The roar of Old Trafford faded behind them, replaced by the chaotic, high-energy buzz of the post-match media scrum.
Flashes popped, reporters shouted questions, and a sea of microphones was thrust in the direction of anyone in a Barnsley tracksuit.
Michael and Arthur, however, slipped out a side exit, their faces hidden by the shadows of the massive stadium. The 3,000 traveling fans were still in the stands, singing their hearts out in a celebration of their glorious 4-2 defeat.
The team bus was idling, a noisy, diesel-fueled cocoon of triumph, ready to take the 'Barnsley Braves' home.
"You go with them, Gaffer," Michael said, clapping Arthur on the shoulder.
"They've earned a celebration. You've earned it."
"And you?" Arthur asked, his face etched with exhaustion, but his eyes shining with a manic, victorious energy.
"I need some quiet," Michael said, gesturing with his car keys. "My Audi is a lot less... sticky... than that bus is going to be."
