Glory Of The Football Manager System

Rodríguez did not run to the corner. Did not point at the bench. Walked to the centre circle with his arms open, looked once at the Palace three thousand in the south-east corner, and nodded at them. They were standing on their seats. Dennis the gateman was crying. He was sixty-eight years old.

I clapped once and sat down. My legs were shaking. I had not noticed until I sat down.

Simeone did not move.

The last half-hour was bodies. Costa came up. Vitolo on for Saúl at sixty-two. Lemar on for Koke at seventy. Atlético threw five men into our box on every set piece and we headed everything away.

Pope saved a Griezmann free kick at the near post. Sakho threw himself at three crosses in five minutes and got up from every one. Konaté with his bandaged eye took a Costa shoulder in the chest at sixty-nine and stayed up.

Sixty-fifth minute, I brought Bojan on for Benteke. Benteke had nothing left in his legs. He had won his last four duels because Godín could not gamble forever. The Palace three thousand stood up for him. The rest of the Wanda clapped him off because they had been at football long enough to know what they had just watched.

Seventy-second minute, Mili on for Neves. Neves kissed the badge as he passed me.

Seventy-fifth minute, Tomkins on for Konaté. The cut above his eye had reopened. He walked off with the strip soaked through and his shirt covered in blood that was mostly his own.

Eighty-first minute, Atlético gave the ball away in their own half. Bojan stole it. Found Wilf. Got it back. Hit it from twenty-three yards and the post saved them.

Eighty-ninth minute, Costa kicked a ball away in frustration and got his second yellow. He walked off the pitch with his head shaking and his hand over his eyes.

Ninety plus four. Ninety plus five. Ninety plus six because Tomkins went down with cramp and Çakır gave the Atlético crowd thirty extra seconds to believe.

Last corner. Griezmann floated it in.

Pope came off his line and caught it one-handed at the top of the six-yard box.

Whistle!

I did not move.

The bench moved first. Bray jumping with both fists up shouting ”YES! YES! YES!” Steele hugging Rebecca who already had her hands on her face. Marcus on his feet at the back of the technical area shouting at nobody and everybody. And Sarah on the iPad still, until she put the iPad down and put her face in her hands and her shoulders went, and that was the moment I knew, because I had not seen Sarah cry since 2013.

I walked out onto the pitch.

Sakho was on his knees at the centre circle. Konaté with the bandage above his eye soaked through, walked over to him, pulled him up by the shoulder, and held him for ten seconds. Just held him. Sakho’s face was on Konaté’s shoulder and his shoulders were shaking. The two French centre-backs. Twenty-six and eighteen. Holding each other in the middle of a Spanish football pitch.

Rodríguez sat down where he was, in the eighteen-yard box, head between his knees. Tomkins went over to him and pulled him up.

Pope walked the length of the pitch to the away corner with his goalkeeper gloves in one hand and the other hand on his chest. Twenty-seven thousand Atlético fans had left their seats already. The Palace three thousand had not moved. They sang his name for two minutes. He stood in front of them and did not say anything.

Wilf came up to me at the halfway line.

”Gaffer!”

”Yeah.”

”We just did that!”

”Yeah.”

”In Madrid, gaffer! In Madrid!”

”Yeah.”

He hit me on the shoulder. Walked off shouting at Bojan.

Simeone walked across to me. The first man on the pitch from his side.

”Daniel. You played the better match across the two legs. There is no argument.”

”Diego.”

”You changed at the eighth minute of the second half. I watched you change. I have not seen a young manager change a match like that in ten years.”

He held my hand a beat longer.

”Take it. Win it. Go and win it. You have my respect.”

He walked off. I did not say anything because I would not have been able to.

The tunnel was long and warm because Atlético had finally turned the heating on. Çakır the referee was at the door of our dressing room shaking each player’s hand and apologising in broken English for the Costa elbow. Bray was crying. Steele was crying. Rebecca with her face still in her hands.

I went into the dressing room.

