I looked over at Mourinho. He was still there, hands in his pockets, occasionally barking an order, but mostly just watching, a look of serene, almost bored, satisfaction on his face. He knew. He had known all along. This was his world. This was his theatre. And we were just the sacrificial lambs.
At the twenty-five-minute mark, I knew I had to act. To continue like this would be to invite a humiliation on the scale of the 9-0 we had just inflicted on Hull. Pride was a luxury I couldn't afford. Survival was everything.
I called Nya Kirby over to the touchline during a break in play. The boy was breathless, his face pale, his eyes wide with a mixture of exhaustion and bewilderment. He had never experienced anything like this level of quality before.
