His hands on his hips, in the 5th minute.
England 1. Morocco 0. 5 minutes on the clock of a World Cup semi-final, and the board over the far corner already read the thing I had spent 4 days telling 11 men would not break us if it came.
It had come. Trippier off a dead ball, the way it was always going to come if it came at all, and it was in the back of Munir's net and there was not one thing to be done about it now except what came next.
And what came next was 38,000 English voices and a pile of white shirts over by the corner flag, Kane and Alli and Sterling at the bottom of it and a bench emptying to join it. And Ashley Young, jogging back to the halfway line on his own, not going.
That is what I was watching. Not the pile. Not the board. Him.
Because my own players were in the middle of that noise with their heads down. Da Costa would not look up. Harit, 21 years old, first start of his life, stood and stared at the grass while a stadium fell on his head.
