The Next Big Thing
Chapter 104: Bench Talks III

Chapter 104: Bench Talks III

"Who do you think is the most important player today?"

The question hit David like a bolt of lightning. It wasn’t the kind of opening he had expected from his new coach. Ole Gunnar Solskjær stood before him, his expression calm but probing, as if testing not just David’s footballing knowledge but his perspective on the game itself.

David’s chest tightened. He wanted to answer well—no, he needed to. This was his chance to make an impression, to solidify the praise Ole had already showered on him. Despite the coach’s repeated assurances about his importance to the team, David understood the hierarchy. A coach held immense power, and earning their trust was as vital as performing on the pitch.

He couldn’t help but think of his former coach. The bond they’d shared, the understanding and mutual respect—it wasn’t something that came easily. Deep down, David hoped he could forge something similar here. But for now, all he had was this moment, this question, and the weight of expectation.

His eyes wandered to the field. Players darted across the grass, a symphony of movement and precision. Bruno Fernandes caught his attention first, scanning the pitch with his signature intensity, always searching for the next decisive pass. Then there was Rodri, orchestrating the tempo like a maestro, dictating the rhythm with ease. Kevin De Bruyne’s sharp, incisive passes sliced through the air, while Rashford and Martial made their runs with electric pace and determination.

David watched them closely, his mind racing. Each one had their unique brilliance, their irreplaceable role. How could he single out just one?

A burst of laughter broke his concentration. Turning his head, he spotted Juan Mata chuckling nearby, his warm smile lighting up the moment.

"What kind of question is that, boss?" Mata said, his tone light and teasing as he addressed Ole. "You trying to mess with the kid or what?"

David managed a small smile, the tension easing slightly. But Ole’s eyes remained fixed on him, waiting for an answer.

"I know why I’m asking the question, Mata," Ole said, his tone resolute, his gaze steady.

David, who had thought he was off the hook, smiled awkwardly. The serious expression on Ole’s face caught him off guard. He was so used to the coach’s laughing, carefree, almost overzealous demeanor that this shift in mood felt unsettling. Shifting uncomfortably, David decided to play it safe.

"Uh... all the players on the pitch are important," he said cautiously, choosing the easiest answer he could think of. He didn’t want to risk saying the wrong thing.

Mata, however, only laughed harder, his laughter echoing across the home bench. From behind them, Mason Greenwood let out a scoff, his voice cutting through the air.

"Are you blind?" Mason said loudly, his tone laced with condescension. "It’s Bruno. Look at the way he’s creating chances and breaking City’s defense line. He’s the one who set up that first chance. It’s obvious!"

David felt his face twitch in irritation, Mason’s dismissive tone striking a nerve. He wasn’t one to back down. Turning to face the young player, he replied with measured confidence.

"If that’s the case," David began, his voice sharp, "then the best player should be Martial or Pogba. They’re the ones who actually scored the goals. What good are all those ’chances’ if they don’t end up in the back of the net?"

Mason bristled, his brows furrowing as he crossed his arms. "What are you even saying?" he shot back, raising his voice. "Without Bruno, that first goal wouldn’t even be possible. He’s the one who made that crazy pass to set it up!"

David stood his ground, his voice firm as he responded, "And without Martial making the run and burying the chance, the goal wouldn’t have happened either." He crossed his arms, mirroring Mason’s stance. "So, tell me—what’s more important? The pass or the finish?"

The tension between the two hung in the air, their teammates glancing nervously between them as Ole watched silently, his expression unreadable.

Ole leaned back slightly, his eyes still sharp. Then, with an air of calm authority, he shifted his attention. "Mata, who is it?" he asked, addressing the older, more experienced player.

At once, David and Greenwood turned their eyes to Mata, their gazes intense, expectant. Both young players were hoping, perhaps even silently willing, that Mata would validate their opinions.

Mata, catching the energy radiating from them, simply smiled—a knowing, playful grin. "Well," he began, his tone light and easy, "I didn’t really pay that much attention to the match, to be honest. The bench was just way too fun today." His smile widened as the younger players groaned in frustration.

"But," he continued, dragging the word out for effect, "if I had to pick..." Mata paused, his mischievous eyes darting between David and Greenwood. Both of them leaned forward, hanging onto his every word, as if getting closer would somehow reveal his answer faster.

"I’d choose..." Mata drew it out further, his voice teasing, watching them squirm. Greenwood’s foot tapped impatiently, while David clenched his jaw, his frustration mounting.

