Player Manager 12

  The story so far:

  Max Best has overcome adversity, financial inequality, and a bright yellow mohawk to give his football club, Chester FC, a squad with the talent to continue progressing in the league. With a formidable women's team, tons of young talent, and a brand-new training ground, things are looking up. Top of Max's mind, though, are the irresistible lure of cup glory and the shiny new object that is Relationism - a completely different way of playing the sport. Can he balance all his new interests while keeping all his old plates spinning?

  ***

  “But who said that I am to be measured by how well I do things? In fact, who said that I should be measured at all? Who indeed? What is required to disengage oneself from this trap is a clear knowledge that the value of a human being cannot be measured by performance—or by any other arbitrary measurement.” The Inner Game of Tennis

  ***

  1.

  Wednesday, August 27th, 2025

  Three days until Chester play Bradford City at home.

  Four days until the end of the summer transfer window.

  ***

  After training, I drove to Bumpers Bank, the new facility I had built using Chester FC's meagre rations, and walked around, using my master key to pop into the bar, the showers, the toilets.

  After a few delays, things were coming together. There was running hot and cold water, some of the surfaces were not permanently caked in mud, the grass pitches were looking gorgeous, and the centrepiece - a beautiful 3G all-weather pitch worth half a million pounds - had passed inspection and was ready to use.

  As I daydreamed about the goals I would score there, a car turned off Bumpers Lane and into our small, unsurfaced staff car park. It was my assistant manager Sandra Lane in the new ride she had treated herself to. To take advantage of the charging ports we had installed at the Deva, she had gone for a second-hand Mercedes A250e hybrid. Nice car, good choice, but I couldn't help but feel she had gone electric so that she could park in my personal space at the stadium. I could hardly complain (although I did complain) because I was still driving The Duchess, an old Subaru that was more duct tape and hope than rubber and steel. Not very eco-friendly.

  I poked my head into my new office, which was essentially a fancy garden shed for businessmen who wanted to work from home. It was almost perfect for my short term needs, what with its big panes of glass overlooking football pitches of various sizes. The only pitch I wouldn't have a view of would be the main grass training pitch, but there was a simple workaround. Ten short strides and I would be able to see what was going on. It seemed unlikely I would ever have a pressing need to do that; civilians couldn't rent that pitch - it was a Chester FC exclusive, and I could see the men's and women's first team squads in my head any time I wanted from anywhere in the world.

  When the part of the complex that included my office was eventually rebuilt - perhaps I should simply say built, since all we had really done so far was plump down some portable cabins - my office would be on the second floor and would have a panoramic view of all the football. All the football!

  "What are you cackling at?"

  "Nothing."

  Sandra smiled and ran her hand along the corner of the office shed. Working outdoors, eating as healthily as the players, doing the Brig's specially-designed mobility workouts, and earning tons of money had done wonders for her; she was looking better than ever. "You did it, Max. It's nearly done."

  "Yeah," I said, in an extremely unconfident tone. "It's just all so grimy and muddy. So ugly."

  I was almost the only person who fretted about how Bumpers came across to outsiders. Sandra was one of many people who preferred to look on the bright side, but then again, she wasn’t the one trying to sign new players. She said, "Yeah, well, when people start coming and using it, they'll see what's missing. Oh, this room needs a kettle, that sort of thing. Once it's ours, once we're using it, it'll come to life. You'll see. And the pitches?" She did a chef's kiss gesture. "Mwah!" She did the same kind of daydreaming face I assume I had been doing shortly before, though her fantasies were probably about the drills she would run.

  For years, Chester had been training at BoshCard's headquarters and while it was a really good home for a non-league club, we weren't non-league any more. We needed a place of our own, and this was it. The pitches were a minimum of ten times better than the ones at the credit card company, and Sandra and I were convinced our players would improve faster as a result. "There are loads of media types coming for the grand opening on Monday. I can't be arsed. You can do it."

  "Ah, no," she laughed. "This is your baby. If I was in charge of the purse strings I'd have spent it all on players."

  "Yeah, well," I said. "Maybe that would have been the right thing to do."

  She gave me a sharp look, but didn't take the bait. The money was gone now, anyway. Decision made, and only time would tell if it had been a good one. It probably was - what use would it be to sign five great players if our shit facilities made them worse? Sandra pointed. "Can you explain this to me?"

  I locked up and followed her. We walked in companionable silence to the halfway line of the 3G. I stopped. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

  She removed a bit of fluff from her top. "Based on conversations we've had before, no chance."

  "We should name this pitch. You know, Pitch 1, Pitch 2, that's lame. We should call this one, like, Avalon. And the main grass pitch is Camelot."

  "Riiiiight." Sandra frowned. She clearly didn't want to spend the next two years of her career saying 'Strikers go to Camelot, defence you're on Avalon today.' "Turns out we weren't thinking the same thing. Quelle surprise. I was thinking it's kind of noisy from the road, but quiet, too. It's a bit unnatural, which I suppose is, er, natural. I know there are plans to make things nicer but maybe we could plant a line of trees by the road? Get some birds in? Couple of cheeky squirrels?"

  I stuck my bottom lip out while I tried to hear what was bothering her, but what was bothering her was silence. "When there are games going on it'll all be whistles and shouts and all that and it'll sound great, but I think I do know what you mean. We've been gouging at the earth with these diggers and now it's time for some peace and quiet and to let nature back in."

  "That's why I was thinking a simple line of trees. We can't do much while they're building that gym."

  "Mmm," I said. In the corner of our plot work had started on what was going to be the one beautiful space at Bumpers but was, for now, the biggest eyesore of all.

  Every company in Cheshire wanted to be involved in the project because being able to tell people you were working for Chester FC was a big deal - an increasingly big deal - and while the architects had whipped up the plans in record time, the builders had said they would have to work around projects they already had in their pipeline. They had come to dig out the foundations and then immediately fucked off to some other site. One day - with no notice - they would turn up and chuck a load of concrete and steel rods into the ground and then bounce again.

  If I let it frustrate me I would go very fucking mental very fucking quickly so I had decided to be a zen master about it.

  The curse that allowed me to run a football club operated on a fairly simple basis in some ways - it was all numbers. Let's say that in the current setup at BoshCard we had an overall 'Facilities' score of 18.3 out of 100 or some bullshit like that. We were moving to Bumpers but also keeping BoshCard for the rest of the season. It made sense to me that the curse would simply take the highest score for any particular metric and put that towards the total. So if Training Pitch Quality was a factor and we were moving from a 4 to an 8, the curse would increase our Facilities score. If the changing rooms at Bumpers were rated lower than the ones at BoshCard, it wouldn't matter until our lease at Bosh ran out.

  That was all guesswork, of course, but the point was that opening Bumpers would surely, surely raise our Facilities score and that would increase what I called the 'soft cap' on players. Instead of a player getting stuck at a Current Ability (CA) of 100, perhaps his new limit would be 110.

  It would take months for almost any of our players to approach any such limit, so it wasn't a crisis that the gym would open late in the season. It was an aesthetic crisis, though. Having a fucking huge hole in the corner of our training ground was a bit like having a hole in a tooth.

  "The gym space is pretty horrific right now. Maybe some trees would help cheer us all up. I'll talk to Henri."

  "Ace. Now explain this."

  "What?"

  "That." She indicated the halfway line of the not-yet-renamed pitch. There was the green of the artificial grass, the white of the lines, and either side of the pitch, cute little mini-stands with 27 seats each.

  "The stands? It's just, you know, when you rent a football pitch it's normally there you go, the end. You're lucky if the nets are already up in the goals. Here at Bumpers, you get a higher class of service. You get to play in a mini-stadium. Bring your mates, your wife, your husband. See, part of the business model is the players go to the bar after the match. Why limit ourselves to 22 players, though? If everyone who plays brings 1.4 friends we can get the bar packed and sell more drinks." I shook my head. "I'm an actual genius. This is one of the best ideas I've ever had."

  "Mmm, I see," said Sandra. "Only problem is I know you saw those stands for sale and bought them and then rationalised why later. But that's not what I'm talking about. I actually agree with you that they make the space look fun and it'll make the sessions more fun, too. Especially when it's raining... No, Max, come on. You know what I'm talking about."

  I suppose that deep down, deep deep down, I did. I got a big grin and strode forward. Either side of the stands were sets of two large electric advertising hoardings - the sort you get at Premier League grounds. "Aren't they amazing?"

  Sandra had an exasperated look about her. "But what... why? Is this why we have no money for pay rises? Are we going to lose Andrew Harrison because you can't stop buying toys?"

  I pulled a sad face. "Sandra, how could you? You're the one splurging on new cars. I'm thrifty. It is known."

  "Explain this."

