The pre-match routine felt mechanical. The warm-up was flat. Neves, who usually juggled the ball with Rodríguez in the centre circle a playful, rhythmic routine that loosened them both up went through the motions without the usual spark.
Zaha's first sprint drill was noticeably slower than his second, as though his body needed two attempts to remember what full speed felt like. Even Sakho, whose pre-match routine was a booming, vocal, chest-thumping ritual that energised the entire squad, was subdued rolling his knee carefully, testing the range of motion, a quiet negotiation between his body and his will.
Sarah noticed. "They're flat, Danny," she said, standing beside me as the players filed back towards the tunnel. "The Rome hangover isn't just physical. It's emotional. They left everything in the Olimpico."
"I know."
"We could set up differently. Sit deeper. Protect the space. Make it ugly."
