The Etihad took a piece of our souls. You don't go toe-to-toe with Pep Guardiola's Manchester City, trade blows for ninety minutes, and walk away without leaving something of yourself on the pitch. The 3-3 draw was already being called an early classic of the Premier League season. But classics leave you exhausted.
We got back to South London in the bleak, unforgiving hours of Tuesday morning. The bus from Manchester was silent, the adrenaline long since evaporated, leaving behind the heavy reality of lactic acid and bruised muscles.
I sat in the front seat and stared at my phone. Three matches in six days. City on Monday. Fenerbahçe on Thursday. Swansea on Saturday. It was a schedule designed to break squads. The System had already run the numbers.
