Glory Of The Football Manager System

6-0.

The stadium didn’t just cheer. It ascended. It was a moment of pure, transcendent genius. The kind of goal that makes you fall in love with football all over again. Eze slid on his knees towards the corner flag, his arms outstretched, a picture of pure, unadulterated joy. I just stood there, laughing. It was ridiculous. It was sublime. It was Eze.

I looked at Marcus, who was standing beside me with his tablet, his mouth hanging open. ”Put that in the analysis package,” I said. ”I want every player in the country to see that.”

”Already clipping it,” Marcus said, without looking up.

Even after that, we didn’t stop. The hunger was insatiable. In the seventy-second minute, Kevin Bray’s meticulous set-piece work paid off. A corner from the right, whipped in with the pace and precision that Kevin had drilled into us for weeks.

Connor Blake, showing the strength and desire of a seasoned number nine, rose highest at the near post, powering a header that gave Jakupović absolutely no chance.

7-0. A brace for the young striker. His statement had been made. He pointed at the badge and then, in a moment of pure, spontaneous joy, pointed directly at the Palace bench, at the staff, at me. I pointed back.

Zaha, not to be outdone, completed his hat-trick in the eighty-first minute. He tormented the exhausted Hull defence one last time, dancing into the box before being clumsily brought down by Ranocchia. Penalty.

There was no question who was taking it. Wilf placed the ball on the spot, took a deep breath, and calmly sent the keeper the wrong way.

8-0. A hat-trick for the king of Selhurst Park. He walked back to the centre circle with his arms out, soaking in the adulation of his people, a king surveying his kingdom.

The fans were in dreamland. They were singing, they were dancing, they were doing the conga in the aisles. The old man from the entrance was on his feet, his scarf above his head, his face wet with tears that he wasn’t even trying to hide.

The father had his daughter on his shoulders, and she was waving a flag that was almost as big as she was. The group of lads in the upper tier were shirtless despite the May chill, their faces painted red and blue, their voices hoarse from ninety minutes of singing.

But there was still time for one more. The ninth and final goal, in the ninetieth minute, was the cherry on top of a perfect cake. It was the goal that defined everything I was trying to build.

It was a masterpiece of one-touch football, a team goal of breathtaking beauty that felt, somehow, like a manifesto. It started with Hennessey in goal, who rolled the ball out to Tomkins.

Tomkins to Nya, who had dropped between the centre-backs to receive. Nya, one touch, to McArthur. McArthur, a quick lay-off to Eze. Eze, a glorious little backheel that left two Hull players standing, finding Wan-Bissaka on the right.

Wan-Bissaka, a first-time pass inside to Townsend. Townsend, a quick lay-off to Zaha. Zaha, a final, selfless pass across the face of goal to the late-running James McArthur, who tapped it into the empty net from two yards out.

9-0.

Every outfield player had been involved. It was total football. It was beautiful. It was ours.

The final whistle blew, and the stadium erupted in a roar that shook the very foundations of the old ground. The players, exhausted but ecstatic, embraced each other. I walked onto the pitch, shaking every single one of their hands, my heart fit to burst with pride. I hugged Nya. I hugged Connor. I hugged Eze. I hugged Wilf. I shook Milivojević’s hand and he pulled me into a bear hug that nearly cracked a rib.

I looked up at the stands, at the sea of delirious faces. The old man was still there, his scarf now wrapped around the shoulders of a young boy beside him, a grandson perhaps, who was looking up at him with wide, wondering eyes.

The father had his daughter on his shoulders. She was fast asleep, her head resting on his, utterly at peace, the noise and the joy of the afternoon having finally overwhelmed her. He was laughing and crying at the same time, and he didn’t care who saw it.

This was it. This was the future. And it was glorious.

As I walked down the tunnel, the sound of my name echoing around the stadium, the System flickered to life one last time. Its message was simple, and it sent a shiver down my spine.

[Match Result: Crystal Palace 9-0 Hull City. Points Total: 48.]

[Objective Update: Build the Future. Phase One Complete.]

[Attribute Updates: Tactical Intelligence +1 | Man Management +1 | Motivational Speaking +1.]

[One game remain. Prepare for the final match.]

I read it and kept walking. The tunnel was dark and cool, a sharp contrast to the blazing noise and light of the pitch. I could hear the crowd still singing behind me, their voices echoing down the concrete corridor.

I thought of the old man with the scarf. I thought of the little girl asleep on her father’s shoulders. I thought of the kids in the park, of Leo and his red hair and his perfect little through ball.

I thought of Rúben Neves, somewhere in Porto, not yet knowing his life was about to change. I thought of Jesús Navas, standing alone on the Etihad pitch, his career at a crossroads. I thought of Bojan, grinding through the Spanish season at Alavés.

I thought of Pato, brilliant and broken, burning his talent in the Villarreal sunshine. They didn’t know it yet, but they were all part of the same story. My story.

And then I thought of Old Trafford, and the smile faded, just slightly, into something more focused. Something more hungry.

One more game. One more statement to make.

The real work was only just beginning and the future is now.

***

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