Glory Of The Football Manager System

Emma was asleep on the sofa with the lamp on when I came in at half 3 on Thursday morning. The little radio was still going on the counter, low. She woke up when I turned it off.

”How is Achraf?”

”He fetched the ball out of the net himself.”

”Then he is all right.” She pulled the blanket up to her chin. ”Come to bed.”

I went to bed and lay there. I picked the team for San Siro again in the dark, twice, and both times it came out the same 11.

The ones who had stayed at home were in the canteen when I walked in at 1 that afternoon. The laptop they had watched it on was still on the end table with the lid down. Wilfried Zaha looked up, saw me, picked up his plate with the food still on it and carried it to the hatch.

”Gaffer,” he said on his way past.

On Friday Achraf Hakimi was out on pitch 3 before I had parked the car, in a woollen hat, with a bag of balls he had carried across himself.

Dion Asare came through the gate at 10 to 8. He saw who was waiting for him and his walk went short for 3 steps.

”You are Dion,” Hakimi said.

”Yeah.”

”You watched Wednesday.”

”With my mum. She shouted at you.” He put his bag down by the corner flag. ”Sorry.”

”My mother also.” Hakimi rolled him a ball. ”Rebecca gives me 20 minutes. Show me quick.”

Dion took it 25 yards up the line and came back at a jog. 2 yards short he put in a half step that went nowhere, and Hakimi’s feet stopped under him. Dion dipped left and went right and was 5 yards past him.

”Again.”

He did it 4 times and it worked 4 times. After the 4th Hakimi stayed facing the way Dion had come from, looking down at his own boots.

”What do you look at?”

”When?”

”When you come. You do not look at the ball. I watched your eyes. You do not look at my eyes also.”

”Your heels,” Dion said.

”My heels.”

”When I do the half step you put them down. Both of them. I go when they touch.”

Aaron Wan-Bissaka was leaning on the fence beside me with his hood up.

”I did not ask him that until the Tuesday,” he said.

Hakimi backed off 3 yards and bounced twice on his toes.

”So I do not put them down.”

”You cannot stand on your toes for 90 minutes.”

”No. Only when you break the step. You break, I go back. Small step, on the toes.” He showed him, 1 short step backwards. ”I give you the yard. My feet are still moving.”

Dion held the ball against his hip and worked at it.

”Then I do not break. I just, I run at you. Straight.”

”I am faster than you,” Hakimi said.

”Go on, then.”

The 5th time Dion ran straight at him, and Hakimi turned and ran him off the pitch in 15 yards. The 6th time Dion broke his stride and Hakimi gave him the yard. Dion went outside. Hakimi went with him, shoulder to shoulder, and took it off his toe at the byline.

Thk.

”Again,” Dion said, from the grass.

I let them have 5 more.

”Swap. Achraf, you have the ball.”

Dion looked over at me. ”I am a winger.”

”So is Sancho, and on the 12th he has to defend.”

Hakimi went past him 3 times in 3. After the 3rd Dion sat down where he had been beaten.

”Heels,” he said.

Dougie Freedman came across from the main building at 25 past 8 in his long coat, with a folder.

”Dion. Have you a minute, son?”

He jogged over with his hands on his hips, blowing.

”I asked the league for a dispensation the day you signed. They came back last night. No. They will not register you until the window opens.”

Dion looked at the folder. Behind him Hakimi was collecting the balls.

”Is the contract...”

”The contract is signed. Nothing in it changes.”

”Can I still train?”

”Every day. With the first team.”

”Under 23s? Just for matches?”

”Same registration. I am sorry.”

His lips moved.

”32 days,” he said.

”The morning it opens,” I said, ”your name goes in.”

”It goes in at 1 minute past midnight,” Dougie said. ”I have it typed.”

Dion nodded at the pair of us. He wiped his nose on the back of his glove.

”Can I do him again before the session?”

”That is not my department,” Dougie said, and Dion was already running.

I caught him at 9 on the way in.

”JJ Johnson wants your number. He has asked me 3 times since England.”

He stopped walking. ”What for?”

”He wants to know what you do.”

Dion looked at Aaron, who was holding the door.

”Do not tell him about the heels,” Aaron said.

”Give it to him,” Dion said to me. ”I want to ask him about his left foot.”

