7.2 - Albatross [T3] (Patreon)

2.

Wednesday, October 4

"Do you expect me to talk?" I demanded, raising one eyebrow. There was a brash cockiness to my tone, but fear, too. I retorted, amused, "No, Mr. Daps, I expect you to die!" I chuckled lightly as the elevator pinged and the doors slid open. I stepped out, but went back in again and admired myself in the full-height mirror.

Leather shoes, brown.

Long cotton socks, cream.

Baggy trousers reaching only as far as my shins, brown.

Light woollen cardigan, loose, mustard yellow.

Crisp shirt, white; tie, striped brown.

Flat cap, the same brown as the shoes and trousers.

I sauntered out, very pleased with myself, and spotted Ed Heath approaching from my right. He was carrying a bag of clubs and stopped a yard away to admire me. "Looking good, boss."

"Never a truer word has been spoken," I said. Heath was in a more modern outfit, with thin, artificial materials. "Hmm," I said, eyeing him up. "You've got the bone structure of an Eastern European tennis player, the haircut of a South American rugby bro, and now you're dressed like a Californian cyclist. This is very confusing. What's that?"

He pulled something white from his pocket. "Golf glove."

I swayed from left to right like a boxer, trying to see all his pockets. "Where's the other one?"

"I only wear one."

"Oh, brilliant," I said, fake annoyed. "Add a bit of Michael Jackson cosplay to the mix." Heath was smiling, good-naturedly, and I was struck again by the guy's humility. He was the best player in a Premier League team, which brought a base level of fame, and he was the best player for his country, so down here in Glamorgan he drew a lot of attention. He could have been a dick but he was just a good lad, no bother. "BT dubs, for security reasons, I need you to call me Albert Ross."

"Albert Ross. Er, okay, yeah."

"Ah, never mind that. Call me Max. When it comes to golf, everyone is equal. Equally bored," I added.

"You're gonna love it," he said.

I sighed and headed towards the main lobby. "Let's get it over with. What's it gonna be, like twenty minutes?"

"These are some of the longest courses outside America, boss. Max. The main course is five hours. On the Lake Course we're looking at four."

I stopped and let my head drop back so I could stare at the ceiling petulantly. "I want to say something withering but I'm too dismayed."

Ed smiled again. "It's a beautiful course. We heard you're into your gardening; they call this the garden of Wales. And it hasn't rained much in the last week, so it won't be too soggy. Some lads don't like these courses, say they're too corporate, and I do understand that point of view but there are some satisfying holes and the views are absolutely stunning."

"Absolutely stunning," I repeated, flatly. That had to be the most overused phrase in the entire United Kingdom. We had a big language, why couldn't we use it? We walked on, towards the main reception desk, where one of the cuter receptionists was watching the two of us go by. "Hey, Abbi, how do I look?"

Abbi pursed her lips. "Good enough to eat."

"Right? I went to my bro Boateng and said I want to look iconic. Golf iconic, what do you think? He goes, it's got to be James Bond, surely? I go yeah well that's played out, everyone wants to look like Bond. He goes, what about Goldfinger?" I stepped back and gestured to myself. "Do you expect me to talk? No, Mr. Bond, I expect you to die! It's great, isn't it? I'm gonna bet a bar of solid gold on every hole."

"Wait, what?" said Ed.

Abbi locked eyes with me and said, "Is that the one where the hero goes to his hotel room and finds a naked woman in his bed?"

"Yeah. So unrealistic."

There was a twinkle in her eye. "Is it?"

"Isn't it?" I let my lips twitch slightly, then put my hand on the fattest golf club in Heath's bag. "I've got my big, long wood and a group of rich and powerful men to tell me how to use it. Yep, everything's just how I like it."

Abbi let out a reluctant laugh, which I fully expected to be the highlight of the morning.

***

Hole 1. Par four.

We ambled out to the first tee, where the rest of our group were already in situ. There were three caddies holding one large bag each, and three golfishly-dressed men.

The first of these was Scott Conrad, who I had met when a delegation had gone to Chester to assure me that there was no refereeing conspiracy against us. 

Scott was from Surrey or somewhere like that. He had a posh accent that he dialled up and down depending on who he was speaking to. He had spent most of his life hanging out with stockbrokers, politicians, and executives, which was good training for his current role, because he was working for the Premier League as a kind of roving diplomat slash troubleshooter slash legal advisor. The PL was made up of the 20 clubs in England's top tier, so the composition changed every year as clubs were relegated, replaced by new ones. Sometimes an established club got new owners, so the internal politics of the Premier League were always shifting. As things stood, Arsenal hated Man City, Everton hated Chelsea, and Liverpool hated Chester.

Scott's job was to try to get the warring club owners to come to decisions on pressing issues. He nudged them towards compromises, tried to balance the many and varied competing interests... but it was like herding cats. Sometimes one club had two main shareholders who had completely opposite viewpoints on a topic! How could anyone make sense of that? It would have driven me mad.

I wasn't sure why Scott had invited me to play golf, but I knew he was keen because we'd had to reschedule the round and he had agreed to the new date instantly, which meant he had had to cancel something else. Yeah, keen.

I liked him, but we were only meeting for the third time. The first had been alongside the two most senior referees in England. The second time had been at the emergency meeting held by the Premier League in London the day after a cute little hedgehog had wiggled through my back garden. In that meeting, certain assurances had been given, but those promises had not been kept. Scott thought he was about to play a nice round of golf and discuss some business, but I had some business of my own to attend to...

The second golfer was a Chinese guy with what had to be a fake name: Gong Bang. He didn't talk much and was very serious about his golf. I wondered if he was perhaps an undercover bodyguard, because he was stocky and muscular and looked like he could use golf clubs as nunchucks. Which, by the way, is a movie I would pay to see.

The richest among us was Michael Ning, a Chinese billionaire with a massive portfolio of investments that included Wolverhampton Wanderers. He was balding, quiet, and friendly. What did he want? Wolves had a manager, but they had been yo-yoing down and up from the Premier League. What they needed most was a strategy. What they needed most was a director of football. If he offered me either job I would demand both and ask for 65 million pounds a year. The crazy thing was that it would actually be good value...

After the handshakes, Scott said, "Max, have you really asked Ed Heath to caddie for you?"

"Nah, the opposite. I'm helping him." Heathy looked surprised and tried to hand me his bag. "Er, nah. Strong Welshman like you can carry a little bag, I reckon. I'm gonna help by telling you what to do." I pointed down the pitch. "Hit a shot that way. Don't shoot an albatross; it's bad luck."

Gong Bang bristled slightly. "You are not going to play?"

"I forgot my special glove," I said.

Michael Ning smiled a little. "You don't like golf, Max?"

I rubbed my chin and pointed down the fairway. "It's a long game, isn't it? Long and thin. You're trapped by the boundaries, you've got to go the way you're told. It's all stretched out in front of you. Your life chopped up into a series of minor goals, small triumphs and disasters to give the illusion you're making progress, but at the end you're right back where you started. Nah, guv. Golf's way too allegorical for me. I'm happy to be here and to experience it but I've never so much as hit a golf ball." I slapped Ed on the back. "That's why I brought you the Greatest Living Welshman. Heathy's list goes Wales, golf, more golf."

Scott looked at his watch. "We should start or we'll get in trouble with the next group."

"Ah," I said. "Yeah, I don't know much about golf but I know I don't want anyone smacking a ball into the back of my head at two hundred miles an hour. And I don't know much about business but I don't like being rushed. So I booked the time slot after ours; my mate Henri is taking it with the League Two Legends. They're gonna do the course but they won't do the drives. They'll start halfway along each hole so there won't be any massive shots coming at us. And I booked the group after that, too. It's all massive lads. Ray Jordan, Clive Allen, Dean Earnshaw. They're allowed to play proper, but slow. If anyone gives them shit, they can either intimidate them with their bulk or sign autographs."

