The halftime whistle, which had been a sound of mercy for the Northwood players, was a sound of frustration for Barnsley.
They were furious. They were hungry. They wanted more.
Michael made his way down to the home dressing room, his heart a frantic, joyous, pounding drum. He didn't go in. He just stood in the corridor, a silent guardian, and listened.
He could hear them inside. There was just the low, dangerous, focused voice of his one-legged general, Arthur Milton.
"It's 3-0," Arthur was saying, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.
"And they are broken. You broke their spirit. But I know that man in the other dressing room. He's not in there talking tactics. He's in there raging. He's just told them that if they don't go out there and hurt you, they'll never play for him again. The second half is not going to be a football match. It's going to be a fight."
He paused, letting the reality sink in.
