6.6 - How Ruud! [T1] (Patreon)

6.

Thursday, July 13

UEFA Conference League First Qualifying Round, Second Leg: Go Ahead Eagles versus BK Häcken

I trained in the morning, hopped on a flight to Amsterdam, and was picked up by Briggy. She drove me to Deventer, a Dutch town about the same size as Chester. The journey was tranquil except for my increasing frustration that I hadn't yet seen a windmill, but after what we might call some lively back-and-forth, the matter was resolved amicably. I saw a windmill.

And then there was one just near the stadium, so we needn't have made the detour. I dipped into the Go Ahead Eagles club shop, buying a black bucket hat with a white eagle crest. Master of disguise, me. We were escorted into the VIB seats (Very Intense Botox), and I was warmly welcomed by the home team's financial director. A very friendly man. Was he so friendly with visitors who didn't have 27 million quid burning a hole in their pocket? There's no way to know!

The away team were Swedish, so naturally their employees spoke great English. It was weird how they saw through my disguise, but they left me alone after I settled into my seat. The only brief distraction was when a gorgeous woman turned up. She was tall with dark hair and would have caught the eye regardless, but she was wearing a scuba outfit. Not with all the straps and canisters and everything, just the wetsuit. It was slightly textured, which made her look like Mystique from the X-Men movies. Which, as you know, is a good thing.

No-one else gave her a second glance, so I assumed this was just a thing that happened in this part of the world.

Briggy elected to spend the first half inside the suite. Imagine wanting to talk to rich Swedes instead of me!

The stadium was pretty cool. It had a capacity of about 8,000 and was said to be one of the only 'English-style' stadiums in the Netherlands. The stand opposite me had pretty much the same dimensions as the Main Stand at the Deva, though the other three were larger. The fans often chanted in English, with the players emerging to 'Putting On a Show'.

The UEFA Conference League was the 'bronze medal' European tournament and gave a base rate of 5 XP per minute. It took me six minutes to hit two thousand XP, and I immediately used it to add West Didsbury to my list of squads.

Next stop, Tempsford, Chester's youth teams, and clearing out the perk shop. The youth teams weren't urgent, since I could get most of the data by being around Bumpers Bank when they were training, but being able to treat an injury early or spot a Morale crisis in its infancy would help to improve some young people's lives. That said, I needed to buy everything in the perk shop this season, so I would have to be judicious with my spending.

Spending.

The word brought me back to the main event, the reason for the trip: Ruud. Or as the Go Ahead Eagles fans called him, Ruuuuuuuuuud!

Seeing his profile made me wonder if Don Pino was the best scout in the world or if he had a curse of his own. How was he spotting these future superstars?

Ruud Berkenbosch

Age 21. Dutch.

Acceleration 19, Off the Ball 16, Finishing 14, Decisions 14, Technique 17. Almost all his non-goalkeeping Attributes were in double digits.

He was CA 133.

This guy was a brilliant footballer and he seemed to be getting better right before my eyes. He had weaknesses. For example, his heading wasn't amazing, and that would need to improve if he was going to thrive in England. For my particular tastes, he was slightly too good at the defensive side of the game. If I could 'edit' his profile I would take away some of his Marking, Positioning, and Tackling points, because in a fully-functioning Max Best superteam, he wouldn't need them.

I tugged at my ear. My teams would need to evolve, wouldn't they? It could be that I would need my forward players to chip in on the defensive side. Push my team high, use the forwards the way I currently used Youngster. Chase the ball, force the oppo into mistakes, turn it over, score.

I was always going to be a traditionalist, though. I would always want my strikers to focus on scoring goals and wouldn't pay extra for a guy who could tackle.

27 million pounds. It was a crazy amount for a guy with CA lower than Dazza. Middlesbrough had bought the Australian for 4.7 million, so why was Ruud going for so much more?

Because he had PA 188 and, somehow, more and more people knew it. 

If I didn't have the numbers to go off, he might have seemed unremarkable. Go Ahead Eagles were playing in red and yellow, like Watford. The Swedes normally played in yellow so today they were in their white away kit. The away team had an average CA of 115. Their goalie was their best player, and they had a couple of teenagers in the lineup. One would have a good career, the other wouldn't. Their subs bench was quite weak.

The Eagles were very slightly better all round, and then they had Ruud.

He spent most of his time as high up the pitch as he could be without being offside. From that position he didn't move much, which I found fascinating. He didn't touch the ball for the first ten minutes, which was followed by ten minutes in which the ball hit his head once and bounced off him twice.

I could feel the eyes of the Go Ahead Eagles directors on me as I sat glumly watching the ball cannon around midfield before being swept around by risk-averse defenders. This was the country of total football, sport as an art form, every pass a brush stroke on a lush green canvas. It was weird and cool that the Go Ahead Eagles enjoyed cosplaying as an English team but they were taking it far too literally.

Anyway, I wasn't here to enjoy myself; I was here to make a decision.

***

Briggy stayed inside for the second half - she told me she was happy 'mingling', though it seemed to me she was 'mingling' with just one of the food servers - and I was the first one to return to the VIP seats. Having traveled so far, there was no point throwing away the XP, and it wasn't as though the match was completely boring. The Swedes had a PA 140 defensive midfielder, for example. He was on the old side, but his wages weren't very high. If I waited for his contract to expire, he would be a cost-efficient option for a Championship club. 

The more talented of the two teenagers was a PA 136 centre back, and there was a left-footed PA 130 guy who was unusual in that he could play left midfield, left-wing, or striker. Not 'forward, central,' but S for striker. I thought it was interesting that the guy could switch mentality so completely.

Play Wibbers wide left then move him into a striker slot and he would still play like Wibbers.

Start this guy left and he would play like Aff, but move him into the striker slot and he would play like Colin Beckton.

Good? Bad? A meaningless distinction?

All I knew was that this player was unusual, and it was my job to understand everything that happened on a football pitch.

Meanwhile, the Eagles had a 21-year-old left winger with PA 141. That was more than good enough to do well in the English Championship, and the kid didn't have an agent. When Briggy was done chasing one unattached local...

Someone slipped into Briggy's seat. Someone in a skintight wetsuit. She eyed me. "Do you like what you see?"

"Is that a trick question?"

She smiled. "You're Max Best. Here to scout Ruud."

"I'm guessing you're Susan, Ruud's partner. There isn't much on the internet about you. You're a painter, it said."

"Do you believe everything the internet tells you?"

"Of course," I said. "That's how I learned I was in the Illuminati."

Susan smiled. "How else to explain your success?"

I held up a finger in triumph. "Exactly."

"You're not impressed by the standard of the football."

I turned to her and gave her a wry smile. "You think I'm some kind of Premier League snob? That's interesting."

"You can't tell me you have enjoyed this. You keep grimacing and sighing."

"Yeah, this is an objectively shit game, but it's nothing to do with the level. Okay, there is less physicality here, less technique, but if you have two equally-matched teams it's all about the mindset. It's terribly cautious, safety-first stuff. Ruud has barely got a kick."

"Poor Ruud," she said, staring at him. "He heard you were coming and he's desperate to impress. After such a poor half, he will be kicking himself."

"He wants to impress me?"

"Why is that a surprise? You assist three goals in the playoff final, you score four in one half in the Champions League, you make five promotions. Here, we call you a 'comet manager'."

"Oh, I like that. But your boy can relax. I already put in a bid."

Susan turned and searched my expression in a way I found challenging. "After such a half?"