Michael seemed impressed. "So we can relax! You think of everything."

I nodded. "I try." To my right, I saw a couple who were out for a walk. One looked rather a lot like Beth, a journalist I knew. "Michael, can I hold one of your clubs for a second?"

Michael was delighted to show off his gear. He let me take a couple of swings, explained what made these clubs stand out from the crowd, and thought nothing of it when I brought Scott into the conversation. The three of us stood together like old friends.

When I glanced again a few minutes later, the woman who looked like Beth was gone.

"Good," I said, nodding. "In my research about this sport, I discovered that the person who tells the funniest joke goes first." I cleared my throat. "Why did the golfer change his socks? Because he got a hole in one. Okay, bosh, I win. Heathy, you're up. Team Wales, represent!"

***

Heathy ignored my instructions and everyone ignored my advice on how to approach the sport, but amazingly they seemed to do quite well. Heathy was the most talented, hitting long and straight from a left-handed stance, though it looked to my untrained eye like he wasn't quite giving it his all. Scott Carson was less powerful, but accurate. Gong Bang's drive was brutal but wayward. Michael generated the least distance, but according to one of the caddies, the billionaire had the second-best short game.

"Watch out for the dogleg," I suggested.

"There isn't a dogleg," said Heathy.

"Yeah, I'm just gonna keep saying it until there is one."

After Michael hit his third shot, we pottered along, towards the green, so called because unlike the rest of the course, it was green. Scott said, "You've been enjoying yourself as Wales manager, it looks like. Back to being a mastermind."

"Bah," I said, dismissing the idea. "It's the easiest job in world sport. You take a blank piece of paper, write Ed Heath on it, hand it to Well In, and he writes ten other names while you get back to your first love, which is writing poetry."

Scott showed his teeth. "Come on, Max. Don't be coy."

Michael was taking a putter from his caddie. "That is not your method; Ed Heath did not start three of the four matches. I asked the Wolves analysts to explain your process; they couldn't."

"If they could explain it, they'd be working for Chester."

Gong Bang laughed sharply, which was pleasing. Scott gave me puppy dog eyes. "Max."

I scratched my head. "I can't really remember why I did it like that."

Scott groaned, then approached his ball. He putted it towards the hole - decent effort. "Is he always this secretive, Ed?"

Heathy shrugged. "I don't know. We only really met two weeks ago. Before that he would come along, watch training, but he stayed out of the way most of the time."

"Do you mind being left out of the team?"

Heathy hesitated, but I gestured in a way that meant, 'speak freely'. He said, "It's not what I expect at this stage in my career, that's true, but it's not about me, is it? It's the team. I'm happy to contribute and we've won four games on the trot and no-one would have expected that."

Gong holed from ten yards, and boy was he happy about it. Michael's putt touched the edge of the hole but didn't drop. He looked to the heavens and chuckled. It was a small gesture, maybe meaningless, but it made me like him. I said, "I suppose I can explain my process, if you want, since it's over and it can't be repeated or replicated."

Scott gave me a sharp look. "Yes, please."

"So," I said, but a golf buggy was racing towards us. I stepped closer to Heathy's bag - which I was helping to carry around - in case I needed to grab a weapon, but soon I spotted the unmistakably floppy hair of my best friend, Henri Lyons.

"Max!" he cried, stepping out of the buggy while it was still moving, the show-off prick. "Do I interrupt?"

"Yes," I said. "I've hit an albatross by intentionally slicing a shot around the dogleg."

"Good, good. I have something for you," he said, going back to the buggy. He came back with a bottle of champagne. "Louis Roederer Brut," he said. "Some say it is the best champagne in the world."

"Is it from New Zealand? I heard they do the best champagnes these days."

Henri tutted. "If it is not from the Champagne region of France, it is not champagne, but merely fizzy wine!"

I nudged Gong Bang. "I love fizzy wine!" Gong gave me a blank look in reply, but I was undeterred. Still talking to him, I said, "I watched a YouTube video about decanting wine and now I love decanting things. What you do is, you pour the wine into a special jug thing and leave it for four hours and when you drink it, it tastes better, because of science. It works! It's absolutely amazing."

Henri was standing stiffly. "You do not decant champagne!"

"Nah, trust me. I'll send you the YouTube link."

"Damn your video!" said Henri, striding away. He huffily stuffed the bottle into a bag, and threw himself into the driver's seat of the buggy.

Laughing, I called out, "Wait!"

Sulkily, he looked at me. "What?"

"I'm gonna double dip."

He continued to scowl for a couple of seconds, but then he relaxed, grew a full smile. "Really?"

"Yeah. Are you in?"

"Of course I am."

We grinned at each other. I pointed towards his bag. "Will you keep that at your place? We'll drink it after the season."

Henri nodded his agreement, but then surprise crossed his face. "You're not drinking?"

"No. I'm preganant."

"You're pergunt?"

"I'm pregant."

He laughed and swept his hand through his hair. "So you're playing. But when?"

"Soon, I hope. Depends how my latest scheme goes. I need to get this albatross off my neck once and for all."

"Huh," he said. "Bon chance. Enjoy your round, gentlemen!" He waved at us, and zoomed off, driving the little buggy way too fast.

Heathy said, "You're having a baby?"

"What? No. Why would you think that?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe because your best friend turned up with a bottle of champagne and you told him you were pregnant."

"No," I explained, slowly, "I said I was preganant. Don't you know that video? It's a YouTube classic. It's a guy reading thread titles with questions like, 'Am I gregnant?' or 'How do I get my girlfriend pergant?' Henri and I watch it every time we get blasted, which is sadly very infrequent, what with him being a professional footballer and me staying permanently sober so that I don't drunkenly agree to play golf." I pointed. "To the next hole, as the actress said to the bishop."

Heathy said, "Yeah, but, if you're not having a baby, what's the champers for? That was a very expensive bottle."

"Was it? Um, yeah. Basically, Henri and I did a... business. And it went well and we cleaned up."

"You did a business," said Heathy.

"Yes. One unit of business."

Scott Conrad was very sharp. "And you're going to do it again?"

"We... might," I said, trying to think back to what I had just said. I didn't want to talk about it, for reasons that will become obvious. "I can tell you about that, or I can explain how I turned Wales into a winning machine. Choose one."

"Wales," said the entire group.

"Done," I said. "Let's keep moving."

***

While I carried Heathy's bag to the next tee, I thought about the events that followed my decision to take Chester off the pitch at Anfield.

It had been a shitshow.

I had been shown proof that there was a conspiracy to stop Chester winning while I was in charge, so I had quit. That killed the slightest hopes that the match would somehow resume, but while Liverpool FC were incandescent about having 60,000 people in their stadium with nothing to watch, the wider footballing world was shocked that the English Premier League was so blatantly corrupt.

There were hot takes, people cancelling their season tickets, speculation that the broadcasters would pause payments, worries that sponsors would pull out.

In the turmoil, Manchester United's share price had tanked. The valuations of other clubs would have gone down, too, but United were listed on the New York Stock Exchange, so their ticker became the canary in the coal mine.

Old Nick, the demon who had given me my powers, had opened my eyes to the fact that, actually, there was no conspiracy, just one bad apple who had so far spread the rot to one other referee. I went to the emergency meeting of the Premier League and while Liverpool wanted my blood - I had cost them two million pounds and massive reputational damage - Scott Conrad and the others had managed to keep the focus on saving the league. Fast, dramatic action was required, and I quickly realised that I was in an interesting position. The other Premier League clubs wanted me to put out a statement saying that I was satisfied there wasn't a widespread conspiracy.

