Glory Of The Football Manager System

The four sides of Wembley.

The Chelsea end picked it up in the second verse because the Chelsea end had been at football matches long enough to know when a stadium did this you joined in. Forty-five thousand became seventy-nine thousand minus the FA officials and the broadcast crew and the eight hundred Chelsea supporters who would not join.

Jackie looked at him.

She did not have the FA’s briefing for Mateo because Mateo was not on the team-sheet because Mateo had not played. Geoff had told her at five to seven that the lad on the crutch was the captain who had been injured at the semi-final and was coming up because the captain was coming up.

She did not say his name.

She put the medal round his neck. Held the ribbon at the back. Then both hands on his shoulders. Then she leaned forward and said quietly something I could not hear from where I was at the bottom of the stairs, and Mateo nodded once, and she let him go.

He came down the gangway one step at a time. Stood with Mama and Konaté.

The rest of the lads came up.

Each one she had a sentence for.

To Eze: Ray came home from a Watford game in October and said the lad in the ten was going to be a problem for England in the World Cup.

To Wilf: He told me at Christmas dinner you were the most underrated player in the league.

To Nya: He spotted you at the under-eighteens against Manchester United last March. He hoped Walsh would not waste you.

To Christopher: Your goal at Anfield in December was the best header of the season.

To Pope, who had not played: I am sorry you did not get the start tonight, lad. Your time is coming.

To Lewis Grant she did not have a line because Geoff had not had a note. So she said: I do not know your name yet. You will tell me in the dressing room afterwards.

Lewis told her in the dressing room afterwards.

[The Cup. 19:58 BST.]

I was at the top of the gangway between Sarah and Bray. Sarah handed me my medal because Sarah had been given my medal by the FA official because Sarah was at the front of the staff line.

Then Jackie.

”Daniel Walsh.”

”Mrs. Wilkins.”

”Daniel.”

She held the medal in her hand. Did not put it round my neck yet.

”Ray rang me at half eleven on a Saturday morning in November. You were at Anfield. He had watched you talking to Mamadou and Eberechi on the side of the pitch in the warm-up. He told me he had seen Brian Clough do the same thing in 1979 with Trevor Francis. He said he was going to ring you on the Monday.”

She breathed out.

”He did not ring on the Monday because he thought you might think he was being nosy. He said he would ring after Christmas. Then he didn’t. Then he was going to ring after the Carabao Cup. Then he died on the fourth of April.”

She put the medal round my neck. Both hands on the ribbon at the back. The hands on my shoulders.

”He was a coach and he wanted to ring you and he did not. So I am going to do the bit he did not get to do. The lads on the pitch tonight love you. Ray would have loved you. He was right about that one. Go and lift the cup with your captain.”

”Thank you.”

”Jackie. To you, Daniel. Jackie.”

”Jackie.”

She let go.

I walked down the gangway to Mama.

Mama had the trophy in his hands. Had taken it off the covered table while I had been at the top. The engraver had finished. Mama held it at his chest with both hands.

”Together, Daniel.”

”Together.”

I took one handle. He kept the other.

We turned to the Palace end.

Lifted it together.

The roof of Wembley caught what came up off the Palace end and held it. The confetti cannons went off. Red and blue streamers across the gangway. The drum at the back of the Holmesdale Lower started again because Tom Donaghue had picked the split drumstick back up.

In the directors’ box Coppell put his face in his hands. Wright next to him punched him on the shoulder. Bright behind Wright was holding a phone over his head with the camera pointed at us. Salako had both arms above his head and was singing without anyone hearing him because there was nothing left of his voice.

Wright lowered Bright’s phone for him. Said something to Coppell. Coppell took his face out of his hands. Looked up. Wright pulled him out of the seat. Both of them on their feet.

Mama and I held the cup above our heads for ten seconds.

Then he lowered his arm. I lowered mine. We brought the cup down to our chests with both pairs of hands round it. He passed it to Konaté next to him. Konaté lifted it once on his own and then Mateo on his crutch put one hand under the bottom of it and Konaté lowered it for Mateo to hold for two seconds, and Mateo did not lift it because Mateo could not lift it on the crutch, and that was all right.

The lads on the gangway took it one at a time after that.

Wayne lifted it last because Wayne had been first up the steps and Wayne was at the far end of the gangway.

[The Walk Down. 20:06 BST.]

The second staircase was at the other side of the box.

The lads went down it one at a time. Mama with the trophy now. Konaté next to him. Then the rest.

The descent on the crutch was harder than the climb. Iza had come up the side stairs to meet Mateo at the top. Sarah on his right. Iza on his left. The Palace end watched. The drum kept the time.

At the bottom Iza took the crutch off him. He put his arm across Sarah’s shoulders. They walked to the centre circle.

I came down last.

The lads were waiting at the bottom of the staircase.

Wilf got me first.

Both arms round my shoulders before I had got off the last step. Did not say anything. Held me there for two seconds. Then he turned to the others.

”Lads.”

Mama got it before Wilf said it. Konaté second. Wayne came from the back because Wayne had to come from the back.

Eze got under my right leg. Olise the other. Aaron at my back. Mama and Wilf and Konaté and Wayne with their hands under me, and they had me in the air before I had time to know what was happening.

Up.

The Wembley dome from below. The Palace end thirty feet down. The drum at the back of the Holmesdale loud through it.

Down.

Back into Mama and Wilf and Konaté and Wayne.

Up.

The roof again. The Palace end shouting Daniel Walsh. Forty-five thousand on its feet that had not sat down since the eighty-ninth.

Down.

Up.

The third time the lads held me up there for two seconds longer than the other two. I could see the Holmesdale Lower from up there, row K, and Frank Whitlock with the Margaret hat on his head, and the camera at the side of the pitch caught me catching him.

Down.

Wilf set me on my feet. Kept his hand on my neck.

”You are the gaffer who finished it, gaffer.”

”Wilf.”

”You are twenty-eight. You won the FA Cup. You are not allowed to think about it tonight. Tonight you let us throw you.”

Mama next to him, quietly: ”Three times for the three trophies.”

Wayne behind Mama: ”And one more for the league when we get to it.”

The lads laughed.

I laughed.

First time I had laughed since the bus from the Grove.

The pitch had filled.

Wives, husbands, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters. Wayne’s two daughters at six and eight running for their dad. Konaté’s parents from Lille on the pitch with their nineteen-year-old son. Eze’s mother. Wilf’s three brothers. Christopher’s five-year-old in a Macron Palace shirt with Benteke 17 on the back.

Aaron’s father in his suit handed Aaron a folded copy of the Telegraph. Aaron took it. Folded it again. Put it in his tracksuit pocket without reading it because Aaron’s father had wanted his son to have it on him.

Olise’s father in his Cameroon polo with his hand on the back of his son’s neck. The son had set up the FA Cup winning goal nineteen minutes before. The father had played international football and had not pushed Olise into the game because the father had wanted the son to find it himself, and the son had found it, and the father had nothing to say so was saying nothing.

Nya did not have anybody.

***

Thank you to Sir nameyelus for the support.