Sunday morning arrived with the same 5:30 am alarm, but the exhaustion felt different. It was a dull, heavy ache, the kind that settled deep in your bones and refused to leave.

The Brighton match had been a win on paper, but a loss in every other sense of the word. We'd been outplayed, outfought, and out-thought for large parts of that match, and the 2-1 scoreline was a lie, a flattering illusion that hid a multitude of sins.

I pulled on my running gear, my muscles screaming in protest, and headed out into the pre-dawn darkness. The 6k run was a slow, painful slog, my mind replaying every mistake, every missed opportunity, every moment of disjointed pressing.

I finished in 33:45, the system flashing the numbers in my vision; Fitness 48/100, Mental Fatigue: Critical, but I ignored it. There was no time for rest. There was only work.

The week that followed was a blur of relentless, grinding work, the kind of work that left you physically exhausted and mentally drained, but also strangely satisfied, like you were building something real, something tangible.

Sunday was a recovery session for the players who'd played, light jogging and stretching, Rebecca leading them through yoga poses that looked more like torture than recovery.

For those who hadn't played, it was a brutal fitness session, Sarah running them into the ground with repeated sprints and conditioning drills. I spent the afternoon in the video analysis room, first with Eze, then with Semenyo, breaking down every touch, every movement, every decision they'd made in the Brighton match.

The room was small, claustrophobic, the air thick with the smell of stale coffee and nervous sweat. Eze was quiet, his pride wounded, but he listened, his eyes fixed on the screen as I showed him the three times he'd been pushed off the ball, the two times he'd held on too long, the one moment of brilliance that had led to Connor's goal.

I paused the video on that moment, the ball leaving his foot, Connor's run perfectly timed, the goal inevitable.

"This is what you can do," I said. "This is the player you are. But you need to be able to do it for 60 minutes, not just one moment."

He didn't make excuses. He just nodded and said, "I need to be stronger."

Semenyo was a different story. He was a kid, only fifteen, and the weight of his mistakes was crushing him. He sat slumped in his chair, his eyes red-rimmed, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

He'd made one good decision in the ten minutes that he was on, and a dozen bad ones. He was trying, I could see that, but he was lost, a step behind the play, his mind racing to catch up with the speed of the game.

I was patient, pointing out the right choices, the right movements, the right moments to press, but I could see the frustration in his eyes, the self-doubt that was eating away at his confidence.

"Why am I so bad at this?" he asked, his voice small and broken. I took a breath, choosing my words carefully.

"You're not bad," I said. "You're learning. You're fifteen. Most of these lads have been playing organized football since they were six, and they are 2 years older than you. You're catching up. It's a process. It takes time. But you'll get there." I wasn't sure if I was trying to convince him or myself, but I needed him to believe it. I needed him to keep fighting.

Monday was my third one-on-one with Semenyo, this time on the training pitch, working on his work rate and tracking back.

The morning was cold, the grass wet with dew, and we had the pitch to ourselves, just me and him, the silence broken only by the sound of our breathing and the occasional shout from the main training session happening on the adjacent pitch.

"Football is 90% off the ball," I told him, a phrase I'd heard a hundred times from a hundred different coaches, but it was true. Most people watched the player with the ball, but the real game was happening everywhere else, in the spaces, in the movements, in the anticipation of what was coming next.

We worked on his positioning, his body shape, and his awareness of the players around him. I set up cones to represent opponents, walked him through scenarios, showed him where to be, when to press, and when to drop off.

He was starting to understand, I could see it in the way he was moving, the way he was thinking, the way his eyes were scanning the pitch instead of just focusing on the ball. But it was still inconsistent, a flicker of understanding in a sea of confusion.

One moment he'd be in the perfect position, the next he'd be five yards out of place, his concentration lapsing.

"It's okay," I told him, my voice patient. "It takes time. Your brain needs to learn to do this automatically. Right now, you're thinking about it. Eventually, you won't have to."

He nodded, his face set with determination, and we went again. Tuesday was a full squad session, Eze in the gym with Rebecca, his dedication to the strength program absolute, while Semenyo worked with Sarah on his positioning in a small-sided game.

The main squad worked on our pressing triggers, the intensity high, the focus sharp. Wednesday was a practice match, eleven versus eleven, and I started both Eze and Semenyo.

Eze was better, stronger, holding off challenges, his touch still sublime. He created two chances; his vision and passing range were a class above everyone else on the pitch. Semenyo was a mixed bag.

He made two good decisions, playing a simple pass instead of trying to dribble, but he made three bad ones, getting caught in possession, his first touch letting him down. It was progress, but it was slow, agonizingly slow.

***

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