Harbinger Of Glory

"And that's the final whistle. Another miserable night for Manchester United."

The commentator's voice crackled through television sets across the country, but inside Old Trafford, the sound was drowned out by a wave of boos. 

The scoreboard told the story—Manchester United 0-2 Brentford. Another defeat. Another lifeless performance.

"It's their seventh league defeat of the season, and we're only in December," the co-commentator chimed in.

 "Thirteenth in the table—this is a crisis, no other way to put it."

Under the harsh glow of the floodlights, the United players walked off the pitch with their heads down.

There was no fight left in them, no anger—just resignation.

 Erik ten Hag stood motionless near the touchline, arms crossed, jaw clenched. He had seen this before. Too many times.

The fans, wrapped in thick coats and red scarves, began filing out of the stadium, their footsteps heavy against the concrete steps.

Their breath fogged in the frigid December air as they murmured among themselves. Some spoke in hushed disbelief. Others had long abandoned subtlety.

"I don't even recognize this club anymore."

"Spent all that money, and we're worse than last year."

"Thirteenth. Bloody thirteenth. We're closer to relegation than the Champions League spots."

A middle-aged man pulled his gloves tighter, shaking his head. "Ferguson would be ashamed to see this."

His friend scoffed, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Forget Ferguson, mate. Even Moyes would've done better than this lot."

Down the steps, a younger fan in his twenties was visibly fuming, his breath heavy as he turned to his mate.

 "You know what the worst part is? I don't even feel angry anymore. I'm just tired." His friend, equally deflated, let out a bitter laugh.

 "We used to expect titles. Now we're praying to beat Brentford at home. Bloody Brentford."

Around them, the atmosphere was thick with disappointment. Fathers consoled their sons, telling them that things would get better.

Old-timers, who had seen the glory days, muttered about how the club had lost its identity. 

Others simply walked in silence, the cold biting at their faces, matching the numbness they felt inside.

Outside the stadium, the streets of Manchester glowed under the orange streetlights, but the mood was anything but warm.

 The pubs nearby were already filling up with fans drowning their sorrows.

Talk shows and social media would soon be flooded with debates over what had gone wrong, who was to blame, and whether Ten Hag had any answers left.

For the players, it was another game to forget.

 For the fans, it was another night of questioning how long their club could keep sinking before it hit rock bottom.

....

The air inside Carrington's academy training ground was thick with speculation. 

The morning after yet another first-team disaster, murmurs rippled through the U18s squad like wildfire.

"He's desperate, mate. He has to be."

"You think it's true? Ten Hag looking at the academy?"

"Has to be. The club's a mess, and nothing else is working."

In the players' lounge, small groups of academy hopefuls huddled together, whispering about the latest rumor. 

Erik ten Hag was looking for fresh blood—academy players—to throw into the senior team. 

It sounded unbelievable, but with United drowning in mid-table mediocrity, anything felt possible.

Some saw it as an opportunity. Others saw it as a sign of just how bad things had gotten.

"No way he actually picks from us, though," 

one player muttered, shaking his head. "He'll just promote a few of the U21s and call it a day."

"You think so? Because I heard from one of the coaches that he's looking deeper than usual. Apparently, he wants someone with fight. Someone different."

At that, a few of them chuckled.

"We're all different, aren't we? That's the problem. Too many different styles, no proper team identity."

A stocky midfielder leaned back in his chair, smirking. 

"I wouldn't mind stepping up. Half the first team plays like cowards. I'd show them what real aggression looks like."

His friend snorted.

 "Yeah, and the moment you misplace a pass, Bruno Fernandes will have your head on a stick."

Laughter filled the room, but beneath the jokes was an unspoken truth—this wasn't just mindless gossip. 

There was fear and excitement lurking beneath the surface.

If the rumors were true, someone from here—one of them—could be playing under the lights of Old Trafford sooner than expected.

Some dreamed about it.

 Some dreaded it.

And then there were those, like Leo Calderon, who had long stopped thinking about the first team at all.

He sat in the far corner of the lounge, silent, watching. He wasn't part of the conversation, but he heard every word.

"Ten Hag wants someone different."

Leo scoffed under his breath. He wasn't different. 

Not in any way that mattered.

If the manager really was searching for new talent, he wouldn't be looking for someone like him.

Their daydreams were cut short when the sharp voice of Coach Harris echoed through the lounge.

"Enough talking, lads. Training starts in five. If you're not on the pitch by then, don't bother showing up at all."

A collective groan followed as the players grabbed their boots and shuffled out toward the training ground.

 Some were still whispering, their excitement barely dulled by the interruption.

"Imagine getting called up, though."

"First thing I'd do is nutmeg Casemiro in training."

"Yeah, and the next thing you'd do is wake up in the hospital."

More laughter. More excitement. The idea of playing under Ten Hag was thrilling, even if it was just a fantasy.

But for Leo Calderón, it was just another day.

As the team jogged onto the frost-bitten grass, he moved at the back of the pack, unnoticed. 

The others had their cliques—the strongest, the fastest, the loudest—but Leo had none of those things.

He was a ghost.

Training began with the usual intensity. Rondos, possession drills, high-tempo pressing exercises.

Coach Harris wanted the ball moving fast, the team playing aggressive football.

 The stronger players thrived, using their speed and power to dominate the drills.

 The technically gifted ones shone too, their sharp touches and quick turns earning nods of approval.

Leo?

Leo was the one getting yelled at.

"Calderón, move the ball faster!" Harris barked as Leo hesitated for half a second too long.

A split-second was all it took. The moment he shifted his body to pass, a teammate—one of the bigger midfielders—lunged in, bodying him off the ball with ease.

 Leo hit the ground hard, the cold earth biting into his palms.

Laughter. Again.

"Come on, Leo," someone scoffed. "You go down too easy, man."

"You waiting for an invitation to pass?" another added.

Leo gritted his teeth, pushing himself up as the drill continued without him.

 No one helped. No one waited. 

He was used to it.

For every misplaced pass, every weak challenge, and every moment of hesitation, there was another bark from Harris.

"Calderón, stop playing scared!"

"Stronger on the ball, for God's sake!"

"Again! And do it properly this time!"

The training ground wasn't just a pitch for Leo. It was a battlefield. And every day, he lost