As the final whistle blew at the Stade de France Trent Alexander-Arnold was closest to the Madrid bench, swaying to one side as the white shirts came haring on, gripped with an entirely familiar delirium. At which point Alexander-Arnold just stopped.
For the next five minutes, in the middle of the smoke, the pounding noise, the crackle of static across this vast craning bowl, he stood completely still at the edge of the centre circle, bent forward slightly as though in physical pain. Jürgen Klopp came across to offer a hug. A phalanx of photographers skirted past tactfully. Eventually, as the Uefa plinth was rigged into place, he just lay down alone on the turf and held his head.
