Pope. Krul.
I put the pen on Wan-Bissaka and moved it down. Hakimi. Ward. Dann. Tarkowski. Konaté. Sakho. Tuanzebe. Chilwell.
Every name had a night attached to it.
Ward at right back against Cardiff on Boxing Day. Tarkowski at Wembley a fortnight ago with Troy Deeney looking for his ankles all afternoon. Sakho putting his arm round Konaté's neck and shouting in French before a City corner had even been taken.
I could have told you a night for every 1 of them without looking anything up, and none of those nights got anybody off a list.
Neves. Kovačić. Højbjerg.
The pen stopped there.
Pierre-Emile Højbjerg had come on in both legs of the semi-final. On Wednesday night, in the last minute, he had headed Eze's corner straight back into City's box when everybody else was too tired to jump. He was still the man I sent on with 10 minutes left.
I went on down. McArthur, Grealish, Rodríguez, Olise, Eze. Zaha, Townsend.
Perišić.