I shrugged. "I would like to pretend to need more time to think about it, but I don't. Stuttgart have placed a bid, now I have, and the player can choose. If I waited, came to more matches, just to make everyone think I was really doing my homework, the Stuttgart deal could be done in minutes and I would lose the chance."

"You don't seem very excited about the prospect of spending a small fortune on a big player."

"Three reasons. The first is that Go Ahead Eagles are insisting that Ruud stays here for this season, so we could buy him but he would only join Chester next year. I don't mind - it could actually be good for him. And I'd like to think I'm very good at delayed gratification but obviously it's less exciting to buy a house that is under construction than one that is ready to move into. The second thing," I said, jabbing my thumb behind me, "is that some prick in there tried to jack up the price, trying to hit me with a Premier League tax. I said, oh? Deal's off, then, thanks for your hospitality and I was halfway out the door when the finance director stepped in and sorted it out.

"I was too surprised to get properly angry but it left a sour taste in the mouth, do you know what I mean? Why would I pay more for the same product? Do I have to do transfers via a VPN to get the same price as other clubs? These directors of football are fucking moronic if they think they can pull the wool over my eyes. And fuck me, why am I being quoted higher prices? Stuttgart have more money than I do! What the fuck."

I seethed for a minute while I reviewed what had happened so far. There was something very off about it all, something very strange. Paul Braun had told me that Stuttgart's bid was 27 million pounds, but I didn't have to take his word for it - the curse had the same number right there in Ruud's profile. For all his slyness and politicking, Paul had always played straight with me.

The curse also told me that there was a string of big clubs interested in signing Ruud. "The third thing is that I don't think I'll actually get the player. He has plenty of options, and good ones, too. I reckon there will be six or seven similar offers for him to choose from. Speaking generally, I enquire about four or five players for every one who decides to come. I used to get emotionally attached to the idea of specific new guys joining, but that has been beaten out of me. These days I wait until the deal is done and then I get excited. Until then, I'm basically a husk."

"Imagine you had him. Imagine he was in Chester wearing..."

"Blue and white."

"Wearing blue and white. What would excite you about him?"

"He's just mint. I wish that was some kind of unique insight but it is becoming more and more clear, isn't it? We have a phrase, beggars can't be choosers. If I can get a top player, I'll get him and work out how to use him later. But it's true that my financial situation is clearing up and I can start to think ahead. I'm in a lull state. I had to sort of peak in the last match, but the next two weeks will be relatively simple on the pitch. I have done most of my transfers, most of my spending. It's time to think."

"Tell me more."

"I have questions for you, too. Why are you wearing a wetsuit?"

"Everything else was in the wash."

She wasn't joking, so I tried not to laugh too hard. "You're fantastic."

"Another unoriginal thought."

This time I did laugh. "You're a painter so maybe you can understand the way I think about this. There's a dream of football, a philosophy. Every manager can have that dream, can paint a mental picture of what it should look like. Then you run into the constraints. The canvas is a certain size, only two-dimensional, the paints can only form into certain shapes. Maybe you can't put certain colours next to each other or on top or whatever. I can say that I want to play 3-3-4 and in theory that would win every match but in reality when you consider the physical, technical, and tactical abilities of the players, it doesn't work. Not even close.

"So I look at my squad and I think, okay, 3-4-3. It's a compromise between the vision and the reality. But then when I lose a few games I go to 4-3-3. The vision is forgotten and I'm in pure survival mode. 4-4-2, grind it out, hit the channels, score a set piece. This time in the summer, right now, this is the only time I have to come up with a vision, a new way of playing. I know it will be beaten out of me and I know I'll end up like Ian Evans, but if I can get the right players, I could do something like in my imagination." I flopped my hands out. "That's why I will try to buy Ruud. With premium materials I can transcend the mundane. It might not happen, but if you don't buy a ticket, you can't win the lottery."

On the pitch, there was a scrappy phase, with the ball pinging around midfield. There was the chance for a quick break, but one of the white-shirted Swedes dribbled the ball straight out of play. Susan said, "If football is a painting, this one is Jackson Pollock. What would yours be?"

"Oof," I said. "This is where I get uncomfortable. My mate Henri would have a snappy answer to that. I'm honestly quite a barbarian. I barely know anything about anything. I know enough to know that I have no taste."

"Do you have a favourite painter?"

"Um, sort of. The first one that gripped me was Vermeer. Probably so cliched to you. Right now I like Caravaggio." I left a pause and she didn't jump in like most Brits would have done. There was a tiny thrill to that. "I watched a 25-minute presentation about him. Er, on YouTube. This woman from the British Museum talked about three paintings and used them to sort of tell his life story. It was captivating and the paintings are incredible.

"The guy's a super genius but he's always getting into scraps. He's literally walking around town with a gun daring anyone to tell him to take it home, getting drunk, yelling 'I'm mates with the Pope!' He sounds like a total knob and then he's creating these paintings that just pop off the paper and into your imagination. It's infuriating but is that intensity part of why he's such a good artist? They say it about certain footballers. They keep getting sent off because they can't stop scrapping and the commentators say, but if you took that out of his game, would he be the same player?"

"The Rijksmuseum has several Vermeers and a Carravagio. I think you would like the sculptures of Bernini, too."

"You think? That's in Amsterdam, right? I could come early next time and have a look around. Maybe I'll bring Dan so he can explain everything to me."

"You would come to Deventer again? I thought you had seen enough."

I shrugged. "It's like I said, it's good for me to pretend to be normal. People will see that I scouted Ruud three times and think wow, what a hard-working and diligent young man is this Max Best! They won't go, hey, why did he go once, make a bid, then go two more times? It wouldn't even occur to them. Erm..." I paused while the home team went through one of their pre-coached moves. Ruud was static, static, then he was in a pocket of space, sprinting towards goal. The pass never came. "Yeah," I said, annoyed. "That's why I don't really agree with you that he had a bad first half. He was doing his thing but he's operating on a higher level than his teammates. They can't see the runs he's making, or they don't have the confidence in their own ability to make those passes."

"Is it hard?"

"Yeah, but not that hard. If he was in one of my teams we would try it five times as often as is happening now. You don't want to overdo it because you can get one-dimensional, the oppo can react, and your players get lazy. I had a huge striker once, we called him Goliath, and my guys kept chucking high balls to him. I was like nah, do that again you're in the bin. Play normal and use him when it's the right time. That's the thing here with Ruud - he's becoming elite right before my eyes. Oh, shit, look!"

"What?"

Ruud's CA had just increased. "Fuck me, this guy has the X-factor. I had a guy for half a season when our training ground was just mud. While everyone else was struggling, he improved on a straight line. From what people are saying, Ruud has clicked into this state just recently."

I leaned forward, drinking it all in, then tried to calm myself. He wasn't going to come to Chester.

I pointed. "What he likes to do is what we call 'playing on the shoulder of the last defender'. He has a natural sense of space and how to manipulate it but he interprets that space in a tiny, tiny part of the pitch. I've got a guy called Pascal who will find space and rush into it, which causes a decision crisis for the oppo. You've got to react or he can hurt you, but if you react he'll move into more space and more space and your carefully-constructed structure wobbles. Ruud's got a completely different idea. He's in a one-to-one duel with that centre back, the guy who is bullying him and shoving him around. Ruud is, like, toying with him, I think. The more aggressive the guy gets, the more often Ruud slips away."

Susan's gaze rolled across the pitch. "He works hard on these duels. He will watch the video of himself again and again. He spends hours with the coaches, asking questions. He is very dedicated to his craft."

"It shows. But he should work on his combinations more. It's not a solo game."

