7.

  From: Ken Carr

  To: Grindhog Board

  Subject: Chester FC

  Max Best just scored from his own half against Newcastle wearing a Grindhog top that NO-ONE CAN BUY. No more prevarication, Wayne. Green light the second run of Chester FC home kits NOW.

  From: Wayne Carr

  To: Board; Ken Carr

  Subject: Chester FC

  Ken, can you slow down, please? There is a reason that we haven't gone for the second run which is that we're losing money on the deal you negotiated. We will wait to see how Chester's season develops. Best is a loose cannon and we want to have a good relationship with Alan Turner so we can get closer to providing the England kit. Don't get sucked into Best's narrative again.

  ***

  18'

  Photograph 1: I have just swished my foot through the ball while a Newcastle player looks towards his goal in horror. Josh Owens' hands are on the way to his head and his mouth is forming an O.

  ***

  It took three seconds for the ball to nestle into the back of the net. In that time I had a great view of the Geordies in the away end, many of them topless, a study in grumpy stillness. Lol. Get wrecked.

  I initially wheeled to my left to exult in front of Alan Turner but decided against it. I ran off to the right, to the West stand, to a section that didn't normally witness a lot of goal celebrations up close.

  Jump into the fans? Instant yellow card, especially with this referee. I wouldn't be on the pitch for much longer, though...

  I decided not to be stupid, so merely leapt onto the advert hoardings and stood, arms wide, head back, while hundreds of residents of leafy Cheshire went feral.

  Could the Sentinel strike me down for scoring that goal? Surely not. My match rating had been 3 out of 10 until that point. Now it was 7. You don't get squashed flat for a 7 out of 10 performance, right?

  Just don't do it again, I told myself.

  My teammates had caught up with me - they were going mental. I hopped down into the blob, hugged, kissed, screamed, was screamed at.

  Finally, I turned back to the fans, threw punches at them, and yelled, "Give me your money! Give me your money!"

  They loved it.

  20'

  The weight was off. The scales fell from my eyes. The pounding of the drum was the pounding of my heart. Newcastle fizzed some passes around zone 14 and with a sudden burst of speed I got to the ball just as it reached its target, the guy playing as their creative fulcrum. One colossal shoulder-barge later we were both falling, both throwing our legs at the ball.

  I narrowly got there first and he whacked me in the ankle. Free kick to Chester.

  The deafening approval for such a minor piece of business told me that fans were in. All the way in. That wasn't enough. I got to my feet, glared at the main stand, and demanded more noise.

  They obliged.

  21'

  We took as much time as we dared while pushing up. Our strikers plus Andrew formed a huddle near the corner flag. Ben pinged the ball that way and the lads fought and scrapped and won a throw-in. We took our time. Newcastle's lads were getting fractious. Josh went over to do his long throw. I was knackered so I didn't go up for it, but Newcastle's analysts had prepared the coaches for what Josh could do. They knew the price of everything and the value of nothing.

  After almost thirty seconds of drying the ball on a towel and waving his teammates exactly where he wanted them, Josh then threw the ball five yards. Andrew cushioned the ball back to him, Josh took a touch, passed back to Eddie, who squared it to me in the centre circle.

  We had killed a minute.

  Newcastle came thundering out of their penalty box like dogs released on a country estate. Christian and Zach were behind me, but if I lost the ball in this position it would be trivial for Newcastle to score.

  The first guy reached me and I awkwardly tried to readjust my body to squirt the ball to Zach. The green-shirted forward shifted the angle of his sprint. I stopped pretending to be clumsy, rolled the ball a yard to the right, and that was the end of him.

  The next guy was already at me, though. I wasn't confident enough to do a nutmeg but he saw me look up, astonished, as I spotted the keeper off his line again. Sentinel be damned! I lined up a massive shot and when the forward stuck a leg out to block it, I skipped around him. Buh-bye!

  No more messing about now. With the defenders surging out to form the high line, I leaned back and clipped a pass with a ton of side spin.

  Sharky and Wibbers were retreating to stay onside, but Eddie read my intentions. Setting off from his own half he raced down the line, collected my pass, and for the first time in the game we had Newcastle's defenders running back to their own goal while we attacked at speed.

  Sharky went on an underlapping run. Eddie passed forward and Sharky got there miles ahead of anyone. Our first touch in Newcastle's penalty box!

  Wibbers was busting a gut to support, but the move revealed the main flaw of my plan.

  Sharky didn't trust his left foot - with reason - so he had to stop the ball and push it onto his right. That fractional delay allowed three defenders to get between Sharky and the goal, and suddenly the chance went from being mouth-watering to being biscuit dry.

  Sharky tried to chip the ball to Wibbers but it was easily cut out. Within seconds, the action was in our half and Eddie was out of position.

  Newcastle came through the centre first, which was something I'd noticed them doing. They hit you in the middle and when you moved bodies inside, they would suddenly blitz the wings.

  The 8 I'd previously got the better of ran onto the ball, laid it off, and came for the return pass. He knew I would be right on him when the ball arrived and I knew that he would be planning a beautiful spin. It would dump me on my arse. He was going to put the League Two prick in his place.

  It went exactly as he planned... for 0.1 seconds.

  As he started his skill, I flicked my foot out and dabbed the ball away.

  He reached out, grabbed a handful of my shirt, briefly stopped my momentum. The fractional delay actually helped.

  Sharky panicked, realising he was offside. He waved at me not to pass, wasting the move's kinetic potential as he laboured to get back into position. Fucking lazy! Wibbers, wide-eyed, dropped deep to support me. Not what I wanted, really, but that was just his nature. I felt a counter-press coming from the right. Quick as I could, I pushed the ball to Wibbers. I moved right to get the return pass, drawing midfielders that way. Wibbers held off a defender and made to roll the ball into my path. Three Newcastle players went to that space.

  But once the guys had started tracking me, I had run left instead. Wibbers passed and I clipped the ball over the top. Sharky, now in position, chased it. Thousands of fans shot to their feet. Wes Hayward was our best chance of getting anywhere in this match and everyone knew it. Wes Hayward against a high line was box office.

  Wibbers ran to support, and I did my best to help. My tank was in the red but we needed a third body in this move.

  Wibbers glanced over his shoulder, saw me coming, and moved left, closer to Sharky, to make the initial pass easier.

