9.

I fumed and scowled pretty much all the way to Bologna's airport, ignoring the rapidly-growing number of texts, emails, and voice messages popping up on my phone.

Brooke: Well done!

Jackie Reaper: Amazing!

Gemma: Want me to sue UEFA over that yellow card? I was fuming, Max. Fuming! You know what? I still am. I'm going to re-read the competition handbook to see what we can get them on.

Ryan Reynolds: Late Champions League away win while down to ten men? Who writes your scripts?

The only person who got an immediate response was Emma.

She wrote: Aw, babes, you looked so miserable in that interview. You okay?

I tapped out a flat reply. I'm fine and I'm delighted.

That was quickly deleted; I didn't want to get into the habit of lying to my fiancée.

Me: It was draining and my head is mush. Also, I'm in a funk. It was harder than it needed to be and Evaristo turned out to be awful. Briggy's looking after me.

Emma: Poor Max, being driven to his private jet while his highly-trained bodyguard sources exotic fruits for him on his way to his 700-Euro a night five-star hotel.

Me: You make it sound a lot cooler than it is. Got to go. We're arriving at our private VIP lounge at the airport.

Emma: Is Dieter there?

Me: No just the players and coaches and that. The other 300 (!) are travelling separately. I'm not looking forward to seeing Dieter and Paul again. I kind of maybe lost my temper a bit. Told the players off. I'll probably get told off myself and I am not going to take that very well.

We got to our lounge - where every knife and fork had been carefully positioned by airport employees and carefully repositioned by members of Bayern's advanced team - and I asked Briggy to keep everyone away from me for their protection.

They were dotted around the lounge in their little cliques. The coaches and analysts there. The French players there. The grizzled veterans there. I was torn between wanting to let them do their own thing and wanting to shake them up and force them to talk to someone new for a fucking change.

Tomorrow I'd have to talk to the media again. More on Friday. A fuckton more on Saturday. I was doing a decent job of avoiding controversy even as my team selection surprises compounded on top of one another. The trick was to give the same answer to the same question across six different post-match interviews, but repetition didn't come easily to me.

In an attempt to speak in simple terms that Briggy and the media could understand, I was leaning on the same old similes. A football team is like an army. Football is like chess. So boring but what was worse, I was boring myself.

What if instead of a general I was a movie director? Diane Berger would be the key grip. The triumvirate would be the producers. The physios were the make-up artists. The players would be the actors, the sort of twats who chewed on garlic just before the big kissing scene.

I steamed as I paced up and down the side of the lounge. You work for years to get your big break, you're standing in the exact spot millions of young hopefuls can only dream of, you're about to film the moment the audience has been waiting for, the first kiss, and you chew garlic to make the scene unpleasant for your co-star. Fuck the scene, fuck the movie, fuck doing my job to the best of my ability. My grievance is all that matters.

The thing about movies is that if you've shot half of one it's easy to change the director but almost impossible to recast the actors.

"That's where the metaphor fails," I said, bringing up my squad list. I was getting rid of stars at an impressive rate, but there were always more in the squad. There were guys like Parnell Gourlay who could do a job for me, and the reserve team was bursting with talent. If you sacked an actor half-way through a play you'd turn to his understudy. "I've got fucking millions of understudies. The fuck are these pricks thinking?"

Briggy came up to me, maybe because my chuntering had grown too loud. "Max."

I eyed her. "It's not common in movies because of the expense but TV shows change actors all the time. Game of Thrones. The Witcher. Dr. Who can't keep a lead actor for love nor money." Briggy wasn't interested in my train of thought; she had her own stuff going on. Rude when people do that. "What?"

"Why is Bayern called FC Hollywood?"

"Er," I said. "I researched it ages ago. As far as I can tell, it dates from the 90s, when it was constant mayhem and drama at the club. There were big characters, often behaving badly. Loads of wife-stealing, affairs with secretaries, that kind of stuff. Plus the club captain was a media whore. He leaked everything that ever happened in the dressing room and even published a diary. I think it was Peter who told me that in the German media landscape, Bayern is like Man United plus Liverpool. There's nothing else to write about so everything gets blown up. Oh, and there are no real German stars - except David Hasselhoff - "

"Who isn't German," lied Briggy.

"So if you're looking for drama and celebrity gossip and wedding photos and that kind of thing, your first call is Bayern."

"There are countless German stars."

"Boris Becker, Heidi Klum. The girl with the balloons. End of list. What did you want?"

Briggy lifted her phone a few inches. "Peter wants me to show you a social media post that went up just after the match finished, and he wants me to describe how angry you get. He suggests that the scale should go to 12 on this one."

"Fuck me," I said, mind spinning. "What is it?"

"On reflection, perhaps we should wait until we land."

"You can't do that to me. I would never leave you on a cliffhanger."

She nodded and was about to hand her phone over when she hesitated. "It's football so I can't tell how annoying this is going to be. Please don't break my phone."

"Christ, you're better at building tension than Alfred Hitchcock. I actually feel sick." I sat down, took a few breaths, and held my hand out.

Briggy decided it would be better if I didn't have her phone in my hands. She tapped on her screen a couple of times and showed me a post.

