The France game kicked off at 8.
Marcus came to my room with the laptop and a folder 2 inches thick, and this time it was a proper feed, not a lad's phone.
The full weight of it came out of the speaker, 60,000 in Saint Petersburg, a commentator with the big-night voice on, the low roll of a crowd that knew what it was watching. [Rrrrrmmm.] I turned it up until the little speaker buzzed.
I wanted Belgium. I will say that plainly, because a book like this is worth nothing if I lie in it.
Belgium were a golden generation, and I do not use that as a soft word. Courtois in goal, the best keeper in the world. Alderweireld and Vertonghen and Kompany across the back. Witsel and De Bruyne and Fellaini in the middle.
And in front, Hazard and Lukaku, the most talent one small country has ever put on a pitch at one time, a group who had spent 10 years being told they would win something and had not won it yet.
