dreams

Villa are fortunate others have stumbled sooner and for longer this season – ensuring they have maintained a decent grip on third place until now.

Chelsea have dropped 17 points from winning positions at Stamford Bridge and 19 points overall in the Premier League this season.

They go to Arsenal on Sunday hoping to capitalise on Villa’s latest slip – before travelling to Villa Park on Wednesday for a game which could define both teams’ seasons.

Lille, in the Europa League on March 12, and a trip to Old Trafford on 15 March will then loom large for Villa.

Individual form has also plummeted, with Ollie Watkins scoring just once in 11 games – reminiscent of the spell where he scored only one goal in the opening 19 matches – while Morgan Rogers is on a similar streak.

The slump was sparked by injuries to Boubacar Kamara, John McGinn and Youri Tielemans last month as Villa’s lack of depth was exposed.

Players argued between themselves as Ezri Konsa – who also had a flashpoint with fans at the end – and Amadou Onana urged Emi Buendia to leave the pitch quicker as he was substituted.

The cracks are showing and even the players are admitting to feeling the pressure.

“It does weigh on us but it shouldn’t,” said Rogers. “We deserve to be here and we should not forget that.

“Our run lately has not been as good as usual but that is the battle of the Premier League. We are going to get back to our good run of wins.

“We set our standards high and we have the ability to win every game. Obviously that is not realistic but we are playing good football as a whole and there is nothing to worry about.

“They [the next fixtures] are the games you want to play and, with so much on the line, we need to show why we deserve to be where we are.”

How do you comfort a man who has just watched years of his life turn to smoke?

Sulaiman Mustapha remained seated inside the mosque after the dawn prayer, long after others had left. He put both hands on his head as if trying to hold his brain in place. He could not speak. No wailing. No outburst. Just the stillness of a man whose world had collapsed overnight. Those around him tried to console him, but the words sounded distant, almost irrelevant. 

Less than a month ago, Sulaiman bought a new motorcycle to make his trips to Singa Market in Kano, North West Nigeria, easier. For him, it was not just a bike. It was a milestone. For years, he had gone to the market with his brother as a worker, running errands for established traders. With time, he began handling purchases. Then he began trading in small quantities for himself. The profits were modest but steady.

The motorcycle symbolised a shift. It meant he would no longer spend heavily on transport. It meant more capital for his small shop. It meant growth. Then, in a matter of hours, fire erased that growth. Now it was metal frames and ash. 

On Saturday, Feb. 15, around 4 p.m., a fire broke out at Gidan Glass, a plaza at Singa Market. Witnesses say the fire spread quickly, leaping from shop to shop before traders could salvage much. It burned for two days. By the time it was contained, dozens of shops had been reduced to charred frames.

Sulaiman and his brother’s shop was among them.

When he sat in the mosque that morning, he was mourning years of hard work — the savings, the small profits he reinvested, and his mother’s inheritance. “After his grandfather died, the inheritance was shared,” his close friend, Abba Abubakar, told HumAngle. “His mother gave him her portion to grow the business.”

Now, everything is gone. 

The fire that tore through Singa Market is the latest in a long line of infernos that have become almost routine in Kano markets. Within 48 hours, early estimates placed losses in billions of naira. But beyond the figures lies a deeper story: how recurring fires, weak emergency infrastructure, and structural neglect continue to threaten the livelihoods of thousands of small-scale traders who form the backbone of the city’s informal economy.

Sulaiman’s story is that of hundreds of traders whose stalls were destroyed. In markets like Singa, capital is built slowly from daily turnover and rarely backed by insurance. Many traders rely on family contributions, cooperative loans, or personal savings. A single disruption can undo a decade of effort.

For small-scale traders, the market is their safety net. It funds school fees, hospital bills, rent, and other family obligations. When the market burns, the consequences ripple far beyond the charred stalls.

By Monday afternoon, some traders had returned to sift through ashes, hoping to salvage metal frames or partially burned goods. Others simply stood in clusters, calculating debts they still owed suppliers.

There are still unanswered questions about what triggered the fire and whether preventive measures were in place. For now, what remains visible is the human toll.

The full extent of the damage and how traders will rebuild is still unfolding.

But how did it start? 

