Chapter 961 - 961: The Middle Of The Wall III

On Saturday Bournemouth came to Wembley.

Eddie Howe's side had beaten Chelsea 4-0 on the Wednesday before we went to Newcastle, and then lost at Cardiff on the same Saturday. They were missing Callum Wilson and David Brooks, and they still came at us in a 4-5-1 with Ryan Fraser running at our right back from the first whistle.

CRYSTAL PALACE: Pope. Ward, Dann, Tarkowski, Chilwell. Højbjerg. Bowen, McArthur, Grealish, Perišić. Pato.

Bench: Krul, Wan-Bissaka, Konaté, Neves, Kovačić, Eze, Zaha.

AFC BOURNEMOUTH: Boruc. Smith, Cook, Aké, Rico. Ibe, Gosling, Lerma, Surman, Fraser. King.

Rebecca had picked half of it. 11 days before Madrid, she had a red line under Neves, Kovačić, Konaté and Wan-Bissaka, and the 4 of them sat on the bench in their coats, zipped to the chin.

Højbjerg and Perišić had the other half. Neither of them would be in Madrid. They both played as if they were going.

Prrrp.

Fraser ran at Ward for 20 minutes. Ward stood him up every time.

On 22 Perišić took the ball off Ibe on the halfway line, went 30 yards with it, and hit it from the edge of the box with his left. Boruc touched it, and it hit the underside of the bar on its way in.

Clang. Swsh.

He ran to Rebecca again, all the way across to our bench, and this time he did not hold his thumb up. He pointed at his hamstring with both hands, and then at her, and then he went back.

King hit the post for them on 40. Tonk. Pope had not moved.

On 61 Grealish went past Gosling and Lerma and laid it off to Pato, and Pato put it in the far corner from 16 yards with his first touch.

Thump.

Eze went on for Grealish at 70, the way Rebecca's card said. Zaha went on for Bowen. Bournemouth brought on Solanke and Mousset and then Mepham, and they did not stop running, and they did not score.

Prrrp. Prrrp. Prrrrp.

Crystal Palace 2, AFC Bournemouth 0.

Howe shook my hand and said well done and that his lads had given everything, which they had, and he went to them and clapped every 1 of them off.

26 played, 0 lost. 68 points.

Marcus was waiting outside the dressing room with his phone. Atlético had played Real Madrid while we were playing Bournemouth, at their own ground.

"3-1 to Madrid," he said. "Casemiro, then Griezmann, then Ramos from a penalty, then Bale. Morata had 1 disallowed by the video. Partey was sent off near the end."

He scrolled. "That is the league. He can play in the Champions League. And it was a 4-4-2, with Morata up front next to Griezmann. I am taking the question mark off."

I asked him who had played at left back.

"Lucas Hernández. All 90."

I said then we would see him in Madrid.

Marcus nodded slowly. He did not look sure. He had seen something in the last 20 minutes he did not like, the way Lucas was running, and he said he would know more by Monday.

On Sunday morning Rebecca had Kirby on pitch 3 at Beckenham at 9 o'clock, with the grey protective boot off his right foot for good.

He had a normal boot on both feet. He jogged 2 laps of the pitch with her walking across the middle of it to keep up with him, watching his right heel the whole way. Then she made him do 10 sprints of 20 yards, and turn on his right foot at the end of each 1.

I watched from the fence with a coffee. It was cold enough to see my breath.

On the 10th sprint he turned and came back, and stopped in front of her, breathing hard, and waited.

It was the 10th. He did not have to ask.

Rebecca took a card out of her coat pocket. She had written it before she came out. I could see the shape of the writing from the fence.

KIRBY. FULL TRAINING FROM MONDAY.

That was all it said. Nothing about the 24th.

Kirby read it twice. Then he started to laugh, a high cracked sound that went up at the end, and he put both hands on top of his head and walked away from her in a circle and came back.

"And the final?"

"Monday you train," Rebecca said. "Ask him about the final." She pointed at me.

Kirby turned round and looked at me across the pitch.

I said I would see him on Monday.

Pato rang Rodrygo at 12. Brazil played Argentina that night in Chile, their last match of the tournament, and they needed to win it.

"He plays tonight," Pato told me, in the car park. "He is back from the ban. He says to tell you May."

At 4 o'clock City played Chelsea at the Etihad, and I watched it in the canteen at Beckenham with Marcus and Sarah.

Sterling scored after 4 minutes. Agüero scored after 13 and again after 19, and Gündoğan after 25. By half time Sarah had put her pen down. Agüero got his third early in the second half and Sterling his second with 10 minutes left, and it finished 6-0.

The commentator said it was Chelsea's heaviest defeat in any competition since 1991.

Nobody in the canteen said anything about the 24th. We did not have to. In 14 days we would be at Wembley against that team, or whatever was left of it, and every 1 of their players would have spent 2 weeks hearing about 6-0.

Marcus got up when it finished and wrote the table in its corner on the wall.

PALACE 68 (26). CITY 66 (26).

2 points. At New Year it had been 5.

Then he went back to his chair, and looked at the middle of the wall instead, where Atlético were.

Oblak, top left. Godín and Giménez. Griezmann in the centre with all the red pen. Morata at the bottom right with his question mark rubbed out, and Lucas Hernández on the left of the back 4, where Marcus had drawn a small question mark of his own beside the name and not yet rubbed it out.

10 days.