The second week of the UEFA B course was different from the first week of the course. The dynamic had shifted. I was no longer the non-league kid, the outsider, the fraud. I was called Walshy.
The lad with the good football brain. The one who'd stood up to the ex-pro and earned a nod of respect from Mike Phelan. It was a small thing, a subtle change in the atmosphere, but it made all the difference.
On Monday morning, as I walked into the lecture theatre, Graham waved me over to sit next to him. "Alright, Walshy," he said, using the nickname that had somehow stuck over the weekend. "Ready for the final push?"
"As ready as I'll ever be," I said, sitting down.
"You'll be fine," he said. "You've got the practical side nailed. Just need to make sure you nail the written exam."
The written exam. The three-hour test that would determine whether all of this had been worth it. The thought of it made my stomach churn.
