Leon hung up the phone, his hand, still caked in mud and grass, feeling strangely heavy.

He was standing in the doorway of the ’war-room’, the smell of ’victory-scones’ and ’damp-footballer’ filling the air. He felt like he’d just been hit by a ’joy-grenade’.

"Live... on the BBC," he said, his voice a quiet, stunned whisper.

"Pulling... ’balls’... out of a ’hat’."

Biyon, who had been wheeled back from his ’cherry-picker-throne’ and was now sitting in his ’golf-cart-of-power’, just stared. His jaw was on the floor.

Walter Samuel, who was meticulously wiping down the ’tactics-board’, paused. He turned.

Biyon was the first to explode.

"A-HA!" he roared, slamming both hands on the golf-cart’s horn, which let out a comically weak ’meep-meep’. "A ’MEDIA-COUP’! A ’PUBLIC-RELATIONS-MASTERSTROKE’! I ’SEE-IT-NOW’!"

"See what?" Leon asked, his head spinning.

"They ’banned-me’ from the ’bench’!" Biyon yelled, his eyes shining with a ’beautiful, conspiratorial-light’. "So we ’took-over-the-radio’! They ’hate-your-avalanche’... so ’YOU’... ’YOU’... are ’taking-over-their-TELEVISION’!"

He cackled, a wild, joyous, ’Champions-League’ sound. "You are not just a ’gaffer’, Leo! You are a ’TACTICAL-SPY’! A ’TROJAN-HORSE’! You are ’invading-their-headquarters’... and you are ’stealing-their-magic-balls’... ’LIVE-TO-THE-NATION’!"

Leon just blinked. "I... I don’t think that’s what’s happening, Biyon. I think I’m just... the ’Cinderella-story’."

"He is... ’correct’," Walter Samuel rumbled, his voice cutting through Biyon’s ’fantasy-plot’. Walter looked at Leon, his face a perfect, stony, ’unimpressed-mask’.

"You... will ’go-to-London’. You... will ’wear-a-suit’. You... will ’pull-a-ball’."

Walter paused. A new, ’horrifying’ thought had ’occurred-to-him’.

"...Coach," Walter said, his voice suddenly full of a ’new, profound-dread’. "You... do... ’own-a-suit’?"

The next few days were not about ’football’. They were about ’fashion’. And it was, for Leon, ’far-more-stressful’.

"I have a suit, Sof!" Leon insisted, that night, holding up the ’only-suit-he-owned’. It was... ’shiny’. It was ’ten-years-old’. He had ’bought-it-for-a-wedding’ and ’worn-it-to-two-funerals’.

Sofia, his beautiful, ’heavily-pregnant’ wife, just looked at the ’shiny-suit’... and then at Leon... and then she ’burst-out-laughing’. A full, ’uncontrollable’, ’tears-in-her-eyes’ laugh.

"Leo," she ’gasped’, ’wiping-a-tear’. "You... you can’t. You ’can’t’ wear that ’on-HD-television’. You look like a... a ’sad-detective’... from a ’budget-cop-show’."

"It’s... it’s ’fine’!" Leon argued, but he ’knew-it-wasn’t’.

The ’suit-crisis’ ’deepened’. The team found out. Dave the baker, in a ’beautiful, pure-hearted’ gesture, offered Leon his "son’s-prom-suit" (it was ’lime-green’). Liam ’Badger’ Doyle, in a ’terrifying, pure-hearted’ gesture, offered Leon his ’only-suit’ (which Leon was ’90-percent-sure’ was ’stolen-from-a-mannequin’).

Leon was in a ’state-of-pure-panic’. He was ’managing’ the ’suit-crisis’ ’worse’ than the ’-15-point-deduction’.

Finally, Biyon, ’hearing-of-the-lime-green-prom-suit-disaster’ via the ’player-group-chat’, took ’drastic-action’.

