The training ground whistle blew. But this time, it was Alex blowing it.
It was ten years later. Alex was 38.
He wasn't running anymore. His knees had finally said "enough" after a career that spanned two decades (and three lifetimes).
He was standing on the sideline. He wore a tracksuit with the initials AF on the chest.
"Press!" Alex shouted. "Don't let them breathe! Squeeze the space!"
The Arsenal Under-18s were training. They were young, hungry, and terrified of their manager.
Not because he was mean. But because he was The Professor. The legend. The man who saw the game in code.
"Coach," a young striker named Ben said, panting. "We are tired. Can we stop?"
"Tired is a state of mind," Alex said. "Fatigue is just chemistry. Lactic acid. Push through it."
"He sounds like a robot," Ben whispered to his teammate.
"A robot who won five Ballon d'Ors," the teammate whispered back.
Mark was there too. Obviously.
Mark was the Fitness Coach. (The irony was not lost on anyone).
