15.

Excerpts from Dani Smith-Smithe's minute-by-minute commentary.

53'

Max scores!

Goal!

What a goal!

I can't even believe what I've seen. He did a rainbow flick over the goalkeeper. It's not even possible.

Wait...

Awwwwwwwww. He's crying.

Not crying.

Blubbing.

Blubbering?

Aw, no. He nearly set me off and I haven't cried since the story years ago that Harry Styles would get his own official emoji turned out to be an April Fool's prank.

The lads ran to celebrate with him (Max not Harry) but now they're surrounding him the way you do when you think a player might be dead. Youngster is standing in front of the cameraman who ran onto the pitch. The TV company can't get a good look at his face. (Max's not Youngster's.)

54'

Bethany Alban just rushed over to ask why Max is crying. She's Max's frenemy from the Daily Mail. Bethany has always been kind to me, even though Max tells me to be careful.

Bethany pointed to Max and did a question shrug. I did a question shrug back. She did a 'you really don't know?' gesture. I really don't know!

She got thoughtful and then pushed me on the shoulder. 'Did you see that goal?'

Yes I saw that goal!

I showed Bethany my last entry and pointed to the words and she said it should be blubbering.

I typed 'he's blubbering because he's a seal' and she laughed and gave me a hug.

She has gone now.

The players are in a huddle and Max is saying things.

Maybe he's telling them not to do rainbow flicks in matches, because that's what he told me.

***

I wiped my eyes and inhaled, shakily. Can't have a full meltdown in front of 77,033 people, I told myself. Emma will be freaking out. Get a grip.

Zach said, "Boss, what's wrong? Talk to us."

I took a much less shaky breath. "I'm just upset because it was always my dream that my first goal at Wembley would be a scuffed tap-in."

Wibbers cried, "Come on! Are you all right or what?"

"Later," I said. I checked how I was feeling. Wrecked. Wretched. I wouldn't be much use in the rest of the match but I had just scored an astonishing goal. Portsmouth would be even more stressed whenever I got the ball. If I subbed myself off, it would be such a lift for them... I needed to change the team, get more character onto the pitch. An ice-cold German, for a start. And when the going got tough, any general with half a brain would summon the nearest ANZAC. "Wibbers," I said. "Tell Sandra I want Peter and Dazza ready in ten minutes. Colin, Fitzroy, that's your countdown, okay? Ten minutes. Try to enjoy it."

Cole Adams, the guy playing behind me on the pitch, said, "But boss, are you okay?"

"The next person who asks is fired," I said, standing taller. "This is a fucking cup final, Cole. They're gonna try and get a goal from this kick off. Get your head in the game. Concentrate, for fuck's sake."

Harsh, you might think, but he got some game face back on, his Morale went up one point, and his Determination score increased by one. Was that temporary?

I was about to yell, 'Back to fucking work!' to see if I could trigger some more upgrades, but something made me turn and scan the Pompey players. Their Morale had plummeted! My goal had unnerved them, big time. And our Condition scores were a few points higher than theirs across the board. They had played on Tuesday night; my starters hadn't. And I had almost forgotten about the April Fuels perk, which helped us refuel fractionally better in the month of April. We could afford to expend some energy! "Their heads have gone, lads! Heads have gone! High line, high press, all action! Kick 'em while they're down! Come the fuck on!"

***

Descriptions of the action and commentary taken from DigiWorld Sports Max 4K.

Matt: Chester are flying all over the pitch! This is unlike anything we have seen so far this match. And now it's Portsmouth making the mistakes! Wittingham fires the ball out of play.

Ally: Goals change games, Matt.

Matt: That stupendous goal from Max Best has sent a shockwave around this stadium. Roberts throws to Evergreen. He passes to Green. Hall. Adams. Best darts inside, drawing Rush with him. Adams takes the ball himself. He's motoring down the left wing! Munks is there. Adams checks back and finds Reid. Another run from Best buys Reid time to pick a pass. He floats it towards Gabriel - but it's too high. What a pity.

Ally: Look at Beckton.

Matt: Colin Beckton sprinting to chase that ball! It's going behind for a goal kick... He slides, and tackles it out! Portsmouth will have a throw-in right by the corner flag. A chance for Chester to squeeze!

Ally: He hasn't sprinted that hard this entire match. That was tremendous.

Matt: The Chester fans loved it. What a shame they don't have a close-up view of their team's efforts.

Ally: Aye, and we know who to blame for that.

Matt: One might point the finger at Pointer.

***

56'

This is great. This is top. We've got Pompous penned in their half and they can't get out. We're swarming all over them.

Someone in the comments asked why we didn't play like this in the first half. Because it's tiring. Next question!

57'

Max took a bad touch there and got clattered. Was it a bad touch?

58'

Everyone's working really hard. So much energy. Wibbers looks better and better every minute. I DON'T MEAN IT LIKE THAT, SARAH.

Another bad touch by Max and he got clattered again!

Is he... doing it on purpose to get fouled?

***

We had a purple patch, kept Pompey in their half, but their Morale was returning to its pre-match level. They still had the advantage. One moment of genius wasn't enough to completely throw them off their game. They knew that time was running out for us.

It was running out faster for Colin. The closer we got to 60 minutes, the faster he ran. It was obvious to me now that there was nothing wrong with his hamstring. Fitzroy Hall, being a centre back, couldn't do a lot more than he had been doing, but he was trying his hardest to concentrate. He and the rest of the back line were stationed as high as I could put them - right on the halfway line. That kept the pressure high but at any second, the ball could be launched over Fitz's head and he would have to sprint back.

Meanwhile, the best way for me to contribute was to run around a lot, causing panic, forcing oppos to come with me into new zones, making even more space for our guys to exploit, and when Portsmouth had the ball, I was leading the charge, chasing the ball down, putting a lot of intensity into it.

Portsmouth handled our press quite well, not giving up the ball around their penalty box, but they didn't have the technique or imagination needed to escape their half. Still, they were maintaining their defensive structure most of the time, so our efforts weren't turning into chances.

I was just wondering if I should redraw our defensive line maybe fifteen yards further back, to spread the pitch and let Portsmouth come at us, when our work finally paid off.

