes his head. ’Shame he’s ageing out of the role.’

”Kid gets up. ’What do you mean, ageing out? I can still play eleven. Look at me!’ Max goes, ’You’re old! You’re withered! You’re a husk!’ They’re bickering but they’re both having a great time. I really didn’t know what to think about it all but obviously Matthew was not upset and had not had his dreams crushed by Max Best.

”Max takes me down in the lift, leads me outside, and says, ’Hey, before you go, you really need to work on your movement. I know you probably don’t ref a lot of teams who pass well, but you get in the way a lot.’ I say, ’I’m working on my fitness.’ He goes, ’I’m not talking about fitness. You guys are obsessed with fitness! Anticipate where the ball’s going, get eyes on the duels that are coming. Be one step ahead. That’s more important than how well you do on the bleep test.’

”Yeah, well, I don’t know, I found that really helpful, and I’m just surprised when I read the negative comments about him so I thought I’d do this and get my experience out there.”

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from NovelFire. Please report it.

The clip ended.

Ollie nudged me. ”You’re crazy.”

”I’m not crazy,” I said. ”And okay, look, it’s great that there’s one referee who doesn’t hate me. Big whoop. But I wasn’t playing against Arsenal and I wasn’t playing against Brighton. Some of those decisions were insane.”

Brinsworth said, ”The handball in the penalty area was a bad decision when presented with all the evidence, but that footage wasn’t available at the time.”

”Your VAR didn’t know that, did she? Liza Mason, who I already told you is dodgy, grabbed the first angle that showed what she wanted to see and went with that. If she had looked at every angle, okay, she wouldn’t have found anything based on the footage DigiWorld got. But she didn’t look. Why didn’t she look? Because she’s dodgy.”

For the first time, Brinsworth looked less than completely serene. ”She is not dodgy.”

”That’s why you refused to watch a replay of the Ipswich match.”

”Max, I get 20 emails like yours every day!”

”Not from me,” I said, quietly. ”Not from someone with a supernatural talent for the sport.” When I said supernatural, Jenny looked up, startled. Busted. Absolutely busted!

MD said, ”Billy, will you please watch that footage? Max is dramatic, as always, but with regards to that match, he is right. Something untoward happened. Steve Steel went in at half time a good referee, and came out hell-bent on giving Ipswich the win. I don’t have a supernatural talent, but that was egregious.”

Brinsworth held up his hands. ”I will watch it. When I get time.”

MD said, ”Perhaps Liza Mason can be quietly given other duties than Chester.”

Brinsworth looked defiant for a half a second, but Scott Conrad replied, smoothly. ”PGMOL can’t respond to such requests, Mike, because that way chaos lies. But perhaps, in the interests of completing a match within the allotted time, the person in question might find she is rotated to other parts of the country, which is something that anyway happens by random chance, which incidentally is how the Premier League fixtures are drawn up.” He said the last part with a charming smile that almost made me believe there wasn’t a conspiracy.

Pallister said, ”If it helps, we have selected Marco Toni to officiate your match against Tottenham this weekend.”

The refs looked at me, expecting a rapturous reception. I took a few seconds to think about it. ”No.”

”No?” said Brinsworth, with genuine distaste. My earlier rant had been like water off a duck’s back, but he couldn’t stand me showing disrespect to Marco Toni.

”Put Toni on the Liverpool match. We all know that something fucking sinister is going to happen at Anfield. If Toni is in charge, I will accept any decision. Don’t waste him on Tottenham. Spurs haven’t had a Premier League penalty for about three years. No-one who knows football would ever say that refs are biased in favour of Spurs, and I don’t believe there’s a ref who would go out of his way to give them one, even against us. Put your best ref at Anfield. Or you know what? Give me Toni every single match.”

Brinsworth, back in his usual tone, said, ”You know that’s not possible, and you know there is no more a conspiracy against Spurs than there is against Chester. Spurs get the exact right amount of penalties for the amount of time they spend in the opponent’s box.”

Brooke said, ”Who is Marco Toni?”

Pally said, ”He was a top referee in Italy, but he stopped a match because there was racist chanting from the crowd. He was fired. He moved to England, where his family have a small business, and restarted as a National League referee. Max has spoken many times about how Toni is the best referee in the country. When he says Toni is elite, he isn’t being sarcastic.”

”No, I’m not,” I said. ”He’s top. He’s not only very, very good, but he’s a guy who lost his career by doing the right thing. What’s he going to say when he’s invited to referee in Saudi Arabia for twenty grand, one week before he’s due to referee Newcastle in the Prem? He’s going to say, no thanks, that wouldn’t be appropriate. And his family business is going great, so he’s not going to be as easy to buy as most refs. As much as I trust anyone in this sport, I trust him. That’s why you should have him at Anfield.”

MD played diplomat. ”Max, the PGMOL have apologised, have suspended Sam Long, and have given you the ref you like for your next match. That’s quite good, isn’t it? Can we give them some credit? Maybe it’s possible we can work with them instead of against them?”

I sighed and looked up. ”Sure.” I looked straight at Brinsworth. ”Please, pretty please, put Toni on the match against Liverpool. You know they are going to get every decision and I am telling you now, I’m not going to stand for it. If we are not refereed fairly, I will go thermonuclear at Anfield. I will. I will say it again - I have nothing to lose. I wrecked a nice day out for 50,000 City fans, and I will do it again in front of 61,000. The ref’s name will be all over talkSHITE and that match is being broadcast live, isn’t it, on Super Sunday. So the damage to the Premier League will be ten times greater than the City match, when there were other games people at home could switch to. If you are genuinely here to find a way through this mess, put your top boy on Liverpool.”

Brinsworth closed his eyes, already regretting what he was about to say. ”The officials have been named for the weekend, Max. It would be unprecedented for us to change them. It would create a media frenzy, given that some reporters know we have come here today. Who is running PGMOL, they would ask? Max Best? Think how fans of other clubs would feel. But listen.” He gripped one hand in the other and leaned forward. ”You will be refereed fairly at Anfield. I will attend that game. I’m going to personally talk to the officials who are given that match and I will offer guidance about how to deal with your unique challenges.”

Brooke said, ”Unique challenges?”

