Boxing Day at Selhurst Park.
I arrived at the ground two hours before kick-off, the way I always did, through the staff entrance on Holmesdale Road. The security guard, a man named Dennis who had worked the Selhurst gates for thirty-one years and had seen managers come and go like weather systems, nodded as I walked past. "Morning, gaffer. Happy Christmas."
"Happy Christmas, Dennis. Good one?"
"Quiet. The missus cooked. The dog ate the Yorkshire puddings off the counter while we were watching the Queen's speech. Standard." He paused. "Second in the league, gaffer. My old man would have wept. He followed Palace from 1952 until the day he died. Never saw us higher than seventh."
"What was his name?"
"Arthur. Arthur Briggs."
"Then this one's for Arthur, Dennis."
