10.

  "What a load of balls," I said, as the oppo's second goal went in. "Do you think we need to be more anime-ted on the touchline?"

  Sandra didn't reply; she was busy fuming. Chester were shit, the New Year was shit, football was shit, and that Max Best was a total shit.

  ***

  Wednesday, January 5

  EFL Championship Match 27 of 46: Chester versus Sunderland

  The cold that had been going round disrupted our plans, but this winter's strain seemed to have been genetically-engineered by a supervillain to affect only goalies and defenders. Pretty weird villainy, and we had been able to work around it even though Zach had flown home to the States to spend some time with his dad before joining up with the US Men's National Team.

  The biggest problem we had was that Ian Swan had been hit pretty hard, meaning we would have to pick Rainman as first choice with Aston Davidson as his backup. One pre-match injury and Big Sam would get on the bench! Sunderland were way too good for those kinds of shenanigans - they would come to the Deva with CA 130.

  For that reason, I had taken Physio Dean to Swanny's flat in the morning and informed the goalie that he was in the starting lineup and that Dean would blast him with whatever it took to get him on the pitch. It was real déjà vu, for Dean and I had done almost the same exact thing in our non-league days, in the same part of town. Swanny would play, then he would get two days off. Saturday's opponent was League Two's Forest Green Rovers in the FA Cup, and I would be more or less happy with Rainman starting that one, though Swanny would have to travel down with us just in case.

  With Zach gone, with Peter and Helge suffering from illness (what sort of Viking gets a cold?), and with our goalie suffering, I had even more excuse to pick a defensive line-up. 5-4-1 at home, baby! Protecting Swanny was a back five of Cole, Magnus, Christian, Fitzroy, and Nasa. When I shuffled the team around in the second half, I would have the option of moving Cole Adams into the middle. He was listed by the curse as a pure left back, but he had always played well as a centre back as part of a set of three. Magnus, of course, could play virtually anywhere.

  The midfield was Lewis, Emiliano, Youngster, and Andrew Harrison. Three good players, there.

  Up front, Gabby needed a workout, so he got the nod.

  Average CA 118.7. No chance we would 'accidentally' win this one. One of the many benefits of not working at a megaclub was that there wasn't a vast content-industrial complex dedicated to analysing my every decision. Where's Wibbers? Where's Pascal? Where's Cheb? Where's Joel Reid? Where's Max Best?

  Sunderland scored early, then again after 15 minutes. In the wider scheme of things, I was absolutely fine with that, but because the Black Cats travelled in such numbers, today was the first full sell-out of our expanded stadium. 11,400! The pre-match atmosphere had been sensational, but now it was the away end making all the noise.

  I tried to shut it out while I focused on what we could have done better. In an ideal world I would have picked Helge at left back. He would have been a good match against the right-winger, who was very left-footed and liked to cut inside and shoot. Helge was a little better at dealing with that than Cole.

  The rest of the lads were playing pretty well, tbh. It was only Emiliano who was having a shocker. The only question was whether to sub him off in the first half or wait until half-time. He received a pass, moved into space, seemed to be enjoying having everyone's attention on him, took way too long to decide what to do with the ball, and was easily tackled. His match rating slipped to 4 out of 10.

  "Christ," I mumbled, before forcing myself to be patient.

  I mentally went over a list of training gains since the start of the season. The guy with the most improvement was Helge - he had added a whopping 19 points of CA since joining us. Unlike our other players, who had to gain fitness in pre-season and the early weeks, Helge had arrived fully fit because he had been playing in the Norwegian league, but his improvement was still impressive. I had played him in his proper position and given him a pretty optimal amount of minutes, and with that huge PA of his, explosive growth was to be expected.

  The next two on the 'gainz' list were Nasa and Wallace Wells. Not hugely surprising that talented players who were managed properly should see good results, but they had improved the same amount as Wibbers and a fraction more than Peter Bauer and Roddy Jones.

  Bark was high on the list, too - his international caps were lifting him towards his training cap. Bittersweet lol. In fact, everyone was absolutely boshing it.

  Lewis Lamarre might have been the most impressive of the lot. He had gained 15 points even though he had started later than almost everyone else (he had joined on transfer deadline day) and had to work up his fitness. The winning formula in his case was good coaching, good natural talent, plus exposure to a national team. It was one of the many reasons I was so keen for Zach to get involved in the USMNT.

  I looked behind me at the bench, where Wibbers and Pascal were watching the action with great intensity.

  Wibbers wasn't going to be called up to the England team while the dastardly supervillain Alan Turner was in charge. I was 100% sure I could keep Wibbers improving by giving him exposure to Champions League football and an ever-higher standard of coaching, opposition, and training ground, but at some point the lad would want to leave in order to play for his country.

  The best thing I could do for Wibbers, for Chester, and indirectly, for my country, was to help Wales beat England in the summer's European Championships. Get Alan Turner sacked, get a new manager who wasn't an amoral dick. If that didn't happen, I could probably keep hold of Wibbers for another couple of years and try again at the 2030 World Cup, which would be held in Spain, Portugal, and Morocco.

  I stretched my arms behind my back, grinning. Beat England at Wembley Stadium with little old Wales, or do the same in the Hassan 2 Stadium and then celebrate by watching Casablanca in Casablanca.

  All I needed to do was to train a squad of dragons powerful enough to overcome the mighty - but Wibbersless - England. Piece of piss.

  My beautiful daydream was ended when Youngster made an interception, played a slick one-two with Andrew, and kept running. Youngster's burst forward surprised Sunderland, and the more defenders he slipped past, the more chaos ensued.

  Youngster did brilliantly, moving the ball to the right-half of the space in front of the penalty area, then he checked back, rolled the ball to Emiliano, and pointed left, where Lewis Lamarre was busting a gut to make a lung-bursting run. Busting a gut while bursting his lungs? Very painful. To add insult to injury, he didn't get the pass.

  That's because Emiliano took a shot. The crowd went 'oooh' as though something exciting had happened.

  "Fuck me," I said. "I can't watch this. Bin him off," I said.

  Sandra turned, excited that we would play the rest of the match with eleven players, but then she remembered our talk. "What about, you know... Scenario P?"

  "We're two-nil down with a goalie who can't see because he's got a film of mucus covering his entire body. There's no risk of us getting anything but we can at least play like a fucking team."

  "Who do you want?"

  "Pascal," I said. "5-3-2. He can mark that prick midfielder who's playing CB. Stop them from building their attacks the way they want." That sub would lift us to an average CA of 121.9, but more importantly would replace a Team Work 4 player with a Team Work 20 one.

  The fourth official lifted the electronic board to indicate the number of the player leaving the pitch. There was a murmur of discontent from the crowd. I turned around and glared at everyone in the main stand.

  Emiliano trudged off, chuntering to himself, making his displeasure clear for the whole world to see. I switched from glaring at our fans to glaring at him; that felt much better.

  With Pascal on the pitch, already scanning, already looking for ways to impact the game beyond marking the defender, Sandra said, "What do you want me to say about Emi in the press conference?"

  Emi? Ugh. "When asked, say that you don't comment on individual players, but if they ask about anyone else, answer in full." I scanned the pitch. "Okay, we already look a million times better. Let's put some good moves together, get the fans going, score a late goal to make it a frantic final few minutes, and lose in heartbreaking style. Okay?"

  Sunderland had the ball and worked it around their defence. Pascal wasn't close to the guy he was supposed to be marking. Weird. Not like him to disobey an instruction. I checked the tactics page to see if he had the thick line around his player icon that suggested he was doing something different to the default tactics, but his icon was as it should have been. Okay, he had a low Marking score, but that only meant he was bad at the job, not that he would sometimes choose not to do it.

  Sunderland passed left, back to the goalie, right, then moved the ball square.

