THE SECOND STRIKER Chapter 1: Rebirth
The last thing Diego Martínez remembered was the screech of tires and the blinding headlights cutting through the Madrid night. He'd been walking home from the bar after watching Barcelona dismantle Real Madrid 4-0, his heart still singing with joy, his voice hoarse from shouting at the television screen. Then nothing. Just the lights, the sound, and a strange sense of weightlessness.
Now, he was drowning.
Not in water, but in sensation. Sound rushed at him like a tsunami—voices shouting in rapid-fire Spanish, the sharp blast of a whistle, the rhythmic thud of a football being struck. His lungs burned as if he'd been sprinting for hours. His legs felt like lead, muscles screaming in protest. Sweat poured down his face, stinging his eyes.
"¡Marc! ¡Marc, joder! ¿Qué haces? ¡Move!"
The voice pierced through the fog in his mind. Marc? Who was Marc? Diego tried to open his mouth to ask, but his body betrayed him. Instead, his head turned instinctively toward the voice, and his eyes—his eyes—focused on a football arcing through the air toward him.
Muscle memory took over. A memory that wasn't his.
His right foot lifted, cushioning the ball with the inside of his boot as it dropped. The leather felt perfect against his foot, the weight and spin instantly readable. Without thinking, he pivoted, his body turning smoothly as a defender closed in. The movement was fluid, practiced, the kind of touch Diego had dreamed of having but never possessed.
He flicked the ball forward with the outside of his boot, accelerating past the defender in one motion. His legs carried him forward with explosive speed that should have been impossible. The goal loomed ahead—twenty meters, fifteen, ten. The goalkeeper crouched, ready to spring. Time seemed to slow.
Hit it across him. Low and hard. Far post.
The thought came unbidden, instinctive. Diego—no, Marc—his name was Marc now, somehow he knew that—struck the ball with the laces of his right foot. The connection was pure, the ball rocketing off his boot with a satisfying thwack. It seared across the penalty area, skimming just inside the far post before bulging the net.
The whistle blew.
"¡Gol! ¡Muy bien, Marc!"
Reality crashed back into him like a cold wave. Marc stood frozen, chest heaving, staring at the net where the ball still quivered. His hands—younger hands, he noticed with growing horror—were trembling. These weren't his hands. The calluses were in different places. The skin was smoother, tighter. He looked down at his body and nearly staggered.
This wasn't his body.
He was wearing a blue training kit with a familiar crest on the chest. FC Barcelona. La Masia. The realization hit him with the force of a freight train. He was at La Masia, Barcelona's legendary academy. But that was impossible. Diego was thirty-five years old, overweight, working a dead-end job in Madrid. He'd never been within a hundred kilometers of La Masia in his life.
"Marc, you okay?"
A hand clapped his shoulder, and he spun around, nearly losing his balance. The face looking at him with concern was young, maybe eighteen or nineteen, with kind eyes and floppy brown hair. There was something familiar about him, something that tugged at the corners of Diego's fractured memory.
"You went pale there for a second," the young man continued in Catalan-accented Spanish. "That was a brilliant goal, though. Pure instinct."
"I... yeah, I'm fine," Marc heard himself say. The words came automatically, his voice strange to his own ears—higher, younger. "Just... pushed myself too hard, I think."
"That's our Marc," another voice called out, laughing. "Always trying to prove he's the best striker at La Masia."
Marc's eyes tracked to the speaker—a tall, lean player with quick eyes and an easy smile. Miguel Ángel, his brain supplied helpfully. They'd been roommates for two years. Best friends since they were fourteen.
Except Diego had never met this person in his life.
The training session continued around him, but Marc felt like he was observing it from behind glass. His body moved through the drills automatically, feet finding the ball with uncanny precision, muscles executing movements he'd never trained for. It was like being a passenger in a vehicle driven by someone else, except the someone else was him.
Slowly, as the session progressed, fragments of memory began to surface. Not his memories—Diego's memories—but Marc's. They came in flashes: a childhood in Barcelona, parents who ran a small restaurant in Gràcia, the first time he kicked a football at age four, the Barcelona scout who'd watched him play at age eight, the letter inviting him to La Masia.
Marc Delgado. That was his name now. Born March 15, 2002. Eighteen years old. A striker in Barcelona's Juvenil A team, the final rung before the reserve team and—if fortune smiled—the first team.
