The morning after the glorious, impossible night before, the Crystal Palace training ground was a place of quiet, happy exhaustion. The sun was shining, the air was warm, and for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, there was no sense of impending doom.
We had done it. We were safe. The back pages of the newspapers, which had once been filled with predictions of our demise, were now filled with breathless praise.
"THE MIRACLE OF MANCHESTER," screamed one. "BOY WONDER PULLS OFF THE IMPOSSIBLE," declared another. It was a strange, surreal feeling, like waking up from a long, terrible nightmare.
I was in my office, the door closed, the Navas report from Sarah open on my tablet. She had been in before me, as always. I sometimes wondered if she ever went home.
When I had arrived at half past seven, she was already at her desk, a mug of coffee in one hand and her notebook in the other, her dark eyes scanning a spreadsheet of Premier League free agents.
