2.

  Excerpts from a Discord channel called 'Let's All Laugh At Chester,' populated by hard-core Wrexham fans.

  Thursday, December 25

  Stoop

  Merry Christmas to all my fellow Chester haters! I come bearing gifts.

  TopPoppy

  Oh, shit. The pervert's back.

  Stoop

  Nothing perverted about this! Just added a few photos to the Dropbox for the benefit of us hot-blooded Welshmen. These were taken at Chester's Christmas party. They're . Enjoy!

  TopPoppy

  I'm not clicking on that.

  CrunchyAbs

  Me neither. But who's the woman in the silver dress?

  Stoop

  She's the girlfriend of their new striker. Foquita.

  CrunchyAbs

  Foquita? I hardly know her!

  TopPoppy

  Amazing.

  Well, Stoop, I don't know where you get this stuff and I don't want to know but yeah, lot of attractive people there. Why are they looking at art? Did they have their Christmas do in a gallery? Typical poncey English shit. What's wrong with a dinner dance like the old days?

  BeardedWonderwall

  I thought Best only wore shit hoodies. Why's he ragged up like one of them Peaky Blinders?

  Teulu

  We need BrokenGround to give us the inside track!

  BrokenGround

  Don't know anything about their Christmas party except Bonnie had a laugh. 3 R Welsh are on our winter break so I haven't seen Best. He's asked some of us to help him with something on Jan 2, though. Nothing to do with Chester, apparently, but if it turns mental I'll write it up.

  CrunchyAbs

  It's Max Best. It'll turn mental.

  BrokenGround

  Yeah, probably, haha! Merry Christmas, everyone!

  ***

  Friday, December 26

  TaranMellt

  Anyone else think it'd be funny if Chester's match was snowed off? They keep missing out on big attendances on Boxing Day.

  Stoop

  It would be funny but I think they'll be able to play today and you've got to expect them to beat Harrogate. Best will be more concerned about the state of their pitch for the next couple of months. Snow plus rain plus no drainage equals peat marsh. Play your tiki-taka on that, you knob!

  SummerhillBill

  They've been selling out so far this season. Easy when your stadium is only slightly bigger than a shoebox but just goes to show they don't have proper fans. Half this lot have come out of the woodwork now they're on TV but where were they when the team was shit?

  ***

  TaranMellt

  It was on Sky so I watched it. Harrogate were shocking but there was no quality from Chester, either. Camera kept cutting to Best and he looked embarrassed by the whole thing. One-nil win, goal from a Wrexham reject from a set piece. It's not fantasy football, is it?

  Stoop

  I liked Zach Green. We didn't give him a chance.

  SummerhillBill

  That result worries me. Jester aren't supposed to play shit and grind out a win. That's what good teams do.

  ***

  Monday, December 29

  ButteryCrumpets

  Chester 1 Cambridge United 2

  Lol.

  SummerhillBill

  That's more like it! Get in!

  TopPoppy

  What happened? Anyone know?

  TaranMellt

  Cambridge did 3-4-3 and attacked. The pitch was poor so they went direct. Best rested some of his key players, it looked like, and brought himself on with twenty to go. He scored to get it back to two-one but Cambridge held out pretty easily.

  SummerhillBill

  I'm delighted. I'm absolutely beaming. That long unbeaten run from Jester was worrying me but now I see it for what it was - a mirage. The first decent team they play and they fold. They live in a shoe box and train in a literal dump. Their squad's as thin as tracing paper. They'll be out of the playoff spots now, won't they?

  TaranMellt

  Yes, MK Dons won so they've gone back ahead of Chester. There's 6 points separating 5th and 8th and above that is another big gap. Cambridge are up to third, which isn't bad considering their strikers are horseshit. Bradford drew today so they're only two clear of Mansfield.

  SummerhillBill

  You bet Best will be giving it large like 'only 18 points behind first place, we can do it!' No you fucking can't, laddie, sit yourself down. This is a big boy league you're in and those teams above you will be spending American greenbacks in January. Go back to the alcove you call your manager's office and count up your pennies, there's a good lad.

  TaranMellt

  That reminds me. Chester had an 'emotional' pre-match ceremony for the players who are about to leave. The goalie, the left back, and the fast lad. I've got his name as Jaws for some reason.

  SummerhillBill

  Didn't BrokenGround break news of that transfer in here?

  TaranMellt

  He did! He should get himself on Bluesky and drop juicy transfer gossip.

  SummerhillBill

  How do people even make money doing that? I've never understood it.

  TaranMellt

  I think it helps them get jobs at media groups.

  SummerhillBill

  That it? Pointless. I'd go for another betting tip though. BrokenGround, what do you think? Can you hook us up?

  TaranMellt

  You won't get a reply. He's all loved up :)

  BrokenGround

  True, Taran! I'm still here, though. You marry me, you marry this Discord.

  Lol, just read that back. I haven't told Bonnie that! Not going to put it as part of my vows, to be honest!

  I'm seeing Best in a few days. I can't go at it direct because he clams up. Who are they playing on the Sunday? It's Bradford, isn't it? His number one enemy. He'll be going all-out, I know that for sure. I'll try and get a sense of how confident he is but I think that's one game where anything can happen.

  SummerhillBill

  Find out if he's going to play. Chester to win and Best to score should be good odds.

  BrokenGround

  No promises! I don't want to piss him off. He's really edgy about the betting stuff. He thinks the English FA are out to get him.

  Oh, and if I'm not back on in the next few days - welcome to the new age!

  TaranMellt

  Ha! Forgot you were a big Imagine Dragons fan. Take care, mate.

  ***

  Thursday, January 1, 2026

  CrunchyAbs

  First!

  TopPoppy

  I think you're trying to say Happy New Year.

  CrunchyAbs

  Sure, yeah.

  Also: the transfer window opens in a few hours! Let's see if this Foquita fella actually turns up. If he doesn't I'm going to piss myself.

  SummerhillBill

  He scored 8 goals in Peru. Who gives a shit? Let Best waste his club's money. So much the better!

  TopPoppy

  Anyone doing New Year's Resolutions?

  SummerhillBill

  Yeah. Mine's to get a life and stop coming on here.

  TopPoppy

  Me too.

  ***

  TopPoppy

  Okay. Big flurry of deals confirmed. Chester out: Ben Cavanagh, Eddie Moore, Wes Hayward, Simon Black. Who the fuck is Simon Black?

  CrunchyAbs

  Little kid who went to Liverpool. Next Michael Owen, apparently. It was in one of BG's stories.

  TopPoppy

  Right! 75,000 for a twelve-year-old is mental, unless he is the next Michael Owen in which case that's a pathetic amount of money.

  Chester in: Calabash Barkley from Tranmere. He's that kid they had before, right? Knew Best from Darlington. And Foquita confirmed. Shirt number 7. Thought he was a striker? Why not give 7 to Barkley if he's a right mid? I thought Best was a football romantic. 7's for your right winger, not a striker. Best is really annoying sometimes (beyond being Chester manager, obvs). Wonder if the new guys will play today.

  CrunchyAbs

  Sunday Sowunmi gone on loan to Buxton. Tier 6. Weird. I had the strangest feeling he'd play against Bradford and get folded up.

  Pay rise and new contract for Andrew Harrison. He's the one dating Eat Pray Lust.

  TopPoppy

  Loads going on at Saltney. They're going to loan Tom Westwood from Chester when Foquita's recovered from injury. Oh! That's actually kind of important information for the betting channel. Better paste this there before people waste their money betting he'll score today.

  Saltney have also signed Vincent Addo from some club I've never heard of. Ghanaian under-20 international. Why's he going to the second division in Wales? Fee will rise to a hundred thousand! How's Best got that kind of dough?

  CrunchyAbs

  Remember that thing where some of his players are doing a syndicate to pay for signings? That's that kid it's all about. He's friends with the Youngster lad.

  TopPoppy

  I can't keep track of all the madnesses.

  Okay they've also signed a Brazilian lad called Toquinho. Scouted by Best on his big summer trip, apparently.

  CrunchyAbs

  Tranmere have signed a Brazilian, too. Gabby. Striker. No prizes for guessing who set that deal up.

  TopPoppy

  When are the Wrex going to get a Brazilian striker, for fuck's sake?

  ButteryCrumpets

  Important announcement regarding Chester's top transfer target.

  Ahem.

  Steve Weller from Stockport County to Bradford City CONFIRMED.

  Lol.

  Likely to make his debut against Chester.

  Double lol.

  TopPoppy

  Just got a text from a mate. He says Chester have loaned two players to Corinthians, big team in Brazil. Thomzella and Nasa. The fuck? Godzilla and Nasa? This has to be a joke, right?

  Stoop

  Man United signed a 17-year-old who has never played a minute of footy for six million quid. Another three incoming for a million plus.

  TopPoppy

  Wrong channel, mate. This is for stuff that might hurt Chester.

  Stoop

  Right, right. Just saying - the game's gone. It's literally mental.

  But so far it's a whole bunch of nothing, right? Stuff we knew, stuff around the fringes. Best hasn't touched his war chest. I want him to sign a Dutch goalie with a bombshell wife.

  TopPoppy

  Dude, please. Seriously. How about a new year's resolution to stop saying distressing things? Yeah?

  ***

  BeardedWonderwall

  No Foquita in the squad against Accrington. Typical Chester. Buy a star striker and he's injured.

  SummerhillBill

  Star striker? He's got about ten career goals. He's worse than Garry Birtles.

  CrunchyAbs

  Red card Accrington! What the fuck!

  SummerhillBill

  I'm raging about that. Fuming. Jester are crap, they're tired, they're there for the taking, your team is in a relegation dogfight and you get sent off in the first ten minutes. What a twat. He's let everyone down. His family, his club, his manager, but especially me. I'm fucking off for a walk.

