Chelsea 1–1 Crystal Palace. Zaha. 38 minutes.
The Holmesdale detonated. Twenty-five thousand people on their feet, the UNBROKEN tifo shaking as the fans behind it bounced. "WILFRIED ZAHA!" echoed around the ground.
On the touchline, I grabbed the nearest person, it was Marcus Reid, who had come down from the gantry for half-time, and shook him by the shoulders. "That's it! That's the quality!" Sarah was on her feet, her clipboard forgotten. Even Kevin Bray, who rarely celebrated anything that wasn't a set-piece, was nodding with grim satisfaction.
[GOAL. Wilfried Zaha. xG: 0.18. Neves → Rodríguez → Zaha. Three touches, three players, a goal of surgical precision. The system is functioning at reduced capacity but the quality of the individual players is compensating. Note: This may not be sustainable for 90 minutes.]
For a moment, I thought we had weathered the storm. I thought the invincibility was going to hold. I thought wrong.
