Losing again. He stands and shuffles, avoids eye-contact. A deserter avoiding the rush.
We can see you sneaking out!
Through the turnstile, he hears those left behind bellow their futile chants, demanding one final effort. He mutters at chances wasted, but as he steps onto the empty platform, from nowhere an errant pass, a clinical finish. A shocked, distant roar as resurgent hope tackles impossible odds.
Then, as he boards the train and the doors close behind him, last-gasp heroics and a collective ecstasy erupts into the night sky at a miracle complete.
He avoids the rush alright.
I’ll never understand why people leave games early.