[Dulwich. Sunday May 20. 06:14 BST.]
A team plays thirty-eight matches in a Premier League season. We had played thirty-seven of ours. There was one left to go, and the one left to go was the Etihad on a Sunday afternoon against the side that had spent four hundred million pounds across three windows to do what we had been trying to do on fifty.
I had not slept.
I had come downstairs at quarter past five and put the kettle on, and now I was at the kitchen table with the FA Cup medal on the placemat next to the toast and a cup of tea I had let go cold. Sky was on with the sound off.
They were still running highlights of City's title party from three weeks ago because Sky had nothing else to put on at six on a Sunday morning. I had watched it twice without noticing.
Mum was upstairs.
