Chương 111: 7.7 - Copy That (Copy)

7. Monday, October 23"We've arrived, sir," said Brick.

"Copy that," I said, staring ahead. Staring at nothing. My bodyguard waited, then craned his neck to the left, eyed me, and dropped a hint.

"Off you pop."

"Huh?" I followed his eyeline to the handle of the door. I pulled the lever and exited the Seal Pup. It closed with a satisfying, eco-friendly click. I exhaled, then sighed.

"Did I fuck that up? I fucked it up, didn't I? I'm shit. I shouldn't be allowed near kids."

"You are not shit with kids. You are shit at resting on your day off."

"I'll rest when I'm dead. Or after lunch, whichever comes first." Brick came around the back of the mini-van.

"You're not still thinking about that girl?" I sighed. I barely even had the energy for a proper flashback.

My visit to Helen's house started well enough. Her parents opened the door with big smiles and made cups of tea for me and my entourage, though there was some light bickering about how many spoonfuls of sugar Brick was allowed. Once that was settled, the dad said, "I can't believe you're doing this!" He had a slightly Scouse accent but so did a lot of people in this part of the world. He could have been from Ellesmere Port, the Wirral, or Southport. There was no way to check.

"How is she?" asked Brick.

"Tired," said the mum, but instantly regretted it.

"She'll be happy for a visit, though! You made quite the impression on her."

"We won't stay long," I said.

"I postponed our tactics meeting for this."

"Oh!" said the mum.

"You really didn't need to go to any trouble." I shook my head.

"I really did."

Helen was tucked under a blanket, propped up by a couple of large white pillows. She had a blue thing attached to one arm; I tried not to look at it. She did look tired, but her little face lit up when I entered. It was a magical moment, and I didn't mind that she then tried to play it cool. The bed was in the middle of the room, which left plenty of space for me to sit on the right, next to a bedside table with a Disney lamp and some thin books, while her parents sat opposite me.

I considered the nature of the space. The size, the fitted wardrobes, the view of the garden that stretched away from the house - this had been the parents' bedroom until Helen had fallen sick. How long had they discussed whether they should switch? Five seconds, tops. They would do anything for her. I kept it together.

"Helen," I said.

"I'm Max Best."

"I know."

"We met last week."

"I know."

"I promised that I would score a goal for you, but I didn't. I failed. I thought to myself, I should apologise to Helen because she'll be gutted."

"I really don't - ""But then I thought, er, no. It's not my fault! If anyone should apologise, it's the goalkeeper of Manchester United. What a selfish idiot! Eh? What was he playing at, saving my shots? It's totally outrageous. So what do you think, should he be the one who apologises?" Helen smiled, tried to hide it, tried to look grown up, then she looked to my left.

"Is that him?"

"Sorry," I said, with a frown.

"Are you asking if the goalkeeper of Manchester United is in your bedroom? That's a very strange question, Helen." Again, she tried not to smile.

"I know it's him." Urbain Zottegem said, "Hello, Helen! It's nice to meet you." He was way better at this than me. Calm, friendly, not trying to make people like him, just going through the world in his own way at his own pace.

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm okay!" I held my phone up and pretended to scroll.

"I made an agenda for this meeting. Item one, goalkeeper apologises for breaking Helen's heart." Urbsy did an exaggerated sigh, which made Helen smile.

"Who's this one?" she said, meaning the person to my left.

"Who, him?" I said, closing the apology thread.

"I seem to remember you saying something about being deeply passionate about football, so I thought I would bring increasingly famous players to visit you." I held my hand flat.

"One, me. I'm local famous, although I'm also massive in Malta." I lifted my hand a few inches.

"Two, Urbsy. He's one of the top hundred most famous goalkeepers in the world, probably." I lifted my hand all the way up.

"Three, Brito. Man United captain, Portugal star." Brito smiled, warmly.

"Hello, Helen." The dad said, "You've painted yourself into a corner there, Max."

"Soz what?"

"You said you're gonna bring increasingly famous players. Who's more famous than Brito?" I saw the flaw in my plan.

"Er, Messi?" Brito said, "You are a big football fan, Helen?"

"No, I don't like it much. It was nice yesterday because lots of people came to watch. Dad wanted Max to score a goal which was funny because he doesn't like Max."

"Hello," I said, eyeing the dad.

"And he doesn't like Manchester United, either."

"Oi!" I said.

"What's going on here?" I pointed at him.

"Show me your tattoos. If you've got a King Kenny, there's gonna be trouble." He grinned.

"I'm a Red, Max. Guilty." I looked from Urbsy to Brito to the dad to Helen.

"Well, this took a dark turn." Brito laughed and pushed me.

"Liverpool, Manchester, what's the difference?"

"Do you want me to make a list?" He laughed again.

"We are here for Helen." I clicked my fingers.

"Right." I leaned closer to her and lowered my volume.

"The scoring a goal thing was a bust - no thanks to certain people I could mention - so I'm pivoting."

"Pivoting?"

"Yeah. That's where you try one thing and it doesn't work so you try something else. I've got some gifts for you and we're going to see which one makes you smile." I turned to Brito.

"I forgot to mention this part. Helen never smiles. The nurses said she hasn't cracked a smile for eight months."

"She's smiling now, Max," he said.

"No, she can't be," I said, leaning down to unzip my backpack. I pulled out an envelope and started to hand it to her but paused.

"I tried to imagine being a ten-year-old girl who was poorly. What would I want most in the entire world?" I let her take the envelope. She opened it carefully, frowned, and slid out a greeting card. She looked at the front.

"Happy Birthday Dad." From the back of the room, Brick laughed. He hadn't known what I was planning. I said, "Open it." Helen did; something fell out. Urbsy half-stood.

"What is it?" Helen held it up, with a confused look.

"Five pounds." Brick laughed again. I said, "So obvs you can't just pop to the shops to buy your dad a birthday card, so I've solved that problem for you. You can surprise him with this. All you have to do is write some message, sign it, tell him not to spend all the money on sweets." Helen looked at her dad.

"But it's not a surprise. He's here. He knows."

"When's his birthday?"

"February." I waved my hand.

"He'll have forgotten by then." Brick laughed again. Brito was looking at me like he had never seen anyone from my species. I held my hands up.

"Okay, I thought that was a slam dunk, but apparently not. Let's go to level two." I reached into my bag and slowly produced... another envelope. Brick laughed again, and so did Brito. I handed it to Helen. She wasn't sure if she should smile or be worried, and her fingers fumbled with it. She slid out another greeting card.

"Happy Birthday Mum." She opened the card and held up a banknote.

"Ten pounds." Yeah, so that was a massive hit. Helen's parents were in bits. The mum was cry-laughing, which was disproportionate, but I guessed she didn't get much chance to properly let go. Helen giggled, stopped, saw her mum, giggled again. I reached down into the bag and pulled out an envelope ten times bigger than the previous ones, which made everyone fall around again.

"This is for Christmas, Helen. Don't open it until December." Inside was an invitation for Helen, her parents, and 7 guests to come to watch Chester versus Ipswich Town on December 11th. We would batter Ipswich. I wouldn't just make her like football, I would turn her into a lifelong Chester fan. Brito leaned over me and took a book from the bedside table.

"My daughter is your age, Helen. She loves to read. Would she enjoy this?" Helen's face lit up again.

"Yes! They're so good. I've got them all."

"Yoink," I said, taking the book from Brito. I read the cover." The Mystery of the Upside-Down Pony, by Penelope Penn."

"That's my favourite!" said Helen.

"Sometimes I'm too tired to read so I have the audiobook but they make me sleepy anyway! I have six."

"You've got all the books but only six on audio? Huh. Oh! You know who's got a wonderful reading voice?" For some reason, Brick laughed. I opened the book and put on a storytime voice.

"The cat sat on the mat. The cat was sleeping. The sleeping cat stretched and yawned. What a happy fat cat that was sat on the mat!" I looked at Helen.

"Why aren't you asleep yet?" She made an exasperated noise while reaching for the book; she got nowhere near it, lol.

"That's not what it says! It's about a schoolgirl detective who is brave and clever." I looked at the back, which had a long list of books in the same series.

"The Case of the Quarrelsome Cousins. The Spectacles of the Secret Spies. The Mystery of the Early Wedding. Oh my God... That one's genuinely intriguing. Why is it early? How can a wedding be early? Do you change the clocks in the church?" I snapped out of it and handed the book over. Helen put it on the other bedside table, out of my clutches. The mum said, "You know... Never mind."

"What?" She looked at her daughter, then at the Manchester United players.

