Michael stood in the director's box, his hands shoved so deep into his suit pockets that his knuckles were white.
The noise was a physical thing, a 20,000-person roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the old stadium. He wasn't watching the pitch.
He was watching the other director's box.
Opposite him, encased in glass, sat his father.
Richard Sterling looked exactly as Michael knew he would: regal, calm.
He was flanked by the Northwood executives, all of them looking bored, as if this was a tedious but necessary stop on their royal procession.
Down on the touchline, Arthur Milton stood, leaning on his crutch, a single, defiant, one-legged general.
In the tunnel, the "lesson" had begun. The pat on the head. "Enjoy the lesson, son."
Michael's jaw was clenched so tight it ached. This wasn't a game. This was an exorcism.
The referee's whistle shrieked. The FA Cup, Third Round, was underway.
