WHEN Eddie Howe was forced to miss his first match as Newcastle manager because of Covid, he did something not known until now.

Rather than watch the game from his hotel room in the comfort of pyjamas, given he was floored by the virus, he instead changed into his full matchday tracksuit. It was, on reflection, an indication of the diligence and endearingly nerdy obsession that has taken his club from bottom to top.

They drew 3-3 at home to Brentford that day and, if Howe did drink, he would have emptied the minibar, so calamitous was some of the defending. Less than two years on and his team are keeping Kylian Mbappe in the fridge.

This week's 4-1 humbling of Paris Saint-Germain felt like the culmination of all Howe's work, the tracksuit manager who, records show, led over 90 per cent of the team's training sessions last season. The others were taken by his excellent support network of coaches, but only on Howe's instruction. He owns his space.

He did the rarest of things on Wednesday - he stayed at St James' Park later than he normally would, talking through the game and the magic of the occasion with friends. It was rare in that he usually drives the two miles home and watches back the full match with a cup of tea as soon as he possibly can.

Not that anyone else was drinking tea on Tyneside, and Howe was the toast as glasses chimed long after midnight. It was telling that, on full time, it was his name they sang. The Geordies know how lucky they are to have him and, in both this country and beyond, there have been an increasing number of admiring eyes cast towards the North East in the past 24 hours.

Howe's mastery should have been noticed long before now, of course. Were he Edward Howitzer from Bavaria - and had taken a team from 19th to the Champions League in just 18 months - there would, you feel, have been a far wider sense of wonder.

But 'the fella from Bournemouth who got a team relegated' - as his predecessor Steve Bruce charmingly billed him - has always been there, and his longevity has eroded some of the mystique. He was 31 when he took over at Bournemouth. Now, at 45, he is only one year older than the man who wears the emperor's new clothes, Roberto De Zerbi. Howe prefers to stay in his tracksuit.

In fact, to see him in anything else is unnerving. When he sounded the klaxon for the start of the Great North Run last month, he wanted to respect the occasion by donning a blazer but got it horribly wrong, failing to check forecasted temperatures of 25C. He later admitted he dare not remove the jacket for the sweat that had gathered beneath. It was a rare example of his preparation failing him.

Many managers are meticulous but what elevates Howe's impact are the tailored messages for the individual, allied to the emotional intelligence to make each of them feel central to what the collective is trying to achieve.

Take the example of Jamaal Lascelles, the club captain who has found himself on the bench for almost the entirety of Howe's reign. He made his first start in seven months last week, and only because of injury to others. What followed have been three flawless performances and three wins, two of them against Manchester City and PSG. They are calling him Jamaal-dini in these parts now.

He, like others, has benefited from being exposed to Howe and his backroom team over a prolonged period. Three of the scorers against PSG were at the club pre-takeover. Fabian Schar was an unused sub for Bruce's last game, Sean Longstaff was hooked after an hour and Miguel Almiron did not feature. Howe has saved their Newcastle careers.

'There were a few of us here who, a few years ago, thought we were out the door,' said Longstaff. 'It wasn't a great place to be. Since the takeover, it's been amazing.'

Howe could see St James' from his hotel window two years ago. Today, from his back garden, he can still see it. He is never disconnected from the club and the responsibility that comes with leading its team.

And for all the talk of him finally being recognised as one of Europe's elite managers, he has no desire to be anywhere but Newcastle. The club and the city are under his skin, as the tracksuit that doubles as his second skin confirms.