A pale northern sky hovers overhead, the floodlights humming though not quite needed yet. The pitch is damp but firm, the Altrincham lads are running through small-sided drills and rondos, shouting and laughing echoing faintly across the grass.
At the far side of the pitch, near a set of plastic cones, ERIC DEMPSEY sits hunched on a foldable chair. Tracksuit zipped to the neck, collar up, shielding against the wind. He balances a paper bowl in one hand, a half-eaten Swiss roll inside it. A plastic fork sticks out awkwardly.
He stares at nothing. The sound of football fades into a low buzz in his mind. A tear rolls slowly down his cheek.
His phone is on the bench beside him, screen still glowing. A tweet. A comment. A thread. The kind that cuts deep.
"Worst appointment in the club's history."
"Bloke talks like he's Pep, but this isn't Bologna — it's the bloody Conference."
"Swiss roll merchant. Give me a real manager."
ERIC
(Whispers to himself)
What the hell am I doing here?
He wipes his eye. Quietly. Quickly. But not quick enough.
DEBBIE ANDERSON (O.S.)
Bad idea reading the comments. Always is.
ERIC doesn't look up. DEBBIE stands beside him, hair tied back, a thick file in her hands — pages of tactical breakdowns and stat sheets on Dagenham & Redbridge. She squints, watching his face.
DEBBIE
That Swiss roll better be worth this existential crisis.
ERIC
(Still looking down)
It's not. It's dry. Like this whole bloody job.
DEBBIE
(Softly)
Eric, c'mon… You knew what this would be. You didn't come here to be clapped on arrival. You came here to build something real.
Eric gives a bitter chuckle.
ERIC
Real? The only thing real is that half this fanbase thinks I'm a clown. That I'm some jumped-up journeyman who got lucky abroad and is now play-acting gaffer at a pub team.
DEBBIE
They're angry because they're scared. And scared people lash out. That noise? That's not the truth. It's just fear.
ERIC
Yeah? Well fear sells. My phone's lighting up like I just ran over a dog.
DEBBIE
(Seriously)
Then turn it off. You've got players who believe in you. I believe in you.
Eric finally looks at her. His eyes are red-rimmed. Not dramatic — just worn down.
ERIC
Maybe I made the wrong move.
A beat. She kneels slightly to meet his eye-line.
DEBBIE
Listen to me. You walked into a club that's been dozing for years. You gave it a jolt. And jolts hurt. But they're necessary. You can't change anything without friction.
Eric exhales deeply, nodding slightly, the words absorbing slowly.
Suddenly, a voice from a few feet away interrupts.
CHRIS CONN-CLARKE
Boss?
They turn. CHRIS, the club's mercurial star, still in his bib and training boots, jogs over. Sweat on his brow, but concern in his voice.
CHRIS CONN-CLARKE
You alright?
ERIC
(Straightens a little)
Yeah, just… reflecting.
CHRIS
(Directly)
You don't need to reflect. You need to believe. We do.
Eric tilts his head, unconvinced.
ERIC
Really? Even after all the noise online?
CHRIS
(Serious, firm)
Boss, screw the internet. You think I read that crap? I've been written off ten times. People said I'd never play pro. That I'd never find consistency.
He steps closer, voice lower, more intimate.
CHRIS
But you came here. You didn't have to. And since you've walked in? Training's sharper. Sessions are smarter. We've got a plan. You see things no one else has seen in this place for years.
ERIC
That doesn't always matter when the scoreboard's blank.
CHRIS
It does in the long run. And I'm here for the long run. You've got my trust, gaffer. You've got my faith. And a lot of the lads feel the same.
Eric stares at him. Chris holds the gaze, unwavering. No performance, just raw belief.
CHRIS (CONT'D)
And I'll tell you something else. I love playing for you. You're tough, yeah. But it's because you give a damn. We can see that. And if a few faceless keyboard warriors can't, then forget them.
A long pause. Then Eric finally exhales and gives a small nod.
ERIC
Cheers, Chris. That… that means a lot.
CHRIS
Good. Now get off your arse and come yell at us or something. Training's going soft without your grumpy voice.
ERIC
(Laughs, wiping his face)
You cheeky little sod.
CHRIS
(Grinning)
You love it.