  "Glendale Logistics got the job to take them to the scrapheap and they asked me if I wanted them. Er, yes. Yes I do. Tyson's dad, Bulldog, he's got all kinds of contacts in the IT world and he found the right nerd for the job."

  "What job?"

  "To get these things to do what I want."

  "What is it you want?"

  "Well, first step is going to be simple. Cheap, too. I have to buy four raspberry pies, which even in Marks and Spencer is, what, twenty quid? I see you don't get the joke. A Raspberry Pi is a tiny computer. The nerd is going to whip up two control panels that will be in the stands. Quite simple, first two buttons make the signs say 'Glendale' or 'BoshCard'. Good, right? They will stay like that until another button is pressed. The next button will make the screens temporarily go 'Attack! Attack! Attack attack attack!' The next one will be 'de-fence!' You know, like they chant in America. So the home team, so to speak, can be doing attack while the away team's fans are saying defend."

  Sandra was smiling. "My God, where do you get the energy?"

  "I want to have a button that goes 'WTFH was that?' One that goes 'Off! Off! Off!' for when there was a foul. It's just a bit of fun that gives a more premium experience but I'm actually quite interested in what we could end up doing with this one day. When we rebuild the Deva we will have these screens all around the pitch and I like the idea of having some sort of control of what goes on them."

  "Max," said Sandra, as a kind of warning.

  "What?" I laughed. "We're never selling space to gambling companies so why not have some fun? I'm just thinking, you know, maybe in one match we can make the boards say 'Max Best: Fouls 1, Yellow Cards 1; Joe Smith: Fouls 6, Yellow Cards 0.' Just to, like, be informative to the fans."

  "Not to put pressure on the referee?"

  "No way!"

  She tried to look stern and failed. "Jesus. We will get slapped pink if we do that."

  I shrugged. "By then we'll have so much cash there will be a nationwide sofa shortage."

  "Because we'll stuff money down the back of the sofas?"

  "Right. If we get a fine, we'll pay it. The FA will send us an email like ‘that’s a three sofa incident, lads.’ There are other things we could do. Imagine we're playing, I don't know, Bradford City."

  "Hard to visualise, but sure."

  "You're Carl Carlile, back at the Deva against your former team. Halfway through the first half you look around and huh! The advertising boards are saying 'Carl Carlile pass accuracy 48%'. What do you do? That's a mind fuck, isn't it?"

  Sandra got stern and stayed that way this time. "You're not doing that against Carl."

  "It's just an example. Of course I wouldn't... Of course I probably wouldn't do it against Carl. Or Aff. But imagine, right?"

  "If a club did that to you, it would inspire you to play better, wouldn't it?"

  I nodded, delighted. "Yes! But check this out - Carl Carlile, pass accuracy 100%. Right?"

  "I don't follow."

  "You'd think, oh! I wonder if I can go the whole 90 minutes with 100% pass completion. Maybe to jack your stats you play low-risk sideways passes that don't hurt us."

  "That," started Sandra. "That one I like."

  "Yes!" I cried, arms aloft. "Me too. It's kind of friendly, in a way, isn't it? I was reading The Inner Game of Tennis and he gives an example of how to mess with someone's head. You say something like 'oh your forehand is much better today, what did you change?' So it's a compliment but it gets the guy thinking shit, why is my forehand better? It's because x, y, or z, but as soon as he thinks that he's going to focus on x or y or z and his stroke will probably turn to shit. It's an amazing idea. I made Kisi do something like that with Meghan when we played your Man City girls."

  "I remember."

  "But that was clumsy in comparison. Trash talking is trash. I want to evolve to dropping compliment bombs."

  "Will you be dropping compliment bombs against Bradford this weekend?"

  "Ha. No. No need for extra attention. They get battered then they fuck off out of my city. I might nod at Aff and Carl if I see them in the car park, but that's it." I checked the time. "He should be ready. We can go this way, along Best Boulevard, or we can go around Avalon on Lane Lane. Your choice."

  Sandra blew air from her cheeks and briefly looked defeated. "First of all, this was Avalon and that was Camelot, so you need to choose names you can remember. Second, I actually like the sound of Lane Lane. How about we go this way, seeing as it's three times shorter?"

  "The long way round is the fastest way home."

  "We're not going home, so do shush your mouth."

  ***

  We went past the bar and turned left. The cabins that had been bought to serve as gyms had been relocated and while two contained exercise bikes and weights, the other had been bagsied by Spectrum and turned into a video analysis room. I was calling it Blockbuster, after the video rental shop from the olden days.

  The last time I had been inside the space it had been full of wires and mysterious boxes. I had dubbed it Wireland and spoke in an Irish accent to complain that the trip hazards were, indeed, deadly.

  I pushed the door open and held it for Sandra.

  Spectrum looked up and gave us a nervous smile. He was flustered; he really wanted to be given an analytics role and the best way was to create one for himself.

  The space was much, much nicer in the sense that it wasn't a total deathtrap, but it was still very much a soulless, echoey box. The main piece of furniture was an ugly white table. There were five identical hard-backed wooden chairs to choose from. At the front of the room was a huge TV - it must have been 80 inches.

  All the wires had been neatly tucked away and the ones that crossed the floor were buried under soft rubber anti-trip casings. I felt bad that I complained about things and my employees felt they had to rush around catering to my whims, but then again, I didn't want to die tripping in a fucking cabin while watching footage of Bradford against Crewe.

  "Spectrum, I feel much better in this room. I can't put my finger on it but there's an aura of, I don't know, safety and thoughtfulness."

  "Oh!" he said, brightening. "I did the wires, Max. They go round the edges and all that. It's funny because after you said about it, I went to get a tea and when I came in I tripped and the tea went everywhere."

  "That is funny," I said.

  Sandra sat next to Spectrum and looked at the many, many sheafs of paper in front of him. "What have you got for us?"

  I sat on the nearest chair and immediately, my back went on strike. I shot to my feet and just in time, got a grip on my temper.

  Sandra looked over. "What?"

  "It's fine," I said. "It's just the way the wooden back of the chair presses into my soul is, you know, a bit like being tormented for all eternity."

  "The chairs are fine, Max. Stop being a baby."

  I gripped the top of the chair and seethed quietly. I wasn't mad at Sandra or Spectrum, but at the universe. We didn't have budget for much in the way of luxuries and we were relying on freebies and handouts for anything beyond our basic needs. Our former captain Glenn had donated some of his kitchenware before heading off to Gibraltar; one of the mums from the Chester Knights had brought a bunch of pot plants; and judging by the hard-backed chairs, someone at Chester had a good in with a school for wayward boys from Victorian times, or perhaps a lunatic asylum from Victorian times. I thought about going to the Deva stadium to get something a bit more modern, but it would have been a bit of a slap in the face for whoever had taken time out of their busy day to source and collect the spine-breakers.

  I sat on the edge of the table, facing the TV.

  "Okay," said Spectrum, trying to stay positive. "So I've gathered loads of data. Got all kinds of graphs and charts and radars and heat maps and all sorts. It's so great! But obviously Max has his own way of seeing the game so I'm just trying to find out if there's any way I can support him with any of these tools. But also, anyone else at the club. Like I think Jackie Reaper would benefit from lots of these things but we don't have this for the women, yet."

  "Let's think in two categories for now," I said. "No, three. One, something useful to me. Two, something useful for Sandra, Vimsy, the coaches. Three, not immediately useful."

  "Sounds good," said Spectrum, and we waited for him to continue. "Oh, me again! You had your monologue face on. Okay, let's see. We've got player data, individual match data, the season as a whole data."

  "Don't give the players any info," I said. "What gets measured gets managed. I don't want them obsessing over their running stats; I want them to work on their first touch. If needed, we can show players some bits and say 'this number has dipped below the minimum' and when they go back to performing at the level, we say 'yeah you're good now' but we don't keep showing them that metric. We have to be very careful with it."

  Spectrum nodded; I had said similar things in the past. "Here are the things I can show you. Number one, Expected Threat." He showed one of my favourite graphs. It was a simple timeline going from 0 minutes to 90. Either side of the line were blobs of colour - the bigger the blob, the closer the team had come to scoring a goal. With that chart you could instantly apprehend which team had played better.

  "I love those," I said. "They can be misleading because you tend to concede more threat when you're 2-0 up and coasting. I don't particularly need the charts so I wouldn't, like, want you spending an hour on it but if it's just click click print then yeah. Useful to me."

  He nodded and moved to his second sheet. "Shot maps."

  This chart showed where all the shots in a match were taken from. Each shot had an xG value assigned. For example, a shot from 35 yards out would be marked with a tiny circle and labelled 0.01, meaning you would expect that shot to lead to a goal one time in a hundred. "I don't really see the need," I mused. "We know where our shots come from and we know all Youngster's shots are zero xG. He breaks the model."

  "I'd like to see Bradford's shot maps more than ours," said Sandra.

