"Inter are defensive," I began, my voice low and steady, trying to project a calm I didn't feel.

"Compact. Organized. We'll need patience. Movement. Creativity. Don't force it. Find the spaces. Trust each other. And remember - it's ninety minutes. A proper match. Don't burn yourselves out in the first half. Conserve your energy. Be smart. This isn't a sprint, it's a marathon." I looked at Eze.

"I'm ready," he said, his voice quiet but firm, his eyes meeting mine. I looked at Semenyo.

"Me too," he whispered, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and determination.

He looked like a kid who'd been told he was about to sit his final exams, fight a bear, and ask a girl to dance, all at the same time. Reece, our captain, stood up, his voice ringing out in the small room. "Let's show them what Palace is about. Let's show them what we're made of."

The first fifteen minutes were a cagey, tactical chess match, a feeling-out process where both teams tried to impose their will on the game without taking any unnecessary risks.

Inter settled into their compact 4-5-1, a blue and black wall that seemed to have no cracks, no weaknesses, a defensive shape that was designed to frustrate and stifle. We dominated possession, passing the ball from side to side, probing for an opening, but there was nothing.

Every pass was met with a blue shirt, every run was tracked, every space was closed down. Eze, trying too hard to make an impression, to justify the faith I'd shown in him, lost the ball twice in the first ten minutes, his frustration a visible cloud around him, his shoulders slumping with each mistake.

Semenyo was a ghost, a passenger in the game, his inexperience showing on the big stage, his movements hesitant, his positioning all wrong. I could see the doubt creeping into his eyes, the fear that he wasn't good enough, that he'd let everyone down.

Then, in the sixteenth minute, a wake-up call that sent a jolt of fear through me. A stray pass from Nya, a moment of carelessness that we couldn't afford, and Inter were away on the counter-attack, a flash of movement, a blur of blue and black.

Their striker, a tall, rangy kid with pace to burn, was through on goal, one-on-one with Ryan. His shot beat Ryan, the ball flying towards the net, and for a split second, I thought it was in, but it smacked against the post with a sickening thud and bounced clear.

A collective sigh of relief went through our bench, a release of tension that left me feeling weak. That was a warning. That was Inter saying, "We're here, and we're dangerous."

The scare seemed to galvanize us, to shake us out of our lethargy. In the twenty-second minute, Eze, who had been quiet since his early mistakes, received the ball in a pocket of space between their midfield and defense, the kind of space we'd been working on him finding all week.

He held off a challenge from their central midfielder, his strength work with Rebecca paying off, his body shielding the ball, and played a quick one-two with Nya, a move they'd practiced a hundred times.

He received the ball back, and with a swing of his right foot, he unleashed a thunderous shot from twenty-five yards that the Inter keeper, at full stretch, tipped over the bar. It was a moment of pure, unadulterated quality, a glimpse of the player he could be, a reminder of why I'd fought so hard to bring him here.

From the resulting corner, Reece's header was cleared off the line by a desperate Inter defender. We were getting closer. We were finding our rhythm.

But then, disaster. In the twenty-eighth minute, another long ball over the top from Inter, a simple, direct ball that we should have dealt with, that we'd practiced defending against all week.

But Lewis, misjudging the flight of it, let it bounce, and their striker, the same one who had hit the post earlier, was onto it in a flash, his pace too much for our center-back.

He outpaced Lewis, his raw speed leaving our defender trailing in his wake, and as Ryan came rushing out, trying to narrow the angle, he calmly slotted the ball into the bottom corner.

0-1.

For the first time in the preseason, we were behind on the opening. The silence on our bench was deafening, a heavy, oppressive thing that seemed to suck the air out of the ground.

For the next few minutes, we were rattled, our confidence shaken. Passes went astray, tackles were missed, and Inter, sensing our vulnerability like sharks smelling blood in the water, pushed for a second.

But then, Eze. He took the game by the scruff of the neck, refusing to let us crumble. In the thirty-fifth minute, he received the ball on the halfway line, dribbled past two players, a blur of quick feet and audacious skill, his body weaving through challenges, and was unceremoniously hacked down on the edge of the box.

A free kick in a dangerous position. He placed the ball himself, his face a mask of concentration, his eyes fixed on the goal. He took a deep breath, and with a swing of his right foot, he curled the ball over the wall.

It was a thing of beauty, a perfect arc of a shot that seemed destined for the top corner, the kind of free kick you see on Match of the Day, but it smacked against the crossbar with a metallic clang and bounced away. The collective groan from our bench was a physical thing, a wave of disappointment that washed over us.

But we kept pushing, refusing to give up. And in the forty-second minute, our reward. It was a goal that was born on the training ground, a goal that was a testament to the work we had put in over the last three weeks. It started with Semenyo.

He tracked back, his work rate a testament to the drills we'd been doing, the hours we'd spent working on his off-the-ball movement, and made a crucial tackle to stop an Inter counter-attack, his timing perfect, his commitment total.

He laid the ball off to Nya, who found Eze. Eze, with his back to goal, held off a defender, his strength allowing him to shield the ball, turned, and played a perfect, slide-rule pass into the path of Connor, who had made a clever run in behind their defense, a run that had been drilled into him all week.

Connor took a touch, and with the keeper rushing out, he coolly slotted the ball into the net.

1-1.

The relief was immense, a wave of emotion that threatened to overwhelm me. We were level. We were back in the game.

At half-time, the changing room was tense, the early confidence replaced by a grim determination. The players were quiet, their faces flushed with exertion, their chests heaving, the early confidence replaced by a grim determination.

I let them sit in the silence for a minute, let them process the first half, let them catch their breath. Then, I spoke, my voice calm but firm, trying to project a confidence I wasn't entirely sure I felt.

"We're letting them dictate the game," I said, looking each player in the eye. "We're playing their tempo. We need to be quicker, more decisive. We've got this. We're the better team. Now go out and prove it."

I looked at Eze. He was exhausted, his chest heaving, his face slick with sweat, but his eyes were burning with a fierce light, a determination that hadn't been there at the start of the match.

I looked at Semenyo. He was quiet, his face a mask of concentration, his hands clenched into fists. He knew he had forty-five minutes to save his career at Crystal Palace. The second half was going to be a war.

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