THE SATURDAY PAPER Your club now prints its own pink 'un. Make your call, and it lands folded once, the way a paper is actually sold. Unfold it for the match report and the half-time score. The banner is always on your side. The plate beside it never is. A THRILLER, OF A SORT, it says. LOST 0-4, says the plate. Both true, one inch apart, and that inch is the whole paper. Behind it, a league that finally plays itself. Twenty clubs, thirty-eight Saturdays, and somebody in the other dugout on every one of them. Twelve new dilemmas, every one a parody of something that actually happened. A club mascot on the ballot paper. A crossbar that somebody measured before kick-off and then said nothing about until full time. Four new storylines, two of them ones the club remembers you for. Stay long enough in one job and old decisions come back with the bill attached. Sixteen endings that could be reached but never collected now stick down. Still no match engine. Still no transfers. Still printed in a lock-up.