Glory Of The Football Manager System

I woke at seven. Emma was on her side facing me with her hair across the pillow and one bare shoulder out of the duvet. The dark green slip dress was on the floor at the end of the bed. I watched her breathe for a minute and got up.

The kitchen was dark. I made coffee and put Sky Sports News on with the volume low. The crawl at the bottom of the screen said FA CUP QUARTER-FINAL DAY.

The records graphic was up. Same one as yesterday afternoon at Beckenham, with the numbers updated.

CRYSTAL PALACE UNDER DANNY WALSH

Manager record: P47 W39 D5 L3.

Premier League position: 2nd (on pace for highest finish in club history).

Points after 28 matches: 70 (Coppell’s 1990-91 record: 69 across 38, surpassed).

Unbeaten run: 19 PL matches (longest in club Premier League history).

Consecutive PL wins: 11 (Stoke away, December → Liverpool away, February, draw).

Academy debutants: 9 (Aviero is 10 if he comes on tonight).

Premier League win percentage: 79% (highest in club history).

The crawl rolled over to the Atlético complaint. Klopp’s tweet had passed thirty thousand retweets overnight. Marca had called Atlético ”a club that needs to look in the mirror.” Costa had been hit with a two-match UEFA ban. Marco Rose at Salzburg had backed us by name.

Emma came down at nine in my Crystal Palace academy hoodie. She kissed me on the temple and put her chin on my shoulder.

”Five-thirty kick-off.”

”Five-thirty.”

”Pochettino. They want it back.”

”They want it back.”

”You’re going to win it.”

”I might not.”

”You will.”

She kissed me again on the side of my neck and went to make her own coffee, and I sat at the island and thought about the team I was going to put out.

Most of the side that had played at the Wanda would not start tonight. Konaté had failed a fitness test the night before.

His cut had reopened twice on the flight back and Rebecca had ruled him out of the match-day squad altogether. Sakho had played one hundred and eighty minutes in a week. Wan-Bissaka had played both Atléticos and Huddersfield and Liverpool in three weeks. Chilwell was tired. Neves and Kovačić were cooked.

The team had picked itself. Hennessey in goal. A back four of Joel Ward, Dann, Tomkins, Digne. Milivojević and Riedewald in the middle. Townsend right, Zaha left, Eze in the ten. Benteke at the top. Sakho and Wan-Bissaka in tracksuits on the bench. The three academy boys with them.

Captain: Dann. The third time this season. Carabao Cup Final at Wembley. Liverpool home in January. Now this.

I called Sarah.

”Dann captains.”

”He’s been waiting two years.”

”Tomkins next to him. Joel Ward at right back. He’s fresh.”

”He’s been training like a man trying to get a transfer.”

”Eze in the ten.”

There was a pause.

”Eze had two against Spurs at Wembley in November. He had the wonder goal against City in the Carabao final. He has played eleven matches in a row at the level of a hundred-million-pound player. I was going to ask you about him.” She paused. ”Bojan?”

”Rested. Out of the squad.”

”All right.”

”Pochettino is going to come for us, Sarah.”

”He needs this more than we do.”

”He needs it more than he’s needed anything in his managerial life. He hasn’t won a trophy. Anywhere. Eight seasons. Zero silverware.”

”That’s why it’s going to be ugly.”

She rang off. I drank the third coffee and went upstairs to get changed.

[Beckenham. 11:30 GMT.]

I got to the dressing room half an hour early. Stood in the empty room. Looked at the shirts on the pegs. Ward 2. Dann 6. Tomkins 5. Digne 23. Names I hadn’t seen lined up like this since Goodison Park in October.

The lads came in at noon. Dann sat down in his usual spot, three pegs from the door. He looked at the shirt next to his own, where the Konaté 31 was still hanging because Aaron at the kit room had not got the call from Rebecca in time.

”He’s not on the bench?” Dann said, without looking at me.

”He’s not on the bench.”

”How bad.”

”Two re-opens on the flight back. Rebecca had him in the medical room at seven last night.”

Dann nodded once. He stood up, walked the length of the room, pulled the Konaté 31 shirt off the peg and folded it onto the bench by the showers. Came back, sat down, pulled his own shirt over his head.

”Right,” he said, to no-one in particular. ”We don’t lose Ibou’s match for him.”

That was the only speech he gave all afternoon. He did not need to give another one.

I read the team out. Pope laughed when he heard Hennessey was starting. Joel Ward grinned at Wan-Bissaka and Aaron flicked him a thumbs up. Riedewald did his little dance, which was a thing he did about three times a season. Eze nodded once and went back to taping his ankle.

When I read the bench and said Aviero, the room went quiet for a beat.

Eduardo Aviero was seventeen years and three days old. He had been a match-day squad name for the West Ham Carabao Cup tie in December and not got on. He had been in our first-team mix since October, training in with Eze in the ten, training in with Rodríguez when Rodríguez had been here. He was a CAM. He was good. He was very good. He had been waiting for the night.

Tonight was the night.

Bray pulled me aside in the corridor.

”Three set-pieces.”

”Yeah.”

”KB-29 from the right. KB-44 from the left. KB-19 from the centre. Their zonal at the back post is the same shape as the City final. Dann lost his marker for forty seconds and headed the winner. Tonight you’ve got him, Tomkins, Benteke and Riedewald all in the box. Lloris is going to choose the wrong one.”

”How many do we win.”

”Two. At least.”

”Right.”

[Selhurst Park. 16:50 GMT.]

The Holmesdale was already up when we got off the bus.

The away end had brought a tifo. I had not been expecting one. It said FIVE TIMES in three colours across the upper tier, a reference to the five FA Cups Spurs had won. By the time the players walked out for the warmup, the Holmesdale had a new song.

”How many trophies have you won this decade? How many trophies have you won this decade?” Lorraine’s brother-in-law had written it in the half-hour before kick-off. I would learn that later.

Pochettino stood at the front of the Spurs line in a dark grey suit. Kane first behind him. Dier second. Son third. He didn’t look at me when I walked past.

In the tunnel just before we went out, Dier said something to Dann under his breath. I didn’t catch it. Dann kept walking, then turned and said to me, loud enough for the line behind him to hear:

”He just told me welcome back, gaffer. Said it like that’s a threat.”

Pochettino met me at midfield. He shook my hand and held it half a beat too long.

”Daniel. Congratulations on the Wanda.”

”Cheers, Mauricio.”

”I hear you broke the Coppell record this week without playing a Premier League match.”

”This week.”

He smiled. Nothing behind it.

”My team will make sure that’s the last record you break this year.”

”We’ll see.”

Kane went to the centre circle. He held Dann’s hand too long at the toss. Said something. Dann didn’t reply. The coin went up. Heads. Dann took it.