The fifty experience points from my successful intervention with Alfie Burns felt like a shot of pure adrenaline.
I had spent the rest of the day in a state of buzzing, restless energy, pacing my flat and repeatedly opening the notebook to stare at the progress bar that now sat at a tantalizing 60/100.
It was more than just a number; it was proof. Proof that I wasn't crazy, and proof that I could actually do something with this impossible gift.
But as the initial euphoria wore off, the cold, hard logic of the gamer's mind took over. Sixty points was good, but it wasn't a level up.
To get the remaining forty points and unlock whatever came next skill points, new features, a sense of validation that didn't feel like a complete fluke: I needed more XP.
The kickabout in the park had been a good start, a successful tutorial level. But to grind effectively, I needed to move on to higher-level content. I needed more organized games, better players, and more complex tactical situations to analyze and, hopefully, influence.
My mind immediately went to the Moss Side Sunday League. It was the bottom of the barrel, the absolute ground floor of the English football pyramid, but it was a step up from a kids' kickabout.
These were organized teams, playing for three points, with actual referees and (occasionally) linesmen. The players would be older, their attributes more developed, their flaws more ingrained. The potential for both XP gain and catastrophic failure was significantly higher. It was perfect.
And so, the following Sunday morning found me back in Alexandra Park, but this time I bypassed the casual games and headed for the main, roped-off pitch.
The air was crisp and smelled of damp earth and cheap liniment.
The shouts of the players were sharper, laced with a competitive edge that was absent from the friendly kickabouts. This was serious. Or, as serious as you can get when half the players look hungover, and the pitch has more divots than a PGA tour practice green.
The match was between 'The Dog & Duck,' in their faded blue kits, and 'AFC Hulme,' in slightly less faded green.
I found a spot on the touchline, a little way down from the two sets of substitutes who were huddled on fold-out chairs, sharing gossip and passing around a communal bottle of Lucozade.
I pulled out my leather notebook and a pen, trying to look as official as possible. In my head, I was a scout for a top European club, identifying the next generation of talent. In reality, I was an unemployed convenience store worker who probably looked like he was compiling a list for the world's most specific restraining order.
I opened the notebook, and the system hummed to life in my perception.
The panels appeared above the twenty-two players on the pitch, a sea of data waiting to be parsed. I started my work, my pen scratching against the paper as I began to build a mental map of the two teams.
It was a habit ingrained from years of Football Manager, where the first thing you do when taking over a new club is assess every single player, from your star striker down to the third-choice youth team goalkeeper.
'AFC Hulme's centre-back, Gary Milligan. Age 35. CA 42, PA 45. Low pace (5) but high positioning (13) and strength (14). A classic old-school stopper. Avoid trying to beat him for speed; drag him out of position.'
'Dog & Duck's winger, Kyle Roberts. Age 21. CA 45, PA 75. High pace (15) and dribbling (14), but terrible finishing (4) and composure (6). All flash, no substance. A frustrating player to manage, but a useful impact sub against tired legs.'
I was so engrossed in my analysis, cross-referencing the system's data with the players' real-world actions, that I didn't notice her approach until she was standing right beside me.
"You're not a scout, are you?"
The voice was clear and confident, with a melodic, intelligent cadence that cut right through the ambient noise of the game.
I jumped, startled, fumbling the notebook. I looked up and found myself staring at a woman who decidedly did not look like the usual Sunday league spectator.
She was probably around my age, maybe a year or two older.
Her attire was a smart-casual blend that seemed perfectly suited to a damp Manchester park.
She wore a stylish, dark green wax jacket over a simple grey jumper, with dark-wash jeans tucked into a pair of sturdy, mud-flecked brown leather boots.
Her hair was a vibrant shade of red, tied back in a practical but elegant ponytail, though a few stray strands had escaped to frame a face that was both pretty and sharp.
Her features were defined by high cheekbones and a dusting of freckles across her nose. But it was her eyes that held my attention. They were a bright, inquisitive green, and they were fixed on me with an unnerving, analytical intensity.
My brain, which had been so fluently processing complex football data, promptly short-circuited.
My usual awkwardness around attractive women collided with the sudden, paranoid fear of my secret being discovered. The result was a masterclass in social ineptitude.
"Uh, what? Me? No. Scout? No. Just… watching," I stammered, my cheeks flushing hot. I felt like a spy who'd just been caught by the KGB.
She smiled, a slight, knowing quirk of her lips.
"You're more focused than the referee. And you're taking notes. Most people who take notes at these games are either scouts or journalists. And you don't have the look of a scout. They usually wear a club tracksuit and look miserable."
I instinctively clutched the notebook tighter. "It's just a hobby. I… I like to analyze the game. Tactics and stuff."
"Tactics?" Her smile widened, revealing a flash of perfect white teeth. The genuine interest in her eyes was disarming. "At this level? Most of these teams consider 'tactics' to be shouting 'get rid of it' for ninety minutes."
Despite my panic, I couldn't help but return the smile. "Yeah, well, there are patterns in the chaos. If you look close enough."
"I'm Emma, by the way. Emma Hartley." She extended a hand. Her grip was firm, confident. "I run a blog. 'The Grassroots Gazette'. I cover local football. The stories you don't see on Sky Sports."
I shook her hand, my own feeling clammy and weak in comparison. "Danny. Danny Walsh."
As I said her name, I couldn't stop myself. I 'pinged' her with the system. A panel, different from the others, flickered into existence above her head.