Chapter 917 - 917: Hostile Territory II

On 53 minutes Kovačić got it 35 yards out and ran at the gap between Stephens and Groß. Groß came. Stephens came. Eze was on his own on the edge of the box with his arm up.

"MATEO!"

Kovačić gave it to him and kept running. Eze gave it back first time, round Duffy's leg, and Kovačić hit it on the half volley with his left, thwack, low inside Ryan's near post.

1-0.

"GLAD ALL OVER. GLAD ALL OVER."

The corner came down to the front to meet him. Neves got there first and hung round his neck, screaming into his ear.

"FIRST ONE, MATEO! FIRST ONE!"

Kovačić stood with his hands flat on the advertising board and let our end pull at his shirt, and his face had gone red to the ears. Behind him the rest of the Amex had gone silent, and the old man was sat down with his flask cup in both hands, staring into it.

Then it came back, louder than before.

"COME ON BRIGHTON! COME ON BRIGHTON!"

3 minutes later Knockaert went through the back of Townsend by the touchline, and Townsend got up and put his forehead on Knockaert's, and then there were 16 of them. Duffy had Benteke by the shirt. Propper was shoving Neves in the chest. Stephens and Eze were nose to nose on the edge of it, and the Amex was screaming for all of it.

"OFF! OFF! OFF!"

Scott Dann went in with both arms out and came back out with Townsend under 1 of them and Neves under the other. Tarkowski dragged Eze away by the back of his collar. By the time the referee got his notebook out there was not a Palace shirt within 10 yards of it.

He booked Knockaert and Propper. Then he booked Townsend, for the forehead, and Townsend took it with his hands behind his back and walked away.

"Andros." I had him at the touchline. "That's the last one. Look at me. The last one."

"The last one, boss."

Hughton changed it on the hour. Locadia on, Andone on, 2 up front with Murray behind them, and Brighton came at us in waves. Every ball went into our box in the air. Every time one went up, the Amex went up with it, and every time Tarkowski got his head to it first the noise tore in half.

Duffy came up for a corner and headed it against the bar. Klang.

"OHHHHHH!"

Andone went through on the left and Pope came out and made himself huge, and it hit his knee and went over.

"Tarky! TALK TO HIM! Talk!"

Knockaert had a shot blocked on the line by Aaron's backside. It ran loose to Murray at the back post, and Chilwell threw himself in front of it, and it hit him in the stomach and bounced out for a throw. Chilwell lay there curled up with no air in him, and our end sang his name until he stood up.

"CHILWELL! CHILWELL!"

"We can't keep doing this, Danny." Bray had both hands in his hair. "Sit them in."

"No."

"Danny."

"Look where Andros is."

Townsend was on halfway. Every time Brighton won a corner he walked out there on his own and stood with his hands on his hips, and every time, Bray's hands went back in his hair.

On 75 minutes I put Højbjerg on for Eze. Nothing else changed.

On 84 minutes Brighton won a corner on the right, and the North Stand roared Dunk up the pitch, and Duffy came with him.

Both of them.

Townsend turned round and walked the other way.

"ANDROS! GET BACK! ANDROS!" Bray, at the top of his voice, as promised.

Townsend did not look round. Knockaert swung it in, and 5 blue and white shirts went for it in a line.

"KEEPER'S!"

Pope came off his line through 3 bodies and caught it at the top of his jump, whump, with Duffy's elbow in his ribs, and landed, and threw it in 1 movement.

50 yards. Townsend took it on the half turn on halfway, and there was 1 man between him and the Brighton goal, Solly March, running backwards. And Zaha, on Townsend's left, already running.

The Amex went quiet in the middle of a breath.

The old man in front of me got to his feet with his flask cup still in his hand, very slowly.

"Oh no," he said. "Oh no, no, no."

"WILF!"

Townsend waited until March had to choose, and slid it across him, and Zaha took it in his stride and was clean through on Mat Ryan from 30 yards with nobody near him.

"And Zaha must score," the old man said, quietly, to nobody.

Zaha did not look up. He opened his body as if he was going to bend it, and Ryan went, and Zaha put it the other way, low, swsh, into the side of the net he had been looking at all along.

2-0.

For a second there was nothing. Then our corner.

"ZAHA! ZAHA! ZAHA!"

He ran to them and jumped into them, and they swallowed him.

"WE'RE THE PRIDE OF SOUTH LONDON! WE'RE THE PRIDE OF SOUTH LONDON!"

