Soccer Supremo - A Sports Progression Fantasy

3.

Wednesday, October 4

Bumpers Bank was busier than one of Man City’s lawyers; it was more bustling than the leading lady in a Regency drama. (This joke is so clever it barely works, but I’m keeping it.)

The Fans Forum was being held in the Get Fed and Wed Shed. Facing the stage, with its seemingly haphazard array of lights, wires, and pipes, were hundreds of Chester members, neatly lined in rows. These fans were the lucky ones, the ones who had been picked in the ’ticket lottery’.

Downstairs, scores of fans without tickets (who had arrived on the off chance they would be allowed in) were milling around the canteen and bar, brushing shoulders with dozens of amateur footballers who were waiting to play on our rental pitches.

From a second-floor window I saw six pros coming from the gym.

I peeked through the curtain into the main room and spotted three journalists. They had been placed all the way at the back, as far away from the stage as poss.

I texted the event co-ordinator that I was about to start.

The board is set; the pieces are moving.

***

There was a buzz, a happy murmur, which dimmed then sparked into fiery applause as I appeared on the main stage.

I held up a hand. My upper body filled the big screens. My hoodie spoke of a passion for social justice; my haircut spoke of fast cars and glitzy ballrooms; my sombre, unsmiling expression spoke of bad tidings.

On the stage to my left sat Brooke Star (our financial wizard, freshly tanned from her jaunt back home to watch Zach play for his country), Secretary Joe (the paperwork bro), MD (my boss), and Sandra Lane (also my boss, when I was wearing my ’player’ hat).

”Thanks,” I said, acknowledging the crowd’s applause in a flat tone. ”Hi. Um, yeah.”

The evening’s fizz was turning flat. In football, the higher the hope, the bigger the disappointment. So it must ever be.

For Chester fans, the day had been strange.

First I had appeared in South Wales, playing golf with a billionaire who owned a rival football team. What was a Chester fan supposed to make of that? Did this b-bro want to offer me a job? The presence of an employee from the Premier League hinted that this was no innocent round of golf...

Then came the flurry of statements from Premier League clubs restating their enthusiasm for the Refereeing Standards Project. So from a Chester fan’s point of view, that had to be good news, right? I was fighting the good fight. Right?

But I had not released a statement, nor had Chester FC itself, save to assure fans and the media that ’Any and all communication will take place at tonight’s Fans Forum. No tickets are available, no further communication will be forthcoming.’

That had gone down like a lead balloon, but then my name had been read out as part of the starting eleven for Chester FC against Sandbach United, a tier ten side whose stadium consisted of a pair of 50-person stands. It would have been fun to play at their ground, just for the novelty, but luckily for the scheduling the match had been played at the Deva.

I had played left wing, and had mostly strolled around, helping our youthful team get ahead and stay ahead. 2,000-odd fans got to see me, but more importantly it was their first proper look at two of our summer signings: the million-pound defender Des Walker, nabbed from Celtic, and the four-million pound striker Errol Obikwu, prised from Sheffield United.

”Yeah,” I said again, and the air in the huge room grew chillier. I fidgeted with the dangling toggles of my hoodie. ”I hoped to have some good news for you tonight.”

I scrunched up my face and looked at MD. His head dropped slightly. Brooke rubbed his back.

A ribbon of fans were leaning against the wall at the sides of the room. There must have been twenty in all, which meant there were twenty Chester insiders in attendance, displacing the real fans. Secretary Joe would have turned away ticketless fans, otherwise there would have been chaos, but he couldn’t say no to our players or coaches.