Not Chester FC.

Me.

Backed by Kelvin Pallister, the new head of PGMOL, in essence the country's most senior referee, I laid out my demands. Every club would immediately send half a million quid to a special fund, creating a ten million pound pot.

This would be used to do a lot of things, starting with 'signing' two elite referees from abroad, in a clear signal that we were serious about raising standards in the short and long term. There would be urgent trials with the 'one referee per half of the pitch' idea - if successful, this would coax referees away from their obsession with trying to match the fitness of Premier League athletes - an absurd aim - and help them to focus more on getting decisions right. Former players who had become refs would be fast-tracked where possible. Whistleblowers would be taken seriously, my new 'splat' technology would be trialled as soon as it was ready, and most importantly, there would be more consultation between managers and players.

As it stood, the refs were haughty, distant, and closed ranks whenever criticised, even if it meant defending the indefensible. It was understandable but self-defeating - their lack of transparency and honesty fuelled the flame of every conspiracy theory.

Including my own.

At the meeting, we agreed to all this and more (I told them I was going to start a referee school and if they objected I would demolish the whole Premier League) but I didn't put my name on the press release. Chester FC approved the plan. Max Best would wait and see if any of the promises were actually kept.

So far?

The majority of clubs were dragging their feet.

My friends at the Premier League were about to find out that I wasn't to be trifled with. And while I was flexing my muscles, why not make a bit of cash on the side? It had worked perfectly the first time.

I could have bought Man United shares (via my shell companies) and made a quick ten percent profit when they recovered to their normal value, but I was so sure the price would rise I was willing to take more risk. I had called Henri to ask how to do options trading. His answer was, "You don't." But I had overcome his objections and not long after, I had bought a lot of 'call' options in United. Briggy had done it for me in Gibraltar while Henri had piled in, too, possibly using his mother's accounts.

When the joint statement from all 20 PL clubs, PGMOL, and the Premier League itself was released, United's share price surged.

I made four hundred thousand pounds in a day.

Now I was going to do it again.

Heathy came over. "Max, soz, what's this thing with the albatross? I know it as shooting three under par, which almost never happens."

"It's something from the old days," I said, stupidly, but ploughed ahead. "On a ship, an albatross was a sign of good luck, so it was obviously terribly bad luck to shoot one. There's a story about a sailor who killed one. The wind died, stranding the crew, and they made him wear the albatross around his neck as a sign of his guilt. That's what the phrase means. It's like, the guilt you carry with you. I've got this albatross around my neck of walking off the pitch in a match. I believe I was right, I know I was right, I'd do it again, but until there's a final resolution to that story, I'm kind of carrying this guilty weight around with me. Do you know what I mean?"

Ed thought about it as we walked along. "So how do you get resolution?"

"Every Premier League club agreed to send half a million quid to a special fund to raise refereeing standards. In return, I would go to the media and say there's no conspiracy, the game is clean. But Chester put out a statement, so some clubs are going, well it's all right now, isn't it? Case closed. We'll wait till the next meeting and say we're not sending the money we agreed. That's what's going on. That's the final hurdle we need to clear."

"The final hurdle until you get that monkey off your back."

"Yeah."

"See, we've got a common phrase for that situation, Max. Why do you need to use a weird old one?"

"Because what have monkeys got to do with golf?"

"Oooooohhhhhh!"

***

Hole 2. Par five.

The guys took shots of varying quality, then indicated they were ready for my tale.

"Kay," I said, as we trundled along to find the balls. "How to make Wales a dominant team. I wish I had a flipchart and some coloured markers." I glanced around, wondering if I could use the fairway and some golf balls to sketch out a 4-5-1 formation that morphs into 4-3-3. "So obviously I'm doing tactics on a match-to-match basis. If a team's strong on the left, weak on the right, tall, fast, slow, whatever, I'm reacting. If an oppo's injured but he tries to stay on, I swarm his part of the pitch. I'm constantly making adjustments within a game to try to make the most out of our matchups, blah blah blah. Everyone does that, no big D."

I felt slightly claustrophobic and when I turned slightly, I found the caddies were walking closer than usual, straining to hear. They were Welsh, as far as I knew, so I moved to the side and spoke louder.

"But what I do when possible is approach a series of games on a meta level. Here we've got a set of six fixtures. Four come in a two-week block. What's the approach that maximises our number of points? What can I do in game one that affects how the oppo will play in game two? 

"Principle one, rest your key players as much as poss. Games three and four against Greece are the hardest, so you don't run your Ed Heaths and your Joe Fords into the ground in games one and two if you can help it. Greece will be doing just that, by the way, so you can eke out a small advantage there.

"Principle two, keep everyone guessing. We started the Finland match with our best players on the bench. I told them not to warm up, to look like they weren't even going to play. The Finns bought it and weakened their team in the second half. Then, bang. I'll take those three points, please.

"Albania knew, then, that we were taking the tournament seriously, so they were expecting us to start strong. Nope! Another misdirect. Albania didn't do anything stupid but that win wasn't about them, it was about tricking Greece. We fly out to Athens, and they're thinking that I've got some kind of supersub concept worked out, or I'm under very strict instructions from Fulham not to play Heathy for more than twenty minutes.

"What do I do? Name our best eleven from the very start. Bosh! We get off to a flyer. Greece come back at us, but they're reserving some mental energy for when I sub off my top bros. 20 minutes to go. 15 to go. 10 to go. I'm not making subs. Er, what? They scramble, make changes, send on my bro Nikos Iliades, we reform as a counter-attacking unit, mess them up.

"Now we've won three out of three. Nine points. Greece have four points from three games. They ain't winning this league, bruv! They come to Wales ready to play hard, but not with the edge you get when you might win the whole thing, if you know what I mean. But they've worked out what my first eleven are and that know I will start with them, so they chuck in Nikos and a couple of DMs to start the match. Their idea is to make it stodgy, look to hit us on set pieces, and if they can grind out a win, maybe they can win the group after all. Except that I revert to having five supersubs, and smash the second half with fresh legs and fresh minds.

"That's bosh on a stick, lads. Four wins from four, the other teams are taking points from each other, we're nearly home and hosed, and our key players played less than two full matches in total. Yeah, satisfying."

I kinda expected some applause, but there was just a thoughtful silence. The caddies were probably deciding if I was full of shit or not, but Ed Heath was thinking, 'oh, that's what it was!'

The whole supersubs thing leaned on Bench Boost, of course. My being the manager while Well In was co-manager was vital to the hack. I had a Bench Boost, he had a Bench Boost (not that he knew it), and he also got a half-strength Bench Boost that I triggered by making him my assistant manager for the second game. (I had explained that I felt some of the lads weren't sure who was actually in charge and I wanted to kill that line of thinking once and for all. My reaction to the referee conspiracy had proven how paranoid I was, so Well In had shrugged and said, sure. Were he ever to find out my real reason for temporarily demoting him, he would have approved, I'm sure. Wales, golf, ego.)

The imps had created the upgraded Bench Boost perk assuming that I would always be at Chester while Well In would be at Saltney or would be the assman for Wales. We were never meant to work together! If I could keep him by my side for the next two years, we would bosh the World Cup qualifiers and then the World Cup itself. If we were lucky with the draw, we could crash into the semi-final... or more...

The dudes hit their next round of shots, while I thought about the 400 grand I had earned through slightly shady methods.

