The day progressed slowly for the players of Sheffield. Not because it was fun or enjoyable, but because they got chewed out big time by their manager.
He didn't mince his words with Blaise Atkinson after the huge blunder that led to the equalizer, but surprisingly showered James Patton with praise for his well-earned brace.
It was nothing more than a slog.
After that though, he went full on teacher mode— giving his players a detailed analysis of how they played, and how they should've played better. It was the polar opposite of what they experienced a few minutes earlier.
The other veteran players chimed in on the teaching process, making the theory learning better for everyone involved.
Right before the session ended, Steve Bronson finally laid out the things that have been inside his mind for quite a while.
"Before we finish, I want to let you know about the current state of affairs of the club, along with some other relevant news."
Some of the players, mostly the older ones, have their suspicions on what the manager wants to tell them about. It is really that time of the year.
"First off, I don't want you to bother yourselves about the possible takeover of the club. It's something for the men up there in suits to worry about. If it's any consolation for you all, if the takeover does happen, I think all your jobs will be safe for the year."
Most of the Sheffield United players in the room either heaved a sigh of relief or calmed down a lot after their boss' announcement.
"Second, the transfer rumors. I wanna make this clear to everyone. Don't bother with them. If someone's going after you with either a transfer or loan offer, I'll be transparent and tell you face to face. But as long as I haven't told you anything, those rumors are just that— rumors."
A lot of the players stole glances of Blaise Atkinson, who is at the back, chilling with Alain Prosser. Alain even had a colorful lollipop in his mouth, like an eight year old.
"Third, let's talk about the FA Cup Third Round draw." The manager started writing every single team remaining in the draw while the rest of the team looked on in astonishment.
"Boss, you don't need to write them all!" His friend and his team's captain Damian Potts said, even going as far as giving him the eraser.
Bronson had none of it, and continued on in silence. Some of the players realized that their coach hadn't written a single Premier League club yet and wondered why he is doing this.
Damian Potts had a bad premonition about this all of a sudden.
"I have a question for all of you." Manager Bronson put down his marker and turned around to face his team. "Would you rather face a smaller club, a club around our strength, or would you aim high and love to play against the big boys in the 3rd Round?"
Bronson received a lot of different responses.
For a lot of the many fringe players of the team, they wanted a smaller club. It's common sense, because player rotations in the cup are more likely when opponents are weaker, thus giving them the chance to play, to rest their starters.
Some of the more used fringe players, and lower end starters chose the teams that are around their strength. It's also a logical choice, since most of them either lacked the quality, or lacked the aspirations to fight stronger opponents. They know their limits.
"Let's go boom and I hope the draws give us the high end Premier League teams!" The team captain Damian Potts had an aggressive grin on his face. "Let's show them what we all got! I miss destroying high valued feet!"
"You actually have a foot fetish, Captain?" The cheeky youngster Alain Prosser asked. "I only want to face one team, and that is Chelsea. Why? I want to show them that I'm ready to kick their ass."
The old, wily veteran gave him a kick on the ass for that jab.
"Cap, don't be so harsh on Alain. If you do, he'll clap us once he gets back there." George was laughing at this dumb exchange. "I agree with you though, I also want to test my limits. Bring us the big, big boys!"
"Your wording is way worse." The manager interrupted them, upon noticing that his team was on the verge of laughing their hearts out. "How about you, Trent?"
"Oh. I want the Manchesters, or the London clubs." Trent was stroking his stubble. "Because they have big stadiums... and I love playing at massive, packed stadiums."
"Me too. I may not be as ambitious, skilled, and promising as I was when I was younger, I also wanted to show the bigwigs that my career had not fizzled out the way they told me it would." James Patton's words were inspiring. "Being a flop is a relative term, and I'm happy I've found another home."
The laughing group was overcome by another emotion, this time of awe. Most of them were adults capable of weathering emotional storms, and yet, James' words struck a chord with them. Little by little, even the players that have barely played all season started thinking about playing on the big stage.
All of them had that dream when they're younger.
"Well, since it's just the third round, I'd rather we face the weaker clubs first."
"..."
"..."
Wait… which idiot had the gall to say that in a situation like this?
Can't you read the damn room?
"Then, after winning against them, we get stronger, and we build our confidence. Naturally, as we progress through the cup, we'll get stronger and stronger opponents… until… the giants of the Premier League are the only ones left to beat." Blaise's voice was brimming with his unrestrained emotions. "Heh, if we manage to reach the top 16, maybe 8, we'll be the year's Cinderellas. But why would we stop there? Let's go to Wembley, and battle the odds everyone!"
The inspired crew's fists are now balled up. It's great that they're mistaken for thinking their hot prospect Blaise Atkinson is lacking any ambition.
He had more ambition than anyone else in the team.
To have a higher chance of winning, a team weaker or of around similar stature to them is the best. Sure, they can stage a mammoth upset by beating a Premier League side, and take an insane morale boost with them… but the chances are far lower than the chance of them crashing out of the cup.
"Let's go to Wembley! Give us your best shot, 3rd round draw!" Damian Potts already had his right fist raised upwards as he yelled.
"Let's go to Wembley!" The room full of rowdy, young men yelled back with fervor.
"It doesn't matter what team we'll face, promise me you all will give your best in our Cup run." Steve Bronson said after he excitement died down a little. "That's all I wanted to see."
"Yes, sir!"
"Dismissed!"
***
Later that night, the FA Cup 3rd Round draw.
"The away side for our 17th match, please draw."
The one drawing the balls, was a former Premier League player, and had his fair share of deep Cup runs in his career.
The paper read, "Sheffield United."
"And as for their opponents, the home side of the 17th match, please draw."
Just like he had done so more than 30 times this evening, his hand dipped into the machine, and grabbed a small ball.
For the 34th time today, he unfurled the rolled sheet of paper inside the ball.
"The away side is…"