By the time the coach blew the final whistle, Marc had pieced together enough to avoid looking completely insane. He knew where the locker room was. He knew which was his locker. He knew he was supposed to meet Miguel for lunch afterward.
But as he stood under the shower, letting hot water cascade over his—Marc's—body, Diego's mind raced. This wasn't possible. Reincarnation? Transmigration? Those were things from manga and web novels, not real life. People didn't just wake up in other people's bodies.
Yet here he was.
The locker room buzzed with the usual post-training energy. Players joked, music blared from someone's phone, the smell of deodorant and shower gel filled the air. Marc dressed slowly, pulling on jeans and a simple black t-shirt, trying to process the impossible situation he found himself in.
"Ready?" Miguel appeared beside him, already dressed. "I'm starving. You absolutely cooked us in that finishing drill."
"Yeah, let's go," Marc managed.
They walked through La Masia's corridors toward the cafeteria, passing walls decorated with photographs of legends who'd trained here. Messi. Xavi. Iniesta. Puyol. Each face a reminder of the impossible standard this place demanded. Marc's stomach churned—and not from hunger.
The cafeteria was crowded with young players from various age groups. Marc followed Miguel through the lunch line on autopilot, loading his tray with chicken, rice, vegetables, and fruit. They found seats at a table with three other Juvenil A players—defenders Marc recognized from his emerging memories.
"Did you guys see the first team training this morning?" one of them asked excitedly. "Messi was hitting free kicks for like thirty minutes straight. Every single one perfect."
"I heard Koeman is under pressure," another chimed in. "Three matches without a win. The press is going crazy."
Marc's fork froze halfway to his mouth. Koeman. Ronald Koeman. The pieces clicked together with horrifying clarity. He fumbled for his phone—Marc's phone—and checked the date.
August 28, 2020.
His heart nearly stopped. August 2020. He knew this moment in football history. Barcelona was in crisis. The humiliating 8-2 defeat to Bayern Munich was just weeks old. Messi had tried to leave the club but been forced to stay. The team was in shambles, the board was toxic, and the financial situation was catastrophic.
More importantly, Diego knew what would happen next. He knew which players would succeed and which would fail. He knew which managers would be appointed. He knew which tactics would dominate. He knew who would win the Champions League, the World Cup, everything.
"Marc? Hello? Earth to Marc?"
Miguel was waving a hand in front of his face. "You're really out of it today. Bad news from home?"
"No, sorry, just... thinking." Marc forced himself to focus. "What were you saying about Koeman?"
"I was saying maybe this is our chance," Miguel said, leaning forward conspiratorially. "If the first team keeps struggling, they'll have to promote someone from the B team. Maybe even from our team."
The others laughed. "Dream on, Miguel. When was the last time someone went straight from Juvenil A to the first team?"
"Ansu Fati," Marc heard himself say quietly.
The table went silent. They all stared at him.
"That was different," one of the defenders said. "Ansu is... well, he's Ansu. Special."
"And what am I?" Marc felt a surge of emotion that wasn't entirely his own—Marc Delgado's pride, his ambition, his burning desire to prove himself. "I've scored forty-two goals this season. Forty-two. How many more do I need to score before someone notices?"
The passion in his voice surprised even him. But it felt right. It felt like his voice and Marc's voice were beginning to merge, two streams flowing together into one river.
Miguel grinned. "There's the Marc I know. For a second, I thought you'd been possessed or something."
If only you knew, Diego thought darkly.
After lunch, Marc found himself with free time—a rarity in the demanding schedule of La Masia. Most of the players headed to their rooms for the mandatory siesta, but Marc's mind was too wired to sleep. Instead, he walked to the small library on the third floor, a quiet space he somehow knew would be empty at this hour.
He settled into a chair by the window overlooking the training pitches and tried to organize his thoughts.
The Facts:
He was Diego Martínez, thirty-five-year-old football fanatic from Madrid, who had apparently died in a car accident.
He was now Marc Delgado, eighteen-year-old striker at La Masia, with genuine world-class talent.
He retained all of Diego's memories and knowledge, including detailed information about the next several years of football.
He also had Marc's memories, muscle memory, and instincts.