  Pascal fell into a sprint - he closed the centre back down in two seconds flat - and when the guy tried to hit the ball long, he simply smashed it against Pascal.

  The ball broke, and Gabby and a defender had an equal chance to get it. Gabby was fast enough, strong enough, smart enough to give his oppo a nudge at just the right time. He gathered the ball and played it to Pascal, who had zipped over to support him. Pascal was immediately closed down, but the ball was gone. The German had passed to Andrew Harrison, who gave it back to Pascal, who was in acres of space somehow.

  Pascal glided across to the left, faked a square pass to Lewis, but instead changed his body position, clipped the ball waist-height behind the defender (who couldn't throw himself at the ball, given it wasn't on the ground), and Lewis was charging onto it.

  Would he get there before the defender?

  Yes!

  Lewis took a tidy first touch, kept his balance as the defender stupidly nearly fouled him in the penalty box, glanced up, and played a low cross...

  For Gabby to smash high into the net at the far post.

  2-1. Cue pandemonium in the Harry McNally, the West Stand, and the main stand. Cue dancing hugs between a childhood Man United fan and a Man City fan. I pulled away from Sandra so that I could karate chop the air a few times.

  Pascal Bochum, you beautiful man! He had taken my instruction and improved upon it. Instead of stopping the ball from ever getting to the defender, he'd had a better idea. Let him get the ball, let him try to play those long passes, let chaos ensue.

  The Chester fans had switched from cheering and dancing to throwing their arms at the pitch while chanting, 'Chester are back!'

  But they weren’t singing it right.

  I listened closer.

  Pascal is back!

  Pascal is back! Whoa-oh, oah-oh!

  I spun to face Emiliano and unleashed a giant beam of pure energy into his chest. By which I mean that I pointed to Pascal and said, "That's how you play football." I kept the second half of the sentence - 'you stupid fucking twat!' - internal.

  Maturity. It's boring as fuck.

  ***

  At half-time, we took off Cole and Gabby, replacing them with Joel Reid and Wibbers. Lewis went to left back, with permission to maraud forward as much as he wanted, since on the other side, Nasa would always stay back. Joel gave us a left-footed guy in the midfield three, and was a notch above our other options. Like Gabby, Wibbers needed action.

  The match restarted and was a real nail-biter. Nothing even close to 'heart-attack football', but the tension was incredible. The quality of the football was pretty good, but with both defences on top.

  Sunderland kept looking to their explosive wingers to do damage, while we were more patient. Wibbers plus Pascal (Wibscal?) wasn't the beefiest or tallest front line, but it was one of the cleverest and most dynamic, and they were smart enough to know exactly how to use Lewis on the left, plus what to do with the offers of support from Joel Reid, Youngster, and Andrew Harrison.

  "What do you think?" said Sandra, with 70 minutes on the clock.

  "I'm enjoying it," I said. I pointed to the midfield. "Youngster's the key. He's giving us that extra body in attack that is creating space for the others to work in, but if he's that high up the pitch he can't get back in time to help our defence. Sunderland are getting the ball to their wingers as fast as possible and spamming shots."

  "I love my friends," said Sandra, "and I love my family, but no-one loves anything as much as that right-winger loves the shoot button."

  I shook my head. "That's the end-stage for Emiliano if we can't fix him. Ten goals a season from 400 shots, but he's your team's top scorer so you have to put up with it."

  She looked behind my shoulder. "Do you think we're getting through to him?"

  I sighed slightly. "A tiny bit. He has been training with us for a while, hasn't he? I'd say he's slightly better." I didn't mean his technical skills, because I had no doubt he would become a top technician. When it came to Emiliano, I only cared about his mental Attributes. He had improved his Determination, Decisions, and Work Rate, but his Team Work was stuck on 4 out of 20. "He's like some guy from 1983 or something. You build the team around him in a way that means he doesn't have to contribute and everyone else knows he's going to shoot whenever the ball comes to him. It might have worked in those days, but not now. I don't quite get why he isn't getting the message."

  "If you had to decide to sign him right now, yes or no, would you do it?"

  I watched as Wibbers lost a duel, and with Lewis so high up the pitch, we were a player short on that side, the side where Sunderland's most dangerous player was. They worked the ball to him quickly, but Magnus moved out to left back, and the rest of the defenders shuffled across. The winger cut inside, looking for the chance to shoot, but the right-footed Magnus was all over him. The winger couldn't shoot, so he floated a cross towards the far post. Nasa had shuffled across along with the centre backs, and he jumped, flicked the ball up and out of the penalty area, then as soon as he landed, he turned, chased it, and beat his oppo to the ball.

  The Deva erupted.

  "Yes, Nasa!” I cried. “Magnus left back," I mused, doing some quick calculations. "Why didn't I think of that before?"

  "You didn’t use him on the left for ages. Switch to 4-4-2? Lewis left midfield?"

  "4-4-1-1," I said. "Pascal and Wibbers taking it in turns to drop and combine with the midfield."

  Sandra strode to her left to bark out instructions, while I moved to my right, trying to squash down my rising bloodlust. Don't get promoted. Don't get promoted.

  To distract myself, I thought about Sandra's question. Would I go ahead with the signing of Emiliano?

  A PA 170 player available for a starting price of three million pounds.

  I was training up quite a few PA 140 and 150 types: Cole, Lewis, Nasa, Wallace. They would provide depth and their individual qualities would be vital in certain matches. But to get to the very top, I needed players with top talent. A fully-grown Emiliano with his head sorted out would be a top, top talent. A match winner even at elite level.

  Would I buy him right now?

  There was a very simple, clear, and decisive answer to that question:

  I don't know.

  ***

  The formation tweak shifted the balance of power in our favour slightly, and when we replaced Andrew with Cheb, we got even closer. Our new CA was 125.8, and we actually pushed the away team back, step by step. Sunderland's right winger was good, but Magnus had played against much better in European competition, and he locked down that side of the pitch, which gave us the confidence to push on even harder.

  With ten minutes to go, I switched us to 4-2-4, with Lewis and Cheb playing as pure wingers.

  We started to get more free kicks and corners, and Vikki's work came to the fore. Most of her routines were about efficiency, about putting our biggest threats into position to cause damage, but we didn't have Helge, Zach, Dazza, or Gabby on the pitch, so we tried all sorts of cute little moves.

  One in particular stood out. We had the ball on the right, five yards from the edge of the penalty area. Sunderland made a wall of two players to block the shot, but there was no real chance of that. Vikki's routine involved five of our players starting at a position to the right of the wall, where they could do no damage whatsoever. Lewis went to take the kick, but paused because our players had run all over the place. Disaster!

  They had to rush back onside, but as they were doing so, Lewis dabbed the kick forward to Cheb, who had been hiding in the blob of players.

  Cheb burst to the byline and slapped the ball across the goal, into an area where the goalie, Wibbers, and a centre back were all competing for it.

  Wibbers flicked his heel out and diverted the ball into the net. Impudent.

  2-2, and this time the goal was scored at the McNally end, which always added a few decibels to the volume. The nearest five players jumped into the crowd, causing ripples in the sea of bodies like comets smashing into the ocean. Vikki and Sandra literally engulfed me.

  When the initial euphoria was over, I had a thought that hit me like a bucket of cold water. "We're gonna win this," I said, aghast.

  Sandra caught my expression. "No!" she said, jabbing her finger at me. "Don't even think about it!"

  "We need to get Wallace Wells on," I said. Sandra's fury rose, so I said, "As goalkeeper."

  She took a step closer and growled, "Leave the jokes to John Liner."

  "John!" I said, slapping my head. "What I wouldn't give to be able to bring him on right now."

  "That's two strikes, Max. Two strikes. Now shut the fuck up and help me win this thing."