***

Matt: An hour gone here at Wembley. An enthralling contest. Portsmouth still two-one up, and they have weathered a storm from Chester in the last ten minutes.

Ally: They've been brilliant.

Matt: Which team?

Ally: Both!

Matt: Chester will make substitutions soon. We're hearing it will be Peter Bauer and Darren Smith. Who do you think will - great play from Evergreen! He won the ball from Blake and this is danger. Roberts has it. He'll come inside, will he? No, he moves to the outside, towards the wing, and crosses.

Ally: Head on that!

Matt: Gabby nods down, bounces up, great save! Great save Tetek! He stabs it clear but it's straight to Best. He drives forward, lays it square to Reid. Best goes for the return pass, but Reid plays it straight ahead. Becktonnnnnnnnn! Amazing save! Beckton curled it towards the bottom-right, it looked a safe bet to go in, but Tetek scrambled across and somehow tipped it round the post.

Ally: That'll be that for two of these Chester players.

Matt: Subs are ready... No. Best wants to keep things as they are for this corner kick.

Ally: Interesting. I'd want Darren Smith up for this corner.

Matt: I saw the number on the board. He'll replace Colin Beckton.

Ally: Ah. He earned the corner, so he gets the chance to score from it. Playground rules.

***

I walked across the six-yard box, past Tetek, who was getting slapped by his mates. Amazing stuff. Tetek was no more gifted than Swanny but he was performing way better. There was such a thing as a big game player, right? Or was that a myth? Today was making me think it was real.

At first I couldn't see the ball but found it had rolled towards the strange metal box thing that surrounded the perimeter, like a moat. It seemed designed to stop fans from pouring onto the pitch. Like, if you stood on it, would your foot fall through and you'd be trapped? It seemed incredibly hostile, like putting spikes on park benches so that homeless people couldn't sleep on them. Probably I was misunderstanding what the thing was and it was something innocuous, something that was only used when the stadium was hosting the NFL.

I got the ball and kicked it towards the corner flag. The whole area was Pompey and they were telling me what they thought of me. I spared them a quick glance, and noted that one fan had a massive tinfoil trophy. In terms of quality and attention to detail, it was several notches above the rest of the cardboard cups.

"Nice!" I called out. "Is that lifesize?"

"Yeah," said the fan, who briefly forgot he was supposed to hate me. He was with a teenager who looked just like him. "Got the exact dimensions from the company that makes the real ones!"

One dude behind him hadn't forgotten his role. "That's as close as you'll get to the trophy, Best! You prick!"

I gave him a Maxy Two-Thumbs (sarcastic) and focused on my task.

I had Masterpiece Theatre, a perk that allowed me to move players around at set pieces. What I saw looked mostly fine. Big beefy boys around the penalty spot, little fast guys spread out in case of counter attacks. I nudged Youngster fifteen yards closer to the penalty area. If Portsmouth's goalie got the ball, he would keep it in his hands. No counter-attacks from him.

A good corner now would really help the team. It would keep Pompey's aggro on me. If I messed this up, they might suspect that I was donezo.

I decided I would hit the perfect corner. Fast, swinging, head-high. Zach Green, I reckoned. Right on that big Texan slab of his. Yee-haw!

***

61'

Max to take this corner. Why am I dead nervous?

He goes...

Ooof that was brilliant! Really imaginative.

Somehow I thought he would do a normal one for Zach or Gabby to head, but he must really want Colin to score because he skimmed it low and made it bounce waist-high and it went really fast and it confused everyone except Colin, who ran to the near post and tried to use the ball's pace to redirect it. He booped it into the side-netting. So close!

Max is amazing. He can send the ball to anyone he wants even in a crowded penalty area!

Subs.

That's Colin's last go. He was good in the second half! He's walking off and so is Fitzroy. They're clapping the Chester fans over there.

I'm seeing a replay of that corner. What's amazing is that it really looks like Max miskicked it, really scuffed it, but it fooled everyone and Colin got a good chance from it. I'll have to practise that technique because that's a good one for when the oppo have lots of tall girls.

I forgot to mention there is less than half an hour to go.

It's all getting nervous.

Okay, the subs have got to the side of the pitch and they are being replaced by...

Dazza Smith and Peter Bauer.

Cut to Dieter Bauer on the big screen! He looks a bit weepy.

I'm not sure men should be allowed to play top-level sports. They can't handle the emotions.

62'

My dad has asked me to clarify that I'm joking and of course I'm happy for Peter and his granddad.

Dad, this is the internet! People can take a joke!

***

Matt: Looks like Chester are keeping the same setup. Straight swaps, with Bauer next to Green in the centre of defence, and Smith with Gabriel. That's a physically dominant strike partnership, isn't it?

Ally: It is but I wonder if Best will regret taking Colin Beckton off? He was starting to look really sharp and his movement could have been the key to unlocking this well-organised defence.

Matt: Portsmouth take the goal kick long. Green jumps with Holmes. The ball flicks towards Bauer. His first touch... Oh, no!

Crowd: Huge gasp.

Ally: My goodness.

Matt: Bauer tried to flick the ball to his goalkeeper but got it all wrong! Ricardo will get to the ball first! He's one-on-one with the keeper! Ricardo... but Swan saves it! He came out, closed the angle, blocked the ball with his legs. Horrible moment for Peter Bauer, but thanks to his goalie, 40,000 Chester fans can breathe again!

Ally: If there was one player I thought would not be nervous today, it was Peter Bauer. Wow. That was... wow. By the way, Ricardo has to score there. He scores, this is game over, tie Portsmouth's colours to the cup.

***

64'

Ha! Ricardo is rubbish CONFIRMED.

Ha!

Well played, Swanny! He's hyped! The fans are hyped! I'm hyped!

Hurrrrrrr!

COME ONNNNNNN.

***

Peter, what are you doing? I stared, numb, as Ricardo went to the far side to take the corner. He was in no hurry, so the giant screens switched to show my face. I was so utterly dumbfounded that Peter actual Bauer had joined the 'cup final nerves' club that my expression was comical. I had to laugh, which got my feet moving.

