Michael Sterling's joyous, triumphant, champagne-soaked roar of "DON'T LEAVE!" echoed in the rapidly emptying Oakwell stadium.
He was a mess. His £1,000 suit was snagged on the hoarding, his hair was matted with sweat and a suspicious, sticky liquid (probably soda), and his expensive leather shoes were ruined from his sprint across the pristine, sacred turf.
A few thousand departing fans, hearing the commotion, had stopped in the exit tunnels, their faces a mask of pure, baffled confusion.
They were watching their 18-year-old owner, the "Kid Genius" of the back pages, sprinting, full-tilt, like a madman, away from the celebrating players and towards a random family.
"Liam! Liam Carter! Stop!" Michael yelled again, his voice cracking, his lungs burning.
The father of the 10-year-old in the "FLETCHER 9" jersey stopped, turning around, his face a picture of pure, unadulterated terror.
He instinctively pulled his son behind him. He thought his kid was in trouble.
