The 5:30 am alarm broke the Sunday morning silence as it always did. But as I moved to silence it, I noticed its absence: the bone-deep exhaustion that had plagued me all week was gone. In its place, a quiet hum of satisfaction settled in my chest, a warmth that defied the early hour and the darkness still pressed against the window.

The 3-1 win against Charlton yesterday had been more than just a result; it had been a validation. It was proof that the work, the relentless, grinding, soul-crushing work, was paying off.

The 6k run felt different today. My legs were still heavy, the London streets still cold and unforgiving, but my mind was clear, my stride lighter, my breathing easier.

I finished in 32:15, a personal best for the month, and the system flashed the numbers in my vision [SYSTEM] Fitness: 55/100. Mental Fatigue: Low. A welcome change from the critical warnings of the past week.

Back on my balcony, drinking my morning coffee, I noticed it tasted richer. With the sun now up, the grey sky was turning a soft blue, making the cityscape look brighter. The weight on my shoulders felt a little bit lighter. Maybe it was the light, or maybe it was the thought: we were building something. It was fragile, it was imperfect, but it was real.

The recovery session on Sunday afternoon was a relaxed affair, the players in good spirits, the tension of the past weeks replaced by a quiet, professional confidence.

Rebecca led them through a series of gentle stretches and yoga poses, her voice calm and encouraging, while Sarah and I watched from the sidelines, reviewing footage from the Charlton match on her laptop.

"Look at this," Sarah said, pointing to a clip of Semenyo tracking back in the 55th minute.

"That's the difference. That's the work paying off. Two weeks ago, he wouldn't have done that. He would have just stood there, watching." I nodded, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.

"He's learning," I said. "Slowly. But he's learning." Sarah looked at me, her expression serious.

"You know his trial ends after the next match, right? Gary's going to want a decision." I did know. The thought had been gnawing at me all week, a constant, nagging worry that I couldn't shake.

"I know," I said quietly. "One more week. One more match. He'll be ready."

Monday was my fourth one-on-one with Semenyo, and this time, I wanted to take it to the next level. We were in the video analysis room again, the small, claustrophobic space that had become our sanctuary, our classroom, our place of transformation.

But this time, the mood was different. He wasn't the same scared, overwhelmed kid from two weeks ago. He was engaged, leaning forward in his chair, his eyes bright with a newfound curiosity, his hands no longer fidgeting with the hem of his shirt but resting calmly on the table.

We weren't just watching clips of his mistakes anymore. We were watching clips of the best players in the world, the masters of movement, the players who saw the game in a different dimension.

I pulled up footage of Thomas Müller, the German 'Raumdeuter', the space interpreter. The Bayern Munich forward who wasn't the fastest, wasn't the strongest, wasn't the most technically gifted, but who had an almost supernatural ability to be in the right place at the right time.

"Watch him," I said, pausing the video on a frame where Müller was pointing to a space no one else had seen, a pocket of emptiness between the opposition's midfield and defense.

"He's not the fastest, he's not the strongest, but he's the smartest. He sees the game before it happens. He anticipates where the ball is going to be, where the space is going to open up, and where his teammates are going to move. That's what I want you to learn. That's the next step for you."

Semenyo watched, mesmerized, his eyes tracking Müller's movement, the way he drifted into space, the way he made himself available, the way he created chances out of nothing.

"So… it's not just about running?" he asked, his voice full of wonder, like a child discovering a magic trick. I laughed, a genuine, heartfelt laugh that echoed in the small room.

"No, Antoine. It's not just about running. It's about thinking. It's about seeing the game before it happens. It's about being one step ahead of everyone else." He nodded slowly, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"Can you teach me that?" he asked, his voice small, vulnerable. "I'm trying," I said. "That's what we're doing right now."

We spent the next hour breaking down clips, pausing, rewinding, analyzing every movement, every decision, every moment of brilliance.

I showed him how Thomas Müller would check his shoulder before receiving the ball, how he would position his body to see the entire pitch, how he would make a run into space and then stop, creating separation from his marker. Semenyo was asking questions now, real questions, not just nodding along.

"Why does he stop there?"

"Why doesn't he go wide?"

"How does he know where the ball is going to be?" I answered every question patiently, drawing diagrams on the whiteboard, explaining concepts, and breaking down the game into its component parts.

And slowly, I saw the light bulb go on. I saw the moment when it all clicked, when the chaos of the game started to make sense, when the patterns emerged from the noise.

"Oh," he said, his eyes widening. "Oh. I see it now. It's like… it's like a puzzle. And everyone has a piece. And if you know where your piece goes, the whole picture makes sense." I felt a surge of pride, a warmth spreading through my chest.

"Exactly," I said. "Exactly. You're getting it, Antoine. You're really getting it."

***

Thank you to nameyelus and chisum_lane for the gifts.

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