[Beckenham. Wednesday April 4. 09:00 BST.]
Bus pulled out at nine on the dot. Eighteen players, eleven staff, two lads from Palace TV with cameras, me at the front next to Sarah. Konaté was asleep against the window by the time we hit the A20. Wilf was complaining about the lunch box already. Ben Chilwell was on his phone showing Aaron something that made them both laugh and then both laugh harder.
It was a Wednesday. We were flying to Austria to play a quarter-final.
We flew from Heathrow at half eleven. On the ground at Salzburg airport just after two local time. The bus from the airport got us to the hotel for half past three.
Training was at the Red Bull Arena from half five to half seven on the pitch.
The pitch was perfect. Of course it was. Bull had paid for it.
Marco Rose came out of the tunnel while we were finishing up and stood at the touchline with his hands in his pockets and watched the last fifteen minutes of our session. He did not speak to me.
