Episode 1 | Careless Whispers

Wakefield. July 2025. Dusk.

I’d had a tip-off that an old friend had fallen on hard times. As I walked under the arches of a disused bridge, broken glass cracked underfoot. Dogs barked. Couples argued. And with every step, the whispering got louder.

As I rounded a corner, I saw the shadow of something that, once upon a time, might have been a man. But now? The hair was long and shaggy, like a rabid dog had been given access to Just For Men and a mental breakdown. Nails stretched beyond what any sane person would consider acceptable, and a guttural noise began to fill the alleyway.

It couldn’t possibly be, could it?

“Barry?” I whispered, the words itching to come out but struggling at the same time.

“Agruondkjbwoin.”

Right then…

You see, since our escapades in FC26 had come to an abrupt end due to the fact that, well, it’s a fucking terrible game, times had been… difficult for Barry.

He was offered the Andorran U15s job but declined, stating that the mountain air would cause such a severe allergic reaction that he would have to be placed into a six-month induced coma.

Since then, there’d been nothing. And with no outlet for his strange little creative-yet-analytical brain, he’d started to go a bit… loopy.

I’d lost all contact with him when I returned home to Wakefield, but I did sometimes think I’d see a man lurking around Trinity Shopping Centre, hiding behind bins and old men named Jim.

I’d brushed this off as just my imagination, but now? I know the truth was much more desperate.

I knew that I needed to do something. I couldn’t leave him in this gibbering state, primed to get sexually assaulted by a badger, or worse, one of Wakefield’s finest ladies on a hen night.

I put my arm around him slowly, gently, and cradled his head for a moment.

“There, there, Barry, we’ll sort you out mate.”

“Hear me, distant albatross, the winds of chakfoib2foinwl…” he mumbled.

“What’s that, mate?” I politely asked.

“Hear me, distant albatross… the winds of change may carry you… to far away lands… in search of eternal… glory.”

Oh no. A prophecy.

I’d not heard one of those since he saw Tim Howard in his cornflakes. But this time, I knew what was coming.

Football Manager.

The Pentagon

Sadly, Barry’s prophecies are never about lottery numbers or affordable energy bills. They are, almost exclusively, about ruining my free time.

His prophecy stated far away lands, which can only mean one thing. The Pentagon Challenge.

The longest, most difficult task in Football Manager, the Pentagon Challenge tasks you with winning the five major continental club competitions:

• The UEFA Champions League (Europe)
• The CONCACAF Champions Cup (North America)
• AFC Champions League Elite (Asia)
• CAF Champions League (Africa)
• CONMEBOL Libertadores (South America)

And the hardest part? Start unemployed. No prior experience. No coaching badges. Except…

I do actually have a UEFA C License Coaching Badge. So I’m using it.

The Beginning

We’re going to begin our journey somewhere that will actually take a Sunday League jobber and his washed-up, psychic assistant manager… Asia.

Once Barry had been hosed down, shaved in the areas legally required, and placed within shouting distance of a laptop, we got to work.

Our first three applications are Kumamoto in Japan’s second division, Tochigi SC in Japan’s third division, and YB Longding in China’s First Division (who, weirdly, can’t sign non-Chinese goalkeepers. No, I don’t get it either).

Ten long days passed with Barry and me sitting by our fax machine. I’ve actually no idea why, because it’s not plugged in and no one uses fax anymore. Instead, we sat bolt upright as an email notification popped up, only to find it was HelloFresh sending us an offer for 10 free boxes.

As enticing as that is, we need a fox in the box, not fish in the post. But then… A JOB INTERVIEW!

YB Longding have got back to us and offered us an interview. First question: why don’t we speak Chinese. It’s not a bad question, to be honest, as it’s hardly a niche language.

Luckily Barry did an internship at a Chinese fishery when he was 27 and learnt enough to get by, and I lied and told them I can pick it up quickly (I absolutely can’t).

I then got asked why I was in the market for a number of jobs, and unfortunately there wasn’t an option to say ‘obviously because I’m out of fucking work you morons.’ Instead, I told them I’m merely considering my options.

Next up, they asked if I’m comfortable working with limited resources. Well, I’m currently working with no resources, so yeah, go on then.

Then came the big one: could I take them to the next level? As someone who took Halifax to world domination on FM Mobile 2005, I’m pretty confident I can do the job. Next!

I was then asked what changes I’d want to make to the backroom staff… well, I think my lads like Fat Rob the physio would follow me to the ends of the Earth, so I told them I’d have to take a look at everyone should I get the job (and immediately bin them off).

Finally, I was asked if I was happy to work with Xu Bo, the director of football. Unsure if this was Susan Boyle’s Chinese cousin, I just said yeah, why not. At least there is a director of football.

I had no requests, so I closed the Zoom call and sat back in my chair. Our first interview was done and dusted, now it was just a waiting game.

For five days. When we found out we didn’t get it.

Fuck.

Two days later, the Tochigi SC board informed me we’d been unsuccessful, and this suddenly felt like it was going to be much more difficult than we first thought.

During Sacktober, when FM clubs start firing managers like it’s a government initiative, Fukuoka, Thespa Gunma, Jubilo Iwata, Nagoya, Peng City, Yokohama FM, Daegu, Dewa United and Incheon United reviewed our application and collectively decided: absolutely fucking not.

Barry took the news badly, by which I mean he spent three hours facing a wall and whispering “Incheon” into a mug.

Southport offered us an interview, we declined. We’re not going for Europe yet.

Then, come December, we get two interview offers, both in Japan. The format is largely the same as before, as both Hachinohe and Ryukyu grill me on why I don’t know Japanese, whether I can keep a happy dressing room, and whether I want to stay for a long time. Obviously I lie like a Prince to make sure I say exactly what they want to hear.

AND WE DID SOMETHING RIGHT. A few days later, Ryukyu got in touch offering me a £1k-a-week contract to take over in the J3 League.

Barry licked the contract, declaring it “legally moist” and immediately began learning Japanese by shouting at Duolingo. We are fucking back, baby.

Boiled Eggs & Betrayal

On our flight over to Japan, Barry spent the entire first half of the journey drawing tactical shapes on a tea-stained boiled egg. I didn’t ask why. You learn not to.

As the cabin crew brought our evening meal, Barry grabbed one of the poor air stewards, Colin, by the collar. Terrified, but somehow unable to pull away, Colin could only listen as Barry named the three players he believes will betray me. One of them is Brazilian. One of them is a 16-year-old. And one of them is, somehow, me.

With that, Barry snapped back into his chair and instantly fell asleep for the final three hours.

⬅️ Read Episode 10 Here.

💀 The Creaking Collapse of Guzan

The ball nestled in the back of my net once again as jeers began to climb on top of me like a lioness pouncing on its prey.

I don’t want to make excuses, but the FC gods were not on my side. Bounce backs here, botched tackles there, footballs mysteriously travelling through solid feet everywhere.

But despite that, I could normally rely on Big Bradley to save the day.

Today though, he gave up.

It was as if his spirit had left his body, his knees finally turning into concrete dust. He was allergic to catching the ball, terrified to dive towards it.

It culminated in one of the most frustrating losses of the year.

I never thought I would see Eusébio grace the turf of Molton Road, but here he was, reincarnated but still as deadly as the winter of 1972. Barry was in the stands, just a wee nipper at the time, to see him score four against Sporting in October '72.

It was on that day that Barry found god, and his name was Eusébio da Silva Ferreira.

And by god, the Portuguese marksman was on fire against me. Left foot, right foot, even a rogue knee after the ball bounced off Naomi Girma’s arse, nothing could stop him.

And then came his fourth.

Darlington Nagbe misplaced a rare pass in the midfield. The ball was launched quickly towards Eusébio, whose first touch took him in between Robinson and CCV.

If I’m honest, CCV should have been standing in that gap, but evidently his ankle tag was vibrating and distracted him — he was caught wildly out of position.

Not to worry though, as we had Big Brad ready to build a wall to stop any Portuguese reprobates getting anywhere near his goal.

Except… when the shot came in he just… flailed?

There was stunned silence. Eusébio couldn’t believe it. CCV stood there, mouth agape, a ball of rage and disbelief. I just laughed. Not because it was funny, but because my tear ducts had given up.

Guzan fell backwards to the floor as if paralysed by the realisation his time was up. If we’re honest, we thought he was dead and the rigor mortis had just set in gradually over the last 6 weeks.

Rub It Better Rob waddled onto the pitch to check on him. He might have got his medical licence in a back street ‘training centre’ in Calcutta that doubled as a cockfighting ring, but even he knew this was curtains.

They rolled Brad into a stretcher, his feet jutting out over the edge like a ladder off the back of a window cleaner’s van, and he simply exhaled a laboured groan as he was carried past me.

Not one to shirk a challenge, Barry already had his gloves on (not really sure why he had a pair) before I could tell him he wasn’t registered to play. Instead, DaMarcus Beasley pulled on the ‘keepers jersey, trotted out to his box and promptly conceded two more goals.

The final whistle blew and there was an air of sadness that swirled around the ground, like a fog on the day after bonfire night.

A Goochball legend had left us. Someone who made us feel safe. Secure. Protected.

But then Barry appeared at my ear, startling me with his deep, raspy voice:

“Gaffer, I’ve seen the future in my cornflakes. For three nights I’ve been dreaming about a devil eating toffee. Sticky and sweet, with a sense of foreboding ferocity.

Then this morning, I saw it in the milk.

A beard laced with beads of sweat and pieces of gold. A man who kept Belgium at bay with nothing but some Tylenol and a dream. A ‘keeper who would stare into the souls of strikers and then rip off their heads like a sacrificial ritual.

He stood at the gates of Molton Road, gloves glowing, staring into the floodlights as if absorbing their energy.

And then came the chant, gaffer.

‘When chaos grips the backline, and knees crumble into dust, When courage falters and spirits plummet, And Goochball needs its saviour, Timothy will step forth and bring with him deliverance.’”

Barry shuddered, as if a spirit was speaking through him.

“And should you say his name thrice before kick off, the gods will awake and bring him forth.”

Barry then vanished into the equipment cupboard, and as he did so he muttered the name ‘Timothy’ three times.

As the door slowly creaked shut, there stood a man mountain. A frame so wide he would be the only one allowed in a lift. A beard so majestic that it got Tea Lady Tracey pregnant aged 68. Gloves so big that he could catch a jumbo jet and send it flying back to its original destination.

There stood, Tim bloody Howard.

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📺 Previously On…


Guzan’s hands turned to steam, Nagbe cried in three different accents, and Molton Road descended into open civil war as another supposedly “winnable” week collapsed into chaos. Barry caught a flying pie meant for his head, took a bite, and immediately hurled it at a nearby child like some sort of sodium-fuelled boomerang. Morale hit bedrock, the fans lost the plot, and Goochball teetered on the brink of a full-blown festive meltdown.

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🆕 New Arrivals & Squad Tweaks

#HereWeGo – New Players:

🇺🇸 Christen Press — 88 End of an Era (ST) Christen Press is pure elegance wrapped in end-of-an-era chaos. An 88-rated icon with the first touch of a saint and the finishing instincts of someone who’s been hunting goalkeepers for sport since 2013. When the ball hits her feet the whole squad suddenly looks two ratings higher, and her Finesse+ shots should come with a health warning – may cause heartbreak. Press doesn’t just score — she solves problems. One pass, one feint, one curled finish into the side netting, and all the madness melts away. She is the experienced calm presence this team absolutely does not deserve.

