Glory Of The Football Manager System

Chapter 757: Fringe Players

His hands on his hips, in the 5th minute.

England 1. Morocco 0. 5 minutes on the clock of a World Cup semi-final, and the board over the far corner already read the thing I had spent 4 days telling 11 men would not break us if it came.

It had come. Trippier off a dead ball, the way it was always going to come if it came at all, and it was in the back of Munir’s net and there was not one thing to be done about it now except what came next.

And what came next was 38,000 English voices and a pile of white shirts over by the corner flag, Kane and Alli and Sterling at the bottom of it and a bench emptying to join it. And Ashley Young, jogging back to the halfway line on his own, not going.

That is what I was watching. Not the pile. Not the board. Him.

Because my own players were in the middle of that noise with their heads down. Da Costa would not look up. Harit, 21 years old, first start of his life, stood and stared at the grass while a stadium fell on his head.

I could not get a word to him through 78,000 people. And the next 10 seconds were going to tell me whether this was a football match or an execution.

So I made myself look away from my own frightened boys and at the one Englishman who was not celebrating hard enough.

And the number came up in the corner of my eye, the way it does, whether I go looking for it or not.

[ASHLEY YOUNG. STAMINA 11.]

And falling. In a 33-year-old wing-back England needed running that whole flank on his own for 90 minutes and maybe 120.

The fire again, and never the water. But watch enough football and the fire is enough. It told me where the water would be. Down their left, behind that man, an hour from now.

I looked at Sofyan.

He had it too, off the old man’s hips and his hands on them in the 5th minute. No card. He did not need one, and I did not need to tell him.

He jutted his chin at me. The chin from the Croatia night. Still here. We are fine.

We were not fine yet, though, and that I could see with my own 2 eyes, and it had nothing to do with any number.

It was in their feet.

My fringe men had gone a goal down in the 5th minute of a World Cup semi-final and it had crept into their touch. Fajr took a gentle ball off Dirar and let it jump off his laces like it was hot.

Aït Bennasser had a full yard to turn and would not take it, rolled it back instead, sideways, safe, the pass a frightened man plays. Harit got one on the half-turn with grass in front of him and handed it straight back to a white shirt.

I stood on the paint and watched 11 men who could run play like 11 men who did not want the ball.

And the English end had worked out inside 10 minutes which of them had never done this before.

They went for Munir first. Every time he set himself for a goal kick, 38,000 people counted his run-up out loud ["...1! 2! 3!"] and jeered the contact, that big ironic groan ["OOOOOOOH!"], trying to put a yard of doubt into a keeper who had waited a month for this night.

Then they found Harit, and the low sarcastic sound went up ["WHEYYYYY!"] every time the ball came near him, a whole stand deciding a frightened 21-year-old was the soft spot and settling in to work on him for 90 minutes.

["WHO ARE YA! WHO ARE YA!"] They sang it at my back four by name, at men most of that stadium could not have picked out of a line-up an hour ago. Hunting the youngest, most frightened man on the grass, climbing inside his head to make a home there.

"SQUEEZE!" I had it out before I knew it was coming. "Push up. Push UP. Do not sit, we are miles too deep."

Not a word of it reached them. 78,000 people sat between me and my own back four, and my voice came off that noise like a stone off a wall. [BOOM. BOOM. BOOM-BOOM-BOOM.]

Nordin caught the arm, though, if not the words, and started shoving Dirar 10 yards up the pitch with the flat of his hand. The running man does half my coaching for me and has never once sent an invoice.

So we tried to do the simple thing, with the fear still sloshing round our boots.

The block came down. Aït Bennasser and Fajr choked off the air in front of Henderson exactly the way I had chalked it, and England’s lovely patient build ran into the wall it had run into in June: the ball into their one proper midfielder was a ball into a Moroccan shin.

[THUD.] Fajr went clean through the back of Henderson to win it, all nerves and no timing, and gave away a foul he had no need to give. Faghani stood over him, said one quiet word, and left the card in his pocket. A warning. I filed it. The Iranian lets you play, but he does not let you climb through people, and my nervous boy had just spent the referee’s goodwill inside 10 minutes.

Henderson dropped to find the ball. Deeper. Deeper again. Until he was stood between Stones and Maguire with his back to my whole team and nothing on but a square pass to no one.

England have 3 settings. Build slow through the back 3. Spring the wing-backs and switch the play. And when neither works, win a corner, because the corner is the room they actually live in.

We took the first away by strangling Henderson.

We took the second down our own left, where Nordin Amrabat did the thing no one in that stadium will ever get up to clap. Held his 5 yards and his 2 seconds every time Trippier flew forward. A body in the doorway. So the cross that killed us in June simply never arrived.

The third one, the corner, the dead ball, the thing that had already put us a goal down. That one we could not take away. We could only meet it.

20th minute, they got their first. ["COME ON ENG-LAND!"] Trippier stood over it on the right, and he took his time, because he knew exactly what he was. Wiped his boot down the back of his sock.

Looked up once, twice, reading the 6-yard box like a man reading a room he owns. 25 years old, the coldest set of feet in the tournament, and he had already put one past Munir tonight from a spot just like it.

78,000 people drew the same breath at the same time [Ssssshhhhh...], and I heard my captain before I saw him.

Benatia. Off the pitch. In a bib. 2 full yards outside his own technical area with the fourth official’s hand flat on his chest, roaring across the grass at the man in his shirt.

"NEAR POST! Issam, NEAR POST, he is on your SHOULDER."

The exact flaw he had named in a hotel room on the Sunday. Da Costa ball-watches. He loses his man at the near post.

And here it came, and there was Benatia, a man who could not lift himself 4 inches off the floor, patching the hole with the only thing he had left, which was his eyes and his voice.

Trippier swung it in. [Whoosh.] Maguire came steaming across the 6.

[THWACK!] Da Costa was there half a heartbeat early, met it, cleared it 40 yards, and did not have the first idea how. But I knew how, and Benatia knew how, and that was a goal England did not score because a benched 31-year-old would not sit down and let it happen.

[AYAYAYAYAYAY!] went the green end, roaring a headed clearance the way another crowd roars a goal, and I felt it lift the whole team an inch off the mud.

And I watched it land on the boy. He stood half an inch taller inside it.

***

Thank you to Sir nameyelus and Kostas_Gounakis for the support.