1.6 - Servus [T1] (Patreon)

6.

"Servus, Max."

"Servus, Dieter."

We were three seconds into the press conference and I had already almost exhausted my store of German phrases. Servus was a new one; I had learned it that very morning. It seemed to be like a Bavarian ciao in that you could use it to say hello and goodbye. I had just used it to mean hello. If the next ten minutes went badly, goodbye could soon follow. My mouth was dry, but that was probably because of all the travel. Right?

Dieter Bauer, legendary player, legendary manager, legendary administrator, explained in English and German what the situation was. Bastian, Bayern Munich's head coach (or 'trainer') had undergone 'a minor procedure'. Having your chest sliced open while a stranger messed about with your actual heart didn't seem minor to me, but it was a commonplace operation and Dieter was hardly going to reveal the details to the press or make it seem like a big deal.

"The procedure took place two weeks ago," said Dieter. "As the international break started."

I took the water bottle and stared at the plastic cap. It was incredibly thin. Why was it so thin? If I wrenched it too hard, water was going to spill everywhere, wasn't it? A very public and very visible show of incompetence that would be. Should I take it under the table and open it? That would give a very strange first impression to the press pack and a creepy first photo for the ones with cameras.

There were twenty or more randos arrayed in one corner of a large, square space. When I emerged from my crevice, half had been milling around the side tables where drinks and snacks were offered. These wastrels had rushed to take up the rows of seats when they heard Dieter say I was to be the next manager, and when they weren't gawping at me they were furiously texting. We had kept this secret very well on both ends - no-one had a clue this was coming. Bethany wasn't there; she would be pissed that I didn't give her a wink about the real date of my start.

I gave the cap the slightest possible twist; it didn't budge. It occurred to me that this particular group of media types hadn't come specifically for this press conference but were in the area anyway. That's just what they did - they bummed around the training ground in the mornings trying to get interviews or gossip or whatever. There were more media dudes hanging around for what they thought would be a mundane summary of the international break and maybe some injury news than had been at the post-match presser when I'd won the most prestigious youth competition in England. This club was fucking massive. My mouth was so dry, and there was water, water everywhere but not a drop to drink.

"The recommendation is for the patient to enjoy six weeks of rest. Basti has had two weeks. Max will be in charge for four weeks. That will take us to the winter break, so Basti will be able to return in a calm environment with more or less eight full weeks of rest behind him. It is an elegant solution, we believe."

While Dieter translated what he had said, I looked for Briggy. She was off to the right, projecting alertness. She hadn't looked like that in England. I assumed she was being more professional now that she was near the people who were paying the bills and who might want to hire her again in the future. She would know how to open German water bottles. There had probably been a module about it in her bodyguarding course.

"Max Best is 26 years old and is the player-manager at Chester Football Club, whose rise through the English league system has astonished us all. We met when we were pitchside analysts in Euro 2024. I sent my grandson to investigate and Peter was so impressed he joined Chester. Paul Braun, Karl Lippstadt, and myself went to Manchester to watch Max's young players beat Manchester United in the FA Youth Cup. We were also impressed, though in our case we are too old to play for him."

I smiled; the trio's average age was around 70 but that didn't have to stop them playing a bit of footy. "Don't you have walking football here?"

Dieter smiled back. "We do. Are you offering to manage us?"

"Paul Braun, Karl Lippstadt, Dieter Bauer... That's the start of a pretty decent five-a-side team. Can you get hold of Sepp Maier?" Maier was one of Bayern Munich's greatest ever goalkeepers. Dropping a few names to show I knew a little bit about the club's history would go down well with the fanbase, right?

Dieter handed his phone over, which meant I had to put the water down. "You call him. He's listed in my contacts under 'The Cat'."

Most of the press pack laughed, and they laughed again when I pretended not to understand how to use Dieter's ancient flip phone. I tried to twist the upper half back and forth like I was playing with a Rubik's cube. Dieter took his device back and pocketed it, smoothly.

"We are grateful to Max for agreeing to help us out in this delicate time. His arrival allows us to keep key staff in their current roles and continue with business as usual and a seamless transition on both ends. We have a very talented coaching staff we could call on but for this particular case we preferred an outsider and, strange as it might seem at first, Max is actually a lot more experienced than our current assistant coaches in terms of in-game management. Not many trainers would take the role for just a month but Max has been able to organise Chester to cope without him for a short time."

So far, my day had been manic, frantic, crazy, but it was slowing just a tiny fraction, enough to let me take in my surroundings a little more. Briggy had driven me straight from the airport to Säbener Strasse, which would be my base for the next four weeks. Bayern's training ground was vast and had virtually everything a football club could want. This media room led to a corridor on which were loads of other, smaller rooms where one-on-one interviews were recorded. That would be the worst part of the mission - Bayern was all media, media, media and there was no way to get out of it.

I gripped the bottle and strangled the neck. Was the stupid thing child-proofed? Was that why I couldn't open it? Underneath my blank face I felt like a little kid. If I behaved myself I would get to play with ALL THE TOYS.

Dieter restated his words in German.

None of the media guys were holding microphones with their outlet's logo on, so I couldn't tell who was likely to make my life difficult in the coming weeks. They were all dressed like normal people; you could have zapped everyone onto a tram heading into the city centre and they wouldn't have looked out of place. The local equivalent of the Daily Mail was called Bild, and I didn't want to get into a beef with them. I didn't want to get into a beef with anyone, really. The plan was to keep my head down, win a few matches, and there was no need for drama of any kind. Not this week, anyway. I’d need to generate some headlines to make my heist work.

I twisted the water bottle a little more firmly and it opened with no spillage. No drama of any kind! A wonderful omen!

"Max?" said Dieter.

"Hmm, yes?"

"I was asking if you would be happy to take some questions."

"Not happy, Dieter, delighted." I took a swig of German water, which was almost as good as what we had back home.

There were too many new people in the room, and soon there would be an entirely new football club to meet. A whole squad plus reserves, youth players, coaches, physios, performance experts, analysts, backroom staff of all kinds. There was no way I was going to remember everyone's name.

There was a press officer at the end of the table - I mimed writing and he brought over a pen and paper while the first question was being asked.

A slovenly-looking dude introduced himself - utterly incomprehensible - and said who he worked for. It was a lot of work to get to a short question. "When do you start?"

"I have started," I said, which wasn't strictly true. I needed to sign a document, but that would happen after the presser. Assuming I didn't blow myself up.

"I apologise but this is extraordinary and it has happened so fast. Which matches will this cover?"

Dieter had some notes with him and was about to answer but I thought I might get some brownie points by showing that I had done some amount of preparation. "Great question," I said. "Okay, first up is a league match this Friday evening against SV Elversberg. That's at home. Next Tuesday is the Champions League in Bologna. I scouted them recently and their manager is doing amazing things. Saturday the 28th is away to Kiel in the league. Is that nearby, Dieter? I was thinking about renting a car and really hammering das autobahn."

"Die Autobahn. It's a ten-hour drive, Max."

"Oh," I said.

"We will fly; Kiel is close to Denmark."

"Oh! I bet they have great bacon. So if we return from Kiel in time, it's a cup match at home to a Bundesliga 2 side. Then Werder Bremen, Champions League in Hungary, Saturday in Stuttgart, and the final match - if I make it that far - will be at home to Mainz." I made eye contact with a few of the media people.

Most of them seemed friendly enough, though I thought I knew which one worked for the right-wing newspaper. He was the one looking at me like his daughter had written letters to me in prison.

I continued. "That's quite a busy schedule. Two matches per week and lots of travel, so I will be doing nothing else except making preparations for the next fixture. I won't be sightseeing or being cultural. I read Bayern have a handball team and even a chess club! I'd love to investigate everything but I won't have time. This is going to be absolutely frantic, non-stop work. My plan is to use every minute to make sure the team has the best preparation for its matches."

Some people seemed confused about why I had said that, but I was simply getting it on record that I wouldn't have time to give more interviews than I was legally bound to give. No photo ops, no excursions, no nothing.

"Question for Herr Bauer. Why did you say manager instead of trainer or head coach?"

"I'll take this one, Dieter. My fiancée is incredibly intelligent, she's a lawyer, she's a shareholder in a sports agency, but we all have our weak spots and hers is learning the difference between a manager and a head coach. There is overlap but a manager also handles transfers, I say. Head coaches use the players they are given, I say. It just doesn't stick. I have determined that it is easier to get the entire German footballing ecosystem to call me a manager than it is to explain the nuances of the roles to Emma." A couple of people laughed. Tough crowd.

The press guy pointed to a female reporter. She said, "What is your personal motivation to do this?"

"To help a fellow professional and a fellow human being but I can't lie - it's good for me, too. I'm getting four tickets to the NFL game. It has been my lifelong dream to watch the Cleveland Browns."

The guy who didn't want me to marry his daughter was chosen next. He said his name and - knew it, boom! - that he worked for Bild.

"Hang on," I said. "Can you say your name again?"

"Günter Schweiger."

"That's a fun one," I said. "Let me see if I can spell it. Dieter, is this right?"

I shoved the paper towards him. He glanced at it and something incredible happened. It was like a metal shutter came down just in front of his face. Total self-control. There was just a hint of a catch in his voice as he said, "You missed the umlaut. Here." He took the pen from me and under what I had written - the single word FUCKFACE - he wrote, DON'T. "Gunti, your question."

Gunti suspected that something had happened, but I think his tone might have been just as belligerent anyway. He was the first journo to speak German. The press officer translated. "Why are you qualified for this job?"

"Oh, Gunti, mate. Are you trying to do the job interview? I already did that. I'm here."

He switched to English. "My friends call me Gunti."

"Dieter! I made a friend already."

"But do you have a UEFA Pro licence? The club will have to pay a fine for every match you are on the touchline."

"I have an A licence and the German FA are allowing me to take temporary control on compassionate grounds. I will do my Pro licence next year when the sixth tier club I have taken to the second tier is having a well-earned consolidation season."

"Bayern are the autumn champions. They lead the league by one point. How many points behind will they be by the end of your spell?"

