The away dressing room at the Etihad was a strange kind of sanctuary. The roar of the crowd was a distant, muffled hum, a world away from the cauldron of noise just outside the door.
The air was thick with the smell of sweat, liniment, and sheer, unadulterated effort. My players were slumped in their seats, their chests heaving, their faces a mask of exhaustion. There was no celebration, no back-slapping, no sense of triumph.
Just the grim, quiet determination of soldiers in a trench, taking a brief, precious moment of respite before the next wave of the assault.
I looked at the faces of my players, my warriors. I saw the fatigue in their eyes, the burning in their lungs, the aches in their muscles. But I also saw something else. I saw belief.
I saw a stubborn, defiant refusal to be broken. I let them have their moment, let them drink their water, let Rebecca and her team do their work, checking for injuries, massaging tired muscles. Then, I stood before them.
