Ten men. Old Trafford. Added time. Dominic Solanke scores, and the most famous stadium in English football goes quiet in a way it has not managed in years.
This is the modern condition in one scoreline. You are outnumbered. The rules keep moving under your feet. Everybody has already written you off, filed the obituary, and started arguing about the replay. Then something drops into the box in the ninety-somethingth minute and you are suddenly the story. Tottenham did not play like a team that deserved it. They played like a team that had stopped asking permission.
Then there is the other question in the headline, the one the screen keeps asking. Every late goal now arrives with a pause, a hush, a graphic drawn by a man in a dark room, and a fan base that will spend the week debating whether a shoulder counts as a shoulder. Nobody can tell whether the underdog was rescued by heroism or by a delay long enough for everyone to forget the sending-off.
So is this a triumph for the little guy, or a bureaucracy that found a loophole in the laws of physics? Yes. Both. We will be told it was both for roughly nine days. Then Sunday arrives, and we do it all again.