  I clicked my fingers. "Yes! That's it. That's exactly it. Oppo research. Useful to me and the coaches."

  Spectrum moved to the next thing. "Passing networks."

  This chart showed the starting eleven in their average positions, which was already quite useful because you could see that strikers sometimes played alongside midfielders, or left backs were almost next to the centre backs. Then there were lines drawn from every player to every other player they passed to during a match. Thicker lines meant more passes. By following the thick lines you could see which combinations were the most important, and in theory, you could try to disrupt them.

  "Yes, please," I said.

  "Ball carries," said Spectrum, and on it went. A never-ending mountain of data. Passes received. Passes received by zone. Progressive passes. Progressive carries. Big chances created. Expected Assists. You could spend three days climbing the mountain and find another match kicking off - a match that would generate a new peak to climb.

  And most of it was surely useless. If Ryan Jack's running stats nosedived in the 72nd minute, it was almost certainly because I had tweaked his individual instructions or because he felt something in his ankle. The knowledge wasn't especially valuable. Nor was any data from a match where there had been an early red card, or where one team had played two days before while the other had been on a lovely old break.

  In the end, I asked Spectrum to give me the Expected Threat graphs of the match we had just played, the pass networks for our next opponents, and to be ready to generate things on request by players and staff. He seemed happy with that.

  I asked him to show me what he had collected from the match against Burton Albion and sent him on a break.

  "So," I said, after he had closed the door behind him. "Sandra Lane. Trailblazer. Glass ceiling smasher." The Burton match had happened over a week before, but in an attempt to avoid overhyping something I wanted to become normal I had only talked about it superficially. This seemed like a good time to go a little deeper. "How does it feel?"

  She closed her eyes. "Feels good. Would have been happier with a win."

  I understood her all too well. It wasn't just her innate competitiveness talking, it was the way the story would be told. Sandra Lane would be the answer to a pub quiz question. Who was the first woman to manage in the English football league? After giving the answer, the host would say, 'Of course, she lost' and all the gammons in the pub would snigger. Fucking infuriating, but there was nothing I could do about it except make sure Sandra got some wins under her belt asap.

  I slid Spectrum's papers around until I found the Expected Threat graph. I had been away scouting that day but knew Burton's average CA was in the high 80s.

  I bent over the paper. "You were thrown in at the deep end. If I didn't like you, this is exactly the match I would have assigned. Playing one of the favourites for the title without your two best forwards." I ran my finger along the timeline - almost all the projections were coloured yellow and black, Burton's colours. There was almost nothing in blue and white. "First twenty, we get battered. We hold firm - just about - and the threat diminishes as you make little tweaks and adjustments and plug gaps and make it hard for them. You nearly get to half time and who knows what might have happened? But they fluke a goal just before the break. They come out second half nice and compact knowing we don't have much ball progression, and we huff and puff but can't summon our magic. This big swing to us here, is that when you sent Sharky on?"

  "Sharky and Wibbers, yeah."

  "It gave them a fright, didn't it? But they swatted it away and came back at us looking for that second goal that would kill the game. They got it on 80 and you sent on the kids. Dan got ten minutes, so did Benny and Tyson. Burton got a third, game over." I tiptoed and stretched before leaning over the paper again. "You know, a lot of people would look at this and scoff but this is Chester. You started with a valid strategy, you showed you have in-game management skills, and when the time was right you rested key players and gave minutes to kids, even though that's bad for your personal reputation." I laughed. "I mean, if that was a job interview, you got the job. Do you know what I mean?" I slid the paper away and looked at the nearest one - a passing network graph from the Notts County match. I would need that later when I talked to Dazza. Something - the fact that Sandra hadn't replied, maybe - made me look up. "Oh, what?" I hurried around the table to where Sandra was in the throes of some emotion. "What what what? Did I mess up?"

  She pressed the base of her thumbs onto her cheeks and window-wiped herself. "No, boss. Max. It's, you know, nice to hear nice things."

  "Again. Nice to hear nice things again. I've been saying you nailed it."

  "True, but with the data, you know, the graph, it feels more real."

  "That's interesting," I said, disconnecting from the heart of the matter like a psycho. "That's how we use the data, isn't it? To back up what we're telling people if they don't believe us the first time."

  "I believed you, it's just - "

  "While we're on the subject of crippling self doubt and imposter syndrome," I said, which got a laugh. "Can we talk about your career and whatnot?"

  She composed herself. "Sure."

  "This is a time for growth. We've got plans for the players, Pascal's doing a coaching badge, Spectrum's doing this data stuff, I'm on my Relationism fantasy, but what about you? What... What do you want?"

  She looked at the Expected Threat graph and shook her head. "I've got loads to learn."

  "Oh, for fuck's sake," I said, snatching the paper away from her. "You couldn't have done better in that game. Jesus Christ, if we were still in the National League we wouldn't even be the best team there. How are you supposed to do anything against a team that dropped from League One?" I mentally went to the Staff Profiles screen and checked her numbers. The important ones were good. Coaching Outfield Players 18. "You're a great coach. You do varied and useful sessions. You know I love micromanaging things but when you're running the sessions I'm happy to wander off and not even think about them." Tactical Knowledge 18. "As I said, you start with a plan and you're willing to use different formations than your preferred one. That's far more rare than it should be. And you can tweak and even change formation completely, mid-half. Top top top." She had low numbers relating to judging player ability. "Ah, okay. Here's my question. Would you want a head coach role or to be a full manager like me?"

  "What's the difference in, like, your personal vocabulary?"

  "Head coach is where you pick the team, set the strategy, shout at the referee. Manager does that plus transfers, too. If you were part of the evil empire -" This meant the so-called City Football Group, a gigantic, multinational law firm that fought endless legal battles against FIFA, UEFA, and the Premier League, and sometimes was involved in football matches. "If you were head coach at one of their eight thousand regional offices, which is what they call the football clubs they assimilate, they would send you players and you would work with them. No real need to have any talent ID skills of your own. If you were the manager of, I don't know, Kilmarnock, you would be way more involved in transfers. Picking the right targets, knowing how much to pay. Seeing who to promote from the youth team. That sort of thing."

  "The parts you do now."

  "Yeah. I shouldn't say this because I don't want you to leave but you're ready for a head coach job. Coaching? Bosh. Tactics? Bosh. Can go five minutes without getting into a feud? Bosh. So maybe you can work on your talent ID skills. I can't really teach what I do because I'm a floating megabrain but how about all this data?" I rummaged around and picked up some player radars and heat maps. "Maybe you can find a way to use this stuff to sharpen your scouting sword. If you improve, great. If you don't, you can still go down the manager route as long as you have a scout you trust. Like Bob at Kidderminster - he's not even that much cop on his own but he's got people doing the bits he's not good at."

  Sandra took one of the radars and contemplated it. "Mmm. Would be good to have more career options, especially as the number of clubs that might employ me reduces by one a month."

  "What? Who wouldn't employ you?"

  "Bolton's the most recent."

  She wasn't finished but I had to interrupt. "Oh! Let me show you what I do when I get a bit depressed. I watch this." I went to her side and held my phone up. I brought up a video clip I had saved. It was Sandra being interviewed before her debut as a league manager. With the eyes of the world watching, with little girls everywhere getting stars in their eyes thinking 'If she can do it, so can I', Sandra had been charming, serious, and professional. And then...

  Interviewer: You're making history today, how do you feel?

  Sandra: I'm excited, of course, but I'll never forget that this is happening today because a Bolton Wanderers player pushed my boss into a metal pole.

  As always, the clip put the biggest smile on my face. Just as the commotion from the Bolton match was dying down and the media had moved on to some other story, Sandra had used her platform not to boost her own career but to help me avenge Pascal. Bolton's useless manager hadn't survived the weekend.

  I gave her the most aggressive hug I could muster given she was sitting and I was standing. "She shoots, she scores! Sandra the Slayer!"

  "Geroff," she said, laughing. That's Mancunian for 'get off', by the way. "Yeah, so Bolton aren't going to employ me in the next thirty years, and I can imagine Bradford might not want anything to do with anyone from Chester after this weekend."

  In the summer, Bradford had bought two of my trusted lieutenants, Aff and Carl Carlile. That was before I knew the club had been bought by the dipshit known as Chip Star, the son of a son of a gun who tried to asset strip Chester. Chip had gazumped me for a number of talented young players, signed Chipper (a striker who despised me), and Raffi Brown (a player I had found and raised up from nothing before he betrayed me). Perhaps worst of all, Chip had appointed as manager a certain Folke Wester, a hoodlum who should have been a mafia enforcer and not a football manager. In an attempt to destabilise me, Wester had once commissioned a 'journalist' to scour Darlington looking for dirt and in the process, disrespected my girlfriend. I had humiliated Wester and thought that was the end of it, but like shit villains in shit movies, he was back. Yeah, there was a lot going on between me and Bradford City.

