[Voronezh, Russia. Wednesday 4 July 2018.]
Marcus found me at breakfast with the news that I had broken another record in my sleep.
"Youngest to 6 things now," he said, and slid the tablet across the eggs. "They keep finding new ones."
I did not look. There is a point where the records stop being about you and turn into a game somebody else plays with your name, and I had gone past it about a week back.
Here is what nobody warns you about becoming history. It gets boring. The first one lands like a firework.
By the sixth, a man with a spreadsheet in an office in London has decided I am the youngest manager ever to reach a quarter-final, the youngest to win a knockout on Russian soil, the youngest to do a dozen things I never knew were things.
And I am sat over a plate of eggs wondering if he will run out of records before I run out of appetite.
