Glory Of The Football Manager System

Ten minutes in, seventy per cent of the possession was theirs and not even a shot. Our end got restless, a chant building, feet stamping on concrete, boom boom boom, wanting us to go and take it.

”Dima! Dima! Maghrib!” ”Allez les Lions! Allez!”

Then it broke. Busquets got heavy on a touch and Sofyan ate him alive, nicked it clean, and it ran to Ziyech in a pocket, and the whole ground stood up at once.

”Go! Hakimi, GO!” ”Yalla! Yalla Hakimi!”

[Hakimi. Acceleration 18, Pace 19]

Ziyech didn’t even look up.

He’d seen the run before Hakimi made it, and he threaded it into the channel first time, no backlift, like he was bored of how easy it was. Hakimi went past Alba like the man was set in cement, tk tk tk, ate up the touchline, chopped, and stood a cross to the back post.

En-Nesyri came off Ramos. Cold all night, not a word, and now this. SMACK. He met it flush, down and across De Gea, and the net went whump, and the sound the red end made I felt in my ribs before I heard it.

”GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLL!” ”YEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!”

And the lad who hadn’t spoken since the hotel ran to the corner flag, hooked his badge off his chest with two fingers and held it up at the Spanish end, screaming into their faces, everything he’d swallowed since Wednesday coming out at once. Sofyan hit him first and near took his head off. Then all of them, a red pile in the corner.

Morocco 1 - 0 Spain. (14’)

And then Wednesday grabbed the ground by the throat. The linesman. Everyone looked at once. The song died in the red end’s mouth. Benatia had both hands on his head. The old fella by the tunnel was up with his arms half raised, frozen there, not daring.

”Not again,” someone near him said, flat and sick. ”Not again.” ”Boooooooooooooooo!” ”No, ref! Are you blind?!”

The flag stayed down. But the referee touched his ear, and the big screen lit purple, and forty thousand people stopped breathing together.

[Offside check: onside by 42.5cm]

[The goal is good]

The wait was cruel. Ziyech stood over the referee, not shouting, just close, staring. Benatia held the back four still with one raised hand. Seconds went by like minutes. The referee dropped his hand and pointed to the centre circle. And the place came apart.

”YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!” ”ALLAHU AKBAR! DIMA MAGHRIB!”

Red and green smoke went up in the top tier. The old fella was lifted clean off his feet by the two blokes either side, cap gone.

The brass hit the song again, paaarp, and the drummer boy went at the skin like he wanted to split it. The little lad on his dad’s shoulders was crying and laughing at the same time. En-Nesyri stood in front of the Spanish end with his arms wide and just took it, the whole tournament’s worth of it.

”¡Puta madre!” a Spanish fan screamed down at him through the fence. ”¡Cabrón!”

I roared nothing at all at my bench, both fists, knuckles cracking. ”Back in!” I pulled them down with both arms.

”That’s the start, not the end!” Spain didn’t panic.

That’s the thing about that lot. They don’t rush, they adapt. Busquets dropped between the centre-halves to get off Sofyan, Isco started drifting into the pockets, and the Spanish end found its swagger again, ”¡A por ellos, oé! ¡A por ellos, oé!” rising.

I saw the danger before the pass was made.

[Isco. Vision 18, Agility 19]

[the number climbing]

”Sofyan! Isco between the lines!” Sofyan went. But Silva pulled the other way and dragged Saïss two yards, and Saïss knew it the moment he’d bitten, threw a hand up, too late. Busquets into Silva, one touch, into the hole for Isco.

Half-turn, through the gap, low and early. Bounou launched, full stretch, fingertips, and it went in off the inside of the post, ptt. The far end erupted, red and gold, the whole Spanish bench spilling onto the touchline, Isco on his knees in front of them.

”¡GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL!” ”¡VAMOS! ¡VAMOS ESPAÑA!”

Morocco 1 - 1 Spain. (24’)

Bounou got up and booted the post, raging at himself, and Benatia was straight over, palm on the back of his neck, a word in his ear, and Bounou nodded and let it go. Captain’s work. Half the game gets played in the two seconds nobody films. I did not drop my head, because if I drop my head they drop theirs.

I pulled Bray in.

”Silva’s dragging Amine out. Drop Sofyan a yard onto their build, push Boussoufa onto Busquets.”

”You’ll give Alba the overlap.”

”I’ll take Alba wide over Isco through the middle. Do it.”

”Boussoufa! Onto the six! Sofyan, drop! Amine, hold your line!”

Boussoufa, thirty-three and canny with it, didn’t chase Busquets. He stood in the passing lane and made the Spaniard turn back, over and over. Busquets said something to him. Boussoufa smiled and did not move an inch.

For ten minutes it held. The red end read every block and sang for Bounou, his name bouncing round three sides ”BOU-NOU! BOU-NOU! BOU-NOU!” and he lifted a glove to them without taking his eyes off the ball.

But Hierro stood with his arms folded and didn’t blink. He knew they only needed one moment of muscle. It came on 38’, off a corner we half cleared. Koke fed it wide, Silva stood a cross up to the back post, and Costa was there.

[Costa. Strength 19]

[Saïss. Strength 15]

I saw the mismatch in the air, and it was too late for shouting. Thud. Costa climbed over Saïss’s back, pinned him down, and headed it into the ground and up over Bounou. The far end went up, and Costa turned to the red end with his arms wide and soaked up their hate.

”¡GOLAZO! ¡GOLAZO! ¡TOMA!” ”BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” ”Fuck off! He’s all over him!”

Morocco 1 - 2 Spain. (38’)

Benatia was in the referee’s face, pointing at Saïss on the floor. ”He’s climbing! Look at him, he’s on his back!” The referee waved it away, and Saïss got up with grass down his shirt and murder in his eyes.

The red end howled for the foul ”Ref! Puta! Open your fucking eyes!” then the howl curdled into something lower and afraid, and the old fella by the tunnel sat back down, slow, hands off his head and onto his knees.

Seven minutes to the break, and a draw was no use to us, so one down might as well have been three. I marched the length of the technical area, jaw locked, clapping, sharp cracks of it, clap clap clap. ”Heads up! Look at me! Seven minutes, we do not concede again, I’ll fix the rest inside!”

And they dug in like men who did not fancy the flight home. Isco slipped Silva through and Bounou came flying out and smothered it at his feet, slap, took a boot in the ribs and held on, and the red end came up as one.

”YEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAHHH!”

Sofyan chased a lost cause forty yards and won it back. And Ziyech went at them, not away, one last go before the whistle. He took the ball at Alba on the touchline, dropped a shoulder, and rolled it clean through the Spaniard’s legs, and the red end came off its feet.

”OLÉ!” ”YAAAAAHHHH! Go on Hakim!”

He stood a cross up and De Gea had to fly off his line to claw it away. Nothing came of it, but forty thousand were up and singing his name ”ZI-YECH! ZI-YECH!” and Spain knew they had a game on their hands. ”That’s it, Hakim!” Benatia shouted, fist high. A statement, right on the whistle.

Pheep. Pheep pheep. Half-time. Morocco 1, Spain 2.

The Spanish end sang, flags waving. ”¡Y viva España! ¡Y viva España!”

Our end dropped to a low, uneasy hum, the drummer resting his hands flat on the skin, waiting. I stood on my line one more second and took it all in. The colour, the smoke, the two songs, the old man sat down with his cap in his hands.

The best night football gives you, and my team on the wrong side of it, forty-five minutes from home. Then I turned for the tunnel, because I had fifteen minutes to save our World Cup, and a room full of men who needed to hear it from me.

***

Thank you to Sir nameyelus for the constant support.