"This is it," I said, my voice firm. "This is a group of lads who work ten-hour days and then come here and run their hearts out for ninety minutes on a Sunday. It might not look like much to you, but it's called a team. And if you want to be a part of it, you earn your place. Just like everyone else."
I looked him dead in the eye. "So, are you going to put the bib on, or are you going to stand there like a statue all night?"
For a moment, I thought he was going to walk. He stared at me, his jaw tight, his eyes full of a defiant, angry pride. But then, with a sigh of theatrical exasperation, he pulled the bib over his head. He was in.
What followed was five minutes of the most breathtaking, frustrating, and brilliant football I had ever seen in my life.
The moment the ball came near him, JJ was transformed. The sullen, slouching teenager disappeared, replaced by a creature of pure, fluid grace. His first touch was magnetic, the ball sticking to his foot as if it were glued there.
His pace was electric; he could go from a standing start to a full sprint in a couple of heartbeats. He beat three players with a series of shimmies and step-overs that were so quick, so audacious, that the defenders were left tripping over their own feet. He was playing a different sport to everyone else on the pitch.
But he was also a tactical nightmare. He never passed. He held onto the ball for too long, trying to beat one player too many. He didn't track back, he didn't communicate, he didn't listen to a single instruction. He was a one-man show, a soloist in an orchestra that was trying to play a completely different tune.
The other players were getting frustrated. They were making runs that were being ignored, they were shouting for passes that never came. Baz, our confrontational defender, was getting particularly incensed. "Pass the fing ball, you selfish t!" he roared, after JJ had tried and failed to beat the entire opposition team on his own.
JJ just gave him a contemptuous look and jogged back into position, not a word of apology or acknowledgment. The team's fragile chemistry was being torn apart by the sheer, disruptive force of his talent.
I let it go on for a few more minutes, watching, analyzing. The system was providing a constant stream of data. JJ's 'Flair' and 'Dribbling' attributes were off the charts, but his 'Teamwork' and 'Decisions' were abysmal. He was a tactical contradiction, a player who could win you a game and lose you the dressing room in the same breath.
I blew the whistle, a sharp, authoritative blast. "Everyone in!"
I walked over to JJ. He was standing by himself, a look of bored arrogance on his face. He was expecting me to praise him, to tell him how brilliant he was. I did the opposite.
"You were rubbish," I said, my voice quiet but firm.
He looked at me, stunned. "What? I was the best player on that pitch by a mile."
"You were the most talented player on the pitch," I corrected him. "But you were a terrible teammate. You were selfish. You were lazy. You were playing for yourself, not for the team. And on my team, that makes you rubbish."
I had his full attention now. The bored arrogance was gone, replaced by a look of shocked disbelief. No one had ever spoken to him like this before. He was used to being told he was a genius, a star.
"This isn't the park, JJ," I continued, my voice softening slightly. I was using the 'Man-Management' skill again, trying to find the right balance between criticism and encouragement.
"This isn't a kickabout where you can show off your tricks. This is about winning. Together. You see Baz over there? He's not as skillful as you. He's not as quick. But he would run through a brick wall for this team. Right now, I'd rather have him on my team than you."
I let that sink in. It was a brutal, calculated blow to his ego. But it was a necessary one. I had to break him down before I could build him back up.
"But," I said, changing tack, "I also saw what you can do. I saw the talent. And I know that with the right coaching, with the right attitude, you could be unstoppable. You could be playing in a proper stadium, in front of thousands of people, earning more money in a week than I make in a year. You could be a proper player. A star."
I looked him in the eye. "But you'll never get there on your own. Talent isn't enough. I can help you. I can give you the platform, the coaching, the guidance. But you have to want it. You have to be willing to work, to listen, to be part of a team. So, I'm going to ask you one more time. Do you want to be a part of this? Do you want to be a part of The Railway Arms?"
I had laid out my vision. I had offered him a choice. Not just a choice between playing for us or not, but a choice between two futures. A future where he was a wasted talent, a legend in the park but a nobody in the real world. Or a future where he fulfilled that staggering 180 potential and became the player he was born to be.
He was silent for a long time, his eyes fixed on the ground. The other players were watching, waiting. The fate of our season, the fate of my entire project, hung on his answer.
Finally, he looked up. The arrogance was gone. In its place was a flicker of something I hadn't seen before. A flicker of vulnerability. A flicker of hope.
"Alright, Gaffer," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "I'm in."
A notification pinged in my mind, a sweet, satisfying chime.
[SYSTEM] Successful Signing! You have convinced a high-potential player to join your club.
[SYSTEM] Reward: 50 XP.
I had done it. I had signed my first player. I had signed my wonderkid. The lottery ticket was mine. Now, the real work began.