The theory had been beautiful. A fluid, intelligent system of movement and rotation. Kev would drop deep, dragging a defender with him and creating space for JJ to exploit. Scott Miller would dictate the tempo from deep. Our full-backs would provide width. It was poetry. It was art. It was a tactical masterpiece.
The reality was a mess.
Kev, my newly anointed False 9, was trying his best to drop deep and link the play, but he was being man-marked by one of their brutish defensive midfielders.
A lad built like a brick shithouse who had clearly been given one instruction: follow Kev everywhere. To the bathroom if necessary. Kev was getting no time on the ball, no space to turn. He was a fish trying to swim in wet cement.
JJ, who I had moved into a central role to exploit the space Kev was supposed to create, was a ghost. Not in the good way.
In the "completely ineffective" way. He was being suffocated. The moment he got the ball, he was swarmed by two, sometimes three, opposition players. They were fouling him. They were kicking him.
They were whispering provocations in his ear. And it was working. His frustration was palpable. He was throwing his arms up in the air. He was screaming at the referee. He was trying to beat players in impossible situations and losing the ball. His 'Volatile' personality trait was flashing a dangerous, bright red on my system panel.
We were creating nothing.
Our attacks were disjointed, our passing was sloppy. Scott Miller, my deep-lying playmaker, was being bypassed completely. The Merchant Bankers were winning every second ball. They were controlling the midfield. They were starting to create chances of their own.
In the 23rd minute, they should have scored. Their striker, a tall, physical lad who looked like he ate nails for breakfast, got on the end of a cross and powered a header towards the top corner. Big Dave, somehow, got a hand to it. The ball crashed against the crossbar and bounced clear. The crowd gasped. I felt my heart trying to escape through my throat.
Marcus Chen was laughing. Actually laughing. He turned to his assistant, said something, and they both chuckled. He was enjoying this. He was enjoying watching me fail.
I stood on the touchline, a cold, sick feeling of dread washing over me. I had been arrogant. I had been clever. I had tried to show off, to prove how tactically sophisticated I was. And I had failed. I had taken a system that was working, a team that was confident, and I had broken it.
The system interface was flashing warnings. Player morale was dropping. Team cohesion was in the red. JJ's temper was at breaking point. This was a disaster.
And then, in the 38th minute, it got worse.
JJ, frustrated beyond belief, went in for a tackle that was more assault than football. He caught their midfielder late, studs showing. The referee didn't hesitate. Yellow card. JJ protested, screaming that he'd been fouled all game. The referee wasn't interested. One more tackle like that, and he'd be off.
I called him over to the touchline. "JJ! Calm down!"
"They're kicking me all over the pitch, gaffer!"
"I know. But you're playing into their hands. They want you to get sent off. Don't give them what they want."
He glared at me, his jaw clenched, but he nodded. He jogged back onto the pitch, but I could see it in his eyes. He was on the edge.
The halftime whistle, when it finally came, was a mercy.
---
The changing room was silent. The air was thick with the smell of mud, sweat, and disappointment. The players sat with their heads bowed, their shoulders slumped. The fragile confidence we had built over the last few weeks seemed to have evaporated like morning mist.
I knew that this was the most important team talk of my life. My next fifteen minutes would define the match, and possibly our entire season.
I could abandon the False 9. Go back to our familiar 4-4-1-1. Try to salvage a draw. It would be the sensible option. The safe option. It would be an admission of defeat, an admission that my grand plan had been a failure.
Or I could double down.
I looked at the faces of my players. They were dejected. Confused. They had trusted me, and I had let them down. I had to give them something to believe in again.
I took a deep breath. I activated the system. I used my 'Team Talks' skill, but this time, I didn't choose 'Passionate' or 'Inspirational'. I chose 'Analytical' and 'Encouraging'.
"Alright, lads, listen up," I said, my voice calm and steady. I walked over to the whiteboard. "That was not good enough. And it was my fault. I asked you to play a complicated system, and I didn't give you enough time to learn it. But we are not abandoning it. We are going to fix it."
I drew the formation on the board. "The problem is not the system. The problem is the execution. Kev, you're doing a great job of dropping deep. But you're being followed everywhere. You need to be smarter. You need to make decoy runs. You need to drag your marker into areas he doesn't want to be in. Create the space, don't just look for it."
I turned to JJ. "JJ, they are trying to wind you up. And you are letting them. Forget about them. Forget about the referee. Focus on the game. I know you're not getting any space. So stop looking for it. Start creating it.
Your movement has to be better. You need to be a ghost. Arrive in the space at the last second, not before. And I want you to swap positions with Liam on the wing whenever you can. Be unpredictable. They can't mark you if they don't know where you are."
I laid out a series of small, specific tactical adjustments. I told Scott to play the ball quicker, to not be afraid of a more direct, riskier pass. I told my full-backs to be braver, to push higher up the pitch and provide more width. I wasn't reinventing the wheel. I was just fine-tuning it. I was giving them solutions, not just problems.
And then, I gave them the belief.
"Lads, look at me," I said, my voice dropping to a more personal, intense level.
"We are better than them. Not because we have more money, or better boots, or a fancier training ground. We are better than them because we are a team. We have fought our way back from the bottom of this league, together. We have earned the right to be here. Now go out there and prove it. Go out there and show them, show this crowd, and show yourselves, what this team is made of."
The bell rang for the start of the second half. As the players walked out of the changing room, I saw a new look in their eyes. The confusion was gone. The dejection was gone. In its place was a steely, focused determination.
They believed again.
---
***
Thank You for 40 Power Stones.