The referee's whistle was a shrill, piercing sound that cut through the damp morning air, and for a glorious, fleeting moment, my pre-match speech felt like a work of genius. For the first thirty seconds of the game, The Railway Arms were magnificent.
They were a blur of furious, chaotic energy, chasing down every white shirt as if it owed them money.
They flew into tackles, they closed down space, they were a snarling, spitting embodiment of righteous indignation. It was everything I had asked for. It was beautiful. It was also, as it turned out, completely unsustainable.
I watched from the touchline, my heart in my throat, willing them to maintain that intensity. The system panels above their heads showed temporary boosts to their Work Rate and Aggression attributes, the lingering effect of my team talk.
But I could also see their Stamina bars starting to drain at an alarming rate.
They were burning through their energy reserves like a Formula One car with a punctured fuel tank. This couldn't last. I knew it. Frankie knew it. And, judging by the calm, composed expressions on The Merchant Bankers' faces, they knew it too.
After that first, heroic thirty-second burst, reality delivered a swift and brutal kick to the groin. The Merchant Bankers, to their credit, didn't panic.
They were used to playing against teams that tried to intimidate them with aggression. They were composed, organized, and, most importantly, they were just much, much better at football than we were.
They weathered the initial storm by playing simple, one-touch passes, moving the ball so quickly that our frantic, disorganized press was left chasing shadows.
Our players, fueled by pure adrenaline and righteous fury, were running themselves into the ground, but they were running as individuals.
The pack mentality I had tried to instill in them had disintegrated at the first sign of intelligent opposition movement. They were just eleven angry men, running around a lot.
I stood on the touchline, a feeling of helpless dread washing over me.
My grand motivational speech had been a firework: spectacular, impressive for a moment, and then gone, leaving nothing but smoke. I had given them the 'why', but I had failed to give them the 'how'. My tactical instructions had been drowned out by my own appeal to their emotions.
Frankie, standing beside me, folded his arms. He didn't say 'I told you so'. He didn't have to. The unfolding disaster on the pitch was saying it for him.
The first goal came after just six minutes. It was painfully simple. Our left-back, Liam, charged out of position to close down a player who was already being marked, leaving a gaping hole behind him.
The Bankers' winger, a slick, speedy player with a CA of 65, exploited the space. A simple through-ball, a quick burst of pace, and he was clear. Our young goalkeeper, Kieran, rushed out, but he was hesitant, his Composure of 5 betraying him. The winger calmly slotted the ball past him into the bottom corner.
1-0. The small group of supporters for The Merchant Bankers, a collection of girlfriends and wives in expensive-looking coats, applauded politely. Our players just looked at each other, the fire in their eyes already starting to dim.
I tried to shout instructions from the sideline. "Liam, hold your position! Stay with the runner!" and "Tommo, get tighter in the middle! Don't give them so much space!" But my voice was lost in the wind, a meaningless noise against the grim reality of the game.
The system panels above the players' heads were a horror show of red, downward-pointing arrows.
Morale was plummeting. Performance ratings were in the low 5s. My pre-match team talk had given them a temporary morale boost, but it was draining away with every misplaced pass, with every effortless turn from an opposition player.
Marcus Chen, in the opposite technical area, was enjoying himself immensely. He stood there, arms folded, a smug, satisfied smirk on his face.
He was the cat that had got the cream. Every so often, he would shout a word of encouragement to his players, his voice dripping with condescension. "Too easy, lads! Keep it simple!"
Emma, further down the touchline, was scribbling furiously in her notepad, her expression unreadable. I couldn't bear to look at her. I felt like a fraud, exposed in the most public and humiliating way possible.
The second goal arrived on the twenty-minute mark. It was a carbon copy of the first, only this time it was our right-back who was caught out of position.
A simple one-two, a run into the channel, a cut-back, and a simple tap-in for their striker. 2-0. It was embarrassingly easy. Our defence, which I had hoped would be a snarling, organized unit, was a shambles, a collection of individuals reacting to events rather than anticipating them.
Frankie turned to me, his face grim. "They're going to put ten past us, son," he said, his voice a low growl. "We need to change something. This press… it's suicide. They're too good. They're just playing around us."
He was right. My one, brilliant idea had been a catastrophic failure. The bravery I had tried to weaponize was being used against us.
Our players were just emptying their gas tanks for no reward. We were playing with our hearts, but they were playing with their heads. And their heads were winning. Comfortably.
I felt a wave of despair. I had no other ideas. My entire strategy was in flames. I had nothing. I was out of my depth, a Football Manager player who had just discovered that the real world doesn't have a 'pause' button or a 'tactics' screen you can pull up mid-game.
But then… I looked at the system. I forced myself to ignore the sinking feeling in my gut and to focus on the data.
The system wasn't just a scouting tool. It had other features I hadn't even begun to explore. In my panic, I had forgotten. I focused my intent, my desperation a silent command. 'Help me. Show me something. Anything.'