Chapter 735 - 735: Chapter-733 The Attacking Sequence

Brazil, Rio de Janeiro.

The afternoon sun over the Maracanã blazed mercilessly at one o'clock.

More than thirty thousand French fans held their breath in the Paris City Hall square; across the globe, hundreds of millions more sat glued to their screens.

Peep!!!

The referee's whistle cut through the air, crisp and clean. Brazil time, 1 p.m. the France–Germany quarterfinal clash had officially begun!

France dropped deep from the very first whistle.

Julien's position, too, sat further back than usual.

Germany wasted no time testing the waters. They came out pressing hard and fast, determined to force France into rushed outlets.

Under that pressure, disaster nearly struck just two minutes in.

Evra received the ball in his own half. With Müller closing him down, he panicked and rushed a pass straight into the path of Ozil, who intercepted it clean in midfield!

An instant counter!

This was exactly the rhythm Germany thrived on. The moment Ozil won the ball, he didn't hesitate—his right foot whipped a pinpoint diagonal ball that curled through the air and knifed straight into the gap in France's flank.

Varane raced back to cover, throwing himself into a desperate clearance, but couldn't get enough on it to send it far. The ball dropped just outside the edge of the box!

Kroos arrived at exactly the right moment and struck it first time without hesitation!

The ball screamed toward goal, hissing through the air!

In that split second, centre-back Sakho read it and got his foot there in time, and hacked it clear out of play, snuffing out Germany's attack at the last moment.

Crack!

The whole stadium gasped—fans from both sides let out a cry. No one had expected Germany to carve out a chance this fast.

France, clearly still adjusting to the intensity of Germany's press, had been caught out, hence Evra's mistake. The moment he saw the ball cleared, Evra was already turning to his teammates, mouthing his apologies.

"My god! Just two minutes in, and Germany very nearly broke the deadlock!" commentator Alphonse's voice shot up an octave. "Evra's misplaced pass handed Germany a golden chance—Kroos's shot almost tore through the net—Sakho's clearance saved France there, but there's real pressure on this French side tonight..."

On the touchline—German head coach Löw gave a small nod, plainly pleased with his team's aggressive start.

Deschamps, by contrast, frowned, shouting instructions onto the pitch. He wanted his players to settle, to hold their shape and not let Germany's press drag them out of rhythm—keep the defensive structure intact.

For a man who'd built his career as a defender, the logic was simple: defence came first, and only then could attack follow.

A brilliant attack meant nothing if you gave the ball away.

As the match wore on, Germany kept up the pressure and it was clear they'd come prepared, with shutting down Julien as the priority.

Not long after kick-off, Germany abandoned pure possession-based control in favour of a "gang-marking plus targeted shadowing" approach. Kroos dropped back into midfield to sit alongside Khedira as a double pivot, tasked specifically with tracking Julien's every drift and cut.

In the back line, Hummels and Boateng kept constant eyes on Julien's movement—the instant he took a man on, the two of them would rush to cover, while Lahm tucked in from the flank to complete a three-man box around him, refusing to let him find a single yard of space to run at someone alone.

At the same time Germany threw everything into the attack. Schweinsteiger pushed forward constantly to join the buildup, Kroos kept sending through-balls, Klose used his height and experience as a target man in the box, and Müller prowled the penalty area with that killer instinct of his, slipping into gaps again and again to menace France's back line.

5th minute: Kroos slid a through-ball down the middle, Klose flicked it on with his head, Müller pounced but Varane got a boot in to block it out for a corner.

6th minute: Khedira let fly from distance, the ball skimmed the crossbar and sailed just over with France's goal breathing a sigh of relief.

Facing Germany's blitzkrieg, France stuck strictly to Deschamps's game plan of defence and counter—hold the line, never overcommit.

The back four dropped deep as a unit; Pogba, Cabaye, and Matuidi anchored the midfield, cutting off Germany's passing lanes while conceding a share of possession, patiently waiting for their moment to strike.

In the 7th minute—Julien, shadowed till now, finally got his moment to shine.

He picked the ball up on the left of midfield, facing a double-team from Kroos and Khedira, there was not a flicker of panic—a quick shimmy with his left foot, then a cut with his right, and he'd left two defenders grasping at air. He spun and burst forward, driving into the left channel!

Just as Germany's back line scrambled to cover, Julien feinted another run then, in that same motion, laid off a weighted low ball that found Pogba surging into the box!

Pogba didn't waste a second—he met it first time and drove a shot toward goal, but it drifted just wide, clipping the outside of the right post!