  I held my palms up. "I think we should go to 4-1-4-1, Youngster as DM, Pascal in midfield pushing forward to support Wibbers." I waited for her to kick me in the dragons; she didn't. "It will give us control for a few minutes and we can see if Sunderland turtle up or come at us harder. Then we can respond to their response."

  Sandra eyed me for three seconds, then went onto the touchline - over it, in fact - and shouted instructions.

  That done, we watched Sunderland's dugout. There was a big conference going on involving Sunderland's manager, coaches, and his iPad army.

  "If they go defensive, we attack harder," I said. "If they attack, we should drop deep and hit them on counters."

  "Agreed," said Sandra.

  The meeting finally broke up. The manager took a step forward and pointed. My heart rate increased and I grabbed Sandra's arm. Here we go!

  But he was only pointing at a player he wanted to move ten inches to the right.

  I let go of Sandra's arm.

  The guy had decided not to change anything. He was, quite rightly, happy with the balance of risk and reward as things stood. I looked at Sandra. She said, "I want to attack more but we can't do the guy's job for him."

  "No," I said.

  "Do you want to give Wallace the last five minutes?"

  I shook my head. Wallace could get an entire half on Saturday, away from home. "Fortress Deva."

  ***

  The final score was 2-2, and both sets of fans left the stadium happy. The point took our tally to the season to 40, which was a little more than I expected to have after 27 matches.

  I scanned the other results. Wrexham had drawn against a bottom-six team, and there were other eye-catching scorelines. "The fuck's going on?" I wondered. I switched from the Live Scores screen to the Live Tables, and saw that despite getting three draws in a row, we were still seventh. "Fucking imps," I mumbled, because either they were tormenting me or the universe had a sick sense of humour.

  My eyes drifted upwards, to the team in second place. They were twelve points ahead of us.

  Could we?

  Sandra was walking past just as I was having that thought. For some reason, she burst into a big smile. "What are you thinking?"

  "Nothing," I said, sternly. "Seventh and a cup run."

  "Yes, boss," she said, but I couldn't avoid the suspicion that she knew exactly what I had been thinking.

  ***

  Saturday, January 8

  UEFA Pro 27/28 January Field Trip Review

  Course Coordinator: David Jones

  Max Best, making up the days lost when he (admirably) took time off work to drive a poorly woman back to Poland, had invited the members of this group to visit his so-called 'Northern Powerhouse', where members of the Saltney Town youth team trained.

  This all-new facility was said to be fantastic, and the Saltney team made up at least 70% of most of Wales' youth teams, so I was keen to witness the training up close.

  The UEFA Pro candidates gathered early to get a quick tour of the space, followed by breakfast. Our tour guide was Llewellyn Kendrick, known as 'Well In', Saltney Town's manager, the national team's assistant manager. Royalty!

  The Saltney players began arriving. By chance or design, it was the under 14s who were the focus of our day, which meant I got to see the renowned 'Double Dragons' up close. I was moderately surprised to find that Chester FC's under 14s team had arrived, too, and that they knew their local rivals well enough to mingle during breakfast.

  Max Best arrived late, telling us he had been doing his pre-match routine (he claimed to have run 5,000 metres in what he called a 'breezy' 25 minutes) and saying that 'the Brig' would be keeping an eye on the traffic reports and that at around 11 - maybe earlier, if the Brig insisted - he would have to jump in a car and be whisked away, because Chester were playing in Gloucestershire in the FA Cup.

  "It's a good excuse to leave us," I said.

  "Yeah," he said. "I have to be on the bench to make sure the fuckers take it seriously, and I just heard that Wallace Wells got a cold. That's a kick in the teeth for the lad because he was going to play. As long as he's healthy for the Chelsea match, it's all good." He looked around at our faces, and seemed to remember who we were. "UEFA Pro people! I've got the morning quite organised, I think. Well In will take over when I'm gone, and you've got all these coaches you can ask questions. Basically, you're gonna see Relationism up close. The Welsh version, anyway. Strictly speaking I don't need to be here, because obvs these guys know what they're doing better than I do. Well In," he said, turning to his friend slash co-manager slash employee. "Did you show them around?"

  "Yes, Max."

  Simone Ashton said, "It's brilliant, Max."

  David Bakero said, "I loved your comic book collection. It's good to know you have taken care of the basics."

  David was joking, but Best looked genuinely nonplussed. "Comics? What?"

  Well In said, "It's new, Max. Some of the parents don't let their kids watch loads of TV at home, and they have strict limits on screen time, so when they come here the lads watch all sorts. Bonnie got the younger lads together and we agreed they won't take the Michael when it comes to internet - if they do, Bonnie will turn the Wifi off after dinner - and we've got a library where the boys are allowed to stay up late reading. Better than being on their phones, she says, and the boys are happy with the compromise."

  "Library..." said Best, trying to catch up. "Comics." His head rolled around, slowly, coming to a stop as he repeated the word. "Comics!"

  ***

  Whatever the original plan was, was on hold.

  19 hard-working, diligent, soon-to-be-elite coaches followed Max Best (27) into the building with the new library section. Best's eyes bulged as he looked from comic to novel to autobiography. There was an extensive football section - of course - and rather a lot of 'game books' written by Sir Ian Masters - Dice Dungeon and the likes.

  "Haaa!" said Best, lifting one comic above his head. "Perfect." He turned his head; there was noise coming from the main room. He poked his head out, thought, and said, "Follow me."

  We went into the big space, which had table tennis, a pool table, dart boards, and various arcade machines that would remain switched off until 1) the day's training was over or 2) Max Best wanted to blow things up.

  "Lads!" cried Best. "Gather round! I have a mouth and I must scream."

  That seemed to be a signal understood by both sets of youth players to sit in rough lines, like at a school assembly. Gwen, one of the most important people in the Football Association of Wales, had appeared, alongside her talented daughter, Mari. I wondered if I would be held responsible for what Best did next. Surely not, but just in case, I stood behind a couple of the taller coaches.

  With his audience more or less settled, Best pointed to one teenager. "Jack Knapper! New boy! New boyyyyy! Okay, no-one say or do anything weird that makes him think this isn't a serious footballing outfit. Pretend to be normal until he moves city and has no choice but to stay. Mwa-ha-ha-HA-HAAAAA!" Best slapped the comic. "Dragonballz," he said. "This is my absolute favourite."

  "Dragon Ball Zee!" shouted a few lads.

  Best, in typically pugnacious fashion, stuck out his chin. "For a start, this is either England or Wales and we say 'zed', not 'zee', so I don't want to hear any more of that shit." He looked around. "Is Brooke here? Zach? No, he's at Camp Cupcake. Don't giggle! It's very serious. They're allowed to say things wrong but you're not. Okay, Dragonballz. It's about a boy who's a monkey who's an alien and he's got seven balls. Stop laughing, you little shits!"

  "Max," said a Chester player I later learned was Stephen Watson, a very highly regarded defensive midfielder. "Admit it, you don't know nuffink about Dragon Ball."

  "I do! I'm an expert. If I say anything you don't think is true, it's because I read the original Japanese version. And by the way, I know all this foreign comic stuff. That's why they call me a Player-Manga."

  "No!" cried Stephen, falling sideways into a mass of boys who were also laughing their heads off.

  When there was a little more quiet, Best continued. "Where was I?" He lifted the comic. "Oh yeah, it's great this. There's a fight, and halfway through the fight, the baddie says, I'm gonna punch you in the face! But Sun Wukong, the monkey, he says, you can't hit me in the face because my face is level 2. The baddie says yeah but my punch is level 3. Yeah, says the monkey, but my dodge is level 4. But I've got anti-dodge level 10. Fine, says the monkey, already exhausted by the sheer amount of conversation that's needed to get this fight towards its climax, but I've got glass cannon level 60. Yeah, says the baddie, but I've done an off-screen side quest that got me shields level 500. I know, says the monkey, patiently, but I did a three-year meditation and then drank some special water and I'm level 4000. Is that all, says the baddie, because I'm actually a super-robot from the future and I'm level 9000."

