The First Half

The referee’s whistle cut through the December air and Leicester Nirvana kicked off. Paul felt his stomach immediately tie itself into knots, churning with a mixture of anticipation and dread that no amount of preparation could have eased. Around him, the home supporters clapped, cheered, and roared encouragement at the players. “Come on, Adders!” “Let’s have it, lads!” The noise was both comforting and overwhelming.

Paul stood in the technical area, suddenly very aware of how exposed he was. Nathan was out on the pitch playing right centre-back, which meant Paul was essentially alone in the dugout aside from the substitutes and a couple of the coaching staff who were there to help but ultimately deferred to him for decisions. His hands kept fidgeting—adjusting his coat, checking his watch, gripping the edge of the dugout.

The opening minutes were tentative, both sides feeling each other out, but Atherstone quickly found their rhythm. The lads looked composed, confident even, passing the ball around with purpose. Collins made a nuisance of himself up front, Woakes and Cowley were getting on the ball out wide, and the midfield was controlling possession nicely. Paul found himself breathing slightly easier. Maybe this wouldn’t be a disaster after all.

Six minutes in, Mitchell Woakes picked up the ball on the right wing and drove forward. He spotted Niall Rowe making a run into the box and threaded a pass through to him. Rowe took a touch, turned sharply away from his marker, and absolutely hammered the ball past the Leicester keeper. The net bulged. Sheepy Road erupted.

“YES!” Paul shouted, forgetting himself for a moment and punching the air.

1-0. His first match in charge and Atherstone were ahead after six minutes. A goal any striker in the league would have been proud of, let alone a centre-back.

Relief washed over him like a wave—not complete relief, nothing so comfortable as that, but enough to loosen the knot in his stomach slightly. The worst possible start would have been going a goal down early, watching his team crumble, seeing the doubts he’d been fighting all morning vindicated within minutes. This was the opposite. This was… good. Really good.

But Paul knew better than to take anything for granted. It was six minutes into a ninety-minute match. Plenty of time for things to go wrong.

The game settled into a more measured pattern over the next fifteen or twenty minutes. Leicester Nirvana weren’t rolling over—they tested Jake Bull a few times with efforts from distance, nothing particularly threatening but enough to keep him alert. At the other end, Lewis Collins came desperately close, rattling the post with a curling effort that had Paul half out of his seat before it bounced away to safety.

“Unlucky, Lewy!” Paul called out, his voice sounding strange to his own ears. Was that too much? Not enough? He had no idea what the protocol was. “Keep going!”

Paul glanced at his watch. Thirty-five minutes played. Still 1-0. Still holding on. Then, in the thirty-sixth minute, everything clicked into place.

Nathan Haines received the ball in defence and looked up. Joshua Williams had peeled away into space, calling for it. Nathan rolled a lovely weighted ball, right into Williams’ path. The big centre-back controlled it, looked up, and played an absolute beauty of a ball over the top of the visiting defence. Mitchell Woakes had timed his run perfectly, sprinting onto it as it dropped from the sky. Without letting it bounce, he met it on the volley, catching it sweetly and sending it arrowing past the keeper.

The roar from the home fans was deafening. Paul allowed himself a proper smile this time, applauding along with the supporters. “What a bloody goal,” he muttered to himself, still half in disbelief. Across the pitch, he could see his mum on her feet, arms raised, his brother Andy celebrating beside her. Even from this distance, he could tell she was absolutely buzzing.

The teams walked off at half-time with Atherstone two goals to the good. As the players filed into the tunnel, Paul lingered for a moment in the technical area, trying to collect his thoughts. Two-nil up. Better than he could have hoped for. But the game was far from over—he’d watched enough football to know that. Leicester would come out fighting in the second half, they’d have to, and Atherstone needed to be ready for it.

In the dressing room, the atmosphere was buoyant but controlled. The lads knew they’d played well but weren’t getting carried away. Paul cleared his throat, waiting for the chatter to die down.

“Right, listen up. Brilliant first half, really brilliant. But we’ve not won anything yet. They’ll come at us second half—they have to—so we need to stay switched on. Keep doing what you’re doing, don’t drop deeper than we need to, and if we get the chance to put the game to bed, we take it. 45 minutes, lads. That’s all. Forty-five minutes and we’ve got three points. Let’s finish the job.”