The way I saw it was that I was taking money from b-bros and speculators. The Man United fans who bought a ceremonial share when the club first went public would be totally unaffected by my options trading, and I planned to use the money to buy a derelict property in Chester, restore it, and rent it out at an affordable rate. In that way, I would very slightly ease the housing shortage in the area.

Robin Hood, bro. Steal from the day traders, give to the poor.

And if today went well, I would make another fat wedge and would renovate another run-down property.

***

Hole 3. Par three.

This one fairly whizzed by.

As the dudes landed their birdies, pars, and bogies, I had a mad worry that we wouldn't have time to get to all the business.

Ed Heath asked if I thought he really had ten percent more improvement in him. I said I had never been so sure of anything in my life, but I was not telling the entire truth. It was more like 8 percent.

***

Hole 4. Par four.

"But Ed," said Scott Conrad. "What's Max really like? As a motivator? Because it's interesting to hear the way he thinks about a set of matches and how his approach in one informs the opposition's response to the next, but I have been around football for a while, and so has Michael, and for all that we venerate the manager in this country, it's the players who have to go out on the pitch and perform. How are his motivational skills?"

Heathy took a few test swings, smiled when I told him to watch out for the dogleg, then hit the ball with a lusty crack. He took the acclaim of the Chinese guys and the caddies, then stepped back.

"Motivational skills? Unusual. Most managers would just say, lads, you've got to train more, but Max turned that request into a whole West End play with props and extras. But he talks to us on the plane, in the hotels, takes us to the side, explains what he wants and how he might change our role during the next match.

"I always wondered how he switches tactics so rapidly but it's because he thinks about what might happen beforehand and prepares the players. If X goes here I'll move you there and Y will do this and Z will do that. It's..." He shook his head. "It's a lot but he keeps it simple and when we get out there, it all makes sense. So we feel good that there's a plan and by now we know the plans have a good chance of working, so that's motivational.

"But when it comes to big speeches and stuff, there isn't much like that. One time he said he's not here to motivate us because the red dragon on our shirt should be enough - which, by the way, gets us fired up when he talks like that. But... So there was this thing before the first match against Greece.

"We fly out to Athens, we do the prep, settle into the hotel, get to our first tactics session, which is just an overview. Oh, by the way, not really relevant but Max can mimic any player. Like, any player in the world. He was playing like Nikos Iliades so we'd know what to expect, but the lads had him mimic me instead. We switched teams and he 'became' me. He was drifting around, playing like me, hitting left-footed passes all over the park, pushing two hands through his hair all the time, asking everyone if they thought I was prettier than Orlando Bloom. The lads were in stitches and I was like, okay he can't mimic me and that was the most I've been bantered since I was new in the team! He's got you bang to rights, Heathy!

"Where was I? So we're there in the first meeting, starting to discuss the tactics, the likely formations, the lineups. Someone goes, boss, how come you didn't freak out because of the red card against Albania? We was expecting you to lose your shit in the dressing room. Max goes nah, that's not me, lads. 

"You're allowed to make a mistake. When that kind of thing happens, my first thought is to ask myself what I did wrong with my setup. Did I think of the matchups, did I get cocky, did I lose sight of the fitness levels, what could I have done better? Sometimes it's my fault, lads. But sometimes, mad things just happen. There's a shot and you stick your hand out and block it. There's a cross and you think a guy's gonna have a tap-in so you clip his ankle. You're trying to save a goal, trying to help your team. In that moment you can't pause time, you can't do a thousand risk reward calculations. You just react.

"That kind of thing doesn't bother me at all and if you get a red or a second yellow, it's frustrating but I'm not gonna hold it against you. What I hate is stupidity. Getting booked for dissent is stupid. Kicking the ball away is stupid. Putting your forehead on another guy's forehead is stupid. That's about you and your ego and has nothing to do with teamwork, so if you get sent off for that, maybe you're not a Max Best player and maybe you can show yourself into the nearest bin to save me the trouble.

"But this is international football and while I do expect a lot from you, I also know that you don't need to be here. You could get yourself three or four holidays a year by making yourself unavailable, but you do this because it's in your heart, because you want to make your mums proud, so it would take a fucking lot for me to give up on you. I might lose my shit, course, because it's an emotional sport and tempers fray, but I hope we'll always be able to get together over breakfast the next day and work things out. I'll give you a fair chance if you'll give me a fair chance."

Heathy nodded to himself.

"So, really good answer, yeah? It got us all thinking, and I know that what was going through my head and a few others was: this doesn't sound like the maniac we read about in the mainstream media, it sounds like a manager who's hard but fair, and we don't need to wait to see proof because we just got it.

"It gets quiet in the room, then Max turns to Dylan. Security. Max likes to banter him, keeps saying things like 'What's Welsh for Nando's?' and stuff like that. We've had this big speech and Max looks at him and goes, what are you doing? Dylan's got his head bent, being quiet, being distant. Normally he can't get enough of us talking because he's an outsider and he's living the dream of being around his national team. I know the feeling because that was me when I was young."

Scott said, "You played for Wales before you played for your first club, right?"

Heathy nods. "Yeah. So I know what it's like, getting to see it from the inside. I mean, when I started out it was nothing like the way Max does it, but it was still incredible and we enjoy it when Dylan's, you know, having the time of his life. So when he's quiet, it doesn't sit right, you know?

"Dylan says, oh, I'm just thinking about Bonnie. She missed her... We're wondering if maybe... He sort of sits up, realising that he's got too comfortable with us and has blabbed about his private life, but the boss's face lights up. 'Dylan's pegernant? He shoots, he scores. Dylan one-nil! Hey, guys! Dylan's gregnant!' Those words make a lot more sense now that he's explained it, but at the time we just thought it was funny.

"Dylan goes, 'No no no, we don't know. We don't know anything. I was just daydreaming. Can we not - ?' But Max is hyper. He's bouncing around the walls - almost literally - saying things. He's like, 'Lads, a Welshman is born! Do you want him growing up in a world where Greece have our coefficients?' He laughs at himself, slaps his forehead, goes, 'You'll never make coefficients motivational, Max, stop trying to make coefficients motivational.'

"Dylan goes, can we stop this, please? Thanks.

"Max goes, 'Yeah, sure. Perfectly reasonable request, happy to accede.' He goes to the tactics board - he likes a simple one with magnets - and moves them around. He says, 'I call this tactic: The Greecey Pole.' Then he puts a finger to his chin and says, quietly, 'One thing about Dylan is he's shit at naming things.' We all laugh because we know what's coming. Dylan's got his head in his hands. Max stares at him, clicks his fingers. 'Robert,' he says. 'Robert Dylan, after his father. Robert Dylan Lewis.' Well, we're all laughing even harder.

"Dylan stands, yells, 'I'm not naming my son Bob Dylan!'

"Max looks offended. 'What's got into you?'

"Dylan replies, 'Just leave it. I don't want to jinx anything. It might not happen.'

"Max goes, 'Well, but it might.' Dylan goes, 'Leave it.' Max holds his palms up, goes to the tactics board, slides the magnets around, turns to face us. He says, 'I need volunteers to be little baby Bob Dylan's godfather; I can't do it, I'm English.' A few hands go up. Max barks, 'Come the fuck on, Wales! Chip in! Are you a team or what?' Almost everyone's hand goes up. Dylan's really pissed off but Max moves all the magnets into a bunch and uses a marker to draw a circle around them. He says, 'The Welsh national team circa 2028/2029 is gonna be godfather to little baby Bob,' then draws a little baby, adds a line from the players to the baby.

"That does something to Dylan, as you might guess. He's got this weird look on his face. It's the sort of bliss you get after you've had a Nando's. So when Max claps his hands and goes, 'Right, who knows a good guitar teacher? We'll start with acoustic before controversially switching to electric,' Dylan actually laughs.

