The morning air in Cheshire was bitter, the kind of damp cold that seemed to seep straight through my training thermals and settle deep in my joints.
It had been three days since the Bayern Munich match. On paper, I was riding a high—the fans were singing my name, the press had written glowing tactical pieces about my assist to Rasmus Højlund, and the social media highlights were racking up millions of views. But inside my own head, a dangerous, toxic confidence was beginning to take root.
In my past life as a high school kid sitting in my warm Bangkok apartment, playing FC Online or NBA 2K, a big victory meant you had "mastered" the game. You unlocked a higher tier, your attributes went up, and the game automatically got easier. You sat back, leaned into your chair, and pressed buttons.
Subconsciously, I brought that gamer mindset onto the pitch during Friday morning's tactical session at Carrington.
We were running 11-v-11 shadow play, simulating our upcoming Premier League fixture against a notoriously aggressive Brentford side. The pitch was heavy with mud, soaked by the endless Northern English drizzle.
I received a sharp, low pass on the right flank from Diogo Dalot. Luke Shaw, who was playing as the opposing left-back for the drill, immediately closed the distance.
Instead of making a crisp, one-touch return pass or making a sharp off-the-ball run—the exact fundamentals Erik ten Hag had drilled into me for months—I decided to show off. I flicked the ball lazily over Shaw’s foot, expecting my raw agility to carry me past him like a video game character with boosted stats.
THWACK.
Shaw didn't bite. He didn't even shift his weight. He simply read my lazy touch, stepped his heavy frame right into my path, and shoulder-checked me into the mud.
The ball rolled harmlessly out of bounds. I hit the wet grass hard, knocking the wind out of my lungs and coating my jersey in thick brown slime.
"Get up, Antony!" Ten Hag’s sharp voice cut through the cold air like a razor blade. He didn't stop the play. He didn't whistle for a foul. "What was that? What was that soft touch?"
I scrambled to my feet, spitting out a mixture of mud and grass, my face burning with frustration. "He came in late, Boss! That's a foul!"
Ten Hag blew his whistle violently, bringing the entire squad to a sudden halt. The whistle echoed across the quiet training pitches. He marched straight toward me, his bald head gleaming under the gray drizzle, his eyes fixed on mine with terrifying intensity.
"Foul?" Ten Hag scoffed, standing mere inches from my face. "You think Thomas Frank's players are going to give you a whistle at the Gtech Community Stadium? You think because you made one good pass against Bayern Munich, you are suddenly immune to the basics?"
The entire squad—Bruno, Casemiro, Marcus, Varane—stood in dead silence, watching the confrontation.
"You stopped running before you even received the ball," Ten Hag said, his voice dropping into a deadly, quiet register. "You thought your name was enough to beat Luke. You played lazy. You played like a spectator who bought a ticket to stand on my pitch."
My blood boiled. The hot-headed temper from my past life—the kid who used to throw his controller against the wall when a match went wrong—surfaced instantly.
"I'm not playing lazy!" I snapped back in English, my voice cracking slightly. "I was trying to create space!"
"You were trying to look good on camera!" Ten Hag barked back without missing a beat. "Drop and give me twenty push-ups. Right now. On the spot."
A heavy wave of humiliation washed over me. For a split second, my body froze. I wanted to scream, to argue, to tell him how hard I had been working every single day just to survive in this body. But Casemiro quietly stepped forward, giving me a subtle, stern shake of his head.
Don't do it, irmão, his eyes said. Accept it.
Gritting my teeth so hard my jaw throbbed, I dropped onto my hands and knees in the freezing mud, doing twenty rapid push-ups while the rest of the team watched in absolute silence.
When I stood up, dripping with cold grime, Ten Hag turned back to the squad. "Restart the drill! From Onana! And if anyone plays with their ego again, we run sprints until sunset."
During the rest of the session, I barely touched the ball. My mind was a chaotic storm of anger and self-doubt. When we finally trotted back to the main building to shower, I slammed my locker door shut so hard the metal echoed through the room.
Bruno Fernandes walked over, tossing a dry towel onto my bench. He didn't look amused.
"You need to fix that attitude before Saturday, Antony," Bruno said coldly, pulling off his boots. "The Boss was right. You got arrogant today."
"I was just trying a move, Bruno!" I muttered, staring at the floor.
"This isn't a video game, man!" Bruno fired back, his voice rising in genuine annoyance. "You can't just press a button and expect magic to happen! In this league, if you drop your focus for five percent—for one single drill—someone will snap your ankle and take your spot. You think you're a star now? You haven't won anything yet!"
Bruno turned his back and walked toward the showers, leaving me alone in front of my locker.
Sitting there in the warm dressing room, watching the mud drip off my knees onto the tile floor, a heavy, sobering realization hit me right in the chest.
He was right.
I had fallen into the trap of thinking I was the main character of a story, that my knowledge from a future timeline made me superior. But this wasn't a scripted narrative where victory was guaranteed. This was real life. Real muscles that fatigued, real defenders who would brutally punish any sign of complacency, and real teammates whose livelihoods depended on everyone pulling their weight.
I wasn't a superstar. I was just a guy who got a second chance at life, standing in the toughest league in the world, surrounded by men who had bled for this sport since they were six years old.
I took a deep breath, letting the anger drain out of me, replaced by a cold, clear focus. The Brentford match was twenty-four hours away, and I needed to bury my ego before I stepped onto that pitch.
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