Touchline Rebirth: From Game To Glory

November 19th, 2010

The morning after was quiet, but it carried a different weight.

Thomas stood alone at the edge of the pitch, hands in his jacket pockets, watching the dew dry in the morning sun.

Inside the locker room, the players arrived.

No one was late.

No one dragged their feet.

There was a new energy subtle, but unmistakable.

There was less talk, and more focus.

The kind of silence that meant they were thinking, planning, readying themselves.

Niels stood by the sideline, his scarf hanging loose, breath rising in small clouds.

In his old life before he woke up in this new life, he'd always watched football, played FIFA, studied tactics.

He knew the game, just not from the inside.

Now he was here, part of it, and he wasn't going to let it slip.

The silence after his speech yesterday still hung in his mind.

There was no time for doubting.

Not anymore.

The team didn't need comfort, they needed the right direction.

And Niels was ready to give it.

He clapped his hands once, sharp against the morning air.

"Let's go!" he called out. "Start with the warm-up and high tempo!"

The players moved without hesitation.

No complains or anything.

Cones were set, passes started flying.

The rhythm was quicker, the touches was cleaner.

Mistakes still happened, but heads didn't drop.

They reset and kept going.

Thomas stepped beside him, arms crossed. "They're starting to believe."

"They have to," Niels said. "Belief is all we've got until results catch up."

Thomas gave a small nod, eyes scanning the field. "And if they don't?"

"Then we fake it a little longer," Niels said. "Until it's real."

A sharp whistle cut across the pitch.

One of the drills had broken down as there was miscommunication, wrong run.

A few players looked over.

Niels didn't raise his voice.

He just pointed at the player and called for restart.

"Again. Fix it."

They started again.

And this time, they got it right.

Thomas, the fitness coach, clapped his hands, the sound cracking through the cold.

"Boys, no easing up! Long runs, build those legs for the long haul. This season is still long, so be prepared for it!"

His Dutch accent, shaped by years working alongside Niels in the Netherlands, carried a quiet fire.

The players jogged in a ragged line, with their faces flushed.

Reece Darby led the pack, his stamina a relentless engine, blond hair slick with sweat as he powered through the chill.

Beside him, Korey Henry darted ahead in short bursts quick, electric, a spark that lit up the morning.

Further back, Paul Pogba moved carefully.

He was still brilliant, still dangerous, but slowed by a nagging knee.

His long strides were cautious, measured, but full of promise.

Niels watched him closely. Pogba's vision could carve open any defense, only if his body could keep up this long season.

When the run ended, most of the players bent over, hands on knees, catching their breath.

Pogba stayed upright, shaking out his legs, but there was a slight hesitation in his movement just enough for Niels to notice.

He walked over, his tone calm but direct.

"How's the knee?"

Pogba looked down, then up at Niels.

"It's fine," he said, but it came too fast to be convincing.

Niels didn't press. He just stood beside him, watching the others jog to the water station.

"You're holding back," he said quietly.

Pogba hesitated, then gave a small shrug. "I don't want to mess it up again."

"You won't," Niels said. "Not if you trust the work you've put in."

Pogba kicked at a patch of frozen grass. "It's not the running I'm worried about. It's the cutting, the turns. The real stuff."

Niels nodded. "It'll come. But you've got to meet it halfway. Confidence doesn't wait for proof."

Pogba looked at him young, talented, and still figuring it all out.

"I don't want to be the weak link," he said quietly.

"You're not," Niels replied. "You're part of this. Just keep showing up like you did today."

Pogba gave a small nod, not fully convinced, but grateful.

Then he jogged off to rejoin the group, shoulders just a little higher.

Niels watched him go, making a quiet note to keep an eye on him not just the knee, but the mindset too.

On the far side, Dev Patel and Nate Sutton worked through a passing drill, the ball snapping between them like a heartbeat.

Dev, once wild and flashy, now struck the ball clean, eyes sharp with focus. He'd learned the hard way to play for the team, not just himself.

Nate, quiet and clever, slipped into spaces like a whisper, his slight frame weaving effortlessly through cones.

Dev caught the ball and shot Nate a quick smile. Nate nodded, eyes sharp.

Dev faked left, passed right.

Nate adjusted instantly, chesting the ball and flicking it back with a slick touch.

"That's it," Dev said with a grin.

"No messing around," Nate said, finally looking up.

"Not just for today," Dev added. "It's about the long game."

Nate dribbled around a cone and passed the ball back. "That's why we're still here."

The ball moved smoothly between them.

They didn't need words their rhythm was a bond forged in the mud and sweat of League One battles.

Max Simons, the captain, jogged nearby, his armband tucked under his sleeve.

His goal against Southampton was a lucky strike, now it already felt distant, overshadowed by the late equalizer.

He felt like he had let them down, even though no one said it out loud.

Catching Niels's gaze, Max gave a slow nod, a silent promise: I'll step up. That's my job as a captain.

Max slowed to a stop, wiping sweat from his forehead.

He knew the others were watching, waiting for their captain to lead not just with words, but with action.

This isn't just about one game, he thought. It's every minute from now on.

He glanced back at the team, their faces set and focused.

The pressure didn't ease, it sharpened.

But Max welcomed it. He was ready to give his all for the team.

