I left the ticket propped against the kettle. Emma walked in 10 minutes later, dropped her keys, and stared at it.
"Who shouts?" she asked, with 1 arm still in her coat.
"Mamadou."
"Mamadou is playing."
"Deano."
"Deano will be in the tunnel counting shirts."
"My mum."
"Your mum went to Old Trafford in a hat and held her handbag for 90 minutes." She hung her coat on the door. "You have already thought of somebody. You do a thing with your mouth."
"Dion's mother."
Emma stopped. "The woman who said she would drive to Beckenham and take him home?"
"She screamed at Achraf through her television for the entire San Siro match. Dion apologised to him for it afterwards."
"Has she ever been to a match?"
"I do not know."
"Then find out," Emma said, "and take that off my kettle."
I handed the ticket to Dion on Monday morning beside pitch 3. He read the front, turned it over, and examined the blank back.
"It is 1 seat."
"It is 1 seat. You are with the squad."