Pally replied. ”The match officials meet four hours before a game and discuss what they expect from the two teams. It’s like a tactical breakdown. City will play 4-2-3-1, Liverpool 4-3-3, high line, high press, watch for the long passes from the goalkeeper, watch this blocking move at corners. We’re not tacticos but we know what to look out for. Then we come to Chester. What’s the formation? It changes twenty times a half! What’s the playing style? Only one man knows! And don’t get me started on Bestball!” He held up his palms. ”It’s no excuse for getting things wrong. It’s not. I’m just saying that officiating is very, very hard at this level. You were clocked doing 39 kilometres an hour when you sprinted at Lazaar, Max.”

”Holy shit!” said Ollie, impressed. His face fell. ”Wait, what’s that in real money?”

”24.2 mph,” said MD.

”Holy shit!” said Ollie. ”In a Welsh town, you’d get done for speeding!”

Pally nodded. ”Again, it’s not an excuse, but you were running like the devil - ” I glanced at Jenny, who glanced at me - ”and Lazaar made the dive look very convincing. We’re never going to make you believe there isn’t a conspiracy, but my God, Max, you’ve got a refereeing badge. You know every ref in the world would have given that foul. But look, when it comes to Chester and Bestball especially, we have to up our game. We don’t have Bestball on our training courses, Max.”

Brooke said, ”What if Max brought Bestball to your referees and told you what to look for?”

I didn’t mean to, but I leaned back and groaned. Brooke eyed me. ”I’m really sorry, Brooke. It’s a great idea. Refs are more than welcome to come here and I’ll show them everything they’re doing wrong but that incident - ” I pointed to the screen where the identical fouls were called differently - ”was not Bestball. Our refs don’t actually have any appetite to improve. There are two decent refs in the Prem. One’s Italian, one’s Australian. Why aren’t we poaching the best refs from around the world like we do with the players? There’s only one logical reason - because we don’t want the best. If they want it done right, there would be one ref in each half. You can’t have that all the way down the pyramid, of course, but you could do it in the Prem. One ref per half. That solves the problem of the speed of the game. Less running for the refs, more thinking. Right? Why is it laughed out of town whenever it is proposed? Why aren’t they recruiting the great refs I see in Germany and in the Champions League?” I tapped the table. ”Because the current system serves the elites. It’s only the fans who think the system is broken and in this world, fans don’t matter.”

Scott Conrad said, ”Can I speak?” He made eye contact with me, then Ollie, then said, ”The Premier League isn’t a single entity like people think it is. It’s made up of the 20 clubs; they make all the big decisions. But insofar as there is what you might call a Premier League deep state, I think there is tremendous support for Chester. What drives the Premier League are the stories. The narratives. A fan-owned club breaking into the elite? David versus Goliath. The biggest underdog story of all time. But unlike David, they don’t have a prayer. Hang on, what’s this? Their manager is also a fiery, passionate entertainer who can make the ball dance? He has it on a string, he is fast, he scores from either foot.” Conrad smiled. ”I never saw George Best, but I think I’m seeing the next best thing. Pun unintended. I don’t even mind the conspiracy-mindedness. We know that managers veer towards the, ah... I will avoid using the word paranoia.”

Ollie said, ”I think you might have accidentally used it.”

Conrad’s smile widened. ”Guilty as charged, your honour! But Max Best versus the establishment is a great story! We can use that. What’s he going to do this week? Tune in to find out! And along the way, we might use the disruption to make one or two changes that do benefit the sport and do benefit the fans. What I’m saying is that the Premier League will do just fine whether you work with us or against us. We would prefer the former, of course, it’s easier. But we simply have no incentive to rile you up or to put extra obstacles in your way. If you think about it, the best thing from our point of view would be that Chester were competitive and with five games to go, still had a chance of staying up. That would be good for viewing figures, which is good for future revenues.” He placed his palms down on the table as though he was going to make a killer point. In a cheerful tone, he declared, ”If I could have set the fixtures, I would have given you six easy ones to start with!”

I closed my eyes and pinched my nose, but then I felt a hand on my arm. Ollie was looking at me. ”What?” I said.

”You said it’s my job to say when you’re out of line. I think you might be being unreasonable.”

”Me?” I said.

”Yes, you. Look, I basically agree with everything you’ve said. Of course I do. We feel it the same as you. That’s why the fans are so behind you; we know that you’re feeling our pain. But either there’s a great big conspiracy and we’re all fucked, or there isn’t and these gentlemen have come here with good intentions. Right?”

I couldn’t really argue with that, even though I wanted to. ”Right.”

”So as your boss, I’m ordering you to listen to them and give them a chance.”

There was dead quiet in the room. ”Ollie?”

”Yes?”

”Don’t push it.”

He looked worried, then a smile spread on his face. ”You invited me here; it’s your own fault.”

I shook my head, smiling, because he had rinsed me with that one. I counted to ten to compose myself, very nearly screamed ’FUCK!’ when I hit 3, but decided that Ollie was probably right. I turned to the head of PGMOL, the referee final boss, and said, ”Billy, you’re promising us a fair match at Anfield. You’ll be there and you’ll ensure it’s fair and above board. Is that what I’ve heard?”

He looked me right in the eyes. ”That’s right, Max. I’m sure there will be decisions you don’t like, and there will be some that Liverpool’s manager doesn’t like, and if we’re doing our jobs, you’ll both be equally unhappy.”

Pally smiled and said, ”Ollie, can’t say fairer than that, can you?”

The part-owner of Chester FC grinned back. ”No, you can’t.”

I threw a hand up. ”I just have to accept this, don’t I?” I stood and shook my head as I pushed my chair under the table. The meeting had at least been a good distraction from the pain, which returned with a vengeance. I fished into my pocket and brought out my phone to make a show of checking the time. ”Ollie, do you want to see something cool?”

”Yes.”

”Remember the not-a-conspiracy decision to give a penalty against us? The one that should have been a free kick to us and maybe two red cards to the Brighton players who were fouling Helge Hagen?”

”Two red cards?” said Ollie. ”What for?”

”For being mean. For being bullies and setting a bad example to the children of the country. Remember the fancy graphics we did?”

Ollie nodded. ”That was really interesting. I’ve never seen that before.”

”We’re taking it to the next level. My dudes have got a demo for me.”

Scott Conrad looked like a little boy hearing about a new sweet shop in his village. ”Can I come?”

”What?”

”That sounds amazing. I loved the Matrix-style one! Can I come?”

”No, it’s top secret.”

”Max!” complained Ollie. ”Let him come!”

”Yeah,” I said, sarcastically. ”I’m gonna let my new friends The Premier League and the PGMOL come to see my awesome new toy! As if!”

