Glory Of The Football Manager System

1-0.

Bounou punched the post. Not hard. Once, with the side of his fist. The way you knock on a door.

Then he walked out of that goal and Subašić walked into it and they passed in the 6-yard box without a word, and Hakim Ziyech came out of our circle.

And 100 yards away, our end found something.

I do not know who started it. Nobody ever knows who starts it. But it came up out of the green like water coming through a floor, and it had a shape, 2 words and a clap, and by the time Hakim was 30 yards from the ball the entire wall had it.

”DI-ma Magh-RIB!” CLAP. ”DI-ma Magh-RIB!” CLAP.

Always Morocco.

40,000 people. From 100 yards. Hammering it down the length of that pitch at a man they could barely see.

And on top of it, cutting through it, over it, around it, that sound that no other football crowd on this earth makes. The women in the upper tier, hundreds of them, ululating.

Ayayayayayayay.

I have stood in a lot of grounds. Nothing gets under your ribs like that.

Ziyech could barely run. Cramp in his left leg since the 100th minute and he was hiding it and he was still hiding it now.

Subašić came off his line at him. Arms out, mouth going, right out to the edge of the 6, and he did not go back when the referee waved him back.

Ziyech looked straight at him.

Held it. 2 full seconds. Then looked away like the man was furniture.

That’s the one, I thought. That’s the one who’s scoring.

3 steps. 3 steps was all his leg had left.

Whip.

Straight down the middle, waist high, hard, while Subašić flung himself away left.

Net.

”AAAAAAAAAAAAAH.”

1-1.

Ziyech did not celebrate. Hands on his head, eyes on the grass, jaw clamped, and he was crying, and he did not want anybody to see it, and 10 men opened that circle and shut it again behind him.

Perišić was already walking, and the whistling came down twice as hard, because it had not worked on Modrić.

High and hard for the top corner.

Bounou never moved.

CLANG.

The post.

And then nothing.

Half a second of 80,000 people standing in dead silence with their mouths open, because not one of them believed what they had just heard.

Then it came.

”AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.”

Not a cheer. A release. It went up the back of the stand and into the roof and it did not stop, and up in the green somebody’s flag came off the rail and went over the front and nobody chased it.

Perišić stood in the box with both hands laced on top of his head, staring at the woodwork like it had spoken to him.

And when Mehdi Benatia came out of that circle, they gave him everything.

”DI-ma Magh-RIB! DI-ma Magh-RIB!” CLAP. CLAP. 40,000 of them, arms still locked over shoulders, and the zaghrouta over the top of it, and somebody behind our bench screaming ”MEHDI! MEHDI, YALLAH!” until his voice went.

He came out with his chin up. 31 years old. A daughter somewhere in that ground.

And he did not look at the goalkeeper.

Not on the walk. Not at the spot. Not when Subašić came at him with the arms and the mouth and the slow walk right out to the edge of the box.

And something went cold and wrong in the bottom of my stomach and I could not have told you why. Not then. Not standing there.

I know why now.

There is a thing men do when they are not going to score. They stop looking at the thing that can hurt them.

They take their eyes off the keeper, off the goal, off the whole business of it, because it is the most human instinct on this earth to protect yourself from the thing that is about to end you.

Ziyech looked straight at Subašić and dismissed him.

Mehdi could not look at all.

And I was 60 yards away on a white line with my mouth open and nothing coming out, because there is not one word you can shout at a man that will make him brave.

Peep.

Crack.

Hard, low, keeper’s right.

Subašić got down and got both gloves behind it.

Smack.

”DI-ma Magh...”

And it stopped.

Mid-word. 40,000 people cut off in the middle of a syllable, like a wire had been pulled out of a wall, and in the hole where their voices had been you could suddenly hear 40,000 Croatians 60 yards away as clearly as if they were stood on the bench beside me.

That is the worst sound in football. Not silence.

Their noise. Arriving.

Mehdi did not move. Hands on his knees over the spot. A long time. Long enough that the referee went to him.

Then he straightened up and walked back. All 60 yards. Chin up. Face wet.

And Saïss and El Ahmadi came out of that circle and took an arm each and locked him back into the line, and he made himself face the goal, and he watched every one of the rest of them.

That is what the armband costs. He paid it on his feet.

Then Sofyan, who was 5th, who was never going to kick a ball that night and did not know it yet, leaned across and said something in his ear.

And the captain of Morocco laughed.

He was crying and he laughed.

That is the bit no camera in that stadium got. It is the bit I would keep if I could only keep one.

Then Rakitić came out for Croatia.

Shoulders back. Sleeves pulled down over his hands. He did not look like a man who had run 120 minutes.

WHEEEEEEEEEEE.

Bounou stood on his line and did not move. Not a twitch.

And I thought about his forehead against mine, and how hard he had been shaking, and I understood exactly what that stillness was costing him.

Rakitić ran up.

Bounou stayed. And stayed. And went low right when the boot was already through the ball.

SMACK.

Both gloves. It squirted away towards the corner flag and my keeper was up off the floor before it stopped rolling.

Our end came apart.

”YASSIIIIINE! YASSIII...”

And stopped.

Because the referee had his finger against his ear.

Hand up. Head down. Not blowing.

Bounou stood in his goal with his arms out. What? WHAT?

***

Thank you to Sir nameyelus for the support.