The Next Big Thing
Chapter 177: First Half

Chapter 177: First Half

"Ooh! Number 19 is with the ball again..."

David Stowell’s voice crackled through the airwaves, brimming with anticipation.

"David Jones," added Michael Bridges, the co-commentator, his tone sharpening. "The 16-year-old making his debut tonight for Manchester United. He’s moving down the right flank... but he’s up against Tyrick Mitchell. That’s a real test."

David’s boots slapped against the slick turf, the ball tethered close to his foot. Rain clung to his lashes. Every stride sent a dull ache pulsing through his left leg—but he clenched his jaw and pushed on. Tyrick Mitchell was waiting. Calm. Calculated. Like a lion stalking prey, not pouncing—just watching.

David hesitated. His breath came in shallow gasps. Then—he burst forward, flinging in a sharp feint to the left.

"He’s tried to throw him with a shimmy," said Stowell.

"And he’s beaten him for pace again!" Bridges exclaimed. "That’s lovely footwork from Jones!"

But it wasn’t clean. Not like before. The burst had cost him. His left leg dragged slightly behind the right—just enough to throw off his balance.

He stretched, boot flashing out to reach the ball he’d knocked ahead. But Mitchell had turned. Quick. Efficient. The gap closed in seconds.

David gritted his teeth. He could feel the defender’s body now—pressing into him, forcing a reaction. Mitchell leaned in, the shoulder-to-shoulder contact more like a wall collapsing into him.

No way around. No way through.

David’s foot slipped slightly. That leg again.

He panicked.

His fingers clutched for something—anything—and found the edge of Mitchell’s shirt. A reflex. A desperate move.

The whistle cut the air like a blade.

"Foul," Stowell muttered, disappointment thick in his voice.

"Ah, he’s pulled him back," said Bridges. "He got past him—just about—but couldn’t keep it clean. That’s been his story tonight. The instincts are sharp, but the execution... not there yet."

"And look at that," Stowell added, as the camera found Bruno Fernandes throwing his arms up, shaking his head.

David stood still. Breathing hard. His shoulders rose and fell like collapsing scaffolding. He yanked up his shirt to wipe the sweat stinging his eyes, revealing his midriff, heaving from the exertion. The cold air hit his skin. His ribs felt like they were rattling.

He lowered the shirt and looked down.

His left leg trembled faintly under him. A hot, familiar throb had returned behind the knee—deeper now. Angry. It had been getting worse all half, but he’d kept quiet. Pushed it down. Not tonight. Not on his debut.

But it was slowing him. Dragging him. Holding him back like chains no one else could see.

Rain trickled down the back of his neck. The crowdless stands of Old Trafford loomed above—massive, hollow, a cathedral with no congregation. No chants. No roars. Just boots scraping grass, whistles, and now—jeers.

He heard them. Crystal Palace players laughing. Schlupp clapping with that infuriating smirk. Ayew walking past, snickering under his breath.

Then behind him:

"Easy ball, man!" Pogba shouted.

"Release it earlier!" barked Lindelöf.

David didn’t turn. His eyes stayed fixed on the pitch. His fists were clenched at his sides.

He was trying not to limp. Trying not to crumble.

His chest burned. His leg throbbed. His ears rang. And for a second—just a second—he wanted to scream. Or sit down. Or disappear.

But he didn’t.

The game moved on. And so did he.

One step. Then another.

Still standing. Still trying.

Mamadou Sakho stepped up to the ball just outside Palace’s penalty box to take the free kick. David stood a few yards away, knees bent slightly, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling as he watched.

Sakho didn’t hesitate. He launched a long, arcing ball upfield.

The ball floated like a lazy balloon at first, but then dipped sharply into United’s half.

It bounced once — awkwardly — between Lindelöf and Ayew. The striker got the faintest touch, enough to flick it sideways into Schlupp’s path. Schlupp tried to control it, but Maguire charged in — a moment too late — and the ball ricocheted.

"It’s messy at the back here..." Stowell muttered.

David watched, eyes wide, frozen in place as the ball rolled erratically. Lindelöf went to clear, hesitated... then Zaha pounced.

Zaha, who had been lurking wide, dashed into the box like a knife through butter.

"Danger here! Wilfried Zaha—""Oh no..." whispered David.

Zaha met the ball cleanly. His first touch was slick, tight. De Gea rushed out, but too late — his angle wrong, his feet slower than his instincts.

Zaha fired low.

And then... a thud.

