On fourteen minutes, Jack Grealish and Andros Townsend both went at him on the edge of the centre circle. He let the first one come, rolled it under his right foot, went around the second on the half-turn, and played it thirty yards into Connor Blake's feet with his head down.
Fwip.
"Oh, come on," Grealish said to the sky, and then turned round and said it to Scott Dann. "Scotty. Foul. He dragged it."
Prrrp.
"Free kick to yellows. You spoke to the referee."
"I was talking to God, Scotty!"
"God isn't on this pitch, Jack. I am."
Kovačić got the ball back off Tuanzebe two minutes later and did it again, to Kirby this time. Kirby just stood there with his hands on his head and laughed at him.
The last ten minutes were the reason I had put the tape down.
Townsend went down on the edge of the yellows' box with Sakho across him. It was a foul, and Scott Dann waved play on. I was out of my box and three yards up the touchline before I even realised my legs were moving.
Prrrp.
