3-2. 15 minutes from a World Cup semi-final. Morocco. Us.
The bench went up like a bomb.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Palms hammering the dugout roof, subs spilling onto the paint in a riot of green tracksuits, and Mustapha with both hands locked on my shoulders, shaking me like a snow globe.
"Fifteen minutes, Danny. Fifteen..."
"I know. I know. Get off..."
"Wallahi, fifteen minutes..."
And he was not saying it the way I would have said it. Tears standing in his eyes, voice gone somewhere I could not follow, because for him this was not fifteen minutes of a football match. He grew up on a street in Casablanca where they still talk about Mexico '86 like scripture.
I grew up in Croydon.
I put my hand flat on his chest, pushed him back, and looked past his shoulder.
Dalić was off his seat. The fourth official was up with the board.
And I knew the way you know your own front door in the dark exactly whose number was coming.
