The stands filled slowly at first, then all at once, like someone had lifted a lid off the city and poured everyone inside.
People eased into their seats with bags of popcorn, cups of iced tea, skewers from the vendors outside and mainly anything they could grab before the queues became impossible.
The air felt warm and restless, humming with all the conversations that rose and fell in little pockets in the stands.
A father and his teenage daughter settled near the stands on the sides of the halfway line.
She clutched a small Arsenal flag while he balanced four drinks because she wouldn't keep her eyes away from the tunnel enough to help him.
"Do you think Izan will start?" she asked.
"He should", her father said as he passed her a first drink ", and if he does, you can try waving that thing until your arm falls off. Maybe he'll look this way."
She hit her father on the shoulder, blushing a bit, before turning her attention back to the pitch.
