The morning of the match was eerily quiet. As I pulled the club-sponsored car up to the gates of the training ground, I braced myself out of pure habit.
The pack of lenses, the shouted questions, the microphones thrust aggressively towards the window - the gauntlet that had defined every morning of my short, chaotic tenure as interim manager.
But there was nothing. Just the lone security guard, Barry, who gave me a cheerful wave and raised the barrier without a second glance, as if I had been doing this for years. The wolves had retreated.
The story had moved on. The 3-2 victory at Anfield, a result that had sent shockwaves through the Premier League and beyond, had bought me something more valuable than three points: it had bought me legitimacy. I was no longer a punchline. I was a phenomenon. And that, in its own way, was a different kind of pressure entirely.
