Glory Of The Football Manager System

[Wembley. The Dressing Room. 16:34 BST.]

The Wembley dressing room was the dressing room three quarters of the lads had won the Carabao Cup in three months ago. Same walls. Same Sky lad on the door. The kit laid out in the same order.

Wayne sat on the bench by the door. He always sat by the door. Thirty-three. Hands flat on his thighs. He had played the EFL Cup matches and the Europa League matches until Pope had taken the Lyon Final on Wednesday, and he had not played an FA Cup Final at Wembley in his career, and he was going to play one in forty minutes.

He was not nervous. He was Wayne Hennessey. Wayne Hennessey had played for Wales at a European Championship in 2016 in stadiums whose supporters had wanted Wayne Hennessey dead, and the Wembley dressing room before an FA Cup Final was not that.

Aaron was on the floor across the room with his back against the lockers. Hood up. Headphones on. He had been in the same position before every match this season.

The Telegraph on Tuesday morning had said he was the Premier League’s best young defender. His dad had read it at his house. Aaron had not read it because Aaron did not read the Telegraph on Tuesday mornings before the FA Cup Final, and because the gaffer would have thrown the Telegraph in the bin if Aaron had brought it on the bus.

Mama walked the length of the dressing room twice before he sat down. He always walked the length of the dressing room twice before he sat down. He had done it at Anfield in December, at Selhurst in February before the Carabao Final bus, at the Etihad before the Lyon Final on Wednesday. The walk was the walk.

Konaté tied his boots in the corner. He did not look at anybody. He was nineteen years old. He had scored the opening goal of the Sporting first leg at Selhurst, the opening goal of the Sporting second leg at the José Alvalade, and there was something in the angle his head was at while he tied his boots that suggested he was going to score the opening goal of the FA Cup Final.

Ben Chilwell was next to him. Twenty-one. Came in the summer. He did not say anything before matches. He had not said anything before a match all season.

Rúben Neves stretched against the back wall. Twenty-one years old. Portuguese metronome. He had been carrying the midfield since Kovačić had gone down at Wembley three weeks ago and he was going to carry it for another ninety minutes tonight.

Nya Kirby was sat next to Rúben on the bench. His hands were flat on his thighs. The thighs were not moving because Nya was eighteen years old and Nya was not letting the thighs move on the night Nya started his first FA Cup Final paired with Neves at the base of the midfield. He had not spoken to anybody all morning. He had eaten his pasta without looking at the plate.

Olise had his hood up at the back wall. Sixteen years old. He had not changed expression in eight months. He was not going to start now.

Eze was in the half-flexed crouch he did before matches where he stretched his Achilles by leaning forward against his shins with his weight on his toes. He had been doing it for nine months. Twenty years old. The solo carry against Sporting in Lisbon. The solo carry that was going to happen again because Eze had decided on the bus from the Grove.

Wilf sat at the back wall facing the wall. He had not faced into the room before a match all season. He had not faced into the room since November when he had stopped turning his head because the lads talked best when Wilf was not pretending to listen.

Christopher was on the bench between Wayne and the door. Thirty years old. He had played eighteen matches this season and scored eleven goals. Pato was the striker for next season. Christopher was leaving in the summer. He knew it. Tonight was his last Wembley in a Crystal Palace shirt and he was going to make sure of it.

Mateo came down the tunnel from the corridor on his crutch at quarter past five. He did not come into the dressing room. Stayed in the doorway. The lads saw him. Stood up. He shook his head once. They sat back down.

”I am not making a speech. I am at the door. Mama is the captain. Mama makes the speech if a speech is to be made.”

He went back to the medical room.

Mama stood up. Walked the length of the dressing room a third time. Then he turned and faced the room.

”Lads.”

The room held.

He did not speak straight away. Looked at the floor for two seconds.

”I was eleven years old in Massy in 2000. My father took me to the Sunday market because the Sunday market in Massy had English football shirts that nobody in Massy understood. He bought me a Crystal Palace shirt. He bought it because it was the cheapest shirt at the stall, because it was the right size, and because we were a family that bought what we could afford. The badge was the eagle. He did not know what the eagle was. I did not know what the eagle was. I wore that shirt until I was fourteen years old. I did not know what Crystal Palace was. I did not know Wembley. I did not know what an FA Cup was.”

He stopped. Did not look up. The voice had cracked somewhere on that shirt and he was working through the crack the way Mama worked through the crack.

”I did not know any of you.”

He stopped again. Konaté got up from where he had been tying his boots. Walked across the room to him. Stood next to him.

”My father bought me the cheapest shirt on the stall, lads. Twenty-one years ago. He is at his house in Massy tonight in front of his television because his back will not let him fly to London any more. He is watching with my mother and my brother and the three lads on his street who have supported Crystal Palace since I came to the club because of the lad from down the road who plays for them. Twenty-one years ago I had the cheapest shirt on the cheapest stall. Tonight I am the captain of the football club. Tonight my father is going to watch his son lift the FA Cup at Wembley. Tonight.”

The room came up in one second. Wayne off the bench. Aaron with the headphones off. Wilf turned and faced into the room. Eze came out of the stretch. Nya stood up.

Mama did not look up because Mama could not look up. Konaté had a hand on the back of his neck. Wilf got across the room and put both arms round him.

I had not been going to say anything. I was not going to say anything now.

The bell at the bottom of the tunnel went.

Mama lifted his head.

”We go.”

[Wembley. The Tunnel. 16:58 BST.]

I stood at the back of the line behind the lads while they walked out.

Twenty-eight years old.

I let myself do the maths.

The convenience store on Princess Road. Eight pounds fifteen pence an hour. Raj’s flat above the kebab shop. The Sunday League pitch in Heaton Park where the lads from the pub team had played in the rain in January 2016 and a forty-year-old plumber called Big Tom had told me at the side of the pitch that I was going to manage somewhere proper one day, and I had not believed him.

Big Tom was watching at home tonight. Big Tom had texted me at half past two from a pub in Salford.

get the cup boy

I had not replied.

Twenty-six months from Princess Road to Wembley. The maths did not add up. The maths had not added up since the FA Youth Cup in April last year. The maths had not added up at the Carabao Final in February. The maths had not added up in Lyon on Wednesday.

I let myself feel it for ten seconds.

Then I put it away.

Mateo was at the back of the line behind me on his crutch. He was not walking out. He would walk out at the final whistle, win or lose, on the same crutch with the same brace, because that was the walk Mateo Kovačić had decided he was making in his apartment on the morning of his surgery.

He looked at me. I looked at him. He did not say anything.

I put my hand on the back of his neck. Did not say anything either.

We walked out.