The final whistle of the Portsmouth match was a release, a cathartic explosion of joy and a relief that washed over me in a beautiful, chaotic wave.
The 5-1 victory, the dominant performance from a rotated squad, the glimpse of the future in the electrifying debut of Michael Olise, and the performance of Tyrick Mitchell were all a testament to the beautiful, chaotic, unstoppable force we were building.
As I walked off the pitch, the roar of the six-hundred-strong crowd a symphony in my ears, I felt a profound sense of professional satisfaction. We were in the fourth round of the FA Youth Cup, we were second in the league, and we were playing a brand of football that was a joy to watch.
But as I drove away from the training ground that evening, the adrenaline of the match slowly beginning to fade, a different feeling began to surface, a quiet, insistent, beautiful ache in my chest.
