Monday, March 5th. Selhurst Park. Monday Night Football.
Eight months ago, Manchester United were the team we chased. They were second in the league when Danny Walsh was an interim manager praying for five wins. They had Pogba and Lukaku and Matic and a wage bill that could fund a small country.
They had Mourinho, the man who had won everything, the man whose CV made other managers' CVs look like shopping lists. They had the biggest club in England and the second-biggest budget and the expectation that comes with both.
We drew 1-1 at Old Trafford in November. I remember thinking: we belonged on the same pitch. That was the revelation. Not that we could beat them. That we belonged.
Now it was March. Palace were second. Cup winners. United were fifth. And the distance between the two clubs was not just points. It was something deeper. Something you could see in the way they walked and warmed up and stood in tunnels.
The table had turned. And everyone knew it.