"You said the midfielders don't pass to him."

"Right. If he were my player he would do sessions with them to get the timing of the pass down. He might think that when he's with better teammates he'll get more opportunities, but the oppo's defenders will be better, too. The offside trap, the pressing, the positioning. He needs to collaborate more in training if he's going to get more goals." I scanned the pitch quickly before resting my eyes on Ruud. "One thing I love about him is that he's patient. He has barely been involved in the action but he sticks to his task."

"What else would he do?"

"Take my guy Wibbers. If he's playing striker and he doesn't touch the ball for five minutes, he'll go crazy. He'll run around until he gets a touch. He'll go and take a goal kick if he has to! Ruud isn't like that. He plays the same."

"Is that good?"

"For his role, yeah. That's what I would want. He actually has the skill to come into midfield and help out, but I haven't seen him do it."

"So you know what you want from him. You have the finished painting in your imagination."

"My grand tactical plan? Not quite, no, but this is a very interesting match. See this left winger? I like him. He starts on the flank and moves inside. His general movement is towards the ball. That defender there, the number 4, he wants to be a midfielder. His tendency is to move towards the ball. That one, number 31, he's the opposite. He moves away. He wants to defend, to reduce the risk. Ruud plays on the shoulder and tries to get towards goal as quickly as he can. He stretches the play, right?

"All these players are moving up, down, in, out, and that's causing space to appear, to disappear. As the manager, I can manipulate that process by picking players who will make the space appear where I want. Ruud pushes the defenders back, towards their own goal, and if they don't retreat..."

I paused because the crowd were shooting to their feet. BK Häcken's defenders had tried to trigger the offside trap, but one of the home team's midfielders had played an early pass. Ruud chased it, got there easily, drew the goalkeeper towards him and as the goalie dived, Ruud lifted the ball over him, but not with the foot I was expecting. That deception was fucking deadly! The ball bounced twice on its way into the net and the crowd blew its top.

When Susan retook her seat, I said, "That's why I'm willing to pay what he's going to be worth next year, this year. I'd like to get a sense of him as a person, though. Can I meet him?"

"You are going to come and watch the next match. Is that so?"

"If the score stays the same, they'll go through to the next round and play a team from Portugal. I was planning to go to that one, but I could come back to Holland again. We could meet in the afternoon before the second leg. Or the day after. Whatever's easiest for Ruud."

"I will talk to him and get back to you."

"Cool."

***

Friday, July 14

I spent Friday morning walking around Deventer town centre. It was quiet and picturesque, with tall, thin, pastel-coloured buildings. Many of the houses had Go Ahead Eagles flags dangling outside, and there was a trend of plastering your front door with stickers to show which team you supported - as long as it was the Eagles.

Very cool place, very friendly people. I smashed Playdar and followed the ping but the best player in the area at the time was only PA 44.

We were close to concluding the Cheb deal. His agent had come down from his more absurd demands and we had agreed wages of 48,000 a week, a one-million-pound bonus if we stayed in the Premier League, and a 30-million-pound release clause that would kick in next summer. 'Priced to sell' as the saying goes. 10 million quid in profit for Chester and a long and glorious career for Cheb.

Chester's total wage budget was 700,000 a week. Dumi and Edgar Wilde would join us at the end of Saltney's qualifiers, adding another 85 grand to the weekly bill. (40 for Dumi, 45 for Edgar.) Jimmy McNeill was another 40 grand. Add 48 for Cheb...

And I still had a surplus of 189,000 a week.

Helge, Magnus, and Colin needed pay bumps, but holy shit. So much money, but I had to use it wisely. I texted MD.

Yes you let me buy an Algerian winger. Yes you signed off on a mind-blowing bid for an undercooked striker. But now I think it's important that we hire an artist. I'm thinking she could paint us while we train; it would certainly motivate the players. She's Dutch so she can definitely do portraits. Get mine done first, I reckon.

MD: Can you stop lusting after artists long enough to hire a new head of performance?

Me: I'm working on it! I've got a shortlist of three!

MD: Also, this is the first time you have used the word undercooked to describe Berkenbosch. For 27 million I would rather expect the finished article. I'm going to need you to come to my next doctor's appointment because he doesn't believe me when I say I have a stressful job. God, imagine the meds he would prescribe if he met you face-to-face!

***

Saturday, July 15

Pre-Season Friendly 4 of 6: Huddersfield versus Chester Men

I was in the dugout at a Chester match for the first time since the playoff final, co-managing our fourth pre-season friendly. In reality, Sandra was in charge and I wasn't doing anything other than keeping an eye on our Condition scores.

We were playing League One Huddersfield (CA 107) at their stadium, and they were taking it more seriously than us because the EFL season was due to kick off in two weeks. We had almost a month before our first match in the Premier League. Almost a month to stew. To bite our nails. To dread.

The fixture list was out, and it was not pretty.

Physio Dean nudged me and showed me his phone, like I hadn't seen the schedule. "Arsenal! At the Emirates! Tough start that, isn't it?"

"Mmm," I said, because I didn't want to think about it just yet.

He scrolled down. "Brighton at home. We won't see the ball, but they don't have a natural goalscorer. Then Man City away, Spurs at the Deva. That's followed by Liverpool away, Aston Villa at home. People are saying it's statistically the hardest first six fixtures any team has ever had! In the history of the Premier League!"

"It's a historically brutal run," I agreed. "It's almost as though someone wants me to get sacked as soon as possible."

Dean nodded. "Lose those six and it's the international break and that's when clubs sack their manager. Convenient timing, yes."

"Thanks, Dean."

He laughed. "You won't get sacked!" He thought about it. "Not after six games. You'll get more than six! Then it's Brentford away. That's not an easy place to go to, is it? You'd need to do set pieces training the whole week before and you'll refuse, so we'll get tanked. Good to have principles, isn't it, boss? Here we go! Game eight, Wolves at home. There's our first point of the season."

"Our first point?" I said. "You don't think we can get a win there?"

"Oh, sure, sure. We might. It's just that they've already spent 70 million on new players and we have... checks notes... invested heavily in the zen garden."

"Take the zen garden's name out of your mouth, bro. That's a title-winning zen garden, you mark my words. Okay, shush a minute. I need to concentrate."

I didn't need to concentrate. I needed to show my face in a Chester context while wearing Saltney Town underpants. Thanks to a perk I had bought long ago, I was earning 1.5 times the usual rate for this match. 270 XP instead of a mere 180. It all added up! I was the master of marginal gains.

My players were making gains, too. I had seen a fair few Attributes turn green, counted half a dozen CA pops.

I had left Sandra with a pretty threadbare squad, giving extra time off to the lads who had appeared in Euro 28, so today we had a pretty strange lineup. Owen was in goal, protected by a back four of Lewis, Cole Adams (at centre back), Murray Burnett (the lad from Everton), and Roddy Jones.

In midfield was Youngster, Jimmy McNeill, and Bark.

Up front: Pascal, Wibbers, and Gabriel.

Average CA: 136.7.

It really wasn't bad! The only senior player on the subs bench was Sticky, but we planned to throw on loads of the under 18s anyway. Why not? I didn't care about the result.

I hadn't spent a lot of time thinking about the under 18s until recently, but now that my schedule was less hectic I was asking myself one major question. If young English players (save those born in Cheshire) were hesitant to join us, what should I do? Answer: go big on Scotland, Ireland, and Wales. I was giving serious consideration to moving some of the better Welsh under 18s from Saltney to Chester for a season. Charlie Cullen, FA Youth Cup winner? Why not? I would bribe him with some minutes in the Champions League qualifiers if he agreed to make the switch.

