Ethan stood on the sideline, a silent, helpless observer to the glorious chaos.

He had no instructions.

What could he possibly say?

"Lads, could you please remember which goal we're shooting at?"

Or

"Kenny, the referee is not a valid passing option!"

His team was playing with the tactical discipline of a herd of cats that had just discovered catnip.

The Burton Albion players, to their credit, looked almost embarrassed to be taking part.

They would tackle an Apex player, win the ball, and then look around, waiting for the inevitable, ridiculous mistake that would gift it right back to them.

The third, fourth, and fifth goals had been a comedy of errors so profound that even the home fans didn't seem to be celebrating anymore; they were just laughing, a sound of pure, disbelieving amusement echoing around the stadium.

The sixth goal was the pièce de résistance, the cherry on top of the disaster sundae.

It started with Angus Gunn, the Apex goalkeeper.

Having seen his team completely lose their minds, he clearly decided that logic was no longer a valid strategy.

He received a simple back-pass, and with a Burton striker jogging casually towards him, he didn't clear the ball. Instead, he did a little drag-back, a move he had probably seen Emre do in training.

It did not work.

The striker, who looked as surprised as anyone, simply stuck out a foot, took the ball off the keeper's toes, and walked it into the empty net.

6-1.

Angus Gunn just sat on the turf, his head in his hands, a picture of profound, existential regret.

"I... I think I need to go home," the commentator's voice was a weak, broken whisper. "I think football has broken me. Angus Gunn, a fine professional goalkeeper, has just attempted a Cruyff turn in his own six-yard box. It has, predictably, ended in disaster. It is 6-1. I am recommending that any children watching at home be sent to bed immediately. This is no longer a sporting contest. This is a psychological horror film."

Just when it seemed the humiliation couldn't get any deeper, Apex United scored.

It was the 88th minute. The ball broke to the new S-Rank defender, James McCarthy, deep inside his own half.

He looked up and saw a sea of green shirts ahead of him.

His teammates were jogging, their spirits broken.

So, McCarthy just started to run.

He wasn't a graceful dribbler like Emre. He was a defender. H

e ran with the clumsy, powerful momentum of a runaway boulder. He bundled his way past the first midfielder, who was so surprised he forgot to tackle. He knocked the ball ten yards ahead of himself, ran onto it, and shouldered his way past a second player. He was now at the halfway line, a rampaging, out-of-control center-back on a mission.

He kept going. He beat a third player through sheer, awkward determination. He was now on the edge of the Burton box. He had no idea what to do. He had never been in this part of the pitch in his life. He looked up, saw three of his own strikers standing still, and just closed his eyes and kicked the ball as hard as he could.

He toe-poked it. It was an ugly, desperate, schoolyard shot.

But it took a wicked, comical deflection off a defender's backside, looped high into the air, sailed over the stranded goalkeeper's head, and dropped into the back of the net.

6-2.

McCarthy just stood there, looking at his own feet as if they were alien appendages.

His teammates didn't even have the energy to celebrate.

They just patted him on the back with a look that said, "Well, that was weird."

The final whistle blew a moment later, a sweet, merciful release.

The post-match press conference was a surreal affair. The journalists looked at Ethan with a mixture of pity and morbid curiosity, like scientists observing a very interesting new species of lab rat.

"Ethan," the first journalist began, his voice laced with an almost comical level of gravity.

"A 6-2 defeat at home. What can you even say after a performance like that?"

Ethan leaned into the microphone. He wasn't angry. He wasn't sad. He was just... bemused.

"Well," he said with a small, wry smile. "First of all, I'd like to apologize to any fans of tactical, organized, sensible football. You must have been horrified."

A few chuckles rippled through the room.

"Look," he continued, his tone becoming a little more serious, but still light. "For fifteen minutes in the second half, my team's collective footballing brain went on a brief, unscheduled trip to another dimension. It was inexplicable, it was calamitous, and frankly, it was quite funny. We were brilliant for 45 minutes, a disaster for 15, and a plucky underdog for the rest. It was a rollercoaster. We won't be letting it happen again."

"There are already calls from some pundits for you to be sacked," another journalist pressed. "They're saying you've lost control of the dressing room."

Ethan just laughed, a genuine, hearty laugh. "I haven't lost control of the dressing room. For fifteen minutes, the dressing room lost control of itself. There's a difference. I have one hundred percent faith in my players. We are a young, passionate, and sometimes ridiculously chaotic team. But we are still top of the league. And after a lesson like this? We're only going to get stronger. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a goalkeeper who I need to enroll in some dribbling lessons."

He walked out, leaving the press corps in a state of stunned, amused silence.

He logged off, the virtual world fading away.

He felt drained, but strangely calm.

The disaster had been so total, so absolute, that it had looped all the way back around to being funny.

He sat up in the pod, his eyes falling on the single, clinical, blue-colored notification he had received at the end of the match.

[SYSTEM ANOMALY DETECTED: 'Team Complacency' modifier triggered.]

[Recommendation: A significant squad overhaul focusing on players with high 'Professionalism' and 'Leadership' attributes is advised to prevent future occurrences.]

He looked at the message, then thought about his wild, brilliant, chaotic team. He thought about Kerrigan's showboating, Gibson's brain-fade, and Gunn's attempted Cruyff turn.

The system, the cold, hard logic of the game, was telling him to sell his players.

To replace his chaotic, human, flawed team with a squad of sensible, professional robots.

He thought about the joy of the Cardiff comeback. He thought about the nine-man miracle against Plymouth. He thought about the sheer, unadulterated fun of the last few weeks.

A slow, defiant smile spread across his face.

"No chance," he whispered to the empty room. "You can keep your professionalism. I'll take the chaos."

He had a team of lovable, brilliant idiots. And he wouldn't trade them for the world.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.