Hugo Lloris scrambled out of his net and he kick the goal post angrily.
"Are you all planning to keep playing like this?!" Lloris roared, veins bulging in his neck.
He turned on Jan Vertonghen.
"This is a fucking disgrace! This match will be written on your graves! Is this how you want to leave this stadium? As cowards?!"
The Tottenham players couldn't meet his eyes.
They felt as if a thorn had pierced their hearts, bleeding out their belief.
Once, twice, thrice.
The momentum was gone. The belief was gone. Pochettino's halftime surrender—taking off Kane—had signaled that this game didn't matter.
And now, United were making sure it mattered for all the wrong reasons.
...
The match resumed.
United, sensing the job was done, dropped their gears slightly. They sat back, inviting Spurs onto them, conserving energy for the kill.
Tottenham, desperate to salvage a shred of dignity, pushed forward.
Dele Alli dropped deep, collecting the ball.
He feinted past Pogba, spun, and launched a desperate, beautiful long ball to Son Heung-min on the wing.
Son summoned a burst of rage-fueled energy. He muscled past Ashley Young, cut inside Matic, and found a yard of space at the edge of the box.
Bang!
He unleashed a venomous drive toward the bottom corner.
"It's in—no!" Martin Tyler shouted. "De Gea!"
David De Gea, cold and bored for most of the half, sprang to life.
He dropped like a stone, his right hand stiffening to palm the ball around the post.
"He gives them nothing!" Gary Neville gasped. "Even at 3-0, he refuses to be beaten. That save is world-class. It is demoralizing."
The cheers at White Hart Lane died in the throat.
That save extinguished the last ember of resistance. The Spurs players looked at each other, dazed and numb.
'We can't even score one.'
66th Minute
The corner came in. Fernando Llorente and Phil Jones clashed heads with a sickening thud, but Jones won the battle, powering the header clear.
"United on the break!" Tyler called.
Nemanja Matic didn't hesitate. He cushioned a volley to Pogba.
Suddenly, the Red Arrows were flying.
Pogba, Lingard, Lukaku, Ling. They moved with a terrifying, telepathic understanding.
Pogba drove forward, leaning his body to fake a pass, then slicing a through-ball with the outside of his boot.
Thump.
The ball dissected the Spurs defense like a scalpel through wet paper.
Jesse Lingard was through. He was slippery as an eel, ghosting past a static Vertonghen.
He was one-on-one with Lloris.
But Lingard didn't shoot.
He slowed down. He waited. He drew Lloris out, humiliating the keeper by refusing to panic.
Just as Lloris committed, Lingard flicked his ankle.
He squared the ball.
Ling was sprinting in. He had beaten Davinson Sánchez by five yards.
It was an empty net.
Tap.
0-4.
Ling didn't chase the ball. He didn't run to the corner flag to dance.
He sprinted forty yards to the sideline, right in front of the baying Tottenham fans who had abused him all night.
He stopped. He raised three fingers.
He shook them at the crowd.
One. Two. Three.
"Oh, look at that!" Neville laughed nervously. "He's doing the Mourinho! He is mocking them! 'Three goals? Respect! Respect!'"
Ling's face was stone cold. He remembered the insults. He remembered the 'dog eater' chants. He remembered Trippier's stomp.
'You want to abuse me? Fine. I will burn your house down.'
An eye for an eye. That was his creed.
On the touchline, Mauricio Pochettino punched the plastic siding of the dugout so hard it cracked.
He slumped into his seat, head in his hands.
He felt deceived.
He thought there was a gentleman's agreement to calm the game down. Instead, Mourinho's team was tearing his reputation to shreds.
He looked at the clock. 73:42.
Seventeen minutes left.
'Please,' Pochettino thought. 'Just blow the whistle.'
But Mourinho wasn't done.
He signaled to the fourth official.
Rashford ON. Herrera ON.Lingard OFF. Pogba OFF.
"He's bringing on fresh attackers?" Neville noted, sounding surprised. "He's bringing on pace? This is ruthless. Jose wants a cricket score."
76th Minute
Tottenham tried to play out from the back, but their legs had gone to jelly. A lazy pass from Dier was intercepted by Herrera.
Herrera, full of energy, drove to the edge of the box.
He slipped it to Lukaku.
The Belgian turned Sánchez, who looked like he wanted to cry, and smashed a shot into the roof of the net.
0-5.
The away end was a sea of bare chests and swinging scarves.
The home end was emptying rapidly. Silence fell over North London, heavy and suffocating.
83rd Minute
Herrera lofted a long ball over the top.
Ling, exhausted but relentless, chased it down. He got there before Lloris.
A simple feint. Lloris fell over.
Ling walked the ball into the net.
0-6.
"Four goals for Ling!" Tyler screamed. "It is a masterclass! It is his first-ever four-goal haul! He has dismantled Tottenham Hotspur single-handedly!"
Ling didn't celebrate.
He felt an inexplicable emptiness. It was too easy. It was like beating a corpse.
89th Minute
The clock ticked toward mercy. But Marcus Rashford wanted his goal.
Herrera and Rashford played a one-two on the edge of the box, dancing around defenders who had stopped running.
Rashford looked up, picked his spot, and rifled a shot into the far corner.
0-7.
"SEVEN!" Neville shouted. "It is seven heaven for Manchester United! This is a massacre! An absolute demolition job!"
The referee didn't add a single second of stoppage time.
He blew the whistle the moment the clock hit 90:00.
Full Time: Tottenham 0 - 7 Manchester United.
The blood-red sunset over North London dyed the sky, casting long, mournful shadows over the pitch.
White Hart Lane, with its 118 years of history, felt violated.
The stadium, usually a place of pride, reeked of humiliation.
It was a funeral for the old ground, but instead of a eulogy, United had delivered a desecration.
The Tottenham players stood frozen on the pitch.
Lloris sat on his goal line, staring at nothing. Son Heung-min covered his face with his shirt to hide the tears.
Their pride had been shattered like glass and ground into the mud.
The humiliation felt like an icy wind, stinging every inch of their skin.
Deep down, they tried to tell themselves it was the schedule. It was the injuries. It was the manager's tactics.
But as they walked down the tunnel, listening to the United players laughing and shouting in the distance, they knew the truth.
They had been broken.
And the scars would last a lifetime.