Crystal Palace 1-0 Arsenal. Dann. 89 minutes.
Dann ran to the Holmesdale. Not the choreographed celebration of a young player performing for cameras.
The desperate, stumbling, overwhelmed run of a thirty-year-old man who had waited seven years for this moment and who could not, physically could not, contain what was happening inside him.
His teammates caught him. Sakho, who was not on the pitch, had sprinted from the bench and was the first to reach him, vaulting the advertising boards, his arms wrapping around the captain, lifting him off the ground. Konaté arrived from the bench. Then the players on the pitch, Neves first, then Tarkowski, then Benteke, then everyone. A pile of red and blue shirts in front of the Holmesdale, the captain somewhere at the bottom.
On the bench, Paddy was crying. Paddy always cried. Barry was standing, his arms raised, the secrets he kept about Celine Dion and superstitions and boot preferences temporarily forgotten.
