Jamie sprinted as fast as his legs would take him. He turned on his own internal extra-burners, he switched on his turbo gear and yet, no matter how fast he pelted across the grass, the ball was always gone, just a millisecond before he could get there.

There Jamie stood, panting in the centre of a man-made circle. This was a piggy-in-the-middle warm-up game in which a player, standing in the middle of the circle, had to try to intercept the ball as it passed between the rest of the group. Once the player in the centre captured the ball, he was replaced by the one whose pass had given away possession.

It was not the first time that Jamie had played the game. Many coaches across the world used it, as it was not only a good way to warm up and get some light-hearted banter going, but at its core it promoted a vision of the game based around possession and quick, accurate, staccato passing.

In England, Jamie’s pace alone would have meant that he could have got hold of the ball within one or two passes. Like a leopard in full flight, Jamie was almost always able to capture his prey.

However, now as he stood, gulping for air in the boiling midday sun, Jamie realized that he had already been the piggy in the middle for around ten minutes and, with each passing second, the howls of enjoyment from his new teammates seemed to get louder. They would wait until Jamie was right upon them, just about to seize control of the ball, before finding some wizard-like feint of the body or intricate piece of close control to move the ball on at the very last second.

Like a dog unable to stop chasing a ball, Jamie refused to give up, but he knew his strength was disappearing. He hoped his teammates might give him a break. But they would not – they simply carried on. Were they teaching him some kind of lesson? Were they trying to make him look stupid?

Jamie could feel his temples begin to pump with anger. Why had they all been so nice to him in the changing room only to mock him now on the pitch?

His fury began to inject extra pace and power into his running. No one could make him look foolish on a football pitch. This was his domain…

Hammering the ground, Jamie kept low and agile as he stalked the ball and then, when there was one momentary second of indecision, he pounced, sliding ferociously along the grass at top speed to push the ball out of the circle and slam into Steffen Effenhegel at the same time.

Effenhegel, having been knocked over, immediately jumped to his feet, staring over Jamie, who could sense a firm German punch about to come his way.

And then Effenhegel laughed and offered his hand to Jamie to lift him off the ground.

“Well done,” said another voice from behind Jamie. It was Godal. He was dressed in a tracksuit with a whistle around his neck. “You lasted twelve minutes and forty-eight seconds. And you got the ball! That is a new record for a fresh signing. We do this with every player that comes to the club. It is a way of explaining our philosophy without words. We believe that, no matter how fast any player can run, the ball can always move faster. This is the way we play at Barça. This is why we love to pass the ball.”