The final whistle.
Michael stood in the director's box, his hands gripping the railing.
BARNSLEY 4 - 0 DERBY COUNTY
His team had been so angry, so dominant, so good, that they had simply covered for him.
The 30,000-strong crowd at Oakwell was a single, bouncing, screaming, joyous red-and-white monster.
They were singing Jamie Weston's name to the tune of a pop song. They were chanting Danny Fletcher's name. They were doing the "Olé" chant as the 10-man Portsmouth team just... stood there, their spirits broken, their faces a mask of pure, humiliated shock, just waiting for the referee to end their suffering.
Michael was on his feet, applauding, a wild, giddy, almost hysterical laugh bubbling in his chest.
He practically floated down from the director's box, his feet not touching the ground. He strode down the tunnel, which was already vibrating from the music in the home dressing room. He pushed open the door, and the wall of sound and heat hit him like a physical force.