***

The eight of us turned up in the office space that Sophie and Harper had been given. Spectrum and Pradeep were there, as was Colin Beckton. For some reason, Macca Serra was there in full kit, though she was wearing trainers, not boots. With all the people, the introductions took absolutely AGES.

The project had spilled into three different rooms. The largest was bare except for white walls and what looked like a hundred cameras arrayed around the sides. The cameras were rectangles with lenses sticking out, so they looked like power packs at first glance. The next room looked just like the office where Spectrum and Pradeep worked. There were empty bags of Monster Munch everywhere. The final space, the one we were in now, had a massive TV screen, some laptops, some VR headsets.

”Okay,” said Sophie. ”Bit of a crowd.”

”Yeah, Ollie,” I grumbled.

”There is an old saying, a picture is worth a thousand words. So...”

She stepped out of the way of the big screen.

Macca Serra appeared in the middle of it, and said to the lens. ”Hola, Chester!”

Around her came a mad swirl of colour, which quickly resolved into the Deva Stadium, complete with the hole where the PetPride would go. A ball was thrown onto the pitch, and Macca did some tekkers, kicked it up out of shot.

The camera whizzed around to show Macca from behind. She turned enough to wink and said, ”Hola, Japan!”

While she said that, the ball came back down, the scene dissolved and came back in an instant, so that she was on a road in Tokyo, surrounded by pedestrians. She kicked the ball up.

”Hola, moon!”

When she caught it on her thigh, she was on the moon. A little UFO thing came, did a double-take, and sped away.

Macca made a fingergun, fired it, and the UFO exploded into the words:

Chester Zoo. It’s out of this world!

The film ended.

Sophie stepped in front of the screen again. ”Okay, uh, I was hoping for more of a reaction.”

Brooke said, ”Reaction? I think we’re all speechless.”

MD nodded. ”That was mind-boggling. How did you even - ? How much - ?”

Macca stepped forward and hugged Sophie, then Harper. ”So good! So nice! That’s me! Incredible. On the moon? Chester Zoo? Why? I don’t know but I love it. How do you did that so fast?”

Sophie beamed. ”Well, we didn’t spend much time on the script, as you can tell. It’s just an example of how easy it would be to use this technology to generate crossover media. Football player plus gaussian splats equals whatever you can conceive of.”

Scott Conrad was smiling, but in an indulgent uncle kind of way. ”It’s good AI, certainly.”

Harper said, ”It’s not AI. It’s closer to a hologram created from real footage of Macca. Of course, doing this kind of complicated marketing promo takes some extra time and effort. We had Tokyo and the moon ready to go. If you’re not in a hurry the sky’s... well, the sky isn’t the limit, as you’ve seen. But we want to show you something else. We’re going to put Macca and someone else in the other room, film it, and show you the output right here almost right away, as we could put into a TV broadcast. Max, do you want to be in the scene?”

”Sure,” I said, but then had an idea. ”Wait, that’s no good because we could have filmed that any time. Let’s do one of these new guys. We couldn’t possibly have prepared that, could we? It would even rule out AI, since we don’t have their scans or whatever.”

Harper thought about correcting my understanding of AI, but decided not to spoil the party for everyone else. So she smiled and said, ”Good idea!”

I looked at the impette. ”Jenny, would you like to do it? Let’s see if you show up on camera.”

Brooke wasn’t impressed. ”For God’s sake, Max!”

Jenny shrugged. ”I’ll do it. Sounds fun! What do I need to do?”

”Follow me,” said Harper.

There was only space in the camera room for the two ’actors’, so we took turns peeking through the door to see what was happening. It was a pretty simple scene - Macca dribbled past Jenny with a stepover and a dreamy drop of the shoulder. Jenny, who if she was a human certainly wasn’t a defender, stuck a foot out trying to get the ball and got nowhere near it.

We went back into the video room. I felt slightly underwhelmed, and I wasn’t alone.

That was until Harper sat behind her laptop and showed us a replay on the big screen.

At first, she let it play out just as we had seen it from the doorway, but then she slowed it, made the camera rotate, and zoomed in. She could put the camera absolutely anywhere. Anywhere! It went from underwhelming to mind-blowing.

Harper started to show off. She gave Macca a heroic slow motion up-shot. She rewound while putting the camera right in front of Jenny’s face, showing us the pop of the impette’s eyes as she realised Macca was shifting her body weight and bursting past her.

”This is incredible!” Scott Conrad blurted out. ”This is unbelievable! Harper, how have you done this? Max, this is a multi-million pound technology! We have to have this! Think of the applications!”

Harper smiled. She knew that if I didn’t give her a job, this guy would. I said, ”Scott, if I don’t get to lose at Anfield fair and square, I’m taking this right to the Bundesliga. And La Liga loves a facial expression close-up.”

Jenny pointed as the action was replayed again, from yet another new angle. ”It’s not very good at bums, is it? Mine is nowhere near that big.”

The impette scoring big laughs! What the eff?

Harper showed another of her party tricks. She zoomed in on the moment where Macca knocked the ball past Jenny. The impette very clearly knocked Macca’s foot to the side. ”Referee?”

Billy Brinsworth smiled. ”Clear contact, definite foul, but minimal force and Blue 8 has control of the ball. Play the advantage.”

Scott had his hands on his head again. ”But we could use this to help referees, Max! If the VAR had this, he would never give the Helge Hagen handball! This is a breakthrough!”

Sophie said, ”We can’t cover the whole pitch. If one guys clouts another guy on the far side, this won’t pick it up. We have to direct it to cover one area, if you get me. I was thinking we would track the ball because that would cover most incidents and all the goals. The balls have chips inside, I think? Maybe we could use that to automate the tracking.”

Billy nodded, possibly relieved that his profession wasn’t about to become extinct. ”No technology can completely replace the referee, but... I’m honestly struggling to process what I’m seeing. This would seem to be a fantastic tool to have in our kit bag. Harper, can you show it from the side? As if we were seeing it from the POV of the pitchside camera?”

Harper did it. For her, it was as easy as resizing a window on a laptop. ”Like this?”

”Yes, perfect,” said Billy. He pointed, with a huge smile. ”From here, you can’t see the contact. Right? In a normal match, you’d be hoping the opposite-view cameras picked it up. With this, you move the camera, everything becomes clear. Amazing. A clear foul.”