"Beautiful! What a run from Julien!" Alphonse's voice cracked with excitement. "Two defenders left in his wake, and the timing of that lay-off was perfect! Such a shame Pogba's shot went just wide—France could have gone ahead there! There's still hope! Where there's Julien, there's a chance!"

BOOM!!

More than thirty thousand fans in the Paris City Hall square erupted at once in a groan of collective disbelief. Among them, fans who'd travelled from Bastia held Julien's portrait high overhead, chanting his name—"Julien! Julien!"

Back inside the Maracanã.

Both sides scrambled back to position, the pace of the match was not letting up for a second.

Seven minutes were gone. Already the game had settled into that familiar rhythm of raw power meeting an iron wall—thunder on one end, a locked door on the other.

After weathering Germany's furious start in those opening minutes, France had found their footing against the intensity. They kept faith with Deschamps's defence-and-counter approach, defensive intensity dialled all the way up, the back four tight and compact, the midfield trio of Pogba, Cabaye, and Matuidi turned into a wall in front of them.

Lateral cover, vertical cover—everyone was shifting to fill the gaps. There was no easy way through for Germany, and even their trademark passing rhythm couldn't crack open that density.

But the sheer individual quality of the German machine was never going to be entirely shut out. Germany's players kept probing France's disciplined wall for a way through, leaning on individual brilliance.

Kroos ran the midfield with total composure, always able to pick a pass that unpicked France's press. Klose kept winning aerial duels in the box off his height, again and again teeing up chances for Müller and Ozil to run onto.

But the greatest danger of all came from wide. Lahm wasn't just solid at the back—he pushed forward constantly, his crosses were a strong threat every time he found the byline.

France's saving grace was the centre-back pairing of Varane and Sakho, who kept snuffing out Germany's aerial deliveries time and again. Lloris, too, was quick off his line.

9th minute: Müller pounced on a loose ball in the box and fired, only for Lloris to fling himself and turn it away—it gave a genuine scare for France's supporters. Every fresh German attack tightened another knot in their stomachs.

France's defence had been resolute but Germany's pressure kept increasing, wave after wave, chipping away at the line through raw individual quality, and little by little the balance on the pitch seemed to be tilting Germany's way.

At 12th minute, Pogba, defending deep, rushed to cut out one of Kroos's through-balls, his challenge was a bit too eager as he clipped Ozil, who'd been making a run in behind, and sent him down.

The referee's whistle went instantly, pointing to a free-kick spot on the left edge of the box. A golden opportunity for Germany—the spot wasn't far from the box, the angle was awkward but the kind Kroos thrived on.

Germany's players moved quickly to gather around the ball. Kroos stood over it, eyes on the middle of the box, trading a glance with his teammates. Hummels, Boateng, and the rest of the back line pushed forward, ready to attack it in the air.

France scrambled to form a wall—Varane, Giroud, and the others stood shoulder to shoulder, eyes locked on Kroos. Lloris kept shuffling, adjusting his position on his line.

In that moment—the whole stadium held its breath; the Maracanã fell into a brief, total hush.

Deschamps stared at the spot the free-kick had been given, unease was creeping over him.

Löw rubbed his nose, hands itching to move, but he held himself still, watching the pitch with tight focus.

Peep!!

The referee's whistle sounded. Kroos took his run-up, swung his leg, and drove it true with his right foot—the ball carried heavy spin, arced clean over France's wall, and dropped toward the middle of the box!

Hummels shook off Varane's marking, rose highest of anyone, and glanced it perfectly with his head.

The ball changed direction and shot toward goal—Lloris threw himself at it, but the distance was too short, and there was nothing he could do. It nestled into the back of the net!

Swish!

GOAL!

Hummels's header found the net! Germany had broken the deadlock first!

"GOAL! 12th minute, Germany take the lead! Kroos's pinpoint delivery, Hummels rising to head it home—1-0!"

Alphonse's voice, though the result clearly pained him, still roared out in his professional capacity to mark the moment.

In an instant, the German section of the Maracanã erupted into deafening celebration!

Fans in national team jerseys leapt to their feet, waving German flags, roaring their delight! Arms thrown wide, they let every last bit of joy from that goal pour out of them!

The French fans, by contrast, sat heavy with tension. They watched Germany's celebration in silence.

Hummels tore off in a wild sprint after the goal, arms flung open, folding into the embrace of his onrushing teammates. Kroos, Müller, Lahm, and the rest gathered in a huddle, exchanging high-fives, faces lit up with excitement.

