Sinbad
patreon
Chapter 208: One Last Tournament
🕑 Added 2025-05-21 00:43:40 +0000 UTCOctober 12, 2015 – 8:14 PM
Lithuania
.
The room buzzed the way footballers made anything buzz — plates clattering, spoons tapping bowls, someone yelling about FIFA rankings while Clash of Clans blared from a phone speaker.
Tristan sat at the far end of the table, barely looking at his plate. He’d eaten already. Didn’t feel like it now.
“Heads up,” Vardy muttered, dropping into the seat beside him with a fresh Red Bull. “You’re trending harder than the Rugby World Cup. Don’t ask me how.”
Across the table, Milner looked up from his pasta. “Have you seen the headlines? They’re all quoting you.”
“‘I don’t carry anything, I create,’” Sterling read from his phone, sliding it over. “Legendary. Might want to put that on a hoodie.”
Tristan didn’t even glance down. “I just answered the question.”
“Yeah,” Vardy said. “And half the country just exploded.”
The laughter didn’t carry far. At the middle of the table, Rooney looked over.
“Tristan” Rooney said.
Tristan looked up.
“You should’ve come to us,” Cahill said. “Before going to the press.”
“About Hodgson?” Tristan asked.
“About anything,” Rooney said. “Doesn’t matter if you’re right. You talk to the dressing room first.”
There was a pause. Utensils still moved around them, but slower now.
“I wasn’t trying to start anything,” Tristan said.
“You did though,” Cahill said. “Whether you meant to or not.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then maybe say that,” Rooney said. “To us first about team issues. Not the media.”
.
Tristan didn’t blink. Just looked at Rooney.
“I wasn’t giving an interview,” he said. “I was answering questions. They asked about my role. I told them the truth.”
Rooney set his fork down. “You didn’t lie. But you knew what it would do.”
“I’m not a politician,” Tristan said. “I’m a footballer. I play. I speak. I breathe the game. If that’s too honest, maybe the problem isn’t me.”
For a second, no one responded.
Then Vardy — casually brutal: “He’s not wrong.”
Sterling leaned forward. “Everyone’s thinking it. Everyone’s been thinking it. We’ve got the best player in the world playing with a seatbelt on.”
“I mean…” Barkley added from a few seats down, “what are we actually doing out there? Tristan gets the ball, three of us make runs — and Roy’s on the sideline yelling to pass it backwards.”
Welbeck muttered into his drink. “Like we’re playing to not lose.”
Milner finally spoke again, voice lower. “But it’s the timing. We’ve got Lithuania behind us and a tournament ahead. Going public… it makes it look divided.”
“It is divided,” Tristan said. Calm. Direct. “We just don’t say it.” He looked around the table.
“You want me to be quiet. To follow the system. But that system’s not working. Not with this group. Not with the players we have. Not with the way I play. So tell me — are we here to protect a manager's ego? Or to win?”
Silence.
Then Raheem said it, flat as truth:
“If we keep playing like we did against Estonia, we’re going out in the Round of 16.”
More silence.
Then Vardy, stabbing into his potatoes: “Shit, I’d be happy with the Round of 16.”
Rooney rubbed his face.
He wasn’t angry anymore.
He was tired.
Then, finally: “What do you want, Tristan?”
“Freedom,” he said. “Like I have at Leicester. To drift. To create. I’m not asking for much. I’m asking for trust to lead this team as the world’s best.
Rooney didn’t answer right away. But he didn’t shoot it down either.
And that was a start.
Across the table, Welbeck nodded. “You’re not wrong, mate.”
.
October 13, 2015 – FA Headquarters, London
The wood-paneled room didn’t buzz the way press rooms did.
Roy Hodgson sat stiffly at the head of the table. His hands were folded. To his left, Gary Neville and to the right, Ray Lewington.
Across from them sat Greg Dyke, the FA’s Chairman — the man in charge of everything that wasn’t on the pitch. Next to him, Dan Ashworth, the FA’s Director of Elite Development — architect of the “England DNA” program and the long-term planner of how England’s future was supposed to look.
