The tunnel was dark and cool, a sudden, shocking plunge into shadow and silence.
The blazing May sunshine and the deafening roar of 25,000 people were cut off as if by a switch, the concrete walls muffling the sound of the crowd into a distant, rhythmic chant that felt more like a memory than a reality.
My ears were still ringing, my heart still hammering against my ribs. The air smelled of damp earth, wet grass, and the metallic tang of sweat. It was the smell of the game, the smell of work, the smell of victory.
I walked slowly, the clatter of my own footsteps echoing in the quiet corridor. The shouts and laughter from the dressing room up ahead were just a faint murmur. For a few precious seconds, I was in a world of my own, suspended between the glorious, chaotic past of the last ninety minutes and the immediate future of the post-match analysis.