I was carrying myself towards our penalty box. Why? We had lost a little heading ability by changing Fitzroy for Peter, but we had gained a lot more by replacing Colin with Dazza. The big Aussie was lumbering towards our box, ready to help out.

Don't let Peter's mistake lead to a goal.

Right. I picked up the pace and thought about where I could make myself useful. I couldn't kick a ball, but I could fucking head one.

***

Matt: Ricardo will send in the corner. He's left-footed so this will be an outswinger. You prefer an inswinger, don't you, Ally?

Ally: As long as it swings.

Matt: Other hobbies are available. Here it comes. Great cross, and that's a MONSTER header from Max Best!

Ally: Hoo!

Matt: There was all sorts of pushing and shoving in the box but Best arrived late and wasn't being manhandled. He launched himself at the ball and headed it MILES away.

Ally: Peter Bauer will be the most relieved man in the stadium!

Matt: Max Best having a word with him. Wonder what he said?

***

"Hey, Peter," I said, as we jogged up the pitch to set a new offside line. "When Adam comes on, he'll go to left mid. We'll put passes behind Rushy so he has to turn and sprint backwards, right?"

"Oh... right." Peter was quite confused by the timing of what I was saying, but he looked to the left of the pitch and I saw the moment my idea clicked in his head. "Gut," he said. "Sehr gut."

My hope was that the distraction would give him something else to think about instead of his mistake and we could get on with winning this fucking game.

Over on the touchline, Sandra was highly animated. She was shouting, gesturing, cajoling, tweaking. That was good because I felt I was close to getting mentally frazzled and I needed to stick to one role for a few minutes.

I hadn't used my once-per-match perks yet, and smashed some of them now. Seal It Up would give our defenders plus 1 Positioning, while Cupid's Arrow would make passes between two players more likely to succeed. I wanted to put Wibbers at one end, but who on the other? Dazza or Gabby?

It was 50-50 so I went with my gut and linked Wibbers to Dazza. I still had Free Hit in reserve.

***

Matt: Portsmouth are making their first changes. And it's a triple change! Off goes Munks, Quinn, and Ricardo. No hattrick for Ricardo, then, but he may well have won this cup final. What do you think the manager is thinking?

Ally: Fresh legs for the final push. Keep up the pressure.

Matt: It's good pressure from Pointer to force Youngster to retreat. Youngster to Reid. Adams. Peter Bauer with his second touch.

Chester fans: Audible nerves.

Matt: Bauer with a neat pass to Youngster. He turns and feeds it to Evergreen. Bauer has swapped places with Green for a moment. Another touch for the German. He looks up, threatening to hit a long pass towards Best. Rush sprints alongside his former manager. Bauer passes short to Green.

Ally: This looks like a deliberate ploy to make Matt Rush sprint backwards the entire match. He's a player who loves attacking and we haven't seen any of that today.

Matt: Peter Bauer has shrugged off his early glitch. He looks very composed. He gets the ball once more, drifts forward.

Ally: That's the press trigger.

Matt: Blue-shirted players running at Bauer. He... Best is making another run, this time centrally, and this time Bauer looks interested. Pass, touch, turn, and Best is away! Was that a stumble? He's still going!

***

As I ran forward, I used a hotkey to trigger a perk that would make our one-twos more effective for ten minutes.

***

Matt: Best rolls the ball to Gabriel. The Brazilian touches it straight back to Best. That move took Pointer out of the game! Best wants to do it again. He gives the ball to Gabriel and keeps going. Best points to where the ball should go. It doesn't come!

Chester fans: Outrage.

Matt: Gabriel is wrestled to the turf! Laidlaw played rugby in his youth and it shows!

Ally: I'll be amazed if that isn't yellow.

Matt: The referee is having a stern word with Laidlaw.

Chester fans: More outrage.

Matt: Max Best is discussing the lack of a card with the referee. Pointer isn't happy with that; he gets involved.

Ally: Great plan. Give Max Best extra motivation to score when he's about to take a free kick thirty yards from goal at a perfect angle.

Matt: This is, indeed, Max Best territory, although he might decide to chip the ball into the box, where he will have no shortage of players to aim at. Darren Smith, Gabriel, Cole Adams, Zach Green. They will be licking their lips at this scenario. Best is talking to Magnus Evergreen. Both men are covering their mouths.

Ally: He's telling Evergreen to get in Portsmouth's wall and mess it up. Look.

Matt: You're right, Ally. Evergreen has placed himself at the end of Portsmouth's wall and he's leaning in. Best wants to aim the ball at the space where Evergreen is standing. I'm not sure they realise the rules have changed. You can't do that any more!

Ally: The ref's wading in.

Matt: The referee is ordering Evergreen to get away. He does so, reluctantly, and looks somewhat lost. But all eyes are on Best. He's considering striking the ball left-footed. He seems to be in two minds. High drama here at Wembley. The stadium hushes. Big moment for Best. He's going to hit it with his left! Here he comes... The wall jumps, but there's no shot! Best passes left-footed to the feet of Evergreen, who pushes it straight ahead. He's in acres of space! No-one was alert to that danger! Evergreen is behind everyone. He hits the ball square, Tetek can't come, it's clever, it's brilliant, it's a goal! Chester have done it! Listen to that noise!

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

Chester fans: Noise.

Matt: Darren Smith was first to it, powered the ball into the net. Tetek had no chance, it's a goal, it's all-square. And the Chester fans are in dreamland!

***

70'

Yes yes yes yes yes!

That was amazing! Max got in Pointer's face and raised the temperature and Magnus was bullying the wall and when the ref told him to stop it, he just stood there, but then when Max was taking the kick, Magnus turned and sprinted. Max rolled the ball to him and when Magnus rolled it across the goal it was all about who would get there first.

That. Was. Satisfying.

Also, Dazza took his shirt off and spun it around and that was enjoyable but I know that Max will tell him off because 1) it's an instant yellow card and 2) this is the debut of the new away kit and now there will be loads of photos of a topless Dazza instead.

By the way, Portsmouth are cooked. They're done. They can slink off to their little island.

***

73'

I hate it when teams don't give up. Just give up! Why are you fighting back?

