I spent the weekend locked in my flat, a man on a mission. After two consecutive defeats and with JJ out for six to eight weeks, I had no time for self-pity. I had a tactical problem to solve. I didn't answer my phone. I didn't reply to the worried, sympathetic texts from Emma.
I just immersed myself in the world of football, in the world of the system. I watched hours of footage of our recent games, my eyes glued to the screen, analyzing every mistake, every misplaced pass, every tactical error.
I spent hours on the system's tactical board, experimenting with new formations, new player roles, new strategies. I was a footballing scientist, a tactical detective, searching for the formula, for the clue, that would lead us out of this crisis.
On Friday night, I'd been convinced the answer was a 5-3-2. Three centre-backs, two wing-backs, a packed defensive midfield. It was ultra-defensive, cynical, designed purely for survival. I'd stared at it on the screen, feeling sick. It was everything I hated about modern football. A betrayal of my principles.
But Saturday morning, I woke up with a clearer head. I ran the 5-3-2 through the system's match simulator against our upcoming opponent. The results were... acceptable. We'd probably draw 0-0. Maybe nick a 1-0 win if we were lucky.
But there was a problem: the players wouldn't understand it. We'd never played with three centre-backs. We'd never used wing-backs. It was too radical, too unfamiliar. In our current fragile state, asking them to learn an entirely new system in four days would be a disaster.
I needed something they could grasp immediately. Something simple. Something that played to their strengths.
The solution came to me on Sunday afternoon, after hours of tactical experimentation. I decided to go back to basics. A rigid, defensive, and deeply unfashionable 4-4-2. It was the formation of my childhood, the formation of 90s English football.
It was a formation that was built on solid, simple principles: two banks of four, two hard-working strikers, and a whole lot of running. It was not pretty. It was not sophisticated. But it was solid. It was reliable. And it was exactly what we needed.
But a formation is just a set of numbers on a whiteboard. The key was the players. The key was convincing them to buy into this new, more pragmatic, more team-oriented approach. The key was restoring their shattered confidence.
I called a team meeting on the Tuesday night before our next game. The players filed in quietly, expecting a bollocking. Instead, I took responsibility. "Lads," I said, my voice calm and steady. "The last two weeks have not been good enough. And that's on me. I made us too reliant on one player. I didn't have a Plan B. I let you down."
I walked them through the new formation on the tactics board. The 4-4-2 was simple, but it required discipline. "Big Dave," I said, looking at our goalkeeper, "you're going to be busier. More long balls, more crosses to deal with. But you're the best shot-stopper in this league, and I trust you."
I turned to the defence. "Baz, Mark - you two are the foundation. No fancy stuff. Win your headers. Make your tackles. Be a wall." They nodded, their faces set with grim determination.
The midfield four would be the engine. "Scott, Tommo - you're going to run yourselves into the ground. Box to box, all game, every game. Close down their playmakers. Win the second balls. Make them hate playing against you." Scott Miller, who'd been quiet since JJ's injury, sat up straighter. He needed this. He needed to feel important again.
Up front, I had Kev and a young lad from the youth team named Danny - quick, fearless, and hungry to prove himself. "You two are not here to score pretty goals," I told them. "You're here to make their defenders' lives miserable. Press them, harass them, chase every lost cause. If we score one scrappy goal all game, that's enough."
I could see it clicking in their minds. This wasn't about individual brilliance. This was about collective graft.
"We are not going to outplay teams without JJ," I told them, my voice full of a new, hard-edged realism. "We are not going to win games with beautiful, flowing football. We are going to win games by being the hardest-working, the most organized, and the most difficult team to beat in this league. We are going to win games by fighting for every ball, for every tackle, for every single inch of the pitch. We are going to win games as a team."
And then, I used my man-management skills. I went around the room, and I spoke to each player individually. I reminded them of their strengths. I reminded them of how far they had come. I reminded them that they were good players, that they were winners.
I used my 'Team Morale Boost' ability, a feature I had been saving for a moment of crisis. A warm, golden light, visible only to me, enveloped the room. I could feel the mood start to shift. The doubt was being replaced by determination. The fear was being replaced by a new, defiant belief.
Our next game was away to a tough, experienced, mid-table side. It was a horrible, attritional game of football, played on a heavy, muddy pitch in the pouring rain. It was a war. And we were ready for it.
From the first whistle, we were a different team. We were not the timid, shell-shocked team of the last two weeks. We were a snarling, aggressive, and brilliantly organized fighting unit. Kev and Danny Walsh pressed their centre-backs relentlessly, forcing hurried clearances and misplaced passes. Every time their defenders tried to play out from the back, our strikers were on them like wolves.
In midfield, Scott and Tommo were everywhere. They closed down space, they won tackles, they harried and hassled. The opposition's playmaker, a technically gifted number ten who'd scored twice against us earlier in the season, was anonymous. Every time he received the ball, he had two blue shirts in his face. He was frustrated, ineffective, neutered.
Our defensive shape was perfect. Two banks of four, compact and disciplined. When they had the ball, we dropped into a narrow block, forcing them wide. When they crossed, Baz and Mark attacked the ball with ferocity. Big Dave, commanding his area with authority, claimed every cross that came near him.