The ethical implications made his head spin. He knew the future. He knew which young players would become stars—Pedri, Gavi, Bellingham, Haaland, Mbappé. He knew which tactics would dominate. He knew which teams would win which trophies.
But using that knowledge felt like cheating. Didn't it?
Then again, he reasoned, he wasn't changing match results directly. He was just... optimizing his own development. Making smarter decisions. Avoiding injuries and career mistakes that he knew would happen to others.
A notification buzzed on his phone. Marc glanced down to see a message in the La Masia players' group chat:
OFFICIAL: First team training session open to B team and Juvenil A tomorrow, 9 AM. Coach Koeman wants to evaluate talent.
Marc's heart began to race. Tomorrow. He had less than twenty-four hours to prepare for potentially the most important training session of Marc Delgado's life.
And he knew exactly what he needed to do.
That evening, Marc lay in his narrow bed in the dormitory, staring at the ceiling. Miguel snored softly in the bed across the room, already deep in sleep. But Marc's mind wouldn't stop churning.
He thought about Messi, who was at this very moment considering his future at the club. He thought about the young players in Barcelona's academy who would soon burst onto the world stage. He thought about the tactical evolution of football that was coming—the rise of inverted fullbacks, the false nine's evolution, the increasing importance of pressing triggers.
Most of all, he thought about himself. Diego had spent thirty-five years as a spectator, watching others live his dream. Now, impossibly, he had a second chance. Not just to play football, but to play it at the highest level imaginable.
Marc Delgado's body had the raw talent—Diego's memories supplied that he'd been tested recently and his attributes were exceptional for his age. Current ability around 90, with a potential ceiling of 99. In football manager terms, he was a wonderkid. A future superstar, if properly developed.
But talent alone wasn't enough. Marc knew that better than anyone. He'd watched thousands of talented players fail to reach their potential because of injuries, poor decisions, bad luck, or simple complacency.
He wouldn't make those mistakes.
Diego had spent decades studying the game obsessively. He knew nutrition science, sports psychology, tactical theory, training methodologies. He knew which movements prevented injuries, which exercises built explosiveness, which recovery techniques maximized performance.
More than that, he understood the game in a way few players ever could. He'd watched every great striker of the modern era, analyzed their movements, their positioning, their decision-making. He'd studied Messi's spatial awareness, Cristiano's mentality, Lewandowski's timing, Suárez's aggression, Benzema's link-up play.
Now he had the physical tools to implement all that knowledge.
The thought was intoxicating and terrifying in equal measure.
Marc rolled onto his side, looking at the small shelf beside his bed. A football sat there, worn from use, signed by all his Juvenil A teammates. Photos were tacked to the wall above—Marc with his parents, Marc with Miguel, Marc holding a trophy from some youth tournament.
These were his memories now. His life. His second chance.
Tomorrow, he would step onto the training pitch with Barcelona's first team. Players he'd idolized as Diego would be there—Messi, Busquets, Piqué. Legends of the game. And he would have to prove he belonged on the same field as them.
No pressure, right?
Marc closed his eyes, trying to calm his racing heart. Sleep seemed impossible, but his body—young, athletic, exhausted from training—had other ideas. Within minutes, despite his churning thoughts, he drifted off.
He dreamed of football. Of Camp Nou packed with ninety-nine thousand fans, all chanting his name. Of the ball at his feet, the goal in front of him, that perfect moment of connection when leather met boot and destiny met opportunity.
In his dream, he scored. Again and again and again.
When he woke the next morning to Miguel's alarm blaring, Marc Delgado—formerly Diego Martínez—had made his decision.
He would seize this second chance with both hands. He would become everything Diego had dreamed of being. He would work harder than anyone, train smarter than everyone, and use every advantage his unique situation provided.
He would become a legend.
The alarm continued to beep insistently. Miguel groaned and slapped it silent.
"Big day," Miguel mumbled, still half-asleep. "First team training. You nervous?"
Marc sat up, feeling a smile spread across his face. It was Marc's smile, but it was Diego's confidence behind it. The two identities were already beginning to merge, to become something new.
"Nervous? No," he said, swinging his legs out of bed. "I'm ready."
And he was. Diego had spent thirty-five years preparing for this moment without knowing it. Marc Delgado had the talent to seize it. Together, they were going to change football history.
The first step started today.
