Soccer Supremo - A Sports Progression Fantasy

16.

Tuesday, September 5

Champions League Match 1 of 8: Saltney Town versus Red Star Belgrade

The Racecourse was packed, and surprisingly noisy. This was the first ever Champions League match to be held at the venue, and plenty of Wrexham fans and neutrals had bought tickets to say ’I was there’. More tickets had been sold when Ryan Reynolds announced that he would be attending, and there was another bump when Diggy Doggy said he would be there, too.

The 65 Saltney Town ultras had been bouncing all match, of course, but the way we played had sucked the neutrals into supporting us, and they were yelling and screaming like they were watching their own clubs.

Fearless football.

Heart attack football played with pace and precision.

We had Snakey in goal, Tony and Dunners in the heart of defence, BatDan in the centre, Colin Beckton up top. A good recipe for success, you might think. But hang on. Add a pinch of Davey Barnes to left mid, sprinkle in an intelligent Italian forward to give us more creativity and threat, then add the Greek god of spicy midfielders.

Niiiiiikos!

Iliaaaaaaaaades!

Add an Italian left back, a right back and right mid on loan from Wrexham (the first players registered to that club to play in this tournament, yay ticket sales!), and you had a delicious, zesty starting eleven that delivered unprecedented bang for your buck. The average CA of 129.5 was not as high as it had been when Dumi and Edgar had been Bordermen, but this eleven was far better balanced.

Our average was actually higher than Red Star Belgrade could muster. The Serbian champions, a club that had once won this tournament (when it was named the European Cup), had rocked up with an average of 125, with players ranging from 118 to 133.

I sat in the row behind the dugout, having named myself as co-manager on the team sheets but staying out of the limelight to the extent possible. I didn’t really want Chester fans to think I was taking the piss by managing Saltney a few days before we went to Anfield. Apart from making tiny tweaks on the tactics screen, my main involvement was deciding to trigger Bench Boost or not. I decided no. Our subs weren’t stellar - Carl Carlile, Ash Bradley, Tockers, Omari, Ludo, Bertie, Tom Westwood. Maybe we would do a Bench Boost Hail Mary against Arsenal, see if we couldn’t give them a bloody nose but for today it was a fair fight between two similar teams. Sport the way God intended!

Our lads raced out of the blocks, playing as though they had come up through the same youth system instead of being thrown together at short notice. The curse helped, I’m sure, but so did the personalities of the players. Competitive, hard, but team-focused. No bad vibes, no throwing the arms up when a team mate made a mistake. They worked hard, got each other out of tight spots, stayed calm under pressure. It was so, so cool, and it paid off.

Nikos and Dan passed to each other, brought in a wide player, kept moving, connected with the Italian playmaker, made runs to buy him space, watched as he languidly passed through the back line, giving Colin Beckton a chance to shoot. I thought the angle was too tight for him - I thought wrong.

One-nil!

We kicked up a gear, fizzing the ball around beautifully.

Pass pass pass shot, wide! Pass pass pass shot, post!

And then: pass pass pass shot, goal!

Davey Barnes making a late run, smashing the ball left-footed through a crowd of players. Barnes scoring at The Racecourse! He had grown up on the terraces, cheering his local team. They had signed him, nurtured him, then cut him. Here he was doing the business in the Champions League - not the qualifiers, the real thing - in front of ten thousand Welshmen and the Canadian who had signed his release papers.

His happy tears melted more than a few hearts. Not mine, because I was a rock, but someone near me was cutting onions.

Red Star Belgrade ruined the procession by scoring just before half time. Argh!

That’s why the neutrals were so on our side. We had been defending for our lives for the entire second half, throwing ourselves in front of shots, sprinting to prevent balls going out for corners, grinding, grafting, and you couldn’t help but admire the effort.

As we had made subs, though, our CA had gone down. The talent was way up: Tockers, Ludo, Bertie. They would be Champions League players for the next decade. The next decade and a half if they were lucky with injuries and took care of themselves. But they were undercooked. Ludo and Bertie weren’t even in triple digits...

85 minutes gone. 5 minutes plus injury time from eternal glory... and a two-million-pound payout.

Red Star built patiently, worked an opening, crossed... Tony Herbert headed away.

”Those clearances get an inch shorter every time,” I wailed, pulling the skin on my face down.

I stood and went to the aisle to my left, hands on my head, stewing, suffering. Watching was a million times worse than playing. On the pitch I could have ended the contest with one swish of my boot. Up here? Here I was basically a normo.

Dylan was in the seat next to mine. ”Sit down, Best. You’re a fire hazard.”

Red Star built patiently, slipped a pass into the area. A short, tricky guy with a low centre of gravity burst past Dunners and crashed the ball left-footed across the face of goal. Someone got a touch and the ball was... was saved by Snakey! ”Whoa!” I cried. ”Snake-like reflexes!”

”You what?” said Dylan. ”Snakes don’t have good reflexes. You’re thinking of cats.”

I pulled at my face again. ”Please shut up. Please, mate.”

88 minutes. Red Star got a free kick, 25 yards from goal. They had a leftie and rightie by the ball, and they both looked like it was their destiny to caress a shot top bins, then run around my stadium as though they had done something socially useful. The pricks.

I crouched next to a random Welshman, held his arm, and said, ”I can’t look. Tell me what happens. But only if it’s good.”

He laughed and held onto me. I turned and watched the dreadful moment, felt the psychic pain as the plaster of my delusion was ripped off with one brutal jerk of the universe’s wrist.

The leftie smacked the free kick into the defensive wall. The Welshman said, ”He’s fucked it, Best. You’re still alive.”

I shot to my feet and held my head. ”Am I? Am I?”

I sat. I stood. Dylan pulled me down. I punched Dylan into the moon.

Up in the VIP boxes, Ryan Reynolds and Diggy Doggy were going through the same kind of turmoil as I was, but they at least had Jamie Lane-Beeks to distract them. Their guest of honour was Sandra Lane, who was getting her media reps in. Building her profile, building her brand.

”Max!” cried Dylan. I looked around, checking for threats, but he was pointing to the referee. The guy was looking at his watch.

”Argh!” I said, gripping my hair and pulling. We were so close. Where was the ball?

Red Star had it on the right. One last attack! Our new Italian left back, sourced with the help of Don Pino’s agent friends, was a brilliant defender, but of course in the last seconds of the game he would -

”Argh!” I screamed, because the Italian had lazily taken the ball from a Serb, and had rolled it to Iliades. The Greek pinged it over the defence, to the right side of the pitch, where Colin Beckton was chasing it.

”To the corner!” yelled Dylan, now on his feet, along with ten thousand others. ”To the corner!”

He was right. If Colin took the ball to the corner flag and held it there for a few seconds, the match would end. All the blood drained from my face. I had spent six years telling my players never to do that.

What the fuck was wrong with me?

Colin, thank fuck, ignored my instructions, and pushed the ball towards the most wonderful place in the world. Ball, meet flag. You’re going to be seeing a lot of each other.

A defender was sprinting to try to recover the ball. He was arcing at Colin like an interceptor missile, and he would catch up any second -

Colin nutmegged him and headed towards the goal!

”Wha!” I yelled, surprised, elated, desperate. ”Yes! No!”

The defender, seeing he had been done up like a kipper, grabbed Colin, held him in a loving, almost tender embrace.

The referee jogged over, showed the defender the red card for denying a goalscoring opportunity, then held his hands straight up, with his whistle between his lips.

Peep!

”Holy shit,” I said.

Peep!

”You did it,” said Dylan, quietly.

Peeeeeeep!

I ran down the last few steps, hurdled the advertising boards, and spotted Well In coming at me. We jumped at each other and performed a lesser-spotted mid-air hug with partial rotation. Degree of difficulty, high. Points for artistic merit, none.

”Whoo!” he cried. ”What a rush. What a ride!”

I slapped him on the back. ”Never in doubt!”

I threatened to break the record for hugs in a minute. Tony Herbert, Nikos, Snakey, the Belgrade players, the match officials. I searched the main stand looking for MD and Gwen. When it came to those sweet, sweet coefficients, wins in the league phase counted for double those in qualifying. How would that play out in the bedroom?

I shook my head, wondering where such thoughts came from, then called Sandra, who picked up right away. I said, ”Has Ryan Reynolds been trying to steal my spot as Jamie’s godfather?”

She laughed. ”No. I don’t think that would go well. Jamie said Ryan had a shit trim.”

”Another win!”

”Aiden was mortified; she’s going to talk to you about swearing when you’re babysitting.”

