Glory Of The Football Manager System

The dressing room was still celebrating when I raised my hand.

The music was loud. Zaha’s playlist, the bass vibrating through the walls, the rhythm making the water bottles rattle on the treatment table.

Sakho was leading a chant that appeared to be in French, Creole, and English simultaneously, the words incomprehensible but the meaning clear.

Benteke was sitting in his locker, staring at the floor, still processing the missed chance, until Abraham sat beside him and said: ”You’ll score the next one, big man. I’ll set you up myself.”

Benteke looked at the nineteen-year-old, and something in his face softened, and he nodded. Kovačić was accepting congratulations from Neves, who was holding both the Croatian’s shoulders and saying something that made them both laugh.

I raised my hand. The music continued. Sakho continued. Nobody saw me.

”Oi.” Dann’s voice. The captain’s voice. Quiet but carrying. The room stilled. The music lowered. Twenty-nine faces turned to me.

”That was outstanding,” I said. ”Everyone of you. Scott, you were immense. James, you defended as if your life depended on it. Mateo, welcome to Crystal Palace. Nick, that performance will be remembered. Rúben, the pass to James for the chance was world-class. Wilf, the delivery for the goal was perfect. Kev, KB-29 works. It works because you designed it, drilled it, and believed in it.”

I let the praise land. Then I shifted.

”But the tie is not over.”

The room quieted further. The particular quiet that happened when players heard something they didn’t want to hear but knew was true.

”Arsenal at the Emirates in two weeks. One-nil is not a safe lead. It’s an invitation. Wenger will adjust. Özil will be better. They will come at us with everything they have, in their stadium, with sixty thousand of their fans behind them, and if we go there thinking that tonight was enough, we will lose.”

I looked around the room. ”Tonight was the beginning. Not the end. Enjoy it. You’ve earned it. But tomorrow we start preparing for the hardest away match of the season.”

The music came back. But the message had landed. I could see it in Dann’s face, in Neves’s nod, in Sakho’s slight narrowing of the eyes, the acknowledgement that the celebration was permitted but the complacency was not.

In the corner, away from the noise, I found Eze.

He was sitting in his training kit, his match boots in his bag, unused. He had been on the bench all night. I had not brought him on. The squad was deep, the match was tight, and the changes I made were tactical, not sentimental. Pato for width. Kirby for control. Townsend for fresh legs. Eze had watched from the bench as his teammates beat the club he had supported his entire life.

”Ebere.”

He looked up. His eyes were bright, but his face was complicated, the expression of a man who was happy for his team and disappointed for himself and trying to hold both emotions in the same body without letting either one win.

”You didn’t get on tonight. I know that’s hard. Especially against Arsenal.”

”It’s fine, gaffer.”

”It’s not fine. And you don’t have to pretend it is.” I sat beside him. ”But I need you to hear something. The second leg is at the Emirates. January twenty-fourth. And you are starting.”

His head turned. The complicated expression was gone. In its place, something simpler. Something raw.

”I grew up watching Arsenal,” he said.

”My dad took me to Highbury when I was six. The last season before they moved. I remember the marble halls. I remember the smell of the grass. And then they moved to the Emirates, and my dad got tickets for the first match, and I sat in the upper tier, and I thought: I’m going to play here one day.”

He paused. ”Arsenal released me from their academy when I was fourteen. They said I wasn’t good enough. And I swore that one day I would play on that pitch and prove that they were wrong.”

”You’re going to play on that pitch, Ebere. In a semi-final. With the whole country watching.”

He looked at me for a long time. Then he said, very quietly: ”Thank you, gaffer.”

”Don’t thank me. Just be ready.”

He nodded. He would be ready. He had been ready since he was fourteen years old.

The following morning. January 11th. Beckenham training ground. Eleven o’clock.

The Europa League Round of 32 draw was broadcast live from UEFA headquarters in Nyon, Switzerland.

The whole building was gathered. Not just the squad. Not just the coaching staff. Everyone. The analysts had left their screens. The physios had left their treatment tables. Nina had left the kitchen.

Terry had come in from the pitches, his boots cleaned for once, because even the groundsman understood that this was not a day for muddy footprints in the conference room.

Anita had put the phones on hold and closed the reception desk, a decision she had never made in eleven years and which she announced with the gravity of a woman shutting down air traffic control. Barry was in the back row, his arms folded, his kit-room keys hanging from his belt.

The draw was being shown on the large screen that the analysis team used for match reviews. David Carter had connected it to the BBC feed. The picture was sharp, the audio clear, the UEFA graphics glowing on the screen with the particular, self-important grandeur that European football’s governing body brought to even the most routine administrative procedure.

