James arrived at the training ground early the next morning, the crisp autumn air biting at his cheeks. The pitch was still wet from the overnight rain, and the ground staff were finishing their preparations. He watched the groundskeeper, Charlie, carefully tend to the turf, just as he had years ago. Some things at Leeds never changed.
Lost in thought, James didn't hear Eddie Gray walk up beside him.
"Good to see you here early," Eddie remarked, giving him a nod of approval.
"Couldn't sleep much last night," James admitted. "Kept thinking about how to get through to them."
Eddie smiled knowingly. "Respect's not just given, lad. You know that. They'll be testing you, seeing if you've still got that bite."
James nodded. He knew it was coming. As the players trickled onto the pitch, some greeted him with nods, while others remained distant, their skepticism evident. Lee Bowyer and Gary Kelly seemed more interested in their own conversation than in James's presence.
James gathered the group, his voice cutting through the chatter. "Alright, lads, listen up. Today's session is about pressing and quick transitions. We've been sluggish in recovering possession, and that's costing us points. We need to be quicker—more aggressive."
Some players exchanged glances, clearly unsure whether to take him seriously. Bowyer muttered something under his breath, and James decided to address it directly.
"Got something to say, Bowyer?" James asked, keeping his tone firm but calm.
Bowyer shrugged, a hint of a smirk still playing on his lips. "Just wondering if you still remember how to press. You know, since it's been a while."
A few of the lads chuckled, but James didn't flinch. "You're right. It has been a while. But pressing isn't just about running around. It's about timing, reading the game, forcing mistakes. I might not play anymore, but I know the game as well as anyone here."
Silence settled, and James could feel the tension ease just slightly. He blew his whistle. "Alright, pair up. Pressing drills—intensity needs to be through the roof. You give anything less than 100%, and you'll be doing laps until you can't walk."
As the drills began, James moved between the pairs, giving pointers and demanding better effort. He was firm, but not overly harsh. When someone did well, he acknowledged it. When effort lagged, he called it out. Slowly, he could see the players responding—not just to his instructions, but to the way he held them accountable.
After an hour, they moved to small-sided games. James made it competitive, dividing the group into teams and adding stakes: the losing side would be responsible for cleaning the dressing room. It sparked fire in the lads, and the intensity went up a notch.
During one game, Bowyer misjudged a pass, allowing the opposition to break forward. James blew his whistle, stopping the play. He approached Bowyer calmly.
"What did you see there?" James asked.
Bowyer hesitated, clearly annoyed at being singled out. "Thought Kelly was gonna drop deeper."
"And did he?"
"No."
James nodded. "Then you've got to check twice. Don't assume. We can't afford mistakes like that."
To his surprise, Bowyer didn't snap back. Instead, he gave a brief nod and jogged back into position. James could sense a small shift—a crack in the wall between them.
As the session continued, James introduced more tactical work, focusing on maintaining compact shape during pressing. He explained how to create pressure as a unit rather than chasing individually. Players began to grasp the concept, and the drill ran smoother. James couldn't help but feel a surge of pride seeing them adapt.
After the session, James joined Eddie Gray for a cup of tea in the break room. The old coach was in good spirits, clearly impressed.
"Not bad for a first proper session," Eddie said. "They're warming to you. Bowyer, especially. He's a stubborn one."
James smiled. "I figured challenging him directly would either break the ice or make it worse."
Eddie laughed. "Sometimes you've got to show them you're not afraid. Bowyer respects that."
Later that day, James stayed back to watch the reserve match. He was curious about some of the younger lads, especially Harry Kewell and Jonathan Woodgate. As the game progressed, he took notes, impressed by Kewell's creativity and Woodgate's composure. These were players with real potential.
As the final whistle blew, George Graham joined him in the stands. "You're seeing the future there," the manager remarked.
"They've got talent," James replied. "Just need polishing."
Graham gave a rare smile. "Think you're up for it?"
James looked back at the pitch, the young players jogging off, full of energy and ambition. "Definitely."
That evening, James returned to his small flat, exhausted but satisfied. He knew he had a long road ahead, but for the first time, he felt like he was genuinely making progress. Coaching wasn't just about tactics; it was about finding ways to reach the players, earn their trust, and push them beyond their limits.
As he sat by the window, staring out at the dim Leeds skyline, James thought about his own career—the sudden end, the sense of loss. Coaching wasn't the same as playing, but it gave him purpose. He couldn't change the past, but maybe he could shape the future.
One step at a time.