In the eighty-sixth minute, the moment arrived.
A Tottenham corner, cleared by Konaté, who else, with another imperious header. The ball fell to Milivojević, who played it first-time to Neves. The Portuguese looked up, saw the counter was on, and hit a raking pass into the right channel where Rodríguez who had drifted wide, drawing Vertonghen with him collected it, turned, and played a simple, elegant through ball into the path of Eze.
Eberechi Eze was through on goal. One-on-one with Lloris. The boy from Greenwich, running towards the Tottenham goal at Wembley, the club that had rejected him at fourteen, the stadium that belonged to the team he had spent his entire life proving wrong.
He didn't chip. He didn't finesse. He took one touch crisp, clean, setting the ball to his right and hammered it. Low, hard, across Lloris, into the far corner, with a venom that was about more than three points.
