I presented the plan to the team at our final training session before the game. I used a whiteboard, I used cones, I walked them through every single movement, every single rotation. They looked at me like I had grown a second head.
The training session was intense, focused. We drilled the movements over and over again. Kev dropping deep, JJ making his diagonal runs, Scott adjusting his passing angles to accommodate the new system.
It was complex, it was demanding, and for the first hour, it was a complete shambles. Players were running into each other, passes were going astray, and the whole thing looked like a tactical car crash. I could see the panic rising in their eyes. This wasn't going to work. We were going to embarrass ourselves.
"Gaffer, are you serious?" Baz asked, his face a picture of pure confusion. "You want Kev, our only proper striker, to play in midfield? And you want JJ, our best player, to run around like a headless chicken?"
"It's not headless chicken running, Baz," I explained patiently. "It's intelligent movement. It's about creating space. It's about being unpredictable."
They were skeptical. Deeply skeptical. I was asking them to abandon the system that had brought them so much success, on the eve of our biggest game of the season. It was a massive gamble, and I could see the doubt in their eyes.
This was where the trust I had built, the respect I had earned, was put to the test. I looked them in the eye, and I used my 'Team Talks' skill, selecting the 'Passionate' and 'Inspirational' options.
"Lads," I said, my voice ringing with a conviction I was only half-feeling.
"I know this is different. I know it's a risk. But we cannot beat these guys by playing their game. We have to be smarter than them. We have to be braver than them. Marcus Chen thinks he knows exactly what we're going to do. He thinks he's got us figured out. I want to see the look on his face when he realizes he has no idea what's going on. I am asking you to trust me. To trust the plan. To trust each other. If we do this right, if we are brave and disciplined and intelligent, we will not just beat them. We will destroy them."
I let that hang in the air. The word 'destroy' was a strong one. But I wanted to light a fire under them. I wanted them to believe that we were not just there to compete; we were there to dominate.
Slowly, I saw a few heads start to nod. Kev, the man I was asking to play the most difficult role, was the first to speak. "Alright, Gaffer. I don't really get it. But I'll do it. If you say it'll work, it'll work."
One by one, the others followed. They didn't fully understand it. But they trusted me. It was a humbling, terrifying moment. The fate of the game was now resting squarely on my shoulders. My mad, Football Manager-inspired tactical experiment was about to be put to the test in the harsh, unforgiving laboratory of a real football match.
Sunday morning arrived, grey and cold. The pitch was heavy, the air damp. It was not a day for pretty, intricate football. It was a day for a battle. As we arrived, I saw that Emma's article had had an even bigger effect than I'd anticipated.
There was a proper crowd here. At least a hundred people were lining the touchline, a mixture of our new, loyal followers and curious neutrals, drawn in by the promise of a local derby with a bit of spice. Emma was there, of course, notepad in hand, a look of nervous excitement on her face. She gave me a thumbs-up. I gave her a weak, terrified smile in return.
The Merchant Bankers arrived, looking as slick and as professional as ever. Marcus Chen was in his element, preening for the small crowd, shaking hands, looking every inch the modern, successful manager. He caught my eye and gave me a condescending smirk. It was a look that said, 'Enjoy your fifteen minutes of fame, little man. The real world is about to bite back.'
I ignored him. I gathered my players in a final huddle. The time for talking was over. The time for tactical diagrams and inspirational speeches was done. It was time for the football to do the talking.
"You know the plan," I said, my voice low and steady. "You know your jobs. Now go out there and show them who we are."
They walked out onto the pitch, a band of misfits and journeymen, about to attempt one of the most complex tactical systems in modern football. I stood on the touchline, my heart pounding, my notebook clutched in my hand like a religious text. The stage was set. The rematch was here. And I was about to find out if I was a genius or a complete and utter fool.
The Merchant Bankers arrived, looking as slick and as professional as ever. Marcus Chen was in his element, preening for the small crowd, shaking hands, looking every inch the modern, successful manager. He caught my eye and gave me a condescending smirk. It was a look that said, 'Enjoy your fifteen minutes of fame, little man. The real world is about to bite back.'
I ignored him. I gathered my players in a final huddle. The time for talking was over. The time for tactical diagrams and inspirational speeches was done. It was time for the football to do the talking.
"You know the plan," I said, my voice low and steady. "You know your jobs. Now go out there and show them who we are. Show them what happens when you underestimate The Railway Arms."
They walked out onto the pitch, a band of misfits and journeymen, about to attempt one of the most complex tactical systems in modern football. I stood on the touchline, my heart pounding, my notebook clutched in my hand like a religious text. The stage was set. The rematch was here. And I was about to find out if I was a genius or a complete and utter fool.