The journey to Wembley was a strange kind of purgatory. The coach, a sleek, impersonal thing of blacked-out windows and leather seats, was silent. Not a nervous silence, not a fearful one, but a focused, almost meditative quiet.
The boys were all in their matching club tracksuits, a sea of blue and red, each lost in their own world. Some had headphones on, their eyes closed, the music a barrier against the enormity of what was to come.
Others stared out of the windows, their faces blank, their minds a million miles away. I saw Connor Blake, our golden boot winner, his hands clasped so tight his knuckles were white.
I saw Eze, our magician, his head bowed, a picture of calm concentration. I saw Lewis Grant, our captain today, our rock, his jaw set, his eyes burning with a quiet intensity. We were a team on the brink of history, and the weight of it was a tangible thing in the air.
