Terry Blackwood's house was a modest semi-detached in a quiet Salford cul-de-sac, the kind of street where kids played football in the road and neighbours knew each other by name.
It was a world away from the gleaming glass towers of professional football, a world grounded in community and family. It was Terry's world. And I was about to turn it upside down.
He opened the door before I had a chance to knock, a wide, beaming smile on his face. He was still wearing his Moss Side tracksuit from the day before, the club crest stretched tight over his ample belly. "Danny! Emma! Come in, come in! The kettle's on. My Sarah's just gone out to get some bacon, we'll have some butties in a minute."
His warmth made it a thousand times harder. We stepped into his living room, a comfortable, lived-in space filled with family photos and football memorabilia. The County League trophy, our trophy, sat proudly on the mantelpiece, gleaming under the Sunday afternoon sun.
