But if not now, when? Rivers of green trickle out of the stadium, back to the Paris RER and the metro, the night stiff and chilly, the air thick with questions that will never be answered. There is anger, but only a little, and there is sadness, but only a little. Rather, the overwhelming sensation in these earliest twitches of aftermath is a kind of bewilderment, the yawning void where a World Cup semi-final was supposed to be. As if it all feels too abrupt. As if somewhere, on some plane, a sacred pact has been reneged on.
If not now, when? Perhaps this is the question that will consume Caelan Doris in his quieter moments, as he sees the high ball going up with 72 minutes on the clock, a catch he could make in his sleep that will now keep him awake. Perhaps this is the question that Johnny Sexton will ponder when he revisits the penalty kick that he pulled wide of the posts in the second half. Perhaps Conor Murray will see the blur of Jordie Barrett out of the corner of his eye, feel the ghost of an interfering arm extending outwards from his shoulder, and try desperately and forlornly to withdraw it.
