I woke up on Friday, February 16th, and the first thing I thought about was not the 6-1. The first thing I thought about was Valentine's Day.
Yesterday was the Milan match. The day before yesterday was Valentine's Day. And I had spent Valentine's Day in the analysis suite at Beckenham with Sarah, watching Bonucci's positioning for the eleventh time, reviewing Donnarumma's corner-kick tendencies, and eating a sandwich that Nina had left on my desk because I had forgotten lunch. I had not called Emma.
I had not texted Emma. I had not sent flowers or chocolates or a card or any of the performative gestures that the fourteenth of February demanded of men who were in relationships with women they loved.
I had forgotten Valentine's Day. Completely. Absolutely. The way I forgot things when the football consumed everything: not through neglect but through the particular, tunnel-visioned focus that made me a good manager and, occasionally, a terrible boyfriend.