  The kids cheered at that point, which I doubt I shall ever understand.

  Best put the comic down, and smiled at his young charges. "Chester lads, what you're learning, some people call it Bestball. Welsh lads, some people call it Dragonball. That name sits easier with me, because one day I hope it will truly make us..." Best made a fist, extended it upwards, and intoned, "the strongest under the heavens!"

  Another big cheer from the kids - and a few of the coaching staff.

  "Today, we're going to have these guys watching us train," said Best, jerking his thumb towards the mass of UEFA Pro candidates. "They're my friends from school." Big laughs from the kids, but not as big as the laughs from our group. "They're the next generation of coaches, same as you're the next generation of players. You can't have one without the other, right? So today's their day. I'll be explaining what you’re doing, sometimes, over the speakers. I know that's a bit weird and creepy sometimes, but if I single you out, don't take it too personally, yeah?" Best grinned. "You're gonna be a lot better at your jobs than they are at theirs."

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  One of the kids thrust his hand up. "Max! If you're Goku, who are the villains? Alan Turner? Evaristo?"

  "First," said Best, rubbing the area around his mouth, "I'm not Goku, I just had some scrambled egg." This nonsense got a big laugh from the kids - and from Simone. "Villains?" said Best, considering the question with apparent seriousness. "Thing is, I haven't been in the same division as anyone long enough to whip up a proper rivalry. Folke Wester became a villain because he did something really horrible. Chip Star and his dad wanted to destroy Chester, so they can get in the bin. But most managers are just 'villain of the week', if you get me. They're not worth bothering about."

  He picked up the magazine.

  "It might surprise you but I'm not actually a Dragonzball expert, but I know that it was cool because the baddies were, like, super strong and they actually seemed impossible to beat. For me, that's gonna be the Prem, isn't it? When I start rumbling with those guys, it's gonna be twice a year, plus cups, for years. You need that repetition, though. Like, even this season in the Championship we're doing okay but the three teams that are slapping us up are gonna be promoted and they'll be replaced by three other ones. Do you know what I mean? I can't bring myself to form an emotional attachment. That guy there," said Best, pointing to David Bakero. "He's a coach at Burnley and they are nailed-on to get relegated, so he'll be a rival next season. He's not powerful enough to become a villain, though."

  Bakero shook his head, mock-annoyed. He shook his fist. "Curse you, Max Best!"

  Best wiped his shoulder. "I've been cursed before. It's no biggie. Okay, lads, I just wanted to say that I'm really pleased with your progress and how you're conducting yourself around here. I know there have been one or two minor hiccups," he said, eyeing a couple of lads in particular, who shrunk under his gaze (maybe Best really has superpowers?!), "and there have been one or two lapses in judgement," he added, eyeing a different set of lads, who wilted. For a moment, I wondered what they had been getting up to, but I soon realised I didn't want to know. Best continued. "But I know it's not going to happen again, so we can move on." He looked towards the nearest pitch. "It's not enough to do well out there; you have to behave in here, too. Reading is one billion percent Max Best approved. If you don't read, survival is unlikely; victory is impossible." He took the comic and gave it a thoughtful look. "You know what? I'm gonna read this. Someone remind me how many Dragon Balls there are."

  "Seven!" said pretty much everyone in the room.

  "Makes sense," said Best. He turned the pages, squeezing his eyes, before rotating the entire thing so that it was upside down. "And you read this from right to left, yeah? God, imagine reading a Japanese comic in Australia. You wouldn't know what to do." With that cryptic comment, he pointed towards the doorway. "Exit in order of your maximum Saiyan level, by which I mean in an orderly fashion. Assemble in front of Androids 17 to 20 to receive your new programming."

  The room cleared with much chatter, but Gwen wanted to have a word with Best. To my horror, she spotted me and waved me over. Best, Gwen, Mari, and myself went into the library room and closed the doors.

  Gwen smiled at Best. "I didn't know you were so literate."

  Best wiped his mouth frantically. "There's more egg? Soz, I normally eat in front of a mirror, just in case."

  The ladies laughed far harder than I would have expected. Mari said, "Max, you're crazy."

  Gwen got businesslike. "We're all delighted with the work you're doing here."

  Best partially covered his mouth, looked at me, and whispered, "I think she's talking to you."

  Gwen shook her head, ruefully. "Can we just get an update on how things are going from your point of view?"

  "With the dragons?"

  "Yes."

  Best's gaze drifted to the right but wasn't focused on anything that I could see. "Would you like the information presented to you in terms of the Dragon Ball universe?"

  "Of course not."

  "I'll take that as a yes," said Best, which made my mouth go dry. You don't mess with your bosses! Gwen and Mari exchanged a glance but I couldn't tell what it meant. "There are seven Dragon Balls, right? In the story, you gather them together and then you can do things. I think it's pretty obvious how that relates to football in general and squad-building in particular." He tapped his lips. "I'm always wondering what Chester looks like in its final form. Ideally, you'd have the best player in the world in every position. Good luck getting that when you've got the lowest budget in the league. But can I get seven players so special that anything becomes possible? Helge, Roddy, Youngster, Wibbers. There's four for sure. Either Magnus or Dan might be another, but that's by no means certain. Peter Bauer has a unique skillset. Thomazella is right up there. So how many have I got? Four, five, seven? It's hard to tell, really." He smiled and spread his arms wide. "It's a lot fucking more than most clubs in the world, that's for sure!"

  Mari said, "What about Chester Women?"

  Best gave her a warm smile. "Mari, you're an absolute bosh midfielder but you aren't the boshest under the heavens. Are we still friends?"

  How could you not be with charisma like that? She nodded. "I know I'm not the boshest under the heavens, Max. That wasn't my question, though, was it?"

  Best twinkled, but got serious. He rubbed his chin. "The levels are slightly different with the women and they're changing fast, but let's go with what I know. Haley is a top goalie and I think her height and the way she commands the penalty box is really intimidating. Meghan, Victoria Rose, Dani, Sarah Greene, Meredith Ann. Angel is interesting because she's super elite at only one thing, but it's the most important thing. So that's between four and six Dragoness Balls, depending on your point of view."

  "Do lady dragons have balls?" I said, being bold.

  Best sighed. "Dave, come on. We're trying to have a serious conversation, here." He looked up and scratched his Adam's apple. "Yeah, we're getting there. It seems to be harder to find the last one than the first one, which is weird. I think someone's messing with the narrative, if you know what I mean."

  "I don't," said Gwen. "Mari, remind him what the question was, since he listens to you."

  Best laughed. "How are the Welsh age groups doing - I remember. I'm actually working my way towards that discussion while giving you a frame of reference for what I think's important."

  Mari said, "You want a squad of reliable, hard-working players," she pointed to herself, "while having seven superstars who can win matches on their own." She pointed to him.

  Best shook his head. "No-one wins a match on their own. But basically, that's right. Maybe I wouldn't say match-winners, but difference-makers. Take Helge. Yes, he can win a match where he scores two goals from corners, but when I'm finished with him, no fucker is getting anything from the side of the pitch that Helge is patrolling. Do you get me? He's gonna lock his zone down completely. The best dribbler in the world isn't gonna get past him and his telescopic legs, he's never gonna lose a header, he's gonna have elite positioning. I mean, if the oppo's best player is a winger, I put Helge on him and that's over. Factor in that the oppo has to pick at least one super-tall guy instead of someone shorter who could hurt us more, and we're already ahead before the game has kicked off."

  Mari leaned her head to one side. "How does Victoria Rose fit into that?"

  Best smiled. "You don't think she's elite?"

  Mari blushed. "I didn't say that. I was just - " She clammed up.