@ Transfer Town

FC Bayern defender Kumba Viera has given his approval to join Real Madrid this summer! The 29-year-old French star says playing for Real is his dream. Bayern Munich expected to fight to retain his services but Viera's mind is made up. Source: Don Pino.

Pino was Viera's agent. One of the biggest and most influential people working in the entire industry, a dealmaker, a kingmaker. Sporting directors around the world trembled at his every tweet, cowered as he pulled into their car parks. Briggy clicked the link and held the phone in front of me again.

@ Don Pino

Kumba Viera just recorded the highest player rating in the Champions League this season. He is the world's outstanding defender and must be allowed to pursue his dream of playing in Spain. ¡Hala Madrid!

I closed my eyes. That was the end of my plan to make Viera the next captain. Another one bites the dust. Six star players had put themselves in the bin in under a week: Fabian Fromm, Diogo, Rui Santos, Henno Wald, Drissa Doh, Kumba Viera. Give them a goalie and they'd win any seven-a-side contest in the world.

"You're being calm," said Briggy. "Can you give me an anger scale number to tell Peter?"

"Four," I said.

"Huh." She double-thumbed her phone. "What does it mean, really?"

"Viera is 29 and has a year and a half left on his contract, so he's at his peak and is registered to Bayern for this season and the next one. This agent prick is stirring the pot, trying to get everyone to run around in a panic. Maybe there is a potential move to Madrid, but it's slightly more likely this is all a game to get Viera a better contract in Munich."

"That doesn't seem so bad. Why did Peter think you'd explode?"

"Because all over Bavaria, that's what people are doing. Fans are losing their minds, melting down, screaming at the triumvirate to pay the money. Whatever it takes, you've got to keep him. First, they've just seen an unbelievable individual performance and right now Viera feels irreplaceable. Second, Bayern are the club that does this to other teams, right? You feel big and strong but when it happens to you, you realise you're nothing. You're a worm. It's literally shattering." I tried to think back to when I was a normo Man United fan. When our players twerked at other clubs, the betrayal made me feel sick. How could they? "This is called player power. Viera has all the cards; his agent is universally feared. Bayern will have to dish out a huge pay rise or let the twat go to a club that will drench him in cash. Viera and Pino have got the cards and they're slapping us in the face with the Ace of Half a Million Euros a Week."

"So why aren't you as angry as you think everyone else is?"

"Because Viera and his agent are playing poker while I'm playing Soccer Supremo. The timing of this is a slap in the face to me personally otherwise it wouldn't even register as a 4. I was thinking about movies before. The agent wants this scene to be Raging Bull - a load of bull to get everyone raging. But it isn't. It's Das Boot, because Viera is getting the boot."

"What does that mean?"

"I'm binning him off. Right in the bin. He won't play for Bayern Munich again this year, won't even train with us. We'll win every match without him and I'll talk his replacement up as the next big thing. Let's see how big and clever the prick feels when the fans are saying you know what? Let him go to Madrid. And how will the conversations go in Madrid? Hey, why are we looking to sign a guy who can't get in the Bayern team?" I scoffed. "Fucking idiots. They just blew themselves up. They'll actually lose money on this; Viera has appearance bonuses." I shouldn't have added that part; it was curse information I hadn't actually been told. "I bet," I added, lamely.

Briggy didn't notice my slip. "Isn't he the best defender?"

I shrugged. "He's the best defender in the bin, sure." Briggy went double-thumbing. I groaned. "Why don't we just put Peter on FaceTime? It's like he's always in the room with us."

Briggy didn't reply. She was frowning, waiting for a reply to her previous message. It came and she bent in front of me. "Max, you can't put everyone in the bin. You asked me to glance over Youngster's loan contract, right? Because of that I have a small idea of what is normal in German football and just now I checked with Peter. These players have annoyed you but their contracts do say they have to get proper training."

I scoffed. "Yeah, sure, but nobody takes any notice of that. Peter knows about the bomb squad."

She tapped away. "What's that?"

"You have a player who's an arsehole. You have to give him training, technically, so you throw a physio at him and send him off to one corner. Or you make him train with the kids. Yes, you're fulfilling the terms of his contract but you're actually trying to bomb the guy out of the club. Training with the kids is a bit like prison and most players go stir crazy and they'll take a pay cut to leave."

"That's not very Chesterness."

"We haven't done it yet, but it's not off the table - it's a valid response to some behaviour. This thing from Viera, it's, what would you call it? It's a way to maximise his earnings in a short career but it's disrespectful. Bayern fans can't even enjoy tonight's win for ten minutes without a key player saying he wants to leave. Bayern gave this guy a big opportunity, tons of training, medical care, and by the way, truckloads of cash. But none of that means anything to him or his agent. He wants to get out, to leave as soon as possible because he's up there and we're down here. Even if it's all a gambit, it's grotesque. It's the kind of thing that drives football fans spare."

"Spare?"

"Crazy. I feel like I'm saying the word crazy six hundred times a day. It can't be healthy."

Briggy paused to stare at her phone. "Peter says you promised not to ruin the transfer values of the players and you promised to leave the squad in a good state for Bastian. If you want to throw someone in the bomb squad, you need to clear it with Paul Braun, but there's no way he will agree to that. You need to find a way to work with Viera."