”Uh-huh, yeah, totally. What a night! Listen, I’m high on football so call me crazy, but I’ve got a new plan for Liverpool.”

”Yeah?”

”Attack.”

”Hmm, yeah, that’ll work. Why didn’t we think about that?”

”We attack like a whirlwind. We wreck them the way they keep trying to wreck English football.”

”I’m doing the pre-match media, right?”

”If we get the first goal, we might be able to hang on, like Saltney did against Red Star Belgrade. Remember that famous night? September 2028, I think it was. Those Welsh Wizards snuck ahead, clung on for dear life, got away with the two million points.”

”Three points.”

”That’s what I said. And if Liverpool get the first goal, well, whatever. They’ll get behind the ball and we’ll be able to pass it around. DOVE lights up when we’re behind in matches! All those completed passes, all that technical security. Imagine what other teams are seeing in our players. So it’s win-win, right? We win even if we lose, but we have to go for it hard in the first 15 minutes.”

”What are you thinking? 4-2-4?”

”Maybe. I’m more thinking about the personnel. I want Pascal.”

”Against Liverpool?” She sounded dubious.

”Yeah. They’re good but half the team are as thick as mince. Pascal will get into space and ask questions they don’t have the answers to. I think me, Pascal, Wibbers.”

”Gabby’s been doing better, and he’s important when we’re defending set pieces.”

”I know, but if we’re going to do anything, it’ll be through clever movement and unexpected combos.”

She held her hand over the mic and said something to someone. Probably Aiden, probably explaining why she was on the phone in the middle of a party. ”Let me sleep on it, yeah?”

”You sleep on that,” I said, as I watched half a dozen of our players and staff run around carrying a massive Welsh flag. ”I’m gonna sleep on a bed of... glory.”

”You were going to say a bed of cash, weren’t you?”

”Never! That would be gauche.”

”Haha. Are you coming up? There’s someone here who would like you to pick him up, spin him around, and tell him he’s a good boy.”

I left a beat. ”I genuinely can’t tell if you mean Jamie, Ryan Reynolds, or Diggy Doggy.”

****

Sunday, September 10

English Premier League Match 5 of 38: Liverpool versus Chester

After the Saturday matches, the team in 17th place, the one above the relegation zone, had four points with a minus four goal difference. Not that it mattered much, but we had zero and were on minus nine. I had spent a lot of time with Sandra and the coaches going over our footage, our patterns of play, and we had all come to the same conclusion - we would struggle to score goals unless we got more daring, but if we took risks we would get battered.

Voluntarily walking into batterings every week wasn’t really an option, because of our falling Morale. It had declined from a healthy 5 out of 7 at the start of the season to 4.5 against City, 4.2 against Spurs, and it would be 4.0 against Liverpool. The beatings would continue until Morale improved, but with low Morale, we wouldn’t be able to win. The biggest test of my management in the next month would be to keep the atmosphere positive, forward-thinking, to stay in a zone where we could at least compete. With my director of football hat on, I knew that one way to achieve that would be to sack the manager and hope for a ’new manager bounce’.

Sealbiscuit 2 pulled into Anfield, and I hopped off first. Liverpool fans had gathered as close as they were allowed, and on seeing me they booed and hurled abuse. ”Rude,” I said, as I slung my little backpack over my shoulder. ”What are they so mad about?”

Sandra tutted. ”Hurry up inside before you start a riot.”

”How am I starting a riot? I’m just looking at them!”

”You’ve got resting start-a-riot face.”

”I’m trying to remember where the Bill Shankly statue is.” Shankly was the guy who turned Liverpool into a worldwide phenomenon. He did it by putting the fans first, tapping into their passion and energy, making Anfield one of the most daunting stadiums for away teams to visit. The leading Liverpool fan group was called Spirit of Shankly, and their ultimate aim was for the fans to buy the club. I was obviously sympathetic to their cause, but they didn’t agree with me that the best way to achieve that goal would be to destroy the current entity so completely that they would actually be able to afford to buy it. Some people just refuse to listen to logic.

Sandra said, ”Shankly’s statue is outside The Kop, in front of that big black and white photo, and you’re not going anywhere near any of it after what you did. Come on, there’s Brick. Fall in.”

Brick stood between me and the baying fans as I ambled along while people yelled ’Best, you’re shit!’ and ’Fuck off back to Manchester!’ You know, top-tier Scouse banter.

One guy shouted, ”Don’t be bringing your time-wasting and moaning here, Best!”

I called back, ”Yeah, that job’s reserved for your captain, isn’t it? His legs have gone but his gob still fucking works, that’s for sure.”

”He’ll have you in his pocket today.”

”Nah, mate,” I said, taking off my sunglasses so I could lock eyes with this Scouser. ”I’m gonna fuck him up.”

That provoked a jeer, some laughter, more banter, but Brick was easing me towards the entrance. Inside, there were some friendly faces that got a lot less friendly when they saw it was me. There was an old guy in a plain suit who looked at me with distaste. ”Welcome to Anfield. Home of the most successful club in the country.”

”That would be Linfield F.C., bro. 60 league titles, more than 50 cups. Hey, here’s an idea. Why don’t you get your owners to kill them off the way they tried to kill Chester? Who cares about football in Northern Ireland? No-one who matters. All right, cool. Great chat.”

I knew the way to the dressing rooms and headed there, with Brick a couple of steps behind. ”Save some hostility for the match, sir.”

”Nah, I’ve got plenty. I fucking hate this place.” I said that while passing a junior coach. He looked startled, but had to move aside because Brick outnumbered him Brick to one.

The guy was a Liverpudlian, and he said, ”You’re gonna regret doing that poll.”

”No,” I said, staring him out. ”I’m not.” His hands were full of stuff in shrink-wrapped plastic. ”What are those? Fake COVID tests?”

”Fuck you! Seriously, fuck you.”

I grinned. So many unhappy Scousers and I hadn’t even set foot on the pitch yet. Cheerily, I walked on and said, ”Brick, did you vote in the poll?”

Brick sighed. ”The poll.” He shook his head. ”No. Why did you do that?”

”It’s democracy in action, isn’t it? Instead of me choosing which things to rail against, let the people decide.”

I had used my login for Chester’s social media accounts to post the following:

Attention, Chester FC fans! Max Best plans to do one of his beloved stunts to raise awareness of Liverpool FC’s crimes against English football. Choose which incident he should remind the world of:

Project Big Picture. An attempt to use the COVID pandemic, a worldwide crisis in which hundreds of thousands died, to do a power-grab, concentrating the right to rule our country’s national sport into the hands of two American billionaires.European Super League. A power-grab that would lead to the extinction of almost every club in the country.Support for Suarez. Showing support for a player banned for a racist attack on an opponent by means of wearing oversized white robes. I mean, t-shirts.False positives. Faking a batch of positive COVID tests in order to get a tricky fixture postponed until more players were back from injury.Treating Bill Shankly like crap after he retired.Doing all that while saying ’This Means More’ with a straight face.Brick said, ”I don’t think you were asking the fans to decide. I think you knew Brooke or MD would delete the message as soon as their phones started blowing up. I think you wanted to mention all of those things as part of your Premier League wrecking ball fantasy.”

”People reacted weirdly, didn’t they? You’d think I was the one who had done those things, but it wasn’t me, it was L-I-V, E-R-P, double O L Liverpool FC. Okay, here we go.”

”That’s the home dressing room.”

”I know. Get your phone ready.” I glanced around and when the coast was clear, I reached into my backpack and extracted a little metal plate that looked more or less like the ones Liverpool used on their doors. I peeled off some backing tape and stuck it above the sign that said ’Home Dressing Room.’

Mine had two elements. One said, Racist T-Shirts, with an arrow pointing left. Another said Fake COVID Tests with an arrow pointing right. I posed, grinning, two thumbs up, as Brick snapped a photo. ”You could do that with AI, you know.”

I shook my head, stared into the distance, and set my jaw. In a heroic growl, I said, ”Nothing I do today could be done by AI.”

Brick pointed. ”Except that. Seriously, it’d take two seconds and the fonts would match.”

”Do you know how hard it - ”

The door opened and Liverpool’s kit man did a double-take. He eyed me with suspicion but then a grin spread over his face. ”You’re dat Max Best! You’re amazing, you. Player-manager, like King Kenny! I seen you do your rainbow flick at Wembley, and me kids were all trying to do your penalty against Spurs. How did you do dat? We could only hit it fast, if you get me. Couldn’t get any backspin on it to get it slow.”

