Glory Of The Football Manager System

The Sky graphic went away. Carragher came on the screen with a clipboard. The studio segment.

”Geoff. The numbers we just saw are remarkable. But I want to tell you about a number that wasn’t on that graphic. Twenty-six months ago, Danny Walsh was an under-eighteens coach at Crystal Palace.

He held a UEFA B Licence and worked at a convenience store in Manchester. He had won the FA Youth Cup with that under-eighteens side. He took over as interim first-team manager on April twenty-third last year after Alan Pardew was sacked.

He won five matches in a row and saved Crystal Palace from relegation. He’s now twenty-eight years old. He’s already broken the points record set by Steve Coppell with nine matches still to play.

He’s taken his football club to the quarter-finals of a European competition. He’s won the first major trophy in their history. Twenty-six months. Portakabin to the Wanda Metropolitano. I want every young coach in England who is sitting in a Portakabin somewhere today to know what is possible. That’s the story.”

Neville was next to him.

”Jamie, I owe Danny Walsh an apology that I owe him publicly. In August I said let’s see this Palace project in February. February came. I said let’s see by the international break. The international break came. I said let’s see by Christmas. Christmas came. Now I am out of qualifiers. He has done it. He continues to do it. There is no caveat any more. He is, on the available evidence, the best young manager in European football.”

”Strong.”

”Accurate.”

Sarah closed her laptop.

The room had gone quiet because everyone was watching, and because Neville saying the word European about a Crystal Palace manager on Sky Sports News was something that ten months ago none of us could have imagined.

I cleared my throat.

”RB Salzburg.”

The squad’s eyes came off the screen.

”Yeah. Salzburg. Marco Rose’s side. Forty-one years old. Used to be coached by Klopp at Mainz. He took the Salzburg under-nineteens to the UEFA Youth League title last summer, beating Manchester City, PSG, Atlético Madrid and Barcelona on the way.

Then he won the final against Benfica. Now he has taken the senior team to the quarter-finals of the Europa League. They beat Dortmund last week. The Dortmund fans boycotted the second leg out of protest. Their U19s won the youth competition. Their seniors are about to play their first ever European quarter-final.”

I waited.

”Same as us.”

I waited again.

”Two clubs writing the same story at the same time. Different cities. Different leagues. Same story. First leg is at the Red Bull Arena on April fifth. Rose has not lost there in two years. Second leg is at Selhurst on April twelfth. We have three weeks. Sarah is on it. Bray is on it. We are not chasing it down. We are walking towards it. Tomorrow we have Tottenham at home in the FA Cup quarter-final. The other matters from tomorrow.”

I waited.

”Sky Sports News will tell you a lot of things this afternoon. They will tell you about Coppell’s record. They will tell you about the Portakabin. They will tell you we have not lost a Premier League match since October. None of it matters until we win the match tomorrow. You go home. You rest. You sleep. Tomorrow morning, eleven o’clock, here.”

The room broke up slowly. Sakho was the last out of his chair. He stood up, came over, stood in front of me without saying anything.

”Mamadou.”

”Gaffer.”

”What.”

”My contract is up in the summer. The two-year permanent deal we signed in August.”

”I know.”

”Tell Parish I want five more years.”

He hit my shoulder. Walked off.

[Beckenham. 14:30 GMT. Tactical room with Sarah, Bray.]

Sarah had the Red Bull Arena footage on the big screen. Bray was on the iPad with the Dortmund matches and the Manchester City Youth League tie from 2017 split-screen.

”Complaint went in at twelve oh three,” Sarah said as I sat down. ”Three pages plus the video file and the temperature logs. Steve signed it. UEFA acknowledged at twelve forty. The Telegraph have the story up already. Sky Sports News is leading on it. Henry Winter has filed a follow-up. Atlético have not commented and won’t for forty-eight hours. Klopp tweeted at half past one. He said thank you, Daniel.”

”Klopp tweeted.”

”Yes. He has nine hundred thousand followers and it’s already been retweeted twelve thousand times.”

”Right.”

”Bayern’s CEO put out a club statement at one fifteen. Said the same thing in German. The Bayern statement specifically references the 2016 Champions League semi-final at the Calderón, which was the last time anyone made it official. Pep tweeted at two. Same line.”

”Good.”