I stepped forward. ”Harper, can you reskin Jenny with a Liverpool kit and replay the scene? Then we’ll see if the ref still thinks it’s a foul.”

Ollie put his hands on his head. ”Fuck me, Max. You’re such a knob!”

To his credit, Billy Brinsworth thought it was funny.

***

Colin demoed the VR headsets. With those, you really felt like you were inside the scene, like you could touch Macca or Jenny or the ball. Colin told the guests that we were experimenting with using headsets to train players and coaches and to create cool experiences for our fans. One simple example was that fans would be able to experience the view from a certain seat in the stadium before buying a ticket.

Scott said, ”I wonder if this would close the immersion gap.”

”What’s that?” said Colin.

The guy got a dreamy look about him. He was a lawyer but seemed more like a marketer or an entrepreneur. ”It’s the difference in experience between the billion fans who watch Premier League on TV versus the fifty thousand who are in the stadium. The holy grail of all leagues, all sports, is to close that gap. There are giant IMAX screens in America that allow you to attend sports events as though you were really there. The person who scales that up will become very, very rich.”

I shut that topic down. ”I’m not interested in that and no true sports fan would ever be interested in that. You want the real experience, you go to the stadium. You can’t have an immersive experience from your own home because the biggest part of that experience is hugging a stranger because Max actual Best has slapped a free kick past the best goalie in the world. I’m all for making goals look cool, but we should put just as much energy into making the in-stadium experience absolutely awesome.”

Pallister was watching the ’foul’ incident through the headset. ”This could be a great training tool for referees! You could put us in the middle of some Bestball! In the middle, on either side. We could learn where to stand when you’re doing that!”

”Hmm,” I said.

Ollie looked at me, surprised, and pulled me to the side for a private chat. ”Max, this is all amazing. Why are you sulking?”

I tutted. ”If you hadn’t invited these people, I could have told Harper and Sophie, yes, I think it has potential, let’s work on it. I could have signed her for cheap, like she was a Swedish wonderkid. Now she knows she’s sitting on a gold mine. Look.”

On the side of the room, Harper and Sophie were standing side by side, arms folded, eyeing me like they were about to mug me. They fist bumped each other.

Ollie said, ”So?”

”So I’m about to have my very first salary discussion with the woman who owns the gold mine.”

”Sounds like she should be hiring you, not the other way round.”

”For Christ’s sake, Ollie, stop talking! You’ll give them ideas.” I centred myself. When someone attacks, punch back. If someone thinks they have the upper hand, unnerve them. ”Ollie, with me.” We walked five paces to the ladies. ”Harper, this is Ollie. I have a challenge for you. Make him look cool, and I’ll give you a job.”

Harper and Sophie looked at Ollie, then at each other. Without a word, they sprung into action. Sophie pulled Ollie towards the camera room, while Harper sat at her laptop, cracked her fingers, and created a new file.

The pain in my lower legs was back; I needed some more wellness. I said goodbye to Scott Conrad, Pally, ’Jenny’, and locked hands with Billy Brinsworth. ”I’ll see you in Liverpool next Sunday, yeah? You and your team will prove once and for all that there is no conspiracy and we’ll all live happily ever after.”

”That’s right, Max. You have my word.”

***

Tuesday, August 29

The transfer deadline was fast approaching, and there were a couple of deals to get over the line.

First, we announced that we had completed the signing of Ruud Berkenbosch, prompting widespread disbelief. People were so confused there wasn’t even the full slate of mockery. Social media banter accounts were slow to react, so convinced were they that the news was fake.

Then Des Walker, the young defender from Celtic, arrived. One million pounds for a PA 155 right back who could play in the middle. I mean, yes, please. Celtic would be able to buy him back for a set price in the future if they wanted, but Des wouldn’t necessarily want to leave.

To make his first day even more memorable, we got him into the Splat Room, where he did some generic pointing and smiling like you got in TV broadcasts. A couple of hours later, he and his family returned to see the experimental ’welcome to Chester’ package Sophie and Harper had created. Des Walker feeding a seal became Des Walker riding a hoverboard became Des Walker ascending a beam of light into... the Chester FC dressing room. He walked to his shirt, pulled it on, and the camera spun around him while he double-thumbed his name and squad number.

Absolutely insane, but it looked amazing. ”We just need to find a cool bit of song to go with it,” said Sophie.

Des Walker, Morale: Superb.

At the same time, we completed our final signing of the summer. This was a 17-year-old striker from Sheffield United called Errol Obikwu. He was CA 50, PA 166. I had been sceptical about him based solely on how he played, how he carried himself, a certain slump of the shoulders. He seemed like a knob, to be honest, but every single scouting report came back glowing. Fleur had spoken to him and his family. Briggy had a poke around. I got Dylan to go and talk to people who knew him. I even asked the Brig to come out of retirement. Their opinions were uniform - Errol is a lovely guy, diligent, hard-working, keen to learn. If there’s a problem with him, it’s not his personality.

I switched from being reluctant to going hard for him. It had taken a very slightly ludicrous bid of 4 million pounds to get him. But 4 million for a PA 166 striker? Overpaying for strikers was kind of my new thing.

Why had a top English talent agreed to join Chester despite my beef with Alan Turner? Because Errol was planning to declare for Trinidad and Tobago so my beef didn’t matter, and Errol’s family had seen that I had taken Bark from nothing into the Jamaican national team.

When Sophie and Harper showed Errol what they had done with Des Walker’s intro video, he lost his mind and started pitching ideas for his own video. The ladies told him that for the time being they were ’limited’ to backgrounds they already had in stock. Errol sat with them for two hours going through the options, thinking of a narrative that would tie the locations together.

When I went to check on them for the sixth time, Errol was still engrossed. The whole thing was pure catnip, and while he was searching through the database of digital assets they could include as props, he and Harper were listening to music, laughing and joking as they searched for the perfect vibe.

Sophie took me aside. ”Max. This is a phenomenal recruitment and retention tool. It has been over a month since my last pay rise. Just saying.”

”Yeah,” I said. We had a staring contest. ”Here’s an idea. When we’ve done this, why don’t you ladies dream up something spectacular to be the new intro for Chesterness? Then we’ll talk about your salary.”

She winced and groaned. ”Fuck! I hate how motivated I am to do that.” She rubbed her forehead hard, then stopped suddenly. ”Can we buy a drone?”

”Yes.”

”You didn’t ask the price.”

