"I’ve got sothing for you."
I reached into my jacket and pulled out an envelope. Inside were twelve tickets to tomorrow night’s match. Manchester City versus Crystal Palace. Monday Night Football. The Etihad Stadium. Hospitality box.
Big Dave’s mouth fell open. Terry took off his glasses and stared at the tickets like they were holy relics. Kev actually sat down on the bench, his legs apparently having given out. Frankie, predictably, was the only one who didn’t react. He just took the envelope, flicked through the tickets, counted them, and looked at .
"Hospitality box," he said flatly. "Free food?"
"Free food," I confird. "Free drink. Free everything."
"About ti," he said, tucking the envelope into his jacket. "You owe us. We made you."
I laughed. He wasn’t wrong.
We talked for half an hour, standing in the cold, the kids’ training session continuing behind us. They asked about Istanbul, about Sakho’s celebration, about Rodríguez and Neves and whether Zaha was really as fast as he looked on television.
Big Dave wanted to know about the goalkeepers. Terry wanted to know about the finances. Baz wanted to know if I could get him a trial. Frankie didn’t ask about any of it. He just stood there, smoking, watching , reading the way he always had not the manager, not the story, but the man underneath.
When the conversation died down and the others drifted back to their tasks, Frankie pulled aside. We walked to the edge of the pitch, away from the floodlights, into the half-dark. He lit a fresh cigarette, the match flaring orange in the gloom.
"How are you, Daniel?" he asked. Not Danny. Not gaffer. Daniel. The na he used when he was being serious.
"I’m good, Frankie. Really good."
He nodded slowly, the cigarette glowing. "You’re nine from nine. You’ve got Rodríguez and Neves and a squad that could finish top six. You’ve got a contract and a penthouse and maybe a new car." He paused. "And tomorrow, you’ve got Pep Guardiola."
"I know."
"He’s not like the others. He’s not Hughes. He’s not Kocaman. He won’t give you ti on the ball. He won’t let your press work the way it did in Istanbul. He’ll adapt. He’ll find the gaps in your system before you know they’re there." He took a long drag. "You ready for that?"
"I think so."
"Don’t think. Know." He flicked the cigarette away, the ember arcing into the darkness.
"You were always the smartest lad I ever coached. Smarter than anyone who ca through here. But smart isn’t enough against Guardiola. You need to be brave. You need to trust what you’ve built and not second-guess it when they pin you back for twenty minutes and the crowd’s on your neck."
He looked at , his eyes fierce and clear in the half-light. "Can you do that?"
"Yes," I said. And I ant it.
"Good." He put his hand on my shoulder, a rare gesture from a man who showed affection about as often as it snowed in July. "Now get out of here before soone recognises you and I have to explain to Sky Sports why the Premier League’s youngest manager is hanging around a municipal pitch in Moss Side at nine o’clock on a Sunday night."
I hugged him. He let , briefly, before pushing away with a gruff "Get off."
I said my goodbyes to the others Big Dave’s rib-cracking embrace, Terry’s two-handed handshake, Baz’s shoulder slap, Kev’s slightly emotional thumbs-up from across the changing room.
Scott Miller shook my hand and said, "Go and win tomorrow." Mark Crossley said nothing, just nodded, which from Crossley was the equivalent of a standing ovation. Tommo told to "smash ’em."
The Uber back to The Lowry was quiet. I sat in the back seat, the city sliding past the windows, and I thought about the distance between that municipal pitch and the Etihad Stadium. Two miles.
Two worlds. And tomorrow night, the man who had learned football on the first would walk onto the second and try to beat the best manager on the planet.
I let myself into my hotel room, dropped onto the bed, and stared at the ceiling. My phone buzzed. Emma: "How was Moss Side?" She knew too well. I typed back: "Perfect. Frankie says hello. He also says I owe him." Her reply was instant: "You do. Now sleep. You’ve got a big day tomorrow."
I smiled, set the alarm, and closed my eyes.
Monday. The day unfolded with the quiet precision of a military operation. A light team walk in the morning, stretching the legs, shaking the stiffness of the coach journey. Then the team eting at two o’clock in a private function room at The Lowry, the television on the wall tuned to Sky Sports News.
The segnt we were all waiting for. Guardiola’s Saturday press conference. He leaned into the microphone, his expression serious, and spoke for two uninterrupted minutes. He spoke about the "painful lesson" of their 1-0 defeat at the Etihad last season.
He didn’t make excuses. He called it a lesson in "tactical discipline and the ferocity of the transition." He praised the "courage" of Palace’s high press, the way they committed bodies forward.
And then he said my na. "Danny Walsh," he said, the Catalan accent wrapping around the syllables. "What he is building there is one of the most interesting projects in the league. They have a clear idea. They have a belief in that idea. And they have the quality to execute it. We are prepared for a very, very difficult ga."
The clip ended. Silence. Dann, Zaha, Neves, and Sarah were in the room with . The words hung in the air.
Zaha was the first to speak. A slow smile. "Interesting project, eh? He’s not wrong."
Dann, ever the stoic: "He’s putting pressure on his own players. Making sure they don’t underestimate us again."
Neves saw it clearly. "He is putting pressure on us," he said. "He is telling the world he has studied us. He is taking away our greatest weapon the elent of surprise. He is saying: I know what you are going to do. Now let’s see if you are good enough to do it anyway."
I stood up. "Rúben’s right. Last season, we were a surprise. A smash and grab. Today, we are an expectation. His expectation. And more importantly, our expectation." I paused. "Let’s go and get so lunch. Then we talk about how we et it."
***
Thank you to Sir nayelus for the constant support.
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