Glory Of The Football Manager System

Chapter 640: FA Cup Winner II

[The Bus. 21:24 BST.]

Mama on the seat next to me. Mateo and Iza behind us, Mateo with his leg out in the aisle and the crutch on the floor. Wayne with his daughters two rows ahead. Nya with Olise because Olise was staying with him until Nya’s mum got to the hotel.

The bus pulled out at twenty-five past.

Mama had been on the phone for ten minutes in French to his father in Massy.

He hung up.

Did not say anything for a minute.

"Daniel."

"Yeah."

"My father is going to die before the end of the year. The cancer is back."

I did not say anything for three seconds.

"Mama."

"He was diagnosed in March. He did not tell me until tonight because he did not want me to play the season with it. He came from Senegal to France when he was eighteen. Worked at the Citroën factory in Aulnay until he was sixty. He has watched every Palace match I have played on a small television in the flat in Massy. He has six months."

The bus moved through Brent.

"Tonight is the cup. Tonight is the lads. Tomorrow we get the Etihad. Then the parade. Then I go to Massy."

"Whatever you need."

"Three weeks."

"Three months."

"Daniel."

"Three months. Whatever you need."

"Daniel."

"Three months. Whatever you need."

He nodded once. Did not say anything.

The bus turned onto the A40 east.

He took his phone out and looked at a photograph of his father at fifty in the Sunday market in Massy with a Crystal Palace shirt in his hand and a price tag on it that read six francs.

[The Team Hotel. 22:14 BST.]

The Grove had laid out the function room with twelve round tables, a buffet and a bar.

Emma in a dark green dress I had not seen before. Her dad next to her in the half-and-half scarf with a pint of Stella. His mate Reg the other side with the same. Steve Parish at the door welcoming each family in. Jessica Finch behind him with a folder. The Wright/Bright/Salako/Coppell table at the back of the room because Coppell had asked for a quiet corner.

I went to Emma’s table first.

Pete stood up. Held his hand out.

"Daniel. You have given me the best day of my football life."

"You bought your own flight, Pete."

"I did."

"I cannot let you do that twice. Next year you and Reg are coming on me."

Emma touched my hand under the table. Did not say anything because Emma had not said anything to me since the medal ceremony and she had been waiting for the right moment, and the right moment was not at the bar with her dad.

Reg leaned in. Sixty-one. Season ticket since 1989. At the 1990 final. Not at the 2016 final because his daughter had got married in Portsmouth that same day and Reg had spent the wedding looking at his phone in the back of the church.

"Wherever you put the bus, Daniel, I am there."

"Tuesday. The council is working out the route. South Norwood and Selhurst. Open-top down Holmesdale Road."

"Tuesday."

I left them at the table.

Konaté’s father and mother and older brother had flown from Lille on the lunchtime flight. The brother held me by both shoulders and did not say anything for ten seconds.

Then the Coppell table.

Coppell stood up. Wright. Bright. Salako. Their wives in a row on the bench side.

"Steve."

Coppell did not let go of my hand.

"You did it."

"With you in the directors’ box."

"Thirty years ago we did not finish it. You finished it tonight."

"You started it."

"Daniel. The lads had the cup tonight. I had a quarter of it in 1990 and I have a quarter of it tonight by being in the box. The other half is yours and Mama’s."

Wright punched my arm. Not hard. Held the arm.

"Walsh. I am going to say a thing now. Once. I am not the lad who repeats himself."

"All right."

"You are the greatest manager this football club has ever had. I am saying it now because I am four pints in and I am not saying it tomorrow. Coppell knows it. Bright knows it. Salako knows it. The lads on the pitch tonight know it. The Holmesdale knows it. Somebody should say it out loud and it is me."

Coppell from across the table, quietly: "He is right, Daniel."

Wright did not let go.

"Twenty-eight. Nine months in charge. Three trophies. Second in a league a side six times your money won. You finished the thing we did not finish in 1990 and the thing Pardew did not finish in 2016. You are the greatest. Take it."

He let go.

I did not say anything for a long second because I did not have anything to say.

Coppell leaned forward at the table.

"Daniel."

"Steve."

"He is not going to repeat himself. So I am going to. You are the greatest manager this football club has ever had. I am sixty-three. I am the one whose record you have broken. Take it."

He sat back.

Wright punched my arm again.

Salako leaned forward.

"Daniel. My boy has a Crystal Palace shirt with Zaha 11 on the back. He is twelve. He cried at the eighty-ninth like he had scored the goal himself. I rang him from the box at the ninety-fifth and he could not speak. I had not believed I would see this in my lifetime."

He sat back.

I stood at their table for fifteen minutes.

[The Function Room. 22:48 BST.]

Nya’s mum came in at quarter to eleven.

The black car had picked her up at Streatham at eight twenty. Traffic on the South Circular. She walked in wearing a yellow Crystal Palace top she had bought from the club shop in 2017 when Nya had been promoted to the first team. Small handbag. She had not eaten.

Sarah was at the door waiting.

Nya did not see her come in because Nya was at the bar with Olise and Olise was telling him about a guitar he had bought the week before.

Sarah did not announce her. Brought her across the room. Tapped Nya on the shoulder.

He turned around.

The room caught it because the room had been waiting.

He went to her. Both arms round her shoulders. Eighteen years old with a winners’ medal in his pocket and his mum at the team hotel at quarter to eleven on a Saturday because the gaffer’s PA had sent a black car to Streatham.

The room watched. Did not clap because the room knew not to clap.

Eze put a hand on my shoulder. Did not say anything. Walked off.

[Dulwich. 02:14 BST.]

The medal was on the kitchen table.

Emma had come home in the cab with me. Her dad had stayed at the team hotel with Reg because the hotel had given them a room. Pete had hugged Emma at the door of the hotel and had cried into her shoulder for thirty seconds and then had wiped his eyes and said I will see you at the parade.

Emma was on the sofa.

She had her head against the back of the sofa. The Macron tracksuit jacket on because she had taken mine off the chair in the hall and put it on at the door. Her eyes were closed.

Sky had the FA Cup highlights on a loop. The sound was off.

I sat next to her.

She did not open her eyes.

"Walsh."

"Em."

She turned her head against the back of the sofa to look at me. Her eyes opened halfway.

"You did it."

"We did it."

She closed her eyes again. Put her hand on my forearm and left it there.

I took my phone out.

The text from Big Tom at two thirty: get the cup boy.

I typed two words back.

got it

Hit send.

Big Tom was asleep. The text would buzz on his bedside table and Big Tom would see it in the morning when he made his tea and Big Tom would not text back because Big Tom would not need to.

Etihad in fourteen hours.

I put the phone face down on the table next to the medal.

Did not sleep for an hour.

***

Thank you to Sir nameyelus for the support.