Saturday, 14th November 2015
The morning of the rematch, I woke up with a knot in my stomach that felt like I had swallowed a football. Not the modern, perfectly spherical kind. The old leather ones, the ones that absorbed water and weighed about three stone by the end of a rainy match. That kind of knot.
I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling of my grotty flat, and I could hear Raj snoring through the paper-thin walls. Outside, Manchester was waking up to another grey, drizzly Sunday. Perfect football weather. Perfect weather for a tactical battle. Perfect weather for me to either prove I was a genius or confirm I was a fraud.
The system had been quiet all morning, which was unusual. Normally, it would be pinging me with reminders, tactical suggestions, or motivational quotes. But today, nothing. It was like it knew. This was on me. This was my test.
I opened the system interface, and the match preview loaded. The Merchant Bankers. Marcus Chen's team. The team that had beaten us 2-1 just a few weeks ago, the match that had made me realize I needed to be more than just an assistant. The team that represented everything I wasn't: wealthy, organized, professional. The team I absolutely, desperately, needed to beat.
The scouting report was comprehensive. I had watched their last three matches, I had analyzed their shape, their pressing triggers, their set-piece routines.
I knew that their goalkeeper was aggressive, that their left-back was slow on the turn, and that their defensive midfielder had a yellow card in every game. I knew everything about them. The question was: could I use that knowledge?
My phone buzzed. A message from Emma. 'Good luck today. I'll be there. You've got this. x'
The 'x' made me smile despite my nerves. Things with Emma were... progressing. Slowly, carefully, but definitely progressing. She believed in me. That meant something.
I got up, showered, and made myself a cup of instant coffee that tasted like regret. Then I sat down at my tiny kitchen table, opened my battered notebook, and I did what I always did before a big match. I wrote down my tactical plan. Not in the system. In pen and paper. Something about the physical act of writing made it feel more real, more concrete.
Formation: 4-3-3 False 9
Key Instruction: Kev drops deep to create space for JJ's runs from the left
Pressing Trigger: When their left-back receives the ball (he's slow, we can trap him)
Set Pieces: Target their keeper's near post (he's weak there)
It was ambitious. It was risky. It was the kind of thing that would either make me look like a tactical visionary or get me laughed out of the league. But it was the right call. I could feel it.
---
The pitch was a mud bath. The morning rain had turned the playing surface into something that belonged in a pig farm, not a football match. The hundred-strong crowd was already gathering, a mix of our growing fanbase and The Merchant Bankers' usual contingent of smug, well-dressed supporters who looked like they'd rather be at a wine tasting.
I arrived early, as always. Frankie was already there, setting up the cones for the warm-up as he was still helping us on the side. He gave me a knowing look.
"Big day, Gaffer," he said, his gravelly voice cutting through the drizzle.
"Yeah," I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt.
"You know what you're doing with this False 9 business?"
"I think so."
"You think so, or you know so?"
I met his eyes. "I know so."
He nodded, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Good. Because that prick over there," he jerked his thumb towards the opposite touchline where Marcus Chen was arriving in a pristine black Mercedes, "needs taking down a peg or two."
Marcus Chen stepped out of his car like he was arriving at a film premiere. Designer sunglasses despite the overcast sky. Expensive jumper. That same insufferable smirk. He saw me watching and gave me a little wave. Not friendly. Mocking. He thought he had this in the bag.
The players arrived in dribs and drabs. Big Dave, Mark Crossley, Baz, Tommo, Scott Miller, Liam, Kev. And JJ, who rolled up on his bike, his hood up, his headphones in, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. But when he saw me, he gave me a nod. A small gesture, but it meant everything. He was with me. He was ready.
In the changing room, I laid out the tactical plan. I drew the formation on the whiteboard, I explained the roles, and I answered their questions. They looked nervous, confused. This was different from anything we'd done before. But they trusted me. They had to.
"Lads," I said, my voice steady, "this is the biggest game of our season so far. Not because of the league table. Not because of the points. But because of what it represents. They think they're better than us. They think money buys success. They think we're just a bunch of amateurs who got lucky. Today, we prove them wrong. Today, we show them what a real team looks like."
They roared their approval. The energy in the room shifted. They were ready.
---
The referee's whistle was a gunshot that started a war.
The first few minutes were chaos. Crunching tackles. Misplaced passes. Nervous energy crackling through the air like static electricity.
The crowd roared with every kick, their voices a raw, partisan soundtrack to the unfolding drama. The pitch, already heavy from the morning rain, was quickly becoming a quagmire, a great leveller that threatened to turn my intricate tactical plan into a farcical lottery.
On the opposite touchline, Marcus Chen stood with his arms folded, a smug, knowing look on his face. He had seen my lineup. He had seen our formation. And he thought he knew exactly what was coming.
His team was set up just as the scouting report had predicted: a deep defensive line, two holding midfielders, and a clear instruction to double-team JJ at every opportunity. He had a plan. And for the first forty-five minutes, it worked to perfection.
My grand, insane, Football Manager-inspired False 9 experiment was, to put it mildly, a complete and utter disaster.
***
Thank you to nameyelus for the gifts and your questions in the last chapters; in the following chapters, I will try to do my best to answer them.
And due to demand, I will also add a table by the end of ACT II.