Chapter 496: Boxing Day II: Southampton
Southampton. Boxing Day. The match itself was generous, open, decided by quality. I rotated: Mandanda, Ward, Digne, Tarkowski, Dann. McArthur and Kirby in the pivot. Townsend and Gnabry wide. Pato and Bojan up front.
Pato scored in the eleventh minute. Gnabry headed the second from a Digne cross in the thirty-eighth. And Bojan completed it in the seventieth with his bow to the Holmesdale. 3-0. Clean sheet. Mandanda barely tested. The rotation squad performing at first-team level. The system working because the identity was bigger than any individual.
Crystal Palace 3-0 Southampton.
After the final whistle, the Holmesdale sang something I had never heard before. Not "Glad All Over." Not the academy chant. Something new, raw, born in the moment, a melody borrowed from an old terrace song and given new words:
"We’re Crystal Palace, we’re on our way, we’re Crystal Palace, we’re on our way, to the Champions League, to the Champions League..."
It was rough. The words didn’t quite scan. The melody wobbled in places where the crowd hadn’t decided which note to land on. But it was there. Twenty-five thousand people, on Boxing Day, in a twenty-five-thousand-seat stadium in South London, singing about the Champions League. Not as a joke. Not as irony. As a prayer.
I stood on the touchline and listened, and something tightened in my chest.
[Crystal Palace 3-0 Southampton. Goals: Pato 11’, Gnabry 38’, Bojan 70’. PL: P20 W15 D3 L2. 48 pts. Position: 2nd.]
Four days later. December 30th. The Hawthorns. West Brom away. The final match of 2017.
I played most of the first team. Hennessey, Wan-Bissaka, Konaté, Sakho, Chilwell, Neves, Milivojević, Navas, Rodríguez, Zaha, Abraham. The last match of the year deserved the best we had.
The away end at the Hawthorns was small, steep, intimate. Two thousand Palace fans, crammed into a corner of the ground, their breath rising in the West Midlands cold. They had driven up from London on the Saturday between Christmas and New Year, sacrificing a day with their families, spending money they could have spent on sales-shopping or pub lunches, because Crystal Palace were playing football and they wanted to be there.
I noticed them during the warm-up. Bill Nighy in the front row of the away section, his Palace scarf wrapped twice around his neck, deep in conversation with a man beside him who appeared to be a stranger.
Nighy was like that. He talked to everyone. He treated the away end the same way he treated a film set, with genuine interest in the people around him and zero expectation that anyone should care who he was.
Timothy Spall was a few rows back, his son Rafe beside him, both of them in Palace jackets that had seen better decades. Susanna Reid was in the directors’ area, her phone out, her Instagram stories already reaching millions.
And then I saw her.
Third row from the front. Right side of the away end. A woman in a red Palace scarf and a winter coat that I recognised because I had offered to buy her a new one six times and she had refused six times because "there’s nothing wrong with this one, Daniel." She was sitting very still, her hands in her lap, her face tipped up towards the floodlights, and beside her, his flat cap pulled low against the cold, his brown jacket buttoned to the chin, was Frankie Morrison.
My mum. At the Hawthorns. On December 30th. For a football match.
She hadn’t told me. I had spoken to her on Christmas Day, had told her about the fixtures, had promised to visit after New Year.
She had said nothing about this.
She had let me talk and talk and had said nothing, because she had already decided, and Frankie had already agreed to drive, and two days later they had left Moss Side at ten in the morning and driven the eighty miles to West Bromwich because Danny Walsh’s mother wanted to watch her son manage the last match of the most extraordinary year in Crystal Palace’s history, in person, from the stands, the way she had watched him play Sunday league football on frozen pitches in Manchester when he was twelve years old.
I almost lost it right there on the pitch.
The warm-up was happening around me, the players going through their routines, the coaching staff setting up the technical area, and I was standing on the Hawthorns turf with tears threatening because my mum was in the away end in her old coat and Frankie was beside her in his flat cap and they had driven eighty miles without telling me.
Sarah noticed. "Gaffer? You okay?"
"My mum’s here."
Sarah looked at the away end. Then she looked at me. Then she said, very quietly: "Win the match, Danny. Then go to her."
The match was a war. West Brom were fighting relegation, their tackles desperate, their commitment total. Pardew’s side had nothing to play for except survival, and survival made teams dangerous in ways that ambition could not.
Abraham scored in the forty-first. A scrappy, ugly, beautiful goal. Neves’s long pass over the top, Abraham’s heavy first touch, the ball bouncing ahead, the goalkeeper coming out.
Abraham stretched, got a toe to it, poked it past the keeper, and bundled it over the line with his shin. It was the kind of goal that would never appear in a highlight reel and would always appear in a player’s memory.
His first Premier League goal since Watford in November, and he ran to the Palace fans, his grin enormous, his joy the uncomplicated, irresistible joy of a nineteen-year-old doing the thing he was born to do.
West Brom 0-1 Crystal Palace. Abraham. 41 minutes.
I glanced at the away end. My mum was on her feet, clapping. Frankie was sitting, his arms folded, his face unreadable. He never celebrated goals. He said it was "tempting fate." But I knew him well enough to see the corners of his mouth twitching.
West Brom equalised in the fifty-fifth. Rondón from a long throw, the ball bouncing off Konaté’s knee, a defender’s nightmare. 1-1. The Hawthorns came alive. The West Brom fans, who had been subdued, found their voice. The nervousness that had defined the first half turned to desperate belief.
***
Thank you to Sir nameyelus for the Massage Chair.