I'm sneaking through a dingy building, ducking to the side whenever anyone passes. My hands scrape through piles of scrap, searching for anything useful. Each time I dig through the trash I find nothing but dirt and rubbish. I curse as my hands shake. I need to get medicine or else Anton will die.
When a game is won in the most dramatic way possible, on the largest stage in the world, with so much at stake, there is a natural tendency to draw overreaching narrative conclusions that match the scale of the moment, even if they hold little relevance to the actual cause of events.
There is no such thing as an automatic goal in soccer.