Glory Of The Football Manager System

”The January transfer window opens in two days. Can you give us any indication of your plans?”

”We’re always looking to improve. The window is an opportunity. That’s all I’ll say.”

”There are reports linking you with JJ Johnson at Brighton.”

”I don’t comment on speculation about players at other clubs.”

”Danny, the Champions League. Your fans were singing about it after the Southampton match. Is it realistic?”

I paused. This was the question the whole room was waiting for. The question that every journalist in England wanted to ask the twenty-eight-year-old manager of Crystal Palace, who was sitting second in the Premier League and whose supporters had been singing about Barcelona at Selhurst Park on Boxing Day.

”I’m focused on the next match,” I said. ”Leicester at home. January the second. Everything else is a conversation for another day.”

Professional. Controlled. Twelve minutes. Not a word out of place. Not a flicker of the man who had been crying into his mother’s coat fifteen minutes earlier. They got the manager. They didn’t get Danny.

I walked out of the press room and found Sarah waiting in the corridor. She was holding two cups of tea. She handed me one.

”You okay?” she said.

”Yeah. I’m okay.”

”Your mum is waiting in the car park. Emma and Frankie are with her. She wants to say goodbye before they drive back.”

I found them by Frankie’s old Mondeo. The car park was emptying, the last Palace fans drifting towards their own cars, the singing fading into the West Midlands evening. Mum was wrapped in her scarf, Frankie beside her, Emma leaning against the passenger door.

I hugged Mum again. Properly. Longer than the first time, because the first time had been public and this one was private, and the private one was the one that mattered.

”Drive safely,” I said to Frankie.

”I’ve been driving since before you were born, Daniel.”

”It’s Danny.”

”It’s Daniel when I’m the one doing the driving.” He paused, his old eyes sharp under the flat cap. ”Good match. Good year. Don’t get complacent.”

”Never.”

”Good lad.” He shook my hand. The firm, dry handshake of a man who had taught me everything and would never say so.

Emma kissed me. Not the cheek kiss from the stands. A proper kiss, her cold hands on my face, the borrowed bobble hat falling off her head, her red hair tumbling loose in the car park lights. ”I’ll see you at home. Frankie’s dropping me at the station. I’ll get the train.”

”I’ll pick you up.”

”You’ll drive home and rest. I’ll manage.”

”Em.”

”Danny. Go. I’ll be home by ten.”

I watched the Mondeo pull out of the car park, my mum waving from the passenger window, Frankie’s flat cap just visible above the headrest, Emma in the back seat, her red hair bright against the dark upholstery. Then the car turned the corner and they were gone.

The next morning. December 31st. Selhurst Park. Parish’s office. Ten o’clock.

The end-of-year review. Just the two of us, coffee on the table, the empty pitch below through the glass panels.

Parish walked me through the final numbers. Season-ticket revenue up thirty-eight percent. Matchday income up twenty-two percent despite a ground that was already sold out for every fixture, the increase driven by premium hospitality and corporate packages.

”Shirt sales,” he said. ”Rodríguez and Zaha have overtaken Konaté as the top sellers this month. James’s number ten is flying internationally, the Colombian market alone is twelve percent of his sales. Zaha’s been climbing since the Wembley chip. Konaté is still third, still extraordinary for a centre-back, but normalising.”

”That’s healthy,” I said. ”A phenomenon versus sustained demand. Sustained is better for the long term.”

”Social media: four hundred thousand new followers across platforms since August. Engagement rate highest in the Premier League outside the top six. Jessica has negotiated a content licensing deal that brings in six figures annually.”

”And the documentary.”

”Netflix closes on the third. The Walsh Way. Crew embeds in the second week of January. Feature length. Autumn release. They’ve agreed on all your boundaries as per your request with Jessica. No cameras in your apartment. No access to your mum without her consent.”

”Good.”

Parish leaned forward. ”Now. The Europa League. The Round of 32 draw is January the eleventh. We’re top seeds from Group H, so we avoid the other group winners. Atlético Madrid, Napoli, Arsenal, Borussia Dortmund. We’ll draw one of the runners-up. Could be Sporting Lisbon. Could be Zenit. Could be Lazio again or even Milan.”

”When’s the first leg?”

”February fifteenth. Second leg, the twenty-second. Six weeks to prepare, plus the window to strengthen.”

”JJ Johnson,” I said. ”Brighton. He is a young and promising player.”

”Dougie’s already in contact with Brighton’s sporting director. They’re open to a conversation. The fee is significant.”

”He has the profile, Steve. Let’s get some more eyes on his next few starts... I want to see how he handles himself when the game gets physical. If he’s got that Palace DNA, it’ll show on the tape.”

Parish sat back. The pitch below us was empty, the December sun casting long shadows across the Selhurst turf. The Christmas decorations in the stadium concourse were still visible through the glass.

”Danny. Fifty-one points. Second in the table. Europa League knockout rounds. League Cup semi-final. The youngest manager in Premier League history.” He looked at me. ”I pointed at you in a corridor seven months ago and said ’him.’ I want you to know that it was the best decision I’ve ever made.”

”It was the best decision anyone’s ever made about me, Steve. Except one.”

”What was that?”

”A woman in a shop in Manchester who picked out a tie in Crystal Palace blue because she wanted me to walk into the interview looking like I already belonged.”

He didn’t ask who. He didn’t need to. He just nodded, the way men nod when they understand that some stories are private and all the more powerful for staying that way.

I drove home. The South London streets were quiet, the December evening cold and clear, Christmas lights still glowing in the shop windows on Lordship Lane. The city was settling into the strange, suspended hours between Christmas and New Year when nobody is quite sure what day it is or what they’re supposed to be doing.

***

Thank you to Sir nameyelus for the Super Gift.