During a brief pause for a Liverpool throw-in, I yanked Tyrick Mitchell, our left-back, by the arm. "T, he's drifting inside before the pass comes! Our analysis shows his heat map is all in that channel between you and the centre-half. Stay narrow! Force him wide, make him use his left foot. He's got nothing on his left!" I turned to Sarah and Rebecca on the bench, my voice a frantic whisper.
"What are you seeing on the pass completion?" Rebecca was already on it, her laptop a blur of data. "According to my analysis, ninety-two percent for Jones," she said, her voice tight. "But only sixty when he's forced onto his left. Danny's right, T. Don't let him come inside!"
I saw the understanding dawn in Tyrick's eyes, a flicker of defiance. He nodded, a silent promise, before jogging back into position. We weren't just defending; we were problem-solving, fighting a war on a thousand different fronts.