Nathan, who’d been getting a drink of water, nodded in agreement. “He’s right. Stay disciplined, don’t give them cheap free kicks in dangerous areas, and keep talking to each other. We’re in control but only if we stay focused.”

The players headed back out for the second half. Paul took his position in the technical area again, the nerves returning now that the interval was over. 2-0 up felt comfortable, but it wasn’t. Not at this level. One goal and suddenly it’s a game again. Two goals and it’s a disaster.

The Second Half

Leicester Nirvana came out with noticeably more bite. They’d clearly had words at half-time, and whatever their manager had said seemed to have worked. They moved the ball quicker, pressed higher, and generally looked like a team that had remembered they were supposed to be competing.

Five minutes into the second half, it told. Their teenage wide man, Mitch Ward, picked up the ball on the left and went at Nathan Haines. Ward had pace to burn and used it well, twisting past Nathan and getting into the area. His shot was well struck but Jake Bull got down sharply to parry it. Unfortunately for Atherstone, the ball fell perfectly for Ryan Robbins, Leicester’s thirty-seven-year-old striker, who was following up. Robbins slotted it home with the composure of someone who’d scored a thousand goals in his career.

2-1.

Paul felt his stomach drop. The home support went quiet, the away fans—all twenty of them—went berserk. Nathan pulled himself up off the turf, shaking his head, clearly annoyed at being beaten.

“Come on, lads!” Paul shouted, trying to sound authoritative rather than panicked. “We’re still winning! Keep your shape!”

But Leicester smelled blood now. They pushed forward with renewed confidence, testing Atherstone’s defence, probing for weaknesses. Josh Steele made a crucial block. Williams won an important header. Bull claimed a dangerous cross. The home side were wobbling, clinging on, and Paul could feel the momentum shifting.

Changes were needed. Fresh legs, a different threat, something to disrupt Leicester’s rhythm. Paul turned to the bench. “Edmonds, Harkin—get warmed up. Quick as you can.”

Just after the hour mark, he made the call. Chris Cowley and Lewis Collins came off, replaced by Edmonds and Ryan Harkin. The substitution board went up, the crowd applauded the departing players, and Harkin jogged onto the pitch to a genuinely warm reception from the home support.

“Harkin, stay central!” Paul called out. “Edmonds, get in the channels!”

The changes seemed to settle Atherstone slightly. Having Harkin up front gave them a different kind of focal point, someone Leicester had to respect, and it allowed the midfield to push up a bit rather than sitting so deep.

On seventy-one minutes, Mitchell Woakes drove into the box and was bundled over by a Leicester defender. Stonewall penalty. The referee pointed to the spot without hesitation. Even the Leicester players didn’t bother arguing.

Ryan Quinn stepped up to take it. Paul held his breath. Quinn struck it well enough, but the Leicester keeper guessed right and pulled off a brilliant save, diving low to his left and pushing it away. The away fans celebrated like they’d scored themselves. Paul put his hands on his head, cursing under his breath.

“Unlucky, Quinny!” he shouted, trying to keep spirits up. “We go again!”

Four minutes later, his disappointment evaporated entirely. Atherstone won a corner on the left. Josh Steele swung it into the box with pace and accuracy. Edmonds got the faintest of touches, flicking it on towards the far post where Niall Rowe had attacked the space. The centre-back met it perfectly, powering a header past the helpless keeper.

Rowe wheeled away in celebration, his teammates piling on top of him. The home support was back in full voice, singing, bouncing, relieved. Paul allowed himself a moment of pure joy, fists clenched, before remembering to look composed. He applauded the goal, nodded approvingly, and tried not to look as absolutely ecstatic as he felt inside.

The goal broke Leicester’s momentum completely. They’d thrown everything at Atherstone for twenty minutes, pulled one back, got a break from the penalty save, and then conceded immediately after. The fight went out of them.

Atherstone sensed it and began to play with more freedom again. Harkin, who’d been quiet since coming on, dropped deep to collect the ball in the ninetieth minute. He turned, looked up, and from a good twentyfive yards out, hit a low, daisy-cutting shot that skidded across the turf. The Leicester keeper should have dealt with it comfortably—but despite getting a touch to it, the ball flew into the net.

