The second half was a grind. Everton, who had nothing to play for except Allardyce's survival, made it physical and uncomfortable.
Tomkins and Tarkowski defended everything. Mandanda made one save, a Tosun header in the sixty-seventh that was routine but that the Frenchman treated with the same focused professionalism he treated everything, because Steve Mandanda did not recognise the concept of a save that didn't matter.
Pato played seventy minutes. The Brazilian, who would start against Milan on Thursday, who would walk onto the Selhurst Park pitch against the club where he had once been the golden boy of European football, and needed the minutes.
Not for fitness. For rhythm. For the feeling of the ball at his feet and the grass beneath his boots and the net in front of him. He didn't score. He didn't need to. He ran the channels. He pressed. He held the ball up. He did the work that Thursday would require.
