Saturday afternoon at Oakwell.
Michael Sterling stood in the tunnel. He looked at his team.
It was a new era. Finn Riley was gone. Diego Nunez was in the stands with his leg in a cast eating a hot dog.
And in the center of the line stood Benjamin Pavard.
The World Cup winner looked different from the rest of the Misfits. His kit was perfectly tucked in. His hair was perfect. He smelled like expensive soap.
"Benjamin," Michael said. "Are you ready for the Premier League?"
Pavard smiled. It was a cool calm smile. "Football is football Boss. The ball is round. The goal is square. I am ready."
"Spurs are fast," Michael warned. "Son Heung min is rapid. Maddison is clever. Do not let them breathe."
"I will suffocate them with elegance," Pavard promised.
The referee blew the whistle.
They walked out.
The roar of the Fortress was deafening. They were singing a new song.
"Oooooh Benjamin Pavard! He drinks the vodka! He plays the guard!"