I let my skull rest against the wall behind me. "Can't even put an eighty-million pound defender in the bin these days. It's political correctness gone mad."

Briggy looked over her shoulder. "We're boarding already. That was fast; Italy is glad to see the back of you, I reckon. Come on."

I put my backpack on and trudged towards the exit. The players lined up in twos; they'd done this before. Henno Wald was on his phone, talking fast. The flow of words stopped for a second while he realised I was nearby. Kumba Viera was staring into his phone, presumably checking the reaction to his agent's gambit. Kumba Viera - a man who would hurt millions of fans to squeeze his next deal up by a few percent. In front of me in the line were Willi and Cheb, who were absolutely buzzing. Drissa Doh, the guy whose red card nearly cost us the game, was wheeling his suitcase towards a point about ten yards in front of me.

"Are you joking?" I hissed, striding towards him. His fingers clutched the handle firmer and he looked hunted. The idiot didn't even know what he was doing wrong. "Are you queue-jumping... on your own teammates? To you, the world is one big nightclub? Everywhere you go it's one line for the plebs, one special velvet rope just for you? Am I getting this right?"

"No, it's - "

"You go straight in, wherever, whoever? Your teammates, your manager, we're just worms to you? Am I a worm to you, mate?"

"No."

"You know what? I don't care. You're not a team player. Go to the front. This is the last time we will ever have this problem. The next time you travel with the team will be in January."

He stood awkwardly for a second before deciding to do whatever it took so he could throw himself into his seat on the plane more quickly. I wondered how Bild would paint this. Not well.

When I returned to Briggy, she said, "You're so English. Am I allowed to tell Peter it was someone cutting in line that sent you to 12 on the rage-o-meter?"

"Don't make me laugh," I complained, covering my face as though angry. "I'm trying to look tough."

"Yeah. Done. Shit, even I wouldn't push in front of you."

"That's," I said, turning round suddenly. Behind me was a gap - no-one wanted to get too close - Edgar Wilde was next to a young centre back called Razak, who looked down in a hurry. Razak would very probably be Viera's replacement if he could somehow avoid pissing me off. I counted to five before turning to face the front again. "That's an amazing compliment. Cheered me up." I sighed. "Can't rule by fear, though. That's not much of a strategy."

Briggy took a tiny step forward. How could her side of the queue be going faster? I stood taller and saw that the flight attendant who was checking the passports on my side of the line was very, very cute. Briggy said, "What are you going to do?"

I rubbed my eyelid. "Not sure. I'd like to keep the shitheads away from the rest of the group so I can bring in more kids from Bayern Zwei. If I can keep them away from the bitter, twisted older fucks, we might be able to get a positive vibe going." I closed my eyes. "Every time I win a match I can push more, right? If I try to do everything in one go tomorrow I won't make it till lunchtime. I can do something tomorrow, something else after we beat Kiel."

"What, though? You don't have many options, seems to me."

"Yeah," I said. If I couldn't kick the lads out of training and I couldn't impress them by playing better than them, then all I had was the team sheet. In the Bundesliga that was eleven starters and nine subs. Being in the starting eleven was two upvotes, being a sub was one vote. Being out of the squad was a downvote. Did the movie theme fit? I had the power to signal if players were hits or flops. "I'm Rotten Tomatoes," I said. "A glorified comparison site."

"I see you've gone from throbbing passion to wet blanket."

"My style is actually called hot-but-safe."

"Safe? Ha. Never that."

We were shuffling forward towards the flight attendants. Willi and Cheb seemed to be bragging about who was better with women. Such boys.

I rested my hand on a velvet rope that was dangling between two silver stanchions. There were two exits and it was easy to imagine one being for first class while the other was for economy. The velvet rope was merely decorative this evening, but at other times it might have been used to divide the passengers. No such division was needed for this flight; everyone was an equal level of VIP. We were the cast of FC Hollywood, a show that never got cancelled no matter how cliched and repetitive it got. All of us, to a man, were first class arseholes.

"Oh, God," said Briggy, laughing.

Willi and Cheb were handing their passports to the cute flight attendant. Briggy stepped to the other one while I moved closer to hear their so-called flirting technique.

Willi said, "Hi. Love your shirt. The colour looks good on you."

The employee didn't give much of a reaction. "I am glad you like my work uniform, sir."

Cheb said, with a big smile, "My friend and I were thinking if you liked kebab more or currywurst?"

I shot Briggy a horrified look.

The attendant said, "I'm vegan, sir. Please move along as we have a small window for departure."

Willi shoved Cheb, who shoved back, but they went towards the exit doors. Cheb didn't go through. Willi asked why. Cheb covered his mouth as he replied and both lads turned to face me. Were they watching to see how I would get on with the employee? If they were hoping for tips, they would be disappointed; I didn't flirt with women when they were at work; everyone knew that.

I handed my passport to her. "If any of these clowns give you any trouble," I said, "tell me immediately."

"Yes, Herr Best," she said.

Her badge showed her first name, so in the interests of fairness I said, "Call me Max."

"Max," she said, as she handed my passport back. "I will call you, Max. For trouble."

