On the Saturday I gave them a game.
Not a real one. A behind-closed-doors run-out against a good Swiss club side brought up the mountain on a promise of no press and a decent fee. No cameras, no record, no stakes. A rehearsal, to see if a fortnight on a notepad survived contact with eleven men actually trying to win the ball off you.
It survived. I'll give you the good first.
The block held like it was bolted down. El Ahmadi screened in front of the four, Benatia organised, Sofyan ate everything that came through the middle, and for long stretches the Swiss had the ball and nowhere on earth to put it, knocking it sideways across a back line that would not break.
And then we won it back, and the 4-1-4-1 became the 4-3-3, and they saw what I'd been telling them.
Twenty-two minutes. They overcommitted a full-back. Bounou claimed a cross, smack into the gloves, rolled it out before he'd hit the ground, and the clock started.