Huddersfield, who were further ahead in their pre-season fitness plan, beat us 3-1, but we avoided injuries and the minutes given to our eighteens would pay off in the Youth Cup. So in a way, we actually did win. Right?

Not everyone was as sanguine about pre-season defeats as I was. I went to Murray Burnett and put my arm around his shoulder. "You looked different class, mate. Absolutely mint."

Murray was a big lad, a proper unit. One of the entries in his Future tab read: Hopes to use this loan spell to force his way into Everton's first team. I didn't mind that kind of ambition; we were going to need characters like Murray. He had a Cumbrian accent, which was something like a cross between Lancashire and Yorkshire. "We signing a striker, Max? I saw it on the aggregators."

"You mean one of those dipshits who steals content from everyone else without attribution and takes quotes out of context? Why are you following aggregators, Murray?"

He shrugged. "It's easier than following 20 accounts, isn't it?"

I tapped him on the arm. "That's what I like to hear. My players taking shortcuts. That's how you get to the top, yeah."

"I thought you liked efficiency."

"Mmm," I said. "Okay, good point. But those aggregators are rancid, mate. They're poison. It's bad for you. They want you raging so you engage because that's how they get cash. They make zilch if you're happy. Zip. So they're actively working to make you unhappy." He seemed to be receptive to that, though I doubted he would change his behaviour in the slightest. "As for buying another striker, we might. It's not like popping to Tesco for a meal deal. There are, like, stages. Stage one is I learn everything about Dutch art in two weeks."

"Aye, right." He glanced around at the toddlers he had shared the pitch with towards the end. "Would be good, though!"

"Mate," I said, as we headed towards the tunnel. "You don't think it's gonna be all these teenagers the whole season? I've got proper players coming. Slovakians, a German, whatever Magnus is. And a Viking! I've got a fucking Viking, bro! He's taller than you. So don't worry. The season's gonna be tough, yeah, no doubt, and you've seen the fixtures."

"Bloody hell, Max! What a start that is!"

"I know. But that's what I'm saying. We just have to graft and suffer but when it's all going shit you'll look around and see a room full of men. We don't have much but in our dressing room you'll find we lead the league in one thing."

"What's that?" he said, grinning, ready for my joke.

I didn't smile, but stopped him walking, got in front of him, held his eye contact, pressed my finger into his midriff. "Stomach for the fight." I waited until those words sunk in, then tapped him on the heart, "Every other team is at their strongest on day one, but they get injuries and fatigue while we only get stronger. Have you heard the phrase lions in the winter, lambs in the spring?"

"No."

"French dude said that about the English teams and how they play in Europe. They're amazing when they're fit and fresh but the season is long and it wears them down. Think of PL teams and their schedule. Long pre-season tours taking them from Australia to Miami. You'll notice we're in Huddersfield. That's because I don't want to burn you out before the season even fucking starts, and because unlike certain other countries, Huddersfield isn't riddled with killer jellyfish."

"Is Huddersfield a country?"

"They wish they were. Arsenal, Man City. Long pre-season tour, the Prem starts, AOK Cup, Champions League, FA Cup, knockout stages, league run-in, post-season tour, Euros, World Cups, one day off, new season begins. That's the life of a top player, and that's why come the spring, we're gonna clean up. Okay?"

"We're gonna beat the top players because we're not top players. Got it."

I laughed. "Christ, you're gonna be hard work, aren't you?"

"Not me, Max. I'm a good lad. Me granny always says so."

I nodded and let him walk on. As I watched the back of his shirt, sporting the words BURNETT 29, I considered the other two phrases that had appeared in his player profile since joining the club.

Thinks he can learn a lot from Peter Bauer.

Hopes that playing for Max Best doesn't hurt his chances of breaking into the England team.

***

Tuesday, July 18

Champions League Second Qualifying Round, First Leg: FK RFS versus Saltney Town

I joined the lads and we flew to Riga in Latvia. We were still travelling lean, so most guys carried an extra bag with some gear, some spare kit. They didn't mind, especially when we told them that the savings went into their bonus pool.

I was getting really good at guesstimating the CAs of European teams based on their recent results and I had hit the bullseye with RFS. As I predicted, they were CA 95, which made them one of the weaker teams in the tournament.

I made one change to the starting eleven, dropping myself and putting Tockers in. The plan was to keep the 3-2 defensive setup, then have Davey Barnes on the left, Tockers on the right. A little bit of craft, a little bit of guile, a fuckton of towering beefy boys.

Our new average CA was 126.5, but I would have fancied us to keep a clean sheet against much better teams than the Latvians.

The match was stodgy, grinding, and predictable. We snuffed out their attacks, trundled up towards their box, won free kicks. Davey Barnes hit the ones that needed a left-footer, Edgar Wilde took some of the right-footed ones, and we scored two goals from defenders: Dunners and Tony Herbert.

2-0 wasn't enough for me to feel good about the result, though, so I took Tony off, slid Peter into his natural CB slot, moved Magnus back, and I went to CM.

71'

Saltney are making their first change. On comes the player-manager.

RFS are dropping deeper. Best hasn't even touched the ball yet!

Demetrescu takes the kick. He plays it short to Wilde.

Wilde dabs it back to Bauer.

Bauer to Badford.

Badford to Best.

Best jinks past his marker and he's away!

Devastating speed! Colin Beckton makes a run. He points to where he wants the ball to be played.

Best...

Scores!

He shot from long range, a ferocious strike that dipped late. The goalkeeper had absolutely no chance!

Some of the home fans are applauding.

74'

Saltney dominating possession in Riga.

The 19th pass of this move goes to Badford. He plays it short to Best, who gives it back to his midfield partner.

Best scurries away. Badford turns backwards and gives the ball to Evergreen.

Evergreen to Bauer.

Bauer fizzes a pass to Toquinho, who has Best on the overlap. The ball pops up, but the Brazilian hooks it over his head.

Poor first touch, but great invention!

Best moves forward and looks up.

He crosses for Barnes - but his header goes just over!

So close to a fourth goal for the Welsh champions.

75'

Schnakenberg collects the high, bouncing ball.

He rolls it quickly to Dunston.

Dunston to Bauer.

Bauer clips a 30-yard pass to Best, who deflects it into the path of Toquinho.

Toquinho centres the ball.

Beckton will get there ahead of the defenders...

And it's in!

A wonderful goal!

From back to front in the blink of an eye!

***

4-0 was solid. If we went 2-0 up in the second leg in Wales, I could even throw on some of the really young kids, like Luke Evans, a PA 131 left winger, or Jake Williams, a centre back who had the same ceiling.

For today, Bertie and Ludo got minutes, as did Tom Westwood, Omari Naysmith, and with 8 minutes to go, Charlie Cullen, my dream box-to-box midfielder. He purred around the pitch, playing simple passes, controlling the ball well under pressure and in tight spaces. For a second, I even thought one of his penalty-box runs might result in him getting a free header.

To think I had ever thought anyone else was my dream B2B!

We showered, changed, and played bangers on our private jet. We were cruising at 40,000 feet, sailing towards the Champions League league phase. I sent MD a message.

Your doctor is right. You've got the easiest job in the world.

