The bus coughed black smoke as it pulled away from Salford's training ground. Twenty-five lads crammed into seats meant for twenty, kit bags shoved into every spare corner.
Harry pressed his face against the window, watching familiar streets fade into motorway. The excitement from Frank's speech was wearing off, replaced by something heavier in his stomach.
"Nervous?" asked Jamie Walsh from the seat beside him.
Harry shrugged. "Just thinking."
"About what?"
'About how we're about to get hammered by lads who train every day while I'm stuck in double maths.' But he couldn't say that out loud.
"Nothing. Just the match."
Jamie nodded and went back to his music. The tinny sound leaked from his headphones—some local drill Harry didn't recognize.
Up front, Danny Mills was trying to get the lads singing. His voice cracked on the high notes, making Tommy Henderson howl with laughter. But most of the bus stayed quiet, lost in their own thoughts.
Harry pulled out his phone and saw text messages from his sisters, wishing him well. He typed back quick replies, then stared out the window again. Fields rolled past, green and endless under gray November sky. Today was a Saturday, the 8th of November, 2003.
An hour later, the bus shuddered to a stop outside Blackpool's academy. Harry's pulse surged anxiously.
The place looked like something from the telly. Pristine pitches stretched in perfect lines, each one better than Salford's main ground.
A modern clubhouse sat in the center, all glass and steel. Even their car park was properly marked.
"Bloody hell," someone whispered.
"Language," Frank called from the front, but his voice was flat. He was seeing what they all saw.
This wasn't just a different level. This was a different world.
The Blackpool lads were already warming up on the far pitch. Harry watched them through the bus window, taking in their matching tracksuits, their synchronized drills, the way they moved the ball like it was attached to their feet.
"Right then," Frank said, standing up. "I know what you're thinking. I can see it on your faces."
He walked down the narrow aisle, meeting each player's eyes.
"You're thinking they're better than you. You're thinking this place is too good for lads from Salford. You're thinking maybe we don't belong here."
Harry felt heat rise in his cheeks. That was exactly what he'd been thinking. He sheepishly glanced around, seeing as he wasn't the only one, he sighed in relief.
"Well, you're probably right," Frank continued. "They are better than you. On paper. Their facilities are better, their coaching is better, their bloody grass is better."
The bus went dead quiet.
"But here's what they don't have," Frank said, his voice getting stronger. "They don't have what you've got. They don't know what it's like to fight for everything. They don't know what it means to want something so bad it hurts."
He stopped beside Harry's seat.
"Most of these lads have never been told they're not good enough. Never been overlooked by scouts. Never had to prove they belong somewhere."
Frank's eyes swept the bus one more time.
"But you have. Every single one of you. And that's why we're here. Not because we're the best team. But because we're the hungriest."
Tommy Henderson stood up first. Then Danny. One by one, the Salford lads got to their feet, feeling pumped up by the morale inducing speech.
"Come on then," Frank said, opening the bus doors. "Let's show them what hungry looks like."
The changing room was smaller than expected. Just wooden benches and metal hooks, the smell of old sweat and disinfectant filled the room.
Harry found a corner and started getting changed, pulling on the red and white of Salford City.
"You alright, Harry?" Danny asked, lacing up his boots.
"Yeah. Just ready to get started."
"Good. We'll need you sharp today whenever you come onto the pitch. Their right-back looks quick, but he's small statured. Use your strength."
Harry nodded, though they both knew he wasn't the strongest lad on the team physically. Having just turned fifteen on the 28th of October last month, he was still waiting for his growth spurt, still getting knocked off the ball by bigger defenders.
But he was faster than his peers. And he could read the game better than most his age.
"Five minutes!" Frank called.
Harry pulled on his boots—a scuffed Adidas Predators that had seen better days. They'd been a birthday present from Mum a few years back, probably cost her a week's wages. The memory made his chest tight, and he strengthened his resolve to give his all when he comes on in the second half.
The tunnel was darker than he'd expected as he walked towards the bench. Footsteps echoed off concrete walls as both teams lined up.
The Blackpool lads looked relaxed, chatting quietly among themselves. Designer boots, perfectly fitted kits, good quality jerseys that probably cost more than Harry's family spent on groceries.
"Remember," Frank whispered as they waited. "Play your game. Don't try to be something you're not."
Light flooded in as the players walked onto the pitch. Harry blinked, taking in the stands. There were maybe, over four hundred people scattered across metal benches. Not exactly Wembley type-shit, but more than he'd ever played in front of.
He spotted about two or three men in suits near the top rows of the stand, notebooks in hand. 'Scouts, probably. Now that the Competition Proper had fully begun, they'll be an increase of scouts from England and beyond coming to watch the games.' Harry's pulse quickened.
The referee called the captains over for the coin toss. Danny lost. Blackpool chose a half to kick off.
"Positions!" Frank shouted from the touchline.