Portsmouth are going at this super hard and they are blasting through our lines and if they score I'm just going to leave the stadium. Not even joking.

***

Matt: Incredible intensity at Wembley. 75 minutes gone and Portsmouth are pushing to regain their lead. What a match we have on our hands here!

Ally: Incredible. I thought they were down and out but they have come roaring back to life.

Matt: Wittingham. He's had a quiet second half but he gets the better of Roberts. He exchanges passes with Blake. Wittingham approaching the final third. Chester's shape is holding up. The ball's moved onto Rose, one of the subs. He finds another sub, White. Can White have as much impact as the player he replaced, Ricardo?

Ally: I'm still thinking about that chance Ricardo had to make it 3-1.

Matt: He'll probably be thinking about it for a long time. Youngster snapping at White's heels, so he retreats. Abiodun goes sideways to Pointer. Good control from Portsmouth. They would love to go right, to Rush, but he is being watched by Best. Here's Blake.

Pompey fans: Excitement.

Matt: Great skill by Blake! He gets past Evergreen. Roberts tries to help. Blake still going. Into the penalty area! He cuts it back to Holmes. Snapshot! Amazing block from Green. The rebound falls to Rose. Clever first-time pass to White.

Pompey fans: Jubilation.

Matt: White hits the post!

Pompey fans: Groans.

Matt: The Portsmouth fans thought that one was in! He struck it well but it flew onto the post.

Ally: You know what, Matt? He's struck that one too well. He caught it just nice. An inch to the left and he'd be the hero.

Matt: It was cleared by Adams, rather inelegantly, and it's a Portsmouth throw-in near halfway. Rush throws it to Abiodun. Laidlaw, Pointer, nice pass to Blake. Joel Reid isn't moving freely, it seems. There's a big hole in Chester's midfield. Blake is having a golden spell. He beats Evergreen again. Roberts holds him up. Evergreen is safely back goal-side. Blake to Rose. Long shot...

Pompey fans: Oooh!

Chester fans: Aaaah!

Matt: He struck it sweetly but it was comfortable for Ian Swan, in the end. He rolls the ball to Peter Bauer. The pressure comes and again he bypasses it with a cultured pass. Reid controls, but Pointer gives him no time on the ball. It pops loose and Portsmouth's forwards sprint forward. But Youngster gets the ball first. He gives it to Bauer. Oh!

Chester fans: Excited.

Matt: Bauer played the return pass so quickly it looked like he had made a mistake but Youngster suddenly has the freedom of London! He's haring forward. Best is wide left, Roberts wide right. Reid making no effort to keep up. Youngster keeps going! He's approaching the penalty area! His eyes light up - he's going to shoot!

Chester fans: Despairing whine.

Matt: Youngster lines it up... But dabs the ball into the box, scampers after it. He has Smith left, Gabriel right. Youngster's still going!

Chester fans: Feral.

Matt: Youngster is fouled! He's taken down in the box by Laidlaw! The ref... gives the penalty!

***

78'

Can someone take these symptoms and put them into a medical website to see what disease I've got?

Shooting pains all over.

Head buzzing.

Uncomfortable pressure in head.

Heart fast then slow.

Sweaty.

Anger.

Intense dislike of people called Laidlaw. And Ricardo, but he's gone.

We've got a penalty near the end of a cup final. Max Best is going to take it and he's going to score and it will be 3-2 to us. There's a game called Wembley Doubles that you can play if you have five players. One goalie, then two teams of two (the doubles). Max is going to get a double and we're going to win the league and cup double.

I think when he scores this I'm actually going to cry.

ARRRRGGGGGHHHHH what's he doing?

The referee is sorting out the players and all that, and Max is putting the ball on the penalty spot, but he's backwards. The goalie is behind him. It's like he's going to kick the penalty towards OUR goal.

What's he doing?

I can't take this.

How much fear can a human skull withstand?

OHHHH NOOOOOO he's going to do a backheel penalty.

He put the ball down on the spot and stepped to the right and backwards. Meaning closer to Tetek in goal. He's working out what the best angle to take a backheel penalty is. He's thinking about doing one big stride and then shooting. No, he has decided it feels better from four steps away. One, two, three, four, backheel the ball.

He won't possibly be able to control where it goes. He's making it easier for the goalie!

I just want to say right now before this happens that if I did this I would be subbed off and he wouldn't speak to me for a month!

This is totes unfair and amazing and I can't stop laughing.

***

Ally: Hahaha.

Matt: This. Is. Sensational. Max Best is going to try to win this cup final with a backheeled shot. There's utter pandemonium in the stands. Almost no-one can watch. Who said there is nothing new under the sun? Who said football has become sterile? Tetek, the goalkeeper, has been trying to put Best off for thirty seconds but Best isn't even facing that way! This is spectacular. This is box office. This is the highest of drama. What on earth is going to happen next?

***

Behind the goal, the Portsmouth fans were nervous wrecks. Youngster was no better. A few hours before, I had promised to score a backheel penalty as a treat for his dad. The noises coming from all around me were absolutely incredible. The big screen flashed a shot of Emma, unable to watch, buried in her dad's arms.

I styled it out for as long as I thought I could get away with - no-one would forget this moment for as long as they lived - then went into the tactics screens and changed the penalty taker from Max Best to William B. Roberts.

Wibbers blinked and looked at me. I jerked my head. He came into the penalty area and I walked away from my absurd position on the wrong side of the ball and put my arm around him. "Bag yourself your first goal at Wembley, bro." His Morale shot to maximum. Challenge accepted!

I walked away, through the D, through Pointer and Laidlaw and Youngster and Dazza, kept walking. I smashed the Free Hit button, turning a 75% chance of a goal into 85%.

When I was halfway towards Sandra, I heard the thump of a ball being kicked, a moment where the universe rolled its dice, and a huge roar. Sandra and Colin jumped into each other's arms. Nasa lifted Livia high. Physio Dean ran down the touchline and did a knee slide.

I kept walking and when I got to our dugout, lots of bright, shining eyes were looking at me. I shooed most of them away. "I need a word with the boss."

