The Liverpool players, their red shirts soaked with a mixture of Californian sweat and bitter disappointment, stood on the pitch, hands on their hips, watching the Real Madrid team celebrate a victory they had snatched from the jaws of a draw.
"I DON'T BELIEVE IT!" the commentator was still yelling, his voice a ragged, ecstatic mess. "A friendly that had more drama than a Hollywood blockbuster! Goals! Dribbles! Tactical masterclasses! And a final, devastating sting in the tail from the fastest man on the planet! If this is pre-season, I think my heart might actually explode before we even get to September!"
In the Liverpool dressing room, the atmosphere wasn't one of devastation, but of quiet, professional frustration.
The sound of boots being thrown against lockers was replaced by the low hum of analytical conversations, the dissection of a loss that felt more like a lesson.
