Glory Of The Football Manager System

[The Hawthorns. Saturday March 31. 14:50 GMT.]

Pulis met me at the tunnel mouth.

”Daniel.”

”Tony.”

”Wins record day.”

”If we win.”

”You’ll find a way through us. I’ll make you find a way through us. I’ll make it ugly while you find it.”

”Cheers, Tony.”

One handshake, fast, without looking. He went back to his bench.

The lineup was rotation. Pope in goal. Joel Ward at right-back with Aaron rested for Thursday. Sakho and Dann across the middle. Digne at left-back with Ben rested for Thursday. Mili, Kovačić and Neves in the three. Townsend, Eze and Zaha across the front. Benteke at the top. Aaron and Ben on the bench with their tracksuits on but their game-day faces off. Four days from Salzburg. Sarah had been firm about it on Friday and I had agreed.

The away end was three thousand Palace fans in red and blue. Half of them with handmade Walsh 70 signs.

Six of them in the back row with a banner that said COPPELL 69 CONTINUE HISTORY. And in the front row, on the aisle, in a dark grey overcoat and a flat cap, with a navy scarf round his neck and his hands in his coat pockets, was Steve Coppell.

He had come up from Reading in the morning. He had not told me he was coming. He had told Sarah. Sarah had told me an hour before kick-off, which was the time at which I could not do anything with the information except put my hand on the bench and breathe through it.

He nodded at me when I looked up. I nodded back. The whistle went.

Pulis got what Pulis wanted for the first half. Two banks of four, one striker, one ten dropping. Ten men behind the ball every time we crossed the halfway line. They wasted six minutes between forty-three and forty-five with treatment for a player who could not have been hurt. Half-time was nil-nil and the away end booed Pulis off.

Dann led the dressing room. Short. ”Same plan. The seal breaks in the second half. They get tired before we get tired. Joel, you’re good. Lucas, you’re good. Eze, get on the ball quicker. We do this again.”

Out for the second.

Fifty-sixth minute.

Kovačić broke their press for the fourth time in eight minutes by carrying the ball through Brunt and Yacob. He fed Eze on the half-turn at the top of the eighteen. Eze took one touch with his right and a second across his body with his left and shot from twenty yards with the inside of his right foot. Foster did not see it until it was halfway through him.

Eze. 56’. Crystal Palace one, West Brom nil.

He ran to the away end. The away end sang ”Eberechi Eze, oh oh oh oh oh oh” to Seven Nation Army for the rest of the half. Joel Ward had played the pass into Kovačić in our own half that started the move. Joel Ward had not been a starter in the Premier League in months and looked like he had been one all season.

Seventy-first minute.

Corner. Right side. Townsend over it. Lucas Digne, of all people, had won the corner with a driving run from the halfway line that nobody at the Hawthorns had expected from him.

Bray’s chalk note in the dugout had said Dann at the front post running across the keeper. Townsend whipped, near-post height. Sunday morning corner. The away end did not know what was about to happen. Foster did not know.

The ball came in. Dann left his marker at the back post and ran across the front of Foster on the line. He met it three yards out and headed it down. Foster was half a yard the wrong side of his line. The ball was in the back of the net before he had moved his feet.

Dann. 71’. Crystal Palace two, West Brom nil.

The captain pointed at the away end. Twenty-three wins on the screen.

Steve Coppell stood up in the front row.

Then the entire away end stood up, and three thousand people sang ”Coppell, Coppell, Coppell, Coppell, Coppell” to the tune of ”Sloop John B” for two minutes without stopping. Coppell did not sit down. Coppell did not wave. Coppell stood with his hands in his coat pockets and let them sing.

I watched him watch them. Sarah was at my shoulder.

”That set piece was Sunday morning.”

”That set piece was Sunday morning.”

We were two-nil at the Hawthorns. The wins record was going to fall.

Then it didn’t.

Eighty-fourth minute. Mili lost the ball thirty yards from our own goal under pressure from Krychowiak. Brunt picked it up. Brunt fed Rondón in behind the line. Rondón took it on his chest, took it on his right, and slid it past Pope from twelve yards.

Rondón. 84’. Crystal Palace two, West Brom one.

The Hawthorns came alive. The Hawthorns had been asleep for fifty-six minutes.

Sarah was already at my shoulder. ”Bring Aaron on for Joel. Bring Ben on for Lucas. Defensive shape. See it out.”

”Salzburg.”

