(Afternoon)
The words had barely left my mouth when a familiar figure scurried onto the pitch. It was Norman, the kitman, a man who had seen more managers than I'd had hot dinners, and he was carrying a pair of black boots and a training bib.
He didn't even look at me as he dropped them at my feet, a silent, well-practiced routine that we had established in the final weeks of the previous season.
I sat down on the grass and started unlacing my trainers, and the effect on the new signings was immediate and profound. All seven of them were staring, a collective wave of confusion passing through them as they looked from the boots to me and then back to each other. Pato, who had been leaning against a goalpost with an air of detached cool, nudged Bojan, a silent question passing between them. Is he… serious?