"This is lovely and amazing and wonderful but honestly, if Helen could meet anyone, it would be Penelope Penn."

"I think that's a pen name," I said, and Brick again cackled.

"But, er, yeah. How hard can it be to get a writer? I can track her down, explain what I want, and she'll go yeah let's go. We'll rush outside and she'll be like, hey, where's the helicopter? She'll storm back into the lighthouse - she lives in a lighthouse or a windmill, I reckon - and she'll open the letterbox and shout 'come back when you're serious about this!'" I turned to Brito.

"Can I borrow your helicopter?" Brito smiled at Helen.

"Is he always like this?" She smiled back.

"Yeah." I said, "New mission. Get a writer to come to Chester. Look, this sounds easy. Writers are lonely and have no friends. They never get invited to parties, they forget to pay their bills so they rely on candlelight, and on top of everything they are incredibly needy so they're easy to catfish." I gasped.

"Fake book festival! We'll set up a fake book festival with Penelope Penn as the guest of honour! We'll make up an award. Best Book with a Pony on the Cover!" I gasped again.

"New plan! We'll get Penelope Penn to live here, in this house! And she can write a story based on you. The Girl Who Never Smiled. This plan is flawless. No promises, but I promise all those things I just said." The mum said, "A signed book would be fine." I tapped my lips.

"Signed book. Yeah. Start small, get more elaborate with it over the coming months and years." Brick coughed. I stood up.

"I have to go. While I've got the famous players in town, they're gonna help me move a sofa." Brito leaned and unzipped his own backpack. He pulled out a shiny match ball.

"Helen, this is for you. This is the ball from the goal I scored. Helen's Goal. Football is not your favourite, I know, but let this be a symbol that everyone is on your team. Manchester, Liverpool, Chester. We are cheering you on." She took it in her little hands, eyes shining, then looked up, startled, to see her dad was a blubbering mess. I made a gesture of complaint and wailed, "Britoooo!"

I pulled at my bottom lip and nodded.

"I'm better with kids than Brito." Brito leaned round the back of the minivan.

"Did you say something?"

"Nope. This way, boys." Brito and Urbsy followed me into the McNally Stand, where they admired the gleaming wood, the serenity of the design.

"Yeah don't worry," I said, as I pushed open a gate.

"It gets noisy." We walked to the right, behind the penalty area. The posts weren't in place.

"We've got the old-fashioned goal frames," I said.

"Not like the fancy new ones you've got at Old Trafford. The ones that get a little bit narrower in the second half when the oppo are attacking."

"I see," said Brito, nodding.

"Shrinking posts are why you shot wide when it was easier to score."

"Oof. This is like getting bantered by my high school bully." I checked on the progress of The Big Hole, declared it 'Still Big', and sped up as we approached the away end. I was hungry! Emre had opened his kebab emporium as a special treat. He only had one request - apart from money - which was to get photos with the United stars. On the back wall of his kiosk he had tops, scarves, and badges from all sorts of football clubs.

Someone always left something in the away end, and Dylan always made sure to give Emre first refusal. There was a small but growing photo section. Emre with Dieter Bauer, Don Pino, the Welsh FA, Elliot Speed. The best picture had been taken with one of European football's leading bigshots - Mr. Yalley. That was the only one where Emre wasn't being totally serious - he and Mr. Yalley were doubled up in laughter. When Brito and Urbsy hove into view, Emre tried not to look impressed.

He pointed a kebab slicer at me, redirected it to the door.

"I hope you do not expect me to feed all those people."

"People?" I wandered over and looked outside. About 30 people were milling around, looking excited. Someone had leaked that Brito would be coming for a kebab.

"Jesus." Brito came over.

"What?"

"I don't like being big-dogged in my own stadium."

"Big-dogged? Who is doing this?"

"You!" I said, laughing.

"See those people? They all work for me. They're like, oh, Brito is here! Let's use our lunch hours to watch a guy eat a kebab! Wait, didn't he foul Max Best six times in one match? Yeah but so what? He's Brito." I made a dreamy face and fluttered my eyelashes. Brito gave me a tiny shove, said, "If you come to Carrington, it would be the same."

"Yes," I agreed.

"It would. There's Max Best. Who's that with him? Brito! Swoon!" He gestured as though he was throwing his car keys into a bowl, underarm.

"You're crazy." Brick said, "Do you want to let them in?" I had another peek outside, but locked eyes with one of the pack.

"Shit," I said, as I pressed myself against the wall.

"They saw me. Brick, do you know how to combat the two types of zombie?"

"Yes, sir."

"Emre, can you put on some extra kebabs?" The Turk looked pained, muttered to himself, then said, "Who's paying?"

"Me. The club. Someone." He grunted, which counted as enthusiastic assent, and I went to the door, unlocked it, and stepped out, to be greeted by cheers. I held my hands up and when everyone was quiet, I said, "You can come in on one condition. If you have ever shouted, 'Fuck off Brito you fucking cheat'... Go get a Nando's." Brooke was in the crowd - I hadn't noticed.

"Have you never shouted that, Max?" A look of pure innocence crossed my face.

"Never, ever, ever." I held a finger up.

"The lads already gave up their time this morning so let them eat in peace, yeah? If they have time and energy to do selfies, I'll initiate it. Good? Good. Brooke, will you eat with us?"

Urbsy and Brito sat next to each other. I sat to the right of Brito, leaving a space for Brooke. She got her kebab and came over, smiling.

"Lads," I said.

"Watch this. She's gonna eat that meat Texas-style. Have you ever seen piranhas in action?" Brooke lifted the kebab to her mouth, watched us watching her, and took a dainty nibble. Urbsy laughed and took a manly bite of his own lunch. He pulled a face.

"Mmm. It's so good."

"So good," agreed Brito. I swallowed a mouthful and dabbed my lips with a napkin.

"I really want to thank you for coming. I don't even have the words to say what it means." Brito shook his head.

"Don't mention it."

"Kay," I said.

"Complete social media blackout, got it. You heard that, Brooke." She eyed Brito while jerking her head towards me.

"He's so pure of heart, he thinks we should do good things and not tell anyone. Ride the wave of good publicity so we can do even more good work? Absolutely not. That would be cynical."

"Correct," I said.

"Anyway, the mum will post all the photos and we'll make sure Beth sees them."

"Hoho," said Brito.

"Not cynical, no."

"Hey," I said, seriously.

"I didn't do that for clicks and neither did you."

"What about Urbain? Why did he do it?" I shrugged.

"Guilt." Brito laughed.

"So funny."

"Brooke, I had an idea. A small addition slash complement to the club museum. It'll be stuff that I collect in my career. Brito's shirt and armband, stuff like that." Brito's eyebrows shot up.

"You will make a museum... for yourself? I thought Ronaldo was vain." Brooke said, "He's worried about it becoming too Max-centric. If the fans were allowed to choose what to put in the museum, more than half the collection would be related to Max in some way. I don't really see the problem."

"No-one's bigger than the club," I said.

"The day I raise myself up is the day all this starts to fall apart. No, we'll have a small space that's about me. It will be proportionate. You're probably worried that we don't have a name for this space."

"I'm actually not." I rearranged the kebab so I had a free hand, which I used to give my next statement a sense of majesty and wonder.

"The Maxeum." Brooke sighed. Brito said, "The museums are to go in the new stand?" Brooke shook her head.

"We will demolish the main stand. You will only get to play in it once, I'm afraid. After this season, the last link to the twentieth century will be gone from the Premier League." I frowned.

"Is that right? Half the teams have new stadiums, but some are old. Oh, you mean renovations? Every stand has been revamped or entirely rebuilt since 2000. Yeah, it could be."

"Certainly we have the oldest locker rooms," said Brooke.

"Dressing rooms."

"Oh, no doubt. Yeah, you guys will only get it once. Hey, you're the last home game of the season. Thanks for today but I'm not gonna take it easy on you. We're gonna need that win, probably." Brito's eyebrows rose a fraction.

"To do what?"

"To stay in the Premier League." Urbsy paused in his chomping.

"You have negative one points after nine games. You have a higher than 90% chance of finishing dead last."

"Yeah, well, according to the experts, Helen has a 90% chance of surviving. Truth is, we're both gonna make it. One. Hundred. Percent." I took a bite and crunched into a thin slice of onions. Brooke said, "One hundred percent, Max?" I came down from my high horse.

"Okay, fifty percent. It will be close. Um..." I brought up the curse's league table and the fixtures. There were some tricky ties on the horizon, but a few where we could pick up draws. I would fancy us to beat Ipswich and Leicester. The league table would slowly start to look better and we would start to close the gap to the team in 17th place. But the defeat to United had clipped off some of our Morale, and Murray Burnett was once again unhappy. There were two messages in his player profile.

