They say the second season is where you prove who you really are.
Funny. I didn't think I'd start mine sitting on the bench. Again.
Preseason, Newcastle Arena. Roof closed. Lights bright like it's a Champions Final. Twenty thousand fans pretending they care. Most of them don't. It's just another game. Another headline. Another chance to show that the expensive German striker isn't completely finished.
I sit. Hood up. Arms crossed. Watching.
Same warm-ups. Same robotic drills. The same eleven players running like programmed code. Everything clean. Everything calculated. No mistakes — because no one's allowed to think for themselves.
This is Newcastle United. The best team in the world. The most expensive machine in football history.
And I don't fit.
I used to. Back in Germany, I was untouchable. Free. Floating between the lines, drifting wide, dropping deep — wherever I could create space or destroy it. Four seasons. Four golden boots. Goals that mattered. Goals that made noise.
But here? I'm a glitch in the system.
They don't say it out loud, but I see it in the coach's face. I'm unpredictable. Wild. Dangerous — in all the wrong ways.
And yeah… I've heard the whispers.
"Flop.""Overhyped.""He doesn't understand the system."
They don't know what I've swallowed to stay here.They don't know why I kept my mouth shut when she—
…
No. Not now.
I can't afford to think about that. Not with the cameras on me. Not with the CEO ten seats to my left, pretending I don't exist.
I look out at the pitch and tell myself the same thing I've told myself since I was a kid:
You are the best.Now shut up and prove it.
The whistle blows. Kickoff.
I don't even bother pretending to warm up anymore. Not in preseason. Not when I know I'm not getting on.
The kids on the pitch move like clockwork. Always two passes ahead, always one option behind. I used to call it beautiful — now it just looks sterile. Predictable. Our analysts run every drill through simulations. And half these players have been fed data since they were twelve. I watch from the sideline while the striker they start ahead of me "Jalen Kent — a 194cm tall machine who scored over 50 goals last season and won the Golden Boot. He always makes the 'right' runs but somehow scuffs his shots." ,he always makes the "right" run and scuffs the shot. The coach doesn't flinch. He doesn't want instinct. He wants obedience.
I lean back on the bench and close my eyes.
And there it is again.
The first time it all made sense. 6years ago:lukas Age 19 – Borlen Dortmund
Yellow and black. Signal Morgenstadion shaking. South Wall behind me like a living volcano. My first night on the pitch — not even starting. Just subbed in at the 71st minute. Nervous? Yeah. But only until I touched the ball.
They gave me one instruction: stay central. I ignored it.
Dropped into midfield. Picked it up. Turned one defender, two. Slipped between lines. Coach yelled, I couldn't hear him. Crowd too loud.
Then I did what I've always done.
Freed myself.
Passed it wide. Kept moving. Found space in the box. Ball came back to me — didn't even think. One touch, right foot, top corner.
One goal. That's all it took.
They didn't bench me after that. Back to present
"Yo, Müller. "One of the coaches tosses a bottle at my feet. I don't move.
"Hydrate, man."
I look at him. He means well. But it's hard to respect a system that sees me as a luxury glitch.
I sip anyway. Because this isn't Borlen Dortmund. This is Newcastle united. Where they don't need heroes — they build results.
And me? I still believe I'm the best in the world.
But belief doesn't mean anything when the world doesn't believe back.
Not yet.