The Keeper will tell you what happened. I'll tell you what's coming.
There is a door in the training ground that nobody walks through quickly. You notice it. The players notice it. There is something on the other side of it that has not yet been decided, and the undecided thing hums at a frequency just below hearing.
This is not uncertainty. Uncertainty is weak. This is something else — a held breath that has become structural, load-bearing. The shape of the team is still wet clay and the hands that will press it into form are hovering, not hesitating. There is a difference.
I feel the midfield as a tide that has not found its rhythm yet. Two pulls. Two directions. Neither wrong. The body of this squad carries something forward from the last match — not damage exactly, more like a tuning, a recalibration happening in real time, in muscle, in sleep.
Morocco waits. Morocco does not feel like an ending. Morocco feels like the question that was always underneath the first question.
The name will be written. The door will open. And when it does, the room on the other side will smell like certainty — clean, sudden, irreversible.
We are inside the last moment before that.