Glory Of The Football Manager System-Chapter 337: The Purge III

"Wolves," he said. "Your man Freedman is talking to Wolves."

"That’s right," I said.

"I came back to this club," he said. "I chose to come back."

"I know you did," I said. "And I respect that. But I have to make decisions based on where the squad needs to go, not on sentiment."

"Sentiment," he repeated, the word landing hard. "That’s what you call it."

"Bakary," I said, keeping my voice level. "You’re twenty-nine. Wolves are going to be a good Championship side. You’ll play every week. You’ll be important to them." I paused. "Here, I can’t promise you that."

He looked at me for a long moment. The anger was still there, but underneath it something else was shifting, the slow, reluctant process of a man accepting something he didn’t want to accept. "Wolves know me," he said finally. "From before."

"They do," I said. "That’s why it makes sense."

He uncrossed his arms. Looked at the floor. Looked back at me. "Alright," he said. Just that. He turned and walked out, and I heard his footsteps disappear down the corridor, and I sat at my desk and wrote Sako Wolves £1.5m in my notebook and moved on.

Julian Speroni came to see me himself on Thursday morning, an hour after Sako had left. He knocked on my office door and entered with the quiet, dignified bearing of a man who had made his peace with something.

He was thirty-eight years old and had been at Crystal Palace for thirteen years. He was, in the truest sense of the word, a legend. He told me he thought it was time before I could say anything. He had been thinking about it since the end of the season, he said. His body was telling him things.

He knew I needed a goalkeeper who could play thirty-eight games a season, not one who could play twenty. He had watched me work. He knew what I was building. He said it with the calm, clear-eyed acceptance of a man who had spent thirty-eight years learning to be honest with himself, and it was one of the most dignified things I had ever witnessed.

I told him I had been going to ask him to stay in a different capacity: coaching, goalkeeper development. He knew the club better than anyone alive, and that knowledge didn’t retire. He was quiet for a moment, his eyes distant. Then he nodded.

He said he’d like that very much. I told him he would get a testimonial, a proper one, because the fans deserved the chance to say goodbye properly.

He stood up and extended his hand. The handshake lasted a beat longer than normal, the way handshakes do when they are carrying more than just a greeting.

"Thank you, gaffer," he said. "For everything." He left, and I sat at my desk in the quiet of the empty office, the June sun cutting across the training pitches in long, clean lines outside the window, and I let the moment sit for just a second before I opened my notebook and moved on.

By Friday afternoon, it was done. I was in the back of a car on the M1, heading south, when Freedman called for what felt like the hundredth time that week. His voice was tired and satisfied, the voice of a man who had just run a marathon and was already thinking about the next one.

Twelve players sold, he said. Total fees: twenty-five point seven million. Wage savings: approximately eight million a year. Speroni retired, Sakho and Rémy back to their parent clubs.

By Friday afternoon, it was done. I was in the back of a car on the M1, heading south, when Freedman called for what felt like the hundredth time that week.

"Final count," he said. His voice was tired. Satisfied. The voice of a man who had just run a marathon and was already thinking about the next one. "Twelve players sold. Total fees: twenty-five point seven million. Wage savings: approximately eight million a year. Speroni retired, Sakho and Rémy back to their parent clubs." A pause. "The decks are clear, gaffer."

I leaned my head back against the seat and looked at the roof of the car. "Good," I said.

"The media are going absolutely mental," he added. "I’ve had three journalists call me today asking if you’ve lost your mind."

"What did you tell them?"

"No comment. Then I hung up." Another pause. "Have you? Lost your mind?"

"No," I said. "I’ve got a very clear idea of what I’m building. I needed the space to build it."

There was a silence on the line. Not an uncomfortable one. The silence of a man thinking.

"You know," Freedman said, "when the chairman told me about you, I thought he was exaggerating. Twenty-eight years old. No professional playing career. Managed a youth team for one year." He stopped. "I don’t think he was exaggerating."

"He wasn’t," I said.

He laughed. A short, sharp sound. "Right. What do you want to do about the incoming targets?"

"I’ll be in the office Saturday morning," I said. "Have the shortlist ready."

"It’s your day off."

"I know. Have the shortlist ready."

He laughed again and hung up.

I put the phone in my pocket and looked out of the window at the grey motorway and the flat, green fields beyond it. Somewhere out there, twelve professional footballers were packing their bags, updating their agents, telling their families they were moving. Somewhere, a goalkeeper was preparing for a testimonial.

Somewhere, a thirty-five-year-old warrior was going home. My phone buzzed one last time. Not Freedman. The other kind of notification.

[Transfer Window Outgoings Phase: COMPLETE.]

[Total Transfer Income: £25,700,000. Annual Wage Savings: £8,000,000.]

[Total Summer War Chest (including Parish allocation): £35,700,000 – £45,700,000.]

[Outgoings Phase Rating: Exceptional.]

[New Phase Unlocked: Incomings. Targets Identified. Begin Recruitment.]

I read it once. Put the phone away. Watched London begin to appear on the horizon, the skyline rising out of the flat grey distance like something being slowly assembled. The demolition was done. The construction was about to begin.

***

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