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Monday, October 14

FA Youth Cup Third Qualifying Round: Chester Under Eighteens vs Walsham-le-Willows F.C. Under Eighteens

One artefact of what we might term Historical Gammonism was that while the women didn't get to play at the Deva, the boys did. With considerable investment, the pitch would be able to stand up to more stress, but for now it was the men and a couple of matches for the boys.

Jonny Planter, our groundsman, told me he wasn't too worried about the long run of home matches we were in the midst of, saying the bio stimulants were working wonders. I asked him to look into genetically-engineered superworms but he didn't laugh. He simply said, "I have."

Spectrum would be my assistant manager for the cup run. He had done the warmups and pre-match drills and he was worried. "Max, they're hyper. It's a cup match in our home stadium under the floodlights with hundreds of people in."

"There would have been more but MD went on the socials to specifically say there wouldn't be free beer."

"We still sold about six hundred tickets. Okay, they're cheap, but that's a serious show of interest at this level."

"Brooke did a good job on this one, yeah."

"And the whole first team are here. Loads of the women, too. The board. Boggy is doing Seals Live. It feels like a big game."

I frowned. "It is a big game."

Spectrum squirmed. "I know but Max, we're still very young. They're not used to this."

"What are you saying?"

"Can you just... ugh. I know you like to do the opposite but please consider not hyping them up. WibRob already looks like he's ready to go to war. Benny looks like he's on crack. If you pump them up more they'll burst."

"Exploding children could be good marketing. He's done what?! He's exploded. Wow. Let's go see the next match. Can't, it's sold out."

Spectrum forced a smile onto his face. "Max knows best." He walked off, waving at some people in the main stand, and gathered the kids. I watched him work. Most of my coaches had fairly static profiles. The Brig's tactical knowledge had increased from 1 to 2. Vimsy's coaching had increased from 7 to 8. But Spectrum had added three points. He was now Coaching Outfield Players 12, Judging Player Potential 3, and Tactical Knowledge 16.

And he had, without anyone ever really formalising it, become the de facto Head of Youth Development. He coordinated the coaching sessions and made sure there were matches to play and a coach and physio for every fixture. He texted and emailed with thoughts on the kids, gaps in the squads I might want to fill, who he was bumping up to a higher level and for how long. He was turning into one of my best f-boys (where F, you remember, stands for football and nothing else).

In the dressing room - the one used by the men! By the stars! - the lads went through their final preparations while waiting for me to get them hyped and reveal my brilliant masterplan. Their excitement got under my skin and I very nearly got mischievous.

In a boring voice, I said, "Walsham-le-Willows is east of Cambridge and has a population of just over a thousand." Benny and Tyson thought this was hilarious and fell into each other. I looked at Spectrum as if to say, what am I supposed to do? He folded his arms and pinched his nose. I changed tack. I walked up and down the benches getting an eyeful of all the teenagers. When I returned to the tactics board, I said, "Forget dentists. What we need is a club hairdresser." This raised the roof and the lads blasted each other over the state of their trims. It was like opening a steam valve. After the initial burst, the energy levels in the room were more stable. I pushed the tactics board to the side, brought my flipchart forward a little and wrote, The longest way round is the shortest way home. I tapped it. "This phrase means do things right. It's a ninety-minute game. We don't win it in the first ten minutes. We don't win it by taking shortcuts."

I let the lads think about that for well over twenty seconds.

"All right, listen up. It's a big game and you're right to be excited. I'd be pissed if you weren't excited. So you're up for the cup - that's great. One box ticked. We're better than them. That's another boxed ticked. So now the challenge is, how do we play? I want you to approach this game with respect. Just because we're better doesn't mean we can clown around doing skills and madnesses. We're still in the qualifying rounds, for fuck's sake. We don't get to be Billy Big-Bollocks. Do you know what I mean? I expect you to play the same way you've been coached. No shortcuts!