”That’s right,” I said. ”Because the drone’s going to save me a pay rise, isn’t it? Because we’re a community club that can’t afford both.”

She bit her thumb while she decided which she wanted more, the drone or more salary. ”Drone,” she said.

”I’ll pay for the drone from Splat Industries, just as soon as I’ve created that company.” I smiled and waved my finger around. ”When all this is working, we’ll cut you in on it. Making cool shit is a talent industry, and you,” I jabbed her, ”are a talent.”

***

Saturday, September 2

The transfer window had slammed shut, and another two hundred grand - after tax - had slammed into my main bank account. That pushed the balance back over two million. I was getting drenched in money. Drenched!

And it had been a pretty blissful week. With no transfers to think about, we were once again chilling while the rest of the industry ran around like headless chickens.

At Bumpers, there was a massive buzz about the Harper Splat technology, with players begging to have ’sick vids’ made of them. We had hurriedly installed as many cameras around the Deva as we could, focusing on the penalty areas for the moment to see what we could do with the tech. Sophie and Harper thought that we could maybe have a beta version available for broadcasters to use by the start of next season. It would be even longer until what we produced was deemed worthy of being used by VARs, but in theory we could get the tech more or less working and then start the campaign to demand its widespread adoption.

My wounds healed as rapidly as always, and with no weeknight fixture I could let nature take its course. By Saturday morning I didn’t even have any bruising. And best of all, most relaxing of all, was the knowledge that we would have a good referee against Spurs. Marco Toni would play it straight down the middle, no doubt about it, so everyone’s focus turned to the match, the individual match-ups, the tactical conundrums.

There weren’t many of those.

Spurs’s new manager, Lee Kennedy, had been in charge of Pestis when I smashed them with Bayern Munich. He was a die-hard 4-3-3 guy and there was more chance of me divorcing Emma and marrying her again just so I could invite everyone from PGMOL to the wedding than there was of him surprising us with something new.

That wasn’t to say it would be easy. Spurs were shambolic but their individual players were very good. They had spent about 600 million quid in the past five years, and that figure included the transfer fees they had received. My net spend, excluding Ruud, was about 20 million. Take Cheb out and I was breaking even.

In short, Lee Kennedy was working with a squad worth 600 million more than I was. Or so you would think. I was amazed, shocked, and honestly horrified when I realised that Spurs’s 600 mill net spend had bought them... an average CA of 158.

”Holy fuck,” I said, when I saw them warming up.

”What?” said Sandra.

I covered my mouth. ”They’re not even as good as Brighton.”

”Better than us?”

”Of course, but...” I squinted. ”We could get to their level... maybe this season? Maybe? Okay maybe not quite, but... It shouldn’t even be close. What the fuck have they spent their money on? I’m gonna have to go and check the numbers! They can’t be right.”

The curse told me the transfer fees, though. The goalie had cost 18 mill, the defenders had been bought for 20 to 30, the midfielders cost 30 to 40, and the forwards ranged from 40 to 65. Include the squad players and it all added up.

The wages weren’t anything special compared to Arsenal or Man City but they were paying a guy who wasn’t much better than Jimmy McNeill two hundred grand a week. Two hundred thousand pounds a week to shuttle around midfield playing sideways passes!

”You know what?”

”What?” she said.

”Seeing this makes me feel a hell of a lot better about paying Ruud so much. Even in his current state, he’d walk into this Spurs team.”

”Don’t get complacent.”

”I’m not! I’m just saying one of our injured players is better than anyone at Spurs. What’s complacent about that?”

”Go and warm up properly.”

”Yes, miss.”

***

Spurs’s main weakness was their midfield, so I leaned into that as our primary tactic. We would dominate midfield with a 3-5-2 shape, starve them of possession, and stop them getting too many of the fast breaks Lee Kennedy loved.

Of course, playing with a back three meant that when Spurs did attack, we would be vulnerable on the far post, but we couldn’t cover everything and to be honest, I was sick of us having a zero in the Goals For column. Had I been offered a deal to get a 3-1 or 4-1 defeat at the start of the day, I might have taken it. Getting that first goal would take us one step closer to establishing ourselves as a genuine PL club.

I would have liked to use Marek in goal again, but Owen was 5 points ahead of him and it was his ’turn’.

Peter Bauer had hit CA 140, and with Helge going to 130, the top of my squad list suddenly looked a lot less Championship. I chose Peter, Murray, and Dumi as the back three, with Lewis and Cheb as the wide midfielders. They were fast and could defend, which would make it harder for Spurs to hit us on breaks.

The three CMs were Youngster, me, and Leo. That was a decent mix of energy, interception ability, and passing range.

With a top two of Gabby and Wibbers, our average was 147.5.

10 points behind Spurs.

Yeah, but think about that.

600 million quid spent, to be 10 points better than Chester!

Either they were doing it wrong, or I was doing it right.

My pre-match speech was epic. One of the classics. It didn’t make sense, there was no context to me saying it, but if I was going to lose my job this could be the only time I would get to utter the immortal words:

”Lads, it’s Tottenham.”

***

Reader, we battered them.

Okay, if you want me to be more ’reliable’, let’s qualify that.

We battered them for ten minutes.

We were a blur of movement, we passed through their lines, ignored their press. They couldn’t get close to Peter, couldn’t get close to me, couldn’t get close to Wibbers.

In that first phase, we had over 80% possession, six shots, and the Deva was rocking.

Then came the first howler from the ref, and - nah, only joking. There were a few tricky incidents in the first half, as you would expect when guys are smashing into each other at combined speeds of over 60 kilometres per hour.

One time, a Spurs guy raked his studs on Youngster’s achilles. I suggested to Marco Toni, who was effortlessly handsome and had the best haircut of any referee in the known universe, that the Spurs player was a snide twat and Marco might perhaps think about writing his name down in his special little book. Marco replied by saying he hadn’t seen what I described. I offered to put it up on the big screen. He said that wouldn’t be appropriate. I said he could view it at half time and make amends at the earliest possible moment in the second half. Marco told me to shut my mouth and reminded me that Peter Bauer was the captain and only the captain should be talking to him.

Another time, Gabby jumped for a header and a Spurs guy rushed into him, looking only at Gabby not the ball, hoping that when the striker landed he would get hurt. It’s incredibly dangerous to knock someone who’s in the air, and it’s actually a surprise that there aren’t more serious injuries caused by that kind of thing. Marco Toni didn’t even give us a free kick, saying his view was blocked, and it wasn’t something VAR could analyse. So I took the Spurs player aside and told him if one of my guys ended up paralysed, he was gonna end up in the same unit in the same hospital. He didn’t do it again.

