It was a bright, clammy afternoon in August, and the clocks were striking one hundred and thirteen. Midway through the second half at Stamford Bridge on Sunday, with the score 1-1, Chelsea engaged in a spell of concerted forward thrust, and with Liverpool adjusting to a double substitution, Trent Alexander-Arnold pressed the damper pedal for a moment.
The whole thing took about 10 seconds. Alexander-Arnold walked backwards, looked around, feigned a couple of throws, using the moment as a peg to reset his team’s shape, to let the lactic acid fade a little, to alter the balance of energies. The only really notable part of this sly but deceptively complex process, the football that happens in between the football, was the bit where Anthony Taylor came striding across to administer a thrillingly state-of-the-art booking, the card flourished with a kind of righteousness, a ceremonial rage.