"Most of you are sixteen or seventeen. Walsham's lads are almost all turning eighteen this season. They're bigger than you. Stronger. Some are faster. But still, they know that to beat you they have to wind you up, put you off your game. In the upside-down world of football, all the shit-talking they're gonna do is a sign of respect. Some of you are pros or close enough and if you let some verbals from amateurs get to you I'll be very disappointed. Anyone getting a red card today can fuck right off. I'm serious about that. There's no need to go in two-footed, to retaliate, to foul someone who's through on goal. They're not going to score and even if they do, we'll go score down the other end. So what I most want to see from you today, apart from a new haircut, is a bit of maturity. Win your duels, sure, but your duels exist as part of a bigger picture. This match is a story. What's the story? It's not you getting into a fight with a kid who will never, ever play a serious football match again. It's you connecting with your mates, working for the team, doing your little part of the plan. Be calm and be serious. Wear the badge with pride, but wear it with class, too. This is a big game for your opponents and this will be a memory they keep. Do you want to be remembered as a dick?"

That was good. As I'd spoken, I saw them redirect some of their loose energy.

"Last reminder of the lineups and tactics. The tactics are, you don't need tactics holy shit stop going on about them. 4-4-2. Bivvy in goal. Lucas Friend, Captain, Henk, Sevenoaks. Everyone remember that Seven isn't a natural defender and if he gets into trouble I want you digging deep to help him. You with me? Midfield is WibRob, Tyson, Dan, Noah. Loads of silk, not much steel. Be patient out of possession. No need to go flying in. I don't think Walsham are going to pass it around for three minutes but if they do, let 'em. Shuffle and slide and be patient. Or even better, get some fucking quality on the ball and make them work to recover it. Pass them to death. Up front it's Benny and Chas. I do not want to see aimless high balls played at Chas. Build through the thirds like you do in training. He's tall, but so is my postman and I wouldn't ask him to hold the ball up against someone stronger and more experienced. Pass pass pass, build down the sides, Art of Slapping. Yes? Chester football? Let's have a good first half and we'll use half time to fix any issues that come up. Be positive out there."

I checked if there was anything I'd forgotten to say. At the top of my mind was the long run of home games.

"Right, one more thing," I said. "The pitch. The firsts played on Saturday, you're playing today, firsts are back tomorrow. Three matches in four days. That's already brutal, but our next two games are at home, too. Won't someone please think of the grass? Do not fuck my pitch up. We need a good pitch to play our football and get out of this league and get money for dentists and hairdressers. Benny, when you score, what are you banned from doing?"

He sat up straight. "Er, not allowed to jump on someone's back."

"Why?" I said, like a teacher.

"Because it's someone's fucking spine that they need so that's moronic. And not allowed to, er, to run around waving our shirt."

"Why?"

"Coz it's an automatic yellow card so that's moronic."

"Good. What else? Remembering what I said about the pitch being important?"

"Oh, like, knee slides?"

"No knee slides. I will one trillion percent lose my shit if you tear two fucking... what's the word? What do tractors do?"

Spectrum knew. "Plough."

"Right, plough. Do not use your fucking stupid knees to plough two..."

"Furrows," said Spectrum.

"Two furrows into my beautiful football pitch."

The bell rang. "Go on, then."

Captain yelled captain things and they trotted out. "I've missed this," said Spectrum. "Das Tournament. The wizard. What's, er... What's Bethany up to these days?"

"What's she up to? About a thousand downloads per episode, I reckon." I grinned and gave him a friendly slap on the arm. "Maybe she'd want to interview the Head of Youth Development at the non-league team who won the FA Youth Cup. Hey?"

He blinked. "Is that a job offer?"

"It is if we win the cup."

"Fuck me," he said. The cogs in his head spluttered into life. "Wait," he said, suddenly frowning. "They were good and hyped and you calmed them down. Go and hype them back up!"

"Can't," I said. "They might explode. Health and safety, mate. Bad for the brand. Come on."

***

Walsham had brought a well-coached, organised team whose average CA didn't hit double figures. We had an average CA of 16.7.

My side featured five guys who were getting decent first team exposure: Lucas Friend had received glowing reviews from Jay Cope at West Didsbury; Tyson, Benny, and Dan had done well on their loans. WibRob? Say no more. In addition, Henk had played at a decent youth level for Tranmere until becoming unhappy and returning to Chester. Others had trained with the first team a few times.