Harkin didn’t celebrate wildly—but he raised his arm in acknowledgment as his teammates mobbed him anyway. Paul couldn’t help but smile. It was maybe a fortunate goal, really, but he’d take it. 4-1 on his debut. Ridiculous.

The Final Whistle

The referee checked his watch, blew for a Leicester free kick that came to nothing, and then, mercifully, blew the final whistle.

It was over. Atherstone Town had won four-one. Paul Howarth’s first match as a manager had ended in victory.

For a moment, Paul just stood there, not quite sure what to do with himself. The players were celebrating on the pitch, shaking hands with the opposition, applauding the supporters. The home fans were singing, proper singing, the kind of full-throated noise that comes from genuine happiness. He could see his mum in the stands, absolutely beaming, and Andy with both arms raised in triumph.

Nathan jogged over from the pitch, still in his kit, and extended a hand. “Well done, gaffer. Told you they’d do you proud.”

“Cheers, Nath. You were brilliant out there. That ball to Williams for the second goal was class.”

“Team effort,” Nathan said, grinning. “But you made the right calls. The subs changed it when we needed them. That’s management.”

Paul shook his hand, then watched as Nathan headed towards the tunnel with the rest of the players. Slowly, the supporters began filtering out, still singing, still buzzing. A few shouted messages of congratulation as they passed. “Great start, gaffer!” “Keep it up!” “Up the Adders!”

Paul waved back, thanking them, still processing everything that had just happened.

Inside, beneath the relief and the joy, something else was stirring. Belief. Actual, genuine belief that maybe—just maybe—he could do this. Yes, it was one match. Yes, Leicester Nirvana were having a similar season to Atherstone. Yes, he’d got lucky with that fourth goal and the penalty miss had nearly cost them.

But they’d won. Convincingly. The players had responded to his instructions, the substitutions had worked, and when the pressure came, they’d handled it. That had to count for something.

Paul took one last look at the pitch—empty now except for a couple of volunteers collecting corner flags—and then turned towards the tunnel. There was a post-match interview to do, players to speak to, paperwork to sort, and probably a hundred other things he hadn’t even thought about yet.

But for now, just for a few minutes, he allowed himself to savour it. 4-1. Five wins on the bounce for Atherstone Town. And his first three points as a football manager.

He smiled to himself and walked off the pitch, the sound of the crowd still ringing in his ears.

Match Statistics Analysis: Atherstone Town 4-1 Leicester Nirvana

The stats tell the story of a side absolutely dominant from start to finish. Twenty-four shots to fourteen, eleven on target to seven—Atherstone battered Leicester and the scoreline could easily have been more emphatic.

That xG figure of 3.47 suggests the Adders were creating proper quality chances, not just speculative efforts from distance. Leicester’s 1.88 xG flatters them somewhat—they had their moments, particularly that second-half spell where they pushed for an equaliser, but Bull was rarely troubled beyond the goal they scored.

The possession split is telling: 53% to 47%. Not miles apart, which explains why it felt like Leicester had periods of control, especially after pulling one back. But Atherstone were far more clinical with what they had. Four clear-cut chances created compared to Leicester’s two shows the home side were carving out proper opportunities rather than hoping for the best.

Defensively, Atherstone were solid without being spectacular. Winning 81% of tackles (9 from 11) is excellent, though the headers stat at 53% (17 from 32) suggests Leicester had some joy in the air—not surprising given they won eleven corners to Atherstone’s four. That’s something Howarth will want to tighten up. Can’t be giving away that many set pieces at this level.

The discipline was spot on—seven fouls conceded to Leicester’s twenty-five tells you which side was chasing the game. No cards for either team suggests the referee had a comfortable afternoon, which probably suited Atherstone given they were in control for large periods.

Passing accuracy of 84% (361 from 425) is tidy work at step five, especially with fifty progressive passes showing intent to move forward rather than sideways. Leicester’s crossing was more prolific (48 attempts to Atherstone’s 52) but their completion rate of just 13% shows they were pumping hopeful balls in rather than creating anything meaningful.

That average rating of 7.23 for Atherstone compared to Leicester’s 6.53 sums it up really—across the board, the Adders were better. Not perfect, but comfortably the superior side on the day.