Chapter 366: The First Real Test II

The second half began, and it was like watching a different team.

The fresh legs helped, but it was more than that. The tactical instructions had finally sunk in. The press was now a coordinated, snarling unit. Eze and Bojan hunted in a pack of two, closing down angles, forcing mistakes, making the Atlético defenders look up and find the ball was already gone.

They were relentless. Every time an Atlético player received the ball, Eze was there within two seconds, his legs pumping, his eyes locked on the ball. The Atlético left-back, a young lad named Vietto who had been having a comfortable evening, suddenly looked like a man who had walked into the wrong neighbourhood.

Konaté’s raw pace at the back was a revelation, sweeping up every ball that dared to go over the top with the easy, loping stride of a man who had been born to do exactly this.

Simeone noticed. I could see him adjusting on the touchline, gesturing to Torres and Griezmann to drop deeper, to link play rather than run in behind. He was adapting. He was always adapting.

> System Notification: [Tactical Cohesion]

> Pressing Efficiency: 62% (Effective)

> Team Shape: Compact

> Player Morale: +8 (Growing Confidence)

Fifty-five minutes in, the reward came. Eze, a blur of perpetual motion, hounded Vietto into a panicked, underhit pass back to his centre-back. Bojan, reading the play a second before anyone else, intercepted.

He took one touch, looked up, and played a clever, disguised reverse pass into the path of Alexandre Pato. The Brazilian was already moving. He took one touch to control the ball, a second to shift it onto his right foot, and a third to bury it low and hard into the bottom corner, past a diving Jan Oblak.

1-2.

Pato turned and ran, his face a mask of pure, released joy, his right arm extended, one finger pointing to the sky in his trademark celebration. He had been through so much: the injuries, the failed moves, the whispers that he was finished.

This goal, against Atlético Madrid, in front of 50,000 people, was his answer to all of it. Eze caught him first, leaping on his back, screaming something in his ear that made Pato laugh even through the tears that were threatening to come. Bojan arrived a second later, wrapping his arms around both of them in a chaotic, jubilant pile-on.

On the touchline, I punched the air. Beside me, Rebecca let out a sharp, involuntary “YES!” that she immediately tried to suppress. Kevin Bray was clapping his hands together, hard and fast. Sarah was smiling, the quiet, satisfied smile of someone who had known it was coming.

The stadium was back. All 50,000 of them, roaring, singing, waving their scarves. The kid in the Zaha shirt was on his feet. The man in the vintage Wright shirt was screaming. The Palace till I Die banner was being held aloft. The noise was extraordinary.

On the opposite sideline, Simeone was apoplectic. He was screaming at Vietto, his arms windmilling, his face a mask of fury. He hauled the left-back off immediately, sending on a more experienced defender.

It was ruthless, unsentimental, and entirely Simeone. He then reorganised his midfield, dropping Saúl into a deeper role to protect the space Eze was exploiting. He was not going to let us do that again.

Thirteen minutes later, we did it again anyway.

It was a work of art. A goal born on the training ground, executed under pressure, in front of 50,000 people. It started with Steve Mandanda, calm and commanding in goal. He rolled it to Joel Ward, who played it simply to James Tomkins.

Tomkins, unhurried, found McArthur. McArthur turned and played a sharp, vertical pass into the feet of Eberechi Eze, who had found a perfect pocket of space between the Atlético lines.

Eze turned on a sixpence, drove forward, and then, at the perfect moment, slipped a perfectly weighted through-ball into the path of Connor Blake. The youngster, full of running and fearless energy, didn’t break his stride. He smashed it first-time, a rising shot that flew past Oblak and into the roof of the net.

2-2.

Blake wheeled away, his mouth open in a silent scream, his arms wide, a look of pure, unadulterated disbelief on his face. He slid on his knees towards the corner flag, the turf spraying up behind him, before being mobbed by his teammates.

He was twenty years old, a boy from the estates of Croydon, and he had just scored against Atlético Madrid in front of 50,000 people in Singapore. McArthur, who had started the move deep in his own half, was the first to him, grabbing him by the shoulders.

“That’s what you’re here for, son,” he said, his Scottish accent cutting through the noise. “That’s exactly what you’re here for.”

I brought Zaha and Milivojević back on. The tempo didn’t drop. The team was now playing with a swagger, a confidence that bordered on arrogance.

