Glory Of The Football Manager System

The Holmesdale was full forty minutes before kick-off. The flags were out. The Sakho-and-the-corner-flag photograph from Thursday had been printed onto a banner the size of a goal and was being passed across the upper tier.

Sakho was in the warm-up jacket because he wasn’t in the eighteen, and he saw the banner, and he turned away because he knew if he kept looking he was going to cry.

Konaté, also in tracksuit and trainers because he wasn’t in the eighteen either, sat next to me on the bench while the teams were warming up.

”Gaffer.”

”Yeah.”

”Madrid. They will do something to the pitch.”

”Probably.”

”I have been thinking about it. The pitch.”

”Sarah’s already on it. She’s pulled the maintenance records from the Wanda for the last six matches. We will know what they cut, what they watered, what they did.”

He nodded once. Took out a packet of Haribo and started eating it slowly. He never ate Haribo. I had not known he ate Haribo. I let it pass.

Wagner crossed the pitch fifteen minutes before kick-off and shook my hand on the touchline. He was wearing a quarter-zip with the Huddersfield crest, not a suit. He looked like a man who slept eight hours a night.

”Daniel.”

”David.”

”Klopp told me you played the best football he had ever managed against.”

”He’s a generous man.”

”He is a generous man, yes. But he was also accurate. I have watched your last six matches. Your team is, I think, my favourite team in England to watch.”

”That’s very kind.”

”It is not kindness. It is observation.” He laughed. Clapped me on the arm. ”And now you will please beat me by exactly one goal so I can go home to Yorkshire with my honour.”

”I’ll see what I can do.”

”Excellent.”

He walked back to his bench. I sat down on mine. Sarah was already on the iPad.

Whistle.

Huddersfield came out exactly as Sarah had said. Two banks of four and Mounié alone on the halfway line. Pritchard dropped into the gap between the lines. Hogg and Mooy sat in front of their back four. Schindler and Zanka were ten yards inside their box from the kick-off.

We had the ball.

For the first ten minutes we passed it sideways looking for the angle. Wan-Bissaka tried inside. Digne tried outside. Mili took it and turned and looked. Neves took it and turned and looked. Bojan dropped between the lines and asked for it on the half-turn. Lössl stood on his line and watched.

Eleventh minute. Townsend got it on the right. Hadergjonaj backed off. Townsend cut inside onto his left and put a low ball into the front post. Benteke was holding off Schindler. He flicked it.

Bojan was running at the back post.

Side-foot first time. Hip height. Lössl spilled it. Bojan finished the rebound with the outside of his right foot from a yard out.

[GOAL. Bojan. 11 mins. Cutback from Townsend, rebound finish.]

[Crystal Palace 1, Huddersfield 0.]

The Holmesdale erupted. Bojan ran past the bench, past me, past Konaté with his Haribo packet, and stood in front of the family stand and pointed at his own back. Number ten. He hadn’t started in the league since November.

Wagner clapped twice on his touchline. Genuinely. Then he turned and started shouting at Mooy.

Huddersfield came out a little. Not much. They went four-four-two for ten minutes with Mounié dropping and Depoitre coming on early at twenty-five. They had one corner in the first half. Schindler put a long throw into the box at thirty-seven and Hennessey came off his line and caught it one-handed.

Half time. One nil.

Dressing room was quiet because we were doing what we needed to.

”Same again. Don’t drop. Don’t get bored. Their full-backs are tired, their midfield is tired, their back four has had a hundred crosses to head out and the eleven o’clock cross will be the one they don’t get to. Patience.”

I didn’t make a speech. I told Bojan to keep doing what he was doing. I told Neves to keep finding Townsend’s outside foot. I told Mili to enjoy himself.

Second half. Fifty-third minute.

Neves picked the ball up forty yards from goal. He looked up and saw what everyone else saw, which was the gap between Schindler and Zanka where the diagonal ball lived. He chipped it.

Zaha was already running.

Wilf chested it down on the half volley, took one touch with his left to get round Hadergjonaj, hit the box on the diagonal. Schindler came across. Wilf chopped, went outside, looked up.

Bojan was in the six-yard box. Again.

Wilf cut it back. Again.

Bojan didn’t even look at the ball. Side-footed it past Lössl first time. Again.

Two goals. Both from Bojan. He’d had one start in the league since November.

[GOAL. Bojan. 53 mins. Cutback from Zaha.]