”You need a supple ankle.”

”That’ll be it, then!” he laughed. ”What were you doing? Hanging around hoping for a glimpse of the Mighty Reds?”

”I had that when I was a toddler, so I think I’m immune.” It took him a second, but he laughed. I decided I liked him, so I said, ”I was just looking for the Boot Room.” That was a spot near the home dressing room where legendary former managers used to have long chats with their closest confidants. They would discuss tactics, transfers, big picture stuff, the details. They were searching for marginal gains long before that phrase entered the mainstream. Hundreds of hours spent discussing football with some of the top minds of the age meant the participants were drenched in football wisdom, hard-won know-how. Liverpool dominated football for two decades by promoting from within, keeping to the traditions, holding onto their culture even when the cost was high.

The kit man eyed me with new appreciation. ”Boot Room’s gone, lad. Demolished. Er, but if you’re really interested, you can see it in AR.”

”AR?”

”Augmented reality. There’s an exhibit in the museum. You hold up your phone, and there’s a big picture with Bill Shankly and...”

”Fuck me,” I said, shaking my head. ”This place is even more of a husk than I thought.”

”No, come on,” he said.

I patted him on the arm. ”I don’t blame you for holding onto the dream, but your club is gone. This?” I waved my finger around. ”This is a private equity play. This is a toy for bored billionaires. This is the final boss in my battle to reclaim football for the fans.” I jabbed my thumb. ”While I’m out there being a dick, remember that I’m the only guy in this country trying to restore the ethos of the Boot Room. The new King Kenny, Bob Paisley, and Joe Fagan, is me, Sandra, Colin, Peter, Pascal, Clive, Sticky. We’re learning from each other, teaching each other, preparing three, four generations of succession. The same ethos, the same culture, with the fans at the heart of everything we do. We are the spirit of Shankly.”

With that, I nodded and strode away. When we turned a corner, Brick said, ”Why don’t you talk like that in public instead of antagonising everyone?”

”Good note,” I said. ”Text that to me and I’ll think about it after the injuries heal from the kicking I’m about to get.”

***

Husk Reds versus Chester was in the primetime slot on Sunday, with the expectation that it would be watched by more people worldwide than the Superbowl. Our guys started to get nervous. Liverpool could destroy us. Humiliate us, make us a global laughing stock. Would we wither in the famous Anfield atmosphere?

75 minutes before kickoff, Sandra handed in our team sheet. We knew what to expect from the home team. They would do 4-2-3-1 with a high-intensity high press, so I wanted to line up in a fluid 5-4-1 and I wanted Marek in goal. He would be able to knock the ball around the onrushing strikers.

For the same reason, I wanted Peter in the team if it was at all possible. He was CA 141, top Championship level, obviously a really good player, but I still didn’t feel great about having him as one of two CBs against Liverpool’s elite forwards. At the same time, playing three CBs seemed like tactical overkill, but there was an elegant solution: Edgar Wilde. He could drift from centre back to DM, picking up Wurst, the German attacking midfielder who had cost more than every player and every stadium in the entire Max Best Universe. Two centre backs could become three and back again at the click of a hot key. Top.

The third CB was Murray Burnett, who had improved to CA 154. While his Morale was relatively low, I liked how he played. He was tough, tall, won duels, was good on the ball. Having him in the team allowed me to rotate around him, spreading minutes between Magnus, Edgar, and Dumi.

The latter was playing right back today. Liverpool had a few options at left wing, all of whom were way faster than Dumi, but there wasn’t a single brain cell between the entire bunch; I was counting on Dumi’s experience and Positioning to nullify them. Those wingers had amazingly low Decisions scores, anyway, so even if they created ten chances they would only make the right move with two.

It had been quite a while since I had scouted Liverpool, but we couldn’t ignore the threat posed by Sayed, the Egyptian winger. If we didn’t watch him, he would score, simple as that. I had thought about putting Helge on the left to get a crazy physical mismatch in our favour, but I decided to go with Cheb. If we were going to attack like maniacs in the first half of the first half, the left would be our best option. Not only did Sayed never track back, but Liverpool somehow didn’t have a proper right back despite spending 400 million pounds in just one summer transfer window. There was an opportunity for us down that side, no doubt.

So the back five was Cheb, Murray, Edgar, Peter, Dumi. Cheb would attack, Dumi would stay put.

The midfield was Youngster, Magnus, Pascal, and me. I chose Magnus ahead of Jimmy because of the danger from Liverpool’s creative attacking midfielders, Youngster was getting fitter every week and didn’t need a rest, while Pascal and I would roam around, offering defensive support on the flanks but trying to break in support of Wibbers (145) where possible.

Our average CA was 147.6, a new high for the club, and we had plenty of good subs. Owen, Lewis, Jimmy, Leo, and Gabby had CAs higher than 140. Helge, Rushy, and Bark were over 130.

”Fuck me, we’re great!” I said, standing up and moving into the middle of our dressing room. ”Look at us! We’re mint. What a group we are. Who put this team together? Give that man a medal. Wow!”

There were smiles, grins, eye rolls. Murray Burnett said, ”Lads, listen, I’ve played for Everton here and when the Liverpool fans get riled up, it’s louder than anything you’ve ever ’eard. Don’t give them anything to sink their teeth into.”

”Fuck that,” I said, stepping onto a chair. ”I’m gonna fucking rile them up, torment them, give them an earful. And you know what’s gonna happen? Nothing. Because there’s 30,000 tourists in today. When I get going, this place is going to sound like what it is - a glorified shopping mall. The Trafford Centre with a grass courtyard. Cheshire Oaks with bleachers. The sound of 30,000 randos munching on sandwiches.”

Murray looked at me like I had lost my mind. ”No, boss, seriously, it gets intense. It’s off the charts.”

”The only thing off the charts are bands from Liverpool, okay? I’m gonna slap today, I can feel it. Sunday 4 p.m., Super Sunday, the eyes of the world, inject it into my fucking veins, Murray. These are the days you want, right? Big games, high stakes. I don’t think they will get loud but if they do, so much the better. Bring it on!” I stepped down and moved towards him. ”I can fucking take it. Can you, mate?”

He tensed. ”Yeah.”

”What?!” I demanded.

He sat straighter. ”Yeah!”

”Come on!” I yelled. I turned in a slow circle. ”Anyone who doesn’t want it loud, who can’t handle the pressure, who can’t fucking hack the big stage, tell me now. Tell me fucking now because men, this place is dead. It’s the Theatre of Yawns, and I’ve come to wake these Scouse pricks from their sleep. I’m gonna rip the piss and laugh in their faces and if they get loud, you’d better be fucking ready for it.

”This is a battle, lads. This is a warzone. I’ve got my personal motivations but every challenge, every header, is a referendum on your future as a professional footballer. You want to play in the Prem? This is it! It doesn’t get more Prem than Anfield. And it doesn’t get more Prem than what I’m about to do to these stupid fucks.” I eyed the young guns: Murray, Wibbers, Pascal, Cheb, James Yalley. ”The billionaire twat who keeps trying to wreck English football is here today. He’s here and he’s going to bear witness. I’m. Going. Full. Max. If you can hack that, if you can hack that here, you can hack it anywhere. If you step onto that pitch with me, I don’t want to hear you complain that it was too loud, because trust me, I’m gonna be fuming that it wasn’t loud enough. Go big or go home. What do you wanna do? Who do you wanna be?”

Someone yelled, ”Come on!” and it spread like a virus. The starters, the subs, the physios, everyone was infected. An injection of positivity. I watched as our Morale shot up, up, up.

Fake confidence can be as effective as a fake COVID test.

***

As we went out to warm up, I was booed. I was booed pretty much everywhere I went these days, which was going to be a big problem at Christmas dinner.

But as we did our strange swinging exercises and went through our patterns, the home team emerged.

The Reds.

So-called because there was so much red in their player profiles.

My jaw must have dropped, because Sandra came towards me. ”Max, what’s up?”

”Erm,” I said, pointing stupidly. ”Nothing. Give me a minute.” I took myself out of the main drills, got a ball, and did some light tekkers on my own.

What in the name of all that was holy was going on?

Liverpool had spent hundreds and hundreds of millions of pounds on new players, adding to an already stacked squad. I had been expecting them to start the match with CA 171 or so, just like Arsenal and Man City.

Indeed, I quickly created an eleven from their squad that would have got very close to those levels.

But that wasn’t the team their Dutch manager, Kale Frauder, had picked. The first-choice goalie had been rested, or perhaps he was injured because he wasn’t even on the bench.