If that makes the match sound brutal, it wasn’t. Lee Kennedy was a fool who had been used as propaganda by a wannabe dictator, but he wasn’t a villain. After our glorious ten minutes, Kennedy’s Spurs gained control because his players were simply better than ours, across the board, in more disciplines - for now.

We played with great control and purpose until Spurs had their first quick break. It was only a poor decision that stopped them getting through on goal. A minute later, they had another amazing chance. That time a player chose right but executed his pass poorly, and Murray Burnett was able to recover his position.

My scheme wasn’t working. The risk/reward balance was off.

I dropped Youngster into DM and booped our wide players back one zone. The match stagnated, but I didn’t mind that. Even better than scoring our first goal would be getting our first point. Grind out a nil-nil? Let’s give it a go!

The crowd were behind us. I rushed to make a tackle and they roared. I lost the ball turning into danger, but Youngster and Leo harried the guy on 200 grand a week; he passed back to his goalie.

New plan: contain Spurs, chip balls to our front two, get free kicks, score from free kicks.

The plan worked, sort of. Marco Toni didn’t award as many fouls as some other refs, but he was consistent in his approach. Spurs had some tough defenders, though, macho types who loved to ’let the oppo know they were in a game’. Gabby earned us a free kick in Max Best territory. I slammed it at goal, but a guy in the wall jumped late and his shitty timing proved useful for Spurs. It went behind for a corner. Cheb rolled it to me and I crossed left-footed, but the Spurs goalie punched it clear.

The next decent position saw us with the chance to cross from the far left of the pitch. I didn’t like the vibe, so I got Lewis to pass short to me, dribbled towards goal, and when three Spurs dudes ran to block, I made a simple pass left. Lewis moved on, crossed, Gabby headed downwards, onto a defender. It went up, high, and Wibbers tried to do an overhead kick. He nearly smacked a defender in the nose, so the ref gave a free kick.

Fair.

Kennedy got cautious, and pulled his wingers slightly further back. We had a bit of a stalemate, neither side wanting to concede the first goal, everyone hoping the oppo would make a mistake.

After five minutes of that, I started to get itchy. In any past season I would have said ’fuck it’ and gone more attacking. It’s three points for a win. Defeats make fans feel bad but points win prizes. Fearless football, yeah?

But if we kept it like this, maybe Kennedy would go more attacking. If he did, I could bring Pascal on and dick them on counters. Maybe Rushy or Roddy, too, for their speed. We could turtle up in the last ten minutes, draw Spurs on, then strike.

I decided that patience would be the key. Stay calm, wait for Kennedy to blow it.

***

As the half-time whistle neared, the match had turned into a low-quality affair. I was sitting quite deep, connecting with Peter, then spreading the ball into gaps. Spurs, to their credit, worked hard to fill the spaces, and the ball was recycled back to me.

I was just thinking what ideas Sandra might have for changing things and noting that the guy earning 200 grand a week was thinking about sprinting at me when Dumi hit a pass in my direction. He hit it hard but not excessively so. It was one I would control 100 times out of 100.

Make that 100 out of 101.

The ball popped off my boot about three feet further than I would have liked. The 200k guy was rushing to close me down, so when I stupidly tried to pass over the defensive line, where Gabby was making a run, I hit the ball straight into him.

It deflected from his shin, ran between Dumi and Peter. Spurs’s striker couldn’t believe his luck. He chased it, waited for Owen to throw himself at the ball, and dinked it over the top. Murray Burnett nearly got to it, sliding four yards, trying to hook it away, but he wasn’t quite fast enough.

One-nil.

Two seconds after the tiniest little technical mistake.

I dug the pads of my hands into my forehead and said, ”Sheeeeeeeeet.”

***

At half time, I reflected on the fine margins that defined elite sport. There could be a thousand passes in a match but if a Spurs guy had done what I did, it could have been us who were leading.

But that’s why Current Ability mattered. Yeah, Wibbers was amazing, Roddy Jones was amazing, but they didn’t have perfect consistency yet, and neither did I.

I stood up and said, ”I fucked up. Who wants to punch me in the dick?”

Dumi put his hand up. ”You’re bad for my pass completion stats, boss.”

”I’ll try harder.” I slapped my hands together. ”That was a good half, guys. Keep going. It’s Spurs, they’ve got a mistake in them.”

Sandra said, ”That would have been the perfect time to say, lads, it’s Tottenham. You’re so impatient these days! Stop trying to speed-run the Prem.” She turned to the group. ”Just keep going and we’ll get a reward. I can feel it. It’s like the gaffer says: that was good. We are right in this!”

***

We plugged away, patiently building attacks that crashed into Tottenham’s densely-packed lines. I kept the same general shape, but experimented with Wibbers dropping, Cheb pushing. Leo back, Leo forth. We played fast, slow, fast.

We created quarter-chances but not much more than that.

The clock ticked towards 70 and I started to think about making changes. Edgar for Dumi would give me a centre back who could push into midfield. Lewis was looking tired, so I could put Cheb on the left and Matt Rush on the right. Pascal for Wibbers would give us something different in the tight spaces. Jimmy McNeill getting some minutes would continue his development but wouldn’t change much about how the game was going. What about Helge as a striker? Bash the ball to him, hope for the best. It would fit in with the Prem’s whole billion-pound-pub-team zeitgeist, but surely we weren’t that desperate?

Spurs’s record signing, an attacking midfielder who had cost 65 million pounds but had Passing 6, took a through-ball on the half-turn, burst past Youngster, and shaped to shoot, which drew Peter into a block. The dude nudged the ball further right, to the side of Peter, and curled a shot deliciously beyond Owen, who was diving at full stretch.

Two-nil.

Right. We were desperate.

I crouched, looked around the pitch, and laughed. The guy had just scored a wondergoal, 70 minutes into a 5 out of 10 performance. He had done precisely one thing of value in the entire match.

Lee Kennedy was bouncing around with his team, as well he might. The three points were in the bag.

I wandered to our dugout. ”Subs? Spread the minutes?”

Sandra turned to her right, checked out the options, then eyed me. ”Why are we struggling?”

”It’s just the levels, isn’t it? We’re lacking in accuracy, the final ball, the last details.”

