Glory Of The Football Manager System

I left the ticket propped against the kettle. Emma walked in 10 minutes later, dropped her keys, and stared at it.

”Who shouts?” she asked, with 1 arm still in her coat.

”Mamadou.”

”Mamadou is playing.”

”Deano.”

”Deano will be in the tunnel counting shirts.”

”My mum.”

”Your mum went to Old Trafford in a hat and held her handbag for 90 minutes.” She hung her coat on the door. ”You have already thought of somebody. You do a thing with your mouth.”

”Dion’s mother.”

Emma stopped. ”The woman who said she would drive to Beckenham and take him home?”

”She screamed at Achraf through her television for the entire San Siro match. Dion apologised to him for it afterwards.”

”Has she ever been to a match?”

”I do not know.”

”Then find out,” Emma said, ”and take that off my kettle.”

I handed the ticket to Dion on Monday morning beside pitch 3. He read the front, turned it over, and examined the blank back.

”It is 1 seat.”

”It is 1 seat. You are with the squad.”

”She has work Wednesday. She finishes at 7.”

”I know she does.”

He held the paper by the edges. ”She has never been, gaffer. Not to a match. She drove me to training for years and sat in the car.” He tucked it inside his coat, flat against his chest. ”She will say no.”

”Ask her anyway.”

They took Emma’s father down for surgery at half past 8 on Tuesday morning. I was at the hospital in Sidcup by 7. He sat up in bed in a gown that tied at the back, staring at a black marker arrow on his left shin that pointed to his knee.

”So they do not cut the good 1,” he said. ”Who has the ticket?”

”A woman from Hampton.”

”Does she shout?”

”She yelled at my full back through a television until her son apologised to him.”

He looked at Emma’s mother, and Emma’s mother looked at the black arrow.

”Through a television,” he said.

”For 90 minutes.”

”Is she a supporter?”

”Her son signed for us 3 weeks ago. She has never been inside a ground.”

”Never been...” He let his head sink back onto the pillow. ”Right. Listen. The fella on her left is called Clive. He was at the cup final in 1990, and he will tell her about it before the teams come out. Tell her to let him. It is quicker.”

”How long does it take?”

”I have sat next to him since August, and he has yet to reach the replay.”

He found Emma at the foot of the bed.

”Are you on air tomorrow?”

”I am on tomorrow, Dad.”

”Then you cannot tell them who won.”

”I cannot tell them who is playing,” Emma said.

He shut his eyes and laughed until the hospital bed rattled. A porter walked in with a clipboard and kicked the brake off the bed.

Clunk.

”Row 31,” Emma’s father announced to the ceiling as they wheeled him through the door. ”If that seat is quiet, I will hear about it.”

Dion waited outside my office at 10 with a used gas bill envelope. His mother had written 2 questions on the back in blue ink.

1. What time do I have to be there.

2. Am I allowed to shout or do they tell you off.

I wrote my answers directly underneath. 1. Michael Cooke will pick you up at 5. 2. Yes.

”She swapped her shift,” Dion said. He stared at the envelope. ”She has never swapped a shift in her life. She made me swap mine.”

Cooke had agreed to drive her before I had finished asking him.

On Wednesday night, all 4 teams in Group B had 1 match left. We sat on 12 points, level with Borussia Dortmund. They had to beat us. A draw secured the group for us.

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

Bench: Krul, Dann, Chilwell, Højbjerg, Townsend, Perišić, Cartwright.

BORUSSIA DORTMUND: Bürki. Piszczek, Akanji, Diallo, Schmelzer. Witsel, Delaney. Sancho, Reus, Bruun Larsen. Philipp.

Jadon Sancho started on their right. He had spent the entire October match on their left, running at Aaron.

The Unity filled the corner by 7. At 10 to 8, they passed a bedsheet over their heads along the front row. It stretched 4 metres wide, and on it they had painted the eagle on its back with both feet in the air.

THERE IS NO SECOND FIRST TIME.

Frost hung in the air. Steam plumed from all 22 players in the centre circle. Away behind the far goal, our drum started.

Dum. Dum.

PRRRRP.

Marco Reus crowded Rúben Neves from the first whistle. Neves endured it for 6 minutes, pointed at Mateo Kovačić, and walked 10 yards left to clear the space.

”Mateo! All of it! Every ball!”

Kovačić took the ball off Tarkowski’s toe with Axel Witsel pressing 1 shoulder and Thomas Delaney crashing into the other. He absorbed the contact. At 23 minutes, he dragged the ball under his studs, splitting both of them. James Rodríguez flicked it round the corner, and Christian Benteke stepped into the pass, hammering it across Bürki with his left boot.

Thump.

1-0.

”GLAD ALL OVER! GLAD ALL OVER!”

Neves sprinted 30 yards to kiss Kovačić on the top of the head.

Sancho charged at Achraf Hakimi on 31 minutes. Hakimi drove him straight into the advertising boards, ball and all.

Thack.

Hakimi turned, scanned the lower tier, and flashed a thumbs up.

”Who is he doing that to?” I asked.

”I have no idea,” Sarah said.

At 60 minutes, Rebecca held up her card. It read Zaha 60 in bright red. She showed it to me, then flipped it over.

75.

”Sunday’s numbers were his best since August,” she said. ”That is why. It has nothing to do with what you owe him.”

Lucien Favre sent Paco Alcácer on in the same minute. The Dortmund corner rose to its feet.

On 68 minutes, Eze found Zaha on the left flank with Piszczek blocking his path. Zaha feinted outside. Piszczek bought it. Zaha cut hard inside onto his right foot and whipped the ball round Bürki from the corner of the box. It hit the inside of the far post and went in.

Tink.

2-0.

Zaha sprinted the length of our technical area, holding 1 finger up on his left hand and all 5 up on his right.

”He thinks that was you,” Rebecca said.

”Let him.”

Zaha came off at 75 minutes exactly, and Townsend replaced him. At 81 minutes, Paco Alcácer scored from 6 yards out.

Thud.

2-1.

The Dortmund corner roared and did not stop. They pushed for 9 minutes of normal time and 4 of stoppage time. Nick Pope made 1 save, from Reus, low to the grass, and held it tight.

PRRRP. PRRRP.

Crystal Palace 2, Borussia Dortmund 1.

I sat down on the bench. Bray looked round at me as if somebody had shot me.

”I am fine,” I said.

”You are sitting down.”

”I know.”

Marcus held out the tablet, his hand shaking. ”Inter 1, PSV 1.”

CRYSTAL PALACE 15. DORTMUND 12. INTERNAZIONALE 7. PSV 1.

[QUEST: SURVIVE THE ELITE TABLE. 6 OF 6. WON.]

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