All completely normal but Willi and Cheb were looking at me like I was the King of Courting. I waved them away; they were blocking the door, but it was interesting. It didn't feel like it in among the Fabians and Hennos, but I did have Influence 20. I had the power to lead and some amount of charisma. Outside, I stepped onto the bus that would take us to the jet. Briggy hopped up behind me and waited for me to choose my spot. I decided I didn't want to sit, so I leaned against a pole. Briggy rested her back against one of the raised seats that was built above a wheel. From that comfy position, she jabbed me in the ribs. "You gave her the Du."

"I what?"

Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

"You remember that Du is informal, Sie is formal. When someone talks formally and you give them permission to switch, it's called giving them the Du."

"I gave her the Du?"

"You did."

"Does that count as cheating?"

"In some regions, yes."

"Promise you won't tell Emma." I smiled and added, "Or Peter."

"I can't promise that, Max. Bild might pay good money for this information."

"Yeah," I said, rolling my neck around. My muscles were tense. I was still raw from the match, my nerve endings were shredded, and a big part of me wanted to get into a scrap with someone. Those feelings were fading, though, being shoved out by the rising excitement that came when I was feeling creative. "I had an idea."

"When?"

"Just now, before you started talking shit about me having eye sex with that stewardess."

Briggy's features transformed; she was delighted. "I didn't say anything about eye sex!"

"You did."

Briggy turned to Didier Cartier, the French forward, who was in the seat above the wheel. "Did I?"

"No, miss."

I gave him a fingery warning. "Don't piss me off, Monsieur Cartier. I need you in the coming matches. Big time. You've moved to the top of the billing. You'll have your name in lights."

He smiled. "Call me Didi."

I gasped. "He gave me the Du! Is that allowed?"

Briggy smiled and said, "What's the plan?

"Didi, turn away." He pretended to do that. I lowered my voice a fraction. "I need to cut out the dead wood, yes, but I have to offer the good ones something, too. I think I can push them, get a performance out of them. This is FC Hollywood and I'm an auteur."

Briggy appeared to be impressed. She had wide eyes, admiring me, and then she said, "And where exactly on the auteur spectrum are you?"

***

Inside the plane, I went to my seat. 2B. Not that I'm overly competitive but my first instinct was to see who was in 1A. It was club captain Fabian Fromm. I laughed. The blurry idea I had been working on came into sharp focus.

Max Best, cinematography 20.

Heh.

I had the craziest impulse I’d had in a long time, which was saying something. Was there a way I could tap into the FC Hollywood thing and turn Bayern Munich, for one month only, into every German’s second-favourite team?

I smiled. That one was too crazy.

I got my phone out and replied to the kind messages people were still sending.

***

Wednesday, 25 November

The triumvirate - Paul, Karl, and Dieter - wanted to have a meeting at Säbener Strasse to discuss the win over Bologna and some of the things they had heard.

I assured them everything was under control and promised a win at the weekend up in Kiel. I said that Emma wanted to visit me in Munich but that I had asked her to not even think about it until after the Bologna match. Now that the hardest fixture was out of the way - with a win! - I could start planning for Kiel, confident that no amount of outside pressure or inward noise could force Paul Braun into the mistake of ending my tenure, plus he wouldn't sack me just after Emma arrived because it would be rude.

He said he wasn't thinking of sacking me but he said he might join the medical meeting and pre-match opposition analysis session to see first hand what might be causing the friction.

"You won't learn much," I said. "I'm not going." All three reacted badly so I put up a hand to placate them. "You can't be mad at me for taking more care of your players than your own medical team! And you know I prepare hard for matches. I don't like the way your analysts think and when I agreed to come here I didn't agree to waste my time. If you come to the last part of training tomorrow you'll see me doing the oppo analysis out on the pitch with the lads."

That interested them, so I ploughed on.

"That's right. I'm going full Daniel Day Lewis. If I want to be a football manager in a movie I have to actually do it for seven years. One year for every daily prayer. Methodist acting, I think they call it. Anyhow, I'm thinking of playing a slightly bigger role in training. It'll help with, you know, alignment, and to integrate the talented young players." I held my fingers out the way movie directors do, forming Ls and creating a square. "I want to see some of these lads chewing up the scenery in the coming weeks."

Karl said, "Why did I feel cold in my spine when you said that?"

"Don't know," I said. "I'm going to create some new stars, but I promise that all the senior players will get the very best training Bayern Munich has to offer."

Karl shuddered. "There it was again."

"Don't worry," I smiled. "I meant every word of what I just said."

"Yes but I felt that you were tricking us when you said it."

***

Thursday, 26 November

I was in full training gear, minus any club branding. I didn't want to wear Bayern clobber but it would have been wrong to sport the mighty Chester wolf, so I had picked up some random sportswear. The players of one of Europe's megaclubs were coming out of the dressing room in dribs and drabs, all wearing the same stuff, though their boots were different. If I didn't burn all my bridges on this trip, I would ask some of these stars about boot sponsorships; it was one area of being an agent Ruth hadn’t been able to crack.

Several other people were already in position. Bastian's three assistant coaches, Diane Berger, the three senior players I had promoted from Bayern Zwei, plus their coach, Hoggy. Danny Kowalski was badly bruised and was being kept off training, but he was incredibly curious to see the session. He was hoping I would be doing Bestball.