***

Wednesday, July 19

@TheRumourRoom

Chester FC transfer coup! Cheb Alloula from Bayern to Chester CONFIRMED. Chester's summer business is looking half decent, you know! Masarik is a Prem-proven goalie, if anyone can revive the career of the Slovakian Messi Leo Los, it's Max Best, Matt Rush is quality, Jimmy McNeill can play, Demetrescu and Wilde are experienced, Alloula is flexible and knows English football. Decent, mate! I'm telling ya! Will they go down? Million percent they will! Will they pick up more points than you think? They might surprise a few teams!

***

Thursday, July 20

UEFA Conference League Second Qualifying Round, First Leg: C.D. Santa Clara versus Go Ahead Eagles

Santa Clara were an interesting team. They played in the Azores, some islands in the Atlantic. They were to Portugal what the Canary Islands were to Spain, and since Emma loved Tenerife I had tried to get her to come. She wanted to go to watch the Magpies with her dad, though.

So I had invited Chelli, the guy who ran the South American branch of our agency. Santa Clara's squad was 80% Brazilian. Maybe we could send them a couple more!

"It makes sense," said Chelli, as we watched the first half of another dreadful game. "We send players here."

"Breno," I said, filling a space that Chelli hadn't left. "Sorry, I interrupted."

He smiled. He was a chill guy, even after a gruelling series of flights. "We send players here, like Breno. They compete in la Liga Portugal, they become the permits."

"They get the permits."

"They get the permits to stay in Europe," said Chelli. "It is the, how you say, the pathway. And it's beautiful! Like Brazil."

I nodded. We had been for a tourist trip, the first stop of which was an abandoned hotel that seemed like a location from Fallout 4. After that came a volcanic crater that looked exactly like the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium. It was beautiful, though. Lush green, dramatic rock faces, and the water was heated by the local volcano, so it was therapeutic right until the moment the bastard decided to kill you. The Brazilian players on show had appallingly low PAs. They were a competent team, sure, but where was the upside? Who were the club going to rinse? "We can find them better players than this lot. What a waste of an opportunity this is!"

"Max," said Chelli, disapproving. He didn't like to hear me disparage his countrymen. "You said you liked the left-sided boy."

"Mate," I complained. "He's called Gabriel. No more Gabriels, okay?"

"Breno's real name is Gabriel."

My jaw dropped. "What?"

"Joking."

I hugged him and shook. "Chelli, you villain! You monster! Haha, you got me." The half-time whistle blew. "Right. Let's go and find some decision-makers and tell them how to run their club."

***

In the second half, a desperate clearance from the Eagles flew fifty yards, and two Santa Clara defenders collided as they tried to head it away.

Ruud Berkenbosch pounced. Fast, direct, clipped finish past the goalie. The goal was never in doubt from the moment the chance fell into Ruud's lap.

Chelli's eyes widened as he turned to me. "You buy him?!"

I felt my face harden. "If he doesn't come to Chester, I'm gonna steal his girl." Chelli made the sign of the cross and babbled religiously. I squeezed him again, laughing. "Como placed a bid. We're third out of three. Ruud can go where he wants, no hard feelings." A pass was hit laughably far in front of its intended target. "Jesus wept. Right, Chelli, new topic. Tell me an obscure fact about Brazilian art that only someone sophisticated would know."

***

Midway through the half, my XP counter ticked up to 2,000.

I added Tempsford FC to my squad list, which led me to discover that one of the lads was hiding a potentially major injury. He was PA 10, so it didn't matter much in a football sense, but I resolved to get there as soon as poss, make him fess up, and if needed, pay for his treatment. It's not like I was short of cash these days.

And that was it! The squad list was as complete as it was likely to get this season.

Squad Lists Nat

Chester Men ENG Chester Women ENG College 1975 GIB Bayern Munich GER Chester Boys 18s ENG Bruno's Magpies GIB Saltney Town WAL Stuttgart GER Tranmere Rovers ENG Newport County ENG Gibraltar Lions GIB West Didsbury ENG Tempsford ENG

Now to empty the perk shop!

XP balance: 142

***

Saturday, July 22

Pre-Season Friendly 5 of 6: Preston versus Chester

Cheb!

Cheeeeeebbbbbb! Beautiful, beautiful Cheb. 

Cheb Alloula had transferred from Bayern actual Munich to Chester FC. What a thing to say.

Our record signing! Steve Alton, 8 thousand pounds. Ryan Jack, 30 thousand pounds. Cheb Alloula, 20 million pounds!

Ludicrous.

But I was delighted, Sandra was delighted, and Cheb was delighted, believing this would be great for his career. And he was right - with his flexibility, and given the fact that he instantly overtook Murray Burnett as our best player (with CA 153), Cheb would play the majority of our minutes this season. He had signed a 4-year contract worth a fraction shy of 10 million quid, so he wasn't exactly doing this for charity, and there was obviously a risk for the club. Not much of one, though. He was too pure a character and he loved football. He wanted to play and get better. Wanted to honour his family and play for his country. I had zero doubt that he would do more than enough to convince someone to pay 30 mill for him next summer.

Cheb wasn't the only new face. The Slovakians were in town and in full training, and suddenly the squad looked a lot healthier.

Preston were in the middle of the Championship in terms of CA. They averaged 129. 

I gave Marek a runout, replaced Roddy Jones with Cheb, started Leo instead of Pascal, and our average CA jumped to 141.6.

Preston were coming to peak fitness and had their first league game the following week, so their players were fighting for a spot in the starting eleven. They beat us 2-0, which Sandra, Murray, and a few others weren't too happy about, but again we got through with no new injuries and loads of minutes for the lesser players.

The win-now people were wrong, I was right: this was a good day.

***

XP balance: 420

***

Monday, July 24

Saltney had a great training session. Well In stepped up the intensity, because our match tomorrow would be at home and we didn't have to account for people flying all over Europe - we could just fucking go for it, flat out.

It was smiles all round. Guys looking at each other going, we're going to do this, aren't we? This is really happening.

***

I was in the canteen at Bumpers, waiting to hear back about a few young players I was interested in signing. They were decent talents but not generational ones. What would be the point in signing superstars? As things stood, I wouldn't give Premier League minutes to Dan Badford, so I wasn't going to give them to a kid I thought might eventually crack League One.

On my laptop, I had three tabs open. Okay, I had 17 tabs open, but only three are relevant. One was an in-depth interview with a top international centre-back slash left-back. She sounded absolutely ideal for what I was doing but I didn't have her in my database. The second was an essay about Rembrandt that I was struggling to read. I just couldn't get into the guy! The third was a YouTube compilation about a South Korean attacking midfielder who Fleur, our only actual scout, had spotted on a trip to Italy. The Korean played for AC Milan, so I could go and check on Angel while I was scouting her.

And then Jackie Reaper and Livia swanned in. Livia went to chat to Cole Adams about a very minor knock that he had, and the Tranmere Rovers manager came over to me, looking more like the Grim Reaper than ever. "Max, lad! Been watching you on the telly. You know what? I reckon you can play a bit. Ever thought about turning pro?"

He was always smug that he had spotted my talent before anyone else. Like, literally anyone else, including me. "Jackie Reaper, Scouting 20, away points last season... seven."

"It was more dan dat and you know it. Good gag, doh, good gag." He glanced around, leaned forward, got quieter. "Are you in a good mood? I've got some news you might not like. Want to go somewhere?"

"Um..." My brain leapt to the conclusion that Diggy Doggy's consortium had decided they wanted their half a million quid back. My throat hurt just from the idea. "Maybe just hit me with it fast. Pull the plaster off in one go, sort of thing."

