The "Old Trafford Hangover" was a recognized condition in youth football. Symptoms included fatigue, inflated egos, and a sudden inability to make short passes during training.
On Friday morning, Gareth gathered the team in the video room. Instead of showing clips of goals against United, he played videos of the players moving slowly during recovery runs.
"You think you've made it," Gareth said, his tone firm. "You think because you won one game in a nice stadium, you don't have to work hard against Derby County tomorrow? Derby are at the bottom of the league. They are fighting to stay up. If you come in with your heads high, they will make you look foolish."
He posted the team sheet. Ethan was starting again. There would be no substitutions. You played until you couldn't.
Saturday. WBA U18 vs. DERBY COUNTY U18.
The difference was stark. Old Trafford had been a grand stage. The West Brom training pitch on a rainy Saturday morning was a cold, exposed field surrounded by wire fences. There were no fans or excitement, just the coaches shouting and the rain slapping against the synthetic turf.
Ethan felt sluggish. The sprint at Old Trafford seemed to have drained a reserve he didn't know how to replenish. His legs felt heavy, and his reactions were slow.
Derby County, scrappy and aggressive, overwhelmed them. They were not concerned about West Brom's cup run; they just wanted to win a tackle.
In the 15th minute, Ethan got the ball. He attempted the same roll-and-spin move that had worked against the Irish midfielder at United. But today, his body was a bit slower. The Derby midfielder anticipated his move, stole the ball, and initiated a counterattack.
Only a last-second tackle from Tyrell prevented a goal.
"Wake up, Hollywood!" Tyrell yelled at Ethan, pulling him up by his shirt. "You're not at United anymore! Do the basics!"
Ethan clenched his jaw. He simplified his game. No tricks. No long passes. Just quick passes and movement. Protect the ball.
The match ended in a dull 1-1 draw. Ethan didn't contribute to the goal; it resulted from a messy corner scramble. When the final whistle blew, nobody celebrated, just a shared sigh of frustration.
"That," Gareth said in the locker room, "is the reality. You can be champions on Wednesday and do poorly on Saturday. Consistency is what matters most."
Meanwhile, in Eastfield, there was no glamour.
Crestwood was playing Marston Vale away. The pitch resembled a swamp more than a football field. The goalmouths were laced with muddy slush.
Callum stood in the center circle, shivering. He looked at the muddy ball and the grey sky. "I bet the undersoil heating at Old Trafford was nice," he muttered.
"Shut up and run," Mason grunted beside him.
The game was awful. Marston Vale, fighting against relegation, played a defensive formation reminiscent of 9-0-1. They kicked everything in sight—the ball, the players, even the air.
Crestwood's "Heavy Metal" football had turned into "Trench Warfare."
Ryan, the substitute midfielder, struggled. He kept trying to dribble through the mud, getting stuck, and losing the ball. "Get it wide!" Callum yelled, his frustration rising. "Stop playing in the mud!"
In the 70th minute, it remained 0-0. The title race was tight; a draw here would be catastrophic.
Mason took charge. He stopped passing. He picked up the ball in his own half and ran. He moved like a tank. He bounced off one tackle, evaded another, and charged into the Marston Vale box.
He was tackled. It was a clumsy move from a defender who just wanted to leave.
Penalty.
The whistle blew. The Marston Vale players crowded the referee, yelling about unfairness.
Mason stood up, wiping mud from his face. He picked up the ball. It felt heavy with water and dirt.
"I'll take it," Callum said eagerly, stepping forward.
Mason glanced at him and then at the muddy spot. He looked at the shivering goalkeeper. "No," Mason replied. "This isn't a striker's penalty. This is a grunt's penalty."
Mason set the ball down. He didn't do any elaborate run-up. He just walked back three steps, ran up, and struck it hard. He aimed for the center of the net, hitting it so firmly that if the keeper had touched it, he would have ended up in the goal along with the ball.
GOAL.
1-0 Crestwood.
They celebrated by huddling together for warmth. The final twenty minutes were frantic and slippery, but they held on.
That evening, the three of them connected on FaceTime.
Ethan lay on his bed, legs resting against the wall. Callum and Mason stood at a bus stop, eating kebabs.
"1-1," Ethan said, rubbing his eyes. "We were terrible. I felt like I was running through treacle."
"1-0," Mason replied, chewing. "Penalty. I nearly broke the net."
"It was the worst game of football ever played," Callum added happily. "But we won. And Riverton drew. We're two points clear at the top."
"Two points is nothing," Ethan warned. "One mistake."
"We know," Mason said. "But we're grinding it out. How's your body?"
"Wrecked," Ethan admitted. "I've got a recovery session tomorrow, then I need to prepare for Southampton. Gareth says we have to leave on Tuesday. It's a four-hour bus ride."
"Southampton," Callum said thoughtfully. "Another Premier League academy. Do you think you can beat them?"
"They're good," Ethan said. "They produce players like Gareth Bale. But... we beat United. Tyrell thinks we can win it all."
"Do it," Mason encouraged. "Win the cup. We'll win the league. Then we can meet up in the summer and compare medals."
"Deal," Ethan smiled.
He hung up and looked at the poster on his wall—the fixture list. The Fifth Round. Southampton Away. The Quarter Finals were next. The dream kept growing, but the challenges were increasing.
He rolled off the bed and grabbed his foam roller. The glamour was over. It was time to work out the knots in his legs.