The bus crawled through a sea of fire and fury. Flares painted the Istanbul night sky in blood-red and canary-yellow, the smoke coiling like angry serpents around the lampposts. The noise was a low, guttural roar that vibrated through the reinforced glass, a promise of the inferno that awaited us. This was not just a football match. This was a declaration of war.
I looked at the faces of my players. Wan-Bissaka, expression unreadable as ever, but his knuckles white where he gripped his seat.
Gnabry, a small, curious smile on his lips, as if he were watching a particularly interesting film. Neves, eyes closed, already in his own world. Sakho, grinning from ear to ear. He looked like he was home.
The lineup had been pinned to the dressing room board at Beckenham two days ago, no surprises, no last-minute changes.
