The fourth official came across with his hand up, telling me to get back in my box. I told him where he could stick his box. He pointed at the white line. I got behind it, for now.
Then they came at us, and I went to work.
The job in a spell like that isn't to feel it. It's to do six things at once and let the lads think you're calm as a millpond.
My eyes were everywhere. Moutinho's feet, for the next ball through the lines. Ronaldo's live number in the corner of it all, ticked up to a 7 on the strength of one header and nothing else, the System paying him just for breathing.
Mendyl, diving in, getting done. Marcus at my shoulder with the tablet.
"He's dropping," Marcus said. "Off the front, coming into the ten to get it."
I'd seen it. The System had nudged the 7 the second the man came short, into the channel between Sofyan and Boussoufa, asking for it to feet now we'd cut the service off.
He's bored of waiting. Coming to fetch it himself. Right.
