On the touchline, I allowed myself a single, sharp punch of the air. Beside me, Sarah was smiling, a wide, genuine smile. Rebecca had her fist clenched. Kevin Bray was clapping his hands together, hard and fast. Marcus Reid, who had been watching the game with the detached focus of a man cataloguing data, looked up from his laptop and allowed himself a small, satisfied nod.
"He needed that," Sarah said.
"We all needed that," I said.
The half ended 1-0, but it could have been four. Donnarumma had been the best player on the pitch by a considerable distance. In the dressing room, I told the squad exactly that.
"That goalkeeper is going to be the best in the world," I said. "He is eighteen years old and he just made four saves that had no right to be made. Respect it. And then go out there and score past him again."