On the touchline, Löw allowed himself a rare smile, nodding lightly, with approval across his face for his team's performance.

Deschamps, meanwhile, stood with his brow knotted tight, shouting instructions onto the pitch—telling his players not to panic, to hold the line on the defence-and-counter plan, keep their composure, and not let conceding rush them into abandoning the strategy.

He'd already sensed his team wasn't going to be able to hold back Germany's assault forever. That was exactly why he'd made a point of telling them beforehand: even a goal down, stay calm, don't deviate from the plan.

Out on the pitch, Julien clapped his hands toward his teammates too, urging them not to let their heads drop.

But this was the trouble with a young team. Unstoppable with the tide in their direction. Against it, though, their composure inevitably wavered a little.

In that moment—far away in the Paris City Hall square, the thirty-thousand-plus French fans fell into a brief silence too.

Then, just as quickly, a louder roar broke out—"Allez, France!!"

On the giant screen, Alphonse's voice picked back up with none of the usual fever that followed a French goal in his tone, this time he was more composed.

"Let's take a breath and look at this goal properly. Germany lead 1-0, but that doesn't mean France are down and out, and it certainly doesn't mean the gap between these two sides has suddenly widened. This goal came from Pogba's foul deep in his own half—Germany capitalized on the free-kick, and Kroos's delivery, Hummels's header, were about as clean an execution as you'll see. That was a tactical victory. But we have to be clear about something—up to this point, in open play, Germany hasn't actually broken France down."

The camera cut back to the pitch: Germany's players still celebrating, France's already scrambling back into shape.

Alphonse continued:

"Looking back at these first twelve minutes, France has stuck firmly to their defence-and-counter plan, and the defensive intensity has been there for everyone to see.

Even top-class midfielders like Kroos and Ozil have struggled to break down France's line in open play. Müller's snap shot in the 9th minute was about the only real threat Germany managed from open play, and even that was saved by Lloris's sharp reaction.

Beyond that, every one of Germany's crosses and through-balls has been successfully dealt with by Varane, Sakho, and the rest. You could say France's defensive structure remains rock-solid—that Germany managed to score at all owes far more to a set-piece opportunity than to any clear dominance in open play.

And beyond that—France's attack hasn't been nearly as toothless as it might look. Yes, it's only been sporadic counters, none of them turning into a genuine shot on goal, but Julien's burst of pace, his sense of timing on that pass—both showed individual class.

Remember, the whole point of defence-and-counter is that it's not about the number of chances—it's about making the one that counts. France doesn't need many opportunities in this game; land just one, and they could well level things up. Julien's still in hot form, and that's the biggest source of confidence this French side has..."

Meanwhile on the pitch, Germany's celebration was winding down.

In the Maracanã, the wave of noise from the German section of the crowd rolled across the whole stadium, and the big screen kept replaying Hummels's embrace with his teammates, again and again.

Up in the stands, Zidane and Blanc, both dressed casually, couldn't help but frown a little watching the team fall behind.

Zidane leaned over toward Blanc, murmuring, "Do you think there's still a way back?"

As the standard-bearer of French football, no one wanted this team to win more than he did.

Blanc heard him, turned his head slowly. "Zinedine, you know better than anyone that this team never gives up easily. And of course I'll always be behind them—yes, there'll be a way back."

His gaze drifted onto the pitch, settling on the figure wearing France's number 10.

"With Julien out there, nothing's impossible."

Zidane followed his line of sight. Julien stood in the middle of the pitch, murmuring something to Pogba.

Zidane nodded slightly. "Yeah. Julien's in hot form—it's just that Germany's marking him so tightly, so many bodies on him, he barely gets a chance to run at anyone."

At that, a flicker of pride appeared across Blanc's face.

"You remember," he said slowly, "when Julien first made a name for himself at Bastia—just a scrappy kid back then, raw talent but no big-match experience yet."

He paused as the memory rose up in his mind and produced a smile at his mouth. "The proudest achievement of my whole coaching career was bringing Julien into the national team—giving him a stage to prove himself on.

These past two years, I keep coming back to it—if Julien hadn't gotten injured... Maybe... that European Championship, we might genuinely have had a shot at the title. I know what he's capable of. It's not just the raw ability—it's the heart. The bigger the moment, the more he rises to it. Such a waste..."

As Blanc said this, it wasn't entirely clear whether he was mourning it for France, or for Julien or maybe, in some way, for himself.

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