The euphoria of our first victory was a powerful, intoxicating drug. For a few days, the world seemed brighter, the air cleaner, the faint smell of garlic from the kebab shop below my flat less oppressive.
I was no longer just Danny Walsh, the bloke from the 24/7 Local. I was The Gaffer. The man who had led The Railway Arms to their first win of the season. It was a feeling I could get used to.
The 150 XP from the system was a massive boost, catapulting me halfway to Level 4. The newly unlocked tactical slot was a godsend, a tangible reward that would give me the flexibility I'd craved during the disastrous first half against the Scorpions.
But the most significant change wasn't in the system; it was in the changing room. The atmosphere had been transformed.
A boisterous, confident camaraderie had replaced the sullen, defeated silence of my first few weeks. The lads were laughing, joking, and, most importantly, they were listening. They had seen that my mad ideas could work. They had tasted victory, and they were hungry for more.
JJ's wonder goal had made him an instant hero. The other players, who had initially viewed him with suspicion, now looked at him with a kind of awe. He was our match-winner, our talisman. And to his credit, JJ was starting to change.
The victory, the adoration, the feeling of being the man who had made the difference… it was a more potent drug than any of the praise he'd ever received in the park. He was still arrogant, still a bit lazy, but there was a new focus in his eyes. He was starting to understand the difference between being a good player and being a valuable one.
But I knew we couldn't rely on moments of individual brilliance forever. JJ was a game-changer, a cheat code, but he was only one player.
A single, brilliant attacker in a team full of holes is like putting a spoiler on a Reliant Robin. It might look impressive, but it's not going to win you any races.
Our victory against the Scorpions had been a smash-and-grab, a lucky punch. To compete consistently, to climb the table, to turn this one-off victory into a genuine revival, I needed to build a proper team. I needed a spine.
In Football Manager, building a spine is the first thing you do when you take over a new club. You need a solid goalkeeper, a commanding centre-back, a reliable central midfielder, and a clinical striker.
These are the four pillars upon which any successful team is built. They are the players who provide the structure, the stability, the foundation for the flair players to do their thing. We had the flair in JJ. Now, I needed the foundation.
My mission was clear. I had to go shopping. Not in the transfer market of my digital dreams, but in the muddy, unglamorous, real-world market of local amateur football.
I needed to find players who were good enough to improve us, but not so good that they were already playing at a higher level.
I needed players who were undervalued, overlooked, or just plain unlucky. And I needed to convince them to sign for a team that, despite one fluky win, was still rock bottom of the league.
This was a job for the system. I spent the next week in a frenzy of scouting, my 'Enhanced Player Vision' skill working overtime.
I revisited parks, I watched training sessions, I stood on the touchlines of countless Sunday league games, my notebook filling up with names, stats, and personality profiles. I was looking for specific profiles, specific attributes that would fit my tactical vision.
First, the goalkeeper. Kieran, our young keeper, had potential (PA 85), but his low 'Composure' and 'Decision-making' made him a liability.
He was a great shot-stopper, but he was prone to moments of panic. I needed someone to compete with him, someone to mentor him. I needed a keeper who commanded his box, who was a calming presence, not a source of anxiety.
I found him playing for a team in the league above us. His name was Dave "Big Dave" Jones. He was in his late thirties, with a receding hairline and a belly that suggested he enjoyed a post-match pint or ten. But his system panel told a different story.
> Name: Dave Jones
> Age: 38
> Position: Goalkeeper
> Current Ability (CA): 55/200
> Potential Ability (PA): 58/200
> Key Attributes:
> - Command of Area: 15
> - Communication: 16
> - Positioning: 14
> - Reflexes: 8
He wasn't a great shot-stopper. His reflexes were fading. But his mental and tactical attributes were off the charts for this level. He was a leader, an organizer. He was exactly what our chaotic defence needed. His personality profile read: 'Born Leader'. Perfect.
I approached him after his game. He was packing his bag, barking orders at his teammates even though the match was over. I used my 'Persuasive Talk' skill, framing my pitch carefully.
"Dave," I began.
"I'm Danny, the manager of The Railway Arms. I know what you're thinking. But I'm building something special. I've got a kid up front who's going to score thirty goals this season. But I need a leader at the back. I don't just need a goalkeeper. I need a general. I need someone who can organize my defence, who can be my voice on the pitch. I need you to come and be my captain."
I had offered him responsibility, status. I had appealed to his ego, his natural leadership instincts. He was skeptical, of course.
But he was also intrigued. His current team was mid-table, going nowhere. I was offering him a project, a challenge. After a long conversation and a promise of being the undisputed number one and club captain, he agreed to come down to training.
One down. Two to go.