  CrunchyAbs

  Two-nil final score. Chester barely broke into a sweat the entire second half. Fresh legs for the big one. Bradford away in three days. Might watch it. Hope BG gets us some betting info so we can cash in!

  ***

  Friday January 2

  BrokenGround

  Lads I don't want to rile you up or anything but I'm with Best now and it's shaping up to be another all-time classic story. I'll see about writing it out later when I get home. I can tell you that Best is calling it Operation Imagine Dragons and you'll love it and hate it. He has been winding people up BIG TIME. Mostly me, now that I think about it. Yeah, if you've got some good booze left over from Christmas, get that ready. You won't believe what's going on. I'm here and I don't believe it and the best part is coming after lunch.

  BeardedWonderwall

  Yerrrrssss! I'm having a shit day but here comes BG to the rescue. That's what I'm talking about! Fucking love this community, man.

  ***

  BrokenGround

  Right. I'm ready to start. Drinks ready? Good.

  Couple of weeks ago I get a text from Best. Do I want to make a quick hundo and help him do to Wales what he did to Chester?

  BeardedWonderwall

  What does that mean? You could interpret that loads of ways. Like, turn it into his personal playground. Win loads of games while making everyone think we wear clown shoes. Dig a huge hole in the ground and say 'one day that will have a roof'? Do a documentary about us, refuse to be in it, but be in it the most of anyone?

  You know what? No-one reply to all this. Go on, BG!

  BrokenGround

  I didn't overthink that part, tbh. He asked and I just said yeah. Bank holiday, isn't it? Shops are closed, nothing to do. He wanted six lads, told us to park at Bumpers at nine, get ourselves some chow, be ready for jump-off at half past. He'd have a bird ready, he said.

  TopPoppy

  Oh! Max Best is Stoop, confirmed!!!

  BrokenGround

  He meant helicopter. I told you before he always says loads of military jargon he hears in movies.

  It's me, Hot Rod, The Midnighter, Frampton, ET, and Pong in the little bar area, stuffing ourselves. Chester's lads are out in the cold, training. Normal work day for them, isn't it?

  There's a sign up behind the bar. It's Best's New Year's Resolutions. We ask why they're public like that and the nice lady tells us it's the psychologist's idea so that Best has to be more accountable. Something like that, anyway!

  I took a photo. Here's what they said:

  

  
• Stop being so secretive


  
• Stop spending money on things I can’t afford (like football clubs)


  
• Stop blowing my top at trivial things


  
• Spread joy and happiness wherever I go


  
• Don’t play 5D chess against 2D minds


  

  We're trying to think why he's chosen that five and having a blast adding to the list when he bursts in. He's all hyper. 'Enemy spotted! Hands off cocks, on socks! ETA two clicks! Roust! Roust!'

  TopPoppy

  The hell is roust?

  BrokenGround

  Oh, who knows? We've learned to let him get on with it. We're pretty sure that in his head two clicks means two minutes so we take our plates to the kitchen and they're delighted and say they wish Vimsy was as considerate. Well In turns up in a big van and we hop inside.

  Well In's an important character today so I should refresh your memory.

  His real name's Llewellyn and he does something in the Welsh FA's coaching system. We know him for being the manager of Saltney Town and we've kicked up a fuss before, haven't we, that he's basically working for Max Best for free, meaning the Welsh FA is subsidising Best's vanity project.

  He's good, too. They won the third division at a canter even though he only took over halfway. Now Saltney are miles ahead at the top of the Cymru North and they'll get promoted to the Premier and we know they'll be let in even though they don't fulfil the criteria for promotion. We wondered why but I think this story will mostly explain it.

  Last thing - Best thinks Well In is the bees knees and Best isn't exactly liberal with his praise.

  Teulu

  Very happy to hear about an up-and-coming Welsh coach.

  BrokenGround

  We drive a few minutes to Saltney. I'm about to ask Best why we couldn't have gone straight there but it's obvious - there are eight big coaches taking up every bit of space.

  We exit the van and Best gets us together.

  'All right, lads, your mission, should you have chosen to accept it two weeks ago when you accepted it - fuck. Twisted myself in knots with that one, didn't I? Er, okay scratch all that.' He scouts the area looking for inspiration, gives up. 'Welcome to Operation Imagine Dragons. We're going to do some training with about one percent of the teams in Wales. What a joke.'

  Well In pulls a 'don't be like that' face. 'Max, come on. It's just a test run. It's expensive doing this kind of thing. We're not a rich country.'

  'I could do the entire north of Wales in two hours. Instead I have to prove myself - a-fucking-gain. Eight teams from one age group. What the fuck, man! It's a joke.'

  Frampton goes, 'What are we doing? I was told this wasn't anything to benefit Chester.'

  Best goes to Frampton and cups his hand under his mouth. You know, like you were asking a kid to spit out some chewing gum. 'Give me the breakfast back. Come on, that was expensive, that. No? You'll eat Chester's Greek yoghurt and superfoods but you won't help these kids?'

  Well In says, 'It's not for Chester. This is for the FAW.'

  The Football Association of Wales! 'Oh,' says Frampton.

  Max wags his finger. 'Everyone's pissing me off already. You know what? I've decided to rise above it. It's like that song from my favourite band, Imagine Dragons.'

  I go, 'I'm a pretty big Imagine Dragons fan but that one doesn't ring a bell. What song are you talking about?'

  Max gives me a sad look. 'It's called 'Rise Above It'.

  Well In frowns. 'Your favourite band is Imagine Dragons? I've never heard you listen to their stuff.'

  'I do, big time.'

  I'm thinking it must be a B-side or something like that. I say, 'How does that one go?'

  Best drums the air with his head and lets out a little percussive 'mmm'. He does a Dan Reynolds impersonation. 'They drag you down/with their stuff/don't go with/gotta rise above.'

  ET shrugs. 'Sounds like Imagine Dragons all right.'

  Best says, 'One billion views on YouTube. Top comment is "who else is still listening in 2026?" 3R, you'll be helping put cones out for the drills and herding kids and stuff like that. Well In will tell you what to do. Chain of command is me followed by Well In followed by Elin.' That seemed to be a joke but no, a minute later we meet a coach called Elin. Another one who helps Chester while working for the FAW. Nice girl. Back in the present, Max is still whingeing. 'There should be literally 400 teams here today but there's 8 so...' He lifts his middle fingers in the direction of central Wales and paces away.

  'Maaaax!' complains Well In, who scurries behind.

  I look at my mates and shrug. 'Cone duty, lads!'

  Frampton goes, 'It's for the FAW. What does that even mean?'

  'Let's go find out.'

  We hurry after them.

  Teulu

  I'm searching for that song but I can't find it.

  BrokenGround

  It's fair to say Best was talking complete horseshit the whole day. Don't believe anything that comes out of his mouth unless it's about football.

  That was my introduction to the day and as you can imagine, it put me off balance.

  We go through the solitary building - it's got showers and two dressing rooms, space to sit and chill, some offices upstairs. That and the pitch is basically Saltney Town, the most exciting football club in the Welsh leagues.

  BeardedWonderwall

  Oof.

  That hit me like a gut punch.

  BrokenGround

  Not so fast, mate. I actually wasn't being sarcastic. It's not about the buildings, is it?

  BeardedWonderwall

  You're right. Go on.

  BrokenGround

  The buses have brought eight youth teams from all over north Wales. Criccieth, Corwen, Bangor. The players are the under elevens and they're said to be good sides. Some of the best.

  The action is supposed to start at ten, in about ten minutes. Feels like we're cutting things tight but turns out we're not really. The Chester lot seem slapdash sometimes but they're pretty good with timekeeping and Best in particular doesn't waste time with introductions and small talk.

  The kids warm up around the sides while we lay cones on one half of the pitch the way Well In and Elin tell us.

  At ten on the dot, Best double peeps his whistle and gets the kids over to him. They sit down and listen. There are about a hundred, all told. A hundred little Welsh lads. They know what's going on a lot more than I do.

  'First drill! Dribble across the width. Nice and smooth, please. You can go on your stronger foot like this.' Best drops the ball he's holding and pushes the ball with his right foot, going slowly for ten yards. 'Dylan, come and stand there. Thanks, mate.' I'm ten yards from him. Best points at me. 'If you're going at some malcoordinated hack... Some slack-jawed yokel with bad motor skills... Some weirdo rando who sees fit to grace the same football pitch as you...'

  'Thanks, Max,' I say, being a good straight man because the kids already think Best is brilliant.

  'I don't mean you!' he bellows. 'You're a top defender! You won't let me nutmeg you right now in front of a hundred Welsh kids. That would be humiliating, wouldn't it?'

  I regret everything. 'Yes, Max. That would be humiliating.'

  'Right so I push the ball...' Best comes at me, suspiciously slow. I can't believe this is happening but I come up with a plan. I'll keep my legs shut! Can't meg me that way, can he?

  BeardedWonderwall

  BG, the pride of Wales!

  BrokenGround

  Ha. He can put me on blast but I'm not going to let him meg me. No way.

  So he comes at me, talking the whole way.

  'I'm nice and balanced. I've got my foot going through the middle of the ball so I can push it right... Right... Right... Or left... left... And the defender doesn't know what's up.'

  When he's a yard away, Best feints right, jinks around me to the left. He goes past me, everyone's happy.

  I make the mistake of thinking it's over. I open my legs and Best pushes the ball through from behind.

  'Megs!' he yells. 'Meeeeggggs.'

  'That doesn't count,' I say.

  'Meeeeggggs,' he says, running along the front of the mass of kids getting high fives. 'Option two,' he says, getting his game face back on. 'I like to do this when there's no oppo.' He waves me away. 'Push the ball left foot, right foot, one touch with every stride. Like this.'

  He dribbles just as he describes but it's considerably cooler in reality than, you know, written down. It's as though he's doing cross country skiing or he's jogging with a pram. You know the way some people do that? Imagine the pram's a football that’s always the same distance from him. It makes him look in complete control.

