The week between the two training sessions was one of the longest of my life.
The humiliation of that first night was a fresh, stinging wound. I replayed it in my mind a hundred times, each memory a fresh twist of the knife: the players' blank stares, the misplaced passes, my own pathetic surrender.
But now, the memory was overlaid with something new. The glowing interface of the Skill Tree. The three abilities I had purchased with my hard-won points: Basic Training Programs, Man-Management Basics, and Fitness Coaching.
They were my weapons for the rematch. My chance at redemption.
I threw myself into planning the second session with the obsessive focus of a Football Manager addict preparing for a cup final against a hated rival. But this time, my approach was different.
My first plan had been arrogant, a top-down tactical masterclass designed for digital players who do what you tell them to. It was all about my brilliant ideas, my complex drills. It was an exercise in ego.
This new plan was an exercise in pragmatism. It was built from the ground up, based on two key principles I had learned from my failure.
Principle one, courtesy of Frankie Morrison: start with the people, not the diagrams. Principle two, courtesy of the system: play to your strengths, no matter how few they may be.
I spent hours poring over the data I had on The Railway Arms players. Their technical and mental stats were, for the most part, a wasteland of single-digit numbers.
But as I scanned the squad list, a common theme emerged. It wasn't a technical skill or a mental attribute. It was a personality trait, a hidden stat the system displayed. One word, appearing again and again next to the names of these tired, defeated men.
Bravery.
Kev Jones, the overweight striker: Bravery 12.
Big Dave, the aging centre-back: Bravery 15.
Tommo, the workhorse midfielder: Bravery 14.
Even the young, nervous goalkeeper had a Bravery of 11.
They were not skilled. They were not fit. They were not organized. But they were brave.
They were men who, despite being on the receiving end of a 47-3 goal difference, still showed up every Sunday to get kicked around a muddy field for ninety minutes. They had heart, buried deep under layers of cynicism and exhaustion.
That was it. That was my starting point. I couldn't teach them to pass like Barcelona in a week. But I could teach them to fight like wolves.
My new plan consisted of a single, solitary drill. It was a high-intensity pressing exercise, a simplified version of the Gegenpressing style that was making Jürgen Klopp a legend at Borussia Dortmund.
It was about hunting in packs, closing down space, and winning the ball back with ferocious, organized aggression. It required more heart than talent, more stamina than technique. It was a drill built on bravery.
Tuesday night arrived, cold and damp as ever. As I walked towards the dimly lit pitch at Platt Fields, my stomach was a knot of anxiety. This was my last chance. If I failed again tonight, I knew I wouldn't get a third.
Frankie was there, a dark silhouette against the fence. He gave me a look that was equal parts pity and morbid curiosity. The players arrived, their mood as grim as the weather. They saw me, and I could see the skepticism, the outright derision, in their eyes. I was the joke from last week, the cone-obsessed weirdo who didn't have a clue.
I took a deep breath and activated the 'Man-Management Basics' skill in my mind. It didn't feel like a superpower.
It was more like a subtle shift in perception. I could almost feel the group's low morale, their distrust. The system was giving me a read on the room. And it was telling me that my old approach would be a disaster.
I walked into the centre of the group, but this time, I didn't have a notebook. I didn't have any cones. I just had myself.
"Alright, lads," I began, my voice quiet but clear. "Gather 'round for a second."
They shuffled reluctantly into a loose circle. I looked them in the eye, meeting each of their gazes.
"Right," I said.
"First off, I want to apologize for last week. That was a shambles. I came in here with a load of fancy ideas that were no use to anyone. I was trying to get you to run before you could walk. That was my fault. I was a right prat. So, we're forgetting about that. Tonight, we're doing something different."
The apology hung in the air. It was unexpected. In their world, managers shouted and blamed; they didn't apologize. I saw a few surprised glances exchanged. The wall of hostility had a tiny crack in it.
"I'm not going to lie to you," I continued, my voice gaining strength.
"We're not the most skillful team in this league. We're not the quickest. We're not the fittest. The league table doesn't lie. But I've watched you all play. And every single one of you has something that most teams would kill for. You're brave. You don't hide. You take the hits, you get back up, and you go again. You've got guts."
I let that sink in. I was using the data from the system, but I was translating it into their language. The language of heart, of grit, of pride.
"So tonight, we're going to build on that. We're going to learn how to use that bravery. We're going to learn how to be the most horrible, annoying, relentless team to play against in this entire league. We're going to do one drill, and one drill only. It's going to be hard work. You're going to hate me by the end of it. But I promise you, it will work."
I had their attention. Not all of them. A couple of the younger lads were still smirking. But the older players, the core of the team, were listening. I had appealed to their pride.
"It's simple," I explained, using my hands to paint a picture in the air.
"We're going to play a small-sided game. Six against six. One team attacks, one team defends. The defending team has one job: win the ball back within five seconds of losing it. Not by tackling, but by hunting. You press together. The moment the ball is lost, the nearest man goes to the ball, and the next two cut off the easy passes. You suffocate them. You force the mistake. You hunt as a pack."