  "Relax," I said. "Nothing's gonna happen. It's just another game."

  ***

  We took a short break during which I wandered over to the scar in the earth that would one day become a beautiful gym. It was possible to imagine its final form only because I had seen the architect's rendering. It was actually far easier for me to look at my half-baked squad and imagine what it would look like by the time the gym was finished. In my mind's eye I saw a formidable, tactically flexible team rampaging through League Two.

  That was the future, though.

  My goalkeepers were currently quite weak. Ben was a fair amount better than Sticky, but Ben's Potential Ability (PA, a measure of how high his CA could reach) was only 67 and that was mid-tier National League quality. Sticky's was 122, so if we could make it through this, ah, sticky patch, I would have a tremendous goalkeeper capable of rising with us through a couple of divisions. I had two younger keepers, too. One was on loan at Saltney Town, the Welsh club I owned, while the youngest and most talented of them all was still buzzing from playing ten minutes against Slovakia. I hoped the experience would stand Banksy in good stead for our FA Youth Cup run.

  The defence was below par for the level we were at, but it was in much better shape than the goalies. Eddie Moore's PA was 75, which was the very bottom of the range for League Two players, but with Cole and Josh coming up the rails we were well-stocked at left back. Centre backs Christian Fierce and Zach Green had the potential to stay in the first team for another couple of years, while Lee H at right back was expected to be a one-year solution. There was a big drop to the next best centre back, Sunday Sowunmi, and that was an issue I would have to address next summer.

  For this season, a lot would rest on the hard-as-crystal shoulders of Magnus Evergreen. Magnus could play anywhere across the defence or midfield and he did a solid if unspectacular job. My attempts to get him to add some progressive strings to his bow had been derailed by last year's shit winter and the pile-up of matches that ensued, but I was hoping the all-weather pitch at Bumpers Bank would let us really get into detail and that we would be able to train year-round despite what climate change threw at us. Anyway, if Magnus got injured we were fucked and if he decided to quit football - it wasn't his passion - we were equally fucked, so I had used some of my remaining budget to give him a pay rise. It wasn't much - it only brought him up to 700 pounds a week - but he appreciated the gesture.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  My phone vibrated. It was a text from my boss, MD.

  Mr. Brotherhood asked if he could bring Jamie today. Would be around 3 pm. Does that work for you?

  Jamie Brotherhood was a 16-year-old right back I had got a tip-off about from a scout who worked the Merseyside beat. First I had sent Chester's only scout, Fleur, to watch Jamie, and she said he was worth a visit. Her recommendation was the threshold for the first guy to earn his hundred pounds - I wanted scouts to suggest players to me and I knew there were plenty for whom a hundred quid was a hundred quid.

  Since I had been ruled out of the Burton Albion match because of the concussion protocol, I'd used the time to follow up the Jamie lead. There were other prospects, some of whom were more likely to make the club a lot more money, but my youth team squad urgently needed a right back.

  I had Roddy Jones, a Welsh prodigy, but he was only 15. Brotherhood was only a year older but years ahead physically.

  I brought up Jamie’s player profile from my growing database. Jamie Brotherhood had high Bravery, Leadership, Strength, and Tackling. In some ways he wasn't a typical Max Best player but I knew we could work on his technical skills and I had learned in my time in non-league that you needed a few players who could battle, who could scrap, and who could put a tackle in. Brotherhood was an aggressive little so-and-so, the kind of player I hated coming up against.

  And what better recommendation is there than: you wouldn't want to play against him.

  He was playing for Bootle's youth team and we had a good relationship with that club, having loaned them players in the recent past. Their first team's average CA was 29. Jamie, having not made an appearance for the firsts, was only CA 13 but his PA was 95. If Jamie agreed to move, we would pay a transfer fee of ten thousand pounds - next summer.

  Including fees for Darren 'Dazza' Smith, the Peruvian wonderkid/wonderkind Foquita, and for Roddy Jones, the amount of money I was committed to paying next summer was rising rapidly and MD had politely suggested I might want to put a fucking lid on it. I had smiled and said that I'd be happy to cancel the transfer and who knew - maybe Saltney Town would want to buy Brotherhood. MD had asked me not to be dramatic and had given a grudging go-ahead.

  Yeah, whenever he wants. We're at Bumpers doing analysis stuff.

  Some unexpected movement caught my eye and I pottered away from Blockbuster. Someone was moving around down at the lower pitches. It was probably Jonny Planter, our groundsman, but I wanted to check.

  "Max!" called Sandra. I turned back and saw that she was with Dazza. I squinted and decided it definitely was Jonny down there and he was probably straightening the grass or counting his worms or whatever he did.

  "Coming," I called, and took some slow steps towards the video room.

  The first team's midfield was... fine. Not very inspiring, especially with Pascal Bochum being injured. The curse was assuring me he would be back six weeks from today, but the doctors kept talking about five months. At some point, the worlds would collide and someone would admit a mistake had been made.

  One of my midfielders was called Andrew Harrison. He was the older of three brothers we called The Triplets and earlier in the summer I had sat with him to talk about a small pay rise and a contract extension. He had brought his girlfriend to the meeting and she had demanded a doubling of his wages. The guy was a low 50s midfielder who only had a career because of me. I maybe should have talked over the situation a little more than I did, but in the end things turned out for the best.

  Not giving him a pay rise freed up just enough budget for me to reward almost all the rest of the squad. Henri and Ryan Jack got slight bumps, while all the younger lads got something, even if it wasn't much. Youngster got the biggest rise - to 950 a week.

  Overall the squad was just on the right side of content, a few contracts had been extended, and I had told Andrew he was free to continue his career at one of the many other clubs willing to sign him for the wages he was looking for but that he needed to get a wiggle on because the transfer window was about to slam shut.

  I pushed the door open and saw Dazza was on one of the hard-backed chairs.

  "Oh, no thanks," I said, coaxing him to his feet. "Players don't sit on the Spinebreakers. Pop yourself on the edge with me."

  Dazza gave an easy smile and obeyed. His career at Chester hadn't started well, according to certain media outlets. No goals, not many shots, not much engagement with the rest of the team, balls bouncing off his shins, opposition fans chanting 'what a waste of money'.

  For although we would be handing the money over... drum roll... next summer, Dazza represented our club record signing. Two hundred and fifty thousand of His Majesty's pounds sterling.

  "All right! Welcome to Blockbuster video."

  "This place? Good name, yeah. Like it."

  Spectrum coughed. "Boss, I told you. You didn't watch movies in Blockbuster. You got the tapes or the DVDs and took them home. This place should be called The Odeon or something like that."

  "Er, yeah, I know," I said. "But it's shaped like a block, so..."

  "The Spectroom," suggested Dazza.

  I eyed him. "Chesterness lesson one. After you say something cringe you say that's terrible, cut that."

  "I like it," said Spectrum.

  I grimaced and checked out the tall blonde Aussie. Darren’s Morale, as rated by the curse, was low. "Dazza, three league games under your belt, two AOK cup matches, one go against an actual country. How are you feeling?"

  His smile dimmed. "Yeah, I like it, boss. Nice people. Good laughs. It's, er, it's been a rough ride on the grass, like."

  I felt a weird stress in my jaw so I cricked my neck to the left. "Didn't I tell you the start was going to be shit?"

  "You did."

  "So it's shit. Surprise!"

  "I know but I don't... I'm not happy with my contribution. I want to do more. Help the team more."

  I rubbed a spot above my eyebrow. "Yeah, that's why we're here. Our first ever video analysis session. Spectrum's excited. Aren't you, mate?"

  "I am a bit."

  I had created a presentation with Spectrum's help and I was about to start when I remembered I wanted to let players get involved in their own development. "Is there anything you think you should work on?"

  "My finishing, boss."

  I frowned and looked around at Sandra and Spectrum like I was confused. I turned back to Dazza. "Why?"

  "Because I haven't scored. I haven't scored a goal."

  "Spectrum, have you got Dazza's season stats there?"

  There was some clicking and then, "Yep."

  The curse gave me some data for my players which I sometimes used for situations like these. "Great. 63% passing accuracy. Caught offside 6 times. Fouls against, 5. Fouls committed, 9. Yellow cards, 2."

  Spectrum said, "Um, that's not..."

  "Are you looking at league matches only?"

  "Yes. Hang on. Okay, with the AOK, yeah, those numbers are about right."

  "They're not about right, they're right. Dazza, I don't need your help knowing how many goals you've scored, do you get me?"

  "Fair goes, yeah."

  I pinched the bridge of my nose and forced myself to stop. "Let's clear one thing up right now. I don't care what the newspapers are saying, what twats on social media are saying. There's only one opinion that matters at this club and it's mine. I'm happy with your contribution. Yes I want more and you're going to give me more, but I do not give a fucking shit how many goals you've scored, all right? How can you score when we can't get out of our own half? What the... Right, forget the pretence that this is a democracy. We're back in the dictatorship."