🇺🇸 Tim Howard — 85 Hero (GK) Tim Howard arrives with the aura of a man who’s spent a lifetime screaming at defenders and saving shots physics had no business allowing. An 85-rated Hero, he was forged in Premier League chaos and international warfare. He brings that signature Howard energy — the kind where every save feels like he’s punching fate in the mouth. His reflexes are still supernatural, his presence enormous, and his beard alone is worth +3 to defensive morale. Howard doesn’t just keep the ball out; he terrifies strikers into reconsidering their life choices. In a squad where Guzan regularly has dicks for hands, Howard is the upgrade so overdue it should count as humanitarian aid.

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⚙️ Tactics:


4-4-1-1 — this is what true Goochball is all about. This formation might be meta, but it’s the closest thing to fluid football I’ve found all year. Inside forwards roam around and finally make runs in behind, but I think the wingbacks are the key. They push up more and offer an outlet, and they’ve been linking so well with the wide players. My Box-to-Box midfielders are like Tasmanian Devils if they snorted crack cocaine – they’re bursting with more energy than the Luxembourg Power Grid, and cover more ground than a solar farm in the Sahara.

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🧿 FC Pro Week — The Week in Review


This week was peak Goochball: a cocktail of brilliance, breakdowns, and tactical whiplash.

The state of the game has me changing formations more times than I’ve had had hot dinners, simply in order to find some semblance of consistency (I know, the irony).

That isn’t helped when, in my first game of the week, I lose 8-9 after cruising at 5-2 up. My ego was swallowed whole by bouncebacks, deflections, and a goalkeeper who was too busy watching YouTube than tending to his goal. Thankfully, the squad bounced back immediately, scraping a 4–3 win before sliding into a grim 0–1 defeat where the midfield disappeared like it had been raptured.

The switch to 4-4-1-1 certainly steadied the ship. Suddenly Press, Dunn, Luna and Wilson were linking like a functioning football team, rather than the Dog & Duck FC, firing us to a string of gritty, grown-up wins.

Even the draws came with fight, not floppiness. And when we did lose, it was narrow; just enough pain to be character-building, not season-ending.

The second half of the week was where we really hit our groove. New signing Christen Press finally found her stride, shirking the weight of expectation that rested on her shoulders and playing instead like a nimble gazelle.

Now fully evolved, Diego Luna was obliterating opposition defences with Cartel-level efficiency. His short, stocky frame was simply a facade, instead he weaved his way through defenders and slammed home shots with his newly acquired Low Driven+ Playstyle.

Lily Yohannes kept things ticking in midfield, the Fellaini-like curls bouncing with every stride, quietly anchoring the chaos around her.

But like all great managers, I also made a bold call. While Sophia Wilson had bagged 13 goals and 9 assists, it was often down to her sheer solo brilliance, rather than benefitting the team as a whole. She is electric, a thorn in the side of defenders, but I felt like I needed a physical presence who could bring everything together.

Up step El Capitan, Josh Sargent.

In just 8 games he matched Wilson’s 13 goal haul, but more than that he brought Press to the fore, let Captain America Pulisic shine, and made Diego Luna look like Prime Maradona.

Defenders couldn’t handle him – the physicality, the speed, and then to top it all off… he’d bang a finesse as if he was on Brazzers. The man could do it all.

In those final 8 games we notched 6 wins – it was a string of performances for the ages that led us to upgraded rivals rewards and a cheeky trip to Division 5 farm.

It has to be said that it’s sad to see the state of the game at the moment. The lack of creativity in the community, the difference between exciting, skilful early release gameplay and the turgid stuff we have now… it’s genuinely impressive how EA have patched the game into oblivion so early on. They’ve truly outdone themselves.

When it’s good it’s great, but that’s the problem – it’s not consistently good enough. We can only hope that Thunderstruck brings some much needed improvements as December rolls around, but I won’t hold my breath… but no matter what, Goochball lives on.

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📊 Week Summary

Played: 16 | Won: 9 | Drawn: 2 | Lost: 5

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Game	Result	Emoji	Score	Formation
1	Loss	❌	8–9	4-2-1-3
2	Win	✅	4–3	4-2-1-3
3	Loss	❌	0–1	4-4-1-1
4	Win	✅	3–1	4-4-1-1
5	Win	✅	2–1	4-4-1-1
6	Loss	❌	1–3	4-4-1-1
7	Draw	⚖️	2–2	4-4-1-1
8	Win	✅	3–1	4-4-1-1
9	Loss	❌	1–2	4-4-1-1
10	Draw	⚖️	1–1	4-4-1-1
11	Win	✅	4–2	4-4-1-1
12	Loss	❌	1–2	4-4-1-1
13	Win	✅	2–0	4-4-1-1
14	Win	✅	3–1	4-4-1-1
15	Win	✅	4–1	4-4-1-1
16	Win	✅	2–0	4-4-1-1

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Player	Goals ⚽	Assists 🎯	Total G/A 🔢	POTM 🏆	Form 🔥
Wilson	13	9	22	3	🔥🔥🔥🔥
Sargent	13	7	20	3	🔥🔥🔥🔥
Press	10	4	14	1	🔥🔥🔥
Dunn	7	4	11	2	🔥🔥🔥
Luna	6	8	14	1	🔥🔥🔥
Pulisic	4	8	12	2	🔥🔥
Yohannes	3	2	5	0	🔥
Nagbe	2	3	5	1	🔥
Swanson	1	3	4	1	⚡
Heaps	0	3	3	0	⚡
Seger	0	2	2	1	🌟
McKennie	0	2	2	0	⚡
Rodman	0	1	1	0	⚡
Robinson	1	0	1	0	⚡
OG	1	0	1	0	🤡
Guzan	0	0	0	1	🧱

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🌟 Player of the Week

🔥 Josh Sargent A week as hot as his fiery hair, Josh Sargent, complete with his El Capitan Evo, was truly the difference maker. He had big shoes to fill after I dropped Sophia Wilson, but boy did he manage it. He was genuinely the lynchpin that allowed the rest of the team to shine, but he didn’t shirk his goal scoring responsibilities either. He gobbled up chances like a Thanksgiving dinner, and ended up becoming undroppable.

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🧬 Evo Watch

• Diego Luna
  • Estrella de Montcada — 84 > 86 (Low Driven+)
• Darlington Nagbe
  • Own The Ball — 83 > 83
• Sarah Gorden
  • Tighten Up — 81 > 82
• Antonee Robinson
  • Protect The Wings — 82 > 86 (Slide Tackle+)
• Weston McKennie
  • Ironclad Instincts — 78 > 79
  • Tighten Up — 79 > 79
  • Intercept+

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🪦 Closing Thoughts

Later that night I sat in my office thinking about what had just unfolded.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, Barry’s prophecy from last week nagged at me like an itch I couldn’t scratch — a warning about shackles, stagnation, and a Sargent waiting to awaken.

If I’m honest, I’m as surprised as anyone. When Barry came to me, shaken and desperate, I never thought he would foreshadow Josh Sargent breaking free of the cosmic chains that bound him, and predicting that something old & hungry, which I would later realise meant Christen Press, could turn our week around.

Given these extraordinary events, it was no surprise to see a ticket for the Florida Powerball Lottery floating down the corridor.

I was brought back to reality when I heard footsteps down the hall, and the faint sound of someone whistling ‘TEXAS HOLD ’EM’ by Beyoncé drifted in through my door.

At that moment Barry appeared, a wry smile on his face.

He didn’t knock. He never does.

His coat smelled of fryer oil and rain, and in his right hand he clutched a half-wrapped Big Mac as if it were some kind of sacred relic. His eyes were wide, unblinking, full of prophecy or indigestion; with Barry it’s impossible to separate the two.

He cleared his throat, still a slight anxiousness in it despite his upbeat demeanour, and began…

“Gaffer, I’m worried about the middle. At the moment everything is fine, but… Darlo is fragile. The Lily risks wilting under pressure. We need something bigger. Stronger. Harder.”

He lifted his burger laden hand, sauce dripping from every angle. The room filled with the stench of gherkins and doom.

“I saw it when I took a bite. Something forged in the heart of Texas. A power so great that it could stop a comet, feed a million people and cure Polio in just 90 minutes.”

A bit of lettuce flew past my head as Barry got more and more animated.

“I’ve heard it in the sizzle of the grill. Big Mac. Big Mac. Big Mac. He devours his evolutions like a man possessed. He fears no one. Sees no limits. He’s here to take the centre by storm. To flip cars and devour the opposition. And he’s all out of cars. The only thing he says? FEED. ME. MORE.”

And with that, Barry’s half-eaten burger fell to the floor with a splat and he backed out of the doorway as though Big Mac himself were behind me.

“Prepare yourself, gaffer… For when he takes his place… The ground will groan beneath his hunger.”

Barry vanished down the corridor leaving only the faint glow of a flickering light and the unmistakable scent of prophecy and processed cheese.

All I was left with was an insatiable hunger, and an impending sense of something very large coming to our midfield. You know what they say, everything is bigger in Texas…

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Until next time, YEEHAW!

Read Episode 9 Here.

🏟️ The Nightmare Before Futmas

Groans roared around Molton Road as we slumped to yet another defeat.

Guzan lumbered off the pitch and punched a hole in the advertising hoardings, Darlington Nagbe wept as someone shouted ‘you’re the reason Tesco locks away condoms’ and ‘you’re a waste of your dad’s sperm’ at him, and Barry caught a pie-shaped projectile that was heading straight for his head. He took a bite and then threw it back at a 7-year-old child for the crime of existing.

This week was supposed to be positive, but it was a blood bath. We’d spent seven Rivals games getting slapped around by people who had clearly snorted a litre of diesel with a cocaine chaser.

Something had to give.

The next game we switched things up, and I’m not proud of it. However, with the teams we were coming up against, we can’t afford to stand on the moral high ground and die on that hill.

That’s not us. We needed to fight.

Barry and I concocted a 4-5-1 formation that, on the surface, makes us a rat on the sinking ship that is FC26. However, there would be no ‘drop back and counter’ here.

In true Goochball fashion we’re going balls to the wall, and by god it worked.

Even after Barry sold the formation to the squad via séance, the tension was still palpable — the faithfuls demanded a performance, and you could cut the atmosphere with a very blunt knife. But then something extraordinary happened.

Darlington Nagbe played like a man possessed.

One moment he was in our box blocking a shot, the next he was jinking into the opponent’s to score our opening goal. The way he was moving had people looking like they were watching a match at Wimbledon.

He was instrumental in everything we did, and the earlier chants of ‘bellend’ turned into ‘bravissimo!’ by the time we were 3-0 up and Nagbe had his brace.

This was a comeback for the ages, and by the 35th minute we were 4-0 up and the opponent just left the pitch. Gone. Finished.

Nagbe did a lap of honour, Sabbi limped down the touchline, foot now only in two bits being held together with duct tape and Barry’s loose grasp of human anatomy, and Crystal Dunn was still dribbling around the centre circle, fans screaming ‘OLE!’ at every touch of the ball.

