The third win was the most spectacular. We beat a team 4-0, with JJ scoring a hat-trick that showcased every facet of his extraordinary talent.
His first goal was a solo run from the halfway line, beating four players with a combination of pace, skill, and sheer audacity. His second was a clinical, composed finish from a Scott Miller through-ball.
His third was a thunderous, long-range strike that flew into the top corner like a guided missile. He was unplayable, a force of nature. The opposition manager shook my hand after the game and said, simply, "That kid is going to play in the Premier League one day." I believed him.
We ground out a tough 1-1 draw against the team in second place, a game where we had to defend for our lives for the last twenty minutes. They threw everything at us, but our defensive organization held firm.
Big Dave made save after save, Mark Crossley and Baz threw their bodies on the line, and when the final whistle blew, it felt like a victory. We were no longer the league's whipping boys. We were a proper team. A team that was hard to beat, a team that could hurt you on the break. A team to be respected.
The transformation was noticed. Emma Hartley, my unofficial press officer, was documenting our rise with a series of increasingly glowing articles on her blog.
Her pieces were beautifully written, full of tactical insight and human interest. She wrote about Scott Miller's renaissance as a deep-lying playmaker, about JJ's explosive talent, about the rock-solid partnership of Baz and Mark Crossley at the back.
And she wrote about me. She called me 'The Moss Side Mourinho,' a nickname that was both embarrassing and deeply flattering. She painted me as a tactical visionary, a young manager who was revolutionizing the local football scene with his innovative ideas.
Her articles were having an effect. The crowds at our home games started to grow. It was no longer just Frankie and a few old men with dogs. Now, there were twenty, thirty, sometimes even forty people on the touchline.
They were locals, drawn in by the story of the local team's miraculous revival. They were a small, passionate, and increasingly noisy following. They had a chant for JJ. They had a song for Big Dave. We had fans.
The atmosphere at the club was unrecognizable from the sullen, defeated place I had walked into just a few weeks ago. The players were confident, they were happy, they were playing for each other. Even Baz was smiling.
Training sessions, which had once been a grim, joyless slog, were now competitive, energetic affairs. The players were pushing each other, challenging each other, improving each other. There was banter, there was laughter, there was a genuine sense of camaraderie. We weren't just a team; we were a family.
Frankie, my predecessor and mentor, was a constant, watchful presence. He no longer ran the sessions, but he was always there, a quiet, gruff guardian angel. He would pull me aside after training and offer a piece of advice, a word of caution, a reminder to keep my feet on the ground.
"Don't get too cocky, Gaffer," he'd say, crushing his roll-up under his heel. "You're doing well, but the moment you start believing your own hype, that's when it all comes crashing down." It was typical Frankie wisdom: blunt, honest, and absolutely right. I was grateful for his presence, for his experience, for his refusal to let me get carried away.
And the system was rewarding our success. After our fifth game unbeaten, a notification flashed up in my mind.
[SYSTEM] Achievement Unlocked: 'Five Games Unbeaten'.
[SYSTEM] Reward: New Ability Unlocked – 'Team Morale Boost'. (Can be used once per match to provide a temporary, significant boost to the entire team's morale).
It was another powerful tool for my managerial arsenal. A get-out-of-jail-free card for a difficult moment in a match. A way to turn the tide when the momentum was against us. The system was not just a tool for improvement; it was a tool for victory.
I was living a dream. I was the manager of a successful football team. I was getting praise in the press. I was unlocking new skills and abilities. My CA had even ticked up a few points, a reflection of my growing experience and confidence. I was no longer just a fan, a spectator. I was a part of the game. I was a Gaffer.
But I knew that our success had brought with it a new kind of pressure. We were no longer the plucky underdogs that no one took seriously. We were a team with a reputation. A team to be beaten.
And I knew that our biggest test was just around the corner. The fixture list had a grim, poetic symmetry to it. Our next match, the final game of the first half of the season, was the return fixture against The Merchant Bankers. The rematch.
I spent the week thinking about that game. It consumed me. I watched videos of their recent matches on my laptop, I analyzed their tactics, I studied their players. I knew that Marcus Chen would be doing the same.
He would have watched our games, he would have seen our transformation, and he would be planning his revenge. This wasn't just about three points. This was personal. This was about pride, about respect, about proving that our first encounter, our moral victory, wasn't a fluke. This was the game that would define us.
This time, it would be different. We were not the same team they had so arrogantly dismissed just a few weeks ago.
We were organized, we were confident, and we had a superstar in our ranks. But they were still the best team in the league. And their manager, the smug, condescending Marcus Chen, would be desperate for revenge.
He would have scouted us. He would have a plan. This would be more than just a football match. It would be a tactical war. It would be a test of everything we had built. It would be the game that defined our season.
***
Thank you to @nameyelus for the gifts.