'Is disappointed with the club's league position.'

'Thinks the club's poor league position may be affecting his reputation.'

"We need a win against Leeds," I said, as I stared ahead. Bench Boost. It was surely the right time to use Bench Boost. We urgently needed a win, if only to prove that we could win at this level. One brings two. But I really, really wanted to save Bench Boost for the Newcastle United match. I liked Emma's dad, of course I did, but I also wanted to lord it over him at Christmas dinner. And we shouldn't use perks in matches that we expected to win!

"We need a win against Leeds," I repeated, and I was surprised by how glum I sounded.

"How will you play?" asked Brito.

"We've got our tactics discussion in a bit, but basically... I mean, it'll be..." I faltered. Brooke said, "We beat Leeds in the cup last winter, didn't we?" I nodded.

"4-2." That time, I had used Triple Captain and Bench Boost. Should I do it again? Maybe. A win would give us a short-term boost, faster training.

"Leeds play a lot like United. It's fast, chaotic, lots of running. They don't have a Brito. They don't have an Urbain, for that matter. We will probably agree that the best way to play against them is to copy how we played against United."

"So what's the problem?" said Brooke.

"The definition of insanity is doing the same thing again and hoping for a better result. Losing 4-3 again would be entertaining but it doesn't really pay the bills." Brooke tilted her head.

"It kinda does. DigiWorld were ecstatic with the match. They hinted that if we play like that, they'll put us on TV more." Urbain said, "Is that what you want? That would mean rescheduling the matches, wouldn't it?" Brooke said, "Some of the fans get grumpy when the games are moved to a Sunday or Monday night but we get almost a million pounds every time we are shown, so..." She shrugged.

"We put the fans first as much as we can." She looked up, smiling to herself.

"Yesterday we had a big spike in online merch sales. I got a text from Grindhog to check out the real time data. The message went something like, 'Playing this way against Man U is insane but it seems like insanity sells. More, please!'" Brito said, "Play against Leeds how you played against us and you'll win. Easy." I blew air from my cheeks.

"I'm not sure." I glanced around, checking who was watching us. Most of the people were busy eating lunch, though of course they shot looks our way pretty often.

"I shouldn't say this but I'm discouraged." Brooke's kebab paused on its way to her mouth.

"Did you really think we were going to beat Man U in their stadium?"

"They were down to ten men and their best player is nearly 40." Urbsy said, "I'm 25." I scoffed.

"I just don't think I did a good job on the tactics. I should have had Helge against Biyik. I should have started defensively. Low block, frustrate the home fans, gradually ease into it. Newly-promoted teams are supposed to grind out results. Get a few draws, get some stability, think about getting adventurous when you've been in the league for four years." I put my kebab down and wiped my hands so that I could massage my forehead. Brooke took a bite and said, "Yeah, you're never gonna do that."

Urbsy said, "Do you really think Leeds play like us?"

"Yeah, don't you?"

"No." I frowned; this guy wasn't an idiot.

"It's almost the same."

"But they do 3-5-2." I shook my head.

"High press, lots of man coverage, obsession with transitions, intense verticality on counters, the midfield vanishes when the oppo counter - no offence, Brito, I'm sure you do your best - their main way of stopping attacks is by fouls. At least Leeds will pick up some yellow cards for hacking at my ankles - no offence, Brito; I'm sure you weren't being cynical. Yeah, they play exactly like you, but it's way more chaotic. I should try to impose some order on proceedings. Get really mathematical about it."

I looked up.

"Play like Brentford. Percentages." Brito was finishing his kebab; he wiped his hands and made delighted noises.

"Where can I wash...?" Brick stepped closer.

"Follow me, sir." Brito stood, made a fist in front of his mouth, stayed still for a moment, then unclenched his hand.

"Spread out." I nodded.

"Spread out, yeah. Totally." He gave me an annoyed smile.

"Against Leeds. Spread out. It's like you say, they are chaotic. They run too much. Spread out, use the whole pitch, make them run more. This was the idea of Pedro Porto when we played them but as you know, it was not a good moment for the club. You can do it. You can make it work. Make the distances bigger. Your players are technical. Leeds are runners. Over bigger distances, their passing is not so, ah..."

"Precise," said Urbsy.

"Mmm!" agreed Brito.

"Peter Bauer over thirty metres is accurate the same as over five metres. Also with you. That is your advantage." He shook his head.

"Leeds are the team in the league that set the most traps for themselves. It is incredible. They work so hard to point the gun at their own feet; I like watching them very much." My scalp was tingling like mad. Yes! We could copy paste our tactics from yesterday but spread the playing margins. Brito was right! He was a tactico! Tommy Tactics! I looked at Brooke.

"When Brito comes back from washing his hands, I need you to start our charm offensive."

"Okay," she said, eyeing the Portuguese playmaker with amusement. He was smiling back.

"I need you to convince him to move to Chester and take a 90% pay cut while he's at it."

"Only a 90% cut?" she said.

"We can afford 10% of his wages, can we?"

"Maybe 8%," I said, sadly, which drew a tiny smile from Brito.

"Plus all the kebabs he can eat."

Thursday, October 26 J: Yes! Welcome to Deva Station, the number one podcast for the greatest team in the world of all time ever in history, currently in twentieth place in the league, Chester FC! I'm your host, J. He's Smakk. Smakk: How's it going, everyone? J: Butch Fudge. Fudge: That's me! J: All right. In today's episode we're going to preview Leeds United. We beat them last - [Sound of doors opening, chairs scraping, general chaos.] Max: What's going on? Did you start early? Never mind, you can bin all that.

I'm here now! J: What... Max: Hello and welcome to a very special episode of Deva Station. I'm your host for the day, Max Best. Pause for applause. [Silence.] Guys, come on, dead air is a crime. J: Is this your new hobby? Hijacking podcasts? Max: Not so much a hobby as a thing I like to do in my spare time. Right, get your brains into gear, lads, because I've got to rush off in about fifteen minutes. Emma's gone to the phone shop to yell at the guy about her plan.

I told her I was going to pick up a brochure, and if we time this right, she won't even notice that I vanished. Today's show is a Q and A. Ask me anything! Who's got the first question? Fudge: How did you know we were here? Max: A very accurate tarot card reading. Next question. Smakk: How are you? Max: I'm good. Feeling pretty good, I'd say. You? Smakk: Upbeat, I think. Positive. We really enjoyed the Man U game. Are you friends with Brito now? Max: Friends? Friendly, I suppose.

Obviously already respected him as a player and I knew he was a good person because he tried to push back when United were sacking all the tea ladies and people who had worked at the club for decades. He offered to pay for the Christmas party that got canceled, stuff like that. It's easy for wealthy people to act nice when there's a camera on them but he's proper nice. Top guy.

I was watching how he was with the kids and the randos coming up to him and he was so friendly and patient I thought, I wish I was more like that. Then I thought, nah, I'd hate it. I like being grumpy. Fudge: Are we going to sign him, haha? Max: He'll go to America when he's done at United, won't he? The MLS would suit him. You think he gets a lot of assists here? Imagine him in a weaker league. The mind boggles.

Just pinging passes non-stop to corn-fed track and field stars while honky tonk music plays and every time there's a goal, a B52 Stealth Bomber flies overhead, but if the goal is disallowed by VAR, it flies backwards, sheepishly. Fudge: You don't watch much MLS, do you? Max: I think I have a pretty good idea of how it goes. J: If you're not signing him, who's next? Have you signed anyone since the Fans Forum? Max: Er, not in the way you're thinking. We picked up a couple more Chester kids.

Spotted a couple of ten-year-olds at Tekky Taka. One's a DRC, the other's a straight DC. Nice players! J: So you're still finding time to scout. Max: It's not a big commitment, right? There are, like, 20 pitches near my office. I walk from Tekky Taka to Bumpers and see a hundred people playing, and if I drive to Saltney I'll see some more, then there's our satellite pitches. I can do it while I'm on the phone to superagents but not to Emma because she ran out of minutes even though she's on an unlimited plan.

How do you run out of something infinite? The phone company are going to get put on blast if my wife comes out of that shop unhappy, let me tell you. Er, scouting. Yeah, the club has got a great relationship with the Cheshire FA these days and we're getting better and better at sort of 'stacking' school matches so I can catch the end of one and the start of another. And if you're the kids you're happy.

