Glory Of The Football Manager System

On the touchline, I allowed myself a single, sharp punch of the air. Beside me, Sarah was smiling, a wide, genuine smile. Rebecca had her fist clenched. Kevin Bray was clapping his hands together, hard and fast. Marcus Reid, who had been watching the game with the detached focus of a man cataloguing data, looked up from his laptop and allowed himself a small, satisfied nod.

”He needed that,” Sarah said.

”We all needed that,” I said.

The half ended 1-0, but it could have been four. Donnarumma had been the best player on the pitch by a considerable distance. In the dressing room, I told the squad exactly that.

”That goalkeeper is going to be the best in the world,” I said. ”He is eighteen years old and he just made four saves that had no right to be made. Respect it. And then go out there and score past him again.”

The second half began with a raft of changes. The entire back four and McArthur were replaced by Wan-Bissaka, Dann, Tarkowski, and Milivojević. Blake came on for Zaha. The biggest change, the one the entire stadium had been waiting for, came at the sixty-minute mark.

Eze had been brilliant, a blur of energy and invention, but he was starting to tire. I called him over. ”Eberechi, you were magnificent,” I said. ”Go and rest.”

He grinned, his chest heaving, his shirt soaked through. ”He’s coming on, isn’t he?” he asked, his eyes bright with excitement.

I nodded. ”He’s coming on.”

The fourth official’s board went up. Number 25 off. Number 10 on. The stadium, which had been buzzing with a constant, low-level energy, erupted. It was a roar that was part anticipation, part excitement, part pure, unadulterated star-power. Every single phone in the stadium went up simultaneously, a galaxy of tiny lights all pointed at one man jogging onto the pitch in a red and blue shirt with the number 10 on his back.

James Rodríguez jogged onto the pitch with a small, focused smile on his face. He shook Eze’s hand, patted him on the back, and took his position in the number ten role. The System pinged.

> System Notification: [Player Debut]

> Player: James Rodríguez

> Status: First Appearance for Crystal Palace F.C.

> Initial Tactical Integration: 85% (High)

His first touch was a simple, five-yard pass to Neves. The crowd roared as if he had just scored a thirty-yard screamer. His second touch was a perfectly weighted ball out to Townsend on the right. The crowd roared again. Every time he touched the ball, the energy in the stadium crackled with something electric, something rare. He was not just a footballer. He was an event.

He started to pull the strings. His vision, his awareness, his ability to see a pass that nobody else in the stadium could see, was on another level. He drifted into pockets of space, demanding the ball, always available, always thinking two steps ahead.

The players around him raised their game. Townsend was making runs he had not made all evening. Neves was playing quicker, sharper, as if James’s presence had raised the tempo of his own thinking. Even Pato, who had been magnificent all night, seemed to find another gear.

Seventy minutes in, the second goal came. It was a thing of beauty. James, dropping deep to get on the ball, played a quick one-two with Pato on the edge of the box.

Pato, whose confidence was now soaring, played a clever, disguised reverse pass into the path of Andros Townsend, who had made a smart, diagonal run from the right wing. Townsend took one touch to set himself and a second to drill a low, hard shot across Donnarumma and into the far corner.

2-0.

Even then, Donnarumma had got a hand to it. The ball had deflected off his palm and still found the net. He stood with his hands on his hips, staring at the turf, a young man furious with himself for a save he had nearly made. Montella walked over to the edge of his technical area and said something to him, calm and quiet. Donnarumma nodded and reset.

Townsend wheeled away, pointing at James, acknowledging the quality of the pass. James gave him a thumbs-up, already jogging back into position, already thinking about the next move.

Ten minutes later, the moment of the match. The moment that would be replayed on highlight reels for the rest of the season. The moment that Pato had been dreaming of for five long years.

James picked up the ball in the centre circle, turned, and for a split second, the entire game seemed to slow down around him. He looked up, saw the run, and played a pass that defied geometry. It was a forty-yard, laser-guided through-ball, hit with the outside of his left foot, that curled perfectly around the last Milan defender and into the path of Alexandre Pato. It was the kind of pass that made you stop breathing.

Pato had timed his run to perfection, breaking the offside trap by a fraction of a second. He took one touch to kill the ball dead, a touch of velvet that took all the pace off it. He took a second touch to nudge it past the onrushing Donnarumma, who had come off his line quickly and bravely. And with his third touch, with the goal gaping and the stadium already rising to its feet, Pato chipped the ball with exquisite, unhurried delicacy into the empty net.

3-0.

The stadium erupted. Not just the Palace fans in their corner, but all 50,000 of them, on their feet, applauding a goal of breathtaking quality. Pato stood still. Same as before, same as the first goal. No run, no raised arms, no celebration.

He turned slowly, found the Milan end of the stadium with his eyes, and gave a single, quiet, respectful nod. That was all. He owed them that much. They had given him his career, after all, even if they had also been the ones to take it away.

His teammates arrived before he could think any further about it: Zaha, Blake, Townsend, all of them crashing into him at once, a wall of noise and red and blue. He let them carry him. I substituted him immediately, letting him walk off to a standing ovation from every single person in the stadium, including the Milan fans who had once adored him and then let him go.

He hugged me as he came off the pitch, his eyes shining with tears. ”Thank you, gaffer,” he whispered. ”Thank you for believing in me.”

”You did that,” I said. ”Not me. You.”

Man of the Match was a formality.

The game ended 3-0. The final whistle brought another roar from the crowd. In the dressing room, the mood was jubilant. I praised them for the performance, for the control, for the clean sheet.

I singled out Pato for his quality, his professionalism, his heart. The players gave him a round of applause that went on for a full minute. Zaha put an arm around him and said something in his ear that made Pato laugh, a real, full laugh, the laugh of a man who had finally put something down that had been weighing on him for years.

But I was not finished. ”Penalties,” I said, my voice cutting through the noise.

The room went quiet. I threw a ball to Benteke. ”You’re first.”

We ran through the routine the walk-up, the deep breath, the visualisation, the shot. This time, it was different. This time, they were focused. This time, they were ready. Benteke scored, low to the right.

Milivojević scored, straight down the middle. Pato scored, a chip of course, it was a chip that drew a roar of laughter and applause from the room. Eze scored, top corner. James scored last, a perfectly placed, unhurried finish to the bottom left that was so calm it was almost contemptuous. Five from five. We won the shootout 5-4.

I watched James and Pato talking in a corner of the dressing room, the established superstar and the redeemed prodigal son, laughing together like old friends who had known each other for years rather than days. The System pinged one final time.

> System Notification: [Tour Summary]

> Result: 3-0 vs AC Milan (W) | Penalty Shootout: 5-4 (W)

> Squad Cohesion: +10%

> Player Morale: +15 (Elated)

> Pressing Efficiency (Average, Tour): 68%

> Note: Significant improvement from Match 1. Tactical integration progressing ahead of schedule.

I allowed myself a small, satisfied smile. The work was not over. It had barely begun. But tonight, we had taken a step forward. And that was enough. For now.

***

Thank you to Sir nameyelus for the support.