[Beckenham. Thursday April 26. 09:30 BST.]

Jessica was in the corridor at half nine in a navy trouser suit with a leather folder thicker than it had been on Tuesday.

"Five minutes."

"Five minutes."

"Adidas. Three-year ambassador, sportswear and training only, no off-pitch. One point two a year before European and English title bonuses. They dress you. They dress the staff. I want to say yes."

"Yes."

"Rolex. Three years. Ambassador. They will not put a number on the phone. The number starts with a seven and a comma and three digits."

"Take the conversation."

"Spider-Man film. Cameo offer. London shoot this summer. Six hours of your time in August. They have not sent the scene over yet because they have not decided which scene yet. Elena Vasquez put your name in front of the casting director at a party in March."

"Yes."

"You said no to Hugo Boss for five hundred and fifty."

"This is not Hugo Boss."

"Range Rover. Three years. National campaign. South London in the rain. Seven hundred and fifty a year and a Range Rover for the duration. Anything except the Defender."

"Yes."

She closed the folder. Did not get up.

"Elena Vasquez wants to know if she can put a camera in the boardroom tomorrow."

"No."

"All right."

"Corridor after. Not before."

She went out.

[Beckenham. Team meeting. 11:00 BST.]

Sarah read it.

"Wayne. Aaron, Mama, Konaté, Ben. Mili, Mateo. Olise, Eze, Zaha. Christopher."

Mama from the back.

"Gaffer. How many."

"Three."

"Three."

"Three at home and they need four in Lisbon. They are not getting four at the José Alvalade. They are not getting two."

Bray spoke for the first time since I had walked in.

"Set piece. KB-twenty-two. Konaté at the back post. Mama running across the keeper. Mateo at the edge for the second ball. We get one corner in the first twenty minutes, we score from it."

"You called it on Tuesday."

"I called it Tuesday. The call still stands."

The room broke up.

[Selhurst Park. Pitchside. 19:18 BST.]

I stood at the edge of the technical area in my coat watching Sporting warm up.

Bruno Fernandes was the last one off the dressing-room ramp. He came onto the pitch in the away end’s noise and did not look at the away end. He went to the corner of the pitch with two cones and the keeper. He took ten balls from twenty-five yards. He scored seven of them.

Then he turned and looked at the goal we would be defending in the first half. Stood at the centre circle. Did not move for thirty seconds. Just looked at the goal. Looked at the angle the keeper was at. Looked at the position of the centre-circle relative to the eighteen-yard box. Then he turned and walked back to his teammates.

Marcus Reid had given me forty-three minutes of edited Bruno Fernandes tape on Friday morning. I had watched all forty-three minutes twice. The tape had shown me an outside-of-the-right-foot passer, a late runner from the eight position, a shot-taker with a still head.

The tape had not shown me what I had just watched.

The tape had not shown me a lad standing still at the centre circle of a stadium that was not his, on a Thursday night in April that was the biggest of his football career so far, just looking at a goal and the angle of the keeper to it.

That was a different thing.

Marcus came up next to me.

"Twenty-three years old."

"I know how old he is."

"Bayern. Liverpool. United. Real."

"How long."

"Eighteen months. Maybe twelve. He is not getting another season at Sporting."

I nodded. Did not say anything else. Bruno Fernandes was at the corner flag with the second-choice keeper now, taking corners with his right foot to the front post.

[Selhurst Park. Tunnel. 19:50 BST.]

The drum started.

Boom.

Boom.

Boom.

Twenty thousand voices picked up the gap between the beats. Glad all over. Boom. Glad all over. Boom.

The Sporting end had been on its feet since seven. Forty-one hundred of them in green and white. They had flown in on the lunchtime BA flight from Lisbon and they were singing in waves. A song. A drop. Another song. The lad they had brought with the megaphone was working through a setlist.

Wayne first in the line. Aaron behind with the headphones on. Mama with the armband. Konaté. Ben. Mili. Mateo. Michael. Eze. Wilf. Christopher.

Pato on the bench in his tracksuit. James next to him. Bowen next to James. Lewis Grant at the end of the row with his eyes on the floor.

The bell at the bottom of the tunnel went.

We walked out.

[Selhurst Park. Kick-off. 20:05 BST.] 𝑓𝓇𝘦ℯ𝘸𝘦𝑏𝓃𝑜𝘷ℯ𝑙.𝑐𝑜𝓂

The Holmesdale dropped the tifo on the first beat of the UEFA anthem.

Full width of the stand. Two photographs.

On the left: Wright, Bright, Salako, the front three at Wembley in 1990, three young men in red and blue with their arms around each other’s shoulders.

On the right: Zaha, Eze, Olise.

Across the top in foot-high letters:

THEY GOT US TO WEMBLEY. YOU GET US TO LYON.

Wilf saw it from the centre circle. Stopped. Put his hand flat on his chest. The three of them stood at the centre circle and looked at the Holmesdale and the Holmesdale looked back.

Jorge Jesus was in his coat at the touchline on the other side. Hands in pockets. Watching the tifo too. He nodded once at it. Then he turned and pointed at his back four to push higher.

The referee blew his whistle.

BLEEP.

[14’.]

First three minutes were theirs. Bruno Fernandes pressed Mama into giving it back to Wayne twice. Wayne played long. Mateo won the second ball.

By the seventh we had it. By the eleventh we had it in their half. By the thirteenth Wilf had drawn a foul on the right.

Corner. Eze over it.

Bray on the bench was already up. He had drawn this one Tuesday morning. Mama on the near post running across the keeper. Konaté at the back post. Christopher dragging the centre-back across the penalty spot. Mateo at the edge for the second ball.

Eze put it where Eze put it.

The keeper came. Got blocked by Mama running through.

The ball went over Mama’s head into the back-post zone.

Konaté.

THUD.

The ball went down off Konaté’s forehead and into the side netting at the bottom of the post.

For half a second nothing happened.

Then the Holmesdale.

It was not a roar. A roar would have been smaller. It was the sound a building makes when you take a wall out of it. The whole of Selhurst Park went up in one continuous sustained noise that did not drop a decibel for thirty seconds. The drum kept time underneath it. Boom. Boom. Boom.

Konaté ran to the corner of the Holmesdale. Mama got there first. Bray on the bench did a small, controlled fist pump and sat back down.

The Sporting keeper was on his knees with both hands flat on the grass looking at the spot the ball had gone in.

[Crystal Palace 1 - Sporting CP 0.]

***

Thank you to Sir nameyelus for the support.