The Holmesdale was full forty minutes before kick-off. The flags were out. The Sakho-and-the-corner-flag photograph from Thursday had been printed onto a banner the size of a goal and was being passed across the upper tier.
Sakho was in the warm-up jacket because he wasn't in the eighteen, and he saw the banner, and he turned away because he knew if he kept looking he was going to cry.
Konaté, also in tracksuit and trainers because he wasn't in the eighteen either, sat next to me on the bench while the teams were warming up.
"Gaffer."
"Yeah."
"Madrid. They will do something to the pitch."
"Probably."
"I have been thinking about it. The pitch."
"Sarah's already on it. She's pulled the maintenance records from the Wanda for the last six matches. We will know what they cut, what they watered, what they did."
He nodded once. Took out a packet of Haribo and started eating it slowly. He never ate Haribo. I had not known he ate Haribo. I let it pass.