Sealbiscuit picks you up and takes you to Bumpers, you get food, your family can come and watch and get some free stuff, too. We've been working out how to sort of industrialise the whole thing. We're finding good players, still, but mostly it's about creating these memories. Smakk: That sounds amazing. You're picking up school teams and letting them go on the official team bus? I wish we'd had that when I was in school! I might not have wagged off.

Max: Come on, bro, think about your poor American listeners who don't understand your slang. He means he skived off. Knowing Smakk he skived off to go on the rob. Smakk: I know you're just using slang but it's true. A misspent youth is a terrible thing. Fudge: We saw that Ruud Berkenbosch and Jari Thingy were over. Anything good? Bad? Max: Just looking for a place to live. We found a place and they're both gonna come at the end of the year.

I was happy to leave Ruud recovering in Holland but his recovery's going great, our head physio is an ACL specialist in his own right, and we can continue Ruud's rehab and reconditioning right here. If he needs to pop back home, he can, but he wants to move across and start coming to our tactical briefings and learn about the Prem and so on so that next season he can hit the ground running - literally. J: The Prem? Or the Championship? Max: Haa, you cheeky journalist.

Trying to make me say something I'll regret on a hot mic. Trying to get me to make crazy rash promises! Yeah but seriously we're staying up so etch that into my gravestone. Smakk: You're being inscrutable. Do you mean it or not? Max: I'm taking it one game at a time! Rome wasn't built in a day. It's a game of two halves. No, seriously, if we beat Leeds we're... I don't know how to phrase it. We need to beat Leeds. Just that. I have a strange relationship with Leeds.

There are versions of the club I don't like - put all your medals in the bin coz you won them by cheating - but there have been amazing teams, too. Bielsa's was unreal. This one you'll see on Saturday is so much fun. If we played like that you'd be ecstatic. Spirit, togetherness, determination, sprinting for ninety minutes, peeled off the pitch every match. I absolutely love it. But we need to put them down, beat them twice, because if we do that, we finish above them for sure.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Smakk: Ooooh I nearly got hyped then and he wasn't even trying. ARGH, I just hyped myself. Come on! J: Are you fit? Max: Hmm... yes. Ish. I'll play. I've got quite a few cuts and bruises from Brito hacking at me. But you know what? When I got home on Sunday night and looked at myself in the mirror, the cuts on my legs were shaped in a giant letter B.

Fudge: Like when Zorro carves the letter Z into a beautiful woman's blouse to make her bra fall off? [Pause.] Max: What movie is that? [Pause.] J: Moving quickly on... We beat Leeds last season, so it can't be all that unrealistic for us to do it this season, now that we have strengthened. I don't know if you listened to our Man U match review... Max: I listened at one thousand times speed. Sort of absorbed it in one giant flash of insight, if you get me. Gobbled it all up as one single soundwave.

I'm pretty sure I got all your thoughts and feelings. J: Er, right. So you know we were really, really positive. Max: You were? Oh, shit, that's a relief. J: I think my question is, why shouldn't we beat Leeds? Max: Um... Well, they spent a hundred million pounds in the summer on top of having a team good enough to survive in the Prem. J: Oh, God... Max: No, I'm just saying it's not straightforward, and when clubs buy random players from random leagues I have no conception of how good they are.

Like, you hear Leeds have bought a 20-year-old from the French league for twenty-something million, it's kind of intimidating, isn't it? You think, their economic firepower is awesome. You think, oh no they've got the next Mbappé! We're doomed! Smakk: Have Leeds signed the next Mbappé? Max: Oh, I doubt it. Smakk: I wouldn't mind if we signed the next Mbappé. Just saying. Max: He wouldn't get in the Chester team. Fudge: Not enough defensive contributions? Max: No, he's too handsome. I can't have that.

J: Oh, I've got a good question! It was an exciting match, the United one, and we had goals from Helge, Wibbers, Matt Rush, but a couple of players looked pretty distraught near the end, or when they were subbed off. I'm thinking Pascal Bochum. Leo Los. Gabby. Max: These guys are winners by nature. They have elite mentality, which is a two-edged coin. Wait, what am I trying to say? Fudge: Double-edged sword. Max: My man! Yes! Look, most of these guys, I mean I know how we're perceived from the outside.

It's like Max Best is a stone-cold killer and some of the others are soft. It's the reverse. I'm easy-going, normally, but if we win 10-0 and everyone scored except Pascal, he's happy but he's also fuming. You know what I mean, right? You've met people like that? J: Heh, yeah. Max: They're all like that. Don't get me wrong, they're super happy for the team if we win. On Sunday they were proud that we pushed United so hard, so far, they were buzzing that we got that late goal.

I mean, the game ended right then and we lost so it doesn't matter, does it? Yeah it does. It does to these characters because they know they're surrounded by psychopaths and sociopaths just like them. They're crazy about goals and personal milestones and showing you belong at this level. They want the right people around them. Crazy loves company. That's a phrase, right? Fudge: No but it should be. Max: Pascal's like, Cheb stole my goal, I keep nearly scoring, what am I doing wrong?

I told him, you're doing almost everything right. Leo's like, I was awful in the 65th minute or whenever. I was like, before we get into that can we talk about how good you were in the other 64 minutes? Gabby goes, I look like Bambi on ice out there! I go, yeah and that show made a billion dollars. He was confused and, to be fair, I was thinking of Disney On Ice, so that was incredibly poor man-management from the boy Best. [Laughter from the others.] We're not fine. We're struggling.

We're Batman with a broken back, tossed into a cave. We're having doubts. We're thinking, God, what can we do, what must we change? And I think I found the answer. Do you know what we need to change? J: What? Max: [Slams the recording table, stands.] Nothing! Nothing! We are Chester! We do what we must because we can! [Sound of a phone vibrating.] Oh, shit. Shit shit shit. I have to go. Don't post about this on the socials until tomorrow! I'm serious! I'll batter you. This was recorded Friday morning, all right?

[The sound of headphones being dropped, chairs sliding, a man running, a door closing.] [Pause.] J: Question for the group. Are we more positive now, or less?

Friday, October 27 We had our final training session before playing Leeds. Despite spending another week doing most of my training in the counter-current pool and the zero-grav treadmill, my right foot was still too sore to smack a shot. I trained left-footed. I played one training match as a lefty Brito, another half as Giggs, to see if that helped us decide on a plan. The senior coaches came into a huddle. Sandra said, "We don't need a spy to know how Leeds will play. Ray Jordan is suspended.

Volker Stein is doing 3-5-2 even though his preference is 4-3-3. If we get a lead going into the last half hour, they'll make that switch, but it won't change the style. Fast, hard-running, all-action. If you're still sore, boss, I think we should match them up. 3-5-2, let our quality tell." Peter Bauer said, "We should pick our best team and let Leeds worry about how we will play." I had a light sweat on and it felt good. Sandra using the word 'spy' made me turn and check the area around the pitch.

Sometimes our staff watched us train, and sometimes Jojo let a parent with an excited kid come to watch for five minutes. I wasn't really worried about spies because we didn't need to train the way we were going to play, but I dreamed of catching one so I could kick up a fuss and get our opponent a points deduction. The coast was clear.

"I think... I think I want to do 4-2-4."

"Whoa," said Vikki, our set pieces coach.

"A deep one, too. We'll sit back, let Leeds push onto us. Youngster and me in midfield. We'll take the ball under pressure, get it to the front four."

"It will be five against two in midfield," said Magnus.

"Not really. If Peter is firing a pass to me, Leeds's wide players will have to retreat to cover our wingers. So it will be three against two in the centre. They will foul us to stop us turning, but if the ref is fussy and pedantic..." I smiled. Was I finally going to use the fussy referee perk? It would help us but it would ruin the game as a spectacle.

"No, wait, we know who the ref will be. Okay, but I back myself to wriggle out of danger a few times and then we'll have four against three and it will be pure carnage. And I can work with Wibbers so that he drops into the CAM slot to get straight passes from Peter while I kite some midfielders away." Peter nodded.

"That works." Sandra eyed me.

"You've been manic this whole week. Can you do calm? Because if we can have you calm in midfield in the eye of the hurricane, you will open Leeds like a can. If you're going to be hyper, I'd prefer you to do your mystery winger stuff."

"I'll be calm. I'll do some mandalas and suck on a crystal." Magnus looked worried for a second, then shrugged.

"If it works, it works."

I hopped in the Mini and drove to CH4, South Chester, to a detached bungalow close to Saltney Town's stadium. It had four bedrooms, though one would work better as a home office. With its lack of stairs, spacious garden, and desirable location, it was the perfect home for a soldier and his pregernant wife. By coincidence, I had asked Dylan and Bonnie to come with me to check it out.