  Sharky passed with his left foot, keeping most of the momentum in the move. Wibbers pointed to where I should go - cheeky fuck - and I ran like Michael Johnson in Atlanta 96, erect, head back, arms pumping. In a cartoon I would have sucked debris into the vortex I was creating, and I'd certainly blown a fucking hole in the defensive line. Newcastle guys were scattered - one on Sharky, three on me. In the goal, Masarik moved across to make life harder for me.

  There was only one thing everyone had forgotten - I didn't have the ball.

  William B. Roberts, the prick, shot.

  He fucking shot after I'd broken the land speed record to get into position.

  I knew the kid had done it because I saw it in Masarik's eyes. Pure panic - he was going to concede again!

  I saw up close what happened, had a phenomenal view of what would turn out to be the second of five timeless photos from the match.

  Wibbers had shaped to thread the ball into my path but at the last second had whipped a shot to the left-hand side post. It was fast and curving away from the keeper. Most goalies would have watched it sail into the top corner.

  Masarik was not most goalies.

  He sorted his feet out, took a few quick strides, used a blade of grass like a trampoline, extended one of his long arms, and got half a finger to the bottom of the ball.

  The photo showed this giant man, stretched out like an elastic hero, flying through the air.

  Beautiful.

  Less beautiful was the follow-up. I had continued my run - why not? - and when the shot came back off the post it rolled temptingly in front of Masarik and myself. I thought I was favourite to get there but he had those long arms. He got his big mittens on the ball just ahead of me. I gave his closest hand a fair old whack and tumbled over.

  The nearby defenders went nuts. I'm not sure if they thought I was diving or if they thought I'd cracked into their player on purpose. They tried to start some kind of beef with me but all I did was lie there on the turf, on my back, absolutely wrecked. Sweat was dripping off me to the point the Sentinel could have drowned me in my own juices if he wanted. I was breathing so hard it was like I wasn't taking in any oxygen. I was seeing spots.

  I wanted to do one last move, one last something. Yeah, these guys were well-coached, well-drilled, and the intensity was crazy. But I'd just about managed to get into the game and the goal had stoked all kinds of belief all over the pitch. Wibbers had shaken off the last few weeks of his torpor and looked once more like the future of English football. Josh Owens looked like he felt he belonged. Eddie Moore had gone marauding. Against Newcastle! Against the supposed best English manager! Eddie, how?

  I pulled myself up a few inches and immediately fell back. I was done.

  While I waited for my body to stop crashing, I looked at the match overview screens. A few Newcastle guys who had been on 8 out of 10 had fallen to 7. Our 4s and 5s had crept up to 5s and 6s.

  And the number 8 who had grabbed my shirt had been given a yellow card. The ref had played the advantage and when the ball was dead, booked him.

  Masarik had been getting some treatment on his hand, but with that done he came over and pulled me up. "You good?" I said.

  "Yes, mister."

  "I had to go for that ball."

  "I know. We are cool. Better for our relationship if you do not lob me again."

  "Don't go to the halfway line, then. Jesus." I saw that Youngster was waiting on the touchline. "I'm subbing off now," I said to the Slovak goalie. "That kid, Youngster? He can ping a lob from halfway, too. Best stay back here."

  "I do not believe you."

  I gave him a tiny smile. "Are you willing to take that risk?"

  I brought my arm up. He slapped his glove into my right hand and gripped it. "No risk, no fun."

  "No fun playing for Alan Turner then. Seeya."

  I trudged away and it took about ten paces for my mechanisms to smooth out. By the time I got to halfway I was walking easily and was able to slowly spin and applaud three-quarters of the ground. I gave Youngster a high-ten.

  People wanted to congratulate me. I waved them all away so I could sit on the edge of the bench and suffer. When I stopped sweating - if I stopped - I was going to get a shower. Maybe I would wait till half-time, since I was getting 7 XP per minute for watching the match. Good gains, that. Good gains.

  23'

  Newcastle had had enough of our shit and they came at us hard.

  Long shots, overloads, overlaps, underlaps, through balls. They had one problem, though. After his first interception was followed by a calm pass to a free man, Youngster's match rating hit 8 and was soon 9.

  We had a chance!

  26'

  Sparks were flying.

  The match was lop-sided, but even without me on the pitch we had a counter-attacking threat. Alan Turner was wary enough of Sharky and Wibbers to keep four players back. Facing six Newcastle attackers felt like facing twelve League Two guys, but it could have been worse, and we were winning about half our duels. The game was getting scrappy, which suited us.

  One thing I wasn't sure I liked - the number of yellow cards on both sides was totting up. Eddie, Lee H, and Wibbers got carded, while Ben was nailed on to get one for timewasting at some point, and Andrew was going to mistime one too many challenges. I could easily imagine finishing the match with seven yellows... or six and a red.

  Only two Newcastle guys were on yellows and they would only accrue more if we got more counter attacks going or if they lost their discipline. Masarik was patrolling the edge of his penalty area - with him that deep there was much less chance of him getting a red card.

  30'

  Sandra asked me if I wanted to take over. "You go till half time," I said, and the effort gave me a mild pang of headache. I ate more marathon paste.

  32'

  The noise from the home fans remained immense, remained relentless.

  There was a call and response chant going on. The McNally was shouting 'blue and white army' which was followed by the main and west stands shouting 'blue and white army'.

  Blue and white army?

  Blue and white army!

  3 out of 10 for creativity, 10 out of 10 for vibes.

  I poked my head out of the dugout and saw Alan Turner trying to shout at his players, trying to give instructions. They couldn't hear him.

  American crowds did this. They made it impossible for the away players to hear their head coach. I flew out of the dugout and waved my hands around. More! Give me more!

  The air crackled. A Newcastle player with Technique 20 slipped and Youngster gathered the ball. He dribbled slowly backwards - not now, mate! - drawing aggro onto himself before falling to the right in the process of chipping a ball left, over the top.

  Sharky chased it but the pass was half a fraction of a percent too strong. Masarik flew out of goal and booted the ball into the stands.

  The stands applauded like a forest of trees splintering and collapsing.

  Alan Turner shook his head in disgust and went to sit down.

  I punched the air.

  36'

  The Toon players got a grip. They had a spell of controlled possession that reminded them what they practised every day. Then they came at us again.

  The bombardment recommenced.