I glanced behind me. I was in front of one of those massive sponsor's boards with the same few logos repeated. The brands were some of the biggest in the world. "I'm not an expert in forecasting, unlike the floating megabrains who work for Glendale Logistics. If you want accurate delivery information and superior customer service, you know who to call. But you raise a good point. Dieter, is it three points for a win here?"

"Yes, Max." He slid the paper towards himself and wrote BE CAREFUL.

Gunti was a punchy sort, by which I mean people wanted to punch him. "I must insist on this line of questions. There are two vitally important Champions League matches in the next period. They cannot be left to a rookie manager!"

I chuckled like a jolly old Santa. With the new Champions League format, there was very little danger Bayern wouldn't make it through to the next stage. "Yes, it would be a disaster if Bayern slipped to 12th in the group as they did last year, or even as low as 24th, which is functionally the same as 9th. Don't worry, the system that was designed to protect the big teams protects the big teams. Bayern will be there in the next stage."

Dieter said, "Of course, the aim is not to finish 24th in the league stage. Max took Europe's lowest ranked club into the UEFA Conference league. His record in European competition is slim but unblemished. It is my belief that his tactical acumen will shine on those big European nights."

I said, "Put me down for three points from six in the Champions League. It's unfortunate for me that the hardest match of this run is the second one. Bologna are managed by Evaristo and I went to watch them recently; his team does unbelievable things. I can't guarantee anything in that match because the guy is amazing. Just amazing. I thought I was pretty good at football until I saw him in action. He's a sorcerer and I am but an apprentice. For every other match I take responsibility for the result because on paper Bayern are so much stronger that even - "

The urge to say 'even Gunti could win' was almost overwhelming. Dieter felt it and his eyes burned into me.

I allowed myself the tiniest moment of mischievous enjoyment before saying, "Bayern are so strong that even an inexperienced guy from Manchester can set up a team that has a chance to win. And that's really all I'm going to be doing. Yes, I'll work hard and I'll study the players and how they train and we'll watch the videos and go through the analysis but in the end Bayern's world-class coaches will still be coaching Bayern's world-class players. My job is literally to write eleven names on a team sheet. People might call me arrogant but I can write eleven names."

Dieter had relaxed. "You have to name some substitutes, too."

I waved my hand. "I'll delegate that. The manager of Bayern Munich doesn't involve himself in such trivialities."

Dieter chuckled, which was a sign to the room that I was joking. A few people smiled; the press guy chose another woman.

"What is your style?"

"Sports casual. I like a hoodie. I like to feel I could join in a kickabout, you know? I do have a couple of really nice suits but they're a bit too nice, if you know what I mean. They make me look like I'm planning a heist, which is obviously ridiculous. Me? A heist? What?"

She smiled a smile that showed she had met men like me before. "My question is which tactics do you prefer?"

"I'm English so it's a straight 4-4-2 all day long." A tiny noise escaped from Dieter but I didn't want to draw attention to it by looking. I often used 4-4-2 with Chester but there was no question of me doing it with Bayern against top-level managers. I was playing into the stereotypes of how English football used to be perceived; the joke landed well in the room. "After this presser I will meet the players and my plan is to line them all up and take the tallest one and the shortest one and they will be my strikers. Big man and a little man. That's the secret to winning football matches."

The lady was not amused. "I see you are a joker but this is one of the biggest clubs in Germany and the world and we are very serious about football."

I stared at her, unblinking. "Who said I was joking?"

She said, "Do you have an idea of your starting eleven for Friday?"

I turned to Dieter. "Does Thomas Müller still play here?"

Dieter's smile was thin. "No, Max."

"I suppose I'll have to see what I find on the training pitch."

The journo was shaking her head. "Why won't you answer?"

The simple answer was that while I knew everything about the squad it was possible to know from a distance, I didn't have the players in my database and I didn't have the squad screen. Yet. I couldn't say that so I threw up a smokescreen. "From what I hear, everything that happens at Säbener Strasse is leaked to the media, there are moles everywhere, the team news is on social media as soon as it leaves the manager's lips. It's not the style I'm used to. I'm not here to rock the boat. All I want to do is win some matches and act in a non-invasive way. The goal is that Basti can walk his dogs and go to the spa without his phone blowing up because unhappy players have leaked the team. The team news will not escape the dressing room when I am here."

"You can't guarantee that."

"I guarantee that."

A new guy got a turn to ask questions. "What do you think of German football?"

"You'd be surprised how often I think about German football."

"How is your German?"

"I read that the German language absorbs new words from English at the rate of one per day. Meeting, brainstorming, and I just heard Dieter say business as usual. If you think about it, my German gets better every day."

"Is your wife coming?"

"She can visit when she wants but for now she's happy to have the house to herself. She can play Abba really loud and sing into a hairbrush, which is something we normally only do together." That got a good laugh. "I don't eat fish at home because the house smells for days so tonight she's having fish and if I know her, I dare say she might pair it with a glass of white wine." I smiled, and that whole sequence was a hit.

Another dude piped up. He was looking down at his notes. "I'm confused about the appointment. It doesn't quite connect. Reading between the lines, an outsider has been chosen to make Basti feel confident that his position is secure. But surely if you are successful there will be pressure on the board to give you the job. Bastian cannot be so sure that you won't take it."

I nodded a few times. "I know where you're coming from but I have promised to say something stupid and offensive about two weeks from now so that even if I seem to have the skills there's no way the board could give me the job. I apologise in advance for what I say but it's for the benefit of Basti's health. Actually, if you think about it, every time I say something stupid it's actually heroic. Make sure you write that down. Circle it twice so you don't forget later."

The guy was watching me with his mouth open. "I think I see why Basti doesn't need to worry."

I laughed hard. "That's the spirit!"

He flipped his notebook back a page. "What about Chester? It is not normal that you leave for a month."

"Er, it kind of is, actually. Chester have four of the best managers in Europe discussing the Peterborough United match right now; they'll be fine. Hey, Dieter. Was that the first time Peterborough United were ever mentioned at a Bayern Munich press conference?"

"Quite possibly."

The journo had more questions. "But do you have a message for the Chester fans? This must be a big surprise for them."

I laughed. "Not as much as you'd think. My message to Chester fans is, do you want something from Duty Free?"

"You're going back, then?"

"I'm not thinking of going back. I just got here."

"That wasn't an answer."

"You're a real terrier, aren't you? Do you play central midfield?" I finger-gunned the press guy. "Next."

He announced that there would be five more questions because the trainer, sorry Miss Max, the manager - some laughs - had to meet the players and oversee training.

The next question was from a really young guy. Probably some podcast nerd. "Will Peter Bauer be returning to Bavaria?"

"Peter is an employee of Chester Football Club and it would be unprofessional to talk about him."

"You're from Manchester. Are you United or City?"

"The Stone Roses."

Gunti stood and held his phone up. He had just got to the part of my CV that was most directly relevant to my current role. "Why should you manage the biggest club in Germany when you were dismissed by Grimsby Town?"

I smiled. "Dieter, is that the first ever mention of Grimsby Town in this room?"

"Very possibly. Gunti, you know football is a sport with its ups and downs."

"Sorry to interrupt," I said. I stared right into Gunti's shifty little eyes. "I stand by my body of work at Grimsby. I absolutely nailed it and I'm proud of what I achieved in a short time. I don't expect people who weren't there to understand. People will say I tried to change things too fast and I was too hard on the players. People will say I hope he has learned his lesson from that time. Yes, I have.

"I learned that my mistake was not changing things fast enough and being too soft on the players. There will be no repeat of those mistakes. I'm here to win. If there are players and coaches who are not aligned with that goal, I will deal with them." This little outburst had a big effect on Gunti; he sat and leaned back as though he was holding a cigar and a brandy.

The first woman who had asked questions asked another. She sort of vaguely showed me what was on her phone. "We are all learning about you very quickly. I'm seeing passion, lots of intensity. Is this what we should expect?"

"No. I'm not going to be emotional. My expectation is to be a technocrat. Pick a team, manage the match, and at full-time sit back and let the experts do their jobs."

The nerd guy got to ask the final question and this time I realised he was saying he worked for Kicker, the respected football magazine. "Gary Lineker once said that football is a simple game in which twenty-two men chase a ball for ninety minutes and at the end, the Germans always win. Is that your attitude, too?"

"That question is very charming and asked in a generous spirit but I have to say that I don't respond to questions that involve other players, celebrities, politicians, or whatever. Any news organisation that relies on headlines like Max Best BLASTS so-and-so can get in the dustbin of history. If that's all you've got, you don't deserve to exist. I don't mean Kicker, I'm talking in general terms." I couldn't help but glance at Gunti. "So while I love the question I must on principle politely refuse to go anywhere near it." The press guy tried to wrap things up but I didn't want to end on a low note. I indicated the Kicker guy. "Bro, ask me another question. Something positive so we can end on a high."

Everyone in the room turned to look at him. His eyes darted around but he pulled through like a champ. "You're the manager of Bayern Munich for one month. Are you excited?"

I tried to play it cool but a little smirk escaped. I forced it back inside while squashing my eyes closed. I opened them wide - no smirk - and blinked a few times. A cocky half-grin took over but when I fought against it, it simply moved to the other side of my face. I closed my eyes to try to regain control but all I could think of was the last stage in my heist, what that would look like, how it would feel. how the world would react. I burst into a full grin, twinkling eyes, maximum charisma. I leaned forward and said, "Excitement comes with danger. This is the most dangerous thing I've ever done. What I'm doing is a risk to my entire career but as my good friend Peter Bauer likes to say, no risk, no fun. Hey buddy?"

"Yes?"

"Servus."

He grinned back. "Servus, Max."

***

Dieter led me through to a corridor. Briggy stayed close.

I mimed swinging a baseball bat. "Bosh! I knocked that one out of the park! Briggy, how do you say home run in German?"

"Homerun."

"I love how much German I know." I took another swing. "Max Best mit die home run! Fantastisch!"

Dieter inhaled. "Yes, well, it could have gone worse. You might perhaps have been less spicy with Gunti."