"The net is closing," I said, at a traffic light, and cackled so much I got beeped by the car behind. At the next light, my mind drifted to thoughts of Leeds. They had been the first English team to be caught spying on an opponent, when an Argentine nutjob called Bielsa was the manager. When caught, he said, 'Yeah I do this all the time, what's the problem? Why wouldn't I want all the info I could get about the opposition?'

The EFL had fined him for being weird and created a new rule - no spying on opponents within 72 hours of a match. I wondered about creating a perk that would give me extra information about people who were at training grounds, the way I got info about players, staff, agents, and directors. If the curse alerted me when a random parent with his kid was actually an analyst working for Leeds, that would be handy. What would that cost? 500 XP or so, right?

XP balance: 11, 248 I was halfway to buying the final perk in the shop, after which I would be able to create my own perks. Soooooon! I had a vague target of getting there by Christmas. A nice little present for myself. A new toy to play with. The car behind beeped me again. I drove through the green light, got to the next red. A few years back, the no-spying rule had been broken by Southampton in the run-up to the Championship playoff.

Saints were kicked out of the playoffs altogether, costing them a shot at the richest game in sport, but what was really interesting when I properly read up on the case was that the EFL considered the playoffs to be a totally separate competition from the league. Which meant that Bench Boost and Triple Captain should have reset for the playoffs! Why hadn't they?

Because I personally counted the playoffs as an extension of the league and when the curse wasn't sure what to do about something, it usually defaulted to what I thought was right. Now I knew better, so one perk I would try to build in the Construction Kit would formally split leagues and playoffs into separate entities.

Knowing that I would have a Bench Boost in a playoff would give me peace of mind next season if we fell to the Championship and didn't get into the top two places in the league - yes, I see it's green, bro! I'm way ahead of you! - but there were use cases for Wales, too. Winning the Nations League would guarantee us a spot in a World Cup playoff. I planned to qualify by crushing our qualifying group, but having Bench Boost available would be an extra safety net.

"Barony Bay!" I declared, instead of greeting Bonnie and Dylan.

"Just like in Star Trek: The Wrath of Khan, which is my favourite movie. Barony Bay, he wails, because it means he has wandered into Khan's lair." Dylan checked the brochure he was holding.

"Barony Way."

"Yeah yeah yeah. Let's look around, okay?" Bonnie said, "Why are we here?"

"I told you eight or nine times!"

"You didn't. You said it was important but there was no time to explain, and then you stared at the wall for fifteen seconds before saying 'I bet he's a twin' and I said 'Who?' and you said 'The priest', and you walked off." I tutted.

"Come on. There's no way that happened. Okay, so here's the sitch. I don't want to be obnoxious but I got a lot of money in a short time and for tax reasons I need to blow some of it before the financial year ends. One solution is to buy a house and rent it out cheap.

Obviously that's a pretty sweet deal for the tenant but I don't want someone who will take the piss and I'd like it to be someone I know, so I was thinking I'd get a place close to The Legends, you know, for one of the staff at Saltney, and of course it's close to excellent schools and a variety of local amenities, not to mention the paved driveway and mature child-friendly garden to the rear." Dylan looked at the house.

"It's a bungalow." I eyed him.

"What, do you need stairs? Are you one of those people?"

"What people?" I pointed along the path.

"Just tell me if this is a nice house for a young family. If you like it, I'll buy it and then we can find someone who'd want to live here for 750 a month."

"750?" said Bonnie, amazed.

"You could get double that."

"I don't want double that! I want someone who's going to live here for ten years and look after it."

"Why ten years?" I shrugged.

"Ten, twenty, I don't know. I don't understand tax, Bonnie! It's something like: you sell assets in years when you don't get a lot of income. I'll be making bank for ages, sadly."

"Sadly," agreed Bonnie, who had something of a twinkle in her eye, almost as though she was seeing through my plan. Which was, of course, impossible.

"Does it have to be this bungalow? This exact one for some specific reason?"

"No. But I was looking for something I personally wouldn't mind living in, and this one honestly looks pretty top. I could properly live here, except there isn't room for a go-kart track and my collection of electric cars. It's mint, though.

The garden needs a bit of work, I want to put in an outdoor kitchen - I'm mad on outdoor kitchens, suddenly - and I'm gonna add a proper man cave shed at the bottom of the garden just in case someone wants a home gym slash pool room slash mini pub, and I'd cover everything in solar panels so the bills wouldn't be high. Maybe some of that has to wait until the baby's older."

"What baby?" said Dylan.

"Of the family that moves in," I said, annoyed.

"Ah, this must be the estate agent now. Let's tour this bad boy!"

While we were looking around, Bonnie grabbed my arm.

"Let's talk about outdoor kitchens," she said, before dragging me through the main bedroom's doors and into the garden. A slightly confused Dylan remained behind with the estate agent. The garden was nice, but not quite perfect for a young child.

"We can replace these paving stones. Get nice big ones."

"Max, what are you doing?" I pushed my lips out.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Are you meddling, Max? What have we told you about meddling?" I strained with effort.

"Er, can't remember." She shook her head.

"The one time we want you to meddle, you don't." I was genuinely puzzled.

"What do you mean?"

"Angel. There's something off about her."

"You know why, don't you?"

"Why?"

"She's worried her little baby nephew will grow up in a house that doesn't have category 6 wiring throughout. When you call her and say, Angel, we're moving into a lovely new... What?" Bonnie was smiling, just about.

"She's subdued and I'm worried. Not majorly worried, but... concerned. I can't tell if I'm being - " I tutted.

"Stop doing your helicopter sister thing! You remember what I said, don't you?"

"What?" I poked her.

"Stop meddling." Yeah, well, she had to laugh.

"Max..."

"Look, she's off, she's subdued. You know what that sounds like? She's homesick. That sounds pretty normal to me. It's part of the journey, isn't it? It's not all swarthy lotharios and, er, pasta that you roll in a little, er..." I mimed cranking a lever.

"One of those things." Bonnie wasn't satisfied.

"Look, she has only been there five minutes! Send her a packet of custard creams and some Double Gloucester. She will be fine. Everyone I know is jealous of her! Happiness lurks around every sun-drenched corner." Bonnie sighed.

"If we moved here I'd be able to afford to fly out more often." She rested her hand on her belly as she looked around. She was probably thinking the same as me - it wouldn't take much to turn this into a truly awesome garden.

"I don't know what an outdoor kitchen looks like." I showed her some pics of the one from the no-stairs house.

"A little bit less of a premium finish, soz, but basically this."

"Oh, God, wow..." She rubbed her belly.

"I don't know that I can handle having you as my landlord."

"That's an odd thing to say for many reasons," I declared, grandly, "but whoever lives here will never have to speak to me. They won't even know I'm involved; it will be owned by my company, Max Best Slumlord Limited. Charlotte will be your landlord, basically."

"Is this really a tax scam?"

"Um, a little bit. I need to do something with my money and I always wanted to take the housing stock and make it better. This one is really nice already but whatever. Every year that Saltney get to the Champions League, I'm gonna be floundering. You helped turn Saltney into what it is now. Consider this a tiny bonus." She scoffed.

"It's a pretty big bonus." She looked to the back of the plot, where a modern man cave would fit just nice, then to the spot I had suggested an outdoor kitchen could go.

"You're planning something else."

"Absolutely not."

"Fess up."

"There's nothing going on."

"Max." I checked that Dylan was still in the house.

"He needs to quit the army! There's a full-time job waiting for him at Chester. Little baby Bob Dylan can't have his dad getting blowed up again. He's gonna love it here and he's gonna invite his former army mates to barbecues and to play pool and to chuck darts in the man cave." I swallowed.

"He's going to be here. For his son."

"Or daughter." I frowned.

"Why did you name your daughter Bob?" Bonnie laughed and gave me a dig in the arm.

"We're not calling him or her that." She got serious.

"Listen to me, Max Best. Dylan's easing towards leaving the army, but if you give him a shove you'll set me back a year. So quit meddling. Do you get me?" She looked at her wrist, where there was no watch.

"Startiiiiiiiing... after we sign a lease on this place." I beamed.

"Do you like it?"

"I love it." The estate agent and Dylan emerged from the same doors we had. I strode towards them.

"I'll take it!"

Saturday, October 28 English Premier League Match 10 of 38: Chester versus Leeds United The dressing room at the Deva was in its last season. One way or another, Brooke and I would find a way to pay for the rebuild. I rubbed my fingers along the wooden bench, listened to the clicks and clunks as my mates opened and closed cabinets. A fan had done this. A master carpenter had come in one summer and grafted for free to give the club a Premier League-quality space.

