10.

Snakes on a Plane

Friday, November 27

While we flew up to Kiel, I read a little bit about the port city's history. Just the brief Wikipedia version, which was all I seemed to have time for these days, following links as they interested me, wondering how many I would have to follow to find my own name. Loads, right? But hang on... Kiel, Germany, Munich, Bayern Munich, Max Best. Wow.

I went back to the page about Kiel and followed the most interesting link.

It told the story of the Kiel Mutiny. In the dying days of the first World War, the German Admiralty ordered its surface fleet to sail into a final battle with the British navy. The German sailors correctly realised this was a death sentence and said, ah, hell no, which triggered a nationwide revolution that swept away the monarchy. One detail that stood out was that since the German battleships had been kept in port since the Battle of Jutland in 1916, the best officers had been moved to submarines. That left callow, younger officers in charge of battleships staffed by mangy old sea dogs. 'The discipline and spirit of those who remained with the battleships consequently suffered.'

I got out of my seat and looked down the aisle. How was the discipline and spirit on the Battleship Hollywood, under its callow officer Max Best?

There on the left were Willi and Cheb, nervous, but not as nervous as Till Rehder. The young pups had played a combined total of twenty minutes of elite football (with all due respect to the national team friendlies in which Cheb had a walk-on part), which was twenty minutes more than Till Rehder, which meant the young 'uns were old hands and it fell to them to reassure the Bayern Zwei bruiser, who was dreading the moment he would come on as a sub. (Not sure how he got that idea.) Hoggy was with them, maybe even more anxious than the others. They were his babies. They weren't ready for the big time!

Bro, if you want to be a helicopter parent, don't join the navy. Boom! Great line!

Behind them, Adam Adebayo and Didier Cartier were teasing an oblivious Dumitru Demetrescu. The game they were playing was simple. Start a topic, let Dumi speak uninterrupted, and time how long it took him to mention Stalin. There was no theme, Adam assured me, that Dumi couldn't quickly swing round to the horrors of Communist Russia, usually via a detour to complain about American tourists. Japanese anime, marionettes, the existence of love at first sight - all conversations were nails and Dumi carried only a hammer (but never a sickle).

Parnell Gourlay, Jost Benn, Edgar Wilde, and Shibata Shuji were playing cards. It seemed to me that Shuji was feigning poor listening comprehension to bend the rules. There was a part of a player's profile that rated their language skills as either fluent or basic. Bit of an inelegant distinction, but Shuji's German was listed as fluent. He was rinsing them.

Other guys had their big headphones on. Podcasts, music, self-help stuff.

All really normal. Good Morale. Not great, but good was a good start.

I felt like I had cut out most of the shitheads. The plane was still full of unwanted randos, but the analyst team had been cut to two. They and the physios had been summoned to a meeting by Paul Braun, who had told them to do their jobs without undermining 'the manager' in any way, shape, or form.

Paul was such a mystery. He always seemed to want to bin me off but then he would give me more support than I maybe deserved.

"Excuse me, sir."

A flight attendant wanted to get past; I was blocking the aisle. I stepped back so she could get by. I looked to my right, along the rows, across the aisle. I realised the woman had said something to me. I said, "Have you seen Snakes on a Plane?"

"I don't watch plane movies. It's not good for me."

"Yeah, I can imagine." All those hijackings, engines exploding, people being sucked out of the side. I pointed. "There are no snakes on this plane."

"That's good to know, sir. Would you like a glass of orange juice?"

***

Goodbye, Mr. Chips

Saturday, November 28

Kiel's stadium was a random assortment of stands and tents, with every free centimetre plastered over with advertisements. It had a very British feel to it, and it could have been in Luton, were it not for the tents and huts selling giant wursts and glühwein and the fact that people spoke grammatically correct English.

Kiel were in the bottom three in the Bundesliga and in terms of talent were about on a par with Elversberg, the first team I had played as Munich manager. Kiel averaged a mere CA 122, which was a slight relief because while there were no snakes on my plane, I had reduced Bayern's CA by twenty points. Our starting lineup would have an average of CA 150.7. The bench was looking weak, too. The only star I had was Claude Sonko, and in the nine subs I had two backup goalies and one Bayern Zwei guy who was really just there to make up the numbers. I had wanted to go to Kiel with just seven subs but that would have created needless drama. The media would have gone feral. Why leave two slots free? Where's Henno? Where's Fabian? Where's Diogo? Are you trying to prove a point? What point are you trying to prove? Etcetera.

When I handed in the team sheet, I asked the ref not to show me a yellow card if Kiel's bench attacked me. That got the ref and his assistants chatting away. They had seen the incident where Evaristo and his cronies attacked me and they couldn't believe I got punished for it. They asked what I had done to provoke the yellow card - there must have been something.

"I swear I didn't do anything! It's totes unfair. Refs are always ruining their careers to have a pop at me. Once, I got called offside when I was standing in my own half."

"No," said a linesman.

I stuck my bottom lip out and did sad puppy eyes. "Why does no-one like me?"

That got some laughs. With the refs in a good mood, I went to the dressing room. I briefly thought about kicking all the non-players out, but there was no particular need. I decided I would clear the room for the final talk, a quarter of an hour before kickoff, just to continue that tradition.

"All right, listen up," I said.

The dressing room was not huge, which actually made me feel more at home, and had the side-effect of making the randos have to squash into the area near the door, where the players couldn't see their faces. Any doubts or sneers would not ripple out into the wider room.

I moved the tactics board one inch to the right. "Kiel play three at the back, as you know. They're fairly fluid but they'll start with 3-4-1-2. We're going to do a nice, simple 4-3-3." I created that shape on the tactics board, but with one magnet missing from the front line. "Our full backs aren't going to get forward much in the first half. That means Kiel will be able to find the extra man out wide in midfield, so pressing them when they go wide is pointless and we don't do pointless things. We're going to press hard when they come into the middle but if they move wide, we stand off. Kiel do a lot of positional rotation to drag players out of position but we worked on that the last couple of days and I'm not worried about it. So if we're letting them move the ball out wide, what does it mean? Nothing. They might spam crosses but they aren't a threat. But every time they get a wide player up the pitch, we'll have amazing counter-attacking chances. We're the best counter-attacking team in Germany so let them come at us. Piece of piss."

No-one was complaining that we were lining up in a strange way. No-one seemed bothered that we wouldn't be pressing hard. If anyone was fretting about the Bayern DNA, they weren't showing it.

"All right, the team. Till Rehder's in goal."

Every face in the room turned to check out the elderly striker's reaction. He had turned pale. I cracked, and so did the others.

"Till, mate, just joking. I'm sorry, I couldn't resist. Come here." He came to the front, patting his heart, miming that he wanted to punch me, and I put my hands on his shoulders from behind. "Edgar," I said. "Translate this part for me. I don't want this getting lost."

Edgar stood. "Yes, gaffer."

"Till has been in Bayern Zwei for a while, playing in the third tier, looking after our lads." Pause for translation. "Teaching them how to train, how to travel, how to manage a match. Letting the oppo know that when they smash one of ours, they get smashed twice as hard." Pause for translation. "Looking after our lads. Looking after us." Pause. "Today, we're going to look after him."

I handed Till the eleventh magnet and gestured towards the tactics board.

"Wie bitte?"

"Choose where you want to play," I said.

He gulped, looked to Hoggy, and placed the magnet to the right of the pitch, where the dugout would be. Every single person in the room laughed.

"Tough shit," I snorted, moving his magnet to the top of the pitch. Till was CA 105, PA 136. Slow, strong, good at heading, decent finisher. If I had found him when he was a teenager, he'd have made it to a higher level and he would have a few million in the bank. "You're our striker. Adam and Didier, you're playing up with Till. I want you to hit crosses onto this beautiful slab." I produced a marker from my back pocket, flipped the lid off, and drew an X onto Till's forehead. "Put the crosses right here."