Briggy sidled up to me. "Last chance to rethink this. You could choose to be normal, you know."

"What makes you think this won't be the new normal?" The guys were ready. "Listen up," I said, and the chatter slowly died down. I turned, amazed, to see Stefan Clown slowly walking towards us. Apart from Willi, Cheb, and the three thirty-something players, I had invited a few of Bayern Zwei's young guns, including Clown. I checked the cheap watch I wore when I was running a training session. "It's two minutes past," I said. "No good. Try again next time."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes. Hurry up and leave; don't make it worse."

He trudged away.

"Amazing," I said. "You try to set up a redemption arc and that's what you get." The truth was I had sent Briggy to talk to Clown to set up this very scenario. By cracking the whip early, I would be able to set the tone of training, and Clown would get something in return. What? That was to be decided, but Briggy had assured him I was more fair-minded than I appeared. "Okay, as you can see, I'm going to lead one training group today. There's some interest in Bestball, apparently, so I thought maybe we could do some of that." A few of the players perked up. Bestball! "I've heard it said that I'm not competent to deal with elite players and I think it's pretty clear that there's a lot of truth in that, so we're going to split the group into two. Special 1A training will be led by the three best coaches at the club - Riley, Moses, and Vlado. Normo training - we might call it B2 - will have me in charge, but I know I'm a shit coach so I've asked Hoggy to come and help out."

One area of football where I wasn't exceptional was in coaching. Whenever possible, I got someone with a high Coaching Outfield Players score to 'lead' my sessions so that players would actually get some improvement out of them. I was exceptional at improving mental attributes such as decision-making and team work but it was extremely rare that a training session with me in sole charge made players improve their passing or technique or whatever.

"So if the Special 1A coaches could move to the side there, yes, thank you. So, who's in the Special 1A group? Obviously Diogo and Rui Santos. Should we do a round of applause? Yeah, let's." Briggy and I applauded. "The Butcher of Bologna, Drissa Doh." Applause. "Oh, and Fabian Fromm has insisted on rejoining training, so there he is. A 1A personality if ever I saw one. What's the best Myers-Brigg type? Whatever it is, he's it. Obviously if Fabian's 1A, so's Henno. Last but definitely first, it's Real Madrid legend Kumba Viera. No! No applause. Don't even look him in the eye. They don't like that."

"Max," said Diane Berger, who was alarmed by what she was seeing on the faces of the 1A guys. I was trying not to look because I suspected I would laugh far too hard. I contented myself by checking their Morale - collapsing - and the Future section of their profiles. 'Is unhappy with his manager' appeared in more than one. Ah, bliss!

"Special 1A training, off you go." I pointed to the next pitch, where there was a bag of cones, a bag of footballs, and standing behind a velvet rope, an amazingly well-dressed man.

"Who's that?" said Adam Adebayo.

"That's their butler," I said.

There were some sniggers. "What does he do?" said Adam.

"All kinds of things. He can sew a button on your shirt. Knows a good hangover cure. I'm not really sure, to be honest, but he's a real one, not just a guy in a costume."

"He's got one of those... what's it called? A silver dish."

"That's a cloche, mate. He's got a glass of brandy in there, plus a cigar. Only the best for our Special 1A players."

Moses, a naturally friendly guy, was not smiling. "What should we do with six players?"

"Whatever they want, Moses. They run this club, remember." I held up a fist. "Player power. And don't worry that it's only six. You'll get more, I'm sure, the longer I stay here."

Fabrian Fromm was fuming. "You can't exclude me from training!"

"You're confused," I said. "You've got the three most senior coaches. You want to call Bild and tell them you're unhappy you got promoted to a more exclusive group?" I laughed pretty hard. Oops.

Diane stepped towards me. "I must speak with you, now."

"Can't," I said, putting a whistle to my lips so that every letter S in what I said next came out with a slight sibilance that amused me no end. "Training has started. Everyone has to train; it's in their contracts."

Peep!

***

As I walked over to an area that I had marked out with cones, Hoggy jogged up alongside me and said, "When you asked me to do this, I didn't know it was part of a silly English game."

"Silly English game?" I spread my arms. "You mean like football? This club has spent the best part of a billion pounds playing a silly English game. No more negativity, Hoggy, mate. I'm serious. I'm putting your boys in the first team and you can help me do that or you can leave. I'll get a coach from the women's team or do it solo but I am going to get what I want." Hoggy didn't like me, but he wanted his wards to do well. He fell into line.

We started a warmup. Pretty boring stuff but I watched like a hawk.

Peep peep peeeeeeep!

"Didier!" I snapped. Max Bites! "What the fuck are you doing?"

There was an agility ladder on the ground. The guys had to sidestep across, putting a foot in each rung.

"One, two, three," I counted, skipping the middle ones verbally the way Didier had done with his feet. "Six, seven, eight. How do you do eight holes in three steps? Fucking do it again for real. Come the fuck on!"

He went again.

"Next person who thinks they can dog my training sessions can go 1A. Cheb, are you feeling 1A?"

"No, Max."

When they realised I was really watching, the levels went up a notch.

