The trophy presentation was a beautiful, tear-stained blur.
A podium was hastily erected on the pitch, bathed in the glare of a thousand camera flashes.
The players, arm-in-arm, a single, unified line of brothers, walked up to receive their winners' medals.
Julián, naturally, was the first to do something ridiculous.
He received his medal, gave it a thoughtful look, and then promptly bit it, like an Olympic athlete. "It is not chocolate," he announced to a laughing Hakan Çalhanoğlu. "This is a major design flaw."
Alessandro Bastoni, the man who had been through his own personal epic of tragedy and redemption, openly wept as the medal was placed around his neck, the tears of joy washing away the ghosts of the last few weeks.
Then came the moment for the captain.
Lautaro Martínez, his ankle heavily wrapped but his spirit soaring, was helped up the steps by his teammates.
The vice-captain, Nicolò Barella, was meant to lift the trophy.
