The six-game winning streak in the U18 Premier League Group 1 playoffs had transformed us from a feel-good cup-run story into a full-blown media phenomenon. The emotional homecoming of Nya Kirby, capped by his fairytale goal against Manchester United, was the final confirmation.
We were no longer just "Walsh's Wonders"; we were, as The Guardian had breathlessly dubbed us, "The Golden Generation."
The victory had secured our place at the top of the table, six wins from six, a perfect eighteen points. The equation was now brutally simple: one final game, a home tie against Liverpool, stood between us and a guaranteed spot in the UEFA Youth League.
The pressure was immense, a suffocating blanket of expectation that had settled over South London. But it was also exactly what I had wanted.
My plan, conceived in the quiet desperation of my early days at the club, had been to make these boys so successful, so beloved, that they would become untouchable.
