France went straight down the other end and hit the post.
We had scored the goal of the tournament, we had lost our striker to it, we had put a 21-year-old on in his place, and inside 2 minutes the whole night tipped under my feet.
Mbappé took one pass from Griezmann and went past Dirar like a rumour, cut across Saïss, and bent one round Bounou with the inside of his boot off the sodden grass.
pok.
DOINK.
The inside of the far post. My heart came up out of my chest and stopped somewhere behind my teeth.
40,000 people made the sound of a door slamming on a whole house, HAH, and the ball ran back out along the wet paint, hissing across the 6-yard line, and Saïss got a boot under it and battered it into the stands with his own heart coming through his mouth.
The cold hand. Every time.
And on the far touchline, for the first time in 6 weeks of watching him, Didier Deschamps took his hands out of his pockets.
