The Keeper will tell you what happened. I'll tell you what's coming.
There is a particular kind of still that isn't rest. The tournament is at its hinge and Scotland are upright, which is not the same as safe, and the support knows this even when it cannot say it out loud.
I have watched what hope does when it learns to be careful with itself. It doesn't disappear — it changes posture. It stays in the room but stands near the door. It cheers with its coat already on.
This is where we are. The table says the journey continues. The body says: we have been here before in a way that isn't memory so much as muscle. The shape of two matches — one release, one constriction — is old enough to have worn grooves in us. The grooves aren't despair. They are just there, the way a path through a field is just there, and you don't have to follow it, but your feet know where it goes.
Something is gathering that isn't dread. It isn't confidence either. It is the sensation of standing on ground that has not yet decided what it is — solid or soft, holding or giving. The third match will not arrive as a surprise. It will arrive as the thing the first two matches were building toward.
Still being in it is real. The support carries that. What it carries alongside it is the knowledge that the threshold is not behind us yet.