Glory Of The Football Manager System

It got loud by Sunday morning.

The first call came at half past eight. I was still in bed, Emma’s arm across my chest, the room full of the soft grey light of a London June morning. Freedman’s name appeared on my screen and I answered it before it buzzed a second time.

No hello, no preamble. Galatasaray were in for Cabaye, he said. They wanted him badly. He could get five million, maybe five-five if he played hardball. I told him five was fine and to get it done.

Emma stirred and asked who it was. I told her it was work. She pulled the pillow over her head. I lay there for a moment after the call ended, looking at the ceiling. I thought about Yohan Cabaye. Thirty-one years old, former PSG, former Newcastle, French international, nine goals last season. A good player. A professional.

A man who had done nothing wrong. And he was gone. That was the job. You couldn’t let yourself forget that. But you also couldn’t let yourself stop feeling it. The moment you stopped feeling it was the moment you became something you didn’t want to be.

The second call came twenty minutes later. Not Freedman this time. A number I recognised but hadn’t expected.

Jason Puncheon.

I answered it. ”Jason.”

”Gaffer.” His voice was tight. Controlled. The voice of a man who had spent the morning deciding how angry he was going to allow himself to be. ”I’ve just had a call from my agent. He says the club are looking to move me on.”

”That’s correct,” I said.

A pause. Long enough to be meaningful. ”I’m the vice-captain,” he said. ”I’ve given everything to this club.”

”You have,” I said. ”And I mean that. You’ve been a brilliant servant to Crystal Palace. But I’m rebuilding, Jason. I need to take the squad in a different direction, and I need the wages to do it. This isn’t about what you’ve done. It’s about what I need to do.”

”You could have told me yourself,” he said. ”Before my agent called me.”

He was right. That one landed. ”You’re right,” I said. ”I should have called you first. I’m sorry for that.”

Another pause. The anger was still there, but it had shifted slightly, the way anger does when someone admits fault. ”QPR,” he said. ”That’s what my agent’s hearing. QPR.”

”It’s a strong club,” I said. ”Championship football, London-based, you’d be a leader there from day one.”

”I’m a Premier League player,” he said.

”You are,” I said. ”And you might be again. But right now, this is the best move for everyone.” I paused. ”I’m not asking you to like it, Jason. I’m asking you to understand it.”

The line was quiet for a long time. Then he said, ”I don’t like it.” And then, after another beat:

”But I understand it.” He hung up. I sat on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, and Emma appeared in the doorway with two mugs of tea, looking at me with the particular expression she reserved for moments when she knew I needed something but wasn’t going to ask for it.

She handed me the mug and sat down beside me and didn’t say anything, and that was exactly right.

By Monday morning, Cabaye was on a plane to Istanbul, and the Crystal Palace fan forums had exploded. Christine sent me a screenshot during the morning break at St. George’s Park. The thread was titled WHAT IS HAPPENING TO OUR CLUB??? and had over four hundred replies in under two hours.

The top post, from a user called EagleForever1905, read: Cabaye gone. Five million. The man who scored nine goals for us last season. Nine goals. Sold to Turkey for five million. I am physically ill.

The reply below it said: Mate it’s Danny. He knows what he’s doing. Trust the process. The reply below that said: THE PROCESS??? HE’S SELLING CABAYE TO TURKEY. I put the phone away and went back into the classroom.

Dave, the instructor, was drawing a pressing shape on the whiteboard. I picked up my pen and wrote Cabaye Galatasaray £5m DONE in the margin of my notebook. The lesson continued.

The man sitting next to me in the classroom was a former League One manager named Phil who had spent twenty years in the lower leagues and had the permanently weathered look of a man who had seen everything. He had noticed me checking my phone during the break.

He leaned over during the afternoon session and said, quietly, ”You’re the Palace manager, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question. I told him I was. He nodded. ”Saw the Cabaye news,” he said. ”Brave call.” I told him it wasn’t brave. It was just necessary. He thought about that for a moment. ”Same thing, sometimes,” he said, and went back to his notes.

Freedman called again at lunch. Sheffield Wednesday and Sunderland were both in for Wickham, he said. Wednesday at five, Sunderland at five-five. He thought he could get six out of Wednesday if he told Sunderland he was going elsewhere.

I told him to do it. He said Wickham’s agent was already calling it a step down. I told him the agent could call it whatever he liked. Just get the deal done. By the time I was back in the classroom for the afternoon session, the deal was done. Six million. Sheffield Wednesday. I wrote it in the margin.

Connor Wickham called me that evening. He was less controlled than Puncheon. He was twenty-four years old and he had Premier League goals to his name and he had not expected this.

”I thought I was part of the rebuild,” he said, his voice raw with the particular hurt of someone who had genuinely believed something that turned out not to be true. ”I thought after last season...”

”You had a good season, Connor,” I said. ”You contributed. But I need to change the profile of the squad. I need different types of players in the positions you play.”

”What does that mean?”

”It means I need someone who can press from the front for ninety minutes,” I said. ”Someone with a different physical profile. That’s not a criticism of you. It’s just the reality of what I’m building.”

”So I’m not good enough,” he said.

”That’s not what I said.”

”It’s what you meant.”

I let that sit for a moment. ”Sheffield Wednesday want you badly,” I said. ”They’ll build around you. You’ll be their main man. That’s not nothing, Connor.”

He was quiet for a long time. When he spoke again, the rawness was still there but it had gone somewhere deeper, somewhere more private. ”Alright,” he said. ”Alright.” And he hung up.