The hard-fought draw against Oldham Victoria was a crucial psychological victory. It had proven to the players, and to me, that we could compete at this new, higher level. But it had also been a stark, sobering lesson.
We had been outplayed for long periods. We had been reliant on a moment of individual brilliance from JJ to salvage a point.
We had survived, but we had not thrived. And I knew that if we were going to achieve our ambitions, if we were going to challenge for promotion, we needed to be more than just a solid, counter-attacking team. We needed more quality. We needed more depth. We needed more options.
The problem was, we had no money. The merger with Moss Side Athletic had given us a home, but it had not given us a budget. We were still a team of amateurs, playing for the love of the game. We couldn't go out and buy the quality we needed. We had to create it.
And that's when I decided to launch The Youth Project.
It was an idea that had been bubbling away in the back of my mind for a while, a long-term strategy that was born from my own, obsessive, Football Manager-inspired philosophy.
In the game, youth development is the holy grail. It's the most satisfying, the most rewarding, and the most sustainable way to build a successful club.
Finding a teenage wonderkid in your youth intake, nurturing his talent, and watching him blossom into a world-class superstar… it's the ultimate footballing fantasy. And I was convinced that I could turn that fantasy into a reality.
I had the perfect tool for the job. My system's 'Enhanced Player Vision' was not just a scouting tool for established players. It could also identify potential.
It could see the hidden PA rating of any player, no matter how young, no matter how raw. I had a superpower that no other manager in the world possessed. I could see the future. And I was going to use it to build a dynasty... a small one at least.
I went to see Terry Blackwood, my new chairman, with another one of my ambitious, slightly insane proposals. I laid out my vision for a Moss Side Athletic youth academy, a program that would scout the best local talent, the kids who had been overlooked by the big professional clubs, and give them a second chance.
Terry was, as always, skeptical. "A youth academy, Danny? We can barely afford to pay the electricity bill. Where are we going to get the money for coaches, for facilities, for all the other costs that come with running a youth team?"
"We don't need money," I said, my voice full of a passion that I hoped was infectious.
"We've got something much more valuable. We've got an opportunity. There are hundreds of talented kids in this area, kids who have been told they're not good enough, not big enough, not strong enough. They've been chewed up and spat out by the academy system. They're disillusioned, they're heartbroken, but they still have a dream. I want to give them a home. I want to give them a chance to prove the doubters wrong."
I explained my plan. I would run the youth team myself, in my spare time. I would use the club's facilities on a Sunday morning, when they weren't being used. I would recruit a team of volunteer coaches, parents and local football enthusiasts who were willing to give up their time for free. It would be a shoestring operation, a project built on passion, not on cash.
And then, I played my trump card.
"And the best part is, Terry," I said, a sly smile on my face, "is that it will make us money. I have a player in my team, JJ Johnson, who I believe will be sold to a professional club within a year. And when he is, the transfer fee will come to us. To Moss Side Athletic. That's the model. We find the talent, we develop it, and we sell it on. The youth academy will not just be a cost centre. It will be a profit centre. It will be the engine that drives this club forward."
Terry was a businessman. He understood the language of profit and loss, of assets and liabilities. He saw the logic in my plan. He saw the potential. He saw the pound signs.
"Alright, Danny," he said, a slow grin spreading across his face. "You've got a deal. But this is on you. If it fails, it's your head on the block."
I walked out of his office, my heart soaring. I had done it. I had my youth academy. I had my wonderkid factory. Now all I had to do was find the wonderkids.
I spent the next few weeks scouring the local parks, the school playing fields, the five-a-side cages of Moss Side and the surrounding areas.
I was a footballing detective, a talent-spotting private eye, searching for the hidden gems, the rough diamonds. My system was working overtime, my 'Enhanced Player Vision' a constant, flickering stream of data in the corner of my eye.
I saw hundreds of kids. Most of them were average, their PA ratings in the 50s and 60s. But every now and then, I would see it. A flash of green. A PA rating of 120, 130, even 140. A kid with the potential to be a proper, professional footballer.
I started a list. I took down names, numbers, positions. I spoke to parents, to teachers, to coaches. I was a one-man scouting network, a grassroots recruitment machine. And slowly, painstakingly, I began to assemble my first youth team.
It was a motley crew. There was a tiny, skillful winger who had been released by Manchester City for being too small. There was a big, clumsy, but surprisingly quick centre-back who had never been coached properly.
There was a fiery, aggressive central midfielder who had a temper as short as his fuse. They were all flawed, they were all raw, but they all had one thing in common: potential.
I held my first youth training session on a cold, wet Sunday morning. There were fifteen kids there, all of them between the ages of fourteen and sixteen. They were nervous, they were excited, they were desperate to impress.
I had JJ with me, my star player, my role model, my living, breathing proof that dreams can come true. He was a natural with the kids, a big brother figure who they all looked up to. He was patient, he was encouraging, he was a leader. It was a side of him I had never seen before, and it filled me with a deep, paternal pride.
I didn't run them into the ground. I didn't bark orders at them. I just let them play. I organized small-sided games, I encouraged them to express themselves, to take risks, to make mistakes.
I wanted to create an environment that was fun, that was positive, that was about a love of the game. It was the opposite of the high-pressure, results-driven world of the professional academies. It was a sanctuary for forgotten footballers.