The first half was a brutal, humbling lesson in the difference between preseason potential and the harsh reality of competitive football. Fulham were organised, disciplined, and they played with a cohesion that made our frantic, individual efforts look amateurish.
The pressing system, which had looked so promising against Charlton and Inter Milan, was a disjointed mess. The triggers were missed, the lines were broken, and Fulham's midfielders were able to bypass our press with an ease that was terrifying to watch.
Every pass they completed felt like a small victory for them and a fresh wound for us. I stood on the touchline, a helpless spectator to my own team's slow-motion collapse, my pre-match words about playing for each other ringing hollow in my ears.
They weren't playing for each other; they were playing for themselves, a collection of eighteen individuals chasing shadows, their confidence draining away with every misplaced pass, with every lost tackle.
