The first sign was the traffic, converging from all corners of the island.
From Hodges Bay and Cedar Grove in the north. From Freetown in the east. From English Harbour and Liberta in the south and from the west, Jennings and Jolly Harbour. And, of course, from the capital, St. Johns.
Bumper to bumper they rolled in, filling the car parks and spilling out onto the spiderweb of roads that feed in to the Sir Vivian Richards Stadium, a ground that sits apart from the surrounding parishes, enclosed by swathes of vacant land. The floodlights were visible for miles in the inky sky; beacons that summoned the people of Antigua.
They answered in their droves; they were here to rally.
When giant flags were unfurled on the field to usher in the anthems, the roar could be felt as well as heard. They were waving Antigua flags, they were wearing West Indies shirts. One man stood near the fence at the northern end of the ground wearing a white t-shirt with black writing across the back: silence is loud.
A hush descended as the players walked out and David Rudder stepped forward to sing the song he released 26 years ago that has become a clarion call across the Caribbean.
Rally, rally round the West Indies.
There were Sir Andy Roberts and Sir Curtly Ambrose; two sirs, with love. There was Sir Viv, with tears in his eyes as Rudder's clear voice filled the night. Around the ground they stood, some swaying, some with hands raised, some with eyes closed; all of them singing.
Now and forever.
The first jarring note struck with the third ball of the match, when Shai Hope sliced a Marco Jansen ball to cover point. After the emotional build-up, it was as if a guitar string had snapped mid strum. A collective intake of breath followed by a unified exhale of disappointment. But still, rally. Hope was lost but not all hope was lost.
Pretty soon the runs are going to flow like water.
But this was not a pitch for flowing runs, it was tacky and turning and made for Aiden Markram. Nicholas Pooran tried to pump him over extra cover but it was straight into the wind, dropping kindly for Jansen at long off. West Indies had lost two wickets in seven balls and the silence was not loud, it was deafening.
But there was resilience and resistance from Roston Chase and Kyle Mayers, bringing joy to every son and daughter in the ground, until Tabraiz Shamsi and Keshav Maharaj subdued the crowd once more with a clattering of wickets.
Still, if there was one man who could spark the flames, it was Andre Russell. Every muscle rippled as Dre Russ took on Anrich Nortje, smiting him over long-on and deep midwicket for back-to-back sixes like a raging fire.
The first ball of the following over, Russell was at the non-striker's end as Akeal Hossein pushed a Kagiso Rabada ball to Nortje, fielding at short third. He was desperate to get on strike and continue the assault and set off for the tightest of singles. Too tight for Nortje's dead-eye arm with the direct hit. Russell fell to his hands and knees. As the third umpire reviewed the replay, Russell stayed there, motionless, staring at the ground. He knew what the decision would be.
Still, West Indies scrapped and scraped their way to 135. It was something to defend.
"We got this!" Screamed the DJ, as South Africa's chase began. "We got this!"
Dre Russ has got this, ripping out South Africa's openers in the second over, and the faithful rallied once more.
Never say never.
But then the heavens opened, and those on the grass banks ran for cover, thousands of soaked and steamy bodies sheltering in the concourses under the two main stands, nerves jangling, muttering questions of DRS and overs lost.
When play resumed, they had found their voices, cheering each dot ball, lamenting every fielding error, but still believing. Indeed, 73 runs needed from 66 balls on a tricky surface after six overs and three wickets gone. Rally.
Gudakesh Motie came on to bowl his first over. The first ball was in the slot and Heinrich Klassen pounced, launching it into the sightscreen. Klassen had faced Motie enough in the Caribbean Premier League to know he had his measure and went on the attack, smiting 20 runs off the over. Now it was 53 required from 60 and the silence was deafening.
Still, a superb running catch from Pooran off Alzarri Joseph's bouncer meant the assault was brief and if there was a team likely to buckle under pressure in a World Cup, it was South Africa.
Rovman Powell rubbed the ball with a towel between each delivery like a man possessed, as if he could conjure some genie luck even as he smeared the moisture away. Runs, wickets, runs, wickets; each tip of the seesaw dragging the crowd from hope to despair in an excruciating emotional maelstrom.
One over remained; four runs left to defend.
Time to rally one last time.
Obed McCoy rumbled in and it was in the slot. Jansen clubbed it with all the power his long limbs could muster and the ball flew flat and hard over the long-on fence. It happened too quickly, the death blow landing and Jansen punching the air before anyone could comprehend the incomprehensible.
This was supposed to be West Indies' night, when the Knights and the rock stars joined with the ordinary people of the parishes to rally the West Indies into the semi-finals and, perhaps, beyond.
Instead they were left to amble up to the stage that was set up for the after-party, some still finding the energy to dance at 2 AM, while others remained in their seats and gazed out over the field.
They had answered the call, they had rallied with heart and soul.
But in the end it was South Africa's night.