The dressing room at the Wanda was at sixteen degrees when we arrived at eight o’clock local. The heating had not been fixed. Rebecca had her five gel-pad heaters running inside the kit bags within ninety seconds. Steele was standing on the door so that nobody from the Atlético staff could come in unannounced.

The Atlético warm-up music started at twenty to nine. Loud enough to feel in the chest through the dressing-room wall. The same eight bars of Himno del Atleti played on a loop at a volume that was not designed for a stadium. It was designed for the room we were sat in.

Nobody talked. Nobody could have. Pato put his earphones in. Sakho was tying his boots very slowly. Konaté was reading the back of a gel-pad packet like it was scripture. Neves was bouncing a ball on his knee in time with the music because there was nothing else to do.

I waited until the music cut.

"Popey. Aaron, Ibu, Mama, Ben. Rúben and Mateo. Serge right, James in the hole, Wilf left. Benteke up top."

I scanned the room.

"Lads. Crystal Palace Football Club has existed for a hundred and twelve years. In a hundred and twelve years, this club has never been to a European quarter-final. Ninety minutes from now, that changes! You change it. Nobody else. Not the people who built the ground. Not the people who paid for your contracts. Not me. You eleven, plus the seven on the bench, plus the staff who got you here. The next match in the history of Crystal Palace Football Club is the quarter-final of the Europa League. And it starts the minute that whistle blows tonight."

The room had gone very quiet.

"Costa will come for Ibu. He’ll catch him with an elbow, a boot, a knee. He wants you to react. You don’t react. There will be shirts at corners. Oblak will hold the ball for fifteen seconds. The ball boy will be slow on every throw-in we win. None of it matters. We play. We don’t argue. We don’t moan. We play."

I waited.

"They watered our half of the pitch this afternoon and they will water it again at half-time because they don’t want us to play our football. So we play a different football. We play patient. We play boring. We play men. We have a three-goal lead. We don’t need to win this. But we will! Because we are not the team that comes to the Wanda to survive. We come to the Wanda to win! That’s what we do. Tonight we do it for every Palace fan who ever lived."

Sakho stood up. Hit his chest twice.

"Madrid!" he said. "Is the same as anywhere else!"

A roar went up across the room. Konaté nodded once, slowly, then stood up too. Pope hit Sakho on the shoulder. Neves shouted something in Portuguese that I did not catch but that Bojan repeated back twice with his fist in the air.

"Kit on!"

[Squad readiness: green. Crowd: 67,829. Temperature: 11°C.]

The Wanda came at us through the tunnel before we had even stepped onto the pitch. The Himno was on its loop, the Frente Atlético had three flags the height of the stand and two flares already lit, and the noise was not anger like the Vélodrome. It was confidence. Sixty-seven thousand people who had been told by their manager that this was nothing more than a formality and had decided to believe him.

I walked out to the technical area. Simeone did not look at me. The Palace three thousand were in the south-east corner behind a UEFA-mandated cordon. The whole away allocation.

A wall of red and blue at the back of the curva that did not sit down once during the warm-up. George Elphick was in the front row holding a banner. Lorraine was at the corner of a flag the height of two stands. Dennis the gateman from Selhurst had flown out on his own savings and was on the aisle with both hands above his head.

Whistle.

Atlético were on us inside the first minute. Pope smothered a Griezmann run. The pitch ate every yard of pace Wilf tried to find. The grass was longer than the laces on Sakho’s boots and there were patches by the touchline that were still wet from the afternoon. We could not pass through them. Their lines were eight metres apart and Costa was leading the press as if it were personal.

Costa caught Konaté at six minutes. Set-piece. Got back up. Did not look at him.

Twelfth minute, Costa swung an arm at the elbow of the box and the back of his hand cracked into Konaté’s eye socket. The cut opened. The blood ran. The referee gave a yellow. Konaté did not look at Costa. He did not look at the referee. He let Rebecca steri-strip him at the touchline and walked back on with a smear of red along the cheekbone he did not wipe off.

"You all right."

"I want Costa!"

He went back on.

For the next thirty minutes we held on. Sakho rode three Godín climbs in the box. Pope held a Griezmann shot at the near post. Neves got himself on a yellow card. Costa pulled Sakho’s shirt at the back of the box and Sakho got up without a word.

