Glory Of The Football Manager System

Saturday, February 24th. The eve of the final.

The promotional image appeared everywhere on Saturday morning. On Sky Sports, between every ad break. On BT Sport, as the backdrop for the Ferdinand interview that was airing that evening.

On the giant screens at Wembley, which were being tested for tomorrow’s broadcast. On the Carabao Cup’s official social media accounts, which had been building towards the final for a week and which now had the image they had been waiting for.

The image was a split. Two faces. Two sides. A vertical line down the centre, the left half in Manchester City’s sky blue, the right half in Crystal Palace’s red and blue. On the left, Pep Guardiola.

On the right, Danny Walsh. Both in profile. Both looking forward. Both with the particular, focused, slightly distant expression of men who were thinking about a football match that had not yet been played but that already existed in their minds as a series of positions and movements and possibilities.

The graphic designer at the EFL’s content team had spent three days on it. The concept was simple: two managers, two philosophies, two sides of the same coin. The execution was striking.

Guardiola’s profile was lit in cold blue, the lines of his face sharp, his bald head gleaming, the image of a man who had won everything in football and who intended to win this too. Walsh’s profile was lit in warm red, younger, less defined, the jaw set, the eyes forward, the image of a man who had won nothing and who intended to change that.

Beneath the two faces, in the Carabao Cup’s branded font, the gold and green of the Thai energy drink that had given its name to the competition: CARABAO CUP FINAL. WEMBLEY. FEBRUARY 25TH. MANCHESTER CITY v CRYSTAL PALACE.

The Carabao branding was everywhere.

The cup had been renamed the Carabao Cup at the start of the 2017/18 season, a three-year title sponsorship deal between the EFL and Carabao Dang, the Thai energy drink company whose slogan was ”The Fighting Spirit” and whose green and gold colours now adorned the trophy’s ribbons, the match balls, the perimeter boards, and every pre- and post-match interview backdrop.

The company was Thailand’s second-biggest energy drink brand, chasing Krating Daeng, the drink that the rest of the world knew as Red Bull. The sponsorship was their play for the English market, the European market, the global market. And the final, broadcast in a hundred and seventy countries, was the centrepiece.

The irony was not lost on Danny Walsh. A Thai energy drink company had paid millions to put its name on an English football competition, and the final of that competition was being contested by a team managed by a twenty-eight-year-old from Moss Side who had been stacking shelves in a convenience store three years ago.

The Fighting Spirit. If Carabao were looking for a brand ambassador, they had one. They just hadn’t signed him yet.

The promos ran all day. Every commercial break on Sky Sports carried a thirty-second spot: the goals from Palace’s run to the final, the Dann header against Arsenal, the Eze celebration at the Emirates, intercut with City’s run, the De Bruyne free kicks and the Sterling pace and the Agüero finishes.

The music was cinematic, the editing sharp, the production designed to make the viewer feel that tomorrow’s match was not just a League Cup final but an event. A story. The club that had never won a trophy against the club that had won everything.

BT Sport ran their own promos through the morning, building towards the Ferdinand interview at eight o’clock that evening.

The trailer showed clips from both interviews, Guardiola at the Etihad on Tuesday and Walsh at Beckenham on Wednesday, the two conversations cut together, the two managers answering different questions but the answers landing in parallel:

Guardiola: ”The final is about preparation. Every detail. Every moment.”

Walsh: ”The preparation is done. The football system is tested.”

Guardiola: ”We respect Crystal Palace. They are having an extraordinary season.”

Walsh: ”We respect Manchester City. They are the best team in England.”

Guardiola: ”The trophy is the objective. Always.”

Walsh (looking at the camera, not at Ferdinand): ”It would mean that the boy from Moss Side kept his promise.”

The trailer ended with the split image. Two faces. Two sides. The gold and green Carabao branding. And the date: TOMORROW. 4:30 PM. WEMBLEY.

Emma watched the trailer on her phone at breakfast. She held it up to me across the table.

”You and Pep. Same poster. Same font size.”

