Joss blew his whistle.
The highly anticipated first trial match officially began.
The veteran coach crossed his arms over his chest and smiled.
He watched the chaotic swarm of children shrieking and kicking at the grass.
These kids possessed absolutely no redeeming athletic qualities.
They had no positional awareness, no sense of tactical responsibility, no technique, no teamwork, no speed, and no physical strength.
They were utterly clueless.
Yet, Joss watched them with a fond intensity because they played with undeniable, raw passion.
“Pass it over here!” a young boy screamed near the edge of the penalty box.
His desperate shouts fell on deaf ears.
The kid currently in possession of the ball completely ignored his teammate.
He kept his head down, fiercely determined to dribble straight through a wall of four defenders.
Because children of this age lacked any understanding of spatial discipline, they simply played magnet ball.
Whenever someone had possession, every single player on the pitch swarmed toward them.
They completely abandoned their defensive posts, leaving massive, gaping holes across the field.
If a professional striker were on the pitch, they would exploit those massive gaps and tear the defense to shreds.
Unfortunately, the kid on the ball was just a seven-year-old.
He failed to notice the incoming swarm.
He was quickly dispossessed, overwhelmed by the sheer mass of flailing legs.
A boy wearing an oversized number nine kit managed to toe-poke the loose ball.
It rolled a few meters ahead.
The boy puffed out his cheeks, held his breath, and sprinted after it with everything he had.
In a real match, pushing the ball that far ahead without elite sprinting speed was a guaranteed turnover.
But this was a children’s trial.
The defenders watched the “speedy” attacker lumbering toward their goal and completely froze.
They stood around like deer in headlights, completely forgetting they were supposed to tackle him.
The boy stumbled and gasped his way to the edge of the penalty box.
His face was beet red.
Clearly, sprinting twenty yards was pushing his cardiovascular limits.
Perhaps he had watched too many matches at Anfield.
Perhaps, in his mind, he was Gary Lineker or Ian Rush. This chapter is updated first at g.com.
Seeing no defenders in his path, he gritted his teeth and swung his leg as hard as he could.
There was no beautiful curling trajectory.
There was no terrifying, net-breaking velocity.
The ball rolled sluggishly across the grass.
It traveled in a perfectly straight, entirely harmless line straight to the goalkeeper’s feet.
The goalkeeper did not hesitate to accept the gift.
He casually scooped the ball up.
Completely ignoring the exhausted striker, the keeper tucked the ball under his arm and began sprinting up the pitch.
Apparently, he wanted to score a coast-to-coast wonder goal himself.
The kid who had just shot the ball did not even bother tracking back to defend.
Emulating the dramatic flair of professional strikers, he spat on the grass and waved his arms in exaggerated agony, mourning his missed “screamer.”
Joss chuckled warmly from the sidelines.
The sheer absurdity of the children’s behavior was highly entertaining.
The parents lining the pitch were equally amused.
They cheered and shouted encouragement, bringing a faint, heartwarming echo of the Anfield atmosphere to the humble local park.
Fifteen minutes later, the first trial match concluded.
There was no stoppage time.
There was no dramatic penalty shootout.
The match ended in a lifeless, scoreless draw.
Over the entire fifteen minutes, not a single deliberate pass had been completed.
The moment a kid touched the ball, his teammates ceased to exist in his mind.
It was a chaotic exhibition of purely selfish, doomed dribbling.
Allen stood on the sidelines, watching the spectacle with a perfectly blank expression.
To the other seven-year-olds, the match had been an epic, exhausting battle.
Every kid walking off the pitch was panting heavily, their faces flushed with pride.
But through the eyes of Jack Vance, a former elite JSOC operator, the display was almost physically painful to watch.
It was an absolute tactical disaster.
Childish as it was, the first match was over.
It was time for the second group to take the field.
Hearing Joss call his squad forward, Allen offered his mother a reassuring nod.
He puffed out his chest and marched onto the grass with disciplined, measured steps. This story is hosted at novelping.com.
Allen wore a pristine number seven kit.
Most kids fought tooth and nail for the glamorous number nine or ten shirts.
But in his previous life, seven had been his squad designation and his lucky number.
It felt right.
“Hey there, George,” Joss called out as the boy walked past.
“You are up.
Are you feeling nervous?”
Allen paused and turned to the coach.
He offered a perfectly deadpan expression.
“Sir, after witnessing that tactical masterclass, I am absolutely terrified.”
He meant he was terrified of looking like an idiot by participating in such a circus.
Joss, however, completely missed the sarcasm.
He assumed the boy was experiencing genuine stage fright.
“Do not worry, George.
Just go out there and have fun.
I am sure you will do brilliantly.”
Allen did not bother correcting him.
He just waved a hand dismissively and jogged over to the center circle.
Having analyzed the disastrous first match, Allen formulated his tactical approach.
He was not going to pass the ball.
Attempting to coordinate a synchronized attack with a squad of undisciplined toddlers would be infinitely harder than breaching a hostile compound alone.
He was just going to take the ball and end this as quickly as possible.
The kids scrambled into position.
Their faces were flushed with excitement as they stared at Joss, waiting for the signal to begin.
Because they were a makeshift squad of strangers, no one knew each other’s names.
Communication was non-existent.
Over ten players from both teams crammed themselves tightly around the center circle, desperate to be as close to the ball as possible.
Only a scattered handful of kids hung back near the penalty boxes, yawning out of sheer boredom.
Joss did not bother correcting their spacing.
They were just kids, after all.
Seeing that everyone was relatively settled, he raised the whistle to his lips and blew a sharp, piercing note.
The second match had begun.