At 8:50 a.m. the next morning…
All 24 players of Morecambe's newly assembled squad gathered on the training ground. This was their first official joint session since joining the team.
No one knew who the actual head coach was yet.
But surely—with the club splashing out on so many signings—there must be a big-name manager behind it all, right?
It only made sense. With such an ambitious rebuild, the coach had to match the investment.
So, they waited.
Minutes passed. Then, a young man with a medium build and confident gait walked toward them. He had sharp features and a handsome, composed face. He looked far too young to be anything other than the club owner.
"Very good," the man said with a light smile. "First day of training and no one's late."
The players looked at each other, puzzled but respectful.
"Where's the coach?" Ronaldinho asked, his boyish curiosity on full display.
Naturally, they assumed Juninho D'Alessandro—whom they recognized as the owner—was just here to observe the training session. No one seriously considered him the coach.
How could they? Some players were older than him. A young man in his early twenties, leading a team with seasoned veterans and rising stars? Ridiculous.
Then came the bombshell.
"I am," Juninho said calmly.
Everyone froze.
But after a moment, chuckles spread through the group. Clearly, he was joking. Icebreaker, right?
"Good one, boss."
"Alright, where's the real coach?"
"There's still time before training starts—he's probably on his way."
Juninho looked down at his watch and replied matter-of-factly, "I'm not late."
Then he pointed toward the pitch, his voice now serious.
"Five laps to warm up. Ibrahimović, lead the stretches afterward."
The laughter died.
A sudden chill swept through the squad as realization struck. Wait… is he really the head coach?
Panic and disbelief spread through the players like wildfire.
No way. That's it. We're doomed!
How could a club owner double as the head coach—especially one this young?
Some of the players, especially the three youngsters Juninho had spoken to personally, felt their stomachs drop.
This couldn't be happening.
They had joined Morecambe because of its bold ambitions and financial muscle—convinced the club had a serious plan for the future.
But now it seemed that plan included the owner managing the team himself?
How could he possibly lead them to promotion? Maybe they could scrape into League Two this year—but what then? League One? The Premier League?
The dream suddenly looked shaky.
Juninho, unfazed, glanced around at the frozen group.
"Article 17 of your contracts," he said with a smile. "You're required to follow the manager's training instructions. Unless you want to pay the termination clause, I suggest you start running."
He wasn't angry. He understood their skepticism.
But he had something they didn't: twenty years of future football tactics in his mind.
Once training started, he knew they wouldn't doubt him for long.
Reluctantly, the players began their warm-up jog. Most were still sulking, heads down, mumbling curses under their breath.
The older ones were slightly more composed—they were here to collect a paycheck and extend their careers.
But the younger players had loftier ambitions, and right now, those ambitions felt like they were crashing down.
When the jog was done, Juninho had already set up the training ground with cones and markers.
He clapped his hands and addressed the group.
"When defending, I want a 4-3-3 shape with high pressing. Pressure starts from the front. Don't give the opponent time to think. When we attack, I want tight, fast passing—pull apart their formation, and change rhythm to break through."
His tone was steady. Authoritative.
It was a style that echoed the great Guardiola teams of the future—Barcelona's tiki-taka dominance, Manchester City's tactical perfection.
And now Juninho was bringing that philosophy two decades early—into a world still reliant on long balls and brute strength.
This wasn't just coaching. This was tactical evolution.
"Break into six groups. Three-on-one rondo drills. Let's go."
Despite their sluggish start, the players followed instructions and formed circles.
Don't underestimate the rondo.
With strict requirements, it could dramatically sharpen passing rhythm and movement.
In Europe's elite clubs, it was a staple of tactical training. Not just a warm-up—an art form.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The sound of quick, sharp passes echoed across the pitch.
"Faster!" Juninho barked. "Move your feet. One-touch passes! No ball stops!"
The players looked up, surprised.
His words weren't overly technical, but they weren't amateur either. There was a clear understanding of football here.
Could it be... the boss actually knew what he was doing?
They began to focus more.
Bang bang bang!
The tempo rose. Crisper touches. Sharper movement. The dull rhythm turned into controlled chaos.
Juninho nodded as he paced through the groups, calling out feedback.
"No. 17! Why are you stopping the ball? I said one-touch!"
"Defender—where's the pressure? If you're slow to close in, how will they feel pressure?"
"Speed up! Observe before the ball arrives!"
His voice echoed across the training ground as the tempo climbed higher and higher.
From awkward resistance to full engagement—Juninho was already beginning to win them over.
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