I walked on, past the video and match analysis suite. The largest room in the building, converted from a forr storage area in August, was now ho to ten analysts who operated as the club’s intelligence departnt.
David Carter led the team, a thirty-five-year-old forr university lecturer who had pivoted from sports science academia to applied match analysis and had built, in five months, a departnt that rivalled anything in the Premier League.
His team worked in shifts. Three analysts focused on opposition. Three on Palace’s own performance trics.
Two on recruitnt and scouting. One on set-piece analysis, working directly with Kevin Bray.
And one, the youngest, a twenty-three-year-old nad Priya Sharma (yes, the sa Priya who had helped choose Emma’s Christmas presents, because she also worked part-ti as Jessica’s assistant, because Priya did everything), was responsible for social dia monitoring and digital sentint analysis, tracking how the club’s performances were being received across platforms and feeding the insights back to Jessica’s communications team.
Ten people. A hundred screens. Terabytes of data. The engine room that powered the tactical decisions I took to the touchline every Saturday.
I found Sarah in her office. She was there before , as she always was. Her whiteboard was already updated with the week’s schedule. Light training today. Full tactical session tomorrow. Match preparation Thursday. Leicester at ho on Friday evening, live on Sky Sports.
"Morning, Danny. Happy New Year."
"Happy New Year, Sarah. Ready for the second half?"
"Born ready. The question is whether the players are."
"That’s what the eting is for."
At ten o’clock, the entire football operation gathered in the main eting room. Not just the players. Everyone.
Twenty-eight first-team players, seated in a loose semicircle. Eight coaching staff along the left wall: , Sarah, Kevin Bray, Marcus Webb (senior analyst, the voice in my earpiece on matchdays), Michael Steele (goalkeeping coach, the man who had quietly developed Pope into an England-level keeper), Rebecca, Paddy McCarthy, and David Jones (first-team coach, the quiet Welshman who ran the warm-ups and the technical drills and who the players trusted with an intimacy that I sotis envied, because David was the one they went to when they didn’t want to talk to the manager).
Along the right wall: the six fitness and performance staff. Behind them, standing because there weren’t enough chairs, the ten analysts.
And in the back row, sitting quietly, six academy players who had earned the right to be here through minutes on the pitch: Reece Hannam, Tyler Webb, Jake Morrison, Tyrick Mitchell, Antoine Senyo, and Michael Olise. Paddy’s kids. The pathway made real.
Fifty-eight people in one room. The full weight of Crystal Palace Football Club’s football operation.
I stood in the front. The dia had spent the morning running headlines.
Sky Sports: "CAN PALACE GO ALL THE WAY? Walsh’s Eagles enter 2018 in second place."
BBC Sport: "THE IMPOSSIBLE DREAM: Crystal Palace’s season of miracles shows no signs of stopping."
The Guardian: "Walsh has built sothing remarkable. The question now is whether it can survive the spring."
I had read them all. I had absorbed them. And now I was going to say the thing that none of them were saying.
"Good morning. Happy New Year. Welco back." I looked around the room. At every face. The players who ran. The coaches who planned. The analysts who watched. The physios who healed. The kit man who pressed the shirts. The groundsman who cut the grass. The nutritionist who counted the macros. The psychologist who listened.
"Before we talk about Leicester, before we talk about January, before we talk about anything tactical or technical, I want to talk about what’s happening to us." I paused.
"The dia are calling us a miracle. The pundits are asking if we can win the league. The fans are singing about the Champions League. Social dia has decided that Crystal Palace are the story of the season, and everyone, from the newspapers to the broadcasters to the podcast hosts, wants a piece of it."
The room was quiet.
"I want to be honest with you. All of you. Not just the players. Everyone in this room, because everyone in this room is responsible for what we’ve built."
I looked at Terry the groundsman, who was standing by the door, his cap in his hands.
I looked at Barry, the kit man, who was leaning against the back wall with his arms folded.
I looked at Anita from reception, who had slipped in because she never missed a team eting, and nobody had ever told her she couldn’t attend.
"We are competing on four fronts. The Premier League. The Europa League. The League Cup semi-final. And the FA Cup starts this month. Four competitions. With a squad of twenty-eight players and an academy that has produced six matchday squad mbers this season." I let that land. "That is extraordinary. It is also, if we are not careful, unsustainable."
I turned to the whiteboard where Sarah had written the January and February fixture list. The room could see it. The density of dates. The matches stacking on top of each other like bricks in a wall that was being built faster than the mortar could dry.
"Between now and the end of February, we have approximately fifteen matches. Fifteen. In eight weeks. That is a match every three and a half days. And so of you..." I looked at Neves, at Sakho, at Zaha, at Konaté... "...have been playing since August without a aningful break."
I stepped back from the board.
"So here is the truth. I am not going to stand here and tell you to win trophies. I am not going to demand silverware. I am not going to set targets that require you to destroy your bodies to achieve them."
I looked at McArthur, whose hamstring was amber. At Navas, whose right leg was strapped. At Milivojević, whose sprint data had fallen off a cliff. At Digne, whose ankle was sore. "I have asked enough of your bodies. I have pushed the schedule to its limit. And so of you are paying the price."
The room was absolutely still.
***
Thank you for 300 Power Stones.
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