"But then he repeats his mantra: 'Don't jinx it. It might not happen.'

"Max says, 'If it happens next year, it's only gonna be an even better squad; I'll have cut out some of the dead wood.' Dylan stands and goes, 'I want this lot. They make me proud to be Welsh.'"

Ed Heath paused, blinked, looked down at his golf club. I held out a hand, took the club, slid it into the bag.

He inhaled through his nose, one mighty intake of air. "So, yeah. Next day, we beat Greece in Athens."

***

Hole 5. Par five.

Heathy asked what exactly happened at the emergency Premier League meeting; he had heard all kinds of rumours.

I pointed left, towards the lake. "See that? It's absolutely stunning. The garden of Wales, indeed. But think of society as a garden. We share the same soil, we grow roots, and though we compete, our very competition is an act of cooperation - as you would learn if you watched Owen Elmham's YouTube channel.

"When we dig up our social soil, when we cease to inhabit the same shared reality, all is lost. The roots wither, the leaves shrivel, our flowers bloom no more. We, the 20 clubs of the Premier League, collectively decided to tend our social soil, to fertilise it with the, uh, slug corpses of truth. We resolved, quite magnificently, to rise above our petty differences, just for one day."

Heathy looked at Scott. "That's a load of horseshit, isn't it?"

Scott smiled. "Actually, no. If the scandal was left to fester, everyone would suffer. Italian football used to be the dominant league but it never really recovered from their refereeing scandal. This mess could have been an albatross around the Premier League's neck for years and years, but luckily the meeting was quite productive. Max said his piece, Kelvin Pallister said his. I mean, how could anyone object? Half a million pounds to put the events of the weekend behind us.

"Max has his doubts, I know, but everyone in the room wants to have less talk of conspiracies and refereeing cabals, more talk of the excellence of the players and the genius of our managers. That's the way to boost the brand and that's the way for everyone involved to maximise their return on investment. Yes, it was harmonious."

"It was not harmonious," said Michael Ning, who had been there. "Liverpool's representative refused to start the discussion until we sanctioned Max Best and Chester. He wanted Chester to pay two million pounds in immediate compensation and he wanted Best to be banned for the rest of the season or longer. He said if Chester would do that to Liverpool, they would do it to any of us, and we had to act, urgently. Max stood before him and showed him a few pieces of paper. The man from Liverpool grew quiet, and soon after, withdrew his objections. What was on that paper, I wonder?"

I frowned. "Not sure I remember..."

"Oh my God," said Heathy. "Come on! We're friends. We're golf buddies. I'll do half an hour extra training if you tell us."

Scott frowned. "What's that, Heathy?"

"Max thinks I could be better, so he's pushing me to train more." He shrugged.

I wondered whether it would hurt or help my reputation if I told the truth. On balance, it would probably make my rivals fear me in what could be a healthy way, and here were two insiders who would spread the gossip around superyachts and blood-soaked palaces. "The first piece of paper was a list of every Liverpool squad player, their wages, their contract lengths and their incentive payments.

"The other one was a transcript of a conversation in which a Liverpool scout offered illegal inducements to one of my young players. I told Liverpool's rep, politely, that I considered the matter of the illegal approach closed but if he kept chatting shit I would reopen it and Liverpool would be looking at a three-window ban on signing young players. I asked was he secure enough in his job to tell his bosses he had gone into a serene meeting and caused absolute carnage? Yeah, he backed down."

Michael was amazed. "Were they the real player salaries?"

"Why wouldn't they be?"

"Because they are confidential."

I went, "Yeah. Which is why I haven't posted them on some random blog yet. But if they come at me, I'll go nuclear. Imagine the scenes in the LFC dressing room when players realise how underpaid they are compared to the guy they've just kicked out of the team."

Michael said, "Do you know the numbers for Wolves?"

"How could I?"

"Do you?"

"Yes. But don't worry - I don't want to spread that knowledge. It would only serve to tell my own players how underpaid they are, right? It's a weapon that could blow my own face off. I'll only use it if I have nothing to lose."

Michael Ning gave me a long, hard look. Finally, he said, "So you are still acting as Chester's director of football?"

"Yup."

"For how long?"

One side of my mouth turned upwards. "It depends. Could be another 30 years. Could be less than 13 hours. We've got a Fans Forum scheduled and we're going to get into it. The club belongs to the fans and if they don't want me, well, guess I'll be Wales full time."

Michael eyed Gong Bang, then looked back at me. "When is that scheduled?"

"Tonight," I said.

Slight sense of worry. "I see. I must make my offer quickly, in that case."

Scott said, in a good-natured way, "Hey! Me first!"

I said, "Whoever wins the next hole can go first, yeah?"

***

Hole 6. Par six.

Incentivising Scott and Michael to win the next hole proved to be a mistake, because they took bloody ages over every shot. Even Ed Heath was getting bored, and he loved whacking at things with his whacking stick and watching other men whack at things.

"So, boss. Can I ask a few questions?"

"Beats watching grown men hold sticks up in front of their face while they crouch and their fucking knees won't stop cracking."

Heathy hid a grin, got serious. His brows rose a little. "So, your teams train positional play and Bestball, but you never use Bestball. Why's that?"

"We use it sometimes," I said. "But..."

I rubbed my mouth, looked around. It was always hard to verbalise how I felt about tactics, because my strategies were so often instinctual. But I was warm in my Goldfinger outfit, being off my phone for more than ten minutes was helping me relax, and the scenery was, well, I regret to say that it was absolutely stunning. I felt my thoughts slowing down. Instead of trying to go faster, faster, faster, they were able to range higher, looser, freer, deeper.

"Relationism needs a lot of player familiarity," I mused, "so when we sign new guys I'm always thinking, are we putting ourselves at a disadvantage if we use Relationism? And... the point of it is to give power back to the players, and if I've got a beef with the oppo's manager I don't want to give up my power, do I? I want to smash him in the gob with my huge brain. So far in the Prem I've been beefing with everyone. And when it comes to selling players, it helps if they mostly have been doing positional play, because that's what other teams understand. Like if I signed you and we only did Relationism, that would be all right because you're getting old and you've got no resale value."

"Charming."

"But, er, Roddy Jones, for example. If he only played Relationism for seven years and then I said, lol, this kid's the best player in the world now, how would anyone else know? I mean, he would score 30 goals and be amazing, but some clubs refuse to even look at footage - they only look at the data on their computer models. What model can interpret Relationism? Even my DOVE program struggles with it because it's so used to positional play."

Scott Conrad glanced at me when I said the word DOVE, but then refocused on his next stroke. Er, his next shot, not his next heart attack.

"Thing is, Ed," I said, knitting my brows. "I've been thinking a lot these past couple of weeks. There's a lot to unpack. I'm reading a book called Living on the Volcano. It's about football managers and how they think and how they deal with the pressure. It's extremely hard to read because it's so grim. If I had read that before I got into the game I might have stuck to being an agent, no joke. Anyway, football managers are all paranoid and they're all projecting fake confidence and all sorts of things I don't like. I feel like an outsider looking in, thinking I'm superior, thinking I'm different, but I got paranoid, didn't I? I project fake confidence, don't I?

"So I'm trying to slow down, trying to get some distance, trying to ask myself some tough questions. How did things get to the point that I walked off the pitch at Anfield? A thousand other managers were also treated like shit there, but they didn't walk off. Why did I?

"And I'm using the time to think about tactics. I want to play attacking football, but that's just something managers say. Every manager goes into a new job promising attacking football, and then they produce the most mind-numbing garbage. I'm happy to do that with Wales - no offence - because when it comes to international football performances don't matter much, and results matter a lot.

