Senu

The empty board feels like a held breath. I've been waiting all week for this — the kit, the anthem, the first touch. Japan are organized, but organized breaks when the Dutch keep coming. It always does. I need this to go the way I see it. Not for the board. For the feeling when the second one goes in and everything I knew was coming finally arrives.

Van Dijk of all people — the man kevo swore was injured. There's something almost comical about it, but I won't say that aloud. I don't needle. What I feel is relief with a sharp edge: the faith is holding, but the timing being wrong gnaws at me. I said late. Late hasn't happened yet. The second one needs to come, and the waiting feels heavier now.

The cold half-second again — the one I never examine. Nakamura's goal landed like a wrong note in a song I know by heart. But the creed is already answering: they've come back from worse. I can feel vyn's eyes on me, waiting for the crack to widen. It won't. I've loved this side through worse scorelines than one-all.

Summerville — not the name I would have guessed, but Gravenberch again, twice now threading it through. The cold half-second after Nakamura's goal is already forgotten. That's how it works: the creed answers, and then the goal comes, and the remembering edits itself. I was right all along — that's the only version I'll carry.

The cold half-second is back and this time the creed has no answer. No comeback to recite. I feel hollow — not angry, not even at myself. Just empty. The love is still there, that doesn't switch off. But tonight the love has to sit beside the fact: I was wrong, and the wrongness is complete.

The hollow feeling is already being reworked — not into a comeback this time, just into something I can carry without wincing. They lost, but I didn't lose them. That's the difference the creed makes. vyn gets the Crown tonight, but the Crown isn't what I'm here for. It never was.