On the screen, in Nyon, Steve Parish was visible. Sitting in the audience, beside Dougie Freedman, the two of them representing Crystal Palace at the draw.

Parish was wearing a suit and a tie that Dougie appeared to have lent him, because Parish’s own tie collection, according to Jessica, consisted entirely of ties that ”looked like they’d been chosen by a man who’d given up.”

Beside them, barely visible, was a club official I didn’t recognise, probably someone from the European operations team, the administrative infrastructure that Palace had built from scratch in August when they qualified for the group stage and realised they didn’t have a single employee who had ever processed a UEFA away-fixture travel itinerary.

The room at Beckenham was tense. Not with anxiety. With anticipation. Palace were top seeds from Group H. They would avoid the other group winners: Atlético Madrid, Napoli, Arsenal, Borussia Dortmund. The runners-up were the pool from which their opponent would be drawn. Sporting Lisbon. Zenit St Petersburg. Lyon. Real Betis. Dynamo Kyiv. Lazio. Celtic. And AC Milan.

”Anyone but Lazio again,” Tomkins said from the second row. ”I’ve had enough of Italian buses.”

”Celtic would be good,” McArthur said, his arm in a protective sleeve, his hamstring recovering. ”Short flight. Good atmosphere. And they’d sell out the away end in four minutes.”

”I want Milan,” Sakho said. Quietly. From the back of the room. The way Sakho said things that mattered: without volume, without drama, with total conviction. ”I want to play at the San Siro. I grew up watching Milan. Maldini. Nesta. Pirlo. I want to walk onto that pitch.”

The room heard him. Nobody argued.

On the screen, the UEFA official opened the first ball. Atlético Madrid vs. Real Betis. The second ball. Napoli vs. Celtic. The third. Arsenal vs. Dynamo Kyiv.

The room was counting. Eliminating. The possibilities narrowing with every draw.

The fourth ball. Borussia Dortmund vs. Zenit.

Four group winners drawn. Three remaining: Palace, Lyon’s group winner, and one other. The runners-up left in the pot: Sporting Lisbon, Lazio, Lyon (as runners-up from a different group), and AC Milan.

The fifth ball. The UEFA official reached into the bowl. The room at Beckenham was silent. Thirty-five people, their eyes on one screen, their breath held, the Netflix cameras capturing every face.

The ball was opened. The name appeared on the screen.

Crystal Palace vs. AC Milan.

The room did not erupt. The room went quiet. The particular quiet that descends when a name carries weight that no tactical analysis can measure.

AC Milan. The club of Maldini, Baresi, Van Basten, Gullit, Rijkaard, Kaká, Pirlo, Gattuso, Seedorf, Shevchenko, Inzaghi. Seven-time European champions. Three Intercontinental Cups.

The red and black stripes that had defined European football for half a century. The San Siro, eighty thousand seats, one of the most famous stadiums in the world, the ground where Sacchi’s Milan had played football that changed the sport forever.

Crystal Palace. Twenty-five thousand seats. Founded in 1905. Highest league finish: third, in 1991. European history: none, until this season.

Crystal Palace vs. AC Milan.

Sakho, in the back row, was very still. His eyes were on the screen but his mind was somewhere else, somewhere in a flat in the 19th arrondissement of Paris where a boy had watched Milan lift the Champions League trophy in 2007 and had decided that one day he would play at the San Siro. He was thirty years old. The day had arrived.

Konaté’s eyes were wide. The eighteen-year-old who saw the game in spaces and angles was processing the magnitude of the draw with the same focused attention he brought to reading a striker’s movement, except this was not a striker. This was history.

Neves nodded. The competitive nod. The nod of a player who had been told he was too good for the Championship at Wolves and who had come to Palace because Danny Walsh had promised him matches that mattered. This match mattered.

Zaha grinned. ”Milan at Selhurst Park. Under the lights. Wednesday night in South London.” He looked at Dann. ”Can you imagine?”

Dann said, quietly: ”We belong here.”

Kovačić leaned over to Neves and said something in Spanish that made the Portuguese smile. Then, louder, to the room: ”I have played against Milan. Three times. They are good. But they are not what they were. Their squad is rebuilding. Their defence is not the defence of Maldini.” He paused. ”We can beat them.”

Sarah was already on her phone. I could see her pulling up footage, her fingers moving across the screen with the focused urgency of a woman who had just been given a month to prepare for the biggest match in Crystal Palace’s history and was not going to waste a second of it.

Bray turned to me. ”The San Siro. What are the dimensions?”

”One hundred and five by sixty-eight. Standard.”

”Good. KB-26 will work on that surface. The Italian pitches are faster. The ball moves quicker. I’ll adjust the delivery speed.” He was already writing in his notepad.

***

Thank you to Sir nameyelus for the Massage Chair.