”What about you? You’re still off the pace.”

I shrugged. ”Maybe I play better when I’m mad at the ref.”

She pinched her nose. ”Don’t. I can’t. I can’t even.”

I shook her by the shoulder. ”Just joking! I don’t know what’s up. I’m not immune, am I? Gonna have good days and bad. What we’re doing, generally, is top. We’re just here a year early.” I shook my head. ”I’m actually quite happy with this. We’re getting close enough to start getting points soon. Maybe Ollie won’t sack me after six defeats because he’ll see we’re on the right path.”

Sandra chewed on her lip for a second, then switched to a professional tone. ”I was thinking Edgar for Dumi; Pascal for Wibbers; Roddy for Lewis.”

”Yeah? I had Rushy.”

”That works, too. Jimmy for Leo. And maybe Helge up top? We could go 3-4-3.” I smiled and held up a hand. She high-fived it. ”You had the same?”

”Nearly. Do Youngster, leave Leo on. I’ll decide what to do with Helge when he’s on.”

I strolled away, scanning the pitch. The Chester fans were still chanting, singing, bouncing. I picked up the pace. Could we?

***

71’

Chester are making a raft of changes.

72’

It looks like Spurs are adopting a more cautious approach.

***

I adjusted the line-up, which turned into a variation of 3-5-2. It must have seemed pretty strange because in a stoppage, Marco Toni asked me what the formation was.

I leaned towards him and glared. ”Why do you need to know? Are you a spy? Are you an assassin?”

He smiled and shrugged, so cool he could almost have been Henri. ”It makes no sense. I ask to check if maybe you have a head injury.”

”Holy shit,” I said. ”You’re rinsing me because you don’t understand my genius. That’s seriously outrageous.”

”Hagen. What is he doing?”

”He’s the left.”

”The left? The entire left?”

”Yes. He’s a left back. When we get the ball, he moves to left mid. As the move develops, he becomes a left winger, ready to crash the far post when Rushy or Leo are shaping to cross from the right.”

”I see. This Helge, you think he is Alphonso Davies. I don’t see it but you should know best.”

”Of course he isn’t Alphonso Davies.”

”But you ask him to play like he is.”

”Yes.” I left a pause. ”One of us is going to look back on this conversation and feel rather foolish.”

He had the hint of a smile playing on his lips. ”There is no need for you to feel foolish, Max.”

I walked away, blowing air from my cheeks, feeling like if I ever needed to buy Marco Toni a gift, a double scarf combo would do it.

***

Spurs had a purple patch, the timing of which was incredibly inconvenient. They drained five minutes from the clock before we fought back to get the ascendency. Like a lot of Prem teams with a two-goal lead, Spurs were happy to let us pass the ball around, but we had some different options this time.

Edgar Wilde as the middle centre back could push to DM and help us get a grip in midfield. Rushy’s pace on the right was startling. Helge dominated the left in a different way to Bayern Munich’s Alphonso Davies, but he did dominate. He won duel after duel.

I played as a CAM, taking passes from Leo, turning, trying to make stuff happen.

But that was just it. With the CA gap as it was, we had to make things happen rather than let them happen.

”Argh!” I screamed, randomly, when I saw that the clock had hit 87 minutes.

I crouched and gave myself permission for a five-second pity party. Spurs weren’t even good!

***

90’

Elmham rolls the ball to Burnett. Burnett passes to Bauer.

The German directs his pass to Los.

Los touches neatly to McNeill, who looks for Best.

Best chips the ball towards Matt Rush, but mishits his pass.

Best roars with frustration. He hasn’t been happy with his own performance today.

But Bochum chases the loose pass and keeps it in play!

A defender slides in and gives away a corner.

Outstanding work by Bochum! He hypes up the fans in the Harry McNally terrace.

Best walks towards the corner flag. He stares at the energised fans.

Best has called for Owen Elmham!

The goalkeeper is coming up for this corner!

***

Vikki rushed to the sideline and signalled to the lads. She wanted a near-post contact so she was flooding that zone.

The idea worked for me, but I used Masterpiece Theatre to tweak her idea so that Helge would be the guy closest to me. I put Owen in front of the oppo goalkeeper, which would be a real nightmare for the Spurs guy, and nudged Murray Burnett to the far post. The general idea was that Helge would flick the ball, Spurs would panic, Murray would finish.

Easy. Not the most spectacular first-ever Premier League goal, but the way the sport was currently being played, it would be a fitting one. Let no-one say Max Best could not follow fashion!

I placed the ball with the utmost care, faced it like I would hit it left-footed, waited for Spurs to reorganise, moved to take it with my right. Before they could adjust, I smashed it, aiming an outswinger at Helge’s scalp. Swoosh! Bosh! Amazing. For once in the match, I hit the ball perfectly.

It sailed like the superyachts of yesteryear, which I believe were called ’yachts’, right onto the vast expanse of -

Handball.

There was a random hand up there, stopping the ball from going to Helge.

A Spurs guy handballed it!

Why was his arm up that high?

Total head loss from the dude. Complete mental disintegration because, what, because our goalie was up and I switched my striking leg?

Marco Toni, the greatest living human being, potentially the greatest human being all of time, brought his whistle to his mouth... then moved it away. I had what I can only describe as a complete psychotic episode that lasted nought point two seconds.

That’s how long it took for Marco to bring the whistle back to his mouth, blow, and point to the penalty spot.

My guys celebrated like crazy.

I checked the curse commentary. Yep, clear penalty. Nailed-on penalty.

We would get a goal. A goal in the Premier League. I even had Free Hit ready to use! An extra 10% chance of scoring.

My mouth went dry. I hadn’t even dared to believe. Not really.

On the big screens, text came up.

VAR checking decision: penalty.

”Oh my fucking God,” I said, falling to my knees. I covered my face. ”What the actual fuck? You have got to be kidding. This... what? No.”

A minute passed.

I could not for the life of me understand what they might be seeing.

Still in my spot near the corner flag, I turned to the dugouts. Our lot were watching the iPads going, what the fuck, it’s handball, let’s get on with it. The Spurs guys were watching the incident on their iPads, thinking, it’s clearly a handball, but was our guy pushed maybe? Was someone offside? Can’t be offside from a corner. Maybe something else? What can we complain about?

The Chester fans were going bonkers. They wanted the penalty. They wanted to see a Premier League goal.

