The morning sun spilt softly across the MetLife pitch, its grass trimmed to a blade and painted with white lines so clean it almost looked new.
The air echoed faintly with sound, mainly with the sound of boots meeting the ball, the echo of coaches calling out directions, and, beneath it all, the click-click-click of cameras tracking every move.
On the far side, the Arsenal squad went through their final session before the Club World Cup final.
The players looked sharp, focused.
There was laughter here and there, a few inside jokes when someone overhit a pass or took a poor first touch, but none of them had forgotten what would be at stake in the afternoon of the next day.
Away from them, reporters watched from a fenced-off section behind the advertising boards, their lenses fixed on the pitch.
Every sprint, every smile, every small word exchanged between Arteta and a player was captured, waiting to be dissected and turned into something headline-worthy.
