Glory Of The Football Manager System

In the eighty-sixth minute, the moment arrived.

A Tottenham corner, cleared by Konaté, who else, with another imperious header. The ball fell to Milivojević, who played it first-time to Neves. The Portuguese looked up, saw the counter was on, and hit a raking pass into the right channel where Rodríguez who had drifted wide, drawing Vertonghen with him collected it, turned, and played a simple, elegant through ball into the path of Eze.

Eberechi Eze was through on goal. One-on-one with Lloris. The boy from Greenwich, running towards the Tottenham goal at Wembley, the club that had rejected him at fourteen, the stadium that belonged to the team he had spent his entire life proving wrong.

He didn’t chip. He didn’t finesse. He took one touch crisp, clean, setting the ball to his right and hammered it. Low, hard, across Lloris, into the far corner, with a venom that was about more than three points.

The ball hit the back of the net and Eze kept running. He ran past the goal. He ran towards the corner flag. He ran towards the Spurs fans behind the goal not the Palace end, the Spurs end and he stood there, five feet from the advertising boards, and he stared at them.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t gesture. He just stood there and stared, his chest heaving, his eyes ablaze, his arms at his sides, and let the moment speak for itself. You rejected me. Look at me now.

The Spurs fans screamed at him obscenities, threats, the blind fury of people who were being humiliated by a boy they’d let slip through their fingers. Eze absorbed it all. He drank it in. And then he turned, very slowly, and walked back towards his teammates, who engulfed him in a celebration that was equal parts joy and disbelief.

The boy who loved Arsenal and hated Spurs with all his heart scored against them.

Tottenham 2–4 Crystal Palace. Eze. 86 minutes.

[GOAL. Eberechi Eze. Low finish across the goalkeeper. Assist: Rodríguez. Counter-attack from Konaté clearance → Milivojević → Neves → Rodríguez → Eze. Personal context: Eze was released by Tottenham Hotspur’s academy at age 14.]

[This is his first competitive goal against them. His celebration staring at the Spurs fans in silence has already been captured by every camera in the stadium. This will be the image of the match. This will be the image of the season.]

The final four minutes were pandemonium. Spurs had given up. The Spurs fans were streaming for the exits thousands of them, filing out in silence, the ultimate admission of defeat.

The ones who remained booed their own team off every time the ball went backwards. And in the Palace corner, five thousand supporters were conducting one of the great away-day performances in Premier League history.

”WHAT DO WE THINK OF TOTTENHAM?”

The chant had become the anthem of the afternoon, repeated so many times that it had taken on a rhythmic, almost musical quality, the call and response as natural as breathing. But now, with four minutes left and the scoreboard reading 4-2, they added a new verse. A verse that was aimed directly at me.

”Danny Walsh’s red and blue army!”

”Danny Walsh’s red and blue army!”

I stood on the touchline. The boos from the Spurs fans behind me had turned to silence they had nothing left, their fury exhausted, their team beaten, their stadium half-empty.

But from the corner, five thousand Palace fans were singing my name, and the empty upper tier was catching it and sending it back, and for a moment a brief, perfect, unrepeatable moment it sounded like the whole of Wembley belonged to us.

The whistle blew. Tottenham 2–4 Crystal Palace.

Konaté dropped to his knees on the Wembley turf, his hands covering his face. Sakho knelt beside him, one arm around his shoulders, the other pointing to the sky. Zaha was sprinting towards the Palace fans, his shirt off, whirling it above his head.

Benteke was standing at the halfway line, his hands on his hips, a satisfied smile on his face the smile of a man who had done his job and done it well. Rodríguez was already walking towards the tunnel, the game finished, his interest in post-match theatrics precisely zero.

And Eze was standing alone near the centre circle, looking up at the Wembley arch, the floodlights catching the tears on his face.

I walked onto the pitch. The Spurs fans who remained were booing.

I turned towards them and waved not a provocative wave, not a mocking wave, just a cheerful, genuine, utterly unapologetic acknowledgement that said thank you for the pantomime, it’s been an absolute pleasure. It drove them insane. Security was moving towards the touchline. The fourth official was speaking into his microphone. Sarah, walking beside me, shook her head.

”You’ve made yourself the most hated man in North London,” she said.

”Good,” I said. ”That means they know who we are.”

