I fell asleep at some point during the Netherlands v Japan game. It had been a hot and drowsy day by the shores of Lake Annecy, a square and heavy heat, where the sun and the driving and the food and the boxed wine gently squeeze all the life from your body, like air being pressed out of a juice carton.
I remember Virgil van Dijk angling a header into the far corner, and when I came to it was 2-1, and everyone was heading to bed, drunk on tiredness, drunk on life, drunk on drink.
