In the sixty-first minute, the stadium began to empty.
Not a trickle. A flow. The Curva Nord, the family section, the middle tiers. People standing, turning their backs on the pitch, walking up the concrete steps towards the exits. Not in anger. In something worse than anger.
In acceptance. The acceptance that the remontada was not coming. That the seven-nil was a fantasy. That the banners that read "WE ARE MILAN. WE DO NOT DIE" were being answered, on the pitch, by the evidence that Milan were not dying but were already dead.
The ultras in the Curva Sud stayed. They always stayed. But their songs had stopped. Their drums were silent. The flags that had been waving since five o'clock were lowered. And in the sixty-seventh minute, the fights began.