But while I'd done quite well in taking the core of the Das Tournament side and adding to it, I spent the first five minutes catastrophising. A CA of 16 was dogshit. How had I worked so hard to achieve so little?

It didn't take long to calm down. We were a high PA group and we had better technique and passing than the average. That would count for a lot. But the most important thing was our age profile.

As with the first team, we were pretty young. Overly young, perhaps. We had no guys who would turn eighteen this year. Only three of our starting eleven would even hit seventeen. The rest were a year younger, except Chas, who was a year younger still.

Age was one of the most important factors for a young player. At Das Tournament, Wolves had put out a team with an average CA of 6. I expected they would improve in an exponential way for a few years. If the Wolves under 17s team was CA 40, their 18s would be CA 60. So if my Chester boys got to CA 20 this year, they could be CA 40 next.

CA 40, plus my tactics, plus all the first-team experience, plus moments of magic from WibRob? We would have a chance. Not a wishful thinking chance - a real chance.

And hey, I still had a year to improve the squad. If I could resolve the Daddy Star situation before the transfer window closed, I could dip into my reserves to bring in some talented youngsters. If only I could persuade MD to loosen the purse strings. Just a little bit...

"Good start," said Spectrum.

"Hmm? Yeah. Is it just me or are we fucking amazing?" We had already had two long passing sequences and in their excitement, Walsham had sprinted around trying to press and harry and found themselves chasing shadows. "Hey, Noah is looking good. What did you do with him?"

"Nothing," confessed Spectrum. "He was settling in and then he saw WibRob and I think he realised what a top player really looks like. And, sort of, all the other kids are in the same boat. It's like, we are us and he is him. So that brought them together."

"Will's mint, isn't he? He's not a dick, though?"

"No, he's hungry. Good team player. Why did you put him left mid?"

"We don't have a good alternative. Hope is the next best. Who else? Kian? Anyway, I don't want Will scoring ten goals and getting noticed. At left mid he plays, he learns, he stays under the radar."

"Er, yeah, good luck with that," scoffed Spectrum, as WibRob barrelled past a midfielder, let a big defender bounce off him, and played a left-footed through ball slightly too far ahead of Benny.

Benny chased the ball, kept it in, and dribbled to the corner waiting for support. He played a clever diagonal into WibRob's path. Will swept the ball out to Noah Harrison who was in acres of space. Noah drove forward, shaped to cross - no, mate! - but when the defender went for a block, Noah pushed forward to the byline and lashed the ball across goal. Benny had worked hard to get back into position and he applied a tidy finish.

One-nil!

A great goal. A Chester goal.

"Oh-oh," said Spectrum.

He was watching with everything clenched as Benny raced towards the corner flag between the Harry McNally and the main stand. Sure enough, the little fuck did a knee slide.

I watched with a David Moyes-style necromancer death glare as two ugly streaks disfigured my pristine - and fragile - playing surface.

"Get Jonny," I said, and my tone invited no debate. Spectrum rushed off to find the head groundsman.

***

It was two-nil at half time and the lads walked towards the tunnel waving at their friends and family in the main stand. Party time. I stopped them on the edge of the pitch. Party's over.

"Benny," I said. Something in my expression or voice made the kid's face turn white. Whiter. "This is Jonny Planter, our groundsman. These are the volunteers who love the club so much they help out for free. These are called pitchforks. If you ever want to play for this team again, you'll volunteer to repair the pitch."

Benny swallowed. "Yeah, sure. Course. Happy to. Sorry," he added, in a mumble.

I waited for him to understand, but there was no sign of that. "Fucking now!" I said, handing him one of the tools. The ground staff strode away to the corner that Benny had vandalised. Soon they would start prodding it and praying to the worms or whatever they did. I stood, hands on hips, until Benny turned and double-timed it after them.

Back in the dressing room, I dropped the angry facade. I was about to give them some instructions when I heard some unexpected noises from the stands. "Adam, go and see what's up."

He ran out and came back a minute later. "Everyone's all gone to that corner and they're chanting for Benny and cheering him when he pokes the pitch. His dad's there filming it saying funny stuff. Benny's turned red but he's enjoying it. I think."

