The last camera light blinked off, and they finally let me go, the noise of that corner still ringing in my skull.
They had asked the same thing six different ways.
How does it feel, coach? I had not flown three thousand miles to weep on Russian television, so I gave them the work, the lads, and Portugal on Wednesday, and let them film me not saying the thing they wanted.
Clatter. A stud bag hit the tiles ahead of me, and I followed the noise into a dressing room that had come off its hinges.
Bass thumping out of a phone propped in a boot, a song I did not know. Shin pads and tape and empty bottles over every inch of the floor. Saiss up on a bench with his shirt knotted round his head, conducting the lot of them.
Doomf. Doomf. Doomf.
I let it run a minute. They had earned the minute. Then I reached over and switched the phone off.
"Right. Heads up."
It took a second. Sweaty faces came round, the singing died in twos and threes, and then it was quiet enough.