Behind me the whole Amex was on its feet screaming, at him, at me, at the referee, and plastic seats banged up all round the ground. The old man sat down, and poured the rest of his tea onto the concrete, and screwed the lid back on the flask.

Townsend ran past my box on his way back.

"Halfway!" He was pointing at Bray. "HALFWAY, BRAY!"

"I know," Bray said. "I know. I screamed."

Brighton kept coming. Hughton was on the edge of his area waving them forward with both arms, 2-0 down with 5 minutes left, and they came. Murray hit the side netting. Locadia headed over from 6 yards and lay on the grass with his hands over his face. Pope took a cross off Duffy's head and got a knee in the back for it and held on.

"POPE! POPE! POPE!"

In the 90th minute Duffy went through the back of Zaha in front of our bench, late and high, and both teams were there inside 4 seconds. Scott Dann got there first. He took Zaha by the arm and walked him backwards with his other hand up at the referee, all the way to the far side of the centre circle, talking the whole way.

"Look at me. Look at me, Wilf. We've won. Leave it."

The referee booked Duffy and nobody else.

PRRRP. PRRRP.

Dunk sat down on the grass where he was. Duffy stood over him with his hands on his hips and stared at the scoreboard.

Chris Hughton came to me with his hand out. He held mine a second longer than he needed to and looked at me.

"You were lucky with the flag," he said.

"Maybe."

"You were." He let go. "Well done."

Then he walked his players, every one of them, Dunk pulled up off the grass, down to the North Stand, and stood in front of it with them and clapped. And the North Stand stood up and sang Sussex by the Sea back at their own team, slow, all of it, to the last word, with 2-0 on the board above their heads.

The old man sang it too, with his cap in his hand. When it finished he put the cap back on and looked down at me over the rail.

"Smith should've scored," he said.

"I know. I've seen it."

"Course you have. You're a Manc." He picked his flask up. "Your lot beat us 4-0 in the replay. Did you know that?"

"I know."

"You lot always win." He pointed the flask at me. "Don't get used to it, son."

Glenn Murray went past me at the tunnel mouth with a bag of ice strapped to his knee.

"Both hands," he said. "Tell JJ I said it wasn't a foul."

My phone was in my jacket on the peg in the away dressing room. It had 1 message on it.

Mum. 14:24.

Yes. I know you are there.

It rained in Eindhoven on the Tuesday so hard that Deano changed the kit twice before kick-off.

Mark van Bommel had won the Champions League as a player. He stood on the edge of his area in the rain for 90 minutes as if he was still wearing boots, and his PSV played the same way, every tackle to the floor. Lozano hit the post in the 12th minute, tonk, and the long stand came up with it and fell back down.

"PSV! PSV! PSV!"

Ivan Perišić went on for the last 30 minutes, his first football since the hamstring, with Rebecca on the touchline holding up a card with 30 on it. His 4th touch was a volley at the back post from Hakimi's cross, thump. He ran past our bench and kissed the top of Rebecca's head, and she pushed him back on with both hands.

Cartwright made it 2-0 from 6 yards in the 89th minute. Van Bommel was still screaming his players forward in the 93rd. At the end he shook my hand with water running off his nose, and held it.

"Next time," he said, and let go.

Marcus came into the away dressing room with his coat dripping and his phone held up over his head.

"Dortmund beat Inter. Palace 12. Dortmund 9. Inter 3. PSV 0."

Sakho stood up on the bench and started singing in French. Benteke sang something else over the top of him. Perišić climbed onto the physio table with his hamstring, and the room went.

"CHAMPIONS LEAGUE! WE'RE HAVING A LAUGH!"

"IVAN! GET DOWN! IVAN!"

On Thursday Dion put on a first team top with ASARE on the back, in the corner of the dressing room, facing the wall. Bray ran an 11 against 11 and put him on the left of the yellows, and Aaron on him.

The first time, Dion did the stop, and Aaron went, and Dion was past him.

"Heyyyy!" Hakimi, from the other wing, both arms up.

The second time, Aaron came out a yard less. Dion stopped. Aaron stayed. Dion went, and Aaron went with him at the same instant and was there first, and took it off his toe.

Tk.

At 9 o'clock that night the lights were still on in the analysis room. Aaron was in there on his own with his headphones on and the same clip playing over and over. JJ Johnson at Molineux the Saturday before, on halfway, the first touch, the run, the finish. He stopped it at the first touch. Went back 3 seconds. Watched the first touch again.

My phone went in the car park.

JJ. 21:14.

Heard you have got a new winger. See you Saturday, gaffer.