Simeone's words made Arthur and Rivaldo fall into a deep, simultaneous silence. The Argentine's passionate, off-the-cuff recommendation had hit a nerve, and both senior coaches were instantly thrown into analysis.
To be completely honest, if Simeone hadn't mentioned it today, Arthur would have almost completely forgotten about young Paul Pogba. The transfer had been executed swiftly and efficiently over the summer: Arthur had asked Ron Allento finalize the deal, brought Pogba to Thorp Arch, and immediately handed him over to Thomas Tuchel, the youth team director. After that, focused entirely on the first team's relentless Premier League and Champions League schedule, Arthur hadn't had a single chance to meet with the young Frenchman. The player had simply faded into the administrative background.
Hearing Simeone's high praise, however, was genuinely surprising. Arthur had worked with Simeone for over two years now, and he had long ago discarded the stereotype of the aggressive, fiery Argentine. In reality, Simeone was often relaxed and, outside of the technical area, prone to a slightly goofy humor. But when it came to his professional work—scouting, tactical analysis, and player evaluation—he was methodical, rigorous, and rarely wrong. The fact that Simeonehad sought out the U17 training session in his free time and was now speaking about Pogba with such fervor was the ultimate validation of Arthur's decision to bring Tuchel in as the youth training director. The system was clearly working, producing talent that even caught the attention of the first-team coaching staff.
Arthur couldn't suppress the excitement sparking in his eyes. He looked at Simeone, a genuine, appreciative smile spreading across his face. "Diego, you're better than me, you really are," he declared. "You've genuinely reminded me of a major piece we already own. For that, I absolutely must reward you!"
Simeone, caught completely off-guard by the sincere praise, scratched the back of his head, looking slightly embarrassed. "Hehehe, Boss. You don't have to give me too much reward. Just a little extra bonus in this month's paycheck will do, you know, for the initiative."
Arthur's smile turned wickedly conspiratorial. "Oh, no, no, no. I have a much better reward in mind. Here's what we'll do: Ferreira will accompany me to the youth facilities to see Thomas after lunch. We'll go and see what your midfield core looks like." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, his eyes gleaming with mischievous intent. "As for Diego, I will reward you by making you take full charge of the team's training session this afternoon! This afternoon, you are the Head Coach of the first team. If anyone disobeys your discipline, you report it to me, and I will back you completely!"
Simeone's jaw dropped, his face turning an immediate, horrified shade of pale. Training the first team? Alone? That's not a reward, that's punishment! The entire squad, filled with superstars, egos, and veterans, would treat his session like a joke. He'd be doing the dirty, exhausting work while the two highest-ranking coaches went to watch teenagers play!
The Youth Team Visit
After a few minutes of good-natured mockery aimed at the now-despondent Simeone, the three coaches returned to Arthur's office to rest briefly and grab a necessary cup of espresso.
As the time approached for the youth team's afternoon training session, Arthur and Rivaldo stood up. With a shared look of amusement at Simeone's wounded, resentful gaze, they left the office, walking toward the academy training ground while chatting and laughing about the joys of delegation. Simeone, meanwhile, began nervously sketching out a high-intensity, completely un-fun training drill for the first team.
Before they even stepped onto the pitch perimeter, Arthur and Rivaldo were greeted by the sound of furious, full-throated roaring. It was the unmistakable, passion-fueled voice of Thomas Tuchel.
"Eden! What are you doing!? Why are you standing still!? If you don't run and create space, how is Pogba supposed to pass the ball to you!?" Tuchel shrieked, his voice cracking with exasperation.
A moment later, he pivoted his focus to another player. "And you, Romelu! How many times have I told you to practice shooting after training! Pogba just fed you a perfect cake, and you couldn't chew it because of your tooth decay! Finish the chances!"
His commands then focused on the young midfield director himself. "Pogba! You need to focus too! Don't get drawn into physical battles—play to the advantage of your footwork! Try to pass the ball with one foot and keep it moving!"
Finally, a frustrated shout toward the flank. "Angel! Play to your speed and delicate footwork! Sometimes you have to rush forward boldly after receiving the ball from your teammates! If you can only pass backward, then I suggest you stop playing as a winger and apply to be a defensive midfielder!"
Even from a distance, the intensity was palpable. It was clear that even though the youth team was riding high, sitting at the top of their league, Tuchel was far from satisfied, relentlessly driving the children to reach impossible standards.
The children on the pitch immediately recognized Arthur and Rivaldo. Inevitably, the appearance of the club owner and the first-team head coach, accompanied by one of his top assistants, caused a noticeable ripple of commotion and excitement across the training ground. These young players were extremely familiar with the inner workings of the club and knew what this visit meant.
What does it mean when the team's head coach and owner visit the youth training ground during a session?
The answer was immediate, electric, and universally understood: They are scouting players for promotion to the first team!
