Leon stood in the war room. He was just staring at the whiteboard.

On it, Walter Samuel had written their schedule.

Spennymoor Town (Away).

Sunderland (Away).

But Leon was not looking at the names. He was looking at the number in the top corner. A big, beautiful, angry number.

Minus Three.

They were so close. So, so close to zero. After starting at minus fifteen, zero felt like winning the league. Zero was the real summit. Zero meant they were finally in the race.

"It is beautiful, compadre," Biyon G. said from his golf cart. He was not looking at the number. He was sketching on a notepad. "I am designing our special FA Cup kit. I am thinking… flames. Or maybe a giant, angry badger. What do you think?"

Leon did not answer. He was too focused.

Walter Samuel just grunted. He was studying a printout of Spennymoor's team. "They have a tall striker," he rumbled. "He wins… headers."

"Headers! Boring!" Biyon waved his hand. "We are television stars now, Walter! We must think about the 'brand'. The 'Controlled Avalanche' brand!"

As if on cue, Leon's phone buzzed. It was Marco. Leon's stomach did a little flip. He answered.

"LEO!" Marco screamed, and Leon had to pull the phone away from his ear. "IT IS HAPPENING! THE 'HEARTWARMING-PACKAGE' IS A GO! The BBC is coming! Tomorrow!"

"Tomorrow?" Leon squeaked. "Marco, we have a game on Saturday! The biggest game of our season! We have to get to zero!"

"Zero is great! Zero is wonderful! But 'BBC One' is 'BBC One', Leo! They are coming to film the town, the bakery, the 'Badger's-call-centre'! Be ready! Be charming! Wear the good suit!"

Marco hung up.

Leon looked at Biyon. He looked at Walter.

"The BBC," Leon said, his voice weak. "They are coming. Tomorrow."

Biyon screamed with joy.

Walter just sighed, a long, slow, suffering sound. "Catastrophic."

The next day, Kirkby was not a normal town. It was a movie set.

A friendly BBC van was parked outside the tiny stadium. A small crew, led by a kind woman with a bright smile named Clara, was unloading cameras.

"Leon! So lovely to meet you!" Clara said, shaking his hand. "We are so excited. The whole country loves this story. The baker! The minus points! The avalanche! It is just… magic!"

"It is… mud, mostly," Leon said, trying to smile. He was wearing his "good" tracksuit, the one without a scone stain.

The team was gathered. They were supposed to be training. They were not training. They were all standing in a group, trying to look "natural" for the cameras. It was not working.

"Right!" Clara clapped her hands. "Who wants to go first? How about… the 'Badger'?"

Liam Doyle, the 'Badger', puffed out his chest. He had put gel in his hair. He looked less like a badger and more like a very nervous porcupine.

"So, Liam," Clara smiled, the big camera pointing right at him. "They call you the 'Badger'. Why is that?"

Liam, who usually shouted, just whispered. "Uh. 'Cos I like… tackling?"

"We hear you are a bit of a… tough-guy on the pitch?"

"Yeah," Liam said, trying to look tough. "I just… I just love… kicking. Kicking people. And… winning. And… my mum. Can my mum see this? Hi, mum!"

Leon put his head in his hands.

Next was Dave the baker. He had, of course, brought props.

"And this, Clara," Dave was explaining, holding a tray of perfectly baked scones, "this is what I call the 'Regista-Scone'. It sits deep. It controls the 'flavour-game'."

"Amazing!" Clara laughed. "And is it true you scored the goal to get to minus three… with your stomach?"

"The 'Stomach-Goal'!" Dave beamed, puffing out his bib. "It was all about 'instinct'. Like 'knowing-when-the-bread-is-ready'. You just… 'feel-it'. And 'pop'. Stomach. Goal."

Leon had to walk away. He found Walter Samuel hiding in the boot room, pretending to count footballs.

"Walter, you have to do an interview," Leon pleaded.

"No," Walter said.

"They just want to ask about the defense. About 'The Mountain'."

"The defense… is fine. 'The Mountain'… is tall."

"Walter. Please."

Walter sighed. He walked out. Clara, the presenter, beamed at him.

"Walter Samuel! A legend! What a joy. Tell me, what is the secret to Apex's incredible defense?"

Walter stared at the camera. He stared at Clara. He did not blink.

After ten seconds of pure, terrifying silence, he just rumbled, "We… need… to… cut… the… grass."

Clara looked confused. "Oh. Uh. Right. And… the 'Controlled Avalanche'? What is that like?"

Walter looked at the sky. "It is… loud. Biyon… gives me… a… headache."

Leon could not watch anymore.

He went to find Biyon. This was, of course, a mistake.

Biyon had not waited to be interviewed. He had 'kidnapped' the cameraman. He had wheeled his golf cart into the center circle. He had his own whiteboard.

"…AND SO YOU SEE," Biyon was explaining, gesturing wildly with a marker, "the 'Avalanche' is not 'chaos'! It is 'psychological-warfare'! We are 'forcing-the-opponent' to 'question-reality'! I am the 'Tactical-Oracle'! Leon is the 'Vessel'! And Walter… Walter is the 'Grumpy-Anchor'!"

The film crew loved it. They were laughing. They were getting amazing footage.

Leon looked at his players. Jamie 'Racehorse' Scott was practicing a "cool" goal celebration. 'The Mountain' was shyly showing the camera his "student-ID-card".