"STOP!" he had ’roared’ down the phone (Leon was ’hiding-in-the-pantry’). "This ’fashion-disaster’ ’ends-NOW’! I am a ’Champions-League-Winner’! I have ’sponsors’! I will ’NOT’... ’NOT’... ’NOT’... let my ’Chaos-Gaffer’ ’go-on-national-television’ ’looking-like-a-sad-potato’!"

An hour later, a ’black-Mercedes’ had pulled up to Leon’s ’tiny-house-in-Kirkby’. A ’terrified-looking-man’, in a ’suit-that-cost-more-than-Leon’s-car’, had ’emerged’.

He was, Biyon had explained, "Bono’s-third-favourite-tailor", and he "owed-Biyon-a-favour" (involving a ’lost-passport’ and a ’Champions-League-final-in-Istanbul’).

Leon was ’measured’, ’prodded’, and ’scolded’ for ’his-posture’ by the ’tailor-to-the-stars’. The next day, a ’suit’ arrived. It wasn’t ’shiny’. It was ’dark-grey’, ’perfectly-cut’, and ’fit-him-so-well’ he ’barely-recognized-himself’.

"Wow," Sofia had ’whispered’, ’walking-around-him’, her ’eyes-wide’. "You... you look ’dangerous’, Leo. Like... like ’James-Bond’s-accountant’."

"I... I feel ’weird’," Leon ’muttered’. "It’s...’scratchy’. And ’too-quiet’."

The day of the draw, Leon was a ’nervous-wreck’. He ’kissed-Sofia-goodbye’ (she ’made-him-promise’ ’not-to-swear-on-TV’), ’flew-to-London’ (Marco had ’paid’), and ’walked-into-the-BBC-Television-Centre’.

It was... clean.

It was so ’clean’. There was ’no-mud’. There was ’no-Badger’. There were just ’busy-people-in-lanyards’ who ’smiled-politely’ and ’spoke-in-whispers’.

Leon, in his ’super-suit’, felt like a ’spy-who-had-forgotten-his-mission’. He was ’terrified’.

"Leon! A ’pleasure’!" A ’man-in-a-blazer’, ’smiling-too-much’, ’shook-his-hand’. "The ’Cinderella-man’ himself! We’re ’thrilled’ to have you. ’Thrilled’. You’ll be ’drawing-the-home-balls’. And your ’partner’... well, he’s ’just-over-here’..."

Leon was ’led-into-a-green-room’. And his ’heart-stopped’.

Sitting in an armchair, ’calmly-sipping-a-cup-of-tea’, was ’England-Legend-Sir-David-Rooney’. (A ’stand-in’ for a ’real-legend’, but ’just-as-terrifying’).

"Sir David," Leon ’stammered’, ’wiping-his-sweaty-hand-on-his-ridiculously-expensive-trousers’.

"Leon, right?" Sir David said, ’standing-up’. His ’handshake’ was ’firm’. "Read about you. ’Minus-fifteen’, was it? ’Madness’. ’Good-on-you’, son. ’Love-a-good-cup-run’."

They ’talked-for-a-few-minutes’. Or, Sir David ’talked’, and Leon ’nodded’, his ’brain-just-screaming’ ’Don’t-swear. Don’t-swear. Don’t-faint’.

"RIGHT! ’Five-minutes-to-live’, gentlemen!" the ’floor-manager’ ’yelled’.

Leon was ’led-into-the-studio’. It was ’bright’. It was ’hot’. He was ’sat-at-a-desk’, next to a ’glass-bowl-full-of-numbered-balls’.

"30 seconds," a ’voice-from-the-ceiling’ said.

Leon’s ’heart’ was ’trying-to-escape-his-chest’. He could ’feel’ his ’cheap-shirt’ (the ’suit-was-a-loaner’, the ’shirt-was-his-own’) ’sticking-to-his-back’.

The ’red-light-on-the-camera’ ’lit-up’.

"Welcome ’back’!" the ’famously-handsome-host’ ’smiled-to-the-camera’. "And now, for the ’magic-of-the-cup’! The ’FA-Cup-First-Round-Proper-Draw’!"

