The hum of a fax machine echoed faintly down the hallway of the Ashford home. Sunlight poured in through the tall windows of the modest but handsome detached house on the edge of West Bridgford, just a ten-minute drive from Meadow Lane. Outside, the street was still. Inside, it was a rare Sunday afternoon of quiet family time.
Edward Ashford, shirt sleeves rolled up and a biro tucked behind one ear, stood at the dining table scanning a printed report of the inventory and shipping forecasts for the next quarter. He sighed and rubbed his forehead. His small logistics firm, Ashford Freight & Storage, had just secured a new contract with a national retailer. The money wasn't life-changing yet, but it was steady, and the numbers were finally moving in the right direction.
From the kitchen, Clara Ashford poked her head through. "Ed, it's Sunday. The numbers will still be there in the morning. Just enjoy the game."
Edward grunted. "Contracts don't rest."
She walked in, pulled the pen from behind his ear, and placed it gently on the table. "And neither do six-year-olds when there's football on. Look at him. Just like his daddy and granddaddy."
In the living room, James Ashford sat cross-legged on the carpet, far too close to the television. The Philips CRT flickered with colorful grain. His eyes were wide, his fingers twitching in time with the players' movements.
"This is it, lad," Edward said as he entered the room. "The World Cup Final. Argentina versus West Germany. Proper football."
James didn't answer. His gaze was locked on the man in the number 10 shirt. Small, wild hair, low center of gravity. Diego Maradona.
Ten-year-old Eleanor Ashford lounged on the armchair with a book titled How Business Works. Her idea of fun was tabulating how much interest her imaginary company would earn at 8% over 5 years. Football, to her, was background noise.
"You're sitting too close," Clara called out, bringing in a tray of lemonade and biscuits.
James ignored her.
On-screen, the match played beneath the Mexican sun. Maradona danced across the pitch. Not literally, but almost. The ball stuck to his feet like it had nowhere else to go. Each touch was poetry. Every turn, a new line of verse.
"Genius," Edward murmured. "Bit mad, but a genius all the same."
"They're just kicking it around," Eleanor muttered.
Edward chuckled. "You don't kick it like that by accident."
Germany equalized. Argentina surged again.
Then it happened. Maradona, marked by two defenders, shifted his weight and slid a perfect, surgical pass through a sliver of space. A teammate ran onto it and slotted it home for a score of 3–2.
The Azteca Stadium roared.
James leaned even closer, drawn into the screen. Not to the scorer. Not to the trophy. His eyes found Maradona, who turned and ran past teammates and photographers straight into his manager's arms.
They hugged like soldiers. No words, just shared purpose.
"Daddy," James asked, eyes still fixed on the screen, "who's the man he ran to?"
Edward leaned back. "That's the manager."
James blinked. "He doesn't play?"
"No, he strategizes and trains the team with his crew ."
Clara sat beside him, brushing back James's hair. "He's the boss on the side of the pitch. Makes the decisions."
James was quiet for a while.
"Can I be one?"
Eleanor snorted. "You don't even know the rules."
Edward didn't laugh. He looked at his son thoughtfully. "Your grandad used to say Notts County managers were the smartest men in the game. Had to be, with what little they had to work with."
James turned. "We support Notts County?"
"We do," Edward said proudly. "My dad did. And his before him. We don't follow Forest just because they win trophies. We stick with our own."
"But they're not very good," Eleanor said.
"That's exactly why we love them," Edward said. "Because one day, they will be and we'll be the ones who were there from the start."
James turned back to the screen. Maradona now held the trophy high, but James only saw the manager. His face, eyes, and the silent joy of seeing a plan come to life.
That night, after everyone had gone to bed, James stayed up in his room. The light of the old desk lamp cast long shadows. His notebook lay open, pages filled with messy pitch outlines, X's and O's, circles for players, and movement lines.
He didn't know what a 4-3-3 was. Or pressing. Or zonal marking.
But he saw space. Patterns. Timing.
He turned to a fresh page and wrote at the top:
"A manager sees what no one else can."
Below it, in smaller handwriting:
"Maybe me."
He smiled faintly. Then he turned the page again—
Ping!
A sound, not from the room, but inside his mind. Not loud. Not sharp. Just… present.
[FOOTBALL MANAGER SYSTEM — LOCKED]
"Instinct detected. Future access pending."
James looked around. The room was still.
Nothing had changed.
Not yet.