”He’s won like fourteen trophies. I’ve won none in the senior team.”

”Not yet.” She put the phone down. ”The font size doesn’t know that.”

The Europa League bracket had been confirmed on the UEFA website overnight. Not a draw this time. The bracket pathway from the Round of 32 fed directly into the Round of 16 seedings.

Palace, as winners of their R32 tie, were placed in the bracket opposite the R32 winners from Atlético’s side of the draw. The pathway was structural, not random. The balls had determined the Round of 32 matchups. The bracket determined everything after.

Crystal Palace vs. Atlético Madrid. First leg: Selhurst Park, March 8th. Second leg: Wanda Metropolitano, March 15th.

The dates were on the UEFA website. The fixtures were confirmed. But the fixtures were March and March was not today and today was not even tomorrow and tomorrow was the only thing that mattered.

I put my phone face-down on the table.

”Done looking?” Emma asked.

”Done looking.”

”Good. Because you have a walkthrough at ten, a tactical meeting at two, and a team hotel by five. And you’re currently eating toast in your boxers.”

”The toast is important.”

”The boxers are not appropriate for a man who is managing in a cup final tomorrow.” She stood up, kissed the top of my head as she passed, and walked to the bedroom. ”Get dressed. I’ll see you at Wembley.”

”You’re coming?”

”Danny. You are playing in the first cup final in the history of your football club. I have a press pass, a seat in the directors’ box, and a new outfit that I bought specifically for this occasion and that I have not shown you because I want you to see it tomorrow and lose the ability to concentrate.” She looked at me from the bedroom doorway. ”Of course I’m coming.”

I got dressed. I drove to Beckenham. And on the drive, the radio reminded me that the rest of the world had noticed what was happening tomorrow.

Every station. Not just the sports stations.

Radio 4 ran a three-minute piece on the Today programme about Palace’s season, framed as a business story, the transformation of a mid-table club into a European competitor, the revenue implications of the cup final, the impact on property values in Selhurst.

Radio 1’s breakfast show played ”Glad All Over” and the presenter, who clearly did not follow football, said: ”That’s Crystal Palace’s song. They’re in a cup final tomorrow. Against Man City. Which is apparently a big deal. I’ve been told it’s a very big deal.” Even Classic FM, which had no business discussing football and knew it, mentioned the final during their morning bulletin because the story had become too big to ignore.

The newspapers were stacked at the Beckenham reception desk. Anita had laid them out the way she did every morning, but this morning there were more of them and every single front page, sports page, and in some cases actual front page, carried the same story.

The Times ran a profile of Danny Walsh across two pages of the Saturday sport section. The Guardian’s football page was devoted entirely to the final, with a tactical preview by Michael Cox and a fan piece by a Palace supporter who had been going since 1974.

The Telegraph ran a column by a former player arguing that Palace’s season was ”the most romantic story in English football since Leicester.” The Mirror went with the split image on their back page.

The Sun went with a headline that was, by the Sun’s standards, almost tasteful: ”WALSH OF THE CENTURY.” The Daily Mail ran a piece about Emma’s podcast, which Danny learned about from Anita, who said: ”Your girlfriend’s on page seventeen. She looks lovely.”

The Saturday football phone-ins had been running since nine. talkSPORT had devoted the entire morning to the final.

Callers from South London, callers from Manchester, callers from places that had no connection to either club but who wanted to share their opinion because the phone-in existed and opinions were free.

A man from Barnsley said Palace were going to win three-nil. A woman from Bristol said Guardiola was a fraud.

A teenager from Croydon, who sounded about fourteen and who identified himself as ”a Palace fan since birth,” said that Danny Walsh was ”the greatest manager in the history of football” and was gently corrected by the presenter, who pointed out that Sir Alex Ferguson might have a view on that.

The hype was everywhere. It had escaped football. It was in the culture. The final was not just a match. It was the story of the week, the month, the season.

A club that had never won anything versus the richest club in England. A manager from a convenience store versus a manager who had won the Champions League twice. A hundred and twelve years of nothing versus the machine that Mansour’s billions had built.