Balletic Bukayo ('24-25 Liverpool Home 2-2)

200k live on Hotstar. Two lakh other humans (presumably Indian men), connected by this disembodied moment.

This beautiful game, I feel, is prettier without sound – a silent film, a dance without music.

In this glorious quiet, Bukayo Saka is balletic, magnificent, confident, sure.

He is ruthless, now, no longer a boy, a savage finish from a glorious Ben White long ball.

But then Van Dijk scores a header, capitalising on Saliba’s absence. I’d popped into my kitchen, fearful of the burning smell. It’s 1-1.

What a touch from Merino, both feet off the ground, still at the top of his parabolic arc. This grace is tempered by sheer hunger.

I’m just noticing Nicolas Jover’s focus. His anxiety. How he’s found his purpose.

Declan’s eyes, handsome blue, piercing.

Merino is onside by the width of a toenail. We lead, 2-1. My luck has arrived.

At halftime, Van Dijk walks off wearing the look of a man who knows his best days are behind him. I know the feeling.

Late in the second half. Gabriel is injured. Another reminder – this is a game of luck. All of my turmoil, subject to a throw of the dice.

We need to dig deep now, Kiwior on – but he fails to maintain his position, and is unable to stop the inevitable Mo Salah, the magnificent Egyptian King.

Adversity is inevitable. We were unlucky to escape without a win. Next: Man United.

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