Glory Of The Football Manager System

18 minutes. We won it.

El Ahmadi read a lazy pass off a tired Croatian hip and stuck a boot through it. nick. It dropped for Ziyech, who did not look up, he never looks up, he just slid it first time into the channel like he had eyes in his laces.

Hakimi was already gone. ”YES,” he was screaming, ”YES, YES,” beating the full back for a laugh, getting to the byline, standing it up on a plate.

En-Nesyri met it. net.

He did not smile. He turned with his jaw locked and pointed one finger at the sky, and the rest came piling on, Hakimi up on his back first, howling into his ear.

ROAR.

The bowl came apart. 40,000 lost it at the same instant, and the noise hit me flat in the back like a shove, 2 steps sideways before I caught my feet.

boom boom boom boom.

Up in the green a whole tier was bouncing, grown men and grandmothers and kids on shoulders going up and down as one, and a sea of scarves came pouring over the rail.

boomboomboomboom.

The women’s cry came off every side at once, lu-lu-lu-lu-lu-lu, and would not come down.

On our bench the subs were a heap on the touchline with Boutaïb at the bottom of it, and Steeley had Rebecca off her feet in a bear hug, the pair of them bellowing.

I was 10 yards down the line before I decided to be. Behind me the old man had a total stranger by both shoulders, the pair of them jackknifing. The topless Palace lad was on the rail now, held there by 2 mates gripping his belt.

Over the boards a woman was screaming a name. ”ACHRAF. ACHRAF.” Hakimi heard her through all of it, found her, blew a kiss into the din. Benatia grabbed a fistful of his shirt and hauled him back. ”Later,” the captain barked. ”Shape. Now.”

Off by the tunnel the Brussels lads were a pile on the concrete, and one of them stood over the rest with the flag round his neck like a cape, roaring at a sky his family had crossed a sea to get away from and come all this way back to sing at.

Out on the halfway line Modrić had already gathered 3 of his own and was talking fast, pointing, calm as a man ordering coffee. 1 down and he looked bored of it.

They came back at us and did not flap, because that is the tell of the good ones. Modrić got on the ball and kept it, and pulled us onto him, and dragged the game back to his own pulse. Clipped one to Perišić, got it back, switched it wide, stood on it. Making us chase. Making us turn.

22, they worked us over for the first time. Rakitić and Modrić played round El Ahmadi like he was a bollard, quick one-twos, and Brozović arrived late and hammered one from the edge.

Bounou flung himself and shovelled it wide, slap, and stayed down a second longer than he needed to, sucking air, before Steeley screamed him back onto his feet.

The corner came to nothing and Benatia trotted it out and clapped once, hard, at his own back four. Tighter. Together.

26 minutes, we broke on them. Sofyan won it and drove, and slid Ziyech in down the right, and for a second the whole ground rose. Ziyech dug out the cross and En-Nesyri got half a yard on Lovren.

Subašić came off his line like a train and got a fist to it, punched it clear, then landed and screamed at Lovren for letting the run go. Lovren screamed back. They are not robots either, this lot. They just do their arguing in Croatian.

”UNLUCKY. AGAIN.” I clapped it. ”THEY DON’T LIKE US RUNNING. LOOK AT THEM.”

31 minutes. Modrić stood over a corner out on the right, and there was no hurry in him at all. Bray was already up off the bench and pointing. ”BACK POST. MANDŽUKIĆ. WAKE UP.”

whip.

Flat and mean, right onto a spot. Perišić peeled off Saïss, went across his body, got there first.

thwack.

Bounou threw a hand up and the ball went through it. The net jumped.

The white corner of the ground tore itself open. A few hundred of them up top, scarves whirling, the bench spilling onto the grass, Kovačić in the middle with both arms wide.

Saïss stood with his hands on his head. Benatia was in his face before the ball reached the centre spot, jabbing a finger, not soft with it. Saïss took it and nodded and said nothing, because nobody argues with Mehdi.

Our green end sat down all at once, like a held breath let go. The old man stayed up. Jaw set. Watching Modrić trot back with his hand raised, waving his boys forward. 1-1 and he wanted more.

They did not stay down long. boom... boom... One drum started again by the far goal, a voice near it found the song, and by the time Croatia had the ball back the whole green was up singing louder than before, telling their 11 the exact thing I was about to. Not done. Go again.

”HEADS,” I shouted. ”ONE GOAL AND WE’RE IN FRONT AGAIN. GO GET IT.”

They heard me. 36, Nordin Amrabat put his head where it could have got kicked off and won us a throw deep in their half, and the green end got back up off its seat for him, all of it, 40,000 for a throw-in, because they could see him bleeding for it.

38, Croatia stung us on the counter the other way. Modrić released Rebić and he got a yard on Hakimi and pulled it back, and Benatia came from nowhere to slide it off Mandžukić’s toe, thud, out for a corner.

Benatia got up and roared, more at himself than anyone. Hakimi jogged over and touched gloves with him and said sorry with his eyes.

40 minutes. Boussoufa knocked it clean through a Croatian’s legs, got clattered for the cheek of it, 30 yards out. The Croatian lad got up jawing. Boussoufa just smiled at him, the little watchmaker, and picked grass off his sleeve.

Ziyech put the ball down himself. Nobody argued that. It is his.

The green end held it in one lung. whip. smack. Up, over, dipping late, and Subašić got a full glove to it and it beat him anyway, into the top corner, the net kicking back at him.

Subašić slapped the post with his palm and bawled at his wall. Too late. Ziyech was already off to the corner flag, finding the lens, winking down it.

The stadium detonated all over again, bigger this time, because 2-1 up on Croatia in a World Cup quarter-final is not a thing that had ever happened to these people, and every one of the 40,000 let it out at once. The whole bowl was on its feet, and it stayed on its feet.

On the bench Belhanda had a flag off a steward and was whirling it over his head, and Bray was pointing at the pitch and yelling something the noise ate whole.

Row 9, Emma was up with both arms round Jessica, and Jessica, who turned down a Saudi number last week without a blink, was screaming like a girl at her first game. The drummer boy on his dad’s shoulders was going mad, boom boom boom, no rhythm left in it at all.

Ruth swung the boom low over the bench. ”His face,” Elena said, ”stay on his face,” and Tomás held on me while I stood there and did the hard part, which is not celebrating.

43, they nearly had it straight back. Rakitić stole in at the far post off a short corner and Bounou got down low and strong to it, smack, gloves wrapped round it, and held on this time, and the green end let out a breath you could have leaned on.

4 minutes of it went up on the board and they threw everything at those 4. Modrić, Rakitić, Modrić again, round and round, until Perišić dug one out and Mandžukić got across Saïss and glanced it a yard wide, and half the Croatian bench had their arms up before it landed.

whistle. Half time. 2-1.