"Can't help it. People like him give off pheromones, you know. If I had an ink sac I'd have squirted it all over him. Also, the furniture in there was too colourful and it got me overstimulated. If you think about it, society's to blame. Where next?"

He pointed down an endless corridor. "Down there, almost as far as Denmark." He made a noise. "I'm getting too old to be walking this much. I keep asking them to install a... what is the name of the thing you get at an airport?"

"Travelator," I said.

"Moving walkway," said Briggy.

Dieter considered that. "I don't much like either name."

"Briggy," I said, resting my hand on Dieter's shoulder to get him to stop. "Carry Dieter to the next room."

Without a word, she walked in front of him, crouched down, and indicated he could get on her shoulders. Dieter laughed worryingly hard, which made Briggy get up and give me a high five. Mission accomplished! He wagged his finger at her. "You've been spending too much time with him."

"That sounds like it would be your fault, sir."

"Ooh, girl got sass!" I said, rewarding her with another high five. "Did you learn the value of a sardonic sir from the Brig?"

She couldn't deny it. "Yes. He's great. I learned a lot from him."

As we went down the corridor, people came out of some doors and went through others. When they saw Dieter they smiled but their eyes slid off him and onto me. The way they looked made me queasy. New kid in school!

"In here," said Dieter, finally.

We went into an office, typical in every way except for the sheer amount of footballing talent it contained. Paul Braun and Karl Lippstadt, the other members of the triumvirate, were waiting. We shook hands and said servus to each other. There was a quick conversation in German before Paul Braun, the most difficult of the three, got up and sighed. "I suppose we are really doing this." He picked up a folder and pulled out my contract, printed in triplicate. Colourful strips of paper allowed him to turn to the right pages quickly. "Please sign here and here and here."

I obeyed in triplicate.

When the last signature was on the last page, I felt the tiniest little pop in my head and when I brought up the curse screen, there it was. Three tiny little words.

Bayern Munich Squad.

Shivers, mate. I wasn't the new boy in school. I was the new headmaster. Fear me! Fear my mighty powers!

What was even better - I still had the other squads available. Chester Men, Chester Women, College 1975 Men. I hadn't really expected to lose those because I was still the co-manager of Chester Men, still the director of football of the women, and I had stumped up the XP to add College to my screens so that was the safest of the lot. I knew that if I kept stretching the curse it would one day break. But who cared? New numbers!

My new screens were bursting with info. I opened the player profile of our starting goalie, Torben Ulrich, and rejoiced. CA 170! From a PA of 170. Still maxed out at the age of 37. So cool. But then again, Bayern were amazing at prolonging the careers of their goalies. What was the secret? Wheat beer and white sausages?

I opened another profile. Adam Adebayo, considered Bayern's best player by most observers. He was my age, a French attacking midfielder who could play all across the width of the pitch, and holy shit! CA 187, PA 193. His wages were almost two hundred and fifty thousand pounds per week. A million a month!

Not for the first time, people were trying to talk to me while I was away in the clouds. Karl Lippstadt looked from one of my eyes to the other. "Are you okay?"

I clapped him on the arm. "Yes, Karl. I'm very okay. I was just overcome with the enormity of what this means. I'm part of the same lineage as you three and many other great names. It means a lot to me. I'll try not to fuck it up." How did I manage to say that in a sombre tone when my new toys included a genuinely top-class keeper and one of the finest players in the world? Inside, I was bouncing.

"Yes, please don't fuck it up," said Paul.

I nearly snapped back at him but that wasn't part of the mission. I intended to keep Paul out of reach - the guy was so moody there was no point getting on his good side because he was like a twenty-sided dice with one face marked 'upbeat' and nineteen marked 'grumpy twat'. In a soft tone, I said, "That's good advice, Paul. Thanks for being supportive on my first day."

Dieter took me by the arm and eased me towards the doorway. "We're just on time, I think. We have the first team squad waiting to meet you."

It was hard not to go through the squad's profiles as I walked. I wanted to devour every juicy nugget of information, but for now I needed to focus. Talk to Dieter like a normal person and yes, maybe start learning the layout of this enormous place.

We got to the end of one airport-length corridor, went through some fire doors, and were right into another endless corridor. "Jesus," I said.

"The building runs alongside the training pitches," said Dieter. "You'll get used to it quickly."

"Have I got an office?"

"Of course. It's upstairs with a view of the training pitches. Peter says you like to loom."

"I do. I love a bit of looming. I like to be ominous."

We turned right suddenly, through some double doors, and then there was a sea of green. Football pitches for miles, or so it looked. One thing that looked like a wall demarcating the boundary of the site was in fact a high fence that surrounded one pitch - I would be able to do private sessions. Not much help when it came to keeping my intentions secret from the coaches, but it was good to have the option.

There were the coaches now. Basti had three assistants. One saw us coming and blew his whistle. Players were scattered around. Most were wearing leggings, gloves, and beanies. I frowned. It wasn't even cold. They shuffled close together with their player profiles over their heads. Numbers, numbers everywhere!

I swept my awareness across the bottom of the profiles, the space where the CAs and the PAs lived. 150! 170! 134! 187!

I looked a little higher and took in the positions. MCR (midfielder, centre or right); AM RLC (attacking midfielder, right left or centre); RB DM (right back or defensive midfielder - a very rare combination); only one S.

Only one striker? Hmm.

I tried not to grin as I looked through the numbers - I was trying to look like a world-class football manager, not a kid in a candy store - and switching to the 'Future' tab, the one that showed me how players were feeling, certainly took away the impulse to do a goofy smile.

This was going to be very, very far from straightforward. According to the infallible information the curse was giving me, there were huge splits in the group. Cliques for days. That player disliked that player. He disliked those two. There were all kinds of other issues, too. That guy wanted to move to Real Madrid. Those six had been told by their agent they could get a better contract elsewhere. That prick was furious he wasn't starting every match. That one was upset he had lost his place in the national team. That one had 'personal problems'. That one was upset he didn't get a birthday cake.

This team didn't need a caretaker manager, it needed an exorcist.

"Servus, gentlemen," said Dieter.

Most of the players responded with the same word. My attention snapped to two players who didn't. They were young and weren't listed in the men's first team squad. The reason was clear - they played for Bayern II, which was basically the club's reserve team. Bayern II played in the third tier of German football, giving young players the chance to get experience against real opponents.

Dieter explained what was happening the way he had in the presser, though with a little more detail and more warmth. The players already knew most of it - a footballer's WhatsApp group can move pretty fast. One of the two reserve players was whispering to the other one and sniggering.

My blood didn't boil, exactly, but let's just say I wouldn't have needed leggings to train.

Dieter was introducing me to Basti's assistant coaches. They were all called by a single name, which was actually helpful, and I knew a few things about them already. Now I knew their curse numbers and they were very good but not superb. "Max," said Dieter. "This is Moses."

"Servus," I said, as I shook hands with a black guy about my height but much rounder. He was in his mid-thirties, Belgian, and was supposed to be very good with players. The curse rated his man management skills as 13 out of 20, so I wasn't sure what to make of that.

Moses beamed at me. "Servus, Max. Great to have you here. It is wonderful what you are doing."

I couldn't help but smile back but it faded quickly; the bad boy was still being a dick while Dieter Bauer was talking.

"Vlado," he said.

"Servus," I said, shaking hands with an average-looking guy in his early thirties who had a top Tactics score. 20 out of 20. In theory that would be amazingly helpful, but in practice I wasn't so sure. I was planning to plough my own furrow here, for many reasons. Vlado seemed all right, though. Friendly enough. Too friendly, probably. Based on their profiles, I suspected that Basti hadn't chosen staff who could challenge him or replace him. If Bayern's triumvirate wanted a cold-hearted bastard to come in and sort out the mess in the dressing room, it wouldn't have been Moses or Vlado.

"And finally, Riley."

"Awite?" I said, for this one was English.

He was ten years older than the other two and while he had decent credentials, I knew we weren't going to get along. He had done a lot of coaching with the England national team at various age groups, and one of his allies was the current England manager, the abysmal Alan Turner. I had started a trend of fans mercilessly taunting Turner, a trend which came to an abrupt end when he got the England job. England fans were trying to get behind him in the hope he would deliver a long-awaited trophy, and being behind Alan Turner essentially meant being against me.

No player from Chester had been called up to the England team since Alan Turner ascended to the throne and it was toadies like Riley who were enabling that scandal to happen. I was absolutely certain that Riley would be delighted to see me fail. Well tough shit, mate. Not gonna happen.

"Servus, Max," said Riley, in a Birmingham accent.

"What have you got for me today, lads?"

A look crossed Riley's face, just for a second, but that was enough for me to know he was definitely going to be a dick, same as the coaches at Grimsby Town had been. "Preparations for Elversberg. Basti wants a 4-2-3-1."

The guy was trying to tell me which formation to play! "Cool, cool, well, you can train for that and later in the week I'll say what the actual formation will be." Bosh! Best shoots, and he scores! Some of the players recognised what had just happened. A few of them got wide eyes. I continued. "Elversberg play 4-4-2, right?"

"That's right," said Riley, now slightly more wary. "We'll be doing a presentation about them. They are new to the division so there are less stats."

"Yeah," I said, looking around. The place was enormous and the quality of players was intimidating but now that I was getting properly started, I could begin to imagine a time I might actually enjoy this ride.

I would get to know the players after the first win - until then I would be the substitute teacher. Until then I wouldn't be able to make inroads no matter how charismatic I was. That win would come on Friday - surely? - but for now, I needed to embody the role of the aloof technocrat.

"We'll want to disrupt their build-up from the back, won't we? They're incredibly stubborn and never hit it long. Don't worry, I've got it all worked out. Dieter," I said, giving him a friendly back rub. "I can handle it from here. Thanks and servus."

He smiled, nodded, and with a tiny wave, walked off. I noted that he preferred to go into the building itself and walk down the corridor; I would have gone past the pitches. Maybe when I was as old as he was, I'd want to absorb every joule of warmth.

I turned back to the group and scanned them. Close to thirty players in all. A wary, watchful mass of rivalries, cliques, jealousies, and greed. I suspected if I looked hard enough I would soon find the seven sins, and there were footballing sins, too. There were two injured guys in the mix, dressed like the others. They were here to train!