Till had frozen, but when it finally clicked that I had drawn on his face, he let out a stream of florid yet base German, rushing to the nearest mirror to find that the marker pen was completely dry and his forehead remained pristine. He turned to me and said something along the lines of 'What is wrong with you?!' The fact that the entire dressing room was in stitches took the edge off his anger, though, and how could he stay mad at me? I was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

"Settle down, everyone. Okay, we're all relaxed. That's good, because this is a game where we need to let it happen. Defend, work, help your mates out, and let it happen. Till, you play your natural game. Stay in this pocket between two of the centre backs. Don't go looking to do something magic. Be yourself. Let it happen. The rest of the team is going to play around you. Adam, Didier, that means you. Till can finish. He can play a one-two. Everyone else, Till isn't Zoran so there's no point playing high balls and hoping he can bully the defender the way Zoran can. He isn't a cheap out ball so you need to play your way out of trouble. We work the ball up the pitch nice and calm."

I nudged the magnets around, wondering if we should do the whole team in reverse order. Didn't seem right.

"Okay, the real goalie is Torben." CA 170. Just an incredible luxury. Any crosses that went too close to the goal, he would pluck from the air. Long shots, which Kiel would resort to if they couldn't play through us, were meat and drink to him. "Torbs, you're captain today but I might change it on Tuesday because I'm going to do something weird in that game and anyway, I like the idea of giving a few people the armband while I'm here.

"Defence is Willi, Pak Young, Razak, and Cheb." Willi and Cheb had gained some CA. Razak Olympio was a lightning fast German youth player with a father from Togo. He'd had a few injuries but was incredibly well-developed for his age. He was CA 145, but only PA 153. From my point of view he was absolutely perfect as the Kumba Viera replacement because Razak looked like a player whose ceiling was sky high, and by allowing teams to come at us more than was usual at this club, the defenders would get a chance to shine. In a couple of weeks, German football would already be moving on from Kumba. The future was Razak.

"Midfield three is Petar - you'll start as a true CM but I'll drop you to DM at times - Jost, and Beat. Beat, as always, you'll be bombing forward to support the attacks. Till will move into space and leave gaps for you to fill, yeah? And when you've got all three forwards ahead of you, feel free to take a long shot. The goalie's handling is nothing special and we'll get rebounds."

I rested my hand on the board for a few seconds. This was the part, back home in Chester, when I would get sentimental or dreamy or whatever I thought would put the boys in the right frame of mind. These weren't my boys, though. I was a technocrat, nothing more.

"All right, that's it. Go do your routines and over the next twenty minutes I'll talk to you individually about your direct opponents. Off you go. Claude, one second."

While Hoggy led them out for the pre-match drills, Claude came over to me. "Yes, Max?"

"Yeah, listen, I was 50-50 about starting with you or Didier today. I'm happy with how you've played and trained and believe me, I'm very happy to have you as an option. My dream scenario today is that Till gets a goal and plays for an hour, then you replace him and finish the job against tired legs."

"You have to leave someone out of the team. Today it was me."

"Yeah but I'm not going around to all the reserve defenders explaining myself, am I? You get special treatment."

He looked down. "Do I get a butler, too?"

I laughed and put my arm around him. "This is what I'm trying to say. If I was unhappy, you wouldn't have gotten on the plane. You're right in the heart of B2 and you're going to play every match that I'm in charge. In the Max Best Universe, subs win games. There used to be a concept in England of a player who was a supersub. He was a guy who specialised in coming on late in games. That's not you, you're way better than that, but a few times a season I really lean into the supersub thing. The cup on Tuesday, I've designed the plan so that I'll have five of my best players on the bench and they will come on and blow the oppo away. I'd love for you to be one of those guys but if you want to start and do the donkey work, that's cool. You might not want to be on the bench four games in a row and I get that and I don't want to fall out about it. I'm flexible. You're sub today and on Tuesday but after that we can discuss it. Normally I don't have so many amazing players to choose from, you know? Yeah, look, all I'm saying is that you're mint and I'm using you the way I'd use my top players back home, even if it doesn't seem like it. This is the special treatment. You're B2 forever."

"As long as I don't get sent off," he said, with a tiny curl of the lip.

"You can get sent off for celebrating your fifth goal too hard," I said, giving him a little dig in the arm. "You can get sent off for two yellows, the second of which is asking your girlfriend to marry you, although don't do that, that's my move. What I'm saying is there are levels, right? I'm extremely reasonable, Claude."

***

The pre-match TV interview was amusing. The reporter was so perplexed by the starting eleven and the subs bench that his brain literally shut down.

"Where's Henno Wald?"

"He's not in the squad."

"But why?"

"I'd like to talk about the players who are in the squad."

"Where's Zoran Bratko?"

"He didn't fly with the squad."

"Why not?"

"Because he wasn't in the squad."

"Where's Kumba Viera?"

"Don't know. Try Madrid."

Absolutely sensational stuff from the boy Best.

I couldn't wait for kick-off. I had a feeling this was going to be an amazing day. The first time in a long time that a Bayern Munich team would be somewhat aligned. Somewhat harmonious. They had lost a ton of CA but gained points in Team Work and with the highly-strung big hitters gone, there was almost nothing left of the 'dislikes player X' messages.

Standing in my technical area, with a camera right up in my face, I listened with a growing smile as the team sheets were read out. The Kiel fans knew Bayern's star names and could tell you all about their individual playing styles and their history, but virtually no-one in the stadium knew the first thing about Willi Tillmann, Cheb Alloula, and Till Rehder.

When the stadium's large screens showed a graphic with the name Rehder as a striker, fifteen thousand fans, home and away, united behind the single sound: Who?

I looked down the camera lens and winked.

***

Football can bite you on the arse. A thousand-credit photon torpedo can destroy a trillion-credit Death Star.

Not today, though.

Today the Death Star was being manned by the goodies.

We spent twenty minutes in blissful control. To the outside world, it might have looked like Kiel were attacking us much more than would normally be seen, but even those attacks were part of the plan. I made my tweaks, set hot keys to move Petar Gutić into the DM slot or to tell Beat Ritter to play as a CAM. A couple of times, I switched us to 4-2-4 with Ritter as a striker, to make sure Kiel didn't simply dump loads of bodies in the centre of the pitch.

Adam Adebayo was in full dreamweaver mode, dribbling, taking up space, holding off challenges, just doing whatever the fuck he wanted with his life. It was amazing but he was trying to do pixel-perfect looping passes over to Didier and he was treating Till like Zoran.

In a break, I called Adam over. He picked up a water bottle and drank. "Mate," I said. "Stop doing those low-percentage chips, please. And Till's a non-league striker. Stop giving him fucking technical challenges."

He didn't understand what I was saying. "Like what?"

"Like fizzing a bouncing low cross that gets to him at shin-height."

"That was the only way to get the ball in; the RCB was sliding."

"I know. Zoran can finish that. I can finish that. Till can't. Just put the ball on his forehead! X marks the spot!"

The next few minutes were pretty funny, to me at least. One of the world's best attacking players glided up and down the pitch, dribbling, exchanging one-twos with Beat Ritter and Jost Benn, sending diagonal passes into the stride of Didier Cartier, but when Adam wanted to pass to Till he hesitated. The first time, this hesitation cost him the ball. The second time, he turned back towards midfield and kept possession in a safe way.

The third time, I saw what Adam was thinking and used a perk called Cupid's Arrow. It made passes between two players more likely to work for a fifteen-minute period. I drew the line from Adam to our new star striker.

28'

Neat interception by Gutić.

He plays a quick pass to Ritter.

Ritter surges forward through the very heart of Kiel's midfield.

He exchanges passes with Cartier.

Ritter once more. Quick pass left to Adebayo.

Adebayo runs at a defender, beats him, but hesitates.

Adebayo puts his head down and runs towards the left corner flag.

Where's he going?

He whips in a wicked cross...

