Glory Of The Football Manager System

[Wembley. The Palace End. 19:22 BST.]

The drum had stopped.

Tom Donaghue at the back of the Holmesdale Lower had hit the drum from the third minute of injury time without stopping, and now Tom Donaghue had the drum on the ground in front of him and his hands flat on the rim and was just standing.

Forty-five thousand still on their feet.

I walked the last fifteen yards to the railing in front of the Palace end. Mama on my left with the armband still on. Eze on my right. Wilf with both hands on Olise’s shoulders. Nya at the back of the half-circle because Nya had been the last one off the pitch.

I put both hands on the top of the railing.

The Holmesdale was four rows deep at the front against the advertising boards. Frank Whitlock at row K seat 47 with the hat on his head. The man with the daughter on his shoulders. The dad next to him who had brought his son. The Holmesdale lads with the tifo poles. The drummer with his split drumstick.

Mama next to me put his head down. Hand across his eyes. Did not say anything because Mama was not going to be saying anything to anybody for a minute and Mama knew the lads knew it.

The Palace end saw it.

They stopped singing.

Forty-five thousand stopped singing because they had seen their captain put his hand across his eyes and they had given him the minute the way the Palace end gave Mama everything Mama needed.

He took it.

When he lifted his head he did not look at me. Pulled himself up to his full height. Walked to the railing. Lifted both hands above his head with the fists closed.

The Holmesdale went up.

[Wembley. The Pitch. 19:28 BST.]

I saw the ribbons being untied at the side of the pitch.

An FA official in a navy jacket with a clipboard had the cup on a covered table next to the home dugout. Two assistants. One of them untying Chelsea’s blue ribbons off the handles of the trophy. The other one steadying the cup. The Chelsea ribbons came off and went into a black bag on the ground. The Palace ribbons stayed.

Red and blue.

The engraver was behind the Royal Box at his table. Five minutes to do twenty minutes of work. He had sketched both teams during the second half and crossed one out at the ninety-fifth. Crystal Palace 2018 in copperplate while we were on the pitch.

Mateo was on his crutch in the middle of the pitch with Sarah next to him. Iza had come down from the directors’ box.

He had not gone to the Palace end.

He had stopped at the centre circle because the centre circle was as far as the crutch had taken him for the lap.

I walked across to him.

Sarah moved aside.

He saw me coming. Said it before I got to him.

”I am taking the steps, Daniel.”

”You cannot take the steps on a crutch, Mateo. There is a side entrance. Steve told me about it ten minutes ago.”

”I am not using a side entrance.”

”It was put there for the dignitaries.”

”I am not a dignitary, Daniel. I am the captain. Mama is the captain on the pitch. I am the captain. Mama lifts the cup with you and I climb the steps to watch him do it on my own legs and a crutch. If you ask me again I am going up the side stairs of the directors’ box now and finding a Wembley steward who will let me through to the gangway without you.”

I did not argue with him.

Iza on his left had her hand on the small of his back. It had been there for ten minutes.

She looked at me.

She did not say anything either.

That was the agreement.

Steve Parish came across from the dugout.

”Daniel. A word.”

I went with him to the touchline.

[Wembley. The Touchline. 19:33 BST.]

”Walsh.”

”Steve.”

”The Duke is not coming.”

I had known the Duke was not coming because the Duke was at Prince Harry’s wedding at Windsor at twelve o’clock and had been at the reception all afternoon and was the best man, but Steve had needed to tell me himself.

”All right.”

”It is Jackie Wilkins.”

The name took a second to land.

”Ray’s Jackie.”

Steve nodded.

Ray Wilkins had died on the fourth of April. Heart attack. Sixty-one. Chelsea and Manchester United and England. The sofa of every football programme of the last ten years. The funeral had been in early April and I had been at Beckenham preparing for Salzburg, and Sarah had sent flowers to the family on the club’s behalf and on mine.

”She agreed yesterday.”

”She did.”

”The Duke rang her on Tuesday from Windsor. Said he was not going to be at Wembley and the FA had asked him if he would mind passing the responsibility to a guest. He suggested Jackie. The FA approached her on Wednesday. She thought about it for a day. Said yes at half six last night.”

”She’s here?”

”Royal Box. With Sir Geoff Hurst and the FA people.”

”All right.”

He put his hand on the back of my neck. Took it off.

”Daniel.”

”Yeah.”

”Be kind to her. She has not done one of these before and Ray is six weeks dead and she said yes because she said Ray would have.”

”I will be kind.”

