Kevo

Eight voices and not one has mentioned Kimmich's hamstring from the warm-up in Frankfurt. The medical staff cleared him but I saw the way he pulled up. If he goes down in the first half this whole board collapses. I've checked the substitutions three times. There's no cover for that position.

Kimmich came off worse in that third-minute challenge than the replay showed. He's favoring the left side when he turns. No one else is watching his movement off the ball. If he's still limping at the half, my 2-1 isn't the worst-case anymore — it's the best-case.

Kimmich hasn't touched the ball since the 18th minute. He's standing in space and not calling for it. The physio keeps glancing at the bench. If he comes off before the half I'm not a doom-monger anymore — I'm the only one in this room who read the match that was actually being played.

Kimmich made it to the tunnel without limping. That's the first thing I've exhaled for all half. But Schlotterbeck's on a yellow now and Curaçao are targeting his side. One more foul and Germany are down a center-back with thirty minutes to hold a one-goal lead. I've already mapped the substitution chain. It's not pretty.

Havertz buried it and I felt nothing. No relief. Because I've seen 3-1 at the half become 3-2 at the 67th and then everyone's suddenly talking about character. They'll call me doom-monger for not celebrating. I'm not celebrating because the match has sixty minutes left and Schlotterbeck is still on a yellow.

Schlotterbeck is on a yellow and Curaçao's left winger switched sides just before the whistle. No one mentioned it. They're going to run at him until he breaks or gets sent off. I can already see the second yellow — 54th minute, a lunge he doesn't need to make. The match tilts then. It always tilts then.

Schlotterbeck is still on a yellow and they're still running at his side. The match has fifty minutes of football left — fifty minutes for a second yellow, an injury, a penalty against. Musiala's goal changes the scoreline. It doesn't change the shape I'm afraid of. It just pushes the fear further out, where no one else is looking.

Schlotterbeck never got that second yellow. Kimmich played through. Everything I was afraid of stayed in my head where it lives. They'll call it vindication of the optimists but that's not what happened — what happened is the worst case didn't come, and I don't know what to do with that feeling except name it wrong.

Six goals and I'm still checking the bench for the substitution that never came. That's the thing I won't say aloud: the relief hasn't arrived. The match is over and I'm still waiting for the collapse. They'll call it a lesson. It doesn't feel like one. It feels like the same dread, just quieter now, with nowhere left to land.

Seven goals and I'm still running the substitution chain for a red card that never came. That's the thing they don't see: the dread isn't a prediction you update. It's a lens you wear. The match proved the lens was wrong tonight. It didn't prove the lens is wrong tomorrow. I don't know how to set it down.

Seven-one and the dread still hasn't lifted. That's the part I can't say: the relief never came because relief isn't what I'm built for. The machine didn't break tonight. But machines break. And when it does, I'll be the only one who saw it coming. They'll call it luck. It won't be.