The sound hits first, the thud of boots against turf, the echo of shouts in a cold Essex morning. GPS vests flash under training bibs as a group of players jog past, their breath forming white clouds in the November air. It could be any non-league training session in England, but it isn’t. This one means more.
For Chelmsford City, a club long defined by part time players and modest ambition, the decision to go full time has rewritten everything, routines, budgets, expectations, even dreams. The manager, Robbie Simpson’s successor, stands on the touchline, clipboard in hand, watching as his new squad, nearly all of them strangers just months ago, grind through another double session.
Around him, there’s the unmistakable sound of a club remaking itself.
The Gamble
When Chelmsford City’s board announced the transition to full time football, the reaction was a mix of excitement and disbelief. In the National League South, where most clubs still train two or three evenings a week, going full time is a statement and a gamble.
“You wouldn’t think it would be that big a change,” the manager admits. “But it really doesn’t work like that. It’s not just extra training, it’s a complete shift in how you live.”
He’s been through transformations before. At his previous club, he built and rebuilt squads every season, selling players as fast as they could rise. This time, he’s starting almost from zero again, a full rebuild that left just two players from the old squad, both in their early twenties.
“We had ten players signed two weeks before the season,” he says, shaking his head. “The chairman messaged me asking, ‘Are we going to have enough players?’”
The answer came in the form of a recruitment whirlwind, 18 new signings in a matter of weeks. It was chaos, but deliberate chaos. “If you sign 18 players and only two or three don’t work out,” he says, “that’s a miracle.”
The risk is enormous. Every player is now on a full time contract, which means there’s no easy way out if it goes wrong. “If it doesn’t work, good luck getting them out of your club,” the manager says. “They’re on good deals, with good facilities. Why would they leave?”
But that’s the gamble. To reach the Football League, you have to bet big on people, on plans, on belief.
Inside the Grind
The reality of going full time isn’t glamour. It’s routine, sweat, and the relentless sound of boots squeaking on gym floors.
The players eat breakfast and lunch at the club. Wednesdays are reserved for recovery. The rest of the week? Double sessions, gym in the morning, pitch work in the afternoon. “We wanted to be the fittest team in the league,” the manager says. “You’ll see the benefits in January or February.”
Even the smallest details have changed. The club now tracks players with GPS units, monitors diet and recovery, and runs strength programs that many of these players have never experienced. The gym they used at the start couldn’t handle it, too small, too public. “Twenty players walking in with kit, shouting, swearing… it didn’t work,” he laughs. “We got moved on.”
They now train at a private facility, New Hall School, surrounded by manicured pitches and calm order. It’s progress, but it’s also expensive. Every new demand means another call to the chairman. “He must be sick of me asking for money,” the manager admits.
Yet he’s unapologetic. “This is what professionalism looks like,” he says. “You can’t pretend your way into the Football League.”
The Weight of Expectation
The shift to full time football has done more than change routines, it has transformed expectations.
As soon as the new signings started arriving, one a day through the summer, excitement grew among fans. Suddenly, Chelmsford wasn’t just another National League South side; it was a project. A rising force.
“All of this pressure and expectation is exactly why I came to the club,” the manager says. “If you’re going to work for a big football club, and Chelmsford is a big club, you have to want that pressure.”
But pressure cuts both ways. When fans see a full time squad, they expect dominance. When investors see full time wages, they expect results. “People hear full time and think that means instant success,” the manager explains. “But we’ve built everything from scratch. No team in England could bring in 18 new players and hit the ground running.”
It’s not just his reputation on the line. After guiding Braintree Town to the National League, he knows what’s at stake. “At Braintree, we always started slow, then grew into the season,” he says. “But if you get 18 signings wrong, you lose your job. That’s the truth.”
Still, he thrives on it. “I’ve never walked into a team that was already built. I like building.”
The Players’ Perspective
Among those new faces is Lyall Taylor, the former Charlton and AFC Wimbledon striker whose career has spanned the Football League and beyond. For Taylor, the move back into non-league football was unexpected and deeply personal.
“I could have stayed in the league,” he says. “But this felt different. It felt bigger than me.”
Taylor speaks with quiet conviction. His reasons weren’t financial; they were human. Geography mattered, being closer to home, but so did purpose. “This is a project,” he says. “The owner, the manager, they want to take this club to the Football League. That’s not a small thing.”
He smiles when asked about the return to non-league reality. “You forget the little things. Fans behind the goal in the first half and behind the other in the second. Astro pitches. Park pitches. It’s all part of it.”
But he’s clear about one thing, professionalism isn’t just a label. “You can’t fake it,” Taylor says. “The gym, the analysis, the training, it’s all done properly. That’s what matters.”
Still, there are moments when the old world collides with the new. “I got called a Football League reject the other day,” he chuckles. “I thought, hang on, I played hundreds of games there. But that’s football. You give it back with a smile.”
Building a New Identity
Behind every signing, every double session, there’s a bigger story, a vision.
Chelmsford City’s chairman wants a new stadium within four years. The club currently rents its ground and even pays to train on the first team pitch. “It’s unbelievable,” the manager says. “You have to hire your own pitch to train on.”
He’s aware of how fragile the project can be. “If we don’t perform, we can’t sustain this,” he admits. “It’s not just results. It’s culture, professionalism, relationships with fans, everything.”
The captain, Dom, sees it from the inside. “It’s tough to gel as a new group,” he says. “You’ve got to work hard together, fight for results. Sometimes one late winner can change everything, that’s when a team becomes a team.”
The full time schedule, he adds, accelerates that bond. “You see each other every day. You get sick of each other, but that’s how it becomes a family.”
The project has already changed the atmosphere around the club. Crowds are growing. There’s energy in the stands and belief on the pitch. The club feels alive again.
The Thin Line Between Glory and Failure
All of this, the contracts, the facilities, the training grounds, the faith, comes down to one simple expectation, promotion.
“The only expectation this season is promotion,” Taylor says. “You don’t invest this much not to succeed. But success isn’t always instant. If we don’t go up, there still has to be success, in how we’ve grown, in the connection between fans and players.”
The manager knows that, too. “If it was me putting the money in,” he says, “I’d want to see results right away.”
But football doesn’t work on demand. “Success isn’t a straight line,” he says. “It takes time to build something that lasts.”
Still, time is a luxury rarely afforded in football. Every draw feels like a setback, every defeat a crisis. Yet amid the grind and the pressure, there’s belief, belief that Chelmsford’s gamble can pay off.
“I’ve worked too hard to go backwards,” the manager says quietly. “I lost my job after getting a team to the National League. Now I’m starting again. But I know where this can go. We want to push through the leagues, and we will.”
He looks back across the pitch. Players laugh, stretch, jog to the line for one last sprint. The sun is setting now, a golden light glinting off the GPS vests.
“Look at them,” he says, smiling. “That’s what it’s about. Building something that lasts.”
For Chelmsford City, glory isn’t guaranteed. But they’ve already done the hardest part, they’ve dared to risk everything.
