And the system responded. A new overlay appeared in my vision, superimposed over the pitch.
It was the 'Tactical Vision' I had seen glimpses of before, but now it was clearer, more detailed. It showed the players not as people, but as positional icons on a 2D map. Our formation, a chaotic, stretched-out mess, was in red. Theirs, a calm, organized 4-3-3, was in white.
The system began to highlight things. Arrows appeared, showing the runs their players were making.
Areas of the pitch glowed with a faint red, indicating weaknesses in our shape. A huge, pulsating red circle appeared in the space between our defence and our midfield. It was a chasm, a void where their creative players were operating with complete freedom.
Then, the system did something new. It highlighted one of their players, the central defender on the right-hand side. His panel expanded.
> Name: Julian Croft
> Age: 31
> Position: Defender (Centre)
> Current Ability (CA): 58/200
> Key Attributes:
> - Tackling: 13
> - Heading: 14
> - Pace: 6
> - Agility: 5
Pace 6. Agility 5. He was a classic, old-fashioned stopper. Strong, good in the air, but with the turning circle of a cruise ship. The system then drew an arrow, showing what would happen if our striker, Kev, dropped deep.
It showed Julian Croft following him, being dragged out of the defensive line, leaving a gap. Then, it drew another arrow, showing our left-winger running into the space that Croft had just vacated.
It was a plan. A simple, elegant, data-driven plan. It was the kind of weakness I would spot in a heartbeat in Football Manager, but had been completely blind to in the chaos of the real-world game. The system wasn't just showing me the problem; it was showing me the solution.
I grabbed Frankie's arm, my eyes wild with a sudden, desperate hope. "Frankie. I've got it. I see it."
He looked at me like I'd lost my mind. "See what? See that we're getting hammered?"
"Their right-sided centre-back," I said, my words tumbling out in a rush. "He's a cart horse. He's slow. If we can drag him out of position, we can get in behind them."
I explained the plan, the same one the system had just shown me.
Kev, our striker, was to stop trying to run in behind and instead come short, towards the ball. This would drag the slow centre-back with him. Our winger, who was quick but couldn't finish, was to play high and wide, ready to sprint into the channel that would open up.
Frankie listened, his brow furrowed. He looked at the pitch, then back at me. "It's a big risk, son. It means Kev's not in the box. And it relies on Liam actually putting in a decent cross for once."
"We're 2-0 down, Frankie," I said, my voice pleading. "What have we got to lose?"
The referee blew the whistle for halftime. The players of The Railway Arms trudged towards us, their heads bowed, their shoulders slumped. They looked like a defeated army. They were expecting a shouting match, a tirade of abuse. They were expecting to be told they were useless.
This was my moment. My one chance to turn this around. My one chance to prove that I was more than just a fantasist with a notebook.
We gathered them in a tight huddle. They wouldn't look at me. Their eyes were fixed on the muddy ground.
"Forget the score," I began, my voice low but intense. I used the 'Man-Management' skill, trying to project a sense of calm, of control, that I did not feel.
"Forget the first half. It's gone. It was my fault. The plan was wrong. I asked you to do something that didn't work. That's on me."
I saw a few heads lift, a few surprised glances. Again, the apology was a disarming tactic.
"But I've seen something," I continued, my voice rising with a genuine conviction that came from the system's clear, cold logic. "They are not as good as they look. They have a weakness. A big, slow, clumsy weakness in the heart of their defence. And we are going to exploit it."
I walked them through the plan, using my hands, using other players as props, making it as simple and as clear as possible. I looked Kev, the striker, in the eye.
"Kev, I know you're a goalscorer. But for the next forty-five minutes, you're not. You're a decoy. Your only job is to drag that number 5, the big lump with the bad haircut, out of his comfort zone. Bring him to me. I want him standing next to me on the touchline. Can you do that?"
Kev, a man of few words, just nodded, a grim determination on his face.
I turned to Liam, the winger. "Liam. All that running you do? I want you to save it. Stand on the touchline. Chalk on your boots. And the moment Kev drags that defender out, you run. You run into that space like you're late for last orders. And when you get the ball, don't think. Just hit it into the box. I don't care where it goes. Just get it in there."
I looked around the circle. They were listening. The blank, defeated looks were gone, replaced by a flicker of concentration. They were beaten, but they were footballers. And they had just been given a clear, simple instruction. A plan. A glimmer of hope.
"Lads," I said, my voice dropping again. "They are laughing at you. Their manager is laughing at you. Everyone here thinks this is over. Let's show them they're wrong. Let's go out there and give them the fight of their lives."
As they walked back out onto the pitch, Frankie clapped me on the shoulder. "Good speech, son," he said, his voice a low growl. "Let's just hope to God it works."
I stood on the touchline, my heart hammering against my ribs. I had rolled the dice. I had put my faith in a glowing arrow on a digital overlay.
My entire credibility, my entire future in this mad new reality, rested on the next forty-five minutes. It rested on a slow centre-back, a decoy striker, and a winger with no end product. It was a terrible plan. It was a brilliant plan. It was all I had.