Twenty minutes. We were twenty minutes from the first trophy in a hundred and twelve years and every cell in my body knew it and every cell in my body was terrified.

Because Manchester City were Manchester City. And Manchester City did not lose.

Guardiola threw his jacket on the bench. Rolled up his sleeves. He brought on Sané for Bernardo Silva. Fresh legs. Direct pace. He moved Sterling to the right and Sané to the left and told De Bruyne to play as a false nine and the shape changed from a 4-3-3 to something that resembled a 3-2-5 because Guardiola was done defending. Guardiola was going to attack with everything he had for twenty minutes and either equalise or die trying.

I felt it. The shift. The way the pitch tilted. City were coming.

"Sarah." I didn’t look at her. I was looking at the pitch. "Back five."

"When?"

"Now."

Milivojević for Navas. The seventy-second minute. The Spaniard had given everything. Now I needed the Serbian. I needed the body. I needed the man who didn’t believe in ice and who believed in tackling and who would sit in front of the back four and make the space between the midfield and the defence as small and as hostile as possible.

But one change wasn’t enough. I was watching City’s shape. Sterling wide right. Sané wide left. De Bruyne drifting. Walker pushing up. Laporte pushing up. They were committing everything. Which meant the wings were overloaded. Which meant four at the back wasn’t enough.

"Pato for Benteke. Seventy-fifth minute. We go three-five-two. Dann, Sakho, Tarkowski. Wing-backs: Wan-Bissaka and Chilwell. Midfield three: Neves, Milivojević, Kovačić. Eze and Pato up front. We absorb and we counter."

Bray looked at me. "You’re going defensive."

"I’m going to win."

The change happened. Tarkowski came on for Benteke at seventy-five. The shape shifted. Five at the back. Three in midfield. Two up front. The system that the season had been built on, the pressing, the attacking, the identity, was temporarily suspended. Because the identity said one thing above all others: we win. And winning, right now, at Wembley, meant surviving.

City came. Wave after wave.

Pope saved from Agüero in the seventy-fourth. Twelve yards. Low. Hard. Pope got down. Right hand. Strong! The save of the match! Pope stood up and screamed at his defence, a primal, guttural scream that said: I saved that one. I might not save the next. Wake up!

Sané hit the bar in the seventy-ninth. A curling shot that beat Pope and struck the woodwork and bounced back. The sound of the ball hitting the crossbar!

The City end gasped. The Palace end died for one second and came back to life in the next. I grabbed the back of my neck with both hands and turned away from the pitch. I could not watch. I could not watch.

Sterling had a goal disallowed in the eighty-second. Offside. The flag late. The City end celebrating, arms raised, sound rising, and then the flag, and the sound dying, the celebration collapsing mid-flight. Guardiola was screaming at the fourth official. Kompany was screaming at the linesman.

Eighty-three minutes. Seven minutes plus stoppage time.

I was on the white line. The fourth official had told me twice to step back. I hadn’t moved. I wasn’t going to move.

Every Palace player was behind the ball. Every single one! Eze tracking Walker. Pato was defending the left channel. Kovačić sliding across the Wembley turf to tackle De Bruyne. Kovačić! Tackling! The most elegant midfielder in the squad throwing himself at the best player in the country because the cup final demanded it.

Eighty-five. De Bruyne hit a shot from twenty-five yards. Blocked! Dann. Body in the way. Ball hitting his chest. Bouncing away. He didn’t flinch. Not now. Not with five minutes left. Not with everything on the line.

Eighty-six. Corner to City. Kompany came up. The captain. The leader. The man who scored headers in the moments that mattered. He positioned himself at the near post. Sakho positioned himself beside Kompany. The two captains, the two centre-backs, the two leaders, standing shoulder to shoulder in the six-yard box, waiting for the delivery.

The corner came in. Kompany rose. Sakho rose with him. The two of them going up together, their bodies colliding, the ball arriving between them. Sakho won it. His forehead connecting, the ball clearing, reaching Neves at the edge of the box. Neves controlled it. Played it forward. Found Eze. And Eze ran.

The counter-attack. Three against three. Eze driving forward, Pato left, Zaha right. City’s defence was scrambling back. The Wembley pitch was stretching out. The clock at eighty-seven minutes.

Eze looked left. Looked right. Played it left. To Zaha. Who crossed. Back post.

And there was Dann.

The captain had started his run from the edge of the box. Late. The same late run. The same timing. The same angle. KB-29 turned into an open-play sequence that ended in exactly the same position: Dann, arriving at the back post, unmarked, because the defenders were watching the ball and not the man.

He headed it down. Into the ground. Up. Into the roof of the net.

Crystal Palace 4-2 Manchester City. Dann. 87 minutes.

I don’t remember what I did.

I watched the footage later. Danny Walsh was turning and running. Running! Away from the pitch, towards the bench, fists clenched, mouth open. Sarah was jumping on his back. Rebecca, the woman who did not believe in emotion, punched the air with both fists! Bray dropped his notepad. Barry sat down on the grass because his legs had given way.

I don’t remember any of it. I remember the sound. Forty-five thousand people and a hundred and twelve years hitting the Wembley arch at once.

Tyler’s voice, cracking: "And Dann! Scott Dann! The captain! He was told forty-five minutes before kick-off that he was starting and he has scored the goal that surely wins the cup!"

Neville: "Look at the Palace end. Look at them. A hundred and twelve years, Martin. And Scott Dann has just put one hand on the trophy."

Dann ran to the Palace end. Slowly. Arms rising. Mouth open. Eyes filling. The emotion in waves. Each one larger. Until they overwhelmed him and he was crying and running and the Palace end was crying with him.

Konaté sprinted from the bench. First to reach him. The boy who couldn’t play throwing himself at the captain who had replaced him. Then Sakho. Then Neves. Then everyone. A pile of red and blue at the corner flag.

The stewards had given up. The head steward was on his radio calling for reinforcements. Three fans had made it over the advertising boards. A man in a Palace shirt from 1990, the FA Cup final shirt, the one from the last time Palace had been at Wembley and lost, was on the pitch, on his knees, crying.

Two stewards reached him and stopped. They looked at each other. They looked at the man. They let him cry. One of them patted his shoulder. The other one looked away because the steward was a Palace fan too and if he looked at the crying man any longer he was going to join him.

George Elphick was standing still. Hands at his sides. Tears on his face. Looking at the sky.

"We did it, Dad. We finally did it."

David put his arm around him. "He can hear you."

"I know he can."

Lorraine was sitting down. Hands on her face. Shoulders shaking. Malcolm patting her back. "It’s alright, love." His voice rough. His eyes were wet.

Sharon had stopped crying. For the first time all day. She was laughing.

***

Thank you for 200 Power Stones.