I should’ve asked Maisie which weekend she meant when she said ‘by the weekend’, because today was the very next day, and it was Sunday. She hadn’t contacted yet, and honestly, I couldn’t bring myself to care. Not with what was coming up.
Because this morning wasn’t about Maisie, or her cousin, or whatever old version of me she still saw. This morning was match day. And as a staff member of a grand staff team of two, I had to be the early one.
And I was driving an actual car today.
Technically it was a car. Emotionally, spiritually, and mechanically it was a 2015 Mazda3, the automotive equivalent of a polite shrug.
Back in my playing days, I’d had a proper little rocket, a sporty hatch that sounded like ambition and bad decisions. I loved that thing. Then I got into crypto.
Not in a glamorous, yacht-rental way, but more in a YouTube explainer videos at 2 a.m. way. I never touched margin or any of the leverage rubbish my mates were bragging about. Which, in hindsight, was probably divine intervention, as two of them got financially incinerated in the crash.
I staggered out with a profit so small it barely counted as a rounding error, but still technically a profit. It was enough, though, to offload the sporty hatch before it became a money pit and pick up the Mazda. I even chose a sensible color this time: some muted steel-grey instead of the blinding rally-yellow I’d once thought made me look ‘professional.’ But that was youth for you: loud, overconfident, and convinced everyone was impressed.
This one didn’t stand out at all. You could lose it in a car park if you looked away too long. People say you can tell a man by the car he drives, and honestly, they’d probably be right about me.
Getting into the Bolitho Park parking lot was its own little ritual. First you had to creep down the narrow lane that masqueraded as an access road, Then you took the left turn past the giant old oak they’d grandly nicknamed The Bolitho Sentinel, which sounded heroic until you realized it was mostly famous for dropping acorns on unsuspecting windscreens with sniper-tier accuracy. Mine had taken a hit on my first run. A perfect 100% from one attempt, much like the brother’s missus’ conversion rate of Ryan Giggs.
I eased the Mazda in with the same patient dignity its color demanded, nudging into a space that may or may not have been a space at all. A couple of the lads preferred the far end, closer to the training pitches, but as the designated early-arriving member of our two-man coaching empire, I claimed my spot near the gate.
With engines off and keys in pocket, I leaned back for a second and let the quiet settle. Pulling out my phone, I hovered over the league app, and swiped up. Took me a while to find the table for our division: Southern Football League, Premier South, and took me another while to find where our team, Hungerford Town, was on the table.
Hungerford were at sixteen; not great. Struggling, leaking goals like a busted pipe, sloppy defensive mistakes that didn’t match the effort the lads were putting in. We were actually scoring enough that if we could just patch the defensive holes, tidy up the distribution, and stop giving teams gifts in our own box, we could comfortably float in the upper half, and maybe even flirt with the playoff spots if the stars aligned.
I slid the phone back into my pocket just as Mitch pulled into the lot. Usually we didn’t meet up this early near the opposition’s ground, and the boys wouldn’t arrive until early afternoon but he claimed he had business in town anyway (which, if you asked me, probably meant grabbing a sprig of rhubarb from his cousin’s yard at seven a.m. and calling it “‘business’). So here I was.
We’d picked a nearby café, just a short walk from Bolitho Park, so we could run through tactics one last time. Spread out the sheets, double-check the lineup, and make sure everyone knew exactly what we were doing.
Mitch tapped his tablet and swiped through a few clips. “Look at this,” he said, sliding it across the table. “Plymouth. See how they’re getting up the table?”
I peered over. “Uh . . . yeah. That’s mostly one guy, isn’t it? What’s his name; Troy Parron?”
“Mostly?” Mitch snorted. “He’s carrying them. 12 goals in 17 games, and he’s a winger.”
I squinted at the screen. The guy was absurdly tiny, and absurdly impossible, like a Tier 7 Eden Hazard. The ball seemed glued to his feet like a stubborn bit of chewing gum under a Tesco trolley. He dribbled past three defenders like they were mannequins, tapping the ball with the kind of precision that made you want to stand up and applaud.
“Look at this one,” Mitch said, leaning closer, “the legs on him! The footwork! It’s like watching Michael Jackson in the ‘80s. I swear he could moonwalk as a celebration and it would still look magical.”
I laughed. “He’s ridiculous.”
We watched more and more clips of him, and I found out his ‘spark of brilliance’ was a rather consistent thing, at least this season. 8 out of 10 games, he played like a man who had a near death experience because he almost moved to Tottenham.
Mitch shook his head. “Mark my words, this one’s not sticking around here. Winter transfer window? He’s gone. Probably League Two at the latest.” He tapped the screen once more. “And he’s playing on the left wing. Which means he’s your problem, Jamie.”
I gave him a smile that could’ve passed for a wince.
“We’re still sticking with our base defensive setup? With the right-back rising for overlaps?”
Having the right back playing higher against a winger like this seemed like a mistake, but Mitch should’ve told me they had a player like this anytime that WASN’T the morning of the game. To be fair, I could’ve reminded him to brief me earlier, but also I’d only started my job two days ago. This seemed like the sort of stuff that needed to be streamlined, honestly. We should’ve had a proper schedule sorted days ago. Something like: Monday, initial scouting. Tuesday, clips. Wednesday, tweaks. Thursday, walk-through. Friday, confirm the damn thing so no one rocks up on match day discovering there’s a miniature Hazard impersonator waiting to make them look stupid.
“Yeah. I’ve only had two sessions with the lads, and we haven’t discussed any changes between us. We should keep things basic for now.”
“All that matters is your mentality on the pitch. I’m expecting you to lead them by example, mate,” Mitch declared. “If defensively we look shaky, I’ll make the tactical changes early on.”
I had no time to feel nervous, as a quest showed up in front of me.
Cooldown: 1 minute between each use
I had to admit, that was a brilliant skill. Suddenly I could watch this winger tear past defenders and not just marvel; I could quantify him. This was going to make match prep ridiculously efficient.
Sure, the margin was wide at Rank I, but it was enough. Enough to know whether I should commit, whether to step up for a 1v1, or hold back and let the winger burn someone else.
I tapped the screen, focusing on Troy Parron as he sliced through the opposition’s midfield yet again. Dribbling, I thought. Safe, obvious, and definitely one of his top strengths.
Damn right. I could do this all day.
I shot Mitch a grin. “Right. Gimme clips of the other players—everyone I’m likely to run into today.”
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