Michael Sterling just... sat.
He was a statue, a block of ice, in the posh, plush, director's box at Wembley.
The rain was lashing down, but he didn't feel it.
The 45,000 Man City fans were roaring, their blue flags a triumphant, waving sea.
He didn't hear them.
All he heard... was his own heart, a slow, heavy, thud... thud... thud...
It was over. 3-2. They had lost.
Jamie Weston was flat on his back, his arms spread, just... staring, lifelessly, into the rain.
Raph, the 'Magician,' was sobbing. Huge, body-wracking, 17-year-old sobs, his face buried in his hands.
Danny Fletcher... wasn't even on the pitch. He was gone. Sent off.
Michael felt a cold, gray, emptiness.
"...Oh, Barnsley... Oh, Barnsley... is wonderful... Oh, Barnsley is wonderful... it's full of tits, fanny, and Barnsley... Oh, Barnsley is wonderful!..."
Michael's head... snapped up.
The 45,000 Man City fans... were leaving.
But the 45,000 Barnsley fans...
...were staying.
They were all... standing.
