The bright, defiant, "Barnsley Braves" energy that had defined the last few weeks was gone, replaced by a thick, suffocating blanket of dread.
The fans who had bothered to show up were quiet, their faces grim, as if attending an obligation rather than a celebration.
Michael stood in the tunnel, watching his team warm up. It was a pathetic sight.
The players were just going through the motions, their shoulders slumped, their passes limp.
They were a team adrift, haunted by the three ghosts that had wrecked their season: the ghost of their hospitalized manager, the ghost of their disgraced, doped-up teammate, and the ghost of the terrifying expectation they could no longer meet.
At the head of this broken column was the interim manager, Steve.
His [CA 55 / PA 60] was on full, agonizing display. He was clutching a clipboard, his face a pale, sweaty, nauseous green. He looked less like a football manager and more like a man about to be physically sick.
