Chelsea Catalyst

Prologue

I was a nimble centre-back in my youth, with a powerful right boot of bullet balls fired off stolen possessions, and a left foot reserved for subtle touches. I had the speed, footwork, and fitness to cover the backfield, decimating opposition attacks.

But I always dreamed of more. I wanted to one day wear the '10' jersey.

My father would practice with me, week in, week out. 3 times a week, he'd have 2 hour sessions working on my attacking skills.

Dribbling, shooting, passing.

To the point that I practiced hitting passing targets with 1-2 touch-passes, spinning fast killer passes across the ground to set up and unleash those around me. Off the end of slaloms, I'd shoot straight through for a long shot.

A lonely, abandoned stadium with a light on, working to overcome my lack of talent.

Lack of execution-about 4 long years of passing, shooting and inculcation of angles, power, and precision into my balling calibration to make me the all-round midfielder that I really wanted to be.

I got called into the Chelsea academy, where we were suffering heavily.

I never got a consistent run of development, being fielded in 5 or more different positions. Central attacking midfielder, Centre back, wing, central defensive midfielder, and even as a striker. I was constantly forced to plug holes.

My lack of a good touch saw me turned over constantly, as my play suffered. I resorted to dropping deep as a primary pivot at Centre mid, becoming the regista. I kept looking at the two best midfielders of the modern era-Kroos and Luka Modric. Kroos had the better pass, but Modric's fast balls skimming across the grass would release his targets into space, passing the ball for him.

I tried doing so, and constantly, nobody would reach those sharp passes, as attempting to be a playmaker backfired. Each time I fired a perfect, high-quality pass to find a space off my right boot or a deft slip off my left, somebody would fumble it.

I was left frustrated, the scapegoat, and the one at blame.

I was sent back to defence, forced to clear the ball, blasting the ball away under pressure, stealing the ball and re-starting our play.

The technical basics were flawless. Perhaps it was a little too polished nobody could keep up. However, one time, they shifted our central attacking midfielder up as a centre forward, as his insane work rate saw him shift and strike every single one of my kill-passes into the goal with ruthless efficiency.

It saw us destroy Brighton's academy 9-1, as I racked up 6 assists and a penalty of my own.

That same guy was the team captain, Axel Carters. He was the master of shooting, an attacker with speed, fitness, finesse and vision. He was a decent passer, but he could shoot goals from within the semicircle often above 80 to 90%.'

He lacked the range, but had the raw power and accuracy as well as awareness to pick his moments.

That was the model of a modern striker. He had a strong touch, with insane ball controls that I could only ever dream of.

His swift touch and play, as well as his excellent dribbling saw us win the first academy league, as I served to be the play-setter. Everything played off me as a trequartista saw us win the academy league that year.

At just 17, I got promoted to the senior squad, struggling for game time. Axel told me it was a similar scenario, and more frustrating by how poorly Chelsea did on a club level.

Finally, in Frank Lampard's journey as caretaker, shuffling around forced his hand to blood new players. And that was a real catalyst, to kickstart our careers.