Minute 23. Real Madrid won a free kick, 22 meters out. Perfect for a curler. Marco leaned forward, his bad knee twinging in sympathy. The referee placed the ball. The wall jumped.

“No, no, no!” Marco shouted, slapping the side of the television as if it were a 1980s console.

Finally, the image resolved. It was grainy, like watching football through a rain-streaked window. The sound was a half-second behind the picture. A Russian man with a heavy accent was screaming over the Italian commentary. It was glorious.

Buffering.

“Eight euros for something that was free when I had hair?” Marco grumbled. “No. The match finds the man, not the wallet.”

At 8:45 PM, he clicked the link. The screen flickered. A pop-up for a casino in Curaçao exploded across the screen. He swatted it away. Another appeared: “Your iPhone has 47 viruses!” He didn’t own an iPhone.