He had the decency to look awkward, and rubbed his face and head before stretching out his palms and saying, "You've sorted me a good squad this season, some good lads, and I'm grateful. I've been working with them in pre-season, obviously, and they've got talent for days. It's going to be a good year, I can feel it. And I know you've had my back. You've had my back right from the start so I don't want to fall out with you."

"Holy shit, man, just say it. This is worse than torture."

He pressed his fingertips against his thumbs, making OK signs, conscious or not. "Okay, thing is, Raffi Brown wants to join us, and I want to let him."

My hands were on my head before I knew it, then I was pulling the skin of my face down. Jackie wanted to sign The Betrayer. Oh, on a football level it made sense. The Betrayer had a decent ceiling, had all the skills, had some experience. He would keep the ball rolling and be effective in either penalty area. He'd score you a goal when you needed it.

But mate. He fucked off to Saudi. He left us in the lurch. He betrayed.

"Max, say something, you're scaring me."

Why the fuck had I added Tranmere Rovers to my squad list? I would see his name every time I went there. Could I get a refund? Delete it? I never wanted to hear the prick's name again, let alone have it right there, front and centre, pride of place.

Jackie had gone from pleading to something else. Explaining? "I'm the manager of a football club. I get to choose who plays for me. I think Raffi has something to offer. I think he'd be a good signing for Tranmere and it's my job to do what's best for the club."

"Yeah," I said, forcing the sound through a tight throat. "Do what's best. Okay."

I got up, stumbled against the chair next to me, making a sound like the cleaving of a rock, mumbled something about returning some video tapes, and fled to the zen garden.

***

Tuesday, July 25

Champions League Second Qualifying Round, Second Leg: Saltney Town versus FK RFS

I named myself in the starting lineup, made sure we got an unassailable lead, then subbed myself off. I spent the second half under a hood, letting Well In manage the team. He did a beautiful 'managed decline', in which we went from CA 130.7 to a mere 100.8. That included a debut for Luke Evans, a 17-year-old CA 30 winger, and minutes for Jake Williams, the centre back, who was a whopping CA 45.

The temporary change in leadership was good. Well In was supposed to be the main man around here, after all. In a few weeks, I would return to Chester and he would be the only voice the players would hear.

Until they fucked up, in which case they would very much hear my voice. They would hear it very loud and incredibly close.

***

Thursday, July 27

I went back to the Netherlands to watch Ruud for the third time; his CA had risen to 136. The Eagles once again struggled to feed their star striker, but the Portuguese team's strength was their goalie and defence, and they didn't offer a lot going forward, enabling the Dutch side to grind out another win.

Susan wasn't at the match, as far as I could tell, but she left me a message. If I wanted to meet Ruud, they would take me to the Rijksmuseum for a personal guided tour. I said, yes, of course.

Taking on an artist in her home turf. Tougher than an away match at Arsenal. Huge defeat guaranteed.

What better way to spend a Friday?

***

XP balance: 1,545

***

Friday, July 28

I was pottering around the area near the museum when I bumped into the couple. "Ruud!" I said, smiling like a dimwit as I shook his hand like we were old friends. You think about someone, watch them from afar, and start to think you actually know them. Normally I was on the other end of that relationship.

"Max Best," he said, also smiling. "Why are you here so early?"

"Oh." I waved vaguely towards the elegant buildings. "I was thinking about getting some food but I'm not hungry enough for a full meal. And I don't want to grab a sandwich or something because I'll end up with crumbs all over me. I need to make a good impression on the player I want to buy."

"That's me?" he said.

"Yes."

He smiled. "You already did that." He turned to Susan and they spoke quickly in Dutch. "There's a place we know."

"Top."

Susan was dressed normally, in jeans and a soft cream jacket, which was a relief in one way and a disappointment in another. Ruud was in jeans (featuring an embroidered flower on either knee) and an oversized jumper (with a strange kind of stained shape on one side). He was about six foot two, probably the ideal height for a modern-day striker, and about four inches taller than Susan, making him the ideal height for the modern-day boyfriend. Wait, what does that mean? Cut that!

We went into a cute little cafe, sat, and a waitress came over. She spoke Dutch to the Dutch people and English to me, recommending the tomato soup. After she left, I flopped my hands out. "How did she know I was English before I even opened my mouth? That's crazy."

Susan said, "You look very English."

"No I don't. I look French. I look continental. I look like I just stepped out of the Sorbonne onto my yacht in, like, Monaco. Don't I, Ruud?"

"No. You look English."

"This is already scandalous." The waitress brought the soup, bread, and butter. I spooned some into my mouth. "Holy fucking shit, that's incredible. What the hell is this? Oh my God." I wanted to get them talking while I emptied this bowl, so I cast my mind around for topics. Susan was probably 25 or so, while Ruud was 21. "How did you two meet?"

Susan said, "I was in Beijing, engaged to be married to a Chinese opera singer."

"Chinese opera is the one that's very squeaky?"

Susan narrowed her eyes, but couldn't argue with my description. "Yes. Ruud was playing in a tournament; we met at a party. I knew I had to break things off with Albert."

"With the Chinese opera singer called Albert," I said, checking I was following because the combination of the taste explosion and the uncanny way Susan told outrageous stories like they were normal was making me feel like I was falling.

"Yes. So I wrote a goodbye letter to him on my body."

"Yeah. Soz what?"

"On my body. I took photos of the letter and sent it to him to read."

"Of course but why?"

Susan acted like I was the first person to ever ask this question. "Because I wanted the words to be on my body when he read them."

"Yeah," I said. I grabbed a piece of bread and spread butter on it, hoping this act would help to centre me. "Makes sense, uh, when you put it like that."

"We have been together ever since. Ruud is very driven, very ambitious, and very sensitive."

I took a bite of the bread. It was divine. "Ruud's got his European adventure and the discussions about his big move. What are you working on? Oh, do you do portraits?"

Ruud frowned. "Portraits?"

Susan said, "He thinks I'm a painter. That was a bad translation. Artist would be a better word. I just finished a project in which I created a glass cube, like a diving bell. The viewer inserts her head and sees what appears to be the backs of various screens."

Ruud made a kind of ball shape with his hands. "You're in the screen, you see. The piece was called In Media Res."

"Oh."

"For my next project, I am generating ideas. I want to do something inspired by an installation that made an impact on me some years ago. We were invited to a certain place at a certain time. We wandered around a warehouse looking for the art. I reached a staircase that led nowhere and looked down… and saw my contemporaries walking around like rats in a maze looking for cheese. That was the art."

I swallowed and with impeccable timing, said, "I bought a hedge in the shape of a T-Rex."

Well, they both laughed at that. Susan tilted her head and smiled. "You think I'm pompous."

"No," I said. I took a piece of bread and stared at it. "It's British football culture. The first response to anything is banter. Managers say good and interesting things but they say it in a slightly strange way, triggering a wave of jokes and memes. No-one wants to engage with the substance of what was said because that involves thought and thinking is hard. We're not a serious country. I would like to get more educated but I don't have time, which is a lame excuse but maybe true, for now. I'm excited to get to know you and Ruud more but a museum is a stressful place to go with a real artist. You're gonna say things and I won't have the first clue what you're talking about."

Susan looked at Ruud, who said, "Can I ask you some questions?"

The soup was mostly gone and its warmth was kicking in, spreading, easing my tension. "Yes."

"Tuesday night, you played that team from Latvia and you turned up the heat. Two goals, two assists in the first half! On the highlights, you looked very angry. What did they do to you?"

"RFS? Nothing. I was in a mood. Personal reasons. I took it out on them, I guess."

Susan said, "Can you tell us about it?"