I smiled a little. This place had the capacity to drive me absolutely loopy, that much was clear already. I had really, really wanted to coast for the first week of this little adventure. Get an easy win against the worst team in the top division and go to Italy and hope Evaristo didn't pull my pants down. See what worked, what didn't, run some experiments, then start blasting teams to smithereens.

I hadn't really expected the first team I destroyed to be this one, but I was flexible.

"Guys, my name is Max. This place," I said, jabbing a thumb at the building behind me, "was built by Dieter Bauer. When Dieter Bauer talks, you listen. That's called respect. It's very simple and easy to understand. You. What's your name?"

I pointed at the guy who had been getting me worked up. "Stefan Clown," I think he said.

"Weird. I don't have anyone by that name on my squad list."

Riley said, "He's here to add bodies for the drills we want to run."

"Oh? You can use a mannequin instead. I'm sure it'll be just as effective. Stefan, take the rest of the day off." The kid seemed to be wondering how to react. I was basically just an intern, right? He was a top spieler; he could give me shit. I let my face harden. "The fuck is happening?" I paced towards him until I was right in his grille. "I am sending you home, you stupid fucking twat. Do you understand, yes or no? I am giving you the rest of the week off. That means go."

The upgrade from day to week hit him hard but he decided not to risk it getting longer. He spluttered, found no help was coming, and decided to save face by storming off.

"Great," I said, taking a few steps away from the group. "New guy comes in and throws his weight around on the first day to show he's big and tough. Roar. That's not what I planned to do, okay? I'm from Manchester and this is my first time here. Why do I care about your heritage and your history more than you guys who are here every day? Stefan's mate. Why didn't you tell him to shut the fuck up?"

"How?"

"Say shut the fuck up, Dieter Bauer is talking!" The kid squirmed. "Never mind," I said. "What about an experienced player? You're Jost Benn, right?"

I was talking to an Austrian version of Andrew Harrison. A central midfielder who could play on the right. CA 150, PA 154. He was one of a few squad members who seemed out of place based on their CA, but Jost was getting a fraction of the wages of Adam Adebayo, which probably went a long way towards explaining why he was in the squad. Overpay one, underpay one, balance the budget. He said, "I am Jost. I saw what annoyed you and it annoyed me, too. I decided if I said anything it would only draw attention to the impoliteness."

Jost saying he had seen it took the edge off the situation. "That's probably smart," I said. I pinched my nose. "Don't draw attention to it, deal with it when Dieter's gone. Okay, he's gone and I've dealt with it." I turned to the coaches. "I don't want to see Stefan again."

I made eye contact with a few of the players; it was hard to know what they were thinking. I thought about what Pedro Porto had told me. On his first day he told the players what he planned to do and what he expected.

"You're probably going to read and hear all kinds of crazy shit about me in the next few days but all you need to know is that I'm here to help you win football matches. Every match we win is half a week where Bastian can relax. I know some of you have your own issues going on but I expect you to put them aside for four weeks. One month where we have unity. I set up the team and you do your jobs on the pitch. I don't expect harmony but I do expect alignment. We win for the fans and we win for Bastian. Briggy, can you repeat that in German, please?"

She did. It wasn't a barnstorming speech but I hoped it was clear and simple. Briggy looked at me to show she was done.

The club captain, Fabian Fromm, who had over a hundred caps (appearances) for Germany and was fucking mint, spoke up. "Can we check your role? Are you carrying out Basti's instructions?"

"No. I'm in charge. I'm picking the tactics and the team. I know a lot about you." I pointed to a few players in turn. "Three yellow cards in ten games. 71% passing accuracy so far this season. Two Man of the Match awards. You just got your 50th cap for your country. Well done." I switched to a more wistful tone. "I know everything about you except how much you want to be in the team on Friday. You tell me that in training, don't you? There are no sacred cows for me. How you train will decide who is selected." Fromm looked from me to the three coaches, but kept his mouth shut. I clapped my hands and said, "Show me what you've got, lads. Riley, Moses, Valdo, they're all yours."

***

Training started well, as far as I could see. I had no point of comparison with this particular group but my instinct was that most players were a little more focused than normal. Even if they thought I was a bizarre choice, it's only natural that they wanted to impress me.

Briggy went off to get a hot drink and to check where my office was. I spent ten minutes oscillating between fanboying over the quality of the players and stressing about their internal conflicts. They were the top of the league and doing fine in the Champions League so the logical thing would have been to pick the same team that Basti would and sit back and relax.

The logical thing...

Briggy returned and handed me a hot black tea, no milk. "Thanks," I said.

"They have given you Bastian's office. It's up there," she said, pointing to a window. She took in the scene as twenty-nine players rushed around chasing balls, yelling, shouting, venting their frustration. "What do you think?"

"The levels are unbelievable. I've seen the top teams play but seeing an entire squad of guys this talented is something else. It's like, I don't know, growing up in a town that had a kebab shop and a McDonald's and then you go to a big city and there are five Michelin-starred restaurants side-by-side. Just take the attacking midfielders." I grinned. "I can't tell you how mad this is. There are five top-class wide attacking midfielders right there. You'd normally use two in a match, right? If I were building my absolute dream squad I'd probably want four because then you can rotate but keep everyone involved. Bayern have five. Why? Why not."

"Which one is Adam Adebayo?"

I gave her a quizzical look, but pointed. "Why do you ask?"

"Is he your favourite?"

"I don't have favourites. Everyone gets an equal chance to play."

She blew a raspberry. "Sure. Peter said you rave about Adam Adebayo. He asked me to count how many times you make little cooing noises while watching him train."

"Cooing noises. Clearly Peter isn't busy enough and neither are you." We watched as Adam did the drill. He had a languid style, like nothing mattered, like he wasn't even trying, but that was an illusion. His movements were perfect, efficient, his technique flawless. His Decisions score was 20. This was a player to dream on. I rubbed the back of my skull. "I was that good once."

Briggy eyed me. "People say you're pretty good now."

"Doesn't compare." I stopped feeling sorry for myself and focused on the nationalities. "When I started at Chester, almost everyone was British or Irish. I'm great with French people and amazing with Germans. Aren't I, Briggy? Briggy. Aren't I, Briggy?"

I laughed as she tried not to show her irritation.

"This is a really international squad and that could be a challenge for me. Loads of Germans, obviously, but we've got Portuguese, French, Korean, Slovenian, Japanese. That guy's from Singapore. He's not really the right level and I'm wondering what's going on. The recruitment seems to be pretty hit and miss. The last four players they signed, it's two future world stars and two guys who shouldn't be here. Oh, and there's an Australian, too. Why would a big club want one of them?"

"You have problems with other nationalities? Surely not." She knew I was joking - I think. She added, "Do you have an idea for Friday's team?"

"Yeah," I said, sipping the tea. "I could name it now but I have to pretend to be thinking about it so they keep training hard until the last minute." My mind decided to torture itself with visions of being on the touchline in the Allianz Arena, two-nil down against the worst team in the league.

"Are you all right? You were quite strange in the press conference. By turns cocky and funny, fighty, humble. You hinted you were a steady hand on the wheel then pretended you didn't know the basics."

"Yeah, it was a mess; I was trying to do ten things at the same time. I won't be able to relax until I get that first win. Not sure if that makes sense to you. Until then I'm a freak show. The plan for Friday night is to keep things incredibly simple. The more simple the match, the more I can absorb the atmosphere, the way the fans are, the way the team react to things. I need to get to know the referees. Half of me expects a frantic tactical battle because this is the Bundesliga, right? Every coach is a tactics nut. I'll get laughed at for being so simple."

"Simplicity is the height of cultivation. Bruce Lee via Max Best."

"Mmm," I said, but I was pulling my bottom lip. There was so much stuff going on. The age mix. It was an old group, wasn't it? Chester's average age was close to 23. This lot averaged 27 and a half. Why was that guy 20 points off his PA? Two players were training with injuries, including the captain. Left back was looking like it would be my biggest headache. (Why was it always the fucking left backs?) Davies, the Canadian superstar who was first choice for that role, had a long-term injury, leaving me with his shitty backup or a left-footed centre back.

Okay, well that's why God invented three at the back, right?

The curse shop had a new formation ready for me to buy. 3-4-2-1 was pretty interesting. 

Bayern had loads of centre backs - we were very well-stocked there - so three at the back suited that aspect of the squad. With three at the back, I wouldn't need to use the backup left back or the injured right back. I had that whole fleet of star wide players - one could go to left midfield, one to the right. Two would play in the CAM slots behind the striker. Deploying four amazing creative players was extremely compelling.

On the other hand, Basti liked 4-2-3-1 so we had several excellent DMs. The new formation didn't have a dedicated DM slot.

I mentally selected the best possible eleven that would fit 3-4-2-1. Using attacking wingers on the sides would give us problems defensively but our average CA would be 172.3.

"Can you hold this?"

Briggy took my thermos while I walked in a circle with my hands behind my head, heart slapping against my ribs, blood thundering.

One hundred and seventy two point three!

I wasn't completely convinced I would be able to get Chester to such levels. Bayern had done it through sheer brute force. Five of the players I had mentally selected had been bought for fees in excess of fifty million pounds, while another cost a hundred million.

It was completely possible that the team I named on Friday would be the best one I ever managed. It would be one of the top five sides in Europe this week, which meant top five in the world. Would it be better than the England national team? Possibly. The new formation fit this squad very well but I hadn't bought it yet.

I checked my stash.

XP balance: 9,155

3-4-2-1 was available for 5,000 XP. Buying it and one more would unlock perks that would give me much greater flexibility with the tactics screens - essential for dealing with guys like Evaristo.

Another use for my XP would be to buy a Twilight Zone-themed perk that would allow me to 'control the horizontal and the vertical'. It was a complicated way of describing something simple. For 7,500 XP I would be able to set invisible boundaries that my players would try to stay within, sort of like moving the margins on a word processor. Those small tweaks would have oversized tactical implications.

I needed both of these as a matter of urgency, but the question was which to buy first.