"But I daydream about my guys storming towards the oppo's penalty area, our fans off their arses, cheering, hearts racing. Heart attack football is great if you have better players - you'll win more games than you lose. I think I can win a few PL matches just by attacking like crazy. But I'm not crazy. I want a proper risk reward balance.

"Recently, I've developed this super strong feeling that there's a killer tactic hanging just outside my consciousness, and if I could reach out and grab it, everything would change. But what could it be? There are only two ways to play, right? I'm well on the way to mastering positional play - certainly enough to give me an edge over the head coaches of Finland and Greece - and Bestball is a useful ten-minute switch-up that I can drop into a first half to freak out the oppo."

I mimed reaching out and grabbing something.

"It's right there. The hybrid. How do we attack urgently and with numbers without being mindless about it? I've tried to think about it logically, and one thing's clear, the solution can't be complicated. I see coaches trying to do fancy player rotations and my head explodes thinking about how much coaching is involved in those sequences, how many rules. Got to pass 20 times before you move into the penalty box, the wide forwards have to rotate to the other side, all kinds of madnesses.

"No, my thing needs to be simple. Something that you can explain in one training session, kind of thing. A minute to learn, a lifetime to master. Something that bridges the two styles of football that we train." I shook my head. "I think if I was actually good, I'd have thought of it already. But it's like... my body knows it. When I was coming out of my coma, I was having weird dreams about football without formations and when I saw Relationism for the first time I freaked out. I was seeing the thing I had invented."

"So maybe you'll discover this new thing in the same way."

I clicked my tongue. "Yeah. I wish I could get there myself, though. I would like to feel clever."

"You're clever. Think of how you tricked Greece!"

"Smoke and mirrors, Ed. Child's play. I'm talking about a killer tactic. I'm talking about surviving the Prem with a team that isn't quite ready." More to the point, I was talking about winning the FA Cup, but I had to start making public proclamations about staying in the top division, otherwise there was a risk that Willi Tillmann, the German left back, and Foquita, the Peruvian striker, wouldn't join us in January. It was essential that they did, because winning the FA Cup would turbocharge the next ten years of my career.

Ed was fiddling with his cuffs. "But... you aren't the Chester manager."

"I might be, tomorrow."

"How are you going to swing that?"

"I'm going to tonight's Fan's Forum... to ask for my job back. I have a couple of clubs up my sleeve."

"Clubs?" I could see the cogs in his head churning, taking him from golf clubs to football clubs. He looked at Michael Ning, the owner of Wolves.

I gave him a friendly push. "Two of clubs, three of clubs. Cards, Ed! Cards up my sleeve. I was being thematic."

He tipped his head back. "Sorry, I'm a bit slow, boss. I don't have a lot of conversations like these."

"Why would you? You're socially normal." I inhaled some fresh air. "I love the smell of Wales in the morning! Smells like victory."

"So you're gonna play, you told your friend. That means against Brentford on Saturday, does it? That'll be funny if you're back in the Prem, because we're gonna be playing against each other at the end of November. That'll be sooooo mental."

I thought about joking about putting him in my pocket, but decided not to. "Brentford? I don't know. Maybe. But I'm gonna play for Chester tonight."

He almost looked angry for a fraction of a second, but then he went blank. "They're not playing tonight and you said there was a Fan's Forum."

I put my hand on his shoulder and in that instant, I got a sneaky suspicion that he was mad at himself for being stupid. "Tonight's the first round of the Cheshire Cup."

"What's that?"

I laughed. "It's the Cheshire equivalent of the Nations League. No-one cares about it unless they win. When I took the job, Chester hadn't won it in ten years. I'm like, nah, this is ours now. We win this. It's not exactly a fair contest these days but we need silverware so yeah, we'll have a bunch of under 18s alongside some senior squad dudes. And me. We've got to make sure we get through to the next round so we've got more fixtures to keep our fitness levels high. Me playing is gonna be a surprise, so please don't tell anyone. And after the match, it's the forum. What better way to show commitment to the club than..." I left the sentence for him to finish, feeling it would cheer him up.

"Than by playing for it," he said, smiling.

"Bosh! Playing for Chester, taking my job back, that's a great way to get the albatross off my neck and the monkey off my back. But I need the Prem clubs to come through, today. They've got to pay their dues. When that's done, I can stand up and say, hey it's me, multi-award winning floating megabrain Max Best, I don't believe there's a conspiracy and I'm going to help make everything better. And then we can all just get on with it, you know?" I shook my head. "Only 6 clubs sent the money so far. The other 14 are such dicks. Maybe it would be better to let the whole thing burn."

Heathy looked over his shoulder. "Did Wolves send the money?"

"Yeah. That's the irony of the whole thing. The only match that was genuinely corrupt was last season when Chester played Ipswich Town. The ref made sure Ipswich beat us, but we recovered and finished where we wanted in the league. So no harm done, in a way. But it handed the title to Ipswich instead of Wolves, so Wolves are the only club who have really been wronged. Like, legally, provably. So if anyone's going to call in the lawyers, it's Wolves. Right?"

"Er, yeah, makes sense."

"That will help you to understand what's about to happen. Have you had a flurry of messages in the last five minutes?"

He checked. "No." He looked up at me. "Oh, shit. Max, what have you got me into?"

I grinned. "Nothing. What? We're just out playing golf. Look around, Ed! It's absolutely stunning."

"I'm stressed."

"Heh, you should become a football manager. You've got the paranoia for it."

***

Hole 7. Par one.

Scott and Michael scored the same, so I settled the debate with a coin toss. Scott won. I swapped places with his caddie so that we could talk more privately.

"What are your plans for DOVE?" said Scott. "And the Splat technology. It's great and your social media team are having a lot of fun with it. Other clubs are envious and are looking to replicate it. Who are you going to sell it to? What's your marketing strategy? What's your marketing budget? What are your sales projections?"

"I think from the way you're asking those questions, you know I haven't thought of any of that."

"You're busy, I know. But you should act fast to secure a monopoly!"

"My plan is to make the product good, then think about it."

"Certainly in the middle ages, that is how one would proceed!" He got an impish look about him, checked it was his turn to shoot, and did so. It went broadly in the right direction, I thought, but apparently not. "Damn and blast!" He handed me the club and winced as I shoved it back into the bag. As we walked ahead, he said, "Max, you need a salesman. Someone who can build out that side of the business, ideally someone with experience of working in football. I like to say that I work in the crossroads between low blocks and high finance." He glanced at me. "You don't think that's funny."

"I do, actually. It's very clever, but I'm waiting for the bomb to explode."

He smiled. "There's no bomb. I'm talking about myself; I would love to do this. What I do now is simply impossible and I don't know how much longer I can stand it. The clubs refuse to get along, they are excessively self-serving, and I have come from the City of London, so you can imagine the types of people I am used to dealing with. No, it's awful and I simply must change, but I would like to stay in football. It's the ambition of a lifetime come to pass! I should like to invest in your company and then expand it. I can assure you of rapid growth!

"We could quickly dominate three markets: DOVE for scouting and player analysis, in-stadium cameras for fascinating inserts into the match broadcasts and referee aid, splat videos for marketing and social media content.

"From what I've seen, all three products are already viable. Of course we will improve all three but for that we need a bigger team and you have enough on your plate. You need to hire someone to run this business as a business, and I'm in the fortunate position of being one of the few people in the country who even know this technology exists. That's my pitch." He grinned and did jazz hands. "Pick me!"

"Huh. Okay, one thing, I don't want to give up a stake in the company. I want to keep control and do things my way, which isn't always compatible with making money. For example, I don't necessarily want everyone to have DOVE. It's potentially so powerful that if everyone has it, it'll ruin the sport."

