The day after I sent the scouting department on their secret mission, the entire first-team squad had a scheduled day off. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, I woke up without the immediate, crushing weight of a match to prepare for or a crisis to solve.
The war for survival was over. The war for the future was a quiet, simmering campaign being fought in the shadows. For one day, at least, there was peace.
I spent the morning in a small, unassuming park in South London, a place I had come to love for its anonymity. Hood up, headphones in, I walked the perimeter, the gentle rhythm of the city a welcome change from the relentless intensity of the training ground.
I watched the world go by: dog walkers, young mothers with prams, old men playing chess. For a few precious hours, I wasn't Danny Walsh, the boy-wonder manager of Crystal Palace. I was just a man in a park.