  'Third option. Kick the ball twenty yards, chase after it. We call that "The Racecourse Rabbit". I won't demonstrate it because I have standards. You can see it any time you watch Wrexham FC.'

  He knows it's AFC but he has never said the A ever since I confessed I hated when people got the name of the club wrong.

  'Up you get. Dribble across team by team. Dribble back when Well In tells you. Ready?'

  He blows his whistle and the first lot of kids get going.

  I sidle up to Best. 'What are we doing?'

  'What do you think?'

  'Some kind of mass production training so you can hit a quota. But you've got an ulterior motive and I've worked out your plan.'

  'Have you?'

  'Yeah. You want to see who tries the second way because they'll be easier to coach. They'll improve faster and you'll sign them to Chester.'

  He grins. 'That's genius. Heh. Stealing that.' He closes his eyes and an absolutely beatific smile comes across his face. He tells Well In to take charge. Best goes off to talk to a woman. She is, of course, the most attractive one for miles.

  The eight teams dribble across the pitch and when all eight are on the other side, they dribble back again. I still don't know what we're doing but if Best is looking for gems, there's no way he can find them like this. There are too many kids and the vibe is barely-controlled chaos. Watching on the side are a lot of dubious parents and the actual coaches of these teams. Well In keeps shooting looks at some men in suits. My guess is they're from the FAW and they've paid for this event. Well In is going to have to defend his role in what seems to be nothing short of a farce.

  There's a delay as Best finishes what seems to be a huge argument with the attractive woman. Bizarrely, it ends with Best pointing at me.

  I'm no lip reader but I feel sure he says something like, 'If it comes from him everyone will accept it!'

  That makes no sense so I wait for further instructions.

  'Next,' says Best, striding back while trying to suppress a grin. He's up to something! I soon realise he's only excited about showing off. When the kids are settled down he goes, 'Another nice, easy one. You're going to do keepy-uppies all the way across the width. What? You do tekkers all day in your garden, don't you? Think you can't handle some kick-ups?' He blows a raspberry. 'Here's one way to do it.' He flicks the ball up and retreats five yards while doing tiny, safe kick-ups. He comes back. 'Or if you're feeling a bit more frisky...' He lets the ball roll to a stop between his feet. He flinches but doesn't move. I think I feel his eyes flick towards me. 'I call this one "Around the Clock", named after my favourite song from Imagine Dragons, my favourite band.'

  He flicks his feet together and the ball pops up. He does faster-than-the-eye-can-see tekkers while slowly turning in a semi-circle. By the time he is finished, he's five yards away and has used every part of his right foot, shin, knee, thigh, god-knows-what-else. He balances the ball on the top of his boot while he talks.

  'If you want, you can do the whole width on one leg but I like to go clockwise then anti-clockwise, which means I do half the distance using my left.'

  He does another semi-circle, moving ever further away, this time using various spots on his left foot.

  'I know it's a bit basic,' he shouts, while doing ever more complicated skills, as a hundred Welsh kids become lifelong Max Best fans. 'But it helps me learn to tell time, too. The big hand, the little hand, it's so confusing!' He finishes with a smug smile. 'All right. Show us your best madnesses. Team 1, let's go.'

  The first group go. Almost all of them keep things simple, but a few brave lads try to do Best's insane circle thing. They get teased by their mates, give some verbals back. Best is supportive, dishes out high fives. I shout encouragement, then it's the next lot, then the next. Eight squads trying to copy a pro.

  You can't imagine how mad it is. Literal waves of kids going slowly across the pitch, balls flying everywhere, laughs, jokes, Best doing energetic 'The Scream' re-enactments when a kid does something good.

  Best blows his whistle and we move to the other half of the pitch where there are eight squares made of cones - Well In and the rest of 3R had been laying them out while the mayhem was going on.

  'Need a hand, Max?'

  Lads, that was the voice of Peter Bauer!

  SummerhillBill

  No! No fucking way! You got to meet him?

  BrokenGround

  I did.

  SummerhillBill

  My dad was a huge fan of his granddad, doubly so when he dumped England out of the World Cup.

  BrokenGround

  Ha. Well, Peter's over here covering for Sandra Lane and I think he was bored that day so he came to help out when Chester training was over. He's completely down to earth. Just a good lad, no airs and graces.

  Pascal comes too. Later he tells me the Welsh FA has been good to him so he's happy to give back.

  BeardedWonderwall

  Sorry, BG. I think I missed the part where you explained what the whole thing was about.

  BrokenGround

  You didn't miss it. At this point, I still didn't know. I was thinking it was a big experiment in mass training. Like Best is so arrogant he thinks he can coach a hundred teams simultaneously, something like that.

  For now, imagine eight rondos. Four are being directed by Well In, Elin, Peter fucking Bauer, and Pascal Bochum. Four are being run by absolute reprobates from 3 R Welsh. Best is off to the side, shaking his head. The fit woman is there again and they're having another bicker.

  I get the feeling he's still mad there are only eight teams but I have a flash of insight. Bonnie loves detective stories and she loves it when there's a thing that should be there that you don't see. Like the dog that didn't bark in the nighttime.

  I realise Best doesn't have a pen or paper, he's not making notes on his phone. It's obvious he's not actually doing whatever he's supposed to be doing, if you get me. The woman has seen it, too and she's complaining. She doesn't think he's taking it seriously.

  Lads, got to take a quick shower. I'm rank. I'll be back soon, I promise.

  Teulu

  I'm thinking when we built his 3G pitch he committed to training, like, 400 Welsh players and was hoping to get it all done in one mad day.

  BeardedWonderwall

  That's what I was thinking, too.

  The woman sounds like the one from the FAW. She's always getting into trouble in the media because of her cosy relationship with Best. We've given him loads of resources and now it's time for him to pay us back he's trying to half-arse it.

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

  To be honest, though, the way he goes the extra mile with BG's platoon, I don't know what to think.

  Teulu

  Yeah. He's more on the opposite end of the scale, isn't he? All or nothing. Maybe he really thinks he can train a thousand players in one go, like in North Korea.

  BrokenGround

  Whoo! I needed that. Bonnie bought me a new shower gel. Citrus Confidence. It centres my masculine energy!

  Teulu

  Oh my God there's nothing better than a long-term singleton who found love.

  BrokenGround

  Ha!

  I think we can fast forward through the rest of the drills. The drills on the main pitch get more and more serious while Sticky, Chester's goalie coach, gruff Yorkshireman, turns up and about ten kids peel off and go to one part of the outfield to do specialist goalie stuff. The ground's frozen, though, so they end up getting in a couple of vans with a few of the parents and they go to Bumpers.

  I drive Well In's van and I hear one of the kids go 'But how did he know I was a goalie?'

  A good point - the kid was wearing the same top as the other lads on his team, no gloves.

  One of the dads makes a joke. 'It's because when everyone else was doing kick-ups, you drop-kicked the ball all the way to England.'

  That was funny but as I drove back to Saltney I was actually freaked out. How can you be that good that you can just look at a one kid in the middle of a fucking vortex and go you're a goalie.

  Teulu

  There's got to be a rational reason, surely? Best has lists of all the players from all the teams, he heard someone say the kid's name.

  BrokenGround

  That's basically what I said to him!

  I get back to Saltney and go up to Best and say, you knew that kid was a goalie from the lists, right?

  'Lists?' he says. He's not really present. But then he blinks, side-eyes me, and goes, 'Of course it's because of the lists. What do you think? Yeah. I've got loads of lists and every time you're not looking, I check the lists.' He unzips his backpack and he's got a clipboard with ten pages - one from each team and two blank ones.

  I notice he hasn't made any notes but he flicks to the third or fourth page and points to the name of the kid I'd just had in the van. 'There you go. Goalkeeper. Bosh. All right, give me a second. I need to concentrate.'

  The kids are back on the first pitch, doing some drills that look like attack versus defence, four against two. It's hard to guess the rules just from looking, which is something I've found from watching pro teams.

  'I want a medley,' says Best. He blows his whistle three times, yells "break!" and gathers his coaches while the kids go back to their bases and chat away. To his four star coaches he goes, 'Guys, you get a quarter of the pitch each. Set up your most fun drills and I'll send every team across in six-minute bursts. Make sure you can explain it quickly, right?'

  They know what he means and soon 3R are rushing around moving the cones for these new drills. Four teams take the four slots. Max blows his whistle, there's a quiet time while the coaches explain to the kids what they're supposed to do, then there's five minutes of action. Peep! The teams move one place over. They switch again and again for about half an hour.

  Triple peep and Best tells them to go have lunch.

  The kids, I have to say, are buzzing. I wander over to see what the scran is like and it's great. It's come in big metal trays like we used to have in school but it's delicious. Freshly made just down the road. Beef in gravy, chicken, pasta, loads of veggies. One kid goes 'ew broccoli' and the cook goes, 'Don't let Max hear you talk like that! He wouldn't sign a player who didn't eat his greens.'

  A sharp kid holds his plate up and yells, 'I like broccoli!'

  'Double broccoli for me, please,' comes the next one.

  It's a broccoli frenzy all of a sudden and I have to wade in and ask the lads to settle down. One wag goes 'Aren't you a slack-jawed yokel?' Sniggers abound. Thanks, Best. But I remember another thing he said once and I stand tall and I go 'I'm the army.' That impresses them.

  The cook goes, 'Max is teaching Dylan a whole new way of playing football. It's top secret.'

  'It's not top secret,' I say. 'I'm just not allowed to tell anyone.' As that lands, I'm overly pleased with the reaction but later I realise it's the kind of thing Best says. Ah, well.