  Ben flapped at a long shot. Another whizzed past at an angle but somehow went wide. Was there a hole in the net? Chips over the top caused havoc. We picked up another yellow. A clever free kick routine left a guy with a free header at the back post. How did we have seven defenders and nobody marking that guy? And how did he miss?

  39'

  Agony.

  So much agony.

  I had stopped sweating, but the sweat had turned cold. If I stayed too long where I was, I would catch pneumonia.

  I marvelled at Youngster, Wibbers, and Josh. Fire in their hearts, ice in their veins.

  44'

  We had somehow survived without conceding but now I was up on my feet next to Sandra. The time just before the break was dangerous - it was when a player might look forward to his half-time oranges and a biscuit instead of focusing on the task.

  I was doing what I could to look animated, to keep the intensity up.

  Youngster was still relatively fresh and he got in the way of a pass. He was supposed to boot the ball clear and, indeed, Sharky, Wibbers, and the three Toon defenders ran away from him in anticipation of that event. But Youngster lent the ball to Andrew, got it back, passed to Magnus, followed it. Where was the goofy little twat going? Magnus bounced it back to him and when Youngster turned his body with the intention to give it to Lee H on the corner of the penalty area, I actually fell to my knees.

  This was almost as moronic as his shot in the World Cup. This was just giving the ball to Newcastle in a dangerous area. Hadn't I specifically shown videos of this exact moment? This was one of Newcastle's pressing traps!

  Sure enough, as soon as Youngster turned his body to play that pass, five Saudi-shirted players sprinted at Lee H.

  Youngster paused, rolled the ball backwards under his feet, and ran away down the touchline. He had taken half of the oppo out with one feint!

  I swear I saw him cackling.

  He wasn't the fastest player but to me he seemed to blaze up the touchline as fast as young Ronaldo. Youngster the mystery winger! On and on he went, and in the centre Sharky and Wibbers made runs. Sharky to the far post, Wibbers the near.

  Youngster entered the side of the penalty box - all those Art of Slapping drills paying off - and slid the ball towards Sharky.

  Charlton, the talented young defender, had gone too far ahead so as he stopped himself, he fell. Sharky was cocking his foot. He had to score! Charlton somehow squirted a big toe out and deflected the ball no more than three degrees. It was enough to push it against Sharky's ankle.

  With defenders splayed everywhere and Masarik having star-jumped to block the shot, Sharky had just enough time to turn, run away from goal, and get there before the onrushing DM. Sharky didn't have many options. He hit it even further away from goal, into the path of Andrew Harrison. The Triplet took a snapshot that was going miles wide - a terrible, terrible shot.

  Or an amazing pass. It was going straight at the head of Wibbers. William leaned back and let the ball hit him between the eyes. It angled past Masarik... bounced, spun... wide!

  Four thousand Chester fans jumped, cheered, saw their mistake, fell into each other's arms.

  Youngster, Andrew, Sharky, and Wibbers were on their backs, on their knees. Agony!

  Charlton took the goal kick in a hurry. The DM received the pass, turned, and played the ball to the CA 140 wide forward.

  He skinned Magnus and ran at Lee H. Careful, Lee!

  Lee couldn't take him out and was easily beaten. The forward shot. Ben parried it - just about - but back into traffic. Newcastle's young striker got his knee up and the ball ballooned over Ben's head, fell, was going in. What a sickener!

  What an absolute sickener.

  Photograph number three shows the aftermath of Magnus Evergreen sliding from five yards away and kung-fu kicking the ball almost straight up - it clipped the front of the crossbar. Had the whole of the ball crossed the whole of the line? Referee said no. No goal. Ben caught the ball and fell on it.

  Three-quarters of the stadium rose to acclaim Magnus' effort. Zach crushed the air out of him.

  The referee blew to end the half.

  The sigh of relief was as loud as a Deep Purple concert - loud.

  ***

  Half Time

  I followed the rest of the lads down the tunnel and into our dressing room. I waited a minute to see if I was needed, then went into the shower and blasted myself with healing water.

  While there, I checked the state of play. We were one-nil up but had been battered in almost every metric. Newcastle were equally dangerous across all three thirds so it wasn't a case of shifting our defence around. Apart from making subs, the only genuine areas of flexibility were whether to keep two forwards and what to do with Andrew Harrison. But dropping the forwards into some kind of 7-2-1 would only invite more pressure.

  The subs, then. My team's Condition scores had fallen fast and were just now climbing back up to the mid 80s. About twenty minutes into the second half we would be as tired as at the end of a League Two match, at which point Newcastle would surely put us to the sword.

  One of the benefits of Shocktober was that it had removed a few points of Condition from the Toon players overnight. It made little difference; after the first half almost all of them still had over 90% fitness.

  The rules around making subs made the next decision tricky. I could make three more changes but I had to make them in two windows: half-time and one other break. If I made three subs at half-time and someone got injured, we would be down to ten men. If I made two changes now I would lose a good ten minutes of hustle from someone. If I made one now and two later, I could end up with a strange eleven on the pitch.

  On the bench I had Sticky, Cole, Dan, Ryan, Lee C, Henri and Dazza. Goalie, left back, midfielders, strikers.

  My instinct was to replace Lee Hudson with Henri. Henri would do Henri things in attack, while I would move Magnus to right back and Andrew Harrison to right-wing back. It was a bit random, a bit desperate, but it would take one yellow carded player off the pitch and give Newcastle a slightly different headache.

  I finished my shower feeling much better and stepped into civilian clothes.

  As soon as I emerged, fragrant and relaxed, Vimsy pounced, way too close. "Boss, I've had an idea."

  "Hit me," I said.

  He waved Sandra over and urgently whispered to us. "Their lad Charlton looks a player but he's so young. He's raw, innee?"

  Sandra shrugged. "He has lost position a few times. He's great on the ball."

  "Great on the ball," scoffed Vimsy, sounding the most like Ian Evans I'd ever heard him. "He's a centre back. Supposed to be, anyway."

  "You don't like him?" I said, surprised. I would have gone back to a yellow mohawk if I could have signed Charlton.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  Vimsy made a dismissive gesture. "Oh, he's good. Course he is. But they've taught him the wrong way round. Time was, your Ferdinands, your Paul McGraths, they learned to defend before they learned to pass, just as nature intended. This kid, he'll learn, mebbes, but that's too late for today, innit? Get fucking Dazza on him."

  "Dazza?"

