Two days later, during Manchester City's ninth fixture of the season, Richard was back in his usual seat in the director's box at Maine Road.
The match hadn't even kicked off yet, and tension was already bubbling in the rows around him.
"You heard me," a man nearby said, arms crossed. "That Derby win was a fluke. Your back line's soft, and your attack's all hype."
Richard glanced sideways as another City fan shot to his feet.
"You call my team weak? Mate, do you even watch football? We smashed Derby four-nil yesterday! And you think bloody Sunderland has the edge? If City don't score at least one goal today, I'll bash my head on the concrete right here!"
He pointed dramatically down at the pitch. "You heard me too! One goal. Minimum. Or I'm going home with a cracked skull."
Richard rubbed his temples. The headache had started before kickoff.
All this shouting — the bravado, the tribal chest-thumping — it was exhausting.
