The whistle blew. West Brom 1-4 Crystal Palace. Six consecutive Premier League wins.
The players celebrated. The away end sang. And I walked across the pitch towards the away section, past the TV cameras, past the match officials, past the West Brom stewards who watched me with the wary resignation of men who had learned that Danny Walsh and touchlines were an unpredictable combination.
I reached the advertising boards in front of the Palace fans. Two thousand faces looking down at me, scarves raised, voices hoarse. Nighy, clapping with his scarf around his neck. Spall, his arm around Rafe. Strangers in Palace shirts, men and women and children who had given up their Saturday to be here.
And in the third row, my mum.
She was crying.
