De Kuip Stadium, Rotterdam – Preseason Friendly vs Feyenoord
Didn't look at them.
Just muttered to himself, steady and low—
"Let's see if they remember how they scored."
The whistle clipped the air like a thread snapping.
Players jogged back into position. Shirts clung tighter now, sweat lines down spines, hair damp at the temples. Across the pitch, Feyenoord's captain leaned toward the dugout, nodding once at his coach's quick hand gestures. Not encouragement—correction. Something had changed.
Demien clocked it before the restart. Front line dropped. One forward sank into the half-space, narrowing the vertical lane between Bernardi and Cissé. The wingers no longer pressed high. Instead, five red shirts compacted like a vise—midfield packed, shoulders touching, angles sealed. They weren't chasing Monaco anymore. They were waiting.
"They're dropping off," Michel murmured beside him, hand braced on his thigh.
Demien didn't nod—just shifted his stance. "They want us wide."
Zikos took the kick-off. Simple. Lateral. Squillaci rolled it to Rodriguez, and the center-backs traded it back and forth like a pendulum trying to hypnotize an audience that wasn't looking anymore.
Feyenoord didn't step. Didn't flinch.
Just shadows now. Shape without pursuit. The kind of press that suffocates not with pressure—but with silence.
Rodriguez scanned. Rothen waved, calling early, hands chopping air like a conductor losing tempo. Rodriguez bit—sent a diagonal early.
Wrong choice.
Evra sprinted, but the ball was already lost—too far, too quick, skipping over the slick pitch like it wanted out of the game. Into touch.
Demien didn't flinch. Shifted his weight off his left foot. Let the silence sit.
"They've baited us," he said, voice like a razor through fabric.
Next phase. Zikos again. This time into Bernardi. A small look over the shoulder. One touch. Then two. Then—
Hesitation.
Touch heavy.
Second too long.
Feyenoord's trap snapped shut.
Swipe. Ball gone.
And now it was chaos.
Their right winger didn't sprint. He floated. Like he already knew the ending. Three touches. Inward arc. Squillaci hesitated—half a step forward, then froze.
The gap opened like a wound.
Flicked pass. One line split. Then two. The striker curved his run across Rodriguez—shoulder dipped—gone.
Roma came out.
Low finish. Clean. Bottom left.
2–1.
No celebration—just pointed fingers from the Dutch bench and a roar of approval from a crowd that had waited sixty minutes to feel something.
Giuly stood still near the circle, eyes unfocused. Rothen crouched over, hands gripping his shorts like he was holding onto the moment physically.
Demien didn't move.
Michel waited for something—anything.
"They're chasing shadows now," Demien said, soft and calm. "We've lost the shape. Not the ball."
He didn't raise his voice.
Didn't call a sub.
Didn't throw a hand up for tempo.
This wasn't about fatigue.
It wasn't about lungs or legs or gaps in conditioning.
It was about memory.
Execution under pressure.
Whether they understood the why behind the drills—or if it had only ever been mimicry.
Bernardi wiped sweat from his forehead. Cissé waved Zikos closer. Evra motioned to Rothen to hold.
The movements were reactive. Out of sync.
Demien saw it in the spacing. The lost half-second delays. The two-man presses instead of three. Pass angles shut before the ball was played.
Michel finally whispered, "Do we change?"
Demien didn't look at him.
"Not yet."
They had to see it.
They had to feel what happened when they stopped thinking like a system—and started playing like eleven men.
Because right now… that's exactly what they were.
Feyenoord smelled it. Pressed higher. Forced a throw-in deep.
Demien turned to the sideline. Finally gave a sharp signal with his right hand—flicked twice, down and across.
Michel didn't need the translation. Ibarra was already up. Plašil next.
Demien stepped to the edge of the technical box, eyes fixed on the touchline where Rothen had just coughed up another throw.
His jaw moved once. Then stilled.
He didn't blink.
Only thought—
"If they don't remember the third man now, we don't finish this game level."
The restart was jittery—nervous pulses in cleats, uncoordinated movement. The ball skittered from Zikos to Cissé, back to Squillaci, out to Rodriguez. It came back again, slower this time. Rotations delayed. Scans late. One man stepped forward in the press—Giuly—alone. No one followed.
Evra drifted too far inward, trying to plug a hole. Left Rothen exposed. Zikos followed the wrong shoulder. Pivot space vanished. Feyenoord didn't hesitate.
One clean touch in midfield.
Another—diagonal, inside-out—right into the channel Evra vacated.
Rodriguez turned too slow. Squillaci hesitated. The winger accelerated past both. Roma came out, but it was already too late.
The Feyenoord forward squared the ball just inside the box. Cutback. Crisp.
Trailing runner didn't break stride.
Side-foot finish, eleven yards.
Low. Fast. Net snapped.
Seventy-first minute.
2–2.
De Kuip erupted. Not violently—rhythmically. Like a crowd that smelled blood and was already mid-celebration.
Giuly spun in place, palms raised in open protest. Cissé dropped a curse under his breath. Rodriguez walked backward, hands on thighs, head low.
Michel glanced sideways. Demien tapped his elbow once. "Plašil. Ibarra."