Marco Toni was on the move. Jogging out of the penalty area, towards the dugouts. He was going to look at the TV screen! He had been called back to reverse the decision! What the -

He blew his whistle again and pointed... to the penalty spot.

Our players celebrated again. The home fans went nuts.

Pascal rushed over to me. ”Who’s on pens?”

”What?” I said, softly, stupidly.

”Who will take the penalty kick? Wibbers is off the pitch.”

”Wibbers?” I said, even more stupidly.

”Mein Gott,” said Pascal, rushing to my side, lifting me up. He had been hitting the weights and he wasn’t as feeble as he looked. ”Peter, Leo, me, you. Who will take it?”

I watched the way Spurs were arguing, the way their players were running around, jostling people, the way their goalie was trying to get to the penalty spot to rough it up. Gabby and Jimmy were on the spot, protecting it. I nodded to myself. We had to do something dramatic. Something that was drenched in pure Chesterness. Our first ever goal in the Prem? It had to be fucking awesome. ”Owen,” I said, as I changed the curse field for ’penalty taker’.

Pascal freaked out, tried to stop me, but I was striding to the penalty spot. Owen Elmham, our goalie, zero career goals, was moving forward, his eyes wide. We met each other by the penalty spot. He took the ball from Jimmy.

Spurs’s goalie was there, trying to work out who he needed to psych out, and he looked amazed as I jabbed my finger at Owen. ”Shoot anywhere, but if you do a Panenka, you’re gonna get a two-week fine. All right?” Panenka, you remember, was a Czech player who did a slow, cocky chip down the middle of the goal at the pivotal moment in a penalty shootout, and became a legend. The skill is not to be confused with a rabona, which is where you wrap one leg around the other to do a flamboyant pass or shot. Owen Elmham, being a fairly lumbering goalkeeper, would never do either a Panenka or a rabona. He was mad enough, but he didn’t have the skills.

I nodded to myself. This was right. A goalie scoring Chester’s first-ever PL goal would be a story for the ages.

Marco Toni got the Spurs players out of the penalty area. Their goalie returned to the goal line of his own accord. Maybe he was thinking how humiliating it would be if another goalie scored against him. Maybe he didn’t want to cross Mad Owen Elmham, a guy who had shot his own mother’s phone to bits.

When things were nearly ready, I switched the penalty taker from Owen to me.

I grabbed the ball. Owen ran off. Fled.

I set the ball down, rotated it so that the nozzle was in exactly the right position.

The Spurs goalie came wandering forward, trying to put me off.

Marco Toni wandered towards him, holding the yellow card.

Instant justice! The goalie retreated without another word. The entire issue resolved in one second.

How easy it is to get the game flowing.

The perfect referee. The perfect football fans behind the goal. The perfect team to score against. The perfect platform.

One perfect moment in a season of struggle. This I give to you, the Chester fans, and to you, the world.

I stared up at the sky and grinned, wondering what they would have been saying on DigiWorld, on talkSHITE. Swallow your words, you fucking muppets.

I watched Marco Toni, waiting for him to blow his whistle. He did. I said, ”Are you sure?” He gestured that I should take the kick. ”Are you sure you’re sure?”

He smiled and gestured again. Let’s go.

I faced forward, hit Free Hit, did a little shuffle, moved myself further to the left of the ball, set up just nice for a right-footed shot. More often than not, I hit those to the right of the goal, the goalie’s left, at a height that was possible for the goalie to save it.

As I moved forward, I glanced at that exact spot.

The Spurs goalie did well - he dived to the other side, stretching, straining every limb in every direction. It was a lovely piece of intelligence and athleticism.

Sadly for him, I hit a left-foot rabona Panenka.

In other words, I wrapped my left foot around my right leg and chipped the ball, slow and high, down the centre.

I jogged away, laughing, but got slapped in the face by PTSD from the City game. Was the ref going to - ? Marco Toni was pointing to the centre circle. Goal! I checked the curse. Yep, goal!

That’s when I went absolutely feral. I sprinted and launched myself into the McNally, into the sea of humanity, into the mass of weirdos and wrong ’uns that was our core support. I was dragged, pulled, pushed. My gaussian balls went splat, I lost a boot, and I was pulled out of the stand what felt like 20 minutes later with more cuts and bruises than after the City game.

The difference was, these ones didn’t hurt.

***

My boot was recovered - good marketing for Jive - but there wasn’t enough time to storm the castle and force an equaliser.

We fell to our fourth straight league defeat - the fifth if you counted the AOK Cup. No points, minus nine goal difference, rock bottom of the table, but I felt good. Felt great.

I ran around shaking everyone’s hand. The match officials, the Spurs players. Then Lee Kennedy approached, warily. I extended my hand. Why the fuck not? He wasn’t even in the top 100 worst people in English football and being the Spurs manager was punishment enough for his past misdeeds. I thought he would do the handshake so that he wouldn’t have to talk about it in the post-match pressers and then he’d fuck off, but he actually spoke to me.

”You trying to win Goal of the Season on a penno?”

”What? No. Is that possible?”

”I think you just made it possible. Good game.”

It was such a classy touch I briefly wondered if Kennedy was related to Pierce Brosnan, but Peter Bauer had got our lads together in front of the McNally and I jogged over to join in the mutual appreciation session.

The Chester fans celebrated the defeat harder than the Spurs fans celebrated the win, which was weird, but just as the din was dying down and people were making their way to the exits, the big screens turned on.

My penalty had been captured by the new cameras, and there were enough of them providing enough data for Harper to generate one of her splat videos. It wasn’t as crisp as the one created in ideal lab conditions - there were some gaps in the coverage and there was more ’pixellation’ - whatever the right word for that was in this context. But the footage very clearly showed me approaching the penalty kick. While I did so, the camera rotated around me in a spiral. The action reduced to super slow mo, speeding up as I made contact with the ball, slowing again with the camera darting behind the goal to show the opposite view, with the goalie off to one side and me, tongue out mischievously, facing the camera, watching the ball nestle into the back of the net, starting to cackle.

There were fucking GASPS around the stadium.

This was the coolest thing EVER.

Marco Toni broke protocol by coming over to me, while eyeing the replay of the replay. ”That’s your tech, is it?”

”Kind of.”

”You’re going to make so much money.”

”I guess.”

”And hey.”

”Yeah?”

He eyed me and laughed. ”You were right about Helge Hagen. I think you might actually be as good as people say.”

”Right back at you, ref. Right back at you.”