"Time to show them what we're made of," he muttered under his breath, then jogged forward, ready to push harder than ever.

At a water break, Jamal Osei pulled Tom Whitehall and Pogba close, their breath steaming in the cold.

"We had Southampton, man," Jamal said, his voice steady, "We let them back in. No more of that."

Tom, dark curls dripping, clenched his fists, energy buzzing under his skin.

"Draws are done, Jamal. Colchester's next I'm running 'til I drop."

Pogba leaned against the water cooler, flashing a tired grin.

"Get me the ball, Tom, and I'll make it happen."

His confidence lit up his face, but Niels, watching from a few steps away, caught the wince as Pogba stretched his knee, a shadow that still clung to his bright potential.

The whistle blew. Break was over.

"Time for Set pieces!" Thomas shouted. "Blue team defends the corners. Orange team attacks!"

Players moved quickly into position.

Max jogged into the box, pointing for Dev to shift wider. He positioned himself near the penalty spot ready to strike.

Dev stood near the edge, eyes sharp, waiting for the second ball.

Pogba stepped up to take the corner, placing the ball down with care.

Niels watched from the side.

These moments mattered no tricks, just timing, movement, and belief.

Pogba struck it low and fast.

Tom broke from his marker and flicked it on.

Max rose, twisting mid-air, but his header flew just over the bar.

"Good," Niels called. "Again, cleaner timing, I need quicker reactions."

Pogba jogged to retrieve the ball.

He wasn't limping, but Niels saw it, he was still protecting the knee.

Max exhaled hard, hands on hips, then looked at Pogba. "Next one. Same ball."

No doubt in his voice.

Niels nodded to himself.

'That's the striker we need.'

Pogba placed the ball again and took a quick breath.

This time, he sent it higher, curling toward the back post.

Max made his move late, slipped between two defenders, and jumped. His header was clean and powerful, the ball hit the net.

"Better!" Thomas shouted. "That's what we're after!"

Max jogged back, no smile, just focused. Dev gave him a quick nod.

Tom clapped him on the back as they passed.

Pogba walked back slowly, rubbing his knee, but there was a hint of a smile.

Niels checked his watch. "Alright," he called out. "That's it for set pieces. Grab water. Five-minute break."

The players split off, some chatting, others quiet.

They weren't perfect yet but they were getting closer.

Niels gathered the team, his voice low but full of fire.

"Colchester United. Tomorrow."

He paused, letting the silence land.

"They're scrappy. Mid-table team. Think they can outmuscle us."

He shook his head.

"They're wrong about that."

He paced slowly, boots crunching the frost, locking eyes with each player.

"You showed Southampton we belong here at the top table. Now show the league."

He turned sharply.

"Jamal, you need to control the midfield. Reece, use your pace, pull their defence wide.

Dev, Nate, create problems for them, keep them guessing. Max, put the ball in the net."

Niels looked over at Thiago young, talented, still remembered for that goal against Rosenborg.

"I know you're frustrated with the minutes you've had," Niels said. "But tomorrow, you're starting. Up top with Max."

Thiago looked up, surprised.

"We need your creativity," Niels added. "You're our fire, light up the match."

Thiago nodded slowly, but his smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

Later, after the drill, he stayed by the goalpost, quietly kicking a ball back and forth. His shoulders were low, his energy off.

Niels walked over, the cold sharp in the air.

"What's wrong, Thiago?" he asked, voice lower now.

Thiago sighed. "That Rosenborg goal... everyone's talking about it. The fans, the papers—even my mum." He paused. "What if I can't do it again? What if I mess it up tomorrow?"

He looked down, his voice quieter. "I don't want to let anyone down."

Niels crouched down beside him and said,

"Thiago, I know how you feel. I've been scared too missed chances, feeling like I wasn't good enough. But you?"

He tapped his chest. "You got that fire, not just talent. That goal wasn't luck. It was you believing in yourself. Remember that."

Thiago's eyes brightened a little, and a small smile appeared. He kicked the ball harder, the sound ringing out on the quiet pitch.

At the water station, Dev, Nate, and Reece shared a laugh, their voices cutting through the cold air.

"Colchester's gonna think we're soft," Dev grinned, his old cockiness replaced by a quieter confidence.

Nate, sipping water, smirked. "Let's make 'em chase shadows, yeah?"

Reece wiped sweat from his brow and clapped their shoulders, his energy catching on.

"Together, lads. No slipping this time."

Their banter was warm, a bond built from months of fighting for every point.

As the session wound down, Thomas came over to Niels, clipboard in hand.

"They're tired, but they want to prove themselves," Thomas said. "Your speech after Southampton really hit hard and they have woken up. Colchester is their chance to show it."

Niels nodded, his mind working fast.

Colchester's tough, physical game would challenge Liam McCulloch's slower pace, but Adam Fletcher's instincts could help keep them steady.

Niels had doubted himself before.

Not anymore.

This team was his second chance, and he was ready to fight for every inch.

As the players packed up, the sun broke through the mist, casting long shadows across the pitch.

Max stayed behind, tying his boots slowly, his expression calm but determined.

Niels caught his eye and gave a small nod.

They weren't just a team anymore, they were a group with something to prove.

Tomorrow, they'd need to unleash everything their hunger, their fire, and their passion.