The dressing room door creaked open, then closed with a dull thud as Nolan stepped in.
From behind, Dawson didn't storm in for the appalling first half display; he walked with a kind of still anger that would have been easier to appease, had he poured it all out.
He stopped just inside the room, folded his arms, and let the silence drag long enough for everyone to feel it.
Finally, he spoke. "Can someone tell me what I just watched out there?"
No one answered.
A few players stared at the floor, some busied themselves peeling off tape or tugging at their socks, but nobody had the courage to meet his eye.
Dawson gave a small, bitter laugh.
"Because whatever that was, it wasn't football. Not from us. Not from a team that's supposed to be fighting to push up the table."
"We looked… soft. Hesitant. Like we were waiting for Sunderland to make all the decisions for us."
He shifted his gaze around the benches, pausing on one face, then another.
