From his seat in the director's box, Michael felt like a lonely red rowboat in the middle of a vast, angry, blue-and-white ocean.
Thirty thousand Sheffield Wednesday fans, the loudest and proudest in the league, were roaring, their voices a single, unified, deafening wave of sound.
This was the home of the first-place team, and they were here to see a slaughter.
Michael looked down at the touchline.
Arthur was there, leaning on his crutch, his face a mask of pale, grim focus, his eyes already locked in a silent battle with the opposing manager.
And in the tunnel, Michael had seen it. The contempt.
Marcus 'The Butcher' Riley, all 6'5" of him, had looked at Barnsley's designated defensive midfielder, the rail-thin, 18-year-old Tom Harrison, and he had laughed.
A short, sharp, ugly bark of pure mockery. He had said something to his teammate, and they had both laughed, looking at Tom like he was a small child who had accidentally wandered onto the pitch.