They were going to play a central midfielder at right back. That selection was expected, but now I got to see his full player profile and he didn’t have good Positioning. In the past, I had deployed midfielders in defence like that, but only against weaker teams (as far as I could remember), not against Cheb, Pascal, and Max Best.

For the left wing slot, Frauder had picked a 17-year-old. He was talented, yeah, but he was raw, and it looked like no-one had ever given him any Decisions training in his entire life, and if he didn’t get some soon he wasn’t going to make it.

The rest of the team was solid, in places world class, but then there were the two dramatic splashes of red. Sayed, the winger, had a reputation as a top 10 player. In the world, that is. But he had cliffed! He had melted! Since the first time I had seen him, his Pace and Acceleration had collapsed. His Stamina was red, his Dribbling was leaking out of him. He still had CA 145, probably because he still had god-tier Finishing, top Technique, and excellent Creativity and Passing, but holy shit. I went nuts on hot keys that would move our attacking players into the left zones. With Cheb, Pascal, Wibbers, and myself close together on that side, we could do some hybrid Relationism over there.

But there was even more opportunity!

Dante Mokken, Liverpool’s towering Dutch defender, hero of a dozen bruising campaigns... had cliffed! Had melted! His Attributes were in freefall, it looked like, but maybe it was only because the gap between the last time I scouted him and now was so long. Maybe he was actually declining gracefully, so gracefully no-one at Liverpool had spotted it. He still had unimpeachable Positioning, Heading, and Influence. Maybe he had Influence 40 and that’s why referees gave him whatever he wanted. Almost no-one ever bothered to dribble against Mokken, because what would be the point? He was a giant. He was an immovable object.

Nah.

He was faking it.

I crouched, staring at the Liverpool dugout. Kale Frauder wasn’t around, but I could picture him in my mind’s eye. Bald, round head, soft, smooth features, he looked like he would be a very competent carpenter or electrician. He was Schrödinger’s football manager. One time you looked, he was excellent, another time, useless. His curse numbers were high, especially for Coaching and Tactics, and his Judging Player Ability score was decent - 14 - but I believed he was playing these old players because there would be a complete media meltdown if he dropped them. Me? I would have sent them both to Gibraltar by now. This prick was letting the media pick his team!

I felt my heart racing, and fought to calm myself.

”Pascal, Wibbers, Cheb, Peter. Come in a sec. Slight change of plan.”

***

We went inside, where despite my best efforts, I got more and more hyped up. At one point, as I was pacing around, glaring at nothing and everything, Leo Los whispered, ”What’s he doing?”

Livia, reformed Liverpool fan, replied, ”He’s beginning to believe.”

If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

I turned to face them. ”You’re god damned right I am!” I resumed pacing. For the first time this league season, I was thinking more about how to hurt the oppo than worrying about how they could hurt us. ”Gonna fuck them up!”

***

When we went out for our final preparations, I was booed. It was louder this time, because it wasn’t just a handful of tourists but a load of Liverpool’s most loyal customers. ”Boo,” they said. ”Boo.”

Football is a weak link sport. Watch an elite team who has one shit player and it’s unbearable. Moves break down, team mates get fractious, the oppo gets endless Get Out of Jail Free cards.

Our weakest links in terms of CA were Pascal and Peter, but I wasn’t using them like a conventional manager would. With the help of the curse, and hot keys, and their own intelligence, they would be cogs in a machine, supports in the scaffolding. Together, we would be strong, and when the mechanism rotated and it was our turn to get frisky, they would show their strengths. Peter’s passing, Pascal’s mastery of space and time.

I watched Dante Mokken as he jogged, skipped around cones, showed the world how unflappable he was, how cool, how serious. He never did anything he wasn’t good at. These days, he tended to stick close to his centre back partner, an enormous creature called Titus. Together, they bullied most opponents, but individually, in the cold light of the curse, they weren’t much to write home about.

All I had to do was work a position where I could isolate Mokken one on one...

Youngster came to get me. ”Mr. Best.”

”Yo.”

”We left the pitch one minute ago.” I glanced around me, discovered the guys had scarpered. Youngster smiled, nervously. ”Are you all right?”

I stared at him, locked on, leaned a fraction closer, and said, ”God put you on this earth to dominate midfield.” We were just inside the centre circle. I put one arm around him and gestured at the grass with the other. ”A bunch of sick fucks stole this from us. We’re gonna take it back.” I described a circle with my finger. ”Start here.”

His eyes nearly popped out of his head. ”Yes, Mr. Boss. I mean...” He had to hurry to catch up with me, because I was steaming towards the tunnel. ”Mr. Best!” he said, desperately. ”Max,” he called out.

That got my attention. I couldn’t remember him calling me by my first name before. I suppose he must have done, but I turned, amazed. ”Yes, James?” He did a quick cackle, then took me by the arm and coaxed me to the right of the tunnel. There was a little table by the side of the pitch, and three people. ”No no no,” I said, but he doubled down.

”Please,” he said. ”It is Bethany’s first time as a pitchside analyst.”

”Who gives a fuck?”

”I do. I give a fuck.”

Again, I stopped, staring in utter disbelief. James Yalley, swearing. Was that the first time ever? My mouth opened in the shape of a laugh, then I said, ”Fine. If it means that much to you...”

He looked into my soul. ”She saved my father after he saved you.”

I melted, but didn’t show it. I jabbed him on the shoulder. ”She did the right thing... that time. Don’t let her manipulate you for the rest of your life. Come on, then. Come and listen.”

We walked towards the Anfield Road Stand, towards the little table. It bore a logo that wasn’t from DigiWorld; I didn’t recognise it, which meant it was from a minor broadcaster or some foreign rights holder - Beth would have to work her way up this new world, starting near the bottom. There was a male presenter and a male former player, with Beth as the second analyst. I stopped ten yards away so that they couldn’t get me in the shot or whatever. Beth came closer, smiling. I didn’t smile back. She was in a smart, sharp suit. ”Hi, Max.”

”Yep.”

She bit her lip and inhaled. ”Do you like my outfit?”

”It’s all right.”

Her eyes blazed for a second. ”This is from your wedding. Don’t you remember?”

I held my hand to my ear. ”Sorry, could you say that again? I didn’t hear you over the sound of the entire nation booing me.”

Her head dropped and she nodded to herself for a while. She looked up at the afternoon sky, then at me. ”You’re mad at me, I get it, even though I didn’t do anything. It’s what I would expect from you, but you don’t reply to my texts, you don’t answer my calls. This isn’t the usual petty retribution. This is a punishment beating, Max!”

Hearing that particular phrase made me pause. It was the exact same one I had used when ranting at PGMOL and the Premier League. Youngster was looking up at me, hoping to see some Christian forgiveness or whatever. Kid loved to believe in fairy tales. I tutted. ”That’s right. It’s a punishment beating for your entire industry. You’ll get nothing from me ever again, so don’t bother asking.” I looked towards the main stand, where the owner of Liverpool FC was being served thousand-dollar drinks by people earning ten pounds an hour. As long as the match was refereed cleanly, I would give him a bloody nose. Next year, I would kick him in the dick. ”Jesus Christ, the single biggest enemy of English football is sitting right there in the seat of honour and you fucks have the nerve to come after me. Get fucked. Seriously, stop asking me for anything.”

”Max,” said Beth, quietly, as she swallowed hard.

Youngster’s disapproval blasted into me with the force of a thousand exploding suns. I am not ashamed to say I withered under his attack. Throwing Beth a bone, I said, ”Have you seen Billy Brinsworth?”

”Billy - Er, no. Should he be here?”

”If you want an angle, tell your camera bros to find him in the stands.”

Beth made a dismissive gesture. ”He doesn’t go to specific games, Max.”

Annoyed, I looked at Youngster. ”Can I go now? Can I get ready for the biggest match of my life now?”

He looked annoyed, too. ”It is not even top ten.”

We started walking to the tunnel. ”Say, it’s not even top fucking ten.”

”No.”

”Say, if you kick me again, you’re going home in a fucking ambulance.”

”If you kick me again, you are going to go to the hospital in an ambulance.”

”What? No! Listen carefully...”

***

Preparations complete, the buzzer sounded, and we went into the corridor.

We lined up in the tunnel for once, like good little boys. This was me on my best behaviour.

Almost.

They kept us behind the famous sign that reads: This Is Anfield.

It’s supposed to intimidate the opposition. Supposed to scare them.