No panic in his voice. No volume either.
The bench stirred. Numbers lifted on the sub board.
Plašil jogged in. Took Bernardi's arm briefly, nothing said. Ibarra checked in on the left. Rothen drifted inward. The touchline held its shape. For three minutes, the pattern held too.
Then Cissé lunged into a duel on the turn—late. Ball poked past him.
Tempo lifted.
Feyenoord's coach shouted from the edge of his box. Clapping once. The players obeyed.
Rodriguez stepped too close to his man—too vertical—missed the angle. Slashed out a leg to stop the counter.
Contact.
Whistle.
Foul, just outside the box.
Dangerous.
Rodriguez pointed at Squillaci. "You take six."
Squillaci nodded, more out of habit than clarity. Eyes already on the referee placing the wall.
Demien didn't say a word. His arms folded, collar adjusted once.
The free kick hung in the air longer than it should've.
Not floated.
Not whipped.
Threaded—like a painting stretched across time. One of those deliveries that freezes everyone. Too perfect.
Squillaci lost the runner.
Only by a step. But at this level, that's enough.
The Feyenoord defender climbed into the sky—no challenge.
The header caught the seam of the crossbar and the far post.
Top corner.
Roma moved, but never got near it.
Seventy-seventh minute.
3–2.
The noise around the pitch dropped an octave. Not louder—deeper. Full. Final.
Roma stood frozen, palms out, looking toward Squillaci—no accusation, just disbelief.
The Feyenoord players jogged back past them, nodding, clapping each other's backs.
Demien shifted once on the touchline. Adjusted his stance. Pulled Michel close with a short gesture.
"Zone 3 recovery is gone. Reset Plašil's triggers."
Michel nodded without a word, already stepping toward the edge.
Demien watched Rodriguez step back into position, eyes distant, jersey clinging to his back like it weighed more now.
Giuly kicked the grass once. Quiet. Furious.
Demien didn't blink.
Didn't move.
Only one thought cut through the silence—
Who breaks next?
Whistle.
Full-time.
No cheers. No claps. Just the soft thud of boots easing off the pitch like a funeral procession.
No handshakes. No eye contact. Only the hollow thrum of a thousand disappointed seats behind them. Demien stood still at the edge of the technical box, arms at his sides, watching the backs of his players disappear down the tunnel. A sheen of floodlight bounced off the sweat drying unevenly on their necks. Morientes limped. Zikos pulled at his jersey like it didn't fit anymore.
Michel didn't say a word. Just exhaled, lips tight, and walked behind them.
The corridor walls closed in like an accusation. Paint peeling at the corners. Pipes rattling above. One fluorescent light buzzed overhead like it was trying to confess something.
Inside the away locker room, silence had weight. Heavy. Not the afterglow of effort. The kind of quiet that clung to the walls.
No music.
No showers running.
Just the shift of tape being peeled off. The slow scratch of a boot being unlaced.
Rothen sat hunched, elbows on knees, face buried in his hands. Shirt still on, plastered to his back. He hadn't moved since sitting. Not even to wipe the sweat dripping from his chin.
Morientes was slower. He pulled each lace with the care of someone unthreading regret. Every tug of the string felt like a sentence. Unspoken. Unfinished.
Evra leaned against the wall, one foot propped on the bench, arms folded. His jaw flexed every few seconds. Muscle memory. Tension with no place to go.
Cissé sat in the corner. Shirt off, head tilted back. Breathing through his nose, steady. But his eyes were open. Watching the ceiling like it might fall on him.
Giuly still hadn't sat. He stood near the physio table, back turned to everyone. The way you turn when you know your fingerprints are on something broken.
Demien stepped in last.
Door clicked shut behind him.
He didn't raise his voice.
Didn't clear his throat.
Didn't need to.
The sound of his footsteps filled the room—slow, deliberate, rubber soles sliding against tile. Not squeaking. Just there. Present. Measured.
He walked once around the room.
Didn't stop at anyone.
Passed Rothen.
Passed Zikos.
Passed Morientes.
No clipboard in hand. No notes. No phone.
He reached the whiteboard.
Held a marker. Capped.
Didn't raise it.
Didn't write a single word.
Turned.
Faced them all.
No fury in his eyes. No disdain. Just precision. Cold, exact clarity. His gaze wasn't loud—but it was surgical.
"That second half…" The words cut like wire through flesh. "...wasn't football."
Nobody moved.
Not a cough. Not a shuffle. Just stillness, the kind that either shatters or saves.
Evra's knuckles pressed white against his forearm.
Rothen didn't lift his face.
Morientes looked at the floor, still holding the same lace loop.
Giuly slowly let go of the physio table edge but didn't turn.
Demien clicked the marker once.
Soft. Final.
"Be at the training ground."
A pause, just long enough for silence to gather around it.
"Six. A. M."
That was it.
He turned.
Walked to the door.
Didn't slam it. Didn't glance back.
Just raised a hand to the frame as he stepped through, fingers brushing the metal like it might anchor him.
His eyes didn't blink.
Inside his head, the drills were already coming together—zone two retention, short zone exits, pressure relay from back three to pivot.
One rhythm. One mistake.
Whoever broke shape... ran.