  So the food's nice and the kids get real plates and cutlery and hot drinks but there is nowhere near space for a hundred in that building and half the lads are outside on towels on the cold grass and that kind of thing. Good picnic vibe but I wonder why the event is being held there because it isn't suitable for that many kids if they are going to have lunch and how on earth are they going to shower at the same time? Having one pitch is only suitable for the drills because Best's coaches are used to craziness. The day is running on vibes; no wonder that woman is annoyed.

  I go to find him to discuss all that plus a dozen other things like 'what is the purpose of all this?'

  I find him in the middle of a showdown.

  Best has Well In, Peter Bauer, and the other coaches behind him. On the other side is the black-haired, middle-aged woman and four men in suits. It doesn't take me long to realise this is the FAW.

  I move close and listen.

  Best is speaking strangely loud, like he’s on stage. 'I wanted the place packed, Gwen. I don't know if you realise I'm under a lot of strain.'

  'I know, Max, but thank God we didn't bring every club in north Wales, as you suggested. This trial run has shown that Saltney can't cope with a big influx of players. There aren't enough toilets, there isn't enough space for everyone to eat. There is only one pitch!'

  'We can do the next event at Bumpers but then every Welsh football fan is going to throw a hissy fit, like, why did we pay for this thing in Saltney, then?'

  'If it's in the summer that will be easier. Nice weather, we put up some tents. Look, we have to do something here anyway.'

  'What do you mean?'

  Gwen looks around. 'This can't be a Cymru Premier stadium, Max. For a start, there's no stadium!'

  'What do you call that?' Max asks, petulantly. He's pointing to a stand that might perhaps seat 60 people. I've seen bigger dugouts.

  'I call that a big shed. In the Premier you need to be able to hold two thousand fans.'

  'We're going to play our matches in Flint.'

  'Flint are in the Prem, Max. Where will they play?'

  Max drops the annoyed vibe long enough to get cheeky. 'They can play here.'

  Gwen folds her arms and tuts. 'If you built a couple of stands you'd be able to put in multiple changing rooms, showers, lockers, disabled toilets. Add a few break rooms and Saltney would be fit to stage these kinds of events.'

  'Top. Sorted.' Best looks at me. 'Dylan, come here. Lend me two million quid, mate?'

  Gwen seems to know who I am. She smiles. 'Are you from 3 R Welsh?'

  'Yes, miss.'

  'I'm Gwen Hughes, FAW. We helped get Max assigned to you. How much do you hate me for that?'

  I laugh. 'Not much, miss. He's all right when you get to know him.'

  Best whoops and runs around offering high fives to everyone. 'Dylan Seal of Approval! Dylan Seal of Approval! Yes! Yes, mate!'

  Gwen exchanges a glance with some of the FAW suits. 'Max,' she says, and her tone brings him back. 'What... What have we learned today?'

  'Acta non verba, baby. I'm going to show you.'

  She's pissed. 'Oh, okay.'

  'Yeah.' Best looks at me. 'D-dog. D-train. D-spot. You know the Welsh national team better than me. Would you agree most of the players are Championship level? Best you can hope for is a Championship squad with a few Premier League guys. That keeps you more or less competitive when it comes to Euros and World Cup qualifiers. Every so often you get a world class player who gives you a chance of winning a few games in a row and if you're lucky that takes you to a semi-final.'

  'Sounds about right. Championship as a base, yeah, I'd sign off on that.'

  He nods. 'Right. Well, I've found you three Premier League guys this morning and I've already got your elite player at Chester. So that's four-elevenths of the best Welsh team of all time. Bosh. Next time, Gwen, we'll do it my way. Thank you.'

  'Three?' says Gwen. She's suddenly flushed with excitement. 'Who?'

  'Ah-ah,' says Best. 'Acta non verba. But before I do anything else, I have a big problem.'

  'Jesus,' mumbles one of the suits. 'What's this going to cost us?'

  Best glares at the guy and even I think it's a shitty thing to say. I'm surprised when Best doesn't take the bait. He focuses on Gwen. 'You've invited a team from Rhyl.'

  'Yes. They're one of the best at this age group.'

  Best nods. 'Yes, that makes sense. Some good players there. Only thing is, I've never seen a more depressed and miserable bunch of lads in my entire career in football.' He points at me. 'And I've met this guy.'

  'They seemed happy,' I say.

  Best gives me the glare, now. 'That's because I fucking CHEERED THEM UP, mate. Did you see me do tekkers? Have you ever seen me do tekkers before? Like a performing seal? No, you haven't. I did it for those little fucks. It's impossible so many players in one team can be that depressed unless their coach is a fucking ghoul and before I fix your pipeline I want assurances that the FA of Wales are going to remove the guy from his position.'

  Pipeline? The word puts me even more off-balance. This isn't what I thought it was.

  Gwen says, 'It's a strange accusation, Max. What exactly...?'

  'Oh, fuck this,' he says, and he storms off.

  I've seen him do a lot of mad things but I don't think I've ever seen him flounce out of a conversation. Especially not one with an attractive woman. We're all stunned and Gwen starts doing small talk with Well In but then Best comes back. He's got one of the kids with him.

  'Deano,' says Best. 'Midfielder, aren't you?'

  'Yes, Max,' says the kid. He's star-struck to the point he doesn't mind there are loads of adults nearby listening in.

  'Got a nice left foot. Do you take free kicks?'

  'Yeah, sometimes. We take turns, mostly. I think I'm the best but Jammo is good, too. He's better at corners 'an me. I score more goals but he does more assists.'

  'I like Jammo. He's got good technique. You must be a pretty boss midfield.'

  'Yeah.'

  'It's been fun this morning, hasn't it?'

  Deano's eyes light up. 'Yeah! It's amazing. It's the best ever!'

  'See,' says Best. 'My teams are all about having fun because if it's fun people will work harder and do more. Dylan, remember that Welsh team with Gareth Bale?'

  'Semi-finals of the Euros, Max. You don't forget nights like those.'

  'They had fun, that team. Loads of laughs. Deano, back home, do you do loads of fun sessions like this one?'

  Deano mumbles, 'No.' Can't explain it but my fists are clenched. Best fucking knows! He's never wrong about football! The madder his ideas, the righter he is.

  'Yeah,' says Best. He's pretending to be thinking about something. 'If I ask you a question, will you promise not to tell your coach?'

  'Okay.'

  'His name is Freddie, right? I was thinking of asking Freddie to do some drills after lunch and I was wondering what good ones he knows. What do you think he'd say?'

  'Er.' The kid's forehead scrunches up. 'We don't do fun drills, mostly. Ever. I mean, it's good training and we win, but...'

  'But it's not fun.'

  'No.'

  'He looks like a teacher I had who used to shout at me loads.'

  Deano laughs. 'Yes! Maybe it's the same guy. Where did you go to school?'

  'Manchester. I don't think it's him. So he's a bit shouty?'

  'Very shouty.'

  'Oh. I had a coach like that once and I hated going to training. Wanted to back out but my dad always made me keep going. Said it would toughen me up.'

  This astonishes me because Best never talks about his dad. It takes me a minute to realise this story is as real as talk of his favourite band, and that asking Deano not to tell his coach about this conversation was a masterstroke. He has opened the kid up like a clam.

  Deano looks down with a sigh. 'My dad's like that. I don't want to go but I have to coz he's proud of me.'

  'What do you do when the other kids cry in the dressing room?'

  'Nothing. Dad says it's none of my business what the other kids do.'

  Best nods. 'Maybe I'll stick with my coaches for this afternoon, then.'

  Deano's face widens in every direction; it's inadvertently heartbreaking. 'Yes, please!'

  'Sorted,' says Best. 'We won't be doing much, though. Just a bit before the big match. All right, thanks. Can you find your way back?'

  Deano pulls a face. 'It's just there.'

  Best pulls a face. 'That was me telling you to clear off.' Best grins, Deano grins back, departs. Best's grin dies. 'Option one. I get 3 R Welsh to beat the shit out of Freddie.'

  Gwen has a troubled look about her. She's rubbing her eyes. 'Can you not jump to thoughts of violence so quickly, please?'

  A lot of emotions cross Best's face. 'I choose not to answer on grounds it may incriminate me.'

  The suit who had mentioned how much Best was costing the FAW shakes his head. 'I have kids, Max. I don't want some coach screaming in their faces three times a week. We'll do something.'

  'Dylan,' says Best. 'There are fifteen fucking miserable kids over there. Are you happy with letting the Football Association of Wales do a six-month investigation while Freddie stays in his post making those lovely, talented kids the most miserable human beings on this fucking island?'

  'No, Best.'

  Gwen sighs. 'Max, you have to trust us. Please let us do things the proper way.'

  Best looks over his shoulder at his coaches. Well In nods. Best mumbles 'Fine' but I can see the cogs in his head are whirring. He's cooking up a parallel plan, almost certainly involving the Brig.

  'What's this about a match later?' asks one of the suits, trying to put the incident behind us. 'That wasn't in the itinerary.'

  'Yeah,' says Best, still in his revenge fantasy daydream. He wakes up and eyes the FAW. 'I knew you'd be like this so I've prepared a demonstration. The best under eleven team in Wales is from Cardiff. They haven't lost a league match in about six years and they regularly win international tournaments. They're on their way here. I'm going to hand pick an eleven from these eight teams you've brought me and we're going to beat Cardiff. Then I want you to think, really imagine... if I can do that in two hours what it's going to be like when you bring every team in Wales to these events? I'll pick squads of twenty-five that you can keep together all the way through to the national team. I can't promise to improve the levels because that depends on what's out there but I can promise you'll get loads more kids through into the Championship and League One and you won't have fallow years where suddenly you've only got five decent players. I can guarantee to raise the floor and if we're lucky we'll push the ceiling up, too. But none of it matters if the kids are getting shitty coaches who make them want to quit the sport. Fuck.'

  He gets himself worked up but grits his teeth.