I pointed to it with a look of disbelief. ”Their players are so fucking stupid they have to be reminded where they are!” Our guys laughed; Liverpool’s bristled. Ratto, a highly overrated Argentinian midfielder, got up in my face, so I tapped the badge on his chest. ”You Liverpool. Me Chester. You shit. Me generational talent.”

Peter Bauer looked back down the line and rolled his eyes. ”Max, come on. Don’t challenge him to a battle of wits; he’s unarmed.”

I got crazy eyes and yelled, ”Chester! Chester!”

***

While the others did the pre-match handshakes, I jogged to the Anfield Road End, where our fans were tucked into one corner. They yelled and cheered, which resolved into a chant of: ”Champions League! Piece of piss!”

I smiled modestly, so they switched to:

”He wins to the left,

He wins to the riiiiiiight,

That boy Max Best,

Makes Turner look shite!”

I covered my mouth while going ’tee hee hee’, like it was our private little joke, as if there weren’t 20 cameras and 400 smartphones pointing at me.

I applauded the fans, waved to a few at random, then walked to my spot.

In the first half, we would be shooting towards the allegedly famous Kop, which was supposed to be Liverpool’s version of the Harry McNally terrace. Even from where I was, I could hear people munching on sandwiches.

***

1’

Liverpool kick off, to huge acclaim.

The ball is rolled to Mokken, who takes a touch and pings it long.

The ball goes behind for a goal kick.

Chester take it quickly.

Masarik to Bauer.

Bauer clips it wide left to Alloula, who is in a surprising amount of space.

Alloula drives forward and finds Best.

He goes sideways to Evergreen, who returns it to Best with a crisp first time pass.

That simple action has created space everywhere!

Bochum makes a move. Roberts makes a move.

Best surges past Ratto.

Best can strike it!

The ball flashes an inch wide of the upright!

2’

I quickly realised that I had left an obvious tweak on the table. The main reason I didn’t trust Peter in a back two was that he wasn’t the most physical defender, but Sayed wasn’t the most physical forward player. Peter could handle him with ease! So I swapped Peter and Murray.

Murray could play more centrally and go hard on the striker, while when Cheb went up the pitch, Peter could slide left and take care of Sayed.

3’

Youngster snaps into a challenge. The ball pops out to Wilde.

He holds off the attentions of Wurst and goes left to Alloula.

Alloula in space once more. He’s got movement in front of him.

He shapes to pass down the line, but Bochum checks his run.

Alloula slips the ball between the lines. Bochum takes it on the half turn and surges towards goal.

Best is going on the overlap. Roberts is drifting left.

Bochum chooses Roberts, who deflects the ball to Best!

Best chips the ball over Mokken’s outstretched leg, hurdles the challenge, and he’s through!

Titus with a great covering run. He shoulder-barges Best.

Best retains his balance, just, but is forced to the right.

The keeper comes out to close the angle.

Best pushes past him, slams the ball towards goal...

Titus slides in to block the shot...

But he doesn’t get there!

Max Best has scored!

I accelerated, crunched my abs, shouted, ”Huzzah!” or ”Jolly good show!” or ”Have some of that, you fucking twats!” Can’t remember which.

The Kop, in my experience one of the quieter stands in English football, was silent. I jumped onto an advert board, balanced, held my arms wide, and yelled, ”Where’s your famous atmosphere?!”

Guys surged at me.

I hopped off the board, laughing, just as my mates caught up with me. We celebrated, though one or more of the guys was pushing us away from the Kop, which for some reason wasn’t as quiet as it had been just after the goal.

4’

Liverpool kick off and are urged forward by their fans.

Mokken hits a long pass to the right, but Alloula wins the header.

Bochum picks up the ball, touches it to Youngster.

The Ghanaian international passes to Bauer, who clips a pass wide left.

Bochum scampers after it.

Where is the defence? Liverpool are in disarray!

Bochum drives towards Titus, veers away, creates a gap for Roberts.

Roberts takes over, looks for the run of Best.

Roberts. Best. He fires it first time to the left of the pitch.

Bochum runs over the ball, just as Titus clatters into him!

The ball ends up at the feet of Alloula, who whips it first time towards Best.

It’s awkward. It bounces in front of the player-manager, who has to take a touch to control it. The ball pops up over his head.

As he waits for the ball to drop, Best holds his hands high, poses with his left leg planted, his right off the grass. It’s the crane kick from The Karate Kid!

Best volleys the ball over the defensive line...

Roberts shoots left-footed...

But it’s saved!

Sensational play from Chester.

5’

Mokken to Titus.

Titus picks out Ratto. He sweeps a ball to the left, where Liverpool’s left winger is one v one against Demetrescu.

Demetrescu wins the battle comfortably!

Chester look to spring a quick attack but they are unable to move the ball forward.

6’

Mokken plays the ball behind Best, where Ratto has made a good run.

Ratto to Wurst, wearing the iconic number 7 shirt.

The German playmaker glides past Wilde, slips a pass through to Sayed.

Alloula was alert to the danger!

The ball breaks back to Wurst.

He scoops the ball into the penalty area.

Great skill from the number 9! He drags the ball left and right...

And fires home!

Slotted into the top corner from a difficult angle.

How did he do that?

The home fans are in raptures.

All-square at Anfield!

7’

More pressure from Liverpool.

Demetrescu wins his duel, but the ball goes out for a throw.

Titus will go from the centre back slot to take it.

He dries it with a towel.

Max Best is watching, fascinated, from a short distance away.

Titus hurls the ball into the box, where it is headed away by Wilde.

Best follows Titus, applauding him.

This Titus guy was Brick-sized, and he didn’t like being taunted about his long throw technique. When I followed him, laughing and clapping, going, ”Wait, is this Anfield? This is Anfield, right?” he turned and did that thing where he pushed his forehead into mine.

”Shut up! Or I will hurt you!”

I scoffed, which is harder than it looks when you’ve got a hundred-kilo Frenchman giving you maximum aggro. ”What are you gonna do?” I asked. ”Throw me into the stands?” I laughed some more. ”You fucking muppet.”

8’

We got a throw-in down in the right back zone, and I sprinted madly so that I could take it. I surprised a woman who was holding a Liverpool-branded towel, snatching it with a cheeky grin, dried the ball, directed my players to go really far away, then I hurled the ball as far as I could. Except I threw it the wrong side of the corner flag, into our fans.

They went nuts, cheering like I had scored a goal.

The ball hadn’t gone onto the pitch, so technically nothing had happened, and the linesman there was looking really fucking dozy. Before he could react, I picked up another ball and threw it to Marek in our goal.

The Liverpool fans howled with frustration, for some reason, and their angst deepened when I sprinted to get the ball from Marek, evaded Sayed like he wasn’t there, drew the right back towards me, and nutmegged him.

Pascal’s first touch was heavy so Ratto was able to slide in and tackle the ball out for a throw-in.

I ran to get it and demanded a towel. The towel bro on that side was alert and scurried away, clutching the towel like it was a suitcase full of money. I went, ”This is Anfield,” in a dopey voice, and used my shirt to dry the ball. The Kop was howling, Ratto looked like he was about to explode, Titus looked like parts of him already had.

The referee, Wade Bell, urged me to hurry up, so when Ratto glanced away for a second, I threw the ball at his back and chased after the rebound. Ratto grabbed hold of me, pulling, twisting, scratching me like a small rodent might do. After what felt like ten minutes of that, the ref gave the foul. I smiled at Ratto, picked the ball up, used my shirt to dry it. As I did that, I winked at Titus.

”Cheb, roll the ball to me. I’m gonna dribble slowly.”

”No. One of those guys will break you. Hit it into the box.”

”I order you to roll the ball to me.”

”No.”

I tutted. ”Fine.” We had a few guys at the far post, so I lined up a cross, aiming to make it dip just beyond the defensive line. I didn’t quite nail it, but Edgar won his duel and headed the ball square, into a dangerous area. Mokken was well-placed to hack clear. Sayed took a touch, killed the ball, smacked it across the pitch.

The young winger got it and was sprinting at Dumi. That was not a contest Dumi wanted to be involved in but he kept track as best he could, watching as the winger surged clear. He was so right-footed though, he needed to cut inside. When he did, Dumi nudged the ball to Marek, who blooped the ball high. Wurst gathered it and played a clever pass towards the striker, but Youngster intercepted. He was instantly pressured and hacked the ball towards Pascal.

Liverpool’s right back won the physical duel and emerged with the ball. He pinged it to Wurst, who hit a delicious first-time pass at a crazy angle that would have spelled disaster - had Youngster not intercepted again.

