Glory Of The Football Manager System

Eze, in the back row, said:

”Gaffer.”

”Yeah.”

”Aaron at right-back.”

”Aaron at right-back.”

”Same as he plays every week.”

”Same as he plays every week. We are not asking him to do anything he doesn’t already do. We are asking the rest of the team to fit around him. He is the most reliable defensive number two under twenty-two in the league. We do not move him.”

Eze nodded.

”Where am I.”

”Behind the striker. But you have to take the diamond apart from behind it. Drop in front of their two eights. Make Haidara come up to you. When he does, run at the spaces between the centre-backs. You will get one one-versus-one with Walke per twenty minutes if you play it right. That is the match.”

He nodded.

”I can do that.”

”I know.”

He sat back.

Sarah said: ”Walsh.”

”Yeah.”

”You know I had this in a folder.”

”Which one.”

”The one I started on Tuesday after the meeting where you said we needed something different. I had four-two-three-one as one of the three options. Eze free in the ten. Mili and Kovačić as the pairing. I have it written down with the date.”

”You always have it written down with the date.”

”Yes.”

”Mili and Kovačić.”

”That was my pairing. We bought Kovačić in January for exactly this match. He is the answer to teams that press in waves. Neves is brilliant when we need to control a match. We do not need to control this match. We need to beat the line. Kovačić beats the line. Neves comes on at sixty if we are ahead. Mili plays ninety because Mili always plays ninety.”

”Right.”

Bray, quietly: ”We don’t tell the press.”

”We do not tell the press.”

We worked the rest of the morning. The diamond breaking point. The Haidara movement. The Hwang Hee-chan pressing pattern. The Schlager and Berisha second wave. The Wolf cut inside that we had to deal with. The chalk on the whiteboard ran out and Bray got a new piece and the academy boy who brought it in said Cheers, Bray and Bray said Cheers, son and we kept going.

By twelve thirty we had the team for the Red Bull Arena written on the wall in green.

[Dulwich. Tuesday March 27. 19:30 GMT.]

England versus Italy.

Wembley friendly. Aaron started. Right-back in the four. Trippier had a knock. Aaron had been called up as cover and Southgate had decided to keep him there.

Emma had the hoodie on. Two cans of Camden Hells on the coffee table. The match kicked off at quarter past seven.

He played all ninety. He defended the touchline against Insigne for the first half and Insigne did not get past him once. Six tackles in the opening forty-five. Two interceptions. No fouls. He let Insigne come and made him go back. Old-school full-back work.

The ITV co-commentator called him ”the most reliable defensive full-back in England under twenty-two” twice before half-time.

The second half they sent Verratti wide right to overload that side. Aaron stayed in his line. Did not chase. Let the cover come, let Verratti play it sideways, won the ball back at the second pass. Twice. Once with a sliding challenge that went viral on Twitter inside the hour.

Emma watched the replay over my shoulder.

”He doesn’t get beaten.”

”He doesn’t get beaten.”

”Salzburg. Is he in.”

”He’s the first name on the team sheet. Right-back. Same as he plays every week.”

”He’s not a wing-back.”

”He’s the best defensive full-back in the country under twenty-two. He defends from a deep position. You pull him up and you take the spider out of his web. Southgate just kept him at right-back tonight and Insigne got nothing. That’s the answer. We don’t move him at the Red Bull Arena. We do not move him for anyone.”

She nodded. She watched him play out the last twenty minutes. Southgate took him off at eighty-eight to a standing ovation from the Wembley crowd. England drew one-one. Aaron got the man of the match anyway. Southgate said in the post-match interview, on Sky, that Aaron Wan-Bissaka was ”the most complete defensive right-back in the league under twenty-two and possibly under twenty-six.” He used the word right-back twice. He did not say the words wing-back once.

Emma had her wrist over her eyes by that point.

”He was eight when he came to Palace.”

”I know.”

”Eight.”

”I know.”

I put my arm round her. She cried for two minutes and then she was fine again.

[Mayfair. Friday March 30. 12:00 GMT.]

Jessica’s office was above a wine bar in Mount Street. No sign. Buzzer with a number. I went up.

She was at her desk in a charcoal trouser suit and her hair tied back. The velvet box was on the table on a clean black sheet of A3. She didn’t get up.

”Open it.”

I opened it.

Thin. Plain. Small. Gold. Single stone, round, half a pea. Band the width of Emma’s grandmother’s silver ring.

”It’s perfect.”

”I know.”

”How much.”

”Invoiced to Steve Parish. Manager-retention bonus. I checked with the FA on Tuesday. Legal. Take it.”

”Jessica.”

”Take it. Steve told me to refuse if you tried to give it back. I am refusing.”

I took it.

”When are you giving it to her.”

”After the season.”

”Why.”

”Because the football is too loud. She deserves a moment that’s hers.”

She nodded.

”You’re more sensible than most of my clients.”

”You should meet my mother.”

”I have. Twice. She came to my Cambridge graduation.”

She walked me to the door. At the door she put her hand briefly on my wrist.

”Don’t lose the box.”

”I won’t.”