”Salzburg can wait six minutes.”

I waved both of them down to the touchline. They were on the byline pulling their tracksuits off.

Then there was a free kick to West Brom on the edge of our box in the ninety-third minute. Substitution paused. The free kick was whipped in by Brunt. The ball bounced. Mili headed it half-cleared. It came back in from Hegazi on the right. Rondón got across Sakho on the back stick and put it in.

Rondón. 90+3’. Crystal Palace two, West Brom two.

Sakho was on his knees on the goalline. The Hawthorns was on its feet. The away end did not boo. The away end did not sing. The away end sat down.

Aaron and Ben sat back down on the bench. They had not come on.

The whistle went a minute later.

FULL TIME. WEST BROMWICH ALBION TWO. CRYSTAL PALACE TWO.

[FULL TIME: West Bromwich Albion 2–2 Crystal Palace.]

[Goals: Eze 56’, Dann 71’. West Brom: Rondón 84’, 90+3’.]

[Premier League Match 30. Palace 71 points. Currently 2nd.]

[Manchester City 75 points. Lead extended from two to four.]

[Wins record stays at 22 (Coppell 1990-91: 29). Seven from eight to tie. Eight from eight to pass.]

[Manager Record: P49 W40 D7 L2.]

I walked to the perimeter wall. Coppell was on the other side of it. He leant over. I leant over. He pulled me in over the railing with one arm round the back of my neck.

”Twenty-two.”

”Twenty-two.”

”Seven from eight to tie. Eight from eight to pass.”

”Yeah.”

”You’ll do it. The point is the record being there. Not whether anyone breaks it. You came up here with a plan to put two past Tony Pulis. You put two past Tony Pulis. The plan worked. Your set piece worked. The chant for me happened. That’s the afternoon.”

”We dropped two points.”

”You dropped two points. You’re still in second. You’re still going to Salzburg on Thursday with a team that just played eighty-three minutes of an away match like they were at home. Twenty-three is not the number. Believing is the number. They still believe.”

He stepped back. He pointed at the away end, which was still on its feet, although it had stopped singing.

”They still believe. Look at them.”

The away end was thinning but the front fifteen rows were not moving. The front fifteen rows were watching Coppell. Coppell raised one hand. They clapped him. He nodded once and sat back down in his seat.

I went down the tunnel.

[Away dressing room. 17:30 GMT.]

The players cleared. Sakho was the last one out of the shower. He sat next to me on the bench by the door for a minute with his head in his hands and did not say anything. I put my hand on the back of his neck and did not say anything either. Then he got up and went out.

I sat there for two more minutes with my elbows on my knees.

Dougie Freedman came in. He shut the door behind him.

”Daniel.”

”Yeah.”

”A word.”

He sat down on the bench opposite me.

Dougie Freedman is our sporting director. He played for Palace as a striker. He managed Palace. He has been at the club, in some form, for nearly half his life. He always tells me bad news quickly because he does not believe in dragging it out.

”Barcelona.”

”What about them.”

”They’re recalling him. This summer. Their director of football informed Steve at half time. The loan ends in May and they’re not extending. There is no negotiation room. They want him back.”

I sat up.

”He played well today.”

”He played very well today. He won the corner that Dann scored from. He played the full ninety out there. That makes this conversation harder. It does not change it.”

”He doesn’t know yet.”

”He doesn’t know yet. He’ll be told in May. Not before. He plays the rest of the season for us, including both Salzburgs and the FA Cup semi and whatever comes after.”

”All right.”

”We have to replace him.”

”I know.”

”Steve and I want to be smart about this. Lucas played left-back today because Ben was rested. Ben is our starting left-back. He has been our starting left-back since he came in last summer. He is our most attacking left-back. He is twenty-one years old. He is good. We do not want to replace Ben. We want to push him.”

”Push him.”

”A rival. Somebody who comes in and starts every cup tie and starts every Europa League group match and pushes Ben for the Premier League shirt every Monday morning at training. Lucas was a depth signing in July. He was not a rival for the Premier League shirt and Ben knew it. Ben needs somebody he is genuinely afraid of losing the shirt to. The minute he stopped having that, his ceiling stopped moving up. He needs it back.”

”And he replaces Lucas at the same time.”

”He replaces Lucas. Same shirt number. Same boot deal. Same locker. Lucas is going. The new lad arrives in July.”

”Right.”

He took a tablet out of his coat. Two faces. I knew both.