The comfortable 3-0 victory against Blackburn was a necessary balm for the soul, a moment of controlled dominance that allowed us to catch our breath and rotate the squad. But as the final whistle blew and the cheers of our home crowd washed over us, my mind was already turning north.
To the grey skies and the red brick of my past. To Manchester. To the city that had shaped me, broken me, and ultimately spat me out. Less than a year ago, I had been coaching Moss Side Athletic in the county league, a ramshackle, semi-professional outfit playing on pitches that were more mud than grass, in front of crowds that could be counted on two hands.
I had been a nobody, a failure, a man whose dreams had died in the gutter of the city I had once loved. And now, I was returning as the manager of Crystal Palace Under-18s, a team that had just won the FA Youth Cup at Wembley, a team that was taking the country by storm.
