Neville: "Can I just play devil’s advocate for a second? Because we’re in danger of talking ourselves into Palace winning this."

Keane: "I’m not talking myself into anything. I’m stating facts."

Neville: "The facts are also this, Roy. City have De Bruyne, Silva, Agüero, Sterling, Sané, Walker, Kompany, Fernandinho, Ederson. That squad cost six hundred million quid. Palace’s squad cost sixty million. That’s a ten-to-one ratio. Ten to one. And money wins finals. It just does."

Keane: "Money doesn’t win finals. Players win finals. And character wins finals. Money buys the players but it doesn’t buy the..." He waved his hand. "The thing. The thing that Walsh’s lot have."

Carragher: "Can you be more specific than ’the thing,’ Roy?"

Keane: "No. Because if I could describe it, everyone would have it. That’s the point."

Henry laughed. Neville shook his head. Ferdinand grinned.

Henry: "I want to say something about the academy. Because I think it’s being underestimated." He straightened.

"I’ve coached at youth level. I’ve been in academies. I watch development football closely. What Walsh has done with his young players, Blake, Olise, Kirby, Eze, these kids are not on loan. They are not emergency cover. They are first-team players who were developed by a man who was their under-eighteens coach eighteen months ago. He coached them. He knows them. And he trusts them more than the transfer market."

He looked at the camera. "Chelsea recall Abraham in January and Walsh doesn’t sign a replacement. He already promoted an eighteen-year-old whom he coached himself. That is not normal behaviour for a manager. That is revolutionary."

Keane: "It’s also insane. And I mean that as a compliment."

Neville: "Right. Breaking news. Konaté is out. Hamstring. Dann starts alongside Sakho."

The studio went quiet for half a second.

Carragher: "That changes things. Konaté is a Rolls-Royce. He reads the game like... I don’t even have a comparison for an eighteen-year-old. He reads it like a thirty-year-old who’s played five hundred games. Losing him against City, against De Bruyne’s passing and Agüero’s movement, that’s a problem."

Keane: "It’s not a problem. Dann scored the goal that got them to this final. The header against Arsenal. Eighty-ninth minute. He’s played at the San Siro this week. He’s been at the club seven years. If there’s a man you want coming in at short notice for a cup final, it’s the captain."

Carragher: "I’m not saying Dann can’t do it. I’m saying they lose something. Konaté’s reading of the game is..."

Keane: "Jamie. Dann has courage. And in a cup final, I promise you, courage is worth more than reading the game. I’ve played in finals. You’ve played in finals. You know what wins them. It’s not the prettiest player. It’s the one who wants it most."

Ferdinand: "I’ll tell you what I saw from the gantry just now. Konaté went down in the warm-up. Walsh walked over, put his hand on the kid’s shoulder, said something, then turned to Dann and said what looked like two words. Maybe three. The whole thing took thirty seconds. Dann was already wearing his shin pads. He was already warm. He was already ready."

He paused. "The team didn’t flinch. Not one player stopped their warm-up to look over. Not one. They knew Dann was next in line. They knew Walsh had it handled. That tells you everything about this squad."

Neville: "Right. Thirty minutes to kick-off. City or Palace. Predictions. Roy?"

Keane: "Palace. Don’t ask me why. I just think they’ll find a way."

Henry: "City. Two-one. They have too much quality. But it will be close."

Carragher: "City. One-nil. Boring and professional. Pep will set up to nullify."

Ferdinand: "I’m going with Palace. I’ve sat with Walsh. I’ve looked him in the eye. He doesn’t think he can lose this. And when a manager believes that, properly believes it, the players feel it."

Neville: "I’m going with City. But I’ve never been less confident in a prediction. Because Roy’s right. Walsh has something. I can’t describe it either. But it’s there."

Keane: "Thank you, Gary. That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me."

Neville: "Don’t get used to it."

The conversation ended. The graphics faded. The cameras turned to the pitch, where ninety thousand people were finding their seats and the Wembley arch was lit in the late February sunlight and the Carabao Cup trophy was sitting in its glass case in the tunnel, waiting.

In the dressing room, the television was off. The analysis was irrelevant. The pundits’ opinions were noise. The only thing that existed was the room and the players and the manager and the match.

I stood in the centre of the dressing room. The Wembley dressing room, which was larger than Selhurst’s, which was white and bright and designed for occasions like this, for cup finals and internationals and the matches that defined careers. The Palace shirts were hanging on the hooks, the gold trim catching the light, the cup final patches on the sleeves, the date embroidered inside the collars. February 25th, 2018.

