"We train on Tuesdays. Platt Fields. Seven o'clock. Don't be late."
Frankie Morrison's parting words were a mantra I repeated to myself for the next two days. They were the keys to the kingdom, the entry password to the next level of the game. I had a purpose. I had a training session to plan.
My excitement was a frantic, nervous energy that made sleep impossible and my day job at the 24/7 Local feel like a surreal, slow-motion dream.
While stacking shelves and dealing with customers, my mind was a whirlwind of tactical diagrams and training drills. I filled page after page of a new, clean notebook (I was keeping 'The Gaffer's Eye' notebook for system-related business only) with detailed plans.
I designed passing drills to improve the team's abysmal technique, defensive shape exercises to teach them basic positioning, and shooting practice that, I hoped, would remind the strikers where the goal was.
I was in my element. This was what I did for fun. In Football Manager, the training module is a game within the game. You don't just click 'start match'.
You spend hours crafting the perfect weekly schedule, balancing fitness work with tactical preparation, individual skill development with team cohesion exercises.
You tailor every session to your philosophy, to your next opponent, to the specific needs of your players. I had won leagues on the back of a perfectly designed training schedule. I knew this stuff inside and out.
By Tuesday evening, I had a plan. It was a masterpiece of amateur coaching, a two-hour session designed to be a gentle but firm introduction to the concept of organized football. It was, I thought, brilliant.
Reality, as it turned out, had other ideas.
Platt Fields at 7 PM on a Tuesday in late autumn is a special kind of miserable.
The vast, open space was shrouded in a damp, clinging darkness, punctuated by the weak, orange glow of a few distant floodlights that seemed to absorb more light than they produced.
The air was cold and heavy with the threat of rain. It was, in short, the perfect setting for the death of a dream.
I arrived early, my bag full of brightly coloured cones I'd bought from a sports shop, my notebook clutched in my hand. Frankie was already there, leaning against a fence, a familiar, hand-rolled cigarette dangling from his lips. He gave me a non-committal grunt by way of greeting.
"Alright, Danny," he said, his voice a low rumble. "They're your problem tonight. Don't break them."
Slowly, the players began to arrive, emerging from the gloom in ones and twos. They were a sorry sight. They'd come straight from their day jobs - scaffolders, delivery drivers, office workers.
They were tired and cold, and their enthusiasm for being here was visibly absent. They dumped their bags on the muddy ground and started a half-hearted kickabout, their movements sluggish, their conversation muted.
I took a deep breath. This was it. Showtime. I walked into the centre of the group, my heart doing a nervous tap-dance against my ribs.
"Alright, lads," I said, trying to project a confidence I absolutely did not feel. "I'm Danny. I'm going to be helping Frankie out for a bit. We're just going to run through a few drills tonight, get a bit of shape back into the team."
I was met with a collection of blank, suspicious stares. They looked at me, then at Frankie, who just shrugged, a silent gesture that said, 'Don't look at me, lads. It's his funeral.'
I tried to ignore the rising tide of panic in my chest. I had the system on my side. I scanned the players, their data panels flickering to life. I could see their low morale, their poor fitness, their technical deficiencies. The data was a diagnosis of the problem. My training plan was the cure.
"Okay, first up, a simple passing drill," I announced, trying to inject some energy into my voice. "Everyone get into a circle. Two players in the middle. We're going to play piggy-in-the-middle. Keep the ball moving. One-touch, two-touch. Let's get sharp."
It was the most basic drill in the world. I'd seen under-10s do it. For the players of The Railway Arms, it was like I'd asked them to perform quantum physics.
The first pass went astray. The second was hit with the force of a cannonball and nearly took the head off a player on the other side of the circle. The players in the middle barely had to move; they just waited for the inevitable mistake. The ball spent more time being retrieved than it did in the circle. It was a disaster.
My carefully planned session fell apart before it had even begun. The players' attention drifted. They started chatting, laughing, their focus completely gone. My authority, which had been tenuous at best, evaporated into the cold night air.
I felt a hot flush of shame creep up my neck. My imposter syndrome, which had been lurking in the shadows, now took centre stage, screaming in my ear. 'Who do you think you are? You're a fraud. A shop-worker playing at being a manager. These are real men, and they can see right through you.'
I looked over at Frankie. He was watching me, his expression unreadable, a plume of smoke curling up from his cigarette. There was no pity in his eyes, but no malice either. It was the look of a man who had seen this all before. He was letting me fail. He was letting me learn.
I tried to pull it back. I moved on to the next drill, a defensive shape exercise. It was even worse. I tried to explain the concept of a compact defensive block, of shifting as a unit, of cutting off passing lanes.
They looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language. Their attempts to follow my instructions were comical. The defensive line had more holes in it than a string vest. Forwards could have driven a bus through the gap between the centre-back and the full-back.
After forty-five minutes of this torture, I gave up. My grand plan was in tatters. My authority was shot. The players were cold, bored, and had lost any shred of respect they might have had for the weird, skinny bloke with the notebook.
"Alright, lads," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "Just… just have a kickabout. Five-a-side."
It was a total surrender. They broke off into a chaotic, shapeless game, and I retreated to the touchline, my cheeks burning with humiliation. I had failed. Utterly and completely.
My CA of 38 felt generous. Right now, I felt like a 1.
I stood next to Frankie, staring blankly at the game, the sound of my own failure ringing in my ears.
"Not as easy as it looks on the telly, is it, son?" Frankie said quietly, without taking his eyes off the pitch.