Act VIII: The Roman Revenge (and the Doak Disaster)
There is a distinct danger in feeling invincible.
Heading into game six, we were flying. Ten wins in a row across all competitions. Five consecutive clean sheets. We had developed a beautiful, cynical habit: start in the aggressive 4-2-3-1, score a goal, and then immediately drop back into a rigid 4-3-3 to suffocate the game. We had to do this, frankly, because it had become glaringly obvious that we rarely score more than one. (A fact not helped by my so-called star forwards, Esposito and Gudmundsson, who are currently sitting on a pathetic one goal each. Slackers.)
But then came Roma. At home.
The ghosts of last season loomed large. Roma had dismantled us 6-1 and 4-0 last year. But things were different now. I had raided their club. I had taken Mile Svilar, their star goalkeeper. I was feeling brave. We stuck to the 4-2-3-1. We were going for the throat.
And for twenty glorious minutes, it worked. We started incredibly strong. We had all the momentum. Esposito found himself clean through on goal twice, and twice he missed with the kind of finishing usually reserved for Sunday league hangovers. But we were dominating. A goal felt inevitable.
And then, out of nowhere, a highlight began on the halfway line.
I watched in pure, unadulterated horror as Ben Doak—my £30m Scottish prodigy—launched himself through the air. What followed was the most horrific tackle from behind that the rudimentary 3D graphics engine of Football Manager 2024 is capable of rendering. It wasn’t just a red card; it was a felony. He is genuinely lucky he was only sent to the dressing room and not carted off to an Italian prison.
Thanks a lot, kid.
We immediately shifted into a frantic 4-1-2-1-1. Miraculously, we retained control. Roma, despite the man advantage, offered absolutely nothing. We continued to squander chances. Our corners hit the first man.
Then, the inevitable Football Manager sucker-punch arrived. A Roma winger ran down our right flank completely unopposed. He dragged a pathetic, scuffed cross toward the near post. It was heading nowhere… until Marc Guéhi, my impenetrable free transfer, stuck a leg out and deflected it past his own goalkeeper.
1-0 Roma.
Now, I know this Fiorentina team. We are not like Iain’s teams. We do not have a magical gear we can shift into for the last 15 minutes to turn a game around. Once we go down a goal, we tend to just pass the ball sideways and watch the clock tick down in an existential stupor.
Out of sheer desperation, I pushed everyone forward. All out attack. Roma, naturally, walked the ball down the other end and scored a second. 2-0.
The winning streak is dead. The invincibility is shattered.
To make matters infinitely worse, I checked the results. Iain’s mega-rich Lazio routinely swatted aside Udinese away from home (Udinese, who very unhelpfully chose not to play my loanee, Pafundi).
We have slipped to third, sitting behind Inter and Iain’s sky-blue Saudi-funded juggernaut. This season is going to be an absolute dogfight. Luckily, the physio room is finally emptying, and we will have five or six injured players returning for our next fixture.
And who is our next fixture? AC Milan. Away. Meanwhile, Iain faces Napoli at home. If Napoli don’t stop him, he could genuinely start to pull away. The pressure is on.