This time, Magnus picked up the loose ball and ran with it. He shaped to pass to me, which opened a lane for him to run through. The Liverpool midfielders were just as surprised as I was - Magnus was on the march!

Picking up speed, he crossed halfway, then just as a defender was coming, he rolled the ball into my path. Mokken was running in front of me, parallel, not wanting to come too close lest I wreck his ’successful dribbles against’ stats. I pointed for Magnus to run behind me, did a huge ’I’m going to backheel this’ motion, scooped the ball ahead of me, dribbled past Mokken, accelerated, got daylight between us, clipped the ball three yards left, into the path of Pascal.

His eyes lit up! His first ever top-tier goal!

Pascal slowed, took aim to the right of the goalkeeper... then passed five yards left, giving Wibbers a clear shot. An open goal.

He buried it.

Two.

One.

To Chester.

Wibbers knew who made that goal - he ran straight to Magnus, jumped into him. Magnus held him aloft for a second before we all started to crash into the pair.

Joy uncontained.

The one shame was that the Chester fans were on the other side of the stadium.

Ah, well. We’d just have to score a couple in the second half, too.

9’-14’

I thought about calming things down for a while, but went, nah, fuck it. Let’s just do this for a while. Kale Frauder hadn’t changed anything, hadn’t responded. We might not get another chance to cause this kind of havoc for months.

The home side had top quality, though. Top top quality. Wurst was amazing. Hard to press, he saw everything, he could put the ball anywhere. He set up chance after chance but we did an okay job of blocking the route to the number 9, so the opportunities landed at the feet of the wingers.

The kid on the left smashed his shots everywhere except the goal. It was like watching Youngster do long shots. Why wasn’t he dribbling to the byline and slapping the ball into the area? Oh, that’s right. It was because Dumi had pocketed him every time he tried.

On the other flank, Sayed was getting into great positions but shot every single time no matter what was happening. Two of his shots went straight into Peter, while the other trickled along the grass and was collected by Marek. The egos of guys like Sayed! All they thought about was their stats. How many goals were they getting compared to the top players in the top leagues, how much they were paid, how many minutes. I wouldn’t be able to stand having him in my squad. Pass the ball, you stupid fuck!

Meanwhile, when we got the ball, with my guys striving to play the optimal pass at all times, we continued to be dangerous. Pascal was having a 9 out of 10 performance, and everything we were doing was going through him.

15’

Bauer to Alloula.

The Algerian winger dribbles forward, and looks to combine with Bochum.

Ratto goes in hard on Bochum!

He throws himself at the German, studs first, and crashes into his standing leg.

Bochum buckles.

The Chester players are rushing to the scene to help their stricken comrade.

”The fuck!” I cried, as Ratto launched himself into a leg-breaker, a horrible, snide, disgusting tackle. He compounded his crime by standing over Pascal, telling him to get up. Mokken and Titus were rushing at the referee, saying Pascal was faking it. The manager, Kale Frauder, was doing the ’dive’ gesture, to show what he thought of it all.

I arrived on the scene, grabbed Ratto, and hurled him away. He went flying, and got up to have a go at me but ran into Magnus and Edgar.

At first, I couldn’t look at Pascal. I felt sick, utterly sick, because I had been in this exact situation before, when Pascal had been mangled so badly that some doctors thought he would never play again. I looked down, expecting to see blood and bone everywhere, but his leg looked intact. His Attributes were normal. Even his Condition score had only dropped a point or two. I knelt by him. ”Pascal, mate, what the fuck. Are you okay?”

He was clutching his lower leg, rolling, yelling. ”Argh! Argh!”

I checked and double-checked the curse. No leg break. No red Attributes. Lucky, lucky boy. I shuddered to think what could have happened...

From the dreadful challenge to me taking his side had taken mere seconds, and the ref hadn’t acted yet. But with Liverpool down to ten men, we could change the way we were playing. There would be natural space, and as well as Pascal was going, we wouldn’t need a space invader. We would get more juice from a pace invader. Matt Rush flying down the wing, sprinting at Liverpool non-stop, relentlessly, making them work harder and harder.

Or what about Leo, for a more technical approach? Boss the midfield, keep the ball, win the game that way?

Rushy, I thought. Speed. Stretch this game. Stretch it to breaking point.

So I could sub Pascal off and make a big deal out of his injury. Ham it up, use it, use it in the game, use it in the post-match.

I glanced over my shoulder again, noting that Ratto had slunk away from the mass of red shirts who were pushing the ref farther and farther away from Pascal. What was that, a ploy to literally distance him from the incident? I checked the match commentary. Wade Bell, Group One Referee, anointed by FIFA ... had not given a red card. He had not even awarded a yellow card.

Keep it together, Max.

Keep it together.

I stood and strode towards him. He was in the middle of a scrum of Liverpool players, being lectured by them all, but especially by Dante Mokken. ”Hey,” I demanded. ”Where’s the fucking red card?”

Mokken, in his role as primary match official, said, ”Fuck you! What red card? For what?”

”For the leg-breaker from the fucking animal you’ve got there.” I eyed the ref and spoke with quiet menace. ”Get a stretcher for my player who has a broken leg, then dip into your pocket and find that red card.”

Wade Bell was trying to look composed and in control but he was bricking it. ”Red card for you, Best? For wrestling Ratto just now?”

”He was standing over the body of his victim, sneering. Stretcher!” I barked. ”Get a fucking stretcher so we can carry him off!”

”The physios request that,” he said.

”Then why the FUCK aren’t you allowing them onto the PITCH?!” For once, I had made an undeniably good point; he turned to the touchline and waved our medics on. I got closer to him and might have looked slightly demented as I hissed, ”If you’re too chickenshit to give the clearest red card of all time, get your mate in the VAR to bail you out.”

Wade Bell’s eyes swivelled from side to side, looking from me to Dante Mokken. ”VAR’s offline.”

The words hit me like a jab to the nose. It took me two seconds to speak. ”What did you say?”

”It’s gone. It’s not there.”

”Since fucking when?”

”Just... now. It’s gone. It’s offline.”

I walked away, dazed, head in hands. Stay calm. Keep it together. The Wi-Fi’s down. It happens. Someone will turn it off and on again. Right? Right? Somehow, I didn’t believe it.

I went back, shoving aside what felt like the entire Liverpool team, men who lived on the side of the ref like barnacles on the side of a fucking boat. ”Wade,” I said, enunciating clearly. ”Where is Billy Brinsworth?”

”What?”

”Your boss. Billy Brinsworth. He said he would be here today. He said he would talk to you.”

The ref was losing the plot, but my statement seemed to revivify him. ”Why would he come here? He doesn’t do that. He oversees 10 matches per week just in the Prem. How could he go to them all? He couldn’t.”

I walked away, trying to find the parts of my brain that were not filled with utter, blind rage.

VAR was mysteriously offline. Billy Brinsworth was not in the stadium. One of my players had rolled a natural 6 to avoid a serious injury.

Where was this going to go?

A Liverpool win, for sure. But if they could go round injuring my guys with impunity, they could legit send us into a doom loop from which there would be no recovery. One major injury, one minor one. That could be enough to put so much strain on the core squad that we would start to pick up soft tissue injuries. Add that to the inevitable collapse of Morale...

They weren’t just trying to kill me, but all my successors. Another Boot Room demolished on the orders of a billionaire. He was probably up there laughing his head off. Laughing that I had thought this was a real contest for one fraction of a second.

The rage was gone, replaced by cold, remorseless calculation.

They had escalated.

That meant it was my turn.

I walked to where Physio Dean and Livia were taking care of Pascal. ”Have you called for a stretcher?”

”Not yet,” said Dean.

”Do it.”

”Max!” complained Pascal, even though ten seconds ago he had been howling in agony. ”I think I’m all right.”

”You got lucky but you might have a hairline fracture. You’re off, end of. Now listen, all of you.” Dean and Livia looked up. ”Go slowly. They’re saying the VAR is offline. I don’t believe them, but if you can take six, seven minutes over this, they might be forced to drop the charade. We might get our red card.”

Pascal covered his eyes in despair. Dean made the universal ’stretcher’ signal. We waited. The Chester fans, realising there wasn’t going to be a red card, went tonto. As the volunteers jogged towards us, Pascal uncovered his face, stared at a point on the roof. The initial shock was over and he was thinking more clearly. ”We need this delay for VAR to return so we can get the red card. That’s optimal for the team. I have to sacrifice my spot for the good of the team.”