Till Rehder is between two defenders. Will the ball reach him?

It will!

GOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

A great header, flicked into the far side of the net.

Rehder has scored on his debut!

He sprints away and slides on his knees. He draws a cross on his forehead.

Holy shit, that was satisfying, and the guy had given himself a fucking iconic goal celebration, too. X marks the spot. Another of my ideas released into the world, un-fucking-credited!

Hoggy had rushed up and got me from behind in a bear hug. I had the slightest moment of panic because he winded me and I felt he was trying to squeeze the very life out, but then he was away, running up and down the line like a headless chicken.

These Bayern guys, man. You'd think they never won.

***

It was one-nil at half-time, but we had been in complete control. Didier had copied Adam's lead and got into space to ping crosses towards Till's head. Kiel struggled to contain that particular tactic, simple as it was.

My thoughts drifted towards Tuesday's match, which is the kind of thing that can get you in trouble, but is also the kind of thing you have to do if you want sustained success. The cup (known as the Pokal) would be the first time I used Bench Boost, and I would be able to supercharge five players. Obviously I wanted that to include Adam, and Danny if he was fit. I checked Till's Condition score; he was blowing pretty hard. The German third tier was no joke and he trained with good players at top facilities, but this was still a step up for him. I wanted him to start on Tuesday so that his replacement could be Bench Boosted.

"Guys, listen up," I said, as we neared the halfway point of the break. "I'm happy with that. Solid, professional, all the good things. I'm going to make some changes to preserve fitness for the cup game. Willi and Cheb, good stuff, put your feet up, Shuji and Dumi, you're on.”

That would boost our average CA to 156.

"Till, do you want to play on Tuesday?"

"Yes!" he cried. He was hyper.

"In goal?"

"Anywhere you want, Max Best!"

I smiled. "Okay, well, cool, I'll bear that in mind. For now, though, I want Claude to..."

Kiel's tactics screen had changed in a subtle way. I went exploring the individual player instructions but didn't need long to find out what was up.

"Hang on," I said, pinching my nose.

Parnell Gourlay, the Canadian midfielder to whom I was hoping to give some minutes, voiced everyone's concerns. "You okay, Max?"

I blinked a few times. "They're going to man-mark Till," I said, softly. One defender would follow the striker around everywhere he went, trying to eliminate him from the game. Louder, I went, "They're going to man-mark Till Rehder! That's their tactical solution! Why are they doing that?" I said, to myself as much as anyone.

Hoggy knew. "They don't have video to analyse. They have to guess. Man-marking is simple."

I nodded. "Yeah. But if anyone, why wouldn't you mark Adam? He's running the game."

"Because they think you are not smart," said Hoggy.

"Go on."

He stepped closer. "Every coach in Germany knows you cannot set a defender to mark Adam - he's too good. It's more efficient to cover the zones. Klar. But the way it must look to the outside is that you have instructed Adam to pass mostly to Till. One cannot be marked. The other can."

"Are you telling me that Bild's war against me is paying off? I suppose some people in this room think I'm a moron, so why wouldn't the guys at Kiel?" My counter-move snapped into place. It was an old favourite, but one I normally used when I was the guy being marked. "Claude, soz mate, you need to wait a while." I fistbumped him, which he accepted with good grace.

I went to the tactics board and cleared it apart from three magnets to represent Kiel's three centre backs and one magnet to represent Till. I drew lines to represent the runs other players would make.

"Till, your job is to cause havoc. Bring the man who is marking you away from the ball and leave space for Adam, Didier, and Beat. Bring your marker into the same space as another centre back. You can also start here and slowly draw him away until you are in a CAM slot. Guys, please translate that and make sure everyone knows exactly what I just said."

That happened to the tune of rising excitement.

Dumi said, "Am I still going in?"

I said, "Do you mean am I and my teammate Shuji still going in?"

Dumi nodded slightly. "Yes, that is what I mean."

"Yes," I said. "We will batter Kiel for ten minutes before they realise their mistake, then Claude will go on. Later I want to give minutes to guys who haven't seen much action recently. We're going to need all hands on deck in the coming weeks. Adam, Didier, Claude - if you can get a goal, get a goal. We need to spread the minutes out and I can't do that at one-nil, yeah? Kiel have made a mistake; don't let them off the hook."

Adam was nodding, but he said, "How do you know they're going to mark Till?"

"Because," I said, switching to a dreamy voice. "When I was a kid in school, one day at assembly the headmaster made me stand up and he said, Max Best you little shit, there will come a time when your debut striker will be marked out of the game and you won't know what to do about it. I always thought it was unfair to be picked on like that, but guess what? He was actually trying to help me. Who knew? Redemption arc for Mr. Chipping."

"I don't know how to translate all that," said Edgar.

"Don't bother," said Adam, smiling. "He's talking a load of shit."

I jabbed my thumb towards the exit. "I need the room to myself for a minute. Get back to work, lads. No-one goes to the north coast of Germany for a holiday."

"In fact, they do," said Hoggy.

I pretended to be stunned. "Good God."

***

The second half fell into the same patterns as the first but we were more dominant in our defensive third and the ball went through the lines to Kiel's penalty area faster and faster.

Till was experienced and had a good footballing brain - while his marker grappled him and basically tried to rip Till's shirt off, the veteran carried out his mission like a wily old campaigner. In the 50th minute, Adam Adebayo dribbled ahead, Till moved across two players, clearing a path. Adam passed to Didier, took the return ball onto his favoured left foot, and passed the ball into the net.

Two-nil, and the dream debut came to a suitable end, that of Till milking the applause of the away fans after the board with his number was held up. I gave Till a simple fist bump on his way back to the dugout, where I heard him recount and relive the entire match with Willi and Cheb. I hoped that scene was being filmed because that was heartwarming stuff. Guys who were actually excited to play football! How could you not love it, no matter which shirt they were wearing?

I was happy to keep things at two-nil and save energy, but with the mystery man off the pitch and two less mobile full backs in our defence, Kiel's manager decided to dial his team's pressing up to 11. They pushed crazily high, chased everything, ran like whirling dervishes.

I flapped my arms - the fuck is this? - and told my defenders to hit long passes.

We didn't have the enormous Zoran who could win most headers, but it didn't matter. I had three high-CA forwards and they only needed half a chance to mess up what was basically a second-tier defence.

Adam competed for a header, Beat won the second ball and fed Didier, who slipped it to Claude. He burst through into the area and squeezed the ball past the goalie.

Not a classic goal, but a goal all the same.

At three-nil, Kiel's guy went more conservative. Losing by three to Bayern was all right. Losing by six would be bad for his job prospects.

Three it was, then. And three wins for Max Best, who had taken a hard line with his troublesome stars, whose next challenge was a team worse than Kiel, in Munich, with Bench Boost.

I was in a pretty good mood in the dressing room afterwards.

"Lads," I said, as I stopped the celebration music. "Don't worry, you're allowed to enjoy this one. I just wanted to give a big up to Till. Thirty-three years old but he never stopped grafting, never stopped learning the sport, and today's his reward." I paused. "Today and Tuesday night. Let's use these good vibes on your socials. It's up to you but I've scripted this as a kind of Rocky story, old dude gets a shot, does well. Heartwarming stuff, do you know what I mean? If you could lean into that on your Insta, that would be top."

Torben, the goalie, said, "What is the purpose of this?"

"Er, to make us more likeable, basically. Today, for the first time ever, you're not the most hated team in Germany. We're gonna win every match that I'm here and we're going to be so fucking likeable that people are going to be happy for us. I know this is Bayern so if anyone needs to look up the word likeable, do so now."

Adam laughed. "Everyone in B2 is likeable, boss. Can I ask you a question, though?"

"Yeah, sure."

"It's just, we've been getting to know you from your documentary and clips and back in England you go mad at goals and all that. It's like... No, never mind."

I smiled. "Lads, everything's finally going smoothly. I'm in a great mood and anyway, you can always ask me questions. I'm not actually a dick. I just play one on TV."