Forty-first minute, Rodríguez crouched at my feet at a stoppage.

"Saúl is locked on me, gaffer. I cannot get away."

"At half-time."

He nodded. Went back on.

We came in at nil-nil and the noise in the Wanda was bigger than at kick-off.

The dressing room was at fourteen degrees. The honey water was warm. Konaté with the cut. Sakho with a graze on his right knee from the block in the forty-third. They were breathing hard. I let them drink.

"James was right. The press is too quick. The lines are too narrow. The pitch is too slow. Forty-five minutes we have been trying to play our football and it has not happened."

I waited.

"So we stop trying."

I waited.

"No gegenpress. No counter. No running at them. From the whistle we keep the ball. Pass to feet. Pass back. Pass sideways. If they come we go back to Popey. We give them nothing to chase. We make them chase nothing for half an hour and we hurt them when their legs are gone."

I looked at Benteke.

"You stay high. You hold up everything we put long. Don’t run in behind. Win Godín six out of ten."

"Six out of ten, gaffer."

"James. Drop deeper. Force Saúl to follow. The space behind him opens. That’s where we go."

Rodríguez nodded.

"Mateo. You waste their press. You don’t move the ball forward unless the angle is perfect."

Kovačić was Real Madrid. He knew exactly how to do this.

"Ibu. Mama. Five passes between you at the back before we go forward. Force them out of their shape. We are not in a hurry. We have a hundred and twelve years to make right. We can take ninety minutes."

Sakho hit his chest. Konaté hit his chest.

"Out."

Sarah caught me at the tunnel.

"They’ve watered our half again."

"Yeah."

"It’s a UEFA breach."

"We’re not lodging. We’re winning."

For three minutes of the second half we passed it across our own box. Sakho to Konaté. Konaté to Pope. Pope to Mama. Mama to Aaron. Aaron inside to Rúben. Rúben back to Mama. The Wanda began to whistle. Costa walked. Saúl walked. Koke walked. They could not press a back four passing it round in their own box for any longer than four minutes without somebody having to give up.

Twenty-three passes in our own half between minutes 48 and 50. Wilf came back to take it once and gave it to Ben Chilwell. Pope had it twice. The Wanda whistled.

Then Atlético came up. They had to. The crowd needed it. Gabi shouted at his line. Griezmann ran. Correa ran. Costa pushed up to the halfway line.

Fifty-fifth minute. Sakho on the half-turn looked up and saw what Sarah had said we would see. Atlético’s back four had pushed to within a yard of the halfway line because the rest of the team had moved up. Behind them, between them and Oblak, the grass was empty.

Sakho played it long.

Forty-six yards.

Benteke rose against Godín. He had been losing four duels in six all night because the timing of the wet grass was wrong. This one Godín had to gamble on, and he gambled wrong. Benteke won it, half-turned in mid-air, and headed it down.

Rodríguez was there. He had dropped deeper exactly as we had said. Saúl had come with him. The space behind Saúl was empty.

Rodríguez took it on the half-volley. Outside of the right boot. One touch. Through the line.

Wilf was already running.

Wilf hit the box on the diagonal. Vrsaljko came across. Wilf chopped, went outside, looked up, did not shoot, cut it back.

Rodríguez had run as soon as he played it. Twenty yards. Caught up. Saúl was still chasing the move. Rodríguez took it on the volley off his right foot and hit it hard, low, eight yards out, into the bottom corner.

Oblak got two fingers to it.

Not enough.

The bench went up. Bray off the seat. Steele on his feet with both fists in the air. Marcus shouting "YES!" in my earpiece three times before he remembered he was supposed to be on data. Sarah punched the air once, hard, and sat straight back down.

[GOAL. Rodríguez. 56 mins. Assist: Zaha.]

[Crystal Palace 1, Atlético Madrid 0.]

[Aggregate: Crystal Palace 4, Atlético Madrid 1.]

The Wanda went silent so fast it was almost a sound of its own, and the only noise heard were from the 3000 travelling fans.

"GOAAAAL!"

***

Thank you for 100 Power Stones.