Glory Of The Football Manager System

January 10th. Selhurst Park. Seven-forty-five in the evening. Carabao Cup semi-final, first leg. Arsenal.

I had thought about starting the academy. The full youth squad, the way I had done against West Ham in the quarter-final, the way I had done against Port Vale in the FA Cup. Blake and Eze and Morrison and the rest. The principle was sound. Rest the legs. Protect the bodies. Trust the pathway. But the principle had a flaw, and the flaw was named Arsène Wenger.

Wenger was not Alan Pardew. Wenger was not Port Vale. Wenger was a manager who had won three Premier League titles and seven FA Cups, who had built two generations of Arsenal teams, who had forgotten more about football than most managers would ever learn.

If I started an academy eleven at the Emirates, Wenger would identify the inexperience within ten minutes and dismantle it with the surgical precision of a man who had been exploiting youth for three decades. Not cruelly. Clinically. The way a great chef reduced a sauce: patiently, methodically, until only the essential remained.

So I picked a side that respected the occasion without sacrificing the Premier League squad to it. We already lost against them, so we were not taking our chances.

The Netflix cameras were in the dressing room.

There was no ceremony. No adjustment. Tomás was in the corner, his FS7 at hip height, shooting low. Ruth had clipped lapel mics to my jacket and to Dann’s armband, the wires invisible.

Davi had not added any lights. The dressing room at Selhurst Park was lit by its own fluorescents, the same harsh, slightly yellow light that had illuminated every team talk I had ever given in this room. Nothing had changed. That was the point.

Sakho was in the corner doing his stretching routine, the elaborate, almost theatrical sequence of movements that his body required before every match, his knees clicking, his joints protesting, his face set in the grimace of a man negotiating with his own anatomy.

He wasn’t starting tonight. He was on the bench. But he was in the dressing room because Sakho was always in the dressing room, because his presence was as much a part of Palace’s matchday preparation as the tactical briefing.

Benteke was seated, eyes closed, his pre-match headphones on, listening to something that nobody was allowed to know about because he had once told Barry the kit man it was ”meditation music” and Barry had later discovered it was Celine Dion.

Barry had kept the secret. Barry kept all the secrets. That was why the players trusted him with their boots and their rituals and the small, private superstitions that professional footballers carried like talismans.

Kovačić was lacing his boots in the corner nearest the showers. Quiet. Focused. The new player’s first competitive match, and the dressing room’s particular geography, which had been established over months, had accommodated him without fuss.

Neves had moved his own bag one hook to the left to give Kovačić the space beside him, a gesture so small and so deliberate that only someone who understood dressing-room dynamics would have recognised it as an act of welcome.

Pope was in the goalkeeper’s area with Michael, going through the visualization routine they had developed together. Steele would call out scenarios. Pope would close his eyes and talk through his responses.

”Low shot, near post.”

”Set my feet, push it wide, recover for the follow-up.”

”Cross from the left, two attackers.”

”Call it early, come and punch.” They had been doing this for four months. The routine was boring. The results were not.

I gave the team talk the way I always gave team talks. Hands in pockets. Voice level.

”Arsenal play a high line. Mustafi and Koscielny push up to the halfway line when they’re in possession and they’re slow to recover when the transition comes. That’s our opportunity. Wilf, you run behind Koscielny. He’s thirty-two and his pace has gone. James, you find the space between their midfield and their defence. The pocket. That’s where you live tonight.”

I looked at Kovačić. ”Mateo. You and Rúben own the middle. Xhaka and Ramsey will press you. Let them. You’re better on the ball than both of them. Receive, turn, play forward. Don’t be safe. Be brave. That’s why you’re here.”

Kovačić nodded. The composed, minimal nod of a man who had received instructions in dressing rooms at the San Siro and the Bernabéu and who treated this room with the same quiet respect.

”Scott.” Dann looked up. The captain. The armband on his left bicep. The man who had told Elena’s camera yesterday that every captain who had ever worn it was watching.

”You’re starting tonight because this is a semi-final and semi-finals belong to the people who have earned them. You’ve earned this. Seven years. Every relegation battle. Every crisis. Tonight is yours.”

Dann said nothing. His jaw set. His eyes clear. Beside him, Tarkowski was wrapping tape around his wrists, the ritual that every centre-back Danny had ever known performed before a match, the tape serving no physical purpose whatsoever but providing the psychological armour that made them feel ready.

”James.” Tarkowski looked at me. ”You’re beside Scott because I trust you in the air. Giroud will come on from the bench. When he does, you’re on him. Don’t let him breathe.”

Tarkowski nodded. ”He won’t breathe, gaffer. I’ll make sure of that.”

I stepped back. ”This is a semi-final. This is Arsenal. This is Selhurst Park on a Wednesday night under the lights. Twenty-five thousand people are out there and they have waited their entire lives for a night like this.” I looked around the room. ”Don’t waste it.”

I walked out. Through the tunnel, past the officials, past the Arsenal coaching staff.

Wenger was ahead of me, his long coat buttoned to the chin, his face carrying the serene, slightly distant expression of a man who had managed more than a thousand matches and who treated each one with the same meticulous attention. He glanced at me as we passed. A nod. The professor acknowledging the student. I nodded back.

Tomás was three feet behind me, the camera capturing the back of my head, the set of my shoulders. I did not look at him. I did not adjust my posture. The camera was there. I was not performing for it.

Elena, watching the live feed from a monitor upstairs, turned to Film Marcus: ”He’s not even aware we’re here.”

Film Marcus: ”He’s completely aware. He’s choosing not to care.”

Elena: ”Same thing. For our purposes, same thing.”

***

Thank you for 100 Power Stones.