The party atmosphere was firmly back at Molton Road, ‘Sweet Caroline’ blared over the speakers, and Barry sat on our penalty spot in just his underwear, chanting ‘GOOCHBALL, GOOCHBALL, GOOCHBALL’.

I allowed myself a brief moment to bask in our glory, before the sudden realisation that we had to do it all again set in.

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⸻

📺 Previously On…


Gooch rose from the dead — literally — smashing in a 92nd-minute winner after we blew a 3–0 lead, cementing his Rise From The Grave Evo in pure Hollywood fashion.

Meanwhile, Barry mumbled dark prophecies about giants, moustaches, and “balance returning to Goochball,” which definitely won’t come back to haunt us.

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🆕 New Arrivals & Squad Tweaks

#HereWeGo – New Players:


🇺🇸 Lily Yohannes — 84 Showdown (CM)

Lily Yohannes plays midfield like she’s reading the match two minutes into the future. Calm, clever, and annoyingly efficient, she glides through pressure with the serenity of someone parallel parking a Fiat 500. Barry calls her “the quiet storm,” mostly because every time she touches the ball the opposition midfield visibly ages.

** 🇺🇸 Rose Lavelle — 88 TOTW (CM)**

Rose Lavelle is back — upgraded, unhinged, and absolutely not here to mess about. With an 88-rated Team of the Week card, she moves like a ballerina possessed and hits passes so accurate they could thread a needle in a wind tunnel. Barry claims she’s “the closest thing to divine intervention since the 2002 U.S. Men’s World Cup run,” and frankly he might not be wrong.
 She doesn’t just run the midfield — she is the midfield.

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⚙️ Tactics:

4-5-1 Not the boring, ratty, ‘park the bus and pray’ kind. No. This was a Barry-blessed, chaos-tempered reinterpretation.

Five midfielders swarming like angry wasps with ADHD, a lone striker up top ready to pounce like a malnourished lion, and fullbacks sprinting hard enough to trigger seismic activity in Barnsley.

We may look like rats on the sinking ship that is FC26, but make no mistake — this is Goochball 4-5-1: reckless, relentless, and absolutely unapologetic.

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🎯 UEFA Primetime Week One — The Week in Review


A Champions League focussed promo means very little to us, so I spent the week sorting out our ever growing list of Evolutions.

I have spent A LOT of time grinding out squad battles thanks to the frankly absurd requirements on Hickey and Gutierrez I mentioned last week, but it doesn’t stop there.

I played the Primetime League because the rewards are probably better than Rivals, but golly, it was sweaty. It probably wasn’t the most efficient use of my time when it came to completing the Evos (as we did require a lot of wins), but we got some done and got all of the rewards.

The sheer number of Evos did mean I only got the first part of the Hickey/ Gutierrez chain done, much to Barry’s disdain. His prophecy might have to wait another week before coming true.

I have made good progress though, and we now have — checks notes — seven left to do. Crikey.

When it comes to Rivals, we did manage to scrape 5 wins for basic rewards, but it definitely was a struggle. The final two teams I’ve faced are the most Credit Card FC squads yet.

We got our 15 points by beating a team with Alex Morgan, POTM Mbappe, Lamine Yamal, Virgil van Dijk, Saliba, multiple icons… we peppered him and he rage quit at 2-2. A weirdo, but we’ll take it.

All in all a net positive week in terms of the club, however I have one bone of contention.

Ultimate Scream 99 stat boosts.

The fact that these felt so underwhelming shows that stats genuinely mean nothing in this game. The most important things are roles and playstyles by a country mile.

Zoe Matthews has 99 passing for the week, but without a passing PS+ I might as well be threading balls through for Sophia Wilson myself.

Owen Wolff’s 99 physical? Fucking useless without any physical playstyles. And don’t get me started on Timothy Weah’s ’99 defending’. The lad is more Trent than Trent.

I just don’t see the point in it all really, and it does make me wonder when EA will start to bring more PS+ into Evos. We’ve had one so far (outside of individual PS+ Evos from the Season Pass/ Objectives), and now we’re heading into November it feels like they need to ramp it up.

But knowing EA? It’ll be January and we’re still getting 80-rated capped Evos.

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📊 Week Summary

Played: 13 | Won: 5 | Drawn: 2 | Lost: 6

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🌟 Player of the Week

Darlington Nagbe didn’t just play football this week — he conducted it. It was like watching a man glide through space-time on roller skates. One second he was sliding into tackles with the elegance of a flamingo doing the samba, the next he was bursting into the box, slaloming past defenders who moved like they were buffering.

His first goal was poetry, his second was punishment, and by full-time the crowd had thrown aside their usual insults and were chanting his name like he’d cured male-pattern baldness and won the lottery in the same afternoon.

Nagbe was everywhere, involved in everything, and absolutely refusing to let Goochball die quietly. A midfield general, a box-to-box menace, a balding Michelangelo with a football. Player of the Week? He practically owned the week.

⸻

🧬 Evo Watch

• Patrick Hickey
  • The ScreaMOR — 58 > 74
• Brian Gutierrez
  • Star In Motion — 68 > 78
• Folarin Balogun
  • Spooky Striker — 77 > 84
• Cameron Carter-Vickers
  • The Portuguese Backline Titan — 79 > 84
• Mark McKenzie
  • Ghostly Guardian — 74 > 83

⸻

🪦 Closing Thoughts

Later that night, long after the last physio lamp had flickered out, Barry appeared in my doorway looking… troubled.

He didn’t knock, he never does.

His coat was soaked through, his hair plastered to his skull, and the half-burned Cuban cigar trembled between his fingers like even it wanted to leave the room.

He didn’t speak at first.

He just stood there in the shadows, breathing too slowly, staring at a point somewhere behind me — like he was watching something crawl up the wall that I couldn’t see.

Then, with a voice rougher than gravel dragged across bone, he whispered:

“The evolutions… they’re not taking, gaffer.
The Hickey stands tall, but hollow.
The Gutierrez boy spins in circles — a dancer without rhythm, a shadow without form.
I push them… the cosmos pushes them… but they remain stuck.
Refusing to grow.
Refusing to change.”

He took a step forward, rainwater dripping from his sleeves, eyes glinting with fear rather than fury.

“I’ve tried everything — chants, chalk circles, even blessing their boots with Guzan’s sweat.
Nothing moves.
Nothing shifts.
It’s as if something out there is holding them back…
Something old.
Something hungry.”

His voice cracked — an awful, inhuman sound I’ve never heard from him.

“But beneath it all… something else stirs.
A different power.
A soldier in waiting.
A Sargeant shackled by time itself.”

He leaned in so close I could smell the damp earth on him, the cigar smoke, the trepidation.

“When the final bell tolls… when Primetime awakens… he will break his chains.
Finesse sharper than moonlit steel.
Strikes guided by something not quite holy.
And when he rises, gaffer…
The ground will not hold.”

Barry staggered back, clutching the doorframe as though the corridor itself had tilted.

“The Hickey stands frozen.
Gutierrez spins in the dark.
But the Sargeant…”

His voice dropped to a tremor.

“…the Sargeant is coming.”

He left without another word — the lights flickering in his wake, as if something supernatural had passed through Molton Road.

⸻

Until next time,
 YEEHAW!

Read Episode 11 Here.

⬅️ Read Episode 8 Here.

🪦 Rising From The Grave

The sun beat down on a frosty Molton Road. Steam rose from the stands as a collective sigh rolled around the ground.

After commanding a comfortable 3-0 lead early on, we were pegged back to 3-3. A combination of bad luck, Guzan snapping a tendon when stretching for a stanchion-bound rocket, and the referee gifting our opponent a penalty when Barry had seen harder pillows while working at Dunelm in 1984.

Down but not out, it was time for our star man to rise from the grave of despair and clinch victory number ten.

The clock, finally right as we never bothered to switch it to British Summer Time, ticked on. 90 minutes. 91. 92.

The passing was furious, the middle of the park like a World War One battleground. Tackles flying in, screams of agony, interceptions like air defence missiles working overtime.

It seemed as if the deadlock would never be broken.

Up stepped Lynden Jack Gooch.

Our diminutive captain, playing in an unfamiliar right midfield role, received a pass from Crystal Dunn. Jinking, darting, he evaded not one, not two, but three desperate lunges as he soared towards the edge of the box.

A drop of the shoulder put him on his weaker left foot, but no bother for our Lynd. He lashed an effort, curling, towards the top corner.

The air was sucked out of the ground, the fans simultaneously rose from their seats as if one person, the sound of seats clattering acting as a metronome. It was as if time itself had stopped, until a subtle ‘ding’ and whooshing of the net was heard from Molton Road to Mumbai.

Eruption.

I have never in my 34 years heard a noise like it. It was bedlam, pandemonium. Gooch sprinted over to the fans, ripped his shirt like Hulk Hogan and roared in delight. He revealed ‘GOOCHBALL’ scrawled across his chest in what we can only hope was red paint and not blood. In return, the fans swamped him as if the Earth itself has opened up and swallowed him whole.

Our Captain. Our Leader. Our American Boy.

It was the win that secured us maximum Rivals points for the week, but it was more than that. It was a statement.

A statement that this is a team that never gives up. Never falters in the face of despair. That you can believe in these boys and girls, because they fight for the badge. For what’s right. For freedom.

Kitman Kevin was fuming about the shirt, but even he knew you don’t bollock destiny. Lynden got a yellow card for his troubles, but it was more than worth it.

We can buy new shirts. We can serve suspensions. But moments like this? You only live them once.

Up the fucking Yanks!

⸻

⸻

📺 Previously On…

Chaos reigned at Molton Road as Goochball flirted with footballing divinity. Four penalties, a red card, and a 4–0 deficit had the faithful fearing the worst — until Mallory Swanson, wings unfurled, dragged the team from the abyss with a four-goal masterclass to seal a 5–4 comeback for the ages.

Barry called it “rebirth,” then fainted, while Guzan’s knees clicked out the national anthem. The week ended in madness, miracles, and the faint scent of cigar smoke — proof that at Molton Road, even when all hope is dead, Goochball finds a way to rise again.

⸻

🆕 New Arrivals & Squad Tweaks

#HereWeGo – New Players:

🇺🇸 Timothy Weah (85 – RB) Faster than logic, sharper than Gooch’s fringe on a windy day. Spends more time overlapping than a Venn diagram on Red Bull. Barry calls him “the American Cafu,” — and he should know, he coached him at Palmeiras in 1995 while seconding as an au pair for Zico.

🇺🇸 Casey Krueger (84 – CB) Built like a chest freezer and tackles like one falling down the stairs. Calm on the ball, murderous off it. Barry swears she was born during an earthquake — and causes a tremor every time she jumps for a header.

🇺🇸 Diego Luna (84 – CAM) A man who looks like he should be in a Mexican drug cartel but plays like he’s possessed by the ghost of Zidane. Smooth dribbling, reckless hair, and a first touch that could cure gout. Barry once described him as “mercurial, but with taxes paid.”

🇺🇸 Owen Wolff (84 – CM) Looks 12, plays 40. The sort of midfielder who’ll quietly rack up 40 passes and three arrests. Barry says he has “the eyes of a prophet and the haircut of a geography teacher.” Reliable, if slightly unnerving.

