Michael Sterling sat, slumped in his expensive director's box seat, his £1,000 suit completely ruined, soaked through with a mixture of cold London rain and probably a bit of his own nervous sweat.
His brain had just... stopped.
Down on the pitch, his "kids," his "Barnsley Braves," were a single, sprawling, joyous pile of red shirts, mud, and tears, right in front of the 3,000 traveling Barnsley fans, who were no longer cheering. They were just... screaming.
A single, unified, hysterical wall of noise that was the only sound in the 40,000-seat stadium.
The 37,000 Chelsea fans? They were just... gone. They had vanished, silent ghosts in a stunned, blue graveyard.
PHWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET!
The final whistle was still echoing in his ears.
3-2.
Danny Fletcher, his [PA 91] "Prince," his emergency center-back, had just won the FA Cup Quarter-Final with a 50-yard chip goal.
Michael let out a sound. It wasn't a laugh. It wasn't a sob. It was a weird, choked, hysterical
