The thirty-minute internal scrimmage came to an end.
Joss stood on the touchline, mentally finalizing the preliminary positional assignments for the new recruits.
He knew these roles were fluid and would evolve as the boys grew, but he needed a baseline.
“Sir, the new crop is mostly average,” Scott noted, looking over his clipboard.
“But George makes up for all of it.
Between him and the established core, we might actually have a championship-caliber squad this year.”
“Average is an understatement, Scott.
They were completely uncoordinated,” Joss chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Yet George took a squad of undisciplined, chaotic recruits and single-handedly dragged them to a 3-3 draw against our veteran juniors.
The boy is an absolute machine.”
While Joss and Scott finalized their evaluations, Allen sat on the grass, drinking from a water bottle.
Through the eyes of a former JSOC operator, Allen was conducting his own post-action assessment of his new squadmates.
Despite the chaotic nature of youth football, he had identified four highly capable assets on the veteran team.
First was John Welsh.
He was an eight-year-old central midfielder with a relentless engine.
He pressed aggressively and orchestrated the midfield with surprising vision.
He played a lot like Steven Gerrard, the twelve-year-old prodigy currently captaining the upper youth academy.
Next was Stephen Warnock.
He was an eleven-year-old fullback with blazing speed and a wicked long pass.
The upper academy coach, Mr.
Harrison, already had his eye on the kid.
Once Warnock turned twelve, he was guaranteed a promotion.
Then there was Jon Otsemobor.
The nine-year-old was another highly athletic fullback.
During the scrimmage, the combined defensive pressure from Warnock and Otsemobor had actually forced Allen to break a sweat.
If not for their coordinated tracking, Allen would have easily scored a double hat-trick.
Finally, there was Chris Kirkland.
Despite his young age, Kirkland possessed the cold, commanding aura of an elite shot-stopper.
His reflexes were terrifyingly sharp.
Coach Harrison had tried to poach Kirkland for the upper squads early, but Joss had fiercely blocked the transfer, insisting the boy needed another year of physical development.
“Hey.
George, right?”
Allen looked up.
Chris Kirkland was walking over.
The eleven-year-old goalkeeper was significantly taller and broader than the seven-year-old Allen.
Yet, as Kirkland sat down on the grass, he deliberately kept a cautious, respectful distance.
There was genuine wariness in the older boy’s eyes.
In the span of thirty minutes, this tiny new kid had dismantled his elite defense and slipped three goals past him.
Kirkland looked at Allen the way a soldier looks at an unexploded bomb.
“You are bloody terrifying, you know that?” Kirkland muttered, offering a nervous smile.
“Those shot fakes…
I thought my ankles were going to snap just watching you.”
Allen evaluated the captain’s body language.
He recognized the intimidation, but also the underlying respect.
In truth, Kirkland was deeply relieved.
The junior squad possessed a phenomenal defensive line and a rock-solid midfield, but they had spent the last two years completely toothless in the final third.
They could stop any team in the country, but they could not score.
Because of that glaring weakness, Kirkland had spent his captaincy watching tournament trophies slip away.
Next year, he would be promoted out of the juniors.
This was his last chance to win silverware at this level.
The arrival of a ruthless, cold-blooded striker like Allen George changed everything.
“I am Allen,” the seven-year-old replied evenly, offering a brief nod.
“You have good reflexes, Captain.
Most keepers would have bitten on the first feint.
You held your ground until the second.”
Before Kirkland could respond, Warnock, Otsemobor, and Welsh jogged over.
“Thank God you are on our side now, mate,” Warnock laughed loudly, trying to mask his intimidation with banter.
“I am pretty sure you gave me a concussion with that crossover step.
I did not even see the ball move.”
“Oh, shut up, Stephen,” Kirkland fired back, seizing the opportunity to redirect the tension.
“You were spinning around like a confused duck.
I have never seen a fullback get dropped so easily.”
Warnock flushed red.
For an eleven-year-old defender, getting put on the floor by a seven-year-old was incredibly humiliating.
If this had been an older league, Warnock might have been tempted to deliver a vicious two-footed tackle just to save face.
But looking at Allen’s icy, unblinking expression, Warnock was secretly glad he had not tried to get physical.
“Yeah, well, at least I did not concede three goals to a kid half my size,” Warnock retorted defensively.
“I do not know how you call yourself the best keeper in the region, Chris.
It was embarrassing to watch.”
“Say that again, you idiot, and I will make you run laps until you throw up!” Kirkland snapped, scrambling to his feet.
Warnock laughed and took off sprinting across the grass, with Kirkland chasing furiously close behind.
Otsemobor and Welsh watched them go, shaking their heads before turning back to Allen to talk about the upcoming season.
Standing a few yards away, Joss watched his core players bonding.
He could not stop smiling.
For years, Joss had watched the upper academy squads hoard all the glory and silverware.
But this year felt entirely different.
The National Junior Cup was a brutal, unforgiving gauntlet.
It divided the country into ten fiercely competitive districts.
Only the top two teams from each district advanced to the single-elimination national tournament.
It was a meat grinder designed to break weak teams.
But looking at the impregnable defense anchored by Kirkland, and the lethal, terrifying new weapon sitting on the grass, Joss felt a surge of absolute confidence.
This year, Liverpool was going to win it all.