This was football for people who enjoy long silences and meaningful eye contact, a slow grind where both sides treated the final third like a place you visit, not somewhere you live.

For seventy-five minutes the most dangerous thing on the pitch was the suspense, until Daniel Munoz finally remembered that the point of all this running is occasionally to score, and tucked away the only goal that mattered.

The bright side is real though: it was tidy, controlled, free of nonsense, and proof that one decisive finish can rescue an evening that spent most of its time auditioning for a sleep app.