Chris jogs back to the group. Eric sits up straighter now, breath steadier, heart lighter. Debbie offers him a fresh page — full of Dagenham pressing maps and set-piece vulnerabilities.
DEBBIE
You ready to wreck Dagenham's midfield?
ERIC
(Smiling, renewed fire in his eyes)
Let's break them in half.
DEBBIE
Welcome back, boss.
Eric stands, takes one final bite of the Swiss roll, grimaces at its dryness, and tosses the bowl toward the bin. It bounces off the rim and lands in the grass.
ERIC
Figures.
He heads back onto the pitch, voice rising again, already barking corrections, pushing drills, coaching — alive again.
The sun is dipping now, casting a golden hue across the pitch. The session is winding down, but there's a buzz in the air — a tension that feels like coiled energy rather than fatigue.
A makeshift penalty shootout has begun. The lads take turns, laughter and jeers flowing as boots strike balls. One of the keepers — Matt Gould — stands tall between the posts, trying to psyche out each taker.
JOSH LUNDSTRAM
(Cracking his knuckles)
Alright, watch this. Top bins, left side.
TADGH McFADDEN
(Snorts)
More like Row Z.
Josh steps up… strikes — PING — it crashes off the post.
JORDAN HULME
(Laughing)
Told you! That post's got more accuracy than you do.
CHRIS CONN-CLARKE
(Grinning, to Eric)
Boss, give it a go?
Eric, who's standing just behind the penalty area with Debbie and the coaching staff, raises an eyebrow.
ERIC
I'll take one when we're 5–0 up on Saturday. For now, you lot focus on hitting the target and not the bloody housing estate behind the fence.
Laughter. Another penalty. This time, Regan Linney stutters in the run-up and dinks a cheeky panenka into the net. Roars and whoops follow.
MATT GOULD
Oi! That was disrespectful, mate!
REGAN LINNEY
(Laughing)
Just manifesting Saturday, lad!
Eric watches them for a moment — the banter, the energy, the belief. It's starting to feel like a team. He claps his hands sharply three times.
ERIC
Alright — bring it in! Come on!
The players jog toward him, still smiling, catching their breath, some grabbing water bottles, others dragging their feet but listening. Eric paces slowly in front of them like a general surveying his troops.
ERIC (CONT'D)
You feel that?
He points toward the penalty spot.
ERIC (CONT'D)
That confidence. That edge. That's not luck, lads. That's work. That's belief. That's turning this place from a retirement home into a war camp.
Some of the players chuckle, nodding.
ERIC (CONT'D)
Saturday. Dagenham and Redbridge. They think they're coming up here for an easy run. Big-name manager, decent squad, couple of ex-league lads. All the talk is about them. Not us.
JORDAN HULME
Not for long.
ERIC
Exactly. Because we're not here to make up the numbers. We're not here to roll out the carpet. We are going to wreck them.
(Beat)
And when we're done wrecking them... we'll spunk them back together.
The squad bursts into laughter. Hulme clutches his stomach. Even Debbie tries to hold back a grin.
CHRIS CONN-CLARKE
(Grinning)
Gaffer, that's the worst analogy I've ever heard — and I absolutely love it.
ERIC
(Laughing now too)
Good. Remember it. Burn it into your brain. Because when we walk into that tunnel on Saturday, we walk in as a unit. Every pass, every press, every damn sprint — it's for each other. For this badge. For this project.
Eric walks toward the centre of the group.
ERIC (CONT'D)
We hit them hard. Fast. Relentless. No fear, no doubts. And when the final whistle goes, they'll be dragging themselves back down south wondering what the hell just happened.
TADGH McFADDEN
Let's bloody have it!
ERIC
(Voice rising)
Let's turn this league on its head. Let's show them Altrincham aren't here to survive — we're here to dominate.
JOSH LUNDSTRAM
Come onnnn boys!
ERIC
Right. Cool down jog, showers, recovery — you know the drill. And someone get me a better Swiss roll next time, yeah?
JORDAN HULME
You bring the speech, we'll bring the cake!
ERIC
Deal.
As the lads break off, still fired up, the camera lingers on Eric, now standing shoulder to shoulder with Debbie. She nudges him slightly.
DEBBIE
Not bad for a bloke they said was finished, eh?
ERIC
(Smiling)
We're just getting started. The only way they'll take me out of this football club is by killing me.