He had the raw tools to be a fantastic playmaker. But his mental stats were in the toilet. Composure 3. Decisions 5. He had the talent, but he was terrified of making a mistake. He had a Ferrari engine but was too scared to take the handbrake off.
I watched him for another five minutes. The pattern was clear. He'd get the ball, and instead of looking up to make one of the clever passes his Vision stat of 14 was surely screaming at him to make, he'd panic.
He would either pass it immediately back to where it came from or take a clumsy, heavy touch and lose possession. He was playing with his head down, his movements jerky and uncertain.
And I noticed something else. He was overwhelmingly right-footed. He would go out of his way to avoid using his left foot, twisting his body into awkward positions to play a simple pass with the outside of his right boot rather than just using his left. It was inefficient. It was costing him precious seconds, feeding his panic.
This was it. This was my test.
A high-potential asset being crippled by a clear, correctable flaw. My mind, the Football Manager part of my brain, took over. This wasn't a kid in a park; this was a wonderkid in my youth team whose development had stalled. And I was the manager. It was my job to fix it.
My heart started to pound. This was a terrible idea. He was just a kid. I was a strange man on a bench. But the PA of 142 was like a siren's call. It was a crime to let that kind of potential go to waste.
I waited for a break in the game, when the ball went rolling down the hill and a couple of kids chased after it. I stood up, my legs feeling a bit shaky, and walked over to the edge of the impromptu pitch. Alfie was standing by himself, looking at the ground.
"You're Alfie, right?" I asked, my voice coming out a little croaky. I tried to smile, to look as non-threatening as possible.
He looked up, his eyes wide with suspicion. "Maybe."
"I'm Danny. I've been watching you play. You're a good player."
He scoffed, a tiny, cynical sound. "No, I'm not. I'm rubbish."
"No, you're not," I insisted, my confidence growing as I slipped into the familiar role of the encouraging manager. "You've got great vision. You see the passes before anyone else. But you're thinking too much."
He just stared at me, his expression a mixture of confusion and intrigue.
"Can I give you one little bit of advice?" I said, crouching down to his level. "Just one thing. I want you to try passing with your left foot. Just the simple passes. Don't even think about it. If the ball comes to your left, use your left. It'll feel weird, but just try it. Okay?"
He looked from me to the game, where his friends were starting to trickle back with the ball. He shrugged, a gesture that said both 'whatever' and 'I guess'.
"Just try it," I repeated, giving him what I hoped was a reassuring nod. I retreated back to my bench, my heart hammering. I felt like I'd just given a halftime team talk in the Champions League final.
The game restarted. For a few minutes, nothing changed. Alfie continued to avoid the ball. But then, a stray pass came rolling towards him, directly to his left side. In the past, he would have tried to stop it with his right or let it run across his body.
But this time, something was different. He hesitated for a split second, and then, almost mechanically, he swung his left foot and pushed the ball to his nearest teammate. It wasn't a great pass it was a bit weak and wobbly but it was a pass. With his left foot.
I held my breath.
A few moments later, it happened again. The ball came to his left. This time, the pass was firmer, more accurate. A small seed of confidence had been planted.
The turning point came about five minutes later. Alfie was in the middle of the park. The ball was played towards him from the right.
He took a beautiful, cushioned first touch with his right foot, stopping the ball dead. In that moment, the speedy winger, Samad, made a great run into the space behind the 'defence'.
In the past, Alfie would have panicked. He would have passed it backwards. But now, he had an extra split second, because he wasn't worried about which foot to use. His head came up.
His Vision stat of 14 kicked in. He saw the run.
Without hesitation, he swung his left foot and struck the ball. It wasn't a powerful shot, but a perfectly weighted through-ball that split the two defenders and rolled directly into Samad's path. Samad, for once not having to dribble past three players, took one touch and slotted the ball neatly between the two jackets.
A goal.
His teammates mobbed Samad, who was celebrating like he'd just won the World Cup. But I was watching Alfie. He was just standing there, a look of utter shock on his face. He looked down at his left foot as if it belonged to someone else. Then, he looked over at me, his eyes wide with disbelief. A slow, hesitant smile spread across his face.
And in my mind, a loud, satisfying ding echoed, followed by a familiar notification in the corner of my vision.
[SYSTEM] Successful Intervention!
[SYSTEM] You have successfully identified and corrected a key player flaw, leading to a direct goal contribution.
[SYSTEM] Reward: 50 XP.
My XP bar jumped from 10/100 to 60/100. More than halfway to the next level, from one piece of advice.
A giddy, light-headed feeling washed over me. It worked. It actually worked. My knowledge, amplified by the system, had a direct, measurable impact on the real world. I hadn't just seen the problem; I'd helped to solve it. I had coached someone. And it had worked.
For the rest of the kickabout, Alfie was a different player. He wasn't suddenly Lionel Messi, but he was playing with his head up. He was trying things. He was using his left foot. He was involved. He was on the path to unlocking that 142 potential, and I had been the one to give him the key.
The fear that had been my constant companion for the past twenty-four hours finally evaporated, burned away by the bright, hot glow of validation. This wasn't a curse. It wasn't a hallucination. It was a gift. An impossible, terrifying, wonderful gift.
I was no longer just a spectator. I was a participant. I had a role to play.
I stood up from the bench, a real, genuine smile on my face for the first time in what felt like years. The world hadn't changed, but my place in it had. I was still Danny Walsh. But I was also Gaffer Walsh. And my season was just getting started.