Sandra grinned, jiggling with happiness, before throwing her arms around me. "I thought you were going to do that stupid backheel! I was sure of it!"

"Did you think I'd score?"

"No!" she yelled, delighted.

I cricked my neck around. I was thinking more clearly. April Fuels could trigger twice. The first was usually at half time, and the second normally came naturally in the second half when someone had an injury but that hadn't happened yet. As many top managers had taught the world, it was possible to engineer a stoppage. "Let's talk subs," I said.

"Go on."

"I want Andrew, Bark, and Adam."

"Er... for who?"

"Joel, Youngster, and Gabby."

"Holy fuck, Max. What are you thinking?"

"Joel's got a knock. The other two are coming off because someone has to come off. Adam can do a job on Matt Rush. I'll go in the middle."

She shook her head, worried. "This isn't what I would do."

I stepped closer and hugged her. "Yes, it is," I said, softly. "I learned this from you. Everyone plays every game."

"That was five-a-side, indoors, on a Friday night, against some journalism students. This is a Wembley cup final."

I smiled. "What's the difference?"

She looked to the heavens and found no support. "Andrew, yes. Bark, yes."

"Adam, yes," I said.

"This is to piss off the EFL, isn't it?"

"Yes," I said.

She looked doubtful. "Max..."

"Trust me. He'll make a difference. I'm gonna fake an injury in a minute or two. Get the physios ready with energy packs, get the players over here, give them the last rallying cry."

I wandered across to the other side of the pitch.

***

82'

Goal kick for Portsmouth. Tetek boots it long.

Max jumps with that new player. I haven't learned how to spell his name yet. He's huge.

Max took a whack to the face, I think. He's holding his jaw. The ref stops the game.

Dean and Livia rush on.

Er... Livia is running to our players, giving them energy paste as they go to the dugout, where Sandra is giving them some tactics to do.

Oh, it's one of those. I think Max might be okay. Just a hunch.

Ooh, and some subs! Wait. Gabby? Youngster? Joel?

Oh, dear.

Oh, no.

I don't like this at all.

And Pompeii are making their last changes. I wonder if theirs make sense because ours don't.

***

Matt: What... is this?

Ally: I think it's going to be 4-4-1-1 with Roberts playing behind Dazza. Bark right, Andrew Harrison in the centre with Best. Young Adam Summerhays will be the left midfielder. He's a left back by trade so he'll give added protection against Matt Rush.

Matt: Hmm. Max Best seemed to be doing a good enough job of that, but what do I know? I think you're right, Ally. Best is getting up, shaking his head, checking his jaw. He'll have to go off the pitch for a moment. Roberts is in midfield, covering for him. The game restarts. Portsmouth moving the ball around. The ref gives permission for Best to come. Roberts does, indeed, move forward. Best is deeper than Harrison. Defensive midfielder, perhaps?

Ally: Harrison has a lot of energy so it could be that his job is to press hard for ten minutes while Best covers and Roberts looks to break. Not the worst plan I've ever seen.

Matt: Portsmouth are still in this cup final. White. Rose. Pointer. He's looking for the overlap from Wittingham. Doesn't come. Blake, now. Holmes darts ahead. Buys a little space for Blake to move into. Harrison is there to harry him, to hurry him. The ball breaks loose. Bauer touches it first time to Best. He hits it out to the left, behind Rush. Rush has to retreat and there goes Summerhays! It's a race between two of the fastest young players in the division. Rush wins, but can't control the ball. Throw-in to Chester!

Chester fans: Lusty, appreciative roar.

Ally: That cheer was as loud as for the goals! The fans are living every kick.

Matt: And another defensive sprint for Matt Rush. I worry for his hamstrings!

Ally: He's a fit young boy. He'll be fine.

***

85'

Hey guys, I don't think I'm qualified to do this. I don't know all that much about football, I just realised.

I thought taking off two expensive signings and the only Chester player who ever played in the Champions League was madness, but it's working!

Wibbers looks incredible in the middle, Bark is helping Magnus more than Wibbers did, Andrew's like, made of energy paste.

And Max has found a way to torment Rushy - WHO WE ALL LOVE, COME TO CHESTER, RUSHY - while doing what Youngster did in the middle!

When we get the ball, Adam sprints down the left, Max or Peter fires the ball that way, and every Pompo has to turn and sprint because otherwise they ain't gonna catch him!

86'

They've done it again!

Max chipped the ball left, Rushy and Adam ran for it.

Adam got speed lines coming out of him like in a comic book, got the ball, crossed early, and Dazza slid and put the ball just wide. How many times have I seen that? It must be five. Is that a thing they practised?

Oh what's this?

What's this? Someone's lying on the grass.

Ooooooh no!

Rushy is toast! Whaaaa...

The replay.

Hamstring! It exploded! That's why Adam seemed so fast!

Oh, no. Poor Rushy. I want to go back and check how mean I was about him.

But wait.

Wait wait wait.

Hold on a second.

Hol' up.

Pompey have made all their subs.

They're down to ten players!

It's ten against eleven!

Or to be accurate: eleven against ten.

We're gonna win!

Look at Max! He can't celebrate because it's Rushy but he knows. He knows!

We're gonna win!

***

Matt Rush did something unpleasant to his hamstring. A few Attributes turned red, and his Condition fell to zero. The physios came on and knelt next to him, asking him the obvious questions. After a while of that, the ref came over and - apologetically, because he wasn't a dick - told them Matt would have to leave the pitch.

"Help me up," said the brave little idiot.

"Whoa, fuck that," I said, intervening. I got into his eyeline. "Get on a fucking stretcher." I looked at the assistant physio. "You, call the stretcher."

"No, boss," said Matt, briefly removing his hands from his face. "Everyone's watching. Me family. I can't have them seeing me go like that."

"You can and you will. Everyone saw your hamstring pop, mate. They're not worried you've been in a car crash and there's no news from the hospital, do you know what I mean? Now do as you're told for fucking once."

"Matty," said the physio. Matty? What a shit nickname. "Listen to your old boss."

"Me family's watching. I can't."

