The Unpleasant Realisation
The season was supposed to end quietly. That was the plan. Inter had knocked us out of the Coppa Italia back in February. They had then beaten us in the league in the game before that. The title race appeared to have sorted itself out in a very sensible and orderly fashion. Inter would go and win Serie A, Alex would continue writing increasingly dramatic essays about Fiorentina’s noble suffering, and I would spend the summer pretending the top 4 had always been the objective.
Unfortunately, nobody informed Lazio. What followed was a run of form that can only be described as deeply irresponsible.
Modena were beaten 6-1. Juventus were dispatched in Turin. Napoli were beaten in Naples. Atalanta were beaten in Bergamo, which admittedly felt slightly strange given that half the stadium probably still had my old staff photo hanging somewhere in the building.
The wins kept coming.
Every week I expected the wheels to come off. Every week they stubbornly remained attached. The league table began to change in ways that made me increasingly uncomfortable. Inter remained ahead, but the gap refused to grow. Worse still, people started mentioning the word “Scudetto” in my presence.
I hate that word. The moment somebody says it, football immediately begins searching for creative ways to punish you. Meanwhile, Fiorentina continued their pursuit.
This eventually led us to Florence with just nine games of the season to go. I was joint top of the table with Inter and Alex was sitting third three points behind us. Now, there are rivalries in football and then there is whatever this has become. For ninety minutes we attempted to settle matters like professionals. Instead, the match descended into the sort of emotional nonsense that Football Manager specialises in producing.
Alex’s side took the lead. We equalised. They took the lead again. We equalised again. They then took the lead for a third time.
At this point I briefly considered launching my laptop into orbit. Yet somehow we kept coming back. Every setback was followed by another response. Every blow was answered. It felt less like a football match and more like two exhausted boxers refusing to remain on the canvas.
Then came the equaliser.
The moment.
The goal that may one day earn a chapter in Italian football history.
Marc Guéhi, Fiorentina captain. England international. Defensive leader. Model professional. A man standing entirely unmarked at the back post.
No pressure.
No challenge.
No obvious threat.
The sort of situation defenders deal with thousands of times throughout their careers.
And for reasons known only to Marc Guéhi and whatever dark forces govern Football Manager’s match engine, he launched a magnificent header beyond his own goalkeeper. Not near his own goalkeeper. Not accidentally off his shoulder. A proper header. The sort of finish a striker would be proud of.
3-3.
I celebrated with all the dignity and restraint that the moment deserved, which is to say absolutely none whatsoever. The draw felt enormous. Not because it gained us a point. Because it denied Fiorentina two. And football, particularly at this stage of a season, is really just advanced arithmetic performed by increasingly nervous men.
The following week, Fiorentina travelled to Inter. Inter won 1-0. And suddenly the landscape changed. The gap between Lazio and Fiorentina stretched to six points. The gap between Lazio and Inter shrank to two. Seven matches remained. For the first time all season, the title race stopped feeling like a fantasy. Which is unfortunate. Because fantasies are enjoyable.
Title races are terrifying.