What I was watching from the freezing terraces of Saint-Ouen that day in February was a team that had adjusted to promotion and seemed about to ride the season out comfortably.
Then, Martigues equalised – an unmarked header, crossed from the left.
There was a sharp intake of breath from the crowd, then vehement and sustained cursing. Then silence. The man in a duffel coat who had been playing a single note on a recorder for nearly an hour and a half, stopped.
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