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Just breath. Sharp and even. The kind you take before lifting something heavy.
Bradford weren’t chasing momentum—they already had it. But they weren’t protecting it either. The second half opened like a held chord: controlled, tight, full of restraint.
The ball came loose in midfield after an early AZ probe, and Lowe met it like a hammer—body low, both feet planted, and one clean shoulder that thumped their number eight flat to the ground.
No foul. All timing.
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