Title: "Welcome to Moss Lane"
Setting: Outside Moss Lane Stadium, Altrincham – Matchday, 2:00PM
(The Dagenham & Redbridge team coach turns onto Moss Lane and pulls up alongside the away end as fans queue at the turnstiles. A few supporters spot the coach and start a light chorus of jeers and sarcastic claps. Steam rises from the vents as the door hisses open. Inside, the team are silent, focused. Manager BEN STREVENS rises from his seat at the front, clapping his hands twice to get everyone's attention.
A couple of ALTRINCHAM FANS, mid-50s, wearing red scarves and drinking tea, eye the Dagenham coach suspiciously.
ALTY FAN #1
(laughs)
Here come the East End boys. Wonder if they brought kneepads for the muddy pitch?
ALTY FAN #2
They'll need more than kneepads, mate. Dempsey's got our lads flying.
BEN STREVENS now stands in the aisle, facing the players who are all seated in rows. Some have headphones around their necks, some already wearing full kit under trackies. His tone is sharp, full of intensity.
BEN STREVENS
Right. Eyes up, all of you.
(beat)
This… this is what it's all about.
He gestures out the coach window to the modest Moss Lane, where fans are filtering in, turnstiles clicking steadily.
BEN STREVENS
Look out there. That ain't Wembley. That's not Elland Road. That's a backstreet stadium built in bricks and stubborn pride. You know what this place screams?
PLAYER #1
…History?
BEN STREVENS
(smirks)
Delusion.
(beat)
1979. 1981. That's when they last made any bloody noise in this division. Two titles back when people were still smoking on the bench and eating pies for pre-match warm-ups. Since then? One long ride on the relegation rollercoaster.
PLAYER #2
They've got Dempsey now though, gaffer…
BEN STREVENS
Exactly. That's why I'm saying this. Everyone's buying the fairy tale. Dempsey, the continental genius, comes back to English soil like he's King Arthur, sword in hand, ready to save a sinking club.
(leans in)
Well guess what? We're not part of his story. This is our chapter.
He points to each player as he speaks.
BEN STREVENS
You—run them into the ground. You—press that backline like they owe you money. You—win every second ball like your life depends on it. Because this league? This league doesn't reward fairy tales. It rewards fighters. Dirty boots. Gritty wins. Ugly goals.
NICKY LATHAM
(from the side)
They think we're coming here to admire the scenery. Let's bulldoze it.
BEN STREVENS
Exactly. You're not just playing Altrincham today. You're playing expectation.
(points out the window again)
See that lot chanting by the turnstile? They believe Dempsey's the answer to all their problems. That he's going to take 'em up the leagues, put 'em back in the papers, make 'em proud again.
(beat)
He looks at the team coldly.
BEN STREVENS
Make them regret it.
The Dagenham players step off the coach with purpose. No music. No selfies. Just boots clunking onto tarmac, bags slung over shoulders. A couple of local kids shout cheeky comments, but none bite.
Ben leads the way, a man on a mission. Basic. Tight walls. Low ceilings. A chalkboard with the Altrincham XI already listed. The sound of home fans rising outside creates a distant rumble. The squad begins to change swiftly. Laces tightening. Shirts pulled over heads. Tape wrapped. Silence, except for the mechanical rhythm of preparation.
BEN STREVENS
(pacing)
You don't just play this game. You take it. You impose yourself from minute one. They want to pass it round like they're playing in La Liga? Break it up. Shatter it. Turn this into a storm.
NICKY LATHAM
(pinning up a set piece plan)
They're weak defending second phases. Let's test their reactions early.
BEN STREVENS
(shouts)
And if you score—
(beat)
Don't celebrate like it's a miracle. Celebrate like it was always coming.
Outside, the stadium announcer's voice echoes faintly:
ANNOUNCER (O.S.)
"Welcome both sets of supporters to the J. Davidson Stadium this afternoon…"
Ben claps his hands hard, bringing the team to attention one last time.
BEN STREVENS
Let's remind Eric Dempsey this ain't Europe. This is the National League. Our league.
NICKY LATHAM
(quiet, calm)
Nice little crowd out there. Full house for Dempsey's big home debut. Got the club shop printing t-shirts already?
BEN STREVENS
(scoffs)
Probably. Bet they've even got a "Welcome to the Renaissance" banner in the stands.
(beat)
Shame we're about to burn it.
NICKY LATHAM
(grins)
You really don't like him, do you?
BEN STREVENS
It's not personal.
(beat)
It's what he represents. This whole idea that you can swan into this league with a UEFA Pro Licence and a decent blazer and suddenly redefine football. Like he's gonna reinvent the wheel here.
(beat, intense)
This league isn't about possession triangles and post-match poetry. It's about winning battles.
(pause)
And today? We turn this into a war.
The sound of chanting from the home end starts to echo louder through the walls. "Come on Alty! Come on Alty!"
NICKY LATHAM
You know how he'll play it.
(gesturing to the tactics board)
Two fullbacks high, holding mid sits, tries to dictate the tempo. They'll want to control the first 20. Suck the life out of us. Get the crowd singing.
BEN STREVENS
(nods)
Yeah. We don't give 'em 20 seconds.
(beat)
First whistle, we press their centre-halves like hounds. I want their goalkeeper punting it into row Z inside five minutes. Make Dempsey twitch. Make him realise he's not at Bologna anymore.
NICKY LATHAM
And if they nick an early one?
BEN STREVENS
Then we do what they can't: dig deep and get nasty.
(grins darkly)
I've seen better teams than his crumble when they get a proper National League welcome. One ugly goal. One dodgy free kick. One rattled manager barking instructions to players who stop listening.
Ben walks to the centre of the changing room, surveying his team — now fully kitted up, taping their wrists, smacking each other on the shoulders for motivation. The atmosphere is hot and tight.
BEN STREVENS
(to Nicky, low)
They've dressed this game up like a coronation. Dempsey's first home match. Big name. New project. Big ideas.
NICKY LATHAM
Yeah. A story waiting to be written.
BEN STREVENS
(smiling coldly)
So let's rip the last page out.
Ben steps forward into the centre of the players.
BEN STREVENS
Right, boys. Here's the truth.
(beat)
They think you're the warm-up act. The sideshow. They think this is some scripted Dempsey dreamland where the football's pure, the storylines are clean, and the visitors lie down and play their part.
(pause)
You know what we do to fairy tales?
PLAYERS (in unison)
We kill 'em.
BEN STREVENS
(nods)
You've got 90 minutes to drag them back to reality. Do it fast. Do it hard. And don't you dare take your foot off their throat until the whistle goes.