I bent lower. "Do a thumbs up, you dick! You're on the stretcher, leg's all nice and wrapped up, you get a lovely ovation from both sets of fans, magical, you do a thumbs up, everyone at home knows you're fine. I mean, they know you'll be a miserable fucker, hanging around the house all summer. They know you'll make their lives fucking miserable. But you're fine. Come on. Chop chop."

"No, boss. You're not my boss. You can't make me. I want to walk off."

"Jesus Christ," I said. "How can you walk? You've popped all your bits. Your strings. Your leg is like a violin, innit? You need strings inside it."

The physio said, "Strings go on the outside of a violin."

"What has strings on the inside?"

The physio thought about it. "Bruce Stringstein."

I laughed. "That's terrible, I love it. Do you want a job?"

The ref was getting impatient. "Can we hurry this up, please?"

"Help me up," said 'Matty'.

I looked around. "Abiodun," I called out to one of the Pompey subs. He was a massive defensive midfielder. Too massive for football, honestly, but perfect for carrying people. He pointed to himself. "Yes, you. Come help me with this."

Together, we helped Matt up, then we hoisted him. Matt put his arms around our necks while we held him under the thigh, and we carried him towards the far side of the pitch while trying not to get any of his tears on us. Who cries at a football match, for fuck's sake? The stadium crackled with applause, both sets of fans united.

"Hey, Rushy," I said. "It sucks right now but one day you're gonna realise this whole final was about you."

"I played shit."

"Nah, you did your job." We went five yards without speaking, until I looked left at the DM. "Rushy, how come you've got an NFL linebacker playing for you?"

"What?"

"This guy's too massive. He's like a fridge, but fridges turn faster."

"I turn," said Abiodun. "I am agile. In school I was described as nimble."

"Yeah, in gladiator school."

He thought he knew how to get one up on me. "Why were you crying?"

"I was just thinking how sad it was that you spend your whole life in the gym but I could still bench press more than you."

"Oh my days," said the guy.

Rushy smiled through his tears. "Remember the briefing, Abi. Don't let him get in your head. Hey, put me down before the end so I can walk off."

I made eye contact with Abi. "Fuck no."

"Agreed," he said.

"We'll put you down on the touchline and you can turn and give everyone a thumbs up. Good?"

"Okay."

We did it. There was a cheer as Rushy did a Matty Two-Thumbs (heartfelt), before hopping a few steps into the arms of his physio.

I watched him go. He'd have a shit summer, but at least his PA hadn't dropped. He could still have an amazing career - if he got out of Man United.

"What was all that non-sense?" demanded Abiodun.

I smiled and clapped him on the back. "Come and see me sometime and we'll talk about how you train."

"I train good."

"Okay, then."

I jogged away, thinking about Rushy's hamstring pop. I had only intended to wear him out and to frustrate him by making him play in reverse, but his manager hadn't spotted what was a very obvious ploy, or he had spotted it but didn't care. Or he had spotted it but didn't know how to respond. In any case, it wasn't a good look from him. The gammons at Man United had come close to giving me a bloody nose, but all they had achieved was a broken player.

Shame.

With an extra man on the pitch, I ordered us to play short passes and moved the defensive line all the way back, then tweaked our individual positions to put the maximum space between everyone. Pretty much the opposite of Relationism. It meant the oppo would have to chase us even further, which would make them even more tired, and after a few minutes of chasing us, even if they did get the ball they would be too spent to do anything with it.

We passed, passed, passed. The line running from Peter to me to Wibbers was like a dagger through Pompey's heart.

One passing move lasted 30 seconds.

The next ate up 45.

The next went way over a minute.

When we lost the ball, we pressed in Pompey's half, and if they crossed halfway we stopped pressing and kept a solid structure. Even I stuck to my specific role, not freestyling it even once. The structure made us strong.

While I scanned the pitch, making sure we didn't fuck up this most outstanding of positions, I thought back to my childhood, to a game called Wembley Doubles. How much fun had I had playing that? So much fun. Playing until the light faded or mum came calling that dinner was ready. We had variations on a theme: games that involved mates co-operating or competing but with one goalie, to minimise how many people had to suffer. Bagsy not in net! Wembley Doubles followed by Heads and Volleys followed by Sixty Seconds.

I looked at the clock. Under a minute to go.

Thirty seconds.

Twenty seconds until mum comes to call us in. Max! Your tea's ready! We call dinner 'tea'. Come and get your tea. Come on, Max, it's getting cold!

Just one more minute, mum! We're nearly finished.

While my eyes got more and more painful, we passed sideways. Living the dream. Behind us, singing, chanting, cheering. Ahead, silence. 40,000 Portsmouth fans were quiet as the grave. So was the referee. Time to make some noise, boyo.

The ball came to me. Surely the last moment where something could go wrong. If we lost this, it would be my fuckup.

Pointer, exhausted, summoned the energy for one last assault. He came at me. I froze. Choking. Snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. I couldn't see through the veil of tears.

Psych.

I megged him, and as I sauntered around the other side like I was frolicking through a field of daisies, he fouled me.

One last moment of devilry.

One last demonstration that football reveals character.

Then my dudes were running around, arms aloft, sprinting, leaping, falling to the turf, making the sign of the cross.

I opened the Match Commentary.

The final whistle is blown!

Chester have won the Vans Trophy!!

***

I stayed on my back for a while, drained, numb, empty.

Adam Summerhays ran over and held out his hand. I gripped it and let him bring me to my feet. He shouted, joyously, but I couldn't make out any of the words.

"Mate," I said, close to his ear. "You tore him a new one. Literally."

"Yeah, yeah!" said Adam, nodding hard, but I don't think he actually heard what I was saying. Probably for the best.

I put my hands on my head, took in some air, took in the scenes. Jubilant Chester fans bouncing, our players running around like headless chickens. Despite having no heads, they were squawking.

The Portsmouth players were slumped, kneeling, or trudging to their dugout. I went around clapping them on the back, giving handshakes, offering a few upbeat words.

I was thirsty, so headed towards our base. Water. Hang on - the match was over. My season was over. I could have a beer!

My speed increased but I was intercepted by someone from the TV company. She wanted to interview me! I refused. She said I had been named Man of the Match so I had to do it.