Between sparks and sorrow

Around 3 p.m. that Saturday, Abba Abubakar noticed thick black smoke rising into the sky. The sight unsettled him immediately. Some weeks earlier, he had seen a similar column of smoke before a fire gutted Gidan Mazaf at the same Singa Market.

“But this one was very close,” he told HumAngle.

Abba is not a trader at Singa. He sells wrappers and garments at Abubakar Rimi Market, popularly known as Sabon Gari, just across the road. His fear was instinctive. Fires are not unfamiliar in that commercial district. When smoke appears, traders do not wait for confirmation. They imagine the worst.

“We rushed out of our shops and later realised it was solar panels burning on top of Gidan Glass,” he said. “By the time we got there, it had already consumed part of the upper floor, and the fire was raging.”

From another part of the neighbourhood, Muttaka Musa, who works in one of the affected stores, also saw the smoke. He had been at a nearby plaza known as Gidan Gwaggo Laraba when he looked up and saw the sky darken.

“Immediately I got there, the fire had already finished one of our stores and had started catching the other,” he said. Muttaka said people had been warned when the fire first broke out. But warnings in markets often compete with denial. No one expected the flames would escalate to that scale.

Auwal Ibrahim Gaya lost two shops in the blaze. He was performing the afternoon Asr prayer when he received the call. “When they told me the fire had started, I was at the mosque,” he said. “I rushed there, and when I saw it, I began reciting prayers. I said Allah is testing us, and we accept His decree.”

Faith, in moments like this, becomes both refuge and resignation.

As the fire intensified and traders failed to contain it, emergency services were called. But by then, the scene had drawn large crowds. Onlookers filled the narrow access roads, making it difficult for fire trucks to reach the core of the market.

One firefighter, who asked not to be named because he was not authorised to speak to the press, told HumAngle that “almost all the fire service trucks we have in Kano were mobilised. But the fire kept spreading from the top. It was moving across the upper structures, so it was difficult to control. If there had been a helicopter, it could have quenched it from above.”

An investigation by HumAngle found that the Nigerian Federal Fire Service does not currently operate firefighting helicopters. Announcements about acquiring one circulated between 2021 and 2024, but the purchase never materialised. The National Emergency Management Agency (NEMA), which previously had access to such support, is also reported to have non-functional aerial equipment.

As a result, even with the presence of the Federal Fire Service, NEMA officials, the Kano State Emergency Agency, and the state governor, Abba Kabir Yusuf, at the scene, the fire burned for two days before it was finally largely subdued.

What causes market fires in Kano? 

Market fires are not new in Kano. Almost every year, a section of the city’s commercial heart goes up in flames. Sometimes it is a cluster of stalls. Sometimes an entire block. The pattern has become disturbingly familiar. Traders rebuild. Business resumes. Then another fire breaks out.

In the two months of 2026 alone, at least five fire incidents have been recorded within the Kano metropolis. Four occurred in markets: Kofar Ruwa yan Katako, Gidan Mazaf Singa, Gidan Glass Singa, and near Abbatuwa cemetery. One affected a filling station along Madobi Road. For a city whose economy leans heavily on trade, these events are structural tremors.

A 2021 study by Sulaiman Yunus, an urban risk and disaster management researcher at Bayero University, Kano, documented 366 fire incidents between 1974 and 2017. On average, that translates to at least eight outbreaks annually in markets alone. The data suggests a chronic vulnerability embedded within Kano’s commercial architecture.

But what explains this cycle? Why do the fires persist, despite decades of losses?

Sulaiman found that outbreaks are most frequent in highly concentrated, densely built, older commercial hubs. Large central markets such as Kantin Kwari Market, Kasuwar Kurmi, and Sabon Gari Market were identified as particularly vulnerable.

These markets evolved long before modern urban planning standards. Stalls are packed tightly together. Extensions are added informally. Electrical wiring snakes across wooden beams and zinc roofs. Access routes are narrow, often clogged with traders, buyers, and transporters. When fire breaks out, it meets fuel.

The study notes that most affected markets lack functional fire hydrants and emergency suppression facilities. In many cases, traders rely on buckets of water or improvised extinguishers in the crucial first minutes. By the time fire trucks arrive, flames have often climbed to rooftops and leapt across adjoining structures.

Temporal analysis in Sulaiman’s study shows a clear seasonal pattern. Fire outbreaks peak during the dry season, particularly between November and March. The Harmattan months record the highest incidence rate because the air is drier and the winds harsher. Materials that might otherwise resist ignition become combustible.

