If you only knew him on the pitch, you’d think he was the most committed man in the county. He’d shout instructions until his voice cracked. He’d clap, point, pace the touchline like the grass owed him money. Every drill had urgency to it; every mistake was met with a sharp bark and an immediate correction. If you judged him purely by those ninety-minute windows, you’d assume football lived rent-free in his head and charged interest.
Then training ended.
Wednesday nights were the longest. One full session of warm-ups, patterns, and a conditioned game, then Mitch would blow the whistle, shout a quick ‘Good work,’ and vanish. No post-session chat to match his fiery pre-session speech. No notes. No ‘see you tomorrow.’ By the time I’d finished packing the cones, his car was already gone.
Thursday was youth night, shorter and more controlled. He turned into a different version of himself there: patient enough to explain the same concept three different ways until a kid finally nodded. Still, once the last parent had collected their child, he was gone again.
Saturday barely counted as training. Twenty-five minutes, maybe thirty if he was feeling generous. We’d drill shapes, set pieces, and a few rounds of jogging. “Save it for tomorrow,” he’d say, already backing away like the field might grab him if he stayed too long.
At first I told myself that was normal. Some coaches drew hard lines. Work on the pitch, life off it. That was something called ‘boundaries’, and some folk should learn that. But after that almost-loss against Plymouth, I told myself I couldn’t sit still and watch this disorganized heap of a team get dragged into relegation.
So on Monday night, I rang him.
The phone rang longer than I expected; long enough that I nearly hung up and convinced myself this had been a stupid idea. Then Mitch answered.
“Yeah?” he said, flat and breathless, like I’d interrupted him and he was rather miffed by that.
“Hey,” I said. “It’s Jamie.”
A pause later, Mitch replied, “Right. What’s up?”
I glanced at the time. It was quarter past nine.
“Just wanted to check in,” I said. “See how you’re doing. Maybe talk through Sunday. Training load, few things I noticed.”
He exhaled then clicked his tongue. “Right. Gimme a second.” I heard movement, footsteps, door swinging, then wind howling. “Go on,” he said. “I’m listening.”
“Can I ask you something?” I said.
“Already are,” Mitch replied.
I laid out what I’d been turning over all week: build the midfield around Okafor, stop wasting him as a generic cog, give McAteer minutes instead of clinging to Roberts, and accept that the shape had to change if we wanted to stop bleeding points.
My Silver Tongue skill immediately activated upon me finishing, showing 63 + 3 = 66. I waited for another second.
Huh. I wondered if that meant Mitch was going to just shove it to the back burner and told me to come to training on Wednesday.
“Yeah,” Mitch said eventually. “I hear you.”
I waited.
“It’s not bad,” he went on, which somehow managed to mean nothing at all. “But we’re not ripping things up over the phone. Bring it to training on Wednesday. We’ll have a look then.”
Just as expected.
I ignored that. “What do you do outside sessions? You know. Watching opposition clips. Scouting. Individual plans. Even just . . . thinking about tweaks.” I hesitated. “I assumed there was something.”
“Nothing,” Mitch said.
I waited, thinking there had to be more.
“There is nothing,” he added. “This is Tier Seven football, Jamie.”
“That doesn’t—”
“—mean it deserves my entire life?” Mitch cut in, not sharp, just matter-of-fact. “Yeah. It does. And I don’t have that to give. Also, you can’t plan chess when half your pieces don’t turn up.”
There was some sort of rustling sound again; maybe he was leaning against a wall, maybe lighting something he wasn’t supposed to. The wind came through clearer now.
“I’m up at half five,” Mitch continued. “Out the door by six. I’m a site foreman now, you know, those in small civil outfits? I’ve got drainage and footpaths to take care of, not to mention council contracts nobody wants because they’re messy and underfunded.”
I pictured him instantly in hi-vis, clipboard, boots that never quite dried out. Maybe that was where he got the shouting energy from.
“Eight hours a day?” I asked.
He gave a short laugh. “If I’m lucky. More like ten. Twelve when a crew doesn’t show or a permit’s wrong. I’ve got lads twice my age asking me where the plans are, and lads half my age pretending they didn’t lose them. Then there’s the council inspector who—but eh, that’s besides the point. You get the gist.”
I nodded to myself, even though he couldn’t see it. It explained a lot. Mitch was a one-man show, and he couldn’t handle the workload alone. But this was exactly how Tier Seven clubs stayed Tier Seven. If we could just—
Then FMSim gave me a quest.
At least now I knew FMSim had a sense of irony. Interesting rewards, though. Now, I suspected every point of EXP would give me an XPoint in correspondence, so I’d gain 130 XPoints after quest completion.
“Mitch,” I said. “I’m not asking you to suddenly become Pep Guardiola with a laptop and a lightboard. I’m saying, you’ve got an assistant now.”
That landed. I could hear it in the way the rustling paused.
