The Palace fans, my five thousand, were in dreamland. They were doing the "Olé" for every pass. They were singing "Danny Walsh's Red and Blue Army" on a continuous loop.
At the sixty-five-minute mark, I made the changes. I turned to Rebecca first. She was already at my shoulder, her tablet showing me the sprint data. "Pato's hamstrings are reading amber," she said quietly.
"He's done his job. Get him off." I nodded. That was the deal. That had always been the deal. I called Pato over. He jogged to the touchline, his face flushed, his breathing heavy. He looked at me with the eyes of a man who wanted more.
"You were perfect," I told him. "Exactly what we needed. Now rest." He held my gaze for a moment, then nodded and walked to the bench, where Michael, our goalkeeping coach, was already handing him a jacket and a bottle of water.
