ACT 3 OF VOLUME 1
Early December 2015
The victory against North Manchester Athletic was the highest of highs, a moment of pure, unadulterated footballing ecstasy. We were the talk of the city, the giant-killers, the team that had defied all odds.
The players were walking on air, their chests puffed out with a newfound, swaggering confidence. I was the Moss Side Mourinho, the tactical genius, the man who could turn water into wine. We were on top of the world.
And then, just as quickly, the world came crashing down around us.
The news came on a Tuesday evening, in the form of a crumpled, beer-stained letter that Frankie Morrison handed to me with a look of utter devastation on his face.
