Eze's goal was a moment of pure, transcendent genius, a flash of individual brilliance that was utterly disconnected from the team's collective performance. It was the goal of a player who was playing for himself, for his own future, for a move to a bigger and better club.
The goal was more than a score; it was a scene from his dream. As the net rippled, I saw the same fierce joy he'd described just days ago when he told me about his dream of one day playing for Arsenal.
The crowd, a mix of relief and awe, roared its approval. The winner, in the seventy-first minute, was the polar opposite of Eze's masterpiece, but it was every bit as beautiful in its own, ugly way. It was a goal born of pure, working-class grit.
Semenyo, a relentless, buzzing hornet on the right wing, chased down a lost cause, muscled his way past the fullback, and whipped in a desperate, hopeful cross. It was a terrible cross, a scuffed, mis-hit ball that should have been easily dealt with.
