Drogba woke early and glanced first at his sleeping son, Isaac.
A smile crossed his face.
He climbed out of bed and went to wash up.
The family lived close to Newton Heath, in an area where a large percentage of the residents supported New Manchester United.
Drogba was extremely popular there.
Everyone knew he was the club's first-choice centre-forward.
He might not have been the team's leading scorer.
He might not attract as many headlines as Kaká.
And the commercial department had never built his image as aggressively as it had with some of the club's more marketable stars.
But among supporters who understood football, Drogba's importance was unquestioned.
They knew exactly what he contributed.
Normally, his wife would already be preparing breakfast at this hour.
There was no morning training today because the squad would soon travel south to Cardiff, but Drogba still had to report to Newton Heath on time.
He was happy with his life in Manchester.
More than happy.
A few years earlier, he had been an obscure player struggling to establish himself in France.
Now he was one of the most highly regarded powerful strikers in English football.
His improvement had been enormous.
He was grateful to the club.
To Mourinho.
To Moniz.
To Meulensteen.
To the rest of the coaching staff.
And to Ethan.
Without them, there would be no Didier Drogba as he was today.
Perhaps he would still be wondering whether football could provide a stable life for his wife and son.
Perhaps he might even have been out of professional football altogether, helping his wife run their small business back in Le Mans.
"You're up."
His wife smiled as Drogba entered the kitchen.
"Breakfast will be ready in a minute."
"Make it quick," Drogba joked.
"José hates people being late.
"And I definitely don't want a fine before this match."
He sat down at the table.
A few minutes later, breakfast arrived.
"Didier," his wife said as she sat opposite him, "I've heard you're playing Manchester United next.
"Is this really such a big match?"
"Very big."
Drogba barely slowed down as he ate.
"Why?"
She shook her head.
"Several of the neighbours are going down to Cardiff.
"They keep asking me if you can help them get tickets."
Drogba laughed immediately.
"Impossible.
"The Millennium Stadium tickets aren't even controlled by us.
"And I heard the match sold out a month ago.
"People are already reselling tickets for ridiculous prices.
"Nobody can get one now."
"Is it really that serious?"
She did not follow football closely enough to understand the scale of it.
Drogba smiled.
There was genuine anticipation in his expression.
"You don't understand.
"This isn't just another match.
"For some of the supporters, this is about identity."
"Identity?"
She looked puzzled.
Drogba did not explain further.
He simply continued eating.
"Are you starting?" she asked.
Drogba shook his head.
"I don't know.
"David Villa is in the squad too.
"That bloody Spaniard has been playing very well.
"And he scores far too easily."
He laughed as he said it.
The competition between Drogba and Villa had become intense.
It had also made Drogba better.
His finishing had improved considerably over the previous few seasons.
He had even begun studying some of Villa's movement and shooting techniques in training.
"But I'm not exactly useless either," Drogba continued.
"I'm stronger than him.
"In a physical match, I have advantages he doesn't.
"He's quicker over short distances, his movement around goal is sharper, and technically he's cleaner.
"So I honestly don't know who José will choose."
His wife reached across the table and took his hand.
"Whatever happens, Isaac and I will support you."
Drogba nodded.
He finished breakfast, went back upstairs, kissed his son goodbye, collected his bag, and headed towards the garage.
Every first-team player had access to an Audi through the club's sponsorship agreement.
Drogba was no exception.
The moment he stepped outside, several neighbours spotted him.
"Didier!"
"Go and beat those Red Devils!"
"Show them what Newton Heath can do!"
Manchester United's nickname carried no special insult.
It simply represented the other side.
And around Newton Heath, where New Manchester United support was particularly strong, the rivalry had become increasingly intense.
Drogba raised a fist towards the neighbours.
Then he climbed into his car and drove away.
...
Curtis looked terrible.
He kept yawning.
His eyes were heavy.
He looked as though he had barely slept.
His teammates noticed immediately.
"Hey, Curtis," Essien said. "You all right?"
Curtis shook his head.
"Couldn't sleep."
Several players stared at him.
"You?"
Terry laughed.
"What's next?
"Snow in August?"
Someone farther down the room called out.
"He's been up all night reading Page Three."
A few players laughed.
Curtis did not.
He rubbed his face.
"I spent half the night watching Van Nistelrooy."
The laughter faded.
"The more I watched, the worse it got.
"That man is a ridiculous goalscorer."
Nobody argued.
Ruud van Nistelrooy and Thierry Henry were widely regarded as two of the hardest forwards to defend against in the Premier League.
Curtis had already faced Henry in the FA Cup final.
Now, in the Community Shield, he was likely to spend ninety minutes dealing with Van Nistelrooy.
Given the way Mourinho usually organised his defence, Curtis would probably be asked to engage Van Nistelrooy directly while Terry provided cover and organised behind him.
Curtis was not particularly confident.
The plan against Henry had been extremely detailed.