  "You can't spell dictator without dick," said Spectrum, helpfully.

  "Sandra, take that laptop from him.” Spectrum made a show of wrapping his arms around his baby. I said, sweetly, “First slide, please." On the gigantic TV, a football pitch came up. We had shaded three zones: one across the very top, the very bottom, and a strip just below the middle. "We're going to work on three situations and two game states. I've chosen them because you can help Chester over the next couple of months and because I think these situations will come up when you're playing for Sockoalas."

  "Socceroos," said Spectrum.

  "Right. Let's start at the bottom of the pitch."

  Dazza shuffled so that his bottom was barely touching the table - he leaned forward intently. "Ready."

  "One of the reasons a manager wants a hench boofhead like you up front is because if you can win an attacking header, you can win a defensive header. Whatever the game state, you should be an awesome tool for defensive set pieces, right? We're going to look at corners from the Burton Albion match and Notts County."

  Dazza winced. We had lost 2-0 to Notts and one of their goals had come from a corner. "Okay."

  On the screen, six overhead still images came up. They showed the positions of all the players as Notts prepared to take a corner. I noticed a little arrow in the bottom left corner of each image. "Spectrum," I said. "Are these all taken from the same side?"

  "Yes, boss. I've removed one variable."

  "That's clever of you."

  "Thanks."

  "Dazza, can you spot yourself in those images? Clue: you are a gigantic blonde Australian who looks like he should be married to a mermaid."

  Dazza smiled and pointed to the first image. "I'm there."

  "Hang on, let's do some computer wizardry." Spectrum clicked to the next slide. It was exactly the same but he had put a white circle around Dazza in each image. I laughed at how low-tech it was, but it didn't matter. It got the job done.

  "Shit," said Dazza. "I'm all over the place."

  "Never a truer word has been spoken!" I said. "It's impressive, really. I would have thought you would have been in the same place twice just by luck, but no. I appreciate your commitment to freshness. I like to change things up myself so this? This is mwah." I chef's kissed the TV.

  Dazza groaned. "That's as ugly as a hatful of arseholes."

  I grinned. "Spectrum, this is great. I love this. The charts I can take or leave but this is killer."

  "Do you really mean it?"

  "I do."

  Dazza turned. "Yeah, mate. It makes me look a right knob jockey but it's good. It's what I need."

  "What you need," I said, "is a bit of coaching, that's all. It's not your fault you don't know where to stand, is it? It's a collective failure from absolutely everyone in the world except for me. Your former coaches, your teammates, Vimsy, everyone."

  "Harsh on Vimsy," suggested Dazza.

  "Life's harsh. So what's the solution?" Dazza opened his mouth to reply, but I forestalled him. He wasn't anywhere close to thinking about football the way I wanted. "Yeah that was a rhetorical question. For now you can do what I say."

  "Right."

  "The solution is, I want you to train with the centre backs. Get in a 5-3-2 between Christian and Zach, learn to shuffle and slide from the back. That'll be interesting, by the way. I find that when I do defensive work like that, the next match I'm way sharper attacking."

  "Attacking?"

  "Yeah, it's like, I know where the defenders want to go, right, and I don't let them. I don't want you filling in as a centre back on Saturday but I don't mind if you get a few more points of Positioning."

  "A few more points?"

  Spectrum said, "It's from Soccer Supremo. We're not allowed to talk about it, but Max is. It's one of the hidden rules."

  Sandra said, "Another one is no pranks unless they’re by Max."

  “No arguing with refs unless it’s Max doing it.”

  “Don’t trash talk the oppo unless your name is Max.”

  "Very funny," I said. "You can stop now. Dazza, you and your new centre back friends are going to get together with Vimsy and decide where you should stand on corners, okay?"

  Dazza got a quizzical look about him. "I thought you were going to tell me where."

  "No," I said. "Because I don't know. And I don't care. I'm a mystery winger. I used to score direct from corners, before my murder. Defending corners is possibly the most boring part of this whole sport for me. But you know who loves it?"

  "Christian, Zach, and Vimsy."

  "Bosh. Okay that's that. Next." Spectrum flashed up the passing network from the Burton match. "Burton Albion. No Max, no Pascal. The connections between the players went to shit. Obviously we were being pressed to death but especially in this backs-to-the-wall kind of match I need a thick line between Zach and you."

  "I couldn't hold the ball up. I don't know what happened."

  "I know what happened. You got your arse handed to you by their centre backs. They're wily old campaigners and you're too busy checking what people are saying about you on Instagram to learn what they're offering to teach you."

  "Max," complained Sandra.

  "Okay so what we need is to get you a bit more streetwise. Zach fires the ball to you - you can't expect too much accuracy given the pressure he's under, right? Either you turn out of the challenge and find one of the many fast runners we're supposed to have - which wasn't an option for you for most of that match - or you draw a foul. You get fouled, we get a free kick up here. We take thirty seconds off the clock, pump the ball into their penalty area, best case we get a shot, worst case we make them work through us all the way to our penalty box. They attack, we clear, you get us another free kick. A team can survive a lot longer if they have a bit of that going on."

  "Agreed, but if we played them tomorrow I wouldn't know what to do different."

  I nodded. "This stuff's going to take years to master, I reckon. The ultimate example is Harry Kane, so Spectrum's putting together some montages of him strutting his stuff. Clive O'Keefe is your man for this, so take your extra sessions with him and work on your hold-up play. I want you running into legs and tripping up. If you're happy to slam yourself down onto the ball that always looks dramatic - I've never seen a ref not give a free kick when a guy fell onto the ball. I want you insanely strong holding off the defender from behind, then as you get the ball on your chest you become insanely weak and you fall flat on your face. Feel free to land on the ball again."

  Dazza rubbed his mouth. "Does Henri do this?"

  "No, Henri lays the ball off first time. You'll practise that, too, but that's more useful when you're in an even contest. If we're getting battered, like against Notts, or Oz are playing Argentina, you need some of this or you're just waiting to lose. You watch Harry Kane. He does this work better than anyone I've ever seen and once he has bought a few free kicks the defenders give him a little bit more space because he's that good at, ah, persuading referees he has been fouled. With that space he absolutely destroys on through balls and the defenders get tight again. It's a whole narrative, every match, and I'm sure it took him years to learn each element of what he does."

  "It's strange we're talking about what Harry Kane does in his own half and not his goalscoring record."

  "It's really not strange, Dazza. He wouldn't have half as many goals if his teams didn't have an out ball."

  Dazza chewed his lip for a few seconds. "Yeah, okay." That seemed to be him committing to hours and hours of extra sessions doing tedious, repetitive work.

  "Top. Third thing. What I've seen of Australia is you're either outmatched or far better than your oppo. That's a bit like this season for Chester. We're outgunned for now but you'll start to see teams retreat against us and I reckon there will be a fair few low blocks like Bolton tried to do near the end when they were down to nine men. You put yourself about, caused a nuisance, opened up space for the others. All good, no complaints there, but against a low block with eleven men I think you'll need to do better. Spectrum?"

  The next part was quite cool. Spectrum had used some software to track the runs of Dazza and Henri from a few similar positions, normally involving Sharky on the wing. Dazza's runs were pretty straight, up and down. Henri's were different in every clip.

  "Henri's movement is way better than yours," I said. "Better's a shit word. What's a good word I can use here?"

  Sandra said, "Harder to defend against."

  "Unpredictable," said Dazza.

  "More sophisticated," said Spectrum.

  "There's value to knowing where one striker is going to be," I said. "Someone like Henri can base his movement around yours and thrive, but if I could have two strikers like Henri I think there's no contest really. I get private coaching from a guy called Cody Chambers - he's excellent. I often share the session with Wibbers, but you can come a few times and we'll work on these moves. I really like this one. Spectrum can you play it slowed down? Okay so Henri runs, slows, stops. If you're a defender you might think he's throwing a French tantrum and it's amazing how often defenders drift away towards the back line and watch the ball instead of, you know, watching what the main goal threat is doing. So Henri comes sideways, out of sight of his marker, sprints far post, defender realises, panics, adjusts, wait where's he gone? He's gone to the near post, you prick."

  "I find that hard," said Dazza.

  "Which bit?"

  "Slowing down. Standing still."

  "That's why it works. You're all competitive nutjobs, aren't you? You need to run, to rush, to do. I think this is when I like Henri the most. He achieves something by using the primitive meat-headedness of defenders against them. He gains an advantage in the most sophisticated way possible - by doing nothing."

  Sandra launched into a round of applause that Spectrum joined in on. Normally I would have found it funny but the echoes were literally ear-splitting. I looked around at the shit metal box and started to get annoyed again.

