When the final extraordinary goal of this pulsating contest went in, Antonio Conte spun 180 degrees, his face a contorted mess of pleasure and victorious aggression, and he ran towards his staff. Still got a turn of pace, Antonio, though it’s doubtful he ever moved that fast when imperiously running midfields in the 1990s.
When he reached the assortment of standard issue Spurs puffa blue jackets, he flung himself into the mass of colleagues like a teenager stage diving at his first concert. And they jumped up and down like a group of kids at a toddlers’ party.