Mata chuckled at their reactions, clearly enjoying the moment. "Hmm," he said, pretending to ponder it deeply. Then, finally relenting, he said a name that neither of them had expected—nor could they believe.

"I’d pick... Aaron Wan-Bissaka."

The words hung in the air for a second, disbelief etched across David and Greenwood’s faces.

"Wan-Bissaka?!" Greenwood blurted, his voice a mix of shock and protest.

"What?!"

Even David, who had been trying to mask his emotions, couldn’t help but furrow his brows.

"Wan-Bissaka? Really?!"

Mata’s grin only widened.

"Yes, really."

David exchanged a baffled look with Greenwood, both of them visibly stunned. They had clearly underestimated just how much of a wildcard Mata could be.

Before either of them could voice their disbelief, Ole’s calm voice cut through the air.

"Thank you, Mata," he said simply, his tone carrying an air of finality.

David’s head snapped to the side, his mouth slightly agape.

"What? He was correct?" he blurted out, his voice tinged with incredulity.

Ole met David’s wide-eyed stare and gave a measured nod.

"Yes, he was."

David’s thoughts spiraled. Wan-Bissaka? He couldn’t believe it. Greenwood looked just as shocked, his arms falling to his sides as if he’d been physically deflated.

Ole began speaking, and as soon as he struck a familiar pose, David felt a pang of recognition.

Time for a lecture, he thought wryly, though he kept his expression neutral.

Funny enough, Ole’s body posture mirrored his father’s whenever he was about to dive into something serious or offer advice.

"David," Ole began, his tone measured, "first off, your first answer—yes, you’re correct. All the players on the pitch are important. It’s a team sport, after all."

David nodded slightly, but Ole wasn’t done.

"But," Ole continued, his eyes sharpening, "every match has a standout star. That’s why we have Man of the Match awards and individual trophies. Yes, more often than not, those awards go to attacking players—they score the goals and get the fame. But real, technical eyes? They see the true standout player. And today, this game belonged to Aaron. It was his playground."

David’s gaze instinctively flicked back to the field. He studied it with newfound focus, his brows furrowing as a single thought crossed his mind:

Did I really miss something?

Ole crossed his arms and added, "Sometimes, the best players aren’t the ones who shine under the spotlight, but the ones who make sure others can shine. Wan-Bissaka neutralized the threats down his flank, won crucial tackles, and kept us in control. Without him, none of those passes or goals would have mattered—he even got an assist."

While David was lost in thought, Ole pressed on, his voice calm but authoritative.

"The reason I asked you that question," Ole began, "was to see how in tune you are with the technical aspects of the game." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.

"I’ve watched your games, David. You’ve got all the qualities: you dribble well, your passing is great but can be exceptional, and you’ve even shown glimpses of controlling the tempo of a game. You have the potential to dominate a match."

David felt a glimmer of pride but kept his head low. Ole wasn’t finished.

"But I’ve also noticed something," Ole continued, his voice tinged with seriousness. "You don’t always pass when you should. And sometimes, you make the wrong decisions with your passing. For example..." Ole scratched his head briefly before snapping his fingers.

"What’s his name—your former striker?"

"Martyn Waghorn," David muttered, almost reflexively.

"Yes, him," Ole said with a nod. "There were times he made brilliant runs—runs that deserved a pass—but you didn’t make them, even though you had the skill to do so. You have the hardware already, David, but you’re missing the software."

David looked up at Ole, confused but intrigued.

"The software?" he repeated.

Ole smiled faintly.

"Yes, the software. Your decision-making. Your vision. The ability to see the game from a broad perspective, beyond just what’s immediately in front of you. Technicality isn’t just about what you can do with the ball. It’s about what you see before you even touch it. You’ve got the talent, David—no doubt about it. But if you want to take your game to the next level, you need to sharpen your mind. Your technical brilliance has to start here." Ole tapped his temple meaningfully.

David nodded slowly, the weight of Ole’s words settling deep within him.

He turned back to the field, watching the players with a fresh perspective.

For the first time, he wasn’t just admiring skill or flair—he was trying to see the game the way Ole did, to look beyond the obvious and into the unseen patterns that dictated play.

Ole clapped him on the shoulder lightly, his voice softening.

"Don’t worry, lad. You’ll get there. You’ve got everything you need. Now it’s just about refining it."

David exhaled deeply, a new sense of determination settling in his chest.

The hardware’s there, huh? Guess it’s time to upgrade the software, he thought.

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