ACT 4 OF VOLUME 1

The victory against Salford City Amateurs was a seismic event in the small, self-contained world of the Manchester County League. We were no longer just a feel-good story, a plucky underdog; we were a phenomenon.

The Moss Side Mourinho was no longer a local curiosity; I was a local hero.

The morning after the game, my face was on the back page of the Manchester Evening News, under the headline: 'THE MIRACLE OF MOSS SIDE'.

Emma's brilliant, passionate, and slightly biased match report had been picked up from her blog and syndicated. The story of our victory, of the triumph of community and spirit over money and cynicism, had captured the imagination of the city.

For the first few days, it was glorious. I was walking on air, a man drunk on the intoxicating cocktail of victory, of validation, of a deep, profound, and all-encompassing sense of communal joy.

Strangers would stop me in the street to shake my hand, to pat me on the back, to tell me how proud they were of the team. The players were local celebrities, their confidence, their swagger, their belief in themselves at an all-time high. We were on top of the world.

At training on Tuesday, the banter was at an all-time high. Baz had apparently been recognized in Tesco and asked for an autograph. "By a pensioner," Kev added helpfully. "She thought you were someone from Coronation Street."

"Better than you," Baz shot back. "That kid asked for your autograph and you spelled your own name wrong."

The whole team erupted in laughter. Even Big Dave cracked a smile, which was basically the equivalent of anyone else doing a backflip.

But with the glory came the pressure. The warm, fuzzy, romantic glow of our underdog story was replaced by the harsh, cold, and unforgiving glare of the spotlight. We were no longer a surprise package; we were the team to beat.

Every opponent raised their game against us, desperate to be the team that brought the high-flying, media-darling Moss Side Athletic back down to earth. The pressure to win, to keep winning, was immense.

And the attention was not just on the team; it was on our players. Specifically, it was on JJ. The stories of his wonder goal, of his explosive, game-changing talent, had spread like wildfire. And the vultures were starting to circle.

It started with a few unfamiliar faces at our games, men in expensive coats with club badges on their lapels, their notebooks and their stopwatches a clear, and deeply unsettling, sign of their intent.

Then came the phone calls, the tentative, non-committal enquiries from agents, from intermediaries, from the shadowy figures who operate in the murky, unregulated world of lower-league football.

And then, the big one. A scout from Manchester City, one of the biggest, richest, and most powerful clubs in the world, came to watch one of our games. He didn't try to be discreet. He sat in the main stand, his club-branded tracksuit a clear, and deeply intimidating, statement of intent. He was here to watch JJ. And everyone knew it.

The impact on JJ was immediate, and profound. The pressure was immense. He was no longer just a kid playing football for the love of it; he was a commodity, an asset, a potential multi-million-pound superstar.

Every touch, every pass, every shot was being scrutinized, analyzed, judged. The scouts were no longer just watching from the stands; they were approaching him directly, talking to his agent, making offers. He was a 17-year-old kid being treated like a piece of meat, like a potential multi-million-pound investment.

He started to play with a new, desperate, and deeply unhelpful, desire to impress. He was trying too hard, forcing things, making mistakes.

The joyful, instinctive, and brilliant player who had lit up the league was being replaced by a tense, anxious, and deeply unhappy young man who was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. He was becoming more withdrawn, more prone to the kind of self-doubt and insecurity that can cripple a young player.

Baz, in his typically blunt fashion, tried to help. "JJ, mate, you're playing like you've got a stick up your arse. Relax. You're 17. The worst that happens is you end up working at Morrison's like the gaffer used to." He paused, then added, "Actually, don't tell him I said that."

I pretended I hadn't heard, but I couldn't help smiling. Baz's brand of tough love was exactly what JJ needed.

I had to manage him, not just as a player, but as a person. I had to protect him, to guide him, to remind him of who he was. We had long talks, not about tactics, but about life. I told him to ignore the scouts, to ignore the hype, to ignore the pressure. I told him to just play, to have fun, to remember why he had fallen in love with the game in the first place.

But the pressure was not just on JJ; it was on me too. The story of the Moss Side Mourinho had made me a hot property. My own, personal, managerial stock had never been higher. And the offers started to come in.

The first was from a club in the league above, a team with a bigger budget, a bigger ground, a bigger fanbase. It was a tempting offer, a step up the ladder, a chance to test myself at a higher level.

But I knew, with a deep, instinctive certainty, that it wasn't the right move. I used the system to check the club's profile. The data confirmed my fears.

The chairman was notoriously impatient, the club had a high turnover of managers, and their financial situation was precarious. The system gave the club a 'Stability' rating of 4/20. It was a poisoned chalice, a career cul-de-sac. I turned it down.

My decision was a mixture of pragmatism and a new, and surprising, sense of loyalty. I had built something at Moss Side Athletic. Something special. Something real. And I wasn't ready to walk away from it. Not yet.

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