Neville nodded. "I’ll add sothing to that. The set-pieces." A new graphic Kevin Bray’s set-piece statistics.
"Eight goals from designed set-piece routines this season. Eight. The next best club in the Premier League has four. Walsh’s set-piece coach, Kevin Bray, is producing goals at a rate that is genuinely unprecedented in English football. These aren’t lucky headers or scrambled finishes; they’re choreographed plays, drilled to perfection, executed under pressure. It’s like watching an Arican football playbook applied to dead-ball situations."
Jones brought up one final graphic, the season trajectory, a line graph showing Palace’s points accumulation week by week, overlaid with last season’s.
The gap between the two lines was a chasm. Last season’s line crawled along the bottom of the graph, barely rising, the flatline of a team in crisis. This season’s line soared upward steep and confident through September, a brief dip in October (Chelsea, Everton, Arsenal), then climbed again through the Bournemouth-Vitória-Watford run.
"The dip is interesting," Neville said, pointing at the October section.
"They lost to Chelsea, drew with Everton, and lost at Arsenal. Three matches where it looked like the schedule had caught them. And every pundit in the country, myself included, started asking whether the bubble had burst." He paused. "It hadn’t. They responded with five straight wins: West Ham, Vitória, Newcastle, Bristol City, Bournemouth, Watford. Actually six. The response was emphatic."
"And that’s the difference between a good team and a team with character," Carragher said.
"Good teams win when things are going well. Teams with character win when things go wrong. Walsh’s press conference after Chelsea, where he took full responsibility for the Konaté injury, set the tone. The standing ovation from the fans after the Chelsea defeat set the culture. And the results since then have proved that neither the manager nor the supporters got it wrong."
Jones wrapped it up. "So, Gary. Christmas is your deadline. You said at the start of October that if Palace were in the top four at Christmas, you’d accept this was a genuine project. They’re currently fourth on twenty-three points. Are you getting nervous?"
Neville laughed a genuine, warm laugh. "I’m getting very nervous, David. Very nervous indeed."
"Jamie?"
Carragher grinned. "I’ve been telling you since August. This isn’t a fairytale. It’s a revolution."
I turned off the television. The screen went black. Emma’s face appeared in the reflection, her green eyes watching from behind her glasses, her expression unreadable.
"A revolution," she said.
"That’s what Carragher calls it."
"What do you call it?"
I thought about it. About the convenience store and the £8.15 an hour. About the Railway Arms and the mud and the Sunday league defeats that stung for an hour.
About Moss Side Athletic, the county league title, and JJ Johnson’s transfer that saved the club. About the Crystal Palace U18s, the Youth Cup, and the Nationals.
About Steve Parish pointing at a twenty-seven-year-old in an academy tracksuit and saying *him.*
About the five-match miracle and the permanent contract and the sumr rebuild and Brøndby and Istanbul and Manchester and Marseille and Ro and Chelsea and the taste of ash and the standing ovation and Konaté on crutches and Olise’s rainbow flick and Wenger saying *the season is a siege* and Tarkowski saying *I kept it warm for you.*
"I call it Tuesday," I said.
Emma laughed a real, full, head-back laugh that crinkled the corners of her eyes and showed her teeth and made the apartnt feel warr.
She set her laptop aside, took off her glasses, and pulled towards her. I went willingly, settling against her, my head finding the hollow of her shoulder, her arms wrapping around one across my chest, one hand returning to my hair.
She was warm in the way that only the people you love are warm not just the temperature of skin against skin, but the deeper warmth of being held by soone who knows you completely and has decided, despite the evidence, that you are worth holding.
"You’re exhausted," she said quietly.
"I’m always exhausted."
"Not like this. You’ve played twenty-five matches in three months, Danny. You’ve been to Istanbul, Manchester, Marseille, Ro, Bristol, and Watford. You’ve managed an injury crisis, a bus attack, your first defeat, and a sixteen-year-old scoring the goal of the century in a League Cup match. You’ve been studying for your Pro Licence in between. You haven’t taken a day off since that Sunday after Arsenal."
She tightened her arms around . "You need to rest."
"I will. The break is two weeks."
"You’ll rest for three days and then start watching Tottenham footage."
"Two days."
"Danny."
"One and a half."
She sighed, the exasperated, affectionate sigh of a woman who had made peace with the fact that the man she loved was incapable of switching off and had decided to love him anyway. She kissed the top of my head. "Fine. One and a half days. But you’re spending them here. With . No laptop. No phone. No Emails."
"The club doesn’t have an off switch."
"Then close your eyes and pretend it does."
I closed my eyes. Her heartbeat was steady against my ear, a rhythm more constant than the Holsdale drum, more reliable than any system I had ever designed.
The Monday Night Football analysis was still echoing in my head: fourteen points, fourteen places, twenty-four-goal swing but here, in the quiet of the apartnt, with the city humming below and Emma’s arms around and the warmth of her body against mine, the numbers dissolved into sothing simpler.
We were fourth. We were in Europe. We were in the League Cup. Konaté was coming back. The squad was healthy. The youth players were erging. The fans were singing my na.
And I was lying on a sofa in Dulwich, being held by a woman with red hair and green eyes who had seen at my lowest counting coins for the bus, stacking shelves in obscurity, dreaming about football in a world that couldn’t have cared less and who was still here, still holding , still believing.
"Em," I said.
"Mm."
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For being the constant. Everything else changes the fixtures, the results, the pressure, the noise. But you don’t change. You’re always here."
Her arms tightened. I felt her breath catch slightly a tiny, almost imperceptible hitch, the kind that happens when soone hears sothing they needed to hear but didn’t know they needed.
"I’m always here," she said softly. "Always."
We stayed like that for a long ti. The television dark, the laptop closed, the night settling over London. The season was a siege, and the siege was long, and December was coming, and Wembley was twelve days away. But tonight, in the quiet warmth of the only ho that mattered, the war could wait.
[Season Comparison MNF, November 6th.]
[2016/17, First 11 PL matches: W2 D3 L6. 9 pts. 18th. GF 9, GA 23. GD -14.]
[2017/18, First 11 PL matches: W7 D2 L2. 23 pts. 4th. GF 24, GA 14. GD 10.]
[Improvent: 14 pts. 14 places. 24 GD swing. Squad cost: less than one Paul Pogba.]
[Kevin Bray set-piece goals: 8. Next best club: 4.]
[Squad usage: 28 players in competitive matches. 11 different starting XIs in Europe. "B team" win rate higher than first choice XI.]
[Carragher: "This isn’t a fairytale. It’s a revolution."]
[Neville’s Christmas deadline: 7 weeks away. Current position: 4th. He is, in his own words, "very nervous indeed."]
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