3-4-2-1 would be awesome to have in the first match, this Friday.

The horizontal/vertical perk could save my arse in Italy on Tuesday.

There was very little prospect of earning XP on the Monday, when we would be travelling to Italy. I expected to get 14 XP per minute when I was managing Bayern, which would get me around 1,300 per match. Could I get about 1,600 during the rest of the week?

"Briggy, I need to go scouting tonight."

"Great. Munich is full of amazing bars and I'm a perfect wingman."

"Funny. Yeah... I think I need to see some football every night this week."

"Every night?" she complained.

"That's right. I, ah, need to get a sense of how football is refereed in this country. Yeah, that's the reason. It's vital to the mission so can you see what matches are going on? Actually, hang fire. I'll probably be faster." I got my phone out and surfed around. "Shit, there's not much. Saturday, though. Stuttgart are at home. That's not far. Get me into that one."

"Not far? That's a long drive. Do you mean to fly?"

"I will fly to matches but not to scout. It's not like Chester where I can stay somewhere overnight and skip training. I need to be here every morning without fail." One problem I was going to have when it came to scouting was Munich's location. It was tucked away in the south-east of Germany. You’d find a much higher concentration of top clubs in an equivalent area of England. "Austria’s right there; Salzburg have a good team. Maybe I can check them out. I'll want to go to every Bayern Women's match if that's possible. The more options I can have, the better. I do some of my best thinking while scouting."

"We could have arranged this long in advance."

"But that would have spoiled the surprise. Are you happy to be back home?"

Briggy didn’t hear; she was staring at the latest drill. "What are they doing?"

"That guy messed up so they're all flicking him on the ear."

"I didn't see that at Chester."

"It's not my thing. This is pretty mild. It's like the clubs where the guy who trains the worst has to wear a yellow top the next day, things like that. It's fine. You're trying to insist on certain standards without dipping into full-on bullying. If I was a player here I would go along with the ear flicks, I reckon, but it's about people who aren't typical.

"If you get punished because you didn't control the ball there's a decent chunk of people who will silently rage because the pass to them was uncontrollable. It's the player who hit the shit pass who should be punished, right? And there are people who will accept criticism from the coaches but not their peers. Do you really want to breed resentment? What's the upside to flicking someone on the ear?" I dismissed the whole conversation with a wave of the hand. "It's not for me."

The players took a break and formed little groups on the turf as they took on water. I wandered around, wondering if it was possible I actually preferred my setup at Chester to this. Was that wishful thinking?

"Max," said Moses. I spotted his smile and mirrored it. The guy was Smiling 20 for sure. He had a ball tucked in between his arm and his body which made him seem even rounder. "What do you think?"

"The quality's unbelievable," I said, which got a pleased reaction from the players within earshot.

"I hear you're a good player," he said. "Want to join in?"

This was interesting. In the past I had established dominance over a group by being far superior at the sport they were paid to play. No chance of that happening here. If I stayed long enough I would join in a few times just to raise my personal ceiling but there wasn't much to gain from showing that I was the worst player here. Not on day one, anyway. I decided to turn it into a joke. "Moses, I'm dogshit. Also, I'm jet lagged."

An English defender called Edgar frowned. "You got jet lagged flying from Manchester to Germany?"

"Yeah. I'm weak and feeble."

Moses laughed. "Something tells me you are joking."

I spread my arms. "My mission this week is to reassure people I'm not here to take their jobs! If I take part in training, morale will collapse. Imagine the looks on their faces when they realise there's a guy who's the best in their position and every other position. No, it would be devastating to these guys to see me in action."

Edgar frowned again. "Can you play centre back?"

I did a cheeky grin and touched him on the shoulder. "I'm not here to take your spot, bro. Hey, listen, you speak Portuguese, right?"

"I grew up there."

"And Rui Santos doesn't speak much English, is that right? I won't have Briggy with me when the match starts so if I need to pass on instructions to him, will you help me? I know it's not your job but, you know, it'd help me out."

"Of course, gaffer."

I smiled. "Top man." I rubbed my lip. "Not sure I've ever been called gaffer by a Champions League finalist before. I could get used to that!"

***

I had gotten up super early to head to the airport and had expended a lot of energy already, but the day had just started. After training came a meeting disguised as lunch. I wanted to be left alone to work through the player profiles in more detail, but the triumvirate wanted to introduce me to some of the key people at the club.

One of these was Diane Berger, who was confusingly called the 'team manager'. I couldn't quite work out what that entailed, but part of it was coaxing players to do sponsor events and part of it was overseeing our preparations for away matches. On game days she wore a headset and liased between the physios and the head coach. She was also a conduit between the head coach and the players, helping to smooth out wrinkles. The players trusted her to the extent she was the only non-player who was in their WhatsApp group.

There was also the head of Marketing, who couldn't work out if I was the content generator of her dreams or the harbinger of sponsorship doomsday, plus another couple of former players who worked in mysterious roles. I couldn't decide if I liked the way former players were kept around but it was certainly good for keeping football at the heart of the club's activities. I could imagine that at every meeting there would be a voice saying 'but the players will hate this' or 'have you thought how the fans will react?'

I started out in good form, hosing everyone with my charm. I turned questions about me into raves about the players I had just seen. My bubbly mood lasted until Briggy showed me her phone. Bild had a headline which she translated for me. 'Mad Dog Starts with a Bite.' They had a photo of me kicking Stefan out of training alongside an entire article about it, with quotes from 'sources'.

"Why am I a mad dog?" I asked.

"Don't know," said Briggy.

The marketing woman had seen us and brought up the same article on her phone. She skimmed it and had already swiped to their other stories. "They're calling you Max Beisst."

Briggy said, "Max Bites."

For a full minute, I steamed up. Got pissed. Not at the nickname - I didn't have the language chops to know if it was funny or what - but at the leak. I cooled off by going internal, reminding myself that it was always going to be this way. The fact it had already started just brought my task into focus.

I had to achieve my goals while navigating my leaky ship through mole-infested waters. Every player was a suspect. Every coach was a suspect. Everyone at this table was a suspect. Paul Braun could have been plotting against the other members of the triumvirate in order to take sole control of the club. If that were the case, this folly of Dieter's was a perfect opportunity.

Then again, I thought, as I pushed the food around on my plate, the triumvirate had made it pretty clear that their goal was to get Bastian to undergo his surgery as early as possible. The stupid prick wanted to put it off until next summer at great risk to his life. Paul Braun hadn't been lying about his wish to see his employee 'avoid the drop', to use a footballing term. Maybe Braun was combining a genuinely good intention with a dastardly plot, but I didn't think so. Still, the upshot was I had to be careful around absolutely everyone. Potentially even Briggy. Potentially even Dieter. I had read enough Agatha Christie to distrust alibis and to assume hidden motives.

Shit, I'd read enough Agatha Christie to suspect myself.

I didn't speak much for the rest of the lunch. Mostly I batted away suggestions from the marketing person. "Sounds great. Sounds like something Basti would love to do. Wish I had time but I wouldn't want to lose focus on the football."

Before I left, Diane Berger asked me to let her know Friday's line up by Wednesday at the latest. "Wednesday might be tight," I said. "Plus I want them to train hard on Thursday."

"Bastian gives me the team in plenty of time."

"Cool," I said. I could have named a solid team there and then but I wanted to scribble possible lineups, make numbers dance, play with my new toys.

Toys!

I went right back to being in a great mood. Despite all the shit that would come with this mission, I would get to play with some of the very best toys in the whole fucking world.

Paul Braun was putting his jacket on. "What is our new manager smiling at?"

I looked up at him. "Just wondering what my old P.E. teacher would make of all this. He didn't pick me for the school team; now I'm manager of Bayern Munich."

Paul's twenty-sided dice rolled and landed on 'upbeat'. "There is a saying here: There are two types of people. Those who can't do it and those who can. I have a saying: fuck that guy." He was very pleased with himself. "Servus, Max."

"Servus."

***

After the lunch meeting came the injuries report. I was really excited for this; I was going to get a really amazing peek under the curtain. How did megaclubs actually run things? What reports did they have? What astonishing, breakthrough technologies?

The astonishing, breakthrough technology was PowerPoint.

Basti's assistant coaches and four physios gathered and gave an update about the injuries the players had, how their rehabs were going, and what new issues had arisen over the international break. It was all led by the senior guy, whose voice was the only one I heard for minutes at a time. You might think I like the sound of my own voice but even on my epic rants I let other people speak from time to time, if only to remind people what lesser speakers sounded like.

While the delivery was tedious, it was genuinely interesting to see how specific and detailed the reports got. It was assumed that everyone at the table understood the terminology. My mind started to drift as I thought about sending Chester's coaches on physiotherapy courses. Would that be a good investment? Almost certainly, even if it was just to help them process this kind of meeting.

That said, while I acknowledged that this was high-level stuff, advanced stuff, was it really necessary? The manager didn't need to hear things in such detail. They could have summarised thirty minutes into three. Player X is out for three weeks. Player Y can start training tomorrow but with no contact.

I suppose most managers only had one set of players to think about. With all the clubs in the Max Best Universe, I had loads. Give me short meetings, give me the overview.

When they finished, I said, "Are there any players you think are hiding injuries?"

Riley and Vlado looked at each other like I was insane. Moses said, "No. What do you mean?"

I thought about how I wanted to play this. I didn't especially care if players at Bayern Munich were hiding things from their medical team. Long-term I wanted them to fail, to put it bluntly. But if the curse was telling me that Fabian Fromm had an ankle injury I wasn't going to use him in a match, was I? It would be unethical. The issue in the case of Fromm was that he was absolutely fantastic. CA 179, able to play multiple positions, and while his Influence wasn't really high, he led by example. If his ankle could heal in two weeks, he would be an amazing help in the second half of my Munich adventure.

"Tell me Fabian Fromm's injury history."

"Fabian?" said the head physio, amazed. "He is resilient. Doesn't miss games. Never injured."

Another physio said, "There was a season he played every minute of every game. He's that type."

Hearing macho shit like that from the physios was alarming. This was another room of people I couldn't gel with. "Well of course a player who never gets injured can't have an injury. How stupid of me."