I knelt by his side and grabbed his wrist, clutching his palm. ”Yes. But we will be weaker without you. You are nailing your role. This is the ultimate exhibition of what you are capable of. Running the lines between loads of fuckwits and dipshits. They have got no fucking clue what to do with you.” I shook my head. ”It’s honestly one of the best things I’ve ever seen.”

Pascal glowed like a cherub, which lasted a fair few seconds before he noticed the stretcher bearers. He turned pale. ”Am I injured? What do you really think?”

”I don’t think so, but I don’t want to take the risk.” I leaned closer. ”Please look devastated and in agony as you are carried off.”

He covered his face again, but this time it was because he was once again smiling, peaceful, tranquil. ”You’re going full Max.”

”Nah,” I said, getting to my feet. ”This is Double Max.”

”Dopplemax,” he said. ”Whatever happened to Max Max?”

”He retired to Barbados with three women who look quite like Emma.”

”Oh, my,” said Pascal. ”I’m afraid that image might show up in my X-rays.”

”It better fucking not,” I said, covering my mouth so the world wouldn’t see me laughing. ”Come on, everyone. Solemn faces. Our guy’s got a broken leg. Fucking milk it. I need this to explain my escalation.”

”Escalation?” said Livia, worried, but I didn’t reply.

As Pascal was eased onto the stretcher - Pascal’s howl of pain was heart-rending - Edgar called out, ”Max, how is he?” I mimed a bone snapping. Edgar’s placid expression, his default, melted away, replaced by a murderous anger. I pointed to Ratto. Edgar moved closer to him. So did Magnus. Ratto reacted in true macho style, puffing himself up, but his Morale tanked. Fucking piece of shit coward.

I followed the stretcher all the way to the side of the pitch, then veered towards the Liverpool dugout, where I sarcastically applauded Kale Frauder. ”Good job, mate. Good fucking job. You’re all class. Never change.”

Yeah, so, that caused a bit of friction, but the fracas delayed the restart by yet another minute.

Another minute for the VAR to reconnect and tell Wade Bell what had happened.

It didn’t connect.

”Sandra,” I called out. ”Give me Roddy.”

”What? Roddy? You sure?”

”I’m sure.”

I walked away, with the stadium booing me again, except this time they really meant it. One massive guy near the front shouted, ”Fuck off, Best!”

I stared at him, stretched my arms wide, and shouted back, ”Make me!”

The volume went from 11 to 12.

Roddy Jones came on to replace Pascal. Cameos at Man City and Liverpool would do his CA growth no harm at all, and would give him a boost before the international break, during which Wales had four competitive matches to play.

I wasn’t only using him here to boost my chances of winning with Wales, but because, while he currently lacked an all-round game, he had blistering pace. I put him on the left, against the midfielder who was playing right back. In terms of speed, that was no contest. All I had to do was get the ball to him.

***

The game got scrappy. I placed Roddy on the halfway line, up against the right back. I randomly shuffled Edgar, Magnus, and Youngster into the DM slots, sometimes all at the same time, to swarm Wurst, to give him constantly-shifting challenges.

The chaos barely touched him. He glided across the grass like a swan, passing the ball so simply that most observers didn’t realise he was stabbing us with a thousand rapiers.

But we had our moments, too.

Peter pretended to stumble, to draw the press onto him. Three Liverpool guys stormed at him, only for him to ping a pass into midfield for me to chase. I crashed into Ratboy, drove past another, pointed at Mokken as I pushed into enemy territory. He backed away, backed away, so I put my head down as though I was going to launch into a full sprint to the right. Beat him in a foot race. Mokken turned early so I wouldn’t ruin his precious stats, but I passed the ball left, through the space Mokken had been covering just a moment earlier.

Roddy Jones sprinted, ate up the ground.

The Kop had knowledgeable fans, went the cliche.

They knew what was coming... so they fell silent. Other noises filled the stadium.

Roddy’s feet thundering like a racehorse. Wibbers calling ”Square!”

Roddy got to the edge of the penalty area just as the goalie was coming out. The Welsh Wonder leaned back, clipped the ball round the keeper, wheeled off in celebration...

And watched it go wide of the post.

Wibbers lost his mind. ”I’m here! I’m wide open!”

Roddy sank to his knees. Almost 60,000 Liverpool customers sighed with relief, murmuring. A few of the real fans started a chant, but it didn’t take off.

Then came the key moment.

Liverpool played out from the back, trying to bait us into spreading out, trying to trick us into making their lives easy. Yeah, nah.

They worked the ball to midfield and we sat back, let them come at us. Wurst took a touch, turning left as easily as a weathervane, but I had set a trap there. Magnus and Edgar attacked him from the front, while I snuck up behind. Fly trap!

Wurst poked the ball away just in time, and I turned to see that if I had gotten that ball, we would have had a two on two break. Shit!

The Reds moved the ball around, worked it to the left wing, to their kid. He was having a 4 out of 10 match, which in a way meant Liverpool were playing with eight men. The lad did some stupid, pointless flicks of the feet, trying to get Dumi to react to something that hadn’t happened, then burst to his left, moving the ball towards the corner flag. He threatened to cross with his left, but Dumi wasn’t falling for that one.

The winger nudged the ball back a yard, forward a yard, but Dumi stayed the same distance away at the same angle - blocking the right-footed cross.

Finally, the winger thought ’fuck it’, and decided to try with his left. Liverpool had plenty of players in the box, after all. It didn’t have to be the best cross in the history of the sport.

He planted his right, looked at the ball, and hit the edge of the nearest curve. Cue a horrible slice, the sort that could get you kicked out of some golf courses.

The ball squirted directly in front of him. Straight ahead, out for a goal kick.

It was embarrassing for the lad, sure, but it would be his reaction that mattered. I would want my players to go again, do it again. If that’s the right thing to do, keep trying.

I started to walk away, towards the half way line, but there was suddenly a commotion, a lot of noise coming from Dumi’s part of the pitch, from our fans nearby. When I snapped my head around I saw the linesman was holding his flag towards the corner.

He had given... a corner kick. For a Liverpool player booting the ball straight out! With no Chester player within two yards of the ball!

I was dismayed, furious, enraged... for all of one second.

That’s how long it took me to realise that this was a gift. This was beyond perfect. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

I sprinted to Wade Bell, trying and failing not to look happy. ”Ref, are you okay with that? That’s a corner kick? You’re giving that?”

He looked from me to my players, who were going tonto. Especially Dumi, who was giving the linesman a lot of grief. Wade must have known from our reaction that the lino had fucked up but decided not to overrule the decision. ”Corner. Get on with it.”

”Lads!” I called out. I made eye contact with Dumi, with Wibbers, with Magnus, waved at everyone else, shouted again, and strolled towards the dugouts. I slid everyone’s icons from the tactics screen, off the pitch.

One by one, the players followed me.

The ref moved towards me and said, ”What are you doing?”

”You fucked up,” I said. ”You made it too obvious and now your boss is gonna have to pay two million quid in refunds.” I looked towards the VIP boxes and smiled. ”Not so funny now, is it? You knob.”

As I went on my merry way, I tried to imagine the discussions on DigiWorld, on talkSHITE, in the papers, on social media. Plenty of people would be fuming that the game had ended after 20 minutes. I would be cast as a villain once again. I shrugged. People would say what they were gonna say. I couldn’t control that. And there was the sliver of a chance that some people would take my side.

I arrived at our dugout. ”Listen up! Get our gear. Get everything. We’re leaving.”

***

I clomped down the tunnel, past forty stupefied cogs in the football-industrial machine, walked, walked, into the dressing room, got my towel and my Ganymede shampoo. I hung up the towel, and had a sensationally good shower.

While I was in there, the league table updated.

According to the curse, we had forfeited the match. That came with an instant 3-0 defeat, plus a three point penalty. We were now on minus 12 goal difference, and had minus 3 points in the league, seven points from the team in 17th. Seven points from safety. Cold fingers gripped my chest, trying to squeeze my heart. I mastered the surge of panic and willed it away - the club was not in a worse position.

As I dried myself, I noticed a change on our squad screen. Murray Burnett had the letters UNH next to his name. I clicked on his profile to investigate in which way he was unhappy.

Has lost confidence in his manager’s ability.

Anger rose in me, but only for a moment. With my cheeks hot, I skimmed and found one other change. Leo Los’s profile had the additional text:

Is disappointed by the club’s league position.

That one confused me. I had told Leo exactly what this season would look like. How could it be disappointing? I mentally shrugged. There would be a lot more crap like that. This was just the start of the death spiral. All aboard the doom loop!

