The whistle went for the second half, Pheep.
The pitch lay green and bright under the floodlights, cut into its mowing stripes, and behind the far goal the wall was already up, thirty thousand of them standing from the running track to the roof, red and green, scarves and flags going, a haze of flare smoke drifting flat across the lower tier.
And we went straight back at Portugal.
Hakimi tore up the right at Guerreiro again, that door still hanging off its hinges from the first half. Ziyech dropped into the pocket between their lines, took it on the half turn, and drove at the heart of them.
Sofyan and Boussoufa rolled it side to side through a midfield that couldn't lay a boot on it, the white shirts trotting two yards behind the ball wherever it went.
"DIMA MAGHRIB! DIMA MAGHRIB!"
That was the whole truth of the night. Take the 7 out of their team and what was left was ten good professionals, and not a man among them I'd have swapped for one of mine.
