The power cut hit at half-time, with the score level and tempers still running high.
The stadium lights went out. The emergency lights clicked on. The PA died. No announcement.
Four thousand people sat in dim orange light, waiting.
In the stands, separated by a barrier, rival supporters sat in their separate sections. The tension that was there for the match was still there. Just different — quieter, more uncertain.
Mikael was fifteen, in the home section, one row from the barrier.
On the other side, a man had taken out a small drum. He began to play, quietly, to pass the time.
Someone in the home section started humming along. Then stopped, embarrassed.
The man with the drum kept playing.
Mikael, without quite deciding to, began to clap in time.
He felt eyes on him. He kept clapping.
Someone else joined. Then someone else.
The man with the drum looked up, surprised, and played louder.
By the time the power came back, twenty minutes later, something had happened that was not explicable in terms of football rivalry: two sections of the stadium were playing together.
The match resumed. The teams played. Supporters went back to their sides.
But for twenty minutes, four thousand people had been just people.
Mikael thought about that for a long time.
Music, he decided, did not know the offside rule.
It did not know a lot of things that humans had invented to keep each other apart.