In the Holmesdale, George Elphick had not yet sat down. He had been standing since the teams emerged, his faded Palace shirt under his winter coat, his son David beside him, the same position they had occupied since Boxing Day, the same position George's father Arthur had occupied before him.
When the ball hit the net after twenty-six seconds, George grabbed David's arm. Not a celebratory grab. A stabilising grab. The grab of a sixty-year-old man whose legs had gone weak.
"Did that just happen?" George said.
"That just happened, Dad."
"Twenty-six seconds."
"Twenty-six seconds."
George looked at the pitch. He looked at the floodlights. He looked at the Milan players, standing with their hands on their hips, the universal posture of footballers who have conceded before they have touched the ball.
