Later that afternoon, I sat alone in the quiet of my office, the adrenaline of the morning having faded into a pleasant, humming exhaustion. The official contracts had been emailed over from Gary's assistant, and I read through them, the black and white text a concrete validation of everything we had achieved.
Eze's was a standard two-year professional deal, the salary modest by footballing standards but a king's ransom for a seventeen-year-old who had been on the scrap heap a month ago. It was a future, codified in clauses and stipulations.
Semenyo's was a simpler document, a six-month trial extension, a stay of execution that offered him a precious window of opportunity. I made a mental note to schedule his one-on-one sessions for the rest of the month, to keep pushing him, to ensure that this chance didn't go to waste.
