Glory Of The Football Manager System

The composure cracked. The no-celebration dissolved. The complicated loyalty that had kept his face blank and his arms still was overwhelmed by the thing that was larger than loyalty, larger than respect, larger than the boy who had been released at fourteen. The thing that was happening now. The thing that was real.

Eze ran to the corner. He didn’t plan it. He didn’t decide. His legs carried him to the advertising boards beneath the Palace fans, and he jumped, grabbing the top of the hoarding, pulling himself up, his face level with the front row. The fans reached for him. Hands on his shoulders.

Hands on his head. Hands grabbing his shirt. A Palace scarf draped around his neck by someone whose face he would never see. He was screaming. The fans were screaming. The distinction between player and supporter, between the pitch and the stands, between the boy who had been rejected and the people who had accepted him, dissolved entirely.

For five seconds, Eberechi Eze was not a Crystal Palace footballer. He was a Crystal Palace fan. And the fans held him, and he held them, and the Emirates was silent around them, and the moment was the reason that football existed.

Tomás was at the edge of the pitch. His camera caught it. The whole thing. The walk. The stop. The turn. The run. The jump. The hands. The scarf. The scream. Thirty-seven seconds of footage that would become the most watched clip of the entire documentary, the moment that Elena would later describe as ”the scene that the film was built for, even though we didn’t know it until it happened.”

The referee booked Eze for the celebration. Eze walked back to the centre circle with a yellow card and a Palace scarf still around his neck and the expression of a man who had been charged a small fee for the greatest moment of his life and considered it a bargain.

The final eight minutes were professional. Dann organising. Tarkowski clearing. Pope catching a final cross with the authority of a man who had saved a penalty and a rebound in the same second and was not about to let a routine cross trouble him.

Milivojević, who had played the full ninety on his return from injury, was running on fumes and stubbornness and the Serbian conviction that stopping was a weakness and weakness was unacceptable.

The whistle blew.

Arsenal 1-3 Crystal Palace. Aggregate: 1-4.

Crystal Palace were in the Carabao Cup final.

The away end was beyond noise. Beyond singing. Beyond anything that language could adequately describe. Two thousand people who had been outnumbered thirty to one, who had watched their team concede in the fifth minute and survive a penalty and score three goals at the Emirates, were producing a sound that would be talked about in South London pubs for the next fifty years.

I walked onto the pitch. Not towards the Arsenal fans. Not towards the cameras. Towards the Palace end. I stood beneath the two thousand and I looked up at them and I mouthed two words: ”Thank you.”

They sang his name. Not mine. Eze’s. ”He’s one of our own, he’s one of our own, Eberechi Eze, he’s one of our own.” The boy they threw away, adopted by the people who recognised what the academy had missed.

In the dressing room, the celebration was enormous. Sakho had a speaker the size of a suitcase. Zaha was dancing on a bench. Benteke was smiling, which was rare enough to be documented as a medical event. Kovačić, who had been at Inter and Real Madrid and had never played in a domestic cup final, was sitting in his corner looking quietly stunned.

Eze was sitting on the floor. His back against the wall. The Palace scarf still around his neck. His boots still on. His eyes open but focused on something that wasn’t in the room.

I sat beside him. The floor was cold. The concrete was hard. The noise was everywhere.

”You scored twice at the Emirates,” I said.

”I know.”

”In a semi-final.”

”I know.”

”Against Arsenal.”

He looked at me. His eyes were wet. Not crying. Just wet. The moisture of a man whose body was processing an emotion that his mind hadn’t caught up with.

”I was fourteen when they told me I wasn’t good enough,” he said.

”I sat in a car park at the Hale End training ground with my dad, and he had to drive us home, and I cried the whole way. Forty-five minutes on the A406 with my dad not saying anything because he didn’t know what to say.” He paused.

”I still love them, gaffer. I still watch their matches when we don’t play. I still check their results. I still have the shirt from when I was twelve in my wardrobe.” He looked at the scarf around his neck, red and blue, Crystal Palace. ”But this is my club now. These are my people now. And tonight, my people were louder than sixty thousand of theirs.”

”Today,” I said.

”Today.”

His phone buzzed. He looked at it. His dad. One word again. Not ”today” this time.

”Proud.”

We sat on the cold floor of the away dressing room at the Emirates Stadium, the noise of the celebration around us, and we said nothing else, because nothing else needed to be said.

I did the press conference. The mask. Twelve minutes. ”A tremendous performance. The players were exceptional. We’re looking forward to the final.” I didn’t smile. I gave them nothing. They got the manager.

The documentary got the truth. The truth was a boy on the floor with a scarf around his neck and wet eyes and a text from his father that said one word.

Today.

[Carabao Cup Semi-Final, Second Leg.]

[Arsenal 1-3 Crystal Palace. Goals: Eze 34’, Zaha 68’, Eze 82’. Arsenal: Lacazette 5’.]

[Aggregate: Crystal Palace 4-1 Arsenal. CRYSTAL PALACE ARE IN THE CARABAO CUP FINAL.]

[Pope: penalty save + rebound save in 1 second. 61’. Steele: ”That’s my keeper.” Rebecca: ”0.19 seconds. Not human.”]

[Eze: 2 goals at the Emirates. Released by Arsenal at 14. Still loves Arsenal. Still hates Spurs. Celebrated with Palace fans despite himself. Yellow card. ”This is my club now. These are my people now.”]

[Dann + Tarkowski: clean sheet partnership in both legs. 212 minutes. 1 goal conceded.]

[Milivojević: full 90 on return from injury. ”That’s why I’m smiling.”]

[Kovačić: controlled the midfield beside Mili. 4th start. Already indispensable.]

[Netflix: Eze’s celebration = 37 seconds of footage. Elena: ”The scene the film was built for.”]

[Eze’s dad. Section 204. Before kick-off: ”Today.” After the match: ”Proud.”]

[Crystal Palace will play in the Carabao Cup final at Wembley.]

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Thank you to Sir nameyelus for the Super Gift.