He had smashed it; we would disassemble this creation with exquisite care and use it in our academy. The fan would get named on a blue plaque. This club had been built by men and women like that. People who went the extra mile. People who suffered and sacrificed and spent decades getting no reward. I pushed myself to my feet and went to the tactics board. The magnets were shaped in a thrilling, possibly rash 4-2-4. Owen was in goal.

In theory, the match would be more suited to Marek, since we would be doing a lot of risky possession, but I couldn't leave Owen out of the team for too long and his CA (155) was five points higher than Marek's. I had a suspicion that Leeds would press Owen slightly harder than they would press Marek. It was risky to encourage them to close down our goalie, but in the end, that was the plan. Spread them out, then strike. The back four was Helge, Peter, Dumi, and Cheb.

Murray Burnett wasn't in the match day squad, which Sandra wasn't all that happy about, but I didn't want him around, undermining us with his weaselly bullshit. This was a day for guys who were committed. I had chosen Dumi to replace him because although he was slow, he was calm. He didn't have Peter Bauer's passing range but he could pick the right short pass to play, and execute it under extreme pressure. Meanwhile, Helge would help us defend set pieces and was getting close to being a quality defender.

His CA had risen to 136. The midfield was me and Youngster, though I expected to switch to 4-4-2 frequently to get support from the wide players. On the left, Lewis Lamarre, on the right, Pascal Bochum, who was amazed to be in the team.

'But I played shit! I deserve to be dropped.'

'Wrong and wrong,' I had told him.

'Keep talking like that, maybe I'll start to think you aren't a floating megabrain, after all.' His Morale had nudged up a notch, though it remained low. The strikers were Wibbers and Gabby. Our team average was CA 148. 5, slightly lower than last week. Number go... down? But Wibbers had crashed through yet another barrier, hitting CA 150. He was starting to feel comfortable in the Premier League, starting to trust that he belonged. A goal against Man United will do that, but it was more than the goal.

He was competing in duels, using his skill, being useful to the team. He was turning into a star; it was happening. Leo Los had also hit 150 this week, but he was another whiny baby and I was in a mood with him. Just play, train, sleep, repeat. What's so hard about that? Why do people need to get so dramatic about everything? I turned away from the tactics board, faced the away dressing room, imagined Volker Stein's face, and hissed, "From Hell's heart, I stab at thee.

For hate's sake, I spit my last breath at thee." Sandra said, "This is you being calm, is it?"

We lined up in the tunnel so that the broadcasters could get their epic shots. (They had asked if we would consider buying flame cannons and blasting confetti into the air when the teams emerged; I had responded to that email personally. There was no text, just a link to a video of some clowns playing football in oversized shoes.) While waiting, I eyed the Leeds team. They had spent big in the summer but they still had Mylo Treffens, the centre back who thought he was the next Peter Bauer.

They still had Wesley Lippincott, the all-American all-action hero (as long as that action was sprinting). They still had NCT, Nat Connor-Thomas, the English striker who was slower than ever but would score a header given half a chance. Their average CA, after a hundred million pounds of investment, was still 146. What. The. Fuck. Eight figures straight down the drain. How was that even possible? I shook it off. That was their problem. For the first time in history, Chester were better than a Premier League side.

We had home advantage, too. Surely we were favourites? I eyed the Bench Boost and Triple Captain buttons. There was also the option to make the referee stick fastidiously to the rules, which meant that Leeds had a higher club reputation than we did. No surprise there - it would be a long time before the curse considered Chester to be a bigger club than Leeds, Wolves, even Ipswich. I swiped the option away. Maybe a fussy ref would have worked in our favour, but I just couldn't face playing in such a match.

The existence of the button had proven that Shocktober was in effect. We would get a series of tiny advantages... I ordered Bench Boost and Triple Captain to get fucked, then slammed my palms into each other yelling, "Yes! Yes! Yes!"

Descriptions of the action and commentary taken from DigiWorld Sports Max 8K Ultra. Matt: Nearly ready to get underway here in Chester. There's a hint of rain in the air, some menacing clouds visible over the city of Chester, and the floodlights are already on. Max Best joined the pre-match handshakes for once, though when the names were read out over the public address system, he was booed by the Leeds fans. Ally: It wasn't as loud as last time. Matt: Here we go!

Leeds are shooting towards the Harry McNally Terrace in the first half. They, ah... They kick the ball into touch. Ally is rolling his eyes. Alloula throws to Bochum, who loses out. Leeds streaming towards the penalty area. Can they forge an early chance? They can! [Crowd: Ooh from one end. Aah! from the other sides.] Ally: Keep your head over the ball, son. Matt: That went some distance over the bar, but a bright start from Leeds.

4' Chester lose the ball in midfield. United break at speed. Players from both sides are sprinting towards Chester's goal. Youngster disrupts the attack. He passes to Demetrescu, who chips the ball into the centre circle. Max Best has time to turn. Chester are on the move! Players from both sides are sprinting towards United's goal. Best aims a pass towards Bochum. A white shirt slides and intercepts the pass. Treffens clips a superb pass forward. Lippincott hares after the ball.

He knocks it fifteen yards ahead and chases it. Bauer moves across into the right back zone and knocks the ball into Lippincott's boot. Goal kick to Chester. Great defending! Chester take it quickly. Elmham gives it to Hagen, who takes a poor first touch. He passes awkwardly to Elmham, who is being pressured. Elmham clobbers the ball into the onrushing striker! Where will it land? In front of goal! Connor-Thomas can't miss... GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!! Leeds take the lead. Disaster for Chester!

"Fuck!" I yelled, but as I paced around, I cooled off. If you take risks, you're gonna get punished sometimes. The one good thing was that Leeds were not the sort of team who would turtle up after getting a goal. I had only seen them retreat into a low block in the last ten or fifteen minutes of games, and even that was rare. Peter clapped.

"Heads up! We go again!"

13' Matt: Chester break! Best with the decoy run that leaves Youngster in space. The young midfielder gambols forward. Roberts comes short to collect. Roberts spins, chips, and sends Lamarre free on the left. Cross comes in - [Crowd: ooh!] Ally: Unlucky. Matt: The cross evaded everyone. Hacked clear. Best will compete for the header. No - he leaves it to Bauer. Neither of them jump! It bounces towards Hagen, who hits the ball long, but straight into a Leeds player!

The rebound goes towards danger - Hagen grabs his man and holds on. Free kick to Leeds... and a yellow card! Hagen will have to be careful now. Ally: It was sensational work from Dracopoulos - he had no hope of getting to that ball but he went anyway. Hagen was unlucky, you could say, but Dracopoulos made it happen through sheer determination. Matt: Leeds are setting up for the set piece. Will it be Dracopoulos or Treffens? Dracopoulos strikes it left-footed, curls it beautifully into the box, Connor-Thomas scores!

He rose like a salmon, headed down, great goal! Leeds are 2-0 up within the first quarter of an hour! For the second match in a row, Chester have fallen two goals behind. Ally: This is what happens when you're down at the bottom, down on your luck. Nothing goes your way. Matt: Max Best has called his players into a huddle. What do you think he'll be saying? Ally: Probably reading them the riot act. They have been unlucky but they haven't asserted themselves on the game.

Sometimes a player needs a rocket up his, er... launchpad. Matt: I'm not sure. He seems to be laughing...?

While Leeds ran off to celebrate their goal, I summoned my players. They came closer and as I put my left arm around Youngster's shoulder, the huddle formed itself. Soon I had a full circle, eleven players who were earning just over three hundred thousand pounds a week. Less than one Brito, in other words.

"Guys. Some of you believe in God, some in cosmic forces, fate, Zeus, Odin, genies, demons, fairies. Someone is laughing at us right now." I shook my head with a wry smile. I had my right hand free to gesture. I pressed my index finger and thumb together, slowly.

"We need a touch more precision. A little more care on the ball and a little bit more aggression. But we're not the unluckiest team in this division - Leeds are. So stick to the plan, because there's no way they play 90 minutes without something going wrong. We get the next goal, okay?"

16' Shot count: Chester 1, Leeds 4. Max's Regrets: A few, but not enough to mention.

22' The game stabilised. Leeds didn't go into a full low block, but they sat back and invited us to push forward. I didn't change the margins on the tactics screen - my defenders stayed as deep as poss at all times, while the wide players stayed wide. From time to time I mixed things up, moving to 4-4-2 and 4-5-1 so we could all get a feel of the ball, boost our passing stats, regain confidence in our technique. Then I hit the 4-2-4 hotkey, and for the first time in the match I dribbled instead of passed.