🇺🇸 Zoe Matthews (84 – CM) So tall the Grand Canyon looks like a crack in the pavement. Dominates midfield purely through gravitational pull. The last player to nutmeg her is still orbiting somewhere over Birmingham. Barry’s terrified of her — and rightly so.

Barry pulled me aside after training and said he’s never seen a squad so tall, talented, and terminally confused — and that includes his time coaching the 1996 Barnsley U-15s during a locust outbreak.

⚙️ Tactics:

4-1-3-2 Full-throttle, heavy-metal Goochball. Both full-backs bomb forward like they’ve got unpaid parking tickets, and defending is mostly theoretical. Barry calls it “organised chaos,” though only one of those words applies.

4-3-3 (2) A slightly more sensible setup — the tactical equivalent of switching from tequila to shandy. Solid through the middle, deadly on the break. Barry refers to it as “the calm before the calamity.”

⸻

🎃 Trick Or Treat — The Week in Review

Barry says Halloween isn’t a holiday, it’s a scouting opportunity. “Only the brave show themselves under a blood moon,” he muttered, before handing me another fun-size Mars Bar with a fucking bite already missing.

Of course Ultimate Scream, one of the community’s favourite promos, is back. As I mentioned in the last episode, it appears we’ve been blessed with approximately 16,000 new central midfielders, in a formation where I can fit one. Fabulous.

Week Two brought us our scariest Spooky recruit yet. Zoe Matthews, a 6’2” behemoth, is so tall the Grand Canyon appears like a mere hairline crack. However, she is nothing compared to our latest Evo.

Patrick Hickey isn’t a player. He’s a pure, unadulterated specimen. Standing at 6’6” and adorning the most majestic of moustaches, I’m pretty certain that, as he entered the stadium, he briefly left the Earth’s atmosphere.

Rub It Better Rob, our 25-stone physio, had to lend him his oxygen mask just to bring him back to this planet, all while Barry was on the blower to Red Bull to ask if they could do another parachute jump from space — only it would just involve Big Pat standing on a ladder in the car park.

What’s even better is that Pat has come from the Irish league, which means he should definitely bring us some luck. Surely.

Our second Evo has possibly one of the best names in the squad. A genuine juxtaposition, a ying and yang — Brian Gutierrez — last name of a telenovela star, first name of a lad who runs a chip shop in Wigan. Starting out as a measly 68 rated card, our Evo path has him turn into a genuine menace. But more on that next week.

While I’m extremely excited about welcoming both Patrick and Brian into the Molton Road fold, there is one slight bone of contention. The Evo requirements will take me approximately a millennia to complete. Honestly, these are paid Evos. I’m spending cold hard coins upgrading these fellas, only for it to take me 20 fucking matches to complete them. It’s genuinely absurd.

So by the time FC27 comes round we might have completed them, but they will have to wait — this week was about continuing our good rivals run while also Evoing our main man Lynden Gooch so that, finally, he’s no longer a silver card.

Weirdly, the Rise From The Grave Evo we put him in was actually a LB one, which gave decent all around boosts for a +6 overall, including dribbling, balance, agility and defensive stats.

Talking of rising from the grave (or probation) CCV is back in the squad, equipped with a handy ankle tag. He might not be able to play on a Tuesday night (court order), but a monstrous Evo might thrust him back into the team come next Saturday.

⸻

📊 Week Summary:

Played: 16 | Won: 10 | Drawn: 0 | Lost: 6

⸻

🌟 Player of the Week

Lynden Gooch — A true captains shift this week as he inspired us to victory while playing out of position on the right side of midfield. Ripped his shirt off, scored a banger, and probably violated three FIFA regulations in the process.

⸻

🧬 Evo Watch

• Lynden Gooch:
  • Rise From The Grave – 70 > 76
• Sarah Gorden:
  • Phantom Fullback – 76 > 81
  • Ice Veins – 81 > 81
• Gio Reyna
  • Fast Like Adama – 75 > 81
• Lo’eau Labonta
  • The Big Fella – 84 > 85

⸻

🪦 Closing Thoughts

Later that night, Barry appeared in the doorway of my office — face half-lit by the light of a vending machine filled only with Curly Wurly’s, and the embers of a fat Cuban cigar.

The smoke curled around him like smog on a Tuesday in Middlesbrough — dense, ominous, and faintly depressing.

He didn’t knock. He never does.

He spoke slowly, voice gravelled and low, each word dragging the weight of a hangover and hidden knowledge.

“When the tall one bends and the small one spins, balance will be restored. The wardrobe of flesh shall guard the skies, but it is the boy seasoned in tapas and sangria who will find the cracks between seconds. One born of reach, the other of rhythm — together they bring the balance on which Goochball hinges. But beware… for when the Hickey howls, even Row Z will tremble.”

He tapped the ash into my freshly made mug of instant coffee, gave a knowing nod, and, on the half turn when leaving, muttered,

“It’s all in motion now.”

He disappeared into the corridor, leaving only a very ‘ashy’ coffee, the faint scent of cigar smoke and impending chaos.

⸻

Until next time, YEEHAW!

➡️ Read Episode 10 Here.

Read Episode 7 here.

There are nights when football bends reality.


When tactics, logic, and even common sense all pack their bags and fuck off to the nearest Wetherspoons.


This was one of those nights.

It was a cold, wet Tuesday at Molton Road.


Rain lashed the dugout so hard that Sabbi had to hide under a weighted blanket, his foot still in tatters.


These were the conditions where Dyche, Pulis and Allardyce thrive — mud, misery, and long balls their gospel.
Winter had come. Summer was but a distant fever dream.

After a win and a draw earlier in the week, the third game began like a Cameron Carter-Vickers crime scene.


Four penalties. One red card. Goochball in ruins.


The referee blew his whistle like a man trying to swat a wasp in a hurricane, and by the 35th minute we were 4–0 down and seriously considering applying for jobs at the local Screwfix.

The Molton Road faithful were restless. Guzan’s knees had started their usual clicking symphony, Gooch was halfway through a Shakespearean meltdown on the touchline, and I swear Barry poured holy water into Crystal Dunn’s water bottle and whispered something in Latin that sounded suspiciously like “press higher.” She immediately two-footed someone and got booked.

Even the floodlights dimmed — maybe divine intervention, maybe just the dodgy wiring again.

Then, like the calm before a tornado, Mallory Swanson decided enough was enough.


The Swan spread her wings.

First came a delicate flick from nowhere, slicing through chaos like a surgeon with ADHD.


1–4.


Then a curling strike that defied physics, reason, and the goalkeeper’s will to live.


2–4.


By 70 minutes, she’d smashed home a third — a volley that screamed vengeance and redemption in equal measure.


3–4.

Molton Road was alive again. The dugout shook. Barry fainted.


DaMarcus Beasley did a full lap of the pitch during an injury break just because he could.

At 80 minutes, Sophia Wilson latched onto a through ball, coolly chipping the keeper to level it up.


4–4.


Bedlam. Players roared like rabid dogs, fans howled, and somewhere in the crowd a meat pie achieved terminal velocity.

And then — the 87th minute.


The air hung thick with disbelief and Greggs pastry fumes.


Swanson cut in from the left one last time.


A drop of the shoulder. A chop. A stepover.


A finish so clean it should’ve come with a hygiene rating.


5–4.

The whistle blew. Silence.


Then pandemonium.

Barry dropped to his knees screaming, “REBIRTH!”


I dropped to mine because I’d pulled a hamstring celebrating.

Through the chaos, Gooch found me on the touchline, rain dripping from his fringe, arm around my shoulder.
He looked out over the pitch — mud, madness, and glory — and whispered the words that’ll echo through Molton Road for years to come:

“Ho'way! The Swan always rises, gaffer. Even from 4–0 down!”

For a moment, the world felt still. The lights glowed brighter. Even the rain seemed to fall slower, as if time itself was holding its breath.

And behind us, as the players soaked in the moment, Barry stood in the shadows, eyes closed, muttering to himself. Later, he’d scribble the words into his weathered notebook — a new prophecy born from the storm:

“When the bird of grace conquers the tempest, the heart will return to beat again.
But beware, for after rebirth comes reckoning —
and even the brightest wings must one day face the dark.”

After the Miracle

The days that followed felt… hollow.

Not in a bad way — more like the air after a thunderstorm. Still charged. Still humming. But heavier, quieter, as if Molton Road itself was catching its breath.

The crowd had gone home, the mud had hardened, and Barry spent three straight nights meditating in the home dugout, muttering that “the Swan had awoken the old gods.”

Even Gooch looked different — not happier, but as if a weight was on his shoulders, like a man who’d glimpsed footballing divinity and knew it couldn’t last.

We’d scaled the impossible, pulled glory from the jaws of calamity, and now there was only one question left:
What comes after a miracle?

Turns out, the answer was paperwork, fixture congestion, and the slow death of my Division Rivals dreams.

The Nation Of Domination

First up, this is another 2-week episode. I’ll admit, I got caught up in trying to win the Guantlet (I didn’t) and ended up not getting enough Rivals points for even basic rewards — the club is in a shambles, Tea Lady Tracey is on strike, our fodder is depleted with no sign of being renewed. We’re in the doldrums.

But with the launch (and return) of Ultimate Scream, we looked to bounce back — and bounce back we did. A scarily dominant display in the last week of the season saw us nail our Rivals wins in just 12 games, winning 9, meaning that we get maximum rewards (now in Division 5). The likelihood we pack anything? Zero to none.

I did play a fair bit of the latest Rush event — Nightmare For Defenders. More like a fucking nightmare for everyone else. I know that EAFC players are said to have the lowest IQ of any gaming community, and Rush goes a long way to proving that.

I’ve never seen so many people with so little understanding of the basic tenets of football — pass and move, stay on side, mark your player.

It’s like three headless chickens are having an orgy, and grating my testicles is more fun than playing the mode.

Challenge Time

A very uneventful challenge this week — at least on paper.


The gods of random fate delivered us a strange one: He’s No Finnish, He’s Only 28 — field a team with no player under 28 years old.

On the surface, simple enough. In practice? Like trying to get Barry to fill out a tax return.

The squad looked more like a veterans’ five-a-side down at the leisure centre than a team of professional athletes. Knees clicked like metronomes, backs seized up mid-warmup, and Brad Guzan had to stretch his hamstring using a car jack. 
 Even Gooch muttered something about “needing a mobility scooter upgrade.”

But football is a cruel temptress — and what started as a test of endurance quickly spiralled into ninety minutes of pure, unfiltered madness.

Lynn Biyendolo — drafted in as our surprise weapon — rolled back the years like a fine supermarket wine left out in the sun.


Two goals.


Two thunderbolts from nowhere.


And at one point, she celebrated by pretending to take her teeth out.

The rest of the team followed her lead, in what can only be described as the slowest game of pinball ever played.

Every attack ended in calamity, every defensive clearance ricocheted off someone’s backside, and by the 80th minute the scoreboard looked like a broken calculator.

6–6.

By the final whistle, half the squad were wheezing, Barry was trying to summon the spirit of Pelé through interpretive dance, and Guzan had started icing both knees and his ego.

