On Friday morning at half 7 I was in the boot room.
James McArthur comes in before anybody else on a Friday. He has done it since before I was manager. He cleans his own boots with an old toothbrush and a bucket, though Deano would do it for him.
He was sitting on the upturned crate with a boot in 1 hand when I came in. He looked up and saw my face, and put the toothbrush down in the bucket.
Plip.
"Nya plays on Sunday," I said. "I wanted you to hear it from me, and first."
McArthur nodded slowly. He looked at the boot in his hand. There was still mud in the studs at the back, and he turned it over and looked at that.
"Aye."
I sat down on the bench across from him. "You did everything I asked at Wembley last month. You ran until both your calves went, and it got us to this final. That is the reason it is hard."
He picked the toothbrush up again. "I know why it is hard, boss. Is it the man in the middle? Jorginho?"
