The drums found each other again under the roar. Boom. Boom-boom. Boom. And down from the top tiers came the ululation, the women somewhere up in the dark, lilililililiii, thin and high and older than football.
Ziyech did not run to the corner. He turned and jogged back through the rain with the ball under one arm and gave it to Pitana like a man handing back a library book, and 40,000 people sang his name at him and he did not once look up at them.
I had one fist by my side, and I put it away.
"38 MINUTES!" My voice came out as rope. Bray relayed it down the line. "38! GO AGAIN!"
And France answered inside 90 seconds, because France are France.
Pogba took one touch out of the restart and hit a ball 60 yards with the outside of his boot, flat and vicious through the rain, and Mbappé was onto it past Dirar before the sound of the strike reached me.
He cut in. He opened his body, the same shape as the 2nd goal, the same shape as the nightmare.
THWACK.
PAFF.