I played with a piece of bread. "I don't know how to deal with... feelings. Mostly just sort of squash it down, don't think about it, don't go to Tranmere." I rolled the bread into a little ball. "I'm not a serious person." I ate the ball. "The story is over. It's done. I have moved on. The past is the past. What's next? That's where I want my attention to go. What's next? What do I need to do to, ah, manifest the future I want? So some guy dips out without a word. So what? Why does everyone - " I stopped and eyed Susan. "You did the opposite. You did the exact opposite. You wrote it down and left the words on your body long enough for your ex to read it. Okay, I think I get why you did it. Huh."

Ruud said, "So when you send me to the bomb squad, will you write it on your body?"

"I don't do bomb squads."

"You do Special 1A training." He laughed. "Yes, I did my research, too. Treating the players who annoyed you better than the ones you liked. Butlers, cocktails, velvet ropes. My god, I wish I could have seen it." He stretched, lazily. "What happens to me if Chester are relegated? If you lose your job?"

I nudged the bowl away from me and put the spoon at different angles. Henri was into those kinds of details. Straight ahead meant hold up, I'm not finished. 90 degrees meant take the bowl away. Something like that. I couldn't remember which so I turned the spoon upside down. It looked pretty final to me, and the waitress agreed. She appeared and took the bowl. A small triumph for me! "The most important consideration is your development. Go Ahead Eagles want to keep you this season and from what I've seen, that's a good idea. As a player, I'd want you to join the squad right away. As manager, I'd be screaming 'get him in the doooooor!'

"But as director of football I can take a wider view. I've got Wibbers and Gabriel developing and they will get the Premier League minutes. You'll be over here, first choice, getting European football. Thinking dispassionately, that's giving me the most development, spread amongst the most players. If a director of football keeps doing that every year you get, well, you get five promotions in a row."

"The Comet Manager," said Ruud, smiling.

"Yeah but comets don't have the ability to turn, do they? It's possible we have gone too fast, right? You're right to mention relegation. If you are in Holland for a year and then rock up to Chester to find we're back in the Championship, what would you say?"

"What would you say to me?"

I shrugged. "If you played in the Championship we would crush it, obviously, but I suspect at that point you'll need a bigger challenge, so I would probably look to loan you out. You'd go somewhere you could keep learning, keep growing, and when you finally pull on a Chester shirt we'll be back in the Prem but this time with a team that's ready. And when I say ready, I mean ready." I sipped my water. "Basically, yeah, I'm not gonna make you play in the Championship if you don't want to, and it's not in the club's wider interests anyway."

Susan said, "Don Pino would arrange a transfer at that point."

"Oh?" I said.

"Yeah. He gets paid to make this transfer happen, then he gets paid again when you are relegated. And we get paid, too. Signing bonuses, twice in two seasons. Your relegation is a feature, not a bug."

"Hmm. I suspect when Don told you that, he didn't think you'd tell me."

Susan shrugged. "Honesty is valuable."

I shook my head. "I don't like being played. If anyone's going to be the puppetmaster of my life, it should be me."

Susan said, "Would you still do the deal knowing what you know?"

"Yeah," I said, with a sad sigh. "There's nothing better I could do with the club's money."

I bit my nail and scowled. If I did sign Ruud, all the club's money would be tied up. I would get six million in January, but to all extents and purposes my money would be gone. I would have no flexibility, would be unable to join the bidding for any other players. Is that what Paul Braun wanted? Was this an elaborate ruse to stop me getting involved in the auction for the next Messi? Surely that was absurd. I could maybe theoretically compete with Frankfurt or Como, but not the megaclubs.

I let out another sigh. "Chester would make a profit even if Ruud never set foot in the UK in the next twelve months. It's not a deal I could pass up. And, you know." I got a cheeky grin. "There's always the dream."

"What dream?" said Ruud.

"That we stay up." I stretched happily. "I'm ready to show how uncultured I am! To the Rijksmuseum!"

***

We went straight to the most famous painting, Rembrandt's The Night Watch.

It shows a bunch of dudes in hats. Some have guns, some spears. It's dark, with a few figures illuminated.

"What do you think?" said Susan.

"I love it!" I declared. "It's so big! Nice, big, chunky piece of art. Good art is big art, I think we can agree on that. You know, I went to a museum once and they had a sketch by Da Vinci and it was tiny. Like a postcard or something. I was yelling, what is this? Art for ANTS?"

A rando turned and gave me a disgusted look, which I'm sorry to say pleased me. Susan found it amusing, I think, but she pointed out a few things about the painting I hadn't appreciated. "It was bigger, at first, but they had to cut it when they moved it here. In the original conception, the two figures at the front were off-centre, which helped to draw the eye around the painting. Have you seen some of the other work from this period? Mostly the paintings are a parade of hats."

"You mean the ones where it's just some dudes standing around."

"Exactly. Here there is action and life. The drummer drums, the dog barks. There are three musketeers. One is cleaning, one is firing, one is reloading. See?"

"Where's the one firing?"

"The man at the front is giving the order to march. They will fight for Amsterdam, fight to protect the community."

I glanced at her. How carefully had she chosen the word community? "Right."

"See the shadow he casts on his friend? The shadow guides the viewer's attention towards those crosses. See? That's the symbol for Amsterdam."

"Oh!" I said, excited. "This is Da Vinci Code shit! I love it."

The rando gave me another disgusted look.

Susan said, "The painting caused a sensation because it is so alive, so captivating. What do you see when you follow the light?"

"Erm... Little ginger girl. Is that a chicken?"

"The chicken is symbolic. Da Vinci Code shit. Apart from the ginger girl, who stands out to you?"

"The two guys at the front pop, obvs."

"Obvs."

"Oh wait!" I said, hands on my head. The painting clicked in my head. I got it! I understood it! "He's got two strikers. Look! It's two strikers. The others are... shit, it's 3-5-2. This guy was way ahead of his time!"

Susan was delighted. Ruud said, "It could be 4-4-2."

"Mate!" I said, annoyed. "How is that anything other than 3-5-2? He's flooded the midfield. Oh, this is fun."

"What next?" said Susan.

"The Caravaggio," I said. The rando spun and reappraised me. I said, "You're surprised I know that name?"

"Yes," she said. "He wasn't one of the Ninja Turtles."

"Oof," I said, hunching over like I had been punched. "Savage."

"There isn't a Caravaggio here now," she said. "It was on loan."

"Top player gets recalled," I said, shaking my head. "One more reason not to get involved in loans. Ah, well."

"There are prints in the gift shop," she said.

"Oh, cool."

"Narcissus. He falls in love with his own reflection. You will enjoy it."

I spread my arms. "I'm getting rinsed! They should call this the Rinsemuseum."

While we walked to the Vermeer section, Susan said, "I read something strange about you this week."

"If it was about nurse uniforms, it's not true."

"I read that you advertised for a very strange job."

Ruud said, "What's this? I didn't hear about this."

I explained. "We had a break-in at the offices of my little data company. They stole some computers, useless, no harm done. You can't really stop someone getting in and stealing something if they are determined enough, but I had to do something, obviously. My army mate Dylan was like, here's a camera system, blah blah blah, ten thousand pounds. It just didn't appeal. Most thieves aren't violent, right, so if you have someone on site you reduce the number of baddies who would be willing to break in. How do we get someone in the office when it's otherwise empty? The night shift. Wait, I should say the Night Watch. Max one-nil!"

"The Night Watch depicts a daytime scene."

