All of that was true, but none of it seemed particularly relevant, or held even the slightest real meaning, because in San Siro it was extremely difficult to think at all. The stadium, the stadium that both clubs are so eager to leave behind, was so noisy, so animated, so lively and so alive that it bordered on a kind of sensory overload.
The game itself was no less captivating. It might have been a little whimsical, a little rough compared to what happened before, but that didn’t seem to matter in comparison to Nicolò Barella’s effervescent passion, Federico Dimarco’s daring play, Sandro Tonali’s vaguely desperate determination to something – anything – to save from Milan’s poignant start in the first leg.
If not, it was absolutely the pinnacle of football as a sport, but it definitely lacked nothing in the way of spectacle, from the moment the Champions League song started and the Curva turned into a mocking devil’s face in the blink of an eye. That is not something to be taken lightly and presented with a pat on the back and a condescending smile as an unwanted consolation prize.
There’s something moving about football played to perfection, when a team transforms itself into something close to art. That is why those who can influence that transformation are so revered and so richly rewarded. But it doesn’t have to reach those heights to be captivating, captivating and thrilling. It just has to be a competition, an occasion, an event.
After all, that has a much broader, much more visceral appeal. Some games are there to be watched, admired and appreciated. Others are there to be heard, felt and felt. The minor technical shortcomings – from both teams – will not be remembered. In the white heat, they may not even have been noticed. The sound that washes out of the Curva Sud, as what Milan had feared most slowly emerged, will reverberate for a while.