ACT 2 OF VOLUME 1: THE RISE
***
The moral victory against The Merchant Bankers was a powerful anesthetic.
For a few blissful days, it numbed the pain of our league position and the grim reality of our squad's limitations. The 2-1 loss felt more like a triumph than any of the 7-0 drubbings that had preceded it.
There was a new energy around the club, a fragile but tangible sense of pride. The players walked with their chests puffed out a little further. They even started calling me 'Gaffer' without a trace of irony.
Frankie, for his part, had taken a step back. He was still there at every session, a gruff, watchful presence on the sideline, but he let me run the show.
He would chip in with a piece of old-school wisdom or a perfectly timed bollocking, but he made it clear that this was my team now. "They're your problem, Gaffer," he'd say, a twinkle in his eye. "Don't come crying to me when they're still shite."
Emma's blog post had fanned the flames of our newfound confidence.
Her article, titled "The Moss Side Mourinho? A Tactical Masterclass from the Underdogs," was a beautifully written piece of sports journalism.
She praised our second-half performance, dissected my tactical switch, and painted me as some kind of undiscovered tactical genius.
It was, of course, wildly exaggerated, but I read it about fifty times, a stupid grin plastered on my face each time. Raj, my flatmate, had printed it out and stuck it on the fridge, right next to a takeaway menu and a passive-aggressive note about washing up.
But the most significant consequence of the match was the system's reward. Level 3. It felt like a monumental achievement.
The 75 XP I'd gained was a validation of everything I was trying to do. And with the level up came three more precious skill points.
I spent the night after the match sitting on my lumpy sofa, the leather notebook open on my lap, agonizing over how to spend them. It was a ritual familiar to any RPG or Football Manager player: the thrill and terror of the skill tree.
My first choice was easy. My discovery of Julian Croft's lack of pace had been a fluke, a lucky break born of desperation. I couldn't rely on luck. I needed better tools. I navigated to the 'Scouting Network' branch of the skill tree. The next available skill was called 'Enhanced Player Vision'.
The description was tantalizing: 'Unlocks the ability to see hidden player attributes, including personality traits, determination, and potential issues. Increases the accuracy of all attribute ratings.'
This was a game-changer. It was the difference between scouting a player and truly understanding them. It was the key to finding not just good players, but the right players. I spent one skill point without hesitation.
For my second point, I thought back to my halftime team talk. I had managed to inspire the lads, but it had been a clumsy, emotional appeal.
The system had rewarded me with the 'Team Talks' skill, but I knew I needed more. In the 'Club Leadership' branch, just after 'Man-Management Basics,' was a skill called 'Persuasive Talk.' Description: 'Increases the effectiveness of all persuasive interactions, from contract negotiations to convincing a player to change his mind. Unlocks new dialogue options in key conversations.'
This was the tool I needed to build a squad, to convince players to buy into my vision. I spent my second point.
One point left.
I was tempted by the advanced tactical skills, the fancy formations and player roles that my inner Football Manager nerd craved.
But the lesson from the Merchant Bankers game was clear: tactics are useless without the players to execute them. I needed to build a team first. And to do that, I needed to be flexible.
I navigated to the 'Tactical Mastery' tree and spent my final point on a simple but crucial upgrade: 'Additional Tactical Slot'.
It allowed me to prepare a second, alternative formation and set of instructions that I could switch to mid-game. It was a safety net, a plan B. It was the most sensible, unglamorous choice I could make, and it felt like the right one.
With my new skills unlocked, I felt a renewed sense of purpose. We had heart, and we had a plan. But we were still desperately short of quality.
Our second-half performance had been a miracle of grit and organization, but it wasn't sustainable. We couldn't rely on fluky goals and last-ditch defending to win matches. We needed better players.
And so, I became a hunter. My days off were no longer spent in front of my PC, but out in the real world, the notebook a constant companion.
I became a connoisseur of the kickabout, a ghost haunting the parks and caged astroturf pitches of South Manchester. I was searching for a needle in a haystack.
A player with talent who had somehow slipped through the cracks of the official system. A player who was good enough to make a difference, but not so good that he would already have been snapped up by a semi-pro club. I was looking for a hidden gem.
I found him on a Thursday afternoon, in a place I least expected it. It was a rundown, caged five-a-side pitch tucked away behind a row of terraced houses in Hulme.
The cage was rusty, the astroturf worn and frayed, and the game being played on it was a frantic, chaotic affair. It was a game of 'winners stay on,' a brutal, high-paced contest where the only rule was to win, at any cost.
Most of the players were unremarkable. Their system panels showed a familiar story of low CAs and even lower PAs.
But then I saw him. He was tall and wiry, with long limbs and a languid, almost lazy running style that was deceptively quick. He was playing with a kind of arrogant, joyful swagger, a confidence that bordered on contempt for everyone else on the pitch.
He was trying audacious flicks, impossible dribbles, and outrageous long-range shots. Most of them didn't come off. But when they did, it was magic.
I focused the system on him. The panel that appeared made my breath catch in my throat.
> Name: Jamal "JJ" Johnson
> Age: 17
> Position: Winger (Left) / Striker (Centre)
> Current Ability (CA): 65/200
> Potential Ability (PA): 180/200