Chapter 22 – Preparation for Spurs

Date: 25 September 2012

Location: Carrington Training Ground

The buzz of media and celebration was gone. All that remained was work.

The rain came down in sheets over Carrington's training ground as cones were laid out and barks of "Sharp!" echoed across the pitch. The coaching staff had shifted gears — the derby victory was behind them. Up next: Tottenham Hotspur at Old Trafford, and Sir Alex wasn't about to let anyone rest on reputation.

"Get your heads in it!" Mike Phelan shouted. "This ain't Hollywood, lads!"

Alex zipped up his training jacket, boots slapping into the slick grass as he slotted into a rondo drill. Rooney, Carrick, and Valencia formed a tight triangle, pinging passes around Jones and himself. The tempo was brutal.

"You're late, Marshall!" Rooney grinned, zipping a pass with no mercy.

Alex spun and flicked it through Phil Jones' legs.

"Not that late," he shot back, drawing a few laughs.

"Oi! Megs don't count if you lose it after!" Phil Jones barked, mock offended, though the smile on his face betrayed the sting.

Valencia smirked. "Next time, aim higher. Go for the ego."

Rooney stepped in again, shielding the ball from Alex before laying it off.

"Keep that sharpness, lad. Bale won't wait around."

The mention of Bale silenced the joking for a heartbeat. Everyone in the squad knew the Welshman's form — explosive pace, thunderbolt strikes, a one-man chaos engine. Tottenham weren't a soft opponent. Not this season.

Alex nodded. "He's fast. But not faster than the ball."

Carrick chuckled. "Spoken like a proper United midfielder."

They cycled through drills — pressing patterns, short-space transitions, shooting under pressure. Rain clung to their shirts. Alex slipped once but popped back up before anyone could call it out. A low ball came skimming across the box during a finishing drill, and he rifled it first time into the top corner.

"Oi!" Tom Cleverley yelled from behind the goal. "Save some for the weekend!"

Even Sir Alex, watching from under his trademark black umbrella with arms folded, gave a subtle nod.

The squad filed into the tactics room, still damp from training. Steam rose from their soaked jackets, and the scent of wet grass and muscle rub filled the air.

A massive screen flanked the front of the room, displaying the crest of Tottenham Hotspur above a frozen frame of their most recent match.

"Sit down, eyes up," Sir Alex said, voice low but commanding. "This isn't just another league game. They're coming for us."

Mike Phelan tapped the screen. Footage rolled.

Gareth Bale ghosted past two defenders and unleashed a rocket into the top corner.

"This," Phelan said, pausing the clip, "is where they hurt you. Bale doesn't need space. He makes it. Watch the fullback — caught too high, loses track, and bang."

"Poor lad didn't stand a chance," muttered Jonny Evans.

"He's not coming to dance," Sir Alex added. "He's coming to tear us apart."

He turned to the squad. "That's why we control the tempo. Press early. Compact midfield. Don't let him face goal. Carrick, Scholes — you dictate it."

Alex sat up straighter as another clip played, this time showing Tottenham's narrow midfield pressing high. Sir Alex pointed with a pen.

"Now here's your moment," he said, eyes flicking to Alex. "Look at this line. One pass through — and we're away. That's where your touch matters, Marshall."

Alex leaned forward, watching the clip frame by frame. Tottenham's high line, the winger stepping too early, the space behind…

"You get that pass right," Sir Alex continued, "and we've got Rooney or Robin one-on-one with Friedel. That's three seconds that decide a match."

Rooney gave Alex a nudge from the next seat. "No pressure, eh?"

"He's got it," Carrick said confidently. "Kid sees the game half a second ahead. That's all it takes."

Sir Alex let that settle in the room before nodding.

"We're playing our football. Let them chase. No Hollywood passes unless it's on. And for the love of God, no sloppy giveaways."

The players murmured in agreement. The mood wasn't tense, but it was sharp — like the room was filled with coiled springs waiting for release.

As the meeting wound down, Phelan added one last comment, looking at Alex again.

"Marshall. Don't freeze. Bale might make the headlines, but this is your pitch too."

Alex gave a small nod. "I'm ready."

Sir Alex smiled faintly.

"Good. Because you might be coming on sooner than you think.""

Tottenham Training Camp 

The room was dim, lit only by the projection on the wall. The screen played and replayed Alexander Marshall's assist at Anfield — the subtle feint, the acceleration, the cross bent perfectly into Van Persie's stride.

André Villas-Boas stood with his arms crossed, eyes sharp, voice even.

"This boy's young," he repeated, clicking the remote.

The freeze frame lingered — Alex mid-sprint, tongue slightly out, eyes already scanning the box.

"But don't treat him like a kid. Treat him like a United player — and a dangerous one at that."

He tossed the printed photo onto the table in front of him. The paper slid across the surface like a thrown card. Defoe, Lennon, and Sandro all leaned forward slightly.

"Rooney is still the heartbeat," AVB continued, tapping another photo, "but this lad? He's the spark. If he comes on, I want a shadow on him — don't let him turn, don't let him breathe."

Kyle Walker furrowed his brow. "Want me tight on him, gaffer?"

"Double him. Angle him inside. Make him play backward — he hates it. If he drifts wide, switch pressure early. He's clever — don't let him feel clever."

Villas-Boas clicked to the next clip — Tottenham's defensive line caught high against Reading. A simple through ball split them.

"They play that vertical pass when he's on. You know it's coming. Prepare for it."

Across the room, Gareth Bale sat lacing his boots, eyes locked on the screen. He hadn't said a word, but his jaw flexed.

The next clip showed United's transitions. Alex starting deep, sprinting forward like a shadow in motion, dragging markers away, opening the field.

"Bale," AVB called out, not even looking. "You run at Rafael. Keep him honest. Keep him panicking."

Bale nodded slowly. "He'll run at me too. He's not afraid."

AVB finally turned. "Good. I want you to make him afraid."

Jermaine Defoe nudged Lennon. "They've got a baby face assassin now."

Lennon smirked. "Then we don't give him space to work."

AVB's voice softened slightly.

"This is Old Trafford. You don't silence the crowd — you control them. Don't get dragged into their rhythm. They'll bait you."

He paused at the door before walking out.

"And if that kid comes on... make him remember why he's sixteen. We will not allow a kid to beat us."

Back at Carrington – Recovery and Conversation

Later in the evening, Alex jogged alone around the pitch for his recovery session. The floodlights glowed dim, painting long shadows across the soaked turf.

"You ready for Bale?" a voice asked.

He turned. It was Rio Ferdinand, arms folded, smirking.

"He's quick, but he's got tells. You watch enough tape, you'll see it — that tiny lean before he pushes off."

Alex nodded. "And Defoe?"

"Finishers like him don't need much. Half a yard is enough. Don't give it to him."

"I might not start," Alex said quietly.

"That's not the point," Rio replied. "At this club, you're always one moment away from being needed. Be ready when your number's called."

Alex offered a quiet nod. He was ready.

Elsewhere – Pundits Stir the Fire

On TalkSPORT, the chatter had already started:

"You think Spurs can finally beat United at Old Trafford?" one caller asked.

"I don't know," the host said, "but if that Marshall kid comes off the bench again and does what he did at Anfield — Tottenham are in trouble."