I found Konaté in the centre circle. He was on his feet now, Sakho’s arm still around his shoulder. The two Frenchmen, side by side, looking up at the arch that impossible curve of steel and light and for a moment they looked like two soldiers who had survived a battle they shouldn’t have won.

”Welcome back, Ibou,” I said.

He looked at me. Sixty-three days. Nine matches. One stretcher. One scream. One promise.

”I told you, gaffer,” he said, his voice thick. ”November.”

”You did. You did.”

I shook Pochettino’s hand in the tunnel. The Argentine’s grip was firm, his face tight with frustration, but there was respect in his dark eyes the respect of a manager who recognised quality even when it came at his expense. ”You are building something dangerous,” he said. ”I don’t like it.”

I laughed. ”Coming from you, Mauricio, I’ll take that.”

[FULL TIME: Tottenham 2–4 Crystal Palace. Wembley Stadium.]

[Goals: Konaté 26’, Benteke 52’, Zaha 74’, Eze 86’. Tottenham: Kane 34’, Kane 67’.]

[Manager Record: P26 W21 D3 L2. GF: 69. GA: 24.]

[Premier League: P12 W8 D2 L2. Points: 26. Position: 3rd.]

[Konaté Man of the Match. Final stats: Aerial duels: 14/14 (100%). Ground duels: 6/7 (86%). Clearances: 9. Interceptions: 4. Blocks: 2. Passes completed: 47/49 (96%). 1 goal. 0 dribbles completed against. 0 fouls conceded. This is the finest individual defensive performance the System has ever recorded. Not this season. Ever.]

[Eze personal vendetta fulfilled. Released by Tottenham at 14. First competitive goal against them at 20. Celebration: staring at the Spurs fans in silence. The image has been captured by every camera. Viral within minutes.]

[Walsh celebration in front of Spurs fans: 8.7 million views within 3 hours. Eze staring at the Spurs end: 6.3 million views. Combined with Zaha’s chip: the three clips are the most shared Crystal Palace content in history. The club’s global profile has tripled overnight.]

[Palace fan behaviour at Wembley: 5,000 supporters outsang 57,000 for 90 minutes. ”What do we think of Tottenham” chanted 23 times during the match. The empty upper tier created a natural echo chamber that amplified their noise. This was the greatest away performance by Crystal Palace supporters in the club’s history.]

On the bus home from Wembley, the North London traffic crawling past the windows, the arch still visible in the distance, the players singing in the back a raucous, tuneless, magnificent rendition of ”Glad All Over” that would have horrified a music teacher and warmed the coldest heart I sat in the front seat and let the evening settle.

My phone was on fire.

Emma: ”YOU CUPPED YOUR EAR AT THE SPURS FANS! I screamed so loud the neighbours came round. They’re Palace fans too. We all screamed together. You absolute LUNATIC. I love you more than I have ever loved anything. Come home immediately.”

Parish: ”Danny. I have no words. Actually I do. Four-two. At Wembley. Those are all the words I need.”

Jessica: ”Your celebration is trending worldwide. Number one in the UK. Top five globally. The Spurs fans are calling you arrogant, disrespectful, classless, and the worst person in football. Engagement is through the roof. Don’t apologise. Don’t explain. Don’t say a single word. This is the greatest thing that has ever happened to your brand.”

Frankie Morrison, my mentor from Moss Side, who had definitely watched the match on a grainy television with a cup of tea and a disapproving expression: ”Saw the game. Well done. Stop celebrating in front of other people’s fans. You’re not José Mourinho. Yet.”

I laughed, put the phone away, and looked out the window. The arch was fading into the November night, the steel curve dissolving into the darkness, the lights of London replacing it with their own constellation.

Twenty-six matches. Twenty-one wins. Three draws. Two defeats. Third in the Premier League. Top of the Europa League group. Through to the League Cup fifth round. Konaté back and playing the greatest match of his life.

Eze scoring against the team that rejected him. Zaha chipping the goalkeeper at Wembley. And five thousand Crystal Palace fans outsinging sixty thousand in a ninety-thousand-seat stadium that was only two-thirds full.

Neville had said Christmas. Christmas was five weeks away. Thirteen matches. The gauntlet.

I closed my eyes, the singing of my players carrying me home, and for the first time since the Chelsea defeat for the first time since the taste of ash and the guilt of a preventable injury and the cold verdict of the System I felt something I had been afraid to feel.

I felt invincible again.

***

Thank you to Sir nameyelus for the constant support.