"What? That's wild. Okay, well, there's nothing my company needs at night, right, because a lot of what we do is based on inputs from me and I want us to do anything that needs a lot of electricity in the day, when our solar is on. So I thought, let's make up a job. I'm offering 20 grand a year for someone to play video games all night."

Ruud's smile was wider than The Night Watch. "That's amazing! Talk about a dream job!"

"The money's not stellar," I said, "but it's enough to get a flurry of applicants and it caused a stir. I didn't plan it but maybe next time someone goes oh that Max Best, he hates England, his mate will go he's funny though." I rubbed my eyebrows. "I don't know."

Ruud said, "Those lies have to hurt."

"It stings, yeah."

He smiled. "Sting did a concert in the Rijksmuseum. My parents went!"

I stopped and looked up at the high ceilings, the ornate details, the heft of the materials. A concert in here would surely sound amazing. "Sting was here? That explains why it smells so good."

***

We arrived at a small Vermeer painting in which a maid delivers an envelope to an opulently-dressed woman. "The Love Letter," said Susan. "The maid delivers a letter to her mistress. How do we know it's a love letter? She's playing this lute and in these paintings, music represents romance. The painting in the background shows a ship on calm waters. The relationship is going well. Ah, but there are dark clouds. Choppy seas are ahead. The mistress looks up, as if to ask, what's in the letter, what does it say? How should the maid know? But she seems to know."

"She's got a cheeky grin," I said. "She's a wrong 'un, you can tell."

Susan stood away and folded her arms. "Caravaggio mastered a technique called chiaroscuro, the interplay of light and shade. The more contrast, the more drama. Vermeer uses it here. We don't see the window but we see the light it casts. Where does it go? Here," she said, stretching her hand. "But most importantly, here." She pointed to the rich woman's eyes. "Without this drop of paint, the composition does not work. Without that drop, nobody calls Vermeer a master, and nobody thinks about this painting."

I got as close as I could to the painting, leaning forward, staring at the eye. I leaned back, keeping focused on the eye, sensing the shadows everywhere around, then letting my gaze be drawn around as the artist intended. There was so much going on everywhere, so much detail in the darkness, but you are compelled to stay in the light. The faces, the maid's arm. The love letter itself is not illuminated, so your focus doesn't stick there for more than a moment. "Holy shit," I said.

"What are you feeling?"

"Ruud is the eye. The shade comes from pressing schemes." I grabbed Ruud. "Cover shadow!"

He nodded, excited, laughing. "Yes! The high press. Shadows. We have to create light and play in it."

I paced around the space, rubbing my temples. "The interplay of light and shade. That's what it is!"

Susan was watching us, pleased we were enjoying ourselves but feeling left out. "Which of you boys wants to explain this to me?"

Ruud looked at me, nodded. I moved in front of Susan and started to make big gestures. "Elite football is in crisis. The main way to play is what's called a high press. The strikers chase the ball with high energy, high determination, and the rest of the team follows behind. They go man-to-man, they cut out the passing angles, reduce space to zero. When you stand there in front of me, I can't go that way. You create a shadow behind you into which the ball cannot be played. As I move to the right, there's another shadow behind Ruud. Think how much of the room is blocked just by those two shadows!

"And if I move more to the right, I go off the pitch and the other team gets the ball." I pressed my fingertip into my thumb to help me think. "It's easier to run hard than to pass well. Managers are rewarded for covering the pitch in endless darkness; the only goals come from set pieces and mistakes. I'm no artist, but whatever the opposite of art is, it's that. But what's amazing is that if there's a solution, it has to be beautiful, because the solution is light."

"If there's a solution. Meaning you don't have one."

"I think I do," I said. "High technique, high decisions, cool under pressure, tactical flexibility, hybrid Bestball. I've got that and it works in patches but I don't have confidence it will go well in the Premier League or the top level." I grabbed Ruud by the shoulder and shook him. "I need the drop of paint that makes the whole thing work. I need a striker who can make the team pop. Brian Clough said about his player John Robertson: give him a yard of grass and he's an artist, the Picasso of our game. I don't want a Picasso, I want a Dutch master." Ruud was glowing. I don't know what possessed me but I got even more manic, even more crazy. "Ruud, mate!" I said, radiating light and life. "Come with me! Together we will master light and shade. Together we will go..." - I pointed high and away - "Baroque to the future!"

Ruud chuckle-laughed. "Wha-at?"

I pinched my nose. "Christ, that was terrible. What was in that soup? I blame the soup. Is it cowardly to blame the soup?"

Susan rubbed Ruud's arm. "You have already decided where to go, haven't you?"

He looked at her, and it was like watching Ingrid Bergman and her husband. "How did you know?"

"I know."

Ruud turned to me. "I'm sorry, Max. All that was for nothing."

I nodded. "Yeah."

"I decided to go to Chester as soon as I heard your analysis of my first half against Häcken."

"Oh." It took me a few seconds to catch up. "Hang on. Are you serious?"

"I am serious. But I want to join Chester now. You, Peter Bauer, William Roberts, Pascal Bochum. I believe you will play the passes my teammates in Deventer do not."

"Well, yeah, no doubt about that." I had to mentally readjust to many things, including the fact that my enormous war chest was about to hit zero. PA 188, though! "Your club is adamant they want you to stay this season. They want to get into the Conference League and finish high in the Eredivisie."

Ruud shrugged. "I will kick up a fuss to get what I want."

"Whoa," I said. "And when you're not happy at Chester, you'll kick off?"

"Yes," he said.

Susan gave me one of her challenging looks. "It's your job to keep him happy, isn't it?"

Top players, high demands. Did I want an easy life or did I want to win? It was easy to imagine how Ruud would kick up a stink to engineer an early exit from his club. I could have him in the Chester squad next week! My pulse quickened. Who's the puppetmaster now, Paul Braun?

Braun.

Brown.

R. Brown

Endless darkness. I shook my head. "Don't do anything to engineer a move, Ruud. You tell Don Pino your decision, and Don and I will sort it out with Go Ahead Eagles. Anyway, it's good for your development to stay for the Conference League qualifiers. You are improving fast right now; we should ride that wave. You'll stay a few weeks, fire your mates into the league stage, say goodbye to the fans. We'll do it the right way. The light way."

Ruud frowned. "And if the club do not listen to reason?"

"Then we get unreasonable but you stay out of it. Let Don Pino do the dodgy shit. That's what you're paying him for, right? You keep your nose clean so that when you're 36 you can return to the club as a hero."

Susan said, "I'm amazed you don't want Ruud immediately."

I stepped closer. "What's the hurry? I'm not making ten-second TikToks that people watch and never think about again." I pointed to the painting. "I'm writing a love letter to the sport. I'm painting a masterpiece that people will talk about for hundreds of years." I slapped my abs. "I'm sculpting a seven-pack the likes of which hasn't been seen since the Renaissance!"

Susan giggled. "For someone who professes not to like art, you really know how to make an exhibition of yourself."

Ruud said, "We should celebrate!"

"Yeah," I said, rubbing my cheek. I was in Amsterdam. Home of Ajax and their massive academy. Hundreds and hundreds of kids of all ages, all training at once. Ruud was a top-tier Dutch player. Maybe the guards would let us in because of him. If not, they would surely open the barriers with one smile from Susan. There would be anything from ten to fifty future professionals in the area and if Ajax's history was anything to go by, there would certainly be at least one Dragonball. "I've just had an idea. You might think this is crazy, but hear me out..."

...

This was the 400th chapter in the Player Manager project! Prosecco all round in the Steel household!

Thanks for your support!