Mourinho had built the defensive structure around restricting the spaces Henry wanted to attack.
Van Nistelrooy was different.
He lived for goals.
Inside the penalty area, he could finish almost anything.
Loose balls.
Rebounds.
Crosses.
Cutbacks.
One-touch finishes.
Headers.
Anything.
He was every centre-back's nightmare.
Curtis understood perfectly well that this could be the hardest individual assignment he had faced since becoming a first-team player.
And it was happening against Manchester United.
Mourinho had handed him the scouting report and a set of statistical notes.
Then he had said only one thing.
"Van Nistelrooy is yours."
Curtis had nearly laughed.
Yours?
Mourinho had said it as casually as though he were handing Curtis a dog to look after for the afternoon.
But Van Nistelrooy was hardly going to cooperate.
Stay tight.
Track his movement.
Block access to his right foot.
Keep him away from central shooting positions.
Prevent passes into his feet inside the box.
Recognise his runs before the ball arrived.
Curtis had practically memorised the coaching staff's instructions.
The report also highlighted his advantages.
Van Nistelrooy was around the same height.
Curtis was stronger.
Curtis was quicker.
Those were useful weapons.
But they were not enough.
Defending Van Nistelrooy required concentration for the entire match.
One lapse could be fatal.
Curtis needed to read the play early.
Anticipate the pass.
Intercept before Van Nistelrooy received it.
Close the shooting angle before the striker could turn.
Because once Van Nistelrooy faced the goalkeeper from close range, the odds shifted dramatically in his favour.
That was why Curtis had taken the match footage home.
He had watched sequence after sequence.
Run after run.
Goal after goal.
And somehow every clip had made him more nervous.
"Relax," Terry said, putting an arm around him.
"You've got me behind you."
Essien nodded.
"And we'll protect the space in front of you."
Other teammates joined in.
Curtis felt slightly better.
But only slightly.
This was still Ruud van Nistelrooy.
A world-class striker.
"If you go into the match thinking like this, he'll beat you before kick-off."
Beckham's voice came from nearby.
Curtis looked over.
He understood immediately.
The scouting report had mentioned something else about Van Nistelrooy.
He was emotional.
He could become frustrated.
And frustrating him was one of the most effective ways to reduce his influence.
But Van Nistelrooy was also extremely competitive.
He knew how to irritate defenders.
A shove when the referee was looking elsewhere.
A word after a challenge.
A little contact before the ball arrived.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing necessarily worthy of a foul.
Just constant pressure.
"Ruud isn't only a great finisher," Beckham said.
"He's mentally strong.
"And he's very good at dragging defenders into his game.
"He'll talk to you.
"He'll lean into you.
"He'll use his body when the referee can't see.
"Sometimes it'll be a foul.
"Sometimes it won't.
"Sometimes it'll just be enough to make you think about him instead of the ball."
The younger players listened carefully.
"This is the Premier League," Beckham continued.
"If you want to beat teams at this level, you have to get used to that side of the game.
"The opponents here are different from what most of you faced in the lower divisions.
"They're stronger.
"Smarter.
"More experienced.
"They know how to use every little advantage."
As one of the few players in the squad with years of Premier League experience, Beckham understood why Ethan and Mourinho had wanted him as captain.
The squad had enormous talent.
But most of them were still young.
They had not yet experienced every trick that elite football could produce.
"The pitch isn't a polite place," Beckham said.
"Nobody gives you anything because you're talented.
"You compete for every yard.
"Every second ball.
"Every decision.
"If someone tries to unsettle you, you don't lose your head.
"You make sure you're still thinking more clearly than he is."
For a moment, the younger players were silent.
Many of them had spent years imagining the Premier League as the ultimate stage.
The biggest grounds.
The best players.
The brightest lights.
Beckham was reminding them that beneath all of that glamour was a far harsher reality.
Elite football was unforgiving.
Even the greatest players knew how to operate on the edge.
Zinedine Zidane was admired for his elegance, yet opponents still complained about the small fouls, the use of his body, and the competitive edge hidden beneath his technique.
Roy Keane had built an entire career around imposing himself on matches.
Patrick Vieira did the same.
Even Poulsen, during his time with New Manchester United, had understood exactly how to make an opponent uncomfortable without constantly crossing the line.
Managers valued those players for a reason.
Slowly, Curtis understood what Beckham was telling him.
Van Nistelrooy was dangerous.
Manchester United were dangerous.
But fear would only make the problem worse.
He could respect the striker without being intimidated by him.
He could study him without becoming obsessed with him.
And once the match began, he had to trust the work he had already done.
Beckham looked around at the group.
"Manchester United are strong.
"Nobody's pretending otherwise.
"But if you walk onto that pitch already afraid of them, you've lost before the first whistle."
Curtis finally raised his head.
The tiredness was still there.
The nerves too.
But something else had returned.
Defiance.
Beckham smiled.
That was better.
(To be continued.)