  "He'll make mincemeat out of this lad, boss. Hold the ball up, flick-ons, we can add another dimension to your plan. He'll help us defend set pieces, too."

  "What if they put the other centre back on Dazza?"

  Vimsy shrugged. "Then Wibbers is on Charlton and that's not gonna end well for Charlton."

  "Sandra?" I said.

  "I was thinking Henri for Lee."

  I beamed. "Me too!"

  Sandra said, "I like this, though. Can we get him on? Dazza for Lee?"

  I held my hand up while I was repeatedly smashed in the back of the skull by a fatigue demon. The moment passed and I eyed the current lineup in my tactics screen. Ben in goal. Eddie, Christian, Zach, Lee H. That was as solid as we were going to get. Josh was doing okay on the left and he gave us a long throw option that Alan Turner was hilariously discomfited by. Josh lining up a throw into the box had been the only time every single Newcastle player got back to defend. Magnus was doing fine on the right. Youngster and Andrew were doing their best to disrupt zone 14. Sharky and Wibbers were tiring but I couldn't really imagine taking them off. Without some pace up top we were absolutely effed.

  "Can't take Sharky or Wibbers off," I said. "Lee's on a yellow."

  We were interrupted by Physio Dean. "Boss. Josh has a tight calf. Want to risk it?"

  I frowned and checked his player profile - nothing there, but I believed him. No-one on that pitch wanted to be taken off. "No, I don't want to risk it. He'll come off. Thanks, Dean." I rubbed my forehead and experienced a pretty long emptiness. It took me a while to get back to where I had been. "Josh comes off, Dazza goes up top. That leaves us weak on the left."

  "Move Sharky to left wing," said Sandra. "That'll stop the right back joining the attacks."

  "You sure?"

  She nodded. "It's like you said. He's cautious."

  Sandra had been doing battle with Turner more directly than me. "How are we doing?"

  She knew what I meant. "We've rattled him. I'm enjoying it. More, please."

  "You know we're going to get dicked?"

  She smiled. "I know that. Turner knows that. I'm not sure the ball knows that."

  "Sharky wide left. Fuck it." I did an internal chuckle - I was too tired to actually waste calories on frivolous expressions. "I'll probably take over with about twenty to go. That okay with you?"

  Sandra gave me a strange look. "You don't have to ask; you're the boss."

  "Okay," I said. "I'm taking over with about twenty to go and if you don't like it you can walk home."

  She tapped me on the chest. "That's better. But you know I don't live far."

  I went on a tiny tour of the dressing room. I told Josh he'd played well and I was made up he'd come forward with his injury. I made a fuss over Magnus - his goal line clearance would go down in legend. I told Sharky and Wibbers they were nailing the role. I arrived at Christian Fierce and found myself staring.

  "Boss?" he said.

  I crouched in front of him and closed my eyes. I had ignored one of the mini-perks from Shocktober because it was so stupid.

  The Mummy - Wrap a player in bandages to give him/her +1 influence.

  Until I took over near the end and gained access to Cupid's Arrow and Seal It Up, this was the last possible way I could, ah, influence the match.

  "Christian, I need to get weird."

  ***

  With my captain's head neatly bandaged, the only thing left was my half-time speech.

  I got to the front and looked around. "Same again, lads."

  ***

  46'

  Newcastle came out all guns blazing. Presumably Turner had let rip at half time, and his guys were responding. They played like their careers depended on it.

  It was like the old tale of the irresistible force versus the moveable object. Their attacks smashed into our rocks and left our rocks smashed.

  48'

  Fierce leapt for a header and bonked it miles. Fucking miles. It went to halfway, where Dazza was being grappled by the CA 120 defender. Dazza did well to hold the ball up. If that was all he'd done it would have been useful because while the tussle was going on, Fierce had moved our line five yards farther forward.

  But Dazza fed Wibbers a pass, and Wibbers clipped it behind Sharky's defender.

  Sharky easily won the foot race but the defender slid and tackled the ball out of play for a throw in.

  In burning his man, Sharky had helped us burn a few seconds, and seared an image of Sharky accelerating ahead into the mind of the right back. He would be very, very careful about leaving Sharky unattended.

  50'

  Newcastle were knocking, as they say. The stats were becoming grotesque. Closing in on eighty percent possession, already past twenty shots. In a boxing match, the referee would have ended it.

  A desperate hoof from Zach was going nowhere until Dazza sprinted, leapt, and sent Charlton flying. Dazza nodded back to Andrew, who hoiked it to the left. Sharky once again got there, but his pass to Wibbers was cut out.

  Newcastle's defence dropped five yards deeper and stayed there. In boxing terms, we had cut them.

  Not many in the stadium noticed. Sandra did. Vimsy did. Pascal, Henri, and Ryan Jack did.

  Alan bloody Turner did. He looked towards me and for the first time in his life, saw the contempt I had for him.

  He turned away and ordered his subs to warm up.

  55'

  Turner was tired of seeing Sharky get one-on-ones and ordered a midfielder to move to that side of the pitch to help cover the threat.

  Sandra moved Sharky to the right before I'd even got up to suggest the very same thing and if I had been fitter I would have lifted her up and spun her around.

  60'

  The mini game of cat and mouse ended when Turner reverted to his default formation and brought on the first of his big guns.

  Two central midfielders, proper first teamers. CA 160 and 171.

  Our fitness was fading. Sharky had sprinted his heart out. Wibbers was flagging. Dazza's impact had been shocking but the defenders had adapted. With the extra security provided by the new midfielders, they pushed back up.

  The high line was back.

  The bombardment recommenced.

  I had no answer.

  66'

  For all that we got our arses handed to us all across the pitch, the first goal came from a long shot.

  Ben claimed he didn't see it because there were so many bodies in the way, but he should have done better.

  One-all, and the relief from the travelling fans was laughable. The Chester fans taunted them with a song: 'You only sing when you're drawing.'

  70'

  I talked with Sandra about how the rest of the match would play out and we agreed the current setup was more or less as good as it was going to get. That meant I could take over with no downsides and we would be able to use my perks. It was a risk because if I had to change anything it wasn't going to look anything like what we were doing.

  No risk, no fun.

  I took the wheel, got my hotkeys back, and smashed Seal It Up.

  71'

  We got a free kick over on the left. I brought Youngster and Andrew all the way back so I could send Christian, Lee H, and Zach into the mixer. I used Free Hit but it came to nothing.