I looked at my players. Sakho, eyes closed, visualising. Pope, focused, still, his gloves already on. Dann, armband on, jaw set, the warrior who had been given forty-five minutes’ notice and who was ready.

Kovačić, bouncing on his toes, the energy of a man who had been waiting twelve days. Neves, calm, composed, his phone in his pocket, Lurdes on his lock screen, the weight of everything he was playing for contained in a two-inch photograph. Zaha, headphones off now, the weapon armed.

Rodríguez, quiet, still, the genius waiting for the stage. Navas, professional, experienced, five hundred career appearances and the composure that came with them. Chilwell, focused, young, ready. Wan-Bissaka, still, concentrated, the boy from Croydon about to play in a cup final at Wembley. Benteke, sitting forward, his eyes on me, waiting for the words.

"One hundred and twelve years," I said.

"That’s how long this football club has existed without winning a trophy. One hundred and twelve years of Saturday afternoons and Wednesday nights and early kick-offs and late finishes and broken buses and frozen terraces and relegation battles and promotion parties and every single emotion that football can produce. A hundred and twelve years of people who loved this club and never got to hold a trophy."

I looked at Dann. "Your seven years are in those hundred and twelve. You’ve given more to this club than most people give to anything. Today, the club gives something back."

I looked at Sakho. "The boy from Paris who wanted to play at the San Siro. You played at the San Siro. Now play at Wembley."

I looked at Zaha. "South London. The Holmesdale. The fans who have been singing your name since you were seventeen. They’re out there. Twenty-five thousand of them. Give them something to sing about for the next hundred and twelve years."

I stepped back. "Manchester City are the best team in England. Pep Guardiola is the best manager in the world. And we have played them three times and we have never lost. Not once. Because this team, this identity, this system, does not care about reputations. It cares about football. And football is what we are about to play."

The door opened. The match official appeared. "Five minutes, gentlemen."

I looked at the room one more time. Twenty faces. The gold trim on the shirts. The armband on Dann’s bicep. The gloves on Pope’s hands. The focus on every face.

"Go and make history," I said.

They stood. They walked. Through the door. Through the corridor. Into the tunnel.

Guardiola was already there. His City squad lined up opposite, the sky blue shirts pristine, the individual quality visible in every face: De Bruyne, Silva, Agüero, Sterling, Kompany, Walker, Fernandinho. Six hundred million pounds of football talent standing in a tunnel at Wembley.

Guardiola saw me. He nodded. The nod of a man who had faced Danny Walsh three times and had not beaten him once and who was, for the first time in a long time, not certain that this would be the time he did.

I nodded back. The nod of a man who had never lost to the best manager in the world and who did not intend to start today.

The tunnel doors opened. The light hit. The noise hit. Ninety thousand people. The arch above. The Carabao branding in green and gold. The trophy waiting in its case. The pitch stretching out in front of them, perfect, vast, the stage where a hundred and twelve years would either continue or end.

Danny Walsh walked onto the Wembley pitch and felt the weight of everything and everyone and every year settle into his chest. And he was not pretending to be calm anymore. He was calm. Because the preparation was done. The system was tested. The identity was established. And the players walking beside him were ready.

A hundred and twelve years.

This was the day.

[Carabao Cup Final. Sunday, February 25th, 2018. Wembley. 4:30pm.]

[Konaté: hamstring flagged amber yesterday. Rebecca exercised her right to pull him after warm-up test. Dann starts alongside Sakho.]

[Starting XI: Pope; Wan-Bissaka, Sakho, Dann (C), Chilwell; Neves, Kovačić; Navas, Rodríguez, Zaha; Benteke.]

[Subs (7): Hennessey, Tarkowski, Milivojević, Kirby, Eze, Pato, Blake.]

[Pundit panel: Keane, Henry, Carragher, Neville, Ferdinand. Danny vs Pep: P3 W1 D1 L0.]

[Keane on the 1-0: "Anti-football. Desperate. And brilliant."]

[Henry on the academy: "Blake. Olise. Kirby. Eze. That trust is not normal. That trust is revolutionary."]

[Ferdinand on Konaté injury: "Walsh walked over, said two words to Dann. No drama. Dann was ready."]

[Danny’s team talk: "112 years. Manchester City are the best team in England. We have never lost to them. Not once."]

[The tunnel. Guardiola’s nod. Walsh’s nod. The doors open. The light hits.]

[112 years. This is the day.]

***

Thank you to Sir nameyelus for the Massage Chair.