"I've seen better attitudes in Manchester Sunday League. You guys are the best in Germany? Are you sure?"

They responded well to being needled. Good, because I had a lot more of that on the way.

"Good," I said. "No more fucking dogging it. You train like shit here. Clarification: the first team does. Bayern Zwei are hungry. First team, don't you feel it? They want your spot and as far as I'm concerned, they can have it. Right, it's movie week here at Säbener Strasse. Spoiler alert, it's always movie week. This movie is called Bayern Munich Train Like They Mean It For Fucking Once and it comes in three acts. Now that you're warm, we can get into Act One - Basic Instinct. Line up in sets of two. Stand opposite. Spread your legs. Not that far Edgar, Jesus Christ. One ball between two. Ready? Pass to each other. Go."

They passed the ball back and forth, one of the most remedial drills imaginable.

I walked up and down, checking the standards, waiting for them to slip. The guys knew that's what I was doing but it was such a basic drill they couldn't keep concentration. When I saw the first mistake, I signalled to Briggy.

An old Bayern Munich fan chant came over the speakers. I had discovered it in a documentary called, true story, FC Hollywood. Apparently, the local fans didn't like it when highly-paid players squabbled and bitched and slept with each others' wives and lost football matches they should have won.

Translated, the chant went a little something like this:

We sing for shit millionaires! Shit million-aires!

I paced around, getting myself worked up again. "Is this what you want? You want the fans to turn against you? You can't even play a simple pass! Stop counting your fucking money, stop wishing you had a butler, stop thinking of who's mugged you off on social media, and get to fucking WORK."

The chant, going on an endless loop, was getting to some of the players. Their faces crunched up; they concentrated. I signalled to Briggy and the chant stopped.

"Better," I said. "Act Two - The Lives of Others. Move to the next stage, please. That means remove the cones." A few of the players helped out, but most didn't. "What the fuck!" I screamed. "This isn't Pampered Prince FC. This is B2 training. Pick up a cone, Claude! Zoran, are you too fucking special to pick up a cone?" Hundred-million Euro players scampered around, helping out, chipping in.

When the space was cleared, I brought the players into a circle and threw bibs around at random.

"Bibs on. Two teams, full-sized pitch. This drill is called Community Chester, which will make more sense the next time you play Monopoly. When I blow the whistle three times, it's full-time for that game, right? That means the rules change. What are the new rules? To find out, you go to the side of the pitch. Greens, you go to Briggy. Yellows, you go to Hoggy. You draw a mission card. Make sure everyone in your team understands the mission. Then we play."

Adam said, "Are the missions the same for each team?"

"They're random," I said.

He grinned. "And we don't know what the other team's mission is?"

I gave him a tiny smile. "If you're smart, you'll be able to work it out."

He turned to Dumi, who was wearing the same colour bib, and slapped him on the chest. Those two, at least, loved the concept.

It was, in truth, my absolute best coaching invention by far. I wanted all my drills to get players thinking, but having secret, asymmetrical objectives added a wild new dimension. At Chester, teams would sometimes play for a few minutes as though they had a certain objective but in reality they were merely setting up their oppo for their real mission. It was bluffs and double bluffs galore and it rarely failed to provoke a reaction.

The greens went to get their first card, as did the yellows.

The match started, with me as the ref, and I quickly deduced that the greens had the 'catch your opponent offside' card while the yellows were doing 'create an overload on the right of the penalty area' card.

Not every card led to amazing play, but that wasn't really the point. When the guys had seen enough cards to know what sort of missions the other team might have, things got crazy. A team who believed their oppo would score points by creating an overload - which simply meant having more players in one area - could counter by flooding that zone with players.

Clever, until they discovered the real mission was to dribble the ball from the halfway line to the goal line, which was easier if all the opposition were bunched up in one part of the pitch.

It was a bumpy session for about twenty minutes, but then came the first moment the greens thought they knew what the yellows were trying to do. They shouted, formed up to defend it, and things clicked into a higher gear.

For the next twenty minutes, the quality was amazing. Some of the lads absolutely devoured the meta-game aspect of the drill. Dumi would scream, "No offsides! No offsides!" Adam would jog to the halfway line, nonchalant, then burst into a dribble that drew all kinds of coverage. Claude and Didier were slower to get into it, but when they did, it hit them hard. They kept going into mini-huddles, discussing strategy with their hands over their mouths. When a plan worked, their Morale shot to maximum. They loved this movie.

Peep peep peeeep!

I walked around, trying not to show how childishly pleased I was.

The session passed the eye test for sure, but player Attributes and CAs were turning green all over the place. (Green was good. Green meant 'number go up'.) Willi and Cheb had not only played for Bayern for the first time but had done so in the Champions League; they had a lot of latent improvement ready to come out.

"Not bad, Bayern Munich, not bad. There's hope for you yet." I checked my watch. "Time for Act Three. It's called Everyone Picked on Saturday Must Respect the Opponent."

Dumi, the Romanian guy, said, "The first two acts had real movie titles."

"That is a movie title," I said. "Look it up. It's on Paramount Plus."

"I don't have that."

