Keegan was genuinely impressed.
In all his years immersed in professional football, he had never encountered a prodigy quite like Allen George.
The boy possessed a terrifyingly high tactical IQ, combined with a flawlessly refined shooting technique.
Keegan was absolutely certain that if Allen simply possessed the physical muscle mass of an adult, the legendary Ballon d’Or winner would have been soundly defeated in their little contest.
The boy is an absolute freak of nature, Keegan thought, his admiration growing by the second.
“Well, Mr.
Keegan,” Allen said casually, shrugging his small shoulders.
“You are incredible.
I lose.”
“No, no, my boy.
Do not say that,” Keegan replied quickly, completely dropping his earlier arrogance.
“You must understand who you are talking to.
I am Kevin Keegan.
The entire continent knows my name.
For a seven-year-old to push me to my absolute physical limit…
you are extraordinary.
Give it a few years, and I guarantee I will not be able to beat you.”
Hearing Keegan’s genuine praise softened Allen’s JSOC pride.
He respected competence, and Keegan was undeniably elite.
During his prime, Keegan had been heralded alongside Franz Beckenbauer as one of the defining figures of a footballing generation.
Keegan was so fiercely competitive that he had willingly left his beloved Liverpool to join Hamburger SV in West Germany, purely so he could go head-to-head with Beckenbauer in his own league.
That level of ruthless ambition resonated deeply with Allen.
“Alright, Allen,” Keegan said, crossing his arms.
“You still haven’t answered my question.
If your open-play finishing is truly that lethal—which I now concede it is—why are you wasting your time hammering balls against a wooden wall?”
Allen paused, organizing his tactical thoughts.
“Because open-play finishing is not always enough,” Allen explained, his tone serious.
“When you face a highly disciplined, tactically elite defensive block, open-play channels disappear.
In those high-stakes deadlock scenarios, a direct set piece is the ultimate siege weapon.”
Keegan’s eyes widened slightly.
The boy wasn’t just kicking balls for fun; he had deeply analyzed the tactical evolution of the modern game.
Keegan understood this reality intimately.
While he had been an unstoppable force of nature in the English First Division, his move to Germany had been a brutal wake-up call.
Facing the tactical genius of Franz Beckenbauer and the impenetrable defense of Bayern Munich, Keegan had often found himself completely isolated and suffocated in open play.
Even legendary strikers could be neutralized by legendary defenders. This chapter is updated first at novelping.com.
In the 1966 World Cup Final, the great Bobby Charlton—England’s most lethal attacking threat—was famously man-marked out of the game by a young Beckenbauer.
Charlton had been forced to abandon his role as a striker entirely, dropping deep into the midfield to act as a playmaker just so England could win 4-2.
If Charlton and Keegan could be stopped in open play, then anyone could.
“You are absolutely right,” Keegan nodded, his voice filled with genuine respect.
“As tactical defending becomes more sophisticated, the dead ball becomes the most reliable weapon on the pitch.
Having the foresight to recognize that at your age…
it is brilliant.”
Keegan walked over to the penalty arc and retrieved a football.
“However, I must confess, I was never a free-kick specialist myself,” Keegan admitted, tossing the ball in his hands.
“My lethality was strictly inside the box.
But I have played alongside and against the greatest dead-ball specialists in history.
And I can tell you exactly why you are failing.”
Allen instantly stood at attention, slipping into the mindset of a soldier receiving a briefing from a commanding officer.
“You are overthinking the physics,” Keegan said bluntly.
“You are looking at the wooden wall, calculating the trajectory, the wind, the curve, the spin.
You are trying to engineer the perfect mathematical shot.”
Keegan placed the ball on the grass.
He took three casual steps back.
“Watch.”
Without any hesitation or excessive calculation, Keegan swung his right foot.
He didn’t try to curl it beautifully.
He simply struck through the ball.
It lifted effortlessly over the imaginary wall and buried itself into the top left corner.
He immediately grabbed a second ball, set it down, and this time, struck it with his weaker left foot.
The ball rocketed off his boot like a missile, tearing through the air and smashing into the back of the net before the imaginary keeper could even react.
“Do you see?” Keegan asked, turning back to Allen.
“The first rule of taking a world-class free-kick is psychological.
You must completely ignore the wall.
The wall does not exist.
It is an illusion designed to break your concentration.”
Allen frowned, processing the information.
The JSOC operator in him heavily relied on calculating environmental variables.
But he remained silent, knowing Keegan had more to say.
“If you possess elite ball-striking technique—which you clearly do—you can physically put the ball wherever you want,” Keegan continued, pacing slightly.
“But what separates a good shooter from a true free-kick master is the routine.
The habit.”
“A habit?” Allen asked.
“Like a specific run-up?”
“Exactly,” Keegan nodded.
“Every single legendary free-kick taker in history possesses a highly specific, unbreakable pre-shot routine.
The number of steps they take backward.
The angle of their approach.
The deep breath before the strike.
They do the exact same thing, every single time, until the biomechanics become completely subconscious.”
Keegan pointed to the grass.
“Furthermore, specialists are infinitely more lethal from specific zones on the pitch,” Keegan explained.
“Beckenbauer was terrifying from twenty to thirty yards out, dead center.
Why?
Because he practiced from that exact blade of grass ten thousand times.
When you step over a free-kick in your ‘zone’, your body already knows the required torque and trajectory before your brain even processes the thought.”
Allen nodded slowly.
The tactical logic was sound.
He was failing because he was treating the free-kick like a dynamic, open-play combat scenario.
But a free-kick was a static, isolated variable.
It required the robotic, subconscious repetition of a sniper pulling a trigger.
“So,” Keegan smiled, crossing his arms.
“Stop overthinking the wall.
Find your dominant zone on the pitch.
Develop your pre-shot routine.
And execute it ten thousand times until you can do it blindfolded.”
Allen looked at the wooden dummy wall.
Then he looked down at his right boot.
The analytical calculations in his head ceased.
The tactical noise faded away.
He understood exactly what he needed to do.