Adam wasn't completely convinced, but he decided to take the plunge. "It's just when Chester win, or even that time you were at Tranmere and you jumped into the crowd, you go mental and crazy and it's like yes, this is a guy with passion. You know? But here you're... I mean, cold. Passive. I know there has been loads of aggro but we're winning. I know sometimes you don't celebrate with Chester but here you're... You set us up to win but it's like you're not bothered either way. You don't give us much from the touchline, if you get me."

"Hmm," I said. It was a nothing comment, really, something I could brush off the way I had misdirected them when I told them Till would be marked. But it gave me half of an idea. If my heist was going to really, really pop, I needed to draw eyeballs to it, and I needed the players to be really on fire. I could do it with a bunch of surly bastards, but if I could get them really firing, that would be even better.

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I had taken so long to reply that Adam got worried. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean anything by it."

"Whoa whoa whoa," I said. "I'm not mad, I'm just thinking about it. You know what? You're right. I'm not passionate about this and I think I can explain why. Let's fly home and... Monday morning, before we train, we'll get to know each other a little better. Okay? Right, I'm pressing play. Enjoy yourselves and remember, today Till Rehder is a comic book hero. Today, Till Rehder played for every thirty-year old man in Germany who thinks that if he was in this team, he would score twenty goals a season." Lots of people laughed at that - it was an extremely common statement in amateur football. "Till Rehder, ladies and gentleman. If you want people to like us, make sure people hear his name today."

***

North by Northeast

While my little adventure was starting to get good, Chester were playing in the FA Cup Second Round. A home match against tier five Dagenham and Redbridge with our strongest line up should have been a comfortable 4-0 played in front of a chilled-out set of partygoers, but we only won one-nil thanks to a Zach Green header from a corner.

A win's a win and getting into the potentially lucrative Third Round - the round where the biggest teams entered the tournament - was all that really mattered. I knew that Sandra and Peter would be disappointed in the performance and would be looking into what had gone wrong.

The draw for the next round was made the next day.

In the Third Round (to be played on January 9), we would be at home to Sunderland. They were a top ten Championship team and would have something like CA 130. With Bench Boost and me having trained at an elite facility, we would have a chance, but not much of one. Twenty percent? Playing away would have been better - Sunderland's stadium held over 40,000 and if we filled it we could have pocketed north of half a million.

Half a million would have been really helpful. Ah, well. We would just have to beat Sunderland and try again in the Fourth Round. Simples.

***

The Passion of the Chris

Monday, November 30

Bayern had one of the cinema-style presentation rooms that all megaclubs had, so before we went on the grass I called the first team in to hear a short talk about my approach to football. I'd invited a few guys from Bayern Zwei, too, and had asked Diane Berger to help me set it up.

She had decided that if some people were invited, everyone was invited. Thus instead of having a hand-picked audience I actually liked, every man and his dog were in the room. Diogo, Rui Santos, Henno Wald, Fabian Fromm, Kumba Viera, Bastian's three assistants, the dreaded analysts. I tried to reason with Diane but she put her foot down. Everyone wanted to see this, she said.

I got up on the little stage and said, "Everyone who doesn't want to be here can leave. I'm going to speak personally, from the heart, and there are people in this room who don't like that. I won't be mad if you leave. In fact, I'll be grateful if you did." Nobody budged and I wondered if Diane Berger had threatened everyone or if being excluded from the squad was actually starting to bite.

Max Bites. I had to admit the nickname was amazing. Günter Schweiger, the guy from Bild who was roasting me on a daily basis, had done a real number on me there, but he had done me a favour, too. Dog bites man isn't a story. Man bites dog isn't a story, not in 2026. But man bites superstar players? Yeah, that's an instant click.

"Fine," I said, and did my best to pretend the villains weren't there. I was kind of talking to the young players like Willi and Cheb, but mostly this was for Adam and Danny, the stars who would win games for me in astonishing style - if they let loose, if they stopped playing picture-perfect football and went tonto. If they went Full Max. "Okay, we're here because Adam asked me a question up in Kiel. He said, bro, I thought you had some passion for this sport but we don't see it. Where is it? That's a fair question, so let's talk about it. I went to YouTube and typed 'show me passion'. I realised I was on the wrong website and that went very badly, or very well depending on what you're into. Then I made sure I was on YouTube and because I'm a big movie fan I typed, 'The Passion of the Christ'. You know, that movie about Jesus being tortured for two hours. But I typed it wrong. I missed the last letter, so YouTube thought I wanted to see a video from the Chris Evans breakfast show featuring James Blunt."

Adam Adebayo said, "Boss, so far this is one hundred percent bullshit, right?"

"Of course it is," I said. "I'm just trying to set the scene."

Adam laughed and wagged his finger at me. "I'm starting to understand how you think."

"Don't try too hard," I said. "Chester have burned through five sports psychologists in the last year."

Danny said, "That's bullshit, too, right?"

"Yes but we're not playing the bullshit game. Jesus, guys. How this goes is I stand here talking shit but there's actually a point to it. All right?" I smiled but decided to skip the intro. "Let's just watch the video."

I clicked a little mouse attached to a club laptop.

What came out of the speakers was normal, but what showed on the big screen was extraordinary. The singer-songwriter James Blunt was doing a live cover version of Where Is My Mind by The Pixies, which was made famous as the track used at the (mental) ending of Fight Club.

The first four seconds of the video are standard fare. James Blunt is wearing big headphones, holding a guitar, and looking around at his band. The fifth second is where it gets wild. When strumming the song's hook, Blunt's face contorts with concentration and his body twists away from the sounds he's making. Five seconds later, he does it again, only the video cuts to a close-up so we can see that yes, he's really doing that.

As Blunt starts singing, his eyes widen in something like panic, his eyebrows soar at seemingly random moments, he grimaces, and even when singing a soft, low part he acts like he is being zapped with Star Wars force lightning.

The song and the video went on like that for three and a half minutes. I stood at the side of the room, leaning against a wall, trying not to show my face, while forty-odd superstar footballers and ten backroom staff pissed themselves laughing. The laughter came to a head when Blunt started doing little leg thrusts near the end.

I left a pause for the guys to come down, to chat off their excess energy. Then I stepped to the front.

"This guy," I said, jabbing a thumb towards the screen, "wrote that song You're Beautiful. That's getting on for a billion plays on YouTube. It was absolutely massive and so was the album. When you're massive, you attract haters and James Blunt has been laughed at non-stop, pitilessly, for twenty years." I lowered my voice. "Now you're laughing at him." I walked up and down the stage. "I don't know much about him but I think I have some kind of idea of what happened. At some point in the last twenty years, the laughter of strangers, being the butt of every hack comedian's joke, it just stopped registering. Or he learned how to turn hate into fuel. I don't know, do I, because I'm not him." I looked back at the screen and pointed. "But that's a man who doesn't give a shit what his face looks like when he's playing. When he's playing, he's playing. He's so deep in the music all he cares about is what it sounds like. The song is bigger than him and he's putting everything into it while leading the band.

"We're all performers," I said, moving into the middle of the stage, "and to me, this is the gold standard of performance. This is the pinnacle. You give it everything for the one person in the room who appreciates it, because you'll never win over the other forty. Adam, you asked why I don't give you more, why I'm passive. It's because I think what we just watched was inspirational and amazing, but you laughed at it."

The mood was weird now. I pressed on. I went back to the laptop I'd borrowed and got the next file ready.

