I had dreamed about Wembley since I was a boy. Standing in the living room of our flat in Moss Side, watching FA Cup finals on a television with a dodgy aerial, the picture flickering and the commentary crackling, and imagining what it would be like to walk down that tunnel and step onto that pitch and hear the noise echo off the arch.
I never imagined I'd be walking out as a manager. And I never imagined I'd be this nervous.
Saturday, November 18th. The bus crawled up Olympic Way, and through the tinted windows, the arch came into view that impossible, sweeping curve of steel and light that dominated the North London skyline like the spine of a sleeping giant.
The road was packed with supporters, a river of white Spurs shirts on one side, a narrow tributary of red and blue Palace shirts on the other, the two streams flowing towards the same destination carrying very different expectations.
