Dougie told him. He did not dress it up and he did not look at me first.
Portsmouth wanted him from Friday. Their manager had rung at full time. They had a home match on the Saturday and they were at the top of their division, and the paper on Dougie's desk said the 24th.
Tyrick Mitchell stood in the doorway in his towel with the ripped sock in his hand and heard the whole thing. Behind him, Kirby had stopped singing.
"What do you want, gaffer?"
I told him I wanted him at Wembley. I told him it was his season and not mine, and whatever he chose I would back him in front of anybody.
He looked at the sock for a while.
Then he asked Dougie for the man's number.
Dougie read it off his phone. Mitchell typed it into his own with his thumb, wet hair dripping on the screen, and rang it there in the corridor in a towel, 2 yards from us, with his back turned.
I heard about half of it.
