Chelsea had already been angered by Tottenham’s first equaliser, as Rodrigo Bentancur had seemed to foul Kai Havertz perhaps half a minute before the ball went into the net.Ĭhelsea went 2-1 up a little later, sending Tuchel off on his own wild, gawky, very funny sprint down the touchline, skinny arms pumping, legs pounding the turf, like a set of scaffolding poles bouncing off the back of a lorry. West London had been a heavy, draining place all day, a city turning a little sour and sullen in the dog days of late summer. The only person who seemed to enjoy it was Tuchel’s ex-SAS bodyguard who loved every second – prowling expertly, eyes on swivel, securing the target. like a Renaissance frieze entitled The Enragement of Antonio. The end result was Tuchel refusing to let go, sending Conte windmilling around – nobody windmills Antonio around – and inspiring a hair-raising tableau of waving arms, bumping chests, flashing eyes. No one will ever really know what happened inside that shake.