"When I came here I knew I wouldn't be able to convince you to listen to me by taking the piss on the training ground, which is what I normally do. You're all better at football than me, so how could I? But let me show you my proudest moments as a player. This one is a match against Kidderminster. They absolutely dicked me on tactics and game strategy, which doesn't happen very often, but I had some time at the end of the match to turn things round. Here I am, dribbling, shooting, dribbling, shooting. Trying everything. Throwing the kitchen sink at it." I puffed my cheeks up and blew the air out. "It was ages ago but it still gets me. I quit so many times in that match. It just wasn't happening. I was throwing punches all over the place but none landed. It was like one of those dreams where you run but you don't move." I shook my head. "There, look. I said don't give me the ball. Don't give it to me, I don't want it. But then... I go again. At the time, I didn't know where it came from, but I do now. It's because I was thinking about the team, the fans, the league table. I was so frustrated that I couldn't help but I kept trying. I was too deep in the music to do anything but play."

I loaded up the last clip.

"And my greatest moment on a football pitch. We needed a goal and we got a corner but the pitch was basically unplayable. How could I take a corner with the pitch like that? Wherever I put my weight, I would slip. I think we tried a short corner but nothing came from it. I can whip in a decent corner, lads, so I knew I had to fucking run at that ball and give it my all. If I got it right, we might get that goal we needed. We had some big, tall lads in the box who could attack it. I just needed to get the ball in with pace and quality."

I pressed play. On screen, old me ran at the ball, slipped, and fell in the mud.

"Yeah, well. That was always going to happen, wasn't it? I knew that. Serves me right for trying. Here's a scene a little later in the match."

Old me, now caked in mud, had the ball in the corner. He placed the ball carefully.

"See me thinking about the short corner? Or just sort of toepoking one so that it would at least go into the box and maybe something would happen? There. That's the moment I said fuck it. There's only one way to take a corner. Full throttle. Death or glory."

On screen, I slipped and got another face full of mud.

"That's my top James Blunt moment. That's me putting the music first. That's me knowing that forty guys at Bayern Munich would keel over laughing if they ever saw this video, but doing it anyway because it was our best chance of a goal." I stared at an empty seat and rubbed my lips. "Chester have won a lot of football matches but none of those wins brought me as close to the fans as these moments. I'm living their dream and they want to know it means something to me. I don't set up my teams to put them in embarrassing situations and after this, we spent a million pounds getting a first-class pitch. I don't want people to laugh at me when I play football."

I turned back to the screen.

"But if you want big rewards you need to take big risks and in football the cost is usually social pain. When I skim your social media accounts it's all look how perfect my life is. You're terrified of people laughing at you so you curate your Instagrams better than the guys at the London Museum and you play safe. You dribble a guy and if he defends you, you don’t do it again. When I look around training, I don't see players willing to throw themselves in the dirt. I read your interviews and it's all about the individual prizes you want to win. You want the glory but what are you willing to risk to get it? I like most of you, I honestly do, but we're not built the same. You're happy to get near the top of the sport. I'm not. I'm taking Chester right to the top and I'll have people laughing at me every step of the way. That's it. Go and train."

Most people stood up, but Edgar called out, "Wait. Boss, what would you have done if no-one laughed at the video?"

I gave him a level stare. "I would have placed a bet on Bayern Munich to win the Champions League."

With a low buzz of conversation, most of the lads cleared out, but Adam Adebayo sidled over to me while I was unplugging the laptop.

"Max," he said. "The first time you watched that James Blunt video, did you laugh?"

Telling the truth seemed like it would be counter-productive, but I didn’t want to lie to him. "Of course I did."

He frowned, opened his mouth to speak, closed it, frowned harder, and followed the others.

As I was leaving the room, Kumba Viera stepped towards me. "Mr. Best," he said, in his thick French accent. "Please, a moment?"

"No hablo Español, bro. Don't be late for training or it's a one-week fine."

***

Rear Window

I let Hoggy take B2 training - perfectly good session - then hopped into my hire car and drove to a much-recommended restaurant called Freisinger Hof, not all that far from Säbener Strasse. I had the feeling that someone was following me, but dismissed it. Paranoid!

Plus, even if there was someone, it was probably a private detective hired by Paul Braun. Bayern had done that in the past to help keep their troublesome stars out of the news, although the discovery that they were tailing their own players led to an even bigger media storm.

The car I thought had been following me pulled into the same car park as me, which sent shivers down my spine.

I got out of the car, did some good spycraft - opinions may vary - by walking around my car opening and closing the back seat doors and pretending to be looking for something, before going to the restaurant to read what was written on the doors. Of course, I was using the glass as a mirror to see who would get out of the car. No-one.

Curiouser and curiouser!

If the car was still there in about an hour I would call Briggy and ask for protection. I was trying to give her as much time off as possible since she had been putting up with me more than anyone would ever really want.

I went inside, where the restaurant manager guy walked over and said, "Can I help you, sir?"

"Er, yeah. I'm Cliff Daps and I have a reservation."

"Of course, sir. Um..."

He was looking at the person who had just come in behind me. She was stupendously attractive, with a head scarf covering wispy blonde hair. No wonder the guy had become tongue tied. Amazingly, she came right up to me. "Herr Best," she said, in a soft voice, as she removed the head scarf and released her hair. "May we talk?"

I smiled. "Okay, a Grace Kelly regen follows me around a foreign city and wants a chat? I didn't have that on my bingo card."

"What is a Grace Kelly regen?" she said.

"Means you're a legendary beauty," I explained. "Means you're an incomparable vision of loveliness who should be on the silver screen. First the talk of Tinsel Town, then the Princess of Monaco. It means - "

"Okay, that's enough," said Emma.

Oh, I forgot to mention: Emma was there, too.

I squeezed her. "You're still my fave, babes. You're my OG stalker."

"Don't forget that." Emma had scared some of the lads in my first club by pretending to be an absolute nutjob; the role had come far too easy for her.

The Grace Kelly lookalike didn't know what to make of our performance. "I am not stalking you. I simply couldn't think of another way to talk to you without Fabi finding out."

"Oh my God," I groaned, which wasn't very polite but I couldn't help it. She was Fabian Fromm's wife! "Yeah, cool, let's set up a meeting. How about January? I'm about to have lunch, though. With my girlfriend I haven't seen for months."

"I arrived yesterday and we're already out of conversations," lied Emma, who I could tell had already decided to liven things up by asking this rando to eat with us. "Babes, don't be rude. Invite your new friend to lunch."

"It'll be weird and awkward."

Emma grinned. "Yeah, I know."

"And because you said the word invite just now, it means we have to pay. It's a German life hack."

"It's a business meeting, isn't it? Put it on your expenses."

"Great point!" I turned to the Grace Kelly regen and told her something I'm pretty sure no man had ever said to her before. "I'm on minimum wage but I'm absolutely rinsing them on expenses! Do you like lobster? Try the lobster."

***

We were given a spot right at the back, looking through a window out onto the summer garden. Lisa Fromm hit it off with Emma pretty quickly and they got chatting about clothes and horses and clothes horses and whatever else while I turned my brain off and enjoyed the scenery.

There were two mocktail-type drinks on the lunch menu. One was made from quitten. I looked it up and the translation was a word I was unfamiliar with. "Quince? It says it's a kind of pear."

The restaurant manager overheard me and came closer. "It's very much like a pear, sir, yes. Some of our quitten are grown on a local farm on a very strange tree. It is a quitten tree with a pear grafted on to moderate its growth and to be more disease resistant. The tree is confused, though, and one year it produces pear and the next, quince."

"That cannot be true," I said.

He smiled. "I know! But I have seen the tree. I promise it's a true story."

"That's mad. My mind is literally exploding. Go on, I have to try it now. Quince me."

"Very good, sir."

The drink was nice, though not better than apple or orange juice. Our mains were pretty stellar. As I neared the end of my pumpkin risotto, Emma said, "How was training, Max?"

"Yeah, good. I played them a funny video and berated them for laughing at it."

Emma eyed me. "Not James Blunt again." She started to explain it to Lisa, but I stopped her.

"She can read all about it in the news. Everything I do here gets published ten minutes after I do it. Ridicule follows."

Lisa said, "Was Fabi there?"

"No clue why, but yes."

She got a little heated, which was hot. "No clue why? He's the captain."