  "It's okay," said Best. "I'm not gonna snitch." He looked up and to the left. "She's behind Femi and Meghan in purely defensive terms, but when she's cooked she'll be as good as Meghan defensively, and she'll also be our best midfielder. No, you watch, she'll be absolutely devastating. Every other elite club is gonna think, shit, I need one of those. But we've got her." Best formed a fist, turned around, punched upwards, and said, "Hadou-ken!"

  "Is that the right franchise?" said Gwen.

  Best shrugged. "Probably. There's no way to check." He clapped his hands together. "Okay, so my primary goal has been to flood the youth teams with talent and get them all playing together from a young age, because team work and togetherness will make up for 10 points in CA."

  "CA?" I said.

  "Current Ability," he said. "It's a Soccer Supremo thing. Like, Sunderland were about 10 points ahead of us but we were able to compete with them with tactics and having smarter players."

  "Oh, right," I said. "They're a good team, though, aren't they?"

  "Yeah," Best admitted. "But not like us. We've got players who have been here for years. Who played? Er, Cole, Christian, Magnus... Pascal, Wibbers... They were with us in our non-league days. I think Sunderland had one starter who had been at the club that long. Maybe two. If you want to upgrade your players, it's gonna happen that you lose those bonds, but I have really tried to get ahead of that so that we can power cliff when we need to."

  "What?" said Gwen.

  "It's when you get more powerful suddenly because the story demands it. It's kind of a Chester thing."

  Gwen laughed. "What the hell are you talking about? Is he always like this?"

  Her daughter shrugged. "Yeah, but it's normally movies and songs and books that he has actually read. I'd bet a hundred pounds that in there, a minute ago, was the first time he had ever looked at a Pokémon comic."

  "Dragon Ball," I said.

  "Whatever," said Mari, which made me feel old.

  "Good," said Best. "We all understand my idea. But while I wanted to get a good squad at all levels so that there's tons of depth going forward, you also need a bit of fantasy if you want to win games. You want players who can lock down their zones or draw all the oppo's aggro onto them. You need..."

  Mari thrust her hand into the air. "Dragon Balls!"

  Best 'shot' her with a finger-gun, which looked quite cool coming from him. "Ideally, we'd have 25 but give me 7 and I'll beat England."

  Gwen was nodding, thoughtfully. "So how many have we got? Please tell me Roddy Jones is one."

  "Roddy Jones is one," said Best. "Of course he is. He's the best and he's the oldest, which I think is ideal, because that will make it easier for the lads who are coming up behind him. Remember that Roddy's 17." Best lifted his hand in a strange way, while his eyes darted left and right. It was slightly reminiscent of an actor in a science-fiction movie who was 'interfacing' with a computer. "The good news is, the megatalents are all here at Saltney. The ones I have found, anyway. Christ, but I'd love another couple. Here's what we've got, though. 16 years old, playing in the Europa League, Charlie Cullen. Box-to-box midfielder. That's a brilliant guy to have as the second Dragon, because if an oppo double-teams Roddy, that's more space in the middle for Charlie. That's really an epic combination."

  Best's eyes darted around for a second before resting on Gwen.

  "Cody Williams, the goalie, isn't a Dragon Ball, but he's very good. He could do an important job for a few years and he'll be in the Welsh squads for most of his career. Good idea to be nice to him."

  Gwen nodded. "Got it."

  "Those are the top 16s," said Best. "The 15s are interesting - got three high-end Championship players, another decent goalie, but then there's Peter Brown."

  "The right winger," said Gwen.

  "Yeah," said Best, closing one eye while he tried to think hard. "I can't quite put my finger on what it is I like about him, but he reminds me a lot of Dan Badford and Dan has shown no sign of hitting any sort of limits. Peter Brown as a fast, decisive winger, playing in front of Roddy Jones... I mean, if I could choose I'd have put Peter on the left, but this is what the mothers of Wales chose to give me, right?"

  Gwen scrunched up her nose. "I'll tell them to do better."

  Best nodded, graciously. "That would be good, thanks. Now, I'm not blaming anyone and I know it's a question of cost and logistics and whatnot, but I don't have a single talented 14-year-old in my programme."

  "We're working on it," said Gwen.

  Best held a hand up. "It was a compromise, I know, and it was more important to get the older lads. It's fine. I'm just saying that there's an age group I don't know much about, still. If there is a Dragon or two in that cohort, that would be a very, very big bosh. The 13s are the most fun, by miles."

  "The Double Dragons," I said.

  "Yes," said Best. "Hammer and Spike."

  Gwen said, "You mean Charlie Clarke and Riley Richardson."

  "Nope. I mean Hammer and Spike. They are very, very good and as a combo they're always gonna outperform their individual levels. But that's not all, far from it. There's the best Welsh goalie I've seen so far, the best centre back I've seen so far, and the best left-sided midfielder I've seen so far. Five Premier League players."

  Mari frowned. "Good but not Dragon Balls, then? Not as good as Helge?"

  Best clicked his tongue a few times. "International football is different from club football, isn't it? Helge's one of three guys in Norway of that high level. By the time the Double Dragons are playing for Wales, Helge might be the only elite player Norway have. Our goal has to be to make Wales an international team that's all Premier League quality, with a few standout players, plus teamwork, togetherness, and a healthy dose of Relationism... That's gonna give any opponent a run for their money. Of course I'd love more players the standard of Roddy or even Charlie Cullen, but I'm not sure they are out there. I'm quite happy with what we've got... But if we could get one more megastar, some more depth - we really need more left-sided players... I mapped out how these lads would impact the national team over time if you want to see it."

  "Yes," said Gwen, and I got the feeling her mouth had gone dry.

  Best looked around for something to write on. I handed him a notebook and pen. "Top," he said. "Right, RJ is Roddy Jones. Cullen, PB, Spike, Hammer, and so on." He scribbled their ages. "I'm gonna talk Soccer Supremo again, because obvs that's what I'm most familiar with. Roddy's 17. At the end of this season, the summer of 2028, I'm hoping he gets to CA 100. That would be a big jump but he's so talented, why not? End of 2029, he's gone to 130. 2030, he's gone to 150. Getting a bit slower each time, but let's say next year's 165, then 180. He's one of the best players in Europe aged 21, and he's one of the big, big stars of Euro 32. He might have a very good World Cup 30, but everything after that, he's pretty elite."

  Best moved to the next line.

  "Charlie Cullen goes 75, 105, 135, 150... He goes to the World Cup but in Euro 32 he's CA 160, a big-time goalscoring midfielder.

  "If we're lucky, Peter Brown has gone on a similar journey, just one year delayed. 75, 105, 135, 150. A 19-year-old winger basically better than everyone in the current Wales squad, but he's your third-best player? I'd take that. Then there's the problem of the missing year, because the Double Dragons and that age group are only breaking through the CA 100 mark in the Euro 32 summer. World Cup 34, you've got an amazing squad. Roddy will be 23 and fully-formed, the Double Dragons will be 19 and ready to rumble. If you get another age group like the current 13s, and you get them soon enough that Roddy can play alongside them, you've got a very, very good chance of winning something."

  "Winning?" I said. "You don't mean...?"

  "I do mean," said Best. "I do mean."

  Mari was giving her mother a strange look. Gwen noticed, and did something extraordinary. She put her hands to her head and went for a walk around the library. "Max," she said, returning at last. "We're struggling. I won't say you've bankrupted us, but the well is dry. We're hoping the Euros in the summer will be lucrative, and we'll give you as much cash as we can. That's a promise. But right now... I'm sorry, but I can't arrange for every 14-year-old in Wales to come to Saltney. I'm really sorry." She rubbed her face. "You're gonna hate me, I know."

  Best gave her an amused look. "Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

  "I was embarrassed, okay? You spin gold out of straw. It's not that easy for the rest of us."

