For the final part of the session, I organized a small-sided game. I split the players into two teams and gave them a simple instruction: "Go and play. Show me what you've learned. Express yourselves. Take risks. Make mistakes. That's how you get better."

It was beautiful. They played with a freedom, a creativity, a joy that was infectious. They were trying things, they were taking risks, they were playing with a smile on their faces.

It was everything I believed football should be. It was fast, it was fluid, it was full of movement and rotation. It was a joy to watch. I felt a surge of pride as I watched them play, a sense of satisfaction that went beyond just passing an exam. This was what coaching was all about. This was why I did it.

When I blew the final whistle, the players applauded. They were tired, they were sweating, but they were happy. They had enjoyed it. They had learned something.

"Thanks, lads," I said. "You were brilliant. Absolutely brilliant."

I walked over to the assessors, my heart in my mouth. Mike Phelan looked at me, his expression unreadable. He consulted his notes, then looked up.

"Well, Walsh," he said, his voice a low rumble. "That was… impressive."

I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.

"You've got a real talent for this, son," he continued, a rare smile touching his lips. "A natural feel for the game. You connect with the players. You make it fun, but you also make them better. That's the mark of a good coach. You've got a big future ahead of you."

He shook my hand. "We'll have your results by this afternoon. But between you and me… you've passed."

I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to run around the pitch like a madman. Instead, I just nodded, my throat too tight to speak.

"Thank you, sir," I finally managed.

That afternoon, we all gathered in the lecture theatre for the final time. Mike Phelan stood at the front, a stack of envelopes in his hand. The room was silent, the tension almost unbearable. This was it.

The moment that would determine our futures. I looked around at the other candidates. Some were pale with nerves, others were trying to look confident. I saw Carl give me a thumbs-up. I saw Graham give me a nervous smile. We were all in this together, a band of brothers who had been through the trenches of the UEFA B course.

"You've all worked incredibly hard over the past two weeks," he said, his voice echoing in the quiet room.

"Some of you have exceeded expectations. Some of you have fallen short. But all of you have learned something. All of you have grown as coaches. This course is designed to challenge you, to push you to your limits. And you've all risen to that challenge in your own way."

He started calling out names, handing out envelopes. Some people opened them with smiles, relief flooding their faces. Others opened them with disappointment etched on their features, their dreams deferred. I watched Carl open his envelope and punch the air in triumph. I watched James nod with satisfaction. I watched Tom from Arsenal close his eyes in relief.

"Walsh," he called.

I walked to the front, my legs shaking. He handed me the envelope.

"Well done, son," he said quietly. "Distinction. One of the highest marks on the course."

I opened the envelope, my hands trembling. Inside was a certificate. My UEFA B Licence. And next to my name, a single word: "Distinction."

I had done it. I had actually done it. I was a qualified coach. A professional. A wave of relief washed over me, so powerful it almost knocked me off my feet. I had done it.

I had proved to myself, to my family, to everyone who had ever doubted me, that I could do it. I was no longer a non-league kid who had got lucky. I was a qualified coach with a distinction from one of the top coaching courses in the world.

Graham clapped me on the back as I returned to my seat. "Knew you'd smash it, Walshy," he said with a grin.

Carl leaned over. "Drinks on you tonight, then?"

I laughed. "Yeah, alright. Drinks on me."

That evening, we celebrated in the hotel bar. A group of newly qualified coaches, drunk on achievement and cheap beer, swapping contact details and promising to stay in touch. Carl bought the first round.

Graham bought the second. By the third round, we were all singing football chants, much to the annoyance of the other hotel guests. We sang about our clubs, we sang about our heroes, we sang about the beautiful game that had brought us all together. We were a motley crew of coaches from all over the country, from all different backgrounds, but we were united by our love of football and our shared experience of the past two weeks.

"To Walshy!" Carl shouted, raising his pint. "The non-league kid who showed us all how it's done!"

They all cheered, and I felt a warmth in my chest that had nothing to do with the alcohol. These were my peers now. My colleagues. My friends.

It was one of the best nights of my life.

I called Emma from my hotel room later that night, slightly tipsy, my heart full.

"I did it," I said. "I passed. Distinction."

"Of course you did," she said, and I could hear the smile in her voice. "I'm so proud of you, Danny. So, so proud."

"I've got two weeks now," I said. "Two weeks to prepare for the Crystal Palace interview. Two weeks to get ready for the biggest opportunity of my life. Gary Issott said they'd give me time to get qualified first."

"Then you'd better get started," she said, her voice warm with pride. "Come home tomorrow. We'll celebrate properly. And then we'll get you ready to blow them away."

As I lay in bed that night, the certificate on the desk beside me, I felt like a different person. The insecure, self-doubting kid who had arrived two weeks ago was gone. In his place was a confident, qualified, ambitious young coach, ready to take on the world.

I had the badge. I had the knowledge. I had the belief.

Now all I needed was the job.

The interview at Crystal Palace was in two weeks. Fourteen days to prepare. Fourteen days to become the coach they needed.

I was ready.

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