Monday morning. Beckenham. The coaching office smelled of coffee and whiteboard markers.
Sarah had the squad list printed and pinned to the board. Paddy McCarthy was sitting across from me, his Palace coaching jacket zipped to the chin, his face carrying the quiet pride of a man whose players were about to step onto a professional football pitch. Not some of them. All of them.
"Right," I said. "Bristol City. League Cup Round Four. Ashton Gate, Tuesday night. The first team is resting every single player who started against Arsenal is standing down. This is not their night." I picked up the marker and turned to the whiteboard. "This is the academy's night."
I wrote the lineup, and as the names went up, one by one, I felt something I hadn't felt since the FA Youth Cup final... the particular, private thrill of sending out a team that I had built from nothing.
