Cycling is canny, but Football Manager is amazing. AMAZING. It's crack-cocaine for stattos. Back in 1996 it was Championship Manager, which was far too easy. All one had to do was sign Claudio Caniggia for Newcastle and four consecutive league titles followed. Picture the scene: 13-year-old David perched in front of a computer, the stereo on the seat next to him alternating between Sash's Encore Une Fois and Ash's Goldfinger, several binders stacked nearby, each filled with printouts detailing every season played. Which of my central defenders had the highest average rating in 2018/19? Grab a binder and find out.
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| Never signed this no-hoper |
I can't begin to imagine how many hours of my life went into that game and its subsequent editions, so it's probably for the best that my obsession ran its course within a few years. I even began to venture outside, my pale white skin bristling at the sun like a glass of milk left out in the midday heat. But now Football Manager has its claws in me again, filling the England-shaped hole in my heart with hundreds of thousands of players I've never heard of. Just as Bruce Wayne becomes Batman in the witching hour, I perform heroics for which I expect no thanks or praise - just a faint reprimand from the missus.
At night I'm the dashing, handsome and cultured manager of Brighton. The year is 2016 and I've taken the Seagulls from the mid-table mediocrity in the Championship to mid-table glory in the Premier League. Owen Hargreaves is my tactics coach. Clive Allen and Ray Wilkins are in the mix somewhere. Bryan Robson did something or other behind the scenes, but he just retired. I have an expensive Dutch striker called Anass Achahbar who thinks I'm the inept one, even though he's bagged a grand total of two goals in 25 appearances.
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| Achahbar reacts to my touchline shouts |
After an extraordinary first season in the top flight - and a narrow defeat in the League Cup final - things have turned sour. Eleven defeats in a row? Check. Six games without a goal? Check. Dressing room revolt? Check. Yet I return to the game over and over, confident that a change of formation or a new face will see my motley crew charge up the table. Despite modest improvement, results remain mixed: back-to-back wins over both Manchester clubs are followed up by a humiliating cup exit at Leyton Orient. I storm out of a press conference only to be censured by the board for a lack of professionalism. What do those suits know about football? I'm the best manager the club has ever had - and they used to be managed by Brian bloody Clough, thankyouverymuch.
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| 4-4-2 Diamond: a true work of art |
Football Manager is the perfect poison. Even when I'm doing terribly - pouting like a child in front of the laptop - I'm having a ball, secretly hoping to be sacked so that I can take over at Whitley Bay and teach a load of part-timers how to play Total Football. Preseason training and a quick glance at the transfer list can easily turn into endless hours of careful comparison. What kind of heathen couldn't find life-affirming joy in the decision between signing the mercurial-but-unhinged Chilean striker or the woeful Irish wingback who could turn into a world-beater? The latter, perhaps, sums up my hopeless addiction: my Brighton side are comprehensively mediocre, but they're also brimming with potential.
My beautiful boys in blue may be little more than a set of slowly growing numbers on a screen, but they're the reason I'll be back after my next humbling at the hands of lower league Luddites. Apart from Achahbar, obviously. He'll rot in the reserves as long as it's my name on the door to the gaffer's office.