Suddenly, the drills became faster, the passes became sharper, and the tackles had more commitment. Every young player felt a burst of adrenaline and expectation. They were supposed to be focused entirely on Tuchel's instructions, but they couldn't help but nervously glance in the direction where Arthur and Rivaldo were now approaching the pitch, their hearts thumping with the sudden, overwhelming hope of a call-up.
*****
Tuchel was in the middle of a guttural, European-level rant about pressing intensity when he noticed the subtle strangeness affecting his players. Their usual intensity had suddenly fractured; every eye was flicking nervously toward the periphery of the pitch. He spun around, ready to chew out whoever was disrupting his session, and found himself face-to-face with a sight that instantly turned his stormy scowl into a welcoming, solar smile: Arthur.
"Hi, Thomas," Arthur greeted warmly, extending a hand. Rivaldo nodded respectfully beside him.
Hearing the voice, Tuchel's face, which had been contorted in Germanic intensity moments before, cleared immediately. He smiled broadly and greeted his visitors. "Boss! Ferreira! What a pleasant surprise! Why are you here? You're interrupting my work!" he added, though his tone was entirely complimentary.
"We came to see you, Thomas," Arthur said, cutting straight to the point without much preamble. He knew Tuchel appreciated efficiency. "I'm likely going to sell Wesley Sneijder in the January window. Ferreira rightly pointed out that with the FA Cup, the League, and the Champions League knockouts approaching, the first team's workload is about to become ridiculous. We need another rotating attacking midfielder for depth."
Tuchel's eyes narrowed slightly in understanding. "So you want to promote an attacking midfielder from the youth team to the first team squad?"
"Exactly," Arthur confirmed, careful not to mention Simeone's specific recommendation yet. "Before I came down, Ferreira and I were planning to scour the market during the winter window, but Diego suggested we look here first. What's your candid assessment, Thomas? Are any of your lads ready to seriously stand on the first team's bench and actually contribute?"
Following Arthur's question, Tuchel subconsciously turned his head, sweeping his gaze across the chaotic training ground. After a brief search, his eyes locked onto a tall, lanky figure weaving past tackles with impossibly long legs and a ball seemingly glued to his ankle: Pogba.
"Boss, Pogba can absolutely do it," Tuchel said with immediate, firm conviction, turning back to Arthur.
And, in an effort to head off any possible assumption of favoritism—a suspicion Arthur never would have harbored, but which Tuchel's rigorous German mind demanded he address—he quickly continued: "Don't worry, I'm not recommending him for any personal reason! This kid is genuinely the most talented player here. His footwork is incredibly delicate, his technical skill is outstanding, and his overall vision and football IQ are exceptional when playing the game. His primary drawback is physical; his stamina is lacking, and he needs to bulk up."
He concluded with a practical assessment: "But if it's just for occasional rotation in less important League games and early FA Cup matches, he is definitely capable. His passes are already at a first-team level."
Arthur knew and trusted the German's rigor. He smiled and waved away the unnecessary defense. "Thomas, don't bother with the justifications. I trust you 100%. If you say he's ready, he's ready."
He then looked back out at the field. "What drill are they running right now? Is it tactical?"
"Yes," Tuchel nodded. "A full 11-a-side match focused on rapid transition from midfield to attack."
A malicious, mischievous smile spread across Arthur's face. This was too good an opportunity to pass up. He pointed directly at Pogba, who was currently dribbling the ball with effortless flair.
"Okay, here's what we'll do," Arthur instructed, his voice low and firm. "Switch Pogba immediately over to the substitute team's side. Then, you go tell both teams that whoever wins this next segment of the training match will get a double salary bonus this month."
Tuchel's jaw dropped, and he broke into a genuine, albeit bitter, smile. "Boss, you want those kids to tackle Pogba until he collapses! I know these lads. If you mention doubling their salary, they will play like it's the Champions League final! They will fight desperately and put in tackles they wouldn't dare attempt otherwise."
"You can't look at it that way, Thomas," Arthur corrected, shaking his head gently. "Didn't you just say his physical strength and stamina are lacking? I have to see exactly how he handles the ball when facing overwhelming pressure. This is the test."
Arthur's voice became serious. "If he can't even stand the intensity of a desperation-fueled youth team pressure session, how can I dare let him step onto a first-team pitch? The intensity of the Premier League game is famous. The referees allow a far higher threshold for contact. If Pogba can't calmly deal with the opponent's aggressive pressure on the pitch, the best-case scenario is that he causes us to lose possession in a dangerous area."
He paused, looking directly at Tuchel to ensure the gravity of his words was understood. "The worst-case scenario, Thomas, is that he goes up against one of those rough, experienced Premier League defenders—a man like Alves—who doesn't care about a young kid's reputation. If he's not ready for the pressure and he's accidentally injured, the impact on his entire career could be catastrophic. This is the only way to know if he's physically and mentally prepared for the next level."
Tuchel finally nodded, completely convinced. The logic was cold, but irrefutable. This wasn't a coaching drill; it was a brutal stress test for promotion.