Stewards in yellow jackets rushed in from both sides of the divide, and behind them came the police, a line of black helmets and clear plastic shields moving with disciplined speed down the steps.
The public address system crackled to life, and a calm, flat voice filled the stadium.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please remain in your seats. Visiting supporters will be asked to remain in the stadium for a short time after the match. Please follow the instructions of the stewards."
On the touchline, Maresca had not moved.
He stood with his hands clasped behind his back and his bald head gleaming faintly under the lights, watching his supporters with an expression that revealed nothing at all.
He did not shout, and he did not point.
When the line of police closed across the barrier, he walked slowly to the edge of the pitch, lifted one hand toward the home stand, and held it there, palm out, until the nearest rows grew quiet.
Then he turned to his players.
