Glory Of The Football Manager System-Chapter 322: The Final Problem II

Marcus brought up the videos he’d already prepared for me. "This is the key. Look at their build-up play when their first-choice midfield isn’t available. It’s slow. It’s ponderous. They take too many touches. They’re not used to being attacked high up the pitch. They expect to be given time on the ball."

He showed a clip from a recent draw against Swansea. "See here? The full-back gets the ball, he has time to look up, and make a pass. No pressure. Now, imagine Nya Kirby is on him in a split second. Imagine Zaha is cutting off the pass back to the centre-back. Imagine Townsend is blocking the line down the wing. What does he do? He panics. He goes long. And we win the ball back." 𝒇𝒓𝙚𝒆𝔀𝓮𝓫𝒏𝓸𝙫𝓮𝓵.𝓬𝙤𝙢

"The space is behind their full-backs," Marcus added, bringing up a heatmap. "When they do attack, they commit them high. If we can win the ball and transition quickly, Wilf and Andros will have the freedom of Old Trafford."

"We will train for transitions," I said, my voice low and intense. "We will drill the press until it is second nature. We will be the fittest, fastest, most aggressive team on that pitch. We will go to the Theatre of Dreams, and we will turn it into a nightmare for them. We will not give them a second to breathe."

I looked around the room. The celebratory mood was gone, replaced by a sharp, focused intensity. They saw it. They understood.

"He’s the master of the dark arts," Sarah said with a grim smile. "It’s time someone showed him a new trick."

The plan was set, and the following days were a blur of relentless execution. On the training pitches, the theory became a brutal, lung-busting reality. I had the groundsmen mark out a smaller pitch, congesting the space.

The drills were repetitive, exhausting, and brutally effective. One team had to make five passes while the other, the ’wolves’, had to win it back within ten seconds. The punishment for failure was a full-pitch sprint. At first, there was grumbling. By the second day, there was a grim, collective focus.

I watched Nya Kirby, the teenager, thrive in the chaos. He wasn’t the biggest or the strongest, but his understanding of angles and his relentless stamina made him the perfect engine for the press. He hunted, he harried, he never stopped.

During a water break, I saw him pull Zaha aside, gesturing and talking about the trigger for the press. Zaha, the superstar, the individualist, was listening intently, nodding. That, right there, was the culture shift. It wasn’t just my plan anymore. It was theirs.

By the time my mid-week press conference arrived, the media room was packed, the journalists eager for another soundbite from the league’s new darling. The narrative was set: ’The Special One’, the grizzled, decorated master of pragmatism, versus ’The Chosen One’, the young, idealistic upstart who played football manager in a convenience store.

"Danny," a journalist from The Guardian began. "You’re taking your team to Old Trafford on the final day. A fortress. You’re facing José Mourinho, a manager who has never lost a major final. Even with a weakened team, how can you possibly hope to get a result?"

This was the moment. The mind game. I could be arrogant, I could be bullish. But that’s what he would expect. So I did the opposite.

"I have the utmost respect for José Mourinho," I said, my tone calm and deferential. "He is one of the greatest managers of all time. What he has achieved in the game is an inspiration to every young coach, myself included. To be able to stand in the opposite dugout to him at Old Trafford is an honour and a privilege."

I let that sink in before continuing.

"We are preparing to face Manchester United. That name, that crest, it carries a certain weight. It demands respect. They have a squad of incredible depth, filled with world-class international players. We have no idea who will be on that pitch on Sunday, but we know that whoever it is will be a phenomenal talent. So we will give them the respect they deserve. We will give them the respect of preparing for the very best version of Manchester United. And we will pay them the ultimate respect of playing our football, at our absolute, maximum intensity, from the first whistle to the last."

I could see the journalists scribbling furiously. I had praised him, but I had also subtly laid a trap. I had framed the game in terms of intensity. Now, if his team came out and played a slow, boring, defensive game, it would be seen as a weakness, a refusal to meet our challenge.

"But what if they don’t play their best team?" another journalist asked.

I gave a small smile. "That’s a question for José, not for me. My only job is to make sure that my players are ready for a war. And I can promise you, they will be."

My promise to the media hung in the air for the rest of the week, a benchmark we had to meet. The final training session on Friday morning was sharp, intense, and silent. That afternoon, the journey to Manchester was quiet.

The boisterous confidence of the training ground had subsided, replaced by a calm, focused intensity. We checked into the Lowry Hotel, the same hotel that Mourinho and his team used for their home games. Another small psychological play. We were not here as tourists. We were here to take over their city.

That evening, I gathered the team in one of the hotel’s conference rooms for the final meeting. The room was dark, the only light coming from the projector screen.

"Forget the 9-0," I started, my voice low. "It means nothing now. Forget the league table. It means nothing now. For the next ninety minutes, nothing else in the world matters. Only us. Only the plan."

I didn’t show them clips of United’s strengths. I didn’t show them Zlatan’s goals or Pogba’s skills. I showed them clips of their weaknesses. A clip of a young, reserve full-back getting caught in possession. A clip of their midfield being bypassed by a quick counter-attack. A clip of their players arguing amongst themselves after conceding a goal.

"This is who we are playing," I said. "They are not gods. They are men. And they are men who are thinking about a cup final in three days’ time. They are thinking about Stockholm. They are not thinking about you."

"But we are. We are thinking only about them. When that whistle blows, we are a pack of wolves. Nya," I said, locking eyes with the young midfielder.

"You are the engine. You do not stop. Wilf, Andros - you are the daggers. Every time we win the ball, you are gone. You do not hesitate. Scott," I said to my captain. "You are the voice. You keep us compact, you keep us focused. You remind everyone of the plan."

I paused, letting the silence hang in the air.

"For ninety minutes, we will make that pitch, that huge, historic pitch, feel like a tiny, claustrophobic cage. We will press, we will harry, we will run, and we will show no fear. We are not here to swap shirts. We are not here for a day out. We are here to make a statement. We are here to show the whole world who Crystal Palace are now."

I looked around the room, at the faces of my players. I saw belief. I saw hunger. I saw a team that was ready.

Later that night, I stood in my hotel room, looking out at the familiar, rain-slicked skyline of Manchester. The city of my birth. It felt strange to be back here, not as a boy from Moss Side with a dream, but as the enemy. As a rival.

I thought of the long bus journeys to watch City play at Maine Road, the smell of chips and vinegar in the air, the feeling of being part of something. I thought of the red side of the city, the dominant, all-conquering force that had looked down on us for so long. This wasn’t just another game. This was personal.

My phone buzzed. A text from Emma.

"Make them remember your name."

I smiled. I closed my eyes, and I could already hear it. The roar of 75,000 people. The sound of the Theatre of Dreams.

And I was ready to turn it into silence.

***

Thank you to Sir nameyelus for the continued support.