The calendar on the wall of the changing room had one date marked in thick red Saturday, August 16th.
MATCHDAY 1: WBA vs. ASTON VILLA.
The fixture computer hadn't been generous. For the first game of the U18 Premier League season, it had set up the biggest rivalry.
Ethan quickly learned that in the West Midlands, geography wasn't just about maps; it was about different groups. The training ground, typically a place of cold professionalism, buzzed with a different energy all week. The pre-season friendlies, like the one against Leicester, were over. The fitness tests were completed. This was the real deal.
Even Gareth, the manager, seemed more focused, his patience wearing thin. "Friendlies are done," he told them on Friday morning, his voice echoing in the video analysis room. "Tomorrow, points are on the line. The table starts counting. And we are facing Villa. They think they're the kings of the Midlands. They think their academy is better than ours. We aren't just playing for three points, we're playing for the badge."
He pinned the team sheet up. Ethan scanned it, expecting to be on the bench again. He had played a few minutes here and there during pre-season, but he was still a first-year.
Starting XI: ... CM: Tyrell Johnson CM: Sam Baker CAM: Ethan Matthews ...
He froze. He was starting. In the season opener. In the derby.
"Don't look so shocked, Eastfield," Harvey whispered, bumping his shoulder. "Josh picked up a knock in training yesterday. You're next in line. Time to sink or swim."
Saturday morning was grey and drizzly, a typical English football setting to start the campaign. The U18 pitch had more spectators than Ethan had seen since the Harrington game. But this crowd was not friendly, these were club directors, first-team coaches, and a few die-hard fans who followed the youth games. The atmosphere felt tense and heavy.
Villa's U18s looked massive. Their recruitment clearly favored size and strength. As they lined up in the tunnel, Ethan stood next to their number four, a defensive midfielder who looked like he had a mortgage and two kids.
"First game, little man?" the Villa player sneered, looking down at Ethan. "Welcome to the league."
Ethan didn't reply. He stared straight ahead, his heart racing. Be a hammer, he told himself. Be a hammer.
The whistle blew to start the season, and the game turned into chaos.
There was no rhythm or time to settle. Villa pressed with a force that made the pre-season games look easy. In the 5th minute, Ethan received a ball from the back. He tried to shield it, bracing for impact.
The Villa number four hit him like a freight train.
Ethan went flying, landing face first in the wet turf. The ref waved play on.
"Get up!" Tyrell yelled, sprinting past him to win the loose ball. "This isn't pre-season anymore! Get up!"
Ethan scrambled to his feet, mud smeared on his cheek. He felt humiliated. He tried to fight back. For the next twenty minutes, he threw himself into tackles, chasing the Villa players, trying to match their strength.
It was a disaster. He bounced off them. He arrived late to challenges, earning a stern warning from the referee. He used all his energy wrestling, leaving none for playing football.
At the thirty-minute mark, during an injury break, Tyrell grabbed Ethan's shirt and pulled him close. "What are you doing?" Tyrell hissed, his eyes blazing.
"I'm being a hammer!" Ethan snapped back, breathless. "I'm fighting them!"
"You're a fly trying to headbutt a windscreen!" Tyrell spat. "Look at you. You're 60 kilos soaking wet. You can't out-wrestle that guy. Stop trying to be me, Matthews. Be yourself." He pushed Ethan back. "Use your low center of gravity. Get under him. Spin him. Make him look foolish, not strong."
The game restarted. Tyrell's advice, delivered with his usual intensity, started to sink in.
In the 42nd minute, the ball came to Ethan again. The Villa giant charged toward him, ready to crush the rookie.
Ethan braced himself. But this time, he didn't try to stand tall and take the hit. Just before contact, he dropped his hips. He planted his foot, lowered his center of gravity, and used the Villa player's momentum against him.
The Villa midfielder, expecting a stationary target, slammed into Ethan's shoulder. But Ethan spun off the contact like a revolving door. The giant stumbled, off-balance, grasping at nothing. Ethan was free.
The pitch opened up. He surged forward into the space he had created. The Villa defense, worried about the counter, backed off. Ethan spotted Harvey making a run on the left. He faked the pass, freezing the center-back, and then slipped a disguised through ball to the striker, who had made a run from the other side.
The striker took a touch and launched a shot that the Villa keeper barely tipped around the post.
"Better!" Tyrell shouted, giving Ethan a firm slap on the back as they prepared for the corner. "Much better."
The game ended 0-0. It was a tough, bruising stalemate to kick off the season. Ethan hadn't scored or assisted, but he had played 90 minutes in a derby and hadn't been broken.
In the changing room, Ethan sat with an ice pack on his shoulder and a cut on his knee. He felt exhausted, but the humiliation of the first five minutes was gone. They had a point on the board.
Gareth walked in. "Ugly," he said. "Horrible game. But you didn't lose. We've got a point." He looked at Ethan. "Matthews. In the first half, you looked like a schoolboy. In the second half, you looked like a player. You learned. Good."
Ethan nodded, too tired to speak.
As he packed his bag, Tyrell sat down next to him. For the first time, the older boy invaded his personal space without an insult ready. "You took a beating today," Tyrell remarked, unlacing his boots.
"Yeah," Ethan winced.
"That number four," Tyrell said, a small smirk forming. "Did you see his face when you spun him? Almost fell on his backside."
"I saw," Ethan smiled.
Tyrell stood up, hoisting his bag. "You're still too small, Matthews. But you've got guts. I'll give you that."
He walked out.
Ethan sat there for a moment, letting the words sink in. It wasn't friendship, not yet, but it was respect. He looked at his bruised legs. The season had started. He wasn't the biggest hammer in the toolbox, and he never would be. But he was learning that even a small hammer, when swung correctly, could cause some real damage.