Glory Of The Football Manager System

Wednesday morning. Heathrow, T5. The British Airways charter to Madrid was at eleven. We were through security at nine because Elena and the Netflix crew needed an extra forty minutes for the bag x-rays on the camera equipment and Jessica had asked for a thirty-second pre-flight piece to camera with me near the bar.

I gave her thirty seconds. Then twenty more, because she had a follow-up.

”How does it feel,” she said into the lens, ”to be flying out to a place no Crystal Palace manager has ever taken a team?”

”I don’t know yet. Ask me on the plane.”

”Cut,” she said. ”Thank you, Daniel.”

The squad were in the British Airways lounge by ten. Sakho was sat at the window with a coffee and a paperback. Konaté was opposite him. Pato was on his phone showing Bojan something. Neves was eating a banana and doing the Times crossword.

Sarah was beside me at the bar with three folders open on the high table.

”They’ve cut the grass at thirty-one millimetres,” she said. ”Eleven millimetres above the UEFA recommendation.”

”Within regulation?”

”Within regulation. The maximum is thirty. So they’re a millimetre over. UEFA won’t act unless we lodge a formal complaint. We’re not lodging a formal complaint.”

”No?”

”No. We lodge a complaint and the story for two days is us moaning about the pitch. We don’t moan. We play.”

”Right.”

”And one more thing.” She turned the laptop. ”Yesterday’s stadium maintenance log. They watered the pitch at five o’clock for thirty-eight minutes. The forecast for tomorrow night is twelve degrees and dry. They are watering a dry pitch.”

”To slow us down.”

”To slow us down. Long grass and wet ground. Plus, your team plays at one-point-eight kilometres per second of transition speed on average across the last four matches. We’re the fastest team in the Europa League. They want to take that away.”

”Right.”

”Bray has a plan for it.”

”He always does.”

[Charter flight 11:00. Madrid arrival 14:30 local. Hotel Eurostars Madrid Tower, Paseo de la Castellana.]

The flight was quiet. The Netflix crew filmed people sleeping, people reading, people staring at the back of the seat in front. Elena interviewed Neves for sixteen minutes in Portuguese. Konaté refused an interview and put his headphones on.

I sat in row two with Sarah and Marcus. Sarah had her tactical pad out and was drawing arrows on Atlético’s last six matches. Marcus had a clip of Diego Costa elbowing a Sevilla centre-back in the chest at a corner and a yellow card that should have been a red. He played it three times. Each time the elbow was clearer.

”He’ll do this to Ibu or Mama,” Marcus said.

”Probably.”

”How do we handle it?”

”We do not retaliate. We do not even react. We keep playing. The referee saw it once. If he sees it twice, he has to send him off. We let Costa send himself off.”

Sarah nodded without looking up.

We landed in Madrid at half two local. The bus was waiting on the apron with police outriders. The hotel had cleared the lobby. The check-in took nine minutes. Sakho was in 1004. Konaté in 1006. I was in the corner suite on the twelfth, which I had not asked for and would not have asked for.

There was a card on the desk with a handwritten note in English.

Welcome to Madrid, Mr Walsh. We hope you enjoy your stay. Diego Pablo Simeone.

I put it in the drawer. Texted Jessica.

Have you got a picture of the second one?

She replied in four seconds.

Three. Sending now.

I looked at the three pictures she sent. Three rings. None of them the Streatham ring. All of them better than the Streatham ring. I went to put the phone face-down on the desk and then I put it face-up and looked at the second one for another minute.

Then I went down to the lobby to meet the bus to the Wanda for the training session.

[Wanda Metropolitano. Wednesday evening. Open training 18:00-18:30.]

The pitch was visibly long. Sakho stepped onto it at the touchline and the grass came up over the laces of his boots. He turned and looked at me without saying anything. I looked back. Neither of us said anything because the cameras were on us.

The Atlético media team had been watching since the bus pulled in. They had filmed Bray testing the give of the turf at the corner spot. They had filmed Marcus measuring the grass with a tape measure from a UEFA-licensed officials kit. They had filmed Sarah pacing the eighteen-yard box.

We did thirty-five minutes. Light. Shape work. Sarah ran two passing patterns from the back through a midfield that started narrow and then split. Bray ran three set pieces from each side. Pope did eight crosses, six in the air, two driven, all caught at chest height.

Nothing tactical. Nothing real.

The real session had been at Beckenham on Tuesday. Six hours behind closed doors. Wanda dimensions on the practice pitch. Long grass shaved in by the ground staff overnight. Sprinklers on for an hour before training.

Bojan and Rodríguez running the slow-pass patterns Sarah had built off the Atlético pressing-trigger heat map. The squad had not seen those patterns at the Wanda because the cameras were here.

I shook hands with the Atlético press officer at the tunnel mouth. He was polite. He told me about the dressing-room access. He told me about the warm-up window. He told me about the heating.

The heating, he said, had been having issues all month. The technician would be in tomorrow morning. He could not guarantee it.

I thanked him. We walked back to the bus.

Sakho was beside me on the bus.

”Heating,” he said.

”Yeah.”

”This is what they do, gaffer. They have always done this. The Wanda. The Calderón before it.”

”I know.”

”My friends in PSG came here in 2014. They arrived. Told me the hot water was off. The bus had been held twenty minutes at the airport. The dressing room was at fifteen degrees. They lost. But Falcão scored on a counter. They did not even argue. The argument was the point.”

”Yeah.”

”We bring our own gel-pad heaters in the kit bags. Five of them. Rebecca packed them on Monday.”

”I know.”

He nodded. Looked out the window at the city.

”Madrid,” he said.

[Hotel. 22:30. Sarah’s analysis room: 14B.]

I knocked on 14B at half ten. Sarah, Bray, Marcus and Steele were in there with three laptops and the projector. Atlético were defending corners. Atlético were pressing in transition. Atlético were dropping into shape. Atlético’s last six concessions in detail.

We worked until quarter to one. The plan was:

Play through them at our pace for the first twenty. Test their press, test their lines. If they came at us, we’d get round them. If they sat, we’d pin them in.

If neither worked, fall back. Sit. Make them come at us. Trust Pope.

If they got an early goal, change nothing. We had a two-goal cushion of the 3-1 from Selhurst.

If they were physical, we would take it. We did not retaliate.

If they wasted time, we let the clock run.

The plan was patience.

I went to bed at half one. Slept four hours. Got up at six.

[Thursday March 15. Match day. Kick-off 21:05 local / 20:05 GMT.]

[Europa League Round of 16, Second Leg. Aggregate: Crystal Palace 3, Atlético Madrid 1.]

[Referee: Cüneyt Çakır (Turkey).]