  'Hang on,' I say. 'You're scouting players for the Welsh national team?'

  Best gives me a disappointed look. 'What did you think we were doing?'

  'Scouting for Chester or... I don't know. You didn't tell me.'

  Best is exasperated. 'I told you eight or nine times! Why does no-one ever listen?'

  Well In says, 'What's the plan after lunch, boss?'

  Best gives me one last shake of the head before turning to the coach he rates so highly. 'We'll get the goalies back and I'll pick my sixteen players who should rest up. The others can do something fun. What's fun? Technique? Transitions? Let's get some scran and think about it.'

  TopPoppy

  I'm stressed thinking about this coach who's screaming at the kids. Please tell me that gets resolved.

  BrokenGround

  Not like, as of today, but this is where Best being a prick comes in handy. You'll see later what he's like. I know him quite well and he'll be on the phone to Gwen every two hours asking what she's done in the last two hours. Which parents has she spoken with? Which players? Which former players? Which opposition managers? Which referees? Honestly, lads, he's going to be at it like a dog with a bone.

  TopPoppy

  Okay. I think I feel better.

  BrokenGround

  I've re-read what I wrote before and he comes across quite belligerent but he's actually on really good terms with the FAW guys. It's just they're lower on his list of priorities than some eleven-year-olds who gasp when he does tekkers, which honestly I'm fine with. And so are the FAW, strangely.

  CrunchyAbs

  Just catching up with this. Best looks around a hundred kids doing keepie-uppies, picks out ten goalkeepers, picks out fifteen kids who are miserable, picks out sixteen to beat an unbeatable team. I can't tell if this is fiction or not. You're going to tell us about the match, right?

  TopPoppy

  No spoilers! We're not there yet!

  BrokenGround

  There will be my attempt at a match report, yes.

  Re: ten goalkeepers. He only picked out one goalie. The others were dressed conventionally as goalies, if you get me. The tenth wanted to do the same drills as everyone else.

  Where was I?

  Okay so I sat next to Best and Gwen while we grabbed some food. I'd stuffed myself at breakfast but Best was starving. He said he'd been training hard and was burning calories like a mo-fo.

  He and Gwen chatted about her daughter, Mari, who is doing well in Chester's youth teams. She was on the final episode of Chesterness, apparently. She was in the background as the players were parading their trophy around the stadium. I didn't notice; I only had eyes for Bonnie.

  Anyway, when I get the chance I ask Best to explain what is really going on. 'You're not doing this for the love of Wales. You've already got the pitch you can rent out and we're not going to pay for a stadium for you.' I get unsure and look at Gwen. 'Are we?' She shakes her head. I look at Best again. 'What do you really get out of today? Is it so you can keep Well In?'

  He chews for a while, swallows, and takes a swig of water. 'Not everything is transactional like that. The English FA hate me and they'd love to ban me if they could. If they do I might go all-out with Wales. That's called spite, mate. It's fun, you should try it.' He takes another swig. 'In England everyone works, whether they realise it or not, for the top six clubs. That's all the FA care about. They're a bunch of servile non-entities. Wales is trying to build something and I love building. I'm disappointed in today - though I accept I hadn't fully considered the logistics - because I wanted to just go 'bosh!' and create fully-formed teams for all the age groups. I don't have the time to single-handedly fix Wales but it's a nice thought, isn't it? I grew up on stories of the Class of '92. Six young lads playing for Man United's youth teams for years and years, then they win the Youth Cup, break into the first team, become the backbone of the England team. That's the ideal, right? You get the kids together as early as possible. When Gwen said she'd only bring 8 teams today, I said fucking hell what? When I was calm-ish I said, okay, bring the elevens. If we get eight or nine kids playing together regularly for the next seven years knowing they'll play for the national team one day, that's going to be incredibly powerful, isn't it?'

  I ask the stupidest question of the year so far. 'How do you know they'll play for the national team?'

  Best drops his fork and rubs his face. 'Jesus Christ,' he mumbles.

  Gwen says, 'People say Max uses artificial intelligence to help him scout.'

  'Yeah,' says Best, shoving a gravy-laden hunk of bread into his gob. 'Got a 'ig computer. Spefal foftware.' He sniggers and nearly chokes on the bread. He turns red, recovers, takes a sip, pretends he didn't make a fool of himself. 'Yeah, so,' he says, back to being the cool kid. 'I was thinking about Chester's under eighteens. I've had them for three seasons. Most of them were together for years before that and since I turned up they've been through thick and thin. You can imagine the constant drama, can't you, Dylan?' Best beams, delighted at how difficult he is. 'I think that's part of what happened at West Ham. The lads are such a tight unit, aren't they? They feel the combinations with amazing intensity. That's why Relationism hit hard. I fucking hope that's what it is, anyway.'

  'What are you talking about?' I say.

  He waves that tangent away. 'I'm saying Wales has talent and we can get it on the pitch but building the connections years in advance is maybe a secret weapon. It puts Wales to the top of its class, if you get me. Say there are twenty countries with similar squads but one has a core that have been playing together since they were eleven or twelve. That's a powerful advantage. That turns into money, doesn't it? Getting further in tournaments. Qualifying for World Cups. You've got to let me go at this hard, Gwen. There's no point doing the one percent version.'

  Gwen seems to have decided not to engage with Best until Cardiff turn up. 'How are Saltney doing?'

  'Top,' says Best.

  'You're happy with Llewellyn, then?'

  Best smiles - it doesn't reach his eyes. 'You can't threaten me. You're moving your entire league to Friday nights. I’m free on Friday nights. If you recall Well In, I can be the manager.'

  It's my turn to choke to death. Best helpfully clobbers me on the back until I stop him. I suck in some healing breaths, calm down, and ask the burning question. 'You'd manage Saltney on Friday night, Chester on Saturday?'

  'Why not?'

  'You can't work in two countries.'

  Best scoffs. 'You do.'

  'What?'

  'You do whatever you do in Wrexham and you're always shuttling to Aldershot or York or wherever the fuck. That's two countries. Do you ever go to Scotland? Northern Ireland? You don't dread a knock at your door from the work permit police, do you? Are the Daily Mail going to send the Welsh army to do a mass deportation on me? Where do I get airlifted to, mate? Jersey?'

  'It's weird, admit it.'

  'I'm just saying, Dylan, that if Gwen wants to threaten me she should choose something that doesn't let me win the league even more crushingly while depriving a Welsh coach a platform to hone his skills.' Best scoffs at the idea he shouldn't manage the team he owns.

  Gwen has a placid look about her. She has lost that particular battle but doesn't mind. 'We at the FAW know all about the Bluebirds; they're the backbone of our youth teams. I don't think you can seriously expect to cobble a team together and challenge them.'

  'You're right,' says Best, staring at something so hard I turn to see what he's looking at. It's nothing, so why does he look euphoric? 'I should cobble together TWO teams and win with both!'

  Gwen laughs and reaches out to grab his wrist. 'Okay, down boy. Easy, tiger. One will be enough to prove your point. If you really have the Bluebirds coming, it's a four-hour drive home.'

  I go 'Oh! Oh! Oh!' like I'm at a pub quiz and I've just remembered the answer. 'Your resolutions, Best! Spread joy and happiness wherever you go.'

  The extra light fades from Best's face. 'I knew it was a bad idea to put that list up. People remember things... Okay, fine. Thing is...'

  Gwen goes, 'What?'

  'It seemed obvious I'd win two-nil, three-nil, something like that.' He gets cheeky. 'But, ah, yeah. You've accidentally brought me a couple of major weapons.' He goes into a reverie but snaps out of it. 'Fine. I'll beat Cardiff by a couple of goals and then let them do some fun drills. Send them home happy. They won't even realise they've been tonked. But everyone here will realise and you'll finally trust my judgement.'

  A question pops out of me, one that's been bugging me for ages. 'Are you making money from this?'

  'From today? From Saltney? No to either.'

  'But the pitch...'

  'Okay,' says Best. 'Let's see. I'm getting about a hundred K from the pitch rental because I let schools use it for cheap and that sort of thing. Get a few grand from sponsorships. We don't make anything from ticket sales, catering, or merch. We've got a squad of part-timers, good Welsh lads mostly, earning about forty grand total. Michael Harrison is on a decent chunk, comparatively. It's not enough for him to live off so he does bits and bobs of outside work. We've got three loanees from Chester - two and one more coming later this month, to be accurate - and three from Tranmere. We're not contributing to their wages because we can't but they're getting minutes and a trophy. For a lot of young players that's amazing and all three Tranmere lads wanted to extend their stay. We started as the second-best squad in the league but Well In's the best manager so they're clear at the top and we're starting to race ahead in terms of talent. Yesterday we signed Addo and Tockers. They're both raw in different ways but in terms of potential they are probably the best players in the Welsh second tier in twenty years. Thing is, because of work permit rules they have to be on 40 grand a year each. Add it up and I personally am 40 to 50 grand a year in the red.'

  'Shit.'

  'Yeah. Thanks to my girlfriend's dad looking after my mum I can cover it without tossing and turning all night. That was my resolution that you saw: Don't go spending money I haven't got. That's why I've got no intention of building a fucking stadium here.' He scoffs but gets back to the topic. 'The team's getting stronger and we're looking to sign more talents, too. I've got options but I'm not in any hurry. When Tom gets here, we'll be a solid mid-table Premier side. I'm convinced we'll finish second at least in our first season in the Prem.'

  'The problem is the stadium,' says Gwen.

  Best's head drops all the way horizontal but he comes up smiling. 'Move fast and break things, Dylan. That's one of my favourite songs.'

  'Is that by Imagine Dragons? How does it go?'

  He repeats his impression of that band. 'Move fast/break things/don't never stop ra-cing.'

