Glory Of The Football Manager System

[Training: light. Konaté: rested. Sakho: rested. Chilwell: rested. Kovačić: rested. Pato: rested.]

Rebecca had the squad in three groups. Group one (Atlético starters) were on bikes and in the pool and not on the grass. Group two (yesterday’s bench) were doing a possession box at half pace. Group three (the academy lads not on loan) were running an under-twenty-three friendly behind the main pitch.

Sarah was on the touchline with her laptop and a flask of tea.

”Huddersfield in a four-five-one,” she said as I walked up. ”Wagner has not changed it in three months. Mounié up top alone, Pritchard at ten dropping in. They will sit. They will run. They will not press.”

”Lössl?”

”Good distribution. Sweeps his line. Long throw from Schindler is their main set-piece weapon. Bray’s already got it on the board.”

”Mounié against?”

”Whoever you put on him will win the air and lose the foot race. He’s a problem for one defender. Not two.”

”Right.”

”You’re sitting Mama and Ibu.”

”Yeah.”

”Dann captains.”

”Yeah.”

”Tomkins?”

”Tomkins.”

”Mili in for Mateo. Townsend for Serge. Bojan for James. Bowen on the bench.”

”Yeah.”

She nodded. Wrote it down. Drank her tea.

”Hennessey,” she said. ”Wayne hasn’t started in three weeks.”

”He’ll be fine.”

”He’ll be more than fine. Wayne against Mounié is a Wales-Burkina Faso warm-up. He has been waiting for this match.”

”Good.”

I watched the bikes for a minute. Sakho was in front, his back wet through his shirt, his calves still pumping after the full ninety against Atlético the night before. He saw me watching and pointed at his chest and grinned. Mama still in. I shook my head and pointed at the changing room. Mama getting in the bath in an hour. He laughed and kept pedalling.

We watched the academy lads for another half an hour. Olise played one through-ball that made the under-twenty-three right-back fall over. Paddy McCarthy clapped from the dugout. I clapped from the touchline.

The recovery pool was at the far end of the indoor building. I went past on the way back from the under-twenty-three pitch and looked through the glass.

Sakho and Konaté were at the shallow end with their backs against the tiled wall, the water at their chests, talking French. Sakho was doing most of the talking. Konaté was nodding and watching the surface of the water move. They didn’t see me. I left them to it.

I got home at three. Emma was at her desk by the window with three documents open and a half-eaten croissant. She didn’t look up but lifted a hand for me to take.

”Your agent,” she said, ”has called me twice.”

”Jessica?”

”Asked me very weirdly specific questions about my hand. I think she’s commissioning a portrait of you.”

”That sounds about right.”

”Did you tell her to do that?”

”No. She does what she wants.”

”Right.” Emma went back to her screen. Then she stopped. ”Daniel.”

”Yeah.”

”Was that a weird question to ask?”

”Was what.”

”My ring size.”

”Was she asking about your ring size?”

”She asked me what size shirts I wear and what size shoes and what ring I wear on my right hand.”

”Maybe she’s getting you something for Christmas.”

”It’s March.”

”Jess plans ahead.”

”Daniel.”

”I’m cooking.”

I went into the kitchen and started cooking. Emma watched me from the desk for about twenty seconds and then went back to her screen. She didn’t ask again. She wouldn’t, not yet. She would let it sit. But she was smiling slightly while she pretended not to.

[Saturday March 10. Tactical session 11:00. Press conference 13:00.]

Saturday was quiet. Sarah in the morning, Bray in the afternoon. Marcus had clips of Mounié at his strongest and weakest. He won every aerial duel in the box. He lost every duel where the ball ran into the channel. Tomkins versus Mounié in the box, Dann versus Mounié on the move. Mili would sit in front of them and tidy.

Bray ran four set-piece routines on the training pitch with the starting eighteen. KB-9, KB-14, the new one Sarah had built off Schindler’s tendency to mark zonal at corners, and the defensive throw-in routine for Schindler’s long throw.

Benteke practised the front-post flick six times in a row and got it right four times. Bray clapped on the four good ones and made him do it twice more on the wrong two. Benteke laughed at him. Bray was laughing too.

Pato was back on the grass for the first time since Thursday by the end of the session. He took six finishes from a Bojan cutback. Five out of six in the corner Lössl couldn’t reach. Benteke watched. Pato pointed at him. Benteke pointed back. They were grinning at each other like ten-year-olds.

The team was as Sarah had drawn it.

Hennessey; Wan-Bissaka, Dann (C), Tomkins, Digne; Neves, Milivojević; Townsend, Bojan, Zaha; Benteke.

Bench: Mandanda, Tarkowski, Chilwell, Kovačić, Bowen, Gnabry, Pato.

I did the press at one. The Sky reporter asked me about Wagner. I said Wagner was an excellent manager who had taken Huddersfield from the Championship play-offs to surviving in the Premier League on a budget a tenth the size of the clubs around him.

The Times reporter asked about Atlético.

”Atlético are not yet our problem.”

”There’s a quote on Twitter from a Spanish journalist last night. About the Wanda pitch. Have you seen it?”

”I’ve seen it.”

”Will you comment?”

”No.”

”On the title race, Daniel. City lost away last weekend. Twelve points clear isn’t twelve points clear any more. Where do you stand?”

”Five points behind. Nine matches to play. We win nine, it doesn’t matter what City do. We’re not thinking about anyone else. We’re thinking about Sunday.”

”Final question. Sakho’s tunnel quote last night. About being home. Will he be signing a new contract this summer?”

”Yes. Next.”

The room laughed. I went back to the office.

Saturday evening Emma was on the sofa with a glass of red and the Telegraph open to the football pages.

”They have you on page three. Big photo.”

”Page three?”

”Page three of the sports section.”

She turned the paper round so I could see. The photograph was the corner-flag moment, the one Sarah had pointed her tablet at all Friday afternoon. The headline ran across the top in capitals. PALACE’S MADRID NIGHT. The caption underneath was Henry Winter’s. He said it was the best European night a London club had had in two decades.

”He’s not wrong.”

”He’s wrong about the decades. Arsenal Anderlecht in 2014 was different but not worse.”

”Daniel.”

”What.”

”Stop being humble. He’s right. You can let him say it.”

I sat down next to her with a glass of water because I had a match in the morning. She put the paper down and her feet over my lap and we watched Match of the Day with the sound on low.

Wenger had drawn at home. Mourinho had lost. Klopp had won three-nil. She fell asleep on my shoulder during the third match. I put the throw over her, kissed her hair, and went to bed at ten.

I got up at seven. Coffee in the kitchen. The bus into Selhurst was at twelve. Emma had been up at five working on the Bojan piece and had left a note on the counter.

Win this one for me. Wagner’s a sweetheart, make sure you say nice things in the press after. E x

I put the note in my coat pocket on top of where Jessica had taken the card from yesterday. Then I drove to the ground.

[Sunday March 11. Crystal Palace v Huddersfield Town. Kick-off 14:00.]

[Premier League Matchday 30. Crystal Palace 2nd, 67 pts. Huddersfield 14th, 33 pts.]

[Referee: Lee Mason.]

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Thank you to Christian_Sauter for 36 Golden Tickets and everyone else who voted to 100 Golden Tickets.