What exactly am I supposed to be doing right now?
Allen thought, leaning against the goalpost in frustration.
He stared out at the Melwood training pitch, watching the older boys run through their tactical drills.
Allen genuinely could not figure out what he was supposed to practice.
Thanks to his JSOC background and his adult intellect, his technical foundation was flawless.
He possessed speed, power, and an elite first touch.
His positional awareness and predatory instincts inside the box were inherent traits he carried over from his previous life—things that could not be taught through cones and repetitive passing drills.
In short, Allen George already possessed every single attribute required of an elite striker.
The only thing currently limiting him was the physical biology of a seven-year-old body.
All he could realistically do was wait to grow.
He sighed, glancing over at Michael Owen and Steven Gerrard, who were both sweating profusely under Coach Harrison’s demanding regimens.
Allen was intensely irritated that Harrison had not provided him with a structured, challenging program.
“What in the bloody hell do you think you are doing?!”
Harrison’s furious, booming voice suddenly echoed across the pitch, violently interrupting Allen’s thoughts.
Allen turned to see the youth director storming onto the field, his face flushed red with anger.
Harrison had been running an 11v11 internal scrimmage.
The red team had won a direct free-kick roughly twenty-five yards from the goal.
Before the kick, Harrison had specifically instructed the red team to execute a short, tactical passing routine.
Instead, a young Belgian midfielder had completely ignored the coach, arrogantly stepping up and attempting to bend the ball directly into the top corner.
The ball had sailed hilariously wide, nearly clearing the perimeter fence.
“Did you forget everything I just told you?!” Harrison screamed at the Belgian boy.
“Who do you think you are?
Do you think you are David Beckham?
With a swing like that, you shouldn’t even be allowed near a dead ball!”
The Belgian midfielder flushed deeply, staring at the grass in absolute shame.
He knew he had screwed up, and he didn’t dare talk back to the furious director.
“Absolute rubbish,” Harrison muttered, pacing angrily on the touchline.
“Complete and utter rubbish.”
Bloody United, Harrison fumed internally, rubbing his temples.
Why does God always bless Manchester United?
Why can’t Liverpool find a single dead-ball specialist in this entire country?
(Author’s Note: Ryan Giggs made his first-team debut for Manchester United in March 1991, and David Beckham officially signed his trainee contract with the United academy in July 1991.)
Because Allen did not have a set training schedule, he usually spent the second half of his afternoons standing near the touchline, quietly observing Harrison manage the scrimmages.
Harrison did not mind.
The boy stayed out of the way, and having him watch the older players was good for his tactical development.
What Harrison didn’t realize was that Allen wasn’t just watching—he was absorbing everything.
Listening to Harrison scream at the older players, dissecting their mistakes in real-time, rapidly expanded Allen’s understanding of English football tactics.
But hearing Harrison curse the lack of free-kick takers sparked a sudden, brilliant realization in Allen’s mind.
That’s it, Allen thought, his eyes lighting up.
Free-kicks.
When a team parked the bus and completely shut down open-play attacking channels, set pieces became the ultimate weapon.
Even legendary strikers like Diego Maradona and Roberto Baggio could not guarantee a goal from open play every single match.
But both of those men possessed lethal free-kick abilities, allowing them to break deadlocks single-handedly.
It was the one elite technical skill Allen had not yet mastered.
“Coach,” Allen said, stepping cautiously toward the fuming director.
“I want to practice free-kicks.
Do you mind if I use the far goal?”
“What?” Harrison blinked, momentarily distracted from his anger.
“Free-kicks?
Yeah, sure, Allen.
If you want to mess around with free-kicks, go ahead.”
Harrison waved him off dismissively.
In his mind, free-kick mastery was an inherent, God-given talent—a rare synthesis of biomechanics and pure feeling.
It wasn’t something you just “picked up” to kill time on a Tuesday afternoon.
But Harrison felt slightly guilty that he hadn’t given the boy a proper assignment, so he let him go.
“Right, thanks,” Allen nodded.
He took a few steps toward the empty goal, then stopped and looked back.
“Uh, Coach?
If I am going to practice free-kicks…
Harrison froze, suddenly realizing his own negligence.
You couldn’t properly practice a bending free-kick without an obstacle blocking the direct line of sight.
“Right, sorry lad.
My mistake,” Harrison apologized, his anger momentarily subsiding.
He gestured to two of the groundskeepers.
“Lads!
Bring the wooden dummy wall over to the far goal for George!”
Within minutes, a heavy, five-man wooden wall was dragged onto the pitch and positioned roughly ten yards from the penalty arc.
Left entirely to his own devices, Allen placed the ball on the grass, exactly twenty-eight yards from the goal line.
He took three slow, deliberate steps backward.
He exhaled sharply, clearing his mind of all distractions, slipping into the cold, calculated focus of a JSOC sniper adjusting for windage.
He ran at the ball and swung his right leg violently, aiming to wrap his instep around the leather to generate maximum curve.
THWACK.
The resulting sound was not the clean, whistling hiss of a perfectly struck football.
It was the loud, hollow thud of leather smashing directly into plywood.
The ball slammed violently into the center of the wooden wall and dropped pathetically to the grass.
His first attempt was an absolute, unmitigated failure.
Down the touchline, Harrison had quietly turned around to watch.
Seeing the ball smash directly into the wood, the director shook his head with a slight, sympathetic smile.
As I thought, Harrison mused silently.
The boy is a lethal poacher, but he does not possess the natural gift for the dead ball.
Unaware of the coach’s silent dismissal, Allen stood frozen at the spot of the kick, staring at the wooden wall in deep confusion.
What the hell was that?
Allen calculated rapidly.
My biomechanics were perfect.
The angle of approach was correct.
With my standard shooting technique, that strike would have easily bypassed a defender in open play.
Why didn’t it clear the wall?