Rebecca was waiting in my office with her card and a sheet ruled into 5 columns.

”Ibrahima. Burnley or Everton, and then nothing until Dortmund.”

”Everton. Richarlison runs. Burnley are going to put it on Chris Wood’s head 40 times, and James has been waiting 6 days to head something.”

She wrote it in.

CRYSTAL PALACE: Pope. Wan-Bissaka, Dann, Tarkowski, Chilwell. Neves, Kovačić, Eze. Rodríguez, Benteke, Zaha.

Bench: Krul, Sakho, Hakimi, Højbjerg, Townsend, Perišić, Cartwright.

BURNLEY: Hart. Lowton, Long, Mee, Taylor. Lennon, Cork, Defour, Hendrick. Gudmundsson, Wood.

Burnley had 9 points and had not won a match since September. At 20 past 2 on Saturday their back 4 were lined up across the 18 yard box at Wembley heading a ball to each other as hard as they could, 1 after another, with Sean Dyche counting them out loud.

In our dressing room Zaha had his boots on 40 minutes early. Rúben Neves taped his own ankles, and then sat with a ball under his foot and stared at the door.

”GLAD ALL OVER! GLAD ALL OVER!”

They kicked off and hit it straight up to Chris Wood.

Tonk. Tarkowski headed it back over the halfway line.

”SECOND BALL!” Dyche, hoarse already. ”SECOND BALL, JACK!”

Cork won it and they sent it up to Wood again. Tarkowski headed that away as well.

They had 10 men behind the ball every time we had it, with 2 of them on Eze. Their end cheered every throw-in. Lennon chased Ben Chilwell 60 yards back down the line to put a ball out of play and they sang his name for it.

”BURNLEY! BURNLEY! BURNLEY!”

Zaha hit 1 from 30 yards in the 4th minute that went into the upper tier. Neves tried to find Rodríguez through 4 men when Chilwell was stood on his own. Kovačić shot from 25 with Benteke screaming at him for it. On 11 Zaha lost the ball to Matthew Lowton, chased him 15 yards and went straight through the back of him.

Thud.

The referee had the yellow card out before Lowton had stopped rolling. Wembley made a low noise, all 4 sides of it. I had not heard that noise in this building before.

”WILF!”

He came across to the line with his jaw set while they were treating Lowton.

”11 minutes,” I said. ”Against Burnley. And you are on a yellow.”

”I know what I am on.”

”Then what was that?”

”I was not there on Wednesday.” He kept his voice down and it shook. ”Since April, gaffer. And I watched it go on a laptop in the canteen with a plate of pasta in front of me.”

Was he wrong? I had a referee 10 yards away and Sean Dyche looking over, and I could not find the part of it that was wrong.

”I picked that team,” I said. ”That is mine. You can have it out with me at 5 o’clock, all of it. Right now there are 10 of them behind the ball, and you are 1 tackle from leaving us with 10 as well.”

He stared at the grass between us.

”Outside Lowton,” I said. ”Not through him.”

He walked back out without answering.

”RÚBEN!” I had both hands up. ”2 touches! The simple 1! Move them!”

It took another 11 minutes. Neves gave it to Chilwell, Chilwell gave it back, Neves gave it to Kovačić, and they did that until a claret shirt came out of the line to stop it. Eze turned into the gap he had left and slid it through, and Benteke hit it under Joe Hart.

Thump.

”WE ARE PALACE! WE ARE PALACE!”

Zaha was walking back to his own half while Benteke was still celebrating.

James Rodríguez made it 2 just after the hour. Chilwell went round the outside and pulled it back, and Rodríguez opened his body and passed it into the far corner.

At 70 Rebecca held her card up for Rodríguez. Then she pointed across the pitch at Zaha and held up the same card again.

”James, yes,” I said, and waved Townsend up. ”Wilf stays on.”

”Danny.”

”They are still coming.”

They were. On 81 Aaron Lennon broke from his own half with the ball and nobody in front of him, and Zaha turned and went after him. He chased him 70 yards. He caught him by our corner flag and took it off him without touching him, and Wembley stood up for it, and Zaha stayed bent over on the touchline with his hands on his knees for a long time afterwards.

Rebecca wrote on her card and did not watch the rest.

Fweeeeeeeeeet.

Crystal Palace 2, Burnley 0.

***

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