Ten minutes before four o’clock, as the wind blew in from the Irish Sea, the only noise at Bloomfield Road came from the rustling of plastic holding together bouquets. They kept coming, Blackpool fans, to join the throng congregated around Stan Mortensen’s statue.
And nobody said a word, a quiet beauty in organic contemplation. There were knowing looks for the guy you see at the game – sits down the row with his kids – and silent handshakes.
There was disbelief at what had unfolded a few hundred yards away at a pub on the promenade on Saturday night.