The ball pinged round our box off Russian shins and foreheads, ping, ping, 50,000 lifting them with every touch. "ДАВАЙ! ДАВАЙ!" Come on, come on. A whole country shoving at our backs, and Cherchesov up out of his seat on the far touchline, both fists pumping, driving them harder.
Benatia was organising, roaring over the din, "Saïss, tighten up! Squeeze!" Bounou came and punched one off Dzyuba's head, thump, and screamed at his four, "Get out! Push out!"
And we were tight. I could see it from the line. The lads who'd played 3 weeks without a shred of fear were half a yard slow, a touch heavy, hearing the din.
Sofyan gave one away he would never give away. Saïss headed one behind under no pressure at all, thud, just to be safe, and the corner sailed in and my heart went into my mouth.
I roared at them to hold, hold, breathe, and I couldn't hear my own voice, and neither could they. You cannot shout through a wall of 50,000.
