Glory Of The Football Manager System

[The Lift. 17:54 BST.]

We stayed on the touchline.

The lads had decided at half-time. We were the lads who had come second and the lads who had come second clap. Mama said it. Mateo on the crutch agreed.

The stage went up. Pep walked Kompany to the top of the steps. The trophy on the table at the back of the gangway. Kompany lifted it with both hands above his head and the Etihad lost it. Confetti went up in sky blue and white.

The away end of three thousand Palace fans sang and Walsh is one of our own through the lift because the away end had decided to give the Etihad something to remember the away end by.

I stood at the touchline with Mama on my left.

I let myself watch.

I watched Kompany lift it. I watched De Bruyne behind him in his City shirt looking like a man who had been worried for ten weeks and had stopped being worried for thirty seconds. I watched Agüero with the trophy in his hands two minutes later.

I watched Pep stand to the side of the stage with his hands on his hips because Pep had been at the lift four times and Pep knew the lift belonged to the lads. I watched Walker. Stones. Sterling.

The seventeen-year-old academy lad on his debut at the back of the stage who would tell his children about this day forty years from now. I watched the City supporters in the Etihad sing for ten minutes without stopping.

What I was figuring out, while I watched, was this.

Coming second to that side this year was not coming second.

We had not lost the league because we were worse than them. We had lost the league because they were assembled from the best players in the world and we were assembled from the under-eighteens of Crystal Palace and a £10m loan from Real Madrid and a £25m Croatian who was at the Cromwell having his knee rebuilt.

They had spent more on Kevin De Bruyne in 2015 than our entire current first-team squad had cost across nine windows. They had spent more on Sterling in 2015 than we had spent on every transfer since 2014 combined.

We had finished eight points behind them.

Eight points.

We had beaten Liverpool at home and Tottenham at home and stopped this lot at ninety-eight when ninety-eight was the number they had not wanted. We had won the Carabao at Wembley in February. We had won the cup yesterday. We had a European final on Thursday. We had been in three finals in four months and we had won two of them.

Coming second to that side this year, on what we had spent, was the best season any English football club outside the duopoly had ever had.

I did not say any of that out loud.

Mama next to me had been watching the lift the way Mama watched lifts, which was without moving for a long time and then with one nod at the end.

He turned to me when Kompany handed the trophy off to the next lad.

”Daniel.”

”Mama.”

”You have not said anything since the whistle.”

”I have been figuring something out.”

”What.”

”That coming second to them this year was the best season this football club has ever had.”

He looked at me for a long second.

”Daniel.”

”Yeah.”

”That is the bit it took you the whole afternoon to figure out?”

”Yeah.”

”I figured that out at the kick-off.”

He laughed. Walked off to find Iza.

[The Pitch. 18:14 BST.]

The lads came over to me on the touchline at the end of the lift.

Wayne first. Then Mama. Then Konaté. Then Eze off the bench in his tracksuit. Then Wilf. Then Aaron. Then Olise. Then Christopher. Then Pato. Then the rest of them. Mateo came on his crutch with Iza on his arm.

Twenty-four of us in a circle at the side of the pitch with the City celebration still going on at the other end.

I did not give a speech. I had been at three Wembleys and a Lisbon and a Liverpool and a Tottenham and an Anfield and a Selhurst and now an Etihad with this group of lads in nine months and I had spoken at the front of enough dressing rooms.

Mama did the speech instead. He took two steps into the middle of the circle. Looked at the lads around him.

”That is the league we did not win this year, lads. There are City celebrating it forty yards over there. We will be on a stage celebrating one of those in the next four years. I am promising you that on the touchline of the Etihad on the twentieth of May 2018. Now we get on the bus and we go to Lyon on Thursday and we win the trophy that this group of lads has not yet won.”

He looked at me.

”Daniel. You take it from here.”

I had not been planning to say anything but Mama had handed it to me.

”Lads. We did what no Crystal Palace side has ever done. We finished second. We finished above every London club. We won two cups. We are in our first European final on Thursday. We did all of that on what we had.