At the 81st minute, Zaha, operating on the left, received the ball from Neves, took one touch to set himself, and then proceeded to skin his full-back with a dizzying series of step-overs and direction changes that left the poor man looking like he was trying to catch smoke.

Zaha got to the byline, had the composure to look up, and cut it back to the penalty spot. James McArthur, who had busted a gut to arrive late in the box, calmly side-footed it into the net.

3-2.

McArthur, usually so reserved, let out a huge roar and pumped his fists at the crowd, a rare, raw display of emotion from a man who kept everything locked inside. Zaha, who had created the goal out of nothing, simply stood with his arms folded, a look of supreme, arrogant satisfaction on his face. He caught my eye from across the pitch and gave me a single nod. I nodded back.

In the 90th minute, we put the game to bed. Nya Kirby, another academy gem, played a brilliant, incisive forward pass to Eze.

The playmaker, about thirty yards from goal, looked up and saw Jan Oblak… one of the world’s best goalkeepers, a man who had saved everything all evening… caught two yards off his line.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Eze chipped him. It was a moment of pure, audacious genius. The ball floated in a perfect, lazy arc, over Oblak’s despairing, outstretched hand, and nestled into the back of the net.

4-2.

Eze stood still for a second, watching the ball drop into the net, a small, knowing smile on his face. Then he turned and simply bowed to the crowd, a gesture of theatrical brilliance that was pure Eberechi Eze. The stadium lost its mind.

Across the pitch, Simeone stood with his hands on his hips, staring at the pitch. He wasn’t angry. He was thinking. He was already processing the game, already identifying the lessons. He was a man who never stopped working, even in defeat. I respected him enormously for it.

The final whistle blew on a remarkable, dizzying comeback victory. The players were exhausted but jubilant, a chaotic mix of starters and substitutes embracing on the pitch. The Singaporean fans were delirious. The Palace till I Die banner was being waved so hard it was in danger of tearing.

But it wasn’t over. The tournament format required a penalty shootout for a bonus point, regardless of the result. I used it as an opportunity, a test. I watched as Benteke, our £30 million striker, stepped up and blazed his penalty over the bar with the casual confidence of a man who had absolutely no idea he was about to miss.

I watched as Luka Milivojević, usually so reliable, had his weak, down-the-middle effort easily saved by Oblak, who had clearly done his homework. I watched as Pato, who had been so brilliant, hit the post with a penalty that was technically perfect and somehow still wrong.

We lost the shootout, and we lost it convincingly.

As the rest of the squad went to applaud the fans, celebrating the thrilling 4-2 win, I stood alone on the touchline.

The roar of the crowd was a distant buzz. I wasn’t thinking about Eze’s chip or Blake’s finish or Zaha’s step-overs. I was watching the replays of the missed penalties in my head, one after another, a reel of failure that cut through the euphoria like a cold blade.

> System Notification: [Skill Gap Identified]

> Penalty Taking – Squad Average: 13.2/20

> Recommendation: Dedicated penalty training sessions required before competitive fixtures.

A small, cold thought solidified in my mind.

We need to work on penalties.

I filed it away. I turned to face the crowd, raised a hand to acknowledge the fans who were still singing, still celebrating, still waving their scarves in the humid Singapore night. I smiled. I meant it. It had been a brilliant, chaotic, deeply imperfect evening, and I had loved every second of it. But the work was not over. It had barely begun.

I filed it away. I turned to face the crowd, raised a hand to acknowledge the fans who were still singing, still celebrating, still waving their scarves in the humid Singapore night. I smiled. I meant it.

But as I turned and walked back towards the tunnel, I was honest with myself about what the result actually meant. We hadn’t beaten Atlético Madrid. Not really.

We had beaten their second half, their reserves, the players Simeone trusted least. When his first team had been on the pitch, they had been better than us in every department. Organised, ruthless, and completely in control.

The real Atlético: Griezmann, Torres, Koke, Gabi, Saúl… had taken us apart. The only reason the scoreline read 4-2 in our favour was that their substitutes were not as good as ours. Our depth had won the game. Not our system. Not our tactics. Our squad.

That was worth something. It was genuinely worth something. But it was not the same as winning. And I knew, walking back into the tunnel with the noise of the crowd still ringing in my ears, that Simeone knew it too. He had seen exactly what we were. The question was whether, by the time the real season started, we would be something more.

The work was not over. It had barely begun.

***

Thank you to Sir nameyelus for the constant support.

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