[Liverpool]
The bar was thick with noise, which clung to the walls and ceiling until it felt like the place was breathing along with the game.
Screens were mounted at every angle, above the bar, in corners, even one precariously balanced over the dartboard, and every pair of eyes was locked on them as the match rumbled on.
The commentary floated out of the speakers, but it was swallowed by the roars, groans, and half-drunken curses of the crowd.
On screen, the picture jolted: Izan was down again, curled on the turf after another crunching challenge.
This time, it was Robertson, his mistimed slide clipping his shin instead of the ball.
The whistle had gone sharp and quick, but the damage was already done.
"Ah, for f—'s sake, Robbo! Just let that little shit go," a man near the bar slammed his pint down so hard some of the lager splashed over his hand.
"Every bloody time, eh? He's walking a line!"
