For the first eighty-five minutes of the match, the plan worked to perfection. And it was excruciatingly boring.
The Salford Scorpions had all of the ball. They lumped it into our box, they threw themselves into tackles, they tried to intimidate us. But we didn't buckle.
Our defence, led by the colossal Big Dave, who I'd convinced to join after the Merchant Bankers game, headed everything away. Our midfield, anchored by the tireless Tommo, scurried and harried and broke up play. We were organized, we were disciplined, we were a solid, red wall.
JJ, up front, was a frustrated figure. He was barely touching the ball. He was being marked by a defender who looked like he ate nails for breakfast. Every time he got the ball, he was immediately surrounded by two or three players.
He was getting kicked, he was getting pushed, he was getting nothing from the referee. I could see his frustration building. I could see the petulant teenager threatening to resurface.
I kept shouting encouragement from the sideline. "Stay patient, JJ! Your chance will come! Stay switched on!" I was managing him, coaching him through the game, trying to keep his head in it.
The game was petering out into a grim, goalless draw. It would have been a good result for us, a precious point away from home. I would have taken it. But JJ had other ideas.
In the 88th minute, we won a free-kick deep in our own half. Kieran, our young keeper, took it quickly, hoofing the ball long. It was a hopeful, aimless punt, the kind of ball we'd been dealing with all day. But this time, their big, nail-eating defender made a mistake. He misjudged the flight of the ball. He let it bounce.
And JJ was on it in a flash. He had been waiting for this one mistake, this one moment of sloppiness. He was on his toes, while the defender was on his heels. He used his explosive pace to get to the bouncing ball first. He was clear of the defence, with fifty yards of open grass between him and the goal.
The keeper came rushing out, a terrified figure in a no-man's-land of his own making. JJ could have shot early. He could have tried to chip him. But he did something else. Something sublime. He slowed down, almost to a walking pace.
He waited for the keeper to commit himself. And then, with a shimmy of the hips and a drop of the shoulder that was pure, liquid grace, he went around him, leaving him sprawling on the turf. He walked the ball towards the empty net, and then, with a final, arrogant flourish, he stopped it on the line, turned around, and backheeled it in.
It was a goal of such breathtaking arrogance, such sublime skill, that the entire pitch fell silent for a moment. Even the opposition supporters were stunned into silence.
Then, our small contingent of travelling fans: basically just a few of the players' mates and one old man with a dog - erupted. I let out a roar, grabbing Frankie in a hug that he awkwardly patted me on the back for.
1-0. We had done it. We had stolen it. We had won.
The final whistle blew a few minutes later, and the celebration was euphoric. The players mobbed JJ, who, for the first time, looked genuinely happy, a broad, infectious grin on his face. They were patting him on the back, ruffling his hair. He wasn't an outsider anymore. He was a hero. He was one of them.
In the changing room afterwards, the atmosphere was electric. The music was blasting, the lads were singing, and they were spraying cheap lager everywhere. It was the chaotic, joyous, beautiful scene that you only get after a hard-fought, unexpected victory.
I stood in the corner, just watching, a quiet, deep satisfaction settling over me. This was what it was all about. This was the feeling that had kept me glued to my computer screen for thousands of hours.
But this was real. The smell of sweat and mud and cheap beer. The sound of grown men singing badly out of tune. It was a thousand times better than any digital trophy.
Frankie came and stood next to me, a rare, genuine smile on his face. He was holding two bottles of beer. He handed one to me.
"I was wrong about you, Gaffer," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "You're still mad as a box of frogs. But you're our madman."
He took a swig of his beer. "I told the lads after the game. I'm stepping down. I'll still be around to help out, to shout at the ref. But it's your team now. Officially. You're the gaffer."
I looked at him, stunned. "Frankie, you don't have to do that."
"Yes, I do," he said, his eyes serious. "They listen to you. They believe in you. And after that… that piece of magic today… they'll follow you anywhere. They're your lads now. Don't let them down."
He clinked his bottle against mine. "To the new gaffer of The Railway Arms," he said.
I took a long drink of the beer, the cold, cheap liquid a balm on my raw throat. I was no longer the unofficial assistant. I was the manager. The Gaffer. It was official.
And as if on cue, the system delivered its verdict.
[SYSTEM] First Victory as Manager!
[SYSTEM] Underdog Triumph! You have led your team to victory against a stronger opponent.
[SYSTEM] Massive XP Bonus Awarded: 150 XP.
[SYSTEM] New Feature Unlocked: Additional Tactical Slot.
I had done it. My first win. My first real taste of success. And it was the best feeling in the world.
***
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