The sun had not risen yet. The sky over Barnsley was a deep charcoal black. The only light came from the massive floodlights of the Sterling Era Training Complex which cut through the morning fog.
It was 6:00 AM. But the pitch was full.
Michael Sterling stood in the center circle. He wore a thick black coat and a beanie hat. He held the Golden Whistle in his gloved hand.
He blew it.
TWEEEEET!
The sound echoed off the metal walls of the indoor facility.
"Again!" Michael shouted. "Faster! The FA thinks you are slow! Show them!"
The squad was running suicides. Line to line. Sprinting. Turning. Sprinting back.
Usually players would complain about training this early. They would moan. They would drag their feet.
But not today.
Today there was no moaning. There was only the sound of heavy breathing and boots pounding the turf.
The 8 points deduction had not broken them. It had forged them into iron.
