Michael Oliver's whistle cut through the roar and the ball rolled back to City's defence. The chess match began.
The last time I had stood on this touchline, four months ago, I had been a twenty-seven-year-old in an academy tracksuit managing a team of players who mostly aren't at the club anymore.
Cabaye, Flamini, Delaney, Puncheon... veterans who had given everything they had left just to survive. That night, we had parked the bus, defended for our lives, ridden our luck, and stolen a 1-0 win that felt like a bank heist.
It was ugly and desperate, and I had loved every second of it. But that team was gone. Those players were gone.
The academy tracksuit was gone. Tonight, we were not here to steal. We were here to fight. To attack. To prove that Crystal Palace, in the black away kit with the red-and-blue sash, belonged on the same pitch as the best team in England.
