Welcomes, like hugs, cannot be bought: they must be earned.
When the plane touched down, the Blue Sharks did not find an airport. They found an entire country hanging from the fences, climbing the walls, waving flags under the sun.
And they found something more. At the foot of the stairway, a runway worker knelt down and raised his arms to the sky. A man in a yellow vest, in the middle of the concrete, making the bow reserved for those who return from a war won.
Because that is what they were. They did not bring trophies: they brought something rarer. The certainty that ten tiny islands can look any giant straight in the eye.
Football will say they were eliminated. The runway at that airport says something else: that there are defeats that come home carried on shoulders.
Welcome home, boys. The sea applauds.