[Beckenham. 14:30 GMT.]

Beckenham was empty. Pope in the gym. Aaron in his room with the door closed. Nobody else.

I let myself into my office. The safe is behind the framed photograph of the 2018 Carabao Cup lift on the back wall. Parish had it installed in November. I had never put anything in it.

Four-digit dial. Anti-clockwise. Clockwise. Anti-clockwise.

Frankie’s birthday: 0706. Mum’s: 1103.

The safe opened. There was nothing in it.

I put the velvet box on the shelf. Closed it. Turned the dial back. Lifted the photograph back onto the wall. Stood there for a minute with my hand still on the corner of the frame.

Next time this opens, the football’s over. One way or another.

I drove home.

[Dulwich. Friday March 30. 16:10 GMT.]

Emma was at the kitchen island writing.

”How was it.”

”How was what.”

”You were at Beckenham.”

”I had paperwork.”

”On a Friday in the international break at half three with no players in the building.”

”Yes.”

She looked at me for two seconds. Then she went back to her laptop. Which was one of about thirty reasons I was going to give her the ring after the season and not before.

[Dulwich. Friday March 30. 19:30 GMT.]

Sarah and Bray buzzed at half seven with the West Brom dossier and the Salzburg confirmations on a memory stick. Emma made tea. We worked at the kitchen table for two hours. The Pulis low block.

The fact that West Brom would foul Zaha at every opportunity and the referee had given fourteen yellows in the last two Hawthorns matches and we needed to be ready for the dark stuff. Bray had nine bullet points on what they would do at corners. Emma sat on the sofa with her own laptop writing the Aviero piece and did not interrupt.

Sarah and Bray went at quarter past nine.

The bath was at half ten. The big one with the window over the garden.

She got in first. I got in behind her. She leant back against my chest with her head on my shoulder and a wine glass at her mouth. I had the Salzburg four-two-three-one on a tablet that did not get wet. She had the proof of her Sakho piece on a Kindle that didn’t get wet either. The water cooled. She added hot water with her foot on the tap without taking her eyes off the page.

After twenty minutes she said:

”You break the wins record tomorrow.”

”If we win.”

”You’ll win. Tony Pulis is not Pochettino.”

”They’ll be in the box for ninety minutes.”

”You’ll win.”

”You’re sure.”

”I’m always sure about you. Even when you aren’t.”

I kissed the top of her head. She read for another twenty minutes. Then she turned the Kindle off and put it on the side and reached behind her for my left hand and pulled it across her stomach under the water and held it there with both of hers.

”Walsh.”

”Yeah.”

”I’m not letting you fall asleep tonight.”

She didn’t.

[Dulwich. Saturday March 31. 07:40 GMT.]

Pancakes. In my shirt and last night’s eyeliner under one eye and the hair from yesterday. She slid two pancakes across the island.

”Eat.”

”They’re slightly burnt.”

”I was thinking about Sakho.”

The Sakho piece had gone up on the Athletic at six the previous evening. Sakho had retweeted it at half six with the caption Merci, Emma. Tu as compris. The piece was at a hundred and twenty thousand reads by seven o’clock Saturday morning.

Mum called at eight. She told me to win it for Coppell. I told her we’d try. She told me to mind my own business about trying and just to win it. I told her I loved her. She hung up.

Frankie texted. Three for the wins record today, lad. Hawthorns at three. Crown and Cushion at six. Tommo’s wearing the Walsh shirt.

Big Dave sent a photograph of the pub window. Sharpie Crystal Palace badge in the corner. Handwritten sign: Open from 13:00. Kick-off at 3. All welcome.

[Beckenham. Saturday March 31. 09:30 GMT.]

The bus pulled out for the M40 at half nine. Sarah next to me with the Salzburg iPad open because the West Brom plan was done.

”Seventy points,” she said, without looking up.

”I know.”

”You break the wins record this afternoon if we win.”

”If we win.”

”Six more from eight after this ties Coppell. Seven from eight passes him.”

”I know.”

She turned a page.

”Coppell rang last night.”

”Did he.”

”Voicemail. Said not to wake you. He had two things to tell you. He’ll be at the Hawthorns. His wife says hello.”

I did not speak for a minute.

Then I said: ”Sarah.”

”Yeah.”

”On KB-29 today, tell Bray to look for Dann at the back post. Not Benteke.”

”Why.”

”Because Coppell told me last Monday that the centre-half running across the front of the keeper was a Sunday morning corner. We need a Sunday morning corner today.”

She wrote it down.

”And Sarah.”

”Yeah.”

”Tell Aaron when he gets off the bus that he is at right-back this afternoon in the normal four. Same as always. Then tell him to come to my office on Tuesday morning at ten with his boots on. He, Mili and Kovačić walk the four-two-three-one through with me on Tuesday before we run the full session for Salzburg on Wednesday. Aaron stays where he is. Right-back. We are moving everything else around him.”

She wrote that down too.

The bus moved up the M40 in the rain. The Hawthorns was two hours away. Coppell was already there.

***

Thank you to Sir nameyelus for the constant support.