Yet climate alone does not ignite markets.

The research found that electrical faults and power surges account for the majority of recorded incidents. Illegal connections and overloaded circuits were identified as primary ignition sources. In markets where dozens of traders tap into a single supply line to power freezers, grinding machines, bulbs, and charging points, the system is often stretched beyond capacity. Electricity, meant to enable commerce, becomes the spark that destroys it.

The Singa Market fire fits within this broader history. Its scale may be exceptional, but its underlying conditions are not. The questions raised in its aftermath echo those of previous disasters: Were safety standards enforced? Were electrical systems inspected? Were access routes kept clear?

For now, attention has shifted to relief. The Federal Government has approved a ₦5 billion intervention fund for traders, while the Progressive Governors’ Forum also donated ₦3 billion, signalling recognition of the magnitude of the loss. But compensation, even when fully disbursed, rarely mirrors destruction. For small-scale traders, relief funds often dissipate before reaching the lowest tiers. Many operate without formal registration, insurance, or documented inventories. Their losses exist in memory, not in audited balance sheets. A bag of rice here. Ten kegs of oil there. A motorcycle bought less than a month ago.

Billions of naira in pledges may soften the blow at a macro level. Yet, for the petty trader who relied on daily turnover to survive, recovery is measured not in billions but in whether he can reopen with even a fraction of his former stock.

In Kano’s markets, fire is no longer an anomaly but a recurring chapter in the city’s commercial story. Each outbreak exposes the same structural weaknesses. Each investigation repeats familiar findings.

And each time, traders return to rebuild in the same crowded corridors, under the same fragile wiring, hoping that this season’s wind will be kinder than the last

CORTINA D’AMPEZZO, Italy — World-class athletes, thrilling events, stirring medal ceremonies, I will remember all of those from the Winter Olympics. But what I experienced Sunday on my 45-minute bus ride from my hotel to Cortina will stay with me longer.

There was a young woman sitting across the aisle. She looked to be in her mid-20s, about the age of my daughter, and was wearing a knit cap with a Switzerland logo. Her dark hair was in long, thin braids and framed her friendly face.

“How’s it going?” I asked, setting down my backpack.

“Nervous,” she said with a faint smile.

That started the conversation, one that would have me repeatedly wiping my eyes with my sleeve.

Her name was Michelle Gloor. She’s 25 and from a small town outside of Zurich. Her boyfriend, Cedric Follador, is pilot of the Swiss bobsled team and has races throughout the week. She was heading to watch him practice.

Michelle knows all about the sport. In fact, she had been the brake woman on the Swiss national team and had hoped to be competing in these Olympics herself. She grew up as a track-and-field athlete, a sprinter, and only took up bobsled in 2022.

Women’s bobsled — or bobsleigh, as Europeans call it — is a two-person operation with a pilot in front and brake woman in back.

“The first responsibility is pushing the sled as fast as I can, together with my pilot,” she said in a German accent and near-flawless English. “I have to sit still and count the curves until we reach the finish line, when I have to pull the brakes. I’m responsible that the sled won’t crash into something.”

Her best friend had made the transition from track to bobsled, was looking for a brake woman, and convinced Michelle to give it a try.

“My first bobsleigh ride was in St. Moritz and I was so nervous,” said Gloor, a third-year law student at the University of Zurich. “I think I was crying in the back of the sled because I’d never felt anything like that, all the G-forces and you don’t have any cushion in the sled. It all hurts.

“But after the second run, I felt the adrenaline and it was great. It caught me from then. It took me two runs.”

She was 22 and the future was bright. They entered the Swiss championships and won. Michelle got serious about her new sport, training every day, eating right, building muscle.

Immersed in that world, she met Cedric but for the first 1½ years they were just casual friends. Their conversations were all bobsled-related.

“Then in spring 2024 he texted me and asked, ‘How are you?’” she said. “More personal stuff.”

They had been dating for about six months when a discovery would dramatically change their lives.

In November 2024, during a routine check-up, a gynecologist found evidence of cancer in Michelle’s ovaries. If there were signs she was ill, Michelle hadn’t noticed them. She had been tired the prior summer, yes, but she attributed that to her training.