“Jamie,” he said slowly, “this isn’t a title. It doesn’t come with a pay rise.”
“I know. I’m busy too. 9-to-5 too, as do most of us.” I rubbed my forehead. “But between the two of us? We can cover more ground without either of us burning out.”
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
He didn’t answer straight away.
I continued anyway, “I can handle opposition prep. I’ll set up individual notes—nothing fancy. You keep running the sessions the way you do. I’ll adjust the load around it. Five days doesn’t mean five full nights on the pitch. Plenty of off-pitch stuff we could do.”
“Go on.”
For the next few minutes, I laid it out as plainly as I could.
I told him I wasn’t trying to drag him into late-night video sessions or turn Tier Seven into a science project. Most of the work wouldn’t even touch the grass. There’d be short clips and one-page notes, basically clear priorities so Wednesday didn’t start from zero every week. I’d take the thinking off his plate, not add to it.
We would need to know the opposition tendencies way earlier than Sunday mornings. By our training session, we should have had in mind two or three patterns to watch for. Nothing that required him to stay up past ten or bring work boots into the living room.
I’d handle player feedback too, though I quietly loathed that part. He’d still run training. Still set the tone. Still be the loud one. I just wanted to make sure the shouting pointed somewhere useful.
Mitch was quiet for a long moment after I finished. Long enough that I wondered if he’d put the phone down and wandered off to shout at a hedge.
Then he said, “You do know you’re not getting a raise for this.”
“For the love of the game, Mitch,” I replied.
A dry laugh came through the receiver. “Christ,” he muttered. “Go get your FIFA license or something. Maybe you’ll make this a living. Now then . . . What does the week actually look like?”
Monday – Review & Reset (Off-Pitch)
- Jamie:
- Watch full match back (or extended highlights if footage is bad).
- Identify 4 key moments: one positive pattern, one build up problem, one defensive issue, one individual note.
- Produce a one-page summary: what worked, what didn’t, what we’re fixing.
- Mitch:
- Does nothing football-related.
Tuesday – Opposition Prep (Off-Pitch)
- Jamie:
- Light scouting on upcoming opponents (previous results, basic shape, recurring threats).
- Pull 2–3 tendencies only. No over-analysis.
- Send Mitch a short voice note or text summary.
- Mitch:
- Reads/listens when convenient. No obligation to respond.
Wednesday – Main Training Session (On-Pitch)
- Mitch:
- Runs full session as usual.
- Emphasis guided by Monday/Tuesday notes (one tactical focus max).
- Jamie:
- Drill defensive shape.
- Takes notes on execution, effort, and any glaring issues.
- Quiet one-on-ones after training if needed (max 2 players).
Thursday – Youth / Light Touch (Mixed)
- Mitch:
- Youth session as normal.
- Jamie:
- Drill defensive shape.
- Optional: check in with 1–2 senior players not involved Wednesday.
- Recovery reminders. Availability checks. Nothing formal.
Saturday – Match Prep (On-Pitch, Short)
- Both:
- 25–30 minutes.
- Shape. Set pieces. Match reminders only.
- Final opposition cues: “Watch this runner,” “Don’t get dragged here.”
- No new information introduced.
I finished, then added, “That’s it. You don’t change how you coach. I just make sure you’re not starting from scratch every week.”
“That’s manageable,” he said. “Barely.”
“Barely is still better than nothing.”
He grunted. “Alright then. Assistant.” The word sounded strange coming from him. Like he wasn’t used to sharing the weight.
Good; good. He was listening now. Maybe this was finally the right time to ask for a formation change—
Mitch said, “Send me the Monday notes after the next game. Let’s see if this actually helps.” Then he hung up.
Just great. At least I got some EXP out of the talk.
I checked my XPoint bank. Indeed, it now read 340; a gain of 130.
It had gone better than I expected, probably because I was bearing most of the brunt. I set the phone down and stared at the ceiling. I opened my laptop.
I hadn’t planned to do anything that night. We had agreed the Monday notes started next week. But now that I’d said it out loud, the shape of the week existed. And once the shape existed, my brain didn’t really know how to leave it alone.
So I watched the match back.
The footage was still awful. One camera, half the pitch cropped out whenever the operator followed the ball too enthusiastically. But it was enough. We were too passive, then pressed well for like five minutes. Our right side collapsed twice in transition. The goal we conceded wasn’t a mystery, just three small hesitations stacked on top of each other. And there was a pattern—quiet, repeatable, almost encouraging—in how we played out when the left-back swung it in.
One page. Exactly one page.
By the time I finished, it was nearly midnight. I read it back once, trimmed a sentence that sounded like I was showing off, and saved it as “Monday – Review v Plymouth.”
Then my phone buzzed.
I looked down, expecting a spam alert or a group chat I’d muted weeks ago.
It was Maisie.
I didn’t expect her to be awake at this hour. What could the text be about?