  72'

  Newcastle's big guns combined with some quick direct passing. CA 160 to CA 171 to the CA 140 forward. He shaped to shoot, Ben came to close the angle, and a simple sideways pass was lashed into the net by the young striker.

  Two-one.

  Beautiful football. It would be years before we could face that when tired and expect to deal with it.

  We'd done well for 70 minutes. The stadium had been rocking for over an hour. Now reality was setting in.

  Five hundred million pounds versus five hundred thousand pounds.

  This had never been a contest, not really.

  Alan Turner gave me his smuggest, most slappable grin, and sent on a CA 164 centre back to replace Charlton and a CA 154 right back to take care of Sharky.

  The thing about dreams is they aren't real.

  73'

  Another sensational Newcastle move led to the left-sided forward getting fouled by Lee H. The forward wanted to take a quick free kick but Lee stuck his foot out and blocked it.

  The away fans demanded a yellow card.

  The home fans kept quiet.

  The referee approached Lee H and fussily and pedantically showed him a second yellow card followed by a red.

  I was the submarine captain whose special trick had backfired.

  You arrogant ass! You've killed us.

  I met Lee on his way off the pitch and gave him a hug. I told him it wasn't his fault. Told him he had put a shift in. Told him not to use all the hot water or Henri would go bonkers. Lee did his best to smile as he headed down the tunnel, head down.

  74'

  The free kick was smashed towards goal by the CA 171 midfielder. He blazed it out of the stadium and walked away, laughing. He was having a great time. They all were. The jeopardy had gone.

  Time to use Cupid's Arrow. Use it or lose it.

  I wallowed in self-pity for half a minute, then looked at my bench. Two subs left. Henri would be one - he would enjoy getting on the pitch even if the final score turned into an embarrassment. The second. Cole? No point having more defenders. Ryan? He wouldn't get a kick. Lee C? Yeah, probably Lee.

  My name is Max Best and my kink is being humiliated in public.

  "Dan," I called out. "You're up."

  75'

  Chester Football Club were going to go down swinging.

  The formation was 4-2-4.

  Magnus and Zach Green were off.

  Youngster was playing centre back. Andrew Harrison was our right back.

  The midfield was a 17-year-old called Dan.

  We had four forwards.

  As director of football, it would have been my duty to sack any manager I caught doing this crap and that manager could have had no complaints. This was batshit. Pure batshit.

  I used Cupid's Arrow to link Dan to Dazza. That would be the out ball. When we weren't conceding goals, we would be knocking balls towards Dazza.

  Guys in the Newcastle dugout were pointing at our formation and laughing.

  76'

  Newcastle shot over the bar.

  77'

  They shot just wide.

  78'

  A slick move ended with a rampaging Premier League star getting on the end of a through ball. He chipped Ben and wheeled away, arms raised. Youngster stopped the ball on the line.

  He looked around and decided his best option was Dan. He played the ball that way.

  Two Newcastle midfielders rushed Dan and he repeated the crap trick he'd tried against Stalybridge in the Cheshire Cup - the one where I'd told Zach it was okay to melt the kid's face off if he tried it again.

  Dan believed that it was easier to dribble through two opponents than one and he believed that because he was a stupid idiot. I'd only ever seen him complete this move in warm ups or half-hearted training matches, and even then it was usually after a coach had blown his whistle and all the defenders had stopped trying.

  Dan took a touch, moving towards contact with his opponent - WRONG - deliberately giving him a sniff of a chance - NO YOU CLOWN - tempting the second opponent to come closer - DOUBLE WRONG - and...

  And then he was away!

  He'd suckered them both in and they'd fallen for it! Maybe they couldn't believe a professional would try such a move on two Premier League stars. But he had, and he slipped through the gap between them, sped up, and now it was pandemonium.

  We were five against four! Dan drove hard at Newcastle's DM, who knew he couldn't dive in. Dan did one of the single greatest moves I've ever seen - as the DM ran backwards, Dan closed the gap, dabbed the ball to Dazza, and ran into the DM's legs. As far as the referee was concerned, the ball had gone and it was a harmless - and accidental - off-the-ball clash. Nope. Dan took him out!

  Dazza took a careful touch and passed it to Wibbers. Sharky and Henri were sprinting towards goal. Wibbers lined up a cross and - and waited.

  Andrew Harrison was on the overlap. He had run forty or fifty yards to join the attack. We had bodies everywhere.

  Sharky lost his mind and ran to the near post. Henri was already there. Wibbers slipped the ball into Andrew's path, then put his head down and tried to get into the box. Three Newcastle players were covering and more were rushing back.

  Andrew's first touch was shit - I spent 0.4 seconds furiously angry before coming, with elite reaction times, to blame myself. I'd frozen him out. He'd barely played any football.

  With all the momentum gone from the move, with Andrew trying and failing to shift his body weight, I found myself looking down at the touchline in front of me. You can't do mad things against an elite team and hope anything good will come from it. Had I ever really believed we stood a chance?

  Not really.

  My head jerked up of its own accord.

  Andrew, falling away, hacked at the ball with his left foot.

  The cross was dogshit. Miles over the heads of everyone.

  The cross was delicious. Miles over the heads of everyone except Darren 'Dazza' Smith.

  Cue the fourth legendary photo. Dazza is flat as a pancake, five feet off the ground, his magnificent hair flowing behind him like in a Renaissance painting, his neck muscles tight, his face a picture of concentration. The ball is two feet away from his forehead and the goalie is not going to get there.

  79'

  Pain? Tiredness? What's that?

  I ran around like a crazy person. Two-all. Down to ten men and we had equalised.

  Jubilation coursed through me, replaced by fear. We had something to lose. A draw would be a miracle. An absolute miracle. One of the defining moments of my career.

  Max's Misfits were on the march.

  Dazza - his first goal for the club was a preposterous diving header! Dan Badford, who I'd scouted while he had been watching his friend at Das Tournament, had wiped out three Premier League midfielders in one move. Andrew Harrison, an out-of-favour do-nothing midfielder I'd spotted on a beach in Tenerife, had two assists!

  Enough craziness - time to play the odds.

  I moved the lads into 4-4-2 (4-4-1 since we were playing with ten men) with Dazza on his own up top. I went men behind ball.

  Newcastle might still win 4-2. 5-2. Christ, 6-2 even.

  But they would have to fucking grind for every fucking yard they got.