Riley said, "What makes you think he has an issue?"

"Hmm." I checked the time and saw I had a text from Ems. "We can come back to this. Is that the end?" I said.

"That's the end," said the head physio.

I stayed in place.

Emma: How's it going?

Me: It's as bad as Grimsby but the annual turnover isn't six million, it's six HUNDRED million. I kicked out a kid and in a minute I'm going to bin off the captain of Germany.

Emma: No! That's not a progression fantasy. Do someone medium-sized! Kid, medium, captain of Germany.

Me: Good point. I'll sack a goalie. You know what? I'll do it tomorrow. I'm overstimulated. There's too much to look at.

Emma: Are there any hot babes?

Me: Yeah, loads. In Chester. Does the house still reek of fish?

Emma: Course not. On an unrelated note, where is the key to the kitchen window?

Moses said, "Max."

I looked up. The physios had left but the three coaches hadn't moved. "Servus?"

"We've got the opposition analysis next. We'll do it today with the coaches and the analysts. We'll tweak it according to, you know, the head coach's ideas, and then tomorrow we'll go over it again with the players."

Oppo analysis at a megaclub! This was also incredibly exciting. In its own way, something I was anticipating as much as working with elite players. Anticipating but also dreading. What if it showed how out of my depth I was? "Why do I get the feeling that meeting doesn't take place in this postcode?"

Moses laughed and his vibe made me feel like everything would be all right. "It's not that far. Come, Max!"

The four of us walked down a corridor with Riley whispering to Vlado, while Moses talked up a storm next to me. I was so paranoid by that point I wondered if he was doing it to mask what the others were saying. "Mate," I said, stopping him. I frowned. "Did you just say you played for Manchester United?"

"Yes," said Moses. "In the academy. I didn't make it."

"Listen, my head is a jumble. There's too much to take in but I'd love to talk about that properly. Can you please tell me that again, maybe after the match in Italy?"

"I understand, Max. I am always happy to talk about the lost days of my misspent youth! Ahahaha! I regret to say I broke many a Mancunian heart, and one or two in the midlands."

"You regret that, do you?" I scoffed. "Listen, stop saying interesting things for a few days. That's an order."

He mimed zipping his lips before laughing again. It started in his torso, rumbled up through his ribs, and made its way out of his wobbly head. I couldn't help but laugh, too.

I slapped him on the back, delighted with my new friend.

Yeah, he was definitely the mole.

***

The oppo analysis was yet another supremely detailed session. Slide after slide of stats, heat maps, passing diagrams. Clips that showed Elversberg's build-up play, the tendencies of the players. It wasn't much different to what I'd already seen in my time as a manager. The difference was the scale and the depth. Chester could produce a paddling pool of insight; these guys did the North Sea.

There was an iPad army who could call up stats about anyone and anything.

I sat at the side, not interrupting, trying to stay afloat. I wasn't only trying to process the info but was wondering how useful any of it was. It was so complicated, so abstract.

It got better when they showed a twenty-minute clip of Elversberg's last match. Everyone in the room commented on certain moments and that was a lot of fun. I wondered why we didn't just start here but it clicked that it was good to throw some stats into the mix before watching to help us know what to look for.

There were two moments that stood out to me but when I turned my head, no-one thought much of them. I had to accept the possibility that I was the most amateur person in the room and that I was stupid for looking at such trivial shit.

My overall impression was that the session was good, but too lengthy. In Chester I had asked Spectrum not to overload us with stats but to only come with key insights. That could be as simple as what teams did on corners or where a player was likely to direct a penalty. That might have been too basic for Bastian, and being drenched in stats might have helped him think about the match.

My only real contribution was one question. "Which English team are Elversberg most comparable to in skill level?"

That generated a buzz of excitement from the data guys. They nerded out for a solid four minutes; if I had a beanbag or a hammock I would have had a lovely snooze.

There was a brilliantly bitter dispute (in German, which made it surreal) about whether the answer was Millwall or Watford. If the players were at each others' throats, why should the backroom staff be any different? "Guys," I said, softly, when I couldn't listen to them for another minute. "In Soccer Supremo terms that's the difference between CA 122 and CA 123. One point out of 200. What you're saying is that Elversberg are slightly better than Chester."

That provoked another brief argument - in German - following which one guy said, "Our models show Chester much lower than that!"

I experienced a surge of annoyance that I got control of. "Top tip, lads. Don't accidentally let slip to your new boss that your models are shit." There was a fairly horrified silence and I realised that they were as uncertain about their own skills as I was about mine. "Bayern Munich have about CA 170 in the latest version of the game. Elversberg are about 50 points below. We would compete for the Premier League title, they would get relegated with the lowest ever points total. Is that a fair summary, yes or no?"

One guy stuck his head above the parapet. "Yes."

"Lads, I'm a simple person. Can you analyse Bologna in these terms? What's their Soccer Supremo number and what English team do they compare to? I'm scared of their sudden formation changes. They're unbelievably organic. Players move all over the place. It would be next-level if you could tell me what triggers the changes. When their centre-backs push forward, there are insane counter-attacking opportunities. Can you find me clips of rival teams taking advantage? I want to show that kind of thing to the players. Even better, we'd show them and set up those scenarios in training. I know time's short so forget Elversberg and get stuck into this."

Riley said, "What do you mean by set up those scenarios?"

"Like, Bologna have a genius little midfielder but he's very left-footed. He's very press-resistant but that's a weakness because his teammates don't expect him to lose the ball and they take more positional risks. If we can set up that scenario, one where we swamp him and make him cough up the ball with his mates out of position, we're laughing."

"We're a little short on left-footed geniuses," said Riley.

"I can do it," I said, without thinking. "I can mimic any player." I pulled on my bottom lip. "Don't want to give the lads the chance to hack at my ankles. Do want to beat Bologna. Tricky." I got up; I'd been sitting around for way too long. I'd go to the hotel and get settled, use their gym, see how hungry I was, maybe smash Playdar and see if there were any undiscovered talents in the area. I pointed to the big screen. "See what you can find. Servus, guys."

"Wait," said Riley. "We have to talk about the training plan for the week."

"You're in charge of that," I said. With a crocodile smile, I added, "I trust you!"

***

Tuesday, November 17

The Mandarin Oriental, the five-star hotel Bayern were paying for, turned out to be just as nice as the website boasted. It was so nice I ate, went for a little stroll around the old town, then went back early and gave Briggy the night off so she could go clubbing or whatever.

On the morning's drive to Säbener Strasse she confessed that she had stayed in her hotel room. "I was a little more tired than I realised and it was amazing to channel surf and hear so much German. Home is where the TV is most terrible. What's your plan for today?"

"I'm going to get to know two of the key players by means of dropping them."

"I don't know what that means," she said, as she eased us through traffic. "But I'm guessing your approach will be completely conventional and the players will love it."

"Definitely."

"Should I be the person talking you out of this?" She glanced at me and saw I was smiling. "I suppose I'll read about it in Bild. At least they explain what you're thinking."

***

It wasn't possible to do things in the logical order Emma suggested, so as the lads gathered for the start of training, I asked Fabian Fromm to come with me.

He wasn't the tallest player but he was a serial winner, a top-level competitor who would probably finish his career with more than ten league titles to his name. He had short blonde hair and part of his mystique was that he rarely smiled and didn't even like talking. He did his talking on the pitch.

I took him into the medical block - I might have appeared more alpha if Briggy hadn't been leading the way - and we sat in a treatment room. I did one clever thing - I suggested he take the treatment table, while I sat on the sort of chair non-injured people used and Briggy blended into the far corner.

"Servus," I said, even though I'd already said it outside.

"I am missing training, Max."

One thing about Bayern that I should have liked but didn't - they used the informal 'du' instead of the formal 'sie'. That culture extended to the use of first names and diminutives. Bastian was Basti, I was Max, and the captain of Germany was Fabi. "That's right, Fabi. You are missing training. For how long, is the question. Let's talk about your ankle."

"My ankle is perfect."

"Yeah? I noticed you wincing a few times when you kicked through the ball." His English was top but with gaps in his vocabulary. "Wincing. Like... big stab of pain."

"There is no pain. I say there is no pain, the medical team are satisfied."

That electrified me. "Oh, so they asked about it?"

He realised he had made a mistake. "The medical team are satisfied with my output."

I leaned back and looked up at the ceiling.

The curse rated Fabian's recent form as 6-7-6-8-6. Those were not the match ratings of one of the best midfielders in the world.

His Condition was rated at 91%. It had been 90% yesterday. The healthy players in the squad were all on 100%.

Oh, and the Injuries tab said he had a sprain that would heal in 1-2 weeks. Of course, if he kept playing and training at the highest intensity, it would never heal, and there was the risk that whatever was wrong would go from being something minor to something major.

"All right, you want to do it like that, I can do it like that. Here's what I see. It's incredibly fucking obvious that your ankle isn't right and for some reason the medical department isn't interested in looking too closely into it. Maybe you think they're doing you a favour but from my point of view they're sabotaging your long-term health.

"You play every minute of every Bayern game and you have done for years. You play every minute for Germany, including the Euros and the World Cup. You used to have one summer off every two years, but thanks to FIFA, that's gone. Now you have to play every minute of every game in the vitally important Club World Cup, so you don't even get summers off.

"Here's what's going to happen. You're going to tear your ACL and it's going to be a bad one. A really bad one. You're going to be out for a year. You're 32 so the risk is that you'll never make it back to these levels. You can do what you want, Basti can do what he wants, but this isn't how I live my life.

"You're not playing on Friday and you're not getting on a plane to Italy. You can take that as the first week in your rehab and, in a perfect world, I'd be able to use you in a couple of weeks. This is the one time in my life I'll be able to say I had the captain of Germany in my team but no-one, and I mean no-one, will ever be able to say I broke a player just to add a line to my CV."

He had barely twitched the entire time I spoke. "What means CV?"

"Do you call it a Resume?"

Briggy said, "Lebenslauf."