Neither of them looked angry.
Which somehow made it worse.
Greg broke the silence first.
“So,” he said, hands flat on the table. “Have you spoken to him?”
Roy blinked. “To Tristan?”
Greg didn’t move. “Yes. Since the press conference.”
Roy’s voice was low. “No.”
That answer sat there like a bruise.
Ashworth leaned forward slightly, calm but deliberate. “So you haven’t clarified anything. You haven’t asked what he meant. Haven’t asked what he needs. You’ve just… let it hang?”
“I don’t think rewarding insubordination with a fireside chat is productive,” Roy said tightly. “He aired frustrations in public. That has consequences.”
Gary looked away. Bit his tongue.
Lewington cleared his throat softly. “He didn’t insult you, Roy. He just answered honestly. Maybe too honestly. But nothing he said was wrong.”
Roy looked at him. “He undermined me. Live. In front of the country.”
Ashworth didn’t blink. “Or he clarified the elephant in the room no one else wanted to talk about.”
Greg picked up the thread. “The elephant being that we’re trying to win a modern tournament playing a version of football that no longer works. And our most gifted player—arguably the most gifted in the world—is shackled by a system that looks allergic to imagination.”
Roy sat straighter. “We won.”
“You won,” Greg said flatly, “because Tristan assisted both goals and dictated ninety percent of your tempo. Not because he sat in midfield and passed sideways.”
Ashworth opened a folder. Inside — clippings. Player quotes. Match stats. Every tabloid headline from the last forty-eight hours.
“You’ve got the public behind him,” Dan said. “You’ve got the players behind him. You’ve got half your locker room admitting off-record that they’re confused about your tactics.”
Roy didn’t respond.
“You don’t have to like what he said,” Greg continued. “But you do have to recognize what he is. Because if you don’t — we’ve got a bigger problem on our hands.”
“And what’s that?” Roy asked stiffly.
Greg stared.
“We lose him.”
That one made Roy blink. Gary finally looked up.
Ashworth folded his hands. “He won’t walk out. He’s not that type. But if he stops believing in the project — if he thinks this is all politics and no football — we’re not just losing a playmaker. We’re losing the reason this entire country thinks we can win anything at all.”
“This isn’t a request, Roy. We’re not telling you to bow to a player. But if you keep trying to mold Tristan into something he isn’t… you won’t have a team left to lead.”
Roy didn’t respond. Just sat still, staring down at his own folded hands.
For once, the system man had no system left to hide behind.
Looking at Roy, Ashworth was disappointed to say the least.
“Let’s be blunt. He’s the most talented English player we’ve had in history. The public knows it. The players know it. And right now, it looks like you’re trying to suppress him — not support him.”
Roy’s nostrils flared. “I’m trying to build a team.”
“Then build it around him,” Gary said, finally.
Roy turned to him, not surprised — just disappointed.
“You think I haven’t managed great players before?”
Gary didn’t blink. “Not one with the potential to become the greatest of all time.”
Silence.
Greg let it hang before speaking again. “No one here wants a civil war. Not in the press. Not in the dressing room. But if this escalates — if this ‘system versus star’ storyline keeps growing — it’ll be our problem. And yours.”
Dan added, quieter: “You have until March to get this right. Otherwise, we’ll have bigger problems. Ones you don’t want to deal with.”
Roy didn’t answer. Just nodded once before getting with Ray following him.
.
He didn’t move until Greg Dyke gestured lightly toward the seat opposite.
“Stay a moment, will you?” Greg said to Gary getting up from his seat as well.
Gary sat back down.
Dan Ashworth closed the folder in front of him with a soft tap. “We’re not going to waste your time, Gary.”
“Appreciated,” he said, voice low.
Greg leaned forward. “You’re in the room. You’re close to both sides. What’s really happening in there?”
Gary exhaled. “It’s strained. Not fractured. But close.”
“Between Tristan and Roy?” Dan asked.
“Between Roy and half the locker room,” Gary replied. “Tristan’s just the one saying it out loud since he can’t be benched.