I drew some aggro onto me, then shoveled the ball to Wibbers. I retreated, letting my forwards get to work.

25' We were bossing the possession stats without looking very dangerous. That sloppy start had slightly ruined our plan, since Leeds were no longer as stretched as before they scored. Leeds countered against us and we recovered the ball in no time.

"Too easy," I muttered. Volker Stein had evolved past his gung-ho attitude, apparently, because he was keeping an extra body in his rest defence. Behind me there were four defenders; patrolling alongside me was Youngster.

"Helge," I called out.

"Go be a striker for a bit." I made the change on the tactics screen and he jogged forward. I moved myself to be a left-sided defensive midfielder. If Leeds broke on that side, I would rush into the left back slot. If we needed another passing option in the middle, I would go and help.

"Maaaaaax," called out Peter, in a voice that held a tinge of exasperation.

"What are you do -ing?" I smiled back at him.

"Earning my wages."

28' Matt: Alloula goes motoring down the right. He zips past one man, but is held up. Bochum shows and demands the ball. He turns in a tight space and releases Alloula. The pass is perfectly weighted. Cross comes in... Gabriel... saved! 29' Lamarre on the left. He finds Roberts. Roberts shows great strength to hold off a challenge. He feeds Lamarre. First-time cross... Is overhit! Lamarre is frustrated with himself. Bochum uses his speed to try to keep the ball in play.

Bochum backheels the ball just before it goes out. Bochum crashes into the advertising boards! Alloula whips in a first-time cross... Hagen rises! But he can't direct his header on target. Alloula checks on Bochum. He's okay! Standing ovation from the Chester crowd. They loved that. Bochum raises both arms. The noise intensifies!

32' Shot count: Chester 5, Leeds 4.

35' Shot count: Chester 8, Leeds 4.

Matt: Leeds are bending but not breaking. Good punch from the goalkeeper. Treffens urges his fellow defenders to push out. Lamarre clips a cross high into the box. Too high! Ally: That was aimless. Just because you've got a big man up there, you can't stop doing the basics. Matt: Leeds up the tempo for the first time in a while. Treffens is driving forward with the ball. There's a huge gap on the side where Helge Hagen started the match. Treffens with a delicious pass into space! Dracopoulos surges after it.

He has Max Best jogging towards him, and jogging may be an overstatement. Dracopoulos pushes the ball far ahead and chases it. Best puts on the afterburners! Ally: Wow. Matt: Best shows devastating speed to catch up with Dracopoulos, and barges him off the ball! Best rolls the ball to Elmham, and gives Dracopoulos a piece of his mind! The Greek international gets up and claps back. This game is heating up! Ally: I wonder if they clashed when Wales played Greece.

Matt: I don't think they will be going to eat kebabs together. But Chester are building on the right. It's that combination of Alloula and Bochum again. Roberts drops to the edge of the D, collects the ball, drops his shoulder, shoots! On target! Low save to the keeper's right... Gabriel with the rebound! Gabriel slams it home from short range! He goes wild. He whips his shirt off and twirls it around his head! Ally: Look at Max Best. Matt: Max Best is crouching, hands over his face.

His striker, in his joy, has picked up an automatic yellow card! Best rises, slaps his hips. Asks Sandra Lane, what am I supposed to do now? He has two players on yellow cards. Two players on a knife edge, just like this game! It's Chester 1, Leeds 2, and anything could happen!

We played on, with Leeds back to their default style, spread out, running like crazy. I waited a minute, dropped all the forwards one zone deeper, put Helge to left back, and moved so that I was playing near Gabby. In the next break in play, I gave him some advice.

"Mate, I'm happy you scored. We'll have a big party tonight, yes?" He smiled, warily. I saw in his eyes he knew he had done wrong.

"Yes."

"But if you get sent off, there will be no party. Do you understand?"

"Yes. No party."

"No party ever. No party ever fucking again. You got that?" I tried to calm myself but went the other way. I didn't want to wreck his Morale but I also didn't want to get relegated and take an 80% pay cut.

"This is the fucking Premier League. What if I need you to do a tactical foul and you can't because you waved your shirt around? Do not be fucking stupid! You are my only striker. I fucking need you, mate! Are you with us or not?"

"Yes, yes. Sorry."

"Don't give me the sad puppy dog eyes. This is a job!" I paced away, still fuming, and decided I would take out my frustration on Leeds. No, let's get more specific. I would take out my frustrations on Dracopoulos for the crime of existing. As I went, I looked over my shoulder to check Gabby's Morale. It was steady, but his CA had increased. I stopped dead. None of his Attributes had changed. What the fuck? The ball came to me. I stared at it, wondering why it was at my feet. I was trying to solve a mystery!

I dropped my shoulder to the right, spun back, took a kick to the ankle, kept my balance, and shot with my left. It went top bins but the keeper had a clean view of it and caught it easily. He dropped the ball to hit a half-volleyed pass. I followed his eyeline and saw that Leeds had created an overload on their left. Peter was already shouting at Dumi to step that way. This could be a problem, I thought, so I started to run back. I glanced at Helge - good job he was in the backline.

No chance of Leeds scoring a header on the back post in this scenario. I veered slightly to my left and felt a brief moment of utter panic as the crowd roared. It was insanely loud, as if there had just been an assault on the pitch. In my eye line, Pascal celebrated by throwing his hands in the air and jumping. But why? What had he seen? The Match Overview had updated: Chester 2 Leeds United 2. What?

Matt: Calamity for Leeds! Schwartzberg with an absolute howler! Ally: I can't wait to see the replay of this. Matt: It looked like - He tried to launch a long kick, got it completely wrong. Gabriel has scored two goals! Two goals. He is running around the Deva Stadium pretending to be twirling his shirt. Ally: Haha, that's so funny. His manager gave him both barrels and he has responded magnificently. He was alert for that goal, that's for sure, and it's all smiles now. Matt: Here's the replay.

The Austrian goalkeeper tries to launch the ball, but hits it straight at Treffens, who has his back turned. The ball goes between Schwartzberg and Gabriel, and the Brazilian striker is first to it. He stabs it through the goalie's legs, and the scores are level! Ally: This is a crazy game. Volker Stein would have been banking on three points today, and after fifteen minutes he would have been thinking about a nice cigar and a glass of brandy. And then this happens!

We were cheered off at half time. Our fans were delighted, neutral viewers would be delighted, Brooke would be checking the merch sales. In the dressing room, my mind raced all over the place. Was the game too chaotic? Should I put Helge back as a striker and really force the issue? How had Gabby popped without an Attribute changing? Why would a wedding start early?

"Sandra," I said, halfway through the break.

"Tell us the plan."

"Shout at Gabby. He loves it." Gabby grinned but raised his palms.

"No, thanks." Sandra gripped him by the ears and bent to kiss him on the top of his head.

"Mwah! Have that, you beautiful man." She lowered herself so that she was in his face.

"But if you get sent off..." He looked part sheepish, part defiant, very much like Jamie.

"I do not. I swear." Sandra said, "We got you a present." She clicked a remote control, and Gabby's goal was shown through the eyes of our Matrix cameras. Slowed down, with the camera swooping around the away end, it looked magnificent, and actually made me reassess the goal. It had been handed to him on a plate, hadn't it? Yes but he had taken a neat first touch and the second, the nutmeg, was that of a stone-cold killer. I wasn't the only one who applauded. Gabby's Morale went to the moon.

Sandra, pleased with herself, walked back to the tactics board. They were still laid out in our 4-2-4 shape.

"This." She eyed me.

"Do you want to say something from that movie about the Indian space submarines?" I groaned. How to butcher an all-time classic!

"My favourite movie is The Wrath of Khan." Wibbers said, "Is that the one with the big guy and the little guy? Lenny. He doesn't know his own strength? We read it in school." I groaned again.

"No more movie talk; it's distressing." I got to my feet and tried to think of the right message for this situation.

"Lads, there's nothing to say. We're doing what we need to do. Think what you did in the first half, copy that for the second." Sandra started a slow, sarcastic handclap.

"Same speech rehashed. Pure fan service! Who said sequels are always worse?" Livia and Dean stopped massaging people to join in with the clapping, and soon the whole room was doing it. I put my hands up and walked to the door.

"I can't even. I just can't."

For the second half, United were shooting towards the iconic Away End, while we were going at the McNally. The Leeds fans were in the corner to the right of the goal, and for periods they were noisier than the rest of the stadium. After five minutes of sparring, the game kicked back into life, and we had another ten minutes of attacks that led to counters that led to counters that led to counters. It must have been amazing to watch, but it was exhausting to play.

