The 25,000-strong Oakwell crowd was a single, roaring, red-and-white monster.
And Michael's team... they were angry.
He had seen it in the dressing room. He had seen Arthur, leaning on his cane, deliver a speech of pure, unadulterated fire.
"They think you're a one-man team! They think you're nothing without the magician! Are you? ARE YOU?!"
"NO, GAFFER!"
Portsmouth, as Arthur had predicted, were a fortress.
They played with two, deep-lying, 6'4" defensive midfielders, a "shield" of pure, cynical, veteran muscle.
And it was working.
"This is a tactical masterclass from Portsmouth!" the commentator was yelling in Michael's ear.
"They've done their homework! They've cut the head off the snake! The 'Barnsley Braves' look... ordinary!"
Then, the 29th minute.
A nothing-play. A loose ball in the midfield. A Portsmouth defender, trying to be too clever, was dispossessed by a furious, lunging tackle from Tom Harrison, the "Interceptor."
The ball squirted loose.
