The second half began, and for a few agonizing minutes, it seemed like my grand, system-inspired plan was another spectacular failure.
The Merchant Bankers, confident and comfortable with their two-goal cushion, started the half with the same slick, easy possession they had enjoyed before the break.
Our players, despite my impassioned speech, looked hesitant, caught between the memory of the disastrous first half and the uncertainty of the new instructions.
I could see the doubt in their body language. The way Kev, our striker, kept glancing back at me, as if to say, 'Are you sure about this, gaffer?'
The way Liam, our winger, stood on the touchline looking isolated and vulnerable, a target for the opposition's jeers.
The system was showing me their Morale stats in real-time, and they were teetering on the edge of collapse. One more goal against us, and the fragile belief I had built in that halftime huddle would shatter completely.
Kev, our striker, dutifully dropped deep, moving towards the halfway line. But Julian Croft, the slow centre-back I had identified as their weak link, didn't follow him.
He was disciplined. He held his position, passing Kev on to his midfielders. The space I had promised our winger, Liam, never appeared. Liam himself stood on the touchline, looking lost and isolated, a lonely red shirt in a sea of white.
I felt a cold knot of dread tighten in my stomach. I had miscalculated. The system had shown me a potential weakness, but it hadn't accounted for the opposition's discipline.
I had based my entire strategy on a best-case scenario, and the real world had just reminded me that it rarely deals in them.
On the opposite bench, Marcus Chen smirked, a look of pure, unadulterated smugness on his face. He had seen our change in setup and had clearly instructed his defender not to be drawn out. He had out-managed me.
Frankie, beside me, shook his head slowly. "They're not falling for it, son," he muttered. "He's not a complete idiot, that Croft."
I was about to admit defeat, to tell the lads to revert to… well, to revert to just getting hammered, when something unexpected happened.
The Bankers' other centre-back, a more athletic, ball-playing type, decided he'd had enough of our toothless attack. He saw the space in front of him, with Kev having dropped deep, and decided to go on a little adventure. He surged forward with the ball, striding past our midfield and into our half.
It was a moment of pure arrogance. And it was the trigger we needed.
His forward run caused a momentary disruption in their defensive shape. Julian Croft, the slow defender, had to shuffle across to cover the space his partner had vacated. For the first time, a gap appeared. It was small, but it was there.
And Kev saw it. He had been waiting for this. He hadn't been just standing there; he'd been waiting, watching, anticipating. He made a sharp, diagonal run, not towards the goal, but towards the space the adventurous centre-back had left.
This movement was clever. It was subtle. And it forced Julian Croft to make a decision. Does he stick with Kev, his designated man? Or does he hold his position and trust his midfield to pick him up?
He made the wrong choice. He followed Kev.
For just a second, he was dragged five yards out of his defensive line. And that was all it took. Liam, our winger, who had been patiently hugging the touchline, saw the trigger. He was off like a shot, a red blur sprinting into the channel that Croft had just abandoned.
Our midfielder, Tommo, had won the ball back in the centre of the park. He looked up. He didn't have the 'Vision' stat to see the complex tactical play unfolding, but he had the 'Work Rate' to be in the right place, and the common sense to see a teammate running into open space. He hit a hopeful, looping pass over the top.
It wasn't a great pass. It was a bit overhit. But Liam's 'Pace' of 14 was the one elite attribute in our entire squad. He ate up the ground, his legs pumping, his eyes fixed on the bouncing ball. He got there just before the opposition keeper, who had been slow to come off his line.
This was the moment where, in the first half, he would have panicked. He would have tried to shoot from an impossible angle or taken a heavy touch. But my halftime instruction had been simple: 'Don't think. Just hit it into the box.'
He didn't think. He just hit it. He swung his foot, connecting with the ball on the half-volley. It wasn't a cross. It wasn't a shot. It was a mishit, a scuffed, ugly slice that flew across the face of the goal, low and hard.
And running onto it, arriving at the far post like a steam train, was our other winger, a lad named Mark who I hadn't even bothered to give instructions to. The ball hit him more than he hit it, cannoning off his shin and into the back of the empty net.
Goal. 2-1.
Absolute, unadulterated chaos. Our players erupted. They mobbed Mark, who looked as surprised as anyone. On the touchline, I let out a roar, punching the air with a ferocity that startled myself. Frankie, for the first time all game, allowed himself a small, grim smile.
It was the ugliest, flukiest, most undeserved goal I had ever seen in my life. And it was the most beautiful thing I had ever witnessed.
In Football Manager, you see this sometimes. A goal that the match engine spits out, a chaotic scramble of random events that somehow results in the ball crossing the line.
You laugh at it, you reload the save if it goes against you, you chalk it up to the quirks of the simulation. But this wasn't a simulation.
This was real. The ball was in the net. The referee was pointing to the centre circle. And my players were celebrating like they'd just won the Champions League. It was a moment of pure, unfiltered joy, and I was part of it.
It changed everything. The goal itself was worth one on the scoreboard, but its effect on the team's morale was worth a hundred.
The system panels above our players' heads, which had been a sea of depressing red, suddenly flickered with amber and green. Their performance ratings ticked upwards. Their shoulders were straight. Their heads were up. They believed.