The phoenix had risen, but it was still learning to fly.
Six months into Leon's audacious gamble, Apex FC was a beautiful, chaotic, and utterly unpredictable work in progress.
They were playing the fast, intelligent, high-pressing football he demanded, occasionally producing moments of brilliance that left their Northern Premier League opponents bewildered.
They were also, occasionally, losing 3-0 to teams whose main tactical innovation was "kick it very hard and run".
But they were building something. The small, loyal fanbase was growing, drawn in by the improbable story and the exciting football.
The crumbling old stadium, affectionately nicknamed "The Apex" (mostly by Julián Álvarez, who had somehow become their unofficial global ambassador), felt alive again. And Leon, the eighteen-year-old Owner-Manager-Chief-Bottle-Washer, was in the glorious, exhausting heart of it all.
Training on a cold, muddy Tuesday morning was a perfect microcosm of their beautiful struggle.