The room was wet because someone had poured water on someone else’s head. Sakho was on the bench with his head between his knees, his shoulders shaking, his hands flat on the floor.

Konaté was sat next to him with a fresh bandage and a smile so wide I had not seen the like since the day he had signed in August. Rodríguez was FaceTiming his mum with the camera turned to the room and shouting ”¡Mira, mamá! ¡Mira!” into the phone.

Bojan was on the bench shouting ”Visca el Palace!” in Catalan over and over again at the top of his lungs. Pope was on his back on the floor in the middle of the dressing room laughing at the ceiling. Neves was banging the locker with the flat of his hand and shouting something in Portuguese that included the word ”história” about six times.

I stood at the door.

They saw me. They went quiet.

”Quarter-finals!”

The room broke.

They cheered for forty seconds the way fifteen-year-olds cheer. Then I waited and they went quiet again because they wanted to hear it said.

”For every supporter of this football club. For everyone who ever stood on the Holmesdale. For everyone who watched us get relegated. For everyone who watched us get promoted. For everyone who paid for a season ticket they could not afford. For everyone who wore the shirt before any of you were born.”

I waited.

”You are the first team to take Crystal Palace to the quarter-finals of a European competition in one hundred and twelve years.”

The room did not cheer this time. They were quiet because they had just understood it.

”You did it on the slowest pitch you have played on. You did it against the cleverest team in Europe. You did it with Ibu’s blood running into his eye. You did it in a dressing room at fourteen degrees with the heating broken. You did it by changing your football at half-time and playing a kind of game that nobody in this room had ever played before tonight.”

I waited.

”You did it by being patient. By trusting each other. By being grown men.”

I waited.

”I love this team.”

Sakho took his shirt off and threw it across the room at me. I caught it. It was wet.

I walked across and hugged Pope first. Then Konaté. Then Sakho, who held me by the back of the head and did not let go for thirty seconds. Then the rest, one at a time. None of them said anything I would remember word for word, but I remember the holding.

[22:55 local. Bus to hotel.]

The bus came out of the Wanda at quarter past eleven. The streets were empty because Atlético fans go home very fast when they lose. But there were Palace fans on every corner from the stadium to the motorway. The bus driver kept his foot light so we could pass them slowly. I sat next to Sakho. Konaté across from us. Rodríguez behind. Bojan at the back with his earphones in.

I had eighty-one messages on the phone.

The first was from Mum. A photograph. The Crown and Cushion. Twenty-seven faces, all of them with their arms in the air. Tommo in the middle with his eyes closed and his face wet. Caption: We made history, son. You made history.

The second was from Emma.

Daniel. Quarter-finals. I have written four thousand words and a podcast script and I cannot stop crying. The bed has been empty since Wednesday and I am bored of being in it without you. Come home tomorrow. Tell Rodríguez he is a legend. E xxx

The third was from Jessica.

Number two is the one. Will explain Monday.

I put the phone face down.

The bus came through the lights on the Paseo de la Castellana. The squad got off one by one. Sakho was last. He stopped at the door of the bus and turned and looked at me.

”Gaffer.”

”Yeah.”

”What you said tonight. About playing the slow game. That was the painting. The patient one. Not the painting at Selhurst. A different painting.”

”Yeah.”

”This one is yours, gaffer. You painted this one.”

He hit me on the shoulder. Walked off.

I stood on the bus steps for another minute looking at the Madrid sky. It was not very different from a London sky in March. I thought about Mum at the Crown and Cushion. About Frankie. About Dennis the gateman in the corner of the Wanda. About a hundred and twelve years of Crystal Palace fans who had never seen a European quarter-final and never expected to.

We had given them one.

[Eurostars Madrid Tower. 23:31 local.]

[Crystal Palace Football Club. UEFA Europa League Quarter-Finals.]

[Draw: Friday, March 16. 12:00 GMT, Nyon, Switzerland.]

[Manager Record: P59 W45 D8 L6.]

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Thank you to Sir nameyelus for the support.