Two days later – Morning at Morecambe Training Base.
Juninho D'Alessandro led his players through a light training session. Just some light movement to keep their bodies loose—nothing strenuous.
On matchday eve, overtraining was taboo. Risking injury or draining fitness before a league game would be amateurish.
After training, Juninho returned to his home near the club. But no matter how calm he looked on the outside, inside, he was buzzing.
This was it.
Despite having the experience of two lifetimes, despite possessing elite tactical knowledge and cutting-edge coaching methods—this was the first time he would officially lead a professional team onto the pitch in a league match.
A milestone moment.
Countless coaches spend years studying tactics, psychology, conditioning—just for this. Just for the honor of standing in the technical area in a sharp suit, guiding their players toward victory, and one day—lifting a trophy.
He exhaled deeply.
Juninho pulled out the tailored suit he'd ordered weeks ago. Perfect fit. Sleek, sharp, commanding. It framed his athletic frame and gave him an aura of quiet dominance.
After dressing and grabbing a quick lunch, he watched the clock tick toward 1:30 PM—kickoff was at 2:00.
At exactly 1:30, he left his flat, hailed a cab, and set off for Morecambe's home ground.
As they drove through the narrow streets, Juninho noticed the streets flooded with red.
Fans in Morecambe jerseys poured in from every direction. Some had painted faces, others waved flags, and many were chanting loudly.
This was the essence of English football—a town's pride tied to its club. No matter the size of the team, if it bore the town's name, the people would back it to the end.
> "Oh-oh-oh-oh-ohhhhhh!"
BOOM! BOOM-BOOM!
Drums and chants grew louder as they neared the stadium. Juninho stepped out at the gate, took a deep breath of the crisp northern air, and walked toward the locker room.
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Inside the Morecambe Locker Room
The players had just returned from warmups, fully kitted and mentally locked in.
Ibrahimović sat with his arms crossed, an expression of mild boredom on his face—but in his eyes, a glint of challenge.
The British Parliamentary League meant nothing to him. But trophies? Records? The Golden Boot?
Those, he would take.
Next to him, Ronaldinho looked relaxed as always, spinning the ball on his finger, while Vidic quietly cracked his knuckles.
Both had similar goals in mind—Ronaldinho wanted to top the assists chart, and Vidic had his sights on Player of the Season.
At that moment, the door opened.
Juninho stepped in, suited, focused.
"Boss."
"Good afternoon, coach."
The room stood and greeted him in unison.
One month ago, they were skeptical. But now?
Juninho's unique Brazilian tactical system and innovative drills had turned this team into believers.
The fear from before was long gone—replaced by respect. And trust.
Juninho smiled and waved them back to their seats.
"I know most of you are already confident in the tactics we've worked on," he began, his voice calm but firm. "Still, this is your first real match using them. I expect a few nerves. That's normal."
"But today, don't focus on winning or losing. Focus on execution. Get the shape right. Move the ball. Play your roles."
Of course, he knew full well—with these players, in this league—victory was inevitable.
This was just about discipline.
"Understood, coach."
"We've got this!"
"No mistakes today, boss. We're ready!"
The locker room buzzed with energy.
A few moments later, a middle-aged man in a referee's outfit stepped into the room.
"Coach, please submit the starting lineup. Players, line up at the tunnel."
Juninho handed over the list—prepared days in advance. He already knew the pecking order.
Ibrahimović. Ronaldinho. Vidic.
The core spine of the squad. Surrounding them were experienced veterans from League One and League Two—solid, dependable.
Soon, the eleven selected players stood ready in the tunnel.
Then—onto the pitch at Morecambe Town Stadium.
> "OHHHHHHHHHH!!"
"RONALDINHO! RONALDINHO!"
"IBRA! IBRA! IBRA!"
"VIDIC! VIDIC! VIDIC!"
The fans exploded in celebration as they saw their new star signings.
In the stands, supporters roared and waved scarves. These weren't just names anymore—they were heroes in red.
On the pitch, the players took their places for the formal pre-match ceremony.
On the touchline, Juninho stood motionless, eyes sharp, surveying the field.
A few fans nearby noticed.
"Oi, who's that lad in the suit? That the new owner?"
"Looks too young to be just an owner…"
"Wait—is he the coach?!"
Morecambe's supporters started whispering among themselves.
They'd heard about a new owner, sure—but not this. Not that the new boss would take over as manager too.
And certainly not someone who looked… Brazilian? South American? Young, for sure. No sign of the old gaffer either.
As the captains met for the coin toss and kickoff approached, Juninho stepped up to the technical area and gave instructions to his staff.
The murmurs grew louder.
Could this young foreigner really be their new head coach?
Was this bold move the future—or a mistake?
Then—
> BEEP!
The referee's whistle cut through the noise.
The first match of the 2000 British Parliamentary League had officially begun!
Morecambe's opponents, Feld FC, kicked off in white kits. The hometown side, in classic red, pressed forward with intensity.
For now, the crowd put aside their questions about Juninho.
The game had started—and already, it looked like something new was brewing on that pitch.
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