“It was pretty advanced,” she said of the cancer. “I went to the women’s doctor every year and they couldn’t explain why they couldn’t see it earlier. I don’t know. I’m not questioning that anymore. It’s just … yeah.”

There was no time to wait. By December, she was in surgery. Doctors opened her abdomen from her breast bone down, looking for more growths. They deemed the operation a success, and six months of chemotherapy began in February.

“I lost my hair,” she said. “I had long, black hair. Losing that wasn’t bad. But I lost the hair on my face — my eyebrows, my eyelashes — that was hard. But I always knew it just had to be.”

Her doctor told her her cancer was Stage 3.

“That means it’s on the other organs too,” she said. “But the difference between Stage 3 and Stage 4 is it’s not in my lungs. It’s in my tummy area but not more upwards.”

Cedric was by her side.

“I asked him after the diagnosis if he wants to join me in this journey or not,” she said. “I can understand if he won’t because we were together not even half a year, and I can understand if he said, ‘Hey, it’s too much for me. I can’t do that.’

“Then he took time for himself, and he came back and said he wants to stay with me. He wants to support me in every imaginable way.

“He drove me to therapy when he was in town because he had a bobsleigh season going on from November until March, in my toughest time. Every time he was home, he was there for me. When he wasn’t there, we were phoning every day. He was there all the time, even when he wasn’t there physically.”

Her parents and younger brother were there for her too, of course, but she wanted to give them some time to themselves. Cedric was her rock.

There are elements in his job as a driver that both help him in his sport, and her in her disease.

“As a driver, you really need to focus on what’s going on straight ahead of you,” she explained. “You can’t really switch away your thoughts. You have one minute of full concentration. I think you can compare it to Formula One because you only see the next curve in front of you.

“He’s very calm and I think that helps him in a sporting way to not overreact emotionally and stuff like that. But also for me as a partner, I’m very emotional. When I’m too excited or too sad or too angry, he can calm me down to a normal level. On a stress-less level, and to be stress-free is very important for someone who has cancer.”

Switzerland’s Cedric Follador, right, and Luca Rolli compete in two-man bobsled at the Milan-Cortina Olympics on Monday.

(Richard Heathcote / Getty Images)

Michelle, petite and pale, has lost about 40 pounds over the past year. Mostly muscle.

“I was avoiding sugar in the beginning of the illness,” she said. “You read so much stuff. But after losing so much weight, doctors told me just eat what you want to eat. Because having energy is more important than eating too much sugar.”

In August, doctors discovered more cancer in her. Another surgery to open her abdomen.

“They said it’s still there,” she said. “Those microcells which they couldn’t remove because they couldn’t see them, they grew. But once all those microcells have grown up and been removed, or have been killed by therapy and medication, there won’t be any new cells because the ovaries have been removed, so they don’t produce any more.”

She tries not to Google her illness anymore. It doesn’t help her frame of mind. She’s changed in other ways, too.

“I was a very direct person before my illness,” she said. “Now I’m even more direct and straight-forward. I say no, and I don’t explain myself. If I don’t want to do something, I don’t have to. I just say no.

“Before that, I had a bad feeling about myself and explained myself just because I say no. I don’t do that anymore.”

In December, she began radiation. She has another scan after the Olympics.

There are times she just can’t believe this is happening.

“Women or even men my age, you live in your world, you are following your dreams,” she said. “And you don’t think about something happening in your life. I only know young people in Switzerland, so I can only speak for them. But they don’t talk about that.

“They are not sensible about what can happen, and that’s why it’s important for me to speak out about it. For example, with a women’s doctor, you have to go. It can happen to anyone.

“I’m a young woman. I do sports since I’m 10 years old. I don’t drink alcohol. I don’t smoke. But it still can happen.”

Her illness has shined a spotlight on her friendships. Lots of her old friends showed concern at first, then went on with their lives. A handful checked in on her frequently. Some are new.

“I got in touch with a woman during chemotherapy, she was there too,” Michelle said. “She has breast cancer. She saw my cross necklace, and we were talking about faith and how it helped in those hard times.

“We are still in contact now. We are writing letters to each other. We’re not texting or phoning, just writing letters and sending postcards. She’s as old as my mom, but it’s very cool to have someone with almost the same story.”

How will that story end? Michelle has her hopes, this fearless young woman who took to bobsledding on her second time down the track.

