📘 Football Reborn: The Manager from the Future
Chapter 1 – The Last Match
Ethan Ray sat in the crumbling dugout of Ashton Vale FC, his breath fogging in the cold night air. Rain fell in sheets, soaking the pitch and muffling the jeers of the thirty or so fans scattered in the stands. It was the 89th minute, and his team was losing 3-0 to a side that hadn't won in eleven games.
A bitter taste filled his mouth. Not from the loss—he was used to that—but from knowing this was it. The board had already made up their minds. He saw the chairman whispering to a reporter before the match. He saw the club secretary clearing out his desk hours before kickoff. He was being sacked. Again.
Ethan looked down at his soaked clipboard. His notes were smudged, tactics unreadable. But it didn't matter. The players had stopped listening to him weeks ago. No passion. No fire. Just routine drudgery, going through motions until contracts expired and everyone drifted to lower divisions—or off the map entirely.
The final whistle blew, and the referee jogged off the field without a glance. The players didn't look at Ethan. Most walked straight past him. The fans didn't boo. They didn't even care enough to. They just left.
He sat there alone, watching the floodlights flicker.
That night, he drove home in silence, the rain tapping out a funeral march on the windshield. His phone buzzed with a message from his agent.
"It's official. You're out. Press wants a quote. Maybe do a podcast?"
He didn't reply. He didn't care. All his dreams—coaching a Champions League side, leading a national team—had died in backwater stadiums and dressing rooms that smelled of cheap liniment and lost hope.
He took the long road home. One with a sharp bend near the cliffs. He wasn't suicidal. Not really. But a part of him wondered: What if I just disappeared?
The headlights of a truck appeared suddenly around the bend.
Too fast.
Too close.
The crash was instant. No sound, no pain. Just white.
He woke up gasping, drenched in sweat. But he wasn't in a hospital.
He was… in a bedroom.
A familiar one. Posters of Ronaldo Nazário on the wall. A CRT television with a Nintendo 64. An old Nokia phone on the desk.
His heart pounded. He jumped to his feet, stumbled to a mirror.
He stared at a younger version of himself. Hair thicker. Skin tighter. No beard.
"What the hell…?" he whispered.
A digital voice chimed from the corner of the room.
"Welcome, Ethan Ray. Football Manager AI System v1.0 initiating."
He turned sharply. There was a strange tablet on the bed. Not a model he recognized. Sleek, matte black, with glowing blue edges. The screen booted up on its own.
Would you like to begin your journey?
[Yes] [No]
Ethan touched Yes, hands trembling.
Suddenly, streams of data flooded the screen: Player stats from 1970 to 2025. Tactical systems from Guardiola to Klopp. Youth data, scouting maps, GPS tools, sports psychology logs—everything.
He staggered back. "What the hell is this…?"
"You have been given one opportunity," the AI spoke again. "You have returned to the year 1997. Football's golden era. Use your knowledge wisely. Reshape the game. Build your legacy."
Ethan's mind raced. If this was real… Messi would be 10. Ronaldo 12. Neymar just 5.
He could get them all.
He sat down slowly, staring at the tablet like it was a holy relic. A smile spread across his face.
He had nothing to lose.
And everything to win.