  80'

  Shots. Crosses.

  81'

  Crosses and shots.

  I looked at Vimsy. He knew what I was asking. Can we do this? Can we hold out?

  He shook his head.

  82'

  I rotated Henri and Dazza.

  Six of my players had a Condition score below 70. We were at risk of picking up multiple serious injuries. Sharky was cramping up. Wibbers had nothing left in the tank. Eddie Moore had been quietly heroic. Andrew Harrison was our best runner but he was nowhere near match fit. He was blowing hard.

  This evening still had the potential to be a disaster on multiple levels.

  83'

  A winger skipped past Eddie and put in a stunning cross. Ben couldn't come and claim. Newcastle players were lining up against poor Youngster...

  CHRISTIAN FIERCE WITH THE DOMINANT CLEARING HEADER!

  I saw the aura around him - a huge circle as he demanded the defenders push out. It lifted my guys up, demotivated Newcastle's.

  The ball was played over the top - a forward chased it. Christian looked like he would wipe the guy out, a certain penalty, but he simply eased himself in front of his opponent and held him off as the ball went out of play for a goal kick.

  84'

  Ben was booked for time wasting.

  He booted the ball long, Henri lost the header, and we were back on our heels, as we had been almost the entire match.

  Newcastle had their 30th shot of the match.

  It screwed wide.

  Garbage.

  Little green men were berating each other.

  85'

  Ben waited as long as he thought possible, then booted the ball. I'd put Dazza back up top and he won the header. It bounced ahead, to the right, where there was not a Chester player in sight.

  Their left back ambled towards it, intending to play it back to the goalie. Dazza had followed his header, though, in the all-action style of Tom Westwood, and he barged the defender and got the ball. He was on! He was in! Only the keeper to beat. The defender, desperate, rugby tackled him.

  The hellish rage from the crowd was sweeter to my ears than the most beautiful music in heaven.

  Only a yellow card for the defender? Now that was a borderline decision. Dazza was far from goal, but he would have gotten a shot away before a covering defender caught up to him.

  Sandra wanted to know what I thought of the decision.

  "I would have given red," I said.

  "What if it was Magnus doing the foul?"

  "Nailed-on yellow," I said, reasonably.

  87'

  Newcastle were getting more desperate. Humiliation was waving at them. Failing to beat us would be terrible, but exiting the cup would be genuinely painful for the fans. They still hadn't won anything since becoming the richest club in the world. Big sides were crashing out of the AOK Cup, and the Geordies fancied their chances of winning silverware at Wembley for the first time in many generations.

  Dan rushed to block a shot, turned away as he did - not the face! - the ball ballooned up from his leg, wrong-footing Ben, who watched, one knee on the ground, as the ball landed on top of the net.

  Holy shit that was close.

  88'

  Ben was seriously testing the referee's patience now in a way that made no sense. Wasting an extra five seconds was nothing compared to us getting another man sent off! And please - anyone apart from the goalie! But I couldn't scream at him to get a fucking move on because there was no space in the stadium for extra sound. It was a non-stop cacophony, an assault on the senses.

  Ben launched the ball and it came straight back at us. A loose pass from a star midfielder - he wasn't mentally ready for this game and his performance was legitimately unprofessional - landed at the feet of Dan Badford.

  Astonishingly, it became clear that he was going to try his move again.

  I collapsed to my knees - I really needed to stop doing that - and watched through my fingers.

  Dan dropped his shoulder, drew the challenge, looked ready to burst through the tiny gap... and at the last second twisted himself away, dribbled back to his own goal, laughing.

  He pushed the ball safely back to Andrew Harrison... and had his feet swept from under him.

  A nasty, snide piece of business from the number 8, and my lads took the opportunity to cause some aggro and buy Sharky and Wibbers a bit of respite.

  The referee booked 8 and a quiet, disbelieving hush fell on the ground. Hadn't he...? The referee put away the yellow card and pulled out a red.

  Two yellows equals red. Off you go, son.

  The Deva rocked.

  Two-all. Ten against ten. We would survive the last few minutes. The match would go to penalties!

  Five kicks to knock the Toon out of the cup!

  Five kicks from glory!

  Full Time

  I closed my eyes as I tried to make sense of what I was experiencing. I think I had hoped to give Alan Turner a bloody nose, plant some seeds of doubt in the minds of people who might one day want to hire him.

  Sandra, my staff, and Max's Misfits had gone many steps beyond that. If we won the penalty shoot-out, the bloody nose would be a bloody everything.

  I knew it was a one-in-a-hundred freak performance. With the stats as lop-sided as they were, if we played this match a hundred times, Newcastle would score an average of four and we would score an average of none.

  This was statistical variance, an outlier among outliers.

  Or was it? We'd had the balls to put dangerous players in dangerous positions. We'd had the guts to take mad risks. If you did that, maybe you deserved your luck.

  Here was a thought - maybe I was lying to myself in the most blatant way yet. It would take a while to process everything, that was for sure.

  "Boss," said Sandra. She had her notebook out. "We need to pick the penno takers."

  "Fuck," I said, because I hadn't thought about it. I closed my eyes and looked at the ten guys who were left on my tactics screen. There were not a lot of quality marksmen there, and there were young players I wished I could spare. Some penalty misses haunted players for the rest of their life. "Not Sharky," I said. "He can barely move. Not Ben. Henri should go first."

  "Not last? Score the pressure pen?"

  "No. No tricks with the order. Best player goes first, second best goes second." I'd seen too many times that the best penalty taker was listed fifth and his team had lost before it even got to him. "Wibbers two, Eddie three."

  "I agree."

  I reflected later that it was funny I wanted to protect the young players but hadn't for a second thought to do that for William. "Got to be honest," I mused. "Don't fancy the rest much."

  It was then that I realised I'd made a mistake. In my exhaustion and mental confusion I wasn't fully aware of my surroundings. Andrew Harrison was virtually next to me. "Let me take one, Max."

  He wanted to score to help him get a contract at a new club. "You're not my dream penalty taker, Andrew."

  He nodded and blobs of sweat fell from his hair. "I know. But you don't want Dan taking one. Or Youngster. Let me."

  I reappraised the situation. "Are you taking one for the team, mate?"

  He nodded again. "Youngster fucked up at the World Cup, didn't he? And Dan's Noah's age. I know you'd take a bullet for Noah. Let me take one for Dan."