He understood that but I restated it anyway. "I'm not here to add lines to my Wikipedia page." I changed to a newsreader-style voice. "In November, 2026, Max Best ignored a blatant injury to star player Fabian Fromm, whose cruciate ligament ruptured soon after and never quite healed. Fromm lived the rest of his life in agonising pain, blaming Max Best and cursing his name. A statue of Best was erected in Fromm's hometown for locals to spit on."

Fabian could scarcely believe what he was hearing. Spitting on a statue? He stuck to what he knew. "I play every match. When you write the team sheet, my name is on it."

I stood up. "This might be hard for you to believe is real but I'm the manager of Bayern Munich. You're one of my players. You're injured. It's my job to look after you and I don't give a shit if you want me to or not. You've got two choices now. You can go to one of the physios and tell them exactly where it hurts and what game it happened in, or you can go home and call Bild and tell them what a shit I am."

Fabi let out a long stream of German.

Briggy translated. "He says if anyone talks to Bild, it will be you because he fucking hates them."

I nodded. "Sure. There are three people in this world who know about this. Let's count the minutes until it 'leaks'." I put air quotes around the word. "Servus, mate."

I left the room and went down to training, mostly to make sure the guys I had kicked out didn't try to sneak back in. I had Briggy on Bild-watch. Nothing came up by the time the goalies finished their session. When it did, I asked Bayern's number one to come and walk with me.

***

"Servus, dude."

"Servus, Max."

Torben Ulrich was the best goalie I'd ever spoken to, I was pretty sure. He was CA 170, agile, very good with his feet. Most teams in the world would be ecstatic to have him - Chester, for example - but he was following in the footsteps of an all-time legend. He had been understudy to a player who had literally redefined how the position was played. Torben was the goalie equivalent of Peter Bauer - living in shadows and no matter how good you were, you always seemed less than.

"Listen, mate," I said, as we strolled around the edge of one of the pitches. "I've been pissing everyone off since I got here."

"And now you're going to piss me off," he said, with a grim expression.

I shrugged. "Depends on your perspective, doesn't it? Look, I was given this job because I bring something to the table, right? But I'm like Pedro Porto. I only know one way to do things - my way. I can't pretend to be Bastian. He was happy to let you play in every single game ever. But I've seen you yesterday and today and I've got to say, the gap between you and Kaspar really worries me." Torben Ulrich was 170/170. Kaspar Benn, his backup, was 140/165.

"The gap?"

"Yeah. I know you don't give a crap about what I do at my tiny little club in England but I know what works and what works is to give your backup goalie some game time so that he can close the gap so that if there's an emergency the manager isn't absolutely fucked. If you break your finger sometime soon I'm deep in the shit, aren't I? I want to give Kaspar a match so that he can get his levels up. He won't get anywhere near yours - you're fucking mint - but even one match could give him a good boost.

"So let's look at the schedule. Champions League? Forget it. I need you in both of those. The Pokal? I don't understand German culture enough to decide which competitions to bin off. We're going to win that match. Bremen, Stuttgart, Mainz? Nah, I need you for those. So that leaves the two bottom teams, which are the two first league games. Are you with me?"

"Yes."

"The way it works when you're a backup, as I think you can probably remember, is you get a game and you have the potential to improve for a few weeks. What that means is that time is money. What that means is that my preference is for Kaspar to get minutes this Friday. He'll get a boost, he'll train better, and if you're injured or suspended for the later games I won't be quite as fucked."

I stopped and turned towards him. He continued looking ahead for a minute. "I worked very, very hard to be the number one."

"You're number one, that's clear." I smirked while raising an eyebrow. "It's not your job to worry about who's number two. It's mine."

He continued to stare. "You drop me for the first match, the media will destroy me."

"They'll destroy me. Look, every time Kasper hits a dodgy kick or does something stupid, the camera will cut to you on the bench. It'll be like, hey, why didn't this English twat pick one of the world's best goalies? Jesus Christ, these people are so tedious. Fuck me I'm frustrated and it hasn't even happened yet!"

I sighed.

"Look, mate, with the greatest possible respect this isn't Torben Ulrich FC. I have to act in the best interests of the football club. You don't have to like it but I would ask you to believe it's what I think is best." I let those words bounce around his head for a while. "On a personal note, I'm really excited to have you in my team because with you behind a solid defence I will be able to let the forwards run wild. Heh. If I lose on Friday I'll absolutely one hundred percent get fired. It's a risk and maybe I'll never get the chance to work with you but all I've got in this world are my principles."

That didn't sound right.

"All I've got in this world are my principles, two Goal of the Season trophies, and a haircut that has its own social media accounts. But let's focus on the principles for now. I need to know my backup goalie can do a job, do you know what I mean? Take five seconds to see the situation from my point of view."

He took a lot longer than five seconds, which is rude if you think about it, but then he turned and offered me a handshake. "You are the trainer. You must decide. I am happy you told me."

Absolutely amazing. My first positive interaction with an elite player. "Top. Listen, it's up to you but there isn't a single person in the world who knows about this. There seems to be a culture of leaking everything to the press but it's not going to help Basti relax, is it? If you could keep it to yourself, that would be mint."

He tilted his head. "No-one knows about this? Not even your girlfriend?"

"No. She doesn't understand how the inside info she posts on Instagram really does help the other team. When I complain she smiles and says, but Max, you're the best! You'll win anyway! I mean, she's right, but..."

Torben laughed. "So you don't tell her the plans? Don't tell her the eleven?"

I looked down at the pristine grass before looking back the way we had come. "I just tell her this one's easy, this one's medium, this one's hard."

It was Torben's turn to look sheepish. "The chat shared some photos of you and her. She's a real-life Goldilocks."

I put on a voice like a large bear. "Who's been standing in MY goal?"

He shook his head as he looked to the sky. "I will play on Tuesday?"

"I fucking hope so, mate, because Bologna might be the most interesting team in Europe right now. Be ready to come off the bench on Friday night but you go ahead and start studying Bologna's recent matches. You won't believe what you see."

***

I had a wander around the pitches, relieved beyond measure that one interaction with a player hadn't immediately turned sour. I refreshed the sports page on Bild every five minutes, wondering which of my latest brainwaves would make the news next, but there was no reporting about Fabian Fromm or Torben Ulrich.

I had come up with what I thought was a pretty decent concept for Friday night's match. Bear in mind that a top five team would expect to beat Millwall or Watford ninety-plus times out of a hundred, so what I was really doing was thinking ahead to the biggest boss battle of my career so far, Tuesday's encounter with Bologna.

To counter Evaristo's tactical flexibility, I needed tactical flexibility. Yes, I could change formations at the speed of thought, but that was pretty brute force. I could mix in some finesse by buying a couple of perks.

The starting point would be to name a flexible team.

There were 25 names in Bayern's squad, according to the curse. Davies was injured, and I had ruled out Ulrich for the first match. Fromm was out until he admitted he was injured, the prick. The second-choice right back was out.

If we started with my favourite formation, the old faithful, never-let-you-down 4-1-4-1, with Kaspar in goal, the Portuguese guy called Rui Santos at left back, and Jost Benn at right midfield, we would be able to switch to 3-4-3 without making any subs. Rui Santos could move to left midfield and Jost would give me defensive solidity on the right. With the same lineup, I would be able to switch to 4-4-2, and even do a half-decent 4-2-4.

I had been excited to field a team with a CA of 172. Taking out some of the stars and replacing them with weaker players who could fill multiple roles, plus changing to the backup goalie would 'only' bring our average CA down to 166. It was still exciting! And surely it had to be enough to get a win against the last-placed team in the Bundesliga?

Course it would, and when we had a comfortable lead, I would try the most insane idea that had popped into my head in three years. Something I would describe to precisely no-one, because they would tell Dieter, Paul, and Karl what I was planning and I would be sacked instantly.

In my imagination, I could hear Paul Braun's voice clear as a bell. "You want to do WHAT? This isn't working, Max. Servus, mate. Servus."

I stayed out of trouble for the rest of the afternoon, used the club's gym, and made Briggy take me to some five-a-side pitches in the evening. I only got 1 XP per minute but it was the best I could do. I suffered through the godawful matches, just like in the old days, until I had added 100 XP.

Briggy wasn't happy to stand around bored to death but as I told her, "This isn't Briggy FC."

XP balance: 9,255

***

Wednesday, November 18

I watched training again, not commenting, not interfering.

I was starting to have a feel for the players beyond their raw numbers. Their profiles had been in my head for three days now. The only details I didn't understand were the personal things. How much did it matter that player X didn't like player Y? I wouldn't tolerate it at Chester but this wasn't Chester. Would their antipathy actually show up on the pitch? The guy who wanted to move to Real Madrid - would it make him play better to attract a bid, or worse because his head was turned?

The highlights for me were the training matches. The ball moved crazily fast and so did the players. If someone took a bad touch, a defender would appear instantly. There was no room for error but there was so much attacking quality that goals were scored on a regular basis. Watching the sessions brought up all the feelings: this was exciting, this was intimidating, these were my new toys.

"Oh!" I gasped, as Adam Adebayo glided through two defenders and chipped a perfect cross that the hundred-million-Euro striker headed into the goal.

"That's five today," said Briggy.

"Five what?"

"Five gasps. I'm texting Peter."

In the outside world there was a media frenzy going on. The German press were discovering my back story and were going to town with it. Half a dozen former Bayern players were being quoted in articles and appearing on YouTube channels saying I was the real deal, a rising star, while half a dozen others were taking the opposite view. One said something provocative that another responded to and so the wheel of content turned.

I noted with interest that the Fabian Fromm and Torben Ulrich stories still hadn't leaked, though Briggy told me that Ulrich had posted a gym session on Instagram along with about twenty hashtags.

Briggy was confused that I wasn't doing anything. "You watch training and then you spend the day avoiding Diane Berger."

"I'm not avoiding Diane Berger," I pouted. "I am simply being where she is not."

"But what's your job? What is your actual job?"

"I pick the team," I laughed. "It's not as easy as it looks. What I'm doing now is also very difficult. I'm projecting the illusion of hyper-competence through means of stillness. The players are trying to impress me, but like a hot girl in a bar I am studiously ignoring them. Thus they dance harder, improve their pickup lines, master close-up magic. You could say that I am practising masterly inactivity."