  Gwen looks puzzled because she's never heard that one but in the moment it does sound authentic. 'What Max is trying to say is that we think he's great but we didn't really think Saltney would be in the Prem so soon. Now it looks inevitable and we're panicking. Okay, they'll have to share a stadium next year but let's be honest, it's going to be the Deva. How's that going to look? And forget this false modesty - he's going to win the league at the first go, isn't he? The only hindrance was money and that has cleared up.'

  Best shakes his head. 'TNS have a budget of a million a year. A million.' He looks at me. 'They've been gobbling up UEFA money for years and reinvesting it in the squad. Not sure I can bridge it in one go. That's the selfish part of this caper, mate. If I can dislodge TNS I'll be the one getting all that prize money. I'd love to do it with mostly Welsh players.'

  Gwen makes an exasperated noise. 'The stadium, Max! What are we going to do?'

  He looks up and exhales. 'I know you don't want the Welsh champions playing in England but TNS already do.'

  She grits her teeth. 'That's a pain in the arse but we can shrug it off as weird history. Once is misfortune...'

  'Twice looks like carelessness,' I say.

  Best goes, 'What do you want, though? A tiny little stadium would be five mill and there's no point. There are no fans. It would be a white elephant. An empty stand looks just as shit on TV as a field.' He hears something - a coach? 'We'll play at Flint. You'll arrange it so we alternate home fixtures. And, er... we'll look into throwing something up at Saltney.'

  'You need more pitches if you want us to do the northern powerhouse for real.'

  'Oh my God!' Best raps the table and gets up. 'That's a hundred grand a pop for basic grass ones that can't stand up to any kind of use. I was just starting to feel good about my bank balance.' He laughs. 'Jesus, Gwen, I'm not doing it. Any of it.' He wanders off.

  We're quiet for a few seconds. I ask, 'What's the northern powerhouse?'

  Her brows rise and she chooses her words carefully. 'It was his idea. We bring thousands of kids for him to scout, he sorts them, picks out the best ones. We organise them into groups of some sort. North-east, north-west, something like that. Basically, he tells us who's got a chance and then it's over to us. That discussion was over a year ago. We couldn’t get past the idea that Welsh football fans would hate it and we’d be kicked out of our roles. Long story short, we were too slow and now he's a big deal. We might have missed our chance to get it rolling.' She falls quiet.

  I go, 'You know he's going to beat Cardiff, right?'

  She smiles and lets her hands flop flat onto the table. 'Yeah.'

  'I'm on a Wrexham AFC Discord. We've got a channel called Always Bet on Best. We listen to what he says and try to work out if he's taking the piss or not. If he's serious, we bet on what he predicts. Some of the lads are making good money.'

  She smiles. 'Always Bet on Best. Yeah. That's what we're trying to do. It's not easy, though. Okay he hands over a list of twenty talented eleven-year-olds. Then what? We send them to Rhyl? You saw those kids. Did you see anything different about them?'

  'No.'

  'Right? We could easily put our prospects in the hands of someone like Freddie. His teams win and we've never had any complaints. If we put all our eggs in one basket and hand that basket to the wrong man, all we'll get is scrambled eggs.'

  'And an earful from Best.'

  She laughs. 'Yeah. It's cowardly but it's safer to keep things as they are. We might lose a player in Rhyl and one in Swansea and one in wherever but most of the players who were going to make it will still make it.'

  All the bits of metal in me turn white hot and it's all I can do to not pass out. I've just had a horrible, traitorous idea. But it's only traitorous for a Wrexham fan. Bigger picture, it's good for Wales. 'You need to send them to Chester. Let Best look after them. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't want to slap the smugness off his face but I'd send my kid to Chester, no problem. They don't get cut, either. Did you see them beat West Ham?'

  'Yes,' she says. 'I did.' She seems to be thinking about what I've said but then there's a flurry of noise and activity.

  The Bluebirds have arrived and they stream past us.

  First, the coaches, in grey and puce training gear.

  BeardedWonderwall

  Correction: grey and puke.

  BrokenGround

  Noted!

  They stride through looking all invincible and whatnot. Six years unbeaten! They're the fucking E Company 8 of kids football.

  Then the brats themselves swan in. They're only eleven and they're not the ones that won the league last year but they've got that swagger about them like they're the ones who haven't lost in that long, do you get me? Cocky little bastards. I was never so full of myself. I get this surge of satisfaction knowing that Best is going to send them home crying. On the other hand, if some of those lads are going to be in the Welsh national team one day, it's good they're confident, isn't it?

  They go to warm up and when I'm back out in the cold, Best is over to the side with his chosen ones and I get another surge. This time it's excitement. Best's grumpiness is totally gone and he's up for the match.

  I go over and ask if he wants an assistant manager and he does one of his dickiest things ever. In front of all the kids, he puts his finger to his cheek and goes, 'Hmm, do I want the best Welsh coach, a future national team manager? Do I want Peter Bauer, who will be a fucking legend by the time I've finished with him? Do I want Pascal Bochum, who might be the most likely guy here to win a Champions League as manager? Or do I want Dylan?' He says my name as though I'm the opposite of the other three, which I suppose I am.

  TopPoppy

  I know this one! He chooses you! It's the old switcheroo.

  BrokenGround

  Yes, exactly. Is he that predictable? I never feel I know where I stand with him.

  He goes, 'My favourite song is called 'It's Okay to Settle'. Billion views on YouTube.'

  Best tells me I'll warm the kids up after he gives his team talk but then thinks better of it. He tells me to tell Peter Bauer that he's my assistant warm up coach. I mean, think of that.

  SummerhillBill

  You didn't tell the grandson of a living legend that he was your assistant warm up coach?

  BrokenGround

  I did! I was sweating the whole time but I did.

  Anyway, Peter just laughs and says sure. I miss the team talk, which now that I think about it was Max's plan. But we started as 4-4-2, everything normal. No Bestball stuff.

  CrunchyAbs

  Wait, are we straight into the match? I thought there would be more build-up.

  BrokenGround

  Er, no sorry. It's not the World Cup final, is it? There aren't marching bands and all that. It was just: clear the cones off the pitch. Check the corner flags are in. Decide how long the game's gonna be. It was twenty minutes a half. Just a demo match really.

  I think what I want to focus on is what I talked to Best about while it was going on.

  CrunchyAbs

  Go for it!

  BrokenGround

  The first few minutes he's pretty quiet. Then he turns to me, grabs my arm and goes, 'I've made a horrible mistake. I think I might lose this.'

  'Fuck,' I say, thinking through the ramifications. I was getting into the idea that Best would do this northern powerhouse thing.

  'Yeah, not really.' He laughs at my expression. 'Relax, bro. Cardiff’s coaches are seriously good and the kids are talented. But they're eleven. The difference between them and my guys isn't that much. Don't tell Gwen but what's about to happen isn't impressive. Not really.'

  'You make me a/you make me a/believer.'

  He frowns and looks around. 'Maybe I'll get Well In over here.'

  'It's a lyric from the most famous Imagine Dragons song. I don't think you know the first thing about them! Why do you keep pretending?'

  Best points to the pitch. 'I've got three future Welsh players here. Cardiff have two. That's half a team, Dylan. Think about these kids ten years from now wearing your national team kit. Tapping your badge.'

  'Tapping the dragon.' I sense enlightenment is just around the corner. Best watches the cogs in my brain clunk around; he seems fascinated. The penny drops! 'Imagine dragons,' I say, and it sucker punches me. Before lunch there were a hundred baby dragons racing around, now there are a hundred and twenty. Best thinks five can play for Wales. I'm literally winded by the promise of youth, their intangible hopes and dreams made concrete by the genius who sees it all, the shaman who guides them down the path.

  'Fucking right,' he goes, and I swear he's as into it as I am. 'We can create the powerhouse as long as the average Welshman gets behind us, gives Gwen long enough in the job to get things done and see the results. That's the real obstacle. We need normal fans to give us a chance. We need believers.'

  'What about when we play England?'

  'What about it?'

  'Who do you want to win?'

  'The best team,' he says, flatly. He's disappointed in me in some way.

  I click my tongue but you can't make him talk when he's in that kind of mood. I sweep my hand in front of me. 'So who's good?'

  He shakes his head. 'Wait. I've made it so that it'll be super fucking obvious.' He gets his clipboard, moves a blank team sheet to the front, writes five names. He folds it up and puts the paper in his pocket.

  TopPoppy

  Oh, snap.

  Argh! I fucking love these stories, Dylan lad!

  BrokenGround

  The first five minutes, Cardiff are on top. It makes sense; they've played together loads and Best's Bales are literal strangers. Cardiff are in blue, we're in red bibs.

  Best and I are close to the halfway line where a technical area has been painted onto the turf. Opposite us, the kids who aren't in the squad are on the touchline cheering their mates on. The FAW are to my left looking worried. Some parents are near them, some are with the mass of kids. Peter Bauer, Well In, Elin, and Pascal are between us and the FAW guys. Sometimes they call out some banter aimed at Best. The Cardiff coaches are yelping out short, sharp instructions.

  Cardiff go one-nil up from a neat move. They're tidy on the ball and most of them have good skills.

  Best watches, his eyes darting around, then he does one of his most surprising things yet. I've seen him rant, rave, pump teams up, cool them down, but I haven't seen him coach. Not really coach like Well In does. One by one he subs every player on the pitch off, including the goalie. He gives them tips before sending them back on.

  With the full backs he works on their body shape. They're too square, he says, making me stand in front of them. He takes their shoulders and turns them about 45 degrees. 'Now you can rush back faster and you're in a better position to receive a pass.' One of the kids says he doesn't like it because he wants to see where the oppo winger is. Best goes, 'Oh yeah I heard that Welsh people are born with no neck. It's famous, isn't it? Welsh people all walk around like Batman. Maybe we can get you some wing mirrors or LIDAR to stop you bumping into everything.' Kid goes, 'Okay I get it. Turn my neck.' Best says, 'You can turn your neck faster than you can turn your body. That's the first line of my favourite song, Do As You're Told by Imagine Dragons. One billion views on YouTube.'