”Four-four-two diamond,” Sarah said. ”Rose has not changed it since he took over in June. Haidara sits at the base. Schlager and Berisha as the eights. Wolf at the top of the diamond. Hwang Hee-chan and Dabbur split up front. They press from the front in waves. They do not stop for ninety minutes.”

”Right.”

”They will press us higher than any team we have faced this season. Higher than Atlético. Higher than Liverpool. Higher than Chelsea. The full-backs bomb forward. The centre-backs split wide when the goalkeeper has it. Their goalkeeper plays it short ninety per cent of the time.”

”Right.”

”The Red Bull Arena holds thirty thousand. Rose has not lost a home match there in two years. Not in Austria. Not in Europe. They beat Dortmund there last Thursday with their fans boycotting.”

”Right.”

”Daniel.”

”Yeah.”

”You’re going to like this team. They play the way you play. They press the way you press. They were Marco Rose’s under-nineteens last year and they have grown up together. Rose was coached by Klopp at Mainz. You drew three-three with Klopp at Anfield. You and Marco Rose are about to play each other in a competition that neither of your clubs has ever reached this far in.”

”Right.”

”The third column. The Coppell column.”

”What about it.”

”The points are gone. You passed him yesterday at the Wanda without playing a league match. The wins are where the work is. Seven from nine.”

”If we win at West Brom we’re on twenty-three.”

”Six from the eight that follow.”

”Yeah.”

”You should let yourself feel it.”

I did not say anything for a moment.

”The points record does not feel like anything. I want twenty-nine wins. Then I’ll feel it.”

She nodded. Did not push. Went back to the footage.

[Penthouse. 18:09 GMT.]

Emma had cooked something Italian and was barefoot in the kitchen in the dark green slip dress she had not worn since November. Hair down to her shoulders. A little of the eyeliner she only put on when she wanted me to notice.

The left strap had slipped halfway down her arm and she had not bothered to fix it. She had noticed me noticing, which was the point. Mum was on the phone for forty-eight minutes from the kitchen at home.

She did not have the words. She kept saying ”I cried, Daniel” and ”we all cried” and ”Bev next door cried” and ”Mr Mackie at the chemist cried” until I said, ”Mum, you can stop telling me everybody who cried, I can do my own list.” She laughed and then she cried again.

Frankie called at seven. He had been at the Crown and Cushion for the match, the same twenty-seven people, Tommo in the middle. He had not gone to bed until five o’clock in the morning because the back room had been a celebration party from the moment Rodríguez’s goal went in just after nine, and the party had not slowed down once.

”Frankie.”

”Lad.”

”I’m tired.”

”I know.”

”Tottenham tomorrow.”

”I know.”

”Talk to me about something else.”

He talked to me for half an hour about Tommo’s grandson who had got into Manchester Met to study sports science and was thinking about coaching. He had not told the kid about Danny. He had let the kid find out himself. He talked about Big Dave’s surgery in May. He talked about Mark Crossley taking over the under-twelves at Moss Side Athletic. He did not mention the Wanda once.

At ten to eight he said, ”Get some sleep, lad.”

I said, ”Yeah.”

He said, ”Coppell. Liverpool boy. Played his football in Manchester. Old Trafford pulled him in when he was nineteen. Hundred and ninety-three caps, or whatever it was. Then he came down here and he made these Palace lot believe. You’re doing the same thing. He’d be proud of you, lad.”

I did not say anything.

He said, ”Goodnight, son.”

He hung up.

I sat on the sofa next to Emma and she did not ask what Frankie had said. She put her feet over my lap and her head against my collarbone, and her hand went under the hem of my t-shirt and rested on my stomach. We watched something on Netflix neither of us would remember in the morning.

Emma stretched. ”You’re falling asleep.”

”Yeah.”

”Bed.”

”Yeah.”

She got up first and held out her hand. I took it. She did not let me sleep until quarter past eleven. I slept until seven.

[Selhurst Park. Saturday March 17. FA Cup Quarter-Final. Kick-off 17:30.]

[Crystal Palace v Tottenham Hotspur.]

[Two trophies live. One league title hunt live. One European quarter-final to play.]

[Manager Record: P54 W46 D5 L3.]

[This season Record: P47 W39 D5 L3.]

[PL Record: P28 W22 D4 L2]

***

Thank you so much to Sir nameyelus for the constant support.