The ’host-introduced-Sir-David’. ’Polite-applause’.

"And, joining him," the host turned to Leon, "a ’man-who-IS-the-magic-of-the-cup’! He ’started-the-season’ on ’-15-points’... he’s ’fought-his-way-back’ to ’-6’... he’s the ’manager-of-the-moment’... please ’welcome’... Apex FC’s, Leon Davies!"

Leon ’smiled’, a ’terrified-rictus-grin’. He ’hoped’ it ’looked-like-a-smile’. He ’waved’.

"Right, Leon," the host said. "You’ve ’got-the-home-balls’. Sir David, you ’have-the-away’. Let’s ’get-to-it’."

Leon ’plunged-his-hand’ into the ’bowl’. The ’balls-were-cold’. His ’hand-was-shaking’. He ’pulled-one-out’.

"Number 42," he ’read’, his ’voice-a-croak’.

"Wrexham..." the host ’announced’.

Sir David ’pulled-a-ball’. "...will play... Number 12... ’Accrington-Stanley’."

It ’went-on-like-this’ for ’ten-minutes’. Leon’s ’panic’ was ’easing’. It was ’easy’. ’Ball. Read. Smile’.

Then, ’it-happened’.

Sir David ’reached-in’. He ’pulled-out-a-ball’.

"Number... 72."

The host ’checked-his-chart’. "Apex FC..."

Leon’s ’heart-stopped’. ’That’s-us. That’s-us. That’s-us’.

"...will play..."

The ’host-turned-to-Leon’. The ’camera-zoomed-in’. The ’entire-nation’ was ’waiting’. ’Sir-David-was-waiting’. ’Sofia-was-waiting’. ’Biyon-in-his-golf-cart-was-waiting’.

It was Leon’s ’turn’.

His ’hand-dived-in’. He ’fumbled’. The ’balls-were-slippery’. He ’grabbed-one’. He ’pulled-it-out’. He ’held-it-up-to-the-light’, ’squinting’, his ’hand-shaking-so-hard’ he ’almost-dropped-it’.

"Number... ’three’," he ’gasped’.

The ’host-looked-at-his-chart’. A ’pause’. A ’dramatic-pause’. The ’host’s-professional-smile’ ’widened’.

"Number ’three’... is... ’Sunderland’!"

A ’gasp’ from the ’studio-audience’. ’Sunderland’. The ’fallen-giant’. The ’League-One-monster’. A ’60,000-seater-stadium’. A ’proper-proper-club’.

Sir David ’whistled’, ’patting-Leon-on-the-back’. "Oof. ’Tough-one’, son. But ’what-a-day-out’!"

Leon was ’frozen’. ’Sunderland’.

His ’phone’, ’on-silent-in-his-pocket’, began to ’vibrate’. It ’buzzed’ against his ’leg’, ’frantic’, ’furious’, ’like-a-trapped-wasp’.

He ’knew’ it was ’Marco’. He ’knew’ it was ’Biyon’. He ’knew’ it was ’Julián’.

"So, Leon," the ’host-leaned-in’, ’grinning-for-the-camera’. "A ’trip-to-the-Stadium-of-Light’. The ’magic-of-the-cup’. Your ’thoughts’?"

Leon ’looked-at-the-host’. He ’looked-at-the-camera’. He looked at-Sir David.

His ’mouth-was-dry’. He ’opened-it’.

He ’blinked’.

He was ’live-on-the-BBC’. And he had absolutely-no-idea-what-to-say.

The camera’s red light was a tiny, burning, unblinking eye. Leon was staring into it, and the entire, silent, expectant nation was staring back.

Sunderland.

His phone, in the pocket of his ’James-Bond’s-accountant’ suit, was vibrating so hard it was ’tickling-his-leg’.

"So, Leon," the handsome host repeated, his smile ’professional’ and ’unwavering’.

"A ’trip to the Stadium of Light’. The magic of the cup. Your thoughts?"