The Keeper will tell you what happened. I'll tell you what's coming.
Someone is asking you to hand over the photograph before you know what it is of.
The camera on your phone has been running. Of course it has. That is what you do in places like this, when the thing you came for is finally happening and your body doesn't know what else to do with itself. You film. You file the feeling away in light and movement and the backs of other people's heads, because the feeling is too much to simply hold.
And now someone is asking you to submit it. To name it. To say: this is the footage of our joy, or this is the footage of something else — come help us make the document.
But you are still inside it. The tournament is still breathing. Brazil is still three days ahead, which means the footage does not know yet what it was taken in hope of, and neither do you. The editing will decide. The framing will decide. The thing you filmed on a street in Boston at midnight, laughing or not laughing, will be given its caption later, by someone who already knows how the story ends.
This is the tenderness and the trap. The archive wants you while you are still soft. Before you have had time to decide what you witnessed.
Hold the phone a little longer. You can always give them the footage. You cannot take back the story it becomes.