INT. ALTRINCHAM FC CHANGING ROOM – EARLY AFTERNOON – MATCHDAY
The smell of deep heat, fresh kits, and anticipation fills the air. The lads are lacing up boots, taping ankles, sipping Lucozade. Chris Conn-Clarke's got his headphones in. Tom Pearce is juggling a ball by the door. Everyone's tense but focused. ERIC DEMPSEY stands at the whiteboard, arms folded, a serious look in his eyes. The room quiets down. It's time.
ERIC DEMPSEY:
(Clears throat, measured tone)
Right, lads. This is it. We know who we're up against. Dagenham and bloody Redbridge. Big club, bigger mouths. People are expecting us to roll over today — the bookies, the pundits, the trolls. All of them.
(Looks around the room, makes eye contact)
But let me tell you something — they don't know us. They don't know the graft we've put in this week. They don't see the early mornings, the late nights, the bruises, the running 'til your lungs burn. They don't see what I see — a group of proper men, proud to wear the badge on your chest.
(Turns to the tactics board briefly)
Their back four? Sluggish. Especially that left side. I want us pressing them from the off. Conn-Clarke — when you float inside, it drags their right-back out. That gives Ceesay space. Tom — you have to exploit that, yeah?
TOM PEARCE:
Aye gaffer. I'll roast him.
ERIC:
(Smirks)
I don't want roast, lad, I want cremated. Make sure he doesn't know what day it is by half-time.
(Shifts tone to something deeper)
Look, I know some of you have been doubting lately. I've seen the comments. I've read the messages. Even me — I had a moment this week where I thought… maybe I made a mistake coming here.
(The room falls still. Chris takes off his headphones. Everyone's listening.)
ERIC:
But then I saw the way you lot reacted. The way you stuck by me. Chris… the way you pulled me aside.
CHRIS CONN-CLARKE:
We're with you, boss. Every step.
ERIC:
That means everything. And it reminded me: this isn't about pleasing strangers. This is about us. This is about belief. Brotherhood. This is about fighting for each other.
(Pause, voice rising with passion)
So when we go out there — I don't care what badge they wear. I don't care if they're full-time or flashier or fancied. We are Altrincham FC, and we're gonna tear into them like dogs off a leash. We're gonna wreck them. And when we're done, they'll be wondering how the hell they got spunked back together by a side they underestimated.
(The boys roar with laughter and cheers. A few slap each other's backs. There's fire now.)
ERIC:
Let's go out there and earn it. Every tackle. Every sprint. Every second ball. Leave nothing behind.
(Bangs the tactics board with his fist)
Let's make this our house. Now go out and bloody enjoy it!
ALL (shouting):
COME ON!!!
(The lads pour out of the changing room, buzzing with energy, clapping, shouting. Eric and Chris hang back for a second.)
CHRIS:
Boss… if they don't run through brick walls for you after that, they've got no pulse.
ERIC:
(Smiling, eyes watery but proud)
Let's make 'em remember today, Chris. Let's make Alty unignorable.
They walk out together into the tunnel. Kick-off awaits. Boots hammer the floor in rhythm as the Altrincham players jog behind ERIC DEMPSEY. The tunnel is tight, claustrophobic, and stinks of grass, sweat, and nervous energy. Ahead, the murmur of the crowd builds like a wave, ready to crash. The Dagenham players are already lining up. Tall, cocky, smirking. Eric keeps leading his lads down the tunnel, talking low but firm, like a general marching his troops into war.
ERIC DEMPSEY:
Keep your heads. Don't give these lot a single drop of respect they haven't earned. You hear me?
(They murmur: "Yeah." "Yes gaffer." "Loud and clear.")
ERIC (continuing):
They'll try to play mind games. The little digs, the late kicks, the elbow in the ribs when the ref ain't looking. Don't bite. Smile at 'em. Let 'em know they've walked into a war zone dressed like tourists.
(They start laughing again. Conn-Clarke spits into his hand and rubs them together. Eddy Jones rolls his neck. Tension is turning to fire.)
ERIC:
You want to know what I saw in training this week?
I saw fight. I saw people sticking their boots in. I saw passing drills so sharp I thought someone might lose a toe.
I saw Altrincham Football Club — the real Alty. Not a name on a fixture list. Not an underdog. A f**king problem.
(He glances back over his shoulder. Now he's walking backwards, facing them as they reach the edge of the tunnel. The ref checks his watch. Stewards nod. A ball boy bounces nervously nearby.)
ERIC:
Let Dagenham be the ones who blink first. Let them panic when it's still 0-0 after half an hour and we're turning the screw.
Let them try to stop Conn-Clarke when he's running at them like a pissed-up rhino with rocket boots.
Let them figure out how to play through a midfield that's tighter than a nun's purse.
(The players are fired up now. Shouts of "YES GAF!" "LET'S GO!" fill the tunnel.)
ERIC (growling):
You play for each other. You win your battles. You make the tackles that hurt, but fair. You track the runner. You cover your mate.
Today's not just a game. It's a f**king message.
We're Altrincham. And we don't lie down for anyone.
(The ref nods — it's time. The doors to the pitch open. Floodlights beam down. The roar from the crowd explodes into full volume. The pitch is green fire.)
ERIC (as they walk out):
Come on then.
Let's make 'em regret waking up this morning