The carnival of noise that had engulfed Selhurst Park for the final twenty minutes of the 4-0 demolition of Burnley followed me down the tunnel, a wave of pure, unadulterated joy that echoed in the concrete corridor.
It was the sound of a club reborn, of a fanbase that had been dragged through the mud of a relegation battle and had emerged, blinking, into the bright, warm sunshine of safety.
The System, my silent, secret companion, had confirmed it with a cool, clinical finality: [Relegation Probability: <5%]. We were safe. The war was won.
But as I stepped into the press conference room, the familiar predatory energy of the media felt different. The skepticism was gone, replaced by an almost fawning admiration.
The journalists who, just two weeks ago, had been sharpening their knives and whispering about my age and inexperience, were now falling over themselves to praise the architect of the 'Selhurst Fortress.'