"Mmm," I said, loading one last bit of risotto onto my fork. I was full but greedy.

Lisa made an effort to control her frustration. "Can you please tell me what went wrong between you? Fabi is depressed. He acts like he doesn't care that he isn't in the squad but he does. He knows he's coming to the end of his career and he might not have many matches left. Especially the big European ones with the Champions League music, the drama."

"Yeah I can understand it's tough but he did it to himself. He was the first player I spoke to. Dude, you've got an injury. It's a small one so let it heal up and I'll use you. He had a choice in that moment and he chose to lie to me. I don't know what to tell you." I popped the last piece of my meal into my gob.

Lisa, for all the locals boasted of how direct they were, was stunned. Emma tried to apply a little diplomacy. "What sort of player is he?"

"He's mint," I said. "Plays right back and DM to the top level. That's unusual."

"Why?"

"Well, you know the right back plays over here, right?" I used the table as a tactics board, tapping the nearest corner. I moved my finger along the two edges nearest to me. "He's got two lines helping him out: the goal line and the sideline. If you're defending against someone really good, you can just kick the ball over the line and your mates will be pretty happy with that. If you're here, almost the entire match is played in front of you. The plates, the cutlery, it's all ahead. You don't need to worry that there's a weird German condiment sneaking up behind you." I picked up a yellow thing called Aromat and gave it another suspicious sniff.

"That's for Swiss tourists," said Lisa.

"Hmm. So the lines simplify your task but if you play as a central midfielder or defensive midfielder, you need 360 vision. There are no lines to help you. Different skillsets, right, different ways of seeing the game. It's not uncommon that players can do both but it's rare that you're one of the best in the world in either slot."

"He sounds like your sort of player."

"He is but I'm not his sort of manager. On the first morning I asked everyone to put their doubts aside and help me win a few matches so that Bastian could relax, you know, and Fabian was the first one to say nah, fuck that, I've got my own thing going on."

"He said that, did he?" said Emma.

"He looked right in my eyes and said he wasn't injured."

"But he is," said Emma.

"The mad thing is, if he'd said yeah, it hurts a bit, he'd already be in line to play tomorrow night."

Lisa said, "But he's not."

"I don't use injured players. If it was the Champions League final tomorrow, I'd probably use him, if we all went into it with our eyes open about the risks. No, at this point he's out. He's a liar but 82 million Germans believe him over me and that's irritating, I must admit. If I'd lost the first match I'd have been kicked back to England and my name would be a joke forever. I don't need him, I don't need the mutineers, I don't need Madrid boy, I don't need Wald Thing."

"But if he says he is healthy..."

Emma answered. "Max knows when players are injured. He's an actual witch. It's scary sometimes. No-one at Chester would dare to try to pull the wool over his eyes."

Lisa rubbed her forehead. "It's crazy."

"That's one thing we can both agree on," I said.

She looked around the tastefully-decorated room before turning back and pushing her leftovers around. "Fabi said you don't know what you're talking about. Said you accused him of having an ankle injury and if he didn't treat it he could damage his knee. Said the club shouldn't hire people who can't tell one joint from the other."

"Okay," I said, trying to remember what was on the dessert card. Germans were good at desserts, right? Or was that Austria?

"Max," insisted Emma.

I tutted. "It's pointless."

"Do it anyway."

I looked around for something to use as a distraction, but inspiration didn't come. "Okay, it's like this. My physio is running a research project about ACL injuries. Why do they happen? What are the best recovery methods? It's my job to go to physios and injured players all over England and ask them to share their data. It's very slow and one reason I took this Bayern Munich job was because next time I ask someone, I'm not just some up-and-coming guy, I'm the second-best English manager in the history of the Bundesliga. I've got two wins and the record is five. I can match it in one month, if I'm still in charge by the end."

"Stay on target," said Emma, mimicking the tone used by a pilot at the end of Star Wars.

"Right, the ankle thing. So the project is in an early stage and we need loads more data and time," I said. "Physio Dean is talking about a ten, twenty-year time frame for this, which he was careful not to mention when we started, the prick. But there are interesting things already. Guys with ankle injuries are more likely to do their ACL. It's common sense, really. If you've got pain you change how you run. If you change how you run, you put stress on different parts of muscles and tendons and whatever that may or may not be prepared. The chance of anything happening to Fabian is tiny. Really tiny. But why take the chance? A week off versus a year out? It's mental he wants to turn it into a fucking war. Other managers might back down because he's the Germany captain and whatever but I pick the team and that's that. He can get wrecked. Which, ironically, is what I'm hoping to avoid."

"Max," said Emma, with a wobbly smile. "Are you picking beefs with the captain of Germany? You didn't say he was the captain of Germany."

"It took five minutes, babes. 11 a.m., all is well. Five past, our beef has its own Wikipedia page. Five minutes on the job, bosh, oven-ready beef. I'm really getting good at this! Oh, and thanks to Fabian I'm against the entire medical team, too. Why am I the one fighting for his health? It's so bizarre. Right, Lisa, now you've heard my side of the story. The whole thing is fucked but I didn't start it but nor am I backing down. If you can persuade your dude to take a couple of weeks off instead of training even harder and posting his workouts on fucking Instagram, that would be great. He's not playing for me so he has a few weeks off, then it's the winter break. He can have a proper rest like he hasn't had in what, five years?"

"Try ten," said Lisa.

"I work hard but even I know to take a break sometimes. Okay, good chat. That could have gone worse, couldn't it?"

"Babes, hang on," said Emma. "You were all excited about managing the captain of Germany. Isn't there a way back for him if he, like, takes his rest now?"

"He won't," I said. "But anyway, I'm off that. Got a new dream. Instead of using a ready-made Germany captain, I'm going to create one! There are two guys in my team who will play for Germany for the next ten years. One of them's bound to be captain at some point. I might see if I can put my finger on the scales. Heh."

Lisa said, "You are not what I expected at all." She stared ahead, then side-eyed me. "Who do you propose will be in die Mannschaft for the next ten years?"

I didn't want to answer in case she told Fabian, who seemed a snide sort and might have conspired against any players I named. On the other hand, I thought I could make Emma laugh, so... "Ems, die Mannschaft is the nickname for the national team. Beat Ritter is a shoo-in for die Mannschaft, and I've promoted a lad called Willi Tillmann who is really talented. When I think Willi, I think man shaft, do you know what I mean?" Emma looked at me as though I had spent a million pounds buying a magic pear tree. I couldn’t believe she wasn’t laughing. "You don't like that one?"

"No, because I'm not a ten-year-old boy."

"Okay, how about this? Tillmann has all the tools to become a top international player and yes, even the captain. The question is, though, Willi or won't he?"

Emma gave me a sad look. "I can't believe I ever stalked you."

***

Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow

Tuesday, 1 December

DFB Pokal Last 16: Bayern Munich versus SC Paderborn 07

Paderborn were a mid-table second tier club who came to Munich with an average CA of 118. They were only a little bit better than Chester, who had a home match that evening against the nefarious Bradford City.

I had Bench Boost available. I didn't particularly want to crush poor Paderborn, but since this was the only German Cup match I would manage this season, there was absolutely no reason not to use all my perks. I was pretty sure I would use Bench Boost and Triple Captain for three matches in a row, in fact.

There were ways in which absolutely battering a couple of teams could help me with my heist, so I started my planning for the match by thinking about which players I wanted to bring on as subs.

Danny Kowalski could have played, but I asked him to be sensible and to sit this one out.

That left Adam Adebayo, Claude Sonko, Didier Cartier, and Zoran Bratko as my battleships and cruisers. The next best attacking weapon was Beat Ritter, but I decided I would use him in the starting eleven and the final Bench Boost would go to whoever my final sub was. It wasn't like we would have to strain to beat this oppo, and there were always knocks and minor injuries to work around.

