Glory Of The Football Manager System

[Dulwich. Sunday April 29. 06:02 BST.]

The phone went at two minutes past six.

”Rebecca.”

”Daniel. Going to talk and you listen. Ask me anything you want when I’m done.”

”All right.”

”Not the hamstring. The hamstring is intact. The primary is the posterior cruciate of the right knee. Grade three. Clean tear through the middle of the ligament. The Cromwell radiologist had it on the first set of images and the on-call sports orthopaedic confirmed at half past one this morning when they brought him back in.”

”Surgery.”

”Tuesday. Ten. Mr. Khan at the Cromwell. He has been on the phone with Mateo at four. Mateo agreed before the rest of us got a vote.”

”How long.”

”Five to six months. He is twenty-four and in better shape than any patient Mr. Khan has had on the table in nine years. Training in October. Playing November.”

”Lyon.”

”He is not at Lyon. He is not at the José Alvalade. He is in a hospital bed at the Cromwell on the sixteenth and again on the twentieth. I told him on the phone at four. He told me he was fine with it. He told me he had decided he was fine with it before I had asked him. Whether he is fine with it I do not know.”

”Thanks, Rebecca.”

”Sleep on the bus. I am sorry to be the one with this twice.”

She hung up.

[Dulwich. 06:14 BST.]

Emma came down at quarter past six with a blanket round her shoulders. Her hair up the way she put it up when she had been awake. She crossed the kitchen and sat on my lap on the chair, her face cold against the side of my neck.

I held her.

”Knee. Posterior cruciate. Grade three. Surgery Tuesday. He is not back until November.”

She let her breath out against my neck. Did not move for a long second.

”Oh, Walsh.”

I held her.

”I have to tell you what Iza said.”

”All right.”

She did not lift her head. Said it into my neck.

”She is seven weeks. They are pregnant. They found out a month ago. She rang me when he was on the stretcher in the tunnel because Mateo’s mother is in Zagreb and does not speak English and the only number she had in this country other than his mother’s was mine.”

I put my hand on the back of her head.

”He has been carrying it through the season. Salzburg first leg. Watford. Sporting. Wembley. With a child in his wife’s belly that nobody at the club knew about except him.”

”Mama knew.”

”What?”

”Mama said it on the phone just now. Mateo told him before the Watford match because he had to tell somebody.”

”Of course Mama knew.”

She lifted her head. Her eyes were red.

”Walsh.”

”Yeah.”

”Iza chose me last night.”

”She chose you.”

She wiped under her eye with the heel of her hand. Did not move off my lap. The kitchen had not warmed up yet. The kettle had not been on.

”You are going to ring him before Burnley. Tell him what Rebecca told you in your own words. And congratulate him. He has not asked me to tell you. He does not know. But he is going to be a father.”

”All right.”

”Iza is here at ten. I am taking her out to lunch. Caitlin is meeting us. There are cameras outside their flat near Wembley this morning.”

”Cameras.”

”Mama footage is on every news channel. Sky had it on the seven o’clock loop. Iza saw it on the BT in the hotel at half past five.”

She got off my lap. Made tea with her back to me at the kettle. The room was quiet for a minute.

”Mama.”

”I know.”

[Dulwich. 06:34 BST.]

Mama picked up on the first ring.

”Gaffer.”

”Mama. You seen it.”

”All of it. Including the French.”

”Sarah translated it on the phone twenty minutes ago. She speaks French. I don’t.”

”Right.”

His brother was somewhere in the apartment in the background.

”Then you know what I said.”

”I know what you said.”

Je ne peux pas refaire ça. I cannot do this again. The English papers had run the clip as Mama crying because Palace had drawn one-one at Anfield. By the second edition tomorrow the man at the Sun who spoke French would have done the work. The headline would change.

”Mama.”

”I am not asking you to apologise for what somebody at Netflix did. I am asking you for the team-sheet at Turf Moor.”

”Wayne. Joel, you, Konaté, Ben. Mili, Rúben. Michael, Eze, Wilf. Christopher.”

”Joel.”

”Aaron played ninety yesterday.”

”All right.”

A pause.

”Daniel. I will be fine. This is the fourth time. The first three were Liverpool. This is the fourth. I will be fine by Tuesday.”

”All right.”

”And Mateo.”

”Yeah.”

”Iza rang me at four. From the hotel. The baby is good. Mateo is good.”

”Mama.”

”Yeah.”

”Thanks.”

”Drive.”

He hung up.

I rang Mateo. He picked up before the first ring finished.

”You did not sleep either.”

”No.”

”My surgeon is in my kitchen drinking coffee. Iza is in the bathroom on the phone with my mother. The painkillers do not work the way the man on the morphine drip said they would. I am sat on the floor in the hallway because the chair is too low. We have ten minutes.”

I told him what Rebecca had told me. He listened.

”Mr. Khan said the same thing at four. Your words are kinder.”

”All right.”

”I am at Beckenham on Wednesday morning on crutches. I want five minutes with the lads before the bus leaves.”

”You have the five minutes.”

A pause.

”Daniel. About the baby. I have not said this out loud since Iza told me a month ago. I have been thinking about football and the surgery and the season. Iza is on the phone with my mother right now and my mother is crying. I am happy.”

”Mateo.”

”Yeah.”

”Mama told me. Emma told me first. Iza told Emma last night. I was going to wait until you brought it up. You brought it up. I am happy for you.”

”Of course you know.”

A pause.

”Go to Lisbon. Go to Lyon. Beat City. The papers will write what they will write. The lads will play. Do not tell the squad about the baby until my father knows. My mother is ringing his shop in ten minutes.”

”All right.”

”The surgeon is coming. I have to go.”

He hung up.

Emma slid the second tea across the surface. Touched my hand with one finger. Went upstairs to get dressed.

She kissed me at the door at quarter past seven.

”Drive carefully.”

”Win it.”

”We might not.”

”I know.”

[Turf Moor. 15:54 BST.]

The bus pulled in at quarter to two.

Four lads on the corner of Harry Potts Way had read the Sun. One of them lifted his shirt to show the bus what he had to show. Konaté at the window did not react. Wilf at the window did not react. Joel Ward turned the page of his Telegraph.

The whistle at four.

BLEEP.

Forty minutes of nothing.

Forty-three. Corner from Burnley’s right.

Vokes got his head on it three yards in front of Wayne.

THUD.

Wayne saved with his face. The ball came back across the six-yard line.

Ashley Barnes.

Whump.

Bottom corner.

[Burnley 1 - Crystal Palace 0. 43’.]

Half-time was three minutes of water and not one word from me. Mama did not look at me. Konaté did not look at me. Wilf had his head in his hands. The bell went.

Second half was Eze finding nothing in the channel because Burnley did not have a channel. Wilf’s first touch a yard heavier than yesterday. Pato on for Christopher at sixty-five. James for Eze at seventy-five. Tarkowski headed a Wilf cross off the line at eighty-eight.

Ninety plus four.

BLEEP. BLEEP. BLEEP.

[FULL TIME: Burnley 1 — Crystal Palace 0.] [Premier League Unbeaten Run: ended at 21.]

The Burnley end sang. The Palace away end did not.

[Turf Moor. Away Dressing Room. 18:21 BST.]

***

Thank you to Sir nameyelus for the support.