July 16th, 2017
I was up at six.
Not because I had to be. Not because anyone had knocked on my door or sent a message. I was up because my brain refused to stop working.
The match was still playing on a loop behind my eyes: the 18% pressing efficiency, the two goals we had gifted Atlético in the first half, the three penalties blazed over the bar and into the arms of Jan Oblak.
The 4-2 scoreline sat in my chest like a stone that was simultaneously a trophy and a warning. I lay there for a while, staring at the ceiling of my hotel room, watching the Singapore skyline lighten from black to deep blue to the pale, washed-out gold of a tropical dawn, and then I got up, made a coffee from the little machine on the desk, and sat by the window.
The city was extraordinary in the early morning. The Marina Bay Sands lit up against the sky, the waterfront already busy with joggers and cyclists, the heat already building even at this hour.