I did a sort of scoff-chuckle thing. "I just don't understand why you players can't keep it in your pants. Scoring a goal's not that big a deal. It's like, your job. And there's hundreds of ways to celebrate. Why do something that might hurt a teammate like jump on his back or make it harder for us to win games like ruin the surface? What if I'm playing right-wing against Ebbsfleet this Saturday and I'm about to whip in a cross but the ball bobbles because fucking Benny just had to show off. What the fuck, man."

Spectrum coughed. "It was a good performance, though. Wasn't it, boss?"

I sighed. "Yes. Very good. I loved everything about that half. Well, almost everything. Dan, are you all right?"

"Yes, boss."

For twenty minutes, Dan had run the show from midfield with lazy passes and languid flicks. He looked like he would rather be on a beach somewhere, but that just added to Walsham's frustration.

One of them gave him a boot up the arse.

Dan didn't like that. He dropped the fake laziness and stormed around the midfield creating overloads and demanding overlaps. He ran the game while Tyson tried to be a good central midfield partner. When Dan ran out of steam, WibRob took over and the balance of the game played out on the left. Noah Harrison didn't want to be outdone and he tried to turn the right into a danger zone, too.

"Okay. Well, it's been a while since I saw a Chester midfield slap from three thirds. Noah, you're doing great. I love the way you're supporting Seven and you're quality on the ball, today. Keep that up because this is good practice. The next round won't be this easy, right? Tyson, very selfless play that half. Dan, you can take a breath and let Tyson be the creative force for a while. You with me? William, I'd love for you to dial the individual skills down about five percent and combine more with Lucas and Tyson. Remember the phrase. Longest way round's the shortest way home. A couple of extra passes and you'll find your marker's miles out of position. A little more patience. Last thing, they look good on set pieces so do try to stop giving away those silly fouls. I know the ref is a bit weak but you don't have to try to get the ball every time it comes anywhere near you. Block the crosses, but be patient. I'd honestly be happy if there wasn't a single tackle this half."

"Is Benny staying on?" said Walshy. He was one of the many kids I'd found in the PA 30 to 40 range, and as our next-best striker, the most likely guy to replace Benny.

"Yeah, fifteen minutes at least. I don't want to destroy him because he was excited. I mean, I kinda do. But nah. Or maybe...? Nah. Anyway, you'll get on the pitch, Walshy mate. Hundred percent. Let's just be professional about the second half, all right?"

***

The second half was a ton of fun for the crowd. We weathered a brief storm from the away team, then resumed slapping. Chas scored from a WibRob cross. He celebrated by running to the main stand, turning, and pointing to his shirt number with his thumbs. Max Best approved! Benny scored another close-range finish. He raced to the same corner as before, and as the crowd went 'oooh!' he threatened to launch himself into a knee slide, but instead he tapped at the pitch with his boot. His teammates did the same. Sarcastic running repairs. Max Best approved!

For the last twenty I made a raft of subs, but the new guys were overly keen to impress and gave away stupid free kicks. Walsham were more streetwise than our centre backs and scored a couple of goals.

We won 6-2 and the match showed what the team could and couldn't do. We could play beautiful football, dominate possession and create chances. We could fight for each other and enjoy winning. We couldn't defend set pieces. Not reliably, not against bigger, stronger kids. The draw for the next round would be absolutely fascinating.

***

As I was having a drink with the Walsham lot and Brooke was interviewing our lads on the pitch, the draw for the other cups came out.

"Swindon at home," I said, reading the text from Secretary Joe.

My opposite number said, "Are you happy with that?"

I was not happy. It was an absolutely horrible draw. Last time I'd seen Swindon, they had an average CA of 76, so even if I used all my boosts we would be miles off the pace. They weren't even an attractive fixture. They were doing poorly in League Two and I didn't associate them with a huge away following. They'd probably sell all 800 tickets we offered them, though, and it was an FA Cup First Round match. I would ask Brooke to fill the stadium and expect it to happen.

