I sat in the hotel room for a while after that. The pasta on the room service tray had gone cold. I wasn’t hungry anyway. I thought about Connor Wickham at twenty-four, trying to process the gap between what he had expected and what had actually happened.
I thought about how much of this job was about managing that gap, in yourself and in other people. Then I opened my notebook and moved on, because that was the only thing you could do.
By Wednesday, Sky Sports News was running a rolling ticker that seed to update every hour. PALACE IN MASSIVE CLEAR-OUT. WICKHAM TO SHEFFIELD WEDNESDAY FOR £6M. PUNCHEON DROPS TO CHAMPIONSHIP. LEE CHUNG-YONG TO FC SEOUL FOR £3M.
The BBC ran a piece titled Crystal Palace’s Sumr Revolution: Ruthless Rebuild or Reckless Gamble? The Telegraph called it Danny’s Demolition Derby. The Mirror went with The Boy With The Axe.
A radio phone-in I caught in the car on the drive back to the hotel had a caller who described as "a twenty-eight-year-old who got lucky for five gas and now thinks he’s Pep Guardiola." The host didn’t disagree. I turned it off and drove in silence.
The System had its own view on proceedings. On Wednesday evening, sitting in the hotel room with the cold pasta untouched beside , my phone buzzed with the notification I had been half-expecting.
[System Update: Transfer Window Outgoings Phase Active.]
[Current Sales: 8 of 12 confird. Fees Generated: £17.2m. Wage Savings: £5.1m per annum.]
[Sporting Director Appointed: Dougie Freedman. Synergy Bonus Unlocked. Transfer Efficiency 15%.]
[Remaining Targets: Martin Kelly. Fraizer Campbell. Jonathan Benteke. Zeki Fryers.]
[Deadline: June 9th. Progress: On Track.]
I stared at it for a long mont. Synergy Bonus. I hadn’t seen that one before. The System had a way of rewarding things I hadn’t known it was tracking the decision to delegate, the trust placed in soone else, the understanding that you couldn’t do everything alone. Apparently, that counted for sothing.
I put the phone down, looked at the ceiling, and then picked it up again and called Freedman. Martin Kelly, I said. Stoke or Middlesbrough which one was closer? Stoke, he said. Three million. They’d been sniffing around for a week. Close it today, I told him. Today? Today. A pause. Right.
Joe Ledley called on Wednesday night. He was the calst of all of them. He was thirty years old and Welsh and he had the philosophical acceptance of a man who had been in football long enough to know that nothing lasted forever.
"Cardiff?" he said. "Going ho?" I told him it looked that way. He was quiet for a mont.
"My kids were born in London," he said. "They support Palace." I didn’t have anything to say to that. "It’s alright, gaffer," he said, before I could find the words. "I get it. I’m just telling you, so you know. It’s not nothing, what you’re asking people to do."
I told him I knew. He said goodbye. He said good luck in Europe. He said he’d be watching. He hung up and I sat there for a while with the phone in my hand, thinking about his kids who supported Palace, and what it ant to ask a man to uproot his family in the na of a transfer budget.
The hardest call was the one I had been putting off all week. I made it on Wednesday evening, sitting in the car park of the hotel with the engine off and the windows fogging slightly in the cool night air. I had the number in my contacts. I had been looking at it for ten minutes.
I pressed call. It rang twice. Then: "Gaffer." Damien Delaney’s voice. Quiet, steady, carrying the particular weight of a man who already knew what the call was about.
I told him I wanted to call him myself. I didn’t want him to hear it from anyone else. He said he appreciated that. He had heard the rumours. He figured it was coming. I told him it wasn’t about what he had given the club, that he had been a warrior for this place, but I was rebuilding, and I needed the wages. He cut off gently.
He had been in football for thirty years, he said. He knew how it worked. Was it the Irish club? I told him Freedman had arranged a nominal fee. He would be going ho. There was a long pause.
When he spoke again, his voice was thicker. That’s not the worst way to end it, he said. He told to look after the lads: McArthur, Dann, the good n. He told to look after myself. He said I was doing sothing special and not to let the pressure get to .
I sat in the car for a long ti after the call ended. The guilt was real. A physical thing, a weight in the chest. The human cost of the job. The thirty-five-year-old man was packing up his locker, saying goodbye to a place he had called ho. You had to feel it. You couldn’t go numb to it. But you also couldn’t let it stop you.
Bakary Sako was different. He didn’t call . He drove to the training ground on Thursday morning and knocked on my office door, and when I told him to co in, he stood in the doorway with his arms crossed and his jaw set and the expression of a man who had decided to be angry and was committed to it.
He was twenty-nine years old, and he had been at Palace before, left, and co back, and that second return had felt like sothing aningful to him. I understood that. I also understood that I needed the wages and that his profile didn’t fit what I was building.
"Wolves," he said. "Your man Freedman is talking to Wolves."
"That’s right," I said.
***
Thank you to Sir nayelus for the magic castle.
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