On seventy-one minutes, we put the whole fortnight into one move, and England's own plan held the door for us.
It started, of course, with their bolt and ours.
Henderson dropped deep again, took it off his centre-back again, turned into nothing again, and El Ahmadi, who had been waiting all night for exactly this tired pass, stepped across and took it off his boot.
The clock started. Marcus's thumb came down.
El Ahmadi to Sofyan. Sofyan didn't think, he drove, twenty yards on the dribble, England backpedalling, and slipped it left to Ziyech who'd already drifted central onto that wrong foot like he'd known the pass before it was thought of.
And out wide, the decoy. Hakimi.
Detonating down the right into all that motorway their high wing-backs leave behind, and England's whole back line leaned toward him because you have to, because a boy that fast is a fire you cannot ignore.
The leaning was the point.