  Dazza was nodding, though. "What did you mean you're all competitive nutjobs? You don't include yourself in that?"

  "Me? I'm not that competitive."

  "You're not?"

  "No. I'm a technocrat. You think we've had a bad start to the season but we haven't. We've built a platform and we're going up. Who cares about Burton or Notts? It's just one data point out of 46. Do you know what I mean?"

  "Nah yeah I'm just a tad confused because you've scored six goals in about eighty minutes of play and when I said to Henri you were pretty fired up he said yes but wait till you see what he does against Bradford."

  I threw my arms up. "I'm not going to do anything against Bradford! They're even shitter than we are but unlike us, they're not going to get better. And that prick Chipper got himself sent off on his debut, didn't he? He's not even going to be in Chester, I've already slapped Folke Wester's face off, and Chip Star is a parody of himself." I pushed my finger into Dazza's bicep. "You just focus on your training, your diet, getting your rest, your sleep, all that stuff. Think about what we said today. All right?"

  He smiled. As shit as the container was, this session was the reason he had come to Chester - to improve as a player. "Yes, boss. And I'll remember what you said about you not being competitive and Saturday's not an important game."

  "Yeah," I scoffed, shaking my head. "Do that."

  ***

  We went outside into the fresh air and I treated myself to a massive stretch.

  Again there was some action on the grass pitch and I was about to go and check it out when Sandra tapped my arm. "Boss, is that our new player?"

  I turned and saw Jamie Brotherhood and his dad milling around looking into the cabins to see if any were occupied. I waved at them and they came our way. Dazza said, "New player?"

  "Jamie. Good young right back. He'll train with us when he's not at school, and he'll get some first team minutes here and there."

  "He will?" said Sandra.

  "Yes," I said. "One thing I like about him is he's from a footballing family. His dad played a bit, granddad was pretty good. I'm interested to see if it helps him develop faster. I reckon it will. Jamie! Mr. Brotherhood. Thanks for coming, sorry there’s no reception yet."

  I made the introductions and did some small talk, but the whole time I was fidgety. I interrupted and said I wanted to go to see what was happening on the new grass pitch, so we walked and talked. Sandra told the Brotherhoods about Bumpers as we went. Soon enough we were by the pitch and it was immediately obvious what was happening.

  Jonny Planter was holding a tablet computer and a little robot thing was rolling around the pitch like Harry Kane.

  "Is it mowing the grass?" said Mr. Brotherhood.

  "No!" I said, as I had a kind of religious experience. "It's marking the lines! Look, it's doing the touchline." I went to see what was on the tablet, but it wasn't like a Nintendo Switch where Jonny was directly controlling the movements - it was all done by GPS. "So clever," I said. "Oh! This is the first time this grass has ever had markings on. Ever. The pitch is being born! Oh, man. What a moment. What a moment for this football club! Welcome to Camelot."

  "What," said Jamie, in his Scouse accent.

  "The gaffer has worked hard to get to this point," said Sandra. "This is the fruition of a lot of hard work."

  "I bet," said Mr. Brotherhood. He was a pretty rough-looking character, pretty hard, unyielding, same as Jamie, but that was all on the surface. He was here, now, with his son, which meant that underneath, he was doing what he could to improve himself and build a better life for his family. I reckoned he was a hard but fair dad and that whatever he thought about me, he knew I was his son's best shot at getting his football career going.

  "Sandra, Spectrum, can you do me a favour? Can you show Jamie and his dad around? Pop up to the Deva, too. Show them my Manager of the Month awards. You can park in my spot."

  Sandra gasped. "What an honour. What are you going to do? Stand here and cry as a robot slowly paints a football pitch?"

  "It's not slow," both Jonny and I snapped back. I high-fived him.

  "Wow," said Sandra. She turned around, extending her arms to sort of gather the others. She stopped almost immediately. "You're supposed to do your video session with Zach."

  "Bah," I said, waving my hand as I watched the little metal genius turn left to create the halfway line. "You do it."

  "I don't know what you have planned."

  "Just tell him to stop being shit," I said, which caused some sniggering in the younger Brotherhood.

  "Max," said Sandra.

  "Oh, fine." I walked up to Jamie and held out my hand. Slightly confused, he went for a handshake, but I gripped him on the wrist and put my other hand on his shoulder. I looked deep into his eyes. "Jamie. You're a Liverpool fan."

  "Yes."

  "I'm a Man United fan, or I was. The FA Youth Cup final is going to be at Old Trafford. 76,000 capacity, the Theatre of Dreams. Bobby Charlton, George Best, Denis Law. We're gonna go there and we're gonna fuck up anyone who gets in our way. United, Liverpool, City, whoever's fucking stupid enough to get drawn against us. This season will be the greatest of your life. You could go back to Bootle and wait to get spotted by a better club with an even bigger robot, or you could come here. I'll teach you to play, you'll get a contract when you turn 17, and in a couple of years there will be clubs falling over themselves to buy you and you'll be able to take your pick. Oh, and you'll be one of the first players in the country to play my new style of football. Give me two years of your life and I'll give you a career."

  I relaxed my grips on him but I still felt the connection. He looked from me to his dad and back again. "Where do I sign?"

  ***

  Everyone except Jonny left and I treated myself to a couple of minutes of watching the robot. It was mesmerising and although there must have been a thousand things - bad software, clouds, armed superworms - that could have sent him off course, I had complete trust in him. The little guy would paint that pitch exactly as ordered. Exactly as ordered. He was the ultimate in positional play, even better than Pascal.

  Pascal was a big loss. Without him, 4-2-3-1 became a lot less viable, and I had wanted to use that formation a lot this season. I was starting to get horny for 4-4-2 diamond - Youngster in his DM slot, Wibbers as the central attacking midfielder (CAM) behind two strikers. It was a lot of pressure on Wibbers but if he was having a good day, it would absolutely slap. Maybe. Probably.

  Pascal's injury also meant the next formation in the perk shop was less attractive. 3-4-2-1 was a 3-4-3 variant with two CAMs replacing two of the strikers. Perfect for Pascal and Wibbers, less so for Wes 'Sharky' Hayward.

  3-4-2-1 would cost 5,000 experience points. I gained those points when I watched football matches, earning more when the match was played to a high standard, and the rates were always doubled when I was the manager. I got the absolute minimum when I played, however, which is partly why I had adjusted my 'build' to focus on technique and set pieces instead of stamina. Playing for twenty minutes per match allowed me to make a difference to the result while making sure I earned the XP I needed to improve my skills.

  I went into the screen that showed my current stash.

  XP balance: 7,600

  The screen reminded me that I still had a 10% discount voucher I could use on a perk. I was saving that for when I bought one called Relationism, which would allow me to use a totally different style of football from the one I used every week. The perk had started out at 30,000 XP - exorbitant - but was currently 29,948. The perk, uniquely, got cheaper when I watched matches that featured Relationist play but I had no opportunity to visit any such teams in the UK. If I used it in a match, I would be the only manager in the entire country brave enough - or foolish enough.

  I had volunteered to coach an army unit and was trying to teach them Relationism based on my own dubious understanding of the style, and the training sessions had been fun and interesting - to me, at least. The unit was currently only playing 6-a-side matches but soon their regular season would kick off and I would be able to experiment with Relationism in a more serious way.

  There was only one problem - I wasn't sure how to do it. An hour before kickoff of any scheduled fixture, the curse would kick in and the players would be assigned tasks based on what was on my tactics screen. The default for the soldiers was currently 4-4-2 and that's how they would line up at kick off. I couldn't force them all to one side of the pitch to form a 'blob', and that wasn't really the point of Relationism anyway. The players were supposed to move and make decisions according to their own sense of what was happening, not be directed by me at every step of the way. I needed a way to turn the curse off for a particular match but planned to save my experiments until after the Bradford game.

  Still, the uncertainty about being able to put Relationism into practice meant I wasn't spending any XP. I was ignoring the monthly perks that came up and was keeping an eye on which Premier League fixtures I would be able to attend when I wasn't managing, training the army guys, doing my coaching badges, or blasting through the refereeing course I'd signed up to. Yeah, I was busy, but if I had to grind to unlock the Relationism perk just to start experimenting with it, I would.

  "Boss?"

  "Zach, shit, sorry."

  "You were in a trance."

  At some point I had settled into a kneel - I rose awkwardly. "I was watching little Jonny Painter there. You take a patch of grass, get your cool robot to mark the lines, now it's a football pitch. It's magical. It's like when you take the sheriff badge and now you're allowed to shoot people."

  Zach, strangely, wasn't having a mystical experience watching paint dry. He was in a good mood, though. "You wanted to talk to me. We could do it out here. Nice enough day for it. Who was that kid? New signing?"