"I know, why would you? That's why I said it. A reminder of the name of Act Three. Everyone Picked Must Respect the Opponent. I'm gonna pause here so that anyone who doesn't want to take part can tap out and join 1A. That's the spot for players who think you win just by turning up. Players who think the job's done at half time. Players who are too fucking stupid to realise that the world is changing and they're not gonna stay at the top forever."

Nobody budged, so I walked to the side and took a yellow bib that I pulled on.

"Yellows are Kiel. We are flexible but we always work from three at the back. Greens are Bayern Munich. Do whatever formation it takes to stop us. You'll note we've got an extra player. I'm going to play like Kiel's coach wants, which is to create a decision crisis through numerical superiority. Translation: I'm going to fuck you up. This morning you've been thinking more than is normal and now, when your brains are tired, we'll take it up a notch. I'm going to put pressure on all the weak spots I see and lads, I've been seeing weak spots all over this gaff."

I took my watch off and threw it to Hoggy, followed by my whistle. I stuffed some big shinpads into my socks.

"One thing before we start. As you know, I'm a big tough guy but my girlfriend IS coming and I WOULD like to be able to walk around the old town with her so please don't take your frustrations out on my shins. All right, Bayern. Let's get ready to crumble! Adam, here." I reached out to hand my opponent the ball but when his fingers were just touching the side, I dropped it. "Clumsy," I said. His eyes lit up. I'd triggered his competitiveness.

I turned and shouted names and positions, setting us up in a 3-4-3 with me being an extra man in all zones.

"Lights, camera, action!"

***

My level was pretty far behind the top guys, but I could take a pass and move the ball into a dangerous area, and there was maybe no-one better in either training group at making the right decision. I got into space the way Pascal did, but with more vindictiveness. When I thought a player was taking it easy I would appear next to him yelling, "This one's tired! Weak spot here!" We pushed and probed and the greens defended and tried to play their way out of trouble.

I hadn't set them a captain and had instructed Hoggy not to coach them in this phase, so it was up to the lads to organise themselves. Adam, Dumi, and one of the Bayern Zwei oldies stepped up, which was fascinating.

I had Parnell Gourlay on my team, and I gave him some tips as we went. I did the same with Li Anjie, the lad from Singapore. He was CA 134, PA 148, so not exactly Champions League class, but I would definitely find use for him in the coming matches. He was very technical and followed instructions, but he lacked a big weapon that could hurt defenders at Bayern's level and he knew it. It made him very conservative. Not the player to send on if we needed to get two quick goals against Real Madrid, but perfect if we needed to keep possession and wind the clock down against Kiel.

When I felt the intensity was dropping, I signalled to Briggy, who blasted 'shit millionaires' until things picked up.

I wasn't sure about everyone else, but I was having a whale of a time.

"Fertig," called Hoggy, which was a relief to some of the players. They drifted towards the sides.

"The hell are you going?" I said. I went to the side to change from a yellow bib to green. "I'm changing teams. Elite mentality means abandoning your mates as soon as the match is finished, yeah? Can't remember where I learned that but I love it. Jumping ship like a fucking rat is everything I ever dreamed of as a kid." Hoggy had his head down and was chuntering; I couldn't help but smile. "Come on, Bayern. It's time to smash Key."

Dumi said, "Our next opponents are called Kiel."

"That's what I said. Key."

"Kiel. It has an L at the end."

"That's right!" I yelled. "The key is they get an L at the end! Whoo!" I high-fived myself. "That's the best thing you've ever heard, lads. You don't get lines like that in 1A."

***

Hoggy blew his whistle. The lads came into the middle, hands behind their heads, blowing hard. The session hadn't been physically demanding, but was a lot more mentally draining than usual, and with no hiding places.

"Lads, good," I said. "That's the kind of session I expect at a megaclub. Anyone disagree? Bosh. Okay, same time tomorrow."

"Wait," said Edgar. "What about the oppo analysis?"

"That was it. That's how they play. I'm somewhere near their level so if you can defend against me you can defend them."

Danny had come up to listen to the final huddle. "Was that Bestball?"

"Kinda. Sorta. Not really. I'm saving the good stuff for when you're fit again, mate." I gave him a wide grin. "It'll be no fun without you, Danny." He rolled his eyes but he was pleased anyway. "Seriously, though, a lot of Bestball is about thinking for yourself. Yeah, you've got your roles and your positions but you players are the only ones who can spot a weakness and press there in real time. So it wasn't the exact thing you've seen clips of but how I played now was how I think when I'm doing the full version, if you get me. And all that sprinting back, supporting each other, that's fundamental to whichever system you're doing, if you want to do it well. Teamwork makes the dream work. Teamwork over talent. I believe that. Here in B2 I've got both. That's it. Off you go."

They gathered their coats and water bottles and whatever else they had brought with them and headed back towards the main building. I looked at the empty goal and wondered about taking some free kicks. Any training I did while in Munich would push my boundaries up up up.

Paul Braun and Dieter Bauer were over by the side of the pitch, though, chatting to the B2 players as they clomped past.

I bent to fiddle with my shoelaces and composed myself. Clearly they had heard about 1A training and guessed that none of those players would be getting anywhere near the team while I was in charge. There was the possibility, albeit a slight one, that I had just coached my first and last session at a giant club. I needed to make a quick decision about something. I had enough XP to buy 3-4-2-1, the new formation.

