During the break, Graham, a former Wolves coach, sidled up to me with a coffee. "You look lost, mate," he said, not unkindly.

"I am a bit," I admitted. "I've never heard half of these terms before."

He laughed. "Don't worry about it. Half of this stuff is just fancy words for common sense. It's designed to make football sound like rocket science so these academics can justify their jobs. You know how to coach. I heard that you've won a league title. You've just got to learn the language. Once you do that, you'll be fine."

It was a small kindness, but it meant the world. I wasn't alone. I wasn't the only one who felt out of their depth.

But then, something strange happened. As the days went on, I started to realize that I wasn't as far behind as I thought.

The complex theories they were discussing… I understood them. Not because I'd been taught them, but because I'd lived them.

The pressing traps Mike Phelan was diagramming on the whiteboard? I'd used a variation of that to beat Salford City Amateurs in the league. The session on building team morale and a positive dressing room culture? I'd done that every single day for the last eighteen months at Moss Side.

By the middle of the week, we had a session on player psychology. Phelan was talking about the importance of understanding individual player motivations, of tailoring your coaching style to suit different personalities. He used an example of a talented but arrogant young player who needed to be challenged, not coddled.

I thought of JJ. I thought of the conversations we'd had, the way I'd pushed him, the way I'd believed in him. I thought of Jamie, the traumatized kid who needed patience and encouragement. I thought of Big Dave, the veteran who needed to be reminded of his value. I had done all of this. I had lived it.

I raised my hand, my heart pounding. Mike Phelan looked at me, surprised. "Yes, Walsh?"

"I had a player like that," I said, my voice steady. "Eighteen. Incredibly talented, but he thought he was better than the team. He'd try to do everything himself, beat five players and then lose the ball. The lads got frustrated with him."

The room was silent. Phelan nodded slowly. "Go on."

"I had to show him that individual brilliance means nothing without collective effort. I made him watch videos of his mistakes, not his successes. I showed him the moments where a simple pass would have created a better chance for the team. I made him understand that being good wasn't enough. He had to be great. And he had to be great for the team, not for himself."

"And did it work?" Phelan asked.

"He just signed for Brighton," I said. "Championship club. Hundred-thousand-pound transfer fee."

A murmur rippled through the room. Graham gave me a thumbs-up. Phelan smiled, a rare, genuine smile. "Well done, Walsh. That's coaching. That's exactly the kind of thinking we need."

I sat back down, my face flushed with pride. I had contributed. I had added value. I belonged.

The system. It had been my teacher, my mentor, my own personal coaching university. It had given me a practical, real-world education in management that was, in its own way, just as valuable as the formal education these other coaches had received. I didn't have the language, the jargon, the badges. But I had the knowledge.

That afternoon, we had a practical session on set pieces. I found myself working with a group that included James, the Leicester academy coach who I'd clashed with on the first day. The task was to design and deliver a corner routine.

"Right," James said, pulling out his laptop. "I've got a statistical analysis of corner conversion rates across the top five European leagues. If we look at the data..."

"Or," I interrupted gently, "we could just work out what our players are good at and design something around that."

He looked at me, irritated. "This is evidence-based coaching, mate. You can't just make it up as you go along."

"I'm not making it up," I said. "I'm using common sense. You've got a big lad at the back post, a clever runner at the near post, and everyone else causing chaos in the middle. It's not rocket science."

We delivered our session. James's data-driven approach confused the players. My simple, direct routine resulted in three goals from six corners. Phelan watched the whole thing with his arms folded, saying nothing. But I saw the flicker of a smile.

My moment of truth came later in the week. We were split into groups and tasked with delivering a practical coaching session on defending a lead in the final ten minutes of a match. My group was a motley crew of ex-pros and academy coaches, and they all looked at me, the non-league kid, with a mixture of pity and disdain.

"Right," said a former Premier League defender with a cauliflower ear and a cynical sneer. His name was Carl Jennings, and he'd played over two hundred games for Middlesbrough. "Let's get this over with. You," he said, pointing at me. "You can set up the cones."

I felt a surge of anger, a familiar, defiant fire that had been dormant for the past few days. I thought of Kev, of Baz, of Big Dave. I thought of the battles we'd fought, the victories we'd earned. I wasn't just some kid who set up cones.

"No," I said, my voice quiet but firm. The group fell silent, surprised by my sudden defiance. "I'll lead the session."

Carl laughed, a short, sharp bark of derision. "You? What do you know about defending a lead in the Premier League?"

"I know how to win," I said, my eyes locking with his. "I know how to organize a team. I know how to motivate players. And I know how to see out a game."

***

Thank you to axjames for the power stones.

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