c47: Shamatte Style
It should have been a wonderful night two goals, Man of the Match, and Everton advancing but unfortunately, everything was ruined by the damn Grace.
I curse you to never find a proper striker in your life!
I curse you to only eat cucumbers for the rest of your days!
I curse you with the best cucumber breaking inside!
Huh? That last one might've gone too far.
Never mind, just stay away from her from now on.
After returning home and crashing onto his bed, Vardy felt an overwhelming boredom. He had the urge to log into the system to check on his stats. But he knew the League Cup didn't count toward system rewards meaning his brace against Sheffield Wednesday and his official Man of the Match award meant absolutely nothing in terms of characteristic points. So there was no use tormenting himself by checking.
Still, Vardy was growing increasingly anxious about how to trigger the next comedic behavior reward. His "Diving Swan" moment from the earlier league game earned him a solid boost in points, but now he was stalling.
As he flipped on the TV aimlessly, something sparked a circus show, with a flamboyant clown bouncing around, wearing an outrageously colorful hat.
The hat didn't matter.
It was the color. The chaos. The confidence.
Vardy's eyes lit up.
Why not dye his hair like that?
Uh, this kind of style from his previous life... wasn't it called Shamatte?
Although his current hairstyle wasn't long enough for full dramatics, straightening it would do. The point wasn't length it was impact. It had to pop with color.
Once the thought struck, he couldn't sit still. He jumped off the bed and dashed straight for the local barber shop.
"Sorry, Mr. Fan," he mumbled to himself. "This style mission is non-negotiable!"
The stylist did exactly as requested: straightened Vardy's hair, added a rainbow of colors, and turned his head into something that resembled a parrot mid-molt.
"You sure about this design?" the stylist asked, struggling to keep a straight face. The man had styled plenty of footballers—Mohawks, braids, even bleach-white tips but this? This was sabotage to both hair and sanity.
Yet Vardy stared at his reflection, bizarrely satisfied.
I look like a lunatic. This is the point.
It's absurd, it's loud it's funny.
And funny gets points.
The next morning, Vardy sped toward the Finch Farm training ground on his bicycle like a madman, the wind catching his newly dyed, gravity-defying hair.
The paparazzi lurking outside barely registered what they saw.
"What the hell was that?" one muttered. "A birdman?"
"Quick, call the police! Everton's base just got invaded by a rainbow alien!" another yelped, reaching for his phone.
A third, with sharper eyes and more patience, squinted hard. "Hold on… wait. Isn't that Vardy?"
Even the elderly gatekeeper, a 30-year Everton staff veteran, was nearly frightened into retirement.
When Vardy walked into the Finch Farm locker room, his teammates were halfway through changing, still laughing and chatting about a model they'd seen on Match of the Day. The atmosphere was light, but the second they caught sight of Vardy, silence crashed down like a thunderclap.
What the actual hell?
"What's that explosion on your head?" Gravesen finally blurted out, eyes wide as if he'd just seen a tactical formation from Mars.
Even the usually fearless Lee Carsley instinctively reached for his shorts to cover himself, as if Vardy's presence had physically altered the laws of space.
Vardy casually ran a hand through his multicolored, porcupine-like hair, wondering if the look was really that shocking.
"Come on, don't I look like a trendsetter?" he said with exaggerated flair, striking a pose he was sure screamed Premier League swagger.
His only reward was a barrage of socks and training tops hurled at him.
"What possessed you to get that disaster on your head? Did you lose a bet or just finally snap?" Carsley asked, giving his hair a friendly though painful rubdown.
Soon enough, the whole team was crowding around.
They had seen plenty of bad hair days Gravesen's chrome dome, Hibbert's eternal buzzcut, even Kilbane's questionable highlights but this? This was next-level insanity.
Vardy shoved Carsley's arm away. "You guys wouldn't get it. You're all stuck in your post-1990s bubble. But me? I'm defining the next wave. This is going to be the hottest autumn/winter style in English football!"
Middle fingers rose in near-unison.
Gravesen, unwilling to let the madness stand, grabbed young striker Luke Chadwick, only 21 and fresh from United's academy, dragging him into the conversation.
"You're young. You get style. Tell me you don't think this man-bird-hybrid is insane!"
Chadwick, clearly more afraid of the hulking Dane than of hurting Vardy's feelings, offered an apologetic shrug.
"I'm sorry, mate. That's a no from me. Looks like you lost a fight with a Skittles machine."
Everyone expected Vardy to be crushed but instead, his grin widened.
If no one understood it, that meant it was working. If they laughed, even better.
Because the system didn't reward style points. It rewarded funny.
Perfect. Just perfect.
Still, he couldn't show weakness. "You lot are just bitter. Deep down, you all want hair like this, but you don't have the guts or the follicles!"
Wrong move.
The declaration sparked a mini-mutiny. A brigade of baldies Gravesen, Carsley, even goalkeeper Richard Wright lunged. Within seconds, Vardy was being mock-pummeled, caught in a flurry of training boots and shampoo bottles.
On the training ground, manager David Moyes was locked in thought, sketching possible lineups for the weekend clash with Middlesbrough. With Vardy in electric form two goals and an assist in his last three league appearances he was crucial to the plan.
But Moyes's football meditation was shattered the moment the players trotted out.
He blinked twice.
What... was that?
He stared at Vardy like he was hallucinating. A rainbow blur, half-man, half-tropical bird.
If he hadn't recognized Vardy's cheeky grin under the plumage, Moyes might've called security.
Trying to keep composure, Moyes noted his squad's barely restrained laughter and snapped, "Jamie!"
He drew the name out like a red card.
Vardy stood at attention.
"Feeling like training's been too easy lately?"
Vardy shook his head vigorously.
"Then tell me why do you have time to get that nightmare on your head? You think we're playing Sunday League? You think Yakubu's going to be intimidated by a feather duster?"
The rest of the team burst out laughing.
Moyes, face red but voice calm, continued, "Fine. If you've got energy to waste on this... masterpiece... I'll just increase your running drills. Starting today."
Vardy felt the tears form.
Why was being funny so hard?
But even as he groaned, he reminded himself this was the road to characteristic points. The system had needs. And he, Jamie Vardy, class clown of the Premier League, would walk that thorny path.
Of course, Moyes wouldn't really punish him. Vardy was in top form and likely to start against Middlesbrough. After all, the only reason Moyes subbed him off early against Sheffield Wednesday was to rest him not because he wasn't essential.
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