> Name: Jamal "JJ" Johnson
> Age: 17
> Position: Winger (Left) / Striker (Centre)
> Current Ability (CA): 65/200
> Potential Ability (PA): 180/200
I blinked, thinking I'd misread it. I focused again. The numbers didn't change. CA 65. That was already good enough to be the best player in our league by a country mile. That was semi-pro level.
But the PA… 180. In Football Manager terms, a PA of 180 was a guaranteed world-beater. It was a player who could grace the Champions League, who could play for England. It was a once-in-a-generation talent. And he was here, on a forgotten pitch in Hulme, playing for a fiver a game.
My heart was hammering. This was it. This was the player I had been dreaming of. This was the kind of talent that could transform a team, a club, a manager's career.
But then I remembered my new skill. 'Enhanced Player Vision'. I pushed the system, delving deeper, and a new set of attributes appeared, the ones that painted a picture of the person, not just the player.
> Personality: Volatile, Low Determination, Low Professionalism
> Key Mental Attributes:
> - Determination: 5
> - Teamwork: 4
> - Work Rate: 6
> - Flair: 18
> - Technique: 17
> - Pace: 17
It was a profile that screamed 'problem'. He had the talent, the raw, god-given ability to be a superstar. But he had the mental makeup of a disaster waiting to happen. Low Determination, Professionalism, Teamwork, Work Rate.
He was a classic Football Manager wonderkid conundrum: a player with a million-pound skillset and a ten-pence attitude.
He was the kind of player who could win you a game on his own, and then get himself sent off for arguing with the referee. He was the kind of player who could destroy a dressing room. He was a risk. A massive, terrifying risk.
And I knew, with a certainty that settled deep in my bones, that I had to have him.
I watched him for another half an hour, my fascination growing with every touch of the ball. He was breathtaking.
He would beat three players with a shimmy and a burst of pace, and then try a ridiculously ambitious shot that would fly over the fence. He would score a goal of sublime individual brilliance, and then not bother to track back, leaving his team exposed. He was a firework display: beautiful, explosive, and completely uncontrollable.
He was the ultimate challenge. If I could tame that talent, if I could nurture that potential, if I could fix that broken personality… then I wouldn't just be a manager. I'd be a miracle worker.
I waited until his team finally lost and he trudged off the pitch, his face a mask of sullen anger. He grabbed a bottle of water from his bag, ignoring his teammates completely. This was my chance.
I took a deep breath and activated my 'Persuasive Talk' skill. I didn't know what it would do, but I hoped it would give me the right words. I walked over, trying to look as casual and non-threatening as possible.
"You're some player, mate," I said, my voice calm and even.
He looked up, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. He was younger than I thought, probably not even eighteen. He had a handsome, angular face, but it was marred by a petulant, distrustful expression. "Who the f are you?" he asked, his voice a low, hostile mumble.
"My name's Danny. I'm the assistant manager of a local Sunday league team. The Railway Arms."
He let out a short, sharp laugh of pure contempt. "The Railway Arms? Are you having a laugh? They're the worst team in the history of football. My nan could get a game for them."
"They are," I admitted, nodding. "But we're changing that. We're building something new. And I think you could be a part of it."
He took a long swig of his water, his eyes never leaving mine. He was sizing me up, and he was not impressed. "Why would I want to play for a pub team full of old blokes who can't run?"
"Because you're better than this," I said, gesturing at the rundown cage. "You're wasting your talent here. You could be playing in front of a crowd, scoring goals that matter, and making a name for yourself. I've seen a lot of players, Jamal. And I've never seen anyone with your ability."
I'd used his first name. A small detail, but a deliberate one. I wanted him to know I'd done my homework. He flinched, a flicker of surprise in his hostile gaze.
"How do you know my name?"
"I've been asking around," I lied smoothly. "People talk. They say there's a kid who plays in the cages in Hulme who's got more talent in his little finger than most professional players. They weren't wrong."
I was playing a dangerous game. I was appealing to his ego, the one part of his personality that was already over-inflated. But it was the only way in. The 'Persuasive Talk' skill was feeding me dialogue options in my mind, subtle shifts in tone and phrasing. It was telling me to be direct, to be confident, to challenge him.
"You think you're too good for us," I continued, pressing my advantage.
"And you're right. You are. But are you good enough to make us better? Are you good enough to carry a team on your back? Or are you just a highlights reel player, a kid who looks good in a kickabout but disappears when it actually matters?"
It was a direct challenge to his pride. He bristled, his jaw tightening. "I could win that league on my own."
"Prove it," I said, my voice a low, steady challenge.
"Come to one training session. Just one. Tuesday night. Platt Fields. Seven o'clock. If you think we're a waste of your time, you can walk away, and I'll never bother you again. But if you see what we're trying to build… if you see a chance to be the main man, the star, the player that everyone talks about… then you stay."
I held his gaze, my heart pounding. I had laid my cards on the table. I had challenged his ego, appealed to his ambition, and offered him a stage. It was the best I could do.
He stared at me for a long, silent moment. I could see the conflict in his eyes. The arrogance warring with the flicker of curiosity. The desire to be a star warring with the fear of failure.
"I'm not promising anything," he said finally, his voice still laced with suspicion.
"I'm not asking you to," I replied. "Just show up."
I turned and walked away, not waiting for an answer. It was the oldest trick in the book. Make the offer, then walk away.
Leave the decision in their hands. I didn't look back. I didn't know if he would show up. I didn't know if I'd just made the best or the worst decision of my managerial career. All I knew was that I had found my wonderkid. And the game had just gotten a whole lot more interesting.