What I didn't tell you about the Vélodrome is what happened after.
The dressing room celebrations were brief and professional handshakes, quiet words, the muffled satisfaction of men who had done something extraordinary and were too exhausted to shout about it.
Sakho sat in the corner, a towel over his head, his massive chest still heaving. Dann was having his ribs strapped by the medical staff, wincing slightly but refusing painkillers.
Hennessey was sitting with his gloves still on, the quiet ritual of a goalkeeper who wouldn't take them off until the clean sheet was officially recorded. I moved through the room, a word for each of them, a hand on a shoulder, a look that said more than language could.
Before I could settle, the UEFA press officer appeared at the dressing room door. The post-match media obligations waited for no one, not even a man whose instincts were already telling him to get his players out of this stadium as fast as possible.