The walk to the first team's training complex felt surreal. Marc had been on these paths a thousand times in his memory—Marc's memory—but now every step carried a weight it hadn't before. This wasn't just another day at La Masia. This was the beginning of everything.
The Ciudad Deportiva Joan Gamper, Barcelona's state-of-the-art training facility, gleamed in the morning sun. The main building housed the first team's facilities, and as Marc and a group of about fifteen other young players approached, he could feel the nervous energy radiating from his companions.
"I heard they're really evaluating us today," someone whispered behind him. "Koeman wants to see if any of us can help the first team."
"Don't get your hopes up," another responded. "They say that every year. No one ever actually gets called up."
Marc said nothing, conserving his energy. He knew better. He knew that in the original timeline, several B team players would get chances this season. Ilaix Moriba, Konrad de la Fuente, others. The first team was desperate, and desperate times created opportunities.
They entered the building, and Marc's breath caught. The walls were covered in Barcelona's history—trophies, photos, shirts from legendary matches. The Champions League trophy in a glass case. Cruyff smiling in grainy black-and-white. Guardiola holding the sextuple.
"Juvenil A and B team players, this way please."
A staff member directed them to a changing room—not the famous first team dressing room, but a smaller space nearby. Still, it was several steps up from La Masia's facilities. The lockers were newer, the showers more modern, everything just a bit nicer.
Marc changed into his training kit mechanically, his mind elsewhere. Around him, the other young players chattered nervously. Who would be watching? Would Messi be there? What if they embarrassed themselves?
"Marc, you okay?" Miguel asked quietly, pulling his boots on beside him. "You've been weird since yesterday."
"Just focused," Marc replied. It was true enough.
"Good. Because I'm planning to show them what I've got today." Miguel's eyes shone with determination. "This might be our only chance."
"It won't be," Marc said with quiet confidence. "If you're good enough, they'll notice. Today, next week, next month. Talent always finds a way."
Miguel blinked, surprised. "That's unusually philosophical for you."
Marc smiled. "Maybe I'm growing up."
They filed out of the changing room and toward the training pitches. Marc's heart hammered as they approached. Through the tunnel, he could see the perfect green grass, the Barcelona crest at midfield, the goals that had witnessed countless legendary training sessions.
And the players.
Even from a distance, Marc recognized them. Messi, smaller than he'd imagined, juggling a ball with casual perfection. Piqué, tall and commanding, stretching with another defender. Busquets, controlling a ball with one touch before pinging it fifty yards with the next.
These were gods of football. Legends. Players he'd watched on television for years.
And now he was about to train with them.
"Listen up!" A coach Marc didn't recognize called out. The young players gathered around. "You're here because Coach Koeman wants to evaluate the talent in our youth system. This is not a guarantee of anything. This is an opportunity to show what you can do. Train hard, play smart, and maybe—maybe—you'll catch someone's eye. Understood?"
A chorus of "Sí, míster" responded.
"Good. We'll be doing possession drills first, then some tactical work, then a practice match. First team versus youth team. Now spread out and warm up."
The warm-up was standard—jogging, dynamic stretching, light ball work. But Marc couldn't help sneaking glances at the first team players. Messi was talking with Busquets, laughing about something. Piqué was joking with Lenglet. De Jong was working on his first touch with religious focus.
These were people, Marc realized. Not just highlight reels or FIFA ratings. Real human beings with personalities, friendships, quirks.
He would have to remember that.
The possession drills began. The coaches split them into groups of six—mixed teams of first team and youth players. Marc found himself in a group with three B team players he vaguely recognized and two first team players: Riqui Puig and Miralem Pjanić.
"Alright, rondo," the coach called. "Two in the middle, keep the ball moving. Quick touches."
Marc had done this drill ten thousand times. In his original timeline, and in Marc's memories. But doing it with first team players was different. The speed was higher, the touches crisper, the decision-making faster.
Puig moved like quicksilver, always finding space, always available for a pass. Pjanić was older, more economical with his movement, but his passing was surgical.
Marc took his position in the circle. The ball zipped around—Puig to Pjanić, back to a B team player, to Marc. He controlled it smoothly and laid it off first-time to the next player. Simple. Effective.
"Good," Pjanić called out. "Keep it moving."