She scratched her scalp with the fingers of both hands. "Seriously, though, if you don't say or do anything why do we need to be here? It's going to rain tomorrow. I don't want to stand out here in the rain. I don't like rain, Max."

"Soz but I can't do anything else. I have virtually zero capital with this group, right? I'm not the full-time manager so until we win a match I'm just some dude. If we win one, I get, what would you call it? Interference Points. No, that sounds awful. Cut that. Change Points. If I earn Change Points I can spend them changing the drills, mixing up the players, solving some of their problems. But why would I? I don't care about any of this shit, do I? There's a guy who wants to move to Spain, six guys who want to go to the Premier League and get stupid wages. I could not give a flying fuck. So I'll just stand here until Friday."

She groaned. "Fine. Tell me something interesting about the players, then. What have you learned?"

"Erm," I said. There were so many angles. So many problems. "That little guy? He's Rui Santos. He grew up in France but he got called up to the Portuguese national team and when he got there they realised he didn't speak a word of Portuguese. Quite funny. He's good," I said, dubiously.

Santos was 144/148. Not really Bayern quality but I didn't want to say things like that out loud too often.

"He can play left back or left midfield, which is handy. He hasn't played for Portugal for a while and he's quite down about it." His Morale was 'okay'. "It's fascinating at this end of the scale. My Chester boys are almost all upwardly mobile, you know? Every day is better than yesterday. Their best years are ahead. Here we've got a load of dudes on the wrong side of 30 who are clinging on to what they've got. The captaincy, their place in the national team, their place in the first eleven. There's a lot of unhappiness about money. I don't think it's the money exactly, but the status. They're very driven by status."

"When have you heard that? You've barely spoken to anyone."

"I hide in the bathrooms."

She tutted because it was patently untrue. "There are lots of young players."

"Yes, young," I agreed. "Let's split everyone into three groups. 29 or over. Plenty of those. 22 or younger. Um... there are five of those in the first team squad right now. What about the ones in the middle? Guys approaching their prime? I think it's a sign of a healthy squad if you have a good chunk of your guys in this age group. Maybe I'm wrong about that but when I'm in the Prem I hope I've got more than five."

"Is that all they have?"

"Yeah, the two Asian defenders, Adam Adebayo and his clone, and the striker. The total cost of that group was like two hundred million pounds in transfer fees. They have to buy those players, right? What it means is the young players they bring through the youth system or sign from other clubs aren't staying here until they're 24. Something is broken in their pipeline. There are inefficiencies here, big ones, which give me hope I could compete with them."

Briggy waved at the long building that housed facilities Chester could only dream of. "You think you can compete with this? From your cabins?"

"Every day I come to Säbener Strasse I think that a little more strongly. Know what I mean? I've seen behind the curtain and it's just some dudes in tracksuits. We have dudes in Chester." I watched the latest drill for a while. It was a race, a sort of relay. The first leg started with a guy behind a line who had to dribble and let the ball run ahead of him while he took a traffic cone from one pole and moved it onto another. Then he had to pass the ball through an oversized croquet hoop to the next player. That guy had to flick the ball up and boop it over a small goal, where the final player in the relay headed it into the net.

It was a fun drill but I didn't much like it. To me, it was the kind of drill coaches did when they wanted to be popular. It didn't improve anything, didn't mean anything. Absolutely fine as a change from the norm or to let the lads build up some competitive energy and have some laughs, but there were far too many such drills happening at Säbener Strasse.

I opened my mouth to tell Briggy the coaches and coaching were better at Chester, but thought better of it. That couldn't be right, could it? What was I missing? If I survived Friday night we would be heading to Italy almost straight away. When I got back, I would have a serious look around this place. I'd look under every stone, pop into every office and find out what those people did.

"I think I'm done for the day. Find me some football to watch at lunchtime and you can have the evening off."

XP balance: 9,311

***

Thursday, November 19

Diane Berger: Max, I really need to know the team for tomorrow night.

Me: You'll be the first to know.

***

Paul Braun: Please inform Frau Berger of the team. She must communicate with the stakeholders.

Me: Just holding out for some injury news.

Paul Braun: There are no injury items to consider.

Me: I've got to do fifty interviews before the match tomorrow, right? I'll tell them the team directly. Save Diane the trouble.

Paul Braun: It is no trouble. It is her job.

Me: Okay, I'll get right on it.

***

Friday, November 20

I fell asleep amazingly well, but woke up suddenly at 5 a.m. feeling absolutely wretched. I didn't feel like myself. I had visions of mad, random slides from the opposition analysis. Words from the player profiles floated around, everywhere I looked.

What had I achieved in my week so far? I had pissed off three players, annoyed the backroom staff at a megaclub, and utterly failed to add enough experience points to buy both perks I felt I needed.

My only actual achievement was that no-one knew the team. It hadn't leaked because I hadn't told anyone. That hadn't stopped the usual suspects from publishing what was sure to be my line-up, but if nothing else at least I would be able to point out that they had lied through their teeth.

I cheered up over an amazing breakfast in super premium surroundings. Cheered all the way up!

I would have liked to stay in the hotel until a couple of hours before kick-off but this was Bayern Munich. In the morning, I was due to talk to the TV company and the world's press. The 'activation' training would follow, where I would need to fend off questions from all sides about which eleven I was going to pick. Then we’d head off to the stadium where I would give pre-match interviews, and at the last possible second I would give the referee the team sheet.

One hour after that, all the waiting would pay off. This was going to be a hell of a day!

***

It was a nightmare.

The presser in the morning was absolutely packed - the world's media seemed to think what was happening was a lot more interesting than it was. At first I batted away the questions but then I remembered my heist and I tried to get a little more interesting. My beef with Gunti was already generating clicks and interest and that would only help my cause. I pivoted to being charming to everyone else and cocky towards him.

I filmed a ten-minute interview with the broadcaster that was pretty pointless. What could we possibly talk about? When they asked stupid questions I got a dreamy look on my face and talked about great Bayern players of the past.

The time might have passed anyway, but not as slowly.

The trouble really started at the morning's light training session. The three coaches and the senior players were furious that I was keeping the line up from them. Fabian Fromm was hanging around and he led a delegation to the triumvirate to try to get me to reveal what I was planning. That would have shown that Fromm wasn't in the squad and he would have been able to get political about it. Would have been able to force a 'him or me' confrontation that I couldn't have won.

When Paul Braun came out onto the pitch he said 'servus', reminding me that hello and goodbye were awfully close together. I realised I wasn't going to be able to avoid the discussion until the last minute. He asked to speak to me privately; we went up into his office. He sat; I stood by the window. The pitches below were emptying. How much simpler the sport would be without players!

"Mate," I said, taking the initiative. "There's a leak. Multiple moles. I'm not saying what my team is because I don't trust the players or the coaches. Bild will get the team at the same time as everyone else and that's how it will be as long as I'm here. I have spoken to a few players already to let them know where they stand."

Paul wasn't impressed. "All the players need to know so they can prepare themselves."

"Don't agree. They'll prepare themselves and then they'll know. Have they got somewhere better to be?"

"This isn't Chester, Max. We have routines and rhythms. Every percentage of advantage we can get is important."

"Agreed," I said. "Which is why I'm not telling the oppo my team five days in advance. Any slight inconvenience to your stakeholders, whoever they are, pales in comparison to the oppo manager knowing the team, the subs, and the entire tactical plan." I took a seat opposite him. "I've done my research and these leaks started in the 90s and became part of the culture. Basti might decide it's better to let the leakers run riot but I don't think it is better. I'll do it my way. Which reminds me. Neither Torben or Fabian are leaky. I'm not working to find the leak. There was one at Grimsby and I found who it was but it didn't help me. The solution is complete radio silence."

"When are you going to tell the players the plan?"

"Twenty minutes before kick off. Alone in the coach's room, without the coaches."

Paul scrunched his face up, which I thought was him being absolutely furious. The noise he emitted was something like a laugh, though. I worried about how much stress the guy was under. Appointing me had been good for Basti's heart but terrible for Paul's ulcers. He looked up and licked his lips. He went to the window and looked out for a minute before returning. "I'm sorry, Max, but I have to insist you tell me the plan. And the line-up, please."

I had no choice. Hello was about to morph into goodbye. I told him the plan and how it connected with Tuesday. "It's not the most exciting eleven but I've been playing with dinky cars and you've given me a Lamborghini. I want to go slow at first. Drive it around the car park before letting loose on the Autobahn."

When I'd finished, his vibe was different in some way I couldn't read. "You think Fabian is carrying an ankle injury?"

"I know he is."

Paul was quiet. "Follow me."

We trudged outside and I wondered what was the point where I'd crossed the line. Insisting on rotating goalies at a club where that didn't happen? Dropping the captain? Refusing to tell anyone the tactics? Maybe the plan had always been to let me blow myself up and sack me before the first match. Maybe that had been Paul's game all along.

The three coaches, Fabian Fromm, and a gaggle of other senior players were waiting for us. When Paul started talking, they had the vibe of a team with a chance to win a penalty shoot-out, arms locked, waiting to run around and celebrate. Paul put his arm around my shoulders. "We didn't hire Max for his personality. We didn't hire Max for his sense of normalcy. We hired him to pick teams and win matches. He has done one of those. Get out of his way while he does the other. Servus, gentlemen."

The rebel team's penalty taker missed. My team had won the shootout! As I watched Paul go back inside the training centre, I tried not to gloat. So many amazing one-liners popped into my head! How about, 'Boys, you got slapped pink. Bet I don't read about that in Bild.' Or I could have gone 'Don't worry, guys. I don't think anything less of you.' You know, with the implication being my opinion of them was already rock bottom. Or I could have clicked my tongue and said, 'If you come at the king you best not miss. You guys are history.'

Instead I said, "See you at the stadium, dudes. Servus means goodbye, yeah? Servus."

...

Thanks for your support!

I might have to edit some of this over the weekend (no, I won't be editing Max's German, which I consider perfect) but I think the next chapter should be out on Monday.