"All right, lads," I said, back in the Allianz Arena for the first time since my debut. The stands were just as full - 75,000 in the house! - but the dressing room was a lot emptier. Cosy, almost. "Paderborn do 3-4-3, very hard pressing, and they have some fast players. We're doing 4-1-4-1 for the first half. Keep things neat and tidy, safe and secure, ease into the match. Give the crowd the illusion that this is a contest and that my youthful side could be on the verge of a humiliating - hey!" I pointed at Till Rehder. "You're not youthful!"

He replied in German, and I had picked up enough words to know that he said, "I'm young at heart." It helped that 'heart' and 'young' are basically the same in both languages, but still. I was getting better.

"Okay, Till's still up front. Still Till? Still Rehder. Is that a good direction for your brand? Feel free to use my intellectual property to build your profile. I don't mind."

Till said something like, "What's he blabbering on about now?"

I pressed on. "Torben's in goal." And would be for the rest of my time in Munich, touch wood, but I was pleased to see that Kaspar Benn, the understudy, had kicked on as I'd hoped. He had added a couple of points in CA.

"Back four is Willi, Razak, Edgar, and Cheb. Sharing the minutes around. Hope you others don't mind and if you do, let me tell you about this wonderful thing called Special 1A Training.

"DM is Petar Gutić.

"Midfield, we're going to feast our eyes upon the magnificence that is Li Anjie. Hang on, I've just remembered there's a movie called Angie. Is that a thing? Never mind. On the right we'll go with Parnell. Gourlay you can't be serious! Yes, I'm serious. We've got Jost Benn in the middle with the same profile, centre or right, so I might mix you guys up just for funsies. Beat Ritter. Box to box, L.A. to Chicago, he's a smooth operator. That's terrible, cut that."

The starting eleven had an average CA of 142. I was getting it lower and lower!

"That's the team. We'll play compact, steady, and remember that a few guys haven't had many minutes so don't push too hard, okay? We're easing our way into this one. Last half an hour we'll put on a show for the fans but focus on the first half for now. Professional. Paderborn deserve to be here so we have to respect that, okay? Win your duels, support your mates, that's it.

"Oh, and my favourite movie is Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow and that was released in the year Willi was born, so Willi is the captain." I threw the armband to him on my way out so I wouldn't have to deal with the fallout. "Don't fact check that," I called from over my shoulder. "Sky Captain, lead them out."

***

The first half was quite a lot of fun. Paderborn played quite fearlessly, treating us like any other team. My lineup might have helped with that. The manager probably hyped them up by saying 'this English prick thinks he can beat us with a reserve team!'

We actually had some hairy moments in the first quarter of an hour, but I didn't mind it too much because it gave the defenders time to shine and Torben was able to make a few saves.

Then Petar Gutić took control of midfield and pushed the game more into the away team's half. On the right, Cheb went on some good overlaps, while I kept Willi in a more defensive role on the left. Parnell took his time getting into the match, Li Anjie struggled to make an impact, and so did Till.

With 32 minutes gone, Anjie miscontrolled a pass onto a defender's shins. The ball bounced back onto Anjie's shins, and suddenly he had a bit of space. He burst clear on the left, crossed, and Till scored another header.

This time in his home stadium!

It was completely bonkers. Two goals in two games, and I would use him in the next two matches as well. If he scored four in four I would demand a fucking Oscar nomination for Best Screenplay.

***

You Don't Mess With the Zoran

The second half was less fun.

After an hour, I sent on the four Bench Boosted superstars and winced every time they combined to score or nearly score. It was a real 'Am I the baddies?' moment. Honestly, it was so unfair on the away team I didn't even enjoy it.

Okay, I enjoyed it a little bit.

Zoran Bratko scored our second goal and he celebrated by sprinting towards me. He wanted to jump into my arms, it seemed, and I wasn't sure my back could handle it. The dude was vast! I ran away, pursued by a line of players who were all trying to grab me.

I had finally brought Benny Hill to Germany in the right way.

In the end I turned and let Zoran give me a big hug and got swamped by the lads.

When I was clear of the melee, I turned to the camera that was pointing at me and shrugged. "What was that all about?"

***

Zoran completed his hat trick in thirteen minutes of being on the pitch, while Claude Sonko hit the post three times before finally smashing one past the goalie. Claude took his frustration out on the post that had so defied him, then jogged away to celebrate, earning himself a dumb but understandable yellow card. When he came over to get some water, I asked if he wanted me to book him a butler or a manservant; he promised to stop kicking things.

While Didier Cartier rolled back the years, Adam Adebayo must have been playing close to the CA 200 level, and not many teams in the world would have been able to contain him. He was simply unplayable, controlling the ball like he had it on a string, delighting the home fans, entrancing the neutrals watching at home.

The supersubs tore Paderborn to shreds.

With quarter of an hour to go, I gave the order to bring off the captain and send on Shibata Shuji. While 'Sky Captain' Willi Tillmann was getting a standing ovation, I set Beat Ritter as the new team leader and turned towards the area where Emma was - and where Lisa Fromm would probably be. They couldn't have seen my cute little smile from that far away, but I bet they could sense it.

Oh, and we got a late penalty that I assigned to Adam.

He scored. Six-nil.

I did my post-match media duties, then rushed up to the box where Emma was with the triumvirate watching Chester versus Bradford City, the team that had beaten us to the League Two title. Thanks to the Australian striker Dazza (who I had always liked), it was one-nil when I got there, and one-nil it stayed.

On the screen, Sandra Lane, Peter Bauer, and all the rest jumped around in a circle, supremely happy. After one little blip, we were back to winning ways, 7 points clear at the top of League One.

"See that, everyone? That's Chester winning big matches without me. That's the world of tomorrow."

The triumvirate weren't as impressed as they should have been. Dieter Bauer pointed to the Allianz Arena's pitch. "What did you do to Zoran? He played like a man transformed."

"What did I do?" I said. "Nothing. Not much. Barely anything."

"You're not going to tell us?"

There was a reason Zoran had played better that went beyond Bench Boost. "Might keep that one to myself," I said. "I like having an air of mystery. Don't I, babes?"

Emma was talking to some VIP. She glanced over her shoulder. "Your hair looks great, babes."

***

It's a Wonderful Life

Wednesday, 2 December

I woke up with a one hundred percent record in Germany, more easy matches to come, and with Emma by my side. There were people with better lives, but those people were lying.

While I was pondering the ways this experience was going rather better than the one at Grimsby Town, the latest monthly perk dropped.

New perk available this month: Die Christkindlmarkt

Cost: 1,806 XP

Effects: Celebrate Christmas in Munich with a trip to the world-famous Christmas market at Marienplatz. Alternatively, buy this perk! Die Christkindlmarkt gives you access to a brand new formation - 4-3-2-1 - the 'Christmas Tree' made famous by Carlo Ancelotti at AC Milan. As a Yuletide bonus, this formation will be slightly more effective when used during the month of December.

I turned away from Emma so my phone's screen wouldn't disturb her, and did some research. First, while Ancelotti had used this formation, he had done it with a team that included Maldini, Nesta, Pirlo, Seedorf, Kaka, and Inzaghi. I mean, take some magnets, paste their faces on, throw them at your tactics board and wherever they landed, you'd still win most matches. What a team!

Second, the cost of 1,806 XP was because Munich's Christmas market changed its name in the year 1806.

Finally, the big question. Did I want this?

My first thought was that if I managed the women's team in December, I could put an Angel on the top of the tree. That delighted me so much I nearly bought the perk there and then, but I took a deep breath and continued thinking about it.

The idea of 'completing' my formation purchases was that one day soon I would be able to play any formation I liked. I would have total control to place players wherever, however, with no restrictions. In a way, I was still in the 'tutorial' stage of being a football manager, in that I was being forced to use the tools I had and to master them before I was allowed new ones. I had basically come to terms with that, because most great art was the product of restrictions.

So if I would soon be able to put players anywhere, formations would actually become extinct. Why buy one that would slow down that process?