[Crystal Palace 2, Huddersfield 0.]

He looked at the bench. I was already clapping. He pointed at me, then at himself, then at the dressing room. Trust. He’d been carrying that for four months.

Wagner changed everything in the next ten minutes. Depoitre on for Mounié. Lolley on for Pritchard. Quaner on for Hadergjonaj. He had nothing to lose.

Sixty-seventh minute, I took Bojan off to a standing ovation that did not stop until he sat on the bench, at which point it carried on for another forty seconds with him visible on the giant screen. He held a hand up and looked embarrassed. Pato came on for him.

Pato got into the box twice in ten minutes and made Lössl save twice. The third time he set up Benteke who hit the post.

We didn’t score the third. We didn’t need to.

The last fifteen minutes were Huddersfield long balls aimed at Depoitre and a Selhurst Park that knew the match was won and sang for the entire ninety. Bowen came on for Townsend. Gnabry came on for Zaha. Mili played the last ten minutes as a third centre-back when Wagner threw Mooy as a second striker. Hennessey caught everything Depoitre put near him.

Whistle.

[FULL TIME. Crystal Palace 2, Huddersfield 0.]

[Goals: Bojan 11, Bojan 53. Assists: Townsend, Zaha.]

[Crystal Palace: 24 matches unbeaten in Premier League.]

[Manager Record: P58 W44 D8 L6.]

Wagner was already walking towards me when I turned.

I went out to meet him.

He shook my hand. Held it. Did not look at me for the first second. Then looked at me.

”You played the match I wanted to play with my own players,” he said. ”Two goals. Twenty-three percent possession against you. Two shots at your keeper. Klopp will be sending me a long text this evening explaining what I did wrong.”

”David.”

”No, no. It is a privilege. To watch you. To be in a league with this.” He clapped me on the shoulder. ”Your partner. The journalist. The Athletic piece on Sakho yesterday.”

”Yeah.”

”I read it on the plane down. I never read journalism on a plane. I made an exception. She writes like he plays. You are a lucky man, Daniel.”

I didn’t say anything for a second.

”I know.”

”Good. Now go to Madrid and win. For all of us. For all the small clubs in England who would not survive what they will do to your pitch.”

He smiled. Walked off.

The Palace fans hadn’t moved. They’d been at it for an hour by the time I got to the Holmesdale and pointed at them and didn’t say anything else. Sakho came out in his tracksuit and applauded them. Konaté stood behind him and applauded too. Bojan went to the front row and threw his shirt to a kid in a Number 10 replica.

The walk back to the dressing room was short. Sarah next to me with the iPad open and Atlético already loaded. Marcus three rows back going through cuts on his laptop. Konaté had finished his Haribo packet and was carrying the wrapper, looking for a bin.

I drove home thinking about Wagner. He had told the truth about what was coming. Atlético would do something to the pitch. They would water it, or not water it, or cut it long, or not cut it at all. They would do something. We would have to play on whatever they gave us.

I thought about Jessica with the card in her bag.

[19:14. Home.]

Emma had cooked. She did this maybe four times a year and I never asked her to.

”Two-nil,” she said, as I came through the door.

”You watched.”

”I watched. I have a Sakho piece next week. They wanted a follow-up. I’m doing a thing on Bojan. Did you know he had seven goals in fifteen for Stoke five years ago and a doctor told him he should retire?”

”I knew.”

”Two goals at Selhurst on a Sunday afternoon.”

”Yeah.”

She came round the counter and put both arms round my neck. She still smelled like the herbs she’d been chopping.

”Jessica texted me an hour ago,” she said. ”Asked if she could borrow my Cartier on Tuesday. Said she wanted to copy the link size for a watch she’s buying for a client.”

”Right.”

”She doesn’t have any other clients with vintage Cartiers, Daniel.”

”Possibly.”

”Just tell me whether to act surprised or not. I won’t ask anything else. I just need to know if I should be acting.”

I looked at her. She looked at me.

”Don’t act surprised.”

”Okay.”

”But don’t not be surprised either.”

”Right. So I don’t know.”

”Yeah. You don’t know.”

”Got it.”

She held my face for a second longer and then she went back to the stove and I poured a glass of wine and I sat down at the counter and watched her chop the last of the parsley.

Madrid was on Thursday.

[Wanda Metropolitano. Four days.]

***

Thank you to Sir nameyelus for the support.