5.
4/11. I got up early and drove to Hough End. It wasn't that far to walk but it was a little bit too far in case I was stupidly early. But even when I got there at 9 am there were people milling around getting the pitches set up. Tying nets to the goalposts. Setting up corner flags. Rummaging inside a huge bag of shirts and shorts. The rituals of Sunday League football.
I went to ask a manager-looking guy what ti the gas were kicking off. There were so at 10, he said, and after that he didn't know. I popped ho for a nice cuppa, and was back at five to ten. I watched the ga as closely as poss. These were proper 45-minute halves, so I ca out with almost 80 XP. I did lose concentration a few tis, but we can gloss over that. No-one concentrates on anything 100% of the ti. Also, the quality was abysmal. One of the worst gas you've ever seen. Just loads of n with low attributes running around shouting and trying to run off their hangovers.
rcifully, that ga ended. Another team was hanging around the side of the pitch waiting to use it. Their ga would start at 12:15, they told , but the genius of going to Hough End was that there were so many gas happening that I didn't need to take a break. I shuffled across to another pitch and watched part of that, then went back to the pitch I'd started on. Doing that ant I could watch gas pretty much non-stop from 10am until the final whistle on the final ga at two thirty.
In total, I got 225 XP. It could have been more but the more I tried to power through, the more tired and distracted I got. Still, good haul. Really good haul, bringing to 475 XP. Nearly halfway there, with a week to go.
***
The next few nights were a slog. The poor quality was starting to get to , as was the saness of all the players. There wasn't one guy with good attributes.
Monday was all right because the ga I ended up watching was pretty good. Both teams had enough half-decent players to make every attack seem dangerous and it seed like both teams were trying to do tactics, though I couldn't tell you what. It was pretty easy to concentrate during that one. But Tuesday I couldn't find a good ga and I ended up frustrated and going ho early. Then on Wednesday there was a pretty huge thunderstorm and no gas were played.
Which left slightly stressed, because I was on 560 out of 1000 with only 4 days left. The last day was a Sunday so I assud Hough End would be ramd with Sunday League gas again, but what if the weather was bad? If I missed this deadline the chance of ever watching enough abysmal football to get 10,000 XP (to buy Super Scout full-price) was zero. Less than zero.
I spent much of Thursday wondering why I was putting myself through this. Most of the matches were beyond dull and veering into sothing like torture. When a player blonked the ball at the goal and it flew so close to the sun that it nearly hit Icarus, I had to watch that player half-heartedly jog towards the ball, get it, co back to the pitch, and throw it to the goalkeeper. That's what I was doing with my life because if I didn't pay attention I wouldn't get XP. When there was an injury and all the players ran to the side of the pitch to drink blue Powerade, I couldn't have a little potter around or check my phone. I had to stare at the injured player or the referee or the stationary ball.
And why? What would I get?
I didn't know. But I knew I'd already co this far. Surely I could summon up a little more effort? A handful of evenings?
***
Thursday night, I dragged myself to Platt Lane and watched parts of two gas. 120 XP and a nice chat with the chicken wrap guy who I was getting to know a bit now that I was a regular custor.
I went into the sports hall to watch so more, and there was a bit of an upsetting incident.
Both teams were pretty thuggy. Very snide and aggressive, and the ga reminded of a simring pot. It always seed like it would co to the boil at any mont, but it never quite got there.
One team had a kind of super-thug running around windmilling his elbows. If you believe in-breeding causes facial defects like eyes being too close together, then this guy was your poster boy. I knew his na from the curse, but let’s call him Pitbull. The profile page told that Pitbull was a defender, but he was playing up front. I scanned the rest of his team and they could have reorganised more efficiently. But then again, I was pretty sure the attributes I could see were based on full-size matches. After all, you didn’t really have left-backs or defensive midfielders in these smaller gas. So maybe the ‘position’ attribute didn’t matter in a ga like this. Right? Or should players with defensive characteristics play in defence no matter how big the ga was?
By now, you might have guessed what happened. Pitbull felt staring at him and when his team conceded a last-minute equaliser having been in the lead for most of the ga, he blew his top, and I was first in line for his wrath.
With his eyes so close together, his forehead looked massive. I was sure his primary form of communication was via the dium of headbutting.
“What you looking at?”
I’m looking at your genetically malford face, mate. “What?”
“Said, what you looking at?”
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“Oh,” I said, leaning back. I had been angled forward, watching the ga so intently I strained my neck. I rubbed it while twisting. “I was trying to work out why you don’t play at the back.”
“You what?”
“Aren’t you a defender?”
“No. I’m a striker. Top scorer.”
I massaged the little muscle above my collarbone. This was worrying. If I couldn’t trust the position attribute then I couldn’t trust anything. Which would render the whole thing futile. Which ant if Polish Nick had done this to , the whole thing was a prank. “Oh.”
Pitbull, to his huge credit, saw my confusion and cald all the way down. He even showed a little empathy. “I used to play centre-back at school. Were you at Ducie?”
“No. Maybe I saw you once, though.” I was about to make so suggestions about how they could reorganise their team, but decided to beat a hasty retreat while my nose was still in one piece.
***
[Day 9 of 11]. Friday was brutally hot. A ga started, but at half-ti both teams agreed to quit. There were gas in the sports hall, but I was a bit wary of going in and having another confrontation. Especially because the heat was making fractious. Every little thing was driving insane. Bus taking too long at one stop? Holy fuck sort it out! Shop out of cheddar? Who do I have to murder to fix your supply chain, mate?