  With the centre backs he's all about putting pressure on without giving fouls away and including the goalie in passing build ups. The midfielders get another neck discussion. The forwards are told to stay within ten yards of one another. The goalie is told to pass short to the left because the right mid is lazy and won't put pressure on.

  'Bosh,' says Best, when he has spoken to every kid.

  'What? It looks the same.'

  'Does it?' he says, smugly.

  'Yes,' I say. I'm no expert but I've seen a lot of football in my life. To hear him you'd think he'd done something actually magical. '4-4-2, same patterns of play.'

  'Oh,' he says, pulling his neck in, pretending to be cowed. 'That's me told.'

  'You're such a baby.'

  'You're such a baby.'

  'Why - '

  'Know you are, said you are, so what am I?'

  I laugh and tell him I want to ask a serious question but that's when I see it. The magic! Two actual baby dragons hatch before my eyes. It's not long until Best has nicknamed them Hammer and Spike.

  Our centre back passes back to the goalie, who rolls it out to the left. Sure enough, the guy has a few seconds to control the ball and think before his oppo decides to engage him. The ball goes to midfield and there's a simple pass to Hammer.

  The next part happens at a different speed. It's fast.

  Hammer touches the ball, pushes it forward to his strike partner. Spike moves the ball from left foot to right while shifting his balance for a dribble. A faked pass unbalances a defender just enough for Spike to power forward. The keeper rushes out to block his shot but Spike squares it and Hammer gently taps the ball into the net.

  What a goal!

  'Holy shit!' I say, head in hands.

  'No swearing in front of the fucking children, Dylan.'

  'Are they two of the good players?'

  Best laughs loud. 'Who, the Double Dragons? I think they might turn out pretty good, yeah.'

  'Double Dragons,' I say. 'That's an awesome name.'

  Best's mask slips and he gets all kinds of excited. 'They're almost identical players! Almost the same in every way. They've even got...' Best's smile dips and he gets his clipboard and flips through. 'Yeah, almost the same birthday. I've got their birthdays here, mate. It's normal that I would have spotted their birthdays from this paper here.' He frowns, drops the clipboard, and goes back to being hyper. 'Seriously, it's like they're twins. Okay they're not as good as Wibbers but keep them in the same team for years, buy and sell them as a combo and bosh, you've got yourself a very, very good international strike force. They'll mess up a lot of teams, let me tell you.'

  'How do you know all this stuff?'

  That winds him up. 'Fucking look at them, mate!'

  'Well, yeah,' I say. 'I think I might not be as good at imagining dragons as you.'

  CrunchyAbs

  Checking Wikipedia. Says Double Dragon was a video game released in 1987. It was a beat 'em up.

  BrokenGround

  Yeah, that fits. They beat Cardiff up. It was three-one at half time but Spike hit the post and Hammer put two shots just over. Best said Cardiff had two good players and we had a third but I couldn't say who it was.

  CrunchyAbs

  He didn't tell you?

  BrokenGround

  No, he didn't tell anyone. It was all part of his rant about the unhappy kids. 'Sort that out or else I don't tell you anything' kind of thing, though he was right it was obvious the Double Dragons were different gravy. He stopped talking about winning by two goals pretty early in the day, now that I think about it.

  Half time was amazing. The kids are in a semicircle taking on water and munching on paste. They're looking around at each other in disbelief because they're beating the so-called best team in Wales and it isn't even a contest. They're in dreamland, they're soaking it all in.

  Peter Bauer and the other coaches, the FAW and the parents, everyone comes over like 'wow, how are you doing this?'

  Best pretends to be annoyed, or maybe he actually is. He lectures them never to barge into a dressing room at half time, says his coaching methods are top secret and that he doesn't wander into their offices and watch them try to use the double-sided function on the photocopier. Everyone goes off with their tails between their legs.

  Best waits for them to scarper before he talks to the kids. 'What the... Okay team talk time. My favourite song is No Second Acts by Imagine Dragons. It's based on a quote from F Scott Fitzgerald and it's a kind of bombastic, arena-friendly exploration of what the quote actually means. It's a banger,' he adds. 'One billion views on YouTube.'

  I tut and sigh. I don't like that he's taking the piss out of Imagine Dragons. It's a good band and I don't want his mockery in my head every time one of their hits comes on. 'What's the quote?'

  'There are no second acts in Welsh lives.' There's a long pause. Best raises his hands. 'Okay, you got me, confession time, I made that one up. Scrap all that. Lads, no need for a big speech. You got this. The only thing I'd say is the back line, you're playing as individuals. That's understandable, right, course it is. But you need to defend as a unit, think as a unit. And as I always say to my players, there's no you in unit.'

  'Yes, there is,' I say. I'm suddenly really annoyed. 'How can you be so sloppy and flippant and talk such shit and keep getting away with it?'

  'Is there something in particular that's bothering you?'

  'Yeah! That was the FAW you told to leave. They pay for all this, they give it to you wrapped in a red ribbon and you kick them out when they show interest and for what? So you can gibber and blabber?'

  He jabs his finger at me before pointing it to the ground beneath him. 'You don't go in dressing rooms without permission, Dylan. I don't care if it's the FAW or Ryan Reynolds or a tech bro billionaire or a dictator. I don't care if the dressing room is a few kit bags and water bottles on the side of the pitch or a double-height all-marble wonderland. I don't care if I'm doing intense tactics or if we're all quietly doing sudoku. There's one space that's for the squad, one room you don't sell tickets to, and that's right here. It might not seem like a big deal but this is where players come to let off steam and get their heads right. As a manager you have to fight for every inch of advantage every step of the way or some fucker will take it all from you. This is just a friendly, just a laugh, but for forty minutes and all of half time, this is my team, these are my lads, and we're doing it my way. My team, my lads, my way.' Best steps through the kids. They're looking at him, wide-eyed. 'There's nothing sloppy and flippant about what's happening on that pitch, mate. These lads are fucking crushing it. They're treating this like a proper match, like it means something, so how are we gonna have a fucking VIP picnic in the middle of it? We're fucking not. No fucking way, not ever, not on my watch. On your feet, lads.' They get up and surround him; he glares at them. 'In this world, it's just us. You don't know each other very well but you all made the same choice - to come here on your day off and when you put on those red bibs every single one of you stood taller. I want you to imagine yourselves as dragons. Red dragons, this is your patch. Some gobby little fuckwit Bluebirds have been coming up the motorway, chirping non-stop for four hours about how they're gonna thrash you and trash this place. You get on that pitch and show them how we do it in north Wales. You look after each other and I've got your back over here. That's it. Dragons on three. One two three - '

  'Dragons!'

  Goosebumps, lads. Sixteen Welsh lads on their feet, high-tenning each other, fists clenched, jaws set, ready to run through brick walls for this stranger who's ready to go to war for them.

  I suspect Best didn't really give a shit about the so-called intrusion and used it to work himself up so that he could fire up the kids for the second half. As it kicks off, Best paces around, looking stern. Cardiff start fast, have half a chance, but the ball goes straight back up the other end and Spike scores his second with a thunderbastard.

  Thunder.

  It's Time, Demons, Enemy, Whatever It Takes.

  Believer.

  I don't need to imagine any dragons. Like Best said, they're as plain as the nose on your face.

  Spike sprints to the far touchline, thinks about doing a knee slide, decides not to risk it on the artificial surface so does a cartwheel.

  The first three goals were celebrated by the strikers and the nearest midfielder, but this one gets everyone into the action. Fucking Best has turned them into a team with one rant.

  'Max,' I say, because there's an awkward atmosphere between us and I want to clear the air.

  He doesn't hear me, though. He's in a trance, watching, moving, calling out. One time his neck snaps round towards the Cardiff bench.

  Best grimaces, which turns into an evil grin. Lips wide, teeth showing. He rushes around like a maniac, calling out instructions. When the dust has settled, we're doing 3-5-2 and so are Cardiff. We continue to dominate but now there are only three defenders where before there were four. The Double Dragons score another goal each.

  Best runs around again and we revert to 4-4-2. It takes me a while to realise Cardiff were still in the process of making the same switch.

  Nothing they do can stop the flow of goals, and the only respite comes from the final whistle. It's 7-1 in 40 minutes against a team that hasn't lost a match in Wales for six years.

  One of the oppo players is kneeling on the pitch with his hands on his hips. The Cardiff bench look like they're at a funeral. Me? I'm utterly, utterly drained.

  'Fun,' says Best, rubbing his hands. 'I enjoyed that.'

  TaranMellt

  You have this way of writing scenes that makes me think I'm reading a fever dream.

  BeardedWonderwall

  Seven-one?

  But how?

  BrokenGround

  I don't know but later I talked to some parents and coaches and they were astonished that their strikers were playing left mid and all that kind of thing. Apparently Hammer had been a centre back and they had tried him as a forward but it had never worked.

  After the match there was a strange five minutes where the reds were gleeful and Cardiff were a huge mess but Best got 3R to move the big goals off the pitch and put small ones on, along with cones to divide the pitch into eighths. He took the players from Cardiff and merged them with everyone else. Well In and the coaches ran some five-a-side matches, 3R helped with refereeing, but Best picked the teams. I have no idea what his concept was but he split Hammer and Spike up and sprinkled Cardiff kids around.

  The 7-1 drubbing was forgotten, for a while at least, while these matches went on. The event ended with what Best called a 'mega-final', a hotly-contested ten-minute six-a-side match with two Cardiff players on each team.

  TaranMellt

  I like that. It's not 7-1, so long, suckers. It's okay I've made my point now lets everyone go home with a smile on their face.

  BeardedWonderwall

  Except the Cardiff coaches.

  TaranMellt

  Who can take it.