Apart from the likelihood that we would get knocked out of the cup in the First Round, I was also worried about the media. The cowardly, spineless Football Association had changed a hundred years of tradition at the behest of the big clubs. For the first time in history, there would be no replays in the FA Cup. In the past, a little team like Chester with a home tie would have fought hard against a bigger team like Swindon. Winning had obvious benefits but financially, a draw was even better - you went to the bigger club's ground for a replay. A replay against Man United or Tottenham could bring in a million pounds, easy. Those days were gone, though, and I had thoughts.

Angry, angry thoughts. How much fucking money did Man United and Arsenal and the rest fucking need? The FA were supposed to be the guardians of the game. Why were they working for a handful of clubs while sticking two fingers up at eight hundred others?

If interviewed after a narrow defeat to Swindon I would probably go on an epic rant. But it seemed sensible to keep my mouth shut. If I got a reputation - more of a reputation - as a troublemaker, it was conceivable that steps could be taken to exclude me from processes. Better to be seen as something of an idiot so I could get into the 'room where it happens' and make some actual positive change.

"Are you happy with that?" repeated the guy, because I'd gone into a rage trance.

"Not really," I said.

"You've beat them before, though," said a young coach who was still buzzing from having a role at a big stadium.

"We did? When?"

"Not Chester. You." He looked astonished that I didn't immediately remember. "When you were at Tranmere!"

"Oh, right," I said. I had been due to manage against Swindon when I was at Grimsby, so that's where my mind had gone. I mentally rewound another few months. "Tranmere, right. 3-5-1-1, Swindon played. I messed them up, didn't I? Teams shouldn't play weird formations against me. I'm actually pretty good at positional play. What do we do? 4-3-3 with me moving wide? Wish I could do the same on the left. We don't need four defenders, though. Maybe I'll ask Sandra to do her 3-2-3-1 again."

"That's only ten," said the guy.

"Yeah, plus me," I said, deep in thought. "I've kinda evolved beyond showing up on tactics screens."

The manager drained his pint. "Imma look out for that score. Fuck me, you're cocky."

Later I found out that the women would play Rhyl in the second round of the Welsh Cup. Seemed like an easier tie than Llandudno but we had a slight scheduling headache - near the end of November we would have three games in seven days. Not a huge problem so long as Jackie rotated the team but the third fixture was the league match against West Didsbury. With Cheadle Stingers nipping at our heels, we couldn't afford any slip-ups.

***

Tuesday, October 15

Cheshire Senior Cup: Chester vs Alsager Town

As always, there was limited interest in the Cheshire Cup.

To most of the world, it carried no prestige and I got trivial amounts of Manager Points for winning games in that competition. But it was still important to me. For a start, winning it was the most likely way to keep the 2% attendance bonus we got for winning trophies. If we got to the final, it was five matches Sandra could manage. It was five matches for the Exit Trialists, Sticky, Ziggy, and Steve Alton. And intangibly, winning was a habit and winning seemed to be at least partially linked to CA improvements. Getting promoted was the absolute top priority but there was really no reason we shouldn't go hard at the Cheshire Cup.

A few hundred fans with nothing better to do had bought tickets, but I had no interest in playing in a deserted, rain-soaked stadium. So as always, I had tried to give away free tickets and as always, MD had pushed back. We simply weren't allowed to let people in for free because the Cheshire FA took a cut of the ticket sales and would lose revenue. Okay, makes sense, but when I offered to give them a thousand pounds so that I could let loads of schoolkids in, they didn't even reply to the email.

I decided it was time for me to learn more about stewarding. Stewards are the guys you see in football stadiums who help people find their seats and stop trouble from escalating. The steward is part usher, part bouncer, and unlike at some grounds, the ones at Chester are all great guys. In an act of astonishing fat-fingered stupidity, I booked four hundred volunteer stewards for the match and forgot to check their references.

My accidental army arrived in high-visibility jackets and I sent them to guard the Harry McNally terrace. The stand became a visually arresting Borussia Dortmund-style 'yellow wall' as the stewards checked each other for signs of trouble. The hi-vis jackets provided an extra layer of protection from the rain.

Another of my stupid mistakes resulted in the beers in that section being half-price, and I accidentally left my wallet lying around and some scamp used it to buy three hundred pounds of drinks for whoever turned up first. Just shocking. Really makes you despair of human nature.