  I blew some air out. "Fuck me," I said. "Andrew fourth pen. And... Dazza."

  Sandra said, "Let's switch those round. Dazza scored in the match and he's a fucking striker. If he can't take a pen, why can't he?"

  "Done," I said, and that was it. I crawled back to the dugout, pulled my hoodie down over my head, and watched from a distance.

  ***

  The good news was the curse was counting the shoot-out as part of the match. As the manager against a Premier League team I was gorging on XP. 14 per minute!

  Of course, every minute was agony.

  I thought about what I would say in the post-match interview.

  Thought about how I could make the world see Alan Turner the way I did. How could I point out that he was serving a brutal dictator? That he was a moral vacuum? That he wasn't fit to become the England manager - ever.

  Newcastle won two coin tosses.

  They would shoot first.

  The pens would be taken in front of the away fans.

  Of course the rich team gets every advantage. Of course.

  ***

  The CA 171 guy who had been pretty poor stepped up.

  Ben looked tiny in the goal.

  Ben dived. One-nil.

  "Max, you gave Newcastle a lot of problems. What's your secret?"

  Henri strode forward with purpose.

  Masarik was enormous. It felt impossible to score against him. How could you score when all he needed to do was -

  Henri made it look easy. One-all.

  "What's my secret?"

  The CA 154 right back stepped up. Scored.

  "When you're up against a club funded by a murderous state you need to take big problems and chop them up into smaller ones."

  Wibbers came. I was suddenly as nervous as I could remember. What had I done?

  Wibbers sneered at the enormous goalie, ran hard at the ball... and whipped it into the left of the net.

  Two-all.

  "You have to make your problems disappear. Permanently."

  Newcastle's CA 140 forward walked up. He looked scared and I dared to hope.

  He cracked an unstoppable shot high, top-right.

  Okay, he didn't look scared.

  Fuck me that was a good pen.

  "One thing I like to do with my problems is decapitate them in public."

  I shook my head. Rubbish. I had nothing to say. I was to politics what Ben was to saving penalties.

  Eddie Moore placed the ball, looked to his right.

  I broke into a cold sweat. Masarik was going to dive right.

  Surely Eddie was bluffing? He was bluffing, right?

  He wasn't bluffing.

  The explosion of joy from the Newcastle fans told all of Chester what had happened.

  Newcastle's fourth pen was flawless.

  Dazza stepped up and I could barely watch. He had to score to keep us in the contest. I can't say I cared about losing in a penalty shootout but I cared very much about Dazza's breakthrough performance ending in bitter disappointment.

  I hated everything about his technique. The way he picked up the ball, looked for the valve, the way he set it down, the awkward way he ran at it like he was about to kick a sandcastle and didn't know for sure there wasn't a concrete sculpture under the sand.

  He took the shittest penalty seen in the Deva for a very long time.

  Masarik dived the right way... and completely flubbed it. It squirted under him somehow. Hit his forearm near the elbow and dribbled over the goal line. Crazy. We were still in it. I was going to give Dazza some private lessons in what it looked like when a human being kicked a football, but we were still in it.

  Newcastle's fifth guy was the CA 160 midfielder. If he scored, we were out. He placed the ball, counted to about 15, took three small steps to the left, twenty tiny little ones, then rolled the ball to the right as Ben dived to the left.

  Newcastle had scored all five penalties. They ran off to their fans. Alan Turner and his minions jumped around and spilled onto the pitch.

  My guys slumped.

  Action stations. I rushed out and grabbed Zach, Christian, and Henri. "Take care of Eddie," I demanded. Then I jogged through the morons in vomit green. They were celebrating inches away from Ben - classless pricks. I scooped him up and got him moving up to the halfway line.

  "I'm sorry, boss," he said, as tears formed around his eyelids.

  "Shut the fuck up," I said. "It's a penalty shoot-out. It's nothing. I don't give a shit." I brought up his match stats. "Hey, you were good," I said, genuinely surprised. "Eight saves. That's top! Eight out of ten performance, that. Against a Premier League team! Wow. Better than me, mate, that's for sure. Got to say, though, when you kept timewasting after getting booked for timewasting, that gave me ulcers."

  He wasn't sure if he should laugh or go back to crying. "I just thought - "

  "This is no time for thinking," I said. "Oi!" I called out. We were close enough to the other players that I could be heard. "Lads, get in. Fucking get in here right now." One by one they forced themselves up off the ground. I spotted one problem with the Chesterness of the situation. "Let's move this huddle to Sharky," I said with a big smile. "Easier than him coming to us."

  Sharky was on the grass, on his back, after putting in the shift of a lifetime. We reformed the circle around him, which was weird, but this was Chester. Christian Fierce was still wearing his bandage, for God's sake. Weird was par for the course.

  "Lads, amazing. I have so much to say but it can wait. Listen, you've got time off. I don't want to see you tomorrow or Thursday. Friday will be easy and we'll see how you're doing fitness-wise. Saturday's the FA Cup and we will rotate big time. If you want to go to the Blues Bar now and have a couple, you've got my permission. All right? Absolutely fucking outstanding, all of you. Oh, and by the way, fuck penalties. I don't want to hear about what happened after the ref blew for full time. You understand me? Next time we'll knock them out in 90 minutes. That's it. Enjoy yourselves, you've earned it, see you on Friday."

  The huddle broke up but the lads didn't move far. They wanted to stay out on the pitch, enjoy the atmosphere, the rare sight of TV cameramen rushing around trying to get the best shots. One came all the way up in my face and my fingers twitched. I needed a completo.

  What now?

  The post-match interview.

  What would I say?

  Something horrible and nasty that would leave a bad taste in everyone's mouths.

  Or I could say meaningless shit like everyone else in the world.

  I inhaled and trudged towards the tunnel. Cameramen and photographers were there in surprising numbers. And for the second time that season, one of my enemies appeared out of nowhere and offered me a handshake.

  Alan Turner, offering the traditional post-match shake because if he didn't it would be a controversy and if he attracted too much controversy he wouldn't get the England job.

  You might be thinking, well, if he offered the handshake he might have meant it. Might have been acting with class and dignity.

  But on a flight to Brazil I had clinked glasses with Old Nick and he had told me it was rude not to look someone in the eye when doing so. Ever since, I had clinked hundreds of glasses, said hundreds of cheers, and it was absolutely right that if you didn't look someone in the eye you didn't mean it.