They were not a football team. They were a 'feel-good-movie-montage'.

And on Saturday, Spennymoor Town, who did not have cameras, were going to kick them off the park.

That evening, after the BBC van had finally, finally rolled away, Leon called the team into the locker room. The buzz was still in the air.

"They liked me," Dave said, his face glowing. "Clara said my scones were 'TV-ready'!"

"She said I was 'fearsome'!" Liam grinned.

Leon let the chatter die down. He stood in front of them. He was not angry. He was quiet.

"That was fun," Leon said, his voice calm. "You all did great. You deserve the attention. It is a great story."

The players smiled.

"But," Leon said, his voice dropping. "It is just a story. And right now… they think we are the 'joke'."

The smiles faded.

"They are not here because we are 'brilliant'," Leon continued. "They are here because we are 'cute'. They are here to film the 'little-baker-who-could' before the 'big-bad-Sunderland-team' 'squashes-him'."

"They are filming a 'before' picture, lads. They are telling the story of a 'brave-little-failure'. Do you understand that?"

The room was dead silent.

"They all want to pat us on the head. They want to say 'aww, look at them, with their minus points and their baker'."

Leon walked to the whiteboard. He picked up the marker. He tapped the "Minus Three".

"On Saturday, we play Spennymoor Town. They are not 'cute'. They are not 'TV-ready'. They are just… better than us. And they want to beat the 'stupid-team-from-the-TV'."

"We have a choice. We can be the 'joke'. The 'cute-little-failure' they all expect. Or… we can be 'legends'."

He pointed to the "Minus Three" again.

"On Saturday… we go to zero. We stop being the 'joke'. We start being the 'threat'. We show all those people, and all those cameras, what the real story is. The real story… is the 'Great-Escape'."

"Go home. Rest. On Saturday, we go to war."

Saturday. Spennymoor. It was raining. Of course it was raining.

There were no cameras. There was just mud, and a small, angry home crowd.

The "Sunderland Distraction" was bad. The "BBC-Distraction" was worse.

Apex started slow. Their heads were full of "camera-angles" and "scone-recipes".

Spennymoor were big. And Walter was right. Their tall striker was winning everything.

30th minute. A long ball. The tall striker won the header. It fell to a midfielder.

Bang. 1-0 Spennymoor.

The Apex players looked stunned. This was not in the 'movie-script'.

Halftime. The locker room was quiet. Defeated.

Leon walked in. He was soaked. He did not shout. He just looked at them.

"Well?" he asked, his voice quiet. "Are we the 'joke'?"

Liam 'Badger' Doyle looked up, his eyes suddenly fierce. "No, gaffer."

"No," Dave the baker said, clenching his fists.

"Then go out there," Leon said, his voice rising. "And 'fix-it'!"

The second half was not football. It was a 'Controlled-Avalanche'. It was pure, unadulterated 'Apex-Football'. It was mud, and shouts, and heart.

They threw everything at Spennymoor. 'The Mountain' was a wall. The 'Badger' was a whirlwind, tackling everything that moved.

Still 1-0. 80th minute. 85th minute.

Leon looked at Biyon, who was in the stands with his walkie talkie. Biyon was screaming, but Leon could not hear him.

88th minute. Jamie 'Racehorse' Scott got the ball. He had been quiet all day, dreaming of Sunderland's left back. But now he was just angry.

He ran. He did not stop. He beat one man. He beat a second. He was at the line. He crossed the ball, a desperate, hopeful, angry ball.

It was chaos. The keeper missed it. A defender fell.

And there was Liam 'Badger' Doyle. He had run all the way from his defense. He did not know why. He just… ran. The ball hit him on the knee. It 'blooped' up… and over the line.

1-1!

The tiny Apex away-end went insane.

"Get the ball!" Leon roared. "Get the ball! It is not done!"

They sprinted back. Two minutes of injury time.

92nd minute. Apex won a free kick. 30 yards out. Too far.

"Dave!" Leon roared. "Dave! Take it!"

Dave the baker, his face 'red-with-exhaustion' and 'pure-hope', placed the ball. This was his moment.

He ran up. He kicked it as hard as he could.

It was a terrible shot. It hit the Spennymoor wall. Straight in the stomach of the tall striker.

But the ball… it did not go clear. It 'bounced'. It 'bounced' high in the air, looping backwards, right into the 'six-yard-box'.

And there was Samuel 'The Mountain' Adebayo. He had not moved. He had just… waited.

The Spennymoor keeper was lost.

'The Mountain' did not even have to jump. He just… 'nodded'.

THWACK.

2-1. Apex.

The referee blew the final whistle.

Leon Davies fell to his knees in the mud. He did not have any thoughts. He was just… empty.

He heard a roar. His players were piling on top of him. The 'BadGEr'. The 'baKEr'. The 'MountAIn'. His 'beautiful, muddy, impossible' team.

An hour later, Leon walked into the silent locker room. The players were showering, singing 'terrible-songs' at the top of their lungs.

Leon walked to the whiteboard.

He picked up the eraser.

He looked at the "Minus Three". He wiped it away.

He picked up the marker. He drew a new number. A big, round, perfect number.

0.

He just stood there, looking at it.

Biyon wheeled in, his eyes 'suspiciously-wet'. Walter stood next to him.

They just looked at the 'zero'.

The 'Great-Escape' was no-longer-a-dream . They were at the starting-line .

And next-up… was Sunderland'.

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