These boozed-up reprobates - I mean, these conscientious match stewards - made a tremendous racket. They sang, they cheered, they chose an opposition player to be the pantomime villain and gave him pelters.

I knew MD would give me shit but I didn't care. The stadium was rocking and the players - both sets - were energised. It was a fast game played in a good spirit. If the purpose of the Cheshire Cup was to promote football in the area, I was the only one doing it right.

And what about the lineup? The plan?

I left it to Sandra. In theory, anyway. In practice, I had given her some limitations. Some were expected - no Carl, no Henri. Sticky in goal. Use the Exit Trialists. Use Steve Alton. But there was an extra-strange one I added late on Monday - she needed to reserve one centre back slot for my Youth Cup squad. We would give Captain half an hour, Henk half an hour, and Bomber the last thirty.

One match, one position, three first-team debuts. I was just an astonishing football manager, tbh.

To balance the youthfulness of the side, I told Sandra I would play DM with strict positional discipline, only leaving my zone to take free kicks and - if she wanted - corners.

"I was telling my partner about your version of letting me manage," she said, when I'd finished explaining. "She said it was like playing video games for achievements. Kill all the baddies without taking damage. Complete the level without using guns. Win a cup tie while using three teenagers where there should be rugged thirty-year-olds."

"Yeah. That's the job. But did you ever think that maybe I'm not doing it for the kids? Maybe I'm doing it for you? Calibrating the challenge like an absolute boss."

"Sure, Max. It's for me." She sighed and, thirty seconds later, pushed a potential line up towards me.

I reached into my desk and pushed a piece of paper towards her. "Great minds think alike."

We had both sketched out a 4-1-4-1 and filled it with the same players.

"I love free will," she said.This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

***

Alsager came with 4-4-2 and a CA of 15. Midway through the second half we were three-nil up and I pottered over to Sandra.

"Can I break my promise? I want to maraud around and get Tom Westwood his first goal."

She looked down. She looked up. She said, "exasperating," which I took as permission.

I went on a fruitless ten-minute rampage that resulted in me realising that Tom was rarely to be found in the danger zone when I was dribbling. He was too busy working hard to create space for others and being selfless. I yelled at him until he agreed to stay put, and on our next possession I combined with Cole Adams, got to the byline, and cut the ball back for Tom.

Four-nil! He celebrated Ziggy style, and deserved it. I wondered about him. Strikers needed to score goals to avoid becoming a laughing stock. How could Tom balance his off-the-scale selflessness with getting at least ten goals a season? Something to ponder.

Job done, I retreated to DM. I won headers, made interceptions, and played one-touch. I even let Omari take the set pieces while I protected the team against counters.

Sandra got another win for her Wikipedia page and we got another home draw in the next round.

***

The next morning I had a quick planning session with the senior staff.

There were two more matches in our long run of home fixtures. On Saturday the 19th we were due to play Ebbsfleet, who I expected to be in the low CA 60s, followed on Tuesday the 22nd by Oldham, who would be around CA 70.

Given that our best team would struggle against Oldham, Sandra and I reluctantly decided to go strong against Ebbsfleet, hoping that home advantage would get us over the line, and we would rest players in the mid-week game. Three points from six wasn't quite good enough, but it was the best we could manage at present. Resting our key players would make them less prone to injury, allow them to train harder, and allow the Brig to build up their fitness. The plan was to finish the season strong, remember. I could take the flak from a few poor results if it meant sticking to the plan. The plan was sensible and logical.

Since the start of the season, we had been picking up 1.4 points per game. That pace would leave us, after 46 matches, on 64 points. My target was 70 points, a number which would likely see us in the playoffs. There were 31 league games remaining and some quick maths told me we needed 1.6 points per game. Some acceleration was inevitable if we kept improving, so there was no point losing our minds about every fixture - I had to keep an eye on the bigger picture.

The meeting ended with lots of positive vibes. We agreed to stick to the plan. The plan was fucking mint.

