There were 3 minutes left of the 4 and I was not going to go quiet. I came off my line with both arms up, pushing them on, screaming at Ziyech to keep it wide and Boussoufa to get it forward, throwing my whole body up the touchline with every ball.
Bray told me after that he had both fists in the back of my jacket the entire time, holding me inside the technical area, and I never felt them once.
And I sent them up again. Both centre-halves. The left-back. I was pointing Saïss forward and waving the full-backs on and emptying my own half on purpose, 4 white shirts camped on the lip of the French box, France flinging bodies in front of all of it, because there was nothing left to protect and everything left to win.
Harit hit one from 8 yards. Smack. Umtiti got a chest in front of it, oof, and went down and stayed down, and 78,000 people were up before the block, a wall of noise rising, then falling as the ball spun off to safety. Ahhhh.
