The last training session I ever took as manager of Morocco lasted 48 minutes and I spent 40 of them not looking at one man.
Saturday. Overcast, warm, a pitch on the edge of Moscow with a wind sock hanging dead on its pole and a helicopter somewhere a long way off, whup-whup-whup, going round and round because the whole world knew where we were.
There were 300 people at the fence. FIFA had said closed session. FIFA can say what it likes when a country decides to come and look at you.
Boom. Boom-boom. Boom. Somebody had a drum against the mesh. Somebody always has a drum.
Thwack. Thwack. Boots on dry grass and the ball going flat and fast, and 23 men breathing, and Mustapha somewhere behind the goal banging cones together to make a point about something.
We did nothing. That is what the last one is for.
20 minutes of keep-ball at half pace, some shape work, a few set-pieces. Then Steeley took the keepers away to the far goal.
