The days following the victory over Brøndby were a strange, intoxicating blur. The world had shifted on its axis. The quiet anonymity I had cherished, the ability to walk down the street or grab a coffee without a second glance, was gone.
It had been replaced by a low, constant hum of recognition, a background noise that was both flattering and deeply unsettling. We had not just won a football match; we had captured the imagination of the public.
The story was too good: the 28-year-old interim manager with no professional playing career, taking a team on the brink of relegation to their first-ever European adventure, playing a brand of exhilarating, high-octane football.
The media, having exhausted their skepticism, had now swung to the other extreme. We were the darlings of the new season, the team everyone was talking about. The predictions were rolling in, a tidal wave of hype.