XP balance: 5,224

But while idly browsing the perk shop, I had spotted something unexpected and exciting.

There was a perk called the Panopticon, which allowed me to add squads to my screens at a cost of 2,000 XP. The option was there for every club I had a stake in. For example, I could add Saltney Town's men's squad, or West Didsbury's, and one day soon I would do just that. The options had been static for ages and there was no reason for me to go checking it on a regular basis, but guess what? I was the manager of Bayern Munich! That squad was in my head while I was in charge, of course, but the option to add Bayern to my squad lists had snuck in at some point.

For 2,000 XP I could keep the Bayern squad in my head.

Forever!

I could spend the XP right now and if Paul and Dieter stuck me in the bin, I would retain incredible access to one of the biggest clubs in the world. Player wages, contract expiries, hot gossip about who hated who. It was hard to imagine how actionable any of it would be - would Chester ever be in a position to 'steal' a Bayern player whose contract was expiring? - but the cost of the perk wasn't high and it could be a lot of fun.

I'd earned some fun, hadn't I?

Yes, I had.

XP balance: 3,224

I tied my laces, quite pleased with myself. I was the English manager with the second-most wins in Bundesliga history (one), and I had one more Champions League win than 99% of managers in the history of the sport. Now I had a fun little souvenir to take home. The curse allowed me to give players a nickname; I wondered if there was a way I could rename Bayern Munich to FC Hollywood?

"Max," said Paul Braun, as I approached. "May we please talk?"

"Oh," I said, acting hurt. "I thought that was a good session. Did the players complain?"

"The players did not complain," said Paul. "In fact, they were rather impressed."

"Energised," said Dieter.

"Cool," I said, trying not to actually burst into happy tears. They liked the session! "Cool, cool. The thing is, I have to pick Emma up from the airport."

Paul's eyebrows shot up and he looked at his watch. "Oh!"

"Are you sacking me, Paul? You promised you wouldn't sack me ten minutes before Emma arrived."

He tutted. "No, I am not sacking you. But this isolation and exclusion is not the way we do things. We would like to discuss what has gone wrong calmly and rationally."

"Maturely," said Dieter.

"Not just with the players," said Paul, "but all the aspects of the club that you find, ah, nervig. The coaches, the analysts, the medical team, Diane."

"Hold up," I said. "I don't have a problem with Diane. She's doing a good job, it's just that her job shouldn't exist. Everyone else is designed to fit into a Bastian world, right, so I'm just being realistic and saying yeah that doesn't vibe for me and I'm only here for a couple more weeks so let's make it simple - I'll do things my way. I don't want people who doubt me travelling to Kiel. They are saying things that contradict what I am saying and there cannot be misalignment in the dressing room. How much money did I make for Bayern on Tuesday night? It was about two million Euros in prize money, wasn't it? Your analysts and your Hennos nearly cost you that. I'm trying to win every match and they can't say the same, can they? I am trying to thread the needle between doing things my way, which guarantees victory, and not hurting the value of these players. Their feelings might be hurt but I haven't called them out in the media, I haven't damaged their brands, any judge in the world would agree they're getting better training than the rest."

I looked behind me. I really wanted to blast some free kicks but it would have to wait. I had to leave Säbener Strasse to 'pick up Emma'. Of course, Emma wasn't actually on a plane. Nor would she be on a plane the next day, when I would also use her imminent arrival as an excuse to get out of any awkward conversations that arose. 'Hmm?' I would say. 'I said the same thing yesterday? Ah, no. Her flight was delayed. It's definitely today.' But in fact, provided we beat Kiel, Emma would arrive on Sunday before a week of home games. It was the only thing that made logistical sense.

"Guys," I said. "I need to..."

"Yes," said Dieter, who took Paul by the arm. The two pottered towards the nearest doorway, talking quietly and shaking their heads. I was always going to be five minutes from the sack in this place and I didn't much care for the feeling. Still, the sack was better than being forced to put an injured player in the team, or having to act against my principles.

I looked behind me again. In the distance, Briggy was helping the butler carry the stanchions and the velvet rope back to her car. Someone, it seemed, had drunk the brandy. To the left, various members of the press were gathered around, talking into their phones, pointing long-lens cameras at things. What the hell were the media going to say about the butler? The training split? The drills they would incorrectly assume was Bestball?

Much closer, Hoggy and the three senior players from Bayern Zwei were talking animatedly, presumably about the session we had just done. One of the senior guys gave me a thumbs up. His name was Till Rehder. He had never played in the Bundesliga. I returned the favour with a big smile.

Rocky. Tin Cup. Bull Durham. The Rookie. The Natural. Hollywood is replete with movies about an old, washed-up sportsman who gets an unexpected shot at the big time.

He didn't know it, but Till Rehder was going to be the biggest name in German sport on Saturday. He would probably be the most talked about man in the entire country. They would almost certainly make a movie of his life story.

Why?

Because while a one-hundred million Euro striker didn’t even get on the plane, Till Rehder was going to make his Bundesliga debut, aged 33, as the starting striker for Bayern Munich.