Joss was a youth academy coach for Liverpool.
As a lifelong, die-hard supporter of the club, he thanked God every single day for the opportunity to mold the next generation of Anfield legends.
He knew the harsh reality of youth football.
A club could go ten years without finding a single genuine prodigy.
Professional football was a ruthless gauntlet, and only a microscopic fraction of academy kids ever saw a first-team pitch.
But England was the birthplace of the modern game.
The entire nation was hopelessly obsessed with it.
Every year, thousands of hopeful parents dragged their children to academy trials, praying they had birthed the next superstar.
Despite the low success rate, Joss poured his heart into his work.
His dedication had recently paid off in a massive way.
A few years ago, he had personally scouted and recruited a local boy named Michael Owen.
The entire club was now watching the kid with bated breath.
Owen had just turned twelve and had already been fast-tracked into the senior youth squads.
The junior academy could no longer challenge him.
Owen needed a higher stage.
Discovering a talent like Michael Owen was enough to make any scout arrogant.
Joss, however, remained grounded.
He did not expect lightning to strike twice, but his unwavering loyalty to the club meant he treated every single annual trial with the utmost seriousness.
Joss arrived at the trial grounds early.
The pitch was located just a short distance from the main Liverpool training complex.
From afar, he could already see the crowds gathering.
Hundreds of anxious parents lined the fences, whispering eagerly as their children warmed up.
Joss walked over to the registration desk.
He tapped the shoulder of the staff member managing the clipboards.
“Scott, how are the numbers looking today?” Joss asked.
“It is a bit disappointing, Mr.
Joss,” Scott replied, offering a helpless shrug.
“We only have about forty kids registered so far.
That is twenty fewer than last year.”
The junior academy trials were notoriously informal.
Even for a juggernaut like Liverpool, the junior scouting staff consisted of just Joss and three assistants.
Joss frowned at the numbers.
This decline was not exactly a new phenomenon.
Liverpool’s absolute dominance had waned slightly since their untouchable peak in the early eighties.
Furthermore, there was a growing cultural shift in the city.
Everton had successfully branded themselves as “The People’s Club,” cultivating a fiercely loyal, grassroots following among the local working class.
Many local parents found the towering, global prestige of Liverpool intimidating.
They preferred to send their kids to Everton’s trials instead.
Liverpool was increasingly relying on its hardcore fanbase to fill the academy ranks.
“Alright, Scott, there is no use complaining,” Joss sighed, making a decisive gesture.
“If this is who we have, then let us give these boys a good run.
Let them feel the magic of the game.”
“Understood, sir,” Scott nodded.
“God willing, maybe He will send us another Michael today.”
Hearing Owen’s name brought a warm smile back to Joss’s face.
He truly had high hopes for his star pupil.
Joss grabbed his whistle and stepped onto the pitch.
He blew a sharp, piercing note to cut through the chatter.
“Alright, gentlemen, gather around!” Joss shouted.
“You are all here to play, so let us skip the boring speeches.
I want you to grab your bibs, find yourselves a squad, and we will get a scrimmage going.
Show me what you would do under the lights at Anfield!”
Joss genuinely loved the kids who showed up to these trials.
Even if they never possessed the talent to turn professional, they were the lifeblood of the club.
They would grow up to be the fans filling the terraces.
The kids erupted into a chaotic, shrieking mob.
They scrambled around the grass, shouting at each other and desperately trying to group up with their friends to form teams.
Joss watched them with a fond, paternal smile.
They were all under ten years old.
He did not expect them to show any real tactical discipline.
Right now, it was just a chaotic playground.
But as his eyes swept over the unruly crowd, one child caught his attention.
It was a strikingly handsome boy with sharp, aristocratic features.
Unlike the other kids who were screaming and shoving, this boy stood perfectly still.
He was completely silent.
The boy was analyzing the chaotic mob around him.
His eyes were cold, calculating, and unnervingly calm.
That was our protagonist, Allen George.
What an intense gaze, Joss thought, his curiosity instantly piqued.
Joss walked over and knelt slightly to meet the boy’s eyes.
“Hello there, son.
Can you tell me your name?
And why are you not out there finding a team?”
“My name is Allen George, sir,” the boy replied in a clear, measured voice.
“But you may call me George.”
According to the archaic rules of his aristocratic house, only blood relatives were permitted to use his given name.
Jack Vance did not care about the rule himself, but he played his aristocratic part flawlessly.
“As for why I have not selected teammates,” George continued, his tone flat.
“It is because they are not on my level.
I do not require teammates of that caliber.”
Joss blinked in surprise.
The sheer, unshakable confidence radiating from the boy was staggering.
Joss chuckled softly.
“Listen to me, George.
Football is a team sport.
You cannot play a match with one person against eleven.
It does not work that way.
So, my little genius, I need you to go find a team.”
Hearing a direct order from the man in charge, George did not argue.
Jack Vance was a soldier.
When a superior officer issued a command, he obeyed.
George simply nodded.
He swept his cold gaze over the pitch, instantly processing the spatial distribution of the children.
He identified a small cluster of kids in the far corner who had not yet reached the required numbers.
Without a word, he jogged off efficiently toward the empty slot.
Joss stood up, his heart suddenly beating a little faster.
He follows orders instantly, and he possesses phenomenal spatial awareness, Joss realized.
Every coach on earth dreamed of finding a player with ironclad discipline.
George’s immediate obedience had already won Joss over.
He was already mentally carving out a spot in the academy for the boy.
But it was George’s tactical processing that truly shocked the veteran scout.
The boy had not just wandered aimlessly.
In a fraction of a second, he had scanned a chaotic, moving crowd, identified the exact location where he was needed, and moved to fill the gap.
That level of panoramic vision and situational awareness in a seven-year-old was almost frightening.
Joss could not wait to see what the boy would do with a ball at his feet.
He marched straight back to the registration desk.
“Scott, pull the file on the boy named George.
I need to see it right now.”
“Right away, sir,” Scott said, quickly flipping through the messy stack of registration papers.
He pulled out a single sheet.
“Here it is.
Allen George.
Born August 7, 1985.
From London.
Is there something special about this one, Mr.
Joss?”
Because the trial was open to the public, the files were painfully brief.
Joss did not take his eyes off the pitch.
He kept his gaze locked on the small, disciplined boy waiting in the corner.
“Scott, I want you to document every single movement that boy makes today,” Joss murmured, his voice tight with anticipation.
“I have a feeling he might be the greatest discovery this club has ever made.
He might even eclipse Michael.”
Scott’s jaw dropped.
Better than Michael Owen?
How could the coach possibly place such a massive expectation on a kid who had not even touched a football yet?
Scott did not ask any questions.
He simply readied his pen and clipboard.
He had learned a long time ago never to doubt Joss’s intuition.
Years ago, Michael Owen had looked like just another ordinary kid.
Joss had spotted the magic then, and if he saw it again now, Scott was not going to miss a second of it.