I barely slept. I tossed and turned, my mind a relentless carousel of questions, answers, and anxieties.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the faces of the interview panel, their expressions unreadable, their judgment final. I saw the faces of my players, their hopes and dreams intertwined with my own. I saw Emma's face, her unwavering belief a beacon in the storm of my self-doubt.

At 4 am, I gave up. I slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Emma, and went into the living room. I opened my laptop, the screen a harsh glare in the pre-dawn darkness. I needed to do something, anything, to quiet the noise in my head. I needed to be prepared. Not just for the questions I expected, but for the ones I didn't.

---

As the first light of dawn began to creep through the curtains, I closed my laptop. I was ready. I had done everything I could. The rest was in the hands of fate.

Emma found me an hour later, asleep on the sofa, my laptop still warm on my chest. She woke me with a gentle kiss and a cup of coffee.

"You've done enough," she said, her voice soft. "You're ready."

And for the first time, I truly believed her.

The journey to London was a blur. The train ride from Manchester Piccadilly to London Euston was a two-hour stretch of nervous energy and forced calm.

I tried to read my notes, but the words swam in front of my eyes, the carefully prepared answers suddenly feeling hollow and rehearsed. I tried to listen to music, but the melodies couldn't drown out the frantic rhythm of my own heartbeat.

I looked out of the window at the blur of the English countryside, at the normal people living their normal lives, and I felt a million miles away from them, a man on a different planet, on a different timeline, heading towards a destiny that was both terrifying and exhilarating.

A businessman across the aisle was on a conference call, his voice confident and assured as he discussed quarterly projections and market strategies.

A young mother was trying to calm a crying baby, her face a mask of exhausted patience.

An elderly couple was sharing a newspaper, their comfortable silence a testament to decades of companionship. Normal people. Normal lives. And here I was, a lad from Moss Side, on my way to an interview at a Premier League club. How was this real?

Emma's text came through as we pulled into Euston: "You've got this. Call me after. Love you x."

I smiled, a small, genuine smile that reached my eyes. "Love you too. Wish me luck."

Her reply was instant: "You don't need luck. You have talent."

I took the tube to Beckenham Junction, a forty-five-minute journey that felt like an eternity. The carriage was packed with commuters, all of them staring at their phones or lost in their own thoughts.

I stood by the door, my portfolio clutched tightly in my hand, my mind racing through the answers I had prepared, the questions I anticipated, the moments that could make or break my future.

I walked the final ten minutes to the Crystal Palace training ground, Copers Cope, my new suit feeling strange and unfamiliar, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

The training ground was impressive, a sprawling complex of pitches and buildings that spoke of investment, ambition, and professionalism. I arrived at 9:15 am, forty-five minutes early, too nervous to wait, too anxious to be anywhere else.

A friendly security guard checked me in. "Danny Walsh, here for an interview with Gary Issott," I said, my voice hoarse.

"You're early," he said, a kind smile on his face. "Interview's not till 10."

"I know," I said. "Can I wait somewhere?"

"You can watch the U18s training if you want," he said, pointing towards a pitch in the distance. "They're on Pitch 3."

And so I did. I walked over to Pitch 3, a perfect green rectangle surrounded by a low fence, and I watched. The U18s were in the middle of a pressing drill, and as I focused on the players, the system activated.

Numbers and stats began to float above their heads, an augmented reality overlay that only I could see. It was one thing to see the data on a laptop screen; it was another to see it in real-time, attached to living, breathing players.

I saw Nya Kirby, his touch silky smooth as he received the ball in tight spaces. Above his head, the numbers glowed: CA 110, PA 175. A potential world-class talent.

I saw Reece Hannam, his positioning intelligent, his defensive awareness sharp. CA 105, PA 150. A solid future professional.

I saw Ryan Fletcher, the captain, trying to organize, trying to coordinate, but fighting a losing battle against the chaos. CA 120, PA 145. A reliable leader, but with a limited ceiling.

And then I saw Connor Blake. His body language was lazy, his effort minimal, his talent undeniable. And above his head, the numbers burned with a fiery intensity: CA 125, PA 185. The same as JJ Johnson. A generational talent. A player who could change the fortunes of a club. A player who was being wasted.

The pressing drill was as disorganized as the system had predicted. Players were pressing on their own, without coordination, without clear triggers, leaving huge gaps for the opposition to exploit.

My coaching brain went into overdrive. I could fix this. I knew exactly how. I could see the patterns, the solutions, the drills I would use to transform this chaotic energy into a coordinated, suffocating press.

I would start with the triggers, teaching them to press as a unit when the opponent's first touch was heavy, when the pass was played backwards, and when the ball was played into a specific zone.

I would use cones to create pressing lanes, forcing them to work together to cut off passing options. I would use small-sided games to reinforce the principles, rewarding successful presses with goals, and punishing individual pressing with consequences. It was all there, in my head, ready to be implemented.

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