Scott gripped his hair and laughed. "I was wrong about you - you're a natural salesman! It's so powerful it could destroy the sport. What a line to slip into a sales presentation! Shut up and take my money! Haha."

I knew he was flattering me, but I liked it anyway, and that was his job, wasn't it? And if I gave him a job, his job would be to flatter people and make them feel comfortable. If it worked on me, it would work on a lot of people. "I would like to turn the camera feeds and the splats into a product. There's dramatic action replays for the broadcasters, better angles for refs to check their decisions, and all the marketing applications.

"Let's leave DOVE out of it for the minute, but basically if I had an ambition for the company, I would say..." I had a think. "I want our cameras in every stadium in the world. If I could leave you in charge of that, that would be amazing. You could build up the team, go out making sales, oversee the installations, do customer support. You could get a cut of the profits on top of a salary. Actually, no, that would be a bad incentive, wouldn't it? You would focus on profits instead of growth. It's like you said, we should get a monopoly first and worry about profits later."

"We can work out the specifics. Today was about seeing if you think we could work together..."

"I do," I said. "You're actually perfect! Let's see if we're still friends tomorrow, though."

"Why's that?"

"Because I'm a little bit annoyed at the clubs that haven't sent in the money, Scott. And I might go to the Chester Fans Forum tonight and say something that the other clubs regret."

"Oh, Max, no."

"I'm not playing, Scott. What they are doing is a little game called Fuck Around and Find Out, but when it comes to that particular sport, I'm the referee. Max Best has spoken."

We walked in silence for a while, then he said, "Maybe you'll be the one mad at me tomorrow. I have a confession."

"You're 30th in line to the throne of England and you're actually a lizard."

He snorted. "Where do you come up with this stuff? No, I went to Chester intending to casually bump into you. I was hoping you would see the obvious synergy I could bring to LIT brackets formerly Maxterplanalytics close brackets, but you had gone to Finland. I, er, took the opportunity to talk to your staff. Sophie and Harper - wonderful ladies - Spectrum and Pradeep. They really need more staff, Max. Pradeep is working miracles on his own but there's a limit to what one man can accomplish, as you know yourself. I had an idea that Pradeep was extremely enthusiastic about."

"Go on..."

"I'm sorry in advance if this causes you a headache, but I was carried away by his enthusiasm for his work. I was asking myself what I would do if I had the job of selling DOVE. The problem is, what's DOVE and what's Max Best? What we need is a demonstration that DOVE can stand on its own two feet. A demonstration that everyone can follow and see for themselves. 

"I suggested that LIT should buy a tiny club in India. We would install the cameras, get DOVE working, start scouting the team's existing players, the opposition, and all the local talent. DOVE would transform the team's recruitment strategy, even help the manager pick the team! The club would fly up the divisions - we hope - proving that the software is worthy on its own. You wouldn't even be allowed into the stadium, and that's fine because it solves any doubts a governing body might have about a football player owning a club. I mean, the ownership would be abstracted via your company, but your lack of direct involvement would be hard-baked into the project.

"Spectrum pitched the idea that Seal Studios could make a documentary out of it, or at least a YouTube channel that follows the club's progress. It would surely be tremendously popular in India and potentially abroad. Of course, one of the main benefits would be that such a project would help us to attract and retain top Indian programmers, and if the Indian club rises through the pyramid, you would never need to do any marketing for DOVE. Today you aren't sure you want to sell DOVE but tomorrow you might want to or need to. Or you can acquire one club in every country and automate everything!"

I had stopped walking at some point, and was facing him, open-mouthed. "Buying a club in India, never going there, trusting the product. That's actually terrifying. It's one of the craziest things I've ever heard. I love it."

Scott punched the air. "Yes!"

"That's such a good idea. We need to do it."

"Yes, that's what I think, too. It solves the recruitment problem, is an amazing marketing tool, and it will be fun!"

***

Hole 8. Par five (plus one on Protestant holidays, minus one on Catholic).

Next I caddied for Michael, and he got straight to the point without moving away from the others. His massive portfolio of companies and shareholdings included a Chinese electric car company. The competition in that industry in China itself was utterly cut-throat and it was far easier to make sales abroad. He wanted to get me in car adverts.

Apparently, I ticked a lot of boxes. I already drove what he called an EV - electric vehicle - and I had demonstrated my commitment to green energy. I was well-regarded among Chinese football fans who knew that I wore a shit hoodie to take pressure off low-income families. They also knew that I was a faithful and diligent son and that I had even contemplated going to Saudi Arabia just to give my mum a better life.

It blew my mind that people in China knew who I was, so when Michael asked for an iron I just stared at him, gormlessly. Ed Heath stepped over and pulled a certain club out of the bag I was carrying. Heathy helped me out by asking about the cars. "What are we talking about? The ones that look like Porsches?"

"No," said Michael. "Who wants to drive a smartphone on wheels? These are stripped down. Very basic, no bells and whistles. 14,000 pounds new." He smashed a shot that went straight as an arrow.

"Whut," said Heathy. "Fourteen grand? You're not serious? I've got a jacket that cost that much. How is it so cheap?"

"How is Max's hoodie so cheap? We propose an affordable car for the same market who buy cheap hoodies. Of course you can get add-ons, should you wish, but for some people, our car is perfect and the price is right. We see Max as our ideal spokesman. Cheap doesn't mean bad. Cheap means more money for other things. We have ideas for a marketing campaign around that concept."

"Okay," I said, seeing a flaw in the plan. "I'd love to do it but maybe it could be a Chester FC thing instead? I'm not always the shit hoodie guy. I was actually thinking of buying a new EV, but a top-end one."

"What make?" said Ed.

"It's called Titanio or something."

Scott got ten percent posher as he intoned, "And as the smart ship grew in stature, grace, and hue, in shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too."

"Er, yeah," I agreed. "But the brand isn't really the point. It's just one guy in Venice who takes old Alfa Romeos and refurbishes them. The result is insanely beautiful and only 15 will be produced. Way overpriced, but you're basically funding this guy's dream and a bunch of top craftsmen in Italy. You know, for the leatherwork and all that. Every component is made by the Max Best of their field and I want to support that. And it's not really about the money, it's about convincing the guy you're worthy of driving his car."

Heathy said, "How much is it?"

I squirmed. "Ed, come on."

Heathy picked the club he wanted to use on his next shot. "Max, I'm a Premier League footballer. The car park's full of Lambos and Ferraris."

Scott said, "It isn't boasting."

I checked where the caddies were - they were a respectful distance back. I shrugged, and as Heathy was about to swing, said, "Six hundred thousand."

There was an ugly cracking sound; Ed Heath's shot flew sideways.

***

Hole 9. Par five on weekdays, six on weekends.

The fuse I had lit finally went inside the bomb, and everyone's phones started blowing up.

Somehow, the Daily Mail had got photos of Max Best golfing with a Premier League club owner and a non-executive director of the Premier League. We looked worried and seemed to be plotting.

The story that accompanied the photos - written by B. Alban, whoever that was - suggested that according to her sources, Wolves were planning to sue Ipswich with my support, that I was going to sue the Premier League with Wolves's support, and that I was going to give a speech to the Chester fans that evening explaining the details of the conspiracy, with new evidence.

The story was a return to all the chaos that had followed the Liverpool match.

Scott and Michael were not best pleased - no pun intended - and asked me what I thought I was playing at.

"Guys, it's simple. Tonight I'm going to tell the Chester fans that I can't take the job because the league is corrupt and rotten to the core. Orrrr..." I said, elongating the word. "Or the other Prem clubs can send the fucking money they owe right now, and tonight I will tell the Chester fans that the Prem is squeaky clean and I want my job back. It's really simple."

