The 1-0 was the ugliest, most stressful, and most beautiful win of Michael's life.
He didn't even go down to the dressing room at first. He just sat in his director's box, his leg bouncing, his heart finally slowing down, and just watched. He watched his team, his "Braves," walk over to the roaring home fans.
They weren't celebrating with the wild, chaotic joy of the Millwall comeback. This was different.
They had faced "The Wall," and they had, with a single, brilliant, unexpected stroke, torn it down.
Tom Harrison, the "Shadow," the "Interceptor," was being held aloft by Captain Dave Bishop, a look of pure, disbelieving shock on his face. He was the hero.
Arthur, leaning on his crutch by the tunnel, gave his team a single, proud nod, and then click-clacked his way back inside. The job was done.
Michael finally stood, his legs feeling a little weak. They weren't just a flashy, counter-attacking "circus" anymore.
They had just proven they could win the ugly games.