Dan nodded slowly, as if he’d expected the answer and still didn’t like it.
“He’s not disrespectful,” Gary added. “He’s just… too good to pretend.”
Greg’s tone stayed flat. “You think Roy knows that?”
Gary gave a small, humorless laugh. “Roy’s been managing for thirty years. Of course he knows. He’s just trying to win using his own framework. But Tristan doesn’t fit frameworks. You don’t design around him. You give him the space, and the others fit themselves in. Roy never had to deal with a player of Tristan’s level so he doesn’t know how to handle it.”
Dan’s eyes flicked sideways. “You talked to Tristan recently?”
Gary nodded. “Briefly. He’s not mad. He’s not sulking. He’s just… tired. Tired of being told to hold his run. Tired of sacrificing tempo for control.”
Greg steepled his fingers. “And the other players?”
“They’re watching,” Gary said. “Some are with him already. Some are quiet. But they all know who makes this team dangerous.”
Another pause.
Then Greg said: “Would you take the job?”
Gary’s eyebrows rose. “What?”
“If it came to it,” Dan added. “Would you consider managing the team?”
Gary snorted. “You mean when Roy gets forced out and the press asks for blood?”
Neither of them responded.
He shook his head immediately. “No. No chance. I don’t want to babysit the media or explain to five million people why I picked a 4-2-3-1 over a 4-3-3. I’d rather fight Keane in a pub toilet than deal with that job.”
Greg chuckled once. “That’s a shame.”
“I’ll support the team,” Gary said. “I’ll back Roy as long as he’s here. But if you’re asking who’s going to lead England to glory, it’s Tristan all the way.”
Dan nodded once. “That’s what we figured.”
Gary stood. “Then give him what he needs. Not what’s safe. What’s possible.”
The room fell quiet again.
And then Greg said, half under his breath:
“England doesn’t get players like Pele, Messi, Madrona talent.”
Gary didn’t argue.
He just left the room.
.
Whilst that FA was trying to figure what to do, that internet already had decided on the answers.
Twitter as always jumped the gun.
@Kroniichiwa: Can’t wait for the 30 for 30 doc in 2030 titled: “Tristan vs Hodgson: The Civil War.”
@Twilight_2000: [Meme of Tristan staring into space at full-time]
“When you carry England to 2 goals and still get yelled at like you missed a penalty in a World Cup final.”
@Hyuga_Tobirama: The real issue? England’s still haunted by the Golden Generation. Gerrard, Lampard, Scholes — brilliant, no cohesion. Now it’s Tristan… and we’re afraid of giving him the keys. Again. Same cycle. New decade.
@hanibalthemp: Tristan Hale has 3 assists and 1 goal this break while being asked to "stay in midfield." If he ever wants to actually enjoy football, we’re waiting in Catalonia.
@RMadridReport: *We’ve built dynasties around stars. England has one. And they’re arguing about "shape."
Come home, Hale.
@TheSunSport: BREAKING: FA insiders say Hodgson “refuses to bend the system.” Board reportedly told: “You’re playing with fire.”
@Mark_IS_Back: Tristan Hale: 20 years old. Best player in the world. Imagine trying to limit a player of that caliber, lmao. What I would for Germany to have a player like that.
@TalkSport: “He’s not arrogant. He’s just better than everyone.”
“We finally get a Messi and tell him to play like a midfielder.”
– Full debate with Jamie O’Hara and Darren Bent.
@TristanHaleUpdates: Confirmed: Tristan’s training this morning with the national team. People you can put your fears away, he’s not going anyway.
@FCBChinaOfficial 🇨🇳: ristan Hale 在英格兰被浪费了. 如果你不想要他，给我们吧。我们已经给他起了外号：三狮王子.
(Translation: “Tristan Hale is being wasted in England. If you don’t want him, give him to us. We’ve already nicknamed him: ‘Prince of the Three Lions.’”)
Meanwhile, the memes were going crazy.
@Aee: (Image of Roy Hodgson scribbling in a notebook)
Caption: “Tristan, stay in midfield.”