”Walk up first. Take your medal. Then Mama. Then the trophy. The protocol is the protocol but Jackie does not know the protocol. So the protocol is whatever you and Mama make it.”

”All right.”

He went back to the dugout.

[Wembley. The Steps. 19:41 BST.]

The stage at the Royal Box end had been put up by twelve men in two minutes. Carpet down the gangway. White risers on either side. The trophy on a covered table at the back of the gangway with the engraver still working at it because the engraver had needed every minute and the lads had given him every minute.

The walk-up order was the order Sarah had given the fourth official at the seventieth minute when the result had felt safe and the protocol had needed signing off.

Wayne first because Wayne was the keeper.

Aaron behind Wayne. Then Mama. Then Konaté. Ben. Rúben. Nya. Michael. Eze. Wilf. Christopher. Pato. Mili. James. Pope. Bowen. Joel. Tomkins. Mandanda. Lewis Grant. Aviero. Then Bray. Then Sarah. Then me.

Mateo was at the back of the line behind me.

He should have been with the lads.

He had decided he was going up last because he could not go up fast and he was not going to make Mama wait at the top of the gangway while he climbed.

Sarah came back to him in the line.

”Mateo.”

”Sarah.”

”You go between Mama and Konaté.”

”I go last.”

”You go between Mama and Konaté because Mama is going to wait for you at the top either way and Iza wants you up there with him.”

He looked at her.

Looked at me.

Looked at Iza.

Iza on his left did not say anything but the hand was back on the small of his back, and the hand was firm now.

He nodded.

Walked the eight yards to the position between Mama and Konaté. The lads parted for him. Konaté reached out and touched him on the shoulder once.

The line went up.

Wayne first.

[Wembley. The Gangway. 19:45 BST.]

Jackie Wilkins was sixty-one years old and she had been Ray’s wife for forty-one of those sixty-one years and she had been Ray’s widow for forty-five days.

She wore a navy dress.

The FA had given her a pair of white gloves which she had taken off before Wayne got to the top because she had said in the changing room behind the box that she was not shaking the lads’ hands in white gloves. The gloves were in her left hand. Her right hand was for the lads.

Wayne reached the top of the steps. Took his gloves off. Held them under his arm.

She looked up at him.

”Wayne Hennessey.”

”Mrs. Wilkins.”

”Ray wrote about your two saves at Anfield in his column. He said they were the saves of the season. I read it to him in the kitchen the morning after the match.”

”That is kind.”

”Two saves, Wayne. One with the face. He said the face one was Banks.”

She put the medal round his neck. Both hands on the ribbon at the back. Then her hand on his shoulder. She did not say anything else. Just held the hand on his shoulder for a second.

He moved down the gangway.

Aaron next. She had her right hand for him.

”Aaron Wan-Bissaka.”

”Mrs. Wilkins.”

”Ray told me three months ago you were the best young defender he had seen since himself. He never said himself out loud. He said it to me at the kitchen table.”

”Thank you.”

She put the medal on him.

Then Mama.

Sir Geoff Hurst had briefed her at six o’clock. She had asked him to tell her every player’s name and one thing each. She had repeated the names out loud at the back of the Royal Box at half six while the bell at the bottom of the tunnel had been going.

”Mamadou Sakho.”

”Madame.”

She switched into French because Geoff had told her Mama was from Massy.

”Mon Ray vous aurait adoré ce soir, capitaine.”

Mama did not move for two seconds.

Then: ”Merci.”

She put the medal round his neck. The captain’s medal had a different ribbon. Red and blue rather than dark blue. He looked down at it. Did not move down the gangway yet.

She held his shoulder.

”Stay there a moment, captain. Your boys are coming.”

He stayed.

Konaté came up. The medal.

”Ibrahim Konaté.”

”Madame Wilkins.”

She had been told by Sir Geoff to call Konaté Ibu because Konaté was nineteen and Konaté preferred Ibu. She had decided in the Royal Box that she would call him Ibrahim because Ray would have called him Ibrahim, because Ray believed in dignity at moments and his wife agreed with him.

”Ibrahim. Ray watched you in the Lille youth team in 2015. He came home that night and told me there was going to be a centre-half in the French national team by 2020 who would be at a club he and I had never heard of.”

”That was kind of him.”

She put the medal on him. Held his shoulder. He stood next to Mama.

Then Mateo.

He came up the last step with the crutch on his right and Sarah taking the weight on his left elbow. Iza had stayed at the bottom of the staircase because Iza was not on the FA’s list and Iza had not asked to be on the list.

The Palace end started.

Mateo Kovačić, he’s one of our own.