As the teams were lining up, a familiar figure appeared on the touchline, notepad and pen in hand. It was Emma Hartley.
My heart did a nervous little flutter. She was wearing a thick, cream-coloured wool coat and a green beanie that made her red hair pop. She looked incredible, a splash of vibrant colour in the grey, miserable morning.
She saw me and her face broke into a warm, genuine smile. "Danny Walsh! I had a feeling I might find you here. Couldn't stay away?"
"Something like that," I said, trying to sound casual. "Frankie's letting me help out a bit."
"'Helping out'?" she said, her eyes twinkling. "Frankie told me you're his new assistant manager. He also said you're completely mad."
"Only half-mad," I corrected her. "The jury's still out on the other half."
Her smile faded as she looked at the two teams. "So, you've chosen your challenge. The worst team in the league. You don't like to make things easy for yourself, do you?"
"Where's the fun in easy?" I said, echoing a line I'd used a thousand times to justify taking over a bankrupt club in the Italian third division in Football Manager.
Just then, Marcus Chen, the opposition manager, swaggered over. He completely ignored me and Frankie, his eyes fixed on Emma.
"Emma! Fancy seeing you here," he said, his voice smooth as silk. "Come to watch a real football team for a change?"
Emma's smile became a little more strained. "Hello, Marcus. I'm here to cover the game. Every team has a story."
"Well, this one's a tragedy," he said with a dismissive wave at our players. He finally deigned to look at Frankie. "Frankie. Still flogging this dead horse, are you? I'm surprised you haven't put it out of its misery yet."
Frankie's jaw tightened. "We're still here, Marcus. Which is more than I can say for that non-league club your daddy bought you last year."
It was a sharp, well-aimed jab. Marcus's smug expression faltered for a second. He had a reputation for short-lived, expensive vanity projects. He turned his attention to me, looking me up and down with an expression of open disdain. "And who's this? The new water boy?"
Before I could respond, Emma stepped in. "This is Danny Walsh, Marcus. He's the new assistant manager. He's got some very interesting ideas about the game."
Marcus let out a short, derisive laugh.
"Interesting ideas? With this lot? The only interesting idea would be to teach them which goal to shoot at." He gave Emma a charming, conspiratorial smile. "Don't waste your time here, Emma. The real story is our promotion push. Why don't you come and interview me after we've put seven or eight past this lot?"
He gave me one last, dismissive sneer and swaggered back to his technical area, shouting instructions to his perfectly organised team.
I stood there, my fists clenched, a hot, angry fire burning in my chest. The arrogance, the condescension, the sheer, unadulterated smugness of the man.
He was the living embodiment of everything I hated about the modern game: money, entitlement, and a complete lack of respect for the soul of football.
In Football Manager, I would have relished the chance to take him down, to build a team from nothing and humiliate his expensive, soulless project. Now I had that chance in real life. And I was terrified I was about to blow it.
"Don't let him get to you, son," Frankie muttered beside me. "He's a pratt. Always has been."
But it was too late. He had gotten to me.
This was no longer just a football match. It was personal. It was a battle of philosophies, of classes, of worlds. It was my band of tired, brave, working-class misfits against his team of slick, entitled, cashmere-clad bankers. It was us against them.
"Right, lads, bring it in!" I shouted, my voice raw with a new, unfamiliar intensity. The players shuffled over, their faces a mixture of apathy and dread.
I looked them in the eye. I could see their stats panels, the low numbers, the poor attributes. But I wasn't looking at the data anymore. I was looking at them. At Baz, the confrontational defender. At Tommo, the tireless midfielder. At Kev, the slow but composed striker.
I activated my 'Man-Management Basics' skill. I needed to find the right words. Not a complex tactical instruction. Not a clever motivational speech. I needed to tap into the one thing we had that they didn't: a reason to fight.
"Listen to me," I said, my voice low and urgent.
"Forget everything we've talked about. Forget the tactics, forget the drills. Just look at them." I pointed towards The Merchant Bankers, who were finishing their warm-up with a round of applause for each other. "Look at them. They don't respect you. They think this is a joke. They think they can just turn up, roll you over, and go back to their fancy flats in the city centre without breaking a sweat."
I saw a flicker of anger in a few of their eyes. Good.
"They've got better kits than us. They've got better boots. They're probably getting paid to be here. But I'll tell you what they don't have. They don't have your heart. They don't know what it's like to finish a ten-hour shift and then drag yourself to a muddy field on a Sunday morning just for the love of the game. They don't have your guts."
I leaned in, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"So here's what we're going to do. We're going to make this the worst ninety minutes of their lives. We're going to use that one thing we've practiced. We're going to hunt. From the first whistle to the last, we are going to be on them like a pack of rabid dogs. We're not going to give them a second on the ball. We're going to press, we're going to harry, we're going to fight for every single scrap. We're going to make them hate us."
I looked around the circle, my eyes locking with each player. "I don't care if we win. I don't care if we lose. All I care about is that when that final whistle blows, they know they've been in a war. I want them to walk off that pitch bruised, battered, and terrified of ever having to play us again. Can you do that for me?"
There was a moment of silence. And then, from the back of the group, Baz, the confrontational defender, spoke up. "Yeah, gaffer," he said, a slow, dangerous grin spreading across his face. "We can do that."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the group. Their shoulders were a little straighter. Their heads were a little higher. The apathy was gone, replaced by a sullen, simmering anger.
I had found the right button to push. I had given them a reason to care. We were probably still going to lose. But we were going to lose on our own terms. We were going to go down fighting.
The referee blew his whistle. The game was about to begin. I gave Frankie a nod. He nodded back, a grim, determined look on his face.
Emma caught my eye from the touchline and gave me a small, encouraging smile. The stage was set. A new rival was in the opposite dugout. My ally was on the sideline. And my team of underdogs was on the pitch, ready for battle. My first real test as a manager was here. And I was ready for it.