Because I'd never seen a formation that came with a 'more effective' tag. Okay, it was only for the month of December, but anything that gave me an edge was worth thinking long and hard about. Bench Boost had proved its worth over and over. Similar perks weren't always smash hits but I had won a league on goal difference and lost a league because of one result. You never knew when these marginal gains would come into play.

What did 4-3-2-1 look like?

I flipped over and traced it on Emma's back. "Don't stop," she mumbled, so I kept drawing it.

The main problem was the lack of width, but if you had dynamic full backs, that wouldn't be too much of a problem. Having loads of players lined up centrally would be amazing against teams that attacked down the middle; you would automatically deny them space. Meanwhile, having multiple CAMs was always attractive because it gave defences all kinds of headaches.

I had until the end of the month to decide but realistically I was either going to buy it before Saturday or not at all.

"I can feel you smiling," whispered Emma.

"Through my fingertips?"

"Yes."

"I'm thinking of buying a Christmas tree."

"You never let us get one."

"That's not true."

"That tiny little desktop one doesn't count. That was a sarcastic Christmas tree, Max, and you know it."

"Well... Yeah. Okay, fuck it. Done. They call Christmas ‘Weihnacht’ here, which translates as 'Winey Nights'."

"My kind of town."

***

XP balance: 4,078

***

Agent Provocateur

Thursday, 3 December

I popped my head into training to make sure everything was in order, had a fancy breakfast with Emma - expense that! - then hopped on a plane to Paris.

It was the twice-yearly Transfer Room, a gathering of decision-makers from clubs all around the world. Speed-dating for sporting directors. I would have fifteen rapid meetings with clubs chosen at random and while I was representing Chester, I was the Bayern Munich manager. I was, temporarily at least, massive.

It was hard to stop grinning as I checked in and got my lanyard. In virtually every respect, for one brief moment, everything was going my way. As I walked around the space, people turned and stared. That's Max Best, the James Blunt of football managers! For a blissful few moments I actually felt like the James Bond of managers. I was handsome and powerful and this was a room bursting with narrative potential. I would meet allies and enemies; I would hatch schemes while foiling plots.

Unlike James Bond, I barely got two yards into the large hall before I was accosted by a villain.

A slimy-looking guy who, regrettably, fit certain Bond villain stereotypes, came up to me while the initial round of pre-event chit-chat was going on. The curse didn't recognise The Transfer Room as a space where everyone's profile should show, even though it was one of the places in the world with the highest density of footballing know-how. That's why I didn't automatically know who the guy was, which helped to make him even angrier.

"Best, what are you doing to my client?"

I was in such a good mood I let his aggression wash over me. His client? He could have been talking about virtually anyone in the world. "New phone, who dis?"

That floored him. "Pardon me?"

"I don't know who you are, bro."

"I am Don Pino, the agent of Kumba Viera."

"Oh, cool. Hala Madrid, yeah? Good luck with that." I turned away but he grabbed my arm and tried to drag me back. That got my juices flowing, just a little. "Get your fucking hands off me or I'll send you home in a fucking ambulance."

His eyes flashed wide and he let go. "Be sensible, Best. I am a big name in this industry."

"Bigger than Best? Go talk to someone who gives a fuck."

The people nearby were watching with a mixture of horror and delight. It might have been horror that there was someone in the world worse than Don Pino, or delight that someone was standing up to the self-inflating prick. Those further away were drifting towards the tables; the event was due to start imminently. I had my table number but didn't know who my first speed date would be with. I drifted towards the middle of the room, looking for my spot. The much-feared superagent followed me.

Don Pino's hackles were rising, which triggered a response in me. Aggression meets aggression meets aggression. "I want to talk to you about the way you are handling my player. You cannot do this to him."

"Try and stop me."

He switched tack so suddenly that the change was weirdly nearly invisible. "Come, Max Best, you must know this is all a game. This is how the industry operates. We use social media, the club use social media, it's just a game. Just business."

"When it comes to the case of Kumba Madrid, I represent the fans of Bayern Munich. Take your games and shove them up your arse." Where was my table? I gave up trying to see the numbers and instead scanned for empty seats. Most were filled with guys opposite each other, as though they were about to play chess. Loads were former players I recognised.

"Best!" called Don Pino, as I moved away from him. "Think about what you are doing! If you fight me on this, I can make your life hard. Very hard indeed."

"Yeah, how's that?"

"You will never have one of my clients at your club."

I turned and stared at him, eyes blazing, heart pumping. "Finally something we can agree on!"

A bell chimed and on the wall a 15-minute counter started ticking down. 15 minutes per meeting, 15 meetings. Almost 4 hours of negotiations followed by networking followed by hotel parties. I had told Emma I would stay overnight because the chance to meet so many bigwigs in one go was irresistible, plus Ruth and Chelli from my agency had come. If I pissed everyone else off, at least I'd see a couple of friendly faces. Emma didn't mind having the luxury suite to herself, and I would be back early in the morning.

A guy was waving his arm. He was the only one in the area with a free space opposite him.

"Of course," I said, biting my bottom lip. My pulse was still high from the encounter with Don Pino. I sat in the empty chair.

"Servus, Max."

"Servus, Paul." I checked the table number. I had, indeed, been paired - randomly! - with Bayern Munich. "This is unlikely. Did you fix this?"

"I assure you I did not."

"You're mad about my expense account."

He smiled. "We offered to pay you a large sum to do the job. My position on your expenses is... relaxed. Wait," he said, sitting up in a non-relaxed way. "What have you been buying?"

"Ems and I had lunch with Fabian Fromm's wife and I made her order a massive white wine spritzer."

"You had lunch with Lisa Fromm?" He frowned. "With Emma? What a photo that would have made."

"Yeah, it didn't leak." It was a shame we couldn't hang out with Lisa Fromm; she seemed really nice. I realised I was worrying about the wrong thing. Had I just cost Bayern Munich 80 million Euros? "I just pissed off Don Pino."

"I heard. Everyone heard. You are not a subtle man."

"Kumba is your player. I probably shouldn't have done that."

"What was it you said? You represent the Bayern Munich fans?" Paul Braun's eyebrows rose a fraction. "The fans might like to represent themselves, Max, but I'm sure we all appreciate the sentiment. Regardless, it will be all right. Don Pino is correct. It's all part of the game. I rather feel you are giving us the upper hand."

"So you're not mad?"

"No. To business. Is there anyone from Bayern that Chester wants to buy?"

"Will you take half a million pounds for Willi Tillmann?"

"No."

"Will you take half a million for anyone?"

"No."

"Can I wait until after our FA Cup Third Round match to send Youngster over?"

"Of course. I think that concludes our transfer talk. Since I have you as a - what's the phrase? - a prisoner audience?"

"Captive audience."

"Yes! Can I take this opportunity to ask you what you have been doing with my football club?"

I leaned back and smiled. "Guess I can't use Emma as an excuse this time."

"I should hope not."

We watched as Don Pino noisily made his way across to an exit, shouting and disturbing the speed dates that were going on around him. "Be honest, though. You are mad about that, aren't you?"

"No, Max." Paul leaned forward and looked around. "You have done your homework about my club but I would only give you a passing grade. You know the name FC Hollywood. You even know one of the chants from that era. We sing for shit millionaires! From where did you excavate that? Incredible young man. But somehow, you missed something utterly fundamental to the entire FC Hollywood story."

I took a sip of water and licked my lips while I tried to work out where he was going. I had to admit defeat. "Go on, you got me. What did I miss?"

He grinned, and for a moment I could imagine him my age, fighting agents, grabbing his opponents (and sometimes his teammates) by the scruff of the neck, winning matches through sheer force of will, driving the club to new heights. "Max," he said, adjusting his cuffs. "Where did you get the idea I was scared of a little drama, of a little conflict? FC Hollywood," he said, pausing for effect, his timing impeccable, "was my invention."