Next, the centre-back. We had Baz, who was brave but reckless. We needed a partner for him who was calm, composed, and good in the air. I needed a rock. I found him playing for a team that was about to fold. His name was Mark Crossley, a giant of a man, at least six-foot-four, with a head that seemed to be magnetic to a football.
> Name: Mark Crossley
> Age: 29
> Position: Defender (Centre)
> Current Ability (CA): 52/200
> Potential Ability (PA): 55/200
> Key Attributes:
> - Heading: 16
> - Tackling: 14
> - Strength: 15
> - Pace: 5
He was a monster. Slow, yes, but an absolute titan in the air. He was exactly the kind of no-nonsense, head-it-and-kick-it defender that thrives in the lower leagues. His personality was 'Resolute', his determination was 14. He was a warrior.
My pitch to him was different. His team was folding; he was about to be without a club. I offered him a home. "Mark, I know your team's in trouble. But we're a club on the up. We've got a great group of lads, a real team spirit. We need a player like you, a player with your experience and your quality, to be the heart of our defence. Come and be our rock."
He was an easy sell. He just wanted to play football. He agreed immediately.
Two down. The spine was starting to take shape.
Finally, the most difficult piece of the puzzle: the central midfielder. Tommo was a workhorse, a tireless runner. But he wasn't a footballer.
He couldn't pass; he couldn't control the tempo of a game. I needed a playmaker, a deep-lying midfielder who could put his foot on the ball, who could dictate the play, who could be the link between my solid defence and my explosive attack. I needed a Xavi, a Pirlo, a Paul Scholes for the pub leagues.
This was the hardest search. Players with that kind of intelligence are rare at any level. I watched dozens of games, scanned hundreds of players. And then I found him. He was playing in the same team as Big Dave, the goalkeeper. His name was Scott Miller.
> Name: Scott Miller
> Age: 34
> Position: Midfielder (Centre)
> Current Ability (CA): 60/200
> Potential Ability (PA): 62/200
> Key Attributes:
> - Passing: 16
> - First Touch: 15
> - Vision: 15
> - Decisions: 16
> - Pace: 4
I almost couldn't believe the numbers. His technical and mental stats were Premier League level. He was a footballing genius. But his physical stats were a catastrophe. Pace 4, Stamina 5, Strength 6.
He was a world-class brain in the body of a retired postman. He could see the pass, he could execute the pass, but he couldn't run. He just stood in the centre circle, a static, brilliant hub, spraying passes around the pitch like a human sprinkler.
He was perfect. He was the player I had been dreaming of. He was the brain that would make my team tick.
I knew that convincing him would be the ultimate test of my 'Persuasive Talk' skill. He was a veteran, a player who had seen it all. He wouldn't be swayed by appeals to ego or emotion. I had to appeal to his intelligence.
I approached him with Big Dave, my new captain. I laid out my tactical vision for the team, using a notepad to draw diagrams, just as I had with Frankie. I showed him how we would be set up. A solid, deep-lying defence, with two workhorse midfielders to do his running for him. And a lightning-fast outlet in JJ, a perfect target for his pinpoint long passes.
"Scott," I said, my voice full of a conviction born of the system's data. "I'm not going to ask you to run. I'm not going to ask you to tackle. I'm going to ask you to do one thing: stand in the middle of the pitch and play football. I am building this entire team around you. You will be the quarterback, the deep-lying playmaker. Everything will go through you. We will protect you, we will do your running for you, and you will win us games with your right foot."
He listened intently, his intelligent eyes taking in every detail of my plan. He looked at Big Dave, who just nodded. "He's for real, Scotty. He knows his stuff."
Scott looked at me, a slow smile spreading across his face. "You want to build a team around a 34-year-old who can't run? You're either a genius or a complete madman."
"I'm hoping for a bit of both," I said.
He stuck out his hand. "Alright, Gaffer. You've got yourself a deal."
I had done it. I had signed my spine. A goalkeeper who was a leader, a centre-back who was a rock, and a midfielder who was a genius. It was the most successful transfer window of my life, and it hadn't cost me a single penny.
The next training session was a revelation. With the new players in place, everything just… clicked. Big Dave was a constant, booming voice at the back, organizing, cajoling, commanding.
Mark Crossley won every single header, a human wall that nothing could get past. And in midfield, Scott Miller was a maestro. He stood in the centre circle, barely moving, and just conducted the play.
His range of passing was breathtaking. Short, simple passes to keep possession. Long, raking, cross-field balls to switch the play.
And, most devastatingly, perfectly weighted through-balls into the path of JJ, who was now making intelligent, devastating runs, knowing that for the first time in his life, he had a midfielder who could actually find him.
We were no longer just a team of scrappers. We had a shape. We had a plan. We had a spine. We were a proper football team.
I stood on the sideline, watching my creation, a feeling of deep, profound satisfaction washing over me. This was better than any Football Manager achievement. This was real. These were my players. This was my team. And we were just getting started.