  "Yeah. Right back." I replayed what Zach had said. "Do it out here? No, Spectrum made loads of graphs and shit but mostly we need the video. Er, let's go to..." I found I'd lost confidence in the Blockbuster name. "The place where we watch footage. Cinema. Sin. The place we watch all your mistakes. The Sinema."

  "Yikes."

  ***

  I sat on the edge of the table facing the TV, and to my right, Zach did the same. I had a little clicker so I could move between slides without being at the laptop.

  "Zach, how are you doing?"

  He was a big, strong, athletic Texan centre back with PA 139. Brooke, our head of business crap - her official title - fancied him but that whole will they won't they thing had gone suspiciously quiet and one goal of this chat was to cleverly bait Zach into admitting they had gone full honkytonk. Zach was looking around the room. "I'm good. This is neat, isn't it?"

  "No, it's a nightmare but it's better than nothing and I think we did a good session with Dazza. How do you feel he's settling in?"

  "Good, fine. It has been tough, hasn't it? Real tough start to the season. For most of us," he added.

  I ignored the last part and looked through some numbers Spectrum had cooked up. "We've played three league matches out of 46. We drew at Fleetwood, Burton pumped us, Notts slapped. One point from three games. If we continue at this rate we will finish on 15.333 points. I need to explain to Spectrum you can't get a third of a point."

  "Would 15 be a record low?"

  "I doubt it," I mused. "I think clubs have finished on minus points because of deductions and whatnot. We knew it would be a tough start."

  Zach picked up a player radar and I wondered if we should let players see each other's data. Most of it was publicly available so why not? We didn't need to make it easy, though. Zach’s good mood had him looking for an upside. "We've done well in the cup, though."

  After beating Bolton 6-1 in their stadium, we had been drawn away against Fleetwood Town, the team we had played in our first league match of the season. That Second Round match had taken place about eighteen hours ago, hence why I was still a little sore and a little stiff. Fleetwood hadn’t taken the AOK Cup very seriously and had fielded a weakened team. I'd named my absolute best possible eleven, which was one-nil down until the 70th minute when I strolled on. I didn't have Bench Boost to help me but I didn't need it. One goal from a free kick, one corner planted onto Henri's head, two-one to Max Best's Blue and White Army, into the Third Round we go.

  "I don't understand these managers. Fleetwood are better than us - for now. They could have a real pop at a cup. Did you see we got drawn against AFC Wimbledon? Another League Two side. We can win that." We would win that. As far as I was concerned, we had one foot in the AOK Cup Fourth Round. That was far beyond my expectations; it was hard not to do a little Samba dance every time I thought about it. "Meanwhile Arsenal and Liverpool are playing each other, ditto City and Chelsea. Big clubs are dropping like flies. There is a route to, I don't know, the semis, for one of the League One or Two clubs."

  "Fleetwood must be sick of you."

  "I get that a lot."

  "And we drew them in the Vans Trophy. The rate you're scoring..." His eyes popped as he thought about what my stats for the season could end up looking like. The thought triggered another. "Boss, I worked it out."

  "Worked what out?"

  "I don't know why it didn't hit me until now, it's so obvious. You've got the FA Cup and the FA Trophy. You've got the League Cup and the League Trophy. Seems you Brits say cup when it's big and prestigious, trophy when it's for the mid-size teams, and vase for the even smaller ones. So if we can get to the semis of the League Cup, that means we can win the League Trophy. Right?"

  The League Trophy, called the Vans Trophy because it was sponsored by a van rental firm, was open to teams from the third and fourth tiers. In a fun twist, it also included some under 21 teams from the big clubs. Our mini-league included Fleetwood (a-fucking-gain), Wigan (from League One), and Liverpool under 21s.

  "Erm, yeah, we would need some luck to win a cup, I mean a trophy, but yeah. Next season I'll fancy us to hit that one pretty hard. It's ironic but I think we can do better in the AOK Cup because clubs outside the Prem look at it and see Man City, Arsenal, and think there's no point getting to the next round because they'll just get smashed. And maybe that's true for us, too, but I don't care if people laugh at us and I want the money." I put my finger to my lips while I gathered my thoughts. "I'm happy with how the season has started. Apart from, you know, my best forward being maimed. Don't worry about the trajectory of the season, mate, we're golden. Okay, let's talk about Zach. I want to get a bit, um... How can I say this? I want to go a bit beyond these numbers which means getting personal but I don't want to piss you off."

  "There's nothing portentous about that."

  Part of my apprehension was that I had never tried anything psychological like this before. Another part was that I wasn't sure if my instincts were right. How could I know what was going on in someone else's head? But I pressed on because at the end of the day I did have some objective numbers to base my theory on. "Big picture. You are an important member of the first team and you're an important part of our tactical arsenal. Actually, let's get that out of the way before we go deeper." I rummaged around and came up with the recent passing networks. "Check this out. Against Burton you played a lot of passes to Lee H, some to midfield. Against Notts it's similar. The line between you and Dazza is practically non-existent, right? But I need you to play those passes."

  "The ball wasn't sticking."

  "I know, but when you stop passing to him it actually puts us under more pressure. And the more he stuffs up, the more we can show him the video in here and the more he's motivated to fix it. Yeah, it's maddening for that one particular game but it's part of his development, isn't it? Anyway, he wasn't doing anything wrong, he was being outfoxed by the defenders. He'll learn faster if you keep pinging the balls to him. Do you get me? I don't give a shit about losing to Notts in the third game of the season. I want a twenty-match unbeaten streak to finish the season. That's why I can stomach a few botched clearances from Sticky, some poor control from Dazza, some hilariously shit cameos from the young players. Okay? We're building to something."

  "Trust the process."

  "Hey, I know what it feels like to pass to someone worse than you."

  "Which would be everyone."

  "Maybe, maybe not. But it's not your job to cut off one lane. I want players to take ownership and, like, direct their own improvements and stuff but I can't let you decide not to play vertical passes because the striker's having a bad day."

  Zach moved his jaw from side to side and pressed the back of his hand against it. He must have taken a whack in last night's game, but the curse didn't show anything in the Injuries section. "I understand."

  "Just for the full picture, it's better to play that pass and Dazza lose the ball than you never play the pass. When you stopped trying to find him, Notts's second CB pushed up to be like a DM and that strangled us."

  "Right. Yeah. To be honest, I was just trying to hold out until you came on."

  "Yeah. That's not... Well, fine. I suppose I'm on fire but I didn't do fuck all against Notts, did I? We can't rely on me all the time. Dazza's gonna be doing some training with you defenders. You'll teach him to shuffle and slide and give him a fixed role at corners. You'll spend time with each other and that'll help build this understanding. Huh."

  "You okay?"

  "Yeah, it's interesting, isn't it? All this chat from one little line."

  "A line that isn't there."

  I grinned. "Okay the data's cool sometimes. I want to get deeper, though. I want you to really kick on this season and the data isn't going to help too much, I don't think. You remember when you came here? You had mad enthusiasm that you sprayed liberally all over the gaff. You were doing that hey fellas that's not good enough chat. You settled down."

  "Shut my flappy Texan gob."

  "Yeah, that's what I said. And I think you realised that you didn't need to yell all the time and the players around you improved just as fast whether you shouted or not. So now when Sunday makes a mistake you think 'oh, he's very early on his personal development journey' and when Christian makes a mistake you think 'wow that's rare'. Is that fair comment?"

  "I think so. I mean, yeah, that's how I try to see it."

  "Top. So I'd like you to extend the same kindness and patience to yourself."

  "Oof," he said, as though I had punched him in the gut. He slid off the table and walked around. Fortunately, there were no trip hazards so it was safe to do so.

  "I'm going to be honest but let's be real, I'm not a psychologist and I'm barely in control of my own mind so I'm not judging and you can absolutely ignore this whole conversation. I was just thinking, like, what's my role here? What can I do to help everyone succeed? Apart from building the physical world of Bumpers and helping you win games and all that. So far, the only real help I've ever been has been on the mental side. Like making Tyson more of a team player or encouraging Youngster to make better decisions. I think I'll have a role to play when Pascal's back from his injury, although I suspect the Brig will be better."

  "You mean, like, making Pascal feel it's safe to go back into tackles?"

  "Yeah. It must be hard, right? After a leg break."

  "I think you'll be better than the Brig, boss."

  "Me?"

  Zach gave me a strange look. "You came back from a coma. You didn't head the ball for a long while, what I heard. You got over it."

  "Yeah," I said. "Okay, good point. Maybe I'll be useful there. So, look. I'm happy with you. You've got a decent haircut, you're a great guy, incredible example of professionalism for the young players. As a player, you're improving." Zach had been CA 40 when I'd signed him, and he was CA 69 today. Very nice progression, but I would have expected him to be closer to 80 by now. "You're going to be 26 this season. You should be approaching your prime and you're not even close. I think you're not improving anywhere near as fast as you could and for once I'm going to go out on a limb and say it's not my fault. I'm giving you the perfect blend of minutes and rest." I paused to see if he wanted to say anything, but he didn't. "I want you to race ahead this season so that you end up as by far the best defender in League Two. Minutes, rest, coaching, the all-new, all-singing, all-dancing Bumpers Bank. Now with robots."