  "Thats what I mean, though. I took my consultancy money out of Saltney for this year. If I'd known you had this bottleneck, I might have left it in the bank. Now that I've taken it, I can't put it back. Tax and shit." Best took a step back, sank, and must have felt his calves weren't right because he started stretching. "Gwen, do you know you've given me two hundred million pounds of talent?"

  She paused her fretting. "I didn't know that, no."

  Best smiled. "That would be their peak value and obviously Saltney couldn't get the whole whack - we would be their starter club - but we'd have to be pretty stupid not to get a good chunk of cash out of having every talented Welsh kid here." He pulled at his lip. "I need to speak to MD, but if we pay, could the FAW use its organisational skills to get the rest of the kids here for trial days? Keep convincing parents to bring their kids here, make sure kids don't get poached, all the stuff you're already doing."

  "I think I can arrange that," she said, with a cautious half-smile that showed she couldn't believe what she was hearing. Max Best was going to invest his own money into this project! "You've already done so much. You don't need to do extra."

  "Extra?" he said. He appeared to be baffled by her choice of words. "We've scouted half of half the country. What's it going to cost to do the rest? Five million quid?"

  Gwen looked horrified. "Nothing like that! Not even close."

  "Two million?" said Best.

  "Not even half that!" said Gwen. "I'd be scandalised if it cost more than five hundred thousand."

  Best smiled and stretched his arms wide. "Then what are we talking about?" Suddenly, he tipped his head back and laughed like a super villain. "I've got it," he said, eyes shining. "Why don't you fine me half a million quid for being too handsome?"

  "Too cocky," said Gwen.

  "Too dashing," said Best.

  "Too literate," said Mari.

  "What? Where?" said Best, frantically rubbing his mouth.

  And if all that struck me as bananas, it was nothing compared to what I saw on the training pitches outside.

  ***

  Drills of all sorts were happening. There were small groups of lads - Chester and Saltney all mixed up - with volunteers from the Welsh army, plus about a dozen coaches.

  "By the way," said Best. "I stole your idea, Dave."

  "My idea?"

  "What's it called down in Newport? Dragon Park? The coach leading the sesh wears a headset and you can have a hundred coaches on the sideline listening in. We've installed that here on one of the pitches, but we got a couple of giant screens, too, so we can refer to the action that's just happened or show something from a recent match. It adds a new dimension to the sessions. We let the parents come and watch from time to time."

  "That's good of you," I said, sarcastically.

  "I know," he said. "I'm just a big softy, really."

  "It's bewildering," I said, looking around. Some drills involved poles, others elastic bands which were tied around the players' waists, and the strangest of all were the large men bashing into the kids with rugby-style hit shields. "It looks like a crazy Japanese TV show."

  "Takeshi's Castle," suggested Gwen.

  "What's bewildering about it?" said Best, veering towards being annoyed. "It's your bog-standard round-the-clock drill rotation. Small groups getting high-impact interventions from top coaches. Skills, decisions, team work, beauty."

  "Beauty?" said Gwen, with a laugh.

  Best puffed up. "Beauty is a strength in and of itself. I'm a big anime fan, as you know, and the word anime comes from the Jungian archetypes anima and animus. Anima is the feminine side of a man and if you want to transcend your psyche, if you want to ascend, you must tap into that feminine power. Here, we learn to do that by playing football so beautiful that it not only empowers ourselves but emasculates our rivals."

  Gwen's eyebrows had been rising ever-higher during the speech, but her daughter was nodding. "He's right, mum, that's what we learn."

  Best cackled and offered Mari a high-ten. They walked off towards the first set of drills.

  Gwen didn't follow at first, but stared at them. Her gaze turned on me. "I hope he didn't learn that on your course."

  "No," I spluttered. "Of course not!"

  She laughed. "I'm joking, Dave. Let's take a closer look at this insanity."

  ***

  Best led us around the drills, giving us 'explanations' of what they were.

  "Simple wall pass drill. Four players, one square. Pass to each other, two-touch. Easy. Level 2, one-touch. Level 3, you split the lads into two teams and they're playing at the same time. Chaotic and fun. Level 4, co-op or versus mode, but you start in the middle and when you move left or right, you can't go back. You end up getting squashed into one corner and your passes have to get more and more precise. It's frantic. The coach times who can do it the longest, that team wins a prize."

  "What's the prize?" asked Simone.

  "Tickets to watch a match in Germany that kicks off in an hour. Stuff like that. Thinking up great prizes they can't actually use is kind of a sub-topic all on its own. All right, next one. Okay, you're probably wondering why three beefy boys from 3 R Welsh are attacking children with hit mats?" Best shrugged. "I don't have a good answer for you. The army guys seem to like it and I don't know how to get them to stop."

  One of the soldiers said something I didn't catch, but it made some of the closer people laugh.

  Best said, "I've noticed that the leap to men's football is super hard for these kids and it's because youth footy is so sanitised. There's not much contact allowed by the refs, which is probably a good thing overall, but it does leave the lads very unprepared for what's coming. This drill here, they have to dribble from one side to the other while getting knocked around. There's a variant with passing and one where a lad has to receive the ball with his back to goal, retreat into the contact, move left, right, spin, and shoot, all while being buffeted. That contact from someone bigger than you is draining and they need to get used to it."

  We moved to something that looked like a small tennis court.

  "Simple one," said Best. "You take a pass from the side and you've got to dink the ball over the net so it lands in the serve zone there. Then you jump across the net, do it again with your other foot, come back. Sometimes we let them keep going until they miss the chip and see who can get the highest score."

  The next drill took up far more space than the first three. There was a medium-sized goal, four attackers, three defenders.

  "This one, we pick a spot and that's where the drill always starts that day. The four attacking players start in the same spots - this replicates a fast counter-attack - but each time, someone else will be the guy who starts with the ball. If you've got four-on-three, you should score half the time, right? It's all about making those good decisions at speed. One limitation is that the lads can't move the ball backwards more than a yard. You can shift it onto your other foot to chip to the far post, something like that, but you can't build patiently forever. You've got to go towards the goal and you've got to work out how to combine and you've got to do it fast."

  Simone said, "Max, so far these drills don't seem very specific to Bestball. I mean, Relationism."

  "Why would there be a specific drill? Football's football. Anyway, I'm not training kids to stay in our closed ecosystem forever. One day, they're gonna move to a club that does everything normal. Excessively normal, if that club is Burnley."

  "My God," said David Bakero.

  "There are drills that look more Dragonbally," admitted Best, "but only because we put a lot of kids in a small space. Make that space bigger and it's your common-or-garden variety sesh. Right, you get the idea. We're testing their all-round game but especially their decision-making. What I basically want is for them to admit their weaknesses and work on them. Ah, see there? The blue team are discussing how to do the next attack. Once they start the move it has to go fast, but we didn't say they couldn't plan before starting. You'll see the red team do that when it's their turn, and they'll do much better than the blues, and it'll get more and more tactical and before you know it, these lads will be scoring fast breaks against Chelsea... or England."

  There was an inaudible buzz among the candidates.

  "What's the time? Shit. How about we do a quick match so I can show you what coaching Relationism looks like?"

  ***

  Ultimate Strongest Under the Heavens World Championship of All Eternity: Saltney Town Saiyans versus Chester Hell Fighters

  We went onto the full-sized pitch with the large screens and the audio equipment. We put on our headsets and when the match kicked off, Best pointed out a few things. "Both teams will revert to 4-4-2 when defending. The blob drifts right more than it drifts left. Obviously, this pitch is too big for the lads, really, but for demo purposes it'll do. You can see the lads stationed opposite haven't worked out that the distances are bigger and their mates can't play the same big diags they're used to. There we go! Players waking up! That's always good to see!"