“My goal is to be in the Olympics in four years,” she said. “I’ll be 29 by then. The age is still good — even better than now for a bobsleigh athlete. And I have a great team. My bobsleigh pilot is very supportive and she said she always has a place for me in the sled.”

This week, Michelle is supporting Cedric — just a sliver, she said, of the way he has supported her. They got engaged in December. It happened at sunset in his little hometown in the Swiss Alps.

“He was talking about himself and us, and then he proposed to me,” she said. “I said yes. Of course.”

The man I’m talking to tells me he has no name.

“Hey” is what he responds to, and he says he can be best described as a “travel agent,” a designation said with a sly smile to clearly indicate it’s code for something more illicit.

About eight of us are crammed with him into a tiny area tucked in the corner of a nightclub. Normally, perhaps, this is a make-up room, but tonight it’s a hideaway where he’ll feed us psychedelics (they’re just mints) to escape the brutalities of the world. It’s also loud, as the sounds of a rambunctious funk band next door work to penetrate the space.

Celeste Butler Clayton as Ursa Major and Ari Herstand as Copper Jones lead a group of theater attendees in a pre-show ritual.

(Gabriella Angotti-Jones / For The Times)

”Close your eyes,” I’m told. I let the mint begin to melt while trying to pretend it’s a gateway to a dream state. The more that mint peddler talks, the more it becomes clear he’s suffering from PTSD from his days in Vietnam. But the mood isn’t somber. We don’t need any make-believe substances to catch his drift, particularly his belief that, even if music may not change the world, at least it can provide some much-needed comfort from it.

“Brassroots District: LA ’74” is part concert, part participatory theater and part experiment, attempting to intermix an evening of dancing and jubilation with high-stakes drama. How it plays out is up to each audience member. Follow the cast, and uncover war tales and visions of how the underground music scene became a refuge for the LGBTQ+ community. Watch the band, and witness a concert almost torn apart as a group on the verge of releasing its debut album weighs community versus cold commerce. Or ignore it all to play dress-up and get a groove on to the music that never stops.

Audience members are encouraged to partake in a “Soul Train”-style dance exhibition.

(Gabriella Angotti-Jones / For The Times)

Now running at Catch One, “Brassroots District” aims to concoct a fantasy vision of 1974, but creators Ari Herstand and Andrew Leib aren’t after pure nostalgia. The fictional band at the heart of the show, for instance, is clearly a nod to Sly and the Family Stone, a group whose musical vision of unity and perseverance through social upheaval still feels ahead of its time. “Brassroots District” also directly taps into the history of Catch One, with a character modeled after the club’s pioneering founder Jewel Thais-Williams, a vital figure on the L.A. music scene who envisioned a sanctuary for Black queer women and men as well as trans, gay and musically adventurous revelers.

“This is the era of Watergate and Nixon and a corrupt president,” Herstand says, noting that the year of 1974 was chosen intentionally. “There’s very clear political parallels from the early ‘70s to 2026. We don’t want to smack anyone in the face over it, but we want to ask the questions about where we’ve come from.”

This isn’t the first time a version of “Brassroots District” has been staged. Herstand, a musician and author, and Leib, an artist manager, have been honing the concept for a decade. It began as an idea that came to Herstand while he spent time staying with extended family in New Orleans to work on his book, “How to Make it in the New Music Business.” And it initially started as just a band, and perhaps a way to create an excitement around a new group.

Ari Herstand as musician Copper Jones in an intimate moment with the audience.

(Gabriella Angotti-Jones / For The Times)

Celeste Butler Clayton (Ursa Major), from left, Ari Herstand (Copper Jones), Bryan Daniel Porter (Donny) and Marqell Edward Clayton (Gil) in a tense moment.

(Gabriella Angotti-Jones/For The Times)

Yet as the pair became smitten with immersive theater — a term that typically implies some form of active involvement on the part of the audience, most often via interacting and improvising with actors — Brassroots District the band gradually became “Brassroots District” the show. Like many in the space, Herstand credits the long-running New York production “Sleep No More” with hipping him to the scene.

“It’s really about an alternative experience to a traditional proscenium show, giving the audience autonomy to explore,” Herstand says.

