The validation from watching the senior team dismantle Arsenal had been a heady, intoxicating drug, but the high had faded quickly, replaced by the cold, stark reality of my own predicament.
The sight of my tactical philosophy being executed on the Premier League stage was a profound, secret victory, a confirmation that my ideas were sound, that my system worked. But it also raised the stakes.
It added a new layer of pressure. If my system was good enough for the first team, then there were no excuses for the U18s. Not even the loss of a player as pivotal as Nya Kirby.
The week leading up to our own Arsenal rematch, the first game of Group 1 of the second league stage, was a blur of sleepless nights and caffeine-fueled tactical sessions. My office at the Beckenham training ground became my sanctuary, the whiteboard my canvas, the magnetic player markers my entire world.