My beef was with the EFL, not DigiWorld, so I went at a snail's pace to the place where an advert board plus a key light had been hastily erected.

- Max, congratulations!

- Thanks.

- You've won a cup final at Wembley! How does it feel?

- It's good. It's top. Ecstatic to have a chat about it before I take on the vital liquids my body needs. Amazing.

- It felt in the first half that this was a bit of a Max Best cup final. Not just the shots and the near misses and the penalty appeal but your overall performance.

- No, that's disrespectful. Ricardo scored two goals, Holmes was too hot to handle, and I'll show my left backs how Wittingham played in the first half and say, there, do that. I should thank him because he's saved me a lot of money in extra coaching. Just copy that, lads. That's how it's done. Amazing performance.

- There were some nerves from your players. Did playing in the home of football get to them?

- If there are any kids at home watching this, let me give you some advice. If you're playing one of those custom Monopoly sets where it's all football stadiums, if you land on Wembley, you don't have to buy it, you can just own it.

- There were some tears after your goal. Can you tell us about how you were feeling in that moment?

- Yeah so I scored what I thought was a decent goal, right, and then a Portsmouth fan yelled out, Best you're shit, and I was going, what, didn't he see my goal? Or did he see it but he didn't think it was all that good? I thought it was good but he didn't so I had those two contradictory pieces of information in my head and I couldn't reconcile them, so yeah, those were tears of confusion.

- Apologies to any viewers offended by the language. Tell us about that goal. We've got it here on the monitor for you.

- Yeah I was running through and I was thinking should I go left or right and I got confused and you can see I'm actually about to cry tears of confusion right there and that's me actually falling over and I don't know how the ball ended up doing that. Can I go yet?

- One more, please. Were you really thinking about taking a backheel penalty?

- Absolutely I was. I wanted to look right in Paul Pointer's face and wink as I scored. I kinda wanted to involve him in the action because I hadn't seen him do anything in the game until that point and felt sorry for him.

- He's about to collect his runner's up medal with the rest of his team and then it'll be your turn. Max Best, congratulations again.

***

The Portsmouth players shuffled up the steps to the middle tier, collecting their loser's medals. There was always one player who took his and threw it straight in the bin. I wondered which of these guys it would be…

After all that faff, it was our turn. The plan was that we would go up, get our medals, and then the captain would lift the trophy while ticker tape floated down. I gathered Christian Fierce, Zach, Colin, and Peter, and barked out instructions.

"Keep the players here. Everyone stays here, understood?"

Then I climbed the steps alone, shuffled along the little aisle, ignoring the VIPs, checked that there wasn't a Royal handing out the medals - I didn't want the Daily Mail on my case for treason - and stopped in the middle, where the Chair of the EFL was guarding the trophy.

"I'll take that," I said, reaching out.

His eyes widened. "Everyone has to get their medals! Then you get the trophy."

"Give me the cup," I said.

"No," he said.

I went back the way I had come, down the stairs, past some very confused fans, to a bunch of confused players.

I pointed to the Chester end of the stadium. "Christian, take our players down there. Line them up like we're doing a team photo."

"What?"

"Come on, bro. I want to go home. Just do it."

I turned to Briggy. "See all these photographers and cameramen? Tell them to follow Christian if they want pics of the trophy ceremony."

"Got it," she said, and fell into action.

I jogged to the right, towards the Pompey fans. They had started to leave after Rushy's injury, hordes had left at full-time, but some had waited to applaud their players as they got their medals. A decent amount had stayed to watch us pick up ours, which was noble of them. Not sure I would have done the same thing.

The father and son combo had stuck around. "Mate," I said, pointing to the large shiny thing he had moved to an empty seat beside him. "Can I have your trophy?"

The fan who had made the life-size replica looked flabbergasted. "What?"

His son was quicker on the uptake. "A grand."

I said, "What?"

"A grand. A thousand pounds."

That restored some of my good humour. "Your dad's handiwork will be on the front page of every newspaper and website in the world. How about that?"

"I don't take pay in exposure."

I looked at the dad. "Your kid's way too online."

He picked up the trophy and handed it over. "Why were you crying?"

"What, when I scored? Yeah, it's just because I always wanted to be a Portsmouth fan."

He smiled. "You're so full of shit."

"Thanks for this," I said. Before sprinting back across the pitch, I admired his work. "It's really fucking cool, you know. Really good. I'm genuinely gonna put this in our club museum instead of the real one."

The interaction was shown on the big screen, and I saw the way the kid looked at his dad when I ran away.

He was bursting with pride.

***

Full-time plus a million minutes

This is bananas! The guy who looks like a retired Ronald McDonald wouldn't give Max the trophy so he went to get a home-made one from a Portsmouth fan.

Then Max sprinted to the other end, where all the players were waiting.

Okay now he's making Zach Green hold the trophy while... Ah, he's putting the captain's armband on Christian Fierce. Christian doesn't want it. Max is insisting. I know what he's saying. Put it on or you're fired! That's done, and Zach's handed over the trophy. Haha! Christian pretended it was really heavy! They're all giddy and I love it.

Right, so Max has gone between Adam Summerhays and Youngster. The players have the fans behind them and they're facing the press. Loads of cameras.

Max has his arms out and he's wobbling his hands. This is the thing where everyone goes 'ooooo'. Yes, it's catching on. The other players, the fans behind. It's 40,000 people doing it!

Ooooooooo.

And Christian Fierce lifts the trophy!

Hahaha this is perfect. This is right.

In this world, it's just us.

Everyone will try to cut us down to size, keep us in our box, stop us from getting in the fast lane. They can't stop us on the pitch so they do everything else they can think of.

But we are a team. The players and the fans. Together we can do what we want.

It's not about the trophy, is it? It's about what it means.

What it means is: we won. Together.

Yeah, okay. Reset the 'time since Dani's last tears' counter. I had a little blubber.

***

The lads ran around, cheered, lifted the fake trophy, waved at people in the stands.

At some point, the real trophy turned up. I guessed that MD or Brooke or Sandra had gone to get it and the players were bringing their families down to the side of the pitch to get their dream photos. I didn't want anything to do with it, so I stayed well clear.

