She checks her watch. She claps her hands. She points at things. She shouts at people. Trinity Rodman jogs past her on her way up the left touchline and she gives her a pat on the back. She is basically trying to convince herself that there are still jobs to do when, in fact, her work is done. We are deep into injury time, and Emma Hayes can no more influence this Olympic final than the fan in the Uncle Sam hat sitting 50 yards above her.
Finally, the whistle. The explosion. Hayes raises her arms, looks skywards, lets out a roar. It is, perhaps, the only moment of personal indulgence she will allow herself. While her victorious players are dancing in a huddle, Hayes has no interest in thrusting herself into the middle, a move known these days as the “Jorge Vilda”. Instead she walks towards the devastated Brazilian players, offers them a word of comfort, seeks out the retiring Marta to pay her respects.
