[Kickoff. 20:45 CEST.]
BLEEP.
[8'.]
Wilf won it, that's how it started. He ran Bellerín into the corner flag, shoulder to shoulder, thud, and Bellerín shoved it out for a corner because Bellerín was already sick of him after eight minutes.
Our end stood up. They knew. The whole club knew what the first corner was.
Bojan jogged over to take it. Wiped the ball on his shirt. Set it down with two hands, the way the La Masia ones do, like the ball was borrowed and he'd promised to bring it back unmarked.
In the box, the furniture moved. Christopher walked backwards into Ospina, leaning, big and friendly and completely illegal in spirit and completely legal in fact, hands up like a man surrendering, bodyweight like a man not.
Three of ours stacked at the near post in a queue. And Konaté wandered off towards the edge of the box, away from everything, hands on hips, like a lad whose mind was on his dinner.
Ospina's eyes went everywhere. The stack. Christopher's back. The stack again.
