The journey back from Villa Park was a strange and surreal experience, a three-hour descent from the dizzying peak of pandemonium into a state of profound, bone-weary satisfaction.
The initial, explosive euphoria of the final whistle had gradually subsided on the coach, the raucous singing fading like a distant echo.
The triumphant chants were replaced by a low, contented hum of conversation, the occasional burst of laughter, and the soft, intermittent glow of mobile phone screens piercing the darkness of the motorway.
My players, my warriors, my heroes, were scattered throughout the bus in various states of blissful repose. Some were already asleep, their heads resting against the cool glass of the windows, their faces still etched with the ghost of a triumphant smile, dreaming, no doubt, of Wembley's hallowed arch.
Others were plugged into their headphones, lost in their own private worlds, a silent, personal encore of the epic battle they had just won.