  Alan Turner was not looking me in the eye. He did not mean it.

  It is more or less irrelevant but I would like the record to be straight on the matter.

  Turner blinked when he realised I hadn't taken his hand and with a jolt, he looked at me to find out why. His shocked recoil will live with me forever.

  Photograph 5: Turner has his hand out, expecting to feel the weight of mine. My right hand is covering the entire right side of my face, the way you might do during an eye test.

  See no evil, see no evil, see no evil.

  The piranhas of the media, scenting blood, went insane. Turner's minions, including his assistant, a guy whose role in life was to find new ways to bend the sport's rules, came at me.

  The Brig appeared and eased me away from and around the scrum.

  "Max!"

  The Brig pushed me towards the unfamiliar voice. I recognised the hair and the perfume. "Ems," I said, falling into her. She had come down from the executive suite to the front of the stand.

  She croaked, "Max, you were amazing. It was amazing. I've nearly lost me voice from cheering."

  I was sinking into her despite the metal bannister between us. I could have slept in her arms like that. We didn't have much time. In a season where I wanted to go deeper, wanted to spend quality time with people, all I had was a few scant moments with my one hundred percent. Why was I doing this? "Worth twenty quid, isn't it?"

  "Are you all right?"

  "No." I had won. I had lost. I had achieved my aims. I had achieved nothing: no money, no glory, no change. She squeezed me. I said, "I have to go and blast Alan Turner on TV. Then I'll be right up."

  "Max, don't," she croaked, moving away so she could check me out. She looked worried, but she put her freezing cold hands on my cheeks and gave me a smile. "You've already blasted him. You did, babes. You did. I was talking to Gemma about how you don't like him and she said if you want to hurt him, shut your mouth."

  "Gemma's first reaction to anything I say is shut your mouth."

  "Because the FA don't like you and if you don't like him it's like the enemy of my enemy is my friend. If you chat a load of shit you might help him into the England job!"

  "Huh," I said. "That actually makes sense. So what do I say? I've got loads of zingers lined up."

  "Talk about Chester and what you're doing here, not horrible things about chopping people up and suitcases buried in forests and all that. This is your chance to tell the story of Chesterness. Be positive. Mention the mini-bond!"

  The Brig came closer. "Sir, it's time."

  I took one last hug, let Emma's hair play against my cheek and neck, and let the Brig guide me through the tunnel to the crevice where we had the sponsors' logos up on a wall. Put one football manager in front of that wall, get a camera, and it all looked much more serious and professional than it really was.

  I let the TV guy fuss with the lighting and the sound and kept my eyes down, saving energy until it started.

  "Max Best," said the presenter. "Amazing scenes! An incredible night. You must be proud of your players."

  I did my best to get a cocky, cheeky vibe going. I think I did okay. "I'm proud of them, yes. They showed what happens when you bring a lot of talented people together and invest in them. We've invested in those players and now you can too. Go to Chester FC dot co dot uk slash minibond to find out more."

  "Heartbreak in the penalty shoot-out."

  "That's minibond, all one word. Heartbreak? Not for Newcastle's players or fans! They were really into it, weren't they? Very emotional lot. Oh, maybe they were celebrating the news that the Deva stadium is going to increase in capacity? Next time they come to Chester we will have at least one new stand. That's what the mini-bond we launched yesterday is all about. We're bringing the stadium back under the control of the Chester fans and making it bigger and better and next time a Premier League team comes and embarrasses themselves against us there will be thousands more people watching. 8% return on investment, conditions apply."

  "Tell us about your goal."

  "Yeah, sure. So the ball sat up real nice and I saw the keeper off his line and I thought, huh, is it this Sunday night when the first episode of our documentary will air for free on BBC 2? And as the ball hit the net and I saw those topless Newcastle fans there with their arms folded looking quite cross, I thought, tune into BBC 2 at 9pm this Sunday, lads, it'll cheer you right up. Chesterness. It's a brilliant show. I'm in it to a modest degree but it's actually about our wonderful women's team. Is what I thought as I was scoring that goal. And of course one of the aims of the mini-bond is to improve the pitch so we can bring the women's team home."

  "What did you say to Alan Turner at the end?"

  "Nothing, I don't think."

  "It got a bit heated."

  "Did it? I think you might have misread that, but it's possible he was dubious that we're offering an 8% return on investment in a falling interest rate environment, but no, it has all been fully costed and we can easily afford the repayments. We're one of very few English football clubs that break even, you know, and the new stand will allow us to compete with clubs that can currently beat us. You know, big clubs like Mansfield and Carlisle United."

  "I get the feeling you don't like Newcastle very much."

  "I spent two weeks holiday in Newcastle this summer - by choice! - with my girlfriend who is from that fair city. She's got the accent and everything. It's lovely there and the people are great. But their football club used to be everyone's second-favourite and now they are very much not. My ambition is to make Chester everyone's second favourite team. Tonight wasn't a match between a rich club and a poor one, a big one and a little one, it was a clash of philosophies. If you're sick of the way football is going - nation states, kleptoclubs, bloated tournaments, endless legal battles - I offer an alternative. Young players, exciting football, winning football, trophies, putting the fans first. Chester FC can never be as big as Newcastle, but we can be more liked, more respected, more admired, win more games, win more trophies, have more fans, have a better kit, have more swagger, have more fun, train more coaches, give more back, and you, yes you, can be part of it for as little as five hundred pounds. Chester FC dot co dot uk slash minibond."

  "Thanks for your time, Max."

  "Cheers."

  ***

  From: Wayne Carr

  To: Board; Ken Carr

  Subject: Chester FC

  All right... I've just watched both manager interviews. Turner is so afraid to say the wrong thing he never says anything.

  Best might be more trouble than he's worth, but he's worth a lot of trouble.

  Everyone's second team? Holy shit what an ambition but when he said the kit was better than Newcastle's I got a semi.

  Let's do it.

  Time the announcement to coincide with the first episode of that documentary?

  What else have Chester got going on?

  From: Ken Carr

  To: Wayne Carr; Grindhog Board

  Subject: Chester FC

  Yes to let's do it.

  Yes to the timing.

  I heard he's doing something with the army but his next big thing is the under 18s boys team. Two of them played tonight against Newcastle. I could turn up to training with a few bin bags of swag?

  Fuck that's a good idea. I'm running with it. I'll let you know how I get on.