It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t tactical. But by god, it was unadulterated Goochball — geriatric edition.

Moving Forwards

I’m not going to lie, I do have a headache. Thanks to EA deciding that pretty much the only position they are going to give American Ultimate Scream players is CM, I have a choice between approximately 6.3 billion central midfielders in a formation that has only two.

I think I’m going to wait for the 99 stat upgrades to see who to play, but for now no one can dislodge Crystal Dunn — she is the player that makes everything tick for the team. A rock in defence, a menace in attack.

Next week is the start of a new season, which usually means that Rivals becomes an absolute slugfest as relegation takes place and players battle for promotion.

We have found our favoured formations — a balls-to-the-wall 4-1-3-2 where our fullbacks join the attack and we go full heavy metal football, and a 4-3-3 (2) which is more solid but equally as devastating in the final third.

We’ll see next week whether those formations can bring success, or if the new season will bring new waves of misery.

The Halloween Prophecy

As I was packing up for the night, Barry appeared in my doorway — half in the faint light of a full moon, half in what appeared to be a pool of pig’s blood.

He didn’t say a word at first, just placed a lone Fun-Size Mars Bar on my desk and stared at it like it was a sacrificial offering.

Then he spoke — voice low and raspy, smelling faintly of burning sage and raw cow’s milk.

“Some say there’s a thin veil between those who trick and those who treat. When the Beaver Moon takes hold, we will have a decision to make. Oust those who have been faithful in favour of traitorous boosts… or keep faith in the old guard, and deny the Lord of Darkness his lustful vengeance.”

He sloped off into the shadows, muttering something about “the devil being in the hearts of those who egg.”

I’ve not a bloody clue what he was on about — and when I went to eat the Mars Bar, he’d already taken a bite out of it.

Classic Barry.

Until next time, 
 YEEHAW

➡️ Read Episode 9 Here.

Read Episode 6 Here.

It was a grey Friday morning when I got the news. A close family bereavement out of the blue meant I had to rush out of the Molton Road gates, leaving our enigmatic coach, Whispering Barry, in sole charge of the team’s fortunes while I took two weeks’ compassionate leave.

The following are Barry’s weekly reports to me, updating me on the performance of the team in my absence. It is completely unedited.

Week One

To: The Gaffer (wherever he may be) From: Interim Manager & Prophet-in-Residence, Barry Subject: Slight Chaos, Good Vibrations

Gaffer, firstly I wanted to once again send my condolences for your loss. The lads & lasses have fashioned black armbands out of the skins of roadkill badgers, much to the glee of the local farmer’s association.
I told them that Sue, the resident Vegan ticket lady, wouldn’t be too chuffed, but Brad Guzan took her to one side and said he wanted to Make Animals Great Again. I think she bought it.

Lynden also led the tributes in the warm up before the game by skying a cross into the next county. It felt fitting.

A cold wind blew across Molton Road. The pigeons formed a perfect V in the sky, and I knew the spirits of Division Six had appointed me their humble vessel.

After a dreadful first performance and in absence of your guiding hand and inspiring words, I took it upon myself to motivate the team at half time in game two through the ancient Mongolian art of throat singing. I think the frequency resonated, because we came from 3-0 down to win 5-4 in what was, frankly, one of the most spiritual experiences of my entire existence.

I also changed the warm up — I went on a West African coaching course during my mid-twenties and Rondos are so last year. We’ve moved on to silent prayer while facing west at 2.43pm. One of our new signings said it was complete and utter bollocks. He went on to score two goals from left-back. Coincidence? I think not.

I also took it upon myself to do some wheeling and dealing while you were away — I hope you don’t mind.

I wrote the names on the back of a packet of Benson & Hedges. I don’t smoke but I think it improves my street cred to have them on me. Sandra (you know, club secretary) managed to make contact with the agents and get the deals done.

We did have to send back Josh Benson and Ryan Hedges though — I think ol’ Sandy had a bit of a malfunction, and they don’t quite fit the profile of the club.

Good news though, Josh Sargent has finally landed, as well as a new & improved Rose Lavelle, complete with snazzy new look. Oh, and remember that bloke DaMarcus Beasley who played for Man City when they were a bit shit? Well, he’s in the door as well.

Performances

I’m not gonna lie Gaffer, it’s been a mixed bag. The good news is we won ten games, earning our upgraded rewards. The bad news? We lost 12.

I’m not sure what it was — maybe your absence had more of an effect than we anticipated, or maybe it was the fact I drew up a 3-3-3-1 formation on the tactics board, with the magnets spelling the word “BARRYBALL.” I think it was divine geometry so I refused to change it.

As it says in Corinthians — or possibly the Carabao Cup rules — ‘Blessed are the ones who press high, for they shall inherit possession.’

I also accidentally registered myself as a substitute goalkeeper. It was lucky, really — Guzan got a nosebleed so I strapped up and came on, but I conceded immediately to a back-pass. I think it was “magnetic interference” and I take no responsibility for the loss.

I’m sure next week will bring improvements — I’m already knee deep in organising a team bonding session, although I have lost the club debit card, so I’m paying for sandwiches with a half-filled Costa Coffee loyalty card and tickets to our next game.

I’ll report back next week Gaffer, stay strong, and don’t fear the loss. It’s like a kebab after a night out — a bit messy, a bit burnt, but you scrape off the char and there’s still something worth chewing. Rebirth, innit.

Barry

Week Two

To: The Gaffer From: Barry, The Mystical One Subject: Abject Terror & Temper Tantrums

Gaffer, we have a problem. There’s no easy way to say this, but Cameron Carter-Vickers is a killer.

The week began well. Josh Sargent was properly fired up for Monday’s training session. So much so that he literally set his boots on fire, head butted a hole in the dressing room door then sprinted around the training pitch 16 times.

Whenever I’d call him over to start the drills, he’d just bellow back ‘FOR FREEDOM’ and continue running. I’m not convinced he’s not still out there right now.

Whatever he did worked though, he has 15 goals in 12 games and skin now matching his ginger hair.

We gained a lot of points on Friday (13 no less), which was promising — however due to international fixtures we had the weekend off.

That’s when things started to go wrong.

Probably best we move onto the small matter of Cameron Carter-Vickers, our resident murderer-in-chief. It all began when I encouraged the players to bring their pets to the next game to act as therapy animals. Lynden Gooch naturally brought in his Golden Retriever, Ballson. It was pretty obvious he would have the most loyal, happy-go-lucky pet known to man, but it did keep nibbling Sabbi’s shoelaces when in the dressing room.

That was the catalyst to a series of… unfortunate events.

Excited to get his first run out, Sabbi slipped on his boots as I whispered some prophetic words in his ear…

“When the cheetah learns to pause, the storm will find its rhythm. The man of pace will trade chaos for clarity, and in stillness, goals shall come.”

Problem is, shoe laces unknowingly shredded, there was to be no clarity for our Emmanuel — only chaos.

A mere 7 minutes into a rare start, Sabbi was making one of his trademark erratic runs down the right flank, much like a Wide Receiver in the sport of his homeland. Unfortunately, he ran over a slightly raised sprinkler in the turf, which in turn caused his boot to fall off (see: shredded laces) — he sliced his foot boss. There was bone. And vomit.

Grief stricken and clearly shaken from the horrific scenes of the early game, the majority of the team entered the dressing room at half time not feeling their best.

Cameron Carter-Vickers was no different, except he had also scored a rather calamitous own goal to cause us to go into the break behind. The last one off the pitch after nearly dragging a fan over the pitch side barriers after he hurled abuse at him, Cameron smashed the door open (still complete with a Sargent head-sized hole in it), without realising that Alyssa Thompson’s family gerbil was scuttling around behind it.

What followed could only be described as the gerbil equivalent of firing a very small man out of a cannon at a circus. It was instant. Poor Gerald took flight like a tiny cannonball of destiny, ending up impaled on Naomi Girma’s peg.

It gets weirder.

Brad Guzan sauntered over, knees bandaged in electrician’s tape, wiped the blood with his glove, created warrior-like lines under his eyes and then just sprinted through the door, taking it off its hinges.

Had we let him, I think he’d have taken Gerald home for dinner.

Needless to say that Alyssa had to be subbed as she sobbed into Mallory Swanson’s tracksuit top, and we had to suspend CCV not only for the animal battery, but also nearly dismembering a fan.

I don’t even think I could have seen this one coming, gaffer.

Anyway, after that the lads and lasses were, probably rightfully, shocked to the core. We managed one win in the next six, and, due to fixture congestion thanks to The Gauntlet 2, we had to settle for basic rewards this week.

I sat alone in the dugout, wind whistling as Guzan’s knee tape floated past, thinking about what I could have differently. Honestly? I think replacing half time oranges with peppercorns might have done it.

Sorry Gaffer, Barry

Week Three

To: The Gaffer (Returned from the Shadows)
 From: Whispering Barry, Prophet-in-Residence Subject: The Fog Stirred When You Returned

Gaffer,

The fog knew before we did. It rolled in off the bypass at dawn, thick as custard, and wrapped itself around Molton Road like a mother cat around her kitten.

The floodlights flickered once, twice, and then steadied — a sure sign the universe was recalibrating.

That’s when I knew.

You were coming home.

The players felt it too. Gooch stopped mid-sprint, looked to the horizon and whispered, “He’s back like.”

Guzan, overcome by emotion or arthritis, dropped to one knee. Even the pigeons on the roof formed a perfect 4-4-2.

Before training, I gathered the squad in the centre circle. The grass was heavy with dew and unspoken tension. I raised my clipboard to the heavens — still bearing the faint scrawl of BARRYBALL — and delivered the message the cosmos had whispered to me the night before.

“As the prodigal gaffer returns through fog and flame, two stars walk beside him — one forged from crystal, the other from thorns.
 The gem will hold the middle, bending chaos into shape.
 The thorn in the opponent’s side will strike thrice, each goal louder than the last.
 And when they stand together beneath the light, Goochball shall be reborn.”

As I spoke, Crystal Dunn, all 5’1” of her, jogged out of the mist, boots shining, eyes sharper than a parking ticket womble. You could tell she’d played everywhere — her aura smelled like tactics.

Moments later, Sophia Wilson appeared behind her, laces untied, menace lurking behind a wide smile, like she already knew the net was trembling. The ball floated to her feet as if the wind itself wanted an assist.

The fog lifted. The floodlights burned clean.

And somewhere deep inside, I swear I heard the pitch whisper back: “He’s returned.”

Welcome back, gaffer. The stars are aligned, the badgers are restless, and the prophecy is in motion.

Yours in eternal Gooch,
 Barry

To: The Gaffer From: Barry, Wunder-coach Subject: P.S. – Further Reflections on the Prophecy of Crystal & Thorn

Gaffer,

Since your return, I’ve been meditating on what the stars meant when they whispered Crystal and Thorn.

At first I thought it referred to my lingering toenail fungus (clear and sharp, yet painful), but after the win against Soggy Busquets FC, the truth revealed itself.

Crystal Dunn is the gem the cosmos spoke of — precise, multifaceted, impossible to scratch. If the Americans made Swiss Army knives, they'd be modelled on here. She glides between midfield lines like she’s sneaking past security at the Mexican border. The ball clings to her like static on a nylon tracksuit — I checked for magnets, she swears she’s clean.

