Glory Of The Football Manager System

June 29th, 2017

I took the day off from the course. I told the instructor I had a family emergency, which was not entirely a lie. The club was my family now, and this was an emergency. The first day... just for the new signings. The day the new era began for real. I needed to be there.

I got to the Beckenham training ground before anyone else. The sun was just coming up, casting long shadows across the perfect, empty pitches.

The air was cool and still. I walked through the building, the only sound the click of my shoes on the polished floor. It was quiet. But it was a different kind of quiet to the day before. This was the quiet of anticipation. The quiet before the storm.

My staff were already there when I got to the manager’s office. Sarah, my assistant, was at her desk, a coffee in one hand and a tablet in the other, already going through the day’s schedule.

Marcus, my analyst, was in the corner, his eyes glued to a laptop screen, probably re-watching every touch Bojan had taken in the last two years. Kevin, the set piece coach, was drawing diagrams on a whiteboard.

Rebecca, the head of fitness, was calibrating the equipment for the bleep test. Michael, the goalkeeping coach, was outside, setting up his cones. They were a good team. A young team. A hungry team. And they were ready.

”Morning, gaffer,” Sarah said without looking up. ”You look tired.”

”I am tired,” I said. ”But I’m here.”

”Good,” she said. ”Because they’re starting to arrive.”

I looked out the window that overlooked the car park. A black Range Rover was pulling into a space. Then a silver Mercedes. Then a slightly battered-looking Ford Focus. The new boys were here.

I went down to the main reception to meet them. I wanted to be the first face they saw. I wanted them to know that this was my house. My rules.

Bojan arrived first. He was alone. He looked smaller in person than he did on television. He was wearing a simple black tracksuit and carrying a small, worn-looking washbag.

He looked like a man who had been living out of a suitcase for too long. He shook my hand. His grip was firm, but his eyes were nervous. He was looking around the reception area like he was expecting a trap.

”Welcome, Bojan,” I said. ”Glad you could make it.”

”Thank you, gaffer,” he said. He still could not quite make the word sound natural.

Pato was next. He strolled in like he owned the place. He was wearing expensive sunglasses, a designer tracksuit, and a watch that probably cost more than my car.

He had the easy, confident swagger of a man who had been famous since he was a boy. But his eyes were watchful. He was assessing everything. Me. The building. The atmosphere. He was looking for weakness. He shook my hand. His grip was light. Almost casual. ”Danny,” he said. Not gaffer. Danny. A small power play. I let it go. For now.

Navas was the last of the three to arrive. He came in with the quiet, unassuming dignity of a man who had nothing to prove.

He was wearing a simple club polo shirt and shorts. He looked like he had been part of the furniture for years. He shook my hand. His grip was strong. His eyes were calm. ”Gaffer,” he said. A simple statement of respect. He understood the hierarchy. He understood the game.

The other new signings were already there, having been through their medicals and media duties in the preceding days. Rúben Neves, the boy king of Porto, was talking quietly with Ibrahima Konaté, the giant teenage centre back from Sochaux.

They were an odd pair. The elegant, technical midfielder and the raw, powerful defender. But they were already forming a bond. Ben Chilwell, the young left back from Leicester, was on his phone, probably texting his family to tell them he had arrived safely.

James Tarkowski, the no-nonsense centre back from Burnley, was standing by himself, just watching. Taking it all in. He had the look of a man who was not easily impressed.

Seven new players. A club record transfer fee. A World Cup winner. Two fallen angels. A giant from the French second division. A solid professional from a newly promoted team. A promising kid from a rival club. It was a strange collection. An island of misfit toys. And they were all mine.

I led them into the main changing room. Their names were already on the pegs. Their kits were laid out. I gave them a few minutes to get changed, to get settled, to absorb the reality of it. Then I called them together in the middle of the room.

”Welcome to Crystal Palace,” I said. My voice was quiet, but it carried in the silent room.

”Some of you are here because you are the future of this club. Some of you are here because you are the present. And some of you are here because you are looking for a second chance. It does not matter why you are here. All that matters is what you do now that you are. Your reputation means nothing in this room. Your transfer fee means nothing. Your past achievements mean nothing. From today, you are all on the same level. And you will all be judged by the same standard. The work.”

I looked at each of them in turn. Neves, calm and composed. Konaté, young and eager. Chilwell, nervous but excited. Tarkowski, watchful and cynical. Navas, professional and serene. Pato, cool and detached. Bojan, anxious and uncertain.

”We are going outside,” I said. ”And we are going to do the bleep test. It is a simple test. It measures your fitness. But it also measures something more important. It measures your character. It measures how far you are willing to push yourself when things get hard. And at this club, things will get hard. So I suggest you get used to it.”

I turned and walked out of the changing room without another word. I did not look back to see if they were following. I knew they would be.

The bleep test was held on the main pitch. Rebecca had set up the cones. The speakers were in place. The sun was higher in the sky now, and it was starting to get warm. My staff were all there, watching from the sideline. Sarah with her tablet. Marcus with his laptop. Kevin with his whiteboard. They were all part of this. They all needed to see it.

The players lined up on the start line. Rebecca explained the rules. A series of twenty metre shuttle runs. The time between the bleeps gets shorter with each level. You run until you cannot run anymore. Simple. Brutal. Honest.

***

Special thanks to Sir nameyelus for the constant support.