They rotated through, two players in the middle trying to intercept while the others maintained possession. When Marc's turn came to defend in the middle, he pressed intelligently, not lunging wildly but cutting off passing lanes. He'd watched thousands of hours of pressing tactics. He knew the triggers, the angles, the timing.
He intercepted a loose pass and immediately swapped with the player who'd given it away.
"Nice read," Puig commented, looking at him with mild interest.
The drills continued, gradually increasing in complexity. Marc felt himself settling into a rhythm. His body knew what to do, and Diego's mind helped him anticipate, making smart decisions before they were obvious.
Then came the tactical work. The coaches set up a scenario—attacking against a low block. The first team players took positions in their usual formation, while the youth players formed the defensive shape.
Marc found himself up front in the defensive team, nominally marking Piqué and Lenglet as they built from the back.
"Press on the trigger," the coach called out. "When the ball goes wide, the striker closes down the center-back."
They ran through the drill. Ball to Lenglet, Marc sprinted to close him down. Lenglet played it back to ter Stegen in goal. Reset. Ball out wide to Dest, Marc shifted his position to cut off the pass back inside.
"Faster!" the coach yelled. "The striker needs to get there before the pass is played, not after!"
Marc gritted his teeth and increased his intensity. He studied Lenglet's body language, anticipating when the pass would come. The next time, he was already moving before Lenglet's foot touched the ball. He cut off the passing lane, forcing a longer ball that was easily intercepted.
"Better! That's what I want to see!"
They rotated through various scenarios. Marc paid close attention to Koeman, who stood on the sideline with his arms crossed, occasionally making notes on a tablet. The first team coach was watching everything, his experienced eyes missing nothing.
Finally, the moment Marc had been both anticipating and dreading: the practice match.
"Alright, let's play," Koeman called out. "First team takes the Barcelona goal. Youth team, you've got fifteen minutes to show me what you can do. If you can create anything against this defense, I'll be impressed."
The implications were clear. This wasn't a fair fight. It was a test.
The teams lined up. The first team was playing with a moderately strong lineup—Ter Stegen in goal, a back four of Dest, Piqué, Lenglet, and Alba, a midfield of De Jong, Busquets, and Pedri, and a front three of Dembélé, Messi, and... Braithwaite was the other forward.
The youth team, by contrast, was an assortment of B team and Juvenil A players trying to form some coherent shape. Marc found himself up front as the central striker, with Miguel surprisingly slotted in as one of the attacking midfielders behind him.
"Stay compact," their coach instructed. "Don't get stretched. When you get the ball, play forward quickly. Marc, you're our outlet. Hold up the ball, bring others into play."
Marc nodded. He could do that. In fact, he'd studied Benzema's hold-up play for years. He knew exactly how to position his body, how to use his strength, how to bring teammates into the attack.
The whistle blew.
The first thirty seconds were a blur of Barcelona possession. The ball zipped between Busquets, De Jong, and Pedri like it was on a string. The youth team chased shadows, unable to get close enough to make a challenge.
Then Pedri tried a pass through the lines that was slightly overhit. A B team midfielder intercepted it and immediately looked up. Marc had already started his run.
"Marc!"
The ball came toward him, slightly behind his run but manageable. Piqué was tight on his back, using his experience and strength to make Marc's life difficult. But Marc remembered Diego's analysis of Piqué—the legendary defender was thirty-three now, not as quick as he used to be. If you could turn him, you had a chance.
Marc killed the ball with his first touch, using his body to shield it from Piqué. He felt the defender's hand on his back, pushing, testing his balance. Marc stayed strong, his lower body stability—honed through years of training in this body—keeping him upright.
Lenglet was closing from the side. Marc had maybe two seconds before he'd be completely swarmed.
He spotted Miguel making a run into space on the left. With his next touch, Marc spun away from Piqué, using the defender's momentum against him. It wasn't a complete turn—Piqué recovered too quickly for that—but it created enough space for Marc to slide a pass through to Miguel.
"¡Vamos!" Miguel had acres of space. He drove toward the penalty area as Dest scrambled to cover. Marc immediately sprinted forward, attacking the space between Lenglet and Piqué.
Miguel looked up and crossed. It was a good ball, whipped in at waist height, but Piqué was there first, rising to head it away. The clearance went only as far as the edge of the penalty area, where a B team midfielder controlled it.
Marc didn't stop moving. He angled his run toward the far post, watching the midfielder's body shape. Cross it, he willed. Don't shoot, cross it.
