With the tie long dead, I emptied the bench. Connor Blake came on for Abraham, his raw pace stretching the exhausted Turkish defence. Townsend replaced Bowen, adding experience to see out the final minutes.
And Bojan came on for Eze, dictating the last ten minutes with his effortless passing, keeping the ball in corners, running the clock down with the quiet intelligence of a player who had played in Champions League semi-finals.
At the back, Tomkins and Tarkowski headed away everything that came near them, a pair of old-fashioned, no-nonsense English centre-backs who had waited patiently for their chance and seized it with both hands.
Mandanda had a quiet night behind them, which was the highest compliment a goalkeeper could receive. And in midfield, Nya Kirby played with a maturity that belied his eighteen years, shielded and guided by the tireless McArthur, who covered every blade of grass with the energy of a man half his age.