Pascal was in an ambulance or a hospital waiting room. His Morale was wobbling. So was Wibbers’s. He had scored at Anfield, but his goal would never go in the record books. I felt sorry for him, of course I did, but my job was to think about the big picture.

I pulled on my underwear and went to my spot to finish dressing. I had packed a fancy hoodie. Where could I take Emma to get a nice dinner? Heh - we could fly out to Gibraltar and ride out the storm there. Ah, but no, one of her friends had a party tomorrow night. If I went to Gibraltar, I would go alone.

I was the only guy who had showered. The rest of the team were sitting in their spots, looked confused or angry or were checking their phones. Sandra cleared her throat. ”Max. Would you like to explain to everyone what just happened?”

”Sure,” I said, standing up, opening my mouth to blast the ref and to lay out the nature of the conspiracy as I saw it, and to outline what I hoped leaving the pitch in protest would achieve. But just then, Beth came in. She looked around, spotted me in civvies, and her eyes widened. ”Max, please. One second? Please. It’s important. Honest.”

I sucked in a huge portion of air, breathed out some frustration, and walked to the doorway. Out in the corridor, there were three - no, four - camera guys waiting, and about seven reporters. I tutted, but Beth was grabbing my wrist with one hand while holding a fuzzy microphone in the other.

”Max, there are 61,000 people out there who don’t know what’s going on. Why did you leave the pitch?”

”I’ve got a player in the hospital and the home team are getting corner kicks by smashing the ball behind our goal line. That’s a radical departure from the laws of the game and I didn’t agree to that beforehand.”

”Will the match be completed?”

”What match?”

”Max, Jesus! What about the fans?”

”What about them? They got what they came to see - a win by any means necessary. They will be delighted, won’t they? This is the club that treated Bill Shankly like shit after he retired. He built this club into what it is and they treated him like shit. They say he died of a broken heart. Why should I care about anyone from this club?”

Beth shook her head, looking at me like it was for the first time. She spoke louder and slower. ”Tell us exactly why you have done this. We deserve to know why you have done this. Nothing will change or improve until you tell us why you have done this.”

I pointed somewhere, in the direction of something. ”Billy Brinsworth, this country’s most senior referee, promised me that he would talk to today’s match officials. He lied to my face. Billy Brinsworth promised me he would be here today. He lied to my face. Billy Brinsworth promised us the match would be refereed fairly, that there was no agenda against us. He lied to my face. If I am still the Chester manager against Aston Villa and they do a leg-breaking tackle that goes unpunished and the VAR is randomly not available for the exact duration of the incident, or if Aston Villa are awarded a corner kick with the ball not going within two yards of one of my players, I will walk again. I will walk, walk, walk, and you can take three points from us every time but you can’t tell me that we are being refereed fairly because we are not. Bosh. Simple. Now either do something about it or quit complaining.”

Beth’s brow furrowed slightly. ”So it’s nothing to do with the video.”

”What?”

”The video. Er... It features Liza Mason.”

Mason was the Premier League match official who had appeared shortly before the Ipswich match that had gone completely off the rails. She had been the VAR during the Brighton match when Helge had been called for handball. There was a video with her doing something that would cause Beth to drag me out of the dressing room? The hairs on my neck went haywire. ”When...?”

”It was posted earlier today but went properly viral, uh, a short time ago.” Beth trailed off, feebly. ”I thought maybe... But you can’t have. Oh, and Wade Bell has definitely not seen it...”

I tutted, loud. ”What’s in it? Why are you asking about it?”

Beth hesitated, but one of the other reporters produced an iPad. There was a video on it, with a big triangle icon. I tapped it and watched the video while millions of people worldwide watched me. My first thought was that Briggy had scored the scoop of the year.

***

From the faded magnolia paint, it looked like a humble living room in a two up, two down house. Liza Mason was on a sofa, and it was clear that she was off her tits on booze, cocaine, or probably both. There was an older woman on the right of the sofa, and while she almost never came into view, from the small slices of her face that crept into the shot sometimes, she must have been stunningly beautiful.

Her presence on a crappy sofa in some northern terraced house seemed wildly incongruous, but that was not the only thing that made no sense. Liza Mason was very clearly aware that someone was filming her on a smartphone, because she could see it being held up in front of her. So why was she saying such incendiary things? To impress the women, sure. But maybe deep down she was feeling the urge to confess.

There was a woman holding the phone, asking questions. ”So, you reffed Max Best against Ipswich.”

”Fourth official,” said Liza Mason. ”Just fourth.”

”Oh, right. I thought you were in charge.”

”Steve was. Steve Steel. Good guy. He gets it. I told him at the break what he had to do and he did it. Good lad.”

”You mean, make sure Ipswich won.”

”Yeah. Just stick it to Best, you know? Make sure he didn’t get to the Prem. We thought we’d got him.”

”We?”

”Me and Steve.”

”Oh, yeah. Steve does what you say?”

Liza smiled, weirdly. ”He does if he knows what’s good for him.”

”Haha,” said the voice, without mirth. ”So it’s just you two who are, like, against Max Best?”

”No way,” said Liza. ”Everyone hates him. He’s a bleep. He’s a bleeping bleep.”

There was a tiny cut in the footage, which I thought I might have imagined. Liza Mason was still talking.

”Yeah, it doesn’t surprise me that he’s getting wrecked in the PL. Doesn’t surprise me in the least, heh heh heh!” Her eyebrows rose as her head sagged, then she snapped up when she heard the woman’s voice again.

”Do you think it’s possible he’ll ever get, like, two proper refs in a row?”

”Hey, what the hell? I’m a proper ref.”

”Right, it’s just you’ve been saying how you want Max Best to lose and how you make sure that happens. So maybe I don’t know sports enough to know what’s normal, you know. It doesn’t seem normal to me, is all I’m saying.”

”It’s normal,” said Liza Mason, carefully, because the drugs were really rocking her world at that moment, ”when you’re dealing with a grade A bleep.”

***

When it was over, I leaned against the corridor wall, and not for the first time that day had my hands on my head, fingers intertwined.

I knew it.

Of course I knew it.

But to see it confirmed like that was still shocking. Still grotesque and awful. I felt sad in a way I hadn’t felt for a very long time. Sad and empty. What had I ever done to Liza Mason? I had never met her before the Ipswich match, as far as I could remember.

The reporters gave me a few seconds before one of them shouted a question, after which, they were all at it.

”Will you sue the Premier League?”

”Do you feel vindicated?”

”What’s your history with Mason? Or Steve Steel?”

”Why did you walk off when you were winning?”

”Can we have a statement? What’s your initial reaction?”

I held up a hand and after a few seconds, they fell silent. We were in a corridor. To the right, the way to the pitch was blocked, was full. To my left, to the outside world, there was not a single soul. I realised I had been careening towards this moment ever since I got married. ”I do have a statement.”

I stayed still while I thought about some context to wrap my words in. Some theme. Nothing occurred to me.

In a soft voice, I said, ”I do feel vindicated, in fact. It isn’t paranoia if they are really out to get you.” I smiled, slightly, but that didn’t last long. ”I know football well enough to know when people are cheating. I can say, hand on heart, that no referee in England cheated us until that Ipswich game. Referees from the sixth tier to the second got things wrong, they made mistakes, and some of those were incredibly frustrating but refereeing mistakes are part of the beauty of football, part of the rollercoaster. Since that Ipswich game, and in the Prem, wow. We start every match two goals down. There’s a lot more I could say, but it won’t do any good. No good will come of it and nothing will change.

”There’s only one way I can think to improve anything. It was my ultimate dream to take a fan-owned club into the Premier League, to compete against the morons who buy our clubs thinking it’s only football, how hard can it be? I wanted to show them up, to knock them off their fucking perches. That can never happen. I’ve outperformed the entire industry by never losing sight of the big picture, but now I’m close enough to see how rotten that big picture truly is. The billionaires have got the country completely sewn up and no-one gives a shit.

”But listen. The Chester squad I have assembled is good. It’s proper good. They deserve a chance to show their talent. They deserve the chance to compete fairly against their peers. They won’t get that if I’m in charge. Not in this country, anyway.

”Chester fans, you are in my heart. You are my family. I’ve always told you that I was acting in your best interests and it’s for that reason...”

I closed my eyes, tried to swallow. Bill Shankly died of a broken heart and his ashes were spread on the pitch. I opened my lips, choked on my words, had to summon them again.

”It’s for that reason... I quit.”