Glory Of The Football Manager System

June 4th - 9th, 2017

I had told Emma I’d come home first. I had meant it when I said it.

But somewhere around junction 14 on the M1, with the grey motorway unspooling ahead of me and my phone already buzzing with messages I hadn’t answered, I told the driver to take me to the training ground instead. I’d text her from the car park.

She would understand. She always understood, and she always gave me a look afterwards that made it clear she was understanding me while also finding me deeply exhausting, and I had long since accepted both things as equally true.

The training ground in early June had a quality I had never experienced before. The pitches were perfect. Freshly cut, deep green, the kind of colour that only appeared when nobody was running on them.

The corridors were quiet. The canteen was empty. The whole place felt like a theatre between performances - all the sets still standing, all the props in place, but no actors, no audience, no noise.

I had spent the last two days in a classroom in Staffordshire, surrounded by men who had played hundreds of Premier League games and who looked at me like I had wandered in from the wrong building. Coming back here, to this place that was mine, felt like exhaling after holding your breath for too long.

Christine was waiting for me in her office, a mountain of paperwork on her desk that seemed to have grown in my absence. She looked up as I entered, her expression a mixture of relief and exhaustion.

”Gaffer,” she said. ”How was school?”

”Humbling,” I said. ”And you’ve been busy.”

”You have no idea,” she sighed, then her eyes twinkled. ”The chairman wanted to see you as soon as you got back. He’s in the main conference room. He’s got a surprise for you.”

I frowned. I wasn’t a fan of surprises, especially not from chairmen. I made my way to the conference room, my mind racing through possibilities. A new sponsorship deal? A problem with the stadium? I knocked and entered.

Steve Parish was standing by the window when I walked in. That was the first sign. Parish sat at meetings. He stood when he was pleased with himself, when he had done something he wanted to show off.

There was a man standing beside him, and I knew the face immediately. I had seen it on the wall of the club’s history corridor. A younger version of it, at least. Dougie Freedman.

Crystal Palace legend, thirty-seven goals in two spells at the club, former manager of Bolton and Nottingham Forest, and most recently sporting director at Forest, where he had built a reputation as one of the sharpest operators in the English game.

He was in his mid-forties now, lean and sharp-eyed, wearing a Palace tracksuit that still had the crease of newness in it.

Parish was grinning. ”Danny. Good to have you back. Meet our new Sporting Director.”

Freedman stepped forward. His handshake was firm and deliberate, the handshake of a man who had learned to read people in the first three seconds of meeting them. I was doing the same to him. ”Danny,” he said. ”I’ve heard a lot about you.”

”Dougie,” I said. ”Welcome back to the club.”

Parish was practically vibrating with satisfaction. He had been thinking about this for a while, he said. We were going into Europe. We needed proper infrastructure. Dougie was the best person he could think of.

I listened to all of it, and then I told him I had been going to ask for a sporting director myself. First week of June. It was on the list. I watched Freedman recalibrate as I said it. He had come in expecting a young manager who had gotten lucky, a boy wonder who would need managing. He was reassessing. Good. I preferred it that way.

I told them both to sit down. Parish blinked. It was his conference room. He sat down anyway, with the faintly amused expression of a man who had grown accustomed to being surprised by me.

I reached into my jacket and pulled out a folded piece of A4 paper. I had written it during a session on defensive transitions at St. George’s Park, in the margins of a notebook, while the instructor talked about concepts I had already implemented at Palace six months ago. I had used the time productively.

I unfolded it and laid it on the table, turning it to face them.

The list read:

| Player | Age | Minimum Fee |

| Yohan Cabaye | 31 | £5,000,000 |

| Connor Wickham | 24 | £5,500,000 |

| Jason Puncheon | 30 | £1,500,000 |

| Martin Kelly | 27 | £3,000,000 |

| Fraizer Campbell | 29 | £1,000,000 |

| Joe Ledley | 30 | £1,000,000 |

| Jonathan Benteke | 23 | £1,000,000 |

| Bakary Sako | 29 | £1,500,000 |

| Lee Chung-yong | 28 | £3,000,000 |

| Sullay Kaikai | 21 | £2,500,000 |

| Zeki Fryers | 24 | £500,000 |

| Damien Delaney | 35 | £200,000 |

At the bottom, underlined twice: MINIMUM TARGET: £25.7M

Below that, one final line, written in the same neat hand: Where they go is your problem. What I need is them is gone.

Parish read it slowly. His expression moved through several stages: surprise, concern, and then a long, careful pause at the bottom where the total sat. ”Danny,” he said, his voice careful. ”Jason Puncheon is the vice-captain.”

”He’s thirty years old,” I said. ”On a Premier League wage. Not in my plans.”

”Damien Delaney is a club legend.”

”He’s thirty-five. I need the wages. He’ll get a proper send-off. I’ll call him myself.”

Parish opened his mouth, closed it, and looked at Freedman. Freedman was still reading the list. His expression hadn’t changed. He got to the bottom, folded the paper once, and looked up at me. I told him I needed it done in a week.

By next Friday, I wanted all twelve players gone: fees agreed, medicals booked, announcements made. I was back at St. George’s Park on Monday morning and I would be checking my phone between sessions.

I needed the wage bill cleared and the transfer funds in the bank before I started thinking about who we were bringing in. There was a silence in the room, the silence of two men processing the velocity of what they had just heard. Then Freedman stood up, tucked the list into his jacket pocket, and said: ”Right then. I’d better get started.”

He was halfway to the door when he stopped and turned back. ”One thing,” he said. ”Some of these lads are going to want to speak to you directly. Not their agents. Not me. You.” He paused. ”You prepared for that?”

I looked at him. ”Yes,” I said.

He nodded once and left. Parish stayed in his seat for a moment, looking at the space where the list had been. ”You know,” he said quietly, ”when I hired you, I thought you were a gamble.” He looked up at me. ”I don’t think that anymore.”

”Good,” I said. ”Now go and enjoy your weekend. It’s about to get very loud.”

***

Thank you to Sir nameyelus for the continued support.