I walked to the whiteboard and started to draw. I didn't use the fancy magnetic counters or the colour-coded pens. I just used a black marker and my own, hard-won knowledge. I drew out a compact 4-5-1 formation, the lines of defence and midfield tight, the spaces between them compressed.

I talked about dropping the defensive line, about protecting the space in behind, about forcing the opposition into wide areas where they couldn't hurt us.

I talked about the psychological side of it, about staying calm, about communicating, about managing the clock. I talked about the importance of the goalkeeper becoming a vocal leader, organizing the defence, and killing time on goal kicks.

I wasn't using the jargon. I was just talking football. Simple, honest, real football. The kind of football my players at Moss Side would understand.

When I'd finished, the room was silent. Carl was staring at the whiteboard, a look of grudging respect on his face. Mike Phelan, who had been observing from the back of the room, stepped forward.

"Alright, Walsh," he said, his voice neutral. "Let's see it."

We went out onto the training pitch, and I took control. I organized the players, my voice clear and confident. I walked them through the shape, the movements, the responsibilities.

I demonstrated how the wingers needed to drop back to form a compact five in midfield, how the striker needed to press intelligently to force mistakes rather than chase lost causes. I was no longer the nervous, insecure kid from the start of the week. I was the Gaffer. I was in my element.

We ran the drill. The attacking team, made up of some of the best young players from the England youth setup, threw everything they had at us. Wave after wave of attacks. Crosses, through balls, long shots. But my defensive unit held firm. They were organized, they were disciplined, they were resilient. They were a team.

After ten minutes, Mike Phelan blew his whistle. "Time," he called. The score was still 1-0. We had done it.

He walked over to me, his expression unreadable. I braced myself for the criticism, the withering put-down, the confirmation that I was out of my depth.

"Where did you learn that?" he asked, his voice quiet.

"I… I just worked it out," I stammered.

He looked at me, a long, appraising look. "You've got good instincts, Walsh," he said finally. "Good instincts, and a good football brain. You just need to learn the language. Keep doing what you're doing."

He turned and walked away, leaving me standing there, my heart pounding. It wasn't exactly a glowing endorsement, but from a man like Mike Phelan, it was the highest praise imaginable. Devin, the ex-Premier League defender, came over and offered his hand.

"Fair play, mate," he said. "That was quality."

That night, I called Emma from my hotel room, my voice buzzing with a newfound confidence. I told her about the session, about Phelan's comments, about the feeling of finally, finally belonging.

"I knew you could do it," she said, her voice warm with pride. "I told you you were ready."

"I'm getting there," I said, a smile on my face. "I'm actually getting there. How's Moss Side? How's Scott doing?"

"He's nervous," she said. "But he's ready. He's been studying your notes like they're the Bible. The lads believe in him."

"Good," I said. "He's going to be brilliant. Tell him I said that."

"I will. Now get some sleep. You've got a few more days to go."

The rest of the week was a blur of lectures, practical sessions, and late-night study. We covered everything from sports science and nutrition to match analysis and tactical systems. I was learning the language, slowly but surely.

The jargon that had seemed so impenetrable at the start of the week was beginning to make sense. I was translating my practical experience into academic understanding, and it was exhilarating.

On the final day of the first week, we had one last lecture from Phelan, a summary of the week's key learnings.

"You've all worked hard this week," he said.

"You've all been pushed out of your comfort zones. Some of you have surprised me. Some of you have disappointed me. But all of you have learned something. The question is, what will you do with that knowledge? How will you apply it in the real world, away from the pristine pitches and the state-of-the-art facilities of St. George's Park? That is the true test of a coach."

As the session ended, Graham came over to me. "Well done this week, mate," he said, clapping me on the shoulder. "You've opened a few eyes."

"Thanks, Graham," I said, genuinely touched. "Thanks for your help."

"Anytime," he said. "Listen, if you ever need any advice or just want to chat football, give me a call." He scribbled his number on a piece of paper and handed it to me. "And if that Crystal Palace job doesn't work out, give me a call anyway. We might have something for you at Wolves."

I stared at him, stunned. A week ago, he had been the personification of the professional game's intimidating exclusivity. Now, he was offering me a potential lifeline.

"I… I don't know what to say," I stammered.

"Don't say anything," he said with a smile. "Just keep doing what you're doing. You've got something special, mate. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

As I packed my bags in my hotel room that Friday evening, preparing for the weekend break before the second week began, I felt a sense of peace I hadn't felt all week. The fear was still there, a low, humming undercurrent. But it was being drowned out by something else, something new. Belief.

I was a long way from Moss Side. A long way from the muddy pitches and the leaking roof and the smell of stale beer in the clubhouse. But for the first time since I'd arrived, I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

One week down. One more to go.

***

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