Sophia Wilson, on the other hand, is the Thorn — the divine irritant. The defenders hate her, the goal loves her, and she pricks at the fabric of reality every time she shoots. I saw her nutmeg a man so thoroughly he questioned his own postcode while checking his testicles were still intact.

Together they are balance: one polished, the other piercing.
That’s the beauty of Goochball — opposite forces uniting to cause chaos and devastation on unwitting opponents.

I’ve wrote the full prophecy on a Greggs napkin, but unfortunately Ballson Gooch ate it before I could file it away. The crafty little bugger.

Should the winds change or Guzan’s knees fail again, well, we’re probably fucked.

Yours in continued enlightenment,
 Barry

➡️ Read Episode 8 Here.

Read Episode 5 Here.

Week Two Record

• Matches: 12
• Wins: 9
• Draws: 1
• Losses: 2

A cool breeze snakes its way across the Molton Road pitch. The smell of hot dogs and chicken balti pies lingers in the night air, and the floodlights spark into life with a single, sad bulb flickering as if wired by a dyslexic gerbil.

After a rough opening week, Lynden Gooch rallies the lads and lasses, a speech grounded in North Eastern grit that is designed to embolden the strong and weed out the weak.

Barry, a perennial enigma, slowly paces the technical box. I can tell he has something on his mind, and one final time we pass like ships in the night as he slopes off to the dressing room.

We’re 3-2 down and my frustration is boiling over. We were in control, two goals up thanks to our Swan flying high.

But my experimental 5-2-1-2 formation has left us in tatters. An overloaded midfield, exposed wings and a certain Cameron Carter-Vickers has allowed our opponent to capitalise.

The straw that broke the camel’s back though? Phallon ‘Play-Doh’ Tullis-Joyce comes to claim a cross, only to flail like a baby falling backwards into water, leaving an open goal and the easiest finish Viktor Gyökeres will ever have.

I smash a water bottle on the floor, and it flies off into the path of Emmanuel Sabbi who’s warming up on the touchline. He steps on it. Snap. ACL gone.

However, as the water from the crushed bottle sprays up across the tunnel in the unnaturally cold evening air, there stands a lone silhouetted figure in the mist.

Everything around me falls quiet. There’s no more crowds shouting ‘you’re a wanker’. I can’t hear Goochy barking instructions, nor the sound of Sabbi writhing in pain. No, there’s an eerie, muffled quality to everything, until Barry’s words from last week cut through the silence and ring in my ears…

“The Ghost of Villains past prepare to protect you in your darkest hour.”

At that moment the figure starts towards me. As the light hit him I could see his bald head shine like a beacon. He adjusted his gloves which looked like they were straight from 2008. His knees looked stiffer than a pensioner’s, but his gaze never averted from the goal. He gave a snort of derision as he lumbered past me, a subtle sign that he was here to be the Cornerstone of our team. The linesman already had his number up.

Tullis-Joyce was gone, and there was a new sheriff in town. And his name?

Bradley. Edwin. Guzan.

Cornerstones & Clean Sheets

The full release of FC26 has arrived, and with it a new promo to get our teeth stuck into. If you weren’t already aware, Cornerstones has been good to us.

From the intro you might have gathered that we have a new goalkeeper — Atlanta United’s Brad Guzan has entered the chat, and oh boy has he made an immediate impact.

If you read the last episode you’ll know that, like a Thai brothel, clean sheets have been difficult to come by.

Not only have we been facing the mega-sweats in Early Access, but Phallon Tullis-Joyce has been, frankly, as abysmal as my defending.

Of course, as the week went on we did get to grips with the defending mechanics and we have improved, but PTJ still had arms made out of wallpaper paste.

So Guzan’s inclusion in the promo was music to my ears, and for the princely sum of 12,000 coins it was a no brainer to bring the former Aston Villa and Middlesbrough stopper into the fray.

And what a difference a Brad makes.

I was nearly bowled over when, in his first game, Big Bad Brad kept a fucking clean sheet. I genuinely couldn’t believe it. He dived across his goal, denied fidget-spinning shots inside the area and came for crosses to grab the ball like he was Vinnie Jones having a go on Gazza.

It was a revelation.

Formation Formation Formation

As much as I’d like to, I can’t place all of my (very brief) success at the feet (or hands) of Brad Guzan.

Having tried almost every formation in the book, I decided to stop shoehorning my players into a system, and build one that fit them. Due to the relatively cheap nature of the Women’s players, many of my squad have ++ roles, which I’ve noticed seems to make a big difference this year.

Barry and I put our heads together and analysed what we had — it was 10pm and we’d already sunk six pints of coffee and a whole tub of Fruit Pastilles before Baz went out for some fresh air.

He tilted his head back into the night sky. The steam from his breath mingled with the stars… and suddenly he saw it. The formation. The way forward.

Rushing back in, and without saying a word, my bleary eyes watched as he got his tactics board and magnets and furiously plotted out how we would succeed. And by Jove he had it.

As the plan came into view, it was something I’d not thought of before. A 4-1-4-1.

It utilised the best of what we had. Swanson as a LM Inside Forward++, supported by Rose Lavelle on Box-to-Box++ and Heaps on Playmaker++ giving some attacking support.

Trinity Rodman would provide width on the right hand side as a Winger++, allowing Goochy to slot into a midfield role as a Falsback. Anchoring the whole thing was Swedish Bob Seger, who’s Holding++ would help to break up attacks.

The formation had balance, attacking flair, defensively stability. This was it.

Rose & Rodman Redemption

The change was instant. Trinity Rodman started playing like a woman possessed. While I would have liked to have seen her score more goals, in her first 6 games she bagged 5 assists. Not only that, but she stretched tired defences and allowed space for Heaps to push forward and dictate the play.

Rose Lavelle is honestly mental. She is one that has come in and out of the team, mainly due to not having CDM as a role. However in that B2B position she’s an unstoppable force, and she’s everywhere like crabs & clap at Leeds Fest.

Whether it’s breaking up play and driving into midfield, or firing Low Driven+ passes into the striker, she has become a mainstay in the squad over this last week. At just 8,000 coins she’s cheaper than a steak dinner and is more likely to score.

Myself and the Molton Road faithful are still in shock and awe over Brad Guzan. A man of his age should be sitting on a dock, drinking Bud Light and fishing. But no, he’s here to flip cars and keep clean sheets, and he’s all out of cars.

I genuinely didn’t know if I would get a shut out on FC26, but thanks to Brad we’ve achieved multiple this week. Not only is he just fucking massive, but he’s spritely for a veteran. I’ve seen him pull off moves that no man should be able to do, let alone one who fought in Vietnam. Probably.

I mean, it takes him a while to get back up again thanks to those creaky knees, but the ball is always so safe it doesn’t matter — he either punches it, or the striker, into the stratosphere.

Not only has he showcased his shot-stopping prowess, but he also has Ball-Playing Keeper++. Genuinely, not a fucking clue what it does, but he’s spraying it around like a Fireman, so it’s doing something.

Turns out Barry was right about that Villain coming to save us, just like when he said he once saw Doncaster’s Brian Deane nutmeg Diego Maradona in a charity game, but nobody noticed because a ferret was loose on the pitch at the same time.

Challenge Time

Much like the dreaded Tuesday night EFL Trophy fixtures, our challenge is here to de-rail our week and aim to make us thoroughly miserable.

This week we will be Running The Gauntlet.

New for FC26, the Gauntlet mode forces you to use three separate squads across three matches, showcasing your club’s depth and your ability to use players who might not make your first team.

I’ve highlighted Squads above because, as well as your starting XI, you also cannot use the same bench twice, meaning you need a total of 54 players across the three matches.

Of course there are prizes up for grabs, in the form of useless packs from which we’ll get nothing, but our challenge is to win the Gauntlet.

Day One: Hope Day 1 got off to a super start, grabbing a win in our first gauntlet match using our USA squad. Two more matches followed, and typically I got fully EA’d. Every bounce went against me, every deflection went in, and I lost in rounds two and three, meaning we failed on our first attempt.

Day Two: False Dawn Day 2 was the polar opposite — and early loss followed by two wins, and it was just as frustrating as we dominated those second two matches.

Day 3: Rage Day 3 was much the same story – a tough 3-0 loss in the first round followed by comprehensive 8-2 and 4-0 wins, and it was evident to all that my frustration was boiling over.

Cameron Carter-Vickers showed better reflexes than he has all season to dodge a stray boot I kicked in his direction, and with good reason — should we fail in our final attempt to run the gauntlet, we have to do a forfeit.

Despite our blistering form in Rivals, where we got 9 wins, 1 draw and 2 losses to smash through our 30 point target, The Gauntlet has proven a tough nut to crack. Due to the random, round based matchmaking we’ve consistently come up against one sweat who plays the game in its frustratingly meta way, and then we’ve dominated the other two fixtures.

We need to break this cycle, so I think I’m going to switch my team order around for day four and hope that makes a difference.

Day Four: Absolute Fuckery Well, fuck. I’ve been absolutely shafted by EA and their fucking potato servers. Honestly, I think it would be more effective if I plugged my Ethernet cable into a toaster and then dropped it in the bath. It would certainly be a more enjoyable experience. After grinding out two wins, including a dramatic penalty shootout victory in Game 2, I was dominating Game 3.

I was 5-2 up in the second half and then I got absolutely EA’d. Not only did it feel like my players were running through mud, I’ve seen softer touches in that face slapping competition where they re-arrange each other’s jaws. I’m not quite sure where every motherfucker has got the funds to buy a 171,000 coin Viktor Gyökeres either, but they have. And against my nimble but rather feeble female CBs he’s absolutely had my pants down and inspected my prostate. The guy is a freak of nature.

I lost the game 5-7 AET. Pure and utter devastation.

Not because I wanted Kudus, but because a failed challenge means the Wheel of Pain & Panic comes out for the first time this series.

Barry rolls out an old Wheel of Fortune wheel with post-it notes attached to it with our forfeits. He blows off the cobwebs and gives it a good old spin.

Mercifully, it lands on ‘quick sell a random player from the first team squad’ — not the best, but certainly not the worst — and importantly it’s not administration.

We then draw out of a hat who’ll be leaving Molton Road in a taxi like they do once they’ve been fired on The Apprentice, and the unlucky man is none other than Cameron Carter-Vickers.

It’s a sad farewell for a bloke who’s played 54 games for the club, but the slight sliver of silver lining is that, when we achieve our next promotion, we can bring him back into the squad should we wish. But for now, back to Glasgow you pop CCV.

Looking Ahead

It’s been a stellar week of Goochball for Lynden and his assortment of plucky yanks. Not only did we achieve our Rivals points in record time, Brad Guzan has given us a steely edge at the back which we were desperately lacking.

Despite Big Bad Brad entering the fray to save us this week, I get the tingly feeling that we won’t be able to enjoy this honeymoon period for long. Dark clouds are forming above Molton Road and Barry whispered a strange prophecy in my ear…

“The golden child will run like lightning, but lightning cannot strike without thunder. And when the thirteenth bell tolls, a Sargant shall march his army to battle — though victory will demand a heavy sacrifice.”

