Goodison Park was alive with the kind of intensity only a relegation match could bring. The stands were filled with blue, white, and the occasional flash of maroon from the away fans. Rain fell heavily, almost as if the sky itself mourned what was about to happen. Every seat was taken, every pair of eyes locked onto the pitch, every heart beating with a mix of dread and hope.
It was the 93rd minute. Everton 2 - Burnley 2. There was one minute of stoppage time left. Everton had to win to avoid relegation. If Burnley scored, it would be over.
On the sideline, Alex Walker stood with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, soaked through, shouting desperate instructions to his players. His voice was hoarse; his eyes were wild. His slicked-back black hair was drenched. His blue eyes, intense and anxious, had once witnessed glory and understood the game thoroughly. Now they darted from one player to another, filled with anxious hope.
"Push up! Get forward, come on!" he shouted, waving his arms. His players hardly moved. They lacked energy. Their legs felt heavy. Hope was fading, like the mist over the Mersey.
The last minute passed painfully slowly. The ball hovered near Burnley's corner flag. Everton's winger, Gordon, tried to shield it, but Burnley's left-back charged in, colliding shoulder to shoulder. The ball broke free, and Burnley countered.
Alex yelled. "Foul! That's a foul! Blow the whistle!"
The referee waved play on.
Burnley surged forward. A long ball flew, resulting in a flicked header, then a through pass.
Alex's heart stopped as Burnley's striker, Thompson, raced toward goal, only Tarkowski stood between him and a critical moment.
The crowd gasped. Time felt suspended. Raindrops hung in the air like daggers.
Tarkowski lunged for the tackle. It was clean. The ball shot sideways, and Everton's left-back kicked it out of bounds.
The stadium erupted with a chaotic mix of cheers, moans, and prayers.
Ten seconds left.
The throw-in was quick. Burnley tossed it in. Keane headed it clear. Burnley attempted a volley. Blocked. Another clearance.
The referee checked his watch.
Alex held his breath. His vision blurred, not just from the rain, but from something deeper.
Five seconds.
Burnley had the ball again. One last attempt. A long-range shot.
Right into Pickford's hands.
The whistle blew.
Full time.
Everton 2 - Burnley 2. Enough for Burnley to survive.
But not for Everton.
Relegated.
A moment of silence fell; a stunned hush spread before the storm erupted.
Then came the boos.
It was Alex Walker's fourth relegation in five years, a fourth stain on a career that once shone brightly.
Cameras turned to him, capturing his frozen expression. He didn't blink, breathe, or speak.
The Everton faithful, always passionate, were unforgiving. Chants filled the air: "You're not fit to wear the badge!" and worse.
A kid in the front row threw a scarf that landed near the sideline. Alex didn't flinch. A flare went off in the away section, and maroon smoke curled through the mist.
Slowly, Alex turned and walked down the tunnel. Each step echoed like a nail in a coffin. His assistant coach mumbled something about media duties, but he didn't hear. He kept moving.
Underneath the stadium, the air felt damp and metallic. The locker room carried the scent of muscle rub, sweat, and defeat. It was a smell that lingered on the skin.
He sank onto the bench, removed his soaked jacket, and stared blankly at the floor.
Players entered one by one. Heads hung low. Some cried. Others punched lockers. The captain tossed his armband down and collapsed onto a seat. No one looked at Alex.
He thought of Spain. Of the Bernabéu. Of passing triangles and beautiful football. He remembered his captain's armband, lifting trophies, and being called 'El Mago del Medio', The Magician of the Midfield. He thought of his early days at Manchester United, his rise with the English National Team, and his graceful twilight years at Inter Milan.
He recalled the feel of leather boots, the roar of the crowd chanting his name, how the ball seemed to follow his commands. Those memories were vivid.
Now, he sat in grey.
He thought about what he had become: a laughingstock, a manager without vision. He had spent tens of millions on players no one knew. There were scandals, fights with journalists, a toxic locker room, and now this.
A stat flashed across the TV screen mounted in the corner:
"Everton Relegated - First Time in 74 Years."
The pain in his chest returned. This time it wasn't dull; it burned.
He tried to shake it off. He breathed deeply, closed his eyes, and thought of nothing.
But it got worse.
He reached for his phone; maybe he could call someone. He had no wife or child, and his parents had died long ago. No one came to mind.
Not even his old teammates. He had burned bridges, let people go. He had become an island.
He stood up, maybe to seek help, but his legs failed him.
He collapsed flat onto the cold tile floor.
Boots clattered. Someone shouted. A physio rushed over.
Darkness closed in.
Before it completely enveloped him, something strange happened.
A sound. Mechanical. Unfamiliar.
[Ding! Coaching System Activated.]
What?
[Initializing Host Memory... Loading Tactical Interface... Synchronizing Football Intelligence Database...]
He must be hallucinating.
[Welcome, Alex Walker.]
Then everything went black.