  Seeing the 'blob' live was mind-boggling, especially as both sets of kids could do it. Starting from a rudimentary 4-4-2, players would drift together like mites of dust in a shaft of sunlight, orbit each other, combine.

  And what combinations! Flicks, tricks, skills. It was the beauty Best spoke of, but functional. The backheels and nutmegs and no-look volleyed passes actually progressed the team up the pitch.

  Turnovers were as fiercely contested as in the Rugby World Cup. Mad, desperate scrambles for the ball were followed by calm periods or thrusting counter-attacks.

  It took about five minutes for Best to essentially forget we were there. He started to coach Chester's new player, Jack Knapper, who I later learned was a striker currently on the books at Luton. I got the sense that while Best was coaching Knapper, he was also reminding the other players of what he expected.

  In one scene, Knapper ran to the outside of the blob, where he was in acres of space. "Pass!" he yelled.

  Best blew his whistle to stop the game. "Bro, what happens if we pass to you there?"

  Knapper pointed to the opposition's goal. "I run that way and score."

  Best laughed. "Sure, yeah, maybe. But look." Best held out his arm. "Everyone on the right of my arm, get off the pitch for a second." Most of the 22 players departed, leaving three defenders in front of Knapper, and one teammate behind him. Best folded his arms. "What do you think, bro?"

  "Er," said the boy, laughing as the players more well-versed in the tactic shouted good-natured banter.

  Best said, "I can put it on the big screen if you want. Get the PlayStation view if you want. I don't mind because I can run an advert for Ganymede, the greatest shampoo under the heavens."

  "Yeah, no, okay. I get it. It would be bad on the counter. I could take them all on, though."

  Best sucked air through his teeth. "That sounds like more of a Luton thing." The bantering from the players off the pitch grew louder. Best held up his hand. "I'd send my children to Luton's academy... if I was punishing them. Shit, I couldn't resist. Genuinely, I'd send my kids to Luton's academy, no joke, no banter. But if I wanted a floating megabrain to put my son in midfield where he belongs, and if my son wanted to show the true extent of his skill and be part of an epic team, soz, Luton, but that's not where it happens. It happens here, Jack, and it happens inside that blob. It's hard at first. It's weird. You get clattered, you lose the ball, you struggle. It's not easy." Best grinned, and Jack copied him. "But when you do your first round-the-corner pass that takes three defenders out of the game, oooooh, that's addictive. That's a new kind of power."

  Jack was ready to buy what Max Best was selling, but there was one thing he couldn't get over. "I'm a striker," he called out.

  Best's shoulders sagged, and he had to force himself to stand straight. Wearing one of his big smiles, he said, “Let’s agree that you’re a striker who plays in midfield." Jack threw his hands up as though he couldn't believe his ears, but Best summoned the banished players, blew his whistle, and the blobs and the counter-blobs reformed, the tricks and flicks came back out, the counter-attacks were ruthless, the defending robust.

  In the middle of it all, Jack Knapper was carried away like a bottle bobbing along between waves, until suddenly he got the ball on the edge of the blob, turned into the acres of space next to him, paused, passed the ball to Stephen Watson at the base of the blob, and ran into blob central, pointing. Watson's first-time pass was just where Knapper wanted it, and the Lutonian played another one-two, moving another five yards forward.

  He was tackled and the ball went out of play, but when his Welsh opponent pulled him to his feet, Knapper was beaming from ear to ear.

  Best cried out, "Save a spot on the statue, boys! He's beginning to belieeeeeeeeve!"

  ***

  Men's FA Cup Third Round: Forest Green Rovers versus Chester

  Forest Green had an average CA of 74, deployed in an industry-standard 4-2-3-1 formation. I wanted to get at them in the most attacking way possible, to load some goals into the legs of my forward players. I had everyone back from injury or sickness, except for poor Wallace Wells, so the only question was how much risk I wanted to take with the rotation.

  Answer? Not much. In future rounds I would put out my very best eleven, no messing.

  For this one, though, I did decide to put Rainman in goal. He was CA 88, so it wasn't like he would be the worst player on the pitch, and it was possible this would be my only chance to give the lad senior minutes - with all due respect to the Cheshire Cup.

  The next step was asking myself if I wanted Emiliano in the team or not. His Morale was flying up and down because while he was starting matches in the Championship, he was also getting very publicly blasted by his manager. The coaching staff were working on him, though, giving him extra sessions, sitting with him in the Sin Bin watching his lowlights.

  Bring it on, he had said.

  He was the second name on my team sheet.

  In the end, I opted to match Forest Green's formation with Lewis and Cheb as the full backs. Youngster and Magnus would slip into the DM slots, screening Christian and Peter Bauer.

  Ahead of them would be a very dynamic, very technical three of Pascal, Wibbers, and Emil. Colin Beckton would get the first half, and his movement would give the CAMs plenty of opportunities to slide passes through the lines.

  Average CA 121.1. Almost 50 points ahead of FGR, and our bench was formidable. Nothing could go wrong.

  ***

  The start of the match was a disaster.

  Forest Green got a corner, which they whipped in with pace. Rainman flapped at the ball and it skimmed off someone's scalp towards the goal line at the back post. Lewis was waiting there just in case something like that happened, and he managed to head the ball straight up onto the underside of the crossbar. As it descended, Rainman grabbed it from Lewis’s head, rushed ahead a few yards, and hurled it to the left, where Pascal was open. Pascal scampered and one of the few covering defenders slid along the turf trying to tackle the ball. Pascal dabbed it over him, and had the freedom of Gloucestershire to run into.

  To his right was Emiliano, then Colin, then Wibbers.

  We were four against two!

  Pascal did the right thing, playing a pass to Emil at exactly the right moment.

  All the Italian had to do was roll the ball a little further to the side and we would score.

  Instead, he shot.

  The Chester fans leaped and celebrated as the ball smashed into the back of the net. I was so angry I kicked a water bottle, and there was nothing performative about it. The fucking useless prick was doing my head in.

  A couple of minutes later, we had an amazing situation with Colin, Wibbers, and Pascal exchanging positions, doing high-quality one-touch passes to confuse and bamboozle the home team. It was like a dance of butterflies or the murmuration of starlings. It was just beautiful, true poetry in motion, and when Wibbers touched the ball to Emiliano, all the Italian had to do was play a straight pass ten yards forward, into the path of Colin Beckton, to complete one of the goals of the season. One of the all-time great goals, an eternal moment, a drop of time preserved in cosmic amber.

  Instead, he shot.

  The ball arced from his foot like a rainbow made of lightning, dipping late past the goalie's despairing dive. Two-nil, more joy for the away fans, big celebrations from Emiliano and from the subs bench.

  "Dazza," I said, wading in there, "get your game face on. You're going in."

  Dazza couldn't believe it, but he was a striker, we were playing a much weaker side, and he had only scored three goals this season. He ripped his top off with frankly indecent haste. "Ready."

  Before the match could restart, the fourth official held up the electronic board and the stadium announcer confirmed that number 28, Emiliano, would be replaced by number 16, Darren Smith.

  The Italian didn't want to leave the pitch, which brought my blood if not to the boil, at least to the simmer. As he came closer, one inch at a time, he yelled, "Why? Why?"

  By the time he finally got to the edge of the pitch, I had mentally deleted him - not literally - from my database, and I had put the situation into perspective. One, he was a worm, not worth getting worked up about. Two, I wanted to maintain a good relationship with his agent, Don Pino.

  So instead of punching him into the moon, as he probably deserved, I simply stared at him, and when he got close, I said - loud enough for all my subs to hear so that they would carry my message into the world, "Two shots, zero passes. Who the fuck do you think you are? Kobe Bryant?"

  Emiliano punched the comfy moulded chairs that the home team provided for us, which caused me to take an angry step in his direction, but Gabby, plus Kalvin (our assistant goalie coach) and Yorkie, one of the coaches, intervened.

