I looked around the room, making eye contact with each player. "Sarah has done her homework on Inter. We'll spend the next two days preparing tactically. But I want you to enjoy this. This is what football is about. Testing yourself against the best. Proving yourself. Showing the world what you're capable of. So let's make the most of it."

Thursday's practice match was all about preparing for Inter. Sarah had done her homework, spending hours watching footage of their U18 side, breaking down their defensive structure, their pressing triggers, their counter-attacking patterns.

They were a classic Italian side, defensively organized, tactically disciplined, their 4-5-1 formation a compact, impenetrable wall. They didn't press high, they didn't take risks.

They sat deep, absorbed pressure, and hit you on the counter-attack with pace and precision. They were the complete opposite of Brighton and Charlton. They were a tactical puzzle, a test of our patience, our creativity, our ability to break down a low block.

I set up the reserves in a 5-4-1 formation, their instructions simple: defend, frustrate, and deny us space. Michael took charge of the defensive unit, organizing them, coaching them, making them as difficult to break down as possible.

For the first twenty minutes, it worked. We had all the possession, dominating the ball, but we couldn't find a way through. The passing was slow, predictable, the movement static. Eze was getting frustrated, trying to force the issue, taking on three players at once, losing the ball in dangerous areas.

Semenyo was invisible, a passenger on the wing, afraid to take a risk, afraid to make a mistake, his confidence fragile. Connor was screaming for the ball, but the service wasn't coming. I let it play out, watching, analyzing, taking mental notes.

This was exactly what Inter would do. This was the challenge we'd face on Saturday. After twenty minutes, I blew my whistle, stopping the drill. I gathered the players in the center of the pitch, their faces flushed, their breathing heavy, their frustration palpable.

"Patience!" I shouted, my voice echoing in the empty training ground.

"We're forcing it. We're trying to play through them. We need to play around them. Stretch them. Move the ball quickly from side to side. Pull their defenders out of position. And when the opening comes, when the space appears, be clinical. Don't hesitate. Don't overthink it. Just finish."

I looked at Eze. "You're trying to do too much. You don't need to beat three players. Just beat one. Or better yet, don't beat anyone. Just move the ball. Keep it simple."

Then I looked at Semenyo. "You're hiding. I can see it. You're afraid to make a mistake. But you can't play like that. You need to be brave. Make the run. Demand the ball. Take the risk. That's the only way you'll improve."

We went again, and this time, it was better. Eze started to drift into the half-spaces, the pockets of space between the opposition's defense and midfield, pulling their defenders out of position, creating gaps for others to exploit.

Semenyo started to make runs in behind, his pace a constant threat, stretching the defense vertically. The movement was better, the passing quicker, more incisive, more purposeful. Connor was finding space in the box, his movement intelligent, his finishing clinical. And eventually, the chances came.

We scored two goals in the last ten minutes, both created by Eze's brilliance, both finished by Connor's clinical finishing. The first was a perfectly weighted through ball that split the defense, Connor running onto it and finishing calmly.

The second was a clever one-two with Nya, Eze playing a return pass into Connor's path, Connor smashing it into the top corner. It was a small victory, but it was a start. It was proof that we could do this, that we could break down a defensive block, that we could be patient and clinical.

Friday was a light session, a few tactical drills, some set-piece work, and then a team meeting. I didn't need to say much. The lads were ready. They were focused, they were determined, and they were excited.

I looked around the room, at the faces of these young men, these boys on the cusp of their dreams, and I felt a surge of pride that threatened to overwhelm me. We'd come a long way in a short time.

Three weeks ago, Eze and Semenyo were strangers, outsiders, unknowns. Now, they were part of the team, part of the family. We were a team now, a proper team, united by a common goal, a shared dream.

I ended the meeting with a simple message.

"Tomorrow," I said, my voice steady, my eyes moving from face to face, "we show them who we are. We show them what Crystal Palace is all about. We play with courage, with belief, and with no fear. Inter Milan are a great club, a legendary club, but they're just players, just like you. They put their boots on the same way you do. They feel pressure the same way you do. And tomorrow, we're going to show them that we belong on the same pitch as them. We're going to show them that we're not afraid. And we're going to enjoy it. Because opportunities like this don't come around every day."

Later that evening, as I was packing my bag for the match, going through my pre-match ritual, checking and rechecking my notes, my phone buzzed. A text from Emma. Good luck tomorrow. You've got this. I'm proud of you.

I smiled, the familiar warmth spreading through my chest, the tension in my shoulders easing slightly. She was right. I did have this. We had this. The work was done.

The preparation was complete. All that was left was the test. And for the first time in a long time, I felt ready for it. I felt like we were ready for it. Tomorrow, we would face Inter Milan. And we would not be afraid.

***

Thank you for everything.

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