The days leading up to the Tuesday training session were a special kind of torture. I was living on a knife-edge of hope and dread.
Had I done enough?
Had my speech, powered by the system's 'Persuasive Talk' skill, been enough to pique the interest of a seventeen-year-old with a world-class talent and a universe-sized ego?
Or had he just laughed the moment I'd walked away and forgotten all about the crazy man from the worst team in the league?
I replayed the conversation in my head a thousand times.
The system had guided me, suggesting I challenge his pride, appeal to his desire to be the star. It felt right at the time, a bold, high-risk gamble.
But now, in the cold light of day, it felt like a desperate, clumsy attempt to sweet-talk a player who was, by every objective measure, leagues above us. It was like a non-league club trying to sign Lionel Messi by promising him he could be the main man.
My anxiety wasn't helped by the fact that I'd told Frankie about JJ.
I had tried to be casual about it, to downplay the monumental importance of this potential signing. "I have seen a decent kid playing in the park, gaffer," I'd said, trying to sound nonchalant. "Told him to come down to training. Might be worth a look."
Frankie had just grunted, his expression a familiar mask of weary cynicism. "A decent kid, eh? Let me guess. He's got two left feet and the turning circle of a bus, but you reckon you can turn him into the next George Best."
"Something like that," I'd admitted.
"Well, don't hold your breath, Gaffer," he'd said, crushing his roll-up under his heel. "Kids like that, the ones with real talent… they don't end up at clubs like ours. They've got a hundred other options. We're the last resort. The place you end up when everything else has gone wrong."
He was right, of course. And that was the source of my hope, and my fear.
Why was a player with 180 PA playing in a rusty cage in Hulme?
What had gone wrong for him? The system had shown me his personality flaws - the low determination, the lack of professionalism.
It hinted at a story, a reason for his fall from grace, or perhaps a reason why he had never graced anything in the first place. He was a lottery ticket. A ticket that could either win us the jackpot or turn out to be a worthless, crumpled piece of paper.
Tuesday night arrived, and with it, a fresh wave of anxiety. The mood at training was better than it had been in weeks. The moral victory against The Merchant Bankers had lit a fire in the lads.
They were still a collection of misfits and journeymen, but now they were our misfits and journeymen. There was a sense of belonging, of shared purpose. They even did the warm-up without complaining. Much.
I started the session with the high-intensity pressing drill that had become our trademark. They threw themselves into it with a newfound enthusiasm.
They were communicating, they were organizing, they were hunting as a pack. I stood on the sideline, a feeling of pride swelling in my chest. This was my team. I had built this. It was a small, fragile thing, but it was real.
But all the while, my eyes were scanning the dimly lit path that led to the pitch. Every distant figure, every approaching shadow, made my heart leap into my throat. Seven o'clock came and went. Then ten past. Then quarter past. He wasn't coming.
Of course, he wasn't coming. Why would he? He was a 180 PA wonderkid. We were The Railway Arms.
The dream was over before it had even begun. I felt a familiar, sinking feeling of disappointment. I had gotten my hopes up, and the real world had, as it so often did, slapped them back down.
Frankie caught my eye from across the pitch and gave me a small, almost imperceptible shake of the head. It wasn't a gloating gesture. It was a gesture of sympathy. 'Told you so, son. Don't worry about it. That's just the way it is.'
I was about to call the lads in to start a practice match, to try and salvage something from the evening, when I saw him. He was just standing at the edge of the pitch, a tall, silhouetted figure against the orange glow of the city.
He was wearing a grey hoodie, the hood pulled up, and his hands were stuffed into his pockets. He was twenty minutes late, and he looked like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world.
But he was here.
I felt a surge of adrenaline, a jolt of pure, unadulterated excitement. The lottery ticket was in my hand. Now I just had to see if it was a winner.
"Alright, lads, hold it there!" I shouted, my voice sharp with a new authority. The players stopped, looking at me, then at the new arrival. I walked over to JJ, my heart pounding a steady, determined rhythm.
"You're late," I said, my voice calm and level. I wasn't going to gush. I wasn't going to make a big deal of it. The system, my 'Man-Management Basics' skill, was telling me to establish my authority from the outset.
JJ just shrugged, his eyes scanning the scene with a look of bored disdain. "Got held up."
"Right," I said, nodding. "Well, you're here now. Grab a bib. You're on the yellow team."
I tossed him a bib. He caught it, but he didn't put it on. He just looked at the chaotic, muddy game unfolding in front of him, then back at me, a sneer playing on his lips. "This is it? This is your big project?"
I could feel the eyes of the other players on us. They were watching, listening. This was a test. A test of me, and a test of him. My response here would set the tone for everything that followed.