After the goal, North London was alive in ways only football could summon.
In a packed pub near Holloway Road, tables were sticky with spilt lager, voices hoarse with song, and the air thick with the kind of chants that were more enthusiastic than tuneful.
Arsenal scarves hung over shoulders like battle colours, and every mention of Liverpool was met with either a mocking lyric or a jeer shouted over a pint glass.
"Van Dijk can't handle him! He's dancing in his boots!" one man bellowed, sloshing half his beer as his mates howled with laughter.
Another group launched into a sloppy chorus about Trent getting twisted by Izan, the words half-lost in the haze, but the rhythm was infectious enough that the whole pub joined in, drumming the tables like they were terraces.
Amid the noise and the warm glow of collective belief, a middle-aged man sat wedged between two younger fans.
His pint sat untouched on the table, his phone buzzing insistently in his hand.
