[75’.]

Aviero on for Eze. The Holmesdale stood for Eze the way they stood for the players they had decided were going to be legends here in five years.

Eze came past me on the touchline. Touched my hand on the way past.

Aviero into the ten. Eighteen years old. On for the rest of the European semi-final first leg in front of twenty-five thousand at Selhurst Park with three goals on the board. He had not changed expression in nine months. He did not change it now.

On the bench behind me Pato turned to James and said something in Spanish. James grinned. The two of them were a metre apart on the bench in their tracksuits, both Real Madrid men, both loaned to a Premier League side that had just gone three-nil up in a European semi-final first leg, and they were laughing in Spanish at something the home crowd would never hear.

[81’.]

Wilf came off for Bowen.

The Holmesdale stood for Wilf for the full minute it took him to get to the touchline. Wilf saluted the Holmesdale. The Holmesdale saluted Wilf.

[85’.]

Lewis Grant came on for Konaté.

Hannam was already warming up because the bench had run out of senior centre-halves.

Konaté off to the Holmesdale standing. Konaté did not raise his hand. Konaté did not look back. He got to the touchline. Bray was at the bench waiting for him. Bray put one hand on Konaté’s shoulder. Konaté did not say anything. Sat down. Put his tracksuit top on. Watched the last five minutes.

[89’.]

Bas Dost got across Lewis Grant on a cross that came in from the left from a Bruno Fernandes corner.

Lewis Grant did not block him.

Bas Dost.

Thud.

The ball went in at the near post past Wayne’s left hand.

Three-one.

Lewis Grant put both his hands on his head. Walked back to the centre circle with his head down. Mama was the first to him. Hand on the back of his neck. Said something to him in his ear. Lewis Grant nodded once. Did not look up.

Bruno Fernandes was on his knees at the corner flag. Not in celebration. In thought. He had not given up on the tie at three-nil down in the seventy-second. He had played the corner that had got them the goal at the eighty-ninth. He was not going to give up on the tie in Lisbon either. I knew it watching him at the corner flag with his head down. He knew the tie was over. He was not done with the tie.

[FT. 22:01 BST.]

The whistle.

BLEEP. BLEEP. BLEEP.

The Holmesdale stood. The drum kept going. Boom. Boom. Boom.

The lads went over to the away end first. The Sporting fans had been clapping through the match the way the away end claps when the away end has been beaten by something the away end respects. The lads stood in front of the away end and clapped the away end back.

Then the lads went to the Holmesdale.

Mama lifted Konaté off the floor. Wilf lifted Olise off the floor. Eze stood at the front of the line with his arms round Mateo on one side and Mili on the other.

Lewis Grant walked across to the Holmesdale at the back of the group. The Holmesdale started a song the lads in the back of the Holmesdale had been working on for him since Watford last Saturday.

Lewis Grant put his hand to his chest.

I went across the halfway line to find Jorge Jesus.

He met me halfway. Took two seconds before he spoke.

"Your number eight. He is the best ball-carrier in Europe under thirty. I told my assistant this at half-time. He told me to be quiet and watch the second half. The second half was worse."

"He is doing what we bought him for in January."

"I have watched the tape. I know what you bought him for."

"Then you know."

He almost laughed. Did not.

"The lad on the right wing. Sixteen?"

"Sixteen."

"Sign him until he is thirty. Do not let any of us in. Not even the Portuguese."

He shook my hand. Walked off without waiting. Bruno Fernandes was a metre behind him.

Bruno Fernandes was a metre behind Jorge. I put my hand out. He took it.

"Bruno."

"Boss."

His English was better than Marcus had said it would be. Marcus had told me on Tuesday morning he was still studying it at home.

"You played well tonight."

"I lost."

"You played well anyway."

He nodded once. Did not answer for a beat. Then he said it.

"Your number ten. Eze. The pass in the thirty-sixth minute. I did not see it from the pitch. I would have to watch the tape three times to see it. He saw it without watching anything. He just saw it."

"Yeah."

"He is a good player."

"He came through the academy."

"He came through your academy."

He let go of my hand. Did not smile but his eyes did.

"Good luck next Thursday in Lisbon, Boss. Watch out for us."

He walked off after his manager.

[Tunnel. 22:42 BST.]

Sarah at the bottom of the tunnel with her arms crossed and her back against the wall.

"He is better than I told you on Friday. He is better than the tape Marcus cut. He is better than anything I have written down in any of my notes this week."

"I know."

"I am revising my report on him every six hours until the second leg. Anything I tell you about him that is more than a day old, throw it away."

"All right."

"He is going to one of the top six in twelve months. We will be one of the clubs ringing about him."

"We will."

A beat. She did not move from the wall.

"Forty-one hundred Sporting fans in the away end. Flew over to see what they just saw. We ruined their week, Daniel."

"We did."

"That is the football. That is exactly the football."

She pushed off the wall and went to find Bray.

[Selhurst Park. The corridor outside the office. 23:16 BST.]

Elena Vasquez was at the door with Tomás and Ruth.

"Daniel."

"Elena."

"Tomorrow at three. Beckenham."

"Tomorrow at three."

"One thing now."

"Yeah."

"The Spider-Man people rang me an hour ago. Watched the match on Sky in Los Angeles. They want a second scene."

"Tell them yes."

"They have not said what it is."

"I trust them. Tell them yes."

I went into the office. Sat at the desk for a minute. Did not turn the light on. Sarah and Bray were in the analysts’ room down the hall. Marcus was setting up the Lisbon footage for the morning.

I did not go down to them yet.

[Dulwich. 01:08 BST.]

Emma was awake.

On the sofa with a glass of wine she had been making last for two hours. Sky Sports News on the wall with the sound down. They had been showing the three goals on a loop for three hours and had not run out of things to say about them because they had not started saying things about them yet.

She did not get up.

"Walsh."

"Em."

I sat down. She put her head on my shoulder.

The screen showed Konaté. Then Olise. Then Pato.

"Three-one."

"Three-one."

"Bas Dost goal does not matter."

"Bas Dost goal does not matter."

She took a sip.

"You are playing Spider-Man."

"Two scenes now."

She put her wine down on the coffee table.

"Two."

She did not say anything for a minute. The screen looped the goals.

"Walsh."

"Yeah."

"My dad rang. He watched it at the Crown and Anchor in Woking with his lads."

"Yeah."

"He said one sentence to me."

"What."

"He said Tell that boy that this is the team I want to be supporting when I die. Then he hung up."

I closed my eyes. She put her hand on my chest. Did not say anything else. The television looped the goals again. Sporting were not scoring three in Lisbon. Wembley was on Saturday. Lyon was nineteen days away.

I let her keep her hand where it was.

*** 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒆𝙬𝒆𝒃𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝓸𝒎

Thank you to Sir nameyelus for the support.