Eleven actors perform in the show, directed by DeMone Seraphin and written with input from L.A. immersive veterans Chris Porter (the Speakeasy Society) and Lauren Ludwig (Capital W). I interacted with only a handful of them, but “Brassroots District” builds to a participatory finale that aims to get the whole audience moving when the band jumps into the crowd for a group dance. The night is one of wish fulfillment for music fans, offering the promise of behind-the-stage action as well as an idealized vision of funk’s communal power.

Working in the favor of “Brassroots District” is that, ultimately, it is a concert. Brassroots District, the group, released its debut “Welcome to the Brassroots District” at the top of this year, and audience members who may not want to hunt down or chase actors can lean back and watch the show, likely still picking up on its broad storyline of a band weighing a new recording contract with a potentially sleazy record executive. Yet Herstand and Leib estimate that about half of those in attendance want to dig a little deeper.

At the show’s opening weekend this past Saturday, I may even wager it was higher than that. When a mid-concert split happens that forces the band’s two co-leaders — Herstand as Copper Jones and Celeste Butler Clayton as Ursa Major — to bolt from the stage, the audience immediately knew to follow them into the other room, even as the backing band played on. Leib, borrowing a term from the video game world, describes these as “side quests,” moments in which the audience can better get to know the performers, the club owner and the act’s manager.

“Brassroots District: LA ‘74” is wish fulfillment for music fans, providing, for instance, backstage-like access to artists. Here, Celeste Butler Clayton performs as musician Ursa Major and is surrounded by ticket-goers.

(Gabriella Angotti-Jones / For The Times)

An audience member’s costume.

(Gabriella Angotti-Jones / For The Times)

Yet those who stay in the main stage will still get some show moments, as here is where a journalist will confront a record executive. Both will linger around the floor and chat with willing guests, perhaps even offering them a business card with a number to call after the show to further the storyline beyond the confines of the club. If all goes according to plan, the audience will start to feel like performers. In fact, the central drama of “Brassroots District” is often kicked off by an attendee finding some purposely left-behind props that allude to the group’s record label drama. Actors, say Herstand, will “loosely guide” players to the right spot, if need be.

“The point is,” says Leib, “that you as an audience member are also kind of putting on a character. You can stir the spot.” And with much of the crowd in their ‘70s best and smartphones strictly forbidden — they are placed in bags prior to the show beginning — you may need a moment to figure out who the actors are, but a microphone usually gives it a way.

“They’re a heightened version of themselves,” Herstand says of the audience’s penchant to come in costumes to “Brassroots District,” although it is not necessary.

“Brassroots District,” which is about two hours in length, is currently slated to run through the end of March, but Herstand and Leib hope it becomes a long-running performance. Previous iterations with different storylines ran outdoors, as it was first staged in the months following the worst days of the pandemic. Inside, at places such as Catch One, was always the goal, the pair say, and the two leaned into the venue’s history.

“It’s in the bones of the building that this was a respite for queer men and the Black community,” Leib says. “There’s a bit of like, this is a safe space to be yourself. We’re baking in some of these themes in the show. It’s resistance through art and music.”

Such a message comes through in song. One of the band’s central tunes is “Together,” an allusion to Sly and the Family Stone’s “Everyday People.” It’s a light-stepping number built around finger snaps and the vision of a better world.

“We are stronger when we unite,” Herstand says. “That is the hook of the song, and what we’re really trying to do is bring people together. That is how we feel we actually can change society.”

And on this night, that’s exactly what progress looks like — an exuberant party that extends a hand for everyone to dance with a neighbor.

He had the assembled media pack giggling away as he told certain newspaper journalists he had been seeing their faces in his sleep, such is the interest around potential transfers at Parkhead.

And it is not only the media he has charmed, but his players, too.

Where they were finding ways to lose under Nancy – and Rodgers to a lesser degree – Celtic’s much-maligned squad are now grinding out results, albeit the 10-man reigning Premiership champions could not beat current leaders Hearts at the weekend.

Nevertheless, the upturn in performances and results since Nancy’s calamitous tenure has been stark, and that is without key starters Alistair Johnston, Cameron Carter-Vickers and Jota.

Midfielder Benjamin Nygren, who scored his 14th goal of the season against Utrecht, was asked about the impact O’Neill has had.

“He’s making a big difference,” the Sweden international said.

“He knows the club, he’s been here. He knows how it works here and he’s loved by everyone around the club.

“I think he brought in a lot of confidence, so we’ve been a lot better since he came back.”