  "Tell the stupid fuck what the bomb squad is," I suggested. Gabby responded by making a little 'calm down' gesture, which in my head got him a four-match break from first-team action. “Tell me to fucking calm down," I chuntered, looking for something to kick to show how calm I was.

  I went to stand next to Sandra, noting that she had organised the players into a basic 4-4-2. That had been my intention, more or less, but I hadn't actually said it out loud. She glanced at me. "You know American sports when it suits you."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Kobe Bryant. His reputation for hogging the ball was exaggerated."

  "Huh?" I said. "I'm talking about Kobe Bryant, the Olympic triathlete." I pointed to the pitch. "Do this for a few minutes, then when everyone's back in the right mindset, attack."

  I went to sit next to the medical team. "Well," said Physio Dean. He looked at his watch to see how much time had passed. "That was an interesting first eight minutes."

  ***

  It took us a while to regain our equilibrium, but Sandra eased us into a 4-2-4 with Pascal and Wibbers as wingers, supported with overlaps from Lewis and Cheb, with Dazza and Colin as targets in the box. At times we were doing 2-2-6; I couldn't remember the last time we had been so dominant.

  The rest of the half was one-way traffic with us peppering Forest Green's goal with shots and crosses. Colin made it 3-0 before Christian got the fourth with a header from a corner.

  At half-time, Emiliano was nowhere to be seen, which was probably for the best. I took off Colin and Youngster, sending on Gabby (I was such a softy) and Joel Reid. That gave us an average CA of exactly 125.

  Gabby scored, then Joel, and with time running out, Dazza finally got good contact with a header.

  7-0 final, safely into the Fourth Round, but there was a slightly weird vibe in the dressing room at full time.

  I did the things I was required to do, then headed to London with Livia, Vikki, and Pascal. Tomorrow, the women would play West Ham in the FA Cup.

  On the way, I thought about texting the agent Don Pino to tell him that if he found Emiliano a new club this transfer window, I would let him go without trying to cut Chester into the deal. We had done all the usual training drills and I had tried shouting at the kid at the right moments. It had worked to some effect on every single troublesome player in my career. Not this guy, though. Why waste time on someone who didn't want to improve? He was high-end Fool’s Gold and I was the fool.

  I had a beautifully-worded draft ready to send, but then I remembered that Emiliano had played for Pescara at the start of the season. He had played for two teams and he couldn't play for a third. Pescara wouldn't take him back. We were stuck with him until the summer.

  "Christ," I hissed, tossing my phone into the tray in the door.

  "Max," said Vikki. "Were you maybe a little harsh on Emi?"

  "He got off lightly," I said. I looked out of the window at the streetlights that flashed by. Each one took care of its own little section of road in a criss-crossing web, a network. A team. "He got eight minutes more than he actually deserved, and unless his fucking mindset improves, he won't get another eight seconds."

  "Careful," said Pascal. "The players you bin off come back to bite you in the ass. Chipper, Samuel... Who am I forgetting?"

  "The villain's journey," I said. "Try to join the hero, get rebuffed, grow powerful through spite. He'll never make it to the top, though. Talent's not enough. In this game, you can only be an effective villain if you can work in a team. Evaristo’s teams play as a unit. Alan Turner's teams play as a unit. No, Emiliano isn't going to be an antagonist. He isn't going to be anything except the main character in his own social media feed."

  "Oof," said Vikki.

  ***

  We arrived in Dagenham, where West Ham's women played their home matches, and checked into a hotel. We agreed to chill out for a while and meet in the lobby for dinner.

  I was early, and ambled around the hotel grounds for a while, calculating that whatever happened in tomorrow's cup tie, I would have enough XP to unlock one of the final Attributes.

  When I went back inside, I spotted an unexpected face at reception. "Gwen!" I laughed. "This is crazy. Great minds think alike."

  "I'm surprised you're slumming it in a place like this, Max."

  I dragged my finger along the reception desk, checked to see how much dust I had gathered, and pulled a face. "Yes, well, one does like to stay in touch with the common people. You're staying overnight to watch Mari, yeah?"

  "Yeah."

  "Have you got dinner plans?"

  "Not really."

  "Join my gang."

  "What colours do you wear?"

  "This particular gang is blue-and-white, but I don't insist on a strict dress code. You can wear..." I looked her up and down. "I'm sure you have something nice in your suitcase."

  "You cheeky sod! This looks great."

  "It does."

  She looked me up and down. "You're dressed great... for a half-marathon. Are you going to do another one in the morning?"

  "Another 5K, you mean? I might do 20 minutes on the treadmill, but I actually want to get out scouting before the match." I would have three Playdar uses and London was a renowned hotbed of talent. Why not make the most of my time in the capital?

  Gwen got her keys and finished up with the receptionist. She looked around; I pointed to the lifts. Gwen pulled her suitcase and said, "You're gonna go scouting? In the morning? Then manage a football match?"

  "Yeah," I said. "Ideally I'd find a Dragon Ball player, you know? Someone who doesn't have a club, maybe. Generational talent just lying around. I'm more open to the idea of poaching kids from other clubs, though. Did you see Jack Knapper's face when he got his first taste of Dragonball?"

  "Dragon Ball?" said Pascal, who had come up behind us. "Gwen! Long time no see. What a pleasure!"

  Gwen had helped Pascal to get on an oversubscribed UEFA course at the FAW. "I hear you're back and breaking hearts already. Sunderland thought they had those three points wrapped up."

  Pascal tried not to look smug. "It's kind of you to say."

  I tutted. "Are you gonna offer to hold her suitcase or what?"

  Pascal's eyes popped. "But why didn't you - ?" He gritted his teeth, let it go, and smiled. "Of course, Gwen. I would be delighted."

  "This is lovely," she said, as she swung her arms freely.

  Pascal pressed the lift button and said, "What was that about Dragon Ball?"

  "Oh, Max is going to go scouting in the morning and I was wondering what it is that drives him to keep working and working. I work hard but I can't fathom what his motivation is to keep going and keep going." The lift doors opened, Pascal badged the sensor with his own room key, and Gwen pressed the floor button. "Max was telling us about Dragon Ball, and how the heroes want to find all seven magic balls. But in that case, you know there are seven. If you go looking for seven superb footballers in Wales, you might be disappointed. There might not be seven."

  "There are definitely seven," I said. "It's just a case of how old are they. If it's one per decade, that's not ideal. If you can get seven in the same age group, that's perfect. Anyway, as much as I want to help Wales, I've got other projects, too. It's endlessly satisfying to find more talent." The door opened and we followed the numbers to Gwen's room. I said, "Do you need some time to get ready? We can wait in the lobby for a bit. Have a chat about comics and whatnot."

  "I'm sure Livia and Vikki would love that," said Pascal.

  "I'll just pop my case in the room, use the bathroom, and I'll be right down."

  "Top," I said.

  Pascal didn't hand over the suitcase, and that was because he was deep in thought. "You know, Max, I think you might be setting your sights too low."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Seven Dragon Balls, that's the old comics. In the new ones, there are seven Black Star Dragon Balls." He smiled. "That's what you should be looking for."

  "Oh my God. Boys," said Gwen, laughing as she took hold of her suitcase's handle. "I don't understand you."

  "But that's just it," I said. "That's the answer."

  "What is?"

  I tried to suppress the feeling of excitement that was bubbling up inside me. It wasn't just the idea that I needed to be finding level 9000 footballers, it was the fact that for once I knew the exact right thing to say to make them believe that I was a genuine expert in the Dragon Ball franchise. "Seven Welsh dragons, seven super-elite worldwide stars... You ask what my motivation is, why I keep grinding and working and learning and doing it better. It's easy!" I leaned closer, letting my eyes sparkle and my teeth twinkle. "I gotta catch 'em all!"