Honestly, I reckon he’s been eating some ‘funny brownies’ again while watching Viking documentaries and Game of Thrones.

Tune in next episode where we see if we can grab any more Cornerstone players, and if our latest positive run of form will come undone.

Until next time, YEEHAW!

➡️ Read Episode 7 Here.

Read Episode 4 Here.

Picture the scene: a misty Tuesday night at Molton Road, the floodlights flickering like they’ve been wired up by a man who once electrocuted himself on a toaster.

Lynden Gooch is stood arms folded, captain’s armband strangling his bicep, glaring at Emmanuel Sabbi who has once again sprinted the full length of the pitch only to trip over a stray Lucozade bottle.

Whispering Barry mutters something about “the cheetah outrunning its own shadow” before wandering off to harass the linesman about his sock choice.

And yet, somehow, this chaos feels like destiny — it’s raw, unfiltered Goochball.

A Rough Start

A new FC title always brings with it a period of adjustment. I even just spent the last three months playing with cards that have all 99 stats and five PlayStyle+’s. We’re back to whatever non rare gold cards we can get our sticky hands on, and of course, there’s the inevitable gameplay tweaks that justify charging us £90 yet again.

Except this year the gameplay changes are… more extensive. The most significant change is probably to defending — gone are the days of the AI helping you out when you mistime a tackle. We’ve been plunged back into a world where defending is very manual, and a misplaced press of the X button causes your player to perform a tackle 16 yards away from the attacker, who’s already nipped passed and fired a ball so hard into the top corner that your goalkeeper actually gave birth.

I’d describe the defending on FC26 as sadomasochistic — it’s punishing, but in the best way possible.

Now, I won’t pretend that this has been a wholly enjoyable experience for me as, in three of my first four games, I faced up against a newly juiced Viktor Gyökeres – the Swede swatted aside Naomi Girma as if she were a greenfly on a warm summers day, while Cameron Carter-Vickers was sent into so many knots I’m pretty sure he’s replaced Bear Grylls as Chief Scout.

It’s been a rough time for Phallon Tullis-Joyce too, who has seen her goal be peppered more than a steakhouse on Valentine’s Day. She has made some good saves, but it also appears that her legs are made of Play-Doh as she seems incapable of getting down to even some of the easiest shots.

Challenge Time

So, having got a few games under my belt, it felt like the right time to bring in the first Challenge of the season. I have most of the big players I can feasibly afford without taking out a second mortgage, so losing a player, while frustrating, wouldn’t be the end of the world.

What consistently looms over me is the threat of administration. I’ve had a couple of lucky pack pulls which has seen me ensure the club coffers are definitively less cobwebbed than usual, and to lose that amount of coins early on would be devastating.

So we really want the gods (whichever you support is fine) to bless us with a challenge that’s achievable.

Challenge: Get enough points to earn the upgraded Rivals rewards for the week.

Now, I bet you’re thinking ‘that’s a nice one to ease him in!’ and trust me, I thought it too… at first.

And then I started playing games.

Defending the Defenceless

You have to remember that, like me, the people who have been playing FC in Early Access are largely degenerates with nothing better to do with their lives. They are the hardest of try hards. The sweatiest of sweats. The rattiest of rats.

And, given that I’m playing games on my lunch break and not even really on an evening, the problem is compounded ten fold. I’m playing the wannabe streamers who treat the trick stick like they’re going at a throbbing clitoris, the actual streamers who’s literal job it is to play the game, or the basement dwellers who have specifically taken the whole week off to spend every eye-twitching, Monster-fuelled minute to no life Early Access so they can earn some shit rewards from a football game they hate but can’t put down.

So that’s fun.

I’m not sure if the devs in Canada got a bit confused as to what kind of sports game they were coding, but it seems it got slightly confused with NBA as every game is a basketball score.

Admittedly, this has largely been my fault — defending is very manual, and when CCV is the one twirling like a Russian ballerina trying to catch the attackers, you have to remember this isn’t FC25 and the AI won’t be there to save you.

It used to be that you didn’t touch your defenders because they did the work for you — the same rule applies now, but for the opposite reason. If you touch them and make one wrong move, your opponent is clean through with precisely zero chance of you catching them.

All of this has meant that I mainly maintained a record of one win, one loss for a long time. Many relegation scraps ensued, and I managed to only dip into Div 8 once during a particularly bad five-game losing streak.

## The Rise of the Swan

The natural thing to do when you lose is to consider everything that could have gone wrong except questioning your own ability.

You get pumped 7-0? Clearly it was the tactics. Lose to a last minute wonder strike? Your central midfield couldn’t pass wind.

FC26 has epitomised this for me, as I think I have played just about every fucking formation on the planet.

This has meant lots of players going through the team in various roles, however there have been some standout performers who have survived the majority of the changes.

Mallory Swanson is a demon. She has played a variety of roles, including LM Inside Forward++, False 9++ and LW Inside Forward, and her stats show exactly why she was someone who was always going to be in the squad.

Thrown up top almost by mistake, it was a tactical gamble inspired by none other than Barry. 3-2 down in a crunch relegation game, Barry leaned in and whispered, ‘The swan who climbs highest reaps the rewards’.

To be honest I didn’t have a fucking clue what he meant, but throwing caution to the wind I switched out Biyendolo, who’d run her socks off up top, with Mallory Swanson.

What came next was nothing short of a miracle. She wriggled. Spun. Darted. She split defences like they were crumbling render on a Wigan council house. Her runs from deep were Beckenbauer-esque, her finishing matched that of Prime Henry.

Forget Alex Morgan. Forget Mia Hamm. Forget Lynden Gooch. This is the age of the Swan.

In 51 Games she bagged 55 Goals and 31 Assists, making her both the top scorer and creator in the club.

Lindsey Heaps has also been a revelation. Playing in a largely attacking midfield role, I can’t express how important Incisive Pass+ has been in unlocking defences. She has 31 goals and 20 assists in 43 games for us, and is already becoming a key member of the squad.

Last but not least is our Pre-Order Icon Caroline Seger. While many will be disappointed to have pulled her, she has been solid and dependable in both attack and defence. To say she’s largely played CDM for me, she’s chipped in with 13 goals and 15 assists, and is generally just brilliant at breaking up the play. I’m mega excited for her to go full Pokemon and ‘evolve’ in November, gaining a big stats boost and Intercept+.

The Rise and (Inevitable) Fall

When FC giveth, FC taketh away. Swanson was still scoring, but every miss, every draw, every smashed crossbar felt biblical. My Early Access form was consistently on a knife-edge, just one slip, one poor tackle away from plunging me into relegation.

By game 30, my record was battered and bruised, my ego more so. I was edging closer to that magical 30 Rivals points, but at what cost?

Trinity Rodman was someone I was very excited to use. On paper she has everything you want — pace, finishing, good roles and excellent Playstyles. But in reality I just couldn’t seem to make her work. She felt sluggish and clunky in tight spaces, and when she did get in behind she was constantly caught. She chipped in with goals but ultimately she’s been sold for the time being before any market crashes.

Phallon Tullis-Joyce was always going to have a tough time in between the sticks, however she’s been really disappointing. She’s not small, so I can’t blame it on that, and she has good Playstyles, so I can’t blame it on that either. She’s just… a bit shit. Like a condom that’s been kept on a pin cushion, she’s leaky as fuck.

Tim Howard is the obvious replacement, however he’s nearly 100k. While I can afford that, I’m thinking that money might be better spent upgrading other areas of the team for now.

Finally, Cameron Carter-Vickers has been decent enough, but nothing stand out. I expected his physicality to have an impact at both ends of the pitch, but I’ve walked away most of the time just thinking… meh.

Towards the end of the week I replaced him with Emily Sonnett and honestly the difference is night and day. Sonnett has that jammy-ness to her, she wins the ball cleanly, keeps up with defenders and is good on the ball. So for the time being, Emily is my girl.

Challenge Results

You may (or may not) be pleased to know that the Challenge was completed this week — I hit 30 Rivals points in around 30 games, which was pretty brutal if I’m honest. And the rewards? Well, they were fucking woeful. I sold my soul for 30 Rivals points and got a jumbo pack with three contracts and a stadium theme nobody asked for.

## Who’ll be the Cornerstone of my team this week?

The first full week of the game’s release sees a brand-new promo — Cornerstones.

We’ll have see whether we get any super Americans that could fit our team, as we look to go on a slightly easier Rivals run as more people fire up the game.

Whispering Barry mentioned something around the Ghost of Villains past preparing to protect me during the toughest time, but honestly I think he might be on LSD-induced come down after a week in Ibiza with Sam Allardyce. Maybe the new promo will shed some light on his cryptic words…

Until then, YEEHAW!

➡️ Read Episode 6 Here.

Read Episode 3 Here.

With Lynden Gooch cutting a lonely figure in the Molton Road dressing room, it’s about time we got him some teammates in WF3 ahead of the punishing season ahead.

Of course, given our theme for this year, they will be Americans. Duh.

But the beauty of this is that, at least to begin with, our team will likely be littered with women, because, frankly, the men are shit.

Sure, there’s ‘Captain America’ Christian Pulisic and Celtic enforcer and Spurs legend* Cameron Carter-Vickers, but when it comes to gold cards the women rule.

Now, I will admit, when planning this series out I had no information on what Season 1 would entail. We’ve since learned that there will be a large focus on Silver cards, and a little leaky birdie tells me that there will be an Eco that Yunus Musah fits into, which does change things a touch.

Formation, Formation, Formation

Like any good team, we need some sort of identity.

Pep’s Tiki Taka magic, Mourinho’s low block resilience, Klopp’s heavy metal football.

Our brand of football will likely be more… rudimentary. We don’t have the luxury of world class talent in every position, so it’s best to keep things simple (for now).

While it’s tempting to go full four-four-fucking-two, we do have to consider the players available to us early doors. Given my success with 4-2-2-2 and the abundance of central players at our disposal, it seems the sensible option, however, I’d be leaving some pretty special wide players on the cold wooden benches of Molton Road, and that’s not something I want — after all, I had Florian Neuhaus complaining of splinters in week one last year, the bloody princess.

I (eventually) want our identity to be one of free-flowing football mixed with the athleticism the US is known for. It’s a nation that create absolute cyborgs when it comes to track, field, and the pool, and I think we can do something similar on the pitch.

I’m stumping for a 4-3-3 (2), which gives me the fluidity of attack through athletic wingbacks bombing past inverted forwards, with the CDM giving me more defensive stability.

Once we have everything set up in game I’ll get Barry to whip out his tactics board for a more in-depth run through, but for now all you need to know is we’re going to fucking go for it.

With that said and done, we’ll run through our starting squad one by one, with a bit of background as to why I’ve chosen each of them:

The Starting XI

GK: Phallon Tullis-Joyce | 83

While Tim Howard would be the obvious choice between the sticks, if last year is anything to go by he will be unaffordable for a while.

That leaves me with a couple of choices — go for a male GK for height reasons, but sacrifice overall rating, or, go with a female goalkeeper for better stats but sacrifice height. Well, finesse shots have been nerfed from the beta, and I found someone who pretty much fills both roles.

Last year I used 6’1” Iker Casillas for over 500 games, and he was absolutely fine. Phallon Tullis-Joyce must have basketball players for parents, because she stands at 6’1” too, with three great play styles — far reach, cross claimer and deflector.