I had a little chat with Emre, the chicken wrap guy, hoping to vent my frustration a bit, but he said it wasn't even that hot. That wound up because it was the hottest day in recorded history and sure, maybe it's technically hotter in Turkey sotis but Turkey has a fucking OCEAN and air conditioning and buildings with those Byzantine protection wall decorations that sort of keep the heat out sohow.
"There's aircon in the hall," he said.
"They aren't always that keen on watching," I said, casting a forlorn glance at the building.
He went quiet at that. Stopped fiddling with things on his little stand. He was weighing up what to say to and how to say it when he glanced over my shoulder and called to soone. "Beth. Got a sec?" I turned to see a woman striding past, about 20, wearing a tracksuit and carrying indoor trainers with little rubber grips on them. She was attractive enough, but she had those eyebrow things. Sort of looks like they've been shaved off then drawn back on in marker pen? I don't know if that's what happens and I don't want to know.
"Sup Emre?"
"My best custor here wants to watch a ga but he's shy."
"And you want to take care of him?"
"Yes, please. But don't get him wet and don't feed him after midnight."
She looked up and down and flicked her head towards the hall. "Co on, then." I nodded thanks at Emre and tagged along with the woman. I thought I should make polite small talk but she didn’t need any prompting; she had things she wanted to say. "It's the first ga of the season. We play 7-a-side, rolling subs. This lot are dirty but we'll beat them. Been working on fitness over the sumr. Every ti I thought about skiving and going on the razz, I thought of Chloe Kelly. How hard it's been for her. If she can co back from an ACL I can do a few shuttle runs in the morning. God, I hope we win."
Her way of talking was disconcerting - surely she’d just expressed confidence they’d win the ga? Had I missed sothing? "We?"
"Duh. England?"
She thought she was playing for England? What? "What?"
"The final! Are you - Oh." I knew that look she was giving . It wasn’t the first ti I’d seen it from soone who’d just t . She wasn't sure if I was 'ntally challenged'.
I tried to smile to show her the incandescent intelligence that burned within . "This is the first ga of the season, you said. But now you're saying it's the final. You'll forgive for being confused."
She pulled a face. "This isn't - I'm talking about England. England vs Germany. Euro 22." It was obvious that I didn't know what she was talking about. Her mad eyebrows shot up with surprise. "Won's football," she said, but her good humour had left. To her, I was one of those trolls who always banged on about won's football being slow and the goalkeepers being shit.
I showed her my palms. "I co in peace, sister. Hashtag not all n."
"That's not a very good hashtag."
I grimaced. "Isn't it? Sorry. I don't do social dia. I’ve only heard about it second hand. Got the wrong end of the stick maybe."
She looked at much like Solly the dog had done, but she ca to a different conclusion. Or just gave the benefit of the doubt. "England are in the final of the Euros. Playing Germany. It's huge. The whole country is talking about it. You literally can't have not heard about it."
I had heard so podcasts talking about sothing with won, but that’s what the skip forward button is for. Now I wondered what I’d been missing, tried to fill in the blanks. My imagination ran wild. All the way back to 1966 in the World Cup. The n's World Cup. "England v Germany in the final? That's pretty... epic."
She smiled. "At Wembley."
"You're fucking kidding."
She liked that, for so reason. "No."
"Won's football at Wembley. The Wembley? 90,000 seat stadium Wembley? The literal ho of football?"
"Yep."
My mind started racing. So there was a ga on Sunday night! If I was still short on XP after the Sunday morning gas, or if they were canceled because of bad weather, maybe I could get down to London and watch this won's football thing. If I got XP for watching malcoordinated male players hoof the ball at random all over Manchester, surely I'd get XP for watching the highest level of won's football. The curse would have to be very misogynist to only give credit for watching n, or mostly-male teams. How long would it take to drive to London? Three hours, was it? Four? If the kickoff was at 7pm I could watch a few hours of Hough End magic in the morning and still be at Wembley with hours to spare.
Beth was watching go through these calculations. "What are you doing?"
I was close to blushing. "Just wondering if I could watch an early match here in Manchester and still make it to the ga."
"To the final? Are you crazy? It's sold out."
"90,000 tickets for won's football sold out?" I was incredulous, which was a bad vibe. But my surprise wasn't really along the lines of 'but the gas are shit'. It was more like 'but when did this get so popular?' I had just enough intelligence to realise I'd offended Beth in the microseconds before she made certain I knew she was unhappy by turning away and leaving. I would likely never see her again but I didn't want to end on a low note. I chased after her and said, "Sorry, sorry. I'm not trying to be a dick." She stopped and turned. "I'm just blown away. Honest. You've got to admit that's mind-blowing."
She briefly looked furious, but it passed. "Barcelona had over 90,000 twice in one month."
"Fucking hell."
She gave another long look. It felt long, anyway. "How old are you?"
"22."
"And you don't do social dia?"
"I had Facebook but I deleted it."
"You've got TikTok though."
"I don't." At that, she seed to lose interest in . She looked at her watch and started striding towards the sports hall. I tried to keep pace but fell behind. She was nearly at the doors. I had to yell. "Can I still watch?"
"It's a free country." The doors slamd behind her.
Not exactly a glowing invitation. But I took it. In that brief mont I wanted the XP more than I feared what lay inside.
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