I looked at Eze, who was staring at the floor, his chest heaving.

"You're tiring. The physicality is getting to you. I'm giving you ten more minutes in the second half. Make them count."

Then I turned to Semenyo, who was sitting on the bench, looking small and overwhelmed, his eyes wide. "You're coming on at 50 minutes for Tom. I want you to stay wide. Don't drift inside. Use your pace. Run at their full-back. Simple decisions. Can you do that?" He nodded, his voice barely above a whisper. "Yes, boss."

The second half was more of the same, a tough, physical battle with very little quality, the kind of match that's painful to watch and even more painful to coach. Eze lasted five minutes before I had to take him off, his legs gone, his confidence shot, his body language screaming exhaustion.

I brought on another midfielder, trying to get some control of the game, but it didn't help. At 50 minutes, I made the change I'd planned, the change I'd been dreading. Semenyo came on for Tom Davies on the wing, and I held my breath.

His first touch was a disaster. He received the ball in space, wide on the right, and instead of doing what I'd told him stay wide, use your pace he tried to take on three players, dribbling inside, and was immediately dispossessed.

I shouted from the sideline, my voice raw with frustration. "Simple! Keep it simple!"

His second involvement was even worse. He was caught out of position defensively, ball-watching instead of tracking his runner, leaving a huge gap that Brighton exploited with a quick pass.

Reece had to make a desperate, sliding tackle to prevent a certain goal, and when he got to his feet, he screamed at Semenyo, his face red with anger.

"Where were you?!" Semenyo looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole.

I was about to take him off. I had my hand raised, ready to signal the fourth official, ready to end his misery. It was too much, too soon, and I was asking him to do something he wasn't ready for.

But then, at 58 minutes, something clicked. Semenyo, who had been hiding, afraid to get on the ball, finally did what I'd been telling him to do all week, what we'd practiced in those one-on-one sessions.

He received the ball wide, in space, on the right wing. He looked up, saw the full-back coming towards him, and for the first time, he didn't panic.

He didn't try to do too much. He took a touch to control it, used his explosive pace to beat his man on the outside, got his head up, and delivered a perfect cross into the box, whipped in with pace and accuracy.

Connor, who had been a frustrated figure all game, met it with a powerful header that flew into the back of the net. 2-1. The relief was immense, overwhelming.

The team mobbed Semenyo, who looked stunned, a slow smile spreading across his face like he couldn't quite believe what had just happened. It was his first assist, his first real moment of quality, a small breakthrough in a sea of mistakes.

The final whistle went a few minutes later, and we'd won, but it felt like a loss. The performance had been poor, disjointed, and full of the same old problems.

In the changing room, the mood was subdued, the lads quiet, processing. I praised their fight, their resilience, their refusal to give up, but I didn't shy away from the truth.

"That wasn't good enough," I said. "We were lucky to win. Brighton were the better team for large parts of that match. We've got a lot of work to do."

I looked at Eze, who was slumped on the bench, his head in his hands.

"You showed quality, but you need to be fitter, stronger. The gym work continues." Then I looked at Semenyo. "That cross was exactly what I asked for. That's the player I know you can be. But it took you 55 minutes to do it once. We need it every time." He nodded, his expression serious.

Later that evening, I was in my office at Copers Cope, the building quiet and dark around me, staring at the match data on my laptop. The system notifications confirmed what I already knew, the cold, hard numbers that didn't lie. [SYSTEM] Player Update: Eberechi Eze. Tactical Familiarity: 45% → 52%.

A decent jump, but his physical stats were still worryingly low Strength 8/20, Stamina 9/20. [SYSTEM] Player Update: Antoine Semenyo. Positioning: 6/20 → 7/20.

A tiny, almost insignificant step forward that felt both encouraging and depressing. [SYSTEM] Squad Update: Pressing Success Rate: 71% → 68%.

The integration of new players was disrupting the system we'd worked so hard to build. I leaned back in my chair, the weight of it all pressing down on me like a physical burden. It was a win, but it felt like a warning. The road ahead was going to be long and hard.

My phone buzzed. Emma. I answered immediately, needing to hear her voice.

"How did it go?" she asked.

"We won," I said. "2-1."

"That's good, right?"

"Not really," I admitted.

"We were poor. Lucky." There was a pause.

"You're being too hard on yourself," she said gently.

"You've had the two for two weeks, Danny. Two weeks. Give it time."

"I don't know if we have time," I said, and I meant it.

"You do," she said firmly.

"Trust me. Trust yourself."

After we hung up, I pulled out my phone and looked at a photo of JJ, a picture I'd saved from Brighton's official Twitter account, him celebrating a goal for their first team, his arms raised, his face lit up with joy.

It was a reminder of what was possible, a reminder of why I was doing this, why I was putting myself through this exhaustion and stress and doubt. The work was just beginning. And I was ready for it. Or at least, I had to be.

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