The referee blew his whistle, and for a moment, everything slowed down. Eight weeks of work. Eight weeks of drilling, coaching, and teaching. Eight weeks of early mornings and late nights, of tactical sessions and video analysis, of building relationships and earning respect. All of it came down to this. All of it came down to the next sixty minutes.

Millwall kicked off. Their center-forward laid it back to their midfielder, who played a simple pass to their center-back. The ball moved slowly across the grass, and I held my breath, watching, waiting for the trigger.

Connor pressed immediately, but his angle was slightly off he was too central, not cutting off the passing lane like we'd drilled. I felt my jaw tighten. The center-back had an easy pass to his right-back, but he panicked anyway, looking elsewhere.

Tom and Sam closed in from the wings, cutting off the wide options. The center-back's head came up, scanning for an outlet. There was none. He tried to play it back to his goalkeeper, but Nya had read it.

He intercepted the pass cleanly, took one touch to control it, and played it wide to Jake. Jake didn't hesitate one touch forward to Tom on the wing. Tom looked up, saw Connor making his run, and whipped in a cross. Connor met it with his head, directing it toward the bottom corner. The goalkeeper got a hand to it, but only just. Corner.

Eight seconds. From their kickoff to our first shot. Eight seconds.

I exhaled. My hands were shaking. The pressing system the thing we'd spent eight weeks building, the thing I'd lost sleep over, the thing I'd doubted a thousand times it worked.

Millwall tried again. Their goalkeeper rolled the ball out to the left-back, trying to build from the back. I shouted for the trigger, but Connor was ball-watching, not reading the game. Reece saw it and shouted louder, his voice cutting through.

Tom was already moving, pressing the left-back before he could get his head up. The left-back panicked. You could see it in his body language the way his touch was heavy, the way he looked up too late.

He played it inside toward their midfielder, but Nya was waiting. He won the ball cleanly, drove forward three strides, and hit a shot from twenty yards out. It fizzed just wide of the post, but the intent was there. The confidence was there.

On the touchline, I clenched my fists so hard my nails dug into my palms. This was it. This was what we'd been working on. Not just the pressing, but the belief. The understanding. The lads trusting the system, trusting each other, trusting themselves.

Millwall adjusted. Their center-back went long this time, bypassing our press entirely. A high ball toward their big center-forward. Connor challenged in the air, and despite giving away three inches and probably a stone in weight, he won the header.

The ball dropped to their midfielder, but Jake was already on him. Six-second rule. We'd drilled it until the lads could do it in their sleep. Jake closed the space, forced the midfielder into a poor touch, and won the ball back.

Jake to Nya. Nya to Sam. Sam received it with his back to goal, turned his man with a neat touch, and played a disguised through ball that split their defense wide open. Connor was already running, timing his movement perfectly to stay onside. He latched onto the pass, took one touch to set himself, and finished. Bottom corner. The goalkeeper didn't even move.

1-0.

I didn't celebrate. Not outwardly. I clapped my hands once, nodded, kept my face neutral. But inside, I was screaming. Inside, I was running onto the pitch and hugging every single one of them.

Sarah grabbed my arm, her grip tight. "It's working, Danny. It's actually working."

I nodded, unable to speak. If I spoke, I'd probably cry. The emotion was too close to the surface, threatening to spill over. Eight weeks of doubt, of late nights, of wondering if I was good enough and here it was, working. Actually working.

Millwall kicked off again, and you could see the frustration already setting in. Their midfielder tried a long diagonal pass to their winger, trying to get in behind our defense.

But Lewis had read it. He stepped up, intercepted cleanly, and threw it quickly to Jake before Millwall could reorganize. Jake drove forward, played it to Nya in the center.

Nya took two touches, played a one-two with Connor off a short pass, and suddenly he was through on goal. He didn't panic. He didn't rush. He just slotted it past the goalkeeper like he'd done it a thousand times.

2-0.

Twelve minutes played. Two goals. Both from high pressing and quick transitions. Both from the system we'd built together. The system wasn't just working it was dominating.

Millwall changed tactics around the fifteenth minute. They'd figured out that trying to play out from the back was suicide against our press, so their goalkeeper started going long instead.

High balls toward their big center-forward, trying to win the aerial duel and get their wingers running in behind. It was effective, to be fair. Connor was good in the air, but he couldn't win every header against a lad who had four inches and probably two stone on him.

But we'd prepared for this. We'd spent hours in training working on what to do when teams bypassed our press. The answer wasn't to panic or drop deeper. The answer was to win the second ball.

When their center-forward won the header, our midfield three Nya, Jake, Sam were already positioned to win the knockdown. When he flicked it on toward their midfielder, Lewis and Reece were there to intercept. It wasn't pretty football, but it was effective. We were winning the battle in the middle of the park, and that was all that mattered.

Around the eighteenth minute, their center-forward won another header. The ball dropped to their midfielder, who tried to turn and drive forward. But Nya was on him immediately, pressing tight, not giving him a second to think.

The midfielder tried to shield the ball, but Nya stayed with him, harrying him, forcing him backward. The ball broke loose, and Sam was there to pick it up. He drove forward, saw Tom making a run on the wing, and played it wide.

Tom cut inside, beat his man with a simple drop of the shoulder, and shot. The goalkeeper saved it, but only just. The rebound fell to Connor, who was following up like we'd coached him to do. He didn't hesitate. He just smashed it into the net.

3-0.

On the touchline, I noticed Gary had appeared. He was standing off to the side, arms crossed, watching. Taking notes, probably. I tried not to think about it. Tried to stay focused on the match.

"Keep going!" I shouted, clapping my hands. "Don't drop off! Maintain the intensity!"

Millwall were rattled now. You could see it in the way they moved, the way they communicated or didn't communicate. Their coach was shouting instructions from the touchline, trying to reorganize them, but every time they got the ball, we were on them. Pressing, harrying, forcing mistakes. They couldn't get out of their own half.

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