The Groundsman trundles down the pitch, dragging a cloud of grass dust, fresh and greeny brown and ticklish. The stadiums at its quietest, the slightly sour reek of grass, hangs overhead all afternoon. A mix of mud and sweat and crowds and hot pies leaking meat at what make up the normal smell of here. The scent of grass has drowned them out. The way a chant drowns out the thwack of boot on ball. The way the moon is swallowed by the floodlights glare. The grass dust sparkles in the air.