The midfielder looked up, saw Marc's run, and clipped a ball toward the back post. It was too high for a header, dropping over Piqué's outstretched leg. Marc adjusted his run, his eyes locked on the ball.
Time seemed to slow. He could hear the ball rotating through the air, could calculate its trajectory with the precision of years of practice and thousands of hours watching strikers make this exact run.
The ball dropped toward him. Lenglet was closing fast on his left. Ter Stegen had already shifted his weight, preparing for the shot.
Marc didn't strike it first time. Instead, with his right foot, he killed the ball dead in one touch, letting it drop to the turf. It was a risky move—giving Lenglet an extra split-second to close him down—but it set up his next touch perfectly.
As the ball hit the ground, Marc opened up his body and side-footed it with his left foot toward the near post. Ter Stegen had committed to covering the far side, expecting a first-time finish. By the time he realized what was happening and sprawled toward the near post, it was too late.
The ball nestled into the side netting.
For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then a whistle blew—not the referee's whistle, because this was just practice, but one of the coaches signaling a halt to the play.
"Goal," the coach called unnecessarily. Everyone had seen it.
Marc stood there, breathing hard, barely believing what had just happened. He'd scored. In his first practice session with the first team, against Ter Stegen, Piqué, and Lenglet, he'd scored.
Miguel ran over and grabbed him in a hug. "¡Tío! That was incredible! Did you see Piqué's face?"
Indeed, Piqué was staring at Marc with an expression of mild surprise and what might have been respect. Lenglet shook his head ruefully. Even Ter Stegen gave a small nod of acknowledgment.
But the person Marc really cared about was Koeman. The first team coach was looking at him now, really looking at him, with the kind of attention that suggested he was mentally filing away information for later.
"Well taken," Koeman called out, his voice carrying across the pitch. "Good first touch, smart finish. What's your name, son?"
"Marc Delgado, míster." Marc tried to keep his voice steady. "Juvenil A."
Koeman made a note on his tablet. "Keep playing."
They reset, and the practice match continued. The first team had clearly taken note, because now they weren't treating it quite as casually. Busquets organized the midfield with sharp instructions. Piqué barked orders at Lenglet. The intensity increased.
Marc didn't score again in the remaining minutes, but he made his presence felt. He won headers, held up the ball under pressure, made intelligent runs that created space for others. He played like a striker who understood the game at a deep level, because he did.
When the final whistle blew on the training session, Marc was exhausted but exhilarated. He'd done it. He'd shown what he could do against world-class competition.
As the players dispersed, heading back toward the changing rooms, Marc felt a presence beside him. He turned to find Lionel Messi, the greatest footballer of all time, walking next to him.
"That was a nice goal," Messi said simply, his voice quiet but clear.
Marc's brain short-circuited. This was Messi. Lionel. Messi. Speaking to him. Diego's teenage self would have died on the spot.
"Thank you," Marc managed, trying to sound normal and not like he was meeting God. "It was... I mean, you guys made it difficult. Obviously."
Messi smiled slightly. "You have good instincts. How long have you been in Juvenil A?"
"Two years. This is my final year before moving up."
"Keep working. The first team needs hungry players right now." Messi's expression was unreadable. "What position do you prefer? Nine? False nine?"
"Pure nine," Marc said without hesitation. "I like to be in the box. I like to score."
"Nothing wrong with that." Messi paused as they reached the entrance to the building. "If they call you up to train with us again, don't change your game. Keep doing what you did today. Understand?"
Marc nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
Messi gave him a brief pat on the shoulder and walked off toward the first team changing room.
Marc stood there for a moment, frozen in place. Miguel appeared beside him, eyes wide.
"Did Messi just talk to you?"
"Yeah."
"What did he say?"
"He told me to keep doing what I'm doing."
Miguel stared at him. "Marc, I think your life just changed."
As they walked back to La Masia, Marc Delgado—formerly Diego Martínez—couldn't help but agree. His second life had officially begun.
And he was going to make it count.
END OF CHAPTER 1
Next Chapter: "The Call-Up" - Marc receives an unexpected summons to train with the first team full-time, throwing him into the deep end of professional football. Meanwhile, he must navigate the complex politics of Barcelona's struggling squad while trying to prove he belongs.