I split them into two teams. The complaining started immediately.
"Five seconds? You're having a laugh, mate!" one of them grumbled.
"My lungs are still recovering from the weekend," another one wheezed.
This was the moment of truth. I looked at the most vocal complainer, a stocky defender named Baz. The system flashed up his key personality trait: 'Confrontational'. My old self would have argued with him or ignored him. My new 'Man-Management' skill suggested a different approach.
"You're right, Baz," I said, nodding. "It sounds impossible. But I'll make you a deal. I'll play. I'll be on the defending team first. And I'll run with you. If I'm asking you to do it, I'm going to do it myself."
That shut them up. The idea of the coach actually participating, actually sharing in the suffering, was a novelty. I pulled on a bib. I was in.
"Right, let's go!" I yelled, my voice now a sharp bark of command. "First team, let's see it! Press! Press! Press!"
The first few minutes were chaos. They ran around like headless chickens, individuals chasing the ball while their teammates watched. It was exactly what I expected. But I didn't shout at them for their mistakes. I used the 'Fitness Coaching' and 'Basic Training Programs' knowledge that the system had given me. I focused on their effort, not their execution.
"Good run, Tommo! That's the energy!" I shouted, clapping my hands. "Baz, close him down! Don't let him turn! Good! Now recover!"
I was running with them, my own lungs burning, my legs screaming in protest. I was a terrible player, but I was a willing runner. And they saw it. They saw their new, weirdo coach gasping for air right alongside them, and it made a difference.
Slowly, painfully, something began to change. They started to communicate. A shout of "I've got ball!" from one player would trigger a supporting run from another. They were still making mistakes, but they were starting to think as a group.
The breakthrough came after about fifteen minutes of relentless, lung-bursting effort. The attacking team had the ball. Their midfielder, a skillful lad named Sean, tried to turn. But Tommo, our workhorse midfielder, was on him in a flash, just as we'd practiced.
He didn't try to tackle him. He just got in his face, forcing him to turn back. As Sean turned, he saw Baz, the confrontational defender, closing off his escape route. And to his left, he saw me, cutting off the simple pass to the full-back.
He was trapped. A triangle of red bibs had suffocated him. He had nowhere to go. He panicked. He tried a stupid, hopeful flick, and it went straight to our player. We had won the ball back in under five seconds.
It was a small moment. Insignificant to an outsider. But for us, on that muddy pitch, it was a revelation. A collective lightbulb went on above their heads.
"YES!" I roared, punching the air. "That's it! Do you see? Do you see what happens when you work together? He had nowhere to go! We didn't even have to make a tackle! We hunted him down!"
The players, gasping for breath, looked at each other. A few of them were nodding. They had felt it. The power of the pack.
We kept going. They still hated it. They complained, they swore, they bent over double, hands on their knees, lungs on fire. But they didn't stop. They kept running.
They kept hunting. And with every successful press, their belief grew. They were no longer eleven individuals. They were a defensive unit. A scruffy, unfit, technically limited defensive unit, but a unit nonetheless.
I looked over at the sideline. Frankie was standing there, his arms crossed. He wasn't smoking. He was watching, his brow furrowed in concentration. He had seen it too.
As the session ended, a notification I had been desperately hoping for pinged in my mind.
[SYSTEM] Successful Training Drill Implemented!
[SYSTEM] You have successfully applied a new training methodology based on your unlocked skills. The team's 'Teamwork' and 'Work Rate' attributes have received a temporary boost.
[SYSTEM] Reward: 25 XP.
It wasn't a huge amount, but it was confirmation. My new approach was working. The system was rewarding my growth.
The players collapsed onto the grass, a heap of exhausted, muddy bodies. But the atmosphere was different from last week. There was no sullen silence. There was a buzz, a shared sense of accomplishment.
"That… was horrible," Baz gasped, lying on his back, staring up at the dark sky. He looked at me. "But… I get it."
Tommo, the midfielder, nodded in agreement. "We were actually working together there, at the end. Felt… different."
I walked over and offered Baz a hand up. He took it. "It's hard work, lads," I said, my voice full of a genuine pride that surprised me. "But that's who we are now. We're the team that works harder than anyone else. We make them hate playing against us. That's our identity."
I had found my voice. It wasn't the voice of a tactical genius or a remote-control Football Manager god. It was the voice of a coach. A leader. Someone who understood that football isn't just about diagrams and stats; it's about sweat, and heart, and the shared belief that if you run hard enough for the man next to you, something good might happen.
As the players gathered their things, Frankie ambled over. He stood beside me, looking at the exhausted but strangely energized group.
"Bravery," he said, his voice a low growl. "You found the one thing they've got. And you used it."
He didn't say 'good job'. He didn't say 'well done'. But in his world, that was the highest praise you could get. He had seen what I had done. He understood.
He clapped me on the shoulder, a surprisingly firm gesture. "They'll be sore tomorrow. But they'll be back next week."
He walked off, leaving me alone on the pitch. I was caked in mud, my muscles ached, and I was pretty sure I'd coughed up a lung somewhere around the halfway line.
But I had never felt better in my entire life. I had taken my first real step. I had earned a small, grudging victory. And I had 25 more XP than when I started. The game was on.