***

Friday, October 18

I went to training and did all the skills work and none of the physical stuff. I had a certain amount of CA and every time I lost a point in stamina I wanted it to go right into set pieces or technique. In video games the process of subtracting from one attribute to boost another is called min-maxing. You minimise one thing (e.g. strength) so that you can maximise another (magic). I didn't need strength to take a free kick. I was Max-maxing.

And it was working. As my physical stats declined, my skills got better. It was only fractional, but now when I took shots at Sticky he got angry and frustrated after two minutes instead of after three.

Max-maxing myself was pretty easy but the interesting thing was trying to min-max other players. WibRob was still a junior who was keen to impress and keen to play, so he mostly did what I told him. Once, his tackling attribute went green - I think when he was fidgety he snuck into other training sessions than the ones assigned - but generally he understood what I wanted from him and he was more or less on board with it. But take Carl Carlile, who I mostly played as a right back. He would hit his PA limit near the end of the season or the start of the next, but he had dribbling 5 and finishing 7. If a match went exactly according to my design, he wouldn't ever need to dribble and wouldn't ever need to shoot. If I could force him to pass in every situation, even in training, presumably those unwanted attributes would decay. When they did, he would be able to add more positioning, more passing.

It was interesting in a theoretical sense but not very practical. There was a human element, too. Human beings liked running with a football. They liked kicking a football. It would be cruel to put them in even more of a straightjacket than I was already doing. Plus Carl sometimes popped up in the right place to take a shot and he had quite a good strike rate for a defender.

"What are you thinking?" Livia had come out of the medical room to get some fresh air.

I tried to come out of my thoughts. "I was thinking about a sort of player editor where I could reassign skills. Take one point from Carl's shooting and give him another point in passing. It's weird, though. I think even if I had the power I wouldn't use it."

"It'd make your life a lot easier."

"If it's easy, it's no fun. Talking of the easiest gig in the history of the world, how's Jackie?"

"He's good. He's enjoying it. You've given him a good group. They're really talented."

"I've got five more incoming in January. Fingers crossed."

"Five?" said Livia. She decided I was joking. "Why aren't you doing the running work? Dean and I can't work it out."

"I'm only gonna play twenty minutes most games. Come on at the end against tired teams. I can be a low block killer or grab us an equaliser."

"You played ninety the other day."

"That was just strolling around. I barely broke into a sweat. How are things from your point of view?"

I meant in a medical sense but she decided to give me an overview of how the team was being perceived in the city. "Something's changed. There's a new atmosphere. I'm not sure if it was the dentist thing or the beer or the yellow jackets or if it's been building but people are..." She searched for the word. "Ready."

Her phone pinged and she scooted back inside leaving me to wonder what she meant. It felt like doomshadowing, but I shook it off and went to stand next to Sandra for the end of the sesh.

With another good week under our belts, Chester's best non-Best starting eleven (Pascal right mid, Magnus Evergreen as the second CM) now had an average CA of 57.5. We had finally crossed the threshold into National League standard! It had taken a third of the season and there had been some dark times but I expected us to start picking up points more regularly from now on. Certainly enough to keep us in the top half of the table even if I got an injury or a ban.

And looking at the squad, we were nowhere near our limits. Glenn and Steve had hit their maximum PA. Aff would be next - he was seven points away. Then it would probably be Ben or James Wise. Both were eleven points from their peak. Next was Eddie, then Carl, but I doubted they would max out this season. No, most of the squad had massive amounts of headroom and if someone hit a plateau I had two solutions.

First I could try to loan them to a higher level team. I'd joked with TJ about sending a player to train with Crawley but he said he was into it. It was an option.

Second, I could expose players to a variety of coaches. Cole Adams's mental block had been cleared with one session from Clive OK. There was Clive, Cody Chambers, and if I begged I was sure Jackie would do a couple of sessions to help a young player.

Clive, man. I had to get him more involved, somehow, without scaring him away. He was an even more fragile version of Jackie.

Clive O'Keefe

Adaptability

Coaching Goalkeepers

Coaching Outfield Players

Determination

Judging Player Ability

Judging Player Potential

Level of Discipline

Man Management

Motivating

Tactical Knowledge

Working with Youngsters

Coaching Style

Technique-based