The encounter with Emma Hartley left a strange, lingering warmth that stayed with me long after I'd returned to the garlic-scented solitude of my flat.
Her business card sat on my desk, propped up against the base of my monitor, a tangible piece of evidence that the world outside my head was starting to notice me. It was a terrifying and deeply satisfying thought.
Her parting words, "I have a feeling you've got a few more stories in you," echoed in my mind. I didn't have stories. But I had data. And I was beginning to realize that, in the right hands, data could be the most powerful story of all.
My brief foray into punditry had been a success, but it hadn't gotten me any closer to my goal. I was still stuck at 60/100 XP.
To level up, I needed to do more than just watch. The system had rewarded me for 'Successful Intervention,' not 'Accurate Prediction.' I had to get my hands dirty. I had to find a team. My team.
This wasn't a decision I took lightly. In Football Manager, choosing your first club is a sacred ritual. You don't just pick the top team and cruise to victory.
That's for amateurs. The real joy, the real challenge, lies in finding a club that's on its knees. A fallen giant, a team in financial ruin, a squad full of aging journeymen and disillusioned youngsters.
A lost cause. You take that broken thing, and you make it yours. You rebuild it, piece by piece, until it reflects your vision, your philosophy. You turn a lost cause into a legend.
I needed to find my real-life lost cause.
My first step was research. I spent the next few days in a state of obsessive focus. During my night shifts at the 24/7 Local, I devoured every piece of information I could find about the local amateur leagues.
I scoured obscure forums, read poorly designed league websites, and, of course, followed Emma Hartley's blog, 'The Grassroots Gazette,' which was a goldmine of information. I was building a database in my head, a mental league table of desperation.
During the day, I put my system to work. I became a ghost, haunting the parks and playing fields of South Manchester.
I watched training sessions, five-a-side games, and full-blown matches. With the notebook in hand, my scouting range was wider, the data more stable.
I was like a human satellite, hoovering up information. I compiled lists. Players with hidden potential. Teams with glaring tactical weaknesses. Managers who were out of their depth.
After a week of intensive scouting, one name kept coming up. One team stood out from the rest in its sheer, unadulterated hopelessness.
They were the undisputed kings of failure, the non-league equivalent of a Sunderland relegation season. They were a pub team called 'The Railway Arms'.
They played in the Moss Side Sunday League, Division Two, the absolute rock bottom. Their record for the season so far was played eight and they lost eight. They had scored three goals and conceded forty-seven.
Forty-seven. That wasn't just bad; it was a cry for help. They were the team everyone loved to play against, a guaranteed three points and a massive boost to your goal difference.
They were perfect.
That Sunday, I didn't go to the main pitch at Alexandra Park. I went to a forgotten, windswept field on the industrial edge of Trafford Park.
There was no rope around the pitch, no substitutes' bench, just a muddy, uneven stretch of grass with two rusty, net-less goalposts. This was the home of The Railway Arms.
Their opponents were a team called 'Newton Heath Tilers,' a squad of burly-looking tradesmen who looked like they could build a wall and then run through it. The Railway Arms, by contrast, were a motley crew.
Their kits, a faded, washed-out red, were mismatched. Some had numbers, some didn't. Some were long-sleeved, some short. They looked less like a football team and more like a group of strangers who had been rounded up at gunpoint and forced to play.
I stood on the touchline, opened my notebook, and began my assessment. It was a horror show. The system panels above their heads were a sea of depressingly low numbers. CAs in the 20s and 30s were the norm.
PAs were barely any higher. This wasn't just a team that was playing badly; this was a team that was, by any objective measure, fundamentally bad at football.
But as I delved deeper, I started to see things. The glimmers of hope that only the system could reveal. A 19-year-old goalkeeper with a CA of 25 but a PA of 85, and a surprisingly high 'Reflexes' attribute of 13.
A grizzled, overweight striker who was slow as a milk float but had a 'Composure' of 12 and a 'Finishing' of 11. And a central midfielder who, despite being surrounded by chaos, had a 'Work Rate' of 14 and was still running his socks off in the 80th minute, 6-0 down.
There was something here. It was buried deep, under layers of poor fitness, non-existent organization, and shattered morale, but it was there. A tiny, flickering ember of potential.
My attention, however, was drawn to the man in the technical area. Or rather, the man leaning against a goalpost, smoking a roll-up cigarette, his face a mask of pure, undiluted cynicism. This was the manager. Frankie Morrison.
I'd read about him on Emma's blog. He was a local legend of sorts. A semi-professional player in the 70s, a tough-as-nails midfielder who had played for clubs like Macclesfield Town and Altrincham.
He had been managing in the Sunday leagues for forty years, a relic from a bygone era of hard tackles and even harder drinking. He was old-school to his core.
I focused the system on him.
> Name: Frank "Frankie" Morrison
> Age: 68
> Position: Manager
> Current Ability (CA): 45/200
> Potential Ability (PA): 60/200
> Key Attributes:
> - Player Management: 14
> - Motivation: 3
> - Discipline: 15
> - Tactical Knowledge: 6
> - Youth Development: 4