Michael was on his feet, his heart a wild drum, the 2-0 scoreline a beautiful, vindicating sight.
His Gaffer, Arthur, had been right. His team wasn't a one-man show.
They had beaten the league leaders, down to 10 men, with a goal from a free-kick rocket and a perfect, tactical header.
He was still applauding, a grin plastered on his face, as the second half resumed.
The 2-0 lead, plus the man advantage, should have meant a calm, professional, "see out the game" performance.
But Michael was quickly learning: his team didn't do "calm."
Portsmouth, the "Kings of the South," were not just beaten. They were humiliated. And they were furious.
Their manager was on the touchline, a screaming, red-faced hurricane of rage. Their 10 remaining players were no longer a football team; they were a gang of 10 very angry, very expensive men who had just been embarrassed, and they were out for blood.
