Look, I’ll be straight with you: for about seven minutes, I actually thought we were in for a treat. Sho Matsumoto popped up with a header in the 7th, courtesy of Olabarría, and for a brief, shimmering moment, the vibes were immaculate. We were playing the game, the sun was out, and I genuinely reckoned we had them.

Then the 9th minute happened.

Olivier Boivin-Lemoine equalised almost immediately, which is the sort of thing that happens to us. It didn't just level the score: it sucked the oxygen right out of the stadium. It was the kind of goal that makes you realise your lead was less of a tactical triumph and more of a polite suggestion.

So here's the thing: we tried to steady the ship, but Boivin-Lemoine wasn't finished. He bagged another in the 22nd, again served up by Bautista Caltabiano. To concede twice in fifteen minutes to the same man is a special kind of misery. It’s very us, really. We spent the rest of the first half chasing shadows and wondering if the tea at half-time would be lukewarm. (It was).

“There's a specific kind of silence that descends on the terraces when you realise the opposition isn't even breaking a sweat, and we hit that note perfectly.”

The second half was mostly a study in hopeful longing. We pushed up, tried to get back into it, and generally looked like a group of people who had forgotten where the goal was. Then, in the 78th, Caltabiano decided to stop providing the assists and just take the glory himself, slotting home a third via Santiago Castex.

It was a clinical finish. It was a decisive blow. It was the final nail in a coffin we’d spent the last hour building ourselves.

Honestly, watching the game, you could tell the belief had just evaporated. There's a specific kind of silence that descends on the terraces when you realise the opposition isn't even breaking a sweat, and we hit that note perfectly.

We’ll probably spend the next week convinced that a few tweaks to the midfield will fix everything. Matchday 3 awaits.