Plus, let’s face it, all goalkeepers are absolute dog water, so what’s the worst that can happen?

RB: Lynden Gooch | 68 | Captain

This man will need no introduction if you read Episode 3 (and if you haven’t you should).

Gooch is who this series centres around, and our talismanic captain is set to lead the way at Molton Road.

CB: Natalie Girma | 85

You might think Chelsea’s Naomi Girma would be an obvious choice at centre half, and you’d be absolutely right.

Bought for over $1m from San Diego Wave, Girma is an absolute rock. She has a coveted PlayStyle+ (Jockey) as well as base Block and Bruiser. Given her smaller stature those will be important, and she should feel nice when defending against quick attackers, especially given her 80 agility and balance.

CB: Cameron Carter-Vickers | 79

I did say that the men were rated a lot lower than the women, but Carter-Vickers brings something that non of the women can — being an absolutely huge, ‘orrible bastard.

The towering Celtic man is effectively a brick shit house on wheels, with a great pace stat and split meaning he’ll be quick over the ground. 91 Jumping and 90 Strength mean he will knock even the most hardy striker off the ball with a mere little finger, and he’s ripe for Evos as we move into the cycle.

A nice little bonus is Pinged Pass as a base Playstyle, along with 76 Short Passing meaning I should be able to get balls into my central midfielders with ease.

LB: Antonee Robinson | 82

Now I won’t lie, this one could be problematic. Robinson has had a huge boost this year, and was always a popular early-game choice due to his blistering pace and Premier League status.

On FC26 he looks like an American Alphonso Davies but with better defending. Low Agility and Balance may keep the price in check, but I expect this one to set me back a fair bit.

RCM: Yunus Musah | 74

I know, you are currently thinking I have lost my fucking mind. A silver card will be in your starter squad? Well, bear with me, young chickens.

Musah is no ordinary silver. He is a machine in the middle of the park, with well-rounded stats that are prime for an evo.

And talking of Evos, I have it on good authority that he fits one of the first for the new season, which is focussed around silver cards. He is one of the players I’m most excited for, in honesty, and he had a bonkers Evo chain in FC25, so I have high hopes.

CDM: Sam Coffey | 82

Honestly, this was the position that gave me the most headaches.

There is a plethora of talent available, from the dependable Weston McKennie or Tyler Adams, to the new kid on the block Johnny Cardoso, who frankly sounds like he should have his own Cartoon Network show.

These are all fine options, but all have downsides. Cardoso looks like a pretty bonkers card, until you realise he has about as much balance as my 3-year-old if she was on stilts and spice.

McKennie has hugely well rounded stats, with a little bit to be desired when it comes to Agility and Balance, but he lacks any decent defending Playstyles to be a lone CDM protecting effectively a back two.

Tyler Adams is probably the best of the bunch, but he has zero Playstyles. Yep, none, nada, zip. Not quite sure how that happens, but Playstyles are important to me early game.

So I turned my attention elsewhere, and stumbled upon Sam Coffey. She has similar stats to Cardoso, but importantly, absolutely glorious Playstyles for how I want to play. Base Anticipate, Block, Tiki Taka, and Incisive Pass. So, what she lacks in CDM roles (she has none), she makes up for in well-rounded stats and superb Playstyles. Sam, you’re in the team!

LCM: Rose Lavelle | 87

Our highest rated acquisition of the transfer window, even Fabrizio Romano didn’t see this coup coming.

Lavelle is going to be our midfield engine, playing as a Box-to-Box CM. She’ll be supporting the defence in one moment, then tearing up the pitch and launching attacks with her FUCKING PLAYSTYLE+. That’s right. Plus.

She’s got fantastic stats across the board and no less than SIX base Playstyles, she is going to be a lynchpin for our squad. I’ve checked her price last year and it was pretty reasonable, so I’m confident she can be in the dressing room from the start.

RW: Emmanuel Sabbi | 70

Okay, this time I might actually have lost my mind. But I have good reason.

Originally this was going to be Captain America himself, Christian Pulisic. However, upon hearing the new that Lynden Gooch would be captain forever, he threw his toys out of the pram and fucked off back to Milan for an extended leave of absence. Not one to take mutiny lightly, I have banned him until he is prepared to offer a full and unequivocal apology to myself, Lynden and the WF3 faithful*.

In his place comes Emmanuel Sabbi, who frankly, is just a cheetah disguised as a footballer. He has 90 Pace & Acceleration, and 89 Agility with 88 Balance.

That’s it. That’s the story.

His role will be simple. Run.

*this has absolutely nothing to do with needing to play three silver players for one of the Silver icon objectives. Nothing.

ST: Lynn Biyendolo | 83

Eeeee Lynn. Go on, get the Partridge jokes out of the way now.

Lynn is no joke though. She is absolutely rapid, and has the Finesse base Playstyle. She is, of course, my budget option. My hope is that I get Alex Morgan in my Icon Pre Order, but as that is as likely as me flying to America and marrying her in real life, I need strength in depth.

Trinity Rodman would be my first choice, but I know for a fact she will cost the GDP of Luxembourg at the start of the game.

Biyendolo had a 99 pace card during Grassroots Greats in FC25 which I used in objectives and it was nuts, so it felt right to bring her in from the start for FC26.

Barry did whisper something about a ‘Sargeant arriving to lead the calvary when the clock strikes 13’, but frankly I have no idea what the fuck he’s on about.

LW: Alyssa Thompson | 81

This is the player that changed my mind to include wingers. The American smashed Chelsea’s transfer record and became the third player to sign for a WSL team for £1m+ this summer, and she has a truly exciting card for FC26.

She has explosive Pace, great Attack Positioning and Finishing, and top-level Dribbling for a lower rated card. She also fits into one of the first Evos that will boost her Shooting and Pace by +1, so it was a no brainer.

Importantly, and what makes her stand out from other attackers at this early stage are her Playstyles. There are not many that have Low Driven base, and alongside Technical, First Touch and Quick Step, she is going to be a menace to those poor early right backs.

She’s already been a handful for our Lynd in training, and he’s football Jesus.

What’s next?

With our first XI complete, we’re ready to hit the pitch and start earning some rewards.

Our next episode is an exciting one — it will be the very start of FC26, including our Pre Order icon, Welcome Back packs, first challenge AND the start of our climb through the divisions.

Make sure to subscribe so that you don’t miss a thing, and until next time…

Until next time, Yeehaw!

➡️ Read Episode 5 Here.

Read Episode 2 Here.

You know what every good story needs? A hero.

A plucky underdog who rises up from nothing to beat the bad guys. Someone who you can really believe in, when everything else is going to shit. A maverick with a blistering backstory that makes you want to grab their head on both sides and ferociously kiss their forehead in a show of solitude and passionate encouragement.

Well, ladies, gents and non-binary friends, we have found our man.

He ticks a lot of the boxes for me. My maternal family are all Mackams, and this man forged his career in the industrial heartland that is the North East. I mean, I reckon he was conceived in the River Wear. Probably.

I’ve even heard that he once rolled across Roker Park, only wearing red & white striped underpants, as he gutturally chanted ‘Ho’way the lads!’ Until his voice went hoarse.

He is an American, of course. Otherwise it would be a pretty fucking stupid person to hang our hat on for this series.

He is now playing for my club, Huddersfield Town, which of course allows me, selfishly, the dual purpose of building a Town P&P this year.

And finally, we get to his name. It is one of beauty, elegance and, frankly, romance. When he arrives at our beloved Molton Road in WF3, this name will be sung by grandmas, fathers, sons and the young guns attending their first game. You could go to Bradford, Huddersfield, Sheffield, and you’d hear the incessant beating of the name…

Gooch! Gooch! Gooch!

(Hey, stop it you. I know what you’re thinking).

Gooch To Glory

Lynden Jack Gooch might very well be football Jesus.

Born on December 24th 1995, he was the Christmas miracle that has led us to this point.

Hailing from the Golden State of California, he boasts an English father and Irish mother, meaning, clearly, our boy was destined for greatness from an early age.

His ‘soccer’ (do I have to call it that now?) coach father clearly indoctrinated him in the English way of 4-4-fucking-2 from an early age, and this led to him being picked up by Sunderland at just 10 years old.

Now, if you think your 40-minute commute is a nightmare, try flying from the warm, sunny climes of California and landing in fucking Sunderland. I went to watch a match there in January 2006 when I was 15 years old, and it was so cold I still don’t think my testicles have descended back down out of my body.

But that didn’t stop our Lynd, who at the tender age of 16, battle-hardened by his years of no nonsense North East academy football, signed a scholarship and moved over full time.

Making a Mackam

Gooch would go on to spend 11 years on Wearside, earning cult status amongst Black Cats fans.

Much like his gritty English hometown, Gooch is known for his passion for the badge, never ending energy and skill on the ball — this lad will go for 90-minutes, not baulk at another 30, and then he’ll go and play football. This is something we will definitely be craving as we set off on this Hobbit-esque 52 week journey that is the FC26 RTG.

He even brings with him a winning mentality, having scored the only goal in Sunderland’s 2021 EFL Trophy final victory, as well as playing the full 90 minutes as the Black Cats began their ascent back to the pinnacle of English football by winning the League One play off final in 2022.

It’s no secret that, while the USWNT have no problem winning tournaments, the less said about the USMNT the better… (and no, we absolutely do not count the CONCACAF Nations League, before you pedants start).

So yeah, that winning mentality is important, and we’ll forgive him for ever having set foot in Stoke.

The First of Many

With just four short days to go until the release of FC26 and our first game, Goochy sits alone in his new dressing room at Molton Road, headphones on, Sweet Caroline blaring.

He will always be our captain, will always wear the number 7 shirt, and will always start every game. Whenever we can Evo him, we have to, no matter the cost. He is exempt from any punishments that would require us to quick sell him.

He is our Polaris, our rock, our guiding light in the night.

It’s now up to me and my trusty assistant, Whispering Barry*, to try and pull together a rag-tag bunch of Americans that can compete at the highest level, all while the challenges of this series loom over us like the barrel of a gun. Ooh, probably shouldn’t say that right now… anyway…

Tune in next time to see who will make up our starting squad on this monumental journey, and be joining Lynden in #GoochToGlory!

Until then, Yeehaw!

DJ

*Nobody knows Barry’s actual surname. He earned the nickname ‘Whispering Barry’ circa ‘86 while on the coaching staff for the Bulgarian national team. Opposition managers noticed that, just before something went wrong in a match, Barry would lean in and whisper to head coach Ivan Vutsov — sometimes a shrewd tactical adjustment, sometimes a cryptic phrase like “watermelon, Petrov is in the sink”.

Legend has it that he once predicted Krasimir Koev’s shoelace would snap in the 72nd minute, causing him to trip and sever his cruciate ligament. Another time, he whispered “I can smell the storm through my ear” and, sure enough, the match was abandoned due to a hurricane mere minutes later.

Some claim Barry used to work as a fortune teller in the Bulgarian travelling circus before football found him. Others insist he just has absurd cankles. All we know is, when Whispering Barry leans in during the 89th minute, everyone listens.*

➡️ Read Episode 4 Here.