It wasn't just the relentless sprinting, but the switch in mentality. We're attacking, yay! We're defending, oh no! We're attacking, whoo! And then, around the hour mark, it started to click. Pedro Porto's plan to beat Leeds, years after its inception, started to work. I stopped roaming so much and worked more closely with Youngster. We were outnumbered three to two but if we stuck together, the third Leeds player couldn't affect us much.

Meanwhile, we were fizzing passes around the pitch, and Leeds were having to cover more and more distance. They were incredibly fit, but even for those guys, there are limits. As they got fatigued - Shocktober helped with that - they made slightly worse decisions. The decision gap increased. Yes, please! Going into the last 20 minutes, we were turning the screw, increasing the pressure, when twice in a row, Owen Elmham took a backpass and blasted it upfield.

In the next stoppage, I went to have a little chat with him.

"Owen," I said.

"How's it going? YouTube treating you well?" His face split into a grin.

"The metrics are - ""Brilliant," I said.

"Now how about you stop giving the fucking ball away?" The grin vanished.

"I was just making sure we didn't give away a stupid goal again. Hang on to the point."

"Yeah, top. It's just that your job isn't to decide the tactical plan. Your job is to hit risky passes to Helge and get the entire world biting their nails. Because we're trying to bait Leeds into running at us. Remember?" He glared at me, which might have been intimidating if I wasn't maxed out on adrenaline. I jabbed him with my finger.

"I don't want to hold on for a point. We win or we lose. If you don't have the balls for that, let me know." His anger flared up. Gone was the cuddly media personality, the man growing a forest in his back garden. Mad Owen was back and he wanted blood.

"One of these days, someone's going to fuck you up."

"Nah, mate," I said, jabbing him again.

"One of these days, someone's gonna take a swing and I'm gonna put them down." I got closer, stopped blinking, copied his expression. He got madder, so did I, he got ready to erupt, I clenched my fists, and then he burst out laughing.

"Holy fuck. Holy fucking fuck, you're mental." He tipped his head back and roared, "You're mental! Yeah!" He mashed himself in the head a few times.

"Yeah! Come on! Death or glory! Hahahahaaaaaaa! Whoooo!"

76' Matt: Here's a stat, Ally. Chester with 75% possession in the last five minutes. They have taken this game by the scruff of the neck, haven't they? Ally: It's immense. Since that exchange with his manager, Owen Elmham has come alive. He's a real jack-in-the-box, sprinting around his area, playing passes to his full backs. The home fans are tearing their hair out but it's what the manager wants. Matt: Hagen. Elmham. He puts his foot on the ball, waits for Connor-Thomas to come near, then finds Demetrescu.

Gasps of horror from the Chester fans! Ally: That one was close! Matt: Millimetres away from being intercepted, but the Romanian has given the ball to Youngster and now Alloula is marauding down the right. He fires a pass across the pitch - again it's nearly intercepted! - and Best takes over. He looks left, points, and Lamarre gets his head down and sprints towards the corner flag. Leeds respond by shuffling towards him. Best leans back and clips a pass to the right!

Gabriel jumps, occupies the defender, but the ball goes over his head! It's into the path of Bochum. Excitement from the home fans. Bochum driving into the box. He looks at his options, doesn't like them, chops back onto his left foot. Ally: Ooh, did he miss his chance? Matt: Leeds are recovering. More bodies retreating to the penalty area. Bochum goes all the way back to Best, who is thirty-five or so yards from goal. Best takes a touch, and pings the ball back to Owen Elmham!

Best signals that everyone should stay calm. Or is he signalling that he's happy with a point? That's what it looks like. Ally: He's making Leeds run more. Matt: But... But...

78' Alloula under pressure. He knocks the ball to Elmham. Connor-Thomas moves towards the goalkeeper, who appears to panic. Elmham will launch this. Connor-Thomas throws himself towards the ball. This could be trouble! Elmham with a lovely piece of skill! He waited for the striker to move, then dragged the ball back. Elmham clips a pass to Best, who heads it to Bauer. Bauer fires a long pass to Lamarre, who touches it to Hagen. Hagen shapes to send the ball down the line.

Dracopoulos hurls himself in front of the ball. Hagen calmly dribbles around him! Hagen to Best. Best moves forward. And accelerates! The crowd are rising to their feet. Chester players are moving at all angles. Best slips a pass through a tangle of legs. Bochum races onto it! Bochum with a good first touch. Will he shoot? He plays it low and square. Gabriel is there! He could get his hat trick... But he lets the ball roll between his legs. William B. Roberts arrives! GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

He hit the ball liked it owed him money! The net nearly burst! Chester are ahead! The player-manager grabs the shirt of the goalscorer. He won't let Roberts copy the celebration of his teammate!

The high. The hit. Inject adrenaline into my adrenaline. I clenched my fists and barked, "Hoo!" Peter had mad, shining eyes, too, but his brain was still working.

"Defend?"

"Fuck no!"

83' Matt: Ally, what is happening? Chester are playing like they're two goals behind! Ally: Attack is the best form of defence. Matt: The Best form. You might be right. They have looked solid defensively at times this season. I'm surprised they're going flat-out. Ally: Goals have been hard to come by. They might want to fill their boots while the going's good. They are carving through Leeds at will. Matt: And here they go again! Bochum and Roberts combine once more. They switch positions.

Roberts drifts to the right, feeds the ball through to Alloula. The cross looks good. Shot from Lamarre! Blocked. The ball's cleared, but the Chester players are slapping their arms. Handball! Was there a handball in there? The ref says no. What will VAR say? 84' Matt: The VAR is recommending the referee comes to look at his monitor! Ally: This will be a pen. The defender's arm was in an unnatural position. Stonewall pen. 85' Matt: He has given it! Ally: Who's going to take this? Best never misses.

He's holding the ball. Dracopoulos is trying to put him off. Look at the penalty area! Four Chester players standing back to back, protecting the penalty spot. 86' Max Best hands the ball to William Roberts. The striker places the ball. He rubs his nose. Schwartzberg dances on the goal line. The referee blows his whistle. Roberts... Sends Schwartzberg the wrong way and slaps the ball into the top-left of the goal. Perfect penalty kick! Roberts wheels away and starts to peel his shirt off.

His teammates sprint to join him. They grab his shirt and wrestle him to the ground!

Four. Two. Three. Points. I had positioned myself on the halfway line in case the penalty somehow led to a counter-attack, so I was close to Owen Elmham, who bearhugged me.

"Come the fuck on! The great escape starts now!" Something about the way he said it snapped me out of my ecstasy. Two-nil becomes four-two and there's a late consolation goal. That sounded fucking awful. Goal difference could be important at the end of the season and I didn't want anything to take the gloss off this performance. I put my hands on Owen's shoulders and eyed him.

"They do not score now. They do not score." Something switched. He parked his feelings.

"Yes. Yes. No." I went to the touchline and asked for five subs. My guys on yellow cards had to go. I took off Pascal. I threw on defenders and our 17-year-old striker, Errol Obikwu for mad, youthful energy. I glared at the Leeds fans. They had booed me - and worse.

"Low block, park the bus, get through this you bastards." With tons of defenders behind me, I ran around in a mad frenzy, as though I played for Leeds. I hurled myself at long passes, forced guys to turn and pass the ball back to the keeper, gave one guy a little clip of the heels after he did a neat piece of skill to dribble past me. I got a yellow card. The clock struck 95. Leeds pumped the ball into a loaded penalty area - Owen Elmham punched it clear.

I sped after it, flicked the ball to the side of a defender, raced the long way round, ran so fast while trying to change direction that I tripped myself up. The ref gave us a free kick. We would trudge up the pitch, slowly, slowly, and Owen would boot the ball long - with my blessing. The ref would end the game, the roar would be mighty, and Chester FC would have two points! Two! Whole! Points! In the commentary feed, I noted that the ref had booked the guy he thought had fouled me. That was all kinds of harsh!

I would try to get the card wiped out. Later. Much later. I stayed flat on my back, utterly exhausted, laughing quietly. When you're at the bottom of the league, things don't go your way. Leeds weren't at the bottom. But they soon would be. A towering figure loomed over me, reached out a hand. Nat Connor-Thomas pulled me to my feet. I thought he was gonna blast me for cheating to get his mate booked.

"I didn't dive; I slipped."

"I know. You would of gone and scored, wouldn't you?"

"I mean... yeah. Good point." Nat Connor-Thomas, former England striker, came closer and covered his mouth.

"Mate... Saw you started swapping shirts. Do me today, yeah?" He slapped me on the back.

"Good man. And I've started a podcast. If you ever want to drop in unannounced..."