Saturday, February 10th. Selhurst Park. Everton.
There was something absurd about facing both Merseyside clubs in the space of five days. Liverpool on Monday, Everton on Saturday.
The red half and the blue half. Anfield and now Selhurst Park. The two brothers who shared a city and a rivalry and absolutely nothing else, drawn against Palace in consecutive fixtures by a scheduling algorithm that had no interest in narrative symmetry but had produced it anyway.
On Monday night, we had played the most breathtaking match of the season in a stadium where "You'll Never Walk Alone" shook the floodlights. On Saturday afternoon, we were about to play the most pragmatic manager in the Premier League in a match that would shake nothing except Sam Allardyce's blood pressure.
The squad had returned from the four days off looking different. Rested. Present. The break had done what Rebecca's science could not: it had given them permission to stop.