Scott eyed me, went "Argh!", paced away, came back. He looked at me, shot daggers, then switched to practical mode. He turned to Michael. "I'm gonna make some calls. Can you help?"

"Yes," said Michael. "I will do Bournemouth."

They got to work.

I got my phone out and checked Manchester United's share price. It was already down 5 percent.

I snapped a screenshot, sent it to Henri and Briggy.

The latter replied quickly. "On it."

Henri's reply took a minute. It was simply a string of laughing emojis followed by a string of champagne bottles.

***

Hole 10.

Scott and Michael were hitting the phones hard. Two clubs had sent the money they owed, but there was a lot more to come.

I offered to take their shots for a while, but they weren't keen.

Gong Bang came up to me in what I thought was a menacing way, but instead of threatening me he said, "Is he having a baby?"

"Who?"

"Your security man."

"Oh, Dylan! I don't know. He's keeping mum, which is an apt phrase that means 'not telling me the news'. Is Gong Bang your real name?"

"No. Gong is my family name. Bang is a nickname."

"It's an amazing name. Max respect."

"Mr. Ning will not be happy you have done this."

"Well, I'm sorry about that, but people need to do what they promised to do. If I lose a potential sponsorship, I can live with that. If I lose my golf friends, I'm actually ahead on the deal."

"Hmm. I like golf." He walked off and discussed his next shot with his caddie.

I got a text from Kelvin Pallister from PGMOL.

Pally: What are you doing?!

Me: I'm helping you. Don't comment. Don't do interviews.

***

Hole 11.

Scott and Michael were still sulky, but the tide was turning. More clubs were sending their dues, and we tipped over into being the majority. "The others will fall into line now," said Michael, in a quietly determined voice. So he wasn't sulking - he was enjoying himself!

There were a couple of signal blackspots around the course. In one of those, I tried to lift Scott's spirits.

"Scott, do you have a sand wedge in your bag?"

"Uh, yes," he said, somewhat distracted.

"Those clubs are named after the Earl of Sandwich. He was playing golf one day and he was hungry, so he asked his butler to go to the kitchen and get two slices of bread and to put some bacon, lettuce, and tomato in between. Also, get me a club that can hit a ball out of a bunker. That's why it's called..." I paused. "You don't think it's funny."

"I do. It's very clever. I'll laugh later, if you don't mind."

***

Hole 12.

This was my favourite spot on the course, because you had to walk over a little wooden bridge to get to the island from which you teed off. It was very zen.

"This is very zen," I said.

"Yes!" roared Scott, pumping his fist. "We got Aston Villa!"

***

Hole 13.

"This was a good international break for me," I said, to no-one in particular.

"Because you won four out of four?" said Heathy.

"I suppose, but I was thinking about my players. Youngster played for the Ghanaian senior team. Zach Green played for the U.S. Jimmy McNeill went to the Scotland camp, though he didn't play. That will come! Dumi's back in the Romania squad. Helge got minutes, Lewis played every match for NIreland. Lots of happy people coming home."

"If they have a home to come back to," said Heathy, darkly.

***

Holes 14-16.

Only two clubs were left - Notts Forest and Liverpool.

I told Scott what to say to persuade Forest. "Tell their owner that I know the secret release clauses for his three best players. He can send the half a mill that he already agreed to, or he can lose his entire midfield for half their true value. He'll lose a hundred mill. His choice."

A minute later, Scott was holding the phone two feet from his ear while grimacing, but a few minutes after that, he showed me the thumbs up.

He took his latest shot then came over to me. "Please say I'm allowed to charge him double what we charge everyone else for splats."

"Dynamic pricing," I said. "Good people pay less. So you still want the job?"

He sighed. "Course I do. I'd be at home watching this play out on DigiSports News, wouldn't I? With a triple scotch."

***

Hole 18. Par five.

Liverpool were the last man standing; Liverpool caved.

"What a bunch of fucking twats," I declared. "But we did it! The Premier League is no longer cursed. Tonight, Max Best will speak his truth. The albatross will be lifted from all our necks!"

Michael eyed me. "Can I take my drive now?"

"Sure, sure," I said, magnanimously. "Watch out for the dogleg."

He smacked his shot. Gong banged his. Scott did something I didn't fully understand, but I had picked up a little bit of the nuance. "Did you... Did you turn the volume down on that shot?"

"Yes. I can't clear those trees so I went safe. It's the equivalent of playing for a draw, I suppose."

"Huh," I said. Heathy was starting his process. "What are you going to do?"

"I'll do the same as Scotty, Max. I can still birdie from there." He settled back into his stance, but looked up at me. "What?"

Liverpool caved. The albatross was off my back. I found myself pacing around Heathy, circling him, getting hyped up. Things were happening. I jerked my chin at him. "You're holding back."

"What?"

"You play golf how you play footy. You're brilliant and beautiful and you win and that's good enough for you. But I've been watching and I think you can hit harder. You can go harder. Fucking smack this one over the trees, mate. I know you can do it."

"Boss, I can't."

"You can! Give it some welly. Give it some oomph!"

He licked his lips. "I've done a good round. Got a good score if I birdie this one."

"Score? Who gives a fuck? Push yourself. Test yourself! You're ready for the next step. You've got more to give. Come the fuck on! Do it for little baby Bob Dylan! Show us the dragon. Show us the dragon inside!"

He was nodding very slightly. I was getting through to him, but he glanced at the tree line. "I can't clear those trees, boss. I'll get lost and it'll mess me up."

"No it won't! You'll clear the trees and you'll hear choirs of angels! You're ready. Come on!"

I looked at the caddies, who understood what I wanted. "Go on, Heathy! Have a pop, lad!"

I moved away, watched, waited. I didn't have the first clue whether he could clear the trees or not and I didn't care. If he even tried - 

CRACK!

"Holy fuck!" cried Scott Conrad.

"Whoa!" said at least one caddie.

"Jiayou!" cried Gong Bang.

Michael went to Heathy and hugged him. I was lost. "What? What?"

Michael said, "Ed has hit a perfect shot. Now he has the chance to shoot an albatross."

"That's bad luck!" I said.

Scott laughed. "Not in this game. Three under par? Every year, only a few players do it. I have never seen one in person."

"Nor me," said Gong.

The other players hurried over their next shots and we almost jogged around the course. They were all so excited that I got swept up in the feeling.

Ed's ball was on the fairway, about forty yards from the hole. A flag was fluttering around. Light breeze. Heathy would have to factor that in. He got into position behind his ball, had a long chat with Michael. Gong Bang bit his nails.

Heathy stood, took a few test swings. He turned to me. "Boss, any advice?"

"Aim for the flag," I said.

He laughed, lined himself up, wiggled his arse, took the shot.

"Ooh," said one of the caddies. No good. Heathy had hit it too hard.

The trajectory seemed right, but it was going too fast.

The ball landed on the green, bounced once, bounced twice - yes, far too fast - hit the flag, stopped dead, fell into the hole.

My golf buddies went bonkers. Heathy tried to run around, but Gong Bang lifted him, spinning him like a nunchuck. Scott and Michael bounced up and down in a hug. The caddies punched the air, gave each other high tens, grinned, looked to the sky with extreme satisfaction.

I walked over to Heathy and gave him a friendly slap on the back.

"That was absolutely stunning." I shook my head and slapped him again. "Told you to aim for the flag."

...

Thanks for your support!

If anyone has any ideas on how to wedge Monty Python's Albatross sketch into this chapter, let me know! I couldn't think of an elegant way. I couldn't think of an inelegant way, either!