  He did a very tiny smile. "Jonny Painter."

  I pointed to the TV. "Can I show you some stuff without you punching me?"

  His tiny smile turned wry. "If you have to ask..." He settled onto the table again with a determined look on his face. "Hit me."

  I reached out to give him a brotherly poke in the arm. "I'm only planting a seed here today. I think I have a decent idea of what's going on but I'm not qualified to help you with it. I'll plant the seed but you'll talk to Alex about this, right?" Alex was our new sports psychologist. "Or not. It's your choice. You might decide I'm totally wrong and that's very, very possible. But check out these images." I clicked and a photo of Brooke came on screen. It was just a normal photo of her going about her business, but she looked like a million dollars. Or since we're talking about Brooke, a billion dollars. "Oh, how did that get in there?" I said, eyeing Zach's reaction.

  Zach was a decent poker player, if what I'd heard was true. "She needs to get an image rights clause inserted into her next contract."

  "Someone should have a word with her."

  "Someone should."

  That seemed to be the end of that scene so I went to the next slide. It was me on the touchline just after the sickening assault that left Pascal Bochum with a leg broken in two places. I was going berserk, being held away from Bolton's staff by a gaggle of my players.

  "How would you describe me there?"

  "Handsome," said Zach. "Great hair."

  I laughed. "Come on. I want to go pet the robot before it goes home."

  "I mean... angry."

  "How angry?"

  "Volcanic."

  "How motivated to win the match do you think I am in that moment?"

  He scoffed. "Maximum. Whatever the maximum is, that's it."

  "I'm starting with pictures of me because I know how I was feeling in those moments, by the way. Yes, maximum. Volcanic. Good words. Okay check this."

  The next picture was me scoring the first goal just after the Pascal incident. It was taken from behind the goal and showed my face and my whole body. I clicked two more times and two photos eerily similar to the first came up, until they filled the entire screen. "Your three goals," said Zach. "You're so relaxed. It's like you're floating. It's wild seeing these just after the volcano."

  "What's my face like? Don't say handsome."

  "Angelic," he said, laughing.

  I was about to complain but I took a good look at myself. "That's not a bad word, is it?"

  "You are in the flow. The flow state. Hyper focus."

  "How's my motivation?"

  "Oh, still maxed."

  "Yeah. It's almost as though kicking a ball doesn't need any facial muscles."

  There was a slight pause before Zach slid off the table and walked around with his head in his hands. "Oh, boy. Oh, no." He laughed. "What are you gonna show me? I'm too sensitive for this, boss."

  I smiled and patted the table until he came back. I clicked to a completely new set of photos. "Here's Gabriel, the Arsenal defender. Very whole-hearted, very committed player. The top set are from four or five years ago. These are recent. You could probably find six other photos that showed the exact opposite point from the one I'm about to make but let's just go with it. See here at the top? He's so intense, so motivated. He's running around desperate to do well but I think he's also desperate to show he's doing well. It's on his face, isn't it? He's trying to prove himself to his teammates, his fans, his new manager. This is him now. You've seen them play. He's got the same intensity, same motivation. But now he's part of one of the best defences in Europe and everyone knows it. He doesn't have to prove anything, he can just get on with his job. He's outstanding. Right?"

  Zach was looking from the top to the bottom of the screen. "This is the thing where you think I'm wasting energy on trash talking, getting too physical, all that stuff?"

  "Yeah," I said. "But on a deeper level. We need to get deeper this season, mate. You, me, all of us. We've got no money. Whatever we want to use, we have to find it within ourselves. It's very beautiful."

  He tutted, but smiled. "Are you going to show me me?"

  "Er, no. Maybe not. Skip that."

  "I can take it."

  I clicked through. It was six photos of Zach, but there was no before and after. Only him straining, face-first, to achieve various tasks on a football pitch. "You could power a floodlight with all the energy you put into your face muscles."

  Zach frowned at the photos. "It's not - "

  "Thing is," I said, cutting him off. "It might be just that you have full commitment resting face. I don't actually care about your face, I want to know what's going on under the surface." I clicked and we cut to a video. I had asked for one camera to be trained on Zach during matches and recent training sessions. There was no audio but in each of these clips he was pacing around berating himself. I supplied the soundtrack. "Come on, Zach. Make that pass, Zach! Win that! That was your ball, you doofus!" Zach's head dropped and he stared at his knuckles. I pressed on. "I hear what you say when we come in at half time. I suck today. I can't control the ball today." I left a pause. "Commitment. Motivation. Will to win. It's all mint. It's mustard. But this is Chester. You don't have to prove yourself to the other players or the fans because their opinion isn't important. This isn't a democracy. It's one man, one vote, and I'm that man and I've already voted for you. You don't have to show your drive to me because I know you're always giving it 100%. I don't need you to show anything. I only need you to jog around and win some headers. Like, really. That's it. And this self-talk shit. That's no good for anyone, is it? That has to be holding you back." Another pause. "Zach, say something."

  He squirmed. "Positive thinking? Affirmations? You want me to talk myself up?"

  "I don't think I want that, no. Positive thinking implies a negative. If one tackle is good, another is bad. Right? So you can be as positive as you want but I don't think you can hide from the negatives."

  "What do you want me to do?"

  "I want you to talk to Alex Short about this. I'm a great squad builder, good tactician, decent player. There's no way I'm a great psychologist, too."

  "The Dunning-Kruger effect."

  "Good band. I love their second album."

  Zach smiled. "You know what it means."

  "It means I can suggest a topic for your sessions but then I back the fuck away, right, and leave it to the people who have a clue. That's Alex."

  Zach nodded a few times while pushing his hand against his mouth. "I'll think about it. I mean, no, I'll do it. I'll talk to him." We were quiet for a while, just sort of letting the topic settle. Zach leaned forward. "You didn't do this with Dazza, did you?"

  "I don't know him well enough."

  "Why did you start with me?"

  "Because you're a key player. Because no-one should work as hard as you and not get the rewards. And because if you don't like what I have to say..." I got up, pretended to stretch, and inched away to the other side of the table. "I know I can outrun you." I threw my shoulders to the left, then to the right, as if I was ready to evade him.

  He shook his head, amused but thoughtful. "Boss, look, it's... I appreciate this. I do. You don't need to worry about me reacting badly to you coaching me."

  "It's brain stuff, though. It's sort of invasive and personal, isn't it? It's none of my business, really."

  Zach shook his head. "I think it is."

  "Well, good. I can't say I wasn't worried how you’d take it. I don't want to fall out with you; I want to be invited to your wedding."

  His eyebrows rose. "I thought you hated weddings."

  "I do, they're boring. But I've never been to a wedding on a superyacht."

  "Why would I - oh." He shook his head. "Wow." He looked around to see if there were any papers he was supposed to take with him, then went to the door and pushed it open.

  I followed, remembered the robot, and jogged over towards it, but the grass was fully marked and Jonny had gone. He had left behind a perfect, pristine pitch. "Ain't that swell?" I said, in my flawless Texan accent, as I crossed the threshold.

  "It sure is preddy," said Zach. He scratched the back of his neck. "Am I in the team for Bradford?"

  "What? Why wouldn't you be?"

  "Because it's Wigan on Tuesday and you said we're going hard at the cups. So logically you would rest me for Bradford. Unless, you know, you thought it was a key game or something like that."

  "Key game? Bradford City?" I made a dismissive noise.

  "I was thinking that maybe Brooke might not go to the Deva because her brother would be there and I thought maybe you'd think that was mighty unfair because this is her home, not his, and I thought that maybe that might wind you up and you'd go harder at it."

  I stared at him. "Mate. Listen carefully. We might have a decent lineup against Bradford only because if Wigan put out a good team on Tuesday, we'll lose. But the Vans Trophy starts with a group stage, right, so we go weak against Wigan, lose that, Fleetwood think we're binning off that cup like a normal club, we surprise them, bosh, three points, we beat Liverpool's kids, double bosh, six points, we're through. Okay? So if we go strong against Bradford it's a strategy to help us get through the cup. It's nothing to do with Chip or Folke or Chipper or Raffi Brown. It’s 5D chess, okay?"

  He was trying to hide a smile, I know he was. "Yes, boss."

  I tutted. "How many times do I have to explain this? Bradford's just another game, okay? In the story of this season, it won't even warrant a page, let alone a whole chapter. You got that?"

  "Yes, boss."

  "Good."

  Next chapter: Bradford City