De Gea flailed awkwardly, one glove swiping air. The ball bounced once, twice, past his sprawling frame and kissed the back of the net.

"GOAL! Zaha scores for Crystal Palace!" Stowell’s voice boomed into the stillness."It’s poor, poor defending from Manchester United. Maguire got caught in two minds, Lindelöf hesitated, and De Gea... well, you’ve got to say he should be doing much better there."

"Shocking stuff at the back," Bridges added, disbelief in his voice. "That’s Sunday league defending, mate. And just like that, United trail."

David stood near the right sideline, frozen again. The ball was in the net. Palace players were running off in celebration. Zaha did his usual finger-wagging celebration, dancing alone in the ghostly quiet of the fan-less stadium. It looked more surreal than usual—celebrating into empty stands, into silence. But that didn’t lessen the sting.

David’s eyes darted toward the goal. De Gea sat on the turf, palms up, protesting to nobody. Maguire turned and barked at Lindelöf. Lindelöf barked back. Pogba raised both hands and looked at the bench.

Blame pinged around like a hot potato, but David already knew.

None of them had called his name.

He wasn’t even part of the error.

But somehow, he still felt it.

He turned his head slightly, eyes lingering on the scoreboard.

Manchester United 0 — 1 Crystal PalaceMinute: 32’

Thirty-two minutes into his debut.

His first start. His first dream come true. And it already felt like a nightmare unraveling in slow motion.

He didn’t need fans in the stands to feel the weight of expectation. He could feel it in the empty noise, in the way Bruno sighed audibly, in the little shake of the head from Matic. Even in the silence, pressure screamed.

And for a split second, David forgot where he was.

All he could hear was the sound of his own breath. His own heartbeat. His own doubt creeping in like smoke under a locked door.

"I need to do something... I can’t continue like this."

David stood alone near the touchline, his breath fogging in the cold night air, his jersey clinging to his skin, soaked in sweat and pressure. He looked down, eyes narrowing at his left leg. The bandage was tight, almost suffocating.

"I can’t dribble well. I’m way slower because of this. If I keep trying to play like I used to... I’m going to fail. I need to do something else. I have to change my playing style."

The camera panned back to the field. David Stowell’s voice filled the broadcast.

David Stowell: "Manchester United are still trailing Crystal Palace here at Old Trafford. It’s been a rough half—no cohesion, no spark. The team just hasn’t clicked."

Michael Bridges: "They look flat, David. Absolutely flat. The coach will need more than words at the break—he’ll need to make changes. Urgently."

David Stowell: "Hold on—Bruno is with the ball now... slides it straight through to Pogba... Pogba spots Rashford making the run—**

Michael Bridges: "—what a long ball! That’s perfectly weighted. Rashford is off!"

Marcus Rashford sprinted down the left, electric and alive, pushing past Ward. His head was up, breathing sharp. With two defenders closing in, Rashford curled a long, looping ball from the far left flank to the right.

It spun through the air, falling like a gift.

David Stowell: "And it’s found number 19—David Jones! Beautiful control with the right foot!"

David cushioned the ball like silk with his right foot, the ball sticking. But he couldn’t move—because once again, Tyrick Mitchell was there.

Mitchell sneered, planting his boots. "Go on, little Neymar. Show me what you got. Come on—try it."

David’s heart thudded—but he wasn’t rattled.

The ball clung to his foot like it had a soul of its own. He stood there, face-to-face with Tyrick Mitchell. He could hear the shouts from the Crystal Palace bench, the mocking from the opposition players. But they didn’t matter. Not now.

He feinted left. Then right. His body danced like a shadow—but he didn’t take off. No acceleration. No dribble.

Tyrick smirked. "Got you now."

But David had already seen it.

Just as Tyrick shifted his weight, expecting the sprint, David pulled back, leaned, and whipped his right leg through the ball.

A sharp, rising cross.

Tyrick Mitchell: "Cross?! Fuck!"

Michael Bridges: "David Jones—oh, what a cross! That’s a stinger!"

David Stowell: "Perfectly placed! That one’s got venom—it’s soaring into the box—"

David didn’t move. His chest rose, eyes locked on the ball that spun and sliced through the air.

He muttered beneath his breath, "Go."

In the distance, like a myth returning, a figure rose.

Cristiano Ronaldo.

David Stowell: "RONALDOOOOO—"

David’s eyes lit up. He could already feel it. The moment. The noise he wished was there coming. The silence being shattered.

Let’s go...

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