"What do you see, son?"
The voice was old, raspy but cultured. I turned. He was in his late seventies, at a guess. He wore a thick, tweed overcoat that looked out of place in this part of town, a crisp white shirt, and a neatly tied cravat.
His face was a roadmap of wrinkles, but his eyes were sharp and intelligent, twinkling with an amused curiosity. He looked like a university professor who'd taken a very wrong turn.
Normally, I would have mumbled something non-committal and edged away. But the question, and the exhaustion from my shift, disarmed me. He hadn't asked 'who's winning?' or 'what's the score?'. He'd asked what I saw.
So, for the first time in a long time, I told the truth.
"I see potential," I said, my voice hoarse. "And wasted patterns. See that number 10 for the Reds? He's playing as a target man, but he's losing every header. He's not a target man. He's got a low centre of gravity. He should be dropping deep, turning, and linking the play. He's a false nine, he just doesn't know it."
I pointed with a trembling finger. "And their left-back. He's got pace, but he's positionally a disaster. He gets caught out every single time. But look at his recovery runs. He's got the engine for it. He just needs to be told when to go and when to stay. No one's telling him. No one's organizing them. They're just eleven blokes chasing a ball."
The old man didn't look at the pitch. He looked at me. His smile widened slightly. "Indeed. You don't just watch the ball, do you? You watch the space. The possibilities."
"It's all I do," I admitted, a wave of bitterness washing over me. "Spend my nights stacking shelves and my days playing Football Manager, winning digital leagues with teams I've built from nothing. I see it all on the screen. The attributes, the potential, the tactical fits. I just… I wish I could see it out here. For real."
The confession hung in the air between us. It was the most honest thing I'd said to another human being in years.
The old man nodded slowly, a strange, knowing look in his eyes. "The gap between knowing the path and walking the path. A common human affliction." He stood up, his movements surprisingly fluid for his age. "Perhaps you should see what you've been missing, then."
He reached into his overcoat and pulled out not a wallet, but a small, old-fashioned leather notebook. It was dark brown, the cover worn smooth with age, the corners scuffed. Embossed on the front in faded gold lettering were three words: 'The Gaffer's Eye'.
He placed it on the bench between us. "A gift. For a fellow connoisseur of the beautiful game."
Before I could protest or even properly thank him, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the morning mist that still clung to the edges of the park. I was left staring at the notebook.
It felt heavy, substantial in my hands. I opened it. The pages were thick, creamy, and completely blank. Except for the first page. In elegant, looping script, a single sentence was written.
Sign your name to begin.
It was absurd. Some sort of prank? A social experiment? I was tired. My brain felt like it was full of cotton wool. What was the harm? I pulled a cheap biro from my pocket, the one I used for ticking off stock sheets, and on the line, I signed my name.
Danny Walsh.
For a second, nothing happened. I felt a fool. Of course nothing happened. It was just a notebook.
Then the world glitched.
It wasn't a flicker. It was a violent, sickening lurch in my perception. The colours of the park became oversaturated, the green of the pitch turning a lurid, electric shade.
The sound of the game distorted, the shouts of the players echoing as if in a vast, empty hall. My head swam. I gripped the bench, a wave of vertigo washing over me.
And then, as quickly as it began, it settled. The world looked normal again. Almost.
I looked at the pitch, and my breath caught in my throat.
Above the head of every player, a translucent, shimmering panel of light had appeared. It was like something out of a video game, a user interface layered over reality. Inside each panel, I could see text and numbers, glowing with a soft, white light.
I focused on the hapless number 10 for the red team, the one I'd identified as a false nine.
> Name : Kevin "Kev" Jones
> Age : 34
> Position : Striker (ST)
> Current Ability (CA) : 28/200
> Potential Ability (PA) : 35/200
> Key Attributes :
> - Finishing : 6
> - Pace : 4
> - Bravery : 12
My heart hammered against my ribs. I blinked, rubbed my eyes, but it was still there. I looked at the marauding left-back.
> Name : Liam Taylor
> Age : 22
> Position : Defender (Left)
> Current Ability (CA) : 32/200
> Potential Ability (PA) : 55/200
> Key Attributes :
> - Pace : 14
> - Stamina : 13
> - Positioning : 3
It was real. It was Football Manager, but it was real . The numbers, the potential, the attributes I spent hundreds of hours staring at on a screen were now floating over actual people. I could see their strengths, their weaknesses, their hidden potential, as clear as day.
Then, in the corner of my vision, a new panel materialized, scrolling text like a news ticker.
[SYSTEM] Welcome to The Gaffer's Eye.
[SYSTEM] Your journey begins now.
I shot to my feet, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The notebook fell from my lap onto the damp grass.
The world was spinning, the data panels above the players flickering in and out of focus. This wasn't real. It couldn't be. It was a dream. A hallucination brought on by too many night shifts and a diet of cheap energy drinks.
But as I stumbled away from the bench, away from the park, the images burned into my retinas. I could still see them. The numbers. The potential. The game was laid bare before me.
I didn't stop running until I was back in my flat, the door locked and bolted behind me. I leaned against it, my body trembling, clutching the worn leather notebook to my chest like a holy relic.
My old life, the one of quiet desperation and digital dreams, had ended on that park bench. A new one had just begun, and it was terrifying, exhilarating, and utterly, impossibly real.