Glory Of The Football Manager System

3-0.

I have never heard a sound like it. It wasn’t just a cheer for a goal. It was a roar of recognition. A roar of pride. A seventeen-year-old boy, one of their own, had just scored his first senior goal, and it was a thing of absolute beauty.

I was on my feet, roaring myself, my fists clenched. I caught Nya’s eye as he was mobbed by his teammates. He was beaming, a look of pure, unadulterated joy on his young face. I gave him a thumbs-up. He nodded back, the message clear. I belong here.

In the stands, the old man from the entrance was on his feet. He wasn’t crying, not yet. He was just standing there with both arms raised, his face turned up to the sky, as if offering a prayer of thanksgiving.

Three rows behind him, a young woman in a Palace shirt was screaming Nya’s name at the top of her lungs, her face bright red.

Next to her, a man in his forties was hugging his teenage son, both of them laughing, the son trying to look cool and failing completely. These were not spectators. They were participants. They were as much a part of this as the players on the pitch.

By now, Hull were broken. Their fight was gone. They were simply trying to survive until half-time. But we were merciless. In the thirty-eighth minute, Andros Townsend decided he’d had enough of passing.

He picked up a loose ball a full thirty-five yards from goal, took one touch to set himself, and unleashed an absolute thunderbolt of a shot that swerved and dipped and flew into the net before Jakupović could even move. It was a goal of pure, individual brilliance.

4-0.

I looked at Sarah. She was shaking her head, laughing. ”That man,” she said.

”I know,” I agreed.

The System pinged. A small alert in the corner of my vision. [Cabaye: Stamina at 68%. Monitor. Substitution window: 55-65 minutes.] I noted it and turned back to the pitch.

And just to rub salt into their gaping wounds, we made it five in first-half stoppage time. This time it was a team goal of devastating simplicity.

Nya Kirby, again, started the move, spraying a beautiful fifty-yard diagonal pass out to Aaron Wan-Bissaka on the right wing. Aaron, who had been a defensive rock all half, showed his attacking prowess, taking the ball in his stride and whipping in a perfect, first-time cross.

It flew over the head of a despairing Maguire and landed perfectly for Zaha at the far post, who tapped it into the empty net. 5-0. At half-time.

The whistle went, and the stadium rose as one, a standing ovation of deafening proportions. The players, exhausted but ecstatic, embraced each other. I walked onto the pitch and put an arm around Nya Kirby, who looked like he was floating on air. ”That, son,” I said, my voice thick with emotion, ”is the start of something special. Don’t you ever forget this moment.”

In the dressing room, there was no wild celebration. Just a quiet, profound sense of satisfaction. Rebecca, my sports scientist, handed me a tablet with the players’ physical data.

”Stamina levels are all in the green, gaffer. Nya’s covered the most ground of any outfield player, but his heart rate has come down to a perfect resting level in the last two minutes. He’s a machine.” She paused. ”Cabaye is starting to flag, though. I’d look at getting him off around the hour mark.”

”Already on it,” I said. ”Eze goes on for him at sixty.”

Rebecca nodded, making a note. ”Good. Townsend is also showing some fatigue in his right quad. Nothing serious, but worth watching.”

I addressed the players. ”Forty-five more minutes,” I said calmly. ”Don’t get sloppy. Don’t get arrogant. Respect the opponent, respect the fans, and respect the game. Silva will have changed something. They’ll come out with more energy. Be ready for it. And,” I added, allowing a small smile, ”let’s not stop at five.”

The second half began, and Hull, to their credit, came out fighting. Silva had made two changes, bringing on the pace of Grosicki and the physicality of Niasse.

They were trying. Robertson was still bombing down the left wing, and Huddlestone was still trying to get his foot on the ball. But it was like trying to fight a fire with a water pistol. We absorbed their early pressure with ease, Nya Kirby dropping deep to screen the back four, his positioning instinctive and assured.

On the sixty-minute mark, the System pinged again. [Cabaye: Stamina at 51%. Substitution recommended.] I was already moving. I turned to the bench. ”Eze. Get warmed up.”

A ripple of excitement went through the substitutes. A bigger ripple went through the stadium as the fans saw who was preparing to come on.

The Holmesdale End began chanting his name before he’d even touched the touchline. I put my arm around Cabaye as he came off, his face dripping with sweat but beaming with pride. ”Incredible shift, Yohan. Absolutely incredible. You were brilliant today.”

Cabaye, a man not given to excessive emotion, put a hand on my shoulder. ”We are a good team, Danny,” he said, his French accent thick with feeling. ”A very good team.”

Eze stood on the touchline, waiting to come on. The number 10 bib on his back. His natural position. The position he was born to play. The crowd was already singing his name. He looked at me, his eyes burning with anticipation. ”Go on, son,” I said, clapping him on the shoulder. ”Go and enjoy yourself. You’re the ten. The pitch is yours.”

His introduction was like pouring gasoline on a fire. The crowd went insane. His very first touch was a silky smooth turn that left Huddlestone for dead, the big midfielder grasping at thin air.

His second was a cheeky nutmeg on Maguire that drew a collective gasp from the stands, followed immediately by a roar of laughter and delight. Even Maguire, to his credit, shook his head and smiled. He knew he was watching something special.

His third touch, in the sixty-fifth minute, was the goal that everyone in Selhurst Park would be talking about for years. He picked up the ball just inside the Hull half, in that perfect pocket of space between the lines that a natural number 10 inhabits.

He turned and just... ran. He drove at the heart of the terrified Hull defence, his feet a blur of motion, his low centre of gravity making him impossible to knock off the ball. He glided past one defender, then another.

He reached the edge of the box, with Maguire desperately trying to get back at him. Eze feinted to shoot with his right foot, sending the big defender sliding past him, and then, with the calmest of finishes, he rolled the ball into the bottom corner with his left.

***

Thank you to nameyelus for the magic castle.

Also thank you for 200 Power Stones.