With 15 minutes gone on a fun, balmy, febrile afternoon at Wembley, Antonio Conte could be seen cavorting on the touchline in his sombre suit like an old-time revivalist preacher working the crowd at the village hall, arms windmilling, fists pumping, shiny shoes pounding the turf.
High above his head an aeroplane appeared, trailing a message across the sky. The message was: “Antonio Conte!” Hallelujah! And indeed, praise be.
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