Out in the centre circle, Croatia had stopped existing.
Modrić flat on his back, forearm across his eyes. In 5 months a room full of men in dinner jackets will hand him a golden ball and end 10 years of 2 other men owning it, and on that night he lay in the mud in Moscow because a lad from Casablanca guessed right twice.
Rakitić on his haunches. Hands hanging between his knees. Looking at nothing.
And on the edge of the circle, on his own, Ante Rebić with both hands over his face.
He had been Croatia's 5th. It never came.
And I had watched him do that exact thing before. Same hands, same face, on his knees. The 86th minute, 6 yards out, our goal hanging open and Bounou beaten and the ball sitting up for him.
He sliced it wide.
2 hours apart. Same man. Same position. And nobody would remember his name at all if he had scored either one.
I turned and looked for my own 5th man.
Sofyan was 20 yards away with his hands on his knees, and he was not celebrating either.