Numbness had well and truly set in. I felt myself becoming a killjoy, tried not to frown. Could I slip away?

I was squeezing my bottom lip, staring at the base of the goalpost, mind pretty much completely blank, when someone nudged me. Adam Summerhays. "Boss," he said.

"Hey," I said. "Well played. You were fantastic."

"Oh, er, thanks. I just wanted to say thanks. I mean, for something else. For everything else."

"Yeah," I said, brain not really firing.

"Like, this guy Pradeep emailed me. He said he tried to get a job with us and it was going pretty well until he said he didn't rate me as a player and you booted him up the arse. Sent him packing. And he was saying, like, he hopes to find a boss who believes in him the way you believe in me and I was, wow, just... It really means a lot, boss."

"Mate, you're... You're gonna make it. That's you, your talent. I'm not doing anything special."

"Soz, boss, but that's not right. Pradeep says - "

"What, did you mail him back?"

"Yeah. I said, like, it's okay that he doesn't believe in me because almost no-one does and it just fires me up to prove them wrong. And he said he wanted to help me if he could and he would like, try to find out what's wrong with his software that means it's giving him bad results. We're gonna, like, collaborate."

Inhale, exhale. "You don't realise what you've done."

"What?" he said, apprehensive.

"I have to hire him now, don't I? You'd better invite him to parties and shit."

"Er, sure, yeah. Course. You'll really...? Anyway..." He looked a different flavour of worried. "I know it's not your thing but I'd really like a photo of you, you know, with the cup."

"Oh." Yeah, I really didn't want to go near the cursed thing, but the look in his eyes was so... timid and hopeful. "Course, yeah. Let's do it."

So I went over to the side of the pitch where players were taking it in turns to carry the trophies - the real one and the official one - in front of our fans. Sometimes they stopped to get some snaps.

I did one with just me and Adam, and then Sandra, Aiden, and Jamie wanted one, and then Wibbers and Dan Badford jumped the queue.

"Dan!" I cried, amazed. "The hell? Tranmere have an important match today."

"Jackie Reaper said I trained shit this week so I had to go to Wembley as a punishment."

I laughed. "That was kind of him."

"I'm glad I was here," said Dan.

There were happy faces all around. "Yeah, me too."

Suddenly, there was a theft. Youngster grabbed the cup, Meghan grabbed me, and together they spirited us towards the dugouts, where Youngster's mum, dad, and sister were waiting.

This one's going up on the wall of my new office, I thought to myself. Mr. Yalley in his best suit, Mrs. Yalley, Kisi, trophy, Youngster, Meghan, Max Best. Perfect.

When the photographer gave us the thumbs up, I whispered to Youngster, "Do you want one without Meghan?"

He actually got annoyed with me for a second, but then he grinned. "I do not. If it proves necessary, we can airbrush her out." He cackled, then picked her up and spun her around before planting a deeply unreligious kiss on her mouth.

Tomzilla and Cole Adams both tried to abscond with the cup at the same time. Cole smiled and let the Brazilian go first. It was like that everywhere, but near the goal, someone had found the champagne and was spraying it everywhere.

"Right," I said, my mood at a 5 out of 7 and rising. "How about that fucking beer?"

Livia Stranton, she who had delivered the greatest half-time speech of my career so far, pulled me by the arm. "Here comes the hero of the age," I said.

"Max, sorry. Really sorry, oh God I can't believe this."

"What?"

"You've been selected for the random drugs test."

"You're joking," I said. "I'm dehydrated as fuck. There's no way!"

In reply, she handed me a bottle of water. "Drink that," she said. She had another one in her hand. "Then this."

***

While I followed her through the tunnel, into the rotunda, and through into the testing area, my mind was pretty blank. I was just trying to force water down my throat so that I'd be able to give a sample.

I had one quick panic about the April Fuels perk, but remembered it had specifically said that it wouldn't affect drugs tests.

"I'm not allowed further," said Livia. She didn't leave straight away. "Thanks, Max. I don't say it enough."

I shook my head. "And you don't have to. Hey," I said, as her eyes started to redden.

"Yes?"

"Would you ask Briggy to get me a beer? A good one. A cold one!"

Livia's lips twitched upwards at the corners, just a little, and she walked off.

I sighed, squirted another mouthful of water into my flappy Manc gob, and went into the testing area.

It was much busier than I expected, with what looked like three nurses and one doctor. When I'd done tests in the past there had only been two people. I supposed that at Wembley everything was at least twice as big. Since there were no chairs, I hopped onto a treatment table and continued drinking.

"Be with you in a moment," said the doctor, who was facing the wall. "It has been absolute hell in here."

His voice put me on edge, big time. "Shit," I said. I took a proper look and saw that the three nurses were, in fact, the imps, the entities that operated the curse. They looked like humans but they definitely weren't, and they were quivering with excitement. They liked me, but that didn't mean they wouldn't be stoked to witness me getting squashed flat.

The 'doctor' turned around - of course it was Old Nick. Silver hair, silver beard, muscular, with angular features and plenty of space on his head for a couple of horns. He finished pulling on a blue latex glove. As he let it go, it made a distinctive elasticky sound that sent chills down my spine. "Max Best," he said, holding up a clipboard and pretending to read my medical information. "Man of the Match in a cup final. Scorer of a goal described by Kicker magazine as 'jaw-dropping'. Awarded a match rating of 10 by the notoriously hard-to-please French newspaper L'Équipe. My my my, what a fascinating way to keep a low profile."

"Yawn, boring," I said, sounding a lot braver than I felt. The utter exhaustion helped. "We've had this conversation before. Squash me or find a new topic."

"Oh, that we can do." He came awfully close to me, and I was aware that he had been using the experience points I had been generating to once again beef up. He leaned closer and the blacks of his eyes flashed. I thought about begging him to let me have my beer before he killed me. Just one sip! I had fucking earned it, hadn't I? I was mere seconds away from cracking under the pressure of his presence when he leaned back, smiled wide, the room lightened, and he changed his voice to that of a used car salesman. "I'd like to talk to you about a wonderful investment opportunity!"

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