  BeardedWonderwall

  And if they can't, serves them right for being from Cardiff.

  BrokenGround

  All right, so far, so mad. But it gets weirder and I think I accidentally made Best a few million quid.

  SummerhillBill

  Noooo what are you doing, Dylan? Last time you fixed that midfielder for him. Got him to sign a new contract.

  TaranMellt

  Stop helping Max Best lol.

  BrokenGround

  I know, but I was in the diplomat role again, wasn't I?

  Okay so the kids start leaving, after posing for team photos and selfies with Best, Peter, Well In, all that kind of thing. Bonnie turns up and she's sad she missed the action but I'm happy she's there and I tell her all about it.

  After a while the place is empty and it feels really, really quiet. We put away the goals and cones, lock up the storage, all that kind of thing, then we're having tea and coffee in the building. The rest of 3R is over on another table with the cooks, Elin, Pascal, Peter.

  I'm on the end of our table with Bonnie squeezed beside me. I'm next to Best. Gwen's opposite him. Then it's suit, Well In, suit.

  As usual, most of the talking is between Best and Gwen and this time it's strangely stilted like they're thinking extra hard about what they're saying.

  Gwen starts by asking how he did it. Best replies with a load of horseshit - of course - and Gwen rolls her eyes and goes, ‘Well that was quite a demonstration’. She looks at me, twinkles, looks at Best. 'In the FAW we have a saying. Always Bet on Best.'

  Best gives me a level stare for way too long. I'm telling you lads, he knows about these channels! He's probably reading this right now. 'I only bet on coin tosses. Tails never fails.'

  'Max, what would you do if you were me?'

  Best's face splits into a grin and he quickly forces it back into something like serious. 'You meant about football, right?' She's exasperated but she walked right into that one. Whatever private jokes they've got, they're both thinking the same thing. He lets out a happy sigh and says, 'If I were you, I'd get every boy and girl in Wales through these doors. Let me use my highly advanced AI technology on them and I'll identify the prospects.'

  'Right, but what then?'

  'I dunno,' says Best. 'That's your thing, isn't it? My bit is telling you who's good.'

  'Think about it for a minute.'

  He groans. The topic is boring to him. He flaps his hand around like a fish swimming through an ocean of possibilities. 'Yeah, just make sure they're being trained well, make sure they're not so miserable they're going to drop out, and try to give them as much time together as poss. Move them onto the same team or have them train together instead of playing for their club sides. That's it - treat them like a club side. Easy.'

  'Right but we're not a football club, we're football administrators.'

  'Well In can do it.'

  Gwen turns to her left. 'Well In, can you do what Max did today?'

  'Course,' he says. 'If you give me six months of trial and error.'

  Best shakes his head, smiling. 'Come on. You're mint. Tell you what, Gwen. One way I can help you - convince the Double Dragons to join Chester. I'll turn them into superstars, guaranteed.'

  'Max we're administrators. We like processes. Things that can be repeated. You cherry-picking our best players isn't the worst idea but it isn't the best, is it? We're hoping promising Welsh players will start and end their careers in the Welsh leagues.'

  I get struck by a bolt from the blue. 'Saltney Town,' I say. Everyone turns to look at me. 'Use Saltney Town as the northern powerhouse. It's right next to Bumpers so you can use those facilities while you're building this place up.'

  Best pouts. 'I'm not building anything up, Dylan.'

  'You will!' I say. 'It all works! If the Double Dragons come here, sign for Saltney, play in the Welsh leagues until they're ready - '

  Well In is on my wavelength. 'And in Europe!' he adds.

  'Yes! They'll compete with TNS for the title, play in Europe, then move on to a club in England. And who will pocket the transfer fees?'

  'Me,' says Best, quietly. It's incredible but he doesn't seem to have ever considered the possibility.

  'Right! Imagine you've got the best twenty eleven-year olds in Wales coming through the pipeline. Every year the best. We're happy because you're giving them a good start like you do with your Chester lads. You've got Well In who's got the same goal as you - a strong Welsh national team. He puts the kids in the team when he can, same as what you do. You're keeping an eye on it all the time. That's why you bought Saltney, right? Because it's easy for you. With all the money you're gonna make, it makes sense to build a little stadium, more pitches, gyms, pools, whatever you need.'

  Best is frowning hard. 'I don't have any kind of planning permission.'

  One of the suits says, 'Max, investing millions in youth sport... Putting Saltney on the map... It won't be a problem. And there’s plenty of space for expansion here. You could build a fantastic facility.'

  Best sips his tea. 'Didn't we talk about this before? You said me helping was a good idea in theory but as soon as the general population found out about it they'd be at your HQ with pitchforks.'

  Gwen points to me. 'It was Dylan's idea. If he's thinking it, it can't be that unpopular. You’ll have our back, won’t you, Dylan? Help us explain it to your army mates and the Wrexham lot. If Wrexham fans are backing Max, that’s going to make a lot of other people think there’s something to it.’

  ‘Course, yeah! It’s for the national team. Who’d argue with that? If it’s done right it’ll be popular.’

  Gwen goes, ‘And you're a big name these days, Max. People can't ignore your talent. It's different from last time we spoke.'

  'Huh,' says Best. 'I mean, as Dylan says, it's Welsh players going to a Welsh team in the Welsh leagues. Yeah...' He closes his eyes for a while before they pop open. 'Right. You bring every team you can get hold of in the north of Wales, I point out players I like. You persuade their parents to let me have them. You rent a couple of minivans every Saturday and they go from Snowdonia to Chester, picking up players along the way. Make it easy for the parents. Well In coaches them, we play a match.' He goes deep into some daydream. 'No, no good. We need a place for them to stay overnight. They can come on Friday, watch the first team, spend Saturday and Sunday training. Boarding school. Hogwarts for dragons. It would be sensational. Wales would almost instantly become a top ten team at every age group.' Best shakes his head. 'If we did it I would literally corner the market in north Welsh talent. You'd be handing me a monopoly.'

  Well In says, 'Right now, no-one in Wales is making any of that money so we’re not losing anything. Centralising the talent, getting it into the Cymru Premier at least for a season, strengthening the national team. I doubt there's a Welshman who'd begrudge you taking some profit when they can see how much value you're adding.'

  Best looks at me, his face a question. I shrug. 'I could live with it. And the kids would love it.'

  'So,' says Best, leaning his elbow on the table and rubbing the top of his head. 'I get 20 Championship quality players every year and it's much harder for English teams to poach them because these lads know they're on the fast-track to playing for their country. You know what? We'd get to the group stage of UEFA tournaments just with our Welsh lads.'

  'Wow,' says Gwen.

  'Okay,' says Best, shaking his head. 'In principle, I agree. It's a no-brainer. Three things. One, I'd need help. I'm stretched like my metaphors. I could use a hand doing some of the admin. Maybe a player who moves to Saltney's women's team in the summer would be interested?'

  It's just another bonkers thing out of his mouth but I'm staggered when Bonnie says, 'I think I'd like that.' She rubs my back and gives me a smile.

  Did Best just offer my girlfriend a job? Is that how he does things? There's no time to think about it because he's not done acting like a little prince.

  'Two,' he goes, 'you get rid of that coach from today. I don't want to hear that he's working with kids.'

  There are groans and sighs from the FAW. I lift my hand. 'Just checking, here. We're dangling millions of pounds in front of you but you want to talk about one shitty coach in a place you've never been?'

  'I have been to Rhyl, actually. With Emma.'

  Gwen's annoyed. She gets fired up. 'Are we allowed to give the coach a chance to improve? Are we allowed to deal with the situation like adults?'

  Best smiles; he likes Gwen. 'Yes.'

  She's placated. 'Third thing?'

  'There are 378 clubs in the top five tiers of Welsh football. So far in this project you've brought eight... in one age group.'

  'What exactly are you saying?'

  Best takes a piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolds it. It's a simple team sheet laid out in 4-4-2 formation. There are five names filled in - a goalie, a centre back, left mid (not Deano), two strikers (Hammer and Spike). 'That could be five of your starting lineup in the 2034 World Cup semi-final. If you want a full team you need to hurry up. Dragons don't walk into battle, and neither do I.' He jabs his thumb behind him. 'Fill this place with young players every Saturday and Sunday morning and I'll fill in the rest of that team sheet. Then I'll build you a squad. Then I'll build a squad around the squad. Two backups in every position.' Best sits back and smiles. 'Then we can do it all again with the ladies.'

  The CFO's head drops as he thinks about the expense but he laughs and says maybe they can go faster than one event per year. That seems to be that. They’re going to do some version of this northern powerhouse thing. Max Best is going to be the brains behind Welsh football and the idea gets my knee bouncing; Bonnie puts her hand on my thigh and I calm down.

  The conversation turns to the Chesterness documentary. Bonnie's the star of that chat.

  I remember I'm supposed to be getting betting tips, not making Max Best rich. I lean close to him and say, 'How are you feeling about the big game tomorrow? Bradford look tasty, don't they? Think you can handle them? Shame your new striker isn't fit.'

  Best eyes me coldly and then with amusement. 'It won't be 7-1, but I don't think it will be close.'

  'In which direction?'

  He scoffs. 'No comment.'

  I try one last throw of the dice. 'Be less secretive. Your resolution.'

  'Announcing my plans and tactics to gamblers so that I get banned by the FA is not what I meant.'

  I shake my head. 'You know, I think I've seen you break four of your resolutions already today.'

  ‘Which one’s missing?’

  ‘I haven’t seen you play 5D chess with anyone.’

  He rocks his head back and laughs hard. 'Yeah, you got me. I guess I’m not as smart as I thought.’ He sinks into the chair, smiles, and closes his eyes in a satisfied way. They open and he looks across to the other table. ‘Maybe you can help me with another project, Dylan. I wonder what Peter Bauer’s favourite band is…’