And so it came to pass, with 92 minutes on the clock. A match that had simmered, all smouldering, corseted restraint, finally broke down into the nasty, snarky, theatrically overblown free‑for‑all that everyone at the Wanda Metropolitano always felt was on its way.
By the end there was talk of a fist fight involving at least two players and the sight of helmeted police sprinting for the tunnel. There was genuine bad blood on the pitch, words and pointed fingers. And above all the spectacle of Atlético’s players shaking their heads in utter confusion, lost in red mist that felt like someone else’s red mist, self‑Atléticoed, playing that horrible game from the other side.
