"And what's next? Atlético Madrid in thirteen days."
"What's next is tonight. Tonight, we celebrate. Tomorrow, we recover. And then we go again. Because this club has tasted something tonight that it has never tasted before. And I promise you, it's going to want more."
Ferdinand shook my hand. The interview ended. The broadcast cut. I stood on the Wembley pitch in my ruined suit and watched my players celebrate and I thought about nothing except the fact that it had happened and that it was real and that the boy from Moss Side had done it.
The bus left Wembley at eight-fifteen. The trophy was strapped into the front seat. Not in a case. On the seat. The seatbelt around the handles, Barry having secured it with the same meticulous attention he applied to everything. The green and gold ribbons trailing over the armrest.