(Next panel: Hale scoring a screamer from 25 yards)
Caption: “Tristan: ‘No.’”
Final panel: Roy staring at the sky with the caption: “Please respect the 4-4-2.”*
@Mourinho_Thoughts: Imagine Mourinho with Tristan Hale.
First thing he’d do: bench the 4-4-2 and build the squad around the boy.
Second thing: win.
Third: wink at the media and whisper “Special.”
Tristan of coursed ignored all the jokes as he had better things to do.
.
St. George’s Park – Media Room
11:46 AM
"Okay, hold still. That’s it. Smile — not like you’ve just won the Ballon d’Or. More like you scored in a Tesco charity match.”
Tristan adjusted the collar of his England warm-up jacket, fingers briefly brushing the badge. He didn’t say anything, but the look on his face said he was weighing the odds of sprinting out of the room versus just faking food poisoning. Behind the lens, the photographer was already sweating through his third instruction.
Off to the side, a few of the Lionesses watched with the kind of interest usually reserved for car crashes and reality TV. Someone laughed quietly but loud enough to be noticed.
Then, a voice cut in from just over his shoulder — casual, and very obviously amused.
“So you’re the bloke with the cursed heatmap?”
Tristan glanced sideways. Blonde ponytail. England track top. Eyebrows that looked like they’d been permanently raised in judgement since birth.
“Guilty,” he said. “Didn’t realise they’d started inviting critics onto the set.”
“This was our set,” she shot back. “You lot barged in with three media reps and a branding consultant who kept calling it a ‘collab.’”
“That’s disgusting,” Tristan said. “I apologise on behalf of the entire men’s team.”
She gave a single, unamused nod. “Accepted. Barely.”
From the doorway, Lucy Bronze chimed in without looking up from her phone. “Heard his heatmap spells his own name.”
“I wish,” Tristan muttered. “At least then it’d look intentional.”
He adjusted his stance again, trying to look vaguely presentable. The photographer made a noise like a deflating balloon. Tristan ignored it.
“You’re not bad at this,” the blonde said, watching him. “Media stuff.”
“Thanks. I try to look natural while experiencing spiritual death.”
She stepped into frame when the photographer waved them both closer. Something about synergy between the programs. Unity. Hashtag connection.
“Leah,” she said, offering her name without fanfare.
“Tristan.”
“I figured,” she said. “The internet’s been screaming about you all week.”
“Cheers,” he replied dryly. “Always nice to be everyone's favourite meme.”
The camera clicked. Then clicked again.
“Smile,” the photographer called.
They didn’t. But they looked like they might. He just wanted the camp to be over with and just go home. Talk to Barbara, he should visit his parents, he didn’t see them in a while.
.
Manager’s Office
1:08 PM
The blinds were drawn. A half-cup of tea sat cooling on the window sill.
Ray Lewington sat across from him, arms folded, tie loosened. The morning had been quiet. Too quiet for an England camp.
Hodgson exhaled, slow.
“They think I’m the villain,” he said.
Ray didn’t answer right away.
“Do you think I’m wrong?” Hodgson added.
Ray shrugged. “Does it matter?”
He looked at the floor. Then back at the desk. Then out the window again.
“Handing a twenty year old that much responsibility ,” he said quietly. No matter how good he is, it isn't a good choice. That pressure is like a curse much less for England.”
Ray nodded. “But what choice do we have?”
Another silence.
Then Hodgson muttered, “One last tournament. Then I’m done.”
“You’re not saying that because of Tristan,” Ray said. “You’ve been thinking it.”
He rubbed his face. “Maybe. But if I’m going out, I want to do it right. I’ll loosen the grip a little. Let him play. See if the faith everyone has in him… is well-placed.”
Ray stood slowly. “It is.”
Hodgson didn’t argue. He just looked tired.
.
2715 word count
Sorry for that short chapter but I was really struggling to write for this one. Writer’s block, it was a pain in the ass today. Never had to deal with it before but I think I should be okay for tomorrow’s chapters. I got a few ideas on how to write it and stuff.
But anyway I still hope you guys like this chapter.
