Glory Of The Football Manager System

The home end came to its feet, every block, every row, every seat, the Holmesdale and the Arthur Wait and the Whitehorse and the Main Stand and the executive boxes that had been bought by people who did not normally come to football matches at Selhurst Park, and twenty-five thousand people sang the song they had been singing since 1968 about being so glad they were a part of all of it.

The players did the lap. All of them. Including Mama, who had been in the stand in his tracksuit and had come down at the final whistle. Including Wilf, who had not been in the squad. Including Aaron and Mili and Mateo and Christopher and Eze and Wayne, all in their training kit, doing the lap with the lads who had played.

Konaté was at the back of the lap. His grandmother in seat block B was on her feet because the steward had asked her if she wanted to go down to the front and she had said no, that her grandson knew where she was sitting.

He found her. Stopped in front of her seat. Did not climb the barrier because she was twelve rows back. Just looked at her. She took the headscarf off her head and waved it at him with both hands. He put both his hands flat against his face for a moment and then took them away and pointed at her and went back to the lap.

The away end emptied of stewards. The home end stayed.

The Holmesdale started a chant I had not heard before.

European nights. European nights. European nights at Selhurst Park.

It went for two minutes. Then it went for two more.

Mama came across the pitch to me on the touchline. He was in his tracksuit and his eyes were red. He did not say anything. He hugged me. He hugged me the way a man hugs another man at a funeral. Hard. With both arms. For longer than was comfortable. Then he stepped back and put both hands on my shoulders and looked at me.

”Daniel.”

”Yeah.”

”My country never gave my mother this. Liverpool never gave my mother this. This club has given my mother this tonight.”

He went back to the players.

[Tunnel. 22:18 BST.]

Steve Coppell was waiting in the corridor outside the home dressing room.

He had his hands in the pockets of the sheepskin coat which was the same sheepskin coat as the one in the tifo. I had not known he still owned it. He was leaning against the wall and he straightened up when he saw me.

”Daniel.”

”Steve.”

”That tifo.”

”Yeah.”

”My wife saw it on the BT broadcast. Rang me from the directors’ box during the second half. Asked me which one of those two boys on the cloth I was.”

”What did you tell her.”

”I told her that boy was twenty-eight and I am sixty-two and the boy is the answer.”

We stood there.

”They have not had this,” he said.

”In a hundred and twelve years they have not had this. My team got to Wembley and then we got beaten and then we came back the next season and we came third and we did not get to play in Europe because the English clubs were not all the way back yet, and the chance to come and do this at this club was gone before it had started for us. And now here is your team coming to do it in your first European campaign in the club’s history. Your first. The hundred and thirteenth year is your year.”

”Steve.”

”Yeah.”

”You should have had this.”

”I had what I had. You have what you have. You will be in the semi-final next Thursday. You will be still be in Europe. You will play your way to a final on the twenty-fourth of May in Lyon. You will go to Lyon, son. You will go to Lyon and you will win it.”

”Steve.”

”Yeah.”

”Come into the dressing room with me.”

”What.”

”Come into the dressing room with me. The lads should see you. The lads should know who walked these corridors before them. Come in.”

He stood there for a moment. Then he nodded. We walked into the dressing room together. Konaté saw him first and stood up. Mama saw him and stood up. The room stood up. Konaté did not know who he was. Mama knew. Konaté knew that Mama had stood up, which meant whoever this man was, the room was now standing for him.

Mama walked across the room and put both his hands on the side of Coppell’s face and kissed him on the top of the head.

I do not know what I had been expecting. I had not been expecting that.

Coppell did not say anything. He stood in the middle of the dressing room with his hands in the pockets of the sheepskin coat for thirty seconds. Looked at the lads. At each of them. At Pope. At Tomkins. At Konaté. At Mateo and Mama and Wilf and Christopher. At James, who he had watched in Brazil 2014. At Pato, who he had watched in Brazil 2014.

Then he said one sentence.

”Twenty-eight years I have waited to walk into this room after a night like this one.”

He turned. Walked out.

The room did not move for a moment. Then Mama started clapping. Slow at first. Then McArthur joined. Then Konaté. Then the whole room was clapping the empty doorway Steve Coppell had just walked back out of.

Sarah was at the door. Her hand was over her mouth. I had not seen her cry in eleven months. She was not crying. But the hand was over the mouth and the fingers were trembling against her face and I did not look at her again for a minute because I needed her to keep that to herself.

[Selhurst Park. 22:46 BST.]

Emma was waiting outside the players’ entrance.

She was in the leather jacket and the boots and the red hair was down for once and her hands were in her pockets. She had not come over straight away when I had walked out because she had known I had been talking to Coppell in the corridor and she had not been going to interrupt that. She had waited. She had stood by the wall.

When she saw me she walked across the pavement and put her arms round me.

”Hi.”

”Hi.”

”Eight o’clock.”

”Eight o’clock.”

”You did it.”

”We did it.”

”You did it.”

I did not argue with her. I held her against me on the pavement outside the players’ entrance for as long as it took. The sounds of the Holmesdale a hundred yards away on Park Road were still going. The chant was now South London is wonderful and there were still flares being lit on the corner of Whitehorse Lane though the police had asked people to stop.

I drove Emma home through a city that was still ours.

[FULL TIME: Crystal Palace 1–1 Salzburg. Aggregate: Crystal Palace 4–1.]

[Crystal Palace are through to the Europa League Semi-Final.]

[Goalscorer: Bowen 28’.]

[Manager Record: P52 W42 D8 L2.]

[First European semi-final in the club’s 112-year history. The 113th year begins tonight.]

***

Thank you to everyone for 100 Power Stones.