The morning of April 21st dawned grey and cold, a perfect reflection of the mood surrounding the Crystal Palace training ground. The media storm that had broken at 5 PM yesterday had not abated; if anything, it had intensified overnight. And I drove straight into the heart of it.
Usually, I walked to the training ground. It was a twenty-minute stroll that helped me clear my head. Sometimes, if the weather was bad, I'd take the bus. But yesterday, after the chaos of the day, Gary Issott had pulled me aside.
"The chairman and I thought you might need this," he'd said, handing me a set of keys. It was for a sleek, black club-sponsored car. A proper manager's car. It was a gesture of respect, a symbol of my new status. It was also, as it turned out, a target.