The lads next to you in this circle are the lads you went to war with. Look at the lad to your right and the lad to your left. The lads next to you are the lads you trust with what comes next. Thursday is Thursday. Tonight is tonight. Tonight is the bus south. Tonight is your families at the team hotel. Tomorrow is your day off. Tuesday we are at Beckenham at eight in the morning. That is the season’s last week. We do it together.”

The lads clapped each other on the back. The circle broke up. The lads went off to find their families.

Mama stayed.

”Daniel.”

”Mama.”

”You said the lads next to you are the lads you trust with what comes next. The lads next to me at the Bernabéu in two years time are not going to be all the same lads.”

”I know.”

”You are going to lose some of them.”

”I know.”

”You did not say it in the speech because you did not want to say it in the speech.”

”I did not want to say it in the speech.”

”Christopher is leaving in June.”

”He’s leaving in June.”

”James is staying.”

”James is staying. He told me on Friday.”

”Mandanda is going home to Marseille.”

”He’s going home to Marseille.”

”Mateo is back in November.”

”Mateo is back in November.”

”All right. The rest we hold together until we cannot.”

”The rest we hold together until we cannot.”

He nodded once. Walked off.

I stayed on the touchline for another minute. The Etihad was emptying. The City lads were back on the stage for the team photo.

Bray came up the touchline with the iPad. He had it open to a paused frame of an Arsenal match.

”Daniel.”

”Bray.”

”You ready.”

”Not tonight, Bray. Tomorrow morning. Eight at Beckenham. Run the tape with the squad.”

”All right.”

He closed the iPad.

I walked to the tunnel.

[Dulwich. 23:14 BST.]

The kitchen light was on.

Mum was at the table with Emma. They had been there since the FT whistle and they had not moved.

Mum looked up when I came in.

”Daniel.”

”Mum.”

She did not stand. Patted the chair next to her.

I sat.

She did not say anything for a long second. Then she reached across and put her hand on the back of my hand on the table.

”You drew at the Etihad.”

”I drew at the Etihad.”

”You finished second.”

”We finished second.”

”The Etihad sang for you.”

”They did.”

”Margaret next door cried at the song. She has supported City her whole life and she cried at the song they sang for my boy.”

”Mum.”

She squeezed my hand.

”Daniel.”

”Mum.”

”Your father did not get to see this.”

”I know.”

”He would have been at the kitchen table of the house in Moss Side with the television on and he would have shouted at the television for ninety minutes. He would have rung me at half past five. He would have said: that is our boy. He would have said it once.”

I did not say anything for a long second.

”Mum. I have not been to his grave in fourteen years.”

”I know.”

”I am going on Friday.”

”I am coming with you.”

”All right.”

She took her hand back.

”Now. Thursday is Thursday. You beat Wenger and you bring the trophy home. Then we go to your father together on Friday. I want it in that order.”

”All right, Mum.”

”Have you eaten.”

”No.”

”Emma has the toast on. Sit. You eat. Then you sleep.”

I ate.

Mum and Emma drank tea and did not look at me eat because Mum and Emma were not making a thing of it. The kitchen window was dark. The garden was dark. Sky was still on with the sound off in the living room running the highlights of the lift from the Etihad three hours ago because Sky had nothing else to put on.

I finished the toast.

Mum stood up at the table.

”Bed, son.”

”Yeah.”

She kissed me on the top of the head the way she had not done since I had moved out of the house in Moss Side in 2008. Then she went upstairs to the spare room.

I sat with Emma at the table for a minute longer.

”Walsh.”

”Em.”

”Take Mum to the grave on Friday. Take her properly. The day. Don’t rush back to Beckenham.”

”I won’t.”

”And the lift on Thursday. I am at the Groupama. Sarah has the ticket booked.”

”All right.”

She did not say anything else.

We went upstairs.

I lay in bed and looked at the ceiling. Coming second. The word had not come. The bus had come back from Manchester without delivering the word and the kitchen table had come and gone without delivering the word and Mum at the table had not delivered the word.

Coming second to that side this year, on what we had spent, was the best season this football club had ever had. I had landed on that on the touchline at the lift. I had said it to Mama. Mama had laughed at me because Mama had figured it out at the kick-off.

I had not landed on the word.

I closed my eyes.

The word would come when it came.