Glory Of The Football Manager System

July 1st, 2017

The M25 was a familiar kind of hell. A slow-moving river of red brake lights, even at six in the morning. I sat in the driver’s seat of the Audi, a lukewarm coffee from a service station in my hand, and stared into the gloom.

The date was circled in my mind in bright, angry red. July 27th. Twenty-six days. That was the entire runway. That was all the time I had to turn a construction site into a functioning football team before our first competitive match.

The Europa League third qualifying round. A game that would be played in some corner of Europe, I probably couldn’t pronounce, against a team that was already halfway through their domestic season. It was not a pre-season. It was a countdown.

I pulled into my parking space at Beckenham. The training ground was quiet, bathed in the cool, grey light of a London dawn. But as I walked through the automatic doors, I could feel it. A low-level hum of energy.

The building was alive in a way it hadn’t been before. The seven new signings were already here, scattered around the canteen like strangers at a wedding. Pato, all designer tracksuit and diamond earrings, was scrolling through his phone with an air of bored detachment. Bojan was staring into a coffee cup like it held the secrets of the universe.

Neves and Konaté were in a corner, speaking in a low mix of French and Portuguese. Navas was just sitting there, perfectly still, a picture of calm professionalism. Tarkowski and Chilwell were making awkward small talk by the coffee machine. It was a room full of tension and possibility.

Then the old guard started to arrive. The survivors. James McArthur walked in, gave a curt nod to the room, and went straight to the coffee machine. He was a man who required caffeine before human interaction.

Scott Dann, the captain, followed, his presence immediately lowering the temperature in the room by a few degrees. He surveyed the new faces with the weary expression of a man who had seen too many new dawns turn into false ones.

Andros Townsend and Joel Ward came in together, their conversation dying as they took in the scene. This was not their dressing room anymore. Not completely.

Wilfried Zaha was last, as always. He had his headphones on, the music a distant, tinny beat. He paused in the doorway, his eyes sweeping the room.

He looked at Pato with a long, appraising look. He looked at Neves. He looked at Navas. He was the king of this castle, and he was inspecting the new furniture. He caught my eye. I saw the question in his gaze. Are they good enough? I just looked back at him. You’ll see.

Before the work could begin, there was business to attend to. I gathered everyone in the main team meeting room. The twenty-one players, my coaching staff, Dougie Freedman. The atmosphere was a strange mix of first-day-of-school nerves and a family reunion where half the guests don’t know each other.

”Welcome back,” I said, standing at the front of the room. ”For some of you, welcome to Crystal Palace. We’re going to do this properly. No one knows each other. So we’re going to go around the room. Name, and one thing the rest of us should know about you.”

It was a classic icebreaker, but it worked. It was human. It broke the tension. I started. ”Danny Walsh. I’m your manager. And I don’t like losing.”

It went around the room. The old guard were straightforward. ”Scott Dann. Captain. I’ve been here a while.” ”Wilf Zaha. Winger. I like to run at people.”

The new signings were more revealing. Chilwell was nervous. ”Ben Chilwell. Left-back. I’m from Milton Keynes.” Tarkowski was direct. ”James Tarkowski. Centre-back. I like defending.”

Then it was Konaté’s turn. He stood up, a mountain of a man. He looked around the room, a shy smile on his face. ”Ibrahima Konaté,” he said, his English heavily accented. ”I am from Paris. And I am very, very fast.” Benteke, sitting in the front row, let out a snort of laughter. Konaté just smiled wider. ”You will see.”

Neves was next. He spoke with a quiet confidence. ”Rúben Neves. Midfielder. I like to have the ball.”

Navas was the epitome of professionalism. ”Jesús Navas. Winger. I am here to work.”

Bojan was quiet, almost hesitant. ”Bojan Krkić. Forward. I... I am happy to be here.”

Pato was last. He stood up, a flash of gold and diamonds. ”Alexandre Pato,” he said, a lazy smile on his face. ”I score goals.”

The introductions were done. The first layer of ice was broken. Now for the new reality.

I clicked a button. The projector screen behind me lit up. It showed the new squad depth chart. Every position, every name. The room went silent as they all took it in.

CRYSTAL PALACE F.C. SQUAD 2017/18

| GK | Hennessey | Mandanda |

| RB | Wan-Bissaka | Ward |

| CB | Dann (C) | Tomkins | Konaté | Tarkowski |

| LB | Chilwell |

| DM/CM| Neves | Milivojević | McArthur | Nya Kirby |

| RW | Navas | Townsend |

| CAM| Bojan | Eze |

| LW | Zaha

| ST | Benteke | Pato | Connor Blake |

”This is us,” I said into the silence. ”This is the squad we have built. Twenty-one players. As you can see, we are still light in a few areas. We have no backup left-back. We have no backup left winger. We need another striker. The transfer window is still open. But this is the core. This is the group that will take us into the new season.”

I let them look at it for a moment longer. I wanted them to see the names. To see the competition. To see the gaps. To understand that their place in the team was not guaranteed.

Then I clicked again. The calendar appeared. The brutal, relentless calendar.

”This is our life for the next six weeks,” I said.

”As you know, we are in the Europa League third qualifying round. The first leg is on July 27th. The second leg is on August 3rd. We don’t know who we are playing yet. We will find out in the draw on July 14th. But I can tell you now, it will be a team that is already in the middle of their season. They will be fitter than us. They will be sharper than us. We have twenty-six days to catch up.”

I clicked again. The Premier League fixtures appeared.

”Our first Premier League game is on August 12th. Stoke City, at home. Five days after that, if we win our qualifier, is the first leg of the Europa League play-off round. The second leg of that is on August 24th. In between those two games, we will play a Premier League match. We could be playing three games a week, every week, from the end of July until Christmas. This is the price of success. This is what you all fought for at the end of last season.”

I let that sink in. The scale of the challenge. The sheer, unforgiving nature of the schedule.

”So,” I said, ”we need to get to know each other. Fast. On the thirteenth of July, we will be flying to Singapore for a ten-day pre-season tour. We will play two games there. It will be hot. It will be humid. It will be uncomfortable. And it will be the most important ten days of our season. It is where we will become a team.”

I looked around the room. I had their attention. All of them.

”But before all that,” I said, a slow smile spreading across my face, ”there is the small matter of your contracts.”

***

Special thanks to Sir nameyelus and chisum_lane for the support.